Email to a Lesbian Friend

So, weird story:
I sometimes look at the dating ads on Craigslist and even posted one or two
Mostly I receive scams trying to get personal info and credit card #
Did meet one very nice woman from Cottonwood a couple years ago, we had lunch in Chico
Met a woman from Brazil, I don't speak Portuguese and she didn't speak English
She was very pretty
Recently a woman from Shasta County started talking, then went silent
But I read a news item and connected it to some information she shared and I realized that she had to leave California and never return (Warrants, but not for being bad herself)
A person from Chico answered me as well, told me she is well known in town and didn't want to send a picture.
I sent her the UTube up above and she loved it, said the nicest things about Dad.
So I sent my picture, nothing ever since.
But her name is on her email and I Googled her, found a Chico person with that name
And a picture.
I recognized her at once and she probably recognized me.
We don't know each other but she is at a public event each week, very well known
And very beautiful, in my opinion
We go to the same coffee bar
Before I saw her pic I said we should have coffee,
Sadly I'm not going to the public event this week
Since she did not respond to me I guess I can't say anything to her without being pushy and creepy
But it is interesting to see that there are indeed real people cruising those posts
Actually, last year I saw one of the young women that works at a local store had an ad
Alas, all the ones that slip away...

I have a fantasy involving you but don't worry
I goes that you meet a cool bisexual woman, bring her here on a visit, she and I fall in love
You drive home alone
Now you've heard that you'll never bring a girlfriend around

Peace and love,
Ben

Scariness Update

An update on the sign...
I looked at it and discovered that it is half-inch metal plate, the bullets don't even go through
And it it welded to steel posts--I don't have any way to remove it
The business, so called Christian Boy's Ranch, was forced to close many years ago. The owner was operating an unlicensed recycling company, dumped a lot of toxics (dry cleaning fluid) on the site.
Meanwhile he was collecting donations from people that saw infomercials on televangelist programs.
It never sheltered any disadvantaged youth (stated mission)
I think he went to jail

I can maybe show the hazard to a sheriff's deputy, but I don't expect much will be done

Scariness

    There's a roadside sign idiots use for target practice, on the further side is a row of homes, my trailer included. There used to be almond trees in the field but they were cut down, now I am wide open. The distance is long, maybe a mile, my neighbors and I are probably safe. But who knows?
    The sign is for a business that no longer exists. I think I'm going to take it down and remove the target.
Bet the Sheriff comes by and messes with me for vandalism or something.

I Witness Crime Report

     They couldn’t have been more blatant, operating in broad daylight over a period of about three weeks. I watched with binoculars, curious of the process, utterly ignorant of the evil deed underfoot. How was I to know?

     It started over a year ago when the property next door changed hands. The new owners bulldozed an abandoned almond orchard and, I was told, planned to put in walnuts. All last summer I saw tractors plow and condition the soil, to my wonder the work finished up with seeding for a field crop. Orchard development is a lengthy process, planting a one season harvest brings income off of the land while the work continues.

     Over the winter the seeds sprouted and a grassy field emerged. The grower was lucky, even with the drought, somehow enough water got to this one crop, other neighbors weren’t as fortunate, planted too late and nothing grew—agriculture is a gamble.

     But with the start of the merry merry month the harvest came around. First mowers did the cut and after a week’s drying the baling machines rolled around, finally the stackers and loaders got it all upon double trailer big rigs and hauled it away.

     Like I said, I watched the entire operation through binoculars. To be honest, writing novels is a business that leaves one open to distraction, with all of the activity right next door, I had the perfect excuse for not working.

     Yesterday afternoon, while I was doing my thing I received a visit from a young man driving a Hummer. He looked every inch the modern farmer, with a phone clipped to his ear and a female companion far too influenced by the weight-loss industry. He explained that the crop next door was his, and that the harvesters were not authorized agents but were in fact dastardly thieves—they stole his hay.

     I do not wish to belittle this phenomenon, agricultural theft is a big enterprise that seems to happen under the radar—as if somebody were getting a payoff.

      But I had a front row view to the crime of the century.

Cardomon Query

            Hello, bonjour, guten tag, my name is James B. Mielke—take the ‘B’ and call me Ben, please. I’m writing because I have recently completed my first novel, a work of science fiction. I call it Cardomon—Mellisa Shannon, a History and a Tragedy, and it has almost 154,000 words. Let me tell you about it:

            We are in a far future, where ‘Earth’ is merely a word for soil, and people colonize new planets every day. It’s all by the book, no surprises, just stick to the plan. But if your plan doesn’t account for a native fungus that consumes human flesh in moments, or a volcanic eruption that obliterates ninety percent of your population base, or the fundamentally predatory nature of the human species, you may experience difficulties. Meanwhile, families bond, babies arrive, people make love, they make music and they make whiskey. We meet scientists, astrologers and lumberjacks, vigilantes, aristocrats and athletes, beloved teachers, runaway slaves and psychopaths. And a mysterious new intelligence watches.

            Starting with arrival on the planet and construction of a Firstown and finishing with a ragged battle for freedom, Cardomon brews numerous threads and characters through experiences silly and sobering and examines the foundation of civilization, and its lapse.

            The first of an intended four part series that documents five hundred years of human settlement and the evolution of the mysterious being—a planet wide fungus awakened into sentience by encountering people. Part One, Mellisa Shannon, follows the arc of a polarizing pioneer colonist and sees the establishment of two rival communities linked through a shared school. They clash on the athletic field, in wilderness conflict and over a development project imported by a Galactic merchant, a slave trader.

            Part two will take off running in the aftermath of the first part’s action and turns its lens upon the

Two Miracles

An email to a friend:

Glad to hear from you and Happy Happy Happy, if I may be redundant
I had a big scare with Zora two days ago. The landlord put cows and calves in the pasture. I walk around them, at first they shied away at our approach and I have a leash to keep her controlled. But if they are a ways away I let Zora free. Sunset Monday I thought they were far enough off, but one curious calf ran over before I could restrain Zora. I've had the girl for almost fifteen years now and she hardly ever runs any more, but the sight of moving livestock triggers her instincts to herd. She started chasing the calf and its Momma cow came running at a charge. She clobbered Zora with front and rear hooves, the poor girl lay curled on the ground in tremors. I carried her inside and put her on her pillow, I thought she was a goner for sure but I offered soft food (hot dogs) and she demonstrated spirit.
Yesterday Zora was stiff and slower than usual, but active. This morning she seems hardly worse at all.
A miracle.
And I don't even do Christmas.
Also, just for sheer beauty, let me tell you about my Holiday tree:
Back in September I was going to work at that Orland Farmstead Creamery. There is a stand of Valley Oaks the one-lane road goes through and sometimes I stopped there the take a leak. This Fall was what the ecologists call a 'mast' season, which means that the oaks were putting out tons of acorns--I collected a few. I planted one in a ceramic pot and waited, nothing happened, it seemed. But after a month I scratched a little in the soil and saw a radicle (embryonic root) emerging from the pointy tip so I kept watering it. The first green appeared in early November along a tiny crack in the acorn body. Gradually the crack got bigger, other ones formed that splintered the end and the green mass has crept into the open. It is the slowest process I have ever observed, I wish I had a time-lapse camera setup. All of the growth happens at night, it seems, just a little larger each day and this morning it had tiny leaves on it--welcome to the World!
That makes two miracles
Happy Happy Happy, if I may be even more redundant

Real Crime Drama

True Story:
This morning I go out to spend the last pennies in my account on gas.
About a quarter mile down the road I realize my wallet is not in my pocket.
Back up on the narrow road and go home, look around all the usual places--no wallet.
Not seen since the last time I bought gas--Tuesday
I go to the 7-11 and ask if they found it. She looks all over, no.
Then I call Corning Police and inquire.
Halfway into making my report I see the wallet on the floor of my car (it was under my laptop).
I'd already used up ten minutes of the police person's time and I didn't want to let her feel that it was wasted
Or that I was stupid
So I didn't tell her my discovery.
Am I guilty of filing a false police report?

A Drag Queeen, A Pair of Sociopaths, and Two Unsolved Murders--Portraits in American Integrity

A true story in the spirit of Utah Phillips:

We knew him as ‘RH’, short for Runninghorse; no, he’s not Native American. He was a presence at Diablo Valley College in the 1990s, a loud mouthed presence. Nobody ever challenged his leadership of the Frank Little Club. He was full of energy, a zeal for organizing, a megaphone voice, and a confrontational attitude; he started the club, chaired meetings, and actually cooperated, to a modest extent, with the college Administration. He did a lot of heavy work.

But we also knew that he was an absolute creep. Women in the club did not care to work alone with him, and they had good reason. That’s an odd situation for the leader of a left-wing political action club.

Now I have to relate one story to his credit—sort of.

It’s a complicated saga of local politics that starts thusly:

The Reverend Lloyd Mashore, of a fundamentalist congregation in Concord, waxed wroth over the rising tide of the supposed ‘Homosexual Agenda’, specifically the idea that ‘Christians’ were being forced into politically correct tolerance of whatever the Lloyd Mashores of the world fear. His big outrage was that Christian property owners were being compelled to rent homes to gays and lesbians, people certain to engage in unbiblical activities inside these Christian owned bedrooms.

Proof positive, to Lloyd Mashore, that True Religion was under persecution. The Secularists must surely be ready to bring back the popular sport of feeding the lions.

Tales out of School

Hank van der Putte, a 50ish typical, tropical, tramp (TTT) from Holland talked me into visiting a whorehouse in the Orinoco area of Venezuela. He reasoned that as a sheltered, 22-year old, Peace Corps volunteer, I needed to see how my counterparts lived. Part-time work in a small university library left me much free time, so I had reluctantly agreed to teach an English class at the high school. I had met the students- once- they were testing me- and I had no idea what I was doing! 

I was just learning to drive, but had no license. We did know enough to not borrow the P.C. jeep for it was recognizable all over town, practically new and a bright aqua. Late one afternoon we set off in Hank's car, bumping off-road, through scrub-land and  a few dry creek beds until we reached a house miles out of town.

Hank announced to the woman at the counter that he had brought me there to see what life was for some Venezuelan women. We sat in the living room for a few minutes, chatting about nothing. As we stood up to leave she pointed to a closed door in the corner of the room and said that my high school principal was being entertained in there!

Class ended right there!

Fort Bragg to Gold Beach Oregon: 271 miles

Monday, 24^th September

50 MPG

Fatigue the night before had misguided my assumption that the Oceanview Inn & Suites was merely shabby, not dirty.  In the morning light I discovered the detritus of past guests piled up all around the base of the bed.  As I checked Mother’s room for forgotten items, I found a Mini Oreo residing under the wall furnace.  For all I know it could have been years old---its preservatives protecting unknowing guests much like a mothball.

As I wrote and got ready for the day, my husband went for a walk---returning with a beautiful Brugmansia sanguinea blossom he found on a very large bush.  He promised to show me where he found it, but after we took an extensive motor tour of the side streets he could not relocate it.  I told him in ten more years he’ll call me from one of his wanderings, hoping I can find him.  The blossom resided all day on the dashboard, hardly showing any fatigue from the drive---amusing, since the plant itself is rather insistent on having cool, moist temperatures.

It was a pretty morning---misty sunlight playing over the fields and coves.  We stopped a couple of times to take in the view around Westport before turning inland and twisting our way up to US 101.  The mileage sign mentioned Rockport being ten miles away---and then another soon mentioned NO SERVICES IN ROCKPORT.  Upon arrival one finds nothing but trees, so it seems a case of CalTrans not keeping up with the times.

Shortly after the site of Rockport the back entrance to The Lost Coast appears.  Usal Road looks like somebody’s dirt driveway save for a plethora of warning signs that would alarm most suburban drivers.  It’s also the back entrance to Redwoods Monastery, a group of nuns related to the boys at New Clairvaux in Vina---some forty miles north northwest of Rancho Notorious.  We’ve toyed with the idea of visiting the nuns sometime, taking the more conventional route from Garberville towards Shelter Cove, and then south on Whitethorn Road, which is paved before eventually petering out into Usal Road.  Not that Patsy hasn’t forged over the Lost Coast’s dirt roads before---as recently as the 2^nd of January of this year.

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...

The Games People Play

The title of this editorial is taken from a book by Eric Berne, MD. In it he offers the following definition of “game”.  A game is a series of complementary transactions progressing to a well-defined, predictable outcome.  Descriptively it is a recurring set of transactions, often repetitious, superficially plausible, with a concealed motivation; or, more colloquially, a series of moves with a snare, or “gimmick”….  Every game is basically dishonest, and the outcome has a dramatic, as distinct from merely exciting, quality.”

The book lists the whole series of games that people play: life games, marital games, party games, sexual games, under world games, consulting room games, and finally what he calls good games.  After reading a book I know for certain what I have suspected for most of my life: I'm not a good game player.  My friends know that I am naïve, tend to accept at face value what people tell me, and I try to communicate what I think and feel in a straightforward way. One illustration of this personality characteristic follows.