Lazy Hiking and Other Positive Omens

Blast from the Past #13 - September 18, 2005

Hey y'all,

Honest...I think I wouldn't be keeping a journal if I wasn't sending it to fifty people. It's weird, but even though I have little to say this week, I feel compelled to write anyway. For those of you who live in Alaska, ignore this if you like, because we experience cool shit like this all the time. This is more for those who live...elsewhere.

I love lazy hiking. Sitting on my duff whenever I feel like, zoning out until I feel like getting up and moving again.

It's the peak of autumn right now, and the colors are breathtaking. Staying last weekend in Denali, I couldn't find my camera before going on a hike, but I looked at the cloudy, rainy skies and figured it wasn't that important, so I left without it and of course, lots of special Kodak moments happened.

"Etch it in your brain," my inner voice said. "That way you can take it with you when you die."

That's very nice, but I still wish I had my camera with me. Even if I can recall the image vividly at will, my bragging rights have been severely stunted.

There had been a group of fitness-junkie hikers that zoomed up to the overlook and back, while I puttered along and sat on my ass regularly. They said the view was "awesome," and nothing else. But they didn't have a squirrel flirting with them from branches three feet above their heads, trying to seduce some snacks out of them. I did. And that's the kind of thing that happens when you do lazy hiking.

I continued on up even though the fog was totally socked in and it looked as if I wouldn't be getting any "awesome" views. But I saw at least five flocks of migrating (After asking around, I decided they were cranes) birds flying above me as they made their way to their winter homes. Whatever they were, it was impossible to miss them, because their purring birdcalls could be heard for quite a few minutes before I actually saw them.

I had also seen a flock of cranes (they definitely were) flying above me in Fairbanks. And I saw folded cranes in Gulliver's - who is carrying my book - and in the College Coffeehouse - where I did my last minute storytelling.

And my time in Fairbanks was effortless.

Cranes are definitely a "thing" in my life, whether they're made out of feathers or paper. What can you expect from a woman who folded a thousand cranes and put most of them up on her wall?

But back to my hike...I made it up to the overlook and there was a ridge trail continuing on. Once at the top of the hill, I love hiking the ridgeline. The undulating ease of the ridgeline is the hikers reward for getting there. The mountainsides were stunning with the red, gold, and fiery colors, with the deep green spruce intermittent. The fog kept coming in and going out, and eventually, the rainy skies cleared up. The views alone were enough to make me regret my camera. And that was before I saw the sheep.

Going the extra distance was worth it. A quarter mile up the ridgeline, I saw a horned head poking around a rock staring at me, and a smaller head joined hers. Looking to the right, I saw a young Dall ram - his horns hadn't curved all the way around yet - poking along the stray plants munching away. He gave me a bored glance and kept chewing. The mama sheep and her young were just a little more nervous. They were also right on the trail, so I gave them time and space to move, which they did hesitantly, eyeing me all the while.

I watched the sheep, the lamb, and the ram for a while, cursing myself the whole time for not searching more diligently for the camera. They practically posed for me, and there was nothing but my memory to remember them by. I passed them and sat on a rock that gives that "top of the mountain" feeling and just soaked in the space around me. After a few minutes of sitting on my duff, I head footsteps behind me and turned to see yet another Dall sheep coming up the trail and she stopped about six feet away from me and we just stared at each other for a few minutes. Maybe if I'd stayed still, she would have strolled right past me, but as soon as I moved, she scurried to the side and around me to join her group.

Now that was cool.

Between the flocks of cranes and the sheep, I took the whole day as a sign that things were looking up and a breakthrough had happened on my book tour. Maybe I'm a superstitious ninny, but this week, I heard from the Anchorage Press that they are featuring my last storytelling at Organic Oasis, instead of just putting it in the calendar, and book sales have been steady. Maybe that's only a coincidence.

Either way, I still lazy hiking.

By the way, many thanks to Jason Caputo for featuring my entries on his site, www.juneaumusic.com. Don't forget to check out the site regularly for info on what is happening in Juneau musically and artistically. Besides some of the links are cool, but beware the infinite David Hasselhoff crotch shot. Unless of course, you like narcissism...and David Hasselhoff.

Montgomery

Thank God I can no longer remember that crotch shot of David Hasselhoff. Perhaps I was so traumatized, I blocked it from my memory.

I LLLOOOOOVVVVEEEE FAIRBANKS!!!!!!

Blast from the Past #12 - Sept. 9, 2005

Hey y'all,

I Love Fairbanks. I love it, love it, love it!!!!!

Let's color this email happy, baby!

Just when it seemed as if I was burrowed in the vat of discouragement, eatng bitterness for breakfast, I came to Fairbanks. Never mind the drive up with the fall colors lighting up the tundra - that was beautiful! - but at Fairbanks, I arrived.

Granted my trip was not just sneers, you're-weird-looks, and other unpleasant run-ins - I have met so many wonderful, supportive, and amazing people at every stop...but in Fairbanks - at least from the college side of town to Ester, it wasn't just random individuals here and there, but packs of people in general. We all know that there's safety...and strength in numbers.

And coming here on the tail end of the Alaska Fair was just what my spirit needed to keep going.

I could feel from the first that Fairbanks would be different. At Gulliver's - awesome bookstore! - I ran into an acquaintance I met in Juneau - several of those up here - and was bellyaching about the trip and the difficulties of selling my own work, and myself, etc. when a friend of his sat down and after hearing what I was doing, offered to buy a book.

That night, I was at a dinner party in Ester when Jen, an artist I'd met in Girdwood, suggested that I go by this coffeehouse and if they didn't have anything scheduled, ask to do a storytelling there. Sure enough, one night was open, so I managed to set something up at the last minute. She also challenged me to "creatively visualize" a hundred people waiting in line to buy my book.

"If you do that every day for a month, I promise you, things will happen."

On the same day, I was at Gulliver's again, waiting for my turn for free computer usage when the manager came by and said they'd take five books to start out.

I also sold three more to acquaintances that I ran into and a stranger I'd just met.

The next night, I had a couple of groups, Jen's friends and people that I met at the hostel show up for the storytelling - one man bought five books, a Japanese lady bought two, and yet another bought one. Better yet, Ethan, a high school English teacher bought one and asked permission to photocopy it, so he could teach it.

"I love your book!" said Kliff, a drummer who is a friend of a friend. And apparently, he has raved about it to everybody he knows, because Ethan the teacher was a friend of his.

At the Pub that night, I sold two more. I also met a radio dj that wants to interview me when I come back to town - because of course I will!!! - and one of the gals who bought a book and was at Jen's dinner party - is a natural at marketing and is already cooking up ideas for a dinner party with a story segment in between courses. I had been wanting a venue to do "Ella Bandita" as a combo dinner theatre/tableside storytelling, and here Sarah was just handing it to me.

"Fairbanks is a place where a lot of people are trying to create something," said Jay, a musician who lived in Juneau briefly a few years ago. "So people really try to support each other here."

Jen said her art has just taken off since she moved here. Her friend Heather, who makes hats does quite well at the Farmer's Market.

I don't know what it is about this town, but after weeks of people's walls, boundaries, suspicion, and all other forms of attitude, the feeling of openness, generosity, and support was like the nectar of the gods. I sold twenty books in a few days without even trying and I have a posse in less than a week.

Hope everybody has patience with my bragging rights, but hell, this was long overdue.

Did I mention that I love Fairbanks?

Montgomery

I forgot about that - selling 20 books in a couple of days. And I did need that after the state fair because something about that was so demoralizing. Joe wrote back and forth a few times after the Critical Mass email about the "sheeple," an expression he uses that makes me nuts. But I was so down, I actually came close to agreeing with him. Unfortunately, there's some vicious truth to that - most people not only don't think for themselves, they don't really want to.

But yeah, Fairbanks is an awesome town and it was the first time on that trip that I felt supported by a community of people. If I remember correctly, I was still sitting cowboy style across a chair with the back in front of me - a shield between me and the audience - whenever I was doing storytellings. I was still feeling really insecure at that time, so it was a jolt of much needed self confidence to have that kind of support from a community of people instead of just one or two. Awesome place and most of those people still have a special place in my heart.

Who is the Critical Mass?

Blast From the Past #11 - September 8, 2005

Hey y'all,

Although it was a stroke of luck to get any space at the Alaska State Fair since I didn't get on it until the very last minute - and I am grateful to Denise of Non Essentials for giving me that space - I am nonetheless exceedingly relieved that I wasn't at the State Fair every day, much less paid exorbitant rates for a booth there.

There was something about the fair that made me think of the Celestine Prophecy and the Critical Mass, the select individuals who are awake to the spiritual journey of their lives and will thus raise the human race to a higher level of existence.

Even if this is an act of love for all of humanity, one could still argue the concept of a critcal mass as another form of snootiness - sugar-coated and with the new age stamp of approval - but still a statement that some people matter and most people don't.

Although I found the message to be inspiring, hopeful, and way groovy, it's also one of the most badly written books I've ever read and I couldn't take it completely seriously. Yet, some of the most intelligent people I know have eaten it up and I don't know what to make of that.

For those heartfelt liberals who really want to believe in the potential of all humanity, but feel the pull to...get in touch with their inner snob, go hang out at the State Fair...no try to pursue your dream at the Fair, and you'll get in touch fast. Anybody who has ever spent any time in any customer service job knows just how awful, stupid, and downright annoying people can be.

And at the Alaska State Fair, as I was commiserating with the lovely woman who let me set up a table on her "porch" -free of charge - about the oblivious rudeness of those who come into her booth, I was struck by all the people. Masses of people streaming by me with their hair spray-painted in rainbow colors and outlandish designs that will take the better part of the night and next day to wash out, designs painted on their faces, in tight hip-slung jeans in varying stages of fat and thin, with quite few Mabelline cosmetics covering teenage faces that don't need make-up, and the scruffy teenage boys in their shapeless clothes. Not to mention the tourists with their sparkling white, comfortable, "walking shoes" and their name tags. This mass of humanity walking back and forth was striking in their ordinariness, and there were so many of them. It occurred to me how

few of these people really seemed interesting or vivid to me. Denise agreed and remarked that she was shocked that so many young women looked tired to her, and even more haggard than she was in her early fifties.

"When I was young, I was young." she said. "These girls I know are young, but they already seem old."

On a positive note, a beautiful mother/daughter duo got my attention as they approached Denise's booth. I noticed them immediately because they had the exact same eyes - large and almond shaped, slightly Asian, and bright green. The mother was in her mid forties with her hair short and her clothes practical; she wasn't trying to impress anybody. Her daughter had her long hair in a ponytail, no make-up. She was about fifteen and absolutely beautiful in an effortless, natural way and her manners matched her looks. They spent quite a bit of time in Denise's shop and made her day, not only because they spent some money, but because they looked over her products with appreciation. They stopped at my table for a minute, but I didn't care they didn't buy because they were not only pleasant, they were very present.

If I had to pick definite members of the critical mass of those who are truly alive, it would be them.

These ladies were a vast improvement over the stout dowager clad in pink sweat suit with a goofy cartoon character on the front. She announced that she didn't read fiction, only the Bible, and she certainly didn't read fairy tales since she was a Christian.

"But I have many friends who do and I don't hold it against them," she puffed up. "And I don't hold it against you for writing them."

I'm sure she felt the greatness of her spirit as she told me that and reveled in the righteousness of the narrow world of those who do not think. I'd be willing to bet she's an eager participant in book burning parties.

Shortly after that exchange, I found myself thinking of the Critical Mass and wondering if maybe there wasn't something to it.

I'm sure this lady was certain that she was part of the Critical Mass of those who had been saved by Jesus. She certainly believes she's right and maybe she is...Who am I to say otherwise? She and other mindless dogma junkies that live by the checklist of good behavior and see the devil in fairy tales really are the saved. Who knows?

If they are though, I will gladly go to hell. Who wants to hang out with people like that for all eternity?

So, who are those who make up the critical mass?

Call me selfish, call me vain...but in my world the critical mass are those who say:

"Oh! I would love to buy your book because I believe in supporting local artists."

Montgomery

On my visit back to Juneau after the first three months on the road, friends told me this entry gave them the impression that I was tired. And looking back, they were right because I was feeling really snarky that weekend. It was demoralizing a lot of the time to sit there with my soul on display and endure that. A lot of the time it really sucked. I'm not sorry I did it, but I can't say I ever want to do that exactly that way again and definitely not alone. I met another woman who self published her books with illustrations and she was pretty darned aggressive and more than a little rude. Emily - also from ODS - joined me on that leg of the trip - and she did not care for that woman's attitude at all. She was obnoxious, but I couldn't blame her. It's tough to do this.

The highlight of this trip was camping in the Beast next to Emily who was camped in her little psychedelic Mazda, sleeping in her Thule rack with her dog Ama in the parking lot of the Alaska Club in Wasilla or Palmer. Yes, she is that small that she could do that. I was grateful she kept the top up or it would have reminded me too much of a coffin. I have vivid memories of her pushing her dog into the box and then climbing in. She looked very comfortable, while I contorted myself in the back seat of the beast and propped my legs on the passenger front seat. That night I chose to sacrifice my hips instead of my back.

Even when it was rough, those were some really good times. I don't know what just happened with my font, so I'll sign off. Thanks for reading.

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Blast from the Past # 10 - September 2, 2005

Ah, the decline of the city of debauchery! That spit in the face of nature, a major port city built with a swamp as the foundation, a place that has suffered through being changed over to the rule of differing countries like a spoiled brat being tossed back and forth between reluctant parents who never should have had kids to begin with. That inconvenient city that has been neglected, corrupted, bought and sold, taken over - all the while home to murder, slavery, the birth of the "free people of color" - offspring between slaves and the white plantation owners became so widespread, they became their own segment of New Orleans society, even with slaves of their own to serve them, while throwing octoroon balls so the beautiful daughters of the free people of color could meet and be set up as long-term mistresses to priveleged Creole men. Not to mention the recurring presence of the plague brought on by the innocuous mosquito wiping out populations making the Nile Virus look like the common cold. Not to mention voodoo - everybody in New Orleans takes voodoo seriously, thanks to the 19th century mulatto free woman of color, Marie Laveau, who made two fortunes before and then after the Civil War - when everybody there lost everything and the arrival of Yankee Irish carpetbaggers was there to scavenge Louisiana and other parts of the south - due to her reputation as a powerful sorceress.

It's hard to believe that so much beauty existed in such a thoroughly whacked-out place and you have no idea how much it hurts my heart to see the pictures and read the reports of the destruction of that city.

Although it had been pimped out to common tourism (we in Juneau know nothing about that, now don't we?) New Orleans never lost its mysticism, nor its magic. I could write a book about the short time that I spent there, and it's impossible for photos, news reports, or writing to do that city justice. New Orleans to me, was one of those places that really made an impact on my psyche, even if I didn't spend years of my life there. My parents went to college at Tulane where they met, and even married there. Without New Orleans, I wouldn't exist, so there's always been that connection. Then, of course, there was the writing of Anne Rice and Truman Capote...

Mysterious, fascinating, decadent, violent - New Orleans never should have existed except for the megalomaniacal vision and ambition of man, from the day Sieur de la Salle saw that space in the swamp with access of the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico - and was consumed with trading glory for France. He never found that spot again, got lost in Texas and was murdered by his crew before they ever found it, so Bienville and Iberville were the brothers given credit for founding the city built on a swamp.

"So what's your story?"

(Common greeting to new people)

Thus began the superbly fucked-up story of that place - La Nouvelle Orleans was unstable from the word go, it's part of its charm and nobody can do dysfunctional with the same expertise and charm of somebody born and raised in that area. They revel in their dramas, and always welcome newcomers so they can perform their story for a fresh audience. The one thing I remember about that city is that lots of people helped me stay, but it was like extricating myself out of molasses when it was time to go. Let's face it, anyplace built, not on a swamp, but in a swamp, is going to encourage stagnation, not growth.

But there's no place like it on earth - the feeling of that town with its decadent homes where 11 foot ceilings are considered stunted and modest - with wrought iron gates, magnolia and jasmine trees scenting the night, and the hanging oaks insuring the privacy of the doings inside the houses. It's a city of sin and secrets, masquerade and carnival - even if Mardi Gras has been degraded from nudity and body paint, fucking strangers while in mask to a frat boy street party where "Show your tits!" and fresh-faced twenty-something teeny boppers pull up their shirts is the pinnacle of thrill.

There's nothing quite like being drunk in New Orleans, it is literally a different kind of high, all the ju-ju, mojo, and mysticism get in the air and permeate the alcohol. A town where seeing people smoking joints in the street is not an uncommon sight and of course, taking your drink with you when you leave the bar to go to the next - whether in the French Quarter or any other part of town. Lawless.

"No human being should be in New Orleans during the months of August and September." Laura, my lunatic roommate in the part of town, known as "Uptown," when we were discussing the humidity of New Orleans.

The heat and humidity still live in my memory...and I was raised in Florida, no slouch in tropical weather humidity, but in New Orleans, it's worse. But from the first week-end visit before I moved there a month later, the beauty and the vibe of that town knocked me out and I absolutely loved it. I found a job and my first place to live within a week.

"Five fifty?! For a beer?!"

I worked as a bartender on Bourbon Street during my first run there and well, it was a vivid experience. I've never worked so hard or so long in that profession as I did at that particular job - the only bartending job where I worked fifty to seventy hours a week during busy times - Superbowl, Mardi Gras, and Jazz Festival - for a very colorful family. I didn't make the bank that one would expect, due to appallingly over priced drinks, but I had to stay. I worked for the "Jewish Mafia" as one of my co-workers put it - the last of the old families that ruled the French Quarter from the old days before corporate companies bring Californication to the Big Easy put the smiley face homogeneous smear on the place. The kind of people who "bought" employees they wanted, instead of "stealing" them. They were hold-outs from a different time, and they were gleefully corrupt and cheerily greedy. I was definitely out of place there, and being the cog in the machine, I got yelled at every day for three months until I adapted to my surroundings and became a part of the "There's us, and then there's them" mentality they had towards outsiders.

"Larry, is your name motherfucker?" Gail, the manager, shouted to one of the cocktail waiters at a meeting geared towards building teamwork in time for the Superbowl/Mardi Gras season.

It was not a warm and fuzzy environment, being that I was working amongst a bunch of self-admitted hustlers. Stress ran high - squabbling, fighting, cursing each other out were daily occurences. And as I said, I would have made a lot more money in half the time spent at work at any of the other bars on the street. Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy working there, but I had to stay.

The Karnos who owned these bars and worked their employees like plantation slaves and played the nastiest head games with us because they could were the last of their kind and I knew I would never meet anybody like them again. Face it, they would have been sued out of business anyplace else but New Orleans. Their psychology was shaped by the absolute power of the good old days, when the bosses of the French Quarter could have people black-balled and one really didn't want to piss them off if one wanted to continue to make money there. Their core employees were still a part of that mentality and it was just enough to keep them frozen in time.

Even then, I knew it couldn't last - modern times were catching up with that swamp city of decay and decadence. I had a feeling my employers, who were holdouts to a lost time would lose everything, but not like this.

"Yeah, one good hurricane coming up the Mississippi would wipe us out, we'd be living underwater," joked Sammy Karno. "It hasn't happened in over two hundred and fifty years."

This isn't the first time a hurricane has wiped out New Orleans, the only difference was that the first buildings were last minute shanties. It wasn't the architectural marvel and fantasy it's been ever since.

"What keeps it up?" I asked Sammy. "Technology, or dumb-ass luck?"

"So far," said Sammy, "it's been dumb-ass luck."

It just hit me in the last day or two that many people that I knew and cared about are going through this misery. The folks I worked with were under-educated, ignorant (some had no idea the corridor between New Orleans and Baton Rouge was known as "Cancer Alley" due to the pollution of the Mississippi and looked shocked when I told them. I was equally shocked at their shock, I mean what do you say?), and living from paycheck to paycheck or tip day to tip day. If you wait tables in Louisiana, your base pay is about $2 an hour - apparently you can pay bartenders as low, but since Miss Billie, my boss, was paranoid about stealing and the bartenders had access to cash, she paid us minimum wage - I think I made $5/hr when I worked for here nine years ago.

"Hang in there, baby," said Gail and Dawn, my managers. "The Karnos will take care of you."

In other words, many musicians, entertainers, cocktail servers, and other bartenders did not evacuate before Katrina hit. There's no way, they can't afford to go and leave everything behind.

Both times when I left New Orleans, I was so thoroughly exhausted - physically, emotionally, mentally and psychically. It was a place that I loved, but it was impossible for me to be healthy there and I can't stand limbo, and being stagnant was unbearable. And of course, my friends and community there were shaped by decadence, drama, and other forms of abuse. I loved them, but they were draining.

They loved me and they didn't want to let go...

In New Orleans, lots of people will help you stay, but nobody will help you go. You gotta pull yourself out of the quicksand. The second time I left, I cut all ties and never looked back. I know this has nothing to do with the book tour, but I can't stop thinking about the people I knew there lately.

Montgomery

Hurricane Katrina. Enough said.