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My flight from Melbourne (home of the fake) departed at 10:15 AM Saturday morning and landed in LAX at 7:30 AM...Saturday morning. You remember that day that disappeared Wednesday? I got it back.
I heard about jet lag and I thought I would take preventative measures to avoid it or lessen its impact. I knew that if I stayed up all night before, I’d be completely wasted by flight time and I didn’t feel like being punchy going through security with the possibility of getting hassled. Instead, I went to bed at 4 AM the day of the flight. I had to be up at 6. I figured giving myself two hours of sleep would allow me to conk out on the flight and start adjusting to the change in time zones. When I woke up I was not happy but I promised myself sleep on the flight and a smooth transition. At the airport, I had errands to run and was told I had to go through two security checkouts if I wanted to drop my rental phone off first. To avoid that, I went to check in and was pointed to a HUGE line. Another line was empty to the left of me, Online Check-In. “I did online check-in. Why did they put me in this line?” I went to find out. “Of course we’ll check your bag. Enjoy your flight.” Done. Fuckers with the wrong line.
I turned in my phone and went for breakfast. By this time I was fantasizing about eggs and bacon, something I couldn’t get in Australia. I got eggs on toast (close enough) and a new friend, Rachel. We chatted over coffee and before the flight wondering if we could sit together. “I’ll ask.” No dice. “Why didn’t you ask for seats together BEFORE check-in?” I didn’t have the heart to say we had just met.
On the plane I got to my seat and greeted the old woman next to me. She said hello without looking up from her paper. 14 hours on a plane sitting next to this bitch (I judge quickly)? No way. “Mr. Steward? Can you help?” “I’ll see what I can do after we take off and the fasten seat belt sign turns off.” During take-off, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. And then the bell rang. I got up to use the restroom and the steward offered he hadn’t forgotten and that he’d look into it. One minute (and a good piss) later, the chair next to me was empty and Rachel was being escorted to her new seat. Cool. I was instantly awake…for the whole flight. I couldn’t sleep a wink. Shortly after take off, the sun went down. Most of our hours flying were spent in darkness until nearing LA. Sunlight and landing. Fuck! I’m exhausted, can’t see straight, can’t think straight and Rachel mattered much less than she did before.
I took my friend who picked me up at the airport to breakfast (remember my fantasy?) and he commented on my jet lag. “Nothing in evolution prepared humans for jet lag. 20 miles in a day? Sure. 7,500? No.” I laughed, poor sod still believes in evolution. Silly millionaire scientist.
Once I got home and settled, at about noon, I was amped again. Tired but wide awake. I had a plan, I’d take an afternoon nap soon, be up by six and in bed again at night. I’d be done with jet lag and back on schedule in no time. Sure enough, by two, I was in bed. I set my alarm for six to make a meeting. I was tired but I made it up. I yawned through the meeting and the remainder of the night. I figured I’d better stay up until after midnight so that when I slept, I’d wake up in the morning. Mind you, this was a guess. I didn’t want to go to bed too early in case I woke up after another 4 or 5 hours. I wanted to sleep until morning, late morning. So, I went to bed at 2 AM and I woke up at 6…
PM! I was asleep for sixteen fucking hours! I’ve never slept that long! Nowhere close! Not even during my drug days. Evidently, jet lag, my new best friend, will take much longer than a day to shake. Goodmorning, good afternoon and good evening Fubar.
If you haven’t tried it, I’d recommend it. Eery and amazing. I dove on a wreck on Sunday, a sunken submarine.
Dropping 90 feet below the surface with no structure to act as a guide seems endless, like a exercise in futility. “What the fuck’s this? I could be in the middle of nowhere finding nothing” was my first thought. Then the ocean floor came into view and I finally got a bearing. From there, in all directions light blue nothingness. No trace, no trail, nothing but barren ocean. He said to go West so I went West and then, from nowhere, she appeared. 20 feet off the bottom, blackness descended. Enormous. Her Conning tower came into view and her gaze was upon me. Vast, dark and only the beginning. From being completely hidden to being completely inescapeable in a moment is alarming. I couldn’t shake her if I wanted to. I suspect that feeling is just the way a ship would have felt in her presence. I couldn’t see her beginning and I couldn’t see her end but there she was. She was death. She was over and she was decaying but she was there. Sunk between 1924 and 1927, a WWI vet, the J-4.
Even in her absence, out of the water, I can still feel her. I don’t think I’ll forget that first image; blackness coming into view. I can see it again and again in my mind’s eye and each time I do it’s no less dramatic. Fucking haunting. Fucking beautiful. It was fucking amazing.
I finally found a place to smoke in peace, across from Parliament, the same parliament that wouldn’t let me smoke anywhere else. Apparently, Australia is the only place more hostile to smokers (even cigar) than the United States. Fuck ‘em!
Yesterday was harrowing. Most of day was spent reorganizing my return, changing hotels and, most devastatingly, accepting the abrasive and abrupt reality that I am my own worst enemy. The person who I first came to see, changed plans to visit and eventually came to join for coffee (or Australia’s version of it) didn’t see me at all.
I traveled over 12,000 kilometers and have the pain of unmet expectations to show for it. She did what she’s always done, wavered, waffled, invited, ignored, teased and tormented. And I did what I always do, ignore the signs, negate the input of others, head straight for disaster and sit quietly in pain wondering how I got here. I got here by being naïve, foolhardy, unreasonable and reckless. I got here by being me, the very me I wish I weren’t a part of me, the very me I try to ignore and the very me that has yet to grow up, yet to mature and yet to accept.
It’s hard not to be angry and it’s hard not to hurt, because I am angry and I am hurt and I am left disillusioned and disbelieving that someone could do this to me, stand me up, abandon me and leave me. I am left regretfully embracing being a victim, a victim of my own undoing. No one did this to me. I did this to myself. And this is my unpleasant lesson to learn.
My legs hurt. That means I walked more than two blocks (I’m from So Cal, gimmie a break).
Spent the day in South Bank on the edge of the Yarra River. Had breakfast, bacon, eggs and tomato (still without coffee) which consisted of over medium eggs that were cooked through and bacon that looked more like a pile of ham. The slice of tomato was a garnish. I don’t know what it did to deserve top billing. It wasn’t that good.
Visited the botanical gardens. Stayed awake.
Toured Captain Cook’s cottage. It’s the oldest building in Australia and it wasn’t even built there. Go figure.
Visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral (by mistake) and cussed once inside (on purpose). Looked like the one in New York if I remember correctly. How is it that I’ve visited so many fucking St Patrick cathedrals? I’m not even Catholic!
Passed by the Australian courts. Judges walked and wore wigs. I tried not to laugh.
Telstra gave me another phone. As in “in addition to.” Now I have three. Two from Telstra and my first. At least the second one from Telstra is free. Woo yawn hoo.
Made two meetings and met more people I didn’t know I knew. Amazing how plugged in I am in a country I’ve never seen except on the tube and on globes.
Talked to a friend (one of the original reasons for my visit). I’ll see her soon…
Yay!
Finally, saw Footy at the G (that’s Australian Rules Football at the Melbourne Cricket Grounds). Sold out. All of it. Until the guy behind me gave me what I needed. Free, he “gave.” Go Pies! Unbelievably great people these Aussies are. Did I mention that? This almost makes up for their “reserved distance.”
One year ago Sunday, my mother died. I still miss her. I still grieve, less than before but still nonetheless. One year ago Sunday I sat by my mother’s side reading her stories, holding her hand, wafting wisps of hair away from her forehead and gently kissing her cheek. She was so frail, so timid and, at the same time, so strong, so tenacious. She held on for days and I don’t know why she did. I’ll be sure to ask her when I see her again. One day I will die too and when I do, eventually, after sobbing tears of happiness in seeing her again, I will ask her. Maybe it’s defiance, a little something I know something about. Maybe it’s dedication, something I am learning about. Or maybe it’s love, something I knew nothing about until she taught me. Either way, I will ask her.
This Sunday I’ll be diving San Miguel, Northern most of California’s Channel Islands. It is one of the most difficult dives recreationally. Frankly, I don’t know how to celebrate my mother’s death but below the surface of tides and waves and tons of pressure of beauty and force and life I will celebrate my mother’s death day and she will be proud of me for doing so. I will see her in rocks, in sand, in fish and in forests of kelp. I will see my mom in everything that I do. I will see her not because she is there but because I wish she were. I miss mom. I REALLY just miss my mom.
When I told my mom I was going to Toronto and New York, she was excited. I didn’t expect that. I thought she’d warn of me the hazards of travel, caution me against making impulsive decisions and tell me that I didn’t know what love was; about that, my mother would have been right. I didn’t know what love was until she taught me at her death. As it turns out, I never made it to Toronto but I made it to New York and while I hated the city I loved the experience. I got to say “I did what I wanted to do” and rather than regret, I got to say “I am content.”
One year later, I’m going to Australia. Not only is it another county, it’s another continent and my mother isn’t here to tell me her opinion. Luckily she was there to show me. Though she wouldn’t often travel herself (turning down my pleas to visit my cousin’s newly built hotel in Idaho), she gave her blessings when I most recently chose to.
Some years ago, when I visited, what was then, my Mecca in Newport, Oregon (Rogue Brewery) she said “Come home.” My mother wouldn’t say the same thing today. My mother wouldn’t miss the opportunity to applaud my efforts and encourage my curiosity because part of what my mother left me are the resources to travel and her blessings for my precursory trip. In truth, my mother would have guessed rightly as to why I was going and rather than say “Come home,” my mother would have said “Go. Do what you want.” “Go” and “want” is what I will do.
I had wondered for years. I mean, catchy but bothersome. What the fuck was Bob talking about? He’s dead. I can’t ask him. I’ll never know. But, fuck, somewhere, someone must know what the fuck he’s talking about. All codes are cracked. Enigma. Algebra. This one too.
Finally, I saw a movie. Two guys wondered the same thing. I knew I wasn’t alone. This question had plagued man (probably not woman) since Bob first wrote it and THEY had an answer. Each one a different one. One of them was good. That’s it! From the grave, Bob was speaking to me! Suddenly, it was clear! I finally got it!
Two days later I visited the chiropractor’s office and excitedly shared with Rion my new discovery. “Since the first time I heard the song ‘No Woman, No Cry’ I wondered what the fuck it meant. I’ve always wanted to know what Bob Marley was talking about and I finally got it! The other day I was watching a movie and two of the characters were discussing the same exact thing, the song ‘No Woman, No Cry’ and the meaning of it. One of them had his idea, from outta left field but the other, the other guy got it.”
“Very simple,” he said, “It means: No woman, I won’t cry for you. Bob’s telling her he isn’t go to cry for her. No woman’s worth that.”
“You’d think after living this long I could have figured it out,” I continued. “I thought I was going to my grave without knowing.”
“That’s interesting,” Rion said. “I never thought much about it.”
“What do mean? Didn’t you wonder what the fuck it meant?” I asked.
“No. I figured it meant just what the song said: No woman, No cry. If there’s no woman in your life, there’s no crying in your life.”
…
“Fuck!”
It took thirty five years (this was last year), wandering the wilderness, reading blogs, having an epiphany watching a movie and finally visiting the doctor’s office only to be corrected to make the discovery it means just what it says it means “No Woman, No Cry.”
And ain’t it the truth?
*Epilogue* Alix was kind enough to quote the original lyrics: "No, woman, no cry." Disregard the blog entirely. Commas make a world of difference. The meaning should be obvious. More fuck!!!
Right at this moment, my neighbor is having sex. Luckily, I can’t hear him. I CAN hear her. At this very same moment, I am smoking a cigar and as much as I like cigars, I like sex still more.
This reminds me of a Seinfeld episode where George wants to complete the trifecta: sex, sandwich, sports simultaneously. I’ll pass on the second and third but sex and a cigar simultaneously? That has my attention.
Luckily, a friend who knows a couple of my weaknesses and a couple of my fetishes was creative enough to craft such an offer. It did not take me long to decide. We even have the positions worked out. Forget missionary or spoon. Forget huffing and puffing. This is sitting and grinding in all its nicotonic goodness.
Alas, until she delivers, this is a pipe dream.
My neighbor’s guest? She is cumming. She must smoke cigars too.
I don’t know the first thing about dough and I don’t know shit about Bonsai trees, including how to spell it (I had to look it up). I also don’t know anything about graphics or design. I know what tastes good and I know what looks good (sometimes, that’s even in question). And when it comes to what’s graphic, it’s profanity, it’s sex or it’s nothing at all.
My demo CD required a ton of work. Luckily, I had to do very little of it. My friends, on the other hand, they were fucked. I asked for their help, kind of the way a child asks their parents for help on their first book report “please, write this.” I did something similar when it came to the cover graphic, the inside cartoon, the print job, the lightscribe design and the piece selection for final edit; “Here, help me.” They obliged. As a result, I got beautiful stuff from talented people. I got a far better package than my voice deserves (considering the content is suspect and appearance is reality), and I’m lucky I did. Very lucky.
When I lived in Oregon on the Bay (an extended stay, devoted entirely to my desire to be near my Mecca and its beer, Rogue Brewery and Rogue Shakespeare Stout, respectively) I had a roommate. He was clever guy and he didn’t drink in his own country. I take after him, I don’t drink on my own planet (we’re all better off). He smoked a lot of pot but he didn’t drink. He was an older fellow and he had lived in Belize for a time and had traveled the world before. He and his cat, Jack, whom he used to call “a little slut and a whore” (Jack, upon meeting new people, would roll onto his back and offer his tummy to be scratched by anyone who would oblige) traveled together and my roommate told stories from these travels, stories which were actually quite entertaining. My roommate opened his mouth with purpose (usually humor), a good contrast to me opening my mine. I have no purpose.
One day while pruning his tiny trees, his Bonsai trees, he told me the secret. During his travels, he had met a Japanese “Bonsai Master.” Through an interpreter, my roommate learned the secret to rearing the precocious little trees, “You have be cruel to the tree. You have to trim it and bind it without mercy or compassion,” the Master said and, apparently, this master knew what he was talking about because, after all, he had become a “Bonsai Master.” I suspect my roommate was a good study; his trees weren’t much worse. He had a real knack for working with those suckers. Amazing stuff.
That’s the secret to Bonsai trees.
This secret, my roommate said, was amazingly similar to another secret, the secret to making good dough. In Belize, my roommate met a bread maker, not the maker of just any bread, but the maker of the best bread any had ever had. It had crisp, dry crust with a perfectly moist and partitioned interior. This bread would dissolve in the mouth and tasted like butter. This baker fellow drew crowds and lines and sold out shortly after opening each morning. My roommate wanted to know the secret, so he asked. The bread maker was only too happy to tell, “You have to be cruel to the dough. You have to beat it the way you have to beat a woman” (HIS words, not mine nor my roommate’s for that matter). Evidently, the secret to both Bonsai trees and amazing bread is cruelty. Who knew?
The other day, when I visited the graphic designer doing my print job (an ex who also tackled my business cards some time ago), she invited me to sit down and look over her final designs. “Amazing” and I told her. She clicked at the keyboard and danced with the mouse all the while muttering under breath and staring at the screen. “What’s your secret? How do you get it to do that?” I asked (as the though the interaction with the computer were a mutual process). She raised the volume of her muttering and she cursed the computer, “Move you little fuck! Get there!” Momentarily disengaging from the computer and turning her head to me only slightly, she said “You have to be cruel to the computer. You have to curse it and mock it while being careful to caress its keys.”
