Dream Catcher

Two in the morning
lowlight on
I listen to Angels
dancing upon
surreal reality
waves of silver
catching your dreams
fire burning through
bloodstreams 

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

I write words
hoping to kill
time
is my enemy
daylight a sin
broad opportunities 
of reality
but all I want 
is to dream
of you.

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

Sweet moments
held within
prisoners of me
memory in my whole
waiting for you 
to champion your dreams
time will stop
but for now... is my enemy.

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon.

People are talking
people are loving
It's all a blur
all in the while
I write my memories
time is my enemy
all night long

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

Reaching your dreams
Reaching your dreams
I will be here
holding you in
and when it's all done
sweet record
hands together 
holding along
what most dream
but scared to conquer
we'll be forever
for the way was long

Sweet record
waves of silver
Angels upon us
holding all along
sweet record
Angels upon us
holding along
your hand on mine
as if never
gone.

Casa Romantica

Resting on the cliffs of San Clemente, Casa Romantica wakes up to the intoxicating shades of the Pacific Ocean. Tucked away in Southern California, this gem sits quietly guarded by the San Clemente villa and the town’s Spanish casitas. This hidden jewel, which once served as the summer home for the town’s developer is without pretension a California treasure.  

I was in San Clemente just for the weekend, but I knew as soon as I parked by the beach to watch the sunset, that the weekend wouldn’t be enough—for not many places have had the ability to shuffle my plans and intentions as San Clemente had. 

San Clemente is the last of Orange County’s Pacific coast cities. It sits to the west of California’s Interstate Highway 5, far enough to the south to be out of Los Angeles, but also not too far from its conveniences. The town is mostly known for its surfing community and for the cool, laid back lifestyle, of it’s inhabitants. 

The great weather and outdoor life, together with the diverse cuisine, charming inns and happy nightlife, gives the city just enough flavor to make it attractive, without being pretentious.

A stay in San Clemente demands a stroll through town and as I walked on Avenida Del Mar and visited a few shops, I was lucky to chat with a darling clerk at the jewelry boutique who wasn’t shy about sharing how she ended up in San Clemente. 
“I came for a visit, and decided to move here,” she told me with a sincere smile that made me feel like I, too, was 18 again. Perhaps I shall do the same, my mind contemplated. I soon found out that she was not the first one to swiftly diverge and make San Clement her home. 

Ole Hanson, a well-known politician, public speaker and developer of his time, passed by the warm and sunny Southern California site and decided to invest in it. Hanson, not only developed the land, but had a grand master plan. Ole’s vision was to keep the natural topography of the land while incorporating the charming Spanish style from the neighboring south in his dreams for his newfound land. Hanson was able to create a perfect piece or art, and after three years of ongoing development Ole’s canvas was inaugurated and on February 27, 1928 San Clemente became a town.

Casa Romantica was Ole Hanson’s San Clemente home. He shared it with his wife, children and friends. The Casa was designed by Carl Lindblom and together, him and Ole created a stunning villa by the sea. Ole, friends and family enjoyed the incredible site for a few years but with The Great Depression, Ole Hanson lost his dream home and the magnificent view, but his vision remained carved on the hills above the Pacific. His casa passed through a few hands before becoming San Clemente’s Cultural Center and gardens, offering the town, its community, and visitors an unforgettable experience. 

Walking through the keyhole shaped entry door of Casa Romantica, the first thing to call my attention was the vibrant tile work covering the floor under the arched walkways. The colorful, intricate tile, contrasted with the white walls of the “casa” making for a statement of life and passion. The outdoor fireplace room attached to the home, made me wish it was cold and that a warm, glowing fire was burning, but my thoughts were discreet and I kept on walking. The atrium, at the center of the casa, although very Romanesque, did not clash with the surrounding rooms; it supported them giving the casa a charming, subtle grandeur. The arched doors, leading to the view of the Pacific, played peekaboo with me—they teased me enough that I finally rushed past them to the veranda and almost fell to my knees. The view! The view took my breath away.

I drifted across the veranda and marveled at the view of sparkling ocean. The magenta bougainvillea, supporting and surrounding the property’s edge, complimented the shades of blue. It was surreal. From there I could see San Clemente’s pier.
I surrendered to a perfectly placed bench, and sat lost in the beauty of the present and flashes of the past. I imagined Ole, his family and friends enjoying the view and I was jealous but for a moment—because now I was the one lucky enough to take in the peace and beauty that surrounded me. 

I was finally pulled back by the heat of the midday sun. 

Reluctantly,I rose and made my way out of the casa marveling its well-cared gardens and paths. And, as I left Ole’s dream behind me and walked to the pier, I promised myself to return. 

It has been quite some time now, and the casa, still there facing the Pacific, waiting for me. 

  

I will always love you

I will always love you

No matter how close or how far

I will always love you

Rain or shine

I will always love you

Kind or wild

I still gonna love you

Dark or bright

Still in my heart

And then

When you think I may be gone

I’ll be still beside you

The Thief of Secrets Chapter 23

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Meeting My Assassin, 1991

I went back to Mary’s apartment and knocked on the door—the same door she had opened the night before, when I arrived with Roland.

“Oh honey, there you are,” Mary said when she opened the door. “I thought you were not coming back.”

“I told you she would,” Roland said walking behind her, looking into my eyes with a cold look on his face.

Mary led me to the living room and I apologized for abruptly leaving the house before they came back from lunch. I tried my best to compose myself and not let her know the fury which I felt inside me. “I did not want to overstay my welcome,” I lied to her.

“Oh, honey, just as I said before, Land’s friends are my friends. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to embarrass him in front of you,” she said, while she searched through some photo albums, which sat on the coffee table. “Wait until you see pictures of him when he was a little boy,” she said pleased that I was back.

“Honey,” she said, “Land told me that you are a collector?” She asked me with sweet questioning eyes.

I knew I was in trouble then.

“What is it that you collect?”

“She collects maps. Maps and coins,” Roland said hastily, forcing me to agree with him.

“Yes,” I told her looking at him, and I swallowed the knot in my throat that was making me sick. For now, I was playing his game.

It was not ok what he was doing to me. It was not ok what he was doing to the lady who absolutely thought the world of him.

“I am here because there is going to be an auction at the Ritz,” I said and I looked at him in defiance, showing him that I could play his game.

“Oh . . . the Ritz again, we don’t like it there do we Land?”

Mary walked into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room with the stranger who was playing a dangerous game with me. It was a dangerous game for him to be playing, for I had nothing to lose anymore. The only one who could get hurt was he. There were absolutely no more places for scars in me.

Mary came back to the room carrying a tray with the chocolate mousse from the night before. This reminded me that I had not seen Roland since dinner, when he answered the call and told us that he was going to step out for a few minutes—but did not come back for hours. I had hoped not to see him again.

I was feeling ashamed playing his game. Inside me, there was a fury waiting to explode. I was just trying not to do it in front of Mary. After all, she seemed like a kind lady, but did she really know her Land?

Roland ate his mousse while Mary insisted on showing me some old family pictures. She kept the albums like treasures, for they held the accounts of her Land’s life.

I vaguely remember the pictures, but there were pictures of Land steering grandpa’s boat; Land riding his bike; Land in his school play; Land blowing out ten candles; Land, Mary, Grandpa and Douglas.

Douglas?

I turned the page of the old yellowed album back and tried to focus on the picture where Roland was standing next to him. I could not believe my eyes. My heart sank, and together all my dreams sank with it. Who was Roland? Why was he in a picture with Douglas?

It could not be. I looked at Roland and tears filled my eyes. He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out the door, giving Mary some excuse, which I could not comprehend; my brain had detached from my heart and all reason had vanished.

He pushed me inside the elevator, which felt claustrophobic, and he closed the iron door behind us. The sound of the old metal door being slammed was terrifying. As I watched the floors through the elaborate iron door as we descended in the old building, I felt as if I was going to throw up. I was light headed and my knees were going to give up on me. My heart started to race as he tightened his grip. It was the same feeling from the day before, while flying from Morocco next to him.

I obeyed him and followed him out of the elevator and out through the huge iron doors which guarded his home. I tried to take a breath, but instead I choked on my tears as he pushed me against the building’s wall where he held my other hand and pressed his body against mine. Now, he had both my hands and his face was inches from mine. I finally gave in. My knees gave in, and he pressed his body harder into mine so I would not fall to the hard ground. He let go of one of my hands and touched the back of my head. As he did so, my chin fell on his chest and I felt beaten. I did not know what to do.

Not Like Art

He is famous 
He is rich 
and he doesn't give a shit about you or me. 

I’m never gonna forget the day I met him.
How could I forget a man whose passion drove me insane?
A man whose self-absorption took me out of my comfort zone to an unfathomable world of solitude?
The day we met was gleeful but breezy
with waves and turns that only now as I sit by my “own” desk
I comprehend.
He stumbled upon my way by mere coincidence
or so I like to believe.
From behind the reading glasses
his eyes were grey
and without announcing he decided that he wanted my story.
He reeled me in with the strength of an old man at his sea, and the stories that came after became his most prized possessions.
He drove me to his home where I would become his mate.
As he opened the opulent gate guarding his territory I thought I had entered Shangri-La.
The greenery surrounding it, protecting him from curious eyes was lush—it gave him
The aristocrat
Lord of his own kingdom
an air that exhaled from his skin.
We walked together through his gardens 
down the path to his writing cottage.
He told me that he loved the place and that he hated when he had to leave it
We walked on.
“He is well travelled,” I was told.
Yes he is well travelled and proud of the poor painter’s art that gives life to his lifeless walls.
He told me that the woodcarving sitting on the corner of the living room was from Africa
the colorful acrylic canvas where kids were flying kites was from Brazil
the Herman Miller chair next to his writing desk was good for his back.
He showed me around and offered me tea, very English, though he was born far from there.
He told me that the bread was fresh and that he had baked it himself.
Perhaps he was trying to sound normal.
As I walked on the beautiful polished wood floors, I admired his lean body and his dark hair.
Not bad for his forties but too untouchable and intellectual, I thought.
As he showed me his bedroom, where he sleeps and dream—I captured a glimpse of him.
The bed was heavy, made of hardwood with intricate carvings, embellishing it—it told me that he just lays there, staring at the ceiling or at the green view beyond his bubble glass window.
There was no sex in that room
there was no passion.
And I wished I could lay in the hot tub; soak myself on the warm water and watch him create his next masterpiece.
But he took me away as if afraid of the evident contradiction of sex and no sex.
The brisk walking out of his bedroom clashed with his earlier posture 
it let me in in his secret.
He was afraid of me.
I followed him to his desk where I saw his true love
the one that takes him away from you and me
the one that lets him dream.
It lays on its surface, untouched, waiting for his long fingers and the ink of his writing tool to caress another story, another glory.
He treated me like a house guest, not a mate or a friend and I saw him through.
I understood why he took me to his room.
he wanted me to dream.
Dream about him lying there, solitary, closed and distant
That's how he is.
Tirelessly he took bits of me and with it he took my years and my freedom.
He took my dreams and turned them into his.
He wrote stories while I wove them to him
then he would bake the bread and brew the black bitter tea, while, all the while, all I wanted was to soak in the tub, and wash what was left of my dreams.
There were the questions
and I gave him the answers
then, he would go back to his love of making people dream and distort my answers to his questions.
And I?
I saw him through.
The everyday teatime became scalding, with the warm bread melting the butter—suffocating.
Unconcerned he continued writing my stories while I became a lifeless carving sitting in the corner of his room.
Not like art; bringing life to his walls,
but a chronic, tied-down anchor, afraid to stop the dream and flee
afraid that there would not be another story
for you or me.

Rock and Roll Cowboy

 

Mr. Lee Hart

             Kam Hwy is quiet. I look around for any evidence of winter and find none. The ocean rests, the sun is high and hot, and the same wanderers waiting for the swell to arrive are scattered around the North Shore—praying for surf. My husband’s Ford 250 is old, the AC does not work and his attempt to clear his junk out of the truck’s cabin went unsuccessful. I can see the dust on the dashboard slowly levitating and swirling around us as I try to concentrate on Sunset Beach, which lays on my right. We are on our way to the Honolulu International Airport where we are going to board a flight to the mainland. I am hot and sweaty, but the thought of meeting Lee Hart in the next day makes the cabin of the old Ford 250 bearable. 

      I live on the North Shore of Oahu, in the Hawaiian Islands, and of course, I am a surfer, or at least, I used to be, but since my daughter decided on a destiny of her own I had to change gears and go with the flow. Born in Hawaii, it is not a surprise, that my daughter can surf, but she decided that she needed to ride not only waves, but ride beasts as well. She is what we call here in Hawaii, a Paniola “Hawaiian Cowgirl” and we are on our way to the mainland USA to train with Lee Hart a Kansas Cowboy.

      We arrived in Kansas City, Missouri, in a cold Saturday afternoon, and the Cowboy’s girlfriend was waiting for us with her badass King Ranch by the terminal. As Pris drove us to Topeka, Kansas, she explained that Lee would be picking up Hickory, the horse that my daughter was going to ride in the World Finals of the Extreme Cowboy Race in Texas, the next day. “But don’t worry Elena, I am sure you can jump on one of Lee’s horses,” she told our excited teenager. The drive from Kansas City, Missouri, to Topeka, Kansas, is becoming familiar to me since it is my third time around. I sit on the back seat of the King Ranch amused by its comfortable space and luxurious leather seats. Lee’s girlfriend drives fast as she updates us on their latest endeavors, and soon, I become confortable with the speed, since every other car seems to be flying by, pushing eighty.

       Pulling in the driveway of Black Jack Creek brought me memories of the previous year when Lee Hart was just moving into his new ranch. Old, distressed and without running water but with “lots of potential,” we left Lee to a challenging undertaking—to get Black Jack Creek up and running. As the girlfriend’s truck zipped into the property, I could see that Lee had been quite successful in accomplishing his dream. Below, by the big grassy arena, a crowd of people with their horses was busy weaving through the obstacles, which Lee uses to train his and his clients’ horses. While we unload at their house, I continued watching the crowd cantering through the mazes, but saw no sign of Lee. Until that moment, I was still unsure if it had been a good idea to accept Lee’s and his girlfriend’s invitation to stay with them at Black Jack Creek, but when I saw Lee smiling as he got out of the barn seeing that we had arrived, I knew it had been a good decision.

       “You guys are family! You are staying here with us,” he said when I told him on the phone that we were coming to the World Finals of the EXCA in Texas, where my daughter had been invited to compete along with Lee. “And by the way,” he continued, “I am sponsoring Elena with her horse,” and he left me speechless. “You don’t have to rent a car either, because we are all going to drive together down to Texas,” he advised. Back home in Hawaii, I hung up the phone, looked at my daughter and husband’s faces and told them that Lee Hart had just invited us to stay at his place. You should have seen my daughter’s face—have you seen a kid in a candy shop, or in a country fair? Well… you get the picture. Horses, manure, grassy fields and wild deer, I could see . . . was all that went on inside her mind.

       Lee Hart is bigger than life, and I do mean it. His heart is so big that his well-defined chest, can’t seem to control it, and that’s why I called him “Rock and Roll Cowboy.” Lee will take on anything and everything. “No,” is a word missing in his vocabulary, and the reason why, is because he is a believer. There is nothing his horses won’t do either. You name it and he will train it, and so, having the honor of staying with him at his facility, and seeing him on his daily life was an opportunity of a lifetime.

       Waking up at Black Jack Creek was somehow surreal. The moon, shining through the old lofts window, where we bunked, was still high in the dark sky. I woke up with a dried mouth resulted from the new heater Lee had bought to keep the house warm. As I weave through the loft, I hear sounds coming from the first floor and walk down the stairs to the kitchen, where I find Lee busy, wearing some heavy-duty leather gloves. “Good morning,” he says to me, who still half asleep. “Morning,” I say trying to moisten my mouth. “Thanks again for having us, Lee” I say honestly and I walk to the cheap coffee maker I bought the night before to brew myself some coffee.  “Did you feed already?” I ask him, concerned about the horses. “Yep, he answers, inspecting the coffee, but popping open a can of Diet Coke.

       “Lee! That’s stuff is bad for you,” I try, but he smiles and takes a big gulp from his can and assures me that it wasn’t. I watch him finish the Coke as I pour myself a cup of the warm brew. Lee walks to the living room and sits on his chair in front of the heater to make himself warm.

       “Lee!” his girlfriend calls, from their laundry room-walk in closet. “I have the song you want me to play at the World Finals,” she says when she joined us by the heater. “What is it?” I ask expecting it to be one of the top country songs we had been listening on the Kansas radio stations—probably some song about a beer, a woman and a horse—I was wrong! Kid Rock’s “Cowboy” was Lee’s request.

       There may be, of course, more respected horse trainers and I am sure you may have heard about Buck. No? Go Google him. I am sure there are wealthier cowboys too, with fuller bank accounts, newer trucks and some big sponsor names behind their backs, but I can assure you, Lee Hart is one of a kind. One of good stock! Lee lives in the heart of the country; the land of Toto and Dorothy, the land of the Tornados, the land of the Rolling Hills—where the sunsets are red and gold, where everywhere you look you can imagine Tin Man walking down the long empty road, and, it was in this land that Lee was bred by cowboys.

       In his “not fancy” house, a picture sitting on a beautiful hardwood sideboard called my attention. Standing with a belt buckle that could be more like a shield, Lee Hart stood younger and skinnier between his grandfather and granduncle. Suddenly, all of the John Wayne’s movies became real and I finally realized that there is no stopping Lee Hart from popping his soda can and there is absolutely no stopping this Cowboy—not in his ranch, not in competition, nor in life. His bright and mischievous eyes, glowing in the black and white photo, kept true to him. The same bright and mischievous blue-green eyes I saw when he popped the can and told me that it was the only thing that had been faithful to him, referring to the sweet, carbonated and caffeinated drink. He was wrong! His eyes are still faithful. Through his eyes, I see that he still has the same dreams he had as he stood next to his older generation in the black and white picture, but maybe the dreams are just a bit clearer now—colorful.

       I met Lee Hart the first time I was in Kansas. The Rock and Roll Cowboy was kind enough to lend us, “The Hawaiians,” horses to compete in our first EXCA world finals. A large group of people, who had flown from Hawaii for the competition, sat anxiously on the veranda of the historical Cottage House Inn, in Council Grove town on the Santa Fé Trail. The town’s history goes back to the earlier eighteen hundreds as there was the last stop for supplies, before the pioneers moved further West. It was in that town that Lee Hart was raised, the town where Daniel Boone’s grandson traded with the old adventurers. Waiting for Lee Hart’s arrival, sitting on the confortable chairs of the old Inn, all we knew about him was that he was a Kansas Cowboy, and that he had won the World Finals of The EXCA competition the previous year. I had watched Lee Hart’s winning run on his horse Buster, on YouTube, but when the white truck, pulling the six horse trailer stopped in front of the Inn steering some dust in town, I had no idea of what to expect.

       “Welcome to Kansas!” he said, as he walked on the deck of the Inn with the sounds of his spurs announcing his arrival.

       Wearing Wrangler Jeans tucked inside his tall, red cowboy boots, a white shirt and a black Cowboy hat, he patiently shook hands with all of us. After all the introductions were done, Lee stood in front us inspecting the trouble he had got himself in, since all he knew about us was that some adventurous group of people who lived in Hawaii, needed some horses for the competition. Lee agreed to help. Like I have said; too big of a heart, too many people to please, and he did it with finesse making it look effortless.  

       “Let’s go see the horses!” he said, and got back in his truck, with an entourage of “Hawaiians” following him.          

       It was the beginning of an everlasting friendship.

       This was three years ago, and as I drank my coffee, and Lee got warm by the heater, I questioned him about his life and I asked him about his kids. “They were here over the week,” he said, and I saw that he was already missing them. The kids live with their mom, whom Lee says, “is an amazing woman.” We hear my daughter coming down the stairs from the loft and as she sees us she asks Lee the same question I had asked him earlier. “Did you feed already?” and she walks to the kitchen, where she looks out the window, to the barn. “Yes!” he answers, clearly disappointing her, since she believed it would be her chore. “You will help feed tonight.” He makes her smile.

       Slowly we made our way to the barn and I watch the Cowboy get busy moving horses around. Feeling the need to help, I start to muck, which, by the way, has been my chore, for the last three years. Lee brings a colt out of a stall, and starts to work with him. While moving manure and peeking at Lee and the colt’s connection I admire their relationship.

       “I am going to win my Futurity run on him,” Lee says when he notice me watching them. I don’t doubt him. If anyone can do it, he is the one.  

       “Lee, any horse I can ride?” I ask playfully for having yet to master the art of equitation. “Sure, go get Dude.” I inspect Dude and decide that he is too big for me, so I ask if I could ride Jelly Bean, the pony. “If you can catch him, you can ride him,” Lee teases me knowing how hard of a ride I was getting myself in to.

       As I ride Jelly Bean in the big open grass field, where obstacles were set for training purposes, I ponder how in the hell I ended up where I was—In the heart of the country, watching the Cowboy teach my daughter everything he knew. I endured the ride on Jelly Bean taking breaks to watch Lee train his colts and by the end of the morning, Jelly Bean and I had made friends. Lee had worked a hand full of horses, and my daughter was in seventh heaven.

       As we put the horses away, some of Lee’s clients arrive to train. A pilot, a beautiful stylish grey haired woman, a retired executive of some well known telecommunication company; are just a few of Lee's many followers. They come with their horses, they spend the day and then go home a better rider. Lee, not only trains the horses, he trains the horses’ people too, and when the horses and their people pull out of the Black Jack Creek ranch they are a better team.

       Lee Hart is a Cowboy of very few words, but the few words he uses are wise. He just finished reading Buck Brannaman’s biography, and assures me that there is no one like his hero, Buck. What Lee doesn’t know, is that he, Mr. Lee Hart, Kansas Cowboy, is himself many people’s hero. Craig Cameron, one of the greatest American Cowboys, calls Lee Hart “Mr. Hustle.” Bill Cameron, EXCA judge, wrote that one of Lee Hart’s 2012 World Finals runs was one of the best in the EXCA history—like I said: there is no stopping this Cowboy, and Lee’s utmost adventure is still to come; the Calgary Stampede, in Alberta, Canada. Lee Hart’s performance throughout his career has earned him an invitation to participate in what is considered by many, one of the greatest horse events in the world, and Lee will be there in 2013. I remember one morning sitting by the heater, in his living room at Black Jack Creek, when Lee was talking about the Calgary event: “Only the best of the best are invited to participate,” he said, not realizing that he was one of the best of the best. The collection of belt buckles displayed around his house, proves so. Bronco rider Champion, EXCA Champion, Ranch Rodeo Champion, you name it, Lee Hart has got it.

       My week at Black Jack Creek slipped away, it went too fast and too soon, but I will never forget it.  It was a week of Jelly Bean, cooking, mucking stalls and watching Lee do what he does best—train horses. By the end as I watched my daughter applying what she had learned from the “Rock and Roll Cowboy” on the colts Lee trusted her with, I understood why in the hell I ended up where I was. Surfers, Cowboys and Rock and Roll have more than a few things in common. The cowboy thrives on his horse, the Surfer thrives on his waves and Rock and Roll thrives on the uncertainty of tomorrow. Tomorrow the Surfer doesn’t know how the waves are going to be, the Cowboy doesn’t know what problem to fix; if the horse or if the horse’s person and Rock and Roll will keep reinventing itself through new generations. When the horses are done, Lee will send the horses and their owners their way. I asked Lee one last question. “What is your approach Lee?”

       “The problem is . . . sometimes it is not the horse,” and Lee Hart will wait or people will wait for the trainer to train them and their horses.

       Before Lee pulls out of the Texas Arena where he won the Futurity on the colt he told me was going to win, with one more buckle under his belt, he asks my daughter, my husband and I: “Will you guys get me up on a surfboard when I come to Hawaii?”

       Off course we will.

       As I get back to Hawaii, now with Sunset beach by my left, I find Kam Hwy busy with surfers from all over the world. What happed? I ask myself. It’s been only two weeks and the place is a madhouse.

       It takes me a week or so to realize that the crowd is not a different crowd from the previous years’ winter. The same surfers, with their same dreams, have arrived to surf the giant waves.

       I must get back in to gear, but in my mind, I still can see Tin Man walking on the empty path in front on Black Jack Creek where a Cowboy is busy going on with his day.

       Kansas Cowboy. The best of the Best!

Since this has been written Lee Hart married his girlfriend, moved to a much larger ranch, won many more buckles and is succeeding in what he loves