Buzz Buzz

Today had such a fuzzy feel this morning, matched with such a fixed plan for the day, that I knew there’d be magic afoot!

Glen

This is Glen, Basement Troll Extraordinaire. Such things as my ability to blog again, and my brother’s beautiful fretless bass, and the joke that just won’t fucking die about the dog with a barking asshole, are brought to you by Copper-Green Glen. You don’t really get the eyes in this shot, but it’s doubtful a shot could really get the eyes anyway. This warm Sunday afternoon he knocks on my door and invites me on a walk to “see Mother Nature and sniff some flowers.” He goes, “Yeah, you know, you just go up to the flower and say hello, and then sniff it like this, and it looks kinda crazy, but it’s a good way to spend the day. Plants really have a cool thing about them.”

Now that you mention it, Glen, that’s really the only thing I feel like doing today. Sweet.

We’re on a walk, sniffing some flowers — that’s the mantra, given to everyone we meet. Glen knows everyone we meet — we don’t even make it out of our street’s culda sac network on our rounds. First we stop into the storage/workspace closest across the street — Marine Canvas by John. John’s at work on some deep blue yardage, and Glen walks up to the rail and goes “goo goo goo goo goo! He’s got a cool little dog — ” and right on cue this whirlwind little terrier thing comes tearing out, he adores Glen. John is takes in Glen’s flower sniffing bit. He’s a tanned old sailor who squints his left eye shut most of the time, with these brilliant sky-blue eyes, everything warm about him. He says that his wife is from Denmark, and sometimes he picks some Birds of Paradise and brings them home and puts them in this special long vase they have, with maybe a leaf, for his wife, because to her they’re outrageously tropical, and she loves them. And he loves her. Sometimes he sends them to her sister, too, in one of those special long boxes, back to Denmark. Happy Sunday, John.

We’re off walking again. I say to Glen how we’re the bees, and all these people on his rounds are the flowers. We do a little dancing-walk. He points out where we’re going, and then coming down the street right at us is the guy. “Eric! We were going to your place just now!” Eric builds the most gorgeous amps you’ve ever seen, and he’s practically one himself, beaming out this great wide child-heart/mad-scientist grin. “Glen! I just sold another amplifier today!” He goes, “You wanna hear the tone?!” We cross the street to another strip of industrial/workspace loft-shed things, where his studio inside once doubled as a venue with a giant stage. His amps are seriously gorgeous, and seriously expensive, and on tour with serious bands…I told him, “I don’t have a seriously tuned ear or anything –” and he just smiles, “Oh, you’ll hear it.” Glen won’t stop talking about how these are the best amps ever made. “Nothing else on earth sustains like that!” (echoes: Music alone shall live / never to die) I did hear it. He started playing and my eyes just closed and my insides just felt it. Tooooooooooooone. Jesus.

Outside, we had a long talk with the mad-scientist. Pressure and frequency being used to cure all kinds of diseases, to make plants happy — Japanese plants being sweet-talked into producing a humongous yield with a pressure chamber and a little Barry White. He’s talking offshore yachts with helicopter pads and pressure chambers to heal the world. Making water out of the air. This is a man with a plan. We blessed his adventure, and he blessed our flower walk.

We meet some actual flowers…and no sooner back on the sidewalk then Glen is calling out to some other dude walkin’ the street. They exchange pleasantries, and he and I exchange a high five, and he and Glen commiserate on having the shakes. I introduce Glen to a random patch of Garlic Chives growing on the side of the road. I say, “Here, chew on this a minute, you’ll totally taste it.” The little piece of chive disappears into his huge brush beard. “Yeah, that’d be good in a salad,” he muses, the man who exists entirely on vodka and bananas.

He shows me the hot rod shop in another of the strip-workspace units, a big old black monster 54 Chevy parked out front. Then we’re almost back to the colony — what Glen started calling our building — when we notice another space open, its big garage door up and cats playing in its shade. “Oh, have you met these people? Come on, let’s go say hi.”

This is more obviously a living space — still a big dirty warehouse loft, but a cozy kitchen and bed-loft in the back, and even a bathroom. Slowly we’re invited in, from within, impossible to see through the shadow. Then the light adjusts, and there are two adorable dogs, two stoney music boys, and one very adorable girl — her whole countenance so calm and breezy, a walking perfect day for sailing.

The way she stretched her dog was exactly like how Beth did shiatsu on me, and her dog was the calmest brightest most alert creature…he was big and who knows what? Slender and short sleek brown-black hair with pert floppy triangle ears and a wide face and those deep kohl markings round the eyes. We were instant friends, me and Guy. While the kids slowly adjusted to us, out of their mellow music-playing vibe, and Glen sat down at the drum kit and worked it out, I sat on the couch, more or less ignoring the little black chihuahua buzzing around, and slowly stroked Guy’s chest, a slow heart-soothing rhythm. For a long time.

Hospitality went around. Music dwindled, as Glen announced “I gotta tune this thing. This thing is ruinous! I could have my key over here in five minutes, get the whole thing fixed up for ya.” Time to go.

I have a brief lovely chat with the girl. Flower of the day! Just a real sweetness about her, the feeling of We could do something cool. Rad girls don’t just fly through every day. We moved into the neighborhood at about the same time, last Spring. Turns out she’s looking to start having art/music shows in their warehouse, get nonprofitted — I offered any help I could give, and we had a little buzz-buzz moment. Nice. We left it that our paths will cross again — let it bee, with a honey smile — which totally works, as networking, when you’re fluent in bee-dance.

Glen and I say goodbye to the pups and cross back to our lot, where one little bird swoops down low very close to us, very low, so fast it’s just a blur. Glen loves it, “Whoa! Whoa! That was low!” I tell him the story of the plovers swirling around me and Amy. Then I point out to him that there’s a beehive in the big airplane-crash sculpture at the top of our building. He’s been here like thirty years, and not noticed. “I bet it’s just hot with honey,” he says. “That’s what I’m sayin!” We talk about all the dead bees laying around all Summer, and he tells me where there’s just masses of them laying around. I tell him it’s called Colony Collapse Disorder. He tells me it’s because of cell-phone towers. On this somber note, we congratulate ourselves on a successful flower walk. Rather than his usual kissing the back of my hand, this time he takes my hand and bows and bumps it on his forehead — so, after, I do the same to his hand. We laugh, and he goes down into the basement, and I go up the stairs. He yells up after me, “When you get up there, stick your nose in that Basil, and have a good whiff, and think of Italian food!”

This kind of flower walk, stopping along various delectable points of interest, reminds me of the subject of last night’s dream:

Mom’s bought me a trip on a Caribbean cruise. At her house — kind of an amalgam of her various places — I pack. I thought I was ready, but when the two dark figures arrive to drive me away, I still have packing to do. Everyone is patient while I finish. Gramma is fearful and keeps saying, “Where in Africa?” I calmly reply, “No, Gramma, the Carribean.” I remember all the things I need. Mom reminds me it might get cold, which hadn’t occurred to me. I ask one of the two dark-skinned figures — a woman, now — if it gets cold, and she confirms. “Like, 30s?” I ask. “50s,” she says. Ok, that’s fine. Mom has added my black toggle jacket, and also several articles of beautiful silky clothes — skirts, pants, tops — to my packing, and I finger them appreciatively. Everything fits perfectly in my small blue suitcase. I’ve remembered my cell phone charger and my toiletries, and what electronics I’ve left on Mom will attend to. Mom is gentle and peaceful, her healthy self with thick dark hair, and she’s proud of me, I deserve to go. I’m ready.

The figures drive me to the docks, which is a complex reminiscent of a big East Coast train depot but with gangways. Walking, I look more closely at the brochure, making sure I won’t be late, which I won’t — it’s different now from the dark-blue and white brochure I saw at Mom’s. Now it’s full color and I see this is a food cruise, part of why Mom signed me up. Every stop of the cruise is not so much a geographical destination but a kind of food and cooking. I note that there might not always be a vegetarian option, and some of the food looks richly Old World/European, but I figure it’ll work out. Before boarding, I sit at a public table, and down the bench to my right sits a girl. We’re both having a bite to eat. She’ll be on the food cruise too, and tells me how she’s so excited to go.

Food cruise…flower walk…tomato/tomato.

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~ by Arrrow Marie on September 27, 2009.

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