Shit River ran beneath the bridge that connected the navy base in Subic Bay to the streets of Olongapo. Lord knows where the river's name came from, but I would guess that the sewage had something to do with it. Beneath the bridge in long, narrow boats stood women (girls, probably) dressed in the finery of princesses. Their aim was to entice the sailors to toss coins into either the boats or the water, and in the water itself were boys who would angle into the depths to chase the fishing-lure-like glitter of pesos. Pesos were worth so little, even to the most impovershed sailors, that flinging a few off the bridge was cheap entertainment. And those kids, they dove deep.
In Olongapo itself we would prowl the bars, spending too much time and too much money on women who confessed to loving us or agreed to love us for a short time if not forever. The beer was cheap; the local rock banks were loud and good; the afternoon rainstorms drew the heat from our skin while it excised humidity from the air around us. Once, alone where I should not have been, I wandered backstreets after sunset and wished I hadn't tried to walk back to the base from whatever bar I'd left. I finally flagged down a jeepney and paid my way back to the main gate, and both the driver and I were happy.
Jack, from Hoboken, New Jersey, caught the clap 5 times in Olongapo. Jack was a hoot: I once almost got dragged to the brig along with him after he'd smarted off to an insecure warrant officer as we walked through the main gate in Yokosuka, Japan. He also got kicked out of a hotel in Perth, Australia, for general misbehavior and casual drunkedness. I was in that same hotel, and we had couple of midnight vistors: police officers who woke us up to ask if we were the ones dropping beer bottles off the room's balconey. We weren't, and we said so. They didn't believe us but left anyway. My roomate and I weren't sure if that visit was better or worse than someone knocking at the door 6 hours later to ask if we wanted tea. And Jack had the best tattoo I've ever seen: a parrot smoking a cigar, right on his butt. Great tattoo. He was also aboard the ship during the Vietnam evacuation, and he told us stories of the ship full of refugees, of how perfectly good helicopters were pushed off the flight deck to make room for others. He said he would watch as the helicopters settled on the surface for a moment, then sank dutifully--worthless as pesos, maybe.
I have thought about these things because of Denis Johnson's book Tree of Smoke, which now has about 60 pages farther from the back cover than it did a few nights ago. In the book's second paragraph is this: "...Seaman Apprentice William Houston, Jr., began feeling sober again as he stalked the jungle of Grande Island carrying a borrowed .22-caliber rifle."
Me: I have been to Grande Island, which was a short boat ride from a dock at the navy base. I drank beer and snorkled there, and I remember how clear and warm and clean the water was as I enjoyed an afternoon respite from Olongapo's commotion. I didn't, of course, have a rifle.
A few pages later in Smoke: "Houston took a train from the naval base in Yokosuka, Japan, to the city of Yokohoma...".
Me: Those are other places I have been, and though Johnson's book doesn't stay long on Grande Island or in Yokosuka, I nevertheless enjoy this grounding in the story: You find something familiar in a story, you get hooked easily.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Bug Bites
The bug, if not well fed, is at least being encouraged. And if not Shangri-La on the horizon, there are a few possibilities: Chicago, Death Valley, Europe--maybe in that order of occurrence if not order of possibility. Of these, Death Valley is the most intriguing (and most definite, for that matter), for it is not yet on my list of places seen, places traveled. So, and perhaps because I've recently written a short story titled "The Map-Reader" and have been in a map-reading frame of mind, I thought it would be good to actually figure out where Death Valley is. What I found is, it's a long way from home.
The drive, from here, would require a few hours of driving east, many hours of driving south, and more hours of driving east. Which reminds me: the first poem I had published was titled "Heading East," but for the life of me I don't know if I've got a copy of it. This was before computers were household products and could save everything electronically, when I wrote first in long hand, then transferred to a typewriter, but years after I actually learned to type on an old Underwood in the solitude of my bedroom, and also years after I took a typing class in high school and managed to talk my teacher into giving me an "A" so I'd have a 3.0 GPA, which in turn would reduce the amount of money I had to pay for car insurance. If not for PE and typing, who knows where I would have ended up when it came to grades....
Back to Death Valley, which is on this fuzzy map.
And, according to my World Book Encyclopedia (1970 edition), was given its name by a "group of pioneers after they crossed it in 1849. They call it Death Valley because of the desolate desert environment." Which, to me, doesn't sound so original. The World Book again: "Death Valley is a deep trough, about 130 miles long and from 6 to 14 miles wide." And this: "Mining towns sprang up...with such names as Bullfrog, Greenwater, Rhyolite, and Skidoo. The towns died when the ores were exhausted. Today, only cluttered debris remains."
I like that: "only cluttered debris remains." Of course, nearly 4 decades after that was published, I wonder if any debris remains, or if it does, whether not it has remained cluttered.
Such road trips to such places are good for all of us, and Mapquest says that the distance from my house to Death Valley is about 455 miles following a route that might look like this:
And there are places to stop along the way: Mono Lake and the bookstore in Lee Vining; Mammoth Lakes; Bishop. Once, stopping in Mammoth Lakes on the way to a backpacking trip, my friend Tom bought 24 dozen doughnuts and ate them over a 5-day period. Okay, not quite 24 dozen, but a lot. Must've been good doughnuts.
This will not be a solo trip. Rather, Kominski, with some kind of snakes on the mind, perhaps, envisions grand mountains and deep chasms of.... what? Literary material, perhaps, the kind a person can store up for some time before needing it.
The drive, from here, would require a few hours of driving east, many hours of driving south, and more hours of driving east. Which reminds me: the first poem I had published was titled "Heading East," but for the life of me I don't know if I've got a copy of it. This was before computers were household products and could save everything electronically, when I wrote first in long hand, then transferred to a typewriter, but years after I actually learned to type on an old Underwood in the solitude of my bedroom, and also years after I took a typing class in high school and managed to talk my teacher into giving me an "A" so I'd have a 3.0 GPA, which in turn would reduce the amount of money I had to pay for car insurance. If not for PE and typing, who knows where I would have ended up when it came to grades....
Back to Death Valley, which is on this fuzzy map.
And, according to my World Book Encyclopedia (1970 edition), was given its name by a "group of pioneers after they crossed it in 1849. They call it Death Valley because of the desolate desert environment." Which, to me, doesn't sound so original. The World Book again: "Death Valley is a deep trough, about 130 miles long and from 6 to 14 miles wide." And this: "Mining towns sprang up...with such names as Bullfrog, Greenwater, Rhyolite, and Skidoo. The towns died when the ores were exhausted. Today, only cluttered debris remains."
I like that: "only cluttered debris remains." Of course, nearly 4 decades after that was published, I wonder if any debris remains, or if it does, whether not it has remained cluttered.
Such road trips to such places are good for all of us, and Mapquest says that the distance from my house to Death Valley is about 455 miles following a route that might look like this:
And there are places to stop along the way: Mono Lake and the bookstore in Lee Vining; Mammoth Lakes; Bishop. Once, stopping in Mammoth Lakes on the way to a backpacking trip, my friend Tom bought 24 dozen doughnuts and ate them over a 5-day period. Okay, not quite 24 dozen, but a lot. Must've been good doughnuts.
This will not be a solo trip. Rather, Kominski, with some kind of snakes on the mind, perhaps, envisions grand mountains and deep chasms of.... what? Literary material, perhaps, the kind a person can store up for some time before needing it.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Princess Wants Me, This I Know
First, as I have said before, let me say this: I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms.
I do, though, believe in princesses. And now, there is a princess who needs my help. How do I know this? Because she wrote me the email that I now share with you.
I do, though, believe in princesses. And now, there is a princess who needs my help. How do I know this? Because she wrote me the email that I now share with you.
Dearest One,
I am delighted to write to you. I am sorry if this mail will come to you as an embarrassment or a surprise, I just felt like emptying myself to you, to confide in you, as I'm faced with total frustration and hardship.My earnest prayer is that you find this mail in good health and blessings. My name is Princess Helen Keita,The Daughter of (Late Chief Adam keita) Who lost his life in the course of the crisis here in Cote D'ivoire on the 7th of November last year on his way to his office.My late father was a cocoa merchant.My father willed in cash,the sum of $8.2 Million US Dollars which he deposited in a financial institution here in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire in West Africa, I have decided to offer you $1.2m for your assistance with enabling conditions for the release of the fund which are as follows:
(1) That I must be 30 years or above.
(2) That upon request for the release of the fund,There must be evidence of investment intentions especially outside West Africa,
I contact you therefore to confirm if you can absorb me in partnership in your company or possibly assist me in any investment opportunity in your country. When I reach an agreement with you, the financial institution will release my fund to you and I will come over to your country to commence business partnership with you and as well complete my education.
All that I want is your sincere and genuine help in helping me to see that this fund is released to you and come to your country where you will also help me invest this fund in a very good business as soon as it is released. I cannot allow the money remain here, because of the war here which poses a great threat. My life and future solely depend on this fund. If you have heard from the news for the past few months now there has been intense fighting and bombing by the troops and I will like to leave here as soon as the fund is released. I expect your urgent response including your addresses, your mobile telephone and fax number.I wait to hear from you, thank you for the expected co-operation.
My regards,
Princess Helen Keita.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Feeling the Bug
At a time when I should be feeding the pig, I am instead feeling the bug. The traveling bug, that is: that wanderlust-carrying critter that lurks around nearly every dark corner. Part of this feeling is driven by the number of frequent flier miles I've accumulated on one of the surviving airlines, enough miles to get me to and from Europe once again.
A woman I work with is planning such a trip for next March, when she and her daughter will travel to London and Madrid, with a brief stop in New York thrown in just to keep the domestic economy stimulated. She says, "You should go on a trip, too. You never know when those FF miles will be worthless." I agree, too--the way entire airlines are dropping out of the sky, who knows how long such perks will exist?
A couple of problems, however. First, I have only enough FF miles to travel in the off-season, so I'm limited to those times of the year. Second, because of my wife's work schedule, she would not be able to accompany me in said off season. Which means, then, that I would more than likely have to travel alone once again, since scheduling these trips is not easy for anyone.
Of course, though solo trekking has never caused me much mental anguish, sharing a few experiences would not necessarily be bad.
Where to go? Oh, probably once again England, for I do not think I saw enough of the country, specifically London. Some people believe (one of George Bush's favorite lines, and I'm sorry for using it) that returning to places visited before is somewhat limiting. But, to his credit, my friend Shawn understood my reasoning and said, "That's why we have to go back." Kudos to him for getting my point without my really articulating it.
Why? Well, my brief stay in London was a bit frenetic, and I never stopped moving. Afraid to linger in one place too long because I feared not seeing something else, I did not nurse my visits as I should have. I also did not visit enough pubs, and that is truly a bad thing. And will I go? Right now, it is difficult to say.
A woman I work with is planning such a trip for next March, when she and her daughter will travel to London and Madrid, with a brief stop in New York thrown in just to keep the domestic economy stimulated. She says, "You should go on a trip, too. You never know when those FF miles will be worthless." I agree, too--the way entire airlines are dropping out of the sky, who knows how long such perks will exist?
A couple of problems, however. First, I have only enough FF miles to travel in the off-season, so I'm limited to those times of the year. Second, because of my wife's work schedule, she would not be able to accompany me in said off season. Which means, then, that I would more than likely have to travel alone once again, since scheduling these trips is not easy for anyone.
Of course, though solo trekking has never caused me much mental anguish, sharing a few experiences would not necessarily be bad.
Where to go? Oh, probably once again England, for I do not think I saw enough of the country, specifically London. Some people believe (one of George Bush's favorite lines, and I'm sorry for using it) that returning to places visited before is somewhat limiting. But, to his credit, my friend Shawn understood my reasoning and said, "That's why we have to go back." Kudos to him for getting my point without my really articulating it.
Why? Well, my brief stay in London was a bit frenetic, and I never stopped moving. Afraid to linger in one place too long because I feared not seeing something else, I did not nurse my visits as I should have. I also did not visit enough pubs, and that is truly a bad thing. And will I go? Right now, it is difficult to say.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The Real Me
"Can you see the real me, can you, can you?" (Pete Townshend)
Spending hours with old and older friends over the course of a couple months brings the realization that conversations with them are never new. Highlights and lowlights might be over-, de-, and under-emphasized, but the conversations themselves have been going on for years. And, if you pay attention, you'll learn that some of these friends, especially the honest ones, have more insight into the real you than you do yourself.
Good for them for keeping you honest, for simply calling your bluffs rather than pushing you off of one.
Spending hours with old and older friends over the course of a couple months brings the realization that conversations with them are never new. Highlights and lowlights might be over-, de-, and under-emphasized, but the conversations themselves have been going on for years. And, if you pay attention, you'll learn that some of these friends, especially the honest ones, have more insight into the real you than you do yourself.
Good for them for keeping you honest, for simply calling your bluffs rather than pushing you off of one.
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