The MMan's - A Mark in Time

February 07, 2010 Super Bowl Sunday

I’ve a good friend back on the rez who used to be very abusive to people at times. It didn’t matter who they were really, he verbally abused just about everyone. Other times he’d have a little Boy Scout streak and want to help save the world. The opposites were determined not all but sometimes by how much alcohol he would consume and where he would be when consuming it.

While riding up one of the streets on the rez that ran parallel to Main Street he asked mme why he couldn’t get a job. After all, he said, he probably knows construction better than most people around; so why won’t anyone hire him?

I looked at him in such a way as to say, what are you kiddin’ mme, pal? Then I said, “You KNOW why bud, you’re not too easy to get along with, especially with anyone who at the time is your boss. Strangers? Friends? Same story.

You won’t listen because you think you know better and no one can tell you any different. You show up on time alright but to tell you the truth, your attitude and getting along with any or all bosses or with people in general stinks; that answer your question? ‘Sides, we’re in a small town, aren’t we? They all know you.”

“Yeah well, I guess you may be right, MMick,” was his reply. He continued the conversation describing several scenes of how he thought he was right to act like he did and so forth until I stopped him in mid sentence and said, “You know mman, I’d like to write a song about you. You deserve a song that’s for sure.”

“First of all,” I continued, “I think you’re a great dude if you want to be; you know a lot about a ton of things; you can ride a horse into the ground and you can work the butt off of anyone who tries to keep up with you. You’ve got a great heart…at least most times. The exception is when you’re not sober.

Maybe you’d like to think about how much of a good influence you can have on the kids around here if you’d only smarten up; hold your tongue if you’re not the boss; maybe try to control your drinking; the last issue maybe the most important one; OK, how’s that so far for starters?” “…pretty good start,” he said.

The guy was really a good guy in mmy opinion; a tough cowboy who just couldn’t handle some things but he was great in many respects. One day he asked if I would show him how to start a garden. He’s seen a few photos of the green thumb and we discussed the subject a few times; yeah, sure was the reply.

After measuring out a big empty plot he toiled with the soil. The rez soil everyone knows as gumbo; a heavy mixture of a lot of clay and little dirt. Needless to say all of what was needed we added until it was so soft and beautiful it was a shame to just plant grass; which is what he didn’t do luckily.

He planted corn, squash, tons of tomatoes, peppers, beans of several varieties, lettuce, carrots, onions; I mean the guy just went bonkers on every seed he could get his hands on. He wanted to have a good lunch without going in the house. If he wanted to sleep next to his plants I bet he would every night if it didn’t rain.

The guy loved working hard at it and did the best he could to have a lush harvest. Well, don’t you know; of course harvest time came and his garden was a garden of Eden. Food everywhere we looked. It was definitely his baby alright.

Next thing we knew he just gave most everything away. He was so proud of what he grew for the first time that he walked to houses of people he knew and some he didn’t; just handing them bags of the stuff; one of the two restaurants in town as well. Every time with a smile. Like I said, the guy has a big heart.

I really loved the guy and still do. I arrived home one day after listening to one of his bag drop off’s surprises and began to write words that I thought would turn into a song about him. Instead I ended up writing something else which is at the end of this day’s blog. Obviously, he was the inspiration for most of it.

Amazingly enough the day I wrote the 48 or so lines of words, they didn’t end up being a song at all; least not yet. When thinking of things around the subject, the words just came out of the computer keyboard like running water. Most of which didn’t concern him personally. Once on the roll it just wouldn’t stop.

One line after the next, no pauses in between just ended up being something else; about men in general and their relation to women and vice versa. That’s the way it goes at times. Think about one thing and something else hitches a ride to eventually take over the whole exercise; free association or however that works.

A few hours or so later while searching on the net I found out for the first time ever that it was ‘International Women’s Day!’ Who’da thunk it, eh? Bet many of you out there especially U.S. women have never heard of it; least that’s been the consensus so far when conducting an accounting through a personal experience.

Amazingly enough other countries are more up on this then the U.S. is; Imagine that. The actual date is set to be annually on March 8th if anyone’s interested. Here’s the home page of URL: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/ . Here’s the URL that gives the history of everything you might like to know: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/about.asp … pretty interesting stuff.

In any case just to be sure before putting mmyself on the chopping block; years ago when this was composed as well as ever since and along the way; not that long ago again but in many different places; N.O.W. friends have read this as sort of a precaution; primarily I’d like to be around to celebrate the next birthday.

Good luck reading or maybe even figuring out this one. Written too long ago I don’t really want to change it or update it so to speak; even I have a difficult time with it; so if that tells you anything, you may not want to bother. I’d hope otherwise. It’s like one of those tongue twister - puzzle things; fun to write but….

For those of you who have reached the age of yes you can, you might like to take it slower with a wider glass of whine while drinking in the efforts so to speak. Or you might like to print it for your next pen the tale on the done key. In any case one would hope you have time for and maybe a little fun with:

The Man’s – A Mark in Time

the man's so brave, the man's so bold
the man's so tough, the man's so cold
the man's not easy…
"Get along with you man's!"
the man's got you shakin'?
You 'fraid 'a him too? Man!
the man's a digger,
of diggers sweats, and diggers bones.
the man's a talker,
of talkers talks, 'n talks tomes.
the man's all gritty,
of dirt 'n such mans things.
the man's a dreamer.
Whose dreamin' dreams takes wings?
the man's the best…
'When man's let sleepin', ' Say some.
the man's man ain't smart?
Those man's man ain't dumb.
the man's all shootin' man's,
and straight from man's man hip.
the man's takes nuttin' man,
" No nuttin' ma'ms!" Mans lip!
the man's will ride 'em man!
When all other man's thinks can't.
the man's hard hide 'n man!
Hard ridin' man's, and ma'ms bams!
the man's a rootin' man,
a tootin' man's 'o man's cattle.
the man's a champ 'a man's spurs,
a ridin' man's, 'n man's saddle.
the man's a wonder of earth,
'n them thar - "Them hills!'
the man's hard knocks, 'n bad spills,
'n CRUSH!! A bad man's chills!
the man's all up 'n up 'n do it up
'n do it up 'n up agin'!
the man's will take it man,
'n take it ma'm! Man's grins.
the man's a rider man's of hard's up's
'n hard's man's downs.
the man's a drinkin' man's.
That man's no thinkin' man's! Drinkin' clowns!
the man's is a cruel man's…
The man's when this 'a thata way.
the man's when other man's,
the kinder man's, ma'ms stay.
the man's can match 'em man!
Of bulls, 'n ride 'em broncs, 'n cows too!
the man's all hard horses,
man's bucks, broncs, and WOWS! WHEW!
the man's can ride 'em man!
They shakes 'em man's, then shuddas!
the man's eight seconds time!
" Like 'n no man's!" Man's uttas!
the man's a hunter man!
A bunter not - man's, He!
the man's home runs hits?
Man's the sparks, 'n barbs, 'n carp, 'n trees.
the man's as kind,
and as kind as kind can be matters!
the man's no sinner man's,
so show 'er man's, 'Sooo badders!'.
the man's all smiles man.
The man's all jokin' plenty.
the man's," Broke too man!"
but gives man's last penny.
the man's don't mind doll minds,
"Dull minds no matter."
the man's hurts to man's?
The man's man - i's sadder.
the man's some women know.
Know women no man's land.
the man's some women love.
Other women love? No ma'm!
the man's loves sportin,' man!
The man's birds - "Let the man's be!"
the man's can catch 'em all man!
Wolves'n bucks'n buck shots these.
the man's some lonely man's
but who isn't man's man, Yo'!
the man's a friend 'a man's,
'n yes the man's a man's bro'
the man's all these man's!
Ask the man's," What's man's doin'?"
the man's, "Just waitin' man!"
The man's man just brewin'?"
the man's all hard,
'n best as man's man knows how!
the man's quest, "What's doin' ma'm's?
Let's duet' ma'm! Man's wow!"
the man's a smoker man's.
" Mo' smokin' man? " A man's crust?
the man's 'a livin' hard man's,
" livin' hard ma'm's,”
As livid hard man's must!"

COWBOY UP!

February 06, 2010

When relocating to a Native American reservation in South Dakota, it was like no place I’ve ever been before. Everything was different, even the weather. On a day to day basis, in the summertime it was much hotter than I’ve ever experienced. On the other hand it was much, much colder with 50 below winters.

I loved the chopping wood part though. After building the home it was really a joy to go in the snow with the reliable and extra low gear pick up (or outfit) in search of wood for heat. I didn’t have to look far because many offers to either cut down dead trees or cut up downed ones was always available it seemed.

The reservation was a pretty unforgiving place when it came to the extremes of Mother Nature. Residents had to be prepared beforehand in most cases. In winter times if one wasn’t, death could be lurking on a lonely highway as well as right around the corner from one’s home. One kept aware of weather reports.

The following lyrics were co-written with a good bud. Reed Henschel lives in the tiny town of Faith, South Dakota with his wife Donna. Faith is west towards Mt. Rushmore and off the reservation 40 miles from the town where I had lived.

Reed and Donna are the sole proprietors of The Tower Stool Company. Their URL is: www.towerstoolcompany.com you’re invited to visit their website. If you’re interested in talking to Reed or Donna about anything, I’mm sure they’d invite you in; just as easily as they welcomed this guy; very friendly people.

It took three times of visiting R ‘n D’s place before meeting Reed. Donna was and still is a great host. She’s not only Reed’s wife but she’s a true supporter and a ‘full of stories’ advocate of everything Reed does and invents. Needless to say they make a great pair and have been for more decades than I can remember.

Yes, Reed is an inventor alright. He’s also a very good cowboy poet as well as a short story writer, a tile guy, a mason, a sculptor of rocks and wood. He’s an excellent man with just about anything Mother Nature has given us to work with; be it his hands or all the tools he owns. Reed is a genius when it comes to lots of things. Most of all he’s one of the humblest people I’ve ever met.

I’ve shared many dinners, conversations, sleep over’s and work times with Reed and his wife Donna. The third time I visited The Tower Stool Company and Reed was in residence for the first time, it took about twenty steps to reach him from the front door to where he was standing in his huge well lighted workshop.

As soon as I opened the door we caught each others glance; we both smiled the whole way until our handshake meeting. We spent a good two hours talking about our past and present while presenting some things of who we were to each other. We both talked like we were brothers and had known each other for years.

After reading a few of Reed’s poem’s I asked him if he’d like to collaborate on writing a few songs. “Of course, I’d love to, “was his immediate reply. “Even if it helps only one person or nobody really, it’ll be fun to just try.” Reed’s an open book of idea’s, loving, caring and one of the hardest workers ever at the age of 75

We composed two lyrics together way back then. The first one concerned kids with a rare disease. The second are the lyrics you may read here. We’ve experienced this subject matter not only locally but most places we’ve seen in our lives; and like Reed has said, “Even if it helps one person, “it’ll be fun to try:

Cowboy Up!

So you sit at home drinkin'.
That's the way your life has been.
You've got no job.
Things are tough.
Your future's lookin' dim.
You beat your wife.
You hurt your kids.
They said, "This is the end!"
You treat 'em like dogs.
You're no cool cat.
And now you've got no friends.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella.
Set down that whiskey cup.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !
Do yourself a favor…

Say your life it ain't worth livin'?
Matter of fact it downright stinks.
So you go and grab the alcohol
And pour yourself some drinks.
Your wife, she up and left ya,
Your kids ran out the door.
They said, "Dad, you keep on drinkin',
We ain't commin' home no more!"

C O W B O Y U P! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella,
Set down that whiskey cup.

C O W B O Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !
Do yourself a favor…

Now your court case is pending.
Smokey's caught you in the car.
He said, "Man! You've been drinkin',
Now you know you've gone too far! "
Then he hands you a D U I
And you know that ain't no fun.
So you wonder if you're gonna stay
Or are you gonna run?

C O W BO Y UP ! C O W B O Y UP !

Grab those bootstraps fella.
Set down that whiskey cup.

You've got two choices podnah
Listen to mme do.
Sober up or be locked up,
That's next in line for you.
And if you insist and do persist
That boozin' is your goal.
Then all you'll get is covered up.
In a deep, dark, lonely hole.

So you say you've got some problems?
They're not as bad as you may think.
The cure ain't in a bottle,
Or the bottom of a drink.
So come on 'fess up brother,
You know you've had enough.
Get up and get tough Cowboy

C O W B O Y UP !

Howell's Opera MMouse

February 05, 2010

A friend invited mme along to see a performance by a big city poet at Howell’s old Opera House. She said the building’s first floor had been remodeled into a gorgeous gallery space. Arriving at the front door I could see the walls on the two opposite sides were the old brick of the original place still in good shape. They definitely were cleaned up; a great addition to the new make-over.

The floors were redone, sparkling and shining of all the new materials. The ceiling was in good shape as well. The front wall, all glass had enough depth to display and view many works of art. Looking out to the street from the inside was also part of the wall including letting in the available light of the day.

Watching the poet’s first set was an enjoyable surprise. During the long intermission, curiosity begged mme to walk down a hallway. Turning to the left, low and behold was a door. A note on the door read, ‘Do not enter with food or drink.’ Being an adventurous sole I just put the drink on the floor and in a corner.

I opened the door which led to a half staircase going up. Needless to say I ventured up that part of the stairs. Then having to turn left began walking up the other half. At the top was another wooden door that to some would say, open. I did. It was kind of dark in there but a few dimly lit and bare light bulbs supplied enough light to allow anyone who traveled this far to walk even further.

I was entering the huge room of the Opera House. To the left was a stage about three or four feet high. An old theatre curtain still hung, but closed back on both sides. The place where all the seats would be was open and empty. I could hear a few people talking so I figured it wasn’t against the law to just look around.

On the wall to the left of the stage were windows to the outside. They were tall, narrow and bare of curtains or coverings giving a view of outside. The wall opposite was an unfinished brick. A balcony was built opposite the stage that gave a great view of the stage if in fact there were any kind of performance.

In the middle of the ceiling of the big room hung a humongous ceiling light. It was very ornate and too big for anyone’s living room unless you were Bill Gates, Charley Chaplin or the Queen of the Nile. It dominated the room like a monster.

Everywhere I walked the old wood floors creaked and echoed through the room. Stepping up to and facing the pillars that held up the balcony one could see that people had left their scraped in the old paint, calling cards from years past. The colour of the columns appeared to be a dark blue - green shade.

Again, the dim light made brighter may have made a difference in the real colour. It certainly wasn’t chartreuse, pink, orange, yellow, white, red or anything close to those except blue green. I continued walking around while feeling the call of the past as I slowly gravitated to the stage area.

Facing the stage and on the right side was another door which of course was opened. Sauntering up the short wooden stairs needless to say I was in the backstage area. Scanning the area, I was now near where the curtain guy would have been. That job is probably called something but damned if I know.

There was another bare blaring light bulb on a short stand used for light that wasn’t very directional. I was still able to walk around the stage with again more creaking sounds. The back wall of the stage was again old brick. Then I walked over to the right hand side of the back stage area where another person stood. She called mme over and said, “Look here, look at all these old things.”

‘Here,’ was a bare 1” x 6” board wall she wanted to show mme. She had a pretty strong flashlight that shone on the wall she was pointing towards. On the wall were a slew of signatures, personal quotes, old posters and such from yesteryear.

It was amazing that so many of them were still in good shape and readable. I can’t remember exactly what any of them said but suffice it to say they all concerned who was there as well as what shows were once performed there.

After seeing all that I left the stage and walked across the huge room again just so I could say I was in the balcony of Howell’s Opera House. Opening one of the two back doors that opened to an anteroom I followed the smell to the balcony steps and walked up the very dark stairs. I stood there for a moment in silence.

The view from the top was pretty cool to say the least. I walked up to the end of the balcony and scanned the whole place. I wondered when this part of the building would be completed so performances of all kinds could continue like they did in the past. That’s when I got the urge to move in and do it mmyself.

I dreamed of living in the place while working on it at the same time. I had visions of being the mouse in the opera house. I also felt inspired to paint there as well. Creating a community painting project immediately came to mmind.

I imagined it would be a great opportunity to in fact raise not only funds for the projected renovations but it certainly would bring more awareness to the opera house itself. Being the dreamer that I amm after seeing and inspired by all this I had to inquire as to the plans of the future of the building. I had thoughts of what to do next in order to get ready for the community and how to work as well as live in the bare environs. The place was begging to be useful once more. So was I.

You’re probably all smiling, frowning or even laughing at this point. I wouldn’t blame you of course. But that’s the way I thought when I was there as well as a few weeks after when trying to connect with the powers that be in order to fulfill that dream. When leaving the poet’s performance and after questioning a few locals about who was in charge, I left with a few cards with phone numbers that I did eventually call. One answering machine led to the next and so on and so on.

At the end of this little cliff hanger, no it never happened; but it was a nice dream anyway. When finally reaching someone ‘they’ told mme there was a five million dollar estimate on the next phase of the reconstruction. Plans were in the works.

Unfortunately for mme the answer to the mouse question was not only that it would be impossible for mme to live there mostly due to insurance reasons, but in fact and no thank you, mmy help wasn’t needed either. C’est la Vie! Adios pal.

What can I say? On the other hand I always think if one doesn’t ask then won never nose. In any case I’mm not dead yet and at this point that work is not completed yet either. I haven’t checked lately to see if it’s even begun but this story reminds mme to try that again. Whether it will ever happen or not I’d still like to be:


Howell’s Opera MMouse

I want to live in Howell’s Opera House.
I want to live like Howell’s Opera MMouse.
I crave to heal the floors
Too fix the crumbled walls - broke doors.

You’ll climb the stares,
Here wild audience’s cheered
They cried through tears where prose acted out.
We’ll reclaim the balcony
Bear witness is auld mmelodies made relevant
Threw dusted hues tended
Heaved din dearth up ended from bountiful toils.

Yes, to live ‘n work width-thin these old hauls
Aye; want to heal worn age is, falls,
And carry on curtains call in stage is
Boards adorned worn passed century’s phased diss
Sworn to linger in memories of pages cast a sighed.

Through times stood still
Of those who peeked act’s bash or
Those who spoke ‘fore cash
In tomes while gleaming up write
A loooooong, daze dawns to
Cow noise night’s full moons forlorn.

They’ve left the columns grazed of glad songs,
Sobbed with sad songs - light’s bright - praised
Good bye’s to those who’ve scene the grandest and
Clasped their hands outlandishly sow as they would
Hear the plays, wild listening to memorised lips
Written scores of actor’s and barmaids
Trading smiles mid-chews ‘n spittoons

End of trail workers listening to olde English smerkers
While slurring plied drinks words slip through the glass
To friends unsteady in gingham, pinks, curve’s ready ‘fore
Standing ovations end whished never friends.
Tall blends of dreams ‘n holler’s, ‘n whoops
In Howell’s Opera House – restored, recouped
Wouldn’t it be some thing – gist to re: due?
Yep, I want to live like Howell’s Opera MMouse
Wood in chew.

The Light House

February 04, 2010

New Jersey was the state when in the middle sixties I had a first professional mmusic gig. It was in Count Basie’s hometown. Years later and not that long ago I was there again for the Count’s 100th birthday celebration; dream come true.

Unfortunately he wasn’t there but a few of his sidemen were. Great time that was; lots of food; a continual video of the Count’s life; black and white photo’s hanging everywhere on the walls; a display case of all things, Count. I can count the Count’s records as one of mmy favourite playing and personal teaching tools.

Again, the mid-sixties I had gigged a whole summer on one of that same state’s boardwalk beaches. Needless to say I hope to one day recall and write a few of those stories. One in particular I can remember was when I missed the whole day in order to catch up with a little needed rest. Veal Parmesan, a great breakfast.

Being raised in a borough of New York City, the one closest to the waterways that separated mmy home state from New Jersey, many opportunities arose to cross the border. On the other hand many ‘Jersey’ residents who were mostly underage, traveled across the bridge to our little burgh because our state had a lower drinking age. The border bars patrons were mostly ‘Jersey girls ‘n boys.’

Mind you, this didn’t pass the knows of the local boys in blue bye any means. Just about anywhere one tried to cross those bridges, before they came to it; it was quite obvious the men in blue were prepared for all the tricks of the tirades.

I’mm sure some would argue maybe not all of the tricks were noticed but let’s just say it wasn’t that easy to pass without the obvious difference of license plate colours; not to mention too many in a car with mostly no designated anything.

Each passenger including the driver designated themselves to hide as much as they could carry home. I’mm sure the trunks of cars as well as under the seat or person were favourite hiding places that most times didn’t pass blues eyes. I know this after visiting some of those establishments and befriending a few inebriated beyond repair individuals; proud of their last escape, hoping for more.

Our borough for some New York residents should have been part of New Jersey; we were that close. I’mm sure there are a few New Yorkers who think it is or wish it was. In any case we’re honoured to say, it’s not. When the Verrazano Narrows Bridge was built, thousands more people relocated to our borough because of smaller buildings called houses - with grass; more trees than cement.

This brings us to the subject of the words at the end of this blog. The Light House is a home in another beautiful part of New Jersey, owned by mmy good friend Johnny’s brother Joe and his wife Beverly; also friends. Although not seeing them much, each time I have they’ve been more than welcoming than the people you may call or know as relatives. A few overnights are most unforgettable.

Joe is a retired school principal and Beverly is a real estate agent. Joe having too much energy and a brain like Beverly’s that operates at the speed of light just couldn’t sit still so he’s joined his wife in the same occupation where they live.

Ah yes. Where they live is on LBI; Long Beach Island. No, it’s not anywhere near California. Oddly enough, I’mm still talking about New Jersey. With all the good things to say about New Jersey’s beaches, I’mm sure LBI would be in the mix somewhere. Not far from Atlantic City, New Jersey’s Vegas, LBI is quite small.

I think it’s about five miles long and one mile wide at its widest. That’s not saying much really when you’re talking ocean waves that can and does inundate the place from time to time. Google it; perhaps you’ll think Bermuda or someplace like that. The photo’s do it justice by any tourist board’s standards.

The construction of houses on LBI reflects ‘ocean side’ as part of the code for the foundations; which are actually telephone pole size things both in width and in height. Each one has to be buried in the sandy earth with pile drivers; like as a pier or dock except it’s still considered land for as long as the ocean keeps it dry.

Having the ocean for a neighbor THAT close is like any place really. If you build it on sand then you must know sooner or later Mother Nature let’s you sea that she’s definitely in control of the situation. Sand comes and goes with the tides.

Like earthquakes; I don’t care how humans think they can prevent Mother Nature from doing anything she wants to, the cards are stacked in her favour so to speak. Boulders, cement walls to keep her out? Nope, end of story; end house?

Luckily for Joe and Bev and most other residents on LBI their place still stands with them still in it. Mind you, being there to witness it once; from time to time a few of the streets became impassible when either it rained too much or the ocean gets higher than the first floor. This doesn’t happen on the whole island; not yet.

LBI has a very tall light house at one end of LBI. The photo up top is one taken from the inside when on a visit to Newport, Oregon. I love light houses too and have scene mmy share of those gorgeous structures. The bottom photo is one taken from the top of athe light house on LBI. Matters not really, once you’re at the top of one like a merry-go-round, you’d like to be on or on top of every one you see.

Bev’s pride and joy home atmosphere/decoration/or theme? Bev is a light house person too. She has posters, little statues; statuettes; knick knacks on shelves; light house sculptures, paintings and such, everywhere you care to look. The whole house, especially the downstairs has so many windows and light coming in from every direction to add to the theme that anyone can certainly call it;

The Light House

Hear radiance found
Inn a vision drift place
Oui, gaze out and play
‘Round the see sure embraced

Won travels from timed
Two in joy fresh expanse
Bridged across threw thoughts
Freedom’s spree and shore’s dance

Their’s the waves - si sighed
End the flock’s streams eye trade
Steer traffic’s gone - bye
Hear the sun’s glow moons wade

Sea out look kiss calm
The look King - Queen glassed lanes
Bev’s grand beach sand dunes
Joe’s sale boat fine framed

The mantel’s adorned
Paint’s buy – host’s pans fan
JB shore’s kind hearts
Lift’s heron sculpture stands

The porch winds brisk flow
Stirs up grass hop purrs glare
Flights flowers grown wild
Coffee morning’s rich fare

Field the peeks of rest
There’s no better them, this
Share’s sun, moon, rose stars
Light’s Centennial bliss

Their’s the light house - sail’s true
Oui knee’d say - know moor
Those who’ve found J & B’s lights
Will know love’s opened door.

(Love to you too, Joe & Bev)

Ominous Haze

February 03, 2010

OOOOOH I guess it was about four or five years ago when a friend from the environs around the mid-west U.S. of A. cell phoned with a request. I was living once again in northern California and not far from the capital. Although it was an everyday commute for some locals, the one hour drive to and fro of the two-lane blacktop bumper to bumper speed trap was a treat only when necessary.

The friend wanted to take time out for a birthday celebration to visit a place not visited before. Fine with mme, it’ll be great to catch up and just hang for a few days was mmy reply. The friend wanted to reserve a room in one of the local hotels to treat us both to being close to city life, wine, sites, sounds and traffic.

Unfortunately for both of us the visitor decided to book the hotel through an internet travel agency connection that took into a count and adhered to the certain requirements of the intended vacationer. Needless to say even that long ago besides a location request the financial considerations were the top priority.

Although, in hindsight the visitor, in the quest for frugality let it be known that having known before what could have been ‘fore scene if the local person were consulted, reservations would have been changed for the better on all counts.

The hotel wouldn’t necessarily have been upgraded that much but the location sure would have been. Having never visited this particular city was the clue to having no clue about where to sleep in comfort let alone quiet as well; so it went.

In any case, it was what it was. The following words were inspired by those experiences. Little did the visitor know or even realise what would transpire. The travel agency kind of skipped over a few particular exercises such as bell hop not’s, valet parking and most importantly where somewhat of a quiet haven was concerned. The short weekend stay was located in a sanctuary challenged area.

Our stay in that particular hotel although booked for several was only a one night stand. Gratefully when explained and probably because the manager knew what would occur beforehand gave us an understandably, happy refund. Reading the words that follow you’ll realise the stay was quite the challenge.

Besides all that, with little or no sleep that one night, the city life though short was enjoyed regardless. The next few days were spent at a home in the country. The visitor was welcomed to travel the hour it took to experience everything that the beautiful wine and gold country had to offer, including an extended stay. The sun was shining and it was beautiful every day especially after leaving the:

Ominous Haze

Silver-winged flight mid lands towards goal’s west
Landing’s feel Sac ‘fore friend’s a far star quest
The time of year plan - the day, town they meet
This special place reads a specialty signed feat

The meat to these points, have scene heaven’s script
Together again smiles, friends welcomed hearts lift
The lodge poll was hooked before the scene maid
The internet quote’s power, a green folded blade

They centered their gear in the lobby of be low
“Across the street, sir,” the manager’s dim glow
Open door 204, share the lifts sluggish grip
The resident reigns gall, a vacation torture drip

Room cum fort sang bust, plucked knot tunes diss played
Microwave’s rattle nonstop, butt puss out door weighed
Hid in light’s switch, bath shower’s stored dark
The vehicle’s plied down one flight in tight park

When entering the gates this rite seemed moor wrong
Hour sleep interrupt id - considerate bye, gone
Toss end turned dreams - poor draws halt a wake
The tethered - no calm, the din swell’s plot quake

Squints writhes two the knocks, she knocks thrice loud stir
Made’s boss of the light, blight sounds sting diss blurb
The honks of manned horns, screams vulgar tuned to hell
Hurried signaled two leave the in sighed of fools fell

Torched quicker than faster hour departure quite swift
Still groggy from nightmares pour mental songs miffed
The cum fort war reigned, wouldn’t move, just a mite
The past blocks welcome, host’s vehicles out door rite

Bled grins, two bare writs, behind car’s horn red blared
Slowly showed even slower, two backed up screws flared
Out of the dead bends, swing off towards brighter days
Smeared smiles paved the weigh threw an ominous haze.

House of Zen

February 02, 2010

Visiting New York City a while back I spent quite a few hours just walking around ground zero a few times. A few times meaning that only once was not enough to see the hole place from every vantage point at ground level. The second time was the time to write down a few notes and to look for other places at possibly another level to view the gaping hole of new construction.

One building across the street seemed like to good place to do this so I wandered over there and found the huge atrium inside. While standing at the top of the stairs of the atrium it was lunch time. I saw one empty bench that faced the bottom of the stairs so I ran down the numerous steps to grab the seat hoping that no one would beat mme to it. It wasn’t a subway seat but one never knows.

This was after all New York City which if anyone who lives there or has been there for any amount of time will know that at lunchtime it’s always the land of multitudes in a one hour hurry; so unless there was a pregnant woman, a person with crutches, two dogs in heat blocking the bench or someone who looked like they needed it more than I, the seat was going to be mmine.

It was at a lower level of course and not within eyesight of ground zero. It was a good place to sit and look to the top of the stairs where the wall of windows did overlook the gaping hole. Not only that but the stairs as well as the many benches sitting spot was a continual flow of humanities diversified cultures who were both stationary and on their way to someplace else either to do something else or watch others doing the same thing. A stationary watcher was the goal.

As I sat down on the hard bench, a little out of breath and while recovering from the fast decent down the mountain of stairs a few kids sat next to mme just to let mme know that it wasn’t a tie. One of them expressed that I had come in first and she was second, her pal said he was third and their pal said she was fourth.

Lucky for mme and seconds later, they all got up and left after one of them said that they did that just because they noticed I raced to sit down to enjoy the last bench available. One of them said I was lucky that I had a head start and next time they’d beat mme. I told them that I’ll be back next summer for the rematch.

Seconds later an adult came by and said with a smile that her kids wouldn’t be back because they’re from Minnesota just visiting and on their last day of a two week vacation. Then she asked mme how can I stand being around so many people? MMy answer was that I didn’t live in New York City any more either.

By this time her kids were well ahead of her on their way to another race with a stranger so she hurriedly said good bye and continued on her catch up exercise. I on the other hand sat to watch what seemed like the never ending movement of humanity’s lunch hour. Gazing to the top of the stairs it was the only part that had few people walking back and forth. Many stopped to look out the window towards the gaping hole of ground zero. All of them pointed at one time or other.

I just sat there being mesmerized by that pinnacle view. It kept changing but not very fast. Sometimes there were two people together holding hands while looking through the window wall; other times there was just one person alone. Sometimes there were small groups of three, four or more; a few were obvious families. Others were more like larger groups of adult tourists eating on the fly.

Several times I noticed a one; a lone person. One in particular ‘one’ I witnessed walked very slowly along the window glance to look out for a few minutes. She stepped sideways a few times. She stopped a few times while still looking out then about the third or fourth stop she began to cry. I could see her put her hands to her face, her head bent down and her shoulders were shaking in despair. It was sad. For about half an hour I sat while beginning words to the following.

It wasn’t long after 911 so I walked around a bit more. There was a little presentation or a display really that was on an upper floor of this building, I think it was; it showed the area before 911. It was a curved walled window display that one could view and walk along reading the information presented.

I was beginning to get hungry as the smells of the huge cafeteria wafted around the entire part of the building.. Thinking about eating, I continued the slow stroll through the still packed cafeteria and on through the double glassed doors to the outside summer’s air. It wasn’t too hot that day but it was kind of windy.

The weather was fresh the sun in full glow. I walked past a park like setting that had dozens of short trees with large numbers of people sprawled on the grass in pairs, sets and alone; all seemed to be enjoying the weather as well as a picnic.

I left the area and began walking south. New York City’s tall buildings form huge cement canyons that gusts of wind at times will almost knock you down. This was one of those days. But it was still gorgeous to see and feel the excitement of the afternoon atmosphere. It didn’t take long before searching and finding a nice restaurant where I’d finally sit down to enjoy a good, quiet meal.

Shortly after entering the mostly empty place a smiling waitress handed mme a menu and pointed to a table by the front window. I sat down to enjoy an Asian meal while still paying attention to what was going on outside and up the street.

No sooner had I sit down and before enjoying the appetiser I noticed a little confrontation between a person who was coming out from a double parked vehicle and a mman on horseback who happened to be wearing the blue uniform of authority. Needless to say the double parker wasn’t happy when he was handed a slip of paper probably with his name and license number on it.

What a town; caught red handed somewhat like in the old west but in this instance, the newer east. No matter what happens, a visit in good ‘ol NYC will tell you that many things happen there and yes, twenty four hours a day. The mman in blue slowly galloped north. Turning around mr. double parker sent a one finger gesture that I’mm sure still didn’t satisfy him. Don’t you just love it?

The meal was a hot one of the Thai variety and something I had looked forward to experiencing for a long time. Although at the end of the restaurant stay there was a little mishap due to either faulty eye sight on mmy part or a leaky pen. It was easily taken care of with a short calm discussion. Needless to say the fare was excellent; and of course it was because it was the:

H O U S E O F Z E N

Push in south threw canyons mall
Catch hurried, came raged winds
Dock in at cool Thailand treats
Hot ‘n sour to din’s

Curried Thai, the chicken’s plate
Palette’s ten, the quest
Waitress switch is taste of juice
Grin replaced upset

Drink in all the fragrance is
Flower buds savoured tames
Tongue in swirls hot melodies
Counter point’s chef’s flames

Floating spice is fringe delights
Main course worships tears
Sea the aye’s, wild city’s ‘scape
Windows glare appears

Horsemen blues pull up end off
Doubled in van’s parks
Rite dead, numb words in they’re rise
Troll vans lounge bite sharks

Check calls license plates hut two
Ticks, these stuck in gear
Orange crushed with in write full
Tickets plea’s knot hear

Meal has freshened three’s Zen fruits
Knows all sense of clear
Bill arrives, wallet knocked dead
Hey! What’s over? Fear

“Oh, ‘fore give mme, mmy missed take
Dot is hidden there.”
Open smiles of found content
Paid amount of mere.

Last thing once before aye, leave
Shall be back dear host
Labyrinths maze into the john
Lifting sole’s, too close

Chow, Zen’s best’s dull swim in grease
Mac’s crisp hole in throat
Burghers, cheese, fried yikes in spend
Cholesterol free gloats.

Red, White and Blues

February 1, 2010

Red, White and Blues
(part two)

Having been a percussionist most of this life and in many at home situations of Quiet! We're sleeping! (more than most I'd imagine) from an early childhood practicing in the blackened pit of our cellar, I was used to hearing the sound of stomping feet due to telephone wrings as a signal to plea's stop or you’re giving us a head ache; it was time to eat or just plain shut up we need quiet.

After all, it's not often one gets the chance to make lots of noise, especially without the sound police knocking or doing the pound thing on ones door for disturbing the peace and serenity of usually sub dude surroundings. To say the least, we unrelentingly had the audacity of a ball, way past the meteor readings of louder than ever still; beyond decibels of destroying ears drumms continued.

After this once in a lifetime experience of mmind jogging revelry died down; the supply of bombs and fireworks had been seemingly exhausted about an hour or so later, I meandered back into the house unscathed, give or take a few bliss tours of course. The yard was strewn with remnants of bottle rockets and bombs.

I was lucky that nary a projectile reached the noggin. Sweating and tired from banging the drumm and yelling mmy brains out, I thought to take a bit of a nap. Ah yes, the din of the dark entry hear was gone. Quietude greeted mme at the door which I couldn’t see anyway and ran right into the thing; Ouch!

Alas and a lack, no matter how I tried, I was bye know means sleepy as of yet. Instead of the obvious at this point, I headed to the in home workspace and stood in front of the drafting table moving aside bits of paper and such to find, what?

An unsteady view was quickly drawn into a photograph of the American flag; one I had placed a few days earlier on the wall in front of mme to help get in the mood for the up chunking, and patriotically anticipated, once a year celebration. Something was going to come from that; not then but later; at least I had hoped.

Well, there it was, the symbol of Americas exist stance. I took a long, hard look at the photo. In the mminds aye began a superimposed, improvised treble and bass clef perhaps the likes of switch know one has ever scene before, nor sensed since.

These were made of a stubbly, gnawed and almost unrecognisable yellow pencil, placed within the environs of an old metal compass that represented the treble clef. The bass clef consisted plainly of a few broken toothpicks of specific, proportionate sizes. Trying to figure out the placement was another matter.

I then placed the two ornameants over, under, around, through, next to, and on top of the star's section. Not only were they moved to the left-hand side-top corner mmind you, but placed at every angle one might imagine while moving these objects in Chess-like manner. I was in a state of how to get from here to they're; just find. If you’re following mme now you’re as goofy as I was; or amm.

All of a sudden while having an illustrious time illuminating (some would term creating) eye noted that our flag was a bit like the Grand Staff in relation to mmusic. The 13 stripes could be adapted very easily to make up the lines and spaces of the Grand Staff known to many mmusic theorists and crazy persons.

Immediately (like a thief were to take it away and I'd lose this view) I quickly grabbed an always placed handy sharpened pencil; with saws in mmind, proceeded to draw what I had imagined; i.e. look yesterdays photo you’d know.

Firstly, I drew the lines and spaces of a Grand Staff. Then as fast as an eraser, broke the continuity of each line at specific, but unrelated and vertical points so the whole picture would have an a peer rants of a flag waving in the breeze.

To give the image a little more sense of reality eye drew a pole and placed the flag to the right side lastly adding a round knob perched precariously on its precipice or pinnacle .

Like all empty pages of mmusic manuscript devised for these purposes the revised flag seamed to have a void without sum kind of notes or purr haps, a melody. At this point it was obvious that notes should be added to what had been drawn thus far. I mean what’s an empty box with nothing but air in it anyway?

Ah yes, a melody; a tune of sum import was required. The melody was pretty obvious after spending the day in NYC's 4th extravaganza. I must have heard the same melody that day more times than one could count peanuts. Mr. Key’s mmelody had been played everywhere all damn day.

At this time I moved to a synthesizer, close at hands. I picked out and played the National Anthem a few times, amazingly enough in the key of see, and then composed out what would be used from then on to now; see it?

After this or then with pure a band did meant, while using a bit of artistic lice nce, superimposed the notes, part of our Star Spangled Banner mmelody and organized them by their specific placement on the staves in an octave of two - unison fashion. Voila! The treble and bass together as won.

The part of the melody chosen, is at the point when the words sung are, ' Oh say does tha-at Star Spang-gled Ba-ner-er ye-et waaaaaaaay'… and yes…without finishing the sentence so to speak, decided to stop there. Sorry, another cliff hanger; this one stays forever. I’ll have to live with that one.

Before the cadence ends and the word wave is fully pronounced, seemed like a good point to make; mmusically. After thinking about the sound of this cliffhanger mmelody and what that would mean in mmusic terminology, not to mention using a mmusical rule or two, the mmelody was left hanging on purpose. What can I say; oh say can you see?

I was satisfied this is where Red, White & Blues would be complete. This in tension of hold, a fermata if you will; or a suspension actually has meaning to us not only as mmusicians, but as patriots as well.

The design shares certain qualities of a ' United We Stand' concept; especially now after the tragic events of 911. These pieces as well as two other works originally created are dedicated to four relatives who experienced that nightmare first hand. Two no longer with us, the other two? Glad they’re still here, or there.

After 225 years of existence, through blue times, new times, now time, rough times, good times, most times as well as the oh happy days too times; when hit hard from forces wishing to destroy our freedoms way of life, Americans can proudly say that, The Beacon; Our Eagle's Democracy withstands another test of the times and still survives.

It will take a hell of a lot more than a hell of a lot more to do us in…

“Say does that Star Spangled banner yet wave.”

God Blessed America