Journal Entry: 21 May 2014: A Humane Society

I did not post yesterday. I wrote a letter to the Gadsden County Humane Society. They were sponsors of Havana Day last Saturday and I wanted to say thank you to them and offer my service as a volunteer. I may not be able to find a (paying) job, but volunteer work is easy to find.

In the letter I mentioned my cat, Avery and her cat, Alex, and how we all moved to Havana last year. We came here from Mount Vernon, Alabama in to my friend, Debra's home. We were only supposed to be here for a few months; long enough to find a job, save up some money and get out on our own. The job, I never found. We are still here. I am still looking for a work, Avery and Alex are learning to live with Debra's three cats and Hans, her chocolate Labrador, (who thinks he's a cat). I like living here, but at the same time I am struggling with shame based feelings of inadequacy. I am not lazy, I do want  to work, but at my age I am not having much luck finding anything. I keep Debra's house clean, I prepare our meals, I run errands and do what I can to help her, but is that enough?

Thank God for writing; I have this outlet to pour my grief into. I also have Havana Public Library, close by, I have books and writing to keep depression at bay. But depression has a way of creeping in and creeping up on me and providing me with many reasons to feel inadequate. I fight off the melancholy , but feel it's still there. Thank God for the VA Clinic and the Doctors and Nurses there, too. The VA provides me with the drugs I need to treat my Type II diabetes. Without that medicine, I would not need a job, I would be dead. There many other blessings I have in my life that I cannot fail to recognize. I pray a lot too and in contemplation I am made aware of  these good things in my life that I could very easily take for granted.

I have been observing the five cats I live with over the last year. Debra and I have come to a conclusion: Only two of the five are cats; Avery and Ming. Three of the five are transmigrating human souls trapped in cat bodies. Alex, Yoda and Shadow are curious little creatures who must have committed very grievous sins in their past lives and have been sentenced to cat purgatory to atone. Alex, we have come to believe was a policeman, prison guard or military commander. He has little patience with Yoda, but seems to mentor and have sympathy for Shadow. Shadow is the saddest cat I have ever known. He was Chinese, or of some other far eastern region of the world, who was woefully addicted to opium. Shadow has not adapted very well to being a cat;  he's a loner and I try to spend time alone with Shadow to let him know I Love him. Then there is Yoda; a black cat with white paws. He is white from his chin to his belly and under his nose he has a white mustache. Yoda also has a black furry heart on his chin. Yoda is the zen cat, and had to have been a burglar in his past, human, life. Yoda is a plundering cat, nothing, no drawer or closet in the house is safe from Yoda.

Rest assured, I will write more about the cats later and poor Hans, who has to be the sweetest, most loyal dog I have ever known. Peace&Love!

Journal Entry: 19 May 2014: Havana Writers

Tonight at the Havana Public Library, Havana Writers meet. I look forward to their meetings, these folks gather together to share our stories. Last month was my first meeting and I shared my essay, "Polenta of Grits". I was told that it was putrid and that I should burn it and stir the ashes. I  have been told I am not a poet and I have been told that I am not a writer. I don't agree or disagree, I keep on writing. Tonight I hope to share the start of another story, "Ghost Story" or "The Life". I am sure I will be put off my writing again. "You ought to just journal"; they may say, "for your own amusement." and not produce writing for other folks to have to endure.

I refuse to keep it to myself. Without a job, unemployed for more than a year, I write to keep from dwelling on that fact. I write for amusement, though I know what I write is not amusing; I get a kick out of producing some sign that I am here. I am here, therefore, I write. My journals, I have in the past, written out by hand in tablets. Now, I have just begun putting them out as these Blogger posts. I doubt anyone will notice, but in case anyone does, I am making them more legible and accessible. I repost these posts on facebook beneath, over and around the Writer's Almanac pieces that I find interesting and repost. That puts my journal's stream of conscious ramblings on my timeline for more folks to read and maybe they will still not want to read me, but be unable to turn away, plagued by the tedium and nonsense. Please forgive me if you have read this far and found yourself drowning in my irresponsible pleadings.

I would be willing to take a part-time job; did I mention that already? I may be too old now, too out of touch and part of the demographic that needs to fade away. I have a few good years left. If not a few, at least one or two. How old was Jerry Garcia when he died? Have I out lived Garcia? He had a faithful following and I have nothing. I sold my guitar before I moved to Havana. If I had a job I would try to buy another guitar and maybe this time, learn to play, start a band and tour the planet playing the guitar and singing the words that were never poetry to begin with.

After the Havana Writers meeting tonight, I plan to amend this journal entry, or at least add another paragraph about what happened with me at the meeting. I hope by the end of our meeting tonight I have a clearer direction for my writing. Peace&Love!

The meeting ended at eight o'clock. The Librarian had to run us out. I let the other members at the meeting read my short essay, The Life. I got good feed back mostly from people who are interested in the story and want to read more. That's good to hear. Thank You, fellow Havana Writers. It's good to hear good reviews. 

Journal Entry: 18 May 2014

I know what Love is

I'm not in it though

I'm all for love and

music and the songs

I hear when I'm in

Love and falling

out of Love and the

pain Love causes

when I am in Love

and they are not

with me.

Romantic Love

intimacy is what

I miss. When reality

has set in; I had

my chance and it

didn't take.

Rain pours down

Now, every day,

every time I try

to Love her I see

my demise in her

eyes letting

me down gently

and Love crushes like

a giant granite boulder

on Wiley Coyote.

I swear off Love again

until she smiles

we talk about poetry,

baseball, writing,

or music and I hear

waves crashing on

the beaches of Love

reawakening

spring in me

I forget about the pain.

WPCannon
Havana, FL
18 May 2014

Journal Entry: 17 May 2014 Havana Day: Maybe Today...

The streets of Havana are alive today; on Havana Day, my first Havana day. Almost a year I have been here. Nothing to do. I can't believe there is nothing for me to do. I go the the Library to read and to write. Write about good things I have seen over the past year. Not about bad things and most important thing of all, I don't give up, keep move forward and don't look back. I am thankful, too, for the many Blessings I have received in being here in Havana; a Lovely town in the North of Florida.

I walk to the Library on Saturday when the weather is bright and beautiful; like it is today. I am surrounded on my walks by Havana and it's austere beauty. I see more of the things I miss, on foot, than I do driving through. Havana was once a farm to market town that depended on the tobacco grown here to support the economy. Now there is no tobacco grown here. The old tobacco barns are used to sell other things. Havana is thriving any way it can, the same way we all have to do at times. A few days a year the town shuts down a few main streets and bands play, markets form in the streets and by advertisement, the town comes out to meet one another and others who wander through. That's what I like about the new town I live in; it comes out. The Others come from Tallahassee, Thomasville and Bainbridge to join us and we meet there on those closed off streets to celebrate days like these. Too beautiful to be inside I tell the girls, lets take the Library out, into the park for the day and set up under live oaks and read to the little ones who wonder by for a break. We will invite them to the Library for summer reading and all summer long have them there. The girls smile and promise that one of these days we will.

What a surprise and delight, days like these. On my way back to the house, I will walk back through Havana and linger longer. I will look for the man who sells the local honey and I will buy all that I can afford. I eat locally grown honey every day. I Love the way it makes me feel. My heart is with the bees. I also hope to find a garden near by. I Love sharing things I grow with community gardeners. I would grow more, but resources are very limited. I know Havana has a Community Garden and a Garden Club. Maybe today's the day we all connect. Maybe today is the day I find something more to do. Maybe today...

She says I can't bookend things like this Blogger Post or those Journal entries that I try to label as Poems. She being that one I live with who's suppose to be my first reader and editor. Who is supposed to encourage my writing. Being my Muse is not for her; she says. Resentment crept in at some point and now I can't count on her. That's too bad, because she's close by and it would be better for me to live in a nurturing environment. I suppose that's my own fault. I do not encourage her either. Another sad environment for us to live in. I came here hoping we would compliment one another and that both our musings would flourish. I have nothing better to so, so I muse often and when I do, I cause resentment. That's too sad for contemplation, but I do and it makes me, like I said,  very sad. Maybe the walk through Havana will cure the blues. On a Day Like this, that would be easy to do. Peace&Love!

A Ghost Story

This place I work, this hotel on Royal Street, is haunted. I have seen what I thought were spirits moving through here all of the time. I caught a glimpse of someone moving across a hall on the first floor one night. I was watching the closed circuit feed in the Loss Prevention Office and I saw a woman in a long dress. It was an old style dress with a billowy top—long sleeved, with ruffles and she was moving toward one of our meeting rooms, Riverboat, on the first floor. I thought she was a guest. It was very late, or early, actually, in the morning and she moved across one of the hallways up to the Riverboat door. I did not see her go in, but I did not see her walk away. All of the rooms were locked. I had locked them myself earlier during my shift. But, it is not unusual for our office to issue keys to guests who have booked our meeting rooms.  So, I got up and went to see for myself; who she was and where she was going. I was thinking: another insomniac, worrywart, up prowling, wanting to make sure all of her things were in order for her meeting in the morning. Before I left the office, I watched the closed circuit monitor for another ten or fifteen minutes to see if she came back out of the room and when she didn’t, I thought I’d go check on her myself.

   When I got to the room, the doors were locked, the lights were off. I unlocked, stuck my head in and across the room I saw a silhouette against the windows that made up the north side of the room. The ambient light around the courtyard illuminated the windows and her silhouette was like a shadow against the curtains that covered the windows.

   “I’m with the hotel. I saw you come in and I wanted to check on you. You were locked in. I saw you go by on your way in. You must have a key.” I said to her. She never turned her head toward the sound of my voice. And that seem strange to me. “Are you alright, can I help you?”

She never did turn toward me. All I could see was her profile—like a shadow against the curtains, against the window. She continued to stare straight ahead as she spoke.

   “I’ve been here one hundred-fifty years.” She said. “My home was here, on Royal Street, Mobile. Our parlor was here. I looked out on Royal Street everyday. I watched the world go by. I saw so much. I have seen so much.”

   Her voice trailed off. I thought she said she had been there a hundred-fifty years, but also thought she was speaking metaphorically. I was still not sure about her. It had still not dawned on me that she was not real—as in, another human being. I had thought I was carrying on a conversation, but now, thinking back on it, she talked and I listened.

   “A bullet took my life. It came from out on Royal Street; from the barrel of a gun being used in a duel. I had paused at the window to watch. The first sailor—a Cuban—fired and then the other—a merchant seaman from Mount Vernon, fired as he fell mortally wounded. His bullet found me.” She sounded very sad as she continued speaking. His name was DuCloux, Jacques DuCloux. Our spirits remained intertwined, here, for many years—an eternity it seemed and then his soul was put to rest and his spirit left mine here.”

   I remembered the flashlight I had on my belt. I took it out and lit it. I had it pointed at her, but where the light shown, she disappeared. I knew then, that she was my first ghost. The beam of light shown through her and she never seemed to notice. So, I kept listening.

   “I had a life that was unfulfilled when I was alive. I was educated, raised to love books, literature and learning. I married a man who cared for me and his children, and we cared for him, but there was nothing more and something was missing. I lived my life as a servant and nothing more. I came away from everyday wanting more. There was nothing. I never had time to read or a light in my life to read by. I wanted to write, but never owned so much as a pencil or tablet. And then it was over. I had always planned to begin, something, a poem, a journal, a letter to my husband; who was an educated man and I’m sure he would have approved of anything I wanted to do. He was, it seemed, satisfied with me. After I died, he kept the place as best he could. He finally had to get help for the children. They were the ones who suffered. They lived their lives more completely than I did and turned out well. But part of them died along with me. We suffered the loneliness together. Thank you for being here tonight and not being judgmental. I’m afraid I’m stranded in this plane. There is no one who’s praying for me; for my soul, and my spirit is stranded.”

   “I’m grateful to you for sharing that story with me. I’m not sure…well, up until tonight, I did not believe in ghosts, or spirits. Your being here and talking to me has made me at ease. I’m glad I followed you in here.” I said still not sure about this conversation. She had never really acknowledged my being there or addressed me deliberately.  And then she stunned me by saying…

   “You’re related to Jacques. I know this, but I’m not sure how I know it. I’m sure he’s praying to me and help my soul find peace.” She said. “I was never the kind of faithful person his mother was. And neither was he. God only knows how much praying it will take to get him caught up to his sainted mother and if there’s any place for my soul to go. This must be a kind of hell, or purgatory as the Catholics call it.”