Sunshine, Killer Bees, Graduation and Broccoli: Days 4 and 5

"Inspiring"

 

 

Thursday (5/19)

 

Waking up to partly clear blue skies, I do my daily morning routine and then in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, I grab David Matias’ book of poetry and my camera and climb over the dune- down the other side to the beach.  On the bluff to my left, outside the Tasha shack, I see a man at his easel painting.  Behind his shack, clothes hang out to dry- blowing in the wind.  We are both intent on taking advantage of the good weather while it lasts.  Funny enough, I don’t drive out to the beach in L.A. all that often.  Yet I’d make the trip from my place downtown out to Chrissy Field every day to walk my dog, Jake, when I lived in San Francisco.  I love the water and here in Provincetown it is just a short walk or bike ride away from any point in town.  On the sand, I sit and soak up the morning sun after four days of cloudy and rainy skies.

 

Finishing David’s hauntingly beautiful book(tears blurring my vision through most of it- especially “Madre”), I lie back- looking towards Europe(or Spain or someplace- I’m so turned around) and think about Kathryn’s graduation ceremony taking  place tomorrow night.  The sun feels so good and the empty beach is absolutely spectacular.  Listening to and watching the water’s movement is a great meditative tool for me, so I just sit for awhile longer before gathering my things and heading back to the shack.

 

It feels warm enough that I decide to give the shower a try.  I climb up onto the roof of the garage storage area to check the water supply and open the valve of the large plastic drum.  The hose is hot, so if I’m quick, I can get a warm shower.  Then he appears, determined to stop me.  Over the roof, like a B-52 bomber, he comes at me ready to strike.  This is no honey bee, this guy has bulk and speed and wears an intimidating jet black and bright yellow outfit.  But it’s just one bee and I won’t be intimidated, so I go get my towel, soap and shampoo.  Just as I am about to drop trou, he shows up with two of his buddies and they’re not shy either.  Their buzzing and diving and hovering right in front of my face tells me that they want me out of their space.  The first sunny day and the chance for a warm shower after three days of sink bathing, and these thugs won’t let me be.  From inside my shack, I stare them down through the kitchen window and hope for more rain.

 

I write for the rest of the day.

 

 

Friday (5/20)

 

The second day of cloud breaking blue skies,  I eat a Kellogg’s Special K strawberry breakfast bar, an apple and three slices of fried Italian salami with melted cheese before I sit down to write.  I try several methods of brainstorming ideas and write all afternoon long.  It is my most productive writing day.

 

By late afternoon, I make my “conGRADulations” sign for Kathryn and write a post dedicated to her while listening to the silky smooth timber of John Tesh’s voice.  So this is what happened to him.  Between each musical break, John offers up important information on how to improve the quality of one’s life, including three questions to ask yourself before getting married- as if to suggest that by answering these questions honestly, you’ll know whether marriage with that certain someone will last.  Way to break it down John.

 

As the sun goes down, I pour a glass of wine to toast the shadows in honor of Kathryn’s graduation that is taking place now- somewhere in the San Francisco Bay.  I lean against the wall in my bedroom, embracing the quiet and think to myself, “It’s been a really great day.”  Then after a moment, I smell the aroma of cooked broccoli– only, I didn’t cook any broccoli.  On this warmest day of my stay, with no cool breeze or heavy winds, the compost toilet seems to have gas, oh shit!

 

 To Be Continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 3: The Writing Process

"Pen Poised"

 

Wednesday (5/18)

 

 As I sit here, on this third full day of my artist’s retreat at Fowler, I consider the phrase that plagues most would-be phenoms: “the struggling artist.”  Being a great artist is not an easy feat- which is why there are so few of us.  People often mistakenly think that if they just work hard enough, they will reach greatness- sold on the ridiculous notion that hard work pays off.  And though it will probably fall on deaf ears(eyes)- not recognizing this astonishingly charitable act on my part- I’m going to give you a glimpse at my creative process.

 

After my morning bath(still too cold to try to shower with the hose outside), I eat a lite breakfast(one hard-boiled egg, an apple, a piece of bread with peanut butter and honey on it, a handful of pistachios and a Hershey’s miniature- Special Dark) to help feed the mind.  Exercising my focus and discipline, I wash the knife used for the peanut butter and then tidy up every single corner of the shack, replenish all the wood in the cabin and on the deck and stoke the fire before I sit down- prepared to write.

 

The weather is conducive to a long stretch of inspired writing(or another daytime nap) and with that, my juices begin to flow and the words leap from pen to page.  Time passes quickly and ten minutes later, I’ve got a complete list of all my trip’s expenses to date.  Itemized and in chronological order; it is succinct, clear and to the point- bordering on brilliant.  Riding this wave of creative genius, I pen the perfect synopsis of everything left to do to the exterior of my house back in L.A. and the guesstimated associated costs.  Of course I can’t be certain but instinctively, I feel as though something special is happening in this moment- it’s a sixth sense that we great artists have.

 

Throughout the morning, I stay hydrated with green tea, water and then multiple glasses of wine.  Constantly nourishing my mind, I graze on just about everything that I brought in the way of edible supplies.  I realize that by now, you novices are scratching your heads and asking, “How does it come so easy for him?”  The truth is, it is a God-given gift.  By late morning, I take a break from all the genius surging through my fingertips and decide to slow my pace.  After all, I only wanted to outline one book during this trip- not a whole series.

 

I would like to be able to share my full day’s writing experience with you all but as I alluded to earlier- it’s probably incomprehensible to most of you anyway.  And so, at this moment- before I get back to my very important work out here in the dunes, I leave you with a couple posed questions and one last contemplative thought to help with any half-hearted writing exercise that you might attempt:

 

“What is the story that I want to tell?” and “Who the hell cares?”

 

And finally, “Try harder or hardly try?”  A true great artist knows the answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shacked: Days 1 and 2

"Walk in the Dunes"

 

 

Monday (5/16)

 

On this cold wet morning, I bathe naked at the sink with heated water from the stove top.  Tim would hate this.  Face, hair, underarms and everything below the waist- in that order (please remember what the green dish towel is being used for and don’t mistakenly dry dishes with it during the week).  I like being naked man within my plywood and planked walls and I begin to laugh, thinking that with each passing year I become more and more like my father.

 

After two failed attempts to get a fire started, I grab my windbreaker and go for a cold Cape walk.  Violent waves pound the seashore as I watch a few hungry seagulls dive for fish and one lonely seal bob along the turbulent coastline.  Looking out at all the drama in the sea, I wonder how the Life Saving Personnel- that inhabited these shacks over 100 years ago- performed their jobs.  Back in the shack, I channel my father’s gift for making roaring fires and I’m able to ignite the charm of number three.  With orange and red hues glowing through the glass window, the black iron box does its job well and heats the room quickly.  For the rest of the rainy day, I surrender myself to Richard’s worldview and finish his wonderful book.

 

At 8:30pm, the rain comes down hard and darkness engulfs the exterior and interior of the shack.  I decide to go to bed.  I miss Tim.

 

Tuesday (5/17)

 

It is particularly cold with torrential downpours(that might be slightly exaggerated but when you’re living in a shack with no insulation, electricity or flushing toilet- isn’t everything already exaggerated?).  The place holds up well and I have now mastered the pot belly stove.  I scramble a few eggs and fry a couple thick slices of salami in the well seasoned cast iron pan.  Tangerine flavored Emergen-C washes everything down and gets me set for my day.  The kitchen is very well equipped- making me wish that I had been  more adventurous in my shopping.  Then again, more cooking means more cleaning.  And the more water you use means more trips to the well.  So perhaps I made all the right decisions for my first stay at Fowler.

 

The rain stops, so I walk into the interior of the dunes to explore.  Following the road that leads to and from the shack, I see fresh coyote tracks and pause to weigh how much I might be willing to encounter one or more of these scrappy canines.  What the hell, “I’m a badass in a polo shirt,” right Keseh?  Guided by the tire tracks of permitted vehicles, things look both familiar and unfamiliar.  I see three other shacks along the way.  I prefer the word “shack” versus the sometimes interchangeable word, “cottage.”  Possessing a great sense of direction, I know that despite my momentary bouts of self-doubt, I’m confident about where this road will lead.  Under my windbreaker, sweater and t-shirt, the sweat begins to form and my legs feel tight and heaving trekking through the sand.  I recognize the last dune in front of me from last summer and can now hear the sounds of the waves.  Reaching the top, I look down at the same spot where Russ, Rick, Marcelo, Doni, Jr, Bill and myself had our clambake last year.  The sea is angrier today than it was yesterday.  I dig my sneakers into the sand and march against the blowing wind as the ocean spray from the crashing waves hits my face.  By every measure, it’s magical.

 

Opening a bottle of Malbec(thank God that I wasn’t foolish enough to follow through on making this turn in solitude a wineless event), I pull down the shack’s two log books from the shelf on the wall and take them outside to read on the porch.  It is very interesting to hear the voices of the previous tenants in these pages.  After reading Michael Lyons’ entry- my email pal and initial portal to Fowler- I went inside to find David Matias’ book of poetry, Fifth Season.  After reading the first two poems, “Concealed” and “Selfish,” tears roll down my face.  It is a moving book of poetry and it reminds me of what the late ’80′s and mid-’90′s were like for a lot of people in the gay community and I remember my friend Patrick.

 

It’s time to begin my own writing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fowler: First Impression

"Little House in the Dunes"

 

Sunday (5/15)

One, two, three- up and over the first dune with dapper dune man, Chip, in his sturdy Ford Ranger.  One bag of clothing, a book bag and $168.00 worth of groceries and supplies in the bed of his truck-  did I bring too much, not enough?  Still looking more like frozen tundra than rolling hillsides of green reeds and white sand, we made our way out to Fowler.

 

“This should bloom this week,” Chip says about the shrub in front of the shack as we unload my belongings.  The tie dye New Yorkers are all packed up and ready to go.  “We had a great time,” they say and offer me their leftover cookies and crackers.  Chip gives me the run down on the compost toilet, the well pump, the firewood and the stove.  I hope that I can recall everything he’s said when needed.  And with that, they are off, leaving me standing in the middle of my shack- alone in the dunes.

 

Listening to the classical station that they left playing on the small transistor radio, I begin to adjust to my new surroundings.  The cabin is reminiscent of my sixth grade camp experience- minus the sixth graders, counselors and running water or electricity.  After putting the things that I brought in their place, I boil half of the dozen eggs- saving the rest to scramble or fry during the week and enjoy the heat of the stove as the temperature cools outside.

 

The quiet is a bit unsettling at first, so I decide to lie down on the couch and read my friend Richard Heller’s book Blueprints.  Waking from a late afternoon nap, not because Richard’s book put me to sleep but because it’s so damn quiet and cozy next to this pot belly stove, I go outside to pee.  Chip advised me that it is better for the toilet not to have too much liquid and heck, it’s not like anybody is watching- or so I thought.  While relieving myself, I look to my right and see the brown and white spotted rabbit that is rumored to live under the shack-  “Hello Bunny.”  Before it gets dark, I walk the 1,000 or so yards over the dune behind the shack to see the Atlantic- with all her wonder and vastness- for the first time this trip.  This will be an act of solitude; a lesson in loneliness.

 

Writing by the flickering light of the paraffin fueled lamp in my rustic little space, I feel a bit like Laura Ingels Wilder if Walnut Grove had been a New England seashore town.  “Good night, Pa.”  I slip into my sleeping bag around 9:00pm, I’m not all that tired but want to be rested for my first full day at Fowler.  The sound of rural quietness can be so loud: creaking noises, howling winds and intermittent rain drops hitting the roof.  Then every scene of every horror film that I’d ever seen infiltrated my thoughts- driving my attention to the two axes used for kindling just outside the back door.  I was deathly afraid of the dark as a child.  Too alert to quiet my mind, I take half an ambien to help ease me to sleep.  I stir once or twice when the wind and rain become rhythmic and ten hours later wake to the sound of crashing waves and the feel of a cool damp morning.

 

 

Blueprints

"Buy It"

 

 

Standing in our living room, with his family and friends seated and standing before him and a bottle of Talisker by his feet- Richard Heller read a few passages aloud from his recently published book Blueprints.  I bowed my head and closed my eyes, not wanting to be disturbed by those around.  I just wanted to hear his words; his voice.

 

The room and the house that Tim and I created were meant to serve us and others this way- to celebrate life’s moments.  In our quest to build a home, the design was deliberately drafted to create a space for family and friends.  But for reasons that I now know Richard can fully understand and appreciate, I distanced myself from my home and closed it off to others for a period of time.

 

During this dormant period, Richard was the one person sharing our space while putting the finishing touches on his book.  Our neighbor of nine years, tenant for nearly two, our friend and family member- Richard and Lyra and Daniel have become part of our lives.  When I returned from Provincetown last fall, I learned that Richard- in what seemed like no time at all- found a publisher for his first book.  Without pause, I offered our home as the perfect place for his book signing party.  And on Saturday, April 25th, as I leaned against the frame of my open front door, Richard’s steady stream of words helped to breathe new life into our home.

 

The room was filled with silence, periodic outbursts of laughter, the cracking of Richard’s voice when sharing the part about the loss of Arden, Pepsi and his beloved Curry- followed by chatter from the kitchen, not knowing that Richard had not finished reading.  Lyra sat quietly in the dining room listening to her husband’s voice.  What would have been interesting is if each person mentioned in the book- and many in attendance were- wore tags with both their real and literary names.  I had the previous pleasure of meeting and dining with Luka and June at their home and the Venice Scot shared his story with me out on our front porch, but it wasn’t until near the end of the party- after most guests had left- that I was introduced to Richard’s sister who had been there all afternoon.  Each character is so vital in the telling of Richard’s story and it is rare to find yourself surrounded by characters of a book.  Oh, what a dialogue might have ensued.

 

Blueprints is a tough book to categorize because it encompasses a lifetime of emotions on a journey that you- the reader- never tire of making.  Where you may not have lived this man’s experiences- and I would bet in large part you have not- you understand every instance he describes and nobody has ever said it  the way he does.  It is poetry in the form of a memoir that reads at times like great fiction.  More than just honest, it is a raw, tender, vulnerable and heartfelt story about a man so determined to be himself and experience love while reconciling the world around him.  Bias?  Maybe.  But I love this man and I love his book.

 

www.RichardAHeller.com

Kathryn

"Get it?"

 

Nearly seventeen years ago, I surprisingly became the proud “other dad” to a serious-minded, inquisitive and very sweet little five-year old girl named Kathryn Dana Cooper.  In our initial meeting, we stood there sizing each other up- she intimidating me far more I suspect than I did her.  And within a few moments, she welcomed me into her life and introduced me to her baby brother, Cole.

When you become a parent- either by conventional or unconventional means- at some point you earn the right to say, “I can’t believe how fast they grow up.”  This last Friday, May 20th, my daughter graduated with honors from San Francisco State University with a degree in psychology.  And although I was 3300 miles away out in a primitive dune shack on the Cape Cod National Seashore, the pride and love that I felt for her in that moment knew no boundaries.

Here are a few of the memories that I have of Kathryn over the years:  a smiling cherub faced little girl who always lovingly looked out for her younger brother, a savvy shopper who decidedly picked out just the right floppy black beret style hat one fall day in Half Moon Bay and then proudly wore it for that year’s class photo(I’m guessing the 2nd grade), her running into our bedroom one weekend morning to tell us that Nick- our psychotic Persian- had just peed all over our brand new sofa(today we still have the sofa/ we do not have Nick), watching her exercise the power of persuasion in convincing a tentative young soul to join her on Challenger’s stage for a school talent show, remembering the “I’m over it” look on her face during any of our roller blading outings along the wharf, swimming with “Karlene” in Woodside, each holiday that we shared in San Francisco, Ukiah, L.A., and mostly down at my parent’s house in North County(the times I treasure most), watching her frantically wipe her brother’s vomit off of her Pokemon binder and cards during one of those holiday road trips, picking out eighth grade graduation and prom dresses, shopping in New York and educating her about the right places to get her hair highlighted and dyed- and they don’t exist in a strip mall in Ohio, seeing her develop her own interests in theater, psychology and anything Tim Burton, going to see Hairspray, Wicked and Spring Awakening together, seeing her in Footloose, the four of us catching Sara Bareilles at the Henry Ford Theatre before she was mainstream, grimacing while teaching her to drive and hearing the rims of my Mercedes scratch against the curb, being dumbfounded that after only a few feeble attempts behind the wheel- she passed her driver’s license test first time out, being there after my father passed, watching her soar scholastically and knowing that she is guided by a strong sense of humanity and it shows in how she relates to others.  These are some of my favorite memories of watching Kathryn grow up.

Kathryn-

I love you.  I am so proud of the person that you have become and I take delight in continuing to see you grow.  You add dimension to my life for which I am grateful.  And where I had a hand in guiding your development, your accomplishments are your own.

Congratulations!

Love,

Brent