THE BUDDHA AND ME CONTINUED

If you haven't already, read the blog before this one.

THE BUDDHA AND ME CONTINUED

By Doc Walton

When I come back from my coma, my trance, my so called state of nothingness the Buddha has put me in, I feel better.  But then, who wouldn't? You're not there and then you are.  What's not to like?  THERE is better than NOT THERE.  I feel as if I have left a few things behind, though, back there in the nothing.  Things better left behind, like anxieties and a couple of worries.  They'll catch up with me later, I'm sure.  They always do.  In the meantime, I'm going to have a nice stretch to see if I can relieve this kink in my back - sitting for a long time brings that on - and then get on with my day; a day filled with this and that and a search for evidence that I'm at least nearing enlightenment.  I mean, after all, I meditated and that's like half the battle, isn't it? 

It's the other half I found so elusive.  It's not clearly defined.  What, exactly, do I have to do?  And what, after I've achieved enlightenment, will it feel like?  How will it differ from what I feel like right now?  I'm happy, satisfied with what IS, and even smug about my contentment from time to time.  Okay, I'm sure that smug part is not included in the definition of enlightenment, but I'm being honest here and I'm reasonably sure honesty is in there somewhere.  Of course all that happy, satisfied smugness goes right out the window the moment I catch a cold and run a fever or have more bills than I have money.  How do the enlightened handle those situations?  How do they feel when their kid or their dog gets sick?  I'd like to know and the Buddha is not telling.  At least not from what I've read.  He gets all hazy and mystical like it's some kind of big secret that only he and a chosen few are on to.  Okay, I understand that, but where do I get in line to be chosen? Or, who do I have to do as the cruder would put it?

Seriously, why does it have to be so hard?  I'm fed up with trying.  I'm just going to be happy, compassionate, tolerant, forgiving, and try to be in and enjoy every moment of this thing called life. If enlightenment dawns, fine.  If not, screw it. Who needs it anyway?

               The Buddha and Me

                                   By Doc Walton

The ceramic Buddha leaning against a tree in my backyard squats there grinning at me like a deranged evangelist, one of those guys with too much light behind eyes that don’t blink enough.  I admire the always up demeanor this small statue sports, but I wonder what is hidden behind that frozen smile. I get the feeling there is something on its mind, something it is trying to tell me that doesn’t quite square with its “Look, I’m fat and happy” Buddha countenance.  It’s an odd feeling and it drops on me like an invisible cloak.  There’s nothing to it really, nothing concrete, nothing I can point to with conviction as I sit here squinting through the window glass at this corpulent character, but I sense something the exact opposite of what the Buddha is supposed to represent, something not joyful at all. In fact, what I’m feeling, if I were to put a word to it, is something sinister.

The Buddha, as a vague history tells us, was a rich kid who was unfulfilled by his life of plenty so he abandons it and wanders off in search of a more meaningful existence. He finds this new existence completely within himself – possibly while sitting under a tree just like his miniature likeness in my backyard – and that Better Way has come to be called, Enlightenment.

Enlightenment: The turning of consciousness from darkness to light.  Think about it.  From Darkness.  The Buddha came from Darkness in search of light.  Is it possible he carried the Darkness with him?  Is it possible that all the millions of representations of him throughout the years have shared a bit of that hidden Darkness? 

That contingency certainly seems possible to me as I lock into a stare contest with my own inanimate symbol of a Better Way, a contest that is proving to be more than who can hold the other’s gaze longest, more than who has the stronger will, but rather a test in which I must fight for my own existence!  I feel not only my thoughts leaving my head but all else as well, my awareness, my consciousness, my complete sense of self.  It is my soul that is being sucked out through my eyes. It was my very soul that is bit by bit being excised from wherever it lies within me.  I feel my SELF, all that I AM being inexorably drawn towards the demonic ceramic figure before me.  A figure whose fat satisfied grin now seems to widen as it absorbs the contents of my reality.  I am nearly gone, nearly gone…and then…I am.

Some people say Doc has the most peculiar way of meditating.

       

ROACHES AND RATS

Well, wouldn't you know! Just when I thought I had culled every last memorable memory from the Monkeymind, two new ones were excised from its mushy grey interior and brought to the fore by a show on Animal Planet I think was called, Infestation. It was about roaches and rats.  Here is what it triggered.

When my father and I first moved to Louisville, Kentucky so he could marry his second wife, I was in the Fourth Grade.  If the math I learned there serves me, I was ten years old.  Clara, his intended, lived with four of her five children in a housing project that was directly across the street from the "negro" section.  This was in the early Fifties, segregation was in place, and you couldn't get any poorer or any lower classed than to live elbow to elbow with the "negroes."  (I'm using negroes in lieu of the term now referred to as The N word; a term far more common than negro in those days.)  Picture row after row of two story, rectangular brick buildings in serious disrepair separated by crumbling sidewalks and patches of dirt serving as lawns and you'll get the backdrop.

One of my soon to be new siblings was a boy named Earl who was a year younger than I was.  He introduced me to the area kid's most common toy.  It was called a Rubber Gun. It was a homemade weapon that was fashioned from three parts.  The first was a one by three piece of wood about two and a half feet long.  Using one inch thick rubber bands cut from discarded car tire inner tubes, the second part, you fastened a clothespin, the third. to the butt edge of the board by stretching the rubber bands the length of the board so that they held the clothespin tightly in place with the pin hanging an inch or so below the board.  You then stretched another band fastened at the top front edge of the board to the other end where you twisted it flat and then fastened it to your weapon by pushing the bottom edge of your clothespin to create a space at its top.  When you released the pin the top of it snapped back and the band was held in place.  Your weapon was now loaded and ready.  You fired it by simply pushing the bottom of the clothespin. This would release the top band and send it flying through the air ten or twelve feet with enough velocity to produce a welt on bare skin.  It would also smack a cockroach flat.

Armed with these weapons Earl and I would periodically go over to one of his friend's place, his name is long forgotten, whose parents were - how should I put this - far less diligent in keeping their pad clean than Clara was. We would retire to the friend's room, pull the shades, turn out the lights and wait quietly for a minute or two.  We were crack snipers waiting patiently for our foe to come in range.  If you listened carefully, you could hear the enemy scurry from their hiding places and venture up the walls. That sound was our signal to hit the lights and blast away.  Three rubber guns, three kills and sometimes four or five if the bugs were clustered close.  We would then make some whooping boy noises and begin again.  Big fun to our young selves, big fun. Well, of course this activity made an ugly mess on the walls, but neither Earl or I or the friend ever thought to clean the stains. We did, though, sweep up the dead carcasses. The spattered walls just became part of the decor.  In truth, I can say now, I found the whole thing somewhat gross, but I was new there and even though I did not then know the phrase for it, I was simply doing in Rome what the Romans do.  

A year, maybe a year and a half later, we had moved to a nicer but still very poor neighborhood.  I was boxing in Gold Gloves then and a peculiar thing happened.  I was sparring on the lawn with one neighborhood kid or another when a rough looking man approached me. He asked me if I knew his son - another forgotten name but I will call him Billy - who lived down the street a few houses.  I said yes, I knew him.  The man then offered me a dollar a week to teach his son to be, his actual word, "tougher." I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said to just box with Billy a few times a week so that he can learn that punches don't hurt all that much and you should fight back. He said he would make Billy come to my house for the lessons.  I agreed. A dollar a week was a fortune!  My allowance was only fifteen cents and came on an irregular basis what with nickel deductions for bad behavior like "talking back" to grown ups being randomly assessed.  Okay, so my being paid to beat up Billy three times a week - I actually went light on him and even taught him a few tricks - is not the crux of this story.  It is only the back drop.  There came a day near the end of the summer some five or six weeks later when I ventured over to Billy's house to collect my dollar.  Our houses all backed up to an alley and I walked down that alley to Billy's house. No one appeared to be home. It was late evening and the house was dark.  The back door, however, was hanging open.  I approached carefully and hollered in was anybody home?  Billy's father's voice answered yes and told me to come inside.  The door opened onto the kitchen and Billy's father turned on the light.  He was sitting at a small table upon which there was a bottle of whiskey, a small jelly glass and a pistol.  He sounded a little drunk.  He told me he was shooting rats and pointed to a dead one over along the wall.  He said they only came out when the light was off but he could still see them to shoot.  He asked me if I wanted to try.  I said no sir I only came by to collect my dollar.  He said no, that deal was over, his kid would never learn. I didn't argue.  

Halfway home I heard the gun go off.  It was loud, really loud.  I ran the rest of the way. 

Animal Planet did not recommend either of these two methods to end an infestation.  

  

Dilemma and Solution

I'm ankle deep in the surf. The water is cool and softly tickling as it rushes over and back across my feet. I'm enjoying the sensation. Muttly is at the end of his leash about 15 feet onto the beach.  His head is down nosing about what looks to me like a clump of seaweed washed ashore.  I begin to splash further along but Muttly doesn't want to come.  He's straining against the leash.  I walk toward him to see what he finds so interesting.  It's a dead helmet crab, upside down on the sand. Muttly is eating its entrails. 

Dogs.

We only stayed about an hour or so. Just long enough for the mutt to get a good hike and Woowoo Charly and I to stare at the vastness of the sea, meditate and contemplate all those big things inspired by the ocean's horizon meeting the sky.  For me it was game one of the World Series beginning that night and for Woowoo it was the Taco Bell run we were going to make as soon as this beaching part was over.   It was midday and although the temp was pleasant at seventy something and I was fully greased with 50 SPF (Specially Pickled Formaldehyde) we weren't really there for the beach experience.  Those we reserve for early evening when I am in less danger of my epidermis spontaneously combusting; a thing that happens because the mere sight of my exposed skin seems to piss off the sun.

It's the next day now and I'm trying to tug on the loose thread unraveling from my mind's sweater in hopes of putting it back in place.  I'm tugging and tugging and the thread is getting longer and longer and the sweater is disappearing...or is it the whole mind?  

Nope, there's still one small part intact.  Let's see what it has to say. 

Not much, apparently.  Woowoo Chuck and I are living small lives without much external stimulation.  This is not a bad thing, There is a degree of peace that comes with the knowledge that one day is going to be much like the next and that one too will be gentle and stress-less. It leaves little, though, to write about. After 700 blogs I've pretty much sucked the humor potential out of trips to the supermarket and such and I'm running out of words that are fun to say...like blasphemy.  Blasphemy is fun to say and if you didn't know what it meant, what would you think it meant? To me it sounds like a mental disorder.  John's blasphemy was at its worst when he drank, hence his record number of bar fights. 

I came back to blogging regularly, okay semi regularly, as a means of whiling away a pleasant hour or two, but in truth it has been more of a struggle than I had imagined.  So...... long pause after so,  I'm going back to just making shit up and trying to twist it into a story. I will still blog when something of note occurs that lends itself to my version of what a blog is and I will, of course, post any of my fictions that are remotely decent. 

That said.

Through my window I can see a small, glass smiling Buddha leaning against a tree.  I wonder what he's thinking?  







    

Gabors

"Listening to the sound of silence." - Simon and Garfunkel
"Listening to the sound of trash truck." Doc and Reality

Noisy buggers.  Its engine roars for a few seconds as the truck moves from one house to the next and then there is the sound of the hydraulic system as it shoots out a robotic lobster claw and snatches up the can, lifts it, tilts it and throws the contents down its maw like a fierce drinker throwing back a shot.  Move to the next can and repeat.

I miss bars.  Gabors in particular.  Working there was fun - I did that for a few years - but drinking there was funner. (It is too a word! Ask any five year old!)  The lighting at Gabor's was always turned low and when you entered you had to pause a moment at the door to let your eyes adjust.  There was a lengthy bar with 14 stools along one wall,  tables and booths to its front, and in the back, not quite a separate room, a couple of well maintained pool tables. There was a big screen TV for sporting events and a juke box stocked with both old favorites and up to date music.  The bartenders, male and female, were all pros, bright, and decent conversationalists.  The overall decor was Silver Screen nostalgia with black and white photos of the greats from the Thirties to the Fifties gracing the walls.  Marilyn Monroe and James Dean  heavily featured.  The crowd was eclectic.  There were cabbies and cops, working class and suits.  Twenty Somethings loved the place at night and Gabor's was a frequent destination for employees of other bars during their off hours.  Booze was freely poured and reasonably priced. The food was generally mediocre, but few people seemed to care.  Problem patrons, the too drunk, the belligerent, the loud, were quickly 86ed so the atmosphere there was kept safe and friendly. It was, to my way of thinking, what a good bar should be.

 I was sad to learn when visiting Denver earlier this year that Gabor's had closed.  

Beyond Wit's End

Beyond wit's end (see the previous blog) there is still writing to be done even if that writing is as dry as unbuttered toast.  What comes next is probably a good example of that, a piece in which I drone on about my own obsession, exercising.

I feel better when it's over. There is a sense of accomplishment.  I'm not GLAD it's over, I'm not RELIEVED it's over, it's more the feeling you get when putting a check next to something on your Things-To-Do list.  DONE!.  Well, for that day anyway. I should point out that I don't do forms of exercise that I don't like.  I'm not being put through some grueling session by a Drill Sergeant or a Personal Trainer.  Not that there wasn't a time for that.  There was the be fit and look good so you can get laid time, and after that the, see, I can still compete time, but now in the"Autumn of my Life," or is it Winter already?, I'm more concerned with maximizing the quality of my remaining days and that means Good Health and Good Health requires exercise.  At least, so I'm told and I believe it, so I do...exercise. 

Alrighty then.  What I choose as my exercising modus operendi which is a Latin phrase that clearly means, Mowed us Oprah and I, and I have probably misspelled, is walking the dog and bicycle riding.  Okay, somebody help me here.  I have an almost tune in my head with the lyric "Just a walkin' the dog" driving it.  Is this from an old song or am I writing a new one.  I know there is a Yoyo trick called that - remember Yoyos? Duncan's were the best. - but a song? Of course, I'm not entirely sure about the physical benefit of walking my dog, Muttly, as he has to stop and read through his nose all the dog bulletin boards along the way. Our pace is somewhat less than taxing, but we do stroll for forty five minutes to an hour, often twice a day, and the walks are through beautiful surroundings. I'm thinking some good is acquired even if it is only psychological. (Only psychological?  Psychological benefits may be the best of all. Part of that "Quality of Life" stuff people are always talking about.) 

Bike riding is exercise for sure.  It gives you that alternating go real hard, slack off, go real hard technique that is reputed to heighten the cardio benefits of exercising.  It also gets you to places faster than walking, jogging or even running unless you are Usain Bolt.  If you are me and I'm guessing you're not, a good ride will leave you with a stiff and tightened back.  No problem, I just grab that dog leash and head out to walk it off.  Works like a charm.  At least I think it works like a charm. I've never really owned a charm to put it to the test. 

Oh, and I also do push-ups.  They are no fun but at my age I can't do very many, so the no fun part doesn't last very long.  A small blessing.

So there you have that. Beyond wit's end blabber.  Hope you weren't too bored.  Maybe wit will return before I get to the next blog.  One can only hope. In the meantime, "Hey Muttly! Wanna go for a WALK? I know you do!

MUTTLY AND ME

Not really much to write about these days apart from politics, sports, news, current events, history, technology, science, psychology, normal and paranormal experiences and since I've already covered those in great detail over cocktails in one bar or another across the years, there's really no need for me to rehash them on these pages is there?  I'm left then with only everything else I know to write about or with making shit up.  So here's that: The Boston Red Sox won last night 4 to 3 over the Detroit Tigers, giving them a 3 games to 2 lead in the ALCS.  ALCS, for those who don't know, stands for Alcoholics Love Candy Stripers.  Or is it Strippers?  While this was going on, a Chupacabra tangled with a Bigfoot in my back yard, so I called Animal Control and they said they had better things to do.

And along the lines of personal anecdotes that we all know and love if they are at least half funny there is this:  I was walking Muttly the dog (I threw in "the dog" part so you wouldn't think muttly was an adjective or an adverb) towards the pier at The Shores Counry Club when a woman carrying a small child approached so that she could show her kid the cute doggie.  She looked to be of Latino heritage and was speaking to the child in what, from a bit of distance, sounded like Spanish to me.  Thinking here was a chance to practice my own Spanish, I seized the moment and as she neared I said, "Buena tardes.  Como Estas?  Te gusta mi perro?"  The woman gazed at me oddly so I asked, in English, "Where are you from? She replied, "Lebanon."  "Alrighty then," I said, as the dog and I walked  muttly away.

I'm at wit's end, so I'll stop.  No point in going on without wit.

DITHERING

Dither is a fun word to say and so is the the act of doing it, dithering.  I like saying it better than doing it, though, because if you dither too long the only thing you get done is dithering and we just can't have that, can we?

Alrighty then.  I guess I've cleared that up.

Woowoo Charly likes to sit at a table with her computer, reading about politics while she is listening to and somewhat eye-balling politics on television, MSNBC most often, to be specific, for sometimes hours at a time.  To her it is like watching a ball game while reading the sports section of a newspaper.  (Or at least I think so, I couldn't do either one.)  By now she doesn't even have to really pay attention.  She just ABSORBS the information via photo synthesis or that other process whose name I learned in eighth grade biology class but have now forgotten. Wait! I got it! Osmosis! (Hmm. Osmosis.  Sounds like a good name to call the Wizard's magic tricks.)  But I digress, which is better than regress, but that may be happening too.  If you, and by you I mean me, then say a key word, phrase, or name around her, Republican Caucus for instance, she will give you the lowdown on that phrase, word or name in minute detail.  As we are new here in Sunny Florida, a reputed "Purple" state, and don't know anyone, I am most often the recipient - she would say beneficiary - of her acquired knowledge, although Muttly the dog gets his share as well. Both he and I, thanks to Woowoo, can now debate and name drop with the best of them vis a vis politics.   Don't believe me?  Go ahead, ask me anything.  (Just don't ask me what vis a vis means.)

Heritage Foundation. See, you thought I wouldn't know that didn't you? 

I could go on in this vein, Boehner is not pronounced boner but possibly should be, for instance, but I won't as I prefer to talk about something I, that's right, I, know about.  Something I can go on about for hours at a time.  

Pardon me while I dither. 



 

 

Just Playing

Just taking the Monkeymind out for a spin.  It's been gathering dust, maybe even rust.  

My subconscious mind is dormant and my conscious mind is, well, sub.  I need to shake off the lethargy. 

Doc wore his lethargy like an unbuttoned overcoat.  A quick shoulder shrug and it would fall in a heap at his back.  

Shrug is a fun word to say and sounds like a creature in a book for children.  

When the enormous blue Shrug approached,  the Gleams ran for cover.

I did some push-ups this morning.  I won't say how many because that would be embarrassing for me, but I will say the number reached double digits and there was a 2 involved.  It ain't easy being an athletic ectomorph.  (In the old days I was an ectomorphic athlete.) In my next life I am going to be a tall mesomorph.  A real smart one, though.  Not one of those who are all muscle, no mind.

Honestly, I don't know why I brought that up.

I want to say something about the Tea Party and politics in general, but I was taught, "If you can't say something nice..."  Truth is, I can't say anything that's even in the neighborhood of nice.

I usually need a butterfly net to capture random thoughts fluttering about, but today there are few and those few are sluggish. I can grab them with a free hand.  Here's one I just caught:  Sluggish sounds like a stew served at a lumberjack camp.  "Hey Cookie, what da hell's in dis sluggish, road kill?"

And then we get to the part where the mind starts to get orderly.

It is cloudy and cool this morning.  The previous night's rain tapered off near dawn, but has left the air wet and fresh in its wake.  The sun is trying to make a comeback, but lingering clouds are fending it off. This may be an all day struggle with both clouds and sun having the upper hand periodically.  For reasons having something to do with the way I feel, I'm rooting for the clouds.  Allow me to clarify because I want to dispel the notion that men can't talk about their feelings.  

I feel less than well. 

Alrighty then.  Now that I have forever put to rest that old myth I can get on with my day.  

Yesterday I found an Irish Pub/Sports Bar within an easy bicycle ride of my house.  It's a perfect place to have a beer, smoke a cigar and cheer for my favorite teams.  Or at least it would be if beer wasn't so expensive here (compared to Panama) and if I hadn't quit cigars two months ago - not that they are allowed in bars anyway - and I had the drinking stamina to sit for three hours doing same, which I don't. Ah well, old age has other compensations.  I can't think of any at the moment, but I'm sure they exist.  Wisdom!  See, there's one! 

I'll be getting that any day now.    

Nah. Too Daunting.

Writing all that "catch up" stuff I referenced in the last blog is what I'm talking about.  Too daunting.  And, more than likely, too boring.  I mean picture a guy packing cardboard boxes with essential stuff, clothes, shoes, favorite coffee cup, CDs and DVD's that had gone un-played for years, and of course, all those items that had they been lost in a fire you wouldn't even remember you had.  Nothing really there to go on about unless like so many writers trying to flesh out a short story to novel length, I plunge into mind numbing detail. 

 Doc held the left sock, yes he could tell left from right, it was a gift he had seemingly from birth, to his nose where he could better inhale its fragrance and match it with the correct white partner among the many his sock drawer had to offer, before carefully placing it atop the growing pile of clothing that stretched tightly from one side of the cardboard box to the other.  This particular sock brought with it not only the scent needed to reunite it with its significant other but a distant reminder of the day it was worn before Doc had successfully balled it up and tossed it into the dirty clothes hamper from a distance measuring some eighteen feet. "Three!" he had shouted that day and "Three!" it was that he said again as the sock in its fading white to slightly gray glory was placed in the box.

There is one episode having to do with dogs I could, I suppose, give some time to, but something happens to my eyes when I think about  the dogs that makes me unable to see the keyboard.  Suffice, yes suffice for now, to say they are well and adjusting to new happy circumstances and pack members.


So put me at the David airport explaining to Panama's version of a TSA person that my money clip is a tool and not a weapon.  It does have a small blade about an inch in length, but seriously people, I've seen women with longer fingernails than that sporting high hills that are actually called stilettos!  No matter, they broke my blade off the money clip that I had carried for close to forty years.  It was either that or confiscation of the whole thing.  The word that came to my mind but went unsaid at the time was substantially stronger than bummer. 

After that it all went well apart from the driver who picked me up at the Panama City airport and insisted on texting and driving all the way to my hotel...in traffic.  (My spell check doesn't like the word texting.  C'mon Spell Check, join the 21st Century)  (I say this as if I have.  Joined the 21st Century, that is.)  (Hey, I try!  I recently acquired a "Smart Phone."  All the world's knowledge is stored within it and at my fingertips. I use it to play Word Feud with my kids.) 

The longest journey begins with a single step.  Remember that.  You heard it here first. Just kidding. Confucius said that and he stole it from Marco Polo the guy who the sport and T-shirts with collars are named after. Marco passed it down to a distant relative of mine who actually started his journey by buying a train ticket.  Truth is he wasn't much of a walker.  My own journey began with a lift from friends to the airport, but you know we really shouldn't fault Confucius on this score because on other matters he was often spot on.

I eventually made it from Panama to Florida without further incident except for the one upon arrival.  My plane touched down (Yes I did own it, or at least I should have, considering the ticket price) fifteen minutes early.  Hooray!  Hold on there Mr. Hoorayer.  My fellow owners and I then sat for an hour on the runway because an electrical storm made pretty fireworks in the sky above the airport and kept departing planes out of the air. As a consequence there was no place for our plane to park and discharge its passengers.  This in itself was annoying but was really just a low level precursor to the top level of annoyance known as Really Pissed Off.  I would arrive there awhile later.  In order to achieve that lofty anger plateau I had to first have the sole of my right shoe  come half unglued.  The front half.  Walking - how should I say this? - became a bit of a struggle.  Step with the left, flip up with the right and quickly step down while the sole was momentarily in position.  C'mon, you've done it. (If you haven't, you  were never a poor kid.)  Anyway, it's doable. Doable, that is, until you have to carry and drag things along with you, a circumstance that occurred about a hundred yards from the airplane.  At the end of that hundred yards, we the deplaned, found a carousel spitting out our luggage.  How curious.  Aren't they supposed to be in another time zone and a parallel universe?  Even though my largest and heaviest piece of luggage - think about the word luggage. It means stuff you must lug. - two sets of golf clubs in a bag designed for one was the last item to be disgorged from the carousel's mouth onto its snaky tongue, I was happy to have it so quickly.  Now all I had to do was schlep my suitcase, my carry-on, my golf clubs and my computer bag around the corner somewhere where my beautiful wife and two daughters had said they would be waiting.  The problem with my shoe would be short lived.  Well alrighty then!  I intended to make that happen.

Turns out the Law of Intention has loop holes.  All I found around the corner was that I was trying to keep up with my fellow lemmings as we trudged for miles to the cliff known as Immigration.  Along the way I had tried to walk with one shoe off, but that left me limping and my back hurting, both shoes off, but that gave me one too many things to carry, and then eventually back to plan one which was the flip it up in rhythm technique now only successful about one in every three steps, the failures resulting in an uncomfortable stumbling when stepping on the folded back sole.  We lemmings all somehow survived the fall into the sea but were now faced with swimming to our next unknown destination some further twists and turns down long, did I mention long, passages to...are you kidding me? A train, a freaking train!  We had to board this subway to get to the main terminal!  Well, OF COURSE my golf clubs got stuck in the door and OF COURSE the robot voice began tolling, "Please clear the doorway Butthead Traveler, so we can close it and depart" or something real close to that.  Eventually, though, the world still holds wonders, I did make it to the central area of the airport and found, you guessed it, no one I knew.  I kerschlepped over to an information kiosk and asked a kindly woman there if she would page my people.  She obliged.  A couple of levels below in a luggage retrieval area where the airport signs mistakenly had told them I would be ultimately found, Woowoo Charly, Lala and Special K heard the page, but were unable to respond because the line to Information was busy.  

Okay, enough.  To get to the end of this tortuous tale, because I really want to get to the end of it, me and my lovelies were eventually reunited.  As we trekked to the parking lot I had a thought.  As these so rarely occur to me it took me awhile to realize what it was and tune in to what it was telling me.  There are golf shoes in you golf bag!  Soft spiked golf shoes!  I could have put them on the moment I got off the plane!

Sheesh. What an idiot.   

The Urge to Write

The urge to write.  What the hell is that anyway?  Why am I afflicted with this particular urge and not some other that might serve or have served me better?  The urge to make vast sums of money comes to mind.  Apart from the ordinary urges we all share,  like the urge to eat and drink, have sex with super models and quack like a duck during the dessert course at four star restaurants, we all, additionally, seem to have our own personalized set of psychologically compelled motivations.  (I just made up that last so I wouldn't have to say urges again.)  I would give you my list of compulsions, that's a good synonym isn't it? but fear of reprisals, incarceration and a post life heat wave give me pause. Fortunately, I am able to resist the worst of those for the most part else I would have already tossed this computer out the nearest window for its insistence on changing my type size without proper and formal notification.  The urge to write, however, cannot be resisted for long despite the nagging knowledge (I like that phrase, nagging knowledge) that I have nothing to say.  I mean if one has nothing to say why should one be compelled to say it...aloud or on cyber paper?  Take politicians ("Please!" as Henny Youngman would say) who say nothing on a regular basis when confronted with difficult questions.  Theirs, however, may be a practiced art and not just giving in to the urge to say nothing.  My too  insistent desire - another good synonym I'm thinking - to write falls more into the category of mental illness. Oh, not the run through the park naked kind or the vote Republican kind of mind disorder, but a more subtle and mostly harmless manifestation of brain cells gone awry.  More akin to people who whistle tunelessly than people who watch reality TV.  That latter group is truly "'round the bend."

Okay, so now that you understand I am helpless to not do this thing, I will commence with the doing of it with but just one more disclaimer:  The following example of my dysfunction is an attempt to catch up on all the events that have occurred of late and that I have unwillingly failed to report until now thus further feeding my most urgent urge.  Read it at your own risk. 

Hmmm.  All that said, you will have to wait a bit for the catch up part. The above blabber has sated my current urge to write. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will be afflicted once more.  At least I hope so. 

  

PESADILLA

                         PESADILLA

                               By Doc Walton

Funny word that, pesadilla.  (Pronounced pay-sah-dee-ah)  Sounds like a Mexican entree.  It's Spanish, of course, and means nightmare in English.  Nightmare is a funny word too, considering that "mare" denotes a female horse.  What the two words signify, though, a Disturbing Dream, is not funny at all.  No, not funny at all.

Unless you are me. 

The disturbing dream – would that it were only a dream - I shared with four other people began on a Tuesday morning in late May.  Tuesdays are not supposed to be of any particular significance.  They are not a week starter, a week end, or a hump day, and if it were not for Tuesday with Morrie and, for an older generation, If it's Tuesday This Must Be Belgium, they would have no particular status in most people's minds.  This calendar day irrelevance, however, was about to change for us, the three people who would journey with me and the one who would meet us at journey's end.

Arthur Von Preising - seriously, doesn’t that name just cry out for the title Baron in front of it? - and his wife Deborah Eisberg are in the process of building a house in the small town of San Carlos, Panama.  They currently reside in the midsized town of Boquete, Panama, about a five hour drive from San Carlos.  Arthur makes the trip to San Carlos every week to oversee their house construction and Deborah joins him on occasion.  On this Tuesday they were both on board for the trek and were to be accompanied, or rather followed, by yours truly, and I say truly because why would I lie about a thing like that, and his constant companion, his wife Charly, and I say constant because, well, there she always is.  We were all to stay in San Carlos until Friday when we would return to Boquete for the weekend, which I have pointed out, does not include a Tuesday.  Arturo, as he is known to his construction crew, and Deb as she is known to us, would check on the goings-on at their house site and reunite with us when not engaged in doing so.  Our intent, mine and CCC, Constant Companion Charly, was to take in all the fun San Carlos had to offer which is essentially all the good stuff you find in any ocean front community along with the splendid company and conversation of our companions, Deb and the Baron.  We had also planned a quick pop into Panama City, a further two hours away, to renew our passports on Wednesday.  This was, in fact, the principal reason for our being there, although the fun part was not to be discounted, at least not by me, a man who, if necessary, can find fun when all others expire from boredom; you know, like attendance at a lecture on rock gardening or watching someone else think.  It was, all in all, a good plan, one on which we had mutually agreed. 

We had even prepared, to some degree, for the unexpected.  To wit: Arthur and I had decided to carry only a small amount of money in our wallets so that if called upon to pay a bribe for a traffic ticket, a not unusual circumstance here in Panama, we could show the bribe taker that we had very little cash on us.  Our actual monetary stash would be kept somewhere else; in my case half with Charly and half on a money clip shoved deep in my front pocket.  What we had not planned for was the unexpected unexpected, but then, who does?

Before we get to that un-x un-x, let me test YOUR boredom tolerance with a brief account of the drive to San Carlos and the events that occurred before approximately 9:30 PM that same night. 

Arthur and Deb in their white Toyota Pick Up Truck with a couple of boards hanging out over the tailgate were not hard to follow.  Arthur, having been ticketed on a couple of occasions for speeding – trust me speeding is tempting to do on long stretches of open Panamanian highway where no other vehicles are visible…not even that motorcycle cop behind the bush – had determined that doing the speed limit would get us to San Carlos quick enough and without having to make forced conversation in Spanish with uniformed Panamanians. (In English: So, Officer, where do I go to pay this ticket or do I just pay you?)  It would also be easier for Charly and me to keep up in our small Kia.  I found this a blessing as I am a guy who feels that no vehicle should go faster than a golf cart.  I mean, really, what’s the rush?

Another blessing was my CCC who read aloud two entire New Yorker articles as I drove.  The first concerned Colorado Governor, John Hickenlooper, whose last name sounds like a ride at an amusement park.  (“Sorry Bobby, they won’t let you on the Hickenlooper, you’re not tall enough.”)  If you have ever perused a New Yorker bio piece you know they often take longer to read than the lifespan of the person being bio-ed.  This one didn’t quite meet that standard but did take up a substantial block of traveling time as did the other article, a piece by a writer writing about writing.  I always find articles like that interesting as they are usually by people who actually know how to do it.  The reason CCC’s reading aloud lands in the blessing category is that the Kia’s radio had fallen silent a couple of years ago and we had never felt any urgency to have it repaired or replaced.  In truth we seldom travelled anywhere far enough to make the radio a necessity.

Up ahead Arthur and Deb were listening to a book on tape, by which I mean Compact Disc.  That too is a good time passer.  (I’ve often wondered –well, once anyway – how big the player would have to be if the discs weren’t compacted.)

At about the three hour mark we stopped to relieve ourselves of our morning coffee and replace it with a new beverage although not in equal measure.  I’m thinking roughly a quart out, twelve ounces in.  (In case you were wondering, in which case you would be the weirdo and not me for bringing it up in the first place.)  I pointed out that I had only needed to pee during the drive when I thought about it and I had only thought about it for the last two hours.

We arrived at Rancho Los Toros which, I think, should read Rancho De Los Toros, but then maybe their sign just wasn’t wide enough to include that “of,” sometime in the late afternoon.  This Bull Ranch or Ranch of the Bulls is not a ranch and has nary a bull, but was our destination location as it is in fact a small restaurant, cabanas, and hostel place that is conveniently adjacent to the property where Arthur and Deb are building their new house, albeit at a goodly distance one from the other.

We parked our bags and sundry in the two rooms assigned to us by the manager, a guy named Ross, and then after a huddle to discuss what play to call, we opted for the one that would find us having pre-dinner margaritas at an ocean side restaurant whose name I can’t recall but whose ambience was in the Just Right category.  The restaurant has a high domed ceiling and because either the architect forgot to add a beachside wall or the owners didn’t have enough money to build one, we had wonderful visual access to the grey surf and flocks of seagulls flying in perfect formation. (I know what you are thinking, grey surf flying in perfect formation must have really been a sight!  Well it was!)  It was also exactly the atmosphere we were looking for to kill time in while awaitng the dinner hour and our appetites to arrive…possibly flying in, in perfect formation.  Lest you think this run on discourse describes the ideal moment, I would LIKE to add that the margaritas lacked sufficient oomph, but I won’t, because that may be just my opinion and I doubt that it was shared by the others.  (I have often wondered, and I mean often not just once, while sipping weak margaritas in this country of my choice, if there is a shortage of tequila in Panama.)

The restaurant section of Rancho Los Toros is only open Thursday through Sunday and this being – should I say it again – Tuesday, we were compelled to find our dinner fare somewhere else.  Arthur and Deb - we were now riding with them, my car parked back at the Ranch - suggested a quick jaunt to Coronado where by actual count there are umpteen restaurants to choose from.  Alas – don’t you just love the word alas?  It connotes such sorrow – we found none whose menu or price range suited us, so we headed sorrowfully back to San Carlos and plopped down eventually at a pizza place where the pizza wasn’t half bad.  I’m not sure what percentage of bad the pizza actually was, but it must have been quite small as we all four happily wolfed it down.

We then returned to the Rancho to have a nightcap and call it a day.  (Although why anyone would call a nightcap a day, I have no idea.)

The proprietor there, a larger than average sized fellow with a larger than averaged sized personality named Joe Wilmoth – actually his whole self was named that, not just his personality - likes to talk, laugh, and banter with his guests.  He was, as we arrived, having his dinner with manager Ross at the only table in the restaurant that didn’t have chairs stacked on it.  This table was the closest one to a bar situated at one end of the rectangular restaurant.  The bar is the furthest point from the restaurant’s other end where our pesadilla would begin.  That end is completely open – architects in Panama apparently routinely forget walls – to nature, and leads onto a walkway that passes a small structure housing a couple of restrooms and then beyond that to a swimming pool.  Around the pool are the cabanas or cabins or motel rooms - you name them, I’m at a loss - where we had stowed our stuff earlier that day. 

We were invited to join Joe and Ross at their table, and quickly fell into the talking, laughing and bantering that Joe so heartily encourages.  A good time was being had by all.

An interjection in this narrative is now called for. (Unlike my usual interjections which show up on a regular basis without anyone at all summoning them.) It is said that laughter is the best medicine, but - and here comes one of those unsolicited interruptions – I suspect laughter can also be a difficult pill to swallow… in some circumstances.  If, for you, this is one of those circumstances, I ask your forgiveness.  Truthfully, I can’t help it.  And, although I will make light of what is to follow, the events, while in progress, were about as light as a hippo sitting on your chest in an attempt to make you forget your migraine.  Any humor I now find in this pesadilla is humor found only in hindsight and it is, of course, in hindsight that I write this.

Ross had finished his dinner and bounced to his quarters perhaps ten minutes before the rest of us decided to do likewise.  (Somewhere in the gallery a voice cries out, “Talk about impeccable timing!”)  The remaining five of us, lacking that timing, rose to our feet in unison that brief interval later and headed for the wall-less end of the restaurant.  It was there that the dim light of the restaurant’s interior met the blackness of a night so dark it appeared almost as a curtain separating inside from outside.  I walked toward that curtain down one aisle between tables while the others walked single file down the next over, Deb in the lead there.

SURREAL.  Surreal.  That’s the word that most frequently comes to mind when describing the next minute or so, with, in my mind, “Fucking unbelievable” following fast on its heels.

From the darkness before us, emerging almost as if the darkness had formed them, came five men dressed in black, wearing hoods and full face covering masks.  Totally - let me say it again even at the risk of sounding like a teenager, TOTALLY SURREAL!  In the perhaps three steps it took the first of these costumed freaks to reach me, I managed to ask aloud with, I’m sure, a smile on my face – belief in what I was actually seeing not a possibility at that point - “Is this a joke?”  What I thought might BE possible in that fleeting moment, was that Joe had arranged some sort of entertainment for us.  (Deb was later to say she had had a similar thought, because, really, what else could it be?)

My question was answered not with a verbal reply but with a blow that landed high on my right cheekbone.  I managed to access my flair for the obvious and blurt out something along the lines of, “This is real!”  Not exactly clever, I’ll admit, but I’m guessing that even if I had had a world class moment of wit, it would have been wasted on my companions who were dealing with their own attackers and unlikely to appreciate even my best bon mot.  I threw up my hands to ward off any subsequent blows and maybe get in a few of my own and thought, what would Jesus do?  Okay, no I didn’t think that.  What I really thought was, WTF?  Further blows, however, were not forthcoming which I can say in retrospect was somewhat disappointing.  Better a fight than what actually took place.  If I had asked the Jesus question, I’m sure my next few actions exactly described the answer.  When the blackness that took physical form in front of me brought up his gun and stuck it in my face while telling me to get ”Down” – English word number one of three they knew - I summoned all my courage, threw caution to the wind AND DID EXACTLY WHAT HE SAID!  (It should be noted here that a gun can make the one holding it a better than Tony Robbins class motivational speaker.  And I should add and will, there were not just guns.  The Darkness that confronted my sweet Charly held a long, curved bladed, serrated edged knife that looked like it might be useful in gutting a rhino.)   Okay, in reality, as opposed to the rapidly diminishing surreality, I had no courage and no caution to be tossed about.  I remember exactly zero thoughts during those few moments; in truth, I may not have had any.  I was acting, I’m sure, on pure survival instincts and those instincts were telling me something from B movie dialog, as in, “Don’t make any funny moves.”  Out of my sight, at my back, similar scenarios were being played out by the others.  The next thought I recall is how clever I was to have most of my money on a clip in my front jeans pocket.  The bat rastard who was pushing a gun into my side with one hand was removing my wallet from my back pocket with his other.  I can only suppose that the small sum there did not convince him that was all I had, for he then reached under me and removed, first, my phone which was attached to my belt and then, feeling the small lump in my front pocket – I surmised his silent Ah Ha! – he put his hand into that pocket and yanked out my money clip.  To confirm the Ah Ha! he waved it in my face while saying something in Spanish I did not understand.  “What Gringo, you think we are stupid?,” a good possibility.

Phase two, in my mind anyway, was when one after the other we were herded into the kitchen area of the restaurant and repositioned on the floor.  This area is adjacent to the dining room and is separated from it by a, more or less four foot high wall that also serves as a counter top.  The floor space there was, also mas o menos, ten feet wide by twenty long.  Being closest to the open doorway, I was the first one herded in and placed again on my stomach.  Arthur was next, I think, the order is unclear to me, and out of heroic belligerence or just a stubborn unwillingness to comply, was slow getting down to the floor.  Or, perhaps, it just seemed so to Arthur’s own personal attacker who then smacked Arthur on the side of his head with a gun butt to encourage a more speedy descent.  Blood dripping from Arthur’s head landed on the floor next to my face a second before he did.  I rose up a little to see how he was and protest that violence wasn’t necessary but was shoved quickly back down to the floor.  At some point I did say in Spanish that we were all old and not dangerous but got only a “Quiet," their second English word, in return.

When we were all in the kitchen, the three men abreast of each other on the floor and the two women above our heads, Charly the furthest removed, we were bound hand and foot with what we later learned was computer cable that Joe had stored behind the bar.  The ladrones, the robbers, then turned out all the lights and we were abandoned to the darkness and our thoughts.   My rapidly firing stream of which included, and there were many as it seemed an eternity spent on the floor, is this going to be some sort of gangland style massacre, no that can’t be, why would they do that, push that thought from your head, we have already been robbed, why all the rest of this, are they going to rape the women and, most disappointingly, after a minute or so, they’re back!  One or two of them were stepping around us on the floor.  I said aloud, “Por favor no molesta las mujeres” a couple of times.  This translates as please don’t bother the women.  It was as close as I could come to asking them not to rape.  I don’t know the Spanish word for that awful crime.  My meaning was understood, though, as one of the ghosts tapped me on the back and said, “Esta bien,” essentially meaning it’s okay that’s not going to happen.  My anxiety level which was spiking at the thought of my sweet, wonderful CCC being so abused dropped by at least half.  I emitted the classic/cliché sigh-of-relief and understood, possibly for the first time, what it really meant to do so.  I re-spiked when some of the gang attempted to put a plastic bag over Deb's head.  Deb cried out, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe," and they stopped.  We have no idea what their original intent was or why they stopped.  We were all just very, very thankful they did; Deb, of course, most of all. 

Why then were they still here?  They had already taken what we had to give.  What was the point of all this on the floor in the darkness drama? 

Alas again, It didn’t take long to find out.  Joe was pulled to his feet and dragged out of the kitchen.  This is when the robbers third English word was heard loudly several times.  It was, "Money" and it was followed by the sound of blows and muffled Spanish.  Joe was saying, “No problemo” which came out as no-prah-blame-o, over and over to indicate he would do whatever they wanted.  I had the curious thought at that moment, because I have a curious mind, or perhaps a very disturbed one, that this was terrible Spanish.   The phrase is, “no problema” or better still, “no hay problema,” No-eye-pro-bleh-ma.  As it turned out my somewhat more advanced Spanish would have served Joe better had it been his as he was knocked about and castigated for not speaking the language well enough.

There followed then long moments, or should I say looooong moments - time does not fly when you are tied face down on a cold tile floor - of quiet, interrupted only by the soft footfalls of our guards as they stepped over and around us at random intervals; intervals between which we were able to whisper words of comfort and encouragement to each other.  The intense silence - our ears were straining to hear anything – was broken by a disturbing scream, that of a cat in distress, coming from the far end of the complex.  We thought, almost of one mind, "For-crying-out-loud don’t hurt the poor cat," which I suppose said something good about our humanity, I mean, considering our more pressing concerns.  There was, fortunately, only the one agonized howl.

Eventually, defined as a seeming two or three hours in this circumstance, but in reality about fifteen or twenty minutes, Joe was returned to us on the kitchen floor.  Camera flashes briefly lit the darkness.  The ladrones took pictures of Joe and Arthur's wounds and, oddly, of Arthur's one tattooed arm.  Souvenirs, I suppose.  Testament to their macho-ness, perhaps.  There was then another long moment of eerie quiet.  (The thieves ability to be noiseless would have made for an excellent, if a bit bizarre, sneaker commercial.  Sneaker being the operative word in that ad!)  (They all wore black sided, white soled sneaks with no visible logos we could later identify) The silence came finally to an end with the sound of a car approaching and then hastily driving off.  We surmised correctly that our tormentors were gone, but I suggested we wait another five minutes to be certain of their departure.  We did that for a good three of the five minutes and then set about getting free, a thing made easier by my having untied my hands almost immediately after being bound.  I had remembered from some long ago book or movie - might have been about Houdini - that when being tied you should try to not cross your wrists, but rather, tighten your fists and hold them side by side.  I managed to do this and found I had lots of wriggle room just as the book/movie said I would.

Alrighty then.  The rest of this account is what we learned in Lit Class as denouement.  Denouement is a French word that means in English the juicy parts are all over but here is what happened next in case you wanted to know.  (It probably means that in French too.)

I untied Arthur who was three quarters untied already and we untied everyone else.  Once freed, Joe turned on all the lights, blasted his fire alarm and pressed a button that sent a silent signal to the police.  We remaining four shared some hugs and words of consolation before wandering about wondering, what next? 

On the floor where I had first been accosted I found my wallet.  Everything in it was intact apart from the money.  I huffed out a long second sigh-of-relief.  A brief moment after that Deb found her purse on a table near where she had been initially confronted.  In it were not only all her purse stashed belongings, but my phone and money clip, money attached!  Thank you Jesus.  (This last being said on the off chance that the robber who had forgotten the purse was named Jesus, a not uncommon name in Latin America.)  Apparently, in the darkness, our otherwise efficient thieving thugs, after putting the small bits of their ill gotten gains into the women’s purses, had then, while leaving, simply forgotten one.  (Robbery Rule #1, I would hazard to guess, is: Don’t forget the loot.)  At the discovery of my money and phone I decided to use up my quota and let loose my third sigh-of-relief which, although loud and long, might have been a bit premature as in the Curiousier and Curiousier Department we found more good fortune.  Our rooms and the stuff therein had not been tampered with and our vehicles were still parked in place even though our keys had been readily available to the Ninja Wannabes.  (Reviewing Robbery rule #1, don't forget the loot!)  

 But alas - there it is again, that word - among the good news there is always the bad.  Charly's purse was gone.

The police finally arrived in force, some twelve or fifteen of them, about 45 or 50 minutes later and began to efficiently stand around in a cluster looking like policemen standing around in a cluster.  I remember one or two of them taking down our names but apart from their clever clustering, not doing much more.  (In fairness, I'm not sure what they could have done.  The perps were likely far far away having a good laugh over beers and rum)  (Wait! Forget that last parentetical tag on.   Picturing these monsters laughing was not even a remote possibility.  Mirth did not seem part of their make-up.  On the other hand, their being far far away in fifty minutes was not really a stretch.) 

Our next decision, championed and won by Deb, was to drive to Panama City and spend the night at the house of old friends of hers.  She called them and explained what happened and their response was. "Come!  Come right now!"  Heroic Arthur volunteered to drive the two hours or so to get there after I wimped out and said I couldn't.  My failing, old guy, poor glasses night vision might well have put us in more danger.

And here, having said that last, I recall further details from the Curiouser and Curiouser Department.  Although Deb's glasses had been thrown aside, but were luckily undamaged by the flight and fall, we three other Four Eyes had different experiences vis a vis the specs.  When Charly had been shoved to the floor, she managed to take off her glasses and push them under a nearby table.  We found them, post robbery, ON the table.  Hmmm, how thoughtful.  Arthur, moments after being knocked on the head with a gun butt, had his glasses carefully and gently removed from his face.  Huh?  How does that make sense?  My glasses were pulled off by the strap I use to hold them in place on the upper, flat part of my oft broken nose.  They too, were handled carefully and placed near me.  (I have to wonder why the bother with Arthur and my sight enhancers when a short moment later they turned out all the lights and plunged us into "can't see your hand in front of your face," serious darkness!)  

And then there was the final and perhaps oddest of the Curiouser and Curiouser moments.  Just before they departed, the last I'm-Here To-Check-On-You-One-More- Time, shadow, stepped over us to reach Charly at the far end of the room.  He bent over, tapped her on the shoulder, rubbed it gently for a second or so and then left.  Now you tell me... what was that all about? 

We checked in at Andris and Martha Purmalis' casa sometime after three in the morning.  If you look in the Guiness Book of Records under Nicest People in the World I'm sure you will find their names.  Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, we were spent.  After hugs, talk and yawns we dragged ourselves to bed, I'm thinking, well after four.  I'd be more specific about the time, but my watch was now on someone else's wrist.

Our Pesadilla was at an end...mostly.  It was an end, I suppose, if you don't count PTSD which is an acronym for Personal Torment Symptoms Downloaded, or something along those lines.  When those pass bye the bye, and I’m sure they will, I’ll write a sequel to Pesadilla which I have tentatively titled, Suenas Dulces, Sweet Dreams.  I'm looking forward to that one. 

Doc Walton  July  2013