EVERETT RUESS: A HAUNTING MYSTERY

Everett Ruess

(1914-1934?)

"When I go, I leave no trace."
Everett Ruess


I have long been haunted by the fascinating and mysterious story of Everett Ruess. Like all true-life enigmas, he harbored a multitude of dimensions and was a mass of contradictions. His facets were kaleidoscopic and his talents were many : writer, artist, poet, diarist. He was outgoing, courageous, a fearless adventurer. Yet he was also erudite, an aesthete - - intensely sensitive, highly romantic.

Everett Ruess wrote over 175,000 pages of letters, journals, and poems. He painted more than 100 watercolors, and made countless woodblocks and sketches. These would have been admirable lifetime accomplishments for anyone. Ruess did this during the span of only a few short years and at an extraordinarily young age. He was only twenty years old when he vanished in the Utah desert, never to be heard from again.

  Ruess at age 16
with burro and dog Curly, 1930

  Ruess had a fierce aversion to cities and mundane conventional existence - - preferring to be a perpetual wanderer and explorer. He felt most comfortable alone in the isolation and beauty of nature. He was a minimalist and naturalist - - spending the last four years of his life exploring the High Sierras and the remote areas of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah.

Woodblocks by Ruess



He rode broncos, branded calves, resided with Indians, learned to speak the Navajo language. He traveled entirely alone on foot or horseback, sometimes using burros as pack animals. During his travels he painted watercolors and made woodblocks, and wrote highly descriptive letters to his parents and brother who lived in Los Angeles.

Watercolor by Ruess

Ruess was born in 1914. He was raised in Southern California, graduated from Hollywood High School, and studied for only five months at UCLA before becoming restless and yearning to travel. His mother (Stella Knight Ruess) was a respected artist and poetess. His father (Christopher) was a professor at UCLA. Both parents encouraged their son to be a free spirit and follow his adventurous instincts.

In the summer of 1930, at age sixteen, Ruess hitchhiked from Los Angeles north to Carmel, where he met famed photographers Ansel Adams and Edward Weston. He later spent some time in San Francisco, leading a Bohemian life with other artists and writers. In 1931, at age seventeen, he walked across the Painted Desert in Arizona, trekked to the Grand Canyon, and thereafter was obsessed with exploring the wilderness of the American Southwest.

In November, 1934, after a stint in Escalante, Utah, he set out alone in the remote desert canyons. He was never heard from again. Four months later his two burros were found southeast of Escalante, along with human footprints and empty food cans. Extensive searches found no other traces of Reuss.

 Ruess and burro

Zion National Park, Utah

With the discovery of skeletal remains in 2009, it was initially believed that the body of Everett Ruess had finally been found. The first DNA test was inconclusive. The second test revealed that the remains were definitely not those of Ruess. The bones were that of a six-foot tall, mature Navajo man. Ruess was a small 5' 7" and only twenty years old. So the mystery continues.

Many theories exist as to what exactly happened to Everett Ruess. He certainly could have had an accident or succumbed to the harsh elements. Another very plausible theory is murder. Ruess was a friendly and trusting youth, who had befriended many unsavory characters in the past.

The theory that Ruess purposefully vanished is remote but still popular. His letters are seasoned with mysterious and romanticized notions:

"I must pack my short life full of interesting events and creative activity. Then, before physical deterioration obtrudes, I shall go on some last wilderness trip to a place I have known and loved. I shall not return."

To say that Everett Ruess was brilliant is an understatement. Reading his diaries and letters is imperative to understanding the depths of his soul. Most of his writings have been published. A wide array of biographies about Ruess are available, and several documentary films have been made.

There is something intensely romantic about a mystery. Vanishing without a trace lends itself to a special kind of immortality and is the stuff that perpetuates dreams and creates legends.

Everett Ruess was fascinating in life and even more intriguing in the absence of death.........

Jon V.
(copyright 2014) 

 

 

Note:

I initially posted this several years ago and thought it's worth a rerun. I also wrote a follow-up post (part two) which I'll share soon.
                                                                                                       

Photo of Ruess and his burros

 

DREAMS OF ESCAPE

Dreams of Escape was the title of my very first book of poetry, written in my early twenties and nearly forgotten until tonight when I found an old printed copy. The title is prophetically appropriate.

My entire life seems to have been a perpetual cycle (circle?) of escapes: from unpleasant experiences, bad situations, and - undoubtedly foremost - escape from myself.

Escape from oneself is, of course, an exercise in complete futility - - but I pursued it enthusiastically during my life-long course of discontent.

I don't want to get philosophical (mainly because I lack the qualifications). I'm merely thinking, remembering. Talking to myself.
You're merely an innocent eavesdropper.

I suppose my first great escape was when I left home and moved to Hollywood. I was nineteen - a late bloomer and greener than moldy cheese. I've previously written about this enough times for it to become trite and stale.

It happened after one of the worst (physical) blow-ups I had with my father. He won, hands down. Choked me into unconsciousness, knocked me through a plate glass door. It was weeks before I began to physically heal.

Before I left, I had planned to kill him. Got his revolver. Sneaked into his bedroom late one night (he was a very heavy sleeper). Stood there deciding whether or not to shoot him through the head. Weighed the pros and cons.
Decided to let the son-of-a-bitch live in his own misery.

The cold, seedy,  dangerously anonymous streets of Hollywood are about as far from Tinseltown glamor as anyone can get. I quickly learned about survival - and about sex, drugs, booze, and hardcore realms of escape that I never previously thought were possible.

It was a long and delicious escape - mainly because I became someone other than my real self:  mysterious, elusive, seductive,  dangerously reckless, unconcerned with consequences.....

I'm only scratching the surface of an incredible journey into self-destruction.

And suddenly I'm thinking of all my other attempts of escape, which - filtered through the sobering distance of time - seem as futile as they are ridiculous.

Escape from the heartbreaking end of my first sexual relationship. It lasted only three months. I was nineteen. The...other person...was a decade older and infinitely more experienced. It wasn't love. It was intense infatuation. But I was completely heartbroken. Packed my gear and left California. Spent the entire summer on the east coast.

Escape from another relationship - where intense jealousy (and possessiveness) reared its ugly head.
This.....other person.....was intent on pursuing me - and had enough cash and clout to do it.
I escaped to Mexico. Baja. Eventually Ensenada. Lived on the beach for a few weeks. I drank Tequila and Modelo Chelada and dug my bare toes into uncharted sands.

Juan

en la playa de Ensenada

I already (long ago) wrote a blog post about my escape from marriage. Or perhaps escape from a wedding....

Clara was the sister of one of my best friends, Anton. Their father was well-known and they were an extremely wealthy and refined family.

I was twenty-four. Clara was near thirty but looked much younger. She had been educated in Switzerland and spoke five languages.

I frequented their home, gave private piano concerts and poetry readings there. Sailed on their yacht in Newport Beach. Rode in their Rolls Royce. The entire family adored me (hard to believe, but true) and wanted me to marry Clara.

Clara and I had dated casually. Went to many events in Beverly Hills and Los Angeles. But I was extremely immature and hopelessly reckless. I definitely didn't want marriage (for more reasons than the one you think....). Serious relationships of any kind terrified me.

 Clara and I

at an event in Beverly Hills

a very faded glimpse into my past life...

There's an enormous amount more to this story, but I'll cut it short by saying that Clara eventually married someone she didn't love on the rebound of losing me.

She begged me to attend their wedding,

"for moral support".

As usual, my initial reaction was to escape from the situation. I went on a serious drinking spree, borrowed a boat from a friend, and sailed to Catalina Island where I stayed for a week in blissful inebriation. 

This blog post is getting too long and I've only mentioned a pitiful few of my many colorful escapes.

I still haven't told how I wound up living in poverty in a mountain shack in Tennessee.

If you aren't bored with this crap, I might (eventually) continue my adventures in escape.

FIRST KISS

Well, the eclipse is over. And so is summer, almost. It hasn't rained here in two days and everyone is getting nervous. 
Coyotes howled enthusiastically late last night. Gunshots echoed through the forest this afternoon. I doubt if the two things were related.

My usual foul mood is compounded by a sinus headache and an ear infection. I feel ear blockage and hear echoes. It's kinda like Black Sabbath is performing in my cochlea.
Don't panic. The cochlea is nothing sexual.

Speaking of sexual - - I was scanning some old photos into my computer last night. And I found this one photo that I had completely forgotten about, which is connected with a story that I had also completely forgotten about: my first kiss.

 Me on the left, Lynette on the right, with a very reasonable distance between us. This is a crappy photo with bad lighting, and some mysterious streaks on the film.

I was seven years old and we lived in Covina, California.
Lynette was around my age and lived across the street. We were just casual friends and I hardly remember her. Except for the kiss.

It happened in my back yard. In all fairness, Lynette was completely innocent. I was the aggressor, the perpetrator, the wolf in pursuit. But, for the life of me, I don't recall exactly what inspired my rash act of unbridled ardor.

I suddenly planted a big smooch right on Lynette's unsuspecting mouth, and I did it with admirable enthusiasm for an inexperienced seven-year-old.

My moment of bliss was of very short duration. As luck would have it, my mother and a neighbor lady were looking out their respective windows and saw me commit the blasphemous deed.

All hell broke loose in our reasonably quiet and conservative neighborhood, and I was soundly chastised and nearly banished and forced to wear a scarlet letter.

It's improper and inappropriate! my mother said.

It's immoral and unacceptable! a concerned neighbor lady chimed in.

You could get a disease from kissing someone! another do-gooder warned me.

I couldn't imagine what disease I'd contract from a seven-year-old virgin, but that was beside the realm of my eternal damnation. 

Anyway, the ugly incident put a major damper on my sexual proclivities for many years to come. Kissing was one more thing added to a tediously long list of unconscionable sins.

We moved to Pomona when I was eight, and the girl across the street from us there was named Carolyn. Carolyn was two years older than me and very wise in wicked ways. She made Lynette look like a Romper Room amateur.

But this post is getting long, so I'll leave Carolyn for another time.

So, Jon, when was the first time you ever kissed a boy?

You nasty people have minds lower than the bottom of the trash cans in the Edit Room of the National Enquirer.

If you really must know, I was a sweet and totally innocent nineteen-year-old. The lucky perpetrator was pushing thirty.

From there, I'll leave you hanging in agonizing suspense.....

Note:
I finally  corrected the typos. I may not be perfect, but I'm damn near it.

MORE SMALL TOWN TALES

A birds eye view of the small California town where I went to high school

This is a continuation of my previous post, Strange Things in a Small Town.

My high school days were accentuated by the fact that I was an irredeemably hopeless nerd and mercilessly myopic.


There wasn't much I could do to counteract the nerdiness. I was two years younger than my classmates and it felt more like a dozen years. Vanity prevented me from wearing my glasses. I only utilized them when absolutely necessary. I wandered around blind during my entire high school years. I was a taller, skinnier, younger version of Mr. Magoo. I got contact lenses after I graduated and have been wearing them ever since (over 100 years, I think).

Graduation, age 16

without glasses.

The girl next door, Bonnie, was as near-sighted and vain as myself. She never wore her glasses either, and always walked around blind. We were made for each other.

We both had crushes on each other and were inseparable friends for years. I always figured I was going to marry Bonnie. I even planned our wedding: a casual affair on the beach - barefooted and in peasant attire, with renaissance music.

That was only a few short years before I went to Hollywood, lost my soul in the delightful purgatory of Babylon, and willingly got irretrievably corrupted by heathens.....(feel free to laugh - that was intended to be funny)


The small Southern California town where I went to high school was nestled in the rustic hills, but that seclusion didn't prevent it from being subjected to crime and strange happenings . It did, however, provide idyllic surroundings and yielded a generous share of good memories.

There were huge sprawling pepper trees and apathetic palm trees. Poinsettias grew wild around our house. There were fragrant roses everywhere. Our yard had apricot trees and in the spring the scent of blossoms was beyond heavenly. It always sent me into a romantic fervor.
I was cursed with romanticism at an early age.....

I walked everywhere, before I had a driver's license. To school, the library, the store, the post office, the dentist, my piano lessons. I was perpetually barefooted in the summer. 

This is the library that was my favorite haunt. It has since been torn down and a new, modern one was built.

The library was my special haunt. I spent more time there than anywhere else. I read countless books on a wide variety of subjects. I was obsessed with educating myself. I studied astronomy and navigation, history and art, elocution and etiquette, psychology - to name a few. I yearned to be polished, to metamorphose into a sort of Jay Gatsby.

One night, when the library was about to close, I noticed that a man was following me around the bookshelves. He was probably in his 40's and was wearing a bright purple shirt. Trust me, men didn't normally wear bright purple shirts in that small town when I was a kid.

When I went to the desk to check out my books, he was standing right next to me. As I exited the building, he was right behind me. He followed me to dark, creepy Ninth Street - which was my route home. I took off running, sprinting the long blocks like a hunted bunny. I didn't stop until I was safely in our front yard.

In my alarming innocence, it never occurred to me that the purple-clad man probably had sexual intentions. I thought he was a murderer.

Most of our neighbors in that small rural town were fantastic - - except the quirky ones in the rental houses. There was the Mexican murder (which I wrote about in my previous post). Then there were the Mexican prostitutes in one of the rentals. The police raided it one afternoon. Several half-clad Mexican men ran out the back door and down the alley.

Across the street from us, in yet another rental, was a woman named Margie. She had seven children and was a drug addict. She was extremely adept at mixing up potent potions. We'd hardly ever heard of drugs back then and didn't think too much of it. On summer nights, Bonnie and I used to spy on Margie's house with a pair of binoculars. Don't ask me why - - it was simply cheap entertainment. We'd mostly watch them eat dinner.

There was a small, very old Pentecostal church two blocks down the street. They'd often hold extremely enthusiastic revival meetings. Bonnie and I would walk over there, sit on the church steps, and listen to the singing, wailing, and theatrical saving of lost souls. Things would swell to a frantic crescendo and the drama was intoxicating. The entire church would shake.

My soul was annoyingly pure at that time and had yet to be in need of salvation. Later, it was beyond salvation.....

My family attended a different church. I remember the first time when vanity completely overtook me. I was sixteen and got a new Sunday outfit - - a snazzy double-breasted suit, a new shirt and tie, and new shoes. I was starting to be conscious of my looks - and I thought I looked hot.

I decided to give the suit a trial run at church. I got all dressed up, put on my new shoes, made sure my blonde hair was combed perfectly. And, of course, I didn't wear my glasses. I walked to church alone that morning, feeling more handsome than God should allow me to be.

Halfway there, I happened to walk under a large palm tree - unaware that pigeons were roosting in it, eagerly waiting for a passerby. I was rudely anointed with a liberal deposit of pigeon shit. It was all over my hair, my shoulder, and dripping down the front of my suit.

Immediately humbled and in dire need of purification, I hurried home. Washed my hair. Cleaned my suit. And cursed a lot. I had no doubt that God worked in strange ways.


The Blogger gremlins are at it again, rudely changing my font sizes and colors against my will. Excuse any visual inconsistencies....

STRANGE THINGS IN A SMALL TOWN

The small California town where I went

to high school was nestled among these hills.

It still looks about the same as I remembered it.

My family moved numerous times when I was a child in Southern California. We lived in Glendora, Covina, Pomona, Anaheim - then the Small Rural Town, and finally back to Anaheim again.

Between the ages of 13 to 18 we lived in a small rural town nestled in the rolling hills, halfway between Orange County and Riverside.

Why don't you tell us the name of the small rural town, Jon?

Hell, you already know too much about me. I have to maintain some semblance of privacy. Besides, I don't want anyone delving into my high school records. Even though they were damn good.

Those six years were probably the best years of my young life. The town had a very quaint atmosphere and a sense of normalcy prevailed. We knew nearly everyone and had lots of friends, our neighbors were fantastic. If it wasn't for my father's usual violence and complete dysfunction, things would have been perfect.

I loved my high school and still keep in touch with a few of my old school friends. I always walked to school, which was nearly three miles one way. Two of my friends had motorcycles and they occasionally gave me a ride. Frank Kastin who lived on my street, and a black guy named Kenny Johnson.

I was an absolute nerd back then - - hopelessly tall, pathetically skinny, painfully self-conscious, astoundingly naive, and annoyingly bespectacled. In retrospect, it's extremely amusing to imagine me riding around town on a motorcycle with a black dude.


So, what's strange about the small rural town, Jon?

You'd think a small rural town would be safe. Shortly after we first moved there, two big burly guys tried to break into our house in broad daylight. I was in the kitchen. They scaled the six-foot wall that enclosed our yard, came right into our screened-in patio, and tried to open the kitchen door. I pulled it shut and locked it, then yelled that I was going to call the police. They took off running and we never saw them again. I was thirteen at the time.

There was a Flasher in town. I had never personally seen him, but I'd heard plenty of stories. He had reportedly exposed himself to many unsuspecting strangers. Sometimes he was bold enough to knock on doors and flash his wares to whoever happened to answer. He was never caught.

There was the Wine Lady. At least that's what everyone called her. She was an alcoholic who wandered up and down the streets all day long while incessantly talking to herself. She often came past our house - - wildly gesticulating and having loud conversations with herself. At the time it seemed amusing. I didn't realize how pathetically serious it was.

I knew the Wine Lady's son Henry and his wife Sandy. They were nice, decent people who went to our church. Henry repeatedly tried to get help for his mother but to no avail. She was a hopeless cause.

A short block away from our house, on the corner, was a very old and tiny wooden house. It was occupied by an ancient lady known as Mrs. Brown. She was at least in her late 90's, possibly near 100. Mrs. Brown was  afraid to go to sleep at night, so she'd sit up all night long in a chair looking out the front window. One night she died in the chair. They found her stone cold dead, still staring out the window. Shortly afterwards the house was torn down. I rummaged through the remains and found some old newspapers from the first World War.

One summer night when I was fifteen, there was a murder only three houses down from where we lived. It was a rental house and we never knew exactly who lived there. On summer nights I very often sat outside on the curb in front of our house talking with friends.

On this particular night I was outside with two friends. Suddenly a loud argument interrupted the serenity of the evening. It was coming from the rental house. Two Mexican men came outside fighting. One stabbed the other with a butcher knife. He staggered, fell, and died on the sidewalk only a few yards away from us. It happened in an instant and we saw the whole thing. Later, we learned that they were fighting over a woman.

The large rusty blood stains remained on the sidewalk for a very long time. That autumn, every time I walked to school I'd cross the street before I got to the blood stains - - so I wouldn't have to walk on them.

Hey, I'm just getting warmed up. These are only a few of the strange things that happened in our small rural town.

And Linda - if you happen to be reading this, I love ya - because we share the memories.



BEHIND THE WHEEL

Perhaps I was more suited to drive a team of horses?

(age 13, at Culver Studios)

It's pathetically ironic that I'm afraid to navigate these winding Tennessee mountain roads on my excursions into town. I was raised in Southern California and lived there for thirty years. I thought nothing of piloting the endlessly sprawling, hopelessly intricate network of bumper to bumper freeways.

Of course, I was younger then......and naively fearless.....and breathtakingly reckless.

When I first started driving I was living with my parents in Anaheim (near Disneyland). It was routine for me to drive 40 miles to Riverside for my music lessons, or 30 miles to Hollywood for stints as a movie extra, or 25 miles to Pomona to visit old friends. Distance was all part of the game.

And the freeways? I was a frequent traveler on most of them: the Santa Ana Freeway (5), the Orange Freeway (57), the Garden Grove Freeway - - and of course the Riverside (91), Hollywood (101), Santa Monica, Pomona, Ventura, San Bernadino, Harbor, and Pasadena Freeways - - not to mention the 405 and the 605.....it was simply a way of life.

 Freeways in L.A.

When it came to driving, I was a late bloomer. All my friends were getting their Learner's Permits when they were sixteen. My gut instinct told me I wasn't ready to drive at sixteen. I procrastinated for well over another year before I got behind the wheel.

The wheel I got behind was a 1962 Ford Falcon - Desert Tan, with bucket seats. My parents bought it when I was a small kid. 

 Our new Ford Falcon

Mom and I are standing on the left

 

My father initially tried to teach me to drive. This endeavor was destined to be a disaster. Our personalities not only clashed, he was ruthlessly critical and psychotically impatient. Things came to a head on Beach Boulevard - one of the most hectic streets in Orange County. 
He started shouting at me about all the things I was doing wrong.

I stopped the car in the middle of the street, got out, and said "You drive!"
Then I walked home. 
I regret my act of childishness to this day.

My mother - who had the patience of several saints - was my next driving instructor. Instead of utilizing the insanely busy streets of Anaheim, we went to the old, abandoned Riverside Freeway (which ran alongside of the newly constructed Riverside Freeway). It was a perfect place to learn driving skills. 

My Mother

by the Falcon in which she taught me to drive

I flunked my first driving test. The minute I saw my instructor I knew it was inevitable. She looked like Jane Hathaway from the Beverly Hillbillies, only a lot more Butch. And she was utterly humorless.

The car stalled two times before we even got out of the parking lot, and I could tell by the impatient way she was writing on her clipboard that things weren't going to be in my favor. 

Ford Falcons were notorious for stalling - no matter how adept the driver was. The Ford stalled for my father. It stalled for my mother. And now it was making a fool out of me, in front of my juror, at a most inopportune time.

"This car always stalls", I tried to explain. "It's part of the Henry Ford experience."

She wasn't remotely amused. 

I managed to get onto the main street and began clipping it off at a pretty good speed. We cruised along for several minutes in blissful silence, and I thought I was doing reasonably well.

Suddenly - and completely without warning - she said "Turn left!"

I instinctively hit the breaks and turned so quickly and sharply that my companion was ejected from her seat (this was in the era before seat belts were required). 

She emitted an unearthly Gasp! while dropping to the floor and clutching the dashboard for support. I'd never before seen such a genuine look of surprise on anyone's face.

After readjusting her thick glasses and  retrieving the clipboard, she began scribbling furiously. I knew she was signing my Death Warrant.

After grimly (yet somewhat gleefully) announcing that I failed the test, she icily told me that I should always keep both hands on the steering wheel when driving.

I went home with my proverbial tail between my legs, but also with a staunch determination to succeed. Within two weeks I was ready to try again. This time my evaluator was an old man (at least he seemed old to me).
Fortunately his personality was more amicable than Miss Frigidity had been.

I passed the driving test. And, I suppose, the rest is history.  

 

AUTUMN GHOSTS

 September Mists

my back yard yesterday morning

I saw old autumn in the misty morn

stand shadowless like silence, listening

to silence, for no lonely bird would sing

into his hollow ear from woods forlorn....

Thomas Hood


Note:
Some blog posts shouldn't be published and this is definitely one of them. I wrote it solely for myself. 

A melancholy mood, this early morning, when mountain mists filter the light of the rising sun - gently fusing with unexpected illusions of sunlight and bittersweet echoes of distant autumns.

The quote from Thomas Hood is one that I remember from my school days, when I was deliciously young and California autumns stirred the restlessness and romanticism in my uninitiated soul.

Somewhere in my collection of memorabilia, I have a letter written by Thomas Hood that I got at an auction. I've been meaning to frame it for years.

I've always loved autumn, for as long as I can remember, but it wasn't until this morning - while gazing out at the foggy back yard and drinking a cup of hot tea - that I suddenly realized the significance of autumn in my life. Many of the major events of my existence happened in the autumn.
I suppose I should mention my birth date, December 13. It seems much more like winter, but was in fact technically the end of autumn.

All of my autumnal memories have come rushing back at once, and in the crowded fervor it's difficult to put them into reasonable perspective. 

During my childhood in Southern California, autumn only existed in mild, tempered versions - usually marked by wildfires and magically potent Santa Ana desert winds. 

My maternal grandmother died in New Jersey when I was sixteen. It was mid-October and my parents and I drove back east for the funeral. I remember how breathtakingly glorious the autumnal scenery looked on that drive across country.

Only a few years later came the surrealistic autumn of eternal fires. Southern California was burning with dozens of wildfires. The small rural town where we lived at that time was completely surrounded by fire and there was no way out. My parent's perpetually turbulent marriage was in Crisis Mode, and my father was more violent than ever.

For some insane reason, after the fires died down, my parents decided to take a trip. I went with them only because I feared for my mother's physical safety. We went to the Grand Canyon and Utah, and I can't remember where else. This diversion restored my father's sanity. At least briefly.

These memories are worthless to anyone but myself, yet they are haunting my thoughts, demanding release.....

Then came the monumental autumn, the turning point. I was nineteen. It was September. My father - my mortal enemy - and I had one of our worst blowups ever. One of very many. He pulverized me, choked me into unconsciousness. No exaggeration - I was out like a light. I later got a gun and was going to kill him. I've written about this in previous posts; no need for rehashing details.

It took weeks for my physical wounds to heal. The mental wounds never heal - but I was very used to that. 
By early October (Oct. 3rd, to be exact) I took off for Hollywood, immersed myself in the intoxicating ecstasy of self-destruction.

My metamorphosis took place during those weeks in October. I was absorbed by the sheltering darkness of the midnight streets, stifling reality with booze and drugs, quenching the loneliness with unspeakably illicit pleasures.
My eternal reign of darkness began in that distant October and I savored it.

The following summer my Mother moved to Reno and filed for divorce.
In September I drove up there to stay with her for a few weeks. Another autumn, more poignant memories.
It was a rare respite without the threatening shadow of my father. We hiked, explored the mountains, scoured the shores of Lake Tahoe, visited Virginia City.....

My father, ever the thorn, found out where Mom was - drove up to Reno, begged her to come home. She foolishly acquiesced. 

I remember driving back to Los Angeles on a chilly October night, leaving the healing respite of the Nevada mountains, entering the smog-drenched purgatory of Hollywood.

I'm overstaying my welcome. I've said enough. But there are so many more memorable autumns......

Someone I loved very much was killed in the autumn.
Soon afterward, I left California for the final time in autumn, when I was 34.

Moved to the Missouri Ozarks in October.
Later moved to Texas in September.
After a dark eternity, I finally emerged from Texas and moved to Tennessee. In October.

Autumn, for whatever reason, has always been a very significant season in my life. I have no doubt that it holds a great future finality for me.......

I hear the echos of those distant autumns- - they haunt the present silence and solitude of misty September mornings.






New post on my photo blog, Unintentionally Gay

http://cabinetofcurioustreasures.blogspot.com 








 

MORE HAIRY STORIES

(Hey Phil, thanks for making me look cuter than I really was)

I was a nervous, timid kid. My home life was harrowing, since my parents marriage was constantly turbulent. Both my parents worked, so I was often cared for by relatives or neighbors. Things were always unstable and I was always apprehensive. Somewhere around the age of three (possibly four??) I developed the habit of twisting my hair around one finger and tugging at it. I didn't do it constantly, but I did it often enough to annoy my father.

One day Dad grabbed me and whisked me off to the barber shop. He plopped me down in the chair and said to the barber "Cut it all off!"

The son of a bitch did. 

Within three minutes of the clipper's buzz, I was as bald as Humpty Dumpty. I looked like a frickin' midget from Camp Pendleton.

 Me during my third Christmas.

I looked cranky, but at least I still had my hair.

From that day on, hair was a big issue for me and I had an intense aversion to barber shops. I was subsequently subjected to crew cuts for many years, although - judging from photos - the length of my hair fluctuated from nearly bald to almost normal.

On my third-grade school photo my crew cut looked so horrible that I hid the picture from everyone. To this day nobody's seen it. From grades four through six my hair seemed to be a more reasonable length. Perhaps my parents finally realized that I shouldn't go through life looking like Sluggo.

Second Grade, age six. I'm the one in the striped shirt. I wasn't subjected to another crew cut until I was in third grade.

By seventh grade (which was Junior High in California) my hair was long enough to part and comb over to one side. That was the "longer" hair style that the surfers wore back then, so everyone started calling me "Surfer".

So, Jon, when are you gonna get to the good stuff?

There is no good stuff. I'm merely walking down a Hairy Memory Lane. 
 
My high school years occurred during the  hippie era. One or two guys dared to have long hair in school, but they were inevitably expelled. Hair cuts for boys were still de rigueur. If your hair grew long enough to touch the top of your ears, it was considered too long.

I was sixteen during my senior year. My maternal grandmother died that autumn and we went back east to attend the funeral. Numerous relatives icily commented that I needed a haircut.

Graduation, age sixteen

my hair was considered too long

Men's hair was a huge issue at that time. You were either a clean-cut non-conformist collegiate type, or a radical, freakish, trouble-making hippie. If a man let his hair grow anywhere near the realms of "shaggy", snide comments would inevitably be hurled.

When are you gonna get a haircut?
Do you want to be a girl?
Are you trying to be a hippie?
Are you a frickin' fairy?
(Yea. Wanna see my magic wand?)

When I was sixteen I happened to encounter my cousin George in New Jersey. George was ten years older than myself and a successful restaurateur. He was always known as a stuck-up condescending snob.

He didn't even bother to say "hello". He simply sneered and said "I'd never let you work in my restaurant with hair like that!"

I was shocked. Hey, Georgie old boy - how'd you like a turkey baster up your ass?

Fortunately I was disgustingly sweet and polite back then. I didn't dare say one word.

Here's a delicious aside:
Ol' George has since been married about five times. I heard that one of his ex-wives dumped boiling water on him, then drove her car through the side of his house (no lie - I couldn't make this stuff up).
Hey - revenge is sweet....... 

After high school graduation I slowly but surely started letting my hair grow - nothing close to radical hippiedom, but long enough to be contentedly shaggy. I began using lemon juice on it (like some surfers did) so it was sun-bleached.

 Hippie Jon (I'm the one on the right......in case you couldn't guess....)

I went through numerous phases during my colorful California youth:

The Huntington Beach Surfer. 
 I was far from ever being an adept surfer, but I could pass for a reasonable facsimile.

The Quasi-Hippie.
 Any one remember puka shell necklaces, granny glasses, and mood rings?

Devotee of Transcendental Meditation.
 I wore sandals and East Indian clothing. A guru told me to give up my worldly possessions and abstain from sex. 
I had no worldly possessions. I abstained from sex for about three hours.

Post Vietnam Army Fatigues and Dog Tags.
 I used to haunt Army & Navy surplus stores. I wound up looking like a reject in a casting call for "Platoon".

Hollywood Boulevard Midnight Cowboy. Arguably my best facade. And my most popular one.

So, what does all this have to do with my hair? 

Through all of my many phases and identities, I've never again went to a barber. Never had another crew cut. Never trusted anyone to cut my hair but myself. Never gave a damn about what anybody thought about my hair.


I might look like the far side of hell, but at least I'm content.

Nowadays, at 150 years old, I don't give a rat's ass what anybody thinks. 

Note:

all of my family photos are still stored on my desktop computer, which I haven't unpacked yet, so I didn't have much of a choice. I had to take all of the above photos from my old blog Lone Star Concerto.