thoughts

Street Songs

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Last night I was in an unvisited room – white brick walls, very open, but warm with verdant carpets covering a cold floor. A blond dude stood on a small stage, with a guitar and microphone. He was releasing his only album.  I had no idea who he was. An invitation came in the mail. I responded with a presence.

The music was soothing and mellow,  reminding me of a golden California sunrise  –  yellow with so much hope and promise in the skies. I felt the sunrise in the words as they flowed through me like warm bath bubbles. Every song was great.  Folded cardboard sheets  were passed around. I saw them on a golf course. A sign-off was mandatory.  Beside every track was an approval box.  I put a check mark beside every song.  But not all the songs were present.  I heard more than I saw. I had to tell the producer. We need the warmth. Panic. Action.

 I got on my bike and headed down a street lined with dirty grey buildings and greasy round porthole windows, so thick light couldn’t escape. The air was cold as I glided down the unknown pavement. I passed a relic with a dome shaped roof covered in green metal.  So many poor people along the route –  leaning, squatting, and laying down on the cracked sidewalk The citizens starving with their skin peeling and falling off the bone.  Eyes so dark and sunken like buried seeds in winter.  I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. The producer calls.

I got to a shopping centre with a tall glass office tower. The windows were  shiny and mirrored. In the reflection were the starving people on the sidewalk,  behind me.  I turned right, but as I did a large dump truck pulled out in front of me. I was struck. I fell down and couldn’t move. More panic.  The music must get out. The road was blocked. I thought about the sidewalk, but it was covered in people. I sat on my bike, wondering what I should do. I shook. Rivers ran down my face.

A bearded man rose from the sidewalk and walked towards me. He held out his hand. I reached into my bag – slung over my shoulder and hanging on my right side – and took out a bundle of  scorecards. I gave it to the man. He took it and smiled. He went back to the sidewalk  and raised the scorecards with a holler. People rose, gained weight, and were covered in the most glorious gold clothing. They danced and sang the warm songs.

I turned my bike around and headed back down the street. The street people were gone. The green roof was now bronze and shining in the morning sun. The buildings were clean and new. A warm gust flew up the alleys and the streets. Lights glowed in windows and people moved inside, busy. The smell of rich and savoury food filled the street. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sang.

Arizona – the good, the bad and the ugly

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A fantastic trip to the land of Saguaro (suh–gwahr-oh – a pronunciation botched so many times –  I’m flushed as I write), dynamic red rock parks and canyons. The most important question to judge a successful vacation  is  – would you go back? The answer is a very emphatic yes. I’m counting the days (pennies first) until I gloriously return.

Now the review. The good – the climate was amazing (we came back to -30, so in hindsight it was bloody tropical) although it was cool in the morning by afternoon it was time to  slip on the shorts and flip flops only to replace them when the sun went down with a sweater and pants (still didn’t stop people from using a hot tub). The Phoenix area was awesome,  especially the free hiking (suh–gwahr-oh national park in Tucson charges twenty-five bucks to hike and the state parks charge seven). So many trails in great condition although a bit rocky and busy (do not go on weekends). But most importantly – the people were fantastic. Everyone we met was so nice and friendly, you’d think you were in Canada. We soon found out nobody is from Arizona – met a dude from Bellingham and another person from Billings and many from Minnesota.

The bad.  It was much more expensive than I remember (except gas). Wine prices were the same as in Canada  but in American dollars. A nice bottle of La Crema from California was twenty bucks at Trevor’s (I bow to your greatness wonderful wine store mecca). It’s the same price here but thirty percent more expensive in the Canyon State. Food wasn’t cheap either. We didn’t go out for any evening meals, but lunch was a consistent one hundred US although we did have drinks with every meal. One luxury dining experience was at a wonderful  cocktail bar called Parlay where the bill was well over a hundred US. However,  I got many excellent drink ideas and I’ve never had a mezcal cocktail (ok more than “a” cocktail – it was happy hour after all). But even going to Safeway and grabbing a few food items like chicken wings (they were massive) eggs, bread, coffee and greens was fifty or sixty bucks US  (ok and maybe wine and beer a few times). I just remember the States as food and booze cheap, but not anymore, I guess.

The ugly.   Some of the highways were very dirty, especially the Interstates (I learnt to stay off them). Garbage everywhere. Another ugly – it was so hard to recycle. Accommodations had no recycling bins. Not in the rooms, or outside with the garbage containers. I saw one recycling bin in Sedona but if we hadn’t stumbled on it, our many dead soldiers would’ve been lost on the battlefield. We also had car rental issues (holy extra charges Batman) and at one AirBnB, if I heard the “five star stay” one more time, I was going to puke – property developers (the same group wanted me to copy and paste a review they prepared, really!). But developers are everywhere like blood sucking mosquitos.

The state is wonderful from the red rocks of Sedona (the  brightest stars ever) to the desert of Tucson and the rugged parks of Phoenix. However,  next time we will  drive our own car and fill it with cheap gas.

Baby Beetle Camping

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Yesterday, I loaded up the black Beetle with all my camping gear. I was with another person, but I can’t see her face. I never can. We got to an undisclosed location and pitched our tent  in a perfectly round crop circle.  The grass stomped down, but long on the outside. About thirty feet beyond the enclosure were tall spruce and pine trees, so thick you can’t see daylight. I pitched the lean-to style tent, open at the front, but sliding down at the back.  Standing up was impossible.

It started to rain. Torrents. The tent started to move as the crop circle became a giant swirling hot tub. If we didn’t get to a dry spot or higher ground, we’d be swept down into the unknown. Panic flooded us. The rushing water sound so loud we were deaf.  We got out of the tent and ran to the Beetle, still fairly new with a yellow interior. It was parked outside the circle. Once inside, I looked through the sun roof, but only saw dark, angry skies.

It was very quiet inside the German bug . Amazing considering the torrent outside. Then I heard tiny lips smacking. Hunger.  I turned around and behind me was a baby firmly strapped into a bucket seat. We leaned back, so we could sleep. We didn’t have individual sleeping bags, so we covered ourselves with only one bag. It wasn’t very warm. But much better than outside in the cold swirling rain. The baby slept between our heads. Baby sounds. Gurgle. Giggle. Ga-Ga.

We had a fantastic sleep. The rain stopped. We got out of the car. The baby was gone. It took us some time to find our tent. It was wrapped around the base of a tree as if it were a blanket protecting the massive lumber’s roots. I gathered the tent. We were on our way to the bug when a woman walked out of the trees. She had thick curly black hair spun into two wispy spirals. Dark round sunglasses covered much real estate on her shiny white face. I swore I’d seen her in a cartoon.

She walked with heavy authoritative steps and stopped in front of me. She raised one leg and then the other and stomped them on the ground. I felt the vibrations. I’ll give you this gun for that tent. I hate guns, I said. It was a shiny silver gun with a black handle. I was afraid and felt I had no choice, so I said sure and took the pistol.  She took the tent, turned with her heavy steps and walked away. I had the horrible weapon shaking in my hand. She stopped, turned around and tossed a bullet clip at me. I caught it and gave her a direct line across my face. She said, just in case.

She walked into the forest and disappeared with my home. I took the gun and buried it in her footsteps, hopefully, never found.

The Fall of the House of Usher

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The only known picture of Poe

Netflix ‘s “The Fall of the House of Usher” is brilliant.   Creator Mike Flanagan takes on a Poe compendium –  six short stories (while touching on others) and one very famous poem.  Not only is the program great viewing, but it inspired me reread Poe. I haven’t read the Virginian since Uni and it’s interesting to get a “grown-up”  (haha nice try) interpretation many years and beers later.

Poe had a huge fear of being buried alive. In the TV version we have many burials. In one episode a nasty corporate bastard (Rufus Griswold – Poe’s real life nemesis and biggest critic) is tied up, buried behind a wall and left to die – “The Cask of Amontillado.” We also have Arthur Gordon Pym (buried in a dark ship hold), as the Usher’s nasty lawyer henchman, played brilliantly by Luke Skywalker. Bruce Greenwood another sci-fi marvel ( Capitan Christopher Pike) is also excellent.

The Masque of the Red Death is another Poe story brought to light. The vacant and run-down house where Perry (Prince Prospero in Poe’s story) holds a massive party is almost identical to the Prince’s palace – a black walled room with scarlet windows and a brasier fire. The original guy holds a masquerade ball inside the secure palace walls due to a devastating pestilence outside (oooh how pandemic). Carla Gugino – crafty, clever and very sexy in her Red Masque of Death brings about a nasty death inside secure walls just like the story.

The Black Cat episode is very closely related to the story. In Poe’s version a very malicious cat follows the narrator home after he hangs his pet cat in a drunken rage – just like the screen version . We do have a body buried behind a wall in both tales, but in the TV version buddy doesn’t bury an axe in his wife’s head and then bury her behind the fireplace.

The Tell Tale Heart has a nasty bleeding heart controlling the characters (as in Poe). However the modern heart is artificial but continually pumps terror, causing a bloody catastrophe. We do have a bathroom murder in both versions. In Poe’s version he chops up a body in a bathtub and then hides the body under the floorboards. No hidden body in this one. But in both versions the heart gives the murderer away.

The Gold-Bug episode is quite a distance from Poe’s story. In the small screen version we only see the shiny insect symbol representing a company. The original is all about logic and deductive reasoning leading to a buried pirate treasure. A method used by Poe’s detectives that  influenced Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Without Poe, Sherlock Holmes might never been born.

The entire series has Murder in the Rue Morgue’s detective C. Auguste Dupin listening to Roderick Usher tell about The Fall of the House of Usher. The end where all is revealed is a very clever twist that brings all the stories together. Poe was a master horror writer and the first detective fiction scriber. So many have followed in his foot steps.  Please Mike, can we have another series? I’d die if it was “Nevermore.”

Decorations

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Last night I was in  front of a chalkboard covered in  undecipherable symbols. People were dancing – backs on the ground, hands behind their head  with hips bouncing up and down as if they were a swing bridge.  The group wore identical grey tee-shirts with a colourful swirling label pasted on the front and bright pink  pants.  All were in very good condition, not an ounce of jiggling.  They gave their presentation, and after everyone clapped.  I said I must go downstairs and rearrange the Christmas lights. It was April and getting late.

I went into the basement of the old school. The well worn steps were steep, shaky and crackling with every movement. Once the door closed behind me, the world turned black. I hit the bottom.  I took my phone out and pressed the torch. Where was the light switch?  I spanned every wall and the ceiling looking for illumination. Nothing. No bulbs, switches, or any hope for light.

As I walked along the bottom, I saw cubicles on each side of a long dark corridor. The storage compartments were sectioned off into small three by three-foot spaces, jammed to the top with colourful cardboard crates. Letters and numbers scribed, but unknown. Each compartment had a chicken wire front door framed with two-by-two pieces of wood  with an engraved number on top, but no order. On each door was a lock. I forgot to bring keys.

I shone the light in each compartment, hoping I’d see a Christmas decorations label. I finally found what I was looking for on the bottom shelf of number fifteen. The door was locked. However, unlike the other locks, this one needed numbers. I used the last seven digits of my school identification.  The metal clicked.

I opened a box and took the tree lights out, pulling the cord while wrapping the green and red bulbs around my shoulder and hand.  A colourful circle of lights.  My arm was getting sore. Just as I thought my arm would fall off, the lights came to a stop and lit up like, well, a Christmas tree. I put the glowing  bundle into a bag labelled “Decorations,” closed and locked the door.

I started walking back down the corridor. I couldn’t find the stairs I came down. I was confused and lost. Just as my eyes started to swell, a glowing rectangle frame appeared. I opened the door. Bright lights. Many voices. I smelled pine,  banana and old spice.

I went to a directions counter. I knew the server. Her English was good, but not proficient enough to understand my predicament.  I said hello. She was very concerned because she didn’t give the right amount of change to the previous customer. I said, don’t worry I know the person.  I found her.  She was flexing in the hallway. Her body bent in pink pants. I told her the counter person was upset because she didn’t give her the right change. She said, laughing, don’t worry she can keep it.

The Struggle

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While sitting in my very comfortable and safe  backyard I was thinking about human struggles. Doesn’t everybody struggle? Isn’t this the human condition? Aren’t we always fighting some internal issue?

I look across the street and I see three adults and two children, basically two families, living in a two-bedroom main floor apartment. They are probably paying an inflated and unreasonable price for the place (greedy landlords are sweeping my city). I also see them working like dogs. The blue car man leaves his house at six a.m. and doesn’t come back until six p.m. The silver car person drops her kid off at day care at seven and isn’t home until the evening. Ditto with the other red car adult. They are working too many hours while living in expensive and cramped conditions. Financial struggle for everyone except the landlord.

Then there’s another young couple living next door to the financial struggle. They are out walking every day for hours. One day I saw a very expensive treadmill delivered to their house. I’ve also seen food delivery perhaps one too many times (again due to working too many hours). He works in IT, so he sits  in front of a screen all day. She also has a sedentary job in the health sector (I’ve met them a few times). Jobs with eight hours of little or no movement. One can guess their struggle. A difficult problem for everyone in our desk trapped culture.

Then I think about my minor struggle with a little too much wine on a Friday night. I am very, very lucky and I am thankful  everyday – I don’t have financial struggles – so lucky to get a mortgage when the price of housing was low. I don’t have weight issues because I can afford to eat good quality food. I also have lots of time to go for walks in the woods or around my neighbourhood or take my bike for a spin or run whenever the conditions are ripe. Yes, I am so lucky. I have one struggle, but it could be so much worse.

However, it’s all about how you deal with the struggle, right? Buddhists tell you life is a struggle, and the reason why we struggle is impermanence – shit happens outside your control. Hence the reason to live in the now – accept the now. Fredrick Douglass, the American slavery abolitionist: “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” Or my favourite by Lucretius, the Roman poet, “Life is one long struggle in the dark.” Now, ain’t that the truth.

It’s all about how you deal with the struggle. Is it negative? Enough to draw you down into the pits of despair and leave you groping in the dark for anything solid and familiar. Or do you rise above the struggle and stand a top a mountain and shout – everything is fine and become so much wiser rising above the challenges life brings.  Or how about just accepting the fact we all struggle, it’s not a big deal. Accept it and move on. Don’t we just finish one struggle only to have another bounce up? I have no idea. But right now, I have to take my empties back to the bottle depot and go weigh myself.

Ward 14

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Last night I stepped out of a cab – directions unknown. The rain poured in slanted silver sheets. I was saddled with a horribly disgusting passenger. The object next to me was all black and gooey as if covered in shiny tar. I have no idea where he came from. He was just there.

You would have a hard time telling if the blob riding with me was human. The thing rolled out of the cab and lay in a dirty puddle, floating like a lung oyster in the toilet. And the putrid smell, decaying organic matter not of this universe. The sick shit was my roommate and I couldn’t have walked into a more horrible condition.

I was renting a cramped but clean studio apartment from a guy who worked with me at the hospital. I was very sad because my previous roommate was an outstanding fellow – kind, considerate and the most honorable human I’ve ever met. My landlord hooked me up with the new roomy but warned me to be careful. Honour was not a genuine blob quality.  I had no choice because rents were so high in my city, one had to take on a roommate. I got stuck with a piece of shit. Soaring costs and terrible humans cause havoc on social fabrics.

I got home with misery following and decided to go for a run. The apartment was close to the hospital where I worked. I ran around the hospital and then went inside because I was getting wet. As I ran through the hospital, I saw a guy slouched over on a bench with his head in his hands. I went over and asked him if he was all right. He lifted his head; his eyes rimmed raw red, his face clean and never shaven.

He was carrying flowers – all purple, red and white, but they were sagging and shaking in his hands. I asked if he was all right. He said he was fine, but he didn’t know how to get to ward fourteen. My mouth dropped. The worse ward in the hospital. Once you go into ward fourteen, you weren’t leaving without a uniformed escort. I pointed to the candy-striped elevator. Only one ride to ward fourteen. I hugged him. He thanked me, lowered his head, and got on the elevator. A grey woman wearing a white paper hat shaped like a boat looked at me, smiled and nodded her head.

I finished my run through the hospital and went home. Immediately, I checked all my secret hiding spots. My valuables were still in place. I went into the living room and spotted the black disgusting slug on my couch. I thought about asking him to move because he was staining the furniture, but I didn’t want to anger him. Let sleeping dogs lie, literally. I went and took a shower to remove the hospital and sweat from my bones. When I came out, the slug was gone, replaced with a paper hat. The stain removed from my couch.

What? You can’t help a guy out.

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A troubling incident happened a few days ago.  I was brain dead from lingering wine excess (no excuse, pal), waiting for my best mate outside the smoothie store – a health jab after the debauchery. To kill time and shake the cobwebs, I took a stroll around the little strip mall near the purée fruit boutique when this fellow walked up and said,  “Hey pal I’m struggling. Can you help me buy a pair of work boots?”

Now the dude wasn’t down and out looking. Not in the stereo-typical sense (no needle hanging from his arm). He was in good shape, tanned and covered in impressive and expensive ink. He’d obviously spent a considerable amount of time outside. He looked like a construction dude.  Of course, with my numb and stupid brain, I said, “Sorry pal I don’t have any cash.” Truth. I didn’t and haven’t carried actual cash since the early two thousands.

After rejecting the dude, I just walked away.  Right after me he asked another guy, and crickets. I got home and slammed my head on the table. Bang, bang. What was I thinking?  I should’ve walked up to the guy and said, “Hey,  let’s go inside and I’ll buy you some boots.” How expensive can they be? A couple of hundred bucks? I’m not a rich guy but I can surely afford to help some dude out. Isn’t this my social responsibility?

My best mate, wouldn’t bat an eye;  she would’ve walked into the store and either bought his boots outright or at least bought a gift card to help the man out (the voucher idea came right after my bruised forehead). She is the same person who would make sandwiches in the evening and then ride her bike to work and hand them out to those who needed them. I’d take half of her humanity.

A few days after the incident (ironically), I came across an article about Simone Weil, the French philosopher, mystic and all-round super-humanitarian. A woman who as a child refused to eat sugar in support of soldiers soaking in the stinking trenches of World War One. She even fought in the Spanish Civil war even though she was short-sighted and couldn’t shoot.  And what I can’t give up a hundred bucks to help some guy. Geeze, I spend that on Costco steaks. I’m sure I could’ve given up some luxury (and many I have) to help a man who’s just trying to get ahead. I’m so sorry Simone, I let you down.

The universe tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Dude, you live a great life, and you have so much. You couldn’t help some guy who needed shoes? How grateful are you? How much do you care about humanity (you sure profess it’s greatness)?” The universe just tossed me a ball, an easy shot and I let the ball bounce behind me – game over. Thankfully, the universe is forgiving. I’ve taken this as a lesson.  I can still win the match. I won’t ever miss an easy opportunity when a ball lands in my court.

Lost Wallet

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Me and the mates were heading to a beach bar.  Beer time, somewhere. As we were walking down the sandy path, I padded my pockets.  Holy shit dudes, I forgot my wallet. They turned, looked at me and rolled their eyes. They continued. I stood alone and watched them move away, brothers in arms. Sand crusted my eyes.

I ran back to the room. They were cabin style with white exteriors and lime green shutters.  An orange tiki lamp with a warrior face lit  my room number, 16A. My bag was on a wicker bench outside the room. I opened the bag and frantically searched for my wallet. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t go back to the bar.  My mates would disown me.  I played the lame excuse card too many times.

I went to the hotel desk. No one was there, so I rang the bell. The clerk came out, he was wearing a lobster bib and chewing horror. The smell emanating from him was atrocious like rotting feet wrapped in a poopy baby diaper. Holy shit, I said.  What are you eating? Oh, just a family recipe. I said, I’ve got a huge problem. I can’t seem to find my wallet. Has anyone turned in a wallet? He shook his head. Is there any way I can get a couple of hundred and put it on my tab. You can just charge it to the card I used for the room. He shook his head. Ok, I said, can I have another room key? I’ve lost that as well. He went behind the counter and gave me 16A. The silver metal sparkled with orange tiki light.

I went back to the room. The key wouldn’t work.  I yanked and twisted  the knob like a full bladder man. I needed my wallet. Moisture swept across my brow. My hands shook and my feet swelled. Finally the door swung open.  On the wall was an ocean portrait, waves crashing and splashing on a rock in light blue and grey. The picture was new to me. Looking at it made me tired. I laid down on the brown and yellow striped polyester bed cover. I closed my eyes.

We were travelling to a large major city, frantically looking for a place to stay. I looked at the map.  Red lines spread across busy intersecting lines. So many lines; it was hard to plan a route.  I wasn’t driving. At the wheel was a person I did not know. I asked her, have we met? She said, what do you think? I said,  we need to find a place before it gets dark. She laughed. I said, do you live here? She laughed again with tiki light.

When I woke up, it was dark outside. I walked to the bar, but it was closed. Then I went to the front desk and asked the sweet pea smelling clerk, have you seen my friends? He said, they checked out days ago.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.