Vacation
Vacation
That's what I need, I say to myself. To vacate my old life. That woman over there with the hairdo like mine suddenly says, as if goaded beyond all endurance: “I am not going to Paris." Well, okay. I am.
I got no mail. I only won $1 on my scratcher & I'm telling myself I'm a jerk for not going shopping. The essay I went over didn't seem as good as last time I looked at it — and so on. And then I walk into Starbucks & find a little roll of green stuff on the floor by the food case. Quick as quick, it's in my pocket. I go sit down & sneak it back out — $11. A ten & a one. Thank you, Grandma (or/and Tomas). I think I'll invest $6.
Lee sits down & I tell him about it — he tells me he has found $100 bills twice. "Oh get out of here," I say.
It doesn't take much to cheer me up – that's how you know you don't have endogenous depression. Or if you can still appreciate sunsets. I'm reactive, as reactive as can be.
It's too bad, a person like myself — well, who's stolid enough to resist war, flight, famine, pestilence — or the myriad small disappointments of everyday life?
How did Grandma stand being blamed for her baby brother's death? I think she put walls around her heart — but I think she also punished herself... I would have, she seems accident prone with all those broken pairs of glasses. Probably trying extra hard and succeeding with everyone but mom (but who else's opinion mattered as much). And how do I know? Am I not her flesh & blood?
BM *Bux 6/30/01
European-Looking Guy
The foreign gentleman crossing Broadway in the expensive suit & nice braided shoes looked me over. Alas, he was clutching a plastic Safeway bag in his right hand. No matter what was in the bag, his Euro-credibility crumbled.
New rule, you are only as classy as your tackiest element. Unless you are so transcendent that you can make tacky cool. Well, yes, most of us think we can. If you're beautiful or rich—that's what LA is about. Beautiful or rich and vulgar.
Sick - no. Tired - no. Sick & Tired - Yes.
Oddly, once I get to sleep—once the neighbors have stopped slamming gates, sanding the floor, tap-dancing, singing doo-wop—I've only been waking up at pee-time (1 to 2 a.m.) & then not again until 6 or 7. That's the good part of getting over the acute phase (of life) — no, of my bad shoulder. Only I am quite off-kilter now. No wonder my neck feels weird. It’s the muscles that help lift my arm behind my back. The ones I don't use any mo.
So the sun came out & nothing happened except I got Julia to dinner. Will I get her to the village in the jungle? Even imaginary life can surprise you.
I didn't win the lotto but I did take a nice long walk. Along 19th Ave E., down Interlaken & around the winding forest road, up through the old neighborhood & over to that street fronting the freeway where the sun was too hot, then down smelling the Fragaria-smell of hot blackberry vines till I got to the bottom of one of the hillside stairways. I walked up & it almost killed me. Not quite, unfortunately.
So I came over Broadway, agog as ever at how very ugly so many people are. I cleaned my disk for a dollar & then came to Starbucks where Liz wouldn't take my money. Those sweetie guys. Lee was already gone & it's the first of July, and I think it's time for me to go too. Not sick, not tired.
I never liked to linger over dinner either.
BM *Bux 7/1/01
Wheeling & Dealing With It
Today I almost went downtown to the gun store, but didn't quite, and (sort of) accepted the fact that I'm too — wimpy.
This does not eliminate the problem or even much postpone it. That means I'm left with 3 or 4 unappealing alternatives, including life. Life? A life sentence might not be so bad — somewhere else. But the sun was out & I wrote on Matryoshka (Julia) & fixed little things on PofV which became "Wealth & Riches."
Then I got an email from J. telling me that some journal took the last poem she sent me. Well, thanks for rubbing it in, bitch. —No, I didn't say that, only thought it. Then, I went to the library & found out the computer hasn't been fixed since Saturday, and Raye hinted that I infected it, since I've reported it twice. She may have been kidding.
Anyway, all that—obviously it's not a day when the road is open to me. I wonder where Grandma is, or if I'm just immune to influences. I mean she did lead me to $11, didn't she?
Didn't she?
Or maybe she misses me & wants me to join her & Tomas. That's a nice thought.
But I don't believe that either.
Belief & knowledge. Minds are — funny. Why, for all my excursions into fantasy, did I get the mind of a scientist? And then I wonder what percentage of the population truly believes? I suppose it makes a difference if you're exposed to lots of ideas versus living in a closed society where you only get your brain washed with the official version(s). But I suspect the "cast of mind" — fanatic, empiricist, devout, conformist, sensualist, mystic, etc. is distributed the same in all human populations. Says, K. the Schizotype.
BM *bux 7/2/01
Quickly to Montlake & Back
Pulled it out of the ah, ah, not fire, no, not trash. The toilet. I pulled today out of the toilet & washed it off. That doesn't make it new or fresh or triumphant, but at least it's not still in the toilet. I mean, no mail, but I got the pages of "Riches & Wealth" (PofV) printed & everything else I needed.
The Montlake Library seems like a well-kept secret.
I deny well enough in the afternoon & evening but these mornings are bad. Sleep is a wall I have to push through, a wall of holly bushes. So it's a hedge? It's a hedge. I resent being awake. I resent the people who wake me up. (I hate the neighbors.)
And I hate holidays. Tomorrow is just another day when I haven't paid my rent.
I keep working on the novel. In fact, I'm starting to type Dave (Part II) while I write Julia (IV). I don't know why I can't let go in the writing. Slow & painful. Any excuse to stop — as if I don't want anything to happen to Julia, because I don't know what her fate is going to be — any more than I can see my own future. Isn't that odd? Mallory is doomed though, I think
Grandma is all quiet. Probably my fault, if "weakness" of faith is a fault. Well, it is to the creed-mongers. If I could will it....
We discuss Earthquakes & androids.
Broadway *Bux 7/3/01
Forth — Glorious
113/68, pulse 94. Ninety-four? I was hot & sweaty from the long walk, after writing, and all the usual thing. Kleenex please & a BP. (Cruel machine.)
The breeze stopped as I walked down the hill to the cafe. Hot & bright & one more person with the Sunburn.
Liz stops to tell me she has a stalker. Oh, I wouldn't be young for...well, maybe for that: $10 thou & a medical plan.
I called Grandma in last night & slept well & dreamed—but nothing other-worldly. No numbers either. But I woke up feeling good. Still stuck though, and still conflicted about living vs. dying.
Nothing new about that.
Oh, look, the po-lice. And with their weapons too. Gee, I wonder if...
Well, I have two days to sell writing. Or at least write my will.
Ha ha ha ha ha. I have no one to leave things to. Write my won't. Anyway, I've said quite enough.
I want to fly. Especially when the sky is summer afternoon blue with those drifts of gossamer. Or at night when it is white until 10 p.m.
And tonight they'll be blowing things up, and it'll be hot so I probably won't be able to sleep & I don't care about that either.
BM *Bux 7/4/01
That's what I need, I say to myself. To vacate my old life. That woman over there with the hairdo like mine suddenly says, as if goaded beyond all endurance: “I am not going to Paris." Well, okay. I am.
I got no mail. I only won $1 on my scratcher & I'm telling myself I'm a jerk for not going shopping. The essay I went over didn't seem as good as last time I looked at it — and so on. And then I walk into Starbucks & find a little roll of green stuff on the floor by the food case. Quick as quick, it's in my pocket. I go sit down & sneak it back out — $11. A ten & a one. Thank you, Grandma (or/and Tomas). I think I'll invest $6.
Lee sits down & I tell him about it — he tells me he has found $100 bills twice. "Oh get out of here," I say.
It doesn't take much to cheer me up – that's how you know you don't have endogenous depression. Or if you can still appreciate sunsets. I'm reactive, as reactive as can be.
It's too bad, a person like myself — well, who's stolid enough to resist war, flight, famine, pestilence — or the myriad small disappointments of everyday life?
How did Grandma stand being blamed for her baby brother's death? I think she put walls around her heart — but I think she also punished herself... I would have, she seems accident prone with all those broken pairs of glasses. Probably trying extra hard and succeeding with everyone but mom (but who else's opinion mattered as much). And how do I know? Am I not her flesh & blood?
BM *Bux 6/30/01
European-Looking Guy
The foreign gentleman crossing Broadway in the expensive suit & nice braided shoes looked me over. Alas, he was clutching a plastic Safeway bag in his right hand. No matter what was in the bag, his Euro-credibility crumbled.
New rule, you are only as classy as your tackiest element. Unless you are so transcendent that you can make tacky cool. Well, yes, most of us think we can. If you're beautiful or rich—that's what LA is about. Beautiful or rich and vulgar.
Sick - no. Tired - no. Sick & Tired - Yes.
Oddly, once I get to sleep—once the neighbors have stopped slamming gates, sanding the floor, tap-dancing, singing doo-wop—I've only been waking up at pee-time (1 to 2 a.m.) & then not again until 6 or 7. That's the good part of getting over the acute phase (of life) — no, of my bad shoulder. Only I am quite off-kilter now. No wonder my neck feels weird. It’s the muscles that help lift my arm behind my back. The ones I don't use any mo.
So the sun came out & nothing happened except I got Julia to dinner. Will I get her to the village in the jungle? Even imaginary life can surprise you.
I didn't win the lotto but I did take a nice long walk. Along 19th Ave E., down Interlaken & around the winding forest road, up through the old neighborhood & over to that street fronting the freeway where the sun was too hot, then down smelling the Fragaria-smell of hot blackberry vines till I got to the bottom of one of the hillside stairways. I walked up & it almost killed me. Not quite, unfortunately.
So I came over Broadway, agog as ever at how very ugly so many people are. I cleaned my disk for a dollar & then came to Starbucks where Liz wouldn't take my money. Those sweetie guys. Lee was already gone & it's the first of July, and I think it's time for me to go too. Not sick, not tired.
I never liked to linger over dinner either.
BM *Bux 7/1/01
Wheeling & Dealing With It
Today I almost went downtown to the gun store, but didn't quite, and (sort of) accepted the fact that I'm too — wimpy.
This does not eliminate the problem or even much postpone it. That means I'm left with 3 or 4 unappealing alternatives, including life. Life? A life sentence might not be so bad — somewhere else. But the sun was out & I wrote on Matryoshka (Julia) & fixed little things on PofV which became "Wealth & Riches."
Then I got an email from J. telling me that some journal took the last poem she sent me. Well, thanks for rubbing it in, bitch. —No, I didn't say that, only thought it. Then, I went to the library & found out the computer hasn't been fixed since Saturday, and Raye hinted that I infected it, since I've reported it twice. She may have been kidding.
Anyway, all that—obviously it's not a day when the road is open to me. I wonder where Grandma is, or if I'm just immune to influences. I mean she did lead me to $11, didn't she?
Didn't she?
Or maybe she misses me & wants me to join her & Tomas. That's a nice thought.
But I don't believe that either.
Belief & knowledge. Minds are — funny. Why, for all my excursions into fantasy, did I get the mind of a scientist? And then I wonder what percentage of the population truly believes? I suppose it makes a difference if you're exposed to lots of ideas versus living in a closed society where you only get your brain washed with the official version(s). But I suspect the "cast of mind" — fanatic, empiricist, devout, conformist, sensualist, mystic, etc. is distributed the same in all human populations. Says, K. the Schizotype.
BM *bux 7/2/01
Quickly to Montlake & Back
Pulled it out of the ah, ah, not fire, no, not trash. The toilet. I pulled today out of the toilet & washed it off. That doesn't make it new or fresh or triumphant, but at least it's not still in the toilet. I mean, no mail, but I got the pages of "Riches & Wealth" (PofV) printed & everything else I needed.
The Montlake Library seems like a well-kept secret.
I deny well enough in the afternoon & evening but these mornings are bad. Sleep is a wall I have to push through, a wall of holly bushes. So it's a hedge? It's a hedge. I resent being awake. I resent the people who wake me up. (I hate the neighbors.)
And I hate holidays. Tomorrow is just another day when I haven't paid my rent.
I keep working on the novel. In fact, I'm starting to type Dave (Part II) while I write Julia (IV). I don't know why I can't let go in the writing. Slow & painful. Any excuse to stop — as if I don't want anything to happen to Julia, because I don't know what her fate is going to be — any more than I can see my own future. Isn't that odd? Mallory is doomed though, I think
Grandma is all quiet. Probably my fault, if "weakness" of faith is a fault. Well, it is to the creed-mongers. If I could will it....
We discuss Earthquakes & androids.
Broadway *Bux 7/3/01
Forth — Glorious
113/68, pulse 94. Ninety-four? I was hot & sweaty from the long walk, after writing, and all the usual thing. Kleenex please & a BP. (Cruel machine.)
The breeze stopped as I walked down the hill to the cafe. Hot & bright & one more person with the Sunburn.
Liz stops to tell me she has a stalker. Oh, I wouldn't be young for...well, maybe for that: $10 thou & a medical plan.
I called Grandma in last night & slept well & dreamed—but nothing other-worldly. No numbers either. But I woke up feeling good. Still stuck though, and still conflicted about living vs. dying.
Nothing new about that.
Oh, look, the po-lice. And with their weapons too. Gee, I wonder if...
Well, I have two days to sell writing. Or at least write my will.
Ha ha ha ha ha. I have no one to leave things to. Write my won't. Anyway, I've said quite enough.
I want to fly. Especially when the sky is summer afternoon blue with those drifts of gossamer. Or at night when it is white until 10 p.m.
And tonight they'll be blowing things up, and it'll be hot so I probably won't be able to sleep & I don't care about that either.
BM *Bux 7/4/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:03 PM
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