To the ghost of DF,
Well Don, neither of us believe in ghosts. We talked about it, both agreeing with Christopher Hitchens. When it’s over, it’s over. Now though, you are in a position to know differently if that is truly the case. You have been on my mind lately, especially since I am finally staying at Asilomar as you recommended all those years ago.
I had a meandering drive up though Big Sur, stopping at Nepenthe for lunch at the bar. They had a Bandol by the glass so I spoiled myself. It is a slightly overcast day and the ocean is steel gray.
I also stopped in Carmel and walked around for a while. The town was very crowded, which surprised me. It also seemed more cluttered than I remember. I became slightly claustrophobic, not uncommon for me these days. I made my way to Tor House and even that neighborhood is now tightly settled. I’m sure Jeffers would be disgusted. I sure was. Any sense of the wildness he once cherished is now long gone. I am actually finding Pacific Grove much more charming and comfortable.
On the drive from Tor House to Asilomar Colman Barks came on the iPod reading Rumi and now I can’t really remember, did we see him in Ojai? I know we saw Gary Snyder, but was that the same weekend? Actually, I don’t think so. I do, however, remember talking with you about Barks.
After I checked in I walked around the grounds, followed the boardwalk to the beach and watched the waves for awhile. I can see why you enjoyed your time here. It is very peaceful and conducive for work. You were finishing a dissertation while you were here and I looked forward to reading it. But that never happened. I told your daughter, a lovely woman, that if she ever came across it I would be honored to borrow it. Maybe someday.
My room is rustic with a high ceiling, small balcony and tall windows that look out over the property. There is a small beat up desk and no TV. This is the old California I envisioned before I moved out here thirty plus years ago. I am sipping from my small silver flask with the Steal Your Face sticker, Hudson old rye. I’m listening to Charles Lloyd (Notes From Big Sur) and Error Gardner (Concert By The Sea). Both, I feel, appropriate for this place. There’s a girl that I wish was here with me, but her life has gone on in another direction. Hardly even matters anyway. Anymore? Anyhow?
So instead of tinkering on a long story about Pittsfield that I’m writing, I’m jotting these notes in my journal. It’s rather cathartic.
I met a cranky old lady at work last night who saw me give your eulogy. Well, she’s ok, it’s her husband who is a prong. I didn’t get their names but next time I’ll ask how they know you.
Earlier tonight I tried to go to the Sardine Factory for dinner but it was packed and I ended up at the bar of a steakhouse right next-door. A good find. Scallops, oysters and a rye manhattan with a twist. I was back in my room before eight. I read a few Jeffers poems and also from a biography of Santoka Teneda. I’ve always loved Santoka’s haiku but I can also relate to his life. Our relationships with alcohol are similar and can be frustrating. Sake for him, whiskey for me. Although to be honest, I have tapered off considerably since you and I were last drinking together. So I think Sandoka suffered more than me. However, time will tell.
All these distractions tonight, Music, reading, walking, whiskey, are keeping me from serious writing. Which is why I chose Asilomar in the first place. I am a bit scattered. My usual December cafard. Aimless travel helps but as Bobby Weir sang on the drive up, “You carry your pain wherever go.” That being another fine piece of Grateful Dead wisdom.
It’s very quiet here. Earlier I wished I could spend a night at Tor House and contemplated making a donation to the foundation and asking if that were even possible. Arrowhead, Melville's house, is another place I’d like to spend the night.
It’s much more peaceful here than it would be in Carmel. I suspect I’m better off concentrating here. The hotel is not busy at all and if I were only a bit more focused perhaps I could actually get some work done. There is a poem about winter solstice coalescing.
Winter Solstice Blues
Sharp morning light after walking before sunrise
Canada geese in silhouette
Rain on the pines
Whiskey warms me
Tall waves — no oystercatchers
The dunes eerie — that kind of stuff.
Other friends I miss haunt my heart. I talk to many of them often. It gives me odd solace. It’s not a frightening haunt at all. Although I may frighten others when they catch me talking out loud. Mostly I talk to my brother, Mide. I’m not sure anyone knew me better. And he certainly knew things about me that nobody else knew. Which now nobody will ever know. We laugh about them sometimes.
And there are others, my Dad, Dot, Malamut, Brez. These ghosts always offer the advice I’m looking for. Which is very convenient. And when I talk to them, or write to them, it is part remembrance, part eulogy.
After a decent sleep I came wide awake at 4:30 this morning. Then I took a five mile walk at the state park and enjoyed the sunrise through the light clouds. A sign says to look for oystercatchers, a favorite shorebird of mine. I see zero.
I had lunch in Pacific Grove, it really is a quaint and small downtown. I saunter up one side of the main street and down the other. After I picked up a sandwich for dinner I’m now sitting on my balcony watching the afternoon clouds thicken. I take another walk. The sun fades rather than sets. The dunes seem to glow in the dull twilight. The air is still, like before a storm. It gets cold. Back in my room I turn off the music, (Lloyd) then some reading & writing. And, I guess, desiring — (whiskey, girls). Sandoka writes, “Earthly passions are themselves enlightenment.” Opposite of most buddhist teachings. See why I’m attracted to his poetry?
I should tell you this: The reason I’m surprised that all the restaurants that I went to today were so busy is for the same reason that the hotel is quiet with a very low occupancy. You see, the world is suffering through a massive pandemic. It’s called Covid-19 and it has now evolved into a third strain named Omicron. 850,000 people have died so far in the United States alone. The death toll worldwide is in the millions. We are starting on our third year of lockdowns, working from home, wearing surgical masks and trying to get enough people vaccinated. And get this! There is a large segment of the population in this country who will not take the vaccine! There is a group of anti-vaxers who think this whole thing is some sort of government plot to take away their freedoms. These people are practicing their own home remedies after doing their own “research”. Some of the cures include drinking bleach, a vegan diet (the yoga/wellness kids), drinking their own piss and taking a drug called Ivermectin. Here’s what Ivermectin is used for, treating infections caused by threadworms and roundworms in the intestines of horses. As we used to say at Highland School, “I shit thee not!” This probably would not surprise you though; these are the same people who deny climate change. The uneducated citizens of the red states who fear science because of their ignorance. A case of the Dunning-Kruger Effect if ever there was one. It’s all rather frightening. There is more political nonsense going on but I will spare you the worrisome details. You are now beyond such petty concerns anyway.
I’m thinking about Hitchens again. He wrote, “We are born into a losing struggle.” You were at the bar the night he died and we were amazed at his stamina. Then you were next. I wish, if I had the courage, that we could have talked about his last book, Mortality. But you were living it. When I reread Mortality again last year it brought your situation clearly to mind. I couldn’t help but to be reminded of you.
This also reminds me of why I enjoyed your company when I was at work. After a night of the most mundane conversations imaginable I could completely alter my thinking when you showed up. Instead of listening to people, often my friends, go on about their boring days, shitty jobs, fights with their boyfriends, who’s cheating on who, how they drank too much and on and on and on, I could actually have a stimulating conversation about art, literature and music. A wonderful switch for my mind. And these days it’s gone even a level lower, twenty times a night someone has to show my something on their phone. It’s gaudy. So I miss our talks even more.
I step out on the balcony and smell woodsmoke. Some of the rooms here have real fireplaces. I should have asked for one. Next time, when I plan on being back in early April.
The other night I was telling a charming friend about how shy I am. She didn’t really believe me mostly because I’m so comfortable around her. My anxiety fades when I’m with certain people. A glass of whiskey had a calming effect as well.
All of which has me thinking that you, DF, would’ve had a good laugh about my shyness when I showed up to speak at your memorial and there were almost three hundred people there. Standing room only at the World Famous El Paseo Restaurant. I was led to believe it was going to be a small gathering. You got me real good. But I would do it again. Cody asked me and there are some things in life you can’t say no to.
That was quite an afternoon. A testament to you and a show of love. Tony Ybarra played with so much passion that I choked up. What did I talk about? Our easy friendship. Our common appreciation of music and poetry, the books we shared. The concerts we went to. Meeting up at that cowboy bar near the Libby Bowl. But mostly about what a good person you were. Even though everyone already knew that part, obviously. A few other people spoke, one of your cancer doctors and the president of Brooks. They both talked of their deep respect for you. We all spoke from our hearts, battered as they were from the loss.
There was some mingling afterwords and, shockingly, I found myself at the bar with Owens and Girven, Tony and Cody. You can probably guess this part; we raised some glasses of 1942.
Odd that I’m telling you all this tonight because if what we believe is true, you weren’t there. You were, in fact, nowhere. Well, except in the hearts of all of us who love you. And that makes me wonder something. When we are all gone, then what? Is that when we/you achieve some sort of immortality, when everyone who once remembered us is dead too? That’s an interesting milestone to contemplate. And surely it will happen. That day will come for all of us when there is no loved-one left to think about, or dream about us. Sobering stuff as I sip the last from my flask and the rain falls softly outside my window.
I am up again at 4:30. A light rain is still coming down. If I didn’t have work looming I would stay another night, move to that fireplace room. The rain lets up and I wandered back over to the beach. The surf is heavy and there are several surfers in the water riding the big breaks. It’s cold, windy and bleak. A Jeffers-like squall blows through, lovely in its indifference to my longings. I go back to my room for some thinking, reading, writing. I am feeling tremendously uncreative despite another good night’s sleep. Curiously, I dreamt of oystercatchers. My ennui slowly fades but I haven’t forgotten about Emerson’s black star. It’s still out there.
Today I will skip Big Sur in the rain and take the 101 home. I had a very stormy ride down the PCH once in my red truck. The storm was vicious, the fog thick, the winds high. Visibility was zero. It took me three hours to go fifty miles. I had to take a long break at the Henry Miller Library. But I made it. KBO as Hitchens would often remind us. Keep Buggering On!
