Living in a shitty room in Hellertown, PA and moving out of the shitty room

3/18/19 21:41 Hellertown, PA

Yesterday, was a busy Sunday.  I attended a service at the UCC in town, this is the progressive UCC compared to the conservative UCC and felt welcomed and comfortable during the coffee hour.  It’s not very common when I’d accept the coffee and the company of strangers.  I spoke to some of the men.  It’s not a good idea to socialize with the women, unless they’re above a certain age and the safety net is tossed. I smiled at the kids and babies.  The generations in the room who had grown up in the church.  I met two men named Kurt which is an uncommon name on Long Island.  I may go back and may get involved in their garden.   I ran 7 miles yesterday through the Saucon trail and was impressed with how many runners were out.  Some were running hard and others were out for the clean air.  Watched two hawks circling in the warm air, glanced at the streams flowing under the bridges. Song birds were out.  The first day of Spring is on Wednesday.  I’m finding my name is not that common in the area, but I digress.  I am tired.  It’s that time of the night when I can either do something productive of get lost in the internet, for instance finding a yoga studio.  I was looking for one in Bethlehem since I am moving.  Yes, I am moving again.  This is one of those examples when I should have listened to my gut and passed on the place where I am currently living.  I don’t want to go into too much detail, but I feel deep down, this shit hole would be warmly welcomed by a young Charles Bukowski.  He would be comfortable, with a door without a door knob, without a real lock, the hook and eye is all I got to block any intruder.   There is carpet on the floors.  The carpet is stained and loose.  So what, the window is cracked and was taped over, perhaps it was taped over decades ago with that thin brown translucent tape, and someone pulled it off - maybe - seven years ago, leaving dried brown strips, now etched into the dirty surface of the glass.  It is still cracked, like a tree branch.  What caused it?  A fit of jealous rage?  I asked the landlord a few times since being here, when was he going to fix it.  He will hire a handyman.  He had a busy week at work.  He had an excuse.  The handyman is busy as well.  So what, there is a draft coming through the shitty windows. So what, the advertised phrase – quiet – was not that accurate for this house…on a busy street…trucks and endless commuters pass by starting at 0500, they are driving to the main highway in the area.  There is 78 with all of its lanes and there is the road in front of this house with two congested lanes.  I should have listened to my gut.  The landlord wanted me to share a mini fridge with the other roomer up here, wanted me to hang my clothes on something since there is not a closet.  So, I wrestled with the idea, having two different curtains, sealing the windows with foam, which I bought.  It was all a good motivator to buy something in the area.  The only problem is the room is not quiet or peaceful and I don’t sleep very well on the shitty twin bed that came with the room.  Like new it was advertised.  Maybe when Hank Aaron played for the Milwaukee Braves, then and only then it was new. There is not a dresser, nor a desk, nothing to put my clothes in.  I pull the different color curtains over the shitty windows and sit on a hard chair in the kitchen.  I was motivated and found another place.  Yesterday.  It all took place yesterday.  This one is in Bethlehem.  Get this, the rent is the same.  There is a living room, a dining room and a big kitchen.  There is a back yard and I am in walking distance to Main Street, to the brewery and the yoga studios, the book store, the oldest in the world, and I can go for runs through the town and I will sleep soundly in the bigger bed and quiet room.  There are new windows in the room, and the curtains are the same color.  There is a huge closet and a dresser and in a few weeks, I will move into this place since I made the wrong choice when I picked this dump.  Reminds me of when I lived in Coram for a month, 24 years ago. Same deal.  I knew I made a mistake, but moved in and regretted each morning I woke up there.  So, maybe a month is not bad after all?

Thank you for reading this.

Writing from a rented room in Pennsylvania

3/11/19 22:20 Hellerstown, PA

This is my first entry in my new place.  It’s alright.  I’m renting a room on Main Street.  The street light shines in the room.  There are two other men who live in the house, we all rent.  The roomer who I share a bathroom and kitchen is quiet.  He works at night, which mean I have the second floor to myself for the most part. The landlord is a nice guy.  Young guy who just might be younger than my youngest sister?  I assume.  It’s quiet in this town, barely any traffic is passing the house.  Yet, this morning there was the rush hours, from 5:30 on I assume it was that early.  I woke up at 5:47, which is the time I wake up on most days.  It’s alright.  I fell asleep after midnight, after speaking with Meli who in Mexico City is 2 hours behind.  Most of the time, it’s only an hour.  Two hours make the distance even further.  I flew back last Thursday from Mexico City.  Landed at JFK at 15:00, picked up a rental, drove out to my parents and packed a few things both for business and to drop off a few things at this house since the plan was to move in over the weekend.  I was in Bethlehem by 20:00 and in bed by 22:00, exhausted from all of the traveling, the meeting went well on Friday.  I met the landlord’s dad and gave him a check, had my keys and moved in.  Drove back to Long Island and picked up a falafel at Venus in Northport, $10 for the thing and ate it quickly over the sink at Ma Pa’s…up on Saturday.  Blood work for the insurance and met Emma, Matt and Joe for a late lunch.  Ate dinner at Lou’s, pizza in front of a roaring fire and yet I missed Meli.  It seemed like a whirlwind, I was there with her and back in Northport and gradually we were getting on with our lives.  The same can be said with this new place.  I am here and getting on with my life.  The goal is to locate an inexpensive house for us.  I want to be close enough to see the kids and yet far enough to afford something reasonable.  I can feel myself babbling in this entry or maybe it won’t be anything?  I went into the office today.  It’s the first time in years I went into the office to work and it felt good.  Saw familiar faces, had a coffee, participated in meetings, face to face and sat in a cubicle and worked.  Actually, I enjoyed it.  On lunch break I came back to this area and picked up a few things at the supermarket, made a sandwich and ate quickly before getting back into the office.  The commute is only 10 minutes.  I may do this more often until I buy some plastic bags or plastic wrap for my sandwich and drinks.  I’m looking forward to learning more about the business I am in; all of the facets while still maintaining my selling goals.  After work, I ran for about 6 miles through a converted railroad line which is now a nature trial.  I saw a blue bird, never before have I seen the state bird of New York – this was the first time in Pennsylvania.  I crossed over bridges, which covered cold streams that led to streams, carrying melting snow.  I saw couples walking, a man walking his dog who ignored my hello.  A woman who ran past me, way to go since she had a great pace, and then it was growing darker and the end of trial was in sight and I was grateful to discover my new path.  I think my love is out for the night.  I’ll call her before I slip to sleep.
 Thank you for reading this.  

When spirits flood the night, Day of the Dead in Mexico

              John Coltrane, Love Supreme is playing on the CD player he bought at the Thrift Store in East Northport, it was a gift he wanted to give himself for months.  The five-dollar investment is a good one since listening to the whole album while writing was something he would do at his parent’s house – last year.  The music and the writing was his escape, his refuge.  Tonight is not that much different than the other nights last year when he wrote.

              His youngest is not talking to him, needs some space so he gives his baby as much space as she needs.  The other children are talking to him and his ex his reassuring them, he is not abandoning them. Not in the slightest, but it is difficult for the youngest, although she is fifteen - this is all new and everything new will be new and she, like the rest of the family will need to process the divorce.  Not that it will get easier, it will become acceptable like a limp. 

              The CD skipped for a second and maybe the five bucks was not a great bargain after all, but the radio works and there is a tape player. 

              The younger ones are in a play tonight and he is in his room, keeping the requested distance and he is alright at this time. 

              The CD skipped again, and now John Coltrane is chanting, Love Supreme.

              He closes his eyes and listens to the drums, rim shots, the piano, McCoy Tyner and the bass and the full sound fills in the empty spaces.

              Martin listens to the wind outside.  Meli is at the movies with a friend, she looked beautiful when she Face timed him, he told her so.

              Last Friday, they were together in Taxco, Mexico celebrating Day of the Dead.  Colorful banners swayed in the night breezes and it began to rain lightly which was a rarity, one of the taxi drivers explained to Meli.  Martin thought it had to do with him, being one of the few gringos in the town.  He noticed a few others and wanted to see if they were like him, a lean middle aged man walking and kissing a woman who was decades younger than he was, but he did not linger too long on the thought since age was something he accepted instead of letting it crack the joy in their relationship.  It was a thought and he let it pass.

               She is the happiest person in the world and he has not laughed as much with anyone.

              Meli wanted to get her face painted and she urged him to do it, this could be the only time he celebrated Day of the Dead, and he should get it done.  He reluctantly agreed and in a few minutes found himself sitting on a bench as a high school girl applied white cream and powder and then black onto his face.  Meli reached out and they held hands as the girls talked to one another about an ex-boyfriend, the one putting makeup on him said he was with someone new, but at least she wore his school jacket before his new girlfriend.  Meli explained what they were talking about. 

              “Instead of thinking about him, you should be focused on your math.”

              “Yeah right.”

              He was done in five minutes, eyed the armed police in the square with some concerns especially since they carried loaded machine guns and there were a lot of them off to one corner of the square.  Some women were talking to them as slowly they sipped their Coke bottles.  

              It began to rain harder and yet they walked around the village, holding hands and taking selfies.  They spoke to her mother and father, and it looked like they’d just woke up her old man, who barely said a word to Martin.

              “Honey, we should go to the cemetery, it’s part of the tradition.  There’s a fair there and music and you can how the families celebrate their loved ones.” 

              Visiting a cemetery did not appeal to Martin in the slightest, he recalled the small cemeteries outside the villages in Guatemala, they were barren, the crypts or the brick forms which contained the bones let in the light of the day and he did not want to go there at night, visions of rats crawling out of the dark spaces were creeping him out.

              “I don’t know.”

              “Honey, this could be your only time to celebrate, Day of the Dead,” she said and smiled at him with her made-up face and he smiled back.

              “Well, ok, whatever you say.”

              “It will be fun, you will see.”

              Taxco is the city where VW Beetles are everywhere, the taxi drivers pulled out the front passenger seat, the passenger door has a cord attached to it, so the driver can pull the door shut after the passenger leaves.  There is normally a crucifix dangling from the rear view mirror, the back seat could be in good shape or not.  The ceiling sometimes droops down at times on his head.  The experienced drivers take off, beeping before every blind spot, racing down hills, through narrow roads where passengers better walk in single file or they will get hit…dogs dart out and back and if the traffic is slow will be nudged out of the way by a careless bumper.

              They made it to the cemetery and paid the driver and stepped out.  Martin saw a drunk woman laughing loudly.  It was a fair.  He felt out of the place, not only being a gringo in the town, but the tallest in the crowd and ready to call it a night. 

              “Honey, over here.”

              The place was a muddy mess. It was a wet fair where beer was abundant.  There were rides, music and games and they walked up a step, past some vendors who were selling food just before the gates to the cemetery.  Colored lights bounced off the bano and they we walked into the silent darkness.

              His breathing was calm.  They walked up a narrow lane past the lit chambers, the glass enclosures, the pictures, when they were living and able to smile for the camera, and now alas their families waited in this world with patience.

              Filling the night with folk songs they walked and greeted the others and scared the children who thought they were the dead. 

              Kissing in the light rain…the night welcomed them…

New fiction, living near the beach

9/23/18:

Working on this piece of fiction:

The ceiling fan was on slow, spinning under the dark ceiling, the fan he has used to settle his mind was turned off since it was chilly with the wind coming off the water.

           The beach is a five minute walk from the cottage.  Yesterday, he took a long run, fifteen miles to prepare for a half marathon.  After the run, he changed and walked down to the beach.  No one was in the water, it was chilly.  The water was dead low and he gingerly walked as far as he could, stepping over rocks, considering there could be shards of glass somewhere and a deep gash could be an emergency.  There were no broken bottles, but there were a lot of rocks and the further he walked away from the beach, the more rocks.  He assumed the water would get deeper.  It didn’t, staying up to his knees.  Looking out into the water, it appeared it was shallow for another 100 yards. Instead of trudging further out, he found a spot and plopped his body into the cool water.  The water was warmer than the air, and he wanted to stay in for as long as possible.  The tide was coming in, but it would be hours before he was able to run into the water and go for a real swim, perhaps the summer was over he thought as small waves crashed around his head. 

           This was supposed to be the place he could walk down to the beach at any time and get in a swim.  He could count on one hand how many times he went swimming over the summer, well maybe seven which is closer to the truth.  The sky was clear, the Connecticut cities across the Sound were clear, he could make out buildings.  He was the only soul in the water and to the folks walking on the beach, wearing jackets, Martin looked like a man desperately capturing the loss summer.  Typical for him.  Always clutching onto to the last bit of summer.

           Standing up, the swimming suit was cold against his penis.  The rocks he avoided were under his toes, and yet the water was clear enough to make out the dark objects under the salty surface.  He dressed quickly, walked back up the beach, found a broken Becks bottle of beer and tossed the shards into the sea grass, away from any unsuspecting foot or potential beach blanket. 

           Walking back to the cottage, he had one thought, taking a warm shower and yet there was the thought that the ever present homebody, Wayne the owner of the cottage where Martin rented a room would see Martin and jump into the shower.  It has happened frequently, Martin goes out for a run, who’s in the shower when he gets back?  Wayne had an hour to jump in, and yesterday, he had two full hours and even longer since Martin walked down to the beach. 

          The front door was open, music playing on his stereo and the bathroom door was closed, he called it.  Wayne was in there, either taking a shit of taking a shower.  Martin went into his room and heard the shower and gave him the finger.

Thank you for reading this

Grateful for my ex-wife

           You may have noticed there have been minimal entries on this blog.  Starting today, that is going to change.  Funny, I have seen too many entries in stale blogs that started this way, the blogger regretting not posting as much and perhaps not writing as much? 

There are reasons for not posting which I will describe in some detail for you.  I’ve been writing for this blog and have a few that I may post at a later date, but I wanted to get this one out today.  I’ve thought about it for a few weeks and here we go.

Ali and I are in the process of a divorce.  A former therapist and perhaps an attorney would suggest I use the phrase, “We have come to a mutual decision that our marriage should come to an end.”  Sounds formal.  It does not explain what occurred or why or who is to blame.  Let me be clear, I accept responsibility for my behavior that led to this “mutual decision.”  Let’s move on.

Instead of explaining what happened, I would like to say that I appreciate the years I had with Ali.  I was a witness, watching a shy 18-year-old teenager become an articulate and strong woman.  I watched how she grew from a timid and insecure young mother, not sure if our children would love her - to a mom with wealth of knowledge, love and compassion.  The children adore their mom.  I want to say, thank you for your mothering and raising four incredible individuals.

I want to thank her for the years we had together.  There were some rough patches when my fear and insecurities were evident and I was harsh to her and the children at times.  I would not put myself in the category as abusive, but on occasions I was harsh. 

  Throughout the years, we had some amazing memories, sitting outside in those summer nights and waiting for a shooting star, sitting in the shallow water and watching the minnow’s nipple on our feet and legs.  Spending time at her grandparent’s house, learning what being a family was all about - in the Italian tradition.  The decades of New Year’s Eve’s at her parents, starting at Nana and Pop’s and the trips we took with her parents into NYC, DC and Baltimore.  Add all of the trips to Disney World, cruises, auto trains, I cherish those times.  I miss those times and miss my family.

I was grateful waking up next to Ali.  Not too happy when she woke me up with her snores, but I enjoyed watching her sleep in.  I enjoyed making her laugh which was difficult to do, but she has a great laugh and when her giggling starts, it does not stop!  I’m going to miss those opportunities.  I hope she shares her laughter will someone else when she feels the time is right.

I am grateful to have had wife like Ali.  She was a good friend and I hope eventually, we can maintain some kind of friendship.  Tomorrow, will be two weeks since we signed the divorce paperwork.  Afterwards, we walked outside together to the hot parking lot, both of us cried and held each other.  I told her that she’s moving on.  We’re both moving on.  She’s in the process of buying her first home, within the school district which she serves a board member and keeping Joe and Bella in-place to graduate with their friends and classmates.  She's holding so much together and yet it was time for our marriage to end with the stroke up a pen.  In six to eight months, on a cold winter day, we will be officially divorced.  

          Thank you for reading this.

Henry Rollins and his picture show arrived in Philadelphia for two nights

1/29/18 

Henry Rollins played two shows at Philadelphia’s Trocadero Theatre.  The first night was sold out.  My brother and I were there.   We ate dinner across the street at a little hole in the wall. We ate there before.  The food is served fast and fresh and is delicious and cheap.  Dave is familiar with the waitress, “You should have seen her ten years ago, she was hot.  I know she doesn’t look like it now.”  Our waitress barely squeaked a word and wore a dark green combat jacket and a scarf inside the cold place. Somehow my brother could still find her beauty underneath the layers. 

Rollins.  Let me tell you, I was surprised.  This show was not the spoken word performance I have been to.  I wrote about a few shows in this blog.  The last Rollins show was meant to be my last for The Henry, but time heals all wounds as they say.  Maybe my soon to be ex is reading this?  I can see her shaking her head.  I digress. 

This show was different, he said and he did as he said: I will stand on stage right, which is to your left and I will stand here through the night so you can see the pictures I have taken.  Something like that. 

Rollins, the world traveler, the repeater of certain jokes like his impersonation of George W and the man’s struggles to speak.

The story of riding a train through the winter in Siberia.  Who would want to travel to Siberia in the winter, only Rollins since it's a good story.  Eating on said train and vomiting in shared public restroom.  I have to add, his description of the intense cold – stabbing you in the bones, the way his breath hung in the frost air for seconds before collapsing was classic Rollins - hysterical.

Vivid pictures appeared on a screen to the center. His appreciation for the diverse people he met and who he took pictures of was like peering into Rollins’ mind for a couple of hours.  He has traveled over the world, 130 countries, 7 continents, including a rehashed piece about his penguin adventure in Antarctica.  There were some rehashing, but not too many.

This was not a night of celebrity worship.  It was a night when we can see many sides of the shared planet.  To listen to Henry tell us about a boy in an orphanage who was lost in mind and spirit, I share his picture.  Nothing could break the child's spell or inner pain.  The desperate mother digging through a mountain of garbage with her children, her left hand outstretched as if she was poking into some hideous.  Her daughter smiles to the camera.  The Buddhist monks, his description of why he liked the picture, the orange robes in contrast to the white bowls. 

The last picture I am sharing is when he auditioned for Black Flag.  It's in inspiring story of a young Rollins taking a risk to follow his passion.

Rollins was not there to objectify.   He wants to share their stories in front of audiences who can pay for a night out, and may never want to see parts of the world which is ravaged by war, poverty and starvation.  Yet, it was in these places he dared to go that he discovered humanity – true generosity was abundant, sharing whatever little they had. He felt safe.  He can tell us that there is nothing to fear.  Iranians are good people, so are Syrians and North Koreans.  We are all one for a brief dot in time.  I hope you can catch this show.

Thank you for reading this

Pema Chodron - Three Objects, Three Poisons, Three Seeds of Virtue