Birds, Cats, Chopin and Hawaii

“Did you sight the ever elusive Norton Bird?” Sandy chuckles mostly to herself as I turn to DL, questioning.
“That’s what she calls BLN.”
“Oh,” I nod. BLN is our moniker for Linda Norton, aka Beauteous Linda Norton. She also is known as the Norton Bird, evidently.

She is a woman deserving of much attention and many nicknames, so good to know that she’s also a Bird.
I respond to Sandy, “Nope, she wasn’t in the pool.”

“Does she still do the machines upstairs?” Sandy asks.
I shrug, glance over at DL for the answer. “Yes, she does,” DL affirms.
“Good to know,” Sandy slaps on some more lotion, then reaches for her red sweatsuit pants.

“Well, if she’s not in the pool, then I don’t see her. And as you know, Sandy, the pool is the only thing that matters.”
“I was waiting for that,” Sandy grins, pulling her red sweatshirt top over her wet head.
“The water is the best, though, don’t you agree?”
“It’s where I’ll end up,” Sandy agrees. “Just toss my ashes out into the sea under Diamond Head. That’s good enough for me.”

I laugh, thinking how that’s a fine idea for any swimmers’ last rites. Or even non-swimmers for that matter….. I will always remember taking the little boat out onto San Pedro Bay with my family, my father carrying his mother’s ashes in the urn. Then as we got into the middle of the blue blue bay, he opened the urn and let the ashes float out into the wind and into the sea.
“She always wanted to go to Hawaii,” my little sister quipped.

And we all laughed. The joke breaking the sadness and the missing of Grandma Birdie. I miss her still so. But thinking of her floating under the blue skies of Hawaii in that beautiful sea does make me smile.

Now, I sigh, thinking about swimming in that sea at Waikiki. “I love that ocean swimming under Diamond Head!” I exclaim to Sandy.
“Yup, it’s fine spot for swimming. Not too deep.”

“And so warm and smooth!” I gush. “That’s why they call it Paradise, DL!”
DL nods, starting to pack up her stuff so we can get the hell outta the Y before the garage closes at 10 pm. It’s 9:55 now, but Sandy’s on a roll for some reason tonight.

“Just like the Joni Mitchell song,” Sandy says now.
DL nods, I, of course, have no clue what she’s talking about: “What Joni Mitchell song?” Sandy recites the line. It’s totally foreign to me.

“Ummmmm…..I don’t know it,” I say.”

“Well, I’m probably a little older than you are,” Sandy allows.

“Nah, I don’t think so. I just only know Chopin!”

“Well, laa deee daaaa!” Sandy sings out. And we all crack up. “Have you ever named one of your cats, Chopin?”
“No, that’s a good idea though,” I say, wondering why the hell not. “We did name them all literary names for awhile, you know, Gertrude and Alice and….”

“Those are kinda generic,” Sandy proclaims.
I laugh. “Yeah, I suppose. Not like your name for Linda, The Norton Bird!”

“Yup, she’s always flying,” Sandy says, grabbing the last of her stuff and packing it away in her bag.

“See you next week,” I call out as DL heads out of the gym in front of me.
“Yup, till next week," Sandy calls back. "You ladies have a good rest of your evening.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will. You too.”

As DL and I climb the stairs, I huff and puff, wishing I were a bird that could fly up and out.
Yet, I’m a fish. As Sandy said, "Were you a fish in your former life?”
Undoubtedly.
But maybe in my next life I can be a bird. Maybe a swimming bird? Yeah! A duck or a gull or a coot or……

What’s a good swimming Hawaiian bird? I’ll have to get back to you on that. In the meantime, quack on!

Hey! I'm THERE!!!

“Are you using this machine?”
I point to the towel wrapped around the seat,
He shrugs,
Takes the towel,
mutters, ‘no.’
And moves on.

Denise stands and chats
about this and that
as I pull down the weights.
Then she goes over to
another machine.

Again with the towel
Wrapped around the machine.
She looks around
No one there
She moves the towel
And
Wham!
There he is.
“Hey, I’m there!
I’m using that machine!”

He’s in her face.
Too close
She walks away.
Sicilian anger.

“Are you okay?”
I ask her.
She nods, yes,
But I know she’s not.
We continue to
Workout.

I Was There Man
Comes up behind
Denise, “Just to let you know,
I’m off that machine.”
I glare at him.
He walks away.
Denise continues to
Pump away.

We go to the treadmills
Denise chooses a machine.
“Hey! I was on that machine!
My water bottle’s there!”

We burst out laughing.
Water Bottle Man puts in
His earbuds,
Listens to
Water music?

“What’s going on
tonight?” I ask her.
She’s still laughing.
Starts using many examples.
“What are you doing in
my house? Didn’t you see
my car in your driveway?”

And I join in,
“What are you doing in my lane?
Didn’t you see my
Giant Rubber Ducky!?”

I go to the pool.
I see my lane.
The Rubber Ducky’s
Floating there.

Or is it only I
Who sees it there?

Toebox

In the hot tub, DL and I rest for a moment, letting the watery heat therapeutic our bodies and brains. Then the water starts moving. We are in waves. Why? I glance to my side. On the steps floats a Large Bouncing Woman , jiggling her entire body up and down, up and down, creating wavy waves that jostle us back and forth. We both start to giggle.

“I remember when O and I went to Germany many many years ago,” I grin, trying to keep my balance on the seat as the waves continue to cascade outward into me. DL nods in encouragement? Actually, she has no choice but to listen to the story: Hot Tub captive audience. “And there was this beautiful indoor pool in a little town called, Garmisch Partikirchen. The pool’s water was calm and peaceful when I first ventured in and began swimming laps, but then I noticed that it was getting harder and harder to lift my head up to take a breath. The water was swooshing into my mouth? Why? So I stopped swimming and stood in the center of the pool for a moment. All of the pool patrons had swarmed into the pool. They were boisterous, laughing, splashing. Was this causing all the waves? No….I saw now that there were actual large uniform waves being generated somehow. A wave machine?”
DL’s eyes are wide, delighted behind her foggy round glasses.

“It was hilarious and marvelous!”
She nods.

I let myself be waved about by Bouncing Woman’s machinations now. And think to myself how I’d never encountered anything like the Garmisch Wave Machine in all of the pools I’ve swum in since, and today, with Large Bouncing Woman making these little waves, I'm reminded me of those bigger waves in Germany, so long ago. I can still savor the delight. Still hear the Germans calling out in glee. Wave induced nostalgia? Sure, why not?

But back to today. I start to tell DL about my day, my woes, my shoes. I’d started wearing tennis shoes to work cause my ‘work’ shoes were hurting my little toe. It had become all red and swollen. And, I just didn’t care anymore how I looked at work. My Business Crisp days are over!

DL and I have started this thing about ‘not caring’. Or no, that’s not true, we are going to try not to care about things. And then text each other about what we don’t care about. For instance, I really don’t care that I’m wearing my tennis shoes to work now instead of my more business crisp footwear that hurts my toes. And really I don’t!

And DL doesn’t care that she wore her blouse inside out all day. And I don’t care that my hair is a straw stick mess---but then see, it sometimes happens that we can say ‘We don’t care,’ but actually, we do. The wrong hair don’t care desire is just that—a desire. I actually care a lot about what my hair looks like.

“And so if you wear men’s shoes than there’s more room for your toes!” Bouncing Woman exclaims, raising her foot out of the tub and spreading her digits. Then letting her foot fall back into the tub. Kersplash. More waves!

“Oh, yeah, that’s true,” I say. “I’ve been wearing boy’s shoes for my whole life.”
“Good for you!” She nods her approval, sinking back into the tub. “It’s called a ToeBox!”

That word: toebox! It sounds like a sinister receptacle for some evil kidnapper to send detached digits if the ransom isn’t paid pronto. “You better pay up, Mr. High and Mighty, or your daughter’s dear little toe is gonna show up in a toebox on your front step!” I see Marlon Brando in The Godfather, looming behind his massive desk, flicking a tiny box back and forth between his index fingers on the desk’s shinny top.

Gross! I start to feel a little queasy thinking about Brando and the ToeBox as DL and I heave ourselves out of the hot tub. Toebox Woman starts in talking to someone else.

I still feel sort of wavy as I weave toward the sauna, though less queasy out of the watery heat and the wavy water.

Water and waves and ToeBoxes. It's hard to put it all together. So, I won't try. I'm just going to sit in the sauna, close my eyes, and feel the gentle wavy heat of Utopia.

Modicum of Awareness

Stopping at the wall, I glance up through my foggy mask. A yellow snorkeled woman is making the circle swim motion with her hands, drawing ovals in the air with her index finger. “Can you guys circle?” she asks.

I hate circle swimming, but what are you gonna do, except ….there’s a situation in my lane.

“I’m happy to,” I lie to her, “but good luck trying to get him to stop!” I point at Maniacal Hostile Man, who has just turned at the wall in front of us, not stopping, completely ignoring the obvious request to circle swim. He had done the same thing to me when I’d tried to get him to acknowledge me upon trying to enter “His” lane. The lifeguard, though, uncharacteristically, had been on it. Had gone to the opposite side of the pool and stopped Maniac Man with his big red rubber guard thingee. Manic Man had stopped. Thrown off his cap. Gesticulated hostilely. Then had put his cap back on and swam back down the lane toward me.

Did I really want to share a lane with this guy?
Nope.
But no choice. The Downtown Oakland Y pool was mobbed and his was the only spot where I didn’t have to circle swim.
He was a menace. Splashy and arrogant. How does this come across in the pool? Oh, I dunno. Maybe when he smacked me with his arm and didn’t even stop to apologize?
I tell Yellow Snorkel woman this.

“Oh, forget it,” she shakes her head. “I don’t need to deal with that!”
“Yeah, I thought of crashing into him back, but….” I shrug.
She glances down at my paddles lying on the side of the deck, nodding toward them, yellow snorkel in hand: “Those are pretty good weapons!”

We share a chuckle.
She walks away. Gets into the pool, no problem, two lanes down. Sighing, I continue to swim in His Lane. Every couple of laps, I glance around, hoping for an opening, but no one is leaving. So, I’m trapped in Menace Man’s lane.

Finally he gets out. But not out of the pool. He’s shifted over to the Family Swim section since all the families have gone. There are two large yellow Rubber Duckies floating in the water. I’m kicking now, so I surreptitiously eye him as he separates the duckies by about 6 feet, placing his arms out wide to make a sort of corridor. Then he starts to make odd noises at the Duckies. I can’t really tell what they are. Nothing intelligible. Not words. Just guttural gurgling noises, then he runs through the ducky corridor batting them around. Then he stops and repositions them again to make another run.
It’s hard to describe. But it’s insane.

I have never seen anything like it. I think he’s got some Mental Issues with Rubber Duckies that I don’t really want to think about too closely.

After about 10 minutes, he gets out of the pool. He looks normal. Too tan middle aged guy in sorta good shape in a black Speedo with a good head of wet hair.
I watch as he leaves the deck.
And think, damn. I shared a lane with a Rubber Duckie Fetish Man?

Ickeee!

I finish my swim, the pool calmer now that he’s gone.

Heaving myself out, I catch Yellow Snorkel woman’s eye. Go over to her. Report the Ducky Situation
“You’re not gonna believe this, but after he got out of the lane, he moved over to the family swim lane and started doing Something Strange with the Rubber Duckies.”

She looks at me for a moment, then grins, “Get out of here!”

“Yeah, it’s hard to describe, but I don’t think it’s normal. Beside the fact that he was such a jerk about stopping at the wall and communicating with other swimmers about sharing the lane. ”

She shakes her head, “Yeah, well, all we want is a Modicum of Awareness! And if it’s more than that, it’s a Happy Day!”
We both crack up.
I wish her a good rest of her swim as I turn to grab my stuff from its hook on the wall.

A Modicum of Awareness. Good phrase! I’m going to adopt this in my daily life:

For impatient drivers on I 80 who tailgate.
For cellphone texters on Market Street who bump into me.
For hostile swimmers at the Oakland Y who have not even a Modicum of Awareness?

Before leaving the deck, I glance one last time at the family swim section, the two rubber duckies now floating serenely in the blue grey water.
Did I really see what I saw? Hear what I heard?
The Rubber Duckies bob up and down. One of them gives me a sly wink.....

A Modicum of Awareness?
Just ask the Rubber Duckies.

Quack ...quack....quack!

Something Big

“Are you going to do something big?”

Through my foggy mask, I gaze up at the voice wafting down from a slight woman’s figure. She’s perched on the edge of the deck, feet dangling in the water. I think she’s smiling? But hard to tell.
I laugh anyway. It’s her question. What does she mean, am I going to do something big? Like change my career? Publish my novel? Swim in this cold pool?

I figure it’s the last item, but maybe it’s something else. I’ve had the lane to myself for all of 5 minutes here at the frigid Berkeley Y pool. My back and arms ache from the cold. I have to keep moving.
Maybe that’s the something big?

Or maybe she thinks, since she’s asking to share a lane (did she in fact ask me?) and I’d been swimming down the center, ‘something big’ means splashing with much spatial span the butterfly or large kicking up of waves down the center of the lane or…..

I have no clue, but she gets in and starts swimming before I have a chance to clarify.

She is small and splashless, which to me, is something big as far as a lap lane partner goes. I mean, she will be easy to share the lane with. A BIG deal in any pool, but esp. at the Y.

After 20-30 minutes, she climbs out and I barely miss her. She was so smooth. And in comparison to the bearded swimmer that gets in after her, her presence is a Big Loss!

Later, in the Berktopia sauna with DL, there’s a woman there stretching with complete inhibition. She’s got no qualms about doing yoga poses with wide open legs stark naked.

I think, is this the same woman who shared a lane with me?

Of course, I can’t tell because of the fogged mask syndrome, but I think, after a few minutes of trying not to stare at this woman and purposely avoiding making eye contact with DL (otherwise it’d be all over!) that, no, this isn’t the same woman. I don’t think Something Big Questioner would be doing the obscene stretches in the sauna. (Can I call them obscene? I mean, we are all women in the women’s sauna and so there is nudity, but the stretches? They make me feel slightly queasy)

DL rises and leaves and I mean to ask her later if she felt queasy too, but then forget since there’s so much lost routine coming to Berkeley instead of Oakland ---we are wary of Oakland since DL’s car window was smashed and her registration stolen when she was parked in back of the Y on Webster Street. So, in the meantime, we’re at Berkeley where there’s a garage that is open till midnight and a guard at the front.

Yet, it’s strange not to be at Oakland with the Utopians. And the Berkeley sauna, while hot and delicious for my frozen body, hasn’t made a good first impression.

I don’t want to come here every week and have to avert my gaze from Obscene Yoga Stretching Woman.

Though Something Big Woman was nice.

So there is that, right?

Is it something big?
I'll have to get back to you on that....after I recover from my queasiness.....

Orange Night

Neesie's Poem

Ode to Orange

Once my mother's lipstick was almost
orange
but red was the actual color
of my wagon too
Yet the roses were kind of orange
and I thought about this alot:
Could the clouds be orange?
What about an eye?
And the weather wrapped itself
around me like the skin of an orange
and it was warm there
like lying in a lush warm sea
with orange fish
swimming about as if that was the only thing
and my small scoffed shoes
took on an orange hue
in the afternoon
I ran to the fence and climbed it
before night fell
and the street glowed from the
yellow lamplight
and I thought of an orange-eyed cloud

Ian's Poem

Ode to Orange

Oh oh the range, the danger
almost
Orange is an almost color
Almost yellow almost the sun
Almost red, close to the fire
But cooler, warmer too.
And then the odious of
Orange marches, banners
Almost as ferocious as the
opposite of the I.R.A., tho
O.R.A., the yellow and red
And Rusty the cat in orange
Fur, not at all ferocious, not
even almost. Marmalade the
English way, where oranges
Do not grow.

Cj's Poem

Ode to Orange

O! Orange!
How delicious!
& nutritious!
In every form:
fruit
ice cream
lifesavers
tic tacs
orange rolls--Pillsbury pop &
fresh, of course!

O! Orange!
Where would we be
without you?
No sunsets with brilliant fire
orange.
No safety cones on the
highway:
Slow for the cone zone.
No life preservers to
place on tiny toddlers
in the pool
Well...actually, let the
toddlers sink!
They don't deserve
orange!

O Orange!
Scriabin saw orange in
his chords of the Preludes
Scarlet saw orange when
Rhett said "See you later,
Dahling."

Who else sees
orange?

Not I!
I only see blue & blue
& blue & blue
Orange?
Be damned....till the
next Orange Night, that is!


Lu's Poem

Ode to Orange



--Oh, I never did see orange at all;
--Until the S.F. Giants I saw
play the baseballa---


--Buster Posey did wear it every
warm summer night

--Orange was all around, everywhere,
and I learned to delight.

--Now, and again, I
think I should add

--Oh, orange, my orange, you're
not-a-so bad!

Frank's Poem

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

Frank O’Hara, 1926 - 1966

~Grace Hartigan

Special Magic

“You sound just like my twin sister!” Sandy jokes as I try to croak out a “I’m headed to the pool” farewell.
“Yeah, I have this cold,” I shake my head. “I need to swim it out.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that, but glad you did.”
I wave instead of more croaking, head out to the pool, which on the night before Thanksgiving at the Downtown Oakland Y I expect to be empty.
It’s not.
Damn.
Every lane is packed. Kids are screaming and hurling toys. The lifeguards are circling the deck, actually paying attention to the mayhem.

I choose a lane to split with a swimmer who seems to have the least amount of splashing. But then she gets out. I spy a Large Man at the wall. Damn, he’s getting in my lane. I hate sharing a lane with Large Men, esp. if there’s a Large Man on the other side of me too. I’m in a Large Man Splash Sandwich, being tossed back and forth between Man Tsunamis.

It’s hell. The 9 circle, of course.

I press on. Get through my swim portion of my workout, swallowing only 10 gallons of water, before grabbing the kickboard, peeling off the mask, and putting on my flippers.
Ah, mobility at last! And I can see. The Mayhem still abounds, but over in the corner of the walking lane I spy the Beauteous Linda Norton chatting with a beauteous blue turban woman as they both serenely stretch and float.
Damn. That’s the way to swim at the Y! Not swim! Both women look so calm and engaged. They don’t have that frenzied aspect that I always have whenever I try to swim my laps here. They just chat, and lift a leg once in a while and then float a bit.
Plus they have their hair in marvelous cover-up situations.

TBLN has her towel tucked under and around her head in some sort of intricate get up. How the hell does she do that? I wonder. Her hair looks like it doesn’t get wet at all! I need to ask her how she does that towel wrap.

And later I do. After Utopia banter about movies, (You must go see Ladybird); art (Carol can paint the three eyes on the back of DL’s head); and heat or lack thereof in the new Utopia (They just installed that new heating unit and it’s not hot enough,” Sandy harrumphs. “I think people are saying that it’s too hot. Well, hell, if they don’t like the heat, they should go in the steam room, you know?)

Then….DL leaves. It’s plenty hot for her. Sandy turns and sighs. BLN rises serenely, her marvelous Towel Head still firmly in place. I hail her before she leaves, “Linda! How do you wrap your towel like that?”

She gives me her Mona Lisa smile as she glides out the door, “Special Magic.”

All the women laugh as the BLN exits.

“She is so funny,” one woman exclaims, chuckling still.
“Yup, that she is,” I agree.
Later, I tell DL the ‘Special Magic’ explanation for the towel wrap and her eyes light up. “That’s fantastic, CJ. I think we can use that phrase for many things.”
And she’s right.

Michelle Pfeiffer in Murder on the Orient Express: Special Magic.
The cat eating the pills hidden in her treats: Special Magic.

The pool lane empty and warm and free of Big Man Splash Sandwich: Special Magic!!!

Sandy and I: twins? Now, that would be the most Special Magic of all!

Just like Mariah and Cassie on the Young and the Restless.

Or Adam and Stuart on All My Children.

Or....?


Stay tuned....there's more Special Magic in the future. You can count on Utopia for that!

Liars!

“Did anyone turn in a purple water bottle?” DL takes a chance. Asks the 12 year old at the front counter of the Downtown YMCA: Time: 9:59. 1 minute till closing.
No way is she going to get any action now, right?

Wrong!

12 year old girl (actually, she’s probably 25) makes a pretense of glancing around behind the counter, a look of intense bored concentration. “I don’t see anything.”

“I think I left it upstairs,” DL continues. “I was on the treadmill and the bikes.”
“I’ll go take a look,” 12 year old nods, trots out of our sight.
I glance over at DL, shrug. “I gotta set this stuff down,” I motion to my hugely laden gym bag.
“Sure,” DL and I walk over to the chairs by the front door. I plop my bag down next to Large and In Charge Lifeguard who’s plugged into something, staring into space.

I stare at him. Wanting to fuck with him. What can I say? Oh, yeah, my favorite, complain about the pool temperature.
He sees my stare, takes out his earplugs, “WHAT?” he looks at us, aghast at our effrontery to interrupt his plugged in state.

“Nothing,” I say.
“Okay, well, why were you staring at me?”
“We weren’t staring at you,” DL says. “We’re just waiting.”
“Oh, okay.” He glances at me. “I thought I did something wrong.”
I grin. “Actually, you did.”
“WHAT?” Now he’s pissed off, mildly so, but I like it.
“It’s all your fault that the pool was cold tonight.”

“What are you talking about? The pool was 84 degrees!” he proclaims, shaking his head, and starting to plug in again. He’s had enough of the stupid middle aged women hassling him.
“It was NOT!” I try not to shout. “I wouldn’t have been cold if it had been 84!” And it wasn’t. I’d even talked to another swimmer and asked her if she had been cold. She’d paused for a moment, then nodded, ‘Yeah, it was a little chilly tonight.’

Too bad I didn’t have her here to back me up. It’s always just me complaining and then the lifeguards, 12 year olds and other sundry Y employees roll their eyes at me. Complain complain complain. It falls on deaf ears.

I stare at Large and in Charge. He seems genuinely incensed at my claim that the pool was cold. I think he’s lying. Why? Just to fuck back at me.

12 year old returns. It’s only been a few minutes. Did she really go all the way upstairs and scour the premises for DL’s water bottle?
“I don’t see anything,” she murmurs, turning away from us.
Surprise surprise.
She’s lying too.

Later, in the car, I mention to DL that I didn’t think she’d had time to really go upstairs and look for the water bottle. She probably just ducked around the corner, counted to 50 and then returned. Then lied to us.

Liars!

Why is this? Is it just easier to lie? I think so. Sometimes. Those little ‘white’ lies—the typical ones done out of politeness-- just roll off the tongue. ‘Oh yes, your hair looks fabulous!’ When in actuality it looks like shit. Or, “Gee, that production of Oklahoma that your community playhouse put on was marvelous!” When in fact no one can compare to Shirley Jones!

Or sometimes the lies serve a darker purpose: my all-time favorite: “The shake machine is broken” from my stint as a soda jerk. This lie came so easily to me as the stunned family of 5 stood open mouthed, disappointment lining their mugs. No way was I going to make 5 milkshakes 3 minutes before closing! The lie worked perfectly! They got cones instead. Or maybe they just left. I don’t remember. But The Lie did wonders for my mood!

And so, tonight, the liars at the Y can be excused. I get it. It’s just easier. Esp. when you’re about to close. But poor DL! I bet her purple water bottle is up there somewhere.

Or not. Maybe 12 year old clerk took it. Saw how very pretty it was. Snatched it for herself.
Would she? I mean, a water bottle? Isn’t that kinda gross? Of course, DL is NOT gross, so maybe when 12 year old saw DL she thought, hell, the only way I can get close to someone so beauteous is by lying and then stealing her water bottle.

Yup. I bet that’s what happened.

I’m going to run this theory past DL. In the meantime, if anyone sees a pretty purple water bottle at the YMCA, can you please turn it in to the lost and found?

And do NOT give it to the 12 year old.

I don’t trust her!