Dottie photo

Dottie photo

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

The House Of Bliss Forest


The trees are thick along the running trail through Bliss Forest. Encompassing, towering, and seemingly endless; the thicket of trees and the layers of plants and foliage blanket the forest and cage the sun through thick wooden fingers. The rangers maintain the running trail exquisitely. The path through the forest is prominent and routinely trampled. Athletes and running groups are only a fraction of the traffic on the running trail through Bliss Forest. Characters of all sorts wander the forest for reasons of exercise, tranquility, escape, and thought. I have a black and white tuxedo puppy of the Blackmouth Cur variety and I love showing her the world through the spiraling wonderland in the forest. We will be there again soon. The leaves are changing. My puppy and I will escape through the rustling of the fallen leaves and explore the Autumn colors while she smiles brightly and drinks from the cool streams. We will trot with no particular purpose and receive smiles from joggers and walkers alike, and we will march to the tune of adventure.
It is in this adventure that we will immerse ourselves in the dense dream of Autumn. The dream is surreal and centers deep in the forest, upon an old brick house with one lonely light emitting through a small window on the ground floor. The house is pushed against the woods, perhaps not more than a hundred feet from the running trail. The front of the house appears to be facing the long dead-end of a neighborhood drive. Although a part of a small subdivision, there are no neighboring houses in sight. The house along the Bliss Forest running trail has made the forest its community instead. Smoke plumes from the chimney and the solitary light in the tiny window begins to glow just before dusk. The house along the running trail has no backyard or patio of any kind. That is to say, the forest itself clings to the back door.  The neighborhood grows away from the forest. The old brick house is rooted with the trees. The roots are potted in obscurity, speculation, and oblivion.
My puppy zig-zags along the trail, incapable of staying to one side. She leaps and crouches in surprise of the bicyclists whizzing past. She runs ahead of me, occasionally looking back to make sure I am still with her, and she is lost in her own world of wonder. The forest is home to much of her imagination. She barks at the harmless rustling of hallow clumps of leaves off the beaten trail. She barks and then she smiles. There is not much she is willing to slow down for. When she does slow down, her nose twitches and dances in the air. She senses my fascination as we slow down in unison in the distant sight of the old brick house. We smell the sweet wood burning in the fireplace. We step closer, slowly, together. My fascination grows and her ears are perked and her tail is alert. There is no cause for alarm. The house is solid. The house is solitary. The house has no interest in the world beyond the forest and the trail. We are in no danger and our fascination is growing. We are alone now. We have not seen another trailblazer in over half an hour.
It is an unassuming house with no theme at all but a cozy, lonely house in its own haunted milieu. The chimney plumes and we stare. Foliage crunches around the bend of the trail and the hairs on my puppy's back stand firmly. An elderly woman in a cheerful sweater with two elderly dogs, wearing mangy sweaters of their own, trundles around the bend and my puppy relaxes her fur and wags her tail in delight. The old woman walks with a smile slowly towards us. The old woman eases in to a stop by our side and my puppy eagerly pounces in the faces of her dogs. I apologize and give a gentle tug of the leash. The old woman giggles and assures me it is okay. She asks us if we are admiring the house. I tell her we are. The friendly old dogs take a seat on the trail and my puppy sidles in next to them. The dogs smile together and catch their breath from the excitment. The old woman and I stare towards the house in silence for a few seconds.
The old woman asks if I am enjoying the fall colors. I tell her I always do. I confide in her that October is my favorite month of the year. We talk of October and Halloween. She tells me how she dresses her old dogs in ridiculous rags and eagerly waits for the trick-or-treating children. She loves to see the children taking to the streets in spooky merriment for candy. The parents trail somewhat closely in their own groups with beer and wine thermoses. I wonder if the children will be rapping on the door of the house along the Bliss Forest running trail. I wonder this aloud. The old woman tells me the children always frequent the house for Halloween. The old woman says that her house along the trail is an old-time favorite of the children. The children love to see her and her dogs in costume rags.
The only thing my mouth can say is that her home is lovely. My mind is racing with questions, but my mouth keeps it simple and polite. She does have a lovely home. The old woman must be going. Her dogs struggle to regain their footing and then they are slowly moving once again. I say my goodbyes and I take my attention off their departure for a moment and they are gone. We must be going, too. The sun is setting soon. We were lost in October. It is time to make our pilgrimage back through the forest before the beautiful fall colors disappear in darkness.
The sun sets quickly. We follow the remnants of light, scurrying back to the parking area within the entrance of the forest. The sun leaves us for the day and the headlights on my car are the only light in the forest. My puppy jumps into the passenger side of my car and I roll her window down halfway. She pops her head out with a smile and bids her own farewells to the forest she now loves. We take a slow scenic drive through the forest and out into the neighboring subdivision. We drive slowly through the neighborhood, amidst the scattered herds of trick-or-treaters. My puppy hangs a paw and her head out the window, shouting playful barks at them. The children wave and some of them even bark back at her and laugh.
We cruise through the festive suburban street, under the shines of street lamps, reaching the cul-de-sac at the end of the neighborhood. We ease in to the loop, around and pass the old woman's house in front of the forest. The old brick house welcomes an assemblage of trick-or-treaters to its secluded doors. A patch of eight large pumpkins with carved glowing faces brighten the otherwise darkened porch steps. Treats are given, laughter is shared, and tails wag under frumpy costume rags. The old woman looks up to see us passing by and she waves an excited hand. We exchange smiles and we must be going once again. There is a silly dog sweater for the purpose of Halloween waiting in our home, still in the bag with the price tag on it. There are bags of candy still needing a bowl. There is a marathon of 90's horror films and cold drinks in the fridge. Switch on all the outside lights. There is still Halloween.
We knew the house as the house of October and I wonder if the old brick house, somewhat separated from its subdivision, assumes new identities for every season and holiday. From the falling leaves, to the blankets of snow, the spring rains, and the calm summer nights, surrounded by the forest and entrenched in its own imagination; the house along the Bliss Forest running trail is a story in October, another in December, and another in April, and another in July. The house changes with the changes in the air. October was the time and moment for us. October was a wonderful time for stories and imagination. The house will provide more stories throughout the seasons to come. Explore with your dog and simply look through the trees.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Two More Fantastic Years


As of October of this current year, I will commit to my cozy home in the quiet and lesser-known outskirts of Chicago for two more years. It has already been one terrific year in our home. I was married while living in this home. More recently, my cat and my dog welcomed a new puppy in this home. I also established my first writing office in this home. Since its conception in October, 2013, my blog now has an actual office to launch from. There are portraits and memories of California on the walls. I cannot believe that in just three short years my life transformed from sunny California to a distant hideaway in peaceful suburbia. In the winter time, I like to don my thick robe and sit by a snow-crested window in the glow of my fireplace with no electronic distractions and smoke quietly, watching the flames dance as my mind wanders through the fantastic things that occurred in those three years between there and here, and I imagine the fantastic things still to come. A fantastic year indeed; a marriage, a puppy, and my first short story. And, still, two more fantastic years.
It is windy today. The blustery winds whip through the backyards of my neighborhood. There may be only a week or two left of summer and the heat. We are rapidly approaching October. The grocery stores are rolling out all of the Oktoberfest goodies. October has always been a special or significant month for me. Sometimes it has been both of those things. A week or so ago, I was reminded of an occasion from three years ago practically to the day. I found my 'starting over' point in Southern California abruptly interrupted by the disbanding of a townhouse I shared with friends in Covina. It was a beautiful, quiet, private, and spacious townhouse just off a major boulevard and across the street from a late-night In-N-Out Burger and a 24-hour donut shop. It was January of 2013 when we moved in and it was a glorious time. It was exactly what I needed on my new life path. It was a time in my life when I was starting over in every possible way and I enjoyed nine months in my Covina home. I thought for certain we were going to enjoy several years and holidays in that townhouse. It was September of that same year when the news came that my main cohort could no longer endure a fellow roommate and his tardy payments and his touchy, isolated behavior and that he was pulling out of our lease. A motion was carried to abandon our rare find of a home. I had until the end of September to find a new place to live. My cozy, sunny, happy fresh start was coming to an end. I was panicked and devastated. I found no enjoyment in September. October was coming and I was miserable.
When the day came, it was actually a week or two before the end of September. I will never forget standing in the middle of the empty living room with my small amass of furniture and personal belongings — a lost, yet determined feeling. My now-former roommate and I loaded his pickup truck and he gave me a ride across town to my new abode. He helped me get my writing chair down off the back of the truck, bitched about his bills and made other negative, depressing statements and then he drove away. I haven't seen him or heard his voice since. I took lodging with a man four years my senior and he was able to put my emptiness into perspective. He was a failing alcoholic who consistently shut out his closest friends and neighbors. Both of his parents were dead and his wife had left him for another man. She had the kids. His only companion seemed to be his on-and-off toxic girlfriend who spent most of her time at the house nagging him, complaining, arguing loudly, and stealing money from his wallet when he would pass out. Sometimes she would disappear for weeks on end and he would be on a tumultuous bender, swearing her off for good until her inevitable return. My new landlord was quite friendly to me and he completely left me to my own devices. There would be the occasional smoke on the front porch together, but for the most part I kept to myself in my small room. My small room was attached to the side of the garage and had no heat. The washer and dryer were in the garage, along with the ruins of a once-great era. There was what used to be a fairly impressive bar in the garage. It was once the local watering hole for the neighbors on our street, complete with oak wood bar, neon signs, bar stools, tables and chairs with ashtrays, and a dartboard. It was hard to imagine the possibility of allowing something like that to run down. It was easy to picture all the friendly, neighborly good times had in that garage all those summers ago. The garage was a disaster. Broken items, dead leaves, debris, and old clothes everywhere. All of the bottles were empty and strewn, the neon signs faded and decayed, the keg taps clogged with mildew, and the tap handles chipped and worn. The bar was covered in layers of dust, cobwebs, and faded memories. Every time I did laundry in there I thought about those classic summers, how nice they would be now, and how I would not be very likely to see them repeated. My room had a twin bed, my writing chair, destroyed carpet, and the room came with a corner TV stand that was desperately supporting a large, heavy, boxy television from the early 90's. It worked beautifully and I had four or five channels to watch on it. There I was, one block away from old-town Covina and a short bus ride from busier West Covina, and I was more intrigued and anxiously excited than I had been living nine months in my former townhouse. October was coming and things were getting interesting.
Settled in, location observed, and routines established, I was one week away from the start of October and an old friend convinced me to start a blog, in order to shake out some short stories while I ponder the birth of a novel. I launched my blog on October first, after returning from a brief stay in Santa Barbara. October was coming and I was excited. I was much more lively during that time than I thought was possible. I was exploring my city more. I traipsed the bustling boulevard of old-town nearly every night. I was dining about town more. I had a regular seat at the old folks patio table at Starbucks. I was writing more. I was reconnecting with an old love. I was establishing the kind of fresh start I wanted in the first place. Everything was brand-new and strangely better. I was in awe of the situation. As the fall season rolled on and the holidays approached, my blog continued to publish stories I had no idea were there, and I finally put together the idea for a small novel — the very novel that is in completion stages today. Sometimes I actually miss those witching-hour writing sessions in that small room, relaxed in my soft writing chair with a comforter wrapped around me for warmth, watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents on the clunky television, writing letters, and writing my stories. It was in that interruption that I discovered the journey was longer than expected. The end of the road was not the arrival at some swanky townhouse on the fringes of contentment. I was discovering new things about myself. I was discovering what mattered and what did not matter anymore. There was still the same sunshine in the same California in the new circumstances, and the day eventually came when it was discovered that the journey still had a few thousand miles left on it. I remember telling my new roommate and strange friend that I would have to be moving on. He looked defeated and dead in the eyes, he smelled of stale screwdrivers and cigarettes, and he did not say much after telling me that he understood. I didn't know if it was the booze, or if he was going to miss the small amount of cash I gave him every month, or if he was just broken from another person leaving him. It was hard to watch in any case. I mailed the old boy a postcard from Nashville on my way to Chicago, the gist of it being the best of wishes for him and his happiness. I never heard anything. A year in Chicago, I tried to fill a lazy Tuesday afternoon in the office with a phone call to him and see how he was doing. The slurred voice of an afternoon drinking buddy answered his phone and told him who I was. I could hear his drunk voice in the background. It was barely one o'clock Pacific time. The old boy took his phone and hung up on me. I haven't heard from him since.
October is coming and I am ecstatic. I have a lot of time at home in October. I have a lot of events in October. I am pulling all the stops for Halloween weekend. I am going to bask in the anniversary of my blog and the next stages of my novel. I am going to look joyfully ahead towards the next two years. The wife and I are still due for a honeymoon. I hope the new puppy doesn't get too big too fast. I enjoy reminiscing, but I will never look back. Letting go in the wind, I was carried on a journey ripe with new beginnings and unforeseen possibilities. I never imagined it this way. My whole world was interrupted three years ago and it has been absolutely wonderful. Frightening at times, yes, but not without love, assurance, vision, and accomplishment. There is still a ways to go yet. Pull down the hoodies, stock up on the pumpkins, polish off the fire pit, put the apple cider on the stove, and take in every ounce of the Autumn scenery. I can already smell wood burning in the wind. October is here and here is to two more fantastic years.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Le main du hiver

The winter is over. An end to the frightful and constant reminders of death. This place, in the gray and in the cold, is not my home. It will be my home soon enough. For most of the year, this place is my home and my happiness is in the blue and the orange, the warmth and the eventual Autumn colors. When the tinsel fades after New Year's, the hand of winter takes hold with a grim, icy chill. The dooming sadness ripples with the goosebumps and an irrational panic tells me that there is no escape from the death that surrounds me, and that soon it will be me. Flecks of lights sprinkled among the homes buried in the frost, holding against the wind, signal that I am not all that remains in the dismal season, but it is hopeless. It will soon be them, too. I had hoped to record my accounts during the sub-zero gloom, but it, too, was hopeless. There is only layers of clothing, fear for the outside, and a shaking panic for the inside. Speechless and terrified. There is nothing and this place is not my home. The hand of winter grips tighter.
Autumn is the final hoorah. The summer slows down -- and what a summer it was. Autumn brings relief from the heat and the endless nights. The colors and festivals are spectacular. The cold is inching in. There is a festive moment in the arrival of the cold, bracing for the darkness to come. The cold is decorated with colorful lights, music, and cheerful spirits, and the snow and the frost has a celebratory purpose. But soon, the bottles are empty, the presents are opened, the New Year ball drops, the neighbors go home, and the merriment burns out. The city rips off the lights that bore joy, leaving only what still clings to the houses. The once festive lights are buried in the rubble of the blizzards. The logs burn in the fire, but they can only burn for so long. Huddled with remaining hope by the fire, burning Netflix seasons with the logs. They, too, can only last so long. It is the only thing that helps. Distract. Don't look outside. Remember palm trees and blue skies. It is hopeless. The wind is the terrifying howls of a psychiatric ward hallway, unnerving, maddening, disturbing. You are not going anywhere. Trapped with the panic and the madness. The gloom consumes the sky and the frost consumes the home, and the howls consume the sanity. Panic and fear. Try to hold on.
The room is getting smaller. The horizon is stretching farther. The isolation is different this time around. No one can hear me. No one knows I am here. The days are too short for anyone to look and no one can. The gloom has consumed the others. I want to come out of this. I wait to see if the others will come out of this. No one comes out for days, even weeks. The sun is fleeting and time is scarce. The hand of winter grips tighter and I cannot breathe. I am changing in the darkness and I am scared. I fight to keep my eyes open under the blanket of cold. I fight for the fear of never opening my eyes again. I want to feel the sun again. I want to go home. You can only laugh to yourself for so long. The fire dwindles and my eyes are heavy. My eyes close and I remember sunsets over mountains....
I slept. I was never so tired from sleeping so much. I cannot recall the months of routines I sleepwalked through. During the calm, I made efforts to emerge. The images were despairing. The howling was more maddening when it touched you, bit you. The frozen catacombs lining my street. I wanted the others to emerge. I could not go looking for them. I knew better to stay close. The sky spoke of more to come. It was then that I knew why no one looked for me. The sun visits briefly, wounded, and there is still more to come. Inside the dusty mausoleum, I wait for more to come. Throw more into the fire. Do you wish to continue watching? Click yes. Wait for the relaxation to dissolve in the water. Soon it starts all over again. The cycle of madness renews and, one night, I dared to open the upstairs curtains in the master bedroom, pacing the floor in my strangling panic, watching a couple of bunnies scramble in the flurries. The flurries were swirling and a complete white-out engulfed the community. The bunnies scrambled as I paced. They were as lost as I. I hoped we would see each other again in the spring. I always feed the birds and bunnies in the spring. I just wanted to make it there. It lasts forever here. It is frightening and it is depressing and it is draining. I just want to go home. This place is not my home. I am scared and I am tired. Here it comes again. I will not make it. A day will come if I do make it. Everything falls apart. The walls are crumbling and the appliances are dying and I did the best I could....
A day came when it was not-so-suddenly over. The worst was over, gradually, but an apprehension still hung in the air. The hand of winter still dangled in the clouds, rolling its fingers slowly. The birds and the bunnies were as reluctant as I. I wanted to untie the patio furniture and live again. I wanted to lay out the feed and I wanted my life back. I wanted California. The dangers of the west were nothing compared to the isolated fear I experienced here. Cold gloomy days turned into gloomy rainy days. Gloomy rainy days produced patches of sun. Patches of sun showed days of warmth with chances of showers. Sometimes the showers never showed and the bunnies and the birds showed instead. I saw the bunnies. They made it. I made it. They stayed with me. There will be light again. I do not want to do it again. I cannot do it again. I will have to do it again. I am strong. The hand of winter is strong. I will have to be ready. I will live in the short months of sunshine and laughter. It will be my home again. The hand of winter rests before snatching my home again. The hand of winter rests and waits. The hand of winter is silent and crippling. The hand of winter is real.