The Couch

I have spoken to you before about the couch.

I wish I could remember who said it but when it comes to relationships “you always lose the couch.”

My folks got a new couch. They moved the old one out to the garage and it was sitting there for what seemed a very long while. I was hanging out over at the apartment of my new girlfriend and she needed a couch so I asked about taking the one from my folks. They said okay so I loaded this mutli-sectional beast into my brother’s truck with the help of a friend. Now going twenty miles in not really a big deal in the city and thinking back I should have used more rope. We lost one of the chair sections along the highway. I did not know it until we were there and set up. I had to drive back and scour the highway. There it was sitting upright beside a post. Someone was kind enough to move it out of the highway.

It was a orange striped couch. It could form a nice U shape. It was comfortable and really had not been used all that long. I think change was happening and a new couch was in order. This thing was huge anyway for their living room. Zack did not really have a place for it either.

And so. The couch was in this apartment. Really it fit. It was nice to have something of home there as well. Stranger in a strange land kind of thing and comfort was important.

Needless to say we split up. The couch stayed behind. I thought of going up there at some point and asking for it back but never did. I wonder what happened to that couch sometimes.

Great Island at Night

I have spoken to you of Great Island.

Samuel Smith, he has good flip; the greeting on the sign of the entrance of Great Island, Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

I arrived near dusk, I think to this place. Walking the trail. Over the dunes. The sea before me. This place is on the interior of the cape. So it is not really the ocean but the bay. The tide is quite. Buffered I supposed. The ocean side of the cape has the huge rolling waves and white caps and surf fishing. Tourists all around. Few come to Great Island. It is a private place. Seemingly unknown to all except seekers and those with friends who share. Stephen White took us to this place the first time.

I am here alone this evening. No shoes. Light jacket. Pants rolled up. Wandering through the trees in the forest of this Island. The smell of the hummus from stepping where no one goes. No trail to follow in these trees. The salt air. Drawn to the beach. Wander down the shoreline. The sun is setting. Not remarkable I think. I do not remember the setting sun.

I climb the dune behind me. A natural indention there. I lay back and settle in. The warmth of the sand. I can feel the coming chill of night on my face and arms and my back is warmed by the sand releasing the absorbed heat of the day.

The sea is calm. Undulating. The sun is gone and the sky is taking on the color of night. Darker and deeper blue the sky turns black. A solid color against the darkness of the water. The water whose color is broken by silver reflections in the waves.

The water began to change color. The sky dark. Already. The ocean blue and black. There was a line a distinct line separating the color of the blue and the color of the black. Like a strange strait distinction of the yin and yang. A deep rich blue and black. Really indescribable this scene. I do not remember stars or the moon. Just that color. The black of the sky on the horizon melding with the black side of the water and offsetting the blue on the left.

Coffee in the Morning

I will speak to you often of coffee to be sure.

I wake in the morning to the sound of a flute. Gentle melodic tones cresting over the hill and trees to settle in dreams and fitful rest. No real sleep it seems just quite darkness between the light. A distinct voice in the night hollering out familiar refrains. Five minutes, just five minutes.

Clothes laid out from the night before makes getting dressed for the day much easier. Impossible to see in a tent in the pre morning light. Amazing though is the times the tent is filled with light in the darkness. Waking to full light. Strait up and out and then stumbling in the darkness a good full hour before the flute even begins to play.

Up and out. Brushing teeth and relieve the bladder over the side of the hill. Toes and shoulders cold in the early morning chill. To the truck and slide out of camp without stirring those who can afford the luxury of sleep.

The cook shack is quite. Empty in the pre morning light. The headlights of the truck reflect back into my eyes and I shut them off. Wishing there was no need to such a beast. This truck who is a friend and gallant steed. We all have our ponies it seems. Gary gave one away once a thanksgiving. Really knowing that we own nothing. Our possessions just transfer. Impermanent.

Routine. Four days of routine. Not enough time to get it down. Just a start. Struggle again. New order to things and manner of setup. Everything ready the night before works best. Coffee from overnight still warm but stale. Firemen need warm coffee throughout the night.

Now nobody really likes the way I make coffee. Coffee is meant to be dark. Black. The Turkish saying, “strong as death, sweet as love, black as night.” Res coffee is typically a light brown. Really if you were to spill a cup on the front of a white silk shirt it would be okay the coffee is so light it would not stain the shirt. So my dark supped up sauce is hardly the thing. However, the coinsurers amongst us kind of like it. These coffee pots are old. They have the old glass tubes showing the depth of the coffee left in the pot. There is no way to clean those tubes. So they sit with caked on coffee from the year before. I wonder how that works. Maybe it just adds a bit of flavor. Twenty year old coffee melding with today’s brew. A memory of coffee the occurrences and events from years and days pasted stored there, Waiting for the heat to release that essence once again.

So the coffee is on. Folgers. People bring coffee. I think it is that Dances with Wolves thing. Hey lets bring a gift. What do you think is needed? Coffee. Easy. Pick up a five or 10 lbs. plastic can of the cheapest bean available. Now the dudes from Salida know coffee. Too bad we can’t get the Bongo Billy’s contract for providing coffee to the Res. So there is coffee. The grounds basket filled about half way with beans ground for a paper filter. Water. Plug. Relax.

Watching the events unfold in front of me now. Perhaps the only time I have to myself in connection with this whole place. Just me in the early morning dawn standing on my hill with my cookshack behind me. The possessor of my is important here. Not for me but for others it seems. It is not mine. This place belongs to a family. They have been gracious in allowing me to enter into their circle and providing for me. I will say that nearly the only requirement I have for doing anything is to feed me. The first time Madonna gave me a piece of fry bread strait from the fryer she had my allegiance for life and I am dutifully bound to her and this place.

The dancers are lining up. Silhouettes really, black figures against a blueing sky. Vast distance, really between us and yet like a weird Hollywood film scene I am pulled right next to them. The Chiefs with headdresses flowing. Men standing in line holding wings of eagles and the Chanunpa (a pipe of peace). Movement. Warmth found only in movement. The cold of the morning against my thick canvas jacket and jeans and boots hardly a bother except at the neck. These people standing in but a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist. Naked really. Sacrificing in pre dawn air. Firekeepers moving around the fire. Larger now. They have added stones and wood and the heat there is building for the day of sweats that is to come. Dancers uncertain of the cold huddle close together sharing a blanket by that fire. My fire has not yet started. A couple hours still before it is time to begin the cooking the evening dinner. Firekeepers, an interesting lot. Kindred spirits. Next to Madonna the reason I stand alone on this hill. I needed a fire. I could come here and help Vine and Sidney and Pete. I could through wood on and stir the meat. Provide a service and in exchange no ego. No conversation. No judgment. No questions. Just do as I am told. Do the next right thing that I know it to be. Just men sitting around the fire doing this thing. And so I found this fire. Halfway across the camp. Few willing to make this sacrifice necessary to keep this fire burning. That sound conceded now. And that is not my intent. I love that sacrifice. I did not at first. And did not understand it at first but now. I love it. I live for it. These few days.

The sound begins. Like a ghost in time with the events unfolding in front of me. A soft gentle howl. Low and far away. Steady. Soft low pitch. No one here but me. A question to something or an answer? Bernard just checking in on how things are going over here? Chills up and down the spine with that thought. It would not be beyond him I think. Louder it is becoming. The drum beats. Movement in the line. That howl. That howl. Drum beats louder and stronger. Matched by the howl.

Where is it coming from, but the coffee pot.

Waves

Waves

I spoke of waves on a beach in California.

I remember a few times at the beach.

In LA after a weekend concert, Bob Dylan was playing with the Dead that weekend. It was an incredible weekend. The weekend we dumpster dove and the manager brought us a cart load of broken cookies. Same parking lot there was a shooting, everyone hit the deck and I was just standing there oblivious waiting to get plugged.

Dylan was awesome. They called him Spike. It did not see too long since the Traveling Wilburys and everyone had a sort of alter personality on stage. I vaguely remember Clarence Clemmons for some reason but I am not sure if he was playing that weekend or not.

After the show we were heading back up the coast to Santa Cruz. We had picked up a couple and their dog and they had a bunch of high test LSD. Since they had no cash we all got dosed. We were not long up the coast, just out of LA traffic really when it came on. Starting to peak and the rock of the road was starting to set a peaceful tone. We had to stop for gas. It was a cool little station. Old time feeling place with white trim and stucco walls. Maybe a Texaco or something. Like a little old surfer gasso. We pulled in and piled out. Fresh air. The dog barking. Light. The sounds of the highway strong but not overpowering. The ringing of the music of the weekend still in the ears.

There was this beach. Strange now to think but it seemed to be on the wrong side of highway. A beach none the less. Stephen White and I started to trapse off to the beach. Big beach comber was Stephen Temple White. Grand Island days on the Cape. He lived on any given beach given enough time. Tar paper shacks filled with treasures of temples. Mile Marker 108 on the big island on the way to Hilo.

This beach was small. A roadside nook. Unknown it seemed to all but weary travelers wanting to strech legs and walk dogs. Railroad tie posts and steps. Warm large grained brown sand. Down this small hill so not to be visible from the street and the noise of the road continued overhead instead of down to the water. Warm ocean water with waves hardly coming to the shore. Standing in the surf. The water would come in and coat the feet in tiny white fizzy bubbles. The waves, not really waves as they were small would come in and gently roll away. When the water came up the sand around the feet would lift. Individual grains rising up. Floating, Effortless. Movement then away. The outward pull of the moon would swirl those grains of sand. Like small whirling dervishes, twisting the peaking opposite directions on each side of both feet.

Silence broken by horns honking and yelling now. The White man standing beside me saying something about they are going to leave us behind if we don’t get there. A bus load of long hair freaks concerned about the coming of night and travel on the highways and the couples baby back at home and the colors coming in and the big spliefs rolled and waiting and barking dogs, and almost dread moving from warm winter sun of the south to the fog covered hills and cool days to the north. That may be it the beach in Santa Cruz a grey dark place. Filled with beauty, sand thicker and cold. Warm fires on the shore while practicing for the polar bear club. A Beach where grandfathers take their charges to mine the morning shore for round agate rocks waiting to be split open to reveal the inner treasure of quartz. Return to Santa Cruz where hippy kids aren’t hassled just for hanging out on the corner. Santa Cruz where citizens toss you spare change to fee the dog and wine in gallon bottles serves as a meal.

Return to that place. Waking out of the universe of sand swirling at my feet. Waking to the fact I am a rider on a trip that is not my own. The hollow reverberation of the sea leaving my ears to now be filled with tires and road and laughter and bootleg tapes reliving of a show just witnessed.

Welcome to Story Time

In an effort to change I began writing as per the suggestion of a friend. Thank you.
Here you will be able to find some of the stories I have written.