LilyPads

Lilypads

    "Leapfrog"  watercolor collage by Diane Wlezien

I sit on a lilypad centered in my own little pond

jostled by ripples of current and wind

disturbing and distracting me from thoughts I cannot hide from.
This scorching sun reflects off glistening water
so haze distorts any revealing realities.
How did this tadpole become so different?

Birds came to my pond

and they chirped guilt
cawed conformity
and screeched shame,
drowning other sounds .
My cricket melodies were lost.

My tadpole tail absorbed.

I gained new footing on a solid world
where life and society expanded my scope.
I had to buttress fortitude with hope
to find a safe place with flies to savor
and spans to jump over in joy.

I still wonder how my wonderful tail left me,

back when thoughts  of being eaten
were nothing but swamp mists,
and  fears of  summer drought
that would leave me  homeless
were  just  fleeting musings  of a vaporous mortality.

Under my lilypad there remain veiled secrets,

hidden truths  still ripple to be remembered and recognized .
Life  brought baptisms and maybe a little knowledge;
Is it nature to nuture forgotten needs ?
I do aspire to humility in humanity.
But guilt and shame are not part of my truth.

 -Jerry Wendt 2015

Our Adopted Gracie

This was written as assignment in a writers workshop. I was to write 700 words on adopting a pet; fiction or non-fiction. I chose to extract snippets of real life and weave them into a fictional story.  "Mark" and I are real people and we did live in Oregon in the late 60's .  I  get this sort of "Free Willie" feeling about it and don't like what can be perceived as a melodramatic "sweet sensitivity" feel to it, but writing is a learning process, so here it is_

Our Adopted Gracie

As a child I had more types of pets than most;  parakeet, canaries, hamsters, a spider monkey, and, of course, dogs and cats.  We also had fish, but those experiences were not pleasant. The goldfish won at carnival bingo  always went “belly-up” within a week, and our try at an aquarium started with guppies ; dwindled to one angelfish who savored a diet of guppies; and came to an untimely end to when “ick” disease struck, ending all life in the tank , which My Mother promptly turned into a terrarium.

There is, however, one marine experience that sticks in my memory.  Exceptionally so. As young Peace Corps volunteers stationed on the Oregon coast,  my pal Mark and I would often hitch a ride on area fishing boats as weekend pastime.  It was the “Hippy” 60’s” and Mark had one of those Tibetan prayer bowls which “sang” a clear and piercing  tone when their edge was rubbed with a wooden dowel. He would bring it along when we sailed, playing it as a diversion. 

We began to notice that  California Gray whales would come nearby whenever he stroked the bowl.  We deduced the bowl’s sounds were similar to their own “sounding.”  One female became recognizable because she had a calf . We saw these two often enough we started calling the calf “Gracie.   “Mom” would scrape her back swimming under the boat keel to remove barnacles.  Scary as it could tip the boat over, but she was never aggressive enough to really cause harm. 

Mark and I actually looked forward to seeing Gracie as the two would come to the boat every time Mark played his bowl.  We looked upon the two as our adopted whale “pets.”  One day when we were out, Gracie came by the boat . She was alone.  We guessed that Mom had a unpleasant experience with  Orcas, as she would never leave her calf unless something catastrophic occurred.  We were pleased to see Gracie several more times. As a solo calf she was very susceptible to predation . But she returned whenever the bowl “called” to her. We looked forward to our weekend “visits”

Then, our duty tour was over and we had to leave Gracie for our own futures.  I often wondered if she survived. 30 years later, Mark was living in Northern California and, prior to a trip to see him, I suggested that we revisit our old Oregonian stomping grounds.  He agreed. We had a little Miata sports car zipping up the Oregon coast when we came to Newport, the town where the fishing boats we used to hitch rides on were docked. “Should we try to go out again?”  We were both enthusiastic  in our affirmation.  Mark had actually thought about this in advance and surprised me , bringing along his Tibetan bowl as a nod to nostalgia.  We were successful in cajoling a boat captain into letting us ride along. About 5 miles out , Mark took out his bowl and started sounding.  In about a half hour we saw a pod of California Gray’s breaching about a quarter mile away. They showed no interest in us.  These whales commonly migrate from Alaska down to San Diego and they are pretty goal-oriented, so we expected they were on their own mission. 

Suddenly,  next to the boat there was a solitary Gray.  She kept pace with us much like a porpoise in a playful jaunt.  We were ecstatic.  This whale was obviously enjoying our company. Could it possibly be?...  We knew in our hearts it could simply be one of the cadre of whales that do not migrate, but stay in the area year around.  They are small in number as the ecology won’t support more.  But we also knew that Gracie could have been one of those that remained and remembered our call, “coming home”, so to speak , to visit friends from her childhood.  We chose that as truth. This was our now adult Gracie. When the boat docked , two very enthralled men stepped off with a memory of an old friend that had come back to say hello. Gracie remembered us, I know it.

The Freudian Road

The Freudian Road

I know it was a mistake the moment it was over.  I can certainly see my horizon  well enough, and purpose is very apparent, but sometimes my bleakness begets unrest, and I am torn with conflicting thoughts.  My day- to-day is often mundane .  I walk this earth and I consume.  The sun rises and sets, with a sameness clouding any real joy.  Still, there is angst and hope and curiosity all tugging on my psyche like children pulling at mother’s skirt for attention.  There has to be more.  Relentlessly wearing down my resolve . . . no, not resolve; more complacency- eroding me. The power to change waxes greater and greater until it overwhelms caution. I am a driven creature and the incidental diversion becomes a monument, obscuring my rational view.  Obsession pervades. I am beguiled  Yes, there is risk.  There is always risk, but sometimes it must be wagered against for any true change.  And that pervasive “sameness” is powerful in obfuscating any dangers.  Confliction causes my hesitation.  But a tide of boredom washes clean those thoughts and I decide- not in any thoughtful or contemplative manner, but with a sudden impulse to action. It’s funny how the actual happenstance can be so serendipitous.

So ,resolute, and yet hesitant, I put one foot ahead of another and walk on the asphalt, feeling the night’s coolness.  At least that feeling is different.  Perhaps the journey is the purpose?  I’m confused. Slowly at first and then with conviction I walk across the road. I have arrived. I consider  my new “now.”  I look to my new perspective.  Nothing has really changed.  Not better or worse.  Oh, dear.  It has been all for naught. I should have been happy where I was at

Now my “There” is “Here” and the sameness is apparent.  My action was totally unwarranted and I am relegated to walking and eating and letting the same forces build within me all over again.  I look at the old “Here” that is now “There” across the road with a wistfulness.  Should I have remained?  There has been no gain in my venture.  I  become nostalgic.  For what?  

A rising  sun slides me forward to another day, bringing with it a gentle  breeze.  I can almost hear the whisper the wind carries:

“Oh, go lay an egg.”

-Jerry Wendt

That Night at BeBe's

That Night at BeBe’s

As long as you keep buying I’ll tell you about that night at BeBe’s. As in BeBe’s Lounge and Gentlemen’s club.  Actually, there was never no lady owner at BeBe’s.  It was a guy named Anthony Castellenato, A greaseball who had some uncle in Jersey that was connected and fronted the money for this joint.  He had the dirtiest fingernails I ever saw. Gross.  Which was funny because the only thing he ever touched was the money and an occasional quick feel as he passed through us girls’ dressing room.  Actually we gals thought that BeBe’s was one of those, ah, what’s it ?- “nim” words; you know, like synonym or acronym or sumthin that stood for Bodacious Bazooms. Just a little joke between us girls, you know.

But I digress

That night one of the new gals was on first. She went by “Dee Lite,” though I think her real name was Shirley DeLucca. Now Shirley may have been new but she realized she had to have some gimmick to get the bucks.  So Shirley had gotten this Panama albino python snake from some guy that sold smuggled pets like them parrots with a big feather hat on top, “Cocka-something” they’re called, I think. Anyway Shirley. er, “Dee,” got the snake to put it into her act doing the old bump and grind, but with the snake wrapped around her.  The snake was big, but Shirley was told by the guy that if she kept it fed and gave it tranquilizers, it would remain harmless.  She did.  We all named the snake “Tina”. However greaseball Tony did not like the thing and he had a cage made that Dee had to perform in, assuring that Tina wouldn’t get out.  He feared that these so-called macho men would stampede if the thing got free.  Men always brag how manly they are, but put a spider or snake near ‘em and they scream like little girls.

But I digress

That day Dee had the flu and she wouldn’t listen when we told her to drink a lot of water, so when she got into the cage and started her gig, she got dizzy and passed out.  They called the paramedics to come and Dee got carried out of the cage and taken to the ER by ambulance.  Now, that left Tina by herself, and they didn’t know if they had closed the cage door immediately after they got Dee out or not.

 Somebody had to go into that cage and see what was up.  Tony certainly wasn’t going in and all the bar backs suddenly got very busy washing glasses and stuff.  So guess who it was left to? - Me… famous as Miss Kitty Tang, K.T. for short, and still going strong strutting my goods after 23 years.  The other gals are strippers, but me; I’m an “Icky-dizziest,” which means a really much classier stripper, I heard that once. Anyway I have bigger man-berries than any guy in the joint. Why, once I got cornered by four lunkheads by the back door one night after closing.  I didn’t even call for Tony. It was “Mace-in-the-face” and kick in the balls for em all and they ran like turkeys in a field before Thanksgiving.

But I digress

The cage that Dee did her act in was in a corner and kinda dark without her stage spots on. They didn’t want to make a big kerfuffle, because it was a Saturday night, which was our biggest money maker. Tony was afraid that any attention would clear the room, so I had to go in to see what was up with Tina.  Tina had gotten loose once before from her tank in the back, and they found she had gotten a nice cool spot coiled in a toilet bowl in the ladies room. She was just fine there until Cindy (aka “Honey Potts”) had come in for a dump above her, which upset Tina, who bit her in the ass.  Well, we found Tina, and Cindy only needed 3 stitches.

But I digress.

Now Tina had teeth, and I didn’t know how much Prozac she had or when Dee had fed her, so going into this cage I had to be cautious. Pythons kill by squeezing their food to death but Tina was big enough to give a decent clomp if she hankered to. Honey could attest to that.

 I had only a penlight and a glitter baton to assist me.  I didn’t even know if Tina was still in that cage.  I stepped into the dark cubicle, shining the light, fussin around with the baton. No Tina.  Crap.  Now what?  She had gotten out. Geez, I had to think fast.  Gracious Giselle, a twit with big tetas, was on and I was supposed to follow two acts after her. I wasn’t even dressed yet. What to do?  Tony wouldn’t do shit, but if I didn’t do something and Tina was discovered in the lounge and cleared the joint, he sure as hell would blame me.  Besides I had to go on and get my tips.  I saw this cute cut-out bra in the Fredrick’s catalogue that would add some pizzazz to my act and needed the bread to order it.

But I digress

I smiled, I schmoozed, and I batted my big Maybelline lashes as I circled the room, trying to be casual, looking under tables and in the cubbies.   The joint was jammed and it was dark except for the stage. Nothing. And more nothing.  It was time to get ready. I went backstage and put on my string, pasties and signature cat hat and whiskers, came out, and did my act.  Sixty bucks I picked up from those dumb ass johns all slobbering and sloshing as I went through my gig, all the time listening for a scream from some dork discovering a 6 foot snake under his chair.  Didn’t happen.  So after my act and 2am call, we shut down the joint- I’m sorry. “We shuttered the lounge,”  I had gone through the kitchen under the fry station and sinks, in the johns again, the dressing room, the beer store room and even Tony’s office, where I saw tote wager slips from the track . That S.O.B. was skimming at the races again and that makes me angry. 

But I digress.

 Tina wasn’t in any of those places. . But I won’t leave you hanging out to dry here, pal, - And I’ll take another Appletini, please. Thanks.  No, the next day this salesman from Cleveland; I think he sold tractor parts; he drives home and parks his Lexus in his driveway and goes in to go sleep. His old lady takes the car keys and drives to the market and … and, well the Cleveland Heights paper reported “Suburban matron finds huge tropical snake in car and crashes into store in a panic.” Hey it was probably warm with the car sittin in the sun and Tina got active so when the babe got in the car to go home she slithered her way up from the back seat to see what was going on .  I would loved to see that broad’s face when she turned and saw Tina lookin back at her.   We all heard about it. I bet that guy had the you-know-what beaten out of him by his old lady.  So, you’re gonna ask , how in hell did Tina get into that car?  Hey, babe, you’re talking to Miss Kitty here.  This is one cookie who knows which side she’s buttered on. In this business, ya got to keep your wits. That night I actually did find Tina. She was curled up a nice and cozy in the nook the public phone is in, by the front entrance.  I couldn’t carry her back into the club and through it, ‘cause Tony would have a fit if I brought the snake thru, scaring all the johns. Bad fer business. So I lugged Tina up over my shoulder and lurched out to the parking lot and put her in the first car I found unlocked. I knew the owner would never dare say where the snake came from and admit to his dirty little secret nights out, so we were cool.  I thought I really pulled this one out of the wringer. Although Dee was pissed when she got out of the ER and found I had dumped her prop.

Geez, that was one hell of a night at Be-Be’s. Hey, I gotta go over to the club and fluff my wig up for tonight. Good talking to ya. Thanks fer the booze.  Come see my show later. A gal always needs a little extra money for stockings, right?  I’m on last. The Star, you know.

 
-Jerry Wendt 2014

Fire Island

- Tom  Bianchi SX 70 photographs from the book "Fire Island Pines Polaroids 1975-1963"

                                     Fire Island

 Now solitary footprints on the sand, another season dissolves to dreams of those preceding.  80 years ago it began,

our beachhead strand of dunes fronting
shore heather and scrub pine. Boardwalks and stick- built cottages defined community.
 

Onslaught that stormed the beaches carried armaments of beach umbrellas, Radio Flyers , and the resolve to claim place.

Weekend trippers came in brightest Jantzen briefs
while seasoned residents wore faded Abercrombie swim trunks.

The Pines and Cherry Grove grew personalities.

Ferries docked packed with gym-honed bodies.  Looks and physique trumped all, mingling hairdressers, stockbrokers actors, professors, waiters, painters, mechanics , doctors and nurses, into a sweaty Coppertoned fleshy ménage .

 Behind dunes in the black cherry and bayberry thickets, many came of age , most retread many times over a season.  Boardwalk sideshows tested weekday repressions . Freedom found itself in sun and shade. 

 Bianchi and his SX70  immortalized frenetic daytime occupation.    Furlough followed for the beach volleyball weary.  Disco and Donna Summer held court . Low tea drinks before sunset  then high tea 3D – drinks, dinner, and dancing. Dawn marked that night’s bed relinquished for our own.

Plague hit in the 80’s.  We still came, but talk turned to who wasn’t there and what the world was going to do to us. Reagan cast us adrift. We had only each other for support.  Quiet dinners supplanted dances at Yacht Club and Botel. Music was more Simone than Sylvester. Quilted pieces monumented our losses.  The scene became more about support than recreation.

Hurricanes and mockery couldn’t dislodge us from our beachhead.  We endured ,  Homes became permanent- even luxurious.  

Two-daddy kids summer in harmony with breeder families .
Meatrack is still here, more historic site than rendezvous now. 
The island has become respectable.  Accepted. “Gentrified,” yours call it.

But it remains Ours. This dream became real.  Our home away from home .  You can all come into our world  as long as you respect our tradition.   Accept our ways.

 Waves washing away thousands of seasonal soldier’s footprints almost echo now in the winds.  The whispered conviction of the tribe can almost be heard,  “We belong here. We earned this place.”      
    
    -Jerry Wendt    2014                                                                                               

 

 

photograph by James Gavin 2014

This photograph taken end-of-season at Fire Island by friend James Gavin

inspired me to look into the history of this iconic gay resort and, in finding

the Polaroid history captured over  a eight year span by Chicagoan Tom

 Bianchi, in turn motivated me to write a prose piece that I distilled down to

this poem trying to capture what this place is. - JPW

 

Trapped in an Olive Garden

 

Lifelong living in an area of glacial lakes has fostered appreciation for summers near the shores.  Sometimes out drifting under sail, others just wistful shoreside reading , often looking  up, diverted by the moving tableau of color, light and motion, all my senses piqued in enjoyment. I took that joy with me in my travels far to far away places presenting new treasures-  none so enjoyable as Italy by the water.

Today I sit land locked in Olive Garden. I entered into a courtyard paved with faux brick, every fourth molded with the same fissure, maybe copied from the Antica Osteria in Bari. Glaring bare bulbs above  emulating  strings of lights glimmering romance into  every evening in San Remo, where masted notes of fishing boats bob to a concertina melody carried on winds  brushing through rustling palms along the sea on Via Roccasterone.

 I  lament my  table with its scalloped mats, scant reminder of those delicate little paper doilies under the sweating metal chalices mounding pistachio gelato at La Bonita in Lucca. Here,  furniture is  regimented  in disconcerting homogeny, eschewing charms of a quaint “misela dispari “ (odd mismatched  mixture) as in Trattoria al Aubergo Olivedo shoreside on Lago Como,  where even the dishes have patterned personalities.

 I look  to louvered windows awninged with faded red canvas sheltering dusty bushes fronting an asphalt sea vista, thwarting  thoughts of alluring viewscapes at Castel dell'Ovo, clustered behind café’s goose-gaggled with red umbrellas along a promenade closed to traffic, giving all panoramas of the real volcano looming across Napoli’s  bejeweled bay, ominous reminder of the  fragile transience of life .

Now, choosing one from a column A and column B menu  loaded with limitless breadsticks , chewy and floury. I select pieces of naked chicken ladled over with thick white congealation  so berift of seasoning. it tries to seep and hide in its pasta nest, leaving only waning  memory of  real-life Alfredo with his gold forks serving up steaming noodles blessed with bechmal sauce orchestrated with a symphony of tastes to the palate as intricate as the hodgepodge of the streets of Rome itself.

In spite of this all, my mind wanders as I relive those precious days spent in all too brief tastes of the real Italian way.  Would I, could I,  fades as I am pulled from my reverie with a tug at my shirtsleeve. An Italian apparition chides “Meglio per i suini,” “best for the pigs”, they would say of this place.

I reflect with a pensive wistful smile.  If only for a day, I yearn. Maybe a road trip up to Lake Geneva Wisconsin could rekindle my spirit beyond just memories of halcyon  days spent by Italian shores.



 Cernobbio, Lake Como



Napoli- promenade overlooking Vesuvius

Villa D'Este dinnerware

Lake Como- Villa d-Este Veranda

Sunset Lakeside on Lake Como at Villa d-Este

Seaside, San Remo on the Italian Riviera

Lake Como- Villa D-Este and the town of Cernobbio beyond

 

RACING

My mind is racing blind,

yet seeing world thru echo location.

Synapses perceive reality from experience.

There is wonder in how being and living are related.

The question intrudes:  Is sleep a death of being

or a temporal suspension of life ?

I ponder waking up as a revival or resurrection.        

I churn thinking about the corporal

because I can’t imagine this race ending.

Even in finite laps, I postulate

my uniqueness, willing to wheel on,

 silly hopes trumping reality.

 Very learned people say matter is never destroyed, only mutated.

So, will  I become part of a greater?

I don’t remember being for my first four years of life.

I weigh this between  memory loss or just life before being.

I am vested in the intrigue, 

But my race suspends in a pit stop.

Even the eternal will pause for a warm tuna melt and iced tea.

-Jerry Wendt 2014