You're The Best Thing That's Ever happend To Me

I've had my share of life's up and downs
But fate's been kind the downs have been few
I guess you could say that I've been lucky
Oh, I guess you could say it's all because of you.

And if anyone should ever write my life story
Oh, whatever reason there might be
You'll be there between each line of pain and glory
'Cause you're the best thing that's ever happened to me
You're the best thing that ever happened to me.

Lord, there have been times when times were hard
But always somehow I made it through
'Cause for every moment I've spent hurting
There was a moment I've spent loving you.

And if anyone should ever write my life story
Oh, whatever reason there might be
You'll be there between each line of pain and glory
'Cause you're the best thing that's ever happened to me
You're the best thing that ever happened to me...

Jim Weatherly

Because Of You

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e.e. cummings

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Monday, February 12, 2007

Halo, My Darling,

I write this a few hours after we were cut off by PLDT—again, it seems. We were just getting into a serious exchange of thoughts and poof! Gone again…

Bummers! I didn’t get to tell you how much I love you…

Anyway, perhaps I can just state my case this way and you can read it and decide how to respond.

As I was saying, I think finishing your accounting degree is important for several reasons. You will prove to yourself that you can take on a project—any project—from start to finish. If others want to know if you can complete assignments you can point to the degree. Having a degree also says something else: you know how to do research, how to find out what you need to know to complete a project. So, with a degree you tell future employers you can do two things. You can finish things on time (getting your degree in the prescribed amount of time) and you know how to look up stuff. It doesn’t really matter what the degree is in, anyway, though it is very helpful to have a degree that matches the job you’re looking for.

Another reason is the money you’ve already spent to get this far. Surely turning away from what is a possible career (accounting) is probably foolish at this time. And, going for what you really want—psychology—is not quite the career move that makes sense right now, particularly in PH, as we both agree. I can understand that your heart is not in the “numbers game.” For now, this is the only game worth pursuing if demand is high in PH and if, of course, you decide that staying there is the right choice for you.

That decision is complicated, for sure. There is the possibility you can get hired quickly in PH, maybe even close to home. You may not make as much money as you would say in Cebu or Manila, for instance, but here is another consideration for you; Mom’s health. If she gets through this latest illness, that is great! If she doesn’t get through it and she requires home-care, who will do that? Let’s be realistic here and hope for the best but have a plan for the worst that can happen. If she gets worse, are there family members that can care for her while you continue in school? Will you be able to finish school, at all? What happens then? You can expect that I will do everything I can to help you but I will have limits for a while as I build the business up to something profitable for us. But, we have to be practical and think about what could happen and how to handle that. Let’s pray she goes through this surgery well and no further complications arise.

You know I love you very much. I’ve said it in many ways and I’ve variously demonstrated it, as well. Surely it is interesting to have me as your love since there is so much distance and yes, even years between us. There are surely some differences between us but for now all we discuss seems to be similar and likeable. Over time, you may find some of me is not necessarily attractive and you may accept me anyway. Yet, there may be some things that you feel strongly about and that you don’t want to have in your life and you may reject me as a future husband. You are free to do that I can understand that.

I know for certain that much of my depths have been changed by knowing you and loving you. I constantly search my mind and soul for those negative traits I might have and strive to work on them. I am impatient but I find a new willingness to wait for you to express yourself and that has affected me in other areas of my life. I don’t yell at stupid drivers anymore. I’ll wait in line to be served by an overworked store cashier and even make small-talk to make our shared experience pleasant. I find honesty a pleasurable experience and up until now I wasn’t sure I could tell the difference between being totally truthful and only partially so. I am also more aware of what is honest behavior in others. So far, I haven’t been disappointed in leaving someone if I find they are less than honest with me, although I tend to give people too much time to prove themselves dishonest. This must be because of my caring nature, which has also improved due to knowing you.

Up until now, I played with businesses instead of being serious about making them create money. For now I see this art we have created as a serious thing, something no one has ever seen before up until now. Once it “takes off” (and I firmly believe it will) we will be in for a deliciously profitable ride. For the first time, I am very positive about what I am doing with the art of you and of Até Rory. Because you permitted me to portray yourselves in all manner of ways, I am an excellent artist and now I am working on becoming an excellent businessman to promote the art and sell it. Your participation in my dream of becoming a world-wide famous artist is an absolute key to my success. I could not do it without you and I will not do it without you.

I now take care of my health better than I have up until now. As you know, I have two things to concern me: diabetes and cancer. I am getting better control over my diabetes by changing my diet. I now eat salads, vegetables, chicken and fish. I make juices out of apples, carrots, ginger and spinach. My blood sugar levels are getting better, too. Although I have to inject myself daily with insulin to keep my sugar levels under better control, the diet and accompanying weight loss is making things better, too. Because of my love for you and my desire to remain alive for many years to come with you, I do more healthy things than before. You know I quit smoking last summer and I have not missed it a bit. I do have an occasional glass of wine from time to time and I find that relaxing. I sleep fairly well. I drink a lot of water, too, and sometimes my sleep is interrupted in order to go to the comfort room during the night, but I fall asleep quickly after those visits.

Because of you, I have less loneliness in my life. I do miss you immediately after we end our conversations but I find “…i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)” as the poet says. That keeps me full of you until we can speak again. There are times, I have to admit, that missing you hurts so much that I can’t stop myself from crying. It’s then that I feel weakest and am in most need of hearing from you. And you know what? Almost every time that I am on my knees weeping, something comes in, either you on IM or an email. I promise you, just when I need you most, you show up. It doesn’t happen all the time. I mean, I’m not always crying, of course. People would take ME away if I was doing that all the time. Just occasionally, I feel sad about not hearing from you for several days.

Because of you, I now know what it means to be a “best friend” to someone else. You act differently around me from how you describe yourself around others. You open up and tell me what is on your mind. You allow me to ask you about yourself. You trust me more each day. I appreciate the confidence you place in me. I’m glad what I say makes sense to you. I’m glad it is useful. I’m proud that my suggestions to you are taken seriously, simple as they may be. Up until now, I really didn’t understand how important my role might be in someone else’s life. When you turn to me for advice or you just make comments of one kind or another, I take what you say seriously. There are times when you tease or make me laugh and I appreciate that so much. You do things gently and in a kindly manner with me and I softly accept. Up until now, that was very much missing from my life. But now, I know what it is to be important enough to someone else to be called a “best friend.”

The poet once said, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Looking at you, I know exactly what he means. You are beautiful. Your eyes are dark and deep and so inviting. Your nose is so European, straight and narrow. Your cheeks show your deep heritage to ancient civilizations; high and filled. Your lips are full and appealing; so ready to be kissed. All of you is delicate and well put-together. I adore you, Princesa and I can hardly wait to be held by you, stroked by you and wrapped around you. You are indeed a flower unfolding right in front of me and I am enraptured by you.

I love you, Dearest CC, and my last breath will have your name on it.

Dickie

My Answer To My Sister

Hey there,

I’m glad you’re into the creative process again with the sewing. I still think your abilities with interior design could be a pleasant—and very possibly profitable--experience for you even though it may seem late in life. Despite your commitments with all the children/grandchildren, your creativity is special enough to warrant a closer look. If you were to casually mention to friends and others that you can help decorate homes, you may well find a willing and supportive audience and clientele. I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know deep inside, Naneo.

Being willing to acknowledge the creative urge and then do something about it is a very powerful and natural step which few of us actually do. We are consumed by what we think is important and cannot seem to make a space for what we may well consider frivolous—our artistic drives. Yet, we are all artists and are so from our earliest memories.

Think back to one’s own original efforts at art or even to our children’s or grandchildren’s efforts. We spend a lot of time recognizing their efforts, praising whatever is put on paper or—heaven forbid—walls and even posting this art on refrigerators or framing and hanging it in hallways. Every child has this talent and we do encourage it as adults—for a while. Then, inevitably, we start telling these incredible prodigies how to draw and paint. We tell them that coloring books should have colors within the lines. We ask them to explain specifically what it is that they’ve just drawn. And then, horror of horrors, we start telling them it is more important to read and do math than it is to follow their creative urge. Few are avidly encouraged to follow their creativity since there are careers of greater significance than art.

I speak with some authority on this as a recipient of the directives described above. I remember very much wanting to draw and paint as a child. I recall Mom and Dad requiring me to set up my easel and water colors in the bath tub so that I wouldn’t mess up my bedroom with any possible spills. I remember wearing one of Dad’s shirts as if I was wearing an artist’s smock and even donning a beret to complete the look. Even though the art I created was important to me, what was important to them was how silly I looked in my costume. After all, their plan for me at 7 years old was for me to become a doctor not an artist.

I remember having a “paint-by-numbers” art set where all I had to do was match the number on the art with the number of the paint, fill in the numbered block and voilá! a finished masterpiece. Yet, all I heard was how much the oil paints smelled up the apartment and to get back to studying science because, after all, I was to become a doctor. I can still see the drawings of airplanes hanging in my 5^th grade class room, the only place I felt comfortable viewing my art. I remember staring out the windows of that same classroom at St. Bernadette’s Catholic School, looking at trees and wondering how I could draw them well enough to be recognizable while the teaching nuns droned on about multiplication.

I can recall doing well in diagramming sentences in English class as I saw these efforts as just more art. I remember a Mexican boy in 7^th grade who could draw water drops so realistically in pencil that I often wondered why the paper wasn’t wet. I admired him so that even in my adult years I tried to do the same thing and never got quite as close. I received an “A” for a geographic depiction of the earth in geography class, of all places, again because I considered the assignment one of art rather than where places were located.

Certainly, I have recovered from the medical path I was pushed into, even if I had to do poorly in every college class in pre-med studies just to avert that parental push. I feared a backlash from Mom and Dad if I flat told them I wasn’t going into medicine. After all, their hopes and dreams were that I would be the first one in the family to be a doctor, if only because I replaced Dad’s aspirations for medicine, interrupted as they were by WWII. I do remember responding to other adult’s questions as to “…what I wanted to be when I grew up?” with, “a doctor.” I remember the admiration they heaped on me for that answer and feeling good. I think I remember better how good it felt to be praised than what they actually said. I got so little praise or recognition from Mom and Dad for the things I enjoyed or did well. I only remember praise for responding to what they wanted me to do, for instance telling their friends that what I want to do “when I grew up” was to become a doctor. Anything else I did was simply a diversion from their goal for me: be a doctor.

It’s taken a long time to let go and let my creative talents come to the forefront. Whether it is art or writing, these creative urges drive my life right now. I can barely look at anyone without picturing them in a portrait. I examine facial expressions for clues as to how to portray people better. I read to glean a way of expressing myself better in my writings. I joined the Honolulu Academy of Arts to be closer to other artists, whether famous or otherwise. I attend various artists’ openings to see what makes them so attractive to others that they get a show of their own. I posted my art at http://yessy.com/dickhoyer on January 21st and until today, February 9^th over 1840 people have seen my works, from all over the world. What I pray for right now is someone(s) to buy and launch me in the direction of my dreams. I believe that will happen. After all, 100’s of millions of people are on the internet, millions search for items of interest on the web, some of who are looking for art, a few of them for art like mine.

Watch this space for news!

Meanwhile, get quiet one day in your sewing room and listen carefully to your heart. Dismiss anything coming from your mind and just listen to your heart; it will tell you what you want. Then, take the first step and the rest will be revealed, one after the other. If you do this, ya just never know, you might just be hanging out a shingle that says, “Nancy’s Knick-Knacks--Woobies Our Specialty.”

Love,

Dickie

Poems For CC...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know;
His house is in the village, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep

Sonnets from the Portuguese, XIV
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love, thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Love's Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle;--
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven,
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Sonnet CXVI
by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.

Oh, no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests.. and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love is not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out.. even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Of Pearls and Stars
by Heinrich Heine

The pearly treasures of the sea,
The lights that spatter heaven above,
More precious than these wonders are
My heart-of-hearts filled with your love.

The ocean's power, the heavenly sights
Cannot outweigh a love filled heart.
And sparkling stars or glowing pearls
Pale as love flashes, beams and darts.

So, little, youthful maiden come
Into my ample, feverish heart
For heaven and earth and sea and sky
Do melt as love hath melt my heart.

Beautiful Dreamer
by Stephen Foster

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng, --
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart, --
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Gratus

Gratus…

In our daily lives, we must see that it is not happiness that makes us grateful, but the gratefulness that makes us happy. --Albert Clarke

And so I am, grateful that is. I am grateful to all of you who have stood by me during these last few months of change. I am thankful to those of you who thought enough of me to be with me on my road to recovery from this “double whammy” of diabetes and cancer. I wrap my arms about those of you who went “the extra mile” and bore me on your shoulders for a time, handing me off to those that had strength anew for the next mile and then the next mile. You know who you are. To single you out would be something not necessarily what you would want so I will keep silent about what you did for me during these tremulous times. There are, however, some things you must all know and so, I begin with the happiness I feel for being grateful to all of you.

I need not repeat the circumstances from which I write. I do want to speak of some things that brought us together and that may well keep us bonded in the future. These are things of “release,” things that paved my road to where I am now and if the universe be kind, are a view to smooth surface forward. Should the past be prologue, then what I write here may well have us—well, some of us—joined in an adventure, great or small, but an escapade, nonetheless.

I thank you for accepting me as I am, warts and all. You have blessed me with friendship and loving unknown to me in recent times. It is not so much that is has not been there, but that I have been blind to these two angels—friendship and love. The blindness came as I focused totally inward, staring at my “bellybutton” and hoping good feelings would emanate and envelope me. Always, I saw what was wrong with me, rather than the good that had, from time to time, spread out among many of you, known to each other and not. That you were unaware of these shortcomings I so vividly saw was either out of acceptance of my “warts” along with the silken voice or that you chose to ignore those faults; bless you for that. So bidden was I to chastise myself for what I did or did not do that the dark cloak I drew around me was the only comfort I had from the cold winds of criticism that blew into me, albeit from me.

It was you that brought me the warmth of the sun, living as I was as a character in Aesop’s Fables, causing me to drop that cloak. It was you that encouraged me to stride out of this self-imposed dislocation from a different reality, you who said, “…you have hundreds of friends, who all love you…” It was you who told me that “…many were waiting to give back to you after you had served so many, way back when.” It was you that held my hand as I wept, begging forgiveness for my silently leaving you so long ago, not a word forthcoming about my departure, just turning on my heels and heading off “…into the sunset.”

I am back among you, now, and I am grateful that you welcomed my return, if indeed quietly. I am happy because I am grateful to all of you.

What brought all this on started with the word from my immediate former wife who said one Thursday night that she was moving out on Saturday, laying down a 20 year marriage, much like laying down a tool whose usefulness was complete. Naturally, I was stunned. I’d seen no signs of disturbance. I was aware of no petulant behavior on my part, for sure. The bills were being paid on time. “Baby Girl,” my daughter, was advancing well in school both in classes and socially, being popular and articulate as she was overwhelmingly elected to class office. What could be so wrong that a break-up was in the offing? My carousing habits were long gone. Diabetes had surfaced making me a “cripple” of sorts. I did not drink anymore. I dropped any extracurricular activities long ago to concentrate on my work to come straight home every night. While we may have eaten lunch and dinner in separate rooms in front of separate TV’s, that didn’t appear strange; after all we had done that for years. Yet, all of a sudden, I was to be alone, without the accompaniment of family for the first time in 20 years.

“We’re too much like roommates,” she said. “I don’t want to live like that for the rest of my life. And there are those ‘transgressions’ for which I will not forget or forgive. You’re on your own, Buddy.” To say my jaw dropped to my knees would be an understatement; more like dropped to my ankles. I thought I had made improvements over my previous life. I thought I was now an upstanding guy. I thought I was respected by friends and family alike for my posture, poise and confidence. I thought my integrity showed through, that what I thought, said and did were all the same thing. I thought I could be counted upon to “deliver the goods.” I thought I was good enough to keep around for the next 30 or 40 years. I thought the phrase, ‘…’til death do us part” was the watchword in this relationship. Here I was, though, being told that I was lacking in the most basic ways, that I was no longer interesting or funny or attractive in any way. I was unacceptable as I was, improved version or not.

Interestingly, as I was confronted with this new level of nonconformity, I felt two things. One was rejection, of course, of the grandest kind. After all these years, I was no longer adequate to stand within this family’s limits. I was being pushed out much like the adolescent male wolf is shunted aside from the core family, never again to participate in family things, forever on his own, hunting alone. The loneliness was immediate and breath-taking. I was to be a “no-name,” never again associated with family celebrations of birthdays, holidays, even funerals. I would have to make appointments to see my daughter. I would never again sit at the head of a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner table; not that we did anything different from regular meals on these days, anyway. I would never again hear, “Hi, Daddy” from either of them. I would never again hear, “Mom told me to ask you if I could…” I would never again have my daughter reaching over the front seat to change the radio station from mine to her favorite one as we drove to and from work and school. I would never again watch her walk from apartment to dumpster and back, ensuring her safe travel. I was rejected even as that lowly watchdog.

The other feeling was one of relief. It was done, the marriage, I mean. I lauded her courage in declaring it over and moving on. I wanted out years ago but, never had the nerve to say this was not for me, child within the marriage or not. I didn’t think I should be the one to end it, leaving them to fend for themselves as I sought other pastures. That she did meant I was released. That she did was a result of a long path of thought and planning that brought us to this end. I lauded that, too. She was able to keep me completely in the dark about her campaign to cut me loose. Her patience was extraordinary; she might have been planning this for years. The proof was she waited until my daughter’s 18^th birthday to spring this on me; now she wouldn’t have to grant me any special privileges because my daughter was underage. That she required nothing special from me was testament to her kindness and graciousness through all this divorce stuff.

Still, I was relieved and grateful that she had “pulled the trigger.” Among other reasons, I could now pursue my art without any recriminations from her or any guilt from me. Before this, if I so much as bought an art pad and some colored pencils, I was branded as taking food out of our mouths. If I tried to discuss what I really wanted to do—create art—I faced rolled eyes. I had come into the marriage an artist yet, as I went along, I saw that having a “job” was the only way to create happiness within the union. I ”laid down” thoughts of a successful artistic career and worked in customer service for most of the marriage. As my wife and daughter left and moved into their new “digs,” I turned the now-spare bedroom into a studio and began creating designs for a new subject matter: erotic stained glass windows.

My designs were accepted by a number of important glass artists and I went forward to construct them. Eventually, I staged a one-man show in early 2004--downtown at a local restaurant—which lasted a month. I thought myself an artist, at last. Although I kept my full-time job at a national long-distance telephone company, I dressed colorfully as befitting an artist and doodled between incoming calls. After the show, I made a few stained glass panels, preferring to try my hand at other things artistic. I made ribbon weavings that I attached to “Dickies™” work shirts and showed them to various retail stores, who weren’t interested. I created some thick copper-wire sculptures for my own amusement. I went to art shows and museums and looked at others’ works. I marveled at what passed for art on one hand and stood speechless in front of masterpieces not needing to be told they were. I was disgruntled at my stuff when I compared it to others yet, I persevered. I would be good, eventually.

Not much later in 2004 two things happened that changed my life: I got fired and my mother passed away, leaving me a sum of money (enough to live on for about 18 months). Losing the job was a happy circumstance as I hated it anyway. Gaining the inheritance allowed me to pay off my car and some debts but I was ill-prepared for this “sudden money” and ended up spending it on fast cars, fast women and fast times. The rest I just frittered away… I’m kidding, of course, about frittering it all away. I didn’t realize just how much expenses went out each month in general—food, rent and gas to name a few items. I did try a few businesses along the way but, my heart was still in creating art which I continued to do during all this. Eventually, despite the constant urging and encouraging of business friends, I laid these down, working on art 10 to 14 hours a day.

As life would have it, I needed to support myself and went to work for a couple temporary hire firms during 2006. I stayed with them until I was fired—again—just as I entered the hospital for this most recent round of unpleasantness because of calling in sick once too often. Since then, many of you have come forward to offer support of various kinds, for which I am eternally grateful. Social Security handed me a portion of what I’ve contributed in a lifetime of work. The State gave me food stamps and health insurance. So far, I have the basics, like bagels and cream cheese with coffee in the morning at home. I can buy gas though I don’t travel much. I have the internet, email, basic cable (paid for by what I charge two housemates to share it) and a cell phone. I am happy because of being grateful for all this and more.

I am also grateful for you, my viewing public. You allowed me into your homes and places of work. You may have said, “Goodie! Another piece from Dick; I’ll view it now!!” Then again, you may have simply clicked “delete.” Some of you have responded; most have not. No matter; that you even opened something from me or visited my sites is indeed a blessing. You allowed me to ensconce myself in a small corner of you, if only for a moment. You may or may not like what I do or say but, again, I am grateful for your glance. I’ve learned one thing during all of what I’ve gone through: for me, creativity is my driving force, my raison d’etré. If I can create artistically, I am incredibly happy to reflect what is in me through brush and paint, l albeit through a PC. If I can join sentences together in some order and be understood, I am grateful beyond any words I can find. I am eternally grateful that I can communicate—so far as I can tell—in art and words, spoken or written. I’ve discovered talents, though not lying fallow, were dormant until recent events sharpened them. And though I am grateful as hell that you read or look at what I do, I leave you with anticipation.

You are but a small enclave of people directly addressed by me. I’ve gleaned that your intelligence is above average. I’ve discovered your tolerance and acceptance levels as none of you (so far) have said, “Enough! Drop me from your mailing list!” You have a good sense of humor, collectively. And you are special to me from a very significant point of view: you are the first to read what I write and see what I produce. You may not like either but still you are the first. You may agree or disagree but nothing changes your prominence as first. You may or may not own any of my art which doesn’t really matter--someone else outside of this special circle may be the first to do that. Still, what is unchanging is that you saw or read it here first. I am grateful that you were first. You allowed me to experiment before you in words or visually. I practiced my various crafts in front of you, first, before going out to a larger audience thoroughly prepared. For now, I listen to whatever feedback you offer. Later, I may not be as approachable simply because of engagements on my time. I anticipate that what I do now, with you, will expand not only here, within the Islands, “…from sea to shining sea…” but to a world-wide appreciation. You may think me arrogant to say this from a 14’ by 14’ room in a house on the desolate, dry and dusty west coat of Oahu. I said I would leave you with “anticipation.”

Mark my words. You will always be able to say you were the first to know of my body of work, literary and artistic. Others may propel me to prominence and wealth, but it is on your shoulders I stand. It is to you I will point when asked how I got my start, from where I came.

So far, it has been a great privilege to share my thoughts and feelings with you.

I can tell you, I am happy because I am grateful.

More to come in the next edition of Brittleliquid’s Journey…

Where I Am Now

About three months ago, as many of you know, I was diagnosed and began treatment for prostate cancer (PC). I have been virtually pain-free since that time, suffering only occasional cramps in my penile region which I’ll explain later. I’m basically inactive now though I have begun a walking and diet program to handle my weight gain since hospitalization.

My emotional life soars presently as I feel the tenderness of love newly embracing me. All this and more in this edition of Brittleliquid’s Journey.

Let me first explain why I use the term, “Brittleliquid” in the title of this blog. I invented the word about 25 years ago to describe what glass is. I was working heavily in stained glass at the time and wanted to name my newly formed small business. I new that when glass is made it is in a liquid form, albeit at about 1200° Fahrenheit. When glass cools to room temperature it is brittle, requiring thoughtful handling to keep it intact. Hence, I put the two words together and came up with “Brittleliquid.” Fairly rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?

When I was first tagged with the label “Prostate Cancer Sufferer” I admit I was devastated. I spent a lot of time “woe is me’ing” and crying uncontrollably. I felt so sorry for myself. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, that I would end my days eroded by cancer, slipping away in a painful or woeful demise, tubed-up and incapacitated. At least that was the way I perceived this illness. I had not paid much attention to my prostate even though in my 50’s; the proclivity toward the cancer is remorselessly high in men my age. I had some signs of the disease over the past few years—frequent urination, slow spill and even some erectile dysfunction. Yet, I attributed this to the damage my Type II diabetes inflicted and left things at that.

As my urinary troubles intensified—I going five or six times a night—I got to a point where I was so tired from working all day and sleeping so badly at night that I stopped eating regular meals. I came home at 5:30pm and went straight to bed. My weight dropped and my belt was getting more notches as my waist size decreased. Gee, a happy coincidence but, I was paying a heavy price. As my date with destiny and hospitalization neared, I ate less and less, maybe yoghurt in the morning and a saimin soup at night. I just didn’t have the strength to prepare anything more than that. I had little taste for much, not even fast foods.

I landed a job a few weeks before all this at Hawaiian Telcom, the local phone company. There, I worked in the business customer service section which was floundering under poor performance. I was assigned to collect data on customers’ missing invoices and made a few suggestions as to how to do it better. I was immediately placed in charge of the duty and had two people working for me in a matter of a couple weeks. The pay was good--$20 per hour—and the people very accepting of me as a “newbie.”

About three weeks into this assignment, I began the suffering stage of the combined effects of diabetes and PC and started calling in sick. I just couldn’t get out of bed; I was so tired and weak. I slept most of the day and by night time, I was wide awake and couldn’t fall asleep, though I was very much fatigued. I might make it in to work the following day but, by the end of the day, I was so whipped I didn’t know if I would make it from the bus stop to home, a mere 200 yards away. The routine would engage itself again and I might make it in the next day or I might not.

By the time I signed myself into medical care, I even went to a Chinese doctor to see if he could figure out what was wrong with me. He took my pulse and said something in half-Chinese and half-English which my friend, Miss Chinatown (really, Sonja Wong) translated as, “Your cholesterol is very high.” He took my pulse again Sonja translated his next statement as, “You have arthritis in your left hip.” I could be sure of pain in my left hip; it came and went over time. He told me to pay him $7.00 cash for his consultation and to get my prescription in the front of his store. I did both, leaving with two packages of twigs, bark, roots, bugs and seeds and the directions to boil each one in 5 ½ cups of water down to one. The bus ride home took almost 2 hours in the evening rush hour and I was woozy most of the way.

At home, I told my landlord of the boiling directions and he went ballistic. “That’ll take two hours or more of electricity!” As his electric bill had been increasing monthly, largely due to the company’s fuel costs, he was beside himself with a deliberate increase in kilowatt hours. Nothing about whether this “tea” might be any good for me, just concern for more money to be spent on utilities. So, I paid him what I thought two hours was worth and started boiling. I drank this incredible-tasting mix later and I can say it settled my stomach somewhat allowing me to eat some of my landlord’s local cooking, which was always fabulous. The next day, he boiled the second package for me, perhaps embarrassed that he was unreasonably upset at the prescription’s requirements. Strange that he would challenge me on this as he was local, even had some Chinese in his background and knew what was needed to use this medicine.

All that was moot as the very next morning I made my to Emergency at the local hospital.

During my three week stay at the hospital, I endured five medical procedures; three involving my prostate and two involving my kidneys, which were operating at about 50 percent when I was admitted. Two of the PC operations were to obtain specimens for the lab to determine the depth of my cancer; one was to reduce my body’s testosterone levels—thought to feed the PC. My urologist came in to talk to me and said what I remembered as “Gobbledegook, gobbledegook, gobbledegook and sign here.” I tried very hard to concentrate on what he was telling me but the administered drugs affected my concentration. I had three Playboys’ at my bedside and I couldn’t turn the pages, much less lift them to my bed tray. I barely understood what he was saying now that I recall and had no one to sit with me as these procedures were described. I signed the releases and headed off to surgery or x-ray.

There was one release, however that really punched me hard. The medical term for this was “orchidectomy.” It was necessary in order to drastically reduce the effects of testosterone which was thought to feed the PC. I found out later that testosterone, if indeed it was the guilty party, was also produced by the adrenal glands. I wondered later whether this particular operation was really necessary but, my urologist spoke to me again in “gobbledegook” and I signed where indicated. I was not totally unaware of the central effects of this orchidectomy and, at my age, I figured baby-making days were over. You see, the word breaks down like this: “orchid” is the substitute word for testicles and –ectomy means removal. You understand I’m sure. By “cutting my nuts, the family jewels” I was now on hormone therapy. No more testosterone, no more cancer was the thinking. It was either the “snip” or chemical castration costing $900 per month for pills, ingested for months. My urologist’s way was “quick and dirty” and results would likely be immediate as measured by my PSA blood levels; high is bad, low is good. Mine measured at 48.5 just before I went in for my first operation. Two months later it was at a 5 though best is less than .1. Maybe these “medico’s” were on to something here.

I did find the side effects of lowering my testosterone rather deep and challenging. Since my female hormones were now running rampant in my system, unchecked by a balancing male hormone, I underwent some interesting changes. I cried at the slightest whiff of an emotional scene—weddings, children smiling and hugging each other or flowers offered to someone for no reason at all. Suddenly, I started watching soap operas and didn’t miss an episode of “All My Children.” I watched and wondered why men couldn’t be more like the ones on daytime TV. Oprah Winfrey was my heroine. I started shopping for shoes, did my nails incessantly and asked my housemates if my jeans made me look fat. I cleaned the bathroom twice a day and hung curtains everywhere. I fussed at the others if they didn’t come home in time for dinner… In short, my feminine side was coming on strong from the lack of testosterone.

When I told that story to a group of PC sufferers at a recent support group meeting, the men shifted nervously in their seats, looking down at their hands and one actually asked me, “Dick, did all that really happen?” He was visibly relieved when some others assured him I was joking.

Presently, I’m feeling fine with no pain anywhere. I pee normally, better than normal really, more like a five year old. My urine exits with such force I can write my name in letters 6 feet high on blank walls and not use my hands to direct the stream…

Other than a mild weight gain since I came out of the hospital and my primary care doctor’s admonitions about that what is coming up is another check with the urologist. He says that the two plastic tubes in my back that deliver urine from the kidneys to the bladder need changing in about two months. These get “crudded up” (another medical term) with waste material and slowly restrict urine flow. Apparently this procedure will be a challenge as he has to go through my penis and the bladder to replace these tubes with new ones. Get this: he says I won’t actually be in the hospital; we can do it at Burger King since they have wide tables. What he means is that I’ll be an outpatient; you know, drive myself to surgery and back home all in the same day. Yeah, right…

There’s been little talk of a cancer doctor visit, so far. Prior to this upcoming plumbing job, I’ll get a full body scan to see how far the cancer has progressed into my bones—ribs, pubic and spine. If the results of that are scary, then I’ll see this third doctor and talk about the favored treatment, radiation, either in rays or in imbedded pellets. Chemo is not in much favor as it tends to kill living things like people as it does its work.

Along the way, I’m researching PC as best I can on the internet and in books. I’ve attended two PC support group meetings, called “USTwo,” since November (none were open during December) and have come away with some perceptions that won’t go away. The first is that most of the men in these groups are in their 70’s and 80’s. The second impression is that most of these patients know more about PC than their doctors do. Comments from these attendees lead me to believe that PC is not “sexy” enough for most oncologists—at least in Hawaii—to spend a lot of time working in this arena. The big bucks go to leukemia, breast cancer, lung cancer possibly because typically younger people get this stuff. Too, since urologists are the first to be consulted about PC, and their expertise is the urinary tract, few understand the treatment methods that could kill this thing off once and for all.

I’m still new at this thing but I am looking for other methods of treatment, including what is called “clinical trials.” In these, new methods or medications are tried out on a select group of people to see if they will work. Typically there are several criteria that must be met or one cannot enter these trials. For a Honolulu clinical trial, I must have failed to respond to other treatments before consideration.

Additionally, diet and exercise are being touted as of some real use. The diet part is total vegetarianism including lots of juicing, particularly with spinach leaves. I’m juicing several times a week, adding carrots, fresh ginger and an apple for sweetness. I’m eating more salads, too. For exercise, I walk and jog for a half-hour at a time. I drink loads of water and take an occasional multi-vitamin. We’ll see how this works out.

When I was first diagnosed, I was given six months to live. My urologist said that whoever told me that was lying. In his opinion, I had a whole year…! As I’ve mentioned before, people associated with healing told me I had least 20 years. I decided to live as if I had those 20 years and did two things: I went to an awards ceremony honoring me with the “Fickle Finger of Fate” prize (for those who fate intervened into an otherwise normal life) and told the audience of my plans. Many had young children, even babies with them. I said, “on the anniversary of my 20^th year of survival, my goal is to be in bed with a 20 year old woman who is hot, wet, satisfied and happy to be with me. I’m looking around for a candidate and she may well be here in the audience tonight!”

The second thing I did, with my new-found confidence, was to make my girlfriend into my fiancée. I asked her to marry me just before New Years and she said yes. My friends were ecstatic and supportive and full of gladness for me. My family, on the other hand, said, “Marriage? In your condition?”

You can probably guess my response.

Until next time,

This has been another episode of Brittleliquid‘s Journey.

12/10/05

Wednesday dawned quietly, cloudless and windless. I stared at blue skies with morning coffee alongside, sitting outside the house, watching others get into cars and drive off to work. For me, it would be a day at the PC, designing more artwork for upcoming projects.

Or so I thought…

About 10:00am, my best friend Steve called asking if I was available to help deliver Angel Fish, a 42 foot wood fishing boat from the boat yard to her berth at Kewalo Basin, about an hour’s trip by sea. I would need to be pier-side by noon if I agreed to go. Would I! I worked on Angel Fish for almost three weeks straight for this day and I wasn’t going to miss it. I rang off with Steve and thought over what this day meant to me.

I would be back at sea, again, almost 20 years after I hung up my sails to live ashore. Marriage had separated me from the ocean as my second wife abhorred the beach and anything having to do with water. I missed the ocean. In Hawaii, the water is warm and clear and of a deep blue that no camera or artist ever captured. The winds are generally steady, blowing from the northeast most of the year at 10-15 miles per hour. The other times of the year, like the fall and winter, winds come from any direction and any speed. Today was like that—from the south, little puffs blowing onshore. This made for warm, muggy days but with little wind and a flat calm ocean to travel over. This was going to be a pleasant and short, surely no more than an hour or so.

Back on October 13^th—six weeks ago from today—Angel Fish came out of the water for repairs after spending several years working various fishing areas around Hawaii and a few more just tied up to her dock. Angel Fish required extensive work. She leaked both below and above decks. Her steering was frozen; unmovable. Her military-surplus diesel engine needed a major tune up and her tanks held water-contaminated fuel. Her decks were rotten, needing replacement. Her topsides were badly marred by black rubber from the tires used as fenders at the harbor. Her hull above the waterline was laced with holes from dry rot and occasional bumps against the pier. Her interior was moldy, oily and dirty. The lowest parts of the boat were wet and in some areas at least six inches deep in water. She would be expensive and time-consuming to fix up.

I came into this scene about three weeks into the project to prepare Angel Fish for a return to sea. Steve asked if I could help out based on my own experiences as a former boat-owner and as a favor to him and his cousin, Angel Fish’s owner. I agreed since I had some time available from my own business project and headed down to the boat yard.

For someone whose exercise consists mainly in picking up a pencil and a sketch pad or using my PC’s mouse to design for various art projects , I certainly wasn’t prepared for this kind of work. In the end, I was under the boat, inside her, on top--scraping, sanding, grinding, cleaning, pumping, caulking, lifting, carrying, cleaning and painting. I came away sore and hurting in places I didn’t know existed. Daily, I cleaned paint and dirt off me with chemicals and scrubbing pads. I threw away shirts, shorts, socks and underwear that could never be cleaned of oil and paint enough to wear in public. I woke up more tired than when I went to sleep. I lost weight. But, in spite off this, I really looked forward to the day when Angel Fish would be back in the water, motoring on her own freshly repaired and painted bottom, gleaming with new hull paint; proud again.

And now, that day arrived and I was on my way shortly after Steve and I talked. I took my camera and my cell phone along just in case I could use either or both. Turns out now, both came in handy…

Came 12noon, the appointed departure hour, and I looked down at Angel Fish, bobbing gently against her mooring lines at the temporary dock. She sparkled with new paint. She even floated higher in the water because of her repaired bottom, half of one side having had its wood replaced. Her seams were tight and not leaking. She was clean inside and out.

Bobby, her owner, came up with some supplies in one hand and a borrowed anchor in the other. He swung aboard for a moment and left in search of a diesel mechanic as for some reason, the motor wouldn’t start. While a tune-up was in order, due to the vast amount of work required just to get her afloat, this one thing didn’t happen. She had been towed into dry dock when her steering wouldn’t work and now it looked like she would have to be towed back to her pier because of a uncooperative engine.

The diesel mechanic arrived, took a deep breath, removed the deck boards over the engine compartment and lowered himself down. He asked how long the new batteries had been charging and Bobby told him. Not long enough, the mechanic declared. So long as the battery charger was running, at least the starter would get enough electricity to get the motor turning. After that, the batteries would get their charge from the generator but first, the motor needed to start. Several attempts later, the motor caught and fired up. The mechanic took a sample of what fuel was still aboard and told Bobby he still had water mixed in it. She should be okay for your short run, he said, but get that water out soonest.

Bobbie sent me to the boat yard’s mini-mart to get a gallon of motor oil and there, I ran into the mechanic and struck up a conversation. He said that Angel Fish’s motor was an old military surplus one in bad need of complete overhaul or replacement, which would be the cheaper way to go. Then, he said something that would come back starkly: That motor will probably get you “from here to there” but don’t go planning any trips to Maui.

Angel Fish used to work the hottest fish spots all over the state and had a solid reputation for profitable trips. She always made money and always took her crew “there and back,” confidently rumbling along hour after hour. Now, we were having trouble getting her started and keeping her running for a one hour trip. Water in diesel fuel is deadly to a motor causing it to quit as would be expected. Yet, not only did we have water in the fuel but the mechanic found water in the lubricating oil, also highly damaging to a motor. Tell Bobby to make sure to add that gallon of oil, the mechanic said, but get that oil and water out soonest—a favorite expression of his.

At 2 o’clock, we finally pushed off and backed away from the dock. Bobby signaled to call him during the trip as we left. We waved. The engine room covers were off and oily, white smoke spewed from the motor and into the cabin. Walter, the skipper, just shrugged his shoulders and applied power as we nosed out into the harbor and headed for the channel leading to the ocean. I shrugged, too, and drew out my camera.

Angel Fish moved easily in the water, throwing spray off to either side, leaving a burbling trail behind her. We “turned the corner” at the outer buoys of the Keehi Channel and headed east towards Kewalo Basin, the commercial harbor which was her home. Higher motor revolutions, however, produced a screeching noise from the engine compartment, which both Walter and I figured was just a loose rubber belt slipping in its pulley, probably the generator. Smoke still issued from below but was quickly blown out of the cabin by the wind created by our moving over the water. The motor continued to rumble on—as well as could be expected.

I took pictures—of the coast passing by our port side, of the far west end of the island receding behind us, of ships coming by. I wasn’t at all seasick but that was partly because I was determined not to be, partly because the sea was so flat and partly because Angel Fish rode so smoothly through the water. The day was bright and clear. What clouds appeared, billowed up behind the Koolau Mountains like giant piles of un-baled cotton. What a perfect day to make this homeward bound journey.

Honolulu Harbor came up on our port side and I could see all the business buildings rising up behind it. What a shame people were working in them instead of enjoying this peaceful—but noisy—ride out on the water. Next, maybe a mile away, would be a turn into Kewalo Basin as soon as we reached the outermost green and red marker buoys.

Walter kept looking over his shoulder from his perch in the captain’s chair at the motor still smoking away as its six cylinders pounded away. He looked concerned. I wasn’t sure what he was worried about; we were moving along smartly edging ever closer to our destination, seemingly just minutes away. I popped open a beer and continued snapping pictures of Honolulu and Diamond Head.

And we were there—the outer markers. Onshore, I could see the park right next to the Kewalo Basin entrance. Waves broke against the breakwater, white foam spraying up and over its black rocks. The water below us turned green as the bottom rose up from the depths, the deep blue ocean water exchanging places with it. I could even see patches of reef below us the water was so clear. In an instant, it seemed, the calm and peace we enjoyed up to now changed. The trust we had in Angel Fish to get us to her home port evaporated as Walter motioned me to come forward from my seat in the stern.

He pointed to the throttle which was all the way forward--meaning the motor should have been operating at its highest RPM’s—and yet, the sound from the engine was the same as it was at idle; no change. He looked at me with eyes widening as he threw the throttle back and forth, slow to fast, with no response from the motor except one: it quit. It slowly backed off from any rotations and went quiet. It wouldn’t restart either, probably because the batteries didn’t have enough charge to do that. Things got very quiet aboard Angel Fish.

We had no radio to call for help. Earlier, during the time the mechanic was ministering to the motor, I tried to install a replacement radio but it didn’t work. All we had were cell phones to call anybody. There wasn’t time to make any calls, anyway. That breakwater with waves crashing on to it was getting closer as the onshore wind of 5-10 miles per hour had control of Angel Fish, pushing her towards it. The clear water below us was almost white as the sand on the rising bottom was also getting closer to us. We were abut 20 minutes away from grinding a perfectly good, fresh-from-dry dock, 59 year old fishing boat into splinters.

So, we sprang into action.

I went up forward with Walter to the anchor hatch and pulled it open, looking for anchor rope. It was there alright, in bunches of coils that had no end that I could see. It looked like rope used to tow water skiers—polypropylene, a kind of plastic rope, certainly not the strong, expensive nylon line I was used to. I grabbed handfuls of what was there dragging it out on to the springy deck which sagged under my weight due to its being rotten away. Walter called for me to hand him the anchor, now buried under yards of this rope. I dug it out from under the pile and at the same time, found the bitter end of the line, also giving it to him. He tossed a fast knot through the anchor’s stem, secured it, and threw the anchor into the water. I looked back at the breakwater, so close now I could see people picnicking in the park it protected. A wave of relief came over me as I knew now we would only have to call Bobby and have him send some one out to tow us in. We would be safe and secure so long as the anchor dug in and the line held.

I looked at Walter just as his eyes really went wide this time. In his hands was the parted remnants of the anchor line we had trusted just minutes ago. The anchor had cut through the knot as if it was sewing thread. We had no motor, no radio to call the coast Guard and now no anchor and now we were starting to roll as the swells moved us ever closer onshore. I reached for my cell phone and called Bobby.

“BOBBY! THIS IS DICK! IT’S DICK! ME--DICK! WE’RE OUTSIDE KEWALO BASIN AND THE MOTOR HAS QUIT AND WE’VE LOST THE ANCHOR! SEND SOMEBODY, QUICK!”

I repeated myself as Bobby couldn’t understand me, perhaps because my voice was not that of an airline pilot reassuring his passengers during an emergency situation but rather that of somebody who just saw a ghost and wanted out of there. Just then I looked up to see a boat coming out of the harbor, the kind used to haul tourists around for parasailing. I hung up from Bobby and asked Walter if I should flag it down and he said no, he has customers aboard; we shouldn’t bother him. Shouldn’t bother him because he has customers aboard? There is an ancient sea tradition that sailors drop what they are doing to go to the aid of a stricken vessel. If we weren’t “stricken” right now, we surely would be in about 15 minutes amid the wreckage of a surf-tossed vessel pounded into pieces on those evil, black rocks of that breakwater. By then, it would be too late to ask for help except from those picnickers in order to get ourselves ashore in one piece.

My heart sank as I watched the parasailing tow boat glide away from us with his customers. We were out of options and running out of depth quick. We had maybe 15 feet of water beneath us and when that came down to 4 or 5, we would be aground and at the mercy of an onshore wind and crashing waves. There was not a single boat around us until…

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coming out of the harbor was another parasailing tow boat, this time with only the operator aboard—no customers! I stood up on the rickety forward deck and flashed the international distress signal: arms straight out, alternately lifting and lowering them as I faced him. He saw me and turned his boat toward us in response. Angel Fish was rolling pretty strongly from side to side by now and I fell onto my backside on the forward cabin top as I watched him close the distance on us. When he was within earshot, I told him of our predicament and asked for a tow in. He tossed line to me, which I fixed to the forward bollard as he took up the slack and began our tow.

I needed a beer badly; several of them. We were finally headed in the right direction although silently. I looked out to the breakwater as we passed it. The waves, which had been so menacing just a few minutes before, seemed serene and beautiful: white, soft and foamy. The rocks glistened in the afternoon sun, sparkling with spray just tossed on them. In the distance, picnickers frolicked on wide swaths of deep green grass, unmindful of how close they might have come to the tragedy of a run-aground boat. A temporary pier was open before us and we tied up, thanking the saving captain as he motored off.

As luck would have it, the only spot open on the concrete pier was protected by old tires, the same tires that left so many rubber marks on Angel Fish before she went to dry dock. All that fresh, beautiful, expensive white topside paint now had long black streaks imbedded in it.

Angel Fish brought us home from dry dock, for sure, a little worse for wear, but home. May she sail on for a long time to come…