I used to smoke cigarettes and sip whiskey and sit on top of a 12-foot ladder to look at paintings stapled to the floor of my twenty-one hundred square foot studio at Third and Main. There were a bar and a liquor store below me. Screams and cursing and jukeboxes and cops in the street. Noise till two or three in the morning. Chinatown and Japantown and MOMA were a few blocks away. LA felt like home. I left. I came here. Everything cultural got smaller, less wild and less exciting. I stopped painting. I started drinking cappuccinos. My body, against my wishes, grew older. I got lost. The weft that holds together the various chronological threads of self changed into something neither rich nor strange. Something in me curled up and went to sleep. This book records my thoughts and feelings as I wake up.

This book is a collection of poems and excerpts from letters sent to the publisher by the author over a period of some fifteen years or so. The author, Russell Lichter, is an unknown poet who has never sought any publicity; and, in fact, the publisher, who was coincidentally a good friend and a former co-worker of the author, was the one who conceived of producing this project. The first section consists of consciously-composed poems by Russell Lichter. The second section is a composition of found poetry produced by the publisher by excerpting "great poems hidden within Lichter's letters." These two sections combined produce a great sense of the wit, wisdom, compassion and spiritual insight of this unusual hermit-like soul living in a remote part of Marin.

This second volume of works by Russell Lichter (whom I dubbed The Hermit of Blackpoint in the first volume) is entitled Greenpoint. Like Blackpoint, Greenpoint is the name of an actual geographical location in northern California. Highway 37 on its way from Novato to Vallejo bisects an oak forested area of several square miles, bordered to the east by the mouth of the Petaluma River and Richardson Bay, and to the west by miles of wetlands and cow pastures. Greenpoint is on the northern side of that highway, Blackpoint on the southern. Despite their contiguity they have different genii loci and different topologies. Most Blackpointers could not afford to live in Greenpoint and most Greenpointers wouldn't want to live in Blackpoint. And yet, the two form one whole. The geographical message here is that the works of the first volume form an emotional and spiritual continuum with the works of this volume. They come from, so to speak, the same place, both physically and metaphysically. While some may object to this, there is a lot to be said for remaining true to one's roots in a world that is becoming increasingly rootless, and where isolation and insecure disconnectedness abound, even at the highest economic and social levels. While the Asian philosophies that highly influence both the author and the publisher talk in terms of ?having no abode, ? and ?non-attachment to all phenomena, ? it is the publisher's view that a little Western thought is needed to balance this out, and the author, knowingly or unknowingly, has done so. While it is true that we do well not to be overly-clingy, it is the view of the great systematic German philosophers that place is not merely incidental, but of great spiritual significance. This is to say that the balanced man is willing to let go of place when the time comes that he must do so; but at the same time, we should remember that we really do come from somewhere, and we have roots in places; and to abandon any of those roots too carelessly is to tread on dangerous ground, socially and psychologically. And so the author of this second volume did well to sing his songs from his homeland in his first book, and then to, in a Bach-like way, re-present the first melodies with continual and minute variations on the themes which stir his soul. The tapestry presented is at once sweetly-nostalgic, sharply-observant and aching with earnest melancholy. The author also does a great service by veering from all orthodoxies in his refusal to simply wave away any serious emotion or profound concern. He does not, in these works, accept any philosophical, theological or psychological dictum which would have us shrug-off as negligible such themes as the persistent problems of aging, the vast array of missed opportunities, and past experiences which cannot be recovered. No experience of the heart is sent away with platitudes to feed on. Much like Victor Hugo, The Hermit of Blackpoint cannot be sold a false bill of goods. If something significant happens, he will not lie about it. If he misses a person, place or thing, he pulls no punches in confessing that. The past is not simply negated, belittled or ?transcended, ? but is seized upon if its reality is a powerful one; and if something about it hurts, he lets us know that it does, without any rationalized apology. This business of living is tough and uncertain, and Greenpoint, like its earlier brother Blackpoint, reflect this. And in doing so, both texts alternate between hope and despair; and that very ability to report the facts on the ground as they change, instead of trying to report old news which is no longer true, is not only the hallmark of good journalism, but of good poetry too.