NIGHTTIME STARS, WRITING, PEOPLE

The chilly air has returned but from what I have read it is not permanent. It is extra dark tonight, heavy overcast and the moon ceased to exist. I don't like not being able to see the stars. I love to stare up at the various constellations and know that they were the same ones that Homer and Shakespeare wrote about, Apelles and Van Gogh drew, that Galileo and Copernicus studied, that Mozart saw from his carriage traveling along the rustic dirt roads from show to show. History's great minds and lives and events all took place beneath the stars that I stare at. The beams of starlight that hit my eyes are old, older than time, I wonder sometimes how old? How much of the very distant past do we really understand? I wonder sometimes if Atlantis was a real place and if so, what did the people think of the constellations? How many did they see that have since burned out and no longer exist for our lifetime? And then I get to thinking about life and how much actually occurs in the span of our short lives and how many emotions we feel, happiness and sadness, fear and frustration, rage and betrayal, hopelessness and pure confidence, euphoria and despair. It is incredible and hard to reason through in only one night, in only one life. Why did say, John Kennedy Toole who worked so hard on his writing, die only to then have it become internationally read? Or why did someone like Van Gogh who spent his meager funds on paint and canvass producing some of the worlds most beautiful art die and then the work becomes immortal, or Mozart who was in desperate financial straits in his life go on to sell over a billion dollars worth of compositions. Not to be morbid tonight but the stars in general get the wheels in my head running on over drive. Sometimes there are so many thoughts it's hard for my pen to keep up. Some days and nights I write so frantically my hand begins to cramp and then just plain paralyzes from over work. When it comes to writing for example I have a compulsion. I have an innate desire, more like an animalistic, primal urge and no matter how much I write I never feel satisfied and thus I have to write more and more. I could sit and write for twelve hours a day, seven days a week and after the twelve hours each day I would try to sneak in some more writing time that night, but of course that isn't feasible because life happens and there are responsibilities that require attention. Not to mention I enjoy the time I get to spend with my family. I hear deer in the woods but I can't see them, the darkness is blacker than oil, thicker than tar and smells of wet leaves and curiosity. Everywhere I sit, every road I drive along and every sidewalk I wander down I see and feel the past, never the future. I wonder if other people are like me? I don't think it is a bad thing, it makes me realize I am a living. I think one of the most challenging things in the world is to put what you see and hear, smell and taste and think down on paper so that it makes some ounce of sense. People don't realize how hard it is to write and how much work it takes. Next to raising children, writing is the hardest thing I have ever done. I mentioned it before and I will say it again, I love to read and learn about people's lives and the most interesting aspects to me, are the mundane everyday parts of people's lives that most people wouldn't ordinarily notice or prefer to read about. I love to read, for example, diaries when they talk about what they ate that morning and the birds they watched during a stroll to the library. I remember reading about Glenn Gould one evening, the piano player, who used to go to a Canadian restaurant at night, I think in Toronto but I can't recall, and he would always order scrambled eggs. I love that. Another time I watched an interview with John Grisham the author who writes the legal thrillers and he stated how he drinks the same kind of coffee out of the same mug every morning. I like to see where people lived, I try and find actual pictures, and where they worked and if they used for example a type writer what kind it was and what it looked like. Someday I want to go and visit all the different places where different people who I find interesting lived and worked for example, William Faulkner in Oxford, Mississippi and Jackson Pollock in Springs, New York, Ernest Hemingway in Key West, Florida and Piggott, Arkansas, Archimede Seguso in Venice, Apelles in Sicyon, Van Gogh in St. Remy, Mozart in Salzburg, Galileo's villa at Arcetri, Cicero's hometown of Arpino, etc. That is just something that interests me. It's interesting the behavior and nature of people from all walks of life but particularly those who have something that drives them like a mad fog. Maybe that is because I have something that continually pushes me without restraint, the constant need to work, work, work, and yet the next day and the day after that there is still work to be done, and though the work is tedious and I often fall severely ill from lack of sleep and too much coffee, I find the work very enjoyable. Maybe my need to constantly study other people comes from a basic need for me to understand myself. I have strengths and weaknesses and I am very aware of both of them though I shant bore you. Despite the chilly night I have enjoyed very much a cigar and a glass of wine. In about fifteen minutes I will brew a pot of coffee and work. It is starting to get late and the lights from cabins in the distant mountains are beginning to extinguish. Let's hope tomorrow has less wind and more sunshine.

WHEN IT RAINS IN THE MOUNTAINS, CARUSO

It's a funny thing in the mountains, when it rains it seems everybody and their mother heads out to the car for a drive. The roads, all the roads, even small backwoods short cuts are packed with people out driving. Should the sun suddenly come out 85% of the cars on the road would disappear. Today a desperate rain fell, saturating the landscape, the birds on the old oak trees out by the lake huddled together in clusters, the squirrels dashing and peeking out of their leafy nests. My jacket was a light blazer and I headed for the car through the drenching and found a small river separating me from my dry sanctuary of warmth. Unlike Moses I was not able to split the rapidly expanding sea before me and I was forced to wade the wretched stream and upon reaching my parked car I proceeded to remove the minnows that had taken refuge in my loafers. It is on those chilly, dreary days when the rain is determined, I like to turn on the song Caruso, because it's a song that makes me think of the rain in a romantic, poetic sense, falling through the fog into the mountains, like the rains I remember in the countryside of Tuscany. You turn up the rich tenor voice of Pavarotti or Bocelli, the thick, glassy blue and gray droplets plummeting down from the dark clouds enveloping the tops of the dark green mountains. The song is beautiful and nostalgic, cabins lit by candle light and warmed by wood stoves glow on the mountainsides like lanterns along a Venice canal at dusk.

MOUNTAINS AT NIGHT

Well I was driving home tonight, around 9:20 pm. It was dark and I was on an open road looking out at the mountains and the twinkling lights along the mountain slopes, like landing in an airplane and it was beautiful. I felt like I was reading a page of poetry. It reminded me of flying into Quito Ecuador at night and seeing the sparkling lights on the mountainsides like fire flies. One of my favorite things in the world is to fly, particularly at night and in a smaller plane, but I also like the jumbo jet. The only thing is that I feel a bit claustrophobic on large jets that are filled to capacity and people are sitting on top of you, hacking lung, reeking of cheap perfume and talking loudly about their boring lives which they feel is the most interesting thing since Reeses peanut butter cups. My last flight was incredible. I sat in the very last seat on the plane. The noise was so excruciatingly loud I couldn't hear anything but it was a steady rumble so I was able to concentrate on my book while sipping a twelve year old scotch. As the plane began to descend over the lush, warm landscape of Florida I shut off my small reading light and watched the lights of the world glimmering growing closer and closer.

There is something magical and remarkable about driving around the mountains early in the evening when the lights of people's homes are still burning bright and the warm balmy air of a peculiar winter are blowing through the window. In a way it is soothing, somewhat calming and times like those always send my mind reeling back in time to moments in life that I have experienced and in a way the sensation triggers brief mental flashes. It was a pleasant evening. I picked up my daughter and we spent the night watching tweety and sylvester until it was time for bed.

SIMPLE DELICIOUS DISH

SIMPLE DELICIOUS DISH

This dish is one I created and it is absolutely delicious. I am a food junkie and occasionally I will try different combinations of ingredients, some work, most don't. This one worked and it is so simple to prepare.

OCTOPUS PROVENCE
Octopus about the amount of a handfull, make sure its chopped up into bite size pieces. (If you use octopus from a can make sure to wash off well the sauce because it affects the dish and not for the better).

1 teaspoon herbs provence

1 tablespoon olive oil

2-3 cloves of garlic (chopped)

black pepper

sea salt (not too much)

1/2 cup white rice (unseasoned)

Preparation:
Cook the unseasoned rice first and one ready turn off burner and keep top on rice so the steam keeps rice warm. Sautee the octopus in a skillet with olive oil, chopped garlic, herbs provence, black pepper and sea salt. Cook until octopus is cooked 5 or so minutes (if using cooked octopus cook until garlic is soft, make sure not to burn garlic). Once the octopus is ready take skillet off burner. Place rice on a dish and sprinkle with herbs provence and black pepper (don't add salt, will be salty enough). Then pour the seasoned octopus including the oil over the rice. Let cool for about 2 minutes and ENJOY!

POETRY

Though the weather today was sublime, 60 degrees with scattered sun, I came across a poem I wrote one bestially cold night, first sipping wine then rum. I figure there are a few romantic saps out there who secretly read poetry in dark basements to candle light. It is on those cold blistery nights when the wife is working and the tot is counting sheep when I pull out my old Anthology of poems from numerous poets compiled over the last 300 plus years, pour myself some wine, sit back in my recliner and read. Eventually when I am good and drunk and feeling ambitious I grab a notebook and a pencil and begin to scrawl. The poem I have for you I wrote while sitting outside in near sub-zero temperatures for effect. I wanted it to be as authentic as possible.

GOODBYE WINTER

Written November 28, 2010 at 1:40 am., high in mountains

My bones are chilled beneath chapped skin

my fingers stiff as carrot sticks

the frigid night warms my ears

the wind it howls, pierces and pricks

An inch of wine remains in my glass

An ounce of sleep in my eyes

A day of reckoning is due

The whippoorwills to cold to fly

Goodbye winter, you bastard ruse

And trick us with sweet pumpkin pie

If I play your game I'm sure to lose

So I'm heading to Florida or Kadoesji

RICHARD NIXON, SECRET SERVICE, NEW YORK KNICKS, COLLECTING

I was around 13 or 14 years old and my father had taken me to Madison Square Garden to watch a New York Knicks basketball game. Attending those games are some of my fondest childhood memories. We had great seats, very close to the action, at mid-quart facing the team benches. The electricity at the games was incredible, like sticking a paper clip into an outlet as child and zapping yourself to the moon. And when we attended the playoff games the energy was bumped up that many more decimals. I used to walk into the arena from the tunnel and goose bumps would form on my arms. Those were wonderful times when America was the world powerhouse and hot dogs still cost 25 cents at Grays Papaya. I recall walking into the Garden that night and taking our seats and low and behold, two sections over to the left and one down was no other than Richard Nixon himself. It wasn't the first time I'd seen big names at the ball games and years later while working for the Knicks I met many but never was I so close to a former President of the United States. Eventually the game started and I became distracted by the rough play of the New York greats. It was still during those golden years when players remained on one team for their entire careers and the rivalries were often bloody and venomous. The games were gladiatorial knife fights and the names bigger than life: Patrick Ewing and Charles Oakley, Michael Jordan and Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Joe Dumars and Isiah Thomas, John Stockton and Karl "the Mailman" Malone, etc. At some point during the game I had to use the restroom and I descended to the lower floor lavatory. I did my duty and as I was returning to the seat I figured that maybe I would go over and give the old Nixon a shake and perhaps pick up an autograph to auction off at Sotheby's. Nixon was seated two sections above the ground floor and I began climbing the short two flights of stairs to his seat. He had an entire section cordoned off just for him. I was no more than 15 feet away when I was nearly tackled to the floor by a Secret Service agent in silky gray suit wearing a black ear piece. A large caliber nickel plated pistol was holstered beneath his blazer. A few other Secret Service men seemingly appeared out of nowhere and surrounded the former Commander-in-Chief. I was roughed up pretty good but held my composure and didn't fight back. I figured had I laid a knee to the groin of the bestial blond fellow I would have found myself in a Bronx basement and I wanted to watch the 2nd half of the ball game. There were a thousand tense eyes on me, strangers intrigued and wondering the outcome of the confrontation, I could feel them, hoping to watch good old fashion beat down but it didn't happen. I refused to give the barbarous drunks the satisfaction. I circumnavigated the political retinue and returned to my seat and mini cheese pizza which I always got while at a ball game. New York pizza is the best in the world and Madison Square Garden mini pizzas back then were at the top of the list. They cost an arm and a leg but to a 13 year old it was worth it. Needless to say I didn't get my shake or the autograph but it was some kind of donnybrook and very well may have gone down as Madison Square Garden lore. Well there's a first hand account of my run-in with Richard Milhous Nixon, and the Knicks won! As I think I've mentioned before, I am an avid collector, I've always been. As a youth I collected basketball, baseball and football cards, comic books, seashells (conchologist), books (bibliophile), stickers and postcards, autographs (philography), coins (numismatist), quotations, and small flags from a myriad of countries. I studied flags with an obsession and became so knowledgeable my mother called me a "junior vexillologist." I could stand before the United Nations or Rockefeller Center and name all the countries of all the flags. I still love flags, none more so than Old Glory. These days I am still a numismatist, but also a notaphilist (the study and collecting of paper money) and philatelist (the study and collecting of postage stamps), three lovely hobbies I find fascinating and fun and one perk is that it's not expensive. Some day when I have a lot of time I will dedicate three days, one to notaphily, one to philately, and one to numismatics, all three of which I know a great deal about. Well a rerun of the first round of the Northern Trust Open has begun. Nine players sit tied at the top at -4. Mickelson is Even, Padraig doing great at -3.

JESSE DUNCAN, DAVEY CROCKETT, WINTER

It was a day probably not much different than this one, the warm rays of the sun sifting through the tree canopies, the colors of nature vibrant and alive, the scent of the forest soft and earthy, perfumed by wild flowers. The symphony of bird songs everywhere carrying in the gentle mountain breeze. Bluebirds and red birds, yellow speckled with white bellies and beige ones, cawing and chirping, fluting and whistling. The year was 1765. A scouting party of pioneers were making their way from Buffalo Mountain, today located off Highway 23 near the town of Erwin in the Appalachian Mountains, to an area called Boone's Creek, the former hunting grounds of Daniel Boone. A young man named Jesse Duncan was a member of the rugged assemblage. I think of Jesse Duncan as an inquisitive mind, scientifically curious I suppose for he fell behind the rest of the party possibly picking mushrooms or perhaps sketching birds when he was ambushed by a band of feral injuns, slaughtered and scalped. It wasn't long before the others in the scouting party realized young Jesse was missing and backed tracked only to find him butchered along the trail. Legend has it he was the first white settler known to have died and been buried in the state of Tennessee. His grave can still be viewed today. The mountains stretch as far as the eye can see, like slumbering bear, a wild sanctuary of peril and the unknown where families are said to have disappeared into thin air. There is a true story of the family of Davey Crockett. The elder boys of the family were away fighting the red coats in the Carolinas and one frightful evening Davey Crockett Sr. and his wife Elizabeth were killed by a Cherokee raiding party. Davey Crockett's two younger brothers were taken prisoner and his younger sister was scalped but survived. These are wild and unpredictable lands. A buddy of mine told me the story one day of how he was out in the wilderness wandering when he came upon a mother bear and her cubs. He froze and they froze. Both parties eyeing each other when to his horror the cubs began to approach him. He whipped out his knife and prepared for a hand-to-hand battle to the death with the beast like the young Daniel Boone in the backwoods of Boones Creek. My friend said luckily the bear clan moved on and left him alone without a confrontation. It would have saddened him to take down a mother in front of her chillins. With the way the weather is holding up it very well may be near time to plant some crops and hope for a balanced spring and summer of sunshine and rain. The winter has been hard for folks here as well as around the country and particularly in the Northeast where my sisters were snowbound for months forced to trek miles in knee deep snow for bread and milk. Disease ravaged us here in the mountains, fevers of 103 and 104, chills and dry coughs that rattled the lungs like consumption. Good folks perished. Many tears were shed. This afternoon I placed my lemon trees out in the sun. They've been indoors for six months while father winter tipped the scales upside down, laughing hysterically, gusting winds up to 50 mph through the valleys and lowlands, tearing tin off the roofs nearby cabins, shredding umbrellas like origami, sending two ton tree branches hurdling through the air like an apple sapling. But today was beautiful and the birds were out in force, the gofers peeking from their holes, mist still present on the mountain slopes and the deer sniffing about, jumping the wooden fences and bounding through the creeks.