I don’t think of myself as obsessive… usually. Still, once I get working on something, I want to continue, realizing the irritating interruptions for, like, sleep, work, real life… they’re just part of the process.

If you scroll down, you’ll see the work on the poem/song/story of the Whore of Hudson Street includes findinng out if there is even such a thing as a seal skin coat. Then, search for an image that goes with my idea of a woman, possibly a Selkie, lost in the world of, yeah, humans. Then attempt to illustrate. This is where I’m at. Do believe I have three-quarters of another page of stuff written, awaiting editing.

AND CHANGING.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm, and it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

What’s next is making copies, adding color. The illustration, overworked, for sure, might have to be redrawn, simplified. And, yes, I am afraid of just going with black, bringing the image forward as the masters have done. We’ll see.

                         CHAPTER TWO- SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1965

My mother took my younger brother, Freddy, and me to the beach at what became the San Elijo campground. Almost or just opened, it runs along the bluff from Pipes to Cardiff Reef. We were at the third stairway from the north end. I was attempting to surf; Freddy was playing in the sand. My mother was collecting driftwood for a fire. The waves were small. Pushing my way out, walking, jumping over the lines, I was turning and throwing my board into the reforms, standing up, awkwardly, and riding straight in; butt out, hands out, stupidest grin on my face. “Surfin’!”

A girl, about my age, was riding waves. Not awkwardly. Smoothly. Not straight, but across. She wouldn’t have wiped out on the third ride I witnessed if I hadn’t been in her way, almost frozen, surprised by a wave face so thin and clean I still swear I could see through it.

            I held my board by the rails, tumbled with it. I felt her board hit it. I let go. Both boards, upside down, hers on top of mine, broach to the waves, headed for the beach. We both popped up, shoulder deep. She pulled the strands of blonde hair away from her face with both hands.

“Kook,” she said, pointing at our boards. I sloshed through waist, then knee high water, retrieving her board just as she, body surfing a reform wave, popped up very close to me. “What’s wrong with you?”

            Because I didn’t respond, she looked a little closer at me. “You.”

            “Me? Yes.” I replayed the moments before she spoke. She waded toward me and placed both hands and some weight on her board. I didn’t remove mine. She looked toward the bluff. I followed her eyes. Two women were standing above the wood stairway, even with us. One was my mother. The girl looked back. Her eyes were green and seemed, somehow, as transparent as I had imagined the waves to be. “Kooks have to stay out of the way.” She flipped me off with the thin fingers of both hands. “Double bird!” Her expression turned the words into an explanation partway through.

            “Some say, ‘Double eagle.’ Okay. I… shouldn’t have… You’re… not a kook, then?”

            She looked at my hands on her surfboard, turned her head to look more closely at me. “No. I’m someone who stays away from cops. And their kids.”

            “Oh. So, we know each other.”

            “Oh? No. No, but… you don’t seem…”

            “Retarded? Maybe. Getting better is what the doctors…” I took my hands off the girl’s surfboard and did a low double eagle. “…Better.”

The girl, perhaps slightly amused, pointed to my board, resting on a clump of seaweed. “Surfing isn’t easy, Junior. All the real surfer guys are assholes.” She turned, threw herself onto her board, and started paddling. “I’d give it up if I were you.” 

            “Assholes,” I said as I hurried inshore and picked up my board. “I’m a well-known asshole.” I walked and pushed and paddled and made my way out to where the girl was sitting on her board. She looked out to sea. She looked toward the shore. It was a lull, too long for her not to turn toward me as I attempted to knee paddle.

            “Your daddy get that piece of crap board for you?”

            “Hansen. Don. Eighth grade graduation. I was happy enough with a surf mat.”

            “We can’t be friends, Junior.”

            “No?  No. I’m a kook and you’re… a real surfer. But… What about when I… get to the point where I surf wa-aay better than you? Still, no?”

            The girl turned away again. Not as long this time. She almost smiled. “You coming back tomorrow?”

            “No. Sunday. Church. My mom… We… Church.”

            “You… Church,” she said. “My mom and I… Well, me; I… surf.”

            The girl paddled over and pushed me off my board. The first wave of a set took it in. She turned and caught the next wave. I watched her from behind it. “Graceful, Julia Cole,” I said, loud enough for her to hear. “Your friends call you Julie.” I said that to myself.

NON-POLITICAL ERWIN- Do you think the current Secretary of War already misses the time when he was just a drunk douchebag TV clown? Not yet? Well. Somehow the Dire Straits song, “The Man’s Too Strong” keeps popping up in my mental playlist. “Now they say I am a war criminal and I’m fading away…” Not an exact fit, but… what is?

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