Letter to David

Dear David,

As I struggle with this computer, In my mind I’m talking to you—perhaps not the you of today that I don’t know-------------

--------That’s not true.  I think we are all born with some sort of innate soul that can survive, hopefully untarnished, by all the shit it goes through.  I believe I know this soul aspect of you.  I can see it in your work. I can see it in your son.

As I sit to write to you, I’m flooded with memories I want to share.  So many.

I remember the f­­­­irst time ever I saw you. I had gone up the mountain to Crestline on a wintery day. You and Scott Macintosh were standing on the icy street.  From that time onward your face has been etched in my memory.

A year or so later I stopped by a gathering of Long Beach students and there you were. I recognized you immediately.

You invited me to come for dinner at your place in Seal Beach.  However, when I arrived the utilities had been turned off, probably for  non-payment. Undaunted, you proceeded to break up old chairs and make a fire in the yard, you straightened some coat hangers and cooked us hot dogs. I was immediately in love with your creativity.

 I never felt any attraction to another.  I was faithful-- totally obsessed with you.  I liked it that you were jealous.  It made me feel secure. Dumb soap opera feelings.  I thought any man who saw me as less than a desirable sex object meant there was something wrong with me. Today’s “ME TOO” movement addresses this sort of bullshit. I was totally unaware.  I couldn’t understand why you were jealous and now I understand how I fueled those flames.

I’m so very sorry.

I want to express gratitude for the years we shared. You taught me to fall into the stars.  I learned to see how orange looks next to purple by watching you paint.  My life was enriched. Today it makes a pallet of my garden.  Thank you.  You have been a huge part of my life.

Especially I’m grateful for our son.  You were an excellent father.  Davene is lucky to have received so much from you--even through the influences I had from you.  I recall Davene scooting lickety-split around the studio when you were painting. When you would let the pigeons out of the cage he‘d be in your arms.  He must have assumed you controlled the sky.  Lovely.

And then we had to get rid of the pigeons when they kept shitting in the pool.  How did we manage that?

Once you picked me and Davene from the Santa Barbara airport early on a New Years Day.  I was hung over from an almost all- night party and afraid I’d vomit in your plane-- and with all those huge airplanes at LAX it was scary.  Such trust I’ve had in you.

I recall when you flew an antique two-seater plane into the Santa Fe airport and picked up Davene to fly with you to Albuquerque. Right now I see in my mind’s eye the two of you wearing goggles and warm scarfs around your necks. Somehow I was brave enough to turn the propeller and off you went.  Glory be! I felt and feel glad you are Davene’s father

When first you got your pilot’s license you took me up over the desert and did the whole gamut: loops, upside down, rotations.  I felt safe with you,

When you flew in a glider I thought of how peaceful, how quiet, for you to follow the birds on the avenues of air.

I once followed you way up an oil derrick ladder where we were going to watch the sunset. When you put your hands to hoist up on the very top it was loaded in bird shit.  Lucky you didn’t slip. We backed down.

Living in that little adobe in Tecate that  must once have been a   priest’s  abode.  We were miles down a dirt road right across from that  family that was living in an old church building.  We molded a small horno of mud to cook. They must have thought we were crazy.  They were right in that.

I drove across the border on Friday nights to serve fish dinners at a restaurant.  They also must have thought I was crazy.  Right again.

We had all that pot given to us by Mexican hitchhikers we picked up. We smoked some of it with them rolled in newspaper.

We parked outside Tiajuana near the ocean where there were empty lots begun for future development.  We were waiting for Sunday when the crowds crossed the border after the bull fights and we could cross at the same time with the pot.

It seems we had a panel truck.  You were sorting the stash for us to carry over the border the next morning.  I'd become constipated. I moved away from the truck and squatted.  There was big turd just finally leaving my anus and it wouldn't go back in and it wouldn't fall off.  Suddenly I heard “Buenas Dias, Senora,” and a bright light shone on me as I crouched.  I grabbed a handful of leaves and dabbed the       dodo the best I could.

When someone says they were scared shitless, know it may be true.

Anyway this episode gave you time to hide the stash. The policeman wasn't paying a bit of attention to you.  Amazing we didn't get busted.  Maybe there really are Guardian Angels.

Wowee!  Just remembered-- me in the back of our car on a mattress, you and Lupe, waiting a long time to meet up with his connection outside Tiajuana.  Finally a car pulled up and Lupe got out to meet them, thinking his friend had arrived.

It was police.  They thought it was a floating whore house and me, in back on the mattress, was the whore.

I can still hear you saying “Es mi esposa." They separated us and asked us questions: When were you married? Where were you married? Who was the best man? And of course we weren’t married. Some how we gave the same answers.

This really happened.

You created a paradisical home for us in San Bernardino—the fence adorned with all the junk that was laying around; the stained glass windows.  When we brought Davene home from the hospital we put him in a bassinet where his tiny hands played with the light that streamed in through one of your stained glass windows. 

The beautiful swimming pool you made was such a success.  I don’t remember how we happened to have that goat that kept getting loose—Junie she was called—and we finally traded her for all that rebar you managed to bend for the pool’s net.  I recall Big Danny helped some. He was a good friend to you.  When you painted the Stations of the Cross Big Danny posed holding an enormous cross.

I think of him and Shirley and Little Danny.  I hope their lives have gone well.

We went to Boulder Creek when  Michel was dying. I wonder where Margot is today, and their two sons.

I think of Ruby.  Last I saw her she was pregnant with twin boys and living happily with a good man, a sculpturer.  I heard they moved back to Hopi.  I’ve tried to chase her down; the Hopis are matrilineal.  Though  I knew she had a sister who was a nurse in Kingman. No luck.  She pierced ears for both me and Denise; I think of her often when I put in earrings.

I think of your lovely mother and loving father.  Your sister Ann and I were in touch for awhile; now I don’t remember what she changed her name to.  I hope she’s doing well.

Pleasant adventures we had.  Remember crossing the desert at night over private Indian land to where icy cold clean water flowed down from Mount San Jacinto?  It fell over a little waterfall--I think we could sit in a niche behind the fall.  This was for me liberating to be naked with people. I was envious of Shirley’s big tits.

Then again we crossed at night with my three daughters.  They still talk about this. They had been warned, of course, not to move if a snake rattled.  When a snake sure enough rattled they stood dead still until you had them come quietly to stand behind you. I jumped back and ran, then I was totally frozen, afraid to move, until you came back to take my hand.

We planted marijuana plants that grew tall—6 or 8 feet at least.  Scared someone would recognize them--not so likely in those years—we tied artificial flowers on them.  Those were the days of the Prince Albert tins pot was sold in.  We paid the rent with our crop.  Right now I’m drying a few from this past year’s garden.

We took all those pills Ron Gross brought from his father’s pharmacy. Whatever they were: Hydro bromides, for Christs sake, sniffing amyl nitrate. Lord Almighty! It’s amazing we didn’t kill ourselves.

I do so hope you and Davene can communicate.  He has an excellent mind. He was a joy-- until adolesence when he certainly wasn’t.  He had scored in the top percentile and been granted a scholarship at Santa Fe Prep School.  He liked it okay and did well until like a dumb ass I bought him a ski pass for Christmas.  Of course he skipped school, of course they cancelled his scholarship.  After two weeks at the local junior high school, he refused to go.  He was totally uncooperative with the truant officer.  Incarceration was looming.  I took him to Greece where he was a whiz playing chess with the old men; but I couldn’t stop him drinking while I worked.

I called you then.  I don’t know why I didn’t get in touch before that.

He went through some rough times to find himself.  Children all want parents like those in Leave It To Beaver.

Now that’s all changed.  He often thanks me for some of the experiences we shared:  Alaska, Greece, London, living in the tipi at Mimbres Hot Springs; the many times we camped out by streams we could dam up to make swimming pool size.  The little squirrel  he shot in Alaska with a 22.  He skinned it and salted the hide.  I cooked it where it didn’t make two mouthsful. He told me “I’m not going to shoot them anymore. If we must take a life it should be a big one like the  moose—that can feed a lot of people.”

I’d like to share more about him with you.

Your work and life seem a big success.  Congratulations.

I see by Facebook you are painting flowers.  I, too, am involved with flowers.  There are always year round something in bloom in my garden. and bouquets in the house—right now there’s a tuberose exuding it’s fragrance now as the sun sets.  I’m  listening to a violin vibrate through the room.  Let there be harmony.

The garage shop where we bought all those bottles of wine from that nice little man,  This was out towards Fontana? I don’t know.  Outside San Bernardino.

It’s another Thanksgiving coming up and I think of the big orange paper mache turkey you placed in our yard.

If you haven’t put this in the trash yet, I’ll describe my life, myself, as I am today.  I haven’t stuck with things and things haven’t stuck with me—but on my wall is a portrait you did of Davene and a small ink sketch you did of Angel.

It was hard to get out of bed this morning.  Cold with a dreary smoky sky from all the forest fires.  I didn’t want to wake; but I had to pee.  Up I ambled into the kitchen and microwaved a cup of coffee, put it along with a bunch of supplements and a glass of juice.  I inhaled some pharmaceutical crap I don’t believe in;  Actualy I don’t believe in anything the corporate world is happy to dish out.

I went outside to see how my garden survived.  I can’t dig around anymore, but I planted  it to self-maintain and have flowers year long. 

I have a unique relationship with a small mutt.  His bark just kept some Jehovah  Witnesses from opening the gate.  Angel in Bodega Bay is only 20  minutes away so we see each other often.  Laurie is perched on the very top of a mountain in Tehatchapi where she keeps water out for the passing elk herds.  Denise is studying at Eureka, Davene you know is in Santa Fe.  They all stay in touch with each other.  Now at 85 I’m a matriarch. Grandkids and Great grandkids abound.

I’d  love to hear from you.  I haven’t been able to connect with Spike and wonder if you have.

I wish the best for you.  I apologize for any pain I caused you.

Louise

November, 2018