Prose (Dudeku/Annual)

[cakebelly]

Now, Dudes, I know that a few of you are scribes, so there ya go, all yours. Anything, ideas, tall tales and short stories . . well, you get the idea.

                   Thanks to CC Keiser for setting up the pins, again.

[cakebelly]

California.

I have always found it interesting how any word will bring images to
the
mind. No word exists by itself. Every word is connected to so many
other
words and images it forms a holographic four dimensional collage
surrounding
itself. Follow any one word image to another in the mind and you will
find
that word image is also part of another collage, also surrounded with
untold
four dimensional word images, and all colored and flavored with sounds,
smells, tastes, and landscapes all their own.
All word images are the product of our experiences with that word. The
image
and meaning associated with any word are purely personal and are the
consequences of the experience we each have with that word.

Word associations: The Mama's and the Papa's California Dreaming; John
Steinbeck and Cannery Row; Monterey; a communal house called Big Big; a
young artist named Manuel who drew your soul in pen and ink; the blue
Pacific; washing dishes in a whorehouse; a 67 Firebird; 1968; 1969;
Abalone,
and a million other images come to mind, but lets stop at the collage
surrounding Abalone. There are so many different pathways leading from
California and Abalone it's a story worth the telling.

The Great Abalone Hunt of 1968.


It's a little foggy how it all started. The passage of time is only one
factor that has my memory a bit hazy. The other factor, and probably
the
leading cause of the memory fog, is I believe the adventure began at
one of
the parties at a flophouse I first resided in after arriving in
Monterey.
The best I can remember a young fellow named Jake was there and
somehow the
conversation turned to abalone. I was new to California and I had never
heard of abalone. He was telling me how great it was and how expensive
it
was, especially if you tried to buy abalone in a restaurant. But he
knew a few good spots where we could wade in the tide pool and fish them out
by
hand. That is, if we started out real early, and didn't get caught.
According to Jake the best places were protected, but he was
enlightened by
one of the locals on a few places were the Fish and Game didn't check
very
often. We would be poaching, but if we got in and out early in the
morning
we wouldn't get caught by the Fish and Game.
I didn't realize it right then, but Jake was working me, and working me
pretty good. He needed a car for this adventure, and I had a 67
Firebird.
Early the next morning I arrived a Jake's bungalow. I had to knock on
his
door to wake him up. I guess he didn't mean that early! His half of the
bungalow was a bit spartan, but it was a big improvement from the
flophouse.
He had just moved in so there wasn't much to clutter up the place, and
from
the looks of things he had yet to get around to buying much more than
a cup
and a saucepan to make "range coffee." That's where you boil a cup or
so of
water in a saucepan, throw in the coffee grounds, let it simmer a
little,
than pour in a cup of cold water to settle the grounds. It doesn't
make bad
coffee, but then at that time of the morning I guess any coffee isn't
bad.
It wasn't until we were in the car Jake informed me we needed to make
another stop along the way. We were picking up a fellow poacher in our
abalone adventure; a fellow who was even newer to California than I
was. We
shall call our new friend Mark. Mark was from the Midwest, and as best
as I
could make out was here on a lark. He arrived by bus a few days ago
and was
staying in a motel. I never learned how he and Jake hooked up since
Mark
wasn't very talkative. Maybe it was just me or the Firebird, not sure,
but
he hardly spoke but a few words and seemed to me to be a bit on the
defensive. Not that either of us needed to hold up our end of the
conversation; Jake pretty well managed to do all the talking. Mark must have heard nasty stories about all the riffraff and drug
crazed
hippies running around California. All his money was in travelers
checks,
and he was a little shy about letting anyone see which pocket it was
in.
Once we were on our way he did relax a bit and by the end of the
adventure
warmed to me a little. Heck, by the end of the adventure he was
practically
glowing!

It was still dark when the three of us got going, but there was a soft
glow
just beginning to peek over the horizon. Jake had us drive a bit south
heading to Big Sur. It was just daylight by the time we pulled over
into a
rest area just a few yards from the ocean. The sea otters were already
yipping it up, and it was another time I wished I hadn't hocked my
camera.
Damn it was beautiful. It also looked like it was mostly private
property
down on the beach. We sat in the car while Jake had a look around and
didn't
like what he saw. "Nope" he said, he didn't feel right about this
spot. He
thought someone was watching.
"This isn't the best spot anyway. There's a better spot a little south
of
here." We returned to the road and headed south again. We didn't get
very
far before Jake spotted a diner just opening. "Hey anyone hungry? Lets
stop
for some steak and eggs."
Now steak and eggs sounded great, but I was pretty broke. I was
basically
living on sticky buns and coffee the last two days with a few snack
bags
thrown in now and then. Steak and eggs would be the first decent meal
I had
in days. I mentioned to Jake my temporary lack of funding, but he said
not
to worry, Mark had plenty of money on him for breakfast, and treating
us to
steak and eggs was the least he could do since we were driving him all  over
Rt 1. I didn't miss the "we"! Mark didn't say much, but Jake got him
to pay
for breakfast without so much as a grumble.
I didn't know Jake all that well, but I was beginning to. Over
breakfast it
hit me, we were on a Snark Hunt! Good old Jake was playing Mark for a
few
meals, and me to drive him there. I didn't say a word, but by the time
we
got back on the road headed to the next "good spot" Jake could tell I
was
wise to what was going on. I think he could read it in my eyes.
Whether Mark
knew was anyone guess, but after steak and eggs and a few cups of
really
good coffee we were all feeling good and ready for whatever was going
to
come next. It was a beautiful day, we had rock and roll on the radio,
we
were fed, and driving south on Rt 1 in California, which just may be
one of
the most gorgeous highways in the world. We were on an adventure and
becoming friends. I stopped caring about abalone. And that is the
object of
any good snark hunt. The object is not the snark, but the adventure of
the
hunt, and what you just may find along the way. Essentially not that
different from life itself.
Along the way we ran into another sometime resident of the flophouse
who was
hitching his way down to Big Sur. There was a party going on! I didn't
know
him well, but he and Jake were good friends. To hell with the abalone,
we
were going to a party in Big Sur. Someone had built a house in the
trees;
not a kids type of tree house, but an actual house, about 1300 sf by
the
looks of it, and they were throwing a party to celebrate.
I didn't stay too long, I was getting really tired from being up all
night
and day, and I had a job washing dishes in a whorehouse the next
morning.
When I left it looked as if Jake and Mark were still having a good  time and
the great abalone hunt of 1968 ended in great success for all involved,
especially the abalone; who were never in any real danger from us
poachers
to begin with.



c.c.keiser
082805

[cckeiser]

My first short story:

Medicine Man
   
   I grew up with the TV as my babysitter. In the late 40's and early 50's the Cowboy Western was the big thing on daytime TV. We could only get three stations back then, but it didn?t matter, they all were showing westerns. The Lone Ranger, Hoppalong Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Gene Autry the Singing Cowboy are the ones I remember best. Not that I truly remember each and every show, they are all mixed together and pretty well almost forgotten by now. I do remember that I liked the shows with the Indians best. Even at that tender age I was rooting for the Indians. They never won of course, but I always had hope that maybe the next time.
   One year my parents bought me a Hoppalong Cassidy outfit for Christmas. I still have a picture of me at five years old, sitting on a wooden barrel wearing that black outfit with my than blond hair sticking out from under the black cowboy hat. It had silver buttons and a bright and shiny silver cap gun in a black leather holster. Man did I look cool. I was the envy of the neighborhood.
   Whenever we would play Cowboys and Indians, which was all the time back then, I would wear the outfit. It was practically the only thing I wore that whole year. We would break into camps and choose who would be a cowboy and who would be an Indian. Of course by virtue of my magnificent Hoppalong Cassidy outfit I was always a cowboy and the leader of the posse out to round up the heathen Indians and make the country safe for civilized Americans everywhere.
   You must remember, that back in the 40's and early 50's, the movies and TV always portrayed the Native Americans as blood thirsty heathens. I think it was because it was the only way they could justify all the terrible things that were done to them. I believe it was Jay Silverheels' Tonto that was the first to depict the American Indian with honor and dignity.
   I didn't need Tonto to tell me of the nobility of the Indian, somehow, I always knew it, even at the tender age of six. But I had the cowboy outfit, I was the leader of the posse.
   The only problem is, I wanted to be the Indian. I wanted to tear off the outfit, draw two lines on my cheeks with the dark brown mud of the earth and run bare chested through the neighborhood.  I wanted to ride my pinto pony ( imaginary of course) and shout the Comanche cry "Yeeeiii, Yeeeiii!" for all the world to hear. We had no idea what the Comanche yell really was, but at 5 or 6, that was  all we needed to raise our blood and make us feel like true warriors of the great Comanche nation. I never got to  fill my lungs with the sweet air of spring and let forth the mighty call, I was the one with the Cowboy outfit.
   One summer day, while hiding in the tall grass, somewhere out west on the frontiers of civilization, ( The corner lot across the street from the big stone house.)  waiting  for the blood thirsty savages to come riding along, the modern twentieth century came intruding into my universe. Some blackguard had thrown a beer bottle out a car window and it had smashed in the field where I had been playing. The pieces had been obscured by the tall grass and I didn't see them. I had dove for cover right into a shard of dark emerald green glass and received a nasty deep cut right in the middle of my palm. There was nobody else around, they had all taken up positions somewhere else in the neighborhood. The glare of the noonday sun beat down on the black cowboy hat, the silver buttons shimmered too bright to look at, and my deep red blood ran forth and mingled with the tall green grass and the dark brown earth.
   I wasn't scared, or panicked. I just sat there for awhile looking at it. I pulled the shard from my hand, and wondered what to do next. What would an Indian warrior do if he got cut?
   Here I am, stranded in the great frontier of the west, how would I stop the bleeding and treat the wound? These are the things I was thinking when he came.
   The Medicine Man came walking through the golden hip high grass from across the street and stood before me. He was dressed in what was at one time a rather nice black suit. But now it showed the signs of many years of service, and was just the tiniest bit too small. There were patches on the elbows, and these were beginning to show through. There was no mistaking his features, the high cheekbones and the proud and powerful nose, the tan and redden skin of his face, and the dark black hair which was over long for that time and looked like he had cut it himself with the horned handled knife he carried. I don't remember him as being overly tall, but standing straight and proud in front of me, he seemed a giant.
   He bent down and took my hand in his, which made my hand look even smaller than it was, a mere little pink pebble in his. He never said a word, but proceeded to wipe off the blood from my wound with a red and white handkerchief he withdrew from his rear pocket. He than produced a leather pouch from somewhere inside his coat and extracted a  packet of tan powder from the pouch. Wiping my wound once again, he carefully sprinkled it with the tan powder. He looked around him and gathered a handful of tall grass and cut it low to the ground with his knife. He placed a small clump of a brownish mossy looking substance on top of the tan powder and held it in place by tying the grass around my hand. I didn?t feel anything. My hand didn't hurt nor did the tan powder sting or burn. Everything just felt cool and soothing, and the bleeding had stopped.
   The last I remember seeing of the Medicine Man he was walking back through the golden hip high grass from where he had come, and was gone. Now being only 5 or 6 at the time, I never told anyone, I think for some reason, that is how the Medicine Man wanted it. Sometimes I wonder if it really happened, or if it was a delusion brought on by the shock of my injury. One of the reasons I wonder is because of where he walked through the golden hip high grass from across the street from where I was. If you remember, from what I told you before, across the street from the lot is a big stone house. There is no field of golden hip high grass. But then I still have his gift, and I know he was real.
   I think of him often, especially when I cut myself, which isn't too often thank goodness, or when I need to have something or other cut, removed, or repaired by a doctor. You see, he has left me a gift. I heal really fast. Even doctors and surgeons have commented how fast I heal. It's nothing that would be considered miraculous, but it does draw note. I know in my heart that it is a gift from my Medicine Man.
   Now this should be the end of the story, and it nearly is. Except for something that happened many years later, and now many year ago. As a young man in my twenties I had an occasion to drive across country heading for California. Somewhere out west, and I don't remember where anymore, I stopped at a gas station to refuel and stretch my legs. It was a hot summer day and the sun was beating down from over head. As I came out of the store sipping from the bottled drink in my hand I walked around the side of the station. There, across the street, was the very field of golden hip high grass that the Medicine Man had walked through. The grass in the foreground and the hills in the distance were exactly as I remembered them. I almost expected to see him come walking through the field again. I walked back into the store and asked the middle aged attendant if there was a Medicine Man around here. He said not that he knew, and that was that. My memory has faded, and I curse myself from time to time that I cannot remember even the name of the state I was in, or that I didn't spend a little more time back then to find the Medicine Man. Maybe one day after I retire, I will retrace my route and see if I can again find the place of my Medicine Man. I don't know what I would do if I ever found him, maybe just thank him, but somehow I think he knows, for he has never really left me. He is always here, in my mind and in my heart.
   

c.c.keiser

This had been published in an ezine called AU Publishing, but I see it is no longer on line.

[brother_erwin]

Hi CCK,
that is a wonderful story.
If I may add a comment: Ithink, there is no need for you to look for the Medicine Man once you have retired. Don't seek him. You already found him.

Once again: Wonderful story.
Cheers.
Brother Erwin

[Caesar dude]

The Great Abalone Hunt of 1968

This is great dude...reminds me of Kerouac....keep writing mate...

Peace.

[cckeiser]

Rag Bag


I was digging through our rag bag the other day. I was looking for something to dry off the dog with before letting her back in the house after watering the garden.

Our Katie loves to help water the garden. She stands on the other side and barks up a storm for me to direct the hose her way. If it's a tight enough stream she tries to bite it off. Of course she ends up near soaked to the bone and her feet caked with mud. I always hose her feet off when we get back to the house, then dry her off before letting her back into the house. If not, Katie and I would both be sleeping outside for tracking up Sue's floors.

The rag bag we keep is for all those odds and ends of old towels and dish cloths that have seen better days, and come in handy for odd jobs such as drying off Katie's feet. The rag I pulled out was something I had almost forgotten all about. It was the last of the towels I bought when I first left home to live on my own nearly 40 years ago.

I still remember when I bought it; it was one of a set with all the matching this and that. They were a pale olive green and golden yellow in a Aztec Sun-God design. I guess you could say they were a bit garish; my taste has changed greatly the past forty years and I would not buy them again today even if I could find them. When I bought them I really didn't give much thought to the design as much as I did to their lush softness. They were extremely plush and very well made, even if they were ugly. I found them on a discount table. They were on sale, and you can probably guess why.

Here it was, the last tattered towel from my very first apartment. The very first towel I ever bought for the very first time I was on my own. My bachelor days in Pennsylvania, right after landing my first job and buying my first new car. I had no idea what the hell I was doing! How I survived those first few years is a mystery to me, but I did. I learned to do all the things we guys take for granted while we are living at home and have a mom to take care of us.

One of the things I learned was you can only live in a place so long before it needs cleaning and the laundry must be done. I already knew how to cook, sort of, having worked as a cook while going to school, but I didn't know anything about doing the laundry. Everything I owned turned pink after my first attempt. That is when I learned never to throw a crimson blanket in with the rest of the clothing, especially the whites! I taught myself to iron, with only a few scorch marks on the clothing...or myself. I also learned the stain I managed to put in the carpet can be taken care of quite nicely with a little creative rearranging of the furniture.

That was just before I got the itch and left for California. I packed what little I actually owned into the trunk of my 67 Firebird and just took off. I think I left to "find myself". Back in the 60's finding yourself seemed to be the important thing to do. Nobody told you just how to do it, but getting away from everyone you knew was the recommended first step. After that you were on your own, and I thing that was the whole point; to be on your own.

I didn't have an exact destination in mind, I just went, and the towels went with me. The towels and I traveled all across the country and up and down the west coast before ending up in the state of Washington. Both the towels and I  got a good workout when I landed a job as a lumberjack. After six months I did find out one thing in Washington, if I was going to myself, I knew damn well it wasn't going to be as a lumberjack!

I left Washington and arrived back home just in time to meet Sue, and we married in September of 69. When Sue moved in with me the only things I had were a couple old pots and pans, a few mismatched cups and plates, and my towels.

Sue set about making our place a home, and I guess I lost track of both time and the towels. Over the years we must have had a few dozen sets of towels, but none were ever as plush as that very first set. What ever happened to the others I don't remember, I didn't give them any thought until that moment...when I was holding that last tattered old towel; the very last of the first towels I had bought all those years ago.

c.c.keiser
7/9/03      

[DigitalBuddha]

Hell of a flashback you got there, cc dude. Completely unspoiled.

[brother_erwin]

Hi CCK,
lovely!
I suppose you keep that last towel? I mean, you don't throw it away, do ya? It may somehow tie it all together 
Faithfully
BE

[Caesar dude]

that last tattered old towel

Is your real name Arthur Dent Sir? 

[cckeiser]

@brother_erwin
Yeah dude, I keep the last of it in a trunk to keep it safe, but it's so damn ugly I'm  thinking of having it framed!

@Caesar dude
No sir, but my first philosophy I wrote; which morphed into Poly-Solipsism, was titled 42:Defined!
Also wrote a poem titled 42. It has 7 lines per stanza with the same end rhyme and 42 stanzas long, but it sucks. It was more of a technical challenge to construct than to compose. It has no heart...no passion. It's all lips and no tongue.
And NO I will not post it here! It sucks!

[brother_erwin]

The next frame, cck, should be for the rag, not the rug, and mark it 8!
Also, the towel should not end on the head of some - well you know, who look for the reverse on a "murcan" tank. 

[brother_erwin]

Yeah dreadful, I know, I just couldn't resist.

[cckeiser]

The next frame, cck, should be for the rag, not the rug, and mark it 8!
Also, the towel should not end on the head of some - well you know, who look for the reverse on a "murcan" tank. 

[cckeiser]

  The Bizarre Bazaar

During the writing of Poly-Solipsism I had this strange dream. Of course the concept was haunting me day and night, so it's not a great surprise I would have a dream about it. What is strange is the form my quest took in the dream.

The first thing I remember about the dream is I was standing in a arid desert someplace in the Middle East. From the feel of it I knew it was thousands of years in the past, and stretched before me and all around me was an ancient Bazaar. There were tents of all different shapes, sizes and colors, with the door flap of the tents tied back to allow a view and easy access inside. But as I walked along the main avenue between them I could not see inside of any of them. The sun was at high noon and shining glaringly bright and all I could see of the insides was a dark emptiness as I walked down the middle of the avenue. Sometimes I could just make out a shadow of movement and a faint glimmer of light from a few of the open doorways, but there was no way of telling what lay inside without venturing inside.
In the front of each tent were tables and stalls displaying a sample of the wares to be found within. In front of many of the larger tents were all manner of men and woman performing to entice me to enter their tent.
There were Belly Dancers, Sword Swallowers, Fire Eaters, Jugglers, Magicians and Conjurers. There were tables set with retorts and stills, selling spirits of all kinds, and I swear I saw Albert Einstein himself wearing a turban holding a small crowd of onlookers enthralled as he levitated stars, planets and moons all swirling around in an expanding globe of darkness.
There were stalls with monks in robes who sat motionless meditating in the Lotus position, while at the next tent a small group sat on pillows smoking from a bong with spiraling whiffs of smoke rising to the heavens.
There were tents with different styles of crosses in front, and Preachers admonishing the sinners to repent. There was a tent where young men with shaved heads and yellow and orange robes danced around with tambourines while chanting and singing.
There were Sirens in gossamer gowns, and Nymphs hardly wearing anything at all beckoning seductively to enter their tent.

I'm not really sure how I picked a tent to enter, but it had a large Greek letter Delta above the doorway, and Hams, Sausages, and wheels of Cheeses hanging outside. An elderly grinning Greek with a glinting gold tooth held back the tent flap with one hand while he ushered me inside with a slight bow and a wave of his other arm.
There didn't seem a need for haste as I was the only one entering, and from what I could tell there wasn't anyone else hanging around this particular tent, so I stood for a moment just inside waiting for my sight to adjust to the dim interior.
When they finally did I found I was standing right in front of a table behind which sat a rather bored young Gypsy girl cheating at solitaire. She barely noticed me, and without uttering a word she casually handed me a pamphlet with one hand while she continued turning cards with the other. I could not make out the writing on the flyer, but I could tell by the palm and Zodiac printed of the front it was an advertisement inviting me to have my fortune told by Madam Somebody or other. I shoved it into a pocket, and with a slight nod of my head to the disinterested young Gypsy, I ventured deeper into the interior.
I didn't get very far before running into a set of tables with scattered dust covered odds and ends of old and empty bottles, a few tankards and tarnished trinkets. It looked as though at one time they may have been for sale, as each bore an ancient and yellowing tag whose value had long ago faded from even the keenest vision. Perhaps when the tent was new these were the hot items, but by the looks of it their days of interest were long gone and nobody cared enough anymore to even stash them away.
As I wiped the dust from my fingers on the side of my trousers I saw the reason for their neglect. The tent had no back! The once treasured objects lost their appeal to the more enticing treasures that lay behind the tent.
The glamor and glitter of the main avenue in the front of the tent paled in comparison to the riot and revelry taking place behind. It was like going from black and white to landing in the full Technicolor of Oz!
None of the tents had a back. You just had to pick one to go through to enter the real party in the back. Each tent spilled into the common arena where everyone mingled more or less together to celebrate and peddle their wares. To either side of the tent I had exited intermingled denizens from the tents next to them. Each blending together to produce a combination of flavors and colors.
It was a Fair, a Circus, a Festival, an Extravaganza! It was Carnival!
There was a mass of humanity as far as the eye could see engaged in every activity imaginable. There were stalls selling fish and foul and cooked meats of every kind. There were stalls over flowing with fruits and vegetables, and stalls with breads and pastries. And everywhere was the aroma of spices and cooking, all mingled together with perfumes, the smell of baking beads, and the sweet scent of roasting sugar.
"Now this is more like it" I thought, as I drifted bewildered by the diversity into the fray. I was famished and the aromas of all the different foods tugged at my hunger.
I stopped at the first vendor I came to, who was dispensing a barbequed something or other wrapped in a pita. It smelled Devine, but tasted like hell! I think it was lamb and had too many funky tasting spices. I moved on to the next and the next, but it was always the same. Everything looked good and smelled wonderful, but tasted strange, and I could not eat but a bite; if that much. At one stand I nearly gaged with the first bite and spit it out wiping the remains off my tongue with a napkin.
This was noticed by a patron standing next to me, who seem to thoroughly enjoy what I had found so repugnant. "Don't like huh? I love it! It's all I ever eat." He said as best he could between shoving in great mouthfuls. "Perhaps you will find the food more to your liking at one of the other tents?" He mumbled with a wave of his arm in the direction of a crowd some distance away. I could just make out a whole series of other vendors over the heads of a sea of revelers. I was wondering what my chances were of maneuvering through this mass of humanity, when my new friend notice my calculating expression. "Just go back through the tent you came from, and find another tent to enter. Every tent has their own flavor. Hope you find one to your liking." he said has he turned around to order another serving.

With very little difficulty I retraced my rout and found the tent with the young Gypsy girl still cheating at solitaire, and passed the grinning Greek with the glinting gold tooth on my way back to the main avenue.
I surveyed all the different tents, trying to prophesies without a clue, in which one I would find just the right flavor for my pallet.

Time and again I entered a different tent only to find myself back out in the main avenue and still famished.
I tried them all to no avail. Not a single one offered anything I could make a meal of for very long. There were a few that didn't taste all that bad, but none of them were what I was searching for, and none of them quenched my hunger.
It had been an exhausting search, and as I stood there once again in the main avenue, I realized that if I was to find just the right flavors, I would have to put up my own tent with my own colors and flavors.
If I could not find what I was looking for; what I needed to satisfy my hunger, I would have to make it myself.

c.c.keiser
4/26/03

[brother_erwin]

Hi CCK,
love that one, too. I like the tent without backs idea. Somewhere between good-old Vonnegut and Jorge Luis Borges in style, my impression, well of course it is your style you write in, it's just what comes to my mind when reading it.

If I had a grumble about it, it is about the end. It is - what appears to me - a little bit too ... fishing for the right expression here, Dude, ...obvious, didactic, .... .
But that's just like my opinion, of course.
Faithfully
BE