Hairy Faces
They talk business while I eat my cake & enjoy the “forgottenness” of the Starbucks—a place where it’s not happening, baby, on New Year’s Eve.
The guy with the hairy face talks some sort of bidness with the guy in the Navajo rug coat. Before I finish my coffee, Hilda comes in.
*
It snowed today & last night; stuck about an inch on the grass & gave that damp snow smell to the air. Today I long for laughs. People to make me, that is. The phone rang once all day, but no one left a message (a joke?). I sent emails to Jana & Sonja, sent a long one to Jean last night (ha, maybe too long). Instead of laughs, I’ll go home to a glass of wine & my last cigarette (of the pack—but there are more packs to be had). I’ll count out 2003’s found money. I’ll go to bed at 11 & turn the fan up high, see if I can fall asleep before the explosions start.
Maybe I’ll have good dreams.
About Paul Theroux?
Maybe there will be an earthquake, or a terrorist attack at LA International Airport. I’d prefer an earthquake.
Hilda has a new jacket—blue.
I sent Lee pencils.
Doth Blow
The North wind & no joke—it brings the tears to your eyes. The snow has been so dry & pellety, it might be Styrofoam—only it disappears. It snowed much of the morning to no effect. I walked to Volunteer Park & recited “in the bleak mid-winter.” My hands hurt, even in my gloves.
Then I walked into the Starbuck’s & there—with longer hair—was Kay R. I told her my news & she told me her mother is driving her batty. That aging parent thing. John Y. called last night just to chat. I have a twitch in my right eye that feels like pathology (but I had one there when I was 19 & working at PLU!). I want to transform all the ordinary furniture of life into thrones & principalities. Juggernauts. Hassocks of the gods. And sort out ethics & the problem of cruelty & war?
I have 3 draft essays, imperfect & probably imperfectable. I don’t mind not being a rigorous thinker (do I?), if I can be a heart-breaking stylist. I want to make my readers break out laughing & then burst into tears.
Which mean I should be writing music, doesn’t it Johann?
Witchery.
Weedy, Tenacious
Though I have nothing to contribute (& tho I am belching fish oil—maybe that’s my contribution?), I keep on. Living? Like the weedy, tenacious sparrows, yes, & writing like any 2-bit journalist.
The point? To finish my coffee, to finish the page.
When stymied (sty? Me??), all I have to do is glean some of my loose leaves (my apartment looks like, could as well be: some hardwood forest in October. I’d say the Bois de Boulogne, but I don’t rightly know because I don’t rightly remember—it’s in the book, not the brain).
Loose leaves?
Okay, here’s one. On the front, a list of possible articles (4). One I’ve written, one I never will, the other 2 are
· My adventures in the sex program (novel?)
· My hippy days (ditto?)
Below that:
The Sadim Touch [Dimas?]
-reverse of the Midas touch, i.e., everything you touch turns to shit.
(Okaaay…what’s the moral?)
Then a suggestion: SS. Folk Songs
(yes, but which? Oh, “The Cruel Mother”)
Wisdom:
Paleolithic cave artists are our dreamtime ancestors.
*
Didactic Pieces (in red)
a/mnesia – forgetting (for/get?)
Soul murder
—--not today.
*
J. is depressed. I won $12 on 2 scratchers. It may snow. I don’t want to go back to work. That’s tomorrow. Tonight I’ll go home & read the paper & drink a glass of wine.
Broadway «B’s 1/5?/04
Not Like It Used to be
When the coffee affected my mind like vinegar dropped on baking soda—complete with gaseous fizz.
Now…I admit it, I miss the cigarettes.
I’m reading a strange novel (engineering genre) from 1946 or 47, by Nevil Shute (he really was an engineer, aeronautical) & the characters are always smoking cigarettes. The women are all ever so supportive & domestic too. But, oh, the happy smokers. It makes me nostalgic. (Now, those were the bad old days.)
*
I’ve had a number (the low one digits) of funny/clever ideas. One a memory tweak associated w/ Don Porter & therefore 1968-69…but it wasn’t the song “Good News Week,” what was it?
I know to write down these visitations. So, why don’t I?
*
Or: When Albert Heim fell,
[to be continued]
*
Now my right shoulder is hurting. Doesn’t want to let my right arm reach across my chest. Ray Davies got shot in the leg, chasing a purse-snatcher in New Orleans.
Where Are My People?
I am obliterated. Blacked out by Black Doubt. Inky Black, yes: my people are down in the caves, watching cartoons—Road Runners & Bugs Bunny & D. Duck & oh Mickey Moose & Ricky Rhino. Magic lanterns run by paraffin & bear fat. (Lions & Tygers? And Bears!)
While above ground, all the mute inglorious Rimbauds run their guns. OK.
*
Behind me, the pleasant snapple of cards being shuffled. A sound blessed by association—Grandma S. Did fancy work too, or fancyish. There was the crochet, there was the knit. And who taught me embroidery—something with blue flowers I did. Grandma E maybe? I had no talent (= dexterity plus patience). Nor for piano (same thing). I was gifted with mad impatience. (All children are, yes, but some of us are supra gifted.) But I did learn…to read, to write. Nothing fancy.
Nothing fancy?
All fancy-full. Just not out where you can stretch it into shape & put it on the wall. Hang it on the wall.
Plink it into the air.
In the cave the walls flicker & the animals dance.
B-way «Bux
Psychology of Women
-Learned helplessness
-Invidious/odious comparisons
-Esp. the paragon to be — shh — surpassed (?)
(That’s from one of my pieces of couch paper; I couldn’t stand having it on my couch any more. And it didn’t, like you know, grow. Over time)
Anyway what do I know about ♀ psychology. I just know about…me.
*
I like that boy with the hair. He told me he had his teeth cleaned & 5 fillings & it cost him 2 grand.
Next thing he’s jumping around in the air & telling those guys to get out.
Next thing you know, there’s a line out the do’.
*
I dreamed night before last that Aunty Judy was going on a trip. To Europe (I think). She showed me her map case. The maps were from here & California (just for display purposes) & there was one of part of my bike trip. I went looking for a map that would show the whole route but this was a dream, so of course I couldn’t find one.
*
Then I talked to Mom who told me about the guy on the side porch last Wednesday morning. A guy with corn rows and no good reason from being on the porch. Bad news. I don’t like this. (At least Johnny barked.)
B’way «Bux
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