176-Exploring The Art Of Collaboration

My collaboration began when I was attending writing classes at Union College in Schenectady, New York in the early 1980’s. To keep living expenses down I rented an apartment in Niskayuna, New York from my musician friend. We would often sit on the porch evenings and he would play music and I would write poetry. (Although I learned to endure the late evening renditions of Peter Gabriel's, Red Rain to all hours. ) It was only natural that we began collaborating together, not only did we collaborate on songs, but we have been fortunate enough to finish a book of short stories and a novel. Our short story The Lure of the Mountain King was awarded an honorable mention in the 57^th Writer’s Digest Contest in the General Fiction Category. We have over the years drifted apart but I have lately dusted off our early collaborations and began submitting the work. Hope you enjoy the completed Ballad. (Check Out My Stories and The Lure Of The Mountain King Novel.)

 

 Gordon Grey Music

Albert Bianchine

 

 

The Ballad Of Tom Dillon

A blinding blizzard beckons me
in to Steamboat Springs.
I arrive on the last greyhound from Vail.
My pockets full of snowflakes
a lonesome geyser’s Steamboat whistle wails
always hiding, never tears to a cowboy’s eye.
Lord don’t let me be forsaken
the Baron’s have already taken
America by rail.

My darling I grow weary
often lost without a home
but you know I’ll keep on searchin
these mountain trails alone.
I wander through green valleys
across the prairies
past the village’s
farms and fields
out beyond the concrete illusions
where the Rocky Mountains pierce
the aqua skies.

I find solace in the seclusion
of another winter’s season
another mountain to ski
as long as he will lay
fresh powder down for me.

While you seek your fortune
or search the world for fame
be careful what you wish for
because when darkness falls upon you
you’ll be wailing out his name.

Ski through barren aspens
see the forests through the pines
sitting on my golden perch
am I crying out in vain?

Sometimes you awake to find
you get what you need
other times you take what you can get
it is from the children 
they take everything.

Now I found that I possess this light
from these mountains that I bring.
My gift is in my words
and for the children
I’ll let them ring.

Go and tell everyone,
silence is a snowflake falling
until they hear me calling
to all the children I will sing.
Never take the last of anything.

These days I’m a city
pretty girl painted
street wizard inside my poems.
My freedom
most men will never know
never having been wary
of wooden box stables
fabled to contain rainbows.
Someday, when their hair turns grey
their youth will have faded away
with the colors that lost their shine.

The all American Gazebo Band

plays behind the new red white and corporate blue
flag that flies against the changing hues.
Another rock opera story
of old glory, and a town without its name.
Somewhere in time, the poet’s rhyme
makes a cosmic connection.
Then the Seer Sayers arrive on Stages
and History endures the ages.

As a simple man who dreams
beyond the Apple Tree Lane
he sees a sunrise within her eyes.
Then the hobo dude
plays Howard Hughes
attempting to fill Dylan’s shoes
to find out why they came.
But in disgrace, he falls from grace
to understand success
is not what they claim.

Listen Children

to a Thorn Bird shrilly singing

this truth you’ve heard
from a poet and his strings.

 

The name of Steamboat Springs is thought to have originated around the early 1800s when French trappers thought they heard the chugging sound of a steamboat’s steam engine. The sound turned out to be a natural mineral spring, to be named the Steamboat Spring.

In 1909, the railroad arrived, which sparked a boom for the commercial industry in Steamboat Springs. Ranching was the primary industry of the valley and the cattle ranchers turned the new railroad depot into one of the largest cattle shipping centers of the West. Consequently, the construction of the railroad silenced the Steamboat Spring’s chugging noise forever.

City of Steamboat Springs Website

 

 

 

Trading Trinkets, Tall Tales, Telling Lies

 

Downtown any town’s Main street

this town, down

passed a shellacked shiny brass handled

carved crescent moon wooden door of

“The Ancient Mariner”

across the street from an old fashioned Bijou

sequenced white bulb Marquee

Flashing, “Fiddler on the Roof.”

 

Butted by a brand new brown concrete, steel, Lake Placid Hilton

descending down two flights

of green canopied wooden stairs.

 

“The Artist’s Café”

lapped white waves of Mirror Lake

reflecting the lights of “The Cottage”

and the excitement of the 1980 Winter Olympics

across from the Lake Placid Club

its walls filled with the owner’s original art

bustling buxom waitresses.

 

Comrade Ivan leaping to his feet

touching my pins from Solitude and Brighton

would I care to trade for his shiny Soviet bears

slapping him on the back saying,

“certainly mine were worth a bit more, perhaps

one, possibly two martini’s.”

 

Telling tales till they became martooni’s

 

The bustling waitress asking,

“Was I, could I be, an Olympic Athlete?”

Me smiling devilishly saying,

“Why, yes,

would she,

care to come to my room.

to view my gold medals from Europe.

 

 

                                             To Winter My Revenge

 

I had once

so long ago it seems

enjoyed the cool aroma

tasted the nectar sweet

of personal destiny achieved

 

These Words!

 

So at last I come to understand

after all these travels

all these achievements

that most men only dream…

 

I’ve been wasting the years

trying to go back

rolling the bitter ugly taste

over and over

my tired palette

 

“Reliving is not Life”

 

I am… To tell this tale

… to pound one nail

… to Winter My Revenge. 

Red Rain, Peter Gabriel

137- When a Miracle Appears, Believe It

The law of miracles is operable by any man who has realized that the essence of creation is light. A master is able to employ his divine knowledge of light phenomena to project instantly into perceptible manifestation ubiquitous atoms. The actual form of the projection whatever it be:( a tree, a medicine, a human body) is determined by the yogi's wish and by the power of will and visualization. Paramahansa Yogananda, Best Quotes

 Ever since the conclusion of the XXIV Winter Olympic Games in China my thoughts have turned to Cortina, Italy for the next Olympic Games. Officially the XXV Milan-Cortina d' Ampezzo Winter Olympics. If you read my blogs leading up to the XXIV Winter Olympics I challenged children, students and adults to create works of art, musical, written or drawn to explain what Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness means to them and submit them to the Olympic Organizing Committee. My choice was a collection of short stories titled the Mountain Pearl which was published on my blog (Post 76-91).  I wish to double my efforts to pursue publishing for the Olympics in 2026. The Olympic Logo can be applied for and you can distribute the work to the Olympic and Para-Olympic Athletes from all the countries that are participating. It is a staggering number of Countries that you can reach in one effort. There will be close to 3900 athletes in the Winter Olympics in 2026.

Enter the Miracle, all of my energy and efforts have been directed toward Europe and Cortina d'Ampezzo. My writing was revolving around Chamonix, France and European Mountains. The truth is they have always been a beacon beckoning me to Europe anyway. My youth had exhausted American Mountains. The only exception was that of Arapahoe Basin in Colorado. This year, after my retirement in 2019, my manuscript about my youth spent wintering at A-Basin was dragged out and I have begun a second draft. It has lain idle since leaving the writing workshops of my mentor in Niskayuna, New York. My life, work, our Equine Rescue Ranch all came before my book. Then came Covid and the world just about ended, and I rediscovered my desire to tell the tale of the Lure of the Mountain King. My subsequent posts of recent will give you a small preview of the work. Back to the Miracle before me, due to the lack of snow in the mountains of Italy the Olympics in Cortina have been cancelled and the Olympic Organizing Committee has awarded the 2026 Winter Olympics to Park City, Utah, who had bid for the 2030 Olympics. Can you hear the trumpets as the walls of Jehrico are falling? No really! The timing for the culmination of the completion of The Lure and the publication of the Mountain Pearl are impeccable. 

Believe the Miracle if you see it! Do not doubt that your Lord has worked Wonders and Magic right before your very heart and soul to prove to you that you are supposed to be doing exactly what you are doing here and now. Do not delay a second or minute longer in the completion and submission of your work for publication. The dream of publishing for the Olympics has been in my being since the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. My book of Poetry was published with the 2010 Olympics in Calgary, Alberta Cananda in my sights. The Lord truly works in mysterious ways. Look for the completion of the Lure of the Mountain King and possibly Dancing with Rhada (my time spent with my mentor).

I would like to issue a Call to Arms for the Children. Let's call it what it is. It is a call for The Children's Crusade. The banning of books and defunding of Libraries is beyond my comprehension as a author and sentient human being. Never before have I been more motivated to use my writing and marketing abilities to educate against the assault on our Children's and Our minds. Hope to be hearing from the silent majority.

108-Accomplishing Your Worthy Objectives

 

Your Part is to awaken your desire to accomplish your worthy objectives. Then whip up your will into action until it follows the way of wisdom that is shown to you.

Paramahansa Yogananda SRF Lessons

          Colder Than A Well Digger’s Ass

     Hitchhiking into East Vail I was picked up by and old man. He was traveling to Colorado University to visit his wife, who was a teacher at the Colorado Mountain College and had returned to school for her Master’s at the young age of sixty.

     Her son being a student, told his mother,  “I’m leaving campus, I won’t be at the same campus with my mother.”

     The father said, “Several years ago, I was traveling a lot without my wife.”

     She said to me, “Honey we’re older now, we don’t have that many years left, let’s try to stay together as much as possible.”

     The father agreed saying, “I love my wife so I decided to “respect” her wishes.”

     Then she ups and tells me she’s going back to college.

     I told her, “You better call before you come home. There may be someone else in your bed.”

     He says to me, “ my reception since then has been colder than a well digger’s ass. Did you ever say something, that was the stupidest thing you’ve ever said?”

     I smiled knowingly

     “Well,” he says, “I’m going down to Denver, and I’m going on to campus, and walk right up to her and hug her, and tell her I love her.”

     I felt happy and sad. I was happy he loved her so much to do this and she loved him. I was sad, thinking, I know this author on a campus in New York- I left standing- blue thermos top in her ink stained hand, of her autobiography and memoir writing workshop.

Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd

107-A Simple Man of Dreams; In the New Cultural Revolution

      In Light of the Russian Invasion of Ukraine and the Video of Children being buried in Mass Graves . 

       A Ticket to the Fair

(For the rededication of the Statue of Liberty 1986)

I dream that my manuscript of poetry

will be my ticket to fair

so that I could

look into the eyes of

all of the who’s who of the they’s

that will be there. 

So that I could yell,

“Set the Children Free”.

The name of Steamboat Springs is thought to have originated around the early 1800s when French trappers thought they heard the chugging sound of a steamboat’s steam engine. The sound turned out to be a natural mineral spring, to be named the Steamboat Spring.
In 1909, the railroad arrived, which sparked a boom for the commercial industry in Steamboat Springs. Ranching was the primary industry of the valley and the cattle ranchers turned the new railroad depot into one of the largest cattle shipping centers of the West. Consequently, the construction of the railroad silenced the Steamboat Spring’s chugging noise forever.

 

Written for the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics

Fresh Powder Down
 

A blinding blizzard beckons me into Steamboat Springs.

I arrive on the last greyhound from Vail.

My pockets full of snowflakes, a lonesome geyser’s whistle wails.

Always hiding, never tears to a cowboy’s eye.

Lord don’t let me be forsaken, the Baron’s have already taken

America by rail.

 

 

My darling I grow weary often lost without a home

but you know I’ll keep on searchin these mountain trails alone.

I wander through green valleys across the prairies, past the villages, farms and fields,

out beyond the concrete illusions where the Rocky Mountains pierce the aqua skies.

I find solace in the seclusion of another winter’s season, another place to ski,

as long as he will lay fresh powder down for me.

While you seek your fortune or search the world for fame,

be careful what you wish for, because when darkness falls upon you,

you’ll be wailing out his name.

Ski through barren aspens, see the forests through the pines,

sitting on my golden perch, am I crying out in vain?

Sometimes you awake to find, you get what you need,

other times you take what you can get,

it is from the children that, they take everything.

My gift is in my words, and for the children I’ll let them ring.

Go and tell everyone, silence is a snowflake falling,

until they hear me calling, to all the children I will sing.

Never take the last of anything.

 

 

These day’s I’m a city, pretty girl painted, street wizard in his poems.

My freedom most men will never know, never have been wary of wooden box labels,

fabled to contain rainbows.

Someday when their hair turns grey, their youth will have faded away,

with the colors that lost their shine.

The all American Gazebo Band plays behind, the new red white and corporate blue,

flag that flies against the changing hues.

Another rock opera story, of old glory and an American town without it’s name.

Somewhere in time, the poet’s rhyme, makes a cosmic connection,

Then the Seer Sayers arrive in stages, and history endures the ages.

A simple man with dreams beyond the Appletree Lane.

He sees a sunrise within her eyes.

And the hobo dude plays Howard Hughes, attempting to fill Dylan’s shoes,

to find out why they came.

But in disgrace, he falls from grace, to find success is not what they claim.

Listen Children to a thorn bird shrilly singing,

this truth you’ve heard, from a poet and his strings.

Of Mountains and Men (2010 For Vancouver,  British Columbia, Canada: Winter Olympics)

Albert Bianchine

The Hanuman Chalisa Tutorial, Music By Krishna Das

English Translation And Story Animation

Art of Hitch Hiking

     I briefly touched on the art of hitch hiking in my last blog, but I firmly believe that there is a fine art to it. I suppose that you can make the argument that people that hitch hikers are destitute or down and out. However there are, or there once was, a group that did it because it was fun. Even if you are destitute you have to present yourself as someone who you would pick up. You don't have to wear your Sunday best, but being filthy is not the answer. The rules as I see them are Look like you want a ride. Be attentive to the road and traffic so that you can make eye contact with your potential driver.
So that when and if they are going to pick you up you are at least aware of it happening. Circumstances put people in all kinds of positions, I never thought that it was beneath me to hitch a ride. Once I hitched on old route 20 from Albany, New York to Rochester with my old dog Dusty. We actually did well and got good rides. Although he was a very cool dog. It was a great experience.
     Many of my short stories have the central character as a wayfarer. In fact I once got a rejection letter telling me my central character should have obvious means of support to be a role model for young children. I think that only fueled my Pied Piper Complex. If traveling and hitching were truly to be an Art. My characters would be stellar examples of it.
     So I will continue to make The Art of Hitch Hiking a theme to write about. For all the children out there I will leave you with one of my Poems from Of Mountains and Men.

                                                       Upon The Mountains


Go upon the mountains
My beautiful innocent children
Leave the cities far behind.
For they in their ingratitude
Condemn themselves to their solitude!
Today's Song
Take To The Highway, James Taylor

Follow Your Dreams

   When I originally thought of White Dreams, I thought it was my quest for Alpine Winter Adventures, after all the quest for steeper mountains and deeper snows was the singularly greatest drive in my life. I listened to my grandfather talk about Whiteface and Gore Mountains as a young man. He worked for the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation as an accountant. Along with a Southern Catskill Mountain, they were his accounts. I listened intently to his tales of these areas and the views in the winter. So much so, that every spare moment I had I went skiing in the Adirondacks and quickly moved on to bigger and greater mountains and snows. Nothing new I've covered this topic a zillion times in my writing many different ways. I have given homage to the dreams I have pursued in my stories and poetry. It has been a trip into single mindedness. A one way trail you might say.

   These days, my thoughts have focused on my writing entirely. My friends and I would often say about skiing, "If not now, when!" The time is now. I know that there is a lot of insane research that goes into a Historical Novel. The thing that attracts me the most these days is the passion. It has never diminished. It grows in strength and desire as the seasons come and go. The fall and winter have always been my greatest time of adventure and travel. The spirit is willing and as the nights grow colder and the sun shifts in the sky with the Autumnal Equinox I feel the shift and pull in my spirit and psyche. It is the the familiar feel of the beginning of a new dream and adventure. Another White Dream, this one the biggest dream I have ever dared to dream. You have got to follow your dreams or become numb and dead to the world in your staleness.

A Song about Complacency:"Comfortably Numb," Pink Floyd

A Song of Conquest: "Conquistador," Procol Harum                     
 

Music In The Cafe's At Night And Revolution In The Air

 

 No that is not my line. Yes I did steal it from a Bob Dylan song. I hung on to and clung to the lines of all Dylan's song's as a young man. I was not alone. It was the sign of the times. Oddly I was reminded of Saratoga, New York this week with the running of American Pharoah at the Travers Stakes. I thought of the many days spent at the race track and Hattie's Chicken Shack and Caffe Lena. Of course, I remember Bob Dylan in Saratoga and Caffe Lena, I was taken by the scenes, the times, and the cultural revolution. All this because of a horse race this week. It was more than just a horse race. The culmination of American Pharoah sweeping the triple crown. He was so impressive in his races.

   Here is where life's experiences creep into your world. I once was impressed by and attended horse racing on a regular basis as well as gambled at OTB parlors in New York, that was until I became an Equine Massage Therapist and co-owner of a rescue ranch. I learned so much about horse anatomy and the musculature of the Equine Athlete. I came to realize what a brutal sport horse racing was and how insane it is to ask three year olds to do what they ask of them in the triple crown races. I was saddened to the core to see the Legend of American Pharoah jaded by the greed of his owner to win a race at Saratoga and increase the stud fee of the horse. The horse looked worn out to me. His eyes were hollow and his confirmation was tight. I thought that he looked somewhat tight and had a hard time making the tight turns in the paddock. His race showed that he did not have the gas to go the distance and in the end his legacy is jaded by the desires of a misguided owner. It was disheartening to say the least. Please let him retire in peace.

   It brings me to the Music and the Revolution. I loved the music and believed in the revolution. I think I still do. Only the revolution is within me now, it is not the violent over throw the government and the establishment revolution of my youth.  (Hell I think I probably am the Establishment) Yes, do I hope that something that I write helps cause a revolution. Except now I hope it is a revolution of mind, body and spirit for the individual as it has been for me. These days I find joy in my home, my meditations and my daily life. I hope you are finding yours.

"Tangled Up In Blue" Bob Dylan

My Baby Blue (Piper)

 

 

A Walk In The Park

My flights of Fantasy are impossible to control once you let them flow. I started making a mental list of my prerequisites today while I was on Red Mountain in Aspen looking down on Aspen Mountain. I thought of my early years listening to my grandfather talking about Whiteface Mountain in New York State. I started skiing Gore and Whiteface in high school and quickly graduated to Vermont Mountains. Places like Killington, Stowe, Mad River, and Glen Ellen. In the early days it wasn't enough to just ski them. It was a challenge to get a free day pass or figure out a way to ski for free some how. Some of our early trickery was to Ski Glen Ellen early where they would let you take a free run up top to test the conditions. If you wore heavy ski clothes you could take off your coat and tell the lift op that you were too hot and your ticket was on your coat below. They would buy it for a about a half day. Then you could leave and drive to Mad River and buy two $2.50 ride tickets and ski the bumps there. The moguls used to get as big as Volkswagens parked sideways. Voila, a complete day of skiing for chump change. It didn't take much undergraduate work to realize that skiing in the East was a cruel hoax. Time to graduate.
The West, discovered on a ski trip in Fast Eddy's (The Bucklemeister's) Micro bus with the bursting Orange Suns in the window. The trip brought us through Colorado, Utah and Wyoming. It also brought us home with a Van load of Coors Beer. I was hopelessly hooked on deep powder and steep ski runs. So much so that I moved West to pursue my dreams. Life is funny though because I originally was on my way to Big Sky Montana. A ski bum's true ski dream. Except that as I was leaving a gas station wash room in Dillon Colorado I happened upon a friend named Angela. She informed me she lived with Mary and Melissa and they had jobs at Arapahoe Basin and a condominium. It was the late 70's and times were much more free then. A quick overnight visit and I had a season's ski pass and a home with the girls. I had hit the ski lottery. During that season I had the opportunity to get to Big Cottonwood Canyon in Utah. The home of Solitude and Brighton. I would revisit there many times for the grandeur that they were. A ski patrolman friend who had fallen in love with Utah was kind enough to take me under his wing and show me all the powder stashes he knew. Although that Little Cottonwood Canyon is much steeper and grander, Big Cottonwood Canyon had unknown places.
One of these was Honeycomb Canyon. The Powder Stash of all Stashes, I lost my mind (or what little I had left any way.) I was hooked I visited and revisited there as often as I could. Like all great places and most cities the rest of the world discovered it and (my suburbia) stash grew into a popular place.
There are many places that you ski and while you are skiing you realize that you are just a visitor. You can find your way back but it is always just for the moment and then the moment is gone. You change or deep inside it changes you. You touched it, caressed it, put down tracks on it and the wind and snow will fill then in and you were never there. Was it just a dream? A beautiful romantic love affair that only you experienced. How do you share it? Do you speak of it respectfully among friends they way you would of a great lover? Do you go through life never talking about it again? Now that I am older I still have no answers only the fond memory of the freedom and liberty to pursue my dreams.
Honeycomb Canyon, Big Cottonwood Canyon, Utah

It is funny in life that certain songs and lyrics become Anthems to you and when you are young and making life decisions the words almost speak to you. I remember a room mate of mine telling me that if a Played Bob Dylan late at night when I came home after a night out drinking that he would break all of my Dylan Albums. Listening to this song, I was a young college student again struggling with trying to stay in College and get my degree or be free and ski. I stayed and got my education buy flew to the hills as soon as I was able.
"What About Me," Quicksilver Messenger Service