Mike's Journal

A Letter to a friend: revised and updated with a forward by the author

Forward:

On November 7, 1988 John Fogerty won a self-plagiarism court battle with Fantasy Records. The label (which at one time had Fogerty under contract for a ridicules 35 albums) claimed that the former Credence Clearwater Revival (CCR) front man had plagiarized his own work as the singer and songwriter of “Run Through The Jungle,” a CCR tune, to pen “The Old Man Down The Road” for his later solo project: Centerfield. The decision came down just two months after Greg Louganis won two gold medals as a diver for the United States in the Summer Olympic Games held in Soul, South Korea; and two years to the day after Willie Nelson made a guest appearance on “Miami Vice” as a corrupt Policeman. I was 10 years old at the time, and though Fogerty won the case, the enormous controversy left a me with a deep subconscious fear of Self-Plagerism and to this day I am scared to write about something more than once.

In May of 2004 I decided that I would keep this online journal and failed to foresee the difficulty that would arise with friends and pen-pals… No longer could I just write a letter and send it off. No sir! Later, when I’d go to update the journal I’d think, “Oh no, I can’t write about topic X because I just wrote about topic X in a letter to my friend… and then I’d sit and look at something like a lamp or a chair to clear my mind… but this would never help… so I’d end up staring at an inanimate object (or series of inanimate objects: lamp, chair, painted stick, Can o’ beans, dirty old sock, spoon, conch shell etc.), thinking about the horror and disgust my friend would experience when he/she read similar thoughts or stories in both the letter I sent, and in the pages of this journal… if and when he / she visits… “What a prick!” he/she might say… “This is the same story that ass wrote about in his last letter to me!”

Or maybe that wouldn’t happen… Regardless, things have been left out of letters and omitted from this journal… Things like this…

* * *

Dear J,

I’ve had the hiccups for over four hours and I don’t know what to do about it. Holding my breath isn’t working; and neither is drinking water upside down. I need someone to scare me, but it’s dark, I’m home alone, and knocking on a neighbor’s door to ask if they’d be willing to “freak me out a little” just doesn’t feel right. Nope. Not an option. Any ideas? Maybe a game of Frisbee would help. I’ve been having a huge urge to run around barefoot at Fort Williams and breathe in the cold air of fall while my numb feet silently step down in the grass and move on without a trace. For some reason I always feel like I can run faster when my feet are cold… numbed by frigid air or water.

Hmmm... Perhaps in heaven bullets and guns have been replaced by Frisbees, and disagreements are settled by a series of long distance toss and accuracy competitions.

Hiccup.

The hiccups started while I made gallons of sesame vinaigrette salad dressing today at work: 1 cup garlic, 1 cup shallots, 1 cup ginger, 1/2 cup sesame oil, The juice of 11 oranges, 1 gallon raspberry vinegar, 3 cups tamari, etc. The dressing is fantastic! It is very light and has an almost Asian feel. It’d be perfect for a salad with sushi… For some reason they’ve taken to calling me “Hollywood” at the restaurant; this is OK as far as nicknames are concerned, but it's not a particularly good a good fit for a guy who keeps quiet mostly and giggles while spinning pizza dough in the air (will that ever loose it’s thrill?) … Mornings are my favorite time of day at Flatbread . We spent hours preparing ingredients and listening to music before the customers arrive for lunch. For the last two weeks The Footloose Soundtrack has been in heavy rotation. My manager Nate is a masculine New Englander with a noticeable Maine accent and a long goatee. For some reason an exuberant playful side is set free when he hears Footloose, a silly smile appears and he dances around like he’s Kevin Bacon… I’ve made some great friends here and part of me is sad that I’ll be moving on so soon; back to California in a week and a half and then Canada ten days later. The nights in Maine continue to get colder and I wear my down jacket on midnight walks along Casco Bay. The leaves of certain trees have turned bright shades of orange and red, while others seem to hang on to their green a bit longer. It is without a doubt fall here, and every day smells like Thanksgiving.

Hiccups (2 of them really close together).

At the bakery a western theme has begun to develop and I am “Cowboy Bob’s trusty sidekick Lefty.” The coffee bar has become “The coffee coral,” and a plastic horse named Rebel sits perched atop the coffee grinder looking down at the pastry table in the valley below. Some customers jump right in with their own Yee-Haws and the mailman appears fully on board with his daily “Howdy!” Yes, it’s ridicules, but the playful energy is awesome and the food is unbelievable! Can you imagine going into a bakery for the first time and being called “par’ner?” Part of the fun is watching the customers laugh at the absurdity of it all… There is nothing like the joy a cookie can bring…

I am for art we can laugh at.
I am for art we can eat.
I am for the art of Hiccups.

My inner thoughts lately have been hovering around the concept of heaven, death, life, and perfection… a term that I’m finding is hard to define… even to myself. What is perfect? And further what is heaven if it is “perfect?” Is nothing unexpected? Part of what I love about life is encountering hardships and working through them to achieve a greater world-view and experience of life… Is heaven in its perfection hot? Or cold? Or both at the same time? I guess it would be different for different people… The thoughts about the afterlife have been at the forefront of my mind since word came last week that my friend and Neighbor Joe had died unexpectedly back in Santa Rosa. I’m not sure if I’ve told you about him. Joe was a great character and a bit of a curmudgeon. I’m guessing he was a young 65; not at all feeble. Our early conversations started as yard to yard greetings and shouts. He would often tease me by yelling things like “Do you have a permit for that?” When all I was doing was planting a tree or grape vines… I can't believe he’s Gone…

A day after I heard the news about Joe I came upon a man clinging on to the side of the Casco Bay Bridge threatening to jump down to the parking lot 8? Stories below. For hours I waited for him to come down. It was strange to see how calm and relaxed his body was. It was nothing like I’ve seen in movies but I guess there’s no formula for something like that. I wonder what this guy was going through to put himself on the thin line that separates life and death intentionally. What chemical imbalance? Or terrible experience? Or life situation? And what would greet him when he got to heaven? Or wherever people / spirits go… if they do… The concept intrigues me and I have been playing with the idea of writing a longer piece (longer than I’m used to) in which heaven is just like earth… With hardships, and windfalls, and special occasions… It would be written in such a way that the reader might think that can he/she could make the choice to create nirvana in this life…

Hiccup.

The trouble I find these days (as I’m sure you've experienced yourself) is finding the time to create without limiting new experience… should I spend evenings with friends cruising the bay on yellow boats that only go backwards? Or home with a pen writing stories of the past?

Hiccup.

And I wonder about other things like future creative collaborations with Jeff… Organizing a group of men willing to grow a beard for six months… Some would be construction workers, others artists, or lawyers, musicians, teachers, farmers, etc... Imagine - A photo of the group cleanly shaven is taken October 1st… Then the men return to their normal lives... They do not shave for 6 months. Every week they pose for photos and write about their beard, how it is affecting their lives, wives, etc. On May 1st the men again meet… this time it’s in some place remote like Russia or Nepal… They travel alone... at their destination another group photo is taken. This time the men all have long beards. Their journals and portraits are compiled and an exhibition is created…then a book, “Winter of the Beard” it would be called. Perhaps it is the name I like so much… or the thought of collaborating with Jeff… Or maybe I just like finding similarities among things that seem different.

Hiccup.

Frida and Purple are doing just fine. For the last few weeks we've all been sleeping in one room together. Purple barks in her sleep and moves her feet…

Big love,

Mike

Posted by Mike at October 9, 2004 09:52 PM