Vet. single . . . cash

I (we) chose to move to Portland, Oregon, three months ago, on not much more than: gut-instincts, a hope that serendipitous events of yesteryear were precursors not coincidence, and the urgent desire to flee the southwest. This last reason was the strongest.

In '06, chance and circumstances caused us to set ourselves adrift from employment in: Payson, Arizona—where our personal belongings stagnated, along with my creativity. The mean age of the residents in this forested, mountain town were people who were eligible for social security (I'd use the term average age, but it fails to engender the words: vacuous and ill-tempered). This is not to imply that most northern-Arizona elderly are all... ...well, yes it is.

Because, if most Walmart shoes fit most people, and most people will shop at a Walmart if a store is close, then the statement most vacuous and ill-tempered people wear cheap shoes is indubitably correct. Or have I missed a step in my logic?

I suspect, somewhere in the back of my foolishness, that there is something catching in them-there Arizona hills. The only outward sign of being body-snatched was silver hair. As my temples began to turn, I cried, "We need to flee!"

Now, as a citizen of the pacific northwest, I find Portland mentally comfortable for the likes of me. I may have traded-in some sunshine for rain, but it was a small price to get my creativity back.

On the heels of that preamble...I read an article in a Portland newspaper, which surmised that the local homeless population were possibly all members of some collective organization (like in Fritz Lang's film: M). The author said he would be more willing to provide a donation of money if he knew the scruffy guy at the stop light was not part of an organization. This idiot surmised the existence of: vans, schedules, time-clocks, supervisors, and treasury clerks. He figured it was acceptable to give the "vet" (his quotes, meaning he doubted the claim; ...oh, it's such an effective ruse) a sandwich or a bottle of water, but money would certainly only be fueling some addiction. And, he heard there were instances where "beggars" lived in nice homes with families/automobiles (...and two cats in the yard...) and that they "could be making more than the rest of us poor working slobs".

According to the hack's article, the guy holding the cardboard sign at the underpass was either:

• a hobo-first-class cog, in the big Collective Union of Panhandlers (CUP).
• a deceitful addict.
• a wealthy scam artist.

I'm not going to claim anything the "journalist" wrote was untrue, just that everything he said drew no conclusions and made no important observations (nor am I addressing—or attempting to make light of—homelessness or poke fun at pan-handlers).

Someone who asks passers-by for handouts, bothers me because:

• Their temerity and lack of embarrassment, when asking for money, embarrasses me.
• They ask for money in exchange for nothing (I don't think kids should be given an 'allowance', but paying for routine household chores is OK in my book).
• They anger me just like: telemarketers, door to door salesmen, and public-cellphone-shouters do, by disregarding my personal space and intruding into my non-verbally communicated (but clearly understood by society) desire to not interact.

My solution:

• I proactively put a dollar in the hat, or the instrument case, of every street performer I walk past (or the equivalent in foreign currency, outside the US).
• If they take a break, talk to the fuck-tard next to them, or tune strings as I pass, I keep my money (no matter, I heard their music upon approach).
• The music must be performed or sung live, and if they beg (or have someone else) I give nothing.

I think if everyone paid a small amount to street-performers and none to beggars, then eventually the message would spread. Just like, obviously, the word has spread that all recognized CUP members in good standing utilize: corrugated cardboard, black-felt tip marker and poor grammar—no matter if they are a member of the 'honest, self-deprecating' chapter; the 'pity-me' chapter; or the 'most uniquely bizarre' chapter.

When I said I was not going to poke fun a pan-handlers I lied.

Scathing Elves

Am I the only person who prefers an 'American translation' when reading British authors? This is only a book-reading issue. I prefer foreign films in their native languages and have no problem with subtitles—even those of obvious British origin. I also don't have a complaint with any other creative medium or form of communication (e.g. music, theater, poetry, graphic novels, or television programs).

However, when I am engrossed in a book, my brain trips and stumbles every time it crosses a British term. It's not like I can't decipher the meanings. I know if the character is 'going on holiday' she is taking a vacation; that his 'trainers' are running shoes; and that if he is 'going to the loo (or WC)', he's going to the toilet (or restroom). But every time I read the British words, my brain stumbles and it slows down. Then, I recognize I'm reading. Effectively, I exit the story for a brief moment and become aware of the page, the paragraph, the sentence, and my eye moving over words. It may be only a second, sometimes less, but it's enough to ruin a pleasant read if it happens three times a page.

I asked a few people about this and learned not everyone has this problem. I suspect one reason is reading speed. I don't read graphic novels or poetry fast and, therefore, don't stumble on "translations". But, if I become absorbed in a story, I am unaware of my surroundings and lose track of the passage of time (until our hero takes a torch out of her pocket and shines it down into the empty lift-shaft, illuminating a clutch of elves glaring into the light).

Are any British writers re-edited for US Markets (you ask, scathingly)? Yes. The Harry Potter books. They went too far when they changed the title of the first book (from Philosopher's Stone, to Sorcerer's Stone) but that's on the author for allowing it.

The following example (of a jarring British text) is excerpted from pages 133-134 of Steven Hall's novel The Raw Shark Texts (my proposed US-version immediately follows):

I found him by following the flex. The flex from the standing lamp connected to an orange extension lead which connected to a white extension lead which connected to another orange extension lead...

I found him by following the electric cord. The cord from the floor lamp connected to an orange extension cord which connected to a white extension cord which connected to another orange extension cord...

On a slightly different, but similar, note. If a story has been transliterated from another roman (or latin)-based language (e.g. Spanish, German) why are proper nouns not translated? Each time this happens, the same 'hiccup' occurs: I'm jarred out of the story (because I'm being reminded, "Hey, this is a translation. This is not the language of the author.") For obvious reasons, this is never an issue with semantic/phonetic transcriptions of cyrillic or other non-roman-based alphabets.

Year one of my sabbatical

          In March of 06 my paramour Pam, and I, quit work and began a rambling shuffle of job-searching (for her) and camping journey (for us).

          A medium-good memory from that spring:  We were sitting in camp chairs, near the shore of Utah's Sevier River, just after waking (not much energy yet).  The fire was beginning to make warm water for our coffee.  We were facing each other.   Pam's back was to a scrub-bush and tree covered slope.  Movement caught my eye.  I looked up.   A red tailed hawk shot down over-through the brush and trees in a spitting-arc, toward us.

          It opened its wings WIDE in a braking motion.  As it's talons slowly (not slowly at all, this whole thing lasted three-four seconds) reached out from it's body to begin to land on the top of Pam's head....I began to react.  (Oh, how—now—I wish I'd the temerity to remain motionless.)  An intake of breath preceded my facial muscles beginning to squinch (the expression which usually precludes the word 'eww').  My shoulders began to hunch a little and I started to raise my hand (I think, maybe, I was going to point...?)  The hawk's eye-line shifted up from the top of Pam's head (isn't it shit-cream crazy how the incredible eyeball-brain-combo works? This movement of Mister Hawk's head lasted...well...maybe four-tenths of a second, and registered in my head as what it really was: the hawk's recognition of a mistake it was in the extremely rapid process of making.)

          It then saw me...moving.  It's force-trajectory had brought it three feet from Pam.  So close, the talons were no longer visible—blocked from my view by Pam's wonderfully pillow-tousled hair. Pam's sleep-addled brain correctly interpreted my movements as the beginning of a reaction to something I was seeing—and she started to turn.  The hawk's head snapped to the side, and (...exit stage left...) with a burst of wind from it's four-foot wingspan it darted away, out of sight.   My sight.  Pam never saw a feather.  The only proof she had/has, that I didn't make it all up, was/is: she heard the pop-burst of wind, which caused her to duck.

          Every time I retell the story she says, "You would have loved it if that hawk actually landed on me."  I can only reply, "True.  It is, currently, only a medium-good story.  For it to have become a great campfire story, the hawk and you would both have had to lose your collective shit."

          Fall of 06 we began an almost 12,000 mile looping-trek across the US; Arizona to Virgina, up to Maine, further up through Canada, and down through Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons, back to Arizona.  This was also a combined job-hunt/once-in-a-lifetime chance to see-the-sights.  No job landed.  Many sights seen.

          One (of many) notable moments occurred after many weeks in a cramped car, guest rooms, cheap hotels, and camps:  We stopped for the night at Lake Saranac in upstate New York and rented a cottage for one evening (a splurge).  Our hopes were on easing the tensions of our proximity-overload.  We basked in front of a roaring fireplace; soaked in a highly-effective hot tub; ate in a kitchen where Pam made one of our favorite meals; and....received some cat love.  We were missing ours.   A cabin cat showed up, came in, and snuggled.  To top off the night—we took a canoe out and paddled into the moonlight with the shore lights gleaming off the water.

(to be continued?)

Return!

Hello? I am in the process of returning to the mix. This feels like the right time for me to try. Although only a small part of me is peeking out,

more of me will be coming back ... soon.

I, actually, continued to peruse my favorite bloggers over the last two and a half years. At one point Davecat called me on it, but I diligently remained a mute specter.

It has been 30+ months since I turned this canvas to the wall, and much has changed since the Spring of '06 (details should, soon, be a-trickling), but I have continued to follow and love:

Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper;
Safe-T-Inspector and Arthbard (nee: Safe T Inspector);
Little Black Duck (nee: The Diner at Penda's Relm);
The Seventh Notebook (nee: Laughing Sky);
and Shouting to Hear the Echoes.

Ciao

Difficult Index - pen/ink - 2001

I have--finally--come to terms with my non-writing and non-creativeness. Because my time, schedule, art, and mindset has red-shifted one step towards my past and skip-jumped over 'love to, want to do' into 'would like to accomplish this year' (combined with a sickness that has all but kept me in bed for almost a full month now) I have decided to turn this canvas to the wall.
I may return; I may not. My desire/urge to create constantly, mentally, crashes into my definite inability and causes significant stressors. Therefore, I close this creative outlet for an indefinite period.
Thanks to all who helped me through the previous sixteen months of blogging; I miss you all. Good-bye.

Shirtblog

They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.

This is the preview for snapperhead:

Not A Post

This non-post, is merely to whisper that 'rumors of my death are exaggerated' and affirm that I still have a blogging pulse. I still read all your stuff (even the not so funny stuff about 27"; the wonderful news about BOUND and being published in it; the great news about the 1st film audition; or the right-on post about 'introverted and not being a loser') but I'm rarely commenting to save time since...as some of you may know...to attempt to post at all when using a hand-cranking dial-up modem that is so slow it can take minutes to build one page, well, that's just not gonna happen much. Improvements are on the horizon. New computer with Wi-Fi and all the cable modem/router that I can eat.

Until then. Know that I read (and really believe SafeT is a deranged hairball just waiting to be vurped back down to the planet Urfmaqlia)... that I miss the writing and DigRends as I had it a couple months ago,...and plan to have it back. Eventually/soon/notsoonenough.

Arrrrgh!

I've still not connected. Feck (to borrow a phraze from davecat) I hate not having a computer set-up. I suspect it will still be weeks until the boxes are unpacked and I am settled and the internet is up. THIS SABBATICAL IS TOO LONG AND I MISS BLOGGING (but I certainly can't write and create with the pub lick peeping over my shoulder).

Until I get settled, know that I miss you all.

Flux

Although my respite is over, I am now without proper internet access. I find that I'm not one who easily creates digital renderings or writes in an internet cafe setting. Also, I don't usually write diary entries, because explaining my cat's cuteness or complaining about my absolutely fucked new haircut, just doesn't seem to be my cuppa (which--of course--doesn't mean I don't want the chuckle reading about you and yours).

So. Here I sit with my back to the public, writing a "what I did over winter solstice" piece.

Between the last day I wrote (15 Dec) and today (4 Jan) I accomplished the following:
- rented a 20' x 8' x 8.5' POD-type container.
- emptied a 1600sqft house (with help from my paramour with the 2-person lift shit).
- loaded POD from floor to roof, wall-to-door. Solid. Should have gotten the 24'. I asked for the 24' but the salesman said a 20' would be more than enough for the small house we have. That fuck should have taken my extra 45$ and shut up.
- cleaned said house, painted a couple walls, manicured lawn and garden and pool (this sentence makes it all sound so quick and easy...it should be 4 pages long...it should contain many words like back-breaking and heavy, and difficult, and fraught-with-complications which were unforseen [which is redundant because are any complications forseen, ever?] and so forth until the sheer weight of the words makes the reader tired).
- loaded, compacted, and prepped for transport my 5th wheel RV.
- had same towed out of the Sonoran Desert and into the forest. It had 40# of pressure in all six tires; should have had 80#. So I convinced the dude (who looked like Dennis Hopper) to pull into a truck stop to get air. At 50 cents for 3 minutes of air--over $1 per tire, a total of $7.50, and 40 minutes later--with the skin pulled away from under two finger nails, I got all 6 tires full. The only way it could have been harder, is if I pumped the tires with a hand-pump.
- began work as 'handyman veach' (10$/hr) at a quaint motel in the forested mountains, where my paramour is now the manager.
- set-up the 5th wheel and prepped for winter use.

All our shit is still in the front yard, in that POD. The apartment is still being rennovated, painted, recarpeted and re-everythinged. My bike is buried in the pile so I can't ride. My back and legs are sore. My fingers are dry and chapped. And I couldn't be happier. I go to sleep every night with a smile on my face and in my heart. I am no longer going to have 115 degree summer heat. I might get to hike in the snow this month or next. I will golf in the forest soon.

I wish to thank all who wrote or sent e-cards over the solstice season. I had hoped to jump back into posting with a vengence, but that will have to wait until I can get unpacked and seated at my own keyboard. Nonetheless. I am back.

November's 21 thru 30

back-forward to this story's previous 1000 words

back-forward to this story's beginning

	After three seconds it stops. Just like on the pier: I have no sense of touch. Need to leave! Watching each of my movements with care, I board an empty elevator. All feeling returns as I cross the lobby. Finally! Other than a man in a blue smock approaching, there is no hubbub. He says, “Mijnheer...?” I stop. “Umm, Lorber.” He hands me a paperback-sized screen and says, “de vorm seven-aught-eight-four-two-four, double-three.” I read, declare myself a non-compensated suicide facilitator, and sign with a stylus. I hand the computer back and walk out the front doors. One-sleeve’s husk is gone.
	Guess I should think of him as Fred Lindquist; his name, on the form. I watch two men in protective clothing with tanks on their backs rinse the pavement. I use the V-Sat, wait, and get in when the car arrives. Circling the block, I remove the pistol from under the front seat and zip it into an inside jacket pocket. The biohazard-men are gone when I pick up Holly. “Did you hear the alarm earlier?” she asks. “Yes.” “The briefer told us it’s to warn pedestrians that someone is jumping off the roof. They get a couple a day.”
	I say, “tell me about it,” and watch her beautiful profile as she talks. Mission is, now, almost fleshed-out. …web-word spreads about ‘new-best’ everything: woman-in-red to visit, methods, places for a last meal... How to best utilize a question? …compensation for lost revenue if an establishment temporarily becomes a ‘lemming cliff’… Ohura interrupts: construction – 32-kilometer detour – or select manual.. “Manual,” I reply. “What?” Ish’s last expression (of ‘unbranded carrier’ fear)—crosses Holly’s face. “You ever control a sled?” “Yes. Dan Ryan during Chicago rush hour.” I say as the accelerator presses my foot and steering responds to my fingertips.
	“Oh,” she says, relaxing and turning her attention to the in-dash screen. “I forget you’re American.” Maneuvering irregular roadway sections bordering a site containing several building-top cranes, I indicate with my chin, “unfamiliar with this.” “The epicenter, I think,” she replies. “I’ve got our kiosk results, but don’t read until you’re off manual.” Once available, I return to handicap automatic. Glancing toward the screen, Holly’s body posture grabs my attention. She kisses me; soft lips with a flick of tongue. I kiss back. Honeysuckle fills my nose and a left eye as green as a four-leaf clover fills my vision.
	After reading our negative results—which reflects Joe has not been tested since arriving two years ago, all but confirming his virginity—the car stops and we escape the drizzle under an awning. “Never been to this part of town, where are we headed?” she asks. “A few blocks east of the Internationaal Instituut…ahh, over there.” I point across the street at a pedestrian walkway. We hold hands. In the afternoon, with no reflected blaze of artificial lights, the massive mirror-and-chrome block looks less imposing. Holly chooses the pizza and beer joint—Best of Both Worlds—with no coaching.
	While selecting a table, an intoxicated, mustachioed-man—shorter than me by a few inches, lighter by a few kilos, and younger by several hundred years—bolts from the back and almost knocks us down. To prevent the collision, I hip-check him into an empty table, spilling most of my beer. As he climbs upright, I estimate the placement of a nonfatal windpipe-crushing blow. In gutter-French he stammers, “Feckin bitch-all-worthless highn’-mighty, dre-serve to die. Filth-cunt!” Spittle froths in the corners of his mouth. Silently, two waiters manhandle him away while a third apologetically brings me a fresh drink. Holly pales.
	“Just a drunk and he is gone,” I say. With strong shock behind her eyes and over-filling her voice, she says, “we dated. Martin-something. Haven’t seen him in years. Never did anything ‘cause he always refused a joint test and, instead, showed me dodgy private print-outs.” Her coincidence not mine. Nonetheless, I nudge the pistol. After four beers and a pizza, Holly appears relaxed. We dance a few songs. During Neunundneunzig Luftballoons the lights grow blurry streamers. Maybe just the beer? Colors fade away. No such luck. Vision closes in; disappears to gray. I pull her close and slow dance.
	I savor soft kisses through two more songs. Did I overlook a signal? A waiter or busboy? Slipping Holly my wallet, I tell her to pay and meet me out front. By memory, I work my way to the WC. Empty. I piss and wash without interruption. Through a side service door, I sidle in the direction of crowd noises. At the corner, near knee height, I hear the squeak of someone twist-molding a balloon and muttering in French: ‘fuck-cunt-fuck-cunt’. I smell honeysuckle. With the barrel in contact with a sweaty mustachioed skull, the retort is muffled to door-slam proportions.
	My vision snaps into focus on a crimson splash of hair-brains on the silver building. I pick up my wallet and help Holly to her feet. Choking, she stumbles over Martin-something’s torso. I lead us through the crowd. Lösch’s guidance about Gendarmerie abilities causes me to cross the street and, after two blocks, wait for a bus-train where Holly vomits in a trash receptacle. After fifteen minutes, we get off and she gasps through tears, “you saved me, Joe.” I shush, hold her, and stroke her hair while waiting in a turnout for the car. It begins to rain. Hard.
	After instructing Ohura I say, “if you can, I would like to know more.” I hug her and stare through the windshield. She whispers, “he was waiting. Flying one-ought-five or something, not just drunk. I said he confused me with someone else. Then I ran. He grabbed me. I could see the shadows of people passing; none helped.” “Was he a carrier?” One down. “Wrong skin and he’d be dead already; maybe, hiding his identity? I mistakenly heard, ‘mighty oak’s never confused,’ but it was really: ‘Marty Oak’. Before—he was Ballard. I remember now.” Oak, in Spanish, is Roble.

To Be Continued (maybe, someday)