I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.
I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.
I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.
I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.
I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.
I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.
I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.
I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.
I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.
But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.
I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.
His long, curly, disorderly salt and pepper hair exposed his age, for his body did not.
Every morning, he sailed his small fishing boat out into the bay of Zihuatanejo and back again in early afternoon.
The rest of the day was spent selling fish and cleaning the boat inside of a small boat house perched over the bay. Fe Dáncio had been a fisherman from childhood and had lived in Zihuatanejo from birth.
While in Zihuatanejo, I spent my days on the beach where the pounding waves pummeled me, where I lay in the sun, where I ate in the small cafés along the beach, where at night I could be found in the small clubs along the beach, dancing.
Tired early, I returned nightly to a small hotel just steps up from the sand. At one time, it had been painted pink with white balustrades with cool orntamental Spanish tiles to walk on. I slept on the balcony in a hammock swinging under palms and flowering plants. I slept soundly. The soft breezes swished through the leaves, murmuring secrets from the past, as did the waves on the sand.
I woke early with the sun and watched the fishing boats bobbing out into the bay. All I wanted to do was the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. For a few dollars, a small cafe next door offered my favorite breakfast of pancakes, papaya, and other fresh fruits and all of the orange juice I could drink… And Nescafe.
Throwing on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, i would walk into the sea, spending hours doing nothing. The waves were unpredictable. At times, they were gently rolling, and at other times, they came in violently, casting me to the hard sandy bottom. More than once, I hit my head on a rock. My brown skin was often bruised.
From my place in the sand, I could see the fishermen coming in, and as usual, Fe Dáncio drew my attention as he walked from the boathouse. I can’t explain it, but to me, he was muyatractivo. His skin was dark. He was muscular. He was weathered but smooth and shiny, if you could imagine it, and his hair was wild and wind blown. I, of course, noticed that he had an eye for the women.
One day, he approached me. We took up a conversation, and he invited me into the boathouse to see his small fishing boat. Since I am fluent in Spanish, we talked for hours, and he told me about his life. We sat in the sand later, continuing our conversation. He seemed as curious about me as I was about him. We ate some dinner, and then he invited me to his house.
(My acceptance of his invitation was not unusual for me, for I visited many houses belonging to strangers. Remind me to tell you the story of visiting a family on an island in a yellow lagoon in a village that grew coconuts only accessable by flat bottom boats.)
Not Fe Dáncio’s place
We walked to a secluded area of the beach where the locals lived in small houses, surrounded by gardens. He lived in a small board cabin outside of his mother’s house in the soft sand among mango trees and lush plants. His mother offered to feed us, but we declined having just eaten.
It grew dark. We sat in his house and talked into the wee hours of the night. I grew tired. He offered his bed for me to lie down on. As he laid down beside me, he offered me a smoke. We smoked quietly, staring into the darkness of the sky. The candle light was dim, and I began to drift away. I was high like I had never been before. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch.
Once in a while, he would send me to the outdoor shower where soft, cool, and refreshing water woke me once again to a night so pleasant, I didn’t want it to end. I only remember waking to a chicken crowing in a tree outside his front door.
Fe Dáncio had gone fishing. He left me a plate of mango and papaya and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t heard him wake or leave. I slowly dressed. After a night of such indescribable hallucinations and pleasure, I was surprisingly refreshed. I went to my regular café for breakfast and returned to the beach to swim and to lie in the sun.
I never saw Fe Dáncio again. I did not see his boat return, nor did I see him walking along the beach. Though I spent weeks in Zihuatanejo, I was left only with this memory of him. It is so vivid, yet I wonder if it really ever happened at all.
Hi Sweetie, I live as though I am partially blind. I see something, mask it with a justification and surge onward. I have spent 7 days in a dream of which I came out of only yesterday.
I was hit twice in the temple by a jealous drunk woman, offered a charge of crack and sex by a young beautiful black girl, got sick and broke out in crater sized pimples.
Since I faced myself in the late afternoon yesterday, the flu like symptoms have mysteriously disappeared. Could it be that my body is my best angel?
I am led to strange places by subconscious yet conscious Cubans who have a common river running in their desperate brains. “Can you help me”, they say again and again like a constant chant that fills my good senses with bad ideas.
I must have a need. I push all sorts of interesting but wasteful stuff at it and come away without having accomplished the very thing that I sought to accomplish and then I’m exposed to what I don’t want. Now buried, I can’t see it anymore. Write to me, I will explain what I mean or call.
For ever your friend, Karen
2
OK baby, Denial is holding on to what already has died but one won’t learn the lesson of it because feeling and thinking the same old shit is easier. Or, once again, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.
Why are you hanging out in bars with shaky Latinos? You’re bobbin’ up-and-down with 3 fingers out of the water. The Cubans are only there to take the rings off your fingers before you go down for good.
You can’t possibly believe that you’re having fun. Where are your guts? Do something different. Don’t go dancing even if you really want to. Don’t rationalize your wants around your desperate needs. This time is not about you but about your family. There is enough there to fill your days and nights. Fuck the-guys-in-the-club thing for a big 8 weeks. I will meet the challenge with giving up or doing what you ask of me for 8 weeks.
I am worried about your recklessness. It is not 1970 when there were virtually no consequences to taking drugs or in a one night stand. I am worried you do not understand you can drop dead, you can get Aids, you can get herpes, you can nose dive and never get out of the spin. I don’t think you can see what your going out and coming back beat up must look like to your family.
Your recklessness in going out and looking for trouble is scaring the hell out of everyone who loves you. Don’t you care? Who is out there cheering you on? What are you thinking? You know what you are shootin’ for while you are in the clubs. Do you have the courage to say it? Is it worth it right now? What happens if your family says enough is enough?
I am ready to hear how mad you are that I would write this. I am ready to read where you see I am fuckin’ up. I am so ready.
I do love you. I check my email every day.
Love, MB
3
Sorry for jumping up-and-down on you in the last email I just don’t get the attraction to the same old scene that chews you up and spits you out again I don’t want to see you keep cripplin’ your relationship with your family because you want to be worshiped by anyone who is willing. You have so much wonderful experiences around you right now at this moment and the moment will not last long.
I check my email everyday. Feel free to write whatever, something like I have. I am not afraid to hear anything although, I might bark a little.
Still your friend? MB
4
Hi Sweetie, Will you please stop being afraid to speak your mind with me. Do you think that I don’t know what your reaction will be when I tell you the things that I do? I expect that someone who loves me as much as you do will tear me up when I fuck up. I give you, if I haven’t already, permission to nail me to the wall, beat me with a stick until I cry out for more love… but I know that I won’t quit going out dancing. I just want to get smarter, quicker. It only took me 7 days to open my eyes. Actually they were open all the time. I justify my blindness. I am gaining much needed experience and will hope to learn more each day. I will find out about myself. I will, I will, I will.
Mexico is the next stop, baby. I have to head home in order to arrive by the 28th. I will arrive late if I can come and see you again.
Gotta go. And by the way, nobody is influencing me. My friend is appalled at my attraction for the wild side. She prefers to die slowly, I, the quick and handy way.
I’ve done alot. I’ve risked a lot. I’ve escaped narrowly alot. I’ve survived alot. And through it all, I have the scars to show for it.
Now, I just want to stay home.
I just want to be peaceful. I am done with adventure. I’m done with drama. I’m done with conversation. I’m done with contention. I’m done with fear. I’m done with succoming. I’m done with overcoming. I’m done with doing anything by the skin of my teeth.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to win. I don’t want to be right. I don’t want to debate. I don’t want to do the research. I don’t want to tell you my point of view and I don’t want to know yours. I don’t want to convince you of anything and I don’t want you to try to convince me of anything.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to hear your voice as it becomes shrill. I don’t want to yell at anyone anymore. I’m not interested in your drama. I can’t help you. I can only take care of myself. I don’t want to give you advice and I don’t want to hear your advice to me.
I just want to stay home.
I’m not interested in traveling anywhere anymore. I’m not interested in observing other cultures or learning other languages. I don’t want to become saddened and heartbroken at the poverty and needless, needless fighting and war. I don’t want to observe cruelty to animals or to children or to old folks. I don’t want to witness genocide anymore. I don’t want to witness the senseless bombing of churches and hospitals and museums and neighborhoods.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to see islands of garbage in the ocean and the senseless beaching of whales and seals and other ocean life because of sonic vibrations created by ships, submarines, fishermen’s boats and exploration and drilling for oil. I don’t want to watch netfishing that destroys the bottom of the ocean and that kill sea creatures that they’re not even fishing for. I don’t want to observe the destruction of coral reefs and see ships and boats sunk to the bottom of the sea because of storms.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to go to zoos and see caged animals. I don’t want to see dogs and cats and other animals suffering because they’re unwanted. I don’t want to see photos or videos of animals that have been mistreated and are found under trucks and locked in basements and dying on a short chain out in the rain and the snow or left on the side of the road, pregnant or with a litter of babies. I don’t want to see farmed animals suffering being raised for human consumption in unthinkable conditions.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to continue to try to figure out why anyone at any time would create weapons of war: guns, bombs, poisonous gases, nuclear weapons that could wipe out our entire Earth and all of its species. I don’t want to think about why drugs are being developed that kill people. I don’t want to see drug addicts lying naked on the street or sleeping out in the rain. I don’t want to hear the news announce how many overdoses took place this weekend.
I just want to stay home.
I can’t understand why we have developed chemicals that we spray on our food and create GMO food stuffs that make us sick and ultimately kill us. I’m tired of hearing about farming practices, like monoculture, that are destroying our ability to feed ourselves. I don’t want to see anymore clear cutting and burning of forests that destroy habitat for the wild creatures that live only to eat and procreate. I don’t want our only option to be to eat farmed fish.
I just want to stay home.
I don’t want to hear about children killing other children in schools. I don’t want to try to figure out why automatic rifles are being sold to children. I don’t want to watch bullying. I don’t want to cry for children who are unclothed, starving, without love, right in our own neighborhoods.
I just want to stay home.
And the last thing I want you to tell me is that I need to rely on politics and politicians when that is the most corrupt of all systems in the world. There is only one exception to what is worse and that is to rely on religion. I don’t want to talk to you about religion or about your god or anyone else’s god/s. I will be the first to tell you that I enjoy myth and legend and fairy tales. But there is nothing good that will come of believing in any thing a or faith based religion. If that’s what you want to talk about, may I encourage you to just leave me alone.
I just want to stay home.
And I especially don’t want you to tell me that if all of this bothers me, I should do something about it. It bothers me yes, but I know that it is not for me or for you to carry the burden of the world on our shoulders. That’s why…
The shadows in the jungle were deeply green and impenetrable to those without eyes to see. The soft breeze was cool, yet the air was also warm and cloying. Her light, filmy garments clung to her wet skin. She felt… she felt like she was warmly alive, sensual, moved.
She had come to the pools of Naemahn. How she had come, she didn’t know. Why was she here? Who had brought her? What was she to do? And yet, not knowing was not unsettling as she stood at the edge of the water. These were subtle and slow moving streams connecting miles of waterways.
The water was covered completely with green algae, large pads of lily with erect stems supported graceful and large, creamy pink blossoms. Through the soft light, blossoms of ruby, violet and golden flowers could be seen peeking out along small paths into the interior catching what light penetrated the shadows.
Large birds with soft grey feathers and long beaks stood on spindly legs that pierced the water. Brightly colored parrots flew randomly and silently through the dense canopy above the water. Other creatures moved through the underbrush, soundlessly on soft padded feet, eyes glowing as they lowered their heads to drink from the pools. All the sounds were muffled and murmured almost imperceptibly to those without ears to hear.
A luxurious flat bottomed barge painted with many colors pulled up in front of her. It was draped in silk fabrics that waved softly as they caught the breeze and completely obscured what was inside. A stunning woman dressed in purple and lavender, embroidered in golden thread, appeared on the deck and invited her to board. Without hesitation she stepped aboard, noticing only at that moment that other rafts similar to this one were seemingly languishing but slowly floating through the waterway.
The woman held open the curtains and a fragrant interior slowly came to light as her eyes adjusted to the candle light. Smoke from incense filled the room. The heady scents of frangipani, myrrh, frankincense, bergamot, rose, clove, cedar, patchouli and more seemed to sedate her. The interior was filled with a pallet and cushions that were covered in the most lush fabrics in saturated jewel tones. The many shades of greens, blues, reds and yellows dazzled the eyes. Every sense was heightened.
The woman motioned for her to sit among the many cushions. She did not resist. She saw no reason to. The barge rocked slowly as it moved away from the shore. The woman, whose name was Ipreet, began to loosen her clothes and slipped them from her shoulders. She sat next to her and gently laid her back on the cushions. The pleasure she felt from the movement of the boat, the many fragrances, the soft light, and Ipreet’s hands, caused her to move gently like a cat.
Ipreet began to massage her slowly and softly with oil of which she could not identify. Its fragrance and softness was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Slowly Ipreet had removed her clothes entirely and was massaging her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, arms and feet and reaching to touch her most delicate parts causing her to reach the heights of ecstasy without letting her reach the peak where every feeling would be released.
After sometime, she felt someone board the raft and enter the room. It was a man. He was dressed in a pure white robe, a white turban and he was barefoot. He had a white beard and deep brown eyes that were almost black and there was a golden light emanating from them. Her legs were open and he sat at her feet.
Ipreet brought him a brass plate with a fragrant smoke climbing sensually to the ceiling. She was feeling an intense desire for this man, though she did not know him. She wanted him to touch her… to continue what Ipreet had started. Where he sat, she could see that he had a large penis. She moved sensually as to arouse him but he remained flacid. She wanted him to enter her. She wanted to have what she knew would be the most remarkable fireworks of her life but he sat there and only smiled at her showing perfectly white teeth and full lips.
Ipreet slowly covered her body as she lay there. She remained uncovered from the waist down. She made no effort to cover her private parts. She wanted the man to make love to her, but he brought the plate between her legs and blew the warm smoke into her. As he did this, she exploded into a million stars of every color. He stayed there, it seemed to her, for seconds, minutes or hours, she didn’t know.
She fell into a deep and mystical sleep filled with beautiful and strange dreams. When she awoke, she was at the waters edge, rocking gently. She was alone. Ipreet and the stranger were gone. The dim interior of the barge was still lit with candles and the incense still burned. She moved to get up and she was aware that she was once again clothed. Her skin felt soft and the fragrance lingered on her skin and in her hair, evidence that she had not been dreaming.
She stepped off the boat onto the jungle floor and moved into the shadows. It was as if no time had passed. She needed no guide. She seemed to know her way out. She felt more alive and fulfilled than she had ever felt before.
She would not soon forget what had happened to her this day… or was it night?
We lived on Montgomery St., just below Vista Avenue, before Hwy 26 went in. The construction destroyed miles of large beautiful houses built at the turn of the century.
Beautiful large homes, in the West Hills, like this one, were bulldozed to make way for highways.
Portland exemplfies the song “Yellow Taxi” written by Joni Mitchell, which goes, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot… Portland was being raped and thousands of long time residents displaced. No one who was making a killing cared.
Our yellow house was built with four apartments. The front was built at street level on a steep hill leading towards downtown to the East, and to the North, the land was even steeper giving each apartment spectacular views of the city.
I couldn’t find an historic photo of the area but this is the type of house sacrificed for development
Each apartment took up an entire floor. The ceilings were at least 10 feet in height with windows almost to the ceilings. There were at least three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and with just one bathroom. The back door opened out from the kitchen onto a balcony with stairs that led to the ground below.
This is not the house but reminiscent of the types of houses in the area.
This was in the late 60’s. Pure LSD was easily had and weed was $10 a “lid”. Our rent, if I remember right, was under $100/month. We didn’t need much money to live, so we bought pounds of marijuana, divided it into plastic sandwich bags and we put them in a large container just inside the front door. Whoever wanted to buy pot from us could leave their money and grab however much they wanted. The honor system at work.
Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, peyote and the like, were all illegal. But at the time, we were more concerned that the house would be raided by FBI agents looking for draft dodgers and those who were AWOL. It had happened and it was scarey but if they’re looking for people, they had no jurisdiction to bust us for drugs.
Our life on Montgomery street was mostly peaceful. It was a good time for exploring both internally and the world around us. We were protesting the right of the US and other countries to invade others to procure resources. We were protesting a culture dictated by corporate greed and materialism. We wanted a simpler and more peaceful world.
Unfortunately, our idealism could not, and has not, changed the white and wealthy. We were using psychedelics, meditation and exploration into philosophies both western and eastern, to found a new path to a kinder and gentler world. But what I know now, is what history teaches us: the few wealthy are lords in the earth and the rest of us… well, we work for them and try to keep our heads above water. No one benefits from war but the wealthy and the young are sacrificed to that purpose.
Those were days that I would return to. Those were days when we thought that on that LSD trip, the answer had been given to us but language failed us. The answer slipped away as we “came down”. One definition of reality that I can recall so clearly came out as I sat looking out over the city as “loud tomato raisin”. I’m still looking for the translation. Perhaps one day I’ll be enlightened enough to translate. 🤭
Those were days of infinite sexual energy, which I didn’t experience again until my 40s and 50s. Hormone saturated freedoms. Dancing in the moonlight. Light shows. Live music and open mic poetry readings. Unbridled idealism anchored and tempered by existential nightmares that things always stay the same.
David Byrne sang, “Burning Down the House… same as it ever was, same as it ever was…” and it appears that we are burning down the house. We can see the ashes. But now it’s not just the big beautiful houses that were once our abodes but it’s the planet where we live.
Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them.
Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through.
Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first.
Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first.
Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us.
Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe.
Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time.
Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything.
May we grieve loss without personalizing it.
May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.
OK, so it’s not even 8 o’clock on a Monday morning and I have 2 big problems and on top of that, some contractor is up nailing on a roof near by and he started like half an hour ago, argh!
Problem#1: Yesterday I changed my bed and took my mattress cover off so that I could wash it and Yum Yum, the dog, threw up something yellow like curry on the sheet without the mattress cover underneath. Now this wouldn’t be so much of an issue except that I have never slept on this mattress without the mattress cover until last night. There’s not a bump or a tear or a stain on it anywhere. Does this upset me? It’s a small thing right? I think what hurts the most is that I rarely have the mattress cover off of it and then here I am with the mattress cover off and Yum Yum throws up on it!
My lovely… now not so lovely mattress
Problem #2: Well, I don’t think I would be as affected by the mattress thing as I am except that I did a big booboo yesterday, and because of it, I couldn’t sleep. I was out grocery shopping, when I saw a message from Dhillon and thought that he had just called me and I missed his call, but no, it was a message from last week on Wednesday. From the message, I thought he was asking me to go out with him again this week. But, no. Here’s where the problem begins: I called him back and said, Yeah, sure, I’d like to hang out with you again. I’m free on Thursday and then, of course, he acquiesced but he was probably confused. This is cringe worthy. When I thought about it later I realized that no, he hadn’t asked me to hang out again. That was an old voice mail. So, now I’m so embarrassed and I don’t know how to correct it. I want to call him and tell him I made a mistake but then how do I do that? “Oh, sorry Dhillon, I thought you were asking me out this week but you weren’t, so we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.” That sounds so lame, and it sounds like I invited him out. What would you do?
Oh, yeah. I didn’t sleep last night and here’s another reason why.
Problem #3: I’ve been making raspberry trifles for many years. Issue number one is that I couldn’t find my trifle bowl. OK. That’s OK. Not really but I do have another glass bowl, even though it’s not a trifle bowl and it’s not the right shape, it will do. So as is my custom, I make the trifle the night before. Instead of making the traditional pound cake or angel food cake, I make a vegan pound cake using coconut sugar. It tastes identical except because of the coconut sugar it is a beautiful shade of caramel. OK. I can live with a caramel colored cake and not the pure white of angel food or creamy yellow of pound cake. I can accept this. The vanilla pudding turns out perfect and I mix in the whip cream and the frozen raspberries have thawed and I have the fresh raspberries to add in. I layer the cake, the vanilla cream and whipped cream and berries to make a beautiful trifle. It’s not the traditional shape but again, I can live with that. But then during the night all I can think about is my problem with Dhillon and that the cake is going to dissolve into nothing and I’ll have a crumbly mess instead of a beautifully layered trifle. So, I didn’t sleep at all and I have these problems and it’s Ancel’s party tonight. This wouldn’t be so bad except that at the last family party, I managed to make soupy potato salad. Who makes a soupy potato salad? Too much pickle juice, I think.
Not so pretty
Oh, there’s a problem #4: the handyman bailed on installing my new AC because it weighs 80lbs. and it needs to be hauled up to the 3rd floor. Now what? It’s late July and the temperatures are climbing.
The monster AC
My life right now! I just want to crawl under a rock. I need coffee. ☕😟
eyeamdust 