The Things We Take With Us When We Die

Blast from the Past # 17 - October 12, 2005

OH!

The woman lamented at not having her camera at the ready to capture such an amazing moment.

I knew I should have looked more for it.

The colors set the mountain on fire, the migrating cranes purring above her head, and the up close and personal appearances of the Dall sheep convinced her of it.

Of course I'd have no camera on this day, and I'll forget everything...she thought for a moment and then a vision of her grandfather appeared in her mind.

Only if you choose to, he replied quietly.

If I choose to? What do you mean, grandfather?

Open your heart to let it in and etch it into your soul.

The woman laughed.

Don't laugh, my child with what is best. Etch it into your soul and you can take it with you when you die. Can't take your pictures with you, now can you?

Grandfather! I'd just like some good photos to show my friends.

So you can show off.

The woman shrugged.

That's one reason I'm sure, but also so it can stir up memories later. I especially like to stir up good memories when I feel sad...it gives me hope

Etch it in your soul and you will never forget while you're alive. That's much better than any picture.

Really, Grandfather...

No, do you have a record of the first time you felt a crush? Bet you can still remember the feeling of electricity searing you from the inside out.

The woman nodded.

Do you remember your first kiss? Your first love? The first time a work of art made you stop and absorb it? The first time you felt your body surrender to music and the dance that ensued as a result? Good times with friends? The first time you traveled to a country not your own? Happy Birthdays that are extra special? Every feeling of success you've ever had to work for?

Yes, of course I remember.

Do you have photos, movies, and recordings of every special moment of your life?

No.

And you're telling me that you can't transport yourself back to those moments?

Yes, Grandfather, of course I can.

That's the stuff, child, that you take with you when you die.

What of the bad and the sad, Grandfather?

What of them, dear? They are part of life.

I remember those at will too.

What in hell are you doin' that for? Dump 'em. Go brew a pot of coffee and savor the smell while it's percolating. Make sweet potato bread and lick the bowl of leftovers while the spices permeate your kitchen.

Easier said than done.

It's as easy to do as to say. Your choice. Why fill yourself up with bitter memories of those who take, betray, take some more, and betray some more? The mistakes we make and the villains we meet are the waste of a life fully lived. Do you resist taking a shit when the urge strikes you?

The woman laughed. Of course not.

Then don't be such a sucker. Let your bowels do their job and dump your memories of them. Make something pretty. Go on a hike, listen to the water flow, feel the mist of a waterfall on your face, go molest some silk, dropping it a notch in luxury with your grubby human hands. Fill yourself up with the stuff that you'd want with you later.

The woman smiled as she hiked along the mountains aglow with the colors of fall, the rain stopped, the clouds lifted and blue of the sky competed with the setting sun as she walked down the path she came up.

It would be a good night for the aurora.

Etch it in your soul...

Suckers for Cutsie Poo and Unexpectedly Good Dates

Blast from the Past # 16 - October 9, 2005

Hey y'all,

Before I get too carried away, let me just say one thing...next time in Anchorage, check out El Tango on Tudor behind the Holiday gas station. If you've gone to Hooters you have definitely gone too far! El Tango has a fantastic menu of latin cuisine - Columbia, Argentina, and Puerto Rico - a very friendly staff and a small dance floor. It's only been there for a year, the location sucks, but if you like your ambience refreshing, then this is the place for you.

Last night at Cook Inlet, I was one of a cluster fuck of writers. Needless to say, we were overcrowded at one small table, so we got another one and two of us sat there. I figured stake out the front door and get more attention, but everybody still herded around the schoolteacher at the other table, with a mountain of her "Recess at 20 Below," full of pictures of her students having FUN in her class and adorable narrative about school life in Delta Junction. It was very cutsie poo.

Meanwhile, I misread a possible fan, Sheila, and told her the first chapter of Ella Bandita, complete with the dirty old sorcerer, the cold-blooded daddy, and the eaten heart. Sheila then let me know that she was a fan of Walt Disney version of fairy tales and that she used to have a friend who would have been into my writing because she wrote a lot like me.

"But she's dead now," Sheila said.

So nice of her to tell me that.

Do I sound bitter? Really, I'm not.

At this point in my road trip, I have had enough successes to not sweat the flops. Besides, last night was a quality, if not a quantity, experience. I ended up with a date. A good one, too. With the nice guy.

Go figure, that never happens to me. I usually gravitate to the those-I-cannot-or-should-not-even-consider-wanting-to-have types. This one has a steady job, no addictions ( at least, not obvious ones ), courtly manners, good body, and blue eyes that are awful purty to look into.

That's how I ended up at El Tango. Besides the food and the Argentinian staff, they had a keyboard player whose keyboard created a symphony with every note, and the staff would get up there and sing. Since they didn't have the tv screen enabling bad singers to massacre mediocre lyrics, it wasn't really karaoke, but it kind of felt that way. Since the staff were the main singers, most of the songs were in spanish, so it was very cool. It also helped that they could...oh, sing. Hugo, the owner who was from Argentina, played kind of the lating version of a bluegrass washboard - a weegel ( I don't know how to spell it, and the closest he could come to describing it was a plant kind of like a zucchini, that's dried and then hollowed out - if you want to know what the hell I'm talking about, go there and you'll see), while the bartender had maracas.

I love latin folk, they really have the happy to live mentality down pat. Hugo gave us free drinks, calling us amigos and that we are family.

"When you are in Anchorage, this is your home." Hugo said.

Nothing is perfect, however...

Hugo is a sucker for Celine Dion, because his daughter, Lilly, belted out "I Will Always Love You," and he sat there looking emotional.

But other than that, it was awesome.

I was coming back on Tuesday, but my good date asked me out again, so...

I'm coming back to Juneau roughly sometime around before I head down to the lower forty eight by November 1st. Does anybody have a housesitting gig or an extra room? I rented my place out and I don't know about crashing on my own couch for almost two weeks. It'll be good to see the Vagabond - my cat, that is. And of course, all of you.

Montgomery

Jason, the good date, ended up being quite a dud. Pretty challenged in the department of "balls," figuratively speaking, of course. Yeah, I found that events in bookstores required a lot of time and energy and were seldom worth the effort. I did much better at music and art festivals - with enough vendors. It attracted the right balance of people who like to read without being too insular and bookish.

Living the Dream

Blast from the Past # 15 - September 26, 2005

Hey y'all,

I am so glad I listened to the wisdom of my inner voice, the same inner voice that told me to go back to Seward for the Music and Arts Festival, even though my first tableside storytelling adventure was not immediately profitable. In fact, my first day I told stories with my whole heart and soul into it because I wanted to sell my book, dammit! This was only my second stop on the trip - I had had a couple of things in Homer - I was in full-throttle eager novice mode and people could smell blood...I could sense them smacking their chops as I concluded my story without closing the sale. I sold nothing!

And that really sucked.

And frankly, so does Anchorage.

I did my last storytelling tonight at the Organic Oasis, and it is impossible to do what I'm doing and not do it often in Anchorage, but I just do not resonate with the vibe of this town, it reminds me of the Orlando of my teenage years.... AAIIGGHH!!! So let's get back to the good stuff, Seward.

After that discouraging first day, however, it got better. I sold two books on my second day, and on my third and final, four. So, the word was getting out there. Also, on the third day is when deliverance arrived in the form of Joe Alaniz and saved my demoralized ass by selling fourteen books by the next day. Remember Joe? So that was my Seward experience in early August, but they had just put up all these flyers for this festival and since the booths were cheap, I marked my space.

I woke up to beautiful weather in Seward with the colors in full blast and knew it would be slow at the festival. And I was right, but I learned a few things since my last time in town. I set up my space with blankets, pillows, and although I left the candles in the Brown Beast, I laid out my purple sari over the table with the book displays, and a sign under an orange patterned fake-silk poly scarf that read:

FREE!!!

Hear a story...

Buy a book...

Get Tarot reading...

FREE!!!

I figured if everybody was going to confuse me for a fortuneteller, I might as well give them what they wanted. And golly gee!! To make it even better, people were into the storytelling and into buying the book, but about a quarter of my sales happened because somebody really wanted their cards read and the book was only ten bucks.

I sold twenty two books at full price. And the experience was effortless, at a festival held indoors at the Cruise Ship Terminal, which looked more like a hangar. The turn out was low due to sunny weather - got to get that hiking in because the darkness, rain, and snow are just around the corner. I also sold ten books to the lady who had an all-purpose gift shop/coffeehouse in town, so now the book is being carried in Seward. And I traded one for a bracelet. So in one weekend I sold over thirty books.

Which of course feeds the soul...not to mention the validation that I'm on the right track.

But the best part of this week-end was not the sales - not that I minded those! It was really connecting with people when they sat down to hear a story. The way I see it, I'm laying the foundation for my base of readers for the future, and it is such an intimate way of connecting with them. It worked well at Borders as well. One woman I met this weekend told me this is living the dream. And she's right, I am.

That week-end was so great I didn't mind coming back to the tepid atmosphere at the Organic Oasis. I sold a couple of books and it is happening...one book at a time. One person at a time.

I'm getting better at this, but the tarot cards were a nice touch.

And being a fortune-teller was fun too.

Anyway, Keep in touch...

Montgomery

It's odd the memories that get triggered. Rereading this has two effects on me. First, it makes me remember Joe's obnoxious references to the "sheeple" he referred to that weekend he sold 14 books effortlessly. Not about the people who bought the book particularly, but about well... just about everybody. It pissed me off at the time until I was at the Alaska State Fair and I'm ashamed to say I actually related to what he was talking about in that moment. I'm not proud of the cynical misanthropy behind "Who are the Critcial Mass?" All I can say in my defense is that I was tired and frustrated. That book tour was the adventure of my life, but it was rough.

The second has to do with the kind of person who inspires hybrid words like sheeple. Reading this again makes me want to go back in time and smack Kelly B____ upside the head. She was a friend from college who spent her entire life worrying about what others thought of her, spent years of time and energy on a career she had no passion for - and of course, she was ultimately underpaid - not to mention exhausting herself on getting an MBA to advance in that career she didn't love all because she thought that was expected of her and it made her mother proud. She made some insidious remark about how certain emails about "living the dream" rubbed her the wrong way because she "had" to keep her corporate job to pay her bills and blah, blah, blah. This woman is not married and has no kids. She doesn't "have" to do anything. She had student loans and accrued more going to MBA school and those are a bitch to pay off. But what is the point of going into debt for something you aren't crazy in love with?

Just asking. Needless to say our friendship became a thing of the past a couple of years ago and it had nothing to do with this book tour. In our second to last conversation, she was wailing about feeling completely invisible and it freaked me out enough to talk to a wise woman friend of mine about it. Judy said: "She needs to start looking at people to see them, instead of looking for how they see her. The feeling of being invisible will go away if she does." I thought that was sound advice and with the best of intentions, I passed it on. Because who the hell wants to feel like that? Kelly was not receptive however, saying that women do lose value in society as they get older and that her mom "went through the same thing." She said I "think about things a lot" and "that's a good thing," but that conversations was the last time I ever spoke to her. After a few unreturned calls, I got the hint. I was more stunned than grieved because all I could think was: "Wow. Some people really are quite happy to be completely miserable."

__________________________________

Filling in the Gaps

Revisiting the Past #1 - late September 2005

Having just read the next entry from my email, I'm remembering all that I didn't put down in that space. And there were a lot of gaps. The one thing I remember is how alone I felt in that part of the road trip. I really didn't enjoy staying in Anchorage very much, so for a run of time that I had live storytellings at the Organic Oasis, I stayed at a cabin in Indian, Alaska for about 2 weeks. The drive wasn't that much, just midway to down the Turnagain arm between Anchorage and Girdwood, and the 20 minutes at least twice a week was more than worth it.

I don't know if the Organic Oasis is still in business, but I certainly hope so. They were very nice to let me have the stage a couple of times a week, but the experience was... enough to make me grateful when things went well. Before I left Juneau for this big road trip, Brett Dillingham - storyteller extraordinaire - came by to give me some tips on my style and his feedback was priceless of course.

"Oooohhh, you are going on an adventure," he said before he left. Then he gave me this look and continued. "I'm not going to lie to you, Montgomery, sometimes it's really going to hurt. But other times it's going to be grand."

Well, my storytelling at the Organic Oasis was one of the times that it hurt. And I mean it really, really hurt. There were times I was chasing down the waitstaff with my eyeballs just to have an audience member to have contact with. Because there was nobody in there. Other times, the sparse audience gave me the blank look of "What the hell do you think you're doing interrupting my dinner of healthful, organic nourishment with this drivel?" Other times they would continue eating without looking at me. I don't have a single memory of selling lots of books there, at all. Maybe one or two here and there, but often times none.

But I do remember that's when I stopped being such a chicken shit about public speaking. For the first two months, every time I had an event with a "stage" and "audience" Due to my life long terror around public speaking, I would sit cowboy style across a chair with the back between me and the audience and whisper timidly into a microphone. One night at the Organic Oasis, I suddenly thought, "Fuck it," and stood up. I noticed that the few people sitting there looked more interested in what I was saying as soon as I did that. A couple of them even looked excited for me. And I felt the biggest rush rush by doing it and I've been mildly addicted to public speaking ever since.

Also while staying at the Cabin behind the Brown Bear Saloon, I had a good date with a nice guy - which goes to show that Juneau is a horrible place to be single if this can happen in a town of 85 people. Brian was a recovering car salesman that told me all the low down dirty tales I've ever heard about that profession were true. He must have been comfortable in his skin as a man because he took me to see "40 Year Old Virgin," about a 40 year old man who never had sex and I think he laughed harder than I did. That remains in my memory one of the funniest movies I've seen in the last 10 years. While I stayed there, I saw moose by the side of the road and the rare and privileged site of a pod of Beluga whales in the wild in the channel at high tide. Also got to know quite a few of the weekend warrior bikers in all their leather clad glory, taking advantage of the gorgeous autumn weather of golden birches, blue skies, and dry weather to ride along the Turnagain Arm before the snow and ice hit. The temporary community in Indian, Alaska made some good relief before I moved on.

I can't believe I didn't write about any of this at the time. Definitely worth a mention and so now, I am.

Let me just say one thing.... AAAIIIGGGGHHHH!!!!

Blast from the Past # 14 - September 20, 2005

Hey y'all,

I have seen the future I could have had and it just scared the shit out of me. I never, ever thought I would say I am, with great humility, profoundly grateful for the eight years I spent slinging booze, cussing out drunks, throwing grown men out of bars, and sighing helplessly while at the mercy of women in the throes of alcoholic switch-bitch psychosis, but goddamn! Tonight has shown me that my time spent as a bartender were not only years not wasted, but they saved me from possibly becoming one of the people I just met at a workshop on self-publishing.

Been holed up in an accidental cabin behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska - population 85 - a spit away from Anchorage, but with its own itty bitty town vibe. The owner of the place said he learned everything about what not to do in constructing a cabin while he was building mine. I had to have it for the loft and the windows, but what he said about the wiring made me a tad nervous. One of the disadvantages of being on the road, sleeping in the Brown Beast, in hostels, in my tent, etc. is that the creative juices really start to pump and there's no place to spill them. Since what I'm doing does qualify as a business trip - hee-hee, haw-haw - I could write it off on my taxes to give myself that precious writer's space while fulfilling my storytelling/bookpeddling commitments in the greater Anchorage area.

Well, last night at the Oasis was especially demoralizing; been a while since I've hit a low, and I know it's all part of the process, but it still sucks. So, tonight I went to Border's to go to a workshop on self-publishing.

Incidentally, Border's here in Anchorage is pretty right-on. Jess French found a way around the corporate structure to give me a reading/signing. Since the critical mass was narrowed down to those who liked to read, I had no problem approaching the people my gut instinct told me would be open to it and introducing myself and what I was doing. My gut was on the ball that night. Every person/couple I picked listened to a story, and except the respite provider with her client, all bought a book. One couple bought two.

Since the weather's been stunning and I was on a writing roll, I almost didn't go. But I managed to finish the rough draft of a new story and headed to the workshop. I was surprised to see several people at the table and apparently, they had already started even though it was not yet six o'clock. The guy giving the talk about self-publishing his book - a PrintOnDemand project - had eyes that seemed to swim inside his sockets. The fifty year old New Yorker with dyed black, slicked back hair in ponytail and eyebrows Anton LaVey would have envied introduced himself and I could just hear the tension in his voice. Looking around at the others as the workshop dude did his talk, I could tell that everybody else was on the New Yorker's page. This was one serious, tight-assed group of people and apparently there was a core writer's group that had workshops at Border's on a regular basis.

Oh, Chicks with Bics - how I miss you so. We actually have fun when we get together. I don't think any of these people have laughed in years.

This was the most joyless group of intellectual idiots I've met in years. The kind of people who give intelligence a bad name. Even though you haven't asked me to guess, I'm going to tell you anyway...

Most of the people there were in their fifties and sixties and I had the impression that they had done most of their living inside their minds, and not enough outside of them. Not only that, they probably don't understand the value of living for the sake of enjoying yourself. The pursed lips, the fidgets, the jerks and the insistence on sticking with the program - apparently they write and share at these things - even the workshop dude felt the need to get on with it and wrap it up. At least it only took a half an hour of my life because no way was I writing with these folks.

Every single shmoo - male and female, young and old, plain and pretty, gay and straight - that came to this workshop (except for me, of course) brought to mind the maxim: "You need to get laid." You need to get laid really, really badly.

The men need to cut loose and be so obnoxious they get 86ed from a bar. The women need to get so shnockered they end up sobbing hysterically in the ladies room of the local karaoke bar, struggling to get into their painfully tight shorts while their string bikini panties get tangled around their crotch. All the while testing the patience of the female bartender who has to babysit the embarassment to womanhood who can't remember her name much less her address.

For the record, I was the bartender in that sordid little scene, not the drunk bitch. But that's not the point, the point is that those people need to actually have some experiences that would inspire stories readers may actually want to read.

For instance, the workshop dude was telling the tale of his self-publishing through a small print on demand publisher that charged him for their services but got him distribution on Amazon.com and his one year contract. It cost him more than he made and in one year he sold 300 copies.

"And I didn't have to lift a finger to do it," he smirked.

Since he got some reviews from total strangers on the Barnes and Noble site, a bigger small publisher(at least I think so) who had formerly rejected his work has picked up his book and he's moved on the greener pastures, but I guess that depends on how you want to look at things.

Well, I received my books in early July, it's now late September. I've probably given away about 80 books, lost 20 by mail (my mother said she can sell them), but I've sold just under 200 books in less than three months. I have spent way more money this way, and I've lifted many fingers, some in obscene gestures, but the experiences I've had doing my little grass-roots book tour have been the stuff of dreams at their best and the content of my emails at their worst. And I don't know if I'll sell or give away all 1100 copies, but I'm sure I'll outsell 300 in 9 more months. And I'll have more fun doing it.

Maybe I'm out of my mind.

Don't forget to check out www.juneaumusic.com for all your social butterfly needs. And while I'm plugging Jason's site, I'll plug myself. "Ella Bandita and other stories," is sold at Rainy Day Books and Hearthside Books for 10 bucks. I'll be in town for a few days in October, call me and I'll sign it for you.

By the way, would anybody like to review my book for the local paper?

Montgomery

It's amazing the memories that came back while rereading these. I think it was around this time that I started to feel really tired and lonely. I think that might have been the real reason I stopped at that cabin at the Brown Bear. A lot of the staff that worked at the saloon also lived in cabins in the back and it was just nice to have some temporary community. Around two months, I was in the groove of temporary and there was a disconnection between me and the people I met. They were settled and I was moving on. After a point, the only people I felt were on my wavelength were folks I met in hostels, because they were temporary too.

I now regret not being more honest about some of the more down sides of what I was doing. Writing to a bunch of people I knew and one I was trying to woo through my writing skills made me show off more. I didn't want to write about the grayness of being so solitary. There were days, even weeks, I didn't feel connected to the people around me. The cabin was a good respite and I had some surprising good experiences there. I sold a book to a weekend warrior biker who got it for his daughter, and then met her when I got back to Juneau. Ashley had become friends with Evan - that I also knew through ODS - and they worked at Eaglecrest. Since Evan and I went snowboarding whenever he had a break, I got to know her quite well. One day, the subject of the road trip came up and Ashley asked me questions about the book. When I told her the name of it: "Ella Bandita and other stories," she got this weird look on her face and said she had it. There was some confusion over where I sold it to him, because her parents lived in Girdwood, but I had a flash memory of meeting him in the Brown Bear talking about his daughter who lived in Sitka and managed the book store there. That was one of the cool things about that trip - especially when I was in Alaska - were all the connections I made that came back later. It happens fast in a state like that.

Those were some good times.