There and back again...

Up early, off to breakfast. Denny’s! Back home to write for a while, then off to the garage to paint. Have begun to believe the renovation will never end. Granite countertops are allegedly being cut, and once finished, should allow the rest of the work to move forward. But who knows? Meanwhile, no electricity, wires dangling from sockets, and no plumbing in place. Clinging to the hope that, at some point, the workers will shift into high gear because they can’t stand the project any longer either.

Miraculously, the lawn isn’t dead. Big rains keep trailing in, and overcast skies have kept things cool. Bad haze the past two days, though, owing the terrible fires in the northwest.

A while back, in early June, the New Yorker ran a special section called “My Old Flame.” One of the pieces, “Good Legs” by Joshua Ferris, caught my attention. Re-read it today, and had to marvel again at its craftsmanship. It’s a short piece, as were the others, but quite muscular in its compactness. So much story in such a small space. 

Indigestible food for thought...

Heavy rains last night. Then again this afternoon. Good day for writing, though. A lot accomplished in a short time.

Did a little painting out in the garage, preparing for week (sigh) ten of the renovation. Had to stop when the deluge began.

Grocery shopping this evening. With no oven, no stove, and only a microwave to work with, the spectrum of edible food narrows considerably--each pre-packaged entrée taking on a shade so uniquely and horrifyingly its own, you find you find yourself explaining the reason for its purchase with the checkout clerk.

That said, Swanson’s pork and gravy for dinner!

 

Calling it a day...

Spent the early part of the morning in front of the keyboard. Later, checked on some minor progress in the kitchen (patching and mudding). Week nine of the renovation is creeping to a close with almost nothing new to see.

Wrote and posted a review on Amazon today for James Hanna’s The Siege. Told him to think fondly of me if his sales reach a million, and he wrote back promising me a role in the movie. What more could I ask for? He’s a good writer. Hope things go well for him.

The New Yorker arrived in the mail yesterday. Looking forward to reading it. I’m currently without a novel in hand, so will have to go on the hunt for something new. Part of me wants to pull an old classic off the shelf. Another part of me wants to re-read Don Delillo’s Underworld. Maybe I’ll do both.

Dinner and a movie...

Early evening. Just got back from dinner out. Mostaccioli at Luigi’s. Wine in the foreground, Sinatra in the background. Does it get better than that? I don’t think so.

Had a brief email exchange earlier today with Toby Smith, author of the Dempsey piece, Kid Blackie, I’ve been mentioning in my last few entries. Learned Rocky Mountain PBS is airing a special on Smith and his incredibly entertaining book in October. The 2nd, to be precise.

Kid Blackie has been in print close to 30 years, but I’m sure Mr. Smith would say the release of the documentary is impeccably timed. Finding an audience—no matter how long it takes—is always gratifying. Good luck to him, and congratulations on his hard work.

Works and days...

Week nine of the kitchen renovation, and no one showed up for work today. Drove into the office beneath overcast skies, and settled in to writing with a cup of tea and a peanut butter sandwich.

Had another good morning at the keyboard. How do you strike a balance between spontaneity and caution? One day the former works, the next day the latter. This is why we speak of revisions in the plural. You rarely accomplish things in the first pass.

Dempsey book is wonderful. Can’t read it without remembering road trips from the past. Next time I pass through Montrose, it will be a different town. Same with Telluride…Ouray…Creede…Steamboat Springs.

There goes the sun...

“Ere the thunder comes the rain.” Socrates’ line in Wife of Bath’s Tale, right? Xanthippe rails, and when the great man gives her the dust-off, she dumps a piss-pot on his head.

Anyway, it’s raining.

It’s raining and the workday is all but over, and tomorrow is officially mid-week.

More tweaking on the hunter story this morning. It’s slowly finding its mark. Also finished Jim Hanna’s debut novel, The Siege. Hanna is a pleasant man and a fine writer, and I wish him great success marketing the book.

Have a copy of the Kenyon Review on my nightstand, waiting to be read. But now, thanks to the rain, I’ve got Chaucer on the brain.

 

Time and time again...

6:21 pm. Same as yesterday’s entry. Suddenly I believe in the second gunman.

Didn’t sleep much last night, but felt rested just the same. Coffee pot was on the fritz. Looks like instant tomorrow.

Got some good work done on a story that seems to keep getting longer and longer. Hope deeper comes into play at some point, too. Enjoying the twists and turns, even though I know half of what I’m doing will end up in the trash. I love not knowing what’s coming down the pike. Around the next corner. I love hacking to bits what I liked the day before.

Spent some time with the electrician this morning. Week nine of the renovation is now in play. Still moving sockets around, trying to appease the Code Nazis.

Devoted the afternoon to commercial work. Articles for a local magazine. The change of pace was enjoyable, all things considered. Didn’t get out all day, but felt otherwise owing to the pieces I was working on.

Side note. Three types of clients you never want to work for if your livelihood runs to advertising: Doctors, lawyers, and engineers. If you’re in the business, this needs no explaining.

This, that, and the other...

6:21 pm. Kitties are wrestling on the floor. Hard to tell who’s winning. Beautiful summer morning interrupted by Eric the Reluctant, who dropped by to explain why he wouldn’t be working today. Waved him off and went back to writing. Made good headway on a draft, then cleaned up and left to see a movie. Back home now, enjoying a bloody, bloody Mary.

Got a good rain yesterday evening, which brought the lawn back from the brink of extinction. Still no electricity in the north part of the house, so by extension, no way to activate the sprinkler system making the downpour a welcome sight. Who knows, there may still be a way to salvage the grass that’s left. Or at least keep anymore from dying off before the fall replanting can take place.

Enjoying the Dempsey book a great deal. Need to finish The Siege, soon, so I can write my review. Meanwhile, more painting to attend to. Also, some new writing projects. The summer is slipping by faster than I imagined. Feel the passing of time more palpably than ever before. Lots to do! No time for looking back, no time for regrets.

Progress. Better late than never...

6:32 pm. Up early, wrote till 11:00, cut the lawn, then off to the garage to paint the kitchen baseboards and plinth blocks. Plinth. Always loved that word. First ran into it on Jeff Beck’s solo LP, Truth, back in the sixties. Great songs. Great record. Including maybe the finest instrumental of “Greensleeves” I’ve ever heard, played (as Beck noted somewhere on the album sleeve) on Mickey Most’s guitar.

Anyway, baseboards were primed, old doors and windows were carted off to the ReStore, and much was accomplished. The kitchen cabinets have all been installed, the new appliances are in the garage, waiting to be wired, and things are moving forward.

Found a volume of Richard Brautigan short stories I’d misplaced and had a chance to read a few pages after getting cleaned up. Funny, and deceptively well written. Need to spend more time reacquainting myself with the stories. He’s the sort of writer that inspires you to pick up pen and have at it—kick caution to the curb and spill your guts. 

Life Al Dente...

7:54 pm. Discovering the joys of braces, in small. Picks, brushes, flosses, dyes. More brushes. Threading devices. Want to remember this experience. Been putting myself in the shoes of a teenager and thinking I’ve got it better—lots better—than any kid. No classmates ragging on me. No worries of locking lips, and hardware, with girls. No anything.

Been reading (and enjoying) a book, The Seige, by James Hanna, editor of the Sand Hill Review. Took a small detour this morning to add Tobias Wolff to the mix. Then the opening pages of a slim biography of Jack Dempsey by Toby Smith, a writer who's worked for, among many others, Sports Illustrated. The book’s called Kid Blackie: Jack Dempsey’s Colorado Days. Enjoying it all.

Worked on a couple of stories this morning, including the one about the wayward hunters. Attended to business with the contractors as well, and managed to get in a much-appreciated twenty winks with the cats—both of whom seem appreciative of the new dental work, and both of whom offered their kitty encouragement.

 

Second childhood...

Woke up, went downstairs to talk to the cabinet installer, put in time at the keyboard, then traipsed off to the orthodontist to get braces. Yeah. Braces. After all these years.

Been threatening to write a memoir about my early days in Wisconsin, and think maybe now’s the time to start sorting through my notes. While I’m looking and feeling like a fourteen year old dork. 

Have a lot of good material. Enough to make a book? I don’t know. But as long as I’m in composition-mode, may as well give it a shot. What's the worst that can happen?

Switching gears...

4:40 pm. Thunder and rain. Back home kitchen cabinets are being installed, and a new double door’s being hung in the entryway to the basement. Progress at last!

Enjoyed a good morning composing. Good in the sense that many words found their way to the page. We’ll see how the rest goes. Been having a sluggish go with revisions, so decided to switch gears. Relegate time to drafting rather than rewriting.

A couple of new stories have been floating around in my head. I’m excited to see them on paper. Today’s draft was the start of a piece for which I have high hopes. A story of two inept hunters, lost in the wood (metaphorically speaking), looking for an honorable way home.

 We’ll see where it goes.

The Here and now meets the hereafter

4:59 pm. Cloudy with a small chance of murder. Kitchen cabinets arrived. They’re stowed in the garage, ready for an early morning installation. Eric the Reluctant (carpenter at large) is sanding something—presumably a doorframe—on the back gate of his pickup. He has a Marlboro dangling from his bottom lip, and the glazed look of hard liquor nights in his eyes. Today is the start of week eight, renovation time. The concept of eternity is being played out on my own property with chop saws and nail guns.

Difficult decisions lie ahead. What they will be, no one knows. Meanwhile, there is painting. Lots and lots and lots of painting.

One last word about the road trip. Stopped in the town of San Luis on Sunday, and walked the Stations of the Cross up to the domed church at the top of the mesa. What an unforgettable experience. The bronze sculpture groups, which are 2/3 life size, are beautiful and moving, and seeing them in situ, on the hillside, made them even more so. Would like to go back sometime—Good Friday, maybe—and do it all again.  

Next stop, Santa Fe

9:12 am. Albuquerque. Choking down a cup of motel coffee, making ready for an afternoon jog to Santa Fe. Strange night's sleep. Dreamed of a bull running through my livingroom, tracking meadow muffins everywhere.

 

Holiday weekend...

July 3, 2013. On the road. (No Internet service to post)

Drove west through the Spanish Peaks country of the San Jan valley to the town of Manassa. Home of the legendary boxer, Jack Dempsey.

The Jack Dempsey museum is in Dempsey’s childhood home. A log cabin with a stone fireplace. Admission was free. Out front is a near life-size bronze of the man in his gloves and trunks, a scowl on his face. Inside is a treasure-trove of memorabilia. News clippings, photographs, trophies. Dempsey’s gloves and shoes. A blue ring robe.

Many, many original photos with Dempsey and other celebrities. Heads of state. Movie stars. Sports figures. A copy of the George Bellows’ oil, “Dempsey and Firpo,” hanging on one of the walls.

A city park (you guessed it, Jack Dempsey Park) skirts the east side of the cabin. Away on a fence on the south side is a billboard-sized painting of Dempsey, alone in the ring, headlined the “Manassa Mauler.”

A small woman with black hair and a kind smile was looking after things. She was well informed on the topic of Dempsey’s life. Bought some postcards and a book about Dempsey before leaving.

Manassa is twenty miles from state highway 101. You travel though high desert county much like southwest Wyoming to get there. The town is in a small green valley circled by mountains. Hard, pretty land.

Along the way, saw a deer standing in alfalfa field. The alfalfa was chest high, and she seemed to be catching the mist off a nearby irrigation pipe while she fed. In San Luis, saw a marijuana dispensary called La Casa Cannabis.

 

July 4th Post:

Found a place called the "Greater World Earthship Community" on the road between Taos and Albuquerque. Adobe castles made of wine bottles, discarded tires, and glass. Several helpings of wine are not making the description any easier. In fact, I'm reminded of a scene (I don't know why)  in the Beatles's first movie, "A Hard Day's Night," when a curmudgeonly man on a train says to Ringo Starr, "I fought the war for your sort," and Ringo replies, "I bet you're sorry you won." Happy Independence Day to all!

Stuck in the doldrums...

Burning bushes are in the ground. Next on the agenda, a ton of dirt to smooth over the peaks and valleys left behind by the tree removal and stump grinding men. Then grass seed. Will have to wait for next spring to pass judgment on what we’ve done to the yard.

Same holds for the neighbors. Everybody on the block got hit hard by the big hailstorm back in May, so we’re all taking turns having things repaired or replaced. Another new roof went up across the street. A partial down the block. Ours comes in the fall, when the kitchen renovation’s finished.

Been working like hell, but having a hard time getting enthusiastic about anything. Not sure why. Maybe it’s the gloomy weather…or the general feeling that, despite the wheels turning, we don’t seem to be going anywhere. Anyway, nothing’s fun right now. Not even reading.

Maybe I'm amazed...

Interview of Joy Williams in the new Paris Review. Won’t have time to read it until tomorrow. (Five unplanted burning bushes are awaiting the spade.)

Recall Williams once saying that a writer should be smart, but not too smart. Dumb enough to break himself to harness.

Remember Ray Carver saying something similar. That writers don't need to be the smartest guy on the block. Just smart enough to be amazed by simple things.

Those words hit me this morning when I got after a badly-written paragraph, ripped it apart, and discovered a good story beneath. 

 

Wood, and Other Observations...

7:44 pm. Just back from a walk around the neighborhood. House smells of glue and sealing agents thanks to the hardwood floor men who put in a good half day’s work before packing up and driving off to the corner tavern.

It would probably be right to feel sorrow for the oak trees who gave their lives to become the kitchen floor, but seven weeks into the renovation, there is no quarter asked or given. It’s every tree-hugging son of an acorn to himself!