AN ART & A CRAFT

Sunday afternoon, listening to the local NPR station, The Moth Radio Hour. I remember poetry slams where people did their little bit of spoken word and at the end, they picked a winner. It was sort of in-your-face: I can ‘Poem’ better than you. At The Moth, people tell true stories, drawn from their lives, in front of a live audience and everybody wins. It’s about the story, not the winner. Today a man with young children told about his wife’s struggle with cancer; actually his struggle with her cancer. She didn’t die, no complications, it was just bad enough she had to go the full radiology-chemo regime but a year later she rang the bell, six months after that she is still cancer free. 

He’s a good performer, his story was polished, timed and delivered without a break. In 14-15 minutes, I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall but it never did. The happy ending was anticlimactic. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have a dear someone who has been down that path. I remember when that diagnosis was a death sentence. I suppose I would have been wound tight as well if it were the mother of my small children, and it was after all, his story. 

Telling story is both an art and a craft. I’m sure they have open-mic tryouts where they advance the best. If all things go well, they get to be on the ‘Big Show’ - sort of like American Idol. Some are simply, stand-up comics or actors with performing experience. But the story is the star and that’s a good thing. How about this? Yesterday I needed a small, decorative bottle with a cork. Last year while floating the Grand Canyon we saw mountain sheep on the river bank. An hour later when we made camp we saw their foot prints in sand and lots of small, pellets in little piles or strung out like a string of beads. I picked some up and stored them in a zip-lock baggie. I just rediscovered them and needed a container to display my Grand Canyon Sheep Shit. 

When I started my pickup, I noticed a cicada on the arm of the windshield wiper. I thought it would fly as soon as I began to move. Two blocks up the hill, turbulence coming over the hood was making it hard to hang on but the big insect was hanging tight. I had to make a decision; was I going to become part of this story or what? At 30 mph. the critter had moved slightly, toward the windshield glass and down, behind the wiper arm. I thought, ‘All right - this little bugger is going for it.’ The Olympics fire up next week and I’m in the mood to root for athletes who overcome adversity. 

I drove slow, around 30 mph. Cars backed up behind me but the limit was 35 and nobody was honking. I thought about cicada’s situation. It can’t fly this fast and a slip now would be disaster. So I started praying to the insect god for a strong grasp; not actually but I was concerned for its well being. At stop signs I was anxious that it would fly off but it just wasn’t in any mood to go anywhere. Cicadas are True Bugs, from the family Hemiptra. They can live underground for years as larva but when they emerge they climb up the nearest tree and shed their shell. It’s hard to believe that big headed, big eyed creature ever fit inside the empty shells they leave behind, split open down the back, clinging to tree trunks in the summer. In that way, they are like butterflies. The veins in the wings are little vessels that pump full of fluid to give the wing form and strength. The body expands from internal pressure, like a dry sponge in water. When it’s ready, and not before, it will fly away. I wondered if my friend on the wiper had stopped there before it finished metamorphosizing, (did I just invent a word?) 

All the stops, turns and changes in speed, the cicada made the trip from Grandview to Martin City; it must be 4 miles with a dozen or more stops and turns. As I parked in the lot outside the World Market store, I could see it move so I knew it was alive. I really did become part of the story. Had I gone faster, like everyone behind me wanted, I’m sure it would have been curtains for the cicada. Then I had to ask, does this make me Pro Life? I take it literally, you've gotta love it all. I've gotta believe a new cicada, singing in the trees is as important as a human embryo. Well, I sheltered it when it need shelter. When I came out of the store with my new, sheep shit bottle the cicada had flown. Then last night I heard them, cicada cousins, in the trees, calling out; “Hey, Joaquin; donde estas?” (. . . where are you?) - I tightened up my throat muscles and gave my best cicada call: “Rheeee-a-rheeeee-a-rheeee”, (He’s over in Martin City.) It’s probably not up to The Moth Hour standard but it’s my story. 

I PROMISE

I live in a world that makes perfect sense. I can’t speak for anybody else but my world follows some pretty steadfast rules, with fairly predictable results. There is matter and there are forces. They interact; we rotate and revolve in that order. Push, pull - move a little bit - mountains up, mountains down. Heat up, cool off - a little rain here, lots of ice there, sea level up - sea level down and you have it, my world. If I were selling appliances or trying to get elected, this is where I’d say, “The problem is. . .” 

A tiger fell into a pit and couldn’t get out. He called up to a monkey to push a tree limb down so he could climb out. The monkey refused, saying, “If I do, you will eat me.”  Tiger assured the monkey he would not eat him. In fact, he would be so grateful, he would reward the monkey. So the monkey pushed down a limb. The tiger climbed out and pounced on the monkey. Monkey said, “You promised you wouldn’t eat me.” Tiger then replied, “Yes I did, but you knew I was a Tiger.” People are just one leaf on the tree of life and it must be a mortal sin to presume that we are more important than all the other leaves. Along with intelligence we inherited a terminal case of collective narcissism. We are pathological in our approach to all things that are not human. My world is full of problems but without people, there are no problems. What does that say about people?

Bozo does a concert gig. He is the only performer on a grand stage but nobody comes to listen. He sings and plays his guitar for hours. Then he writes a review and publishes it in the paper. The paper sells only one copy. Bozo reads the dazzling review and concludes the concert was a tremendous success and he is the greatest performer on earth. We are both monkey and tiger, depending on your place in the pecking order. 

I love the geology, the physics, the chemistry; the planet is amazing and it is absolutely immune to corruption. If you’re a person it comes natural to frame everything in terms of your own best interests so the planet becomes either a resource, a liability or maybe a threat. It’s all about us and I don’t wear that mantle very well. It doesn’t bother me that I’m just a piece in the puzzle. I’m happy to be a mundane, blue sky, puzzle piece. If I fit inconspicuously into a high sky over a landscape that’s fine. I don’t need to be in the waterfall or part of the sunset. I don't need to be the assembler, judge of whether it is good or bad. From my perch, collectively, we can't get over that hurdle. 

The fact that we’re in the national election cycle doesn’t help. The whole process is so thin, so transparent; millions of critics with a 3 year-old’s sensibility, all wanting more than they deserve. The tigers in the pit all want the 3 year-olds to throw down their little branch, not to the other tiger; that’s a bad tiger. They want it for themselves and they promise anything; “I promise I won’t eat you.” The naive monkeys take the bait. How does that work out? “But you knew I was a tiger. 

Actually, I prefer mud slides, wild fires and tsunamis. I know they screw up human enterprise but over time, it all works out. I’ll throw a branch down and my tiger will either win or lose. I’ll end up tiger bait either way. Some tigers might actually care about the monkey. Mr. Tyson probably cares about his chickens too. If I sound cynical, I’m old and that’s what you get when you pay attention. Molly Ivins was a political pundit, a Texan during the GWB years, a thorn in his side for all of his public life (talk about a tiger in the pit.) She talked candidly about the sleazy, base, dirty tricks and double dealing; not just Republicans, the whole circus. She said you can’t be there and not get it on you, so you jump in both feet, after a while get used to the smell. I liked her, a lot. But even without the stench, I don’t have the stomach for it. 

IT'S WHAT WE DO

I used to volunteer at Hospice. I am an itinerant writer with an unpredictable, frequently changing itinerary. My boss, volunteer coordinator, used me with clients who wanted/needed help with writing projects. I let her know when I was available, when I was available and it worked. One day she called, “I wouldn’t call on you for this, it’s not how I want to use you but in this case you’re my last chance and I really want to support this family.” I asked what she needed and it was simply, someone to be there. A client was in her final hours and the family was coming in from all over the map. So I went to the nursing home, identified myself and was taken to a private room at the end of the hall. She was an old lady, sleeping peacefully. I sat down and began to read a magazine I had picked up in the lobby. 

In a while, six people came; one couple about right to be her children, the others more like adult grandchildren. We exchanged hello’s, who we were and they began the ritual of last goodbye’s to someone who couldn’t hear and wasn’t going to wake up. Occasionally, out of their own need, they drew me into the conversation. They thanked me for being there. I said, “It’s what we do.” The subject changed to Hospice; good for a few minutes and the tide turned again to the reason for being there. 

In the drawer of her side table they found several plain, soft cover books of the same title. The woman had self published a book that she believed, needed to be written, needed to be shared. She carried several with her everywhere she went, giving them to anyone who would take it. It was a memoir, anecdotes from her life that praised Jesus and glorified God. She believed that her wonderful life was made so only because of her faith and religion. A grandson I imagine, told me he had read it, recommended it as he handed it to me. Like the fly on the wall, it’s amazing what you come away with when you’re a spectator. I sensed his recommendation was more an act of respect for her than an endorsement of the book. But I accepted it. Soon, they started collecting their things. They asked how long I’d stay; I told them at least until the shift change, another hour. They thanked me again and left. I began thumbing, skimming through the righteous lady’s book. 

She had good command of language and wrote knowing exactly where she was taking it. Any part of it could have been lifted from a prize-winning sermon. Her witness was what every faithful ear longs to hear. I was reading with the same sense of respect that her grandson had shown. But I had moved on to another kind of religion where miracles and myth come from the same tap and God is a metaphor. Shift change came and I left the book on her side table. 

Several years before my time with Hospice I was sharing lunch with my dad in the dining room at his nursing home. At the time, none of us knew how fast his time was running out. He in his wheel chair, near blind, near deaf, knowing that he would never be better; he told me, “Ever-body arrives here vertical but they all go out horizontal.” He was telling me he knew he would die there but I wasn’t ready to hear that. I treated it with humor but he didn’t laugh. A man at the next table, someone we didn’t even know, he bowed his head before eating. I noticed Dad watching him, saw it coming; the clenched jaw and veins in his forehead. “God dammed heathens!” We hadn’t prayed over our food. It hadn’t occurred to either one of us that we should pray. It took a stranger to stir his religion again. When you strain good beer through a human the buzz lasts a while and goes away, and what you don’t soak up, you flush; that’s how my parents’ religion went through me but I couldn’t tell him I was a heathen too. 

Thumbing through the book, thinking about my dad; it occurred to me that my writing is little more than therapy. You have those moments when you believe that your experience and your opinion are worth the reading. The old lady thought her book would change lives. Not very many, maybe nobody at all, learn life lessons vicariously. As much as we would like to share, to chart a better course, you have to experience for yourself and make of it what you will. I’ve self published and those books are for the most part shelved away somewhere, unread. My photographs are much better than the writing and the eye prefers images to paragraphs. Time is precious and reading more than a few lines is a lot to ask. But I keep writing. Someday, when a curious descendant or random soul skips over the text in favor of the photos, it won’t be because it wasn’t written. 

TIMES

On Sunday we drove up to Washington, Louisiana, a little, old, bayou town north of Opelousas. It’s off the interstate so you have to want to go there or you drive by and never know. In old times it was a major steamboat port for shipping cotton and sugar down the Opelousas River to the Atchafalaya, Morgan City and the Gulf. They changed the river's name to Bayou Courtableau after a local man who accumulated great wealth, property and owned many slaves. Washington is kept clean and freshly mowed. All that remains is the village, a gas station, antique shops and the Steamboat Restaurant on the bayou; we had crab stuffed catfish. 

Only a few shoppers in the antique stores and not much buying. Every store had a half price sale going on, even the business and buildings were for sale. Like so many southern towns, bypassed by the interstate all that’s left are old people, a destination restaurant and history. Everything has a story. I’d bet Mr. Courtableau’s descendants know their legacy even if the money’s all gone; and his slaves’ people, they have their own problems in the new times. Most of them have scattered up to Alexandria or east to Baton Rouge but they don’t have the luxury of a quaint village, a destination restaurant or a pedigreed backstory. 

In the morning on Interstate 12, on our way out of Baton Rouge, we passed over Airline Hwy. The exit was blocked off and there was a lot of first responder activity on Airline to the north. An angry, black man with a rifle had just killed three policemen and wounded three others. He was killed in the melee but we would not learn any details until we were farther up the road. This, just a week after a similar shooting in Dallas, Texas; these are the stories of new times, in cities full of angry people. There is plenty of blame to go around; nobody can shake off their own little piece of the ugly. Leaders are pleading for calm and control but denial and culture go hand in hand; it has to be the other side’s fault. Placing blame and changing the subject are top priorities in these times. People of color dying at the hands of police is not news; it’s the norm. When that equation goes upside down it’s not the norm and there is hell to pay. There is no just cause for this violence, the ambush of police officers, and nobody says otherwise. But on the other side of the tracks they look and nod as they grieve, they grieve for dead black men and dead white men, feeling a sort of release. Not celebrating anything, nothing there to feel good about but somewhere, some white someone is being touched by the same pain that has been eating them up forever. 

‘An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.’ We don’t have the stomach for the hard work of reconciliation. New times aren’t that much different from old times. Old Courtableau made his riches on the backs of his slaves. He could work them to death, sell them for profit or kill as punishment for any reason, as he pleased. Old times, for all the times, heroes took what they wanted, by stealth or by blunt; whatever it took. It was good business after all, they served a god that helps those who help themselves.  

THANKS AGAIN

Louisiana; I wouldn’t want to live here but it’s a wonderful place to come and enjoy. I come, enjoy, whenever I can. Yesterday, New Orleans, I went to the French Quarter early, before stores opened, while sleeping derelicts used their belongings as pillows on park benches, before they dissolved into the city. Sometimes I eat early but not so hungry, I walked. Vendors were setting up their booths at French Market, every ethnic possibility, every language known to me; unfolding tables and lugging tubs of trinkets, made in China, wood carvings and brass effigies from Asia and things I can’t imagine anybody buying but then, what do I know? Too early to spend money; I walked. The transition from night people to day people comes easy as the wind changing direction. Tourists are easy to spot and they start replacing the indigent and destitute. The dregs of this culture sleep on the streets; nobody wants them in the neighborhoods, police leave them alone here and together, there is safety in numbers. But the Day People were taking over and everybody has money. Isn’t it interesting how that works? 

I knew I’d be ready for an early lunch so that became my purpose. I’d never ridden the trolly, like ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, green trolly. They run along St. Charles Ave. from Bourbon Street out to Carrollton Ave; I wanted to do that. LaMadeleine’s is a restaurant, where St. Charles ends and I like the food there. At the trolly stop I met a man and his preteen daughter who schooled me on the trolly line and transfer system. I got a $3 day pass and sat behind the operator. Both ends of the trolly are the front; at the end of the line the driver simply moves to the controls at the other end and the seat backs flop across to face the other forward. It takes both hands on various levers and switches to run the trolly, not unlike the Wizard Of Oz trying to keep the curtain closed and the thunder rolling. Two sets of tracks occupy the median with cars passing in opposite directions every few minutes. Lurching, clacking and thumping, stopping at cross streets with the hum of electric motors and the hot, humid air; you are enveloped in the slow, southern culture of Stanley & Stella Kowalski. 

LaMadeleine’s is on the corner where St. Charles dead ends into the levee and the tracks turn onto Carrollton Ave. Fresh baked bread and butter are set out as you please and coffee refills are likewise, serve yourself. Breakfast is served all day and the bakery is stocked with sweet, irresistible things. A half hour and a breakfast croissant later, I headed back outside to the trolly stop. It was noon and my timing had been perfect. There were things to do in the Quarter and the ride back would pass by Tulane, Audubon Park and Zoo, Loyola University and through the Garden District with its antebellum mansions and heavy laden Live Oaks; their huge, low hanging, long reaching branches nearly touching the ground. I’d seen it all on the ride out and knew it would be just as rewarding on the return. 

Old Live Oaks have character that other trees do not. Where the trunk meets the ground, it rolls and folds upon itself with humps and lumps that speak to me of Tolkien’s ‘Lord of The Rings.’ Next to the sidewalk an old Live Oak tree grew up and over the street. I heard a voice call out but didn’t think it was for me. Then it came again; “Sir . . .” Half sitting, half leaning on the convoluted tree trunk, an old, black man was trying to get my attention. He was terribly, unnaturally thin. In tattered white pants and a blue t-shirt, he leaned toward me on his cane. He wanted a handout. “I haven’t eaten yet today. I’m homeless and I’d appreciate anything you can manage.” I had already turned down two panhandlers in the Quarter and was trying to rationalize a ‘No’ to him as well. But his voice was convincingly weak and his physical distress was not something you could fake. “If you can,” he said, “I’ll spend it on lunch.” I gave him a $5 and he thanked me, twice. He sat in the shade while I waited at the trolly stop across the tracks. As the trolly approached, he began to collect himself in an effort to get to his feet. It was agonizing to watch. As I got on the car he was shuffling his way across the tracks. I sat in the first seat and watched as he struggled to raise himself up into the car. I got up, offered him my hand and he took it. He put his $1.25 into the money slot and took his receipt. There were no seats left so I pointed him to mine. Across the isle a lady motioned to me; she scooted and made a space next to her. Other than the awesome Live Oaks, the ride back was uneventful. The other side of Napoleon Ave., the old man began his getting up. We stopped. I steadied him, handed him his cane as he had to step down backwards off the step. Looking out the window, he had crossed the tracks, turned to look at me, waved and nodded what I took to be a genuine ‘Thank’s again.’ 

Mid-day on Bourbon St. is mostly about lunch and taxi cabs. Later they will block it off for pedestrian traffic and strip shows will be the rule. I drop down a block to Royal St. then Charters St., working back to Jackson Square. A young, heavily tattoo’d, healthy looking panhandler wanted $20 and I shook my head. He asked, “How about $4?” I told him I was ‘Panhandled’ out for the day. He thanked me and moved on. Even though the sky was blue and clouds were white, thunder rolled nearby. Then it boomed again. I ducked into an air conditioned tourist trap and bought a t-shirt. It was on my list of things to do; a black shirt with white lettering - “Jesus loves you, but the rest of us think you’re an asshole.” 

Latrobe Park is a small alcove on Decatur St. Overhanging trees and comfortable benches makes it a prime sleeping spot for homeless at night and for tourists to rest in the heat of the day. An outdoor restaurant at the top of the steps hosts a 4 or 5 piece band every day, a great place to hang out. I sat down in the shade and dozed off, barely hearing the band. Shortly, I felt the gentle splatter of rain drops making their way down, dripping off the lower leaves. The sky had turned dark and rain droops pelting the walk grew from dark specks to nickel size signatures. I headed across the street, sampled pecan pralines at the candy store and then into French Market, the flea market where I had been first thing in the morning. It rained hard, just like it had in February when I was here for Mardi Gras. People bunched under cover while the wind blown spray felt good, coming in under the roof. I looked at everything twice but there was nothing I couldn’t live without. Spices used to be a good buy there but are terribly over priced now. Better to buy them at the grocery store than in the French Quarter. 

I was tired, needed a place to sit down but benches were full and food stalls didn’t want you on a stool if you weren’t going to order. On the leeward side of the Market I found a spot on the concrete, next to a steel roof support. It was only a foot or so from water dripping off the roof, running down to the curb but I sat down, leaned against the beam and closed my eyes. When I opened them my legs and feet were numb, the water had advanced but I was still comfortably dry in an occasional, thin, cool overspray. I walked off my aches, visited a few antique shops and junk stores and it was time for my ride to pick me up. The day panned out much like other days I’ve spent in the Quarter. Still, it was special. My mother always told me, “This is the day the Lord has given us.” In that reminder was an unspoken admonition: “Don’t waste the day. It’s the only one you have.” I didn’t assimilate her religion but I love her insight. I don’t think gratitude needs to be qualified by one god or another. I am grateful for every day and I try to make each one count. The old man on the trolly and the young, tattoo’d guy both inform me that my charmed life is more about Karma and timing than it is about me or my decisions. Miester Eckhart was a 13th Century mystic, remembered as a progressive cleric and for an enduring quote. He said, "If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough." Thank you and thanks again. I offer up my thanks unaddressed. It’s not important I know who to thank, only that I understand. I get better than I deserve and I am grateful.