Marc Olmsted

 

Mr. Ed's Christmas
(Lightning House excerpt)

Christmas was coming up. Caitlin was headed back to Colorado to be with her family. Her dad was cooking again, I guessed. I couldn't stand the idea of going home again, myself. My grumpy brother, my father's monstrous bitch of a girlfriend -- it was too much. So I decided I'd figure something out.

Lew had managed to get into an art colony at Wilbur Hot Springs, which sparked a repeating joke about TV talking horse Mr. Ed snorting "W--i--l--b--u--r--r--r--r." He invited me up there. Which meant a Greyhound. So I played it out so that I could stay at the house sitting gig and take a Greyhound straight up there.

"I just got
out" said the
young blond
man in
the bus station
"Got out this
morning from
jail -- 3 years"
"You look very
intact" I said
We both wore
black motorcycle
jackets -- I
twice his age
He did in fact
look cherubic
all in black
silver crosses
dangling over his
thin chest
and blue eyes
widened at
release
"I've become a
Christian -- I've..."
Uh--oh I thought
wanting to hear
more about
the armed
robbery age
15 with an
automatic
weapon --

Instead Young Bald Lama from upstate! Teacher {whom I'd just met at the Center during a visit he paid on Lama} returning to Portland at the same time as my departure -- on the same bus! Sweet baby-faced lama, we sit together as he admires my White Mahakala wrathful protector deity painted on the back of my jacket -- "Pardon my mumbling " says the lama as he repeats mantras -- "I'll mumble too" I said, repeating my own in heart -- now mumbling here --

I got off the Greyhound and there was Lew. Young Bald Lama also got off briefly, it was a rest stop - blew Lew's mind - thought I'd brought a lama with me to Christmas. But I waved goodbye and piled into Lew's beat auto.

Wilbur Hot Springs Red House an artist's colony in the winter of North Californian leather yellow grass -- Lew Ansley my poet friend entering the kitchen in black beret -- 1990 near -- a rescrambling of half century's codes: punk/hippie/beat (Buddhist) myself also all of these -- the plump witch with red lipstick more proof of the oracular dancing cannibal goddess that is my muse and constantly manifesting -- a goofy kitten entering the room -- my moods shifting with the difficulties of sober mind in an alcoholic's body -- I prepare for more coffee and meditation practice --

The big witch referred to the hot springs as "Lithium suck." You got into one and you were zoned out beyond any ordinary hot tub. It actually freaked me out enough to call my sponsor. I was a very paranoid guy - intoxication waited like a demon on the sill. It still does, but this kind of worry doesn't do anyone any good - or need I tell you that? I worried about vanilla extract in ice cream. I worried about alcohol in unmarked soy sauce in Chinese restaurants. I worried about Tibetan long life pills (imagine talking to your sponsor about that). Sometimes I was right. Maybe it was better to be that scrupulous than too lax. I am still sober. More likely one just does one's best with what they got, even a broken neurotic compass like I had.

Lew kept getting in trouble for smoking cigarettes. You weren't supposed to smoke at Wilbur - anywhere. He was swiftly tagged the overgrown bad boy. My tromping around in black motorcycle jacket also seemed to unnerve the rich Marine crowd.

Christmas arrived and I felt guilty. I called my mom and felt guiltier. It sure didn't feel like Christmas. Lew and I each exchanged a book. Yeah, it sure didn't feel like Christmas. Before long I was back on the Greyhound bus.

Yesterday a rejection letter from the agent, today a call from the old bard -- So many faces walk with desire, overwhelming me -

Tony offered me a room to rent in his flat. Meanwhile, Lew got kicked out of Wilbur's art colony for his umpteenth cigarette. But his leave was not without a prize. He'd taken up with June, masseuse and incest survivor. I went over to his place in North Beach one Friday night with Caitlin.

Carnivore I elect pizza diet Pepsi cigarettes and TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE II for evening fun --

Caitlin loved CHAINSAW II, June hated it. June & I were not off to a good start, for what it mattered. Meanwhile, the itchy penis I developed seemed some sort of allergic reaction to Caitlin's diaphragm lube. But she thought it was to her.

Itchy cock -- what's that about? Who knows anymore marching through with the body of burden -- hating to affirm that -- but mind's ache is body's ache manifesting in the dream -- Eyed by the Asian lad --sex with men removed for health -- relieved actually not to have to follow desire for cock -- I pause for a mystical cigarette.