Camp Welby Pt. 3

Gabe had forgotten how loud the wilderness could be. The dead pine needles didn’t completely muffle his footsteps nor distract him from the rustling in the bushes beyond the trail. Unlike the background hum of distant cars on the freeway or the muffled talk of passing couples at night underneath his street side window at home, the forest filled the air with noise.

Each step brought him closer to a nighttime rendezvous with Emma and the sinking realization that getting close to achieving a dream means it starts becoming a reality. And for better or worse, reality never goes the way you plan. Still, he wished the person he wanted to spend alone time with didn’t want to do it at the place he wanted to be least. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Or the glowing green ghost stairs appear. Either way, Gabe kept on until he made it to the base of Cairns Point.

“You made it!” Emma said, jumping onto the path.

“Emma! God, don’t do that,” Gabe said struggling to catch his breath.

“What? You get scared?” She said poking him. “I didn’t think a camp vet like you would be jumping in the dark.”

Gabe rolled his eyes and kept walking. Emma bounced along the path beside him.

“I thought you were going to meet me up top.”

“Well, I was, but I didn’t realize how spooky it would feel being up there by myself. Besides, I figured the more time I got with you the better since you’ve been avoiding me since we got here.”

Gabe startled at that, but turned to see a small smile spread across Emma’s face. He’d forgotten how playful she was. And how much being back home caused him to fold in on himself.

Spring Caprain Striation

I dipped a tanned finger into the jar of honey that’s been sitting on my beside for half a year.

I’m rolling a bright red lacrosse ball between my feet as I look through my substitute teaching paychecks.

I started work at 8am and finished around 9:30pm. A small hour break in between as I traveled between field and school.

I’ve got two vocations and a job. Writing, coaching, and substitute teaching.

I’m currently sat on the tri-color blend carpet my parents installed upstairs a couple years ago. As the beat of the song plays in the background I wonder how it’ll be to live in a shared house in Portland that isn’t my parents or the condo.

I’ve given myself a year to see how this goes— the adventure that I’m already plans to pivot out of. To venture in new directions as the veil lifts from my eyes.

I’m shaking out the small, black rubber pellets from my shoes.

Tomorrow is Thursday- my last coaching day before the solitary day of rest (which Friday’s should never be).

I’ve been buying books like a madmen as I’m reminded of the beauty of public libraries. The scent of evening jasmine has flown through the air. The off-leash dogs have lunged— finding cloth where flesh might be. Unscathed, I venture forward—

Blossom

With the scents of new growth

And dappled sweetness

I feel like I’m being woven back into the world with the arrival of spring

the weight of a sailor who had been destined for rocks lifted with bird calls and bright April light

I can’t replicate the tweets, caws, and yawning that fill the air. But they’re etched into my bones nonetheless

Lattice

Trying out for affection like he’d dived into bloodsport.

Starting a new religion and loosening the shoulders like the weight of consequence found a new conscience to rest upon.

Kept up on destruction so that I could procrastinate my salvation the next morning.

Loved you like a renegade priest discovering a new god

How many slurred “hellos” have passed between strangers?

It’s been a back dive where unfurled fears waited for me to smash through them like I’d become a mosaic artist.

Into Rest

Last night I laid down in my bed and stared death in the eye. It has this small that is face-to-face with you always. It’s one of our first great tricks to forget that it’s always looking at us.

We make up stories and explanations to comfort ourselves in the face of our inadequacy of understanding. We don’t know what happens to the energy. We do know that it isn’t destroyed, but we don’t know where it goes. And what goes with it.

I’ve thought about the dreams where people reach you and the feeling— weight itself in the dream is different when they are in it. That is no longer a flimsy thing Your brain has conjured, but something that has gone beyond you.

I believe this is what Memento Mori truly means. Or what it serves to teach you.

You cannot brush away the knowledge that death lingers beyond— and that we don’t know what it is, except for everything we know it is not.

For all my lip service, I had forgotten the single immutable fact.

I don’t get to do this again. Not like this. I will never redo this life.

Lazaro

I wonder if that small mint green Mazda AZ wagon holds all the screams that tore out of my throat over those two years

If I’m running out of guts to spill in an age of tenderness and rage

I’ve been taking sinfully long sleeps. I’ve yipped in dreams and woken myself in the witching hour

I’m soon leaving the corner castle of glass and steel— the unexpected bastion during my twenties

The palace of white leather and liquid empathy

G

In a turn of waves I found myself on this shore. The horizon a faltering, distant thing. The orange dusk a faded relic of brother times.

Stretched out before me were blots of iridescent light hovering over dark waters. It brought to mind an alien invasion or another otherworldly horror. The kind you witness without voice, for reason departs in the face of abstract terror.

It didn’t feel real, nor does it now. You could tell me all that time was a dream and that I never left.

I walked under a light drizzle tonight as the clouds merged overhead in a rumpled configuration. I snapped a photo of cherry blossoms illuminated by the streetlight as Huckleberry tugged on the leash.

I thought of an orange dawn and the creative spirit. Of cowardice and love. I thought of half a thousand things as I walked down rain soaked pavement with the houses full either side of the street, but sidewalks bare.

I thought of old photos with departed friends and the nature of aging.

I thought of the pause before impact and the outsized power of small words.

I thought of driving home at three thirty in the morning and the navigation of morals and schedule. The belated wail of fire trucks and stepping onto the balcony to look at nothing much at all.

I thought of you and how the sun dips before you reply.

So I thought again of cherry blossoms and nothing much but everything at all.

Verge

On the verge of spring break, except I’m no longer in school. Now I’m waiting for the soccer season to end as spring transitions to summer and the rain gives way to silk lightened sun.

My sleep cycle is so far off that the mundanity of week days doesn’t clock my brain as I sleepwalk through the beginning of each morning.

Heartthrob honey baby, staring into X-rays wondering why I can’t see your soul.

Intro

It can be tough to put a name to it.

So often it’s a nebulous thing. Something that couldn’t be connected to yourself. Something that happens to others, but not you.

But hearing it from my sister as we sat across each other at Pho van fresh— “that sounds like depression,” as I explained that I couldn’t see the future. That even though I’ve been working towards goals… it hasn’t felt like there’s been any tangible progress or energy to it.

Funny that forcing it out in the open (of what has been a pretty obvious thing for the past two years) allowed me to take that necessary step back. The “aha!” moment that explained the patterns that didn’t have a good explanation.

“Something is off, but I don’t know what.” I’m sure I said that half a hundred times. Even the enjoyment of core activities had diminished. I was still writing and coaching, but at subpar levels.

Writing this now isn’t some triumphant bugle call that I’ve created the mountain, but rather that I’ve seen the peak.

The past two years have been a whirlwind of grief, dislocation, wonder, sorrow, unease, and incredulity.

There’s an apathetic sleeper hold depression wields with me. A slow choke that slowly bleeds the colors out of who I am. What once was a kaleidoscope became a monotony.

I’ve been told in the past that I hardly show when I’m anxious or scared. But I can promise you that whatever calm I operated on wasn’t the smooth ride you’d imagine it to be.

I bottomed out on confidence. Passion was a distant thing. The future held horrors or calcite snapshots of another age. And all the while I’d chug along— knowing that something was deeply wrong, but unable to accept the reality.

I’d had the same problem wrestling with loneliness at the beginning of my adventure in Japan. I acted as if surviving one extreme bout of it would somehow insulate me from ever experiencing it again (wrong).

That’s how I was approaching depression (which half I’d saddle on seasonal depression— you gloomy fuck, bring back the sunshine). Almost a willful disregard to a treatable problem (but only if there’s a diagnosis).

Maybe the heart of it is that dreaming new dreams can be terrifying. Because the ones from before are gone. Or at least, they’re gone from view like flowers pressed between pages. A beautiful thing captured.

I hope to dream anew

Under the approaching spring sun and lengthening day light. I hope to exit gracefully from this period of my life (or at least functionally).

I have been unmoored— by design— for the past couple years.

Now I look to open berths and whisper “courage” under my breath. I am starting again— with everything I have ever lived and loved. With every fear, nightmare, and dream that has shaped the contours of my bones.

Roil

it’s the dirty sand of the midnight bocce ball courts

the flickered blue light reflecting off hotel windows from the condos below

Reversed figured walking through lives that pass only in elevators and garages

Months back and worlds away

Sat reclined in a bed that yawns as wide as an ocean

Rumpled blankets resembling waves

No dreams await the rock

Spinnerets casting off red glass over stained sidewalks

Odd Hours

There’s this odd whistle outside. It’s nearly three in the morning and I can’t tell if it’s late night trash haulers or if the streetwalkers have picked up another bad habit.

There’s a metallic hum that flows from the bathroom. Beset on both sides by intriguing noises— sleep will come swift, but not without precursors to the dreams.

The sun has returned and with it a vitality that I’d forgotten I possess. An easily solved mystery once you look through years of journal entries between November and March— the dreary moments and me do not make great bedfellows.

Sea Fly

“I’m telling you something is wrong with him. I watch this man punch seagulls out of the sky for 45 minutes. That’s not normal behavior, Karen. I think this is a serious cause for alarm and if you don’t need something, I will.”

“Tom, I already told you to leave it alone. You know he’s from Iowa. he’s got more Four Loko in his bloodstream than he does white blood cells. I am not trying to end up on his bad side.”

Powder Walk

“It’s all ladders across bridges.”

It’s all Polaroids on the wall. I’m running through my notes and I find one liners like crumbs out of a nature valley bar. You can find them in every notebook I’ve ever written in. In the margins, between the lines, scribbled over older passages.

waiting before a concert in the basement pub. Two active pool games, boys tossing darts, a lively LA derby game on TV. There’s a dark Czech lager sitting before me on the table. I wearing the yellow leather banded pearl bracelet I got back in Tsushima. There’s a fifty year old red Italian leather coat slung over my chair.

I’m sitting and waiting— it’s something that’s par for the course with a split schedule. Sitting in random places writing about things that won’t connect to me later. Or if they do, it’s not in the way I think it would be.

I sat in an office room today and watched the Stuttgart x Bayern game with other soccer coaches from my old club. The divide in this game is small. Especially if you aren’t a complete cockwaffle.

I’ve been reading a serial about a writer who’s gotten sucked into a Football Manager save. It may be the most relatable thing I’ve ever read. Outside of writing, soccer is a huge part of my life. So much so that getting into the Football Manager games led to me getting my first coaching license.

I haven’t laughed that hard at something I’ve read in ages. It felt like a tailor made piece. The style of observation, commentary on players and game situations (and the insults). Glorious to come across someone giving a digital shellacking to a player that’s earned generational wealth for playing a game.

Silver

Bad decisions compounded by sitting at the edge of a stage with a frosty Modelo and scribbling in a pocket notebook about the song choices the dancer has picked for her dances. A languid flow that slows time— there’s a smooth edge to everything as I can’t look away from her leopard print singlet. I don’t think I should have walked in the door, but now I’m wondering how someone decides which songs to dance to. Questions of style mirror the dancer as both spin before me.

***

I sit in the middle of a red leather booth, my hands planted on either side of me. Entranced rather than aroused. She presses her body against mine— the weight of her moving slowly as her hands pass over my hand and onto my chest. There isn’t space to speak as every turn compresses my focus into a singular existence. I want to ask questions about her style— about how someone can be so at odds with the style of others around them.

I speak at the end, but my tongue is heavy with wonder. I thank her for the dances and know that my appreciation is in the craft, not in an illusion of attraction. I wonder at this growing trend I’ve found in myself: the multiplication of destructive behavior spurred by a glaring lack of intimacy. I wonder if I’m crossing beyond— to a place that I won’t be able to return from without trouble.

I return to an empty condo— briefly being held up at the gated entrance to the garage as a white tesla makes me show my key fob before letting me in. There’s a juxtaposition between my 2002 Forest green Ford Windstar and the rest of the high value vehicles in the garage. I’m aware of the divide as the same couple holds the elevator door for me as I hurry to grab my groceries from the back seat. I laugh that I don’t blame them for being suspicious and they respond that they didn’t want another $100 fine from the HOA. We agree to let the matter settle and I step off at the sixth floor.

I walk inside, adjusting the thermostat and unloaded a laden grocery bag with seltzer waters, eggs, and beer. I had been good with the turn of the new year, but already I’ve had a moment of impulse that stretched an entire night. I’ll reactivate a dating app and swipe without feeling. I’m far away from the heavy air that lingered between myself and Silver at the club. I’m a long way from anything at all.

Midst

Ten games over the course of two days. All in the midst of a nonstop rainstorm. The teams age from seven years old to eighteen years old.

I knew I was going to be in the thick of it with the spring season in full force, but I didn’t know that my own estimate for the amount of games I would coach would be significantly lower than what it actually will be.

Red rain-soaked Janowski‘s and durable rain pants made up my aesthetic for the weekend. Little bubbles would foam through the tiny pockets on the top of my shoes with all the excess water. The glamour of a career in athletics is on full display.

On Saturday, I didn’t eat a real meal until 5:30 in the evening. I survived off of coffee and cliff bars. I finished the Weekend with two nights in a row, where I passed out on the couch before dragging myself to bed.

Funny thing is it I will do it all again and I’ll be happy to do so. I’m working with some great kids and I can see the areas of improvement.

Last night there was an inclement weather enforced training cancellation. We had gotten to the last ten minutes of the youth academy trainings when a purple striped bolt of lightning landed a couple streets over from the field. Cue the calm, but energetic hustle to get all two hundred plus players off the pitch and into the blue, rounded clubhouse.

Today it’ll be a triple set of trainings as I work with three different high school aged teams. A change from the seven and eight year olds from yesterday.

Anthology Plug

Shameless plug for both the paperback/ ebook anthologies I’ve written and published on Amazon. If you want to give them a peek— you can find them here for the Anthology of Odd or here for the Howl of the Hamjackal.

I’ve been getting back into the routine of writing— more recently with actual fiction stories with Camp Welby (which will definitely have more added to round it out). It’s been difficult with the winter months and constantly shifting schedule as I return to life over here in Portland.

There are times where I think I’ll never put together a full length book or movie script. But then I stop and ask why that’s important at all. Especially if I just want to write. What has been cool has been learning the process of putting a manuscript together and designing a cover.

It’s been very gratifying to feel a physical copy of an anthology in my hands (which I currently have five copies sitting on my kitchen island, so I’ll extent that joy in due time to some other readers).

All in all, if you like any of the stories on the website or feel like giving a little support to a fellow artist, consider buying a copy of the book or even a ko-fi donation if that tickles your fancy.

A return to the regularly scheduled content will commence hereafter—

Thanks,

A

Camp Welby Pt.2

Gabe saw them right before he jumped. In that moment where you can’t stop, but haven’t transitioned to free fall, he saw the jade green glow of stairs underneath the water. His yell of joy caught in his throat unlike the other counselors. He fell into the lake like a late piano key being played— the water swallowing him in a rush of gurgled noise.

He kicked to the surface, joining the group. He couldn’t see the outline of the stairs with the water mimicking a sheet of obsidian. Gabe sympathized with the fool’s moon shining overhead.

Shouts for another jump were few, but enthusiastic. They swam to the shore and started the trek back to the camp and talked about college, old camp memories, and other legends Gabe had long since gotten used to as their soggy clothes dried out on the walk.

A hand pulled on Gabe and he turned to see Ryder. “Did you see them?”

“Did I see what?”

“The stairs!”

Gabe looked around before nodding. “I thought you said you could only see them at midnight. Or that’s what your brother said.”

“He must have been wrong. Do you think anyone else saw them?” Ryder said looking at the group ahead of them. Spirits were high as they bounced along the trail.

“I don’t know,” Gabe said. “Maybe someone will bring it up later. They’re probably just an old project from the thirties, right?”

“If you say so.” The pair lapsed into silence as they walked back. Their bodies worn like wrung towels from swimming. A soft luminescence filled the night as frogs croaked and fireflies flickered across the path.

The next week wrapped both boys up in camp duties and after hours shenanigans as they made the most of their late teens. Gabe kept an eye open for Emma as his crush proved stronger than ever. Ryder tried not to tease him too much about it, but would offer Gabe’s help whenever Emma needed something. What are friends for if they don’t lovingly embarrass and encourage you?

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” Emma said startling Gabe as he cleaned cutlery in the mess hall. She sat on the counter like a sphinx as she gave him a once over.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Gabe said staring into the dishwater. Foamy bubbles couldn’t hide his reddening neck. “I’ve just been busy with all the tasks.”

“Like cleaning knives?” Gabe looked up from the sink. Emma smiled and handed him a note. “Maybe you’ll finish up in time,” she said walking out leaving Gabe with wet hands and a water logged note.

Meet me at Cairns Point at Moon Rise -E

Camp Welby Pt. 1

They made it easy to follow the rules. Enjoy the summer, don’t leave the cabins after dark, and never, ever, descend the stairs under the lake.

The last rule didn’t make sense to Gabe since stairs under a lake was a looney toons set up, not an actuality.

Gabe had been coming to Camp Welby since he was a little boy. He didn’t like to admit he used to cry himself to sleep. He certainly didn’t say anything about wetting the bed, either. But he’d been blessed with some compassionate camp counselors who helped him skate through the night terror years without public incident. It was the reason he returned to the camp after his freshman year of college.

His return as a camp counselor definitely didn’t have anything to do with the rumor that Emma LaFraigne was also returning in the same capacity. None at all.

Freshman year of college zoomed past like sugar rush roller skaters. He’d received his acceptance letter from the camp in April. He sat on his dorm room bed, under the gaze of a steely eyed Jim Morrison, and dreamed of the sweaty summer nights where a heartfelt confession didn’t fall flat.

Set in the Minnesotan wilderness, the campers had to arrive via floatplane. The popularity of arrival diminished in recent years after a spike in accidents. Gabe thought that was tied more to the age of the average floatplane than pilot competency. Still, camper attendance only made it to sixty campers instead of his childhood average of two hundred. The relative vacancy gave the lake an eerie, sparse feeling.

After the first day of welcoming campers, Gabe and his fellow counselors found themselves free. Willow and Lucas, two friends from Bear Lake said they’d stick in camp while the rest of the counselors made their inaugural trek to Cairns Point above the north end of the lake. There were cairns stacked in various sizes at the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. The twenty foot drop wasn’t big enough to fully scare off the uneasy, but it did mean cajoling, bribes, and obscure threats had to be made in order to ensure everyone leapt into the water at the same time.

One doesn’t mess with tradition.

One counselor, Ryder, hung back to talk to Gabe about a rumor he’d heard a couple years back. It had to do with the last rule in the unofficial counselors notebook that previous years wrote their names and best (or worst) experiences of the summer in.

“It’s not a joke, you know,” Ryder said as he fiddled with the bark on his walking stick. “My brother told me a kid in his year found the stairs.”

Gabe gave him a look. “Come on, man. I know how brothers are. He just wanted to freak you out before coming here.”

“I don’t think so. He told me this a couple years back. Right after his last year of high school. That was the year they stopped letting high schoolers work here.”

“That’s ominous. Did he say anything else or did he just leave it at that?” Ryder looked around to check that no one else was listening in.

“He told me not to come up to Cairns point past midnight. He didn’t say why. But he made me promise.”

Gabe checked his watch, the aqua blue text read nine fifteen pm before shaking his head. “I think he’s just trying to do that older brother thing. We’re not going to be out here that late anyway, but I think he’s full of it.”

Ryder threw his hands up, “I was just saying…”

“Come on, let’s catch up with the group.”