the year of the horse
out all over939-941
942-944
945-948
cotton jumpin', fishes high
949-962
963-973
974-977
finale of the fifth
978-985
986-989
990-993
939
Zu hilfe! Zu hilfe!That little radio more than paid for itself Saturday afternoon. I had no idea what the weekly opera broadcast was going to be, spread my beachtowel in the shade of the huge banyan tree at the beach park and tuned in just after the overture had begun. "Ohmygawd," I said to myself, and went into that other, more special world to which only Mozart at his best can supply the ticket. The most magical Magic Flute.
I'd make a fool of myself if I ever have the chance to again see it in an opera house since I can't stop the tears from falling. Joyous tears, for the most part, but also, this time, some tears that have been wanting to fall for several weeks now.
If I were forced to spend the rest of my life hearing only one piece of music, that would be it. And that made me think that perhaps I actually deserved to lose two CD players, since I'd never made the best use of either.
The Fabled Pension Check arrived on Friday. It's almost all gone already, as I knew it would be. Half for the mailbox, some for essential shopping which can't be postponed, the rest for beer and food and Top. I did grin when I realized that, for a little time, the Sleeptalker will have more money than I do since he'll undoubtedly sell his foodstamps when they arrive on Monday.
I saw that most admirable young man briefly Saturday morning. I was waiting for a bus after a visit to the State Library and he came walking along with another young man who, as he told me with obvious delight, is a long time veteran of Seventh Circle, although also one who has been driven away by the arrogant Boss Lady there. He didn't look at all like I would have guessed, seemed very shy. We didn't talk for long because the Sleeptalker was headed to the Black Hole for lunch. He's finally gotten a haircut, a sort of long crewcut. Adorable. I wanted to run my hand over it and shall eventually, but didn't want to embarrass him in front of the other fellow.
I'd finished the available reading material, James Patterson's When the Wind Blows and Thunder House by Dean Koontz. Despite Patterson's brief introduction claiming the book is not really far-fetched, I think he's crossed over from murder mystery to science fiction in this one. As with all his books, it was nonetheless thoroughly engrossing. The Koontz book was originally published under a pseudonym and he would have been wiser, methinks, to have left it that way instead of allowing it to be reprinted with his real name.
Most happily, there was an Anne Rivers Siddons book at the library which is new to me, Low Country. Splendid.
The first thing I did when I got to campus on Sunday morning was to lay claim to one of those lockers. I can't afford to get a smaller bag right now, but at least I was able to put some of the stuff I don't need daily in there and it's a pleasure to have less weight on my back all the time.
A reader asked me to clarify what I wrote about be here now and I shall do that. It has been much on my mind, but I'll wait a bit for the thoughts themselves to become clarified. Just now I feel as if my mind is in something of a whirl, almost as if I've taken an extended acid trip which clears out cobwebs, takes out long-stored notions and re-examines them ... and throws out a lot of stuff.
At one point in the opera, that extraordinarily beautiful male aria which follows the Queen of the Night's extravagant opportunity, I opened my eyes and the bits of bright sky showing through the banyan leaves seemed to be in the foreground, the comparative darkness of the leaves in distant, dark realms of space. A fine moment.
940
Three times magic. On Sunday I took the less usual route from campus, to the end of the valley, since I needed to get a few things from the drugstore there. On the bus were two teenage lads, fourteen or fifteen I'd guess. One of them so reminded me of my prison buddy, Joe D, that I couldn't help almost staring at him. They were deaf, speaking with their hands. Later, as I was waiting for the bus back to campus, they rode past, shirtless, on bicycles. And several hours later, at the 7-Eleven near the mall, I once again encountered them. One was still browsing in the store, the other was in front of me in the line, and the salesclerk asked if he wanted a bag for his purchases, was puzzled when he ignored her. "He's deaf," I explained, "and so is his shirtless young friend." She thanked me, then asked him with gestures whether he wanted the bag.Strange, never having seen them before and then crossing paths with them three times. I shouldn't be so damned lazy, ought to learn that sign language.
On Monday more path-crossing. Tanioka has his hair cut short, too, and I almost didn't recognize him when he came walking toward me. He was hurrying to meet a friend so we only talked briefly. He said he had helped the Sleeptalker cut his hair ... I wondered where the money had come from for a haircut. If Tanioka's that good at it, he should be at least a part-time barber. Then later in the beach park, Rocky came along. He really does have a short haircut, almost shaved, and he said Angelo has his very short now, too. Does this mean it's going to be a long, hot summer?
Rocky didn't stay for more than a few minutes since he was meeting his uncle at the mall, and the talk was mostly about Plato. "He tweaked out on the ice," Rocky said, a theory foremost in my mind, too.
And, of course, each day there was the usual chat with Joe Guam. On Monday he didn't have beer money so spent more time with me than usual, almost all of it centered on the subject of alcohol. They don't have any breweries on Guam of any kind, or at least didn't when he was last living there, but the local folk make a strong brew from coconuts. He described the way it is done and I found a web page which shows the method is also used in Africa.
I sat with him on Monday to eat the Krishna food. Once again I'd had little to eat the day before but even so that food was pretty awful. I told Joe not to expect me at the Krishna truck on Wednesday, no way I'm eating that stuff on the day foodstamp money arrives. As it turned out, he wasn't likely to be there on Wednesday either. After a final chat on Tuesday, he went on his way to his sleeping place. A few minutes later he came back. He had to show me. He'd found a wallet with almost a hundred dollars in it!
940a
Well now, well now ... a lawyer/novelist who is a real writer. I enjoyed William Lashner's first book, Hostile Witness but his second, Veritas (nothing to do with Harvard), is better than just enjoyable. My habit is to dog-ear these paperbacks to mark my place, although in earlier days I used to have a fetish about having a bookmarker available before I could settle down to read a book. And I dog-ear at the bottom of a page if I want to quote something. Veritas now has three bottom dog-ears, a record (except for Hesse).I tried to meditate but I kept thinking of all the things I needed to buy. Maybe it was because my mantra was MasterCard.
...
I am a randomly formed strand of DNA no more significant than random strands of DNA that define the leaf of grass upon which I tread or the cow whose charred muscle I gnaw. I eat Chinese food and crap corn and sweat through my socks and stink and the same DNA that gave me this nose or this chin and my ten fingers and ten toes has also sentenced me to oblivion.
...
I looked around and twisted the doorknob and stepped into another year: 1968 to be exact. Incense, Jerry Garcia, the warm nutty smell of a vegetarian casserole baking in the oven, posters of India and Tibet, earnest conversations, bad haircuts, the thick clinging smell of body odor.
Yes, I like Mister Lashner.
And lest I forget, I also need to say once again how much I admire Anne Rivers Siddons. Her Low Country is a thoroughly admirable addition to the sizeable collection of Southern Literature, right there with Mitchell, McCullers, O'Connor, Williams and Capote (not to mention Faulkner).
Life has gotten rather surreal. Well, more than it always is. The kindness of strangers, the kindness of readers. Anticipation. Surreal.
940b
More generally, how do you select what you'll say in a Tale and what you'll keep to yourself ? Is it according to the importance it has for you when you live it ? Or do you have some kind of idea of the general balance of a Tale, and write only what gives a sense of unity ?It is intuitive for the most part. As I am living things, I write a tale about it in my mind (a certain defeat to any notion of "be here now", isn't it?). But I don't always end up actually writing it.
Some things are not written about because I'd be too embarrassed to admit them, a very few because I've been asked not to write about it, and some because I'd feel like I was betraying trust. The last makes the Tale of the Sleeptalker much less complete than it could be. And it may even make it harder for some people to understand why I love the man.
Balance? Come now, there are surely enough unbalanced Tales to eliminate any such idea.
I'm the Grandma Moses of on-line journal writing.
941
I went to check the mailbox on Friday after a visit to the State Library. Mailbox empty, so I walked over to the Ward theatres to see what time "The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" was showing on its opening day. There was about an hour and a half until the next show, so I bought a beer and a sandwich, went to the beach park and started reading Susan Howatch's Glittering Prizes, the first book in her Church of England series which I'm reading in topsy-turvy order.I got so engrossed I then had to make a dash back to the theatre. What a splendid treat it is, that film, and I was more than pleased I'd been lured to it by my admiration for Maggie Smith. Laughs and tears and a musical soundtrack that will make it the first such recording I've bought since getting "Little Mermaid" for Jonathan.
Bob Dylan has written and recorded a new song, "Waitin' For You" for the new movie "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood", opening nationwide on June 7. "Waitin' For You" is the first original song Bob Dylan has written for a motion picture since his Academy Award-winning "Things Have Changed" was featured in "Wonder Boys."
And it's much better than that one, too. He'll be performing in London next week and I wish I could be there.
So that settled one question. Yes, I will get a CD player and that will be the first new CD.
I walked back to the 7-Eleven to get a sunset brew and just as I got there Tanioka came out. He'd been to see Ya-Ya as well. I got a beer for him, too, and we sat talking in the park until it was Black Hole time. Talk of the Sleeptalker, Angelo and Okinawa, Plato. He said Okinawa and Angelo had stolen from him, too, but I guess he's reached the conclusion that friendship is more important. I can shrug off the loss but "friends" like that I can live without.
It surely was good to spend some time with Tanioka, though. And to see such a fine film.
941a
The retrospect has much in it that is humiliating and that calls for repentance; but Christ, in His limitless mercy, has endured me all these long years, and I cannot doubt that He will be with me to the end.How sweet it must be to have such faith.
I wrote to someone early on Sunday that I feel like a child the week before Christmas, wishing somehow the days would pass more quickly. Yes, I can finally say "next week".
With so much anticipation, a state of mind I am not much fond of, perhaps it's a little balanced by some retrospective thought, and research. The astounding Internet Archive really is making all this into something like the Great Library of Alexandria. They must have prodigious storage space at that site. I was looking at some early version of the Cave there and found a 1997 version of what was then called my Ohana page. Ohana means family in Hawaiian, and after the Kaneohe Debacle I decided it really wasn't much of a family at all, or not one I wanted to be part of (the original version being more than enough any one man should wish to endure), and renamed that page to "Locals". Well, on that antique version I discovered a link to an equally antique panther.html, and on that one the earliest beginning of the Tales. Nestled in there somewhere is the photo of me and Auntie Maria from a party at the Halekulani.
All the photos of Chloe are there, too. A pity they are such lousy scans.
They've also got that sweet photo of the sleepy Jay T. once kept on my page of links to my favorite online journal writers. Not to mention the entire collection of drawings ... who needs a back-up if strangers are keeping everything anyway ...
They don't seem to have the photo of KM2, although it might be buried somewhere I haven't yet discovered. Just as well, he'd probably write them, as he did me, to demand a monthly fee for displaying it.
The retrospect has much in it that is humiliating and that calls for repentance ...
Uh-huh. But some sweet moments, too.
942
New Moon in Gemini, Solar Eclipse. Some astrologers thought this was an especially significant event. Who knows what Cainer thought? He took off for a week, then extended the absence by two days so he said nothing about it. In Honolulu the sun was supposedly about one-half shadowed. I can't say, tried to find something to use as a viewer but they were too opaque (frosted plastic lids from soda cups) or too transparent. I should have tried a Mickey's bottle, but was drinking Olde English in its clear glass bottle at the time of maximum eclipse. The odd thing was, it had been a pleasant, mostly sunny day but shortly after the sun emerged from the partial darkening, a fierce little storm blew through, gusting wind and rain. An enormous branch fell from a tree in the beach park. Fortunately no one was under it at the time. And the campus was littered with debris the next morning. A welcome side-effect is getting rid of most of the berries at the secluded grove where the dropping had already slowed enough to make lunchtime there possible again.Even more peculiar than the post-eclipse stormlet (which was over quickly, even if did evidently later rain heavily during the night): the day after the eclipse. It was like an intense bout of full moon madness everywhere. People were pushy, hurried and many of them downright angry. It started immediately for me in the bus from the Black Hole to the mall. Despite a number of empty seats, a grotesquely overweight woman demanded to share my seat. I should have gotten up and given it to her, moved to one of the vacant ones, but since I only had a few stops left to go, I suffered. Lesson learned, though, and later in the beach park when I was sitting at a picnic table with four empty ones nearby, a local family walked over and started setting up their barbecue grill at "my" table. I just got up and moved to another.
Lord and Lady Moana and their courtiers were dominating their whole area of the park later in the day with lots of yelling and one rather nasty fight which started just after a taxi zoomed out of the mall against the light and was crashed into by another car. As a finale to the day of madness, at the Black Hole they announced a new dress code. No one is allowed to sleep shirtless, must wear a tee shirt! I grumbled, "you should get air-conditioning, then", a mild protest compared to some that were made.
Meanwhile, after the little storm on the day of the eclipse, I walked over to the park with my sunset brew. Tanioka and Okinawa were there. The first thing Okinawa said was that after "the incident", he had decided he'd never get into someone's backpack again. Well, that would be, I suppose, an admirable addition to his personal moral code. But I doubt he can keep it, doubt that if he knows there is something he wants in a backpack and he has the chance to grab it, he'd be able to resist, especially if smoking the glass pipe. In any case, it's irrelevant as far as I am concerned because I don't intend to be in a situation with him where it's possible. As I had decided to do, I treated him with friendliness but without any feigned warmth (and it would had to have been feigned).
Tanioka was all excited because he'd bought his ticket for the Vegas jaunt in August. He spent almost twice as much as the package tour I'd found on the web, but is confident he'll win thousands so the price of the journey is unimportant. I hope he's right.
He offered to sell me a shiney-red Sony CD player for a $25 IOU. I declined, saying I didn't want to start spending the money even before I've gotten it. I had looked at that (new) model in the shops, knew it was selling for about twice his offer so it would have been a bargain. But I think it is wiser for me to adopt a hands-off policy with stolen merchandise, no matter how much of a savings it would be. (I am just assuming it was stolen, probably by Angelo, but it's not impossible Tanioka had bought it and the offer was a way of solidifying what seemed an effort on his part to play peacemaker.)
A trip to the State Library earlier was a surprise because they had an abundance of new additions to the "honor collection", all of them with Borders price tags making me wonder if perhaps Borders had donated them. In The House Next Door, Anne Rivers Siddons steps into Stephen King territory and although it's a decent enough attempt, I think she'd do better to stay in the Southern realism mode where she truly excels. Next on tap (and about half finished) is Saul Bellow's Something to Remember Me By, three "tales" which are either "lengthy short stories" or "short novels" (definitely lengthy by my standard for a "tale").
Given my well-proven lack of prudence where money is concerned, it's not in the least surprising that there's now a time of empty pockets to endure while the countdown proceeds. No regrets, I have truly enjoyed this unexpected two weeks of living almost a "normal" life, buying cigarettes, drinking as much beer as I wanted, eating hot meals rather than the usual diet of foodstamps-eligible cold stuff. If I can summon up just a little of that missing "prudence", such luxury can soon become the usual way of things. I wouldn't take any bets, though, on whether or not there will be just such a spell of empty pockets before the July SocSec check arrives. Nope, not a chance of taking a bet on that.
942a
Yeah, this is the start of a new tradition, being broke in the middle of the month. Musing upon the subject, though, I realized how fortunate I am with what will be the new rhythm, financially speaking, of life. The SocSec check on the third Wednesday, the Fabled Pension Check on or about the first of the month (which can be tucked away and not cashed until needed), the foodstamps largesse on the fifth. Nicely spaced, especially for someone as loony about money as I am.Temps perdu. She had been there too long. Staying at the Chelsea was like renting at the scene of the crime. The only crimes I committed at the Chelsea were dropping acid, smoking the weed, and skipping out leaving three months rent unpaid. The latter was really more of a tradition than a crime, though.
It's amusing how publishers frame the paperback of a debut novel with loads of praiseful quotes. The handsomely packaged one, Bless Me, Father by Mark Kriegel, has quite a few raves, pages of them, and all deserved. It's a fine follow-up to the Bellow volume. Saul Bellow writes too well, really. Admiration for his style gets in the way of his stories, especially when they're the tales of old age remembering. A fine collection of shorter pieces, that book, but not at all what I seek at this particular time. Kriegel's book is more like it, especially with its way of taking me back to scenes of my younger days, someone else's memories of the place making it sound like somewhere I never knew.
I'll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island, too. And the Village, which in some ways never seemed like Manhattan, probably still doesn't.
I must write to Ed Meneeley, see if he might have some photos of my early paintings stuck away somewhere. Wouldn't surprise me, and it would be interesting to see them again. That led to wondering if the technology now exists to turn 35mm color slides into jpg's. That it does wouldn't surprise me either.
The nice thing about the new set-up at Hamilton Library is that it restores my ability to write on-screen, then print it out. Costs a little money, but then I'll soon have a little money. Too damned little, I've already decided. Well, I can earn up to $950 a month and still get SocSec. I wonder if that means $950 gross or after taxes? And then I thought, yikes, if I did earn that, I'd end up owing tax every year because the SocSec doesn't automatically have tax deducted from it.
Are these ridiculous thoughts for an old homeless man to be having? Quite possibly.
Regulars, regulars. The Mongoose is back again, has turned into a trashpicker, poor fellow. His hair is long and shaggy, no longer dyed in his former Death in Venice fake black, and he looks awful. Still rushes around as he did in the Quarter Hunt days, as if someone else is going to get the treasures from the trashcan before he digs in it. A pathetic loser. (Panther mutters something about compassion for all living beings ... )
In the park, Lord and Lady Moana's new establishment seems to have attracted a whole crowd of pathetic losers and it's impossible to sit anywhere in the area without a steady stream of cigarette-beggars. I fled out after about fifteen minutes on Wednesday. (An echo from Bartle's MUD2, where running away from a losing battle produces the message, you flee out, dropping everything). I didn't drop everything, fortunately, although I felt like dropping that backpack several times during the hot afternoon when bands of sweat form in the teeshirt where the straps cross the shoulders and in a damp patch on the back. Since this Saturday is clean-out time at the campus locker, I put all my so-called treasures back in my burden, which now feels twice as heavy as the lighter version even if that's not really so. Maybe I will get one of those commercial lockers after all, although I might better consider whether anything I put in a locker couldn't just as easily be thrown away? (There would go the notion of a CD player, to begin with.)
Paulo is set to go on a fishing expedition next Wednesday. Some church ladies gave him a bag of clothes and he turns up every day in a totally new outfit. He must be quite unhappy with the Moanas taking over his long-time area, but says nothing about it. A wise move, no doubt, because it wouldn't be too smart to cross the Moanas. I remind myself of that frequently.
Wobbly has disappeared, though, and it's widely assumed he's departed permanently although no one knows for sure and no one knows what his name was so the newspaper obituary entries can't be searched. He reportedly had advanced AIDS and was certainly in dreadful physical shape, his departure obviously imminent. Like the old reader who recently died, Wobbly won't be missed by anyone in the park, especially the cleaning people who hated the way he trashed his area every day.
There's a new regular at Hamilton Library, possibly not homeless. Maybe he just can't afford a computer and a net connection. He's waiting every morning for the library to open, sits with his shoes off, a briefcase and a few tote bags on the floor at his side. I haven't glimpsed his screen yet, have no idea what he does. Droopy is also waiting every morning, as he has for years, and still spends hours and hours at the microfilm readers. Heaven only knows what his project is. Virginia now keeps all his belongings in a baby stroller which he wheels right into Hamilton. He spends hours at the computer, too, doing I know not what. These are the kind of people who are likely to get us all locked into a sign-in routine (already in place at Sinclair Library). They've already posted user guidelines which include the notion that "community users" (i.e., not students or university employees) are granted one hour of computer usage per day and that only for educational, instructional, and research needs. I need to brush-up my alibi about writing my doctoral thesis on the effect of computer games on homeless youth. Uh-huh.
Ramblings in these penniless, beerless days of countdown ...
943
Jonathan Cainer said about Thursday, Don't be unrealistically hopeful today. Quite unnecessary, my dear Jonathan. By the time I got to campus and read that warning, I hadn't found a single coin, not even a penny. I am not superstitious in the ordinary sense of the word, but I do tend to pay attention (usually with a half-serious grin) to "omens". And the number of coins I find in the early morning has almost always been an indication of how "lucky" a day it was going to be.So Thursday wasn't a lucky day and that was no surprise. But it was decent enough, certainly could have been much worse.
Young people need to make some fashion statement, generally one which will seem incomprehensible to older generations. They are succeeding admirably with the latest incarnation even if it does, to my considerable amusement, imitate the exact opposite end of the age scale. Despite the fact that it's so warm I walk around in shorts and sweat-dampened tee shirt, some young men are wearing heavy jackets, one or two sizes too large, looking like they just arrived from the ski slopes. The fancier and more expensive the jacket, the better. They got style, man.
That the oldest generation also sits bundled up in jackets and coats despite the heat apparently escapes their notice.
One of these stylish youngsters has taken up residence at the Black Hole. It was, of course, inevitable that an obscure object of desire would eventually appear there. After all, the Bad Boys were at one time or another residents. Well, it has happened. A slim young black man, late teens or early twenties, somewhat reminiscent of Mondo ... in fact, something of a combination of Mondo and the Sleeptalker. I did have a brief exchange with him on Wednesday evening when we were standing together in line waiting for a mat. He was fretting about where "Gramps" was going to settle. I don't blame him, said "I don't care where he sleeps as long as it's not next to me." Gramps flails around in his sleep and if you're unlucky enough to be next to him, you're assured of waking several times in the night to push his arm off you, even his leg. Evidently my stylish young companion had undergone the experience and we laughed about the memories.
I'll have to think of a name for him since none has yet come clearly to mind. And I'll have to hope we don't end up on side-by-side mats, too. I don't really need a new Bad Boy and I'm sure he doesn't need me either. Maybe he was the inspiration for the internal jukebox immediately starting up with Billie Holiday on Friday morning. God bless the child ...
Actually, Thursday was a day of obscure object abundance. The new Freshman of the Year was on the bus from campus to downtown. Filipino, late teens, thoroughly adorable. That was the third time I've seen him, and he's the third FotY to start with the summer session. Like his predecessors, he's very likely to go on to Sophomore of the Year, etc. And then, when I went to the far end of the beach park for a shower and some laundry chores, yet another obscure object. That time I might actually have reached a less obscure viewpoint but the place was too crowded. No, not a lucky day. Or maybe it was.
Sitting at a picnic table, my laundry dangling from the edges to dry in the brisk, warm tradewinds, eating a chef salad and drinking a large (23.5oz) can of iced tea ... Paulo comes by on his bicycle asking to borrow two dollars. "Would I be sitting here drinking iced tea if I had two dollars?!" He didn't believe me, thought I was using the tea can as disguise, only accepted the sad reality when I offered him a taste.
In the mall later, plodding around harvesting the ashtrays, I spotted Angelo and the Pathetic Lady, quickly ducked out of sight. Later still, I saw Rocky, strutting along in a purple Jordan tanktop. Funny, that little fellow wearing a Michael Jordan shirt. He didn't see me, which was just the way I wanted it. When this dreadful waiting game is finally over, I won't be seen in that mall for days, maybe even weeks. I'll even change my early morning coffee habit to a different venue. I'm sick of the place.
Pretty fed-up with the waiting game, too.
(By the way, that dress code at the Black Hole only lasted one night. Up the Revolution.)
944
"That crazy fucker." Joe Guam's welcome-back sentiment was probably a unanimous reaction among park regulars to the return of Wobbly. Amusing that the day after I wrote about Wobbly, he was back on his bus-stop bench, more wobbly than ever, throwing trash around as always, not dead yet but surely on the brink.... you are due to have a surprisingly splendid weekend.
Yeh, sure, I thought when I read Cainer's message. Well, he had some help in making that prediction come true. Readers will recall from long ago, pre-Crazy Money days, how I was shocked, as were the Boys, by the person who would quietly come up behind me in the mall, say "here you go", and hand me some green paper. It was quite a long time before I discovered she was also a reader of the Tales. Our paths haven't crossed in months. When I got to the mall on Friday, I immediately found two strollers. With a dollar in pocket so early in the day, I thought maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for a beer to end the drought. Often people who are parked in the upper garage levels just leave a stroller rather than bothering to return it, so I took the elevator to the top level, then worked my way down, alas without success. The timing, though, was perfect since I returned to the post office area just as my one-time-mysterious benefactor was approaching. Yes, Mister Cainer had help.
Then what a sweet surprise when I checked the postbox on Saturday morning. My benefactor had left an additional melon from heaven there after seeing me in the mall. It's so depressing when opening that box and seeing nothing in it, especially during times when something is expected.
Nothing too exciting, aside from the surprise in the mailbox, on Saturday. But Sunday afternoon I was sitting at the far end of the beach park after having a shower and washing a tee shirt. A shirtless young man stopped by my table, asked if anyone was sitting there. He had an elaborate tattoo on his right arm with some Japanese characters inside a circle. I asked what it meant. "Wake up!" he said. Wacht auf, okay. That's the best such exchange about a tattoo since Mondo telling me the Japanese characters on his arm mean "time".
This young man was from Oregon, has four brothers, one of which is a twin, although not identical. He has been here several years, most of them spent working on inter-island cruise ships. Alas, the main company involved went bankrupt not long ago and he is still waiting for a final payment from them. Then he plans to visit the mainland before trying to get a job either at some resort or on a Norwegian cruise ship. A very pleasant young man and a delightful conversation.
At the State Library on Saturday I found a first novel by an English lawyer, Paul Redmond. Something Dangerous is not a legal-fantasy yarn, though, but a nasty tale about English "public" schoolboys. It was strange to follow that with James Hilton's Goodbye Mr. Chips, as different a book set in similar surroundings as one could imagine and certainly not new to me, although it has been many years since I last read it.
Sunday was also, of course, the Sleeptalker's birthday. I celebrated it with three bottles of Olde English, but couldn't finish the third one. Wimp.
Meanwhile, the waiting game drags on and I hope it will soon be over even if I do realize that my reaction when it ends will inevitably be, "so it's here, now what?"
945
In preface, I do apologize to readers of the Tales for the rather desultory nature of recent efforts. Every morning I pondered the idea of putting up a "suspended for the duration" notice, probably should have done so. But then this is supposed to be a more or less accurate reflection of the state of my mind and the events (or lack of same) in my life, so I plugged on and won't now take the also-pondered option of deleting 942-944.And with the apology, I must also once again thank those readers who helped make this long-dreaded time pass more comfortably.
What creatures of habit we are. Pavlov could just as easily have used humans in his experiments. It is so strange to be walking around without a backpack. I normally stop in the small stand-up computer lab in the early morning before the library opens, put my backpack on a shelf below the computer, get my glasses out, then return them to the backpack when I've finished. So on Thursday morning, after putting the backpack in a locker, I went to the lab. When I finished, I reached down to put my glasses in the backpack. Which wasn't, of course, there. Good grief.
Sneaky buggers, those SocSec people. The magic envelope had probably been at the post office for a couple of days, but in very large type on the front of the thing it gives a DELIVERY DATE. So, okay, novice that I am, the first lesson learned is to not waste my time checking the mailbox a few days before the due date. Of course, the confounded thing could still be late. At least there are no third-Wednesday holidays for the rest of this year.
The friendly young woman at the mailbox place cheerfully greeted me when I walked in on Wednesday. I was earlier than usual because I'd been to the State Library, was crossing the street to the bus stop intending to return to the mall, thinking it was too early to check the mailbox. I spotted Angelo and the Pathetic Lady, did a quick turn and changed plans. I knew from the greeting that there must be good news in the box, and there it was. "I know you've been waiting for it," she said. Ain't that the truth.
Off to cash the thing, paying $11 for the privilege. With ordinary checks they charge five percent but are "kind" with SocSec checks, only two percent. Only. Yeh, okay, I know, I've got to get the banking thing sorted out somehow.
I had already drilled myself in preparation, telling myself over and over that I would NOT go crazy, I'd do nothing more than I ordinarily would when the Fabled Pension Check arrives. So naturally the first thing was to buy a bottle of Olde English and cigarettes, head to the beach park to enjoy them while beginning James Patterson's Jack and Jill which I'd found at the library.
The first more permanent item on my shopping list was a pair of shorts, the kind they call "cargo shorts", with lots of pockets. The discount clothing place never has much in the way of shorts so I'd expected to buy trousers and cut them off. But when I went to have a look at Sears, much to my surprise they had exactly what I wanted, and at a forty-percent-off sale price. Cool. The patch pockets on the side are so large I can carry a paperback book in them. Ergo, no backpack. But I will get a smaller bag, mainly to disguise a beer bottle. That task I decided could wait until the following day.
So I changed into my new shorts, bought another bottle of beer (just Mickey's that time) and an early dinner from Lahaina Chicken. That was the one mistake of the day. I think my digestive system must be somewhat in the state it was when I returned from the first journey to the east. I'm used to eating such small amounts that a full dinner makes me sick. And I didn't even eat all of that one, left one piece of chicken and some baked beans for a needier person. It still gave me severe indigestion relieved only slightly by one of those nasty vomiting bouts where part of the spew goes through the nose. Yeeee-ukh.
Thus to my great surprise, the Magic Day of SocSec was a two-beer day!
As I was waiting for the bus to the Black Hole, I saw Helen R. She had been to the newly opened Costco branch, had some DVD's she'd bought there (including the rather baffling choice of Pearl Harbor). She asked if I'd had dinner. Ugh, had I ever. We agreed on seeing a movie during the weekend, later decided upon the talk-of-the-town, Disney's "Hawaiian" thing, since I planned to see one of the early options for "Minority Report" on its opening day, Friday.
Off to the Black Hole for a decent sleep although suffering the monthly affliction usually experienced the day after the Fabled Pension Check arrives, waking too early in the morning and waiting for the day to begin. A weird affliction but a welcome one indeed. I gave up at about four-thirty, walked over to Chinatown and got a bus to Waikiki for "French toast sticks" and a cup of tea from Jack in the Box. As Grace said, "it's a new dawn."
946
What a treasure, the soundtrack from Ya-Ya. I must have listened to the Dylan track about thirty times on Friday. I like it better than anything he's done since Time Out of Mind.On the second day of the SocSec era, I made a brief visit to campus, then went to Chinatown where I found the small bag I had in mind. A bit silly to buy a tan one since it will soon look dirty, but maybe it's a way of forcing myself to do laundry more often. Then [gasp] I got a haircut. It's the first time in years I've actually gone to a barbershop, but my self-chopped version was pretty ragged and I figured I'd do better to get it cut very short so it can grow in more evenly. It should look halfway decent in about three weeks.
I spent some time looking at CD players, comparing prices, but put off the purchase until Friday although I decided on a Radio Shack CD/FM/AM model, a bit more than fifty dollars. Maybe being Radio Shack will make it less of a lure for thieves than a fancy Sony? I'd been at the far end of the beach park for a shower and a beer, so stopped in Borders to get Ya-Ya and then to the mall for the player. I just wasn't in the mood for opening day crowds so postponed seeing Minority Report, spent the rest of the day in the park reading and listening to the CD, very pleased with the quality of the sound.
At the used bookshop I found Elspeth Huxley's autobiography, Flame Trees of Thika and The Mottled Lizard, quite a change from recent reading and new to me, intriguing and highly enjoyable even to someone, like me, who has little interest in Africa (aside from Egypt).
In the morning, the Sleeptalker was in Seventh Circle, later sent me an email which began: Hope your doing ok. Id like to thank you on everything youve done for me. cause nobody helps me out with computers as much as you do. my family is really suprised at all the things that you flash and stoker has tought me.
And at the bus stop that evening along he came, headed back to Waianae. I gave him a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant for his birthday.
946a
I wouldn't go quite so far as to term it "all's well that ends well", but I really am most pleased with this new CD/radio. The FM tuner is splendid, the best I've had in any of my various radio-equipped phases, better reception than any portable model I've owned. At least I know if this one vanishes exactly what to get as a replacement.After a brief visit to campus on Saturday morning I went to the beach park with a lunchtime brew, no need for lunch because I'd had a "mini loco moco" at the L&L for breakfast. I would have been happier with a "mini mini", felt guilty for wasting so much rice. Did I explain once before that a "loco moco" is a beef patty nestled in a bed of rice, a fried egg on top, all covered with brown gravy? At L&L one gets the obligatory scoop of macaroni salad, too, which I could certainly have done without.
I turned on the radio, was surprised the weekly opera broadcast was already on, much earlier than usual. Ah, but it was Parsifal. Odd time of the year to schedule it. I only heard about an hour's worth since I had to leave to meet Helen R. and see Lilo and Stitch. I'm not as enthusiastic as many people writing about the film on the net but it was amusing enough, better than any animated film from the Disney Studios since Little Mermaid, and of course had increased interest for those of us who live here since it almost all takes place on Kauai. Animated hula dancers were definitely a new sight.
We ate at the new Costco's "Food Court" after the film and I surprisingly got away with eating a foot-long thing called a "Chicken Bake", large bits of chicken in a firm pastry shell. Given the delicacy of my digestive system recently I was expecting later problems but escaped. I wonder if the problems have more to do with adjusting to eating hot food rather than being purely a question of quantity?
Back to the beach park for a sunset brew, listening to Prairie Home Companion which I'd missed for a sufficiently long time to find it amusing. If I hear that program every week I start to grumble about some of the humor, although almost always enjoying the music. Alas, I have to head for the Black Hole before it's time for the hour of theatre music (and I'm certainly not tempting fate by pulling out the machine in that place).
There is a certain "shell shocked" feeling to life right now and I thought at one point on Saturday that maybe I should just go ahead and spend all the money, return to the more familiar way of things. No need to even think of it since without trying that will happen soon enough anyway.
947
To deceive gracefully is the very essence of social life. One must start by deceiving oneself, and make a lifelong practice of deceiving others; if one does it well enough, in time one might even become an artist, the greatest illusionists of all.The second volume of Elspeth Huxley's memoirs of life in Africa, The Mottled Lizard, is delightful, as was the first volume. They make me think I should probably spend more time reading autobiographies. She kept me happily occupied through much of Sunday, a day which was otherwise a very restless one. Full Moon, perhaps? Or more likely, just the continuing slightly bumpy road of adjusting to this "new life". A reader writes: All changes of this kind are difficult, no wonder you are disturbed. You would be supra-human if you weren't. You wouldn't leave your fellow humans and become super-Panther, would you ? Most likely, in a little time you'll have perfectly adjusted and wonder what was worrying you (like your first days in India ?).
Is it a plane, is it a bird, nooooooo, it's SuperPanther!
But yes, it will most likely settle down fairly quickly once the novelty has worn off, although I realize this month is in a way just a rehearsal. The full impact won't hit until July since this month I had already spent forty dollars via a loan, had the mailbox rent to pay, and paid for two months at LavaNet, in addition to "unique" expenses such as the CD player and the Sleeptalker's birthday gift. Consequently, July will find me with the maximum available income, something which won't happen that often, I suspect.
Being broke is such a good excuse, but I'll eventually learn to live without it, I suppose, at least for a few weeks each month. Another good line from the Huxley book: The great point about money was to convert it as quickly as possible into something you could use or enjoy. Quite so.
The snag with that is the trap of feeling one should be doing it.
One effort on Monday to convert a few dollars into something I could enjoy was a dismal failure. "Star Wars Episode Two" was okay, "Lilo and Stitch" better than just okay ... but I'm afraid Spielberg strikes out in my book with "Minority Report". Tedious, pretentious. I should have followed an early impulse to get up and leave.
A much more successful effort on Tuesday, though, when I finally restored Dylan's Time Out of Mind to my collection. I'd only had it on cassette before so hadn't heard it since abandoning tape. A true masterpiece.
Tuesday was also a day of unexpected encounters, first with Pedro. He is still working at the Waikiki restaurant, still renting his cousin's sofa as a bed and plans to make the long-delayed journey home to the Philippines in November. Then an even more unexpected encounter in the mall: Kevin Murphy. Ultra-short hair surely is the style this summer. He's such a sweetheart and it was a true pleasure to see him. He's still at Gordon Biersch but working evenings only, alas. (On the other hand, I've thus far managed to avoid returning to life as a bar rat, although I did stop by Manoa Garden one afternoon, so perhaps it's just as well I can't spend afternoons with Kevin.)
On my way to Borders to check prices before buying the Dylan (eventually at Sam Goody, saving the grand sum of one dollar), I stopped at 7-Eleven for a chef salad and a bottle of Mickey's Ice. None of the 7-Elevens are managing to keep Olde English in stock and the manager there told me the distributor can't keep up with the demand. The word about how strong the stuff is must have spread quickly. It was amusing in the recent book I read set in New York City that streetfolk there had already cottoned onto Olde English, but then this sleepy provincial town will undoubtedly always lag behind the Big Apple, at all levels of society.
I had already started to cross the street when I spotted Tanioka and Okinawa with yet another long-time-not-seen Bad Boy, introduced in Tale 775 as the Ice Cream Lad since he was at that time walking around with a cooler, selling ice cream cones to tourists in the park. At one point Tanioka and Okinawa went over to the 7-Eleven to get food, so I had a little time alone with IC, most of it spent talking about Plato. When the other two returned, Tanioka asked me again if I wanted to buy the CD player. Too late, I said, already got one. He wanted to see it. I said I really shouldn't take it from the bag because Okinawa might steal it, too. And Okinawa then claimed it was Angelo who had taken the Sony! How this links with his remark the last time I saw him about never getting into someone's backpack again is open to question. Okinawa and Angelo seem to have had a falling out, probably because Angelo spends so much time with the Pathetic Lady. Eventually they decided to go smoke the pipe. "You don't want to smoke?!" Okinawa asked. Not with you, I didn't say.
Back to the mall then to buy the CD and to get slightly drunk spending the rest of the day drinking and listening. Time out of mind.
948
Jonathan Cainer's message for this final weekend of June begins: Next week you will get your opportunity to let rip. Next week you will get your freedom, your licence, and your big shot at the prize. First though, you have to get through this weekend. Hmmmmm. There's a rather dull sameness about this time, so I suppose "getting through" the weekend will be no great task although perhaps a bit of a (continued) yawn, one which began on Wednesday morning with the always boring task of sitting in a laundromat. I made a trip out to the discount clothing store but didn't find anything I liked better than the things I already have, so a wash-and-dry session was in order. Then I spent the rest of the day at the far end of the beach park, alternating listening to music with reading Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, a routine which continued on Thursday afternoon in Waikiki.So much fuss and nonsense over the Pledge of Allegiance. I always hated saying the thing in school, didn't care one way or the other when the "under God" phrase was added. Peculiar it has taken so long for someone to (successfully, thus far) challenge it in the courts. What next, will they have to redesign all the currency to omit "in God we trust"?
A reader discovered that the library of the Museum of Modern Art in New York has copies of the earliest issues of Dada News. There was a time when that would have been a most prestigious honor but now it's just a surprise. Nice they spelled my name correctly, though.
A tiny tale which will probably get (a) and (b) amendments if anything happens worth writing about.
948a
Getting through the weekend ...After traversing once again the arch heights of Ms Austen's epic, I thought I deserved some lighterweight diversion, so on Friday I went to the State Library, took a promising Maigret/Poirot double feature. I'm sure I've read Christie's Dead Man's Folly before but in these cases lousy memory is a blessing and it's always fun to watch her masterful Poirot exercise his brain cells. I'm less sure I've read Simenon's Maigret and the Spinster but it, too, provided a few enjoyable hours. It's odd Simenon was able to write and get published such a droll tale (in the original, Cecile est morte) in the Paris of 1942.
So, much of Friday and early Saturday was whiled away in the company of those two delightful detectives. Then I went to the used bookshop and was most happy to find Maeve Binchy's latest, Scarlet Feather, in the dollar/per/volume selection. I had been tempted to pay the full price for it ... and it would have been worth it.
I stayed on campus most of the day Friday, although not spending much time online. Seventh Circle has yet again been down for several days and I hoped the Sleeptalker hadn't made the long journey in from the country in order to play, although I would have been pleased to see him.
On Saturday I made the mistake of leaving campus too early since the beach park was very crowded and there was the all-afternoon raucous party to culminate this peculiar annual event, Gay Pride Week. Dreadful music from the party could be heard for too great a distance. I shrugged, oh well, you didn't want to hear Hansel and Gretel from the Chicago Lyric Opera anyway. As I tend to grumble every year, I see no reason whatsoever to be proud about one's sexual preferences, whatever they are. Or to throw such tacky parties. I'm inclined to think the "gay community" here is about as tasteless a group as can be imagined. No offense intended, just an observation.
At sunset time Okinawa came along, on his own, looking for Tanioka. They have been evicted from GovSanc2, told they'll be charged with trespassing if caught sleeping there again. I was surprised it had lasted so long as a sanctuary, especially given the climate of terrorist paranoia. Okinawa has shifted to the tennis courts in the park where he's sure to be ousted eventually by the cops. He said he thought Angelo would eventually succeed in getting the Pathetic Lady interested in sharing the glass pipe, an idea which can definitely be labeled horrific. She's so unstable, that stuff would undoubtedly be the end of her.
I was just finishing my sunset brew, so left after a few minutes and went earlier than usual to the Black Hole. I wonder if they'll all end up back there again eventually?
949
happiness is but a state of mindanytime you want you can cross the state line
bob dylan: waitin' for you
When Jonathan Cainer takes some time off I feel like one of those neurotic ladies in fiction who dread their psychoanalysts taking vacations. None of the people Cainer brings in as replacements come close to filling the void left by his absence. Absurd, given the fact that I'm not all that sure I believe in astrology anyway.
Several of them are acting a bit dizzy about Wednesday's conjunction of Mars and Jupiter. Jeff Jawer at StarIQ says Passion overcomes reason, except when a good plan or solid instincts are in place. That's okay, I could use a little passion ... and heaven knows there's no good plan in effect.
Thursday will, of course, be an offline day and computer time on the weekend will also be limited since the libraries will be closed. "Interim time", already, between the two summer sessions. Enrollment for the fall is reportedly more than twenty percent higher than it was last year. A good thing they've gotten so many new computers since even now, with the much smaller summer population, all computers are frequently occupied by mid-morning. This doesn't much bother me since I am usually at the library when it opens and ready to leave by about ten.
That's the time of the day I've come to find most difficult. What to do, what to do, until it's time to drink a beer. Nonsense, of course. Likewise is the bizarre reluctance I have to spend actual cash money on food. It will be a relief to get the July foodstamps allowance.
Absurd, silly, nonsense. Yes, apt words for this holiday week.
Reviewers of novels often say something like "you'll be sorry to see this one end" and one did about Maeve Binchy's Scarlet Feather, quite accurately too. Fortunately some of the characters are likely to appear in her next book, due in the fall, since she's finally making Quentin's the subject of an entire novel. That's the posh Dublin restaurant (fictional, I assume) which is often mentioned in the current one. I followed her with an also excellent one by P.D. James, A Taste for Death, and then found myself with nothing to read with my morning coffee. The only available option was buying a newspaper. I didn't.
949a
It is amusing, watching the incredulous reactions of glass-pipe aficionados when an invitation to share is declined, and so it was with Paulo when he made the offer on Monday. Kind of him to do so, of course, and I just said I was laying off the stuff for awhile. Another glass-pipe incident was rather less amusing. I was sitting at the far end of the beach park finishing my Tuesday sunset brew when Angelo and RedEye appeared. I asked Angelo where his lady friend was, was surprised when he said "working." She's gotten a job at a suburban supermarket. Most peculiar. He said they'd be back and the two of them walked off toward the showerhouse. Angelo pulled a tissue-wrapped pipe out of his pocket so I'd be sure to see it. A deliberate snub or expecting me to drool? Well, I suppose it was amusing in its own way.I quickly left the park, ducked into Borders to avoid seeing them again. Helen R was there, browsing through the soundtrack section. That's one store which does thoroughly arouse what acquisitive tendencies I still have left and top of the list was a Boheme with Callas and di Stefano. I suspect it is not the one I have on cassette, probably a different live "bootleg" presumably cleaned up for its CD release. I'd certainly love to hear it but think the $32 pricetag excessive. (I discovered later on the web that it is a studio recording, so I undoubtedly have heard it before.) They didn't have a Magic Flute I particularly wanted, although I suppose the von Karajan one must still be available.
Earlier I'd gone to the State Library, then to check the mailbox where the Fabled Pension Check was waiting, just in time too. It's certainly not going to bridge the two-week gap ahead but at least it postpones ashtray harvesting for a little while. I really must get this riches-to-rags cycle under better control (I tell myself for the zillionth time).
I shall be glad when tomorrow's celebration of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is in the past.
950
I got through the jingoistic bacchanal in relative comfort via the simple expedient of ignoring it as much as possible and avoiding the beach park where crowds had already begun to arrive the evening before to stake out territory. The only party I was even slightly tempted to attend was the "Fuck the Fourth" one but I figured the anti-Bush crowd would be in its way as tedious as the flag-wavers, so for most of the day I just stayed alone on the almost-deserted campus. I would have stayed right through until time for the Black Hole but was forced to make an expedition into more crowded territory to get tobacco, so went on to Waikiki for sunset, escaping just as people started setting off fireworks, and I was already settled in for the night by the time the bigger parties started. The Black Hole had extended curfew until midnight but I didn't know that until I got there and it wouldn't have mattered to me anyway.Now and then during the day I alternated reading with listening to the radio which was in an expected "patriotic" mode all day. PBS played all the things one expected to hear, Copland, Gershwin, Gould, Bernstein. If they played Thomson, I missed it. One rock station seemed to be playing a version of "America the Beautiful" (Ray Charles maybe?) at least once an hour. I would rather have heard Springsteen's "Independence Day".
I finished A Test of Wills, a first novel from Charles Todd, one of those Americans who write so convincingly as an Englishman that it's a surprise to discover they are American. So on one of my trips downhill for brew I stopped in the used bookshop and found Susan Howatch's Mystical Paths which I'd wanted to re-read after having encountered earlier books in her Church of England series. Someday perhaps I'll tackle them all again in proper order.
An unusually lengthy run of pleasant weather ended the day before the holiday which was more cloudy than sunny and with constantly threatening showers, as was the holiday weather. Except in the early morning it didn't actually rain much but it was always difficult to decide whether to just sit out a brief sprinkle or move to shelter. It's cool for this time of year, too.
Except for the usual brief exchanges with shopclerks, I spoke to no one on the holiday but a woman who came strolling into the secluded grove. I've seen her on campus before, feeding the cats, and she came over to talk, told me her name is Barbara. "Have you seen ...," she started to ask, then said, "oh!" I turned around just in time to see a delightful looking kitten go bounding up the stone wall which forms one side of the grove. Barbara had evidently spotted them earlier and was trying to find out where the mother is keeping them. Barbara is one of the people who round up the cats and their offspring, have them neutered and then return them. Most campus cats have the telltale notch in one ear as proof they've been through Barbara's processing but since that's the second new batch of kittens on campus within a few weeks it's obvious some have escaped her.
At one point while listening to the radio I did pull out the work-in-progress file, as usual first got lost in the new photos of the Sleeptalker which are much more interesting than any of the new drawings. I do miss seeing that man, I surely do. There is a new set of cards in work, probably to be called "Mappa Mundi", but it was too windy to work on those so I put the packet back into my bag after another lengthy stare at the photos. I had half expected to see him the day before the holiday since I thought he might come into town to sell his foodstamps. But if so, he didn't appear in Seventh Circle, at least not in the morning. (It finally returned after being down for days and as always happens after a disappearance was very sparsely populated whenever I looked in.)
So now that I can stop wishing for the dreaded holiday to be over, I can devote full attention to wishing the seventeenth would hurry up and get here. Go ahead, call me a silly old man, I won't argue with you.
951
I was thinking of a sentence which began "anyone who knows me ...", but that's an absurdity since no one does nor have they ever. Including, of course, myself. There's a very good chance, probably better than with people who have actually met me, that readers of the Tales know me best, especially those who are able to read between the lines, as they say. Nevertheless, within its limitations, I'll say that for anyone who knows me, it won't be difficult to understand why Mystical Paths is a special book for me, one of the few contemporary novels I have read more than once (as opposed to earlier works from folks like Hesse and Mann which I find I can re-read again and again).Howatch's Church of England novels are a special and unique contribution to contemporary literature, I think. Simply as good, engrossing stories they are unsurpassed. But they also have such a splendid collection of truly memorable characters, beautifully delineated. And no doubt of even greater significance, they manage to set forth the widely divergent ideas which have dominated one of the great religious corporations of the world in our times. And those ideas cannot fail to interest anyone who agrees, if not altogether with the theology but, certainly, with the inner urges to achieve self-understanding. Or at least come as close to it as one can.
It was a distinct pleasure to read the book a second time. Little wonder Andrew Greeley admires this series of novels. The good Father Greeley himself has been concentrating his recent newspaper commentaries, with understandable ferocity, on the subject of child-molesting priests. I don't think breaking any of the Ten Commandments is nearly as vile as an adult sexually molesting a child and for a priest (or any "man of God") to do it is truly appalling. Greeley is quite right to growl at the leaders of the Church and the pretty inept way they've been dealing with the problem, too.
Meanwhile, my so-called life chugs along in more or less the same pattern. The unsettled weather continues and I had to abandon lunch in the secluded grove on Saturday to seek shelter from persistent showers. Since I am so obviously susceptible to habit-formed conditioning, I decided I'd try to start a new one. Having to clear out the locker on the first and third Saturday mornings of the month provides a good excuse for a laundromat session, so I launched the "habit" even if I suspect it will be a far more likely victim of procrastination than some of my less useful habits.
Although I very much like the new shorts I am somewhat irked by the shoddy quality. With each laundering, a button falls off. And then the tab on the zipper broke off. When I was a kid, clothing from Sears seemed indestructible (too much so for my liking in many cases). No more, no more. (Add tan thread to the shopping list ... )
That list is already beginning to take shape as I wonder how many things will run out before the shopping can be done ...
951a
The unsettled weather settled on Sunday, unfortunately on the gray, windy and wet side, especially in the university area. The day itself got off to an unsettled start. It is surprising how few of the ever-yakking loonies turn up at the Black Hole. Maybe folks who constantly talk to themselves or imaginary companions are just too crazy to cope with that place (although it's debatable whether people who can cope with it are not the truly crazy ones). But I woke during the night and noticed a young fellow I've not seen before had settled next to me, then at about four o'clock he started jabbering away to himself, once giving a plaintive, loud sigh of exasperation. I looked around, couldn't see any vacant spot I could move to, so gave up about four-thirty and left. I surely am grateful for the open-24-hours 7-Eleven stores, even more so since they accept the foodstamps card.The young babbler was already there when I arrived Sunday evening and I was grateful my more usual companion had the place next to him, giving me a buffer. For a couple of weeks now I've almost always had a spot next to that fellow, a slim, very pale twenty-something man who reminds me of my English lover from the 80s, fortunately not enough like him to inspire lustful yearnings. He sleeps shirtless, though, and with provocatively thin shorts, a much better vision when waking than the majority of the residents. He's one of the regulars who disappear for a few days each month, so he must be getting Crazy Money and his last name probably from M-Z. I hope the babbler doesn't drive him to another area since I do like sleeping near the whirring sound of the big floor fan.
The new black lad (who does indeed inspire lustful thoughts) was standing at the top of the stairs when I arrived and there was a peculiar moment when we looked directly into each other's eyes. Some kind of recognition without recognizing what it was, so to speak.
It was a quiet weekend, spent mostly on campus reading, with not much online time. I followed the splendid Howatch book with a surprisingly mediocre one from P.D. James, Cover Her Face. From a less admirable writer, it would have been okay. Then a truly weird novel, The Ninth Buddha by Daniel Easterman, intrigue and mysteries in Tibet and India, early twenties. Very nicely written but certainly one of the more bizarre plots I've come across.
On both Saturday and Sunday evenings I went to the beach park for a sunset brew. The Moanas were missing so I stayed at a table in their area, consequently had chats with Joe Guam as he walked past on his way to his sleeping sanctuary. He was fuming about "the fucking Japanese" on Sunday night since a large group of them had set up a picnic in his area of the park (and presumably hadn't offered to share any food with him). He hates the Japanese, he said. "You've picked the wrong place to live in that case," I pointed out, but I can understand how he feels. I sometimes think of that successful best-seller of the late 50s, The Ugly American, and think how someone could no doubt do as well these days with The Ugly Japanese, thoughts inspired (despite my overall admiration for Japanese culture) by how crass and pushy they are when in the small armies of tourists which trample through this place.
Joe had missed seeing his benefactor on Friday (although funnily enough I had seen the man for the first time, making a delivery at 7-Eleven from his Heineken truck). So Joe was down to his last two dollars. No help from me, alas. My only task now is to decide whether it's best to just go ahead and spend the last ten dollars or to decide which of the next eight days will be beer-free ones and limit it to one on the others.
The monumental questions of life ...
952
There are three "family restrooms" at the mall, each a private room with toilet, basin, bench and a table presumably meant for changing diapers. One of them is beginning to become quite a memorable spot in my life for various reasons including sex and the glass-pipe. But useful and appreciated as it is, I do not recommend rolling around on the floor wearing light tan shorts, even if it's a small price to pay for a delightful time with a charming young stranger who thinks I am "sexy". I think he is, too, and wonder if I'll ever see him again. I know, I said I don't need any new Bad Boys, but there must be exceptions and he's the first.I also wonder what his name is.
As for that other question I recently asked, well, I guess I am a natural born follower of Shinran Shonin and need no convincing to live each day as if it's my last so, yes, I went ahead with only a slight touch of the brakes on spending money and now am sentenced to six days of utter poverty. There is no need whatever to ask "and whose fault is that?", no need at all.
My final purchase (for the duration) from the used bookshop was an amusing murder mystery set in Hollywood in the late forties, Diane Shah's As Crime Goes By, and then it was back to the State Library's freebie collection. I've somehow missed Lilian Jackson Braun's The Cat Who ... books so was pleased to see The Cat Who Said Cheese and greatly enjoyed it, laughing several times at her very accurate descriptions of cat behavior. And her setting, four hundred miles north of anywhere, seems to have much in common with the Lake Woebegone from Prairie Home Companion and is portrayed with the same kind of droll humor. I look forward to reading more of the series (about 24 of them now, I think). Now on to M.M. Kaye's Death in Zanzibar which I think I read a long time ago even if no memory chords are struck.
I decided to avoid Olde English malt liquor in "normal" times (which is to say when I have money in pocket which might more accurately be called "abnormal" times). I don't drink to get drunk. If I did, I'd just buy those enormous plastic bottles of cheap vodka. But I like to have a beer at hand through most of an afternoon even if that means buying three bottles of Mickey's or Colt. If I do that with Olde English, I am plastered by sunset. So better to leave those potent bottles on the shelf except, of course, in these near-penniless times when one O.E. replaces two or three weaker brews. It's very difficult to stretch it out, though. I don't know how Old Joe manages to keep one bottle going all day.
After the visit to the State Library I checked the mailbox and there was a welcome letter from Felix. He continues to plough through the printed edition of the Tales, is now into the third volume. He grumbled about my mis-use of "moreso" and that web page agrees: it's two words. Live and learn. I really didn't know that. So I went through all the Tales and corrected it (unless I missed any). Praise be to pico and its search facility. Felix also complained about my mis-use of "like I" but I'm less clear about his meaning. Surely it is not always "like me", could it not be "like I" if an unstated but implied verb follows? Grammar is a bore. But in any event, as I shall tell him, if he can wade through all this stuff and have no greater complaints than those I feel both satisfied and flattered.
Another reader discovered I am listed in Who Was Who in American Art, 1564-1975 (Falk, Peter H. and Lewis, Audrey M.), so I went looking for it at Hamilton Library. Evidently the original version of this epic was in 36 volumes [!]. There is a one-volume edition which I didn't make but also a three-volume edition which states merely that I am (or Was) a sculptor, address: NYC, and only one exhibition listed, the Whitney Annual of 1996. Oh well, at least it proves, more or less, that I haven't made it all up.
I'm not making up the story that begins this Tale, either, but I will admit it almost seems like a dream the morning after.
953
The weather guessers got it all wrong on Wednesday. Instead of the predicted sunny day it remained mostly cloudy and uncomfortably humid. After staying on campus for most of the morning it was time for another visit to the State Library where, bad timing, the selection is pretty sparse right now. Another bit of bad timing is the return of the younger half of the one-time Airport Couple. He's staying at the Black Hole but also visits campus almost every day. Neither particularly bothers me, but he does raid the ashtrays on campus. Okay, that will only bother me for a few more days, but I wouldn't have minded if he'd postponed his re-appearance.Speaking of timing, the "watch" I have is dying. It isn't really a watch but a small digital clock which I carry like a pocket watch. Helen R bought it for me quite a long time ago and it has been very useful since it has large numerals and a light. The button to set the thing, though, is right on the front and frequently got pressed without intending to, especially during the night, so I put a drop of superglue on it and have since then been stuck with the time even though it has long been about seven minutes fast. Now I guess the battery is failing and it is losing about an hour a day. By Thursday morning it was seven hours behind, so at this rate it will soon be giving relatively accurate time ... for a day anyway. One more item for that shopping list.
Earplugs, too. I didn't buy new ones last month and so they are used to the point where they become quite ineffective. A dreadful behemoth of a man has started sleeping in my usual area of the Black Hole and he has the irksome habit of giggling in his sleep (but totally lacking any of the Sleeptalker's charm). First a babbler, now a sleepgiggler. Weird time in the Black Hole. But there is another obscure object newly arrived. I wish he'd taken up space in my area instead of that behemoth, although I'd probably lose more sleep if the young one were there than I would from awakening giggles.
After the State Library I went to the beach park and had a shower, washed my tee shirt and then spot-washed the worst smudges on the shorts since I don't have another pair in my bag and can't do a complete wash without sitting around in them wet, not a good idea on a humid, cloudy day. Then miracle, a stroller at the mall! So the expected drought got postponed for one day since I had a small stash of quarters (intended for use with the locker) and that find pushed the hoard into the beer-buying range. Now I'm stuck. If I want anything from the locker, I'll have to carry it all around until payday. I don't think there's anything I'll be wanting that badly.
So back to the beach park with the brew and then to eat the Krishna food which was a little better than it has been in recent weeks. Even Joe Guam agreed.
One thing slid further down a possible shopping list, although it was not ever really on one (just an occasional thought). The Younger Half has a Game Boy Advance. He looks so silly sitting there intently pushing buttons that it has put me off the idea. I'd have to play with the thing in a toilet stall or something because I wouldn't want to be seen looking that moronic.
953a
How on earth did I manage to survive those years before the hospital episode introduced foodstamps and Crazy Money into my life?A dominating thought on Thursday, the first day of the dreaded drought and, as the Oracle of the Coins predicted, not an especially lucky one. Maybe Friday will be better ... twenty-six cents before seven o'clock in the morning! (And another one about an hour later.) Only eight pennies on Thursday.
I hate Thursdays at the Black Hole, having to stand in line outside waiting for the A.A. meeting to end and then having to endure an hour-plus of the WWF wrestling extravaganza which must be the most inane thing on this inane thing called American Television. But at least I did get there early enough to grab one of the thicker black-covered mats and get my favorite spot right next to the big floor fan with "Reg" beside me. "Reg" not because of Reginald (although the name would suit his very English appearance), but because he's my Regular sleeping companion. Gott sei dank, the sleepgiggling Behemoth evidently decided he'd rather be in the path of the fan's breeze than beside it, and the Babbler wasn't in residence, at least not until after I fell asleep. I had hoarded a few tabs of Remeron, not for a rainy day but for a beer-less one, so getting to sleep was no problem despite "The Rock" raving away on teevee. Another missing one was Jude ... Jude the obscure ... object of desire, the young black lad.
As usual, I started the day on campus, was delighted to discover that I can use MSIE on the iMacs at the little computer lab to see young Cheyne's page properly. It refuses to display on the antique Netscape version they have all over UH. So I was able to catch up on the photos he has been adding recently although I still like the one best which I added to my Reading Room page. One of these days I must meet that fellow, but we'll leave it in the hands of Dame Fortune unless I finally work up the nerve to invite him to dinner.
I worked a little on my Hawaiian Islands page, too, even added a small "gay" section. Speaking of getting up the nerve, when will I finally do so enough to attend one of the Long Yang Club's picnics? Not this Saturday for sure. I'd have to use foodstamps to buy something to take along and they've already dwindled too much. Sixty-six dollars just doesn't go very far, especially when you spend about three each day on morning coffee and a snack.
The Ferret was on campus and I talked with him briefly. He's found a place in Chinatown, the same sort of set-up Mondo had, one room with a basin and a small fridge, shared toilet and bath with other units. Three hundred a month. I could, I could ... but yeukh, that's a ridiculous amount to be spending for such an arrangement. Shared, it would make sense. I'm not sure how well it would work out with the Ferret (or even if he'd be interested). With Tanioka, certainly. Send that thought up to Dame Fortune and let her play with it awhile ...
The Ferret asked a lot of questions about the Black Hole, so I think he must be tempted to quit spending so much on rent and give the place a try. He seems most worried about the possibility of physical violence. Not with those hefty guards they have there. And the automatic sentence of permanent expulsion helps to prevent it, too. Even so, it is surprising to have been there a year and only once seeing a fight almost occur. If they'd just assign us permanent floor positions I'd really have little to complain about.
I'm so out of practice at playing Mall Rat that I got quite tired and bored by it on Thursday. But the tobacco hunt was as unlucky as the coin one so I had to keep trudging on. It's that Younger Half's fault because I usually have a full box of lengthy snipes just from campus alone. I saw Rocky in the mall, but he didn't see me. He's so busy maintaining his cocky strut that I don't think he notices anything unless he runs into it. And after dodging Joe Guam once, I ran into him again, had to listen to him brag about someone who had just given him eight dollars, not the kind of story I really want to hear when my own pockets can't even finance a cheap bottle of beer.
Well, I wonder if this would work? Postpone all "luxury" purchases until the next SocSec check arrives, presumably thereby having sufficient funds for entertainment throughout the interim. Okay, I might try that. Except for the Springsteen CD.
954
The Oracle of the Coins was a bit over-enthusiastic on Friday, I think. Not that it was an unlucky day, not at all, but it wasn't so lucky as to justify that 27-cent omen. The tobacco hunt was somewhat easier than it had been the day before and abandoned food was so plentiful there was no need to partake of the Krishna handout. Then as I was on my way to catch the "home" bound bus, I found an abandoned stroller, making the total financial haul of the day seventy-seven cents. At least that restored (temporarily, as it turned out next day) my ability to access the locker if I felt the need to switch tee shirts.It wouldn't be because the current one is dirty, since I yet again washed it during my Friday beach shower. In the summertime, a tee shirt is likely to wear out just from the necessary washing (even if the tee's right shoulder doesn't wear out first from the bag strap rubbing over it).
The reading entertainment for the day was Richard North Patterson's Protect and Defend which could be called legal/political fantasy but may be close enough to reality for "fantasy" not to apply. By the time I finished it at sunrise on Sunday, I thought the only people who could regard it as fantasy are those who believe American politics couldn't be that dirty. I'm not one.
On both Thursday and Friday nights there was a brief exchange with Reg before settling down to sleep. The place is once again so crowded it is wise to be there when it opens to sleepers at 7:30, meaning I have to take the 6:45 bus from the mall, a ridiculously early end to the day. Reg does what many do, grab a mat, put something on it as a marker, and then leave until the ten o'clock curfew. I'd do the same (at least when I once again have money) but wouldn't know what to do once outside. Someone should open a bar at the nearby Dole Cannery complex. If a movie started at just the right time, I suppose I could see it and dash back in time for curfew. Otherwise, there's no bar nearer than Chinatown which is a little further than a walk to and fro would leave much time for a drink. And I certainly have no desire to wander around K-Mart for a couple of hours.
So I take the easier way out, drape a corner of my beachtowel over my eyes and go to sleep. On Friday night the background sound was some weird-sounding film about Moses in Egypt with some Arabian-influenced music. Strange, but infinitely better than WWF wrestling and the second-worst horror, a comedy show with laugh track. Saturday night's offering was Romeo Must Die with a soundtrack much worse than the voice of God intoning "I am that I am."
And on Saturday, Mars moved into Leo. Ta-da! Rick Levine said: This is a change of pace for you and indicates an abundance of energy in your life. You'll be able to accomplish many things. Have fun with it, but try not to use this energy only for partying. Party pooper. Why ever not? A month-long party in the summertime sounds like just what I'd order for myself if I were my chief advisor. Hmmm, wait a minute. I am.
Leo is going to be a busy slice of the Zodiac. Mercury arrives there on Sunday the 21st, the Sun on Monday the 22nd. Then Jupiter on Thursday, August 1st, for a year's stay. My old friend Felix will be hopping.
I would happily have remained on campus all day Saturday if I'd had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket. That, alas, not being the case, I went to the mall, made a round of ashtrays and then went to check the mailbox. Two letters from the social worker, the first, expected, telling me my foodstamps authorization ends after August and they will be sending me an application for renewal. Once again I wonder why these people waste so much money on postage, why not just send the damned application to begin with?
The second letter gets the Monty Python Prize for Silly Mails: "You have not taken any money out of your EBT cash account since 5/25/2002. If you do not begin using your balance of $.04, the money will be returned to the state on 8/23/2002."
955
Oh brother, I'm on the precipice of falling in love again. Never wanted to, can't help it ... and etc. That new sweetie at the Black Hole has me hooked. I've thunk and I've thunk but can't come up with a name for him yet. I got there early on Sunday night. Reg was a few places ahead of me in line, grabbed his usual place and I quickly took mine, in between him and the fan. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he joked. I was going to say something about how we're becoming roommates but thought that was too bold, so just said something lame like "it's getting to be a habit." Eventually I'll get nervy and tell him he's a nice sleeping companion, which he is.The new sweetie settled directly across the room from me and I watched him go through his routine of settling down. He's a little guy, reminds me of Plato (Plato2 was one thought for a name). He has dark, short and slightly curly hair, wears glasses and is a reader. I wished I could tell what the title of his book was but rejected the ploy of making a trip to the bathroom so I could walk past him, although I enjoyed that walk next morning, seeing him looking so angelically still asleep.
Well, it was inevitable, as I've said. If all the Bad Boys were one-time residents, the Black Hole was sure to produce worthy successors. This one is actually cuter than any of them, Sleeptalker included. Even the almost as desireable Jude got little attention when there was the option of the new one to watch. Heaven help me.
Cainer had said the weekend would be more pleasant than I expected. Since I hadn't expected it to be pleasant at all, I suppose he was accurate. As has happened with uncanny consistence, these beer droughts tend to end on the third day and so it was this time. With the stroller found on Friday was added the proceeds from two found on Saturday. Not enough for one of my beloved forty zones of malt liquor, but I did have 24oz of Budweiser for sunset on Saturday, and it surely was welcome.
Otherwise, it was a weekend of the usual routine. Mornings on campus, spending more time online than I would have in more affluent times. I got my new warrior, Groat, to level 39 in Seventh Circle, considered for the first time actually playing him all the way to the top. I worked on checking links on the various Cave sections, added a few new items here and there, and I caught up with all the journal keepers I regularly read. I even went back and read Cheyne's archived entries, chuckled over his rant about the homeless, thinking honey, if you knew some of the homeless dudes I know, I bet you'd change your tune.
Next in line for reading material was Norman Bogner's 7th Avenue, a rags to riches saga in Manhattan in the thirties. I'm a pushover for books about Manhattan, so it's fine entertainment especially in my current mood which won't tolerate anything too profound. Too busy thinking about myself, tedious though that may be.
Each morning, in my best Pollyanna mode I ignore the current day and the half-day at the end of this mess and say "only [x] more days". How sweet it was to wake on Monday morning when [x] = 1.
956
Groan. Hangover. A person who goes some days with little or no alcohol shouldn't leap back into the swing with more than two bottles.The lovely piece of paper from SocSec was in the mailbox and after cashing it I went, of course, to buy a beer and cigarettes, spent the rest of the day at the beach park. Sears still had the shorts on sale so I figured it was better to spend another $14 on new ones rather than fiddle about sewing a new zipper in the old ones. If this pair start falling apart as quickly as the others did I'll never again buy anything made by Canyon River Blues. (Maybe they don't know how to make brown clothes properly?)
There is one of the pushcart things at the mall which sells watches for $10 so I bought one of those, not expecting it to last much longer than the shorts. But it's nice to know what time it is without having to make a mathematical calculation. And I bought a chain from the Silver Rhino so I can wear the Dutchman's opium holder again. So much for not buying any "luxury" items.
I stopped at the State Library before checking the mail since the used bookshop always has special discounts on the weekend, so I figured I'd get something free to last until then. Steve Thayer's Saint Mudd is, so far as I can recall, the first book I've read which is set in St. Paul, Minnesota. It doesn't sound like my kind of town, to say the least, but it's a fairly amusing book.
So I made it to New Dawn, Act 2, without anything seriously running out except my patience. The foodstamps did bite the dust, though, and the batteries are too weak to power the CD player but the radio still works. There's a new "Classic Rock" format on one of the stations which brings back many memories. They don't play enough Stones.
Joe Guam stopped to chat twice, asked if I'd eaten Krishna food. I told him no, but I should have instead of wasting six bucks on a "Mexican" meal from the mall. That's the worst so-called Mexican food I've eaten since Tijuana.
Jonathan Cainer's messages this week have me puzzled.
956a
I made the unusual trip further into the valley from campus, did almost all of the essential shopping which was left to do. The store was sold out of Mickey's, so I had a "Cobra" for my pre-lunch drink, then followed that up with a Heineken at Manoa Garden to celebrate once again wearing the Dutchman's opium holder on the chain around my neck. Along with a bowl of watercress and chicken soup.Every now and then I check google.com to see if any of my old friends have surfaced on the net. I was astonished, truly, to see:
Egbert Switters
Managing Director
ING Trust (Nederland) BV
Can it really be???
I sent an email to ING to enquire. Oh yes, after all these years the torch still burns. The Dutchman and the Sleeptalker. Life has been good to me.
956b
If the rest of Bruce Springsteen's The Rising CD is as good as the title track it's likely to replace Nebraska as my favorite. I bought my very first "CD single", muttering something about how they can sell a "single" CD for two dollars when it must cost as much to manufacture as a "full" CD. There are two songs on it, The Rising and Land of Hope and Dreams from the Live in New York City CD which I haven't heard. I'm not too crazy about that one, but played The Rising numerous times.Thursday was a day of minor disasters. Cainer had it all wrong for this Aries person anyway. I discovered I've lost my mailbox key. How embarrassing. Then I thought I'd listen to Four Saints in Three Acts only to find the disc has gotten so dirty it won't play. I bought a "fix-it" kit from Sam Goody and will try to play disk doctor on Saturday. Carrying CDs in a plastic bag, sandwiched between the original cover sleeves, doesn't seem to be a very good idea. But I certainly don't want to carry around those plastic boxes they come in.
Dinner from the pseudo-Cajun place, Orleans Express, was another minor disaster. I think maybe I should just stick to salads and sandwiches (even if I do have a slight yen for a plate of spaghetti).
And of course, the Black Hole was its usual Thursday night disaster. If the weather hadn't been so unsettled, I would have taken my chances and slept in the park. I was glad I hadn't when I woke up Friday morning and saw evidence of how hard it had rained during the night. I got my favorite space between the fan and Reg, stuck my (new) earplugs in and fell asleep despite the hideous sounds of WWF wrestling, then was awakened by the equally hideous sound of a laugh track show which followed it. They must give those people nitrous oxide.
The Babbler was on the other side of Reg but if he indulged in his one-sided conversation it was quiet enough not to disturb me. But when I made a get-rid-of-beer run during the night I was intrigued, to say the least, by the front of his shorts. That boy surely is well equipped for such a little fellow. I saw Jude only briefly when he dashed in, grabbed a mat, and dashed out again. And the other sweetie, whom I've decided to call Luke, wasn't there. Smart man. I should investigate the hostels, see if I could get a dorm bed in one on Thursday nights. Or maybe just make Thursdays a stay-up-all-night event?
957
The more I think about it, the more I appreciate the psychologist's wise advice at our final meeting. "Relax and enjoy your retirement."I am amused, and slightly amazed, at how different life is without psychoactive drugs. The ups and downs are far sharper but can change within hours, if not minutes. The urge is there to swallow another pill, but what the hell, all things must pass. And I certainly don't intend to spend real cash money on prescription-type dope. Other kinds, maybe.
But withdrawal, if that's what it is, from Neurontin is quite odd. Kory K asked me on Monday if I was drunk already or on drugs. Nope, just in withdrawal, although I felt slightly drunk or doped, 'tis true.
I finished that rather sordid novel about St. Paul, Minnesota, and went on to an elegant English murder mystery, Colin Dexter's The Wench is Dead. He starts each chapter with splendid quotes. Thus far, my favorite is from Voltaire: Thought depends absolutely on the stomach; but, in spite of that, those who have the best stomaches are not the best thinkers. I suppose I can take some comfort from that, given the current apparent weakness of my digestive system.
Or is that part of withdrawal too?
I sent an email to the Sleeptalker, telling him I wished he came into town more often because I really miss seeing him. And I'd like to share my good fortune with him, too. Nobody else in this world I'd rather share it with. Then I have to grin, remembering Mme. DeCrecy's description of him as a "plat de jour". Surely is one LONG day.
(I think I probably need to go through the Tales and correct inconsistencies on how I spell "Mme. DeCrecy", but then I'd have to check Proust again to see how he spelled it.)
Well, I really should read those confounded books from start to finish. I always start again from the beginning, must have read the first two at least four or five times.
I gave Joe Guam my radio on Thursday, with a brief lecture on how to use the thing. He seemed very happy with the gift but it wouldn't surprise me at all if he eventually trades it to someone for a bottle of beer. Wouldn't blame him, would do the same myself.
I checked into the hostel situation, discover there are a couple where a bed in a "dorm" can be had for $14-15 a night. Yes, that might well be the solution for my Thursday night nightmare.
My erudite French reader informs me it should be Mme de Crecy. No '.' after Mme or Mlle, only after M.
958
Jonathan Cainer has been quite unusually off-track in recent days. Of course, if one goes to StarIQ, enters personal birth data, one receives periodic emails explaining what is happening in the heavens in relation to what the picture was at the time of one's birth (signing up for the monthly "New Moon Report" is also advised, although it is on the site as well). Since emails from that service have informed me about some of the particular things astrologers view as significant, it suggests that Cainer's necessarily general comments are not at this time as relevant to this Aries person as they sometimes are. (At this rate, I may eventually persuade myself that I do, after all, take astrology seriously.)At that last memorable interview with the psychologist, he asked me why I stay here. "The weather," was my first response, soon followed by "UH". Yes, this is a most agreeable climate, especially for one born in southern climes, and the University of Hawaii campus is a wonderful addition to the life of an old man. This weekend both excelled. Absolutely delightful weather, a mostly quiet and peaceful time on campus.
I decided to treat myself to a Lilian Jackson Braun weekend (yeukh, isn't Geocities an annoying place to have a website?). So on Saturday I had The Cat Who Lived High followed by The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal, finished on Sunday morning, then into The Cat Who Came to Breakfast, with The Cat Who Blew the Whistle still to come. The most money I've spent on books in a long time and worth every penny. Few writers can make me laugh aloud as often as this splendid lady.
And as delightful as Koko and Yum Yum's funny exploits was the good fortune of Tanioka's company at sunset on Saturday. I had gone to a (relatively) new net cafe in the morning because it offered free scanning in addition to its $4.20/hour tariff. So I finally was able to add those new photographs of the Sleeptalker to the Picture Gallery, along with a couple of drawings. Thus it was most apt to see Tanioka, for the first time in too long a one, when I walked over to the beach park from the mall. He'd been with Okinawa but had lost him somehow, was sitting there on his own, unusually without a baseball cap and wearing a tanktop. He said Angelo and the Pathetic Lady are contemplating getting a place together (which would make sense, especially since she can afford the rent) and that Okinawa wants to get a place with him after he returns from the Vegas trip. Hmmmmm. Tanioka is quite agreeable to sharing a place with me but seems to be leaving it up me to actually find the place and sort out the details.
I'd followed-up on that yen for spaghetti by parting with the cold cash for a plate-lunch-box of the stuff, with large meatballs, from Mamma Mia's. The cook preparing it was quite handsome and I enjoyed watching him flip the stuff around in a wok, not what I would've thought was the thing for making spaghetti. The pasta wasn't well-boiled enough for my taste and the sauce was insipid. I'm about to give up on the "Food Court" at the mall (a huge space with long communal tables, lined by little eateries catering to all sorts of international culinary styles, none of which seem to have much relation with the real food of the styles they claim to be). Perhaps I'll give it one more chance with the Hawaiian option, but for "cajun", "mexican", "italian", "chinese", no thanks.
So I nibbled a bit on the raw-ish pasta while talking to Tanioka, then gave more than half of the stuff to Joe Guam when he wandered over. Since there's no free food at the beach park on Saturdays, Joe was well pleased. He had missed seeing his benefactor on Friday, so had spent half an hour crying about having no beer that evening. I took no pity. When the man found that stuffed wallet, he could have at least offered to buy me a beer. Some folks just don't understand the concept of what goes around, comes around. Nevertheless, I did give him the rest of the bottle I was drinking, after he finished the spaghetti, and he went away happy, returned later on his way to his sleeping place when Tanioka gave him the rest of the bottle he was drinking.
The fix-it kit from Sam Goody worked quite well on my scarred CDs so I was able to listen to Four Saints in Three Acts on Sunday morning with it only skipping twice (the instructions suggest trying the procedure twice if the first time doesn't do the trick, so I'll do that). That's such a bizarre work, it truly is. And I love it. Tanioka listened to the new Springsteen cut on Saturday, with no particular comment, and then to a track from Dylan's Time Out of Mind after he asked what other CDs I had. (I didn't think he'd be much impressed by Thomson/Stein.) And I was grateful for the radio on Sunday when there were an unusual number of yakky students in Hamilton Library. I'd rather play on the computer to the sound of "classic rock" than the inane pseudo-Valley-Girl babble of certain young women who seem stuck perpetually in My So-Called Life.
Big wheel keeps on turning, Proud Mary keeps on burning ...
959
Individuals who are attracted to islands, I have observed, are all a little odd, and if they spend enough of their lives completely surrounded by water, they become completely odd.Lillian Jackson Braun: The Cat Who Came to Breakfast
Having spent by far the most years of my life living on islands, I cannot disagree with that, although when living on the island of Manhattan, one really has little sense of it being one. Likewise with Britain, far too large an island to regard as surrounded by water when actually there rather than seeing it on a mappa mundi. Now this island, Oahu, is a different case altogether since one is rarely without a view of the ocean on the horizon. The Frankenthaler Island, Mountains and Sea.
A man probably in his forties was sitting at the bus stop taking hefty swigs from his bag-camouflaged forty zones of Colt. Not an unusual sight, but it was only 6:15 in the morning. Yikes. He must have been waiting at the store for the legal beer-selling time to arrive. (It's an oddity here that stores cannot sell alcohol between midnight and six a.m. although some bars can serve until 4 a.m.) It was my former custom to wait until noon (or very close to it) before allowing myself to have the first beer of the day, but since my days necessarily end at such an early hour when staying at the Black Hole, I've pushed the limit back to 10:30. Spare me ever reaching the point where I start at 6:15, though!
As often happens with the Sunday bus schedules, the Black Hole bus was late and I didn't get there until a little after eight o'clock. The Babbler had taken my favorite spot between the fan and Reg, another person had the other side of Reg. Rats, I had to sleep in a not-often-used area, a necessity not made any more desirable when some jerk woke me and the man next to me, asking us to move our mats further over. There was ample space available for him, but why bother to argue. I wished I'd been able to move even further over during the night when the jerk turned out to be a Gramps-style sprawler and his feet ended up on my mat several times. Neither Jude nor Luke were in residence.
I left the campus earlier than I should have on Sunday afternoon and went to the beach park. It was swarming with weekend picnickers. The Moanas weren't around, so I grabbed a surprisingly empty table in their area. Joe Guam eventually spotted me. That man really is such a crashing bore. I begin to have sympathy for the Sleeptalker's frequent rudeness to him. Within the space of about fifteen minutes, Joe twice told me the story of a Filipino woman who had given him five dollars that morning ("five singles", he stressed in both tellings). And twice-told, too, was the fact that someone at one of the picnics had given him a barbecued pork chop. Yawn.
He finally rambled off just as I was about to lose patience and abandon the place myself. Later, after a trip to the mall for another beer and a sandwich, I saw him sitting at a table with some picnickers but he soon got up and joined me instead, alas. He had been mooching food from those people, too. After listening to his boring boasts for a few minutes, I just picked up my book and started reading again. That seemed to miff him, since he returned to the picnickers and ignored me when he later left for his sleeping place. Sometimes I wish I'd never been friendly to the man to begin with.
960
From a reader: One of my colleagues wrote once : "Life on the streets is indexed to a moral code that manifests itself most clearly in a widely and frequently articulated phrase : 'what goes around, comes around'. It is the street version of the karmic principle that one reaps what one sows.""I don't remember having been aware of the phrase until I began to encounter it amongst the Boys, so I think your colleague hit the target," I replied.
He took it from one of the nomads he interviewed, together with the karma line. Another one told him that there were two kinds of homeless people, the "what goes around, comes around", and the "take all that you can get". Joe Guam seems to be in the second category...
Indeed, a paragon of the second type and one who endlessly brags about it. I managed to avoid him on Monday and Tuesday but he was in the mall very early Wednesday morning to buy beer (another six o'clock type customer) and had to tell me about the taxi driver who had given him three dollars. Maybe I should report him to the IRS.
Firmly in the "what goes around, comes around" category, I thought I should repay the favor, took my The Cat Who ... books to the State Library as donations to the honor collection rather than re-selling them to the used bookshop. I was much surprised to find E.M. Forster's Maurice there. I remember placing an advance order with a bookstore when it was first published (after having existed only in manuscript for almost sixty years). I was disappointed then, am even moreso now, although understanding Forster's afterword when he notes that it must now seem like a "period piece". It does but, alas, not an especially interesting one. That kind of sexual repression is one of the more unappealing things about Britain even now. I am sure I would have found it utterly stifling at the time Maurice was written. Perhaps I did in my former life.
Also there was a horse of a different color, so to speak, John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. I could easily supply those quotable kind of raves publishers slap on paperback editions, easily and with complete sincerity. "One of the great novels of the twentieth century", for starters. And one of the most enjoyable.
Perhaps inspired partly by it, the internal jukebox was stuck all day Tuesday on gospel music, that old-time-religion kind typified in my memory by the Chuck Wagon Gang. I finally surrendered and went to Border's. They didn't have anything by them, but they did have an irresistable collection by the original Carter Family, twenty tracks from 1935-1940, re-issued (somewhat improbably) by Sony Nashville. I sat in the far end of the beach park with a bottle of Colt and the music but just my body was there, my mind was in Grandmother Preston's house, Grandfather Preston's immense wooden rocker with its wide flat armrests beside the tall cabinet housing the Victrola with its door-covered lower compartment filled with round, black treasures. Including many by the Carter Family. I don't think Mr. Preston ever really used that chair as a rocker, can't remember him ever having done so. He must have found the exact angle of reclination he preferred and managed somehow to make it permanent. No one else sat in that chair, although I was allowed to sit in his lap sometimes and be shown his huge gold pocketwatch. He left that to me and I don't remember what eventually happened to it. Probably one more thing that vanished in the Chelsea Hotel fire.
Despite such unplanned "luxuries", the CD purchase didn't throw off the budget I've been trying to maintain, nor did a trip earlier to the discount clothing store in quest of a shirt for next week's party. I bought a silk one in a local-kine pattern although not really what I'd call an "aloha shirt" even if it was considered one by the store's sorters. No, the budget is on track. I wonder if it will stay that way? (Not if I go into Border's again except to get the Springsteen CD.) I did examine all the CD carriers they have and will probably get one eventually. Rather pointless to spend money on CDs if I'm not going to protect them from life in a backpack.
I've had a yearning for plain grilled cheese sandwiches, asked on the newsgroup hawaii.test if anyone knew where they can be found in this town. None of the places at the mall that I've checked, although one person did mention the possibility that something like that is on the "kiddie menu" at California Pizza. Another suggested LikeLike Drive-In, which I've yet to investigate, but I did follow up on a web article which included grilled cheese sandwiches in a report about how Denny's had become a home away from home for the writer, homesick for mainland type food. Maybe she was just using grilled cheese sandwiches as a kind of generic reference to such food. In any case, I checked at one of the Denny's in Waikiki on Tuesday, no such item on the menu posted outside. Oh well, I enjoyed a bottle of Mickey's Ice and a Sourdough Jack instead, sitting in Kapiolani Park where I noticed several people who used to hang out at the beach park, none of them mercifully anyone I've ever spoken with (or have any desire to).
The wretched Younger Half has grabbed my favorite spot at the Black Hole. I think it's probably deliberate. I retaliated on Tuesday by harvesting all the best campus ashtrays before leaving for Waikiki. What goes around .... etc.
960a
I wonder if, as a child, I noted the oddity of a man singing "I'm thinking tonight of my blue eyes and I wonder if he ever thinks of me"? (I change it to brown eyes as I quietly sing along.) Although I haven't heard some of the tracks on this Carter Family CD for decades, all the words are still in my memory banks.The quest for a grilled cheese sandwich ended successfully on Wednesday. The LikeLike Drive-In (which isn't a drive-in) does a splendid specimen of that mainland cuisine staple. A pity they don't serve beer but they do brew a nice glass of iced tea. $4.27 for a sandwich and tea, plus a dollar tip. I like it that they have a counter, too, since I prefer that to taking up a table when on my own. But it is difficult to go there and pass on their scrumptious hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. Maybe I'll become a LikeLike regular.
I'm less pleased with one of the finds at the discount clothing store, though. The silk shirt is fine but for the second time in a row I bought a tee shirt which I immediately decide I don't like once I actually wear it. Last visit's find was too small despite supposedly being a "large". I like my tee shirts long and baggy. The newest flop turns out to be that shade of tan with a slight pink tone which I've always disliked. Under artificial light it isn't noticeable. Oh well, I'll put up with it until it's dirty and then toss it. Can't really complain about a two dollar mistake, especially when made on a Tuesday with the twenty percent senior discount.
Can't complain in the slightest, either, about this wonderful Irving novel. Owen Meany truly is one of American literature's most delightful characters.
961
The dreaded Thursday night at the Black Hole wasn't quite as bad as it sometimes has been. I realized earlier in the day that my always-precarious budgeting effort has been thrown off a little because of, ridiculously enough, spending so much on food. So investigating the hostel-dorm option isn't on during this SocSec cycle. The Younger Half has evidently changed his mind, no longer stays in Reg's area, but my favorite spot there had been grabbed by the Babbler. At least the two I did end up between were not snorers or thrashers, but they certainly weren't anything pleasant to look at either. Still, that pleasure had been thoroughly provided in the time before settling down since both Luke and Jude were in residence. I must be bold one of these days and sleep next to Luke (although I suspect I wouldn't get that much sleep).The day began with an email from the Sleeptalker. Im busy trying to get my life together and my welfare as usual but someday I will come and visit you with hopefully [Tanioka] there if hes in a good mood. I really miss having fun out there but its just that I have alot of things to do and think about so maybe one day I'll renew my disabled bus pass and fly down and visit you guys. Poor Tanioka! If he's in a good mood? Tanioka told me he thought the Sleeptalker's suspension from Crazy Money would end in August and so it would appear from that mail. He didn't say whether he was using a friend's computer in Waianae or had come into town, probably the former. It's a pity they don't use bus tokens here since I'd buy him some to make trips into town easier, but then he should indeed get a new "disabled" pass. And I suspect his sojourn in the country getting his "life together" will end as soon as Crazy Money begins again.
I made the trip further into the valley for some final essential shopping. At least this cycle I won't have to worry about any of the essentials running out, especially after finding a new cigarette lighter in the secluded grove. Later I found a watch. It appears to be an el-cheapo version like the one I bought so I'll keep it, doubt anyone would bother checking with the campus lost-and-found service (assuming they have one ... I've never investigated). I bought new pens so when I returned to campus experimented with them in a black, red and blue drawing. There's already a set in work using just black, but I like one of the three so much more than the other two that I may leave it as a solo. It has been too breezy to work further on "Mappa mundi"; collage and tradewinds are a tricky couple.
I've been staying on campus until late morning. Then, if I have no particular reason to go anywhere I just sit at the bus stop and let Dame Fortune decide: one bus goes to the mall and beach park, another to Waikiki. On Thursday it was Waikiki, so I got a beer and a Jumbo Jack, sat in Kapiolani Park continuing the splendid Irving novel. There is a gathering of some sort in the park area where I usually sit, beginning in the late afternoon, so I left as those people began to arrive. At the bus stop a local teenage girl asked me for a dollar, was quite shocked when I said no. I should have told her she would have been smarter to send her brother, if she has one. Then she asked for a cigarette and I again said no. "Why not?" she asked. "Because you're too young, you shouldn't be smoking that stuff." Well, since I never ask a stranger for a dollar or a cigarette, I don't have to worry about my ungenerosity "coming around", do I? And seriously, I don't think local young people should be playing the begging game in Waikiki (she probably makes at least fifty bucks on a good day).
Delhi is the only place I've lived in my life where there are more beggars than there are in Honolulu.
962
I couldn't let the buses decide on Friday when I was ready to leave campus because I needed to visit the State Library to return the Irving masterpiece and look for something fairly frivolous to read next. No point in subjecting any serious author to immediate comparison with Owen Meany because they'd lose, even Irving himself (although I did look to see what works of his the library has). And I had to go to the cheap tobacco store, a trip that works well (campus-library-tobacco).(I'm still avoiding the mailbox place because I dread telling them I've lost the key, not to mention finding out how much that silly mistake is going to cost me. Maybe on Monday ... )
Since the above trip ends at the Moanas end of the beach park, I took my second brew of the day there, had a shower and sat on the far side of the pond reading and waiting for the Krishna truck. Their handout was not particularly good, as usual, but the price is right. I'm lucky to care so little for food, except for occasional cravings like grilled cheese sandwiches or mashed potatoes and gravy. After finishing about half of that stuff (and throwing the rest to the birds, even if it is against the law to feed them at the beach park), I went over to my usual area where I was, of course, soon joined by Joe Guam. I didn't even put my book down, a possible reason his visit was a brief one. He'd missed his benefactor again, was already moaning because he only had money for beer through Sunday. He'd found a large abandoned meal from one of the Chinese places in the mall so hadn't gone to the Krishna truck. Better than Wednesday when he'd said he hadn't been hungry but went to Krishna "just to see what they had" and then threw it away.
He wandered off to the mall and when I later saw him approaching again I moved down to the Moanas area. They weren't there, else I'd have relocated to an even more remote area from Joe. But they soon came along, with Lady Moana in full rant. You could probably hear her half a mile away. When they walked past my table, he waved and continued on, but she stopped to cry on my shoulder. She was about as hysterical as I've ever seen her and the story was a wild mishmash but apparently they got busted for something serious enough that she faces a Federal prison. The only clue to what they'd done was that she "took the packet" from Lord Moana, thus taking the rap for him. And after having done so, he didn't even bail her out! (Little wonder she was raving.) Her children didn't bail her out either, so I guess she just sat in jail until the judge set a trial date and let her out in the interim. Who knows how serious it all is, can't tell when she's in full rant like that. And I'm puzzled by how any crime involving a "packet" could be a federal offense (unless they were robbing a bank which seems quite unlikely).
I gave up at the first chance to get away gracefully and left the park.
962a
A postcard to Felix (web enhanced):Ugh. To suffer through Arabella just to hear again Renee Fleming. Not since Renata and Maria ...
Renee is doing Traviata in Houston next April. I am tempted to go back to Texas one more time.
More _ so has been corrected in the Tales. Thank you. I didn't know, just as I didn't know about much _ less (which you surely didn't see anywhere). I'm the output of Texas/Arkansas hillbillies, a high school dropout, don't know about grammar Miz Scarlett.
"Like I"??? You mean I should have written "as I" or "like me"?
I see from the web that ESM has twice gotten grants from the Krasner/Pollock Foundation. I took one look at their application form and told myself I'd be wasting time even trying.
SocSec largesse makes life easier ... if only I'd fall out of love* (Arabella is distracting me) with [the Sleeptalker] (5 years and counting) and would grow up. But I guess it's kinda hopeless hoping for that?
* I messed-up writing "love", it looks like "voe" with the "lo" tucked in up higher.
(Decades ago, Felix scolded me for writing "muchless" as one word.)
963
The internal jukebox has gone even more loony than usual, started off Sunday morning with "yes, we have no bananas" and Monday with Romberg's "Gaudeamus Igitur". [Look around again to find out how to pull the plug ... ].A quiet Saturday spent mostly on campus. I didn't actually "suffer" through all of Arabella, only the first act. When I got the tube of Duco cement from the bag to work on "Mappa mundi" I discovered it had sprung a couple of leaks, always a problem with metal tube containers carried in a bag or backpack. I need to find some kind of protective box to carry Duco in. But I did finish, I think, with the drawing/collage which is probably going to be a one-card work, as are "Scorpio" and the red-blue-black one, "Tanglewood". Three solos in a row, does this mean it's time to consider a slightly larger format?
A Bird in the Hand by Ann Cleeves and Until Proven Guilty by Christine McGuire provided the inconsequential reading material for Friday, Saturday and early Sunday. I wouldn't particularly recommend either unless to a devoted fan of gruesome serial killer tales in which case McGuire's unpleasant anti-hero is a suitable addition to such a collection. A trip to the used bookshop on Sunday yielded a more promising find, Elizabeth George's Well-Schooled in Murder.
Saturday, the Bus Oracle chose Waikiki which, when getting there, I thought not such a wonderful idea although the beach park would probably have been even more crowded. In Waikiki there was a large group of people milling around the "Sunset on the Beach" pavilions, and that odd collection of people who assemble in the park (apparently every day) were gathering early. I think they must be some kind of church group ... The Church of the Kapiolani Banyan? They bring quite a few large coolers of liquid refreshment each day and some food, gather in a semi-circle under the tree and later one person at a time gets up and talks, not loudly enough for me to hear. At first I thought they might be an A.A. group but church seems more likely. Whatever it is, it certainly is a very odd collection.
After an early visit to campus on Sunday I again went to Waikiki for the 32nd Annual Ukulele Festival. There was a very large crowd which filled the area around the Kapiolani Bandstand. An abundance of obscure objects, indeed, but the music was unusually dull, dominated by Japanese, many of whom sound so regimented and mechanical. In about an hour and a half I only heard two or three Hawaiian songs, one of them a dreadful cocktail-lounge-jazz version of "Sophisticated Hula". After the third number by that tedious group I gave up and left, returned to campus for lunch in the secluded grove. Cheese and crackers and beer, a perfect midsummer Sunday lunch. The birds are very fond of crumbled saltine crackers and using them has the advantage of preventing the greedy bulbuls from grabbing everything and flying away, as they do with any piece of bread small enough for them to carry (and for those rascals, half a slice of bread is small enough).
Then it was time for the cheap tobacco store again, so I had my sunset brew in the beach park, as far at the Moanas end as it is possible to get, thus saving me from anything but a brief goodnight chat with Joe Guam. The Moanas were absent when I got there, arrived later with two other people and just waved as they passed by, but Paulo came over to ask me if I'd buy him a beer. I offered him the money but, no, he wanted me to go to the mall to get it for him! I put the money back in my pocket.
I was able on both Saturday and Sunday nights to get the place next to Reg, but not the one between him and the fan which the Younger Half has reclaimed. And on Sunday, Luke was sitting about six feet away from me watching television. He was unshaven and looked unusually grubby although it didn't make him any less desireable. He noticed me looking at him at one point so I told myself to knock it off and go to the safer option of sleep. But I surely would welcome some spontaneous, uncontrived opening to talk to him. Are you listening, Dame Fortune?
964
A reader teased: "I need to find some kind of protective box to carry Duco in." should read: I need to find a protective box in which to transport Duco. A sentence should not a preposition end with. Ha! A perfect example of the way I deliberately disregard rules of grammar even when I know them. I'm just yakking here, not writing a novel. (Lordy, if I were I hope I could come up with a more exciting plot.)This budgeting game is such a bore. Even if I do manage to be successful at it for a month or two, the sheer tedium of it will probably cause me at some point to go wild and spend all the money within days of its arrival. There is something to be said for the Bad Boys system. Once I realized the plan was slipping a bit, I put on the brakes (at least with food, if not tobacco and beer), and it's back on track now. Well, at this moment anyway. But I'm already tired of thinking about it and there are still three more weeks to go. Then I'll have to start thinking about it all over again. Yes, the Bad Boys may be right.
Very weak tradewinds on Monday made for an unpleasantly warm day and an even less comfortable night at the Black Hole. When it gets hot there is much competition in the supposedly forbidden redirecting of the large floor fans (all of which have 'do not touch' cautions). The place does have overhead fans but one or more of them frequently aren't working, so the three large floor fans provide most of the relief on a steamy night. The one nearest my spot had its direction shifted time and again throughout the night, once causing someone to start cursing about the "focking punk" who had done so, a loud muttering that went on for about fifteen minutes. Summer in the city.
The Babbler had slept downstairs the night before but on Monday had again grabbed the place between Reg and the fan. It's odd that has become such a popular spot. Maybe I caused it by sleeping there so consistently, gave people the idea it was a choice place? In any case, I'll leave the Babbler and the Younger Half to compete for it. I'm not going down there any earlier trying to grab it.
After the morning on campus, I went to the far end of the beach