ned buskirk

Every year I'm compelled to compile & release Christmas music for my [& your, if you're one of those people who like Christmas music] listening pleasure...

This year, not unlike a couple of years ago, my hankering is for sad Christmas music.

If you're so inclined, download & take a good listen to this sad sack of Christmas tunes titled More Sad Songs for Christmas: http://bit.ly/rUj13i

And, if you're interested in the first album in the Sad Song Xmas Series, download it here: http://bit.ly/scFc6Z

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I Can't Remember Something Special I Wanted to Write

Sun, 23 Oct 2011 23:04:12 -0700

I sat behind the kitchen counter and stared at you. You were hitting him in the face with an ice-cube tray, hard enough to leave a red mark by the corner of his mouth, and he was letting you. Neither of you noticed me. But it didn't matter. I grabbed a piece of paper from amidst the kinds of shit my mom had on her kitchen counter. I only wanted a bit of space to write in, and I got it - a medium-sized sheet of yellow note paper. It meant I'd have to stop at some point. Otherwise.
But, as it turns out, I just wrote:

"I don't believe you'll ever die."

And after all that dreaming, it was all I could get out.
I stared again.
It felt already fruitless, or pointless, alone, sitting in the midst of that little yellow rectangle. It lost its power. Some of its power. In junior high, I could write a girl's name over and over again, trying obsessively to feel her close, but just feeling more and more space in my chest. A chasm of aching. Me on one end, the name on the other. It went something like that. There was feeling in it... but the more words I wrote, the farther away from me it actually felt. Maybe it has something to do with art and ideas or ideals, and the gap between what you think about and what you create to represent it. The impossibility of the act. And then I wrote:

"I can't remember something special I wanted to write."

I gave up.
I started singing in a monotone voice, because it seemed like I couldn't get anything across in writing: "even underground..." I spat softly... "they'll hear... songs of our soul..." but I trailed it off into a mumbling buzz, because, you're right, the words don't really mean anything. And I couldn't sing it as loud as I was feeling. By then you were both gone. I found myself sitting at the counter alone. In embarrassing silence. Of course. And I guess my thoughts had moved on to something else. Really. Like a duplicated idea of you and a matched idea of that and another version of that, just spinning outward away from the original.
Like writing a name again and again and again and again...

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Charlie Darwin by Ned Buskirk & Stephen Snider

Mon, 03 Oct 2011 16:08:00 -0700

charlie darwin by stephen snider & ned buskirk

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Then This

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 21:25:24 -0700

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Watch Yourself.

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 17:13:00 -0700

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You Are the Rake by Stephen Snider & Ned Buskirk

Mon, 22 Aug 2011 18:22:00 -0700

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MOVIEMEMORY

Sun, 14 Aug 2011 19:29:00 -0700

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this is what i am.

Tue, 12 Jul 2011 18:13:48 -0700

i am writing to post. something out of this will be postable. there is something out here, something in my words, or in my life, that needs to be written, and needs to be shared. i want it to be special for you, but i can't always make that occur. i want that so badly, but it's just not available. so what am i doing this for, why am i at least doing this, what is this to me, what is this writing everyday to me. and how often is there really something that will come out of it. how can i truly integrate exercise into my writing daily. daily writing. there must be some way. and i remember, Kerouac encouraged the great vision chase. this is my chase. to imagine a moment. when i am sick. on a couch, and i am curled up and young. and too young to get angry when i don't feel well. sick and vulnerable like a child. like this boy of mine, who maybe throws up a lot today, and maybe doesn't feel well, who cries in my arms endlessly, and there is nothing i can do, other than hand him off to a boob, to ease his pain, or quell his crying, or calm him. and i don't have the big words. i don't do the big work. this is who i am. this is how i speak. this is what is easiest and most accessible to me. i don't play for the big sound. i don't want to. and i fall away from the exercise so easily, it's much more worth it, or easier to barf endlessly. endlessly. use the words over and over again . if this does anything for me, it reminds me of how limited my vocabulary is. ugh. and i want it to be bigger and better, and i want to follow your words confidently. but i guess it's in the details. that is where the difference is. that is where i can come up with something more magical and wonderful and special. it's laying on that couch, growing up, and having my mom love me when i'm sick. she would just pour into me, the soup and bread, and the tender attention. this is my house. i am at copper canyon. i am on the couch in the living room. there might be a dog nearby. there might be a this and that. and i want to be angry now, because my mom wouldn't be as happy with me sick if i was sick and tired and short. and i saw them all act together, so angrily and fed up and meanly. and i couldn't learn from anything else. so, i am older now, and i am taking care of the kid in me. the sick and tired kid, and i am trying to balance, and rest, and notice the adults around me, the maturity around me. and in that way, i'll find the strength and knowing and truth. that is what i want i want the truth. and there is no other way to get to it, other than to be in this work. to write, to meditate, to yoga, to be a bigger something or other, and that is what i'll do. i'll do that work. so, let's imagine an old railroad yard, and some kind of bent over dad, casting himself up the slope, up the ballast. and he wants the railroad ties, or he wants to be the man of the hour, and his little boy is in awe, cause his dad slowed him down, and made him look. made him grow up and get tired, and get into it. and this is how dads do it. and i want to be that for my boy. to take him to the places where you slow down. and he might not see it all. he might get tired and fed up. but at least he'll think back and remember it. and that is what i am here for. to become a memory. that is what i'm here for, to become a memory. and i am willing and able to do that. i have great things to share. i only have myself as dissolving. and i can give that to everyone. i can do a very good job at giving that to everyone in the world. a memory. or a memory of a memory. or a space where a memory could be. this is what i am.

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the birthstory of shay edward buskirk

Thu, 19 May 2011 07:40:13 -0700

FOR THOSE THAT HAVE BEEN CURIOUS & THOSE THAT NOW FIND THEMSELVES TO BE... THE FOLLOWING IS A LENGTHY PIECE MY WIFE & I WROTE ABOUT OUR SON'S BIRTH [CONTAINING SOMEWHAT GRAPHIC DETAILS] On March 23rd Sara experienced what we thought were early signs of labor, and they seemed to be coming on rather strong; so strong, in fact, that we decided to get her mom up from Orange County that night on the last available flight. Kathy was in SF by 10pm or so, but, as it turned out, the labor signs were a false alarm, and after spending 10 hours in the UCSF hospital the next day, were diagnosed as flu symptoms. But Mom was here and wasn’t about to go home, considering the birth seemed it would likely occur literally any day… but instead, bumby having tedious plans of his own, two weeks would pass before our little baby would arrive. Sara’s Dad, David, also afraid to be stuck down south when the baby decided to come out, got to SF about one week after Kathy [driving our newly purchased used Scion up from Southern California]. It seemed for a time that we were out of the woods getting the in-laws in town before the baby arrived, but there was a new time constraint for them if the pregnancy went late, one we never expected to be a problem. It was imperative that Kathy fly to Omaha for an exam establishing whether or not she would be able to have a surgery to remove her appendiceal cancer, and of course, the morning of the April 5th, within hours of Sara’s water breaking, Kathy and David had to fly out to make their Omaha appointment. But luckily, they were there and back before the labor really started going, which meant Kathy was able to attend the birth, while David waited somewhere in the city, and somewhat patiently, for his grandchild to arrive. Sara's water broke Tuesday morning, 4.5.11, but labor hadn't yet started and didn't seem to be coming any time soon. And since Sara was GBS positive, this put us on a fairly quick clock to get this baby out – it gave us approximately 48 hours before we’d need to seriously consider a trip to the hospital to induce labor. After trying several natural induction techniques to get contractions going [spicy foods, long walks, acupuncture, homeopathics, breast pumping, herbs, etc.], Sara finally turned to the big gun: drinking castor oil at 4am Wednesday morning, 4.6.11. It seems this did the trick; this, and, in Ned’s opinion, several failed attempts by the midwives to get an IV of antibiotics into Sara’s veins. The natural induction techniques, the castor oil induced diarrhea, and the pain from the needles, all combined to get her contractions started around 10am… & with that came the back labor. Because of this, Sara was in total discomfort from the beginning to the end of the labor cycle; there wasn't even enough break in the pain to time contractions accurately. Around 8pm that night, Sara insisted we call Nancy Myrick, our midwife, to come and check to see if she was making any progress. To her surprise, Nancy found she was 90% effaced and dilated to 4-5cm. At this point we called Kathy, who had been waiting for the early labor to pass, and our good friend and doula, Sara Vietti (along with her 1 year old baby girl Mariana), inviting them to join us. Things seemed to be really moving! Annnnnnnd they weren’t. Sara went through 24 hours of labor. The entire time she was so powerfully focused inward, expending her endless effort on getting this baby out; while a windstorm roared outside, she labored through the day and night, and back into the day, to bring that big baby down. First, she went through 19 hours of intense back labor – the only place she found any relief was in the birthing tub. The whole house was quiet; lights were dimmed with candles lit. Other than the occasional low moan or deep guttural exhale to get through a contraction, Sara remained silent, intensely focused on her breath. In order to preserve her energy, she only spoke when absolutely necessary and while aware and appreciative of her loving and supportive birth team – she didn’t care for conversation or massage, other than an occasionally hot water bottle to relieve lower back pressure. Getting this baby out took every ounce of her focus and she had no space for anything else. The next big hurdle lay in getting past 9cm dilated. For hours, she struggled with the last lip of cervix that wouldn’t thin out in order for the pushing to commence. Finally, with Nancy helping by pushing the cervix out of the way, Sara was finally fully dilated, but without the expected urge to push. Nancy knew Sara’s uterus was exhausted at this point, and after trying nipple stimulation, herbs, walking, etc. to encourage stronger contractions, she mentioned (or warned?) that Pitocin at the hospital might be the final ingredient to get the pushing started. This looming trip to the hospital, combined with the perfectly timed rotation of the baby’s head in her pelvis, finally provided the breakthrough we needed to move forward with the homebirth. Sara then began her strong, effective pushes that started to bring the baby down. Nancy said, “We’re having this baby at home!” [It’s important to mention here that our midwives had been diligently checking Baby’s heart tones to make sure he wasn’t stressed – and throughout the entire labor, all 24 hrs, his heartbeat remained strong and steady. If at any point his state of being had seemed questionable, we would have gone to the hospital. But Shay was as tough as his Mama!] Sara gave everything she had with every push and afterwards would feel she had absolutely nothing left – yet would somehow manage to find a renewed source of strength to do it again... and again and again. She spent a total of 5 hours pushing. Shay's head just kept coming and coming and coming. As Ned puts it, “It seemed like she was giving birth to an anvil.” She begged Nancy to tell her how many more pushes it would take – of course she couldn’t give any sort of satisfactory answer. At this point, Sara began to get more vocal – “SERIOUSLY??!” she exclaimed at one point when Nancy directed her to give yet another magnificent push. She began to grunt and yell with the effort, and at one point asked the room if anyone would like to take over for her. When usually woman might wait for the contraction to start pushing, instead, Sara’s uterus, completely exhausted at this point, seemed to be guided into contractions with her incredibly powerful leading pushes. After his head FINALLY pushed through, his shoulders wouldn't follow and the midwife had to go in to help them out. Just pulling his arm out from the armpit wasn't working. So, the midwife had to reach in to pull him from the elbow. The room was thick with tension… until after what seemed like an eternity, Nancy adjusted his position enough so that the rest of his little (big) body came squirting out. So, our sweet baby boy was born on our living room floor with morning sunlight streaming through the windows – all 10 pounds, 5 ounces of him! The poor guy was pretty shell shocked, so it took him a minute to pink up and give his lusty cry – but when he did, we all were finally able to relax and celebrate this little person’s arrival. The moment he was placed on Sara’s chest, it was as if every excruciating detail of the past 24 hours literally disappeared… all that existed was that moment. Their baby was in her arms. He was home. We stared at him, marveled at him, cooed at him for a good 30 seconds before it dawned on us to check the sex! Not wanting to turn him around since he was nestled on her chest, Sara opted to just reach around and feel for clues… It was her gasp and exclamation of, “I FEEL BALLS!” that told us we had a son. It was around this time that a male figure lumbered up the front porch, and from where we all sat in the living room, we could see his silhouette and hear Pappy’s excited voice calling from outside the door – “I want to meet my grandchild!! It’s PAPPY TIME!!!” Everyone laughed, but unfortunately it wasn’t Pappy Time just yet since Sara wasn’t exactly presentable while laying on the living room floor, still facing the final trials of the birth (Poor Pappy was sent away yet again… this time to the coffee shop down the street to wait for the green light). Sara’s work was not yet done… it was time to birth the placenta. After everything she’d already been through – when the midwife was pulling the umbilical cord to get the placenta out, it detached. Unbelievably, and within seconds of the detaching, Nancy had to warn Sara what she was about to do, before suddenly reaching in Sara’s uterus and scraping the placenta out with her own hand. And, even more unbelievable, she then had to reach in AGAIN to make sure she’d got everything out (it’s very uncommon for this to happen, it had been 3 years since Nancy had dealt with a detached placenta). This wasn’t comfortable in the least, but everything was different now that Sara had that sweet boy on her chest – her “love cocktail” of hormones from the natural childbirth was rushing through her body and her incredible sense of peace in accomplishment balanced out the discomfort nicely. So, after all of this, after avoiding every possible reason she might have needed to go to the hospital, it turned out that this amazing warrior woman did in fact need to go into Saint Luke's for a third-degree repair. After all she'd been through, she still handled it with such grace, beauty and ease... Believe it or not, Sara’s body and Nancy’s gentle expertise actually worked beautifully with the birthing of our child’s massive head – it was the tugging of his arm to dislodge his shoulders that caused the tear. However, luckily it wasn’t an emergency by any means, so before the trip to the hospital we were able to enjoy some quiet bonding time just the 3 of us in bed, eat a fantastic breakfast prepared with love by our birth team, weigh the baby (Nancy was the only one of the group who guessed he was over 10 lbs!) and finally invite Pappy home to meet his grandson! It was an extraordinary night for Nancy, our midwife, too. She has only helped birth one baby bigger than Shay, at 10 pounds 6 ounces, and that was from a mother who'd had children before. Her assistant had to leave in the middle of our birth to go to another birth across town. And the third midwife of the midwifery group, Rites of Passage, was at yet another birth. All told, they helped bring three baby boys into the world in the same day, something they've never done before (the two other births started and ended while Sara went through her 24-hour miracle). Rites of Passage midwifery is a godsend. As Ned said, “I really got this in an intensely powerful way: in my lifetime, I will NEVER accomplish anything NEAR as amazing as what my wife went through to bring our baby into the world.” And Sara puts it this way: "Bringing Shay into the world was absolutely the most intense, excruciating and ultimately exhilarating experience of my life… and he's so, so worth it." Shay Edward Buskirk, born at 9:38am, 4.7.2011, @ 10 pounds 5 ounces & 22 inches long...

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i can't wait to meet my mom's grandbaby

Fri, 18 Mar 2011 07:15:25 -0700

During the introductions at our homebirth class one Monday night, the last pregnant couple said their names and their due date, and the mother proceeded to share how their birth was progressing. As she spoke, she suddenly broke into tears and gestured to her husband that she could no longer go on. He continued for them, explaining that her grandmother had just died, and adding, in detail, how hard it had been, it being so close to the birth. My heart lay open as he spoke, while she wept, and I'm sure my thoughts went to my mom, which is where many of those thoughts go when I hear someone speak of death… Immediately after the couple's share, the group leader, Jane [a passionately empowering woman with two children of her own, a prenatal yoga teacher, an experienced midwife, who moves like a magic cartoon and speaks like you’re actually giving birth], acknowledged and thanked them tenderly. Then, abruptly, intuitively, she began telling the group about a labyrinth birth ceremony, put on by the city’s homebirth collective, which was to take place later that week. She described it succinctly, explaining how it offered a chance in the last weeks of pregnancy to take a moment of quiet meditation on birth by walking a labyrinth – a fitting embodiment of the birth process: the disorientation, the illusion of never-ending, but something that most certainly has fruition, with an exact place you’re meant to go… When Jane mentioned the ceremony, she quickly noted, almost whispered, that Grace Cathedral was an Episcopalian church. It was at this point that I began to cry… Since my wife has been pregnant, I haven't experienced any strong connection between my mom, who died some years ago, and the fact that my first child is about to enter the world. A friend asked me early in the pregnancy if I'd shared the news of the baby with her, and it struck me how surprising the question was, and how strange it seemed that it had never dawned on me to do so; it was like her question made me realize my intuition had been off or that I hadn’t been paying attention to something glaringly important. But even then, it wasn’t until months later, during that moment when Jane mentioned the church was Episcopalian – as was the church my mother took my sister and I to as children, the church in which she baptized me, the church where we held her memorial – that I knew I needed to do something for my mom, with my mom... Actually, to be most clear, it was the first time I'd felt my mom request something of me. So, today we meditated birth at the Grace Cathedral on the top of San Francisco... When I stepped into the labyrinth, a maze formed by various-colored stones set into the floor of the church, the glowing candy dollops of light dripping down in my path from the sunlit stained glass, surrounded by a swarm of waddling lovely meditating mothers, I began to cry. I let myself softly into those tears, walking quietly with these proud pregnant women and one kind, smiling midwife… and my mom, floating somewhere between my heart and my tears, somehow reminding me over and over again with the clear and comforting promise that everything is okay...

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my free translator: reading harukami’s bird

Wed, 09 Mar 2011 16:38:50 -0800

Birds harukami Read I scratch my chin and pull the hair in old age, which is not be mine, outside a giant in a deck going I put the hair in a map my favorite I will continue, as I read is steep bush Tab may be hidden under my skin some time, an old black Powder feels and looks and Antiques I blow a bit of a webpage read the book to remove harukami the street, and suddenly the fear I removed the burnt hair but I do not and as I read on Okada its good and just before the long letter Kumiko A woman catches your Voice and if I see you around, why Mouth or the lower half of his face is a homicide a fat man a tiny blond woman and it will I finished a chapter and look along the promenade a woman in a window, a shave " she and I could watch each other answer the phone but before not [Malta Kano Murakami knows things before?] my uncle in law is required feels like a young girl who once loved reminds me of a girl that I want "Sex and Money" Everything is clear, said About our Chat

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the rispin mansion

Thu, 17 Feb 2011 07:51:33 -0800

and love is what we exchanged. we were angels. we circled one another. we went to the great mansion yawning above soquel creek. and every word i said about the place was true. so many failing human hands. i can see the death. from the man who fell through the floor, and lay there calling for help, until no one came for long enough. i can see that. i can see the convent. and the training police dogs on long wooden planks that want to buckle. and the squatters and their upstairs goats. and that the dogs barked in the darkness after they left. and that the chanting and the man who needed help all could still be heard. and i loved that. i can feel that. i can stand at the gate and know that i don't need to walk inside. i don't need to look up through the roofless to see that i'm not there... i already can.

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after before night falls

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 20:26:33 -0800

i can't burn the shadow of a chair on the wall. i can't deaden a body under the deflated weight of a hot air balloon. i won't spread you out under the falling blanket of old new york snow. there are no planters to crush as i fall on the stairs. and i will not lift your soil to my lips. there are no letters carved in cuban trees. i have read one out of every five books recommended. although i recognize the buzzing light of solitary confinement, there is no revolution here. you must be the suffering. i cannot.

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reading harukami's bird

Wed, 02 Feb 2011 07:21:48 -0800

reading harukami's bird i scratch my chin and pull the aged hair, that can't be mine, from out of it a giant in an apron passes i place the hair on an index card my bookmark i'll keep it as i read it's wiry a bramble a barb perhaps hidden under my skin for some time it has a black ancient feel and looks dusty and antique i blow a something off a page i read in harukami's book, to get it out of the way, and suddenly feel fear that i've blown my hair away but i haven't and as i continue to read okada out of his well and just before kumiko's long letter a woman distracts me with her voice and when i look up i see why her mouth or the lower ½ of her face is like someone else's a fat man's on a tiny blonde woman's and she leaves i finish a chapter and stare across the promenade at a woman in a window of "a clean shave" she and i could stare at one another she answers the phone but before that we don't [does malta kano know things before murakami?] my uncle-in-law stops by he smells like a girl i once loved who reminds me of a girl i desire "sex and money" is all i distinctly remem- ber from our chat

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