The Black Sage Journal

 Isak stopped reading and set down his novel. Something Ivan said struck him with such honest brutality that he had to sit silent and reflect on it for a moment. During Ivan’s meeting with Alyosha in the Metropolis tavern, before Ivan narrates his now most-famous fable, he tells his younger brother: “I know that my youth will triumph over everything – every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I’ve asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there isn’t, that is till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it to myself I fancy. Some driveling consumptive moralist – and poets especially – often call that thirst for life base. It is a feature of the Karamazovs it is true, that thirst for life regardless of everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base?” The youthful and triumphant zest for life Isak already understood. But he had not previ...

This piece first appeared in Issue 1, Volume 13 of bioStories Magazine . My pick-axe sinks deep into the tread of the trail with a satisfying “thunk.” The soil gives ground easily to the blade now that rain has finally fallen. It’s almost dark and I’m alone on the hill. The mountain bikers, hikers, runners, and dog walkers have retreated for the night leaving me with the coyotes and the crescent moon. I take another whack. The ground, heavy with blue clay that has been compacted by a parade of tires, feet, and hooves, splits to reveal the dark soil beneath. A promising sign. That wouldn’t have happened a week ago. Then, impregnable to the steel in my hands, the surface would have simply shattered like broken pottery. That all changed with the rain. Now the earth is malleable. It bends to my will. And to my axe. So I swing it until I can no longer see the trail in front of me.  It feels good to be alone in the local hills in fading light. Digging in the dirt, moving rocks, re-aligni...

  Image courtesy of Syriac Press The signal turns red just before we arrive at the intersection. There is no cross-traffic to trigger the light. It’s just shy of 6 a.m. and the gray streets are empty except for the occasional work truck festooned with implements of the landscaper’s trade. But municipal functionaries are failing if traffic is flowing, so I curse under my breath as we wait for phantom cars to pass. When the danger subsides and the light triggers green, we wheel into the parking lot and roll nose-first up to our spot against the chain-link fence protecting the fields of play.  We’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s the morning ritual. Every day, I awake at first light to the sounds of Joji grunting, snorting, sneezing, and shaking. When it becomes evident that these noises will increase in both frequency and volume if I pretend to ignore them, I give up and get up, pour coffee, grab the harness and leash, and start for the duck park. Although this Groundho...

When they turn the pages of history When these days have passed long ago Will they read of us with sadness For the seeds that we let grow? We turned our gaze From the castles in the distance Eyes cast down On the path of least resistance -A Farewell to Kings, Rush (1977) 5:27 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon in August. It’s 95 degrees out, but the concrete street corner of the busiest intersection in the city feels considerably warmer. It’s the height of rush hour and cars buzz busily by from all points of the compass. Bob stands alone on the corner. He is tall and appears to be in his sixties, but he looks youthful for his age so it’s hard to tell. He wears baggy shorts, a white t-shirt, HOKA running shoes, a sun hat, and sunglasses. Over his head, he hoists a hand-made poster scrawled with the message “No ICE!” The opposite side of his sign proclaims, “No Kings!” in carefully printed black marker. An American flag adorns the upper left-hand corner of both sides of the placard. For the p...

  10:09 p.m. on a Saturday night. I’m preparing to leave town for three weeks when my phone dings signaling that I’ve received a text message. When I pick up my device, I see it’s from my friend Eric. The two of us have been friends for a good thirty years now. Shared outdoor interests, common world views, and an appreciation of good craft beer made us natural compatriots. But it wasn’t just that. I have common interests with most of my friends. What made my relationship with Eric unique was his ever-present enthusiasm and willingness to actually “do stuff.” If I asked him whether he wanted to ride mountain bikes, the answer was always “yes.” Did he want to go hiking? “Of course!” How about we go to Lone Pine to camp? “Let’s go.” Hey, we should go to the Beer and Bluesapalooza festival in Mammoth. “Ok, I’ll get the tickets.” Whatever the situation, if it directly or indirectly involved outdoor recreation, Eric was all in without hesitation. In fact, if truth be told, at least half ...

  South Bakersfield and I’m on the wrong side of the railroad tracks again. I’m not lost and I didn’t take a wrong turn. It was a deliberate choice to come here. The smattering of dhabas that punctuate this broken stretch of road home to trucking companies, taco stands, and skeezy bars brought me here. The magnetism of roadside dal, paneer, and curry is a potent, epicurean draw. In my blue collared shirt, green club tie, and mustard-hued dress slacks, I’m an anomaly here. Moving amongst husky fellows in oily jump suits, leathery farm hands, and dark, exotic men chattering away in Hindi , I feel like I’ve breached exclusive space. Like I’m not good enough to be here. Or perhaps it’s the opposite. I realize how egotistical that might sound, but I don’t know how else to explain the social discomfort from the flipped script. But no one gives me the side-eye. I’m invisible. And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t really deter me. I’m on a pilgrimage of sorts, a personal Kumbh Mela to the sa...

  This piece was first published in Volume 25 of Sky Island Journal . An encounter with a coyote one evening on a local trail was both the inspiration and a reminder of the burden I've been carrying around for a number of decades.  Coyote Ugly The canid materialized from the brush and onto the fire road in front of me like an apparition. Until he emerged into the clearing, I hadn’t noticed him. He moved invisibly through the gray-brown chaparral, his muted coat the perfect cloaking device for one whose existence depends upon stealth and surprise. Standing perhaps twenty yards distant, he was large and lithe as coyotes ought to be. I immediately paused when I saw him. Not out of apprehension, but instead awe and admiration. Coyote yelps, barks, and howls are commonplace in this place, but the boisterous culprits usually prefer to remain anonymous and unseen.  The coyote briefly paused too and looked my way. Not out of awe and admiration, but instead apprehension. The hoots...

  Mitch Robbins : Danny was embarrassed to tell the class what my job is. Barbara Robbins : They’re nine. They get excited about the guy who gives them change at the arcade. You just happen to have one of those jobs that’s difficult to… Mitch Robbins : …believe that a grown man does without losing his mind. I mean, what is my job? I mean, I sell advertising time on the radio. So basically, I sell air. At least my father was an upholsterer, he made a sofa or a couch, you sit on, it was something tangible. What can I point to? Where’s my work? It’s air! ~City Slickers I’ve decided that I like physical labor. Swinging the pick axe until I’m panting hard and my shoulders ache. Shoveling dirt until sweat drips from my face and stings my eyes. Ripping up sod in the cool morning air. Attacking militant weeds, edging an unruly lawn, re-staining a weather-faded fence, and fixing non-functioning fixtures. I really don’t mind doing any of it. In fact, I quite enjoy it. It’s an expedient to a ...

  Friday Night. It’s a beautifully warm evening at Tuttle Creek campground in the Alabama Hills. The encroaching night has taken the edge off the day's sweltering heat. Stars blink brightly above the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. The waxing crescent moon hangs in the darkening sky. Across the dirt access road, in campsite no. 3 sits a solitary old man reading a book. A motorcycle is parked at the entrance to his site. He waved to us as we pulled in and then again as we walked back to the camp entrance to register our site. We waved back at him. After we set up and got situated, we crossed the road to offer him a beer. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Not knowing him or his tastes, we gave him options. A nice craft beer from a local brewery or a mass-produced can of suds from Trader Joe's. He contemplated his choice for a moment before reaching for the can of craft beer. He held it lovingly in his hands as we began to talk. He was 71 years old with a comfort...

  That rangey boy  with wild hair and eyes, scampering across golden fields, ducking in and out of hollows, scooping up polliwogs  in the ditches that lined the gravel lanes. An uncorrupted spirit,  exuberant in the dream world of freedom and ideas.  That boy was a poet.

  Drive west on Sunset to the see Turn that jungle music down Just before we're out of town. ~Babylon Sisters, Steely Dan Just northwest of Chinatown, immediately adjacent to where the Harbor and Hollywood freeways become a Gordian knot, Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly becomes Sunset Boulevard, one of LA’s most famed arteries. Traveling northward from this transition point, Sunset passes through the neighborhoods of Angeleno Heights, Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Thai Town before crossing the Hollywood Freeway and piercing the heart of Tinsel Town. If you keep driving west, this windy strip of asphalt will take you through gay West Hollywood, the posh Holmby Hills, the UCLA campus in leafy Westwood, and finally to the Pacific Palisades where the blue Pacific ocean crashes against the continent behind Gladstones restaurant.   At the corner of Sunset and Silver Lake Boulevard, a bright lavender building houses Café Tropical, a Cuban café and bakery. I pull onto a side street, sto...

  Hullabaloo, and howdy doo! Musty prawns, and Timbucktu! Yeltsy-by, and hibbety-hoo! Kick 'em in the dishpan! Hoo, hoo, hoo!! ~Eustace Bagge, Courage the Cowardly Dog Almost cut my hair It happened just the other day It's gettin' kinda long I coulda said it was in my way But I didn't and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly ~Almost Cut My Hair, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young A few years back, while I was busy yelling at a cloud one day, a compatriot of mine started referring to me as a grumpy old man. I was taken back a bit by that accusation. Sure, I’m old (in a comparative sort of way), but grumpy? Perhaps I was grumbling at the time, but I certainly didn’t feel grumpy. I wasn’t scowling. And I wasn’t rude or belligerent or mad or unhappy. So what made my friend perceive me as grumpy? Just because I said out loud what I was thinking? Because I dared to call a dark cloud a dark cloud? In the past, I would have never been accused of such a crime. From m...

  Golden Hell By: Noah Christian Rapture Still and silent Breath like the moon Sour lemon Erect she stands Equally I lay Eyes paralyzed Mouth agape. Soaked up to my waist Wading in wet Sweat painting a river Drowning my face. Sun pillar tongue Flesh blazing like stars Summer plums Rotting before dawn. Fever induced Appetite asleep She is the condor I am the meat. About the author - Noah Christian is a multidisciplinary artist from Los Angeles by way of Nashville by way of Los Angeles. His passions lie in performative music, photography, and poetry. You can connect with him on Instagram @_nc142 and @noahnathaniel_

  In order to protect the public and ensure that I am not a drunk, unethical, bigoted malpractice case just waiting to happen, the State Bar of California requires me to complete 25 hours of mandatory continuing legal education (MCLE) every three years. Of that 25 total hours, at least 4 hours must be in ethics, 2 hours must cover the elimination of bias, and 1 hour must address mental health and substance abuse (or as the Bar euphemistically calls it, “competence issues”). At least half of all coursework must be “participatory.” You can’t just pretend to listen to a program as you’re driving down the road or simply read an article on some topic obliquely related to the law. Instead, you have to physically attend a conference or seminar or participate in a live webinar.  The opportunity to get MCLE credits abound. A helpful, yet avaricious industry has sprung up to provide these courses to attorneys in need. My inbox fills up with offers of assistance from these vultures annua...

  The other day I heard someone use the expression “put your John Hancock here.” I’ve obviously heard that phrase used many time in my life just like everyone else. It’s a commonly-used idiom that means “please put your signature on this document.” The phrase is an allusion to John Hancock, the first signator to the Declaration of Independence, who deliberately made his signature on that document excessively prominent so that King George would be able to read his name. It was a “fuck you” to the British monarch on top of a “fuck you” to the British monarch. And it had resonance. So much so that almost 250 years later, we’re still referencing it in our daily speech.  As significant as Hancock’s act is from a historical perspective, the phrase it spawned is antiquated. It’s one of those hokey grandmaisms like “get off your high horse” or “living high on the hog” that has been repeated so often that it is now engrained in our vernacular. Use any of those phrases with the current ...