When my father died in 1987, I inherited his two cats, Charlie and Chrissy. He named them after characters in the TV show Charlie’s Angels. I had them for a long time. About 1996, Chrissy died of stomach or liver problems one day while I was working. I buried her in the yard where I lived at the time. I marked it with some bricks. The veterinarian had wanted to take her up to a hospital in Santa Fe for very expensive treatments and follow-up drugs, but I didn’t have that kind of money. The other cat, Charlie, lived much longer. After I married my second wife, I took Charlie with me and established him in my wife’s house. I hated to move and leave Chrissy there. She was dead and buried, but still. Charlie lived with us for many years.
In 2000, on my fiftieth birthday, as I thought I was waking up, I saw my father to the left of the end of the bed, in the small corner formed by the closet and the wall. He looked as I remembered him, but he was many years dead. I knew that, but he was right there, big as life. As first, I just stared. Then I said, “Hey Dad, what have you been up to?” Such a dumb thing to say. He said nothing, but he smirked, the smirk that was a big part of his personality, and appeared to look past me for a moment. Then he turned and walked to my right, along the bottom edge of the bed. As I turned my head to follow him, I seemed to open my eyes. I was still staring at the small corner where I’d seen him, but he wasn’t there or anywhere. The closet door was partly open, exactly as it had been a moment before – same exact clothes hanging there. It was a dream? It sure had been detailed. It was light already, so I got out of bed. I looked where I’d seen my dad look, and there, under the bed, was Charlie, my dad’s old cat. I hadn’t thought about my dad any time recently, and I hadn’t known the cat was there. I couldn’t imagine why I would suddenly have a dream like that. It freaked me out for days.
Charlie woke up and followed me to the kitchen for breakfast. The dream, if such it was, stayed with me. Charlie was fine, and I never had another dream about my father. All was well for awhile, until one evening I realized I hadn’t seen Charlie for many hours. I went looking and found him in the small bathroom in our bedroom. He was acting strange. There was a nasty-looking liquid coming from his eyes. I wet some tissue and wiped it away. That’s when I realized his eyes were gone.
I was shocked. Can a cat’s eyes dissolve? Was there some disease that destroyed eyeballs? He was a cuddly sort, always on my lap and usually on the bed with me at night, so I would have noticed if he had been sick. I wrapped him in a towel and sat with him on my lap for hours. It was late in the evening, and I didn’t know what to do. He seemed OK, except for the eyes. He settled down, and slept. At one point he woke up. I petted him. He purred. He stood straight up and stretched his back in a high arc. I was so happy. He lay back down and went gently to sleep as I petted him, but he never moved again. I buried him in the yard. Some time passed but I grieved for Charlie, and never stopped wondering about his eyes. A couple of years later, at the house of my wife’s friends and neighbors two houses away, I was sitting with the husband who was complaining about cats shitting on his backyard lawn. He had a pellet gun and said he shot any cat he saw in his yard. He bragged about being able to shoot them right in the eyes at night because of the way cats’ eyes glow from reflected light. It took me a minute to make the connection. Charlie had been dead awhile. I walked home by myself. I never mentioned it to my wife because the couple were close friends of hers, and we saw each other often. I thought about calling the police, but I didn’t really have any evidence.
One day, a beautiful cat showed up in my backyard, nursing a litter of little fur balls. They kept to themselves around the corner of the house. The kittens grew up and wandered off. I was happy the momma cat stayed. I had her spayed. The veterinary clinic said to keep her inside for a while. I had to keep her in the pet carrier, as she wasn’t used to being inside. She’d gotten used to me and the yard. When I finally let her out, she seemed fine. She stayed nearby. A few days later I found her dead in my wife’s vegetable garden, a victim of bad surgery? Or some chemical my wife had put out to get rid of the bugs eating her vegetables?
I was sad, but sometime later, another pregnant cat showed up. This time I put food out every day for her and then for her kittens when they got old enough. I planned to offer the kittens for adoption when they were ready, after at least three or four months. My wife did not want cats living in the yard anymore. It was fun to watch them develop. They mostly hung out on the patio outside the sliding glass doors. The mother cat kept them in line, and I watched as she taught them all to hunt. She would bring an injured mouse to them, and let them learn how to catch it, and that it was food.
I don’t know why people think they can remove kittens from their mother right away. You really can’t. Some people wait for eight weeks, but veterinarians say that is not nearly enough. They are at greater risk for developmental, social, and health issues. I could see that. At first, of course, the kittens had to feed from her teats, but then she showed them the dry food I had been putting out for her. After that, she began their training for the hunt, how to pee and shit away from their food and sleeping area, and eventual independence. It was beautiful to watch.
One day, while the kittens were still very young, one of them had managed to climb on top of a tall picket fence I’d recently completed. There were pickets on both sides, but there was room enough, apparently, for one of the cats to get inside. I had to undo the screws I’d used to fasten one picket, and he tumbled right out, unharmed. However I found another kitten dead in the pile of wood I still had alongside the fence. Two pieces were construction timbers, very wide, long, and heavy, and I had set them on bricks, upright against the fence, rather than lay them flat, where they might warp. The kittens must have been playing on the boards and knocked them over. One got squashed, and I hadn’t noticed it missing. This kitten I’d just saved ran back to his mother, meowing loudly, not interested in having me comfort him.
I didn’t plan to keep these cats long. I wanted to have them adopted, but my wife kept insisting I get rid of all the cats. I reluctantly agreed, and got a trap. I put the food in one night, and sure enough, mother and kittens were in it the next morning, except for one. I decided I was going to keep him. He was a striped orange cat, identical to my dad’s cat, so I named him Charlie II, but just called him Charlie.
Fast forward one year. Charlie II had learned to come inside for food, and sit on my lap. One fine spring day, another pregnant cat showed up, and I saw Charlie II playing with her. He was neutered, so I knew he wasn’t the father, but they sure liked each other. My wife let me know this time I couldn’t keep the kittens around for long, so after they were weaned, I trapped them and sadly took them to animal control. In the drop-off room, they got loose before I could get them in a cage. They were very lively. They were jumping almost to the ceiling and bouncing all over the place. It was really sad, because, at the time, they would likely be euthanized. But not the mother.
Kilala & Charlie II
She was very young herself. I read once that cats can have litters at six months of age. She was very small and thin, so I made the assumption she was about a year old, possibly less. I fed both cats outside for awhile, but eventually I moved the food indoors, slowly moving it further away from the door, until they were happy coming in to eat together. I never got around to calling her anything but Girl, for another four years. The oddest thing of all was that she had the same colors as my dad’s female cat, with nearly the same pattern. I had both of my dad’s cats back!
Three years later, I was divorced. My wife got the house; I got to keep my pension. And I got to keep both cats. She said they gave her the evil eye. When they came in from outside, they’d give her a wide berth. She was scared of them, and jealous of the affection I gave them. Once I had them settled in at my rental house, I noticed one day that they were scared of my broom, something I’d never threatened them with. I was immediately suspicious of my ex, since she used to put me down for opening those sliding doors for the cats to go in and out. She laughed at me for doing that. And she thought it was stupid that I got down on the floor to play with them. That seemed like odd behavior to me. She had never had pets, and had actually pushed Girl, the new cat, away, when it tried to get onto her lap. Charlie was always on my lap, so Girl thought that was a good idea too. After my wife had freaked out and pushed it off of her legs, Girl never would get on my lap, ever, no matter how much I coaxed, or if I picked her up and put her on my lap. She would just freak out and jump down immediately, so I stopped trying.
Meanwhile I had a friend, a workplace acquaintance who met me every Friday for lunch. We had some things in common, like a love for reading, especially Sci Fi, and Japanese graphic novels called manga. She had cats. We also loved Frito Pies in the cafeteria, but sometimes we’d go for the long walks to a restaurant for Greek gyros or for Chinese fast food. She told me about a manga she liked that had been made into a TV series, available on DVDs. In fact, she lent me a set of those videos to watch at home. There was a cat named Kilala in the story, one who tranformed into a huge flying demon.
I could only watch them when my wife wasn’t at home, or was out of town, as she controlled the TV I’d bought for her, and hated both Sci Fi and animation.
After my divorce, I renamed my female cat as Kilala. It fit. She was still a bit wild, and never allowed herself to be picked up. In fact, getting her into a pet carrier when I moved resulted in bloody, itchy cuts all over my arms. I took her straight to a vet clinic to be chipped.
Over the years my work buddy and I had swapped many books and even Marvel comics. I found her fascinating herself, but while I had been married I knew better than to touch forbidden fruit like that. Actually, after the divorce, when I’d moved into a rental house, I invited her to come see the new place, and although she said she would, she never did. Once, we had a conversation about the new Marvel movie that was opening, Silver Surfer. We both said we were going to see it. So, I asked if we could go there together, or if I could meet her at a theater, but she appeared shocked that I had even asked her, and responded that it was inappropriate. I didn’t continue the conversation, as I was walking her back to her office, and we’d arrived. I never understood the “inappropriate” remark, since I was divorced. But she was young, and I was not. She stopped being available for lunch. Nuff said, as Marvels’s Stan Lee used to say.
So, my cats became my whole family. Charlie and Kilala had a pet door, so they would come and go as they liked, after we got settled in the new place. Actually, the first time I let Kilala out, she disappeared! I was frantic for awhile, feeling like it was my fault due to moving her to a new, unfamiliar neighborhood. I imagined her trying to return to my ex-wife’s house, getting eaten by coyotes, or because of the wide river, using the Rio Grande bridge where she might get hit by a car. It was a long way to go. I didn’t expect to see her again. Still, I called and whistled for her every day. But after nearly three weeks, I hadn’t quite given up, so I put flyers all over the neighborhood, and in stores, asking people to call me, even if they had just seen her. I also put some up all over the 83-house compound where I live. A day or two after posting the flyers in my compound, just after I’d gotten into bed, she just showed up at the back door, which was in my bedroom. As I opened the door, Charlie jumped on her. I thought they’d lick each other and rub together, but, no, he mounted her immediately. That, I thought, was inappropriate at that moment, so I pulled him off so I could feed her. She never disappeared again, and the two cats were inseparable.
In fact, they always came in at night to sleep with me, even after they’d eaten. They would follow me around the house, whether I was in the living room reading or watching movies, or at my desk in the bedroom. Sometimes they’d split the difference and one would be in each place, so they were never far away. Charlie was an excellent hunter, just like his predecessor, and brought rodents and the occasional bird home to eat. There were literally thousands of birds in the area, with the river nearby, irrigation ditches flowing throughout the neighborhood, and the Rio Grande Nature Center sanctuary a mile and a half away. I know cats can be a problem for bird populations, but surrounded by many thousands of birds, I wasn’t worried my two well-fed cats could eat a significant number of them, and since they were neutered, they weren’t breeding. I felt my cats needed to stalk and pounce, or chase a little fresh animal flesh once in awhile to stay healthy.
It’s funny to me that people around here post things about cats about how dangerous cats are to entire populations of wildlife, but they aren’t concerned about the large population of roadrunners around here. Some think the cats might eat the roadrunners, but those birds are fierce, and can kill cats in self defense. In fact, roadrunners can outstrike, kill and eat rattlesnakes. They eat small birds too, raid other birds’ nests for eggs and often expropriate the nests. So, roadrunners, roaming freely in large numbers are as much of a threat to small birds as any cat. Roadrunners, by the way, grow up to two feet long and run 26 miles an hour! And, although coyotes run between 35 and 43 miles an hour, roadrunners can fly short distances. The cartoons had it backwards.
I ramble a lot. Sorry. This was about my cats. I lost Charlie. He disappeared one day – never came in to eat dinner, and the food was still in his bowl the next morning. I contacted Animal Control, but they hadn’t been in the neighborhood, and more to the point hadn’t been called to pick up any dead or sick cats in the entire area where I live. I examined all the nearly identical cats they had, but he was chipped, and they hadn’t scanned him. So, I wondered about him a lot. I put up dozens of posters, about Charlie, this time. Someone told me they’d seen a cat like that in the next neighborhood over, so I walked or ran there every day for six months looking for him. He had always come when I called or whistled for him, but, he was gone. I hoped he was taken in.
A year later, after I’d given up all hope of him coming home, I happened to mention his loss to the leader of a hike I was on. Kilala had never stopped watching for Charlie to come home, and often sat for long hours, obviously depressed. She rarely moved, and appeared to have lost her raison d’etre. I had decided to find her a male companion, pimp for her. The hike leader told me there was a cat living on the golf course in Bernalillo. The clubhouse had been feeding it for a long time, but wanted to adopt it out. The cat would sometimes turn and bite if you touched its back. (Liability issues.) I hoped it was a male. When I checked it out, I was told it was a female, named Snowflake, for the white fur. I agreed to adopt it anyway, but when I went to be approved for the cat by its friends at the golf course, they had just found out it was male. Anyway, the clubhouse members approved of me, and said they would bring the cat over. He also had a small house they had built for him, with added insulation to protect him from the cold winter nights. When they came, they brought him, his house, food and water bowls, and a large supply of food. And, they would visit to check on him, bring treats, and often take me to dinner.
Well, as much as I had hoped otherwise, this cat had only been around humans all his life, and didn’t know what to do around other cats, how to chase, play-fight, hunt, or screw. He’s a disappointment, but eventually the two cats learned to get along, and both slept on my bed. He mostly sleeps, never uses his house, and rarely goes outside at all. I kept the name Snowflake because he responded to it. Kilala likes him, but he just doesn’t respond much to her. He finally let her lick him a little bit, and I’ve sometimes seen him lick her back, but that’s the extent of it.
Shortly, I will bring this little cat epic to a close.
Two years later, I was sure I’d seen Charlie near the Post Office and the Senior Center 2 ½ miles away. The size and markings looked identical. I was in my car, returning from the post office, when I spotted it behind the fence at the back of the Senior Center. I stopped the car, and called his name. He jumped up, and began walking towards me, but stopped, sitting back down with his legs crossed, acting like he had always acted. Unfortunately, I was in the car for one thing, and for another, it was a different car from the car he would have remembered me coming home in. He had always come to greet me when I drove up, and often slept under the car for the shade it provided. However, I was blocking the street, and I had a truck come up behind me. I moved, drove around the block, but he was gone. I went back often, calling his name, and even asked inside the senior center if they were feeding him, but they knew nothing. I never found it. I had seen a collar with a tag around his neck, so I assume he is someone’s cat now, if that was him. I don’t know how he got a license without someone scanning his chip, but it could have fallen out. Of course, maybe it wasn’t him.
I took Kilala to the veterinary clinic this past October 13th. She had been itching a lot. No sign of fleas or ticks, but she had been biting herself and tearing out her fur, which alarmed me. The vet found her skin irritated, likely by some tiny parasite, so he applied a soothing lotion to her, gave her something to calm her down, and also re-upped her rabies shot and whatever else I hadn’t kept up with. He gave me a liquid (selemectin plus sarolaner) to apply to the back of her neck to kill whatever was bothering her, possibly biting lice. It seemed to work. Three months later I finished with her medication, but she started to bite herself a bit. However, she stopped after a few days as I pondered getting more of the liquid drops. Her fur recovered nicely.
But not long after, I noticed she was not grooming herself anymore. She was also sleeping way more, and lethargic. Some matted fur appeared on her flank. She seemed OK, but then she stopped eating as much as she had. In fact, she seemed less and less interested in her food every day. As I petted her I noticed how bony she was becoming. She hadn’t been eating much for some time it seemed. I tried giving her milk in small amounts, as I had occasionally given her some as a treat, although I know it’s not good for cats. She had always loved it, but now wouldn’t touch it. I bought tuna fish, the only other thing she had really loved, but she passed on that too. She was also retching without bringing anything up, sometimes wheezing, and her purring had a funny discordant sound to it. Worried again, on February 9th, I took her in for testing. $425 dollars later, I knew she didn’t have liver or kidney problems, but only a stomach infection. She had been given antibiotics for that. But she was very weak, and the vet cautioned me she might only have months to live. I also had a cream to apply to her ear once daily to stimulate her appetite. Even though I washed my fingers thoroughly, I was petting her, and it seemed to work on me! I have eaten more in the past week than usual (it could also be from stress over Kilala) and suddenly the pants and shirt I had been wearing just a week ago wouldn’t fit – I couldn’t button the pants closed. That’s some fast weight gain!
She didn’t eat that first day after I brought her home, or the next, but then she popped up right away one morning as I walked into the kitchen area. She was hungry, and more energetic. She was drinking water again too. I had high hopes she might recover, given how strong, healthy, and active she had always been, but after a week, she stopped eating much, that I saw, but I did see her drinking. She wouldn’t go outside at all – it was cold and snowing a lot. She slept all day, but moved from spot to spot around the house, including the bathroom, which was odd. It looked like she was going to die after all, and soon. I spent more time with her, petting her for long periods of time. She didn’t object, I put her on my lap too, and for the first time ever, she didn’t object. Last night (Feb. 18, 2021) she moved from where she had been hiding behind the toilet, and flopped down right in the doorway to the bathroom. I kept checking on her, but not only was she not going anywhere, but at one point, even though she was awake, one of her back legs twitched as though she was trying to get up but couldn’t.
I had her on my lap earlier, and had petted her a long time, then she’d been wondering around the house some more, stopping at her favorite spots – back of the bed, bath mat, front door, in front of the fireplace, and other random spots. When she ended up in the bathroom I left her alone. But now, this was it. I felt she was dying and soon. I scooped her up gently and sat down in the comfy living room chair, put the TV on, and petted her for two hours straight, She was breathing slowly, and responsive to my touch. But not purring. Her head was draped across my arm and at one point she appeared to be choking so I adjusted my wrist to her chest in case she had been unintentionally pressing her throat against my wrist. She settled down, and I kept petting her. She fell asleep. As I watched the TV, I kept an eye on her chest. For a time, it was moving, but then I couldn’t tell. She still felt warm, but I stopped and got up. She was dead and already stiff. I tried talking to her to say my final goodbyes – for myself, too late for her – but I could barely speak.
I put her stiff body back on the chair while I fed the Snowflake, who wasn’t even curious about Kilala. I can’t write any more. (Feb 19, 2021)
MORE TO THE STORY (March 3, 2021)
After I had fed the Snowflake, I put Kilala’s body in two overlapping plastic bags, and sat it outside (temperatures were to be below freezing). In the morning I went out to dig her grave. The ground was almost as hard as a rock (mostly clay) and choked with tree roots. I wanted it to be fairly deep, so I stopped and filled it with water to soften it overnight. The following day I finshed the hole more easily. I took Kilala out of the bags so she would readily decompose into the dirt. She was soft and pliable again, but her head lolled loosely. She still felt warm, but the sun was out and it had taken me some time to finish digging the hole. I placed her gently in the hole. I left her collar and tags on, adjusting her head to a natural angle, as though she was asleep. I placed her food bowl next to her. I covered her gently with a little dirt, and then put the plastic bags on top of her, with some stones, just in case I hadn’t dug the hole deep enough to discourage the coyotes, and then filled in the hole, tamping it down all around to pack the dirt firmly, and replaced the landscaping gravel. I said goodbye again, and placed the outside chair she often slept in over her grave. I sat in it for a bit, remembering her.
Two days after her burial, I went out, intending to sit in that chair in the sunlight. As I plopped into the cushion on it, I heard a tiny meow. I looked around and my other cat was not outside. My neighbors don’t have cats. I jumped off the chair, put my mouth near the ground, and called Kilala, and added Girl too, but there was no repeat of the sound. It worried me, more than I would have imagined. “Could I have buried her alive?” was my first thought. She’d been stiff as a board that first night, her face caught in a stiff rictus. Then she had spent two nights in freezing temperatures before burial, and double bagged. “How could she have survived?” went through my mind. I knew it was crazy, but stranger things have happened. I wondered if she could have developed rabies from her recent inoculation, and if paralysis could have developed, “Parhaps a coma?” It bothered me so much, but I knew it would be even crazier to dig her up. She had to be dead. I never should have handled her soft, warm body before burying her. It took me days to finally accept that she was dead. Gone. Sometimes I sit in the chair and talk to her. My small cat family, begun with my dad’s two cats, and the two nearly indentical ones that followed, was gone. That connection I had maintained though them to my father was gone. I hadn’t realized I’d wrapped my grief up in those four cats, beginning from his funeral in 1987 until 2021.
My mother turned 90 on New Year’s Eve. My siblings and I had planned a party, but we were limited to a Zoom meeting due to the pandemic restrictions, and her poor health. We all live in widely separate parts of the country. She’s beginning to decline mentally, but we’ve agreed on an in-person 90 ½ birthday get-together in June. We’re an optimisitc bunch, all lucky seven of us.
I hated the icon-based Windows GUI when it came out. I felt like Windows had capitulated to Apple by doing that. I never liked the MAC interface; it seemed like computing for dummies. I was introduced to computers in high school in the late 1960s, but they were big with less power than a simple electronic calculator. One had to write a short program in order to have it plug variables into an equation. Of course that was all punch cards then. Took a lot to get anything done. Of course that experience helped me get a job in a research lab.
The equipment I ran was interfaced with a teletype machine, so all the numbers I generated from measurements were punched into a pink teletype data tape. At the end of every day, I walked the tape to the “computing center”, put the tape into a device that converted the punched holes in the tape to punch cards. There was a program already punched into a set of cards, and held together with a rubber band, so I banded that together with the cards from the data I’d collected, and then handed it to the folks at the counter. One did not get near the computers. The techs stacked the cards to run overnight with all the other jobs. I picked up the results the next day as a printout. It was all just a series of average measurements, with statistical info out to seven decimal places. The whole computing center building was greatly refrigerated due to the heat generated by the computers — in the same way computer chips need a cooling fan. Very expensive and energy consuming. And the computer people had to wear coats.
That was my whole interaction with computers until another research job in the early ’80s had me using equipment with built-in HP-85 computers; the research equipment interface was a small keypad with tiny buttons, — really tiny screen, really tiny buttons. My boss also had a stand-alone HP-85, run off of a program cartridge that controlled other equipment, and it had a nicer keyboard. We upgraded that one with an external floppy disk, for storage, just one disk at first, and then with two for copying disk to disk — woo hoo! On this machine I had a simple line-drawing ski game to play on it. Then – OMG – my boss got a desktop computer about 1985. A 10Mb hard drive! A full-sized keyboard interface. but all commands had to be typed in with DOS commands, using a blank screen.
It was years still before drop-down menus showed up, and the programs had their own screen backgrounds. Bigger screens. Still no mouse though. It was all drop-down menus, and I loved it. I had a modem, and could connect to other computers via a BBS (Bulletin Board System) to download simple games and crappy pictures, chat, leave messages. You could also play games by taking turns, like the way people used snail mail to play chess in the old days with people in other states or countries. One move at a time until the other person logged in and took their turn. But, I could set up multiple games, take my turn on all of them and wait for people to log in and take their turns, so I was able to get some gaming in at work (Scrabble or checkers). One day I finally had to bite the bullet and get Windows, which could still be used with keyboard commands and without the optional mouse, so I was happy about that. Then the drop-down menus needed a mouse, or awkward combinations of multiple keys to select commands, so I got a mouse. Progress.
But all of that I had to do at work. The cost of home computers was prohibitive for most people, and hard to justify. There were Commodore PET home computers in the 1970s, and Commodore VIC-20s and Atari 400 home computers on the market in the early 1980s, but those cost two or three months rent. The Atari 800 cost about $1000, six months rent or more. The cost of MACs was insane. By 1988, I was able to purchase a used DOS personal computer (aka desktop) for myself at home, using student loan money. Mostly I needed it to write papers, because, without it, I had to type. In my classes where I had to type 25-page papers, I was graded on spelling and punctuation in addition to the subject matter. I went through a lot of typing paper and time trying to get my papers perfect. It had a 20MB drive, a 300bps modem (bits per second), no GUI, no mouse. I upgraded software, drives, memory, and monitors constantly over the years. I don’t think many people even use desktop systems anymore – now it’s all iPads, laptops, tablets, phones. Mostly phones. With their tiny screens and tiny buttons. Progress?
Although it’s no longer in person, Sunday Chatter in the old furniture store continues to be live-streamed, and then available for a short time afterwards online. I miss those walls and the old doors, the poetry and the coffee, the home-made pastries, and even the occasional cough from the audience that always packed the place every Sunday morning before Covid-19.
Musicians: David Felberg violin Joel Becktell cello Luke Gullickson guitar
Music Robert Ashley For Andie Springer, Showing the Form of a Melody, “Standing in the Shadows” by Robert Ashley J.S. BachCello Suite no. 3 in C major
PoetDamien Flores was born & raised in Old Town, Albuquerque and is a graduate of the University of New Mexico. Flores is best known as a member of the Albuquerque Poetry Slam Team. He organized the College Unions Poetry Slam in 2008, was a member of the two-time National Champion UNM Loboslam Teams, and is also a four-time ABQSlams City Champion. He was named Poet of the Year in 2007 & 2008 by the New Mexico Hispano Entertainer’s Association, and was recipient of the 2008 Lena Todd Award for creative non-fiction from the UNM English Department. His first book, Junkyard Dogs, was published by West End Press and his work has been featured in several anthologies, magazines, and newspapers. Flores is an educator in Albuquerque and hosts the Spoken Word Hour on 89.9 KUNM-FM.
Someone asked a public question on Facebook: What is your favorite movie soundtrack? At first I ignored the question. I’m not usually big on soundtracks, unless I really loved the movie and the music moved me. But that started me to thinking about it. I couldn’t come up with a favorite. But I have favorites.
That said, in order as I recall them: the romantic Dr. Zhivago. I watched it because I had read the 1957 book. As with all of the other movies of which I purchased the soundtrack, even though I’ve had dozens of relationships in my early life, and two marriages spanning twenty-one years, I watched it by myself.
2001: A Space Odyssey. After realizing that the portion of Also Sprach Zarathustra on the soundtrack came from a much larger work, I bought the actual work by Richard Strauss — I would listen to it late at night.
Hair (an anti-war, counterculture musical redone as a movie). The Harder They Come introduced me to Raggae. The dark Irish soul-inspired movie The Commitments I watched just following my first divorce! The Sci-fi Babylon 5 (TV show & movie) is actually more interesting than Star Trek or Star Wars.
O Brother, Where Art Thou? tapped into Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey, as transpiring in the deep south. House of Flying Daggers has award-winning cinematography with a deeply romantic score, and we’re full circle back from Doctor Zhivago. I’m a romantic.
I’ve listened to them hundreds of times each. There is a soundtrack for At World’s End, one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies that came out in movie theaters (remember those?) just after my second divorce; I saw it alone and couldn’t enjoy it. I remember riding my motorcycle at about 120+ miles an hour along Albuquerque’s Coors Blvd at night after I left the theater. But I remembered the music, and it was bittersweet to listen to later on. It’s not a favorite.
I also enjoy the music from Dead Man’s Chest. Also: Pulp Fiction, Soul (which was just released), Tim Burton’s movies, The Graduate, Mary and Max, Chico and Rita, The Point! and Braveheart, but I have never listened to them as much as the ones pictured above. I have 759 albums, but only 26 are soundtracks.
Here are a few of those other great soundtracks, worth listening to again and again.
Chico & Rita is fantastic animation, along with amazing jazz. Mary and Max is a movie about a penpal friendship between a sickly old autistic New Yorker and a lonely poor Australian girl. Although, technically, Myst and Riven are games not movies, the soundtracks are awesome! The Point! is a great story about non-conformity. Soul has a great soundtrack, and musician & composer Jon Batiste just released Music From And Inspired By Disney Pixar Soul – also great.
Hiked through the Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge today, taking photos. It is close to the Rio Grande, within the city limits, and crowded with Cottonwood trees. Much of the area used to be Price’s dairy farm (founded 1906), but the farmland is alfalfa and tall fescue grass now. I could see the grass seeds in the bird droppings all around. Developers salivated over a parcel of land only seven miles from downtown Albuquerque. A few palatial homes got built, but the farmland was purchased by The Trust for Public Land. In 2012 it was transferred to the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. We tried parking on the side of the road near the hiking trails, but one of the few homeowners there rudely told us we shouldn’t park there. There is a sign warning people not to park west of the sign, so we parked east of it, but the few people there don’t like strangers anywhere near their nice houses. Rather than antagonize the people there, we left and parked at the visitor center for the Valle del Oro, and hiked back the one mile to the bosque trails.
A working farm remains but is becoming native Middle Rio Grande Valley habitat for resident and migratory wildlife. The bosque, a riparian forest, will be extended to include the old farmland.
Eagles have been seen there, along with the more abundant hawks and the migrating snow geese and sandhill cranes. Of course, there are coyotes. There were a few waterfowl hanging out on sandbars in the middle of the river (low in winter), and swimming along sections of free flowing water, and a few crows in the trees, and we saw no other wildlife today. That doesn’t stop me from taking photos.
I woke up early this Sunday morning at 4:00 a.m. in the middle of a dream. I was in some small space, and there was a big stain on me, and it went deep into me. I starting thinking about all the religious conditioning I’d expereinced growing up, as I’d written about here recently. Was this stain original sin? Catholic guilt? Was it still festering in me from that early age until now? That hardly seems possible. I was giving it some thought, when I saw my ex-wife in the dream. It was clearly her, but she was all white, not her skin, but there was a bright glow. It was like a spectral aura, but very white. She was smiling — a huge, sincere, happy smile, and she was glad to see me.
That in itself was extremely odd, as she rarely smiled, and spent the last couple years of our relationship not being happy to see me, and not smiling unless she was drinking or talking to her friends or other family on the phone, almost constantly. She had cause, after her daughter had been found to have a brain tumor. But my step-daughter had gone through surgery, chemotherapy, and then a specialized radiation treatment which burned out the tumor, followed by some low-level radiation coupled with more chemotherapy. It seemed to have worked fine. I was estatic, and full of joy that she had survived.
But my ex-wife stayed depressed about it, and felt her daughter would still die. No one, not me, not the doctors, and not her own daughter could convince her otherwise. She became harder to live with, and we diverged. She drank more, I drank less. Experiencing the joy of having my step-daughter survive was the best feeling I’d ever had. It lifted me up. My ex, however, was depressed, wouldn’t seek counseling for herself, or agree to the couples counseling I asked for. She was very angry with me for things I’d said, things I wouldn’t have said if she hadn’t badgered me repeatedly to tell her. Nothing bad, but she sure didn’t like me being honest with her. I did my best to make it up to her, but she was having nothing to do with that. She decided I was going to walk out, and wouldn’t listen to me. She wanted me out of her life. She got me to sign a quit-claim on the house we’d financed together — and for which I’d been making all of the mortgage payments for ten years — in exchange for agreeing to go to marriage counseling. Then she changed her mind. She offered to give me money for all the work I’d done on the house, for repairing the water-damaged roof structure, and adding a new roof, and adding a new room to the house. I mentioned a figure, and she blew up. She really, it seemed, just wanted me out. The quit-claim was all she had really wanted. Her biggest fear had always been to end up homeless.
Eventually, after I told her I didn’t want to leave, she told me that if I didn’t leave, she’d call the police and tell them her life was in danger. In such a case, the law would have insisted I move out. Later, she would have to convince a court of that, but after being forced out like that, I wouldn’t have wanted to go back anyway, so I quietly found a place to move to and left. It wasn’t an amicable breakup, and the details are no longer important, but it ended with bad feelings all around. So, it was really surprising to find her in my dream thirteen years later. We haven’t talked, and she’s moved far away. Did she represent an angel?
If so, my early religious conditioning was stronger than I thought!
All of these thoughts occured in the few seconds I was coming fully awake. When I was fully awake, it no longer mattered. There was no pain in my chest, but I felt I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I rolled over, but it still felt bad. It’s like an anxiety attack, but I’ve nothing to feel anxious about. I’m retired and do what I want when I want to do it. No one tells me what to do, or how to do it, or belittles me, or pushes me away anymore. I just felt like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain. My lungs are fine, but I had a heart attack six years ago. There’s no reason to expect another, but the tightness in my chest had happened before the heart attack, and then once in the last few weeks, and then again this morning. When that happens, I have to get up and walk around, which I did. It took a while to feel better, but eventually I was OK. My blood pressure was probably elevated at that point, but it’s been pretty steady for a long time, and my bad cholesterol is quite low. I’ve no reason to believe I’ll experience another heart attack. I do wish I could get another untrasound of my heart to see if there are any buildups of plaque in there, but they won’t do that without a compelling reason, like really high blood pressure over a period of time, or I experience severe heart pain. C‘est la vie.
This represents a which-came-first situation. Did I experience a problem beathing, causing physical anxiety that inspired the dream thoughts and woke me up? or did the dream cause the anxiety that woke me up? It’s an odd feeling. I didn’t feel right at all, and there’s a feeling of fear in those situations. That’s odd too, because I’ve already lived a long life, and I don’t normally fear death. During the heart attack years ago I’d felt an intense pressure in my chest as though something was trying to get out, and also fear, but it turned out to not be an alien, just that plaque had built up in a major heart artery and the blood flow was very constricted. It was the blood pushing against the artery wall that I’d felt, and my brain knew it was trouble before I did. After I’d gotten myself to a hospital and they convinced me to allow an angioplasty to clear the clot, the clot shifted while they were prepping me for the procedure — the blood flow was completely shut off in that instant. That did hurt a little, but they went into crisis mode and completed the procedure, saving my life. The before and after sonograms showed it.
If this continues, I may not want to go to sleep again. But I felt fine all day today. Did a lot of reading. There was a package in my mailbox with two small books that’d I’d ordered. I read them, and part of an unpublished novel. Listened to some music. Washed dishes. Cleaned the cat litter box twice. Took out some trash. That’s life too.
Otero Canyon runs along the ridges of the Manzanita Mountain foothills, in the Cedro Peak Region, very near to Albuquerque, up what used to be called south New Mexcio 14, and is now denoted as NM 337. The area butts up along an air force base, and parts of it are off limits, due to weapons testing by the air force many years ago. Posted signs warn of possible unexploded ordinance. One of these beautiful Ponderosa pines had recently just been cut down inside the boundaries of the base area, and lay across a dry ditch, blocking anyone from being tempted to travel that way, I suppose.
It was a very pleasant hike. The temperatures were below freezing early this morning just after dawn, but warmed up considerably. There were no winds, and the sky was crystal clear and dark blue all day. There was still some snow in the shadows.
I forgot my camera, but decided to try capturing a few photos on my cheap cell phone anyway:
And was it ever cold! Left my Hotel room this morning to a below-freezing temperature again, 25ºF (-4ºC). The car windshield had some ice crystals I needed to scape off. Got to set about 6:00 am (15 minutes late – I missed the last highway change and kept going – finally had to turn around), but only worked to 10:30 am; it had warmed up to 36ºF (2ºC) by then. But the winds were not from the north this time, and the sun was shining in a clear sky, so, not so bad.
It was a good day too. After I was tested for Covid-19, I was early enough to eat, but checked with the wardrobe department first. They weren’t ready. All of their heaters for the changing tents set up for us were out, so they were having to find unused room in the trailers that had heat. Only one person at a time in a room, so it was going to take a while. I had a small pile of crispy bacon, and the catering people made scambled eggs for me, to order, with onions, bacon, green chile, and cheese. And coffee! I got coffee! I was feeling good. There was finally a room available for me. What luxury! Instead of a cold tent flapping in the high winds, I found myself in a spacious warm room, with room to lay out my costume, remove my clothes and get dressed in peace. Yeah, man.
The director was still working on getting some addtional footage of the scene from the night before. He needed backgound for a steady-cam take of the scene (a movable camera carried by a cameraman with a strap-on harness). When he was done with that, he changed the camera again to look back at the scene, from about where I was sitting. Then he wanted to hear us react to the action, instead of being quiet and miming words. So they got some audio. After that, the lead actors would go through their actions again, but from the closer camera postion. Since at least part of me might be seen, and one of the main actors would be reprising her interaction with me, I stayed, while the other background in that scene went back to the nice warm holding area they’d arranged for us – in an actual building.
I doubt I will be seen in that take, but the beautiful and talented lead actress still did the same horrifying action to me, and I was still in fear for my life. Fun. In the earlier takes I was on camera a lot, so I look forward to seeing those few seconds of my face — it’s what many background actors live for. Hours and hours, or even days, in a single scene or many scenes, and if you’re lucky to be seen at all, and not blurred. It’s often so brief you can only show someone what you did by stopping a video of the scene, backing it up and pausing it – “See? right there, there I am.” (If you watch the 2018 movie Ideal Home, look for me walking alongside the actor Paul Rudd in the scene near the end of the movie, as he walks into the airport. I’m the guy in the leather fedora pulling my wheeled luggage. See below:)
from Ideal Home 2018
And we were wrapped for the day today. There is the possibilty we might be needed again for that same scene, so I still can’t go home. One more night in the hotel, but the room was reserved for another day, just in case. After relaxing a bit and writing, I went out, bought a nice print to give to my step-daughter for taking care of my cats while I was gone. I’ll pay her too, because there was stinky cat litter to deal with.
I also picked up some nice hot food to eat in my room: shrimp fried-rice noodles. The sun was still out, but the weather had turned bitter cold the last two nights. The water running over the large rock in front of the hotel was in shade and still frozen from the night before. I was looking forward to going home. I finshed another novel by John D. MacDonald, Slam the Big Door, 1960. It is a good story, and the ending is not what you’d expect from one of his crime novels. What you think might happen doesn’t. The ending itself is unexpected. I enjoyed seeing his mind at work on this one, and the familiar intellectual introspection.
11/12/20(Day 11)
Last day in Santa Fe. It’s 28ºF (-2ºC). I went out early for breakfast: my last Quiche Lorraine for awhile, and a two-shot Americano. A messaage had been posted late last evening that we were indeed wrapped from the movie. So I am going home today. Yea! The rooms around me are a flurry of noisy activity as other background and a few crew pack up too.
I’m sipping another coffee now – one for the road. It’s a short journey from here, but I feel like I was far, far away in another world. Less than two weeks in Santa Fe, but it felt longer.
I feel good about my work on set, even though I was just an extra, aka “background actor”. The 1st AD and the director were pleased with our work generally. They praised our frightened reactions as perfect. The director used me often in the small scene with the principal actors, and I was told I did great. Well, except for the one time I forgot to take off my mask as the camera rolled. And that other time, when I had not put my arm on the chairback as I had done earlier during a fight scene. It was just a short pickup shot, but continuity, you know? I had moved my arm because the camera was directly across from me and the lights to simulate daylight were behind me. The cameraman had adjusted me to get the shadow off of his lens, So, when first I heard someone say cut! and then someone said, “That guy had his arm on the chairback before,” I didn’t move it when they rolled again. I don’t know why I didn’t, but they hadn’t said anything directly to me. I thought I was helping by not creating shadows, so they rolled and cut because my arm was still not on the chairback. I tried to explain, but it really didn’t matter. You do what they ask, even if you had contradictory instructions before. They rolled again, and it was perfect. I didn’t feel too bad about the mask, because I was told it had happened before. But continuity is critical in movies, and they sometimes don’t notice until shooting is complete and everyone has gone home, the rented equipment has been returned, and the props packed away, the location abandoned. Which will happen soon. But I’m out of there.
As soon as I post this, I will power the laptop down, close and pack it in its carry bag, and load my car with it, my camera, and my clothes. It’s still cold, but luckily, the heater works in my car. And it’s only about an hour to my house. I sold two books on eBay while I was gone. I need to package and ship those today, as well as a book ordered from me on PaperBackSwap (dot com). It a place to trade books, and I read a lot. Well, home is calling to me. I’m outta here.
Well, actually I’m back in my hotel room now after a ten-hour day, and still can’t go home, but, I did get to work on set. Long-ish day, but not the longest. Had a short drive out of town to set, but I still don’t know Santa Fe very well, so it took a while for me to figure out how to get outta town to the right highway. I had basic directions, and a good idea of where I was going, but after 15 minutes of being lost in Santa Fe, I opened Google Maps to direct me there. However, for some reason the Uber app was running in the background, so every time I touched “Directions” the Google map showed how long it would take an Uber driver to pick me up.
I tried all kinds of things: different searches, turning the phone off and on, and then removing the Uber app. When I did that, I thought: problem solved! But, noooo. An Uber message would still interupt my Google map search, saying I needed to install the Uber app. It was somehow running in my phone’s memory. FInally, as I was running late, I just drove to St. Michaels Drive, and over to St. Francis, and directly to U.S. Interstate 25, which would have put me early to set if I’d just done that instead if trying to use Old Pecos Trail.
Which might have given me time to get into my complicated costume early enough to eat breakfast. By the time my costume was on, with a few substitutions, like a different jacket, a different vest, and after wardrobe sewed a new button onto my pants while I had them on — because I needed one more to hook my suspenders on, and, after the facial hair guy okayed my beard and mustache, and a regular hair stylist okayed my head hair, I was finally ready to go to set, and I caught the last widely spaced people trailer to the actual set. No time to eat, and all I’d had was coffee. “Yippie ki yay, motherfucker.” — Die Hard movie quote. It’s a period piece as you might have guessed.
So, I can’t say what movie set I was on, or what it’s about, or post any photos of set or actors. So, well, sorry, but them’s the rules.
Of course, one of the best things about being a background actor on movie or TV sets is the food, but because of Covid-19, and wearing protective equipment at all times, except when you’re on set in front of the camera, the food would be a box lunch instead of buffet style. Which is fine. I put my request in for fish.
But, lunchtime came and went, and went, and went. I think it was about 3:30pm when we got out lunches, but we couldn’t eat them on set. So, the background “holding” area was a short walk away. We would have to eat quickly, like in 15 minutes. Strange, but doable. I had been ready to eat the set food, which was real cooked food, fruit, salad and drinks — but purely for decoration. But of course you can’t.
I found a spot to sit and opened my bag o’ food. Two containers, one with some delicious fish, and the other with vegetables and some things I never got to see. Firstly, I was so hungry by then, I swallowed too much at once, and was choking. I hadn’t been given a drink, an unheard of circumstance, so I had nothing to wash it down with. However, I spotted a nearly full drink with a straw in it near me, asked if it belonged to anyone, which it didn’t, so I popped the lid off and took a big swig of that. It cleared my throat. But, no sooner did I sit down to attack what was left of my piece of fish, when we were called back to set immediately. I didn’t like that, but sometimes the production gets behind schedule, and they have no time to waste. I stashed my food in a small unlit wooden structure — that now had an open door — in a corner, because you cannot eat or take food to eat on set.
I wish I’d smuggled some with me. We worked a couple more hours, but since the production had the inside scene lit up like day from outside with a ton of lights, I had no idea it was pitch dark. I never found my food, and still had to go back to the place I’d been in the morning, and get out of all those clothes, and hang them neatly for tomorrow. One older gentleman, angry that we’d waited so long for food, and hadn’t been given water, and the lack of heaters to warm up by, or a space out of the wind to eat in, just walked off set. (Our day started out at 23ºF (-5ºC) to a high of 45º (7ºC), with windspeeds of 21mph to 26 mph beteeen 8:am and 2:00pm, and 7mph to 14mph the rest the day.) The production worked around him, substituting another background actor, and not getting a closeup on his face. There is a background actors association here that has drawn up a bill of rights for background actors, which the company backrolling this drama had been happy to agree to. It’s not a union. Only in some places, like LA, do background actors have access to union benefits. Not here. The asssociation is a very informal group. People worry that the movie industry will go elsewhere if the backgrond actors are paid union scale and benefits. Maybe, but maybe not. Some productions have already moved elsewhere though, since our state is only slowly opening up and there has been a spike in Covid-19 cases, and deaths. Other states have not been as restrictive.
The movie industry is under pressure to return to business safely. While employed by this production company at least, we have to take a Rapid covid test every day while on set. Today we all had to take both the Rapid 15-minute test, and the slower, but more accurate, PCR test. Usually you only take one PCR test a week. If you are sick, you can’t get on set, and if your symptoms show up after testing, you have to leave. The production is suspended until there’s been time to isolate anyone in contact with the sick person. Sometimes there are false positives, so that gets worked out quickly. Having several people get sick just shuts the whole thing down.
Anyway, other than the food and water issue today, the company is being good to us. All Covid-19 tests are paid for by them. and we get paid to get tested. Also, as in my case and quite a few others, since we don’t live in Santa Fe, they pay us for all of the sequestering at hotels. Good for the hotels too, because they are hurting. But I also get per diem for food. Good for us, good for Santa Fe restaurants. All in all, it’s a good deal. We also get all of our protective equipment, sanitizer and covid training free.
I’ve eaten since I left set, had some orange juice, and am about to drink a bottle of water as well, so I’m feeling better.
My Wi-Fi internet connection went crazy last night so I couldn’t upload this post last night, and I had to turn in early. 5:45 am call time today, so I must get back on set at the crack of dawn this morning. We were told last night the heaters would be fixed, and there will be food, with time to eat it. And water readily available I hope.
Another Day in Santa Fe. Election results same as last night. Had eggplant Ratatouille in a crepe for breakfast. Not good. Flavorless. Had to add salt, pepper and hotsauce just to finish it. Bought a palmier (elephant ear pastry) to compensate my sad palate. Went back to my room and grabbed my camera. No change in the election results yet.
As I was walking and photographing, I kept hearing truck and car horns blaring. Some went by me with American flags flapping from car windows and truck beds. Concerned, I took one last photo on my way back to my room to check the news.
The AP had called the Presidential race for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. I grabbed my camera, and went back out to take photos.
I had decided to walk up Canyon Road looking for things to photograph and get some exercise. However, on my way there were more trucks riding around blaring their horns. They were Trumpers. There was a lot of noise, shouting, and chants over near the New Mexico State Capitol building. There were about a couple hundred maskless people there, protesting the election call, chanting “Stop the steal”, with signs and megaphones calling for a recount. One guy shouted for someone to take their mask off — someone in a car — and then laughed about it, deriding anyone who would wear a mask in a car. They also still wanted Hillary Clinton locked up for her crimes: the child pedophile ring that she and other Democrats were supposed to have run out of a pizza parlor in New York — “Save the children!” How did Trump attract all the conspiracy nuts? Took photos: (only one of which was of six brave Biden supporters nearby).
I got bored with that, and finally made it to Canyon Road. Took a a lot of photos and stopped for tea. Ordered a black tea called “Competition Grade Jin Jun Mei”. It is made from pure tea buds. The processing of this tea is done in stages to coax out the chocolate and honey sweetness, according to the menu. But, like many of China’s most acclaimed teas, the flavor is extremely delicate. My palate is not that refined. The color was fairly light and reddish. I’d rather have a really black Irish breakfast tea, Earl Gray, or a smoked black tea like lapsang souchong <= my favorite!
I was sipping my tea in between bites of homemade pumpkin pie when I decided to check on my messages. Sure enough, I missed one that said I had received an email with details about a mandatory Zoom meeting for all background, standins, etc. It was 1:23pm. The meeting was at 2:00pm. I’d walked for an hour and a half, slowly making my way up Canyon Road, taking the photos below. Google maps said I was 23 minutes from my hotel. I thought about trying to do the Zoom on my phone, but I’d have no privacy (even though I was seated outside), Zoom features are limited on a phone, and there was a light rain teasing.
I decided for the hotel and my laptop. Of course, I needed to pee, and there was someone in the single restroom, and another waiting. I flagged down a waitstaffer, and got my bill paid. The restroom was finally empty, which was great, because I had to do some real speed walking to get back to my room by 2 o’clock. I made it by 1:55. I logged in, but only a few people were there. Then I found out a message had gone out while I was hustling my way back. The meeting was delayed by 45 minutes! Well, that’s the way things go in the movie biz.
The meeting was just a rehash of everthing we needed to know, which had all been covered by a link in the email, and also there was time for questions.
After that, I finished a John D. MacDonald novel, A Bullet for Cinderella. Not bad. Another of his early ones, short and sweet. I spent some time looking over the photos I’d taken earlier, cropping some, deleting some, and decided which ones I liked. By then I wanted a nap. That fast jog back to my room had tired me a little, and I’d been up since 5am.
Later on, I went out to pick up a green chile cheeseburger. Perfect. I needed protein by then. It was so satisfying.
So, without further delay, here are the Canyon Road photos:
No photos today. Actually, I was up the night before until the wee hours of Friday morning getting those photos from day four edited and uploaded. The hotel’s Wi Fi is problematic at times, and I kept having to restart my laptop and sign in again and again. I went to bed around two in the morning and slept late. Still no change in the elections results. I know I went out to eat, but I can’t remember where. Most of the rest of the day was spent reading.
However, I had an acting class on Zoom to attend at 10:00am. We worked on some monologues and dialogues, getting feedback from the teacher, and getting suggestions from classmates on different ways for create those acting takes, as if we were in an auditon room. Who knows if that will ever happen again! All of our classes are online now, and we’ve all had to set up space in our homes to self-tape auditions. There’s a lot to get right: shutting out any kind of outside sounds, the lighting – especially eliminating shadows, and getting full light on our faces – and having a plain background behind us as we record our own auditions.
It’s a whole different way to do this, and, it is believed by many, including casting directors, that this is the wave of the future. Voice-over actors aleady had been working from home, and have had to set up soundproof areas in their homes. When doing dialogues, we have to either have someone living with us take the other role(s) that in-person readers used to do, or have someone outside the home on their phone or laptop read as we do our lines. It’s way different without having actual people to speak with and get reactions from.
Later that evening, I went back onto Zoom to listen to and perform poetry. It’s how that is done now too. So far, it doesn’t matter about lighting or background, and sometimes other people wander by the camera or a dog barks. Brave New World, indeed.
So, I’ll post the poems I read:
CDX
Death comes for us all even archbishops shopkeepers and presidents doctors and lawyers mail carriers and drivers writers and moviemakers actors and singers men women children the bright and the dull animals trees flowers planets stars galaxies.
The funny thing is once we accept that that we will die that it’s where it is where we’re going then nothing else matters.
It is freedom to enjoy life enjoy the journey. It is no matter no matter what it doesn’t matter. Life just is.
it rains- enjoy Sun shines – enjoy flowers grow – enjoy raving mad lunatics – enjoy tomorrow they’ll be gone marching in the streets – enjoy tomorrow there’ll be change. Life is chaos terrible depressing skulduggery stressful dangerous.
Life is joy children music colors smells tastes feelings
stretching running hiking biking playing living.
Life is change – enjoy revolt change things make things embrace all love all be all.
We’ll die so? isn’t it wonderful? isn’t it freedom? because now right now we can do anything we want to.
Life is random key presses meaningless meaningful life is life make it so.
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MADNESS IS A HOT-AIR BALLOON
Perhaps I need to let my madness free. I worry about madness People thought me dumb when I was young So I kept quiet though I burned.
I think terrible thoughts sometimes So I keep them to myself Even though the hot pressure builds Is it better to live crazy than not really live?
Madness restrained is not madness contained. It leaks out here and there Stray comments, a wild movement Depression agitation combustion.
Yes combustion For, madness restrained doesn’t only leak It can explode Violence rape grand-theft murder.
How to portion out my madness? Let enough out to be happy Not enough to harm or hurt or die Just enough to feel relief.
A hot-air balloon can fly even holed Hundreds of tiny holes in the envelope From a bad landing in a field of cacti Yet it still fills rises floats and soars.
For a time.
As long as the propane lasts it rises As long as wind blows it moves As long as air is colder outside than in It can soar through blue sky.
Would that my madness were a balloon Free to fly Not too far Not too high. Just enough just enough just enough.
Actually, not much happened today. I read, then walked around a bit trying to decide if I was hungry and what to eat. There are lots of choices in Santa Fe. I decided not to take my camera with me. I walked up various streets, but hunger got me. Didn’t see much that was open or that I wanted, so I went back to San Francisco Street that runs along side Santa Fe Plaza. I passed it, and then went back. Why not? French food it is. Got quiche lorraine for brunch and the best coffee I’d had in a long time. I drink mostly Americanos, and this one rocked. Two shots of espresso and hot water to fill the cup. And they did it right! Most places assume if you get two shots you want some giant cup or mug. No, people drink Americanos for the flavor, not the most liquid they can get. They brought me my Americano in a normal size ceramic cup, about 6 to 8 oz. It was rich and smooth. I enjoyed it so much I can’t wait to go there in the morning for another cup.
The coffee in my room is god-awful, and the machine has trouble delivering all of the water I put in. I’ve had to restart the machine three to four times in order to get a full cup of coffee. For the record, it’s a brew pod in a bag, “Brazil, Regular” by Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and the machine is a Cuisinart for making one cup or two at a time. Not espresso, just regular brewed coffee. Weak, almost tasteless coffee.
I wandered through some galleries on my way back to the hotel. I saw some leather figurines in one gallery. It was a very pricey gallery, and the guy running it jumped up when I walked in. I told him I was going to look at something, and he wanted to come with me. He let me go look, and as I was heading out through another part of the gallery I saw him going back to look for me, or if I’d taken anything or done something. Hell, the statuettes were priced in the thousands, although only about 18 inches tall. Very well made, with fine details, really beautiful. Even if I had that kind of money to throw away, why would I need more clutter?
Anyway, that is mostly what Santa Fe seems to be about: reaching out and catering to the very rich. Even souvenir trinkets cost twice as much in Santa Fe as they do in Albuquerque for the exact same items bought in bulk in Mexico.
Finally finished off a paperback I’d brought with me: Turtle Truths, 1997, by Santa Fe writer Cecil Dawkins, who died last year at the age of 91. Cecil wrote mystery stories, usually with a blind sculpter as the detective. However, while this one started out in Sante Fe like the others, most of the story takes place in Jamaica. She wrote four such books, of which I had read three: The Santa Fe Rembrandt, 1993; Clay Dancers, 1994; and Rare Earth, 1995. I also read her collection of short stories: The Quiet Enemy, 1963, and one of her novels: Charleyhorse, 1985.
I have not read her first novel: The Live Goat, 1971, nor the 2002 biography she wrote of Francis Minerva Nunnery, who had worked on a tobacco farm as a child, but at thirteen went to work at the Heinz plant in Pittsburgh, and at twenty-one was shipped off to Colorado to be married to a man she didn’t know. In 1921 Francis escaped to New Mexico in a Model T Ford, settling in Albuquerque, where she worked as a chauffeur, bus driver, boarding house keeper, and night club singer, among other occupations. She never stopped working, living all over New Mexico, ranching, working as a deputy sheriff, and selling real estate. I may have to read that one as it has a foreward by Max Evans.
Max Evans was a very similar kind of person, but who also wrote twenty-seven fiction and nonfiction books, two of which were made into movies: The Rounders, and Hi-Lo Country. Max just died this past August at the age of 95. He called himself the 1000-year-old man. I have a signed print of one of his paintings. He also worked as a cowboy, miner, and a smuggler of gold and bat guano, among the many jobs he had in his life, including participation in the D-Day Normandy Landings in 1944. I have some photos I took of him a couple years ago, but not on this laptop. I’ll insert them here later next week when I’m home.
Another day goofing off in Santa Fe. My home is less than an hour away, but I’m here until Nov. 12. Being on a feature-length movie set during this Covid-10 pandemic requires strict rules. Wearing a mask and distancing — of course — but also: no to-and-from traveling between “hot spots”, of which Albuquerque is one, because of a larger, denser population and rising cases. And, let’s not forget mandatory testing. So this morning I had to drive to a set for a PCR detection test — it is the gold standard in testing. Results in three days or so. On this project, everyone involved gets such a test once a week. Today was the day. I’m in a hotel near Santa Fe Plaza, but I made the mistake of following the written directions. A native of Santa Fe might have gotten to the testing site in 15 minutes, but it took me longer, because I did not know the way, and I didn’t see what I should have when I turned left or right. I finally gave in and used Google maps and got there a bit late, but within the required time frame.
The tests are scheduled so that groups of people do not show up at the same time — distancing also means spacing out arrival and wait times. The test is fast and simple. Blow your nose lightly first, then, cotton swab up one nostril, swirl it around 10 times, swab up the other nostril, swirl it around 10 times. Done. And none of this sticking it up into your sinuses (which felt like having something stuck into your brain to people in the early Covid-19 tests). The first time I had this done, I got a simpler test so I could get on set for a wardrobe fitting — that test has results in 15 minutes, but it is also known to give false positives sometimes. It is, as far as I can tell, given before anyone can step onto a set each day. The other test is more accurate, but the lag time between the test and the result means that you could have been exposed to Covid-19 in the interim. Anyway, that’s done. Five more days to stay safe until the shoot starts on the 10th. Masks, distancing, and frequent hand washing until then, and then even more stringent precautions on set. Is it worth all that? Well, it’s do all that or don’t have movies at all. Not only do people want to make movies, but people want to watch them, perhaps now more than ever.
So I drove back to my hotel, shucked my coat and changed to short sleeves. That’s how fast the weather changes here. I grabbed my camera and headed in the general direction of the Plaza. I peeked at menus on the way, because I knew I’d want to eat. I found an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant, and decided not to wait any longer. It wasn’t on the menu, but they agreed to make a three-tortilla stack of enchiladas for me, with two eggs on top (one egg is more traditional here, but I was hungry), and plenty of red sauce and some salsa verde that is not green chili, but a Mexican specialty of tomatillos and a little jalapeño mixed in, unlike New Mexican green chili. Mexicans don’t use our red chili either, they mix jalapeños with tomato sauce. So, “Red or green or both?” means something different to Mexicans and New Mexicans. I passed on the lettuce or beans — every meal I’ve had so far had beans — pinto or black — but I did get some Mexican green rice (a rice pilaf with cilantro, and/or other herbs or peppers, chicken stock, etc.) to go with my enchilada stack.
Afterwards I took a few more photos of things you see in Santa Fe that you don’t see elsewhere, but I was drawn into a wine shop. Wonderful wines from around the world, and I had a good conversation with the wineseller, about what makes a good wine, and some things that don’t work for the long term. Since my step-daughter is taking care of my cats for me while I’m away, I decided to get her something she would like: a Tokaji late-harvest sweet white. She and I made wine for eight years. I have enough wine at my house, so I picked a four-pack of Fever-Tree’s “Premium” Ginger Beer for myself. Although people are fond of using it as a mixer, I like ginger beer for itself, since it, and root beer and birch beer, are briefly fermented like what we just call beer, but without alcoholic content. I do enjoy the spicyness of ginger. (And chili, hot mustard, curry, horseradish, and wasabi). 😉
I cut the photo-taking short because I had my hands full then, and I couldn’t afford to drop a single thing.
Well, haven’t we all been sequestered, isolated or quarantined the past eight months? I should be used to it by now. It hasn’t been that bad. At home, I’m able to shop for groceries in person. I’m able to ride my motorcycle around, even ride with my meetup group, as long as we maintain a safe distance. I have had lunch with my step-daughter on her open porch, appropriately distanced. And restaurants are open with restricted low occupancy, outdoor seating, and masks in use except while eating.
But this? I was hired recently to work on a movie set as a background actor (extra), something I’ve been doing now and again for the last five years. It’s been problematic for movies the last eight months, but things are starting up again. A major studio is shooting in Santa Fe, and after many postponements due to Covid-19 — one was due to a false positive detected on set — we are rolling, so to speak. At first, we were to get tested and quarantine ourselves for 3 days, or five days, but it’s at eight days now. So, for me to be on the set, in close quarters with others in this one scene, I had to travel from Albuquerque to Santa Fe and check into a hotel for the duration.
Eight days of “sequestering”? I had no idea what that would involve. I arrived last night and checked in. I was under the impression that the sequestering would not begin until today, so I put my mask on and headed to Santa Fe Plaza, a wonderful park in the center of Santa Fe. It’s a place for festivals and music and there are a few restaurants as well. You can also get the original Frito Pie there in the store that started it all: the Five and Dime General Store, although it was originally a Woolworth’s. Frito-Lay did sue them for using the name, but backed off. Frito pies are a combination of beans, red chile, Fritos, cheese and onions, served there in the Frito bag itself. I’ve had a few. However, last night it was too late to get one. It was invented, but not trademarked, by Teresa Hernandez, who died at 88 this past February.
From The Santa Fe New Mexican
However, at the Thunderbird Bar & Grill, I was able to find some great enchiladas, calabacitas and beans, which I paired with a nice amber beer from the Boxing Bear Brewing Company in Corrales.
Satisfied, I went back to my hotel, not sure whether or not it would be my last venture outside my room for eight days. I was looking at restaurant menus today, trying to decide if I’d use Grubhub, DoorDash, or Uber Eats to get food to my room. The hotel retaurant is closed for the interim, so that wasn’t even an option, even if I could leave my room. It looked like I could get some good food from the nearby Tia Sophias, so I had decided on that when I noticed I had received an email from the casting director last night, in response to my query as to staying in my room the whole time. He said: “The main idea of the sequester is that we can’t have people traveling back and forth between ABQ and Santa Fe…because ABQ is considered a “hot spot”. But we’re not running a prison, we can’t confine you to your room…we just ask that everyone be responsible with sanitizing and washing hands after going out for food, for example.”
Yea! OK. I’m not in prison. I was worried. New Mexico takes the Covid-19 pandemic, mask-wearing, distancing, sanitizing and washing hands very seriously. And so does the movie industry, as they can be shut down if they do not.
But, it is nevertheless an interesting way to experience Santa Fe. No crowds, and very few cars on the streets. In fact, occupancy at the hotel I’m at is quite low as well. It’s odd to see this vibrant, crowded, busy city like this, but with the recent rise statewide in Covid-19 cases and deaths, it is reasonable to do the best we all can to control the infection rate. The production company has tested me three times so far, and given me a bag of essentials: medical-grade masks, KN-95 masks, a face shield, a plastic hospital-type gown to wear over my clothes while in close contact on set (off camera), 2.8 oz of hand sanitizer, a digital thermometer, and packets of isopropyl alcohol to clean the face shield. Thermometer has me at 96.2F, so, so far so good.
I’m now calling this day two* of my Santa Fe movie set adventure, and I’m going to write every day. I cannot say anything about the movie itself, or about the set, or post photos of scenes, people or sets, but I can get some photos of Santa Fe. *(Counting yesterday when I checked in, but did not write)
So, after a bit of a stroll around Santa Fe, I have some photos to post (below). After my stroll, I stopped at the General Store for a Frito Pie. I couldn’t resist. I’d show you a photo, but I was too hungry to stop and take one. And Frito Pies are so good!
A soon as I scarfed that down, I headed next door for an ice cream cone.
The Chesapeake* Bay 200 miles long is a meteor crater few people know that. Home to blue crabs bass, eel, oyster, horseshoe crab ospreys, great blue herons, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons.
Known for its bounty, but now – fewer crabs, oysters and watermen. Nutrient pollution and urban runoff ruined water quality in the bay. shellfish were “overharvested” doublespeak for overexploited.
My dad took us crabbing brother John and uncle George. Chicken wings attached to hemp string wrapped around my wrist dropped into the Bay.
Blue Crabs are scavengers they eat anything snails, bivalves, other crustaceans, fish, worms, and sometimes human bodies.
I could feel them tug from deep below out of sight.
Slowly, slowly, slowly I pulled that long string up too far and they were gone sunlight scared ‘em off.
A net on a long pole in my other hand as I pulled one up ever so slowly and just, just, just as they came into view I’d slide that net under it sneaky like – they spook easy – and I kept pulling until, right ——- there I had it in the net too late for escape.
But it had life left so dump it in ice quickly flesh-tearing claws are powerfully strong.
That went on all day until we had two bushels of feisty fighting crabs safely stowed on our skiff.
Later, we’d dump the lethargic cold crabs right out on the floor looking for dead ones – you don’t eat dead crabs they might have been sick.
You don’t have much time they revive quickly looking for a fight and they move quickly on linoleum-covered floors fun to watch but dangerous to fingers.
Then we put them into blue and white-speckled enamel pots – quart of vinegar in the bottom – covered them with cups of Old Bay spice The crabs were steaming mad but steamed to red death.
After that, they were dumped onto tables covered in newsprint for a family feast accompanied by beer and they were delicious.
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*The word Chesepiooc is an Algonquian word referring to a village ‘at a big river’. The Chesapeake people, or the Chesepian, were a Native American tribe who inhabited the area now known as South Hampton Roads in Virginia. The Chesepian were wiped out by the Powhatan Confederacy, some time before the arrival of the English at Jamestown in 1607. The Chesepian were eliminated because Powhatan’s priests had warned that “from the Chesapeake Bay a nation should arise, which should dissolve and give end to his empire.”
The chief of all the Powhatan tribes, Wahunsonacock, later known as Powhatan, was so powerful that the English referred to him as a king. You may have heard of his daughter, Pocahontas, who became a bargaining chip. The Powhatan tribes had originally been generous, but they did not have enough of the food that the ever increasing population of English settlers demanded. The English sometimes burned villages in order to force more food from Powhatan, which started the First Powhatan War. The English used Powhatan prisoners to force concessions from Powhatan, but Pocahontas, just as she had saved John Smith a year earlier, was able to arrange the release of the Powhatans. Later, she herself was taken prisoner by the English, and held hostage in order to force Powhatan to give them more food, unsuccessfully. She remained a prisoner until she married English tobacco planter John Rolfe and peace returned, for a time.
I woke up early this morning, shortly after 5 am. It’s a quiet time for me, before the world insists that I pay attention to it. For some reason, I found myself back in 1960.
Roland Tower
My parents had just moved us from Evans Chapel Road, slightly north of the Roland Water Tower, which my brother and I had passed every day on our way to and from the St. Thomas Aquinas School. I had attended that school from the first through fourth grades. Before that we had lived in Armistead Gardens in the northeast part of Baltimore, and before that, it gets hazy. I think we lived with my grandparents for a bit, but my birth certificate lists an address on Gay Street, near the 1782 “historic” Lexington Market in downtown Baltimore. My mom says she shopped there.
At St. Thomas, I had received my “First Holy Communion” sacrament, but I was entering a new phase of my life at this point. Now my church would be St. Anthony of Padua. I was enrolled in the altar boys, which meant serving mass early before school started. I liked the quiet of the sidewalks then, with very little street noise. I never saw any of my classmates going to school, because it was too early. The distance was a bit less than a mile, so it gave me plenty of time to be alone. I had two brothers and two sisters at the time, which would grow to three of each before long. As the oldest child, I was responsible for them and was told I was supposed to be a role model for them, which mostly kept me in line. I take responsibility seriously, but it was noisy and very hectic at home.
I attended St. Anthony of Padua school for four years, during which time I received my third sacrament, Confirmation. There was a test; I had to study to be eligible. It is a ritual rite of passage, dating to the earliest days of Christainity. During Confirmation, you accept the Holy Ghost into your life, and the priest says “Peace be with you,” as you get slapped on the cheek, a reminder to be brave in spreading and defending the faith. The slap was discontinued in 1971.
You might say I was heavily indoctrinated into the faith. In addition to my duties as an altar boy, like running the collection basket around, it included May Day processions, and other ceremonies, in which I got to light and carry the incense, a smell firmly rooted in my brain to this day. But my main job was serving mass, as I said, very early in the morning, in the downstairs church. There were two altars, one in the spacious upper church with the stained-glass windows and the inverted fishing boat shape. The lower altar was tucked away in the dark, low-ceilinged basement of the church, which is where I “served” on those early weekday mornings. My religious indoctrination didn’t end there, for I was also in the Church’s Boy Scout Troop, #178. As a Scout, moral purity was a key ingredient in being brave and trustworthy, so it didn’t take me long to get
my Ad Altare Dei award, a medal, instead of a merit badge. Those early morning masses, though — what a trip! There was a regular group that attended, a much smaller crowd than on Sundays. It seemed to consist of mostly old women, heads covered with a linen doily or some such, a practice dating to the third century, at which time it was no longer necessary for Christian women to be veiled to pray publically. Women, but not men, had to cover their heads, it was said, because of the presence of angels in holy places. So, the simple doily was an improvement over having to cover their entire heads. Clement of Alexandria (c. 150 – c. 215) wrote about veiling, “It has also been commanded that the head should be veiled and the face covered, for it is a wicked thing for beauty to be a snare to men.” Until at least the 18th century, the wearing of a head covering, both in the public and while attending church, was regarded as customary for Christian women in Mediterranean, European, Middle Eastern, and African cultures. A woman who did not wear a head covering was interpreted to be “a prostitute or adulteress.” In Europe, law stipulated that a married woman who uncovered her hair in public gave evidence of her infidelity.
But I digress. I guess the reason why this altar boy stuff came to mind is due to an incident that occurred one morning as I knelt with another boy, flanking the priest during the sacramental rite of the consecration of bread and wine. The change of the substance of bread into the substance of the body of Christ and of the substance of wine into the substance of his blood is called transubstantiation. It was not a word I ever heard at that age. My job at this point was to ring the Sanctus bells. One reason for the use of the bells, it is said, is to create a joyful noise to the Lord to give thanks for the miracle taking place atop the altar. Another function of the bells is to focus the attention of those attending the Mass that a supernatural event is taking place on the altar. And, boy howdy, did I ever screw that up one time! (The first time I’d screwed up had been when the priest in charge of us altar boys caught me clowning around while we dutifully waited in line for him to arrive to practice a May Day precessional. In a firestorm of indignation, he had fired me and ordered me to leave the school auditorium. I hid the fact from my parents for a long time, but eventually they found out, and I was allowed to return).
In our church, low Mass was held on week days. A high Mass means a full ceremonial Mass, with music, choir, incense, and a deacon and subdeacon to serve the priest. Low Mass is a smaller affair that usually doesn’t have any music or incense. At low Mass (which, at the time, I stupidly confused with the fact that it was held in the basement), the bells were rung six times by the altar boys. ONE. The priest would genuflect (kneel briefly before the host). RING THAT BELL. This signaled that the host was to be consecrated, and all in the church should kneel briefly as one. TWO. The priest would rise. RING THAT BELL. He called down the Holy Spirit by reciting the epiclesis, a type of prayer for this purpose. The bells also signaled the congregation to rise as one. Then, the priest would genuflect again. RING THAT BELL. This was the signal for the congregation to also genuflect again, as one. Then the entire process was repeated for the consecration of the wine.
Somehow, you’d think that the congregation would have been conditioned enough to kneel and rise on their own, but noooo! I had fallen into a daydream (not uncommon for me) and did not ring that first bell. I could hear the confusion behind me. Some knelt and others hurried erratically to their knees. The Horror! I was embarrassed — hell — I was mortified. I hated to make mistakes, and this was the priest who had fired me and allowed me back. And it was a sacred moment to all. So, a small mistake, easily corrected. I was acutely aware of the next moment when I had to ring those bells – the priest rose – and I couldn’t move my hand! The congregation was in shambles. I could hear people mumbling and jumping up randomly. I was frozen in place (perhaps a precursor to a seizure I experienced in high school?). He glanced at me, I mentally slapped myself, and I got the third ring on time as the priest knelt. Order was restored to the congregation, and to my brain. For the second consecration, of the wine, I was ready, and the ringing of the sacred bells went as they were supposed to. ONE. TWO. THREE. I was glad of that, but apprehensive. I was scared, really. One does not screw up like that in church, especially at the holy altar.
However, I never heard a word about it, from the priest, or from anyone else. I never knew if my parents heard about it. There would have been punishment, but perhaps the priest forgave me? That’s one of his jobs, so perhaps he did. But I’ll bet the small congregation of early worshipers on weekday mornings never forgot it.
By the time I had left the grade school there to attend a public high school, I had been one of the altar boys, along with a cousin, to serve the funeral Masses for both of my grandfathers. Although I was no longer an altar boy, I continued my regular Sunday attendance, and was required to attend Monday night religious classes to further my spiritual education, and ask questions. The answers were not satisfactory to me. They defied all logic. Then, in 1967, I got to spend the entire summer break at Howard University in Washington D.C. attending special classes provided by the National Science Foundation. I studied basic electronics, chemistry, and mathematical logic (for computers), among other things. I was in my real element then. I’d been reading every book of science I could get my hands on from the time I learned to read, and there were plenty at the free libraries in Baltimore. On the first Sunday I spent in Washington D.C. my fellow students (from various high schools) were up and preparing to go to church.
I looked around me, and where I was, and the science I was immersed in, and saw my future. It was a split decision, borne of unanswered questions, bizarre Catholic minutiae, and the realization, I think, that I preferred logic to belief. I stayed in bed awhile, thinking, in that wonderful quiet, of where I was going, and not where I’d been. Over the years I gave a lot of thought to my youthful faith and service, but I never went to mass or prayed ever again. And I have never regretted it. I did not replace my beliefs with another belief system. I dedicated myself to learning and research. I do not equate science with religion. One can have both, but I do not. I prefer facts, logic, and the use of logical experimentation to confirm or dispute facts. And always, questioning everything, even facts. Asking more questions, seeking to know more, and more, and understand the processes of life from fundamental energies, to fundamental particles of matter, and to their interrelationship.
There is more to life than “the energy of a mass at rest is equal to the product of its mass and the square of the speed of light”, but it’s a start. For example, because of the momentum of a particle of mass, the equation is better written as E2 = (mc2)2 + (pc)2, or the square of the amount of energy in a mass is equal to the square of the product of a mass and the square of the speed of light squared, plus the square of the product of its momentum and the speed of light. It gets complicated from there, and you can see why scientists use symbols in place of words. Certainly, as human beings, we are driven often by emotions, and hormones, to do things which appear illogical, including having illogical beliefs in unproven things — religion and love being but two examples. But that’s also life. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I will resist any efforts to accept something as fact which cannot be shown to be a fact, as nearly as can be determined, for there is no way to advance our knowledge and culture through belief only.
I know that seems like a long ways off from altar boys and my failure to ring the conditioning bell at the right time, but perhaps that was the catalyst.
Is it just me? Am I bad for thinking that it’s karma coming for Trump? That someone who suppressed the knowledge that the virus was real and deadly, in order not to reflect badly on his Presidency (he claims it was because he didn’t want to panic people). Meanwhile, thousands died. He claims he acted quickly, meaning he stopped travel from China to the U.S., but it was already far too late. And even then, he praised himself for taking action. But there weren’t enough ventilators, or medicines – things he could have been working on quietly (which wouldn’t have panicked people). So much he could have done as leader. But he didn’t act quickly. But he claims he did, and claims that millions would have died under Clinton or Biden. He’s the one who claimed it was a liberal hoax, that it would soon be gone, and it was just the flu. I’m sorry, but I have no sympathy for him. If he gets deathly sick or dies, I feel like it’s “what goes around comes around” for someone like Trump, who encouraged a whole country to not take it seriously, and not to wear masks, and not to worry at all. And took credit for getting it all under control, and said that the country was open for business as usual, and states with Democratic governors who put restrictions on were worse off, even as Republican-led Florida had a resurgence of cases. And, didn’t he say (referring to the deaths) that “It is what it is”? It is what it is, indeed.
It’s an election year, and as such, there is mud being slung in our faces again. So, while I abhor that fake slug fest, which is intended to, and does distact us all from any real invesitgation into issues, how a candidate perceives them, how they have acted in the past, and how they will act on issues in the future, or react to a crisis, I have to jump on that bandwagon anyway.
From listening to Donald J. Trump, and President Trump, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is nothing but a “con” man, a confidence man: a person who tricks other people in order to get their money. President Trump turned down the Presidential salary, but he has played 279 games of golf while in office, at a cost to us, the taxpayers, of $141,000,000. That’s one hundred and forty-one MILLION dollars. President Trump’s visits to his own resort Mar-a-Lago have cost us taxpayers at least $60,000,000 – sixty MILLION dollars. That is a confidence game.
As a young adult, Donald J. Trump brags that he only borrowed $1,000,000 (one Million dollars) from his father, calling his loan “a very small amount of money”. Really? And what might many of us have done with that kind of money to invest and gamble with, all the while living a rich, worry-free life? Donald J. Trump is the beneficiary of several trust funds set up by his father and paternal grandmother beginning in 1949 when he was three years old. He was a millionaire by age 8. In 1993, when Trump took two loans totaling $30 million from his siblings, their anticipated shares of Fred’s estate amounted to $3.5 million each. How does Trump get away with things like that? He’s a con man, pure and simple, always has been.
Upon Fred Trump’s death in 1999, his will divided $20 million after taxes among his surviving children. So far, Trump hasn’t done an honest day’s work, but he’s rich. He claims he only borowed one million dollars from his dad, but in 1999 he received at least $425 MILLION (in current year monetary value) from his father’s estate. He dances around the truth.
A lot of money came to Trump over the years, but, in 1982 Trump lied about his wealth in order to appear on the Forbes list of wealthy individuals. Claiming to be worth $100 MILLION dollars, his wealth at the time was $5 million, not enough to be considered one of the wealthiest men alive. Trump is a con man. In 2005, people with direct knowledge of Trump’s finances told reporter Timothy L. O’Brian that Trump’s actual net worth was between $150 and $250 million, but Trump then publicly claimed a net worth of $5 to $6 billion. He sued the reporter and his publishers, lost, and then lost again on appeal, because he refused to release his tax returns, despite every candidate for President for the last 40 years having done so, and depsite his claim that his tax returns supported his case. He’s a con man.
From Trump’s television show “The Apprentice,” beginning in 2004 through 2018 as well as subsequent related licensing and endorsements, Trump received $427.4 million. He paid $70.1 million dollars in federal taxes in 2005, 2006, and 2007. He paid no taxes in 2008. When he filed taxes in 2009, he declared over $700 MILLION in business losses and, on that basis, he asked for, AND GOT, a refund of his federal income taxes paid in 2005–2007, $70.1 MILLION dollars, plus over $2.7 MILLION in interest. He’s a loser, AND a con man.
Trump formed his own charitable foundation in 1988. In the first decade of the 2000s, he gave away $2.8 million through the foundation (though he had pledged three times that amount). He stopped personally contributing to the foundation in 2008, though he accepted donations from others. In 2018, the foundation agreed to shut down. It was facing a civil lawsuit by the New York attorney general that alleged “persistently illegal conduct” including self-dealing and funneling campaign contributions. Furthermore, it had never been properly certified in New York and did not submit to the required annual audit. Do we trust Trump yet?
Trump University (also known as the Trump Wealth Institute and Trump Entrepreneur Initiative LLC) ran a real estate training program from 2005 until 2010. It was owned and operated by The Trump Organization.
The organization was not an accredited university or college. It conducted three- and five-day seminars (often labeled “retreats”) and used high-pressure tactics to sell these to its customers. It did not confer college credit, grant degrees, or grade its students. In 2011, the company became the subject of an inquiry by the New York Attorney General’s office for illegal business practices which resulted in a lawsuit filed in August 2013. An article in the National Review described the organization as a “massive scam”. It ceased operations in 2011. Trump is a proven con artist.
Trump University was also the subject of two class actions in federal court, centering around allegations that Trump University defrauded its students. Despite repeatedly insisting he would not settle, Trump settled all three lawsuits in November 2016 for a total of $25 million after being elected President.
Trump claims to be a genius, a self-made man. Con men always lie.
Why on Earth did we elect such a person?
Once elected, he took immediate credit for a rise in the stock market. Since then the stock market has also hit record lows. Of course, Trump says nothing about that, but he credits any rise in the market to investor confidence in him and his policies. Trump took office in 2017 but has taken credit for an economy that was already on the mend since 2010. He took credit for new jobs, but they were jobs that had been lost during the 2007-2009 economic crash, and unemployment was already down from those turbulent times before Trump took office. The pandemic, however, has changed things.
Trump said he would “build a wall” between the United States of America and the Estados Unidos Mexicanos (United Mexican States), aka the United States of Mexico.
There was already a wall in place before he took office. All of the border land itself was already walled with things such as chain link, bollard fence (steel slats or posts), or vehicle fencing that’s shaped like a roadblock. Of the 700 miles of land barrier, only 275 miles of the pre-existing barriers have been upgraded, and only 5 miles of new wall have been added. Mexico did not, as Trump promised over and over again, “pay for the wall”. We, the taxpayers paid for the upgrades. The prototype that Trump posed in front of was never used – it was demolished. Instead, the sections that were rebuilt used simply a taller version of the bollard fencing (steel slats and posts), some of which have already been knocked over by high winds, and can be breeched by conventional power tools. Trump is a con man.
Early in the morning, before the sun has peeked over the craggy hills of the Sandia Mountains that border Albuquerque, is a great time to be in those mountains.
As the sun started to creep over the edges of those peaks and promontories, a cool wind picked up. Later on, it would be 92°F in the city, but right then it was perfect.
Our goal was the scene of the crash of 1955 TWA flight 260, which utilized a cutting-edge Martin 404, with the capacity to hold forty passengers. The company was headquartered in Baltimore, Maryland, where I was born four years & four months earlier. I never dreamed that I would live in Albuquerque, or climb these Sandias. I visited Albuquerque a few months before and then moved here permanently a few months after my 26th birthday. But it took me many years, practically to my retirement from the University of New Mexico, before I began hiking in the mountains. My passion back then was riding a bicycle, and it was what had brought me from Baltimore to Albuquerque.
But, enough about me. On February 19, 1955, thirteen passengers and three crew members boarded the TWA Skyliner Binghamton for a short 26-minute flight to Santa Fe, taking off on time, at 7:03 am, before it would head eventually for Baltimore after a series of other stops. But a winter storm blanketed the Sandia Mountains, which top off at at 13,678 feet. And, the two gyroscopic fluxgate compasses on the Martin 404 did not register its correct path. The exact details are not known, but the plane failed to clear a pinnacle called the Dragon’s Tooth by 300 feet, smashing full-speed into solid rock at 7:13 am. No one survived.
It is always with the utmost respect, and a feeling of sadness, that people climb to the the area below the impact, where the ground is still littered with the wreakage of TWA’s Flight 260. At the time, there wasn’t any equipment that could remove the wreakage from an area only accessible by hikers. As of 1966, the National Historic Preservation Act provides protection for any historic site that is fifty or more years old. It is illegal to remove any of the wreakage now.
But, about every five years I make the trek, always amazed at the total devastation of that plane, and the loss of those people. There is a memorial plaque fastened to a piece of the fuselage. There are engine parts, tires, and pieces of shredded airplane scattered over a large area of the very steep TWA Canyon. We had to first hike up steep sections of Domingo Baca Canyon to even get there. It is only a few miles to the crash site, but it took five hours to reach it and return. It was a lot hotter by then.
So, here are the photos I took today, and some from earlier hikes to the crash site.
09/26/2020:
12/05/2009:
02/19/2015:
Some of the information I’ve used here came from a February 2015 article heavily researched and written by Adam R. Baca in Albuquerque the Magazine.
It has turned out to be such a good evening. I woke early, made coffee, and drank it as I played solitare and read messages. I had already fed the two cats, and they were reclined on the bed behind me. I was not yet hungry, and decided to nap with them for a bit. After a short while I was up again, surprised that it was still early. I pondered what the day might bring, for I had no great plans: no hike, no ride, no work, no meeting. My kitchen was stocked for the moment, and there was nothing I must clean or clothes to wash. A huge van rumbled into this compound I live in. It seemed out of place with the usual assortment of UPS, Fed-X, postal trucks, or the assorted vehicles of tradesmen. At any rate, the van had turned too soon, near my house, and was backing up and attempting a sharp turn. Nothing happened, but he did overrun the curb a bit. I was worried about the pop-up sprinkler head there, which had recently popped off under the variable water pressure we experience. It had created a geyser thirty feet high and sprayed a large area. I had alerted the proper person, and it had eventually been repaired, but left a large pool of wasted water, which, in a dry climate under a drought, is upsetting.
Be that as it may be, it worried me that it might happen again, and I went out to check. I actually could not find the wayward sprinkler head, as it is flush with the ground when not in use and the grass was thick there, and I discovered, also softer and wetter than the rest of the grass in that area. I will have to notify someone to check it out. However, I noticed that the truck had stopped just slightly past my house, and the driver and a new resident were wrangling some large boxes off of the van. It was not a moving van. It was some kind of delivery service I had never heard of, and I had the impression the boxes were equipment or appliances of some kind – tall, very thick cardboard boxes. Since the virus created a need for space and I did not know the man, I did not go over to satisfy my curiosity.
It was a small diversion from an ordinary day, but on retreating to my house, I decided it was time for breakfast. I sautéd half of an onion, covered it with two beaten eggs and a whole green chili splayed open and covered in cheese. It makes a very satisfying omelet. Hours passed in which I did very little. I finished reading my recent issue of Funny Times, having already read all the cartoons, but not the humor articles. Usually I only have one cup of coffee in the morning, an Americano: two shots of espresso with enough water to fill my coffee cup, but I made another. I was spinning my wheels, aimless, and a bit agitated. Three weeks ago, my motorcycle of nineteen years had been stolen while I slept. It still bothers me. I was able to recover a small bit of money from insurance, and had to take out a small loan to cover the rest, but I replaced the old 1997 motorcycle with a newer one, a 2014. I worry that it will also be stolen, as I have no garage, and nothing to lock it to. The front forks are locked at an angle, so moving the bike will not be easy, and I have put an old U-lock through the rear spokes as well, and put a cover over the bike.
But I feel good, better than I have in weeks, or, really, months. This pandemic, this isolation, the masks hiding our smiles or frowns, the racial tension following even more brutal murders of unarmed citizens by those we hire to protect ourselves — it has taken me further along a downward spiral than I wanted to go. The coming election has the country further divided than ever, with the likelihood of a bitterly contested and ambiguous result, after another month and a half of insults, recriminations, slander, misinformation, and lies.
As writers are known to observe, I digress. As day rolled into late afternoon, I ate a very light meal. I decided I was going to read. My house is choked with piles of books that always accumulate faster than I can read them. I picked another book titled: The Mystery of Dead Lovers, 1951, by an author I’d read before, Maurice Collis. It turned out to be an excellent choice. A traveler comes to a village where he is welcomed with open arms, for it is just past a bountiful harvest time, and all is well. After they have all eaten, there is a play to be presented, and the traveler is entranced into another time and place, which is the story I am reading. The title of the book makes me a little apprehensive, because it is a story of two distanced lovers finding each other, and also great happiness in each other. It is a very enjoyable drama, but with a sword of Damocles hanging over it, so as much as I want to finish it, I also don’t want to, which is why I am taking a long break now.
Tonight I found an old partial bottle of Blue Corn Bourbon in the back of a cupboard, and poured myself a glass to pair with a spicy pork sandwich while I read. The book has taken me to another place, another time, and makes me care about two fictional characters who are like me in some ways, and yet not in other ways. It is a tale, an old and timeless story of two lovers attempting to unite, and finally doing so, but all is not well. Still, I am in a very good mood. I’ve had some wine of late that did not improve my mood, so I am not simply influenced by the alcohol in my whiskey tonight. I am less depressed, able to enjoy the telling of the story, wtih less restlessness. And although I am not certain that I will like the ending, I will not dislike it. It is what it is, I’ve heard it said. Perhaps it is. For tonight, I feel fine, and I can look forward to tomorrow.
In a corner of the Manzanita Mountains, a spiderweb of trails and former logging roads winds across meadows and over ridges. Although the trails are accessible from a residential area, and border a U.S. Air Force Base and former bombing range, the views give the illusion of wilderness. My eight-mile hike today. The Manzanitas are sandwiched between the Sandias and the Manzanos in central New Mexico, part of the Cibola National Forest.
Recently, I watched an old Twilight Zone episode. It is called, Of Late I Think of Cliffordville. It originally aired April 11, 1963. The script was written by Rod Serling, based on the story “Blind Alley” by Malcolm Jameson.
In it, a robber baron of the time (1963) is reprimanded by two characters: Deidrich (played by John Anderson) “I have found you to be, from the moment you came into my office, a predatory, grasping, conniving, acquisitive animal of a man. Without heart, without conscience, without compassion, and without even a subtle hint of the common decencies,” and Miss Devlin (as the devil, played by Julie Newmar): “ Because you are a wheeler and a dealer. A financier and a pusher. A brain, a manipulator, a raider. Because you are a taker instead of a builder. A conniver instead of a designer. An exploiter instead of an inventor. A user instead of a bringer.”
What they were referring to was a character that epitomized the financial geniuses of their day. Those who created no products, invented nothing, designed nothing and never worked a day in their lives, but manipulated, traded, invested, and swindled their way to wealth. They were despised, envied and emulated. Such is Donald J. Trump, and he is known for it. I’m appalled that such a man could become President, and that any reasonable person would even consider keeping him around.
He is nothing else but a robber baron, a predatory, conniving, acquisitive animal of a man. That is his philosophy. Get what you can. Gamble large sums of money that he never earned by hard work. Declare bankruptcy over and over. Stiff contractors. Blow off workers. It’s the “art” of the deal that he believes in – how to win, regardless of how it’s done. He lies, he cheats, he tweets. And he will bombard us all with bogus slams against Biden and all Democrats. “It’s a conspiracy, man.”
Trump is not a leader at all.
He follows radio show hosts and bloggers who make shit up — fake stories – fake news — and they do so to attract listeners and watchers in order to sell products. Trump has repeated, word-for-word, the made-up claims that come from The Gateway Pundit, and also radio host Bill Mitchell. Do you know why Trump claims most news sources are “fake news”? Because he is deflecting you away from any semblance of investigative, vetted news stories, so he can push conspiracy theories as truth, without being called to task for it by journalists whose job is to do so. All he has to do is say something, and claim that it is not being reported by the “fake news.” He can make up numbers, or borrow them from conspiracy pages, and claim everything else is “fake news”. He’s a manipulator, a pretentious con man.
That’s my opinion, and I thought it to be relevant in light of the approaching elections, regardless of political affiliations.
Reports show an interesting trend this election year: Republicans, even those previously loyal to the Party, and Conservatives who feel the Republican Party used to incorporate those values, are bailing out just months before the November election. Some will vote for Biden. Some say they will vote for Biden while holding down their bile, while others (like John Bolton) say they will vote for neither, but write in someone else’s name. Many of them are saying the Republican Party has just become the party of Trump and not conservatism, or that the Party itself has been highjacked by people with no regard for the truth, or morals, or the U.S. Constitution. I’m happy to see Republicans with backbone speak up.
I think what we may be seeing is the breakdown of the Republican Party, at least as a major party. Less powerful. Less influential. We shouldn’t have only one set of partisan politicians in charge anytime.
It isn’t the time to form a new Republican party from scratch, but a hybrid party made up of Republicans, Democrats, and Independents may be close at hand. A party committed to working for the good of the country, and not just a few people, but all of the people, as best we can. A party made up of actual conservatives and ordinary people with liberal values. I suspect that what used to be known as conservative or liberal values have more in common, for honest, patriotic citizens that we’ve been led to believe. #NewParty
We need to move this country forward, based on those values, and work together. I believe we need, at first, at least one party made up of such people, who are committed to working together even though they don’t agree on everything. #NewParty
There seem to be too many Republicans and Democrats who believe only their party shall lead or has any answers. That’s never been true, and won’t ever be true. The people who put their lives on the line to convene, and to write the founding documents knew that. That’s why there are three branches of government and separation of powers. That’s why there’s a Constitution, and why there is a Bill of Rights. I don’t believe anyone gave us these rights. Thank God if you must. But the rights we have are those we took for ourselves, those we promise to keep, those we teach our children, and those we enforce for all. If we can’t do that, then this experiment in self-government is over. The rich live like kings now. Shall we let them make all the rules? Make rules that benefit them more than the rest of us? There’s nothing wrong with being rich. We’d all like that. But, I think we’d mostly want that because of the power we’d have. But, really, according to the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, we have that power. We should use it, and share it. #NewParty
Drove out through the Jemez Mountains Thursday (July 30, 2020). There are beautiful vistas and red hills and streams and deep woods and hot springs up there. Didn’t make it to any of the hot springs this time, nor stop at any of the funky bars in the village of Jemez Springs, but it was an extremely pleasant day, with lots of sunshine and a steady, cool breeze. It was calming, both physically and mentally. It’s a wonderful part of New Mexico that I have visited and camped at over the last forty-four years. I have really fine memories of the hiking, camping, and fun women I used to hang out with. Memories aside, the volcanic Jemez Mountains are my most favorite place to go in all of New Mexico.
Perhaps I need to let my madness free.
I worry about madness
People thought me dumb when I was young
So I kept quiet though I burned.
I think terrible thoughts sometimes
So I keep them to myself
Even though the hot pressure builds
Is it better to live crazy than not really live?
Madness restrained is not madness contained.
It leaks out here and there
Stray comments, a wild movement
Depression agitation combustion.
Yes combustion
For, madness restrained doesn’t only leak
It can explode
Violence rape grand theft murder.
How to portion out my madness?
Let enough out to be happy
Not enough to harm or hurt or die
Just enough to feel relief.
A hot-air balloon can fly even holed
Hundreds of tiny holes in the envelope
From a bad landing in a field of cacti
Yet it still fills rises floats and soars.
For a time.
As long as the propane lasts it rises
As long as wind blows it moves
As long as air is colder outside than in
It can soar through blue sky.
Would that my madness were a balloon
Free to fly
Not too far
Not too high.
Just photos to post today, from a hike 7/7/20, 7 days ago. After that, I also went for a hike 7/12/20 with my stepdaughter but took no photos. However, we did have a great meal on 7/12 at Ten-3. That is Albuquerque’s mountaintop restaurant, closed due to Covid-19 shortly after it opened. It had just reopened for dining in, but Sunday 7/12 was the last day for that, for who knows how long. But we did each enjoy a great beer along with a sandwich of brisket braised for 10 hours, including red chile bbq, smoked gouda and apple slaw. We were able to take in a great view of the area east of the Sandias while polishing off our meals with spicy ginger sorbet. But, after that, the Ten-3 restaurant has begun offering only cliffside takeout, and that’s OK. I’ll hike up there again, order some great food and let my feet dangle off a cliff while I eat. It’s a wonderful pleasure. Sun, a cool breeze, a hike with spectacular views, and good company. What more could I possibly ask for? Sometimes you don’t need photos. But here are the ones from 7/7 –>
(Unfortunately, the shots of distant landscapes are partially obscured by the smoke still drifting over New Mexico from local fires and from the fires in Arizona.)
Last night, I was watching a fascinating German movie (Never Look Away, 2018), based loosely on the life of visual artist Gerhard Rickter, who experienced growing up under the Nazis. I was just past 45 minutes into it (a small part of it, considering that it is 3 hours, 9 minutes long), when what struck me suddenly was that the movie had just advanced to 1951, as the artist Kurt Barnert is on his way to work, walking past still ruined buildings, through streets still lined with rubble from the saturation bombing of Dresden. Between February 13–15 of 1945, with the war nearly over, the British and U.S. forces dropped some 2,700 tons of explosives and incendiaries and decimated Dresden. Before WWII, Dresden was called “the Florence of the Elbe” and was regarded as one of the world’s most beautiful cities for its architecture and museums. It had no strategic importance. The purpose of the raids was to terrorize Germany into surrendering, and to fulfill a promise to Joseph Stalin to prepare Germany for invasion by Soviet troops. 2,800 more tons of bombs were dropped on Dresden in three other attacks before Germany’s surrender on May 7, 1945. Author Kurt Vonnegut was a prisoner of war in Dresden at the time of the bombing, which he describes in Slaughterhouse-Five.78,000 dwellings were completely destroyed; 27,700 were uninhabitable, and 64,500 damaged but repairable.
Six years after Germany’s surrender, in 1951, I was one year old, having been born in the busy seaport and immigrant town of Baltimore, Maryland. My parents lived near the famous Lexington Market then, where you could find all kinds of fresh seafood, meats and international foods. Baltimore was not all that different from Dresden in Old World charm, but we had fresh food, not food lines. The streets were clean and open, some with trolley tracks and cobblestones. A few farmers still hawked their wares from horse-drawn wagons. There were plenty of cars, but no freeways bypassing the city. There was poverty then, but the row houses – like my paternal grandparents’, next to a bar – had their marble front stairs. There were green parks, and jobs at Bethlehem Steel and the McCormick Spice Company. The inner city was old and beginning to decay, but there was no rubble then. The harbor was full of cargo ships and housed a submarine, the USS Torsk from WWII, and the 1854 USS Constellation, a sloop-of-war, the last sail-only warship designed and built by the United States Navy.
I did not know about Dresden, or Hiroshima, or Nagasaki, or the other places so devastated by weapons of mass destruction until I was much older. I did not know how lucky I was to have been born there and then. I have been back to Baltimore a few times, and much of the old inner city near where I was born is now ruined and decaying, with burnt-out buildings and people from a racist culture war, loss of manufacturing jobs, and urban flight. I found a few photos online of the ruined sections of Baltimore’s inner city. There are 46,800 vacant properties in Baltimore.
Watching this movie is indeed thought-provoking. I had to pause to write this because, over two hours later, I might have forgotten these feelings, even if I remembered the thoughts.
So, I finished the movie. It was an amazing thing to experience. The blurb on the DVD pocket missed everything. It was about life, and connections, and pain, and happiness, and guilt, and also how art is influenced by those things and influences those things. Yeah, there are some Nazis early on, but they are not the focus, nor really important, nor is socialist realism, which wasn’t ever a realistic way of life or art.
There is an underlying intellectual curiosity throughout this movie, probing for answers, for what is true. Art is a symbol. Symbols can be art, but there’s more to life and how we perceive it and live it than that. I know this thing is over three hours long, but I’m saying, really saying, it’s worth it. Well, it was for me anyway. Really well done: story, direction, acting, cinematography, everything. It really engages heart and mind. Tom Schilling and Paula Beer are wonderful as the hard-working couple Kurt Barnert and Ellie Seebard struggling through life. Their joy in life, despite their setbacks and struggles, is palpable. That’s life for so many, and Schilling and Beer pull it off, plunging into painful memories, dealing with so much crap, from war to life in East Germany, to the Seeband patriarch, who is a seething caldron of the very mental diseases he condemned people to death for.
Sebastian Koch plays that Seeband patriarch, a man able to excel under Nazi rule and transition seamlessly into the perfect socialist under a rigid, joyless soviet-style totalitarianism. You expect him to be caught, punished, and destroyed, but he survives, on the surface. Underneath his professional veneer and perfect obedience is a haunted man, and Koch is brilliant in this role.
On Thursday I hiked up the Piedra Lisa Trail. It’s a very steep 4.4-mile trail to a ridge that overlooks the east side of the Sandia Mountains. From there one can continue north 3.8 miles to the North Piedra Lisa trailhead or intersect with several other trails, like Rincon Spur Trail, and Del Agua Trail, and eventually make your way to Placitas, NM. There, you’d best have left a car or meet a friend, because the hike up those trails and back up the ridge to the west side of the mountain is going to be long and tough. The photos are somewhat obscured by smoke drifting in from the Arizona wildfires.
Yesterday, July 3rd, President Trump had a big tadoo with military jet flyovers and fireworks and a campaign rally speech about how great the United States is and how he will lead the fight to preserve our freedoms from fascist liberals and their minions if he is reelected. He accused all those demonstrating in the streets of being either far-left fascists or those who were subject to “extreme indoctrination” by years of “liberal” education into working, unknowingly, to destroy the United States and all it stands for. “This left-wing cultural revolution is designed to overthrow the American Revolution,” he said, and, “Many of these people have no idea why they are doing this, but some know exactly what they are doing.”
He promised to build a new sculpture garden he will fill with statues of all the heroes of America ( by which, of course, he only means North America, not including Canada).
“Our children are taught in school to hate their own country and to believe that the men and women who built it were not heroes, but that were villains,” Trump said.
There are fireworks in four selected locations in the city I live in tonight, so they are visible to all. That hasn’t stopped people in my neighborhood from shooting off their own loud rockets and other illegal fireworks, so the noise is constant as I write.
But, in addition to the legal fireworks that were shot off last night three states away to the northeast of New Mexico, there were some other fireworks there:
In South Dakota in the Black Hills, there were smoke bombs. Oglala Sioux, who were living there before any Europeans showed up, were pepper-sprayed and arrested for protesting the illegal takeover of their land in the Black Hills for the monument.
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Why is the location controversial? A 1980 Supreme Court decision found the U.S. invasion of the Black Hills to be unconstitutional. The land was taken illegally.
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Activists have long taken issue with the Mount Rushmore monument, which was built on land sacred to the Sioux tribe. Two of the former presidents depicted – George Washington and Thomas Jefferson – were slave-owners. The decision to hold an event there is controversial at a time when statues of Confederate generals and slave-owners are being re-evaluated, and in many cases pulled down, amid anti-racism protests.
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Ahead of the event, a group of mostly Native American protesters from the Black Hills blocked a main road to the monument with white vans, leading to a tense stand-off with police.
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They were eventually cleared from the road by police officers and National Guard soldiers, who used smoke bombs and pepper spray, local reports say.
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Several protesters were arrested after the police declared the roadblock an “unlawful assembly”, local newspaper The Argus Leader reported.
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The American Indian protesters (Oglala Sioux Tribe) were met by Trump supporters chanting “Go back where you came from”. It’s incredibly sad to see such ignorance displayed by people who worry about history being erased. Trump said, “…we must protect and preserve our history, our heritage, and our great heroes.” He also went on to boast of America’s accomplishments: “We settled the Wild West.” Is that the truth he spoke of? “We will state the truth in full without apology.”
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The west was settled by taking land from its original inhabitants. Trump didn’t speak of that history. Taking down statues that glorify the Confederacy is not erasing history, in my opinion; but ignoring the damage done to Native American culture and the attempt to erase all Native Americans from the coveted western lands – that is history that must not be erased.
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Trump spoke of the glorious things this country (the USA) has done, including, and I am not making this up: “We are the people who dreamed a spectacular dream — it was called Las Vegas in the Nevada desert….”
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That is much closer to the heart of who this cult leader is: a gambler, gifted with wealth, throwing money into hotels and real estate, looking for the quick buck, losing millions, and refusing to pay contractors and employees. That’s his vision of America (not including Canada, Mexico, or the nations of central and south America): one big casino, where men (like him) are free to play games with money they didn’t earn and destroy people’s lives without regret. And the losers in Trump’s games? They lost, so who cares, he seems to say, if they have jobs, health care, or equal rights?
—————————————————————————————————————————————— “You’re all losers,” Trump said to his military advisors. When they tried to give him some relevant information, he said, “I don’t want to hear it.” He went on to say: “You’re a bunch of dopes and babies.”
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In regard to having troops stationed in allied countries, he said, “We should make money off of everything.” Trump questioned why the United States couldn’t get some oil as payment for the troops stationed in the Persian Gulf. “Where is the fucking oil?” he bellowed.
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If you listen to Trump, if you follow his tirades and tweets, you realize nothing he does is about freedom and democracy. It’s about money, and power, and glory. Happy 4th of July everyone.
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What is the 4th of July? A victory over English monarchy and power. What did we win? A country governed of, by, and for the people, guided by a Constitution, whose First Amendment reads:
—————————————————————————————————————————————— Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. ——————————————————————————————————————————————
I went for another hike Friday, July 26. The sky started out blue, but clouded over. There was a cool breeze all day, thankfully, because the weather has been in the 90s pretty steadily every day. Still, the sky was an odd color. I wondered if there was some of that dust from the Sahara dust plume in the atmosphere already. The storm was supposed to hit the Gulf Coast area on Saturday. Well, no matter; it was a great day. After the hike, I looked back to the area where we’d hiked, and saw Virga rain in the upper atmosphere. Virga is rain that evaporates, above the ground. In the southwestern USA, storms are easily visible a hundred miles away. One can see the rain falling from the clouds, but it often doesn’t extend all the way to the horizon. Hence, drought, even though there’s rain.
The trail we began hiking on is called Mahogany Loop (Forest Trail #05602), but we intersected with the Ponderosa Trail Loop, which meanders through a dense Ponderosa pine forest in the Cibola National Forest that hasn’t been logged in perhaps fifty years. I took a few photos of those, including a Ponderosa broken by high winds, and some bark beetle damage that killed many thousands of old-growth trees throughout New Mexico. There were also some Alligator Junipers, and I photographed the lower portion to show it’s texture and immense thickness. Very old tree. There are other tree species too, and tons of wildflowers. We met a couple with their dog. They said they had seen him twice in the area, and were unable to find his owner, before deciding to adopt him.
Adopted
Alligator Juniper
Another Alligator
Looking west at the Sandias
Ponderosa V
Bark Beetle damage
Bark Beetle holes
Timmmmberrrrrr!
Death on the trail
Life
Paintbrush
I have no idea why
and more paintbrush
Interestingly, this is the first time I’d been back to that area in an entire year. It is directly adjacent to the area where Angelina Jolie shot the movie “Those Who Wish Me Dead,” which wrapped July 1, 2019. The film was directed by Taylor Sheridan and produced by Film Rites and BRON Studios, based on a book by Michael Koryta. Ms. Jolie is quite friendly, and chatted with the background actors surrounding her during brief cuts in one scene that was shot many, many times. She is funny too. Her makeup included tangled hair, deep bloody gashes, and soot from a fire in a previous scene. Since it is OK to respond to an actor if they speak to you, I was curious about what had been happening to her character. “You look a little worse for wear,” I said. I regretted saying that afterward; it’s not the sort of thing one says to a woman. She pulled down her torn shirt to reveal a scar at that point, saying: “And I got hit by lightning too!” Whew. I hadn’t meant to insult her, just saying what was on my mind. I was a bit embarrassed and looked down when she did that. A bit later she told me that the movie is very well done, an intelligent, tense drama, and very much worth watching. I looked for it and found that the release date is October 23, 2020. I will watch it.
So, getting back to the hike. After we returned to our vehicles, we headed back down State Road 337, but stopped at a private cemetery just off the road. It was fenced, so I didn’t enter, but I took some photos, with respect. The details of the graves were very touching and sad, especially the ones for “Victor, Son of Manny and MaryLou,” and for 20-year-old Rosa, who may have died during childbirth, as it is inscribed: “Mother of Dorothy”.
Very sad. But they were, it seems, very much loved. And lived, for a time, in beauty.
Took some photos on a hike along the crest of the Sandia Mountains. Social distancing, masks and all. Used a new trail called the Crest Spur to link up with La Luz. Hiked with a few people in a hiking meetup, organized and run by Frank Ernst, shown in the second photo. Flowers can live short lives in this desert heat, so I always photograph them. Didn’t see any wildlife that day (06/18/20), but there were quite a few people on top of the mountain, despite the Tram not being in operation, nor the new Ten-3 restaurant being open. I did see two workers inspecting the cables. If you enlarge the photo you can see them on top. Workers often ride on top of the tram car in the morning so they can do a quick visual of the cables, and also because the car is full of all the food and water the restaurant needs for the day. Twice a year they have to shut the Tramway down to do a detailed inspection and test.
The views are usually spectacular, but on this day, smoke from the fires in Arizona came in like fog, blanketing the city. In one of the photos here, you can see a thin blue line representing the brilliant blue we usually experience here. Below it is the blanket of smoke. As always, click on a thumbnail to enlarge it, use arrows to scroll.
I love my three brothers very much, and while we are not all on the same page politically, we can usually disagree, and still hang out. We are brothers and that means a lot. We shared a lot of good and bad things as children and we stick together through thick and thin.
However, recent events such as Black Lives Matter protests, and solidarity protests over George Lloyd’s death, the violence that bled out of peaceful protest, possibly by instigators — I mean, who trashes their own or their neighbors’ stores? — and the misunderstood calls for “defunding” the police following on the heels of disagreement over the need for masks and distancing are threatening to tear us apart.
There was a heated discussion that I was notified about, and I was saddened by the way the discussion was going, so I wrote a reply to all three, even though only two were involved. The third has let his views be known many times, and was referenced in the discussion.
So these were my thoughts on the subjects touched on:
I think cops tend to be part of a blue gang, and many have the idea that they ARE the law, but they are not. There is a lot of racism within police ranks, and it only comes to light once in a while, because the good cops say and do nothing about it. I don’t think bad (and illegal) cop behavior is all about racism though. I’ve seen them wielding long hardwood batons on peaceful white protestors, and tapping them on the shoulder as they walked away, squirting pepper spray directly into their eyes.
I was harassed by cops while bicycling across country, and I’ve been stopped on my motorcycle by a Sheriff who reached for his gun as soon as I reached for my license, which he had just asked for. I’ve been spread-eagled onto the hood of a patrol car for a traffic stop that (being overtired from overtime and not having eaten, and on my way to a nighttime class) I politely disputed. His insistence that I’d run a red light when I’d seen him next to me was ludicrous. I got pissed off and called him an asshole, so I was charged with assault on a police officer (a felony). Not my best move, but an over-the-top reaction from the cop.
Those are just a few examples, but the police, in general, have had the idea for some time that any hint that you’re not going to treat them like tin gods can lead to arrest or death. Even standing nearby outside my residence while I, silently and legally, observed some white teenager getting roughed up by the Baltimore cops brought a threat of arrest for me. These are realities, and it’s worse for poor people, especially blacks. I learned this in downtown Baltimore when I was younger, and from my recent trips, I’ve seen little change in the living conditions downtown since the 1970s. The “inner city” as we used to call it is actually deplorable. For the record, children who ask to wash your car windows in downtown Baltimore are polite, and not petty thieves. I do believe the pattern of racist redlining, denial of credit and racial profiling is the same there. There is deep distrust there now in people’s eyes, and it wasn’t always that way. It’s sad.
I do remember that my grandfather was a policeman, and (brother) Pat was military police. Violence against the police is not the answer. And, the “defunding” that people are calling for means shifting some police funding to other more appropriate organizations better prepared to deal with mental health issues, for example. We use armed police, trained to deal with violent criminals, for minor things, while there are huge cuts to the budgets of mental health institutions and drug treatment centers. The public is not the enemy, and any police who think it’s us versus them are no better than a gang. I applaud those cops who took a knee. I applaud the cops who work closely with their community, and put their lives on the line to help, but there needs to be an attitude adjustment if people are to trust the police again.
The adjustment starts now, because it’s past due.
I don’t know if this will help. It may not. But I felt I had to state my opinion honestly, right or wrong, or misinformed as I may be. But, I always want people to think beyond the talking points. And I want open discussion, not name-calling or attacks.
Sometimes it feels like I have a snowball’s chance in hell of remembering events from a long, long time ago, but I still remember building and running a snowball stand with my brother John. Summers in Baltimore, Maryland are as hot and humid as a rain forest. Not only does the Chesapeake Bay intrude directly into the heart of the city, but the ocean is only a hundred miles away. Hurricanes have hit Maryland often over the years, bringing heavy rains and flooding. Ocean storms bring lots of moisture all the time. So, before air conditioning, summers in Baltimore left us sweating buckets in the sweltering heat. Our parents, happy to have us all, were nevertheless always broke providing food, clothing and medical care for seven children. We survived OK. There was always food on the table, even if, occasionally, it was only potato pancakes.
None of us were over-fat or undernourished. We all walked a couple miles a day for school, and played, bicycled and climbed trees the rest of the time. But summers — summers could feel like trying to walk under water. We craved relief. Sodas were good, and although cheap, not a regular part of my parent’s shopping list. But there was plenty of water, or Kool-Aid. And occasional watermelons. But my brother and I also wanted to make some money. Watermelons grew too far away, and everybody had their own Kool-Aid. In winter we could shovel our neighborhood sidewalks, usually for small change. Most people cut their own lawns, and John and I had to cut ours, but it was miserable work in that humid heat. So we went into business.
It seems like it was three summers, but I can’t be certain. We cooked sugar down into syrup and added flavors to it. I tend to catch myself now when I start to mention a “snowball” stand because no one outside of Baltimore calls it that. People always get this kind of dumbfounded look on their faces, and I add, “snow cones”. And only old folks know about shaved ice. Even when we were growing up it was rarely done that way anymore: it took a lot more effort and time. But even when there was a rival stand somewhat near, people said they preferred our finely shaved ice over the ground stuff. It’s a lot smoother shaved. Hmm. (Ignore the other meaning.) We never made much money, since it was a word-of-mouth business. People also loved the scoop of vanilla ice cream we’d add on top for a nickel.
Man, it was boring sitting there sometimes, sweating, trying to read while we waited for customers. We had built our stand in a space between the front porch and the driveway. We had to make ourselves snowballs to cool off. Shaving that ice had its problems though. We had to get the block of ice out early so it could melt a little into the upside-down bottle caps we nailed to the bench to hold it in place while shaving. Start shaving too soon, and the block would move around. Once in awhile it would slide right off the bench onto the ground, then we had to scramble to clean it off. We threw the first shavings away. Another problem was the sun, of course, so we covered the ice with a bath towel. Unfortunately, if the ice was fresh from the freezer, the towel would stick to it, so when we pulled it off, fibers would stay stuck to the ice. Had to shave those off. I hope we never gave anyone a snowball with towel fibers in it! We’d get a little woozy out there sitting in the sun long hours.
Sometimes we’d run out of ice, which meant trying to get every last shave out of the thinning melting chunk left late in the day, without cutting into the bottle caps. It was a long walk to the store with our wagon to buy and haul home two big cubes of ice we’d cover with a towel all the way home from at least a mile away. Sometimes water would be running out of the wagon by the time we got home. Eventually we got the idea to freeze some tap water in big pots, since our parents had a deep freezer in the basement. But it was only a few inches thick, hard to get out of the pots, round or oval-shaped, cracked easily, and didn’t last long.
Day selling was slow — a kid here and there. But evenings! Evenings we were busy. Took quite a few shaves across the ice with the heavy-duty blade in our little cast metal shavers. Shave, back off, shave, back off, shave, back off, shave. But much faster than it takes to say that. We had strong arms. People sent their kids over to our house to buy several at a time, because there was nothing close, and walking a mile for a snowball was no one’s idea of fun in that heat. People drove less then. It cost money to pay off a car, maintain it, and buy gas. Stayed hot all evening. Even sweated lying perfectly still in bed at night. So we had plenty of business as long we stayed open at night.
But that brought problems too. We had rigged up a big bulb in the stand. That brought flying insects, but snowballs were worth it. So was making money. It also brought lots of people, so there was the bright light and lots of noise. We lived in one half of a duplex. We got in trouble with the other half for that. It was odd, because the other half was where my mother had grown up. Her mother died when I was two years old, and Granpop, her father, died while I was still in grade school, still an altar boy, so I got to serve that funeral mass, and for Granddad, my other grandfather as well. Both men had lung damage from either mustard gas on land, or stifling conditions aboard ship in Granddad’s case. For some reason he also spent a lot of time cleaning the sides of his ship while underway. Probably swallowed a lot of seawater. During prohibition he made beer in the bathtub.
I’m drifting from my story about snowballs, but I remember both men well. An electrician, and a cop. Good men.
So, sometime after my maternal grandmother died that house was sold. My mother had married, her brother George had joined the navy. My grandfather lived with his son Charles, a sailor in the Merchant Marine, and their kids. We were close with them until Granpop died, soon after he’d moved in with us. But, that’s another story.
So, as my parents kept bringing more kids into the world, we kept moving. My birth certificate says their address was in an old Baltimore neighborhood, on Gay Street, near the famous Lexington Market. But they moved to Florida for a bit, which is where my grandmother died when I was two. I don’t recall where we lived in Baltimore at first after that, but I was in Kindergarten the year we moved into a house, briefly, in a development in northeast Baltimore call Armistead Gardens, north of Pulaski Highway and east of Erdman Avenue. I was surprised the day we drove up because the grass was so high. John had been born a year after me, but while we lived there Pat was born. So we moved again, to Evans Chapel Road, near the Roland Water Tower. The first of my sisters, Kathy, was born there, and then Karen next. I managed to complete my first four years of grade school there, at Saint Thomas Aquinas school before we moved again, out of room.
So, that was how we ended up on Frankford Avenue, between Belair Road (U.S. Route 1) and Harford Road, next door to the house where my mother grew up. This time we stayed put for the four years it took me to finish grade school at St. Anthony of Padua school, and the five years it took me to complete four years of high school at the Baltimore Polytechnic Institute. Another story there.
Meanwhile, on Frankford Avenue, an old crabby woman lived next door with her middle-aged son. She wasn’t happy to live next door, indeed, a cinder-block wall apart from five loud rambunctious kids, and then my parents had two more, Brian (back to boys) and then Mary Elizabeth, aka Betsy.
And that is why we had to shut down the snowball stand late that first summer we ran it. Not due to the hysterectomy, but because of the crabby woman next door complaining about the noise, and the light on all evening. My parents resisted, but gave in, probably due to a noise ordinance, and hell, we were running a “business” in a residential neighborhood. But, that didn’t stop us.
Next summer was better, for us at least. We didn’t have as many customers, hidden as we were around the back of our house, since we rebuilt our stand by the back door, and we could retreat a few steps into the cellar when it got too hot. And, the deep freezer was right there, with the ice, and the ice cream, for an additional cost of 5¢ a scoop on top of your snowball — sorry, snow cone. Someone wrote about Baltimore snowballs recently, claiming that snowballs were in a cup, and really, you could bring your own cup to our stand for a slight discount, but a snow cone, he claimed, was a snowball served in a cone. A snowball, drenched in brightly colored flavorful syrup, even with ice cream on top, cone or not, is a snowball to me. Always will be.
What is Spring?
A time of rebirth
species renewal
rutting and fucking
flowers and scents
a riot of color
olfactory overload
Love
what is love
to an old man?
No renewal
no fucking
meaningless colors
meaningless smells
May-December
youthful May
deathly December
a gulf between
irreversible
relentless
widening
We race through Spring
jog through Summer
Slow in August
Pause in December
as if as if as if
as if as if as if
to forestall death
But death comes
to one and all
time is so short
between seasons
Spring, Spring, Spring
the herald of doom
extinction pending
Spring is but
a short walk
at the end of which
smiling and cheerful
casually patient
waits our friend
the Executioner
I greet you, friend
I know you’re there
can’t feel you yet
can’t smell you
can’t yet see you
I know you’re there
I extend my hand.
And further: In the Spring, a young man’s thoughts turn to fancy; an old man’s thoughts turn to stone. What is life? It is spring, summer, fall, winter, love, sex, and death.
Feel so lazy. Days dissolve into one another. Sometimes there are things to do, but mostly not. I could work on getting a home studio set up so I can submit video auditions, but I don’t. Usually, when I want to audition, I have a monologue to record, using my DSLR camera, but I’m not getting actual monologues or dialogues to record. Some outfits located in other states have requested videos, but some want use of specific equipment I do not have, or are simply planning for some unspecified future date. So, for now, I’m simply replying to leads from Actor’s Access, but not hearing anything back. All shooting in New Mexico is still postponed. So, I go out and hike sometimes, but much less than when I hiked with a group. Although I live alone, I was always comforted by seeing people on set as a background actor, in auditions for local independent projects, or hiking with friends or bowling. Not much incentive lately to go out at all, or do anything.
It’s all so odd. But I keep fighting it.
I finally had to paint my gate. I bought the paint last year, but never had the time to do it. The weather was bad when I had time. Always something. I knew it would require more than just paint, so it was hard to justify the time. But time is what I have most of. Just spending my time writing the blog now, or doing poetry and acting classes on Zoom.
So finally, on the prodding of the homeowner’s association here, I decided to just do it myself. I don’t own my house — I rent. So the landlord did pay for the paint. Can’t expect her to buy a new gate, as we’re in the middle of trying to get the roof redone after recent leaks. It’s a weird roof, flat, covered in a hard foam. Always needs work. Got done a few times before, but is in bad shape now. Homeowner’s Association used to take care of all that, and the stucco maintenance, but decided to put that back on the owners. The owner hasn’t ever had to do it, and the roofers that have given estimates are demanding an arm and a leg. So, I wasn’t going to bother her about the gate.
I went out a few days ago. Looked at it. I went back in, got some tools. Took it off the hinges, and found out it had no screws, dowels, or nails holding it together. It had been built and assembled by hand, and, of course, in New Mexican low humidity weather, the wood had long since dried out, shrunk and cracked. After I took the hardware off, I realized that the hinges had actually been all that was holding the whole thing together. Nothing was glued in, and it was literally falling apart in my hands. Almost bagged the whole thing. But I got some large clamps to hold it together and reassembled it.
There were some loose, broken pieces that I had to glue a bit, and I screwed an old piece of 1×2 across them on both sides (after chamfering the edges). Then I kept going. Already had the paint, so I painted, and painted, and painted, getting all the paint across and deep inside the cracks. I spent the whole of a hot day on this project, drinking water, juice and milk, hardly eating, but I got it done. The damn gate looks almost new. Of course, then I had little desire to do anything else. But I keep looking at the gate and admiring it, feeling like I accomplished SOMEthing. Little victories.
I post there sometimes, as I try to reserve it for feelings of ennui. But no one has visited the site lately. I didn’t want to double-post, so I’m just leaving the link here, if anyone is interested. I wrote it on 04/20/2020. Things have changed a little since then.
Not too long ago (2008-2009) there was a commercial for Sure Deodorant. The commercial played on the insecurities of a few people that people would notice sweat on their clothes, so, to avoid terrible embarrassment, we should all use deodorant, particularly the Sure Deodorant, because, of course theirs was better than any other at keeping us from sweating. As if it wasn’t bad enough that they had slowly convinced huge swaths of us that we didn’t dare leave the house without plastering our armpits with deodorant. And, of course, U.S. ingenuity had already conceived of deodorant soap, so we could lather deodorant all over our bodies as well, even in and on places that didn’t need it. And many women were convinced that they needed deodorant douches as well. Anyway the Sure commercial played their meme over and over: “Raise your hands, if you’re (Sure).” Because, of course, no one could lift their arms up if there was sweat in their armpits, or showing through their fancy clothes.
And, well, I don’t care, but this current mantra of wash your hands, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, just reminds me so much of that commercial. At least, since this SARS COV-2 virus is killed by ordinary hand soap, it is a useful thing to shout about. Or sing about, as people are being asked to put health-practice-advice lyrics into popular songs.
So, I did. Your may recognize the song this is based on.
WASH YOUR HANDS
You, you got a nasty virus thing We’re in a sticky situation, it’s down to me and you Well now that we’re together Show me what you can do You’re under the gun Under the gun And plannin’ to live Wash your hands When you want to let it go Wash your hands When you want to let a feeling show Wash your hands From New York to Chicago Wash your hands From New Jersey to Tokyo Wash your hands.
(With apologies to Bon Jovi for modifying their song: Raise Your Hands)
[Their 2020 tour is cancelled, but Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bon Jovi, Halsey and more united for a New Jersey concert to benefit the New Jersey Pandemic Relief Fund, yesterday, April 22.]
Trumbo was released in U.S. theaters in 2015. At this point in time, it’s hard to say if movie theaters will survive the economic pandemic caused by a previously unseen virus that sneaks up on us and spreads like wildfire before we even know we have it. We will survive, but will theaters? our economy? our democracy? Hard to say. But, I do want to review this movie, because I just got around to watching it tonight.
I thought this might be a boring story. Writers. A blacklist. I know how it ends. But, I had no frickin’ idea!
Before I go any further, I have to recommend this movie, if for no other reason than the fine acting of Bryan Cranston, Diane Lane, Helen Mirren, Louis C.K., Elle Fanning, John Goodman, and Michael Stuhlbarg. These are not only good actors, but passionate actors, the ones we like to watch. A great story, not the whole story, but it was a sad, and, yes, good chapter in the history of this country. That said, I have a few other things to say about the content.
Sure there were a lot of people caught up in the whole Hollywood blacklist. Good people. Not perfect, but basically, good people. For some years now we’ve heard people like them called “liberals” with utter disdain, hatred and fear. And really it should remind us of a time when people, including the media, treated people as pariahs, as lepers, undesirables and even, yes, traitors, for their political views. It wasn’t just the Hollywood Ten, but hundreds of other actors, and teachers, students, tradesmen. Thousands lost jobs, homes, families and some, their lives.
Admittedly, it was the fear of the Soviet Union, and the Cold War against it and their political system which brought about Red Scares, and Blacklists, and persecution for what people thought. None ever sought to have any foreign nation invade and run the USA. They wanted a better life for everyone. Many believed the USSR was moving further along the road of civil rights, but they were idealists, and idealists of every political stripe tend to have blinders on, distancing themselves from real people, and a real, harsh world. Nevertheless, it is in all our interests to respect people who love this country and want to see it do better. There were “liberals” who wanted an end to segregation, to racism, to child abuse, to spousal abuse, and wanted everyone lifted up, everyone to have equal access to education, to jobs, and to participate in Democracy. This movie touches a little on that, but such was the case in the 50s and 60s, because I saw it. And it happened again to people who continued to carry the torch of equal rights for all, and who, following their consciences, opposed the war in Vietnam.
Much has been said about the people who did that then, and a lot of it is untrue. We see this now in “fake” news stories, fake emails, fake messages, fake tweets, and entirely made up scandals about political opponents, for political gain and power. This movie should remind us that not all we hear, not all we read, not all we see in 24-hour “news” shows is worth more than belly lint. There are hardworking journalists working every day to bring us the news of what is happening, in this country, and the world. They tell it like it is, usually in short articles and media bites. And it is REAL news. The rest is all talking heads crap, opinions about the news. It’s fine that people have opinions and want to share them, but that is not news.
Many want to tell us what to think, instead of showing us how to think. We need to form our own opinions, not based on what other people think, but on the basic news facts, which are often buried under opinions and advertising. With a world of information, literally at our fingertips, we should research news stories, find out more, what’s behind the stories. We should never, ever, listen solely to a set of opinions that all fit into one “camp” of thought. That is what we should hate. There are sometimes two sides to issues, and often more than two sides. That’s just my opinion. But movies like this are designed to give us food for thought. We should eat of this fine freedom we have to think whatever we want. But we should also defend that freedom both in actions and carefully thought-out conversations with others, and not simply use thoughtless opinions as ammunition against anyone who might have different opinions. Our history says we can be better than that.
A fascinating look at travel among the stars, from the perspective of someone living on a world where she is looked down on, even though that world and countless others are dependent on her tribe’s scientific and mind-bending abilities. Binti is 17, and rebelling against family and tribe, alone of her people in wanting to travel, with others of Earth to the universal University Oomza. She will be among far more alien people than she has ever imagined. But she travels with the red clay of her land, and the knowledge and strong mental training of her people, something she is sure of, but does not know the full importance of, nor how to fully use it. But she is very young, and the universe can be a very harsh place to live. Fortunately, she has a form of magic with her, in the form of ancient but misunderstood technology, despite a complicated family history.
Well written, there is much that is said besides words, on several levels. A quick read, unfortunately, but one unlikely to be forgotten quickly. Fortunately, the sequel, Binti Home, continues the story, from the perspective of a much matured adventurer one year later who returns home, and home is not what it once was. Her family is, as she expected, hostile, but she seeks reconciliation. That, however, is made immensely more difficult by her transformation, a transformation due to an alien, an enemy of her people. But her own people are still engaged in intra-tribal fighting, despite a greater threat to all.
In the third volume (which I have not yet read), Binti: The Night Masquerade, the description reads that she needs all she has learned from her studies, her near-death adventure in space, her alien transformation, and her family and tribe’s hidden powers, to deal with war, war she thought had been averted, but war that could destroy her entire tribe.
If interested in this, the entire trilogy is available in a single volume, on Kindle, or in book form as Binti: The Complete Trilogy, 2019. I recommend that, because the individual volumes are short: 96 pages, 166 pages, and 202 pages. The paperback form of the Trilogy contains 368 pages. It is six inches wide by nine inches tall, whereas the others are 5″ x 8″.
Nnedi Okorafor’s books include Lagoon (a British Science Fiction Association Award finalist for Best Novel), Who Fears Death (a World Fantasy Award winner for Best Novel), Kabu Kabu (a Publisher’s Weekly Best Book for Fall 2013), Akata Witch (an Amazon.com Best Book of the Year), Zahrah the Windseeker (winner of the Wole Soyinka Prize for African Literature), and The Shadow Speaker (a CBS Parallax Award winner).
I release this viral blue funk
sometimes dark thing
in my soul.
It haunts me
from time to time.
Release this loneliness
that feeds my blues.
Not lonely all the time
sometimes it just appears
out of the blue.
Does it feed my blues?
Or
Does that blue funk
feed my loneliness?
I release this obsession
that comes upon me too
obsession
about
what I’ve said or done.
I release this obsession
that comes upon me I release
this obsession that comes
I release this obsession.
I sit too much
at the computer
watching movies
reading
or just
wasting time.
I release all that.
Often I want forgiveness
for things I’ve said or done
but
I must give forgiveness
without expectations
of return.
I receive friendship
though
sometimes
it is not easily
given away.
I receive smiles
and those
O
those
I can reciprocate
easily.
I try to understand
how other people feel
put myself in their shoes
feel their perspective
but
sometimes
I get pissed off that they
do not understand.
With all these things
I know
I must lead by example
be open-minded
without expectations.
It is springtime
despite the snow and rain
and today’s cold damp air
hovering around my soul.
Yet it is time for Spring
Spring delayed
Spring postponed
but not cancelled.
There has been a lot of talk about ways to treat a corona virus like COVID-19, and much of it is anecdotal, or speculation. No documented cure is known, but there is this, from Nutritional Pharmacology* :
(PLEASE NOTE THAT I AM NOT RECOMMENDING ANTIMALARIAL DRUGS OR QUERCETIN!!!!) This is only a preface to the information that follows on fact-proven nutritional information about zinc (also not a cure).
A South Korean researcher claims, that, in Vitro (in a test tube or culture), by increasing the zinc concentration in cellular cytoplasm, viral replication is inhibited. As intracellular levels of zinc are increased, inhibition of viral replication is vastly increased, according to the paper. The researchers used two antimalarial drugs which are ionophores (molecules that can carry a charged ion like zinc across a cellular membrane). The key word phrase in this research, however, is “In Vitro”, meaning not tested in living beings, so that is why health professionals are not recommending it.South Korea has been treating high-risk, critically-ill COVID-19 patients with one such prescription-only drug, hydroxychloroquine. There is a nutritional supplement called quercetin that is a zinc chelator and ionophore, and requires no prescription. In addition: Elderberries, Red Wine and Blueberries have high amounts of quercetin.
However, neither the drug or supplement is actually proven to fight off viral infections, or increase zinc uptake in vivo (in living things).
This is the only real, actual, proven, fact-based information you need** :
Zinc is a mineral that’s essential for good health. It’s required for the functions of over 300 enzymes and is involved in many important processes in your body. It metabolizes nutrients, maintains your immune system and grows and repairs body tissues. Your body doesn’t store zinc, so you need to eat enough every day to ensure you’re meeting your daily requirements. It’s recommended that men eat 11 mg of zinc per day, while women need 8 mg. However, if you’re pregnant, you’ll need 11 mg per day, and if you’re breastfeeding, you’ll need 12 mg. Some people are at risk of a zinc deficiency, including young children, teenagers, the elderly and women who are pregnant or breastfeeding.
However, eating a healthy balanced diet that includes zinc-rich foods will satisfy everyone’s needs.
Here are 10 of the best foods that are high in zinc:
1. Meat, especially red meat., but also lamb and pork.
2. Shellfish, especially oysters. Other shellfish contain zinc, just not as much.
3. Legumes like chickpeas, lentils and beans, although, while raw, the zinc is not as well
absorbed. Heating, sprouting, soaking or fermenting legumes can increase this mineral’s
absorption in our bodies.
4. Seeds. Particularly, hemp seeds (31-43% RDI), but also squash, flax, pumpkin and
sesame seeds.
5. Nuts. Pine nuts, peanuts, cashews and almonds can boost your intake of zinc.
6. Dairy. Cheese and milk provide a host of nutrients, including zinc.
7. Eggs. Contain a moderate amount of zinc.
8. Whole grains. Wheat, quinoa, rice and oats contain some zinc.
9. Vegetables, but only certain ones. Potatoes, both regular and sweet varieties, but also green beans and kale.
10. Dark chocolate, contains reasonable amounts of zinc, but also a lot of calories.
Supplements can create problems, especially in unbalancing the ratio of vitamins and minerals in our bodies, so the one really proven and effective way to add zinc is with food. Zinc and iron fight for cell receptor sites. If you take zinc supplements on a regular basis, or too much, you could become anemic. Iron is necessary to attach and transport oxygen from the lungs to the rest of the body.
I am eating meat, shellfish, beans, nuts, dairy, eggs, whole grains, and potatoes. I should probably stock up on dark chocolate. Dark chocolate, BTW, pairs really well with red wine, just FYI. I like to pair red wines with my meals.
Sunday, April 12, is Grilled Cheese Sandwich Day 2020, in the United States. You might just find yourself inside on this particular Sunday morning, and there might be a ham, or other traditional Ēostre, Easter or Passover foods for dinner, but maybe grilled cheese for brunch? instead of eggs?
[In case you’re wondering, according to a Northern European legend, the goddess Ēostre (or Ostara) is supposed to have turned a bird into a hare, a sacred animal from antiquity. Birds do lay eggs. But, actually, in Medieval times, a common practice in England was for Christian children to go door-to-door begging for eggs on the Saturday before Lent began. People handed out eggs (a symbol of rebirth) as special treats for children prior to their fast.] So those Easter egg hunts are supposed to be a week earlier.
Grilled cheese sandwiches date back to Roman times.
Now, there are a lot of ways that people make this sandwich. Personally, I see a grilled cheese sandwich as quick ‘n’ dirty. Throw some cheese between two pieces of mayonnaise-covered sliced bread, and fry it in a cast iron pan until it’s crispy brown on both sides and the cheese is gooey. That’s traditional. My mom had an old sandwich grill that could be used over an open flame.
I never understood why it was round, when the bread was square. I found out recently that what we called a sandwich grill, was actually known as a pie iron. That’s right, it was used to make small pies over an open flame, which of course is why it had a long handle. Nevertheless, I never saw my mom make a pie with it, and I thought it was a bit wasteful of bread because the corners would break off or she’d cut ’em off to make it fit inside fully. Nowadays there are square-cornered ones made for sandwiches.
Of course, since I live in New Mexico, I add green chile to my sandwich before it goes in the frying pan. I love a little bit of spiciness in my cheesy foods.
And, there are hundreds of different ways that people make grilled cheese sandwiches. There is even a Wisconsin Grilled Cheese Championship every year. Some people add strawberries. Sometimes you’ll find Nutella® on a grilled cheese. Or sweet and sour red cabbage. Steven Raichlen, of TV grilling fame, makes a grilled cheese sandwich with portobello mushrooms served in blazing cognac. Fancy.
There are people who use blue cheese — sorry, not me. The only thing I ever found that makes blue cheese palatable to me is a very dry, and intense 100% peach or apricot wine. I used to make those at a winery that has since closed. I stay away from any kind of fermented or soft cheese for a grilled cheese, because I like harder cheeses anyway. Hard cheese is an excellent source of protein and calcium, with less lactose, since the whey is removed during processing. Soft cheeses such as brie and Camembert provide less calcium per serving.
I grew up with grilled cheese made from processed cheese that could be sliced from a rectangular block and melted very easily. Velveeta is the most famous of those. But it had little taste. So there’s a happy medium for me. Although the firmer the cheese, the better it is for you, some cheeses, like Romano or Parmesan, are a bit too hard to slice, or melt in a short time, but it’s easy to find the semi-hard extra sharp cheddar in most grocery stores, and that’s what I usually have in the house for sandwiches or to grate into omelets. Swiss cheese on rye is damn good too.
My sandwich falls into the competitive category of “Classic, plus one”. While I cannot stand processed cheese anymore, I enjoy mayonnaise, so I layer some Mayo on one side of both pieces of whole wheat, sour dough or oat bread first.
Then I slice enough cheese to cover one side of the bread, and smother it in roasted green chile pepper.
Now, in New Mexico, these are spicy and flavorful. Don’t ever eat a Texas “green chile” because they think a skinny modified bell pepper is green chile. It’s not. They’re flavorless and have no spice. Texans mostly think chile is dry red chile powder cooked with beans, and they spell it, chili, which is not the Spanish name for the peppers. The peppers themselves are native to South and Central America.
That said, I close up my sandwich and drop it into a well-seasoned cast iron skillet. Mine usually has some leftover oil in it, but if it doesn’t I will borrow another tradition and spread Mayo on the outside on my bread as well. It is supposed to make the bread a bit crisper, but I have never seen any difference, whether I use vegetable oil, or bacon grease.
You can even use butter, good old-fashioned butter from free ranging, grass-fed cows, the kind that turns a nice golden color when it warms up, but it can overwhelm the flavor of the cheese, in my opinion. (I only use very flavorful Irish or French butter in my home.) Everybody has their own opinion about what makes a great grilled cheese, but I think it mostly depends on how your mom made it.
I fry mine on a medium heat that allows just enough time to evenly brown both sides of the bread — making it crispy without burning it — and to just melt the cheese enough to make it a little gooey.
So, we’re all coping as best we can in the middle of this viral pandemic. Some peoples’ jobs are essential, and they’re still out and about every day. Those of us stuck at home or near home are a little envious, but really, the people working are at greater risk, and they aren’t seeing much more than deserted schools and shopping centers, and shuttered stores. It’s somewhat like the post-apocalyptic dramas, but, in this case, humanity hasn’t been wiped out, but is basically in hiding, from an unseen foe, a foe that preys on our very human sociality. Therefore, we must become the opposite. Not antisocial, because that implies an antagonism to social instincts, but asocial — isolated and generally not with other humans. For me, this isn’t a new thing, so I feel I’m doing OK.
However.
Yesterday I rode my motorcycle to shop at a Smith’s. Go there all the time. I walk down this one aisle they closed off. It’s weird. A dead-end aisle. Not the booze aisle. Baby food, lotions, similar things. Narrow opening into the aisle. Plexiglass covering the rest. Back part closed off with thick plexiglass. I don’t understand it. Anyway, I walk in looking for something, and I can’t find it. So there’s these two women near the exit, and the older one of them seems to have bronchial problems, breathing hard, and I hear liquid as she keeps trying to, I don’t know, bring something up? without coughing. And the sound is so disturbing – like someone breathing underwater – and I’m sure she’s got pneumonia, and possibly due to complications from Covid-19, and she’s not wearing a face mask. And I’m trapped there, because I don’t want to go near her, anywhere near the space she’s in, and it’s the only way out. Pissed me off. Isolation rage? Corona rage? They will actually deliver your groceries to you now, or you order and they will bring them to your car. I couldn’t understand why someone that sick decided it was better to just go to the store anyway, and without even a cloth or paper mask. I wanted to scream at her, “Why did you come here?” Covid-19 or not, if you’re that sick and people will deliver your groceries to you, why the hell are you out?
As I write, a neighborhood church is just now playing Amazing Grace with chimes. It’s usually how they call people to services. I thought large church services were banned? I know it has a large congregation from all the cars I see going in and out, especially on Sundays. It’s 8am here on a Friday. But Good Friday isn’t until next week. Maybe they’re doing a parking lot service. That’s a thing around here.
Pickups at restaurants. Grocery shopping, but no more than once a week. Not much else to do. They want us to stay out of parks now. Was no more than five people, but they’re saying just stay home unless it’s absolutely essential. I don’t know. Is cereal essential? Is pomegranate/cranberry juice essential? Is lotion for my painfully cracked heels essential? Cat food? If I don’t feed them they might eat me. Raspberry sorbet? If I don’t have something sweet, I will go stir crazier. In some states, liquor stores are closed, but in others gun stores are open. Here, we have alcohol, but the gun stores have been deemed non-essential businesses, for the interim. There doesn’t seem to be much consistency in the decisions about what is essential and what isn’t.
Life on hold. So strange. 11 years ago, I thought retirement was bad. No sense of who I was without my job. Had just gotten divorced two years before that, so no one to live with either. Peaceful at first, but aimless, empty, boring.
So, I got busy, I hiked every week, once, twice or occasionally three times. Up the mountain to the ridge with a hiking group. Hiking along the mountain ridge. Sometimes snowshoeing, sometimes hiking up to the restaurant on top, at 10,400 feet above sea level. Started working for a winery, which was not only hard physical labor, but kept me more social, having to deal with the other workers and the customers. Eventually started working as a background extra in movies. Much later, the winery closed, which was very sad, but I still had the movies. I managed to get a few speaking roles in unpaid local productions. Not ever having had actual training I took a lot of acting workshops at first, and then settled into regular acting classes every week. I’ve been doing that for several years now. Busy, busy, busy. My days were full.
Not so much now. Just before this all happened, I had a callback audition, one of the things every actor hopes for. I would have been interacting with the other person who already has a role in the production, so it’s called a chemistry audition, to see how we work together, but that was postponed, possibly now cancelled. That was quite a letdown. Movie production is halted altogether. Classes are postponed. Hikes are more limited, and, although I can still hike, going out at all is being discouraged. My acting teacher/coach is now having online classes, so I still have class, still have monologues and dialogues to memorize. Less dialogues now, since it’s not set up to be able to watch the other person when I’m speaking, so it’s much harder to interact, and play off of the other person’s emotions and reactions. It had been great to have that interaction, even if, like in actual productions, one has to do the same scene over, and over, and over, etc.
Nothing to do but memorize lines, wait for classes now. I write some, I read a lot. I play solitaire. I watch movies. Recently I decided to order a set of DVDs of the first season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I don’t watch much TV, and avoid TV shows that require me to watch every week. So, I was leery at first. Took me a few weeks to get around to it, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. The show is good. The acting is consistently wonderful. The dialogue is great. When Mrs. Maisel decides to use her talents to be a comedian, she manages to meet the best comedians in New York at the time, including Lenny Bruce.
Rachel Brosnahan and Alex Borstein are brilliant actors. The series is worth watching for them alone. It’s nice to see Tony Shalhoub in there, playing something other than Monk. The writing is consistently good, show to show, and within each show. How wonderful to be able to watch this at my leisure.
So, there are benefits to this isolation. And really, I’m used to it. But part of me wants to be out, hiking up a mountain with a group of happy hikers. Part of me really likes being with other actors in class or on a set. We get to try out parts with each other. Weeks ago, the acting coach had an actor use me as the object of her monologue, and, to get more playful intensity out of her, had her flirt with me, since I was sitting close to her. It did change her monologue. Sounded better. But she was a bit embarrassed. Which is a good thing, because actors must rise out of their comfort zone. I actually liked it a lot. I found the flirting felt real to me. She is a good actor. I actually like her a lot, so I was a little embarrassed, because I think I showed my delight at such a prospect. I wouldn’t mind having her flirt with me. But, anyway, she’s happily married. Such is life. A little bit of excitement for me though.
Sure could use some excitement now. It’s not the same online. I don’t even like reading e-books, or watching videos on my computer. I like the feel of a book in my hand, and the practiced way my hands keep the pages moving so I can preview a little ahead all the time, and I hardly notice that I’m reading as a story unfolds. Lots of time for that now. Lots of time to binge watch a TV series, or DVD movies. But I wouldn’t mind having company while I watch. Wouldn’t mind company while I eat. Wouldn’t mind a soft warm body in bed with me at night. Not much substitute for that online. There are limits.
I find myself looking forward to the end of this extreme social isolation. I’m going to take advantage of all social interaction in person that I can get. Maybe I won’t be by myself if this happens again.
New terror inspiring I keep wondering when this will be over. Like endless wars and terrorism. When do they end? When will we be safe? I want the world to stop hating to stop fighting to come out to rejoice in our common humanity. How novel.
Sometimes I mention books in passing, books which set me thinking, or oddly seemed to reflect events in my life. However, this was not the case with this historical novel, She Was a Queen, written in 1936, by Maurice Collis, who lived in Burma for 20 years.
This a really fascinating story. Although it is ostensibly about the last Queen of Burma, it is also a history of Burma in novel form. I learned a great deal about courtly customs and intrigues, religion, cobras, elephants, and their place in that society. About farming, pagodas, and palaces, and ornamentation, and jewels, and royal ostentation.
The most interesting person was Ma Saw, the Queen, a woman far more intelligent and logical than the Kings she lived with, despite her humble non-royal beginnings, or more likely, because of them. With her abilities, she could have been as cunning as any palace courtier, weaving her way through court intrigues and using politics to dominate the court. However, she was not like that, and wished only to protect and nourish her country. A very well-loved royal, but encumbered by foolish kings who lost the kingdom, through their stupidity, arrogance, preening vanity, and a bit of madness. One would hope we have learned from such examples, but I fear we have not. However, this book is a great read for all of that, with drama, dangers, elaborate executions, outside threats, and miracles.
The novel is based on a Burmese history called the Hmannan Yazawin, or Glass Palace Chronicle. The Chronicle dates form 1829, when King Bagyidaw of Burma appointed a committee of scholars to draw up a definitive history of what had happened in Burma from the earliest times to that present day. The scholars produced a book of several volumes, and it is considered to be the official history of Burma, at least as far as what all concerned believed to be the historical truth. The fifth volume concerns the fall of the Pagān (Burmese: ပုဂံခေတ်, pronounced [bəɡàɴ kʰɪʔ]) dynasty. It was translated into English in 1923, and is the basis upon which Maurice Collis – who tapped other people and resources as well while he lived in Burma – created this novel. With a few minor exceptions, the characters, the structure, and the story come straight from the Glass Palace Chronicle.
I just finished a book, called THE ONE AND ONLY IVAN. It’s a children’s story, but I wanted to see what it was about. As I got near the end, my eyes began to feel funny, and as I finished the last line, and turned the page, a tear rolled down my cheek.
Sounds corny, and I know you might not believe me, but if you don’t I might just tear your head off. Ivan wouldn’t do that — he’s a silverback gorilla — but I might. My name’s Terry. I’m a human.
I have a cage too, like Ivan. I can leave it anytime I want, but often I don’t. There are other humans outside my cage. Sometimes, like Ivan, I long to be with others of my kind. Sometimes I do, mostly I don’t. Sometimes I think I’m not like the other humans, especially if I am in my cage too long, as Ivan was. Sometimes I really do enjoy being around other humans, and I act just like them. And I smile, even though I still feel lonely.
Sometimes, in my zoo-cage, I read a book like this one, or watch a movie that makes my eyes tear up, and sometimes tears drip off into my beard. It’s then that I remember what it’s like to be human.
And I remember what it was like to work every day, to live with someone every day, to wake up with them, to eat with them, to watch movies and plays with them, or drink with them, or dance, or travel, or sleep together.
Once in a great while, after two divorces, I found someone to have sex with, and I liked that a lot. And doing things to each other that made ourselves feel fantastic. And I liked the sleeping together the most, the warm body next to me, the feel of skin against skin. Me, making breakfast for us. Eating together. Watching TV, or going out to a movie, or eating in a restaurant together. Or sex in the big overstuffed chair, or in the kitchen, or in the car in a parking lot. But mostly I liked the touchings, the sittings next to each other, or the cuddlings in bed before the most restful sleeps I can have, luxuriating in the warmth and skin of another.
It seems all that is over now. Age creeps in. Habits overtake. The mind slips sometimes — it’s so much harder to write now. Misspelling things a lot, switching letters around, leaving letters out, forgetting words I used to know, having to use a machine to look up spellings and meanings, and not noticing my mistakes sometimes until the second or third read. But I majored in English, and I read every day. Sometimes, no matter how much I liked a book, I forget what it was about. I used to be able to remember whole paragraphs from a book, and where in the book to find a sentence or scene.
And the body is slipping away slowly too. The erratic peeing, sometimes strong and steady, sometimes painfully urgent, sometimes in fits and drips. The heart that almost failed me once. The pills I take. THE ANKLE. The ankle I turned sideways stepping off a curb in August! I hike in the mountains, climbing hills, and stepping on and over large rocks, and running downhill without falling on the loose scree. But for some reason I stretched out and twisted the fuck out of my ankle, months ago, stepping off a curb. It’s much better now, but not entirely healed, which makes me feel less whole. And weaker. And I don’t like that feeling. The pain of the fall was unlike anything I’d ever felt:
— worse then the time I rounded a curve too fast on my motorcycle, and fell in the gravel on the side of the road with my right arm out. That didn’t hurt till later, but it took a year to heal, and I was in my early thirties then.
— worse than the time a car ran into me while I was crossing a street at night, and it pushed me half a block down the street while I was still standing, until the driver noticed me and slammed on the brakes, which slammed me against the asphalt.
— worse than the time a car hit me on my bicycle, sending me flying and crumpling the bike frame under its wheels, or the time a car knocked me off my bicycle, tearing the left pedal completely off, and leaving me with a huge multicolored bruise on my hips and ass.
— worse than the two times I totaled my motorcycles running into vehicles, or the time a car rounded a corner directly into my car head on, and my brain bounced badly off my skull.
No, stepping off that curb did something to my ankle I’d never felt before, sent shooting pain up my leg directly to my brain, and my mouth opened as it went by, and I screamed out loud — something I’d never done before — and when I fell, I pulled on the same nerves, tendons, muscles and ligaments, and I screamed again. But that sharp pain went away immediately after each of those. But there was pain still. Five months ago. But even after wearing a stabilizing boot for two months, and then an ankle wrap, I still feel the changes in my ankle, the not rightness of it. X-rays show a tiny bone chip fracture, but can’t show soft tissue damage. Can’t have an MRI unless I see a physical therapist eight days from now. But I don’t know how much of that the insurance will cover.
See what I mean? Yeah, sure, I have all of my limbs and digits and both eyes and ears, but I don’t like this feeling of gradual decay. I really liked the bicycling, the running through streams over wet, slippery rocks, hiking up a mountain until my lungs felt empty, hiking twenty six miles along the crest of a mountain. I still hike, sure, but there’s a bit of insecurity creeping in. Can I jump off this rock? Can I leap across that sliver of a stream? Or step off that curb? Can I still bicycle a hundred miles?
NOW, DON’T GET ME WRONG – I’M NOT COMPLAINING. It’s good to feel pain, to know I’m alive. It’s good to be alive, to feel the sun, wind, rain and snow on my skin. It’s good to taste food, good coffee, or a glass of good wine. To listen to music, to hang out with people at a play or on a movie set. I still enjoy reading and writing.
It’s very, very good to feel real love for another person, and I do. Love is love.
There are friends I see. Pool games to play. Poetry to listen to or recite. People that I meet. People to talk with. But, sometimes, I still wish for sex, or for just that gentle touch of lips on mine, or the feeling of skin on my skin, or just a touch to my face or a hand in my hand.
But, it’s unlikely. I have a cage around me. Not just the house, but the one in my mind. I don’t trust people any more. I say odd things sometimes. I scare people. I’m leery of strangers I don’t love. But I know I have to spend lots of time with people to get to know them, or love them. And yet, I stay in my cages, and wish I wasn’t so alone in them.
Isla drove me back to the sag wagon later on. The rest of the bicycle group was off doing other things. Our fearless leader on this cross-country bicycle trip, Nancy, saw this trip’s purpose primarily as networking. She wanted to help connect with all sorts of active people around the country, trading information and distributing contact information. So any chance she had she was talking to people, interviewing them, picking up more books and literature. Peaceful change was her goal, and not far from what I had worked for myself. Beside my participation in antiwar marches, lobbying, and organizing, I had spent years volunteering with a free medical clinic in Baltimore, Maryland, the city of my birth. The Clinic had been started by anti-war activists, a local chapter of the Black Panthers, and free-school teachers, among others, including some doctors.
Nancy herself had not actually been involved in all those kind of activities in the late 60s and early 70s. She was an exchange student in Italy for a year (1961-62), graduated from Brown University in 1966, and then spent two years in the Peace Corps in Colombia, SA. Then she spent four years in Japan (1971-75). The trip was actually a way for her to find out what was going on in the U.S. in 1976. And she was writing a book about the trip. I never read it, but it was published, in Japan, and I don’t read Japanese. At any rate, at the time, we were nearing the end of our stay in Albuquerque, heading north to Los Alamos, and Taos, Cimarron, and Raton, before angling east towards Kansas. And there was Isla to consider. We were standing there, next to the MG, trying to say goodnight, when a pickup screeched to a halt just a few feet away. Isla had already made me promise not to say anything to Carl, to leave that up to her, when there he was. He jumped out of the truck, stepped right up to me and roared into my face, “Are you screwing my wife?” Well, how to answer that? Isla had just told me not to tell him anything, that she needed to have that conversation with him. I was torn between a guilty expectation that I was about to get a beating that I deserved, and doing as Isla had asked. I said, “I had wanted to,” meaning nothing, but hopefully implying that I’d only thought about it. He yelled back, “What the hell does that mean?” I had no answer. Isla intervened, took him aside, and they both drove away together. That left me free to help prepare a meal for the group and then get caught up on what everyone had been doing. Some had been getting clothes washed, and getting food for the road. We would be leaving next day. Nancy left me alone, which was good, because I didn’t want to try to explain what I’d gotten myself into.
In the morning, there was Isla again. She’d brought my bedroll with her. She told me she had told Carl what had happened, and he would be leaving. She took me with her. I thought we might be going back to that same house where we’d had our tryst, but we went somewhere else. Another friend of Isla’s had told her she could use it. He was the owner of the local art house movie theater. We looked through his record collection, and the only thing I remember listening to was Jerry Jeff Walker, something Isla liked a lot. I don’t remember if we sat on a chair or a sofa, but we were kissing, and taking clothes off, and, something was wrong. That urgency was gone, that overpowering desire had evaporated. Guilt. I felt bad about Carl. I didn’t want to come between a married couple again. Isla have been married to Carl for six years. They’d served in the Peace Corps together. We were ashamed. Our Catholic brainwashing had kicked in. It was as if we’d sinned, but neither of us was religious anymore. We talked for so long I lost track of time. We said goodbye there. I gave her our itinerary, and told her she could send me mail via General Delivery. I really never expected to see her again.
I rode over to the sag wagon, but it was gone. Holy crap! Well, I knew where they were going, so I hit the road. I knew I could catch up to them. On the way, I overtook Darla, a woman who had just joined our group in Socorro, NM two weeks earlier. We had stopped there for a couple days. She had also left late, so we rode together. She was very happy to see me, as she hadn’t really wanted to travel alone. We were desperate to reconnect with the group, although it wasn’t unusual for any of us to travel at our own pace. After a couple hours of riding, we were well away from Albuquerque, heading north, when it suddenly clouded up, and sure enough the sky opened up. We saw what looked like an old farm and ran for a low shed. It had probably been used for chickens at one point, but it was ours now. We were wet, and well, once we got our wet clothes off we put our bedrolls together. Huddling together for warmth seemed like a good idea, but it didn’t take us long to start fucking. In this little low-roofed shed, while the storm thundered above, lightning flashed, and the rain poured. We slept there till daybreak. The rain hadn’t lasted long, but we hadn’t really noticed. We had slept curled up around each other.
Caught up with the group later on and had dinner with them in Santa Fe. We’d be on our way to Los Alamos the next day. Slept with Darla that night. This was looking like it would work out great to have a bed partner in the group. We took the standard tour of the visitor center at Los Alamos, saw replicas of the atomic bombs Little Boy and Fat Man that the U.S. had dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Listened to a talk given there, and watched a short film about the making of the bombs, and the testing at Trinity Site. Of course, Darla and I shared our bedrolls again. In the morning, we all headed to Taos to visit the New Buffalo Commune.
New Buffalo, one of the largest and well-known communes, was an interesting place. Farming, and self sufficiency were the norm there. There was music, and basic, plain food. We actually found ourselves criticized for not living a lifestyle like theirs. We had two writers with us, Nancy, and also Rick from San Francisco, which is where the bike group had left from. The folks at New Buffalo felt they were committed to a lifestyle that would change the world, whereas we were just tourists, getting paid to write. I thought that was a bit unfair, and personally, I felt that the people at New Buffalo were just dropouts, too far removed from society to change it. In the Easy Rider film, Peter Fonda’s character had said he thought they could make it. Dennis Hopper’s character didn’t think so. Hopper himself hung out in Taos. New Buffalo’s lifestyle was very laid back, but people had been leaving it for some time. The remainder were a bit fanatic. I wanted to see our culture change too, to see us go from a country that always seemed to be fighting somewhere around the globe, threatening to destroy the entire planet with our nuclear weapons, and polluting not only rivers and streams, but oceans and the very air we breathed. You couldn’t escape that by living out of the way and off the grid. Nice for them, but wouldn’t change a thing. It was strange to argue with people whom I’d thought were much like me, but they were too fanatical to think there was any other way but theirs. Although the commune had been founded 9 years earlier, we had to use corn cobs to wipe our butts in the outhouse. They weren’t just trying to reduce paper waste; they wanted to use the outhouse sludge on their crops. I was trying to survive too, but looking for actual ways to restructure society to benefit all. I had a more political bent, from my anti-war activities, and my experiences helping to provide community health care with the goal of universal health care. I didn’t enjoy my time at New Buffalo, so I was happy to get on up the road the next day.
We didn’t have far to go. Only 17 miles north of Taos is the Lama Foundation, a spiritual community, oddly patterned very closely on the lifestyles outlined in the books and literature we carried with us. It was one of the most well known communes in the area at the time, and one of the few left now. New Buffalo is now a B&B. This was the first time I’d ever seen an outhouse designed for two people to use at the same time, but that wasn’t the oddest thing. The shit holes had been designed low to the ground with painted shoe prints on either side of the holes. Apparently it is considered better for people to shit crouched down like that. At the time, I had no idea this was common in other countries. I liked this place much better than New Buffalo. The people seemed almost beatifically happy. They had small cottage industries going, and reached out to people in Taos, Santa Fe, and native communities as well. Such a difference from the grungy drop-outs at New Buffalo! There was a lot to see around the Lama commune, and we were welcome guests. Nancy was in heaven, interviewing people. People there were not critical of others, and did their best to demonstrate a better way of life. The food was much better there too, but I didn’t stay long. A green MG drove up. It was Isla, from Albuquerque. She’d come to see me, but really she wanted me to go back to Albuquerque with her. She asked me to just come back for two weeks, so we could get to know each other. I agreed. I told Darla I was leaving for a couple weeks. She didn’t seem entirely happy about that, but we barely knew each other either. On the drive back to Albuquerque, with my bicycle strapped across the back of the little car, Isla told me she and Carl had never wanted to have children, or rather that she hadn’t wanted to have children. I think Carl was the type to want children. He really was a nice guy. Guilt. Guilt.
But then, Isla laid the bombshell on me. She said she wanted to have a child with me! I didn’t know what to say. I had read The Population Bomb in high school, and had resolved never to add any more kids to the world, especially in a country that used more resources per person than anywhere else on the planet. But, with Isla smiling at me, waiting for my response, I felt loved, wanted, and it made me happy. We would build a house together, maybe renovate an old adobe, and we would have a child. Actually we’d have to have two, because I could not see having a child grow up without a sibling. I’d grown up with six. We smiled all the way back to Albuquerque, happy as we could possibly be. Carl had left town. I stayed with Isla in their house. A curious neighbor asked me who I was. I said I was a friend of theirs. I wouldn’t find out who he was until much later. I was clueless.
It was a joyful time. We were in love. We cuddled all the time. She showed me how to make chile rellenos. We talked a lot, made plans for the future. But, although we would be together, I wanted to finish the bicycle tour. It was the adventure of a lifetime, and I knew I’d come back. Isla asked me to move to Albuquerque for a year. If I did that, she would go with me anywhere I wanted , if I didn’t want to stay. I promised. She knew I’d come back. After two weeks, we said our good-byes, and she packed some food for me for the road. Burritos, sandwiches, and a few chile rellenos.
It was a good thing she did, because I had a long ride ahead of me and the group was already in Kansas.
After he burst into my room
Sue jumped up, split that scene
down the fire escape out back
– back to her car.
It was Thanksgiving, 1969.
Earlier
We’d gone to her parents’ home
rich suburban house
ate turkey on fine china
drank champagne from crystal.
Got asked about my career plans.
After pie, we left
Sue said, “We’re going to a play,”
but drove me home
in her Plymouth Valiant.
We sat on the bed in my room
Door closed.
We wanted privacy
never knew if the roommate
would
interrupt us.
Nashville Skyline, Bob Dylan
“To Be Alone With You”
on the portable stereo –
suitcase style record player.
Kissing, touching –
asking ourselves
“Should we?”
Sideways on the bed
bodies welded together
18-year-old virgins.
So cozy, so happy
hormones pumping
tickling tongues
warming each others’ bodies
in our own little world.
The door burst open
roommate says, “Hi guys.
“What’s happening?”
— Asshole.
Sue jumped up
buttoned her blouse
and she was gone –
She. was. gone!
I was pissed –
not at her
at him –
Mr. Annoying.
“What happened,” he said
melodrama leaking out of his face
inches from mine
“Did I scare cutie-pie away? I’m sorry.”
“You know you did, and you’re not.”
“She leave you all horny?
“I can fix that.”
I said, “Fuck you, asshole.”
“Ooh, I’d like that,” he said,
“I like assholes, don’t you?
“Does your little girl like it in the ass?”
“Huh, huh, huh?”
I said, “SHUT UP.
“Stay the hell out of my life,”
and
“ Don’t come in my room again.”
“No,” he said.
“This is my place.
“I found it, I paid the deposit.
“I invited you to share it.
“I’ll come in anytime I want
“In fact, I think I’ll come in now.”
He jumped towards me
grabbed me.
I pushed him off, hit him.
Violence is rarely the answer.
But, sometimes –
Like the day my dad hit me
one last time, years ago
slapping my head
back and forth
back and forth
back and forth.
I pushed Dad
with all my strength
knocked him down
wanted to kill him
fortunately,
he was stronger.
Dad smiled at me
he’d always told me
to stand up to my bullies
he never hit me again.
Lesson learned.
Instinctive reaction later
punching my roommate.
For a big man
he went down fast.
Crouched in a ball
whimpering:
“Mommy Mommy.”
I backed off, shocked.
I remembered then how
years earlier
he’d been raped in the shower
by high school bullies
rapists are cowards.
Lesson learned.
In the aftermath, he left.
Said he was going for the cops
– to charge me with assault.
Came back much later – no cops.
“Changed my mind,” he said.
Said he just drove around
picked somebody up,
“I like those young boys
“That long blond hair.
“We had a great time.”
“Where?” I said, a little shocked.
“In my car. Why do you think I have a big car?”
“Your parents bought it for you.” I said.
Grinning like a maniac, he said
“O, but I picked it out.”
He stuck his face in mine
“Why didn’t your parents give you one?”
“Because they don’t have any money.”
“You need money? I got money.” he said.
“I’ll give you what I gave him –
“More, if you want.”
Shocked again, I sputtered:
“You – you paid him?”
“Of course,” he said,
ugly leer on his round face
skinny mustache twitching.
I found my own place
Minimum-wage room: no kitchen.
Ate sandwiches
and fruit in jars.
Lesson learned.
The last time I saw Sue
her grandmother’s house
on the lawn
her drunken father
attacked me
grabbed my bushy hair
called me a hippie
dragged me to the ground
I wanted to hit him
but
he was Sue’s father
I couldn’t do that – to her.
Sue intervened
her father let me go
his mother pulled him away,
“Don’t make a scene.”
But, before he disappeared inside
he bellowed at me:
“Get off my property.”
Lesson learned.
Sue sent me a letter
Nude drawing of herself
in chains
”Look at me,” she wrote
“18, naive and vulnerable.”
There was a quote:
“All I want from living
is to have no chains on me.”
– lyrics, from Blood, Sweat & Tears,
My own vinyl, appropriately.
Lesson learned.
Sue’s words stuck in my head
“You are too serious,
“I don’t want to be tied down.
“It’s for the best.
and, “We are too different.”
No shit.
Me, working all day, school at night
Her, private school.
Lessons learned:
Live by yourself.
Avoid the bourgeoisie.
Stay celibate.
Trust no one.
12/28/19. Rode my motorcycle to the village of Corrales. It was an amazingly cold day. There were Canadian Geese galore in the sky, and a few on the ground. Passed a few small flocks of Sandhill Cranes on my way to Corrales, but have enough photos of them already. Hiked along the ditches and the river in Corrales for three hours. I liked watching the geese circle. I did capture one solitary Sandhill Crane in flight. It’s rained a bit lately, and there was a bit of light snow falling, so there was much mud to slosh through. Saw a lot of saltcedar (Tamarisk) by the Rio Grande. It’s an invasive species from dry regions of Eurasia and Africa. The generic name originated in Latin and may refer to the Tamaris River in Hispania Tarraconensis (one of three Roman provinces in Hispania). It encompassed much of the Mediterranean coast of modern Spain along with the central plateau, but the beautiful orange/red is quite a contrast to the winter landscape. Afterwards, I ate at Hannah and Nate’s in Corrales. Good food, and I know I am dating myself, and it is wrong these days for men to comment on a woman’s looks, but the young wait staff were not only quick and competent, but all were also amazingly pretty. Really. Sorry, no photos.
But here are the photos I took of the birds and landscape and river. Click on one to view full sized, and use the arrows to scroll through them all at that size, if you’d like.
Hiked up a trail in the Sandia Mountains on Christmas Eve. Very overcast day. Some snow flurries, and a soft rain after a few hours. Hiked to 9200 feet above seal level. Tired afterwards, but I had a potluck dinner to attend with friends, and I had a casserole to cook, and no time to waste on a nap my body craved. Watched the Star Wars movie Solo after dinner. A very good day overall.
Went walking along the ditches north of my neighborhood recently (the Village of Los Ranchos de Albuquerque). It was December 22, so there were some festive sights. There were also huge, thick cottonwoods, and big expansive views of the mountain, and expensive homes mixed in with farms and horses, sheep and llamas. Throughout, there were migrating Canadian Geese and Sandhill Cranes. So, this post is one of three that is going to feature photos, some from this walk, some from a hike in the mountains, and some from another walk through ditches even further north of this area (Corrales).
Click on any photo below to view full size. Then use the arrows to scroll through.
She said: “OK, but the nature of our relationship has to stay the same.” I asked her: “What is the nature of our relationship?” After a slight pause, she said: “Not a member of the public.” The slight pause meant she had not considered this before, but right now, she had. Her face was all smile, but with a hint of serious. That’s what happens when you begin a relationship with an intellectual. I liked her answer. I certainly wanted to be more than just a member of an adoring public with her. She meant that we could be closer, but at the same time private, and what we said or did would be: “not for publication”.
I was fine with that. She is an aphrodisiac, but more than that. She radiates self confidence, which is amatory in itself. As an educator, a writer, and a television host, she is clearly a woman of power, strong willed, and independent. She says what she thinks, even it is shocks people’s quaint notions of propriety. Her temperament is animated. With a radiant smile on her face, she can still confront, denounce, or impeach. With that same smile, she can also dynamize others, spur them into agreement with her, foment rebellion, and encourage.
She is all that. I am certainly enamored of her. Sometimes there is a hint of warmth in her voice when she speaks to me. That’s just the way she is, but I often imagined there could be more between us: an intimacy. Once, as we conversed in a public gathering, a friend of hers approached. She introduced her to me, but not me to her. So, her friend immediately asked, “And who is this?” meaning, perhaps, who is this man to you? I think she sensed that meaning, and she had to search her mind for a moment, before she told her friend my name, and added, “He’s a poet.” For after all, no one would question further why a poet would know another poet, so no more needed to be said.
But now, in this moment, as we touched, in fun, paused on the brink of some — thing, something else, something more? … Well — I was excited.
It’s hard to steady my emotions, order my thoughts on this topic. I have great respect for the USA’s system of government, for free and fair elections, for equal rights under the law for every citizen. But I see that under attack in the USA. We have Republicans who wish the make the entire USA over into their own brand of idealistic political and economic purity. We have a President who leaped onto that ideological bandwagon, and used it as a bully pulpit to whip up – not support for his election campaign – but support for himself, for his own ego, for his own aggrandizement. Surprisingly, he won. He was able to tap into the movement of people dissatisfied with all government, any government, with male supremacists who believe women should not govern, with racial supremacists who hounded President Obama because it upset their view of the a society by, of and for white-skinned people, largely of European descent. He was able to tap into the mindset of Nazis who spew hatred of ethnic, racial and religious groups. He was able to tap into the mindset of paramilitary militia types who believe they, and only they know what is best for this country, and are stockpiling weapons for the ultimate fight against their enemies – other citizens of the USA who don’t look like them, speak like them or act like them. When the citizens of Virginia found themselves challenged by Unite the Right, a white supremacist, neo-Nazi rally that was conducted in Charlottesville, Virginia from August 11 to 12, 2017, they responded with a protest of their own. The participants in the Unite the Right rally were members of the far-right and included self-identified members of the alt-right, neo-Confederates, neo-fascists, white supremacists, neo-Nazis, Klansmen, and various right-wing militias. They chanted racist and anti-Semitic slogans, carried weapons, Nazi and neo-Nazi symbols, Confederate Battle Flags, as well as flags and other symbols of various past and present anti-Muslim and antisemitic groups. The organizers’ stated goals included unifying the American white nationalist movement. The violence that broke out was predictable. However, President Trump stated, “You also had some very fine people on both sides.”
Now, Trump attempted to backpedal from the statement, insisting that he only meant the people who were there to oppose the removal of the Robert E. Lee statue. However, this was just a pretext for the far right to hold a rally. Unite the Right was explicitly organized and branded as a far-right, racist, and white supremacist event by far-right racist white supremacists. This was clear for months before the march actually occurred. In fact, the chair of the Charlottesville Republican Party released a statement in May, saying, “Whoever these people were, the intolerance and hatred they seek to promote is utterly disgusting and disturbing beyond words.” This is one of the posters used to promote the event:
Here are some of those very fine people:
Police affidavit on the “Unite the Right” attendees:
• 150+ Alt Knights
• 250-500 Klu Klux Klan
• 500 “3% Risen”
• 200-300 Militia
So, Trump gets a pass on his remarks, because he claims he was only referring to the people who wanted to keep the statue of Robert E. Lee. There was no mistaking what the the rally was about, despite the pretext of keeping a statue. So this President was either supremely ignorant, self-blind to who both the police and the Republican Chair said they were, or simply unwilling to antagonize people who might be his supporters. He went on to say: “I am not putting anybody on a moral plane, what I’m saying is this: you had a group on one side and a group on the other, and they came at each other with clubs and it was vicious and horrible and it was a horrible thing to watch, but there is another side. There was a group on this side, you can call them the left. You’ve just called them the left, that came violently attacking the other group. So you can say what you want, but that’s the way it is.” So he blamed the violence on the left, which is one of the words he uses to describe Democrats in Congress.
And during that same press conference, Trump added this:
No, no. There were people in that rally, and I looked the night before. If you look, they were people protesting very quietly, the taking down the statue of Robert E. Lee. I’m sure in that group there were some bad ones. The following day, it looked like they had some rough, bad people, neo-Nazis, white nationalists, whatever you want to call ’em. But you had a lot of people in that group that were there to innocently protest and very legally protest, because you know, I don’t know if you know, but they had a permit. The other group didn’t have a permit. So I only tell you this: there are two sides to a story. I thought what took place was a horrible moment for our country, a horrible moment. But there are two sides to the country.
“…two sides to the country.” Really, Trump? And everyone is on one side or the other?
“The night before” is referring to the Friday night torch-lit rally of August 11, where more than 200 attendees held tiki torches on the campus of the University of Virginia and chanted “Jews will not replace us” and “Blood and soil.” Whatever this event may have been, it was certainly not “people protesting very quietly.” Anti Semites are not very fine people.
In short, Unite the Right was organized not by individuals who, in Trump’s words, “felt very strongly about the monument to Robert E. Lee,” but by ardent white supremacists and white nationalists. On multiple occasions before Unite the Right, attendees stated that the Confederate memorial that was supposedly their purpose was actually the least of their concerns. We have their statements, their videos, their posters, and their words. We also have the transcript and video of how Trump responded. He did, indeed, refer to the people who attended Unite the Right, people who were well aware of and supportive of its messaging, as “very fine people,” and he downplayed the tiki torch parade as “people protesting very quietly.” Yeah, people shouting “Jews will not replace us”. Trumps has said that Jews are loyal to Israel. When he spoke to the Republican Jewish Coalition he referred to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, as “your prime minister.”
Trump’s executive order, saying that anti-Semitism is covered under civil rights laws that ban discrimination based on national origin, appears targeted at students protesting the actions of the Israeli government, not white supremacists. For example, anti-Semitism will now include criticism of Israel, so students could not compare contemporary Israeli policy with respect to Palestinians, to that of the Nazis with respect to Jews. Article.
Trump played into the hands of the organizers of this rally, not very fine people, but neo-Nazis, Klansmen, and white supremacists, and everyone, except for Trump, seems to know that. But his cluelessness may not be enough reason to get rid of Trump. We have all heard the indictments of Trump for soliciting dirt on his political opponents in exchange for monetary aid. That violates our very Constitution, the supreme law of this land. Before that even came out, Trump openly called for Russia to provide dirt on Hillary Clinton. The Russian internet trolls, whether or not they were aided or supported by Putin, responded, giving him what he asked for, even though it was all fake news. Since when do we allow an officer of the United States government to do that?
As President, although Trump represents the United States to the world, he violates his oath of office, he tramples on the Constitution, saying in the past, for example, that its Emoluments clause is hurting him financially.
More recently, speaking to reporters in the White House Cabinet Room, Trump dismissed as “phony” a section of the Constitution that bars federal office holders from accepting profits, or accepting gifts from foreign governments.
“You people with this phony Emoluments Clause,” he said.
President Donald Trump rejected suggestions that hosting the G-7 summit of world leaders at his resort in Doral, Florida, would have run afoul of the U.S. Constitution. He finally pulled that property out of consideration, after bipartisan criticism of his plan.
The President works for us, and can be removed at any time: “The President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” It doesn’t have to be treason. Trading aid money for dope on his political rivals is bribery. Whether or not any high crimes (violations of the oath of office) were committed by the President is not the only reason for impeachment. Misdemeanors could include minor things like nepotism, which Trump is obviously guilty of. Federal law (Title 5, section 3110) generally prohibits a federal official, including a Member of Congress, from appointing, promoting, or recommending for appointment or promotion any “relative” of the official to any agency or department over which the official exercises authority or control.
Not being able to remove a President from office takes away from the very idea of “Government of the people, by the people and for the people,” which is what this country is all about, so I’d be unhappy if we cannot do that. Trump’s removal wouldn’t make me happy, but it would satisfy me that power does indeed rest with the citizens of this country, not high officials like a President. If Presidents abuse their office, they are abusing us, so it is not prudent to allow such behavior until the next election.
I can envision a scenario in which Trump whips his supporters into such a frenzy, as he does at his “rallies” that people start wearing uniforms with red MAGA hats, and marching in formation to protect him, not the country, but him in particular. And we have seen this kind of behavior before. Adolph Hitler traveled around Germany, spewing propaganda, stirring up violence and racial hatred. His supporters attacked Jews, political opponents, German communists, gays, and gypsies. He didn’t have to do anything more than spread lies, and rumors, using it as propaganda in service of his plans for invasions of other countries. Hitler also promised to improve the economy of his country, but his war spending impoverished them, just a Trump will do if he tries to extend the pre-existing wall at the southern US border. What enemies will this Trump army attack? Not actual enemies of the United Sates of America, but other citizens, our own people, for, as Trump sees anyone who opposes him, they are the enemy. Trump is openly calling for civil war if he is impeached? Is that not reason enough to impeach him, now, before it is too late?
Because of Trump’s use of Mexicans as scapegoats, we hear that about 350,000 illegal immigrants voted in the last election, something no research can prove. It is a lie, along the very lines of the “Big Lies” that Hitler told, where you just keep repeating a lie over and over until so many people have heard it they take it as truth, and people are believing it.This fuels the various groups who believe Jews, Mexicans and anyone with brown skin wants to replace the “whites”.
I have also been asked, as a citizen of New Mexico, am I ashamed of having Mexico in the state’s name. Notwithstanding that New Mexico was so named about 250 years before there was a Mexico, this type of thinking comes directly from Trump’s denouncing Mexicans as rapists and murderers, which is like saying that mass shootings in the USA mean that we are all, all of us, mass murderers. I have been asked why we don’t change the name of our state, and it is even suggested that the Federal Government should require us to change the name of our state. This is Trump’s doing. He villainizes Mexicans – illegal or legal immigrants – in the exact same way as Hitler villainized Jews, which resulted in an attempt to exterminate all Jews.
Why is this traitor to the values and ethics of all that this country stands for still in office?
Over six years ago I had a heart attack. Too much plaque in the heart artery that feeds the heart muscle itself. Problems for some time before that, something I attributed – as did my doctor – to a recurrence of my childhood asthma. Overtired on exertion, falling way behind on hikes up the mountain. Getting weaker instead of stronger. I’ve climbed up the Sandia-Manzano mountains. Sandia Crest is at 10,679 feet above sea level. Manzano Peak is at 10,098 feet. I’ve climbed in the San Mateo Mountains, specifically to the highest point, up Mt. Taylor, to 11,306 feet, and I’ve snowshoed Mt. Taylor several times. Also climbed to the nearby La Mosca lookout tower at 11,036 ft. I’ve climbed Mount Baldy, at 10,783 feet, in the Magdalena Mountains. I’ve hiked in the Jemez mountains, including snowshoeing in the Valles Caldera. At 11,253 feet in elevation, the volcanic caldera is 13-miles wide. I’ve hiked and snowshoed often in New Mexico’s mountains.
After the heart attack, not as much. I still hike, usually once a week, sometimes two times a week. Sometimes I hike a fair distance, sometimes I hike really fast for just 70 to 90 minutes, a cardio hike. I figure I’m in good enough shape for my age. My knees never bother me. Since I had the angioplasty and stent placement 6 years ago, I’ve been good. No sign of any heart problems, but you never know.
Of late, I’ve noticed myself falling behind the others I hike with, and being very winded at times, more than usual. I’m sleepy often throughout the day. I used to catnap for 15 or 20 minutes, and be completely refreshed. Often I try that now, and sleep for an hour or two. I have no trouble sleeping through the night.
But, but, but. Today, after I’d taken another short nap, I awoke to a small sharp pain in the chest, just right of center. I researched it, and it’s likely not a heart attack, but it could be leading up to one. Possibly it’s angina, a symptom of heart disease. or it could have been a spasm. Either of those can occur during sleep, and generally last 5 to 15 minutes. This one lasted two to three hours. Took some Advil and then some aspirin.
The more likely cause is a blood clot traveling to my lungs, as I had none of the heart attack symptoms I’d experienced before, nor any of the other classic symptoms. The reason for this could be that I badly sprained my right ankle a month ago. A lot of blood clotted around it, giving me bruises all around the ankle and even between my toes. I’ve been wearing a stabilizing boot since then. There is also a small (3mm) chip fracture on the talus bone of my ankle. I can walk fine with or without the boot, but the doc gave me two more weeks to keep wearing the boot. I hate it. But, it could be that the ankle injury is the source of a blood clot, if that’s what it was. Painful anyway. The pain is gone now, but it could come back. I don’t know what caused it.
I was supposed to have had a checkup with my cardiologist two weeks ago. Arrived 20 minutes early for a 3:45pm appointment. Checked in and waited. And waited. The few people there all got called in. I waited. More people showed up until there was quite a crowd. There are a lot of doctors there. At 3:45, a tall healthy-looking man checked in, saying he had a 4:00pm appointment with my doctor. He was called shortly. I waited. About 10 minutes later, I got called to the examining room, to have my vital signs read. I told the woman taking them about experiencing weakness, and sleepiness as before my heart attack six years ago. She left, said the doctor would be in shortly.
I sat there, unhappy. The reason I’d come early was hoping to get out by 4:15, as I had an important commitment at 5pm. As I sat, I could hear my doctor’s voice next door, with the man I’d seen come in 20 minutes after me. I waited. But, by 4:30, I had to leave, and I stopped at the reception desk to tell them I was leaving. Never heard back.
Now this sudden pain. I thought about making another appointment, but never got around to it. I could die any time, so I figured I’d get an online will started while I still could. Such a strange thing it is to contemplate a will!
I rent, so I have no property to leave behind. I have only the money in the bank that comes in and goes out every month. I save, but things always come up to spend it on, necessary things, like repairs to my aging car and much older motorcycle. Sometimes I have to travel to family events, and none of them live nearby. Anyway, I have little in the way of tangible assets. But, there are things I’d like to leave to family. I have way too many things, like music CDs and vinyl albums. Tons of books. Some paintings, but mostly prints. A few coins. Not really a whole lot, but I’ve been to enough estate sales to know what happens to all the stuff you think is worth something. It’s all junk, sold cheap. Some things can be worth a goodly amount, but no one knows, unless someone hires a professional appraiser. But few family ever do that, unless the deceased was extremely wealthy. As it happens, I am not. Wealthy. Or deceased, as yet.
But it sure got me thinking about who I could give my things away too. So much of it has little enough financial worth. I thought about who might enjoy this small sculpture, or that old painting, or the coins, or a keepsake from the winery I worked at for eight years before it closed. Some things I’d like to have go to family who would appreciate it. I have too much stuff, sure, and much of it can be sold off at an estate sale for whatever they can get; that’s fine. Sitting here for hours today while the pain subsided, deciding who should get what, and not wanting to slight anyone, but not having so much to give everyone something, even if they actually would want it. 1st world problems. And yet, I’d like family members I love to know I was thinking about them. I like to make people smile, especially those I love. My estate, what a joke. Cheap material goods.
What was my life? Flipping burgers. High school diploma. Working in a college physics lab, measuring x-ray wavelengths and spaces between atoms in silicon crystals, a useful thing to know later on for computer technology. But I left that lab before the computer chip revolution hit. Spent years traveling, working for a carnival, a bronze foundry. Settled down in another state 1,675 miles away as the crow flies, but I rode my bicycle there over countless miles. Poured concrete, laid concrete block, installed park benches and steel doors. Treasurer of my union local. Finally got a job back in the sciences, giving tumors to rats, and treating them with chemotherapy drugs and x-rays. I did continue in Cancer Research a bit, then worked Quality Control at a printed circuit board company for three years. Finally went back and got another job at a medical school working first with mice, and their immune system proteins, then with research machines.
I took night school classes for years until I finally got a Bachelors of Arts college degree, a dual major of English (Creative Writing) and Distributed Sciences. I had studied a lot of sciences over the years, but not enough in any one field to get a diploma in it, not even a Bachelors of Science. Never did much with the writing part of my education, but I ended up making synthetic proteins for medical research, and synthetic DNA and RNA as well later on. I could also sequence proteins, or DNA, or analyze the amino acid content of proteins, or purify proteins and DNA. I ran a lab, balanced my budget, kept database records, worked independently. Finally retired with a small pension. Then I made wine for eight years at a small winery until the vintner died, and we had to close the winery. Now I take acting lessons, hike in the mountains, work occasionally as a background actor on movies and TV shows. Still hoping to land a good speaking role, one that brings me recognition, something to show that my life had meaning.
Yeah, I had lovers as I traveled, and met someone I wanted to spend my life with, but all I got was a bit less than two years with her. Married sometime later to a great woman, but after seven years that was over too. Two stepkids I never got to spend time with again. Then I married again. Two more stepkids. That 14-year relationship was fun, but ran out of steam and died. However, I did realize that I loved my stepdaughter when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Fortunately we’ve been able to stay connected, even making wine together for those eight years at the winery. She survived after surgery, chemotherapy, radiation and more chemo. How strange to find those chemicals and x-rays I used on rats used successfully on a human being I loved.
So perhaps I did accomplish something significant after all, Perhaps my work on x-rays in silicon and germanium crystals helped create the computers to run those fancy treatment machines. Perhaps the work I did on rats helped establish correct dosages of chemotherapy drugs and x-rays. Perhaps my work helping calibrate x-ray wavelengths helped doctors calculate just how much energy was necessary to kill a tumor and not the person. All the people that work in science, even those that just run the machines, and conduct the experimental protocols, contribute, each in our own small way, to a much greater good.
And, goddamnit, my step daughter is alive and healthy. And I love her. I finally learned that love is when you truly care about someone, about their happiness, and not just your own. Love is not about having another person. It’s about loving, without expecting anything in return. That’s what I think. If I’m still alive tomorrow morning, I’m going to call the doctor’s office, get in there as soon as possible, and do what it takes to stay alive. Because I love someone, and I like that feeling.
Just realized I was writing my own obituary. Hmph. Got things to do yet.
UPDATE: Cardiologist says the pain in my chest is just a pulled muscle. (I thought the heart was a muscle?). Saw a gastroenterologist. Been coughing for 7 or 8 months. Having trouble swallowing, and things seem to get stuck easily. Sometimes a mouthful of water won’t go down, and when I swallow it’s mildly painful. So, I had an endoscopy – that’s where they shove a small HDTV camera down your throat, way down there. Nothing serious. Some inflammation, but mostly two constricted areas, caused by acid reflux. So they sent another device down to stretch those areas out wider. Caused a slight tear in the esophagus, but no big deal. Meanwhile my lower jaw had been sore that day, but I wasn’t allowed to take anything for pain. Went to a dentist afterwards. Pain was so bad by then I had a death grip on the dental chair. Lots of x-rays -18. Looked like a root canal infection, among other things. Regular dentists don’t do those anymore – you have to go to a root canal dentist. In the meantime, Yeah, you guessed it – bigger fees. Prescription for amoxicillin. Told me to alternate high does of Advil and Tylenol until that antibiotic kicked in, 24 to 48 hours. Took longer. But no pain now. Regular dental appointment in two days. Root canal appointment in two weeks. Expensive. This getting old is really pricey, even with insurance. But, I’m feeling better psychologically. Enjoying some reading. Digging on some good music.
She came into my life accidentally, like a storm on a sunny day. I say accidentally, but I had been looking for someone like her for a long time. I’d been moving from place to place randomly, working odd jobs, making molds from wet sand/clay mixtures and filling them with molten bronze for windchimes, or working as a carnival electrician, hooking up all the rides, joints and food stands. I was on the road a lot, bicycling my way back and forth across the United States when I met her.
Although I had initially traveled alone, after my last job I had joined a group of bicyclists touring the country in the year of the Bicentennial. We made many stops along the way, staying at community centers or in people’s homes. I’d met a lot of interesting people that way. When I first arrived in the city of Albuquerque, we’d been interviewed by a couple of radio stations, and I’d met Andrea, a pretty lawyer who worked for the ACLU. We talked about S.1, the Criminal Justice Reform Act being debated in Congress to reform federal rules of criminal codes. This had application to those of us who’d been arrested protesting the Vietnam war, and so many others who‘d been arrested for possession of marijuana, a crime created by the nearly defunct FBI in the 1930s to shift the agency from policing bootlegging to policing other drugs. She offered her place as a homestay, but only for one night. I had been hoping to share her bed, horny dog that I was, but she actually left for her boyfriend’s place. I slept in a real bed for the first time in months, and conked out the second my head hit the pillow.
In the morning I had breakfast with Frank and Gladys, a friendly couple who taught at the University. Then my bicycle group had literature tables to work, to set up on campus. We were more than bicyclists. Our library was full of information on alternative lifestyles like communes, composting toilets, solar energy devices, anti-war tracts, such as Give Me Water, a Japanese booklet on the after-effects of Hiroshima, as well as other books with advice for living off grid, and ideas for creating new, peaceful, environmentally friendly ways of living. There were workshops too. My job was showing films, about nutrition, the dangers of refined sugar, the pitfalls of nuclear energy, energy alternatives, and space exploration using stable points in Earth orbit. The movie on nuclear energy problems, like transportation, leakage and waste disposal drew a crowd from the American Nuclear Society, who were all too happy to let us know how clean and safe nuclear energy really was.
The next day is when I met Isla, a former journalist, Peace Corps volunteer, and currently director of a public advocacy group, who had offered her home to any of us that needed a space to crash while we visited her city. I don’t know if she’d cleared that with her husband before making that offer. He was a nice guy, a jewelry maker, but she was her own woman. There had been a list of these prearranged homestays (crash houses, I called ‘em), and I picked her place, not yet knowing whose place it was. I had dialed a number. A woman’s voice had answered. She had seemed quite happy that someone had called, and told me to come by that evening. The bicycle group had a sag wagon, an old school bus, powered by propane, and painted white. It sported a library, a folded-down wind generator, and a cook stove, but it had no bathroom or shower, and oh boy! did I need a shower. When I arrived, dinner was ready. This friendly couple welcomed me into their very small home near the zoo. I had been expecting an elderly couple, because in my experience staying in the homes of church people, years earlier, who had supported us anti-war protesters when we were far from home, they’d always been wrinkly old couples.
Isla surprised me. She was young and beautiful with dark eyes and dark hair, native to the city. Carl was tall, blond, and imposing, but very friendly. The hot meal was quite welcome, as well as the warm talk we’d shared. I’d be in town for a few more days, so this was a welcome surprise, and I felt extremely lucky, unless there was a hidden motive for having me there. It had happened before.
As it neared bedtime, Isla grabbed her stash, while Carl went off to bed. He started work in the early mornings. So Isla and I got stoned. The weed was excellent. Back then, marijuana was tamer, and simply relaxed you, putting you into a pleasant mood. These days I never touch the stuff. I lost interest, for one thing, needing every bit of my brain alert and active for work, and because the newer stuff has been hybridized, crossbred to maximize the yield of psychoactive cannabinoids. Way too potent and stupefying.
But, at the time, sitting there in Isla’s living room, talking about revolution, and politics – both sexual and liberation – I was hypnotized by this woman. Of course, I was horny; I was twenty five. But this woman had a college education, had traveled the world, worked in New York City for one of the big national news agencies, and had a laugh that warmed my soul. However, as she was married, I put those thoughts aside, and simply enjoyed her company. I was, after all, a guest of Isla and Carl, and they were openhearted and warm people, despite my having seen, while in the bathroom, a bumper sticker on the toilet, under the seat, that said “Castrate Rapists.” A bit unnerving when you’ve just lifted the seat to pee, but I understood the sentiment. Rape was a serious problem, and I’d come near to having it happen to me as well. Isla and I discussed her sticker. She was angry, incensed really, about the amount of rape in the world.
One morning, a Saturday, Carl had driven off to his shop. I found myself without any of the bicycle group events to attend, so Isla offered to take me around the city. That made me happy. I was surprised that she drove a sports car, a little green British MGB. Isla was a real joy, full of delightful conversation and a fountain of information about the city. She drove north through a valley full of large rich homes with huge lawns, surrounded by imposing trees – cottonwoods – which I had never seen before. I was so surprised to see such greenery in an area I’d thought of as a desert. This city seemed like an oasis. We stopped by Carl’s workplace, as there was a great local restaurant nearby where we could all have lunch together. Carl was pretty busy, and didn’t have time to join us. And it turned out the restaurant was in the middle of renovations anyway, so we drove off.
We found an old landmark restaurant not far away. It was my first introduction to enchiladas, refried beans, tortillas, and real chile. However, Isla was very disappointed by the quality of the food, especially the beans. She told me the food was too dry, and badly seasoned. She’d grown up with the real thing, and this touristy food was crap, she said. So, she suggested we leave without paying. Seeing as how I was a stranger in town, without much money, and allergic to jail, I was appalled at the very idea. I’d never even considered doing such a thing. However, Isla was a very forceful woman, with strong opinions, and very sure of herself, so we left. I felt guilty, but whenever I’d bring it up, she simply smiled, such a big warm, friendly smile, that I just had to let it go.
I didn’t see much of Isla most days, as she worked, and the bicycle group kept me busy. Besides the workshops and films, we visited a solar energy factory, met the owners, and spent hours learning about the work they did, passive versus active solar, heat sinks, and homes designed to take advantage of the sun’s position in the sky for maximum efficiency. There was plenty to do and see.
One night I invited Isla and Carl to a potluck dinner near campus, and they brought strawberry shortcake. I was loving all this: good food, friendly people, traveling with a group of supportive people, thinking we were making a difference in the world. After dinner, Isla and Carl invited me to a party. A party! All that time bicycling, pushing and pulling those pedals hour after hour, day after day, camping in the mountains, never staying more than a couple days in any one place. Of course I wanted to party.
The music was mostly reggae, extremely popular among people our age in 1976, especially after a movie called The Harder They Come had come out in 1973, featuring Jamaica and the music of Jimmy Cliff. Since I’d been mostly on the road since then, I’d not seen it. It was my first time dancing to that reggae beat, and I loved it. I didn’t know anyone there, and the women seemed to be all paired off already, so I danced with Isla. Carl was not interested in dancing, and he didn’t mind that Isla danced with me. I drank some wine, something else I rarely did. And Isla and I danced. We started flirting, or maybe continued to flirt; I don’t know, but it was fun to dance with her. Our late-night talks and pot smoking had conspired to make me feel close to her. After one long, energetic song had ended, we stepped away from the dancers. I don’t know why I did it – I’m not usually so bold – I kissed her. It was just a quick peck. I’d spent some time with her, and she’d been so nice to me. I really hadn’t expected anything more from her. She smiled so sweetly. I knew her husband was in the house somewhere, and I was thirsty after all that dancing. I thanked her for the dances, and turned to get something to drink.
She grabbed my hand, and pulled me. I followed her into the bathroom. She locked the door.
Déjà vu. Once, in high school, just after I’d gone to a couple of dances with my fourth-cousin Emily, I’d stopped to visit her one day on my way home. Her mother was busy with the other three kids, her father at work, and Emily and I had just decided it was already past time to be making out. She had motioned up stairs. I had innocently suggested the bedroom, thinking we wouldn’t be seen there, but Emily had immediately reacted with a look of horror, grabbed my hand and locked us in the bathroom. I was very nervous, worried that someone would try the door, find us there. Emily’s father was a strict no-nonsense guy. I tentatively put my arms around her, and kissed her lightly, but I couldn’t stop thinking about being caught. And, of course, I missed my chance. There was a knock on the door. It was one of her twin sisters. She yelled through the door: “Mom wants you!” Emily had the same kind of parents I did so she knew she had to go immediately. I heard her sister say she’d been waiting for the bathroom. I hid behind the shower curtain, not knowing what to do and not wanting to be seen. But the sister came in and I knew I couldn’t be in there then either, so I jumped out, said: “Boo,” and snuck down the stairs.
So, here I was again. This time, with Isla, I didn’t hesitate. We kissed, and kissed, and our hands were everywhere. I hadn’t any idea this could happen, but suddenly it was unstoppable. In the back of my mind was this complication, this image of her husband kicking the door in, big trouble, but I was too excited and happy to really care. She was so supple and warm and her lips so mmmm. Then, of course, there was the loud knock on the door, the doorknob being wiggled, and Carl asking, “Isla, are you in there?” Shit! Not again. No shower curtain, and really, that would not have helped. Isla turned off the light, which made no sense. The door was locked. The light was obvious spilling out from under the door, and through the old fashioned key hole. I turned the light back on, and opened the door, expecting hell. Carl was a big dude. He stared at me with a look of surprise, then incomprehension, which morphed into hurt, and finally anger, in the space of a second. He turned towards Isla, then spun on his heel and marched away, like a soldier ordered to about face. Isla turned to me, said, “I’ll go talk to him,” and ran after him. Not knowing what else to do, I wandered back into the living room and found someone to dance with. When the music ended, I simply leaned against a wall, wondering what I should do. I didn’t know where I was exactly, I had no money, no ride, no other place I could go to. I didn’t even know the people who owned the house.
Isla came back. She told me they were leaving, going home. It was obvious I couldn’t go with them, and she said I’d have to find a ride. I heard the car doors slam, and the car roar away. I asked around, finally found someone who would give me a ride to the University area where our support bus was. Found it, but when I got there, there was no one around. I slept on the bus floor. In the morning the trip organizer, and owner of the bus, wondered what I was doing there. I made some excuse about being at a party, having to suddenly find a place to sleep. She obviously had more questions, but she didn’t press me. The bus was parked in front of a house, and she told me I could shower in there. I put on some clean clothes after, and found something to eat on the bus. I was hanging out, quietly, thinking I should leave town early, when Isla drove up. She came right over and hugged me. She was so happy to see me. She said she wasn’t sure she’d find me. “What happened?” I blurted out. She said they’d argued all night, then decided to separate. She asked me to come with her. I went. She was driving me back to the house we’d partied at the night before. She said no one would be home, and her friends there told her we could use it. I almost said, “Use it. For…?” but the look in Isla’s eyes was enough. We’d sparked something, and a fire was smouldering.
She had a key, and opened the door. There was a small room opposite the bathroom where our spark had ignited the night before. We were kissing so much it was hard to get our clothes off. After a bit of fumbling, they were gone. O, she was so gorgeous, and she felt so good against my body. Kissing. Touching. Melting into each other. Did we fuck? Of course we fucked, the fucking where time slips away, and there is nothing else, no one, no husband, no bicyclists, nothing at all but purest pleasure.
A black-faced Colm and a red-skinned Seamus met in front of the Church of Adam and Eve, a half-mile from their Dublin homes. When religion had been outlawed in Ireland in 1698, people went through a pub, called the Adam and Eve, into the back room, where they heard Mass. A church had been built on the site of the pub after the Penal Laws had been repealed in 1829. Tonight it was just a rendezvous.
Have you seen Mary yet?” Colm asked, and hastily added, “And the others?” “No, but I can hear her,” Seamus answered. “Ah, yes, that’s Mary’s voice,” Colm sighed. “I surely do love her singing.” Colm could not disguise the giddiness in his voice. He’d gotten a ring in his portion of bairin breac that very evening. A ring in your fruitcake foretold marriage. He’d been hoping for a coin to foretell wealth, but the ring made him think of Mary. He planned to give it to her this very night.
Seamus giggled, and would have teased Colm about Mary, but he’d already received enough teasing about his bad luck at snap-apple. In snap-apple, a pair of crossed sticks were hung from the ceiling. One stick held an apple, and the other a burning candle, and the sticks were spun. Seamus had singed his eyebrows trying to bite the apple, and had ended up with black streaks across his face. He’d decided to complete the effect by blackening his face with soot, and now wore all black from toe to cap. Next year he resolved to stick with bobbing for apples. That way he’d only get wet, at the worst.
Colm had painted his face and arms red and wore a red cape made from an old tablecloth over his bright red shirt. Around the corner swung Mary, singing, followed by Casey and her younger brother Gerry. Casey wore her father’s rough farm clothes, and Gerry wore his sister’s white Communion dress and even her white shoes. Mary was dressed all in green – bright green socks, and dark green dress, covered by a green and white shawl that reminded Colm of a field of clover.
“Are ye ready, my fine Guisers?,” asked Mary of the group. On Halloween in Dublin, young people, known as Guisers, dressed up and painted or masked their faces. They roamed the countryside, pretending to be the returning dead or creatures of the Otherworld. Seamus said solemnly, “Yes, Goddess of the Land. The Lord of the Dead is ready.” “We’re ready,” laughed Colm and the others.
And they had a fine time of it that night too. Colm and Seamus moved grouchy old McCann’s privy from his backyard to his front door. Mary and Casey let Mrs. McDermott’s prize bull out, and he was now with Father O’Malley’s cows. Gerry had poured water down his uncle’s chimney, and they all knocked on every door they came across, then ran away as fast as they could before the cowed inhabitants could answer.
On Samhain, summer’s end and the eve of winter, the time-stream was interrupted, allowing communications between this world and the Otherworld. The dead could return to the places where they had lived.
Food for the dead was put out ceremonially, indoors or out-of-doors. Gates and windows were left unlocked to give the dead free passage. Besides the spirits of dead humans, swarms of sidh, or fairy beings, came into the world on November Eve, but not all of these creatures were friendly. Most doors that these Dublin Guisers knocked on that night had Jack-o’-lanterns carved out of turnips next to them. These simulated spirit guardians, and were placed at doorways to keep out unwelcome visitors from the Otherworld. “I’m hungry,” Colm announced. Mary grabbed Colm’s hand and together they all left their pranks and began parading through the central part of town, asking for apples and hazelnuts, as was the custom there. Apples are the sacred fruit, which, eaten by the dead, bestow a blissful mortality upon them this night. Hazelnuts are symbols of wisdom, and are freely given to all who ask.
Pockets bulging with their loot, the group gathered around one of the great bonfires, lit for this occasion, and warmed their hands while stuffing their mouths with hazelnuts. Colm slipped the ring onto Mary’s finger. Their faces glowed in the light.
The competition between the winter-god and the summer-god (or winter and summer aspects of the same god) is almost over. On November 1st, the winter-god, who is, among other things, the Lord of the Dead, comes back into his own, and the dark cycle of the Celtic New Year begins.
Recently, I applied to audition for a movie. I use a site called Actor’s Access. One pays a yearly fee, or per submission. I’ve had an account there for at least two years, and I keep it updated. I receive emails notifying me of acting jobs in my area. I have never gotten a reply to any of my submissions until recently. It was an out-of-state job, and for the first time, I applied. I never had done so before, because it’s a huge waste of time and money to travel long distances for an audition. I applied, with no expectations. But, of course, this time, the production contacted me. I would have to submit a video audition.
When you are going to audition, there are two things that usually happen. Either you receive the “sides” ahead of time in order to audition with the lines memorized, or you are handed the sides when you show up at the audition – which is called a cold read. (“Sides” are bits of the script containing your character’s lines – a whole scene or part of a scene.) In a cold read, you might have a few minutes to look it over and think about how you want to want to play it, with an optional way to play it as well. There’s no time to memorize it, and you are not expected to. However, you cannot audition looking down at a piece of paper, nor can you hold it up, as it becomes a huge distraction on camera. So you try to hold it horizontal, within range of your vision when you look down. You also cannot audition looking up and down while you’re doing the lines.
The trick is to know the very first line. Then you look down, get the next line in your head, and look at the reader or at a point very near the camera lens. You cannot look directly at the lens, unless they ask you to, or it’s for a commercial. Once an acting teacher told the class to look down at your lines while the other actor, in a dialogue, is speaking. No, you cannot do that. I wasted a lot of time in auditions because I did that. One thing the casting director or agent is looking for is the reaction on your face to what the other person in saying. If you’re looking for your next line, while the other person is speaking, you’ve blown your chance. Thank you for coming in today. Next!
So, what one has to do is look down just before the other person speaks or just after. You must be looking at the person while they speak, even if it’s “just a reader”. Readers in auditions speak in soft monotones. There are too close to the microphone to speak loudly. But you have to look at them. Sometimes you’ll forget the line or part of it. What I’ve learned is 1.) never apologize. 2.) Don’t stop. 3.) Look at your lines, and start the sentence over that you choked on. In movies and TV, it doesn’t matter. It takes little time to redo the line, and the blown line can be edited out. They may ask you to start over, but that can be a waste of time for busy casting directors.
All this has just been to prepare you for what happened when I was asked to prepare a video audition and submit it. No sides! They gave me nothing to work on, no lines at all. This was a first for me. I was asked to write my own scene. No preference as to monologue or dialogue. What I was given where a list of things my character was like, the things he believed in, his quirkiness, and references to similar characters we’ve all seen before.
My video was to be at least two minutes, but less than three.
I got it done, after a surprising number or takes. I had one I liked best, so I uploaded it. That was a bit scary, because the submission deadline was fast approaching, and video uploads are deadly slow. However, it finished uploading in time for me to submit it, with five minutes to spare. Yeah, I should have submitted it much sooner. However, the monologue scene I wrote was too long when I was actually performing it. I had to keep modifying the lines, shortening them, cutting, doing the whole thing faster, without rushing it. Tricky. And then I wasn’t happy with my performance, so I did it over and over until it felt right, and funny. I’m not that good at being funny. But, it made me laugh. Then again, since I wrote it, I was biased.
I never heard a thing back – par for the course. So, I can’t upload the video here, because I’d have to sign up for a pro account for a whole year to do that. And, they might object to a video that gave away something about the movie before its debut.
However, since the writing is mine, and I created the character, I’m going to at least show you what I wrote, after a whole lot of editing to pare it to three minutes:
What do you mean you can’t find love? Our destiny is love. Listen…. Love begins as attraction. All cosmic bodies are attracted to each other. It’s not just gravity. We know a lot about the effects of gravity, but the actual force is a mystery. Why can’t we call it love?
Look at molecular attractions. Negatively charged electrons are attracted to positively charged protons. This attraction is what holds atoms together. There are many protons in a nucleus which should repel each other because of their negative charges. But they are held together by a stronger attractive force. Why not call that force, love?
We are made of stardust forged in the intense heat of stars. That means many things. Light travels the universe, and so can we. It’s within us, in the atoms and subatomic particles of every cell in our bodies.
Shit…. Where was I going? Yeaaah….
Oh yeah! Soulmates. You want to find a soulmate. Yes, you do. Everything and everyone is connected. Just as atoms pair up with compatible atoms, so do we have soul connections.
There’s electricity in our bodies, energy in our atoms. Electrons zooming this way and that. Did you know that as soon as you train an electron microscope on a structure, it changes? The energy of the ‘scope alters the energy level of the electrons, so you can never know what the structure is at any given moment.
Possibilities.
So, what’s the lesson here…? Ah, I know…. Yes. Here it is: don’t look so hard. You’ll never find love that way. Just let it be. Let it be, let it be…. Where was I? Exist! Bounce around like an electron. Change energy states. You’ll meet the ones who resonate with you.
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P.S. OK, OK, I can hear you think: I want to see the video. OK. I’ve Youtubed it:
Divorce is never a good thing, at the time. It may have been necessary. It may have been your choice, or not. It may have been something you cannot accept. But it is a lonely time nevertheless. You will probably stare out the windows a lot. In winter, you will see the death-like trees swaying in the wind. It can be a time of despair, sitting alone in a still house, realizing just how much you miss the marriage, the warm body in your bed, the company, the other person there when you come home from work. It is never easy to accept what has happened, or where you find yourself.
After marriage, divorce feels like death, barren, and desolate. Death is, of course, worse, but divorce hits you hard personally, like a punch in the gut, or running your head smack dab into a pole. That first night you sleep alone, when you know it’s over, and you’re on your own again – in an empty house – you notice the quiet alienness of the place where you are. Perhaps you live in the same place, and they are gone. Perhaps there are other people there, or children too, but it is just not the same. Your closest connection, your lover, your partner – gone.
There is a feeling of prison. The walls confine you. You want to get out, but outside is like winter, dark and cold, and you avoid it. Inside is not much better. You can distract yourself with family, friends, TV, music, books, food. There are poems to write, full of angst and despair and self pity. You write, hoping to find some acceptance, some understanding.
You can’t go to that special person any more. Maybe you’ll hear about them, or see them around, or have to exchange kids or other pleasantries. But that connection is gone. They are like a stranger you once knew, family you don’t get along with. You ask why? But, there is no answer to that question. It’s what it is, but you keep going round and round and asking: Why, why, why? You don’t come home anymore. Home is family, and that has changed. There’s a chill you can’t shake, even in summer. Sharing your life for years, maybe decades, and no more.
In summer, I felt that chill through the heat, sweating in the sun, or the night, keeping the cooler on until I fell asleep. But there was no comfort in an empty bed in an empty house that made me feel like I was barely alive. At times there was an overwhelming sense of despair. Yes, there are plenty of fish in the sea. Who cares? I went over all the events that led me here, analyzing everything said or done. I thought of prior relationships, what happened then, what happened now. Over and over, and over until I just wanted to stop those thoughts forever.
That first winter alone, certainly a winter of discontent, was an adjustment. Cats are nice, but a poor substitute for actual human touch, for conversation, for making plans, and going places together. I touched base with the few people I know well, but they have lives of their own, and my life did not feel like a life. Always, in my head, I was alone. A piece of myself had been cut out and discarded. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore. Christmas was coming. High suicide rate around holidays. Tempting, but not an option, just yet.
I decided I was going to get a tree, a nice aromatic evergreen. I decided to make a Christmas for myself, not one I could share, but just for myself anyway. I had no lights to decorate with, no ornaments for the tree. eBay. Problem solved. I found ornaments and lights, like my parents had for me, three bothers and three sisters. There are a few bad memories from back then, but so many joyful ones, like finding a bright and fragrant tree, twinkling and radiant, as we all came down the creaking stairs, holding on to the banister, so we didn’t have to worry about forgetting to take one stair at a time, or tripping over each other. Presents under the tree. Stockings full of fruit and nuts and candy hanging on the fake fireplace mantle, over fake electric logs.
On eBay, the old, thin, glass ornaments have indentations. They are known as indents, double indents, triple indents. There are glass ornaments in the shape of teardrops, small and large. There are miniature Santas, stars, pine cones, tiny little glass balls, or baseball-sized ones, and fragile, every last one. When I was young, sometimes I would press my thumb into an indent, testing it, and sure enough they broke easily. Once, my parents could forgive. But every year I was tempted all over again. Every time I broke one, I marveled at their fragility.
I couldn’t understand why things were made that could so easily be broken.
And I was terrified. But I discovered that I could drop the pieces on the floor, blame it on the dog, or cat. My parents seemed to accept that. Eventually I learned to appreciate the ornaments for what they were, for their fragility, and their beauty.
Done. After months of loneliness, despair, and longing for someone, or something, for peace, anything different from that bleak existence, walking the Bosque in winter, those lifeless trees so deathlike in their slumber, and then, months of shopping, I had dozens of ornaments from people on eBay who no longer wanted them. I wanted them. I even found some in antique shops and second-hand stores. I also found bubble lights, those fascinating multi-colored, liquid-filled tubes heated by small bulbs, bubbling away for hours on end. I bought a tall bushy green tree for them from a Christmas tree lot.
I tapped into memories. Music filled the house – not that Christmas schmaltz, but jazz, blues and classic rock. All was bright and colorful. I built a real fire in the fireplace. The house felt warm, over and above the heat. I felt an acceptance of where I am. This lonely space with prison walls was not so quiet. The music made me smile, and the fire popped, spit and crackled. Home. This house feels like a home now, for one person, but less fragile.
A man on a beach. He appears to be sleeping. Could be dead. The wind blows his hair back from his forehead. He stirs. His eyes are closed, his face contorted. Perhaps he is dreaming.
______________________________________________________________________________
I am damned uncomfortable. Damn, it’s hot! I’m stiff, sore in parts of my body. I must be asleep, but I can’t wake up. I want this dream to end. Still, I feel a breeze, a hot breeze, as though the air conditioning is off and someone has left a window open. Enough of this. Things aren’t right. Someone will pay for this. I open my eyes to blinding light. A spotlight? Is there a TV crew in my bedroom? I can’t see anything. “Turn that damn light off,” I yell. No one answers. Impossible.
I close my eyes, then crack them open just a little. Squinting, I know something is wrong. I yell, scream at the top of my lungs, the sound coming from deep inside of me, maybe. No one answers, no one comes. Impossible. I am not in my bed. I don’t know where I am. Shapes moving, wind, far away sounds. I close my eyes again. Maybe I’m still dreaming. I relax. I’ll wait a bit. My hands. There’s something in my hands, or under them? It’s dirt, or maybe sand, I don’t know. Now I feel it under my back, the ground, hard and scratchy. There might be sticks, rocks under me. I sit up. I raise my hand to my eyes, shielding them from the light. I open my eyes slowly. Yes. That’s the sun. I must be outside. I am sitting on the ground, on dirt. I’m awake. My eyes are adjusting to the hot, burning sunlight. The shapes I saw are big trees, big leaves moved by wind. The wind is very hot. This is not a park, not a golf course, not the West Lawn. Looks like some piece of undeveloped land, maybe some lazy ass’s property not taken care of. There are dead trees too, with no leaves. Dead leaves on the ground. Not cleaned up. Damn lazy people! I stand up. I am barefoot. I look down. I have no pants. I feel my magnificent chest. It’s bare. I have no shirt. No clothes. I scream obscenities. I yell, “Who has done this to me? Why me! Of all people, why me?” Where the hell is my wife? How could she let this happen to me? Where are my security people? I’ll call…. I don’t have a phone. That’s right. No pockets. I look around, there is no sign of my clothes or my phone. It’s a nightmare; a walking nightmare. Things like this don’t happen. Not to me. A hat. I really need a hat. My head is so hot. I wipe sweat off my forehead, and I feel my hair. It feels like straw, dry, stiff. Where is my assistant. I need a comb. I need a shower. O god o god o god! What has happened to me? This is impossible. Everyone loves me. God loves me. Then why? Why why why why why. I scream again for security, for my assistant, for my damn absent wife. No answers. How can this be? I scream and scream. Nothing. My throat is dry now, raw, almost hoarse. I need a drink. Water, Yes. No. A beer. “Someone bring me a beer,” I shout. “Now!” I’m just rambling. There really is no one. No one to answer me, no one to call, no tweets to send. This is torture. Thirst. So damned thirsty. I have to find water, at least. I walk. I pass endless trees, but there’s no fountain, no pool, no stream. Not anything but these damn swaying trees. Am I dead? Am I in heaven? In hell? What could this be? No people. Just me. Funny, sometimes I wished for that, a world free of people, my world just for me. Well, maybe a few people. Smart people like me. Like me. People like me. I need to see another person, a few people, a rally. Yeah, the feeling I get when people yell my name, when they worship me, tell me they pray for me, love me. But there’s no one. No one to talk at. No one to cheer me. No one to blame. It’s not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault. Of course it’s not. How could it be my fault? Enemies. They’ve kidnapped me! Dumped me some godforsaken place, in some shithole of a country. Democrats! Liberals! Even traitors in my own party! They think they can get rid of me this way? Just like them to do something this sneaky. No one points a finger at them. No one except me. How dare they? I know how to handle people. I’ll destroy them, humiliate them, destroy them all. They’ll pay! And pay and pay and pay. God! I am so thirsty. Water, water, waa-ter, waaa-ter, waaaa-ter. My tongue hurts. Someone bring me water, damn it! I’ll die! Look, I’ll pay anything. Anything! Name your price. That’s how it works. Yes. Name your price. I’ll dicker. We can haggle. Everyone has a price. Everyone wants money, even when they don’t deserve it. O god, what if it wasn’t the Liberals? What if it was terrorists? O, what’s the difference? What if I’m being held for ransom? No, no, I would have been rescued by now. I’ve been abandoned. I knew it! Everyone has turned on me. Water. So dry, so tired. My skin is burning. My head is so hot. I can’t take any more of this. It’s impossible. This can’t be happening. Not to me. To me, no, not never. No. Not to me, to me, not to me, to me, to me, me, me, meeeeeeee!
A beach. Several boats landing. Military personnel jump out, walk slowly up the beach. A body lies above the sloped sand, among the trees. They advance, cautiously. They from a circle around the body, half of them look outwards, continuing to scan the area. Half look at the body. Male. Bloated or obese; it’s hard to tell. Pale, sunburned skin. Could it be? Two marines roll the body over. It is! It is. Yes. It’s the President. He’s dead. They call it in. Someone is sent to the boats for a blanket. The rest fan out, searching the island’s golf course, for something, anything to explain this. Guns are cocked. Eyes peer though filtered lenses, looking for suspects, someone, someone to explain, someone to blame.
Later, talking heads discussed his death endlessly on every news channel. A mystery. No obvious cause of death. He had only gone missing, from his bed, four days ago. Dead for two of those. Toxicology tests showed no sign of poisons or other toxins. No fluid in his lungs; he hadn’t drowned. His heart had obviously stopped beating, but no reason was found. There was no evidence of stoke. No bruising. No fingerprints on the body. Why did he have no clothes?
Speculations. There were plenty of those. Expert opinions given and endlessly debated. Accusations made. Mystery. How was it that no one knew where he was? Was he dumped here, in this spot? How was he killed? Somebody did something to him. It had to be murder. Assassination. There would be hell to pay. Maybe war. He didn’t just die, of that everyone was perfectly sure. That couldn’t happen.
A fiddle plays softly, mournfully at first, and then faster, louder, full of energy, becoming a jig, and feet are heard dancing. There is joyful singing.
It became time to write again. Happy Birthday to me. I turned 69 on October 8th. Went to the reunion of my high school class of 1969 earlier this year. In my senior year we all had orange and blue buttons that said simply: “69”. We loved it.
My step-daughter Maya’s birthday is September 26. Ever since her mother and I divorced, Maya and I have continued to celebrate holidays and birthdays together, and sometimes just do some wine tasting.
Maya posing
What?
We really like blind wine tastings. I used to be pretty good at it while we were both working for a winery. Now I drink less wine, and not much grape wine, so I have a hard time identifying one dark complex red from another. But it doesn’t matter. We always have fun at those.
For some years now, we get together on a mutually-agreed-upon date somewhere in between our birthdays, or perhaps after mine, to exchange small gifts and have a good dinner with some good wine. She was pretty busy around her birthday, and also picked up a nasty cold, so she actually stayed home on her birthday. Her dad sent her a video of himself and her nephew singing happy Birthday and blowing out some candles.
Finally we got together. We rode the tram up the mountain to the new restaurant here. The tramway itself opened in 1966.
One of two new tram cars approaching Sandia Crest.
The restaurant is called Ten-3, because it’s situated on the crest of the mountain ridge at 10,300 feet above sea level.
Wonderful place. The original High Finance Restaurant had been there since 1979, and had to be replaced. It closed in 2016. It was completely demolished and a new foundation put in, but weather up there is unpredictable. Forest fires, high winds and snow hampered the work. At times workers could not even get there. It took over two years to build the new one, and I’ve been not patiently waiting for it to open all that time. I used to hike up the mountain some early mornings and have lunch up there. A good cup of coffee, when it was chilly, or a nice beer after a long hike in the summer heat just could not be beat. Over the last two years, I watched the building slowly, slowly take shape.
Approaching the site
Frames for new windows!
Metal and Concrete
Concrete, rebar, more concrete
Construction
Construction
It opened mid-September, instead of Spring, but hey, it’s open now! There are two sections: the bar area, and the fine dining area. Different menus for each, but the food is good no matter where you sit. We opted for dinner, so Maya and I split a smoked pork belly appetizer, and the New Mexican Paella entree. It was plenty of food for us. There are other menu items, and some are very pricey, so if you’re looking to splurge, this is the place. When you add in the cost of a bottle of wine, and taking the Tramway up, it costs quite a bit. I wanted to experience eating high above the city again, but it was really worth the cost to treat Maya. She has been my absolute joy since she recovered from four years of brain surgery, chemo and radiation to treat the tumor they discovered in 2004.
I celebrate every day that she is alive. Her tumor is gone. She fully recovered, graduated from college, and even though she has a full-time job, a daily grind like most of us, she studied and received her Master’s Degree as well. She is doing well. Even while doing all that, she and I worked for a winery for ten years until it closed after the vintner’s death.
Since then we see each other less often, so it’s always a treat for me to see her smile and enjoy life. Although the experience of ascending the mountain, and experiencing those magnificent views east and west is exhilarating, there is nothing like spending time with Maya. She is intelligent but witty, hardworking but fun, runs to relieve stress, and enjoys her life and friends. She does not worry about a recurrence of cancer, or dying. She lives life now, and travels often. I am so incredibly lucky that she exists in my universe. There are times in my life when I am tired, lonely, and depressed, but just thinking about Maya always make my life worth living. I’m glad she has time for me.
I have many interests in my life, and I am sometimes busy as fuck, but a little time with Maya here and there, and I am happy. I love her. Her happiness succors me, calms me, and makes life bearable.
It is old and had never been properly cleaned. The latch broke years ago. The handle is falling apart. But, it works. The heating coils are built into the waffle plates. The waffle plates are screwed into the covers. The two halves are connected to each other, so even after I was able to remove the covers, I had to disconnect many of the power wires in order to separate the two and remove them. The main power lines run from inside one of the plates to a space on the outside where the power cord comes in, but that has a cover plate held in place by five screws. All of that was last week. I don’t make waffles every day, and I had to leave my house shortly after the disassembly.
Today, after I had coffee, I noticed I was hungry, and running through several options, I decided on waffles. I measured out and mixed all the ingredients from scratch, because only one restaurant in town makes buckwheat waffles, and they just don’t measure up. I like *buckwheat waffles made only from buckwheat flour, without having to add any wheat flour. If I’m lucky I find buckwheat honey for the batter: oil, vanilla, milk, honey, an egg, baking powder, and a little salt.
I reached for the waffle maker from inside my stove and it wasn’t there. After a quick search, and questioning my intelligence, I remembered that I had placed it on the fireplace banco for reassembly “later”. So, what to do? The batter was ready. I was hungry. Could I reassemble it? How long would that take? I looked all the parts over, and decided yes, damn it, I want waffles now, and I’m putting this sucker back together. No wiring or parts diagram available.
I had to see if I could remember enough to reason my way through it. Got it done.
It has no on/off switch; it powers on by plugging it in. So the acid test: plug it in. No pussyfooting around, I grabbed the power cord and inserted it into the socket. Nothing exploded, no fires broke out, no breaker blew. The heating and cooking lights came on. Unplugged it and greased up the plates. After letting it heat through a cook cycle, I was ready for batter. Poured the dark, speckled batter on the waffle plate and closed it up. The cook light went on.
Kept my eyes on it. I still didn’t trust my intuitive reassembly. The cook light went out. Yes. Perfectly cooked, with a nice toastiness and beautiful color. Success!
Irish butter. Check. Pure maple syrup. Check.
And damn these are good. Eat your heart out pancake houses and chain restaurants with your refined wheat flour library paste: stripped of fiber, nutrients and taste. These rock.
But maybe I should get an old-fashioned stove-top waffle iron, just in case.
My waffle recipe:
1/2 cup milk
1 egg
1/2 tsp pure vanilla (more or less)
2 tbsp oil (or melted butter)
1 tbsp honey (or raw sugar or molasses)
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
3/4 cup *buckwheat flour
*Buckwheat (Fagopyrum esculentum) is a plant cultivated for its grain-like seeds and as a cover crop. It is not a cereal grain. Despite the name, buckwheat is not related to wheat, as it is not a grass. Grown in North America, it is used to make Japanese soba noodles. In Canada, it’s used for pancakes, or made into groats (also known as kasha). A related and bitterer species, Fagopyrum tataricum, is a domesticated food plant raised in Asia.
Here are my photos from a party full of fun people: models, actors, photographers, artists, and at least one musician. It was also a birthday party for three of the attendees.
09/03/19
Well, six years ago I had a heart attack. Too much plaque in the heart artery that feeds the heart muscle itself. Problems for some time before that, something I attributed – as did my doctor – to a recurrence of my childhood asthma. Overtired on exertion, falling way behind on hikes up the mountain. Getting weaker instead of stronger. I’ve climbed up the Sandia-Manzano mountains. Sandia Crest is at 10,679 feet above sea level. Manzano Peak is at 10,098 feet. I’ve climbed in the San Mateo Mountains, specifically to the highest point, up Mt. Taylor, to 11,306 feet, and I’ve snowshoed Mt. Taylor several times. Also climbed to the nearby La Mosca lookout tower at 11,036 ft. I’ve climbed Mount Baldy, at 10,783 feet, in the Magdalena Mountains. I’ve hiked in the Jemez mountains, including snowshoeing in the Valles Caldera. At 11,253 feet in elevation, the volcanic caldera is 13-miles wide. I’ve hiked and snowshoed often in New Mexico’s mountains.
Valles Caldera
Valles Caldera mound
After the heart attack, not as much. I still hike, usually once a week, sometimes two times a week. Sometimes I hike a fair distance, sometimes I hike really fast for just 70 to 90 minutes, a cardio hike. I figure I’m in good enough shape for my age. My knees never bother me. Since I had the angioplasty and stent placement 6 years ago, I’ve been good. No sign of any heart problems, but you never know.
Of late, I’ve noticed myself falling behind the others I hike with, and being very winded at times, more than usual. I’m sleepy often throughout the day. I used to catnap for 15 or 20 minutes, and be completely refreshed. Often I try that now, and sleep for an hour or two. I have no trouble sleeping through the night.
But, but, but. Today, after I’d taken another short nap, I awoke to a small sharp pain in the chest, just right of center. I researched it, and it’s likely not a heart attack, but it could be leading up to one. Possibly it’s angina, a symptom of heart disease. or it could have been a spasm. Either of those can occur during sleep, and generally last 5 to 15 minutes. This one lasted two to three hours. Took some Advil and then some aspirin.
The more likely cause is a blood clot traveling to my lungs, as I had none of the heart attack symptoms I’d experienced before, nor any of the other classic symptoms. The reason for this could be that I badly sprained my right ankle a month ago. A lot of blood clotted around it, giving me bruises all around the ankle and even between my toes. I’ve been wearing a stabilizing boot since then. There is also a small (3mm) chip fracture on the talus bone of my ankle. I can walk fine with or without the boot, but the doc gave me two more weeks to keep wearing the boot. I hate it. But, it could be that the ankle injury is the source of a blood clot, if that’s what it was. Painful anyway. The pain is gone now, but it could come back. I don’t know what caused it.
I was supposed to have had a checkup with my cardiologist two weeks ago. Arrived 20 minutes early for a 3:45pm appointment. Checked in and waited. And waited. The few people there all got called in. I waited. More people showed up until there was quite a crowd. There are a lot of doctors there. At 3:45, a tall healthy-looking man checked in, saying he had a 4:00pm appointment with my doctor. He was called shortly. I waited. About 10 minutes later, I got called to the examining room, to have my vital signs read. I told the woman taking them about experiencing weakness, and sleepiness as before my heart attack six years ago. She left, said the doctor would be in shortly.
I sat there, unhappy. The reason I’d come early was hoping to get out by 4:15, as I had an important commitment at 5pm. As I sat, I could hear my doctor’s voice next door, with the man I’d seen come in 20 minutes after me. I waited. But, by 4:30, I had to leave, and I stopped at the reception desk to tell them I was leaving. Never heard back.
Now this sudden pain. I thought about making another appointment, but never got around to it. I could die any time, so I figured I’d get an online will started while I still could. Such a strange thing it is to contemplate a will!
I rent, so I have no property to leave behind. I have only the money in the bank that comes in and goes out every month. I save, but things always come up to spend it on, necessary things, like repairs to my aging car and much older motorcycle. Sometimes I have to travel to family events, and none of them live nearby. Anyway, I have little in the way of tangible assets. But, there are things I’d like to leave to family. I have way too many things, like music CDs and vinyl albums. Tons of books. Some paintings, but mostly prints. A few coins. Not really a whole lot, but I’ve been to enough estate sales to know what happens to all the stuff you think is worth something. It’s all junk, sold cheap. Some things can be worth a goodly amount, but no one knows, unless someone hires a professional appraiser. But few family ever do that, unless the deceased was extremely wealthy. As it happens, I am not. Wealthy. Or deceased, as yet.
But it sure got me thinking about who I could give my things away too. So much of it has little enough financial worth. I thought about who might enjoy this small sculpture, or that old painting, or the coins, or a keepsake from the winery I worked at for eight years before it closed. Some things I’d like to have go to family who would appreciate it. I have too much stuff, sure, and much of it can be sold off at an estate sale for whatever they can get; that’s fine. Sitting here for hours today while the pain subsided, deciding who should get what, and not wanting to slight anyone, but not having so much to give everyone something, even if they actually would want it. 1st world problems. And yet, I’d like family members I love to know I was thinking about them. I like to make people smile, especially those I love. My estate, what a joke. Cheap material goods.
What was my life? Flipping burgers. High school diploma. Working in a college physics lab, measuring x-ray wavelengths and spaces between atoms in silicon crystals, a useful thing to know later on for computer technology. But I left that lab before the computer chip revolution hit. Spent years traveling, working for a carnival, a bronze foundry. Settled down in another state 1,675 miles miles away as the crow flies, but I rode my bicycle there over countless miles. Poured concrete, laid concrete block, installed park benches and steel doors. Treasurer of my union local. Finally got a job back in the sciences, giving tumors to rats, and treating them with chemotherapy drugs and x-rays. I did continue in Cancer Research a bit, then worked Quality Control at a printed circuit board company for three years. Finally went back and got another job at a medical school working first with mice, and their immune system proteins, then with research machines.
I took night school classes for years until I finally got a Bachelors of Arts college degree, a dual major of English (Creative Writing) and Distributed Sciences. I had studied a lot of sciences over the years, but not enough in any one field to get a diploma in it, not even a Bachelors of Science. Never did much with the writing part of my education, but I ended up making synthetic proteins for medical research, and synthetic DNA and RNA as well later on. I could also sequence proteins, or DNA, or analyze the amino acid content of proteins, or purify proteins and DNA. I ran a lab, balanced my budget, kept database records, worked independently. Finally retired with a small pension. Then I made wine for eight years at a small winery until the vintner died, and we had to close the winery. Now I take acting lessons, hike in the mountains, work occasionally as a background actor on movies and TV shows. Still hoping to land a good speaking role, one that brings me recognition, something to show that my life had meaning.
Yeah, I had lovers as I traveled, and met someone I wanted to spend my life with, but all I got was a bit less than two years with her. Married sometime later to a great woman, but after seven years that was over too. Two stepkids I never got to spend time with again. Then I married again. Two more stepkids. That 14-year relationship was fun, but ran out of steam and died. However, I did realize that I loved my stepdaughter when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Fortunately we’ve been able to stay connected, even making wine together for those eight years at the winery. She survived after surgery, chemotherapy, radiation and more chemo. How strange to find those chemicals and x-rays I used on rats used successfully on a human being I loved.
So perhaps I did accomplish something significant after all, Perhaps my work on x-rays in silicon and germanium crystals helped create the computers to run those fancy treatment machines. Perhaps the work I did on rats helped establish correct dosages of chemotherapy drugs and x-rays. Perhaps my work helping calibrate x-ray wavelengths helped doctors calculate just how much energy was necessary to kill a tumor and not the person. All the people that work in science, even those that just run the machines, and conduct the experimental protocols contribute, each in our own small way, to a much greater good.
And, goddamnit, my step daughter is alive and healthy. And I love her. I finally learned that love is when you truly care about someone, about their happiness, and not just your own. Love is not about having another person. It’s about loving, without expecting anything in return. That’s what I think. If I’m still alive tomorrow morning, I’m going to call the doctor’s office, get in there as soon as possible, and do what it takes to stay alive. Because I love someone, and I like that feeling.
Just realized I was writing my own obituary. Hmph. Got things to do yet.
(09/05/19 UPDATE: The cardiologist says the pain in my chest is likely muscular, because of the lingering pain, and like a blood clot or angina. Blood pressure, however is high, so I need to monitor it twice a day for two weeks, report back).
Forget
icebergs melting
rising seas
or
more hurricanes
terrible tornadoes
flooding
drought
forest fires
crop failures
and economic disasters.
It gets worse
some like it hot –
bacteria: Vibrio vulnificus
the flesh eater
amoeba: Naegleria fowleri
the brain eater.
While food is scarce
or unaffordable
coastlines under water
storms apocalyptic
I sit in the rubble
of a water-logged house
surrounded by smoke
and funnel clouds.
The One Albuquerque Housing Fund enables the public to contribute directly to housing vouchers for individuals and families experiencing homelessness. “This is about us literally taking one person at a time off the streets,” said Albuquerque’s Mayor. This 17,800 pound moveable steel sculpture, a visual point of reference for the work that is going on, was funded partially by a $14,000 gift from the Senior Games organizing committee. Another $34,000 came from the lodgers tax. Each time it is moved the cost is about $5000.
It’s a fun sculpture. The city sells t-shirts with the logo based on the sculpture, and has has so far funded housing for two people. A popular slang term for the city is ‘Burque, so you can see that it is highlighted in red, and offset to make it really stand out.
I stopped by the sculpture, taking photos with Albuquerque native Maya Trujillo, who told me about it.
(The goal of this literary form is to make the reader envision the thing described as if it were physically present. In many cases, however, the subject never actually existed, making the ekphrastic description a demonstration of both the creative imagination and the skill of the writer. For most readers of famous Greek and Latin texts, it did not matter whether the subject was actual or imagined.)
Oil & canvas by Kyn Thurman
In the Between
[Prompts: vibrance (in the air), blush (candy apple), circus (cacophony), swirly cones (vanilla & choc)]
Breaking Down Carnivals
Sometimes you immerse yourself in something and you may not understand what it is until you back up and look at it from a distant perspective. And, yes, that’s my lead-in to a story, a story about a carnival.
Now, first off, a carnival is not a circus. No live animals, no rings, no ringmaster or clowns. But, both a circus and a carnival have a vibrance in the air, a cacophony of sound, bright lights and garish colors. Both have children. Each child has a candy-apple blush on their cheeks and a dripping swirly cone. But a circus is a static experience. People tend to sit on their asses, watching, laughing and generally being entertained entirely stationary, just as one watches television. There are staged animals acts, professional acrobats, and clowns. Except for the smells, the experience is a lot like TV.
I joined a carnival when I was 23 years old. At first, I was only looking to make a few bucks by helping take everything down, in preparation for the move to the next town. I helped disassemble a Ferris wheel.
The first “Ferris” wheel, was actually called Ferris’ wheel, after George Washington Gale Ferris Jr., an engineer, part of a group charged with inspecting all the steel to be used in the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. The Fair was officially called: The World’s Columbian Exposition, in honor of the 400th Anniversary of the arrival of Christopher Columbus. Back then, that original Ferris wheel consisted of over 100,000 parts, including an 89,320-pound axle that had to be hoisted up 140 feet onto the two support towers. Launched on June 21, 1893, it was a success. Over the next 19 weeks, more than 1.4 million people paid 50 cents for a 20-minute ride. 20 minutes! Can you imagine any carnival ride lasting twenty minutes today?
Three years later, Ferris was bankrupt and died of typhoid fever. His wheel was sold, and later dynamited for scrap metal. However, the Ferris wheel lives on, and not only because of George Ferris’ design. At the time, a carpenter named William Somers had been building 50-foot wooden wheels at Asbury Park, Atlantic City and Coney Island. He called them roundabouts, and his design was patented, long before Ferris’ wheel.
Ever since then, people have gotten used to giant spinning mechanical rides, climbing and falling, twirling, zipping, and bobbing up and down (are you getting nauseous yet?). People love the sensation of “…revolving through such a vast orbit in a bird cage,” as the reporter Robert Graves wrote in 1893.
In modern times, all those rides have pneumatic cylinders to raise the ride up off of the flatbed trucks that haul them all over the countryside. First the lights have to be disconnected, and some removed for transport. All of the “cars” people ride in have to be removed and transported in another huge trailer. More importantly though, is all of this pneumatic lifting and lowering, all those lights, and the motors driving the ride need power. Since the carnival is often set up on empty land outside of town, the carnivals provide their own electricity, in the form of generators the size of a truck trailer, or two half-sized ones per trailer. After I had finished with the Ferris wheel, I was put to work for the carnival’s electrician.
Spreading out from each generator is a vast network of power cables, connected every hundred feet to a junction box, from where another set of cables continues on from the opposite side, on to the next junction box, and so on. Each junction box has outlets for standard power outlets, for lights and small appliances. The rides, however, have to be hooked directly up to the tall terminal bolts that the power cables are already attached to via 1″ diameter crimped terminators (LUGS) held in place by a screw-on nut. In order to attach the wires from the rides, that nut must be removed from the upright bolts, the crimped ends of those wires must be placed over the power cable lugs, and the nut replaced, tightly.
My job, at the time, was to disconnect the power cables while the carnival was shutting down. Note that I said, while, not, after. For what the electrician needed were lights for everyone to see at night, which is when the carnival shuts down, as soon as the last towny leaves. There are bright towers on top of each generator truck, lighting the miniature city that is a carnival. So, I could not turn each generator off before starting to disconnect the power cables. As soon as all the rides, joints (game booths) and poppers (popcorn, corn dogs, cotton candy, etc) had been removed from the last junction box in the line, and then the next, and the next, all the way to the generator, those now useless lines had to be pulled off their terminals, hauled off and stored in yet another large truck trailer.
So, like I said, disconnect the powers cables, which, mind you, are still hot, through the metal sides of the junction box. There were holes in the sides for this purpose, each hole protected by a plastic over-ring, so that a hot cable lug would not touch the bare metal. In theory. However, as I was successfully performing this somewhat delicate operation, I unscrewed the locking nut on a terminal, removed the power cable lug, and stated pulling it slowly through the hole. It wasn’t until the lug approached the hole that I noticed the hole had no plastic ring protecting it. I tried to back the cable up before it could make contact, but it was too late. The power running through the cables was such that it could easily bridge a small gap, and that one did. Hoo boy, did it. BANG, a blinding flash, a shower of burning sparks, and the generator whined loudly before it shut down. Darkness. Pure darkness. Not only because the lights were off everywhere near me, but my eyes needed time to recover from that flash. Couldn’t see a thing.
Shortly, because something like that really attracts attention, the electrician showed up. He asked me if I was alright. I said I was, and explained that the plastic ring was missing and the cable had been torn right from my grip as it welded itself to the box, as my eyes slowly calmed down. Since there was no power yet, he reached down and yanked hard on the cable, breaking the impromptu weld. He said, “Don’t do that again,” and walked off. I got the other four cables out just before he restarted the generator. I had expected to be fired or something, but with power restored and everyone working, I just went back to work. It took me the rest of the night to remove all of the cables, and then carry them and the junction boxes to the electrical truck.
By daylight, I was exhausted, as were the carnies. I couldn’t think of myself as a carny yet. You had to spend a whole season wrapping yourself in your job, and then come back to do it all over again for another season. Would I? I didn’t know yet. I saw some people sprawled across car hoods, feet sticking out car windows, people propped against trailers. Many people had already pulled out. There were overflowing trash barrels, and scattered pieces of trash and junk everywhere. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Soon enough though, I had been paid for my work, and prepared to head off myself into the morning, happy that I had money for food. The electrician found me and asked me if I would stay on. Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting that. Seeing as I had no other means of support, and no clear idea where I was going, I agreed. Much later, I found out that I had been recruited because I hadn’t died. Rumor was the last guy had. After that way-too-short rest, we were all on the road again. Sleep wouldn’t come for us until we arrived at the next location.
Once there, after a good long nap, we reversed everything we’d done the night before to get the carnival up and running again. I had to haul all of the heavy, insulated copper cables out of the truck, and get them hooked up to junction boxes. Rides, poppers and joints had to be plugged in. There was always some troubleshooting until everyone had power. All the rides had to be tested, run forwards and backwards while being inspected. Every nut and bolt had to be tightened, and every ride car checked. I still had lots to do. The generators needed oil and water. Since they were in open view, placed in the center of the midway, they also had to be cleaned, and occasionally painted as well. That was my job. Sometimes the cables needed new terminators. Sometimes the junction boxes needed new protecting rings over the access holes. Yes they did.
Once I finished all of that, after breaks for meals, it was time to shut everything down for the night. I had to wait until the townspeople were long gone, and everyone cleaned up and shuttered their equipment. Once all was done, I could shut the generators off. In the morning, I had to be up before everyone else to get the power back on. Ten days. Then we’d be off again, crisscrossing the country, selling dreams while the rides turned under bright rainbow lights, surrounded by the smells of cotton candy, corn dogs and popcorn. The marks would gamble, buying cheap toys for the price of many chances to spin a wheel, shoot out the stars, pop some balloons, or knock over some bottles.
At night there were circus-like tents full of illegal card games and crazy peep shows. Some real money changed hands there. There had to be a balance between cleaning out the marks for every dollar, and letting them win sometimes, or the cops and sheriffs could shut the whole carnival down, forcing us to move on sooner than expected. The vulgarity of the peep shows was extraordinary, and sometimes they could get raided, but most often not.
It’s been a while since I posted any photos. Had a photo shoot May 19, 2019 with models and other photographers. We ambled along the Rio Grande in Albuquerque. I took 372 photos. I won’t post them all. Some were crap; I deleted them. Others may be useful for the models’ portfolios or such. I found at least 21 that I liked.
the inability to rest or relax as a result of anxiety or boredom.
Well, happening now, yes. A weird day. Spent 11 hours on a movie set in Santa Fe as a background actor, aka an “extra”, starting from 5:00pm yesterday evening until 4:00am today. Boring as all hell. Got home at 5:00am, fell into bed. The casting call had asked for people who had not been on the set as yet. I was interested in seeing what the movie was about. Love being on TV and movie sets. Waited all day to be used. Finally those of us still sitting around, about 15 people, were told they needed just five people for the next scene.
Question was who. I volunteered, as I had not been seen, which is what they had posted for. It was unclear if I would be one of the five, as five other people had volunteered. My “new” status might get me on set.
Nothing happened for a while. Finally it was time. My name was called. I was asked to bring my coat. I didn’t have one handy. The wardrobe people hadn’t had a coat to fit me, and took all of our production photos without one. When I found a coat, and actually I had one outside in my car I could have gotten, I was told that since they already had photographed me without a coat, I shouldn’t wear one. So, instead I had no coat with me, thus, they took another guy who had a coat, for a bar scene. Like it matters.
Anyway, that was the last scene they shot this morning, and we were all “wrapped” and sent home. Eleven hours. Santa Fe minimum wages: $92 for 8 hours, plus, 3 hours of overtime. All for sitting on my ass mostly. That’s the life of a background actor sometimes.
Finally dragged myself out of bed around 10:45. Fed the cats. Drank a cup of coffee. Played Microsoft’s solitaire Daily Challenges. Read email. Browsed Facebook for casting notices. Checked my actor’s page. Ate a fried egg sandwich for brunch. Poured myself a glass of brandy (Calvados Morin Extra, from France); it’s something I picked up with an auction lot of “pantry items”, including: vegetable juice, reposado tequila, scotch whiskey, and other things like paper napkins, plastic bags, etc. The bottles had all been previously opened, but the whiskey was just less than full, so, at $5.00 for the lot, it was good deal.
Napped. Got up and made a cup of Earl Grey tea. Earl Grey is tasty black tea. It is interesting because it contains oil of bergamot, useful for kicking statin side effects. Statins, a widely used family of cholesterol-lowering drugs, can have side effects:
Headache.
Difficulty sleeping.
Flushing of the skin.
Muscle aches, tenderness, or weakness (myalgia)
Drowsiness.
Dizziness.
Nausea or vomiting.
Abdominal cramping or pain.
All of which I have experienced since I have been taking a statin drug after my heart attack 5 1/2 years ago. My bad cholesterol is half of what it used to be. So, I’m back to drinking Earl Grey again – something I had forgone for just daily coffee.
Anyway, I used two teabags for a 10-oz mug. It’s probably what has me restless. I had sat down to watch a movie I rented: The Vanishing of Sidney Hall.
It is a fascinating movie, and I’m really enjoying watching it. Sidney Hall becomes a writer after an odd childhood, but experiences angst, depression, and regret after people take his novel about life a bit too seriously. He goes on a walkabout basically, which is what I did at his age, but I used a bicycle to crisscross the USA, trying to find myself. (That’s a whole other story.) Anyway, partway through I began experiencing this restlessness. So, I wrote what you just read. I’m going to go finish watching the movie now.
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It is a good story, moving along, but now I’m taking another break. I think that’s a good way to watch this movie, in sections. Instead of an intermission, there should be two intermissions. I find that this is the way I watch most movies now, like reading a book. Sometimes you can read a good short novel in one sitting, if you don’t count bathroom breaks and getting food and water. But, long novels require a couple days or three, not due to boredom, but just to have a chance to digest it in parts. Although my general restlessness – perhaps generated by depression – makes it hard for me to sit still through a two-hour movie, I like to think it’s my way of really appreciating a good story.
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Finished it. WOW. That was so good. Intense. Complex. Sad. Fun. Well done. Holy, holy crap, it’s good.
I am going to watch it again. Not tonight. I’ve sleep to catch up on. But Wednesday night, my friend Ramona and I will watch it. I was planning to return the DVD to Netflix, and since I wouldn’t be able to get another one by Wednesday, we were going to watch something else on her Netflix stream. But, I am going to have her watch this. She’ll like it a lot. Her life is changing significantly right now. She has met the love of her life, just spent a lot of time with him in Germany, returned, but is now packing, getting rid of things, saying goodbyes, as she prepares to move to Germany permanently. She is so happy. I wonder if her reaction to this movie will be way different from mine? I’ll miss the little bit of time I’ve been able to spend watching movies with her. She’s just finished up graduate school now, and she’s off. It’s been a struggle for her. Strange boyfriends, cancer, and a bat-shit crazy mother (whom I knew 40 years ago).
From the way I built this blog entry, I suppose it won’t matter if I add some more to it next week. I’ll add Ramona’s reaction to the movie. It occurs to me that I could be adding new blog entries with updates from time to time on her new life in Germany, if I hear much from her. This last bit of time she spent in Germany was different. Previously she had sent lots of Facebook updates and photos. This time, a much longer time, she was quite busy, and having the time of her life, and I had to wait until she got back to hear about most of the trip. Instead of watching this movie as we’d planned, we had just talked. It was good to catch up on our lives. Catching up, but also, beginning to say good-bye. Cementing memories of who each other is, before the moment vanishes.
Well, getting back to the “random writings” part of this blog, I remembered a dream from early this morning. I was in, what I later figured out to be, an empty classroom. There was a blackboard somewhere far to my left. In front of me was a bookcase. The books were all paperbacks, of a fairly uniform mass market size. The case was made of cardboard or something similar, and flexible. There were pockets for the books strung along in rows. Each pocket had multiple books in it, lying haphazardly in the pockets. One book was on the floor, and I picked it up, just to replace it in the bookshelf/pocket thing.
As I attempted to do so, I disturbed the other books, and, in trying to straighten them all up I upset the whole bookcase. It fell towards me, but only the top half came forward. It was folded over in half, so I pushed it back up to the full upright position. Most of the books were still in their pockets; just a few had fallen out. But, as I bent over to pick the fallen soldiers-of-the-printed-word up, I knocked something off the edge of the table next to the bookcase. It turned out to be an old manual pencil sharpener, with a metal frame, and a red plastic holder for the pencil shavings.
I had a similar pencil sharpener in my attic room as a child, having shoplifted it from a Five & Dime store (Kresge’s, I think). In my dream I thought about that sharpener, trying to remember whether it had a base that screwed onto a desk, or the rubber base with a lever that caused the base to stick to a flat smooth surface. And I wasn’t sure of the actual store. In thinking about all that, however, everything began to dissolve, and realized I was waking up, and couldn’t keep the dream alive. As always, I over think everything, even in my dreams.
So I looked up Kresge’s, founded by Pennsylvanian native S.S. Kresge, who, after clerking in a hardware store, and working as a traveling salesman, had then worked for a five & dime himself, for McCrory’s. They were all actually called five-and-ten-cent stores, because that’s what everything cost. I believe that’s where the phrase to “nickel and dime” something came from, meaning to sell things very cheaply, even to sell everything off to rid oneself of excess merchandise. The stores had huge signs with the numbers: 5¢ and 10¢, aka a nickel and a dime.
Later, Kresge started his own two stores with an $8000 investment. Over the years, Kresge, after bumping the price of goods to $1, made a fortune. In fact, he established a foundation, in 1924, The Kresge Foundation, a non-profit organization whose income he specified “to promote the well-being of mankind”. By the time of his death, Kresge had given the foundation over $60,000,000! He was also a prohibitionist, and organized the National Vigilance Committee for Prohibition Enforcement and also heavily supported the Anti-Saloon League. The S.S. Kresge chain (Kresge and Jupiter stores) later became K-Mart. I had often wondered what happened to K-Mart. More on that in a minute.
Now, I believe we had both a Kresge’s and a McCrory’s in the city I grew up in, so I’m not certain which one I purloined the sharpener from. McCrory’s was owned by another Pennsylvanian native, J.M McCrorey, who famously dropped the “e” from his last name to save money on signage for his initial five stores. At its height, McCrory’s had 1300 stores. Interestingly, S.S. Kresge had invested in the McCrory stores before opening his own.
Now, the McCrory stores are quite interesting in themselves, for the way they became involved with or swallowed up other more modern brands. Of the 1300 stores operated by the McCrory company, many were TG&Y, McLellan, H. L. Green, Silvers, G.C. Murphy, J.J. Newberry and Otasco. I’m sure you’ve shopped at some of those. McCrory’s also controlled Best & Co., Lerner Shops, and S. Klein.
On January 1, 1980, McCrory purchased the S.H. Kress & Co. chain from Genesco. You may remember the S.H. Kress & Co. when its exclusion of African-Americans from its lunch counters made Kress a target for civil rights protests during the 1960 sit-ins, along with Woolworth’s, Rexall and other national chains. S.H. Kress & Co. was established by Samuel Henry Kress, another Pennsylvanian. Kress started his first five and dime store in 1887, which became the chain known as S.H. Kress & Co. in 1896, and were called 5-10-25 Cent Stores. The Kress chain was known for the architecture of its buildings. Kress envisioned his stores as works of public art that would contribute to the cityscape. A number of former Kress stores are recognized as architectural landmarks and many are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, including the 1913 building on Canal Street in New Orleans (now the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton) and the 1929 neoclassical store in Asheville, North Carolina.
As the economic expansion of the 1980’s progressed, so did the successes of McCrory.
McCrory purchased the Oklahoma based TG&Y Discount store chain in 1985. TG&Y stores were not profitable and drained McCrory of valuable assets. Many of the TG&Y stores were converted to the Bargain Time banner that McCrory operated, which closed as the 1980’s ended.
In 1987, McCrory Stores purchased the 76 remaining Kresge and Jupiter stores from the K Mart Corporation which had long given up on the variety stores division, reuniting the companies. All stores were converted to the McCrory banner.
S. S. Kresge Corporation – remember them? – had been renamed to Kmart Corporation in 1977. (The first store with the Kmart name had opened in 1962.) At its peak in 2001, Kmart operated 2,171 stores including 105 Super Kmart Center locations. After declaring bankruptcy in 2002 and emerging the following year, the chain’s management purchased Sears for $11 billion in 2004, forming a new corporation under the name Sears Holdings Corporation. Sears Holdings declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy on October 15, 2018.
In 1989, 1300 stores were operated by the McCrory company. However, as the decade turned, its fortunes decreased, and by 1992 it filed for bankruptcy. Several rounds of store closures followed, with one of the biggest coming in 1997 when McCrory’s shuttered 300 of its last 460 stores. The company also converted some stores to the Dollar Zone format of Dollar Store, but these closed in early 2002. In December 2001, McCrory Stores announced the remaining McCrory’s, TG&Y, G. C. Murphy and J.J. Newberry stores it was operating would begin liquidating and in February 2002 the company ceased operation.
Now, we have Walmart. Surprise, surprise, surprise – it wasn’t started in Pennsylvania, but in Arkansas, as another five and dime store.
In 1945, businessman and former J. C. Penney employee Sam Walton bought a branch of the Ben Franklin stores from the Butler Brothers. His primary focus was selling products at low prices to get higher-volume sales at a lower profit margin, portraying it as a crusade for the consumer. As of October 31, 2018, Walmart has 11,277 stores and clubs in 27countries, operating under 55 differentnames, including Sams’ Club, Asda in the United Kingdom, as the Seiyu Group in Japan, and as Best Price in India. Walmart is the world’s largest company by revenue—over US$500 billion, according to Fortune Global 500 list in 2018. For those of you watching videos online: Walmart owns video streaming company Vudu.
Walmart is the largest private employer in the world with 2.3million employees. Walmart faced a torrent of lawsuits and issues with regards to its workforce, involving low wages, poor working conditions, inadequate health care, and issues involving the company’s strong anti-union policies. In November 2013, the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB) announced that it had found that in 13U.S. states Wal-Mart had pressured employees not to engage in strikes on Black Friday, and had illegally disciplined workers who had engaged in strikes. Critics point to Walmart’s high turnover rate as evidence of an unhappy workforce, although other factors may be involved. Approximately 70percent of its employees leave within the first year. Welcome to Walmart.
In 2009, Walmart announced that it was paying a combined US$933.6million in bonuses to every full and part-time hourly worker. This was in addition to $788.8 million in profit sharing, 401(k) pension contributions, hundreds of millions of dollars in merchandise discounts, and contributions to the employees’ stock purchase plan. While the economy at large was in an ongoing recession, Walmart reported solid financial figures for the most recent fiscal year (ending January 31, 2009), with $401.2billion in net sales, a gain of 7.2percent from the prior year. Income from continuing operations increased 3percent to $13.3billion, and earnings per share rose 6percent to $3.35.
Walmart has been subject to criticism from various groups and individuals, including labor unions, community groups, grassroots organizations, religious organizations, environmental groups, and the company’s own customers and employees. They have protested against the company’s policies and business practices, including charges of racial and gender discrimination. Other areas of criticism include internal corruption, the company’s foreign product sourcing, treatment of suppliers, employee compensation and working conditions, environmental practices, the use of public subsidies, the company’s security policies, slavery, and violations of U.S. and Mexican laws. Through years of strikes, boycotts and lawsuits, the company appears to be modifying its practices, including environmental impacts, labor practices, discrimination, nutritional quality of its food products, and other areas of criticism.
I crossed the Rio Grande this past Saturday, not the river, but the street (Rio Grande Blvd, in Albuquerque, NM). There is a bookstore located in a small shopping center here, near my rental house. It’s a great local independent bookstore, featuring book signings by authors I like, music, poetry, and activities for kids, and even visits by comic strip artists like Stephan Pastis of Pearls Before Swine fame.
Saturday’s event included poetry by a new poetry slam group, Burque Revolt. “Burque” is local slang for Albuquerque. The group performed hard-hitting poetry stories about race and sexism, and actually represented people of color in their lineup. They see themselves as activists and poets. Now, perhaps you’re thinking that poetry should make you feel good. Sometimes it does, sometimes it makes you listen, and think. That was the case. All of the poets, Mercedez Holtry, Dnessa McDonald, Reina Davis and Sophia Nuanez blasted us with heartfelt stories in slam poetry style. They had memorized every bit, since slam poetry is really a performance art. The poems were designed to shock, to challenge and to educate. And I think they succeeded. One of the poets, Sophia Nuanez, included references to the double helix of DNA, so I really liked that. Science and poetry should go together. I spoke with Dnessa about one of her poems. She is fairly new to this slam poetry thing, but has managed to have a poem published.
Despite the fact that some of the poetry slammed men in general and (a category I find myself in) white people, white men in particular, for a pattern of racism and sexism that continues to this day, I was smitten with one of the poets. Even the other poets were impressed by her beauty. As soon as I walked into the store and looked at the people waiting for the event to start, my eyes riveted on her. At my age, I’m not all that impressed by beauty of itself. I really need to know a woman to find myself interested. But once in a while I see a woman that pops the eyeballs out of my head. It’s a quandary. I guess it’s a reflex action borne of a society that prizes physical appearance more than intellectual accomplishment, and a sexist society to boot. I found a photo of her, but a two-dimensional photo doesn’t really do justice to the beauty of this woman in person, and her voice, her poetry and smile.
I had a chance to meet her, confused a poem of one of the other poets with hers, and couldn’t remember what I had meant to say to her if I ever spoke to her. At one point, I had come up with a line of poetry to describe her effect on my eyeballs, but I forgot it completely when she was standing directly in front of me and listening. I couldn’t even remember her poems at that moment. Women still do that to me sometimes.
There was music then. D. B. Gomez & Felix Peralta a.k.a. Gato Malo, of Dos Gatos, performed some ranchera-inspired new music, and I felt like dancing. Years of dancing to salsa and merengue, cha-cha and rancheras inspires me to dance as soon as I hear it, Unfortunately, Reina, the queen was gone.
Well, Sunday morning came around and I went to Chatter Sunday, a regular Sunday morning venue for music of a more classical nature, and poetry, including slam poets sometimes, and Sophia Nuanez has performed there before. It takes place at Las Puertas, meaning doors, because there are lots of them there from when the space was used to sell antique doors. There is also an espresso bar, which is such a fine way to start a Sunday (not to mention the home-made treats). The program began with the entire ensemble performing a 1986 piece: Airs from Another Planet – wind quintet and piano – reels, airs and jigs, by Judith Weir. One of the numbers from the four-part piece was called Strathspey and reel, so I had to look up strathspey: Strathspey is the area around the strath of the River Spey in Scotland. Uhh, OK. It also has some connection to shields and coats-of-arms, but that wasn’t very helpful either. What it is, is a type of dance tune, a reel played at a slightly slower tempo, with more emphasis on certain beats. Glad I cleared that up.
In the space between music sets, Rowie Shaundlin Shebala, (Diné), told the story of her Arizona grandfather seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time, among other poems that gave us insight into her life as the youngest daughter of a Navajo family. She has a wonderful voice and her poetry is well represented in print and at slam competitions.
Then we went back to the music, this time from 1796, by Ludwig van Beethoven: a quintet for piano and winds (op. 16). This was a much more spirited piece than the earlier airs, and the musicians really threw themselves into it this time, even standing throughout, probably to give themselves room to move about, because the energy was frenetic.
Stopped for breakfast on the way home, and had a bowl of hash browns, covered with bits of sausage, bacon, one egg, and lots of green chile as well as red chile sauce, along with two corn tortillas. I was not hungry again for nine hours, which was fortunate, because I went to another rare evening Chatter performance, this time, the Cabaret at the Albuquerque Museum, and a lot of pricy food is available. I did buy a glass of a California wine, a 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon by Joel Gott Wines, which was very tasty (“clean, complex, and elegant”, according to their web page).
The music at the museum started off with a piece from 1720, by Johann Sebastian Bach: Sonata No. 2 in D Major for Viola de Gamba and Keyboard. Fascinating, and so well-played.
That was followed by music of Philip Glass, so I cringed mentally when I saw that in the program. Afifth is the interval from the first to the last of five consecutive notes in a diatonic scale. As it was explained, fifths are never played consecutively, ever, not even two or three at a time. Well, that is, that used to be the case, but Philip Glass did whatever he wanted to do, so he composed a piece built entirely of nothing but fifths. Very unusual and interesting. Ten minutes of it. I sipped my wine throughout.
After intermission we were treated to the 1921 music of Erich Wolfgang Korngold, a composer of operas, and a contemporary of Richard Strauss. He is one of the founders of film music, and you’ve all heard his music. Some of the sixteen films he scored were The Adventures of Robin Hood, Captain Blood, The Sea Hawk, The Sea Wolf, Deception, Kings Row, and The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex. (As a purely irrelevant aside, my sister Mary Elizabeth is married to Sara Essex.)
Anyway, the Piano Quintet (op. 15), was delightful, and played with intense passion by the seven Chatter musicians, some local, some visiting: James Shields on clarinet, Nathan Ukens on horn, David Felberg & Ruxandra Marquardt on violins, Keith Hamm on viola, Dana Winograd on cello, and Judith Gordon on piano.
Two days of fun and music. Much to think about, much to research, and music to seek out. And fresh-roasted green chile to eat.
photo inside Dialogue Brewing by Martin Ly, 10/09/2018
So, in the past I’ve written about the wonderful music I listen to on Sunday mornings, put on by ChatterABQ.org in Albuquerque. Then I drink americanos made by the espresso baristas there. Tonight, the concert was at Dialogue Brewing. They have beer. Really good beer. I had two P-Funk Porters while I listened to the music.
Such music. The guitar work by Martin Ly was truly exceptional. He performed El arpa y la sombra (for guitar) by Leo Brouwer, who is an award-winning Cuban composer, conductor, and classical guitarist. I felt the piece was performed by a master, but Leo Brouwer is the real master. Quite a musician. And so really also is Martin Ly. I found a YouTube video of him playing Mallorca on an acoustic guitar, but he played an electric one for the concert tonight. There were other performers as well, such as David Felberg, who makes Chatter happen every week. He played a complicated John Zorn avant-garde piece called Passagen. Quite strange to my ears, but Mr. Felberg plays the hell out of violin or viola, so he was up to the task. After that, Luke Gullickson played a piece called Nothing is Real, by Alvin Lucier, on keyboard and amplified teapot. Yes, I said teapot. He then played another piece on keyboard called Julia, by Bunita Marcus.
If I had gone and only heard the guitar work of Martin Ly, I’d have considered it a well-spent evening. The real treasure came in the second part of the program. All of the musicians performed, and were joined by Jennifer Perez, soprano. The piece they performed was Death Speaks (five parts), by David Lang. Extraordinary. I loved it, even though I try to avoid opera and musicals and such, but not anymore. Jennifer just blew me away with that incredible voice of hers. I was mesmerized by her depth and her emotion. I could listen to her powerful voice anytime, and never get enough. Really, it was like a spiritual experience. Perhaps it was enhanced by the beers, or I was influenced by her striking beauty, but I was carried away.
I hope to hear her sing again. I’d love to photograph her.
Most of us would like to end our lives without regret. I think one way to do that is, of course, to accomplish something. To that end, I think I’d most want to have passed along some tidbit of knowledge, something that has made someone think. It’s not that I need to be remembered, because, as I’ve looked at that, I realize I’ll be gone, dead, without any way of knowing or caring about that.
Statues mean nothing to the dead. Moving tributes mean nothing to the dead. Our dead ancestors don’t hear us, except in our heads. We carry memories of people: how they lived, what they said to us, what we said to them, how we interacted, and all of who we think they were. We can interact with those memories; they can drive our behavior in the present. We may derive some satisfaction from following in someone’s footsteps, or following their advice, or perhaps doing something for ourselves that would have shocked that person, or disappointed them or even made them angry.
So, in a real sense, they are with us, not as a physical manifestation (a visible spirit), but as a memory, which is after all, the real ghost of that person. We all carry ghosts with us, and, perhaps not just of the dead, but the living we no longer see or interact with.
What I’m attempting to get at here, is that I thought of something, something I’d like to know someone I love would remember, something that changed them, or gave them something to pass on. But, in the time I spent preparing my breakfast until sitting down to write, I’ve forgotten what it was. I can come up with many things, but can’t recall what was on my mind an hour ago. Live a full, active life? Live for today? Love for today? All seem trite, but, then again, it may just be a very small thing, but small things can make a difference.
For instance, a carrot seed. (The Carrot Seed). I read and passed along Dihedral‘s interpretation of that short wonderful story. He noticed that other people interpreted it in wholly different ways than he thought possible. Is it a story about gardening? about carrots? about a young boy? or the pointlessness of planting one seed? It is none of those things. I agree with the author on this one. Read it (linked above) and see if you do too.
So, what is that little carrot seed I could plant in the head of someone I love? I wish I knew. I’d want them to know that love is real, and real love is not about sexual attraction. So many people confuse sex with love. Notwithstanding that one can love the object of one’s sexual couplings, sex is not love, love is not sex. Leaving aside the Freudians, we do not usually desire sex with one’s parents, siblings, coworkers and friends because we love them. We do not (generally) try to have sex with every person we love. Some people feel that we should love someone before we have sex with them, but that presupposes that love is the object of the relationship. Sometimes, and often when we’re young, it is not. Hormones, loneliness, and sexual objectification can overwhelm us and actually blind us to who a person actually is. Sex is great, but it is hardly the be-all, end-all goal of life, although procreation is certainly a driving force.
I once read that love is when you care about someone without ANY anticipation of reciprocation or reward; that is real love. Infatuation? – no, you want that person, or at least sex with that person. Unrequited love (limerence)? – no, same thing, but you hope that person will feel the same way about you, and sometimes you believe it to be true, and you are hoping for your dream of being together to come true. You want your own satisfaction, you need something, and without that, you are miserable.
No, love is given freely, as trite as that idea sounds. I believe, when you love someone, you want what is best for that person, you want them to be happy, to have a full and loving life. You want that person’s success and happiness, even if you can’t be with them. Their successes make you happy, their happiness makes you smile. Their joy alone satisfies you. That is love, even if you never see that person again for the rest of your life or theirs. Many parents feel that way. Yeah, they love us, but they aren’t really expecting anything in return, in general. Some can demand your time or shows of affection. Or use their love for you as a means of control. I don’t think that is really love. Sometimes it is loneliness, and you’re handy.
But, I don’t care. By which I mean, I have discovered that I can love someone with all I’ve got to love them. I desire their happiness, their success, their joy, their zest for life, and their resilience to setbacks and hardship. And while I certainly enjoy seeing them, I can see only a photo of them smiling at an event posted on Facebook, or hugging a friend, or being on vacation somewhere in the world, or sending out a broadside message to all and every, and that gladdens me. I need nothing from them. Even if I knew nothing of their life anymore, even if they wanted nothing more to do with me, unfriended me, ignored me, disappeared entirely – I would still love them. I know who they are, and why I love them, and well, that is not going to go away.
Friendships can be fleeting. Sexual attraction fades over time if you never see that person again, and know you never will. There’s a plenitude of people to know, and love, or have sex with, or all three. But when you discover that you love someone truly, you realize you will always love that person and that it simply cannot fade. It is not a wish or a hope, or a desire, but a reality. Something you know. You know. I cannot convince people of that, I’m sure, but, if I could convince that special person I know that: that is all they need, to love someone else, unconditionally, I will have done that one thing, passed along that one tidbit, that one carrot seed. That person they love does not need to be me, and I do not need to know it.
It certainly took me long enough in this rant to get around to it, but yeah, I’m pretty sure what went though my mind earlier was this desire to accomplish that: to leave this world having convinced someone that I love: to love, just love, and realize how wonderful that is, alone and of itself. Maybe I’m just full of myself, but I believe it.
If Bugs Bunny was coming east from Los Angeles and the Warner Brothers Studios located therein, a left turn at Albuquerque would first take him to Santa Fe, where Chuck Jones lived for many years and was a major contributor to the Opera. But in August, going left, or north, leads to colder and colder climes. Quite cold in the northern mountains of New Mexico, very cold in Colorado, colder still in Wyoming and Montana, and then you enter the Great White North. Not only is it a very cold place to visit in winter, but you’d have to put up with Bob and Doug McKenzie 🙂 So it would likely be a better idea, near winter, to go right into Mexico, Central, and South America.
Anyway, here are some photos I took at the Rail Yards market, located in the old blacksmith shop of the former Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Rail Yards complex in Albuquerque. You know it’s Fall in New mexico when chile’s a roasting.
And, well, that’s all the hiking I’ve managed to do this month, except for a quick cardio hike in the foothills on September 10, for the exercise, no camera.
So, as part of my acting class, I need to have emotions on speed dial. One of those is anger. I’ve been going into myself, mining deep, to touch those feelings, tag them with a keyword that I can use to retrieve them. There is, after all, a range of anger, from annoyance to rage. A lot of that is buried within us, and many of us actively work on remembering pleasant memories, creating, sometimes, a “happy place” to go to, or just trying to keep destructive emotions from boiling up and spilling over in situations that don’t call for that. Anger management is all the rage these days.
But, as an actor, I need those emotions. If I fake them, pretend to be angry, or pretend any other emotion, it’s going to look like that: pretense. I need emotion to come from within and express itself in my face and body language. So I have memories I can mine for that: my father, especially, and the irrational demands he’d make on me when he got pissed. I was married twice. My first seven-year marriage dissolved suddenly in anger, but the anger was short-lived. She said she wanted us to separate. Since I’d never heard of anyone who “separated” getting back together, I said we should just get divorced. We decided not to stay married, and eventually went back to being friends after the divorce. The second marriage had a long run, fourteen years, but the last few were full of intolerance, recrimination, and angry blow-ups that were ignored, passed over and buried. Great fuel for an actor.
I often tap these feelings in class, and have done so just before I do a monologue. The monologue becomes much more powerful, and real.
However, I had a dream early this morning. My father was raging at me for something. The dream had a lot of details, I could see him quite clearly. We were in the basement of the last house we had lived in as a family. I saw the concrete walls. Oddly, there was a shelf on the wall nearest us, and there was a stack of dinner plates on it. There hadn’t been any such shelf or stack of upside-down stacked plates, but the brain does what it wants sometimes. I was listening to my father, and getting angry. I was also tired of hearing all this crap from him. I grabbed a plate and threw it on the floor, shouting at my father to cut the crap as I did so.
The plate didn’t break on the concrete floor; it just landed there with a dull thud. That was not very satisfying. We both looked at it. I needed to get his attention back on me, on my anger. So I looked at that stack of plates and made him look at them. “You know,” I said, “I can start breaking all of these on your head.” My anger rose. I said something to the effect that I wasn’t going to take this anymore. I felt we could just go at it here right now, beat the crap out of each other, and have it all out. I could feel my chest tighten, I could feel the adrenaline in my body. I was pumped up and ready to fight, and the emotion was taking over my body. It felt overwhelming, like a terrible rage.
THAT woke me up. My heart was racing. My chest ached. I was shocked to be feeling such anger. My dad could do that to me. He did it one last time in real life. He was slapping my teenage head back and forth, and back and forth, and I snapped. Knocked him on his ass to the floor and tried with all my strength to stomp his head into bloody pulp; really wanted to see his head explode. Fortunately he was stronger them me, even in that state, and he was able to leverage his arms against my leg so I couldn’t bring it down. His anger had dissipated. In fact, I remember him smiling. He had always wanted to toughen me up, make me fight, not take crap from anyone. Guess what, Dad, it worked! And you were the one I wanted to take on the most.
I did love my father, but he died many years ago, in his fifties. I had moved away long before that, and never heard from him. He and my mother had divorced not too long after I’d left home at 18. After I got the early-morning call that he’d died, I was numb at first, and then sad, but by evening I was overcome by emotion and tears. I remembered all the good things, and regretted that I’d never see him again, never spend some time talking, never be able to ask him any questions. Still have those regrets sometimes.
But, I’ll say this: Thanks Dad. I think I’m going to find all that very useful.
Albuquerque’s slam team came to Chatter Sunday this morning. Gabe Reyes, Sophia Nuanez, Rene Mullens, and Bianca Sanchez added some spunk to the Sunday concert, material they are taking to Chicago, to the 2018 National Poetry Slam, Aug 13-18. The week-long festival is part championship tournament, part poetry summer camp, and part traveling exhibition. It is the largest team performance poetry event in the world.
Of course, U.S. composer Charles Ives needs no spunk. His music always takes one in different directions. We listened to his Concord Sonata from 1920. The sonata was divided into four parts: Emerson, Hawthorne, The Alcotts, and Thoreau. He is one of the first American composers of international renown, though his music was largely ignored during his life, and many of his works went unperformed for many years. Sources of Ives’ tonal imagery are hymn tunes and traditional songs, the town band at holiday parade, the fiddlers at Saturday night dances, patriotic songs, sentimental parlor ballads, and the melodies of Stephen Foster. Charles Ives was among the first composers to engage in a systematic program of experimental music, with musical techniques including polytonality, polyrhythm, tone clusters, aleatory elements, and quarter tones, foreshadowing many musical innovations of the 20th century.
The music was performed by a brilliant pianist, Emanuele Arciuli. His repertoire ranges from Bach to contemporary music, leaning towards U.S. music.
He was joined a few times by Jesse Tatum on flute, startling us from the darkness behind the audience. It was a great concert. Mr. Arciuli has a passion for Ives’s music you’d have to hear to believe.
And of course, there was a woman in the audience I noticed. I saw her as she entered the building while I was getting my Americano from the espresso baristas. She has a gorgeous smile, and it was a pleasure just to admire her and her beautiful black hair and luscious form.
Here she is on the far left, applauding the flutist, pianist, and slam team.
May and June sure took their toll; hella busy. Didn’t get much hiking in. In June the fire danger in New Mexico closed the nearby trails I like to hike in the Sandia mountains. I got a hike in on May 3, on the Faulty Trail near the crest of the mountain range.
In addition to an acting class I take on Thursdays, I had also been taking an eight-week acting workshop on Tuesdays, starting in March. On May 7, I met with fellow classmate Teresa to rehearse a scene we would perform in class. In class on May 8, we did a scene from Harold Pinter’s play A Slight Ache. Teresa is an accomplished actor and pretty amazing. She was also in rehearsals for a production of The Full Monty here in town, and how she manages family, classes, auditions, and acting in plays and short movies is beyond me. She is highly intelligent, having done a lot of scientific research in her past as well. We once drove together all the way to Roswell, NM to audition (but neither of us got a job out of it). I did, however, thoroughly enjoy traveling with Teresa and filling our time with a bit of each other’s life stories, and dreams for the future. I hope to work with her again. Good pool player too, and beautiful.
May 11, I met with an acting coach from the other class I had been attending. He videotaped my audition for the TV pilot of Back To Billy. May 16 was a meeting to begin planning a fundraiser for the New Mexico Film Foundation. The Foundation gives an aspiring local filmmaker a $5000 check every year.
I managed to watch two plays in two days, one I had auditioned for after learning a Dublin, Ireland dialect: a 1978 comedy play by Hugh Leonard: Da. Learned the basics of the dialect, but hadn’t gotten the part. I also watched Deathtrap, a play written by Ira Levin, also in 1978. I knew one of the actors, having worked together in a 48-hour movie competition. Met with my acting coach for prepare for a callback audition. We worked hard, but, as usual, I didn’t get the part. Saw another play on the 25th, The Full Monty that Teresa was in: acting, singing and dancing.
Went to a BBQ out of town at the home of a fellow classmate in my Thursday acting class. Good food, good music, and great people. Unfortunately, her husband, in dealing with a severe case of PTSD, had drunk too much and went around accusing the actors of laughing at him, and thinking they were bettter than him (he’s not an actor). He was extremely agitated, and physically threatened people, saying he would beat the crap out of anyone, even the women there; saying he lived for that shit. When he ripped off his shirt and went at a friend there, I called him out for his behavior. He left the woman he was attacking alone, and came for me. After a bit of shouting at me, his wife stepped between us before he could attack me, but he did mange to kick at me from behind her. It was a very strange episode, and I suprised myself calling that guy out like that, but his behavior was way out of line.
Got one more hike in before the month of May ended (Pino Trail):
Then I did a table read for a movie being developed. And that was just the merry lusty month of May.
June started off with another hike, on the eastern side of the Sandias. It was ten degress cooler up there near the crest of the mountains.
Watched a friend’s movie called A Bitter Reckoning, as part of a festival of award-winning shorts. Teresa, above, was also in that. Great movie. Click on the name to see a trailer from it.
Hiked the Pino Trail again on the 10th: Aspens, Ponderosas, approx. 6.7 miles total with 1800 feet of elevation gain. And then auditioned for another movie that afternoon. It’s an interesting Sci Fi shoot. (I got the part. We started shooting on July 2nd, and my part will be shot on July 8th. It is mostly for the actors in it to have material for their acting reels, so we have something new to submit to major casting calls.)
On the 16th I went to a movie prop house in the afternoon to pick out props for the New Mexico Film Foundation fundraiser on July 14. We will decorate the Nativo Lodge in Albuquerque for what we are calling a soirée: films, music, finger food, silent auction, and a live auction conducted by master-of-dialects Steve Corona, who will auction off each item in a different dialect. In the evening I was a background actor on a new movie called Caged, a fascinating look at kickboxing.
Got another hike in on the 24th, going up in the foothills to the Eye of the Sandias. The foothills aren’t closed, it’s City of Albuquerque Open Space.
The EYE
The rest of the month I spent at a coin show, a motorcycle breakfast meetup, acting class, a doctor’s appointment, an actor’s coffee meetup, and more work getting auction items ready for the July 14th soirée. For an old fart retiree, my calendar sure looks full.
July is in full swing. In another installment of this blog, I’ll recap my motorcycle trip to the old movie ranch near Santa Fe,
and my and my cousin’s small parts in a movie being shot there. The day after that, I helped with sound on the short movie I’ll act in on the 8th of July. I’ll be picking up the props on the 13th for the soirée, and then helping out at the event with the silent auction part of the soirée on the 14th, and then returning props to the prop house on the 16th. I’m booked already for background scenes on the 9th and the 17th. The actor’s coffee group will produce its own movie for the 48-Hour movie competition on the 27th and 28th, and I’ll be assisting the camera and editing people. I hope to have a break during the 48-Hour project to audition for a play nearby, but I may not be able to. But, that’s all I have going in July so far.
Listening to Isao Tomita’s electronic version of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition as I write. It is far stranger than Mussorgsky ever imagined, of that I am sure. I like some of Tomita’s works very much. This one not so much. Lately I have acquired many CDs of his work. I love his live concert, done in 1984: The Mind Of The Universe, and have enjoyed his version of Maurice Ravel‘s Bolero, as well as Tomita’s 1974 studio release: Snowflakes are Dancing, Debussy’s tone paintings. However, I disliked his version of Gustav Holst‘s The Planets so much that I posted it on the CD trading website SwapaCD immediately after listening to it. Someone had already requested it automatically, so I packaged it and bought postage to ship it out tomorrow. I’m a fan of electronic music, but not all of it.
Lazy, lazy day. I was up last night on a movie set until 3am this morning, crawling into bed as soon as I got home. I woke this morning early, but just turned over and went back to sleep until 8:30am. The movie is a local production here in Albuquerque. Seems like movies are being made here every day. I was not a character in this movie, but a background actor, sometimes punching a bag, sometimes watching and cheering a fight, sometimes doing my version of sit ups (touching my toes from a flat position). The movie scenes are for Caged, taking place in a gym. “It is the story of TJ, a young man from a privileged family, who drops out of law school against his mother’s wishes to pursue his dream of becoming an MMA fighter.” I was fascinated by it, and the gym, as this was the first time I’d ever been in one.
I made coffee this morning and fed the two cats. Drank my coffee while playing Microsoft’s daily solitare challenges. Made breakfast. Decided to go back to bed. Slept until 4:30pm. Now, that’s a lazy day! Got up and read for a short while. I’ve been reading Khaled Hosseini’s And The Mountains Echoed. I’ve really enjoyed the first half, but could not get back into it today; perhaps I will later this evening. Hosseini wrote The Kite Runner, but, although I thoroughly enjoyed the movie: , I did not read the book. Hosseini is a good writer, and writes real stories of real people caught up in circumstances of violence and social change beyond their control, sometimes beyond all comprehension.
I’ve switched my music to Tomita’s compilation called Different Dimensions, a CD subtitled “The Ultimate Collection of Future Sounds.” Hopefully it is not, but it is a good introduction to Tomita’s work. Some are very good, some are fascinating, and some are just odd, which is pretty much how I feel today.
I have also thought about my dad today, on Father’s Day, and changed my Facebook profile photo to his photo, from the 1940s. He and my mom roller skated a lot growing up, and were partnered by their coach for competitions, which they won a lot of, being Tri-State champions at it. I’m told they did not like each other at first, but they appear to have gotten over that. My dad died of lung cancer many years ago. I wish he was around. I’d love to pick his brain. Oddly, when I posted that photo of him, all my mom could think of to comment on was the fact that his skates had wooden wheels, as they all did back then. When she commented, I noticed that she had changed her profile picture to a photo of her in 1978. I was living in Albuquerque at the time, and had no money for plane tickets, so I never knew she had changed her hairstyle so dramatically – – 1970s big hair. My brother said it’s her Liz Taylor look. I swear I’d never have recognized her on the street in that hairdo. She and my father were divorced by then, and I probably didn’t see her for many years after I left town permanently in 1975. She must have added the flag banner via Facebook, perhaps for Memorial Day. She’s 87 years old now.
No word from my step-daughter Maya today. She has always given me step-dad cards on Father’s Day, but perhaps we’re growing apart now that we no longer make and sell wine together after the winery closed. I had hoped for a call, or a text, or a Facebook message perhaps. She posted photos of her and her dad, and her brother with his young son Zen.
I always enjoy any time I get to spend with her. She’s the one person in my lifetime that I have really loved with all my heart, and I wish I saw her more often. Her smile warms my heart.
Ran across a wonderful post by my step-daughter Maya this morning. Exactly nine years ago was her last round of dealing with cancer. A tumor had been removed from her brain in 2004, but it regrew and she had chemotherapy. When that didn’t work, she had a type of radiation treatment called a Gamma Knife: several low-energy tightly-focused beams of gamma radiation (think x-rays) are focused from varying angles simultaneously on a tumor. It was followed up with a light regimen of broad-beamed radiation coupled with chemo again. It worked. She has been cancer-free since the end of all those treatments. However, on April 29, 2009, she was in a hospital again. There was a new mass showing on the scan of her brain. Turns out it was nothing more than scar tissue from the radiation treatments. A big scare for all of us, but after relatively minor surgery, she was right back home. So, she likes to remember each of these low or high points in her life. This is what she said:
Choroid plexus carcinoma papilloma: It took me a long time to remember this term, even longer to understand it & even longer to appreciate the significance of it in my life!!! – Choroid plexus: a network of nerves or vessels in the body that produce the cerebrospinal fluid in the ventricles of the brain. – Carcinoma: a cancer arising in the epithelial tissue of the skin or of the lining of the internal organs. – Papilloma: a small wart like growth on the skin (eww! ) or on a mucous membrane, derived from the epidermis, usually benign.
This is a brain tumor usually found in children, diagnosed in me at the age of 21 in the right ventricle of my brain with a part of it benign & another part cancerous…(Not even my brain tumor knew what it wanted ). Removed in 2004 and then revisited on April 29, 2009 to make sure that sucker was gone!
Never worried more or felt so much joy in my life. I’m so happy she’s still in this world.
On Sundays, however, my brain turns to Chatter Sunday again. Wonderful celebrations of music and poetry that brighten my Sundays. I almost did not go. Conor Hanick is a highly acclaimed musician:
“He has performed internationally to wide acclaim in repertoire ranging from the early Baroque to the recently written. In addition to the Kennedy Center, Mondavi Performing Arts Center, the Kultur und Kongresszentrum Luzern, Kyoto Concert Hall, the Dewan Pilharmonik Peronas in Malaysia, Hanick has performed in virtually every prominent arts venue in New York City, ranging from (le) Poisson Rouge and The Kitchen to Alice Tully Hall and all three halls of Carnegie Hall.”
However, what he played was Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano by John Cage. I don’t know if you’ve ever listened to anything by John Cage, but his music is out there, as in weird, meticulous and arresting. It is not what I’d prefer from music. Wikipedia says he is: “A pioneer of indeterminacy in music, electroacoustic music, and non-standard use of musical instruments.” Uncertain and non-standard, to be sure. I wouldn’t have gone just for that. However, the reason I went was Jessica Helen Lopez, nationally recognized, award-winning slam poet, and former Poet Laureate of Albuquerque, NM. She is an exciting poet to listen to. Her eclectic, opinionated style fascinates me. She is full of passion, and she resonates with the intensity of a zealot, and the joyful ecstasy of living. I love listening to her. I sat with her and her husband. Meeting him made me wonder what it’s like living with someone like her. Never boring, I’m sure, but I didn’t say that out loud.
So, instead of the usual three-part program: music-poetry-music, Jessica went first. We had our regular two minutes of silence after she left the stage, and then John Cage, for over SEVENTY MINUTES! It was a very long seventy minutes, let me tell you. Twenty sections! 16 sonatas and 4 interludes. John Cage is an acquired taste. This particular piece involves a modified piano: strings cluttered with nuts and bolts, pieces of rubber and other dampening devices and even an eraser. The idea is to sort of calm the pianoness of the piano down, I think. The music is like having a stage full of instruments, like a xylophone, drums, cowbells, wind chimes, and other acoustical things. In that sense, it is fascinating. I’d never heard a piano sound like that before. It offended me, in the sense that I didn’t expect sounds like that from a piano. I am, sadly, rather conservative about some things. If there had been a multitude of acoustic things being struck, played and banged, I’d have liked it for the virtuosity in handling so many items and having them all part of a single composition. However, Cage’s work strikes me as more like a structured structurelessness. I’m thinking that he has a certain structure diagrammed out, and goes back and populates it with random notes. The result, to my way of thinking, is something intellectually striking, but lacking in passion.
What Cage’s music is, I think, is more immediate, as in, you are here listening now, and your mind is not free to wander. I can, and do often find my mind roaming while I am listening to and enjoying music. With something by John Cage, I cannot. It’s interesting and creative, yes, but not something that inspires me, to either an emotional state, or dreams. In short, I hope I never sit through such a concert again. I love many different types of music: Renaissance, Baroque, Neoclassical, and newer styles of classical music, Cajun, outlaw Country, Country-rock, classic rock, blues, blues-rock, jazz, salsa, merengue, tango, and electronic. However, I only like a particular piece or a singer or musician if there is passion. Even electronic music can have passion – Morton Subotnick’s The Wild Bull, for example. Otherwise, I don’t care. Same for people. I’m not saying that I am an exciting person, but I feel passionate about politics, or the work I do or the people and things I love. I want to see, hear, feel, and touch passion.
Cage’s works? Once is enough. There will be other performances. And, next month there is a Chatter Cabaret, featuring works by Chopin and Messiaen. I’m going just to clear the Cage from my brain.
I had so much fun tonight I just had to write about it. For eight years my stepdaughter Maya and I used to work together selling wine, and also picking fruit for it, and bottling it, and labeling it. I also irrigated the orchard, weeded, pruned, planted, plugged gopher holes, hauled sugar (dextrose) and added it in increments to the fruit fermantation tanks, cleaned tanks, filtered the wines when necessary, and helped keep the inventory up to date. We both got to learn a lot about how to make fruit wines, and how to pair them with food, which is really the best way to appreciate it. So tonight we went to a (grape) wine tasting, and not just any wine tasting, but a blind wine tasting. I’ve been to these before, and it’s always fun. It might have a lot to do with the size of the tastings, and incredible food, but it’s a real joy for me to have my stepdaughter join me. We were in the wine loft at Slate Street Cafe in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
There are usually five wines to try to identify the varietal, and they gave us eight choices to pick from. After we loaded up on hors d’oeuvres like short ribs, and cheeses, and bread, crackers, vegetables, and such, we settled into tasting the wines. I usually try them with different foods to see how they pair. The 2015 Reserve Merlot from Waterbrook in Walla Walla, Washington was good with the ribs, but fantastic with the cheeses there. It was so good I thought it might be a cab, but no, I missed my guess. My stepdaughter got this one correct. Next up was a similar wine, a 2015 Tempranillo from Manon (Aviva) in Castilla, Spain. We both got that wrong, but it’s a good wine, excellent with the short ribs.
I should mention that in past blind tastings, I’ve gotten three out of five correct. In tonight’s tasting I got all five wrong! I actually thought the Malbec might have been a Syrah, and guessed Tempranillo for the Pinot Noir. The 2016 Malbec was from Bodini in Argentina, and the 2014 Pinot Noir from Brancott Estates in New Zealand. Both good wines, but I’m out of practice with grape wines.
Finally, we got to the best wine: a 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon from Vigilance in Lake County, California. O yeah! this was good. I didn’t like cabs when I was younger: too astringent in my mouth. But, even though I’ve come to appreciate Cabernet Sauvignon much more, this one really wowed me. Complex, and tasty, and much smoother than I would have expected from a cab. We got to re-taste two of the wines after the big reveal, so we got to sample a previously untasted, but excellent Garnacha, (or Grenache), and of course had a bit more of the Shannon Ridge (Vigilance) Cabernet Sauvignon.
There were more foods brought out, like a delightful melted cheese/bread combo, and some coconut shrimp, but I didn’t see where the shrimp paired at all with any of the wines. Tasty though.
Maya had a good time, even though she had initially been tired from work, but she livened up as the evening went on. We talked about wine, and the closure of the winery we had worked at, Anasazi Fields*, and our sadness at the loss of the vintner, the winery itself, and the fantastic wines. We don’t see each other as often since the winery closure, so it was a good chance to catch each other up on things in our lives. She is done with school, she says, after getting her Master’s degree, but is now taking a class on beer: history, varietals, and tastings. Her homeowner association is taking action against the shoddy workmanship in the little complex she is in. Cracks in many of the walls, leaky roofs, and some substandard materials, but Maya’s place is in pretty good shape. I built her a concrete patio last year, and she’s enjoying it.
I continue my education in acting, and told her about a strange table read yesterday that turned into a movie trailer shoot. I hadn’t memorized my lines at all, since I had thirty pages of dialogue and little time to memorize it, and because I thought it was simply a read-through. Nope, the director/writer/producer wanted it on video as his class project, so we got it done by cutting and restarting almost line by line. Terrible miscommunication there. We only shot 6 or 7 pages out of the 111 total in the script, but that’s all he wanted. I wish I’d known that because I’d have nailed that part of the script in the time I had. Oh, well, that’s the movie culture around here. Some things happen, some don’t.
All in all, I had really been looking forward to my time with Maya, and this was a wonderful evening. I really love spending time with her.
*(About Anasazi Fields Winery, now closed): “At ANASAZI FIELDS WINERY we hand-craft dry table wines from fruits and berries other than grapes. Unlike most “fruit wines”, our wines are NOT SWEET dessert wines. Their delicious dryness makes them the perfect accompaniment to any meal. Our wines, such as Plum wine, Apricot wine, Peach wine and Blackberry wine are crafted from local and other New Mexico fruits and berries. We also produce several dry grape-based wines and an off-dry cranberry wine for the holiday season. All of the wines, except the cranberry, are aged on oak for two or more years before bottling. ANASAZI FIELDS WINERY sits on the western edge of the old village of Placitas, New Mexico, between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Orchards and vineyards surrounding the winery are watered by a spring-fed irrigation system that dates back over a thousand years to a time when the Anasazi people farmed the Placitas Valley. Nearby are petroglyphs which we have reproduced on our wine labels.)“
And, alas, the winery is nearly empty. 6000+ gallons of bulk wine had to be destroyed due to alcohol regulations. We had a huge 50%-off sale to dispose of the bottled wine, and in the end there were still a lot of the unusual wines like blueberry, and fig, and also some blackberry and old peach and prickly pear, and some small-batch varieties. The remaining bottles were given to the partners to haul away. The cellar is empty. The bottle room is empty. Most of the artworks have been removed from the walls. By tomorrow, the big workspace and community event room will be cleaned out of all items no one wanted. The dozens of stainless-steel storage tanks (from 6oo gallon, incremented by halves down to 37.5 gallon) will have been taken away for scrap. The new owners (who publish a local newspaper) will not be making wine. However, they will continue to allow the large space to be used for community events, like the November Holiday Show, in which artists and craftspeople throughout the Placitas area showcase their work. The show also includes the grade school’s gym & auditorium space, and a huge white tent set up by the local church.
On the weekend of Mother’s Day every year, the winery hosted a few booths for the artists and craftspeople of the Placitas Studio Tour, a two-day experience which is barely enough time to visit all the artists in their homes and studios throughout Placitas. The new owners say they want to continue to have the winery space used for this purpose. Other meetings and events that usually took place at the winery will likely continue, but without the generous tastings of dry fruit wines.
Sometimes I use blogs like this one to talk about my dreams, which are often an outlet for emotional stress in my life, in the same manner blogging became an outlet for me to try to communicate things I couldn’t otherwise talk about, like unrequited love, in another blog.
I had a dream a little while ago that woke me up (as they tend to do). It wasn’t a nightmare, as such, but, as my dreams tend to be, it was weird.
In this dream, I’m driving down a wide road, a dirt road. It is daytime. I see a huge muddy puddle on the left, which is spilling over to my side of the road. I decide to avoid it, and pull more to the right. However, that gets me stuck in sand. Nevermind what kind of road this is, I am familiar with it, but not sure exactly where I am. Part of my semi-conscious brain says this is a certain road I know, but that road is paved, and always has been in my experience. At any rate, I back up immediately, and the car is free. I continue backing up and back into a driveway on my right (which is oddly paved). I pull out of the driveway and start to head in the opposite direction, since the road appears to be impassable.
But, I don’t get far. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, but I found myself stopped on that road, mostly on the opposite side of the street, pointing in the right direction, but not moving. In fact, I am lying on my side on the seat. Seems like I fell over. I try to pull myself up, but I don’t have the strength. It is only a matter of grabbing the door to haul myself back up to a sitting position, and I try repeatedly. I almost make it, and I know I will, but something is not letting me complete the motion. As I write this, I think: seatbelt? Anyway, the little movie in my head continues. I notice it is getting dark. I reach up with my left hand and pull on the headlights. The switch is an old-fashioned knob like cars in the 50s and 60s would have had, not the modern buttons or levers. With the lights on, I feel safer, and just then a car with its lights on passes me, going in the direction I left. I tap on the horn. Was I signaling the car hello, warning, or help? It would only have taken a long honk to get their attention, but I feel like I don’t need help. But, I was hoping they would stop.
I try getting up again, knowing I can, but I am sluggish. I seem to move in slow motion; my body is not responding to commands as it should. Then, of course, I am awake. I remember dreams like this where I can’t move, and it is because I’m asleep. As I realize I’m awake, I start to sit up, and sure enough, I can move. Whew! OK. What the hell was that all about?
Was I thinking about strokes or heart attacks? Was my body trying to tell me something again? No, I feel fine. I used to hate those dreams that ended like that. It usually happened with a nightmare, like being chased. I had to run, or yell, but my body wouldn’t respond. I’d struggle, and struggle, and sometimes get a little squeaky sound out of my mouth.
One time, when I was a still quite young, I dreamed that the wolves that lived in the shadows of my room every night had come over to my small bed and were biting my hand, which was draped over the side. I couldn’t pull my hand away. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I knew I had to call for help, but my throat seemed paralyzed, just like my body. I kept trying, and finally made little sounds, and then slightly bigger sounds, and then, in some kind of paradigm shift, (if you’ll pardon the scientific reference), I was suddenly fully in control of my body and screamed. Screamed bloody murder, as people used to say.
My parents showed up quickly, and turned on the lights. I told them a wolf was biting me. Seems the dog that we’d had for a short while was licking my hand while I was dreaming. Possibly I’d been waving my hand around, and he tried to help. Or, maybe he thought I was being attacked? Anyway, my hand was fine, and there were no tooth marks that I recall. Unfortunately, my parents decided to get rid of the dog. Actually, I’m betting it was my overprotective mother who told my dad to get rid of it. It was gone for a few days, and I missed it. One day it suddenly showed up again, and that made me very happy. My parents were quite surprised to see it. I hugged it and petted it. It was happy to see me. I remember thinking about the incident years later, and, based on things I’d heard, decided my dad had simply driven the dog far away and left it somewhere, as people use to do, or perhaps he left it with someone, and the dog found his way back. Anyway, the dog was there, but I remember very little about it after that. It was gone, and I can’t remember when. I think my parents just got rid of it while I was at school, which is always a sad thought, but I can’t remember. In their defense, my mom was probably pregnant again, and they feared the dog might go after the baby.
I was talking about the dream I had this morning. Once I was fully awake, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Started up my little coffee maker. Fed the cats, even though it wasn’t light yet. I thought about the dream, thought about the times I’d dreamt of cars when I was young. For some reason, in the 1950s, people felt they could leave children in the car while they ran into a store or something for a “few minutes.” It always seemed to me to take forever. I’d sit in the car, and scare myself by wondering what would happen if the car suddenly started moving. I was too young to drive, and couldn’t yet reach the pedals easily. I knew about turning the key, and pressing the gas pedal, but the driving part was a mystery. One time I scooted over into the driver’s place (front seats were all one piece back then, and kids sat in the front with a parent if no one else was in the car). I played around with the steering wheel, pretending to be driving along, imaging myself on the road. The parking brake was easily accessible, and I accidentally released it; the car started to drift backwards, as it was on a hill. I managed to get my foot on the brake by scooching down, and I stayed like that for a long time, what really seemed like forever, until my mom returned. I told her the car had started rolling, and I stopped it. She thanked me. I asked her what would happen if the car had rolled into the street. She told me that was why people turned the wheels at an angle when parking, so the tires would hit the curb if the car should roll. I always remembered to do that many years after.
In my dreams, after that incident, the car would start rolling, and the wheels were turned the wrong way. The car would pick up speed as I coasted forward down the street, an exhilarating feeling, but scary, because I wasn’t big enough to hold the steering wheel and press down on the brake at the same time. In some dreams, I could reach the brake, but it didn’t work. I became better and better, in my dreams, at navigating the car through traffic, because the car always kept moving. One day, I asked my mom about that, asked her how would she stop the car if the brake didn’t work. She told me she could use the emergency brake. “What if it didn’t work?” I asked her. I was like that, so full of questions. She told me she’d always both throw the emergency brake on and put the car into reverse gear. It would mess up the engine, but the car would stop. I never had those dreams anymore. Thanks Mom! But I do wish you hadn’t ever left me alone like that in the car. Or ever left me alone ever.
Of course, this whole train of though awakened more. I remember, hell, I never forgot, the time my parents drove to a relative’s house to do something, maybe attend a funeral. I don’t recall doing anything bad while I was there, but my father took me into a room and told me to sit there (on a wooden chair) and keep quiet. So I did. He’d closed the door behind him. I stared at the wallpaper covered walls. I remember hearing some noises, but since my dad had told me to sit and be quiet, that’s what I did. It turned out that my parents, the relative, and the other kids at the time all loaded into the car and went. I just sat. It was excruciating. I stared at the fleur de lis wallpaper. I counted how many times the pattern on it repeated, up and down the walls. Double checked my counts.
The wall clock chimed. It did that a lot, on the hour every hour, and I think on the half hours too. Analog wall clocks used to do that. Every time the clock struck it increased my loneliness. I began to panic. It was hard to sit still. I liked to explore, to look around, to examine things. There was a boring church calendar on the wall. I kept counting images in the wallpaper around it. I felt like I was in some kind of limbo. I hated it.
It felt a lot like when I woke up one night at a young age, and couldn’t see. All the lights were out, and there seemed to be a haze in the air. There was some very faint light coming in the window from far away, but not enough that I could see anything clearly. It had scared me the first time I’d done that; I’d felt acutely alone, as if I was trapped by myself. Maybe that’s what makes infants cry at night? I had also wondered if I was going blind. I hadn’t gone for my parents because, well, I’d already cried wolf once (literally), and I didn’t want to wake them again. Years later, I’d had an even stranger experience while accidentally overdosed on paregoric, and after experiencing bizarre visions while awake, I woke them up. You betcha believe it.
Eventually, that day in the strange house, my parents came back. My dad was upset, but not, oddly, angry. He wanted to know why I hadn’t come with them. I reminded him that he’d told me to sit and be quiet, and he hadn’t come back for me. He’d always made it clear I was to do as he said until he said otherwise. I thought he would give me a new command when it was time to go. He hadn’t. He’d forgotten me. My fault somehow. One time, years later, in anger, he called me a literal-minded idiot.
So my brain just kept on going this morning. I went to the kitchen, pulled my coffee cup out of the mini espresso maker. I make Americanos by filling the machine with enough water to fill my cup. It keeps flowing through the grounds until my cup is full, but I have to then shut the machine off. I didn’t forget to do that this morning! I sugared and creamed my coffee, and went back to the computer to finish writing this. But before I did that I went back to the kitchen for something. Once there I had no idea what. As I walked back to my computer, I realised it was my coffee I’d wanted to get, but I’d already gotten it, and it was on my desk. I’d been typing before I’d started the coffee, and kept telling myself to stop and go get it, so it seems my brain doesn’t always turn the messages off that I send myself after I do what I was thinking about. That idea made me think about my brain, and forgetfulness, and strokes and heart attacks again. Had a heart attack once; got fixed up. Strokes are a possibility for anyone, at any time, but mostly due to blood clots getting to the brain, I believe. Haven’t had any injuries recently, or had any problems with clots, but you never know.
You noticed I had visions as a child on paregoric, didn’t you? I mentioned it above. It’s a fine story. I know this whole post is getting longer than most, but my brain is spinning this morning after that odd dream earlier. So, anyway, I was a sickly kid, with pneumonia, swollen sinuses, fevers, coughs, a ruptured appendix with blood poisoning, and later, asthma, followed by severe pollen and dust allergies. Kind of clumsy too. Fell into an unfinished basement of a new building once, and cracked my head on a rock. Fell out of a tree in the rain once when I was older, while trying to fix the roof of the treehouse my brother John and I had built, and broke my arm. Always something.
So oh, once upon a time, I had a cough, a bad one that wouldn’t let me or my mother sleep, so she’d put me to bed with a large spoonful or two of paregoric. Now paregoric is a medicine consisting of opium or morphine, flavored with camphor, aniseed, and benzoic acid, formerly used to treat diarrhea and coughing in children. (To this day I love the smell and flavor of anise or licorice.) My mother used it on us often. I think she overdid it that night. I had been coughing long and hard, and she may have given me two spoonsful, or more. I woke up later, in that odd underlit time of night where I could only see a little. I was used to it by then. However, staring at the wall wasn’t very useful, because it was too dark to see anything clearly. I had played with toy soldiers, and even seen or played with toy civil war soldiers, and I must have seen a movie with knights in armor. Suddenly there were uniformed soldiers fighting on the wall, chasing each other with guns, up and down hills, and there were explosions too, but there was no sound. I was fascinated! I had sat up on the bed, and could make out the bedposts, pillow, and blanket. But then the soldiers morphed into men fighting with swords and guns, in blue or grey uniforms, but in the same place. Then the scene shifted again, and there were brightly colored knights in chain mail with huge swords and horses, charging each other, and having sword fights. I was enjoying it. I don’t know how long I watched. Well, technically, I guess I wasn’t really seeing anything, just imagining it, but it was so intensely vivid! It seemed to be playing within the wall, as what would later become known as three-dimensional imaging. The bedposts created a nice frame.
Again, the scene shifted, but became jumbled. An inverted cone appeared before my eyes. I was looking into it from the wide bottom, up to a point that seemed to be infinitely far away. It disturbed me, but I also felt the need to pee. Having peed in my bed in the past, I wasn’t going to repeat that experience, just because I might be dreaming. (I had once dreamed I’d gotten up, had gone into the bathroom, and had stood over the toilet trying to pee but couldn’t, until I’d finally let it all out, and suddenly my legs had been very warm, and I realized, very wet, and I’d woken all the way up, in bed. A terrible thing to have to wake your parents up for, or admit to anyone.) So, this time, I got up, before that could happen. I wasn’t sure if I was awake or not, but it seemed I was awake. Except, except there was still that inverted cone in front of my face, and it made walking difficult. When I looked down, it seemed like the cone was a hole in the floor. When I looked around, the cone was directly in front of me everywhere. But, I could see a little around the edges. I made it to the bathroom, and peed, hopefully into the toilet bowl, because when I looked down, there was still this cone that seemed to bore through the toilet and floor.
By this time, I knew had to tell my parents. I was at least ten years old at the time, but I was scared. “Mom! Dad!” I think I yelled. “Something’s wrong with me, with my eyes.” They turned the lights on. It got worse. Now the cone was still there, but its inner surface was coated with sawdust, or looked like sand, something like that. The weird thing was that I couldn’t see my parents’ faces; all I saw were arms, and legs, and hands, and an alarm clock, and the lamp, things like that. They kept popping into and out of the cone, which was rotating. It wouldn’t stop. My father was telling me to wake up. I kept telling him, “I am awake!” Once I thought I saw his face in the cone, another time, someone’s head. I could talk with them, hear them OK, but the vision wouldn’t stop, and it was scaring me. My mother called the doctor. He said to give me soup. She heated up some soup, hers or canned, I don’t recall, but she often gave me Campbell’s’ chicken noodle when I was sick. My father kept talking to me while she was gone. He could see I was awake. He stopped telling me to wake up. I could feel concern in his voice. It was comforting, but the cone kept spinning. “I just want it to stop,” I told him. Mom came back with the soup. I ate it while sitting on their bed. After a few large spoonsful the visions cleared, and I felt fine. The soup may have diluted the paregoric, or distracted my brain. I don’t know for sure what it did, but it worked. I was fine. I went back to bed. They never mentioned it again. And the spoonsful of paregoric stopped. End of story.
So, New Mexico has it’s own “Red Carpet” now for those who make, work and play in the movies and television shows done here. New Mexico Film Week took place in Santa Fe from Tuesday, Feb. 6 through Monday, Feb. 12. It’s a collaborative effort between the Santa Fe Film Office, the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employee, Moving Picture Technicians, Artists and Allied Crafts (IATSE, local 480) and others. The New Mexico Film & TV Hall of Fame honored those who have helped build the New Mexico film and television industry, along with the industry’s rising stars, at its inaugural banquet and awards ceremony on February 11th.
I went to the awards as a photographer. With a long film history, the New Mexico State Film Office (NMFO) has kept track of significant movies and television shows dating back to 1898 in an online filmography. New Mexico Film and TV shows have been nominated for and won multiple awards both nationally and Internationally. This event showcased the past and present of New Mexico film and TV history through awards, video clips and speeches. The very first inductees to the state’s Hall of Fame were announced at the banquet preceding the awards. Among the inaugural honorees: Thomas Edison (who shot the very first film in New Mexico 120 years ago), New Mexico author and icon George R.R. Martin (who penned Game of Thrones and owns the Jean Cocteau Cinema), and author John Nichols’ The Milagro Beanfield War (celebrating its 30th anniversary as a film by Robert Redford).
Also inducted was 93-year-old Max Evans, who helped create the New Mexico Film Commission 50 years ago. Max Evans’ work reflects his love of New Mexico. Max wrote 30 books, including The Rounders and The Hi Lo Country, which became movies. He also wrote The Wheel, which he directed in 1973. Max Evans served in the infantry in WWII, landing in Normandy on D-Day. After that, Max became an eminent figure in the Southwest, as cowboy, rancher, miner, movie producer, and artist (selling over 300 oils)
such as this.
Also awarded: “Breaking Bad” on its 10th anniversary, with the cast and crew, including Stewart Lyons, the producer who worked on the entire series. Actor R.J. Mitte, who played Walter Jr., aka Flynn, on Breaking Bad, received the first New Mexico Film and Television Hall of Fame award.
New Mexico also has its RISING STARS. Honored were Conci Althouse, cinematographer and Santa Fe native. Her recent work includes the feature documentary Land of the Free, which had it’s North American premiere at the 2017 Telluride Film Festival and earned the CPH:DOX Jury Nordic Doc Award as well as a 2018 Danish Film Academy Award nomination.
MorningStar Angeline, an award-winning actor known for Drunktown’s Finest, also from Santa Fe, can be seen in Taylor Sheridan’s upcoming 2018 series Yellowstone as Samantha Long.
Hannah Macpherson, a filmmaker from Albuquerque, created and directed the edgy thriller series T@GGED for AwesomenessTV, which premiered on Verizon’s app go90 and is available on Hulu. She just finished production on season three in New Mexico. She also wrote and directed SICKHOUSE, the first-ever, made-for-mobile, vertically-shot feature film uploaded in real-time to Snapchat, which is available on Fullscreen and iTunes.
Another Santa Fe native is two-time Oscar nominee Joshua Oppenheimer. His debut feature film, The Act of Killing (2014 Academy Award nominee for Best Documentary), was named Film of the Year in 2013 by “The Guardian” and the Sight and Sound Film Poll, and won 72 international awards.
At the awards ceremony I spotted tribal police chief Mathias from the television series Longmire, Zahn McClarnon, a Native American Lakota-Irish actor. He also played Hanzee Dent in the television series Fargo. You may also have seen him on Into the West, Repo Chick, and The Red Road.
Seen and photographed: Imogene Hughes, of Bonanza Creek Film Locations, who was interviewed during the awards banquet. Bonanza Creek Ranch has been used as a backdrop for movies starting with The Man From Laramie in 1955 and Cowboy in 1958. Empire, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Easy Rider were filmed during the 1960s, while The Cheyenne Social Club, Powderkeg and The Cowboys were three of five movies filmed in the 1970s. Wild Times, The Legend of the Lone Ranger and Time Rider: The Adventures of Lyle Swan started off the 1980s which became even busier once Bonanza Creek owner Glenn Hughes partnered with wife Imogene. Her first dealings in the filming business were with Columbia Pictures and a project called Silverado. Together they worked with eight more projects, including the Lonesome Dove television series.
But, without further ado, here are some of my photos of honorees and attendees:
My head rolls back
against the chair
it tilts to the left.
Usually when I stand
it tilts eerily right,
but I pushed it left.
For some reason
this restricts blood
to my brain.
I awake
suddenly
with a snort.
My brain is light
not full of it
but lightheaded
not enough oxygen
I feel close to death
and I realize
how easy death is.
I see a bare foot
in front of my face
it is my foot
as in a dream
because
in reality
my foot is clothed.
I remember a joke
drawn as a Larson cartoon
in which there are
two undertakers
in a morgue
one says:
This guy has the winning lottery ticket
in his pocket
and the other says:
Lucky stiff.
The humor is that
a ticket is a ticket
and it still has value
when one is dead
one cannot use it
but someone else can
We cannot take
anything with us
we no longer
own
anything.
But I wonder
because
there are bare feet
sticking out
from under the sheets
no pockets
all the corpses are naked
so where was the ticket?
Well, it’s been weeks since I posted. Managed to act in two short independant movies (only two lines each). Had fun. Also did background for the web series T@gged. I can be seen in one episode, since the camera shot two of the main characters directly through me and another guy for two scenes, and then we both were directly on camera in the final scene. Just worked as a data wrangler for a local 48-hour movie project that will be shown on Nov. 15 here in Albuquerque. Can’t say much or post photos of any of that just yet.
However, I did attend Sunday Chatter again. It is chamber music performed 50 Sunday mornings a year, in, currently, an antique door shop. Photos to follow. I’m glad I went, because it was a real treat, again. We were fortunate to have multiple award-winning Vietnamese immigrant Vân Ánh Võ perform for us. In addition to her hypnotic singing, she also performed with three traditional instruments: a Dàn T’rung, a Dàn Tranh, and a Dàn Bau. The Dàn T’rung is a bamboo instument of a varying amount of tubes, but hers has three rows of 16 bamboo tubes to replicate a full chromatic scale, consisting of three full octaves.
The Dàn Tranh is an extraordinary Vietnamese zither, a beautifully crafted instrument, with, at my count 19 strings.
There was also a single-string instrument, a Dàn Bau, another type of zither. .
All of this would have been enough, but in some of her compositions she was joined by two violins, a viola, a cello, bass, flute, piano and percussion. Did I say extraordinary already? Ah, well, it was. And the music was as beautiful as Vân Ánh Võ herself. Needless to say, I was doubly enchanted.
In addition to all the music, however, Chatter always has a poet perform. This time it was Arizona native Jaclyn Roessel, a Diné (Navajo) member of several creative educational groups, an alumnus from Arizona State University, museum professional, and winner of several awards.
It was quite a day. The music of Vietnam on European and Vietnamese instruments, and poetry by a Native American. Much to think about, in terms of musical variety, costly and genocidal wars, and also of rivivals in culture and pride in one’s heritage.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey
by Jaclyn Roessel
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Please remember everyone will be drawn to the vivacity of your sweetness. Take note of who loves you without wanting more than you can be. Remember, especially, the ones who know you are still growing and leave room for you to be all your beautiful forms at once, as you choose.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Watch for those whose words align so beautifully with their actions that you lose track of what is said and what is done because the lines of distinction have been erased with intention, attention and devotion.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Live your promise to be the giant of your dreams, the queen who is king, never bowing down, submitting to anything less than you deserve.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Your light can brighten the darkest places but don’t fear reaching out for a hand to hold. It’s in the darkness where touch can feel the warmest, where kisses can go deep and love of your true self can reach back into the cave within.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Remember you come from the heavens. You are not solely stardust but the core of its brightness, your shine will at times be too bright for those around you. Look for the ones who instead of walking away or turn their back on you, sit in your presence with heart-shaped sunglasses so they can continue to stand in your love light.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
You are the goodness of the nectar, the sweetness of the fruit, the genesis of the bloom…you, dearheart, are a gift, hold that truth close.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
Remember you are beautiful and are the strength of your people, your mother, her mother and her mother. You are the pulse of a bloodline that traces the circle we walk around the fire in the Hogan. You are the antidote, the medicine that cures.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
You are a vision prayed into existence, the gift to a people, the leader of the next generation, a vessel of solutions to your people’s heartache. Continue to shine your prismatic rays as you uncover the treasure in the womb of your soul.
Dear Girl-Made-of-Honey,
You are not simply a universe…your existence is the past, present and future. You are a resilient multiverse brimming with the light of millions of ancestors and descendants. So rest in the simplicity of your greatness knowing deep within you there is only complexity of the love of the people you are from.
So, another inspirational Sunday morning, spent at Chatter, a weekly event feauring music and poetry, and espresso drinks and baked goodies.
Bach is Johann Sebastion Bach, a composer who began decomposing in 1750. He produced quite a body of work, and wrote some of the best music ever. We listened to his preludes from Cello Suites 1, 2, & 3, interspersed with readings of the modern-day poet Charles Bukowski, who has been decomposing since 1994, and a little of the poetry of Nathan Brown, who is not dead yet. The music was played on cello by Joel Becktell, also still alive.
Loved the music. Hard to believe that a cello can produce all those notes, because they did sometimes come fast and furious, but so harmonious that one has to listen carefully to notice that. The poetry rocked as well. Here’s a very famous poem of Bukowski’s:
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don’t do it. if you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it. if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed, don’t do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don’t do it. if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it, don’t do it. if you’re trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you’re not ready. don’t be like so many writers, don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don’t be dull and boring and pretentious, don’t be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don’t add to that. don’t do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.
We also listened to JS Bach’s preludes for Suites 4, 5, & 6. Powerful stuff, very ably performed by Mr. Joel Becktell.
On Charles Bukowski’s tombstome is written: “DON’T TRY”. That’s all it says. But it is the title of a poem by Nathan Brown, and it also became the title of a book of poems that are a collaboration of works by Nathan Brown and Jon Dee Graham.
It’s such a pleasant and inspiring way to spend my time, especially on a Sunday morning, when, at first I went because I had nothing better to do early on a Sunday, but now I go because there is nothing I’d rather be doing.
I had that appellation applied to me in high school when one of my German teachers would ask me how to say most anything in German, because I’d just grin awkwardly if I didn’t know the answer. Truth is I’ve always had a hard time with languages, but that’s neither here nor there, because that’s not what I came here to talk about today.
I suppose what I’m here to talk about is death, not that I’m that emo, or into dark gothic role playing, or angst, but it’s something that rolled across my consciousness after hearing a song by Johnny Cash called, Smiling Bill McCall, with these lyrics:
“I don’t want to be layin’ in bed When they pronounce me dead.”
Well, that’s true enough for me. I’d rather die trying to do something, or just doing something I enjoy. Hiking up a mountain, or acting, or fucking – those are things I’d prefer to die, well, not doing, but immediately after. I do like to complete things.
Now, I probably came close to that dying-while-fucking part once. Met a woman about 35 years younger than me, and, somehow, it didn’t take us long to get into it. We were in the kitchen when she suddenly grabbed my belt and undid my pants and glommed right onto my penis, which leapt into action. I had never met a woman that aggressive about sex before, and it was amazing! So goddamned turned on! I wanted to fuck real bad, so we moved to the bedroom.
Well, she dropped herself backwards into my bed, and I helped her shuck her jeans, and I just dived into that gorgeous muff of hers, and she squealed in delight. I worked on that cunt of hers with lips and tongue, while she squirmed and wiggled. By the time I got around to putting on a condom and fucking, my penis had lost some of its stiffness, and it wasn’t doing its job. That, of course, is supremely frustrating, especially when you’re hot for a woman who’s hot for you to fuck her. Now, since I’d been divorced about five years, I also hadn’t had sex, with another person, for that long, so I wasn’t expecting that.
I went to the doctor and got some of the blue pills, and he said I’d probably only need half a dose, and he was right. I was afraid I couldn’t entice that young woman back into bed with me, but I called her and she was still eager. I’ll never know if I really needed ’em or not, but I had an erection that just kept keepin’ on, and not long after we’d stop for air, we’d go back at it again. Well, that was fine, and we kept at it for two years like that. I kept popping the blue pills because I was afraid to disappoint her or myself, and we could fuck and drink for days at a time.
Now one fine time, after we’d gotten started early on a Saturday night and spent most of Sunday morning fucking as well, I had to take her home, so I could go run the winery I worked at part time. The next day, Monday morning, I picked up my stepdaughter to get her to work, and then donated a pint of whole blood, and, since they tell you to follow that up with a big meal, I stopped at a buffet, for a breakfast of chorizo and bacon and eggs to replenish my iron-depleted blood, and a syrup-laden waffle, and half a plate of fruit. Went home, played around on my computer, dug through tons of spam to read my emails, and read part of a book. I began feeling strange, and there was a strange pressure in my chest, and to make a long story, that I’ve already talked about, short, I proceeded to get myself to a hospital and had my obligatory American-style old-man heart attack while surrounded by doctors and nurses and technicians in an operating room.
One of the questions they’d asked was if I’d had sex recently. I told them I had. Later on I found out that those oblong blue pills were implemented in some heart attacks, but that didn’t stop me from using ’em again as soon as I saw that lover of mine. We got right back into our routine, since I felt great, better than I had for years, and the blue pills weren’t necessary any more. However, the whole heart-attack thing had bothered her, and since she had never planned for us to be a regular item, it didn’t surprise me that one day she said goodbye, and then left town not long after that. Maybe she just didn’t want to kill me, but I’d have gladly died fucking her.
So, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah, death. Fucking is one way to go, or falling off a mountain – things like that. But I suppose I might have another heart attack some day, and I suppose I might be riding my iron horse, the one with two wheels, 750cc engine, four carburetors, and four tailpipes. I do like riding that thing, and I like getting it up to speed. It’s old too, but the engine purrs when it feels like starting up.
So, where I’d been going with the whole random line of thought was this: if I’m riding along on my motorcycle some day, and I feel a bad, painful, I’m-probably-not-going-to-survive-this heart attack coming on, I’m not going to pull over and die on the side of the road, or in an ambulance cruising to a hospital, or in a hospital bed. I say this because, just in case it happens that I die blowing on down the highway, and they say I was doing 250mph, it wasn’t suicide, or stupidity. I was just going out, and having fun while I was doing it. But I’m pretty sure I’d rather have been fucking.
A little while back I wrote about Renaissance man Jim Fish, who died a few days after his 68th birthday, while hiking back down a mountain he had just climbed in the New Mexico wilderness. He was a poet, among other things.
Recently on the grounds of the winery he started, I met several other people, two of whom had a nice long truck, and a trenching machine known around here as a ditch witch. It was handy. We had to tear down a solidly built shed, one that had been built to last. I took a few swings at it with a sledge hammer, and only removed a few wooden shelf braces and some upper storage shelving. To take this thing down would have taken all of us working hard all day, and we still had to load it all on the truck. But, the ditch witch made much shorter work of that shed.
You see, after Jim’s death, we had to clean up around there. This shed had held many of Jim’s personal items: old papers, maps, camping gear, antlers, pieces of wood for carving, etc. and etc. Unfortunately, our local desert rats, or pack rats, had moved in. They pissed and shit everywhere. The mixture has the consistency of hardened epoxy. Really. You have to chip it away. It was all over everything, along with all the bits and pieces they drag into their nests. One idea was to just torch the building, but we decided it was better, and more in keeping with local fire ordinances, to just tear it down. It still took roughly 6 hours of hard work, but we got it down, and hauled away.
During the process, I found some old cards Jim had printed up, and sent out to friends many years ago. He was already into the poetry, so each had a poem, and a photo of Jim’s of New Mexico, where he lived. I had read several of Jim’s poetry books, but not all of them, so I’d never seen these poems, and I don’t even know if they were published in book form. I scanned and cleaned the four cards up a bit digitally, and I’m posting them here, because they are good, and to give others an idea of what he was like. Those are his horses in the second photo image; they are off in the high New Mexico countryside now, just grazing and keeping an eye out for cougars. Jim took a lot of photos of bears over the years, but, as you can see, not this particular one (fourth photo image). He probably made a card each year, but the only ones I found were from 1982, 1983, 1987, and 1988.
So this morning I had a dream in which I was at an art gallery. I found a sculpture I liked and bought it, for $750. Oddly specific there, that price. Of course price is very important. I couldn’t afford to buy a piece of art for $750 right now.
There was something familiar about the piece. It was a piece of carved wood, shaped like a distorted ellipse, with one part narrower than the other, as though it was what was left of an ovoid after cutting out the center and leaving just a two-dimensional outline of the ovoid. The smaller end was pointed down. There was a piece of wood hanging in the center of the piece also. As I was admiring it, the recently deceased winemaker/sculptor/writer/poet/skier Jim Fish appeared next to it. He looked at me, as if to say, that looks familiar. And indeed, it really did resemble the wood sculptures he used to make; it was even mounted on a stone base, just as he used to do. In fact, I couldn’t tell the difference, but I felt I hadn’t bought it from Jimmie the Fish.
In the meantime, he had reassembled the sculpture I had just bought, and even added pieces from a disassembled sculpture of his. It now resembled a three-dimensional rectangle, and it was ugly. I tried to restore it to its original appearance, but I found it difficult to do so. Suddenly, within the dream, I had the epiphany that it really did matter how such sculptures were oriented in space, and how they were mounted. Jim Fish’s sculptures always seemed random to me, and I had often joked about using them for firewood on frigid winter mornings at the winery when we had nothing else to put into the fireplace. I would have mentioned that epiphany to Jim, but he was no longer there. I wanted him to put my newly acquired sculpture back together, but he had left his smaller sculpture there as well. For some reason I tried putting a small piece of his sculpture in place of the small piece in mine, but I couldn’t make it work.
And then, of course, I was fully awake. Would I spend money on a sculpture? Possibly, but I already know I have no space for it here. There are photos and paintings and posters all over my walls, and one wall is all overstuffed bookcases. Another wall has my vinyl records, music CDs, old cassettes, TV, and my stereo system. With my regular furniture: a stuffed chair, a faux-leather chair, my small wooden kitchen table and chairs, my desk, and my bed and bureau, I’ve used up all the corners and the rest of the space.
Nevertheless, it occurs to me that I wish I did have one of Jim’s sculptures.
All of his sculptures have been removed from the winery. They are temporarily stored in the studio of a painter friend of Jim’s. The plan, from what I heard, is to put Jim’s sculptures into a gallery. I remember wondering how whoever reassembles them will know how to do so, like what wood piece goes on what base, and how each piece is mounted. After a little time goes by, it may be difficult to remember how everything goes. Hell, it may be impossible to know what wood each piece is carved from. There’s apricot, acacia, piñon and cherry, for example, and damned if I know which is which without Jim’s little titles and descriptions. His small, plastic-coated cards were always blowing off the sculptures, and I was forever picking them up off the winery’s floor when I was cleaning. Only Jim really knew what was what for certain.
So, I see my dream was not so much about art in general, but really about Jim Fish and his sculptures. I will have to help with those sculptures if they ever make it into galleries. After 17 years of looking at each new one Jim added, and seven years of putting the little cards back on each one, I should have some idea what each one is.
This one was always “Not For Sale”. However, so many people pestered Jim to buy it, insisting that everything has a price, that he finally put a price on it: $10,000. After that, he got no more offers. I like it a lot.
I watched a movie last night. It is titled: A Monster Calls. It is an adaptation of a children’s tale. It is also very intense and far too real to be just a tale. A boy’s mother is dying of cancer. He wants to believe she will recover, but knows she will not. The movie is pretty much about him, those expectations, and how he deals with them. The story has elements of fantasy, and some beautiful animation of the brilliant watercolor illustrations I expect are from the book. I enjoyed it, and, yes my eyes teared, my throat constricted and tears did indeed run down my cheek. Highly recommend, for all ages.
It got me thinking about many things, death among them, and the love I have for my stepdaughter Maya. Her struggle with cancer made me realize that I loved her, and that I didn’t want her to die. Is that selfish? I imagined it would be impossible to live without her. I imagined I would die if she died. Unlike the aforementioned movie, however, my hopes were realized and she did not die. It was the most wonderful thing I ever experienced. I felt real joy, for the first time ever. As time went on, I realized I loved her fiercely, more than anyone I’ve ever known. At first, I wondered if I felt that way chiefly because she almost died. But, I came to understand that it was the possibility that she might die that opened my eyes to my love for her. I believe I really love her, because I want the best for her. I want her to be happy. I want her to live a full life, for her, not for me. I want her to live many, many years after I’m gone. I think that is really what love is, when you care about someone you love, and wish for their happiness, regardless of your relationship, or if you live together, or even if you never see them again.
She was still quite young when I met her. I dated her mom Linda for four years, then married Linda and lived with her, and Maya, and her brother Noah. I was part of a family. It was the second time for me, and I wanted to make sure it worked out better than the first time I had tried that. I never became close with Noah, but I liked him a lot. Maya and I seemed to become friends. We only ever had one argument as I recall. It was my fault and mostly a misunderstanding, and we talked about it right away, and resolved it and I apologized for what she thought was anger on my part. When she started college, which was the same place I worked, we often met for lunch.
After both of Linda’s children, Maya and Noah, had moved out, Linda and I had the place to ourselves. She had big plans for the house, including an addition, a new roof, and many other things. I accomplished most of it before I had to leave. Fortunately, Maya and I remained on good terms after that divorce. We work together at times, bottling and labeling or selling wines. We’ve been to many wine festivals, and have helped keep a unique winery running. It is always a joy for me to see Maya, and work together, or go to dinner for holidays and birthdays. It makes me happy too, when she travels or has good times with her friends. I love her very much.
Maya’s death would have crushed me entirely. The interesting thing, to me, is that a lot of people died when I was young, and I felt no loss. There were some great-aunts that I didn’t know, so that was understandable. In second grade a classmate died, choked on a glass of water. I was shocked to hear of it, but I didn’t know him personally. A cousin died very young after that, and I felt sad for my aunt and uncle, but my cousin’s death did not touch me. One by one, my grandfathers died. I was an altar boy at both of their funerals. I never knew my paternal grandfather well. I believe I only ever had one conversation with him, one that I remember well, but I felt no grief. My mother’s father came to live with us for a short time before he died. I enjoyed having him there, but again, I don’t recall any grief when he died. I remember thinking how odd it was that he had spent so much time in a veterans’ hospital, which is often where my parents would go to visit him when I was very young. Then he seemed so healthy when he stayed with us that I was quite surprised when he died. I did not feel grief; was I a monster?
The one person I missed greatly, and had loved was my father. My parents had divorced while still raising the four youngest. As an adult, his death left me confused. I didn’t know what to feel when I got the phone call. We had not stayed in touch after I left home. Our relationship had gone downhill before I left. I had gone to see him before he’d died, but we did not speak of anything substantial, and that seemed bittersweet in retrospect, because there is much I’d have liked to talk with him about. I wasn’t going to attend his funeral, because I had just been to see him, and I felt that was better than seeing him dead. And, as well, I really couldn’t afford to fly that far again. However, when I sat down to write a letter to my brothers and sisters, explaining why I wasn’t coming, I broke into tears, and sobbed. I felt awful. I was overcome with grief, and decided to travel anyway, just to be with family. I missed the funeral itself, but arrived in time for the wake, and I felt much better among my relatives, even laughed with cousins I had not seen in decades.
Then my godfather Fred, a close cousin of my mother, died. The two of them had grown up together. Fred, aka Fritz, would visit us three nights a week after he left the bar he worked at. He usually brought us kids a treat, chocolate, or even packets of clay, leftovers from when he was a typesetter. Loved playing with the clay. Loved the chocolate. Fred helped my mother out, painting, lending her money for groceries, or especially putting up the Christmas garden, with the trains and houses, and the paper mountains tacked up on the wall around the raised wooden platform that held the little village. As a GI, he had fought in Germany against the Nazis, and brought back a toy-soldier marching band from the basement of a burned-out house in Germany. It always marched across our village, despite the swastikas on the band’s uniforms and flag, and the little guy in front with the small mustache and raised arm salute. I remember thinking, despite Fred’s racial prejudices and those other eccentricities, that the world had lost a good man. I did not feel grief, but he had been and is still on my mind quite often.
Then again, I was reminded of my father’s death when the heart and soul of our winery, Jim Fish, died suddenly. I did feel that same grief again. He was like a father in some ways, and a mentor, and a friend. I learned a lot from him, and worked with him making wine for seven years. His death was a great painful loss to me. I loved him.
What has always kept me going is that I still have my three sisters and three brothers. We’re getting old, but still hanging in there. Even my mother, at 86, is still alive and kicking. I’ve always felt I loved my brothers and sisters more than anyone in the world, but I have to add Maya to that mix now. She is family, and more than that to me.
My love for her is unlike that I’ve felt for anyone ever in my life. To keep her alive I would gladly give my last ounce of blood. It’s seems strange sometimes, to realize that I care about someone so much. I thought I had loved others before, but never have I had this depth of feeling for someone. I admire her too. I admire her strength in coping with brain cancer. I admire her intelligence, and her continuing efforts to learn and advance herself in the world. I admire the way she cares about her friends. I admire the way she cuts off and donates her hair every year to Locks of Love. She wore a wig herself after losing her hair twice to chemotherapy and radiation treatments, so she continues to give back. I admire her for starting an organization to help people get back into school after having had to drop out due to cancer or other medical reasons. I admire her independence and fighting spirit. But mostly, I think, I just love her.
Sometimes, imperfect as I am, I think perhaps I’m not as bad a monster as I thought I was.
Last month wasn’t very busy. I was paid to work as a background actor on the TV series Graves, just once, and I worked a few hours on a local independent film for no pay. I only hiked three times. I took a weekend acting class. I had an audition – no word on that. There was a shareholder’s meeting, at the 21-year-old winery I have been working at for the last seven years, to try to figure out what to do next after the death of our founder. I had a CT SCAN/angiogram on my heart with a fancy new machine that looked like a giant metal donut. I left a bit woozy from the drug and the scan. I saw my new heart doctor for the results, and I had a pre-exam for my upcoming annual health checkup. The culmination of July was an acting gig for a 48-Hour Movie project, which is part of an international competition among people who make a short movie in 48 hours from start to finish, including all editing, and that led to two events in August.
That’s me (in hat, sunglasses, scarf) as a fake director for the movie within the movie
So August started rolling right away on the 1st, with a day at the winery netting grapes to keep the birds from eating them. We’re keeping the winery going for now. Anyone want to buy a winery? I think that’ll happen soon. I got the see the 48-Hour movie we made on Thursday August 3rd, along with 13 other shorts, out of 41 total. I decided to celebrate with my fellow GroupA participants at local brewery Sidetrack, getting a shrimp po’ boy to eat from Crazy Daves’ food truck outside (to balance the two pints of heavy beer). Since the second group of short movies (Group B) finished while we were there, a few of us wandered over to Boese Brothers Brewery nearby for their after party, and I had another beer. A late night, and it cost quite a few bucks, but it was fun.
The Casting Coffee Group who made the movie
Saturday the 5th, there was a meeting of group I’m part of that made the 48-Hour movie. We’re certain we’ve won several awards, but we won’t know until August 18.
After that, I went to the 11th Annual Gala of the Guerrilla Photo Group, a wonderful collection of photographers, models and makeup people, who not only improved my photography skills, but introduced me to the local movie-making scene. There were lots of friends there, a dozen sexy models, lots of photos to view and to vote on as a favorite. My favorite was of a wonderfully sexy teacher/poet with a book centered firmly between her thighs, but it was already sold.
Had another beer at the Albuquerque Press Club’s bar, so I also visited the Pink Ladies’ food truck for a fantastic carne adovada burrito.
Today it was back to Sunday Chatter, the weekly Sunday morning music concert. This one was not as wildly fantastic as the last one I wrote about, but it was nice. A husband and wife duo played music for cello and guitar that they had rearranged from traditional presentations. An orchestral piece by Gabriel Fauré still sounded damn good for just cello and guitar. Four of Johann Sebastian Bach’s works for harpsichord were recreated by having the guitar play the notes for one hand, and the cello play the notes for the other hand. (No. 8 in F Major, No. 10 in G Major, No. 6 in E Major, and No. 13 in A Minor). Fun!
There followed a piece from Oliver Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time”, but of course, only performed on two instruments. And there was “Allegretto Comodo” by Radames Gnattali, and “Reflexoes No. 6” by Jaime Zenamon. The duo is called Boyd Meets Girl, and they’ve just released a CD of their arrangements.
Laura Metcalf and Rupert Boyd
There was some great cornbread too: blue corn meal, corn, cheese, and chile, two pieces of which I scarfed down with my freshly espressed caffè americano.
25 days still to go in the month of August!
Doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning, and a movie audition in the afternoon. More netting of grapes at the winery on Tuesday, and another shareholder’s meeting next Sunday. Hopefully I’ll have news of our 7-minute movie being wildly successful on the 18th. But, for now, the rest of the calendar for August is empty.
My favorite Sunday morning activity is “Chatter” at Las Puertas in Albuquerque, formerly known as Church of Beethoven. The music is always different, but along the lines of chamber, symphonic, and other orchestral works; they are sometimes from centuries past or they could be more recent. It is always fascinating and enjoyable. And, being able to enjoy freshly espressed coffee is an integral part of the fascination.
My mind sometimes drifts along during the concert, and today was no exception. After hearing the poet in mid-concert, and during the two minutes of silence before the next musical performance, I was thinking about writing, probably a poem, but at least writing down a (time wise) back and forth monologue, hitting memories that bounce around in my head, a place where time is fluid. Such was briefly my plan for when I would arrive home.
Howsoever, as much as I had enjoyed the music from the first performance, which was a beautiful sextet by Richard Straus (Opus 85), played with passion and virtuosity, I was astounded by the second half of the program: string sextet No. 1 in B-flat major (Opus 18) by Johannes Brahms. Notwithstanding that there were no horns 😀, only six stringed instruments, I was blown away.
Our local trio of musicians (David Felberg on violin, Shanti Randall on viola, & James Holland on cello) were paired up with three members of the Sybarite-5 group out of New York: Sarah Whitney, a tall, dark, passionate violinist, Angela Pickett, tightly focused on viola, and Laura Metcalf, colorfully dressed, exhibiting high intensity on cello. I noticed, or seemed to, that the women showed more emotion while playing. Whitney, although tightly focused on her music, seemed ready to cry at times, as though a sad memory kept threatening to burst though, but sometimes a smile would appear. Pickett was less expressive, but she did smile at the end of each piece. Metcalf was so intense it was entirely palpable from where I sat; I did not see as much emotion on her face as Whitney, but she was clearly enjoying herself, and satisfied with what she was playing.
Whitney, Metcalf, and Pickett
The men, well, the men were just as focused, expert, and intense, but I never saw a sign of any emotion cross their faces. An odd thing to notice. It was curious, but not important to the concert. I briefly wondered if female musicians are able to multitask memories, emotions and intense playing of music, more so than male musicians who are focused on getting ‘er done right?
At any rate, the Chatter/Sybarite Mash-up was intense and electrifying. I was nearly jerked around in my seat by the changes in intensity. The music would swell and fade, and change and pop, and reverberate in my head while the musicians gave us their all. The symbiosis of these six expertly played instruments was intensely pleasurable. I’ve heard amazing things at Chatter Sunday before, but this, this just blew me away. Nor was I alone: applause is usually reserved for the end of a particular piece, no matter the stops between movements, but the four parts of the Brahms string sextet each received applause from those who could not hold back until the end. When the concert was concluded, people jumped to their feet with thunderous applause. It was not the usual sort of slow rising by a few, then more, then all; everyone jumped to their feet as the last note fell away.
I like many types of music, as long as it is played with passion. The Chatter musicians and members of Sybarite did not disappoint. They played their hearts out, and gave all of us there assembled an uplifting start to what would have to be a great day.
Found out that Jim Fish died last evening. Collapsed up on a mountain where he’d been hiking, but I’m sure glad he was able to have that experience as one of his last. His nephew was also with him, and they were good buddies.
Jim Fish was originally from a ranch in Texas, and loved his horses, and the outdoors. He was also a retired chemical engineer, had once worked for the Sandia National Laboratories on nuclear safety. He was concerned about the destruction possible with a core meltdown, and came up a way to reinforce nuclear plants so they wouldn’t melt into the ground, but his superiors didn’t want to implement the solution, due to cost concerns. Jim took an early retirement from the labs.
He lived in Placitas, New Mexico on Camino de los Pueblitos. After retirement, not knowing exactly what he was going to do, he one day looked around the village, and lamented the waste of fruit, like apricots, plums and peaches, that grow in profusion all over Placitas and don’t get used.
He decided to try making wine from those fruits. Over the years he made wine from all the fruits that grow in this part of the country, including a few grapes, and he even made wine from cranberries he had to buy from the Ocean Spray company, because they sure as hell don’t grow around here. It was, as he often said, “A hobby that got out of control.” He eventually built a structure and opened a winery to share these wines with people. He never got rich. In fact, the early retirement from Sandia labs meant his retirement pay was delayed until just a few years back. Jim turned 68 a few days ago.
Jim loved to ski, and in fact, had skied this past winter, despite a bad knee resulting from an injury a little while back. He got a brace for his knee, and skied, he said, the best days he ever had in his life with that brace on. Besides writing books on hiking and the local geology, he recently self-published a book on skiing, titled Dancing The Snow, (A Guide to Skiing for Old Men). It is full of detailed descriptions of trails, techniques, tips, photos and anecdotes. He also wrote poetry all the time, and published a number of poetry books. Poetry occurred often at the winery. There were poets who came from all over as part of the Duende Poetry series, and poetry continued after that series ended. Jim also carved and polished old pieces of “found” wood into fantastic sculptures mounted on large stones and rocks. His sculptures appeared all over the winery, and live in quite a few homes.
While the wines are numerous and often fantastic, like the Wild Cherry wine, and Chokecherry wine, and Synaesthesia – a three-grape wine fermented in three stages – the winery hosted many events besides poetry. Belly dancing is a regular event. Food-wine-pairing dinners is another, as well as wildlife presentations, and community meetings, and political events. Placitas is a very old village, yet still very small. There is one very old church and one newer one, and one school. There are no stores or gas stations in the old village. The closest store or restaurant is about 3.5 miles down NM Highway 165. The Spanish moved in centuries ago, but Native Americans lived there for thousands of years, growing corn, and hunting, as is evidenced by the petroglyphs: designs etched into rocks found all over Placitas, featuring corn stalks, and animals of all types, like cougars snakes and turkeys. In the Southwestern USA, the original inhabitants are known to their modern-day descendents as the Anasazi, or “the ones who went before,” so Jim called his winery: Anasazi Fields Winery.
Jim was a friend to all he met. He encouraged young people to work at the winery, and hoped one day to turn it over to a younger group. Then he would just sit and watch and drink old wines. Jim loved his wines, growing the grapes and other fruits without fertilizers or pesticides. He found ways to improve them using old European techniques of slow, cool, sugar-starved fermentation, without chemicals or preservatives. In fact, using the whole fruit as part of the fermentation, he found that the fruits’ natural preservatives and antioxidants kept the wines good for three weeks or longer after a bottle was opened! (Longer if kept in a dark and cool place).
Some of the wines that have survived from the early days, in 1995, 1996, etc. have cellared very well, and it’s always a treat to open one of those. It is difficult to keep wines around there long, as they sell very well, even when Jim had to raise prices to keep the winery in operation. He has a special wine, that one I mentioned called Synaesthesia, that ended up selling for $125/bottle, and no matter what the price, it always sold out. Fortunately, most of the fruit wines are priced far lower than that! Sounds like Jim would have gotten rich, but there are few grapes growing here, and late frosts, birds, wasps, and even bears took their share of those. He always said that he made a grape wine just to prove to his fellow vintners that he could. In fact, using grapes from other vintners, and his own techniques, Jim was able to make those wines taste even better. He liked that a lot.
There’s so much I could tell you about Jim Fish. He was an amazing man. Much of the wine sold was sold through his personal attention to customers, and through the stories he’d tell. He loved to talk about the wines, and skiing, and trails and mountains. He loved to introduce people to the fruit wines, and see their reactions when they paired something like an old tawny-colored and intense apricot wine with venison, or salmon, or blackened tuna. I was amazed to see how much fruitier the wine seemed, and how much better meat or cheese tastes with a complementary wine.
I don’t know what will happen to the winery now. We’ve all learned a lot about winemaking, and we have a lot of stock, so I’d imagine we’ll stay in business, for now. There are around four-dozen partners who have invested time or money into the winery; perhaps they’ll want to sell it. That was always the long-range goal. It won’t be the same without Jim Fish, without that boundless enthusiasm of his, his optimism, and his stories. Perhaps, in his memory, we’ll be able to keep it going.
I met my step-daughter Maya and her friend Jennifer today near the village, at the Placitas Cafe down the road towards I-25. They both had worked at the winery, helping to bottle, label, and sell the wines. When they found out about Jim’s death, they were thrown for a loop, so they drove out there from Albuquerque. We sat for hours talking about Jim, with tears in our eyes, and sadness in our hearts. We tried to focus on Jim’s friendliness and great heart, and not be sad, but it is too soon. I can barely write about him without an overarching melancholia. I have too few friends and family that I care about so much, and losing someone like Jim is gut wrenching. You never know how much you care about someone until they’re near death or gone.
So, I keep trying to say good bye to Jim in this post, but I can hardly type. I know I’ll feel better in a while. After all, Jim Fish made me smile, and I always enjoyed making wine with him. He was passionate about his life, whether it was winemaking, hiking, camping, hunting, wood-carving, or poetry. When I found myself retired, divorced, and aimless, Mr. Fish added some hard work to my life, giving me a new-found appreciation for wine-making, farming, a caring kind of entrepreneurship, and friendship.
OK, so the President of the United Sates posted this tweet: “Despite the constant negative press covfefe.” Shortly after this, he posted another tweet, AFTER deleting the first: “Who can figure out the true meaning of “covfefe” ??? Enjoy!”
In context, you see that the word would have been “coverage”, which, when refering to press coverage, is something Trump hates. He has often said the press makes issues out of nothing, and he really, really hates any kind of bad press resulting from something he has said or done, even when it is 100% true. That said, Trump did not correct the tweet; he instead told us to: “Figure it out.” Now, cov is basically a short form of coverage, shortened deliberately, because Trump wanted to add another word. Unfortunately, he didn’t spell it exactly right, but if you seperate cov from the word, you get fefe. Now, fee fee can be used to mean, “a party”.
However, an actual Fee Fee is a masturbation device, (a rolled towel with a rubber glove) that is used by prisoners. After being rolled, the end of the glove is then stretched over the top. Then it is finished by pulling a sock over the opposing end to hold the glove in place. Can then be run under warm water or placed in between mattresses to create a “real life” effect.
It is a fairly common word. Used with cov, in context with press coverage, it refers to the press basically playing with themselves – making up stories where there are none, basically: creating a story they can play with for their own enjoyment (masturbating).
Now, you may think I’m just making this shit up, but I am not. If Trump had merely mistyped coverage – although I think it is difficult to type “fefe” instead of “erage” – he wouldn’t have deleted it so fast. He may have simply retyped the correct word, or said something to the effect of: “You know what I meant.” He did not. Why? because a popular understanding of the slang word he attempted to use would have brought negative criticism of a President using foul language. Even just the idea of a Fee Fee would gross a lot of people out.
I will bet you, with 100% confidence, that press coverage-fee fee is what Trump meant, as an off-color jab at the Press.
I decided to respond to a Quora question:”What have you assumed was exaggerated until you experienced it?” since I’ve been working in a winery for seven years, cleaning ditches, weeding, picking fruit, fermenting fruit, pumping, filtering, bottling, labeling and selling wine. I wrote:
Well, lots of things, really, throughout my whole life, but I’m going to just focus on wine. Most of us, especially when young, make fun of all that wine tasting stuff, like swirling the glass, or sniffing the “bouquet”, and can’t figure out what wine goes with what food, often resorting to anyone else’s recommendation, but always feeling like it doesn’t really make any difference: wine is wine. I thought the whole thing was made up or grossly exaggerated. Which is not to say there really aren’t posers who do not know what they are talking about, or try to impress, regardless of how much or little they actually know.
Anyway, I found out many things when I began working at a winery, and actually making wine, and not just grape wine, but wine made from cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, apples, blackberries, raspberries, and even cranberries, among many others. Only wine grapes don’t need any additions of sugar to ferment, having a high enough sugar content to make a strong alcoholic beverage. But, by adding sugar, slowly, incrementally, to fruit, any fruit, you can make damn fine wines too.
I say this because I would not have learned as much from a few grape wines as I have from fruit wines. Yes, it does make a big – a huge difference – what wine you have with your meal. If you’re just drinking wine to get drunk, or impress people, it doesn’t matter much what you drink. Fruit juice with distilled alcohol will do.
However, one of the first things I learned is that wines to be paired with food need to be dry, that is, without sugar. If all the sugar is converted to alcohol, you get a very superior wine. It can take quite a while to do that, but it’s worth it. Drinking a sweet wine coats your tongue with sugar and makes tasting anything else difficult: the fine flavors of food can be masked by sugar. And, dry doesn’t mean bland or high in alcohol content; dry table wines can be very fruity and complex with layers of flavors.
But, even drinking dry wines with food takes a little bit of consideration. A very light-tasting food needs a light-tasting wine. White wine with chicken or fish, sure, but not if the chicken is heavily spiced, or the fish is something like salmon. But, a strong grape wine, like a cabernet sauvignon, will completely overpower the taste of some milder foods. Drink them with red meats like buffalo, for sure.
Very strong-flavored foods need a strong-flavored wine. A rich-tasting wine will complement the salmon you’re eating, neither taking away the flavor of the food, nor being overpowered by it. In our winery we have an apricot wine, served by itself or blended with a white grape wine, that we use for things like salmon, blackened tuna, or aged cheeses. For really strong, pungent cheese, we recommend that or a 100% peach wine.
When it comes to spicy food, we recommend a red grape wine blended with wild cherry wine, the pure wild cherry wine itself, or plum wines. The plum is particularly great with curried foods.
For meats that same red wine/ wild cherry wine mix works great, or other all-fruit wines we blend.
Now, none of this is to convert you to fruit wines other than grapes. There are some really great grape wines. It is just to illustrate the point that you have to experiment with wines to see what foods they complement. (I used to only drink whites like chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, sémillon or pinot grigio. Now I can finally appreciate red wines, even cabs.) I hated the intense pure apricot wine until I tried it with venison; suddenly the apricot flavor jumped out at me, and the heavy gaminess of the meat was toned down. I don’t like blue cheese, or any of the moldy-looking strong cheeses, but I tried them with this powerful peach wine, and suddenly I could appreciate the flavor of the cheeses, and the wine. This happens at some level with all wines. If you can’t taste the wine after a few bites of your food, or if you can’t taste your food after a few sips of wine, it’s not the best experience.
Another thing I learned is that the whole point of wine, from the very beginning of viticulture, was to accompany food. It can heighten the flavors in your food, making the meal a real joy, which makes you feel pretty good, compliment the chef, and smile. As long as you don’t overindulge in the dinner wine, you will be able to enjoy your wine and your food, and not actually feel drunk. Drink some water too along with your meal. The water and the wine help your digestion. Sweet wine? – after your meal. And maybe have it with a little dessert too, yeah?
I read some poetry today that reminded me how so many people feel sad because someone they loved is gone, either through the end of a relationship or death. That is sad indeed, although an old relationships can often be rekindled, even though at a certain point in time it doesn’t seem possible. People seem to not know that, or ignore it, or conveniently forget it.
I don’t forget it. Sometimes that has happened to me. I remember how terrible it felt at times, but I no longer feel that way, about the relationships, or the two marriages, or my father’s death, or even my godfather’s death, although I still miss my favorite cat ever, and even though I accepted that he was dead, I suspect he is still alive, having seen what I’m pretty sure was that cat, with a new collar and tag a few miles from here.
I can’t go get the cat, even if I could find him, because I have a new cat, and another cat besides, and the fighting would be bad, and three cats is just too much. I am deeply saddened by not having that cat around, and knowing that with some effort, I might be able to reclaim him. But, that is somewhat like what this post is actually about: unclaimed relationships, not with cats, but with people.
I live alone, save for the cats. It could be otherwise. An old girlfriend from many years ago ended up single, and available for friendship or living together. And even though I used to think that I would jump at that, I don’t want to. For one thing, she is quite batty, with a house overrun by cats, and sometimes a dog or two, and bizarre off-the-deep-end beliefs which she will force on anyone and everyone, but also because I like living alone.
She is not the only woman I’ve met since my last divorce. An old girlfriend actually lived in this same housing complex when I moved in ten years ago. We often met at the mailbox kiosk. Once I met her walking her dog along the ditch that runs just behind these houses, and went to a mutual friend’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. It was nice. Next time I saw she she gave me a big smile, but we never hung out. She taught at a technical/vocational community college, and she worked at the nearby bookstore, so I often saw her there. But, I didn’t feel any sparks. I remembered that the sex had been nice. We attended another Thanksgiving dinner the next year, but then not again. She eventually quit the bookstore, and moved away, though I did visit her in her new place a couple times.
Not too long ago, a much younger woman gave me a couple of years of extreme pleasure, but insisted I not fall in love with her because we were friends only, with benefits. I was a bit sad about that, because I would certainly have married her, and not just for the sex, although that would have been a pretty compelling reason, but because she and I enjoyed each other’s company, sharing meals, watching movies, and even having drinking games during movies. The pleasure of snuggling up with her between bouts of sex was heavenly. She finally moved away. Contacted her and she wanted me to visit, but then changed her mind. Such is life.
I wasn’t as sad about that as I’ve been about other relationships, because she warned me from the first to not fall in love with her, and would get quite upset if she thought I was drifting that way. So, it never came as a shock, nor depressed me beyond my normal state of living life a bit less than to the fullest.
It’s not like I don’t still meet women. Being involved with the TV & movie industry in New Mexico, both in front of a camera, and behind the scenes, I meet a lot of woman, and there are possibilities there. But I don’t pursue them. There’s something about leaving things as they are that suits me. Beside the acting and crew work, I hike the mountains around here. I read a lot. I eat what I want, sleep when I want, watch TV or not watch TV. I’ve a friend I watch Netflix rental movies with once a week.
I work at a winery,
watering, weeding, picking fruit, pumping and filtering, bottling and labeling about a thousand or more gallons of fruit wine every year. I don’t make any money at it, but it sure keeps some of my “free” time occupied.
I buy lots of things online, mostly books, and graphic novels, and I resell them. (Terry’s Books) I have a diverse coin collection:
I also take photos of the landscape around here, and sometimes I sell one, in a shop, or by hanging them at the winery.
I owe the I.R.S. way too much money every year, so I think I’m doing my part to prop up the U.S. economy.
But, let me tell you, it all doesn’t seem to mean much. It’s not that I think there’s more to life, or need a reason for life, or worry about the meaning of life. I don’t think life has much meaning, except what we each want it to mean. Sometimes though, I remember what it was like to share my everyday life with others, sleep next to them each night, and wake up with them.
I do miss that, in somewhat the same way I miss my cat. Not the same thing of course. Even having cats leaves me feeling lonely and miserable at times.
Nowadays, I accept that I am just going to be living this way. It’s easier for a misanthrope to live alone. I suppose I don’t really dislike all people so much as I like being a recluse and not having to deal with other people.
And then again, sometimes I don’t think it matters, because I don’t expect to live all that much longer. I had a heart attack back in 2013. Before that happened, I was losing my ability to keep up with other hikers, some of whom were older than me. My energy was flagging, and I kept having to stop and catch my breath. I fell to the back position in any hike, and was wasted by the time I reached the mountaintop. Finally, one day while reading, I felt suddenly as though the world was ending, that everything was going black, and there was this intense pressure in my chest, and I called 911. The paramedics, and a cardiologist convinced me I was having a heart attack, and I had angioplasty with a stent emplacement, followed up by drugs. Things got better, I ran three half marathons, I got faster on hikes, and had more energy.
But, now I am starting to feel the energy fade again. I hiked on Monday 8.9 miles, about 6 hours, up and down my favorite trail, an elevation gain of roughly 2800 feet.
It was slow going, about 1 1/2 miles an hour, but I was beat when I was done. Felt wasted. Drank electrolytes on the way up, and a bottle of black tea on the way down, and had to drink two more bottles when I got home, just to have the energy to function. I’ve done this trail before, and I wasn’t that wasted. It was the same on another trail I hiked recently – wasted, sleepy, lethargic afterwards. I’m thinking the heart is not doing all that well. My cholesterol is the lowest it’s ever been, and my blood pressure has never been too high. I do have a visit with my cardiologist next month, and a stress test, so I’m curious what that will reveal. Even simple exercise seems to tire me, just like before the 2013 heart attack.
I should write a poem, or a song:
I’m so sad and lonely
near my end of time
there’s no one to miss me
and nothing left to live for.
O, o, o, I think I’ll die.
Set to music, it’d be alright, and entertaining. Of course, it’s been done so many times already. It’s the human condition, the poet’s theme, the singer’s shout, the hipster’s wail.
Meanwhile, I’m still here. A hike tomorrow morning, fruit to water on Friday, wine to sell on Sunday with my affable stepdaughter, physical therapy for my damaged back Tuesday morning, acting class Tuesday evening, background work for a TV crime series pilot (based on graphic novels) next Wednesday. I’ve an acting gig to finish up. Then the stress echo-cardiogram next month, and a visit to the urologist, and a strange 5-day cruse with five of my six siblings, some in-laws, some nieces, a nephew, a couple of cousins and my mom, mostly to please her. Dream cruise for her, or I wouldn’t go. I’d rather not have that much interaction with people, even though I sometimes crave it.
It was a good day to get out of bed. I was going to a great concert of chamber music. Big crowd for this one. I stood in line for 15-20 minutes to get my Americano (two shots of espresso with hot water added). Barely into it when the concert started. Great and unusual, modern/contemporary music by Magnus Gustaf Adolf Lindberg, a Finnish composer. As usual there was a break for poetry (this time by Ebony Isis Booth – who has a depth that sneaks up on you), and then we were treated to Brahms. No, this was not a lullaby; this was Johannes Brahms’ Trio in A minor, Op. 114 for Clarinet, Cello, and Piano, written on his 58th birthday. It had a fascinating power and, at the same time, loveliness to it. The musicians who play these Sunday morning concerts are highly skilled. It is such a treat to hear such music – often highly complex – performed so skillfully.
Now while the coffee is superb – the baristas rock! – there were fresh-baked goodies, like the biscotti, and also, as it was Easter: dark chocolate, jelly beans and M&Ms. But nearly everyone in the place went across the street afterwards to sample the beers at the new brewery there. Really good stuff. For a $5 donation to the concert series, we got to sample five beers, of our choice. It was hard to narrow my choices down to only five, but I enjoyed them. There was a food truck parked by the curb, and some great choices there. I settled on some ramen deviled eggs, mostly because I was like: “RAMEN deviled eggs? What?” Delicious. The uncooked ramen noodles added a crunchiness to the eggs I never knew I was missing.
Of course, as usual during these concerts, my mind tends to wander a bit. I was thinking that some people compose music note by note, based on what they think is creative, and some of that so-called modern music can be mentally interesting, but it lacks beauty beyond the purely mathematical. To me, all music must exhibit passion, or the performer must make it so. Then is it music. Well, at least it is the kind of music I want to listen to. I have no restrictions on the types of music I like. But music must have passion. It can be orchestral, chamber music, or solo instruments. I enjoy classic rock (Stones, Black Sabbath, Airplane, Creedence), a little pop, some country (Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson) that is not formulaic and repetitive, and electronic music done well (Morton Subotnick, Philip Glass). I also like the energy of passionate salsa, flamenco, and tango. The Beatles and Bob Dylan gave me much to think about, and the songs could often mesmerize. I like blues, and jazz, etc.
But hell, my day was but half over. I went home and tried to get my New Mexico taxes done, but I couldn’t log in; the state’s website wouldn’t recognize my password, and I couldn’t get a new one because my email has changed and it only sent my request to change my password to my old address which I can no longer log into. So much for that. Maybe tomorrow I can get some help with that. Of course, I also have to finish my federal taxes. I filed it already, but I gave them the wrong routing number for the new savings account I had set up last year to use to pay my taxes. According to their website, I may have to wait seven or more days after filing in order to correct that little error.
Sigh. I just love paying late fees, don’t you?
Well, later I got to go hang out with my movie companion. I rent Netflix discs and we watch them on her nice TV about once a week. Tonight we watched: The End of the Tour, about “Rolling Stone” reporter David Lipsky and author David Foster Wallace. I thought it might be boring, but it was not! Lipsky accompanied Wallace on a five-day promotional tour. Wallace wrote a 1,079-page novel, Infinite Jest, and while it didn’t contain anything earth-shakingly profound, he had a huge impact on the people who read it, like Lipsky. It is a highly acclaimed, but famously difficult book of fiction, which really just shows people what it is to be human. I like fiction. I may read it. Life is very real sometimes, too real at times, and much more enjoyable as fiction anyway, as I see it.
Bought some more of those great-tasting faux Oreos from Walgreens on my way home. Ate a third of them, which required two full glasses of milk. Did you know milk clears your palate so every bite tastes like the first bite? It has something to do with binding oils and fats on your tongue to cleanse your palatte between bites. There is also a fascinating and delicious interplay between all the chemicals in milk and cookies: emulsifiers, casein, methylbutanol, and tryptophan and other amino acids. Turns out that to get the sleep-inducing effects of tryptophan, you need a dose of carbohydrates. Not sleepy? Have some milk and carbs.
So, I’m just drinking coffee this Sunday morning. I had wanted to listen to a live chamber music concert, (WA MozartString Trio Fragment K. 562e,Divertimento for String Trio in E-flat K. 563) but it’s sold out. Got up at 6am after trying unsuccessfully to stay asleep. Had my usual half-caf Americano (one scoop decaf, one scoop regular, expressed with enough water for a large cup). Watched a John Cusack movie (Grosse Pointe Blank). Enjoyed it. Love watching a good actor work.
Made another Americano, this time with two scoops of Death Wish coffee. It’s good stuff. Their marketing is that it is the strongest coffee in the world. First Americano I made from it yielded a night of richly detailed vivid dreams. I am more awake now. Maybe I’ll go run or work out. I’ve been getting physical therapy for the last few months for recurring back pain. Recurring? that’s an understatement. Every fucking morning. Well, it seems like every morning; sometimes I get a day off. But, when the pain is there, sleep is over; I have to get up and move around. Coffee helps.
Mild degenerative arthritis, according to an x-ray. Cause? Getting old. Fanfuckingtastic. Sometimes I don’t believe there’s anything mild about it.
Of course, driving 266 miles (roundtrip) yesterday to be in a movie didn’t help. I did have a lot of fun in the movie. I play an old sheriff in a strange horror movie.
Not hard work, but the days can be long.
I like acting; it’s a real kick. I may or may not get paid for this role, but I’m learning every time I do this. I’ve gotten to where I can remember my lines much more easily, but it’s easy to get distracted by thinking too much about what I have to do. Yesterday, I got praise for putting my hand on my gun as I opened a door where there might be danger. I was fully in the moment, and grabbed my gun out of instinct. So, there might be a future in this stuff for me. Of course, in a later scene where I only had to pace, swear three times, write a note, and rush out of my office, I was concentrating so much on adding a few mutterings under my breath that I forgot to swear. Did it over OK, but I sure hate to fuck up like that. I’ve got one more scene left to do. Then I can concentrate on the other two projects I’m committed to. One of them, a movie based on a successful play, assuming we start filming, will pay, for certain. The other production, also horror, has shot a first episode for a TV pilot, but is still looking to get picked up, funded, etc. I don’t know if I’ll get to do the role I’ve been rehearsing, but one never knows in this business.
I sure would like to get a few projects wrapped, with my name on them, before I end up having another heart attack, or sliding the motorcycle under a truck. One never knows in life.
I could stand to get rid of this pain, so I could enjoy waking up. The therapists have given me some exercises and I bought a small portable electrode device that gives me an electrical massage, so I can get through the pain, but I would be damned happy if the pain would just stop. I gave up running after three half-marathons because of the pain. It was good for my heart, but the training was mostly good for giving me pain, and it was not making me stronger.
Well, anyway, I am grateful that I survived being hit by a car as a pedestrian, twice as a bicyclist, twice as a motorcyclist, and twice while driving a car. Survived a heart attack by being in the right place at the right time. Survived pneumonia, a ruptured appendix and sepsis as a child too. I’m a survivor. Whoopee. That’s nice. What I’m still hoping for is to accomplish something great in my life. It’s not to be remembered, because, hell, I’ll be dead, so I’ll never know about that. It’s more like I want something I can point to in my life, and say, “Yeah, I did that, and it was really something.”
ENNUI, PERSONAL and POLITICAL
When my father died in 1987, I inherited his two cats, Charlie and Chrissy. He named them after characters in the TV show Charlie’s Angels. I had them for a long time. About 1996, Chrissy died of stomach or liver problems one day while I was working. I buried her in the yard where I lived at the time. I marked it with some bricks. The veterinarian had wanted to take her up to a hospital in Santa Fe for very expensive treatments and follow-up drugs, but I didn’t have that kind of money. The other cat, Charlie, lived much longer. After I married my second wife, I took Charlie with me and established him in my wife’s house. I hated to move and leave Chrissy there. She was dead and buried, but still. Charlie lived with us for many years.
He looked as I remembered him, but he was many years dead. I knew that, but he was right there, big as life. As first, I just stared. Then I said, “Hey Dad, what have you been up to?” Such a dumb thing to say. He said nothing, but he smirked, the smirk that was a big part of his personality, and appeared to look past me for a moment. Then he turned and walked to my right, along the bottom edge of the bed. As I turned my head to follow him, I seemed to open my eyes. I was still staring at the small corner where I’d seen him, but he wasn’t there or anywhere. The closet door was partly open, exactly as it had been a moment before – same exact clothes hanging there. It was a dream? It sure had been detailed. It was light already, so I got out of bed. I looked where I’d seen my dad look, and there, under the bed, was Charlie, my dad’s old cat. I hadn’t thought about my dad any time recently, and I hadn’t known the cat was there. I couldn’t imagine why I would suddenly have a dream like that. It freaked me out for days.
I could only watch them when my wife wasn’t at home, or was out of town, as she controlled the TV I’d bought for her, and hated both Sci Fi and animation.
It fit. She was still a bit wild, and never allowed herself to be picked up. In fact, getting her into a pet carrier when I moved resulted in bloody, itchy cuts all over my arms. I took her straight to a vet clinic to be chipped.
Nuff said, as Marvels’s Stan Lee used to say.
Some think the cats might eat the roadrunners, but those birds are fierce, and can kill cats in self defense. In fact, roadrunners can outstrike, kill and eat rattlesnakes. They eat small birds too, raid other birds’ nests for eggs and often expropriate the nests. So, roadrunners, roaming freely in large numbers are as much of a threat to small birds as any cat. Roadrunners, by the way, grow up to two feet long and run 26 miles an hour! And, although coyotes run between 35 and 43 miles an hour, roadrunners can fly short distances. The cartoons had it backwards.
Anyway, the clubhouse members approved of me, and said they would bring the cat over. He also had a small house they had built for him, with added insulation to protect him from the cold winter nights. When they came, they brought him, his house, food and water bowls, and a large supply of food. And, they would visit to check on him, bring treats, and often take me to dinner. 
Took a lot to get anything done. Of course that experience helped me get a job in a research lab. 
At the end of every day, I walked the tape to the “computing center”, put the tape into a device that converted the punched holes in the tape to punch cards. There was a program already punched into a set of cards, and held together with a rubber band, so I banded that together with the cards from the data I’d collected, and then handed it to the folks at the counter. One did not get near the computers. The techs stacked the cards to run overnight with all the other jobs. I picked up the results the next day as a printout. It was all just a series of average measurements, with statistical info out to seven decimal places. The whole computing center building was greatly refrigerated due to the heat generated by the computers — in the same way computer chips need a cooling fan. Very expensive and energy consuming. And the computer people had to wear coats.
the research equipment interface was a small keypad with tiny buttons, — really tiny screen, really tiny buttons. My boss also had a stand-alone HP-85, run off of a program cartridge that controlled other equipment, and it had a nicer keyboard. 
We upgraded that one with an external floppy disk, for storage, just one disk at first, and then with two for copying disk to disk — woo hoo! On this machine I had a simple line-drawing ski game to play on it. Then – OMG – my boss got a desktop computer about 1985. A 10Mb hard drive! A full-sized keyboard interface. but all commands had to be typed in with DOS commands, using a blank screen. 
Then the drop-down menus needed a mouse, or awkward combinations of multiple keys to select commands, so I got a mouse. Progress.
in the 1970s, and Commodore VIC-20s and Atari 400 home computers on the market in the early 1980s, but those cost two or three months rent. The Atari 800 
cost about $1000, six months rent or more. The cost of MACs was insane. By 1988, I was able to purchase a used DOS personal computer (aka desktop) for myself at home, using student loan money. Mostly I needed it to write papers, because, without it, I had to type. In my classes where I had to type 25-page papers, I was graded on spelling and punctuation in addition to the subject matter. I went through a lot of typing paper and time trying to get my papers perfect. It had a 20MB drive, a 300bps modem (bits per second), no GUI, no mouse. I upgraded software, drives, memory, and monitors constantly over the years. I don’t think many people even use desktop systems anymore – now it’s all iPads, laptops, tablets, phones. Mostly phones. With their tiny screens and tiny buttons. Progress?
Poet Damien Flores was born & raised in Old Town, Albuquerque and is a graduate of the University of New Mexico. Flores is best known as a member of the Albuquerque Poetry Slam Team. He organized the College Unions Poetry Slam in 2008, was a member of the two-time National Champion UNM Loboslam Teams, and is also a four-time ABQSlams City Champion. He was named Poet of the Year in 2007 & 2008 by the New Mexico Hispano Entertainer’s Association, and was recipient of the 2008 Lena Todd Award for creative non-fiction from the UNM English Department. His first book, Junkyard Dogs, was published by West End Press and his work has been featured in several anthologies, magazines, and newspapers. Flores is an educator in Albuquerque and hosts the Spoken Word Hour on 89.9 KUNM-FM.
It had created a geyser thirty feet high and sprayed a large area. I had alerted the proper person, and it had eventually been repaired, but left a large pool of wasted water, which, in a dry climate under a drought, is upsetting. 
I finished reading my recent issue of Funny Times, having already read all the cartoons, but not the humor articles. Usually I only have one cup of coffee in the morning, an Americano: two shots of espresso with enough water to fill my coffee cup, but I made another. I was spinning my wheels, aimless, and a bit agitated. Three weeks ago, my motorcycle of nineteen years had been stolen while I slept. It still bothers me. I was able to recover a small bit of money from insurance, and had to take out a small loan to cover the rest, but I replaced the old 1997 motorcycle with a newer one, a 2014. I worry that it will also be stolen, as I have no garage, and nothing to lock it to. The front forks are locked at an angle, so moving the bike will not be easy, and I have put an old U-lock through the rear spokes as well, and put a cover over the bike. 
I picked another book titled: 
Tonight I found an old partial bottle of Blue Corn Bourbon in the back of a cupboard, 
and poured myself a glass to pair with a spicy pork sandwich while I read. The book has taken me to another place, another time, and makes me care about two fictional characters who are like me in some ways, and yet not in other ways. It is a tale, an old and timeless story of two lovers attempting to unite, and finally doing so, but all is not well. Still, I am in a very good mood. I’ve had some wine of late that did not improve my mood, so I am not simply influenced by the alcohol in my whiskey tonight. I am less depressed, able to enjoy the telling of the story, wtih less restlessness. And although I am not certain that I will like the ending, I will not dislike it. It is what it is, I’ve heard it said. Perhaps it is. For tonight, I feel fine, and I can look forward to tomorrow. 
That is Albuquerque’s mountaintop restaurant, closed due to Covid-19 shortly after it opened. It had just reopened for dining in, but Sunday 7/12 was the last day for that, for who knows how long. But we did each enjoy a great beer along with a sandwich of brisket braised for 10 hours, including red chile bbq, smoked gouda and apple slaw. We were able to take in a great view of the area east of the Sandias while polishing off our meals with spicy ginger sorbet. But, after that, the Ten-3 restaurant has begun offering only cliffside takeout, and that’s OK. I’ll hike up there again, order some great food and let my feet dangle off a cliff while I eat. It’s a wonderful pleasure. Sun, a cool breeze, a hike with spectacular views, and good company. What more could I possibly ask for? Sometimes you don’t need photos. But here are the ones from 7/7 –>
through streets still lined with rubble from the saturation bombing of Dresden. Between February 13–15 of 1945, with the war nearly over, the British and U.S. forces 
My parents lived near the famous Lexington Market then, where you could find all kinds of fresh seafood, meats and international foods. Baltimore was not all that different from Dresden in Old World charm, but we had fresh food, not food lines. The streets were clean and open, some with trolley tracks and cobblestones. A few farmers still hawked their wares from horse-drawn wagons. There were plenty of cars, but no freeways bypassing the city. There was poverty then, but the row houses 
– like my paternal grandparents’, next to a bar – had their marble front stairs. There were green parks, and jobs at Bethlehem Steel 
and 
The inner city was old and beginning to decay, but there was no rubble then. The harbor was full of cargo ships and housed a submarine, the USS Torsk from WWII, and the 1854 USS Constellation, a sloop-of-war, the last sail-only warship designed and built by the United States Navy.
There are 
Ms. Jolie is quite friendly, and chatted with the background actors surrounding her during brief cuts in one scene that was shot many, many times. She is funny too. Her makeup included tangled hair, deep bloody gashes, and soot from a fire in a previous scene. Since it is OK to respond to an actor if they speak to you, I was curious about what had been happening to her character. “You look a little worse for wear,” I said. I regretted saying that afterward; it’s not the sort of thing one says to a woman. She pulled down her torn shirt to reveal a scar at that point, saying: “And I got hit by lightning too!” Whew. I hadn’t meant to insult her, just saying what was on my mind. I was a bit embarrassed and looked down when she did that. A bit later she told me that the movie is very well done, an intelligent, tense drama, and very much worth watching. I looked for it and found that the release date is October 23, 2020. I will watch it.
– Mar 24, 2020 
I never understood why it was round, when the bread was square. I found out recently that what we called a sandwich grill, was actually known as a pie iron. That’s right, it was used to make small pies over an open flame, which of course is why it had a long handle. Nevertheless, I never saw my mom make a pie with it, and I thought it was a bit wasteful of bread because the corners would break off or she’d cut ’em off to make it fit inside fully. Nowadays there are square-cornered ones made for sandwiches. 
on this cross-country bicycle trip, Nancy, saw this trip’s purpose primarily as networking. She wanted to help connect with all sorts of active people around the country, trading information and distributing contact information. So any chance she had she was talking to people, interviewing them, picking up more books and literature. Peaceful change was her goal, and not far from what I had worked for myself. Beside my participation in antiwar marches, lobbying, and organizing, I had spent years volunteering with a free medical clinic in Baltimore, Maryland, the city of my birth. The Clinic had been started by anti-war activists, a local chapter of the Black Panthers, and free-school teachers, among others, including some doctors.
New Buffalo, one of the largest and well-known communes, was an interesting place. Farming, and self sufficiency were the norm there. There was music, and basic, plain food. We actually found ourselves criticized for not living a lifestyle like theirs. We had two writers with us, Nancy, and also Rick from San Francisco, which is where the bike group had left from. The folks at New Buffalo felt they were committed to a lifestyle that would change the world, whereas we were just tourists, getting paid to write. I thought that was a bit unfair, and personally, I felt that the people at New Buffalo were just dropouts, too far removed from society to change it. In the Easy Rider film, Peter Fonda’s character had said he thought they could make it. Dennis Hopper’s character didn’t think so. Hopper himself hung out in Taos. New Buffalo’s lifestyle was very laid back, but people had been leaving it for some time. The remainder were a bit fanatic. I wanted to see our culture change too, to see us go from a country that always seemed to be fighting somewhere around the globe, threatening to destroy the entire planet with our nuclear weapons, and polluting not only rivers and streams, but oceans and the very air we breathed. You couldn’t escape that by living out of the way and off the grid. Nice for them, but wouldn’t change a thing. It was strange to argue with people whom I’d thought were much like me, but they were too fanatical to think there was any other way but theirs. Although the commune had been founded 9 years earlier, we had to use corn cobs to wipe our butts in the outhouse. They weren’t just trying to reduce paper waste; they wanted to use the outhouse sludge on their crops. I was trying to survive too, but looking for actual ways to restructure society to benefit all. I had a more political bent, from my anti-war activities, and my experiences helping to provide community health care with the goal of universal health care. I didn’t enjoy my time at New Buffalo, so I was happy to get on up the road the next day.
It was one of the most well known communes in the area at the time, and one of the few left now. New Buffalo is now a B&B. This was the first time I’d ever seen an outhouse designed for two people to use at the same time, but that wasn’t the oddest thing. The shit holes had been designed low to the ground with painted shoe prints on either side of the holes. Apparently it is considered better for people to shit crouched down like that. At the time, I had no idea this was common in other countries. I liked this place much better than New Buffalo. The people seemed almost beatifically happy. They had small cottage industries going, and reached out to people in Taos, Santa Fe, and native communities as well. Such a difference from the grungy drop-outs at New Buffalo! There was a lot to see around the Lama commune, and we were welcome guests. Nancy was in heaven, interviewing people. People there were not critical of others, and did their best to demonstrate a better way of life. The food was much better there too, but I didn’t stay long. A green MG drove up. It was Isla, from Albuquerque. She’d come to see me, but really she wanted me to go back to Albuquerque with her. She asked me to just come back for two weeks, so we could get to know each other. I agreed. I told Darla I was leaving for a couple weeks. She didn’t seem entirely happy about that, but we barely knew each other either. On the drive back to Albuquerque, with my bicycle strapped across the back of the little car, Isla told me she and Carl had never wanted to have children, or rather that she hadn’t wanted to have children. I think Carl was the type to want children. He really was a nice guy. Guilt. Guilt.
It’s hard to steady my emotions, order my thoughts on this topic. I have great respect for the USA’s system of government, for free and fair elections, for equal rights under the law for every citizen. But I see that under attack in the USA. We have Republicans who wish the make the entire USA over into their own brand of idealistic political and economic purity. We have a President who leaped onto that ideological bandwagon, and used it as a bully pulpit to whip up – not support for his election campaign – but support for himself, for his own ego, for his own aggrandizement. Surprisingly, he won. He was able to tap into the movement of people dissatisfied with all government, any government, with male supremacists who believe women should not govern, with racial supremacists who hounded President Obama because it upset their view of the a society by, of and for white-skinned people, largely of European descent. He was able to tap into the mindset of Nazis who spew hatred of ethnic, racial and religious groups. He was able to tap into the mindset of paramilitary militia types who believe they, and only they know what is best for this country, and are stockpiling weapons for the ultimate fight against their enemies – other citizens of the USA who don’t look like them, speak like them or act like them. When the citizens of Virginia found themselves challenged by Unite the Right, a white supremacist, neo-Nazi rally that was conducted in Charlottesville, Virginia from August 11 to 12, 2017, they responded with a protest of their own. The participants in the Unite the Right rally were members of the far-right and included self-identified members of the alt-right, neo-Confederates, neo-fascists, white supremacists, neo-Nazis, Klansmen, and various right-wing militias. They chanted racist and anti-Semitic slogans, carried weapons, Nazi and neo-Nazi symbols, Confederate Battle Flags, as well as flags and other symbols of various past and present anti-Muslim and antisemitic groups. The organizers’ stated goals included unifying the American white nationalist movement. The violence that broke out was predictable. However, President Trump stated, “You also had some very fine people on both sides.”
Over six years ago I had a heart attack. Too much plaque in the heart artery that feeds the heart muscle itself. Problems for some time before that, something I attributed – as did my doctor – to a recurrence of my childhood asthma. Overtired on exertion, falling way behind on hikes up the mountain. Getting weaker instead of stronger. I’ve climbed up the Sandia-Manzano mountains. Sandia Crest is at 10,679 feet above sea level. Manzano Peak is at 10,098 feet. I’ve climbed in the San Mateo Mountains, specifically to the highest point, up Mt. Taylor, to 11,306 feet, and I’ve snowshoed Mt. Taylor several times. Also climbed to the nearby La Mosca lookout tower at 11,036 ft. I’ve climbed Mount Baldy, at 10,783 feet, in the Magdalena Mountains. I’ve hiked in the Jemez mountains, including snowshoeing in the Valles Caldera. At 11,253 feet in elevation, the volcanic caldera is 13-miles wide. I’ve hiked and snowshoed often in New Mexico’s mountains. 
or working as a carnival electrician, hooking up all the rides, joints and food stands. I was on the road a lot, bicycling my way back and forth across the United States when I met her.
a former journalist, Peace Corps volunteer, and currently director of a public advocacy group, who had offered her home to any of us that needed a space to crash while we visited her city. I don’t know if she’d cleared that with her husband before making that offer. He was a nice guy, a jewelry maker, but she was her own woman. There had been a list of these prearranged homestays (crash houses, I called ‘em), and I picked her place, not yet knowing whose place it was. I had dialed a number. A woman’s voice had answered. She had seemed quite happy that someone had called, and told me to come by that evening. The bicycle group had a sag wagon, an old school bus, powered by propane, and painted white. 
It sported a library, a folded-down wind generator, and a cook stove, but it had no bathroom or shower, and oh boy! did I need a shower. When I arrived, dinner was ready. This friendly couple welcomed me into their very small home near the zoo. I had been expecting an elderly couple, because in my experience staying in the homes of church people, years earlier, who had supported us anti-war protesters when we were far from home, they’d always been wrinkly old couples.
Isla was a real joy, full of delightful conversation and a fountain of information about the city. She drove north through a valley full of large rich homes with huge lawns, surrounded by imposing trees – cottonwoods – which I had never seen before. I was so surprised to see such greenery in an area I’d thought of as a desert. This city seemed like an oasis. We stopped by Carl’s workplace, as there was a great local restaurant nearby where we could all have lunch together. Carl was pretty busy, and didn’t have time to join us. And it turned out the restaurant was in the middle of renovations anyway, so we drove off.
He’d been hoping for a coin to foretell wealth, but the ring made him think of Mary. He planned to give it to her this very night.
Goddess of the Land. The Lord of the Dead is ready.” “We’re ready,” laughed Colm and the others.
These simulated spirit guardians, and were placed at doorways to keep out unwelcome visitors from the Otherworld. “I’m hungry,” Colm announced. Mary grabbed Colm’s hand and together they all left their pranks and began parading through the central part of town, asking for apples and hazelnuts, as was the custom there. 
Apples are the sacred fruit, which, eaten by the dead, bestow a blissful mortality upon them this night. Hazelnuts are symbols of wisdom, and are freely given to all who ask. 
However, since the writing is mine, and I created the character, I’m going to at least show you what I wrote, after a whole lot of editing to pare it to three minutes:
We are made of stardust forged in the intense heat of stars. That means many things. Light travels the universe, and so can we. It’s within us, in the atoms and subatomic particles of every cell in our bodies.
Divorce is never a good thing, at the time. It may have been necessary. It may have been your choice, or not. It may have been something you cannot accept. But it is a lonely time nevertheless. You will probably stare out the windows a lot. In winter, you will see the death-like trees swaying in the wind. It can be a time of despair, sitting alone in a still house, realizing just how much you miss the marriage, the warm body in your bed, the company, the other person there when you come home from work. It is never easy to accept what has happened, or where you find yourself.
After marriage, divorce feels like death, barren, and desolate. Death is, of course, worse, but divorce hits you hard personally, like a punch in the gut, or running your head smack dab into a pole. That first night you sleep alone, when you know it’s over, and you’re on your own again – in an empty house – you notice the quiet alienness of the place where you are. Perhaps you live in the same place, and they are gone. Perhaps there are other people there, or children too, but it is just not the same. Your closest connection, your lover, your partner – gone.
The walls confine you. You want to get out, but outside is like winter, dark and cold, and you avoid it. Inside is not much better. You can distract yourself with family, friends, TV, music, books, food. There are poems to write, full of angst and despair and self pity. You write, hoping to find some acceptance, some understanding.
you can’t shake, even in summer. Sharing your life for years, maybe decades, and no more.
I tapped into memories. Music filled the house – not that Christmas schmaltz, but jazz, blues and classic rock. All was bright and colorful. I built a real fire in the fireplace. The house felt warm, over and above the heat. I felt an acceptance of where I am. This lonely space with prison walls was not so quiet. The music made me smile, and the fire popped, spit and crackled. Home. This house feels like a home now, for one person, but less fragile.
I am damned uncomfortable. Damn, it’s hot! I’m stiff, sore in parts of my body. I must be asleep, but I can’t wake up. I want this dream to end. Still, I feel a breeze, a hot breeze, as though the air conditioning is off and someone has left a window open. Enough of this. Things aren’t right. Someone will pay for this. I open my eyes to blinding light. A spotlight? Is there a TV crew in my bedroom? I can’t see anything. “Turn that damn light off,” I yell. No one answers. Impossible. 
Finally those of us still sitting around, about 15 people, were told they needed just five people for the next scene.
(That’s a whole other story.) Anyway, partway through I began experiencing this restlessness. So, I wrote what you just read. I’m going to go finish watching the movie now.
Over the years, Kresge, after bumping the price of goods to $1, made a fortune. In fact, he established a foundation, in 1924, The Kresge Foundation, a non-profit organization whose income he specified “to promote the well-being of mankind”. By the time of his death, Kresge had given the foundation over $60,000,000! He was also a prohibitionist, and organized the National Vigilance Committee for Prohibition Enforcement and also heavily supported the Anti-Saloon League. The S.S. Kresge chain (Kresge and Jupiter stores) later became K-Mart. I had often wondered what happened to K-Mart. More on that in a minute.
The Kress chain was known for the architecture of its buildings. Kress envisioned his stores as works of public art that would contribute to the cityscape. A number of former Kress stores are recognized as architectural landmarks and many are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, including the 1913 building on Canal Street in New Orleans (now the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton) and the 1929 neoclassical store in Asheville, North Carolina.
(The first store with the Kmart name had opened in 1962.) At its peak in 2001, Kmart operated 2,171 stores including 105 Super Kmart Center locations. After declaring bankruptcy in 2002 and emerging the following year, the chain’s management purchased Sears for $11 billion in 2004, forming a new corporation under the name Sears Holdings Corporation. Sears Holdings declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy on October 15, 2018.
His primary focus was selling products at low prices to get higher-volume sales at a lower profit margin, portraying it as a crusade for the consumer. As of October 31, 2018, Walmart has 11,277 stores and clubs in 27
has performed there before. It takes place at Las Puertas, meaning doors, because there are lots of them there from when the space was used to sell antique doors. There is also an espresso bar, which is such a fine way to start a Sunday (not to mention the home-made treats). The program began with the entire ensemble performing a 1986 piece: Airs from Another Planet – wind quintet and piano – reels, airs and jigs, by Judith Weir. One of the numbers from the four-part piece was called Strathspey and reel, so I had to look up strathspey: Strathspey is the area around the strath of the River Spey in Scotland. Uhh, OK. It also has some connection to shields and coats-of-arms, but that wasn’t very helpful either. What it is, is a type of dance tune, a reel played at a slightly slower tempo, with more emphasis on certain beats. Glad I cleared that up.
a quintet for piano and winds (op. 16). This was a much more spirited piece than the earlier airs, and the musicians really threw themselves into it this time, even standing throughout, probably to give themselves room to move about, because the energy was frenetic.
and had a bowl of hash browns, covered with bits of sausage, bacon, one egg, and lots of green chile as well as red chile sauce, along with two corn tortillas. I was not hungry again for nine hours, which was fortunate, because I went to another rare evening Chatter performance, this time, the Cabaret at the Albuquerque Museum, and a lot of pricy food is available. I did buy a glass of a California wine, a 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon by Joel Gott Wines, which was very tasty (“clean, complex, and elegant”, according to their web page).
Sonata No. 2 in D Major for Viola de Gamba and Keyboard. Fascinating, and so well-played.
so I cringed mentally when I saw that in the program. A
, a composer of operas, and a contemporary of Richard Strauss. He is one of the founders of film music, and you’ve all heard his music. Some of the sixteen films he scored were The Adventures of Robin Hood, Captain Blood, The Sea Hawk, The Sea Wolf, Deception, Kings Row, and The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex. (As a purely irrelevant aside, my sister Mary Elizabeth is married to Sara Essex.)
was truly exceptional. He performed El arpa y la sombra (for guitar) by 
startling us from the darkness behind the audience. It was a great concert. Mr. Arciuli has a passion for Ives’s music you’d have to hear to believe.
It is far stranger than Mussorgsky ever imagined, of that I am sure. I like some of Tomita’s works very much. This one not so much. Lately I have acquired many CDs of his work. I love his live concert, done in 1984: The Mind Of The Universe, 
and have enjoyed his version of 
Debussy’s tone paintings. However, I disliked his version of 
“It is the story of TJ, a young man from a privileged family, who drops out of law school against his mother’s wishes to pursue his dream of becoming an MMA fighter.” I was fascinated by it, and the gym, as this was the first time I’d ever been in one.
I’ve really enjoyed the first half, but could not get back into it today; perhaps I will later this evening. Hosseini wrote 
, I did not read the book. Hosseini is a good writer, and writes real stories of real people caught up in circumstances of violence and social change beyond their control, sometimes beyond all comprehension.
Hopefully it is not, but it is a good introduction to Tomita’s work. Some are very good, some are fascinating, and some are just odd, which is pretty much how I feel today.
He and my mom roller skated a lot growing up, and were partnered by their coach for competitions, which they won a lot of, being Tri-State champions at it. I’m told they did not like each other at first, 
but they appear to have gotten over that. My dad died of lung cancer many years ago. I wish he was around. I’d love to pick his brain. Oddly, when I posted that photo of him, all my mom could think of to comment on was the fact that his skates had wooden wheels, as they all did back then. When she commented, I noticed that she had changed her profile picture to a photo of her in 1978. I was living in Albuquerque at the time, and had no money for plane tickets, so I never knew she had changed her hairstyle so dramatically – 
– 1970s big hair. My brother said it’s her Liz Taylor look. I swear I’d never have recognized her on the street in that hairdo. She and my father were divorced by then, and I probably didn’t see her for many years after I left town permanently in 1975. She must have added the flag banner via Facebook, perhaps for Memorial Day. She’s 87 years old now.
She is an exciting poet to listen to. Her eclectic, opinionated style fascinates me. She is full of passion, and she resonates with the intensity of a zealot, and the joyful ecstasy of living. I love listening to her. I sat with her and her husband. Meeting him made me wonder what it’s like living with someone like her. Never boring, I’m sure, but I didn’t say that out loud.
What Cage’s music is, I think, is more immediate, as in, you are here listening now, and your mind is not free to wander. I can, and do often find my mind roaming while I am listening to and enjoying music. With something by John Cage, I cannot. It’s interesting and creative, yes, but not something that inspires me, to either an emotional state, or dreams. In short, I hope I never sit through such a concert again. I love many different types of music: 
The switch is an old-fashioned knob like cars in the 50s and 60s would have had, not the modern buttons or levers. With the lights on, I feel safer, and just then a car with its lights on passes me, going in the direction I left. I tap on the horn. Was I signaling the car hello, warning, or help? It would only have taken a long honk to get their attention, but I feel like I don’t need help. But, I was hoping they would stop.
I counted how many times the pattern on it repeated, up and down the walls. Double checked my counts.
The wall clock chimed. It did that a lot, on the hour every hour, and I think on the half hours too. Analog wall clocks used to do that. Every time the clock struck it increased my loneliness. I began to panic. It was hard to sit still. I liked to explore, to look around, to examine things. There was a boring church calendar on the wall. I kept counting images in the wallpaper around it. I felt like I was in some kind of limbo. I hated it.
Now paregoric is a medicine consisting of opium or morphine, flavored with camphor, aniseed, and benzoic acid, formerly used to treat diarrhea and coughing in children. (To this day I love the smell and flavor of anise or licorice.) My mother used it on us often. I think she overdid it that night. I had been coughing long and hard, and she may have given me two spoonsful, or more. I woke up later, in that odd underlit time of night where I could only see a little. I was used to it by then. However, staring at the wall wasn’t very useful, because it was too dark to see anything clearly. I had played with toy soldiers, and even seen or played with toy civil war soldiers, and I must have seen a movie with knights in armor. Suddenly there were uniformed soldiers fighting on the wall, chasing each other with guns, up and down hills, and there were explosions too, but there was no sound. I was fascinated! I had sat up on the bed, and could make out the bedposts, pillow, and blanket. But then the soldiers morphed into men fighting with swords and guns, in blue or grey uniforms, but in the same place. Then the scene shifted again, and there were brightly colored knights in chain mail with huge swords and horses, charging each other, and having sword fights. I was enjoying it. I don’t know how long I watched. Well, technically, I guess I wasn’t really seeing anything, just imagining it, but it was so intensely vivid! It seemed to be playing within the wall, as what would later become known as three-dimensional imaging. The bedposts created a nice frame.
such as this.
perform for us. In addition to her hypnotic singing, she also performed with three traditional instruments: a Dàn T’rung, a Dàn Tranh, and a Dàn Bau. The Dàn T’rung is a bamboo instument of a varying amount of tubes, but hers has three rows of 16 bamboo tubes to replicate a full chromatic scale, consisting of three full octaves. 
.
Needless to say, I was doubly enchanted.
awards. 
was always “Not For Sale”. However, so many people pestered Jim to buy it, insisting that everything has a price, that he finally put a price on it: $10,000. After that, he got no more offers. I like it a lot.
It is an adaptation of a children’s tale. It is also very intense and far too real to be just a tale. A boy’s mother is dying of cancer. He wants to believe she will recover, but knows she will not. The movie is pretty much about him, those expectations, and how he deals with them. The story has elements of fantasy, and some beautiful animation of the brilliant watercolor illustrations I expect are from the book. I enjoyed it, and, yes my eyes teared, my throat constricted and tears did indeed run down my cheek. Highly recommend, for all ages.
two pieces of which I scarfed down with my freshly espressed caffè americano. 
He was also a retired chemical engineer, had once worked for the Sandia National Laboratories on nuclear safety. He was concerned about the destruction possible with a core meltdown, and came up a way to reinforce nuclear plants so they wouldn’t melt into the ground, but his superiors didn’t want to implement the solution, due to cost concerns. Jim took an early retirement from the labs.
It was, as he often said, “A hobby that got out of control.” He eventually built a structure and opened a winery to share these wines with people. He never got rich. In fact, the early retirement from Sandia labs meant his retirement pay was delayed until just a few years back. Jim turned 68 a few days ago.
They both had worked at the winery, helping to bottle, label, and sell the wines. When they found out about Jim’s death, they were thrown for a loop, so they drove out there from Albuquerque. We sat for hours talking about Jim, with tears in our eyes, and sadness in our hearts. We tried to focus on Jim’s friendliness and great heart, and not be sad, but it is too soon. I can barely write about him without an overarching melancholia. I have too few friends and family that I care about so much, and losing someone like Jim is gut wrenching. You never know how much you care about someone until they’re near death or gone.
watering, weeding, picking fruit, pumping and filtering, bottling and labeling about a thousand or more gallons of fruit wine every year. I don’t make any money at it, but it sure keeps some of my “free” time occupied.
I owe the I.R.S. way too much money every year, so I think I’m doing my part to prop up the U.S. economy.
on Friday, wine to sell on Sunday with my affable stepdaughter, physical therapy for my damaged back Tuesday morning, acting class Tuesday evening, background work for a TV crime series pilot (based on graphic novels) 
next Wednesday. I’ve an acting gig to finish up. Then the stress echo-cardiogram next month, and a visit to the urologist, and a strange 5-day cruse with five of my six siblings, some in-laws, some nieces, a nephew, a couple of cousins and my mom, mostly to please her. Dream cruise for her, or I wouldn’t go. I’d rather not have that much interaction with people, even though I sometimes crave it.
Really good stuff. For a $5 donation to the concert series, we got to sample five beers, of our choice. It was hard to narrow my choices down to only five, but I enjoyed them. There was a food truck parked by the curb, and some great choices there. I settled on some ramen deviled eggs, mostly because I was like: “RAMEN deviled eggs? What?” Delicious. The uncooked ramen noodles added a crunchiness to the eggs I never knew I was missing.
and while it didn’t contain anything earth-shakingly profound, he had a huge impact on the people who read it, like Lipsky. It is a highly acclaimed, but famously difficult book of fiction, which really just shows people what it is to be human. I like fiction. I may read it. Life is very real sometimes, too real at times, and much more enjoyable as fiction anyway, as I see it.
I am more awake now. Maybe I’ll go run or work out. I’ve been getting physical therapy for the last few months for recurring back pain. Recurring? that’s an understatement. Every fucking morning. Well, it seems like every morning; sometimes I get a day off. But, when the pain is there, sleep is over; I have to get up and move around. Coffee helps.
Not hard work, but the days can be long.