December 2019

If I had been God 

I would have rearranged the veins in the face to make them more 

Resistant to alcohol and less prone to aging 

            Roger Waters

  In our discussions at The Pickle Room (voted best neighborhood bar in Santa Barbara) we tend to shy away from the two big ones, like all good bars, politics and religion. Although sometimes they both slip by the censors, that would be me and Jim. The other night a charming and erudite girl was talking about humanism. Harmless enough. Somehow we got talking about intelligent design. It’s always great fun coming up with with ways that even a simple bartender like myself could suggest to make the human body more efficient and comfortable. Easy ones, like a more powerful immune system or better eyesight. Or fingernails that don’t need cutting. Or teeth that don’t rot. You could probably come up a pretty good list of your own without too much effort. 

  Then a day later I was reading a book called Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by the Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk. The main character muses about why the body can not send simple signals to the brain informing it about nutrition deficiencies. Like if we need more protein or have too much cholesterol or too high levels of salt. Stuff like that would be extremely helpful to maintaining better overall health. I imagine it should have been a simple task for an all loving all benevolent creator to come up with something that easy to add to our other mechanisms for keeping our bodies in the best possible condition. 

  I’m reminded of Sir David Attenborough’s reply to the question he receives from viewers about why he never gives the creator credit for the beauty of hummingbirds or flowers or sunsets. His comeback is then he would also have to give the all-knowing god responsibility for the design of a worm that only lives behind the eyes of very young children in several African nations. These worms inevitably cause blindness. A sinister design if ever there was one. 

  Or as Ian Anderson sings, “He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.”  Incidentally, a favorite song of Mide’s. 

  If I am to read the paper, usually at lunch, or watch the news I need to start my day with a jolt of poetry or an inspiring piece of literature. Sometimes music works as well. Balance is pivotal. The poems of Ceszlaw Milosz and Kenneth Rexroth are currently on my bedstead along with the journals of Emerson.  For a while over the summer I was reaching for a volume of Patti Smith’s lyrics along with the poems of Robert Bly as summer turned to autumn. 

  It’s only after a half hour of immersing myself in big ideas that am I able to get out of bed and face what ever mundane world news comes my way. 

  In the evenings lately, in lieu of tequila, I give myself another dose of poetry and music before I fall asleep. I’ve listened to a lot of Bach and Jarrett these past few months, too. Only then am I able to digest the news, discouraging as it is to me..  

  A day of watching the sky

  After an odd apocalyptic dream I wake in the dark and make a cup of detox tea. The sky has a hint of grey in the east. There are high light clouds that start at the horizon and reach to my house.  Soon they start to turn pink. I put on my down jacket and flip-flops and walk over to Shoreline. The pink deepens with slashes of orange. I feel like I’m in a renaissance painting. The water sparkles enchantingly.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink any absinthe last night but between the weird dream and the surreal colors over the water I can’t be completely sure.  Perhaps this is one of those acid flashbacks I was supposed to have had by now. (I’m mostly kidding.) The air is still and the sun rises which causes the clouds to turn back to their normal morning grey. I go back home and finish my tea.

  For a while in the afternoon the wind picks up and the clouds dissipate. A huge branch blows off the palm tree in the front yard. It crashes into my jeep and knocks the rear windshield wiper off. Could have been worse I guess. 

  From my yard I can see Venus shining like a jewel above the trees. The sun is setting and I head back over to Vicky’s bench to wait for the full moon to appear. Above the mountains two thin wispy clouds start to glow. Minutes later the moon, bright white in the clean air, peeks above the hills and casts its glow across the water. The surf sparkles. 

  Later, just before I go to bed, I step outside to give the moon one more look. It’s now high over head and circled by a great ring. Usually on nights with a ring around the moon it’s cold out but tonight is mild. A cool breeze blows off the water. If I had to I could read by the light. I cast a soft shadow in my yard. In bed I keep my blinds open so I can fall asleep under the moon glow. When I wake up a few hours later the ring is gone and the moon is lower in the sky.

  Mid December. Before me is all the Christmas nonsense. As usual, I’m dreading parts of it. I’ve already declined a few parties. My slight hold on sanity demands it. I go through this every year and vow to get out of town for the holidays. But somehow I never do.  Although, I must admit, things usually turn out ok. 

  There is sadness during this time of year that often goes unnoticed. But not by me. There are people I miss when the nights are longest and for some reason it’s slightly more acute than at other times. So many old friends gone. This is the first Christmas without Z. (Perhaps in his honor I’ll watch his favorite holiday movie, Caligula.) So that means no taste of Advocat at his house before I go to dinner. And none of his banana cream pie with Rick’s, also gone, crust. 

  As an act of defiance against the holiday doldrums I decorated one of Ted’s walking sticks with multi colored lights. Just like in years past. I think Eksuzian made the first Christmas Stick in 87 or 88. And while it hasn’t been a solid tradition I’ve done it the last few years. If only to send him a photo. And I must admit it cheers us both up. 

  Music. There are a few Christmas albums that I play every year and they truly do fuel my nostalgia for those parties on Ridge Ave. Mom’s and Dad’s favorites; Bing, Ray Conniff, and Dean. Over the years I’ve added Bruce Cockburn, Oscar Peterson, Diana Krall and Windham Hill. And I never, these days, omit Lennon and McCartney. 

  Another windy afternoon.  I can hear the ocean from my house. It’s loud. I turn off the music and listen to the crashing waves. It is a surprisingly peaceful, rhythmic sound and I almost nap. Instead I walk over and view the choppy surf. There is nobody in the water and the wind blows hard on to shore. The islands are just a blue haze in the distance. The osprey is in his (her?) usual tree overlooking the point. 

  For a while I watch waves smash against the cliffs. I can’t help but see them being worn away by the constant motion of water. As the experts say, it’s only a matter of time before these seemingly solid walls collapse into the ocean. Someday, perhaps sooner rather than later, Shoreline Park will be a sandy beach. 

  It’s a fine day to be a hermit/recluse. I read, sip tea and make ramen. Later I turn the music back on and light up the Christmas Stick. At sixty degrees the heat kicks on. I crank it up to sixty-eight. I suspect my blood is getting thin. Fran would be in a tee-shirt. I’m wrapped in fleece. 

  Impeachment day. Only in America. A giant pickup truck speeds through the parking lot at Leadbetter Beach with music blaring and a confederate flag flying from the back bed. My mind spins. Only in the days of Trump can such blatant racism show itself. I gave the guy the finger as he pulled away. I’m assuming he didn’t see me although if he did it is no surprise he was too cowardly to react. Typical of most ignorant bullies I’ve encountered over the years.  

  A long time ago, a very long time, I had a vision on how I wanted to live my life. I knew I needed big chunks of time to think and ask the big questions. I am a slow thinker and I have to write a lot of things down. I also knew that I wanted to write every day. And read. I still can’t get enough time to read everything I desire. But for the last five days I have been that antisocial man I always pretended to be. I wrote and read every morning. Then I walked and had a light lunch. In the afternoons I mostly read taking breaks to jot down ideas in my journal and take a short walk. One day I even had a nap, a guilty pleasure. After a simple dinner, sitting by the Christmas Stick listening to Windham Hill, I try to write for another hour or so and then I read until I get tired.  I assure you it is a excellent way to live. Except for the fact that I didn’t make a dime in the last five days. But my mind is sharp. Or, at least sharper than normal. Sobriety doesn’t hurt either. Insomnia is still a problem but I’ve lived with it for so long now I should be used to it. However, I’m not.

  NYE

  The end of the month and the holidays went by with an incredible sadness. My dear friend Matt Tucker passed away on Christmas Eve after a fifteen month staggeringly brave argument with cancer. After that the joy of the season eluded me. I couldn’t find the energy to be sociable and skipped several parties. It was just easier to be alone with my dark thoughts of mortality. In the morning I’m driving to Yosemite to refresh my essence. Ready or not 2020, here we come.