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Friday, November 11, 2011

Postcard from Buzios, Brazil


At night in Buzios
Warm sea breeze comes ashore
Caressing . . . sultry breath of oceans.
Fishing boats rock gently on the dark horizon
Flashlights blinking in the distance from on board
As crews make ready for the coming day.

They call the sea Yemanja here
She is alive
A personality with changing moods that beckon those on land
With playfulness
The promise of adventure
Rolls within the sound of crashing waves

        “D0 Do not forsake me
          There is no good reason for a man to leave the sea
          I’m everything you want
         Your greatest love
         Both life and death
         All things between.”

Her implorations spill from arms that want to hold
Cool wet shadow slipping through the sand
Returning to drowned lovers.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

A ten Shoestring Day

© Bruce Louis Dodson   (AKA Willie the Rat)

A Ten Shoestring Day
Willie The Rat

It’s been one of those days where life seems to turn on you with the speed and certainty of a blue mamba. One of those days that go sideways. A Midas touch in reverse, where everything you touch turns to shit. It’s the small things that drive you nuts. Charles Bukowski called these moments, broken shoestrings—minor events, nothing in themselves that bad, but there are many of them. A tsunami of bad luck.
                        I fix the shoestring with an ugly knot. Who keeps spare shoestrings? Shoe gets tied, but it does not end here. I brew a cup of coffee, then the phone rings in the other room. I knock the glass cup off the counter as I rush to answer and it hits the floor exploding into a surprising number of glittering fragments. There is only silence on the phone.
                         I’ve got a mess to clean up. Coffee all over the place, both wall and floor. I wipe it up with a huge wad of paper towel and manage to cut the tip of my index finger. Not that bad, but bleeding. I tape the finger and make another cup of coffee knowing there are undoubtedly small slivers of glass still on the kitchen floor—as yet undiscovered. I’ll come back and do a better job of cleaning up, but later.
                        Taking the fresh brewed coffee with me, I sit down at my computer, boot it up and answer two e-mails—delete sixty-seven. One is a rejection notice, not the first—or last. An hour later the computer locks up, freezes. I’ve got a 950 word first draft minimized, but can’t remember saving it, or if so where, and under what name? I check the mouse and go through standard maintenance routines—find nothing wrong. There’s a guy I can call, a retired techie/computer person, but my cell-phone’s now completely dead and I can’t find the charger cord. I check the wall receptacles—don’t see it anywhere. Have no idea where I used it last.
                        I turn the PC off, then on again, praying my work’s still there. Don’t really pray. God doesn’t give a shit about my short story, but I hope real hard. The desktop comes up nicely, but the short story has gone into that vast realm of space where digital information evaporates. Sometimes a long lost project reappears, like Moby Dick, but not often. I should start over now, before I forget how it went, but it’s been enough. My index finger hurts each time it hits a key and I’m already up to eight shoestrings. Any one or two of them could have been handled easy—even three.
                        I decide to go to the gym. Smart move. Shift the load from brain to body. Almost works, but I forget to pack my jock strap and a pair of shower shoes. Low energy. I leave the gym at 4 PM and drive home in slow commuter traffic feeling wasted, but a little better—maybe. It’s the right time for a nice martini—celebrate the end of this bad day. At home I kick shoes off and go to the kitchen where a sliver of glass stabs through the sock on my left foot. I’m out of gin. Had meant to pick some up on the way back from the gym. I put my shoes back on—one blood stained sock. Would have removed the tiny splinter, but can’t find my glasses and the store will close in 30 minutes. I still need laces—tomorrow.
                        At the State run liquor store I grab a quart of Beefeater’s. Only one person in the checkout line ahead. A large black woman who is talking on a cell phone while completing her business with the cashier.
                        “I can’t do that tonight,” she says. “There’s no way.”
                        “That’ $22.50 the cashier tells her.
                        “Why can’t he just come in to the office tomorrow morning?” Cell-phone woman whines.
                        A man has gotten into line behind me and begins to shift impatiently. I was already impatient when I came in. I need this drink! The cashier waits patiently.
            It’s a sort of break for her, a pause in her routine.
                        Another customer has joined us as the annoying cell-phone conversation continues until a final, “There’s no way I gonna’ do that.” Woman shakes her head an folds the phone.
                        “That’s $22.50,” cashier says again. There’s calmness in her voice a Buddhist would admire. Cell-lady drops the phone into her large black purse and digs for cash—hopefully a billfold. If she wants to write a check this is going to take time.
                        She comes up empty handed. “Oh lord. I left my billfold in my car,” she says. “I’ll run and get it.”
                        She takes off and I get lucky. Cashier moves the woman’s purchase to one side and eyes the clock. It’s almost closing time. I pay in cash—simple transaction, and am on my way back home again. Once there I feed the cat and make a very large martini with four olives, then spill half of it while moving to my favorite chair in the front room. Martini glasses were designed to spill. You ever think of that? There is not a glass on earth as difficult to walk with as martini glasses. Totally impractical containers for what is arguably the world’s strongest drink. Go figure. I have plans to insert ear-pods, drink, and listen to a talking book as darkness falls—turn a ten shoestring day, into a three martini night. As I start to sit down I hear the cat throwing up a fur ball on the kitchen counter.


Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Amsterdam - Fate of the Red Light District

Fate of the Red Light District
Bruce Louis Dodson

An excerpt from:

            It was a long flight - three flights: From Seattle to Vancouver and then Frankfurt, finally Amsterdam. I took the tram from Schiphol Airport into Central Station, just 4 stops away. Short conversation with woman on the train. She's forty something, been around, Intelligent. Now lives in Italy, but born in Amsterdam and lived here 20 years. We talk about our country's: art, and politics, and Amsterdam.
             It used to be so much more, she says. They allowed small areas where people could do what they wanted as long as in did not harm anyone else. There were a lot of artists. People were happy. We enjoyed life. It was easy here, relaxed, you know? Now it's all about money . . . and laws. The politicians keep on passing more new laws. Now things are so expensive. Artists can't afford a place to work. It's changed.
            Change is the reason why I'm here. There have been articles in newspapers and magazines about the city cleaning up its Red Light District, an attempt to escape Amsterdam's sex and drugs image. The Red Light District is a small, canal laced grid that spans about five city blocks or less, and is a tourist magnet. Hard to believe it's coming to an end. Sex and drugs are Amsterdam's  Eiffel Tower, but I can see their point as this is not the most attractive thing for a great city to be noted for.
            It's interesting though, as prostitution's legal in Las Vegas, Thailand, Germany, Australia and so many other places. It was made legal here in Amsterdam in 1830, but was easily available before that time, ignored by the authorities. Then someone had a brilliant thought - let's make it legal. We can tax the income, (19%). Prostitution's more discrete in other places, but in Amsterdam it's right out front. It isn't going to disappear, the same for marijuana which is easily available at any U.S. inner city high school, and becomes more legal in the States each day - medical now, but that will change. Weed will create a flood of tax money for States now close to going bankrupt.
            The Italian and me go our separate ways at Central Station. My hotel is in the Red Light District, a short walk. Already I see major changes. They have dug up the canal in front of where I'm going to stay. Huge rusting metal girders stab up from the water like spilled soda straws, and they've destroyed two of the bridges crossing the canal. What's left of the brick sidewalk's has been covered with steel plates now dusted with white sand. The trees are gone!

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Wall - Postcard From Berlin

       Berlin Wall Graffiti - Photos taken 2009 at 20 Year Anniversary of the fall.
                                          Artists Unknown

Walls . . .
They only stand a while
Contrived to separate
Describing boundaries
Built of stone and concrete
Still . . .
None last forever.

In the meantime
They are unimaginary
And expensive
Casting pain and want
Both sides
What reason?
Who decided?

The Berlin wall
Stood for twenty years
More than one hundred lost their lives
Attempting crossing
One side to the other.

Tumbled now
Fractured remains have become souvenirs
People buy chunks of it in shops
That lay in wait
At Checkpoint Charlie
Where a section has been left to stand
A grim memorial
Tourist attraction
Covered with spray-paint artwork over time
Passers-by names and comments.

These remaining sections have been whitewashed
Re-grafittied by professionals
Fine artists born on either side
In celebration of its fall
Great concrete canvases
Fenced off with hog wire
To keep amateurs away

Brilliant images evoke remembrance of a wall that was
As other walls remain
More permanent
Beyond the reach of common sight and unencumbered
By the weight of mass
The walls of class

Still others we have built around ourselves
our neighbors

Some who dare, protest
While others wait impatiently to watch them fall
Knowing their inbred failure:
Reason for existence
And high maintenance . . . The cost.