Author: buddycushman

The other afternoon, confined to my room again by the falling rain, I picked up a copy of my book “Astoria Strange” from a pile on the floor and read through the ‘Introduction.’ Enchantment.

While reading and remembering, the thought came to me that the writing and publishing of “Astoria” was and is one of the great accomplishments of my life. I said it out loud. A legacy. Something I will have left to the planet.

I have worked a long career in human services – it’s still happening – and I have been offered one chance after another after another to be of some kind of help. It matters, the invitation is a grace. A few awards along the way, some tears when I left one place for another. Twice in a couple of weeks hearing from different folks, “You have no idea what you mean to people.” And I don’t think I do.

I do, though, know how it feels to hold the thickness of “Astoria Strange” in my hands, To pick it up once in a while, spur of the moment decision to read “Art Theft,’ or “Elsbeth’s Story,” or “Turnaround Place,” maybe for the 15th time each. I wrote that book. I’m getting to leave it as some part of me. To the planet.

That’s pretty cool.

Monday night I attended a Zen (Zoom) Koan gathering hosted by the teacher Jon Joseph Roshi. I saw my friend Jon T from Queens, New York there. It made me happy.

The Koan with which we gathered was this — “The wooden man begins to sing, the stone woman gets up to dance.”

At the end of meditation and teaching and conversation Joseph Roshi played this song, which I had never heard:

Singing and dancing….

Following is my poem ‘dangling’ which can be found on page 12 in my wildly successful (😘)book, “my startled heart.” It tapped me on the shoulder the other day, there’s usually a reason. It will be transcribed here in prose form, a WordPress decision (the form), not mine. I’ll make do with a number of paragrapahs.

“I wrote a poem five years back, when I was older, about teachers, in their public school suits and party dresses, that not one had left his or her mark. On young me. Not one.

But – wait……Total duh. I forgot to remember trees. Trees as my teachers.

In the side yard, at my parent’s two-story house, there was an unusual tree. It remembered to flower every spring. Big, delicate, substantial, pale white flowers. Each one, I was betting, on time just for me. “Here’s a lesson for ya, kid,” they may have said, the laughing flowers. “Just keep on keeping on. Nothing to it.”

There were long string-bean-like add-ons, too, adding to the conversation of the white flowers. And those beans dangled in the light of a little-kid day. Dangle, dangle, dangle. The tree saying, I dangle, therefore I am. The flowers simply for show, cheese in a mouse trap, attention getters to lure and capture 12-year-old eyes.

For some two decades I never knew that tree’s name. I couldn’t tell you, here tonight. But I knew dangling. Like a secret pot of gold, right there in the side yard, right there next to the paint-peeling barn, shading me and my dog. Just dangling.

If someone had stopped me when I was 30-40-50-60 and demanded I tell them what I’d learned, me stiff, full of myself, like a fool, breathing in and out – oxygen and carbon – in other words forever partnering with that tree’s carbon in, oxygen out, maybe I’d of have predicted, exxplained, warned, yawned, offered all my self-centered expertise.

How sad.

It was just three weeks ago I remembered. I remembered how it was to jump out of bed with my morning eyes wide, big, hungry, all the way open. With my tail-wagging dog. With the petals of a pale white flower for a summer hat. Living completely in a string-bean day.

I was dangling then. Just dangling. And somehow, I forgot. I forgot I was just dangling.”

Sunday morning I was out strolling through the trailer park, the sun was slipping through clouds and the air was warm. I was thinking about the forecast for an especially powerful rain storm approaching the central coast from the west. While walking, this song from 1972 oozed into my mind – “It Never Rains in Southern California.” Written and sung by one Albert Hammond.

If you’re of my era, or even close enough to know the pop of those times, you likely know that the song’s chorus begins with that line and ends with, “but girl don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours.”

As noted here yesterday, I’ve been a CA resident through enough winters that when the rain truly ramps up here, there’s an end-of-the-world quality. Ain’t no gentle Portland rain storm.

But, you know what? The chorus isn’t the part of the song that came to pay a visit. It was the bridge: “Out of work, I’m out of my head
Out of self respect, I’m out of bread
I’m underloved, I’m underfed
I wanna go home.”

Yeah, that’s the part that has me humming.

Saturday morning, early, I drove over to the Bob Jones Trail and walked the out-and-back all of it, about five miles. It was cloud-covered along the way, and as a weekend day, a bit of a feel of Boston Common – walkers, hikers, moms and dads pushing strollers, joggers and runners, folks on old-fashioned pedal bikes and a few on their electric cousins. People in solitary and a bunch of large family and extended friendship groups.

I was making memories, as one of the twins said in, “The Parent Trap.” The forecast is for most of a week of rain, it’s raining now, and while it’s likely I’ll have one more chance to honor that place with my devoted presence, I was wide aware of maybe saying goodbye. I have walked the Bob Jones nearly every single week since I discovered it the beginning of May.

As I type this there are 12 days remaining of my time here in San Luis Obispo – and as a resident of California. That’s a thing. I have lived in California six months in 1977, 18 months in ’06 – ’07, three more the tail end of ’08, and now more than four and a half years from July ’21 before I’ll point north in my circus-like-packed Camry the last day of this month.

Venice Beach, Santa Monica, Berkeley, Oakland, Encinitas, San Diego, and San Luis Obispo – there’s been mail delivered to all those places, save VB, where I was briefly before SM. I’ve worked at a pizza place on the Venice boardwalk, for a youth program in downtown San Francisco, with a Down syndrome couple just over from Encinitas, and as a job coach for folks in Logan Heights, Hillcrest, and Ocean Beach boroughs in San Diego. And now as a most cheery welcomer at the YMCA here.

Already a whole bunch of California memories, and sqeezing in a final few.

Thank you to you as my subscriber. Knowing you are out there means a lot to me. I genuinely appreciate it.

Wednesday morning I had this long and cogent conversation with Gina, largely about possible homelessness, and she gave me clear suggestions. I started taking them. Then when I walked back into the trailer I saw an email from a guy in Portland responding to my post on Craigslist looking for a room – which I may add here for further enjoyment – and we talked for maybe 45 minutes – he lives exactly where I have dreamed of living – and by the time I fell asleep Wednesday night I was moved in in my mind and scheming all the places I could and would meander out from my new address on SE 17th.

Later in the morning Wednesday I asked Craig, a friend of mine who’s offered to be “eyes” for me up there, to please check it out, and on the way down to Arroyo Grande yesterday to have my taxes done for free by AARP, Craig called and said the place was quite dirty and not worth $900 a month. I could barely keep my mind on W2’s and credit unions thereafter. I texted Gavin while there about feeling so suddenly lost all over again.

When I got back here I walked out and called the Portland guy, who was surprised to hear the assessment of his apartment home (for 20 years), and I said if I do agree I can’t commit for more than one month – which I’ve been close to begging the Universe to find me a place to do just that – crash awhile so my own eyes and ears are entirely in the 97202 zip code.

Then I came back to throw laundry in, and I’m leaning right now (Thursday pm) into just saying no. Me and Nancy Reagan. There’s likely a most important question here for me to give my attention to on this emotional amusement ride. I suppose, if the creek don’t rise and there ain’t no meltdown, more will be revealed from this mountain bench Monday.

And I know this is super long, and it’s Friday, and you have important stuff to do, but as I said I might, here’s the post I’ve had up on CL the last month:

Please consider me for a private room to be rented in your home. I’ll be a responsible, respectful, and great tenant and housemate. I’m moving back to Portland, where I lived 12 years previously (’09-’21), from southern/central California. — This is me: I’m older (though endlessly hip and soulful) and something of an introvert. I’ve had a long career in human services. I’ll be leaving a part-time job I have now, and already have leads for another when I arrive. I am a writer (12 self-published books) and a sometimes artist. I publish a weekday blog, which I created in 2018. I’ll add links to my writing/art website and the blog. — Of primary importance in my life is my Zen practice, which colors everything else. – I have two grown sons, in Montana and Idaho respectively, my youngest with Down syndrome. I have long-term sobriety. I am a big reader, a regular walker/hiker, and a crummy guitar player (through headphones). I’m quiet, kind, and fun in a goofy way. — I am looking to rent a studio/room, it’d be great with a private bathroom, in a price range of $700 – 900 a month, including utilities. I am also open to a short-term rental so I can be in Portland to actually see where I want to live in Portland. And be seen by you. I’m hoping to find myself living in the Southeast, say between Burnside, Johnson Creek, the river and 50th. I will always pay rent on time, or early, and have and maintain deep respect for your life (lives) and space. — This post is a bit early, I’m planning to arrive early March. Thanks for any consideration. — 148curiousthings.com — fromamountainbench.com

Subscriber note — If you have any feedback – any at all – please offer it before 9:30a Friday this 13th as I may call Portland with my decision before the 11a Portland job interview.

I find myself giggling at the approaching prospect of having no address. Not the reality of where will I go the bathroom, or keep yogurt, or lay my pillow. But, there’s something about the path to those places that keeps cracking me up. Time’s running out, and even with the very, very few responses to my callouts for private rooms in houses and studios, I find a quality reason to say no thanks. Just yesterday afternoon I messaged a guy saying ‘renter’s insurance” was required, I wrote that in all my life of renting – which is all my life after leaving mom and dad, I have never once been told I had to have renter’s insurance. I messaged that landlord I had drawn a line and was honoring it. He messaged back an hour later, “Okay, good luck.” And it made me laugh, just a little while, but laughing.

Just before leaving work yesterday, Julia, my boss, said she was trying to cover Jorge’s shifts because he was off on a vacation. He hadn’t told her he was off to Mexico with his mom for a family wedding. He had told me. So, she asked, could I work his Friday morning, and I remembered I have a Zoom interview for a job in Portland at 11 that day and said sorry. I turned to the door to leave and Julia said, “See you Thursday,” and I turned around and gave her the most quizicle look I could give and said, entirely perplexed, “Thursday?” A look of panic came over her face, like I’d forgotten my own shift, but before she could say anything I pointed my finger at her and said, “Gotcha.” I have never ever been so playful and loose with my boss. And I walked out the doors cracking up at my unplanned, and you might say insanely adolescent behavior.

Three weeks before no address and maybe no yogurt and no numbers to which mail may be forwarded, a scenario for sure in which any mail that comes here (the trailer park) will be thrown away. And that’s not funny and still I’m laughing.

I’m laughing a lot. I’d tell you a couple of sentences that came to me sitting on the cushion in the dark Monday morning but it would come off way to Zennie. I will tell you the end of a dream just before, I mean just before my alarm went off Tuesday morning, where I heard someone shouting, “This is the only world there is.”

I crawled into bed Sunday night at a quarter past six. Exhausted – physically, mentally, emotionally. Exhausted with my current address, and exhausted with no future address. I nearly fell right asleep.

Beginning Friday morning through Sunday afternoon I had had at least half-hour conversations with my son Cameron, my son Spenser, my friend Gavin, my friend Bob, my friend Jorge, and my friend David. I was exhausted with my own voice.

In my fantasy my fairy godmother says, “We have a shack for you deep in the woods. We’ll send a car.” And I go there and I don’t speak a word for 100 days.

But, there is the no future address thing.

Sometimes I sit around doing nothing and think my being an introvert and on the cusp of anti-social are why I experience aloneness, especially the way I’ve experienced aloneness here in San Luis Obispo, one of my three reasons for choosing to leave.

It seems like an easy hop, skip, and jump from one to the other. And yet, I don’t think that’s it.

Saturday morning I was sipping coffee and reflecting on with whom I have shared my most intimate thoughts about my life now, including the tapped-me-on-the-shoulder decision to move back to Portland. Immediately six names came to me: Gavin in Oakland; Kate in Missouri; Gina in Santa Barbara; Jorge, my one really true friend here in SLO; Mike in New Jersey; and David in New Mexico. And I can honestly add Bob in Massachusetts, though life on his end has kept us out of touch for a while. And of course my sons Cameron and Spenser. I love each and ever one, and they know it. And each and every one loves me back, and I know it.

That’s pretty fabulous, right?

Somewhere in my past I heard/read that most adults are fortunate to have two best friends.

Look at my collection! Lucky, lucky me.

Portland, Oregon.

Elvis is coming back into the building.