Checking Out

Knowing in another hour, the lads will be there; rather than listening to the house moan, I’ve checked out.

Mini-Vacation

A different location, different food, different people, different walls, different beds all changes the norm. That is what vacations do. Getting out into an unfamiliar territory increases awareness. Getting out of the familiar helps you appreciate the familiar.

The Holiday Inn

A close-to-home hotel, fairly clean and quiet, was to become my new home for a few days. Once in the room, I began to breathe again. A few bullets, television, turn down the bed and take assessment of my new surroundings. It is surprising that so much can be done in a single room. A desk, comfortable sofa, a bed (that in a suite is in another room) and a bath becomes home. Enough heat to walk around in my skivvies, hot water, and the refrigerator is full of bullets. Not being a weekend or a convention hotel, the walls are quiet. I don’t think about who may have slept (or whatever) in this bed the night before. It’s a hotel, so I don’t go there.

Evil Sleep

Being exhausted and fairly intoxicated, the bed was welcoming as midnight passed. Dreams seemed different and the ideas flooded my mind until before dawn, I had to get up and write them down. Perhaps this is the most creative time.

Eating with Strangers

Before I ventured out, I decided to take advantage of the morning breakfast. Off the lobby into an open area with a few tables neatly arranged, a few fellow wanderers enjoyed the morning news on flat screen TV’s telling a revolution story with precooked nourishment. Another cup of coffee, a buttered bagel and a green cheaply printed coupon given to the lone unhappy employee presented my breakfast. Some of the other passengers had left and the ones who remained openly prayed. Tonight this room will be a loud crowded bar, but I will only enjoy a free meal to fuel my adventure.

Going into the City

It uses to be the big adventure, going downtown. Taking the bus ride with other neighbors down the broad byway to the hub of the city. This was where people gathered to regulate commerce, trade money, create laws, and otherwise maintain order for its citizens.

I do not live in the core of the city, but am still within its boundaries. I enjoy the services provided by my taxes.

So I take the journey to a very different place than when I was young. The same concrete and stone and brick form the shapes, but the façade is different. Nothing really new appears although the inner being tries to find a way to be as exciting as the 40’s.

Waiting for the transportation, I stand a mere few feet from autos moving men and women to their various destinations, unaware I am observing them eating, talking on the cells, picking their nose; amusing me with the reality of a Friday morning.

Public transportation has always been my mode of travel, so I am aware of the normal passengers. Not as much chatter as some rides and a short wait until the bus listed to travel my intended route shows up.

Stepping out onto the empty downtown, I think of the girl in the library who I should write to, but she is another’s girlfriend. Old department stores transformed into a hotel or a skating ring or a performance art center, line up one-by-one with unimpressive boredom. Huge buildings filled with government workers who at the sound of the bell will scurry off to another place, leaving the downtown vacant to another time.

Looking like the “Midnight Cowboy” in the big city, I appreciate all the architecture and shapes of tall buildings, none holding a constant style, but a miss mass of construction thrown together.

Stopping into all the pawnshops to check for a possible treasure, I find a few but still the price is high. I could probably talk them down but it has to churn in the mind. The elderly owners do not remember selling me my first 4-string guitar.

Some of the music shops are not open yet. I forget music people stay up late and get up late. Looking through the glass did not reveal any treasures, so I walk on.

Without a schedule or deadline or particular path to follow, I wander up the boulevard noting the changes that have happened over the years. The missing glass in the circular tunnel of a red stone building that was a shrine, now a poor person’s job placement location shows little progress in the future of the area. Old baking factories have broken windows, the huge Coke bottle is gone, and the train office building that had the cafeteria with sliced roast beef is vacant. Cell phones, tax assistance, wigs, nails and gated empty buildings fill the area.

Searching back on side streets, a treasure is found with the location of a flag manufacturer. The owner agrees to assist me in the future in my banner accession. He confirms being the source for the “city” flag, which will become curtains.

Crossing the traveled four-lane highway avoiding white SUVs and a cute blond on a pink bike, I wander into the school bookstore. Scanning art supplies, which I have too much now, and books, which I have tried to thin down, I move into the clothing area. The night before I searched online for a new summer hat and did not see anything exciting, but I looked anyway. A tour presented me with an obstruction so I wandered around it and continued to touch the material and try and find a subtle appearance of the school where I graduated without being a cheer leading uniform. I found two hats and a foam can cozy while enjoying a conversation with an attractive red head. Even the young lady who took my money was pleasant and funny and the whole experience was enjoyable.

The ride back was packed and riding on a new bus was not as comfortable as the previous trip.

An extra stop at a shop that manufactures marble countertops, but offers kitchen design. A few request and a list of numbers and I’m back to my room.

A brief rest is needed before the next venture into the unknown.

Traffic moves beyond the window with a funeral procession, military troop carriers, police and fire vehicles with lights flashing responding to a metal over flesh conflict.

Art Appreciation

Across the parking lot is a strip mall turned into a variety of nondescript flat windows. One is a “art center” that I had heard was a local gallery for un-famous designers, painters, sculptures, potters, and a fine example of appreciation of the human endeavor. Some that I viewed were impressive, some were too familiar in style and subject, and some did not impress; but one artist surprised me. The name of the watercolorists was of an artist I had worked with for two decades. He had died several years ago, but here was his work, living on past his existence. An inspirational experiences yet a brain overload.

Back to reality

Tomorrow I will return home. The lumber stacked in the yard shows the lads had been working today. Without looking under the house, I slowly crepe inside with hope of little disaster. So far, so good was my thought as I checked the overall views of the floor, walls and ceilings. The latest contract was slid under the door but the latest payment has not arrived yet. The best part was the water had not frozen or leaked. Tomorrow I will see if it is still hot, but tonight it is crispy tacos, hot shower and rest.

Tomorrow never knows.

Faith

That mysterious feeling hoping the unknown will work out. When the situation is out of your hands, there must be faith that the outcome will be favorable. Trusting people who you would not normally associate with to do the right thing. Through a handshake or a written contract or a phone message, you give the responsibility of all your worldly goods to a stranger. Logically you convince yourself this is the proper method to overcome what you cannot accomplish. The young behind dark glasses moving in a lettered mobile machine declare the confidence to tackle the devil and within a few days succeed the impossible. They bring the ultimate weapons and experience you could only guess at. To the ones you would worry about parking your car, you give them the keys to the palace. Before the sun arrives, you fret about the walls caving in, the water exploding, the pipes splitting, the ceiling falling in, or worse. Stressful anxiety paces the floor over the eggshells.

So to avoid the conversation underground by the mole men, you become a butterfly away from home.

Got to have faith.

Sanctuary

Sanctuary is a place where we feel alone.

Sanctuary is a place where we feel comfort.

Sanctuary is that place we go back to feeling protected.

Our lights blind the darkness, our electronic moats forbid those who would plunder our worldly goods so long strived and collected; we cuddle into the familiar of our sanctuary.

If it is a shack or a slice of cardboard under a bridge or a swat of sand on the beach of some unfamiliar shore, it becomes a haven, a place to return and feel safe.

The sense of invasion creates a threat upon human sanctity, the utmost stress, and an attack on life’s basic need for shelter.

So I wait another day until they come.

Perhaps run away when they arrive in their white suits, avoiding the noise and clatter, but knowing they are attacking my sanctuary.

With little control I can only wait in fear of the unknown.

For this is all I have left.

This is all have.

Look Through Any Window

When I moved into this house many years ago, my next-door neighbor was an elderly woman who lived alone.

She seemed pleasant enough to me at the time. She would slowly walk into her back yard and tend her small garden with a large straw hat and a crooked back. Now an then she would wave, but we rarely spoke.

Now I was a good neighbor to this established neighborhood, trimming my grass and pruning my shrubs on a regular basis. I took out my trash and hung my laundry within the proper decorum of the norm and though somewhat younger than my neighbors, I blended in by my aloofness.

When the girl who would be my future wife moved in, she complained about the old woman next door staring in the windows.

I hadn’t noticed before, but the woman would stand at her window on the side of the house. Perhaps she was absorbing the sunshine or just enjoying the greenery or just staring into space, which did not bother me, but it certainly bothered my wife.

The relationship between the two women became increasingly uncomfortable, with the windows being covered by curtains and then opaque glass. The privacy issue was almost humorous to me until a fence had to be constructed hiding us from the rest of the world.

….

Today, I am that old woman.

I find myself pacing around the small abode I call home when times are cold or rainy or no motivation can be produced. The outlet for entertainment apart from electronic bombardment is to look out the window.

Learning to appreciate the ever-familiar images dancing in the wind or rain or the clouds sweeping the surroundings in shadows, the crackle of the leaves in fall and the splash of colors of spring orchestrated by the chatter of a constant parade of visitors resting in the shelter and comfort of the solitude has brought me a new understanding of what that old woman was really experiencing.

I’m aware my actions may be viewed with curiosity, but I feel no animosity.

The same is true to analysis using self-experienced perceptions not taking the effort to understand or appreciate, then perhaps to relish the behaviors of someone's lifestyle.

Look through any window, what do you see?

Painting Underground

http://www.npr.org/2011/01/30/133308592/parisunderground?sc=fb&cc=fp

I found this an interesting story for several reasons. I believe under every city are remnants of a bygone time, the stepping-stones of the civilization who lives above. Like life, layers of forgotten struggles that culminate into the present, yet still bubbling underground like a volcano. 

In this story, adventures, explorers, historians and the curious travel under the streets of Paris, France to exam the remains of limestone quarries left as ruins of history beyond view. 

The report caught my ear due to a scary aspect of climbing into the darkness of miles of tunnels with no direction. I’m an not even close to that sort of chance taker or a spelunker (though I like the sound of that world. Have you been spelunked today?) But I appreciate the risk takers who will venture where the sane minded will never go.

What stopped my tracks was the discovery of paintings on the walls of these age old man built caves.

I understand a blank space is a canvas of an artist, but here underground where a lighted helmet is the only source of rational reflection; some one or ones are painting in the darkness. 

Painting, being an art to express feelings or record of surroundings are usually view to be appreciated, yet here below ground where no one may ever appreciate, artist are creating works of art. 

Much like writing a book that no one will ever read or composing music for the deaf; this act of expression will go unnoticed perhaps forever (sans for this radio report). 

I understand the overwhelming power to create, but my mind wanders to the prehistoric cave paintings. Our species evolves through expression and the arts cultivate this freedom.

Time to clean the brushes.

A Taste of Reality

As a response or an understanding or a return to forever, there is a taste of reality.

Eating.

We eat to sustain our being but the act of consumption is more than self-survival.

The act of selecting, preparing, devouring, storing and cleaning plant and animal is beyond simple nourishment. Food is a massive part of our social interaction.

When gathering for parties, we bring food to share. When meeting a friend, we dine together. When meeting a stranger, the safest location is a restaurant, bistro, deli, or even diner.

Sometimes we eat to cover neuroses or just out of boredom. Sometimes we eat because everyone else is or because it is time to eat.

Watching someone bite, chew and swallow is not more attractive than the activity to purge the remains from our bodies, so it must be the conversation that draws us together for meals. The fact is the best cut of meat or the freshest produce does not taste any better when eaten alone.

Media blast us with new methods to cook or fry or slice or present food. Marketing is constantly delivering new variations in brightly color packages. Reviews of local eateries entice us to visit and enjoy the dining experience while paying more for the service.

Yet the basics of grain, meat, vegetable, fruit, and water remain the same. Only the successful process of preparation and social interaction make the activity enjoyable.

Now hunger does play a factor. When the body has been deprived of nourishment, almost any food will taste better. A starving person will eat snails, entrails, or puppy dog tails without question of palate consideration.

Health professional organizations have always offered dietary recommendations. The children learn in school about the food groups, but in the cafeteria the trays are filled with what the young have been taught to eat, not what is good for them.

The evolution of fast food, with the ease of cheap payment for sugar coated, sodium filled, fat saturated faux food has appeared in my lifetime. Going to a sit down restaurant was a big deal; a family occasion to gather and be served from choices cooked by professional and served by people in high dress on china plates with linen napkins. The substance would pass but the experience remained.

Certain combination of food can spark a memory of a special moment, an event with friends, or a gathering of friends sharing a meal, but even the most detailed recipe following with stringent measurements can not equal the memory.

So the question of personal taste preferences comes to mind.

After shopping and cooking and eating and cleaning for a while now, I have settled on a list of produce, vegetables and grains that seem to be adequate in taste, price while maintaining a feeling of good health. Desserts, chips, soft drinks, meat, prepared frozen foods are not on my list so the aisles can be passed without remorse. Without a nearby farmer’s market, the daily visit provides the freshest produce, with only enough to be used and not stored.

Without monetary restrictions, many fine items I could purchase for self-gratification somehow do not excel in my personal requirements of easy preparation and quick clean up.

Like fresh coffee, ground from the freshest beans, brewed in mountain stream water until the perfected strength is acquired; sweetened and mellowed to taste and cherished in it’s warm comfort, the amount of effort outweighs the desired results. In the end it is the recognized habit of drinking hot, dirty water to give us a kick-start the morning that I continue to follow, but a mellow instant fulfills the conventional tradition.

And when the coffee runs out, tea will suffice or even tap water can be easily substituted without any withdrawal symptoms.

Some say it is a acquired taste, like selecting a fine wine, but it is an individual decision to cut an apple and be fulfilled or drive to a cinder block building for overpriced “food” in wrappers served by uneducated people in paper hats.

Now the decision comes for the big football weekend. Since it will be cold and rainy here, I think I will prepare a large pot of something for the next week…. But what? Potatoes, carrots, onions are all good choices, beans are always possible, and perhaps some sort of killed and sliced animal. The recent five days of chili did not bore me (for I can happily eat the same thing day after day) but perhaps something else.

If nothing else, preparation does pass the time in this sweet, short life.

I’ll mull it over with a cabernet sauvignon and Gouda cheese.

Lost in Reality

Another day has shaken the depth of darkness into the light of instant coffee, powered cream, artificial sugar, a plastic bottle of water out of the tap and some peaches in a sweet sauce before the lighted tube that presents the news of the world in a non offensive and sometime humorous manner. Opening the blinds to welcome the light and say out loud, “Good Morning Day”, then turning back to focus on what the rest of the planet has been doing while I rested. How to make fashion scene of the almost princess, cooking with noodles, and crazy Al standing out in the snow telling the world it is snowing, but you already know that if you look out the window starts to bore so before the bike ride or search for communication on the small white box, step outside onto the porch and breath in the warmth that will be the day. Don’t rush, but stand and listen. Eyes wide open slowly pan the plot of land called “home” and appreciate the dawn of a new day.

Dress in the same uniform worn everyday, and after a quick look around the empty rooms, lock the door and walk out into the forest. The pond appears black but reflects the overhanging fingers of wood as will the mirrors of the morning ride reveled in the underworld.

After a day of waiting and worrying and waiting some more only to wait a little longer, the promise of sunshine and warmth refreshes the inner being. Another deep breath, round a corner and feel the tension of not riding, as much as perhaps should be the daily routine. Cold and rain are not viable excuses. So the pain is accepted.

Fantasy

A friend wrote of the television “Mad Men” (which I have not watched, not having cable or interest) and it made me think of the times gone by. I remember my wife thinking I would like to watch this series about a bunch of guys in the 60’s selling advertising. Yeah, well?

I did catch the end of some of that, so I don’t think I need to watch it, because I lived it. I walked into a job where there were a bunch of men in suits, smoking and talking rubbish with no one to look up to except a balding high school graduate uncomfortably wearing a tie and smoking a pipe who worked his way up and realized potential.

The first “real” job in an office of men (and a few, very few women who were obnoxious, rowdy and pioneers in their field) who were rude, crass and very boring brought this “child of the 60s” into a working reality.

They told me what to do and I did it without question and I got paid for it.

But the sales people I worked with did not earn respect. They were crude in their comments about women, uninformed about current events, and drunken most of the time. I cant really blame them for the environment that they took advantage of. There job was to sell to a product everyone wanted, so their daily experience was to have lunch with a client offering deals and spending the company’s coin on long lunches bonding relationships.

I learned to accept it, then absorb it, then even become part of it. Routine wears the values down until finding the manageable level where existence and reality can co exist.

Remember the country was under a threat of nuclear war, real or perceived, and the space race, as silly as it was to the youth, was scaring our parents to try and cope by contriving with each neighbor in similar actions, appliances, automobiles, and respecting a way of life developed by the last war.

What is Real?

The year, and for the next four year, this commonwealth and maybe others will revive the “heritage” of the Lost Cause sometimes know as the Recent Unpleasantly or the War between the States.

Looking in the history books, at least those that have not been rewritten, it seems so long ago, but I am a child of the south and saw first hand some of the results.

Every fall, there would be a “Tobacco Parade” celebrating the major manufacturer of the commonwealth in which convertibles sporting local radio celebrities never seen before and young girls in prom gowns with sashes announcing them, as “Queen” or “Princess” would wave down the main street of town. High school bands and junior soldiers would march down the lane announcing the last of the Confederate sons.

And all this was all right, presented in a daily basis of life in the south. Belt buckles; flags and songs were sung openly yet little by little the ancestry was diminished by awareness and response to changing attitudes.

Yes, that is plastic Robert E. Lee on his horse Traveler, like a My Little Pony of the late 50s.

So what was once described as “hero’s” were now lost in the dust of time.

But that was of a time when taking a drive was an all day adventure, glamour was only imagined, and the dull every day life evolved around church, family, and work.

Time Well Spent

So the twenty-four hour day presents personal decisions on how to utilize the time. As the globe revolves, so does the passing down of values from cultures. Work, the basis of producing a livelihood, has always been the focus for the male species. We are the hunters, adventures, and historically the one’s responsible for providing substances for the rest of the tribe.

Once manufacturing of good overtook destruction of land and animals, the family transformed into a monetary society trading time for script valued by retailers as swop for goods and services.

So is this satisfying the search within each of us or is it merely satisfying our minimal efforts to sustain our surroundings with the rewards of accomplishments, while resting on desires by encompassing ourselves in fantasy?

Do Romeo and Juliet worry about zits? Does Superman get constipated? Do the ancient rulers of lands unknown need to download apps to check on locations?

Doesn’t matter, this is reality.