Gary's good-bye

"Same. Smaller. Quieter."

That's how my daughter described her dad when I inquired how he was doing yesterday then, this afternoon, to the same question she wrote, "He died this morning. About an hour ago."  I wish he'd lived a happier life but his death was not as lonely as it might have been—she was sitting beside him—had been all morning—nor was it particularly sad, coming as it did after a long illness, cancer not covid.

So . . . yesterday afternoon as the nest full of baby birds under the roof tiles chirped away at the top of their shrill little voices, and I was painting an illustration for one of my poems while listening to music with headphones on, Gary dropped in from America to say good-bye. He was wispy and floating and mostly transparent (imagine something between a whitish horizontal veil-like form with flagella and a thin floating, mostly transparent sea creature) and kind of stand-offish as always, but he was there.¹ My eyes got blurry for a bit but I saw him clearly in my mind's eye . . . he in thin air, me in afternoon light, us remembering what our dreams had been back then (did he chortle?) and who we'd been for each other. We forgave each other. He lingered a few moments more then said good-bye.

Portugal . . . about an hour ago . . .

¹· No. I wasn't stoned or drunk nor do I claim this moment to be a "Fact". Just sharing my subjective experience.

Paw prints for the future

Paw prints on Soi Sukhumvit 15
Bangkok

Perhaps these paw prints, currently embedded in a Bangkok street, will be unearthed by someone thousands of years from now and preserved as an artifact from our time on earth.

Monkey time

Me and a basically wild Dusky Langur

It's 2558 here in Thailand, at least according to the Thai (Buddhist) calendar. That's okay with me. I love that different cultures have totally different systems for measuring the passing of time. The Gregorian calendar (as in Pope Gregory XIII) used in 'merica, is not the one and only system. In Nepal this is the 2071st century. The Persian, Kurdish and Afghan calendars all agree that this is 1393. Of course, everyone knows it's the 13th baktun and the Islamic calendar calls this 1436 and leap year so watch you don't go down that rabbit hole.

Me handing a Dusky Langur dude a tasty almond.

Then there's Unix time. Wisely, implementations defining the result of the time() function as type time_t were added which will keep the whole system from going negative on January 19, 2038 (in the Gregorian calendar) thus saving us all from the dreaded doomsday second. Thanks guys. And, no. Don't ask me to explain that.

So, what's my point? Ten Eleven years ago I was waiting out a snow storm and in geological time none of this amounts to the twinkling of an eye so I don't know. Do I need one? Ok. Like the Buddha said, "When you meet a monkey on the road, give 'em a tasty treat".

By any calculation, it's treat time

As for me, we're in Bangkok now, so no Dusky Langurs, I so miss those little guys, but I'll try to be nice too.

Happy 2558 aka 2015 etc.
Bangkok

Swami, one year later

A story is like a river. Sometimes a river disappears, but that doesn't necessarily mean it has dried up. Sometimes it goes underground where it travels, not just miles, but hundreds or thousands of miles through the secret earth before resurfacing... to be it's own same/never-the-same self again, like it always was.

The thread of this story disappeared amid the ruins of Angkor Wat, leaving us with the clangorous ring of the cicada and the rattle and whir of Mr. Keen's tuk tuk as our only comfort in the dark broken heart of Cambodia.

This story began a year ago almost to the day and is in three parts, here, here and here. If you've never met Swami, I took this video in Ankor Wat last December, about a half hour before he disappeared. It's good way to get to know him before reading further.

 Swami riding in Mr. Keen's tuk tuk

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One year ago Swami, our beloved traveling companion of nearly 15 years, disappeared at Angkor Wat. It was totally my fault. I was careless. He was very vulnerable riding in his little bag. I kept telling myself I should make a harness for him but never did.

M. Lee and I were heartbroken. It wasn't like losing a family member. Swami is family. It was devastating. But, traveling without him is inconceivable so he immediately "reincarnated" as coral Swami. I know. We're odd.

Me flouting a warning at the cursed temple of Ta Keo

But here's the thing. After that first, heart stopping moment when we realized Swami was gone, the idea that we'd never see him again was simply and totally unthinkable. To even consider such a thing was not only preposterous, it was impossible. We knew he would return. He just had to.

Swami contemplating Swami

So, this last year, we've combed secondhand stores, gift shops, baby boutiques, toy stores, junk shops, art museums, Pintrest, Etsy, Ebay and countless other websites hoping to find him or someone who could make a new yellow Swami body. Family and friends, old and new, joined the search, some even volunteering to sew a new one and finally we realized that, unskilled as we are, M. Lee and I would have to figure out how to make the yellow Swami body ourselves.

Swami with his friend Andy

at the old Whitney Museum in New York

Then a few weeks ago, almost exactly a year to the day since Swami disappeared, a very strange thing happened. Totally out of the blue, and in his usual innocent and cheery way, Coral Swami turned to me and said, "Yellow Swami is coming back". We didn't know what to make of it. How could he know? On the other hand, how could he not know?  But last week, when we were still in Chiang Mai, M. Lee stumbled on this.

Yes, yes. Click the button and watch the scary, bad clowns.

We replayed the part around 0:35 seconds, where HAM sprinkles vinegar on everything and stuffs his mouth with more chips. The music is building as he picks up the newspaper, sees the picture of a little yellow dude in the ad section, throws his bike into high gear and roars off into the store to claim him. And we paused at 1:07, the part where HAM first sees the little yellow dude on the shelf. so that we could read and re-read the name on the wall.... Flat Eric! Of course, we had checked out Flat Eric before but the searches never led anywhere. This time was different.

And don't miss this one. It is part of the narrative.

Flat Eric

What happened next went as fast as the gunfight but had a better ending. M. Lee did a quick search for Flat Eric. That took him to a six-year-old discussion where someone had posted a link to the German Ebay account of a guy named buecherfritzke01 who sells second hand collectibles and there he was... Swami! We bought him immediately and, within the next 24 hours, buecherfritzke01 sent him on his way. Thank you very much. And a couple of days ago yellow Swami arrived in America! The mailer was beat up and taped back together, but he is still smiling. Now he is waiting for us in Portland, Oregon. I hear he's hanging out with some crazy Christmas angels there. We'll be home in January, Swami! See you then.

Swami, resurfacing at last

So, thank you HAM, Mr. Oizo (aka Quentin Dupieux) and Flat Eric. And thank you Dalai Lama and the Tulkas, and Mr. buecherfritzke01 wherever you are. And especially thank you, our family and friends. The fact that you guys get it and care, or at least care, makes all the difference. 

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After a year of wondering where and how Yellow Swami disappeared that day, I came to the conclusion that it was right by this tree in front of Angkor Thommanon. As we were approaching the temple, a group of young girls suddenly surrounded me with a tight circle, talking and waving souvenirs in my face all the while then, as suddenly, they were gone.

Angkor Thommanon
by the tree where Swami disappeared

It was then I noticed he was gone. We immediately questioned everyone in the vicinity as best we could given no one spoke English or seem at all interested in what we were tying to convey with photos and body language. After that, Mr. Keen drove us back to the cursed temple of Ta Keo, although everything seemed pretty cursed at that point.

So now, one year almost to the day, he's back . . . he's home with us. Coral Swami was right.

Swami contemplating the full moon
Ko Kood, Thailand 2013

PS.  No. I do not think M. Lee is at all like Mr. Oizo and certainly I, in no way, resemble his tailgate buddy so don't even go there.

Etude leaves the garage

Etude developed a soul warbling songs in the dark to the mice for weeks after being thrown in the trash. I felt very sad when the little fellow finally grew silent. Naturally, I assumed he'd died.

Etude's return

Etude 02.24.12

I'm shocked. Etude's back!

Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook

Marty Smith

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Credit goes to M. Lee for digging up this article posted by Paul Vincent Spade, Professor of Philosophy at Indiana University. I did a little research on its author Marty Smith. Seems he's currently playing guitar for the Portland band Slutty Hearts. The Free Agent, one of Portland's many fine but unfortunately now defunct alternative newspapers, published it in 1987 and Utne Reader, now Utne, republished it in 1993. Maybe to appreciate it you have to be a depressive type like me but I think it's hilarious.

The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook

Notes at the end of the world

So far, I haven't taken many photos this trip. The most notable ones I didn't take were of the billboards along Route 66 in Texas alerting people to the fact that May 21, 2011 is Judgment Day. That's today. This is probably my last post. I expected The Rapture would be more inspiring, that maybe I'd manage to scribble down a couple of good lines before being cast into the abyss but no. Flat sea. Flat horizon. Not even the distant ridge line of an island or a few clouds gathered on the edge. NADA. Hmmm... perhaps my mind is the abyss and I've always been in it.

Did I mention that we are in Costa Rica at La Sabana Apartotel? It's much nicer than the hostels, madhouse B&Bs, funky hotels and weird campgrounds where we usually stay, not that I don't love them, mind you. But this is actually a nice place even though it's in San Jose.

Because La Sabana is so nice, and so apparently safe, medical tourists stay here while undergoing their whatever procedures. La Sabana is a small, safe lateral world perfect to recuperate in. One day glides quietly into the next beyond the filmy curtains. It's amazing how quiet it is here, given that it is in the middle of downtown San Jose. Well, this morning about 4 am I did have to call the desk and complain about a jet-lagged Euro couple who were sitting at the table just outside our open window smoking and drinking but no big deal. They left around 9 after a breakfast of beer and cigarettes, kid in tow. They probably went to the coast to zipline and look at monkeys. Watch out for the sloths, guys. I hear they are everywhere.

There is a steady stream of people here to watch, like the friendly couple from California. They came to San Jose to go to the dentist and talk to their lawyer. Seems a couple of years ago they bought a piece of Caribbean paradise beachfront property then, after the money changed hands, discovered that they didn't actually own anything at all. The document the realtor had them sign was not the title. It was an intent to buy.

But among our more notable fellow residents is a yoga teacher from Brooklyn who is recovering from hernia surgery. He offered to let us watch the DVD of his operation but we declined, politely. It was awkward. I half expect to see a note on the billboard... Movie at 2. Bring popcorn. We call him "The Boy" because, although he's basically our age, it's like he's our love child, one gone horribly awry. He looks like Lee... tall, shaved head... but he hangs out around the pool, twisted into the lotus position, waiting for people to sit nearby he can dazzle with his grasp of pop psychology and stories of his "dangerous" jungle adventures, both lead-ins for his conspiracy theories. Nevertheless, he is clearly more like his father than me.

In any case, if the world does end today, I hope the tiny hummingbirds who spend a lot of time here beak deep in the flowers will be alright. And, if this is THE END, I guess it means that I never did write that book you wanted me to Jim. Sorry. And, if today is Judgment Day, and Jesus destroys me for being a non-believer, I guess that means that I did not finish the new poem I've been working on too long. But just the other day I did update my poetry blog, Annasadhorse. I only posted a couple of old new poems but that is a couple more poems than there were before.

Stone's throw

I am out and about in what used to be my home town, but it's not anymore. I am what's left of us... of me. I am the beast inside the child's stone plaything thrown 10,000 years ago.

Back breaking labors

I'm at Comma Coffee for the moment, relaxing after a Dr.'s appointment. Seems I've been walking around with a fractured spine for a while. Makes sense. I eat an awful lot of Ibuprofen and Tylenol. Yum. Next I have to see a specialist about possible surgery. Better not interfere with our plans to dog sit this summer while my brother and his wife are in London. Three weeks in Seattle! I won't give that up lightly. So anyway...

More photos from the Tonopah graveyard from our recent trip. A fascinating place, history in the nude. The Great State of Nevada was settled by immigrants from all over the world who came seeking their fortune.

Most lived hard, short lives.

The people who settle in Tonopah were no exception.

Given that Area 51 is next door,
you never know who you'll meet in Tonopah
or even which time frame they're from...
past, present or FUTURE.

So, what the hell? For good measure I'm throwing in a UFO video for your viewing pleasure. The narrator claims it could be the "most important video in the history of mankind." Too bad the dummy mispronounces the word Nevada.


Interview with an Alien

10:00

Weekend upwrap up

In other weekend news. Etude was silent when we got home. He was still singing when we left for our trip so I know he lasted at least two weeks and certainly longer. Goodbye, Little Etude, wherever you are.

Etude

I want to thank Roy for suggesting just the right name for the little Christmas card battery that earned his soul by playing on for weeks after being thrown in the trash. Etude. For warbling songs in the dark to the mice.

Etude. [French étude, from Old French estudie, study.] A short composition for a solo instrument featuring a point of technique but performed because of its artistic merit.

Etude. Like Mike the Headless Chicken who slept with his phantom head tucked under his wing until he died, six months after he was beheaded.

Etude. Life takes care of life.

Naming souls in the lateral universe

Béla Bartók + tiny mouse + one handed Santa + warped robot calliope music = ?

That Christmas card battery in my garage as been playing carols from the lateral universe for 13 days now and that, in my magical thinking, earns it a soul. Imagine one part Bartók on a macabre calliope (Roy's image), reincarnated as a tiny mouse (the mice in the garage get credit for that part though I have since relocated them to their new home along the Carson River.)

And the battery plays on. In case you can't make it out, in this clip it's belting out, "Santa Claus is coming to town". But it can't be long now, although I also thought that on the 31st when I made the first video of its plucky little concert. Yesterday, however, Santa with the missing hand took up the death watch.

I'm not meaning to start a debate over the existence or nonexistence of the soul just accept that everyone and thing gets a complimentary soul just for making it out here to the language barrier. So the little battery, the Christmas card dude, needs a name before entering the Great Silence but I haven't come up with one yet. Any suggestions?

Abecedarian

Abecedarian is a funny little word and fun to say. Pronunciation here.

The 7 o'clock magpie just dropped by for a few peanut chips before retiring for the night. She is no abecedarian but rather the resident expert, having mastered the secrets of the Bird Park.