REMEMBERING THE STREETCARS OF YOKOHAMA...

HAVE YOU EVER HAD A MOMENT WHEN YOU KNEW YOU WERE WATCHING A TIME FRAME THAT YOU WOULD RECALL TIME AND AGAIN? THOUGH AT THE TIME, THERE MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN ANYTHING SPECIFIC THAT WAS AKIN TO A THUNDEROUS AWAKENING OR AN ENLIGHTENMENT FROM ON HIGH? IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN YOU'LL UNDERSTAND WHY ON A CERTAIN SATURDAY NIGHT ALMOST FIFTY YEARS AGO I STOOD ALONE ON A YOKOHAMA STREET, A BRICK STREET NEAR THE BUND AND SAW THE STREETCARS OF YOKOHAMA SPEEDING THROUGH THE JAPANESE NIGHT, LEAVING THE PAST BEHIND, SPARKS FLASHING ON THE LATTICE WORK OF ELECTRIC WIRES ABOVE THE BRICKS, THE FACES OF A THOUSAND JAPANESE SEEN THROUGH THE WINDOWS, SPEEDING ON TOWARD THE FUTURE, LEAVING THE PAST BEHIND. I WATCHED AND WAITED, I LISTENED TO THE SOUND OF HISTORY IN MY MIND, THEY WERE ALL AROUND ME, IN THE OLD BUILDINGS FROM TURN OF THE CENTURY; THERE WERE THE EMBASSIES IN EMBASSY ROW, QUIET AND ASLEEP, THE SMELL OF CURRY RICE, THE ECHO OF THE CLICKING ABOVE THE BRICK, THE SPARKS FLASHING, CLATTERING, THE HOLLOW SOUNDS OF A NIGHT THAT ENDED BEFORE IT BEGAN. ALONE THEN FOR A FEW MORE MONTHS THEN ALL WOULD CHANGE FOR FIFTEEN MONTHS THEN CHANGE AGAIN FOR A LIFETIME. TIME LINES, SOME PLACES IN TIME WE REMEMBER BECAUSE OF REASONS YET TO BE EXPLAINED UNTIL YEARS LATER WHEN ALL IS VERY CLEAR, EVEN THE SOUNDS THE STREETCARS OF YOKOHAMA MAKE AFTER NEARLY FIFTY YEARS.

WHEN THE HORIZON IS OFF-CENTER AND IT'S JUST NOT RIGHT

IT WAS TOO FAST, TOO QUICK AND FOR THAT, I AM SORRY. SORRY ABOUT WHAT, THE SUNSET? NO, BUT I MIGHT AS WELL BE. WHY? WHY? CAN'T YOU TELL! I MEAN IT IS MUCH TOO SLOPPY, THE COLORS RAN AND THE HORIZON IS OFF CENTER, ROUNDED LIKE THE EARTH INSTEAD OF FLAT LIKE A MAP. WELL, WHAT THE HECK, WHO IS PERFECT ANYWAY? NO, DON'T ANSWER THAT, I KNOW THE ANSWER. THAT I'M NOT IS OKAY, BUT THE NEXT WATERCOLOR WILL HAVE TO BE BETTER OR I WILL BECOME SO DEPRESSED THAT I WILL...WILL STOP PAINTING, OKAY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR? THAT'S IT, RIGHT. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. NOW, NOBODY WILL HAVE TO LOOK AT EACH NEW WORK OR WORD OR ANYTHING. THAT'S RIGHT, GO AND READ OLD BOOKS, LOOK AT OLD PHOTOS AND SUFFER ALL THE PAIN OF THE UNIVERSE. THERE YOU GO AGAIN, WAXING SILLYOPHILOSOPHICAL. SO, STOP PAINTING, STOP WONDERING ABOUT THE MEANING OF MEANINGS. NOW, THAT'S A NEW ONE, WONDERING ABOUT THE MEANINGS OF MEANINGS. TO HECK WITH IT. I'M JUST THANKFUL THAT I HAD THE CHANCE TO BE HERE AWHILE. LIKE FROST SAID ABOUT LIFE, "it's much better than the alternative." YES, IT IS GOOD TO BE HERE.

THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE SOUTH BAY BEACH TOWNS

WHAT WAS THEN WILL NEVER BE AGAIN. SUCH IS LIFE AS IT WAS MEANT TO BE BECAUSE TIME CANNOT BE STOPPED. THE TONS OF CONCRETE REVOLVING LIKE THE EARTH ON ITS AXIS, THE BIG TRUCK DUMPED IT ON THE SHORE, THE BEACH AND OVER OLD PIER PARTS, OLD FOUNDATIONS WHERE SPAGHETTI RESTAURANTS AND KOSHER MARKETS WERE SIDE BY SIDE, OLD WORLD CONVERSATIONS ON OLD BENCHES, ON OLD FOUNDATIONS, OLD PIERS WHERE SPAGHETTI RESTAURANTS AND KOSHER MARKETS WERE BEGUN BY OLD WORLD IMMIGRANTS. IN TIME THE OLD WORLD LANGUAGES, CAFES AND MARKETS WERE GONE, DISAPPEARED ALONG THE BEACH TOWNS FROM SANTA MONICA AND VENICE TO MANHATTAN BEACH, REDONDO BEACH AND HERMOSA BEACH, ALL THE LITTLE SOUTH BAY CITIES THAT SURRENDERED TO THE CONCRETE COMPANIES, REAL ESTATE SCHEMES AND OTHER CITY LAWS UNWRAPPED OR TOSSED INTO THE DEEP BEYOND THE SHELF. IT WAS OVER; IT HAD BEEN KIND OF LIKE THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE BEACH CITIES. THEY ARE GONE NOW AND ARE REMEMBERED BY NAMES ONLY BY A FEW ARTISTS AND BARTENDERS, A FEW GROCERS AND SHOPKEEPERS, A FEW WRINKLED AND CRINKLED SURFERS, A GENERATION OF BABES ALMOST GONE NOW. YOUR RELATIVES AND MINE LOST IN TIME. THOSE PIN-UP LADIES WHO FIRST WORE THE BIKINIS OF THE 50S, THE HOT BLONDE AUNTS. AND HARRY THE LIQUOR STORE OWNER GRINS, STILL SMOKING HIS CIGAR, SOMEWHERE. IT WAS A DIFFERENT KIND OF SUNSHINE THEN.

THE WILL BEHIND LIONBERGER'S AUTO PARTS CALENDAR

The difference between love and all of the other emotions waits quite often until death calls the family members together to see

who got what and how soon it will be delivered. I recall when an uncle

died in 1984. Betty said there was no will; she has, I have heard, gone to get her due reward. She sent my daughter a blue velvet dress from Hawaii with a chuckle she didn't think I heard. It was the same jealous giggle I had heard in the family room at the funeral held in August of that year. Her snicker came shortly after the recording of "In the Garden." Some call it "He Walks With Me." She had what she thought was the last laugh, especially when her husband delivered the wheelbarrow full of rusty tools from his trunk to my driveway with a strange expression on his face. Among the rusty tools, nuts and bolts was a wooden box full of old clay pots, some cracked, some with soil so hard it had almost petrified, like a smile on a dead persons face we can't see once the lid of the casket closes for the final time. Or so some might think...for the final time. I never touched the rusty tools, not once, just buried them between the western wall and the eastern gate to wait and see what might spring up through the soil someday. The flower pots, I sensed were not meant to be my inheritance, but I accepted them with glee and shook Rick's hand. She would have to buy another dozen or two to start another season of her special perrywinkles and lilies of the valley that won her ribbons. She never called to ask for their return. I use them to get my ivy and special marigolds a good start each spring. I guess Betty never knew Uncle Jim had told me where the will was long before he died. It was, if anyone might want to know, behind the calendar from Lionberger's Auto Parts. Rest in Peace, Betty, dear. What did you tell Uncle Jim about the will, or did he even have to ask?

UNIVERSAL TRUTHS MIXED UP BY TOO MUCH CURIOSITY

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT STAIRWAYS WITH SHADOWS BENEATH THAT REMIND ME OF ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE, LONG BEFORE THIS LIFE, LONG BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY. COULD I HAVE BEEN IN STORAGE, MY MIND NURTURED BY GRAIN DUST? OR IS THIS SIMPLY INSANE TO LET MY CURIOSITY TAKE ME TO HEIGHTS OF NEW DIMENSIONS ONLY TO HIDE MY PATH WITH SHADOWS, TO KEEP THE TRUTH FROM LETTING ME KNOW WHEN AND WHERE THIS VOID MIGHT HAVE BEEN? IS THERE A REMOTE CHANCE THAT WHAT I BELIEVE TO BE THE PAST IS THE FUTURE? IF THAT IS TRUE, WHAT AM I DOING HERE? AND YOU ARE FROM THE FUTURE THEN? OR SHOULD I ASK, FROM THE PAST, SAVED FOR SOMETIME IN THE FUTURE? PERHAPS THIS IS A SIMPLE PIECE OF DREAM MACHINERY GONE WRONG, MIXED UP WITH TIME MACHINES, PERHAPS NOT.

BACK ON THE RIVER ONE MORE TIME

I WOULD LIKE TO BE BACK ON THE RIVER AGAIN, IF ONLY FOR JUST ONE MORE TIME, AWAY FROM THE CONCRETE WORLD OF COMMERCE AND CIVIC AFFAIRS, AWAY FROM THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS AND BLANK STARES OF PASSERSBY MET ALONG THE SIDEWALKS, AWAY FROM THE SIRENS AND PANIC ATTACKS OF ANCHOR MEN AND WOMEN LYING TO MY CHILDREN TIME AND AGAIN, AWAY FROM THE LEAD-PAINTED TOYS SENT TO SABATOGE A GENERATION'S MIND AND BODY, AWAY, AWAY, BACK ON THE RIVER WHERE MY MIND TRAVELED AT ANOTHER TIME, BACK ON THE RIVER, DOWNSTREAM THIS TIME, BACK ON THE RIVER AND DOWN TO NEW ORLEANS BEFORE IT WAS SOMETHING IT BECAME MORE THAN WHAT IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN, MORE THAN WHAT IT WAS PLANNED TO BE...

THE SIMPLE THINGS IN LIFE ARE VERY SPECIAL

THE SIMPLE THINGS IN LIFE ARE THOSE ITEMS THAT ARE ASSOCIATED WITH THE SEASONS

A clay pot resting on a porch swing, what kind of seed is sleeping deep inside the earth and is it dreaming about next spring? Does the swinging motion create a kind of rhythm, a kind of hope for a new life when the sun shines again in March? A question or two might arise, but that's okay.