Milton (Part 2) And Lamar

It's taken me more than a year to get back to this.

More avoidance than a matter of being too busy.  But Milton deserves to be remembered.

When we arrived in Beaumont, we had rented a house sight unseen. It was billed online as 2 bed, 2-bath with a master bedroom.  Well the "master suite" only had a toilet. No tub, and the doors were too small and narrow for Milton to get his wheelchair or even walker through.

We wound up having to make the add-on "sun room" our bedroom. That was a nightmare in itself.  It dropped down from the living room, so I had to build Milton a ramp.  The room had obviously flooded at some point, mud on the floor had merely been painted over.  The landlord had taken coffee grounds and smeared them all over the cabinets. They looked like shit stains.

Honestly, when I realized what we had stepped into, I wanted to cry.  I apologized profusely to Milton. Milton, as he always did, merely said we'd make the best of it for as long as we needed to.

The station I worked at in Beaumont was a mixed bag.  A lack of technology and manpower; but nearly everyone there was amazingly kind and hard working.  I pretty much got to be my own executive producer, for all intents and purposes.  One major downside, it was a Sinclair station, which meant we were expected to run right-wing propaganda. 

For the first few months, he was still recuperating from his lung resection.  But after that, he was able to get out with just his cane.  He was always so strong, and strong-willed.  I worked long days, but Milton and I had plenty of time to spend together on the weekends. 

About 10 months after I started, I got a call from a Florida station, flew down for an interview, and decided to take the job. Milton's doctors had told him a warmer climate would do him good.  In some ways, I wish I hadn't left Texas.  In other ways, perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened to me.  But not for Milton.

We had not been in Florida long, when Milton started having stabbing pains in his back. So severe, he couldn't even turn in bed.  I called an ambulance, and they took him to the nearest ER.  As it turned out, it was full of incompetence, bigotry, and the doctors lacked interest in finding causes, merely treating symptoms.   As we'd later find out, the latter was a problem throughout the hospital system.

Long story short, Milton went in for a back ache, and wound up in coma because the doctors thought a CPAP was just as good as a BiPap.  Then, they sent Milton home long before he was physically ready.  It wasn't long before he was back into the hospital again, just the beginning of a long, tiring journey for Milton that alternately brought us to peaks of hope, and dipped us into fountains of despair.

He spent much of the last 3 years of his life in the hospital.  After he got out the second time, and was doing well with physical therapy, I met Lamar.  Lamar had been having trouble in his own relationship, but he and I hit it off. It was unfair to Milton, I admit.  He was jealous, but I needed not only physical relief, but someone to discuss life and all that was happening to us with.  Milton, you see, wasn't much of a talker, especially when it came to his illness.  Plus, I needed someone willing to help me care for Milton, and Lamar was.

Lamar and I had so much in common, thought so much a like.  He was so kind and giving, as well.  He moved in with us.  Lamar worked as a paralegal; he referred to himself as our parahusband.

Like I said, it was difficult for Milton, who wasn't himself after his coma. He was suspicious, thought we were trying to hold him down. Thought we were deliberately doing things to make him feel bad.   None of that was true. But Milton did not have to worry for long.

Not six months after Lamar moved in, he found out he had liver cancer. It had spread to his lungs.  He was devastated.  Why did this happen to him, he asked, when he was finally happy?  He went downhill quickly.  Rapid weight loss, weakness, pain.  About this same time, we got word from our landlord, he was selling his place and needed us out.

The stress of the move was horrible for all of us, on top of the health issues.  Lamar's friends did come to help, and so did his brother and sister-in-law.

Three months after Lamar was diagnosed, and just a couple of weeks after we moved; I was going to a dentist appointment, when I noticed Lamar was very groggy looking and unable to speak.  I thought it was the painkillers he'd been given.  That was the same morning his brother and sister-in-law were leaving back home.  I asked him if he was okay. He nodded.  So I went.  When I returned, he was looking better, but speaking nonsense.  That's when I realized he'd had a stroke.  We got him to the hospital, and testing showed he'd had multiple "micro-strokes" over the past month or so.  There was no way to treat his current stroke without risking more bleeding in his brain. 

Lamar spent weeks in the hospital. Milton (who had just started to soften to Lamar) and I visited Lamar as often as possible.  He was optimistic, just like he was sure he'd beat the cancer, even as advanced as it was; he was sure he'd recover from the stroke. He kept talking about going back to work as a paralegal.


One night, a nurse called me at 2:00 am.  Lamar wanted to talk to me.  She said she tried to dissuade him (Why would she do that)?  I had her put him on. He asked me to go see him right away.

I rushed over.  As I arrived, we spoke a little. He asked me what was happening.  I didn't know what he meant.  Then the nurse came in and said his O2 was crashing.  They rushed me out as they put him on oxygen.  When he was stable again, they let me in.  Lamar couldn't speak.  He never opened his eyes.  But he counted out 1, 2 3 on his fingers, made a fist, and burst his fingers outward.  It was a sign he and I had developed, to show our love for each other without upsetting Milton.

Minutes later nurses were rushing in, attempting to resuscitate him.  Lamar had made me his medical power of attorney though.  I knew that's not what he wanted. I asked them to stop. 

I called Lamar's mother. She told me Lamar had spoken to her the night before; when she said she'd talk with him tomorrow, he told her "No, mom. I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

Our friends, Chuck and Keith had come up the day before Lamar passed. They had only met him once before, but wanted to come down and offer support. Unfortunately, it was the final crack in an already stressed relationship with them. 

While I was trying to mourn, they were watching Green Acres or Andy Griffith or something inane like that.  Loudly.  I asked Milton to have them turn it down, so instead they decided to have a jovial conversation instead.  I couldn't handle it.  Fortunately, my friends Juan and David offered to come rescue me; taking me to a quiet restaurant where we could mourn together.  Milton was upset that I left him with Chuck and Keith.   "I cared about him too," he told me.  I know he did at that point, but he wasn't feeling the depth of loss that I did. And if he came, Chuck and Keith would as well. I couldn't deal with that.

So Milton and I were alone again. He was angry with me most of the time.  Or angry at the world. It was hard to tell which.  He sat at his computer most of the day watching youtube, British soap operas, and listening to music.  Sometimes, his mood would brighten up, and he'd let me hug and kiss him, or hold him in bed.

But he was getting sicker.  He was weaker. Couldn't get around without his wheelchair.  Could hardly make it in and out of the shower.  I was afraid to leave him alone.

Earlier, before Lamar, we had a home health nurse come in. But it wasn't covered, and it was thousands of dollars out of pocket we no longer could afford.  But my friend David wasn't working. He volunteered to come stay and help.  Milton accepted, begrudgingly.

But that was the best thing for all of us. David had experience dealing with loss, experience in care-taking of loved one, and he and Milton really enjoyed each other's company.   Our relationship bloomed.  A sexual and emotional one for David and I; merely emotional for Milton and David.  Milton shared things with him he'd never share with me; and he gave us his blessing to continue on, when Milton was gone.

Milton: In the Beginning

Today marks two months since Milton died.

I've taken our wedding rings off my finger and put them on a chain, with a pendant he bought me for our anniversary.  A month later, and the depression around my ring finger remains.

I've found it difficult to write since Sunny died; except for when I was keeping this blog on a semi-regular basis.  It's been years now, but I felt it important to document the passing of Milton, and Lamar.

I probably first met Milton online. Yahoo chat no doubt.  Sunny and I were already together, living in Houston.  But since Sunny and I worked opposite shifts, and I really had no other friends in Houston, chatting online was my outlet for conversation and fellowship.

We first met Milton in person during a visit to Austin.  He belonged to the big men's group that Tom Adams had formed in Austin.  I could see then that he was shy in some ways; but always ready with a laugh, a smile, and his sweet baritone voice. It was only later that I found out he had also surrounded himself with a couple of people who were just there to take advantage of him.  That was a part of who he was; tough, gruff, but so longing to belong and to be loved that he gave of himself unguardedly to anyone who reached out to him.

After Sunny's death, I moved back to Austin. Tom was kind enough to save me from financial ruin by allowing me to stay in his spare bedroom.  I began going to the group dinners.  One November night in 2005, but after the dinner while Tom and I were saying goodnight to Chuck and Keith, Milton was off by himself, leaning into the front door of his van, smoking.  He was just feet away but it seemed emotionally across an ocean. My heart fell as I grasped the depth of his loneliness.  So I did something bold.  I told him I would go home with him if he wanted me to.  His eyes lit up and danced. He didn't smile though. He just very casually said "okay." 

Milton had a mustache at the time, which I didn't care for and he said he'd never shave off for anyone. His smoking always bothered me, too.  I wish I had been firmer with him about that, as the cigarettes became a big factor in what was ultimately a horrible death.  But I won't get ahead of myself.



We made love that night; and pretty much every chance we had after that.  One day he asked me "when are we going to do this all the time?" I had already become obsessed with him; and felt a strange jealousy that I had never felt before.  See, he continued to see other guys once in a while and posted on Craigslist (though he said nothing ever came of those). Normally I shouldn't have cared.  I believe in open relationships, but I suppose losing Sunny triggered some fear or possessiveness in me. Or perhaps it was simply that I loved him, and this was a man I was meant to look after, and vice-versa, until death do us part.

My jealously nearly broke us.  After returning from Christmas break spent with my family, I started an argument over his side affairs.  I claimed it was just that I wanted him to be open and honest about them (he always had trouble when it came to that); but that wasn't it.  I hypocritically wanted him to myself. We separated, but days later I was apologizing, suggesting we could remain friends.  By New Year's Eve, we were holding each other again.

I moved in with him.  We were happy. One morning I woke up to the sound of him laughing softly.  I called out to him "what's so funny?"  He came in, face baby smooth.  I knew he was asking me to marry him.  I said I do.

We moved out of his tiny condo into a rented four-bedroom house.  Then from there began looking for a home we could own together.  It wasn't until we were ready to close on the house that I (and Milton as well) found out one of his friends, Donald Grant, had stolen thousands of dollars from him, preying on Milton's trust and kindness. Unfortunately, there was no paper trail, no way to recover the money.  It was then that I realized I had to protect Milton from his own generosity and spontaneity.

We eventually found a home in Buda that we fell in love with.  We only got to spend a couple of years there though.  Changes at Time Warner made it impossible for me to stay on, and Milton's health kept declining. He spent 80 percent of his time sleeping. I quit, worked as a security guard for a short while, then came home one morning in 2012 and found Milton riding around in his wheelchair, dragging a rug that had gotten stuck under the wheels.  He couldn't say much of anything except his own name.  After asking him a few questions, I was convinced he'd had a stroke.  I drove him to the hospital (we were close enough it was quicker than waiting for an ambulance).  After several grueling hours, doctors announced he didn't have a stroke, he had a severe case of pneumonia.  But it was the beginning of a long, drawn out end.

The severity of his condition was actually good fortune in a sense.  An x-ray of his lungs showed the pneumonia. But the radiologist also noticed something, comparing it to x-rays Milton had from a previous pneumonia case the year before.  A spot in the same place as previously, but larger.  I don't know who this radiologist was; but their astuteness likely bought Milton precious years of life.

Not everyone in medicine is as brilliant, though.  The first oncologists he saw told me Milton had stage 4 cancer, and only a few months to live.  And he wanted me to be the one to tell Milton that.  After a few moments of shock, I demanded a second opinion, and demanded that the doctor not tell Milton how long he had left.

It wasn't until we saw another oncologist that we were told the tumor was actually pretty small; we'd caught it early. But the PET scan also showed, Milton had a cancer in his throat, near his larynx but not on it.  We were horrified.  More tests, and it turned out they were two completely different cancers. We were able to arrange to have both removed at the same time, by two separate doctors. 

Shortly before Milton's surgery, I was hired to work in Beaumont; which meant having to leave our home in Buda; and the start date was just a week after Milton's surgery.  I was going to put it off, or decline the job; but Milton insisted.  He was determined that everything would be alright.  So, we hired movers, packed up what we could with the help of my father, nephew and in-laws.  Then we were on our way down US 290 to East Texas.

It's late. I am tired.  More to come later.

November (II)

Since Sunny passed away seven years ago, I've lost a number of friends; including two in the past several months.   

I wrote this poem "November" years ago; I believe after the murder of Adam, one of my coworkers.  Now I've known more than just a few who have died.

I know

only a few

who have died

for whom I've cried

left pieces of my heart

on their wooden chests

and turned away

never to return

"Let the dead bury their own"

I've got to earn my bread

and bury the sorrow

Some grey November morning

shielded from the cold

I'll have conquered the world

and you'll turn away

hearts aching and old

and then you'll drift away

never to return

Rage, rage against the dying of the light (of sanity)

Unfortunately, Pastor Charles Worley is not just the lunatic fringe. He may be one of the few crazy enough to publicly call for the murder (or as they see it, execution) of homosexuals; but that is the outcome that will undoubtedly be produced by giving more power to those who think religion should be the foundation of government.

Whatever you think of the Huffington Post, the following excerpt sums up what I've been having to point out more often recently.

"You can wrap your theological position in all the 'speaking the truth in love' or 'hate the sin, love the sinner' rhetoric you want, but if you hold the idea that affirming homosexuality will lead to the destruction of societal 'norms' then you had better claim the other side: anti-homosexuality rhetoric will lead to the death of human beings because they are gay."

I'm not crazy about Bruce Reyes-Chow's writing style, but his points are all valid. Among them, there will be those who do not necessarily believe in rounding up and killing gay people (at least not the ones THEY know and love), but they will not speak up against it; giving their consent through their silence.

Worse yet, there will be a lot of "the bible tells me so" types thinking Worley is on the right track. A recent chain of exchanges I had with one right-winger friend-of-a-friend here on Facebook made that abundantly clear.

The Inquisition, the Holocaust, the Taliban's rise to power in Afghanistan: when you come right down to it, they all had the same root--religion as a weapon. In each case, the populace consented either outright, or by their silence.

America is not immune. In fact, the country is more vulnerable now to having angry, fearful people blindly following those who prey on that anger and fear than it has been since the 1950's. They will do it never looking beyond the campaign speeches to what the ultimate outcome of the policies they endorse will be.

To be clear, this is not an attack on the religious or Republicans. There is plenty of evidence you can be either (and perhaps even both) without being hateful or instigating violence. There is also plenty of evidence that you can be an atheist or Democrat, and still be an asshole.

This is a wake up call for those who thus far refused see where the right wing aims to take us as a nation. This is a call for those who believe in otherwise reasonable Republican ideology to speak up and demand that their candidates, clergy, talk show hosts, etc. not only distance themselves from the kind of venomous ideas Worley spews, but to condemn them.  All those with public voices who do not may be considered to endorse those ideas.

An honest answer to a dishonest question

Several times, I've heard people pose the question as to why it was okay for gay people to "hate" right wing, while the evangelicals aren't allowed to hate homosexuals (or the right tries to frame it...hate the sin of homosexuality).

 The question itself  is a red herring, much akin to claiming liberals are waging a war on Christianity; an attempt to deflect blame for the growing social tensions.

The answer to the false question is nevertheless simple. Homosexuals have never beheaded, beaten, imprisoned or institutionalized Christians in the name of their orientation. Whatever fear or disdain a gay person may feel for someone who thinks their personal religious views should be the law of the land is thoroughly justified.

Dream: Several black and white prints, 8x10 and larger, rolled up

I recall I had been carrying them somewhere. Later, at home, Mom had folded and creased the photos, and they had wound up in a pile of trash. As a teen-aged version of myself, I was cleaning out an overstuffed mail box when I discovered this, and started throwing dozens of back copies of my sisters' "teen magazine" and other droll toward her, yelling that at least we could be sure to preserve these "bits of history." I was being sarcastic, of course.

Mom was frightened, and apologized for damaging the pictures, but didn't seem to grasp the sense of their importance. Waking, neither do I. I don't recall what images were on them, except one of a white cat (Cotton, perhaps).

Oddly, the prints were smaller now, like 5x7s. Perhaps that means that I was attributing too much importance to them in the beginning? Were they significant for their value, their artistic or historic significance, or merely the emotion I had invested in them?

I should note that such carelessness with anything of value to me wasn't a behavior my mother ever displayed. That was much more likely of my father and oldest sister, who destroyed many of my collectibles and personal keepsakes. I admit, I was a messy kid, but they both adopted something of a scorched earth policy when it came to cleaning. While some of the things they trashed would have eventually been of moderate economic value, the one loss that sticks with me is a letter from my closest friend, sent days after he moved away. His name was Matthew Starling. We were like brothers; so in tune with one another that we frequently said exactly the same things, at exactly the same time. We lost touch, because his new address and phone number were in that letter. I'm sure he thought I didn't care enough to write him back. Nothing could be further from the truth. I dug through the trash trying to find that letter, but couldn't. My heart broke. I was about 10 at the time, and think about that loss often.

Back to the dream: Before the enraged magazine tossing, or after (I cannot recall now), I was old, sitting in Sunny's oversized recliner trying simultaneously to read a book in my left hand, and to watch a TV to the right. I am confident in this symbolism: whatever it was on TV was important and immediate. The book, however, represented my desires. The book lost out. Very much what I'm feeling these days.

Trove

I found a box full of my writings today, cleaning out the garage. I have to say, not much of it is very good, but they do give me a sense of how my outlook has changed over time, and triggered memories that hadn't surfaced in a long while.


Sleeping with Phantoms

All too often
you lie next to me
stealing my covers
and sighing
touching my sides
which you know tickle easily
then I reach around your waist
and you're no longer there.

The morning sun
insists I've been dreaming.
I know that
you were here.

(c) B. Vincent Hernandez
August 1991

Companion piece

Ah now I remember! This was a companion piece to the previous post. I had intended to write a whole epic about missed connections and lost chances. This was as far as I got.

Waiting Patiently for Something



The sunshine through the window
is sufficient light
she believes
She’s not into brightness this morning

A sip from her coffee cup
burns her lip
she curses as she sets the mug down
Steam rises out and dissipates

The stereo stands silent
a sentinel at arms
guarding the room
like the Royal Palace

She stands and paces the kitchen floor
remembering some dim conversation
with a stranger at a bar
It doesn’t mean a thing in the daylight

Exit the kitchen
she heads off toward the bedroom
and wonders
“Where’s my white knight?”

She’d mumbles out loud
“I’d even settle
for a black knight
with unburnished armor”

She steps into her small bathing room
kicks off her pink, fuzzy slippers
and starts the water running
Steam rises out and dissipates

Sitting on the porcelain edge
she recites the day’s agenda
“shower, dress, eat,
work, work, work.”
“Smell the roses
by the roadside
on the way home”
She sighs.

Turning off the valves
she recalls his name
It doesn’t matter though
in the light of day

She slips off her robe
and slowly melts into the tub,
sucking balmy air
through her teeth

With her eyes closed
she begins to hum some unrecorded tune
but falls silent
This is no time to sing

© 1988 B. Vincent Hernandez

I wrote this?

Every once in a while, I'll come across a poem I don't even remember writing. This is one of them. The formatting didn't transfer when I copied and pasted..but it still works.


Departing a Little Rural Town in the Middle of Nowhere


Packing his bags
the morning is cold
from his mouth, puffs of steam
The trunk of his car
(the red Corvette)
packed neatly
The empty sound of the door closing
fills the frosted air
followed by his sniffle
He looks around
as he sucks air
through his teeth
Silent
the cars are silent
the rows of houses are silent
The highway is silent
the birds are silent
his eyes are silent
Puffs of steam blow out from his mouth
He’ll remember this
to criticize it when he’s lonely
Or to praise it
When romantic nostalgia
fills his senses
With senseless talk
of how the old life was
and how he misses it
He lays the picture face down in his mind
walks to the driver’s side
slides into the seat
which protests his presence
with a chilly remark
and he shuts the door
The engine curses
as it is prodded into consciousness
and then merely gives in
Pebbles mumble among themselves
giving thanks for the man’s departure
“He’s gone at last”

He glances up into the mirror
to see if there’s someone behind
maybe waving farewell
but there’s only silent rows of houses
hollow in their hearts
taking no notice of the sudden void
so he casts his eyes on the long grey road
that will soon grow smooth and lack
with caliche dusted shoulders
He caresses the knob of his radio
but decides against it
because this was no time, no place to sing
The world just yawns
and reminds him of the simple facts
staring at him from the corners of their eyes
There is nothing behind but reality
nothing ahead except for hope and doubt
and nights moping over that face-down photo in his mind
He sucks cold air between his teeth
while the endless black and white ribbon
shifts and curls

© 1987
Bob V. Hernandez

When I started this blog...

I honestly had no intention of making it a journal of death; despite the subject matter of its namesake poem. Yet, here I am with another death to write about.

I cannot recall exactly how long ago I met Charlie Mezzomo, but never would have done so without the aid of the internet. He was a closeted priest, living in the Chicago area. While there was some sexual attraction, the probability that we would ever meet was low. Still, he was an intelligent man, and not out to convert me. I had to admire that, even if I often found his support of the Church's condemnation of homosexuality both hypocritical and frustrating (much like his die hard support for the Bush administration).

We really bonded, however, after Sunny went into the hospital. Despite the fact that I hate talking on the telephone, I was always able to speak with him. Whenever I needed to talk, he was there to listen...not with platitudes or visions of pearly gates and cherubs, but with the voice of experience and sincere empathy. Charlie and another friend of mine, Bill Moira, both helped me cope with the fact that I was only human, and after Sunny's death...both let me go through the mourning I needed to.

I finally got to meet Charlie when I took a trip to Chicago a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, our foray into Chicago ended with his brand new car getting hit by a car, and us spending a couple of hours at the police station with the woman who hit him. We spent most of the rest of the time at his parish in East Chicago, but it was good to spend a week with the man who helped me through the roughest patch of my life.

We had a bit of a falling out not too long ago. I regret not making more of an effort to reach out again. We played phone tag a few times, but in the end never got a chance for one last conversation.

Charlie's partner, Bruce, got in touch with Tom yesterday, to let him know that Charlie passed away September 21st.

Rest in Peace, Charlie.

From a fellow priest:

On Monday, September 21, the Leave-taking of the Feast of the Universal Exaltation of the Holy, Precious and Life-giving Cross of the Lord, at 9:30 p.m., Very Reverend Archpriest Charles Mezzomo, took leave of the cross of this earthly life and entered the heavenly kingdom. He was my best friend in the priesthood for nearly fifty years. Both he and Fr. Eugene Fulton flew to Montreal to concelebrate my priestly ordination in 1977 at which he lovingly vested me in his own priestly vestments. Both before and since, as countless others, I have been vested in his holy prayers. He was good, kind, firm but gentle, a consummate liturgist and church musician. He was a gifted translator, a sower of vocations, a healing confessor and a fervent practitioner of the art of prayer. He was a prince among priests. He routinely inquired after the well-being of our beloved St. Michael'sRussian Catholic Chapel. As he never abandoned us in his prayers during his brief earthly sojourn, let us not abandon him on his final journey from this place of exile to the heavenly Fatherland: rather let us entreat him to pour forth his prayers on our behalf as now, orphaned and, as it were, halved, we walk this vale of tears alone.

sad discoveries

I went to visit Sunny's grave today. Milton was going with me, and I thought Sunny's father might like to go along with us, and then perhaps go to dinner. I called the number, and got a message that the number had changed. I called the new number, said who I was, and asked for H.A. The man on the other end told me I had the wrong number. I suspect now, it was probably Grady, Sunny's brother-in-law, an ardent homophobe.

Anyway, it took me a while after arriving at Sunny's grave, but I noticed the lot to the left of his mother's grave was fairly new; though a lush carpet of grass had already grown over it. I suspected then what an internet search later confirmed:

H.A. Hansen

HANSEN
H.A. Hansen entered into rest June 17, 2009 in New Braunfels, Texas at the age of 86. He was born January 4, 1923 in San Antonio to the late Hans Adolph Hansen Sr. & Olga (Grom) Hansen. He was co-owner of Hansen Brothers Rug Cleaner for many years. He was preceded in death by his wife Mamie LaDoye Hansen; son Hans Hansen III, step son Bobby Poer, and step daughter Norma Wynn. Survivors include his daughter Shirley Van Heuverswyn & husband Grady; ten grandchildren; numerous great grandchildren; brother Charles Hansen & wife Pat; sister Barbara Kilian; and a host of other relatives and friends. Visitation will be held from 8:00 a.m. until 1:15 p.m. Tuesday, June 23, 2009 at the funeral home with a graveside service to follow at 1:30 p.m. at Sunset Memorial Park. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Grace Lutheran Church, 504 Avenue E, San Antonio, Texas 78215

I hadn't talked with HA since February or March, so his death was a bit of a suprise. Last I heard, he was healthy and, all told, happy.

What bothered me was not that he had died. He was quite old, after all. What bothered me was that his step-daughter (whose home he was apparently at in New Braunfels), didn't bother to contact me and let me know. I know my phone number was listed on his cell phone. What I fear is that his final days were spent under her holier-than-thou thumb.

Well, in any case, he's at rest now, with his wife and son.

Aloha

Ah...the 80's!

I was going through some papers today, and found a short story I had written in college, for an assignment to do a first person, postmodern story along the lines of Less than Zero.

Aloha (Saved by Zero) is a fictionalized melange of my year and a half in Hawaii, cut down to 12 1/2 pages (which, if I recall, was actually 2 1/2 pages longer than the assignment allowed for, but I tended to get away with things like that).

Anyway, by the nature of the assignment, a lot of things, real or imagined, still had to be compressed, and ''characters'' consolidated, even though I use real names.

It's not a great piece, but it definitely captures the mood I had at the time. I still find myself chuckling about some parts; and I think the musical references work to make it a much stronger piece than it would have otherwise been.

Warning: don't read this if you're offended by cursing, sex, drugs, violence and/or social criticism.

ALOHA
(Saved by Zero)

We arrived in Honolulu with my mother on New Year's Eve, still wearing the heavy jackets we had donned twelve hours earlier. My father greeted us with a stiff smile. A lei. A hug. That was the most affection he had ever given my sister and me.

He loaded us up into a little silver Datsun. It seemed to be a clone of most other cars on the island.

At a nice restaurant in Waikiki, we ate dinner as a family for the first time in years.

Later, we traipsed around downtown Honolulu. We ended up on Hotel Street where the hookers--some well under age--leaned with bored eroticism against buildings and over doors of silver Datsuns, talking to horny GIs and shabby old men. Teen aged boys rode by in a souped-up VW Super Beetle, shouting ''Sample!" One of the hookers lifted her skirt, revealing a clean-shaven mound. That's when Mom began to shout at my father for his poor planning, and for getting us lost.

                                  ***

We made our way into Waipio Valley, a dirty little ghetto where we would stay until our furniture arrived from the mainland.

At the hotel, a placard on the coffee table explained the local lingo. ''Aloha" had the versatility to mean hello, love and goodbye. ''Local" referred to an island native "especially of Polynesian or Asian decent."

"Hauili [howly]: A person not of Polynesian or Asian descent, esp. of Caucasian origin."  Honkey.

I turned the radio dial until Genesis' Home by the Sea poured from the speakers.Scenes of unimportance photos in a frame...

An explosion echoed through the valley. I thought it was a gunshot.

''The fireworks are starting," my sister said calmly as she looked out the window, and I remembered it was New Years.

***

The first day in homeroom,which also happened to be my English class, I found a seat in the back corner. About half of the class wore black T-shirts that read "ALDO NOVA" on front, and ''Life Is Just a Fantasy" in purple script on the back.

The teacher--a round, smiling local--informed me and a punk rock girl who also must have been new, that his name was Al Damasio Bacarse. He prodded us into introducing ourselves.

''My name's Malia'' I'm from Idaho. I like the Dead Kennedys." Malia shrugged. "Not much else to tell."

I introduced myself. "From Texas," I said.

"Yeeeeeee-hah!" someone shouted. The class erupted with laughter. I smiled quietly.

"Does everyone wear cowboy hats there?" someone asked. At first, I was annoyed, but then realized everyone seemed to earnestly expect a response.

"Not everyone," I said. " A lot of people, though. I don't."

"You ride horses to school?" Another local asked. The class laughed again. An eraser flew at his head, but he ducked and the eraser went out the open door, onto the grass.

"Stupid!" A huge Samoan girl shouted. "They got buses."

Physical Science followed.

The teacher, Mr. Esperas wore a gray C. Everett Coop style-beard that worked well with his short but powerful build and bald head. He assigned me to the workbench in the back.

A fat Korean with bad acne introduced himself as Noel, and offered me a gummy bear. He pointed to a beautiful Japanese girl sleeping with her head on the table. "That's Michelle. She's here physically eighty percent of the time. Mentally, twenty percent." We both laughed. Michelle's middle finger raised casually and shot out at Noel like a viper.

While I performed the assigned experiment, Michelle scratched "Duran" into the laminated table top, with a 2 floating above the n. Noel torched gummy bears along the sides with a Bunsen Burner.

Mr. Esperas began to rave. "Goddamnit!" The chaotic babbling that had filled the room since the start of class suddenly ceased. "If you idiots would shut the hell up and listen to the goddamn instructions and read the fucking book, I would have to go through this shit over and over again every goddamned day!" He stormed out of the room. The class roared with applause.

"And I'm hungry like the wooooolf" Michelle sang softly.

"This place blows my mind." I said, and walked out.

Later, I found Malia eating lunch alone. I asked if I could sit by her. "It's a free country," she said. That was my conversation for the day.

***

I took the bus home. Not to the hotel, but to the house in Mililani which we were finally moving into.

Boxes crowded the living room. My little sister was in the large dining area dancing to Like A Virgin. She spun around, and told me that my books were in the box behind me.

I ripped open the box and began fondling my books.

A little girl, about five years old, stood outside, pressing her face against our living room window. I threw my copy of The Stand at her. She ran away, screaming.

A minute later, a carrot-topped boy rode a bike up to our screen door, waved, and rode away without waiting for a response.

"What the hell?" I wondered aloud.

"Neighbors," my sister said, still dancing. "He's Todd. has a sister my age named Lisa. That kid was his step-sister, Jenny. His mom's name is Jan, and his step-dad is Bob." She spun around again.

"Where are my tapes?" I asked.

"Bad news. They lost 'em."

After dinner, I went outside and moped around in the back yard. I noticed there was no fence dividing our yard from the neighbors'. This will cause some problems, I thought. I remembered Robert Frost:

Something there is that doesn't love a wall.

But I loved walls.

***

I stood at the bus stop in the early morning, Venus still shining brightly in the sky.

I shivered despite the light Members Only jacket I wore. Todd flirted with some curly-haired blonde girl. She tried to ignore him. A short, skinny local lit up a joint and handed it to a tall black guy who looked as if he'd been perpetually stoned for years. I shook my head.

"Eh, brah, you like beef?" The local asked me, angrily.

"Do I like beef?

"Ya. You like beef or what?" He said and swung at me. I stepped back, but his knuckles dug into my stomach. I stood there, confused. Militant vegetarian?

The kid's black friend shoved him lightly. "Chil, brah."

On the bus, I finally introduced myself to Todd. "What's this 'beef' shit?" I asked.

"'Beef is Pidgin for 'fight.'"

"Pigeon?"

"Pidgin. The way the locals talk."

"Oh." I said.

"You play poker?" he asked.  I nodded. "Room 1260. Lunch. We play there every day.''  After a long pause he said "There's a SADD party tonight. This chick I know told me to bring people. Wanna go?"

"Sure," I said.
      ***

The party took place in a park, about a mile from our house. A bunch of chairs, mostly empty sat around a grill. Two girls sat next to each other, with a bottle of Popov. I'd seen one of them in English class. Slim. Pretty. Short brown hair and large plastic earrings. Her name was Dawn.

The other girl was a bit plump. She wore a cab driver's cap, and an Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt. Cute face (the girl, not Ozzy). She told me she was Jody from California, and to please excuse her because she was, like, totally wasted. She said she was the president of SADD, and there were more people here, but they left when she broke out the vodka. Pussies. And did I know how to barbecue, since I was from Texas, because the burgers were taking too long. And here, have a drink.

"Why don't you make vodka burgers?" I joked.

Jody's face lit up with a smile. Before I could stop her, she grabbed the vodka and poured it onto the grill. flames licked up to the bottle. Jody screamed and fell backward over a lawn chair.

"Christ!" Todd shouted.

Jody began to laugh wildly,. and then the rest of us did too. I went to help her up. She pulled me to the ground and straddled me.

***

"You think I could get AIDS?" I asked Todd the next day, as she walked to Jody's house. Somehow I wound up with her cabbie's hat and I only remembered her name because it was written inside. I figured I should take it back to her.

"You didn't fuck her. You just frenched her."

"I know, but body fluids, you know. Spit."

"Ya. you were sucking it up, weren't you? I can't believe you didn't fuck her."

"I might have if she hadn't barfed on me."

Todd started laughing.

"Can you get AIDS from barf?

Jody's father wasn't happy to see us, but he let us in anyway. I noticed a print of The Last Supper in the alcove, and, just above it, a family portrait. Just Jody, her parents, and a little boy, sitting around the kitchen table.

"Which one of you is Todd?" Jody's father asked . I pointed to Todd. "Jody said you provided the beer?

"Yes sir," Todd said without a pause, with the proper tone of remorse.

"I don't appreciate that. this was supposed to be a Students Against Drunk Driving party and you're chugging Budweisers?"

Todd hung his head, a show of shame for a sin never committed. No one said anything for a minute.

"I wanted to return her hat, " I said at last.

The father looked me over. "You don't look like a queer," he said.

I blushed so deeply, I broke a sweat. Todd smiled covertly.

Jody's father stepped aside. "You can talk to her, but she's not going anywhere. She's in enough trouble already.''

***

Todd told me he was going up to the school to play poker with the custodians.

I went back home.

My little sister and Lisa were in the living room dancing to Like a Surgeon by Weird Al Yankovic. They spun around. "Your tapes are here," my sister said.

Jenny had her face up against our window again. We now had curtains I could close, but I instead slipped off my left Nike and flung it from my foot at her. She ran away screaming.

The box with my tapes and already been opened. I took one out, shut off the radio ("Hey!" my sister and her friend whined in unison) and cued the tape. All She Wants to Do is Dance played:

Crazy people walkin' 'round with guns in their hands...

The girls resumed dancing happily.

***

Mr. Barcarse passed out instructions. Write a speech. Get into groups of three. Critique each others work. Due in one week.

I saw Dawn and Malia pull their desks together, and a paler-than-milk boy walking toward them. "Hello, Dawn." I smiled.

"Howdy! " she said, pushing a chair toward me.

The pale kid walked quietly away.

I looked at Malia. "Hello."

"Hi," she said. "Sitting here?"

Dawn wanted to do a pro-abortion speech. "Not pro-choice. Pro-abortion. The world's too crowded, don't you think?"

Malia wanted to do hers on the ''unfair depiction pf punk rockers in the movie The Class of 1984."

I said I was going to do mine on "Gorbachev: An American Hero."

"Cool," Malia said. The she said "Oh hey! Did you hear about Epseras?" She made a gun with her hand and clicked it at her temple.

He blew his mind.

***

Todd and Dicker went to the restroom to make a deal. Dicker came back alone. "Todd wants you" he said to me.

I got up, taking my five dollar ante out of the pot. "Fuck off!" Big john balked. I gave him the finger and walked off.

Todd handed me a joint. I took a few drags and held them. "Don't feel anything yet," I told him.

"You gotta build up your levels," he said.

Heading back to the poker room, we ran into Jody. She told us she was going to the beach with

Dawn and did we wanna go? We did.

We went.

We smoked Todd's dime bag (except for Dawn) and drank guava juice with Popov. We christened the drink a "wrench." Jody had a tape with nothing but Suicide Solution on both sides. We listened to it for hours.

Todd began diving off the rocks. Dawn became scared and angry, begging him to stop. He didn't. Dawn started to cry.

Jody lifted her head from between my thighs. "What's with Dawn?"

I sighed. "She's dating Todd."

After a while, Jody went back down.

***

For the next few months it went like this:

Todd and I would go to Dawn's and then to Jody's. We would listen to the radio or watch MTV, which always fascinated me as I didn't have cable at my house. Todd, Jody and myself would get stoned. The four of us would decide whether to go school or to Shark's Cove or Haunauma Bay or Waikiki, or to just stay home.

We usually went to school.

Sometimes I would stumble into homeroom late with my arm around Dawn. Mr. Barcarse would shake his head, while Malia would whisper to me that she had some really good acid, if I was interested. "No, babe," I'd say.

Sometimes, Mr. Barcarse would tell me to stay after class, and when most everyone was gone (Malia and Dawn usually hung around, waiting for me) he would tell me to get myself together because I really was one of his brightest students, even stoned. He would say that I had talent. That he liked my Gorby speech and my short stories. There was always a sadness in his round, brown face when he said these things.

And I wondered why he gave a damn.

***

Jody disappeared on May Day.

She was supposed to meet us at the school-sponsored May Fair carnival. It was a huge event, with a Ferris Wheel, the Dreadnought, and the Hurricane. Pretty amazing, considering the school district still used textbooks from the sixties, claiming it couldn't afford new ones. Jody never showed up.

Danny, her ten-year-old brother, found me by the bandstand.

"Jody stole some money and bought a ticket back to Bakersfield."

I looked at him, doubting. "Stole money from where."

"My dad," he said.

I laughed. "She did? She told me she would! When was the last time you saw her?

"Last night. I think she had a suitcase."

"Tell your folks?

"No! She'd kill me! They'd kill her!"

I sighed and stroked the back of his head. "Alright. Thanks."

Danny hung around until the band finished a cover of The Fixx's Saved by Zero"

Someday, maybe (saved by zero)

I'll be more together...

then asked me if I could score some bud for him. I gave him a five and pointed him in Dicker's direction.

Todd stole his step-father's car and we drove to the airport. We tried to page Jody on the courtesy phone which, in retrospect, was a completely stupid idea.

Late that night, Jody showed up at my door with a lanky, long-haired guy. "This is my boyfriend," she said--to me. "Harold." She said she'd dated Harold a long time in Bakersfield, and maybe they would get married.

It didn't really make me angry. I was relieved that I had an excuse not to put up with her anymore. Harold was actually a nice guy. Easy going with an understated humor. I never felt any spite toward him, though i couldn't stand to talk to Jody after that night.

***

I was out in the back yard, smoking my fourth cigarette. Inside, my parents were drunk on rum and cokes, dancing to Little Joe Y La Familia records. My sister sat on the stone wall surrounding the garden, crying.

Todd strode across the fenceless divide. He took a cigarette from me and smoked. "We're leaving" he said.

"Shit." I said, understanding my sister's weeping. "I don't know anyone else here."

Todd shrugged. "Dawn. Dicker. Big John. Jody."

"Fuck Jody" I said. Todd looked down. "I don't know anyone else. Dawn maybe. Not really. Why so sudden?" I asked.

"Lisa came home drunk. Mom thinks this is a bad environment now.

I laughed. "No shit."

"What?"

"Look around. Everyone's drunk or stoned. You, me, your folks included. Schools are crap. People can't even speak English!"

Todd shrugged.

"Why?" I demanded.

Todd took a long drag on the cigarette. "Some people see things and ask 'Why?' I see things and say 'Because.'" he smiled goofily.

"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy," I said, then walked inside.

***

The school year ended. I collected autographs from a few acquaintances on an old gym shirt, including one girl I'd just met that day. "Have fun fucking around or whatever," she wrote.

I got Mr. Barcarse to sign my shirt, too. "Come see me when you're famous!" he wrote. He was smiling, but that sadness still filled his eyes. "You'll get your life together," he assured me.

"Someday. Maybe." Saved by zero.

"But not by staying here," he said.

Two days later, I smoked one last joint with Todd. Dawn, Lisa and my little sister drank wrenches with us, while the Talking heads sang Road to Nowhere. Jody and Harold came to say good-bye to Todd. 

Harold and I talked about music. Jody kept staring sharply at me, but I wouldn't look at her. That seemed to piss her off.

Dusk fell.  Dawn and Todd screwed in the back of his father's car, with the Cars' Heartbeat City as their soundtrack. Lisa and my sister complained that the songs weren't very danceable. They were appeased when the music changed to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, but they kept breaking out in tears.

The next day, Todd and Lisa left for Pensacola.

***

"Come here and let me talk at you," my father said not long afterward. They were discussing

sending my sister and I back to Texas with Mom.

I had left the radio on in my room. Sunset Grill wafted into the living room

But someday, girl, we're gonna get in that car and get out of here..

while tears rolled down my little sister's cheeks. She kept covering her ears to block out my father's monotonous river of half-finished sentences.

Mom asked me what I thought. I shrugged. "Don't you ever have an opinion?" she snapped.

"It doesn't matter what I think. You're going to do whatever anyway."

"What if you'd never been born?" My father asked, irritated. "What's your opinion on that?"

"Then I wouldn't be here to complain about it!"

He said I should see a psychiatrist. In Texas.

We landed at DFW on July 4, 1984. The twangy Texas accent of the woman announcing flights made me laugh. Every time I heard a Texan talk, I laughed harder on the inside. I couldn't stop. Not when the Independence Day festival began at Prichard Stadium in Fort Hood. The hilarity was only exasperated by the PA system playing Kim Carne's Crazy in the Night. I couldn't stop even when the song was cut short by the National Anthem. Not even when the explosions overhead shook the world beneath my feet.

People talking without speaking

I sent a poem to my mother the other day. She said she cried when she read it, as she felt someone finally understood what she experienced.

My mother, you see, has been partially deaf most of her life.


Going Deaf

No matter how she tilts her head to hear
she sees the irritation in their eyes.
She knows how they can read a small rejection,
a little judgment, in every What did you say?
So now she doesn't say What? or Come again?
She lets the syllables settle, hoping they form
some sort of shape that she might recognize.
When they don't, she smiles with everyone else,
and then whoever was talking turns to her
and says, "Break wooden coffee, don't you know?"
She pulls all she can focus into the face
to know if she ought to nod or shake her head.
In that long space her brain talks to itself.
The person may turn away as an act of mercy,
leaving her there in a room full of understanding
with nothing to cover her, neither sound nor silence.

copyright (c)1995 by Miller Williams



As I've begun to lose my own hearing, I can somewhat relate to the poem as well. I told my mother, it's a shame poetry does not have a wider audience. I think this poem would inform many people who regularly communicate (or try to) with those who struggle to hear. Maybe posting it here will in a small way help.

My mother once told me

that I had no personality.

Today, while procrastinating putting the new house in order, I took a series of very unscientific personality quizzes:

Here's the results:

Mental Age: 43 Years Old
Regardless of how old your body is, up in your head, you're paying mortgages and complaining about back pain. That's great that you're so mature, but remember: it's okay to cut loose and act young every once in a while. Do your wild side a favor and stay up past 10:00 one night this week.


Personality: The Thinker
You're smart, and you know what? You totally know it. You value brains above almost anything else, which is pretty good. (Better than valuing, say, booties). But you also tend to get cocky about your own intelligence. Keep up with the intellectual pursuits, but don't be afraid to be wrong every once in a while. Seriously - stupidity can be cute!


Naughty Sexy
Hey, there's nothing sexier than being a sex-crazed beast. Any hotties on your radar better lock their doors at night, or you'll be on 'em like a Rotweiller on a milkbone. We'll give you this: you're direct. Others may go for romance, but you figure, what's the point? Might as well cut out the middle man and go straight for the prize. And you've got a point. Knowing what you want -- and getting it -- is pretty darn hot. It wouldn't be the end of the world, though, if you threw a little romance into your routine. You know, wrap yourself in a cloud of mystery. Or at least wrap yourself in a bathrobe. Yikes!


How Will You Die?
Really Bad Shrimp. You''re not an aggressive person, and you've got a lot of good stuff going for you. None of that's gonna save you from your careless eating habits.

All in all, pretty accurate. :/

Home Sweet Home

What a whirlwind couple of weeks. We gave up on the idea of having our home built; as the builder could not get financing in this economic climate. However, our financing was fine, and prices were falling with all the homes glutting the market. Interest rates were dropping too, thanks to the financial industry's indiscretions.

That said, we were still having trouble finding 1-story homes with a plan that fit our needs. We found one beautiful home in Buda, but by the time we made the offer, they had already accepted another. Milton, frustrated, told our realtor to go ahead and start looking at 2 stories, with the Master Bedroom down. While we were waiting on him, we drove around the neighborhood (the same one the house we lost out on was in, as it turns out), and found an open house going on. I was immediately struck by the beauty of the outside. Then I went in, and was amazed by the space. However, the backyard sloped fairly steeply to the left. It would have been a pain to mow.

Lo and behold, the house just two doors down the exact same house...on a level lot...and available! I convinced Milton that he would be happier beign able to access the entire home, than to have a home he could only see half of on a regular basis.

The home was built by Lennar, which had a really poor reputation due to some problems with an entire subdivision in Hutto. However, the quality appeared to be good here.

The original listing price on the house was over $180,000. When we looked, it was $154,000. After we got approval, we told them we wanted to close in 2 weeks. They knocked another 3K off for closing by that Friday instead, so they could clear it off their books by the end of the month.

Now, the hard part...packing!

Here are a few photos of the house.

America wins

Thank you everyone who voted.

Even though Texas went to McCain, I was amazed by how slim the margin was. Of course, it seems there are still plenty of very scary states; namely Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Oklahoma and Alabama.

Vampire Putin

Dream the morning of 6/24/06.


It is a warm summer's day. I look out over my back yard, through a tall chain link fence, and see the woman who lives behind us watering her lawn. She is a short, older woman, with blonde hair. I know she is water her lawn in defiance of a water conservation ordinance. But then I realize it's not her entire lawn she is dousing...merely a particular plant in the middle of it, over what appears to be a very large grave.

A crowd begins to gather, both inside and outside her yard. The woman begins yelling about her right to water. Then, the enforcers show up. They are not police men. They are men in black suits; but look more like businessmen than government agents. They begin pushing the crowd away. One wraps his arm around the woman's neck and tries to pull her away. I begin yelling, ''Assault! You're assaulting her! I am a witness!''

Soon, the crowd is fighting back, and drives the enforcers off.

The grave has been trampled, and is now a deep, open pit. The fence separating our yards has been pulled down.

The woman raises her arms in victory, and goes back into her house.

Night falls quickly.

I walk to the grave and peer inside, and see a man fighting his way out of the soggy soil. I pull him out. It is a vampire, but he does not threaten me.

A film crew arrives, and a director begins setting up a shot. Now, my house is no longer behind the woman's. It is a long patch of unlighted, empty land, and in the distance a building that may be a small school. I am told to go back into the shadows, and walk toward the light, while the vampire stalks me.

I do as I'm told, although I don't quite trust the vampire. I sweat with fear. I notice the earth here, by the far building, is also wet soil. I want to be on the grass that lies between.

I make it back to the area lit up by lights. Soon, the vampire jumps into the frame and roars. The director yells, ''Cut!"

The scene is over. Time to move to a new location. I change into clean shoes, and get into the passenger seat of the old white station wagon I used to drive. One of my coworkers, Floyd, is driving. We arrive at a building. Film extras standing around outside.

Floyd comments on my tennis shoes. I tell him they are the 3rd pair the film company has had to buy me for this production. As I tell him this, my old friend Alfredo comes up. I greet him, but he is standoffish. He climbs into the back seat, and asks about pulling it down, to make extra room. "Go ahead," I say, "we're not carrying any film equipment this time."

The next thing I recall, I am sitting at a diner, with the vampire and another coworker, Rachel. It isn't until now that I realize the vampire is Russian president, Vladmir Putin.

On the table, I have two metal plates I picked up during filming. I am not sure what the purpose was in the film, or why I have them. But on closer inspection, I realize there are very vivid, full-color holograms printed on them.

I tell Putin that I am going to cut these into ornaments, and give them to him and his wife as anniversary presents.

"That's right," Rachel says. "You were married in space."

Putin nods.

I look closer at the holograms. One is of a Russian spacecraft. The other, a map of a continent...most closely resembling Europe, although none of the names were familiar. There were a series of numbers moving across the map, but they were all backwards.

I asked Putin what the numbers meant. He explained that they were taken from a book that showed "residual radioactivity" tables; in essence the numbers on each country showed their age via carbon dating. I knew this didn't make sense, that Putin was lying, but decided I was going to make he and his wife the ornaments anyway.

This is when the alarm went off and woke me up.

Sixth Anniversary

I've been thinking about Sunny all week. Saturday would mark our sixth anniversary.

I dreamed about him vividly, and disturbingly, last night.

He had come home from the hospital after his bypass surgery, but had severe neurological damage. There was a black and blue car that was built like a buggy, only larger, and he got excited when he saw it and wanted to go for a ride. We did, but we had an accident, and he died.

I woke up, and when I went back to sleep, I had the same dream again. I don't know what that means, but perhaps the message is that I was destined to lose him no matter what.

In other news, Milton goes in for an angiogram Tuesday. He has a blockage in his heart. It's been causing him to have very low energy lately. This will be his third one. Wish him luck.

Apples and Corn; Purple Mountain's Majesty

My dream last night seemed, at the time, coherent, but I can't for the life of me figure out how all the pieces that I remember fit together.

One of the pieces I recall involves Milton and I at a farmer's market which, for some reason, was illegal. There was a tree with apples as big as a person's head, and corn growing at the top of those trees. Milton got some of the corn, but was haggling over prices. I told him to pay a quarter an ear, but somehow he wound up paying $16.34 for a small bag full. I was angry at him for paying too much. One thing, I've noticed that many of my dreams involve specific numbers. Never anything that appears to have any real significance though.

While I was waiting for Milton to pay, I went into another part of the market. There were machines there, much like the espresso/latte machines in gas stations, but they were filled with black olives in juice. The sign on the machine read ''Sample Purple Mountain's Majesty." So I did.

That was actually the latter part of the dream, which is probably why I recall it most clearly.

Early, there was one haunting scene involving a woman in a large room, surrounded by a number of large, blue, glowing art pieces. At first, I couldn't figure out what they were. When she moved her body into the middle of one, I figured out they were outlines of people. The form she was in was a nun, or perhaps the Virgin Mary.

Later, I was having dinner while I rewrote monologue from a court scene on a pink slip of paper. I cannot remember any of the words now, but the actor playing the scene was performing it as I wrote, starting over every time I made a change.

Dreamer

Rather than letting this blog sit idle, I've decided to start logging my dreams. I'll leave the interpretation up to others.

In last night's dream:

I remember being in a sort of game show where I knew all the answers, but I kept hitting the wrong buttons. I cannot remember any of the specific questions, however I do remember that it wasn't just about prizes. Getting things wrong led to dire consequences.

Symbols of note, the numbers 9, 95, and the color yellow (there was a yellow tile on the floor, and yellow cabinets).

George Takei (Sulu from Star Trek) also had cameo, and was carrying a sword and hawking his autobiography.

38

Today is my 38th birthday. It's been quite a while since I've written anything here. I have a few creative notions on the vine, but the ideas I've been nurturing aren't ripe for the picking yet. They are fragile and green, and should I grab at them now, they would only rot away, never reaching their full flavor, never serving their purpose to nourish a mind and propagate.

Today, I recieved the gift of good poetry. Not my own, but that of Linda Gregg, a New Yorker whose existence I was previously oblivious to, and to whom my own existence likely remains unkown.

Her poem Elegance appeared in the American Life in Poetry column that I recieve via email. It is one of the few in the year or so that I have recieved the column that has moved me to pass the seed along, to propagate in a world drowning in poems about feelings and thoughts, where rhyming verse about love and derisive dissonance have flooded out voices that deserve to be heard. (Wait, I write about love and derision!)


Elegance

All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.

Leftovers

Last week, Nations Entertainment Group launched production on its second feature, Leftovers. I was brought on as a crew administrator, which technically isn't a position, but it was great to be asked back to work on the project.

The first two locations we shot were beautiul places. First was a surgeon's home in Seguine, bedecked with the finest architectural detail I've ever seen in a home. Even the brass plates on the door hinges had engravings. The doctor's bathroom is literally bigger than my bedroom, with a clean, cool look. If only we didn't have to lug all the equipment upstairs to shoot! The house is near a river, which apparently floods pretty severely, so the main house is about 15 feet above ground.

The second place we shot was a music studio. Outside, the building itself is unsigned, square and plain; the ironwork bars surround the curved patio outside the front door only hint at the lavishness inside. It's not so much the interior building itself that is special, but the personality of the decor. Big sofas in the studio control rooms, patches of South American-inspired artworks on the walls broken up by modern oil paintings, and a Botero (albeit only a copy) in the lunch room (which is bigger than my kitchen and dining room combined.

Rudolfo, our sound man, was sick, and wore a mask all weekend to keep his germs from spreading to the rest of us. Very considerate. He was a trooper, despite the fact that day one ran from 6:30am to midnight. I warned the crew that it would; but I suppose they didn't believe me. The scenes were in the kitchen, with lots of shiny surfaces, complex movements, and a number of necessary cutaways.

Day two wasn't as long, but that was only because we were on a deadline. We only had the studio from 7am to 5pm. Despite that, we were there shooting until six. That created quite a bit of tension between our DP, Russ, and our Director, Robin. Robin is from the school that it's easier to just do something than to ask permission. She doesn't like confrontation. Russ doesn't like to inconvenience anyone, especially people who are not asking anything in return for our borrowing their space and time, and he doesn't like to burn any bridges.

Kevin Nations has been, in addition to sound crew duties, providing the craft services. He's done quite a job. Nobody can complain about not being well fed on the set.

In addition to Russ, Robin, Kevin, and Rudolfo, Mark, who worked with us on Water's Edge, is back again. Eric, who Russ says he has a lot of admiration for as a filmmaker, is with us also. Larry didn't show up this past weekend, so I don't know if he's going to next weekend. Then there's 'The other Kevin,' our production assistant. I haven't gotten a chance to really get to know everyone else on the set yet, but I know Erin (continuity) is very, very shy; and Ezme (makeup) seems very friendly and dedicated.

The cast seems to be strong, but hadn't really gelled on day one. That might need a complete reshoot (with lots more groceries this time around!).
There were concerns about the long days and slow shooting pace. This week I got an email from Robin asking me to check the schedules to see if I thought they were doable, and to try to keep everyone running on time. Sounds like a Production Manager credit to me.

It also sounds like I'll be swamped; since Milton is closing on his new house in Kyle on the 28th also, and we'll be moving not only from his condo; but also moving most of my things out of Tom's trailer. Of course, moving from Tom's isn't as pressing, as I'm still renting from him. Probably will for some time.

Better sleep every chance I get.