Silence

The day was bright with only wisps of clouds in the sky. A man with a wrinkled brow and a weathered face sat outside. The wind tousled his hair that had gone straw-like with age. A crowd was around him, silent. A woman that was still a girl walked up and sat in the chair next to him. "How are you this beautiful day?"

 

There was only silence in return. She wondered why there was no response. Maybe his hearing was gone. She asked again, a little louder, "How are you doing these days?"

Still, there was only silence. With hesitant hands she unpinned the withered corsage from his coat and put on a fresh one. It was crimson, lovely arranged with a bit of fern and baby's breath. The woman's face had a far away look as memories flood back of her childhood. As a child she would sit on her daddy's lap, and smell the sweetness of the rose pinned to his lapel. Shaking her head she jumped back into the now. "Do you know I'm in college? I do quite well, but I don't have a real goal in mind."

 

The silence was deafening. Looking to her hands folded in her lap, she wondered if he was proud of her. He had never finished High School because of family troubles. Maybe graduating from college would break the silent spell that he had spun upon her.

 

She had worn her best pair of jeans and a forest green sweater. Green had been his favorite color. He had loved being outdoors. Once upon a time they had gone camping for weeks on end. There had been so much to share. Spying on animals through trees, picking berries, learning about edible plants, and most of all how much he loved his little girl.

Words died on her lips as she started to say something and then stopped because of his silence. She tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear and tried once last time. "I met someone. He's a really great guy. He works in a restaurant as a chef. I think he might be the one."

Again only silence. If this man was the one, would her father walk her down the aisle? Would he give her away? Or would he sit here silent?

 

There was nothing left for her to say and although there were many questions, she knew there would be no answers. And there never would be. He had taken himself out of her life permanently. With a sad smile and a heavy heart she walked home from the cemetery.

Starry water field

my feet were not the first to see
the stars floating through the night
I walked behind him in the ebb and flow
there was no up or down, no right way
my path rippled and pooled, leaving no trace
to follow or find again. it was gone

the water was up to my ankles. gone
was the light, the shore I could not see
thoughts begin. my dreams I trace
from childhood to this very night
there is no place to go, no sign to lead the way
uncertainties come in one continuous flow

stop, stop the battering on my soul. end the flow
of doubts, of tears, of fear. silence, gone
are the voice. still lost, I do not know the way
black reflected below me and above me all I see
is the darkest of skies. pure night
the stars are gone, nothing. not even a trace

his hands upon my cheeks. my tears, his trace
his palms, his hand through which comfort will flow
not so dark anymore this truest night
two moons rise as he looks upon me. tears gone
the salt has fallen and mingled with the sea
his touch, may it never be so far away

insecurities too close, the know they way
my eyes falter, my hands do not trace
what if there was light for him to see
would his words still continue to flow
would the look in his eyes be gone
though I fear the dark, is there worse than night

put my pain to rest, for the night
is fading and a path becomes clear. my way
though unknown, is before me but partly gone
I see where I've been, I know it's trace
my heart will beat and my blood will flow
and where I'll end up... we'll just have to see

in the midst of night, clouded was my way
he was there to trace, where my tears did flow
till again I could see with my confusion gone

Childhood home

a lone grey building
stands, colossal,
worn with age.
wood, soft, rotting,
covered in rusted metal.
two balconies,
no rails, no support.
any minute
crashing down.

a door faces the ocean.
wood faded from crashing waves,
stained from sea mist,
salt lines trace pictures,
scent of seaweed all around.

a wooden path leads to a door.
sun bleached, wind battered.
hinges loose and in
desperate need of oil.
still, it opens.

splintered floor.
boxes of books, skulls,
glass buoys, rotting clothing.
an old Singer washer,
plugged into a generator
covered in dust and webs.
every corner full
with the little things
that life alone in the wilderness
require.
it echoes with emptiness.

nine rooms, two stories.
a slaughter pit,
a garage,
a two bedroom upstairs,
a one bedroom downstairs.
joined by one stair.
long and uncertain,
still somehow
managing to bear weight.

imperfect yet full,
the house still stands.
a physical tomb
of perfect memories,
that leave a child empty.

I couldn't find the title for this

Windows unblinking, forever staring into the street
Haunted eyes open to the masses
Each night tired eyes, lost eyes,
     hopeful eyes stare back
with neon sparkles shining, reflecting
Bricks faded, grout crumbled down
wrinkling the flesh that has faced down years
guarded by a tired soul, the door
opens a moist cavernous hole
slimy residue on every surface
overwhelming the scent of ageless dust
with the bitterness of brew
that keeps tongues moving and thirst sated.
Old face withering more and more
     each day I pass on by
Yet once, only once I glance over
and fall into the pool of beer that lies inside
I struggle rising to the surface
only to gasp and sink even deeper.

Dreams

I lay, struggling to move
held down by my nightmares
I saw my face, haunting
skin icy-blue-transparent
sunken hollow eyes
    screaming piteously
the stench of cold fear
unbearable weight smothering my heart
thrashing arms, twisting legs
let me up...
I lay next to myself
staring into dead eyes
help me... help me... help me
My ghastly reflection rises
glances over her shoulder
She walks away

Once upon a time...

I had a creative writing teacher named Steven Meyers. I loved those classes. Their structure, the creativity, how we shared what we wrote. It felt like such a community. I would go back to Durango and enroll in Fort Lewis again to be in one of those classes. By the end of the semester I would know pieces of the people in the class. I felt kinship with my classmates and yet I didn't stay in touch with any of them. It's strange. And yet wonderful.

Anyways... my point is that I'm going to post some of the writing. The journal that I recently found is from one of the poetry classes that I took so that's what will be making appearances.

Sleepless nights

I've been thinking about this on and off for a while.  About insomnia and dreams.  And silly explanations that fail to make sense.  Sometimes I feel like I can't sleep at night because I don't have anything to dream.  I've never had dreams.  Never had that goal or job or dream to work for. Never wanted anything.  I mean I want happiness.  Ultimately.  But, who doesn't?  For someone (and I hate to sound like a pompous ass or anything) with considerable smarts and skills, why don't I have a dream?  Why don't I want something?  Why don't I have this life goal?  How can I just be floating by looking for something that will make me happy for a little while till I find something else?  What's wrong with me?  What did I miss?  What part of me is missing?

In my world I have insomnia because I've used up all my dreams.  On the nights that I can sleep, it's because a dream, even if it's just a day dream, has found me and enveloped me in tryptophan or sleep kisses.  On the nights I can't sleep, it's because nothing in me wants to dream or can dream.  Such a juvenile thought.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is tough.  How do you forgive someone and not forget the hurt?  How do you learn to guard your heart against further hurt?  I don't think I have this down yet.  I think I forgive people and accept their apologies.  I slowly ease the hurt that crushed me and destroyed a little of the self-confidence that I struggle to build up.  But it changes my relationship with the individual forever.

If there was a lie, there's now doubt.  If there was a broken promise, there is a little bit of a broken heart.  If there was screaming and yelling and name calling, the words that were said sneak into my head and into my heart.  There is an impact.  An apology doesn't make the words that were said disappear.  Should the apology restore the relationship to it's former state?  Can it?  Wouldn't it just lead to being in the same situation?

I have past experience with a friend that has lied to me, not followed through with promises, ignored my calls, stood me up, disappointing me and hurting me time and time again.  I can't even think of all the times that I've bawled by myself in a car, at the airport, in a hotel room because I've tried to hang out with her.  I forgive, over time I forget.  I get hurt again.  Something has to change.  And since nothing has changed with her, clearly something has to change with me.  I don't want to be hurt anymore.  Therefore, my conclusion is to let the friendship go.

Which is tough and hurtful itself.  You share your life with someone for so long and have so many experiences and memories with so much potential for more.  How can it be possible to give that up?  And yet, do the few good moments outweigh the hurt?  Where is the line that I can walk to protect my heart and yet still forgive someone?

I don't understand.

I should write more... I'm outta practice

Victor "Duke" Kotongan

Victor “Duke” Kotongan was a sled dog musher. Duke grew up around dogs used by his dad to herd reindeer and for transportation. He was a seasonal worker and did not have a steady monetary income; however the land provided him with a lot of what was needed to run dogs. In addition to running the Iditarod, my dad’s dogs were a working dog team. Duke used his dogs to work his trap line.

For rural mushers, running the Iditarod was a 12 month job. Victor did not buy commercial dog food. He caught and dried fish and killed seals and put the meat away for his dogs. Often this is how it was for bush mushers that wanted to run the Iditarod because there was not a lot of year round employment.

In the old days mushers had to know how to treat and care for their dogs. Sled dogs were wormed by feeding them ptarmigan with the feathers and skin still on attached and seal oil. It cleaned the dogs out. In the bush there weren’t stores for medicine, but there was always something from the country that would remedy the problem.

During the long winter months, Victor would build dog sleds in an upstairs bedroom of his home. Puppies would be born in the kitchen because it wasn’t safe for them to be born in 40 below weather. The mom and pups would stay in the house until they could be outside. Other dogs that were let into the house were lead dogs. Two of Victor’s kids, Patrick and Victoria, enjoyed them as playmates when they were growing up.

To train for the Iditarod Victor ran his dogs back and forth from Egavik, where his father had a reindeer herd. Duke or fellow musher, Doug Katchatag, would sometimes run 18 or 20 dogs at a time. It was an impressive sight to see, like the string of dogs was endless, and took a skilled musher to control the dog team. He participated in the Kuskokwim 300; his best placing was 3rd in the 1984 race. Duke was involved in the Norton Sound Sled Dog Club which began putting on the Norton Sound Portage 200 in 1984, which he also ran.

There was a need for a race in the area to give local mushers a chance to qualify for the Iditarod. It was more affordable for locals than the Kusko 300. The Portage 200 became the Portage 250 and this drew bigger names to the race. The Portage 250 was a little longer than a qualifying race for the Iditarod. The popularity of the race grew and the Norton Sound Sled Dog Club became instrumental in the building of the tripod flats cabin.

When Duke ran the Iditarod, his mother Hazel Kotongan, would make fish agutak for him to take on the trail. Judie Kotongan would make caribou or moose patties baked in a crust that could be heated individually. Similarly when someone in a family chose to mush dogs or race in the Iditarod, the whole family pitched in. Family members or friends helped make booties, put away food for the dogs or make cold weather gear.

Without the help of Northern Air Cargo it wouldn’t have been possible for Victor or a lot of local mushers to race the Iditarod. The airline would fly the dogs for free from the bush to Anchorage.

On years that Victor didn’t run the Iditarod he was involved in other aspects of the race. The first year of the southern route, he was gone for weeks with his dogs and traps breaking trail. Duke had a knowledge of sled dogs. Mushers would come and talk to him about a specific dog that he or she was having trouble with. Twenty years ago there were a lot more people mushing dogs. They enjoyed chatting with each other about training schedules and what was being fed to the dogs.

Duke was particular about the breeding of his dogs. He tried to get new bloodlines from other mushers. Joe Redington Jr. was a good friend of his and there was some of the Redington line in his dogs. He was conscious of what traits to look for in a puppy in order for it to grow up to be a good sled dog.

In those earlier years of the Iditarod, families in the villages signed up to have mushers stay in their homes. It didn’t matter if the musher was a rookie or if the musher was a well known veteran in the mushing world, they were always welcomed into the home with a hot meal.

Homes were open to the families of the musher’s as well. If a wife or husband wanted to see the musher on the trail they could come a day or two before the musher was to arrive at the checkpoint and stay with the family.

Some big names stayed in the same neighborhood and kept an eye out for each other. Susan Butcher stayed at Tia and Larry Wilson’s. Rick Swenson stayed at Oscar and Mae Koutchak’s. Dick or Rick Mackey stayed at Elmer and Ruth Kotongan’s. And Don Honea or Joe Runyan stayed at Victor and Judie Kotongan’s. The mushers could see each other from the houses in the neighborhood and always kept one eye open to see who would leave first.

In the beginning of the Iditarod the race was a huge event for the villages. It was like the circus came to town. Locals took the opportunities of musher’s staying with families to wander around visiting. They stopped by to pet the dogs and mushers always took the time to say a few words to someone that came by to check out their team. There was a bond that the people in the villages felt with the runners of the Iditarod. People remember having tea or coffee with big name mushers like Susan Butcher, Dick Mackey, or other “famous” mushers and yet the last ten mushers were treated the same as the first ten mushers.

When the mushers could no longer stay in the homes, the race changed. It took something from the communities located along the Iditarod Trail.

A day....

The morning was dreary. Grays muddled with other grays becoming one big blob of gloom that blocked out the sun. The air look cool and damp. As I gazed out my window framed by curtains tied up in knots, I wondered if I'd have anything to do at work. One last glance at the bland sky and I turned taking my sagging sweat pants off and tossing them on my bed. I adjusted my panties and looked at the pair of jeans I'd worn yesterday halfway in and out of my laundry basket.
How many days had I worn them already? Huh... I couldn't remember.
I grabbed them and slid the cracked and worn belt through the loops. The jeans were tossed into the basket, the belt was tossed on my bed on top of my sweats. I pulled open two drawers, one directly over the other. Black socks were pulled out of the top drawer, pulled on and then the drawer was closed. Next drawer. My hands picked up the first pair of pants that came into view. Without unzipping or unbuttoning them I pulled them up my legs and over my ass, or rather, lack thereof.
You see, without an ass there is no need to unbutton or unzip your jeans. It probably saves time in the long run, but damn what wouldn't I do just for a little bootyliciousness. Not an entire pie of booty, but just a slice.
Pulling open the top drawer, I selected a black t-shirt and pulled it over my head, over the tank top I'd slept in.
Black Crowes. Okay. I can wear pot smoking crows to work.
I reached for the belt on my sweats and laced it through it's loops, starting one loop right of the zipper. One handed I buckled the flame and picked up my red shoulder bag. Contents: ipod, planner, wallet, checkbook, eye drops, earphones, and an empty water bottle. My eyes flicked to my desk to see if anything had fallen out. Nope. Down the stairs, ducking under the ceiling and into the kitchen I walked.
"Good morning."
"Morning."
Which is definitely not the type of person that I am. I shuffled around making myself some oatmeal. As the scent of maple and brown sugar wafted through the air out of the microwave, I peeled and ate a hard boiled egg. Some of the egg white stuck to the membrane attached to the shell. What a waste. I drank water. I flipped open my laptop that had been sitting ignored on the kitchen table. Password typed in, I waited for it to full wake up and realize it's potential. I maximized Internet Explorer and refreshed my Facebook page, eternally open and sucking my life away. I had 6 new notifications. Opening a new window for each notification, I scrolled through the most recent updates from the people that I deemed interesting enough not to remove from my feed. Click. Type. Click. Type. Click. Type. Click. Comments were responded to. All but two windows were closed. I switched over to Gmail and refreshed my inbox. No new messages. Great. Nothing to do at work today. I closed my computer and looked at my Mom sitting across the table from me, steam rising from her cup, smile playing in her eyes, the corner of her lips.
"You excited for today?"
"I suppose. I'll be happy when the travel part is over."
We'd had this conversation before. My Mom hates the hassle of flying, especially when she's doing it solo. However talking is important. Having someone care about your day to day shit makes you feel like a worth while human being. So even though I'm not a morning person, I try.
"Yeah. Makes sense. Then you can get into all the fun stuff. Are you going to send anything?" I smiled.
"You wish. What do you want?" Her voice was bright. Finally the morning person had someone to chat with.
"Salad. You know that Chinese kind. Or wait no the Asian kind."
"Yeah, I could probably manage that. Maybe in a priority mail box on Monday. That would make it here. Wouldn't it?"
"Really? You're going to send me salad?" Excitement mounted in my voice. "I bet it's cheaper in Anchorage. I'm sure it'd do fine in the mail. It's not that warm yet." My voice dropped. "Aw crap, I suppose it's that time."
"Work?"
"Yep."
My long day flashed before my eyes as I grabbed a light, zip up sweater from the coat racks. I could see it perfectly. I'd walk out the door, bike to work, enter the building, start my computer, make coffee, and then wish I'd have shit to do. One arm in one sleeve, the other arm in the other sleep. Zip. I picked up my shoulder bag and walked out the door.
"See ya later."
"Have a good day."
What comfort we feel in such silly words said hundreds of times a year, thousands in a lifetime. I felt bolstered with a little leap upwards in my mind, the well wish and the bright air kissing my skin. Maybe today wouldn't be as screamingly monotonous as the previous day. Rocky soil crunched under my shoes.
"Hey dog."
Left hand on the handle bars, right hand on the seat, I nudged the kick stand with my left foot and turned my bike away from the shed and out facing the lumpy path out to the road. Left foot on the left pedal. Hop. Push. Hop. I swung my right leg over the seat and started pedaling away feeling the familiar sensation of my muscles pumping around in circles. Wind caught my hair and I felt wisps loosen, pulled out of my pony tail by it's caressing glances. I moved through space and time, mind roiling with thoughts the entire time.
Will I see the sun today?
Crap. Slow down. Avoid the damn puddle. Shit needs to dry up already.
Should I text him hello? Would he even answer?
There's still too much snow. It needs to melt so I can actually have work to do.
I shouldn't text him. Let it go.
This is stupid. Stop thinking about him.
Is that a rock in my shoe?
I should exercise today. Maybe walk. I wonder if Jason will want to go.
What a cool guy. I love that he's my friend.
I stopped pedaling. My bike rolled to a stop in front of a bright orange post, scratched and rusted. Hands placed exactly the same as when I started, I flip the kick stand down and rest my bike on it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. My mind counted the steps unconsciously as I climbed up them. I drifted through the door, the hall, into my office. I flipped open my laptop and pressed the power button. Too lazy to make fresh coffee I poured day old coffee into my unwashed cup and meandered back to the kitchen. 1:30. Start. :46. Wait. :01. Good enough. I grabbed my cup, warmth flowing from the ceramic into my flesh.
Heat. What am amazing thing. Causes sweat. Melts water. Cooks food. So much more. Another meaning. Heat between two people. The look in someone's eyes when they realize they contain desire. The darker look when they actualize desire. Enough.
My ass settled into my office chair.