Attitude

I boarded a small plane from Richland to Seattle and sat next to a fat couple. We flew over the Cascades.

“Hi,” they said.

“Hi. Where are you going?” I said.

The man said, “Oh we’re going to Atlanta and then ... ” his heavy bejeweled wife interrupted, flashing lidded eyes above pancake makeup and perfect teeth ... “and this seating is just terrible. I mean, look at the space on this poor thing. There’s absolutely no room to move. When we get to Atlanta we’re flying first class to London.”

Her white pearl ring would’ve fed half of Bangladesh.

“We own a travel agency in Bend Over,” he continued. “We’re on our way to meet friends in London and then we’re going to sail down the Danube River, drink wine and have the time of our lives. Yes indeed. We’re going first class all the way.”

“Sounds like a relaxing vacation.”

“That’s only the beginning,” he said.

“Say more.”

“After Europe we’re going to an antiterrorist convention in Cuba and then,” his spouse interjected again … spitting her words into an overbooked air tight tin can where syllables floated with half-baked ideas meeting angry frustrated voices complaining about time, weather, seat selection, lack of dietary choices, cramped cattle conditions and the high price one paid to be human … she shut up and her husband sighed ... “then we’re going to China for a tour. We’re going to hit all the sights in ten days: Bee Jing, Shanghai, Xian, see Terracotta warriors trapped in dirt, walk the Great Wall, swim in the Gangster River and prowl open air markets filled with exotic animals like lions, tigers and bears oh my, dying of loneliness and neglect in cages, yes sir ree and you buy them and they’ll cook it right up in front of you. We’ll drink cobra blood. It’s a sexual aphrodisiac.” He rubbed his crotch.

His wife blew more smoke ...

“Isn’t freedom, democracy and free trade with open markets wonderful? Isn’t it a shame these planes are so small. You’d think the FAA would require carriers to operate planes with more legroom. They treat us like pigs. Some pigs are more equal than others, by George oh well ... And, if that wasn’t enough, those smelly immigrant security wage slaves made me remove my shoes and underwear before I passed through detectors. I hardly understood a word they muttered and stuttered. Can you imagine? I need another drink and I need it bad.”

“Yes, dear,” said hubby patting her pasty fingers, “this country is going to hell faster than you can say Osama who’s your mama.”

She inhaled a double gin and tonic. “You be careful whom you talk to now dear,” she whispered. “You never know when someone might be listening. There may be bugs planted on this plane. I need another drink.”

“You worry too much,” he said. “It’s been disinfected.” He got her a double G&T.

“It’s a wonderful life,” I said. A couple of fat happy complacent mediocre Yankee doodle dandies.

“What do you do?” said hubby.

“I work for Death Deferred Ink as a mercenary ghost. I freelance as a wordsmith gravedigger designing mysterious plot projects. Busy 24/7. I’m taking a break from my heavy, deep, real responsibilities. Headed to Marrakesh to meet a friend at a Storyteller’s Convention ... She’s a blind nomadic weaver in exile from exile. She lives in a cave with cannibals outside Rhonda in Andalucía. When someone passes on we strip the flesh off bones for writing parchment ... We grind the bones into sex medicine dust. We sell left over human organs and upright pianos in China. It’s an expanding market with tonal variations on a theme. No women and no kids ... Diversity and flexibility is key. Always be closing.”

This revelation took care of their first class attitude.

ART Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Children in Laos carry the world on their back.

Duende

In June 2001 I called Pascal, an airline ticket broker in Montreal and set up the itinerary. Seattle, Detroit, Amsterdam to Casablanca round-trip for six months.

“When do you want to go?”

Another draft of A Century is Nothing would be abandoned by mid-August. I selected a random date.

“September 1.”

“What did Narcissus say when he saw his reflection in the water?” said Pascal during a conversation.

“What?”

“Watch out for yourself.”

“Good one.”

“We’ll take care of it,” he said. “Have a good trip.”

“Thanks for your help.”

A ticket to dusty roads in another village, town, city, country and continent offered new adventures. KISS. Keep it simple stupid.

Leaving was a wise karmic decision. Speaking of history.

I checked out of living between fifty-five million gallons of buried radioactive fuel at Hanford and the Umatilla Army Disposal Site where 7.4 million pounds of discarded chemical weapons waited to be incinerated.

Humans would be vaporized in an instant if the winds of change shifted. Weapons of mass destruction glowed in backyards.

My future lives were freedom, choice and plenty.

Two months after 9/11 while writing in Cadiz, Spain I visualized my incarnation as a calm word mercenary on an existential literary mission.

I created and wrote with discipline and perseverance.

I had duende, an untranslatable Spanish word, literally meaning possessing spirit and dark sound.

It signifies a charisma, emotion, expression and authenticity manifested by flamenco dancers, bullfighters, shamans, prescient seers and weavers. Audiences feel they are in the presence of a mystical power. The duende is an elf or goblin in Spanish and Latin American folklore.

The Spanish poet Frederico Garcia Lorca produced the best description of duende.

“Years ago, during a flamenco dance contest in Jerez, an old woman of eighty, competing against beautiful women and young girls with waists as supple as water, carried off the prize by simply raising her arms, throwing back her head and stamping the platform with a single blow of her heel. In that gathering of muses and angels, of beautiful forms and lovely smiles, the dying duende triumphed as it had to, dragging the rusted blades of its wings along the ground.”

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Marrakesh

Tattoo

Ink Me
Married to a needle
Zen of needle

Tattoo customers wander into studio:
Russian mafia, Indonesian businessmen,
two female Chinese students
Khmer boy has “Lin Forever” tattooed on his forearm
English man has a cover up job done on a red risqué dancing woman replaced by Dali's “Melting Time.”

Mont Blanc ink me
Penetrate my skin using coil and rotary machines...

Feel the pressure

Surgical precision
Process: set up worktable, cover table, pillows and bed with cling wrap,
arrange needle machines and ink. New needles from sealed packages.

Put on black surgical gloves, attach plug into amp meter for needle machine,
tape stencil on client for tracing. Client lies on back with cling wrapped pillow under head.

Artist places arm on pillow and long wrapped table for support. Small talk.

Artist consults sketch, applies pressure to arm with left hand,
puts needle machine on skin, client inhales,
artist turns machine on, zzzzz cutting skin.
Client exhales. Process continues 2 hours.

Focus of tattoo artist
Calm waves early light

Be the ink
Be the needle
Be the skin

Clear heart-mind healing skin
Ibuprofen 800 reduces wrist/hand swelling. Rest. Water.

Deserted beach, wave laughter, dawn light
Floating world islands remember current
Yoga posture
Healing energies

Orange sunset dives into blue green waves
Swim with
Courage laughter joy bliss and gratitude

Grow Your Soul - Prose and Poems from Laos & Cambodia

Luang Prabang, Laos

Two Hearts

After detox and affirmations in Tacoma I accepted a new tennis teaching job at a Richland athletic club in the high eastern desert.

I lived between the Hanford Nuclear Reservation leaking toxic waste and a military high-grade uranium destruction site.

Sweet earth. Delicious water.

Glowing in the dark improved my writing visibility at night.

Clean and sober I wrote a small children’s book about trust and love.

Two Hearts On A Grand Precious Adventure has The Prince of Yogurt and the Princess of Chocolate on a quest for the beginning of the ocean. I self published it as an e-book.

I turned my attention to big work. I sifted through worn travel journals, old letters, faded yellow evidence papers, typed manuscripts, stories, fragments, poems, and photographs gathered from wandering Earth.

For two years I wove threads into a non-linear draft of epic adventures entitled A Century is Nothing.

I murdered my darlings and rearranged sentences in the farrago. They were stories about people telling stories about people in stories experiencing courage, transformation and impermanence.

I researched markets. I mailed out the synopsis with query letters. Fifty rejection letters from literary agents sang a refrain. “Sorry, doesn’t meet current mainstream needs. Too edgy. Needs more heavy, deep, real, personal Vietnam insight and growth. Fewer characters. Bottom line: I can’t make my 15% selling this.” Wallpaper. So it goes.

*

One morning I went to the Richland P.O. for stamps.

Taken from the Hubble Space Telescope they were named Eagle Nebula, Ring Nebula, Lagoon Nebula and Galaxy NGC 1316.

I enjoyed a stimulating discourse with a young unarmed postal woman about the amazing galaxies and how incredible it was to contemplate them living five miles away from fifty-five million gallons of buried radioactive waste left over from W.W. II seeping 130 feet down toward water tables along the Columbia River.

“Fascinating,” she said.

Editing material for my book I read a faded yellow page marked Top Secret Evidence.

“It’s called Technetium, TC-99m,” said an Indian scientist on a shuttle between reactors. “This is the new death and we know it’s there and there is nothing we can do to prevent it spreading.”

The waste approached 250 feet as corporations vying for energy contracts with D.O.E. discussed containment options and emergency evacuation procedures.

Scientists read Robert’s Rules Of Order inside the organized chaos of their well order communities. Hanford scientists, wives and children suffering terminal thyroid disease ate roots and plants sprinkled with entropy.

As the postal worker and I talked, a frantic mother yelled at her daughter, “DON’T touch the stamps!” because at her precocious age, curiosity about the expanding universe developed her active imagination.

Holding a Nebula space dust galaxy in my hand I told the postal woman how we are a third the life of a 13.7 billion year-old universe. She handed me change and said, “That’s interesting. I never looked at the stamps before.”

“What happens next?” said Plot.

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Ethnology Museum, Hanoi

Widow Remembers

In the United States of Amnesia it was all too clear to Marian sitting on the wooden chair in the kitchen staring out a double reinforced storm window into spring’s garden.

She hadn’t slept well. Again. Last night was difficult with perpetual arthritic sore joints and eternal emptiness next to her in the brass bed. She’d stayed under the comforter reading longer than usual this morning. It was a clean sparse room with a thick Persian carpet.

Closets were crammed with clothing she’d give away.

While she had hardcover nonfiction stacked everywhere in the living room, her bedroom reading were intellectual monthly magazines and estate agent ads.

She sat on the chair where Richard sat for thirty-odd years in his frayed blue terrycloth bathrobe perusing the newspaper. He rose early to feed sparrows, bring her the morning paper and coffee, tease and laugh with her, talk and return to the chair.

She was shifting into another reality.

Sparrows arrived at the rusty bread pan feeder hanging from the split brown patio roof. The structure sagged toward earth. Jackdaws, jays and robins patrolled dew diamonds as light shaved crabapple, cherry, maples and elms. She needed to call the mower man. She needed to check the pressure on the old black pump down near the fence. It was going to be a hot day and it was wise to water early or late.

The hands on a grandfather clock above the yellow cabinet lined with medication bottles were dead just after one. A stopped clock is right twice a day. The key collected dust.

She didn’t know where she wanted to live the rest of her life. She was surrounded by memories and basement stuff.

Tons of tools, collectables and junk: lathes, hammers, chisels, planers, boxes of screws and widgets, papers, books, clothing, boxes of seventy-eight RPM records going back fifty years, canned goods stacked on dusty shelves, sturdy battered suitcases, moth balled suits, boxes of vintage wine, shoes, an old broken pinball machine, photo albums, European and Russian travel guides, a forgotten pool table, lumber, a black Singer sewing machine in working order, a crimson pin cushion, needles and spooled multicolored threads.

And that was just part of the mess down there. She never descended anymore. No need or desire. She’d seen it all, throwing up her hands accepting his passion for collecting stuff and messing around, resigning herself to inevitable destiny and retreated to the sanctuary of erudite literature and domestic tasks above ground zero in light and air. She prospered in the realm of intellectual property in life of the mind.

Thirty years is a long time to be with someone. Nancy, the hospice worker was a big help, her stepsons assisted make arrangements. A retired young brother lived north off I-25. He gave her connection and comfort.

Being Steamboat Springs natives they survived the depression in the 30’s by ranching, coal mining and power plant maintenance in Nucla.

Education formed their character. All of them escaped mountains for city schools. Universities gave them the opportunity to use their intelligence. They became engineers, teachers and geologists.

She was a secretary at ARFC in Denver when she met Richard a year after his wife died. She was a single mother and her son Timothy lived in Steamboat taking care of his grandfather until he passed on.

Timothy was in Mensa, had a degree in geology, built a Harley from scratch and resembled Custer. He was a friendly no-nonsense individual in the spirit of the West.

He worked long tough hours on the Western Slope as a supervisor for a mining operation dealing with poor maintenance records, inept management and the frustrations of trying to keep all the heavy equipment up to standards.

“It’s 8,000 miles to the center of the Earth and we’ve only drilled down 7.5 miles,” he said one afternoon to Geronimo sitting on a plateau as sunset light played across red, brown, golden sediment strata.

She knew everyone would help when she got around to making the decision. This chapter in her journey was letting go by accepting the fact she couldn’t stay here forever. The place was forty years old.

She’d sell it and get an apartment on a bus line near shops, a library and friends. She was only seventy and mobile. She didn’t need assisted living.

She missed knowing he was tinkering with something down there. She missed his dry sense of humor. It was going to be a long hot day.

ART Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir