Five words at a time.
Pounded out in short sentences.
Staccato, pointed, sharp, and quick.
If you think it’s hard.
Then you think too hard.
It’s about language and control.

Hold back on the emotion. Grasp each word in perfection. Going home is not easy. Seeing home decaying is harder. It is time for goodbye. Seeing people drown in moisture. The wet, not jus’ natures. There is an endless crying. Tears filling litter-filled gutters.

A log truck rolls by. It has no real destination. Chip trucks absent from roadways. Fresh wood chip odor gone. Fishing vessels remain at dock. Men working their jobless decks. Weeds and brush remain uncropped. Signage covered by high grass. Dead-fall tucked in between trees. No hand allowed to touch.

So many bodies moving about. But no one really working. Shopping carts hold every possession. Gaunt, fatigued faces, broken spirits. Lost in a smoky haze. A sullen glance of eye. A furtive look turned away. No one wants to know. Nobody cares to see it. But it is there, seen.

Seeing five train engines rotting. This is the full story. Rot is everywhere you look. There are few memories remaining. Those that are only were. Society and communities in distress. This is what we saw. Witnessing the deterioration of neighborhoods. People sleeping, living in streets. Drugs are their dominate feature. Government more interested in politics.

Yeah, those five train engines. Each stacked end to end. Decrepit, graying, rusted, abandoned hulks. There is no future here. But people keep moving in. Burdening the system even further. A Shangri-la draped in cobwebs. Beneath that, a black mold. And a persistent aching sadness. It adds to the chill. The overcast skies and fog. It’s all a tragic lie.

A heavy sadness covers this.
To know people, those loved.
Unwilling to change their lives.
Refusing to understand this poison.
That death overtakes all things.
Five word sentences, all’s left.

It was as if I had ‘an itch that I couldn’t scratch.’ How many times have I heard that, said this, thinking I knew what it meant. Today I learned, as I scrambled out of the house, half-wild and needy, heading into the lower hills jus’ to the west of us for some quiet time and to perhaps hike some of the shorter game trails.

You can always tell that they are game trails. Rarely is there scat, the trail is clean of dead fall and scrub grasses and never goes over large rocks, always around. I love to explore these trails to see where they lead, up or down the hillside, often to water or a shade of tree, also a sign of water.

But this time I found a clearing off the side of this trail. I followed it in as it had none of the ear-marks of being made my coyotes, rabbits or deer. This one was all wrong and I figured it to be human made and I was right as it lead to the butte of a 20-foot slab of stone, a flat in the hillside where large chunks had fallen to the ground.

Oddly, I noted, someone had taken the time to clear the base of this small cliff of the majority of the bits and pieces of rock that had fallen, which once I was standing next to it I learned that it sloped forward slightly, protecting it from the rain, snow and tumbling stone. As I drew closer, I saw that their were words etched in the facing.

Amazing! I had to step back so I could read it, an untitled maverick poem I think, and though badly faded by age and environment this is what I think is scratched into this certain place:

The censorship is not tongued!
The censorship is exceptionally inarticulate.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the censorship,
Gently it goes, the walk-on, the inarticulate, the nonspeaking.
I saw the greed, my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the excess.
Does the excess make you shiver?
Does it?
When I think of the happiness, I feel alive.
Does the happiness make you shiver?
Does it?

– HS Smith Aug 1932 Tenn.

As I sit in my room, typing out the words I transcribed into my notebook, I can’t help think of another ‘HS.’ This one being Han-Shan or maybe Hanshan, and who lived during China’s Tang Dynasty, and who wrote his poems on rocks around the caves in which he lived.

Makes me wonder if Smith were a ‘student’ of this long-ago poet. I also must beware that it could be an absolute fraud, words carved more recently than the etchings claim. If it is genuine, it’s a year older than my dad would be if he were still living, and if truly genuine, I wish I could slip into Smith’s mind to fully understand what was happening in his world.

Anyway, I shall not divulge this spot, this sand stone marvel, real or fake. And since I did not have my camera on me, I did not get any photos of it. I have found a lot of things in the high desert, but this beats most of them and leaves me blown away.

In recent days, and every since the Internet decided to celebrate Ernest Hemingway’s birthday, I’ve seen several articles detailing how his suicide was the final outcome of a man dealing with a sexual identity crisis. A number of scholars are citing letter that he wrote over the years to his many wives.

It makes me wonder what these same scholars would have to say about me and the fact that this morning, I had a dream in which I was young woman, size A cup titties and under my lacy panties a vagina and clit that I was unable to arouse. I don’t see how any of this has to do with one’s sexual identity.

It was a dream, admittedly a very strange dream, but I don’t think it’ll affect Taylor Swift or myself one bit. I would like to know if she had a strange dream wherein she became a pudgy, old man with a tiny and broken wee-wee.

If she did, I’m sure she’ll write a song about it and it’ll be another hit for her.

Personally, I think all of these screwball dreams are being caused by my working too hard on ‘stream of consciousness’ writing and that this is the result. And why couldn’t I dream I was an intelligent brunette, Megan Fox perhaps?

“You are so accident prone,” my wife says.

“No, I’m not,” I reply, “I jus’ move so fast at times that I become clumsy.”

“If you say so,” she smiles sweetly, “But I’ve never seen you move fast once.”

“Pffts,” I press through my tightly pursed lips.

The injuries, though not severe, take a toll on the body. Aside from a broken back, done years ago, as I’ve aged I’ve found my skin turning thin, so thin in fact that at times I’ve had to stop and asked: “Now where in the fuck is that blood coming from?” A tear here, there. Never had to worry about this when I was twenty. What do you mean I ain’t twenty no more? Then there are the crumbly bones and the loss of muscle. I used to have nice legs, but being unable to jog or walk long distances anymore they’ve become…what? Stringy? Thin? Sticks? I like ‘what’ better.

There are also the other injuries that happen on the periphery, like the hard-charging, hard-playing boys of next door. The eldest broke his hand running through his house, hitting it on the door frame of his room. Boys (and girls, too,) break parts of their bodies constantly. The younger of the two brothers broke his leg while riding his bike, then three days before his case was to come off, fell off something in the school yard and broke it again. Then while playing around on a scooter two days ago, the eldest jumped it from our other neighbors driveway, which is higher than ours, landing on our drive and then wiping out in the roadway. Broke the same hand and this time the arm.

Both boys and some other neighbor kids are out there right now jumping bikes and scooters. I won’t even go into the greater injury, this one being the pocketbook of Mom and Dad.

Up the street, our street, a ‘way’ really, we had a drive-by shooting. No one was injured, but it left a lot of folks in this usually quiet neighborhood a little shaken. I heard the three gun shots, but thought it was two-in-the-morning, but didn’t go look to see what was happening or even check the time. People blow off steam with guns and fireworks all the time, thinking this area is still rural. It is, but the people ain’t. More suburbanites coming this way on a weekly basis.

Sheriff’s department is still out investigating. Whomever it was, they blasted three holes into a house, that I’ve had my suspicions about for at least five-years. I’m not the only one. Rumor, and it’s only a rumor, is that it’s a drug house. But thinking back on it, I’m sure that if it were, the law would have been all over the place and we’d have all heard about it one way or the other.

“Did you hear anything?” the young deputy asked me as I was sweeping up the crap spilled from our trash can, that the garbage man managed to leave behind because they insist on using those stupid pinchers that squeeze the shape out of the plastic bin, while shaking the innocent piece of green, half to death.

“Yeah,” I said, “Three shots around two in the morning.”

“Any idea whether that came from the east or the west of you?”

“Nope, no idea. Gunshots happen out here and I don’t really pay close attention to them unless I hear voices to go with them.”

I looked west as another deputy’s rig came to a stop, his bubble-gums popping on.

“Your partners lights,” I said.

“Roger,” the deputy replied, “And thanks. Have a great day.”

No matter what the people in that house have done, they deserve to be safe in their beds at night. I’d go up there a stand watch but neither the cops nor my wife would take it very well. So I won’t go, which I’m sure is a disappointment to my 30-30, Betsy-Boo. That’s what I call her. I have no idea what she calls herself. It could be Bob for all I care. It has sat in the corner, fully loaded, one in the chamber, and has never gone out and shot anyone willy-nilly, jus’ because. So for that, this particular 30-30 can call itself whatever the hell it wants.

Another point of injury, which turned out okay was with our elder dog, Yaeger biting off the cap to a tube of diaper rash cream and getting it stuck in his trachea. The old doggo loves fish oil pills and could smell the fishy odor of the cream and decided to help himself to some. Still don’t have any idea how he got his teeth on it. He came out of the back room, choking, drooling, wheezing and scaring the shit out of us.

Found out, post-haste, that Mary and me still work well together in emergencies. I handle the medical shit and she handles logistics. She grabbed the tube of crap he’d found, as I performed a modified Heimlich, the kind you do only for dogs, dislodging it, but not fully clearing the back of his throat. By the time I picked him up and hauled him to the back seat of the car, Mary had it covered, the air conditioner at full-tilt and was opening the garage door. I was dialing the vet hospital declaring an emergency.

“Is there a number on the tube to call in the event of accidental ingestion?” the woman on the phone asked.

“Looking,” I answer, “No. But poisoning will be secondary in this case. He’s choking.”

“Oh,” she said, “I see. Are you en route?”

“Yes,” I responded in my bestest and calmest paramedic’s voice, “About ten-mikes out.”

Obviously, she’d been here before and returned, “Roger, we’re prepared.”

“Hmm, two ‘rogers,’ one day,” I think as I push the end button on my cellphone.

Meanwhile, Mary was driving like a professional, zipping and gliding between vehicles, left to the right, and right to the left, and back again. I believe that had I the equipment and the need, I could have slipped a catheter in a subclavian vein, jus’ below the collarbone had she been the boxes’ driver. Certainly felt like the old days.

Yeggs was in a panic naturally and starting to loose steam. I decided I couldn’t wait anymore and risking a bite was not as bad as him dying right there in the car. “After all this time, Yaeger,” I said, as if he could understand me, “This ain’t the way to go!” I shoved my hand in his mouth and found the plastic cap stuck at the base of his tongue, fingered it until I could get a hold of it and removed the fucking thing. He immediately settled down and like the old Lab that he is, he acted as if nothing was wrong and was in fact enjoying the car ride. Talk about transitioning in the ‘now.’ Called the vet and canceled the emergency and returned home where everything was copacetic once again.

I only ended up with a couple of scratches and one real tooth mark in my left hand from the ordeal.

So what fresh dangers do we have before us today. Hell. Who knows. I am going to mow the back yard, so there is that. Nope. The finally injury is suddenly witnessing the fresh pot of coffee, still peculating, and for no reason, bubbling, spitting and running its hot content all over the kitchen counter. Wasting such good coffee hurts. That’s akin to, but not as bad as, spilling an alcoholic beverage, which is technically, alcohol abuse.

“Damn it!” my wife growls as we begin cleaning up the mess of brown liquid and bits of ground bean, “I can’t believe I forgot to put the basket in place again.”

“It happens,” I say as calmly as I can.

“Yeah, but…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get it cleaned up and make some more. In fact, I’ll make it this time.”

“No. I’ll make it again,” she says, exasperated.

I know better than to argue with her at this moment and thus avoid any possible injury.

Overheard while social distancing:

“They oughta call COVID-19  ‘the common core virus.’”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothings adding up.”

 

Early morning dialog.

“I have been off work because I won’t wear a mask, so I took a job as watchman for a logging outfit,” he said, “I am getting paid to camp out. You never know what life will bring. Good place and job to get my guns sighted in.”

“That is so cool,” I return, “Sounds like and adventure to me. Doing any writing?”

“Always gotta eff things up by bringing up writing, don’t you? Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” I silently chastise myself. I shake my head at my reflection in the window, forlornly.

“Brought a note pad,” he continues, “Hiking this morning, saw grouse, hearing cow elk talk.”

“Good, write it all down,” I said.

Opened the gate on it, might as well move the cow from the one pasture to the next. “I need to learn to think before I open god-damned mouth,” I think with a sigh.

“Sort of like Kerouac’s fire tower?” he said.

“Exactly!” I exclaim.

“Jus’ spooked a doe,” he continues, “Two of them.”

“To me, that’s adventure,” I tell him.

“Me, too. Good country, God’s country,” he adds.

“Yes!” I said, “And I’m a bit jealous, too.”

“I brought lots of reading too. I am happy,” he tells me.

“I am happy too,” I said, “And sometimes that is enough, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” my friend replied, adding, “Almost always.”

---

Sitting at my desk, in front of my computer screen, and something they call a terminal, another point of irony that perhaps I only see, I don’t want to write anything beyond this. Instead, I think I’ll sit out in the shade of my backyard, in the summers heat, under the building clouds meant for a late afternoon thunderstorm and dream of my own fire tower, where my heart’s full.

Work, work, work. Been out in the garage busting through drywall in order to put in a new electrical outlet. I don’t get to do the work as Mary has someone she’s had do work at her old job, coming out to install it. Ain’t gonna see me crying about not having to do extra construction.

She’s also lined up someone to insulate and hang drywall in the garage. No crying over that either. I am laughing though, as I wanted to do this shit back when we were younger and had the body for such work. Her reasons are different from mine. She’s wanting it done to keep her new freezer from getting warm.

Don’t see the irony in that? Hmm…

Gripped a slab of drywall and yanked on it and ended up breathing in a bunch of the dust and plaster. Choked off my airway. I finally laughed and when I did, I blew a big white puff of crap out my mouth. That made both my wife and our house guests laugh till they retired to house. So glad I could make their day.

Got up after both woman and when I came out to get a cup of coffee, first there was no more and I had to make some, and second my wife, while attempting to pay me a compliment, said, “You look like a young Ernest Hemingway.”

I smiled, responding, “So I look like death warmed over, huh?” making them both laugh.

Decided to take a quick shower while the coffee was running through it’s second brew. Got finished, dried and dressed, only to come back out and find all the coffee was gone. I must have had a confounded look of stupidity on my face, because no sooner did turn around and look at the two all-too innocent looking women at the dining table, they started busting a gut laughing.

“Good one,” I said as they showed me the extra large cup in which one of them pour the full pot of coffee into.

I did not share.

It’s not often that I get to use my sophomoric radio humor on someone other than Mary. In most cases she simply looks at me with that eye roll that says, “Oh, christ…” so it is nice to have a fresh audience, which is what Cathy makes.

Since we’re her way-station, she’s been busy with the process of packing away supplies for her trip to the cabin. To wit: Cathy filled two large plastic bottles of water and as she carried them to her room, where Mary’s new freezer is residing, I said in my best barroom voice, “Nice jugs.”

Without missing a beat, Cathy held both up and stated, “And they’re Diamonds.”

I looked at the blue printing and by god, she was right. They are diamonds and we both fell about the place, laughing. Mary admonished us in a half-assed and laughing way, “You two.”

Got laundry to wash, dry and fold before lunch. Perhaps there’s a cold Guinness in my future.

With the white clothes washed, dried and put away, the three of us went to lunch. Chili’s. I had the chili burger, fries and a beer. A Dirty Wookie. Never had one of those before and it was good, not a Guinness good, but good none-the-less. There was so much food in front of me, along with the chips and dip, and Mary’s corn on the cob, and my beer, that I had a lot to eat.

“You need to clean your plate, young man,” our waitress ordered. I was hoping that she was smiling when she said this.

“Aye-aye,” I grinned and proceeded to do exactly that. As a seated customer, I didn’t have my mask on.

It wasn’t until we were in another shopping center that I realized that I forgot to collect my gold star for being a good boy, by eating everything on my plate. Thank you, Cathy, for lunch. I enjoyed it. I’m beginning to feel popular again as this is the second time this week that I’ve been out to a sit-down restaurant.

I am still so full!

As I sat in the car waiting for Mary and Cathy to return from the candy store they shopping at, I was watching the parking lot. Lots of women with gorgeous bodies, too bad everyone of their face masks were up and I could seen nothing more than eyes and eyebrows. Too bad. Can’t help but think about the March 1979 Bellamy Brother’s song, “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me.” They said nothing, absolutely nothing, about faces and that works for me.

We are planning to barbecue some steaks this evening. It looks like I’ll be doing this under threatening skies, thunderclouds again and a flash flood warning. Don’t expect to see much flooding or that much rain for the matter. But that light show should be spectacular through the smoky grill’s chimney.

Lord, lord, lord, I am miserable as I ate far too much today. Lunch should have been my last full meal, but them Mary made and served her chicken enchilada’s and Spanish rice. I couldn’t refuse. Now I sitting around, and I do mean around, with my jeans undone and passing gas. Good thing I’m in the other room at the moment.

As we were cleaning up following dinner, my wife and her friend started talking about Cathy having to use an outside at this cabin. Listening to the conversation I think there is a homemade commode inside to use if needed.

“I don’t want to go out there after night because I don’t want to run into any wild animals,” Cathy said, “I mean a deer is fine but a bear or a cougar, no.”

Couldn’t help myself and responded, “Well, if it’s a cougar then — that would mean there are two cougars out there.”

Laughter all around.

The garage has two new electrical outlets. Cost 120-bucks. Not bad I guess. Another case of irony is the guy putting the electric works, did so during a lightning storm. Perhaps I’m the only one that see the humor in that, proving how odd my mind is.

As for that storm, it caused some problems for the folks on the east side of our valley, the Wingfield Springs area, by causing a pretty good sized wildfire. This is the second blaze they’ve had in the last couple of weeks.

Rushed down to the end of our road and did my best to video tape it with my cellphone, but while I could see the orange flames dancing jus’ over the top of some trees, they didn’t show up in the capture. All I really got was smoke. Smoke is never as exciting as the sizzle or the flame.

Seeing how this ‘stream of consciousness’ stuff’s being received in a lukewarm fashion tells me that I may have to change up what and how I write. I’m gonna give it another day as I brainstorm and sort things out.

So, if we become a cashless society, how will I be able to tip a stripper?

It’s been a strange day for sure. Sat out back for a couple of hours after my son brought over his wife’s childhood friend’s dog, Bailey, for us to sit while they went to Donner Lake for the day. Bailey has not been happy with the arrangement and has been laying at our front door, whining for his human. I think I’d be crying for mine too if I were left in a strange environment with no way of communicating my displeasure.

While playing with the dogs, trying to exhaust them so that they’d rest a little while in the late afternoon and before their doggy din-din, my dog, Buddy accidentally got a tooth caught in my shorts and ripped the ass out of them completely. He was going after the tennis ball I had in my hand and missed. It was a rather close shave for my left ass-cheek. He had a rather large target, one that’s hard to to miss.

Not only did the spring hinges prove difficult to adjust properly, the damn door leading from the front room to the garage refused to completely close. Discovered that one of the hinges was broken and that it refused to fold shut itself. So the job is only two-thirds finished when it come to this particular door.

I hope to get to the hardware store to replace and install it while the two women are off lunching tomorrow afternoon.

Mary has been busy cleaning the house as we’re expecting company for the next two days. Her childhood friend, Cathy will be using our home a way-stop for gathering supplies and such, before she takes her tuck and heads for the hills for a week. This is an annual thing now, Cathy having stopped over last year too.

“I’ll let you know when I get ready to mop,” my wife said.

“Okay,” I answered from the back room.

After a few minutes, “Hey, be careful, the floors wet where I mopped.”

“Okay,” I respond.

Later, she asked, “I thought you were gonna help me mop?”

“I was,” I answered, “But you told me to be careful of the wet floors, so figured you were done.”

“You could have come out and taken over for me.”

“Ah-ha!” I say to myself, adding, “Match, set, game. No l’oeuf there.”

She finally got me off the bench into the game this evening…

Before I could sit down and work on this, I had to do some touching up in the living room. Though Mary swept and mopped the floors earlier, all four doggos tracked in dirt, drooled water spots, and furred up the place. Kind of forgot how much work having four pooches roaming to-and-fro can be.

Then while getting ready to back out of the driveway, a streak of white thread zipped across the darkening skies to the east. A thunderstorm. My first thought is of Cathy who is flying in with that raging through the our air and next Mary, who is en route to pick her up from the airport. I don’t envy either woman.

As it is, I may have to turn this computer off to prevent a possible power surge. Admittedly, I am going to push my luck on this one because I want to get this journal finished. Like I stated at the beginning, “strange day.”

Anyway, I never got to take a shower, nor did I get to paint today. Best laid plan and all that. While it is top of mind, thank you for all the birthday wishes. Mary hid a birthday card in our refrigerator, leaving it for me to find when I went to get myself a snack late in the night.

Lastly, I had a very vivid dream that has stayed with me even after I had my coffee this morning. Sometimes dreams don’t stay for long. They’re like wisps of fine mist, not patches of heavy fog. I’ve had lots of fog the last few days. Anyway, in this dream a couple went to the beach, where she stripped down and was taken into the ocean by a Cthulhu-type creature, who was going to teacher her how to make desserts.

Honest, I haven’t had a drop in two-weeks.

I’m wanting to quit reading this book, ‘Big Sur.’ It’s hard to invite a man, syllable-by-syllable into your head, then read in his own words, how he is drinking himself into an early grave. Makes me want to break out into a high flying semper fidelity fit.

That sounds like a bunch of hypodermic needle hip-ship. But no drugs, nothing, all-natural, not even the drink to cause my thought process to unfold in such a psychedelic phase, jus’ this damned book!

This from a mind, my mind, that wants to say more, but has neither the intelligence to put into thought, nor the words. I’ve been caught, flat-footed, standing out on a barren landscape, scratching my ass from this one.

It’s a mind that doesn’t fully sleep even when it is sleeping. My dream-state remains plugged in and fully charged, tuned into the oldies on that made-up memory chart, the kind ever so rarely’s in tune musically with my circadian rhythm that a sleeper is supposed to have to successfully navigate through the nocturnal.

But I am an abnormal person. My body has been born in tune with night owl’s rum-dumb life under phony lights and lamps.

Furthermore, how can I set myself loosed when it’s God’s brain power that I operate on? No thought is mine alone, for He is the salesman, the One with all the stories. I am merely an instrument; one of a multitude and akin to all His stars in the universe.

Maybe it is laughter that I need. It is a sounds which comes, goes, arrives and fades like a wind from off the sea, over mountain top, through tree branches across the desert to me.

This is how I like my days, with coffee and imagination and sometimes a general dare to go beyond my emotional bounds, break my mental bonds, into that space only I can explore and describe, if I had a full grasp on those needed works to complete the work. So who needs drugs or drink to find that they are lost, alone and hurting? Not this old man for I’m fully equipped to find myself, rescue myself, fail myself.

In other words, and there are always other words, the medicine in that needle, that button of peyote, that final dribble at the bottom of that bottle are not the drug I need to aid me in telling my stories. My mind is my fix and it keeps me awake at night, deep into morning, brain click-clacking like an old manual typewriter, that rolls along in the misshapen form of a locomotive, emphasis on loco, heading over here, there, somewhere and nowhere all at once. There is no siding, no rest, only full-throttle fatigue where the head-on crash becomes imminent and impossible to avoid.

But it is a flat-afternoon now, dry, dead air and heat. I can tell that it is flat by the puffs of white cotton, gray, even bottoms, resolutely shapeless and altogether billowy at once. This too, will not last long as finally a leave overhead begins to shimmy a shadowed strip-tease, wolf-whistling in the fact that a breeze is picking up, moving west to east. The cloud, that puffy slacker, the one which builds up higher and higher, into a striking thunderhead will be well on its way from here to there within the hour and another tick upward of the red-glassed thermometer beneath the house’s eve.

I am no quitter. At least not yet, not till my death…

It may be difficult, but I shall finish what I’ve started, including this dusty, worn-out book, published the year I was born. I’ll read it cover to cover. I do, however, feel like the dog’s red water bucket, filled with floating mud water, mud clumps at the bottom.

“Dog germs!” Charlie’s friend, Lucy screams.

And soon I’ll decamp from this chair that I dragged into the under-shade of our aspen. And like that red bucket, I shall empty it and refill it. This is in my nature, and that bucket with the mud, and me, share a terrible inert languor: we each seek refilling after dirtying ourselves, whether by our own doing or another.

In the end, I only selected this spot to scribble because I wanted to exhaust the dogs in the heat while spilling a few words on to a spare sheet of paper. Notes actually, and all about this day or perhaps some other day.

There’s also a strange and gentle sameness to it all, as I absorb it, take in, find refill, so that I might spend it in awe, record my findings, then sending them out like a kindergartner on her first day away from mother, screaming.

That god-damned chapter won’t read itself.