November 2019

“The deepest task is to rescue aloneness.” Patti Smith. 

Books are piling up on my bedside. Am I reading slower? Or just buying too many? Maybe a bit of both. Of course it could be my interests are expanding. I’m in the middle of Robert Bly’s collected poems, Journeying by Claudio Magris and Visions From San Francisco Bay by Czeslaw Milosz.  All three are great and I shift books throughout the day. 

  And this week I bought books by Richard Dawinks, Epictetus and Pico Iyer. They’ve been added to the pile. I have that old familiar feeling that I’m never going to get to all I want to and I will forever have great chasms in my education. 

  The light at this time of year is diffuse and slanted in the afternoons making reading outside rather pleasant. Although now with daylight savings time I’m in with the light on before five.  Which is ok. I like this time of year. Even though I seem to be the only one who does. Dark and cool early calms me and I go to bed sooner and (I think) sleep better. This is the time of year to make hearty soups and sip a fine red wine by a fire. Take late night strolls in the crisp air. I get out all my flannel shirts. Reilly and I are planing a trip to the mountains.  Which gets me missing Pak’s cooking. 

  Late Autumn always helps me combat weariness and fatigue. I’m somewhat more invigorated when the wind is blowing and the birds are on the move. I seem to be slightly more creative and reflective as the season gets darker. I slow down a bit and stay home more. Maybe because I sense the looming nonsense of the holidays. 

I walk over to the beach to watch the full moon rise. An old battered Crow watches me and hops branch to branch in the spruce tree. There are wisps of fog over the water and the sky above the mountains slowly goes from dull yellow to soft orange as the moon slowly appears. Some girls over on the sand howl like a pack of wolves. Its a feral and sexy sound. I wonder if they’ve ever howled at a Ratdog concert. 

  It’s cool and breezy. Autumn is in the air no doubt about it. I go back home and make some ramen, read. I take a hot bath with lavender salts and go to bed early. Tired and clearheaded. 

 Three days of solitude and sobriety has got me relaxed and focused. I’ve ignored my phone, text messages and emails. I haven’t felt like seeing anyone. (Well there is one.) I’ve turned down a few invites to dinner and have been happy with my own company. I know I need more of this and that’s exactly my plan. To avoid the Wasteland (as Joseph Campbell calls it) at all costs. (That’d be a good name for a bar. The Wasteland.)

  I can’t underestimate the importance of my solo time these days. Its imperative I slow down my pace and sit here and write. 

  A rainy cool afternoon. I put on a heavy fleece and read Milosz while listening to Aiko Hasegawa play the Koto. Soothing music after a few hectic days. Ž’s memorial was last night at Harry’s. I must say it was just the way he wanted it;  a collection of friends, no speeches, no religion, some sadness and tears, lots of stories and food and drinks in his honor. Simple and heartfelt. I miss him terribly. My world is less humorous by a large quantity. 

  Talking about loss of faith with a delightful, charming and bright friend at lunch the other day she asked me straight out what contributed to mine. I gave the stock answer that there simply isn’t enough evidence for a benevolent creator. Which is kind of a copout. But I have thought about this for a very very long time. And I’ve thought even more about it these past few years. Something must have tilted my ship. Or I felt a different wind and sailed that way. 

  Of course some of the Bible stories I was taught in catechism seemed like utter nonsense. Particularly Noah’s Ark, and the disgusting story of Lot and his wife. The tale of Jonah being swallowed by a big fish I found too incredulous to believe. As a fisherman I knew first hand what a minnow looked like after it had been in a trout’s stomach for a few hours. It didn’t take long for the digestion process to start. 

   And I did see a nun smack a kid across the face because he was unsure what the host was made of. His answer was paper and I had to admit he got the taste right. 

  A few nights ago I watched a show where the always brilliant and entertaining Stephen Fry was asked if he did meet god in the afterlife how would he explain his atheism. He had a very simple answer. Cancer in newborn babies. What kind of god would design such a horror. It took the interviewer a bit by surprise. 

  And that reminded me a movie I saw in, I think, fifth grade. It was right before Halloween and Saint Jude Children’s Hospital was doing their annual fund raiser. The movie, of course featuring Danny Thomas who if the Catholic Church was serious about their shit would be canonized by now, showed young children, bald from treatment, interacting with doctors and hospital staff. They were smiling and playing and the impression given was that they were being cured. The movie was full of hope. And then at the end of the show we were told that all the the kids featured in the film were now dead. I know I was stunned and didn’t want to believe it. Fifty years later I’m still stunned and can’t fathom a god that would inflict that kind of pain and suffering and heartache on not only three and four year olds but their parents and siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. I agree with Stephen, it is an evil god who would give us such a horror. And you, my friends, can certainly add to the list of pains and diseases and suffering that is heaped on humanity on a hourly basis by an all loving and all powerful god. It’s enough to make you puke. 

  I was thinking of another nun story today. Its was just before Christmas and we were in the church to pray after catechism. Sister what-ever-her-name-was said that Father E wanted to come and pray with us but he was too tired from putting up the Christmas decorations on the altar. He was tired, she said, like Jesus on the cross. I was twelve or thirteen but let me tell you that that made no fucking sense to me.  I knew how exciting and how much fun decorating our house was. Opening the boxes of lights and ornaments and the manger. It was a good time. Now I had to admit that the altar did look beautiful and it probably took some work. But comparing the job to being crucified I thought was a bit much. I think dragging a cross up a mountain all morning, being made to wear a crown of thorns, having spikes hammered into your wrists and feet and then having a spear pierce your chest would be astronomically more tiring than putting out red candles and pots of poinsettias. But then again, the nuns at Holy Family weren’t know for their compassion, understanding or, from what I could discern, their intelligence. I felt a great wave of relief and freedom when I finally was able to stop attending those uninspiring hours of excruciating boredom.  There is enough nonsense in life without purposely seeking it out. To this day I maintain those classes forced me to dumb down. 

  Saying no to a Thanksgiving invite from the Wus is simply out of the question. I leave a day early planing to stay at Harris Ranch like I did last time. But I change my mind and head toward Salinas instead. I find a cheapish hotel, a Wyndham, and walk downtown for a while ending up at the Steinbeck Center where I go in a wander around for an hour. There’s a lot of stuff packed into the museum. Rooms of displays, movies playing, books and dioramas. Even the camper Steinbeck drove across the county, with Charlie, which he named The Rocinante after Don Quixote’s horse. Being a fan I enjoyed the visit.  I had read The Pearl a few weeks ago so I was in the mood. Every few months I revisit the great man by picking a book at random. 

  On the way back to the Jeep I stop at a comfortable neighborhood bar and have a beer. Steinbeck would have!  Then I go look for my hotel and on the way I spot a steakhouse that is less than a half mile from the Wyndham.

   I check in. My room is clean but somewhat antiseptic smelling. I open the windows. 

  I walk over to the Grower’s Pub and settle into a seat at the inviting bar. The bartender, Jen, is charming and full of energy. I’ve been meeting quite a few like her lately; happy, personable and clearly enjoying their work. Completely unlike my performances; jaded, irritable and slightly condescending to my patrons. However, it’s too late now to make major adjustments to my attitude. 

  I have a beer and some shrimp risotto. It’s not even eight o’clock and I feel like I’m hitting the wall. I toy with the idea of a nightcap with Jen but decide to get back to the hotel where, if needed, I have my emergency flask of Glenmorangie. I’m chilled from my walk back and close all the windows and turn up the heat. For some reason I’m exhausted and sit down on the bed to read.  What’s happening to my legendary capacity for alcohol?  

Apparently five months of mostly sobriety has taken its toll. Oh wells! I read a some poems by Milosz and next thing I know I wake up in all my clothes. It’s one am. And now, of course, I’m wide awake. I read some more poems but my brain is a bit scattered. I write down a few of these notes then watch videos for a few hours; Hitchens, Fry, Old SNLs, Sopranos and Seth Meyers.  Finally about four AM I fall back sleep until eight. I am, predictably, unrefreshed. But excited none the less. 

  I get to the Wus by noon. I hug Joanna and Ellie and Juliette. As aways I feel like crying I’m so happy. Pak is at the store, no doubt loading up on food and beverage. And that turns out to be true. He shows up with some Dim Sum, pork and shrimp steamed dumplings, and fish to prepare sushi. Salmon. hamachi, and toro.  And some spicy calamari and a clam I’ve never had before that is delicious. It’s all wickedly fresh. We sit around the living room table and devour everything. The Wus spoil me terribly. 

  Ellie tells me a new word she has learned. Schadenfreude. We laugh and plot on both using it today as well as experiencing it. Even though more as a joke, after all, we are not cruel people. 

  Today is also their annual pre thanksgiving party and as we are finishing up the guests start to arrive. We pop a bottle of Hilt sparkling and the day swings into high gear. Amazing food; skewers of shrimp, beef and chicken, Joanna’s fabulous wontons, salads and cheeses and other assorted side dishes.  Some fine old Pinots accompany the first several courses. The company is wonderful and we mingle talking about travel and food, wine and whiskey, friendships and life’s treasures. There is a powerful feeling of love floating around. 

  It’s cold, windy, rainy and Pak stands under the big umbrella grilling over charcoal that he and Joanna imported from Japan. No lie! They spare no expense on these shindigs.  Dave and I stay out with him.  Aileen and Joanna deep fry the wontons at the other grill shielded from the weather by the awning. Ellie and I run the food to the kitchen table.  The fire pit in the middle of the yard blazes away. 

  I’m thrilled to see my dear friend Susan. A treat beyond words, not to mention a surprise. We get lost for an hour catching up. I laugh so hard my sides hurt. 

  Pak, surprise, keeps everyone's wine glasses topped off and for those who require something slightly more potent he pours whiskey and tequila. It is a typical Wu party. That is to say that it’s salon-like. Everybody is interesting and full of life and stories. The day whizzes by. Ellie and I, as professional observers, smile at each other as the antics and conversations become more animated. The Wu’s friends make me feel welcome and loved. My heart is full joy, as it always is when I’m with them. 

  The party starts to break up and people slowly say goodbye, and from what I can see, with much reluctance. Who wants such a day to end? Certainly not me. Or Juliette, who can’t seem to stop hugging everyone. 

  With the company gone we relax and get comfortable. We watch some food and then some music videos. Allison Krause is one of our favorites and she sings in the background as we tell our old stories and get caught up on our lives. As always, we truly do have much to be thankful for and we only gently touch on a few of the sadder moments that are always lurking. The kids go to bed and Pak opens a final bottle of wine.  

  Pak goes up to bed and Joanna and I have one more glass. There is always more to talk about. I always wish we were closer because when we all do get together we have so much to cram into our conversations. I crave to hear everything they’ve been doing. The richness of our lives give us so much to share and then think about. I will say it again, we have a universe so full of things to do and to think about we will never have time for it all.

  All of a sudden (?) it’s 3:30. With still more to talk about we figure we better go to bed. I make my way to my suite. The twenty-nine foot Stealth camper parked in the side yard. Pak already turned on the heater, it’s 30 degrees out, and Ellie has put out some extra blankets. I’m warm and sated and comfortable and am asleep in minutes. Next thing I know it’s eight AM and Ellie is knocking on the door. My favorite human alarm clock. We look at pictures for a while and talk about books and school. Her school, not mine. 

  When Juliette gets up we walk over to the school and the girls run me through their daily routine showing me all the classrooms they sprint between in the course of the day. 

  Pak goes to the store while we’re gone and shows up with some fresh crab and three, yes three, bottles of whiskey. He putters around the kitchen, as is his wont, while we wait for Darcy and Larry to come over for lunch. We were going to go out but Pak wants to cook. Fine by me.  

  The Kampas arrive and we sit outside under the heat lamps sipping Pak’s amazing tofu soup. He grills some more skewers and steams four giant crabs. And sautés a great plate of shrimp and calamari in a magical garlic sauce. We soak up the extra broth with French bread.  It’s vastly better than any restaurant I’ve been to in months.  It’s an afternoon of leisure and, once again, good wine. But it’s truly not about the food or the wine. It’s about the company and the flourishing of friendships.

  The Kampas head back to Pinole and we relax watching more Anthony Bourdain videos. The ones from China and Japan. We make a plan for March 2021 to finally visit Japan. We’ve been talking about it forever. Maybe this time it will really happen. 

  We are too tired to go out to the hot tub. Pak pours me a whiskey and I stare at it for an hour before adding Perrier. It my first whiskey in weeks. It hits the spot. The rarer things are the more we appreciate them. Like the time I get to spend here in Sacramento. Precious. 

  I’m in the camper much earlier than last night. My big idea is to read for a while but once again I’m asleep in minutes. In the middle of the night I wake to a rain and wind storm. It’s loud and beautiful. I don’t get up but stay under the thick blankets and listen to the deluge. I love being warm and safe. A fleeting feeling at best. 

  Eight AM. Ellie is right on time and we look at more pictures on our phones. So many great ones from our past trips. 

  I try to get on the road early but l linger over tea.  Dave and April stop by to try and convince me to stay another day and for turkey dinner. I wish I could.  

  I’m on the road by 11:30. As soon as I get on the 80 it starts to rain and traffic slows to a crawl until I get on the 5 heading south. Near Stockton I see a rainbow stretching across a long empty field. The sky in front of me is full of massive dark clouds. They cruise across the horizon like great ships. Near Salinas I drive through a hail storm. Ice balls batter the Jeep and again traffic all but stops. White pellets bounce off the freeway. There is snow on the top of the hills to the east. After ten miles the hail turns back to rain and I speed along for a few hours listening to Jerry Garcia and, being Thanksgiving, Arlo. Near King City I see another rainbow. A sign of luck?  It’s always hard to tell.  In a field before Paso Robles I see some deer. But they are huge with big racks. It’s almost dark and I’m zipping pretty fast but I’m pretty sure they are Tule Elk. A rare sighting for me. 

  Coming down the hill to San Luis the sky clears enough to see a few stars and a bright new crescent moon hovering just above Venus. By the time I make Santa Barbara it’s raining again. I make it to Joe’s for last call.  

  November comes to an end with more rain and cold. The peaks above Montecito wear a crown of snow and the ocean is choppy and the high tide reaches almost to the grass along the bike path. I face the wind and sea spray. It’s a lovely sensation.  

Berkshire Sketches October 2019

  It took twenty-four hours from the time Los picked me up at home until we walked in the door of Mom’s house in Pittsfield. First step, Santa Barbara to Lax where we had breakfast at Puck’s. Then Lax to Newark and I was able to catch a few uncomfortable hours of sleep while Los watched some movies. I tried to read but I had brain fog from only getting an hour of sleep last night after work.  We then got delayed for five hours. We spent some time at the United Lounge fighting with an old bitch about what to watch on TV. Football or a two week old documentary. We won that battle after she accused us of being spoiled men. The manager of the Lounge sided with the guys. And, of course, Los tipped her a twenty. Los made the bartender laugh with his irreverence.  I talked a lovely woman sitting next to me into the game. Once I understood we weren’t going to get to Albany in time to pick up the rental car I figured I might as well have a few drinks.

  We finally boarded six hours late and flew up to Albany only to turn around due to poor visibility on the runway. Even though I could see the beacon on the top of Mount Greylock almost sixty miles away. 

  Back in Newark they gave us our luggage, never a good sign, and told us they were trying to get us a bus to take us to Albany. It would be at least a three hour wait before they could, maybe, get us a ride. Typical United Airlines bullshit.  Los being Los called us an Uber for the three and a half hour drive to New York.  Exhausted, slightly drunk, and irritated, we slept he entire way. 

  So I was in no mood for a mouthy woman behind the counter at the Budget Car desk. Rude beyond belief. I shut her up pretty quick. My three hour nap sharpened my wits. I’ll save that story for another time. Suffice to say the combination of United and Budget was not one of our better experiences. 

  The morning drive to Pittsfield was pleasant enough. Mom, who hardly slept while worrying about us all night,  was waiting with food and we took showers and got into some clean clothes. We were too worked up to sleep so we just kept going. We went to the Proprietor’s Lodge for lobster rolls and onion soup. And a glass of wine.  We dropped Mom off after lunch and drove around for a while. Paul, Mawrk, Marcus, Rita and Gina stop by the house to say hi. Later Los and I end up at the Hot Dog Ranch to see Nikki. We made it to bed relatively early and rather sober. Surprisingly. 

  Tuesday:  Los and I drive up Greylock and enjoy the foliage. Its a beautiful morning on the summit and we walk around for a while taking in the views and watching the hang gliders.  Everything is bright yellow along Rockwell road. We only missed the peak of the colors by a few days.  We pick up Mom and go to Cranwell for lunch. Relaxing. In the afternoon we do some bar sightseeing. All the usual spots too numerous to list. Late night we end up at The Forge with Hauge and Holly and Rita. Good fun. 

  Wednesday:  A morning drive to buy pumpkins and then lunch at The Forge with Mom and Mark. Four burgers. Our waitress is delightful. Then Los and I take a drive south county. Lee, Tyringham, Monterey, Stockbridge, (We stop for one at the Red Lion Inn fulfilling a promise I made to Los years ago.) and Lenox.  We stop at Guido’s Market for supplies for our afternoon cocktail party. Who shows up? Bev, Jim, the Astories, Rita, Mr. Paulie, the Hauges, Steve Lou & Amanda, John Sheerin, Mawrk, Hauge, Holly, both Julies, Del…  Whew!!!  

  Thursday: More driving around and Los and I go back to Proprietor’s Lodge for clams and pizza. Dinner party at Hauge’s were we were over served. Hauge lit off one of Mark’s M-80s. Crazy loud with a great cloud of smoke.  Los and Hauge took the ATVs into the woods and later I took a ride down North street and found out how fast those things go. I was later chided for not having a helmet or a registration. Go figure. Now I know. 

  We were too tired to go to the Forge and once again made it to bed relatively, for us, early. 

  Friday: Los’ last day. Or so we think. His plan is to stay at a hotel near the airport, have dinner at PF Changs and get some sleep before his early flight. So we have a light lunch and then go see Nikki at O’s for one. Hauge shows up so we have two. Then three. Hauge wants to take us to Red’s.  It’s too late to say no. We meet up with some of his buddies who feel inclined to buy us drinks. As the master Robert Burns wrote, “The best laid plans of mice and men….”

  Next thing you know we’re all back on Ridge Ave eating and telling stories.  

  Saturday morning Los is up early and on the road to Albany before five. I go back to bed for a few hours. I spend the day lounging around with Mom. We pick at leftovers and I drink two gallons of water. Later I walk around the neighborhood then read and nap the afternoon away. Mom goes to leave for church and the battery in her car is dead. We get a jump and drive around for a while but when we try to start the car again, nothing. It’s too late in the day to do anything about it so we sit around, snack and talk. I’m in bed by nine reading and working on these notes.

  I woke before sunrise to a downpour. I opened the window and stayed in bed listening to the rain. A guilty pleasure. It was windy and cool as the morning turned gray. I read for a while as the rain pounded on the roof. 

  Mom asks if I need to go anywhere today and I don’t. So we decided to let the dead battery wait another day. We goof around, watch the news, answer some emails.  We clean out a few closets getting rid of old clothes.  We make good progress and end up with a big bag of stuff to donate to Big Brothers Big Sisters. 

  We find a treasure! An old paperback, The Yosemite by John Muir. I thought it was lost. Isabel bought it for me on a trip she made to California in either 69 or 70 when she visited the Park. It’s what started my lifelong love affair with California in general and Yosemite in particular. 

 I remember the first time I visited the Park in 1988. After camping for two nights in Tuolumne Meadows we, Eksuzian and I, made it to the Valley where I called Isabel from a payphone near the stone postoffice. She was still living on North Street at the time. I used up all my change and we talked until the operator interrupted us. Those were the days! 

  Another afternoon of reading, note taking, water drinking and napping as the rain fell. 

 Mark and Gina come over with four bags of Chinese food from the delicious Panda Garden. Soups and noodles, dumplings and crab rangoons, shrimp, chicken and beef dishes. There is barely room on the table for our plates.  We enjoy a fine dinner telling stories and laughing as we devour almost all the food. There is just enough hot and sour seafood soup left for me to have for breakfast tomorrow.  Another early night to bed. 

 Monday:  We take care of the battery and are mobile again. The rain has stopped and the day is warmish with few clouds.

  In the small library I keep up in my old bedroom I find Auguries of Innocence by Patti Smith. Just the book I needed this week. I put it in my backpack and with some water and Cliff Bars drive up to the State Forest. I wander around for a half hour underneath the canopy of light orange and deep yellow. It’s breezy and cool and might rain later tonight. I’m comfortable in my old tattered green fleece. 

  I drive up to Berry Pond and sit and read for a bit. Patti writes;

  “Thus free to drown of your own sorrows, may you sit in the shadows of our lost life, immersed in stillness, flanked by translucent hills, one a mountain coated immaculate and ringed at the throat with beads of cloud.”

 It is quiet at the pond except for two crows who land momentarily and caw in my direction. It is certainly me who is disturbing their day with my presence. They strut around the shore for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the woods and then all is silent again. I read a few more poems and gaze at the pond’s still surface that reflects the dry brown reeds in the shallows. I don’t see another person the entire time I’m up here. I drink in the solitude. 

  From a small evergreen, a spruce, I snap off a bright green branch and put it in the car. It will save me a trip to the florist. I drive down the mountain though a yellow tunnel illuminated, seemingly, from every direction. 

  Before I go home I stop at Saint Joe’s Cemetery for a quick visit. The grounds are also bathed in beautiful glowing yellow. I place the pine bough in-between Isabel and Dot and tell them I haven’t had a scotch in months. Dubious as that sounds it’s true. Next stop Bobby B. On the way up the hill I pass a gravestone with the dates 1911-1912. My heart aches. We are dead an awful long time. 

  I say hello to Bobby and tell him about the Weir show last month. Then up to Dad. We had Michael’s name added to the stone. It came out perfect. I tell Dad a funny story I may or may not have told him before. Then back in the car I read some more Patti:

  “Our own sweet story, our own sweet life,

    cut with the cloth of ecstatic strife.”

  Driving bast 75 Berkeley Street the other day with Los he pointed out the old clothesline in the yard. Faded wooden posts like sawed off telephone poles jauntily leaning in opposite directions. On each pole is a new birdhouse. Clean white ropes were strung between them. It was certainly Aunt Vir’s clothesline. I remember it well. I bet it’s been there for forty years. Maybe more. The house is kept up nice. I have many vivid memories there.  Visiting Grandpa Ferdyn before he got sick and they moved him to a home in Westfield. He’d sit smiling and sipping whiskey. He spoke very little English. Watching Uncle Joe tie tiny trout flies with his massive, but artistic, fingers. Sitting by the wood stove in the middle room and listening to polka records. Marveling at the huge plates of food Vir would put out to feel her great big husband. They were happy people. It was a comfortable house and Mide and I loved going there after church on Sundays. The big chestnut tree in the front yard is long long gone. 

Tuesday. Erin shows up in the afternoon, of course, with champagne and flowers and charcuterie. Later we go to Michelle and Joe’s for a glass of wine. Erin heads back east toward Boston and I go to the Forge and chat with Sam and then meet up with Nikki for a nightcap. I get home and walk up to the lake. Then I sit in Dad’s chair and like I usually do I reflect on all this old home has been through. So much. It’s late when I finally go up stairs. I’m too tired to read and so I lie in the dark. I hear from Amanda just before I drift off. I dream of wind and rain but I’m snug and warm. 

Wednesday. More relaxing and walking around the neighborhood, lake, woodlot and golf course. I see a Red Fox gracefully prance along the edge of a small patch of trees. I watch a beautiful sunset from the hill overlooking the third hole. Later I go visit Sam again and Dom meets me up there. He and Kate are just back from two weeks in Germany. He has some great pictures and stories. It’s too early to go home so we continue on to O’s for the one. All of a sudden it’s midnight and Dom has to work in the morning. Reluctantly we go home. 

Thursday. My last day in town and a dinner is planned. Mom is making lasagne and I’m making a salad. Her friend Andy is coming from near Boston. He gets here early enough so we have some quiet time to talk. What a gentleman. He shows up with wine and roses. And his portable well worn travel bar stocked with rum, gin and vodka. A class operation. We sip some wine. Sam shows up to say hello. Then Steve for a quick shot. Then Mark and Gina, Rita, Mr. Paulie, Julie M and Hauge. The usual nonsense ensues. We eat, drink, tell stories. It gets loud and drunkish. There is lots of laughing. Typical of a festival on 16 Ridge. After dinner Dom shows up with some of his wines. Gleefully he opens them both and liberally fills our glasses. Dom once again reasonably goes home at a normal hour. Like everyone else. Except fuckin Hauge. Again it’s midnight. Mom and Andy are chatting in the other room. Hauge and I sit at the kitchen table wondering how we got so lucky. And its true. We are. I finally walk him out to his truck where he finds two nips of Bucca. Well, we figure, we made it this far. 

  The next morning I say goodbye to Mom, always a little heart tearing. I’m slightly battered from the night before and curse Hauge as I drive to Hartford. It rains on and off. It’s a quick hop to Philly where I eat a mediocre sandwich. I should know better but I need something for my stomach to do. Then on the way to Phoenix I nap, drink water, read, then nap some more. It’s smooth flying all the way. From there it is a direct flight to Santa Barbara. Out my window I see the crescent moon low in the sky. I’m viewing it just above the horizon and it is dull orange. I realize it is because of the smoke from the many fires burning from San Diego to Napa. The causes of beauty are often deceiving. 

  By the time Uber drops me off and I get home I’ve been traveling for for seventeen hours. There is no easy way to get from Pittsfield to SB. It’s simpler to go to Japan or Dublin. Needless to say I’m exhausted so I drink a beer, text Mom, take a steaming shower and get in bed. The end. 

October 2019

October 2109

  Life is short

  And full of thorns.       Robert Hunter

“I also wondered if the mundanity of my train of thought was hindering my progress.” So writes Patti Smith in her new book. I know exactly how she feels.  

Parties, weddings, concerts and house guests have interrupted my contemplation of Joseph Campbell. I had to put him down for a few weeks while I was distracted by my busy life.  In the meantime, I read some lighter stuff. But this past week I was able to concentrate on bigger questions. I went back to the book Romance Of The Grail and immersed myself again in Campbell’s brilliance for a few days and regained some of my balance with a good dose of solitude. Although the neighborhood is as loud as ever. 

  I could quote the book endlessly but suffice to say I’ve been taking my morning walks contemplating the “experience of existence” as Campbell explains it. Those things that make life worth the while. 

It’s dark at seven o’clock. And I noticed Orion last night for the first time this year hovering above the ocean. Mornings have been cool and foggy. A murder of crows has been haunting the neighborhood, harassing hawks. The almost full moon looks cold and far away. Autumn is here. 

Entropy is everywhere. Maybe, however, I just notice it more in the Fall. I am hyper sensitive to our constant struggle to stave off the wearing out of everything that surrounds us. 

At Shoreline Park the other day I heard a snapping sound and looked up at one of the pines and saw a branch slowly breaking. The still alive fresh wood, smelling like a Christmas tree, was making a cracking sound that was louder than I would expect from a branch with an eight inch diameter. It took about fifteen minutes for the branch, twenty feet long with green needles and all, to almost break free from the trunk. And now a couple of days later it’s still dangling. But only by a thin sliver of wood. I bet by the end of the week it will have fallen to the surf.

  It reminded me of the day I was sitting in the lemon grove at the farm in Summerland and while I was deciding which lemon to pick the one I was staring at fell to the ground. Timing. 

  On another warm summer morning I was at Toro Canyon, at the pavilion, and took a break from reading to watch the Monarchs passing over the scrub brush. I was looking at one through binoculars when a Jay swooped by and ate it in mid-flight. It happened in fast motion. 

  Yesterday I broke another wine glass. I’m now down to about fifty. 

  Then my drains in the bathroom backed up. Roots were growing through the mainline leading to the street.  Nature tends not to give a shit about our daily needs.  Like being able to flush a toilet.  

   I need new tires for my jeep. After only 35,000 easy miles. 

  My iPhone screen has a crack. I’ve no clue how it got there! 

  ENTROPY! ENTROPY! ENTROPY!  (I always yell that in Anne Everest Wojtkowski’s voice.)

  Yet another day of street construction right outside my window. The water lines are being replaced (entropy) and the noise is unbearable. Even with all my windows closed. This has been going on for months. 

  So I had to get out of the house. I went to Chaucer’s Bookstore and bought some books; Czeslaw Milosz, Pico Iyer and Claudio Magris. I still have time to decide what books I’m taking to Massachusetts in ten days. Always an agonizing decision. 

  At Gelson’s I get a salmon salad, sparkling water, detox tea and some dark chocolate. Enough for both lunch and dinner. I go back home to the noise. I’ll eat my lunch when the construction crew takes their break. Usually at 12:30. Until then I’ll walk. I take the path to the wharf then meander back at a slow pace. I sit on the bench at Shoreline and answer some emails. The day is cool and a strong breeze blows from the north. It’s very refreshing. I get home just as the workers are finishing pouring cement into the hole in front of my driveway. Inspired, I fish though a junk drawer, not sure what I’m looking for. But then I find it! A small, about the size of a nickel, steel peace sign. As soon as the crew departs for lunch I walk out and imbed it in the drying cement. A slight revenge for all the noise and inconvenience I’ve put up with these last three months. 

  After finishing lunch I notice one of the workers back smoothing out the cement with a flat tool. Damn, I figure, he’s going to snatch my peace sign. Oh wells! I tried. 

  I go for another walk and get back around two o’clock. Surprisingly the crew is gone and the neighborhood is almost peaceful. Except for the guy sawing fence posts across the street. That also has been a multi-week noisy project. 

  I check and, to my shock, the tiny peace sign is still there! It’s been hard to contain my satisfaction for the rest of the day. 

  A few more days of noise and company. Sleep has not been easy. At a fun dinner party at Chuck’s last night I couldn’t finish my meal. After salad and scallops I was left with an entire top sirloin. Well, the petite sirloin. I figured a steak sandwich for lunch tomorrow. But as luck would have it I noticed my old pal Homeless Dave camped out by the Tiburon Tavern. I stopped to say hello and offered him the steak which he gladly accepted. HD is not like the bums who hang out at Leadbetter on the picnic tables all day drinking and, occasionally, fighting. HD works. Often for El Todd at the Tee Off. He does a great job keeping the back lot clean and policed. He’s done painting and some minor repairs around the restaurant and his work is excellent. He’s alway in a pleasant mood and fun to talk to. He’s not unintelligent.  He’s been sober as long as I’ve known him. Seven or eight years. He’s a bit of a mystery because I know he could work more if he really wanted to. His needs are few and he seems to choose to live his life his own way.  We all like him. 

  I’ve given him other small things before; some jackets, a sleeping bag, shirts.  He’s always grateful. Every now and then I pay him $20 to wash my usually filthy jeep. It comes out clean.  

  I hope he enjoyed the steak.

 It’s a few days before we, Carlos and I, fly to Massachusetts. I better check the weather and start packing. Looks like cold and rain in The Berkshires for next week. But that does not matter. Only a fool lets the weather ruin a vacation, as any good traveler knows. We are on the road for other reasons. Namely, family and friends. 

  The last day of the month. All Hallows’ Eve. It has been a long day after a few late nights. I’m taking off from Phoenix sixteen hours after I left Pittsfield. I dropped off my rental at Bradley International in Hartford, CN. I napped, rather hungover, to Philly where I ate a mediocre grilled cheese sandwich. Then I slept for an hour or so on the way to Phoenix. The rest of the time I tried to make sense of my notes from the past ten days. No easy task.

  I’m looking out the plane window at a setting crescent moon which tonight is the color dull orange and I realize I’m looking at it through the smoke from the California wildfires, out of control for over a week now. It’s a sobering vision. Later we fly over some of the fires near what appears to be Santa Paula. 

 At the airport the night smells like smoke and the air is heavy. But Santa Barbara is safe. I’m exhausted. I Uber home and take a hot shower. Eighteen hours after I left Ridge Ave I get into my own bed after eleven days away. I’m too tired to even read. Perhaps I’ll get my Berkshire journal put together into something readable in the next week.  

September 2019

  The days are getting perceptibly shorter. It was inevitable I suppose. It’s been hot here on the Mesa as we swerve toward Autumn. And a bit humid, tropical.  But the nights cool off nicely and it’s good sleeping weather. That is, on those nights when I’m not battered with insomnia and wanderlust. Breezy nights here by the ocean are delicious and I take advantage by walking after dark and then sitting outside with a tumbler of Reposado. It’s chilly enough for a light fleece.  The past few nights I’ve watched the slice of new moon before it disappears behind the trees across the street.
  I am thinking of a Wendell Berry line from his beautiful novel, Jayber Crow. One of the characters, Mat Feltner, says after living through a terrible life altering ordeal, “The mercy of the world is that you don’t know what’s going to happen.”
  If we knew of all the strife headed our way, and no one is immune to tragedy, how would we go on? It would probably be impossible. It’s a question I don’t dare try to answer.

  Santa Barbara has suffered yet another tragedy. As if the floods and the fires of the past few years haven’t stressed the community enough. The Conception, a local dive and fishing ship, caught fire in the middle of the night while anchored off Santa Cruz Island. 35 people died. For the past four days TV crews have been at the harbor with their satellite antennas higher than the masts of the sailboats. FBI agents are everywhere. The Governor’s portable emergency office complete with several air-conditioned tents have set up in the parking lot near where the Conception is usually docked. A memorial with candles, flowers and cards by the Sea Landing is growing by the hour. I walk by every day as I have for years but instead of the usual happy boisterous banter of the marina the mood is very subdued. People are walking around as if in a trance. They nod at each other with tears in their eyes.

  I’ve been rereading some Joseph Campbell books this week. I go through a phase a few times a year where I crave his wisdom and I flip through several essays and different chapters from The Masks of God. What was I looking for these past couple of days?  I’m not really sure. But always in periods of strife or change I find Campbell’s genius has something to offer. Nobody writes better about our collective inner experiences than he does.
 I don’t need to be reminded to “Follow my bliss”.  That one has been drummed into my brain for over thirty years now. I have a shirt that says it and a magnet on my refrigerator as well. But unlike those strange people who tattoo sayings on their arms that say “Be Truthful” or some other nonsense so they won’t forget to act compassionately I don’t need the daily refresher. I know what I have to do. So perhaps I’m at a crossroads and have been looking to Campbell for other advice. I guess time will tell.
  I started reading Campbell when I moved to California in 1987. A friend recommend The Hero With A Thousand Faces but my first book was Creative Mythology. A masterpiece and a must study for anyone who is an artist. A truly life altering book for me and I still routinely delve into it.
He writes: “For we move—each—in two worlds: the inward of our own awareness, and an outward of participation in the history of our time and place.”
 And,
“The function of art is to render a sense of existence.”

San Diego interlude.
  Off to see The Wolf Brothers at Humphries By The Sea. A venue I’ve never been to before. My beautiful driver, Amanda, made good time despite LA traffic. We arrived in time for a refreshment with Art, Coco, Matt and Maria, at the hotel bar before walking over to the venue.
 It’s a very intimate setting and we had good seats. Before the show I got to shake the legend Bill Walton’s hand. And get a picture. I’ve seen him at many shows but on this night we were just a few rows apart.
  The show was great. Bobby is ripping up the world right now. I bet he’s played a hundred shows so far this year. He’s showing up everywhere. The rendition of A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall was touching. And Ripple for an encore was lovely. “Let there be songs to fill the air.”  And indeed there were.
  The next morning Amanda had a two hour workout (amazing) and I walked over to Little Italy to meet Matt and Maria and cousin Eddie and Lisa. I hadn’t seen Eddie and Lisa in a few years and we had fun catching up. Eddie’s sense of humor gets sharper every time I see him. We laugh a lot and he’s a great story teller. We Face-Timed Ed and Pat (his parents) and later called Fran.
  Amanda meets us for a beer in Ocean Beach but unfortunately she has to leave for Santa Barbara before dinner. We are sad to see her go. She one of my favorite traveling friends. And I’m picky. (True!) Maria and Matt say goodbye, Matt is flying home in the morning but I’ll see Maria and Art again in a few days.
  I’m switching hotels to be at the other reason for the trip. Don’t tell Weir. Samantha and Travis’ wedding and Bickmore and Reilly and Todd, Sam’s Dad, are already checked in. Lisa and Eddie give me a ride to the Marriott where a small party has already started in Reilly’s room. We join in.
 The next few days are full of fun dinners, late nights by the hotel’s fire pit, good laughs, new friends and finally the wedding on Saturday night. It happened at the 32 West Brewing Company and it was as beautiful of a wedding as I’ve ever been invited to. Todd was in his glory as he walked his gorgeous and glowing daughter Samantha down the isle. The room was full of love and happiness. I had a great time, actually we all did.
  We fit in another fun lunch with Art and Maria at Jake’s in Del Mar. Great food and a beautiful view of the ocean.
  Sunday, slightly hungover, we drove back to Santa Barbara and our normal lives.

  The great Robert Hunter has died. A man whose words have affected me more than any other poet or songwriter. He was a unique voice, more than original, yet his songs also had a timeless wisdom rendered in hippie philosophy. The lessons on how to live and how to observe life flowed out of his expansive mind like lightning. He zapped me plenty of times over the years. And often just as I needed it most. I swear Garcia once looked right at me and sang, “Broken heart don’t feel so bad.” And he was right. And this, “Without love in a dream it will never come true.” Or, as I’ve always believed, “There’s nothing you can hold for very long.”  I could go on and on.
  One night at the old club, The Channel in Boston, Hauge and I walked in to Hunter’s dressing room by mistake. “We thought this was the men’s room!” We said. (Or one of us said it.) “A lot of people do.” He smiled. Then he put on a wonderful show in that damp little bar. We were ten feet away from the stage and he sang beautifully. I remember Scarlet Begonias, Jack Straw, and Box of Rain.
  He rarely toured so when he did it was a treat. At another concert up in Grass Valley he kept asking the audience, “Did you see that?” We didn’t, or I didn’t. He later wrote about that day saying he saw strange lights flickering across the stage. In broad daylight no less. Then he sang a heartfelt Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands. It was a flawless performance on a hot afternoon under the California sun.
  Today I drove around while listening to my favorite CD of his, Tiger Rose. Both Jerry and Mickey play on it. It’s a treasure and like all of Hunter’s albums it’s not available to stream. Which is the single best reason to keep my CD player. He sings,
  “Born, born, born upon the world
The restless heart keeps flying
Trying to become the heart of home
Love, love, love, it picks you up
And spins you round
Sets you right back down, where you belong.”

 Bill Kreutzmann said it best, “Hunter’s words were the closest thing I had to prayers.”

  I will leave you with this.
“Such a long long time to be gone
 And a short time to be there”

August 2019

  August first. The year is half over. Today is a day of birthdays and before I walk to the beach I make a few calls and then send some texts to friends who are celebrating and are far away from me. It is also Herman Melville’s birthday. I believe he would have been two hundred. If he lived. I open Moby Dick at random and read, “A Nobel craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All Nobel things are touched with that.”
  So true. He wrote that at his home Arrowhead in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I visit there every year to soak up the atmosphere where the great man pondered such wisdom.
  And from I and My Chimney, also written in my home town, “All the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque.”
  And there is yet another birthday today, Jerry Garcia. Gone now twenty-four years. Seems impossible.
  He sings;

‘’Some folks would be happy just to have one dream come true
 But everything you gather is just more that you can lose.”

 And then,

“There were days
And there were days
And there were days I know
When all we ever wanted
Was to learn and love and grow
Once we grew into our shoes
We told them where to go
Walked halfway around the world
On promise of the glow
Walked upon a mountain top
Walked barefoot in the snow
Gave the best we had to give
How much we'll never know we'll never know”

That one always gives me the shivers. So I don my Melville baseball hat and Garcia tee-shirt and head to the beach. Why not?  Later I read some more Moby Dick and listen to a few hours of Jerry.

 I saw Hunter Thompson in an interview one time tell a reporter that something that they were talking about was just a rumor. The interviewer asked, “How do you know it’s just a rumor?”
  And the good doctor replied, “Because I started it!”
  I’m reminded of this story because I once, or twice, told a tale about the last time I played golf at San Marcos Country Club. I was so disgusted with my performance that on the way home I stopped at the San Marcos Pass Bridge and tossed my clubs off, one by one, into the woods below. This was before they installed the suicide net. My putter I saved to hurl into the ocean at Hendry’s Beach.
  It was a beautiful day up on The Pass and it was quite the thrill to see my old clubs twirling through the air and landing in the live oak on the side of Stagecoach Road. A very satisfying experience and I felt refreshed and happy after the last club, appropriately my pitching wedge, sailed away before dropping hundreds of feet to earth.  I drove home a new man no longer a slave to the most frustrating of sports. When asked what I did with my bag I pointed to the door of the Tee Off and explained I cut it in half and we now used it as an ashtray at the front bench. You could go outside and indeed see the evidence for yourself. A fine story although not a word of it is true. But I got a lot of laughs about it over the years. I figured everyone pretty much knew I was full of shit. Although that sawed-off bag there at the door of the restaurant was pretty convincing.
  Forward about twenty years. A kid comes in to the Pickle Room a few nights ago. I didn’t know him. Looked about twenty-two. Friendly. After a bit he says to me, “Hey, you used to work at the Tee Off. Right?”
  “Sure did.” I replied.
  “You’re the guy who threw his clubs off the bridge!” He said, sincere admiration in his voice.
  “That’s correct.” I lied, keeping my legend alive at least for a little while longer. I didn’t have the heart to tell the kid the truth and ruin a good tale. He did seem impressed. So everyone was happy. There must be a lesson somewhere in all this but damned if I can figure it out.
  They real story of the last time I played golf is slightly less entertaining. I was getting ready to quit for a few years and played very rarely. The game truly didn’t agree with me. I got worse and worse. And then even worse. I could never beat my Dad or my brother Mide. In fact, no matter how much I drank, I never beat anybody in those last years of agony.
  The final indignity came in Palm Springs. I had gone down to help my friends, Pam and Mike Carpenter, look at a restaurant they were interested in buying. They decided against the purchase for several reasons including a ridiculous asking price. To celebrate we decided to play an early round, before it got hot, in the morning.
  Their house was on the course at La Quinta. After a big breakfast which included several Belvedere screwdrivers we were ready. I was feeling pretty confident that I could beat Pam (Mike I would never beat.) until she put the Belve bottle in my cart. I struggled through the first few holes, bogey bogey bogey, and then I finally started to collapse. As usual I became weaker and more erratic as we went along. At the turn after the ninth hole Pam suggested a cold one in the clubhouse as the morning was warming fast. It was already close to a hundred. I was sweating out vodka.  Mike was par, Pam a few strokes over. And me? Well, I had already hit two houses and stopped keeping score. My reply to the libation was that it was a great idea and I was done for the day. Golfing, not drinking. We retired to the cool comfort of the lounge and pissed away a few hours laughing and planing dinner.  I haven’t played a hole since. And I am proud of it. What happened to that set of clubs I don’t honestly remember. I must have given them away at some point.
  I hit some balls one afternoon on to a fairway at the Sea Ranch County Club from the safety of the backyard of the house we were renting. Again with Mike and Pam and Johnny, Pak, Joanna, and Kevin. It was great fun until the young marshal came over and in his quivering voice asked us to nicely to stop it. We obliged happily.
  And then a few years later I hit a ceremonial first drive at Ruben Soto’s tournament at Glen Annie. It went straight down the middle about 150 yards. There was applause and I felt a bit like Arnold Palmer at Augusta. I instantly commandeered the liquor cart and spent the rest of the day delivering drinks to thirsty players. Much more rewarding than playing.
  The good folks at Glen Annie were very generous in allowing me to drive the course until the tournament was over. Luckily, for me, they hadn’t heard about “the incident”.
  A few years before I was driving another liquor cart at a Tee Off event at the Municipal Course. I was asked to drive one of the girls, who was pouring shots at a tee box, back to the clubhouse.  She was a little tipsy and needed something to eat and somehow, it all happened so fast, she fell out of the cart. She seemed fine and laughed about it. I wasn’t going very fast. In fact, I was crawling up a hill toward the practice green. Well, a little while later her arm started to swell up and someone brought her to the hospital. She broke her arm in a couple of places.  I was, of course, given the blame, however I had witnesses (including Brenna) to my professional and skillful driving. But for years I was ragged on because our workman’s comp had to take care of the situation. Which is why you pay workman’s comp in the first place. Anyway, the last time I talked to her she was enjoying her time off in Hawaii. Good for her!
  Enough about golf!

A few days of cleansing. The mornings have been foggy until the sun burns through around noon. The afternoons are hot and calm, perfect for walking the beach. The nights cool off quickly and the skies are clear. The moon is waxing and bright. I’ve spent a lot of time outside. But I’m getting antsy. I feel like I should be on the road. I’ve dreamed of Wawona the past few nights. I think if I can find a place to stay I’ll go up in a few days and scramble around. Most of the hotels I like are booked and since I gave away my tent I won’t be camping.  So I’ll see if I can find any last minute deals. I have a few days to figure it out.

                   Sierra Journal

  I woke early this morning and not too hungover from a session with Elliot, Sacardi and Bickmore and having packed a bag last night I am on the road by seven. I stop for gas at Kettleman City and then drive straight though to Yosemite.
Just past the turn off to Bass Lake near Westfall I shut off the air-conditioner and roll down the window.  Nowhere I’ve ever been smells like the Western Sierras once you hit 3000 feet above sea level. It’s a pleasant blend of sugar pine, cedar and dirt, ferns, sage and manzanita. I breath deep. Near Fish Camp I pass hills burnt from last year’s big fire. It is bleak and desolate.

  By noon I’m at the trailhead to the swinging bridge and ready to walk. I see the first two ravens of the day, raucous and playful, darting through the pines. I have Mide with me. Well, a small pill bottle full of his ashes. Even though it was only a tiny portion of him it didn’t stop me from talking to him on the ride up from Santa Barbara. I often hear his voice in my head. Today I told him of a particular dilemma thats been vexing me. I suspected he would laugh and say, “Don’t put up with it! You’re Tony-Fucking-Ferdyn!” He liked saying stuff like that. And he liked reminding me how great he thought I was.  I am not kidding about this.
  I lace up my boots and saunter down the trail planing on stopping at the small meadow were an old tree fell alongside the trail two winters ago. I figured that would be a good spot to drop Mide. I planned on keeping an eye on this tree for a long time. I’ve already watched it and waited for it to fall for thirty years now.  When I get there the tree is mostly gone, cut up into logs some of which have been hauled away no doubt to be used for firewood at the Redwood’s cabins. Oh wells, I nix that plan and am disappointed that I won’t be able to enjoy the years of decay that I planed to observe. Some of the character of that clearing has been diminished.
 I pass the swinging bridge and the swimmers lounging on the rocks. After that I won’t see another person until I come back. I stomp along leaving a small dusty cloud in my wake. I’d love to see a bear but I’m too damn noisy. Maybe I would if I slowed down and stopped singing out loud. Easy To Slip is running through my head. Go figure. I sing a few verses to Mide.
  The trail is flat and follows the river up to what Johnny Reilly calls The Tubs. It’s a shoot of water that fills a massive pool. For mid August the Merced is flowing pretty hard. It was a good snow year. I sit by the falls for a while emptying my mind of the detritus that has built up over the past weeks. There is no better anti-depressant for me than being alone in the woods miles from another human. It is me, water, blue sky, trees and a breeze that drys my sweat. Wawona Dome is visible through the dead branches of the sugar pines. I slow my breathing and listen to the river and the occasional bird calling for what I can only guess. I think of Mide and his long struggles. His courage. His capacity for endurance.  His humor. His grace. I am truly a better man because of him. I think of a million things to tell him. But we’ve already said everything that matters to each other. And for that I am grateful. Never let an opportunity pass to tell those you love how much they mean to you.  Mide and I were pretty good at that.
  Why bring him to Yosemite? He always wanted to go and loved my pictures and stories of the mountains I climbed and the trails I hiked. After Bobby B visited here for that famous party he told Mide that there was a lot he could do and see from his chair. Bobby, of course, was also an expert on navigating the world with a handicap. He got Mide excited about a trip and we talked about it for a few years until the contingencies of his situation just kept setting him back. He continued to ask for photos from my visits but sadly we realized a trip was unrealistic. I wonder how many times he had to admit to himself that there was so much he could never do. He was a realist for sure and kept most of his disappointments to himself.
  I get up too quick and have a slight bout of dizziness. Typical for me these days. I continue up the trail and spot a large boulder easily visible from the path. It looks like a giant gravestone. “Perfect!” I say to Mide.
  I make my way up the hill to the granite rock. Its easily twice as tall as I am and maybe twelve feet long. I circumnavigate it a few times and finally decide to pour Mide out on the  side facing the forest. I do it without ceremony and then lean against the cool stone and cry for a minute.  It has been a very long year. I go back to the pool and dunk my head under the small rapids of the ice cold Merced River.
  An hour later I’m back at the jeep, hot, sweaty and dusty. I take my phone off airplane mode and text Mom, Paul, Mark and Kev. They are all bittersweet and Kev tells me he is taking Mide to Japan in the Fall. Bravo I say!
 In my cooler I have beer and club soda buried in ice. I opt for a soda and drink it in about eleven seconds.

  I stop by the Wawona Hotel to check on a shuttle to the Big Trees for tomorrow. I plan on taking the “Drinking Man’s Stroll” from the grove back to the hotel but I’m informed that the shuttle is broke down and won’t be ready until late afternoon. I’ll come up with another plan later.
  I head back to Fish Camp, stop at The General Store for water and, believe or not, a few Lynchburg Lemonades. Perhaps the altitude is affecting my rationality. The Narrow Gauge Inn, where I’m staying, is rustic but charming, quiet and clean. Unfortunately the restaurant is closed for the next few days. I’m disappointed because the menu looks great. The closest place for food is The Tenaya Lodge Lodge a mile up the road.
  Outside on my patio I drink a beer, read some Rexroth and jot these silly notes. I’m tired and hungry. All I’ve had to eat so far today are two Laura Bars and some trail mix.
  I always thought that Fish Camp would be a good spot to live for a year or five. But, the surrounding forest is dying and drying out. It is only a matter of time until there are bigger fires. I drove through the result of a fire from last year and the destruction wasn’t pretty. It looks like it missed some houses just barely. Now I might think twice about settling down and buying something up here.
  In the past I have not been impressed with the Tenaya but I don’t feel like driving to Oakhurst. So I brave the bar and look at the menu. The bartender, Anthony, is attentive and personable for how very busy he is. He recommends a light local IPA that is quite good. I order salmon with roasted potatoes and cream spinach. I am pleasantly surprised. The fish is cooked perfect and Anthony’s service is excellent. I’m too wiped out for a second beer and instead decide on a nightcap on my patio. I pour a liberal tequila and sip it in the dark. An almost full moon rises above the trees. The night is quiet and cool and I absorb the silence that I have been craving for months.
  Inside I read another Rexroth poem and fall asleep before eleven.

  I’m up by six and take a quick shower and head to Mariposa Grove. There is only one other car in the lot this early. Its chilly and I throw on a sweatshirt. I take the loop trail, the long way, to the Upper Grove. It doesn’t take me long to warm up as I steadily saunter up the hill.
  Once again I’m alone at the the Upper Grove. It’s a very serene spot where there is a replica of Galen Clark’s cabin. He spent his summers here keeping an eye on the trees and entertaining tourists, including Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson even named a tree Samoset after the Native American chief who greeted the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. I’ve never found this particular tree. It’s not marked on any map and the few rangers that I’ve asked didn’t know where it was.
  I sit on the steps of the cabin for a while, maybe a half hour, and just look at the trees and listen to the breeze through the woods. This is a wonderful place for reflection being surrounded by the thousand plus year old redwoods. I think about a winter day several years ago when I also spent an hour alone soaking up the peace of this majestic spot.
 I have always used the woods as a cure for my melancholy and anguish. It is why I haven’t needed prescription pills, religion, meditation, alcohol, (much) yoga, therapy, self help books, prayer or drugs. Although I have dabbled with most of them. Five hours alone on a mountainside and then the companionship of friends or a lover seems to do the trick for me. Not always a total cure but it’s usually enough to shift my focus.
 In a few hours there will be a bunch of people up here. But for now it’s just me and I ponder how quick my life flies by in comparison to these old redwoods that have seen the seasons change for hundreds and hundreds of years before Galen Clark even wandered into their magnificence. I would love to camp here some night. I’m sure its against the rules but I’m confident I could figure out a way.
  Some of the oldest trees in Mariposa are almost two thousand years old, perhaps older. And they are still dropping cones with little tiny seeds. I pick one up and put it on my thumb. It’s as light and fragile as a dust mote. But it is entirely possible that two thousand years from now one of these seeds will be alive. Think about that.
  Making my way down to the Lower Grove I stop and sit on a fallen redwood and listen to an amazing chorus of birdsong. I spot a nuthatch but the other singers, although loud, remain hidden.  I finally encounter a few more strollers and by the time I get to the Grizzly Giant there is a small crowd taking pictures and milling around. I scamper the last mile to my jeep. I’ve decided to go climb Sentinel Dome. It’s still early and I hope to beat the crowds there, too. There’s quite a bit of traffic but I leave most of it behind when I make the turn on to Glacier Point Road.
  There are a few people on the trail but I’ve seen it way worse this time of year. I take my time and pace myself.  My heart (which plays tricks on me) is beating from the exertion and the altitude. But not like it beats in Santa Barbara with its tinges of anxiety and the minor chest pains that accompany it.
  Like always, I’m on top before I know it. Sentinel is deceiving that way. It looks more menacing than it is. There are about twenty people on the wide summit so I go to the east edge and sit on a rock. Nobody bothers me at all and from my perch I look out at Half Dome and Cloud’s Rest, Vernal Falls and the high country all the way to Mount Lyell. I wish the Wus were here. I loaf in the sun and from my comfortable stone bench I can’t see the group on the summit. My heart slows back to normal, what ever that might be, as I gaze at the other domes surrounded by grand meadows with patches of snow. I could take a nap I’m so relaxed. But the views are too intriguing. I always carry a book up here (Rexroth today) thinking I’m going to read although I never do. The thin air and far vistas are just too stimulating. I pull out my phone, still on airplane mode, and see it’s already noon. I take a few pictures for Mom, drink some water and eat some trail mix. Even though I’m reluctant to leave I make my way, leisurely, back to the road.
  I stop at the Wilderness Station in Wawona which used to be the artist Thomas Hill’s studio and is now also a gallery displaying his work. I listen to two kids getting a backcountry permit and a bear canister. They explain their plans to the ranger with great excitement. They’re going to climb Half Dome and Cloud’s Rest and aren’t sure how long they’re going to be gone. They remind me of Hauge and I, or Eksuzian and I. It’s been a very long time since I just went off with a backpack and only a vague itinerary. Instead of inviting myself along with them (they prolly don’t have enough food for me) I go to the hotel for lunch. It’s wonderful to see the old sign back. No more Big Trees Lodge. It is once again the Wawona Hotel!
  The restaurant is famous for what I’ll call “relaxed service.”  And today is no exception. My burger takes forever but I have a nice table by the big front window and I people watch while waiting for my food.  I again have my book with me but never open it. I get a text from Amanda which makes me smile.
  Back at the Narrow Gauge I slam a Lynchburg Lemonade. A guilty pleasure. It goes right to my head and I’m momentarily dizzy. Again I feel like a nap but instead I go out on my balcony, sit in the wooden rocking chair and finally get some reading done. I write a few notes as well.
  At 5:30 I drive back into the Park to hear Thomas Bopp play the piano in the parlor of the Wawona. When I walk in he says, Nice to see you!” I’ve been coming here for thirty summers to listen to this national treasure. The room holds great memories. I remember the first time that Ellie and Juliette heard him play. He sang a few kid’s songs. After Reilly’s house burnt down Thomas sang songs about fires in the heart. Later that night he sang songs from old cartoons. Often he’ll play an entire set of Cole Porter, including the rare unsavory and risqué verses. And there was the night, two actually, that Dad sang along to every song. I’ll never forget his wonderful voice. He sang softly and Thomas could barely hear him from across the room. But I heard him just fine. And I’ll never forget it. Later Dad went up to the piano and told Thomas a few stories of his own.
  Entertaining as always, Thomas tells tales of old Yosemite, old song writers and the history behind some famous show tunes. He plays a bit from an original piece he’s working on. It’s a historic song about the Park’s good ole days.
  I sit in an old stuffed chair for a few hours listening to interpretations of Noel Coward, Louis Armstrong, Cole Porter, Gene Autry and Fred Astaire. I sip a martini and absorb the luxury that is Wawona on warm summer nights. It could be 1935 in that old room that smells slightly of woodsmoke. A breeze flows through the open windows carrying the scents of trees and the flowers in the meadow.
  Thomas takes a break and I thank him for all the pleasure he’s brought me over the years. He’s a wonderful talent.
  I make my way back to the Tenaya and order a BLT and a Belvedere on the rocks. The lovely bartender recommends a double. “Why not!” I agree. Again the food and service is good and when she suggests another double I don’t hesitate. The bar is busy and I chat with the travelers. I come up here to Wawona so often that I don’t feel like a tourist. I liberally give advice about what to see in the Park. I, however, keep the quiet trails behind the Redwoods selfishly to myself. I finish my second drink and as tempting it is to have a third and enjoy the company I figure it’s smartest to get back to my balcony and comfortable rocker for my final nightcap.
  I have to laugh, a double Belvedere over ice is $23. Almost fifty dollars for two drinks. Not even close to a personal best. But I imagine what Dad would think. I can hear him now, “You’re shitting me?”  His favorite reply when I told him things like that. After all, he hated to pay more than two bucks for a Bud Light.
  Although Mom reminded later on the phone that back in the day Dad spent his fair share on good whiskey.
  Out rocking in the night air I couldn’t be any more relaxed. Nature therapy has cleared my brain of the garbage that builds up in Santa Barbara. I need to be off the grid for at least a few days a month. I listen to the breeze in the cedars. I could almost fall asleep out here sitting up. But I don’t. I crawl into bed sated and exhausted. I smile at another one of those texts before I’m sound asleep.
  In the morning traffic is streaming into the Park. I decide once again to skip the valley. I don’t need the crowds. I’ll come back in the winter when it is quieter, lonelier, and more peaceful. But I’m reluctant to go home. I spend and hour or so reading and writing on my balcony before I get on the road.
  By the time I’m passing Fresno I calculate that I can be in Cambria for a late lunch. So I make for the coast. Cambria is fogged in and cool. A big switch from the ninety plus degrees of Fish Camp. But it’s a refreshing change. I have lunch at the delightful Robbin’s, the scene of many a fine dinner party. Then I walk over to Moonstone beach and walk the entire boardwalk. It takes about an hour and a half. The tide is high and the beach is pretty deserted. I linger for a while on a bench and read a few pages of Rexroth.
  For fun I check for a last minute hotel room. Nothing under $275. Ridiculous for a Wednesday night. I pass. I drive by Mozzi’s and it takes great fortitude not stop in for an icy beer.  It’s one of my favorite bars on the coast.  Once called Camozzi’s and owned by my friend Ed’s family.
  Back in Santa Barbara, also in the fog, by eight o’clock. I pop a beer and walk through the mist to the beach. Good, as always, to be home but my wanderlust is still just under the surface and I wish I had a couple of more days on the road. Sitting here at my desk I plot my next trip.

  The month ends on a sad note. Another friend gone way too soon. And now my phone holds yet one more number that I’ll never call again but am too sentimental to delete. My same old thoughts run though my brain on these moonless nights when sleep is still far off. We are, a famous poet once wrote, more gone than not.  And it’s true, much is behind us and our fragility is more pronounced every day. Yet forward we go, smiling in the face of uncertainty. And, if only temporarily, keeping entropy at a safe distance.

July 2019

  It’s been a very busy few weeks since I’ve been back from Massachusetts; parties, work, guests, Forth of July, an earthquake, all on top of the usual chaos that can be my life. Another friend gone which added to my usual melancholy and sense of loss. Not to mention the ache that accompanies the swiftness of time passing. 

  Now I’m taking a few days to banish the brain fog that is the result of too much socializing and tequila and not enough solitude and decent sleep. 

  Today was spent relaxing, reading, writing, walking, eating salads and drinking a gallon or so of water. I don’t quite feel normal, whatever that means, but it’s a start. At least I’m staying hydrated. 

  The earthquake I felt a few days ago was a 7.1 out by Ridgecrest about a hundred miles east of LA. Here in Santa Barbara my house rolled gently for about a minute causing the Tibetan chimes I have hanging in my living room to ring. Certainly when the Earth shifts on such a massive scale it’s hard for the mind to grasp. It was felt for hundreds of miles in every direction from the epicenter. One more way that Nature can make us feel like insignificant specks. The world gives not one whit for our collective well being and the sensation of the cosmos being completely indifferent to our existence is overwhelming. But somehow, for a time, we endure. 

  I wonder if I’m losing my edge. I was very nice and cordial to the Jehovah Witnesses who showed up at my door yesterday. I shook their hands and accepted their cartoon pamphlet and wished them a good day. Should I refrain from this kind of graciousness? I know it will only encourage them to return with more of their nonsense literature. 

 They haven’t bothered me in a while, almost a year, and I kind of thought they were through with me after our last encounter. They caught me in a foul mood. I was sitting out in my yard reading poetry and drinking wine. I generally don’t like to be disturbed when I’m trying to concentrate on life’s finer offerings. 

  “Good afternoon!” Said the woman who was maybe in her late thirties and accompanied by a younger girl of about fifteen. Snare them young is a tactic of all religions. 

  They both had slightly goofy and harmless smiles. I smiled back.  

  ‘’If you have a moment we would like to talk to you about grief.” The smiling woman said.  And I felt as if I was lobbed a perfect pitch. I was wondering how I was going to scare them off.

  I lost my smile and gave them my most intense million-mile-away stare. “I’m your guy.” I said as true pain and heartbreak overflowed from my essence. “I’m just back from burying my younger brother. And I’m hurt.”

  The younger girl’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath.  The woman placed the flimsy flier on my table near the wine glass and for a minute was at a loss for words and unable to maintain her smile. “I’m sorry. Maybe reading this will help.” She offered.

  “Thank you, maybe.” I said. 

  They quickly scurried away. Was I cruel by hitting them with that? I truly wasn’t lying. It had just been the worst month of my life. And I was grieving deeply. I tossed the flier in the trash because I knew at this point the only thing that was going to help me was family and friends who understood me and let me be who I was and let me suffer in my own way. I didn’t need white noise from strangers. Perhaps the young girl learned some sort of lesson from this battered agnostic on that beautiful afternoon. 

  Another time a different couple knocked as I was dancing around my house in my bathing suit and a tie-dye tank top and Black Sabbath’s The Thrill of it All was playing loudly from my giant Polk Audio speakers. Oh, and I held a tumbler of scotch in my hand. Needless to say they also made a quick exit. 

You would think that by now they’d steer clear of my place. But they are a persistent and dedicated bunch. I feel we will continue to torment each other.

  A week of eventides, not too high, not too low. The days are bright and warm. The surf calm and the beaches are pretty crowded. Volleyball nets are set up and BBQs send the fragrance of roasted meat through the breezy air. There is lots of beer being drank. The micro bikinis are rather distracting, but in a good way. 

  I sit outside until almost dark. Later when the waxing moon sets Jupiter is the brightest light in the sky. I gaze at the massive planet through my binoculars. I need a telescope because it still looks like a tiny star.  

 I have been sticking with my cleanse. Water and vegetables. 

  At the bar the other night a girl said an odd thing to me out of the blue. Perhaps I was coming off as daft and not as clever as I usually act after having a drop or two with Jim. We only sip to improve our charm and make the customers more tolerable. Sometimes it even works. 

  “I’ve read more books than you!”

 “What!” I snap and she must have seen something in my eyes that made her suspect she was wrong. 

 “What are you reading right now?” She asks. 

 Easy one. “Saul Bellow and Kenneth Rexroth.  You?” I say.

 “Faulkner.”

 “Love him.” I say even though I haven’t read him in years.

  “Favorite writer?” She asks.

  “Poet or novelist?”

   “Two different things.” She claims. 

  “Not if you’re a Jim Harrison fan.” I reply. 

  She’s not familiar with him and I recommend a few of his book.  We banter a bit each promising the other a book. I haven’t decided what to get her yet.  I’ll see if she ever comes back in first.  

  

 It takes a lot to get me to Los Angeles these days. The traffic is maddening and exhaust fumes irritate my eyes and throat. Driving through the city does indeed make you think that “the world will sink under the weight of the human race.” Like my brother Mide used to quote.

 Last month it was Dead and Company who got me to make the trek to Hollywood. And it was worth it to visit with great old (long time) friends. 

  Last night it was Sam Harris and Mingyur Rinpoche in conversation at the Wiltern Theater. I love the Wiltern. I saw my first show there in 1988. The Jerry Garcia Band.  Bob Weir and Rob Wasserman opened for them. That, as they say, was a time. I’ve seen many other shows there over the years. It’s a gorgeous Art Deco theater built, I think, in the 30s. It’s a wonderful room.

  So I braved once again the traffic on the 101. It wasn’t as bad as I’ve seen but still frustrating. I got there early enough to wander around for bit, checking out the neighborhoods and realized like I always do that I could never live down there. The rush of people and crush of noise would simply be too much for me.

 I stopped at the Lobby Bar at The Line Hotel, another favorite spot, for a quick (double) vodka. Then down the street I had some mediocre sushi. The cold nigori sake, however, was refreshing. It seemed a tad sacrilegious drinking before attending a talk from a buddhist monk, but, I figured I should drop my attachment to sobriety and it seemed like as good of a time as any. And when I got to the theater there were long lines at the bar. The young crowd reminded more of a concert than it did a serious discussion about enlightenment. And I was delighted. 

  The conversation was about meditation. Something I’ve had limited success with. Harris, as usual, was witty and asked excellent questions and gave Rinpoche plenty of space to answer. Rinpoche was humorous and charming displaying a playful wit of his own. This was the first time they had met and they quickly showed a mutual warmth toward each other. Harris had studied in the past with Rinpoche’s father so he was familiar with the teachings.  Rinpoche led the sold out theater in a five minute breathing meditation. Which is about my limit these days. He spoke eloquently about awareness, impermanence and then talked about his four and a half year Wandering Retreat. That is what his latest book, In Love With The World, is about. I’ve read it and it’s stimulating. I bought Amanda a copy. 

  I have always been a bit of a closet buddhist so I found the evening to be rather up-lifting. I must have needed the reminders that everything we have will someday be gone so pay as close attention to your life as you can. Be aware and be awake. I pondered these thoughts, especially about the meaning of bardos being interludes between periods of awareness, as a drove back to Santa Barbara. I was home by midnight. 

  I turned down a job in Los Angles once. Much to Dad’s dismay. A good friend of his offered me a sales position at his very successful company. The pay was tremendous for the time. It would have required a lot of driving and even back then, more than twenty-five years ago, I hated LA traffic. And I knew that if I had to live down there I would slowly (or maybe quickly) sink into a madness from which I would never really recover. I’m not kidding. It would be a soul (that word) devouring endeavor for me and I refused the job as gracefully as I could. It was the correct decision. Even though Dad was (slightly) disappointed. 

 After a few hot dry days my beautiful peach tree has exploded. Most of the fruit ripened in forty-eight hours. Now they are falling off the tree faster than I can eat them. But I’m doing my best. I had one with breakfast, three with lunch and one more after dinner. Tomorrow I’m going to give a bunch away. They are small and sweet and juicy. Delicious. 

  Sunday afternoon. I walked downtown to retrieve my Jeep. It was a long tiring work-night and I got a ride home instead of driving. To reward myself I took one of the crystal champagne flutes that Steve and Crissy gave me out of the freezer, picked a fresh peach off the tree and made a mimosa, actually the original Bellini, with it. Ridiculously refreshing. I drank it quickly in the sun and it went straight to my head. A glorious sensation.   

  My house is full of reminders of people who are gone and also of people that I simply miss because they are far away. It cheers me up to look at pictures of Mom, my brothers, Marcus and the Wus. Pictures of Dad and Mide, Dot and Nan, Carpenter, Lovejoy and Bobby are more sobering. And Mide’s ashes are in plain view. A constant reminder of how fleeting everything, yes everything, truly is. 

  I wore a tee-shirt the other day that Bobby gave me twenty plus years ago. It’s ratty and worn thin but I can’t bare to get rid of it. Likewise a hat from Australia that my friend Allan gave me from his last big trip. I treasure it. There is on my bookshelf a peculiar knick-knack from MSteve that keeps his brilliant sense of humor alive in my mind.

  I used a few days ago a wood handled corkscrew from the Ahwahnee Hotel that Pete gave me. I’ve opened many bottles of wine with it but never again will I open one with Pete. And that sucks. 

  A small original handbill from a late 60s Grateful Dead concert was a thoughtful gift from Don French that keeps his memory fresh. I have a lot of music he gifted me as well. I also have music (BACH) from Big Steve. 

  A playlist of Mide’s music I play every few days. Sometimes it makes me dance around the room and sometimes it makes me cry. And sometimes both.

  And then, oddly and hard to explain about those who have no reminders around the house because they are so seared into my heart that it’s impossible to ever forget our time together and what they (she) means to me even though it was a long time ago. But time is meaningless in this context. Or so Einstein used to claim. 

  I am reminded of a quote by Richard Powers from his magnificent book The Overstory: “There are consolations that the strongest human love is powerless to give.”

And Salman Rushdie writes: “You can measure love by the size of the hole it leaves behind.” 

  Another birthday slips by. I am humbled by my friends and family. A massive outpouring of love and warmth. My heart is so full from the attention of so many beautiful people. Every now and then I feel like I’m not giving back enough to those whom I love but after the last few days of dinners and gifts and drinks I am truly astonished by how many people reached out to me. My tender vanity has been touched. I will try not to let it inflate my ego. 

   And just like that the peaches are gone. I notice there is only a single ripe fruit dangling from a high branch. I touch it and it falls into my hand. By the end of the day it would have fallen to the ground. It was less than two weeks from eating the first peach to taking this last one. A furious pace for the small tree. 

  Amanda stops by after running the stairs at the stadium. And just in time. I muddle the peach in two glasses and then pour in a generous amount of Casamigos Reposado. The day is hot with a gentle ocean breeze. We sit in the sun sipping our tequila and marveling at our good luck.