Some things are better left unsaid, and not liking San Diego is among them. Mere admittance to this makes you suspect: You’re an outcast that refuses to give in to the status quo.
I start disliking San Diego at about 500 miles distance---in San Jose, to be exact. That’s when the billboards start: Happiness is calling. San Diego. A little blonde girl is playing in the sand with her pail and shovel. The beach is honey toned and deserted, just like Disneyland and any other place that sells happiness. At least at Disneyland everyone has to pay the price and pretend to be a family unit, while this little girl is left alone on a beach. Mommy may be watching over her from afar, bleary-eyed after finishing off a pitcher of margaritas, but Daddy is off boinking the barmaid and older sis is beyond the rocks, scoring some weed off a surfer.
There's a respite for several hundred miles. After all, there’s a lot of competition between here and there. Monterey. Pismo. Santa Barbara. Laguna. No use wasting our breath here. But south of San Clemente you’re on that road of no return and the billboard with the little girl on the beach appears again. We can’t see her face, least she remind you of something unpleasant, such as Marcia Brady. She must be Cindy, cute but mute. Sweet thing.
The Interstate passes the gray and gloomy San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant by the sea, idled for the moment because of undue corrosion of the cooling pipes, and then the road itself goes against the terrain---heaving and hoeing over the mesas and canyons like a geriatric rollercoaster. The mountains and the sea sink below a turned down horizon, replaced by Golden Arches and squares that spell out Hell instead of Shell at night.
The alternative is old US 101---often charmed by the surf and jammed by that fact, too. It may be worthwhile in the off season, but not today: Junior Saul has just committed suicide and a crowd is rushing across the boulevard into downtown Oceanside to be near it all.
“Who’s he?” asks my husband.
“A former pro football player,” I reply. A fact I know only because I’ve been listening to the radio closely to avoid an undulating coma.
It’s a diversion, this Day of the Locust event. People are calling in on their cell phones, sobbing out their brushes with fame that decided to extinguish itself. Legoland is passed by unnoticed. I spin the tuning knob and the melodrama is repeated over and over, like the pavement we travel over. Then Junior’s mother made an unseemly, out of control public announcement: "Oh God, why didn’t you take me instead?!"
I press the power button, and in the white noise I wish I was that little girl, alone on the beach and young enough to find happiness in grains of sand.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Excerpt from Cardomom
Homer wore a black leather cap with a shiny brass badge above the visor. "Order!
Order! Order!" he shouted. "The First Criminal Justice Court for the planet of Cardomon
is now in session, the Honorable Kaila Flexer presiding. All rise."
Levon remained seated, he was tied into his chair and couldn't rise. Faithful to
his promise to resist, four colonists had struggled to carry him into the room, now he
was disheveled and aloof, staring blankly and offering no response. Ruben stood behind
his left shoulder and Chilperic behind his right. They wore caps like Homer's and had
short wooden clubs holstered on their belts.
Kaila entered and ascended the bench. She nodded to Homer, sat and rapped her
gavel one time.
"Be seated," Homer called out.
The crowd took their places and Kaila looked over the room. It was a conversion
of the main hall, the bench and the counsel tables filled the dance floor. Court Clerk
Naomi worked from a desk onstage, immediately behind Kaila's right shoulder. Most
spectators sat down front and close, a handful occupied the balcony, Luenda, Peter,
Achen, and Marcus were chaperoning the children in a separate section.
"The People of Cardomon versus Levon, presumed a native of Brahe," Homer announced.
Kaila asked: "Is counsel ready?"
"Yes, your Honor," Lucy said.
"My client refuses to accept these proceedings," Jolrae said.
"We understand, but the Court has declared you his proxy. Are you prepared?"
"I am."
"Very well, let's carry on." She turned to Naomi, "Present the charges."
"Your Honor," Jolrae interrupted.
"Counsel?"
"It is a long list of gruesome particulars-quite tedious and disturbing. In light
of overwhelming physical and eyewitness documentation, defense is prepared to accept the
charges as stipulated: fifteen acts of rape, twenty-two acts of forced oral copulation,
forty-three other sexual violations, twenty acts of unlawful detention, one hundred twelve
violent assaults, including eighteen at gunpoint, plus a dozen odd charges of vandalism and
public sanitation violations. To all of the preceding we plead 'no contest'."
Kaila nodded, "Does the Prosecution wish to speak?"
"We accept the plea, your Honor."
"Very well," Kaila continued. "My staff has prepared a sentencing report on Levon."
She faced the defendant, "This is your final opportunity to speak to this Court."
Levon closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
"We find you unfit to enjoy the blessings of human society. It is beyond the purview,
and the inclinations, of this Court to order you put to death. Therefore, you will be
confined for the remainder of your natural life. We have no desire to visit you with cruelty
and reasonable accommodations will be made for your comfort and well being-bear in mind that
this is an underdeveloped colony. You may petition this Court for a review of your
disposition every five years. Are there any questions?"
"No, your Honor," Lucy said.
"No," Jolrae said.
She rapped the gavel a second time. "Court is adjourned."
Order! Order!" he shouted. "The First Criminal Justice Court for the planet of Cardomon
is now in session, the Honorable Kaila Flexer presiding. All rise."
Levon remained seated, he was tied into his chair and couldn't rise. Faithful to
his promise to resist, four colonists had struggled to carry him into the room, now he
was disheveled and aloof, staring blankly and offering no response. Ruben stood behind
his left shoulder and Chilperic behind his right. They wore caps like Homer's and had
short wooden clubs holstered on their belts.
Kaila entered and ascended the bench. She nodded to Homer, sat and rapped her
gavel one time.
"Be seated," Homer called out.
The crowd took their places and Kaila looked over the room. It was a conversion
of the main hall, the bench and the counsel tables filled the dance floor. Court Clerk
Naomi worked from a desk onstage, immediately behind Kaila's right shoulder. Most
spectators sat down front and close, a handful occupied the balcony, Luenda, Peter,
Achen, and Marcus were chaperoning the children in a separate section.
"The People of Cardomon versus Levon, presumed a native of Brahe," Homer announced.
Kaila asked: "Is counsel ready?"
"Yes, your Honor," Lucy said.
"My client refuses to accept these proceedings," Jolrae said.
"We understand, but the Court has declared you his proxy. Are you prepared?"
"I am."
"Very well, let's carry on." She turned to Naomi, "Present the charges."
"Your Honor," Jolrae interrupted.
"Counsel?"
"It is a long list of gruesome particulars-quite tedious and disturbing. In light
of overwhelming physical and eyewitness documentation, defense is prepared to accept the
charges as stipulated: fifteen acts of rape, twenty-two acts of forced oral copulation,
forty-three other sexual violations, twenty acts of unlawful detention, one hundred twelve
violent assaults, including eighteen at gunpoint, plus a dozen odd charges of vandalism and
public sanitation violations. To all of the preceding we plead 'no contest'."
Kaila nodded, "Does the Prosecution wish to speak?"
"We accept the plea, your Honor."
"Very well," Kaila continued. "My staff has prepared a sentencing report on Levon."
She faced the defendant, "This is your final opportunity to speak to this Court."
Levon closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
"We find you unfit to enjoy the blessings of human society. It is beyond the purview,
and the inclinations, of this Court to order you put to death. Therefore, you will be
confined for the remainder of your natural life. We have no desire to visit you with cruelty
and reasonable accommodations will be made for your comfort and well being-bear in mind that
this is an underdeveloped colony. You may petition this Court for a review of your
disposition every five years. Are there any questions?"
"No, your Honor," Lucy said.
"No," Jolrae said.
She rapped the gavel a second time. "Court is adjourned."
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Three Good Things
Three Good Things
Write them every day
Three good things that happened
That’s what she told me to do when I feel like ths
Dutiful girl that I am, I did what she said
The price of gas is down
I found a five dollar bill in my jacket
It’s not raining today
You can always find three good things
My daughter called and we talked awhile
The waiter was friendly at lunch
It’s not raining today
It isn’t very hard to find three good things
Today I got a call from my son
I’m enjoying the book I’m reading
It’s still not raining
I think it’s working, writing down three good things
I laughed with the baby on line at the store
I put on some music and danced
It’s raining but I don’t mind
I think there may be more than three good things that happen every day
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Go On Ahead
Go on, ahead. I'm just gonna stay here and rest a little bit. Just gonna warm up here under this tree.
I pray sometimes. I pray to a big ole father figure Santa Claus God in the sky on puffy white clouds in a white robe who wears a sad and compassionate smile. I pray whenever I catch myself not looking right at something. Then I catch myself praying and I stop.
I'm fine. I'm just catching my breath. This tree is as good as any. I'm comfortable here. The view is terrific.
In the parking lot of the apartment complex where I live an old man drags things to the dumpster in the very early morning hours before the sun comes up. He does this nearly every morning. Various things: a lumpy stained couch cushion, some framed painted prints of flowers, a broken broomstick.
He staggers across the parking lot, shirtless and barefooted, his wasted chest gaunt and pale. Shirtless so often, even in the cold, I begin to wonder if he has thrown all his shirts away and I wish he would do this in the harsh light of the afternoon sun so that it didn't appear to be such an act of shame.
I'll catch up. I promise. It's nothing a little rest won't help. Just a little moment of quiet reflection, if you please.
I will struggle with tremendous effort and invest myself completely in any venture if it is certain to fail. I consider it pointless otherwise. It's part Puritan-ism and part personality defect. Why do you bang your head against the wall so much the man asks the other man and the other man says because it feels so good when I stop.
That's better. Just some peace and quiet. I can hear snowflakes landing on my parka. See how happy I am here? When I catch up with you my face will be the face of surprising happiness. Please go on ahead. I'll be here. Please, please, please, please? Go on ahead...
I pray sometimes. I pray to a big ole father figure Santa Claus God in the sky on puffy white clouds in a white robe who wears a sad and compassionate smile. I pray whenever I catch myself not looking right at something. Then I catch myself praying and I stop.
I'm fine. I'm just catching my breath. This tree is as good as any. I'm comfortable here. The view is terrific.
In the parking lot of the apartment complex where I live an old man drags things to the dumpster in the very early morning hours before the sun comes up. He does this nearly every morning. Various things: a lumpy stained couch cushion, some framed painted prints of flowers, a broken broomstick.
He staggers across the parking lot, shirtless and barefooted, his wasted chest gaunt and pale. Shirtless so often, even in the cold, I begin to wonder if he has thrown all his shirts away and I wish he would do this in the harsh light of the afternoon sun so that it didn't appear to be such an act of shame.
I'll catch up. I promise. It's nothing a little rest won't help. Just a little moment of quiet reflection, if you please.
I will struggle with tremendous effort and invest myself completely in any venture if it is certain to fail. I consider it pointless otherwise. It's part Puritan-ism and part personality defect. Why do you bang your head against the wall so much the man asks the other man and the other man says because it feels so good when I stop.
That's better. Just some peace and quiet. I can hear snowflakes landing on my parka. See how happy I am here? When I catch up with you my face will be the face of surprising happiness. Please go on ahead. I'll be here. Please, please, please, please? Go on ahead...
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
The Medicine Chest: coughs and earaches
My parents did not believe in doctors, pills or therapy of any kind! When I was coughing at night my mother would come to my room with vicks and rub it on my throat & chest and cover me with a scratchy scrap of wool she had heated on a light bulb. For earaches she'd squeeze a few drops of warm oil into my ear, cover it with that same hot, wool scrap.
The relief was immediate.
The relief was immediate.
Lying
Lying was my defense, a way to dim the glare of parental search lights, when the truth was all over my face. Naturally, only I was fooled. There was no pre-planning, I simply winged my response. Becoming more adept, I would slide all around a subject. Writing has helped.
Invasion
Going seen or unseen where you are not expected; stirring the pot or adding an extreme measure of uncertainty. Without it we wither and die. Maybe we should all try it sometime!
Monday, June 4, 2012
IN MEMORIUM
July 21,1945—April 21, 2012
His life but not his soul has flown away
It shimmers like a rainbow in a dream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
The treasure of his life words can’t convey
He laughed and loved; we held him in esteem
His life but not his soul has flown away.
His spirit rides the wind, a stowaway
That soars the cloudless sky where eagles scream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
He fished each rivulet a special way
And caught the wary trout by skillful scheme
His life but not his soul has flown away.
His kayak waits impatiently today
The river nymphs anticipate the team
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
His spirit lingers in the ocean spray
It murmurs softly by a summer stream
His life but not his soul has flown away.
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
ah
Saturday, April 21, 2012
A villanelle written the day Thomas died
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