176-Exploring The Art Of Collaboration

My collaboration began when I was attending writing classes  with the Poet and writer Lyn Lifshin 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

Joseph Elijo

 

 

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

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

106-Colder Than A Well Digger's Ass

                           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.            

Thirteen: Searching for the Mountain Pearl.

   
   

      Often it is easy to become mired in the present and the thought of any type of future is not within your comprehension. Since retiring and taking a year off from actively thinking about any future is a luxury that we have never known. We have always been engaged in a business or property that has taken our concentration from ourselves and our own lives to be filled with responsibility for others or other's things. After a year of decompression our thoughts through meditation and yoga practices have turned to personal enrichment. Projects long shelved have been brought out and given the light of day. They have been reviewed for their merit. In taking the time to examine the premise of my collection of short storiesI find them valid. The thought of setting individual stories for the people of America and other countries in American Mountains is a valid concept. It is especially relevant with the years that Winter Olympics are presented. The concept was the the Olympics are every four years. I never thought that thirty years would pass from inception to completion. However I find they are as topical now as they ever were.  I still believe it possible to deliver a book of stories set in mountains of America talking about freedom and Liberty to the athletes of the nations at the 2026 Milan-Cortina Winter Olympics in Italy. Cortina is known as the Peal of the Dolomites. There will be 3,500 athletes and 93 countries represented in the olympic and papralympic games. How befitting for the Mountain Pearl. It is also the climbing and sliing Mecca of the World. The corner stone story was awarded an Honorable Mention in the 57 Writer's Digest Genre Fiction Competition. The idea of a Mountain Pearl was given to me by my Wife, Kathy, being from the sea she suggested I was like an oyster for over twenty years polishing my ski stories to almost an obsession. If the truth be told the inception of the stories was actually twelve years before. It makes the story thirty two years old. The premise is still topical and pertinent. There are no other stories like them. Since reviewing the work. It could almost be split off into three different novels. The first fictional history of The Ski Area A-Basin. The second set in Union College and Beaver Creek and Vail Ski Resorts, and the third would be the horse stories, set in Storm King Mountain and the West. Do I believe they can stand alone as short stories. Yes I do! I guess time alone will tell. The Mountain Pearl is an object that is unobtainable. It is the thing that drives men or women to mountains. It is intangible, you can feel it, it is palpable but cannot be held. It is the desire to possess the crown jewel. It is the the supreme Joy of Ascending and Beholding the Mountain Top!

     They are in rest having read and edited them for too many years. They need a fresh approach. They shall remain at rest for now. The enjoyment of writing freshly and openly is alluring and challenging. I look forward to the beginning of the games! Never let let the Summit go until you touch the pearl!

2 cents overdrawn

                           (The Further Trials Of The Worlds Greatest Ski Bum)

Mick Jagger on a full screen
MTV Video screaming
"I'm just waiting on a lady
I'm just waiting on a friend."

Golden Peak restaurant bar
warming my hands on a
steaming ceramic coffee filled mug.
Arriving one day later than,
the Vail Mountain employee draw.

Being 2 cents overdrawn and scribbling
like Gollum caressing his precious, precious,
my powder snow poetry.

Leaving the restaurant like that,
I mean blue words
on a white paper napkin
thinking them worth much
more than 2 missing pennies.

Pulling on down gloves
trudging into the wilderness,
like Strider the Ranger.

Never really fitting in
like a brown wood log cabin
mud caulked chinked
with a grey stone chimney
sizzling snowshoe rabbit.
Smoke billowing wafting
through silent Aspens.

It hangs drifting like
cotton ball clouds
sparkling crystals
bending emerald
boughs of pines.

A skinny ski trail snaking around
deep powder tree wells
to a stoked glowing fireplace
in the White River National Forest
warding off dusk.
Today's Song
"Please Come to Boston," Joan Baez

Relativity of Time

 

The phrase that time is relative has never escaped me. I always knew that as a young man that time was the here and now. The book for my generation that was the rage was "Be Here Now," by Ram Dass. It reverberated with the message of the times. You know all the Sha-la-la-la live for todayer's. I was one of them. You guessed it a hippie. Of course I had long hair and a beard. My little sister was kind enough to put my hair into tight braids, so that when I took them out it made my hair frizz out and it looked good with my big gold ring in my ear. Yep! That was me the cool cat, or at least I thought I was in my mind. After all, I watched Doby Gillis and thought Maynard G. Grebbs was cool. I may have even bought a set of bongo's. However I learned early in my life that I have no rhythm and I can't carry a tune. Except for my brief try at chorus in eighth grade. (My friend Michael Metti convinced me to try out. I actually made chorus, but my sisters laughed at me and I decided to quit. Just like my engagement to Mary Corona, when I was five years old. I bought her a ring, gave it to her because she was the absolute love of my life. Again my sister's made fun of me, so I remember asking her for the ring back. God Rest her soul as she has passed away.) The Hippie movement was right on time for my friends and I. The signs were all there and it was exciting. Looking back on the times I am still amazed and surprised about how unaware our parents and the police were concerning the times and the drug scene. I remember a hippie jeweler in town who had a small three bedroom house and he painted it the color of the rainbow, and put large bubble windows in place of the traditional ones. When you walked into the store he had completely covered the inside walls with broken pieces of mirrors in every room and had large display cases with all his wares. He burned incense and had black lights everywhere with brightly colored T-shirts for sale. Even I thought it was slightly bizarre for 1968. However, neither the police, nor our parents ever voiced any concern about the house, even though it was a major source of marijuana and hashish. Good times, where you could charge your purchases on your credit card and be styling. I suppose that it was a real sign of the times. Every one I am sure has many stories like that. People just didn't catch on or if they did they really did not care.


    Fortunately for me, I was the first year of the draft lottery for the Vietnam war. They were taking everyone with numbers 210 and lower. My number was 242. Free bird! I am sorry for all the young men who went to Vietnam, many did not come back or they did in body but not mind and spirit. It was my good fortune to go skiing and not to war. I remember thinking what a very lucky group of men my friends and I were. We all worked in our family business's or in local jobs and were free to take long ski vacations, In my case, and Captain Zooms, Touloose, and Creme-Kings we all were able to go and live in ski town's like Aspen, Vail, in Colorado, Brighton in Utah, Jackson Hole in Wyoming. It started out by skiing weekends, then week days, until we realized we could ski every day if we became bona-fide ski bum's. Every mother's night mare, a son or daughter with out a real career, drifting through life like the snows of winter. I remember my first winter at Arapahoe Basin, as beautiful as it was every one was talking about Grand Targhee, in Wyoming that was the first and last mountain to get snow. It was addicting, the freedom I mean. Get up every day and turn your boards until you were exhausted. Work where ever and when ever you could. It was a freedom that captured my heart and soul and I guess that is why I have always wanted to write about it. To explain why we all ran way, we were in a way a lost generation. I believe that I found myself in the running away. Subsequently each and every one of us did. I really want to follow the lives of the people I knew at Arapahoe Basin, and where they went and what they did with their lives after leaving.


   The mountain changed us all and touched us all in it's own way and we all found our individual truths that we were searching for. All in a winter's tale. We all moved on but we shared a special time in a special place with a group full of searchers. Sometimes I think I almost know what it is I want to say. These day's it is more pressing and wanting to come more as my time has been put into perspective. I always thought I had all the time in the world to write what I needed to write. Having been diagnosed with Cancer, (a non lethal form of skin cancer, that will require another unpleasant surgery, and six weeks of radiation therapy,) has put my time into perspective. Write, hell yeah, as often and as long as I am able. I suppose that when I look back at my life in my old age to come and Thank God! for the wake up call and the time that I was able to spend writing in my future life, I will say it was my singular greatest turning point and inspiration to pursue the dream I have always held so close to my heart. Time is relative! I'm sure that even Prince would love to have a little more time. No one ever thinks they are going to run out of it. Guess what? I have had my moment with time the past few weeks. My future is a little less certain. Time a little more relevant than it ever has been in my life. The future is mine to create..

   Thank you for your love and support Katarina.


   I would often listen to this first song when I was working out at the Athletic Club in Colonie and taking writing classes at Union College. It would help me to focus on my dreams of writing and forget the reality of living in a city. I remember how very unhappy I was in the city. I just couldn't get my act together there.

   The second song I would listen to with the artist Evelyn Wilson, we were kindred spirits in the city longing for new horizon's and distant frontiers. She liked Prince, I was not so enthusiastic. I hope she found her horizons. I found mine and a beautiful woman to share them with.

Today's Songs

"Never Surrender," Corey Heart

"Purple Rain," Prince

My little nurse and angel who has helped through my ordeal and I am sure will continue to lift my spirits through the coming battles! I can't forget her good friend "Boney".

The Cure For The Rainy Day Blues

   These days I like to concentrate on the here and the now and not to live in the memories of the past. Sometimes though when the weather is bad like it has been for the past month or more. I don't mind if I indulge myself in to a little past history. Living in Colorado has primarily assured us of good weather. The days are generally sunny and blue skies. Very rarely do you get many rainy days strung in a row. That is until this spring, it has been the darkest and wettest and snowiest I have ever seen. Nation wide we are far better off than other places the inclement weather appears to be running amok.


   The longest stretch of good weather in my memory is the late 80's. I am not sure of the year, but it was the year of the fires in Yellowstone. The year 1988 strikes a chord for me. I had recently moved back to Colorado after a string of bad luck in New York State. (Self-Inflicted.) I was more than just a struggling writer then. I was struggling with other issues and had yet gotten the upper hand. "All is well that ends well," so they say. Today I am happy joyous and free of those former addictions and even the rainy day blues can't bring me back down. Anyway, back to the stretch of good weather. I had gotten back into outdoor activities such as hiking, biking, climbing, and extremely long spring, summer adventures. Fortunately, I was working as a waiter in Vail, and did not have to be into work until 5 pm. This gave me a tremendous amount of time to explore the local wilderness. Long bike rides up Vail Pass and over Shrine Pass and down into Redstone and through Minturn back to Vail. It was always a great trek with my partner Christian. We also liked to head up to Benchmark at the Top of East Vail on our bikes, sometimes we would climb down into the Back bowls of Vail with our bikes and ride down into West Vail. There are some extremely challenging terrain into West Vail. The days went on forever. I believe the record was 40 or 45 days of no rain. The afternoon thunder storms never appeared. Arising at 5 am you can get out climbing and summit the Gore Range at 13,000 ft. plus by noon and be back down into town for work by 5. I remember one particular day climbing on Gore Pass and looking out West toward Yellowstone and seeing the large white plumes of smoke rising from the fires. It was incredible to see. Several days later the entire Upper Eagle Valley was socked in with smoke and eventually cleared out. Many days were spent hiking up into Piney Lake and the wilderness there. I believe those hikes and bike trips served to put Christian and I into good enough shape to Climb Mount of the Holy Cross that year.


   The Holy Cross Wilderness is particularly beautiful but extremely rugged. I unfortunately, as a climber was endowed with very large quads. Probably from all the years of skiing that I did. Anyway coming down Holy Cross there are very large scree fields filled with giant boulders. You find yourself hopping from boulder to boulder for thousands of yards. If you have large muscles in your legs like I, you burn up large amounts of energy. The thing about Holy Cross is that on the initial trek in you descend into a very large ravine before you begin the actual climb up Holy Cross itself. All well and good you might think, but after Summiting Holy Cross, you have to boulder down for hours and then trek out and climb back up the ravine to get out of the wilderness area. I distinctively remember saying to Christian after I was totally spent and felt like I was walking on wooden stumps, because my quads had filled with lactic acid, "I think I'll sit here for a few minutes and catch up shortly." Wrong, the problem is when you sit down and relax your legs tend to cramp up. I was siting and writhing in pain, alone in the wilderness and I came to the realization that no one was going to help me to walk out. If I did not pull it together, rub out the cramps and struggle out on my numb stumps, I was going to spend the night in the Holy Cross Wilderness. What a great motivator spending the evening alone in the wilderness is. I did get up and did force myself to finish my walk out.

    I guess sometimes memories are the cure for the rainy day blues. Kathy and I are closing on our new house this Thursday and we can't wait to move in this weekend. A second move in one year. Not uncommon for living in s Ski Resort. Except now, I live in the City, and don't plan on many more moves. Often during orientation at a ski resort, during the smile school the resorts would have you attend, they would often ask, "How many times have you moved in the past several years?" Sometimes the answers would be astounding. People would say, "I have move six times in the last two years." I would often think how odd that would seem to most sedentary American Workers. I don't think the average American is flexible enough in that way. Too Bad that people are so rigid.


   I fear rigidity in my old age and hope that my current move will allow me stability and yet not make me rigid. I have the desire to grow in my writing and hope that a new writing office set up properly will be an impetus for longer structured writing sessions. I could use a little rigidity in that area. Here is to attacking the long lazy dog day afternoon summertime blues with constructive writing. I am growing fond of the City and all the things at my beckon call.

  An Incredible Blue Song.

    "Superman's Song," The Crash Test Dummies

Remembering Beaver Creek

   Beaver Creek is a wonderful mountain nestled in a hilltop outside of the town of Avon, Colorado. It was my distinct pleasure to spend a lot of time there in the late 1980's. When I first arrived, there was no base building. A large white plastic dome served as it's main building. What made Beaver Creek so unique at the time is that the terrain although not as high in altitude as many other mountains has some incredibly challenging runs. Birds of Prey serves as the downhill portion of many competitions.


  Former President Gerald Ford made his home in Beaver Creek and this lent for great excitement and very good promotion for the ski area. While working for the Beaver Creek Children's Theatre it was my honor one Christmas to play Santa Claus and to ride into the Christmas Gala with Gerald and Betty Ford. For me although a bit corny, the adulation of the crowd was a fun and wonderful  time. They were very gracious hosts and wonderful human beings. Betty Ford well known for her work with the Betty Ford Clinic would chair the Local A.A. Meetings.

   It was a wonderful time then and Beaver Creek was the host of the 1989 World Alpine Skiing Championships. The festivities and joy of the period prompted me to make the area the setting for a ski novel that I had been thinking about writing. If you check out My Stories you will find two short stories that are chapters of my ski novel. A lot of the chapters are partially written and will take some time to bring them into form. It was a time of great revelry. Beaver Creek was young and growing and it just lent itself naturally to my work. It was a great time of personal growth for me. I was to eventually spend 5 years in the Vail, Beaver Creek Area before moving to Aspen, Colorado.
 
   It was during that time that I had some of the greatest outdoor experiences of my life. Those areas really were a young peoples towns. The average mean age I believe was the late 20's and early 30's. Hiking, mountain biking and climbing, along with snowboarding and skiing were some of the predominant sports of the times. I was fortunate enough to meet my climbing and mountain biking partner Christian there. There are quite a few climbing and grueling mountain biking expeditions I hope to write about in the future.

   I look forward to the work on Out Of America just for the fond memories of the area and recreating the people and places that made the times so exciting and joyful. Enjoy the stories although my characters are fiction.I do not wish to offend anyone with my work, but life does lend itself to create good fiction. So this is pure fiction!