June 25, 2009

Protocol*


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Cozumel



[Before I arrived, I was obsessed with a kind of human geography. What was it like? Thus the first released some of this energy. Then the music and colors of the everyday caught me. The second part. I realized I could not finish either to the extent I wanted to, and that they deserved. Thus each part is unfinished. An exercise in the end, I guess.]

1

San Miguel, a town of about 80,000 residents, sits on the leeward side of Cozumel Island, and swells to 100 or more thousand when tourists come to stay, or multiple cruise ships disgorge shoppers. Known as Cozumel, the town is laid out in a grid with streets running north and south and east and west, many one way.

From the sea in the west moving eastwards, there is first the main tourist shopping street, Rafael Melgar. It runs north and south of the center where ferries from the mainland arrive and depart. The east-west street dividing the town roughly in half is Benito Juarez. Melgar is lined with shops for about ten long blocks, and beyond this, luxury hotels and condominium projects are scattered north and south. They mostly avoid the foot and taxi traffic that make Cozumel's, if you can call it this, downtown bustle. The shopping and tourist area continues from the center eastwards two blocks till 10th Avenue, a main thoroughfare running south to north. Thus forms a rectangle about ten blocks by two blocks for English and Spanish speakers, pedestrian friendly and colorful, where the tourists police in khaki shorts safeguard the economy.

Continuing east, another section of town begins on 10th. This is mostly a locals shopping area, dotted with small hotels and houses with room-for-rent signs. This area includes a locals market for daily food, necessities and sundries. This section runs to 30th Avenue, making another rectangle about ten by four blocks.

North and south of the center from the sea eastwards, bordering both the tourist and locals shopping areas are posher neighborhoods where the wealthy absentee, expatriate, or sunbird hides behind high walls and imposing facades. These neighborhoods mostly shed their foreigners around 30th Avenue.

Extending six blocks from 30th eastwards and bordered by the outskirts of town north and south, there is a mixture single family and small apartment houses, small businesses, and all manner of eateries and miscellaneous services, many situated in the front or as a part of private homes. There are several large stores for building materials and such along 65th, another main thoroughfare.

From 65th north and south and east to 100th or more, there are neighborhoods and parks and mom-and-pops and bars with cement floors and plastic chairs and tables, a landscape of unfinished dwellings, and some that look as if they have been constructed using the last hurricane's debris.

A short canopied jungle borders or surrounds all developed areas and encroaches onto vacant lots and wherever it can. To the north of town, there is a military base and the international airport. Further, opposite luxury condominium and high rise hotels, there is a golf course with several resident reptiles on about the tenth T.

The town will grow into the jungle areas as the population grows. A public-minded housing project of 1,000 very small and modest homes begins to rise beyond the current southeast outskirts near a state university branch campus.

Running through town in roughly a north-south line is high ground, from one or two meters above sea level to about eight, less than a town block wide. Although logically a desired location to avoid overflowing streets when it rains, this raised spine of limestone hosts structures as diverse as the non-tourist areas of town itself.

Local sources and incident records show Cozumel to be a safe place, but there are neighborhoods where caution is wise. The tourist areas are carefully monitored by different police forces. However, as safe as these areas are, everyone local is being paid by someone or some business to hook any foreign looking person into a place of business to spend money. Dollars exchange hands more often than pesos, and competition reigns. Prospective customers hear the offers of another adman as the pitch from the previous has hardly settled into the distance of a few steps away. It is a feeding frenzy when the streets are crowded.

The central Plaza, Benito Juarez, draws tourists and locals alike each week for concerts, extravaganzas, fiestas. One block from the Plaza the, Church of San Miguel rings its bells daily and nightly for services for locals and shy or curious others who listen from the sidewalk and pedestrian areas.

2

Pastel skies greet the early riser while a tree iguana big as a tomcat watches and waits in a tree.

Shacks and shanties outnumbered by other dwellings not much better, unfurnished, concrete and block, graying in the sun, washed by warm rains, dark holes with dirt or wood floors, hammock limited in sway for the moped that serves also as necessary furniture just inside the doorway.

Adult-sized tricycles, two wheels front, carrying silent Mayan women, slowly peddled through neighborhoods, morning and evening by older men. Or carrying wares announced by a monosyllabic clap or bell or horn or whistle. As if to say, "I have this today. Don't hurry into the sun. I am not going anywhere very fast. I can wait for you."

The rains down pour as if from the bottom of a bucket with peso-sized holes. Streets flood and deep waters carry waste flushed up from shallow sewers incapable of taking it all away for hours or a day and a night. Or the waters drain into underground caverns which take it somewhere, some say out to sea.

Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep. A truck broadcasts bottled water or cooking gas for sale, up, down and around the corner and into the distance, now and then interrupted by the silence of an unseen purchase.

Boom boxes and street speakers stationery or mounted on beater cars or the semblance of trucks. They tell the world of promotions, a salsa band, candidates, or they just infiltrate the days with rap and base. The many heartbeats evidencing life in a something other clime.

Front porches and entries of private homes morph into eateries. Up to five ride on scooters meant for one or at most two. Penniless and barefoot, they ask for money and are offered food. Swarms of mosquitoes chase editable you if a jungle explorer you dare to be.

Musical horns and drums and groups of marchers practicing for imperfect exhibitions celebrating what? Each after dark or early in the morning for hours getting ready for or having events that have all in uniform but not quite in step.

Gringos and romantics walk, bike and drive to the western shore for an unobstructed sunset that along with steep, tall clouds turn the edge of the world into a single-performance-only spectacle.

Behemoth boats belch forth shoppers and hedonists for daylight diversions. Some only reach the mall at the foot of the pier. Others venture up and down the main seaside street. A few penetrate interior avenues till the local scene intimidates, or their vessel beckons them back blaring hoarse horns not to miss the scheduled departure.

Dogs lie lifeless in scrapes of shade. If not homeless, they sit atop roofs and fences in the evening protecting property when it is cooler. Some do not survive the night for another listless day, slain from neglect or taken by exacerbated natural causes.

Tourists and locals come and go and discover money is either easy to spend or hard to come by. Best make the best of things while there's work to be done or things left to see and do before the glitter and magic fade and it is there you are and life's like that again another day.
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Reciprocal

(on the occasion of Marie's birthday, '05)

Mark this day.
Not with X,
As if done and gone;
Not with null,
As in no account.
But with exclamation.

Mark this day.
Not a point,
As if done and gone;
Not with sign,
As in past account.
But with exclamation.

Mark this day,
Not regret
As in things not gone;
Not with care,
As in things to do.
But with an exclamation.

Mark this day
With hope and joy;
Mark this day
With faith and love--
As you have done
In all our days
As we know you.

You are our best,
Even in uncertain times.
You are exclamation:
The hope and joy,
The faith and love
We all are bathed in
By your being you.

We mark this day.
You are our exclamation.
Bathe in the love
We have for you.
Mark this day,
As we know and love you.
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Get my meaning?

A "Now you have raised a question again, and I have to try to do the hard work so that you can understand. Maybe you will; maybe you won't; maybe you will understand in a different way than I understand. Maybe you will have your own opinion. That is all OK, even the opinion, which no one, you realize, can work with."

B Gloss: One of two or more introduces a response in a conversation where there was another question and now this question--neither given--the answer to which will be a meta-response about matters affecting future understanding of what will be hard to construct. Herein is a care-less concern and aim of transferring a definite understanding, while at the same time acknowledging possibly a different one will result, perhaps more accurately termed an opinion embedded in the holder and therefore inaccessible to any other. The speaker accepts this challenge and risk, born of some obligation or insistence, and so will continue thus. The invitation to converse includes confirmation of a prior truth that having an opinon will arrest any mutual progress.

C "If I am entirely truthful with myself and write it down or talk about it, then at least I have done my part, which is the first step towards conversation. In the end, hopefully not before, I and you can evaluate or judge what has gone on and make any decisions based on that, or not. We are free to choose at all points."

D Which leads to the hypothesis: A text of any length, if translated into its own or another language, has worlds to open to us that we may but dimly sense without the most careful scrutiny, the most careful listening.

E Aha: No wonder without wonder.

F Another sample, this from the King James version.

4 And found in the temple those that sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting:
5 And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen; and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables;
6 And said unto them that sold doves, Take these things hence; make not my Father's house an house of merchandise.

G Seemingly didactic report of an event with quote claiming the protagonist descended from God and that business shall not be conducted in God's house, the temple. Driving merchants and animals out as well as pouring out money and overturning tables suggests less emotionally-charged methods were or would not be effective.

H And

7 . . . his disciples remembered that it was written, The zeal of your house has eaten me up.
8 Then answered the Jews and said to him, What sign show you to us, seeing that you do these things?

I In the face of this "scene" and echo of earlier scripture (Psalm 69?), the protagonist's disciples question his "wretchedness"? or the action born of it? These disciple-Jews, or others, then ask in response to the behavior--with or without the wretched part--what was its meaning?

J It seems again that a "text of any length, if translated into its own or another language, has worlds to open to us that we may but dimly sense without the most careful scrutiny, the most careful listening." But language-action plain or in translation can also but dimly denote exactly what it is we are to understand.

K Aha: Wonder with wonder.

L Imagine the impossible, that at the time of the above language-actions, or before, there was no interpretation. A baseline text once read is different from what was said if by the tiniest of margins, for it is the consciousness of the now other who has created it in reading or hearing. No full access-entry is possible into a text. Add to that the slipperiness of words and phrases and larger aggregations, as evidenced by illustrative reductions, we can only hope for coincidence. The closest approximation is what we are after, but that persistently and by the very nature of communicating intentions eludes us.

M Yet we proceed based on what we can apprehend, and through interaction, progress towards what we assent to as understanding.*

N The initial reduction, whatever its shortcomings, has to be compared with the original as re-read, decoded again. And if there is some large measure of satisfaction on what it is we have hold of then, we can accept the interpreted in an I-acknowledge sense.

O To restate the now convoluted.

* One, a text, an original.
* Two, the text is read. In the experience of reading, a first-hand interpretation is made. It is called what-I-think-it-says.
* Three, that interpretation is then reduced to match the text. Here is the second-hand.
* Four, the second-hand is compared with the original for fit and adjusted as needed. The comparative reading-rendering process becomes conceivably a revised second-hand interpretation, call it now third-hand, in that a third results from the process of interacting texts.
* Five, the third-hand, if taken up, becomes a fourth text in that it is a part of making additional texts which may bear great or little resemblance to the original.
* Recycle the process. Here is interpretation beyond the original and must be handled in the same manner as above in order to make sense of it.

P Aha: Wonder that we wonder?

Q To interpret in an I-acknowledge sense is roughly to have decoded a text and understood it within one's own language filters and horizons. If one adds external-to-the-text material, or voices, as somehow implied or inferred or reasonably understood as aides to understanding, we run the risk of nothingness, and . . .

R Aha: No wonder!

S We have fullness of how messed up things can get. This without the impossible, that at the time of the original, or before, there was--we assume, another of the genus interpretation--one or more intentions to communicate something or -things, consciously or unconsciously.

T Interim conclusion: Jam-packed, full of wonders, seen and unseen, to delight and dissuade us, much as the spells of sprites for good or ill when we think we are looking.

U The font of expression is metaphor, just as the impossibility of communicating intentions devolves into images and unspoken meanings as we separate.

V-Z [available for rebuttal or additional observations . . . perhaps a final Aha:]

__________
* Ken Wilber in unpublished material asserts that it is enough if I say something and you say you understand. Such assent is enough to proceed. There is no need for devolutions, reductions, convolutions, etc. See http://www.shambhala.com.
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The view from 1998

. . . [A]mong my dreams you may count coming to quasi-definitive understandings of things. I will list a few of my partial understandings of synchronicity/meaningful coincidences here. But before I do, I need to point out that I and I suspect we still know an infinitesimal amount about ourselves and our world, and perhaps even less about other worlds, or realities. I say this not to humble others but to report what I observe. We, the general _we_, are not very rigorous or precise about what we claim we know. And there are still mysteries that can consume lifetimes of devoted study and service in order to unveil. You may disagree.

In my experience and to my observation, I think I have hardly scratched the surface on what I took over two years to come to understand better. Perhaps others can report more definitive results in their pursuits, but I have been trained now, by doctoral work, to question that conclusion and hopefully help to reveal how it is or might not be so. This calling is an honorable one and comes with an ethic that says respect what others do in trying to push the frontiers of what we can claim that we know. So, on to some modest claims.

"An Inquiry into the Phenomenology of Meaningful Coincidences" can make one major claim. That is, the study describes the experience of having a meaningful coincidence in a more complete way than other studies of the same or similar phenomena. It also lists the qualities and features of that synthesized experience in a way not done by other investigators. The description and catalog of qualities and features of meaningful coincidences can stand on their own and be used by others to extend and expand understanding and be a guide to what is and is not the phenomenon. And I believe my work is sufficiently transparent as a study of my consciousness and of my understanding of other percipients that others, from whatever source of curiosity, can examine how I got what I did.

Among the lesser claims that I could make is that the study revealed a wealth of worlds beyond our words which try to capture our experiences. In the end the experiences are not captured. They are merely glimpsed. And the richness that is can sometimes only be told in a story which has to stand by itself for a self.

The Coincidence experience holds in microcosm a world beyond imagining for those who stop for more than a moment to consider it. And if my study is testament for others to stop for a moment and consider what it might be like in another's world, it will function as a foundation for respectful social action. And I would say that this accomplishment of my study is, for those who take the time and effort to read and experience it, consistent with the highest goals of human development, working with organizational systems, and Fielding's mission to support informed and sensitive social action.

These stories or experiences are important for those who have and report them. They are a part of being and becoming and growing self. And I suspect that Jung was really on to something important when he started this whole business, and is happy to see that I have re-discovered some of that for myself.

An aside. Jung noted names of people and how, apparently quite often, the names seemed to reflect something accurate about the person. I started doing the same thing long before I knew Jung did this. It is like the head of the Colorado Reading Association having the surname of Reading. Now I find great delight in the name of the external examiner for my study of a phenomenon that many people group with magic and the paranormal, things to seriously doubt. I can wait for Keith Doubt's comments, but I am quite curious as to what they might be given my interest in the possibility of the significance of people's names.

[That Keith was an external reader with his significant last name makes the dissertation and process "coincidental" in and of itself, a kind of meta- or over-coincidence. An observation not to be overlooked!]

My study did not convince me that the experience of meaningful coincidences as a type of synchronicity always has a numinous charge. And meaningful coincidences because of symbolic and figurative language will always escape solid, definitive meaning. In saying "Yes, that is what that was and this is what that means," it will be the percipient's convictions and beliefs that makes it so, not a test that can be performed by others, non-percipients. I concur with Searle (1992/1994) that subjective experience is valid and important territory for scientific, in this case phenomenological and hermeneutic, investigation.

There are certainly other findings included in the study, but perhaps these are the main ones that might be discussed in an oral review. The question arises now for me, and it may for you: Having done what I have done and tried so very hard to understand what was there and what was not--to try to come to an understanding of this somewhat common experience that people have--what is a reasonable conjecture for what it is and how it occurs? Good question. The topic of another dissertation, or a fun seminar. One which takes us again to Prague or Paris, or maybe some place new, like Costa Rica, or even our own inner worlds!

AND

The world for the individual and in association with others is optimistically open and full of possibilities. Pessimistically, it is a closed and cold place. Realistically it is a place where what is and can be are mediated and negotiated. I hope for the first view. At times I only see the second. And I live in the third, sometimes reluctantly.
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June 23, 2009

Exit PF



[Would writing "literature" constitute doing phenomenology? Would it be evidence of careful description of a what of what-is? Would writing of this sort be a legitimate object that another could experience in the same way, or close to the same way? A kind of truth as foundation for or variation of experience? Such is this proposed "immaterial artifact" from last year's archive. A test case.]

CHAPTER ONE, Exit PF

Aside from Percy Ignatius Weasley, who after all is a fictional character, it is inconceivable that just twenty-eight years ago anyone's real parents could have named their son Percival Franklyn and then gone off and died. But happen it did, and therein lies one reason for this someone's disappearance. Who wouldn't want to with a name like Percy? But that is perhaps too simplistic an explanation, and in fact it is not true.

Percival was not Percy nor was he Frank or Franklyn. From an early age, under his uncle's tutelage and with his blessings, Percival Franklyn Donner, the son of Johannes Christian and Winefred Rachel King Donner, was PF. PF Donner. Nothing else. Although this was not his given name, all forms and applications, except birth certificate, were completed with first name PF, surname Donner.

There was a small problem with the department of motor vehicles when PF turned sixteen when they threatened to put his full given name on his driver's license, but that and subsequent documents soon conformed to the only name PF answered to, engineered via a quick trip to the UK and a little paper called a deed poll. Joe King, the only father PF knew, readily approved and apologized for not having taken care of this detail earlier, but he said to PF, "Lad, it really was your decision, and now it's time to make it official." His uncle had left a door open for PF should he decide sometime in his life to choose Percy over PF.

A jaunt back to the old country did them good. PF became official, although the person by that name now had an infection both caused and cured by international travel, and Joe found again that the only international travel he wanted was the trip back to his adopted country. The mother country was nothing he missed.

***

The windy two-lane highway from Williams to Clear Lake in the late afternoon, mid-week, is a lonely road. On his way home PF's car died suddenly and it rolled slowly onto a dirt turnout on a sharp curve.

"What the?"

He looked at the dashboard for a sign, and then he turned the key and tried to start the motor. Nothing. He got out of the car and walked around looking at it, then jumped back in. He found the hood latch and popped it open. He got out and stared at the motor. There was nothing obvious he could see, perhaps because there was nothing recognizable, just a beautifully machined and symmetrically-shaped metal sculpture that could have been something other than a motor to the untrained eye. He left the hood open and went back and sat in the car, turned the key again to try to start it. Nothing wrong with the starter; the engine just did not catch the spark and ease quickly into its usual quiet rhythm. PF finally saw the gas gauge was resting past empty at the bottom of the reserve tank indicator. He hadn't noticed any warning light. Was the gas gauge even alive? As a matter of fact, was this gauge for measuring something or there to balance some Bavarian design imperative? Hadn't they said they had fixed everything and took the car for a test drive this morning when it was serviced? He turned the lights on and off and turned the key to different positions. The headlights came one, but the instrument panel was lifeless. PF got out of the car again and shut the hood. He went round to the gas tank and stared at it. He got back into the car and opened the gas-cap access panel. He put two fingers in, stretching them way down. He was quite nonchalant about it, maybe hoping for a sign, some fumes perhaps, to confirm what he now thought one problem was. Not the first semi-rational move today, and like some others yet to come, when he removed his fingers, the lip of the mouth of the fill hole caught the knuckle of his middle finger and tore a centimeter of skin right off the top.

"Yeow!"

He grabbed his finger and pressed it to his chest. Blood was going everywhere. And it hurt like the dickens. PF danced around about three turns like a Sufi dervish and came to a stop. PF looked up to the sky as if there were someone there to talk with about this stupidity. Silently he stood there for a moment, and then dropped his head as if in a sullen funk. He guessed that stupid questions didn't deserve answers. He walked back to the driver's side of the car. Wasn't there a first aid tin under the seat somewhere, or on the floor in the back seat? These new European cars are supposed to come with everything, aren't they? But there was nothing obvious in easy reach.

PF leaned onto the steering wheel with his bad hand and reached for the keys. He got out, went round to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Traces of blood now seemed to map his movements--on the seat, the keys, now the trunk. He found the first-aid pillow, as it turned out, unzipped it, and fumbled for cotton pads to hold against his finger to stop the bleeding.

"Unbelievable."

PF found three pads and some gauze wrapping. He managed to unwrap the pads and bind his finger. It looked like something out of a cartoon when a character bangs his finger with a hammer and it swells to three times normal size. Only in this case, the gauze and cotton pads accounted for the bulk. Blood was slowly being absorbed by the pads, and after having closed the trunk, PF sat on the driver's seat, this time facing outwards, his legs on the ground. He grabbed a bottle of Calistoga and poured some mineral water over his good hand and the un-bandaged areas of his wounded one and let the bloody, bubbly mixture drip to the ground. He had nothing to dry his hands with and so he just sat there letting his hands air dry, thinking what was next--less really about what to do than what would happen, not so much in passive surrender as not yet ready to take control and remedy the predicament.

He reached for his cell phone and searched the display for a signal.

"Of course."

He tossed the phone onto the passenger-side seat. It bounced and fell on the floor out of view.

"Great."

All this while no cars passed going to or coming from the lake and where he was headed, Glenhaven, a small but exclusive subdivision of second homes. It was getting late in the day. It would be dark soon.

"That's the way it's going to be."

PF decided to lock up and start walking. He grabbed his Brooks Brothers sports jacket and his briefcase, gently pushed the car door shut. He clicked the door lock button on the key fob. The car failed to answer with a short beep, and PF was off in the opposite direction the car was headed, toward Williams. He gave little thought to Glenhaven and his uncle's house where he and his girlfriend were caretaking for the winter. Although civilization was not closer in this direction than towards home, something just seemed to take hold and directed him that way.

After about a mile, it was noticeably darker, especially in the tree-shaded sections of the country road that everyone called a highway. The January winter in this part of California was not harsh, but it did get dark early. The two-lane road was narrow with not much of a shoulder, and PF thought that at any time a car could come round the bend and smack him.

That vague something grabbed him again, and he turned to return to his car to wait--it would be safer, he told himself--or he would flag the first car he saw going in either direction and hitch a lift to the nearest gas station.

A CalTrans maintenance vehicle, something like a dump truck with other equipment attached to it, came along shortly, and PF thought it was going to hit him. It was big and orange and took up most of the road and shoulder on PF's side. PF scrambled off the pavement and partially up an embankment. The behemoth presented no real danger. It was proceeding slowly and came to a stop a few yards beyond where PF found himself slipping down the embankment, the eroded rocks and gravel quickly becoming like spilled ball bearings. Before falling down, PF caught his slide and trotted up to the passenger side of the vehicle and heard out the open window, "Gave you a bit of a scare. I wouldn't hit you."

PF stood on his toes and called to the driver. "Can you give me a lift?"

"Not s'posed to, but hop in. Next stop's the maintenance yard about a mile this side of Winters."

"That'll do," PF replied absently.

As he mounted the beast and grabbed the opening door he asked, "A gas station between here and there?"

"Not exactly. Couple of 'em this side of town, though. What's the matter? Broke down?"

"No, I think just out of gas."

"Was it parked under some oaks on that turnout a ways back?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Dark green. Mercedes?"

"Blue. BMW."

"Diesel?"

"No. Regular. It's got the economy engine. I don't know much about cars."

"I don't know much about foreign ones. You got triple A or something?"

"No. Insurance, but no roadside service except you. No cell signal around here."

"Want me to radio ahead? Four Corners Gas monitors patrol and road crews. Maybe they can send someone out."

"No, that sounds a bit, um, complicated. But I will need a ride back, I suppose. I'm sure I can hitch a ride from town, right?"

"Sure. Lots of people coming and going in Winters. But I'm not sure they are coming up here. Friday afternoons and evenings usually a sure bet. Lots a people goin' to the lake for the weekend."

"Well, the best way to look at this is it's an adventure."

"Looks like you had some adventure, with your hand."

"Cut it on the car. Gas tank actually. Nothing much, but it bled a lot. I think it'll be okay."

"You live around here?"

"Yep. At the lake. Glenhaven. My girlfriend and I are taking care of my uncle's summer home."

"Sounds nice. What do you do all the time? Pretty quiet up there this time of year."

"I've just asked myself the same question recently. Oh, I have chores and there are people coming and going. Workmen. Gardener and so forth. I make sure they do what my uncle wants done. But actually the work is all finished now, as of yesterday."

"Sounds like a big place."

"It is. But it is quiet most of the time. It'll be even more quiet now there's no more work on the house. After winter."

His words trailed off. PF was getting a little uncomfortable with the grilling. He decided to not be so informative. He didn't know this guy. Maybe he was just in that kind of job, one where you don't get to talk to people a lot. The miles passed.

"Got a job?"

"No. Don't really need one right now."

"So, you're not from around here."

"Not really."

Fortunately, Winters was just up ahead.

"Here's the yard. I gotta pull in."

He stopped the truck at the yard gate.

"Four Corners is just down that way, couple a hundred yards. See that stoplight in the middle of the intersection there. That's it. On your left. Can't miss it."

"Thanks for picking me up. I really appreciate it. Oh, do you think my car is safe up there?"

"No one around. Nobody'll notice it. Come tomorrow, though . . . "

"Thanks."

The driver began to say something like, "What's your . . . ?" But before he could get an answer, PF had hopped off the truck, threw the door shut and was walking away. He was off in the direction of Four Corners. At that, the CalTrans truck pulled into the yard and the driver didn't look back.

***

As PF walked towards the gas station, he looked around and didn't see anyone or any cars. On the right just before the gas station, there was a bus stop. Light lime green January grass was announcing a Northern California spring. And there were papers and some empty beer bottles under the bus stop bench. Black graffiti symbols were painted on the wooden posts holding up the metal shed roof, and the back side had rust brown boards, most of them missing. You could see through the bus stop to the grassy field and eucalyptus trees in the distance.

What happened next is a little hard to explain.

PF thought first that it might have been that his purpose at his uncle's house was concocted. Gus, the Italian gardener, always took care of everything when Joe was not there. PF was there to be in the house, to just enjoy it. He had nothing else on his agenda. Society in the city had become routine but not especially boring. He did not miss it much and apparently it did not miss him.

PF mentally backed up and saw the bus stop and the two lane road between him and it and the field and trees in the background as a black and white photo in his mind. He stood there studying the framed image and wondering if the photo could be mounted on a large white wall in a gallery, or in a large estate house in the wine country. He experimented with different sizes for the photo. He imagined an apartment in an architectural magazine showing a minimalist living room with a life-sized photo of the bus stop. Then he saw it as a miniature framed object on a powder room wall at the Pacific Union Club atop Nob Hill. Then he just pictured a glossy print in his hands as he stared, as if examining the details.

A bus honked and broke this reverie. The driver slowed and signaled PF if he was waiting for the bus. PF waved him off, and the bus accelerated towards the traffic light some hundred yards ahead. PF continued on his way to the gas station and wondered where the bus was going. Would it turn left, right, or head straight on. He never saw as he dropped his gaze to the road and carefully placed each footstep in the bull's eye of imaginary stepping-stone sized targets on the ground. The asphalt and dust and gravel captured his attention like some mandala, and he just slowly proceeded, lost in thought and the smell of new grass and a feint one of eucalyptus.

Some things happen and we know why. Other things happen for no reason. Still others happen and it is in retrospect we think we understand by piecing together as much of what came before as possible. Which of these obtains in what PF did next is unclear, but it is probably of the genus things-just-happen.

The Four Corners Gas Station was at the junction of 12 and 29. It was old, built of wood with one island and three pumps. It was painted green with gold trim on the outside, with white and cobwebs above the underside of the drive-through area. Two large eucalyptus trees shed bark, branches, leaves, and seeds all over the building and paved areas. One farm truck was filling up with regular as PF looked out from inside the station where you pay and can get a candy bar or bottle of cold pop from an ancient cooler that stood like a horizontal sentinel, not vertical like newer vending machines. Was it like a red coffin? A man who should have retired from everything sat behind the counter near the cash register reading a newspaper. He looked up and asked PF, "Can I help you?"

"Where does that bus go that just went by here?"

"This time of day, it is going back to the city. San Francisco by way of Oakland. In the mornings it comes from there and dead ends in Redding, I think."

"That the only bus that comes through?"

"No, once a day there's a bus to Sacramento. I don't know where it comes from, probably up I-5, Red Bluff, but it never stops. Supposed to, but there is no one these days from here who gets on or off. So they usually just cruise on through. Bus stop is back a ways on the side of that road there, Highway 29. Should be coming by here in about ten minutes. If you want it, you'll have to flag."

PF said thanks, turned, and left. He walked out to the corner of the intersection and looked in each direction. It was getting dark. He saw no headlights or tail lights either direction. He felt alone and at peace. He looked at his finger. The blood now was a rusty brown on the bandage. The bleeding had stopped. He turned and walked back to the bus stop. He dusted off the bench with an old newspaper that had been left at the top of the trash heap in the oil barrel that sufficed as trash can. He sat down, placed his blazer on the bench next to him, and looked straight ahead.

The Sacramento bus pulled up beside the stop and the driver opened the door.

"You waiting for me?"

"Sort of. You go to Sacramento?"

"Yep, Interstate 5 then up 80."

"Okay."

"You gonna get in?"

PF did and asked how much was it to Sacramento. The driver told him as he pulled away. PF paid the exact fare and walked to the middle of the bus and sat down next to a window on the left side. He looked at the Four Corners Gas Station as the bus pulled away and turned down the country road on its way to a real highway. PF would never see his coat again.

***

Joe King's place was about three acres fenced on three sides and the house was set back from the road. It was about fifty feet from the lake's edge and built on wooden stilts. It was a comfortable home and Joe used it only occasionally now. He was not making weekend trips as much now from his home in the Berkeley hills to Lake County and his private refuge. And summers? Well, it was pretty hot at the lake. Age was catching up with him and he didn't have the energy he once had for the trek and all the work he liked to do on his little parcel of paradise. He had hired Gus 6 years ago to help out, and Gus pretty much did it all with his grandson, Tony, in the summer and on infrequent winter weekends. The fruit trees and 66 grape vines got the best of care, and Gus ate well during the harvest and drank well the next. Joe didn't mind. Gus had become more than a gardener, in fact a trusted property man anger.

Joe suggested Connie and PF spend some time at the lake and enjoy what would eventually become PF's property. Get to know it, he said. Not like a visitor but as a kind of proprietor. Learn what needs to be done.

"Take the winter. I will join you in spring. What do you have better to do except hang around and go to cocktail parties and lunch with the sons and daughters of the old money? You can be the caretaker. There's some work I've arranged and you can look after that for me."

Connie sat in the straight backed chair looking out towards the driveway. Not her usual place. It was darker than dark outside at eight in the evening. And she had not heard from PF. She expected him at four or five at the latest. She had tried his cell but no one answered. Where could he be? He is hours late. She phoned Joe.

"Have you heard from PF?"

"No, he's with you, right?"

"Well, he was supposed to be here hours ago. He went somewhere to have the car worked on and pick up some things. I haven't heard from him."

"Maybe he stopped for dinner or a movie. Would that be possible?"

The conversation went on for a few minutes like this, but in the end, neither had a clue. But Joe said, "He's a big boy. Can't be far away." To Connie Joe seemed unhelpful and unconcerned.

"Open a bottle of wine from the cellar. Pick one several years old. They are the best. He will be along. Maybe he had more car trouble and his cell died. Could happen."

By noon on Thursday, after having called Joe again first thing in the morning, Connie decided PF was missing. She called the sheriff. Two officers came to the house, and she gave them a report. Their visit began with, "Do you have any idea where he might be?" To which she answered, "Would I have called you if I did?" It ended with, "We'll keep in touch." Connie was left unsatisfied. So she got on the phone and started calling all her friends and a few of PF's. No one had heard from him and couldn't think of where he might be.

By Thursday evening, Connie was talked out. She walked into Glenhaven settlement and went into Gracie's, a bar and restaurant. She found herself in a crowd and decided to lose herself there in company, drink a little too much, and have dinner. She returned home about ten and the phone was ringing. She missed picking up the receiver in time and cursed herself. It was probably PF, she thought.

He usually used that phone because cell reception at the lake was spotty. She decided to call his number again.

A voice answered.

"Who is this?"

"Who is this?"

"God damn you PF."

"No, this is the Lake County Sheriff's office. I am deputy Hill. Who is this?"

"Oh, deputy. This is Connie, Connie Smart. I reported my boyfriend missing to one of your officers this morning. No, last evening."

"Yes, I know. We have been trying to reach you. The phone number you gave us has been busy all afternoon. We have your boyfriend's car and we are towing it to Upper Lake Garage. We'd like to ask you some more questions."

"Do you know where PF is?"

"Not yet. That is what we wanted to talk with you about. Have you heard from him?"

"No. Is there something wrong?"

"We don't know. Can we come by and talk with you?"

The patrol car showed up in the driveway about 11. A rather round deputy got out and Connie was waiting in the open doorway. He introduced himself as Deputy Banks. Could he come in?

"Could I have a glass of water?"

"Sure. Sit down. I will get it."

Deputy Banks seemed a bit nervous. Connie likewise grew in apprehension. She brought the deputy his glass of water and sat down.

"Well, we found the car. Kerry Hill told you that, I think. The car is now at our impound yard in Upper Lake. We found it on Highway 29 about ten miles from Glenhaven. It appears it ran out of gas."

"Wait, wait. How did you people get PF's cell phone?"

"It was in the car. When we were examining the car for signs of why it was left on the road, the cell rang, we thought we should answer it. It was on the floor of the front seat."

"Yes."

"Well, we looked at where the car had been left and we found some things we can't quite figure out. For one, the car was unlocked. Does your boyfriend usually leave his car unlocked?"

"No, he takes pretty good care of that car. It is expensive and he kind of babies it, you know. He locks it whenever he leaves it. But why would he leave it on the road?"

"As I said, it was probably out of gas. But we can't tell just yet. We haven't found the keys. We assume your boyfriend, Mr. Donner, still has them. You still don't know where he is?"

"No, I have called all his friends and his uncle. No one knows. And this is totally unlike him. It has been over twenty-four hours."

"You don't sound too concerned."

"I am concerned. I am damn concerned. Why are you attacking me?"

"We found some things we can't quite explain yet. We are checking them out."

"Like what?" she asked more seriously.

"The gas cap was hanging from the gas tank with the access panel open. Funny place to fill up with gas. Maybe someone left it open from just filling up. We don't know. But there was some blood on it, not much. In the car and on the trunk also. Could be something or could be nothing. We don't know yet."

"Blood? What do you mean it could be nothing?"

"Well, we found some bandage wrappers on the ground near the car. It could be he was injured somehow and got a lift to the hospital to get help."

"Did you check the area hospitals?"

"Yes."

Officer Banks seemed to be waiting for Connie to fill the empty spaces with information of her own.

"Well?"

"Nothing. No one has seen anyone by the name of PF Donner or the description you gave us earlier today. By the way, do you have a picture of him here?"

"No, we don't really live here."

And so the conversation went. Officer Banks said he got off duty at six in the morning, and tomorrow Officer Hill would be on the case, so to speak. They would call as soon as they had more information. Officer Banks asked Connie if she would do the same. She promised she would.

It was late and Connie was feeling weary from the ordeal and her one-too-many at Gracie's. She threw herself on her bed and closed her eyes. As she did so, she realized she wanted to look for PF herself, but she didn't know where to start. And she was stuck in a place where she knew no one, and a house with decor she would not have chosen. And she had no car! She began thinking of _Gone with the Wind_, but arrested that idea as the comparison was too insensitive to think of further.

***

The downtown bus terminal in Sacramento has never been seemly, just seedy. All manner of humankind. The large-plastic-bag lady in the corner counting something she had drawn from her Levis, picking one piece at a time from her left hand and keeping it in her right as she carefully chose the next item. Probably change. The tall thin man with the shopping cart in the middle of the waiting area staring up at the ceiling and turning slowly around. He had a knit cap on and a black down jacket with mud stains on it. The line of people at door seven, ten or so people deep. They seemed to know what they were waiting for, although there was no bus outside in the loading bay. PF was out of place. Briefcase, Italian shoes. He knew it but no one else seemed to notice. All benches were full. And more people were standing around. Buses were coming and going. There was one ticket window open, and the clock above it said a little before eleven.

"Where are these people going at this time of night?"

PF exited onto L Street and walked to the corner of 7th. He looked around. But the streets and sidewalks were deserted. Traffic was not heavy but the air was, and it was dark. He looked back towards the bus station entry.

On the corner there was a convenience store. Sodas, sandwiches, newspapers. Perhaps, PF thought, they would have some band aids. His bandaged middle finger was sure to have stopped bleeding at this point. He could change the dressing for something less noticeable. He was in luck. He bought a box of band aids and a package of Corn Nuts and package of cupcakes. He walked outside again and changed his bandage while standing on the corner. There was a trash container across the street next to a bench. He crossed, threw away the old bandage, applied the new one, and concluded he would live. He sat on the bench and started with the cupcakes.

He thought he should call Connie. He was sure he would be missed by this time, and he looked for his coat and his cell phone. He recalled finally that the last time he had seen the phone was in the car. He remembered not getting a signal. Would it have been different had he gotten one, been rescued so to speak and proceeded home? Yes, it would have been different.

In fact, he felt different now, very different. Not only was he in downtown Sacramento in the middle of the night but also he was somewhere where no one knew where he was. He was alone in a new place of strangers not like him. The thought exhilarated him. And the black greasy cupcake with the plastic filling tasted good and sinful. PF sensed he was devilish doing something he had never done before and that it was in some way forbidden, or at least against implicit and explicit promises he had accepted between himself and those he was in daily if not weekly contact. It was rather easy to have broken away for this lark. And it felt as if he shouldn't be doing it, but he liked the feeling.

PF finished the cupcakes but was now thirsty. He crossed the street again and bought an iced tea and began drinking it as soon as he was out on the corner again. He looked back towards the bus terminal. There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk. He walked back and looked at both sides. Each message was the same. Gamblers special, Reno, Biggest Little City in the World and back, one night two days of fun and fortune. Free drinks from midnight till 6 AM each day. Roll of quarters and meal coupon included, discounts in the lounge and showroom of the El Dorado. PF noticed that the last departure each day was at eleven fifteen.

"And how did they calculate the two days?"

He looked through the class of one of the swinging entry doors and saw the line still at gate 7. Reno is not that far away, and he could be back home by tomorrow.

"I have come this far."

Having bought a ticket at the last minute, PF boarded the bus with what appeared to be older people and a few Asians. Each seemed to be traveling alone. No one looked like a high stakes gambler. And no one talked. The bus was about half full, and soon they were on highway 80 headed east. In a few hours they would be awakened by the bright lights of downtown Reno. Meanwhile, lights in the bus went out and passengers dozed off.

About Donner Summit PF woke up. He felt a shortness of breath. And he began reflecting again. This time he began thinking of the metaphors and coincidences. Donner summit. He was on top of something quite unlike the self that he knew. Gambling. He was also a low stakes gambler. What he was doing had few to no risks except irritating Connie. His car? It would be towed maybe. He could call and have it fixed and ready for his return. Money protected one from inconveniences. Did he have money to gamble? He had lots of plastic and some cash. He could play for a few hours and his bank account or credit balance would not feel it. The thrill of taking time off or time out?

Well, the thrill of that did not seem to figure into his feelings right now. He was tired and dozed off again as the bus pulled in and out of Truckee. PF knew there was a train that went to Reno and it stopped in Truckee. He wondered why he had not taken the train, and then thought again of where he started and how spontaneous his unpremeditated action to get on the bus was yesterday. He heard a distant train whistle and thought for a moment about the last moments his parents had, gone in a blink when the locomotive slammed into their car. His thoughts trailed off as the bus descended into Reno.

The bus pulled into the terminal of the Biggest Little City in the World and everyone slowly awoke and got off. PF felt refreshed and without thinking about it threw his leather briefcase over his shoulder and sauntered toward the bright lights. He didn't know where his sports coat was and he didn't care. If what had happened so far had been fate--his out-of-gas car--and serendipity--getting on a bus in Winters. Then the atmosphere or mood propelled him forward and through the glass door of the El Dorado Hotel and Casino. After he got in the door, he looked at the promotional packet he had been given when he bought his ticket in Sacramento. Nothing from the El Dorado Hotel and Casino. Something though from the Eldorado Sports Club. Without that invitation to start gambling at the Casino, PF headed where everyone else does sometime or later, the bar. The bar looked interesting with a live band and a few people standing, lined up for drinks.

Strangers all. Where is home for these people? Where is mine? Where is my jacket? This latter caught his attention now for a few minutes, but he could not remember where he had seen it last.

PF saw two empty stools. On the left was a man in a cowboy business suit complete with hat. On the right an experienced patron with cocktail dress with and somewhat shrunken posture. PF felt the risk of the cowboy's company less, if he had to talk with either of them.

"Martini on the rocks," he ordered quietly to the bar tender.

"Comin' right up."

PF sat there and focused on the great and surprising variety of stimuli at hand late at night in the casino. The music was something between muzak and 70's polyester. The ringing of machines receiving plastic money and paying out dribs and drabs of quarters was all around with an occasional clanging, presumably the signal of a jackpot. But even though PF looked in the direction of these jackpots, he could never spot them. And the bar was stocked with what seemed like hundreds of bottles of booze, a number he had never seen or heard of before. The clientele was a mix, but mostly white, over 50, and not well dressed except for the cowboy and the cocktail dress to his right. In the mirror behind the bar, PF caught sight of the cowboy looking at him. He turned slightly to his left and acknowledged the cowboy who also turned.

"You from around here?"

PF immediately thought he was in a western movie.

"No, not really. Just here for a night or two."

That was the end of it. The cold gin had begun to course through PF's veins. He had not eaten since lunch. And in spite of the lights and glitter and bells and commotion, he felt weary. He finished his drink and looked for the hotel desk. He found it and quickly checked in. The room was a bit gaudy with golds and reds, but the bed mattered most. He flopped onto it and began to fall asleep. After about a half hour, he realized he was not going to fall asleep actually. He just lay there half in and half out of sleep, a supremely pleasurable and relaxed state, his mind blank, vacuous stare upwards toward a mirror where he saw an image he didn't recognize as himself.
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Dancing on glass from the broken oven door

1 - April 24, 2008

COMPLAINT

Declaration: The owner rented an apartment to Mine "Kit" Teague about three months ago. Two weeks ago Mine showed she was losing her mental ability. She has threatened me two times. She makes noise late at night and throws things from her apartment onto the street. It is almost impossible to talk to her. She said she stopped taking her medicine. She has damaged the oven and sink in the apartment.

Received: Direccion General de Seguridad Publica, Transito y Policia Turistica, Cozumel, Q. Roo

2 - Sometime before the 24th

It is hard to describe my second meeting. It too was brief, but it seemed to me a lot happened in a very confined space in a short time.

She did not appear to be at home. I called as I approached the door, walking carefully across the terrace. I knew there was a dog. Closed doors in this climate usually signal no one at home. In hindsight, no one was.

Kit answered my knock by asking me from inside to open the door. I did and Uftie, her dog, shot out of the apartment without so much as a who-are-you and disappeared somewhere. I stepped inside onto a wet and greasy floor. Kit was sitting on the bed to my left. I told her I had her phone bill. I wanted to say here is a copy. You can pay it when you have time. I could not utter the words.

She dismissively said, "Give it to me. I will study it."

She asked me to sit down. I said I was just there to deliver the copy of the bill.

The apartment was dark and dank. But I was only dimly aware of this. Kit took command and asked me to sit down again. I reluctantly did, and she began talking I don't remember about what. It was all jumbled up. It was like stream of consciousness interspersed liberally with snippets of this and that to enhance her credibility or self worth or superiority. She asked me to put on my glasses. I saw nothing to read, and so I ignored this. Then she asked me to close the door. I sensed no danger from this woman in her fifties, who appeared much, much older. There we were both in the dark.

She opened a drawer and took out a broken pot pipe and asked me if I. I said no. She quickly said something about under a doctor's care in Hawaii and that she needed it to clam her nerves. I remember wondering what could she be nervous about, and why was the door closed in this heat? She put the pipe down after having made an attempt to light it. There was no flame from her lighter and no pot in the pipe to light.

My defenses began to arise from some depths, but I was not worried. Give the old lady my ear for a few minutes and disappear. In fact I was older.

Then she arose from the bed and began insisting and interrogating without waiting for answers.

"What is your education? Where did you go to school? Put on your glasses. You are too young to know anything about bookkeeping and accounting. When I was in New York, why I . . . for 91 people. I know the law. I went to law school. Would you like some [pointing to the empty pipe again]?"

Her voice and body became animated, excited, borderline hysterical.

"And look at this!"

She opened the oven door and the tempered glass, what was left of it, fell in pieces onto the wet floor around her feet.

I began watching. I suppose shock was setting in. She yelled at me again to put on my glasses. She danced on the broken glass on the floor. I just stared at the oven door. It seemed that there was more missing than the glass. I just stared at the glass on the wet floor. I then stared at her now walking on the glass saying that her father taught her about glass. He was in the glass business.

"See, it won't cut you."

She yelled now. "Look at me. Look at me. What are you, stupid?"

I finally came back from a kind of stupor and met her eyes. She was smiling as she insulted me. I asked how it happened. She said a rock hit it. Didn't make sense to me, but maybe somehow the dog, or?

She sat down again on the edge of the bed. I said I would be going. There is your bill. She said sit down. Want a cup of coffee? I said no thanks and began to leave. She held out her hand as if to shake mine. I decided not to, gave my own pregnant pause and left.

I saw no dog as I walked away.

3 - Just recently

I got a copy of an e-mail Kit had sent to someone on Cozumel. It said she would be visiting soon with her new husband, Chris Isak. I recall when disposing of her rancid belongings that there was a copy of a CD with his song, "Speak of the Devil," on it.
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June 22, 2009

Invented truths?

In an article titled "Texas sect temple 'used for sex'", we read this from the BBC Web site on April 11, 2008.*

"Members believe a man must marry at least three wives in order to ascend to heaven. Women are taught that their path to heaven depends on being subservient to their husband."

Now if ever there were invented truths, these must (still) be two of 'em. And it's 2008!

Not to cast stones at the sincerity of some and the damned foolishness of others, these precepts or revealed truths are a prescription for God knows what, and only s/he knows! No man or woman with a mentality beyond mythical can swallow this stuff. But apparently some have.

Perhaps the reason is desperation or some strong sense of I-can-beat-this-death's-end-of-everything thing. It is unclear, except of course in an omniscient's vision. And we cannot know that even by the standards of the devout who acknowledge a better and brighter force in and through and all around us.

To be accurate, the quote refers to three wives at the same time, polygamy. Otherwise many of us are already guaranteed a place because of three or more legal, lifelong commitments made serially because each has proven short lived. My stairway to heaven.

The subservient-to-men piece is archaic by any wisdom to be gleaned from the further reaches of human and social progress, development we can document in higher levels of knowledge, socio-political organization, and consciousness studies. Slavery has been declared dead, and civilized peoples have already nailed that coffin shut, in word if not in deed.

How is it that things continue to go arrested in this country? Perhaps we are too full of ourselves and what we have and have accomplished, while at the same time losing our vigilance to what is sane and good.

Some would argue that the Good is all relative. Relativity be damned. Is dominance over and exploitation of the impressionable justifiable in the face of what we know causes harm? Call this Good Evil and stupidity, or more kindly, ignorance. Today, to be either evil or ignorant, or to inflict these conditions on others through rationalizations or deprivations, this is the curse and self-inflicted disability of the religious and otherwise self righteous.

OK, OK. Take that back. This is just one person's perspective, so back to Texas. Perhaps it is in the soil or the water? No, too simplistic. By that explanantion my own place breeds as much weirdness. And you no doubt can name other places and not just in this country. What then?

Some would have us see polygamy-subservience as a male conspiracy and the brainwashing of women, or more anthropologically correct as an aspect of a culture to be respected and accepted. These explanations then attribute a level of consciousness and premeditation to promulgating doctrine. We usually call this kind of thing propagandizing untruths, a sin. In this reading, polygamy is just a cover for coveting the other, and being coveted, and taking what the ego or the devil (same thing) says will save Me.

Some would claim that women or men in this sect(?) believe. Although that has been pretty much dismissed above, perhaps there are some Believers. No doubt there are. But here is that old counter-argument. Enticed or enrolled into a polygamous program before the opportunity to see and learn the world in all its accomplishments except through belief's lenses could account for the preachings and the practice. But this does not justify it.

Which finally (aren't you glad) brings up this: Do we need to save ourselves from ourselves?

The end of the world is at hand and in the hands of those who would have us believe in invented truths and the exploitation of those unquestioning and impressionable. The perpetrators are killing us with their words and fervor for their own, not God's, pleasure--I suspect.

Otherwise, polygamy sounds like a fun idea.

_____
* http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7341077.stm
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June 17, 2009

There are no more cowboys in the West?

[Originally given as a Cultural Studies presentation at the Technical University of Liberec, Czech Republic, 2004. The original had links to the lingo as well as to the cultural and historical allusions.]

From the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada in California and the Cascades in Oregon and Washington, to St. Louis and the banks of the Missouri River at the Mississippi, from Calgary in Canada to the Mexican border, this is (still) cowboy country. Well after it was tamed under what was then an imperative, today there is a myth about the American cowboy, that he is a disappearing breed. For as long as ranchers and settlers journeyed to the frontier for exploration and expansion in the eighteenth century till, in some senses, today, cowboys, their work and their play have endured, albeit with a few changes.

I grew up in these parts, mostly Colorado, Nevada, and Washington. I was born and raised actually in the Far West. The polite society and civilized places in this region: for me these were Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle. But then in my late teens there was Denver, although I always fittingly thought of Denver as just a big cow town. I can attest to the living presence of what we may call an enduring culture and heritage of the ranch, cattle, horses, and cowboys, and their womenfolk.

If only from a birds-eye view, the evidence is clear. Get on a plane in Denver and travel to Missoula, Montana, Rapid City, South Dakota, Albuquerque, New Mexico, or Dallas or Reno. Fellow passengers likely as not will be wearing cowboy gear, cleaned to be sure of the dust, dirt, and dung of the ranch. Or travel the blue highways and open spaces of the West, and stop in any wide spot in the road. The people you'll find--these people are as genuine as can be, wearing the outfits that their lifestyle and callings have found practical if not comfortable: boots, canvass shirts, cowboy hats, jeans.

So I admit I am not a cowboy. But I have known a few and lived among them. Jack Morgan, legendary Nevada stable manager, Steve Jones, Colorado wrangler caterin' now to tourists by givin' hay rides, Bob Barry, ranch boy turned server-bronc buster, Bill Cowden, professional bull rider, Kent Jodrie, hired hand, Odie, one of the original Marlboro men, and Gil the rough-'round-the-edges, chain-smoking drifter tending horses here and there for dudes. But it was never my calling.

Ranchin' and ropin' was my uncle's longin', although he was a frustrated cowboy, born about a century too late and not into the life direct-like. My sister could be mistaken today for a cowgirl. She and her daughter, trailing horses behind a gas-guzzling, three-quarter ton pickup all over the western states with a horse savy dog in the back guarding truck, trailer, and tack--her English riding gear and getup give her away as a different class of horsewoman.

Cowboys and, yes, cowgirls, country and western music, line dancing and cowboy bars, the cattle and the horses and the great western landscapes are all there today. You can go and see for yourself. Order a red beer in Rangely "fer medicinal purposes." (You'd be surprised. Ain't bad to the taste!) Try to find classical or pop or rock music on the radio in the open expanses of these states. Not to be found, although a good dose of Christian fervor will be. This territory is full of God-fearin' folk, and Mormons, and lots of C-n-W.

Notions and misnotions about the American cowboy come from many sources. Clint Eastwood in the last thirty years, and John Wayne before him come to mind, as does Alan Ladd in perhaps the best western ever made, "Shane" (1953). Clint's "Unforgiven" (1992 Academy Award winner) and "The Outlaw Josie Wales" come specifically to my mind, and I recommend these as attempts to portray it like it was. But I am not qualified to say this without saying at the same time there are US and western historians in-country and abroad who are more qualified. I am reasonably certain, though, that John Wayne's "McClintock," or any of his western characters, was not accurate but mostly entertainment and hyperbole.

Zane Gray in the 20s and 30s did as much to capture and romanticize and mythologize the American cowboy as any writer of westerns, a genre now typically published in pulp fiction form. His _Riders of the Purple Sage_ is among the best, and it is perhaps from him we get the idea of the lonesome stranger and other melodramatic tones of Old West ranch life. Max Brand, another prolific writer of this period and later, made his mark, but he was German, if I am not mistaken. Then there is Karl May.

May, well, he is a special case. You might be surprised to know that Vinetou and Old Shatterhand are virtually unheard of in the US and the American West, even though May's works have been translated from German into thirty languages. Gray, Louis L'Amour, and many others overfill the reading hunger today for western fiction in the US.

But ranch folk are not known to read westerns or have time fer goin' to town and seein' movies. They are living the life they chose, or more than likely these days were born into. Cowboys and some cowgirls are wage earners and not rich. The gun fighting and killing Indians? These are matters of the nineteenth century. These tall tales about him in his free time are not, because of necessity or what cowboys are today, the truth, as far as I know.

During the nineteenth century ranchers settled the West just as sod busters did. Landowners with huge unfenced spreads raised and grazed herds of cattle where buffalo once roamed. It is a small mystery that they didn't tame the buffalo; and they and the plains Indians could have thrived in peace, but that is another story full of explanations particular to the times, and shame.

On these land holdings cowpokes are still paid per day or month to do all manner of physical labor to increase the power and profits of their employers, the landowners. In your mind's eye you can follow the cowboy figure from dawn till dusk tending and driving and rounding up the doggies and fetchin' strays. Today he and she still do this work, but not as much from the backs of horses as from dirt bikes, four wheelers, pickup trucks, and even helicopters.

The job in many ways is the same. Join some landowner's outfit and earn a day's wage the hard way. Cowhands make ends meet; in a good year with good beef prices owners make a profit. It is a 365 day-a-year job, mostly with unending chores done outside in all kinds of elements. The rough hewn features of the strong-jawed silent type persists. Marlboro gets it almost right except the male models are a bit too sanitized to pass as real McCoys.

The diversions continue. Rodeo and music and a fondness for a simple, everyman's homespun wisdom. Among those who popularized this enduring dimension to the cowboy, and cowgirl, are Will Rogers and, after him, Baxter Black. Baxter is perhaps the most well known among cowboy poets and media personalities today. He comments on current affairs and turns a rhyme or two. He hails from the hot state of Arizona but is heard throughout the US on National Public Radio. And he makes quite a living just tellin' yarns.

Annually there are many cowboy poetry round-ups, or gatherings, in the West. The most famous is the annual round-up in Elko, Nevada. And there are poetry contests.

Yes, poets and cowgirls. A lot of 'em both. Those not familiar with the West are surprised at these facts. But is it any wonder that in America, or anywhere else, that there are cowpokes doin' guy things with the girls watchin'? Or in the land of the free and open spaces, the gals also doin' their thing? And ranches need womenfolk just as they do men folk.

Among the venues--still--for meeting and having good, clean fun is the annual rodeo, in almost every town and still some occasionally at railway sidings. It is said by some that the birth of rodeo was in Colorado. But others more famous have taken the credit, rightly or wrongly, like Buffalo Bill and his Wild West show.

Time does not permit me to go on about country and western music. Suffice to say it is found now throughout the world, sung in as many languages as there are countries with radios. And this bears witness to an interest in and continuing cowboy culture, albeit sometimes hardly recognizable in its American character outside the Old West. But if you go West, young person, you will see and hear for yerself.

Cowboys and cowgirls are not known to talk a lot, or to be repetitive like English teachers. So I will just end with this.

Can you imagine riding a million dollar cutting, roping, or barrel horse for a living? My niece does just that. She recently won a cutting horse competition in Texas, almost $200,000 for three weeks' and nights' work. But consistent with what I have said about the Old and still genuine rough and ready West, she is just a hired hand. She won the money for her boss, a wealthy gentlewoman rancher whose hobby is breeding and showing prize quarter horses with cow savy, so much so that the average price for one is close to a million bucks.

My niece recently had a suitor from down Las Vegas way; there are big Nevada ranches there with casino and other money behind them. He drove across three states just to have a date with her. She said she'd never fall in love with a cowboy, or that she'd become a cowgirl. It looks like cowboys and cowgirls are not a dying breed. They are still being made. The resilience and toughness of the American West. . . .

It is indeed a myth that there are no more cowboys. The calling is just too darn nice to give up for some citified kinda life. Cowboys? They'll still be askin' fer their boots to be wearing so they can die easy and give the next generations the independence and freedom they enjoyed out West, on the frontier.
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