a travelogue, in which the author visits with jean-hippolyte flandrin & considers other points of interest along the road

for many years, when i was a boy, i could lay on my bed and travel the world just by looking up or looking sideways; my walls were papered with maps that came with national geographic (a yearly christmas gift from my wyoming grandparents–the homesteaders, who liked to travel, at least in the continental west, in fact i don’t recall if they ever went east of the missouri river in all of their years together, but they were on intimate terms with the spine of the states–this side of the rockies and that one, from canada to mexico and all of the little nooks and crannies in-between.)

the imaginary adventures i went on, down the amazon and up the nile (it is interesting to note how some rivers are ‘up’ rivers and others are ‘down’, isn’t it? or is that just me?  no matter.)  these dreams of travel were flat, pre-galileo, pre-columbian if you’d rather, so flat that it always confounded me later, after i started to get around on my own, how round the world seemed, particularly if viewed from a great height, not just in an airplane, but from the top of a tall building or the peak of a mountain (pisgah, harney, pike’s, haleakala) when all the world it seems is laid at your feet, and your stomach does that little flip of acknowledgement of your smallness in spite of conquering the world as you are with your feet spread wide, the wind blowing your clothes so tight against your body you might actually be flying with the eagles, soaring, dipping, and riding the currents of time and nature.

i haven’t traveled much, at least not compared with some of my friends and acquaintances.  yes, i’ve been here and there and i’ve had a lot fun in _____ and _______; amazed by this monument, and fell in love (again) with this painter or another when i finally saw their work in situ, the emanations of their life rumbling under the soles of my feet as i stood outside the door of their studio (i need not tell you the where, you can imagine that on your own) or stood at the very top of _____ ____ and let literature come to life, bells ringing, the crowd below roaring (or that could have been my companion poleaxed by vertigo screaming for me to come down from there).

and it’s interesting to note that i don’t mind so much that i haven’t been everywhere i dreamed of as a child, the jungles, the deserts, the savannahs, the mountains, and the seas (although someday i do hope to visit ___ in southern ______, because i feel a strong connection to that specific area of that particular continent–although i fear it may be only because of learning and not a spiritual one; the answer would only be found by being there.)   but i consider myself fortunate to have visited as many places as i have through books, maps, paintings, and music and whether or not i ever stay at chateau de roussan or get to see “jeune homme nu assis au bord de la mer” at the louvre again doesn’t really matter; i’m quite happy traveling there in the comfort of my imagination.

underwater holiday

i took a little trip yesterday.   there was no need to organize a wardrobe or pull the suitcases out of the garage.  there were no tickets to buy or itinerary to plan.

the dogs did not need to be boarded (they were ecstatic at the news), and i did not have to cancel the paper or mail delivery.  i did not have to leave emergency numbers with the neighbors or arrange to have the houseplants and garden watered in my absence.

this was an unexpected trip and one that i was lucky to realize was about to begin.  the morning was overcast, a cool wind off the ocean kept everyone in jackets, sweatshirts and hats.

the departure gates were unmarked, but if you had been there, I’m sure you would have seen them too.   there were attendants to answer questions and offer assistance should you require it, but for the most part they stood silently apart from the voyagers, silently observing the passage of time.

and during this trip, there were plenty of photo opportunities–the guides making it their duty to advise and direct your attention to this monument or that vista–and as far as i could tell, most everyone took advantage of their excellent suggestions.

as it happens on trips such as this one, i returned home refreshed, rejuvenated, prepared to face what the rest of my life (even if i was only focused on the day ahead) had in store for me.

what i did on my summer vacation

Obviously it’s not summer, but that shouldn’t matter to you (as it does not matter to me.)

perhaps you recall sitting in your 5th grade classroom in late may in 196_.  it’s warm already & the windows are open (pre-air-conditioning) & the room smells of 1o & 11 year olds just back in from recess (it’s all gravel, sweat, bologna, mayonnaise  & that funny smell of metal from the swings & monkey bars.)

time is standing still.  that is another wonderful thing about childhood; how slowly time moves, it takes f o r e v e r.   everything takes forever & now that the end of the school year is just days away, waiting for that to happen is taking an entire geological era to occur (which you may have learned about this year, so now it has a name.)

you may be only paying half-attention to what the teacher (wah, wah, wah) is saying because your real focus is what the summer will bring.   forts to build, books to read, adventures, bike riding, late nights & fireflies, a trip back east (which to be fair is still the midwest) to grandma’s & part of the summer spent there with cousins (the sissies!)

your first plane ride (by yourself, which, of course, has your mother in a state, an emergency siren still wailing in the background,) but you, you are in heaven.  it means freedom.  it means you’ve grown up.  it means so much that the mere thought of it cannot be held (still,) it’s a wriggling puppy, it’s a can of worms, it’s a like having to go pee during the sermon on sunday–a leg jiggling.

while you were reading the above paragraphs, something may have grabbed your attention or stuck out (a first pubic hair); i looked forward to reading a few books during the summer.  past summers had included mark twain & robert louis stevenson, the hardy boys (& nancy drew–possibly your favorite.)  who it was this summer i do not remember, but i know that i will be curled up (as curled up as someone my age can get) in a chair in the corner of the living room or out-of-doors on the porch late in the afternoon or stretched out on my twin bed with the smell of honeysuckle just seconds from wrapping me in its embrace.  it was transportation.  not that i wanted to get away (not at least consciously desiring escape, i was always relatively happy — a few years from now, when the teen years were upon me life was more mercurial.  but i never thought “i need to get out of here,” here being where i lived.)

what else is going through my mind, this day in may, sitting in the classroom?  a bike ride with the neighbor children down to the public pool on roosevelt; the awkwardness of exposing myself in front of all those boys in the chlorine-scented dressing room (those slick concrete floors) the older boys looking for victims, either to throw in the pool or humiliate in some way, especially when you’re at the stage of life when you start to be more aware of who you are as a person, the beginnings of your you.  a you you know is different from all of the other boys, but have a hard time putting it in words, it’s more of a feeling, a sense of differentness.  & it is that sense you have of you, a scent that the older boys identify as easy prey.

but today, in the classroom, you probably did not get that far ahead of yourself (retrospection hardly the purview of an 11 year old, but soon, soon.)

there may have been some thoughts, fleeting, of horse back riding, the fried chicken of mrs. russell (mother’s 2nd mother-in-law who lived in spearfish & who we saw on our way back from gillette when we visited my mother’s mother & step-father,) roller-skating & bike-riding & candy bought from the little local grocery a couple of blocks from your house (licorice whips & candy cigarettes to be shared with the neighborhood kids.)

this may have been the year (soon after i was naturalized) that i hauled back & knocked out with a right hook — that surprised even me — debbie, the next-door neighbor girl, a year older than me & their family jehovah witnesses who did not believe in the pledge of allegiance — it was idolatry — & you can only imagine the kind of trouble i got into for that (it wasn’t spanking & i don’t think i was grounded, in fact there may have only been yelling & debbie & i were soon to be found ‘chauffering’ the beatles around in the back seat of my mother’s old plymouth.)  imagination trumps real life any day.

i don’t think my mother took a vacation that year (although it may have been a vacation for her while i was at grandma’s.)  it wasn’t too long after this that summer vacations became work vacations (baby-sitting, yard work, pet care, & as i got older; restaurant work–salad station, busboy, go-fer.)

i don’t mind not going anywhere for vacation, & as much as i like going to different places, sometimes the best vacations are the ones you spend with yourself.

your guide to paper placemats

didn’t know you needed one, did you?

see, if i hadn’t told you…you may have lived your entire life not knowing about my collection of paper placemats.   yes, it’s true, circa 1963-1969 or so, a wall of my bedroom was devoted to placements that were collected not only by me, but also by relatives & friends who went on trips around the country.

they are mostly regional in representation; restaurants, motel chains (howard johnson’s was a big deal when it opened a motel on the highway just outside of rapid city in 196_); they come from montana, north & south dakota, saskatchewan (oh, that’s the time i nearly got left in canada because i proudly declared my birth city, “wurzburg, germany,” & of course, canada was happy to see the backside of my 9 year-old being, but the good ole u.s. of a. was not too pleased to see the front side, since i was still a green-card carrying foreign national, but alas & alack without my papers–not my fault, obvsly, what did i know from crossing borders, right?  my mother, in hushed confidential tones with the border guard seemed to smooth things over [did she slip him a sawbuck?] & we tootled on through,) wyoming, nebraska, colorado, utah, idaho, washington, oregon–well, you get the idea.

you wouldn’t have known this, but i have about 50 of these pieces of paper (this is what graphic designers did in the ’60s,)  and the majority of them are little tidbits of history (with a caucasion bias, mais oui); how we dominated the native americans (or how they slaughtered our infantry, men, women & children,) but mostly they try to show some pride of place and really, you can’t fault them for trying.

the prairie states are rather unforgiving geographically and meteorologically; they are open space incarnate & it takes a certain kind of person to love it (i do,) and a certain kind of person to make their life there (we did.)

i thumb-tacked each one of my treasures up on one wall of my bedroom.  they were side-by-side, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling.  i did not group them according to design or state, only as they came into my possession did they then find a life on my wall.

you should know that the rest of the walls of my bedroom (its size: possibly no more than 9′ x 10′) were hung with national geographic maps, even their sky map was on the ceiling, so when i laid on my twin bed against the west wall (until, of course, i discovered ‘angles’ & then it jutted out into the room; discovering angles most likely occurred about the same time as puberty, i’m sure you understand.)

this then represents my first collection.  i would not have it had my mother not saved it in a hard cardboard folder & one day before she died, sent me home with a box filled with my childhood:  books & clothes, & baby shoes, & report cards, newspaper clippings, you know, the things that all mothers tuck away (i’ll stop now a moment while i get a kleenex to blow my nose & wipe the tear from my eye — truly.)

but back to collecting:  i don’t know why i collect, but i do know that it gives me some comfort & some satisfaction & some sense of belonging.  i’ve always said that collectors are driven by a need to control the chaos of the world around them & owning & cherishing a group of things is an excellent way to impose a sense of order on a world that is, understandably impossible to understand.

i can say that i don’t get much of a frisson of emotion from these placemats now.  i admire some of the design elements & the marketing ideas & how businesses reached out to their clientele through history and comedy and cuteness/sweetness, but no emotion is really attached to them any longer.

however, you don’t see me getting rid of them, do you?

because i can’t for the life of me imagine imposing a dollar value on them or likewise consigning them to the trash heap.  so they’re safely tucked upon a shelf in my closet & today, for the first time in maybe 30 years, i took them down & looked at each & every one of them & tried to call up who, what, when, where & how.

sometimes i was successful, other times it was a big “huh?”  but even when i knew where they came from & who may have brought them back to me from a trip, there was still little or no emotion attached to them.

it may be time to move on & let them go.

a lack of profundity (intended)

I am drawing no universal truths from today.  It was a Sunday like many other Sundays at our house.  We slept in courtesy of ‘Spring Forward’ (even the dogs were loath to get going, sensing, I believe, that time had made an adjustment in their schedule, normally they are as accurate as Swiss timepieces.)  The sun was already up & shining brightly by the time we were out for the morning walk, fortified by a strong cup of coffee, a little blogging, the front section of the L.A. Times (me, of course, the dogs don’t drink coffee, but they do love the Times & you should see their blog.)

I finally got all things pointing in the right direction & headed over to our local farmer’s market, where I picked up the usual:  a bunch of carrots, two heads of lettuce, fresh garlic (3), a bunch of cilantro, asparagus, a three-pack of strawberries (I did complain about last week’s berries, I didn’t mean to complain, it really was intended as an observation, but I guess it sounded whiny & they gave me a $2.00 discount on today’s purchase & when I demurred they told me not to argue with them–which I promise, I hadn’t been,) 3 pink lady apples, 3 pears (bosc), sweet potatoes, and tomatoes.  I considered sugar snap peas, but they were $3.75 per pound which seemed high to me, so I passed.

Back home, M. & I had lunch (wraps & strawberries!) then bundled up the dogs & headed up to Whittier (ugh, the 5 freeway–flowing freely until Firestone, then stop-and-go until we hit the 605) to check out an antique mart, King Richard’s Antiques (for M.’s business) & to meet with the owner who’s putting together a street fair in Whittier this April where M. will be a vendor.

Dogs were only allowed in if carried, so M. went in while I stood outside with Billy & Joey.   Billy is the more outgoing of the two, always open to be petted & fawned over (he’s so soft to the touch, you’d be amazed, & I think he knows how good he feels.)

So soft in fact, that he rivals Jesus Christ, at least in this instance, in his power to demand attention & offer succor to the weary.

King Richard’s was located near a bike/running trail, one obviously well-tended by the city/state with amazing blooming trees, succulents & lavender.

M. finished his business, & then it was my turn to take a quick turn around the store.

One section was eerily lit by a frosted western window that added a note of Los Angeles ‘noir’ to the display, startling me when I realized madam was a mannequin.

But startled or not, I was completely smitten by the light being filtered through the dirt, the ages & the completely tacky 1980s chandeliers suspended from the ceiling.

I stumbled upon several gilt tables reflected in a mirror, that just begged for a photo & it wasn’t until I downloaded today’s visuals that I realized I was standing in 3rd position–gotta dance!

On my way out, I was surprised to see that metallic (the ’80s again!) was making a comeback — at least in Whittier, if not the rest of the Los Angeles basin.

We drove home (605 south to the 91 east to the 5 south) in record time & then the dogs & I went for a short walk, where we stopped to admire the coastline & say a little non-denominational prayer, re: how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful spot on the globe.

But we turned away from the view & headed home (doggie dinner!) but had to stop to admire the sego palm in bloom & consider its erotic aspects, its fecundity, its ancient, pleistocene ancestry.   That’s it!  Draw your own conclusions (I’m fresh out.)

travelogue

Before recording digitally every waking moment <insert nostalgia sigh here>, some of us wrote things down in a little black book of blank pages–mine started in Chicago in 197_ and ended in 197_.  Although I oftentimes missed it and attempted to restart it–it seemed that photographs, work, lovers, friends, living, replaced it.   Alright, I lacked discipline.  There, I’ve said it.

June 30, 1976 – Wed.   New York, New York.  Have been here since Sunday.  Monday night we went to Maxwell’s Plum for Dinner — it was outstanding.  I have seen so much and done so much and enjoyed myself so much — I don’t really want to leave  — but I can always come back, can’t I?

The view from R. & B.'s apartment on Morton Street in the West Village.

Life is so bizarre — before I left on my vacation Jim C. decided that we were no longer to be friends and I suddenly realized how very petty he is and it’s fine with me if doesn’t want my friendship.  I was under his control for too long.  I imagine that more of him was coming off on me than I wish to concede or even want to admit.  Let him go his merry way, castrating himself from other people until he is all alone–an island among the sea and we’ll see how long until he’s destroyed by the sea.  How long can loneliness be happiness?

Tonight I’m going to see “Three Penny Opera” [starring Raul Julia] at Lincoln Center — last night we saw David Rabe’s new play “Streamers” directed by Mike Nichols — it was so very good –

July 6, 1976 Tues. — am going home for a week now.  Will be nice contrast to New York — in the continuing saga of the aforementioned [trip to NYC] — I saw Tony Perkins in “Equus” — a marvelous piece of acting and a very controlled play.  I also saw Marcel Carné’s film — Children of Paradise — the New Yorker magazine says it is the perfect film – they were right.  On Sat. afternoon, B. and I saw American Ballet Theatre — Baryshnikov danced Twyla Tharp’s Push Comes to Shove.  It was an amazing concept in ballet!

What I didn’t record was that I was in New York for the bicentennial and witnessed the tall ships sail up the Hudson, along with amazing fireworks over the Statue of Liberty — and — that one day during my trip there, R. & I walked from 92nd St. and Broadway all the way downtown to their Morton Street apartment in the West Village.  And then, of course, there were the men–Christopher Street was filled with gay men (all with hairy shoulders–which at the time impressed me no end–today, not so much, well, okay, maybe a little.)

At home in South Dakota the following week, July 1976.

July 12, 1976 – Mon –

a dream – walking through slush and snow in New York City wearing black rubber galoshes — come upon Dean R. painting a fire escape, then I meet David B. and we sit and talk and then we walk through Washington Square Park and then into his apartment which is very gypsy-looking, lots of pillows and drapes–almost tent-like–I’m confused as to whether or not I work that night or have a dance class–the dream ends.  My dreams at home were terribly erotic and violent — but not in the nightmare sense.  I have the ability to dream and remember those dreams.

Flash forward 12 years–M. & I vacation in Puerto Rico/St. Thomas/St. John.  There is no journal recording my feelings, just photographs, but they, they completely define the time we spent there.  Which is better–journal or photos?  For now, looking back–I must rely on both.

Trunk Bay, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, November 1988.

check engine

In the department of mundane affairs, the other day the ‘check engine’ light came on in my old ‘liberal-mobile’ (with a bumper sticker espousing my liberal agenda.)  This turn of events necessitated a trip to the auto-repair facility that I frequent; frequent being the most important word, as this problem has been recurring since June of this year.  <sigh>

First, I check the side mirror for oncoming traffic and prepare to make a u-turn from the curb, much as in life one must take a rear view in order to move forward.

As is often the case, I must make the choice of actually leaving the neighborhood; left is out, right circles back around with the option of staying.

This stop offers another opportunity to escape reality, but the downhill pull is powerful and I relent to the laws of gravity.

Vanity is sometimes an obscure puzzle of consonants and the occasional vowel.

At this hour (shortly after 8 AM) there is much traffic–some going to the high school nearby, other fleeing the high school on their way to work and their thoughts turn from kids to income.

Many supplicants in our community worship at the feet of the twin gods, Lexus and Mercedes, with obscure paeans to their religion of luxury emblazoned in metal as empowered by the state.

Target signals the toll road and my final opportunity to escape the shackles of commerce and trade for the day.

This ramp sluices into the highway like a neural pathway, signaling the onset of freeway trance.

The toll road slices through pristine wilderness (saved by a concerted community effort) and eventually peaks/peeks at the ocean in the distance.

With a storm rolling in, the view to Los Angeles has been wiped with chalky clouds.

Off the freeway at last and into the more ‘urban’ area of our county.  What? You don’t see any difference?

Saving money, for one, is more important and not being afraid to advertise it is your first clue that the ‘economic climate’ has changed in this neighborhood.

People actually take public transportation here and are not embarrassed by doing so.

There are billboards (celebrity diseases!) along city streets, preaching to people who cannot afford to give or to buy, a sure sign of urbanization.

Everything familiar from my neighborhood has changed…the cars, the buses, the stoplights, the views.

But now I find myself in the parking lot of the car repair shop — and there staring back at me is NUTS BOLTS RIVETS.  Wouldn’t life be simpler if we concentrated on what we do best?  No SCREWS, no WASHERS, just NUTS BOLTS RIVETS.  I’m challenged by this simplicity and bold affirmation.