Looking for La Luna on a Cloudy Night

Last night, I stepped out onto the balcony, 
looking for La Luna.

I yearned for her caress and a goodnight kiss.

The cloud people gathered together, 
keeping her to themselves.

I craned my neck searching 
for a glimpse, a glimmer, a small glow.

The billowing pillows sprinkled me, 
shooing me back inside.

"Tonight, she is ours," they said.

"Look for her in your dreams."

Angel shape shifts into a boxer

The Boxer

My younger, fourteen year old, brother had been itching for a fight, wanting to prove that since he had grown as tall as me, he could out box me, his 17 year old brother. Late one evening, he came into the bedroom and bated me into argument, over nothing really. The argument morphed into a full blown fight. I had my brother pinned against the wall, my forearm pressing against his neck as his arms flailed trying to throw a punch. Hearing the commotion, my father rushed into the bedroom. He grabbed my arms and pulled me off, giving by brother a clear shot. With a boxer's right hook, he smashed my left eye.

My father, yelled at my brother, “That's not why I pulled him off. What's the matter with you?”

I felt boxed in, the three of us heaving big gulps of air in that tiny bedroom. I needed to get out, to get some fresh air. I left the house and walked a mile to the beach. I needed to be cautious, the racial tension in 1966 had escalated to dangerous levels, with White boys marauding Black and Hispanic boys who might be by themselves in predominately White neighborhoods.

Strolling along the water's edge on the Long Beach shoreline cooled me off. Returning home I took a detour through Carol Park. As I walked across the small grass field, I heard barking, getting louder, approaching me. My stomach tightened. I stood, motionless, holding my ground. The boxer raced up to me, barking, and baring his teeth. The hair on his back stood straight up. He ran around sniffing my legs and feet. Looking up at me when he came around to the my front, I noticed his stubby tail wagging. I extended my hand, with a slow a steady movement and rubbed his neck.

I resumed my walk, the dog didn't leave my side. I tried to shoo him away, but he just wagged his tail and continued walking beside me. As we rounded the corner onto Junipero Avenue, the lights of an upholstery shop illuminated our presence. We hadn't walked ten feet before a car filled with “White” teenage boys pulled up along the curb. With the windows rolled down they began yelling obscenities, “Fucking Mexican! God damn wetback! Go back to Mexico where you belong. We're going teach you a lesson so that you never come back!”

Standing in the middle of the block, I felt boxed in, with nowhere to run. My palms began to sweat. My arm muscles tightened as I clenched my fists. To my surprise, I heard them begin to argue among themselves. “I'm not going out there, not with that dog! You go!”

Turning their attention back to me, they screamed more obscenities and screeched their tires, as they sped away.

Bending down to the boxer, I said, “Thank you. What a marvelous guardian angel you are. But you really should go home. Go on.”

He didn't leave. Instead he walked the three quarters of a mile back home with me. When I got up the next morning, he was gone, back to heaven, not doubt, from where he came.

White Rose

Sunny mornings are rare in October, in the Great Northwest. Thirty miles southeast of Seattle, clouds drizzle millions of water droplets on a normal autumn day. The seventeenth of October, 1992 turned out to be an abnormally warm and sunny day. The brown and yellow leaves of the alder trees littered our backyard lawn. The lingering water droplets from the previous night's rain glittered on the leaves, reflecting the unusual October sunshine. A flock of geese flew overhead, reminding me of the autumn migration of cranes in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment.

After my morning run, my neighbor came over to chat about the roses that were still blooming. When she told me that her white rose bush was in full bloom, I told her that white roses symbolize death. They represent our own mortality with their lack of pigment without which they can't color our world.

On that unusually sunny seventeenth of October, 1992, we received a phone call that all parents dread when their children are away. Our son, Jeremy, was a University of New Mexico student, living fourteen hundred miles from home. A nurse from the University of New Mexico Hospital trauma unit was on the other end of the phone asking for permission to provide medical care for our son. He had sustained a severe head injury from a motorcycle accident.

We granted permission and immediately made arrangements to fly to Albuquerque. Our plane landed in the early morning hours. Having spent the day at the hospital, we made our way to a friend's house that evening. She told us that we could stay with her as long as we needed.

Leaving for the hospital, the following morning, I walked out of her front door and noticed a beautiful white rose bush in full bloom, growing in front of friend's home. The pit of my stomach dropped when I saw a few petals at the base of the rose bush. I stopped and stared at the rose and its petals, as much for its beauty, as for its message. The rose was telling me that our first born child would die from his injuries. I walked to the car, not wanting to see or think about the white rose bush anymore.

I drove to the hospital, a little too fast, trying to erase the image of the white rose bush from my mind. I wished it had not been growing at the entrance of our friend's home. But every morning, on our way out the door, on our way to the hospital, I would see the white rose bush. Each morning more white petals collected at its base. Their whiteness blemished brown and yellow as their vibrancy bled out into the dry New Mexico air. I stopped each day, acknowledging the rose and silently pleading with it to stop dropping its petals. I didn't want to see its warning signs that were telling me that our son was dying. Every morning fewer petals lived in the bloom and more lay dead and dying on the ground.

On the seventh day, as I walked out of the front door, I tried not to look. But I couldn't stop myself. My shoulder slumped as tears began to flow over my cheeks. All of the white petals had fallen on the ground and the flowers were no more.

My feet felt heavy as I walked to the car. My mind's eye could only see the white rose petals decaying on the ground. We drove in silence to the hospital. A little before midnight, Jeremy, our first born son, died. The white rose petals gave their life, showing me what my ears were too terrified to hear.

Like the handsome white rose blossom, our handsome grown son spent his last days giving us a last chance to admire him and say good-bye. Jeremy died, leaving behind his body, that was still beautiful and still vital. And like the white rose bush, Jeremy had other branches, his organs. We honored Jeremy's wish to donate his organs thereby giving a new lease on life to many people.

The white rose no longer serves as a warning, telling me of impending doom. Rather it reminds me of the gift of life that our son gave to so many. And yet, when I see a white rose, I cry a few tears for Jeremy.

Musical Gift in the Trama Center

La Noche, the night, had cast her dark blue blanket across the sky leaving only the moon to quiet the University of New Mexico Trauma center's hustle and bustle. I waited until everyone had disappeared from my son's private intensive care room before I entered. I walked in slowly not wanting to draw attention to myself. I wanted to be alone with my 22 year old son. I needed to be alone to give my dying son one last gift. 

I unzipped my backpack and withdrew the sheet
music of “Memories”, from the musical play, “Cats.” The cat's yellow eyes on the black cover of the sheet music foretold dark moments ahead. The song's words, “Memory, all alone in the moonlight”, took a bite out of my heart as I turned the page. 

“Jeremy,” I called to him, from the side of his bed. “I'm going to sing a song for you that I've been working on in my voice class.” 

Being in a coma, unable to make a response, my first born son could not refuse the gift of my voice. I began my song, soft and low, almost a whisper; “Midnight, not a sound from the pavement.”

The instruments in his room were quiet. 

"Has the moon lost her memory, She is smiling
alone, in the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet and the wind begins to moan.” 

A moonbeam shined on Jeremy's face as he lay motionless in his bed. My heart moaned as I
continued to sing. Increasing my volume, the song took on a life of its own.

"Memory all alone in the moonlight, I can smile at the old days. It was beautiful then. I remember the time I knew what happiness was. Let the memory live again.”

Jeremy did not respond as he lay in his coma. It's as if he had descended into Hades. I was no Orpheus and had no instrument other than my voice to persuade the God of the Underworld to release my son. 

I made a slight modification as I sang to him.

"Touch me. It’s so easy to leave me all alone with the memory of my days with my son. If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is. Look, a new day has begun.”

Tears flowed down my cheeks as Denise wrapped her arms around me from behind making me
aware that the room had filled with family and hospital staff. My gift had been shared with all those who heard my melodic gift.

Roses for Denise

Soon after Denise and I met on June 2^nd, 1973, she invited me over to dinner. She had driven to her mother's house, in Long Beach, to pick up her mail when she saw me, Getting into her light blue car, she asked me to follow her to her apartment in Seal Beach. I hopped onto my motorcycle and followed her. While waiting for the traffic light at the intersection of 2^nd Street and Pacific Coast Highway, I noticed a young man selling roses on the left turn median. I tried to get his attention. Since I was on a motorcycle, he appeared to be ignoring me. When I finally succeeded in getting him to talk to me, I told him that I wanted to buy some roses for my girlfriend.

He asked, “How are you going to carry the roses on our motorcycle?”

“I’m not.” I replied with a smile.

“I want you to give the roses to that woman in the car in front of me.”

There was a minivan, in the lane next to me, that was full of young girls who squealed with excitement as they watched the encounter.

We got married 14 months later.

When I was in the Tonkin Gulf aboard the USS Trippe, Jane Fonda went to Viet Nam in her attempt to stop the war.  I admire her for what she was trying to do.  I am still surprised that so many people still believe the myth about Jane Fonda rather than looking at the truth.  I think that it is a matter of a "girl" doing a man's job and thus the men are embarrassed. 

This is the chapter in my book that deals with what was going on with me when we found out that Jane Fonda was talking to the North Vietnamese. I was still recovering from the concussion I received when the forward steel hatch hit my head.

Saint Jane

“Guess what just came over the radio?” Matty asked as he roused me from a headache filled sleep.

Still feeling like someone had squeezed petroleum jelly into my eyes, I pried my eyelids apart to see who was talking to me. “What time is it?” I asked.

“It is about 11:00 AM,” he said.

Slowly lifting my head off my pillow, I groaned. I swung my feet over the side of my rack and slowly lifted my torso by pushing my left hand against the mattress and grabbing an overhead pipe with my right hand. Rubbing my eyes and yawning widely, I looked down at Matty. “How about getting me a glass of water. There is a cup in my locker. It's the top one next to the door. It's open. Hand me that little white envelope that should be right on the inside,” I said.

“These looks like pills,” he said.

Yawning I said, “It's the pain medicine that the corpsman gave me. What did you hear on the radio?”

Matty's eyes grew big and round as he said, “Jane Fonda, you know, she's the one who starred in “Barbarella”. Wow, she was hot in that movie.”

“Yeah she was real bitchin, what about her?”

“She's in Hanoi with her anti-war movement. She asked the Viet Cong to stop the war and she accused our generals of being war criminals.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I just heard it on the ship's radio. It is being broadcast in the news back home, too.”

“Wow. She's not only sexy. She has big huevos too.”

“Big huevos? Are those big boobs?” he asked.

Laughing, I replied, “Not big boobs, she has big balls. Huevos is slang for balls. She has bigger balls than you and me put together.”

“Bigger balls than we do? She accused our generals of being war criminals on TV and on the radio. That is just not right,” Matty said.

“They are war criminals when they do what our captain did,” I said. “Jane Fonda flew into enemy territory and demanded that the Viet Cong to stop fighting. That girl has huevos. We didn't have the guts to ask the captain not to bomb the church on Sunday. We have no huevos, Matty.”

“My mother would be proud of Jane Fonda. Hell, I am proud of her. If she can get the Viet Cong to stop fighting, I will write to the pope and ask him to make her a saint.”

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Matty blurted, “The pope won't make Jane Fonda a saint. She appeared naked in Barbarella.”

“She'd be the sexiest saint ever.” I said as I imagined her with a golden halo above her head, dressed in the skimpy outfit that she wore in the movie.

“She's a fucking traitor, and I hope they shoot that bitch,” Landry yelled as he entered the berthing compartment.

Startled by his ranting entry, I sat up so quickly that I hit my head on the overhead pipes and my headache began to pound harder.

“Who does she think she is, calling our generals war criminals?” Landry yelled. They're saving the Vietnamese from being taken over by the communists. She's probably a communist sympathizer. And if she is, she's a fucking whore! What does she know about war? She's just a pampered Hollywood starlet. It's a man's job to end wars, not a fucking girl's job. She has no right to get involved in a man's war!”

Stopping at my rack, with his big bald head turning fury filled red, he said, “I'm pulling you back on watch.”

Before I could explain that the chief hospital corpsman had been the one who had given me the order to stay in bed, he said. “You take over for Lamb from 12:00 to 16:00.” Spitting fire, he added, “If you think she's a saint, then you are a traitor too.” Landry stomped into the workroom and slammed the door behind him.

Matty and I stood with our mouths open, frozen in time. As I thawed out, I tried to remember what Chief Landry had just said.

“What was that all about?” Matty asked as he drew his tongue back into his mouth.

“He's a lifer and hearing the news about Jane Fonda made him mad.”

“But that mad?” Matty asked, “I thought he was going to drag you down from your rack and beat the shit out of you.”

“Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing. I'd better take a shower and get ready for watch before he comes out of the workroom.” I wondered how long he had been listening to Matty and me. And I wondered why he got so riled up over what a Jane Fonda was doing. Didn't he realize that she was trying to end the war so that we could all go home?

As I slowly and carefully climbed down from my rack, I saw Landry open the door and glare at me. Turning to the right, he ran up the ladder. Matty's eyes followed the chief out of the compartment. Seeing Norman walk past the top of the stairs, Matty said goodbye and left to catch Norman. Being alone, I took the opportunity to change the sheets on my rack. I opened my locker and pulled out my blue work uniform and placed it neatly on my rack. Removing my white Jockey briefs that I wore as pajamas, I wrapped a towel around my waist, inserted my feet into my flip flops and headed for the showers.

Just before I entered the shower room, I saw Dawson standing by the door. Using his trigger finger, he called me over to him. Entering the shower room with me, he said, “Man, oh, man, you've really pissed off the Chief Landry. I overheard him talking to Chief Granthum about getting rid of you.”

“What did he say?”

“Landry said that he was going to figure out a way to get Hicks, the chief corpsman, to say that you are doing dope and get you kicked out of the navy.”

“I still don't know what I did to piss him off so much,” I said.

Laughing, Dawson said, “He told Granthum that you're a peace mongering hippie. And he'll do whatever it takes to get you off this ship, even if he has to make something up.” Walking out of the shower room, he looked back at me and whispered, “You didn't hear this from me. I don't want to get caught in the cross fire.”

Landry liked Dawson quite a bit and Dawson enjoyed the perks of being the “teacher's pet.”

The freshly painted white bathroom was long and narrow with showers stalls on the bow side, sinks and mirrors in the middle and toilets along the bulkhead behind the wall of sinks and mirrors. After hanging my towel on a hook adjacent to the sink I entered a middle shower stall and pulled the yellowed clear plastic shower curtain closed. The stainless steel shower stalls were barely wide and deep enough for a grown man to stand in. The water, splashing down my face and neck renewed my sense of well being, after being confined to the sickbay exam table and my bed for the last two days. I did not let my headache spoil the moment, as I took care not to let the bandages on my head get wet.

Having finished my shower, I rubbed off the excess water from my arms and legs. Pulling the curtain open, I stepped out to get my towel from the sink across the room. Before I finished my first step, Chief Landry and two other chiefs came into the shower room and blocked my path.

I was standing naked in front of the three chiefs when Chief Hicks asked, “What drugs are you taking?”

“I am only taking the drugs that you gave me.”

He continued to ask questions, often repeating the same questions worded only slightly different from the first.

Feeling the air around my exposed genitals as the water began to evaporate made me want to jump back behind the shower curtain. I was still naked in front of the three chiefs. As I tried to make my way around them to get my towel, Landry jumped in front of me. Since I was not giving the answers that Landry had hoped for, his bald head regained its familiar fiery red hue. Clenching his fist, he asked, “Where do you think you're going? We aren't through talking to you.”

“I'm getting my towel. Do you mind?”

Chief Hicks and Chief Granthum smiled sheepishly as they moved out of the way.

Before I reached my towel, Landry yelled, “What are you trying to pull?”

By now I was mad, I was no longer afraid of Landry, so I yelled back, “What are you trying to pull? You know I had a concussion and that has made me feel like I'm going crazy. My whole body has gone haywire.”

“You're doing drugs. I know it!” he yelled back.

“You're lying and you know it. Hicks tricked me into giving him the key to my locker so that you two could ransack it. Did you find any drugs?”

“No. You must be hiding them somewhere else.”

“You didn't find drugs because I don't have any. I am not stupid. You're the one who is trying to pull something.”

Landry's neck muscles pushed out the tendons as his whole face became the color of rage. “You aren't doing your job!”

“I came in here to take a shower so that I could go back on watch like you ordered me to.” I said.

Chief Hicks looked over to Landry and said, “I ordered him to stay in bed. You can't override my order.”

Chief Granthum's lips contorted into a forced smile as he put his hand on Landry's shoulder telling him that his cause was lost.

If there had been no witnesses, I am sure that Landry's anger would have unleashed his fists and I would have had other wounds that needed bandaging.

Hicks turned to me and said, “Go back to bed and stay there until I tell you to get up.” As Landry and Granthum walked out, Landry turned around and said, “Jane Fonda is no saint. She's a fucking traitor and so are....” I did not hear the rest because Chief Granthum grabbed his shoulder, turned him back towards the door and said, “Leave it for another time.”

Silk Screen

Every now and then we have trouble motivating ourselves to do what needs to get done.  That's when a Divine Goose would come in handy.

Our Life Long friend, Chris, gave me a birthday present of a sewing lesson. She taught Celeste and I how to make tote bags. This is my first sewing project. It appears to be smiling with its new lease on life.

Eleen's angel

I finally crocheted a hat for myself.

I love synchronicity.

I flew to Santa Fe to participate in a Medicine For The Earth shamanic gathering. The participants were asked to bring a gift for one of the participants. I chose to crochet red chili peppers to adorn someone's drum. Since I did not know who's drum would be enhanced, I decided that I could finish the part that went around the drum, once I found out who would be receiving my gift.

One of the participants was crocheting a bag. She and I discussed how she could make it a round bag. As she crocheted her bag, one of the men in our group asked her to teach him how to crochet.

I noticed that he was having difficulty. I gave him one of my larger hooks, explaining that it would be easier, with the large yarn that he was using.

Near the end of out time together, we put our names into a drum. As the drum was passed around the circle of participants, each participant pulled out the name of the person who would receive his or her gift. I picked Vann's name. When I asked him which drum he wanted the chili to adorn, he said that since he had just learned how to crochet and since I had given him a crochet hook, that he would finish the task of adorning the drum, himself. I gave him the green yarn and he went happily on his way.

Yes, synchronicity is grand.

This was written after a March 2008 snowfall in Kent, WA.

 

Thus Senor Sol continues his journey forward, 

once again cajoling the light to paint a little longer, 

coloring a larger canvas.  

All the while, he eases his beloved La Luna's task 

of casting shadows over Winter's arduously long and frigid nights. 

Winter, choosing to leave a reminder that he'll return in due time, 

giggles as he adds his own white brush to the canvas of life 

and graces the Earth cake with frosting.

A part of us dies from life's little torments 
while our soul awakens to the new gifts, 
left behind, as an apology, not doubt. 
Life seeks a balance.
When she burns our ass with trials and tribulations,
she makes up for it by giving us gifts of strength and wisdom. 
We can only accept those gifts, 
if we can slither out of our pity pool for a respite 
and slink our way up to get a larger view beyond just ourselves. 
As we do, we see that no chest can contain a heart filled with love, compassion, wisdom and laughter. 
That pump, beating to the rhythm of our souls, 
sings its own song of love to remind us to breath. 
To breath joy into what we do. 
We must listen. 
Then, we must act. 
For joy without action is no more than a pencil sketch of a cherry pie; 
no color and no flavor. 
Hope is the paint brush. 
Throw away the pencil.
Grab the fragrantly sopping brush 
and stroke to your heart's content.

Beauty Abounds

Beauty abounds. 
Just take a look.

I mean really look. 

Beauty abounds around you.

Under foot, over head, side to side.

Awe. 

Such splendor is gifted upon us. 

Beauty abounds.

Look. 

The fairy hides, 

hidden in his wooden cloak.

He brings us awareness of the beauty 

all around.

"Look!" 
He shouts into our minds.
"Down here!

Deprive thyself not 

Of the wondrous glory.

Your awareness I have beckoned.
Take heed.
Beauty abounds 
all around you."

Celeste found a mark on her top. I took her top
and enhanced it with a little paint.
She is delighted.

I crocheted this blanket for Dallin.

I remember, with great fondness the sensuousness of the sea.

At first I was disappointed at the thought of being a sailor,

cast upon the blue desert of sameness and utter boredom.

That is, until She, the blue Seductress, took me to her bosom

and enchanted me totally with her beauty.

Then, as is to flirt and tease me into taking her,

with her legs spread wide, she tossed me about, spitting in my face and laughing,

sirens in my ears, bringing me to near climax

as she wrapped the ship totally in her wet embrace.

After reaching her orgasm, she lay on her back,

barely a movement from her breast, not even breathing.

Ever so quietly, La Luna, with her shining face, kissed the La Mare awake.

She smiles back at La Luna, as I cut through the water,

sparkling in luscious lunar phosphorescence.

At dawn, Senor Sol, dresses my lover in gold and silver,

with diamonds and jewels of the sea.

Ah, how I miss my lover, my seductress, La Mare, the Sea.

I created two bathing suits with a breakfast theme. Eggs, hash browns and bacon to tie it all together. It was a fun project and the two little girls loved the bathing suits. The girls were 4 and 6 years old.

Winter hat for Baby Isis

A winter hat for Baby Isis with a pink ribbon for a touch of the feminine.
I crocheted this little hat in Yeonmu, South Korea
for my first grand daughter, who was born just north of Yeonmu, in Daejeon, South Korea on 4 November 2007 in the year of the golden boar.





Thunder and lightening brought the snowfall for the first time this winter. Luckily, I crocheted Isis's winter hat just in time.

Hat of Isis

Mushroom crocheted this little hat with a#8 hook and Korean yarn of 30% wool and 70% acrylic for my first grand daughter, Isis just a few days after she was born.

This was one of my first projects while in architectural design class at the University of New Mexico in 1976. My intention was to bring in natural light from both the ceiling and the walls. The light tubes on the sculpture gallery roof, (on the right), would be adjustable to catch the preferred sun lighting. The Painting and Drawing gallery, (on the left), wwas designed with natural light coming in from the North and diffuse lighting coming from overhead or not at all. There is an outdoor sculpture courtyard at the rear.

Mushroom crocheted this blanket for his grandson, Tigerboy. If you look at the bottom of this blog you will see how the baby blanket started out.

Tigerboy nurses while Bonnie enjoys lying under the blanket that grandpa Mushroom chrocheted for Tigerboy.

I have been adding to my grandson's baby blanket. Our daughter, Bonnie, returned it in the summer with a request that I make it larger since "Tiger Boy" is growing so quickly. I think that she secretly wants to use it herself. I will be adding the lake to the bottom and then finishing the blanket with the white trim that I started at the top.
If you look closely, you can see the heart in the moon.