Perhaps all restaurants are based on philosophy. Perhaps not.
As the name would suggest WaterCourse Foods was born beside a stream. At 24, I felt angry at the world, so I went for a long walk following the Colorado Trail from Denver to Gunnison. I carried a book, a pencil and a pad. I also lugged around my baggage that continued to fall away the further I walked. After fourteen days of walking I sat beside a crystalline stream, 13,000 feet above sea level, and pumped filtered water into my bottle. The sun, a bright ball, slowly crossed a brilliantly blue sky and shined lovingly on the alpine tundra, as pikas chirped and butterflies alighted small blue forget-me-nots.
I sat beside the stream, a twist of angst and appreciation, noticing the beauty of nature, but also painfully aware of my negative effect on it. Conflicted. Books have always been my escape from the crisis of existence. While reading l feel as though I am participating with out influencing. The word order is predetermined; my participation does not effect the outcome. Reading is peaceful. Pulling the book, The Tao de Ching, from my backpack I hoped to escape my own thoughts. The passage I read there besides the stream was to be the basis for WaterCourse Foods.
8
The supreme good is like water,
which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain.
Thus it is like the Tao.
In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don’t try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.
When you are content to be simply yourself
and don’t compare or compete,
everybody will respect you.
These words, each a management technique, had a profound effect on me. I learned that although my existence on earth my have a net negative effect I have an opportunity to live gently upon it. So I applied my 10 years of restaurant experience and opened a vegetarian restaurant.
I have sat beside the stream of WaterCourse Foods for the last 16 years and witnessed it nourish a city. I tumbled through the rapids and occasionally enjoyed the calmer waters. I have waited patiently for the time to come to truly live up to our motto “EAT THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTENCE.”
The time has come. It is with great pride in WaterCourse Foods, Denver, CO and all the wonderful people from around the world that have supported WaterCourse over the years that I announce;
WaterCourse Foods is 100% VEGAN!
From this day forward 100% of the WaterCourse Foods menu will be sourced from plants. We celebrate the way we always have at WaterCourse, with a plate of comfort food and a cold pint of beer.
Love always,
Daniel Landes
Monday, April 28, 2014
Thursday, April 3, 2014
The Akward Morning After- A Flash Fiction topic from Brian Polk
The awkward morning after
My tongue is a dried cocoon. My head is caving in. I have been dreaming of draining pitchers of water into my depleted body. I always forget to drink water when I’m back in Denver.
“I drank too much beer and smoked too much weed,” I said to her.
“Welcome to Denver, now go back to sleep,” she responds without opening her eyes.
Rolling her off my arm I try to remember her name.
Her toilet bowl is freckled. Clearly she did not intend on having company last night. The only glass in the bathroom, smudged white with toothpaste, has toothbrushes in it. I rinse the glass with hot water and hand soap and then fill it with lukewarm tap water. As I drain the third glass I can hear my cells crackle back into form. My pee is dark. I drain two more glasses of water and go back into her bedroom.
I pray to god to see the empty, golden, foil wrapper indicating good decision making on the floor next to the bed, or glinting somewhere in the folds of the sheets. I see none.
“Fuck,” I think.
Her bra is crumpled at the foot of the bed.
As she sleeps I trace what may have been her bra history. From her first one, purchased six months before she needed it, but a long four months after her best friend got one. There were the bras that didn’t fit, the ones that chaffed, the one bought and worn for the first boy she ever loved, the one she calls her favorite, the one she can wear with a backless dress and the one now crumpled at the foot of her bed.
Her hair covers her face. I delicately brush it back behind her ear. She is beautiful.
I kiss her softly. She opens her eyes and smiles rolling on her back. She is really beautiful.
Her smile grows as I brush more hair from her face. I smile back.
“Water,” she says.
When I return with the bathroom glass filled with tap water she sits up and drains it. I fill it up again for her. We are both naked sitting on her bed. She puts her arm around me, rests her head on my shoulder and whispers in my ear shamelessly “tell me your name again. “
We did not leave her room the rest of the day.
My tongue is a dried cocoon. My head is caving in. I have been dreaming of draining pitchers of water into my depleted body. I always forget to drink water when I’m back in Denver.
“I drank too much beer and smoked too much weed,” I said to her.
“Welcome to Denver, now go back to sleep,” she responds without opening her eyes.
Rolling her off my arm I try to remember her name.
Her toilet bowl is freckled. Clearly she did not intend on having company last night. The only glass in the bathroom, smudged white with toothpaste, has toothbrushes in it. I rinse the glass with hot water and hand soap and then fill it with lukewarm tap water. As I drain the third glass I can hear my cells crackle back into form. My pee is dark. I drain two more glasses of water and go back into her bedroom.
I pray to god to see the empty, golden, foil wrapper indicating good decision making on the floor next to the bed, or glinting somewhere in the folds of the sheets. I see none.
“Fuck,” I think.
Her bra is crumpled at the foot of the bed.
As she sleeps I trace what may have been her bra history. From her first one, purchased six months before she needed it, but a long four months after her best friend got one. There were the bras that didn’t fit, the ones that chaffed, the one bought and worn for the first boy she ever loved, the one she calls her favorite, the one she can wear with a backless dress and the one now crumpled at the foot of her bed.
Her hair covers her face. I delicately brush it back behind her ear. She is beautiful.
I kiss her softly. She opens her eyes and smiles rolling on her back. She is really beautiful.
Her smile grows as I brush more hair from her face. I smile back.
“Water,” she says.
When I return with the bathroom glass filled with tap water she sits up and drains it. I fill it up again for her. We are both naked sitting on her bed. She puts her arm around me, rests her head on my shoulder and whispers in my ear shamelessly “tell me your name again. “
We did not leave her room the rest of the day.
Post Industrial Crow Children
Post Industrial Crow Children
My first day of kindergarten was in the fall of 1976. From that moment on the Denver Public School system attempted to educate me. By applying a district approved educational system to my unique and wondrous psyche the DPS tried to educate me enough to meet a district-approved standard. The system utilized obedience to time and authority to achieve their results. Those students with a basic aptitude for rote memory, math and subservience tended to thrive in the school system of my time. Those students who had a basic aptitude for mythology, playing make believe, and, expected authority to earn respect, rather than demand it, tended to do poorly in my school system. I was distinctly the latter.
Denver Public Schools had systems in place to promote those who excelled in sports, academics or both. They also had systems to cope with those with behavioral problems and obvious learning struggles. I was neither smart nor dumb, an athlete nor an academic . I was good at recess.
It was not the fault of the grossly underfunded school system that my talents for play were summarily overlooked, I blame the industrial revolution. As a result of the industrial revolution, we Americans needed an educational system to produce good factory workers. As students, like clock-punching laborers, we lined up outside the school, single file; waiting for the bell to ring indicating it was time to enter the utilitarian building. In the classroom we sat in rows and were given instructions by the authority at the head of the class. Our work was graded on a scale. Excellence was rewarded, mediocrity was expected and failure was managed. We were motivated by bells, discipline and rewards. There was no place for a being like mine in the factory.
The DPS did provide me with an education. I learned to sleep with my eyes open. I learned to keep a perfect beat as I counted down the seconds, minutes, hours, months, years, until I would be free from that educational system. I learned to cheat guilt free. I learned that lunchroom milk is only palatable when served ice cold. The skill I have most benefited from is; how to assess a situation in a fraction of a second and adjust my behavior in order to avoid unwanted attention yet ultimately get the results I want. A basic jungle lesson.
Being a pleasure seeking human I wanted to avoid the threats and reap the rewards of the system so I made attempts to get good grades. It was apparent I did not have the necessary aptitude for success in that particular system. Eventually I sunk to the slow-moving, deep eddies of the public school system known as the remedial classroom. As opposed to AP classes where the goal is to prepare you for college, the goal of a remedial classroom is to provide the students with the bare minimum of necessary information to participate in the economy and the democracy. The low expectations of the remedial classroom provided the perfect climate to hide. I was thankfully overlooked by the system.
As I watched high functioning students take on a great many activates, and hours of homework, I began to wonder if the goal of the school system is to burn out their adrenal glands. Take the fight out of ‘em. The most successful students were always busy and stressed out. Stress is not good for the body. Even at fifteen. A less toxic stress, mostly caused by trying to avoid conflict, existed for the students in the remedial classroom, which tended to be populated with those who prefer the slow swirling waters of under achievement.
Compared to the focused energy of a college prep classroom, the remedial climate was breezy. The smartest teachers learned they could spend time trying to focus a group of smart-ass kids who don’t give a fuck, or they could create a mellow environment dedicated to activities like “free reading” or “study hall”. The smartest teachers caught up on their work while we read books, slept or wrote notes. I read books of my choosing. Imagine the abrupt transition from being totally absorbed in Tom Robbins’ luscious romantic novel, Still Life with Woodpecker ,only to step into the fray of a 1980’s high school hallway replete with cliques, pegged jeans, and violence.
The detention room was also a safe haven. Confined to an antiseptic desk, I spent hours trying to think of nothingness. As time slowly passed I listened as teachers gossiped, witnessed their faces contort with the stresses of the work place and the struggles of their existence outside of it. As we sat at our respective desks, each eating our sack lunch, it became very clear, we were both in detention.
By the time I reached the tenth grade I had failed a dozen classes. The phrase “not working up to potential” was the indelible mark on my permanent file. So many hours had been spent in detention that I knew how many holes were in 12’ x 12’ acoustic tile. Not by using multiplication, but by counting them individually. Fuck math. I could also drink as many beers as my years and still drive home and say goodnight to my parents before the stroke of midnight. Drinking was something I was good at. I did it well and I did it often.
I lived like a eastern block communist. I went to the factory during the day and got drunk at night.
*
And when I was grown I had two kids of my own.
Smart kids. My oldest son was yet two we sat on a hilltop as the sun began to set. I was overwhelmed by stresses at work. He smiled and cooed in the dirt. I was distracted by my own plight. A crow circled overhead.
Caw Caw Caw… said the crow.
Caw caw caw… mimicked my son.
Pulled from my self-absorption the crow called out again. Again my son answerd.
With a nod he looked at me. His shining eyes communicated the wonderment and humor in the world. In that moment my stress breezed away and we laughed together at how funny crows are.
On a Saturday morning, when my youngest was seven, he bumbled underfoot as I poured coffee. Dogs plodded through the kitchen, cats hopped on counter tops and my youngest spun contentedly amongst my legs and pets. Again I was distracted by stresses external. I was hardly present to the morning light shining through the kitchen window on to a perfect domestic morning.
“Dad do you know there are only seven stories in the world?” asked my son pulling on my pajama pants.
There is no stress grand enough that a comment like that can’t cut through it easy.
“What?” I asked.
“There are really only seven stories in the world. We just tell them differently.” He said as he floated out of the kitchen chasing some animal tail or another.
Yes, it was my responsibility to send these blessed children to school.
So we chose a brilliant school. A public school. A school rife with the struggles of trying to change the order of things. A school trying to do what is right by children’s intrinsic genius while placating standards set by an impuissant government that has continued to fail us in regards to the education of our children for decades. We chose an expeditionary learning school. Jefferson County Open School.
Forty years ago the “Open School” philosophy responded to the industrialized information cram approach to education, by allowing students to be self-directed and aspire to be life long learners. Open School followed in the words of William Butler Yeats "Education is not filling a bucket, but lighting a fire". Students work hard within the great freedoms they are entitled to not because of the threat of a bad grade or detention, they work hard because that is their nature. Open School trusts that the human lust for learning exists in all kids they just need the environment to explore it.
My first day of kindergarten was in the fall of 1976. From that moment on the Denver Public School system attempted to educate me. By applying a district approved educational system to my unique and wondrous psyche the DPS tried to educate me enough to meet a district-approved standard. The system utilized obedience to time and authority to achieve their results. Those students with a basic aptitude for rote memory, math and subservience tended to thrive in the school system of my time. Those students who had a basic aptitude for mythology, playing make believe, and, expected authority to earn respect, rather than demand it, tended to do poorly in my school system. I was distinctly the latter.
Denver Public Schools had systems in place to promote those who excelled in sports, academics or both. They also had systems to cope with those with behavioral problems and obvious learning struggles. I was neither smart nor dumb, an athlete nor an academic . I was good at recess.
It was not the fault of the grossly underfunded school system that my talents for play were summarily overlooked, I blame the industrial revolution. As a result of the industrial revolution, we Americans needed an educational system to produce good factory workers. As students, like clock-punching laborers, we lined up outside the school, single file; waiting for the bell to ring indicating it was time to enter the utilitarian building. In the classroom we sat in rows and were given instructions by the authority at the head of the class. Our work was graded on a scale. Excellence was rewarded, mediocrity was expected and failure was managed. We were motivated by bells, discipline and rewards. There was no place for a being like mine in the factory.
The DPS did provide me with an education. I learned to sleep with my eyes open. I learned to keep a perfect beat as I counted down the seconds, minutes, hours, months, years, until I would be free from that educational system. I learned to cheat guilt free. I learned that lunchroom milk is only palatable when served ice cold. The skill I have most benefited from is; how to assess a situation in a fraction of a second and adjust my behavior in order to avoid unwanted attention yet ultimately get the results I want. A basic jungle lesson.
Being a pleasure seeking human I wanted to avoid the threats and reap the rewards of the system so I made attempts to get good grades. It was apparent I did not have the necessary aptitude for success in that particular system. Eventually I sunk to the slow-moving, deep eddies of the public school system known as the remedial classroom. As opposed to AP classes where the goal is to prepare you for college, the goal of a remedial classroom is to provide the students with the bare minimum of necessary information to participate in the economy and the democracy. The low expectations of the remedial classroom provided the perfect climate to hide. I was thankfully overlooked by the system.
As I watched high functioning students take on a great many activates, and hours of homework, I began to wonder if the goal of the school system is to burn out their adrenal glands. Take the fight out of ‘em. The most successful students were always busy and stressed out. Stress is not good for the body. Even at fifteen. A less toxic stress, mostly caused by trying to avoid conflict, existed for the students in the remedial classroom, which tended to be populated with those who prefer the slow swirling waters of under achievement.
Compared to the focused energy of a college prep classroom, the remedial climate was breezy. The smartest teachers learned they could spend time trying to focus a group of smart-ass kids who don’t give a fuck, or they could create a mellow environment dedicated to activities like “free reading” or “study hall”. The smartest teachers caught up on their work while we read books, slept or wrote notes. I read books of my choosing. Imagine the abrupt transition from being totally absorbed in Tom Robbins’ luscious romantic novel, Still Life with Woodpecker ,only to step into the fray of a 1980’s high school hallway replete with cliques, pegged jeans, and violence.
The detention room was also a safe haven. Confined to an antiseptic desk, I spent hours trying to think of nothingness. As time slowly passed I listened as teachers gossiped, witnessed their faces contort with the stresses of the work place and the struggles of their existence outside of it. As we sat at our respective desks, each eating our sack lunch, it became very clear, we were both in detention.
By the time I reached the tenth grade I had failed a dozen classes. The phrase “not working up to potential” was the indelible mark on my permanent file. So many hours had been spent in detention that I knew how many holes were in 12’ x 12’ acoustic tile. Not by using multiplication, but by counting them individually. Fuck math. I could also drink as many beers as my years and still drive home and say goodnight to my parents before the stroke of midnight. Drinking was something I was good at. I did it well and I did it often.
I lived like a eastern block communist. I went to the factory during the day and got drunk at night.
*
And when I was grown I had two kids of my own.
Smart kids. My oldest son was yet two we sat on a hilltop as the sun began to set. I was overwhelmed by stresses at work. He smiled and cooed in the dirt. I was distracted by my own plight. A crow circled overhead.
Caw Caw Caw… said the crow.
Caw caw caw… mimicked my son.
Pulled from my self-absorption the crow called out again. Again my son answerd.
With a nod he looked at me. His shining eyes communicated the wonderment and humor in the world. In that moment my stress breezed away and we laughed together at how funny crows are.
On a Saturday morning, when my youngest was seven, he bumbled underfoot as I poured coffee. Dogs plodded through the kitchen, cats hopped on counter tops and my youngest spun contentedly amongst my legs and pets. Again I was distracted by stresses external. I was hardly present to the morning light shining through the kitchen window on to a perfect domestic morning.
“Dad do you know there are only seven stories in the world?” asked my son pulling on my pajama pants.
There is no stress grand enough that a comment like that can’t cut through it easy.
“What?” I asked.
“There are really only seven stories in the world. We just tell them differently.” He said as he floated out of the kitchen chasing some animal tail or another.
Yes, it was my responsibility to send these blessed children to school.
So we chose a brilliant school. A public school. A school rife with the struggles of trying to change the order of things. A school trying to do what is right by children’s intrinsic genius while placating standards set by an impuissant government that has continued to fail us in regards to the education of our children for decades. We chose an expeditionary learning school. Jefferson County Open School.
Forty years ago the “Open School” philosophy responded to the industrialized information cram approach to education, by allowing students to be self-directed and aspire to be life long learners. Open School followed in the words of William Butler Yeats "Education is not filling a bucket, but lighting a fire". Students work hard within the great freedoms they are entitled to not because of the threat of a bad grade or detention, they work hard because that is their nature. Open School trusts that the human lust for learning exists in all kids they just need the environment to explore it.
Friday, August 31, 2012
MORE GRAVITY POEMS
HORTICREATURE
THIS FRAIL BLOOM
IS A FAKE
WHAT I’VE LEARNED BETWEEN THE YEARS 2008-2012
ALL PRESIDENTS LIE
EVEN BLACK ONES
TOURIST
I HAVE INVESTED
CONSIDERABLE AMOUNTS OF MONEY
INTO THE QUALITY OF LUGGAGE
THAT I CARRY MY CHEAP FIRST WORLD
PROBLEMS IN
HOW I SMUGGLED POEMS OFF OF TATOOINE
HI,
YOU SILLY COP
I KNOW WHY YOU’RE SO MAD
AND TREAT ME SO BAD
BUT TRUST THESE WORDS:
YOUR GIRLFRIEND DIDN’T TELL ME ABOUT YOU
CAUSE HER MOUTH WAS FULL
AND I DIDN’T ASK
CAUSE I WAS TOO DISTRACTED BY THAT ASS
THESE AREN’T THE POEMS
YOU ARE LOOKING FOR
SO MOVE ALONG
YOU SILLY COP
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Gravity Poems
SOUL COMPOST
OR THE DARK SIDE OF ORGANIC
I THINK I FOUND
THE LIME WEDGE
IN THE COMPOST I WAS TURNING
FROM THE GIN AND TONIC
I WAS DRINKING
ON THE NIGHT I REALLY FUCKED UP
TO TELL THE TRUTH
I HAVE NEVER ENJOYED
THE SOUND OF YOUR VOICE
SPEAKING OF BOYFRIENDS PAST
MISCOMMUNICATION
I SHOUTED HOW MUCH
I LOVE YOU
YOU ONLY HEARD ME SHOUTING
AT YOU
ALTERNATE ENDING
I WONDER HOW THIS PLAY
WOULD HAVE ENDED
HAD YOU NOT VACATED THE SEAT
NEXT TO MINE
LEAVING IT OPEN
FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO SIT IN
FOUNDATION
HAVING INHERITED NO SOLID GROUND
FROM OUR PARENTS
WE BUILT OUR HOME
ON THE ONLY LAND AVAILABLE TO US
THE SHIFTING SAND BY THE SEA
INEVITABLEY
THE WAVES RUSHED IN
AND TORE US APART
ENDING THE BLAME GAME
IT WAS NOT YOU
THAT KILLED THAT PART OF ME
IT WAS I WHO LET IT DIE
HOW THIS STORY GOES
WE FUCKED EACH OTHER
ON DIRTY SHEETS
SCREEN PORN
WOMEN,
COME TO FIND OUT,
HAVE MORE THAN
TWO DIMENSIONS
WHILE UNDER THIS SUN
I HOPE TO NEVER SPEAK TO YOU
IN A VOICE LOUDER
THAN A MUSEUM WHISPER
WHAT THE BLUE SKY ABOVE DENVER CITY TOLD ME
ON THIS DESERT LIES HOPE
YOU ARE NOT ON THIS DESERT
YOU ARE ON THE ONE BELOW IT
FACT
I DO NOT BELIEVE
IN NON-FICTION
NEAR A TREE
SQUIRRELS ARE FUNNY
BEES ARE AMAZING
Monday, August 13, 2012
Thank God for the ferris wheel
Thank God for the Ferris Wheel
I highly anticipate the arrival of the carnival. I do every year; I anticipate it with a forgetful enthusiasm. Over the winter I forget about the inescapable heat, the nausea (caused by greasy food and shaky rides), the long lines of gape mouthed country folk spitting and rubbing their bellies with swollen fingers. I forget about the high-ticket prices and sickly smell of overflowing port-o-potties and cotton candy. These realities have no place in my mind for how the carnival will be this year.
This year the carnival will be different. It will fulfill my hopes and desires. The lines will be shorter, the rides faster, the food less disgusting and maybe, just maybe I will see you again.
It was you, wedged in between the raucousness of drunken thrill seekers, that caught my eye. Admist the loud noises and bright lights of a carnival in full swing, you stood gracefully taking it all in. You, a beautiful visage amongst the dull citizenry.
Thank god for the Ferris wheel. It scooped us up and lifted us above the bedlam below. When we reached the top; a miracle, the Ferris wheel broke. The forty five minutes we stalled out so high above the fray seemed like two days. It was quiet; we talked, and teased and laughed. When we finally kissed the Ferris wheel cranked back to life and we began our slow decent back into the carnival where the drunken masses engulfed us once more.
I anticipate the arrival of the carnival. I do every year.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
pine wood screams when it burns
A blaze like a tidal wave tore across the foothills consuming thin, dry pine trees. Clouds of grey ashy smoke carried by the wind settled on the fledgling city of Denver. The spring of 1863 was a dry one. Young Denver City was blanketed by dust, stink and smoke; the inhabitants swam in a vapor of agitation. Everyone Lamar passed on main street was red eyed, coughing and angry.
Five ponies, tied up outside the saloon, pulled against their restraints desperate to escape the oppressive air of the river basin and seek higher ground above the lid of pollution. A small paint, not more than 12 hands, thrashed and reared nearly snapping the post to which she was tied. The lead rope wrapped around her neck choking her. Her bulging eyes threatened to pop from the pressure.
Finally a short brown skinned man burst from the saloon and flew at the distressed mare slamming into her chest as she reared back. Lamar heard the snap of her neck as the pony crumpled onto the piss and shit below.
"This is how you break a pinche caballo cabron." He said in a stew of accents; french, spanish, english and native. All full of lust and fury he pushed his way back into the saloon.
Lamar followed closely. The wind slammed the saloon door shut behind him.
*
As Lamar crossed the sunken floor to the bar he was scanned by broken fragments of sunlight that shone through the crumbling chinking of the dimly lit saloon. The inescapable smog and agitation permeated the log building.
The men in the bar, gold miners, trappers and traders squinted in the dim light, their eyes watered, many wrapped handkerchiefs around their mouths to filter the brackish air. Lamar, like the rest of the men, drank whiskey to kill the pain.
As the sun began to set behind the Rockies Denver City was bathed in an eerie orange light that only added to the hellish environment of the town. As dusk arrived the winds died down . The dust and soot began to settle. The men’s lust, fury and agitation, now fueled with whiskey, intensified.
Lamar’s hardworking back, sore from weeks of scooping and sifting sand and silt from the Platte River in hopes of finding gold began to unclench as the barkeep lit oil lamps.
"What's the day?" asked Lamar.
" April 19th" replied the barkeep.
"Sunday?" asked Lamar.
"I have no idea?" replied the barkeep.
*
The horse killer, a Comanche, was a good foot shorter than any of the other patrons and the only Indian in the bar. The whiskey did not kill his pain; it only served to remind him of it and exacerbated it. He waved his arms wildly above his head. No one took their eyes off of him. Those nearest backed away slowly giving him space. His eyes, all pupils, black as night, took everyone in. All felt endangered. The barkeep was nowhere to be seen.
The Comanche cocked his head forming his lips around his worn teeth; beginning a war whoop. Miners placed their hands on their pistols. The Comanche placed his hand on his ax. There was still a bounty on Indian scalps but up until now this one's value as a horse trader outweighed the value of his hair.
His war whoop generated intensity. The air in the bar was murderous. His knuckles whitened on the ax handle. Goldminers fingered their triggers. As the ax slipped from his belt and pistols were freed from their holsters the barkeep, all 260 pounds of him, flew from the bar top slamming the Comanche into the dirt floor. With his wind taken the Comanche was carried outside and deposited next to the stiffening pony.
“Sleep it off,” said the barkeep.
*
Inside, the bar settled back into the normal tension of drinking and lying.
Lamar, drunk and alone, drifted outside to scalp that Indian before someone else did.
His approach was heavy with whiskey and fatigue. His hands grasped both ends of his knife. He knew from experience the best way to scalp an Indian is with a pull knife action. Lamar knelt over the blacked out Comanche. Scalping the living was the highest form of scalping; recognized and practiced by both sides of the frontier wars.
Lamar raised his arms over the Comanche’s head. His plan was to quickly cut and pull. He would deal with whatever came after that.
The Comanche’s eyes shot open, his hands grabbed Lamar by his throat crushing his windpipe. Lamar fell back over the dead pony, the Comanche’s hand locked onto his neck. Lamar slashed with his knife cutting Comanche, cutting pony, cutting himself. Slashing into the Comanche’s bicep Lamar was finally freed from his death grip. Lamar retreated backward toward the saloon door. The Comanche was on his feet running; crashing into him sending Lamar flying back into the saloon.
The pressure that had been building in Denver since the forest fires began a week ago, exploded. In the melee an oil lamp was knocked over. The saloon, made of dry pine wood, erupted in flame. That fire set off a chain reaction as the flames passed from log structure to log structure until the whole city was ablaze. In moments from what is now 16th street to the Cherry Creek and from Market to Wazee was destroyed.
*
The front range was never meant to be permanently inhabited; only migrated through. For thousands of years the confluence of the Cherry Creek and the Platte River was home to temporary encampments of hunters and gathers following seasons and animals. The front range has always been and remains a place to pass through.
The aftermath of the fire on April 19th, 1863 attempted to change all of that. The industrious inhabitants of Denver, unwilling to leave the potential fortune of gold, began rebuilding in the flood zone of the confluence while the embers of the old city still glowed. This time they built under the confines of a new a law. A law that tried to create permanence on an ever changing landscape. The law that was passed immediately following the fire of 1863 stated that “no structures shall be built of flammable materials”, which was a boon to the brick manufacturers in the area.
Denver was born and burned on the same day, April 19th 1863.
*
If you close your eyes and shut your mouth you can still feel the instinct to leave this place. We all feel it, everyone of us. This feeling comes up from the ground itself. It’s inescapable.
But I also feel the desire to stay. Maybe all the cement and asphalt mute the voice of the land.
Maybe I stay to see the forests burn, the rivers flood and bison stampede again.
Maybe I stay because I’ve found you all.
I stay even when the land itself tells me to go. And I wonder why?
Maybe because when I close my eyes and shut my mouth I am comfortable with this feeling of not belonging. There is nothing on this planet that belongs to me.
Or maybe it’s just I can get behind a city that was born of whiskey and fire. At least it’s honest for a white man.
Five ponies, tied up outside the saloon, pulled against their restraints desperate to escape the oppressive air of the river basin and seek higher ground above the lid of pollution. A small paint, not more than 12 hands, thrashed and reared nearly snapping the post to which she was tied. The lead rope wrapped around her neck choking her. Her bulging eyes threatened to pop from the pressure.
Finally a short brown skinned man burst from the saloon and flew at the distressed mare slamming into her chest as she reared back. Lamar heard the snap of her neck as the pony crumpled onto the piss and shit below.
"This is how you break a pinche caballo cabron." He said in a stew of accents; french, spanish, english and native. All full of lust and fury he pushed his way back into the saloon.
Lamar followed closely. The wind slammed the saloon door shut behind him.
*
As Lamar crossed the sunken floor to the bar he was scanned by broken fragments of sunlight that shone through the crumbling chinking of the dimly lit saloon. The inescapable smog and agitation permeated the log building.
The men in the bar, gold miners, trappers and traders squinted in the dim light, their eyes watered, many wrapped handkerchiefs around their mouths to filter the brackish air. Lamar, like the rest of the men, drank whiskey to kill the pain.
As the sun began to set behind the Rockies Denver City was bathed in an eerie orange light that only added to the hellish environment of the town. As dusk arrived the winds died down . The dust and soot began to settle. The men’s lust, fury and agitation, now fueled with whiskey, intensified.
Lamar’s hardworking back, sore from weeks of scooping and sifting sand and silt from the Platte River in hopes of finding gold began to unclench as the barkeep lit oil lamps.
"What's the day?" asked Lamar.
" April 19th" replied the barkeep.
"Sunday?" asked Lamar.
"I have no idea?" replied the barkeep.
*
The horse killer, a Comanche, was a good foot shorter than any of the other patrons and the only Indian in the bar. The whiskey did not kill his pain; it only served to remind him of it and exacerbated it. He waved his arms wildly above his head. No one took their eyes off of him. Those nearest backed away slowly giving him space. His eyes, all pupils, black as night, took everyone in. All felt endangered. The barkeep was nowhere to be seen.
The Comanche cocked his head forming his lips around his worn teeth; beginning a war whoop. Miners placed their hands on their pistols. The Comanche placed his hand on his ax. There was still a bounty on Indian scalps but up until now this one's value as a horse trader outweighed the value of his hair.
His war whoop generated intensity. The air in the bar was murderous. His knuckles whitened on the ax handle. Goldminers fingered their triggers. As the ax slipped from his belt and pistols were freed from their holsters the barkeep, all 260 pounds of him, flew from the bar top slamming the Comanche into the dirt floor. With his wind taken the Comanche was carried outside and deposited next to the stiffening pony.
“Sleep it off,” said the barkeep.
*
Inside, the bar settled back into the normal tension of drinking and lying.
Lamar, drunk and alone, drifted outside to scalp that Indian before someone else did.
His approach was heavy with whiskey and fatigue. His hands grasped both ends of his knife. He knew from experience the best way to scalp an Indian is with a pull knife action. Lamar knelt over the blacked out Comanche. Scalping the living was the highest form of scalping; recognized and practiced by both sides of the frontier wars.
Lamar raised his arms over the Comanche’s head. His plan was to quickly cut and pull. He would deal with whatever came after that.
The Comanche’s eyes shot open, his hands grabbed Lamar by his throat crushing his windpipe. Lamar fell back over the dead pony, the Comanche’s hand locked onto his neck. Lamar slashed with his knife cutting Comanche, cutting pony, cutting himself. Slashing into the Comanche’s bicep Lamar was finally freed from his death grip. Lamar retreated backward toward the saloon door. The Comanche was on his feet running; crashing into him sending Lamar flying back into the saloon.
The pressure that had been building in Denver since the forest fires began a week ago, exploded. In the melee an oil lamp was knocked over. The saloon, made of dry pine wood, erupted in flame. That fire set off a chain reaction as the flames passed from log structure to log structure until the whole city was ablaze. In moments from what is now 16th street to the Cherry Creek and from Market to Wazee was destroyed.
*
The front range was never meant to be permanently inhabited; only migrated through. For thousands of years the confluence of the Cherry Creek and the Platte River was home to temporary encampments of hunters and gathers following seasons and animals. The front range has always been and remains a place to pass through.
The aftermath of the fire on April 19th, 1863 attempted to change all of that. The industrious inhabitants of Denver, unwilling to leave the potential fortune of gold, began rebuilding in the flood zone of the confluence while the embers of the old city still glowed. This time they built under the confines of a new a law. A law that tried to create permanence on an ever changing landscape. The law that was passed immediately following the fire of 1863 stated that “no structures shall be built of flammable materials”, which was a boon to the brick manufacturers in the area.
Denver was born and burned on the same day, April 19th 1863.
*
If you close your eyes and shut your mouth you can still feel the instinct to leave this place. We all feel it, everyone of us. This feeling comes up from the ground itself. It’s inescapable.
But I also feel the desire to stay. Maybe all the cement and asphalt mute the voice of the land.
Maybe I stay to see the forests burn, the rivers flood and bison stampede again.
Maybe I stay because I’ve found you all.
I stay even when the land itself tells me to go. And I wonder why?
Maybe because when I close my eyes and shut my mouth I am comfortable with this feeling of not belonging. There is nothing on this planet that belongs to me.
Or maybe it’s just I can get behind a city that was born of whiskey and fire. At least it’s honest for a white man.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)