The Entry Way
A fine late-winter day on our local coast. It doesn’t get better than this around here. I saw other painters perched at nearly every lookout on this short stretch of scenic road, but somehow I managed to paint this one without getting tangled up in any arguments about ultramarine blue.
Her Song
No Mere Maid
At last! This one was 7 years in the making- just a quick pencil sketch way back when, set it aside, and forgot about it until I got a call back in November asking me to paint a “slutty mermaid”. That wasn’t gonna happen. But it reminded me of this idea for a north coast mermaid. She is strong, she is content, she thrives in a harsh and unforgiving environment. She is beautiful, but her beauty isn’t flaunted to feed or lure any depraved eyes. She is who she is, and she is No Mere Maid.⠀
⠀
The original sketch was just a whimsical idea, but as I started painting her it was like a well opened up and began overflowing with ideas. She’s wisdom personified as the divine feminine in the book of Proverbs. She’s the classical ideals of truth and beauty that we only see in glimpses, forever out of our mortal reach. She’s the one Dylan sings about in She Belongs to Me (although from his lyrics I don’t think she belonged to him, or anyone else either). She’s the sea itself. She’s a mirror held up to our soul as we wrestle with the oft-used archetype of the mythical mermaid. She’s all of those at once and more.
⠀
2021: A Few Questions
Can you just tell us now ⠀
What it is that you’ve got?⠀
Triple sevens for heaven’s jackpot⠀
After 2000 years in the casino hall⠀
Finally old enough to buy alcohol⠀
Make mine a double⠀
Or nothing at all⠀
If it’s the last call⠀
And that’s all you’ve got⠀
⠀
It’s a new beginning⠀
And a whole new end⠀
⠀
When the keys punch the headlines⠀
Into your skin⠀
Burning hot like cattle brands⠀
Will you have a choice⠀
Or will it be out of your hands?⠀
Will you see what is written⠀
Will you read your last rites?⠀
Will it be everything black⠀
Or everything white?⠀
Everything day or everything night?⠀
Is it all or nothing?⠀
Just this or just that?⠀
The record keeps skipping⠀
But nobody knows⠀
Where the player is at⠀
Something is broken⠀
Might be the record ⠀
Or maybe the needle⠀
You can get another one⠀
On the corner⠀
In front of the steeple⠀
The gates open wide⠀
The door swings on its hinge⠀
An injection to heaven⠀
Or a highway to seven⠀
Just a shot in the arm⠀
From the holy syringe⠀
What is it you’re drinking?⠀
Tell us again⠀
Do you have music⠀
In your streets with no end?⠀
Do you have love for your children⠀
Stronger than wind?⠀
Will you have my father⠀
To his own father sent?⠀
Do you live and die⠀
On this land planted deep?⠀
Do you know what is yours⠀
And what the earth keeps?⠀
Were you called into existence⠀
At a child’s first words?⠀
Were the lines on your face⠀
Just the flight path of birds?⠀
Will you have artists at work⠀
And writers putting it off?⠀
Will your wretched be righteous⠀
And your faithful still scoff?⠀
Will you make spaces between⠀
The wrong and the right?⠀
Will you have visions between⠀
Blindness and sight?⠀
Do you have multitudes always⠀
Demanding their way?⠀
Do you have anyone asking⠀
What you need today?⠀
Will you have a place ⠀
To keep these words hidden?⠀
A heart to hold them⠀
And break⠀
And be forgiven?⠀
⠀
It’s a whole new end⠀
And another beginning⠀
⠀
So one last time⠀
And then I will stop⠀
Tell us again⠀
Just what have you got?⠀
Triple sevens for the jackpot⠀
After 2000 years in the casino hall⠀
Finally old enough to buy alcohol⠀
Make mine a double⠀
Or nothing at all⠀
If it’s the last call⠀
And that’s all you’ve got
Solstice Song: 2020
Before there was light⠀
There was water⠀
And before there was life⠀
The water broke⠀
Staring up into that black ocean⠀
Eyes blinded by the falling seas⠀
On this winter’s solstice⠀
No stars tonight⠀
Just a child⠀
Floating weightless and free⠀
In a fish bowl for all to see⠀
⠀
Mary and Joseph⠀
They live down the street ⠀
We ate donuts on strings⠀
Tied to their tree⠀
Last Halloween⠀
But tonight is for listening⠀
Country music on the local radio⠀
A long line of cars⠀
With out of state plates⠀
And a man that spoke⠀
“Don’t be afraid”⠀
⠀
We walked a path ⠀
That led to the river⠀
Where the waters had broken⠀
The land in two⠀
We saw a man up ahead⠀
He stopped ⠀
And listened⠀
To the darkened forest⠀
A rustling noise⠀
And a woman’s voice⠀
Calling him to come in⠀
We never saw him again⠀
⠀
A grown man on a bike⠀
Rides down the boulevard⠀
A woman in tears walks the other way⠀
They cross paths without a word⠀
She keeps walking ⠀
Tears like the rain⠀
From the broken sky⠀
Her cries fill the void⠀
And break the awful silence⠀
He keeps peddling on⠀
Awkwardly⠀
And alone⠀
On his tandem bike built for two⠀
⠀
As lightning bolts fell from the sky⠀
Landing on the ground⠀
Unconvincingly⠀
Like actors in silver suits⠀
Performing in a school drama⠀
On daytime TV⠀
One of them curled up in agony⠀
Or defeat⠀
I never could tell⠀
He could barely speak⠀
His voice cracked so quietly⠀
You’d think he was about to cry⠀
“I’ve lost my thunder”⠀
And there was nothing more to say⠀
⠀
They say this is the longest night⠀
But I don’t think they were there⠀
When the heavens and earth aligned⠀
And the earth could not be satisfied⠀
Until heaven was laid to rest⠀
Within her darkened womb⠀
And the bride was left⠀
To walk the road⠀
Alone⠀
⠀
Before there was light⠀
There was water⠀
And before there was life⠀
The water broke⠀
Staring up into the darkness⠀
A face full of ocean⠀
On this winter’s solstice⠀
No stars tonight⠀
No great conjunction to be seen⠀
Except for the one⠀
Between your eyes⠀
And the eyes of a child⠀
If we can’t see the stars there⠀
How can we expect ⠀
To see them in the heavens?
My Father’s House
What do you see?⠀
A land taken by zeros?⠀
More zeros than you’ll ever know?⠀
By money changers⠀
That take all they want⠀
In exchange for their soul?⠀
If that’s all that you see⠀
You’ve only read headlines⠀
In the red letter press⠀
This isn’t your land⠀
This isn’t my land⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
Some small success⠀
Some chance at a dream⠀
A life built for two⠀
But what is life if not pain?⠀
A standalone shack⠀
In a narrow ravine⠀
All that’s left⠀
And it’s all that he needs⠀
But this isn’t his land⠀
And it sure isn’t ours⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
This land he travelled⠀
Paving the roads with his bike⠀
He’d led them all onward⠀
Riding further each day⠀
Riding for their lives⠀
Through sweat, tears, and smiles⠀
Roadside sandwich breaks⠀
He watched a wayward driver⠀
Drift out of her lane⠀
One from his flock⠀
Laid to rest that day⠀
It wasn’t her land⠀
And he wished it wasn’t his⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
A son that knows⠀
Too much about too many things⠀
Nothing to gain⠀
From his father’s love⠀
He’s moving fast⠀
And his dad moves too slow⠀
The son doesn’t see⠀
Just how much his father carries⠀
But one day he’ll know⠀
That his father’s failure ⠀
Was his greatest success⠀
And that he’s not the only one⠀
That was carried in those arms⠀
It’s not his land⠀
And it never will be⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
⠀
So get out of this house⠀
If you think you’re any better⠀
Get out if you think⠀
Your owed a damn thing⠀
Get out you bastards⠀
You never lived here⠀
You only came when invited⠀
To feast on his generosity⠀
There’s no gates of gold⠀
It’s worn down and rusty⠀
Broken and dirty⠀
But we’ve kept it clean⠀
It will never be your land⠀
It will always be his⠀
This is my father’s house⠀
Her Name was California
Medicine Cabinet
When the music ends⠀
The lights go on⠀
And everyone slowly leaves⠀
Yet somehow the room is strangely dim⠀
Somehow darker than it was before⠀
When the house lights were off⠀
And the music filled the spaces⠀
Between the empty glasses ⠀
That are now also slowly leaving⠀
White rings on the wood tables⠀
As we hum to ourselves ⠀
And dissolve back into the cold night air⠀
And warm beds that await⠀
⠀
If we’d known then⠀
That the music would end in this way⠀
We’d have stayed all night long⠀
Played all night long⠀
And drank the bar dry⠀
Letting the jazz⠀
Lead the revolution⠀
Until they came with lights blazing⠀
To pry the saxophones and drumsticks⠀
From our cold dead hands⠀
To confiscate the pianos⠀
And abolish this beautiful night⠀
⠀
So now we sit in the quiet darkness⠀
Of a bright winter day⠀
Humming sad tunes to ourselves⠀
That we’ll later play softly ⠀
On our contraband pianos⠀
Sitting in our empty rooms⠀
With the lights off⠀
Because everyone knows⠀
The piano is just a medicine cabinet⠀
And the music will never end
Anaheim Bay
I was born in Anaheim⠀
Happiest place on earth⠀
I once got stuck in Hell there⠀
When Mr. Toad’s wild road broke down⠀
And I swear on my life⠀
I have seen with my own eyes⠀
Snow White⠀
Sucking on a cigarette⠀
We weren’t supposed to see that⠀
And we weren’t’ supposed to be here either⠀
In Anaheim Bay ⠀
⠀
But here we were⠀
After crawling under the fence⠀
While a large swell was pushing small waves into this bay⠀
An unusual event⠀
The warships weren’t fazed⠀
Some other kids were already here⠀
Further up along the shore⠀
They must have snuck in somewhere else⠀
They had boogie boards⠀
Playing in the shorebreak⠀
One of them ate sand⠀
The other rode 50 yards along the shore⠀
On a zipper of a wave⠀
Laughing⠀
But also hiding⠀
In Anaheim Bay⠀
⠀
We watched for awhile⠀
And we were about to leave⠀
When we saw a surge pushing down the jetty⠀
I ran to it⠀
On water⠀
And rode barefoot⠀
And I mean just barefoot⠀
No board at all⠀
Banking into it with speed⠀
Knees absorbing the chatter⠀
The rebound wave off the jetty approached⠀
Up and over the section⠀
Carving back to the whitewater⠀
A cross between barefoot skiing⠀
And roller skating⠀
Until the wave flattened into deep water⠀
In Anaheim Bay⠀
⠀
My brother yelled⠀
The kids were waving frantically⠀
The cameras on the cell tower turned⠀
And focused⠀
Someone heard a buzzing noise⠀
I wasn’t too concerned⠀
Until they showed me notebooks⠀
Full of polaroid snapshots⠀
Of what They did⠀
To the Italian ⠀
That snuck in here last week⠀
You don’t want to know⠀
Apparently they don’t mess around⠀
In Anaheim Bay⠀
⠀
I’ve heard They’ll track you down⠀
Even weeks later⠀
When you don’t expect it⠀
When you’re alone⠀
They’ll surround you⠀
Pound you⠀
Till your face looks like a salami⠀
(I saw the photos)⠀
Above, beside, below⠀
It’s hard to say where They stand⠀
With the law⠀
Perhaps They are the law⠀
And They’ll do what they must⠀
To make you regret⠀
Your trespass⠀
Into Anaheim Bay⠀
⠀
But I haven’t seen Them yet⠀
It’s been awhile⠀
And every time I think of Them⠀
I also think of that strange little wave⠀
And the feeling of the cool water⠀
Slapping my bare feet⠀
At speed⠀
Beneath the shadow⠀
Of Their warships⠀
In Anaheim Bay⠀
17 Mile Ghosts
Pay the toll⠀
A piece of your soul⠀
And leave it there as a sign⠀
A cardboard box⠀
Full of rocks and socks⠀
From which we will rise in their mind⠀
Extrapolated⠀
And captivated⠀
Forever to walk this lonely line⠀
They’ll see us standing⠀
Calling out in the night⠀
With bare feet wet from the brine⠀
They’ll slow to a stop⠀
They’ll wonder how⠀
The water and ethers combined⠀
If they listen we’ll say⠀
It was because we payed⠀
The guard at the gate to get by⠀
⠀
So heed my words⠀
And stare straight ahead⠀
For it’s from this earth you were made⠀
You belong on it truly⠀
Its dirt is your body⠀
And these guards are made only of shade⠀
⠀
You’re a plumber⠀
A builder or an electrician⠀
Whatever it takes to convince them⠀
To let you pass⠀
Without taking your cash⠀
It’s not the money it’s the darkness it gets them⠀
So give them only a nod⠀
A two finger wave⠀
And a subtle but sure acceleration ⠀
With confidence high⠀
Drive right by⠀
Subterfuge will be your declaration ⠀
That you belong in their night⠀
But this day is all yours⠀
Like Dali, and Griffin, and Vincent⠀
Masters of sight⠀
Pursuing their vision⠀
Trespassing all baseless tradition⠀
Their work lives on⠀
But they are gone⠀
At rest and free from earth’s friction⠀
⠀
So when the future arrives⠀
And they ask our ghosts why⠀
We’re still here and still walking this path⠀
We’ll tell them plain⠀
We believed the guards⠀
Who said we’d have to pay to get past⠀
⠀
So stay free in the sun⠀
And when the day is done⠀
Just move right along down the line⠀
And pay not a dime⠀
To the liars in wait⠀
Who seek to trap you in debt for all time⠀
The Morning I Was Created
On the morning I was created⠀
I crawled out the back of the old yellow van⠀
Wide-eyed and blinking⠀
Wondering where my brother had ran?⠀
He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀
Past the razor’s edge of the earth⠀
Into the mist where the horizon is long⠀
Where the black dots line up and wait⠀
Is that really where my brother had gone?⠀
He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀
I unearth sandwiches buried in sand⠀
Sealed plastic baggies with PB and J’s⠀
Perfect gives from Mother Earth⠀
So why did my brother rush into the haze?⠀
He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀
Looking around I see girls on the move⠀
Their bikinis and bodies these young eyes amazed⠀
What were we talking about?⠀
And how did my brother get past them unfazed?⠀
He ran to the sea⠀
He ran for his life⠀
He told me to join him before he ran off⠀
I was unsure of myself and scared⠀
Of the ocean and its blackened depths⠀
What made my brother think I would dare?⠀
To run to the sea⠀
To run for my life⠀
To follow him out and beyond⠀
To the great sea where its rhythms unfurled⠀
To leave the logic of land for the great “into-ocean”⠀
But he was my brother and did he not rule the world?⠀
So I ran to the sea ⠀
And I ran for my life⠀
Bewildered by movements unknown⠀
I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried⠀
I couldn’t get past these white rolling waters⠀
“Where are you, brother” I cried⠀
Scratching the sea⠀
And scratching for life⠀
“Turn and go” was all that I heard⠀
So I turned and I goed with all that I could ⠀
That little white wave pushed me along⠀
And my brother watched as I stood⠀
On the sea⠀
And on my life⠀
I had never felt so alive⠀
As when the white foam gave way⠀
To smooth water before it⠀
I was made a brother that day⠀
We ran to the sea⠀
We ran for our lives⠀
And to this day we still run⠀
But I’ll always remember just how elated⠀
I was to join my brother ⠀
Back on that morning when I was created
Kindling
Some things are easy to overlook⠀
Others take a little more work⠀
Natural beauty⠀
Simple love⠀
So often get left where they lie⠀
While the headlines print bold⠀
On our aching flesh⠀
These haunts where our demons lurk⠀
⠀
Crashing stocks upon the shore⠀
Homes condemned to their blight⠀
The need to eat⠀
A will to survive⠀
We’ll do what we must to get by⠀
Sell our daylight for leprechaun’s gold⠀
That will vanish⠀
In the dark of the night⠀
⠀
We wake to a frozen sunrise⠀
Empty and cold and ruined⠀
It’s easily missed⠀
But always there⠀
The lift in our hearts at the sight⠀
Of these earthen glories before us⠀
By which we know⠀
That we are nowhere near the end⠀
⠀
So we’ll use our bodies for kindling⠀
To build this blaze bright and warm⠀
Our skin burns hot⠀
This smoky font⠀
A poetry of ash in the wind⠀
As we soak in the beauty around us⠀
We are fire⠀
Just in a different form⠀
⠀
Some things are hard to overlook⠀
Others take a little less effort⠀
The pressing needs⠀
The desperate pain⠀
Can grow louder till all else recedes⠀
While the light within and around us⠀
Steadily burns and waits⠀
To bring joy in the midst of the hurt ⠀
The Ocean is Just Leftovers
It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source⠀
⠀
She leads me through the briars⠀
Stinging nettle, oak, and sorrow⠀
Some pain for the present moment⠀
But the rest we’ll save for tomorrow⠀
⠀
The path is narrow and overgrown⠀
If it’s even a path at all⠀
Two roads diverged and we took neither⠀
She heard the river’s call⠀
⠀
Down the bank we scrambled and slid⠀
Grasping roots along the way⠀
These roots they hold back mountains⠀
They can hold us here today⠀
⠀
Scraped and bruised and winded⠀
At last we find relief⠀
We swim and laugh and stub our toes⠀
Even blessings hold some grief⠀
⠀
My mind drifts off to the coast and its songs⠀
Why oh why am I here⠀
I followed her and would do it again⠀
But we should have brought more beer⠀
⠀
How we ended up together⠀
A mystery untold⠀
I am a pool of simple pleasures⠀
She is the mountain, faithful and bold⠀
⠀
It’s true, she loves the river⠀
And it’s steady constant force⠀
The ocean is just leftovers⠀
And she prefers the source
On Geological Time
Cloud Theory: 1969
Verbal Alterations
A collection of short poems originally penned in 2012, now detached from their original purpose…
__________________________
A fine line
Divides the pursuit
Of overwhelming
Joy
From sheer
And loathsome
Irresponsibility
The high tide line
Divides
The rest
__________________________
On that Day we harnessed
History’s joyous
Laughter
But there was nobody around to hear it
So instead we
Split the Difference
__________________________
Under
Watchful Eyes
We pretend the Machinery
Will clean up the Remains
Of our Freedoms
Lost Forever
To the Systematic
Fire
We Burn your Money
And
Weep with your Love
__________________________
We drank
The last drop
And we left
The Sea
To Swim
In its own
Salty tears
We
Are
Bigger
Than you
__________________________
Drifting
Freely
Toward an Unknown
Moment
When it
Arrives
All of our eyes
Will be
Fixed
On
You
__________________________
It was already
Gone
Before we arrived, yet
It could have been
Different
If we had only
Tried
__________________________
We never did imagine
The Golden
Acceleration
Of our free fall
Would yield
So many left turns
And
No rights at all
__________________________
Distant words
Form
An altogether natural
State
Of thinly veiled
And
Unformed Rhyme
__________________________
We focus on the flight
And ignore
The objects at our feet
The Bird
Has been dead for weeks
__________________________
The river only Dreams
For those who Sleep
Otherwise it’s Life
__________________________
We lay tracks
To remember briefly
What the Unthinking
Water has always known
__________________________
Each passing storm
Brings a clearing of Mind
Revealing
The spiral rhythms
Of color
In your eyes
Both fragile
And totally free
__________________________
Wishing for another moment
To capture
The Inconvenient
Gaze
Of a child’s
Bright
and silent future
__________________________
Recklessly crashing
Upon unmoving
Geology
The cycle
Broken
Yet
Our Coffee
Remains
Unspilled
__________________________
These trembling walls dance
With their Maker’s invisible Spirit
As we wage War on Tomorrow’s Past
Victory was better an hour ago
And Defeat is a low-tide
Rising
The Distance is calling Our name
__________________________
Memories
Roll softly over
Unbroken
Glass
With each
New
Morning
Washing away
All knowledge
Of what came
Before
We lost it All
__________________________
Crawl
Out of your
Cave
And into the
Spinning
Daylight
of your new
Mobile
Home
Welcome Back
Now move along
__________________________
The beautiful
Convergence
Of powerful
Lines drawn
In constant
Contrast to
Our desire for
What we know
To be right, but
Somehow never
Seems to happen
In our daily lives
Filled with sprints
To the green horizon
In Every effort to not
Be swallowed by the
Accelerating pace of
Life in the intertidal
Zone
One last breath
Another Barb on the Wire
All This Time
A Song for Santa Cruz Island
I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine
I was here when we emerged from weeds
When the heavens gave us fire
When our songs kept our mother awake
When the rainbow held us higher
Vizcaíno saw me here in 1602
He called me by my name
The island of Bearded people it was
And to this day remains
I saw them come and plant the grapes
To sip the nectar from the vine
Prohibition shut them down
But the idea was never mine
The sheep were led to slaughter
And silent so was I
When the cotton gin reduced their worth
To diamonds in the sky
I saw the pigs run feral
Chased off by dogs who fell from the air
The pigs are gone and the bacon fried
You’d never know they were there
My name is Stanton now and so it was
On the day I signed
And gave the land unto the guards
I was ill but I wasn’t blind
They will keep it from abomination
A trampled barren place
But I’m well aware they’d sell the air if they could
As well as these lines upon my face
It’s for the good I’m sure they’d say
They’ll save the earth with money
Listen at the gate when I pass in the night
I’m laughing but nothing is funny
I did what I must and not without Caire
How I longed for a better hand
It was them and their lawyer’s greed
Or else it was the land
I’m the homesick Italian that built the Chapel
With bricks of my own red earth
And I’m the one that’s buried there
Whose death precedes his birth
At the altar I have heard
The mighty man’s confession
And to the courtyard I have marched
In his funeral procession
I stood last night beneath the moon
Where they’ve sold God for the highest bid
I may have defied their lawyers decrees
Breathing a graven image in the mist as I hid
From watching eyes I was not seen
Except by the all-seeing lens
To which I danced and jigged about
As one does when among their friends
Today I rise with a mist in my eyes
Tired from last night’s dance
I called out from among these ancient trees
And I answered with a glance
And here I stood among the saplings
When first their roots went down
The mighty eucalyptus whose beauty invades
Like a king in quest of a crown
The fox and the eagle and the vanishing trees
The trees they love to rhyme
The eagle loves the fattened calves
But the foxes they are mine
I might have been a late arrival
But I’ve been here all this time
I was here when the plates collided
I passed the bread and wine
Better Places
Painted on location, well at first anyway, back in 2017. Then I never went back to finish it properly so about a year or two later I took it to a silent disco on the beach below and tried to finish it there, but got so distracted with silent disco-ing that I couldn’t think straight about the painting and only painted in circles instead of arriving at any sort of destination other than right back in storage where it was before and finally when I was asked to paint another painting from a similar vantage point (my last post) I figured I should pull this one from the dustpile and brush it off and have another go, and so it went.
Lots of memories here. Some would call it one of our Better Places. Others might say too many of us call it that, which is usually what I say when I’m trying to park my van in that warzone on a Saturday afternoon.
Just kidding. I don’t even try to go here on a Saturday afternoon anymore.
Thou Shalt Not Steal
In the home where I grew up⠀
A porcelain monk lived on the kitchen counter⠀
Belly full of cookies⠀
Admonishing us not to steal⠀
Back when the house was full of sneaky fingers⠀
⠀
I saw him enter the kitchen one day⠀
30 years ago⠀
Something clearly wrong⠀
Part of him had vanished⠀
Struggling for the words⠀
To tell me that my grandpa was gone⠀
His father⠀
The pastor⠀
The preacher⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal⠀
⠀
Fiercely independent⠀
Now 78⠀
Yet socially engaged like a teenager⠀
A calendar with no empty days⠀
Erased by a global pandemic⠀
A solitary castaway⠀
In the island of his own home⠀
In the socially distanced archipelago of our lives⠀
The dispatches from neighboring islands indicate⠀
That something was clearly wrong⠀
Talking differently⠀
Slurring words⠀
Isolation taking its toll⠀
Or a stroke of something worse?⠀
⠀
I’ve traveled this road all my life⠀
And so did my father⠀
Miles on our odometers until the math became meaningless⠀
Never expecting to find him at the end of the road⠀
Beneath these parting clouds⠀
No longer driving⠀
Not even moving⠀
In his chair⠀
Eyes rolled back⠀
His face lifted to the heavens⠀
Feet still on the ground⠀
But getting lighter with each labored breath⠀
⠀
911⠀
Caught before he drifted off⠀
3 more weeks in the hospital⠀
Confined to his little room⠀
A castaway once again⠀
He’d build rafts out of medical equipment ⠀
And attempt to set sail to freedom⠀
Always thwarted by the tide of nurses⠀
As he floated down the corridors toward the exit⠀
⠀
He’s back home now⠀
In the house where he raised his children⠀
But at any moment⠀
I brace for the news⠀
That he’s built a raft out of old family photos⠀
And managed to sail away⠀
⠀
We hope his sailing days are done for now⠀
His final voyage a long way off⠀
But when it finally comes⠀
And his home is left empty⠀
As that porcelain monk ⠀
I will remember⠀
That there is nothing⠀
No illness⠀
No hardship⠀
Nor even a global pandemic⠀
That can steal our joy⠀
Or our hope⠀
Or our love⠀
⠀
Hold on to what matters⠀
And say to the thieves that try to take it all away⠀
⠀
Thou Shalt Not Steal
This Machine Converts Money into Noise
The pandemic didn’t slow me down, it was a combination of other things; my dad’s health was certainly a heavy weight to carry, but there was also a long overdue website overhaul that took far longer than I’d ever expected. ⠀
⠀
For a brief window back in mid-summer it seemed the covid restrictions were easing a bit, Dad’s health was stabilized, the site rebuild was complete and I could see daylight at last. We ventured south for a quick visit so pops could see his grandkids, enjoyed a much needed anniversary date with my wife, and even heard a live piano player on State Street in Santa Barbara. It nearly brought me to tears just hearing a musician making music for humans again. We were distanced, we were cautious, but like the first shoots of green after a long dark winter… it was beautiful. ⠀
⠀
Driving back the next morning, a speeding white truck passed us on the right, veering halfway out of their lane and onto the shoulder, only to collide just ahead of us into a parked Caltrans work truck. I braced for impact, hoping to get through unscathed. The truck flew into Amie’s side of the van, which forced us into another car on my side. All I could think is that Amie was gone. When I finally regained enough control to ask if she was ok, and she said yes, well, it’s weird to say one could wrestle and steer a completely wrecked van onto the shoulder with joy, but that is what I did. ⠀
⠀
The next few weeks were a scramble of insurance calls, finding a new van, ripping all the good stuff out of my old van and swapping it into the new one. My painting platform was a conundrum until we found out the Atlas Vans shop was across from the tow yard who could handle the installation quick and easy. ⠀
⠀
This was painted for them on a bright morning in Ventura. With the help of their crew, along with my family, and even an art collector in Ventura that stepped up and spent a whole day helping with the van swap- I’m ready to roll again. ⠀
⠀
But I think I’ll stay home awhile and work on some studio paintings for awhile instead.⠀
⠀
*Title is from a sticker on the back of that yellow van
California Responding to a Global Crisis
Yeah, this is a big one we’re going through. But we’ve gone through others. This is how global crises look here on the southwestern edge of America. ⠀
⠀
I arrived to visit my father after a series of strokes left him housebound to the home where I was raised in Long Beach. It was decidedly un-edgy suburbia, but we’d still see Snoop buying shoes at the mall, and during Rodney King riots we saw pillars of smoke through the living room windows. It’s not that different from the home where he was raised either. Straight outta Compton you could say, but Compton was just another suburb back then. ⠀
⠀
But Grandpa wasn’t raised in one of these typical suburbs. The West Covina home of his youth may be surrounded by cookie cutter homes now, but to this day it refuses to conform. There’s shade everywhere, as anything that grows out of the ground has been allowed to just keep on growing. A huge tree stands in the yard beside the house, bikes lean against it, rusting into permanence at the end of the dirt driveway. ⠀
The scent of oranges has now been lost in the wind. But there were once acres of them. Fresh-squeezed juice was just a fact of life. Kids laughed and screamed and rode their bikes in every direction as far as they wanted down the dirt roads between the neighboring orchards. On hot summer days, this would get old and they’d complain that they were bored. They would wish that something would happen here, and figuring that it never would, they imagined a different life beyond the orange trees.⠀
⠀
And what a different life it became. 100 years of madness unleashed. World Wars. Vietnam. Race Riots. Fault Lines. JFK Assasination. Nuclear Reactors. War Games. Freeways wide enough to give every global crisis it’s own clear lane and yet… Road Rage. Meth. School Shootings. Gang Violence. Police Brutality. It goes on and on. ⠀
⠀
Everyone lives on the edge of something here, and some days we just need to go to the beach.⠀
⠀
Or in my dad’s case, maybe a cup of coffee and a walk around the block. ⠀
⠀
It’s not quite paradise.⠀
⠀
It’s just California responding to a global crisis.
Repeater
Repeating patterns everywhere you look. Some patterns we wish we could break. Some patterns break us instead. And some patterns touch the heavens as her clouds roll in on those darker days.
Not this day. This day was bright like the eyes of a child whose father makes it home alive.
The man in uniform called me by name. A quick hello and he continued down the path. After he’d gone and for another while after that, I puzzled how he knew my name, trying to place his face in the graveyard of my faded memory- but he was nowhere to be found. Wrong graveyard. He was in the here and now as he came back up the path.
“The most beautiful place in California”, he called it. It certainly is unique, and while I’ve seen a lot of California and wouldn’t have necessarily chosen that description, I can see his point. Especially after learning that his grandfather is here, and his father, and his brother as well. Beauty is often a measure of meaning.
Still trying to place where I knew him from, he’d become deeply familiar in those few minutes of conversation, I finally break down and just ask him plainly where we knew each other from.
A puzzled look. We had never met before.
But wait, didn’t you call me by name when you passed by earlier?
“Can you repeat that?” He turns his good ear toward me now.
Earlier when you walked by here, didn’t you call me by name? You said “Good morning, Matthew”?
“Must have been the wind, I guess”
We bid farewells and that was that. An awkward encounter in a place of profound importance.
High-fives to all the veterans out there today.
La Novena
It’s good to have an exit plan. Sometimes it’s a quick exit out the backdoor. Sometimes it’s a longer game, like a sea captain who plants Norfolk pines wherever he lands should his ship’s mast be burnt by pirates or broken in a storm.
And the exit isn’t always what we think. One exits a life of hunger by stealing horses. One exits a life as a thief and turns to religion. One exits a house of religion that weaponizes faith, and instead turns to love any and all in the streets outside. And one exits their life in the end knowing they were one that answered the call because they knew what it was like to have their own calls unanswered.
On the day I painted this, I wasn’t thinking of reaching out to anyone and I had no plan other than to exit with a painting. This was mid-pandemic, the occasional couple would hurry past saying nothing at all beneath their masks- the distance being kept wasn’t only physical. It made for a quiet scene that in other times would be crowded with people enjoying a beautiful afternoon. The few that lingered here weren’t concerned about any of this. No masks, no distancing. Eager to talk through missing teeth. Curious about my painting… and what else was in my bag? Friendly enough, but opportunistic as they had to be living out on the street. I began to question whether my exit strategy was sufficient.
Then I heard a voice calling from the tiled bench where a large man sat just a few paces away. A crutch beside him, he was asking for help to stand up. His outstretched hand was filthy, who knows where it had been? But he wasn’t asking much, just to be heard and touched. And besides, my hands are never all that clean and I can never really know where they’ve been either. All at once I was the ex-padre who knew how it felt to have no one’s help. After joining hands and lifting him up, he moved himself a little way up the promenade and would repeat this again with several other passerbys. I had passed the test and made my exit a short while later with this painting to remind me of the time I met God on the street beneath the 9th mission built in California.