Friday, September 22, 2017

Road from Ruin go fund me


Jaye B.

On January 9th, 2012 I found myself tent camping in Glendalough  state park when it was 10 degrees above zero. The house I  had lived in for over eight years got gobbled up by Bank of America in a foreclosure that never should have happened.  Sitting by a camp fire trying to warm up, I had to figure out where I could go next.   Then I received a timely call from a very wealthy woman .  She wanted me to write a book on her hot springs resort!  Without hesitation I broke down camp and braved it across the wintry plains feeling a bit more hopeful. Three days later, I arrived at her luxurious resort in southern Idaho and soaked in the springs, wondering where she was. 

She told me I could not stay there when I finally ran into her a few days later. She handed me $100.00 and told me to get my hair cut and go work at a McDonalds.  Then I found out why she dismissed me in such bomb drop fashion and this is where the Road from Ruin story really begins.

For the last four years I have chronicled experiences such as these and the evocative, unpredictable characters met along the way: from mountain top multi-millionaires in the Emerald Triangle of California to the wretchedly poor trying to survive in hot desert washes in Arizona.  Many bared their souls to me in impromptu and poetic ways during my travels-about how they too were taken advantage of by uncaring individuals and left on their own to fend for themselves.

Currently I am compiling more material for the Road from Ruin travelogue and will use the funds generated from this gofundme campaign to get it  properly edited, formatted, published and then promoted to a broader audience than I was able to do so on my blog.  

I have the media connections to do so having discussed my work on  CBC Radio Canada, KAEP The Peak 105.7 FM, KSCO AM 1080 Santa Cruz, Mad Max Morning Show 107.1 FM, Dave Wilson Show WIBC 93.1, The Planet 93.3 FM, Red 106.1 FM Ireland, Spin 1038 FM Ireland,WGN Radio Chicago, WCKG FM Chicago, BBC London, Capitol Radio London, WLW Cincinnati, WZEE FM, KSCO AM 1080, New Rock 93.3 FM and other radio programs around the world.

It truly is a unique story that I want to share and would make a most compelling movie or t.v. series.

Your contribution to this campaign will be much appreciated at present for the Road from Ruin travelogue focuses primarily on the loss of compassion and empathy in our world and how indifferent many are towards the suffering of others struggling to break free of poverty and neglect. The book will surely inspire those who read it to do what they can to help others less fortunate than themselves and how important it is to do so in these trying times.

I am a writer, musician and artist. My feature articles, art criticism, reviews and interviews have appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn, Rain Taxi and elsewhere. 

Thank you so much for your timely help!  To donate, please go to:


Jaye B.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Book Dedication


Jaye B.

Beth Sweere. D. January 8th, 2014

I am dedicating my upcoming Road from Ruin book to  Beth Sweere. My destitute, spiritually broken and very ill friend died on January 8th,2014 and there was no funeral service as per her request. I don't even know where she is buried.

During two of the lowest moments of my life, Beth appeared.  Once when I was sitting on a park bench overlooking Battle Lake after a rather horrible visit at the nursing home where my father was. While her dog Taz sat between us, she felt compelled to tell me that she was rejected by the Pine Marten clan of Ojibway indians, was used in medical experiments in Anoka where doctors stripped her naked and took photos of her scars while a group of students watched amongst other terrible things.

The second time is when  Beth helped jump my car in the state park in the cold after I got kicked out of the house when it foreclosed.  Hobbling with her cane, smoking a cigarette and chewing me out for leaving my heated seats on.  No one else bothered to help me on that day. Not even the park ranger.

 It was the last time I saw her alive.

Overlooking Covelo, Ca. on Christmas Eve 2013, I tried to call her back in Minnesota. It had been a few years and I felt quite bad that I hadn't made any contact. Her weak and quavering voice was on the answering machine but she didn't pick up, even after I left a rather lengthy message.  It was quite ironic  that down below occurred one of the worst genocides in Native American history back in the mid 1800's-the Round Valley massacre.  In a way, Beth was genocided too-by uncaring family and doctors indifferent to her plight.

I'd very much appreciate your help in realizing my dream of getting The Road from Ruin published. It will help with spreading the word that compassion and empathy towards those less fortunate than ourselves is so important in these times.

To donate, please go to:


Jaye B.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Tommy Tuckpoint


Jaye Beldo

Tommy Tuckpoint

Even with my bad hearing, I could discern every word as his voice cut through the babble din of crack heads and alcoholics. No one on his side  seemed to pay attention to his adulation of Adlai Stevenson and JFK though. Then he rose, got his noodles and chicken, navigated with his walker all the way across the cafeteria and sat right next to me.   It was obvious that I had magnet drawn him my way.

"I used to be a stone mason, hence my name: Tuckpoint."  He said. "Tommy Tuckpoint."  He held his hand out and I shook it.  Then he grasped my inner forearm for a more intimate shake and wouldn't let go.

"Wow,that's a lost art. Masonry." I said and resumed eating my own free meal after he released his grip.

"I checkmated the state tournament champion.  Got an IQ over 170. Math whiz. Wanted to be a doctor."  Tommy said and spouted off the names of some very prominent physicians, revealing that there was some truth to what he said.  We talked about how the Hippocratic Oath has gone by the wayside, and how he used to grow his own medicinal herbs back before any one else did, and how he managed to dodge fighting in Vietnam.   He was well versed in astrology too and pinned me down as to my birth date.  I told him I didn't believe in that bullshit any more, especially  after a slew of astrologers over the years told me how great my life was going to be... and only to end up  at a place like Waite House to take advantage of their food shelf offerings.

I believed pretty much everything he was telling me as to his impressive resume.  I've heard stories from the homeless before but I believed this guy. Don't know how he ended up with all those pins in his legs though. He didn't get to that story. Maybe it was a masonry accident or somebody beat him up bad.

 Even though his face was all weathered, he had brightness in his eyes.  He wouldn't lower his voice though and it was obvious that he had something fermented under his morning belt.  Couldn't believe he wasn't hungry as I was though.  He barely touched his food. Alcohol must be an appetite suppressant and that is why it is so popular with the down and out.

Outside on the sidewalk, I watched him light up a cigarette. Then he received a phone call.  From what I could hear, it was some corrections officer on the other end. It sounded like he had gotten worked over at a downtown bus stop after using the N word on someone he shouldn't have.  I stood there by him, praying for a positive outcome and apparently he got let off some citation hook on the spot.  I told him about the power of prayer and angels. He nodded and  then took a swig of some rum out of a small flask and offered it to me.

When I declined, he took another belt and then launched into a story about when he was at Chicago and Lake and someone took his cell phone right out of his hands and demanded money from him if  he wanted it back. He had no choice but to do what the guy said. He also had his wallet stolen from him at a nursing home he was at in St. Paul.

I'm quite familiar with these stories unfortunately. There's nothing more edifying than hearing about how the poor and vulnerable are taken advantage of .  In my few attempts at doing PCA work, I have sadly found it to be the norm though.  The vulnerable are taken advantage of financially, sexually, probably even have their souls robbed from them on occassion. I can only hope that I get front row seats when  the people that commit these heinous things face the full judgement of God and are then thrown into the deepest pits of  hell.

I offered Tommy a wool blanket of mine but he declined. Said he was living in a shelter and wanted to introduce his Ethiopian girlfriend to me.  I guessed she and I  could talk about some of the oldest Christian churches in the world in her home country. Some carved out of solid rock from what I knew. I asked Tommy if she had a sister and he warned me sternly that it wouldn't work out. So I plan on not pursuing it.

Tuckpoint gave me his number and I keyed it into my phone.   It will be tough pushing on it  though. I'm pretty sure he starts drinking when he wakes up and any attempts on my part in regards to salvational discourse will be rendered null.

Still, I have added him to my ever growing prayer list.  He now has been moved to the top of it, for the time being anyway.

(C)2016-Jaye Beldo

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

I Will Behave


Jaye B.

A friend once asked me if I could help move his stuff from a house in Libertyville, Il. to an apartment he was renting somewhere on the North Shore.  My parents had a station wagon, so I agreed to pitch in.

After about an hour, there was one item left in the upstairs bedroom to move. A dresser of which we both pulled away from the wall.  John discovered a piece of paper on the floor near the baseboard, covered with dust and cobwebs.  He got on his knees, picked it up and blew it clean. I couldn't help but read, standing over his shoulder, something scrawled on wide ruled, elementary school paper:

"Scott."  John said, barely audible and crumpled up the note.

Some kids had teased his brother about his hair in Jr. High.   But all that is vivid really is me standing behind John, unable to say anything at all. I just stared at the paper in his hands, reading the lines. 

There was nothing to move out of the basement where Scott had hung himself, so we left. 
To this day, the kid's spidery, punishment handwriting remains pencil clear in my memory.  The ruled paper too.

And his age: 13.

 I'm tempted to Google Satellite the house I helped my friend move out of over forty years ago.  Maybe it would give me a sense of what really happened. But I have forgotten the address and all the houses blend together in that particular sub-division as they do elsewhere when looked at from an aerial perspective.


Please help Jaye make his Road from Ruin book a reality:

Thank you!

(C)2015-Jaye B.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

A Major 7th Eulogy


Jaye Beldo

I never attended the funeral of my brother Jim as I found out second hand that he had passed on in 2010. An unknown woman, apparently a friend, spread his ashes somewhere on a lake in Northern Minnesota.

All I have are sparse memories to go on to complete the picture.  One photo I recall revealed a time in his life when he played in Doo Wop bands back in the 50's, wearing the requisite shiny suit and tie. He didn't look to happy posing for the pics.

He once told me that he handed a fellow named Robert Zimmerman an electric guitar in Dinkytown in Minneapolis and that the soon to be famous bard told him that it was the first time he ever played one.
A net search of my brother's name has turned up You Tube videos posted by a fellow musician. He never told me about any of these recording gigs:

The most vivid recollections of my brother are his coming home from time to time after touring with various bands-mostly in the Chicago land area back in the 70's. I'd beg him to show me lounge licks and he would pull his guitar out of a battered case and demonstrate them with great reluctance.  "Cocktail chords." He'd call them with a tinge of bitterness, mostly Major 7ths and the like.  His guitar playing was brilliant in that he could listen to a song and then perform  it instantly in nearly any style. He'd always mock what he was playing too, especially Country Western which he hated. He would perform 'I Walk the Line' in such a manner and would alienate quite a few listeners this way. Truly an inspiration for my own satirical songs.

Lady Luck wasn't on Jimmy's side very often.  I recall the two of us on the Balmoral golf course  in west central Minnesota over thirty years ago one summer day. He attempted an approach shot on one hole, but the golf ball sailed through a tree. A bird then fell from a branch and near the pin, D.O.A. The ball somehow rolled onto the green afterward, adding even more irony to the situation. My brother dropped his golf club on the fairway and covered his face. I felt so helpless as it pretty much summed up his hard life. I can't remember if he made a birdie or not on that hole.

The closest I ever felt to Jim was when the two of us were in a rowboat fishing and a pair of Loons approached us, both diving under the boat and coming up on the other side, then circling us several times before paddling off. They were so close we could see their brilliant ruby eyes. 

 Such is my tragically sparse and very belated eulogy on this Memorial day weekend. I love you so much dear brother and hope you're playing in a bandstand in heaven where Major 7ths are forever banned. Johnny Cash too.

Jim's final resting place.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Sunday, April 27, 2014

A Huckster's Enlightenment


Jaye Beldo

The other day I attempted to confide my sorrow to Grant  in regards to a person close to me who faces a life threatening illness and the doctors's grim prognosis of her condition. My work associate paused as he drove and searched his brain a bit:

"Well, I'm sure the transition team is already around her. Great White Brotherhood. Energy vortexes abound. There'll be a bit of sorrow for the few that are around her."

Ascended Masturbator El Morya

The homeless waif in the back seat that he scored (see :  ), looked at him like one of those Big Eye paintings by Margaret Keane. No doubt he conned her into shacking up with him with such metaphysical tripe. I didn't respond and got out of the truck. He came around and walked by my side, not realizing that I was trying to get away from him. He set me up with a sideways glance:

"Enjoy your zen." He said, with a smarmy, flim flam grin that only an oily, Texas reprobate could muster with such convincement. I was no doubt to interpret the expression as something resembling sincere compassion. Such was his enlightened dismissal of my woe. I felt like urinating on his A Course in Miracles and Your Immortal Reality books laying on the dirty couch next to his wine glasses and spliff roaches, but refrained from doing so, as it is impossible to insult a buffoon, especially one attempting to operate on a cosmic scale.

I pray daily against people like this. Psalm 109 to be exact.

California Continued:

Saturday, February 4, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part VI


Jaye Beldo

Aura Soma Lava

My hot springs host missed out on some truculent witticisms I penned while soaking. They were intended to supplement  the prospective project she wanted me to work on and which I snidely titled : Book of the Elixir.  Yet, if I had stayed any longer to share my cornucopia of elixir insights with her,  I'd have been rendered neo-natal, like the guy she endowed with her brand new Mini-Humvee, a bit of Mormon nepotism from what I could read of the situation. Somethng Mitt Romney would approve of no doubt, in an expectant kind of way.  I wouldn't even put it past her to flaunt her stagecraft philanthropy by supplying a virgin polygamist with a dozen blow up dolls and a chapel to marry  them in, air cushion wives adorned in day-glo spandex prairie dresses and bonnets.

While cooling off from the 111 degree water, I continued to pray the blood of Jesus over the labyrinth near the river, one once travailed by lesbian Buddhists, envisioning the terra cotta gargoyles in the center smashing to shards, later to be plucked up in a distant epoch by forlorn archaeologists. 

The vision I had of the cellulite donut encircling Evita's waist instantly disappearing in the alchemical springs, is something else I withheld, after she gave me her tough love marching orders. Not that I'm a selfish visionary, I just thought it might offend her, considering she once claimed she was a poster girl for some holistic diet program she was on, but permanently stuck in the 'before' photo from what I could gather.

Also penned in my journal was a lofty epitaph, replete with directions to all the booze bottles hidden throughout her property, like the very terma the Tibetan's looked for in unexplored Himalayan mountain caves, beckoning to be discovered by wannabe lamas. It would have been futile however, the blue ruin secret known by all throughout the savage gossip town.  

"You like misery." She stated at the restaurant as a part of her damage control and her declarative statement still echoes resoundly in my cranium nearly two weeks later.

"Is that why I'm sitting here with you?"  I should have responded but I hesitated too long. She was already grilling me as to what spiritual experiences I had while in the hot springs, then told me that said experiences were sufficient enough to cover my gas, food and lodging costs en route to her resort.

Now, here in the desert expanse of Arizona,  I can more adequately reflect on the eviction. Chalk the Flower Child harridan up as another human potential movement casualty? A cemetery en par with Arlington awaits at Esalen for such ilk.  I should have patronized more suavely, divining all the wrinkles in her desert weathered visage, interpreting them as some kind of sign of a golden age emergence her resort customers could bask in, even after she jacked up the room and massage rates. Or perhaps some varicose prophecy could have poured from my lips that would have turned the tables to my favor and I'd be the one scooting around in a Mini-Humvee, with a dozen inflatable wives to boot.

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo