Autumn morning, Marina del Rey. Workmen sip their coffee, parked by the mouth of the Grand Canal. The painters and plasterers will be plying their trade as soon as their clients are decent. A young girl walks her dog. And I, the pride of Fontana, so many years ago I came to the towers of downtown. Pretty, but oh so green, I needed a mentor. I found one in Ken. Smooth as Glenlivet, polite and kind, son of a banker back East, a prince of the board room. Charm to spare and wavy hair, he showed me the ropes, in more ways than one. -- And we always had fun! Off to Vegas, with the top down, weekends in Baja Sur. The slopes at Mammoth, sparkling in the moonlight. Sunday brunches in Laguna, strolling along the sand. I outmaneuvered the other girls and rose with the arc of his star. My marvelous man. And over time, the closeness grew. Sometimes I wondered what he saw in me. I gave up my flat in Van Nuys. We married and bought in the Palisades, thanks to the money that his parents left. Boom times, our times ... Soon a child was on the way. I quit my job since Ken was almost up to the top. My golden life seemed so secure, unfolding like the proudest bird of paradise. The years rolled on. Some friends melted down into the white powder, others wrapped themselves in the flag. We stayed with what we knew -- or should I say, I stayed. Held by the fear of it slipping away, my life narrowed down to a point. And I froze. I couldn’t see, but Ken was turning, turning away from me. More and more time at the office -- or so he said. My focus was our son, a chip off the old block -- sociable, bright and easy on the eyes. I hardly see him anymore. Finally, my husband brought forth his creature. Much younger, so lithe and smart, a walking tribute to the plastic surgeon’s art. His plan was perfection, a fait accompli. As I was reeling, the lawyer called to announce Ken’s terms. They were generous, I suppose. It all happened so fast, no time to gauge the damage to my heart. That was twenty years ago; where have I been since then? A new life, unscheduled. No map or guide for this blasted landscape. I have wandered in the wilderness, a trackless swamp of time, where songless birds are flying. Now I live in this place by the sea, manicured, windswept and lonely. Life on the Via Dolce has never been sweet. But maybe tomorrow I will finally turn the page.
The Dream Gallery
Song Cycle by Mark Abel (b. 1948)
1. Helen (Los Angeles)  [sung text checked 1 time]
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Helen (Los Angeles)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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2. Todd (Taft)  [sung text checked 1 time]
This town is dying. Head west from the 5, through barren lands and tumbleweed, into the kingdom of the pumpjacks and abandoned houses. It is dry and the wind is raw. The Temblor Range broods in the distance; a vulture circles the roadkill on Highway 119. Soon you enter this sad place, built on oil, hope and grit, named for a hefty ex-president. A downtown that once hummed is quiet now, so quiet that a single car passing is a major event. The shops are mostly empty, the sidewalks deserted. Ghosts of commerce haunt these streets -- the shuttered bank branch, the extinct car dealer, junk shops open two days a week, the drugstore whose shelves are covered with dust. Hell, we don’t even have a hospital here. Shadows of late afternoon fall on the taqueria, its neon flickering dimly as an insect comes to rest. At night, mysterious lights twinkle from the Midway-Sunset. Stars fell on Alabama, the old song goes. But here they stay cold and high; West Kern is far from heaven. My father was an oil worker, and so am I. My friends have left for Bakersfield, with its malls and subdivisions. They don’t want to live in a place that time forgot. This town is dying, but it’s still home to me. If history appeals, come ride along. There is Elk Hills, part of a scandal tainting Harding. The Lakeview Gusher, 1910, America’s biggest strike; just a small stone plaque now, surrounded by broken bottles, rusted pipes and rotting timber. Countless billions have been siphoned from here, but what was left behind? You can drive right into the fields, just don’t inhale. We have a witches’ brew -- poison gases, mists and pesticides. What the oil hasn’t finished, the cotton will. A bitter wind blows through this land.
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Todd (Taft)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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3. Naomi (Berkeley)  [sung text checked 1 time]
“Living well is the best revenge.” A strange creed for flower children, perhaps. But it is our religion here in the other city by the bay, from whose hills you can look down on everyone. Some call us smug. I say they are jealous of the things we have: The best food, abundant culture, a great university, commerce on the cutting edge. It’s all here. Really, is there anywhere else lefties can live like kings? We love the homeless down on Telegraph, somewhat less so on upper Solano. We love minorities, but Oakland and Richmond are best seen from the freeway. None of these people live on my street; they haven’t the means. My heart bleeds, truly. Life’s not fair, but it’s not my fault. I wish the best for all, isn’t that enough? It will have to be. I’m not going anywhere. I came for school and never left. My friends all look like me -- white and graying but still spunky. And smart! Our homes are worth a fortune. The Outlanders have nothing on us; we beat them at their own game. (And there is more!) Not content to lobby or march, we like to make our own foreign policy -- as befits a People’s Republic. If only we could build a wall to keep out those who would pollute our purity. So meet me at Shattuck and Vine. On nouvelle Cambodian we will dine, with world beat as our soundtrack. Exoticism is our buffer of choice -- anything that keeps America at bay for a few blessed minutes. Then we’ll climb, up, up and around, til the grand panorama is spread before us. And as the fog creeps through the Golden Gate, we’ll feel good about ourselves. The festival parade is coming soon and again I must decide: How Berkeley can I be?
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Naomi (Berkeley)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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4. Carol (San Diego)  [sung text checked 1 time]
My husband is a killer. Not the kind with an axe or a gun, but a piranha in the asphalt sea. Brad’ll cut you off in the fast lane or the onramp, undermine you at the office or the dinner table -- all with a smirk, anything to gain an edge. (Gotta have that edge!) That’s how we do things here in the land of travertine entryways and granite countertops. My kids are named Connor and Morgan, content for now with texting and videos as I drive them around in the big black Escalade. Soon they’ll be trouble, hanging at the mall, shoplifting, smoking weed. We’ll have to bring them up to speed: Acceptable social roles are few in these parts, and skateboard slacker isn’t one. We’ll push them into youth sports; it usually works. (Channel that aggression!) That’s how we do things here in the land of surfing and vintage cars, and fat fish tacos. Then there’s me; not a lot to say. I don’t work, thank God -- or read either. Women’s lib, what was that? Try keeping a 4,000-square-foot house clean! We still have sex; I promised Brad the whole nine yards. (Didn’t I?) To stay in shape I jog, my ponytail bobbing from my golf cap. Today the beauty shop, tomorrow the Botox doc, I take my pleasure in Frappuccinos and margaritas, “American Idol” and dining out. Am I missing something? I think not. That’s how we do things here ... Culture, you ask? Well, there’s music --- Hey, hey, hey! Rock and roll. We admit no other; our comfort zone is the prime directive. Same with films. Subtitles? No way. We never want to work that hard. We love to knock L.A. (fear and loathing). Still we sit there passively munching our popcorn; Hollywood knows what’s best for us. Museums? Please! National parks? Boring. For vacations Vegas is king -- no thought required, just feel the rush and hang onto your wallet. Global warming? Not my problem. Dwindling water, ditto. Our yard is the lushest around -- and gonna stay that way. So our last congressman was the biggest crook in D.C. history? So what! “America’s Finest City” produces more trash per capita than any other in the world? Have someone else take care of it, and let the good times roll. We’re in La Costa for now, but soon we’ll be moving up to Rancho Santa Fe. My money, my possessions, my status feed me; my man’s the icing on the cake. The kids sleep tight, the spa is heating up just right. Brad? ... Brad!! Get over here and do me!
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Carol (San Diego)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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5. Lonnie (Richmond)  [sung text checked 1 time]
Smell of chemicals hangs in the air above the Iron Triangle. Some things never change, and I’ve been here 70 years now. Up from Shreveport came Mom and Pop. There were jobs in the shipyards -- even for colored folks. (That’s what they called us then.) Rough and tumble after the war; expecting a beautiful future, we got the Depression all over again. People packed like sardines into flimsy shacks -- black, white and poor -- just like down South, old times there were not forgotten. And just like there, crackers ran this town, ran it down, right into the ground. And they kept on running it long after brothers started getting a piece of that City Hall action. (You know what I’m saying.) We had a nice little shopping district, but the anger boiled over in the ‘60s. Some young fools and Panthers tore up MacDonald, the flames gutting doorways and dreams. But no Phoenix arose here; we just sank deeper into the mud. All the money went to Hilltop, where they tried to build a New Richmond without us. When too many black faces showed, the developers fled to lily-white Pinole. And those millionaires out in the Point, well, they’ve never given a damn about us. Many years ago Dr. King spoke of bootstraps and expectations. Well, there are still some here who have no boots. Just drive down Barrett far enough; you’ll see ‘em. We’re no more than fodder for the Channel 2 News: Drive-bys, crack dealers, rapes and scandals. Richmond is the town everyone loves to hate -- from the safety of their living room couch, mind you. But none of them has ever been here! Some things never change. This is my wife, Doris. She’s from Oklahoma, and we’ve been married 50 years. We raised two kids, and they did OK in spite of these bad schools. They live in Vallejo and Sacramento, and worry about us staying on. “Last one leaving Richmond, turn out the lights,” they laugh. And we do too. But we’re not leaving. Our friends are here, those still living. And the young people, they must learn that violence and drugs are not the way. Broken glass, broken lives, we’ve seen it all. Still, there is beauty here -- parks, harbor and history. And plenty to be proud of -- ballplayers, musicians, doctors and workers. We’re on our way to church. Starting to rain now. Well, nice talking to you.
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Lonnie (Richmond)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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6. Luz (Soledad)  [sung text checked 1 time]
Far from Mexico, my husband rode in the back of a truck, aching for work. And they brought him here, to the valley of Salinas. Rich soil, good rains, he heard the earth sing. The work was hard and dirty, and the pay pitiful, dollars a day. And in the evening, they slept on the ground. “Aim my road on your bow of hope,” the poet said. So soon I had to come; I was always his inspiration. Love overcomes struggle. We made our home in a place called Soledad. Poor but determined, we clung to family and faith. Faith was a good thing to have then. On the ladder’s bottom rung, where the saddest songs are sung. Prejudice and poverty, few rights or capital, the police were nasty, the landlords cruel. It took its toll on our people. Some turned to drink, drugs and violence -- like my brother, Umberto, buried in the cemetery in the hills. Not far from the blue Pacific and beautiful Monterey, But they didn’t want us there, we with the rough hands, Los Olvidados -- the invisible tillers of the fields, mowers of the lawns, at night confined to our barrios. We had to fight to belong here. Powers That Be intending to keep control. The growers thought they could crush us. We won respect by showing we would not back down from our dignity. Those were such bitter days. As the generations passed, calm descended on our dusty little town. One day my daughter brought a book from school. It told a sad story, “Of Mice and Men.” Finally I understood why this place is called Soledad. Now all my children have flown; there’s no work for them here. Must the cycle roll along forever? Out to The Pinnacles I will ride, where sacred rocks were moved by God’s hand millenia ago.
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Luz (Soledad)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]IMPORTANT NOTE: The material directly above is protected by copyright and appears here by special permission. If you wish to copy it and distribute it, you must obtain permission or you will be breaking the law. Once you have permission, you must give credit to the author and display the copyright symbol ©. Copyright infringement is a criminal offense under international law.
7. Adam (Arcata)  [sung text checked 1 time]
Welcome to your future. ... You Boomers made one helluva mess. “Old Guys Rule,“ the T-shirts say, but for not much longer. It’s the turning of the tide; inexorable. We’re fed up. Enough of your bullshit! You communed with the cosmos but forgot about the planet. Now the piper must be paid (like all pipers), and we’re stuck with a terrible tab. Thanks, Mom! And you too, Dad! We’ll slave to keep Social Security afloat. Fat chance! Our kids will grow up in trailer parks, living a sci-fi nightmare. And the damnedest thing of all: It didn’t have to be this way. I’m melting down over nothing; best to chill for awhile. Drive past dear old Humboldt State -- hillside haven for alternate realities, the North Coast’s coolest girls. Memories of sweet surrender, nude beneath the redwoods, gently fading now. ... Head for the java hut just off the square, step over the sidewalk scruffies who kissed off the material world. Now here’s my man Zeke; we’ll take our kayaks to Mad River Slough. Floating on God’s creation, the seabirds wheeling high. So near and yet so far from the answers that we seek. We want to contribute! So many pathways, how can I be sure? Zeke laughs at my mistrust of the universe. Gina is teaching kids in the slums of East Timor, Gary is gonna be helping a scientist to map the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Phil is doing free web designs from a storefront in Harlem. Chuck, the most brilliant of all, went back to the family farm in Garberville -- a one-crop town. (Cash crop, you might say.) Kimberly sold out and moved to Redmond; the graduation Lexus must have sealed the deal. And that pretty much covers my crew. What now? Praise be to idleness, Zeke says. Born too many centuries too late to be a Roman patrician or a hunter-gatherer striding through the fields of ancient Eurasia. I love him like a brother, but I have a different destiny. Clarity’s elusive in this misty backwater; jobs are scarce, girlfriends scarcer. At long last, this may be the hour when I ponder the unthinkable. “California is an island drifting far from the continent,” Matthias McKinley, my favorite professor, said. “You’ll never understand America ‘til you have seen it all.” Soon I will leave the patchouli womb. I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s probably far from here. Maybe they need me in Cleveland or in dying Detroit. I’ll aid their transition to the post-industrial age. I will remember all the fun we had, chasing utopias and rarely sad. Picture the setting sun over the Pacific’s horizon, it will inspire eternally.
Authorship:
- by Mark Abel (b. 1948), "Adam (Arcata)", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]IMPORTANT NOTE: The material directly above is protected by copyright and appears here by special permission. If you wish to copy it and distribute it, you must obtain permission or you will be breaking the law. Once you have permission, you must give credit to the author and display the copyright symbol ©. Copyright infringement is a criminal offense under international law.