Posted by: whiteagle | January 9, 2016

My Personal Memoirs

I’m back, after a long absence.  2016 is devoted to getting my poetry and my memoirs published.  It is almost ready, within a click or two to distribute/sell.  Its called “I Live Inside These Books I’m Writing and Illustrating.  Here is an excerpt:


© 2012 by Will Magnus aka Whiteagle

…..But back to the traveling part of my story:  Of course I went home a happy camper this time, paid JZ the money I owed him, did some more research on the horses with The Handicap coming up soon and was ready for the big one.  I was sure I would have Mary’s ticket in the mail, too.  I did some re-finishing work at a deli  counter down at Union Square  in the meantime in order to pay for the rent I owed JZ, the mats for the drawings and a bus ticket back to LA, with the drawings well-matted and held together securely in a good quality professional artist’s folder designed specifically for artwork done on paper and returned to LA as promised. Mary’s letter and ticket still had not arrived by the time The Handicap was about to play itself out, however.  I didn’t care.  I believed I would have it in time.

I got on the bus from San Francisco to LA bright and early the day of the race, but it was a stormy day too, and roads were blocked going through the Bakersfield pass into the valley, meaning once again I had called it too close.  If I reached Griffith Boulevard in time to secure my ticket, provided of course and I could locate Mary’s address (which was iffy….I had lost the piece of paper she gave me with her address and phone number on it), I could still make the last bus leaving for the track with her ticket.  Why it hadn’t arrived in the mail perturbed me, but not that much.

I inquired as to her whereabouts to a couple of people I met on the street heading in the right direction, and found the right building.  I knocked several times on the manager’s door, and finally it opened.  It was the number 867: The numbers on the original piece of paper I found on the sidewalk.  The person who answered was pretty well several sails to the  wind from the breath he sent my way, rather grumpy and annoying to boot.  But when I asked about Mary, he threw me the I dunno message at first with his shoulders, but the I ain’t telling you nuthin’ just yet message came with his eyes.  I pumped him pretty good, and he finally told me: Mary had just died.  Was I family? I said yes, and eventually he handed me the white envelope with the name Willy on it.  It had been tampered with, but it had the ticket.  Fantastic!

That was it.  I split as fast as my legs could do it, but just barely got to the street to see the last bus to the racetrack already well down the road.  I would have to hitch-hike my way to Santa Anita if I was going to be able to use the ticket. Shit!  Here we go again! I did the best I could,  everything was intact this time. Why did the universe throw me another curve with that damn storm and that bastard of a manager? I arrived finally at the race track, but unfortunately I was too late.

When I got to the gate, the gate was locked.  The races had already begun,  sold-out/ locked tight.  I saw a guard not too far away and called him over to me.  I showed him my ticket, but there there was nothing he could do about it  No exceptions, he said. Your ticket could be a fake.  Its signature needs confirmation anyway.  We’re closed!   Just great! The race hadn’t yet occurred, The Lottery hadn’t yet been run.  I was there in time, yet I couldn’t do a damn thing about it!

The whole schmeer of lies, mistrust, fowl play, little possibility syndromes; they all were still sitting there at Santa Anita I realized, as though I was back in the same time zone three weeks earlier. Should I stay, or should I go, I asked myself.  What for? Even if I did have the winning ticket, I could not get in, period.  The ticket did not have Rosemary’s name on it either. It had no name on it except R. R. King.  It did have a signature, though  I decided to wait and called the guard over and explained the exact situation.  He still didn’t do anything for me.  He said I needed proof of her signature.

“You’ve got to have one on record, I said, “She’s a paid member of the club.  She can’t be here.  She gave me the ticket for me to be here. She just died a week ago, I swear.  Ask her manager.  You can look him up.  I can do that for you right now.  She had promised me her ticket.  I swear its the truth.”  He just shrugged his shoulders and left me standing there by myself.  He went back to sit in the shade. I could see it was going to be a grueling two hour wait in the hot sun just to see if it was the winning ticket, was it worth it?  I decided to do it anyway.

When the drawing lottery was finally announced over the loudspeaker, I jumped into ready start go psition immediately from an almost dead as a doornail sleeping mouse position and heard him say, …” the winner of the $1,000,000 purse goes to number  HM487625.  Is there an R.R. King here?  Please come and show us your winning ticket ma’am or sir, whomever you are.  Be sure to have your ID ready along with your stub.  This doesn’t happen every day you know. Congratulations!  Ladies and gentlemen, if Miss or Mister King is not here, we will announce another number in fifteen minutes.  Hold onto your hats, folks.  Its not over with yet.”

But it was for me dear Reader, I had the correctly numbered ticket, I showed it to the guard, he just shook his head, not believing my story this time either saying the ticket still could be a fake.  “Besides,” he said, “why weren’t you here earlier?  Everyone in that stadium has been screened and re-screened ten times over.  Winner or not, I can’t let you in.  I don’t have the authority.  I can’t get clearance in fifteen minutes, either.  Sorry, bubbah!”

I decided then and there it was time to go,  I didn’t wait to hear the complete “other” number or name.  I simply tore up the ticket and went back home to San Francisco, not a word to anybody about it until now.  That was the end of my adventures at the horse tracks, dear Reader, yet  I still came home a winner!  I knew everything about the dream was real, The Brotherhood, the Spirit voice of The Pigeon who was Grey Father, for whom I was named.  All of it was real, upfront, confidential and mine to embrace!  And that feeling is still with me as I re-tell the story now,  thirty-odd  years later.

No further adventures with lottery numbers or numbers of any kind, for that matter are planned in my near future, there nor anywhere else, none will be involving dreams or spirits, unless they point blank come to me in the same manner Lady Luck offers them to you. No confusing riddles to solve, folks!  Too weird of an energy in that world even for me to reconsider…….as fantastic as the adventure was.

I might add, dear Reader, I got that good, same old witchcraft when your heart meets mine, tingling up and down my spine confirmation that Rosemary is still with me as we speak somewhere in the other zone as I type.  She is here this very moment, too, even though I’m on my fourth re-write. You go, girl!  You go, Rose, wherever you are on the other side!

Up north in San Francisco things had changed again when I returned.  A second disappointment!  JZ was  beside himself.  Why I didn’t let him in on what I was doing.  He felt left out of the planning.  Apparently the version of what had happened during the entire cycle had settled into his circuits in a different way the whole thing had done to mine. He did not like “the energy” at all. Maybe it was time for me to be on my own again.  Maybe he too had had enough of me.  And so I did leave soon after I returned. However, one more incident in The City was the clincher explaining why I really left.  Let me share it with you.


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