July 2008

The eccentric silver metal ribbon

traced itself from the tall glass doorway at an angle,

across the polished stone lobby floor.

Advancing from its starting point near the entry access panel it reached its destination in the very far right bottom corner of the North Elevator on the first floor of the still shiny new Condo building. The silver line gleamed a bit on sunny days, with the light reaching it through the tall glass walls all around it.

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The narrow metal band, inset within the reflective granite floor, always caught his eye. This was the route he had taken several times with his new 2008 rolling luggage.

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From the tenth floor glass-peaked condo, down the elevator to the first floor, along the silver line from the elevator and out the big front doors to the car, to the airport.

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Over and over again.

Although there was always much he wanted to see and revisit in this the best of all possible worlds, he was really tired of doing it over and over again, along that silver line.

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This blog entry is late.

With all the working and traveling that had taken place over the last couple of years here in Portland, Oregon, there is no guilt nor shame in being late to enter and describe at least some of the recent goings on.

No, in fact much had been done and accomplished over that time.

Even the co-writing of the idea born to him in Cuba as he watched the southern seagulls on the beach at Varadero was fruitful.

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This literary effort of his did not result in the real finished script itself, but served as a merciless catalyst to empower and motivate his colleague co-writer to press even harder on the completion of the story from *his* own point of view.

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There was a great feeling of LIBERATION when he sat in Toronto with his colleagues and discussed this script and story. He realized right there, during their lunch in the HOT HOUSE CAFÉ, that his work was now done on this one. That it had now become the right and task and obligation of someone other than him. While that had a pulling, hurting effect it also afforded an exhilarating feeling of lightness……allowing him to take other next steps.

Other next steps, such as returning to all those pages he had churned out YEARS AGO now.

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Back to the story of AWOG, which had evolved into a masochistic form of bitter divorce therapy, then progressed into semi-autobiographical science fiction,

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but now rested in a place of quiet fictional repose in the storage spaces of his “studio” closet shelving, right next to the red marble container in its count-down position.

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There was the question of WHY. Why write about LIFE? For a few years now he had finally learned to just enjoy the actual LIVING of Life, without the need to chronicle everything about it.

Up until now he had always felt it had something to do with being part Armenian. Armenians wrote, painted, played music, and told stories,

so maybe that’s why he felt compelled to do some of this too?

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Even now the question of whether to spend the remaining red-marbled time to LIVE fully, always in the Present, or to LIVE fully but also write about it, the idea just clung to him.

And since he knew he would not be able to shake it loose and get it off of him, he tried to come to terms with it.

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His paternal grandfather from Armenia had written in little notebooks.

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His maternal grandfather from England had an early audio tape recorder, the old reel-to-reel audio tape kind, that he captured the events of his Life with.

His own father was not that much of a writer or recorder of things. So, why write about LIFE?

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The stimuli received from traveling made him want to tell and show things. Why, he wondered.

Why did it matter to describe the recent trip

to Toronto to celebrate a 94^th birthday?

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What was so important to convey about the trip to MICHIGAN for a small-but-first-time family reunion?

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In the end he decided to use the blog to warm up, to get in shape….

for the possible-probable-almost-certainly-inevitable writing binge that

might-probably-would-could-should happen next.

It would loosen up the heart-brain-vision-memory-generator

as it heated up and churned out words for the fingers to write.

THE TRIP TO TORONTO :

As he continued to point his cell phone camera at things he saw, sometimes moving his hands and arms POLLOCK-like to get smears instead of dribbles this time . . . . . .

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…..the two of them were to travel back to Toronto

to see her mum for her 94^th BIRTHDAY!

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Staying in both Mississauga and Toronto, Ontario, they rekindled their Canadianess as they left behind CNN and the NY Times and all the insular self-centered examination of only those things that were to be found within the borders of the U.S.A. All of the unique charm and aspects of Canada came back, as it always did when there.

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Toronto grew bigger and bigger ( and sometimes badder and badder ).

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They met with friends, they drove about to visit, they were back.

 

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They both began to feel homesickness while there . . . . especially her.

She had lived there for most of her adult Life.

  

 

  

 

 

  

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The gathering at her sister’s place. . . . .to celebrate their mother MABLE

was good………Mable was in fine form for the occasion.

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It seemed too soon when they had to leave.

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THEN THE TRIP TO MICHIGAN :

It was the belated celebration of his sister’s 25^th wedding anniversary

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and the birthday of his still-firecracker-like “Step-Mother” Norma Jeanie.

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It was the coming together of much of the previous family that had been spread across the decades, each living in their own chapters, almost never together. So when the sisters put together the event, all headed for the middle of Michigan to do it.

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There in the middle of the state he had grown up in,

with all its “campy-campingness”

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There in the middle of the Michigan “mitt”, we drove over to see about the price of an older JETSKI.

The people that had the trailered JETSKI up for sale had a black “jockey” in their front yard near their driveway.

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He had not seen a little black jockey in decades.

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He thought they were all gone, or painted over now.

Not so…..according to the random info on the web…..

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_jockey

” A lawn jockey is a small statue of a man in jockey clothes, intended to be placed in yards. Most today are white jockeys, but historically black jockeys were commonplace. The lawn ornament, popular in certain parts of the United States in years past, was a cast replica, usually about half-scale, of a Black man dressed in jockey’s clothing and holding up one hand as though taking the reins of a horse. The hand sometimes carries a lantern or a metal ring suitable for hitching a horse. Two traditional lawn jockey styles are produced, commonly known as “jocko” and “cavalier spirit”. The former is of stockier build, with a hunched posture; the latter is generally slender and erect. Typically these statues are made of concrete but are also made of other materials such as poly resin and aluminum or cast iron. Despite being controversial, lawn jockeys are still in demand. Both styles are still manufactured and sold.

According to the River Road African American Museum : “It is said that the ‘lawn jockey’ actually has its roots in the tale of one Jocko Graves, an African-American youth who served with General George Washington at the time that he crossed the Delaware to carry out his surprise attack on British forces at Trenton, NJ. The General thought him too young to take along on such a dangerous attack, so left him on the Pennsylvania side to tend to the horses and to keep a light on the bank for their return. So the story goes, the boy, faithful to his post and his orders, froze to death on the river bank during the night, the lantern still in his hand. The legend says the General was so much moved by the boy’s devotion to his duty that he had a statue sculpted and cast of him, holding the lantern, and had it installed at his Mount Vernon estate. He called the sculpture ‘The Faithful Groomsman’.

People who don’t know the so-called white-folk legendary history of the jockey have feelings of humiliation and anger when they see the statue…and…. ”No record of anybody by the name of Jocko Graves, nor any account of somebody freezing to death holding Washington’s horses, exists in the extensive historical record of the time.” Nor do any of the many historical inventories and descriptions of Washington’s estate mention any such statue.

So this black jockey………………and this OTHER one he also spotted on public display at a store in Lake Houghton, Michigan…………..probably mean just what he always thought they meant. …………………And those days WERE coming to end, at last.

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MEANWHILE – BACK AT THE RANCH . . . away from the towns . . .

They gathered, ate, drank, talk, laughed

and even flung some whipped-cream-pie.

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He felt old. Partly because it seemed like everytime he had to travel these days he found something wrong with his aging machine. This time it seemed to be stomach? He was never sure whether it was real, or whether it was silly psychosomaticity?

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His bride and friend of over 4 years now was with him as she met all again, in their Michigander Milieu…… complete with sparkling clear waters and mosquitoes…..

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The feelings of Family were there for him even though he once again seemed almost involuntarily driven to the edges……self-driven, he knew that now……..but that did not stop it from happening.

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…………But, the end result was a cross-familial Happiness,

and then it was time to go,

back to the car, then to the highway,

then to the airports……so the last HIGGINS LAKE hi-jinx came to a close.

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Who Knows?  Maybe next time they will all reunite in NEW ORLEANS?

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THEN, THE RE-RETURN

TO THEIR NEW “HOME”

OF PORTLAND, OREGON :

  flying over their mountain tops……….

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After the car-wash and installing their new large palm plant

( duly named ARECA FRANKLIN )……

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…….they began to find their feet in Portlandia again……during the wonderful Oregonian Summer.

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 ( Lucier’s……………….delicious )

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The place where he worked seemed in a prolonged state of Suspended Animation on one side and a fever-pitched fury to complete the first Laika STOP MOTION animated movie on the other.

In some ways, although he had come 3000 miles (again) to accomplish that elusive goal of building an Animation Studio that really worked well, his usual bright-burning-energy seemd to hide itself inside of other things while the Realities of this most recent endeavour played themselves out as they must.

 

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They did feel at HOME in their home, and were happy to be back.

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While they did plan more travel soon,

they hoped others would come to visit them

in this new peaceful and happy place.

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With that, he turned to his many many pages of AWOG…..to start again.

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He would leave the eccentric silver line, and the flow of traffic it directed……..

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…….for the morning journeys out toward the various Portland Coffee Shops

that kept him firmly enslaved to Caffiene, in hopes that the WORDS would come…..

More Later………………………………….MUCH later.

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