Notes from Brad's Land camping trip 1986 (in progress)

We drove slowly through the sandy gravelly parking lot towards a small convenient store. Beside the store was a log cabin building where a sign on the front door read: Recreation Center. Dano parked the car beside it. I leaned over the cooler and brought out three cans of Budweiser. We exited the car and opened our beers.

“So… this is it?” I asked.

“Yup… this is it. Not bad is it?” asked Dano.

“Let’s take a look around,” said Rich.

“You guys go on ahead. I want to talk to the owner and sign us in,” said Dano.

“All right. We’ll meet you back at the car in a few,” said Rich.

Rich and me sauntered into the campground behind the recreation center. Rich was dressed in stylish ripped jeans, high top sneakers and t-shirt. I wasn’t so stylish in my ripped jeans but I was comfortable in my black with white pin striped jean jacket and new work boots.

The earth was soft with sand and pine needles. Picnic tables and fire pits were crowded with parents and children; smoky scents of hamburgers, hot dogs and burning wood filled our path. Kids played volleyball and the smaller ones played cowboys and Indians. There were trailers, party tents and regular sleeping tents.

“Where the hell are we going to set up tents?” asked Rich.

I shook my head. It seemed every nook and cranny had been taken out. Behind a row of campers was a thin strip of pine trees and the road. It hopped out from behind the trees, a person dressed in a squirrel suit. He hopped gaily around, singing and throwing candy to the kids.

“Hey Rich. Check it out.”

Rich turned around and chuckled.

“Hi kids! I’m Spunky the Squirrel and what a beautiful day to camp!”

“Spunky want a beer?” Rich asked.

As the 6 ft squirrel disappeared into the campground, I noticed two teenage girls sort of giggling and smiling Rich’s way. He saw them right away.

“Maybe this place ain’t so bad,” said Rich.

We followed them. They were small pretty brunettes and looked great in their tight jeans.

“Not bad, eh, Jimmy, boy?”

“Not bad at all.”

They seemed to be leading us along, walking with a sexy strut and turning back to smile and giggle some more. We kept our distance though.

“I think they like us,” said Rich.

“It must be our Blues Brothers shades.”

Then they reached their campsight where an older woman sat in a beach chair complaining about the mosquitoes. Beside her a man leaned back on a fold up chair, staring indifferently at a small television set. I recognized the broadcaster’s voice from Channel 38. It was the Red Sox playing in New York. The girls sat at the picnic table and waved as we turned to head back to the car.

“Damn I really wanted them,” said Rich.

“Let’s go find out what the hell is going on,” I said.

 

It was getting late and Dano still hadn’t returned. I took a walk passed the store and found him talking on a pay phone. He looked pissed, his usual cool expression turned sour; but he hung up the phone patiently and sighed.

“What’s up Dano?”

He reached into his jean jacket pocket, pulled out smokes and lit one up.

“Well… we were supposed to register into the campground by six. And of course I had no idea. If we want to stay here we have to pony up 15 bucks more per person. Is it worth it though?”

“What about other campgrounds? They got to be all over the place.”

“I just got off the phone with a guy who isn’t too far from here but he wanted forty bucks a head. Another guy had no vacancies.”

We walked back toward the car unsure of what to do.

“Do we really want to pay money to camp where there are free woods all over the place?” asked Dano.

“I didn’t really come here to be with people.”

At the car we told Rich what was going on.

“There’s really no room here anyway. Tight squeeze everywhere,” Rich said, drinking a beer.

“We could drive down the road a few miles and find our own space,” said Dano.

“I really like that idea,” I said.

“Let’s do it. We should have done that in the first place,” Rich said.

“Ok It’s done then. Listen, I have to get a few things in the store,” said Dano.

“We’ll be in the rec hall, waiting,” said Rich.

The recreation room was a good size space, the floors were just basic planks from wall to wall; and the walls were logs stacked upon each other. The floor was sandy; barefoot prints traipsed in bunches around the table hockey game where youngsters flailed at the puck. Beside them was a ping pong table without net and beyond that were two pool tables. Rich wandered over to the pool rack, picked out a few and measured them for flaws by rolling them on the table to see if they spun without impedance.

“This will work,” he said.

He started racking the balls.

“Don’t worry, Jimmy-boy, I’ll end your misery in two minutes.”

To my surprise and by sheer luck, I won the first two games. Rich had sunk the 8 ball twice and in this our third and final game, he was winning again, six balls to two. Dano came in and watched the game. Rich was focused and aimed his shot.

“It’s not over til it’s over,” I said.

He shot. The cue ball hit a small piece of the target, the 4 ball, which hit the 8 ball and it slowly rolled toward a pocket, the black ball of death and it dropped into the pocket.

“Fuck me.”

“Nice. Thanks Rich. I had a ball.”

“Clever.”

“Come on boys. Time to enjoy our trip. Cold beers await,” said Dano.

Outside, night had come and we hadn’t noticed until we were back on the road. We drove about three miles south along a small curving road. Moonlight lit the yellow line and the occasional field. As we passed a cornfield and farm house, Dano had noticed a narrow inlet not far from it and he pulled over to the side of the road. Rich and me hopped out, brandishing flashlights and we surveyed the inlet quickly. There was a No Trespassing sign attached to a thick chain. Behind it, a dirt road and along the rocky banks were impassable trees. We heard the slightest murmur of a river just ahead.

“This is it,” I said. “How are we going to get by the chain?”

“Over here. Look! It unhooks,” said Rich.

He played with it a moment, untangled a wire and the chain fell with a thud in the dirt. He moved the chain to the side of the road. Rich waved the flashlight at Dano. He saw a boulder on the road and he and I moved it off into the woods. Dano crossed the chain line and I hooked the chain to the post. I followed Dano, behind the car, in case he got stuck. There were a few potholes and unsteady areas not generally user friendly for a Chevy Malibu. The wheels spun out in spots. I heard laughing. It was Rich, sitting on the front of the car, pounding the hood like a drummer. Dano hit the breaks hard, the car jerked short and Rich tumbled to the ground. Dano was laughing behind the wheel. Rich got up, smiling.

“I should kill you for that,” he said.

“I’m sorry but I just couldn’t resist.”

 About a half mile or so up the uneven road they came across another road that turned left. It was smaller and sloped downward. Dano climbed out of the car and opened the trunk now covered in fresh mud. He took out his lantern and we proceeded down the sloping path slow and quiet. The river gurgled nearby. We came across a small clearing. From what I could tell the earth was soft, dry and big enough to accompany five good sized tents. Tall pine trees shot above us, its long branches stretched over the clearing to form a rain shelter, if needed. Broken flecks of moon beams spattered through the trees. Through a hole in the branches we could see the stars, so close I felt like I could pick them from the sky like apples.

“This is it,” said Dano.

“I agree,” said Rich.

“Finally we can just drink and camp,” said Dano.

“Nature’s land is our land,” I said.

 

We sat on the hood of Betty Lou. We drank keg beer, smoked cigarettes and swung our feet. The air was swamped with mosquitoes and horseflies and if not for the repellant, we’d probably be in the car. We hadn’t set up camp yet but rather were just relaxing for a spell. I got up, grabbed the tap and refilled my beer.

“Hey guys,” said Rich. “What do you say we go back to the rec hall for a few.”

“Play pool?” I asked.

“We’ll bring a few frosties, shoot some pool and… there are chicks there.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“I don’t know about that. I figure we’re here and this is what we came for. Besides its late. We should set up camp soon,” said Dano.

“Fuck it Dano. We got the whole week-end and then some. Let’s have a little fun at the rec.”

“I agree. We won’t find any girls out here,” I said, smiling.

“Aww man. Let’s stop thinking about girls for a few and enjoy life,” said Dano.

“You’re just saying that because you’re practically married,” Rich said. “You get it anytime you want.”

“Let’s just play some pool. Come on Dano!” I called.

“All right then. But let’s keep it short because we should really set up camp soon. And Rich, if you find some little Ho bag, prepare to sleep outside,” said Dano.

“Deal!”

Quickly, discreetly, the car made its way back along the uneven road. Towards the chain, we passed a Volkswagen bug, parked. Inside, a silhouette of a long-haired person sat in the shadows.

“Must be a good sign. There is life awake now,” said Rich.

“Yeah who, Jimbo! We going to have a fun night. Going to get good and drunk and camp and drink and get drunk. Ain’t nothing going to stop us,” said Dano.

“Let’s do it! Good time. No worries. No hassles,” said Rich.

“Yeahhh hooo! Live like kings in our castles!”

“More like exiled kings,” I joked.

“Yeahhh hooo!”

The recreation hall was empty. Rich and Dano played 8 Ball. I had brought along my radio so we could listen to tunes and set in on a sandy bench. The Grateful Dead came on. Dano was by the table, smoke in mouth, stick in hand when he heard Uncle John’s Cabin and he began to dance. It wasn’t really a dance but more like a grooving out, a loose tossing back and forth of his body. Rich joined him. I turned up the volume, left the hall to go to the store.

A pretty woman in her thirties worked the cash register. She had long shiny brown hair.

“A pack of Marlboros, please.”

She smiled, fetched the smokes and placed them on the counter.

“Is that it?”

“I guess so… no wait.”

I quickly surveyed the postcards on the rack and chose three mountain landscape shots, in honor of my first visit to the mountains.

“And these.”

“Are you staying here?” she asked.

“I’m visiting my cousin, Jay. He lives up in Woodstock. We’re from Mass.”

“You mean down in Woodstock.”

She laughed. I hadn’t noticed before but she had incredible tropical green eyes.

“You said we?”

“My brother and I. He’s outside.”

“And here you are,” she said.

I gave her two dollars and thanked her.

“Thank you young man. Have a nice stay.”

It confused me so much that it hurt. Why had I pointlessly lied to her? I wondered if maybe I had fallen in love with her or in love with the mountains, something— I concluded nothing and just thought it strange.

                                                                   *

I jumped out of the car and raced for the No Trespassing sign. The narrow flashlight beamed and reflected into my eye and I pulled back a moment. The thin metal sign was frayed and scratched along the top edge. The letters were partly scratched out and the black paint inside the letters was rusty and flaking. Stupid sign, I thought, it means nothing. I spit on it and watched it drip.

“Come on! Hurry up!”

As I reached for the chain, a powerful light caught me in its beam. I turned back toward the road. An unfamiliar voice was shouting. I faced the glare and could only see the silhouettes of two cars— a small egg shaped vehicle, which was right behind me and Dano’s parked behind the car along the main road. I was suddenly aware that Dano had shut off his car. I had no idea what was going on. I went to Betty Lou where Dano stood outside, arguing with a large bald man who spoke with such vitriol you would have thought we just ran over his wife. As I watched the silhouette of his head, I saw that he had hair that grew on the sides and back; and shaggy eyebrows that shook with every word he screamed at Dano. When the man settled down and there was a lull in the conversation, Dano nodded and simply said, “we didn’t know.”

Of course that set the man off again.

“God damn you! You boys can't read? Sons of bitches. This time I’ll let you leave in one piece. Damn city boys. Stay off my God damn property or there’s going to be trouble. You hear? If I ever catch you snooping round here again, I’ll shoot you.”

“We’re sorry about everything. We won’t bother you again,” Dano said.

I apologized. As we got into the car and drove off, the man stared and watched us drive away toward the campground.

“What about Rich?” I asked.

He was still up at our alleged campsite near the river.

Dano drove slowly. I rested my arm on the open window and studied my boots, thinking.

“I thought I was dead. What an asshole,” he said.

I looked at him. “If we go back up there he’ll probably kill us.”

“Well we have to go back up there and get him. I just hope that old grizzly bastard doesn’t find him first.”

“He probably went home. I’m sure he doesn’t think we’d come back. We’d have to be crazy,” I said.

“I’m just wondering where we’re going to camp. That place was perfect,” he said.

“I know. I wish I owned it. Did you notice that road went further?”

“Yup.”

“Well you know…”

Dano smiled. “We do have an option.”

I searched his expression and read him like a book. I laughed. He looked at me, waiting for my response to the non verbalized question. I slapped my hand on my knee.

“You bastards! I’ll shoot you sons of bitches!”

Dano laughed. “There’s only one thing we can do,” he said.

“Oh definitely.”

Dano spun the car around and we headed back to the chained road. The wind came through the window pleasantly cool, fresh like new born air. Dano relaxed and lit a cigarette.

“No one’s going to keep us from having a good time,” he said.

We drove passed the road twice to be sure it was clear. It looked safe. No cars, lights or people around. On the third drive by, I hopped out, unhooked the chain and dragged it to the side of the road. Dano killed the headlights and entered the road. Betty Lou creaked and clacked up the bumpy slope. I refastened the chain and followed Dano on foot.

At the muddy intersection, Dano turned on to the narrow descending road. He drove about fifty yards and then killed the engine. We got out. In the darkness we could hear the rippling river. A woodpecker drummed on a tall rotting tree. Moonlight washed over the car. We sat on the hood and admired the starry sky.

Suddenly leaves rustled and footsteps crunched underfoot of twigs and branches. I hoped the old man hadn’t followed us. If so, we were dead. The blackness kept us on edge. The footsteps grew loud and they were upon us. We were helpless.

“You know, there’s a river right over there,” said Rich.

“There you are,” I said.

“Where the hell were you hiding?” Dano asked.

“I heard that guy bitching you guys out and I could tell by his voice that he was pretty mad… so I figured I’d wait until he left and you guys came back. I was just doing a little exploring with this,” he said.

He shined a pocket flashlight into my face.

“We decided to stay here at least tonight. I really don’t think we’ll be hearing from him again,” said Dano.

“You mean Mr. Personality,” said Rich.

“Precisely.”

We stood there and drank a beer and were in no rush to do anything. My mind was free at last, from anxiety of daily home life. It was my first real camping trip, in fact I had never been to the White Mountains before. It was a first for all of us.


                                                                 *

I stretched my arms, yawned and wondered just how I had climbed into the tent, and when. My eyes were half closed and a fuzzy patch of sunlight through the round tent top. The atmosphere was already muggy and the sweat and dirt coagulated along my skin. I was stiffly hung-over and was pretty sure I would never get on my feet again. I rolled, slightly to the left and beneath the tent leaves crackled like dry paper. Too much whiskey; kill me now.

The river rippled behind me.

In the corner my camping bag was knocked over and stuff was spilt everywhere—socks, dungarees, sweatshirts, cassettes, poker chips and a sticky half-empty bottle of Coke. My playing cards were ripped and wet, others crumpled. The ace of spades was fine and detached from the others beside my jacket— my pillow.

I crawled toward the door and courageously unzipped the tent flap.

At once the light and air struck my face. The sun was rising over a wall of pines and the warmth began to comfort me. Shadows were cast unevenly upon the greening mossy earth, lichen covered stones and our tents. The air was alive with the sweet scent of pine.

I sat down on a tree stump and lit a smoke. I was feeling better each minute. I had no idea what time I crashed in my deflated tent. I knew I had a good time; we all did, for all the laughing, drinking even singing. I remembered Dano leading the way through the trees— a big old flashlight in one hand, a quart of Jim Beam in the other. Then he lost his footing and he slipped helplessly, his silhouette fell down into the darkness. Splash! Head first into the river. Me and Rich could not contain our laughter. It was coming back to me. Later, I remembered Rich taking a drunken spill into my tent, pulling the stakes from the earth, tearing up my tent and falling into it, writhing like an insect caught in a spider web. Another full blown laugh fest for us, especially Dano, who I’m sure, took a measure of revenge. The last thing I recalled was us singing a drunken rendition of “Friend of the Devil” around the fire. Then, nothing.

Now the river gleamed under the sunlight. I rose on wobbly legs. The ashes in the pit still smoked. I walked to the sandy tree-lined bank. The sun had already risen over the trees. I stopped at the river’s edge. Sandbanks in the river were shapely and smooth. The bottom was marked with thousands of loosely layered rocks and pebbles. Upstream, the river narrowed into a rocky channel where, I think, Dano took his tumble. I saw a large protruding boulder jutting out from the mud and I jumped up and sat down on it. A warm breeze whispered across the river and through my hair, tickling my neck.

I removed my musty boots and socks, rolled up my jeans and touched the water with white toes. The water was like ice, shocking cold. I left my feet beneath it and soon the sharp pang of cold transformed into a wet tolerable numbness. The water bubbled over shallow ground. Leaves and twigs raced by in the quick current. Flecks of yellow and orange skirted around my feet as curious fish nosed in. When I flinched my foot they scattered like smoke. A red-striped turtle broke the surface, passed me slowly and half way across vanished. River insects bounced off my face. I felt the power of nature as it lulled me to sleep, hypnotized my brain and captured my senses. I lay down. I breathed in the air, so clean and fresh, it was as if it were the first time I had ever taken a breath.

 

*sadly my journal ends here although this was just the beginning of a long strange trip. I can’t remember why I stopped writing it or why I typed it. It wouldn’t of surprised me if it was in an actual journal written in ink but it was typed, pages 9-20 (1 thru 9 missing but still may be in my large mess of papers) as if I were writing it for a reason. It ends abruptly. In the original I was thinly trying to disguise Rich and Dano as Benny and Dono and myself James. I know duh. I will try to piece together the rest with the help of Dano and Rich just so I can have it recorded. On a totally funny turn of irony, nearly twenty years later, Dano and his wife would buy a piece of property maybe two miles or thereabouts from this spot.

 

 

 

   

 

 

goofing around

I had a thought: what if The Brady Bunch met Pink Floyd. Of course I had no idea, so, this little scenario came to mind. I suppose I could have made a bigger production but, I don't think it was warranted. I just think how great it would be that Bobby and Cindy Brady are jamming with 1969 Pink Floyd!

It tells a story too I think. I added the pictures to complete the story and give it more detail. I think it worked okay without the pictures but I kept thinking about it and decided the story would be more concrete with them. I think 4 was just the perfect amount. Too many pictures would have robbed the video of its black cave-like atmosphere.

I guess you could say because I'm not published or making money that I'm not a "real writer", however my writing is as real to me as the life I live. I love to write. I will continue to write even if it means I was never brought upon this earth to be an author. It's just who I am. I am a writer. I write. That's what I do.

I want your sex

I want your sex, cinnamon

flavored flesh inside

and out. No time

for love, heart in a knot

or my ego in your care— no

knives, blood or tombstones.

I’m just a man with needs.

No role play, no

turtle ducking in weathered shell.

I just want your sex, cinnamon

layered flesh inside

and out. No life direction needed.

I like you a lot.

Can I kiss that again?

We sail our ships across night.

No waves to make us dizzy, no

disunity among sister sailors, no.

Too much wine makes you sick.

You and me

on strange vessels in unlike quarters.

I am not ready

For love, only your sex,

Your cinnamon flavored flesh

 

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I wrote this after the first month of my dating Anne Francis. At the time, I was in college and wasn’t ready for a real girlfriend but I was lonely too and inexperienced at sex. She was NOT inexperienced. I was a late bloomer in the ways of love because of my shyness. Anyway, I wrote it around March 1989 and go figure, we would go on to have a serious stormy three year relationship. I guess she was my first serious girlfriend.

Drunk journal rant 1995

trip— well of course there’s blood and the belligerent truck path. Fingers on the moon— draped slivers breathing hot and syrupy. If I were that artist on the hill and shifting like road bends— impressionistic like light on water— half chewed straw, incomplete like the bay’s mouth and the silver moon through our windows. I hate the in between— such borrowed shoes and calm unanalyzed wishes and “ninety four fucking miles!” and yet there’s this----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-

-

nothing between

-

these lines, stupid.

 

 

You can feel the addiction— the first touch. The new pleasure. The warmth in the ice. The cold in the fire. The sincerity of the illusion. The ragged brutish clown who entertains and makes us laugh. The hot fires of cold ice flame the addiction. Too much to think about. Do I want your sympathy? Do I want your love? Your worship? Alcoholism? Can’t I just have some control over my life? Even just a little? I feel as though I will die soon. I forbid it, not before my baby, my creation, my art form is done as my young mind comprehends it to be finished. I will die of angry cancer. Maybe a violent drunken death or too much sex. Aid me, someone— perhaps I will see reality through change. Perhaps not.

 

How much truth in near drunken narration? Or in sobriety? Seems I write under this illusory spell than I do, unhindered by whiskey. Born to do good but dead to act upon it. At least until, May 22, when things seemed to be in control. Now the keyboard is too small beside the half gallon bottle of whiskey. Change you change you change you, Mr. liver sclerosis— and who the fuck are you anyway? Ghosts flapping their sheets. Shadows cursing the sidewalk before me. Clouds borrowing my perspiration to rain on happy folks. What is going on? I don’t know how to deal with SHIT anymore. Can’t I just be free? Maybe January 11^th will open the door. And where the fuck is my glass?

 

And to answer your question— I don’t know why I do the things I do. All through the afternoon; still unsolved wound on my face. A round clotted dot— like a cigar burn. A scrape from drunken fall or punch from jealous husband. I know not. Too much to drink, certainly. I am compelled to wonder about that word, certainly, but more to the point, its origin, certain. I am not certain.

More college poems from my creative writing/poetry class

The Midnight Hour

At hand, the midnight hour.

Please. All join in silence

for the marriage of thought and dream.

Yes. That is good— retire

the soft pulsation of our mind.

Let go. Submerge.

Yes. Calm and exotic.

That sea has yet to be sailed;

trained navigators are baffled.

The lighthouse on the horizon

where the sea meets night.

Beyond its expanse, no man

has ever dreamed its journey.

Stories of tropical forest, lost

roads that slip into nowhere.

 

The stories lied.

I am thrown, an urgent thrust

Into a dark ghost town.

The high school principal,

police chief, mayor, governor drip

with dark crusting blood

on the floor of the court house

before the judge, His Honor

who sleeps upon cluttered desk

of documents and dried puke.

Parents lay

In white walled cemetery

Buried in beds,

braindead.

This is hell. Get me out of here,

back to the midnight hour.

I don’t want to see the future.


_____________________________________________________________________

My Dream

Gravity’s weight hammers my head,

face melts into pools of sweat and skin.

My watch has hands but no numbers.

Where am I?

Portly Hawaiian girls dance

two headed men run wild towering

red flowers ooze shit in my eye

a pigeon blossoms

into Tyrannosaurus Rex;

A great white

Swallows the dancers.

Green dogs run to the shore,

marble trees eclipse

the surging sea.

Stop this madness.

 

A wolf howls.

A calm buzz.

A steady neon shadow.

It is his shadow,

the mad host.

He welcomes me with open arms

into the future,

witness to the pain.

I slip into the eternal pasture.

The host, cloaked in unearthly rags

strips down,

a brilliant glow burns

my eyes.

_____________________________________________________________________________



The Sun

It always rises

From its distant chamber;

it shines love

into weary weather beaten souls.

Golden light streams

pours down;

lazy clouds

treetops

chirping birds.

The earth receives its light,

reaction, reflection

gentle erection

red heat knives

stab at his skin.

 

The sun

calls you to the dance

to sing, laugh and play;

draws the strained gaze

outward; entices

brain-cramped students

suffering in class.

The sun seems to speak:

“Look beyond the window

children and bask in my warmth.”

Boys and girls in summer clothes

rocking out with radios.

 

A student dreams.

A sunset’s slow yawn

the hot horizon stirs,

bubbles in cauldron mind.

The smooth sand

foaming tide

fused

browning toes.

 

Romance beckons;

tongue falls upon lip;

He pants to run.

His thoughts exit

dreary gray

security monitored door.

 

Drink Wild Irish Rose

with friends

and lie upon the shore, slurping

giggling, getting drunk

on vapors of Atlantic Ocean;

cool breeze slaps

                           twists

                   coils

Around them

like lovers hair;

a pouting wave

puckers

against goose-bumped chest

like an erotic girl

licking her mouth.

 

He sings, Down by the Seaside;

words echo in the blue

liquefied sky, “way down

by the Oceanside."

Sun baked pretties

dripping wet

polished chrome thighs;

they dance

alone.

 

The sun

calls you to the dance.

It seems to speak:

“Look beyond the window

children and bask in my warmth.”

 _________________________________________________________________

Sunlight never stays

long on the dirty window.

How he had loved

it’s sharp shooting rays

soft angelic light

for only seconds

 

__________________________________________________________________________

 

Inside skull

island

gentle lake

floats at rest.

 

Adventurer promise

dreams come true;

streaks of red, white and

wine in the tender sand.

 

__________________________________________________________________________

 

The glaring two faces, Supervisor

my back burns

the work bell sends us to the time clock.

 

Landscaping crew croons.

Unkempt clothes and wild hair annoy

“Here’s yer shovel up yer ass.”

 

Terrible season.

I reregistered

into high school.

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

The nude jungle girls wet

with sweat and play on vines

mocking Venus Fly Traps, tangled

fused bodies that seduce,

pull on the suspenders

in hearts of lost boys.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

He sits on the moist earth.

Meats roast in the fire.

Waterfalls sculptured

rock beds and river smacks the bank.

Basket-clouds picnic in the sky;

bottles of crimson wine

spill over

mountain tops.

He takes her and they roll in tent,

and drink, sleep and roll again.

 

He rests on the moist earth.

A storm creeps across the night;

rain claws his face, sweeping

eastern winds bite

barking thunder reverberates

lightning rips the heavy sky.

Clothes cling like disease.

Camping gear soaked useless.

He gives up and falls into tent

And drinks and rolls and sleeps

All through the storm so peaceful

he forgets about everything.

 

 

 

Seed

within womb.

 

Sing, sing, sing

 

Dreaming child buds

like a chrysanthemum.

 

Ring, ring, ring

 

A child enters

the world of men.

 

Sting, sting, sting

 

Young man gaze, confused

backwards glance.

 

 

 

Infant fox

along giggling brook.

 

Unbroken eggs rest

in quiet nest.

 

A patient rabbit

in the long grass.

 

He sits

beside his tent

 

laughing,

living, realizing

 

a dream from which to build,

a log cabin of his own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jocks verses Hicks

               I waited at on the edge of the grass at shortstop impatiently. The other softball team had not arrived and they were an hour late. The sun was hot on my face and my long hair was wet with sweat. A groundball sizzled toward me. I crouched down, swept the ball into my glove, jumped up into throwing position and fired the ball to first base. Dave McCarthy scooped the ball out of the dirt. Great play, I thought.

            “Where the hell are those fucking guys?” someone asked.

            “They said they’d be here. I don’t know,” I said.

            We continued practicing. Some of the guys complained how late they were while others threatened to call it a day. Andy hit the ball into deep left field. Rich sprang upon it like a deer— smoke in mouth, beer in hand as he raced toward the fence. Without losing stride, he snared the potential homerun ball. The guys clapped and cheered.

           

Our group— our team was a collection of guys who liked sports, exercise and the competition. We had a lot of fun playing softball. This particular group had been playing together since early last spring, mostly on week-ends. It was a nice alternative to bumming around and getting in trouble. Somewhere along the line we developed into a worthy team and began to challenge other groups in Randolph. The more games we played, the more the wins began to pile on. We were just 17 year olds but we welcomed older teams, bar room teams and by beating those guys too, it raised our confidence.

            Our team was fair, unselfish and played within the rules. One of our pitchers, Boomer epitomized it. In his life, he was messed up. He smoked too much pot, drank too much booze and could not be trusted to do the right thing. He battled with his parents and the police. Yet during the game he was a complete team player, competitive and loyal to the cause. “All’s fair in love and war, baby!” he said.

            Our players had long wild hair, ripped jeans, flannels and old work boots. Some of the guys wore grubby t-shirts and sported ugly tattoos. We smoked cigarettes and drank beer. Some wore leather vests and jean jackets with Metallica patches on the back. In high school we were collectively called Hicks.

            I had set up our initial game with them. I had known some of the more obnoxious kids from the varsity baseball and intramural hockey teams. That first game wasn’t even close. We embarrassed them.

            That day, they pulled into the parking lot in their Fieros and Corvettes, parking beside our collection of third hand Dusters and Impalas. They sauntered out from their cars and walked toward the dug out, and they had an air of superiority in their stride. I had heard them laughing at us, making wise comments to themselves on the bench. They wore colorful aloha shirts, red sox hats and stone washed jeans with their socks rolled above the hems. Some had spiked hair, Mohawks and sported football jerseys and baseball cleats. Some wore Nike jumpsuits, and Addidas shirts and sneakers. Freddy Flynn the epitome of their team, wise ass spoiled ring leader. He smoked an imaginary joint, picked up a bat and took a fake tumble to the ground. His teammates laughed and applauded. In high school they were collectively called Jocks.

            The battle lines were drawn. 

            We must have caught them off guard or something. Our fielders were like vacuums and we went crazy with the long ball. Conversely their defense was careless and sloppy while Boomer kept their offense tied in knots. We won, 16-4 prompting Freddy to throw his Red Sox hat to the ground in disgust. “Just wait til tomorrow,” he said.

            The next day a huge crowd gathered to watch. Word had spread quickly and suddenly this game meant something. The bleachers were packed with all kinds of kids from school. Even the Jock’s lineup was different. They had brought in better players and I watched them during warm-ups. They were quick and confident to the ball. We must have really upset the balance in high school or something for them to make line-up changes. Even Freddy kept his mouth shut. Despite their makeover we were excited and just as confident as ever.

            The two teams had dueled for nine tough innings. Boomer was incredible and only yielded four singles. Our outfielders made several diving catches to prevent hits. Even Slabs, not known for his fielding prowess, threw a perfect bullet to second base to nail a runner. I got in on the act too as I snared a shot down the foul line and turned a double play by catching the runner off second base. We won, 4-0.

            After the game, I had realized that maybe it was more than just a game. I really wanted to beat them bad. What did I have to prove to them anyway? I searched my feelings. Maybe I harbored an element of jealousy. Myself, my teammates— we were the deprived kids, loners and misfits. The Jocks represented popularity, wealth and snobbery. It was a natural reaction. I saw beyond the cliques— one’s character and individuality was real and lasting and not the fake smiles and high fives. What it came down to was that the Jocks represented conformity. When you talked to Freddy it was like talking to Walter and when you talked to Walter it was like talking to Rizzo, they all had the same opinions, quirks and perspectives. No one seemed to have a singular thought. It also bothered me how they were treated favorably by teachers and how they got things too easy. I knew this for a fact. The year before I played varsity baseball, floor teachers treated me just like everyone else and I would never catch a break; the day I put on that varsity cap was the day floor teachers began to look away from my transgressions. I think a few of my teammates wanted to prove that they were somebody and worthy of respect and not the butt of stupid jokes.   

 

            So there I was, still waiting at shortstop. Boomer ran after an errant throw. I looked over to the parking lot and at that moment, I saw them driving in— a Fiero, Corvette and Trans-am. As they crossed the field, they had a different energy an almost humble air about them. There was no joking at our expense. Freddy nodded respectfully toward us. They quietly went about warm-ups and playing catch on the sidelines.

            It was about time. We were bored of practice. I crouched down and rubbed my palm in the dirt and then slapped my fist into my glove. Let the game begin.

                                                                             *

Another paper written for my writing class, this one titled Assignment #4. Originally written in third person and with fake names however I just changed that to its current form. Though written in 1989 or somewhere around that time (I have to start nailing these dates), it was based on events that happened in 1987.

                                  

                                                                              *

I found this recent journal entry from 2013 and thought it was relevant to this.


Journal:

These softball games were a big thing for us going back to our High School days and long afterwards. One year, I don’t remember how it happened, probably a year removed from high school, some of the “cool jocks” found out about our games and started playing with us and eventually a lot of the not so cool jocks found out and they came down and suddenly we had a game billed as “the jocks vs the hicks” and they went on for quite some time that season and became so popular, kids would come down just to watch and root for their teams. The funny thing about us hicks was that we were all pretty good athletes too but we just didn’t have their pampered lives, rich parents and we smoked pot and drank (I had quit weed by then, I think) and had long hair and wore flannels— long before Pearl Jam and Nirvana made it fashionably cool. Well we won most of those games, no we dominated and boy did I feel a great amount of pride that year…. After that season we never heard from the jocks again… I’m sure they went on to become alcoholics and bad parents. This was 1988ish. But we played and played up until about 1995/96 when our core group started to scatter, lose interest or just get old fast and my one “day of escape from reality” just disappeared. Over the years I would try and talk people back into it but it was usually buzzed talk over drinks and bad morning hangovers and nothing ever transpired. Then the guys became golf addicts. I tried but just never took to the game and never really got the sport of it. I enjoyed the long walks across beautiful greens more than I did the game. Recently, it dawned on me, that I was not out drinking at parties and bars and that god damn it I’m not waking up hungover and three sheets to the wind on Sundays anymore. I decided to try and resuscitate it. Even back in the day, I refused to drink during our games. The sun and alcohol would give me a headache. The ONE time I showed up at a game, hammered, with old friend Gary Trull, us having just come from an all night party, I pretty much made a fool of myself, striking out, no flailing at the ball on three consecutive at bats before calling it quits. Anyway, it’s as simple as that. I will try and bring back Softball Sunday.  

December 1 1985 journal

December 1 1985

 

Finally, since I withdrew myself from High School, I landed a job. A friend recommended it. It’s on the Randolph/Avon line. Although it’s a long walk, it’s close to my girlfriend, Gina’s street. It’s also two houses away from Bruce’s apartment. The place is called The Randolph Lobster House.

 

I am still trying desperately to write, as you can see. I had written in journals about last summer and started one about this fall and coming winter. I just lost all motivation to continue and I stopped writing just as I was about to drop out of school. A lot of things have happened since then but I won’t waste my energies on trivial stuff. I have no school. The relationship with my parents has been quite impossible at times, sometimes bordering on the edge, myself crossing a tightrope and wondering if I can stay or should I just run away somewhere. The good thing is I have a girlfriend now. Gina Piccadaci is an attractive beautiful girl who I met through my sister. She is 14 and I’m 17 years old. Although she can make me quite angry and depressed sometimes. She says we’ve been dating since October 16, 1985. It’s funny, when I was writing in my summer journal, she made a brief appearance in it but at the time we didn’t know each other. I stopped writing poetry too. It’s very frustrating when I’m overcome with a passionate feeling but I can’t…. (next page torn out, damn it)

Click. New post. Can't sleep. My son Christopher came into my office while I was transcribing the funeral thing and asked if he could read it. I said yes even though I had my doubts. He asked what it was about. I said a funeral. He had no idea. My writing is just too dark and adult themed for him to be reading but I spend so much time in my office I kind of just wanted to show him that I wasn't just playing around on the internet, like the rest of the world, with games/apps, Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. 

Uncle Buzzy's Funeral

“I don’t know why she’s not here. I would think they were the first ones here,” I said.

“I don’t know either,” said my brother Dave.

We finished smoking, pulled open the heavy door and slipped back into the corridor. At the far end, Uncle Buzzy’s family was gathered outside the parlor. I recognized many cousins, aunt and uncles. They mingled solemnly in groups of threes and fours. While some chatted respectfully soft others anxiously eyed the front door. Uncle Bob was talking unusually fast, seemed lost and out of place. Uncle Dickey was silent, his face, usually joyous and expressive was now empty, distant. Aunt Maddy fidgeted with her fingers and dotted her eyes with tissues. It looked like there was about thirty friends and relatives now. Dave went to my parents who, standing nearby remained sad and quiet. I stood alone and watched.

I couldn’t believe he was really dead. Everyone knew he was dying, expected him to soon but the reality of it, death’s finality rocked the world. The doctors had speculated that he had a month to live. He lived out the last few weeks with his wife, Carol and their daughters Debbie and Joyce and sons Frankie and Mikey. The cancer had just eaten through his body. His appearance had turned pale— his body became frail like thin glass and he was a shell of who he once was. When he digested food, his body puked it back up. His memory was mush now and he could barely mutter a sentence. The only thing that kept him alive was a machine that supplied his body water and sugar.

I wasn’t prepared to say it out loud or think it— that he was actually gone.  I had been immune to the sadness of the inevitable because I had expected it. I knew he would be gone soon. I was prepared for it. Somehow I hadn’t understood that death was goodbye forever and the reality now slapped me in the face unawares. A few weeks ago I “felt bad” but now I hurt deeply.

I leaned against the pale white wall. I didn’t like this funeral home. A thin yellow carpet was worn down near the front door. Through the glass door, sunlight filtered unnoticeably upon the carpet like a puddle. The sconce lights along the corridor were dim and depressingly stark. I felt trapped from any comfort. Across from Uncle Buzzy’s parlor were two others, empty and still. The atmosphere was oppressive like a storm cloud and hot.

I was dressed in a black suit jacket, white shirt and freshly pressed slacks. I was uncomfortably warm and felt like tearing it off and throwing on an old ripped hockey jersey. I glanced at my watch and tapped on it. 8:55 am. More relatives filed in. My dad meandered over to me and stood at my side, motionless, hands in his slacks pockets.

“Is Aunt Carol here yet?” I asked.

“No… not yet. I’m a little worried. The service starts in two minutes. It’s supposed to anyway,” he said. 

My dad looked nice. He was freshly shaved, wore a short haircut and sported a new suit and tie. Everything looked good except that his boyish face had suddenly aged ten years. His eyes too were no longer joyful and blue; now they were clouded, forlorn and streaked with red lines. His usually steady gaze had given way to confusion.

Suddenly a big heavy bell tolled.

“Bong… Bong… Bong….”

A tear rolled down my dad’s cheek. He moved away from me towards my mom. I remained at the wall, unsure where or why the bell was tolling. Then the glass doors burst open and sunlight burst upon the carpet making it look new.

“Bong… Bong… Bong….”

Aunt Carol wore a long black dress covered by a thick grey coat. She cried heavily as she entered, held up steady by Mikey and Frankie. Deb and Joyce trailed behind them in teary anguish.

“Bong… Bong.”

It was quiet again but for the hushed sobbing. I had never seen Aunt Carol so helpless. She almost dragged herself down the corridor, as if something within her body had been amputated, discarded and lost. Each step seemed to suck out her energy and weaken her will to live. Though her lips were tightly closed I imagined the nightmarish scream echoing in her mind like torture.

“I can’t stand this,” she muttered. She clenched her fists. “I can’t… stand… I hate….”

I felt like I had overheard her private thoughts and I felt prying, guilty. I wished I hadn’t— especially that word. The heart is a powerful communicator. It had to speak. The hate was tangled around her veins and burned in her blood. It weakened her and turned her spirit like a spit above a fire. She breathed it, unwanting to and choked on it like smoke. I forced myself to watch the small struggling procession. Death had robbed her, stolen her one true love and was now squeezing the pulp of her own life, draining her; death followed her, I swear, I sensed it, as they came upon Uncle Buzzy’s coffin.

Inside, his face was gaunt and touched up with embalming make up. I watched death halt momentarily as it settled over his face again. No make up could veil its presence. It had spoken in its unmistakably silent voice. I hadn’t understood what it was saying but I knew somehow that something had been said. I tried to hold back the tears but I just couldn’t. As my eyes grew wet, I hid my face and wiped my cheek.

Suddenly, I pictured in my mind, my dad and Uncle Buzzy playing horseshoes in our backyard. They wore shorts, tank tops and joked like kids at recess; the smoky scent of hot dogs and burgers filled the yard. Uncle Buzzy would aim at the opposite pole and concentrate on the angle. His face was serious; when it came to horseshoes he meant business.

“Well Jim… I think you got me beat,” he said.

“Not until the game’s over Buzz. I don’t count the eggs,” said my dad.

 He aims, shoots and it arches high in the air coming down with a soft thud in the pit, a ringer.

“One more,” he said.

He aims, shoots and clang. He nails another ringer for a narrow victory. He raises his fist and laughs. “Let’s see that money, Jim. Come on, let’s see some green. Hey Mikey! Look at your father now.”

“That was luck,” said Mikey.

“I can’t believe it. I had you beat.”

Uncle Buzzy, family kingpin of horseshoes.

“Mikey wants me Jim. Wants to beat me bad. He lost ten bucks last weekend. Revenge, Jim. He wants me.”

They both crack up laughing, mostly because Mikey really thinks he can beat his father. Truth is I can beat Mikey. As they pick up their horseshoes, Aunt Carol calls to Uncle Buzzy and Mikey that there food is ready.

“Come on now it’s time to eat. You can play that silly game later.”

“Your lucky old man,” said Mikey.

“Son, I hope you brought a lot of extra tissues,” said Uncle Buzzy.

My dad rolled with laughter.

“Yeah right,” said Mikey.

Uncle Buzzy stood there smiling sarcastically at my dad. He is slightly plump from age but strong and tan. His brown eyes gleam playfully. His brown hair is brushed to the side in an attempt to hide a receding hairline. He shakes his head and chuckles. He has an air of dignity and calmness.

“What can I do Jim? I’m just going to have to teach that boy a lesson.”

There’s Uncle Buzz, all right— alive and well in my thoughts.

This was another creative writing paper. It was untitled other than in the heading where it said Assignment # 8. Originally I wrote it in third person and it felt robotic so I just switched it to first person and inserted the real names (names changed for the class paper). Not sure if it was a point of view exercise or not. Also, not sure why I chose Buzzy’s funeral to write about. I think I had written it soon after he died (which the year escapes me at present) and had typed out the scene with my typewriter. Most likely I found and reworked it for my writing class a couple of years later. At the time, of all my dad’s brothers, my bond with Buzzy was the strongest of them all. The families often got together for summer pool parties at my parents, cook outs and Carol’s amazing stuffed shells at their home in Waltham and vacations at Silver Lake, New Hampshire, renting cottages and house for sometimes a week, sometimes a weekend. 

    

  

Just a little nothing

        New post? Nah not really. Just bored and overtired. Wish I had something to say but I don't. Its weird keeping this blog only because it is online but no one knows it. I'm cool with that. After having been on Facebook from 2009 until about 2 months ago and having live banter and discussions about my comments or others, it's just weird now having no response. It's like writing in a vast canyon. But I'm fine with it. Besides I was getting little to no response on Facebook at the end anyway. Of course in the beginning and middle of my Facebook days, I loved it and some of the back and forth was just amazing. But all things end, sadly. And though here this is an "online" thing it doesn't feel like that to me. It just feels like Word or Works and I'm just journaling away. I've come to realize that I don't need an audience. It would be nice if I ever published something to an audience-- heck I wouldn't even care if I got paid or not, unless it were a novel.
       Life moves along in it's circular fashion. Much has changed over the years. Getting old sucks but I refuse to give in to it. I have no friends anymore. I have decided, months ago to pull a JD Salinger and just withdraw from it all. Less bullshit. When I think of my friends, I think, we had a great run. We did it all. We conquered the world. Now it's time to just let the past remain and remember the beautiful, ugly times and just move on. I must say, the untold stories would make entertaining reading. Anyway, felt like ranting. What good's a blog if you can't say what you feel? Mission complete. Goodnight me.

Let's jump!

In Mansfield, Massachusetts is the amphitheater, Great Woods. The size of Great Woods is nearly half (or a bit longer) the size of a football field. There are three main areas: 1) The stage that is capable of holding two rock bands, simultaneously. 2) The seating area that stretches back about sixty rows. 3) A large open field that is separated  from the seating section by a 4’ chain-link fence. There is a towering cement roof top above the stage and seats that serve as shelter from rain. Two tall wood fences surround the concert area like moats to keep out concert crashers.

If you come here for a show I recommend you watch it from the grassy field. There is little to no security and plenty of open space to dance drink and roam. It is open to the sky, and at night one can see the clusters of stars. During the show, a breeze cools you down compared to the crowded elbow to elbow seating area. Even if one finds the distance is too great to see the contorting faces or plucking fingers of the musicians, still the music is crisp and clear and no one is blocking your view.

There is just one problem with attending a concert at Great Woods. “Ticket prices are just way too expensive,” says Slabs, a dedicated Great Woods jumper. Prices range anywhere from twelve to thirty dollars. He is right. I am a fulltime college student/ part time worker who rarely has extra money for concerts. I will often end up bumming money from friends; then later try and remember how much I owe and to whom I owe the money. Or I scrounge around my house for hours looking for change. The whole process is tiring, complicated and cumbersome. I have found an easy solution to mine and your Great Woods problem: Don’t pay.

I have devised a method for the following people: those who do not have time to buy a ticket; those who simply have no cash and that includes for sold out shows where scalpers are getting 300.00 a ticket; and finally, for those who just don’t have anything better to do on a Friday summer night.

First of all, make the effort. Great Woods is on the Mansfield-Norton line. Use a road map if you must but it is easy to find. Once there park your vehicle way in the back. Don’t worry about all the parking lot security— parking fees are included on your ticket (wink wink) and they always assume everyone has tickets.

I would strongly advise you to get there an hour before showtime to feel the place out, have a drink or two and just enjoy the vibrant crowd. You will need help hopping the fence so don’t go alone. Hang out with your buddies and pals, drink a few beers, laugh and have fun. Be the moment. If you have not hopped before I would advise you drink liquor— whiskey and Coke, maybe vodka and OJ. It helps take off the edge more so than beer. Heck if you don’t drink that's okay too, just have fun and relax and let’s hop that fence.

Let us take a stroll toward that ominous looking fence. It’s probably starting to get dark out and that only helps our cause. Always keep a casual eye on Security— they are the ones wearing blue security jackets, brandishing long flashlights and radios. Try and do a mental calculation as to their positions near or around the fence. They will often take a strong position along the fence like castle guardians. It’s probably Sunset, maybe 8:00 o’clock and the warm up act should be on stage by now. It is time to get to work.

Casually mix in with the crowd as it moves toward the ticket gate. Then gradually steer off the path toward the forest near the perimeter fence, as if you were just taking a piss or looking for a lost article of clothing. If security confronts you, remain calm. If they demand to see your ticket or stub just say you threw it away. Let them escort you back to your car, yell at you to get lost and wait for them to move on. Now retrace your steps but this time pay attention.

By the forest you will see a narrow path about a hundred feet from the fence. Let's follow the path, quietly. It’s best to have a flashlight on your first run but its okay if you don’t. There are hidden streams, rocks and tree roots and in some parts, clusters of fallen trees and thorn bushes. Cuff the flashlight and keep it low. A little light goes a long way in the dark. It’s about a five to eight minute hike.

The trail ends at a dirt road that circles the concert area. Security buggies or golf carts use this road and patrol it at five minute intervals. They usually travel in groups of threes. I recommend waiting for a patrol to come, pass by and then as he/she turns the corner, run across the road, about twenty feet into the brush to the perimeter fence. It is solid wood and about twelve feet high. There is no footing anywhere on the face so unless you are ten feet tall; you will have to use the buddy system. Hoist your friend up until they can reach the top and pull their bodies up and over. There are studs on the back of the fence that you can stand on. They will stand on the stud, reach down and pull you up.

You are almost there.

Now comes the climb up the steep overgrown grassy hill. Stay low to the ground. Generally when one stands above the tall grass they are easy targets for security down below. It’s about a five minute climb or ten minute crawl depending on your style. I would recommend keeping one eye on the road in case a patrol stops to survey the hill with bright searchlight in which case, hit the ground all together, just remain part of the hillside and don’t move until they leave. The buggies come equipped with powerful searchlights and security is in constant communication by radio with other guards and police. Don’t let the idea of police scare you: they are only there to safeguard the peace from asshole drunks and rabble rousers. This is the juncture where the stupid ones get busted. It is here where kids get reckless, ignoring the lights and running mad like crazed escape convicts, sensing the end of the tunnel. It is also where security comes out of nowhere and gang tackles them; many times I’ve seen teens tumbling down the hill like dice.

Okay no lights, let’s go.

At the top is another wood fence but this one is only about eight feet high. There is also footing at its cross-section so you use this to get yourself up. Cautiously lift your head above the fence and scan the area for random security. Most of the guards are posted down below along the front of the first fence. Generally you won’t find any here and its dark and packed with people but you can’t be too careful. Okay, one last look and over you go. Mix into the crowd, meet your friends and enjoy the show. 

                                                                    *

I wrote this paper in 1989 or 1990 in my first year creative writing class at Umass Boston. The assignment was to write about how to do something. Of course its supposed to be tongue and cheek. My professor liked it so much she said that she might try hopping the fence herself. Since this paper Great Woods security towards fence jumpers has transformed immensely. Back then it was a rather simple thing. It had just opened in June 1986 and it was easily exposed to fence jumping. Over the years they would increase security, lengthen and add fences, landscape much of the nearby forest to increase security visibility, introduce chain-link fences and barbed wire, poison ivy and my all-time favorite, manure. One year they laid down shit along the remote areas of the fence where people would dig holes and slide under and if you were lucky you missed it and if not, you got in all right but you smelled like horse manure the whole night.