Translating Origami

She tore the wrapper off the straw
leaving a piece at the end,
letting me know she didn’t touch where my sips form.
And said,
“This means i love you in origami”

So i followed her, day by day.
Observing and learning.

Watching how she would toss her coat after entering the house.
Always on the chair.
Always without looking,
leaving her wrist cocked in the air
for a noticeable moment.

Subtle creases settle into that coat of hers.
In the exact same way
every single day.
And i began to see
the folds form into the word “home”.
Developing slowly until rich and crisp
like Kodachrome.

Now the language is a part of me.
And without a word or a gesture
I can translate her day,
in the quietness of origami.


Jordan R Shaver 2/21/2020

I'm Water In Your Cupped Hands

The intensity of your focus

- trying your best not to spill a drop,

makes your hands tremble

which sends ripples through me, 

pushing me further to the perimeter, 

further away from that comfortable center you've created for me.

Your head is down

- tunnel vision becoming hazy over time.

I seep through your wrinkled fingers, 

ebbing over the taut pads of your palms.
Your focus is waning,

and here I am straining to keep it all together. 

All at once,
I break.

I separate my molecules

and evaporate into the unknown.

You break down 

into tiny particles, 

and kneel at the foot of the shore, 

the brine touching your toes 

and streaming down your cheeks at the same time.

Not knowing

that in a three nights

I'll collide with your bedroom window sash. 

I'll gather what bits of myself I can find,

and catch your gaze during blinding lightening flash.

I'll find myself to your well, 

I'll rise to your faucet, 

and it won't be long until I'm in that glass on your nightstand.

I'll pass through you
- like an apparition stumbling toward you,
off balance and arms stretch out
seeking an embrace.

I'll leave behind
some kind of trace,

so you won't ever have to be alone. 

Jordan R Shaver 4.12.2017

True Story

She whispered "someone's in the house".

In one swift motion 

I went from supine on the bed, 

to gliding silently to the end of the hall. 

I took my family and wrapped them, 

bound tight and comfortable and quiet, 

and tossed them to myself 

already waiting at the bottom of the steps. 

I tucked them safely amongst the warm blankets of dust 

and hidden treasures, untouched. 

I ascended to protect all that I've accumulated 

and with no fear

I turn the corner 

The whispering shadows are still here. 

I honestly would've given them what they're looking for

if they'd just ask nice.

I still might 

but the primal urge to fight 

and save these that are mine is just too much.

 
So I break the quiet with a guttural HEY!

As heavy as a rock 

and as devastating as that stone being dropped

into the glassy stillness of a lake at dawn.

The silence is shattered.

And I hear the thud of their hearts hitting the floor.

I can count to a thousand 

by the time they re-center themselves
and try to figure out how to react. 

I'm two steps away and my hand is aglow.

Like a lantern

my face is illuminated

by the biggest fist I've ever held in my life.

Their demise is inevitable at this point.

I flip on the lights and apologize to my parents for yelling at them.

Marvelous Dah'ling

My memories of Mamie 

are not defined by one moment,

but a string of glistening continuity. 

A delicate vibration of grace and poise. 

A strand of pearls that can't be broken, only left clasped and circling in our memories.

When we would go skiing 

Mamie wouldn't need to cut hard into the snow 

with the sharp edges of her skis, 

it was effortless, 

- or seemed so, 

how she would let the snow 

cradle her skis from left to right down that bunny hill,

which gently set her in front of the lift.

- like a dog placing a ball at your feet,

as if the mountain was having as much fun as she was,
and was begging her for another go.  

When she would find herself in the lake, 

too deep to touch, 

the water would gather itself under her cupped hands 

to keep her hair a safe distance from getting wet. 

Never losing her breath, 

we would carry on a conversation 

treading water until my lack of practice forced me to relent. 

And when I'd give her front door a brief knock 

before swinging it open and traipsing in,

I knew i'd soon hear two soft notes. 

A beacon for her location in the house. 

And the warmest "please come in" never spoken.

It was her attention to detail: 

The place-mats and appetizers at dinner. 

How our napkins were perfectly rolled, 

and the ceramic eggs in the centerpiece 

were intentionally placed to show their unique and beautiful features. 

The slow and deliberate way she would tell a joke.

How she rotated her artwork and tended her gardens. 

How she cut a grapefruit and poached an egg.

How she would sign my birthday cards. 

And just like everything else, 

it seemed she had a hand 

in how the roots of the tree to her life were perfectly placed. 

Never to provide more efficiency or effectiveness, 

but for beauty, 

for elegant growth, 

for marveling eyes. 

I know I've caught myself marveling. 

And thanks to her graceful outward self expression 

in her art and in her words, 

I hope to never stop marveling. 

Neither will my daughter. 

Neither will her children. 

And this is my Mamie. 

I look up at her art on my walls 

and sense a delicate, willowy comfort 

still lingering in the room. 

I hear the quiet jingle of her bangles. 

I feel the warmth of her company. 

And i revel knowing, 

that with a glance,

it's not something I'll never get to feel again. 

- Jordan R Shaver 10/3/2015

I'll Remember Him

Standing in his orchard,
pants hiked up,
sweat soaking his tucked-in button down beige work shirt.
A large, exaggerated, windmill of a wave,
and matching smile
as I hear him holler,
"Hiya!".
Standing in front of his brush pile.
His hat casts the shade of a maple,
and his stride has the length
and strength of the same tree's roots.
His limbs wave me in,
and we spend the afternoon picking up sticks.

We finish up,
as I start walking home we agree to meet for dinner.
All cleaned up, I hop on my bike
and pedal back over,
careful to not work up a sweat.
He's now sitting on his patio,
scotch in hand,
Merthiolate highlighting his nicks and scrapes,
he stirs his ice with his fingertips
and poises his index finger and thumb
to retrieve an olive at the bottom of his glass,
and reminds me of what a golden day it is.

He sets his drink down
and walks me to his basketball hoop.
"10 free throws before dinner."
No argument,
I'd shoot 20.

Dinner's ready.
My hands are dirty,
we take a detour to the bathroom
and he brings out the "fingernail brush".
I lather my hands,
he takes the brush
and with firm, short strokes
aims to take the day's work
out from under my nails for me.
Instead,
I giggle uncontrollably.



Jordan R Shaver 06.24.2014

To Be Such A Man

A man much more than I.
To have discipline and control
despite gallons sloshing
and swerving the mind when full.
To consider yourself as a valuable member of a team;
a team named "Humanity"
and to be one that does good
and helps those who wouldn't do the same for you.
And to be seen as a man more than capable,
with a reputation of good character.
There is the folly with my faults,
so visible.
All so miserable and extreme and it's hard
to say who I have been.
But everyday I wake with my mind thinking
of nothing I'd like to take,
but give of my myself and make this world
somehow a better place.
Which is hard when the stage shines bright,
and the cameras all align
and point to my decisions,
not all of which have been right.
And in the thickness of the darkness of night
it amplifies my errors under the circling
incandescent white,
and my morning prayer of work and service and love is lost.

And to be such a man,
children of today,
be more than I.
Or take my prayers and let them apply to
your own life and the lives of those around you.
But don't let the night shine it's sobered
lights upon your moments of manifesting thoughts,
unclean.
Rather stay in and sleep and aim your
dreams toward morning where thoughts of
working toward a better world will always
gleam.

Jordan R Shaver 6.16.2014

Go Home

If you've found yourself out in the hustle and bustle again,
and your new boots now have a scuff in 'em
that can never be buffed or erased,
but the ones that rustle in your shiny new bag
really have no place in your home.
And you know they surely won't fit in your closet
- but you deal with the whirling cars and lights
and strange smells and passive aggressive fights
and at that moment all signs read "you have to have it, it's your right."
But you don't.
So just go home.

Do you remember your stool at grandma's house?
The one she'd pull out
so your little arms could knead the dough
and line the pan
and keep you out of harm and close to gram?
That happened for a reason.
So why are you out eating at a place with an invisible chef
and the food on the menu magically appears
and in seconds it's in you?
Carry those fond memories in a paper bag,
get enough for more than one day
and lay them out.
Keep handy a rag
just in case you too have an extra set of little hands
propped up on a stool
reaching for the sink to be cleaned.
Home is beckoning.

"But," you say, "I don't know how to make it just right,
which way to place the sink and cabinets and colors of stain.
Which floors and faucets and fixtures?
It all seems like such a pain."
Until that day
when your groceries are put away,
and your counters get center stage
for that pie you actually enjoyed to bake.
And your friends stand and talk
- and they stay.
And your kitchen finds it's rhythm as the heart of your place.

And the next time the impulse to run out for sandals or boots, or a burger, or a bagel,
take it slow and make sure to keep your keys in your kitchen right next to your phone.
You'll smile as you say,
"I have what I want, nothing more
 - I'll just stay home."


Jordan R Shaver 02.27.2014

An Excerpt Of An Elegy That I May Or May Not Ever Have To Read

I squeeze our memories
from the pulp of my mind,
and let them roll down the back of my neck,
absorbing into the hard spots of my heart.

And the more I nourish my heart
with the sweetness of thoughts of our time together
it swells with emotion.

I let them continue to flood.
Sitting at my desk,
my hands on my head,
I wait to burst.

Jordan R Shaver 6.7.2014

I Met Someone New

What a weekend!
My mind's still reeling.
I can't shake this feeling.

I'm enamored.

I met someone new,
and everything seems so tiny with my head floating high in the clouds.
This haze is a welcome relief from my hectic workweek.
And the maze of roads below encourage me to settle in
with the warm mist of these cumulus nimbi passing over my cheek
- I'm reminded of her.

On the drive in
I gently touched the soft leather of my steering wheel
like I do everyday.
But with the tires of my car 8 miles in the sky
I needn't worry about any sort of accident or DUI,
so I can focus a little deeper,
lean into the leather
and really,
truly feel.

I beckon her presence from above the weather,
and rest my cheek
where the warmth from my hands radiate
and it reminded me of the first time I ever pulled her near.
When my lips touched her velvet skin,
and with a quiet sigh, we hesitate.

It was her cheek.
I'll never forget it
- so soft,
inconceivably soft.

And the usual odors of the shop;
fresh cut metal stings the nose like a steel burr.
Burnt acrylic fresh off the table saw,
the lubricant from the nail gun,
the wood chips of balsam and fir.
- all mysteriously transform before reaching my nose
into that beautiful aroma I associate with her.
My olfactory sense was held in immediate suspense
and I realized what a blessing it is
to smell this so often.

Even the sharp edges of the raw materials softened.
Tools meant to scrape and scour were left ineffective,
and the usually tensile metals began to softly bend.

All weekend I was transfixed.
And yet I haven't been caught with a single thought
of times when I was in her company.
Rather I've brought her along
as though the blankie of her being constantly swaddles me
- saturated like a room with the most perfect weather.
infatuated like the room where I first met her.

I pull the trash,
and realize how gently I embrace its heft
holding it from underneath,
I pause and discard what's left.
It must have been a spectacle when
my lips purse, eyes clench
just like hers,
as the echoes of metal and wood reverberate
within that steel receptacle.

And when I connect the air hose to the compressor
to blow away the dust from the work bench,
I stand awe struck
and remember when I first impressed her.
As the nozzle and it's grip fit perfect
'round my fingertip
just like her tiny hand.

I hit the lights and call it a day.
Windows down,
I'm always too far away.
So I hitch a ride,
floating 8 miles high,
blowing through warm misted clouds.
Watching them in my rear view mirror
as they collect and unfurl.
Now with my thinking more clear,
anxiously I grab the wheel and steer my self home
to my baby girl.



Jordan R Shaver 5/5/2014

A Fingertip Stained

I like to keep my fingertips brown.
Dirt under at least one nail.
I like to keep one open wound
out of respect for my mortality,
and to keep my flesh from becoming frail.
I like to keep a stained fingertip at attention.
My lips pressed together,
and a song on queue in my head.

To enhance my days
humming a little ditty
tapping attentive fingertips
 - not at all too pretty.

Jordan R Shaver

Cradles of Carbon

Cradles of carbon
and caskets of coke,
we were birthed in slag
and baptized in smoke.
We rise with the stippling
deep in our pores.

We ache with the creaks
and cracks of the mold.
Rationalizing our work
with the fantasies we're told.

While the steel keeps us up,
and pressure pushes down,
we rack ourselves straight,
and drink ourselves round.

Jordan R Shaver & DHH - A Collaboration

Reverie

I've been away from the noise and the chaos for a while.
What wond'rous crowed where we'd all rise together.
Our touching elbows and mingling pools of sweat unify.
Our temperaments meet and settle together
 - hanging on one tone.
I've been away from the enveloping music.
The best friend strangers.
The smells.
Oh God the smells.
I've been away from that high that carries us all home safely.
Our sticky sweat burning our flesh in the cool breeze of open windows.
That late night binge
where the food awakens our taste buds,
and the pleasure of each bite forces our eyes shut for better concentration.
The baptismal of a next-morning shower.
The invigoration of widening eyes, an afternoon run, and the anticipation of doing it all again that very night.
That intoxication of individual experiences which don't typically intoxicate.
But together,
together they blind us with memories we'll never recollect.












Jordan R Shaver
3.09.2014

How To Remember A Moment in Words

To find the beautiful words
appropriately translating intentions is often impossible.
But then your mind strays,
And stays
- Lingering among the beautiful words.
As if the thoughts themselves will materialize
And become the truth.

Sometimes they do.

So let's ponder
Over the time you walk down the isle
Or watched someone you love walk down the isle.
Or fantasizing about having an excess of money - and what you'd do with it.
Or actually having an excess of money -
Doing what you want with it. 
Like simply giving it away.

Or tossing your child into the sky,
and feeling the weight of pure glee falling back into your arms.
Again you thrust your arms up with the same pure glee 
- transferring joy between the two of you like a game of catch. 
Ending only when overwhelmed with laughs and satisfying sighs.

And your mind enters the beautiful words.
Mixing and combining into a palpable reminiscence.
You choose one to cling onto,
and the words transform into visualizations.
And the visualizations transform into a chemical release,
a raised heartrate,
and a tear falls as you remember the joy of running home at night,
through a field,
and perhaps a few of the neighbor's yards
- increasing your footspeed through the yards of those you know are a bit grouchy.
And making it home
to a plate of dinner.
Heading to the sink to pretend to have manners,
to wash the dirt from your face and hands.
And chugging some milk
- not because you love milk, but because it's the only cold thing in the fridge.

Then you see your own child do the same.
And the words you've put together begin to have more depth and emotion.
And when your grandchild does it - in your kitchen - pretending to have manners. You'll forget about the financial security, about the isles you've walked down, about all of those pets.
And your eyes will begin to see beauty again and again. And the words used to describe them will, in fact, be more than appropriate for your own recollection. Even though those witnessing your words will feign to understand. 
And when you realize that it will never be shared completely, 
you'll search for the words to describe it.

So you can remember the beauty of the moment.


Jordan R Shaver
11.15.2013

10 Things I'm Certain Of

Watching a short video of a poet and instructor, I decided to take her advice and put into writing 10 things I'm certain of.
Here's what I came up with:

Here's the link to Sarah Kay's TED talk where she performs her poem and give a few anecdotal stories from her teaching experiences. http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html
I realize now that I'm sure I know less that what I think I know. I'm also sure that any deep, analytical thought I may have is better off disassembled and put into a list. I'm also sure that my memo feature on my phone is pretty handy.
I think I'll be making lists more often.

Jordan R Shaver 11.7.2013

The Quiet Farmers

We rise as a family,
This could mean many different things
depending on your own family.
Nevertheless we rise.

Stumbling around the farmer's back woods,
who - these days - is farming nothing but hope.
Hope of a wetter seed that grips the earth tight.
Hope of a richer soil that needs no more care
than the amount he can muster.
Hope that the chemicals in his barn,
going unused for years,
but promising bounty,
will never need to be spread.
Hope that the beasts among his land
are on time with their rent
in fertilization, pollination, and decomposition.

The work load before us is heavy,
but each day we accept the challenge
because he's kept us safe with purpose for another year.
And to be so sure of fruitful tomorrow -
as a family, we rise.


Jordan R Shaver
9.26.2013

Forecastle Festival 7.12 - 7.14.2013

Louisville, KY

July 12, 13, and 14 2013

We're late.
Leaving the house in perfect order 4 hours later than our anticipated departure time was worth the peace of mind. Until we realize our rooms may be given away. We call. Get it sorted. And our 6 hour road trip gains an hour and a half with rush hour traffic through Columbus and then Cincinnati.
On the way we get the confirmation that Animal Collective will not be there to enhance our lives with their music. Big disappointment. This band is the reason my search for a get-a-way ended with Forcastle. This band is the reason for a lot of things. But today, this band's infallible image that I have created received it's first (maybe 2nd or 3rd) blemish in my intangible book of expectations.
We pull in to the tight one way street encompassing the Seelbach hotel - every street seems to be a one-way, and making the trek around the block is like a mouse trap, forcing us away from our cheese.
We haul our necessities up to the room and take inventory; two small suitcases, a full cooler to keep costs down, a backpack for the swag, a toiletries bag for the hygiene, laptop case with laptop, and a beach bag with towels and food. I think we'll have enough for the weekend.
We prep and make way to the venue - a sprawling contemporary park with LED lit water features, public art and sculptures, and a sea of people - young and old, all searching for that moment of unity in song.

We're late. Animal Collective is still not playing Sunday - this isn't starting out like I imagined.
We've missed a lot. But as we work our way through the park with 4 stages, we can see flashing lights with silhouettes of hands bouncing in the foreground. We make way to see Boys Noize, a DJ. This stage, the Ocean Stage is stuck under a bridge, and the fog machine, along with the smoker's exhalation collect under the bridge creating it's own little ecosystem - one that apparently cultivates euphoria. We work our way to the front of the crowd munching on a slice of pizza and sipping a PBR. We find a great spot - the music sounds amazing, and we look at each other with eyes that say we've finally made it. There's a young couple in front of us, feeling amorous. I said aloud, "those kids there are having a moment." And they were. If only they knew the importance of it, they'd try harder to remember.
Sweaty and smiling, Boys Noize ends his set, we emerge from the masses as everyone scatters. We attempt again in figuring out the layout of the park, but it's dark and all the fountains and grass and sand looks the same. we find our way to the bourbon lodge, get some tickets and enjoy some fine Kentucky bourbon as we find the String Cheese Incident playing on the main stage. A jam band with an eclectic following. We're at the front of the stage and the show seems to lack that something special, that je ne sais quoi, that we found at Boys Noize. We stop for a grilled cheese sandwich on our way from the park. We were late, but we made it. And what matters is not that we’ve made it, or that we were late, but what we do with our time here.

On the 2nd day our room feels much smaller with stuff tossed about. We gather ourselves and begin the mile long hike, backpack in tow, to the park. It’s a beautiful day – scorching hot with clouds dotting the skyline. We walk down to the pier where the tour b oats are, and then made a sharp right along the waterfront to the park. I’m just glad we’re close enough to avoid driving in this strange labyrinth of a city.
Sitting in the grass with MNDR performing. People silently swarm, and as more arrive to her stage the people behind walk a little faster, like how water pulls water down, interest drawing interest. Excitement is growing. First track down and the swarmers applaud. She’s in a rhythm and everyone can feel it. But then, towards the end of her set, she screws up, admittedly – which makes it worse. It could have been passed off as a little glitch, but she stops the music, grabs the mic and admits to her growing fan base that she messed up. Then she puts on another song that doesn’t quite fit into the time she has left – and has to stop it abruptly. It kind of fizzled at the end of her set so we unfurled our towel and relaxed as we charted our course throughout the day.
I decide to write a little. There's such a variety here - old, young, fat, thin, ravers, cowboys, dancers, the sedentary, and one guy in a fairy outfit – that I've seen so far. All are friendly, offering a seat at their picnic table so we can eat some heady tacos (really delicious gluten, and cheese, free tacos). Showing us where to go, offering their joy as a gift, without any reciprocation.

 

High rise shorts on women are the fad, no matter what age. The cool breeze whips a million identifiable odors through the park – it’s the infinite unidentifiable odors that makes my olfactory senses heighten as I stop and question what exactly that smell is. And the dichotomy between the hipster music and techno and blue grass mixing with the Louisville setting of bourbon and big cigars could only work here, and only in the summer. Like my first thought on day one – unity through music. Everyone seeking the same transcendental experience before the time is up. Before you have to either ride the wave of joy home, or slump over defeated and exhausted. And home. Home is what makes these differences so apparent. A river of people, slinking about, and each of them wearing a piece of home – a piece of what they feel most comfortable in; jeans, or high-waisted shorts, or plastic sunglasses and a tanktop, or wearing only glo-sticks. But in this neutral territory the ground itself strings everyone together harmoniously.

Hula hoopers, fish on stilts, Hunter S Thompson - spectacles everywhere.

Thousands of people doing millions of things, and when we're sitting on our beach towel in the midst of it all, it's not unlike an afternoon at the beach. The rhythm of the waves is replaced with music, and the pages of a book are now the made up stories of those around us. Everything is distanced from us, even though we’re in the center of it. The muffled chaos around us is soothing, as though we’re at the beach the same peaceful tranquility falls over us.

I'm sitting at Nosaj Thing, now 8pm. The festivities resume after a severe weather scare which led to an evacuation. The park was closed for 35 minutes. Nevertheless, we showered and were able to relax a little. Coming in we catch the last half of Tokimonster's set, which ended incredibly. At some point a minute before the set ended she broke the 180bpm with a short pause, and then a unified beat brought everyone up at the same time. It was wispy and strong and everyone jumped victoriously, like we’re all on the same team.
We walked over to see Alabama Shakes and the entire park was full, the 3 ft personal space rule was broken on a serial level. So we wandered off for a bit and snagged some pulled pork and a few ounces of american honey to sip instead.

The big attractions of the fest - Alabama Shakes, Black Keys, and the Flaming Lips. First are Alabama Shakes and I admit that I'm a fan. Their dirty blues sound belongs in a basement bar room where the sound seems to originate. Because tonight the sound is thin and unenthusiastic - perhaps it's the expansiveness of the park that keeps the melodies from resounding like they would in tight quarters. We got out of the heat in the tent and were able to watch the Shakes on the tv provided. Still, it sounded hollow and tinny compared to the dance stage – and to be honest I was really looking forward to hearing Brittany Howard wail. Either way, we left the mass of people and headed on over to see the Flaming Lips. Our position to the stage was less than perfect; off to the side with barely enough room to see the profile of the lead singer. Who, by the way, was 4 ft above the stage on a platform with strings of LEDs wound through the stage and into his outfit (including a babydoll he was holding). I'm sure it was quite a spectacle for those who could see, but again, the sound left us wanting more. Something to make us go wow.
This is what has led to my love of Animal Collective - when you go to a concert you're getting a completely new experience. Songs from their albums are tossed in between melodic long bridges and tangents and suddenly you're witnessing something that couldn't be encountered by putting on a record, or hitting play on a cd or mp3. These songs by the Flaming Lips, Alabama Shakes, and even the Black Keys could easily be heard with the same fervor in their voice and tightness in their melodies on a record. And the crowd, although fun and happy and pleasant, didn't make up for the difference in price between the concert tickets and the album cost.

We work our way through the masses on our mile walk back to the hotel satisfied with our day. Stumbling kids mirror those twice their age as they trip over curbs and find balance by hanging on a tree limbs. The aggregate spreads and diffuses through the city, and soon we’re alone, but only for a second. The easiest way home is through what is called Fourth Street LIVE!, as noted on a gigantic neon sign. It’s a brick and paver road with restaurants and shopping, all a little more “dressy” than where we just came from. My sweat soaked shirt, dirty feet ,and beet red forehead amass different looks – like I didn’t prep for this type of soirée, and it’s true. I didn’t.

On the next block we’re back at the hotel. We collapse upon ourselves, and lay there unable to sleep, whispering stories of the day to each other, until the only sound is the air conditioner and our light breathing.

Last day of festivities and I grab two bagels, a tea, and a coffee from Einstein Bros. (for $6, couldn’t believe it!) and work our way back down to the park. From what we've seen of Louisville, it's nice, and it's a fraction, I'm sure, of what Louisville really is. We sit in front of A Lion Named Roar and I write. People start filling the park. It's 91 degrees today and the thick and heavy air will soon be filled with a mix of burning meat, body odor, smoke and of course music. We'll be headed to our favorite stage soon, but for now the breeze and quasi decent pop sounds of a Lion Named Roar suffice - supplemented with a beach towel for sitting, and a cold PBR for sipping.
New spot to sit at the techno stage. White, dirty, bruised and bug bitten legs are all I see from my seated position. Most with tattoos. All with a little bounce in them. Families sit together right next to dirty, unwashed devotees of the scene - all bobbing their head in synchronicity.
Baauer - we lock our seats with the trusty beach towel as our anchor. They go through their checks and there's a delay. Finally we see Baauer begin to clap his hands and the bass hit, at the same time I witness a young man with an animal towel as a shirt and hat combo freak out. I saw him turn to a guy standing toward the back with a beer held against his belly, and scream. Not just scream but fall to his knees and look up with absolute terror. His hands grabs the air to the next of his face with a primeval flight response. He soon flopped face first into the dirt and gyrated on the compact sand. The group of people here to witness stood waiting for him to get up. As though he was dancing. But he didn't get up. He kept shaking and convulsing. A few guys raced away to get help. He was having a seizure.
Medics came and got him out of there.

The night went on, and will continue to long after the last song is played, but the image of this boy whacked out on whatever, and not having an enjoyable experience will always stick in my memory.

 

We still enjoyed the show. Walked over to see a few other sets of other bands and everything began to layer itself over top of the previous second. Each second of excitation and interaction lingered and built upon each other until we became cloaked in sensation. White noise. A static quick sand. And I feel as though I'm standing at the bottom of it - unable to breathe, my heart rate rose and I could feel my eyes widen as my nerves snapped like dry rotted rope.

Reality melts away the cloak of intense sensation - and I'm in the car, safely driving back - 3 hours more to go. Now if only my memories would serve me better for the record of this account.

If only the memories could be given away in a tapestry, when felt, each square would resemble the moment in which it was born. But no - instead these words will do, even though they will never succeed in being the moment themselves, and will never be justly recounted.

Never be worth it?

 

Jordan R Shaver
July 15th 2013

 

Reflections of the Sun

She sang
'Where have you been
My blue eyed son?
You've been running
toward the light
for years now son.'

As my eyes touched these words,
I could feel her warm soft breath
as she sung them
to the tune of "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall".
Dylan could read his own words
with less emotion.

She stalls.
Damming up the tears.
With a quick valsalva,
and squeezing her lips until they disappear.

'You've been gone for so long baby,
and your plate has been set and filled
with meat and potatoes and gravy.
Your dad's put on some weight son,
but we fake being strong willed.
And know you'll sup again,
at the same dinner table
where it all began."

I found this note from my mother
on a plate.
Exactly 6pm.
At the dinner table
following the funeral.

Reflections of the sun
have nary an obstruction
shining right back
to where you've begun.

Jordan R Shaver 6.25.2013

I Belong in the Wilderness

I belong in the wilderness
where the water flows,
silken sounding
with a crisp cold taste.
I belong in the wilderness,
where the abundance overwhelms.
I belong with the savages
needing only appreciation
for them and the wilderness.
I need their skills to support mine,
and a musician to saturate the air
and draw out the palpable texture
of our love.
I belong in the wilderness,
where our food yields itself to our greater presence.
But only after knowing we've cared for them
will they willfully succumb to our hunger.
I belong in the wilderness,
where the whites of our eyes
resemble the distinct contrast
of flower petals in our garden.
And from the wilderness we grow,
always returning in the end.

 

Jordan R Shaver 5/3/2013

Something Happened

Alone,
she begins her morning routine.
Which has had certain aspects
fall away
as the years pass.

Today she chose to skip the slippers.

The echoes from her sweet Charles;
a dog she loved for many years,
is her alarm clock
and she shuffles to the door without hesitation.
But with no dog to let out,
she's strategically placed her coffee pot
on the counter near the door.
She hits start.
Powers on the television.
And sits letting her growing consciousness
continue to open for the day.
The news is a muffled babble of
rambling baritones and sound effects.
But a story caught her attention.

"Breaking News"

Something happened,
and now the world is inhabited
by friends. And friends alone.

She's glad to see this day has come.
And sips her coffee with a smile,
and stands in silent ovation.
Thinking of David Byrne;
today is a special occasion.

Jordan R Shaver 5/3/2013

Always Pause Music Before Removing Earbuds

Because when I spill my music;
gushing from the tiny headphones
all over the floor,
I immediately drop to my knees
like an indian
concentrating on approaching hoofbeats.
And slurp that sound
right off the ground,
and no mess is left to slip on.

Jordan R Shaver 03/13/2013