And We'll Walk in the Sun...Moving...

There is a recurring theme here, this entry is from 1999, June, back when I was about to leave Staten Island to live with my then girl friend Jen-Scott Mobley.

“6.27.99 S.I. NY 6PM EST



Smoking a MACanudo Robusto my big sister (Pat) gave to me for #41 writing in pages my other big sister (Marti) sent me for same. Suckin’ on a Corona some Mexican beer makers made for me. Weight 180lbs. Some type of poison ivy type rash on the side of what’s left of my butt.



Taking in the last days here—in sub-urban NYC. Getting ready to move away from brother-in-law’s house, from hometown, from RED 10 year old pick-up truck in driveway, Rosebush, bar-B-Q, cucumbers newly planted where shrub used to be overgrown. They pulled the shrub out last year. I am now to follow.



Movin’ to NYC proper: Manhattan. Scared? Yeah. A little. Excited? Yeah. A lot. Lookin’ forward to reducing that weight up there, to indulging in Adventure.



6.28.99 7AM 41 years 6 Days 9 Hrs.



I get present with each ferry ride knowing it will cease being a part of my daily routine, hearkening back to my first ride with my sister (Marti) and her boyfriend (Al). Try calculating the number of crossings I’ve made since I was 4 years old. For 37 years. My favorites are these early mornings with young, sweet school girls and boys and fresh, smart working ladies and tourists. Well, not so many tourists on this early boat, but plenty of others.





Water—deep blue, sky white with haze, land—far away. Nothing solid. Not the bench or young man, nor flesh of my plan, no clearing, or bells ringing; waiting for a whistle to blow.



The kids travel together and converse. Their voices sounding like the cheerful chatter of tropical birds—colorful, vociferous, full of potential. Energy driving my world. Lady Liberty and Ellis Island float by. An anomalous green tug, (most of them are Red). Soon we’ll dock at White Hall, embarking on the working portion of steamy Monday, on a 28th of June.



(Later Same Day)



1:35 pm. BUILDING INSPECTOR – SHUTS DOWN DEATH TRAP



Several young male workers were sent home today by inspector Ransom of D.O.B. They were excavating a rear yard at... in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. Their permits had expired; there were no approved plans on site at time of inspection and no proper bracing or shoring. 3 violations were issued and the men sent home after being ordered to make the area safe.”




Now... I am back in the City, back to the grind...but I still have Greenville on my mind.

And We'll Walk in the Sun..."

All the journals I can find are out on the table. Photos are from our trip to Mexico in 2009 and New Mexico in August 2002. The other night I finished a bottle of Mezcal Joven. Joven = young. I was young when I wrote the following:



“1/25/1989

The Mezcal Tastes Like Smoke

The Mezcal tastes

like smoke

from a fire

age old

In twilit suburban drear 

serve 

salt

for the wound

( and to bless the house )

lemon citron yellow

 American 

rainy season

 Gift of life 

falls from the sky

laced with cyanide

 Lilac blooms 

but its arduous aroma of
amour

no longer pervades 

the air of May

noise of tred

on wet asphalt 

whines and hisses

like an asp

coiled in rock below 

poised to strike a fatal blow

like fine wine

spiked with unleaded 

gasoline

 electric flame

rises High into the night

Neon and Argon

Silver and Gold

Flesh undulates

forth and back

muscle tenses

in attack

grabbed 

by the throat

blood

of goats

The Mezcal tastes like smoke"

And We'll Walk in the Sun...Hawaii 1999

When I left home for Hawaii in 1999, I was with a young, beautiful woman. When I returned I was in the company of the love of my life. My goals for that trip were romance and adventure. It was the romance of being with a vivacious, smart woman, and the adventure of black sand beaches, volcanoes, and lava flows. What happened was unexpected. I do love to be pleasantly surprised. Yes, there were all the elements of a fine romance novel. However, the best stories are ones that change your life forever. This is that story told in notes directly from my journal.

We were both doing the Artist’s Way at the time and writing morning pages. I was taking a lot of photographs with an SLR (single lens reflex) using good old fashioned Kodak and Fuji film, so there is a lot of jargon about photography…The trip to Hawaii at times was long and arduous, but not this part. We stayed in a place overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Room 204 of the H. Manago Hotel.

 “It’s a small family run Japanese Hotel with unbelievable rates—no phone, no TV, clean as if the word were invented here…

Aug. 19, 1999


The Luau was very commercial. A visit to the local Hard Rock Café and two “real” Mahi Thai’s by Wayne did us good. We couldn’t finish them. Bread pudding made us pucker w/ sweetness. Still – Luau was a good way to sample the local cuisine. You must mix Poke w/ Poi for it to be palatable—the Lau Lau was pork wrapped in banana leaf—good! Rice, white fish boiled or steamed more likely, cinnamon over bananas sliced in one inch thick chunks and fresh sliced pineapple filled my plate...


Roll #8 finished there the 400 slides. Roll #9 ASA 1600 B/W. I’m sure shots of Luau are a bust, but I did some stuff at the room this morning I think may go well. Using available light (as if I ever use anything else). Shot many at F8-16 (aperture opening) @ 60/30 (shutter speed)…

Manago Breakfast – I don’t know if my taste buds have awakened or if everything here just tastes so good! Papaya, toast, eggs over real easy, Portuguese sausage patties (Andouille type) silver dollar size and thick w/ a bottomless cup of Kona coffee. $10 bucks for two of us!!


Now…Time for kayaking – 9:00am – 4pm No photos of kayaking. Didn’t want to risk the camera.

The – profound solemnity of this moment defies all words. We swam with Dolphins! 

Shards of light sliced through the water and there they were—and there we were—in Kealakekua Bay.

At one point, I counted 15 [wild] Spinner Dolphins. 2 calves! One—after nuzzling its mother, sped to the surface from maybe 20-15 ft of ocean and broke the surface in a gleeful jump before my eyes at about 3 yards away! They are magnificent, sensitive creatures. I am not worthy. All the events that led us to that place…the Manago Hotel, the chance of us going to the KEALAKEKUA KAYAK RENTAL and having this nice, little old lady from Chicago and her Danish husband Olin enrolling us in the possibilities of kayaking to Cook’s Point and maybe seeing Dolphins. Dude, we didn’t just see them, we swam with them. I love Jennifer for leading me here! I love life—so much!...

On the drive home, finish Roll #9 in Waimea, Horse country. F 22/60-125 and Program

6:30PM

Phenomenal Day. Back in Hilo—What can ever possibly Top this. I HAVE HAD A PEAK LIFE EXPERIENCE. I—AM—SPEECHLESS. I’m sure tomorrow in the AM words will flow, but for now—Aloha."

"And We'll Walk in the Sun"

On Sunday last, while spending time with my wife who came to visit for her Spring Break from ECU, I came up with a title for my next piece of literary work. I did not know whether this would be a book of poetry, or a novel, but I liked the title. It's not original, I rarely ever do anything original. It comes from one of our favorite Bruce Springsteen songs.  Born to Run.

Tuesday night Jennifer and I dug into our old journals and began reading entries to one another. Not only is it one of the most intimate things we've ever done,the readings were also quite dramatic and revealed to us ourselves in a very particular way. Not purely nostalgic, but in a way where we could be objective and think critically about our own words. We were both excited about revisiting our former selves and remember well how those two people propelled us into the future. I love my wife now as much, if not more than I did back then.

Wednesday I decided to start transcribing my handwritten journal entries into my present electronic journal and perhaps share them on the pages of this Web log. I wondered if anyone would care to read it. Then something almost mystical happened.

Friday we went to the Apple store on West 14th Street and 9th Avenue in Manhattan so Jen could bring her Mac to the Genius Bar. Upon returning to the truck which we parked in a nearby garage, I noted someone had left a very readable hard cover copy of H is for Hawk in the open bed. I have not read it yet, but plan to straight away. I am taking this as a sign. The universe is agreeing with my choice to share our story.

 

This morning I dropped Jennifer off at LaGuardia and hugged her a long time before saying farewell. We saw 3 amazing plays while she was here. The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Shakespeare's (so they say) Pericles of Tyre, and Buried Child by Sam Shepard. All three were power house productions in their own right, executing and delivering their respective stories with skill and high theatrical art. We are pleased. 

Watching the Detectives...

I started watching Mark Harmon and NCIS with dad in Arlington back when he was with Susan.


Jen and I like to catch the syndicated episodes, we rented season 1, and saw the beginning of the series. Whenever I watch, I try to keep track of the “Gibbs Rules” and here are a few I was able to jot into the iPad before it took a bath. Fortunately, nothing is lost to the Cloud. In this time of hyper vigilance, I think of how these rules apply to my own experience in New York City.



Gibbs Rules - Nothing's more boring than perfect. Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness.

2. Always wear gloves.

5. You don't waste good.

8. Never take anything for granted.

10. Never get personally involved

11. When the jobs done, walk away...

12. Never date a co-worker

14. Bend the rule...don't break it

35. Always watch the watchers.

38. Your case, your lead.

42. Never accept an apology from someone who just sucker punched you...

She Didn't Care for Cats...

For My Mother Rose (1929-2014)

She didn’t care for bed time stories

She knew the price of milk and eggs

Her favorite day was Christmas Morning

She wasn’t one to plead or beg

She was the strongest person

On planet Earth

A force of nature

Since birth

Never sat on the lap of luxury

Her family her treasure trove

She made her way without a partner

She had no license when she drove

She did not like swear words

She loved a good ice cream Sundae

From dusk to dawn she worked it seemed

Monday through to Monday

She raised two unruly young ones

Did all of it mostly alone

She bought cars, and bought a house

She gave us comfort, she made a home

Life will not be the same

Without her

There’s  an emptiness

That won’t ever be filled

Young, digitally astute poets with loyal online followings have catapulted onto the best-seller lists, where poetry books are scarce

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/08/business/media/web-poets-society-new-breed-succeeds-in-taking-verse-viral.html?smid=nytcore-ipad-share&smprod=nytcore-ipad

I've been at this a long time.  Trying to get noticed is ever a tricky thing. Without resorting to stunts and gimmicks, or relying on the kindness of strangers, I have managed to carve a modest niche for myself. My expectations go as high as the worth of my work. I figure my lack of success means I'm just not very good. So standards of quality are upheld in some esoteric way.The above referenced article in the New York Times prompted me to immediately publish a poem on Face Book. Which is an old poets venue, I suppose, as opposed to Instagram or Tumblr. Poetry, as with all beauty in Art, is in the eye of the beholder. Most poets dream of getting their work in front of as many appreciative eyes as possible. I guess that is what the "game" is all about. The new generation is forging ahead, clearing their own path. Kudos to them and their society.

If you read further into the article you will learn that a few of the poets have been given a leg up, riding the popularity of established celebrities. Poetry over the ages has proven to be the most democratic of arts. Its popularity ebbs and flows with the times and it is good to see a resurgence flourishing on our latest new democratic medium of the internet. Critics will not be impressed, but given a choice between critical acclaim or popularity, I think most poets would rather have their work read by as many people as possible rather than face being insignificantly obscure. 

Am I bitter? Good question. If I am it is only because I have been drinking my coffee black, for the most part, all my adult life. I have the sense that when I get serious, when I really put the work in that's required, then it will all fall into place. What ever that "IT" is supposed to be, I have yet to decide.

For my few fans of this page, here is what I wrote the other day on my flight from NYC to Greenville, NC, long before I read this article:

Amateur Poet

I stab at truth
With my words
Their points dull
So that no piercing
Insights
Penetrate
To draw blood
Unlike Allan Ginsberg
Wandering a neon fruit
Section
Illuminating night
Like a full moon
In autumn
Following Fathers Walt
And Lorca around
Tuned to their
Frequent and varied
Fires
Which rest in
Promethean hands
Dancing like stars above
Olympus.

I excel
At futility
My fusillade of verbiage
Wounds no one
Except, maybe
Myself.