Wednesday, February 28, 2007

This quickening...

A dear friend of mine has termed this blog San Franciscan Ruminations and i feel that i've never truly delivered the product promised by those words. I wish to finally do so...

Narrowing the limitless options of self-definition: my person must represent either some aspect that we all carry in regard, or a certain personality confined to a body, absolute. And needing to choose so deliberately for this endeavor, i select the pollyannaist whose over-optimism is both easily dissuaded and shied by hindrance, as encouraged by ease and fluidity. This personality is seemingly vulnerable to subtle fluctuation, but spared many distresses self-inflicted. And this in tow with my particular upbringing creates a metropolitan anomaly, maybe.

I'm gaining and losing here in this city; it's mostly velvet as the gamblers say: i think i'm winning. This ability to be both anonymous and gregarious at whim, near simultaneously, is the heart of my heart in San Francisco. To satisfy both of these wants, and likely needs, is a momentary gift that i hold onto. I feel in some part, that i have a secret that distends my appreciation for this city life. All that i've ever lived, until now, has in some way been diametric to this paved grid littered with life. This tight mixture of sound and smell, the sweet and the fetor together, combine into something almost richer than the pure beauty i've often been surrounded by. There's something more believable about this unification, as it encompasses the human being too~ both gentle and fierce.

But, what i'm losing is my sensitivity and mild candor for all. As the world grows bigger, i grow smaller and for whatever reason, i feel less. It's survival in an overly-stimulating environment that begs for attention. We harbor more unconsciously and find safe doses for semblance and sentimentalism alike. I don't know if i really buy what i'm writing, but part of me knows that my skin is thickening. That what remains untouched is my deliberateness and calculation, but what narrows is my aptness for affection. Not absence, because it is my core, but quicker reluctance to showing it. And not just showing it; feeling it.

I remind myself not to hurry. All these things around me i've wanted at some time, and now they're here with me. Perhaps it's just an apprehensive time and all of us feel our steps are hurried, whether they are or not. Perhaps it's some American way of living. Either way, i trust it... that which threatens me and holds me strong, reassuring.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Rolling In Washington.

Once when I was ten years old I mistook the sun for the moon. It was a breathless winter day in Chehalis, a small town in southwestern Washington State. The cold seemed to absorb all sound, making it ring hollow. A high bank of altostratus clouds could be seen through the gaps of gray cottony, cumulous that hugged the land. The high clouds were smooth and taut, tan like the color of skin. The lower clouds were dark and ruffled; I swore I could touch them from a rooftop. The sun's play through the two banks created an illusion. At one point I looked up and cried, “There’s the moon! It’s full.”

I was with my mother and father. It was an early Saturday morning; we were driving into town. I was in a league bowling tournament and every Saturday we went to the alley. My parents laughed until I understood my mistake. I turned red alone in the backseat. That made them laugh harder.

They dropped me off at the front door and went to find parking. I was late. I ran inside and quickly slipped my bowling shoes on. I found my teammates right before the first game started. We called ourselves The Scorpions. We thought it sounded tough and intimidating. Our first game was against The Alley Cats. We all had a good laugh at that, as if team names would determine the winner.

Most of the kids were my age, but a few had reached the glory of teen. We looked up to those ones, admiring their developing muscles and sprouts of hair beneath their arms. Although we didn’t share the same age, we all held one thing in common: our parents were alcoholics. Even at nine in the morning, already many of them were on a second or even third drink. Cans of Miller High Life and Rainier lined the countertops, cigarettes burning in the ashtrays. Most kids only had a mother or father watching, but not the two together. In that way, I was different. My parents were seated together in the second row. I could see them already rummaging for the wine they’d brought along.

Bowling was never a popular sport in our town, as it likely wasn’t in many towns. It was more of a weekend activity, or a place for highschoolers to bring their sweethearts. We played it as a sport though. We rolled the ball with intensity and determination. We calculated our spin and aimed for the third hash mark. Adrenaline pulsed our veins as the ball drove into the center pin. It was a poor kid’s sport and it made sense, because we were all poor. Our team uniforms were homemade. We’d drawn scorpions on the front of three red t-shirts and wore black pants. Seattle was an hour away. Only an hour to find our heroes: the Butthole Surfers, the Posies, Black Flag, or Nirvana.

Maybe other kids saw us for what we were, poor goodwill shoppers with a permanent marker. But I don’t think so; we were all on the same train together.

We rolled a good game against The Alley Cats. We taunted them with weak meows on every strike or nine spare. We were ruthless and cruel and having a good time. The final decision was ours and we moved to the next round.

Our next opponent was The Kingpins. They held a town legend on their team, a scrawny redhead named Paul. He was seemingly harmless, but looks deceive, and man could that kid raise hell. His father was the leading alcoholic in the crowd. The man had more drinking experience and no-how than everyone combined. He liked to hit Paul a lot and many Saturdays Paul would show up with bruises about the face. Rumor had it that Paul would soon be a father to a fourteen year-old across town by the name of Lindsey Taylor. We were all in love with her; she was sweet and incredibly sexy. And now Paul had knocked her up. It’d also been said that Paul had once vandalized Sheriff Hamilton’s patrol car in the 7-eleven parking lot. Old Hamilton was likely filling his mug with coffee and talking some questionable material with Sue behind the counter. Little did he know, while he was trying to get laid, his car was in the hands of Paul. The car was a canvas, and Paul the artist held his tools: spray paint and a switchblade.

Paul was a fighter but he bowled like a lover. He would caress the ball before gently laying it down with such quiet force upon the lane. He had the most wicked spin; the ball would cut so hard at the last second, driving into the side of the kingpin. In that explosive instant, pins would leap in every direction. The invisible dust would settle on a lane lay barren of pins. Paul didn’t show emotion when it came to bowling. He would casually approach the scorecard and place an ‘x’ in the frame, before taking a seat.

We knew we needed a better game to beat The Kingpins. We played our hearts out, withholding our usual taunts and name calling for another team that didn’t have Paul on it. My teammates were Jared and Sarah. We were all in the sixth grade together. At school we were friendly and would pass greetings in the hall. But the true friendship lay at the alley. Sarah didn’t have the physical strength to drive, but her accuracy was astounding. That girl could draw a strike from the slowest roll. Jared, on the other hand, would throw the ball so hard he sometimes lost his balance, falling over the line and drawing a foul. I once saw Jared roll it so fast into the gutter that it ricocheted into a strike. Jared was strong and sloppy. He reminded me of Jose Canseco, either a homerun or a strikeout. There was never a medium. Jared either fit the gutters or blew the pins away.

The game was neck and neck. Sarah chipped away on spares, making a pair of incredible splits that drew a few “oohs,” “aahs” and scattered claps. Jared played his game and somehow managed more ‘x’s’ than ‘0’s.’ I rolled in between, grabbing a few strikes and a handful of spares. It was a tight game. The Kingpins held a small lead throughout the match. On Jared’s final frame he stunned everyone present with an incredible assault upon the pins. His ball became an amazing missile in his grip, detonating on impact sending ‘x’s’ across the board. It brought us to a ten-point lead. We were excited, but far from convinced as Paul stepped up to the lane. It was all up to Paul. A strike would send us to our knees; a spare would only extend our certain death with a third roll.

Paul was nervous, everyone could tell. He looked back toward his father, who bellowed, “Whatya waiting for kid? Roll the ball! Beat these little shits!” He was tanked. I saw my dad take a good long look in his direction. My dad wasn’t far behind, having just polished the bottle of pinot noir and currently moving well with the cabernet.

Paul returned his gaze to the alley. He shuffled four methodic steps to the line and let roll a spinning ball of fury. The Scorpions gasped, every last one of us. The pins exploded, but as they cleared, we saw the corner pin standing. It wobbled slightly and then stood strong.

“C’mon boy!” Paul’s father shouted. “Don’t wimp out now!”

Paul remained staring at the pin as it settled, rooted to the lane. He was fixed and deaf to everything around him. He held out his right hand to the air vent, collected his ball from the shoot, and took his position once more. He must have stood that way staring down the lane for thirty seconds. His eyeballs were drying out in that determined gaze. He stepped forward and let fly another spinning mass. Paul’s ball kissed that pin; I mean, it was that close. I’m sure they touched one another on the way to the rack. But, there the pin stood and The Scorpions were victorious. We politely shook hands and then wiped the sweat from our foreheads.

“Come here Paul!” I look up to see Paul’s father beckoning him with a strong hand. Paul walked toward him with his head slightly bent. That’s when a loud slap resounded in the alley. Paul’s father stood there with his hand still outstretched, frozen in place, as his face swelled red.

“Hey! Whatya think you’re doing?” I heard my dad shout.

“Mind your own business, why don’t ya!” Paul’s father shot back.

“I’ll be minding yours real good if you do that again.” That’s when he shoved Paul to the floor and pulled himself to his feet. Everyone was quiet and watching. Not a single ball fell to the lane, not a single beer was cracked open. All eyes were intently observing this scene unfurl.

I had never seen my dad this angry before. He was a simple and peaceful man. But on this day, I don’t think anyone bore witness to that. Within a split second my dad was on his feet and in front of Paul’s father. My dad’s fist slammed into his chin and Paul’s father fell back against the row of seats. His Pabst Blue Ribbon was knocked to the floor and made a puddle beneath him. My dad stood over him with his head cocked to the side, his right hand still hanging clenched to a fist. It reminded me of the famous photograph of Muhammad Ali standing over Joe Frazier daring him to just try and stand up.

We left early that day, the three of us nearly running out of the bowling alley. I don’t think my father was worried about getting in trouble, he just thought it was the right thing to do. No one liked the man who still lay sprawled across the seats. No one would help him to his feet.

I remember watching Paul as we left. His face was expressionless, his mouth a thin straight line, as he studied the crumpled body of his father.

The drive back home was silent. My mother was furious. But by the time we reached home we were all laughing. They congratulated me on the game, patting my back as we stepped inside.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Upon Waking.

The first thing i think upon waking: the light and how it passes through the fabric across my window. I wonder of the sky and if it holds clouds or lets fly the sun unhinged. This light, dull or bright and the short cold trees, leafless in the backyard. I'll reach for my clock and bring the tone, this hue faintly illuminating me upon a square of crumpled bedding... put it alongside the actual time of day, make sense of it. Then rising, go about my routines of boiling water and washing my face, grinding the beans and musing the shelf for breakfast.

Every single thing touched or turned over needs another thing, thought or remembered to somehow verify it. And especially in the morning, nothing stands alone as just itself. The coffee is the wakefulness and it needs a cup, the cream already poured and waiting. The oats, a pot and water rising to bubble and steam.

And as clarity comes on (whatever clarity is~ perhaps a raveling to this reality i've adjusted to), these physical items i hold in my hands become links to seemingly unrelated memories. The keys jingling in my pocket on my way to work... i think of our dog Dawson running ahead on the Alaskan trails, a bell about her neck signaling bears of our presence. Or all the classroom smells at my charter school: freshly washed heads, the sweet smell of paint in the artroom, sorry lunchroom memory of fishsticks past and disinfectant. Every smell conjuring something... and me standing there peeling a tangerine while the kids find their friends and tear into paper bags, lunchboxes, or the prepackaged solids a meal ticket receives. And the Japanese girl in my mind, years back telling me how to peel with the intention of gathering one rind, one strip of orange citrus skin... for good luck or some such thing.

I listen to this input, these constant overlaps of life. They bring me closer to feeling connected; sometimes they threaten to drive me mad. But mostly i welcome them. It's an exercise to draw lines between the lives we've lived, whether young or old. An invisible connect-the-dots, like the nightsky overhead upon which we strain our necks upward- trying to make out the horse in Pegasus, Orion's bow, a high-flying Delphian kite. And none of it really there; it never was. Yet it's sweet to imagine... to believe in this chronology that our lives continue on, with one person leading the way. That one person, you or me. In brief attempts i try, but quickly lose track of which person that was that said those things, that did those things. Who was that whom i've always held close and called me?

Monday, February 19, 2007

St. Patrick's Day

Perhaps my favorite holiday, minus the likely ecological disaster of dyeing waterways green (even though i kinda dig it, yet Christo is still no friend of mine...). Every ounce of blood: German, Indian, Gentile, and Irish omitted bow to the sensibilities of intemperance.

Saint Patrick's Day a few years back... in all its glory. Portland, Maine with the sun yet to rise, a few dozen gather in the frigid twenty-something air to ceremoniously plunge into the Atlantic. Everyone thinking What have i got myself into? and Can i back out now? A pub down the street celebrates our actions with house Guiness and Baileys, and by six a.m. we're drunk and chronologically confused. Bums wander in from the streets with an eye for free drink...

Sunday, February 18, 2007

And it was. At 1737 meters.

Near the Ecuadorian border in southwestern Colombia lies the mile-high town of Popayán. It's a drunken stumble from certain hidden coca plantations, as well as the woodlands that harbor many carrying, uniformed FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia), whom if are unkown to you... could probably be figured out pretty fast. Popayán is also so goddamned bright (called the "White City") with its whitewashed colonial buildings, that even in pure sobriety one would swear the morning light had aroused them from a drunken stupor. Blinding.

I was taking respite in this pleasant town before the push across the border; a straight run recommended by locals, lest the paramilitary decide to pull you from a "random" passport check. I was traveling with one Villalobos, a Colombian woman i'd met in the north. I took her to a German film at the cinema; a film that we never watched. So this was my companion now.

One day she headed into the nearby park, Puracé National Park, which is famous in the area for its absurd amount of waterfalls and hotsprings. My own sightseeing took me to the museum (... and i'd like to mention that this was one, if not the only museum i ever visited in these particular travels. I, for the most part, would rather drink a pint or two at the local watering hole than visit a town's museum). This museum was special though for its abundance of stuffed birds and i had to see it. I gave the guy a dollar or two and walked in. Two stories of taxidermy... i marvelled at claw, beak, and feather while two sorry museum workers followed me around, eyeing me nearly equal to me upon the birds. Leaving, i was pretty certain that my visit had been one of very few... ever.

Meanwhile, Ms. Villalobos was discussing the beauty of "Nature" with a FARC commando on some discrete trail in the national park... praying that she didn't pee herself. Act casual, she kept telling herself, quelling the stories every Colombian knows of their brutality, second-hand or first-hand. But how exactly does a civilian act casual, when discussing nothing with a steel-toed, AK-47 toting, ransoming rapist? Fortunately, Ms. Villalobos was in the company of an intellectual para, who expressed his deepest sympathies for the grand misunderstanding that had ensued between commoners and the FARC. His sentiments were wounded, he informed her, that anyone could see them in such a bad light. He wished her well; prayed she would shed a fairer light to friends and family on the predicament.

Later that evening i lost my key to our hotel and no one would answer the bell. Night had fallen heavily, the midnight hour near and the quiet town of Popayán somehow grew quieter. I took a walk back toward the town square and found a group passing a bottle. A young woman shouted to me to have a seat, have a drink... and what the fuck, was i an American?... and yes, i could tell her the truth. I had a seat and smiled at everyone, took a pull on the aguardiente (translation= burning water, a fine anise liquor for the tight-fisted). I told her i was French and to get tossed. All thought that was pretty funny, until the woman spoke French to me. Damn! I said, okay, I'm German and you're a miserable drunk! It flew... and so we drank the bottle and another one from someone's pack. She kissed me before i stumbled back to my hotel; in slow, bending Spanish wished me a good night, and let it be known she knew i was American.

I found my companion at the hotel and she had a key; had managed quite a stupor herself in some other part of town. We made beautiful sloppy love in our square of a room... and then she told me her story.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Secret. Parietal. Discord.

I've been talking for days. Looking across rooms, over tables, reaching eyes... and forward for my drink, to continue. There's been some indulgence and much enjoyment. I'm waiting for someone to tell me to take a break... and for me to listen... and we'd all be still for a little while.

There's words on a page and then words in my head. But the words in the air... well, those i have less control of. Removing my filter and transfiguring feelings to words, becoming my own live translator. It brings on an objective state rivaling a psychotropic sentience; in other words, not always a comfortable place to be with eyes upon my person. As if in the company of one, there's actually three, as i step aside and watch. Sometimes i feel as much the listener to myself as the friend i speak with. Depending on present state, can be arresting or otherwise very fucking disconcerting. Bringing on the neurotic question, "If we leave our body, can we always come back?"



This is me trying to look thoughtful when i'm actually just really tired...

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

A word on tutoring today's youth and why they're already cooler than you'll ever be...

It's becoming more difficult to register surprise on our up-and-coming adults. With only two weeks i've come to realize i'm encountering a realm of consciousness that was never touched upon when i attended elementary and middle school. And of course every generation has witnessed this natural phenomenon. Not evolutional nor progressive, just different. But i'm sensing now a much grander scale of tempering than recent history provides. American children have often been the world's latest fledged, most coddled, ill-prepared and stumbling toward maturation... I wonder if that still holds true.

With the advent of formula-nursing, hormone-induced pubescence, and internet access to everything and everyone- a new generation reports. Many of these kids are riding the city buses alone from rude a.m. hours, catching transfers, sitting next to drunkards and freaks in the morning commute. They arrive at school with a Mighty Morphin lunchbox and Sonic trapper-keeper, belying a much deeper understanding of societal kinetics.

I'm well-received for my efforts, though daily tested for my grasp on pop-culture. My energy and ease has bought me precious time to relate on these cultural levels for which i'm clueless. And even the way i'm writing this is... so, not cool! Shit, i said "totally" in class today and i got laughed at. One kid raised his hand and said, "Mister Jesse, can you say 'totally' again?" I thought, what the hell and did. For a few moments i was a stand-up comic towering over a sea of fourth-graders.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Ode to Idaho


A portrait of useless philosophy and domestic (canned) drunkenness.