Aphorism 18

There are, relative to the 8 billion humans, an extremely small number of humans that define, control, and direct the human outward.  This small number of human beings continue to feed and perpetuate an inherited momentum from which they themselves gain unfathomable wealth, power and influence.  Through this process that has repeated itself from generation to generation, the few with wealth and power have defined and set the course of the human outward.

Unfortunately, these few men that feed and perpetuate the momentum from one generation to the next devote all focus and energy to the human outward and have lost sight of both their human inward and the non-human outward.  As such, the gap between the human inward/non-human outward relative to the human outward increases generation after generation.  

Man is drifting farther and farther out to sea in a vessel with limited provisions and no inward compass.  One day he will meet the unforgiving and absolute power of the non-human outward.  Only then will he recall his human inward, but it will be just a distant memory and will be of no use to him as the non-human outward terminates the failed experiment and recycles bone, flesh, the extraordinary thumb and relatively large brain for the next experiment.



Aphorism 13

The human outward has created so many “isms” that don’t have any connection to the human inward or non-human outward.  Man created communism, socialism, capitalism.  Man created taoism, buddhism, and judaism.  But the most misleading of all isms was that called humanism.  As such, the best rebuttal to this folly of isms was a term created by the great poet and philosopher Robinson Jeffers — “In-humanism”.


Life From The Lifeless

Spirits and illusions have died,
The naked mind lives
In the beauty of inanimate things.

Flowers wither, grass fades, trees wilt,
The forest is burnt;
The rock is not burnt.

The deer starve, the winter birds
Die on their twigs and lie
In the blue dawns in the snow.

Men suffer want and become
Curiously ignoble; as prosperity
Made them curiously vile.

But look how noble the world is,
The lonely-flowing waters, the secret-
Keeping stones, the flowing sky.

By Robinson Jeffers



Civilized, crying how to be human again: this will tell you how. Turn outward, love things, not men,
turn right away from humanity, Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow,
Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity
Make your veins cold, look at the silent stars, let your eyes Climb the great ladder out of the pit of
yourself and man. Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes; Things are the God, you
will love God, and not in vain,
For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature. At length You will look back along the stars’
rays and see that even The poor doll humanity has a place under heaven.
Its qualities repair their mosaic around you, the chips of strength And sickness; but now you are free,
even to become human, But born of the rock and the air, not of a woman.

Robinson Jeffers — “Sign-Post”


Mt AdamsI flew out of the Northwest a few days ago with my son to visit my parents.  One of the only things I enjoy about flying these days is the view out the window.  Every now and then, I can catch sight of a Cascade volcano…one of my favorite photographic subjects in the Northwest.  I asked my son to take this picture of Mt. Adams since I gave him the window seat!  Isn’t this an ominous and beautiful looking land form?  There are so many powerful processes involved in such a formation.

I was also shocked to see that my parents (found out it was my mom) had actually hung up some of the black and white prints I developed eight or nine years ago.  I didn’t even know my mom had these prints.  These prints are really sign-posts for me.  They are also points of awkwardness — my parents didn’t support my desire to dedicate myself and energy to landscape photography.  But, this will be covered in some upcoming journal posts.  I had to take pictures of these framed pictures (would never pick black matt for framing!!!) so there is some glare that distorts the black and white shades.  The images are much clearer and better contrast when viewing in person…but oh well.  These photos were taken with my 4×5 Arca Swiss and I processed the prints at a community dark room.

Mt RainierMt Baker  Silver grass

Piece Four

LA at NightI have included two more poems composed by Robinson Jeffers below as I couldn’t decide which one I liked better.  Besides, the two pieces fit well together.  He has had a big influence on me…in that he confirmed my intuition and expressed himself, of course, with more eloquence, wisdom and force.  I have begun writing my journal-like entries, that by their very nature reveal the positive aspect of critical thinking.   I will begin to post after Piece 5 and as various sections are completed.  I don’t know where these journal-like entries will take me or this blog…perhaps somewhere else…or perhaps in a circular loop.  My hope is that it takes the form of the former…rather than the later.


The Purse-Seine

Our sardine fishermen work at night in the dark
of the moon; daylight or moonlight
They could not tell where to spread the net, 
unable to see the phosphorescence of the 
shoals of fish.
They work northward from Monterey, coasting 
Santa Cruz; off New Year’s Point or off 
Pigeon Point
The look-out man will see some lakes of milk-color 
light on the sea’s night-purple; he points, 
and the helmsman
Turns the dark prow, the motorboat circles the 
gleaming shoal and drifts out her seine-net. 
They close the circle
And purse the bottom of the net, then with great 
labor haul it in.

I cannot tell you
How beautiful the scene is, and a little terrible, 
then, when the crowded fish
Know they are caught, and wildly beat from one wall 
to the other of their closing destiny the 
Water to a pool of flame, each beautiful slender body 
sheeted with flame, like a live rocket
A comet’s tail wake of clear yellow flame; while outside 
the narrowing
Floats and cordage of the net great sea-lions come up 
to watch, sighing in the dark; the vast walls 
of night
Stand erect to the stars.

Lately I was looking from a night mountain-top
On a wide city, the colored splendor, galaxies of light: 
how could I help but recall the seine-net
Gathering the luminous fish? I cannot tell you how 
beautiful the city appeared, and a little terrible.
I thought, We have geared the machines and locked all together 
into inter-dependence; we have built the great cities; now
There is no escape. We have gathered vast populations incapable 
of free survival, insulated
From the strong earth, each person in himself helpless, on all 
dependent. The circle is closed, and the net
Is being hauled in. They hardly feel the cords drawing, yet 
they shine already. The inevitable mass-disasters
Will not come in our time nor in our children’s, but we 
and our children
Must watch the net draw narrower, government take all 
powers–or revolution, and the new government
Take more than all, add to kept bodies kept souls–or anarchy, 
the mass-disasters.
These things are Progress;
Do you marvel our verse is troubled or frowning, while it keeps 
its reason? Or it lets go, lets the mood flow
In the manner of the recent young men into mere hysteria, 
splintered gleams, crackled laughter. But they are 
quite wrong.
There is no reason for amazement: surely one always knew 
that cultures decay, and life’s end is death. 

Hooded Night

At night, toward dawn, all the lights of the shore have died,
And a wind moves. Moves in the dark
The sleeping power of the ocean, no more beastlike than manlike,
Not to be compared; itself and itself.
Its breath blown shoreward huddles the world with a fog; no stars
Dance in heaven; no ship’s light glances.
I see the heavy granite bodies of the rocks of the headland,
That were ancient here before Egypt had pyramids,
Bulk on the gray of the sky, and beyond them the jets of young trees
I planted the year of the Versailles peace.
But here is the final unridiculous peace. Before the first man
Here were the stones, the ocean, the cypresses,
And the pallid region in the stone-rough dome of fog where the moon
Falls on the west. Here is reality.
The other is a spectral episode; after the inquisitive animal’s
Amusements are quiet: the dark glory.