To gaze upon the shoulders, to consider the arch of the back

(My "wedding stare")

Well, the wedding was quite touching. It had all the things that you would want in such a thing. The bride and groom were both lovely and gave tender speeches, recited their vows sweetly and with much fumbling sincerity. The parents were glowing with happiness for their children to be departing on a life together, hopefully with children arriving soon. Their "first dance" as a married couple was quite impressive. The groom is a suave Argentinian and his wife a genuine and tender beauty, but I do not believe that many had expected them to perform a choreographed "Cheek to Cheek." Not the Fred and Ginger choreography that you see in that link, but a charming bit nonetheless. I knew the moves as they were doing them yet with each sequence I found myself more pleased than with the one before. I teared up a little bit with happiness for both of them.

Had I mentioned that I am here in Mexico for a wedding? The world now has two less singles in it.

The girl with whom I had developed a fascination the evening before wore the wrong dress, and did nothing with her hair to compensate. It looked as if she had stepped out of the shower, letting the ravages of nature be her stylist. I realized after a few minutes of watching her that I am well out of her league, which made it impossible to approach her. She is pretty and very much "my type" but I could not muster the insincerity to see any of it through, nor even try. 

She chose a black dress that did little to compliment her, at least compared to the one of the previous evening. It was open and rounded at the top about the shoulders with a sort of funeral doily that hid more than it showcased. You could tell that she had breasts but it seemed as if you would have to work your way through a cotton cobweb to get to them. I suppose the idea was that it was to draw attention to her delicate shoulders, which were quite lovely, but that is the most and the best that could be said for the dress, that she would look much nicer out of it, as I'm confident she does.

The evening before, every pattern and line invited the eyes, encouraging them to linger and follow in consideration. Her entire six foot frame acted in unison as a series of on-ramps to much better places. She appeared as a woman, inviting in every curve. 

Last night, she just arrived as any other attendee at a wedding. She disappeared into celebration. 

Ah well. She never strayed far enough from her friends to be very interesting anyway. Few things are as off-putting as a lack of independence in any person. They were all like a four-headed wedding monster that became louder and yet somehow less noticeable as the evening unwound, or as they did. Everybody's faces started to sag a bit under the effects of perpetual tequila, even though they tried to stave it off with celebratory bursts at periodic, pre-determined moments. The light of the candle of their eyes were still well lit, though the wax had begun to drip a bit. 

You could see the looks of concern if any one of their group broke free from the others. They danced in a territorial square that was meant to simulate a circle of sorts, and cheered belatedly at all of the familiar wedding disco moments. They were trapped in a world about two seconds behind the music, as if the soundtrack to the evening and the video had slipped slightly out of synch, never to meet again. When they would step off the dance floor they would grab each other's arms and then move like an eight-legged crab that had become slightly disconnected from its constituent components. Because they only ever faced one another they each got an entirely different view of the wedding at all times. It was like a fortress guarded by four poorly trained sentinels. 

It was dispiriting, but what can one do? I would have offered a more interesting evening, though I suspect she might not have understood it. Still, she at least would have had a very good chance at sex, a thing that their locked-friend-formation seemed to be actively working against. I don't get it, once you've stared at a woman for an hour or more doesn't she know to break away from her friends to allow nature to take its course. She did not appear to understand the codes which encourage and allow the directed unfolding of a man's lust.

Some people you just can't reach.

There is still today, though she seems like a non-stop party girl. She's probably again repeating a story to her three connected friends this very moment, while I got a nice stretch of five hours of uninterrupted sleep, the first since I have arrived. 

She would be a match, or no match, for me now.

.

.

The Mayan Riviera

Day two in sultry paradise. I have grown far too accustomed to the lower humidity of semi-Northern California. Some call it a drought. Last night, I sweated entirely through my linen shirt. Luckily, it was all white so once it was completely drenched nobody really noticed, though women ceased hugging me in greeting and departure. I was met with waves of the hand, smiles of retreat. 

Speaking of women... there was one. I felt the tug of attraction and enjoyed it. It seemed as if she was there to be noticed by me. That didn't take nearly as long as I had thought that it might. My impulses towards her were mildly problematic, though. She was "of a familiar type." A close friend not only noticed, but jokingly cautioned me not to call her by another's name. 

So, I spoke with her briefly, confirmed that she was nothing like the previous type to which I am referring, and then proceeded to stalk her visually while she acted as single women often do at a wedding; dancing and looking good, having fun, appearing ready to act upon their fertility. I wished to chat with her more. She came back to the villa where we are staying, but there was only one brief interchange at the edge of the beach as she and her friends withdrew for their hotel. I was offering to be helpful.

Later, I was stricken with a reasonably mild case of the revenge of Montezuma, the traveler's affliction. It is impossible to state the precise cause. It could have been everything. I have lost all of the fluids in my body between this and the linen shirt. I will be hospitalized by morning if there is one available, somewhere upriver, deep in the malarial jungle. 

Tonight, I will try to conceal my intestinal bacteria from the one to which I am inexorably drawn. Each abdominal movement warns me otherwise. I want her to wear the same dress from last night, but I am confident that she will not. Perhaps she will, at least, for me, do her hair in the same fashion. 

I wish only to make her feel pretty, you see, and then to find out some more about it.

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Equal parts

Okay, now I'm here. I sit about 30 yards from the water having breakfast, enjoying the Caribbean winds. It took almost 24 hours to get here from the time I left my apartment, but that is all behind me, like most of my adolescence. 

Well, I wrote that then I went to say hi to the bride and groom and ended up doing some light yoga as the waves rolled onto the shore and the breeze lifted my sweat into the wind. I haven't even taken a picture yet. That's how comfortable I am, already. Accept the screen-grab from above as my postcard apology.

I'm not going to be able to supply a full post today. We'll consider this post a semi, a chubby, over as fast as it began; equal parts shame and brevity.

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Aeropuerto Internacional de la Ciudad de México

It's when I travel that I feel most alone. I long for someone to call, to text, to touch base with, anything. Some hint of sweetness somewhere out there in the world. In love there is, at least, the illusion that you are not alone. One of the best tricks ever invented. It really is too bad that it doesn't last. Everybody gets tired of everything. 

Airports are awful places. They're like hurried malls. Everybody is trying to escape, with baggage. There is no leisure, only boredom. Kids don't even laugh. They all seem worried. 

I sit here now in Mexico City, with a three hour layover, at an airport restaurant, mainly because they have wifi. From the glassed second floor there is a view of the entire length of the terminal. It feels like an underfunded set from a film like Minority Report, or Logan's Run (for my older readers), or Brazil. The world is built on accidental dystopia. 

Terminal, that's a good word for it. 

I have a camera, so here, you get to see it now also:

I hope that picture bores you as much as it does me. I'm not exactly sure why I even bothered taking it, I feel stupid, now, and think less of you for even looking at the thing. What were you thinking?

It's what I do with my life. I point at things and say, See?

I used to have friends in Mexico City that I could possibly call to meet me while I had a layover this long, but they have mostly grown up, I think. That sort of foolishness evaporates somewhere in your 40's, like giving people that you're dating a ride to the airport at an inconvenient hour. It just doesn't last.

None of it. If it does, then somebody will poke me in the ribs and point at the old couple holding hands in the park together and say, See?

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Raise high the crucifix

Traveling. I love being places. I hate getting places. 

People that have never traveled for a living romanticize it. You can tell right away when they get on the plane, especially in first class. They are giddy and talkative. They act as if a mimosa is some mysterious or exotic drink, one served only to the finest people, because of their fineness. I want to cattle-prod them in the kidneys, make them squirt blood. 

Okay, maybe not the last part, but all the way up to the cattle prod, that is all true.

I left my house and drove into the office just as early as ever. I had nowhere else to go. I want to go back to sleep for a couple hours, but I know that my mind and body will not let me. I would rather sit in an abortion clinic waiting room than be in an airport. It would be more interesting, and at least you can be certain that all the women there fuck. In fact, you wouldn't even need to use protection, except for the other reason to do so.

I am an awful man, but Jesus still loves me just as much as he loves you and everybody else. I'll always have that going for me, even if I am an unloveable wretch elsewhere in life. Never forget that. There is nothing that you can do to make Jesus love you any more than me. So, suck it.

I tried to chat with the boy on Facetime this morning, but his grandmother was in the room. She is chatty, to a fault. It is difficult to sneak a sentence into the unending prattle. There are things about her I like, but she has never developed certain sensibilities, ones that would allow her to recognize basic things, like that I did not call to talk to her.

Ah well, what can one do... I am happy that he has a grandmother at all. I didn't. I never knew a single one of my grandparents. The last one died when I was about two months old.

Cue: the tears. Raise high the crucifix. 

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The Last of the Late: "Enjoy every sandwich..."

Here is a piece filled with great anecdotes concerning one person's experience working for David Letterman. The Madonna interviews get me every time. What a fantastic time for chatting. 

Lots of people don't like Jimmy Fallon, and certainly you wouldn't if you compared him to Dave Letterman, but he's an affable enough fellow and he exploits that one quality to his great advantage. It seems that his guests like him well enough. One was given a very different feeling from Letterman, even with the guests that he clearly liked. It was not just his inability to be in awe of them, it was their inability to stop him from expressing that lack of awe.

Few things were as entertaining as watching him effortlessly deflate the pompous.  In my younger years he was a God. His shows in the 80's and early 90's were a nightly template on how to be, how to think, and how to speak. I can watch that Paris Hilton clip about once a month and still derive pleasure from it. When he gets to the point where he says, "You see, that's where you and I differ…" Now that was just a hint of the old Dave. 

Even though Paris is clearly irritated (watch her leg), he somehow calms her down and finishes the interview quite amicably. Few can do such a thing. With most, there is a clear departure point where the host silently apologizes in transition for ever having made the guest uncomfortable by completely changing the subject and "moving on." Dave knows exactly how to leave his version of the conversation lingering in such a way that it can not be removed by anybody, and not by any change in conversation.

Another one with a few laughs, even touching. It's true, but I didn't mean it.

The times have certainly changed. It's difficult to imagine that we will see another like him. Consider any talk show host having Don Van Vliet as the musical guest for a nationally broadcast show, now... Van Vliet has since passed away, but you get the idea. Nobody is willing any longer to entertain things for the sole sake of their weirdness, and the value of that weirdness. 

Warren Zevon would often take over as the show's musical coordinator for Paul Schaffer. That linked clip is one of the few in which Dave is in genuine awe. He dedicates the entire show to the man as everybody strongly suspected that he was going to soon pass, which he did. 

"Dave's the best friend that my music has ever had."

A friend just (coincidentally) emailed, letting me know that tonight is his last show. I didn't even know. I'll have the boy tonight, so I doubt I'll be able to watch. He reminded me that I once claimed that David Letterman (and Hunter S. Thompson) invented the way that we now speak (particularly at after-parties, as my friend reminded).  

It is nearly impossible to imagine people talking the way that they do now without him. 

Things being true, but not meaning it.

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The Larkspur Ferry, and back again

(Photo by Rhys Cusick)

The boy is getting good at shooting my style of photography, which is to just take lots of candid pictures and hope for the best. Here we were snapping a few on the Larkspur Ferry yesterday.

It's a good thing that my head is as big as it is. It's the only thing that even attempts to keep my nose in proportion to my face. It's part of the reason that I don't lose weight. I would just look silly. It doesn't help that I am leaning forward into a 35mm field of view to offer technical assistance and emergency camera security detail. 

We had a pretty good time. We walked around the Ferry Building and he watched me eat raw oysters with horseradish while he excitedly pointed at the lobsters and clams that awaited their buttery fate. Then, we decided on some expensive burgers before we walked outside to see the line for the return ferry, which already seemed about twice as long as the possible number of seats on the boat.

Immediately, I became the classic dad, worried that we would not be able to get on the return ferry and would have to wait two hours more for the next one. I started an imaginary calculation of the enormous taxi fare from AT&T Park, across the bridge to Larkspur. I thought of all the people that I know in SF with cars. I rated them in order of presumable sympathetic leanings. I considered petitioning one of the ferry employees, pointing to the child, describing my terrible chronological error and the needs of a child. Explaining what freezing to death would be like. All of it.

The young women in line directly behind us, apparent experts on such matters, repeated incessantly that there was no way we were going to get on the boat, that we would have to wait for the next one. Only one of them was even cute, so I have no idea what I was doing talking to them at all. I had to explain in hushed tones to the cute one how sad it was that the boy's mother had passed away twice in childbirth, but we were doing okay. It was a big burden, of course, though he and I were quite happy together, having several mansions up in the hills, each with many maids to help with the boy and to perform basic household duties; the cooking, cleaning, sewing, etc. 

If only I had someone to share all of my many riches with...

All for naught. 

We made it onto the boat, easily. In fact, the entire line that had formed behind us while we were waiting also made it. I tried to get the ugly girls to watch the boy while I chatted with little Mrs. Cusick, but they were not into it. I offered to buy her a drink. She explained that she was 14. 

Rules, rules, rules. Always, and everywhere one goes. 

No, I kid, of course. Where would we be without rules and paperwork. If we didn't have those then surely we would need more laws. 

Part of this story was true, at least.

I fluctuate back and forth between writing complete nonsense and touching upon matters that are perhaps too personal and better dealt with elsewhere. 

But what is one to do, once the confession starts. Nobody wishes to disappoint the priests. 

.

Time Flies when it has a Scooter

We never made it out on a boat yesterday, so today is the day. I've checked the schedule and we're set. I fear that he will become bored with it rather quickly and we will have the remainder of the journey there and then the longer journey home, but what can one do. The boy has it in his heart to go on a boat with his dad. 

Who could deny such a thing.

Yesterday we intended on going shopping at an outdoor mall near San Quentin, but he fell asleep, so I just kept driving toward the city. We picked up Cato and made our way to Golden Gate Park where a friend was having a birthday party. It was a lovely day everywhere else, but once in the city the temperature dropped twenty degrees and the humidity climbed. The boy had to borrow a hoodie from the birthday boy. He was a little Ben Kenobi.

I am finding myself becoming more and more protective of the time I get to spend with him. He is reaching the age where he really needs his dad. It is perhaps the most hackneyed of all the parental cliches, but the time really does fly and each moment should be cherished. You never get a single second of it back. Oddly, splitting with his mom might not have been the worst thing that could have happened. My relationship with the boy has become so simple, clear and unobstructed. Not that she was intentionally interfering. It's just the dynamic of the thing. 

It has been a very long time since I have felt so loved, needed, and valued by anybody. One gets so used to being told in subtle and not so subtle ways that they're somehow not good enough, and undeserving. When you step back from that lie, even a short ways, you can't believe that you ever suffered it, and even called it love.

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Song of the Sea

Ever since purchasing this Academy Award nominee Rhys has wanted to go out on a boat. So, grand plans fell into place, though they were not meant to be. Perhaps another time, for those plans anyway. The boy and I might still go out on a boat this weekend, though it might only be something as dull as the Bay Ferry. Some time spent wandering the Ferry Building on the other side, then back again. 

Old sailors. Maybe we'll both get matching tattoos to commemorate our time on shore leave. He'd probably do it. I doubt I could stomach the wails and the tears. Mine. I am not the tattoo type.

From a very early age I read a review of Led Zeppelin by Robert Christgau from The Village Voice in which he described the drummer thusly, "… while John Bonham, as ham-handed as ever, pounds out a contrapuntal tattoo of heavy rhythm. As always, the band's medievalisms have their limits." While I never precisely wanted to be the drummer in Led Zeppelin I also realized that neither did I want a tattoo, nor its associations. That was but one of the things that clinched it.

Now that the boy and I are going out to sea I feel as if I should have the classic dual dolphins on my eyelids with my nose as the boat between them, or something. Maybe a "tramp stamp" of a torpedo heading down the crack of my butt with an additional arrow pointing downwards that says, "Exit Also…" I haven't really decided on the design yet. Maybe the torpedo should be emerging upwards from my butt crack. Across the top it could state simply, "War Head."

I still not might yet be ready to make such a permanent decision. Of all of the tattoos that my various friends have there is only one that I have ever liked. It's an Art Nouveau piece that is somehow less than repulsive as far as skin ink goes. Still, I prefer it on him. It's how some people feel about other people's kids, they like them a lot, but then they go home.

I always thought that I was one of those people. It turns out I'm not. My favorite times are when Rhys is here. It's only when he's gone that I start to really consider getting any tattoos.

.

35mm, Black and White

Rachel asked me for this picture today. It is one of my favorites.

Don't worry, I have old cameras and will take new pictures.

In this one, even the horizon leans and tilts, suggests an exit, stage right.

And there are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how….

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Lateral Epicondylitis

CS is right. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here any more. There is something to say but I've been warned not to say it, most have tired of hearing it anyway. I'm still getting readers for the occasional meltdown that we can count on that comes along every so often. I'm sure of it. My heart is like a rubber clock being run by a series of bent corkscrews.

I used to use the reason that if I didn't write first thing in the morning then all was lost, but I can disprove that any morning of my choosing. I'm emotionally and spiritually exhausted, and people tire easily of my gym tirades, the people at the gym most of all. It's as if I am on steroids but without any of the benefits; a life dedicated to future regrets. 

None of the supposedly wonderful qualities that accompany age have arrived in my life. My elbow hurts. Tennis elbow, without the tennis. My friend that is a radiologist showed me what has happened. He explained how the old tendons have frayed from age, misuse. He described the tearing from a sudden shock or stretching, or from the ravages of time; like an old pier that is collapsing on one side, barnacles creeping up the side of the elbow, best to not use. He advised me to avoid vigorous recurring motion.

I'm confident that it arose from a specific self-abuse regimen that I have been lately experimenting with, pushing the upper limits, if you will. I have no clinical evidence to support this theory, though it is not for lack of trying. Documenting certain activities in the wild can be difficult. There is no "control group" from which to compare. It is all lost in the fog of tug. 

It has afflicted the right arm only. That is the one indicator that seems the most telling and the one in which everybody agrees is the strongest indicator of a causal link.

So, now I can't even conduct my rigorous private life without incurring a sports injury of some sort. When people my age talk about not wanting to be young any more, that they enjoy being this age, they must have no memory of their previously carnal lives whatsoever. It must all be a blur of physical pleasure that they are just as happy to have escaped from.

Not me. I want to love like I'm 43 again, or even 37.

One day. 

I'll bump up my cardio program at the gym, see what happens.

I received the miracle of sleep last night. Well, it weren't no miracle. It were from the snake potions.  It was the result of a planned combination of Ambien and Xanax oils. Eight dark hours where the mind, the spirit, and the elbow could recuperate together. 

I awoke, tempted to test the elbow, but remembered what the snake oil salesman said about such things. 

The greasy stuff is guaranteed to heal the body, but be wary of the soul that wiggles in the palm of the hand of the devilish one.

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This Nation's Saving Grace

Nothing to say, even less than nothing; sub-nothing. 

I listened to the album cited above this morning at the gym and it invigorated me, once more, once again.

It's been a few years since I've heard it. There is an odd Mekons-like power to it. Only explainable in historical context, attention to detail that most listeners might resist. 

Apparently, 1985 was the greatest year for obscure albums ever. Fear and Whiskey. Tim. Fables of the Reconstruction. Psychocandy. New Day Rising. Rum, Sodomy & the Lash. Love.

That being, I will always remember it as the year that Joe Strummer betrayed each and every one of us. The album Cut The Crap can be summed up in one accurate and precise estimation: Didn't.

"If I only could, I'd be running up that hill.

If I only could, I'd be running up that hill."

It doesn't hurt me.

Do you want to feel how it feels?

Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?

Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?

You, it's you and me.

And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

Be running up that building.

If I only could, oh...

You don't want to hurt me,

But see how deep the bullet lies.

Unaware I'm tearing you asunder.

Ooh, there is thunder in our hearts.

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?

Tell me, we both matter, don't we?

You, it's you and me.

It's you and me won't be unhappy.

And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

Be running up that building,

Say, if I only could, oh...

You,

It's you and me,

It's you and me won't be unhappy.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon darling,

Let me steal this moment from you now.

C'mon, angel, c'mon, c'mon, darling,

Let's exchange the experience, oh..."

And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

With no problems.

And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

With no problems.

And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

With no problems.

If I only could

Be running up that hill

With no problems...

"If I only could, I'd be running up that hill.

If I only could, I'd be running up that hill."


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Maybe I need a puppy

There is still so much that I need to do here in this apartment. I need a lamp and dresser for my room. My clothes are in a pile, those which could not fit in the closet, from hangars. I have far more than I need, more than I would wear. I save things that are too small, dreaming that one day I will be under 200 pounds again. If I hit 50 years and still haven't accomplished that modest task then perhaps I'll rethink my motives, and the results.

50. Gross. 

Or, isn't a gross twelve dozen? So, 50 is actually 144. Grotesque. 

This morning Cato and Matt and Jordan will come over for breakfast. More eggs and bacon and perhaps a seasoned steak from the local latino meat market. I ate six pieces of bacon yesterday and five eggs, to make sure that they were acceptable for guests. Now, I will need to go and buy more. Yesterday, I was part of a one man exploratory committee. 

I did not eat all six pieces in a single sitting, nor the eggs. They were divided almost equally between breakfast and dinner. I wanted to give the day a sense of unity and near balance. 

I won. 

I was shopping for clothes on amazon last night with the help of a friend. I recognized that blue jeans might not be the thing to wear on the beach in Mexico for a wedding. I bought a few pairs of linen pants, and shorts, the colors were described as Sand and Black, day and evening wear. Now, I will need lightly colored, loosely fitting shirts. The idea is to look naturally casual, a look that I have hardly cultivated. I am a jeans and t-shirts kind of guy, solid colors.

Though, it is time for me to add some new articles to my wardrobe. Like Joni Mitchell, I should learn to make better changes and to make them more easily. A lesson not always so easily re-learned. It involves spending money and doing things differently. Seems easy enough by those standards, but then there is the execution of it. One must practice all things. There is so little time.

Ah well, that is my plan for success, anyway.

Here is another:

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The Great Escape, 2001

One of the few times that I get to listen to albums is at the gym. This morning, The Cure's "Faith." It's been on my iPod for months and I've scrolled past it about a hundred times. It has always seemed too much of a commitment, too brooding and morose. Tough times call for moody music.

With each listening of this album, about once a year, I am reminded of a sudden trip that several of my friends took from NYC in October of 2001, less than a month after the attacks.

America's intention to invade Afghanistan had been made. I reasoned that if the terrorists were going to strike again then this is when they would do so, and New York was the place. I spoke of chemical warfare, possible suitcase-sized nuclear devices. The implications were clear and ominous. We made our plans to load up in an SUV and escape. We discussed it vaguely then specifically over a Moroccan dinner of hummus, falafel, and lamb. There were six of us that I remember. Two couples, two singles. My buddy and his girlfriend, myself and my girlfriend, a photographer and a friend that helped manage the booking office at the time. Two of us were what would be considered and handled by the agency as artists.

We made no real plans. We just drove south. Terrorists would hardly care what survived in those desperate lands. There is no need for an apocalypse in such a place. Never more than a couple steps from becoming a living re-enactment of Mad Max, the south invites its own decay. 

The first city we stopped at was Washington D.C. Terrorists would never think of hitting there. We laughed about our strategy grimly, we pushed on. Wouldn't the people of NYC feel stupid now, or soon.

We headed towards the innards of the country. 

I got a speeding ticket in Virginia, 90 in a 55 zone. The officer explained that I would have to appear in court on the date listed. I explained that I could not. He offered to take me to jail instead, to iron things out with the judge in the morning. I looked him in the eye and promised that I would appear in court. I would be there, you can count on it. A phone call later solved the entire issue handily for just under $300. Those were in 2001 dollars, of course.

My buddy called his travel agent and we were made aware of a resort that would be the best place to hide. Little did we know precisely how right we were at the time. 

My girlfriend, Camille, aptly described the hotel's interior decor as the inspiration for several late Tom Petty videos. The entire place was a farrago of exploding colors and confused decorative ideas, all forced to exist together in what otherwise need not be cramped spaces. The eye never gets to rest, the mind never finds its center. It is the architectural equivalent of a flashback. What is meant to express a southern regal air instead perplexes the guest, inviting comparisons to a botched life-sized wedding cake made by an overzealous baker, one likely addicted to a specific opiate. 

We stayed only one night. It was much more than any of us could stomach. There was a bowling alley in the basement. Room service. Drinks. My buddy payed for it all. It must have cost thousands. The sting is perhaps still being felt.

We continued to escape the ravages of impending terror. We headed towards Asheville, North Carolina. This is where my girlfriend's mother was. Camille was originally from New Orleans, though her mother had a place in the mountains. I can't remember if this was the first time meeting her or not. I think that it was. She met us outside the Brookstone Lodge where we would continue to flee. 

The place was enormous, and built entirely by Keebler Elves:

We were all becoming good at sidestepping doom. It started to feel quite natural, this spree of victories.

We drank wine and went swimming in the heated pool that night. The office manager in her bikini started flirting with my girlfriend in hers and for a few successive moments I thought that they just might get it on.

Okay, I thought. Okay.

But, the audience and attention they attracted in their flirtations confirmed that it was, alas, not meant to be.

The next day we awoke and decided to drive the Blue Ridge Parkway. The day was uniformly overcast, and gray. We stopped at a used cd place and bought a few cds for the drive; Neil Young, Roxy Music, The Cure. Nobody else seemed interested in Roxy Music so we started with Neil Young and then stuck with The Cure's "Faith" on loop once we had settled in to the driving.  We wound our way up into the mountains, smoking pot as we went, something the office manager had made sure to pack. The memory for me is imperishable. 

The winding, empty roads, the haze of the pot, the grey clouds moving across the face of the mountains and across the meandering path before and behind us. All silent as we climbed. The pace of the music and the mood of the view expected it.

We rounded a curve in the road where the crevice of the mountain created a fold in which the wind rose steadily from below. There, held aloft without effort was a raggedy blackbird, perhaps a crow. Its tattered wings outstretched, flapping loosely in the winds without effort or motion from the animal.  Hung as if in a suspended crucifixion. The car slowed as it arced past, silently we each turned our heads, transfixed by what was coming together before us, and within us; escape. 

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The Event Horizon

(Sharon Kingston, Rilke's Sunset)

Well, I'm definitely home again now. The boy slept at my place last night. I have two lives, separated by nothing. I suppose that many people do. 

I need to find a woman with three lives, maybe more. I would describe my preference for the shape of those lives, though that might seem far too Roman of me. An emotionally complete woman with her own car and place to live would be acceptable enough. It would be nice if she did not have too much back hair, also. Little matter, that. Those things are easily enough fixed. Just look at me above the neck of my shirt. No one ever has to know. It's our secret now, baby.

The phone bill is due. I forgot to change the plan back after jacking it up to cover the excess minutes of my waning marriage. So, I just throw money from the back of a train.

I truly have nothing of value to say today. I am on the verge of a new life, but am not quite there yet. The old life keeps dragging me back towards it. The gravity of it like circling a black hole, awaiting the moment where events can no longer affect an outside observer, where my mass is split apart forever, spewing the invisible energy back out into the still-life void. 

I'm okay with it, of course, I have no choice. It just seems to be taking forever.

Sunset

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors

which it passes to a row of ancient trees.

You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you

one part climbs towards heaven, one sinks to the earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,

not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,

not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing

that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)

your own life, timid and standing high and growing,

so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,

one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

- Rilke

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Flight delays and long term parking rates

(Teddy Bear Cove)

Home again. The vacation must have done me some good. I slept in until after sunrise and awoke straight into my workday. One can too easily forget the complexities of their job. That is, until you return. I function in a reasonably highly engaged capacity most days. I like it, of course, but there is a re-acclimatizing to it that must occur. It is uphill again, at first.

I already miss the wine cellars of the north. Each day we would try tastings of different wines and watch favored or suggested films. What a charmed luxury. I could do that for months. 

I feel more relaxed now than I have in a while. A friend noticed it today when we met for lunch. I dread the idea that the anxiety might return. Ah well, what can one do if not endure. 

Nothing to say when there is so much to do.

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1999 Barolo

Before I came to Washington I cautioned my friend not to be wasteful when sharing wine, that I could not tell the difference between a $30 bottle and a $100 bottle. It turns out that I was quite wrong. My favorite has been in the $250 range, a 1999 Vietti Barolo Lazzarito. Please take note of those important details, you will find that you need access to them before the 25th of October. You will want to contact Chambers Street Wines. 

Just say my name three times at the counter. They will know what to do. An unshaven leprechaun will lead you to a unlit basement. Do not resist, his hands are naturally wet and warm.

Neither, do not be frightened by my selection. There are plenty of $100 bottles of wine that can still be purchased for me that I will find acceptable. I am not a monster. I am merely moderate. I will smile, nod, say thank-you and store it in my basement for softening, maturing. 

I wish to alienate no one. 

I even snuck a $30-35 bottle into the lineup below, to show that I humbly appreciate my heritage, and still love some of the people from my own region, to which I must return today.

I checked into squatters rights for the state of Washington and determined that this must have been the main reason that my friend chose this state to amass his collection; a shrewd but perhaps necessary choice. I have already had all of my mail forwarded here, but to no avail. The Coast Guard has been flying patrol missions over the bay, skywriting their hints, messages, and warnings.

"Take your Oxford Commas home... Hippy!..."

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Panopea Generosa

(A hummingbird perched)

I slept in pieces to the sound of the rain, awoke to the overcast skies of morning. The day will pass the same, perhaps with me sleeping in it. My newly found love for nature photography takes up all of my time.

Another dinner last night, filet mignons on the grill, conducted before the diorama of the bay that is the back window of my friend's house. During dinner a bald eagle swooped back and forth, at times coming within a few hundred feet of the back deck. By the time I got my camera the bird was perching atop a tree much further away, towards the water. 

I believe it's one of the few times I've ever seen a bald eagle in the wild. I have a vague memory of having seen one before, but could not draw upon fact to complete the feeling. It might have been a first, creeping in at just under 47 years.

An unquestioned first, also creeping in just under... we bought and tried geoduck ("gooeyduck" , an American Indian name referring to the male genitals, or "akagai" in Japan) as an appetizer. We had it sashimi, blanched, and sautéed with lime juice and cilantro. It is considered a delicacy in many parts of the world. My friend stated that it represents the largest biomass of the Puget Sound. Our waitress from our oyster lunch yesterday claimed that her boyfriend harvests the stuff. It is a type of large clam. When sliced, or once circumcised, it resembled certain types of calamari in look, taste and texture, though had a fineness in flavor that was subtly different. Salty, like an oyster.

A taste more for the aficionados than the neophytes, of which I'd like to believe I am neither. Though all new to me, I now have that experience under my belt I am one step closer to being the former rather than the latter.

(Large Seafood Penis)

My mini North by Northwest vacation will be over tomorrow. It is how things must be when one takes three vacations in a two month period. They will each be shorter than I might have hoped for, or if they had been conducted individually. Next arrives Mexico, a wedding on the beach at the end of May. I look forward to it, though I do not look forward to the flights there and back. I chose the cheapest option which includes unpleasant layovers. Many of my friends will be there, many that I have not seen in a long while. It is good to remind oneself from time to time of friendships, to affirm that form of love.


Yesterday, we watched My Night at Maud's. It was very good, and fine. It puts Woody Allen in place, or perspective, or context. He was perhaps not as much "America's Bergman" as he was "America's Rohmer." I see that now, after having watched only two of Rohmer's films. Allen stole freely, though I do not ever remember him denying such a thing so it may be unfair to claim it as if I have uncovered some profound wrongdoing. He has openly admitted his passions and influences.

Today we will watch Claire's Knee, which we started last night but could not pursue past the shin. Then, maybe, My Dinner with Andre. We did not invest significant time into the scheduling of our film festival.

Gates of Heaven and Vernon, Florida are behind us now, nothing before us but the rain.

(An eagle perching)

In the morning, we hiked down to the shore. There, we tossed a brightly colored cloth frisbee into the barely above freezing water for the Labrador, Daisy. The slight mist coming off the water told me all that I needed to know concerning its prohibitive temperature. The puppy was quite plussed by it all.

Vacation days pass as if almost already a memory.

There are worse things than not being in love, but few worse than falling out of it for good and ever. The period that follows seems to be a form of shameful mourning. It is a loss that is perhaps best consumed alone, in quiet. 

I don't see how women do it.

One must re-learn how to walk the earth, to chase flying circles into near freezing water for the fun of it only. Dogs may teach us just a handful of lessons, but that they must do so over and over seems our fault, not theirs.

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The Flower Moon

Waking up on vacation is a treat. The moonlight just departing the ambit. Nothing on my mind except how many naps I might take today, and how I should spread them out. It really is up to me. Maybe take Daisy the Labrador for another walk up the hill. There is an oyster shack towards the water that I intend to explore and perhaps conquer for the crown.

Yesterday, Vietnamese Kobe Pho to meet a friend of my friend's, and then a few movies. One day I will find pork Pho. It is out there and I am confident that it wants me. It is unreasonable of Vietnam to deprive me in this way. 

Gates of Heaven and Apocalypse Now (Redux) (It was my way of strikng back at Vietnam). Both were great, though having now finally seen Redux I don't understand what all the fuss was about when it was first re-released. It was an unnecessary director's cut, though admittedly there are a few nice additional shots. Cutting the French plantation scene from the original was the right thing to do. It distracts from the rhythm of moving upriver, of being drawn there, and attempts to explain the war in a way that the rest of the film does not. Too pedantic, too direct. The obligatory opium sex scene makes the film more mundane than what it finally ended up being.

This is the first time in my life that I have ever suggested that any titty scene should be cut from a film. Some might suggest that I am growing up. My response would be to prove them wrong. Of all the qualities, maturity is the one easiest to disprove. The previous sentence almost accomplishes that by itself.

Being in the far North-West it will - of course - intermittently rain the remainder of my trip and then clear up the day after I leave. My buddy and I will watch films between my occasional naps. We went to the video rental store yesterday and picked up Rohmer's Claire's Knee. We also have My Night at Maud's in the event of a runaway Rohmer fetish festival. 

Last night we ate dinner and again watched the sun setting across Bellingham Bay. The light forms a fantastic dance across the waters, with the shimmering cross current of waves. With too much expanse and too much information coming into the mind at once it becomes a visual impression more than a single fact, a soft suggestion of light and waters moving. The sunset is always an event somewhere. Entire neighborhoods are pleasantly dedicated, and situated to it here. 

The full flower moon's setting was barely visible from the guest room window as I awoke. I stood and watched it disappear. 

This day awaits the seriousness of my napping.

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Chuckanut Bay

(Daisy)

Bellingham, Washington. It is very beautiful. The bay looking west is peppered with both populated and uninhabited islands. Few vistas have ever seemed more inviting, to me. 

Last night we listened to music (Agnes Obel, Cat Power, Chris Isaak) and sat around the kitchen chatting as my friend made a sauce for the halibut. White Butter, I believe, is what the phrase translates to from French. It went very well with the fish. 

After dinner my friend opened an '86 Margaux. The year of our graduation from high school, before either of us likely knew what a Margaux was. I do not believe that I've ever had a wine that was so old, almost 30 years. It was very good, I admit. It tasted quite different from a new wine, unsurprisingly. His description of it as having a "tobacco" flavor might sound terrible to a reader, but it was accurate and somehow not unpleasant at all, quite the opposite. There was a distinct earthiness to it, layered flavors. Though describing something as having a "tobacco flavor" would not normally appeal to me; perhaps no longer.

He is a great wine enthusiast and knows the many terms to describe them, not the adjectives I jokingly resort to but the more technical terms of the trade. Chromatic something.... 

I will often just describe them as intellectually satisfying while structured unctuously, or some other such phrase meant to confuse or mock both the listener and the speaker.

I came here to retrace Lewis and Clark's return trail east only to find that they landed on the Pacific quite a ways south of here. You can imagine my surprise and disappointment. You can relive those feelings if you visit here yourself, and become likewise confused concerning history and geography. Ah well, perhaps that is an exploration for another time. I am close enough to the Canadian border that I must remain vigilant in the event of any funny business. My buddy has described the occasional nighttime Coast Guard raid on boats out in the bay heading across the border from the north; helicopters descending on some unsuspecting smugglers, boarding the boat from above, dropping in on lines, bright lights and orchestrated military maneuvers. 

Today, maybe, we will play tennis or go for a hike, kayaks were mentioned to traverse a portion of the bay, perhaps to sneak across the border by sea and have a peak at America's northern frontier: Vancouverlands.

I've never wanted a submarine so badly before in my life. 

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First, we failed

I am looking forward to getting away. A few days in the far North-West. Bellingham. I hear that it is a beautiful place. I have always liked Seattle and Vancouver, so I suspect that this will be no different. We will go on hikes and eat seafood, I hope. I have updated my iPhone's software and backed it up. I am prepared to lose it, if needed. I have been losing things lately, again.

Writing this blog has allowed me some odd insight into myself. In certain ways it is a fiction, where ideas are entertained purely for the sake of indulgence. Then, there are other times in which I write something that surprises me, yet I see a kernel of truth in it. Other times it is plainly confessional. Artlessly flat, composed of Catholic guilt. It is all an exercise in fictive honesty, or rather creative self-revelation, hopefully and when at its best.

In the past week or so I have had to ask myself some very difficult questions about how I want the future to unfold. I had hoped that the questions need not ever be asked, but it seems now as if the questions will be forced. One never knows precisely how much they are willing to concede or to swallow until they hit that point. Then you know, and you can't pretend that you don't know any more. You can keep swallowing or conceding if you choose, but something inside of you is lost, perhaps gone forever.

An online friend whom I have grown quite fond of has encouraged me to "take the high road" and that is good advice. Difficult advice to heed. 

Nobody, I do not believe, seeks a state of mutual accusation. It's a small part of why people stay together. Divorce is painful and involves the asserting of grievances over time. It is a simultaneous assertion of, and yet loss of, credibility. 

Crimes and misdemeanors. 

I have seen a divorce statement and it is a very difficult read. You see another person's idea of you in it, cobbled together with a version of fact and held by innuendo. Divorce statements are not flattering, by necessity. They are not meant to be. They are meant to make your version of the story of your marriage part of the permanent record. All of them should be forced to include your wedding vows as a preamble, as a reminder, but I don't make the laws around here.

I wish that I did. I would make all marriage illegal, unconstitutional if possible. I would establish that a marriage fundamentally infringes on a person's right to the pursuit of happiness, and as such should be struck from the books. What right should state governments have to knowingly issue a document that causes intrinsic suffering which often results in inequality. 

You see, this is why they do not let me make the laws.

I have not been the only person who has been crafting a narrative about me. There are parallel documents elsewhere that one can go and read if they so choose. They are part of the permanent public record.

I imagine Rhys one day going and reading them out of curiosity. It is not a thought that gives me much solace. So, a companion piece is all that I can offer.

It will start with the simple recitation of a vow: First, we failed at keeping our word.

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