The Recent Jungle Trip

Well, I had a couple of tough trips recently. The June trip included a couple of women who had no business being on it for a minute, much less for 22 days. The October trip ended with the organizer splitting the country owing nearly $5 grand in unpaid hotel fees. The big January trip was cancelled when the organizer needed to borrow all the funds to save her dying husband with serious and emergency surgery. Whew! Talk about a lousy year: I was an emotional wreck and financially devastated. Add to that the three emergency surgeries and I don't know how I even functioned, much less flourished. But I did and I'm nearly better (though my stomach is still sore and there is one muscle that hasn't entirely healed yet, leaving me in excruciating pain when I do anything that calls on that particular muscle). Hey, I'm not complaining here, just making a note to baby Jesus that he might consider healing tha last muscle a bit more quickly!
And then there was this late January trip. It wasn't even scheduled, but when the big trip organizer told me that trip was full, I had to put an extra trip on for a couple of private clients that I thought I could fit into the big trip. And then I had to work hard to get a few more clients to make the trip financially doable.
In the end I had 10 people. Two of th em were from Men's Journal magazine. And you know what? This trip is going down as one of the very best groups I ever had. I didn't hear one complaint, about anything--and the trip isn't all that easy, what with long boat rides, night canoeing, bathing in the river, doing serious medicines that knock you to the ground and leave you begging for mercy. Not one peep. What a wonderful group of adventurers. They took all I could dish out and I think most of them loved most everything. I may find out differently when they begin to write me or if the magazine story says I sucked from day one, but until that happens I am one happy guy.
And I didn't get any wild flesh-eating spider bites, didn't burst any more intestines or get botfly infestation. Just had a blast. I love being out in the jungle.
And this year I am going to do my best to get down there at least once without any guests, so that I can do some exploration of my own. I've got some pyramids--or pyramid formations, out there that are just begging me to investigate them. Whether they're man-made or a geolological anomaly doesn't matter. Either way they'd be vital to our understanding of certain lowland indigenous groups in the area. If man-made, of course, they'd be the find of all South America from an archaeological standpoint. If a geological anomaly then the wind that carved two rows of six pyramidal shapes in the middle of nowhere would also have carved caves into the limestone. And if there are caves--now covered by vegetation--then animals utilized those caves. And if animals utilized those caves, then, man went in after them. In that case there might be some very interesting things to find, as man always leaves a footprint in the way of broken pots, hunting weapons, petroglyphs. And I need to get out there with some good sound resonance gear, a good archaeologist, maybe a good botanist and some others to spend a few weeks investigating them. It's a project I've been meaning to do for years now but I haven't had the finances. I still don't. But I am going to make an effort to get a grant, a loan or find a sponsor for the $30 grand it will take to cover the expense and try to get out there with my friend Lynn C (who promises to car bomb me if I try to go without him) and Richard A while I've got this enormous strength I still have.
Anybody know anybody who's looking to give money away, take your share first and then send them on to me, okay?
Two yars ago my daughter Madeleina gave me a green rubber bracelet that has the word "Endurance" cut into it. I haven't taken it off. And won't. And whenever I felt like giving up last year, felt like some guests were simply to much for me, or that the operations were too painful, or the money too short, well, I looked at that bracelet and saids Hell no. This is nothing. I've got endurance. And I've got my Madeleina. Can't quit yet.

A Short Note on Dietas

I've recently had two former clients stay on in the Iquitos area to begin dietas. And I made this point to them and I think it's a valid point.
For most Westerners, a no fat, no salt, no spice diet of boiled river fish and plantains is difficult to maintain. But that's not the case among riverinos. It is, in fact, the favorite meal among people who live along the river. My team, for instance, eats that meal several times a day, each time with relish, when we are out in the jungle. They could have eggs, chicken, potatoes, beans and tons of vegetables and fruits but the choice is always fish and plantains.
So during a dieta done by a local, the meal isn't something difficult, it's the break from the difficulty of being alone. It's the best time of the day for them, the comfort food time.
As to salt, well, salt simply isn't used on food in the river by the locals. Salt is used to preserve fish and meat and not squandered on meals. It's traditionally been a difficult commodity to come by and so traditionally isn't eaten. That's no longer the case, of course, but traditions die hard. And many curanderos doing dietas are eating fish that's been preserved in salt. So while they'll tell you no salt, that's not always the case, depending on the availability of fresh fish.
As to no spices? No one uses spices in traditional river food. If you have peppers they are for sale or trade, not for indulging in.
No fat? No meat fat, yes, but lots of those river fish have plenty of good fatty oils in them and they work fine with traditional dietas.
So I guess I'm just trying to clear up the notion that the standard dieta is a difficulty for curanderos doing a dieta. It's anything but. It's only a difficulty for us gringos who are not used to and don't love boiled plantains and fish.
For me, for instance, the dieta would be the equivalent of saying that I'd be having chicken soup every day for several weeks. Or for a vegan that they'd be having steamed vegetables and beans.
I think you just want to eat simply, but that self-flagellation is not the point, at least not to locals. So I think it doesn't need to be the point with us, either. Dieta is a time of solitude, of learning to commune with the jungle and spirits around you, of slowing down to the point where you can hear what those spirits are whispering. It's a time of getting strong and clean. If the physical diet you are on prevents any of that or has you dreaming of food, then that diet isn't helping you attain your goals and so isn't the right physical food diet for you. If it is, that's fine. If not, then I think it ought to be modified, that's all, without taking away the simplicity of it.
Ain't that a kick in the pants?

ADD ON: I don't think there is anything wrong with the traditional dieta food. I just wanted to give it a context. For most westerners, I would think it would be fine to have steamed vegetables and beans/lentils, cooked plainly for our vitamin/protein intake. A lot of river fish have thousands of little bones and they're difficult to get the meat from unless you've grown up in that culture. My kids can do it, my ex can do it; I just tend to spit out an awful lot of the meat with the bones.
I don't think you'd want sugar, because of the rush, and I don't think you'd want meat, because of the difficulty of digestion. I don't think you'd want nuts for the same reason. I think you just want to eat simply, but that self-flagellation is not the point with locals and it doesn't need to be the point with us, either. Dieta is a time of solitude, of learning to commune with the jungle and spirits around you, of slowing down to the point where you can hear what those spirits are whispering. It's a time of getting strong and clean. If the physical diet you are on prevents any of that or has you dreaming of food, then that diet isn't helping you attain your goals and so isn't the right physical food diet for you. If it is, that's fine. If not, then I think it ought to be modified, that's all, without taking away the simplicity of it.
Now, I have never done an official dieta. I didn't even know the word until five or six years ago. Julio never discussed it, never told me to do one. What I did instead was walk across the jungle several times with Moises, and because it was such a bother to carry much food, we would eat farina with water, or a bird if we got one, or some fish with hearts of palm, or rice. Always simple. Always to make you strong. And all day we wouldn't speak five words, for days on end. Moises would be in front, I'd be behind, looking for his trail markings. And we would drink ayahuasca with Julio before we left to put the jungle in my blood, and we would drink when we returned, to keep the jungle there.
So when I talk about dietas, I'm not any sort of expert here and don't pretend to be. I am an expert of what people eat in the jungle and how they prepare it and do know that the favorite meal is plantain and river fish. People will choose that over mahass or tapir or monkey nearly always.
So I really just mean to give a context to dieta food, not sound show-offy. And I've watched a lot of my guests go on to do dietas in the last few years and have a difficult time with the food. And that interfered a great deal with the work they were intending to do. And then this trip out I watched my team, all of whom grew up on the river, though they now commute to live part time in Iquitos, turn down all the great food they were making for us, or I was making for us, in favor of their plantains and fish. And suddenly what I'd seen for years made sense in terms of the dieta: That only gringo's suffer the food think on dieta, not these guys.
And since I'd never seen anyone make the point before, I thought I'd make it. That's all.

Hello, Everyone. I'm back

Hello, everyone. I'm back from the jungle. I'm jet lagged and tired and afraid I've nothing of great import to write tonight. I just want to tell you I'm home, have filled the cubboards and am ready to work. Chepa and Italo and Madeleina and Sierra and baby Alexia picked me up at the airport and we had my birthday celebration yesterday with an ice cream cake brought by Sarah, Italo's girl, who saluted me with a big hug and an "Is that Mr. Peter Gorman I see feeding the dog?" when she saw me, and Chepa made a flan that was great but not good enough for her so she made a second, perfect one, today, and Madeleina hugged me like I was her dad and she'd missed me and little Sierra demanded "P!" all day as she went through my jungle stuff and demanded to besmoked with mapacho cigarettes and blessed with Sgua Florida and Julio's special mix of mountain and jungle garlic/onions/camphor and cuma lunga seeds in aguar diente and I felt like dad and the head of the household, as Joan Armatrading might have sung some years ago. And Italo had redone Madeleina's room the way we'd discussed doing before I left and it's beautiful, though she thinks it too girly now, and Italo and Marco went over every inch of the house filling mouse holes till there are no more mice and nothing touched by mouse droppings left here--though they did toss a few of my favorite things. But I can live with that because their work and intentions were so good. And the goats are fine and the rooster and rat are fine and Boots is fine and the kids are good. So I'm home and all is okay and I hope all is good with all of you.
Thanks for your patience, guys and gals. When I'm working in Peru I just can't get my hear around anything else but the guests I have, and when the guests are gone I have a party for a few days and heck, I don't even remember most of that (though I did evidently win a fistfight against a pal of mine who thought I needed to be hit hard in the stomach to see how well the operations would hold up--I guess they held up well and the left to his eye proved he was human and not superman--so I guess it all went well.
Thanks for reading.
Love, me.

Leaving Tomorrow and Family is Insane

So I'm leaving for Peru Tomorrow for 20 days and my family is fantastically insane. At the moment I've got Uncle Clem's Chicken in the oven. Uncle clem, my mom's brother, who used to draw Farmer Grey cartoons, once won a national food contest with a chicken/asparagus dish. topped with mushroom sauce and cheddar cheese. My first and great love Clare Waugh, with whom I live 14 years and probably abused from self-centeredness that many years--I didn't know what love was, and I certainly didn't know how to receive it, though she sure knew how to give it (sorry Clare. I was so stupid and selfish)--misinterpreted the published winning entry--which got my uncle Clem a $5 grand prize. Her interpretation was sauteed chicken breast--diced--over broccoli, cooked with a mayonnaise/chicken stock/mushroom soup sauce and topped with mozarella cheese. Hers was better than Clem's. It was one of the dishes of the century and if you don't believe me ask for specifics. It was and is amazing.
So tonight I was making Clare's Clem's Chicken. And Chepa is not coming over to cut my hair and fix my toe nails. That's her job--by her say-so--whether we're still in love or not. I guess she's mad because I'm leaving. And Marco is tickling Madeleina to the death, and Italo is punching Marco and daring him to do a cool kind of pushup where you do a pushup on one hand off a soccer ball, then bounce up and change hands on the soccer ball. Italo did 100. Marco fell off the soccer ball on the first try. Which led Marco to re-tickle Madeleina, which led her to throw the soccer ball at me and to Italo screaming "Hey Dad! I can run the 40 in 2 seconds." He knows I timed him yesterday and with a slight incline on soft turf at 4.2 seconds. World class but not near 2 seconds.
Anyway, I guess people here are acting out a little. Dad's leaving. I'll be back in 20 days, hardly a hiccup, but that still means 20 days when they are answerable to themselves, not to me. And Marco is scared Italo will hold him to a higher standard than I do, and Italo's Sarah, Italo's live-in girl--is swearing that she'll cook for every one every night if I will only leave her recipes. I've already put 14 days worth of meat in the freezer, and enough juice/soda/milk to last till I return in the fridge--and more rice/potatoes/Quacker oats to last a year.
"Dad, I'm trying to think and I'm trying to watch TV. Stop asking me to find your backpack. If you don't know where it is, too bad. Don't go." That's Madeleina.
I'm going. I got people who expect me to be there. I'm not abandoning you guys. I love you more than you know. But I'm a dad. If this will pay the mortgage, this is our work. And I am going to do it with a great deal of love. I'll still miss you crazy guys. You're my family. But I got faith you can hold it together without me for a while.
Have a good time, okay? Don't hurt each other. Love each other. It's your chance to grow. So grow my beautiful flowers. I'm not far away.
Dad

Do Gooders in the Amazon

A friend of mine recently brought up the issue of do-gooders in the Third World. I forget exactly what she said but I responded--and it's not my line--that do-gooders have done more harm in the Third World than all the bad men combined. She sort of asked me to explain myself. I'm not qualified to speak about the whole world, but I have spend time in India, north Africa, Mexico, Central America and lots of time in South America, particularly Peru. So my response is only from my experience but I think it's worth noting. Here was my response:
Girl, you killing me. This is a serious question/series of questions that man has spent thousands of years trying to answer. And I am nowhere near capable.
So here goes. When I say the do-gooders have done more harm than all the bad men combined, it's because the bad men are identifiable. A thief takes what he wants. If he comes back you kill him or try to kill him. A catholic missionary comes and explains to you that having four wives is bad, you believe them and lose three wives, and then those three wives die without the protection of a man in the jungle, and all their children suffer and your children with your first wife suffer because she cannot help hunt and take care of children and go to the fields and clean the camp at the same time. Do the missionaries know that? Maybe yes, maybe no. But there is a reason that men in the jungle have multiple wives: In the region of Iquitos women are born at a rate of more than 6 to one female to male. Up until 30 years ago, male mortality was 40% for men before 40, because of war/snakebite, and so forth. So with so few men, the women invited their sisters to join them. One sister might be first wife: She went hunting with the husband and controlled the camp. Second wife breast fed all the children, hers or otherwise. Third wife went to the fields to collect food. Fourth wife kept the camp clean. So missionaries coming in, thinking they had or have a corner on decency, tell the women they are being used/abused and convince the women to object to their positions and the man finally gives up the three extra wives, but then what? Who hunts for them? They can't hunt and take care of children and tend fields and protect the village. So they wind up hurt by the whole deal.
That's just an example and I know you already thought about that. But what about do-gooders who come in and tell the indigenous in the Third World not to kill a big cat because jaguars are precious. And then they don't and the big cat kills all the wild boars in the region and the indigenous have no more meat? What about the do-gooders who tell the indigenous that they should only harvest trees at certain times of the year but those times don't coincide with when the indigenous have traditionally harvested, leaving them to harvest trees during the same time it is time to hunt?
What about do-gooders who bring clothes to the indigenous? They might mean well but they don't understand that when the indigenous are naked they each pick at each other's skin to eliminate any bug/infection/larvae that's been laid on their skin that day. When people wear clothes they don't do that. And when people wear shirts in the jungle the mosquito bites infect from human sweat through shirts rubbing against them. So the do gooders kill them all by giving them clothes, which prevents the natural "monkey-clean" instinct.
Here in the US, Chepa, my wife/ex-wife, still comes over to clean me whenever I return from the jungle. She removes anything she doesn't like. She doesn't like me but knows that if I have an infection from a mite or a spider I might die and then the kids have no father. So that remains her job: Clean Peter, head to toe. And she's just like a monkey. And I have learned to do that to my kids and they do it to each other. And when do gooders come into a camp and explain that you shouldn't do that, people believe them and then it doesn't happen and then people die.
Those do-gooders are maybe not living in the swamps of the Amazon where there are 1,000 bugs that lay their eggs on you and which will eat through your skin, ears, eyes, hair, head, feet, and so forth if not taken care of.
So they don't mean badly. They simply don't understand the reality of the place. A large caiman may kill you in a moment. A boa can kill you in a minute. But there are thousands of species of insects that lay larvae under you skin that won't even leave the egg for years. So once you've been there you need looking after for years.
And those are just a couple of examples of the most apparent harm good people do.

Getting Time to Get to Peru

I've got a trip coming up. I leave on Tuesday, January 22. My first guest arrives in Iquitos on January 25. The remaining eight come the following morning. I'm getting jittery. One of my guests, with whom I've had a lot of email contact, wrote me a note today; for some reason I told him the truth. I usually do but the subject of jitters has ever come up before. Here's what I wrote him:

PETER GORMAN wrote:
You know, the prep time, the three or four days before you all arrive, is when I'm at my best. Just me and my team, running errands, checking things, figuring things. We sit in my hotel room, have a bottle of Jim Beam and maybe a bottle or 7 Raises (7 roots extracted into cane liquor, sweet but deadly), and Inca Cola and snacks like stuffed potatoes and rice balls, and count hammocks, check mosquito nets
for holes, inspect the medical kit to look for holes, check the
shotgun, count blankets, towels, pairs of good jungle boots, flashlights, batteries, spare bulbs, and a thousand other things that need checking. Get drunk, have a party, and work from 6 AM till Midnight making sure we've not forgotten anything. Those three days when I am there with them before you all arrive is like getting set for a rock and roll concert: Sound check, material check and party. And no partying till the check is Okay'd by me. And then all hell cuts loose. We've fit 35 people into my
hotel room sometimes when things get smoking. I live for that vibe.
It's so freaking scary to have you all coming down, the adrenalin rush is
awesome. What if we fuck up? What if we're not on our game? What if one of the women on the team has a new boyfriend and doesn't come? What if Mauricio, our 68-year-old wood cutter hurt his arm? What if there is a strike and there are no riverboats leaving when we have to leave? What if they hate us? What if they hate the jungle? What if they all die when they drink ayahuasca? What if we don't see an electric eel and one of them drowns? What if one of the guests grabs a snake he/she is sure is a constrictor but is actually a venomous bushmaster? What if what if what if???
We go through it like a football team: and then, suddenly, it's
game day and we're supposed to look all smooth and composed when we meet you at the airport at 6 AM a week from Saturday. "Hi, I'm Peter Gorman....", I say and we're all just scared to death and we hope you don't know that's bullshit.
So here's to looking smooth and you're the only one who knows we're
more scared of you than you are of us....
PG

Science Fair Pay Back

I spent my entire school life avoiding science fairs. Avoid is a weak word here. I skipped them to the point where I can't remember ever doing any. Except one. But I remember my friend Bruno Valle, an otherwise awful student, going wild for them. In the 6th grade he made, from scrap metal in those days, not a kit, a robot that worked via remote control and had ball and socket arms and working fingers--basic working fingers--that could pick up and throw a ball. I was very impressed but could never imagine doing anything like that. And I wasn't one of the kids who did fruit fly experiments or any of the other standards either.
I did get juiced up for one science fair as a freshman in high school. My biology teacher had said that alligators had a heart and brain that was configured differently than ours, and that fascinated me. Or rather, what fascinated me was the opportunity to go to the pet store and buy an alligator. And I loved it until I realized that to do my esperiment I'd have to kill it. I wasn't much for killing animals, tell you the truth. I'd been hoping that I could just bring the thing into the class and then have Brother Stern tell me where to get photos of the different heart and brain sections. No chance. Instead of photos I was given a jar of formaldehyde, a syringe and instructions to carefully cut the heart and brain into their natural sections.
Well, the obvious happened and the formaldehyde opened on the way home from school and the other bus patrons--it was a public bus in Queens, New York, taking me from Bishop Reilly HS to my Whitestone home--made a scene over the chemical odor and I got tossed from the bus and walked the last three miles.
Home, I did something with the syringe but I forget what. It was probably something fun, like putting liquor into oranges or something but I forget. What I remember is that I had no idea of the syringe's connection to the experiment I had do to so I made some other use of it.
And that evening, I went to the basement with one of my mom's small pots, put my pet gator into it, filled it with the remaining formaldehyde, covered the pot and waited. I thought it would take a few moments and then I'd somehow have a dead and stiff as a board alligator on my hands to work with but instead, in just a few seconds the little guy pushed the lid off the pot and gasped for air. I was surprised and re-lidded him, this time with a weight on it. He thrashed, his tail slapping the sides of the pot and splashing the liquid. I didn't like that he was suffering and thought this was a stupid and selfish experiment and should have never been done, but I had to do it. So I went out to the backyard and then to the street: Nobody was around except for my friend Danny McGurran's little brother Jimmy. So I called him over and into the basement and asked what I should do. He had no idea but was as squeamish about the death throes as I was, and after uncovering the pot just long enough to show h im I really did have a small alligator we closed the pot again and went upstairs and snuck a cigarette out by the evergreen in front of the house. We waited an appropriate time, returned to the basement and checked: Sure enough the fumes had gotten to the gator and he was dead.
I put him on a table and tried to cut his head open with a knife. Didn't work. So I took a hammer and chisel and that did the trick but also cut the brain in half, crushing most of it. I had better luck with the heart, but it was so small it was difficult to see the sections without cutting it open, so I did, ruining any chance of identifying the sections.
So the experiment was a total loss, and worse, I'd killed a perfectly good alligator at the same time.
And now I'm dad. Somehow I managed to have Italo and Marco skip every science fair that ever came along--except one in which Marco made a rocket that flew pretty good and started a small grass fire here in Joshua. But times have changed and Madeleina has been forced to enter the science fair the last couple of years. I've already discussed the disastrous ant farm in a previous post so won't go into that here: Suffice to say that when all ants are dead the experiment is too.
This year she's doing the "which candle will burn the longest" experiment. That's one in which you have your dad scour the city to find several different companies that make identically sized candles--and remember that Johnson County is not exactly a hot bed of romance, so that's no easy task. Then you ignore them until the experiment is due, which is Monday, then you cry a lot and say you've been working very hard at thinking of the experiment. Not doing anything, but thinking.
The next step of this particular experiment is to have dad come up with a way to make this little worthless experiment turn into something that looks like science. Dad suggests you take pictures of the candles--along with height length and weight measurements, then burn them for an hour and take new measurements. Then burn them for another two hours and remeasure. As one of the candles promises--thank god--to burn out completely in 4 hours (a simple 'white linen scented $8.95 baby acquired from the hobby lobby), one additional hour should bring the experiment to a merciful end. And if the companies are not lying, one of the other candles should still have half it's weight, another three-fourths of its wright and the last, a 60-hour Sterno beaut, should almost still be new after the four hours.
My daughter not having fallen far from the tree, however, this experiment, which should have taken about 10 minutes to set up and start the fires burning--and let's fact it, not much to do but watch movies while the candles are burning--is nowhere near ready to start yet. Heck, it's only been about 5 hours today. "I think I should put the height and length before the wright on the cards, don't you, dad?" took a full half-hour. "Do we have lined cards to write on dad?" led to another half-hour search--fruitless, of course. So the experiment is derailed until I go to Walmart, and I can't go to Walmart for the cards until Marco comes back tonight from his girlfriend's so I have a vehicle to go in.
And yes, I just raised my voice when she stopped measuring and I asked her what the heck she was doing--standing in front of the television, natch--and with a straight face said "I'm looking for the ruler." "You can't be looking for the ruler. You are using the ruler. You were not to step away from that table until you had finished with the ruler. How the hell did you lose the ruler?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out...something happened..."
"Yes! Something happened. You walked away from the freaking table with the ruler in your hand! You have eight measurements to take. If each takes you 3 seconds the whole damned thing would take 24 seconds. Now get it done!"
And then she looked at me and very calmly noted--and correctly so, I suppose--"Well, dad, I don't really see what's the hurry. I mean I can't really finish it until you get the cards for me to write on and you don't look like you're in any big hurry to do that. And if you're not going to take this seriously, why should I?"
Ah well, the science fair waited a long time to get me. I should have known it was gonna happen someday.

A Question on Ayahuasca Apprenticeships

I was recently contacted by someone in Europe who has been drinking ayahuasca, the visionary vine of the Amazon, for a year. The person is now ready to embark on an ayahuasca apprenticeship and wrote me to say they were nervous about simply landing in a place like Iquitos, Peru and looking for a curandero to study with because there seems to be a sort of "shaman supermarket" in places like that, and this person would prefer something more authentic. They would, in fact, be willing to go live in a village somewhere and study with the local curandero there.
Which is admirable, but not necessarily a genuine possibility. Anyway, here was my answer to the person and I hope it makes sense to a few of you as well.

Dear XXX: Thanks for writing. I'm not really sure what to tell you though. In my experience with Julio, there really wasn't anything like an apprenticeship. He did have an apprentice in Salis Navarro, but Salis died. And he did have several students, called alumni, of which I am considered by the others to be one--though perhaps the most novice of the group.
And in my experience with other curanderos I'd say pretty much the same thing: There really were not apprentices.
What there was were fathers who taught their children, mothers who taught their children or neices, friends who lived on the same river who became interested in the healing plants and ayahuasca and who then hung around the curandero--just like friends--until something or other occurred to make them needed in the ceremony, to assist in some way, and I guess at that point they were considered apprentices. And people who work at it long enough learn how to make the ayahuasca and learn some admixture plant spirits that are friendly to them and learn how to make an arcana that will keep out the "lookie lou" spirits that always come around when it's ceremony time, and learn how to sing people to different places and how to see where those people are and whether they need to be sung home or sung further out than they are. And of course, they have to learn how to get the spirit of ayahuasca on their side, and how to tame--though that's a pretty arrogant word--spirit helpers and so forth.
And when those sons of curanderos, or friends of curanderos finally learn a lot of that, well, then luck will put them in a position to utilize that knowledge--either by helping the curandero or being needed to heal or being needed to retrieve a soul or whatnot.
But I personally don't know of any curanderos who had a sort of regular apprenticeship available to anyone until white guys/gals began askng for that. And I believe it seemed odd to curanderos when people did. I mean, how do you even explain an apprenticeship to someone who has no idea what that means? How would someone have told Julio that they wanted to build a little house near his and become a fisherman like him, and have a little field like his and learn to find lost souls or eliminate a baby's earache pain? I believe Julio would have just laughed and said: There's not enough fish in this river for another fisherman. And if you want to learn plants, just go in the forest and sleep with them. Ask them to let their spirits come to you and tell you about them, how to use them and how to prepare them to heal things.
Heck, even if someone had volunteered to do all of Julio's work in exchange for him teaching them what he knew I doubt he would have accepted. I mean, then what would Julio do all day? Can't just sit around in the jungle. It gets quite boring. And how would he teach someone when the art of learning what needs learning is to simply be around before during and after ceremony to see and feel what goes on. When the art of learning is different for each person? When the genuinely recommended method of learning is to go sit in the forest, or walk around the forest, and sleep in the forest and ask the plants to reveal their spirits to you. If they don't what good would knowing the icaro's, the songs curandero's sing, be? You would just be copying someone else's songs.
But how do you teach someone to be open to learning their own songs? Not to making up songs, but to be open to trust what when a generous spirit says one day: When you need a song, open your mouth. Don't be afraid. There will always be a song there when you need one?
How quiet do you have to be to even hear that spirit or how crazy to you have to be to believe it?
With all of that, if I were you, I wouldn't be afraid of the "shaman supermarket" that you mention. There are many good curanderos in both Iquitos and Pulcalpa. Their camps are a modification of their former river lives. But while on the river they might do one ayahuasca ceremony a month, or two, along with a dozen cures for everything from a foot infection to the evil eye, the contact with gringos has them doing ceremonies much more frequently than that. And to accomodate those requests for ceremonies, these curanderos have opened little places in the jungle where that can be done. There is really nothing more sinister to it than that, I don't believe. And while some of the curanderos have probably lost their way a bit with the extra money and acclaim they now have, most will re-center themselves because at heart they are generous people and good healers.
I know some places where there are not many tourists and you probably could, after you've gotten acclimated to living near and in the jungle for a few weeks, you could probably go to these towns and be allowed to pitch a tent, so to speak, or help build yourself a little hut. But what would you do all day? The curandero, your teacher, would be out fishing or hunting, or tending his fields or off with the other men on the river cleaning the village's footpath of brush nearly every day. He or she wouldn't be there to sit and teach you. You would just have to become part of the community and what could you--no offence here, just reality--offer that community? To canoe to town weekly to pick up the supplies they need? They can already do that. To help with their fields? What help could a newcomer be to something they've been doing for generations.
So I don't have much in the way of recommendation. I can say that the conference on Shamanism really does bring together a dozen or more curanderos, some of whom don't live in ayahuasca camps but simply out on the river, and if you were there you might meet one or three who might present an opening for you to go live in their villages. But even then, remember that there is not much to do in the jungle. The days are very long for an outsider. It takes a while to slow down enough that it won't seem very dull.
Or you could just go to Iquitos or Pulcalpa and talk to others who have similar interests to yourself. Perhaps you would meet someone who has done a long dieta or two who might be able to get you to a good place to work for a while. You needn't spend a lot doing that, but I don't think I should make any particular recommendations as I've never done that so would just be repeating what I've been told.
I'm sorry that for all these words you don't yet have your answer. This is really one of those: Dive in and see for yourself sort of quests.
And I'll be surprised if you don't find something pretty good on the journey.
Peter G

Another Day at the Gormans

So my son Marco is working at the local Brookshire's grocery store and he must be doing a pretty good job. He just got a raise last week from $7.50 an hour to $8.65. Nice one. I was real pleased. Kid is also loved by his girlfriend's parents who think the world of him. And rightly: He apparently pitches in a lot, gets the younger sisters to girl scouts and so forth. And I love him.
But he's still Marco, and in a single day can do a dozen things that infuriate. Like right this second he's borrowing my truck to go get his new glasses. But he needs my keys because he can't find the set he uses. And he wants to know if I want to chip in. I told him I was gonna ask him to get the truck inspected as his share of the cost of using it. Not a chance. And I'm a bum for not chipping in on the glasses--which are replacing the glasses I did buy him but that were lost.
Last night I nearly murdalized him when he got uopup in the middle of the night. I was sleeping on the living room floor--Madeleina having come in and commandeered the couch I sleep on because she wasn't sleeping well--and here strides Marco, past me and out the front door, leaving the door and the glass wind-break door open while he took a leak off the porch and into the bushes. The striding woke me; the freezing blast of air destroyed any chance of going back to sleep for an hour or two.
I didn't say anything. Dad's have to pick their spots.
This morning I was fixing lunch for Madeleina when he said he was leaving to take his girlfriend to school. Madeleina's school is on the way. She was ready. I would think that most people would suggest "I'm going past your school, I'll take you." Not my beautiful Marco. He somehow got out of the house and into Italo's car before I could ask him to take Madeleina.
And on his return he asked for breakfast--which I love making for the kids--but I had to tell him that his dishes were his responsibility. "See dad, how you can ruin everything?"
That last came from a conversation we had yesterday. I'd given pretty good orders that I expected his room cleaned, and I meant spotless. Which he did. Cleaned the rat's cage and everything. And then he called me in to look. And I told him it looked great and that I wish he could get it through his head that if he would just maintain things it wouldn't need to become a fire hazard and mouse resort in two more days.
On the way out of the room I nearly stumbled over a host of candy wrappers, pieces of sandwiches and so forth that he'd put near but not into the kitchen garbage can. So I said: Job will be done once you get this cleaned up.
And out of the blue he answered: "Nothing's ever good enough for you."
I stopped in my tracks. I told him I'd change from that second on. He seemed to accept it. But I've been thinking about that. It never occurred to me that he still needs my approval. But I guess he does. Heck, I moved out within a couple of weeks of my 18th birthday, and my dad died when I was just 20 and though I know we all deal with approval issues forever, it never occurred to me that Marco was dealing with them on this level. On the level of "Look! I cleaned my room! Aren't I good?"
And I'm so terribly sorry that I've been so blind. I've been trying to treat him like a grown up and pushing him into responsibility--he's 19 after all--and in fact he's been living up to the responsibility on most levels very well. I mean he's getting up a 3 and 4 AM to get to work, he's pitching in with the girlfriend and so forth. But here at home he's still a kid looking for approval. And to have missed that, for me to not realize how much my criticism of things like not taking care of dishes or being sloppy apparently hurts him is something I'm going to have to fix.
I know some will say be tough with him, and that might get the results, but I'd like to get more than a clean dish or a tidy room. I'd like him to grow emotionally to where he doesn't need my approval, to where he realizes that the only approval he needs is his own. If I can enncourage that by changing my behavior somehow, then he'll wind up holding himself to his own standard and that's when he'll be free of me as a dad and have me as a friend.
Yesterday afternoon, driving him to his girl's house, I told him I was calling a dad moment. And I told him that I loved him and that he would always have my love. I also told him that he didn't need my approval, that he needed his own approval. I also reiterated that I would change the criticism thing of mine.
He said that even if he didn't want my approval he was stuck looking for it.
I guess that was the first step.
You'll always drive me batty, but I love you, kiddo.

My Son Italo and Athletic Intent

First off, Happy New Year Everyone. I hope it's grand for you all.
I've been thinking about my son, Italo, a lot lately. I'm a dad, so I always do, but lately more than ever. I was telling him the other day that he might be the best natural athlete I've ever seen.
When I met him in Peru he was 7 years old. He was already playing soccer with the 12 year olds and asking me for money to bet on his own team to win. They often did.
When I married his mom and adopted him--along with his younger brother Marco-we came back to my apartment in New York. I bought them gloves and a basketball, and while Marco enjoyed playing, Italo was sort of fanatic. My sister Regina steered us to the baseball and basketball leagues that her son Tommy was playing in at the time and we got them signed up. Italo had never touched a basketball before coming to the states, but worked out for hours with Tommy, became the team's point guard and made the all-star team that year. Not speaking English.
In baseball, I'd taught him how to throw--he'd never really thrown a ball in Peru--and catch, but his coach put him in right field, the place where non-athletes go to die in little league. First play to right he misjudged it and a kid got a triple. Next play he made and I yelled for him to throw it to second in Spanish, as the kid was trying to stretch a single. He nailed him. Two weeks later he was moved to second base. He made the all-star team that year. The following year his coach moved his own son off shortstop to third to make room for Italo to play short. Italo was MVP of the league that year.
This isn't bragging so much as just admiring his athletic prowess. He continued to do the same things when we moved back to Peru and when we returned again to New Yorik. When we moved to Texas he was a sophmore in high school and quickly made and started for his high school soccer team. He played baseball as well, but not at the level he had played earlier: he started, but wasn't choosy about his pitches and so often looked uncomfortable at the plate. Rather than get down, he had me take him to the batting cage regularly, went to the fast pitch machine for a couple of hundred pitches at a time until he was back in a hitting groove.
His dream is to be a pro-soccer player. He's been playing in several leagues the last couple of years since high school, and for last year and this has been playing on the area's semi-pro club. He started this year on his new semi-pro club on the practice squad; now he's playing regularly. In a month he'll be starting. And these are good players, he says, most with college soccer under their belts, a handful with time in the big leagues, either here in the US, or in Mexico or South America.
So Madeleina, who played her first league soccer this year and began to learn the game a little, has been asking about Italo's chances of making the pros. I let her know that his size is a detriment: soccer players have gotten big since Pele's time, and Italo is only 5'8" and weighs about 150. So I don't know. He also has to be seen by the right scout on the right day and all of that, but he's doing his part toward that by playing in semi-pro.
Now none of that really matters. He was just born athletically gifted and has utilized that gift well. But it's the rest that counts. It's freezing here in Joshua the last few weeks, and when it's not freezing it's been raining mostly. Still, he's upped his workout regime to at least three or four hours daily, plus games 4 times or so a week and then a couple of nights practice on top of that. He does about an hour of situps, pushups, light weights and balancing work daily (his balancing work has him stand on one ceramic cup, then switch feet without touching the ground. He can do that for days and mostly likes to do that while we're talking so that he can't look at his feet while he's doing it.
Then he heads outside with a weighted chest vest and begins his daily run: a run around the front yard, past the barn, over one creek-bridge, up the slope and around the fire pit, across the garden, down the slope and over the second bridge, down into the creek bed and then up a slope into the front yard. He'll do that for about 30 minutes, faster and faster, so that his last lap is at breakneck speed.
Then he begins his sets of running around the paint cans, set up in a row that he dashes in and out of like a barrel horse racer, to improve his cutting speed. After 20 or thirty sets of that he does it backwards. Then he does his quick step workout between a series of pipes he's set up, forward and backward, just like the paint can routine, to sharpen his backward mobility. When he trips he lands flat on his back, gets up and starts again. He changes the distance between the pipes every couple of days so that he can't get used to their placement. "Keeps me sharp, dad," he explained.
Then it's time to kick, and he kicks those 8 soccer balls at the tiniest of targets from every concieveable angle and distance and speed for probably 45-minutes daily.
Couple of hours later and he'd off to practice or a game.
I've explained to Madeleina that even with all his natural talent, if you want to be a pro at something, that's the sort of dedication it takes. And then, even if you don't make it, you've given it, really given it, your best shot. Same goes with writing or dancing or being a good cop.
And if Italo makes it, it will be all Italo. If he doesn't I don't believe he'll have regrets. He knows the odds.
But I sure am proud of his work ethic.

Just Thinkin About New Year's Eve

Hello all. Just thinking about New Year's Eve. Here in bucolic Joshua, Texas--just 12 miles south of south Fort Worth and 23 miles from the nearest place where you can buy a drink of whiskey--it's 6:16 Pm. Long past Australia's New Year's celebration but long before New York's.
And wouldn't it be fun to be in New York tonight. I used to take the kids and Chepa to Central Park around 10:30 PM and we'd make our way to 96th street or so for the 10K midnight champagne run and Fireworks's display. I could never do the run but I sure did enjoy the champagne. Then we'd come home, wintery cold, and I'd make cocoa and Toll House cookies. And we'd watch a movie and that was one great night.
Here in Joshua, I've gotten into the habit of buying fireworks. Not cherry bombs or ash cans--just loud and dangerous and their six-second fuses were often enough only 4 seconds, leaving a lot of friends of mine with half-fingers where they used to have whole ones--but lots of roman candles and rockets and artillery shells: the beautiful shells that explode 200 feet overhead in multi-colors and noise and make your neighbors call up to say "You woke me up, you son of a bitch. Nice one!"
And we blew a couple of bucks on the same this year. Gonna be fun if nobody gets hurt.
And I'm making a steak in the next hour. Big steak. Felt like being a pig and I am already apologizing to god and the cow. This is a four pound chuck steak, Angus, that I'm slicing in half and cooking like a t-bone. And while the T-bone has a certain magic from it's buttery-ness, the good chuck has a flavor that cannot be beaten in a pan sear. It's just that well-marbled. To go with it there is spinach, carrots, sliced potatoes, fresh beans, sliced tomatoes sauteed in a bit of olive oil and then topped with grated parmesan, fresh black pepper and a touch of fresh basil, and the de rigeur Peruvian asparagus steamed then cooked lightly in a mix of olive oil, a touch of butter and balsamic vinegar.
It's mostly veggies but I'll still gain a pound. Oh, well.
So what happened this year? Anything worthwhile? I think so. I'll stay out of politics, as I make my living discussing that. and I get tired of it--mostly because I'm not enough of an Alpha Male to change the world. But on personal notes? I've had a new niece born, who is beautiful. And healthy. My son Italo is playing on a soccer team as good as you get before signing with the pros. My second son, Marco, graduated high school and has a job and a girlfriend. And while we occasionally step on his used condoms, she's not pregnant. My baby Madeleina reached 10 and thinks like a 30-year old.
Sierra, my ex-wife Chepa's baby, is nearly two-years-old and fantastic. More than that, I'm in love with her and get to spend a bunch of time with her. And while that can only end in disaster for my heart, I'll live with it. A few years ago Ayahuasca finally taught me that you must take the love when it's offered. So I'll take this beautiful baby's love and when it's gone, when mom is gone with the baby, she and I will have had a good time together, rather than me running away in fear that my heart would be broken. Thanks for that lesson, Ayahuasca.
(Ayahuasca is a medicine from the jungle that I've been using to learn things from for two-and-a-half decades. You'd think, if life were fair, that after 25-years I'd be a master. Turns out that after 25-years of study they're finally letting me into the first grade!!!!!)
And this year too I got a lot of love from my baby Madeleina, now 10. More than I deserve but I'll take it all. Thanks white light or god or spirits or all of you. And thank you, Madeleina.
And thank you Skunk Magazine for giving me a column, Drug War Follies, that allows me to spout off on the wrongheadedness of the Drug War. And thank you Marc Emery, owner/publisher of Cannabis Culture, for having the bravery to face extradition to the US for selling cannabis seeds to US undercovers who entrapped you illegally with all of the elegance and decency with which you are facing that extradition and possible life-sentence here in the criminally wrong US. You are a lesson to us all.
And thank you Fort Worth Weekly to allow me to ply my trade of investigative journalism week after week. I hope I have helped settle a few scores, stopped a few bad men, overturned a few bad decisions and made some people rethink their political positions on a few issues.
On the other hand, for those of you I've hurt, forgive me. I'll try to do better. For those of you who have cheated me this year of more than $50.000, money I for once thought I had earned, I forgive you. But don't do it again, guys, cause I'm not going to be so forgiving the second time. Take that to the bank.
For you, Gasdalia, who wanted me despite being an old fat white guy with a completely broken stomach, thank you. I was embarrassed to shower for my appearance and yet you made me feel like I wasn't repulsive. You made me feel loved. Thanks.
For all my workers who put up with being cheated by me when I was cheated by others and couldn't do the trips I promised, thank you for remaining loyal. We'll do better this year.
And for all of you readers who have taken the time to read this blog--time you could have surely spent better elsewhere--thank you for allowing me to feel like I was part of your family.
Thanks for letting me saddle up to the bar and have my say.
I hope that all of you, and all of the people and animals and vegetation of this world, somehow manage to have a wonderful, wonderful New Year.
Thanks, everybody. I'd much rather be alive than not. Thank you from my heart.

Ayahuasca Plant Spirits

On a board I occasionally post on, a new member recently asked about adding things like ginger, St. John's Wort and maple syrup to ayahuasca while he was brewing it. Reactions from the board members who responded were pretty harsh. First off, St. John's Wort is not a good thing to utilize with ayahuasca because of possible serious physical complications from the chemical combination of the substances. But more than that, the board members were slightly upset with a new member simply tossing things out there: the question seemed filled with arrogance.
I posted a long and arrogant answer of my own, then immediately deleted it.
The new member then started a new and self-centered thread asking whether his questions would be answered by other members of the board or simply ignored. Two hours later he decided his questions wouldn't be answered and was feeling sorry for himself.
So I answered him. This is the answer I gave, and re-reading it, I think it might have enough merit to post it here. I hope you don't mind.

Have you got a question to ask?
In your first post, at least the first I read, you asked about admixtures that might be included when making ayahuasca. I wrote a good, long post, and then deleted it. Who am I, after all, to give advice? (My advice was to take one kilo of caapi; 1/4 kilo of chariponga or chacruna; an ounce or so each of the bark of the catawa, lupuna negro and chiri caspi trees, crush and separate all bark, put in 5 gallons of water, simmer or boil for five hours while chanting over it and blowing smoke from black tobacco into it; strain, save, repeat with same material; strain. Add both strains, reduce to 2 ounces and drink.)
But others answered your question well: St. John's is not good as a rule with ayahuasca. If you're a curandero and discover good ad mix plants--which will generally be good for specific things--then fine. But if you or anyone is just trying to make a strong brew, make the brew I just suggested. It's pretty standard per person in the amazon, out on the river. 20 People? 20 kilos of caapi.
On the other hand, that's generally strong enough that I recommend you have a real curandero there overseeing things. It is not something most people could handle at home alone.
I think the answers to your question came to this: Don't play with this stuff. Don't think you should make it stronger until you've a teacher who knows who tells you so. The spirits, the souls, the life force, of these plants are very very powerful. You've got to know that. And to imagine that you might add a little of this or a little of that before you've met the spirits or this and that, well, you won't know who you are inviting to your party, will you? And if they come, what sort of guests will they be?
You've got to be realistic here. We are not discussing chemicals. Chemicals are zero in this equation. We're discussing the invitation of spirits who can have an important impact on our lives. The meditation and smoking of black tobacco during cooking is probably much more important than any chemical that can be extracted from the plants. Because that 8-10 hour meditation is what invites the spirit of the plants. The plants themselves are not worth much. Their spirits are worth a great deal. And if you are going to invite living beings, beings with intent, will and desires into your physical/emotional/spiritual/soul space, then you'd better be sure you know who they are and how to treat them as guests.
In my world, this is serious stuff, and your initial question wasn't serious.You might have thought it was but it was silly. You're talking about adding a bunch of stuff to ayahuasca that has never been traditionally added. And you didn't say that you're a curandero who's met those spirits. Ginger certainly has a spirit. Maple syrup probably has a phenomenally strong spirit. Have you met her? I haven't but can imagine that any spirit strong enough to keep trees alive for 200 years in the cold north must be very very powerful.
So to hear someone toss off the idea of adding a bit to ayahuasca, without them telling me they know the spirit and what she's like, sounds like someone playing, not someone who is learning to interact with spirits.
Again, who am I? Nobody. Maybe you don't believe in spirits and maybe my idea, taught to me by some pretty good curanderos, is all wet. What do they know anyway?
My guess is a lot.
I spent days preparing before I put a sprig of cedar (who had been begging me to be included) into a mix some years ago. And the cedar was good. But I would never recommend her to anyone not prepared to deal with such an ancient soul once she arrives.
So if you've got real questions, I think there are many on the board who will answer them. If you are here to tell us things, then do it. But the people on the board who consider questions seriously have lives to live and limited time and I'm guessing that many of them won't take the time to answer questions they find frivolous, regardless of how serious you claim to be.
Capiche?

Jingle Bells

Jingle Bells, everybody. It's 8:02 PM Central time and in most places that means the stores are closed and you've either got your shopping done or you're buying gifts at the 24-hour gas station. Me? I got caught up on all but two writing assignments by Friday and figure no editor is going to care over the holiday so for once I got shopping done on time. Not early, but done by today at 4 PM. Hell, I even got some wrapping done yesterday and finished that an hour ago. What that tells you is that I haven't got a life, but this blog has already made that clear over the last year.
I came in from wrapping and opened a bottle of Old Grand Dad. Good Bourbon. The fellows at the liquor store saw me looking at the bottles (I never buy anything but a few minis at a time as a rule, which keeps me pretty sober since the store is a 23 mile drive each way) and asked what was up. I told them I was looking to treat myself like a king tonight and was going to buy a bottle of bourbon. They told me to pick one out and they'd give it to me. Hey, I was tempted to switch to a good private reserve Scotch for $300 but kept my cool and took the Old Grand Dad. Thanks, fellas.
Anyway, took a sip and asked who was going to be here for dinner. Got resounding "yesses" from everyone. Put on rice and a nice chicken. Two minutes later Italo, Marco and Madeleina were in the fridge looking for leftovers. I told them I'd just started dinner. They said they were going out to Chepa's and didn't want dinner.
"You just told me to make it," I said.
"Yeah. Make it for you, dad, not for us," deadpanned Marco, glomming some chicken wings I'd made last night.
Fortunately I was still sipping my first sip of Old Grand Dad and so was able to take it in stride. I told them there would be fresh rice and chicken--with beans and veggies--when they got back.
It's good they're going, actually, or Santa wouldn't have the time and space to do the santa stuff. Stockings, special presents, those things that I need to bring from the little outbuilding I use as an office into the house. I've done it at 3 AM but even in Texas waking up to start walking around outside at 3 AM on Christmas is cold.
So they're off for a couple of hours. The party on Christmas eve is a Peruvian thing. The sisters--with Chepa there are four in the Fort Worth area--get together and have a ball on Christmas Eve. When I first brought her to the states in 1994 she was very surprised that our party happened on Christmas morning, to the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh banana bread in the oven.
This time around there's something special to celebrate. Chepa's new baby, Alexis, was born Saturday morning near noon. Over 7 lbs, a bit of a scare because she stopped breathing a couple of times, but the docs, I'm told, are now satisfied she'll breathe on her own and will be allowed to go home to Chepa on Wednesday. Chepa's been sick with worry but we all rooted for her baby and I hope she turns out as fantastic as the other babies Chepa has made.
There was a funny moment or two involved here. Remember that this isn't my baby, though Chepa and I never divorced. So her boyfriend came into town just a few hours before she want into labor. And Madeleina and Italo and Italo's girl Sarah were in the delivery room with the boyfriend and Chepa and the doctor and the nurse and from what Sarah said, Madeleina, probably in an effort to deal with the graphic situation of a birth--what with mom pooping while she's pushing and the water spilling out and the blood and the purple/yellow umbilical cord and so forth--decided to pretend she was newscasting the event.
"So, doctor, is it normal that this room would smell this bad while a baby is being born?" was one question Sarah remembered Madeleina asking as she interviewed the doc while he was prompting Alexis out of the womb and into the world. And then to Chepa: "So, while you're screaming, does it really hurt or are you acting a little?"
The worst, unfortunately, was my fault. Entirely. When little Alexis came out and joy was all around, I guess the boyfriend said something like "Our beautiful little Alexis" or something like that, to which Madeleina evidently responded that she would never call her baby sister that name because "That's a stripper's name."
You see, even though the baby isn't mine I felt slighted at not being asked, at least in a cursory way, my opinion as to a name. It was just announced to me a couple of weeks ago and in my ego/hurt/awareness that I'm not even in the equasion anymore, I blurted out: "Alexis? Who the fuck names their baby Alexis? That's a stripper name. That's probably the most popular stripper name in the world."
Of course it's a beautiful name, but I just felt left out--Clue to Gorman: When she starts having babies with other people, you're no longer the center of her universe, okay?--and so said that stupid and hurtful thing and then there, in the delivery room, my beautiful Madeleina evidently repeated it. Sorry god. Sorry universe, sorry Chepa and the boyfriend, My fault 100 percent.
I hope Alexis is a joy.
And me, I'm good with it all. I've got wonderful--if occasionally difficult-- kids, I've got work. I've got presents for everybody. I've got a bunch of sisters and a brother and neices and nephews and me and the kids got a tree that's dressed to the nine's and though I don't have many friends her in Texas, I do have one very good one and lots of friends all over the place, and I didn't die this year despite coming close a few times and none of my close friends did either and Alexis looks like she's going to be alright and Chepa came out of it all healthy so my kids have their mom and what the heck, it ain't perfect by a long shot but there are more good days than bad by a mile so mostly I'm smiling and I hope you all are too.
Merry Christmas to all,
And to all a good night!

The Tree, The Lights, The Santa Thing

Ahhh, Christmastime at the Gorman's. Peace, joy, laughter. Ha! I was raised in a family that celebrated Christmas, and I've maintained that tradition. When I got married it was a great kick to go out with Marco and Italo, then 4 and 7, to shop for a tree in Manhattan from the tree man on Second Ave and haul it up to Third, then climb the old tenement stairs to our apartment, strong the lights and get out those ornaments. And in a few years, when Madeleina was born, it was even better because of the wonder she had just oozing from her spirit on seeing those lights and tearing open, as best she could, the packages that were for her.
The move to Texas made Christmas--while snowless and without my brothers and sisters coming over for dinner--almost a little better for its intimacy. It was just us. Not only did we have the added fun of putting lights up around the house, but it was one day of the year when we knew Chepa would be there in the most family sense of the way. She would bolt out of bed as quickly as Marco and Italo and Madeleina to go see if there was a stocking for her and joyfully tear it apart, then urge on breakfast so that we could get to the good stuff, the presents under the tree.
Now there wasn't ever as much money as we'd have liked to have to buy the best presents on everyone's list, but somehow there was always enough to keep the kids happy. And as a dad, that's an important thing. It's one of the secret men's rituals that we judge ourselves on: Can you make Christmas as fun as your own dad made it? It's an important part of the dad image.
The last couple of years, with the boys older, have even been better. They've been able to go shopping for presents with their own money, and they've taken to putting up the outside lights without my help. And getting a tree has been a Peter, Italo, Marco, Maceleina enterprise, driving all over town to get a great tree at a great price, and stopping at the Cleburne Park, where the Johnson County jail lets trustees spend a week or more putting up a million lights that simply dazzle you. Madeleina would get into that park and never want to leave. And then we'd go home and put the tree up and somehow Chepa would materialize and make it a great great party.
And this year, with baby Sierra nearly two, I thought it might be even more fun getting the tree and putting up the outdoor lights and especially going to the Cleburne Park where Madeleina, now 10, could show her sister the wonder of it all.
So I told the kids Monday would be a good day for that. The plan was to have Sarah, Italo's girl, go to Chepa's and get Sierra. I would have done it myself but Chepa's boyfriend's parents and his sister and brother-in-law came into town and and are staying with her and I didn't want them to think I'm too forward or intimate with Chepa and Sierra. From what I understand they think I'm a sort of monster and wouldn't want Sierra hanging around me too much. I don't think they've been told that for most of her life I've been her adult male influence.
Monday came and there were excuses all around. Sarah worked late, Marco had his own girlfriend issues to deal with, and Italo had to buy presents. So Madeleina, who was looking forward to it, was disappointed but I pointed out that we'd do it the next night. Of course I was forgetting that Italo's semi-pro soccer team practices on Tuesday nights and so we got postponed again. Which is when I pulled a Dad directive and told everybody that Wednesday was going to be the night. No ifs, ands or buts.
Madeleina was excited: I don't give a lot of whole-family orders and she thought that was about the manliest thing she'd ever seen, I think. But when Wednesday night came, Sarah announced that she definitely didn't want house lights this year because I always have a trip in early January "and then we're left to take them all down." I pointed out that I only tok down last year's lights in October, so I didn't get her point. Then I asked her to go get Sierra and and she looked at me and said "Why should you get to go with Sierra? She's not your baby."
I told her that I knew that, but that Sierra was my kids' sister and so for better or worse, the same way that Chepa's boyfriend has become part of my extended family, Sierra is part of it as well.
Sarah didn't go for that and went into her room .closed the door and pouted or wrapped presents.
Marco and Italo gave me the same resistance to the point where I finally said the hell with it and told Madeleina we'd do the whole damned thing ourselves. But I made sure to let the boys know that if they were too old for a little joyful Christmas spirit that they should be giving it up for Madeleina at least. So Madeleina and I jumped into my truck and went tree shopping. Italo and Marco got into Italo's car and followed us and were there when we picked out a tree, but then left abruptly, making it the sourist tree-moment in Gorman history.
When we got home Marco was putting lights up around the porch, but he wasn't a happy camper doing it. Sarah, who normally does the roof, wouldn't come out of the room, and Italo was utterly disinterested. So me and Madeleina attacked the roof lights and got em up and looking pretty, but when we came down and discovered that Marco had quit halfway through the railing I fairly exploded.
I went inside and announced that I'd called a demand for that day. I reminded everybody that nobody pays any bills or is responsible for food. They're allowed to earn, keep and spend their money any way they like but if in return I couldn't even get a good tree night for Madeleina then they could all just get the heck out.
Tell you what: that went over like a lead balloon, and me and Madeleina wound up eating dinner alone. Italo did come in just to put the tree in the stand but that was it.
And then I had all night to run through things. And I started out justifiably angry, then realized that it was stupid of me to think that my explosion was actually going to put anybody in a mood to put up lights and decorate the tree. Then came remorse for sounding like the kind of father I sometimes am but don't want to be. And by 4 AM all I wanted was forgiveness.
Sarah didn't speak to me in the morning before she went to work. No good morning, no 'you suck', nothing. I did speak with Italo and apologized and then gently went over the fact that I felt ignored and that I felt he and Marco and Sarah were abusing Madeleina: "She's just 10, Italo. And if you're too old for Christmas, that's fine. But you should be doing it for her."
He countered that he was all for Christmas and had bought the presents to prove it. I told him I thought the presents were the least of Christmas. What was important was doing one little night with his brother and sisters and his dad. And I left it at that. I had to. Because even while I was saying it I realized that what was probably really going on was that mom isn't in the Christmas picture this year. She's going on 42-weeks pregnant if the docs are right and isn't going anywhere but the hospital. So she wasn't going to appear like usual like magic to make the putting up of the lights a party like only she can. And she's not going to be here Christmas morning. And that's probably taken all the joy out of the broken-family but family traditions.
And that's just the way it is. So the boys didn't want to get revved up, even for a night, but they didn't know how to say it. And I didn't know it either until it hit me.
And so me and Madeleina decided we'd take Sierra to the park ourselves. So I called Chepa and told her I wanted to kidnap Sierra for a couple of hours and she said sure, and then Italo went to pick her up and then when Me and Madeleina were getting ready to take her and go to Cleburne Park, suddenly Sarah decided she wanted to come and then Italo decided to join, and I'll bet Marco would have come too if he hadn't been at his girl's house.
When we got to the park, Madeleina went wild, just like a 10-year-old is supposed to. And Sierra just looked at all those lights and said "Wow. Wow. Wow." Over and over, and then started running after Italo, who was being chased by Sarah, who was giggling like a teenager in first love and Madeleina joined in the chase and even I jumped into the fray and the next thing you know everybody was laughing and playing on the park slides and spinner rides and they were all beautiful and it almost couldn't have felt more like Christmas.

Fun to Be Alive

You guys have no idea how fun it is to be me. I hope you're having as much fun/craziness in your skin as I am in mine.
Here's the deal: Thanks god, white lighte, angels, devils, dreams or karma or whomever kept me alive though these three recent and live-threatening surgeries in the last six months. I'm not 100% but I am 100% back to my cynical self and I'm a raging New Yorker transplanted to bucolic Joshua, Texas, in the middle of Johnson County, where the local jailers think it's okay if you put a middle aged woman in a restraining chair naked during her period. Get the picture? I live about 6000 years ago in a cave man place. Still, it's gorgeous, with horses and cows everywhere, me with goats and a rooster and dogs and cats and Marco's rat and hundreds of birds we have to feed by the pound daily. Not counting my kids, the two boys' girlfriends and the pesky reccoon who thinks every garbage bag we put out is meant as a feast for him.
I recount those pleasures because they each come with a price: the goat with the testes thinks I'm competition and is always out-manning me to be king of the yard. The new pup has learned that if we don't find his poop he won't get his nose rubbed in it, so he's taken to hiding it behind the couches and the television and under my desk. And so forth.
This morning was a wonder: sun broke clear and crisp. Madeleina, who slept on cushions on the floor next to my couch, and I woke early. She started the day by getting me to admit that the hadn't "lolligagged" with her work last night. She'd actually done a nice art project that was due days ago, but that was at the expense of last night's homework. So the Lolligag admission led into a request for a note explaining why none of the math was done. I suggested she get the math done. She countered that she'd forgotten that the choir was singing today and that she needed her choir shirt, which happened to be at her mom Chepa's my extremely pregnant wife/ex-wife. Additionally, she had no slippers and today turned out to be slipper day at school, so would I mind driving to WalMart, just 10 miles away, to buy her some. This before coffee.
Then Sarah and Italo woke and she needed lunch-fixing. Fortunately I had a great stewish thing left over from last night. She also needed the goats fed and had no time. I realized why she had no time when I went outside to see that Charlie, the new pup, had torn apart a 50 pound bag of corn intended to feed the rooster and that it was spread out all over the front porch. To get to the goat food Sarah would have had to acknowledge the 2 million corn kernels on floor display so it was apparently easier to rush out the door claiming no time to feed the goats.
As I was picking up the corn, Madeleina rushed out of the house, screaming that we were going to be late. I started toward the car just as Madeleina stepped into one of Charlie's soft poops, leading to ear-splitting screaming and the need to wash sneakers lest she be kicked out of class for smelling too earthy. As I washed she stepped into the bathroom and when she came out she smelled like a whore on New Year's Eve. "Decided to put some of your Old Spice cologne on in case there's any dog poop smell left, dad" she smiled.
"That's a lot of 'some', baby."
"That's okay, everybody thinks I'm a little crazy anyway. And look who I get it from?"
So we raced back out to the truck, raced to Mom's house, got the shirt she needed and she borrowed a pair of slippers, raced off to school, got her there just 10 minutes after the late bell, still smelling like she'd fallen into a vat of cologne.
I got home with the phone ringing. "Dad, don't be mad, okay?"
"Don't know if I can promise that, girl. Are they sending you home to wash off my after shave?
"Sure dad. Everybody says I smell great. But the problem is...the project is at home. Please get it here now."
I still hadn't had coffee and was about to grumble but life fantastically intervened when Marco called me on the phonefrom his bedroom just as I hung up with Madeleina and suggested that if I was any sort of decent dad at all I could prove it by making him three eggs over easy with fresh rice and several strips of hot bacon.
"Well, Marco. I can either take Madeleina's project to her school or make you breakfast..."
"That's bribery, dad!"
"Yes it is. Which shall I do?"
Thirty seconds later he was out the door with the project in hand. As he left he called over his shoulder, "Dad, just tell the truth. How long have you been gay?"
Ahhhh....it's already a beautiful day, eh?

Madeleina in the Morning

So I've got a 12 day jungle trip coming up at the end of January. I'm running this one so there won't be any glitches with the money. It's a small trip, though and won't make me much. I could use two more people to bring us up to eight guests, and then I would make a few grand and be able to pay my people in Peru real well and so forth.
So this morning, I get a letter from one guy who's been on the fence for some time. Turns out he's a writer and a magazine just offered to front his expenses. It's a good magazine and if he liked the trip it would be a good ego stroke for me and maybe more than that.
Years ago a similar thing happened but got aborted. George Magazine had arranged for an excellent writer and photographer to join a trip of mine. George was huge at the time. But the horrible plane crash of John Kennedy Jr. happened on the day the reporter and photographer were flying to Peru and a day or two later the magazine, which had been run by John Kennedy Jr. was shut down and their trip with me canceled.
So this could be a nice one for the scrapbook.
On the other hand, my trips have a large element of personal growth built into them via the shamanic medicines and the Matses' Indian medicines we use as well as the jungle itself, which for many brings up childhood dreams and fears. They're very intimate in a lot of ways (none of them sexual). I mean, we bath in the river. Sometimes people make emotional breakthroughs that leave them vulnerable. So maybe not everybody wants a writer around, even if he'll promise not to use names or photo images that could identify anyone who doesn't want to be identified.
But I sure would love to make a couple of bucks on this trip and unless I mess up I sure would like a bit of publicity.
Still, I've got clients I have to consider.
So I read this letter this morning while Madeleina was taking a shower and Marco was getting ready to take his girl to school. And I was wondering what exactly I should do. Hate to turn away a client. I'm a journalist, after all, and I might write about a given trip...I have never used a client's name or photograph or exposed anyone to any possible embarrassment. My rule is that we're a closed circle. It has to be that way or people won't be open to the changes the trip is meant to trigger.
I decided to present the issue to Madeleina. I did and without hesitation she said, "You have to ask everybody on the trip if it's okay."
"That's what I was afraid you'd say."
"Why?"
"Because it's the only fair thing to do. You got it right on the money, girl. On the other hand, I hope they say yes because I could use the extra passenger."
"You could use the extra passenger, yes, but more importantly, you can't afford to have any more people hating you."
So there you have it. The letter is going out to the other guests in a few minutes. They'll decide.
Thanks Madeleina.

Quick Bitch

Okay, it's Monday morning and I hope it's a good one. I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve a little today. Woke up in the middle of the night with the gosh-darned awareness that I am so utterly useless, that every time I open my mouth nothing but bullshit comes out, that I can't get people out of jail with my writing, that I can't end the drug war, that I'm old and drink too much, smoke too much, have rotten teeth (great brusher, but lost three caps last year when I bit into wild boar that still had shotgun pellets in it and have two others that are discolored from cigarettes no matter how much I clean them), am a poor substitute for a great father and that everything I do is worthless. I ought to be put up on a billboard for everyone to see: Here I am folks! What a sorry excuse for a spirit!
Not sure where that came from and know it will pass, but it kept me up for a couple of hours going over everything I've said and done in the last couple of weeks. Where's a good psychiatrist when you need one.
I think some of it is because the kids have been spending so much time with Chepa and that her boyfriend was in last week, so I'm sort of not in my family right now. And Chepa still hasn't given birth but will, shortly.
Then this morning at about 5 AM, Italo and Sarah came in. I was sleeping on the floor in the living room as Madeleina had comandeered my couch when she couldn't fall asleep in her room.
I got up feeling better about myself than I had a couple of hours earlier and was told that Italo was headed to the airport. Seems Chepa's boyfriend, who left to return home to another state last night, had changed his mind and caught a flight back so he could be her when Chepa has their baby. And I thought, that's cool. Guy is doing something right. Then I thought Who the hell am I to have an opinion of whether he's doing something right or not?
And then I let myself think about that a moment. And you know what? I realized I'm jealous. I don't want him to come back today. I haven't been with Sierra, their first, but whom I've helped raise for two years, for a week now. And that means I haven't seen Madeleina teach her to dance for a week. And while I shouldn't be attached to Sierra, she really is my kids' sister and she's part of this family that I'm part of, through extention. Same way that the boyfriend, better or worse, is part of the family too. He hasn't been around much but when he's in town he's having an effect on my kids, on my family. He's probably okay but I don't remember inviting him to join us. He's still part of it.
And so I realized I'm jealous that he can just decide to turn around and come back to town and my kids have to pick him up at the airport and his being here cuts me out of seeing my daughter and my kids with their sister. I'm also jealous, though I'll never admit it, that Chepa's in love with him and was probably thrilled when he said he was coming right back, where she wouldn't care anymore if it was me. I'm glad for her and him, but I'm still stinking jealous.
Which brings me back to being useless, worthless and full of bs.
Sorry to lay this on you all but if I don't write what's real, then I don't have anything.

Couple of Thoughts on Ayahuasca in Peru

On a board I occasionally post on, someone recently started a thread to try to make a list of reputable ayahuasca curanderos one might visit in Iquitos and Pulcalpa, Peru. In short order someone put the idea down and someone else quickly came to the idea's defense by noting that there were stories of people being served datura, rather than ayahuasca during ceremonies--and datura, while one of the 7 Master Plant Teachers is much more risky because of the length of it's effect on the human body/mind and because of the depth of its teachings. Someone also brought up the notion that a disreputable curandero might rape an unsuspecting foreign client during ceremony.
I thought both ideas were nonsense and wound up writing a couple of responses in the thread. Here they are:
In my experience, the people who get ripped off in Iquitos are those who listen to cabbies and street urchins and such who claim to have an uncle or a brother or a dad who is a curandero. There were a couple of jungle guides a few years ago who would take people to a camp, then, the next day, while they were hiking their stuff would be taken and when the gringos got back to camp they discovered their backpacks missing. Which of course ended the trip for them.
Well, those guys eventually got caught.
But the gringos who went with them simply were not being clear-headed. There are plenty of gringos in Iquitos or Pulcalpa at any given time who have been in town a while and know the ropes. Take the time, if you come in cold and don't speak Spanish, to ask them who's on the level and who's not. And don't just go with the first person they mention, check with several. Then you'll have a starting point.
But be realistic: having your stuff stolen in a set up that ruins your trip might be a negative but romantic story to tell your friends at home but it will surely put a damper on your trip.
On the other hand, the Amazon is adventurous, so if you're going to jump in head first, then don't leave an unguarded backpack someplace for a day.
As for the sexual stuff with ayahuasca: I've heard of it happening but in all my years of experience, never actually met anyone it happened to. Not a woman, not a man. I have had ayahuasca with several curanderos who use hands on healing, and that can be seen as a sexual advance by the recipient--and it might be, but is probably more often just a healing. I'll bet most women out there can tell the difference between a healer pulling something from your heart and a someone who's grabbing your breasts.
You might ask people who have had ayahuasca with a given healer whether he's hands on or hands off, and then make your decision accordingly. If hands on is uncomfortable, particularly when under the influence and in an altered state, an ayahuasquero who is going to heal that way will probably not be someone you'd be comfortable drinking with.
I think though, that there are enough people with varied experiences in Iquitos or Pulcalpa these days that when you're thinking of drinking with someone, or going out to the jungle on a riverboat with someone, you should not find it hard to find others who have been with that person or those people and be able to do a little double-checking.
MY SECOND RESPONSE, later in the thread:
Just to add two more cents: Curanderos who work with datura as a primary substance are very very rare and very very proud of their tradition. Many ayahuasqueros, on the other hand, will add a couple of leaves of brugmansia or the similar chiric sanango as ad mixes to their ayahuasca. This is not unusual. And it's no one trying to fool you. It's fairly typical in the Amazon, depending on where the client wants/needs to go. All ad mixes open additional spaces and the curandero, if experienced, sees what needs opening.
But I've never heard of a curandero serving real datura when asked to prepare ayahuasca: he/she'd normally tell you: I don't work with ayahuasca, I work with datura. Or Vice versa. Or in combination. Same with curanderos who work with tree saps or root barks primarily: All are very proud traditions and only overlap a little with most curanderos.
Heck, why would an alleged ayahuasca curandero make you datura, and then sit up with you for 24-72 hours when he could have made you ayahuasca and had you sleeping in 3-4 hours? It's just not a logical proposition. It actually doesn't happen. It's a made up, invented situation. Like saying: What if a New York City cab driver takes me to California instead of 31st Street?
Could happen but won't. Ever.
Same with the rape nonsense: Curanderos work with their families nearby. Almost none work without other people there. It's just negatively fanciful to imagine that a man, in front of his wife and kids and assistants and other participants, would suddenly rape someone--who would presumably be screaming--in the middle of a ceremony. Forget it. Doesn't happen.
Now, if you get met at the airport in Iquitos, don't speak spanish and decide that the taxi driver, who asked "ayahuasca? ayahuasca? Mi Padre!" is your guiding light, well, then you're on your own. But if you've looked around, found out who's who and what's what by talking to people who have been there, then things will generally be pretty kosher. A curandero/curandera who has 4 people drinking ayahuasca simply cannot take time off from singing icaros to rape someone. Next day make a come on? Next day suggest that the person has a problem with intimacy that they can help with? Certainly possible. But that's a far far cry from being raped in a ceremony.

Dog Poop Ads Never Saw So Much Traffic

Well, until further notice or maybe forever, the ad people on my pages are gone. You know, the ads at the top and side of this blog that you punched once in a while and which made me a couple of bucks. The way it works, I guess, is that advertisers agree to pay a dime or a quarter for each time someone visits their ads. Well, a friend of mine, Alan Shoemaker, decided that with the financial setbacks we've had around here with the trips lately that he wanted to help to make sure my kids had a great Christmas. So he went and posted a little note on a bulletin board suggesting that people ought to come here and read those ads and make me some Christmas money. I didn't know of it till after it was done, and by that time I'd earned $32 bucks in one day. The next day that hit $64, which was double my best month.
The operation was stopped after that, and the third day we only hit $12, still a great day but not impossible without prompting.
Anyway, in my last post I'd written about Madeleina calling the new dog a poop machine and so the ad spider, looking for key words, thought "Poop" was very key and changed all the ads from debt-reorganizers to ads for "super scoopers," "doggie fresh" rug cleaners, cat liter and such.
And those guys must of thought they were in heaven. They probably never got so many hits from a non-dog site in their lives.
Unfortunately, google, which runs the ads, decided things weren't kosher here and wrote me a nice note to let me know I'd been yanked. Benched. Fired. And they let me know that they weren't just taking back the money from Alan's two day prank, but were taking back the money from the last couple of months as well. Madeleina went wild. "They can't steal our money! Let's go and beat them up, dad! Let's whack and smack them, let's nick and nack them! Let's show them who we are!"
I explained that the head of google was right this moment organizing an extravagant island wedding and probably hadn't meant anything personal by eliminating me.
She still isn't happy about it because one of her favorite things is to click on that account to see if we've made a dollar or two on a given day. "Plus, dad, let's be honest. Without those ads, why are people going to go to your blog. You just write crazy stuff that nobody cares about. I mean it's just about our family or ayahuasca. No offense dad."
None taken darling.
So a good intention has once again resulted in a crash landing. Thanks for trying Alan.
And me and Madeleina? We know Santa's coming anyway, he always does. And we're figuring he's probably gonna have a couple of express packages from the "super scooper" and the "doggie fresh" rug cleaning people as a token of gratitude for getting them so many doggone hits.

Goats, A Dog and the Empty Nest Syndrome

It's clear and cold in Joshua this morning. Clear like you've had your eyes cleaned, with every remaining unfallen leaf cut against crisp air and a blue sky. But cold too, when I had to warm up the car before taking Madeleina to school and the heat didn't kick in for five minutes. But what a beautiful ride it was: it seemed like she and I could almost count the hairs on horses' tails as we drove past the horse farms on the way to Staples Elementary.
But oddly, something happened when I dropped her off. I just welled up inside and started crying. It just felt sort of painful that I only drop off one baby now at school. Just a couple of years ago it was a dash to get Italo, Marco and Madeleina all ready and then all off to different schools at the same time. I'm sure that's just silly of me but I guess that lately, with Marco staying at his girlfriend's house some nights, and going to work at 3:30 AM, I don't see him much. And Italo and Sarah have been staying at Chepa's for the last couple of weeks since she's not able to move much and needs help and company around the house during her last weeks of pregnancy. And then Chepa's boyfriend came back into town Sunday night, so I won't get to see Sierra much the next couple of weeks till after Christmas. And so I guess I got a glimpse of what's called--and what I always laughed at--as the Empty nest syndrome.
Heck, what am I doing? I had to ask myself. But then Madeleina just asked me the other day: Dad, since you're basically living in this house by yourself these days, are you going to keep it?
I told her yes, that this is a temporary situation, but it may not be. Italo and Sarah are ready for their own place. Rumor has it Marco is ready to marry his girl Brooke and move into her family's home until they can get a place.
Where the heck did the years go?
So what could I do? I came home and picked up dog poop that Charlie the Bassett hound left in several places. As Madeleina noted this morning: "Man, that dog's a machine dad. A poop machine."
Then I went out to see to the goats: If you ever get goats let me suggest you have them neutered. One of ours somehow slipped through the cracks and still has his sack. He weighs about 70 pounds and would look great on a barbeque spit, but Madeleina and Sarah won't have that. He sees me and he goes wild: His long ears go from floppy to standing straight out from his head. His pupils dilate and go horizontal. He begins to spit in short rapid fire bursts and he sticks his tongue out in a very vulgar way. And then he lowers his head, charges me and tries to hump my leg. Madeleina says it's because I've got a "man smell" about me. That my very existence challenges his domination of the yard. She's probably right.
But it may just be that he looks at me and realizes I'm just measuring how long of a spit I'd need and wondering what sort of sides I'd serve.

Scrub Down Day

Saturday morning, still raining here in Joshua. Had a story put off, giving me a couple of days to get caught up on stuff. You know: Get the mortgage and electric bills covered, drive over and get the car insurance and water bills paid, look in the mirror and realize I haven't shaved this week or cut my nails. Got my truck back without--for now--needing the clutch I thought I needed (just added fluid to the clutch reservoir. Bought my tickets to Peru and into Iquitos, signed up a new person for the late January jungle jaunt--we're at break-even now, baby! And cleaned up a lot of dog poop from the puppy. Funny how the kids keep wanting to feed him but cut and run when he leaves 10 signature poops around the house.
But then...then it was time to face the laundry room. I've been putting it off for six years, and during those six years since it needed to be cleaned--starting about a month after we moved in here--I'm amazed at what we've been able to stuff in there. I mean besides the laundry and the washer and dryer.
It's not a big room, maybe eight-foot by twelve-foot. It hangs off the back of the house. I covered the spaces where it doesn't meet the house with duct tape a couple of years ago and that seems to be holding. Whew.
But then there are the four built in, deep shelves and the little closet next to them. In theory, one shelf has painting supplies, one has electrical supplies, one has tool boxes and one has the various fluids we use to keep the cars running. But somehow there are also 15 canvasses and a small easel stuffed in them. Dozens of boxes of screws and nails with an average of maybe one screw or nail each. Then there was the used condom (MARCO!!!!), the bird food the family of mice have been feasting on, used Christmas lights that never worked but were apparently worth saving. Bookends, two broken kites, dried sponges, tiles from the bathroom two tilings ago and I haven't even gotten to the bottom shelf yet. Six years and counting on that one.
Ah but there is more to the room. There's the fantastic black-walnut table I always loved but which fell out of favor with my kids years ago, and the New York City fold down school desk circa 1900 that Gail Roscetta stole from an empty school house for me in Manhattan so many Christmases ago. On top of it are my cookbooks, the shaved ice machine, the instant noodle soup cases, the extra rolls of paper towels, broken frames, the bottles of drinking water and back up large diet soda bottles. And the sox. The poor sox whose friends ran away months an years ago and who have no one to fold up with now. Dozens of them, lonely souls now relegated to the big black garbage bag that also holds the old stereo two deck tape player I'm finally willing to admit I probably will never have fixed, and all the mouse droppings I've swept up and the strands of holiday lights I'd rather buy again than try to repair.
And under the table: the still filled liter box from Prince the cat that no one ever changed, which is probably why Prince now lives outside. And there are still 36 quarts of the pickles I made in 2002--fabulous garlic dills that we ate so many of we haven't been able to look at them since then. There are also three large garbage bags and I haven't the courage to look to see what's in them yet. One is a bag of Madeleinae's stuffed animals: She cried when we reduced her menagerie from about 60 to a reasonable 40 a few years ago but wouldn't let us give them away, so they--along with the mystery-treat bags, sit among the bits of cat litter beneath that beautiful table. And then there are the several fishing poles which no one in this family has ever used, and the large stand-up painter's easel: The moment I bought it was the last time anyone put paint to palate around here. And there are science projects like the aunt farm pieces, and last month's sea monkey experiment (yes, you can kill them if you don't feed them) which sits among the numerous dark mold projects growing out of old coffee cans that I wasn't even aware any of the kids were working on.
Ah, I'm thinking maybe I should just loosen that duct tape and let that entire room fall right off the side of the house and into the back yard. We could build another, start again, couldn't we? We could collect new stuff that we don't want but won't get rid of. And I could have another six year time frame before I'd be forced to look into it very deeply.