Author: buddycushman

Sometime before 5 a.m. Monday morning, more rain washing out of the sky than nearly imaginable, likely 10,000 tiny flash floods all through the city, college students warm and dry under winter blankets – no northern light show, no stars to count, no moon reflecting soft glow in the eyes of dreamers – I finished another book. There was no sense of accomplishment. Just – cool.

I’m guessing the rain, too, with no self-centered sense of accomplishment. I see my mind like a merry-go-round, spinning back and back again to right here now, after the book – these ancient sneakers like slippers, this rented chair, my so early Pages. Later there’s a dentist appointment, and later still an evening shift at work.

Maybe someone can tell me what Wednesday will look like.

I’ve been having these coffees with Jorge – think “My Dinner With Andre” – every other Sunday, 10 a.m., at Starbucks. They are so interesting. He’s my co-worker and technical role model wannabe at the front desk at the Y, and we could barely be more different. He’s 21 and I’m 76. He’s a soon-to-be-graduating student at Cal Poly with a degree in computer science and I’m in the zip code of helpless when it comes to the technology, seven years to earn a BS in screwing around. He’s a Mexican-American kid from Fresno, CA, a real family son and grandson, and I’m a Waspy goofball older guy from the outskirts of Cape Cod, MA. mostly a loner. He’s Dodger Blue, I’m Red Sox green.

There’s just something amazingly special about our conversations. I often end up talking about stuff I didn’t remember I’d remembered, never mind a gush of details. Things just fall out, and it’s a ditto for him too – though I’m the usual chatterbox – and we laugh out loud – I laugh way more than normal out in the world. And there are many, many touching moments. Genuine moments of this big, crazy, don’t-know-what’s-coming-next la vida loca.

Sunday, Jorge talked about just that – It’s always been school, summer vacay, school, vacay, school, vacay. Now school’s coming to its BSCS end, and Jorge – who’s gone to a school career fair and been sending out resumes and interviewing – doesn’t know what comes next. As for me, the not knowing is kind of where I thrive, and sitting there a couple days ago I thought about it and said there have been really big not knowing changes much of the last 20 years of my life. It feels like that now too. It’s interesting.

I’m incredibly grateful for these rendevous’s, and I let Jorge know that. Something like a tangible “space” opens up within those 60 to 120 minutes, and something like magic falls out. It warms my heart.

Which is sweet.

Everything is so wet, so green.

Yesterday I began poking around for a new place to live.

There is no more information than that to share today:

Wet, green, and what now?

So this is a rainy Thursday afternoon, after the job, after the Starbucks coffee, after time at the trough of peanut butter and cottage cheese, after about 15 minutes of what shall hereafter be referred to as “guitar practice.” My tummy is bursting, my ears are dancing with the music of splattering raindrops, and my heart-mind is wild with poetry and my practice and the awareness of being fetched over and over again. Please bear with me:

I’m quoting here from ‘Corsons Inlet’ by the poet A.R. Ammons – “I allow myself eddies of meaning: yield to a direction of significance running like a stream through the geography of my work: you can find in my sayings swerves of action like the inlet’s cutting edge: there are dunes of motion, organizations of grass, white sandy paths of rememberance in the overall wandering of mirroring mind: but Overall is beyond me; is the sum of these events I cannot draw, the ledger I cannot keep, the accounting beyond the account:”

Ammons poem is within David Hinton’s “Wilds of Poetry,” and I am enchanted and stunned and mesmerized and tantalized reading it. Not as writing more poetry, rather, being more poetry – the shiny quiet among and between all the chatter, all the to do’s, all these hoped-for hip posts. Childhood reflections – “white sandy paths of rememberance” and punk rock hollers – “the ledger I cannot keep.” Here, racing toward Thanksgiving: gifted guitar; theatrical job; the hours of just be still — mountainous form.

Maybe next week I’ll just write normal old stuff. Today I wondered where the vultures go when the rain comes pouring down.

I was sleep-walking under the light of the moon, 10am. Every other customer faster than me. Earlier, it’s so dark, there’s me, mountainous form, straight up on orange zafu, on old, green army blanket I’ve hauled across all these states, over and over and over. Sitting over and over and over. Staring into an empty space, sitting still doing nothing 30+ minutes and then the deep gratitude – here’s me vowing to be available to everyone else.

I’ve begun a second 30-minute sitting, Zoom, White Heron Sangha, five days a week, cause there’s the YMCA whispering the other two. Now in the thrift-shop chair, eyes lowered, cosmic mudra – it’s a finger-laid-on-finger-thing – Hewlett-Packard monitor silent as a mirror. Central Coast cats chat it up after, I quit math in the ninth grade. But see the kitty on that lady’s couch.

There’s a Koan – ‘A solitary boat without oars making its way in the moonlight.’ Like little Stevie Wonder shouting, “Everybody say ya!” Like the yowling bob-tailed tiger cat on my trailer park route, “meoh, MEoh, MEOW!!!” When the alone-me is with the alone-bob-tail, where’s all the alone? And all the us? Like they say, when there’s hot chocolate, the whole universe is hot chocolate.

Yeah, it’s a good bet you find me sleep-walking. And a good bet the moon’ll be watching up there somewhere. Making its way.

Out Sunday, Starbucks lot, cruise Broad – down, down, down – Pixies so loud I can’t hear the news. Eeee! Left on Pacific, the art shop’s closed, someone said, “This monkey’s gone to heaven,” and I’m all ears. Fresh pound of Italian Roast passenger seat, wild poetry and my old zines, back from seven years when I was you know where with you know who. Previous weekend I was all-in shining and straightening the Camry’s interior. This weekend the front seat’s a closet. Rolling thrift shop. Writing down the bones.

I’d prefer not to explain myself, and you feel free to have the mental health cats on speed dial. I know I wouldn’t.

Is it okay to forget some of the agreements I’ve made with myself? My fingers ache, my brain’s more than weary, my bed laughs as I’m crawling in – “Another quick visit, kid?”

Most everything is punk rock when you look from the corner of your eye.

Friday’s setting out on the four-day journey of cover-to-cover dance with David Hinton’s “The Wilds of Poetry.” Somewhere a guitar steps in, arriving as melody magic.

I walk the long Bob Jones Trail in the autumn sunlight, knowing there isn’t a single tree that cares what I’m thinking. What I think I know. Trees being trees; tree doing tree.

Often I stumble from the living room reading/writing chair to the bathroom in the dark, perhaps the organics of too little sleep and too much coffee. Like being drunk, the sway of back and forth, no allegiance whatsoever to good behavior. Up at 2:59am, copious coffee at 4:00. Who is there to care?

My heart aches, I believe, wishing to be like that, a return to my childhood when everything was “Wow!” — the scary basement space under the barn down the street; beating out a little league bunt; shooting stars; spin the bottle; lost in the woods with my friend and my dog; flying down Lincoln Hill on my three-speed bike; all that Christmas money from two paper routes.

It’s like going in against the “Out” arrow into the Starbucks parking lot, pointed into an empty space in the upper area. Rebel rebel.

All this, these youthful companions walking the Bob Jones Trail with me – as me. Each tree noticing something passing. Like a breeze off the nearby ocean. Like a blue jay’s visit. Hanging moss. White bark.

I’m 76.

It has taken me a long time to get from one building to another. Man, the years, the years, how did I ever get so old.

My younger sister called the other day just as I was beginning a walk through the Laguna Lake open space, and the quiet conversation wound itself all the way back to New Bedford, Massachusetts, with fishing fleets and Portuguese, the hospital where Irene delivered the both of us out into this world. Pop!

Every once in a while I have the sense I have lived here all along, California’s Central Coast, which of course can’t be true, at least on the every day level, logic and paperwork. Mom and Saint Luke’s Hospital. And yet, there’s an elegance here in nearly every act I take – it breathes familiarity. How else to explain all this?

“We looked at each other in the same way then, but I can’t remember where or when.” – Dion and the Belmonts.

I bought this swedish ivy for five dollars at the thrift shop I’d bought my 15 dollar desk a couple of hours earlier. The papery, cardboardy pot it’s in doesn’t hold water well, so there’s more than the usual hauling out to the sink to soak it again. And it sits on the top shelf of a small shelf set, so I do not get this cool view from above. Still, 20 bucks for a desk and a far-out plant. Cool.

In a couple of hours I should be the owner of a new (to me) used guitar, a “Summer of Love” edition, which called my name on first sight. I took a few minutes yesterday to explain to my landlord/housemate that the appearance of a guitar will not lead to me slashing power chords and screaming “I Wanna be Your Dog” at midnight. No – I shared the story of nearly inexpressible kindness and the how of this lovely thing finding its way into my room, my intention to play through headphones or at a teeny volume, respecting him and his space and the neighbors living like eight feet away, and nevermind my quite early bedtimes, what with the 3am meditation thing.

This is my brain on magic:

We had some rain yesterday, late afternoon and into the evening. Not torrents, but almost any rain here is good rain. I sat in my weird, thrift-shop chair and listened to it a while during a break to take a shower, most of the way through a movie on the desktop. It was “Super 8,” and nearly since the day it debuted in 2011 it’s been in my top five most-loved movies of all time. It’s mostly about kids, an obvious reason I relate so well, and a monster — ditto. Mostly it’s about heart and soul, courage and loyalty; redemption and the abilty to change. And wonder. Lots and lots of wonder.

Tuesday I posted here a piece called “for Gavin” in which I copped to a deep sense of punk rock and playing a way more significant role in that milieu, as a rocker. I said I’d had to sell all my musical instruments, two guitars, guitar straps, and my amp when my San Diego life can to an end. And for those about to rock – and you can call me a dreamer – you need the goods.

And there’s this — not an hour and a half after that post had published I received an email informing me I’d received $400 through PayPal from one of my subscribers. I reached out to ask if there’d been a mistake, and one half of the duo said no, go ahead and buy yourself a guitar, a strap, and an amp. An act of generosity straying into the place where it’s hard to find the words. Use the money on whatever feels right, she said later, and, yeah, I thought about some upcoming significant bills and all the usual stuff money helps with.

And then there’s reverence to generosity, a deep bowing, and honoring kindness. After work Tuesday, at my fave table in Starbucks, I began scooting around the internet of musicality. I’m happy to say, here on this freeway of magic, that if the creek don’t rise and there ain’t no meltdown, tomorrow morning at 10am I have a meeting set in San Luis with a man from Pismo Beach who’s going to sell me a guitar, a guitar strap, and an amplifier for exactly $400. Pictographs to follow.

“Super 8” ends with the dad, who’s been rather missing in action, holding his son – “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” For me that’s how this crazy life is lots – “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”