Lazy Days of Summer

Yikes! why has it been so long since I've posted an entry? It's not for lack of subject material. I could put lots of interesting things in - what I had for lunch, my scary nightmares, why I like the Geico Cavemen. I guess I'll have to 'fess up to a general laziness I've experienced over the summer. I've put on more weight, been spending too much time at work, over-eating, drinking WAY too much Coke, over-eating, watching WAY WAY too much television, over-eating. Well, you get the picture. And I haven't been jogging. And I've been cranky as Hell!

PMS? I'm taking my hormones. OH, I learned how to make a hormone the other day: you don't pay her. Anyway, so I'm taking a vacation soon? But I'm calling it my fake vacation? Cause I took home so much work? And I'm not going anywhere? And I left my cell phone number on my office voicemail and invited people to call me at home? What's wrong with me? No, really, what's wrong with me?

I did do some writing over the past few months. I wrote an article for QST magazine that they accepted and will publish in their online web version of their magazine. And they paid me $25 - isn't that nice? I'll link it as soon as it appears online. But I haven't worked on my novella in months and I took this vacation to finish it. Instead I brought home all this work. Oh well....somebody give me some encouragement. Summer will be over soon and maybe I'll get back to normal?

The Queen, Elvis & Truck Stops

Our recent encounter with the QM2 in San Francisco Bay (See February posting) was serendipitous; little did we know that we would breakfast on the original Queen Mary just a few short weeks later. We decided to take a long Memorial Day weekend and see some friends that used to live in Pacifica with us. Eric and Edgar moved to the land of make believe (the L.A. area) a couple years ago and it was time for a visit. Eric works in a resort hotel next to the Queen Mary in Long Beach so we decided to stay there during the long weekend. It was great—the hotel looked out over the harbor with a view on the QM and downtown Long Beach. First order of business on Sunday morning was champagne brunch on the Queen. Although the old girl is looking a little worn, the pride of this great ship is present everywhere. We breakfasted in the elegant first-class dinning room, still polished and majestic. Rich walnut paneling, columns and giant murals rendered graceful splendor to the giant room; you could envision being on the open sea as light and a hint of salt air streamed in through the portals. Waiters in crisp whites served champagne, orange juice and coffee as we perused the isles full of delicacies. I ate the best crepes I ever tasted there; we all feasted on everything from fish to pâté to Eggs Benedict to prime roast and freshly baked bread, scones and rolls.

A tour of the ship after brunch was a must. We strolled the decks and saw the bridge, the radio room and so much more. I especially appreciated the radio room; the Long Beach Amateur Radio Association staffs the room and uses it as their headquarters for ham operations. It was fascinating to see the old radios sitting above the new equipment that the club installed.

Later, it was off to Hollywood. I had complained that I had been to the LA area many times and never saw the Hollywood sign. The boys took us to the end of a dead-end street where the sign loomed large high above us. It was awesome. Then off to the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese, and all the tourist spots. We had our pictures taken with Elvis, danced on Fred Astaire’s and Ginger Roger’s star on the Walk of Fame and put our feet in John Wayne’s foot prints. We toured Beverly Hills and window shopped on Rodeo Drive. It was quite a place—surreal in its extravagance. I bought a little something as a souvenir, but Traci waited until we headed home. We hit a truck stop north of Bakersfield. She laid a T-shirt and do-rag on the counter and remarked to the cashier that “you can’t find good shit like this on Rodeo Drive.”

"Don't Fuck With Me, Fella's!"

What a fun afternoon we had yesterday. Marlena’s, a fun little bar in Hayes Valley, held a benefit for the Breast Cancer Emergency Fund. They held a drag show, raffle, auction and a great barbeque. In honor of Mother’s Day the place was decorated with Joan Crawford memorabilia—mostly pictures and metal coat hangers. And they played her old movies. One scene in particular had Joan screaming at a group of men at a board meeting: “Don’t fuck with me, fella’s!” The bartenders kept rewinding the scene over and over, and each time the whole place yelled in unison with Mommy Dearest. It was a scream.

The drag show was fab, with a Joan look-alike and lots of fun talent. Marlena, a local celeb and Internet blogger I like to read, actually told us about the event. She performed a couple numbers and was great. Hey how could you lose with a name like Marlena performing at Marlena’s? Though she used a different stage name, she was still Marlena to me and Traci, my partner.

I got to ride the Harley to the benefit. It’s been a long time since I had the opportunity to ride it! That was so much fun. And I got to try out my new leather riding jacket too. It kept me nice and snug in the cool San Francisco weather. I wore the jacket, chaps and riding boots—all black, including a black helmet. Maybe I should have gone to a leather bar instead! Hmmm.

How Do You Spell Albuquerque?

Another conference last week. I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico—The Land of Enchantment. It took me weeks of practice to learn to spell Albuquerque. So many U’s. But I was enchanted. I’m in disaster services, and hundreds of us came together from all over the country—to learn, to share, to celebrate our successes, to grieve our many losses.

I came back to San Francisco a little changed. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the people there. They were friendly, but that wasn’t it. They seemed to me to be closer to God there. I don’t know if it was the incredible beauty of the stark landscape against sheer mountains, the strong presence of Native American history still living strong, old friends that I’d seen, or the new friends I made there.

Whatever it was, I am changed. I’d lost God over the past few years. Not by any dramatic moment, I just drifted away as I aged and changed so dramatically in my own life. But the people there—in New Mexico—they know God. They know God. Whether the Native American Spirit that guides all life, or the God of my ancestors, they don’t doubt. And those few days have sparked hope in me again.

I never thought I’d leave San Francisco. But I told my partner and love that I’d follow her to New Mexico (where she’s been trying to get me to go for years) when we retire in 5 years. I will go now. Something happened to me there. I’m still not sure what it was—maybe I just am so danged proud that now I can finally spell—Albuquerque.

Baby Killer

I was at a conference today. Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco. Talk about security; when you’ve got millions of dollars under one roof you tend to be protective. Anyway, it was one of those conferences that I felt I should participate in. Call it obligation, call it duty, whatever. So I was scheduled to speak in the afternoon. A half-hour out of a whole day’s grueling seminar. I had felt uneasy about it from the beginning, when I made the commitment weeks earlier. The big corporate/government guys were coming in to show us how to do things right.

It started badly. Older white men in suits trying to tell liberal San Franciscan’s how to do it. I looked at the workbook; over 100 PowerPoint slides, each one filled with small print. The presenters were well meaning, but these were my people. These guys didn’t understand them. I felt a responsibility to do right by them. This wasn’t a model I supported, and I became agitated as the audience got restless. I went out in the hall for air. My stomach in knots. My head swimming. What can I do? I’m partly responsible.

Coworkers came to me; maybe they saw my frustration, turning to anger, turning toward tears. I was visibly aggravated, and they tried to calm me. I love them for it. But my many guilts return to haunt me in periods like this. One of my friends sat me down and talked of other things, trying to calm me, no doubt. We began to talk about all the security there; all the guns. She looked at me and remarked about how I’d been in the military—that I was some kind of marksman myself. I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “In the Air Force?” I said. “Well....didn’t you carry a gun?” “Yes, I had to as a flight crew member during the war. But I never shot anybody.” “You were in the war? Which war?” “The first Gulf War?” “Yes,” I answered and hesitated. “And Vietnam.” After she remarked that I didn’t look old enough to be in Vietnam she added, “You didn’t bomb any babies anyway.” I looked at the floor, sick to my stomach. This was turning into a bad day. I didn’t answer, and we moved on to the subject of how to repair the damage being done in the seminar.

So there I was, guilty about helping put on a sub-par event, and all my other guilts haunting me. My guilt about changing gender and losing my family, guilt about hurting my parents over it, my friends, my coworkers—and guilt about my role as a B-52 crew chief in the Vietnam War so many years ago, in another life.

At that time I was simply a teenager who got drafted and was doing what I was told. I loaded fuel and bombs and fixed the planes for their endless bomb runs—day after day, week after week, year after year. At that time I didn’t think about my role. I simply did my duty. But it hit me afterward, years later. I didn’t drop the bombs, I didn’t even fly in the planes. But I had a role. And I’ve often wondered where does the responsibility for killing stop? Is the pilot as guilty as the bombardier? The navigator? The people who planned the mission? The crew chief who loaded the bombs and fueled the planes?

I always saw the bombs come out of the sheds ready to be loaded with all sorts of epithets written on them. “Fuck you Gooks.” “Up your Ass.” And many more creative ones. I didn’t have the heart to add my own, and I look back now and am thankful for that much. But there are times, like today, when I’m forced to look back—and I don’t like what I see.

It was time for my presentation. I went to the podium, took the mic, and began talking. I attempted to redeem myself to the group sitting in those seats. Despite my anxiety, I put in an extra effort. I owed them. And for this group, at least, I could do something positive.

Falling Dreams

I have to roll the shades up at night so I can look at the shadowy figures outside my window as I fight sleep. The hills are dotted with lights from the windows of homes; the orange streetlights of the road that winds up the troughs outline the contours of the mountain. It all helps to calm me from the sleep that I always resist. Eventually my eyes get heavy, the scene fades into black, and I fall…into dreams.

I don’t like sleep because it seems as if I’m practicing for death. And I lose myself in dreams. I don’t know myself anymore in the land of Nod. I don’t know if I am one of the characters, multiple characters, or watching the whole dream from some omnipotent distance. You’d think sleep would be welcome – in dreams you can do anything, or so they say.

I’ve never been able to fly. Or I should say fly effortlessly and for as long as I want. I hate trying to fly in dreams because it is always such an effort. Even if I get off the ground (which is half the time at best) I can only attain flight for fleeting moments before gravity takes hold and brings me spiraling to the ground. In flying dreams I always know its me.

The other night I shot off the ground like a rocket. Usually it’s a tedious affair requiring much huffing and puffing, lots of hand motion (ala Superman) and jumping doesn’t hurt either. I rarely get heights higher than the tree tops. And it is awesome if I can stay airborne for more than a few blocks.

This night I leaped into the sky and accelerated to incredible speeds as the Earth shrank below me. I thought I’d had it licked for once. But as soon as I thought that I sputtered and fell. A long, gut-wrenching, stomach in your throat, fall. I went down even faster than I went up. And when I hit it really hurt. It always hurts. And I never wake up. I always hit. I’ve heard it said that if you hit the ground when you fall in a dream you will die for real. Nonsense. I’ve hit hundreds of times, maybe thousands. I really, really hate it. But I don’t die for real. I wake up shortly afterward, sometimes sweating, sometimes shaking, always reluctant to close my eyes again.

I don’t want to fly in my dreams. I don’t want to fall, and I don’t want to hit the ground. Probably will tonight after all this. Better keep the window shades open.

Suite Memories

: "1. Grand Canyon Suite - On the Trail - Arthur Fiedler "

[Rhapsody members click on the title "Suite Memories" to listen]

Traci came out from the bedroom this evening; I was sitting quietly in the big lounge chair reading my book. Traci put our cat, Puff, in her lap and began moving her paws to a tune she hummed—paws moving in unison to the beat. Dum, de dum, de dum, de dum dum de dum…..

“That’s the Grand Canyon Suite!” I’d blurted as the cat’s limbs bounced easily in Traci’s arms. Traci gave me a ‘so-what’ look and continued playing with her marionette. I hummed the tune with her and she became mildly more interested. She put the cat down and I raced to the computer to find the music I hadn’t heard since I was a child. While I searched the web I asked Traci where she knew the song from. “I think from old western movies.” That would make sense. It was perfect music for riding slow horses down the open trail.

The music meant something more to me. It brought me back to our living room in Rochester, NY. A time before my parents divorced; before I had to leave home for my own desert community, before harder times. It was when life was still simple and full of discoveries. My mother had bought the album and I fell in love with the orchestrations the moment I first heard it. She would narrate it for me as I sat tucked into her lap: “This part is the sunrise coming over the desert, a cloudburst, loping down the long trail, a mouse poking its head from its hole.” She painted pictures for me that accompanied the music. We often stole precious moments of time to sit together and listen to it. I played it endlessly; it was my introduction to orchestration, and my very first love.

I’d let it lapse into dim memory until Traci pulled it to the surface playing with the cat. As I played the various movements for Traci on the computer, I struggled with tears as the memory of sitting by the Hi-Fi with my mother swelled with the music coming from the computer speakers. In a moment I was transported back to my mother’s lap, a vibrant woman younger than I am now, but since passed away. She was as filled with wonder and curiosity as I was. And she loved music—big music. She loved orchestras and piano movements and she passed those loves on to me.

And Traci brought it all back in a flood of emotion by sitting there and humming a little tune while playing with the cat.