The Old Hotel, Dog Days of August

She silly sally down the hall way. Skip and dip. Stutter, flutter. Kicking up little dust clouds. Aroma of human effluvium.

As I leave the sunny corner room, Aunt Kat is efficiently dressing Papa Gordon in his pajamas. Her soothing voice calms him down. Changes his mode from Hell Fire to quiet rest.

I am wearing pedal pushers and a polka dot blouse sewn for me by Mama. The hall is long, gray, receives sunlight only at the two ends. My mind slides to its channel of choice. A dreamy, wordless place. I drift past Aunt Kat and Uncle Jack's rooms, numbers 113 and 115. Aunt Tilly and Boo Ray live in room 117. On the right are a string of desolate vacant rooms. I pass dining room and kitchen, and at the end of the hall, the communal bathrooms. Then, down the outdoor back stairs and through the screen door to the first floor hall. Feet navigating, mind in clouds. The August southern heat is oppressive.

I enter my family bedroom. Hank is driving his cars over Peggy's dolls. Bernice is tuning the radio. Hank grins and joggles to me with arms reaching open. "Sissy, Sissy, read book. Read Buzz Bunny."

Bernice is the babysitter for Hank while Mama works. Mama is secretary a few hours a week to the only lawyer in Weir, Mississippi. Bernice has a cushioned body, a long dirty blond pony tail, pale blue eyes. She is wearing a flowered blouse and a faded green gathered skirt. She sits in a straight wooden chair and turns the imitation ivory dial of the brown plastic radio. The radio emits weird zippy sounds as she scrolls the stations.

Three year old Peggy lurches to Bernice, squeezes between her legs, and tugs at her mother's blouse. Bernice stops turning the radio dial when she finds Elvis singing, "Warden threw a party in the county jail." Her soft shoulders see saw to the rhythm of the music. Peggy is trying to get under her mother's blouse. Bernice lifts her blouse and pops out her huge milk melon. Peggy slurps at the pap while standing on sturdy plump legs.

"Sissy, Sissy, read Buzz Bunny!" I pick up Hank and the book and carry them to the back porch. Sit in big wooden rocking chair. Snuggle three year old boy chub. Read, "Hoppity, hoppity." The over worked electric washing machine spins with death rattle noise. Beside it is an old wringer washer.

The back porch looks onto a big cow field. In the near distance are lines of scraggly drying laundry with butterflies swarming about. In the far distance is a thick woods, veined with a creek. One area of the creek has been dynamited to create a deep black swimming hole.

Hank and I doze dreamily, gently rocking. I dream that I am trying to water a flower bed, but the hose is stopped up. I shake and squeeze the hose, but water only dribbles out.

Noise of flip flops and screen door slam. "Where have yall been?" I ask Carol and Banty as they jiggle from the hallway to the porch.

My sister Carol is eleven, two years my junior. To my humiliation, she is more developed than I am. She always wins our rivalry fights because she is meaner and stronger willed than I am. Her bangs frizz over her high forehead and tweezed eyebrows. Mischief jets from her blue gray eyes. The sides of her hair fall obediently straight to poufs of tight curls just below her ears. She wears a blue boat neck blouse and a gathered skirt sewn from cotton by Mother. She eats a Snickers bar. "We wont tell you!" she snickers.

"Bernice paid us a dime to keep our mouths shut," Banty says. "And," she says waving two cigarettes, "look what else she gave us." I beg to know why they were paid, but they will not tell me. Banty says that we should go to the swim hole to smoke.

I carry the sleeping Hank to the double bed where Peggy is napping. Bernice is singing along with the radio. "One for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready, now go cat go."She tosses her pony tail in rhythm.

Dozo saunters in. Sniffs. Lies down beside the bed and immediately falls asleep.

I Talk to Trees

SPRING! Drink in the beauty of spring green leaves and sparkling flowers. See it, feel it. Enjoying beauty has a holistic effect on your being. Taking time to appreciate spring will make you feel better. A minute or two will lift your mood up a notch. The better you feel, the better you perform. Could have a spiral effect on your whole life.

The Old Hotel

I need a plan, man. I need a blog plan. I need focus. I need a cohesive concept. I need to win the lottery. I need a face lift. I need to get my shit together.

I plan to write some biographical material and I plan to post pictures. Dear reader, please dont expect it to be organized or reasonable. I have "art brain", that is my excuse. The pictures will not match the written material. Life is too short. And, life is too complicated to tie into a neat bundle.

Specifically, as to the writing, I plan to write about a period of time in my life when I lived at the Old Hotel. Coexisted there with my mother, two sisters, little brother and a whole caboodle load of extended, busted brained, family. I was 13 years old and the year was 1956.

Naturally, I plan to take poetic license with the facts. Thank the Dear Goddess for spell check. You will not be pummeled with too much creative spelling.

I plan to write as I go along, completing one or two short episodes a week. More if time permits.

This morning I drafted the first episode, handwritten, on old fashioned paper.

Please indulge me my corny alliteration.

I tried to unify the time frame but it kept getting disorganized. So, am going with the mixed past tense and present tense. Whatever.

THE OLD HOTEL

The Old Hotel was dim, dusty and delightful. The pea sized town of Weir, Mississippi, was weary, wan and wonderful.

After the heyday of train travel, the hotel fell from relevance. It no longer made sense. In the time when travelers tumbled about in automobiles, capillaries of commerce switched from rail to highways. The Old Hotel was bypassed.

For a few years the hotel was not occupied. Then, Aunt Kat bought the decaying heap for a song.


Papa Gordon's room was to the right of the hallway that led to the second story balcony. Just past Aunt Kat's and Unkle Jack's rooms. The old man's room had more light. On a corner, it had twice as many windows to coax sunlight.

Just as I walked through the open door, Papa Gordon shouted, "You are going to Hell!". He was sitting on the end of his bed. Scrawny knob knees angled over the foot board. "Your sinful ways on the wide and crooked are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord." A gnarled finger, like a shot gun, hurled shame on my sinful soul. Then he slammed his fist on the ragged King James Version of the Bible. "Repent", he bellowed.

The air marinated in an intimate odor of chamber pot under the bed. His voice boomed from a ribbed chest thinly drapped with crepe skin. I did not look at his, 'you know what'. My small voice claimed only a sliver of space in the righteous airwaves. "Papa Gordon," I murmured, "let me help you get dressed".

"REPENT!", the vindictive voice almost knocked me down. "REPENT! The way of the cross is the only way. Jesus is preparing a mansion for you in heaven."

Repentance, curiosity and revulsion clatter in my brain. Curiosity is winning. Well, admittedly, I did get a quick, indelible, view of his "thingie" before editing my eyes. Now curiosity is urging a better look at the shriveled pod. Just as I have my courage worked up Dozo walks in. She is dutifully making her rounds.

Dozo assesses the situation like a professional nurse. She sniffs my quandary. Things are not right. She pads out the door.

I drift to the front facing window. Beyond the balcony, across the railroad tracks I see the Saturday, go to to town, country folks. They shoulder bags of feed and seed from the farm store. They buy flour and sugar in bulk from the grocer.

Saturdays are lively days in Weir. Old fashioned subsistance farmers make a weekly outing to pick up supplies and glad mouth. There are two horses harnessed to wooden wagons tied up by the tracks.

Weir, this small dot of earth, is off current, mired in time warp quicksand. Even in 1956, a few farmers still drive horse and wagon to town. They own a few fertile acres. They raise luscious vegetables, fruit, chickens, milk cow and beef cow. They raise abundant barefoot families. The children beg to go on the Saturday trip for supplies. Town is exciting. There are new things and strange people to see.

Deep in the back woods they live in their own little bubble of self sufficiency.


Beyond the balcony, on the near side of the tracks, I am captivated, as I watch a gang of brawny teen boys playing a game of penny toss. My mind disconnects, drifts to the place of nameless longing. The hell fire and damnation fades to quiet static. Standing in my Mary Janes, my body sways gently.

Dozo returns her head held high with self importance. She is followed by Aunt Kat. Dozo has summoned Aunt Kat to handle the naked preacher situation.

I am pulled back to the sunlit room. "Jan", Aunt Kat orders, "go see about your little brother." She is trying to protect my girlish innocence by sending me away. Ive seen my brothers perky pee pee and my grand father's limp ding dong. My protected, guarded innocence is still mostly intact. Aunt Kat picks up Papa Gorden's pajamas from off of the floor.

I wander down the long hall way to the back stairs.

B 52 Egret

Now I will try to think of something to write about this picture. As an Air Force brat I heard a lot about B 52's from my Dad. Osmotically absorbed impressions of impressive airplane performance. Fascinated by the rubberized pig hair stuffing in scrounged B52 cockpit chair Daddy used in his workshop.

Recently wanted to do an image of a vintage airplane. Searched Bling. Harvested pict of B52 being refueled in the air. It could fly a very long distance. And it was big. Worked the pict in photoshop. Upped the saturation. Increased contrast.

Then, wanted more interesting picture. So added other flying things. Egrets from an actual acrylic painting. Anime Kitten Cherub. Starry background created a few years ago. Luv layers.

There you have it. "B 52 Egret" picture. It works for me. Hope it works for you.

Love Letters to Japan

Last night I watched a PBS historical documentary about the last part of WWII between USA and Japan.

I was conceived while my father was on leave from the war. I was born the year before the A-bombs were dropped on Japaneses cities. When I was six I lived in occupied Japan. Activities of first grade for me included air raid drills. This is like a fire drill except you line up in fox holes.

I have so many associations and emotions about Japan that it would be impossible to write all about it and still get my home ready for family to come for Easter.

Many mixed feelings. Hyperactive monkey mind running out of control again. The horrible devastation of WWII. The beauty of Japanese culture. The discipline and honor bound pre WWII Japanese personality. The culture that created a national determination that prefered suicide to surrender.

"Shibui" is a Japanese word that means refined elegance. Shibui design is distilled to to the bare essentials of beauty.

"Wabi" is a Japanese word that means, refined rustic. Tea houses are wabi. Built like peasant huts with humble natural materials and superb craftsmanship. The tea ceremony is a ceremonially choreographed group meditation. Every move and every word carefully edited to produce an experience of serene harmony.

And now, the post WWII Japan gives us Anime and Murasaki. There is a focus on being shallow and infantile.

Sorry, I have to go now. Lots to do. Want to get my forest pruning exercise. Leaving you with another disjointed entry.

Have a wonderful Easter. Spring. Life renewal. Winter (death) is overtaken by the vibrance of fecund Mother Nature. Jesus was crucified at this time. Death. Resurrection. We celebrate with bunnies, renowned for their sexual addictions. Renowned for their fecundity. And eggs, symbols of birth, rebirth. May there be death to your personal gunk and rebirth to you light filled potential. Whatever.

Louvre Mask

I took the photograph of this mask in the Louvre. The mask was in a glass case and a reflection of the mask showed up in the photo. I wish that I had made notes on the origin of the mask, and have now forgotten when and where it was made. It is made of terra cotta. The background is scanned French wallpaper with the colors changed in photoshop.

Zephyr

Whatever Happened to Poor Cousin Boo Ray?
A Fractured Southern Gothic Tale

Aunt Tilly drove her beat up old Dodge hell bent pell-mell from Buford County, Mississippi, to New Orleans that drizzly evening in the mid sixties. I guess she had to escape her sweltering moldy family and explosive Uncle Model T before her rocker totally off tracked.

Cousin Boo Ray played quietly with his hot wheels in the back seat. I was all of sixteen years old, with my drivers license and white lipstick. Aunt Tilly let me drive until I scared the holy shit out of her. Then I was demoted to shotgun. Tilly chained smoked Lucky Strikes, gripped the stirring wheel with fingers thin as nails, while jibber jabbering under her breath. She was skeleton thin before it was chic to be afflicted with anorexia. Ahead of her time. She checked us into the Airline Highway Motelarama after midnight.

From the dingy room-smelling of human secretions-she phoned my mother to tell her that I was safe, not to worry. Then hung up on Mama when the phone began to sizzle. We all three slept in one crappy bed. Cousin Boo Ray tossed and kicked. I awoke disoriented, with Aunt Tilly hitting me. She apologized after I shook her, "Sorry, I thought you were Model T."

The next day was a number ten on the weather scale. A refreshing crisp of autumn in the air. I was about to pee my pants with excitement. I had only been to New Orleans once before, to attend a Billy Graham revival meeting with my fanatical Christian parents.

After cafe au lait and beignets Aunt Tilly bought me a padded push up bra for my breast buds. I didnt have much to push up but the bra had flattering foam rubber.

At Ponchatrain Beach Amusement Park we waited in line to board the Zephyr. Aunt Tilly said, "This is a very old roller coaster, I hope that they have replaced all the rotten boards" Sitting in the car with Cousin Boo Ray in the middle we jerked, ratcheting skyward, up a creaky ramp. "Hold your arms up," Tilly ordered when we reached the top. I screamed with delight. Falling, falling. Zooming down.

Boo Ray didnt know what to expect. He was overwhelmed by the force of gravity. After that he was broken. I think that terrifying roller coaster ride was the straw that broke the camels psyche. Too many nights crouching, trembling, under the bed while Tilly and Model T hammered and degraded each other.

In this picture you can see him before and after. I only visited him once at Whitfield, Mississippi State Hospital for Mental Diseases. He did not even know that I was there. Did not acknowledge my gift of Whitman's chocolates in the stunning box.

New Orleans was a thrilling day for me, super cool Aunt Tilly bought me a Mai Tai in a pagan idol glass at the Bali Hai Restaurant and Lounge. I was dazzled by the sophistication of the lounge decor. Back then, in New Orleans, they did not check ID, except for when it was close to election time. And the bra and cigarette made me look older. Tilly got tipsy and so did I.

Back home I hid the bra and pagan idol glass in the back of my closet with the birthday present carton of cigarettes that my Airman boy friend had given me. I began scheming about how I would move to New Orleans after graduating high school.

We did not notice that Cousin Boo Ray was broken until after we got home; and after we faced the family furor fireworks. He always was a quiet boy.