Thinking With My Left Foot

Sometimes you hit what you're aiming for.  Sometimes you don't even aim, and end up there anyway.

Beatrix gave me a purple/green hacky-sack, a watercolor painting, and a silver and turquoise ring way back in the day, in the weeks before she became 'someone else.'  The hacky-sack died of over-use long ago, and the ring got pitched into the waters of Bellingham Bay, from the dock at the north end of Boulevard Park.  It still sits in the silt and sand, 10-15 feet down, remembering.
The painting, of a mandala she saw during a climax I participated in, is still in my hands, signed and all.  It's actually a nice painting.  (She was rather talented with that medium, maybe she still is...)

Let's talk about getting older and learning forms of control.  Physical, emotional, intellectual, psychic.  How wise can you get?  How flexible?  How much shit can you take?  You do eventually find an upper limit to these, and then seek out the proverbial 'more.'
You used to be able to raise the needle off the LP record and put it wherever you wanted on that side of the album.  Total control of those musical memories you'd ingrained already.  (Need I mention that headphones in those days were huge by today's standards, like Princess Leia muffins on your ears?)

I used to be a bit clumsy as a youth.  Hit my head a lot running through the forest.  Tried to catch a boomerang - bled from that.  Tripped on uneven sidewalks, whatever...  My hand-eye coordination was, let's just say, in need of further development.  I ran into the basketball hoop-poles and DIDN'T make the lay-up.  I was never a good batter, but I was a good pitcher.  (Which doesn't make sense.)  Running was a more obvious sporting choice for me.  Even long distance.  Anything where I could just run was better than trying to 'be on target.'
Until...
I remember the first time I shot a BB-gun - in Hazel Dell, Washington, maybe 1972, or early 1973 - and I hit what I was aiming at - a red-winged blackbird in a low, lonely tree in a clearcut.  I was mortified when I hit it, saw the puff of feathers, and it dropped.  It was injured beyond health but not quite dead.  I didn't fire any weapon for years, still reliving that salty moment of God-like, brutal choice.  I wasn't at all happy I'd killed that bird in one way or another.  It was a challenge I didn't really think I'd succeed at, hitting it on a childish dare...  and when I did, I felt like shit.  Seriously.

"...Thought I'd heard you talking softly,
I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio.
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.
What has happened to it all?
'Crazy' some'd say.
Where is the light that I recognize?"
"Ordinary World"  by Duran Duran (and it still kicks ass.)

Fast-forward a few years, a few moves. (Our family moved a lot, for the record.)
A low, forest-ringed horse pasture in northern Snohomish County, autumn, in 1980.  The mist usually fills this space due to its relatively lower elevation on most cold, grey days, but with my friends on this odd day, it was clear.  Couldn't see Jason's parents' house through the fog, so they couldn't see us.  Freedom to chew Apple Jack leaf tobacco and smoke leftover 'parental' cigarette butts, maybe a little leafy, wanna-be pot in an aluminum can, fashioned into a hot-burning impromptu pipe...  (If we'd had beer, we would've drank it.  Being 15 sucks sometimes.)  We had a shitty .22-caliber rifle, a box of ammo, and some serious male-teenager gravitas.  Back in the early 80's, five teenage boys and a rifle weren't cause for alarm in some parts.  We were 'out of trouble' more than the opposite of that.
Hub-caps and old beer bottles, beware.

I finally got a chance to fire at something, and I remember we were on the west side of that pasture, facing north.  Sol hadn't broken through quite yet.  A solid line of second-growth douglas firs bordered us on the left, and there was a prominent tree about 50-60 yards north, just inside in the pasture fence.  A first-growth cedar stump was the only dominant feature in the pasture foreground, an old relic from before our grandparent's births.  It was soggy, deep cedar red, with a few ferns on top.
Like I said, it was my turn.  We had a firearm.
A squirrel had the audacity to climb that fir in front of us.  (Where we could see it.)  Soon, the teenage goadings included that mammal's inclusion as a potential target.  It was so far off, and the weapon so crude, there was no way I wanted to 'waste my shot' on it.  There just wasn't any way this chintzy rifle was gonna allow me to hit that varmint.
But I couldn't escape the dare.  They SAID it couldn't be done.  I raised the rifle and sighted in.  I breathed slowly, and pulled the trigger.

I took the center portion of its spinal cord/spine away from that poor creature's body.  A not-so-bloody arc was missing from its back, like a piranha bite.  It held on with its front legs to the tree, but it was clearly not going to survive that shot.  Rear legs paralyzed, dead weight kicked in.  In short seconds, with that big chunk of it missing, it scrambled and fell into its oblivion.
Again, I felt like shit.  The distance of that shot was rather unbelievable, but I DID hit that poor thing.  My brothers and friends started complaining that it was a 'one in a million shot.'  Whatever.  I had taken two shots in my life and killed two things.  There was a trend starting, a dreadful luck with 'things that aim to kill.'  We all brushed it off as total luck.
We advanced up the pasture, plinking steel cans and beer bottles we'd found.  I was acting cocky, I had actually hit something, no one else could brag yet.  They tried their shots.  Someone put a hubcap on the cedar stump as we went by, and when we we got up to the horse-barn, I mentioned that I could hit the hubcap on the stump from there.  We were, at this point, at least 50 meters away, looking slightly downhill.  The hubcap was a silvery glint below the sword ferns.

Now, it gets really weird.  Almost unbelievable.  But it did happen.

First, a musical pause:  (Something I played a lot in my 1976 AMC Spirit, 'Red Shift,' back in the day.)

"That's all I wanted, 
Something special.
Someone sacred -  
In your eyes.
For just one moment,
To be bold and naked,
At your side.
Sometimes I think that you never - 
Understand me (Understand me.)
Maybe this time is forever,
Say it can be..."

"Father Figure" by George Michael.  (Reminds me of West Germany in the late 80's, because that's where I lived and worked, readying myself to put steel-on-steel for NATO.  So, listen to the whole thing, mein freunden.  S'not like you have anything better to do...  Shit.  You probably do, but - still - find a way to hear this song.)


The Tinglev was nearing the nexus where Las Vegas, the Colorado River, and too many civilian and military radars converge.  Area 51 had been more or less deserted as we flew over, now an unused stage.  Nothing pinged at all on sensors.  Our heading was now 172 degrees at 475 knots, and it was the only place we could fit through.  After Shasta we had to avoid numerous Triangles, hugging scenery and changing speed and elevation so often we almost all got sick.  Inertial dampening was now almost completely useless.
My crew didn't have the benefit of 'Rotatey Chairs.'  We had to run this gauntlet slowly, carefully, to get this craft fixed, one way or another.  Enough pasty grey bruises for my crew.
"MAIN to visual," I ordered, "XO, WEPS keep me informed."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The lights of southern Las Vegas filled the screen for a fleeting few seconds, glittering, and soon faded.  At the NAV console, the XO braced himself for the upcoming turn above Hoover Dam.  We all knew that was going to be hairy.  There's a new bridge there, it's awe-inspiring.  I wanted to look at it and not be busy thinking about their steering.
"NAV, at your discretion, commence turn to 32 degrees.  Pick an arc-speed and relative altitude, keep us below possible mag-rock holography."
The XO turned back to me.  He'd forgotten about that down here, he 'privated' to me.  He pushed something to the bridge crew I couldn't make out, but it must've worked.   The whole vibe changed.  We all felt confident we'd get to Archuleta Mesa soon, without issue.
"Klargen, COMMS."
"Go ahead, COMMS."
"AMHRF is requesting clearance codes, signal is patchy."
"Send them, encoded.  Boost transmission past cloaking alignment, if possible."
"Blinx, Klargen."



"I bet I can hit that hub-cap, blindfolded, using The Force." I announced.
They laughed at me - I was so lucky once - it couldn't happen again, right?  A clean red paisley handkerchief served as a blindfold, and was wrapped in a way that I couldn't see anything except a faint glow of grey light.  I closed my eyes and they spun me around a few times, handing me the rifle and aiming me in the general quadrant of the lower pasture.  I started a slow, tightening spiral, feeling the balance of the weapon, the level of the trajectory I needed, and the 'draw' of that target.  When the spiral fell in on itself, I took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.  I knew, before I pulled the trigger, that my aim was dead-on.

I could hear a metallic 'plink' and reached up to pull off my blindfold.
"No fuckin' way!  No fuckin' way!"
Daren began running down to the stump.  Jason took the rifle and my brother Brian pursed his lips tightly, and we began our march to the results.  The hubcap wasn't on the stump anymore, and when Daren picked it up, and turned it to us, we could see a clean hole in the aluminum, nearly dead-center.  It wasn't a shot you could make, even with your eyes open - unless you had a well-aligned scope.
"You peeked," Brian accused me, but he and I both knew that I hadn't.  Even if I had, the odds were spectacularly against hitting that hub-cap.
"No way,"  They kept repeating.   "How could that happen?"
But, 'way.'  It happened.  There is no rational explanation whatsoever.  There is no logical reason for that bullet to find that arc and find its mark.
Except, perhaps, using The Force.  I truly believed I could hit it, and my confidence survived the jeers of friends and brothers.  Disbelief is not as strong as belief.
Suffice it to say no one hit that hubcap after that - from that distance - with their eyes open, including me.

On the 7th of February, 1992, I was playing hacky-sack with two close friends on the sidewalk outside of Tony's Coffee.  Tony's had been a refuge from the dreary memories of Beatrix, a place to write poetry, sip double-mint mochas, and people-watch.  (Or girl-watch.)  The day was grey but warmish.  Kicking around the hacky-sack, we were occupied with keeping it going.  Then Beatrix and her Mom came around the corner from the north.  The hack dropped.  She recognized me and whispered to Beatrix to hold her hand up to block me from her view, and did the same.  Two people I knew very well walked by me and headed east up the slight incline.  I followed for a short distance, muttering, 'Well that's childish of you two," just loud enough for them to hear.  They ignored me so hard it was obvious as hell, then turned and entered the Mexican restaurant.  I went back to my friends, and they knew who I had just seen by the look on my face.
"That was her, wasn't it?"
"Yeah.  Can't even acknowledge me, I guess."
"Pretty mean thing to do," Doug offered, "Less than a year ago you were engaged to that girl?"
"Yeah.  But now I don't exist, I s'pose."
"But you do, Brent."  Dave consoled me as much as he could.
"Tell that to them, they want to be blind."
"You didn't say 'Air raid," Doug mentioned, "Were you too surprised?"
"Yeah, totally.  I never knew they'd both be like this."

Beatrix' car was parked directly next to Doug's Ford Ranger truck.  (She wouldn't have known that it was his or that I arrived in that vehicle.)  I pulled a picture of her from my latest journal, ripped it up into 3 large pieces, and threw it on the damp asphalt next to her driver's side door.   I had another copy of it, so it wasn't a big loss.  Two hours later, it was still there.

Where am I going with this?  Perhaps an old poem is in order...

11 February, 1992.

You, with your pretensions of fire,
Passions waiting to be heard,
Your instincts are obscured and blurred.
You can't claw through the fog
Because you gave up your talons.
Let 'right' be damned, you said to me. 
Will you never let go of that anger?
Or will 'all' be soggy with blind fear?
Don't dare to roar on my turf,
Before you can see it clear and wide.
You are far, but I am near.
Open your eyes, feel that tide.


I learned to think with my left foot to master hacky-sack.  I pushed my consciousness to the foot I didn't favor.  The hard things are more rewarding than the easy things when you're done with them.  One day, at 1510 Iron Street, a mutual friend came up to our hack-circle.  He'd come from the direction of Beatrix' rental house.  Conversation ensued.  Travis knew her fairly well - I discovered later -  but didn't know I was the guy she had been with before Bellingham.  We all chatted and hacked for a bit.
"You should go to Fairhaven College," he finally offered.  "You'd love it there."
"Too many psycho chicks depending on restraining orders."
"Who did that?"
"Beatrix Blankety-blank."
"You know her - you're THAT guy?  Oh my God, you aren't what I expected."
"Yep, the devil incarnate."
"No fucking way."  He laughed, mystified as to why Beatrix would be afraid, loudly fearful, of moi.

Later that month, I was talking with my buddy Andre, and he mentioned that he had been staying at the house with Beatrix and F.  He mused about a time Beatrix came in from a sweaty bike-ride and stripped down buck naked in front of him on her way to the shower.  Later that year, he got busted for receiving an ounce of weed from LA in the mail.  But not at her house...

On another, slightly related note:  As a cook at The Quarterback Pub and Eatery, I had to deal with a lot of things - preparing and finishing food, 3 bosses, 6-10 waitresses, 2-3 bartenders, and the public. Fire Code had us at 225 for seating.  Maybe two cooks on at a given time.  Busy.  The kitchen was easy to watch from almost anywhere in the place.  I started as a prep/line cook and just kept churning out food for months, my circadian rhythm destroyed by late nights, lots of business, and endless french fries, fettucines, and fresh fish 'specials' we'd dreamt up.  The tips were good.  There was a steady turnover of waitresses, as it was a college town and the demands of that job are impressive and difficult to master.  Some stayed, some left after a day.
One day, we get a new one, a petite brunette named - I'll call her something else - Deedee.  After a few hours, on her first day, it became obvious she was a cocaine or meth user.  She started out light, then got edgier, until she could take a 'smoke break.'  Then she'd be 'reset.'  She never smelled like cigarettes after these outings, so...
One day she came in with new earrings, shaped like hot-air balloons and made from an exotic metal.  Maybe titanium, I thought.
"Hey, Deedee, those are cool earrings.  Where'd you get those?"
"Thanks, I got 'em in Arizona."  That piqued my interest.
"Is that titanium?'
"Yeh, good guess."  I had her attention.
I knew then who had made them, intuitively, but milked it out of her slowly.
"Flagstaff area?"  I said, probably filling up ketchup bottles.
"Yeah.  You know Flag?"
"Never been there.  Never been to Arizona."
"There was a guy-"
"Were you along the freeway south of Flagstaff, east of Sedona, by the off ramp to the (censored) Ranch, and got them from a guy named D. in a white schoolbus?"
She looked shocked.  Her color changed.  She started chewing her inside cheek, coke-nerping.
"Are you a cop?"
"Nope, just a cook, Deedee.  That bus is in Bellingham right now, not far from here.  I've seen it rollerblading home to my apartment."
"You aren't a cop?  But, how?" She quizzed.  "I've never even worn these here before."
"It's a small world, Deedee."
She didn't show up ever again after that.  I hit my mark, blind-folded.  Thinking with my left foot.

Beatrix is still indifferent, and still silent, to me.  (At least she's consistent, right?  Counts for something.)
She hasn't written a new blog in 3 months.  Just the one.  Was it just a 'toe-dip' into the water?  Has she forgotten how to swim?  Is she still petrified of the water in which the sharks of memory swim?
Too busy to heal old wounds, or even acknowledge the past for karma's sake.  Just put 'glurg' on there...  Throw a dog a bone, sheesh.

Did SHE ever learn to think with her left foot?  Has she ever hit the proverbial hub-cap?  Is her hand still in front of her face?  Did she master the inverted dive?

Future prediction:  I won't hear jack-squat from her until a month or two after her mother passes, which may be tomorrow, or 25 years from now.  I'm not holding my breath, therefore.

But she may be.  Because someday it's gonna happen, and that 'suspected' promise she made will die with her.

Til then, I'm still persona non grata, a fangless stalker, a fear to be gasped at.
But I'm really not.

I'm the Captain of a captured alien vessel, headed into the mix.

"HELM, take us in."
"Blinx, Klargen."

(Then she posts a video, on Sunday, with a soundtrack I mentioned a few weeks ago.  "Give a Little Bit" by Supertramp.)  Not like I noticed, right?
But I did.  I CAN think with my left foot.

And I can hit targets I CAN'T see, or aim at, even.  Groove on that, Beatrix.  I'm sending bolts of love and friendship.  They'll look like something else, of course.

Whenever you can quit being so specious about our past, I'm here.  I always am.