Posts and Perspectives

Random Characters, Random Stories. First Hot Monday of Spring – 2023 Turning the corner into the locker room this morning I was instantly greeted by a young man who looked incredibly fit.  Skinny with muscles brimming everywhere.  He kind of looked at me like he was going to say “good morning” but then he did a spin and sort of sang a lyric I wasn’t familiar with.  But it was in time with a tinned out thumping sound coming from his phone.  While I was getting dressed he laid the phone down on the benches near me and turned it up.  It was some kind of rap tune with all the expected sound loops, screeches and pops.  But on that phone it sounded like marbles in a tin can.  Getting a bit irritated with the noise I looked up at the young man.  Again he just turned away mumbling the words to the song.  I wanted to ask him if he had headphones but at that moment I realized he was on the spectrum.  The racket I was getting upset over was keeping him regulated; and clearly he was enjoying it.  So I quickly pivoted and used that tin can racket as motivation to get my ass out in the pool and start swimming. The pool was quite crowded for some reason and I ended up sharing a lane.  Luckily it was with a guy who swims about the same speed as me.  He also didn’t flail his arms widely across the lane; with some folks it can be almost impossible passing each other without cracking arms together.  He also liked taking long breaks and chatting with the ladies in the next lane over so I did get some time in the lane just swimming.  At one point I finished up one of my sets and rested as he continued to talk over me to the ladies in the next lane (Ladies in the next lane, that could be a song title).  In any case he was going on about the triathlons he had competed in; I assume he was trying to impress them.  As I checked my watch for my time and laps he suddenly asked me… “You’ve got pretty good form.  Have you competed in any triathlons?”   I adjusted my goggles and reset my watch.  “Nope,” I said.  “I did a swimathon once when I was 19 and swam nearly 15 miles within 24 hours.” I turned out to the lane and got ready to push off.  “Since then I’ve had an aversion to exercising to the point of puking” As I pushed off I could hear the ladies chuckling.   As Monday’s go I struggled a bit but I got all my laps in.  The sauna has been broken down for a week now so I spend the extra time in the hot-tub.  As I entered the hot-tub I was immediately followed in by the regular good ol’ boys.  All of them are at least 10-15 years older than me.  They moved slowly but talked like teenagers.  One of the crew waded into the pool with an oxygen line that must have been 20’ long.  He grabbed a spot in the corner somewhat near the oxygen concentrator he left at the side of the pool.  While I was sitting there silently wondering about the wisdom of sitting in a hot-tub with a condition that requires carrying oxygen, the subject of football popped up.  It quickly became clear the three guys right next had been friends for a very long time.  One was a tall and lanky gentleman who liked to sit low in the tub so the water dabbled his chin, while the rest of his very long frame extended out across the pool. The next guy was portly with a very smart goatee beard.  The third was also portly and quite a bit shorter; but clearly was a high school football star back in the day; at least based on the way the rest of the crew was talking to him. Tall and lanky suddenly piped up… “Yeah, we would donate to see that.” Goatee followed up… “That would be great to see you run on the field and then get carried off” The Oxygen guy suddenly pitched in… “I would pay anything to see you run… at all.” Shorty…  “You know when I was in highschool I was small but I was fast.  That’s why I was a running back.  I would get the ball and zip around the line only to face giant fellas like you between me and the goal line.  You know what?”  He raised his arms up out of the water and over his head… “Touchdown every time,”  he proclaimed. I chuckled as I adjusted my sore ankle within one of the jet streams in the tub as the banter continued. Somehow the conversation did a pivot and the subject of car stereos. “…yeah, before CD’s and cassettes there was 8 tracks…” said Shorty. Lanky piped up… “…Hell, before that – there was 4 track Muntz players.  I had one I put in my first car.  A 1962 Volkswagen Beetle.” My ears perked up now that the subject was going to “first cars”. “I had one of those old Muntz players too – and my car was a 1964 Volkswagen Microbus.”  said Goatee. Shorty popped right back… “My first car was a 1968 Chevelle” “That’s a nice car…” I replied.  Shorty nodded his head in agreement. “… and I had one of the first 8-track players with crappy speakers and I thought I was king of the hill.” he said laughing loudly.  “What was your first car?” I was secretly hoping he would ask that question. “I still have my first car.”  I said as his eyes started to open wide. “It’s a 1970 Mach 1 Mustang” Shorty perked right up… “So what color?” “It’s a metallic lime green – as close as we could match to the original color – and I also had a Pioneer 8 track player with surface mounted 4” speakers.  The sound was tinny and screechy – but they were loud.” Shorty laughed as he turned away to climb out of the tub… “Yes but – rolling down the windows of a cool car with the music turned up, trying to impress the girls – that was some fun wasn’t it?” I laughed and did a few stretches on my ankle. As I eventually made my way out of the tub I thought about the young man and his screeching phone I encountered earlier.  The sound quality was awful and it did annoy the hell out of me.  But it made him happy.  Then I thought about how it felt to me to be that young again, physically fit and annoying the adults who would yell from time to time…”Turn that racket down!”   Turns out, I had more in common with that young man than I first thought. db: 5/15/2023

Random, Characters, Random Stories The Realization I prefer swimming.  And it’s a good thing too because recently I broke my ankle which kept me out of the pool for a solid two months.  Fortunately I was able to get back into the pool and exercise even though I was still hobbled like a crustacean with a fishing weight fixed to one leg. I wasn’t moving fast on land.  I had gone from an aging 70’s rocker who could hold in his stomach while strutting along the pool-side to a gimpy 70’s rocker teetering from side to side while former 60s hippies blew by with their water wings flapping at me with glee. But I digress… A recent trip to the pool was a bit of a disappointment because I discovered I had left my favorite swim goggles hanging on a peg next to the locker room showers the day before; which was my first day back at the pool in 2023.  Obviously I was not in practice in keeping track of my things. I actually came to the realization I may have lost my goggles as I was driving to the pool that given morning; only to be confirmed by desperate digging through my gym bag and subsequent pleadings at the lost and founds; but no goggles. One observation I can make about swimming without goggles at my age.  It’s just stupid.  After I finished my laps the whole world looked foggy and my eyes looked like I had just visited a cannabis store with a free sampler display.  When I was a kid I could swim for hours in chlorinated pools.  My eyes would be red and itchy but things would clear up in like half an hour.  And then when I was a teen I could often blame my red eyes on me being a swimmer.  The timing didn’t always line up, which would explain a lot of my youthful challenges. So, I’m losing track here; as I said I was goggle-less. So I used a modified breaststroke that kept my head mostly above water.  It’s a lifeguard technique.  But for long distances, like 750 yards, at my age it can kill your neck and back.  And try as you might your eyes don’t go unscathed without goggles.  But I managed to finish up most of my goal in laps and then staggered through the foggy haze of my bloodshot eyes in the general direction of the hot tub. I entered the hot tub using the guard rails to keep me from zigging when I should be zagging and vice versa because my ankles have a genuine new found respect for stairs.  My eyelids seemed to be catching on every single stinging grain of self reflection with every blink.  I’m holding my stomach in as best as I can as I hobble in with irregular waves to my seat. I try not to look at anyone because, what would draw suspicion more than direct eye contact with a sweet older woman, or friendly older man (I am still younger than most of the hot tub crowd in this particular arena) with my scratchy bloodshot eyes.  But then one of them leaned over to me… “So I noticed you limping as you got into the pool” I nodded my head… “Yes, I’m recovering from some ankle injuries” Then he leaned in further… “So what flavor do you like?” I tried to skew my eyes toward him but the roughness of that effort forced me to face him directly.  He smiled and his eyes cracked open just enough for me to see his glee.  “I don’t take ‘em all the time but I do favor that pomegranate hybrid sativa gummy myself.” He sat there and grinned as a bubble of trapped air escaped from my swim trunks. “Umm, I just forgot my goggles?… and that was just air… from the jets… blowing up my swim trunks…” Suddenly there was a very loud bang.  Half the old folks in the hot tub jerked their heads round like they had been caught at something.  And then slowly turned back with smiles at the realization they are old enough to not worry about that anymore.  It suddenly dawned on me; the chatty nice church lady who giggles all the time, the big guy with scars all over his worn body and yet bursts out laughing at everything someone says, the lady who watches the water bubbles as she engages in conversation, the dude who dunks his head in the water at any given moment, and the gentleman who asked me my preference while blinking slowly… and it was a very slow, oh so slow… blink I am in a gummy pool. 4/30/2023 db

I’ve never been one to haul out the old memories from my dusty cupboards no matter how many “romantic” light beams leak through the worn cracks of my life.  Day to day I have looked to the future while treating the past like some worrisome laggard that refuses to leave me alone.  But this day was different. While traipsing through my attic I took a path slightly different from the familiar one; only to stub my toe on a dusty old metal box.  As I cursed upon it the fleeing dust revealed a name; seemingly fading in and out in the sparkling haze.  A critter took it’s opportunity to bolt between the rafters drawing my attention and stealing a heartbeat or two, for just a moment.  Then I looked down at the box and read the name out loud; “Matilda”.  A somewhat uncommon name but since it was my grandma’s name I wondered how long this single item had remained in the house I chose to live in; purly for financial expediency I would add.   When my grandfather passed, the house came to me and being the type of person that I was; raised to be practical before emotional I jumped at the opportunity to live there.  It was not about family inasmuch about a good financial step to my future.  Grandpa was not the type to disagree with my motives.  He instilled them in me with his swedish inflections as my parents relied upon his presence to keep me occupied while they worked.  His love often bordered on indifference because it was necessary to keep order, plan ahead, and be ready for the next thing life brings.  His family, refugees of the “Storsvagåret” famine, made great sacrifices to immigrate and get settled in the U.S., and through the Great Depression; all his lessons and methods were clear.   Yet, with a simple phone call he would fetch me home from school when I was sick, speak to me softly in a graveled tone, as he covered me in a blanket on the old couch, and then fetch me a small cup of orange soda. I was slow to marry for reasons that were rooted in the lessons grandpa taught me even though he never meant to teach them to me at all.  He never seemed to need, or to give any trust to women other than maybe my mother.  So I guess I somehow picked up on that.  Yet, there was one lady that caught my attention and seemed willing to love me beyond all sensible standards.   Taking Anne as my bride seemed quite “necessary” for some reason. The box was nothing special in terms of ornate features.  It was solid, secure and thick enough to hold a great deal of things.  I placed my flashlight upon a nearby rafter and sat upon the splintering tongue & groove floorboards.  The box seemed to beckon me in simple terms to open it; as if grandpa were there to chastise me for being the least bit hesitant.  Grandpa was married for a very short time but long enough to have a daughter; my mother.  After my grandma passed he never married again.  My perception was, he seemed to think his duties were full enough without taking on another soul to feed.  When grandma ebbed away he was quiet but never quite seemed sad. When she was gone his next steps always seemed to have a pragmatic purpose.  He kept the house next to the Yaquina Bay and ignored the new folks moving in around him.  He kept to himself, even around me as I grew up. I wiped the latch of the box and proceeded to open it.  A springwell of dust and musty smells danced lazily into my senses.  Inside were letters; tattered and frail.  I opened the first one and read it as if it were a simple historical document… but; when I finished, it was clear I had discovered a portal.  One that would unlock a mystery I could never have imagined; not in my wildest dreams.  I read the second letter and then the third; and then a few more.  I read until I came to a writing that stunned me with a questioning of all the moments I had ever spent with my grandpa.   “My dearest, I am pregnant, and I’m not sure, but I think you are the father.  My husband does not know yet…” These letters were love letters by my grandmother but they were not to my grandfather.  She had a lover and after reading several more it was clear my grandfather had only discovered these letters after her death.  How he came to have possession of them was not clear but in my dismay I could not ponder on anything beyond the obvious questions. Why did grandpa keep these letters, and why did he keep my mother and me as if we were his own? Then I thought… “Who am I?” Anne called from below.  She has not been feeling well and she rests upon that old couch in the living room.  I crawled down the attic ladder, spoke to her softly and I fetched her a small cup of orange soda.   db 4/24/2021

Last night I dreamt I was in a boat on the high seas looking at a horizon pinched between building swells and blackened clouds.  Sheets of rain breaking against my face.  A dread of lost loved ones washing up with the next swell.  My hands frozen to the batten as the sails were aback in squalls of uncertainty.  Remembering my tears, I centered the rudder, waiting on the luffing sails. In water too deep for any anchor, too far out for any certainty,  I looked back for an answer. On a tepid beach under clearing skies I wade in from the shipwreck.  I see a shadow sitting just beyond the break.  As I approach he seems somewhat amused, almost giddy.  His forehead glistening and crinkled as he maintained a grin.   “Well, it’s about time my lad.  That storm was one for the books.. Or even a play maybe?” “I’m sorry… who are you?” I asked. “William…” he said.  “… and you will have to excuse me but I’m a little out of my vernacular… but, this is in fact, your dream, so being able to understand what I’m saying is probably the point.” “I don’t understand” He dipped one eyebrow and said… “Young man that wasn’t what I was going for at all” …he finished with a chuckle.  I shook my head and pushed back my hair… “I’m sorry, just who are you again?” “I told you William… playwright, poet, and actor… at your service sir.  I understand you are looking for answers… maybe even some justice.” “Wait, you’re Shakespeare?” He chuckled a bit, “What’s important my boy is that you think I’m Shakespeare.  I’m not the one here looking for answers.  Like I just said, it’s your dream” I knelt down in front of him and just then a wave broke swamping  us both in cool water.  His laughter was contagious and he blurted out – “Isn’t this marvelous my boy?” As the water found its way around us back into the sea his eyebrow dipped again as he looked deep into my eyes. “So my lad, what do you know of rage?” The question was stabbing and concise.  It took me back to the only place I could go.  I trembled as I tried to say the words. “I have seen rage as a little boy.  I cried because that was all I could do.  Witnessing rage of no more worth than that of a spoiled little boy; but in a grown man’s body.” “So you understand the difference between monsters and men?” My head dropped… “There is very little difference…  He hurt my mom.” William pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “But there is a monster you’re still afraid of isn’t there?” I picked up a handful of sand and clenched it with my fist… “I have my father’s temper.” I whispered. “The Tempest.”  William said with a smile as he pointed to the fading dark horizon. “…that storm, “ he popped his lips, “…you spend all your efforts to evade it and yet, it is the reason you are here.” He paused and laughed… “Young man I did not bring anything to this conversation that you have not already felt.  Maybe you should try confessing to a priest or something, or maybe your wife… Do you have a dog that seems sympathetic?” I stared blankly as William looked at the horizon. “You know something lad, there is no single person in this world that has cried for justice without a bit of shame.  When you think about it, … it’s quite comical actually.  We all want things to be fair and just but our own selfish nature gets in the way.  There is no magical way to uncover hope because it lies in depth, within our own self determination.  But, still, — we are doomed to look for magic because that is the tragic comedy that people do.” William looked up at the sun and dug his feet a bit further into the sand. “So, young man, where have you seen hope?” It took a moment for me to find an image in my mind. “I was in India once.  A place as foreign to me as anything I had ever experienced.  There was color and joy.  There were smells pungent and occasionally putrid.  There was maniacal, purposeful chaos pulsing through the streets.  And just as you turn a corner, there was poverty and squalor.” William glanced up… “But where was the hope?” “Well, this particular day was Guruprab; the birthday celebration of an important guru.  So there were these random parades mixed with intense traffic in the streets. I guess a parade was simply a matter of will.” William burst out laughing “Yes of course, much like a play is a matter of William” With a trailing chuckle he apologized…”Sorry… Please young man… continue” I closed my eyes and continued… “I remember tractors pulling large, colorfully decorated trailers loaded with children dressed in brightly colored clothing.  Women walked along behind smiling in pleasant conversation… Younger men kept together wearing bright colored turbans while older men sported beards and mustaches so thick, they seem to be carved deeply into their faces.  Music and prayer chants blared out on speaker systems pushed well beyond their limits.” William interrupted… “Wait, what is a tractor?  …What is a blared out speaker system?” I looked back up at his eyes in a bit of a scowl… “William, I admit this is pretty cool, you psychoanalyzing me here – on a beach – in a dream but – I gotta say you’re killing the mood right now.”  William smiled… “Sorry” he said spreading his arms like an angel;   “Actor… Tragic comedian” I closed my eyes again… “There were cars, tuk tuks, motorbikes,  all jostling and edging around them — and so were we when we came up next to one and stopped for a moment.  Suddenly I was locked within the gaze of a dozen or so children. They of course were transfixed on me, the pale guy in a cowboy hat.  So many large, dark, beautiful eyes and delicate faces, surrounded in bright swaths of color.” William’s face took on an intense stare.   …”I smiled and gave them a wink.  Some of them smiled back.  Then their heads bobbed slightly as their tractor began to move again. Suddenly, with the honk of our horn and an engine rev we were gone from each other’s world.… It was just just a moment in a strange and crazy world…” I paused and took a deep breath.  “But It was a moment I shall never forget.” William smiled and thought for a moment.  He picked up an agate he found next to him and threw it into a wave back lit by the setting sun.  As the wave broke there was just the faintest spark of light as the water and stone were relinquished in turmoil.  Like tension breaking into peaceful reflection before the next wave comes.  “So that is what you saw” said William “… a glimmer” He chuckled until he was in a full belly laugh… “A glimmer of hope?”  I failed to see the humor as I sat there with my heart flailed out in the sand.  William eventually became quiet as he stretched his legs straight out, his toes pointing skyward.   “Young man, you have learned to live with rage and you can see hope.  And it seems you might even have the ability to describe it.  There may be perfect people who never know the tempest but, those make for boring stories… You have to describe the storm in order to define the hope…” William raised his arms, widened his eyes and shrugged his his shoulders.  “…I ask you lad.  What is the tragedy in that?” Just then another wave broke over us and suddenly William was no more than a handful of sand slipping through my fingers.  And as I watched the grains slip into the outgoing rush of water… I awoke.   My phone pinged me with an incoming text.  I wiped my eyes and leaned over to the nightstand.  It was a message from my granddaughter… “Good morning Papa… it’s a bright and sunny day” Every storm gives way. Every story goes on. In the telling of the Tempest.  —  For my dear friend Mitchell Peterson© db 11/20/2020

Recently Suzanne and I watched the movie “Yesterday” …at the very direct insistence of my old high school friend Steve.  I had heard wonderful things about the movie but somehow, I lost the notion to watch it.  While it’s true there has been a lot going on these days you would think it would have come up in a streaming binge or two.   But, if not for my good friend it might have slipped away; forever.   Which, as it turns out, is kind of the point of the movie.  If you haven’t seen it I will try not to spoil it but, it’s about a struggling musician played by Himesh Patel, who simply has a wonderful and comfortable singing voice; crap I’ll just say it, you should watch it for no reason than to hear this man play and sing.   So it is a movie about desire, songwriting, The Beetles, desire, song stealing, The Beetles, guilt, desire, success, The Beetles, more guilt, some stuff you need to see the movie for, and then preservation. Oh, and you’ll sing… of course you’ll sing.   Ok, so;  In the words of Steve… “You MUST watch this movie”. So, one scene I have to give away.  I mean, I’m trying to tell a story here and frankly if you haven’t seen the movie by now I have to tell you; you’re sucking wind behind the lamest movie watching dude < (this word is about to be important) for like… EVER! That would be me.  Not the dude, or any semblance of a dude.  So, this musician blinks into a word without The Beetles (among a few other things) and quickly realizes all those great songs don’t exist today. It’s a bit of a read if I bothered to spell it out for you so I’ll just sum up that this young man writes down every song he can remember and starts playing them; and ends up in a rather posh recording studio with Ed Sheehan, of all people, trying to record “Hey Jude” (A great song he is feeling guilty that he didn’t write) when Ed, of all people; I mean he would be the last person, … suggested a change; Especially this change.   “Hey Dude” So I enjoyed the movie and that was a funny moment.  So since watching it,  the past week or so my back, shoulder and neck (another long story) has been competing for my attention as I try to do what used to be normal stuff (for me), and it often leaves me exhausted with my muscles in knots by the end of a day.  So my newly retired nurse and lovely wife has been giving me wax treatments using a combination of very warm wax, cloth strips and sort of a paintbrush.   (Point of clarification: This is not the kind of waxing that ends with screaming) Mio Amore has always taken very good care of me.   So there I am laying face down with towels and blankets snuggling the warm wax against my back and neck, my eyes buckling into slumber, as a final clearing breath gives way to a pause in my mind…  “Hey Jude…” Suddenly I’m laying there with a song going through my head; which is not the least bit uncommon for me but, at least this is a great song – and so I drifted through it.  And as is often the case, I even experienced the grand delusion of a possible Bozo Brothers version of it for my band. (The Bozo Brothers is my band… doesn’t everyone have a band?) And then so,  My brain started working on that.   Another personal note:  It was only a few short years ago when I realized my attention span involved a massive amount of distractions that I was able to organize, or ignore outright,as a younger man but now, hell, even a hot wax session turns out to be a project these days.   So as I worked out the arrangements in my head I suddenly recalled a back story I heard once in an interview with Paul McCarthy many years ago. Paul wrote the song for Julian Lennon, John’s 5 year old son at the time.  It was a sweet thing to do for a little boy who was experiencing the breakup of his parents.  Paul originally called the song “Hey Jules”.  The story goes that John was very touched with the song but being a consummate song writer himself, suggested Paul change it to “Jude” – simply because the “D” sounded better.   …And so as I laid there it suddenly dawned on me, the sneaky inside joke in this movie with a ridiculous storyline.  Someone, and in this case a very good songwriter in Ed Sheeran suggested adding another “D”.   Ridiculous and absolutely brilliant.   “Hey Dude” Well anyway, “In the words of Steve”.   db10/27/2020

A hummingbird circledAs I sat on our benchA dragonfly hoversOver a rippled reflectionIn my mother’s pond A breeze rustles the treesAnd tickles my hairPapas tire tree swingMoves back and forthGently keeping time. Not a stone left unnoticedNot a window frame ignoredAs I plant with my pencilI sketch out what I loveWhile sitting in the yard. For ConradLove Papa 7-17-2020

Tory the fast racerSmiles as the windRaces through her hairA laugh bellies upShe tucks in her legsAnd sails into her lifeWith reckless abandonAnd purely simple joyAnd her parent’s worryAs they watch in aweHow Tory the fast racerSmiles with the Wind. For my precious AstoriaOn her 2nd Birthday8/1/2020 Love Papa

In an age of monsters and tyrantsA small boy looks for a heroAnd he finds words that would seemLike answers in an ancient battle Screams of epic defianceDarkness pushed backIn a cool song with a good beatWith swords and tattoos And then this boy wakes upTo see a familiar shapeWho kisses his forehead“Are you alright little buddy?” As he drifts back to sleepThe boy now realizesHe has a wondrous heroWho is undefeated. For ConradFrom Papa7-16-2020