RodWords: November 2013

Saturday, November 30, 2013

PIPESMOKE, TRAINSMOKE, TEARS

A Memoir to My Writer Father

1998

"Write," says a voice.

"I can't."

"You can," the voice replies.

"I guess I just don't want to. I mean, what if it's not that good?"

"Hmmm..."

Then, a match is struck, a flame flares, a pause... and pipe scent fills the room. I start to cry. "Hi, Dad."

His voice speaks again. "Rod-Pal, listen. You can write. You can. I taught you."

"You did?"

"Of course I did. I passed it on. It's in your blood. In your fingertips. Just do it."

I try to decide whether or not to look at the picture on my desk. I do.

There he is. John K. Butler. My dad. The man I remember at the typewriter, typing, typing, typing, creating characters like Steve Midnight, Tricky Enright, Rod Case and others who sprang to life in the pages of Dime Detective and Black Mask in the 1930's and 40's. The late John K. Butler, screenwriter for Republic Studios in the days of Roy Rogers and the classic westerns. There he is, in his promotional headshot. Framed, black and white, pipe in hand, full head of hair. Soft jacket, sweater-vest and tie. The picture is the one I've seen all my life--except--he's moving, looking at me, his head kind of tilted, like when he used to drive the '57 T-Bird, or when he was working on a screenplay, mulling it over. My father draws on his pipe, and exhales. I smell that old familiar fragrance. I catch the sparkle in his eye, and look away. I hate crying.

From the picture, he continues.

"You can write, and you have to write. Enough of this 'can't do it' garbage. Get on with it. Get back to work. Remember me at the typewriter? You were a little boy, spending Saturdays with me in the apartment in Studio City, remember?"

"Dad, of course."

"Hah! I couldn't even type! Hunt and peck. One key at a time. Couldn't write a decent story at the beginning, either. After days, weeks...years of filling waste baskets with crunched-up manuscripts, finally, I caught on. Look, Rod-Pal, here it is. It's like running after a train. You know you can't do it. But you try. Crazy fool impulse drives you on. You're running alongside the thing, fast as you can. You're racing it; it's racing you. And then, all of a sudden, you start catching up."

I sit motionless, looking through the wall, imagining.

"It's thundering along, woofing out smoke, racketing full speed on the tracks, and you're running like a wild wind, watching the ground, watching the train. One stumble and it's over. You run faster. Faster. Now you're startin' to outrun it. You pass one car after another, until you're alongside the very first passenger car. Rocky gravel makes the running awkward. Your legs are aching. Your ears are ringing. You and the train are side by side. Wind slaps your face, stings your eyes. The ground rumbles with the weight of the thing, and the track timbers are a blur next to your feet. The train is a mad metal dragon right next to you, galloping, roaring, hissing, moaning, weaving through the countryside, rushing through the trees. The train whistle blares out so loud it almost knocks you down.

"Ignoring it all, you concentrate on the train car next to you. It seems to be standing still as everything else shoots past. The moment is perfect. You turn--you reach--you leap! The side railing is there and you've got it! You're riding that train like a bronco! Free ticket, hah! The tram shakes your body like rattling dice. Your legs are on fire, your knuckles are white, gripping the rail. Your throat is as dry as the gravel you've been running on. You're hanging on for dear life. But you made it!"

My own knuckles are white, gripping the chair, lost in his story.

"Now here it is, Rod boy. You're riding the outside of that train, and you're gonna see things the people inside never will. The train'll round a turn, and you'll be the first to look down into a big, beautiful valley. You'll see branches comin' at you--you'll duck as they scrape the side of the train. You'll be hit by the first rain drop. Then another, and another. Then rain drops will hit your face like bullets. All of a sudden you'll be drenched, riding through hard waves of wind and water. When it's over, cold breezes will shiver you dry.

"You'll be first to hear the shots of masked robbers, as they gallop in from nowhere, ready for action. At night you'll hear the erie harmonies of wolves. In daylight, the death-songs of buzzards, circling high overhead. And what about the noise of the great train itself? It sounds like a hundred maniac snare drummers, each out-drumming the other. Maddening. Hypnotic. And it never stops! So loud it makes your bones shudder, and rattle, and dance.

"The train's a tough ride. It'll jerk you around, bruise your shins and elbows. But from outside that train car, you'll see sunsets you never dreamed of. Coal-black skies, full of stars. You'll see clouds that float past like ghost-riders, and huge thunderheads, dark monstrous things, staring you down, aiming at you, firing lightning bolts. The midnight air will fill your lungs, the frost will wet your face. But the people inside? Asleep! Comfortable, dry, safe, snoozin' away as real life runs right on past 'em. But you, you're out there, living on train smoke and track hammers, life smacking you right in the kisser.

"Then, as the train slows down, you drop off, letting it chug into the station. You sneak up to a news stand, and watch. A man steps out of the train. He picks up a story magazine. He flips the pages, finds one of your stories, starts reading, and he doesn't put it back on the rack. He stands there reading. He can't put it down. You've got him! Why?

"Everybody rides through life, son. The difference is, you rode through on the outside, taking it all in. You swallowed it. Stomached it. And then came up with character after character, story after story. You tell just one of 'em. And the guy can't put it down. Look: he's buying the magazine. Then he sits down on the bench outside the station, he's gotta finish that story. And there you are. You did it. You wrote it. You're on your way."

I sigh a long sigh, hope-filled, and look over at his picture.

No! It is already still, his face looking off to the side, his eyes fixed in the velvety image, his pipe motionless, odorless, cupped in his hand. His gaze set, watching the train, and me, running along, trying to catch up.

"Write!" he told me. And he meant it.

Would he ever speak again? Would he need to? The silent portrait on my desk would echo his words, and I would remember, every time a train whistle would cry out, sighing somewhere in the night, far away in the distance, calling me.

"Write," he said.

"Right!" I replied.

Published in Pulp Adventures, Fall 1988

I grew up listening to the snapping keys of the typewriter,

as my Dad, John K. Butler wrote movie scripts for Republic Studios.

My parents were divorced, so I was with him every other weekend.

He would drive me around in his 1957 T-Bird, and we would

watch his TV set that looked like a robot with one big eye.

Selections From

BOTTLE OF WATER

BOX OF LIGHT

April 1995 to April 2001

BRUSH

Saw a paper poster

on a telephone pole:

BRUSH WANTED

Paint-happy Lord,

use me.

I supervised the church bulletin, printed on a press like this one.

BIRTHED IN INK

This machine of heavy metal --

Silver, dark grey, black:

Spinning, whirring, slamming

with a clank-bump

to sudden stop:

The Printing Press.

Wheels, rollers, handles,

red knobs on shiny columns,

A small metal window -- with numbers

on tumblers behind the glass.

It retires, here, ink-dry,

Cold. Cleaned. Silent.

No pages flip and travel

over/under spinning drums

clapping in the catch-bin.

No train-track symphony of

clattering, pock-pocketing,

rattle-tack thumpeting.

Silent. Here. Now.

An air fan labors in the ceiling.

The print room.

Millions and millions of

words were here,

birthed in ink.

I See You

THOUGHTS IN FLIGHT

Jeri

You grow more and

more amazing to me.

More and more

beautiful. I see you

in the Windhaven entryway,

stenciling a painted pattern on the wall.

Or in the kitchen, cooking

a scrumptious surprise.

Or intently looking at the

prints of your photographs

I just brought back

from a trip to

San Antonio Photolab.

I see us hugging in the kitchen.

I see you with our children.

I hear you at the piano

or see you sitting there

like a diamond, as your

young piano students perform,

one by one.

Your sparkling eyes.

Your voice when you say my name.

Your laugh when I am funny.

The very air I long to breathe.

Benjamin

(two years old in two months)

I see you in your high chair

with a big smile on your face,

along with spaghetti smeared

around your lips,

on your cheeks,

maybe in your hair,

then, "Down, down!"

and how you toddle

importantly off to

your next destination.

You really hug me sometimes,

around my neck.

We do big strong bear-hugs.

We make grunting sounds

big strong bears.

I see

your sweet sandy hair

and rosy cheeks.

You like to carry things around, watch puddits.*

"Up, up!" you say, commanding me

to put on the puddits for you.

I say, "Is that you?" and

you look down at my face, smiling,

as I carry you on my shoulders.

*puppets

Julian

(six years old)

I see you asleep in your bed,

when I come to get you up for school.

You're hugging your doggie,

maybe a Beanie Baby.

Maybe a Barbie. Later,

you ask me,

"Toys at the table?"

"Toys in the car?"

You finish your cereal and

bring your bowl and

spoon to the counter.

You get excited when

you read in your reader.

I see you in Mrs. Welch's

Kindergarten class, with

navy jumper, white top

and red bow in your hair.

Maybe you have a pony-tail.

I see your pastel-blue blanket.

And a very nice drawing on a

paper with 100 written over it.

Often, I find you in your

closet, quietly playing.

Jonathan

(eight years old)

These are the Gameboy days.

you love soccer and basketball

and I see us, when we went

to the Galaxy movie theater

to see "Star Kid" together.

But right now you like

the Gameboy you got

for Christmas, with a

Star Wars cartridge.

I can see you holding

the Gameboy in your hands.

Once you turned the peg

on your cello and told Mama

it was out of tune.

Often we set up the bright yellow cones

in the backyard, and try to

kick goals past each other

across the green grass.

We always used to play

"Where's my blanket?"

and sometimes,

only sometimes,

we play it once again.

Sometimes you sleep

in your

black and white soccer pajamas.

Muslin and Tinsel and Sand

Of Ruins and Rockets

and tin-rubber robots

of muslin and tinsel

and sand.

Of cupboard and castle

of timepiece and tool box

of echoing clocks

in the hall.

Of ferns and fairies

of wizard and rhyme

of flame and fog and

futures,

Of wind and feather

of orchard and squid

of pebbles and pockets

and syrup.

Of dirt-rock and diamonds

and darkening depth

of molecule and

great swirling stars,

Of window to London

of door into night

Through keyhole and

mouse-hole

I quietly climb,

arriving

in deep worlds

of fantasy.

Beautiful Ghost

I trace You

in Summery lines,

Find You, connecting

the evening stars into

your shape, I

Read You: The Dove:

Robed in Earth-feathers,

The Fire:

a-dance over human breath,

The Wisp of Whisper:

Impossibly soft and close.

Or I dream,

sensing You,

Robed in a glistening gown

waltzing the galaxies.

I hear the swish of

Your dance upon the glassy floors:

You, Beautiful Ghost,

Graceful over the abyss,

Sweeping through time and dimension,

Around sound and

entwined with creation.

Amazingly, You answer

my every call, and arrive

invisibly to mingle with

my poetic intention.

You cascade

as Down-Pour Fountain,

Living Water,

spash-smashing

crush-crashing past

all of my failures.

I can only pass my kiss

through the air,

Beautiful Holy

Ghost.

IN THE KICKING OF A STONE

I remember you in the kicking of a stone.

From your sleek lady-shoe, the stone shot forward,

a perfect straight, skipping as if pulled by invisible string

popping like popcorn on the pavement

in clean Olympic bounces.

Ahead, there, it came to a stop.

'Till I kicked the stone,

then from the blunt rubber of my tennis shoe

the stone would careen off, in angled ricochets,

flailing toward the opposite curb or

flung up into a sunny square of lawn and white-picket bordering

...if I ever struck the stone at all.

Mostly. I missed.

Mostly, I miss you Mutti.

Always, I remember you, in the kicking of a stone.

Key

The universe reflected

in the eye of a fly

A single drop of water

equals oceans everywhere

A cell within my body

sings the music of my past

the song of generations before me.

Ahead there shines a city

in the realms of evermore

And the doorknob looks

exactly

like the stone that

rolled away

from the tomb.

And the key:

A baby in

a manger.

A collection of multi-track music originally on cassette.
Hear tracks at rodsounds on Sound Cloud.

SILENT DIVER

The banana is:

An old-fashioned silent-movie diver,

with striped bathing suit, mustache and yellow hair-cap,

Gracefully caught mid-dive, arched,

hands palm-to-palm over her his head as he

springs from a diving board, a second

before the splash foams out of a pool

in the garden of an old hotel

in Los Angeles.

Comical, the banana, especially when peeled, eaten

and the flopsy peel-shapes flung through the air.

A slip, trip and ka-POW for the slapstick Vaudevillian.

Or, before peeling, a telephone for the circus clown,

An old West pistol for the kindergarten cowboy,

A soft, ridiculous food for the monkey to rip open and devour.

Silent, the banana.

A porpoise in a snap-shot, drenched in sea-air sunlight, leaping into clouds

over ocean, yellowed from salt-spray and centuries,

framed in a seashell frame, on

the mantle, over the fire place, on a Winter's night

in Maine.

MUSIC IN THE ORANGE

The rind of the orange has ripples,

A leathery, smooth, pock-marked plastic skin.

So that room-light dapples and dances

across the orange orb, ripples of white.

The rind of the orange gathers at the bottom

into wrinkles, darted by a single stump,

very small, a button inserted into gathered folds.

There is a music in the orange, the splash of

Summer rains, a cooling nectar, symphonic like

the burst of Spring.

WHISPERS THE LEMON

Cousin to the orange,

the lemon sports a dull and shiny skin.

Like a shaven chin, dimples where whiskers used to be.

Ripening from green to yellow, lemons

turn their tree-home into a carnival

of golden sun-balls, picked with a snap from the twig.

The lemon, cut through skin and tissue, glistens proudly

at the severed halves.

The lemon slice, squeezed by fingers, drips juice and whispers,

"I am the flavor you will never forget."

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Photos Of

WOOD, PAPER AND PLASTIC

WORKS

Many Years

I guess I've always been PUTTING THINGS TOGETHER. Combining words, making scratch-models, assembling sounds or re-combining old things into new things.

So here's a gallery of art-works I've made over many years. Sometimes I planned them:

"TubeDraw 1"

Detail

Sometimes things were built for specific functions or to envision a greater idea, like the Bubble Cruiser from FunLight Radio, or the synthesizer I made with my friend Greg.

The "Bubble Cruiser" was part of my radio series, "FunLight Radio."

I started to build a full-scale version in our garage for a video project.

Our synthesizer won an award at the San Diego County Science Fair.

Greg and I were seniors at Army Navy Academy, Carlsbad, California, 1973.

These models were made for The Brilliant Adventures of Captain FlashLight.

Most of the works were whimsical doings, forged in experimentation and celebration. Like these pieces, first painted on wood, then cut and recombined into new compositions.