Shangri-La

Retrospective in Prose . . . (i.e. boring inner reflection and not interesting at all . . .)

I’ve been telling a lot of stories lately. It’s the one thing that I like to do when I’m feeling empty or sad . . . or even just sometimes when I’m just plain blah. I write mostly for self healing, and introspective thought. I feel sometimes as if I’m ‘writing just to myself’, and that in doing so, I’m telling myself things that I need to know. It takes care of an obscure need deep down inside me somewhere and calms the anxiety that builds up, unbidden. It’s like putting sand in a deep, dark hole, just so you know that there’s something there and are comforted that it is not quite so mysterious anymore; not that it really does anything substantial. The stories, it seems, are always about my childhood . . . past memories that, in times, have been humorous, or traumatic, or even both at the same time to me. Sometimes I embellish it a little to make it interesting . . . not much, but I don’t think anyone really cares. The stories are a true account of my childhood the way I remember it. Sometimes, I am way off, and events are more ‘emotionally’ driven, than factual. Maybe I remember things the way a child of that time would remember things, or maybe I remember them in a biased way that doesn’t really tell the whole story. All I can say is these are my thoughts, and these are my stories. However they come out, they come straight from my heart and soul . . . inconsistencies and all.

With each telling, I become a better writer, I think. And I like that. Maybe I NEED that.

I write these for me (artistic cliché #1). All you other readers are just passersby, just looking into a window that is my life. I guess that sort of makes me an exhibitionist at heart, but I don’t care. Hate them, love them, ignore them, and scoff at them . . . Do whatever. If you happen to find these stories heart-filled, and spend less time noticing the MANY grammar and communication errors I make throughout . . . then maybe you will come closer to understanding me as I yearn to be understood. I wouldn’t mind that at all. I like to share.

Sometimes, it just takes a story to bring people together . . . and that thought, makes me happy.

Shangri-la

I was about 12-13 years of age . . . puberty. (Yes, I see that you see where this story is going already, grin). My mother was in full-swing to bring the family together. She had recently gone through a spiritual, physical, and emotional transformation from a being that was quite different than the one we ended up with. In retrospect, to say the ‘old’ Mom was better than the ‘new’ Mom would not have been accurate, but at the time, I was hard-pressed to find the ‘good’ aspect of the things that have changed in my life, along with my Mother.

For one thing, my mother wanted us to be more of a family, do family things, eat meals together, etc. Not as bad as you’d think, but it was different for us. When one is used to ‘taco bell’, suddenly ‘liver and Onions, brussel sprouts and (ick!) Asparagus were torture food. It was meant to tear down the will of someone who lived free, and ate wild. For instance, my Sister wanted to grow up and work her way through the McDonalds food chain. That’s how ingrained into trash food we were. We worshipped it.

When there was a meal we didn’t like, (see the above ‘liver and onions’ statement . . . a favorite staple of my mothers) I would be steadfast . . . fold my arms, and just sit there. Of course, like many of the 70’s families of the time. There was a standing Presidential order that ‘Liver and Onions’ was good, you also could NOT get up from the table until you at every last bite. My sister did the same. Sometimes we would sit there for hours . . . until I discovered the ‘dog’ compactor, or the wonderful taste of 6 ounces of ketchup. We endured, but it didn’t quite ingratiate our dear Mother into our hearts.

Mealtime was family time, my mother would say. We didn’t do it to eat so much, as it was to participate in an event as a family. ‘Family events’ had become sacrosanct. You might as well appeal to the Supreme Court. My mother thought them up, and she would endeavor to make us ALL participate in them . . . even if it horribly scarred, maimed, or even KILLED any one of us.

Another thing our mother did was date a guy, Gary, who just happened to be the manager of the downtown Phoenix Playboy club. Now, to a kid just turning 13, this was a WONDERFUL thing. He once invited my mother, my sister, and I down to the nine-story building where the playboy club took up the top floor in central Phoenix. I remember having the BEST burger I ever tasted there . . . served to me by a girl in a skimpy bunny suit . . . fluffy tail and bunny ears and all. The girls there doted on me, said how cute I was . . . I was in heaven. What a WONDERFUL guy my mother dated. I could really get used to this!

But the guy, Gary, also had another hobby he did on weekends. A sinister and nefariously evil hobby that should remain hidden from public venue and NEVER discussed. I was horrified when my Mother first mentioned it. My mother, however, was thrilled to hear about this new hobby, and couldn’t wait to partake (now you KNOW how evil it is, right?). My sister, the turncoat, thought it would be okay and even fun to spend time doing. It didn’t bother her at all; she was ready for the ‘eventual’ family outings.

At first, I kept it inside, but even thinking about it put a lump in my throat. It was unnatural, and not right. I had decided I would NOT participate.

Saturday came rolling around, and that morning, my mother had decided that we were, as a family, going to go to this camp in Cave Creek, called ‘Shanrgi-La’. The name hinted at cool summer breezes in soft-grass apple orchards with children and adults frolicking around, happy to be alive. It was nothing of the sort.

Shanri-La, was a Nudist colony out in the most desolate landscape of the Arizona desert. Cactus, snakes, grey-brown heat warped landscapes that reminded me more of a post-apocalyptic movie than the green, rolling, breezy landscape that the name suggested.

My mother called the sacrosanct ‘Family Outing’. We were going. I had no say. Still, I could not bring myself to find anything even remotely enjoyable about a place where I had to display myself, naked, to the world . . . . in 120 degree heat, no less. I didn’t even look at myself in the bathroom mirror. That was just . . . wrong. I argued, yelled, gave every excuse to why I couldn’t go. None of it superseded Mothers ‘Family time’ order. I was screwed.

So, I was abducted . . . against my will . . . sentenced to spend the day in the company of . . . shudder . . . naked people. No way ‘IN HELL’ was I going to take off my clothes. NO WAY! “You don’t HAVE to,” my mother retorted to my grumbling banter. “You can just wear shorts. No one will mind.” Yeah, right. Wearing clothes at a nudist camp was akin to going to Prom in a Speedo.

So, off to camp we went. When we arrived, my mother drove our dodge into the compound, and parked near the pool. She opened the door, stepped out, disrobed from her clothes, and grabbed her things. My sister did the same thing from the passenger’s side. My mother pushed the seat forward for me to step out.

“I’m not going,” I grunted; folding my arms and looking away. “I will NOT go out there, naked or otherwise” I would not do it, I would not do it, I would NOT do it!

My mother sighed, let the seat drop back. “Ok,” she said, resigned. “Stay here, but if you get too hot, the house right there has water and drinks.” She pointed to the building behind where we parked. I didn’t look. I was not getting out, and that was that. She bounded off with my sister to do whatever those without clothes do.

The Dodge charger had dark brown leather seats. The windows were rolled down, but it was 115 degrees out (or so). Within minutes, the temperature soared and sweat poured through my T-shirt and cutoffs. Within hours (well, okay, maybe it wasn’t ‘hours’, but it sure seemed like it!), the heat became unbearable. Still, I WOULD not get out. NO, no, no. I would die first.

The pool, about 20 yards away, teamed with life as kids jumped in and splashed around, frolicked and played games. The inviting water seemed a cool oasis in the hell that was the backseat of the Dodge. I was melting. Maybe I could just jump in the water, cool off, and then come back. It wouldn’t take that long, and it was sooo inviting! Once I thought it, I couldn’t think of anything else. I gave it another ‘pretend’ minute of defiance, then practically leaped through the back window to bound towards the pool.

I came to within 5 yards in an instant. Surprisingly, the naked fat guy under the umbrella near the north end was quicker. He blew a whistle and yelled at me, stopping me in my tracks before I made a GLOURIOUS leap into the wonderful wetness. “HEY!” He yelled. Seeing that I had stopped, he said, “NO clothes in the pool! Gotta take ‘em off!”

Now, there comes a time in everyone life when they are forced into making decisions where there is no good outcome. For me, at that instant, I had a choice. Turn around, run back to the Dodge, jump in to a vehicle two times hotter than one of the hottest days of the summer and finish the job of completely melting into the leather interior, OR . . . simply disrobing out of my cutoffs and T-shirt and saving myself by jumping into the pool. Not that I thought about it longer than about 2 milliseconds, but, I wasn’t happy about it either. I quickly jumped out of my clothes and slipped into the water. NEVER in my life, was there a more rapturous feeling in my entire body. The cool water enveloped me, soaking into pours as if replenishing the sweat that poured out of them.

I quickly moved to the corner of the pool and faced it. I felt good, relaxed. A sated look of satisfaction, not unlike the look one gets after a heavy bout of good sex, washed over my face. I could think clearly now, and praised my judgment for not turning back. Here, I decided, I would stay until time to go. Here, like this . . . naked . . . in the pool, was ok. No one bothered me or noticed me. I could do this.

So there I waded. Content and a little sunburned around the shoulders, I watched, and even greeted people walking by (that was ok. Better sunburned than melted. Of course, I wouldn’t say that the next day). After a while, a group of girls . . . my age . . . came frolicking by and all jumped in the pool. I was starting to like this place! Maybe a place where girls, running around naked wasn’t so bad! I grinned . . . and I grew.

Shit.

That was a problem.

Suddenly, the pool was a smaller place. The girls jumped in, I turned and faced the corner, trying to act casual. One of the girls asked me if I wanted to play water volleyball with them, I graciously declined, feigning a need to relax after a pretty arduous hike (GOD! I hoped they hiked around here!). They soon forgot about me and went to their game. I watched them, craning my head and neck around as much as I could while still keeping my body . . . and my stiffy . . . facing the corner.

After a while, I realized that my ‘problem’ wasn’t going to go away. The girls continued playing and I tried to ignore them. Apparently, not all of me could ignore them, though and after an hour or so, I remained at attention up to the time my Sister and Mother came back from wherever they had gone off to.

“Oh! I see you found the pool,” she said, grinning. “C’mon, pack up, were getting ready to go,” she said.

“Um,” I said, realizing that getting out of the pool at that moment was NOT in my best interest. “I think I’ll stay here a while and cool off.”

“WoohOAOH,” My mother exclaimed, “Look who’s suddenly liking this place now!” She grinned from ear to ear and walked off.

I laid my forehead against the head of the pool and let out a very long, very sad sigh. After a moment, I looked up and yelled back at my mother, “UH, COULD YOU BRING ME SOME SUNSCREEN?”