Thursday, September 02, 2010

Weekend in New England with a Hurricane for company


My friend Phyliss has a little place in the northernest most corner of Cape Cod. Would you like to join me for Labor Day? she asks. She might be a great friend to invite me on this jaunt but she also has an ulterior motive. This chick loves the turmoil and drama that only mother nature can churn. She's weathered hurricanes in St. Martin with glee, glee I tell you! She celebrates snowstorms and thinks nothing of torrential downpours. Puddles she scoffs. I've only got two words: Freaking Scorpio.

We drive to Provincetown Thursday night, one day in advance of the most significant storm of the season yet - Earl. Phyliss can't wait to meet Earl. She hoots when hearing the bridges to the Cape are being closed in the morning. Aren't you excited she asks? To which I can only manufacture a weak Yaaay.

Friday morning in Ptown and no sign of Earl. It's breezy and dry as you could wish of any New England morning. 6:30 and Duke needs his walk as we have no yard. I pull a hoodie over my purple negligee and stumble outdoors. I'm cranky at being roused so early on my first day of vacation but that doesn't last long. The sun bathes me out of my grumpy mood, the air fills my lungs with salt and fish and pine. Gardens surround me everywhere. A tiny hiccup of lawn is bordered by thorny red roses, delphiniums, oak leafed hydreanga. Creeping Jenny scoots outside the perimeter of the short white fence. Portulaca trails on the lawn next to Icicle Pinks. P'town is littered with gardens, not too terribly tidy but darling manifestations of their owners. Some purely English garden, some manicured boxy hedges, some gone wild from either disinterest or disrepair. An apple tree is espaliered against a brick wall. It can't be taller than 3 feet but is producing apples the size of grapefruits. Apricots grow on a tree by an abandoned lot. I imagine the critters feast at night.

Duke drinks and smells it all in. Then he pees on it. These shrubs will not soon forget that little boy from New Jersey. He chats up some dogs, ignores others. Kisses almost anyone who flatters him. He nearly jumps out of his skin upon seeing a planter in the shape of a little lamb. He's never seen lamb, other than in his food dish...We see the same little old lady and her dog every morning on our walk. The woman is 80ish, wears a Sunday morning church hat and black shoes. The dog looks like a Tasmanian Devil and makes gurgling hissing sounds reminiscent of Taz boy. His orange eyes make both Duke and me recoil, really odd for me as I'll pass the time of day with any dog. Not this one. Phyliss notices Duke's utter disdain for fire hydrants. What's up with that? she asks him.

I take him to the bayside shore for a dip. He doesn't even flinch when I toss the ball into the 60 something degree water. He paddles 100 feet offshore and retrieves the shiny racketball. A blue speck against his paddling feet. His tail a rudder, swishing in circles. The salt and minerals in the water are good for his coat which is dry from the summer heat. I let him romp in the water as long as he likes, mixing it in with orgies of plowing through the sand. He digs holes the size of a Manhattan pothole and then scrubs his back on the sand.

Ever the shell seeker I'm disappointed by the lack of them on this shore. But there's a plethora of stones. Earthy tones in clay red, mossy green. Granite pebbles that have been sanded by the currents. I admire but don't gather any except for a shale stone that's shaped like a heart. Honest Injun it is!

The first night we dine at the Mews, the foodie restaurant in town. I've driven 6 hours into rocky beach territory and yet I order duck. Go figure. The garden in front is dominated by a stunning rusted sculpture of a maiden, bathed in red glowing flood lights. I call her the Cast Iron Maiden.

The wind picks up by 9 and starts to rain for real. Phyliss is thrilled. Let's go to the beach she enthuses. So being the dutiful guest I rope along the dog and the three of us sprint to the beach, in pelting rain. Get this, and me still wearing the long dress I wore at dinner. Earl, the long awaited storm is gusting winds, pummeling us with rain and jostling the waves something awful. And yet Phyliss still romps in the water. Earlier that day we had taped the windows of Phyliss's home, hearing dire warnings from the locals. Many of the shop keepers on Commercial Street boarded or taped their windows and doors. But that doesn't stop the revelers from enjoying the lures of Ptown. Couples canoodle in the bars, ladies nuzzle each other, boys walk the streets looking for more boys.

The storm lasts until morning. Duke, normally immune to the rantings of nature huddles under the pull out bed. But with morning comes the sun and azure skies so clear you feel you can see to eternity. Shopkeepers unboard or untape their windows. Waiters put out chairs and flip over tables for the al fresco diners. Homeowners retrieve shards of vegetation released during the storm. Cats patter outdoors to sun themselves after that God awful rain. Thankfully nobody sustained damage other than toppled plants or chairs. We see a tee shirt that reads: I Got Blown by Earl.

Saturday evening we prepare for a dinner party. Phyliss is a frequent diner at Chez Rekha, rhapsodizing over my chicken pot pie, which I must admit is - smack my ass and call me Helen - damn good. Francine and Rebecca, both good friends of Phyliss are coming over. Francine is the realtor that sold Phyliss her condo. Tells you how quickly people befriend each other in these parts. She also happens to own several art galleries and actually held a show while Earl was making his entrance the night before. Rebecca is a veteran chef cum real estate agent and, get this, a beekeeper. She brings a bottle of honey harvested from her Wellfleet hives as a present. It's the color of caramel and smells like Jaggery (an Indian unprocessed sugar made from cane juice) and chocolate. Apparently honey is impacted by terroir as much as wine. Rebecca tell me this hive is situated near a particular green bush from which the queens have been harvesting nectar. Honey, queen bees, chocolate? I feel like I've slipped into an alternate dimension. A sweet one.

Phyliss lays a gorgeous platter of fresh mozzarella, artichoke hearts, avocado slices and olives. I prepare fresh white Cod (when in the Cape...) stacked over with green and yellow squash, aromatics and olive oil, wrap them in foil and they're off to the grill. Then I saute spinach in fried garlic & onions to be incorporated into risotto. Rebecca and I drink Eden Valley Chardonnay that the ladies have brought over. Phyliss drinks Nero D'Avalo a recent Sicilian find that she can't get enough of. Francine sips Polar Lemon Selzer. Dessert is espresso drizzed over Scaffotelia cream gelato - also known as Affugato. The ladies have an early morning at the Agricultural Fair so take leave. Duke's not ready to call it a night yet so we sit on the deck and play music while watching the stars. Phyliss is positive that one I fondly think of as Venus (and with good reason - Venus shining down on you is purported to bring you the love of your life) is really a satellite. After a few night's viewing I concur, it's far too bright, it might emit a humming noise and it hasn't moved position in 3 days.

I'm going ultra femme in Ptown. The local liquor store yielded a bottle of Bitch rose champagne and I'm smoking Eve cigarettes. What a hoot. The Bitch is fruity with a decent fizzle, Eve however sucks. Sunday morning we are greeted by Christine the tatooed drag queen hostess at Enzos. I order the local Portuguese sausage - linguisa with scrambled eggs and onions. Reminds me of the egg filling Mom used to make whenever our family would take a road trip. Except we swapped curry powder for sausage. It's a lazy shopping day with me desperately trying to find a momento from this trip. None are to be found except pink elephant twizzle sticks. But I do buy a darling fish platter for Phyliss as a present. We stop by Wa - a Buddhist motif shop displaying colorful prayer flags, intoxicating lemongrass candles, expensive teak altars. We visit the zen garden in the back and exchange pray salutes with Kuan Yin. A magnificent wind chime sends flute-like notes into the garden. Brilliant orange and pearl Koi frolic in the square algae-crusted pond. It's dark and cool and makes me realize I might never be suited for the monastic life of a monk. Too quiet, that and the sex thing.

Dinner our last night is at the Lobster Pot, a decades old institution. I have lobster scampi, that's right, served over orzo. A ginger green tea martini accompanies the dish, cutting through the rich butteriness of the sauce. Hell yeah! since it's the last night we stroll the streets with thoughts of seeing a live show or perhaps a performance. We walk past a man enrobed in a pure white gown standing on a pedestal, perhaps Archangel Gabriel. His gaunt face is painted white - haughty and beautiful. Although I must admit I've never heard of Gabriel giving little kids dirty looks when they take pictures with him. We pop into a bar, listen to a husky voiced woman with a broken arm sing Angel from Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt. There's gotta be a story there.

There's a sex shop that I mistakenly think is named Joys of Sex. Phyliss assures me it's Toys of Sex. Must check it out. Dildoes of every color and size. Vibrators, pearls of love, a plethora of things to get embedded into orifaces - for the sake of pleasure. And here I am in Provincetown, probably the safest place for a single straight female, outside of the Vatican.

Kobalt Gallery - owner: Francine D'Olimpio, 366 Commercial Street, Provincetown, MA
Cape Cod Honey - Rebecca Matarazzi.
Lobster Pot - 321 Commercial Street,
Provincetown, MA

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

The importance of massage when you're losing your mind

There must be a name for what I'm feeling. I just know it. This loss of focus, squirrely thoughts rampaging through my mind like, um squirrels. Complete abandonment of my once atomic energy.

My friend David calls me Rekha Boom which simultaneously thrills and worries me. Does he mean I'm really loud? My cousin Suj once compared my footfall to that of a T Rex. You know the scene in Jurassaic Park when the kids are in the SUV watching the glass of water quiver and undulate with each footfall of old Tyrannus? Apparently that's me to a T.

Then there's the inability to express myself, which as all my friends and family know is nearly impossible. I apparently was expressing myself my mother's womb who recalls feeling pregnant with either a boy or a demon. Thanks Ma. But these days words, spoken, written, even sung just don't leave me. Should I say they leave me but not in any way you might call elegant. I gibber. I start saying things and realize i don't know what I'm saying and then try to backtrack into saying something else. See, I'm gibbering right now.

Then there's the bonecrushing loneliness. Normally I reserve that particular adjective for men with extemely large, ahem egos. But here it feels appropriate. For some reason it feels like no one nowhere can bring me solace. Not my trusty friends or relatives who coddle, cajole, bully, harass or baby me into a better mood. This ploy works for a while then they leave and along comes Mr. Bonecrusher again bruising my sparrow-like bones. There's not much you can do. I'm reminded of Steve Martin in the Jerk as he's leaving the home of his post non crossed eyed reading glasses fame. As he leaves he grabs a lamp and shouts a Bernadette Peters I don't need anything. All I need is this lamp. Lamps are helpful that way.

Actually I do know what it is. Aging. And I'm not very good at it. My cousin Cynthi says "Babe you're molten, you're being reborn and repoured." I'd like to be all alchemical but there's no getting round this - it sucks. I might be molten but it's the burning that hurts.

I discovered the brilliant Symbologist Caroline Casey a decade ago, long before Dan Brown, the other Symbologist wrote the Da Vinci Code and began offending Catholics at a global scale. She writes in her book Making the Gods Work for You at the loss she felt at the death of her daughter.

The abyss had opened up before me and I could feel the winds between the worlds.


So on top of the bonecrushing loneliness, the inability to focus or speak a formal language I'm experiencing achiness of the body. No it's not Fibermyalgia. The first woman I ever knew with the ailment was a rest stop lady in Brattleboro Vermont. My ex fiance and I were doing our annual autumn trip through New England, in which Vermont features predominantly. Beautiful land, really sweet open-hearted people and the wine, Oy! it's the 2nd highest wine consuming state per capita in the union. On this trip we stopped at the aforementioned rest stop cum tourist stop. A nice lady was sharing lots of maps to Quegee Gorge, supplementing with tips for snack and cocktail stops. By her side was a tiny black dog, who doubled as her animal care taker. No particular breed as I can recall, just a wee black dog with a shiny coat. Her name was Nino, which I believe means little boy or a rowdy wind driven from treacherous water currents. She was an assistance dog and carried things like keys and aspirin bottles for the nice lady. That was the first time I've ever heard of Fibermyalgia and being a borderline hypochondriac I've diagnosed myself with it ever since.

To combat this pain in the back, ass, neck, hip, foot - you name it I started seeking a massage therapist weekly. The massage technique is called Tua Nua which sounds much like a Star Trek character. Its based on the discipline of triggerig and draining meridians which in turn release flow of blood and energy to the 7 core chakras, which in turn allows energy to be equally distributed to the body. My usual girl Lili was not there but Amy was. One thing I'll tell you about these Korean women, they are strong. They know meridian and chakra points like nobodies business. And the good ones intuitively know what areas need most work. Intuition or the fact that your back is knotted up like an anchor hitch. Amy worked on my neck and face to prevent a migraine from shanghaing my day. She uses another technique called myofacial massage to alleviate trigger points on my skull and face. My jaw is practically locked from an old car accident. Which means its perpetually unable to open more than a small yawn. Men I've dated will tell you what a drag that is...

As Amy is poking at my face music gently plays on a portable cd player. Now music in these korean establishments can range from sappy to downright nail biting. Not that I have anything against Korean music. I like the 3 string guitar plucking out interesting note progressions. I even like the Korean singers doing remakes of popular American tunes. Christina Aguilara must be making crazy royalties in Korea. What I don't like is the church hymns piped out as relaxation. I grew up with that twaddle didn't enjoy it as a child and sure as bloody hell haven't gotten softer with age. Luckily this spa is playing really soft really slow spanish guitar.

I begin to feel better. The massage is doing it's voodoo, draining toxins, anger and despair from my body. By the time she's hammered out the reflexology points in my feet I feel I can actually breathe like a normal human, not the bewildered panting of late that has me hyperventilating like a Golden Retriever surrounded by too many exciting people. At this moment, right now I can see from here to eternity and not insanity. At this moment I know neither age nor love nor desire can distract me from my destiny.

And I will contradict the famous Mr. Fernando Lamas and say sometimes it is better to feel good than to look good.

Quote from Making the Gods Work for You. Copyright 1998 Caroline Casey.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Death by the Passaic River


Seems like death lurks around me these days. The shooting of a wild turkey dubbed Henry riled up the residents of Rutherford, NJ. Henry and his wife roamed Rutherford along the banks of the Passaic. While Mrs. Henry is a decorously behaved wild turkey (because I know wild turkey etiquette...) Henry himself was a bit of a ruffian. He would sun himself on immaculate lawns and if you pulled out of your driveway, would give chase. While this proved amusing (I mean this guy clearly thought he could take on a 4 wheel drive Jeep Cherokee), it was a classic display of over-the-top male aggression. I wonder if wild turkey fowl are fueled by testosterone? In any case Henry had his admirers but also his enemies. One of whom shot him with a cross bow, so cave man hunter-style! The neighborhood was appalled and furious. As they should be, as a local celebrity fowl Henry pulled his weight. But more importantly, he was a creature living on the fringes of a dwindling forest eco-system, making due for his mate and baby gobbler offspring. His widow is seen walking around town, probably with junior in tow. Hope she makes it through the winter.

On the other side of the river animal hijinks pervade. The possum crop was tops this year, if only they mastered the art of crossing the street. The raccoons do much better with far fewer fatalities. But none fared worse than the squirrels. They must be playing truth or dare this summer, I've never seen so many squished. And right along the center dotted line. And what's up with the birds? Would someone explain how a goose gets hit on the highway? What's he doing on the highway so close to cars? Can't he fly any higher?

Then of course my own little hunter has a few more notches on his canine belt. Count among them a possum, a mouse, several cicadas (which he promptly ate, ewwww), but still no elusive squirrel.

Animal death always gets me weepy but this summer I feel it more keenly. Maybe because for the first time in my life I'm confronted with the very real possibility of my own mortality. Maybe because there's so much change in the air I mourn for the comfort of life of times past.