The View from Ballast Key

Long ago in India a Mughal Emperor hankered to change the geographic location of the capital. Delhi was not good enough for him. He chose a destination south and near the famous tomb at Agra better known as the Taj Mahal.

He named his new capital city Fatehpur Sikri.

He thought of every microscopic detail and worked tirelessly with architects. He had visions he wanted executed so as to be remembered for his selflessness in this ode to art, to the Empire. There would be an individual palace for each of his favorite wives, one a Christian, one a Hindu and one a Sikh, though who knows in which order fell the favoritism. Included within the fortress walls was a gigantic dormitory of ornate stone for the multitude of concubines befitting his stature. This massive park of stone and desert plants was filled with opportunities for entertainment, for example, a chessboard in a courtyard large enough whereby human figures (read: servants) would stand in place of chess pieces. The Emperor and his buds calling out moves from silk cushion covered palanquins or the like.

Another novel concept was a pit in front of a giant carved throne and in this pit was expected the benevolence of the townsfolk when they paid tribute. The idea being the pit should overflow with the gratitude from the fortunate masses from any exposure to his roly-poly Magnificence with the urban-planning fixation.

There was a room of stone columns and here the Emperor looked forward to endless rounds of ‘hide and seek’. A favorite game.

He really had thought of everything.

Except for one intractable fact. The water supply at and around this land was not potable. Not by any means and not by any finagling. Unfortunately this was discovered long after the complex was lovingly constructed. A few stubborn years on and the Emperor reluctantly abandoned this exercise in hubris. Darwin’s calculations frozen in motion.

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You’re waiting on a friend to call.

The fan spins warm evening air as you watch the baby geckos so tiny, miniature

and now you have made friends you like them you talk to them you whisper at them.

You are proud you have found an amicable truce.

There are the outdoor geckos and the ‘picture frame geckos’ who live, wittily enough, behind picture frames only to emerge at night to munch distracted bugs.

You wait to talk to your old friend. It’s the least you can do.

He was there for you whenever you called.  

When your husband walked he showed up,

‘I want to try!’ you wept, crumpled and he helped you with whatever you asked. Moved your stuff here and there, carried and lugged and handed you tissues. When you said you didn’t want to try anymore he changed your locks for you. He was never farther than a call away, ‘Say the word,’ he’d offer, ‘Just say word,’ and you’d laugh and wipe your face.

Now his wife has died. As young as him but gone to cancer aka bad luck. She might have lasted longer if she hadn’t given in to bouts of drink but how much longer no one knows. Enough to make it worthwhile denying herself earthly pleasures? Tough call. Last call.

Whenever it came for her he would be left all alone.

He calls.

You could let him rattle on, drown himself out, wear himself down, cry himself to sleep. You should. Instead you can’t help but interrupt and try and steer him out the rut, heave him back over the cliff toward the light of laughter.

Because you are a clown and it’s what you know. Make ‘em laugh, they’ll feel better. Pacing and blathering until you see on the kitchen floor a baby gecko is akimbo lifeless.

‘I killed him!’ You scream, ‘I’m going to vomit.’

‘Relax!’ and now your friend with the dead wife is consoling you, and he’s making you laugh.

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Eliza attended the cocktail party because she’d been invited and this was long before she learned to say thank you, no. This was her first year in NYC, fresh out of school, with no diploma and no plan except to explore and travel. Follow the footsteps of the adventurers.

Contrary to her desires Eliza was in an upscale NYC home belonging to Etienne, a Swiss man. Eliza wore a borrowed dress, pink papery silk with a bow at the neck, this was her roommate’s. The magnanimity of others was her shelter from otherwise perpetual chaos but she would always be feral.

Etienne, the host whom Eliza recently met took the time to chat politely with her.

Inexplicably he blurted, ‘Appreciate your youth. You know nothing, yet, of the miseries of life.’

Eliza nodded appropriately but inwardly she seethed. His presumptuousness was abrasive. He knew nought of her, meanwhile he dispensed unsolicited opinion. Reckless, she thought, while she smiled benignly betraying nothing. Eliza was happiest on her way away from any formal affair. Taxis racing her home.

Eliza had much to learn in order to tolerate the weaknesses in others in the hopes they might return the favor. Eliza felt asphyxiated near such closed-minds, this mysterious collective myopia. She felt older than everyone she encountered, and she could not breathe.

Months sloughed and with that a deepening urge to escape. And periodically she would have enough saved to spring the coop, return the wild and pad around the planet until the money ran out.

Her pal Johnny offered a trip to the Hamptons. ‘I know you’d prefer the Amazon jungle!’ Johnny laughed at her and added this was a house of Etienne’s, that Swiss dude. Eliza kept quiet.

Etienne’s girlfriend was exquisite and a cocaine addict. Etienne wanted to marry her but not before, ‘Angel must clean up’, what would his family say!

An opportunity was before her, a limping gazelle. Fangs sprang naturally.

Eliza bought an ounce and expertly lured Angel away.

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‘I’m told you rent a room?’ Spoke a man at the front door of the crone on the hill.

‘No!’ Her answer was automatic as they sized each other up. He looked haggard but young. She balanced quietly on the threshold and with a breeze ruffling their hair their auras appeared to wave salutations.

He was not young. He was over thirty but when compared to her advanced years he was a raw babe, stoic and serious with a deathly pallor. Her only leverage was her house.

Clearly fresh out of some hell which he avoided discussing, his turmoil was rank, she didn’t cross-examine him.

She could taste panic.

‘Ok,’ she said, surprising herself and the deal was sealed.

Turned out their schedules worked seamlessly. They barely saw each other.

Except if one was leaving and the other returning. Then a short confusion as they juddered greetings, polite and clumsy and gradually less awkward, even with some humor.

Otherwise the interaction was minimal and this was ideal.

After her husband died she discovered she had nothing except his debts of which he’d never spoken.

She had the house and she started renting out a room. Thus far it had been a stupendous disaster. Either she was robbed, or worse.

Several months into this fresh arrangement and she had to admit she liked it. That she discovered the renter in the living room snoring on the sofa, on her library floor drooling, in a corner passed out, none of this bothered her. Every day she placed a beaker of water. Last thing he did when he wobbled home, half unconscious, he drank the water.

A friend from a neighboring hill stopped by for tea and a chat and being a painter brought with her a painting. The crone placed it on a shelf. She was amazed to receive a note from her renter noting he, ‘Liked the new watercolor’.

Incrementally his withered soul swelled and blushed and she knew he’d fly again.

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There was a time with a boyfriend they had to visit friends of his.

More like clients in an indirect way, she was never sure. The first time she met the couple it was evening and unplanned when they collided in a club. She and the boyfriend went home with the couple and a small crowd, a party like a hundred she’d reveled in before. When the hostess asked her to come with her, and a male, she got up to follow. And she would have but the boyfriend, who had been engaged in football debate, grabbed her arm, pulling her back, ‘No,’ he said, simply, and sat her down. This was uncharacteristic.

She couldn’t explain why but she had a near infinite capacity for any of those famous knock-out pills. She was shocked to discover a favorite calming pill, a mild answer for a pleasant evening, was now renamed a ‘date rape’ drug. This pill only gently muffled her sensations, creating a powder puff of blur.

Another time she and the boyfriend visited the couple it was a housewarming as they’d moved and it was necessary to pay respects, or something like that. A different house but the same atmosphere with people milling and TVs blaring. The host and hostess side by side on a sofa playing with a laptop. They beckoned her over and she complied. They offered her pills and she swallowed them. They sat her between them with the laptop on her knees, the three of them melding, physically. On the screen was a live girl naked save for socks and responding to instructions the couple were typing. 

The couple plied her with prescription pills. She took everything. She slyly watched the couple as they frowned and winked at each other in their code which was as crackable as glass. At least it was to her, especially as she was unaffected by the attempted roofie. 

The boyfriend reappeared and shaking his head he extracted her from the sofa.

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I find my two favorite bands have something in common. Great fathers and great sons. I believe it’s no accident.

Now, overlooking the obvious that I respect them equally, and they are both phenom powerhouses way outside the sphere of the average man. But these are not average men. In both bands the frontman is a father. On second thoughts, most of the members of both bands are fathers.

But it’s the frontmen whose sons I know personally.

Regarding Xperimento, Emiliano Torres’s son Lucca is a most sparklingly engaging individual. Sure, he was born that way but it also takes nurturing. His father, whom he adores, has encouraged a drummer out of him. And I’ve seen him follow to his father’s band air-drumming with absolute precision to complicated combinations.
Later at a bar Lucca and I fell into a heavy discussion about Greek mythology, he brought it up. And another thing about this kid, is he’s never cut his hair, for which he gets bullied at school and which he tolerates. He has a plan to donate his hair for cancer victim wigs. Lucca is 8. Yeah.

With regards to TPTS led by Trae Pierce who hails from a background of music production for which he received 4 Grammys, meaning the Maestro comes credentialed in gold. Now he’s moved on to a new venture. His band. He’s writing his music and producing himself. Another one of his productions is his totally excellent son Rae. Dad’s vibe is soulful and funk. Along with a twinkle in his eye there’s gravitas enough to keep us all grounded and in his grip, happily moved under the spell of brilliance.

As for his son Ramon Darrell Pierce, aka Rae, is a wall of force, an exploding comet of energy combined with the agility of a gazelle. He sings, he dances and he too has a twinkle in his eye. It’s called love. He’s happiest making music.

Great fathers make great sons ❤︎

He told her after they married, no matter what happened, even if they were starving, he would never get a job.