Not Collusion. Really. Not at all.

How shall I speak of vacation? Where shall I begin? Exhaustion. Completion. Insight. Confirmation. Delight. Speculation. Excess Excess Excess. Sun of the kind that you can be certain will turn you a brown had only in the Mayan Riviera. I mean… Ive been wearing 45 since the beginning, and am now the color of some old grand-mamma biddy’s piano. We’ve spent 5 days on a ship called elation. It’s inexorably efficient. In a way that makes analogue time pieces other than Tag Hauer look shoddy. Two days ago I hadn’t touched my lunch. Got up for a moment to find a fork. When I returned my place setting completely evaporated… leaving me with  a surprised look staring at two forlorn little blond children eating jelly. Not Jello. Jelly. Oh… I don’t know what special amalgam of happy pills they have these little brown worker bees on… but it’s working. And I’m envious. I think it’s a combination of a work ethic that has been imprinted on them by their society, and the knowledge that they will be able to by each of their 12 children a new iPad 2 for Christmas.   

I started running 5 miles a day in preparation for what I knew was going to an influx of caloric in-take. Sad, I thought that the first taste of the road my new addidas FORMOTIONs would get would be the treadmill of a c-list hotel. Oh well. I broke ‘em the fuck in. I realized then after that first five miles, that I wasn’t quite sure at all how far I had been running every day. I mean during the usual run, I have a start point and an end point, and I just sort of vacillate between them. But now I was working with a machine that was made how far I went rather painfully obvious. Delighted. Absolutely delighted. For the following days on the ship, regardless of land excursions, I consistently ran 5 miles. If not all at once, a 5k, and then after the pool 2 more miles. The culmination of this was yesterday, when after completing my first 5k in the morning before breakfast and Calica, I returned to the ship for another somewhat surprising 5k… that I strongly believe was brought on by a 30 minute stint in the sauna and lots and lots of water. As you can imagine, I’m a bit pleased with myself. Not the kind of pleased with myself that turns you into a douchebag. The kind the lets you sit down quietly to a nice hot mug of green tea and smile complacently at strangers.

The brings up another fascinating aspect of the trip. A cruise is nearly exactly the opposite of how real life works. In life we have an un-known number of boarders and also and un-known number of people on the way out at any give time. It is without confinement and a bit bewildering. The ship on the other hand has a precisely controlled number of occupants. The same number is allowed on as is allowed off. In that sense it’s even more regulated than the heaven told about in fables about mystic Hebrew god. I can not impress upon a reader the import of this knowledge, and how this confinement forces the occupant into a sort of complacency so much like prison that the occupant is left with two options. Better yourself, or allow yourself to drift into atrophy. I chose… of course, the former. To a degree that surprised me. And I think the other members of my party.

Cozumel happened on Tuesday. Just like all the other port cities in the country that have frequent visitors from the U.S. there are ridiculously underpriced luxury liquors and antibiotics, mood-altering drugs, handbags and watches for the taking duty and tax free. Be advised Ive brought all of my friends back at least a box full of name brand Zanax. You’re going to want to chew half of one of these before having a conversation with me if your going to be closing with me at Starbucks. I promise to preface every conversation with…. ‘When I went snorkeling in Cozumel…’ or… ‘When I was in Mexico….’ And Im sure for the listener thats going to get old real quick. The boat quickly became navigate-able simply by noticing the types of herding that was happening. It can be broken down into a few archetypes. Affluence is a given. Either direct ownership or nearly immediate blood relation. Types include. ‘JCrew models. Male. Late teen and early 20’s’ Pack was nearly always 5 or 6 in number and nearly always only wearing kaki shorts with critter belts. Rainbow sandals and RayBans. Yawn. In passing them you can expect them only to be talking of the doings and thoughts of other facsimiles of themselves. There’s the ‘Nearly almost but not quite dead, and still drinking’ Those had constant froufrou drinks in their claws and many of them traveled in ones and twos being dragged around or pushed ever forward in a wheel chair provided by Carnival. Other types may include ‘Family with 3 smallish children.’ Alpha male nearly always had a Bud-light in his hands, and Alpha female paid little if no mind to the offspring, but fumbled through the spa catalogue and planned her next procedure with a glint of malice in her eyes. Mostly blond women. I hope that gives some insight into the types that I would inevitably bump into on the stair cases. I did not take elevators. Both because they were never faster than just walking where you needed to go, and because everyone else on them was either too stupid or intoxicated to realize how rude they were being in those confined spaces. Also I’d recently watched ‘Devil.’

In Cozumel, beneath the waters of one of the beaches reserved for snorkelers someone had the artistic planning to sink a 25 foot tall statue in the cove. I was surprised to find it. It was sort of a bent shape. Humanoid and unrealistically thin for a person of that height. It’s arms were outstretched and I decided that it must be a dancer. It’s not so well articulated face was turned chin-up towards the skin of the water… like it was trying to feel again what it was like to breathe and to feel the sun on its face. Some said the statue was Jesus. Some said it was Mary. I dunno. It didn’t look like either… and didn’t have any visible sex indicators. I decided it was a dancer. And so to me it will stay. It was 18 feet down to reach it to touch its long undulating arms… I managed to make the distance. Although I believe my lungs were much beleaguered at my rambling attempts. Like all real statues it was meant to be touched. And so in compliance with that compulsion… I did.

Calica was a bit different… And some in the party made note of that, complaining a bit more about it’s heat and boringness. I found it the farthest thing from boring. We made our way to one of the resorts along the beach a few short miles by buss from the port. Abject poverty hid slyly behind the glitz and glamour of architectural investment. After the buss ride, the tour guide ‘Saul’… pronounced ‘SA ooh el’ happily ushered us to a place to store our crap and then where we should begin an underground river swim. 1 mile about. Enjoy-able only for the shocking coldness of the water… I wont speak much of the other occupants of the river. Suffice it to say that it was much like riding the elevators in the boat. Perhaps a little more irritating. There were more people vacationing from France and other places around Mexico. South America even… than I had run into in Cozumel. This park had a re-creation of an Aztec village. Complete with temple and tiny industrial shacks. Most of the workers at the resort found my knowledge of Spanish a surprise and a charm. I made a point to talk to as many people as was comfortable and was interested to learn that many of them lead lives like my own. Complacent. Content. Education levels seemed rather lacking. Mostly because some of the food vendors in the little stands around the coves had a confusing time calculating the exchange rate… I suppose I can hardly blame them for the exchange rate being in the flux that it’s in… or the availability of high quality marijuana to speed their days along and make sure they don’t become overly irritated with the tourists.

Here’s the thing you should know about cruise lines. Most of them limit the amount of personal alcohol you can bring aboard. Mostly because just like prison, they would like to be the sole providers of any luxury. Also the wifi is locked and… should you decided to subscribe to the service they are going to make you mortgage your first born to pay for it. I realized I didn’t much need the internet as it could be a way to force creativity. And trust me there are ways around paying for liquor on the boat. Here are a few handy trips for getting around the cruise employees from snatching your duty/tax free alcohol and locking it up until you’re back state-side. Set up a small trafficking staff. Two will do for most trips. Buyer and Mule. Buyer needs access to a decent amount of cash, depending of course on the amount of alcohol required. Some notes on the mule… They need to be one of two things. And they should always have a large beach bag with two or three clearish plastic containers that are clearly meant for water of soft-drinks.

1.     Complicit, Intelligent, and more than a little self assured of success. Bilingual is a plus. Being disarmingly good looking, and smiling easily are not necessary but sure as hell help.

2.     Blithely un aware of what’s happening but being a close friend of the Provider. Provider must have constant access to Mules beach bag… also Provider needs to fill a role of leadership and companionship.

I was the former. My success rate is 100% both at American and Mexican borders. Most of you have my contact information if you would like more personal advice and attention. All told we cheated Carnival out of about 400$ in alcohol sales by my rough estimate.

A few more tips on successful for the successful mule:

1.     Do not allow confidence to flag. You’ve got this, and probably in the bag. Remember the worst that can happen with legal substances is that it can be acquired by security and held. Such a situation is an acknowledged loss… but lets remember it’s not a gamble if there isn’t a possibility of loss.

2.     Don’t allow Purveyor to make transfers too and from clear containers. You’re better off doing it yourself. You know your beach bag better than they do. Also… you’re responsible for convincing the guards that nothing fishy is going on. The best way to do that is to know exactly where everything is.

3.     Always choose a public restroom to make transfers. Preferably during a rush of patrons. This was not a problem in a busy port and should not be for you, reader.

4.     Move with purpose and think of other things as you make your way to a private restroom stall. Make the transfer and remember to flush the toilet.

5.     Lastly… discard the liquor bottle packaging and shopping bag precisely as they were purchased. Optionally you can put all of that in another bag without indication of purchased product. Deposit in a waste receptacle without much concern on your face. You’re good to board. Smile.   

Collusion: Part XXXI

What is the thing that hurt you first… and hurt you the deepest? I know right? Why the hell would I ask that? It’s none of my business really. But that’s the thing that I wanted to know. I was thinking the other day… how profoundly the things that had hurt me had changed me. Changed me for the better. And that should be the most powerful arbiter of change.

I was so hot you could taste it all the way back in your soft pallet. We had finished building the new place. Rough sawn cedar all the way around. We did it ourselves. As I think back on it… we almost always were building something. Repairing something. I know how to used just about everything in Home Depot. Neumatic nail gun. Roofing nailer. Hammer. Chop saw. A lot of people from where Im from are that way though. We build. We are the dreamers of dreams.

18 feet sheets of corrugated rust resistant aluminized tin. If you can shoot through that stuff, then you deserve to get where your’e going. My brother was helping too. He and I have about the same amount of differences as a seal and a sealion. The frame and the wall were in place on the building. Ever so slight breezes were making eddys and playing games with the saw dust that we hadn’t managed to sweep up. 

The screw gun made the most determined noises as it pushed the angry little screws through the metal and into the heavy beams. Ererererer. Eeeeek. Ap ap. Repeat. We’d gotten through with the side closest to the pine trees, and the sun was making it’s way down the sky. It was cooling a bit. Two more to go. Almost done. And good too. Im getting hungry. The next sheet of metal slipped a hair while I was putting it in position. Oww. Way oww!

I had to get down of off that roof quick. I’d cut a fleshy smile on the finger print area of my ring finger. I filled a towel up with blood and taped it up. Such a curious little scar it is. And so odd that it should be right there. I took it as a karmic message. If I ever slide a ring on the finger… it’s going to have to be fore someone who Im sure can hurt me exponentially more than a piece of corrugated tin.

Interested? I’m interesting.

Collusion: Part XXX

Circle. Moon. Earth. Symbolic of an extraterrestrial sort of intelligence. Thought patters run in them. All sustainable systems burn in cycles. Perhaps the incidents that come to have the most meaning in our lives are those moments when a tangent forces the end of a cycle… and then enacts permanently bonded change. A mother gives birth. Your dog gets hit by a truck as you look on. You remember exactly the moment when… she broke your heart.

But which patterns are healthy ones? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I have to share reader, that I find writing be a little tangent for me. I can almost hear a bottle cap pop when I begin. Though really Im never precisely certain what Ill be pouring one day to the next. Water? Or Sweet Tea? Blackberry wine? Or Jack? Or Pepsi? To some degree or another. Who cares? I’m dumping shit out.

As I have to some degree waxed nostalgic of a late… I’ll follow this path for a time. As I have mentioned before I was quite a voracious reader as a child. The tiny dusty white library was in St. Matthews. A short drive into town would bring me within reach of the thing that I craved most. Knowledge. It felt more intimate than the sort of statistics that you rattle off when you’re trying to be impressive though. It felt like I could leave the dirt roads and wet heat and soy bean fields beneath me and I could float up and up… To every which way but back down. 

The librarians were a mysterious thing to me. Most of the were nearly fallen into their tombs with age, and their accents were all something Mayberry. I had heard their names many times, but that always slipped my mind when Mom would take us by the place. I was rather a shy child. And you know, there’s nothing at all wrong with that. I suppose at the time I was uncomfortably aware of it though. I always wondered what others thought of me.

My Mother was very scrupulous of what she allowed me to check out from the library. She understood that books are just as dangerous as a loaded gun in the night stand. Perhaps more so. Books are tangents also. The books that we had laying around the house had been read and re read and I arrived at the feeling of curiosity about what other books might have to say. I had first thought that all the reading in our little white library might be only more of the same as what we had at home. Or that the books in the little white library would be a reflection of the building itself. That they would be sinless… sturdy… dusty. This was not so. I’d sooner vote republican.

I chose the books that I brought up to the counter judiciously. Weighing carefully the likely hood that Mom would read the spine, or not be over fond of the cover… and tell me to put it back. I didn’t really understand why should would find some in poorer taste than others… but who can say why, at that age mothers do what they do. Mothers are arbitrary.

Along and Along as we made more trips to and from the little white library I noticed that mom was paying less attention to the books I picked out. She would perhaps be using the computers, or talking with a librarian. And then of course there was John and Beth to be concerned about. I saw an opportunity to use less discretion in my selections… and so I decided to do just that. It was as much fun as throwing glitter.

I was a stealthy thing though. Hmmmm yes. I would pick two or so boring books that I knew Mom would find appropriate… and then slide something in between them. Whichever one I found most intriguing. The one that I would read thirstily and blithely ignore the others. Once I found a treasure trove of a read in Anne Rice’s ‘The Witching Hour.’ So adeptly sensuous. So filled with over wrought emotion. Fantastical tales about witchcraft. And… And women. And shockingly vivid vampires… and sex. There were so many things I thought I understood about the story when I read them. Rice painted. She worked for those words and that story. This little boy thought she was some sort of genius of the criminal mastermind variety.

There were other books too. There was one titled ‘speak.’ It was by some somebody that I cant remember. In it I was introduced to a 9^th grade girl. Something was very wrong with her… but I couldn’t tell what. This girl didn’t pray or go to church or anything. She cried often, and hardly spoke to anyone at school. She cut herself sometimes. Turns out though it made sense by the end of the book. She had been raped by one of her peers in a broom closet at school. The closing scenes were fantastic! She fought the boy, with his wanton and filthy desires… he was chocking her… and he pushed her head hard into a mirror. It broke. As the fight moved to the floor she snatched a shard of the thing and stabbed that horrible boy in the neck. And ya know? Good for her! I wanted to give her a hug…

I drank up Tolkien. All the way to the Silmarillion. Which didn’t make a lick of sense until I read it again. It was an intoxicating story of … well a sort of retelling of the Greek myths with name changes.

Dickenson. Shakespeare. Blake. Emmerson. Shelly. Some Bible.

I replicated this process innumerable times. I longed to feel… beyond. And so I did. Each new story began something. The marks that those books left on me are permanent.

I wonder if I still have anything that’s due.

Collusion: Part XXIX

We all have those memories that stand out. The ones that stand up to the challenges of a regenerating cerebral cortex. And as time goes on they tend to melt into a rosy softness. Like watching old movies. And each time we replay them they confirm to us that we are... self. The same self that we remember. If we're lucky enough sometimes... those memories enact physical change upon us.

I was running. I was were those hand-me-down clothes that 5 year olds get from church friends. We were laughing. In the simple and pure way that only 5 year olds can laugh. It was effervescent. And the sound of it glinted of the wooden vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary. I was dashing around on my nimble little legs and darting through clusters of worshipers who were milling about the auditorium chatting about this or that. Middle aged guys who had married too early because they got somebody pregnant. Old couples who like stones... never aged past antique. Frilly fabrics covered in 90's floral patters. Lots of of blues. Kaki pants all over. A suit here and there. And in the center aisle... A missionary was setting up a slide projector. I have no memory of what the missionary looked like. But I do remember dim flashes of Africa and in the half light.

We were always there early. Dad's office was usually a bustle with people who just wanted to chat. To get advice about their lives... or gossip about other peoples life. Either way. I darted in and around the aisles... I was trying to catch up with Gary.... who was way ahead and Dustin was chasing him. Dustin was probably my best friend at the time. And we used to build make believe houses and go hunting for make believe tigers in the woods behind his house.

Then... I tripped I guess.


Something like 48 seconds passing. And I got up. Ouch, I thought. But oddly... it didn't hurt at all. I looked around for where the other boys had gotten off to... But I didn't see them. Maybe they had headed out and into the vestibule? Running had made me hot, so I hardly noticed the my face was wet... for a few moments. Though I was soon away that it was much more wet than usual... a hot stream ran down the bridge of my nose and skipped sticky and salty over my lips. I kept walking and put my hand up to my face. I pulled it away and it was shining and red.


Oh... I thought.


I was aware of people and movement around me... But one in particular caught my attention. Dustin's mom was in the hall. She was my kindergarten teacher. She had taught me how to tie shoes... and she had taught me numbers. And words like 'cat.' She screamed. It scared me... She never screams....

She yelled for my mom. "Laurie! Laurie! Josh is hurt.... Come here!" Things started happening. Everyone had sad faces now. They were shocked at how much blood I was losing. Dustin's mom found something to press against my head. But it didn't seem to help much. It was a dish towel. Dustin's mom is named Mrs. Bates. Darleen I believe.
Mom was here now. I hadn't cried yet... but when I saw her cry, I started crying too. Moms are not supposed to cry... Especially not my mom. Not Laurie.

My mom picked me up. I remember to this day that they chose an obvious option. The hospital. Darleen would drive. Momma carried me out... down the sidewalk. I remember the exact cut and color of the dress she was wearing. A silky looking thing. Mostly blue and floral. We got in Darleen's Jeep. I had always wanted to ride in that Jeep... And I was thinking how lucky I was to finally be getting to do that. I sat on mom's lap on the drive. She held me close to her like I was a baby again. I was still bleeding hard... and as we shifted positions... some blood skirted out from under the towel and rolled beaded down the shoulder of her dress.
"Oh... I'm sorry. I've got blood on you." I told her around the towel.
"It's fine sweetie. I can wash it out." Mom said.
"I hope it does." I said.

Darleen provided much needed distraction.
"Don't you worry about that dress honey! You just stay awake! The dress don't matter a bit!" She said sounding like Scarlett O'Harah. She was waving her arms.

We waited at the hospital for a long... long time. I had stopped bleeding so much. I was playing with toy cars in the waiting room.... Dad was there now. John and Beth were elsewhere. No doubt sleeping over at the Bates'. Lucky ducks.

The nurse took me back to the OR. I could see my mom through the plate glass window... watching. worried. I screamed at them to let her in. I wanted her in there with me. Finally they let her. She had to help them hold me down as they push needles into my head.

When I woke up there were 40 stitches in my forehead. I had cut it to the bone on the corner of a pew.
Ya know all that has cause me to think about pain differently. I mean sure it hurts. But you just might get to ride in that Jeep you've been wanting to...

One Two Buckle My Shoe

One.
Two.
Nothings provably true.

Three.
Four.
Let yourself j'adore.

Five.
Six.
Learn some better tricks.

Seven.
Eight.
No one's playing straight.

Nine.
Ten.
Regret's the only sin.