Death is a Stalker

I ran across this quote yesterday:

“Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood, when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet I can’t remember it. (…) Before we know the word for it, before we know that there are words, out we come, bloodied and squalling…with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there’s only one direction and time is its only measure.” – Tom Stoppard #TomStoppard

My tattoo. Birth to death.

I knew about death a long time ago. The Catholic religion makes sure of that. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Ashes on my forehead to remind me where I was going. The abundance of dead Jesuses on crucifixes everywhere in my life. Viewing dead relatives in caskets. It was never a shock. The Catholic religion has often been called the religion of death. We spend our whole lives – as Christians – preparing for an “afterlife”.

My maternal grandmother died when I was two. I don’t remember that, or her. But, I had a yellow stuffed bear that I was told she had given me. I always carried it with me. It was in my bed at night. I took it with me on car trips. I still had it when I left home at 18. It was special to me. One day I threw it away. I wanted no more reminders of my childhood. I was an adult, and looking forward.

But that came much later. As an infant, I had pneumonia – ended up in an oxygen tent in a hospital. Two years later, after being taken to a Thanksgiving Day parade in downtown Baltimore, I developed pneumonia again. No hospital that time. Doctors made house calls. I was given medication. Years later, I had another bout. I mostly remember how hard it was to breathe, and the green slime I would cough up from my lungs. My parents got a steamer for me. It was a light green glass thing, shaped like a cake – cylindrical, about six inches high. Filled with water, it was plugged in to generate a column of steam towards me. I was cautioned not to touch it. One time, as I was sleepily turning over, my hand fell on the steamer. I got a bad second-degree burn. I was so careful after that. Eventually, they put it away. I seemed to be better. Then I developed asthma and had breathing problems for years. Close to death, but never quite there.

In second grade my parents told me that one of my classmates had died – he had choked on a glass of water. I couldn’t imagine such a thing before that. Perhaps that was the moment I realized death could come at any time, for anyone, regardless of age. Then my cousin Lucky died of cancer – leukemia, I think. Perhaps a name like Lucky was tempting fate. My uncle still grieves, and my aunt died years ago.

I had my own brushes with death many times. I fell into the freshly dug cellar of a new house once. Me, my brother John, and our friend Eddie Knight were grabbing the largest stones we could find and dropping them down the hole in the floor where the steps would go. My idea. There was nothing down there then, just a pool of muddy water from a recent rain. What fun it was to watch the big splashes! We dropped our rocks and then went searching for more. At one point, Eddie pushed a large rock up onto the floor that was all that existed of the house then. It was about four feet above ground, so we had to climb up. We were about six years old at the time. I wanted to drop that big rock Eddie had, so while he was climbing up, I grabbed it and dropped it in.

The next thing I saw was Eddie running towards me, then nothing. I remembered being carried across the field behind our house – a fair distance from where we’d been. I opened my eyes briefly – my face was wet, but I passed out again. My mother said my face was covered with blood when they carried me in the back door. I had hit my head on something down there – probably the very rock I’d dropped. My brother found a way down somehow and found me unconscious in the pool of water, face down. He saved my life. Eddie had gone for his parents, who had carried me.

Just a bit over two years later, I developed appendicitis after the first day of 4th grade. I didn’t know what it was at the time, and neither did my mom. She put me to bed with aspirin for the pain, but it didn’t help. For a week, I was in intense pain, and getting weaker. She had no idea what was wrong with me. She called a doctor who said to bring me to the hospital. There was no way my parents could have afforded to call an ambulance – they found out what that cost when I’d fallen into the cellar – it had cut me above my right eye. With all that blood and my eye so close to it, they had to do it. My father now had the car at work, quite some distance away. This time, my mother borrowed a car from a neighbor and drove me to the emergency room. She parked on the street parallel to the hospital’s main entrance. There was still a wide sidewalk to negotiate. I couldn’t really walk. My left arm was around my mother’s neck, supporting me. I was too big to carry. She dragged me along until we got in. I can only remember snatches after that.

My stomach was x-rayed, and blood was drawn. The x-ray did not show anything. Appendicitis was suspected, but the appendix didn’t show in the x-ray. My blood, however, was full of poison. Sepsis. At the time I heard peritonitis – an inflammation of the stomach lining. I had to be rushed to an operating table for exploratory surgery. My appendix had ruptured. Later, they told my mom I’d had less than 24 hours to live. Appendix removed, I had a month-long stay in the hospital to drain the infection, during which time I turned eight years old. I was given penicillin every four hours. The incision was huge because of the exploratory surgery. There were a lot of stitches, and six tubes sewn along the incision to drain the poisons. I still have the scars.

Ah, death! Why were you always stalking me? Without penicillin, I’d have died quickly.

I continued to be lucky through high school. I only broke my arm falling from a tree once. It was not life-threatening.

After high school, I operated an X-ray machine used for physics research on silicon & germanium crystals at Johns Hopkins University – America’s first research university, located in Baltimore, Maryland. Baltimore was home to the Orioles baseball team, the Colts football team, and blue crabs from the Chesapeake Bay. The Colts skipped town one night to play for Indianapolis. After a few years working at the University, and taking the free classes employees were entitled to, I stopped working full-time to attend UMBC, the University of Maryland in Baltimore County. Oddly, the City of Baltimore is not in Baltimore County – it is its own independent entity.

Anyway, I left UMBC after two years. I learned a lot, but my grades suffered from all the breaks I took to protest the war in Vietnam, and the time I spent volunteering at the People’s Free Medical Clinic, an organization providing free medical care for the neighborhood I Iived in. I had also spent time taking classes offered by the Black Panther Party, who saw themselves as creating a revolution. They had a breakfast program for inner-city kids, and were primarily interested in self-defense and education. Inner-city cops were tough on black folk, and often unapologetically broke doors down on random houses while looking for people. The Baltimore City jail was vastly overcrowded, mostly with young black men. [see: https://wp.nyu.edu/gallatin-bpparchive2021/east-coast-chapters/baltimore-md/ ]

Additionally, I hung out with the Berrigan Brothers, two Jesuit priests who had dragged Selective Service (Draft Board) files out and saturated them with blood (pig’s blood). Then, after they got out of jail, they created homemade napalm to burn the draft files, as a symbolic gesture in memory of the innocents, like farmers and young children, indiscriminately burned with napalm in Vietnam. Most people ended up opposing that horrible war, which I opposed as much as the Berrigans did, inspired by their actions. When the war was finally over, the North Vietnamese re-unified their country, which the French had colonized, leading to war. The Viet Minh eventually defeated the French, but the country was divided into two by the Geneva Accords that both sides had agreed to in 1954. The fighting to remove the French continued, however, and the French dragged the United States into their fight, then abandoned the fight, leaving the USA to clean up their colonial mess.

The Berrigans I Met

And, I was still plagued by bad luck or devilry or something. I lived in downtown Baltimore at the time and rode my bicycle back and forth to the UMBC campus, a twenty-mile round-trip every day. One morning, I was racing down a steep hill on a busy street. I was hot riding in that Baltimore humidity, so I put my feet to the metal (pedals) and enjoyed the wind caressing me. Suddenly, to my left, a car appeared. It had been going in the opposite direction, but was going to turn left into a freight yard driveway to my right. I was in the right lane of two southbound lanes, and cars in the lane to my left had stopped to allow the car to cross. Traffic blocked my view of that, so I was as surprised as the driver when we collided. I went sailing up and forward a ways, due to my speed, which was fortunate, since the huge white Continental crushed my bicycle under its tires as it proceeded across the lane I’d been in. I had time to think: 1. that I’d surely die in that traffic, and 2. that I was going to be late for class. So much for the old story about having your whole life flash before your eyes. The bicycle frame was bent, and the left pedal arm had been bent backward into the spokes. My left foot was just badly sprained. Shortly after that, I decided to leave town.

I was exhausted, depressed, and aimless. Busy as I was, I couldn’t keep up with all my classes. UMBC put me on academic probation, so I split. I had little money, just $100 I got back from someone I had loaned $200 to, so I got on my bicycle and rode. When I attempted to cross the Canadian border, I was searched. They found a bayonet knife I’d picked up for camping, and a few marijuana seeds. Then I was strip searched too. Nothing in my butt. Facing seven years of jail for smuggling a deadly weapon and “narcotics” across the border, I was simply denied entry. A young couple took me in for the night and fed me. I had pulled into a cul-de-sac at the end of a nearby street on the US side of the border. I was stymied – I didn’t know what to do or which way to go. I was full of frustrated energy, so I was riding my bicycle around in little circles, which caught their attention. They invited me in. They were watching the Watergate hearings on TV and making dinner. I regaled them with my border story and a bit of my life. I think we smoked some weed, because it got late, and they told me I could sleep on the couch. One thing they told me surprised me: they thought, at 22, that I was an old man! Between my long red beard, the long days of riding, and the snafu at the border, I was stressed out. They directed me to the best way to get to the next crossing. Before the Canadians had expelled me, a friendly border guard said he would delay sending the paperwork banning me from entering. Before I reached the next crossing, however, I stopped at a gas station to change clothes, and lost $50! I had split the $100 I had into two places – I would have removed my money from my jeans pocket when I changed into shorts, and must have left it sitting on the bathroom sink. I went back to see if it was there, and asked if it had been turned in, but no. So, I almost wasn’t allowed to cross the border, again, because having only $50 made it look like I was a bum who’d end up on welfare. I called an old roommate who had moved to Toronto and he vouched for me to the border guards.

Finally in Canada, I visited my former roommate in Toronto, to thank him. When I left Toronto I traveled northwest to visit a woman I’d known in an anti-war group at UMBC. She was working as a counselor for a kid’s camp. She had a boyfriend who glowered at me the whole time, so I didn’t stay long. A week of pedaling later, after being followed one night by a very large animal on a dark lonely highway, I met a beautiful old Canadian couple who offered me food and a nice outdoor sauna to clean up in. I likely smelled pretty bad. A day later, I visited Sault Ste. Marie during my stay at the hostel outside of that city. I stopped at a very nice park on the banks of St. Mary’s River, but I proceeded to get arrested for public drunkenness, courtesy of a couple local drunks who befriended me. After a night in jail, I was fined. Promising to get the money from the youth hostel I had been staying at, I packed up and left the country. I couldn’t afford to pay the fine and eat too.

Passing through several states back in the US of A, I joined a carnival as an electrician’s helper while crossing North Dakota. I spent the season traveling with them. One time, I deliberately brushed my finger against a 440-volt terminal in a junction box hooked to the giant-sized Big Bertha, one of the gas-powered generators I serviced. I was curious what would happen. I froze in shock for a few moments, almost frying my nervous system, but I survived. It reminded me of the time, barely 5 or 6 years old, when I decided to fix my parent’s alarm clock. I had watched my father fix electric wires by twisting them together and covering them with black electrical tape. Unfortunately, I twisted both wires together – blew the main house fuse. I think Death had been standing over my shoulder, again. One time I got my arm caught in the big steel cables that held the heavy steel panels enclosing two of the other four generators, also mounted on big rig trailers. The cable had almost crushed my arm, but it was only sprained, not broken. When the season ended, my plan had been to travel to Texas to visit Geri, the woman I had shared our first sex with in Baltimore. She had left town suddenly, not long after we met, and checked herself into a psychiatric hospital in Texas. I’d had other lovers afterward, before I left Baltimore, and, later in the carnival, but I wanted to see Geri, not only to find out why she had done that, but if we could reunite. It was not to be.

With the carnival season ending, the Murphy Brothers Exposition I’d joined was about to shut down for the winter in Tulsa, Oklahoma. They had already sent some of the big rides off to their home base while we finished up a small gig in Norman, Oklahoma. I met Cindy, a University student there, and with part of my season bonus money I’d rented a motel room – if you stayed the whole season you got a bonus. The “bonus” was actually money incrementally deducted from your pay every week. If you quit or got fired – no bonus. A common use of money as a carrot dangled in front of you to keep you going. I worked days at the small fair with what rides we still had, helping run the Tilt-a-Whirl. Old “Toothless” Lester ran that ride. Nights I spent with Cindy. It was glorious.

The day before the carnival was to move on, I checked out of the motel, saying goodbye to Cindy. We promised to stay in touch. I did visit her a couple years later, on my second bicycle trip west. She was staying in a motel in Oklahoma with a tennis player on tour. Nice guy. I was a bit disappointed, but Cindy asked him to leave us alone for a while, and he did. I was shocked, but the sex we had then was wonderful and sweet. I’d missed her. At one point she thanked me. I asked her, “What for?” She replied, “For all this,” waving her hand around the expensive suite. I assumed that included the tennis player, and a different lifestyle than she thought of before meeting me. She was enjoying her life. We stayed in touch, but at some point after that, she got married and had no more use for me. “I’m married,” she shouted in my ear when I got her on the phone.

But, after stashing my gear in the storage bay of the Tilt-a-Whirl I went back to work helping break everything down, which was how I’d hooked up with them in the first place. When I went back to the Tilt-a-Whirl, Lester was gone. So was my gear, and all of the money I had left. They went looking for him. He would often go on big drunks, they said, when he had money. He hadn’t gotten his season bonus yet, but finding mine, the booze called to him, and he disappeared. Now I was broke again, with only the clothes on my back (a sleeveless “muscle” shirt and jeans), and an old winter jacket Lester hadn’t taken. I asked the office if I could have the equivalent amount of money from his bonus that he had taken from me, but they just laughed. I was told I could continue working for a while, as some rides and joints would continue on to work small fairs. Bill, foreman of the Skydiver, one of the big rides, was going to Texas, and he needed people to set up and run that ride in Houston, and after that, Florida.

Houston offered new discoveries. Death was still watching me. I worked with two other guys on the Skydiver: Skeeter and Cherokee. Skeeter was an interesting tough guy. Well, carnies have to be to survive. He was heavily muscled and taciturn. Didn’t say much, except as it related to the work. Cherokee, thin and wiry, said he was indeed Cherokee, or partly, anyway. We got along. The Skydiver was about the size of a conventional Ferris Wheel but had cars enclosed with steel mesh. Once customers were in, we closed the mesh and locked it in place with a very large cotter key. A cotter pin is used to lock metal nuts in place on bolted items, threaded through a hole. The metal ends are twisted like twist-ties but with a pair of pliers. On the ‘Diver, the metal is shaped roughly like a lock key. It is a curved metal rod, bent in the middle and folded over. The top part is bent with ridges that help hold it in. It looks like a key but is made of steel, and not very flexible. We punched it in with the palm of our hands. To remove the “key” we would stick our middle finger in the opening that was created when the rod was bent, and yank hard. Our middle fingers developed strong muscles from doing that hundreds of frigging times a day.

So, one night, after we shut the ride down, and the townspeople had all left, we searched under the ride for coins. The cars people rode in could be spun using a small steering wheel, so not only were you going round and round, but spinning at a 90° angle to the ride’s rotation. People lost all kinds of things, like combs and pocket change. In fact, they lost so much, the three of us could buy dinner. One night, while walking back from a diner quite some distance away from the carnival, a car pulled up and offered us a ride. We were tired from the long work day, and sated with full bellies, so we jumped in. There were three guys in the one long front seat of those old wide-bodied Chevies. Once the car was moving, one of the guys pulled out a gun, a German luger, (PO4 9mm). They wanted our money and watches. None of us had a watch, and we had no money. We explained that we were carnies, and the guy pointing the luger at us smiled and lowered the gun. They were carnies too. Several carnivals would be set up sharing the same lot, as everyone had fewer rides on the road after the season-close. Then they offered each of us a watch. They had had a good day. I took one, a nice-looking Benrus. I wasn’t going to say no to a guy with a gun in his hand.

It wasn’t the only time I’d had a gun in my face. In the Skokie, IL. fairgrounds the cops had shown up one night after closing. A guy I knew who ran the Shoot-Out-The-Stars for a prize joint was riding his motorcycle around the race track alongside the fairgrounds. The cops had told him he couldn’t do that. He said, “OK,” and headed back to his trailer. However, the cops had meant, but hadn’t said, “Dismount Now!” So they were arresting him. It wasn’t long after closing, so a lot of us were still milling around. We slept under the rides or in trucks that hauled the rides and gear, but it was too early. Carnies protect their own, so everyone wandered over to see what was going on, including me. After all, that was a friend of mine. Well, the cops didn’t like that, so they ordered us to go home. This was our home, so we just stood there. I think they thought we were locals. Well, that freaked them out. Always afraid of the public they swear to protect, they pulled out their guns. The cop in front of me stuck his gun in my face. Damn, that was a big-bore gun! It must have been a 0.45. You don’t argue with a scared cop pointing a gun at you, because they get twitchy sometimes. The gun might go off, and you’re dead. If it’s investigated, they claim it was an accident, and they feared for their lives, so they were just doing what they were hired to do. Legal killing (murder) by the Blue gang.

I call them a gang because they play by gang rules, with a code of silence and closed ranks for anything a cop does. Sure, it’s a dangerous job, but maybe you shouldn’t be a cop if you’re that scared of the rest of the public. Driving is just as dangerous, and commercial fishermen die at a much higher rate than anyone else. So, I ducked behind one of the rides. The carnival protects their own too, so they bailed him out the next morning. No love between the carnies and the cops.

But, getting back to Houston, I will tell you how it went when we packed up the Sky Diver and headed to Florida. There were three semis loaded with gear: one with all the ‘diver cars, one with the hydraulically lowered ‘diver itself, and one with ponies. The foreman of the Sky Diver ride had bought himself a pony ride, one in which the ponies were hitched to a sort of large turnstile that they pushed around. It was a very popular ride with the tiny tots. Bill, the foreman, also had a station wagon that he used to pull the pieces of the brightly colored orange and yellow turnstile in a small trailer. Bill, Skeeter, and Cherokee each drove a truck. I knew how to drive and back up a big rig. But, I wasn’t licensed for that, so I got to drive Bill’s station wagon. I got lost on Houston’s big highway interchange and missed the turn for Interstate 10. By the time I went round and round to make my way east, I sped up to try and catch up to the others. I never did. Just outside of Jennings, Louisiana, a trailer wheel snapped off. The trailer body hit the road on that side. The effect was to spin me around. It also turned the trailer upside down in the process. I’d been doing 70 mph. I saw the pieces of the turnstile in the air all around me. The yellow and orange pieces floating in the air reminded me of fire. When everything stopped, I was facing the wrong way, towards traffic, blocking both eastbound lanes of I-10. I was arrested, again, this time for “Failure to maintain control of my vehicle,” a fineable offense. Since I didn’t have any money, I couldn’t pay the fine.

Long story short, the Carnival got me out the next day, after I’d spent a sleepless night reading a book I’d found in my solitary cell (autobiography of Joan Baez). Since I was in a corner cell, I talked with my neighboring cells. The guy to my left asked if I had any dope. I told him I did, just a few ounces of weed in a baggie I’d managed to smuggle in. While being searched, I had my hands hooked in my front pockets since the one-armed deputy booking me searched my back pockets first, one at a time. Then he told me to raise my arms. That had given me time to slip the baggie inside my fist, so I raised it high while he searched the front pockets, and then I slipped it into my back pocket when he told me to lower my arms. I had money wired to me from the carnival to fix the car. The cops had gathered every bit of that pony ride and put it back into the trailer. I spent the next night sleeping in the break room used by the trustees. I was told to take whatever I wanted from the refrigerator. Nice. On the way to Florida, however, the car broke down on that long section of bridge across Louisiana swamp. A radiator hose had been cracked in the accident. I spent hours letting the engine cool, then driving until the temperature gauge was pinned on high again, over and over, and over, and over. There was about three or four feet of space between the road and the guardrail, so the rigs swooshed by me the whole time, barely missing me.

One hell of a lot of loud truck horns blared at me, but what could I do? There is no exit on the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge for 18 miles. There’s only water left and right. Again, I survived. After a disappointing stay in Florida, in which, while Bill went back for his car and trailer, we set up the Sky Diver by ourselves. Scary thing that. It’s huge and full of heavy steel beams. As we raised the ride in sand, it almost tipped over, scaring the wits out of us. We hadn’t spread enough wood under the legs to stabilize them, so we got it right. But there was no money to be made there, so I finally headed on up the coast to visit a trio of young ladies I’d met in Canada. I spent one bitter cold mountain night outside in an empty car on a gas station lot while I waited to transfer to the morning bus. The ride foreman had given me busfare, and driven me to the station to make sure I got on. When the bus stopped to let me off, I was still mostly asleep. The bicycle was still on the bus, which had raced off as soon as I had stepped down. I spent the winter night awake, shivering violently in an old car at a gas station. In the morning the bus returned, with my bicycle. The girls were sure surprised to see me, and I stayed on a bit, chopping firewood and helping out. I finally overstayed my welcome but was being offered a job raising goats on a neighboring farm. I declined. I decided to take a train back to Baltimore, where I’d started. It was supposed to have been a round trip after all.

But, I had hours to kill while I waited for the train. “Desperado waiting for a train….” Really, I was no desperado, but I waited in a pool hall, shooting pool with an old codger who played like a shark. Bang, bang, bang went the shiny numbered balls into the pockets. I had nothing but pocket change, so we played for the table. I paid for several games. I finally got a chance to shoot. I lined up the cue ball and steadied my cue stick on it when bang, bang, bang – gunshots outside. Shocked, I looked up. Everyone in the place was running out the door. Damn, those cats were fast. I was the last one out. I walked out right next to the shooter. One man was down and out on the ground. The shooter didn’t notice me at first because he was busy pumping some more lead into the guy on the ground. The body jerked with each shot. Either the shooter was out of bullets, or he suddenly noticed me. He turned to me. I looked him in the eyes, not in a show of force or strength, but because I didn’t know what else to do. He must have thought I wanted to know why he was doing that, which I was. He said to me, “He deserved it.” Now I’d given that idea some thought in the past, and I don’t think it’s anyone’s job to decide who dies unless they are able to control who doesn’t have to die. The words scrolled across my brain, but I couldn’t get them to my mouth. He stared at me for I-don’t-know-how long. It was probably seconds, but it felt like time had stopped. Finally, he lowered the gun, did an about-face on one heel, and slowly walked off.

By this time, an ambulance was arriving, along with some cops in patrol cars behind it. I waited around. A gurney was produced from the ambulance. A blanket was placed over the quite young guy on the ground, but not covering his face, so maybe he was still alive? They loaded the gurney back into the ambulance, and they sped off, sirens wailing. I had been waiting for the cops to come over and ask for statements from witnesses, especially me, since I had been inadvertently eyewitness to some of it, but they got in their cars and drove away, following the ambulance. After some moment in time, I decided to return to the pool hall. Somehow, most of the pool players were already back. I asked my pool partner from the time before time had stopped if he wanted to continue. He said yes, so I went back to my shot, lined the balls up quickly, and shot. The cue ball flew off the table and rolled crazily away at high speed. My pool partner retrieved it. When he came back, he said, “Maybe we should call it a night.” I had to agree with him. I think my nerves were shot. The train ride to Baltimore was sobering. My thoughts were full of gunshots and daydreams. I didn’t know what to expect in Baltimore, but I wanted to rest.

I found a job fairly quickly. I sent money to the Sky-Diver foreman Bill, feeling like I owed him. He wrote back in a shaky hand, thanking me for that, using simple printed words. I used to write letters all the time while I was working on the carnival, so I had to assume Bill never had the schooling I had. A good man. I looked up Judy White, whom I’d been writing to, someone I’d briefly dated before, but there was no chemistry between us. I don’t think there ever had been. I dated some after that, but nothing clicked. I was never good at relationships, just enjoyed the comfort of sex and sharing a bed. When my job suddenly ended, there was no longer any reason to stay in the town of my birth. I gave away what possessions I’d accumulated, loaded my bicycle up with clothes, food, and tools, and headed westerly.

I stopped in Arizona, working for a bronze foundry for about nine or ten months, before heading out on another bicycle trip across the USA, but this time with a group of bicyclists heading slowly eastward towards Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. On the way, we stopped in many cities and towns, including Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I somehow stole the heart of a married woman. Her husband split, but I wasn’t finished with my travels yet. She divorced after I left and wrote to me often. I hadn’t found a good job in Pittsburg, so I went to New York City with my bicycle. I became a bicycle messenger. I had some friends there. They had an organization and a newspaper called, “Don’t Mourn, Organize,” a phrase used by the famous union organizer Joe Hill. Their mission was to organize tenant councils for the working poor and people on welfare, as had been done during the “Great Depression” in the 1930s. One of them let me stay at his apartment since he was rarely home. Riding a bicycle all day in the bitterly cold streets of NYC in winter is no fun, and dangerous. Drivers are insane there. The woman I’d met in Albuquerque wanted me to come live with her. I did. After a year and a half, that relationship suddenly ended one day, but I stayed. I like it here in Albuquerque.

In a flash forward, I am riding a motorcycle near my home in my newly adopted home state of New Mexico, when a Bernalillo County sheriff pulls me over, I don’t remember why. Sometimes they don’t provide a reason. He asked for my “registration and proof of insurance,” of course. I had a hinged seat, so I unlocked and popped it open because that’s where I kept them back then. As I reached for them, he went for his gun. I explained, but he kept his hand on the gun butt – the holster, unsnapped. Cops were quite leery of motorcyclists back then, but he didn’t shoot me. He allowed me to continue. I either have a devil on my ass or a guardian angel.

Speaking of which, I went sailing over a car that pulled in front of me twice, once on my bicycle, and once on my motorcycle. Bad sprain the first time, just bruised and sore the next time. Bicycle and motorcycle totaled. Once I missed the light change with the sun in my eyes at an intersection and plowed into a pickup. Motorcycle totaled. I’d been going about 40 to 45 mph and didn’t have time to brake. Just bruised, sore as hell, and had to wear my arm in a sling for a bit. The driver said I bent the frame of his truck. I didn’t buy that, and neither did my insurance company.

One night, a car ran into me while I was crossing a street on foot. I was three-quarters of the way across and under a streetlight, but she had raced around the corner, going south, steering wide into the northbound lane where I was. She pushed me down the street while I was still on my feet. I didn’t fall down until she suddenly braked hard. Now that threw me down hard, painfully. I was not badly hurt, but one edge of my left shoe was ground down and ruined. I didn’t visit the emergency room or call the cops. I was OK. No damage, just bruised and sore again. I figured out later, from things she said, that she had run out of the art show we’d both been at, looking to stop me. I had bought two small lithograph prints while I’d been there. I’d gone because it was opening night, and there is usually free food and drink at such things. The woman was one of the artists. I’d stopped to browse a small rack of prints by the exit before I left. Realizing how late and cold it was, I stopped browsing and hurried out. I had a short walk half a block away to the side road I’d parked my car on. As I stepped into the street, I noticed a car’s headlights to my left. It was turning into the street I was in, so I rushed into the far lane to get out of the way. She hit me softly, but then she sped up. I could feel the acceleration until she braked. When I got up, she was out of her car, asking if I was OK. I felt OK, and walked over to where I dropped the bag with the small prints. She said, “Oh! you bought something there.” That puzzled me, from the way she said it – something in her voice.

Years later, I read that the local technical vocational college was looking for stories about pedestrian-car accidents. I let them interview me and asked if they wanted to speak with the woman who had hit me. Since they did, I called her. In a high-pitched, shaky voice, she said, “No. I never want to think about that night again.” I explained that I was OK with what had happened, but she was adamantly opposed to meeting with the college people, or ever speaking of that “incident”, as she called it. Then I figured out that she had been after me, angry, hoping to recover whatever she thought I stole, and single-mindedly drove right into me. Having a car pushing me down the street was a surreal experience. The acceleration kept me pinned to the car’s bumper at a slight angle. If only she hadn’t panicked and slammed on the brakes, I wouldn’t have been in so much pain later. Adrenaline temporarily suppressed the pain of that. I had hit my right hip and shoulder hard on the asphalt. Hitting my shoulder aggravated an old motorcycle accident when I’d gone off the road on a sharp curve years before. That still bothers me some days.

I’ve lost two cars to bad drivers too. In Placitas, NM, a driver turned a corner and rammed me head-first. I was braked, about to turn right, west, and had turned my head to look for traffic to my left. I was as far to the right as I could possibly be, with no cars in sight when I stopped. She had been heading east in the far lane, and again, instead of turning into the far lane on the two-way street I was on, she turned into my lane. She blamed me – said I was too far forward. Although the front end of my car was about three feet past the stop sign, there was at least six feet between me and the highway. My brain was sore for weeks – it must have rattled around in my skull. My insurance company spoke with her, and she confirmed that the accident had occurred on the side street I was on. Since it was a front-end collision, there was no way I could have run into her, or I’d have damaged the side of her car. My insurance sided with me, but her insurance claimed it was my fault.

It happened again, of course. I pulled into a center turn bay on Albuquerque’s 4th Street, waiting for southbound traffic to stop, so I could get groceries. It took a while for traffic to clear. I had seen a pickup waiting to come out. When traffic cleared I began my turn, but just then he raced out. I completed my turn and sped up to get out of his way, but he hit me along the driver’s side, still accelerating – I could feel my car being pushed. The whole side was creased badly, and the rear door was crushed shut. Old guy, very old, and a sturdy pickup. He said it was his fault, and that he hadn’t seen me. The accident had occurred in the the southbound lane, and he had been turning north before he reached the opposite lanes, so, clearly his fault. If he had not turned until reaching the center, he wouldn’t have hit me. Later, while waiting for the cops, he stared at my car, then said, referring to my car’s color, “That’s what happened. I couldn’t see that light green.” I thought, “And you’re allowed to drive why?”

Hell, the same thing had happened back when I had first moved to Albuquerque. I was driving my new girlfriend’s car home from a union meeting too far away to have ridden my bicycle, my only ride. A seventeen-year-old with a learner’s permit had followed another vehicle into the intersection without stopping at the stop sign. That first vehicle was stopped in the middle of four-lane Central Avenue, waiting to join eastbound traffic, so the seventeen-year-old had no place to go. I steered that car hard right, but I was too close and hit the other car’s left fender. Same kind of thing. The boy’s mother was with him, and she claimed I was going too fast. The tire tracks I made when I braked proved that I was under the speed limit, not that it mattered. We went to court, but before we got called into the courtroom, they decided to settle. They agreed to pay for the front-end damage to my girlfriend’s car over time. It never got fixed. It just sat for a long time. I don’t know if she ever got the money because she left me for someone else not too long after that. The car actually belonged to her ex-husband, who had moved to France after she’d taken up with me. But, that’s part of another story. He was still angry, and he wanted that car back.

A New Year is a Continuation but With Hope

So, not much happening on the first day of 2024. New Year’s Eve was almost a total bust, except that I donated blood platelets for cancer patients. There are several kids with cancer in the children’s ward of the University Hospital here, so I was especially happy doing that if my donation goes to them. Tuesday, January 2, 2024, however, started with a ride to meet motorcycle buddies for breakfast. It was quite cold and a longer ride was not planned, but we had good conversation and good food at Jimmy’s Cafe. In the evening my in-person acting class was canceled and replaced with a Zoom meeting. I always enjoy the classes either way, since my classmates are quite interesting and range in style and age. Some are excellent actors and others are working to improve enough to get an acting job. Some write screenplays. One is an opera-trained singer in a superb classic rock band: 505 Unchained. One creates episodes of a show she calls Treasure Expeditions; she searches for treasure with a metal detector but also visits antique shops and historical houses. Her videos appear on Wire Ride TV, which is a channel produced by our acting coach and mentor, Steve Burhoe. I sometimes bring poetry to class.

On Wednesday I brought two recent spoken word pieces to a bar with a monthly event called Poetry and Beer. There is usually an Open Mic. Then there’s a Poetry Slam – a competition between poets for the approval of volunteer judges who score it like an Olympic event. Of late, there has been a cash prize for the top-scoring poets. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough non-poets in attendance to have judges, and the regular host hadn’t been able to attend. We had a substitute host and just had an open mike. It was glorious. We all had such a good time. The poets who planned to slam performed those poems, and a few were totally hilarious. There was a rule about doing only one thing at a time, but the rules ended up not being hard and fast. And there was music as well. Anything goes at an Open Mic. I had a lot of fun and two microbrewery stouts.

I received an audition opportunity, one I intend to do very well. It will be for a voiceover role. I can do that – everyone says I have a great voice for that. I have been working on it for days and had hoped to do it in class for some feedback, but the in-person acting class was canceled on Friday morning. I went out to breakfast instead. But, at 5 pm I attended a gallery show at a theater company’s place called Fusion. The art was way overpriced, but I don’t need any of that anyway. While there, I chatted with the woman staffing a kiosk of things to buy – books, small artworks, and games – things like that. I mentioned that I used to print and sell photos of mine. She offered me space in the kiosk for some small items I have, which is great because the two places I used to sell my prints closed permanently. So that’s good news.

Saturday was a fantastic day! I had performed in a short movie that had its premiere at a small theater and we packed the place. There were three shorts, and the one I was in was really funny – a parody of Popeye. I had some great lines that got some laughs, so I was elated. Afterward, we had a wrap party at the Slice Pizza place across the street. Today, Sunday, I attended a playwright’s Zoom meeting where new scripts are introduced and dissected. One of them was set in Ireland, and I loved the writing.

So that was my first week of 2024. This next year holds promise!

Tomorrow morning I will have professional help for my audition taping. I’m excited. Things are looking up after Covid, and after the writers’ and actors’ strikes, which left all of us without much to do. However, in acting class, I spent over six weeks working on a two-person play that my scene partner Abby and I performed. It is a Harold Pinter comedy sketch called Trouble in the Works (1959), with lots of tongue-twisters and sexual innuendos. My scene partner Abby was wonderful to work with. We got together often, in person or on video calls. Her drive to learn and excel, as well as her humor and creative spirit, were contagious and encouraging. On Christmas Eve we also delivered toys that had been purchased and wrapped by the Children’s Cancer Fund of New Mexico. We got them to the kids with cancer who are in University Hospital for the holidays. Their parents stay with them. I brought 24 delicious candy canes with me and ended up giving them to the parents, who looked so worn out. Abby arranged everything. She’s wonderful. She also just got appointed to the board of the Cancer Fund, so she’ll be doing lots more things like this.

Abby Max

Last month, I had planned to go with her and motorcyclist Santa David on December 11th to see some of the other children who were going to spend Christmas in the hospital, but I was scheduled to work on a film set. It was two days of background acting. I had to be on set by 7:30 am, so I had expected to get out early so I could go with them, but I worked 13 hours, well into the evening. However, that netted me enough money for acting classes, and I still got to go on Christmas Eve, and Abby got the overworked Santa Doug to come with us.

Life is good again.

Coyotes before dawn

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. today, Tuesday, November 7. I wasn’t sure why. I was tired yesterday. I’ve been working out in this little gym where I live, but due to a trip way out of town, I couldn’t get more exercise than helping load a horse trailer with wood and unloading it. There must have been six cords worth. So, lots of carrying wood to the trailer, up and down, stacking it, and back and forth and back and forth, etc. My workouts are usually more intense than that. I had been doing much less hiking in the mountains than usual and gave up the running I’d done for three years after my heart attack. I had been getting soft. Some muscles were feeling flabby, and I kept putting on fat. So I spent this last summer working out, something I’d never done before. It is working. I feel better, have lost some excess fat, and have more energy. Three days ago I hit the gym again, and it felt good – I had lots of energy and did more than I had been doing. Yesterday I went at it again, but it was much harder to get into it. I felt sluggish and had to force myself to keep going. I would have taken a short nap, but I had things to do. By the time I finished all that I had to do, it was 9 p.m. and I was exhausted. I still didn’t get to bed until nearly 11 p.m., so I thought I’d sleep like a baby.

But, about 5 minutes ago, I found out what had aroused me from my much-needed sleep – a pack of coyotes was yipping and carrying on very close to the house I rent. It’s right next to an irrigation ditch, and there is much wildlife in the area. I heard a young coyote’s yips in with the others. They weren’t really howling those long, keening wails. They sounded more like they were interested in something, not hunting, but perhaps greeting some other coyotes. No growling or snarls, just really short abbreviated howls and lots of yips, that I thought sounded like they were having fun. There were quite a few of them out there. I’m glad I wasn’t on the other side of that fence. They might have found a lone human more interesting. But, 4:30 a.m? Come on, coyotes. Move along!

I’m up now, wide awake. I’ve so much to do, for a retired guy. I’ve been becoming an actor. I started years ago. I’ve taken so many acting classes. I’ve been a background actor on perhaps 200 movies and TV shows. I’ve acted in local, non-paid shorts. In fact, I was in one of those on Sunday, for a web series. I had a few funny lines to give, interacting with the title character. The other people there laughed spontaneously, and that was incorporated into the scene. It is a comedy, after all. I was really happy to get some laughs. The hasn’t been much to do, due to the screenwriter’s strike, and then the never-ending actor’s strike, but I’m not in the union, and there are exceptions for things like commercials and independent work. Still, it’s not much.

So, my acting coach teaches a lot of classes and decided to put on a showcase. Rather than shooting something, we will perform on a small stage – my agent and at least a couple of local casting directors might be there. I am studying a Harold Pinter play. It’s funny, with lots of wordplay. But, that’s not all, as the late-night commercials always say. We also have an ensemble piece to perform, and I have a long soliloquy to memorize, in addition to the Pinter play. We will rehearse all next Monday. Since it’s not film, we will have to deal with blocking and props, and we will be using more stage-like voices than film requires – quite the opposite of what we have been doing as movie and TV actors. It is exciting, but I’ve found my anxiety rising. I’ve been waiting a long time to show people what I can do. Now’s my chance.

Last night was one of the scene-study classes that I attend. Everyone was there, and together, we did about seven scenes for the upcoming showcase. I missed that last class because of my trip, so I found that the other students, many of whom are much younger, had forged ahead of where I am now. They performed their scenes well, showing great memorization skills. Our coach/director added blocking, and we discussed props and costumes. I was not yet off-book on either of my scenes. The second scene, the whole class ensemble piece, I had only received by email while I was away, and I have only read it so far. The showcase is approaching like a storm on the horizon, and I am feeling anxious. I just popped one of my blood pressure pills. I hadn’t taken them for a while, since I love grapefruits and grapefruit juice. The combination with my medication can have bad side effects. In actuality, grapefruit juice alone has a blood-pressure-lowering effect. But, until this showcase is a done deal, I’m going to take my pills. I’m hoping they will also help with my growing anxiety.

Don’t misunderstand me – I love acting. I did a little stage work in high school and in the 1980s, and there are the short films I’ve been a part of in the last nine years. I loved being on set either as an extra or with a speaking part. I had so much fun the other day on that web series short. It’s what I want to do more than anything now. For me, there is nothing more satisfying than performing, except perhaps seeing my name in the credits. There’s a certain amount of vanity required to want to be an actor, after all. Perhaps it’s more like a need for approval. Even at my age, I find I still want that. This may be a make-or-break moment for me. I know I can do it, and I am certainly not going to run away. “Just breathe,” I tell myself. “Relax. Calm down.” No distractions! No TV. No movies. No novels. No pop songs.

Focus. I really need to focus when I’m learning a role. But my scene partner! She’s so gorgeous and fun to be with I could howl at the moon.

Hiking Leads to More Photos

San Lorenzo Canyon, New Mexico.

On my birthday this year, one week ago, I hiked through some of San Lorenzo Canyon. I’ve been there before and I wanted more photos of the red rock formations. It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine, which actually made it hard to take certain views and angles because, without clouds or shade, the sun in the open is pretty intense. It’s like having a bright flash on a continuous setting. I enjoyed the hike more than usual because I have been working out most of the summer. I felt an increase in my stamina and almost no fatigue. I often deviated from a straight-through path to climb for some photos, or just for the views. I traveled with a hiking Meetup group. I recall we had 11 or 12 people (It’s a good thing I wasn’t the hike leader). The site is northwest of Socorro and about 5 miles northwest of Lemitar, NM. The area can be reached by taking the western frontage road north from Lemitar (along I-25) and driving about 5 miles. At that point, you follow a maintained dirt road west which will take you to the main canyon.

A New Poem (“new shit”, as slam poets say)

WHAT IS IN THE BOX?

Is it the answer to my hopes and dreams?

Is it love? Is it bacon?

Is it a Braunschweiger sandwich

with mayo

made lovingly by Mom?

Is it an extra sharp cheese omelet

with fresh, roasted green chile

made for me?

Is it black beans & hot Italian sausage

made with love for someone else?

Is it a cup of Yunnan black tea

stygian darkness cut with honey?

Is it being with someone you love

as you watch the sun set

and the sunlight is refracted

colors bouncing from cloud to cloud?

Is it poetry you write about someone you love?

Is it watermelon to share with your lover?

Is it a dream of love?

Is it a remembrance of love?

Is it knowing that there is always love

as long as you love someone

even if they no longer care about you?

The answer is love – it is always love.

The answer to all of life’s questions

comes down to love

even if

all you want to know

is

what’s in that mystery box?

The Mountain Calls and I Answer

I’ve hiked to the top of the Sandia Mountains on many trails. I’ve driven or ridden in cars up the Crest Road. I’ve bicycled up that road to the top (once was enough). But today was the first time I’d ridden a motorcycle up there – “up there” being 10,500 feet (3200 meters) above sea level. I’m adding some photos I took, and an image of me taken by another biker. My hair and eyebrows are all crazy from the ride up. While looking at a map, I zoomed in. The appearance of Crest Road surprised the crap out of me. It has to gain thousands of feet in elevation, and it does so in a most interesting pattern. I took a screenshot.

On a motorcycle, those squirrely curves are exhilarating, and I must confess – a little scary. It takes concentration. I accelerate to make it through the curves (to negotiate them as people used to say). My right foot is never more than one-quarter inch from the brake. A slight distraction could lead me to end up crossing a shallow ditch, moving towards the forest or a rock face. Leaving the mountain crest, coming down in the other lane, there are steep depths to plunge on my right. When I was on a bicycle, I found that very unnerving. On a powerful motorcycle, things happen quicker. It is best to simply concentrate on the road, my speed, and the traffic. People do this every day on this road, even in winter snow, with icy patches scattered along its length.

There are young motorcyclists who race down that higgledy-piggledy road at speeds that defy common sense. After all these years of mine, I am a bit more circumspect in my riding. But, the views coming up, on top, and coming down are worth it, even when it is only in the far corners of my eyes. The photos of the city show its humbling effect on me; it is so vast, yet so small compared to the grand vistas I can see from a mile above them. The mountain actually starts from the Rio Grande, slowly rising all through the city of Albuquerque, up into the foothills, and up, up, up to the top of this mountain of old seabed thrust two miles above sea level by tectonic activity. Albuquerque sits where a portion of that upthrust land sank far down, a mile down. The Rio Grande is the lowest point in the landscape; it runs from north to south to southeast after flowing into Texas, where it creates a border with Mexico.

In one photo, I am wearing my shirt from chase-crewing the Sponge Bob balloon in 2010. The balloon flew a few days, but a sudden downdraft as the balloon was being filled with hot air from the large propane flame caused a fire that destroyed some of the internal structure. The balloon had been brought from the manufacturing center in Brazil, and instead of being sold, was going back to Brazil for repairs. I never saw it again, and although I had not gotten the ride in it that I’d been promised for my work, I got this T-shirt. However, I did ride in other balloons. I wore the shirt today because the left sleeve is like a U.S. flag, and it is July 4. My hair and eyebrows are crazy windblown from the ride, and highlighted by the intense sunlight.

I’M AN ANACHRONISM, A DINOSAUR, SOCIALLY USELESS

Recently, my landlord decided to sell this house I rent. Since I need to move out, I have been searching for a new place to rent. Housing costs are outrageous! I have been lucky, insulated, and blind to the rising costs of houses and rents. I’ve lived here just a tiny bit under 16 years, having moved into this house on July 4, 2007. I was about to become divorced, legally. We’d gotten married ten years earlier, rather than just live together because she needed health insurance, dental insurance, and a vision plan. Her eyeglasses were eight years old, and they were not as useful to her as they had been. The divorce was not amicable. My wife had become incensed over a comment I made. She had taken two vacations to visit friends and family in the past year. And me? I was working on the house we lived in, a house we’d refinanced in order to buy out her ex-husband’s half-share. I was working on the house, from the time I got home every day until dark, and all weekends long. Her absence those two times didn’t bother me. I found the house so peaceful without having to listen to the TV blaring from the time she woke up until she went to bed. I could read in peace. I could finally close the curtains in the bedroom to block out the streetlamp just outside the bedroom window. She was funny about some things, like wearing socks and pajamas to bed, with a blanket or comforter covering her even in summer, and even after menopause set in. She would then wake up feeling too hot, and throw the blanket or comforter off. Once, I had woken in the middle of the night to find that it was very cold as the blanket was not covering us. I pulled it up and made sure to cover her as well. However, she woke up and yelled at me for covering her, and to never touch the covers. I slept better when she wasn’t there.

The work on the house was hard, so I slept very well every night during that time, even though she had not only given me a deadline to finish the work but had then shortened the timeline. With her out of town, I felt some lessening of the stress. She drank way too much and was often cranky, especially when hungover. I had gone along with it, drinking as much as she did, something I’d never done before. I did whatever she wanted to keep her happy. But I stopped drinking as much – I just couldn’t do it anymore. It was fun for her while she was drinking, but not when she wasn’t. Although she was shorter and smaller than I was, I couldn’t keep up with her ability to consume. Alcohol didn’t make me happy. I was only happy when she was happy, which was increasingly less and less often. My work performance was suffering. Between the stress at work and the unhappiness at home, I felt a deep sense of ennui.

Her ex-husband had owned half the house. He had been paying half of her rent, in addition to child support. After their divorce, she had become the primary custodial parent, sharing the two children with her ex-husband only on alternate weekends. Her ex paid tuition and bought the kids shoes, clothes, and books for the Catholic grade school they attended. In addition, since she was a “single mother with children,” she received state assistance which paid the majority of her half of the mortgage payment for her. That ended when I moved in. Her ex’s child support payments stopped when the youngest child reached 18 years old. We also had to refinance the house in order to pay off her husband’s half-interest in the house. We put it in both our names, and I paid for the entire mortgage as long as I lived there, along with extra money to pay it off quicker. With her reduced income, it seemed fair. We split the utility bills and household expenses other than the mortgage. She worked part-time as a substitute teacher, even though she was offered full-time positions which she declined. She could have gotten teacher accreditation while she worked, but then she would have had to make lesson plans herself, and grade papers. However, she had accumulated stocks through her job during her previous marriage, so she wanted to add a large room, 240 square feet, and re-roof the entire house in the process. She cashed in enough stock to pay for most of the materials. I did the work. Sometimes I ran out of roofing tiles, lumber, nails, and other supplies so I had to pick up extra from time to time. I also had equipment to rent and tools to buy.

The divorce rolled around in 2007, no matter how hard I tried to keep it together, through suggesting marriage counseling and telling her I loved her and I wanted to stay. But, I need to back up a bit.

WHAT DID I DO TO PRECIPITATE THE DIVORCE? After so many long hours of work on the house, after my regular job hours, I was exhausted every night. I was so tired, I usually just watched movies or fell asleep when trying to read. I didn’t call her. She was bothered by that, so she eventually called me one night. When she asked, I simply told her I was busy on the house remodel, and very tired, which was the absolute truth. She didn’t believe me. When she returned, and often, while she was drunk, she would ask me time and time again why I didn’t call her while she was away. I think that last trip was ten days or two weeks – not a very long time. But I didn’t want to tell her that I was enjoying the peace and quiet and rest. I just repeated that I was busy and went to bed early each night. However, the last time she asked me that, just after I’d had to stop the car, again, for her to puke after another bout of heavy drinking, I told her why I hadn’t called her: I said, “BECAUSE I DIDN’T MISS YOU.”

WRONG THING TO SAY, HOO BOY. Our marriage was over from that point on. Instead of talking to me, she was on the phone all the time, with sisters, her mother, and her best friend from childhood. She wouldn’t talk to me. When she finally got around to it, she just wanted to know when I was leaving. I told her I wasn’t. She asked me if I was unhappy. I told her I was. But, I wanted us to get marriage counseling. At first, she agreed, but with a caveat: I needed to sign a quit claim to the house. I didn’t want to do that, not after all the work and money I’d put into the house. I agreed to her demand that I yield a quitclaim if she would compensate me for the recent work on her house. She agreed. I signed. She asked me to give her a figure. I worked it out, based on the money and time I’d put into the remodel, and I was grossly underestimating the value of my labor. She was absolutely shocked at the amount. She walked away and I was on the do-not-talk-to list again. Then she got mad. She wanted me to leave. I said I wanted to stay. She told me, “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police and tell them my life is in danger.” That was unexpected.

NOW, I HAD NOTHING ELSE TO SAY. She called me at work one day to ask if I had looked at places to move. I had wanted to shout, “What’s the hurry?” but I didn’t. Instead, I said that I had, although really I had only looked through rental listings in the paper. But that was what she was waiting for. She wanted me out. After that threat of calling the police, I contacted a lawyer who told me she could do that. It was common in divorces. If a woman claimed she was being abused, for example, she could have the police take her spouse or partner out physically. Or, she could claim her life was in danger, after which we would have to appear in court, but that could take up to a year for the case to come before a judge. And then, if the judge ruled in my favor, why the hell would I want to live with someone who had done that to me? We filled out and signed the divorce papers. After we had the divorce papers notarized, she offered to take them to a judge to approve the legal aspects of the divorce. It took her a very long time to do that. Perhaps she thought I would beg her to take me back?

I WASN’T ABUSING HER. She was a horrible drunk, yelling at me, and starting spurious arguments. Even when not drunk, she was always putting me down, dismissing things I said, dismissing me – claiming I knew nothing. She once screamed I had stashed money in a secret account like her ex-brother-in-law had. She controlled the TV. She turned off my radio or music albums without asking me. If I dared change the channel or turn the TV off when she fell asleep, she was irate that I’d touched it at all. Hell, I bought it for her before we married, because hers was so old, with a fuzzy picture and lots of static. She hated the way I made the bed. She found fault with my cooking. She was the abuser, in my mind. She had been making my life miserable since the kids had moved out. I put up with it, out of love, I thought. And because her sister had made me promise to be good to her. My wife had a vicious temper, which, once it went off like a time bomb, took a long time to settle down. And, she hated all men as a matter of principle. Her sister had asked me to ignore that. My stepdaughter thanked me for staying with her mom. I saw the way my ex had screamed at her kids about little things. It bothered me, but since her daughter and sister had asked, I accepted her as she was. Then she started screaming at me too.

SO, THAT WAS A LONG RAMBLING WAY TO GET TO THIS POINT: in the divorce agreement, and under New Mexico’s community property law, I was only entitled to ten years’ worth of the money I’d put into the mortgage (the time we’d been legally married), and my labor was community property without compensation. The good thing was that she was only entitled to a portion of my pension based on the length of time we were married. It about balanced out – she got the house, I got to keep 100% of my pension, and she owed me $2500. Of course, I never got it. She said she couldn’t even afford the utility bills on her own. That, from someone who ran the TV at all hours of the day, left lights on all over the house and left a door partially open during winter days while the house furnace was running. I didn’t feel sorry for her.

I moved into this place I rent in 2007. I was flat broke after paying double the monthly rent to move in and making one last mortgage payment after I moved out, for what turned out to be “her” house all along. (She said I didn’t lose money, because I would have been paying rent anyway.) And, I was now in debt, with overdrafts on my checking account, no savings, and using my credit cards to buy food and gas.

Under New Mexico law, the concept of community property only kicks in after ten years of marriage. Can you guess when this took place? Although we had dated with weekend sleepovers for four years, we had only been married for almost exactly ten years when she demanded that I leave. Was that her plan all along? That would be very wrong of me to say so, or even think so. Who knows? I have to believe it was a coincidence, or she hadn’t known about that until she consulted a lawyer, which would explain why she didn’t call the police to have me thrown out and didn’t have the judge sign the divorce papers until we had been officially married for ten years.

SO, it’s mostly my fault, for not having saved enough money as a down payment on another house, and for retiring two years after the divorce, so my pension barely covered rent, gas, food, and bills.

Try as I could, I couldn’t save enough to put 20% down on a house at current prices. Hell, even if I could, I didn’t expect to live long enough to pay it off. There was always some medical copayment above insurance coverage (like a heart attack), a car repair, or other unexpected expenses to be able to retain my savings. I realized I’d always rent, and accepted it. In fact, I rationalized it. I figured I could move anywhere in the world I wanted, at any time.

Until now. Rents are fantastically high. I didn’t expect that.

Moving is stressful, for me. I really don’t want to move again. In 1968, Jefferson Airplane sang, “Life is change; how it differs from the rocks,” in their Crown of Creation album, although that line and much of the song, including the title of the song and album were written by John Wyndham, and used with permission. I’ve always liked that philosophy. I played that album over and over. I still dig it out once in a while.

Change is good, I believe. Otherwise, we wither, calcify and harden. We become weathered, rounded, and dull (my words).

Still, change comes hard. Breakups and divorces drive me crazy. Changing jobs doesn’t attract me. When I was young I thought I’d finish high school, finish college, get a job, and marry. Nothing else. But life hasn’t been that ordered. Life is usually messy. Now I have to move again. I don’t like it. But, I am looking forward to it, except the packing-up and unpacking parts. If I could beam everything over to the next house, exactly where I want everything to be, I’d be ecstatically happy. But no. The problem is that I’ve accumulated so much clutter! I’ve kept most everything. I do sell an occasional book, record, CD, DVD, etc, but at this rate, it will take many years to dispose of all of those. So, like my much smarter former stepdaughter, I need to start disposing of things at Goodwill, maybe on Craig’s List as well. It’s all too much. I have over 400 vinyl albums, over 400 CDs, and some DVDs and VHS tapes. My player takes DVDs or VHS tapes, and I haven’t watched them all.

I also have four overstuffed bookcases, and four shelving racks full of tools, nuts, bolts, and fasteners from house repairs, replacing a roof, and remodeling that last house I thought I owned. I have way too many clothes because I’ve been using them to work on movie and TV sets as a background extra. My walls are so covered in so much cheap artwork that some had to be stored in a second bedroom. And I have so many tchotchkes. Aaaaaaa!

At one time, I knew better than to form attachments to things, and to disdain material goods. I traveled across the USA on a bicycle, with a handful of tools, and two changes of clothes. I packed brown rice, soybeans, and granola. Unlike the early pioneers, I was able to purchase a small carton of milk and a piece of fruit for breakfast each morning. I did fine! I stopped to work at times, but I managed to crisscross the country until I settled in Albuquerque, New Mexico with no possessions to my name – except the bicycle – and no money. If not for the woman I’d met here, who asked me to come back, I would not have been able to survive here. Jobs were scarce and near impossible to get. My new friend insisted I apply for food stamps until I found work. I was a day laborer for six months before I could obtain a full-time job at the University, because of the government office created by the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act (CETA). Really, I had nothing and no rich family to borrow from or sponge off of. I repaired broken sidewalks, ran a jackhammer, finished concrete, built block walks, installed metal doors in block walls, and installed benches. I really enjoyed demolishing walls for remodeling, especially right after my lover found another guy and moved out. I moved on to a job in cancer research, then worked in a metal foundry and an electronics plant. I took classes until I finished my bachelor’s degree. I worked for 25 years in medical research until I retired.

BUT, for all my years of work, I have nothing to show for it except a rented house full of useless material goods. There’s a small pension and social security, so I won’t starve. That is something, at least. And I won’t have to live on the street.

NOW I’M A DINOSAUR in this digital world – something I embraced once. I no longer fit in. I’m analog. My lifestyle is not sustainable. And, I’m of no value to society anymore. Grumble, grumble, grumble. Apparently, I whine a lot too, digitally. I make no sense. More days are good than bad. I will busy myself with decluttering. I will pack what’s left. I will move into a smaller place. I will unpack. I will likely still have things to get rid of. It will keep me busy for a bit. I won’t have to think much about loss and loneliness. Optimistically, I will get a paid acting gig. Optimistically, I may have a close friend again. Optimistically, I may have sex again. Optimistically I may find love, or something like it, again. I guess I’ll find out. The only thing I know is that life is change.

Southwestern Sunburns and Aloe barbadensis Miller

Although I grew up on the east coast of the U.S.A., I remember being sunburned, a lot. Mostly I just remember the pain, and the peeling skin later. It happened so often, I don’t remember the specific occasions that led to burns. Sometimes it’s a beach, of course, exposing skin that didn’t usually get exposed, or being outside playing or working for whole days in the sun.

I can remember a few specific times, like when my mother covered us in Vaseline, the original petroleum jelly, which looks like snot from a bad cold, or even vomit, but smelled vaguely of motor oil. It was in preparation for a trip to Ocean City beach, a three-hour drive from Baltimore City. When I asked her about that years later, she said she knew that covering a bad burn with Vaseline was good, so it must be good at preventing burns too. It wasn’t. Bodybuilders, particularly the ones at “Muscle Beach” in California, slathered it on to increase the burn, i.e., to get a deeper tan. It helps a lot if you already have a base tan, but now we know that it also increases your risk of skin cancer.

So, of course, I got sunburned playing in the ocean, and walking around or napping on a sandy towel, wearing nothing but swimming trunks. The pain was horrible on the long drive home. My mother prepared a solution of vinegar and baking soda to cover my burns for me. It was freezing cold! But the relief was brief. I could keep reapplying the solution, but eventually, I had other things to do, including trying to sleep at night. Later on, I did find out about Solorcaine lotion. That stuff really worked. It would relieve the pain almost immediately upon applying it. It was good for the itching too. I always had a plastic bottle of that stuff with me wherever I lived. It was a permanent staple of my medicine cabinet. I found it handy living in New Mexico.

One time, I had used up every last drop of that magic lotion and went out to buy some more. I looked in grocery stores, supermarkets, and drugstores. There was not a connected worldwide web of information available then, so I asked a druggist about it. He said it was taken off the market. In fact, before it was removed, the druggists had to hide it behind the counter, and only sell one bottle, tube, or can of spray at a time to a customer. In fact, while it was still on the shelves, it was frequently stolen, at quite a loss for small stores. I asked him, “Why?” I still ask why about a lot of things; I have never stopped asking why.

So, he told me. It turns out, and it was no secret, that cocaine was the active ingredient. People would distill or chemically separate the cocaine from the lotion, and it was very profitable, not to mention illegal. Cocaine had already disappeared from Coca-Cola, and then the war on drugs took out my magic sunburn lotion. At the time, I couldn’t find anything else as effective.

Years ago, in the 1980s, on a trip through Mexico with my first wife, we spent time at a beach west of Hermosillo, in Bahía Kino (Kino Bay) on the Gulf of California. It was far south of the U.S. border, and a very long drive from New Mexico. We drove from Albuquerque down to I-10, and then to Tucson, Arizona, entering Mexico through Nogales. There’s really not much to see in the large expanses of desert, as the towns are few and far between. We spent a little time in Hermasillo. We would also visit Guaymas, a town full of colorful fishing boats, especially shrimper boats. The seafood there was incredible – fresh and flavorful beyond any supermarket offerings. On another trip, we had visited Ensenada in Baja California, a short drive south of Tijuana. It’s a beautiful place. But beaches on that whole stretch of coastline were all rocks. We were able to pitch our tent for free, but it hadn’t been fun on the rocks.

This time we wanted a sandy beach. In summer, there are few tourists in Bahía Kino besides the locals, a fact not lost on the entrepreneurs trying to sell us ironwood carvings and other knickknacks. They were very persistent. On our first day out, very early in the morning, after a brief swim, we decided, spontaneously, to walk along the beach that stretched out south along the bay. I think it was my idea. We walked a long time, too long, in retrospect. It was a cool, pleasant morning, and we enjoyed the walk. The end of the beach still looked a long way off, and the day was now becoming very hot.

Considering that, we decided to turn back. I also discovered I was getting sunburned on my feet. I had applied lotion to my body, but walking in the surf had cleaned it off. There were three problems: we hadn’t brought any clothes with us. I didn’t even have flip-flops or sandals on. I had no hat or sunglasses, so the sun continued to burn my arms, legs, and back, and my feet were already very hot. The sand on the beach was now too hot for me to walk on, so the bottoms of my feet weren’t feeling good either. There was no nearby road, no taxis, and no phone to use. There was no way back except to walk.

Usually, when sunburn attacks my pale skin after I’ve been in the sun too long, I go in, put clothes on, and stay out of the sun. We had miles to go. The beach is eight miles long. I didn’t know how far we’d gone, but it sure looked like a long walk back. The hotel near the beach looked very tiny. I spent a lot of the walk cooling my feet in the surf, but it was already far too late. Sunburns typically don’t show that intensely on me until some time after I quit the sun. The tops of my feet turned the color of lobsters before long.

When we made it back, we went immediately to the hotel, cleaned up, dressed, and went looking for a drugstore. I had taken some aspirin, but I needed help badly. The aisles were full of unfamiliar potions and lotions, so I asked the druggist what he had. First, he wanted to know why. I explained that my feet were very badly burned, so bad I was having trouble walking. I told him I could show him, but I had socks and shoes on, and they were painful to put on or take off, so he told me not to bother. He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of – would you believe it? – Solorcaine, with the information printed in Spanish. Glorious, wonderful Solorcaine. It was still legal in Mexico, but, from the way it was hidden, also subject to theft for cocaine extraction. I was so relieved. I thanked him profusely.

After that, we stayed off the beach, unless I kept my shoes on. I applied the lotion often, so we were able to continue our trip, and I could do my share of the driving. To this day, the tops of my feet turn bright red in a hot shower. I developed a mole on the top of one foot.

Eventually, my bottle of Mexican-bottled Solorcaine ran out. It’s hard to avoid the sun in New Mexico. There are few clouds and little moisture in the air most of the year. Albuquerque is a mile above sea level. That mile translates into about 20-25% more burning UV radiation, with little atmospheric shielding. I couldn’t wear long pants or shirt sleeves all summer. I had work to do outside, and I liked to walk, or hike in the mountains that are two miles high (50% more UV radiation). So, sure enough, I would get sunburned sometimes, even just walking around the large flea market on the State Fair property in town. I was always forgetting to wear a hat.

I found a solution, and it had always been so simple – aloe vera. Its botanical name is Aloe barbadensis Miller. It is sold as a thick gel combined with lanolin, and used in other cosmetics. However, all that is needed is the plant itself. All I have to do is break off a small piece and apply the viscous liquid. It dries quickly, forming a thin skin over the burned area, so it is also good for cuts and scrapes. My burned skin never peels after applying aloe copiously several times a day after sun exposure. I have two plants that thrive indoors near a window. I wear hats and sunglasses now and apply sunscreen lotion before hikes and motorcycle rides. I rarely need the aloe vera, but it’s a comfort to apply if I even think I’ve gotten too much sun.

An Arch on a Byway

There are many things to see while hiking the Quebrados National Back Country Byway: arches, ridges, slot canyons with fantastically high walls, and pooled water. The ridges have alternating bands of red and yellow sandstone, red and purple shale, and white to bluish-gray limestone. The byway is a 24-mile dirt road sandwiched between Two National Wildlife Refuges – Sevilleta and Bosque del Apache near Socorro, New Mexico. It is habitat for mule deer, coyote, bobcat, gray fox, raccoon, porcupine, opossum, ground squirrel, cottontail, and jackrabbit. I hike with several different Meetup groups of various hiking abilities. The group I was with for this hike consisted of strong hikers, so it can be difficult to keep up after I stop for photos. We also spent time in the Arroyo del Tajo. I’ve included a photo of a 60-year-old hiker from the last time I was hiking there in March. She moved away to teach in a remote area of Alaska. I hope to hear her Alaska stories someday.

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Random Photos When I’m Bored, or Maybe Not

A New Mexico Sunrise

My Kitchen:

REALLY RANDOM THINGS:

Wine demijohn

VHS tapes from an auction

BEANS – found and returned to owner

George R.R. Martin’s Train

Myself

Scattered Light

YELLOW: Pears & Popcorn

Fire on a Cold Night

1512 Concert Security

President Garfield Memorial in New Mexico

Final Pic of my stolen Honda Magna

Reflection of my old Mercury Cougar in a rain puddle

Random Shots from a Photography Shoot:

On a Dark Forest Road One Night

I was followed. By a bear, I think. I had been riding my bicycle on a dark road in Canada in 1973, and I was exhausted after riding all day. I was walking my bike, looking for a place to bed down. Highways were very dark and very empty in Canada then. After some time, I had the feeling I was being followed. I heard a noise that persisted. I stopped, it stopped. I tried that a few times and realized it didn’t always stop when I did. I was so tired I didn’t know what to do. I came to a bridge over a stream, and before I started to cross, there was a tremendous splash in the stream below and to my immediate left. Whatever it had been, it sure was big. I couldn’t think of anything else that could make a splash like that. Bears were known to be in the area according to a park ranger I spoke with. I suddenly had the energy to get on my bicycle and ride hell-bent away from there. When I found the entrance to a national park, the solitary Ranger there said it was closed for the night, so I couldn’t go in, but he let me sleep on a picnic table outside. Before I got there, I had looked for anything I could use as a weapon, but all I had was a small X-Acto hobby knife, which I had hung on a string around my neck. The ranger laughed at that.

I didn’t tell him that I had been turned away from one border crossing because I had a knife with me then – it was a rifle bayonet I’d picked up from a surplus store before I started my trip, for protection while camping in wilderness areas. Since the knife was over six inches long, it was considered a deadly weapon, which is illegal to carry across the border. I guess it’s a good thing my penis wasn’t over six inches long. They also found a small film canister full of marijuana seeds that I imagined I’d plant along the way somewhere as if I was Johnny Appleseed. I’d be Johnny Potseed. I had forgotten all about it. My roommates had been collecting them. The penalty for smuggling the knife and what they called a “narcotic” would have been seven years. However, after a full search, including a cavity search, they informed me that I could go. They kept the knife and the seeds and denied me entry to Canada, which is why I currently had no protection against an animal attack.

Before I had left, a very kind older guard told me to ride to the next border crossing site further west. He said he would hold up the paperwork for a few days, so they wouldn’t be on the lookout for me. I thanked him and crossed back into the USA. However, by then it was late in the day, and I did not want to start riding so late. I was thinking about my options, riding my bike around in a little circle in a parking lot near the Michigan-Canadian border. I had a lot of energy still, but no map of the area ahead. I would have to follow the road, hoping to see the next border crossing. I was pissed that my knife had been confiscated since they didn’t allow me to enter anyway. But, I hadn’t been arrested, so that was a good thing. And the kindness of the old guard softened my anger.

A young dude approached me and asked me how I was doing. Did I need help? he asked. I said I was fine and told him about my trip and how I needed to ride to the next crossing.

He invited me to his house for dinner. I don’t recall what we ate. His girlfriend had made the dinner and was happy to share. We talked. I enjoyed having a nice homemade dinner, and people to hang out with. They had the TV on the whole time. The Watergate hearings to determine if President Nixon should be impeached were on. My new friends were fascinated by the hearings. Apparently, it was a big deal all over the US. I hadn’t been paying any attention to it since I was on the road. We talked about that. I was surprised to find out that they wondered if he was guilty. I assumed he was since his conduct of the Vietnam war had been reckless. My opposition to that war left me hating anyone connected with running it. They were quite surprised to find that I didn’t like Nixon and that I hoped he’d go to jail.

It was odd, but I could swear the girlfriend was flirting with me – her smile was big and sincere every time she looked at me. I wasn’t sure if the man noticed, but he turned to me at one point and said he thought I was much older. That was why he’d invited me, and I got the impression he regretted doing so. I realized I had been tired and stressed, and the food and company had revived me. I was 22 years old. But they let me take a shower and sleep on their couch. I left early before they woke up – I was always up at first light.

They had given me directions to that next border crossing, which was about 100 miles away. I did find it, and the border guards there were only concerned with how much money I had. I lost $50 changing clothes in a gas station along the way – I had no wallet. I only had a bit less than $50 left, and I needed to show proof I could support myself. They didn’t want any more draft-dodging refugees on welfare. I wasn’t a draft dodger. I was 1-A, but the draft picks by lottery had insured I wouldn’t be called up. The border guys did ask for ID – I had no driver’s license – I didn’t drive. I had no draft card – I’d burned it and sent the ashes to my draft board, and I told the Canadian border agents that. However, I did find a way to enter Canada. I had to take a train directly to Toronto, where I knew someone who had vouched for me. And after visiting him for a couple of days, I rode off for my Canadian adventure, camping, battling mosquitos by the lakes, being followed by something big and noisy, and then chased by something small: blood-sucking black flies. I also found new friends, on the road, in Sudbury, and in Sioux Ste. Marie, but that’s another story.

Dreaming Again, and the Dreams are Strange, of Course

I dreamt on Monday. I don’t recall having any dreams in quite some time. Usually, if I dream in the morning, I forget it by the time I get out of bed, no matter how hard I try.

So, Monday I was waiting for a message to let me know my call time to be on a movie set.

[ I had driven to Santa Fe three days earlier to work as an extra, but we all call that “background” now. We say we are background actors, which is to say we are like moveable set decorations. However, that day, after getting stuck in highway maintenance that had Interstate 25 almost at a standstill – it took 20 minutes to go 4 miles – we were informed that production was behind schedule. They couldn’t use us yet, and couldn’t afford to pay us to stay. (It’s a low-budget pic). But, we were asked to come back the next day. They had only planned to use us for four hours, but if we would come back the next day, they would pay us for eight hours. Well, that took some of the frustration out of having to drive up and back for nothing. So, I went back, and got stuck in traffic again. We were on set, however, not for four or eight hours, but from 11:00 am to 11:30 pm (12.5 hours). I was excited about the overtime, but that didn’t happen. Just a flat $120. Still, money is money, and they needed us back the next day too. So Saturday, Oct. 15th, found me on set again. This time they only used some of us to complete a pivotal scene we’d been in the previous day. This time we were there from 6:00 pm to 1:30 am the next day. Pay: $90. Like I said, it’s a low-budget pic. On certain projects, we work at a rate of $100 for eight hours. ]

I got to sleep in on Sunday, and I had back-to-back acting classes to attend that afternoon. I was able to sleep for a reasonable time Sunday night. But, my system was still adjusting, so, while waiting for a new call time on Monday morning, I took a nap.

That’s when the dream hit me. In it, I had just picked up my mail and was walking up the stairs of a porch to my house. (It seemed like I lived there, but I don’t have a porch.) As I was standing on the porch, absorbed in opening my mail, I glanced left and saw my former stepdaughter there. She was wrapped in blankets, one of which was very colorful. She was in a bed or on a small sofa. There was a young woman sitting near her. Both of them were smiling. It was a shock to see her there. (Recently she moved away from here to California.) I sat down next to them and asked what was going on. She and the woman laughed, but she turned to me, and said, “I have to go.” The dream ended, but there was a red/yellow afterimage of her in my eyes and she seemed to wink before she disappeared, like Lewis Carroll’s disappearing Cheshire Cat. I messaged her, telling her about the dream, She replied: “Interesting dream and very vivid!” I was surprised to hear from her at all because sometimes she doesn’t reply.

The Cheshire Cat — with whom Alice had just had a conversation — fades away as it sits on a tree branch. Date first published: 1865

Anyway, I never got to set on Monday. There was a 3:00 pm call time, but then production cancelled shooting that day, and for Tuesday, because of the heavy rains we were having. I expected to be on set today, but production took another day off (“company day off”) so it’s Wednesday, and I’m waiting to hear about the call time for tomorrow,

Meanwhile, I had another dream about my former stepdaughter this morning when I woke up. In it, I was standing around with several people, like at a party, and she was there, speaking with her father. Someone came up and asked her about her brother, she reached into her cell phone/wallet case, pulled out a folded newspaper-like photo with her brother and others in it, and handed it to them. She went back to her conversation with her dad. The person she’d given the photo to tried to give it back to her, but she was still busy in her conversation so they handed it to me and walked away. I tried to give it to her, but she ignored me. I put it in her hand. She grabbed it and tore it up, without looking at it, tearing only about a third of it off. That was strange and rude, so after a few moments, I walked away.

I still miss my former stepdaughter. I say former, because, over a year ago, long before she left, in a Father’s Day message to me thanking me for all I had done for her, she referred to me as her ex-stepdad. I didn’t like the sound of that, so I use “former” instead. However, perhaps “ex” is appropriate after all. She posts updates and photos on Facebook, and I comment on them; sometimes she likes or comments on my FB posts, but that’s the extent of our relationship now – digital only – after she’s been gone for four and a half months. I wrote letters to her twice, hoping to revive that antique custom, but it hasn’t happened. In fact, it turned out that she took a trip back here, and went out to see the balloons during the Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, but never let me know she was in town. I didn’t find out until she posted a photo. I messaged her why she hadn’t at least called while she was in town, but she never replied. Her house had been on the market since she left. Perhaps it sold, so she had a reason to come back for that, or just to visit her dad and her friends, and was just too busy to want to deal with me too. My status with her is vague.

I have to think she appears in my dreams because I’m still trying to accept that she’s gone, and the old days of sharing our birthdays and holidays together, or of blind wine tastings, or lunches on the patio I built for her, are gone. We had kept our relationship after her mother and I divorced, seeing each other for birthdays and holidays. For a year and a half, after she could no longer drive, I picked her up to take her to her job and back to her house. Her brain surgery for a tumor had ruined her peripheral vision on the left side, and after totaling four cars, she gave up driving before she hurt someone. Then I began working for a winery for ten years, and six months after that, she joined me in that endeavor on weekends, and on holidays from her jobs. I enjoyed driving her to the winery in the mountains east of here and working with her, picking fruit, filtering, bottling, labeling, and selling wine together at festivals and at the winery. She has ended her life here. She had put her house up for sale, and then sold, donated, or threw away nearly everything she owned before she left. It is a new start for her, a new job, a new place, a new time. I accept, realistically, that she must live her life on her terms, and try new things.

But, to never see her again after 30 years? That’s hard. Family is still important to her, but I am not family to her anymore, I think. I asked her what I am to her now, but she never replied, I mentioned coming to visit her, but I received no response, no welcome to do so. I had told her how much I missed her, but for her to come back and not even say hi – that’s rough. She hasn’t severed her connection with me totally (It’s just digital now) but it seems tenuous, like a rubber band stretched beyond its elasticity until it breaks. And now, I’ve made myself sad again. Any more of this and I will cry. I guess there’s a reason why I prefer to just post photos now. As much as I love her, I suppose I will stop dreaming about her someday.

Less Talk. More Photos. Santa Fe Forest.

Yesterday, I went up through the Jemez Mountains, then turned onto State Road 126 to hike in the Santa Fe National Forest along San Antonio Creek. Great hike, beautiful day. Saw several piles of bear scat, but no bears. Stopped by the creek to rest; all I could hear were birds and the creek gurgling. Once you click on the first photo, you should be able to arrow along to the next so you can see all of the photos in full size.

Parts of New Mexico Are Greener Than Memory Recalls

It has rained, and boy! has it rained. Right at the end of July, I went up in the mountains northwest of Grants, NM. My old friend Mark says it has been raining every day for a month, more than any time in his memory. He has been slowly building a Navajo hogan-inspired cabin out there for a long time. He took an eight-year break but has now returned to it. He says it’s 95% complete, pending some “fixes” to problems that arose. It may never be finished, not 100%. I help out occasionally, but I took the same eight-year period of time off to work for a winery. I took photos up there, as you might expect, only after each day’s work had finished. Mark is aging rapidly, with problems with the veins in his legs, and drives the short distance from his old airstream up the hill to the cabin. He is hiring people to finish the work now, as he is just not that strong anymore. Construction is hard work, and, with unusual problems, professionals are best.

He had built one wall of the structure into the hill, using local rock to create a vertical wall. However, it turns out that the rock is porous, and water seeped right in. Messy. But friends are working to waterproof the wall, and dig drainage channels along the wall, so water doesn’t run down the hill and build up against the wall. There are other finishing touches going on, but the roof is solid without leaks, so hopefully, the fixes will keep the rainwater that flows downhill outside away from the wall. Or perhaps this is a never-ending project. He already has a refrigerator and a wood cooking stove in the house, so habitation is near. Next time I will get some good shots of the interior, and the portal that was under construction then. Meanwhile, Mark invites people out and feeds everyone who comes. He pays the professionals. The food is always good. The scenery is spectacular. So, photos follow freely (click on the first one and scroll along to see them full scale as some of them are panoramic):

My Blood Was the Wrong Color

William Shakespeare wrote: “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” Yes, yes we do. There’s a song called, “We all bleed the same,” by Mandisa, featuring TobyMac and Kirk Franklin. It’s a great song, but I bring it up because it speaks to the idea that we’re all the same inside. Here’s the song, if you’re not familiar with it (but you should be):

Here’s another great song along the same lines, country, if you’re into that:

Anyway, that’s not what this post is about. The internet can be so distracting! The only point I wanted to make is that I grew up believing this: that we all bleed the same color.

We can’t be that different from one another, if, underneath our skin, we’re all the same.

So, I donate blood platelets. There is a critical NEED for blood platelets right now, a shortage. There are not enough donors. If you can, please consider donating platelets. It takes between 1 1/2 to two hours, but please think about it. Cancer patients especially need it.

Today, I was all set to donate blood platelets. I had brought my sides for another audition I have in two days. I’ve had a lot of auditions lately. I made a tape of the lines, and had my script too, so I was going to spend the next two hours working on that. BUT, just as blood started flowing out of my my arm, the technician stared at it, and said: “It’s the wrong color!” Whaaaaat? I thought. The donation equipment (a bit more complicated than for the regular whole blood donation) shows a lot of information on a large computer screen. Color is one of the things monitored by this equipment. So, in addition to the much lighter, brighter color of red coming from my body, the computer was noisily flagging the problem. As it turns out – and I and the technicians had never seen it before – that color means they’ve hit an artery. It flows much faster, hence the lighter color red. I can’t describe the color exactly, but it’s bright, and somewhere on the large spectrum between dark red and pink.

So, that killed the whole donation process. If you can donate blood platelets today, please do so to replace what I wasn’t able to donate. Or soon anyway.

Once I was disconnected, Candice, the tech, put gauze on the puncture as usual, all the time saying she didn’t think she hit an artery, that she never had before. Candice was really appalled that she might have done that. She was hoping she hadn’t, but the computer had flagged the whole donation, so they had to disconnect me and throw everything away. Not much blood was lost, just what was in the long coil of tubing. So, Candice had me put pressure on the spot while she did other things. But, right away, I noticed blood seeping right through the thick gauze, a lot of blood. So, it looked like she had indeed gotten an artery. I felt bad for her. She kept apologizing, but hey, shit happens. I wasn’t worried about it, just regretted that I couldn’t donate platelets today, in fact not for several days. Again – donate platelets in my place if you can. (If you are in the Albuquerque area go to the main blood services center on University Blvd near Indian School Rd.) Tell ’em Terry sent you, or Robert. Legally, my first name is actually Robert, so that’s what’s in their system.

Candice got more gauze and put a lot of pressure on the tiny hole in my arm for 15 minutes. After that, the bleeding had stopped, but she put fresh gauze on, along with strapping a large cold pack over that. I will need to put cold packs on today for a while and be alert for my fingers turning black or blue. Maybe purple?

Anyway, Candice gave me extra cold packs, a couple of warm packs, and more gauze and tape. As I sit here, I have a cold pack taped to my arm, It’s great this way – I can walk around and do things with both arms. Of course, as with any blood donation, I need to keep it wrapped for four hours, and not do any heavy lifting, or use my arm for anything strenuous. I usually don’t need to apply cold or hot packs, but this time I do, mostly to prevent bruising, which is a given considering the large swollen bump on my arm. That happened because, when applying pressure to fast-bleeding wounds, the blood goes where it can, which is under the skin. If it is bruised tonight or tomorrow, I’ll use the hot packs.

So a little adventure today, from a commonplace procedure. A micro-adventure?

And it was nice to meet Candice.

Time to stop procrastinating, and work on the audition (if selected, I will be a character who gets punched in the face, killed, and stuffed in a trunk).

Sounds like fun.

————————————————————————————————————

UPDATES: Sept. 22, 2022

I did indeed develop a bruise from the artery puncture. Colorful, but not painful. There is, after a week, a small nodule under the skin, in the muscle where the needle stick was. Scar tissue, I think. It’s hard, but will push down into the muscle when I press on it. However, I went back Monday, the 19th, and completed a full platelet donation (in the other arm!).

I did not get a part in the small film I mentioned auditioning for. They did ask if I’d be willing to be an extra, But I do less background-extra work these days, and only for money, not for free.

Wine Festival Microburst in Albuquerque, with Photos

So, yesterday, I attended the Harvest Wine Festival at Balloon Fiesta Park in Albuquerque.

I had done a few tastings but decided to get something to eat. The only place I could find with decent prices was the one above, Jenn’s – and that’s the menu. All of the other places have simple fare at $12 (hotdog & fries), and rest were plates for 13, 14, and $15 or more. I chowed done on a Nathan’s chili dog, then sat chatting with a couple at my table who were newcomers to a wine festival. Then I felt a cool breeze, and had all of a few seconds to savor it before the wind went crazy. The trash from the meal I’d just eaten started to blow away, so I grabbed it, but the wind blew up all of a sudden, ripping the carton, paper, and plasticware right out of my hand like someone had grabbed it from me.

It was a microburst! a mini, mini tornado. I estimate it affected an area 50 feet wide all across the north end of the festival, and right where I was sitting. There was a whistling sound. Near me a trash can fell over and the wind just sucked trash right out of it. It was over quickly, but it was the oddest feeling, as if I had lost touch with the earth. Then there was complete stillness. No wind for a few moments. Looking around I could see the heavy metal pipes that hold the tents up bent and twisted like toothpicks. Most of the tent had collapsed except where I was sitting. Across the way, three winery tents and a couple booths were either completely blown away or partially collapsed. I hadn’t seen any injuries, but I heard later that a few people had been conked on the head, but nothing serious. The rest of the festival people went right on tasting, buying, and selling wine, but the festival staff shut it all down early about 3:30.

On a table in one of the photos, you can see my wine glass sitting right where I had left it, just as it was – upside down on my table. I forgot all about it. Here are some photos:

Afterward, I took a bottle of a 2018 Sauvage, a Blanc de Blanc sparkling wine from Gruet. A nice flavorful, fruit-forward dry champagne.

Some Minor Plumbing, A Party, & Indian Market

So, today, I was inspired to fix the steadily decreasing flow of hot water in my bathroom sink. There was a good flow in the bathtub, and in the kitchen. The connections underneath the sink had leaked years ago, leaving the brass fittings corroded green. It looked awful under there, so I took all of the plumbing for the hot water apart, including the flexible supply line to the faucet, which broke when I tried to remove it. It was a bitch getting the shut-off valve off from the fitting on the copper pipe coming from the wall. First I shut off the main hot water line, but, for safety, shut off the separate cold water feed line. Where I live we get hot water from a community boiler, which is used as both hot water and for heating. Both valves (common globe valves, which I drew in mechanical drawing classes in high school), were hard to close so I had to use a pipe wrench to turn them.

After I had removed all of the connections I biked down to the hardware store to figure out what I needed. For some reason, whoever had installed or replaced the connections had added extra parts from the faucet which only extended the length. Made no sense. I only needed a new faucet supply line and a new shut-off valve. ($18) It took hours to get it all done. When I turned the water back on, I found that the hot water still wasn’t flowing more than before – a very weak stream. So, back to the drawing board. I took the faucet apart to remove the valve stem. The stem looked clean, but I rinsed it out as best I could. It hadn’t looked clogged at all. I had been anticipating buying another one, but I put it back in. The hot water flowed freely after that. When I turned the cold water faucet on, a whole lot of crud came out, rust and dirt and such – very discolored water – but it all cleared up. The tap filter on the output of the tap suddenly filled with tiny bits of stones (probably calcium and other hard water minerals we have in our tap water).

So, hurrah! Problem solved, and I finally got rid of those old corroded connections underneath.

I had been ignoring the problem until I had a guest, and I had to explain that I had been putting off repairs because I suspected the work would not be simple, and I had been incredibly busy with things I found more important. My guest was fine with that and used the kitchen sink to wash up, but today was the first chance I’d had since she left this past Sunday. She is from Arizona, an old friend.

This past weekend we had traveled to Santa Fe on the lovely “Railrunner” train that runs from Los Lunes to Santa Fe. $3.50 round trip for the two of us the first day, but we missed it the next day and had to drive up. She had rented a car so she drove. It was nice to be in Santa Fe again. Indian Market is an annual event that had been postponed for the last two years. This year was the biggest I’d ever seen. The booths stretched from the plaza, north for half a mile at least, and up and down side streets.

George R.R. Martin’s Train

All of the galleries in and near the Plaza in Santa Fe were open, providing enticing food, drinks, and demos of art in progress to entice the thousands of visitors into their shops. I had already filled up on a Frito Pie from the original Five and Dime store on the Plaza, which is where Frito Pies were invented: beans, ground meat, red chile sauce, and Fritos, all served in the Frito’s bag itself. I never miss getting one when I’m in Santa Fe. The best thing is that the Häagen-Dazs shop is close by, so I cool off my mouth with a scoop of coffee ice cream after my Frito Pie. Frito Lay, of course, was initially upset that their name had been used without permission, and had sued the little drugstore for using their name, but it all got settled years ago. Hell, around here, you can get a Frito Pie almost everywhere, so that’s a lot of Frito’s Corn Chips that people need for those. Good business for Frito Lay.

Anyway, we walked and walked and gawked at all of the fancy sculptures, paintings, jewelry, and such that show up at Indian Market. There was a pottery sculpture of a dragon-like creature on display in a shop for $13,500. Other pottery goes for thousands as well, especially of the famous potter Maria Martinez, who died in 1980, but her pottery is always around. The artwork in Santa Fe is some of the most expensive that I have ever seen. Antique sculpture, pottery, and rugs fetch a pretty penny in Santa Fe. It is a popular destination for people around the world, so that stuff sells, as well as western clothing, hats, belts, and boots.

I have to admit I got in the buying spirit myself. I avoid buying anything in Santa Fe besides the Frito Pies and ice cream, but I had recently lost a good Panama straw hat to high winds on a movie set. Someone crushed it by stepping on it to stop it from rolling away! I managed to buy a Beaver Brand straw cowboy hat at an estate sale a month ago for $10, but it is a little big and cowboyish to wear around town. The Beaver Brand Hat company has gone out of business, so it seemed like a deal I couldn’t pass up at the time. Here’s what it looks like:

Beaver Brand hat

So, while in Santa Fe, I bought another hat. It is black and made of wool. My friend kept saying how good it looked, so the next day I went back to the store and bought it. I don’t usually care for style. I like hats that keep my head warm or keep the sun off of my face but got the hat anyway. In my defense, it is water resistant, and not too hot to wear during the change of seasons. I think it will do nicely through most of the winter here in the Southwest as well. And, IT’S ADJUSTABLE with a string inside. Here ’tis:

It looks better in person – my mirror is not very clean, and the shadows suck.

I often need to bring a choice of hats to movie sets.

So Indian Market over, I had things to do this week before I could get the sink fixed. Monday morning I was off to the public library downtown, where I was to meet a writer/moviemaker who is putting a radio program together for a podcast. We had already done this, with another actor, but I was too far from the microphone the whole time, so my voice needed to be redone. It’s a good role. I play a nasty villain, and I had to put myself in character for that. We got it done. For once, I didn’t need a hat! The sound is good. The other actor’s voices are recorded, and the writer/director has a truckload of sound effects, a good audio editing program, and a really good script. We’ll see how it goes. I certainly enjoyed the experience.

Yesterday I joined my motorcycle buddies for breakfast in Los Lunes, after which a few of us went for a longer ride. We rode through beautiful country, on side roads, through small towns, country roads, and lots of empty desert, under mostly blue sky with a bunch of fluffy white clouds in it. It had been raining every day, and parts of northern New Mexico that had been on fire got soaked, and there was some flooding along the burn scars. We were lucky and got treated to a glorious day and a great ride with a cool wind.

For the previous two weeks, I’d been memorizing audition roles. I had someone tape one in which I had to do two completely different takes of the same scene. I feel pretty good about my work on that one. No word yet, but that’s normal.

After that, I had to do a self-tape to audition for a healthcare commercial. It involved lines from multiple characters. It seemed like there was to be humor involved, from my interpretation of the scripted lines, so I improvised what I thought went along with the script and was funny. I even added some physical humor. I was really happy with the results. I hope to hear from them. Meanwhile, I have an audition upcoming that’s due in early September – I usually don’t get so much time in advance, but it gave me time to do other things, like a birthday party dinner with people I know in the movie business, a poetry slam competition, getting estimates for dental work, and all the other stuff I’ve already talked about.

Which reminds me – I’d better find that other script and get working on it. They are giving me time to be creative, so I’d better do some thinking about this and create a few different takes on it. The sooner I get that submitted, the better. Then there will be more to do.

A July 2, 2022 hike on Sandia’s crest: Rocks, Flowers, and Paragliders

Kiwanis cabin, east side

Restaurant

Went up to the Crest House at the end of Sandia Crest Road at 10,678 ft. Hiked a big loop around the ridge east to the Kiwanis cabin, then over to the Ten-3 restaurant at approximately 10,300 ft. I bought a take-out beer, because they don’t sell take-out food, then hiked the long way back along the western edge with an unobstructed view of the foothills, Albuquerque, and everything west as far as Mount Taylor. It’s a narrow trail with deep drop-offs, descending for a bit until it circles back up to the Crest House, but the view is worth the effort. Note: look closely at the eighth photo – that is the white paraglider soaring high above the Kiwanis cabin. There was also a red & blue paraglider, paintbrush flowers, swallowtail butterflies, and rusty rocks. There are two photos of the Ten-3 restaurant alongside the upper tram tower. One photo shows a tram car heading back down the mountain. Another shows a view to the south.

So, those above are old photos, but here are the pictures from the July 2nd hike (you should be able to click on the photos to see the full images):

Jonathan Dove, Green Flame, and Dvořák

It’s still Sunday evening (06/26/22) as I write this, and it’s still raining. I made it to Chatter Sunday after all, despite my confusion at 01:47 am as to what day it is. After getting home from a movie set in Santa Fe at 5:15 am on Saturday morning, getting one hour of sleep before my 7:30 am dental appointment, and wasting the rest of the day catching up on messages, packaging a couple items to ship, taking naps, and watching a movie, I suddenly found myself thinking I’d missed the Sunday morning chamber music concert. It takes place 50 Sundays a year. And I’d already paid for my ticket since it often sells out.

I was writing after I’d finished the movie, and never imagined it was almost 2:00 in the morning. So, when I saw Sunday on the computer clock, I really thought I’d been doing all that stuff that same day, until I put 2 and 2 together, and realized I hadn’t missed the concert after all. I posted my previous ramblings around 2:00 am and slept. Woke up around 7:00 am, decided not to get up until 9:15 am, and headed out to the home of Chatter Sunday by 9:50 am. Even though I no longer have coffee every day, I got an Americano (two espresso shots in hot water), two tiny palmiers, and a small apricot muffin. I was ready.

Taking the stage were eleven musicians with two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, three ancient French horns, a cello, and a double bass.

First up was Figures in the Garden by contemporary composer Jonathan Dove. It was superb! I enjoyed it very much. It was based on music from Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro, but with a unique modern tempo and variations.

Next up was the poet Pamela Uschuk. (Spoken Word is always a feature of Chatter Sunday.) She surprised me with her poetry, her background, and her history of surviving cancer. She has a European heritage with family in Ukraine, so she spoke of that and support for the refugees from Ukraine. Sergei Vassiliev, on clarinet, from Ukraine himself, also spoke about the war, his relatives still in Ukraine, and his mother, who not only lives in the U.S. now but was in the audience. We gave her a heartfelt round of applause. Ah, I distracted myself again – I was talking about the poet Ms. Uschuk. She graced us with four poems, including her wonderful poem BULK, recently updated, about many things, including her brother, elephants, bullets, an Israeli humvee wracking Gaza streets, and the bulk of lotus blossoms a manatee hugs to her chest to eat. A fasinating look at things she considered important to tell us about, connected by the common concept of bulk.

My favorite poem of hers is GREEN FLAME. Here tis:

Slender as my ring finger, the female hummingbird crashed

into plate glass separating her and me

before we could ask each other’s name. Green Flame,

she launched from a dead eucalyptus limb.

Almost on impact, she was gone, her needle beak

opening twice to speak the abrupt language of her going,

taking in the day’s rising heat as I took

one more scalding breath, horrified by death’s velocity.

Too weak from chemo not to cry

for the passage of her emerald shine,

I lifted her weightlessness into my palm.

Mourning doves moaned, who, who,

oh who while her wings closed against the tiny body

sky would quick forget as soon as it would forget mine.

There followed Hymnus no. 2 by Alfred Schnittke (1934-1998).

After Chatter’s traditional two minutes of silence, we were treated to the 1878 Serenade for Winds in D minor op. 44, by Dvořák. It was rousing. It was rhythmic. Really, parts of this were based on Slavonic style. And, it was danceable! I happily tapped my right foot and slapped my left hand on my left thigh.

Life can be good, despite war, loss, and pain. And it is still raining! The state-wide fires are going out.

Ah, Rain, How I Love Thee

We’ve been having a lot of rain in New Mexico lately, after 70 days without any measurable rainfall. We’ve all been waiting for it. We love rain here because there’s so little of it. The state has been in drought conditions for years. the longest duration lasted 329 weeks beginning on May 1, 2001 and ending on August 14, 2007. The most intense period of drought occurred the week of January 19, 2021, affecting 54.27% of the state. After what seemed like an unending explosion of fires throughout the state, the rain is so very welcome. Of course, now the problem is monsoon rains that have brought flash floods and landslides. But that’s New Mexico. I love it here, although the fires have been getting worse with such extremely dry conditions, and now the fire areas (burn scars) don’t have the vegetation needed to prevent mudslides in such heavy rains.

But the rain, predicted to last through June 21, is still coming. It’s Sunday now, June 29. The rain has been falling for hours, off and on. I enjoy the light rain pattering on the roof, and I love the heavy pounding of rain during cloudbursts. It’s all good here. When I went for a short walk a while ago, after one of the little rainstorms, I found a large clump of snails on the sidewalk. There were all mostly out of their shells sliding all over each other. I saw a couple strays nearby, but it seemed that about six to eight snails were having an orgy. Imagine that – a snail orgy.

But I also noticed that the rain sounds so different while I paused under the huge Mulberry tree outside my front door. It had a strange resonance. Usually, people say, “The rained drummed on the roof,” but this sound was so unlike that. No drumming. Repetitive, yes. But also extremely pleasant, reminding me of an orchestra of wind instruments. Imagine that: strings played by the rain, for the pleasure of the snails.

Well, I put a movie on tonight while the rain played its tune. I had a copy of The Leisure Seeker on my shelf since last year, and finally popped it in the player tonight. I bought it because it stars Helen Mirren and Donald Sutherland, two consummate actors. And, you say? Yes, I liked it. Comedy and tragedy. So very well done. I say comedy, because, in the short interview with the actors after the movie ended, Sutherland called it a comedy with a tragic ending. But it’s not any kind of laugh-out-loud comedy. The comedy fell out more like British comedy, funny, as in strange, with unpredictable actions and words.

In actuality, Sutherland’s character has advanced Alzheimer’s, and Mirren’s character is gravely ill, but they spontaneously take a road trip in an old, oil-burning, well-used RV. The movie seemed more like a slice-of-life adventure, with it’s real-life ups and downs, just as life had been for this plucky couple. The denouement of their lives plays out throughout the movie until the movie itself reaches its climax.

Throughout, we experience the inexplicable devastation of someone’s mind as Alzheimer’s disease takes its slow toll on memory and quality of life. Yet, these two people have a chance to share their love and laughs, and even painful memories, as the unexpected surprises even them.

Through it all, I could see myself in the characters, as I often do when reading books or watching movies. I feel the deterioration of my body and brain all the time, and it is already far more than just being easily distracted, or having the body run down slowly. My heart is not well, and it was very noticeable in the aftermath of an extremely painful and traumatizing tooth extraction recently. As the pain continued, unabated for days and nights on end, my heart struggled. I felt it leaping and struggling to keep up. There was pain. And, the antibiotic I took caused severe stomach pain with constipation, and it added to the malaise generated by the pain in my entire jaw. My eyes are rapidly deteriorating now, as opposed to the barely perceptible changes over the last 40 years. My right hand and shoulder move randomly, sometimes spasmodically. My driving is becoming erratic. Working on a movie set for 13 hours is thoroughly exhausting, and much more difficult to recover from than it was just a few years ago. Driving home late, through the very dark section of interstate highway between Santa Fe and Albuquerque has become nerve-wracking and scary.

As I was writing this, I realized that today is Sunday, and I had purchased a ticket to Chatter Sunday, and forgotten to go again. I so enjoy the music and the poetry. Nothing kept me from going. I knew I was going as recently as last night, but it slipped my mind again. Well, c’est la vie, as the French say. Fuck it, I say. Except, it is simply late, in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I hadn’t noticed it was even past midnight. I will probably go to Chatter Sunday after all later on today. It’s still Sunday.

I will continue on, abandoned as I am in life. I have my motorcycle to ride, and buddies to ride with. I have my acting classes to memorize things for. I’m creating a storyboard for a class commercial project that I will add to my clips. I will also create both a sad and a funny monologue for the same reason. I will be part of a movie the whole class will create. It’s also for my clips and resume. I keep going. One day I will run down. I will be no more. But not yet.

A Play, An Old Haunt, & Restlessness

I am feeling better than I have for the last month or so. Too much about that to rehash it again. Today I got Covid tested because I’m working on a movie set tomorrow. Of course, they’re still shooting, so I don’t have a call time yet. At least it’s only an hour away. I’ll probably end up driving home in the dark from Santa Fe at the start of the weekend – not my favorite time to be on I-25. Long hills, up aaaand down, and curves that I can’t see coming. Anyway, I can use the extra bucks, even though New Mexico taxes those checks, I still owe a lot of money to the State come tax time. Perhaps it will be better next year now that New Mexico has decided not to tax Social Security income anymore. Regardless, I do enjoy being on sets.

Tonight I went to a play, yes, a play – plays have been shut down since Covid began here, but they’re coming back. A classmate from my movie acting class invited me to see it. It’s called Keely and Du. She is Du. It’s not the sort of thing I’d likely have gone to see if she wasn’t in it, because the topic is abortion, but the play is not about that so much. It is about the interaction between a woman who was raped and goes to a clinic to get a safe, legal abortion. On the way, however, she is kidnapped by a fanatical underground Right-To-Life group who plan to change her mind while they imprison her and feed her propaganda leaflets. It’s clear that the group puts the life and rights of the unborn above the rights of the mother, but they take care of her invalid father while she is imprisoned.

All that aside, the play is about the two women; Keely, who was violently raped by her ex-husband while he beat her head against the floor. She hates him, and cannot bear to have his child inside her. Du is her nurse, who stays with her in the cellar prison. Du, perhaps because she lost her infant daughter after three heart operations, is fanatically against abortion for any reason. She is not as insufferable as the Christian doctor who leads the group, but she never gives up on saving the baby, and comes to realize that Keely needs her help. The play is about their interaction. Both actors were incredible. I do not know the woman who played Keely, but Ramona, who played Du, is my classmate. She was incredible! Applause, applause, applause.

The play was written by Jane Martin (pseudonym) and published in 1993. No one knows the playwright’s real name. With the state of our country, divided as it is over this subject, I can understand why she keeps her real name secret. The play is very powerful, but it was made into a movie in 2018 in case you cannot see the play. It is worth seeing, no matter which camp you fall into. I think the play, based on what I saw tonight, is a better vehicle for this story.

So, afterward, I decided to stop on the way home. The Frontier Restaurant is an iconic place in Albuquerque.

The sweet, warm, iced cinnamon rolls there are amazing! Try with melted butter.

The place opened in 1971, right on Route 66. I first started going there in 1977 while I worked for the University of New Mexico, which sprawls across the street from Frontier. Forty-five years ago was the first time I went to this place! The food is always good, even though it’s a bit on the fast-food side. I can and did get a freshly prepared Carne Adovada burrito in minutes. The New Mexico food is great, and the chile is spicy, but there are lots of food options, They have those automated drink machines now, the ones that are popping up all over, and there are 200 choices. I got a regular ginger ale, although I could have added any of five flavors to it. I prefer ginger beer, but they didn’t have that.

I ate in because watching the people come and go there, especially at night, is always fascinating. There are lots of young college students, of course, but also street people, theater people, families, people literally covered in tattoos, and those with wild piercings, and/or almost fluorescent hair. You see every kind of person in there. Most of the time, everything is cool. But, sometimes there are crazy people out late at night, sometimes doped up, drunk, or looking for trouble, so now there is an armed security guard always present. That’s sad.

It was a joy to visit the Frontier again. I’m not often in the University area, but when I am I stop in. What’s sad is that I have been doing so for forty-five years. I think I need to get out of town. I need to just take off again, and see where I end up. That’s how I ended up in Albuquerque in the first place. Jobs, union, and family kept me here, stable and comfortable. Increasingly, I think it’s time to move on. I don’t have a destination in mind, but forty-five years in one place is an awfully long time. I’m retired, and I don’t own a house. I’ve no family here. There are people I know, mountains to climb, movies to audition for, and really, there is plenty to do here. I’ve no reason to leave, but conversely, no reason not to. When I crisscrossed the country those many years ago, I met plenty of people on the road. You form quick friendships if you’re open to it. You get to know people quickly. You don’t watch much TV, or see plays, or watch movies. You just live day to day. I had that once upon a time.

I could go somewhere, stay for a bit, and then move on, again, and again, and again until I die. Or perhaps, find something that really excites me, gives me purpose or an emotional connection. But, I think I’ve gone past working for carnivals or odd jobs, riding my bicycle around the country with just the clothes on my back, or having casual sex with strangers while we seek elusive connection. I’m not connected to anyone here, so I want more than that anyway.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT BY A WORDPRESS ARTIST/AUTHOR

I’m just rambling tonight. My mind is clear, I’ve no pain. I’ve given up coffee and booze. I like writing, but I’m not very consistent about it. I may not make it as an actor. I could write a screenplay. I’ve seen a lot and done a lot, but the exciting things were in my youth. I wish I could travel to other planets. It’s always been my dream to travel to space, to go out there. Explore. Star Trek echoed my dream, but it never came to pass. I should run for President.

This Moment in Time

“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.” – Omar Khayyám, Persian polymath: mathematician, astronomer, historian, philosopher, and poet.

A little while ago, I sent the quote above to my dearest Maya as she left town on the next adventure in her life. I sent it with mixed emotions. I was happy for her that she was taking charge of her life, not content to stay in bad jobs and lose her spirit. She truly is an amazing person: curious, full of life, energy, determination, and love for others. But, something was sadly missing from her life, and she’s off to find it, or at least search for it, because, sometimes, that is the best that we all can do.

Despite all that, it was miserably sad for me to feel her leave. It still causes my eyes to water just to say that. It was terrible at first: days of tears soaking into my beard, depression, heartache, and a sense of loss that I could not imagine ever recovering from. I am, of course, happy she was in my life, however peripherally at times, and gloriously when we worked together making and selling wine or going to wine tastings together, sometimes blind-tasting wines. It was fun to see how much we had learned, or still didn’t know about wines. It was fun to celebrate our birthdays and celebrate holidays together.

And that’s over. It hurts to realize that.

Then I found that intense physical pain could eclipse such mental and emotional anguish. The pain was so awful from the beating I took to my jaw and head to have an old molar tooth removed, through extensive pushing, pulling, and hammering away at the tooth, breaking it into little pieces. I had never experienced such pain after any medical procedure or accident. It was only days, but they were days of pain that I could not believe possible to endure. Moments when I felt I’d rather die than go on having pain that overwhelming consumed me, unrelentingly, pain not even dulled by opiates. And yet… And yet, here I am. I survived.

There is still pain in being physically separated from Maya. There is still soreness in my jaw.

One thing I learned from the tooth extraction, on top of Maya’s departure – besides being something of a wimp when it comes to constant, unforgiving pain – is that it does end. The screaming in pain, the despair, the crying – all of those things have ended, but are not forgotten.

It feels trite to say so, but really, it’s another day. I survived what seemed unsurvivable. I’m here now.

This moment is my life, not yesterdays and yesterdays. It appears I can survive anything. Like Maya, I don’t want to just go on living, just to exist. I want more, and I keep trying for a more fulfilling life, one with real joy in it. I haven’t given up. It appears to be that I must exist moment to moment, and take joy in that I can still look for joy, for something or someone in my life. If I can’t have Maya by my side while I search, at least I can take comfort that she is on a similar path, even though we may never cross paths again.

A Visit to My Dentist to Address Pain Goes Awry

Pain. There is nothing like physical pain to shock oneself out of emotional pain, such as the loss of someone you love, even if they’ve just moved far away.

This pain, though, I wouldn’t have asked for. There are worse things, but when you experience a pain that is unlike any other, pain that doesn’t respond to drugs, that continues unrelenting at the same unbearable level for days on end – you want it to end by any means necessary. Even death seems preferable.

It all started, in my youth, with a loose tooth. I had lost all of my primary teeth – the ones we all call baby teeth – except for one. I had never given it any thought. For all I could remember, all of those baby teeth were gone. But that one tooth felt loose one day. A dentist confirmed that it was indeed a primary tooth, which is what medical professionals call them. It wasn’t coming out, it was firmly in the gum. I had it capped on the advice of the dentist, in order to stabilize it. Years later, I had to repeat that process. Finally, on seeing a dentist for an unrelated problem, I mentioned the loose tooth. It was a molar, and one root had dissolved. She suggested that I have the tooth pulled, and replace it with a bridge. Big mistake.

I understood that the bridge would be anchored to the adjacent teeth, and would cover the gap, looking like a real tooth. I said OK. The removal of the baby tooth took a lot of work. The dentist repositioned herself several times trying to get it out. She pulled and pulled, but it was very firmly in there. Finally she pulled it out – all in one piece – and it had brought quite a bit of flesh with it. Painful, but not overwhelmingly so. Once it had healed, she started preparing me for the bridge. To do so, and I hadn’t understood this, she had to grind down the healthy tooth on either side as if for a crown. Because, well, because the teeth would be the supports for the bridge over the gap, and had to be one integral piece. So, it was two crowns connected together – creating a bridge over a gap.

What had worried me at the time was what would happen if even one of those two teeth were to be attacked by decay. So, recently – four days ago – I found out. The bridge had to be removed. Previously, the posterior molar had one root removed by a dentist – specialist – who convinced me that the root was interfering with the regeneration of a deep pocket in my gum adjacent to it. Why the pocket had formed, I have no idea, but it trapped a lot of food and took a lot of effort to clean out. So, in a bizarre procedure, he went into my gum horizontally, and slowly sawed the one root off. The pocket never leveled out, and it took persistent flossing to clean food particles out, but, it also didn’t get worse. I was very thorough.

Suddenly, last week, I had pain, a pain that appeared to come from that bridge. My current dentist removed the bridge, exposing decay in that same posterior tooth that had one root sawed off. I wanted him to do a root canal to save the tooth. I hate to lose any tooth. He said that he didn’t want to do that. If I wanted to recreate the bridge, it wouldn’t have sufficient strength with one root. However, it had lasted at least 35 years before. In a prior visit, he had recommended pulling the tooth. He also said that a tooth implant there would cost $2500. I would need two. I survive on a small pension, supplemented with social security. I don’t have an extra $5000 just laying around. I let him remove the tooth anyway, but I shouldn’t have.

It turned out, AGAIN, that the tooth wasn’t going to go anywhere. It was firmly rooted in the underlying bone or adjacent bone, and he spent over an hour getting it out. I thought he could just pull it out, but he couldn’t get a good grip on it, probably because of the mandibular tori I have alongside my teeth. These tori are bony growths. In me, they resemble a second interior row of teeth below the gumline, but alongside my normal teeth. It is difficult to clean the interior of my teeth because of this thing, which is all of one piece really, so it feels odd to use the plural form of a torus.

NOT my mouth, but similar

During the procedure to remove that poor abused tooth, he was not just pulling, he was pushing, pushing down so hard I had to tighten my jaw muscles to keep my head straight. He was using all of his strength, and I felt like I was in a tremendous fistfight. He kept pushing and pulling at the tooth until he broke it into many small pieces. It was exhausting and traumatic in a way that anesthesia doesn’t touch. He even stopped to give me more shots that felt like they went into my tongue and lip.

Even now, my lip is swollen and looks bruised, probably because he used it as a place to support his hand while digging away at the tooth. When I went home, due to all the anesthesia, I felt OK. Before I had gone to see the dentist I had been in intermittent pain that had finally become constant. I had used a mixture of ibuprofen and acetaminophen that a doctor had once recommended for persistent pain. It had become less effective until I was using more and more. I figured that the removal of the offending tooth would relieve some of the pain and pressure, so the ibuprofen/acetaminophen cocktail would be enough.

I wouldn’t be writing this if it had been enough, even enough to at least dull the edge of the pain. In fact, IT HAD NO EFFECT AT ALL. I was miserable all night. I slept only fitfully, waking up and taking even more pills that first night. The following morning I called to see about getting something for the pain. The dentist prescribed acetaminophen/codeine pills. OK, I thought, but I used plenty of codeine in cough syrups when I was younger, and I had my doubts it could mitigate pain like I was having. My pain was epic: continuous, intense beyond any injury I’d ever suffered – a broken bone, a ruptured appendix with sepsis, bad sprains, two hernia repairs, and a head injury – all rolled into one, and more.

I paced, I screamed, and I was moved to tears by this pain. I had never been so affected in my entire life. I felt like I’d be better off dead. I would have done anything to stop this pain. I tried the codeine. IT HAD NO EFFECT. The directions said to take one pill every six hours. I took one. Two hours later, as there was no lessening of the pain, I took another. Two hours later I took two pills and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was overwhelming. I was up all night taking pills two at a time. I slept in short bursts. At 4:30 am, racked by pain, I took four of the codeine pills at once. After some frantic pacing, yelling, and exhaustion, I felt a slight dulling of the pain.

I couldn’t sleep. The dentist’s office wouldn’t open until 7:30 am. I got through it because of the four codeine pills, but I knew I couldn’t do any more of that. Besides, I only had five of the fifteen pills left. At 7:00 am, I stretched out on the bed to rest. I slept for an hour, so then I rushed over to the dentist to present my case for a stronger medication. As a drop-in patient, I had to wait for scheduled patients, but I didn’t have to pace for long. Previously that morning, I had noticed that my jaw and lower lip were swollen. My dentist was not in that day, but I spoke with the dentist of the day, who ordered another x-ray. He saw nothing of concern. I asked for and got an antibiotic (amoxicillin) and a stronger drug (hydrocodone-acetaminophen). I took the antibiotic immediately. I held off on the new opioid since I still had plenty of the previous opioid in my system. Overdosing on opioids was not an option I wanted to experience. Later, as the codeine wore off, I took a hydrocodone pill. After some time had passed, as I was still in pain, I took a couple more ibuprofen liquid capsules. Less than half an hour later, the pain stopped. I was shocked, but I think it was the combination of the two opioids in my system and the antiinflammatory pills. I still had some soreness in my jaw, but that mind-numbing pain was gone.

Finally satisfied that I had something that worked on the pain. I dismissed the codeine as ineffective and just used the new opioid. My cheek and lip are still swollen, and there is a small painful nodule in my gum below the space where my tooth had been, so, as a precaution, I continue to take the antibiotic, even though I haven’t experienced any fever. I am scheduled to see my dentist again in a week. I think he dislocated my jaw because I felt something slip when I stretched my mouth. Part of me wants to punch HIM in the jaw.

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A RADIOGRAM TAKEN OF MY TEETH TWO YEARS AGO

You can see the former bridge (lower jaw) on the right side of this picture in bright white. The left tooth remains with the bridge cut clean there, but the underlying metal is now exposed on the posterior side. I’ll probably need a new crown on it at some point. I’m not removing any teeth ever again.

She’s Gone Now

MAYA self-portrait

She is out of state now, riding with her dad and her small pile of simple possessions. She is going to try driving a little on the straight sections of Interstate 40. I hope her dad lets her. She misses that bit of independence. The lack of peripheral vision in her left eye is due to the operation to remove a cancerous growth in her brain. It’s all that remains of her illness and treatments. Her doctor said she no longer needed testing, and she didn’t need to see him anymore. She says it’s the best breakup she’s ever had. That was years ago. She always runs a lot and stays healthy. Her body looks extremely fit at 38 years old, although she has found a few grey hairs.

Trying to avoid obsessing about her departure, I read a book called The Death House, by Sarah Pinborough, about a place in a dystopian future where the British take children with defective genes who are going to die horrible deaths. It is a great story of resilience in the face of tragedy and the power of the human spirit. I enjoyed it, but it is a tragedy, and the ending was a bit more than I could take today.

My thoughts just keep going to Maya. Sometimes that’s OK. She’s on her way to a new life and her future is unknown. I am happy for her. Her happiness has always meant a lot to me. I love her. But then this malaise (anxiety?) comes upon me, and I don’t know how I will survive. Really. That’s not hyperbole. Tears appear on my cheeks from time to time. I’m restless, pacing, and unable to eat right now, although I ate well yesterday. Emotions make my throat constrict. It’s so bad now that I can hardly get a bite of food down. It all comes and goes. Writing this is painful, but what else am I to do? I drank two beers talking with my neighbor last night, but it didn’t help. I wrote a poem a few days ago about Maya and her imminent departure. I sent it to a poet I know, but there’s been no reply yet. It’s painful to read now. It hurts so bad. All those years I’ve known her, 30 wonderful years of having Maya in my life. The joy I feel every day that she survived brain cancer, that she is alive and healthy, is overshadowed by my selfish despair at the lack of her presence in town, my inability to see her, have lunch with her, go to dinner with her, or enjoy a fine wine tasting at the Slate Street restaurant. It’s all just memories now. I find it hard to take. She kept me stable, alive, and happy. I have no family here, no close friends. I didn’t need anyone with Maya around.

Now I’m lost. More alone than I was when she was here and often unavailable. More alone than I’ve ever felt. The tears are rolling down my cheeks again. It’s happened in the past. It’s not the first time I’ve been through this: the first lover I lived with who left me suddenly for another after I’d moved here to start a life with her, the two marriages over a combined twenty-one years that ended in divorce, the death of my father, the dread that hit me when Maya was first diagnosed with a brain tumor, the fear that she would end her existence in this world.

It feels like all of that rolled into one terrible waking nightmare. I can’t wake up from this. I try reading. I signed up for a hiking trip to the Capulin Volcano National Monument. I lost my Shadow motorcycle a while back to a mechanical failure that I caused accidentally. I finally found one to replace it. Actually, I hadn’t liked it as much as my old Honda Magna with its four cylinders, four carburetors, and four exhaust pipes. That one was stolen from me two years ago. I replaced it with that Honda Shadow Phantom that I broke. I have not been able to ride with my biking buddies, and they have been riding a lot lately. I couldn’t find a bike here in town – one has been “on the way” since late April with no sign of it yet. Honda is having problems with inventory and is experiencing shipping delays, and their model offerings are slim. I can’t afford a Harley, even a used one, and the local dealership is corrupt with price gouging and high-pressure salesmen who kept saying: “But it’s a Harley,” while they try to get me to sign up for a used bike at new bike prices, said prices more than twice the MSRP, and at an 8.99% finance rate instead of the 3.99% that the Harley-Davison company itself has been offering on used bikes.

I looked around through Cycle Trader and similar places. Eventually, I found a bike I like, with good power, and good looks, and only a year old. Kawasaki – I never in my life thought I’d ride a Kawasaki. But almost new? A four-stroke? 903cc? Belt drive? High tension steel? 5 speed? With large, hard case, locking bags, a highway bar, and dual backrests with a luggage rack? It’s in Tucson, Arizona. I sent the money, and am hiring a man to haul it here. I don’t have a truck, and can’t hook a trailer to my car, and it’s a thirteen-hour round trip at best. I could have taken a bus there, maybe even a cheap flight, but then I’d have been renting a truck and trailer to haul it all that way (gas prices are too high for that to be economical), or riding a bike I don’t know 450 miles in the desert heat. Hell, I’d still need to have it registered and licensed in New Mexico and transfer my insurance over. Better to get it here first.

So, yeah, I’ve been looking forward to getting it. Now, however, that happiness is eclipsed by my sorrow at Maya’s departure. Nothing matters much. My life here feels suddenly empty without Maya here. Where’s here? Why am I here? What does it all matter anymore? It’s hard not to think about Maya. It’s hard when I do think of her. I’ve been stupid to have invested so much emotion around her. She means so much to me. Her happiness means more, so I can’t even tell her these things. It’s killing me.

I know the new bike will keep me entertained. I don’t care at the moment. I’d give it up in a heartbeat to have Maya back here. But, there is nothing I can do. Nothing. I will continue to love her. But I feel so empty, so drained of life, with no clear way forward. It’s much the way she feels herself, but she took action. She moved away. 940 miles away. Not insurmountable. But I’m part of the past she’s leaving behind. Her last message said to take care of myself. That’s it? Take care? How? Why? She knows I love her. She said she loves me too. It hurt so much for me to write those words. My throat tightened up. Tears in my eyes. I’ve been deluding myself for years. 30 years we’ve known each other. Now I’m just someone that she used to know. She always says “Cancer Sucks.” Well, this sucks too.

That’s all I can write now. Enough of this pity party. Enough wallowing in despair and regret.

Photography from Arroyo del Tajo, New Mexico

These are from a slot canyon in a ravine called Arroyo del Tajo, just southeast of Socorro, New Mexico, along the Rio Grande. The first five are my favorites., but more follow. Click on each to enlarge.

Beehive on a Cliff

Contrast in Light & Color

Land Under a Blue NM Sky

Hidden Petroglyph

New Mexico Soil

More photos:

An interesting thing happened on this hike. I met a fascinating woman. She is quite beautiful and close to my own age at 61. Her American Indian heritage graced her with dark hair that she has not had to dye at all. She is very intelligent and we shared our life stories on the hike. She is a retired teacher from Texas but has been teaching in New Mexico. She will be leaving later this year to teach in a remote area of Alaska. She said she would send me stories from there. We appear to have much in common. She asked me to send her the photos I took, so I gave her my card with my contact information. She also took some photos I’d like to see. She was going to contact me with her information. I know some women don’t like to give that away to strangers they’ve just met, so that seemed best. I waited for days to post any photos to the meetup hiking site but never heard from her again. When I was doing that, I noticed that she had removed herself from the hiking group. I thought: “What did I say or do?” It was so disappointing. I so much wanted to stay in touch with her at the very least, and I believed we had connected. I looked forward to perhaps seeing her again. I felt so happy to have met someone like her. I have not dated in years because no one I’ve met interested me enough. This woman, yes, she interested me enough to make changes to my life. That’s incredible to me. Anyway, here are a few photos, aside from the ones above, that I won’t be able to send her. Sigh. But these ones of her were really for me.

Ding, Dong, the Bike is Dead – an Update

I had just topped off the oil. After checking the level several times, I had finally reached the top level mark on the dipstick. On this bike, unlike with my previous bike I rode for nineteen years, the oil cap and dipstick are all in one on the Phantom (an all-black Honda Shadow). I still had the dipstick/cap in my hand as an old woman with a little curious dog stopped. The dog was on a leash but the old biddy had let it run right through my tools and the open oil container. I had then placed the still-dripping dipstick in the oil reservoir hole in order to grab the oil bottle. The old lady nattered on a bit, excusing her dog’s behavior as “He likes motorcycles for some reason,” and kept on about the precious little dog.

The title is a play on the similar lilting song from the 1939 movie, The Wizard of Oz. And I certainly wish I was a wizard. In my March 9, 2022 post, I wrote of the damage inflicted on my motorcycle by my own damn self. Not wrecked, and I didn’t drop it. No, I rendered my bike inoperative while topping off the oil! Sometimes I even amaze myself with my level of stupidity. I had already topped off the radiator (liquid-cooled motorcycle engines are common now – built of cast aluminum, the engines used to overheat while idling, damaging the engine block over time). Then I topped off the oil. (insert ominous music here).

When she left, I tried to go back to what I was doing. I’m easily distracted. I remembered that I was about to turn the bike on to warm up and circulate the oil before checking the level again. I forgot to screw the dipstick cap back in. Long story short, I ended up having to get the bike towed to a motorcycle repair shop I used before. The owner thought, based on the noise, that the dipstick had damaged teeth on the gears directly below it – a small piece was missing from the end of the dipstick. He guessed that it would be a fairly simple repair, although replacing the gears wasn’t going to be cheap. I gave him $300 as a down payment. When he was able to inspect it, he drained the oil, and found the missing piece from the dipstick. Not only that, but the gears were undamaged. I was optimistic for about five seconds. Then came the bad news: using a microphone, he tracked down the racket the engine was making, since the gears were OK. It was the rear cylinder. A very small piece of the dipstick got circulated with the oil right into the cylinder wall, I think. How it got past the oil pump and oil filter is a mystery to me.

So, again, to move this story along, the engine will require a near rebuild. The two-stroke motorcycle engine opens along a vertical seam, so the bike needs to be partially disassembled to remove the engine – it can’t be opened while in the bike. $2300, just to open and close the bike. Then, the repairs, parts and labor estimate jacked the repair over the insurance threshold for repair. IT IS TOTALED! Well, shit on a stick. Damn. Did you ever feel like taking a hammer to your head? I did.

A moment’s inattention. My easy distractibility. This is a 2014 bike I bought as a replacement for my stolen bike. It caught my attention because it had only 2662 miles on it when I bought it a year and a half ago. It now only has 5550 miles, and it’s essentially dead. I had been mad as hell at what I’d done, and didn’t initially even call my insurance company because I couldn’t imagine them fixing my stupid mistake. However, I finally had called them. A Progressive insurance agent went to the repair shop, examined the still new-looking bike, and got an estimate of the repairs. Insurance companies don’t authorize repair work on a vehicle if the amount is greater than around 65 to 75% of its value. They would rather give me a check for the value of the bike and the accessories I added to it. And that is what is going to happen. It’s a good amount. So, after gnashing my teeth, kicking myself in the ass, and considering hammer time, I will be OK. I won’t be out any of the money I spent on the bike, except for the $999 service warranty I bought, which, inexplicably, doesn’t apply to repairs such as this, and which I never even used, as I had only added 2900 miles to it.

Despite all the terrible tragedies in the world, war, shootings, pandemics, and such, I was devasted by this whole thing. Since I am retired, I don’t have a lot of extra money for expenses like this. I enjoy motorcycle riding. I’d rather go anywhere on a bike – a long ride or short errands – than drive a car. I thought I’d never be able to afford another bike. I even dusted off my old bicycle and pumped up the tires so I could use that. I’ll be riding that for a while until I find a decent motorcycle. I don’t think I’ll find another one with only 2600 miles on it, but I can’t complain. I’ll just have to look. Of course, I could just ride my bicycle. I used to commute 20 miles a day, then rode it around the country and parts of Canada when I was young, and still commuted after settling in Albuquerque, until I bought a used motorcycle. Since then, I commuted to and from work on the motorcycle every day of the year until I retired. It became a part of me. It had made commuting fun. On longer trips, at speed, I often felt like I was flying. The engine was not loud, neither on my old bike that was stolen, nor the newer one I just destroyed. I could only hear the wind flowing past my ears. I would certainly miss that if I never rode again.

A Night of Light Rain

Illustration from the original Manuscript

Page from Original Manuscript

I am watching a recent (2021) version of Gawain and the Green Knight, as presented in CD format to play on my television screen.

It is an adaptation of a late 14th-century chivalric romance in Middle English. The author is unknown. Restless, I get up about 3/4 of the way through, pause it and wander.

The assemblage of eighty-three houses here, one of which I live in, has a sidewalk that mostly winds its way all around, with interweaving trails and paths to each of the eighty-three houses. The falling rain is barely noticeable. It is very quiet, quiet enough to hear the soft patter of the droplets, and nothing else. The glow from the few lights here is soft in the rain. There is a lot of greenery, including old cottonwood trees and some evergreens throughout. I feel like I live in Hobbiton, in the Shire of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

It is a night for brooding. It is dark and calm tonight. The misty rain continues. I see no one else out. I like that. Although it is not brooding as such, my thoughts do wander, inspired by the Green Knight and Gawain’s quest to honor his pledge to the Green Knight or to simply find himself and what his honor is and perhaps become a knight himself. I wandered this land called the United States of the continent of North America when I was younger. It is a long story to tell, yet I would rather make this short so that I can brew some tea, sit back and listen to the rain fall all around me. It is nice to be snug and warm in my little hobbit-hole, my very own smial, or burrow. Perhaps I had enough of adventuring when I was young. Perhaps not. The thought occurred to me as I walked to just keep walking, and see where I end up. That is, after all, how I came to live here now.

But tonight, I was thinking about death, as there is much in Gawain’s tale of the Green Knight. I often think about death. I do not seek it, and I do not fear it. It just is. Like life, it just is. I don’t think it has much meaning. We each can make of it what we will, but that doesn’t mean that it is what life means. We exist, we dream, we eat, we procreate, we work, we wonder about all of it sometimes, and we believe that either we know what it is all about, or that we know nothing.

So much to do. I set myself tasks, and dream about where they will lead me. Will acting lead me to fame, honor, or disappointment? Will writing a script for the big screen bring me recognition? Often, dreams are far better than reality, yet reality is where we live every day. What of love? Gawain is asked about that, and although he says the charm he carries is about love, it seems not important to him. Romantic love was a thing with the stories of knights, always riding into battle with a token from their loves. Instead of love here and now, they wandered, quested, battled, and bled. Sometimes they went home. Did they return to their loves? or find love while traveling? And what of the ones who died? Were their adventures worth it?

I know I chose to live here for love. Or sex. It was confusing back then. And it didn’t last. I don’t search for love anymore. Perhaps that’s why I have thoughts of returning to the roads that meander, that lead somewhere else, or nowhere at all. But, no, all the roads are within me. I can travel them any time. Or not.

And, with that, I think it’s time for tea, and to see what Gawain is up to. The rain had stopped, but it starts up again now. Perhaps it was waiting for me to finish. I….

Such Calm in the Not-time Between 2 and 3

Two movies I’ve watched between yesterday and today have had a strange effect on me. In one hour we turn our clocks ahead. But it’s two hours from now. It’s all a fiction, this way we keep track of time. But, I’m a romantic. I feel like I’m writing in between the magical time that doesn’t exist, when it’s 2:00 am March 13, 2022, and when the digital clocks say it is actually 3:00 am on March 13, 2022. There’s a strange feeling in me. Not of death, but my fantasy of release.

But, enough of that. According to Netflix, I’ve rented 876 movies since January of 2008. That doesn’t count the broadcast movies I’ve watched, the ones I watched in movie theaters, the ones I’ve bought, or the many shorts and features I watched in order to rate and review movies for the Santa Fe Film Fest or the independent short movies the people I know have made. It’s, all of it, a lot of movies. I don’t watch much TV. Perhaps that’s why I work so hard towards being an actor: for the movies – to be in a feature-length movie where I am one of those collections of pixels on a screen that move and talk and bare their emotions for all to see. All of my auditions collected together would equal a – pretty boring – movie series. Some really bad acting, and some heartfelt moments from days or weeks of work for each audition.

Some day, perhaps.

It’s strange to think that it’s all that my life is now. My decades of seeking love and romance led to twenty-one years of marriage, split between two women. A brief sexual dalliance since then that lasted almost two years, but I no longer seek anything. I remember, I dream, I satisfy myself with unrequited romances – my specialty.

One such lasted 12 years, long after such obsessions usually end. The two movies I watched brought that all together for me. One was Hector and the Search for Happiness. In it, a psychiatrist goes on a worldwide journey to find out what happiness is, and, really, to find out why he is unhappy. But, after interviewing people all over the world to sample what others think happiness is, and after some strange, some wonderful, some odd, and one really awful, near-death experience out of all those experiences, he does come to realize he does know what it is, and it’s up to him to go for it.

Such was my realization recently when I decided that I do really want to be happy, and what would make me happy goes beyond things, movies, acting, travel, food, drink, or sex. You all know what that is if you’ve watched one-tenth of the movies I’ve seen. Someone. Someone I enjoy spending time with. Someone I admire. Someone I desire. Someone whose very happiness brings me joy. I have indeed known someone like that for quite some time. However, that is a path I cannot travel, for reasons that are part me, part her, and part historical. Such is life. It became a long-lived and very unrequited love. I tell myself I will always love her, quite unselfishly, and we’ll always be friends, but even the friendship is all in my mind.

The other movie I watched was Pandora and the Flying Dutchman. A ghost ship centuries old with a brooding man who can’t die, who lives in a turmoil of regret, guilt, and unfulfilled longing, for a woman he lost, one he meets, and death. He can have none of those. But stranger things have happened and is it a movie. It ends in deaths and romance and love.

What was odd was how I felt. I was happy, in a bright and cheerful mood, the kind that makes me sing and hum old songs. It’s a rare mood for me. Just recently, I realized my unrequited longing for the woman I mentioned had to stop, no matter that I love her still. Our friendship was not deep and based on just a couple of things we had in common, but I’m certain she needs to move on from that. She sees me once in a while if I ask, but not always when I ask. She never asks. She never calls, texts, or leaves messages, except in response to mine, and not always then. She doesn’t have to say it, I’ve seen it many times – she needs to move on. And really, I realize I do too. I am comfortable with that. I am happy for her. I feel good about myself. I can plan again, go on dates, maybe romance someone. I’m ready. And there’s still time.

Rants and Musings – Motorcycles, Health and Acting

There are so many things rambling around in my head. It’s hard to concentrate, and I only slept a few hours last night. I tried but woke up at 3:30 am. So, it’s time for my therapeutic writing, my stream of consciousness.

Yesterday I was preparing my motorcycle for a long ride today. It is a three-hour roundtrip to Mountainair. The 1923 hotel is unique, and the food is good. There is great scenery along the way. At one time in the early 1920s, before Hitler rose to power in Germany, a swastika was almost a universal symbol of life, the swirling arms indicative of the cyclical nature of life, and well-documented as having been used in Native American and Asian cultures. Native Americans in the U.S. Southwest say that it was not a major symbol. One Albuquerque high school used the symbol for their yearbook. The Kimo Theater in Albuquerque was built in the 1920s using swastikas as decoration, and they still adorn the inside walls. The nearby old Federal building has a similar motif. Of note, the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair still incorporates the swastika. It was used as a symbol of divinity and spirituality. The last time I was there, this is the view of the front of the building:

People stare but it stares back

Hitler, who believed in numerology and astrology among other things, chose the symbol to give his new Reich some gravitas grounded in ancient history. It was not a good luck charm for him.

Here are some more photos of the inside of the Shaffer Hotel:

I have been to the area more recently than the photos I took then since the area also has the Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument, where you can visit the ruins of Spanish colonial rule: the Abó mission, Gran Quivira Pueblo, and the Quarai mission. I’ve taken too many photos of those over several trips to post them all now. The way the Natives were treated then, and later by the United States, is eerily prescient to the way Hitler’s “Third Reich” treated Jews, gypsies, and non-conformists, and in a way, the immoral, villainous treatment of American Indians makes the twisted use of their own symbol not seem oddly placed here.

So, back to the narrative flow. The reason I didn’t go on the ride is that I fucked up my Honda Shadow Phantom motorcycle. As of now, it is unrideable. I did not crash it. I bought it in 2020 after my 1997 Honda Magna was stolen, after 19 years of riding that wonderfully fast, smooth machine. I was only able to recoup $2,500 from the insurance company, for the bike and accessories. I put it down on the Phantom.

The 2014 Phantom.

I was seriously pissed off. I did it through stupidity. All I was doing was checking fluids, making sure it was good to go for the three-hour trip to Mountainair and back. Somehow, the little old ladies around here all made it point to bring their little dogs by as they walked them around this compound I live in. I had just topped off the oil when one of them interrupted me. I had been planning to turn the bike on for a bit to warm and circulate the oil so I could double-check the level. After speaking to them and keeping an eye on the anxious little dog trying to get at me, I forgot that I hadn’t tightened the oil dipstick. I had left it just sitting in the hole. As soon as the old biddy, and her little dog too, were gone, I fired the bike up. Holy mindfucking crap! The racket was incredible. The engine had vibrated the dipstick, which tipped to one side, and before I could reach the off switch, it bent the dipstick at a 90° angle and spit it out.

I still can’t believe I was so stupid. I looked at the dipstick and realized a small piece was missing. I used an extension magnet to fish around in the oil reservoir but only found a small piece. A thin length perhaps 3/8 inch to 1/2 inch was somewhere inside. Reasoning that perhaps it was chewed up into smaller pieces I stopped trying to find it. I tried straightening the dipstick rod and replacing it. I got it very straight, so I could barely feel where it had been bent. I had to see if the bike would run OK. It didn’t. The noise was still there. I cut the rod off just below the screwcap, replaced it, and tried again. Same thing – a god-awful racket. Things are bent and ruined in there. It is going to be damned expensive to have it taken apart to replace the damaged parts. I’m a moron. I just can’t believe I did that after riding for the last forty years or so. I took care of my bikes, worked on them myself when I could, and got expert help when I couldn’t. Perhaps my riding days are over. I only had that bike for a year and a half. It’s a 2014, but I bought it in September of 2020, with only 2,662 miles on it. I’d only gotten the odometer up to 5,550 miles since I last rode it. I am devastated again. The loss of the old bike was bad enough, especially after some pricey work I’d just had done, and the fact that it rode so smoothly and quietly, I was just getting used to this one. Crap. Fuck. Piss and moan.

To top it all off, my blood pressure recently shot up to a dangerous level, and my cholesterol, despite regular use of a statin drug, healthy eating, and regular exercise, is also higher than it was before I had a heart attack in 2013. I saw my doctor after a long wait and scheduled a stress echocardiogram to see what things look like in there, but on March 1st, they discovered that my blood pressure was dangerously high, and canceled the test, even while I was standing on the treadmill, ready to go. The next available test date was to be March 28, and I will still go, but the cardiologist’s office called me this morning to tell me she won’t be available (for the originally scheduled March 29 follow-up visit) until May 9. I had asked for this test because plaque in a major heart artery had caused the artery to close off before, and I wanted to know how bad it was now. But I won’t know my status and what to do about it until May 9? In the meantime, I’m on a blood-pressure-lowering drug, and I have to take my blood pressure twice a day.

I’m no longer sure I’ll live to May. If the test itself was too dangerous for me, what about hiking in the mountains? Working out? How much can I do? I guess I’d better update my will, although the motorcycle repair or replacement may take what’s left of my savings. I sound like a “Debbie Downer”, but this is all depressing.

Well, one good thing, I should have an acting agent soon. An agent looked over my resume, learning, and experience, and is ready to have me audition for her. My acting coach recommended me, and she trusts him, representing several of his students already. I was really pumped about that, but a little less now. Well, all I can do is keep trying, keep auditioning, keep learning. It would be nice to have a good, dramatic role in a feature film before I die. I’ve been working on that for eight years. I feel I’m close. I have good acting chops, my memorization is good, and I will have an agent helping me find auditions for a feature film before the productions arrive. There are a lot of movies being shot here all the time, all over the state, but they usually already have their principal actors before they get here. I want to be one of those, even in a small role. It’s pretty much all I live for.

As a thank-you for reading this far, here are a few pictures from the Pueblo Missions National Monument:

Continuation of the Five P’s and Something Else

So, for those who follow my scribblings – is it still scribbling when one types? – thank you, and as I said at the end of my last posting Popcorn, Pears, Pebbles, a Pipe, and Sweet Potato Fries, I will continue the story that I began therein.

The friend I love is an old friend of 30 years, and she clearly had something on her mind, something troubling her. She had denied it at first but told me what it was. She had changed jobs a few times, sometimes because she wanted better, and once, during the height of the Covid-19 epidemic, because the corporation that owned her just let her go, even though she worked from home and would have been happy to continue doing so. After a stressful period of looking for work, she had found another job that she hated, and then, one that pays more in money and benefits, which pleased her greatly. The problem, though, was that she felt inadequate to the job. She was experiencing self-doubt. I told her that I knew she had the ability, experience, and training for the job and that she would be fine. It sounded glib for me to have said that, and after a week of thought, because I hadn’t heard anything from her, I told her that such feelings are common and that I experience such things all the time when I start something new, like an audition (more on that next post). She didn’t respond directly, but posted a public comment: “Fail early, fail often, fail forward.” Which is to say, she’s got this, no matter what happens. I believe it. She’s often unlucky in love and is not a big fan of Valentine’s Day – today. Since she posted that her dad had sent her roses, I decided to send her a whole bunch of heart icons this morning. I’ve sent her roses before on Valentine’s Day, but it looked like her dad had already covered that.

Anyway, I am a member of a public motorcycle-riding group, open to all, regardless of bike or how often one rides. We regularly meet for breakfast and decide if we want to ride that day. It’s a laid-back group of mostly retirees. Sometimes we all go, sometimes there are just a few up for a ride. One of them called me recently and wanted to meet for breakfast. He is a pleasant sort. I thought he had a ride in mind, but when I met him, he hadn’t ridden his bike. He said he eats all of his meals out. He wanted to meet at a Little Anitas for their all-you-can-eat menudo. I won’t touch the stuff myself, because it’s made from intestines, and those are slimy and chewy, and I don’t like that. It’s an old staple breakfast or holiday treat for many in New Mexico, especially those who grew up poor when meat was expensive to obtain. Since I hadn’t grown up here, I’d never had it when I was young. It’s an acquired taste, and a “proven” hangover cure. However, I could just order something else from their extensive menu of New Mexican foods, so I did – Shrimp Diablo.

While we talked, he told me what was on his mind. I must have mentioned my woman friend to the group at some point because he asked me if she wanted to make some extra money. It turns out that he sells insurance. He often employs people to assist him. He gives them a list of people who are interested in getting insurance, and they contact them and make appointments for him to follow up. It is a work-from-home job, so I must have mentioned that about her at some point, although I don’t remember doing so. He said she could make $300 a week for eight hours work, and the woman he’d previously hired had been making $600 a week. It depends on how many people his employee can make appointments with to discuss insurance with him. It’s a real sketchy job, and not something I’d do, although when I was out of work I had tried telemarketing, which I hated.

Although I told him I’d mention it to her but I didn’t think she’d be interested, because it’s not something she’d really want to do, I had reason not to bring it up with her at all.

As we talked, he had asked how old she was. I told him she’s thirty-eight. He wanted to know if she was personable. She is. I told him she’s quite bright and has a lot of experience working with people. Somehow or other, after talking about his previous employees, he told me about a girlfriend of his, whom he used to live with, and who had two young daughters, He told me they would come on to him – you can see where this conversation was going. They were 10 and 13. He said they flirted with him, and the younger one would rub up against him which got him hot and horny, and she knew what she was doing.

His girlfriend had noticed all of this, and told him that she’d prefer he kept his interest only with the older one. It turns out, according to him, that she said she was poly-amorous herself, and if he wanted to screw her daughter, that was OK by her. I doubt that, but they aren’t together anymore. He said he had indeed screwed at least one of the daughters. Perhaps he said both, but at that point, I was appalled and disturbed and not paying as much attention. That’s rape, permission or not. I knew right then I wasn’t going to mention his job offer to my friend. And I’m not meeting this guy for a meal again. Can you imagine I’d want him anywhere near my friend? I’d known her as someone’s daughter when she was much younger, and he wanted to know if I’d screwed her, or had wanted to, and he said she had probably wanted to screw me, which is total bullshit. His twisted rapist mindset worked that way. Now, mind you, he is a big man, much younger than me, not very tall, but huge around the waist at 300+ pounds.

He’s a creep, in my opinion, and I shudder to think of what else he has done. It’s really disturbing to meet someone like that who talks about statutory rape as though it’s no big deal. I had not mentioned anything else about my friend other than her work qualifications, but I knew he was thinking about it. If she agreed to work for him, he’d likely find excuses to come by, or invite her out for meals. I’m sorry I ever mentioned her and that he knows anything about her. I was going to write about other things, but not today. This has made me fearful for her. He could look her up, scan my public posts, and likely track her down if he wanted to. So, yes, I am going to bring this up with the motorcycle group. I am, however, apprehensive about what he might do if he is banned from the group. Creepy, creepy, creepy. Deeply disturbing. I honestly don’t know what to do.

Popcorn, Pears, Pebbles, a Pipe, and sweet Potato fries

I love pears. Lately, I’ve been buying pears at the market every time I go. I eat them quickly. When they aren’t available, I buy canned pears, but those are always horrible. I always forget how horrible they are. I can’t find pears in a jar, which are better. The pears I’ve been buying were gone yesterday. In their place were bags of pears, slightly smaller. I bought them. They felt hard and were a bit green yet. Today I had one while I was waiting for my cast iron pot to heat up for popcorn. It could have been riper, but good enough. I have always liked popcorn. At one time in my life, it was the only snack I ever bought. I make my own because I was always good at it. Done right, I could get all or 99.9% of them to pop fully. Without butter, popcorn is just fiber, which I don’t eat enough of. With salt and a thin coating of the vegetable oil I cooked them in, they are delicious. Bits of kernel always get stuck under my gums and between my teeth, so I don’t live on it like I used to.

I wanted a snack while I watched a movie made from the novel The Accidental Tourist. I was certain I had bought the book, but I couldn’t find it. Perhaps I skimmed through it and sold it or gave it away since I decided I wasn’t ever going to read it. So, Netflix had the movie.

The movie is slow and a bit tedious, which is what I had suspected about the novel. But WILLIAM HURT! and GEENA DAVIS! Yeah, I watched the whole movie just to watch them in action. I think William Hurt’s role was too understated for all of his talent, but he nailed it. Those gray people who need absolute order in their life, to an extreme, are as boring as those who just wait for death. Perhaps there’s no difference.

Geena Davis made this movie work. She is, of course, beautiful, but she always has fun with her roles and draws me into the stories. Irrepressible is what I’d write about her for a review. She’s so full of life and laughter and emotion. When she smiles, it is real and heartfelt; it includes her whole face and the way she moves. Her smile is infectious is what I should say.

There is a woman I know, one I love, and Geena Davis’s smile reminded me of her. When she came back from a trip to California, and she’d had time to start her new job, I messaged her – she doesn’t like talking on the phone. I asked her about lunch – sometimes, during the worst of Covid, I would pick up lunch – she worked at home often – and we’d have lunch on her front patio. It has a block wall around it because it’s alongside a heavily-trafficked road, but the area used to be dirt, covered in gravel. Her new job also allows her to work at home sometimes. It is pleasant on her patio. I paved it in concrete. Her mother paid for all the materials, and her dad came by to help me get all the wet concrete out of the chutes from the delivery truck and spread out on a section I’d leveled and prepped with expansion joint. Before I had reached that point, I had noticed that water seemed to pool in the center, so I had created a slope that would not only allow the water to drain, but I angled it to channel the water to an open space in the concrete wall. Her flat roof drains all of its water down a pipe to her patio. I left a bit of gravel-covered dirt by the drainpipe, so light drainage could simply return to the ground

Once I had that first section of concrete done, it was easy for me to pour and level the rest by myself. I had made sure, first, that the dirt and a thin gravel layer covering it were well-watered before I had started. As it set, I smoothed it so there were no dips, no swells, and no rough spots. I broomed it lightly and I put a nicer smooth edge all around with my edging tool. The patio looked professionally done. I added a bit to it. There were some multicolored glass pebbles around that she no longer wanted, and I embedded them into the wet concrete on the south side before it completely set. Since I’d spent way too much time with the finish on a very hot day, it had almost set by the time I tried adding the pebbles, so I had to hammer them in with my rubber mallet. I had enough pebbles to spell out her name because she loves her house, her first ever, and takes pride in it. I also created a small peace sign near the west wall, because she often wears one on a chain around her neck. I also kept it wet until I left, and left her a note to wet it down heavily when she got home from work and the following day. However, she had never invited me over to use it. We had never sat on it. Her mother had come over to see it, and they enjoyed chatting and drinking there. Since then her mom has moved away, to California.

It was a labor of love. I had enjoyed the project, the hard physical work, the details, and the craftsmanship. But mostly I enjoyed doing something nice for this woman I love. There are no cracks in the concrete, and the pebbles had settled in tightly for my decorative touches. It was not a large patio, so I was worried that the slope would make sitting on chairs awkward, but I cannot notice that now any more than she does. But she did notice that it drains very well. I felt pride in my work and great happiness that she liked it.

Alas, when she returned from a Califonia trip, she told me she had picked up Covid from a few of her relatives (not her mom). I had bought her a small present for her birthday that I’d not had the opportunity to give her, and I wanted to drop it off. She asked if I could also take her recyclables to the city collection area – she has no vehicle of her own anymore, since a brain operation had destroyed her peripheral vision on the left side, and she’d wrecked a few cars. She also had some used clothes to donate, so I drop those off for her sometimes.

I tried ringing her nail-polish-painted doorbell, with no response. We hadn’t set a specific time for me to come by, but she’s a runner – can’t live without running – so I suspected she was out running her troubles off, staying healthy in mind and body. I opened her garage door to get her recycle items and her donations, which set off her alarm, so she heard that and came out. As I was loading her stuff in my car, she was smiling. She had a black KN95 mask on, but I could tell she was smiling. It was in her eyes. However, it wasn’t a good time for a hug. She was dressed for a run, so I’d been right about that.

I messaged her later and told her that I could see her smiling with her eyes, and she liked that. Once she had isolated herself long enough, I asked her about lunch. I hoped to see that smile again and her whole face. She said yes since she would be working at home one day soon. She wasn’t in the mood, she said, for fish, so I got her an Albuquerque Turkey sandwich with sweet potato fries on the side, but I got the baked fish on a bed of couscous, with spinach.

She liked that, but there was very little smiling. I knew something was wrong. She denied it at first. Next time I’ll tell you about that unexpected revelation, and an odd lunch I had with a motorcycle buddy a week later, and what he asked me to do, which is something I had not expected from him, and how it was related to her.

And maybe next time, I’ll talk about the movie I’ve auditioned for and the role I hope to get. In fact, I can even insert a link to one of my auditions for the role.

Under a Picnic Table. A Car in the Night. A Box.

Pedaling a bicycle all day, every day creates a nice rhythm, like meditation. I often rode from the slightest glimmer of light to very late at night, sometimes midnight. I had a supply of soybeans, brown rice, and granola in my bicycle panniers. I found places to create a fire to cook my meals, sometimes a picnic area with a barbecue grill in it, or a patch of dirt not far off lonely roads. In the morning I looked for gas stations that had groceries, and I bought a carton of milk for my granola and a piece of fruit: apple, orange, pear, whatever each state might offer me. For lunch and dinner, it was rice and beans. Sometimes I wished I had oil, butter, or cheese, but it was what it was. Bicycles don’t have interdimensional refrigerators that I could use for food storage. I had little enough money for milk and fruit, let alone restaurant meals or motels. So that was my day: pedaling, cooking, pedaling, cooking, pedaling.

Being in a state of mind where I wandered through old nursery rhymes, music, and campfire songs as I pedaled along, sometimes I got lost. I always stopped for free maps at gas stations when I crossed state lines. Remember free maps? But, not knowing the roads I wasn’t always clear on which to take. I was, at the time, heading due west across Michigan, after coming from Ohio, through Detroit at night, with a few brief stopovers in Toronto, and other places in Canada, and around the great lakes through Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. And yet, I was lost. Numbered backwoods roads on a map don’t come with road names. There had been few houses or service stations. So when I spotted a cute little house with a finely manicured lawn just off the road, I leaned my bicycle against their short white picket fence, opened the gate, walked to the door, and knocked.

And knocked, and knocked. I could hear a TV blaring, and I knocked louder. Nothing. A kitchen window was just to my right a few feet away, so I ambled over, saw an old woman in the kitchen with her back to me, and rapped on the window. It took me a little while to get her attention. The TV was really cranked full blast in the adjoining room. She turned around finally and saw me, and I pointed towards the front door. I stepped back to the door, expecting to see her as it opened, but instead, there was a shotgun pointed at my face. That was, of course, a little disconcerting, but I really needed directions. A wrong turn could take me anywhere at night. I opened my mouth to ask for directions, and all I could get out was “Hi. Could you…”, but the man holding the shotgun wasn’t having any of that. He ordered me off his property.

I turned slightly to go, but I kept trying to spit out, “I was just…”, “I’m looking for…”, but he thrust the shotgun at me and yelled for me to get off his property again and again. I hastened to do so, needless to say, but I stopped at the gate. I tried again to ask for directions, but he wasn’t even listening. He ordered me to close the gate. I did so. Then I yelled over that I just wanted directions – shotgun still pointed at me – and could he tell me if I was on such and such highway. After a tense minute or so, he lowered the shotgun away from his face, and told me, angrily, that it was. That was all I was going to ask, so I turned, threw my leg over my trusty Schwinn “Continental” and rode. I went slowly at first, but then I got back into my rhythm and rode for a long time till after it was pitch black, except for the tiny cone of light that my bicycle put out. I had attached a small friction generator that, when released against my tire, powered my light.

Eventually, I was really feeling exhausted after a pretty grueling day. I came across a small picnic area in the middle of nowhere.

I had lost my sleeping bag while I was in Canada. A couple of drunks I’d met in a park on the Canadian side of Sault Ste. Marie had plied me with sips of wine from a shared bottle while I waited to return to the youth hostel I could stay at only at night. They were nice guys, probably Anishinaabe, from that area. We had talked about Lake Superior. There was a lot of heavy industry on the U.S side. Factories and businesses and smoke covered the U.S. shoreline.

They told me that the U.S and Canada were always fighting over rights to the lake. The U.S. had been dumping waste into the lake for some time, but the Canadians did not do so and fought the U.S. to clean up its act. The guys had also had some beers and gave me one. I had not eaten that day as yet, so I had gotten drunk. We had gone for coffee. To make a long story short, I had gotten sick after a couple sips of coffee, made a mess of the toilet there, was too weak to clean it up, and the police had been called. They told me to clean it up or be arrested. I slurred out, “Go ahead.” I was nearly passing out by then. So, while I was in jail overnight waiting to see a judge in the morning, one of the guys had taken my sleeping bag to use as a pillow, as his friend told me the next day. I had tracked the other guy down to his apartment, but he wouldn’t give it back.

However, after the judge had ordered me to pay a fine for public drunkenness, I had gone back to the youth hostel to get my bicycle and money for the fine. He had allowed me to do that. Without my sleeping bag, however, I took a blanket with me from the hostel. And I rode across the border as fast as I could into Michigan. I really couldn’t afford to use my food money for a fine. So I had become a petty criminal, I supposed.

Meanwhile, on this middle-of-nowhere road, I pulled out that very blanket and spread it out on the ground under a picnic table. I wanted to be out of sight in case the homeowner with the shotgun had called the police. You never know. With my long hair and bushy beard, I resembled Charles Manson, who, with his followers, had been all over the news for a long time after killing five people including actress Sharon Tate a few years earlier. I figured out later that the homeowner had likely put me in the same category as Manson, and had been scared to death of me. He must have thought Manson was still the leader of a nationwide revolutionary group from the way the press had carried on back then, but Manson was in jail, his followers arrested or disbanded.

I slept for a short time, wrapped in the blanket, with an arm through a bicycle wheel. But I was indeed awoken by a car that pulled into the picnic area. I hoped they didn’t see me, so I stayed quiet. I heard the car door open, and footsteps on the gravel, then, the door slammed shut and the car zoomed out. I went back to sleep. I woke at first light as usual and saw a large cardboard box on the ground by the picnic table. “Did someone leave me food?” I idly wondered. It was instead a kindle of tiny kittens. The cats were too small to crawl out. When they saw me, they all started mewing and crawling over each other. Cute as they were, there was nothing I could do for them. I petted them but had nothing they could eat with me. I didn’t have much water left in my bike’s attached bottle, but I wetted my finger and put a few drops in each of their mouths. I picked the box up and put it on top of the table with a few large stones propped around it, hoping someone would stop to check it out. I couldn’t take them with me. When I pulled up my blanket I was shocked to find that I’d been sleeping on bits of broken glass, bottle tops, various sizes of stones, and god knows what else, but I hadn’t felt a thing – I had been that tired.

After some wonderful adventures and good, kind-hearted people in Canada, I was shocked to realize the differences between our two countries. I had met people who had welcomed me into their homes, to stay a night, or for fresh, hot blueberry pie, or for a home-cooked meal. A retired farmer had taken me out to his hand-built, wood-stove-heated sauna, probably because I smelled rank after weeks on the road, only taking sponge baths in gas station restrooms. And people had insisted I come visit again, anytime.

Back in the U.S. I had a shotgun in my face, things thrown out of cars at me, people honking, yelling at me to get off the road, and now I was worried about kittens that some asshole had just dumped next to me.

Well, I was alive, in good shape, with a working bicycle for transportation. It was better than hitchhiking. I hoped to reach the west coast before I ran out of food and money. I had started out with $100 from someone I’d loaned money to, but I’d lost $50 of it when I had taken one of those sponge baths in a restroom before I’d even entered Canada. I must have put it on the shelf by the mirror. I had been a short distance away when I realized it and went back. It hadn’t been there. I had also asked the guy working there if he’d seen it, but he said he hadn’t. Nevertheless, I had continued on my trip. I’d tucked half the money in my shoe. It wouldn’t get me far. but it had to do.

I continued on, across Michigan’s upper peninsula, across a bit of Wisconsin – damn cold there at night, across Minnesota, to North Dakota. By then I really didn’t have much money left at all, enough for a few more days of milk cartons and fruit. There was still some granola, rice, and beans left, out of the five pounds of each I’d started with. I stopped at yet another gas station. The Watergate hearings were on TV, but I didn’t much care about that anymore. I was certain Nixon would be impeached. I asked the guy behind the counter about work in the area. There was a carnival down the road a little bit, and it was their last night. The station attendant told me that the carnival always needed extra hands to take everything down on their last night, and I could make a few bucks there. I thanked him and rode away to spend a night working for a carnival, I hoped. It turned out, yes, they did need temporary workers.

I helped tear down a Ferris Wheel, then went to work for the electrician, disconnecting power cables from junction boxes that fed the rides, joints, and poppers, as they shut down. The other half of the terminals in each box were still live, connected to the biggest generator I’d ever seen. One cable I took off welded itself to the metal box as I was pulling it out a hole that had no insulation around it. There was a giant cascade of sparks, and as the breakers popped off, the entire carnival went dark. The electrician came over and yanked the terminal lug away from the box. I told him what had happened. He told me, straight-faced, “Don’t do that again.” After a very long tiring night – after everything was packed up and loaded on semis – he came back and asked me if I wanted to come work for them. But, that’s another story.

Excursions and Leftovers

Brunch

First off, before I talk about musical “excursions”, I’ll explain the photo above. When I got home from the Chatter Sunday weekly concert, I was hungry. It was about noon. I was about to make an omelet, but noticed the leftovers. I had some black beans, pinto beans, saffron rice, and a little bit of crabmeat. All that sounded good. I put them all in a bowl to heat up. Meanwhile, I fried an egg, over easy. I slipped the egg over the leftovers and punctured the slightly runny yolk to add some color and flavor. I also tore up a green chili pepper (much hotter than its green pepper cousin). The combo was delicious and certainly satisfied my hunger – hunger, in my case, not starvation, but simply wanting something flavorful. It could be said that I didn’t really NEED to eat. That was something like my friend Maya had said to me recently; she said, about my having spent eight years working for a winery without pay, that I didn’t really NEED the money. While it’s true that I could survive without pay for that work, I was really broke for three years after retirement, having only enough money to pay for rent, food, utilities, and some gasoline. I couldn’t afford long car trips (in fact, when by myself, I rode my motorcycle to and from the winery to save gas, even on the coldest winter days). I couldn’t afford to travel or go out to movies or nice restaurants. No excursions for me.

Maya doesn’t drive, due to a loss of peripheral vision after brain surgery, and subsequent car wrecks, so I drove her back and forth to the winery and winery tasting events, and for a short time also back and forth to her regular job, for which she insisted I take $100 a month. And really, the old car I had then drank gas like a wino drinks cheap wine. It was costing me over twice that monthly to drive that car for her benefit, and I otherwise only used it for grocery shopping. I didn’t mind chauffeuring Maya, she had been my step-daughter for 14 years and all through her cancer operation and subsequent treatments, and then later for eight years as a coworker. But, I was perpetually broke, until years later I began getting the Social Security money I’d accumulated over 45 years.

Maya and I had worked together at a winery in early 2010 until the end of 2017. She was paid to work selling wine on holidays and certain wine tasting events, occasionally having time to help pick fruit, bottle, or label on weekends, but I worked much more often, weeding, ditch cleaning, irrigating and pruning and picking our fruit trees and grapevines, and cleaning the fermentation tanks, pumping and filtering wines, and bottling, labeling, and inventorying and selling wine. It was hard physical labor for the most part. It wasn’t a full-time job, and the hours varied. The problem was that I wasn’t getting paid. I had agreed to work for shares in the winery. It was a small independent winery, and the (private) shares were counted as income by the I.R.S., for which I had to pay taxes. The idea was that when the winery was successful, and money had been made, that there would be a point at which the winery would be sold for a large amount of money, and I would get my wages based on my shares, and the other shareholder investors would get a return on their investment. It didn’t work out that way. The man who had created the winery, our vintner, died in mid-2017 while hiking around the Capulin Volcano Monument in Northern New Mexico.

2015 PARTIAL WINE LIST

We kept it open until the end of the year, only bottling some favorite wines, and selling off some of our stockpiled wines. The decision was made to close the winery after that. No one had the time for or wanted the vintner’s unpaid job. No one wanted to put any more money into the business. There was not enough money to order bottles, so all of the 6000 gallons of the bulk wine in tanks was destroyed, per state law. We had been selling bottled wine at half-price, but after we closed, all partners could take whatever bottled wine they wanted. Since many of them lived in Placitas, and I live 25 miles away, I didn’t get out there before most of the best wines – in short supply – like the Rojo Seco, Blanco Seco, Cranberry, La Luna, Wild Cherry, Chokecherry, and Synaesthesia were gone. I took what was left of a few of those, but mostly the less desirable wines, about six cases. I don’t have a cellar, so some of what didn’t fit in my refrigerator I put in my unused dishwasher – it’s well insulated and seals tightly. The rest went in a storage room (not temperature regulated), so I will likely end up throwing it out. I don’t drink by myself. I sold some cheaply and gave a lot away.

The point of this story is that I was losing money, not just from not getting paid, but having to pay taxes on the shares. It made me angry that Maya – to my mind – dismissed all my hard work and lost money as unimportant since I didn’t NEED the money I had been promised. I still find that hard to forgive. It wasn’t the only thing she said that I found disturbing, and I may have inadvertently insulted her, so I ended up feeling like she didn’t like me, had moved on, and we were no longer friends. That had never happened to us before. I love her very much, but suddenly I didn’t want her photos on my wall, didn’t want to see her posts or photos online or even think about her. I had been divorced twice in my life, including from her mom, and although it was bad, I never felt like I didn’t want to ever see them again. In fact, I missed them a lot, but I’ve gotten over that. I live alone. Despite having many interactions with fellow actors, with hikers, and with neighbors, I felt cut off. Hollow inside. Depressed and ready to leave the state forever.

Although I did end up missing Maya, we finally met for a wine tasting on neutral ground. It was a subdued get-together, and although we touched on a couple of sore points (for me), she didn’t understand why I took things the way I did, and I dropped it. Although I was happy to see her, I ended up rambling and boring her (I’m old). She was anxious to get back to her house. She didn’t want a ride home. In fact, she hadn’t wanted a ride to the wine tasting, hadn’t wanted me to come over for lunch as we had done fairly often last year, and she hadn’t wanted to have my signature black-bean chile con carne, paired with red wine at my house.

So, I haven’t moved away yet. In fact, I went to Sunday Chatter this morning. It was not the concert that had been planned – that was supposed to be Spektral Quartet, a string quartet based in Chicago. It is the ensemble-in-residence at the University of Chicago’s Department of Music. They had to cancel. But pianist Luke Gullickson played some amazing music to make up for it, like a six-part composition called Walk in Beauty by Peter Garland, the Night Psalm by Eva Beglarian, and the wonderful EXCURSIONS op.20 (1945) by Samual Barber. I do hope Spektral Quartet will be able to make some other time. They blend music from different centuries into eclectic concerts described as creative, collaborative, thrill rides, and magical.

There was poetry and spoken word by Nathan Brown, a favorite of mine and the Chatter crowds. He is an award-winning poet, an author, and a songwriter. He has 25 books to his credit.

Nathan Brown

We’re very lucky to have him from time to time. He taught at the University of Oklahoma for twenty years. He taught memoir, poetry, songwriting, and performance workshops from Tuscany and Ireland to the Sisters Folk Festival in Oregon, the Taos Poetry Festival, the Woody Guthrie Festival, Laity Lodge, the Everwood Farmstead Foundation in Wisconsin, as well as the Blue Rock Artist Ranch near Austin, Texas. He seriously made me laugh today numerous times.

And, there were free cookies and banana bread. And I have an acting class tonight.

DEVICES OFF – Tuning Out On My Birthday

On October 8, 2021 – this is what I did – I wrote. It is 99% unchanged from free-association writing, except for misspellings and gross errors.

no computer

no TV

Last night I decided that today, on the anniversary of my birth, I would turn my phone, TV, news radio, and desktop computer off. I knew that my contacts on Facebook, family and friends, would be notified of my birthday, and I would receive many greetings and birthday wishes. As nice as that is, I’d rather see people in person, raise a glass together, laugh, or discuss. So, I’m incommunicado today. I’m writing this on a yellow pad of paper with a black-ink ballpoint pen, despite my unpracticed handwriting skill.

The first thing I noticed was that, since I’ve given up coffee, and I make black tea instead, I always have to wait for it to steep, so I kill time while I wait. However, what do I do today? Ordinarily, I would play Solitaire games on my computer. The computer is off. It’s so quiet, unnaturally quiet, so I switch on my receiver. It’s part of my old-school component music system: radio receiver/controller, six-CD rotating player, a vinyl record turntable, and even a cassette player. In the last fifty years I’ve managed to accumulate a collective total of 800 vinyl records, CDs, and cassette tapes. I used to have a reel-to-reel tape deck, but I sold it decades ago. For a time I had a combination vinyl, cassette, and 8-track player, but I traded that to my wife for one of her watercolors, years before we married, as a music system for the young girl who would become my stepdaughter.

In years of late, I have not played too many of all those music recordings. “PANDORA” has become my go-to source of music while I’m reading or writing. Both phone and desktop computer are off. So, no Pandora. Changing out various media all day would interrupt my writing flow, so I opt to listen to non-news radio, ED-FM (103.3) instead. It plays mostly pop music from the last few decades, and commercials, but no news, no sports, no talk, no traffic reports. I hate the commercials, but I can tune them out while reading or writing. ED often plays what they call “a bunch of music in a row,” without commercial interruptions, so I enjoy that. It does tend to be repetitive, and limited to mostly pop music, which is why I prefer using the Pandora app. I love the way I can select different “stations” or types of music there, and I always have it in “shuffle” mode so that I never know what I’ll hear next, classic rock, jazz, blues, salsa, merengue, electronic, folk, classical, reggae, R&B, soul, or select country music like Willie Nelson. Pandora remembers my favorites and plays new music that I can add or reject. It’s better than any radio station.

Moving on from music, I saw an odd image of a woman holding a weather balloon in the current issue of Smithsonian Magazine. The article was a fascinating account of the birth of the National Weather Service. The odd thing about the woman is that she is wearing a mask while she holds the balloon, and it was taken in 1890. I want to research that, but NO INTERNET today. I could walk down the street to the local public library, but already I miss being able to look something up instantly. It’s a small library and I don’t know if I could find something about the early weather balloons and why one needed to wear a mask (so as not to breathe the helium?).

For now, I’m listening while I read, something I really enjoy. I am nearly finished reading a book, Mayordomo, Chronicle of an Acequia in Northern New Mexico, by Stanley Crawford. Having spent one long day a year helping to clean the acequia or village ditch in Placitas, where the winery I worked at for eight years was located, I am fascinated by Crawford’s account of the politics of water, the meetings, the disputed water rights, and the gossip that goes into making sure that water flows through an acequia, and that everyone gets either the water they need or are entitled to as a parciante – one who has shares in the association based on the size of their irrigatable land, or traditional access. This is all water only for irrigation or livestock. Drinking water is drawn from wells or municipal water pipes.

I notice that my handwriting is deteriorating as I write – I should practice more. I hope I can read this later.

As I read Crawford’s book, I come across a word I don’t know: desagüe, referring to a permanent structure to help control the flow of water down the acequia. I understand the use of the word, but not the exact meaning, and I have no idea how it is properly pronounced. Quick! – to the internet! – usually Google, but NO, not today — I am not connected. So, my attempt to pronounce the word properly will have to wait, if I remember to check the pronunciation when I reconnect. Or I could ask the neighbor who lent me the book. I am so dependent on technology that it didn’t occur to me first that I could simply ask someone.

Despite the stiffness of this “Knee Pad” of paper with a cardboard back that rests on my knees, it is not easy to write this way. I could sit down at a table, or my desk, but I am writing in my overstuffed chair that my two step-children donated to me after my divorce from their mother. The chair is old now, as frazzled as I am, but still, it is comfy. I could pull a large book from my shelves to help balance the kneepad on, but I am using my laptop computer as a hard surface to write on. So many ways to connect, but not today. Tomorrow I will transcribe all of this using my word processor application on my desktop computer, with its big screen and large keyboard. Tomorrow. It will take some time to do that, especially translating my roughly scribbled words into formatted text, using whole sentences (mostly) in paragraphs, and spell-corrected.

Hmm – five and a half pages of Palmer-Method penmanship so far, and it’s only 8:49 in the morning, even after reading a bit. What the hell time did I get up? If I write all day I’m going to have a novelette to transcribe. Sigh.

Well, I’m going to make breakfast now. Black tea, since I’ve given up coffee as of a few months ago, is not enough to sustain me for long. Yea! – back to one of my favorites: a small stack of corn tortillas interspersed between the layers with sautéed onion slices, garlic, a large green chile, and a drizzle of uncooked red chile sauce and grated extra-sharp cheddar. And, of course, a fried egg – to top it off – and one more drizzle of red. Ahhh. After breakfast, I finished the book. “Muy suave”, as the ditch Mayordomo replies to a hard-working parciante on the ditch who asks that these other ditch cleaners admire his meticulous tarea, his work to dig and clean up a section of ditch.

It’s only 10:11 am; now what?

I now realize that I depend on the internet to entertain me, inform me, and waste time – a brief sit to check on casting calls, look up a word, or read the latest email turns into hours of browsing that don’t seem that long until I realize I’ve cut into my sleep time. But, the days go by quickly when I’m “connected”, unlike now when I’m not. So little time to count down the years to my departure from this world. I should waste less of that time.

When I finish a book, I always take a break from reading to consider what I’ve read. Right now I find myself looking at photos. There is a hidden photo album in my bookcase that I came across while I wandered aimlessly through the house, unable to decide what to do. It is a photo from circa 1998, twenty-three years ago. In the photo, she is nude sitting on the edge of a hot tub near Santa Fe. She is OK with me taking the photo, but only of her face and shoulders, as I recall.

But the lens is a good one and captured a bit more. Her dark hair is tied back, with thick tendrils falling alongside her face in front of her ears. Her olive shoulders are smoothly rounded. Her eyebrows are thick and dark like her eyes, which are even darker with applied makeup above and below. Her mouth is open, smiling, upper teeth resting on her lower lip. Her neck appears long, straight, and smooth to the point where it meets her hidden ribs. Her breasts are plump and hang low after suckling two children. Light blue arteries spider-web out from around her large areolas. Her nipples are erect and slightly pink in their centers. I take all that in, in an instant before the shutter clicks. Then I move towards her so that I can feel those smooth shoulders, press my lips to hers, feel her breasts against my chest, her warm back under my hands. But that moment is long, long ago now. I’ve not seen her or touched her in 14 years. I don’t miss her anymore. But I like that memory.

That memory aside, I am here now in this time. I open my door to see what the day is like. It is warm and sunny now, although the house is still cool from the desert night. I look at the work I did around the new door I installed, having just installed new weather stripping, and replacing the rubber in the metal threshold which is cemented in place below the door. I had thought I’d have to chip the old threshold out in order to close off that drafty space, but when I was picking out weather stripping at the hardware store, I saw the replacement rubber insert and happily thought it might just work. It did. My door closes softly and securely against its old frame and threshold. The heavy old frame is bolted firmly into the adobe wall. There are no gaps. It is ready for winter. Am I ready for winter? for my winter?

I notice small holes in the frame, holes from small nails that pepper the wood. Some are left from the hinges for the old screen door I removed, but others are spread all around the frame in between the door and the space where the screen door hung. I get out my caulking gun and fill all of the holes. Then I grab the HOA-approved brown paint to blend the holes into a smooth brown perimeter. I’m a good renter, my landlady says. That done, I’m hungry again. Sliced ham on oat bread. It’s a bit after 2:00 pm. I sit down with a book of poems by Irish poet Attracta Fahy, Dinner in the Fields, but I put it down after a few pages in order to resume writing.

After writing the preceding paragraphs, I finished the Attracta Fahy book by 3:30 pm. While I had been reading it, I snacked on a mixture of citrus-flavored Jelly Belly Jelly Beans. I shouldn’t. Seems like all I do is eat. I don’t need the extra calories, the extra fat on my stomach, but hell, it’s my birthday still, and at 71, I don’t know how many more of those I will have.

This leads me to reflect on the poems I just read. Most of them dealt with love and pain and overcoming adversity, all of which speak to the legacy of Ireland. She also writes of nature and beauty and birds and ancestors – also things which evoke Ireland’s legacy. One poem stood out for me: THE TUAM MOTHER-AND-BABY HOME. It was a place where she once stayed, tended to by the nuns for ten days while her mother was too ill to care for her. It is the same place where just recently a trove of infant bones was discovered in an old septic tank. I remember that from my Google News feed from not long ago. Her poem tells of the discovery and her connection to it with mixed feelings, and I understand that.
3:48 pm. What now? I have another book of poems ready to read in front of me, but I’m not ready. It’s The Blood Poems, 101 poetry pages by a local poet I love to read and listen to, Jessica Helen Lopez. I decide to wait. I am going out for a five-minute walk to the mail kiosk.

Aha! A book arrived in the mail; it is The Shadow of a Man, by Benoit Peters, illustrated by François Schuiten. It’s a beautifully written and exquisitely colored graphic novel, 104 pages. Sorry, Jessica, as much as I love your poetry and admire you, I’m going to read this part of their Obscure Cities series now. I finish it fairly quickly, pausing to admire the wonderful illustrations. The book was published in 1998 and revised in 2008, but it has only recently been translated into English. Yes! I loved it. It is the story of a man haunted by nightmares. They are ruining his sleep, his job, and his new marriage, but the cure for them changes everything. A man living in his dreams is like a man living in his memories, in my opinion. So, is he really living? really happy? Am I? What a birthday this is. Perhaps it will be a rebirth for me? Probably not. I seem set in my ways, but so was the protagonist of The Shadow of a Man.

Now I feel like reading JHL’s book. But first…. no, no, no – I will not go online. Damn it. Why does my life revolve around the world wide web? First, I will eat some leftover mac ‘n’ cheese from yesterday. My life appears to also revolve around food. 5:37 pm. I opened Jessica’s book – 45 poems. I don’t have to read them all tonight. But what else is there to do without internet or TV? I don’t want to know the news today. No more about debt ceilings, Biden, Trump, McConnell, etc. Not today. No more about shootings. No more. “Stop the world, I want to get off,” someone said – a song, a book, a play? I can’t remember – and I can’t look it up today. Agggh! I have so much restless energy that I can’t take a nap. Mosquitos have gotten into the house, hiding, until I feel the unrelenting itching, on the top of my feet mostly, no matter where I sit. So much I want to do. I’ve read three books now that I want to record in goodreads.com; I do that for two reasons: (1) it helps me know what I’ve read so I don’t buy another copy some day, and (2) it motivates me. I set a specific number of books to read each year and Goodreads keeps track. I’ve exceeded my goals most years but lost interest during 2020 when, paradoxically, I had much more time to read, but no time to kill waiting to be on set, or traveling. Being home so much was so frustrating I found it hard to focus.

Just listening to the radio station now. It’s been on all day. So many commercials. I want my Pandora channel, but they have commercials unless I send them money not to interrupt my music.

Now I’m finally started The Blood Poems by JHL, who is an Albuquerque Poet laureate. Blood oranges, boiling blood, blue-black blood, kicking it with Death, anger-no anger, “inbetweenthelegs” freedom, fickle fire, blue and lonely as a salty song calling for a shore. From somewhere in her book I copy down: “How the heart fractures beneath the weight of an endless nuclear winter.” I loved reading that thought. Jessica writes about life, life as poetry. She haunts “the house of” (my) “blood.”

8:56 pm. I want to turn the TV on. I don’t. I am listening to the radio still, my one vice today. My token electronic device. Now that it’s night, I also use light bulbs, but they are not electronic, not media. The radio only plays music for me, and commercials for themselves. Occasionally it gives me a snippet of weather, the same weather I can see outside my windows, the same weather I feel when I go outside, so it doesn’t really count as “news”. I have no idea what’s happening today, Friday, October 8, 2021. I don’t know who killed who. I don’t know what some lying hypocrite of a politician is saying about another politician. I don’t know anything about Covid-19 today. I don’t know who is doing what with missiles.

I am home in my casita, alone with a cat I didn’t want but take care of. I have my books, my musical recordings, and my writing. I could be writing in a remote shack in the Sahara or on an ice flow, or on top of a high mountain peak. With solar cells. Because of music. I don’t play any instruments, so I can be a hermit if I still have music.

I’ve settled into an acceptance of this day of disconnect. Some days I feel disconnected, all the while connected to the world only electronically. I think that if I learned anything today, it’s that I am not as disconnected as I had believed. Still, electronic connection is an illusion. Behind the illusion are friends that want to wish me a Happy Birthday, some of them good friends and family. But most days, except for my birthday, I don’t hear from people. Sometimes they like a photo I’ve posted, or comment on one. But the only people I talk with in person are other background actors (movie/TV extras) who are as bored as I am waiting in holding for someone to tell us we can go to set: to sit, or walk, or pretend gamble in a casino, or pretend talk noiselessly to each other. In holding we talk about the production we’re on, others we’ve been on, and above-the-line actors who we’ve met or would like to meet. Phones aren’t allowed on set, so phone and media addicts explode with talking every chance we get, until a production assistant tells us to ”Keep it down”, or “Put your masks on,” or ‘Sit six feet apart,” or “Sip your drink but keep the mask on between sips,” or ten feet apart if eating in the “green” zone.

9:30 pm. I still resist the automatic urge to push-button the TV on, or check my email to read the dozens of casting notices posted every day on Facebook. Tomorrow will be a busy day: mark as-read three books from today, or four if I finish The Blood Poems tonight, mark The Shadow of a Man as received on Amazon; write a review of it, catch up on my daily Microsoft Solitaire games, pick up eggs from the Saturday Farmer’s Market in the village of Los Ranchos de Albuquerque, and buy a few things at the grocery store. But I will also get to have beer with some friends I met while making a seven-minute movie for the 48-hour movie project, while we wait to see if we get any awards for our hard work. Most of the people I see often are actors, wanna-be actors, would-be directors, camera tech’s, sound tech’s, lighting tech’s, wardrobe people, editors, and writers. But they have lives away from set. I have little else to do.

10:03 pm. I read a few more poems by Jessica Helen Lopez, including POEM FOR MY BELOVED, an eight-page revelation about a new lover. And then there is another poem still, titled: THE LAST POEM I WILL WRITE FOR MY LOVER, a sad lament for a lover who has said goodbye, and the UN-LOVE POEM. Yeah, I know about un-love. I wonder idly who the guy was she was with when she read poems from her new book at Sunday Chatter not too long ago, who she said “I love you” to from the stage. Same guy or a completely new one? I wonder because the book was already in print before that Sunday morning when her poetry spoke of a new lust for living. Well, that’s her business, All I know is that I enjoy her poems – the wordplay and passion she puts into her writing. I’m a fan.

I’m also a fan of Poetry & Beer, a monthly meeting of poets to poetry-slam or just use the open mic. This past Wednesday, two days ago as I write this, it was instead called Poetry & Whiskey, because the brewery now serves their own whiskey, and I just had to go. I’m glad I went. Two of Albuquerque’s best slam poets had a boxing poetry match, where they went at each other and the audience, back and forth, with poem after poem, including improvisation. It was theater, o fuck no, it was better than theater. I enjoyed it so much. I had arrived too late to sign up for the open mic, or for the slam, so I became a judge. I always enjoy being a judge – forces me to listen to every word closely. I had a ball trying to be tough because the MC told me to be tough. There was a $50 prize.

And, to be honest, there was a bespectacled woman sitting at the bar listening intently to all of the poetry. I’m a fan of bespectacled women. The glasses pegged her as likely an intellectual or at least someone who reads a lot or writes. I went over to her and asked, and yes, she is a poet, and she is going to bring poems next time. I’ll be going for sure. Meanwhile, I’ve managed to write twenty pages, it’s late, and I’m off to bed.

-END-

Chatter Sunday for a Crabby Man

Another Sunday morning. Music, an Americano coffee, poetry, homemade ginger snaps, oatmeal/cranberry cookies. I do love a Sunday morning motorcycle ride to Chatter, a 50-Sundays-a-year music and poetry performance in downtown Albuquerque, NM.

SCHUBERT

ERNST

The first piece today was a spirited violin performance, Grand Caprice on Erlkönig, created by Heinrich Ernst, performed by Chatter organizer David Felberg. Ernst based the piece on Franz Schubert’s “Der Erlkönig,” which was itself based on a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. It depicts the tragic death of a child whose father rides his horse like the wind to escape a supernatural being, the Erlking, who is coming for his boy. I believe the story is an allegory for grave illness taking the boy. The piece we heard today was a very stirring solo violin rendition of Heinrich Ernst, who is considered a master of the violin, the outstanding violinist of his day. It’s a great piece for Chatter’s master violinist David Felberg, who is very passionate in his playing. The piano in Der Erlkönig itself is worth searching for a performance of this hair-raising piece. The motif shows up in the violin piece but with less of the effect of foreboding and dread. Grand Caprice, less edgy, is however much more energetic, at least as it was played today.

Johann Wolfgang von GOETHE

Joined by Luke Gullickson on piano, we were further treated to Moments Musicaux of Schubert, and a Violin Sonata in A major (1817), also of Schubert. Felberg and Gullickson rocked the piece.

The poetry (spoken word) part of the morning was unusual, consisting of not only poet John Barney, but also Levi Brown on percussion, Lisa Donald on cello, and Charlotte Leung on saxophone. John Barney is an illustration artist, sketching the performances most Sundays, except when he is performing. The cello and saxophone coupled with his poetry I thoroughly enjoyed, but the masterful percussion, although appropriate enough to the poetry, I did not enjoy as much.

Which I also say of the two pieces in the program of contemporary German composer Helmut Lachenmann. The first piece, Toccatina (1986), is meant to be played very softly on violin, but the building’s heater system made listening very difficult, on top of the erratic nature of the composition itself. The other piece, Ein Kinderspiel (1980) was easier to hear due to the piano, but not really worth it to me. It seems typical of modern compositions which tend to defy any sense of melody, perhaps meant as primarily intellectual exercises, and not for anyone’s emotional enjoyment. I do not enjoy such music; I find it annoying, even if I can recognize the musician’s expertise. Music, in my opinion, should move me in some way, not be simply annoying, or even when melodious, not be played without even a hint of emotion.

But that’s just my opinion. The rest of the program was excellent.

Arriving home, I decided to use some of the pure “jumbo lump” Chesapeake Bay blue-crab meat that was delivered to my door yesterday. It was so fresh and flavorful that I felt like I had caught the crabs and steamed them myself just prior to picking out all of their meat. The crabs had been lightly steamed under pressure, picked, packed on ice, and shipped immediately. It was hard not to eat the whole pound at once. But I managed to save 2/3 of it. I used another third to make one large crabcake for myself because I do like hot and crispy crab sometimes. I fry them in vegetable oil covered by a heavy lid so that I do not need so much oil. Originally, crabcakes were flash-fried in deep fryers, and often now they are baked, but I prefer them oil fried. They must be fried in very hot oil, quickly, so as to have a crispy surface, but a hot center of fresh spicy meat.

I added an egg, a crumbled slice of bread, some hot mustard powder, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce, Old Bay seafood seasoning, garlic powder, a dash of baking powder, and a modicum of milk (to soften the stale bread or breadcrumbs). it was delicious, and a perfect addition to a great morning.

Up next Sunday will be Kim, Mozart, Montgomery, Herrero & Armenteros, Belgique, Fuerst, and Neal. And, no I do not know any of them are except for Mozart. Neither do I know the musicians: Barth, Voglar Belgique, and Gordan, or the poet Cat Reece, but I’m always open to new things and people. Being open doesn’t mean I will like the music or musicians, but I may.

A WARM SUNRISE BEFORE THE WIND, ACTION!

As I was rinsing roasted green chile skin off my fingers, after having prepared an extra-sharp cheese with tomato sandwich, and about to top it off with the green chile flesh, I was thinking about writing. It’s been a while. I did write some poetry amid the pandemic, but it seems like it will never end now. After having a low-key “breakout” case of Covid-19 in August – likely the delta variant – even after having had two inoculations against the damned virus, I found myself swamped with background work for movies and TV shows in September, October, and November. I managed to get on the Better Call Saul TV series again, in their last season, as I had hoped. It’s only background work, but it’s safer than being in a western these days. Speaking of which, yes, I was indeed on the movie set of Rust, one cold, rainy day about a week before the shooting. Alex Baldwin was not there that day. Usually one does not speak about being on a production, or who was in it until that movie or episode is released, but that movie is never going to be finished, never going to be seen.

I did not know or meet the cinematographer Halyna Hutchins, but she was ever-present that day. One of the scenes involved my standing next to the main camera as it rolled by on a dolly track. The camera went into a building while I looked on, standing perfectly still. The camera was just a couple inches from me, and one cannot step on or kick a dolly track, or bump the camera. Then they turned the camera around to catch us lookie-loos staring into a dramatic murder trial.

Halyna had a strong Eastern European accent, and I heard a few recognizable Russian words coming from her. I did not know who she was at the time – background actors are given few details about much of anything on set – but I saw this woman hovering around the cameras constantly, checking angles, lenses, lighting, etc. Every time I heard that accent, I turned, and there she was again. I did know a camera assistant there whom I have the random pleasure of running into from time to time. He was the man behind the camera on a seven-minute short in which I had my first speaking role. He spoke at a candlelight vigil for Halyna, and how they worked together, how they were both camera nerds, loving the business, trying new lenses, new angles and such. He was nearly overcome with grief and left hurriedly after speaking – a brief hug and he was gone. If you’re interested, there is a scholarship in Halyna’s name now.

I’ve been by the ranch where Rust was being shot. The last time I saw it was over the course of three days I spent further down the same road on another ranch – life goes on – on another western set for a completely different movie. I passed that locked gate six times. It was never opened. I don’t know how long that ranch will be shut down. Many movies are usually shot there, sometimes concurrently.

The production I was on this time was centered around some well-known western characters. One morning, after passing the sadly locked, guarded, and well-lit gate again, I arrived on this other set well before anyone else, even the crew. I’d been told to come back the night before, but the time I’d been given was changed later that night, and I didn’t get the text. I was there a bit before 7 am. It was still dark. I knew something was wrong when I saw no other vehicles coming and going, and no one was there with a flashlight to guide me into the rustic site. I walked around for a bit, tossing my thick jacket back into the car, because it was unusually warm, seeing as the sun was not yet visible above the horizon. There was nothing to do, so I sat and watched the sunrise. I enjoyed that. I thought about nothing. I just enjoyed the rainbow colors, the brightening sky, the mountains, and the warm quiet. As soon as the sun was full “up”, the wind started. I had to go back for my jacket, thankful that I’d brought a warm navy peacoat with me. One car showed up. It was a security guard, a Navajo woman, and we talked a bit. It was nice to see a friendly face in that deserted place. I remember her name as Doreen, but I have trouble remembering names.

As the sky lightened, I noticed something gleaming in the dirt near where the action was the night before. It was a knife, shiny and clean. When people began showing up I asked around, but no one in the production staff or the film crew identified it as theirs. I figured some grip had been using it to help cut and strip wires, but I was never able to return it to its owner. Perhaps it belonged to the horse wrangler that was there the day before, but I hadn’t thought of him until just now. The knife is likely a handy tool for cutting rope or leather, I’d imagine. There are strict rules regarding weapons on set, and no actor can bring one on set, but this reminded me more of a tool. I found out that it is a type of curved one-piece steel knife called a karambit, with a big hole in the grip part. With my hand wrapped around the grip, my pinky fit right into that hole – a good defensive weapon. It’s not legal to conceal carry such a knife in New Mexico, so perhaps that’s why no one claimed it. When I mentioned it to a PA (production assistant), he freaked out a bit, anxiously asking me if I had it on me, so I had to reassure him that it was safely stashed in my car. Safety is a big concern on movie and TV sets, and with the recent focus on the shooting death down the road from us, he was rightly concerned.

I was pretty damn excited to be there that day because there was a good possibility that I was to have an actual speaking part in a small scene. After breakfast, and after sitting on my ass for some time, which is part of a typical day on a movie set for background actors, I did get some lines. I rounded up another extra and we wandered off to a nearby horse trail to rehearse the scene. I had to be really worked up to deliver these lines in character, so I spent some time after I learned the lines running up and down that trail. I got the lines down pat and had a good idea of who I was and how I’d react to the news I was giving, and what else I’d feel. Later, I went looking for the AD (assistant director) who had given me the lines. I saw her in a serious discussion with someone and waited quietly off to the side.

She finally mentioned me to the man she was speaking with. He turned out to be the picture’s director. I mentioned earlier that we background rarely know much, but it’s just as well. Most times I’d never have a reason to speak with a director, actor, or crew, other than the PA who wrangled the background actors. But the AD told him I could do that scene. It was a scene added by the writer because the actor who would have given those lines was no longer on set, and the lines were necessary to set up a chase scene. So, the director turns to me and says, “OK. Do it.” He meant right now, right there. I must have blinked, because he added, “Just give me the lines straight,” which I could easily do. When you add emotion into a scene, sometimes the lines give way to your character’s mental state, and you end up winging parts of it. But, I knew the lines, and rattled ’em off, with a pause between each line to react to what the other actor would be saying. When I finished, the director gave me a big thumbs-up, and said, “You’re hired.” Those are the best words I could have heard, better than hearing, “We are wrapped,” after long days and nights on a set. I was elated.

Alas, hours later, I found out that they had decided they had no time to do that scene and dropped it. We were indeed wrapped. However, I was still happy to have had something to do, something that would further my craft. And those magic words from the director had really buoyed my spirits. I do like acting. And being on set. This was the last day. The few background actors still around had been asked to stay and help pack things up, which I was only too happy to do. And we’d get a bit more money for doing so. It was a non-union set, and we were paid in cash.

Since then, Tina Fey was in a nearby town, and while I didn’t get to meet her, I was very happy to see her up close. She really is gorgeous, especially with the New Mexico sun lighting her face like a golden sunrise. I’ve always admired her since her Saturday Night Live days. Her witty writing appealed to me. She made me laugh out loud with her Sarah Palin impersonations. Her acting on 30 Rock and her dramatic role in the movie Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, which was shot in New Mexico, had made me a solid fan of her work. I knew she was good-looking. I loved her look in glasses. But I had never realized just how strikingly beautiful her face is. Lovely woman.

Recently I rode my motorcycle out of town to be on a movie set. They needed four motorcycles.

It wasn’t too far away, but the temperature in the early morning was in the mid-20s, and construction on that portion of Interstate 40 had traffic bogged down at times behind an endless line of bumper-to-bumper semis. It took much longer to get there than I like in that kind of freezing weather. I researched the wind chill factor; it turned out that at 75 mph in 25°F weather, I was chilled to 1°F. We worked a long day after that, and I wasn’t looking forward to that cold, dark ride home among those long lines of trucks. Even though I just then found out that my taillight had burned out, I started back, sandwiched between two other riders. However, we got separated, and I wasn’t up for racing by those trucks each time a lane opened back up, jack-rabbiting from truck to truck at high speeds. It turned out I was exhausted from being up hours before dawn, that cold ride, and the long day of work, so l did not feel safe. I pulled into a Casino lot a half-hour from Albuquerque to rest a bit, but as soon as I saw the motel there, parked, and got a bite to eat, I got a not-cheap room and passed out on a soft bed. Breakfast was free. I hated to waste most of what little money I had just made, but I made it home in one piece, well-rested, well-fed, and happy.

But, I have a script now. It’s for a movie I know little about, like when it will shoot, where it will be shot, or if it will ever be seen if it is shot, but I enjoy working a character, forcing my mind to work, to memorize, to learn, to not act, to just be.

And then I just today applied to work on another project that will shoot all this month, and I’m ready for that. I’d like a speaking role. They want people who are athletic enough “to run, jump, and do minor fight scenes.”

After 8 and 1/2 years of winery work: cleaning ditches, irrigating, picking fruit, bottling wine, handling thousands of cases of wine every year, lifting 14-gallon demijohns, cleaning empty wine tanks, planting fruit trees, and after climbing mountains all that time, having run three half-marathons, having poured molten bronze years before that, having worked for a carnival before that, and having bicycled across the country before all of that, I’m ready. I’m quite a bit older, but still fit enough. Bring it on.

Music, Sweet Music, Day Trippin’ on Music

Sunday, September 26, 2021

Yes. Another whole day of music. Chatter Sunday

and Chatter Caberet.

My Sunday started off with a cup of Americano, a small scone, and a double-chocolate red-chile cookie, while waiting for the music. I chatted with an old musician sitting next to me. Coffee makes me talkative. The music began with Giuseppe Verdi’s L’esule (1839), with tenor John Tiranno, Natasha Stojanovska on piano.

I don’t enjoy operatic singing. I like the orchestral music that comes with it, but I would be more interested in the story if it didn’t come with all the coloratura. Those trills drive me off the wall. At any rate, Mr. Tiranno sang with gusto, but kept to the words, rather than all the ornamentation introduced by Italian singers in the 17th century, and often highly elaborated and exaggerated by the vainglorious. It was OK. An exile longing for death in English would have been better, for me. Tiranno enjoyed it far too much for me to hear the pathos, but I like passion in people, even it it’s not in keeping with the story.

The musicians took the stage for a piano trio (no. 1, op 8, 1923) by Dmitri Shostakovish. It opened with some harshness, to my ears, but settled into some highly enjoyable and powerful playing. Mozart really rocks.

Damien Flores

After that, Damien Flores took the stage, but not to sing or play music. He’s a poet, and there is always poetry in the middle of the musical selctions. Damien is a poetry slam champion, educator, author, and radio broadcaster. He also hosts Poetry & Beer, which I often attend at Tractor Brewing. I enjoyed his collection of poems titled Junkyard Dogs, but he presented two poems today, one of which dealt with hospitals, family and death, while the other was well-written humor. I laughed throughout that one. And yes, out loud, with gusto.

The concert finished with Songs of a Wayfarer (1883) by Gustav Mahler. They are not happy songs. In fact they deal with the pain, depression, and suffering of someone dealing with unrequited love. Sad songs, but I understand them, all too well. John Tiranno sang those also, and he was fierce.

I had the chance then to go home and relax for a bit before heading to the Albuquerque Museum for Chatter Caberet. I made a small plate of three-tiered cheese enchiladas with corn tortillas, onions and both green and red chile.

I enjoyed Lullaby (1919) by George Gershwin, followed by Luke Gullickson on Piano performing Maurice Ravel’s Le tombeau de couperin (1914), during which I knocked over half of my glass of red wine. I was quite embarrased. I spent most of the piece trying to avoid the embarrasment by contemplating the wine spreading out, and being chromatographed throughout the linen tablecloth, as it continued to spread, seperating the wine into bands of red and pinkish colors until the water in the wine expressed itself around the edges. I was sharing the table with four other people, and was thoroughly embarassed. And I had been so enjoying pairing my glass of Merlot with some spicy meats on the charcuterie platter. Ah, well. I often play the klutz.

There followed a long piece for piano quartet by Peter Garland: Where Beautiful Feathers Abound. Nice, but did I mention that it was long? I was still contemplating the tablecloth, as the edges of the spill creeped ever closer.

Finally, some Mozart! A Piano Concerto (no. 12 in A major, K.414 – 1782). This was a wonderful piece to enjoy, full of fire, passionately played by pianist Luke, violinists Elizabeth Young and Donna Mulkern, violist Laura Chang, and cellist Ian Brody. This took my mind off of my wine faux pas.

The night was growing long as I arrived home again. I popped a movie in the DVD player to watch Chaos Walking, a Sci Fi epic that takes place on a planet where all the women have disappeared and the men are afflicted by “the noise” – a force that exposes all their thoughts both audibly and visually. Enter a lone woman arriving to settle on the planet, who crash lands, and does not know what had happened there, and is not herself affected by “the noise”. She was born on the ship during it’s long 65-year journey from Earth. She meets a young man living in a settlement of men, of which he is the only one having been born on the planet itself, and not originally from Earth. He has no experience with girls or women. She has no experience on a planet (and yet, she can ride a motorcycle through a forest). They end up running for their lives. Excitement and adventure. Just what I needed. Above are all of my exposed thoughts today. Such a busy day – perhaps I was avoiding something, or someone, someone whose birthday was today.

Chaos

Tomorrow (Monday) I have another Covid-19 test. I’m back to work on set Wednesday. It’ll probably be a long day. October promises to be very busy – I’ve applied to be on several sets of TV episodes and movies that are being shot all over New Mexico. Long days and nights. Driving to and from Santa Fe, and also around Albuquerque. Camping out in background holding. Staying awake when the day turns to night after 12 or 14 hours. Fun, fun, fun. No, really – I do enjoy it. And I seriously need to be active.

Rambling Man is Back

Monday, Sept 20, 2021

Although I have frozen fish in the freezer, refrigerated sqaush, and plenty of rice and noodles, I have decided to make macaroni and cheese tonight. Being a lazy cook, I am using a box of whole grain pasta noodles with a packet of finely ground dry cheese. Seven minutes to boil, drain, add butter and milk and the dry cheese. As always, I add a tablespoon or so of diced green chile, and some fresh grated extra sharp chedder. I also sprinkle a little pepper in there, as I like the flavor it adds, so that’s what I’m eating now as I sit here typing.

Today has been a slow day, but yesterday meant being on set for a small independent movie that a friend who introduced me to movie acting is making, to enter into film festivals. He is quite smart, and his previous movies, although short, always do very well, garnering top awards. I was joined in this endeavor by another friend, someone who has worked for six years as a stand-in/photo double for a major TV show shot in Albuquerque. I was once a stand-in/photo double for a TV show shot here in Albuquerque, but only for the week it takes to shoot one episode.

I’m catching up on my reading, as the last few months have been busy with background extra work, a lot of which I was able to snag, except while I had the covid. As brief as the outbreak was, I still had the virus in me for about two weeks, so, even though I felt great, I couldn’t work on set while testing positive. But that’s behind me now. So far, I’ve tested negative four times in a row. Last Thursday, the 16th, I worked a 14 1/2-hour day on a movie set. This month, so far, I’ve manged to visit an old farm that was turned into a museum, worked Sept. 3 on a totally different TV show, attended a wine festival in Albuquerque on Labor Day, met with my motrocycle-riding group for breakfast and a short ride on the 8th, worked on a 48-Hour Project short film all day Septermber 11, and donated blood platelets on the 13th.

I applied to work on an episode of a production being shot in New Mexico, and ended up with work on Thursday. However, that fell through – such is the movie biz – and I was hired to work Wednesday, with a Covid-19 test tomorow. Even that changed. I will still work Wednesday, but also tomorrow, so I have to get to set and test by 6:00am tomorrow instead of in a range between 7am and 11am. So, I am going to be busy the next couple of days, and make a little money. Background work doesn’t pay much, and you aren’t mentioned in the credits, but I enjoy being on set. I really enjoy it if I get a part in a independent or school-related production, as I at least have lines to go with my actions, and I get listed in the credits. However, they are not seen by many people. But it all goes on my résumé.

I went back for seconds on the mac ‘n’ cheese, so now I’ve lost my train of thought. As you might have guessed, this is one of my “just rambling” entries. No series of photos, no deep introspection, no politics, or storyline. Just me.

I watched a lot of epsiodes of The Prisoner over the weekend, as they were broadcast non-stop. It was such a fascinating show, but only 17 episodes were ever broadcast, between September 29, 1967 through February 1, 1968 in the United Kingdom. I would catch one every once in a while when it was rebroadcast in the U.S. in June of 1968. I could try to describe the show, but as I watched an episode about mind control one evening, a commercial interrupted the drama, as they do on commercial TV. It was such a typical commercial, offering some new product which I would certainly need, and which would improve my life so much. And it was almost the plot of the show, and the theme of the series itself. How happy and content I would be if I only went along, if I’d buy this wonderful crap!

LOGO USED IN THE PRISONER

In The Prisoner, played by Patrick McGoohan, a British agent is abducted just after he resigns his job, and taken to an island from which he can’t escape. McGoohan had previously played a secret agent in the British television series Danger Man, known in the U.S. as Secret Agent. He then co-created The Prisoner, as well as starring in it. (I wonder who his stand-in was?)

Currently I’m reading Mayordomo, by Stanley Crawford, a book written about the systems of irrigation ditches in New Mexico, often referred to as acequias, which are used to divert water from the Rio Grande to the farms along its wide path through the state. They are community run and have been the means by which farming is carried out in a dry climate whose rain and snow falls infrequently, and tends to collect underground. Wells provide drinking/bathing water, but not enough to water all the crops in the state.

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I was previously aware of the system before I began working for a winery in 2010. I was then put on ditch-cleaning duty once a year, since the winery needed to provide several workers as part of its responsibilty to maintain the life-giving ditch. It was damned hard work, just as Crawford describes in his book. You arrive, shovels in hand and begin the day-long trek along the ditches that provide water to the whole village, removing debris, leveling the ditch floor, and squaring the sides, so that it holds enough water and doesn’t slop over the sides when the water is released. There are short sections marked out by the Mayordomo, and then you jump into each section, shoveling away, cleaning, smoothing, and chopping, until it is time to move along to the next section. To get to the next section, you go around those still cleaning, up ahead to the next open section and begin again. All day. With a break for lunch. It is muscle-straining, back-building hard work. I did that for those years I worked at the winery, so that we had water to grow our fruit, fruit to pick, fruit to ferment, fruit wine to bottle and cork and label, and drink and sell. I miss those days. The winery shut down December of 2017 after our vintner, Jim Fish, the guy who started it all, died on a hike in the wilderness. A trifecta of sad: Jim’s death, closing the winery, and dumping 6000 gallons of bulk wine.

So now, I still do some hiking in the mountains myself. Perhaps I’ll die there some day. I read a lot. I ride my motorcycle. I blog. I work as background on movie sets. I’ve taken years of acting classes now, working with different teachers, and I get all the experience I can, working on non-paid gigs. It’s a life, and so far it’s been a pretty good one.

I’m done rambling now. There’s work to do: registering on a website to get paid for my background work. Going through my clothes to pick out appropriate clothing, and getting to bed early enough so that waking up at 4am to be on set by 6am doesn’t seem so early.

I Would Walk a Mile for Fresh Green Chile. It’s 94°F in Albuquerque, but I Only Had to Walk ½ mi.

I walked up to Big Jim Farms for some chile. It was a trifecta of hot: hot day, flame roasted chile, hot on my back. I enjoyed it. You can pick the chiles yourself or just have the already-picked chile roasted on the spot. I got a bushel, about 25 pounds of chile. Roasted, it fit in my backpack. It cost me $30 for a bushel of chile, and $5 for the roasting. You can also get a half bushel for $15.

The farm is having its 1st annual Sunflower & Flower U-Pick Experience. They have a field of sunflowers & other flowers – like Zinnias and Cosmos – in bloom to pick. Thir open-air market has picked produce ready to go, including tomatoes, squash, zucchini, watermelons, peaches, apples, salsa, chile ristras, honey, and specialty hot peppers.

From the end of September until Halloween, you can cut a variety of pumpkins straight from the vine.

8:00 am to 6:00 pm every day @ 4515 Rio Grande Blvd, Los Ranchos, NM (On Rio Grande Blvd just north of the Montaño overpass).

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My Life, On Hold Again – Masks Anyone?

Got your shot?

So, after being fully vaccinated (two Moderna shots) in the Spring, I came down recently with Covid-19 anyway. It expressed itself with most symptoms I have read about: sore throat, intense cough, headache, fever, diminished sense of smell and taste, body aches, fatigue, and brain fog. I mean to tell you: I sat down at my desktop computer, and just stared at it. I couldn’t figure out what to do with it, and had only dim recollections of having used it before. I tried this a few times and gave up. I had tested negative for Covid-19 four days earlier.

I get tested a lot because I work as a background extra for movies and TV shows, and they are very picky about being tested and having results before you show up on set. I’ve been tested 35 days for Covid-19 since May, but on August 13, I tested positive after one and a half days of being sick. On Thursday, August 12, the fever had broken, and almost all of the symptoms had disappeared. Yea for vaccinations! They don’t prevent everyone from getting Covid-19, and if you do have it, the symptoms are less, you don’t need to be in a hospital, and you don’t need to be on a ventilator. I found out that they were right on the money about that.

I’ve had flus much worse than this was, and they always last at least ten to fourteen days. I get Covid-19, and I feel great after only two days. There are times when you have to trust Science and healthcare workers and this was one of them. Thank you all.

However, I’ve missed out on a lot. I had a ticket for Salsa Under the Stars, a Salsa concert and dancing at the Albuquerque Museum on the day I tested, so, even though I felt like dancing, I could not go. I had a ticket for a chamber music concert (Chatter Sunday) two days later, and I could not go. Those weren’t so bad.

But then I recieved a message with those magic words to an actor: “You are officially booked.” I was excited. Even though it was only to be a background actor, with no lines, I would have been “An older hotel employee.” No name, but it meant they needed that specific type of person on camera. I fit the bill. I might have actions, and I would feel more like an actor than just set decoration. I would need to test on August 24, and be on set on August 26, so I figured I would have plenty of time to be fully recovered from Covid-19 by then – after all, I had no symptoms at all.

After testing positive back on August 13, I had to visit a hospital emergency room to see a doctor. The clinic I’d gotten tested at (an Optum Primary Care facility on the other side of town) made me test in the parking lot before I could enter the clinic. I was told to arrive one half hour before my doctor’s appointment. I did so. However, after waiting 45 minutes past my appointment time, someone finally came out to test me. I had to wait 15 minutes for the results. I did so. Of course, the result was positive, not what I was expecting, as, for once, I was hoping I had a flu. So, since I tested positive, I could not enter the clinic, even with a mask, even with sanitized hands, or with a face shield. So, I asked them how I could see a doctor. After all, I had a lot of questions. I was told to visit an Urgent Care facility, or an emergency room.

The closest place from that clininc was an Urgent Care facility: NextCare. However, they turned me away. I was told I could not see a doctor there if I had tested positive for Covid-19. I was beginning to feel like a leper. So I headed off to Lovelace Medical Center in Albuquerque (one of the oldest and best hospitals in the state). I had no problem getting seen there, but even with health insurance, I still had to cough up a $75 co-payment. Fine. They tested me using the nucleic acid amplification procedure (aka a PCR test) that is used to detect SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes Covid-19. I had been hoping the previous test was wrong, but, no, this test only confirmed it. I had also been tested for Influenza A & B and was negative for both of those. For the Covid-19 infection, I was offered an infusion of casirivimab and imdevimab, under an FDA emergency use authorization. It’s brand name is REGEN-COV. The procedue is intravenous, and takes an hour. However, the drugs are used to treat symptoms, and as I no longer had any symptoms, I decided against it.

Casirivimab and Imdevimad

Later, I read the fact sheets the hospital had given me. The drugs are investigational, with little known about the safety and effectiveness of using them to treat the symptoms of Covid-19. Possible side effects include an allergic reaction, with all the symptoms associated with a Covid-19 infection or a flu. Another thing is that the use of “casirivimab and imdevimab could interfere with you own body’s ability to fight off a future infection of SARS-CoV-2,” according to the information so stated in the fact sheet. In addition to that, the fact sheet explains, the drugs “…may reduce your body’s immune response to a vaccine for SAR-CoV-2.” Given that I’m still testing positive, I was considering getting the infusion, but it isn’t going to kill off the Covid-19 in my body. And, since it could actually prevent fighting off the virus or prevent immunization by vaccination, I am so glad I did not get the drug infusion.

The production company for the acting job I had taken insisted I fill out an online form about my health. Halfway into that, I was asked if I’d tested positive for SARS-CoV-2 within the last 14 days. I said “Yes”, since it had only been a week since my initial positive test. The form immediately told me to STOP. and to come back when I’ve taken care of it. And that’s why I had gotten more tests. So the entire rest of August is out for me with that production company. I will apply for work with other productions, since some only require that I am fully vaccinated, and others want vaccinations and a Covid-19 test as well. Either way, I’m not going to apply until I have a negative test result.

Sigh. Well, it could be worse. Without the vaccinations, I could be on a ventilator in a hospital, fighting for my life. I cannot work on set, attend an acting class, or any public gathering with a positive test for Covid-19. I have already had to cancel a planned Meetup hike in the mountains, and I can’t sign up for any more hikes until I know I’m Covid free. But, when will that be? Again, I feel like a leper.

All that being said, this indicates there is a worse problem: vaccinated people can be infected with SARS-CoV-2 and spread it to other people. Many jobs and businesses are now requiring only proof of vaccination, and that only unvaccinated people are required to get tested for Covid-19. The percentage of vaccinated people who test positive for Covid-19 is small right now. But what will happen when those few people are free to spend time in crowded indoor situations? I can’t go any place to be around people, because, even though I’m vaccinated, I know I have Covid-19. What about all those other vaccinated people with Covid-19, some of whom are asymptomatic, or who were only sick for a couple days like I was?

I’m glad to see that mask mandates are coming back. As much as I hate to say it, I think it’s necessary given that some vaccinated people may now have the more infectious Delta varient, and spread it without masks and distancing.

I wore masks, I distanced myself from people. I hadn’t been sick with anything in two and a half years, and got vaccinated. I felt a sense of freedom, confident that I could re-enter society fully. Now, I can’t. On my own again.

(NOTE: a recent study*, published today (08/24/21) indicates that, “Following vaccination with the Pfizer or Moderna vaccines, antibody responses peaked at around 40 days post-vaccination, with levels beginning to decline after 120 days.” And, “The results of the current (findings), sic, indicate that antibody levels in unvaccinated individuals after infection extended to ten months after infection.” As near as I understand it, while it may be better to fight off the infection yourself for longer protection, you may die first or suffer long-term consequences. I think we’re better off with the vaccines, but it looks like we’re all going to need booster shots until this thing dies out. I suspect that’s not going to happen until at least 90% of everyone in the world is vaccinated.)

*Study results

Cellars, Frostlines and Eddie Knight

I was six years old. My brother was five. I think Eddie was in my class at St. Thomas Aquinas then, or perhaps he was in my brother’s class. I can’t recall now after all these decades. I do remember going to his house, and playing pick-up sticks. It was an odd game, I thought. To play, someone dumped out a can of wooden sticks, about 10 inches long – these days they resemble the sticks used for shishkabob, except these were marketed by many different companies and came in rainbow colors. The object was to try and pick up each stick, one at a time, without disturbing any of the others. As soon a you disturbed the other sticks, your turn passed to the next person. Decades later Jenga took the game a step further, using wooden blocks. If we played any other games, I don’t remember. But I loved to challenge myself with that game.

Perhaps I liked challenging myself too much. We all did those normal things, riding bicycles down steep hills, hanging on long ropes or car tires dangling from tall trees swinging as far out as we could, sometimes over water and dropping in. Sometimes, and this is where the title comes from, we just dropped rocks into puddles to watch ’em splash. Skipping them was fun too, but without the splash.

My brother, me, and Eddie were wandering around one day and found a house under construction. I think it was part of a developement, but we’d never seen a house under construction before. The foundation had been laid, deep in the ground, and the walls came up about three feet above the ground. Some areas have deep frost lines (the depth at which ground water will freeze in winter). You dig below the frost line for your foundation. Otherwise the house will be on shaky ground, and structurely unstable. I believe building in this way is what created cellars. If your house extended below ground, you might as well use it for something. Indeed, some people used it to store food. Cellars used to be shallow, but builders eventually made them deep enough for people to use like any other room of a house where you can stand up and work. Then they were called basements. I think the terms get used interchangeably now. They were handy for placing coal or oil burning furnaces, and washing machines, as well as canned foods and preserves.

So, this particular house had a cellar (or basement) that was likely eight feet down, but the floor of the cellar, almost always concrete, and usually with embedded rebar, had not yet been poured. When we climbed up the sides of the wall above ground and looked down, we saw that, after the recent rain, there were large puddles of water in the mud. Puddles of water? We needed rocks!

There were rocks scattered all over the area near the house’s foundations, so we would look for the biggest ones, and then climb back up the stem wall to drop our rocks into the opening that had been left to add stairs. Apparently, the stairs would come after the cellar floor was poured, likley through that hole. We spent quite a bit of time collecting rocks and dropping them into that hole. The bigger the splash the better, of course. The more we did it, the bigger the splash we wanted.

I had just climbed up and dropped in a nice rock when I saw Eddie place the biggest rock I’d seen all day up onto the floor because he couldn’t get up onto the floor with it in his hands. We were probably only three-feet tall ourselves. Without really thinking about it at all, I ran over, grabbed Eddie’s rock and went back to the hole and plopped that sucker in. Big splash – yea! I was happy about that, but I seem to recall Eddie coming towards me, perhaps he was yelling. I have no memory of what happened then.

The next thing I remember is seeing sky. I was being carried by two people, Eddie’s parents, across the big empty field behind my house. I didn’t feel very good. There was something wet on my face, running into my eyes. I closed my eyes and woke up in my house on a couch. I had no idea what had happened or what was going on. After some time passed a screaming ambulance arrived. “For me?” is what I remember thinking. I was impressed. I’d never been in an ambulance before, or if I had, I couldn’t remember it. After several bouts of pneumomia, I only remember doctors that would come to our house to treat me. I’d had pneumonia as an infant, and was placed in an oxygen tent in a hospital, but I don’t know if that was shortly after my birth or later. Back then, people strived to own a car, because that was how you got to a hospital – ambulances were a very expensive way to travel!

I don’t know why my parents called an ambulance. There was blood all over my face, from a cut over my right eye, which left an obvious scar for many decades. I can’t see it now, probably because my eyebrows have gotten so bushy. I think they were worried about brain damage, or damage to my eye. But, all that I received was a small concussion, a black eye, and a bunch of stitches for such a small cut.

Me, on the sofa in the living room. It seems like I spent a lot of time there recovering.

Unfortunately, I never saw or heard from Eddie Knight again. So, either he did push me, and felt guilty, or his parents didn’t want him hanging out with dangerous kids like me and my brother. I don’t know. I don’t think he meant to push me, but I was right on the edge. I never had many friends in grade school, or high school for that matter. I had six brothers and sisters, and dozens of cousins. We saw each other all the time, and those were the people I cared about. And my parents, aunts, uncles, and my surviving grandmother. Both of my grandfathers died when I was in my early teens, and I’d had very few interactions with them. One was sickly from mustard-gas poisoning in WWII and was often in the VA hospital. The other I saw mostly at Sunday or holiday dinners, and he would disappear afterwards. There was a bar next door. My mother’s mother had died when I was two-years old. She had given me the yellow “Teddy” bear I grew up with, and it had always been special to me. Perhaps I was fond of her back then. I can’t remember her, but from the pictures I saw, she and my mom looked nearly identical in their wedding photos.

These are all four of my grandparents, on the occasion of my parents’ wedding.

Skirts were long, double-breated suits were still in style. The oddest thing about this photo is that the house behind is one half of a duplex unit. I know my parents moved about four times. The last house they moved into turned out to be the other half of that same duplex. My grandfather (you can see two of his fingers missing) had apparently moved out long before, and it was owned by an old woman and her grown son. We never interacted much. Rarely saw them. I doubt they liked all the noise seven kids made playing and the screaming at each other, and my parents screaming at us and each other.

The Door (continued) and Prickly Pear Wine

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  new door in side

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  new door other side

So, last evening I finally hung the new door. There’s still work to do. I’m going to stain the inside, and then cover the whole door inside and out with a polymer to protect it from UV light, and make it water resistant. And I need to replace the damaged weatherstripping. This door should last at least 50 years. The old one was soft pine, not fir wood. Haha. I mentioned to my stepdaughter that the door was made of fir, and she pictured fur. A furry door. I laughed at that. It’s a really hilarious image. She looked at me like she was questioning my sanity.

She makes me laugh. We spent hours together recently, which was unusual. We used to have lunch together on her porch during the pandemic. Her job became a work-at-home one, and she was happy with that. She clocked in every day, and was meticulous about working her set hours, so we didn’t have more than an hour for lunch. Then, she got laid off. No more job. She’s OK for now; she’d put some money away in case that happened. It had happened to her before. We still had lunch a few times after that, but she was only comfortable with about an hour’s time. Sometimes she needs to keep to her running schedule; sometimes she likes her privacy.

But last Thursday, I wanted to show her some photo canvases I had made of photos I’d taken when we both used to work for the Anasazi Fields winery in Placitas. We both miss working there, and we dearly miss the winery’s founder and vintner, Jim Fish. So sometimes we drink the wines we used to make, and remember both wine and vintner.

Here is one of the canvases. She liked it and hung it right after I left.

It’s called a Nopalito Sunrise. Nopal cactus is better known as prickly pear cactus. Nopalitos are the pads of the cactus, which is used as a vegetable. We fermented the fruit only. Some people make prickly pear jelly, or candy from the fruit, which is called tuna. The word tuna is from the Taino culture in the Caribbean, but is commonly used in Southwestern Spanish for the prickly pear fruit.

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So, Jim Fish created this drink. Champagne is poured in the glass, followed by the prickly pear wine (Napolito, as coined by Jim). The wine is poured slowly, often using a spoon, just like a Black & Tan. In this drink the prickly pear wine floats on top of the champagne. In a Black & Tan, Guinness floats on top of a layer of pale ale.

So, to commerate the occasion, I brought champagne (local – Gruet), and one of the last half bottles of our Nopalito. The color of the Napolito wine is bright purple when fresh, and turns a bit red with the champagne. Unfortunately, the color fades over time in the bottle because we never used preservatives or sulfites in our wines. Much of what is left is a light brown, but tastes the same.

Perhaps it was the champagne, but we ate our spring rolls, and a skewer each of pork or chicken, and drank Nopalito Sunrises, and talked for hours. We’d never done that before, and it was great. We shared memories, and secrets, and laughs.

So, the door, the door. I always get distracted. In the process of taking this door from a large heavy piece of carved wood into an actual door, I used:

• a hand plane
• a hammer
• nails
• four short (2 x 4)s
• two joist hangers
• a pair of pliers
• two chisels
• clamps
• a sanding block
• a tape measure
• a combination square
• a drill
• a circular saw
• two hole cutters
• a nail set, or punch
• two sawhorses
• pencils
• a pencil sharpener
• a mortise gauge
• a drill bit
• a small router bit
• screwdrivers
• an adjustable wrench
• a linoleum or carpet knife
• and a 36 inch wooden ruler

It was a lot of work – for me – to hang a manufactured door, especially when I needed to perfectly match the existing frame, including the existing hinges, and the holes for the door lock and deadbolt. It worked! The door hangs centered in the frame, it opens and closes smoothly, and both the doorknob lock and the deadbolt function flawlessly. Did I mention how heavy this door is? Solid core, solid fir. I had to carry it to the sawhorses, flip it over, stand it on its edge and rotate it to the opposite edge or surface many times, including testing it in the doorframe after each modifcation. Sure, it took a lot of time, not the least of which was thinking about each tool, and concentrating on not ruining the door. I got a few small splinters, and a small cut which turned into a blood blister after a screwdriver slipped. But I never dropped the door on my toes, which would have broken them or my foot. Did I mention this door was heavy? It doesn’t exactly come with handles, so I had to stretch my arms wide and lift it in all directions. I’m not complaining.

In fact, I enjoyed it. I stopped when I wasn’t sure of something. I stopped when I got frustrated, like when planing took days, or when chiseling never seemed to keep those hinge slots level and uniformly deep. There are electric planes, I found, just like there are table saws, but this was mostly a by-hand project. I did use an electric drill for the door holes, and an electric circular saw to trim the bottom edge, but I think of those as hand tools. After all, I used them in my hand, not built into a large metal table with adjustable rails to keep everything straight and even. Not because I’d have been against that, but I have no place to house such things, nor a steady need for such things.

Things didn’t always go smoothly. The door still had some sap, right where I drilled the holes, and although I drilled each hole halfway from either side, it almost got wrenched out of my hand when it jammed up in a hole. As it was, the jig I slipped over the door as a guide got bumped, so the hole looks a bit funny inside, but that’s OK.

I’ve lots of tools left over from a lifetime of fixing things, or adding things, like a door, or a 12 foot by 20 foot addition to a house, roofing an entire house, and working with concrete. They don’t get much use now, as I rent the place I live in. I could have asked the landlord to hire someone to do work like this, but I’d much rather do it myself. And using tools is so satisfying.

The Door, part 2, no thanks to the HOA

If you have read the previous entry on this blog (The Door), you know I brought a solid Fir door home from a door shop. The shop is located near the train tracks where they intersect with Rio Bravo Blvd in Albuquerque, although that area is also known as “The South Valley.” Parts of it, especially along the major roads, are part of and serviced by the City of Albuquerque, New Mexico, officially founded as a Spanish colony in 1706. The rest is part of the County of Bernalillo, named for the Gonzales-Bernal family that lived in the area before 1692, and created by the Territorial Legislature in 1852. The town of Bernalillo was founded by Don Diego de Vargas, a Spanish Governor of the New Spain territory of Santa Fe de Nuevo México in 1695. Before that, the local inhabitants, now called Native Americans, lived here for thousands of years before the continent was named Amerigo after the Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci. A map created in 1507 by Martin Waldseemüller, a German cartographer, was the first to depict part of this continent with the name “America,” a Latinized version of “Amerigo,” although he only meant to use the name for a specific part of Brazil. In 1538, Gerardus Mercator used America to name both the North and South continents on his influential maps. Colonialism produces odd names.

Anyway, enough rambling. I am still working on the door. I cut off a section of the bottom edge easily enough. But I only needed to remove 1/4 inch of the long edge of the door. Although my hand held circular saw was good enough to trim the bottom of the door to fit the frame, I do not trust it or myself to use a 1/8 inch saw blade to remove 1/4 inch of material from a length of 78 1/2 inches, perfectly straight and at a perfect right angle with the flat plane of the door. So, speaking of planes, since, as I said, I do not have access to a table saw, I needed to plane the edge with a hand tool of the type created in the 1860s for that very purpose. Simple, is what I thought. However, Fir wood is very dense, and difficult to work with. You need very sharp tools with a strong edge. I had to sharpen the cutting edge of my hand plane several times over the course of several days to finish that one edge. But it came out beautiful – perfectly level and smooth. These are photos from just before I began planing.

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I could find no pre-made jig to hold the door upright on it’s opposite edge, so I made my own. I used a couple of 2-by-4s to hold each of two joist hangers, and braced one edge with the piece of the bottom edge of the door that I cut in half to use for that purpose. I butted one edge against my fireplace banco, so all of my planing had to be done towards the fireplace. As heavy as I thought the door was, and even after I placed a lead brick at each end, the whole door would still move in the direction of the shaving cuts of the hand plane. It was slow going, and very tiring. I took my time to make sure it would be done right.

So, when I finsihed with that a few days ago, I removed the old door, and placed the new one in the opening. It was a perfect fit on the upright sides, but the door frame itself is not a perfect rectangle. The top edge was too high on one side. So, then I had to cut off a tapered piece, starting from 1/4 inch deep at one edge, to zero about three quarters of the way to the other edge. Mission accomplished, but it is very slightly off according to my straight edge. However, it is so slight as to not be noticeable once the door is installed.

Now for the door hinges. I marked the hinge, door knob, and deadbolt positions from the current ones, while I had the door wedged into place. Now I am working on the notches for the door hinge. First I measured the depth of the notch, and made cuts to the 1/8 inch line I scribed. Then I made extra cuts to asssist with chiseling out the wood from the notches. More hand tools. I love it. Next time I will discuss cutting the holes for the door handle and deadbolt.

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In the meantime, I am having to deal with the beaurocractic nature of the Home Owner’s Association, which not only dictates the colors used to paint any part of the outside of the houses, but also requires that a form be submitted to the architectural committee of the HOA before performing any modifications, even to the choice of color and and the paint manufacturer. I learned my lesson about that before, but the HOA board changes all the time, and no one seems to understand what was written. This is what is posted on our bulletin board:

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Now, I studied this for a while to make sure I understood it. The first three colors are only for gates, doors and trim INSIDE of private courtyards (patios), and may only be used for those. The next five colors, and the attached piece of lumber depict the colors, including varnished natural wood, that can be used for gates, doors and trim BOTH inside and outside of the private courtyards. The first three colors cannot be used for any trim (canales, protruding beams, etc.) outside of the courtyards.

Here are the actual pertinent written instructions from the bylaws of the HOA:

“Beams/Vigas, Canales, Window Trim and Fences located OUTSIDE an individual courtyard:

“Natural wood colors (varnished, natural, stained), Sable (Sherwin Williams SW6083), Tiki Hut (Sherwin Williams SW7509), Whirlpool (Sherwin Williams SW9135) Turkish Tile (Sherwin Williams SW7610), and Jade Dragon (Sherwin Williams SW9129).

“Entry Gates, Front Doors, Window Trim and Beams/Vigas located entirely WITHIN individual courtyards: ANY OF THE ABOVE COLORS plus the following additional colors which may only be used on an entry gate, door or within a courtyard:

“Earthen Jug (Sherwin Williams SW7703), Salute (Sherwin Williams SW7582), and Rivulet (Sherwin Williams SW6760).”

These people are, like many HOAs, simply obsessive and compulsive. And who knows who originally chose those colors, anyway? Be that as it may be, these people who are walking around documenting violations of these bylaws, do not understand the bylaws they quote. I’m told that only those first three colors can be used to paint my gate or door. I repaired and painted my entry gate (with the approved color) after receiving a notice to do so. However, I did not get committee approval by submiting a form about my intended “modification” first. That’s absurd. There is a series of recurring $25 fines for violating the rules, which escalate to $100 per day. And you get fined if you use the approved colors without first submitting an “Architectural Control Committee Request for Approval Form” Just to paint! and with the “correct” paints. Beaurocracy at its finist. I’m working with my landlord now to get those requests in, so I can install the door. My landlord is having to restucco the entire house due to chips and cracks in the existing stucco, after just having to repair a leaking roof, a process that took a year to get approval for and schedule the roofing work, while it continued to leak!

I need approval to replace the evaporative cooler. And Lowe’s Hardware quoted $1500 above the purchase price of $400 to install one of their coolers. I and my landlord’s nephew are going to do it ourselves, if I ever finish this door and get approval from the asshats in the HOA to install it, varnish it, and seal it.

My landlord is tired of all this, and offered to sell the place to me with really good terms, but I don’t know if I could deal with these people anymore. All this aggravation, and I would have to pay about $380 a month in HOA fees just for the privilege of being told what I can and cannot do with my house. But the housing and rental market is rising. Rents are getting too high for me to move even now. I’m retired and seventy years old. I don’t want to move, but I can’t imagine buying a house again either.

Well, at least I have my health, huh?

The Door

This is about a literal door. A door that has become a problem. It’s a problem I had hoped would be fixable. I am not a carpenter, but I was trained in a variety of tools and equipment in high school. Being of a scientific bent, I also studied algebra, trigonometry, geometry, physics, chemistry, and biology. My after-school activities included Coin Club, Photo Club (which included film development), Computer Club, Drama Club, and Science Club. I was President of that club after years of putting out a weekly mimeographed science newsletter full of synopses of various magazine articles I read. I was not a member of all those clubs simultaneously. I attended that high school for five years from ninth grade to twelfth, but I was given below the passing grade of 70 in three subjects during the second half of my junior year, so, I had to repeat the entire year, which I was OK with. I ended up with a nearly perfect understanding of Algebra, did well in Physics, and was placed in the Honor Society in my senior year. I actually tutored other students after school as my Honor Society duty, which is why I ended up dropping most clubs except Science and Drama.

However, my high school education gave me a keen “Theory & Practice” education. I studied drafting (mechanical drawing) and made tools to match. I learned a bit about woodworking, sheet metal work, and forge. I made a wooden wrench pattern from one of my drawings that was turned into a metal wrench. I cut and hammered, and tempered a cold chisel. I made a small sheet-metal box, spot-welded together, that I kept as a reminder of those years.

But, fast forward 52 years, long after I retired from disease-research laboratory work at a University medical school, and after I spent eight years making wine while being a background actor for TV and movies, and years studying acting, and suddenly I have to retrieve that woodworking knowledge from high school. The knowledge is there, and it comes back to me, but the skills are weak. I did physical labor during my working career, from electrical work for a carnival to foundry work for architect Paolo Solari at his Scottsdale, Arizona headquarters. My initial job for the University was working as a Mason’s helper. I ran a jackhammer, repaired concrete sidewalks, built block walls, built a baseball dugout, built an underground utility room, installed metal doors in block walls, and even laid a brick floor once in the University President’s former garage.

In addition, in 2006 & 2007, while still married, I added a 12-foot by 20-foot room to my wife’s house, removed the old tar and gravel roof and rotten wood underneath, and shingled the entire house roof and the addition’s roof. I’m handy, but not a skilled craftsman. I did design the addition but ordered a set of roof trusses (struts) that I had to install manually (and creatively). So I used a lot of power tools, but few hand tools other than a hammer, measuring tape, and levels. My wife kicked me out as soon as I finished, so I never got to enjoy the new addition, with the nice raised ceiling I’d installed. I had to leave her the job of completing the electrical wiring, the sheetrocking, and painting. I’ve never seen the completed work, but when she moved back to California, she offered (through my stepdaughter) to rent the place to me for $50 less than the rent I currently pay. I passed on that. It was a home, not just a house — I couldn’t live there alone with those memories. I suspect that what she wanted was free maintenance by me while I lived there, and rent.

The door? Yes, I said this was about a door. And it is. I’m getting to that. Here’s the door:

For the photo, I simply stood it up against the outside door frame.

It’s a thick outside door made of fir, unfinished, and has no cutouts for the hinges, doorknob, or deadbolt. Which is why it’s taking me a while. I contemplated fixing the old door, but it had been ruined when a very large dog door was cut into the lock stile, a lower panel, the lower mullion, and the bottom rail before I moved in. After I’d lived there a bit, I realized how easy it was to enter the house by reaching up through the door to unlock both the doorknob and the deadbolt in a matter of seconds. In addition, the hole itself was large enough to allow a boy or a slim adult access to my house while I was away from home. I hated that. It’s sealed off now.

THIS IS THE OLD DOOR. I HAD THE DOG DOOR SEALED OFF WITH A PIECE OF THE ORIGINAL DOOR.

↑__ The old door, above, is still there, hanging on. Unfortunately, I had two feral cats at the time that needed to come and go, so I installed a small cat door for them. However, over time, the door frame kept shifting downward. I tightened the hinges and had to move the mortise for the strike plate down. Recently it had shifted some more, and couldn’t go any lower. I contemplated various options, but I was able to continue using the door by lifting it up as I closed and locked it. Then one day it collapsed when I opened it. The hinge stile remained connected to the hinges, but the rest of the door pulled away. A lot of dust fell out. I was able to hammer the door back into a semblance of its previous self, but I had to use a crowbar to raise it up high enough to lock it in place. Fortunately, I have a back door.

Both the dog and cat entrances ruined the door’s integrity over time. I don’t know how long the doggy door had been there, but I probably installed the cat door 12 or 13 years ago. I’ve had to open the old door a few times, but it disintegrates a bit every time I do that. The last time, two large pieces of wood fell into the space between the upright “hinge stile” and the bottom “rail”, so I had to chop them out of the way with a handy screwdriver in order to close the door. The door is shot. No carpentry shop will attempt to repair it. They build from scratch only. $900 for a consignment door that was never picked up seemed a little steep. But most of their doors far exceeded that. New door? Not cheap either. A similar pine door would take 12 weeks to order from a retail door seller. I thought at first that I’d take this one apart. It only has old rotten dowels and glue holding it together. A couple dowels are completely shot. The glue holding the whole thing together has completely dried out. Repairing it is doable, but I have no access to equipment to replicate the convex edges on the panels, or the tongue pieces that fit into the door sides. I could have someone make them, but it was going to be an expensive, time-consuming project, and I’d have no door in the meantime.

I let the whole thing go as I pondered the options. Finally, I decided a new door would not only be less trouble but likely less expensive that any other option. However, on the day that I was to pick one up, the roofers had come to finish up a roof repair. It’s an odd roof. Not only is it a spray-foam-covered roof, but the housing complex I live in has a common boiler for hot water, which is also used to heat the house by heat exchange from copper tubing to the ductwork through a blower. The hot-water-feed pipe for the copper tubing runs through the roof. The plumbers nicked the pipe. Hot water geysered all over the place and leaked into the cut they had made to seal the roof off from my neighbor’s house. The roofers had recommended that we do our roofs at the same time to save money. The owner of the house with which I shared two walls refused. They had some patchwork done and were not worried about further leaks. The roofers found wet insulation on my side, which they dug out and replaced, but noticed that the neighbor’s house also had wet insulation. I told them, but to no avail. So the plumbers had to build a barrier in the roof between the walls we shared to keep their leaky roof from bleeding water into the insulation on my section of the roof.

WHAT A MESS! I had bucketfuls of water pouring in, mostly down the wall, but also over a small bookcase, some shelving, all the framed photos and art on the wall, and a couple of leaks through the wood ceiling. I got everything off of the wall, moved the bookshelf out, and removed the bottom layer of books whose spines had gotten splashed. There was no real damage, but there were hours of catching water and mopping up the excess with a closetful of towels, then running them and a couple of throw rugs through the washing machine as I exchanged wet for dry. The plumbers completed the work without incident. My neighbor is unhappy about a partly damp couch back, water that wetted the outside of a small frame containing a Navajo rug, and the stain on the ceiling. However, the ceiling had leaked in that house before and had never been completely repaired. I could see an old rotten circle of previous damage. The roofers owned up to causing the problem, but the owner wants compensation for more than the actual damage caused. Opportunistic and greedy, I’d say. This wouldn’t have been necessary if they had agreed to have both sections of roof sealed at the same time. But the owner is demanding compensation from the woman I rent my house from. The plumbing work had been properly approved by the HOA that controls our lives here, so there is no reason to blame my landlord. The leak was an accident that the plumbers caused and fixed. Damage is their responsibility.

PARTS OF A DOOR ASSEMBLY

So, finally, back to the door. It’s like a never-ending saga. Thank you for letting me tell the story. Writing is how I deal with stress. Since the door frame is 2 3/4 inches thick, firmly bolted to the adobe wall, I could not replace the frame as well. So I bought the door without cutouts for the hinges, handle, or lock. I need to fit the door to the frame, make sure it has enough space all around, and line up the existing hinges, etc., then mark and measure everything as it is. There is no other way to do this.

I’ve begun work on the door. I fired up my small circular saw and removed the correct amount from the lower rail. Pretty straight. Looks good. I am still working on the door’s upright lock stile, planing it down to the correct size. I’m told to remove 1/8 inch from both sides. The door company, however, recommended that I just remove wood from the lock stile side. I do not have a table saw, and no place to put one if I did, so I am falling back on my woodworking knowledge from high school. From experience, I know better than to try to use a circular saw with a 1/8 inch blade to remove 1/4 inch down the full length of the door. I own a good sturdy plane with a sharp blade that didn’t need much sharpening. I’ve scribed both sides and filled in the scratches with a pencil. I have planed both sides of that edge to a 45-degree angle up to, but not including the pencil marks. It’s difficult without a workbench to clamp it to. I currently have it lying flat on two sawhorses I had to purchase for this project. It’s heavy enough to mostly stay in place. Later, I will have to rig some way to hold the door upright on the opposite edge, so I can plane the length of that upright stile to remove the remaining wood. I think I can brace one edge against the fireplace banco, which is shorter than the width of the door, and use the sawhorses to hold it vertical. But I’d have to brace those lightweight sawhorses somehow, and I will have to step around them while planing. Later.

Then I have to attach the hardware, see how it fits and how freely the door moves. Then I will have to use a clear stain and sealant after I get approval from the HOA. They usually require that we use outside contractors, but I’m going to present this door as an emergency repair out of necessity. All they need to do is OK the color, which is bare wood, and on the approved list of colors. However, they don’t allow any work to be done without written permission obtained in writing in advance from the architecture committee. They are very slow to answer. They could fine the landlord. I’ll have to see how this goes. I’ll update that story later.

Next up – a new evaporative cooler. I had to remove the old one before the roofers finished sealing the roof. It was a rusty, leaking hulk that I’ve kept running for 14 years, tightening the V-belt, oiling the bearings, replacing water pumps, tubing, and floats, and replacing parts of the rusted-out metal sides. A new one in that same size was on sale at Lowe’s Hardware store for $369. I paid $35 for estimates of what it would take to purchase one and have it delivered and installed: $1922.52. That’s absurd. I suspected that, however. All I did was remove the old cooler. The ductwork is still in place. The electrical conduit is still there for attaching the unit to power. He wanted to replace all that, and there was no reason to do that. My advice: buy a cooler, but install it yourself or have an independent contractor install it.

I’m going to do it myself. The landlord’s nephew will assist me in picking one up and getting it on the roof. Stay tuned.

Basic Evaporative Cooler, aka desert cooler, swamp cooler, etc.

Laundry Dreams? A Dating Adventure?

Every once in a while I’ll have a dream that sticks with me after I’m awake. This morning, one of those shook me awake: I was living in some kind of multi-story apartment building, which I have never done, nor have I ever considered doing that. There was someone else in the apartment with me, maybe even two other people. It seemed we were arguing, or deep in some serious discussion. The phone rang. There was a laundry facility in the basement of the building, and my clothes were done. It wasn’t a service, just coin-operated machines, and the drier had finished. So they needed me to come get my clothes out of the machine. I said I’d be right down. As I was telling the other person, or persons, that I had to go get my laundry, there was a knock on my door. It was a large muscular man and I let him in. He had my clothes in a laundry basket. I lifted my arms to take the laundry and dump it on the bed, but he inverted the basket, dumping my clothes on the floor. I didn’t say anything, I just swooped down to pick them up and put them on the bed. They were still slightly damp.

And I was awake. I was confused for a moment, because it was just after 5:00 am, and still dark. I have no place to be, and nothing planned for all day, but I was wide awake. I made some strong tea as dawn broke. I can’t get the dream out of my mind, pondering what the hell it was about. A high-rise apartment? A laundry room? Neither applies.

The dream wasn’t about laundry. Anger? Was the argument about something important? I did have an odd breakup with someone I barely knew a few weeks ago. Diedre was someone I met on a movie set, the set of Matthew McConaughey’s Gold movie. It was shot here in Albuquerque in 2017. I was a background actor on the set for a few scenes. She was also doing background on that set. We had gotten together back then some time later, and gone to watch a movie in this great theater that has a brewery and bar in it. (not a dream – it was real). It was about the time that the Gold movie had been released, 2018, so I think that was what we watched. The movie house has multiple theaters, but it’s been closed since Covid-19 hit. Great place. You can sit at the bar before the movie starts, and then take your drinks with you into the theater. In fact, you can order food, and another drink while you watch the movie and they bring it to you.

After we watched the movie, we talked for a bit at the bar, discussing the movie, and other things. I had seen Diedre at meetings of a local group, Casting Coffee, made up of other people in the movie business, mostly background actors like myself. Before Covid-19 we had get-togethers once every other Saturday for coffee, snacks, and pot-luck items, and we talked shop: what movies were being shot, who was casting, etc. Around Christmas time, I had worn a Santa hat to the meeting. Diedre actually sat down on my lap, joking about what Santa (me) would bring her. It’s an old joke, so I laughed. We finally exchanged phone numbers, which is how our movie date came about.

As we were talking after the movie, she mentioned some friends we had in common, a man and a woman. They had made a short movie themselves, and I had supplied a still photo that was used in the movie as a MacGuffin (an object that is unimportant in itself but figures in the plot). I watched the finished short movie with them. I knew that woman, Tara, also from Casting Coffee meetings, and we had shared driving to and from movie events in Santa Fe a few times. She was then part of a Foundation that promotes movie making in New Mexico, and I had told her about a photography/modeling group that gave photographers and models practical experience and instruction in a photographer’s studio: Guerrilla Photo Group. The group that met there were also interested in movies, and I had obtained my first role with some novice movie makers there. So Tara and I met at the photographer’s studio and she gave a short introduction of her organization for people interested in getting involved in the movie business. I took some photos of Tara that she could use as headshots for casting directors. She had a small role on the TV series “The Night Shift” as a nurse, and they made her ID badge from one of those photos I took of her. I knew the man also, Chuck, who was a close friend of Tara’s.

Is this getting too complicated? I’m just rambling here, trying to piece this thing together.

So, all of that had to do with my conversation with Diedre at the movie theater bar. She talked about those two people, Tara and Chuck, whom she knew well, but she was gossiping about them, and bad-mouthing them. I didn’t like that at all, and never wanted to see her again. I don’t like gossips, and since Tara was a friend of mine, I hadn’t liked what Deidre was saying about Tara and Chuck at all. Malicious gossip and innuendo.

So, jumping forward to the present, in March I met Diedre on a hike organized by a Meetup hiking group. I was actually happy to see her, as a few years had passed. We hiked together and talked some. After the hike I asked if she’d like to get lunch nearby. We met at a popular Cafe in Corrales, a place where I had met a very interesting woman about nine years ago, but that’s a whole different kind of story. The GPG photography/modeling group I was part of then had also been to this same Cafe that night, holding a photography exhibit there, and one of my photos was part of the exhibit back then. So, anyway, during lunch at that Cafe with Diedre, I brought up the whole gossiping thing that had occured years earlier, because, if we were to be friends, I wanted that settled? discussed? It had bugged me about her. She told me about being on the outs with Tara, and having had an argument with her, and Chuck was somehow involved in that, and it was more that I wanted to hear about, but it seemed to explain why Deidre had been gossiping about them, so I decided to let it go.

It turned out that Diedre actually lives near me, and was more interested in having a hiking buddy to fast walk along the ditches in this old farming area. She really wasn’t that interested in hiking with the Meetup group. I agreed to meet her for hikes, since we lived close anyway. Well, fast forwarding a little, we had some enjoyable hikes. I suggested that we get something to eat after the first one, since I hadn’t eaten breakfast. She agreed. That happened a few more times. Once she offered to split the tab, so it seemed we were just to be friends, hiking buddies, which was fine with me. However, that was just a ruse. She kept buying me facemasks, as she didn’t like the generic ones I wore on the hikes (this was pre-vaccinations). She offered me two: a maroon one, a flashy bright paritotic one. She even gave me a photography book. She thought I should wear those skin-tight water-wicking pants that runners and bicyclists wear. Turns out she was curious about my legs and ass, which wouldn’t have been a bad thing, except she was becoming less and less interesting to me. She still gossiped, about other people now, and how people had ghosted her, and wronged her, and I wasn’t interested in any of that. She thought I wasn’t being supportive. I also was becoming suspicious of her, as she was acting like my long-time best friend, and wanted to date more often, pushing through the hikes quickly just so we could go out to eat.

She had also once been talking about crime in the neighborhood, and suddenly spit out: “Those Fucking Mexicans!” which I found horrifying. She herself was born and raised in New Mexico, so an attitude like that shocked me. We discussed it briefly, and she back-pedeled a bit, saying she just meant the ones committting crimes around where she lived, but it harked back to Donald Trump’s habit of lumping all Mexicans together who traveled (legally or illegally) to work in the US, as rapists, killers and thieves. We hadn’t discussed politics, but I was now highly wary of her. We hiked after that, but the discussion sometimes got heated, and I started calling her out on the way she talked about her friends, and I told her if she was so upset, she should call them and try to straighten things out.

I suspected now why people ghosted her and were mad at her. She’s a bit overbearing, and besides gossiping about other people, she has strong opinions about things, opinions that bothered me, so I would tell her what I thought, which was often much the opposite of what she thought. She didn’t like that. I think she wanted a PAL – which at one time was slang for “personal ass licker” a person whose sole value in a friendship is to agree with everything they say, condemn the people and things they don’t like, and like only what they like. It is not how I see real friendship. It’s also a domination thing. Diedre spoke often about how people had wronged her, especially men, whom she saw as always trying to control her. More and more, however, that’s how I saw her, She was critical of the clothes I wore to hike, critical of my house when she was there once, and absolutley sure of her opinions, which she could not discuss without taking offense to anything I said that did not reinforce her own opinions. She said I was trying to control her.

I’m a pretty laid-back kind of guy, so that seemed like a bizarre thing for her to say. But she tried to back it up by saying she had studied psychology and read a lot, so she understood people and understood how people manipulated other people. She also said that she was a really good person, that many people had told her that. An interesting discussion that we had once centered around how people often project their personality flaws onto others they have relationships with, unable to see those things in themselves. It was something we agreed on. However, I could see Diedre doing that herself. I found her manipulative, as I mentioned, but also rude to food workers in the restaurtants we went to, always – and I mean every time – wanting substitutions and additions. Her favorite thing was to ask for “crumbles” to be added to her meatless dishes, by which she meant meat, like hamburger, crumpled over her food dishes, but she didn’t want to pay for it – she fully expected it to given to her free because she smiled when she asked for it. Some waitstaff told her she would have to pay for it, which she didn’t seem to expect. This was a pattern with her.

She usually asked for extras, extra sauce on the side, extra this and that, and it seemed she was used to getting free items, and extra service. She always ordered more than she could eat, and then would specify extra boxes for each of the items on her plate, rather than one container. I saw her actions as rude, self absorbed, and coming from a sense of entitlement. We stopped at a restaurent one evening at 9:30 pm, but they were closing at 10:00 pm, and had already shut down the kitchen. Diedre wouldn’t accept that, insisting not only that they seat us, but that they make food for us, and she asked for the manger, who politely told her she couldn’t do that. She offered to seat us and bring us drinks and snacks, but Diedre wasn’t having any of that. We left. I could see she was used to having her own way, and fit the popular image of people like her who are called “Karens” – those older white women coming from a life of privilege and money who think they should always be obeyed by those lesser than them, and that they know more about everything than anyone else.

I was really disliking this woman. Our talks turned into arguments. I got heated once and apologized. This woman was getting to me, irritating me. Then one night in April I saw her exactly as she was. I had been telling her I wanted some crabcakes. I grew up in Baltimore, “fished” for crabs in the Cheasapeake bay, and know how to make a good crabcake. However, in New Mexico crabmeat is very expensive, and few restuarants use unfrozen, fresh meat, or prepare it the way it’s done in Maryland. ↓

So, when I found an open Pelican’s restaurant offering “Maryland Crabcakes” I was excited. Diedre had helped me shoot a dialogue audition at my house, for which I had promised her a meal. Which is how we had ended up a week earlier at the other restaurant at 9:30 pm, and then ended up getting a couple of good sub sandwiches at Dion’s Italian restaurant take-out window. Diedre didn’t consider that the meal she had been promised, which is why we were going to a nice sit-down dinner for crabcakes.

The meal was a disaster. The crabcakes came two to an order. They weren’t very big, but I was getting that order of two. Diedre insisted that we split the order, and each get one crabcake and something else. Since I was paying anyway, I politely told her to get an order for herself; I wasn’t splitting that – it was what I’d come for. That really pissed her off, which was bothering me, because it confirmed my idea that she expected to get her own way no matter what. But, we agreed to an order of crabcakes for each of us. She said that wasn’t enough, she would need something else, and the other menu items would be too much to eat combined with the crabcakes. I told her she could order whatever she wanted, but she was in a bad mood now because I hadn’t complied with her insistence that I have only one crabcake. They had a menu item that combined a cup of clam chowder and a salad, so I suggested we get that to pair with the crabcakes, and split it. She agreed. However, after I told the waiter what we wanted and he turned to go, she yelled at him: two separate orders of crabcakes, and a seperate chowder and a separate salad, which confused him. So, he brought our crabcakes, and then he brought out the largest bowl of clam chowder I’d ever seen, not part of the combo. Diedra didn’t want any, and I couldn’t eat all that. She tucked into the endless salad menu instead. It was not part of the combo either.

But the meal wasn’t over. Of course, she asked for extra bread, which she just wanted to take home. She wasn’t all that hungry. She asked our poor waiter for a box for the bread, a box for the salad, and even a container for the salad dressing, and, out of boxes, and because I suggested she add the crabcake to the salad – a crabcake salad for later – she insisted that he bring her another box for the leftover crabcake, because she had only been able to eat one of them (in truth, they weren’t very good). The clam chowder hadn’t been all that good either. She had tasted it but hadn’t wanted any, but she didn’t want to take that home too. She insisted that I send the waiter back for another container and take that home with me. I didn’t want to. She kept insiting that I take it and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I just wanted out of there. I finally had to tell her I didn’t like the heavily creamed chowder, and I wasn’t going to eat it. At this point everyone near us was listening to all of this. She finally backed down, sullenly. I took her back to my house so she could get her car. She didn’t insist on hugging as she had been doing, and said that she needed to go home immediately because she had to pee real bad. I offered my bathroom of course, but she said no.

I didn’t expect to hear from her again.

But, of course, I did. She called me wanting to try Pappadeaux, another restaurant I had mentioned that used to have a Maryland chef who made good crabcakes. I told her no, that I had called the restaurant and they were asking $16 for each crabcake, double what I had just paid. But I asked Diedre if she wanted to hike and she agreed. It wasn’t the best hike. She was argumentative and hostile, trying to rehash things we had discussed over and over again. At one point as we made our way back from the hike along a different trail, she pointed out a cactus I had seen earlier that I had commented on. She said: “There’s your cactus again.” I was unsure what she meant, since we had taken a different trail back that she chose. I told her it was not the same one, but she insisted it was. She said I was trying to control her. I told her that I hadn’t understood what she meant, because it couldn’t be since we were on a different trail, farther from the river than when we’d set out. She wasn’t having any of that, and wouldn’t believe me. I let it go. She said, <“Maybe it was the same one,” but she kept insisting we were on the same trail. Then she wanted to go eat. I told her I’d eaten a good breakfast and wasn’t hungry, which was true. She insisted, however, that we go out to eat, and maybe try another restaurant with crabcakes.

She didn’t take kindly to my turning her down on that. So, I told her we weren’t old friends, we weren’t close or family, and I hadn’t liked this way she kept coming on to me, wanting to have regular dates right off the bat, and acting like we were a couple. That really pissed her off. She acted indignant, insisting that she is a good looking, really attractive woman, and I was old and ugly, even though she’d once told me she was almost my age. She said there was no way she’d be interested in me, and that’s the way men, including me, are – so full of ourselves, and so self-centered and deluded that we think women are interested in us when they are not.

Again, I thought that was the last of it, and I was content not to ever have to deal with her again. However, she sent me a long text, the gist of which was that she was still really upset at what I said. It sounded like she wanted me to apologize. I ignored the text, so I got one last retort from her, which I’ve forgotten, because I deleted the conversation entirely. I was actually very happy that she would be out of my life.

When she had been at my house helping read for me for my audition, she had offered to clean my house for me as a job, because I had not been keeping up with dusting and clutter. She’s getting unemployment, but doesn’t want to work. She only wants to go back to art painting. She had asked me if I was getting unemployment too, as so many were during this time of Covid. I had told her I had a small retirement income and was receiving social security as well. She had smiled broadly, and half joking, had said: “Marry Me.”

I dodged a bullet there.

[UPDATE:

Weeks later, I took myself to Pappadeaux. Their crabcakes were exactly the same type as the ones served at Pelican’s: breaded claw meat, not lump meat, but also gaggingly smothered in capers. Now, in a large dish or stew I can take a few capers, but they had prepared the capers in a sauce that they poured over the crabcakes. I picked out the dozens of capers, but there was nothing I could do about the strongly infused taste of capers in the sauce. I could barely taste the flavor of the crabmeat. Capers are way too powerful a taste to me, because they completely overwhelm a delicate flavor like blue crab. I asked if it was possible to get the crabcakes without capers the next time I came, and the server told me I could order them that way. However, at $16 per crabcake, I’m not likely to order them again.]

Hiking Somewhere Above Fenton Lake

Went for a Meetup hike in the Jemez mountains, way out past Jemez Pueblo. The plan was to hike to an overlook with a good view of Fenton Lake, but hours later, we discovered we’d not taken the right trail to the overlook. Nevertheless, we had a pleasant day with occasional cool breezes or cloud cover, although it was hot in the direct sun. I didn’t get the photos of Fenton Lake I wanted, but, next time. We also stopped at the Intersection of US-550 and NM-4 near San Ysidro to catch some recent art ( @skindian_art ) near the feed store and animal museum there. Here are some photos:

CUSP OF A MORNING

Sautéd onion
beaten eggs
a lot of green
a dash of salt
a modicum of pepper
a sprinkle of cheese
a drizzle of red.

It’s all good after that.

MY HEART IS NOT AWAKE

I have heard sleep. 
It is not noisy
not the deep nasal 
blasts of snoring.

It is not talking
into my pillow
or the random
bumps in the night
a heater clicking 
on & off
a coyote yip
or an invisible catfight.

It is not the raucous noise
of an illegal street race.
It is not the rapid tumult
of my erratic heart
that echoes in my head
until I hold my breath
to calm it down.

No, it is not those things. 
Those are normal.
Those are things
I can sleep through.

Long ago I heard sleep
the soft comfort of a 
colicky baby finally asleep
a nearby cat dreaming
the cool caress
of a summer breeze.

Sleep is also the 
soft breathing person
snuggled against me
a slow rhythmic heart 
creating a vibrating bond
between us
connecting me to life
to someone I love
to the earlier afterglow
of a passionate embrace
and heart-thumping
physical love.

That is the sleep I crave.
That is the sound 
my restless heart
longs to feel.

Listen here on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5THupG8Q5D7FZLyuLPZ5tL

The Kilala

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 wandering 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)

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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.

Tiny Screens, Tiny Buttons: Nothing New

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 graphic interface; it seemed like computing for dummies. I couldn’t access the hard drive directly. 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. It took a lot to get anything done. Of course that experience helped me get a job in a research lab just before I graduated from high school.

The measuring equipment I ran there was interfaced with a teletype machine, so all the numbers I generated from microscope measurements were punched into a pink teletype data tape. At the end of every day, I walked the tape to the “computing center” and loaded the tape on a reel in 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. Mind you, this was state-of-the-art computing at Johns Hopkins University at the time (late 60s & early 70s).

I operated an oscilloscope, a four-microscope interferometer, and a double-crystal X-ray spectrometer to, not only measure X-ray wavelengths, but to use X-ray wavelengths to map the internal structure of silicon and germanium crystals, which was really handy later for those computer chips made of silicone. Germanium was used more in transitors than chips.

That was my whole interaction with computers until another research job in the early ’80s had me using biomedical research equipment with built-in HP-85 computers; the 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 research equipment for column chromatography, 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 drives for copying disk to disk — woo hoo! On this machine, I had a simple line-drawing ski game to play. Then – OMG – my boss got a desktop computer in 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 low-resolution pictures. I could chat and 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 program 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 of rent or more. The cost of MACs was insane. By 1988, I was able to purchase a used DOS personal computer (Disk Operating System, 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 been typing 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.

8086

My trusty computer at that point had an 8086 Intel 16-bit microprocessor chip, which I was able to upgrade to an 8088. I had a 20MB “hard” drive, a built-in floppy drive, and a 300 bps modem (bits per second). There was no GUI (Graphic User Interface) and no mouse. I upgraded chips, software, drives, memory, and monitors constantly over the years, as computers and necessary upgrades became less and less expensive. The used Acer 64-bit system I purchased eight years ago has 6 GB of installed memory (RAM), and an Intel Core i3-2100 CPU running at 3.10 GHz. Total cost: $375. I purchased an ASUS 27″ monitor screen ($125) to use with it because I like to see what I’m doing, sometimes with multiple windows. It is more than enough processing power for all my needs unless it dies someday.

I don’t think many people even use home desktop systems anymore – now it’s all iPads, laptops, tablets, and phones. Mostly phones. Average cost: $600. With their tiny screens and tiny buttons. Progress?

Movie Soundtracks For a Solitary Man

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.

Urban Refuge: Valle de Oro

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.

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Such a Dream — C’est la vie

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 Hike

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 Mexico 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: these are Ponderosas – they grow straight and true, and live a long time if they aren’t logged. And the bark smells like butterscotch or vanilla.

Day Ten in Santa Fe, On Set again, 11/11/20, but it’s over

11/11/20 (Day ten)

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 scrape 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 scrambled 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 my costume out, remove my clothes and get dressed in peace. Yeah, man.

The director was still working on getting some additional footage of the scene from the night before. He needed background 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 position. 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:)

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from Ideal Home 2018

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And we were wrapped for the day today. There is the possibility 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 finished 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 a while, and a two-shot Americano. A message 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’s a place to trade books, and I read a lot. Well, home is calling to me. I’m outta here.

UPDATE! 11/23/2021

Regina King

It took a year, but the movie is out now! It’s is called: The Harder They Fall. The train scene I was in was with Regina King, who wipes her bloody knife on my knee. Very tense scene. While cooling my heels in holding on another production recently, someone showed me a clip from that scene on her phone. There was only a quick shot of me, hopefully looking very scared, and an insert of the blood on my knee (actually the blood is on a linen napkin, because that scene took a long, long time, with a lot of resets before they were happy with it.) If Ms. King had wiped the blood directly on my pants for every take, it would have been bloody before she wiped it again in every take. She also couldn’t have wiped the blood on my actual pants, because I’d have needed around 30 or 40 pairs of pants!

That train scene alone took a day and a half to complete, while I was there. There may have been some more shooting the next day, but I was wrapped and could go home back to Albuquerque.

So, Day Nine in Santa Fe, Unsequestered

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.

Santa Fe Sequester, Day 6 (11/7/20)

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:

Sequestering in Santa Fe Day 3

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.

Today’s photos:

MEMORIES OF A BLUE BAYOU

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.

60 Years Ago in My Life, a Catalyst

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.

A Fair Evening

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.

A Gorgeous Day Hiking in Jemez

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.

Jemez Pueblo food stand (closed)

“Darth Vader”

Weather-sculpted nose

Butterflies all over

 

 

 

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.

Sandia Crest Hike 7/7/20

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.)

Crest Spur Hike – Sandia Mountains

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.

Paintbrush

Western Wallflower

A thin blue line

Tree vs rock

a large chip off an old block

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Fossils

Ammonite fossil

Ten-3 (10,300 ft above sea level)

Tram tower with city below

Hanging out

Inspecting cables

1936 CCC cabin shelter

Ten-3

Ten-3

Ten-3

Cabin, north side

cabin, east side

Man, boy and Triumph

 

Snowballs With Syrup

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.

The Lazy Days of Isolation

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 RELEASE WHAT I AM RECEIVING WHAT I NEED

4-13-2020

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.

It will come.

 

04/13/2020

Oh, Day Whatever

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.

Transgressive Spoken Words

LOVE POEM

Sometimes love
is unrequited.
Painful.

Sometimes love
just ends.
Painful.

Sometimes you wish
it would end.
Painful.

I want to tell you
about a love that
is always always
there for me.

Bacon.

O, bacon, bāācon,
wrapped around my…………..tongue
how I love you
hot and juicy.

O, bacon, tit–illating bāācon
Let my tongue probe you
taste you, devour you.

O, bacon, flirty bāācon
tempt me
satisfy me
stay with me.

O, bacon, bāācon
in my heart forever.
Oooooh, bacon.

The One and Only Terry, Not Complaining

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.

Sometimes.

Isla in a Sea of Sand (part 2)

Part Two: Guilt, Consequences and Separation

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.

LEARNING LESSONS, 50 Years Ago

May, 1969

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.

 

Rental room 1970

On the road 1976

Albuquerque 1978

Contemplating Death Again

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.

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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. 

Isla in a Sea of Sand (part 1)

Part 1: Suddenly, Albuquerque

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.

Later, though….

A Place to Come Home To

     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.

69 at Ten-3

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 stepdaughter 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. The highest point in the Sandia Mountains is nearby, at 10,678 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 the 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 in 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 part-time for a winery for 7 1/2 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 of 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 makes 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.

1992-94

After treatments, 2005

Inn of the Mountain Gods

White Sands, 2005

Celebrating 2005-06

2006

2007

2009

2010

2013

2017

In desperation did I re-assemble my electric waffle maker

 
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.

  

Contemplating Death Again, With Photos

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).

Breaking Down Carnivals, Ekphrastically

Ekphrastic Writing – created by the Greeks

(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.

There are dreams and then there are other dreams.

Restlessness, Vanishing, and Sidney Hall

rest·less·ness

Dictionary result for restlessness

/ˈres(t)ləsnəs/

noun: restlessness

1. 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.

———————————————————————————————————————————-

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.

———————————————————————————————————————————-

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.

 

2 Days of Poetry & Music & a Quandary

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. A fifth 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.

 

Chatter, a Soprano, a Guitar & 2 Beers

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.

Autumn in Albuquerque, Make a Right

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.

Anger Mining

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.

Slam Poets and Charles Ives

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.

I love Sunday mornings.

Sometimes, I’m Happy; Real Tired Too

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.

Slowly I ….

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.

Sunday: Cancer, Chatter, Sonatas and Interludes

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.

 

 

Blind Red Wine Tasting and Maya

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.

In My Vivid Dreams Shit Happens

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.

The Nap

THE NAP

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?

T’rung, Tranh, Bau, etc. & Chatter Doors

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.

Finally, some of the doors:

 

Four B(s): Bach, Bukowski, Becktell & Brown

     

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:

                 so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski, 1920 – 1994

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.

From sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way by Charles Bukowski. Copyright © 2003 by the Estate of Charles Bukowski.

 

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.

Here is Nathan Brown’s take on “Don’t Try”:

                          To spend

even a minute pondering

what he might have meant,

Would be to ignore his advice.

Tricky bastard, that Bukowski.

So, forget about ‘im. He’s dead.

Which would also be his advice,

if ghosts were prone to giving it.

And, his epitaph does remind me

of something dad told me long ago,

right after a more upstanding

deacon stormed out of his study

at the church in a thick cloud

of righteous indignation:

Man… that guy

is gonna overshoot heaven

as sure as hell.

(from: TO SING HALLUCINATED: FIRST THOUGHTS ON LAST WORDS, by Nathan Brown, published 2015  (copyright © Nathan Brown), Mezcalita Press, LLC, Norman Oklahoma.)

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.

Smiling Irishman

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.   

Monster

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 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 since 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, 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 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 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 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.

Another Month Begins; Not Bored Yet!

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 Group A 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.

 

 

I was wrong about wine most of my life

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?

 

Easter: another Sunday, & Dialogue Beer

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.   

Well, that was my day.

Another Enchanting Sunday Morning

So, I’m just drinking coffee this Sunday morning. I had wanted to listen to a live chamber music concert, (WA Mozart String 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.”