One Hand Clapping Notes of a writer

March 16, 2004 Yesterday I was thinking about some of the things I

have accomplished during the past three or so years. I was also thinking about some of the things I havent accomplished, because, for me, it is impossible to think about one without remembering the other. Beginning in 2000, I have written two novels: A Listening Thing and The Smiling Eyes of Children. In one ninety-day period, I also wrote seventy short stories, which are collectively known as No Time to Cut My Hair. Most recently, I finished what I am for the moment permitting myself to think of

as the first volume of my daily journal, One Hand Clapping the word volume representing a whole years work. Taken together, these writings amount to more than 330,000 words. But I also wrote a lot of other things, the bulk of which appears somewhere on my website, to

which I seem to have become a slave and fanatical devotee. Finally, for better or worse, several of my stories and poems were published in magazines here and in Armenia. These are publications that most of the world has never heard of, and probably never will. Be that as it may, they

exist because someone reads them, and for this I am grateful. Now. It is

important here to state the obvious: these things are all in the past. They are done. There is no going back. Granted, I will live with them for years and years, just as if they were children. Some have already begun to haunt me, even as I am haunted by new ideas and half-baked plans, which I know are the eternal bane of my existence. For whatever sad reason, it is necessary for me to make new mistakes, or, at least, old mistakes in a new dimension. At the same time, I am fully aware that I

might be in the midst of making one big, long, continuous mistake, and that I am dividing it up only to understand it and give myself a reason to

go on though I have a reason: I keep waking up in the morning. And even afford to take the time?

what havent I accomplished? Oh, brother. Where do I begin? And can I March 17, 2004 Ive read about fifty pages of my recently acquired used copy of Thomas Wolfes Look Homeward, Angel, but it only took a page or two to realize the author was writing out of an intense,

overwhelming desire to unburden himself, to unburden his mind of all that he had seen, heard, tasted, and experienced thus far. One also gets the sense that his continued rapid accumulation of dreams and sensations made it impossible for him to succeed. The writing is unquestionably good, full of poetic raw energy. But there is the distinct feeling that here is a man who will die with the last chapter of his story

on his lips. Granted, in saying this, I do have the benefit of knowing that Thomas Wolfe died young. But my meager knowledge of his life alone isnt enough to support the feeling. I am getting it from the writing itself. This brings to mind the unreliable nature of even the very best

biographical writing. Through books, we can learn an incredible amount about any given person, and yet come away knowing very little about him at all. We can know what he accomplished, and to a certain extent what he thought about and what his preoccupations were, but it is

impossible to know how it really was for him. This is something I think

about from time to time: a simple ten-minute drive down the road is capable of arousing so many deep feelings about so many things, which in turn can have a profound effect on a person, that it is impossible to explain or relate what is taking place, even for the person himself. This

one truth cripples even the best autobiographies. Life is too complicated and richly overwhelming to put it completely and accurately into words. Still, language and literature are miracles. They try. And the great works

stir something in us and remind us of things we already know about living and about ourselves, but may have forgotten. In the same way, thats why it can be said that a real teacher doesnt teach. A real teacher helps others recognize and understand what they already know, but is lying dormant.

March 18, 2004 What a difference a year makes. Last March our backyard was a sea of mud, and it was kept that way by frequent rains. This year, we have had what for us amounts to a prolonged dry spell, with only minor showers to interrupt our labors. The ground is still wet, been digging. The day before yesterday, I turned over, to a full shovels vegetable-wise, though, because there is bound to be more frost. But but not so wet that it resists the shovel and iron rake. And so we have depth, the area directly behind the house. Its too soon to plant anything this is a great first step toward being ready unless heavy rains return, in which case well resume this discussion in April or May. There is The year before last, I raised a huge tomato crop there. Last year, I another, larger area out back that I began work on yesterday afternoon. never was able to get the ground ready. This year, there is an abundance of worms a good sign. But before I could get much digging done, I realized I would have to do something about the

blackberry bush that we allowed to take over the southwest corner of the farming days, I chopped back the thorny growth to the fence, thus new places; I chopped and dug the rootings out as best as I could, but I

yard. With an old pair of vineyard pruning shears salvaged from our reclaiming a ten-by-fifteen-foot space. The bush had rooted in several know fresh berry growth will erupt here and there as the season

progresses. Faced with a mountain of tangled growth, I then chopped

everything to small bits and raked the result into a neat and surprisingly

small pile, which I will dispose of later. I was drenched with sweat when I heard the sliding back door to the house open, and our oldest son call partially dug earth and dreamed of the garden yet to come. When I tomatoes. out that it was time for supper. Before going in, I looked longingly at the turned away, I almost tripped over several bushel baskets full of ripe March 19, 2004 At first glance, my mothers walk-in closet is a neat, she hasnt worn for decades and will never wear again. Just yesterday,

tidy affair. But the truth is, it is stuffed to the gills with clothes and shoes she told me she was going to box up most of it and give it away, and

keep only the stuff she uses. Of course, there will be a few things she

will understandably decide not to part with, and quite a few other things

she will probably try on in the process, just to be sure. And so the job

will likely take several days. While we were mulling this over in her living

room, she said something about getting things ready for the knacker And she said, You mean you dont know what a knacker man is? This

man. I said, Knacker man? Thats a new one. Whats a knacker man? led us to her big dictionary, which she keeps open and ready at all times.

It turns out knacker is an old English term, one meaning of which is a buyer of old ships, houses, etc., for their materials. A knacker is also one who buys and slaughters worn-out horses and sells their flesh for dog food. Knacker has also been used to refer to the worn-out horse itself.

After marveling at the knacker entries in her dictionary, and at words and dictionaries in general, I asked why I had never heard her use the word knacker before. She said, I guess the situation never came up. When I asked if it was a word her mother had used, she said it wasnt, and that

she must have picked it up long ago in her reading. This is another fine

example of how things can be tucked away in our brains for years and

years, and then suddenly be coaxed out of hiding further proof that think we know. It is something to think about.

we dont know what we know, and that we likely know far more than we March 20, 2004 This morning I almost feel like I felt when I was ten and one of my fathers younger cousins asked me what I thought was the best age to be, and I answered without hesitation, Ten. At the time,

we were in our equipment shed, which had replaced our old barn six sacks that my father had stacked neatly atop a makeshift pallet of overturned wooden grape boxes so they wouldnt absorb moisture from

years earlier. We were standing by four or five dozen fifty-pound sulphur

the concrete floor. I remember being fully aware of how physically good I felt at that moment, and of how powerfully I belonged in that very spot, in that building, behind the house in which I lived with the greatest family in the world, nestled among orange and walnut trees, surrounded pheasants, doves, and jackrabbits. There was simply no way on earth by vineyards full of black spiders, yellow jackets, horned toads, quail, that things could have been any better. And so my answer couldnt have made more sense. Now I am forty-seven, closing on forty-eight. Judging by my appearance, I have passed through many trials and have been singed by many flames. I dont feel as good physically as I did when I

was ten, but I feel pretty good. In fact, since I have been spending time with my old friend the shovel lately, I have been feeling better and more alive than Ive felt in months. I expect this trend to continue. Meanwhile, I still belong. But I belong differently now. For one thing, I belong

somewhere else. I shouldnt be living in a so-called neighborhood, spitting and conducting their lives in the street like jackasses. We have

surrounded by houses, lawns, fences, driveways, and people yelling and been here seventeen years, but I have never grown accustomed to living

my life in public. My loving bride, who also grew up in the country, feels the same way. So why are we still here? Basta! I dont even want to talk about it, other than to say that I am an idiot, and that everything was, is, sunny spring morning, talking about shovels and sulphur sacks. To put it

and always will be my fault. And yet here I am, feeling good about a even more succinctly, I feel tremendously lucky. Again, though, basta! I into more trouble than you can imagine. On the other hand, the fact that we have survived proves the feeling works. Does that statement make

have always been plagued with this feeling. This feeling has gotten me

sense? No. Does it bother me? Of course not. Am I in need of a support group? Absolutely not. Besides, none would have me and if they member. Its hard enough being part of the human race. Why would I would, I would immediately distrust and despise each and every want to join a club? Id rather die trying to figure things out than have someone come along and figure them out for me, or even think he is figuring them out. Why should he have the satisfaction, for one thing, and for another, why doesnt he mind his own business? Let him learn to about shovels someday. stand on his own two feet, then maybe we can have a nice conversation

March 21, 2004 Once again, people around the world have taken to

the street to protest the evil, insane actions of the U.S. government in

Iraq. And in predictable fashion, our free and unfettered press is doing

its best to downplay the significance of the protests, saying that far fewer reasoning is simple: by telling people there were fewer protesters, they hope to convince them that more people now support U.S. policy. In

turned out than a year ago on the eve of the U.S. invasion. Their

other words, they are lying in order to protect the governments interests.

Its sickening. At the same time, they are quick to point out that their love for their beloved president, George Bring Em On Bush.

somewhere a handful of armchair generals waved flags and proclaimed Perhaps it would be different if millions of people took to the street in

support of the war. But this hasnt, and wont, happen. People who believe in Bushs war would rather sit in their offices and count their money, or listen to pig-headed government tough-guy puppets mocked by the very people they support.

proclaiming their hatred on talk radio while they are financially raped and March 22, 2004 Yet another sunny day. I should probably go out and buy an old Volkswagen van, hit the road, and wend my way across the country. But as I would have to be back by no later than two this

afternoon, it looks like Ill have to postpone the trip. Sigh. Why an old Volkswagen? For one thing, there would be no chance of getting in too big a hurry. For another, their quaint, prehistoric appearance somehow distance for fear I might have fleas which, by the end of my journey, I

seems to match my own. This is good, because people will keep their would probably manage to attract. Its also possible I might attract other people with fleas. Such is the power of appearances. If I were to rent a late-model Japanese sedan and race across the country wearing a coat

and tie, chances are I would attract a posse of insurance agents a country is a black 1957 Cadillac. Not only would it be more comfortable, I

fate far worse than fleas. Another car I wouldnt mind driving across the could pick up flea-bitten strangers stranded by their old Volkswagen vans. This would be a valuable service, since flea-bitten strangers arent the middle of nowhere as if he would stop anyway. likely to trust someone in a late-model Japanese sedan, wearing a tie in

March 23, 2004 Last night we watched Alfred Hitchcocks North by about every actor who ever appeared on the old Perry Mason show.

Northwest, starring Cary Grant, James Mason, Leo J. Carroll, and just Really. There were several individual scenes that featured not one, not

two, but three or four Perry Mason actors, all of them doing their level best to keep a straight face not an easy thing when you stop and think just how well some of those people knew each other. And so we sat there most of the time saying, Jeez, theres another one, or, Jeez, theres Les Tremaine, or, That guy was the judge in a lot of episodes, remember? The movie itself, though, was quite good. Weve seen it

probably three or four times by now, but it was just as enjoyable as always. Hitchcocks humor and camera angles were great, and Cary been shot with blanks by Eva Marie Saint and hidden in a hospital room Grants delivery was typically outstanding. Toward the end, after he had by Leo J. Carroll, Cary Grant told Leo J. Carroll he was thirsty and

wanted a pint of bourbon. Leo J. Carroll said, Sure. Do you mind if I join

you? And Cary Grant said, In that case, youd better make it a quart. The lines were simple, but uttered so well that I laughed out loud. There are a few other movies we brought home, all of them free due to various coupons and promotions. We have Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon still to go, and A Night at the Opera, with the Marx Brothers, Kitty Carlisle, and Allan Jones. Weve already seen each several times, but arent actors like Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, and Sydney

every once in awhile everyone wants to see them again. There simply Greenstreet anymore. Im not saying there are no worthwhile actors, but effects that they are hard to take seriously. In most cases they have no

so many of them are lightweights dependent on quick cuts and special character to begin with, and so have nothing but their strategically

whitened teeth to fall back on. Other than that, I have no opinion, no opinion at all. March 24, 2004 A bit of wisdom quite possibly in danger of being lost is that madzoon can be used to seal leaks in bicycle tires. Madzoon is later in my day, our area was plagued with a vicious weed we called the Armenian word for yogurt. When my father was growing up, and also puncture vines. Puncture vines grow flat against the ground, and their seeds are encased in hard thorny shells that easily embed themselves in bare feet and bicycle tires. If you drive a tractor over a patch of puncture vines, the tires will pick up the seeds and spread them everywhere, leading to a massive infestation. If you ride a bicycle over them, you are problem for farmers and their children alike. I dont know whether my

assured of one or two flat tires. Thus, puncture vines were a serious father discovered the madzoon cure, or if it was someone else in the

family. It might even have been one of the Armenian neighbors, of which stuff on the valve stem and pumping it into the flat tire, the madzoon eventually coated the inner tube. As the moisture in it evaporated, it set up and clogged the holes. He told us about this many times. But I forget

there were quite a few when he was a kid. After repeatedly dabbing the

how long the remedy lasted. I wish now that I would have asked whether it became necessary for my grandmother to increase her madzoon production so the family wouldnt be shorted at mealtime. Im sure he would have said yes, just for the effect.

March 25, 2004 For the last five years or so, we have needed to replace our couch a term I never see used in furniture advertisements. The official word, it seems, is sofa. For some reason, though, I cant stand that word, and refuse to utter it. All my life, we have had couches. My mother and father said couch. My grandparents said

couch. Everyone in our family said couch. I have said couch, my wife has said couch, and now all four of our kids say couch. It is almost a mental illness, this insistence on the word couch. We are not militant about it; we dont get into fights over it; indeed, its likely that I am the only one who even thinks about it. The others say it because thats what they grew up hearing. I say it for the same reason, but also because I despise the word sofa. I know it sounds a little unreasonable, but some current couch far too long because of my reluctance to face this

words affect me that way. Its even possible that we have kept our problem. We bought the thing at a furniture store on Van Ness Avenue in downtown Fresno almost twenty-five years ago. We also bought a stereo with an eight-track tape player there once, which was

subsequently stolen with one of our favorite tapes featuring arias sung by Mario Lanza a crime that disrupted our lives for many years, until we found the same music on a Long Playing record, and again later on a cassette tape. The mans name was Bloom not the burglar, but the owner of the furniture store. Each time we were in the store, we talked

for at least an hour about the items we were considering for purchase. Mostly out of boredom, Bloom knew an incredible amount about what he was selling. And it was Bloom himself who delivered the couch to the house we were renting in Dinuba at the time. When we brought the

couch in, he quietly noticed that our living room was as big and as long as three handball courts, and that the couch looked like a piece of doll the room as we reconfirmed our faith in the couchs quality and house furniture when placed against the wall. Our voices echoed across durability, and marveled that it cost only three hundred dollars. Bloom, I

said happily, I appreciate all youve done. Im sure well be back in your store soon, once we get things sorted out here. We shook hands and

Bloom departed. That was the last time we saw him, and we still have disintegration which was hardly noticeable at first; I will skip over its

the same couch. But I will skip over its glory years, and its gradual settling, creaking, and groaning, its crushed and dilapidated cushions, and the final prying apart of one end from the main frame, and the springs which have recently been poking up through the bottom. I will

skip all of these things because the couch has been so comfortable, and

is still seen as the best place in the house to be by our youngest son, who says if we ever replace it that he wants the couch moved into his room so he can use it as a bed. Just to look at the thing, you have to wonder how it could hold up a cat, leave alone a person. The sitting surface is now about six inches above the floor. Suffice it to say, something needs to be done, and done soon. To that end, my wife and I

ventured forth yesterday in search of a new Bloom and a new couch. All we found were disinterested dullards selling sofas. One guy even had eyes painted on his eyelids so he would look like he was awake. If you have any questions, he snored, dont hesitate to ask. Finally, in one store, the outside of which was painted to look like an amusement park, we found two couches that were possibilities. The first looked like a

Viking ship. I told my wife, There it is. We found it. She laughed and said it was ugly. Then we looked at the other couches, and found out what ugly really is. We came back to the Viking ship. My wife said, I

kind of like it. There was one other couch, out of about eighty or ninety way to our couch here at home, and it was priced at just under seven stupid couch, fully aware that good couches these days routinely cost far more. I think we should look around some more. There have got to

couches, that seemed okay. It was big and soft and superior in every hundred dollars. I said, You know, thats a lot of money to spend on a

be more furniture stores in this town, and so on. We drove home. When wed been gone. It had shriveled, and had lost at least thirty pounds. It

we saw our couch, we couldnt believe what had happened to it while looked like it was ready for intensive care. We were immediately plunged into grief, doubt, and despair. After all that couch has done for us, it would be sad, even immoral, to desert it now.

March 26, 2004 While trying to add to my meager store of literary

knowledge yesterday evening, I read part of Alan Ginsbergs controversial poem, Howl, on the Internet. As the story goes, Ginsberg Gary Snyder, and Philip Whalen at a place called Gallery Six in San read the poem to an audience of about 100 that included Jack Kerouac, Francisco. If I remember correctly, the event had been organized by the poem was published by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the owner of San on the grounds of obscenity and made to stand trial. Ultimately, the

another well known poet, Kenneth Rexroth. The year was 1957. After Franciscos City Lights book store, the book was confiscated by police judge ruled that the book wasnt obscene, stating that it did in fact have

redeeming qualities, despite its coarse, vivid language. Before the trial, the tune of a million copies. Some reviewers compared the work to Walt

the poem was basically unknown. After the trial, it sold like hotcakes, to Whitmans Leaves of Grass. Indeed, Ginsberg embraced Whitmans approximately 3,600-word poem, of which I read about half, is that its phenomenon, whereas Whitmans words seem to spring directly from

open structure and use of long sentences. But my first impression of the clever, jazz-like word combinations come across as more of a surface the poetic source of life itself. If the two poets can be said to have had a strategy, Ginsbergs somehow seemed more apparent. The times were significantly different, to be sure. Ginsbergs America was not

Whitmans. If we ask the foolish question of what Whitmans writing would be like if he were writing in 1957 and beyond, who is to say that he wouldnt have gifted the smirking establishment with the same sort of

literary dynamite? In Whitmans own time, his poetry was thought by Howl, even Ginsbergs crude images have lost much of their shock

many to be obscene. Now, almost fifty years after the publication of value. Some retain their effect, others are merely repulsive. I cant help forgotten and Leaves of Grass will remain. I could be wrong. I often am. No doubt I have put down these thoughts prematurely. But there is

thinking that if we survive another 100 or 200 years, Howl will be all but

something to be said for first impressions. In this case, I feel it unlikely that I will return to Howl, while I know definitely that I will return to Whitman.

March 27, 2004 I am sick to the roots of my being about this countrys insatiable hunger for more more resources, more power, more control, more domination over others. All empires come to an end. Rome came to an end. No matter how much an empire does or pretends to do for the people it conquers, ultimately, people resent being conquered. centuries. Then, slowly, inexorably, what goes around comes around. When I think about what our particular empire brings to the world its

They dont forget what happened. They stew over their losses for

decaying values, its corruption, its drugs, its unhealthy appetites and habits, its lack of respect for other languages and cultures, and so on I feel tremendously sad. There is no thought for the future, other than the this empire is like a thick-headed schoolyard bully who takes what he wants and repays those who resist with violence. Only the arrival of a stronger bully on the scene can shift the balance of power. But even the

future immediately within our grasp. On a grand and grotesque scale,

strongest bullies are eventually replaced. According to the natural order of things, their days are numbered. Our days are numbered. The suns and earths days are numbered. All that begins, ends. And yet we act as

if we have forever to get things right. We dont. We have only as long as each of us have, whether its a week, a year, or many years. And even that is an illusion, because we cant be certain of the next moment. So if any decision is going to be made, it must be made now. Waiting is a

criminal act. By and large, we are unaware of our power to change those whose evil plans are threatened by it. Be good, they say in

things. We dont believe in it, are afraid of it, and are taught to doubt it by various forms, or youll be spanked. And great multitudes bow their heads, and trundle along in herds to the nearest church, club, theater, or designated safe spot approved by the authority of the moment. It is no dangerous, destructive way to live. The results are readily apparent. way to live. As right or safe or comforting as it might seem, it is a March 28, 2004 I dont know how many people realize that there are bills presently in the Senate and House of Representatives that, if passed, would reinstate the draft. Bills S.89 and H.R.163 would

effectively bring this country back full circle to the glorious days of also be called to serve in the armed forces. Another is that the bills

Vietnam, with, of course, a few refinements. One is that women would generously allow for young people to finish their high school educations. But as soon as they do, look out. The presidents empty No Child Left Behind pledge will take on a new and far scarier meaning. The purpose of the bill is stated as follows: To provide for the common defense by requiring that all young persons in the United States, including women,

perform a period of military service or a period of civilian service in

furtherance of the national defense and homeland security, and for other

purposes. I love that for other purposes. I assume that refers to

things like taking over other countries and stealing their oil. Also, it

should be noted that the civilian service referred to is not a choice of the

inductee; the president alone gets to decide how many bodies he wants that number is satisfied will anyone be ordered into civilian service. The intention of the current administration has long been clear. If it is able to sneak these bills through while attention is diverted by the barrage of

to send into the maw of ignorance, destruction, and death, and only after

nonsense surrounding the upcoming election, and if the president again manages to steal his way into office for another four years, it will be open flow. season on young people everywhere and their blood will really begin to March 29, 2004 A couple of days ago, over the course of several hours and interrupted by various comings and goings, I wrote a two-part, sixty-six-line poem. I didnt know what I was writing about at first, or if it

would turn out to be anything worth saving, but soon I had a feeling something good was developing and I was eager to find out what it was. speaks to the power, magic, and frailty of our existence. Either that, or it It turned out to be The Enigmatic Child, a rhythmic, driven work that is a bunch of good-sounding drivel, as quite a few of my poems tend to

be. In any case, I am still trying to figure out what the poem means. saying that each line was almost a poem in and of itself. But there does be said to represent the adult world welcoming a new child into its midst,

When my wife read it, she described it as a harrowing experience, seem to be one meaning ready at hand. The first half of the poem can while the second half tells how the child views his arrival. Along the way, much is said about the transformation from childhood to adulthood, about what is lost and what is gained, and about how much there is that

remains unknown or misunderstood. This is quite a lot for a poem to do, work. But it was work I tremendously enjoyed, though, I must confess, I

which is one reason writing it took so long and turned out to be a lot of felt angry by the time I was done. I wasnt angry with anything or anyone in particular, except maybe myself, though there was no real reason to had enough for one day. be. The probable cause is that I was just tired and wrung out, and had March 30, 2004 I have come to the conclusion that contradiction lies

at the heart of all things, and that it is a wonderful and entirely necessary participant in, quiet uproars, raging silence, stern laughter, joyful suffering, wise folly, painful victory, and fortunate misunderstanding. I have been comforted and sustained by defeat, and leveled by success. I an expression of their own defeat. The longer I live, the more I have also been leveled by the successful, whose actions, ultimately, are understand and the less I know. I find that people really are what they seem, but that that is not all they are. They are, in fact, much less, but the less is far greater than can be imagined. To make sense is not through logic. Even if it was made by someone willing to let himself,

component of life. For years, now, I have been a witness to, or

divine. It is an affliction, a burden. The universe did not come about herself, or itself be known as God, it is still illogical to create something out of nothing. It was a mysterious, celestial hiccup, or an accidental, playful enterprise right from the beginning. And immediately, it was too late. It has been too late all along. The sooner we recognize this, the happier we will be. The sooner we realize that we are prisoners, the dimension, where, I might add, we have been along. sooner we will be free to laugh and cry this existence into another

March 31, 2004 And now, a word from our sponsors. What? We have are afraid we will be censored by the government. Well, then. Thats

no sponsors? Youre kidding. How can that be? Oh, I see. The sponsors okay. Uniformity, conformity thats what its all about. If we are going

to survive as a society, we need more regulation, strangulation, and After good Saint George blessed his troops today, a tear formed

homogenization. Why, just the other day, I was listening to the radio and in his eye as they chanted his name and trotted joyously off into battle

against the Freedom-Hating Forces of Evil Who Dont Like Hamburgers

and SUVs. Really, he said to his wife as she simultaneously posed for Readers Digest and Parade Magazine, how could a man ask for anything more except for all the worlds oil, maybe, and anything else worth taking? And the queen, too, shed a royal tear. You are so gentle, she said. So kind. You are just like your father. Good Saint

George smiled. Now, dont forget Mom, he said. Where would we be without her? And now, a word from our sponsors. Be all you can be. Hurrah! Smoke em outta their holes! Hurray! April 1, 2003 Two or three days ago, I stopped off at Goodwill to check on their supply of sport coats and shirts. I struck out in the shirt department, but I did find a jacket that was in fine condition, except that

it was far too bulky for this time of year. Nearby, there was an enormous

pile of ties on the floor a good place for them. I also saw a black fur vests. After stepping over several children playing on the floor near the shoe racks, I made my way to the kitchenware. I love this section. A

cap that was in pretty good shape, and half a dozen decent sweater

couple of years ago, my wife and I paid three dollars for a round silver serving tray that has proven to be both decorative and useful. Around the same time, I bought half a dozen or so heavy old-fashioned shot

glasses for forty-nine cents apiece. Pots and pans, dishes, cups, glasses its all fascinating. Anyway. Next up was the book department. At one end, on the bottom shelf, there were several paperbacks and a bowling

ball I didnt bother to examine. At eye level on the shelf just opposite, I found an interesting book entitled The Best Loved Poems of the American People, published in 1936 a real find, and, as it turned out, bored young woman at the cash register and left the store. But now Im

the only one that day. Satisfied with my luck, I paid the desperately thinking I should go back and have her read The Optimist, a great short

poem by an unknown author that I found in the book last night. It goes

like this: The optimist fell ten stories. / At each window bar / He shouted kill her, something she is bound to resent.

to his friends: / All right so far. On the other hand, the inspiration might April 2, 2003 Ive been thinking a lot about poetry lately, in part that summer, fall, and winter arent all excellent times for poetry. But its

because of recently acquired books, and also because it is spring not spring now. And being spring, poems are sprouting up everywhere in

sidewalk cracks, along the edges of office buildings, and near doorways where banished smokers linger, nursing their habit. During spring, poems are so plentiful that one can literally go out and gather them up. Summer poems are different. They tend to be larger and lazier. One can poem is liable to jump up and bite you on the ankle. Autumn poems, on

walk past a summer poem without even waking it, whereas a spring the other hand, are philosophical, though they also tend toward selfcentered verbosity. And winter gives us poems of wisdom, and sadness, company. Another thing I find interesting about poems is that they can but also perspective and hope. Winter poems especially enjoy human remain hidden in books for years without growing resentful. Then when

someone finally comes along and turns to the right page, there they are, warm, familiar, and revealing. What they reveal, though, varies from reader to reader. And every poem is not for every person, just as every person is not for every other person. There are even those who, are currently witnessing on the war-torn world stage. These petty minds are threatened by poetry without even knowing what it is. They are keeping the world divided. Yet they cannot kill poetry. Poetry lives. dehumanized by their selfish ignorance, seek to abolish poetry, as we

threatened by what it represents: real freedom. And so they work hard at April 3, 2003 Several mentally ill crows have been dismantling the nests. Ive noticed, however, that the trees always seem to benefit from

maple trees in front of our house because its time for them to build their the extensive pruning. Ive also heard many times that crows are quite

intelligent. But Im not so sure. If they were, they would charge the city for their work. Still, Im reminded of a certain crow that frequented the workshop of a well-drilling outfit in a small farming town in central

California. For entertainment, the employees would take turns holding a coin up to the light, and then everyone would watch as the crow swooped down out of the rafters, grab the coin with its beak, and fly off. repeated. Maybe I should try this with the local birds. The only thing Im leaving me with yet another physical defect.

A minute later it would drop the coin and wait for the game to be afraid of is that they will go after one of my eyes instead of the coin, April 4, 2003 Awhile ago, I saw a sign on a place of business that said

God bless our troops. Apparently, God is expected to read such signs

and act accordingly. Of course the implication is that God should curse with signs of their own, in which case God will add up the signs and

their troops unless, perhaps, enough people over there counter

decide to bless their troops instead of ours, proving once again that war is a complicated business and a business it is, when you think about the corporate class acts who will benefit from the current spate of side. How convenient. But these are only words soaked in blood.

destruction. Oddly enough, these same people claim that God is on their April 5, 2003 It has been a long time since Ive typed anything on my old two-ton Royal, but I still admire the machine on a daily basis. In fact, Im even thinking of removing the wool hat and sweater sitting on top of

it and typing out a few words just to listen, once again, to its holy racket.

My father was a great typist, though his typing career had ended by the time he was twenty-three. But when he was in high school, he competed against the state typing champion and came only a word or two shy of beating her, both typing in excess of a hundred words a minute. My

mother, meanwhile, was an accomplished secretary, typing her way successfully through many jobs, including one at a small weekly newspaper, a four-page broadsheet called the Alta Advocate. So I guess

you could say that typing is in the blood. An interesting thing about my

old Royal is that I traded it straight across for an electric model I had but didnt really care for. The same store sold musical instruments and sheet music. One of the owners used to be a barber. And next door, in a narrow little space, there actually used to be a barber, who also from where we lived. When my father died in 1995, she stopped by to express her sympathy. A couple of days earlier, I had typed a few grossly insufficient words about my father on my mothers electric

happened to be the father of a nice woman who raised goats not far

typewriter, and what I wrote appeared in the Fresno Bee along with his obituary. And a few days after that I was driving north again to Oregon, wondering what in the world I was supposed to do without a father, even

though Id been one myself for many years. Such questions are never really answered directly, but in time one realizes that they have been answered. This is the beginning of wisdom. But only the beginning. Real wisdom comes when you dont have to explain it to yourself anymore. the fact that they know far more than you do.

Then you are free to bore others with all you have learned, oblivious of April 6, 2003 When I was a kid, I used to dig holes in the shade of the them; when that didnt work, I settled for long afternoons. My main One hole, I remember, had a fireplace. The chimney was formed by

walnut trees growing by our house. My intention was always to live in occupation was reading old issues of Walt Disneys Comics and Stories. driving an old metal horseshoe peg into the clay soil. All I had to do was

light a few leaves, twigs, or pine needles, and then watch the smoke rise But now I usually dig my holes on paper that is, when Im not digging

up through the chimney. Paradise. And Im still quite good with a shovel. them by the stupidity of my actions. Sometimes I succeed in combining the two. This is always cause for celebration. Several years ago, we were told by the landlord of the house we were renting that the holes my children had dug in the backyard would have to be filled in. I said, But you were that age? His answer amazed me: I did, but my father always made me fill them in. And I thought, What a sad thing. April 7, 2003 Yesterday while a young man was trying to sell my wife

theyre holes. Kids are supposed to dig holes. Didnt you dig holes when

and me a bed, a quarter fell through a hole in my right pocket and

landed on the floor. When I bent down to pick it up, another quarter fell out. I refuse to give up on these pants, I said. Theyre old, but theyre comfortable. The young man smiled, sure he was wasting his breath. To prove we were legitimate customers, we tried several couches,

measured one, looked at oak TV stands, and did a lot of nodding and mumbling. Then we actually bought a bed. Shortly after wed returned home, our daughter pulled into the driveway. She said shed just seen a girl riding a horse and talking on a cell phone. A great image. On a scrap asparagus. My son went to a friends house to help him remove a virus

of paper, I wrote the word Incongruities. Our evening meal included from his computer. Someones car alarm went off at four in the morning. Today Im wearing a different pair of pants. Theyre old, but not as old as the others. And I still have my quarters, but not my marbles. April 8, 2003 I just made the mistake of looking outside. If I dont do

some work in the backyard soon, I might not be able to subdue the

jungle in time to plant this years tomato crop. Its warm and dry today,

but more rain is predicted. What I should do, what I need to do, is spend

the rest of the afternoon with a rake and a shovel. In the open area near the house where the soil is warmest and most manageable, there are mounds of weeds, the most striking of which is henbit, now in full flower. But I dont really think of these as weeds, because if one were out for a he would say, Look at the pretty wildflowers. Last spring, I didnt get and ended up with a bumper crop that lasted until frost beyond frost, and were eating those as they ripened well into November. But last

Sunday drive and saw henbit blooming along the road or on a hillside, our tomatoes planted until early May. We started picking in late August, really, because we also picked two big bagsful that were partially ripe, years glory must yield to this years chore. I must ready my fields for planting. This reminds me of No Time to Cut My Hair, the ninety-day story-writing project I was immersed in last fall. Each time I finished a story, I had to turn right around and start another one. Come to think of it, I wrote those stories in August, September, and October right in the

middle of tomato-eating season. No wonder I had the strength to keep going. April 9, 2003 When there is too much to do, the logical thing is to do what you can and save the rest for later. Not surprisingly, I refuse to even as the list grows. And I usually succeed at the minor expense of follow this advice. Instead, I wear myself out by trying to do everything, my physical and mental health. I look at it this way: there is no way of

knowing how long Ill be here, so I want to get as much done as makes one more effective. My answer to that is, perhaps so, for some words, the more time I have to do something, the less likely I am to get it

possible. Of course, it can be argued that doing a little less actually people. But for me, doing less usually leads to doing even less. In other done. Conversely, when I have too much to do, I become far more

efficient and organized, and I usually find out that I dont have too much for me, there is no such thing as having too much to do. When it comes

to do, but rather just the right amount. This is another way of saying that to writing, this is especially the case. While I know I will never finish all the writing I have to do, I still feel I must try, because what I leave unwritten at the end of my life might well be my best work. Therefore enjoyable task. while Im here, I need to write beyond my life a most futile and April 10, 2003 In todays mail, I received a sixteen-page four-color glossy brochure inviting me and several thousand other writers to a writers conference in Maui. For a mere $1,075, plus the cost of lodging wearing a brightly colored shirt. But the really good news is that

and airfare, I can learn to write in a relaxed, intimate setting while registered conference attendees are also eligible to purchase special event guest badges. How can one go wrong? Well, Ill tell you how. A

writer goes wrong every time he believes he can learn to write by

listening to others talk about writing in a relaxed, intimate setting that

also happens to cost the writer a bundle. If the writer has a little money

to spare, as in about ten or twenty bucks, said writer would do far better to spend an evening at the local tavern, watching, listening, and paying attention. Then, after sobering up with a cold shower and a pot of

scalding coffee, this same writer can sit down at his typewriter or computer keyboard and teach himself how to write. If he doesnt have a little money to spare, as is quite often the case, the writer can skip the saloon, the shower, and the coffee and go straight to his typewriter. Well, maybe not the coffee. Ill have to think about that one.

April 11, 2003 Just before I woke up this morning, I was dreaming that I was trying to coax our sons young cat, Joe, out of our closet. Somehow he had managed to make himself small enough to fit in the

narrow space between a stack of old shoeboxes and the wall. There wasnt even room for him to turn his head when I called his name. I picked him up, and as he was about to playfully sink his teeth into my hand, my eyes popped open and the dream was over. A few hours later,

Joe chased a squirrel up the pine tree in our backyard, then became fascinated with a dove a little beyond his reach. Now hes in the attic unless this is another dream, or a continuation of the dream I was having earlier. I certainly seem to be awake, but Ive been fooled by this kind of seeming before, only to wake up in a highly agitated state because of a possibility, is that I am lost somewhere in between my usual chasing my tail. dreams extraordinary, multi-dimensional reality. Another, more likely condition. I think. Then again, maybe this is Joes dream, and I am only

April 12, 2003 The world would be better off without lawnmowers. I

say, let the grass grow, or get a goat, or both. I am also against

sidewalks, because they are ugly, and because concrete is hard on the

feet. Cement is evil. We are meant to walk on uneven ground. Its good on the noise. We make far too much of it. And light. Why should it be so anyway? No wonder everyones so cranky. Case in point: a couple of

for the muscles and it stimulates circulation. We also need to cut down hard to see the stars at night? What are we doing up past our bedtimes days ago, while the wife and I were out for a stroll (on that blasted cement), we noticed in front of a certain house that two beautiful trees had been removed and their stumps ground up into little bits. The trees were at least thirty years old and were doing no harm whatsoever. Only a cranky person would chop down a healthy, harmless tree. And yet, all over the neighborhood, we have seen this kind of behavior time and

again. Trees come down. More concrete is poured. Lawns are mowed we know of, the grass is afraid to grow. It just sits there. Green. Uniform. As if it had been painted onto the ground. How would you like to be an

and massaged to the point that yards look like cemeteries. At one house

insect in that mans lawn, or a weed seed, waiting to germinate? Good luck, is all I can say. We need to relax and breathe. We need to give it a rest. Everything will be okay if the lawn isnt mowed. And the tree that writing songs.

isnt chopped down will be home to birds, who know a thing or two about April 13, 2003 Another strange dream: While lost in an enormous

empty building, I was joined by a short, dark-haired young man who was

also looking for a way out. We eventually found a door that opened onto had a fountain in the center. We heard voices. Frightened, the young

a long corridor, which led to yet another building. This second building

man ran to the fountain, then fell to his knees and pretended to pray. I My view of the young man and the fountain was cut off. A feeling of

kneeled next to a wall. Suddenly people were milling about everywhere. hostility permeated the air. Trying to go unnoticed, I looked at the floor. It

didnt work. A man came up to me, and with much anger told me he was outside, alone. I awakened soon thereafter. Its true, I thought in the dark. I have been wearing the same sport coat every day for the past

didnt like my sport coat. And I thought, Is it really that bad? And then I

several months. Maybe its time for a change. . . . Later, after Id been up awhile, I made a big panful of string beans with lamb for tonights supper. Then I took a shower. I did some writing, had a bite to eat, drank

some coffee, and slowly came to my senses. Then I made an important

decision: Dream or no dream, I will wear my sport coat later today when I go out. And I will go on wearing it every day until the weather gets warm. Maybe even longer.

April 14, 2003 This morning on the radio, I heard someone say how important it is for people to give themselves a break from computers and television and to do something that involves some physical activity isnt really meant to sit in a heap, staring at screens. But Im sure if we

instead. I believe the word he used was exercise. He said our species keep working at it, well get used to it in a few million or billion years. For now, though, hes undoubtedly right. A little more movement would put us in a better mood and keep a lot of us out of the hospital. I know I dont get enough exercise these days. But I still remember how impatient I was as a kid whenever my two older brothers remained seated for more

than five minutes. With baseball and basketball to play, sitting was a was absolutely required. A few years later, though, there I was, sitting.

crime. I also remember saying to myself that I would never sit unless it

And Ive been sitting ever since. Now my own children look at me in wonder, probably saying the same thing I said when I was their age: keep them on course. But I have my doubts. Like exercise, sitting is addictive. Once you start, it is almost impossible to stop. The well known reasons to go on sitting. Take now, for instance. Its rainy, its windy, Im Not me. I only hope my poor example will be persuasive enough to

runners high gives way to sitters low, which creates its own set of tired, I have more work to do, bills to pay, problems to solve, and Im still

too full from lunch. Why, it wears me out just thinking about it. So I guess unless something important comes along to prevent it.

Ill sit a little longer. Later, though, I really am going out for a walk April 15, 2003 You work hard for your money, then you give some of it

away. You give it to something called the government, which then uses

it to kill people, detain and torture others, and give itself more power. reward, you are permitted to read government-sponsored propaganda in

Then you work some more, and a year later you do it all over again. As a something the same government calls the free press. Most people call

this paying taxes. Its a time-honored practice, even though it doesnt work. But it might work if the money were used for constructive instead population that cares for its poorer and older citizens is such a threat to the government. Oh, well. Time to put that check in the mail. of destructive purposes. Too bad a well-nourished, well-educated

April 16, 2003 Howling at the moon is a satisfying activity, probably as actually make it to the moon? How many make it anywhere in terms of

satisfying as going to the moon itself. Besides, how many people impossible or nearly impossible attainment? The answer is, everyone everyone who survives, who laughs, who eats, drinks, sleeps, and shakes his fist at the absurdly profane-profound natural order of things.

And it should be noted that the temporary nature of our survival is what how we would survive that knowledge? And before I begin to make

actually makes it survival. On the other hand, if we didnt die, I wonder sense, I will also say that none of this will matter very much if we ever stop howling. To howl is to survive. To survive is noble. Survival is noble because it leaves the door open to improvement and hope. If we stop something else, something even more pitiful and embarrassing. . . . The howling, we might go on living, but our survival will be reduced to ornamental pink double-blossomed cherry trees scattered throughout the area are now in full bloom. Its amazing how trees that look so drab in the summer, and are so often ravaged by worms and insects that their trunks are rotten to the core, have the strength to make such a powerful statement. Interesting. April 17, 2003 It is often said, Read the fine print. This is good advice, because the reason fine print exists at all is to discourage it from being read. If fine print authors wanted their message to be read, they would set it in larger type. This is where advertising comes in. The print in advertising is a visual scream. And it is assumed by ad agencies and attorneys alike that the louder the message, the less likely a person is to read or even notice the real message, which is, Dont look now, but weve got you over a barrel. That this method is quite effective is

proven every day in court, as well as by the continued existence of fine print. The digusting thing about all this is that lying is the accepted business form. People lie, and expect the same in return. For some odd reason, the simple solution, which is not lying, seems too complicated.

But is telling the truth really more complicated than cheating one another and having to always cover ones tracks? Apparently enough of us think so. And apparently it is also easier than consistently striving to offer our

best, and letting our work speak for itself. But that would call for personal responsibility, wouldnt it? And who is responsible anymore? Everything our actions, we become victims. We vote and expect our leaders to take care of things. We pour oil and anti-freeze into our street drains, but the polluted streams full of deformed frogs and dead fish that result that happens is someone elses fault. Instead of taking responsibility for

arent our fault. A discarded cigarette butt or gum wrapper seems littered with some pretty significant-looking trash. The same can be said

insignificant in itself, but multiply it a few million times and the roadside is of rude behavior. How hard is it, really, to smile and say thank you, or to let the car ahead of you merge into traffic? The all-too-common answer, unfortunately, is up yours the same message found, coincidentally, in most fine print.

April 18, 2003 One crucial thing a writer must remember while looking for or waiting for someone to publish his work is that he must keep writing. The moment he stops writing, the petty business side of things brought the writer to the point of having anything to publish in the first can leave behind his previous work, the better off he will be. The best way to move forward is to let go of the past. What is written is written.

grows in importance, and there is the very real danger of forgetting what place. For the writer to remain a writer, he must press on. The sooner he

What has yet to be written is full of challenge and promise and also friend because it is such a good and impartial teacher. It is a companion because it is always present in some form, even if it exists only as doubt.

failure, which is a writers lifelong friend and companion. Failure is a

Of course, success is fine too. And so is a little healthy arrogance. For while there is always room for improvement, the writer who is confident is also the writer most likely to forge ahead. Stagnation is the enemy. Its

the same in all walks and aspects of life. And if the simultaneous presence of confidence and failure seems a contradiction, thats delightfully harmonious enterprise. because it is. Everything is a contradiction. Thats why life is such a April 19, 2003 First, the bad news: I havent brought home any books have. The Book of Living Verse, a volume I rescued a few weeks ago from a free book bin in West Salem, has turned out to be quite a find. Last night I read some wonderful poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay. My favorite was Dirge Without Music, which ends like this: . . . Down,

for the last several days. The good news? Ive been reading the ones I

down, down into the darkness of the grave / Gently they go, the beautful, the tender, the kind; / Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. / I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. While reading around, I also found Walt Whitmans O Captain! My Captain!, a favorite of mine since I first learned it in the sixth grade at Grand View School was situated immediately south of the same Thompson Seedless vineyard, and owned by the same Japanese man, whose name was Kiwano. And then this verse from Two Tramps in Mud Time, by Robert

the same school, incidentally, that my father attended as a boy, and that

Frost: . . . The sun was warm but the wind was chill. / You know how it is month on in the middle of May. / But if you so much as dare to speak, / A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, / A wind comes off a frozen peak, / And youre two months back in the middle of March. . . . As it happens, speaking two languages at once.

with an April day / When the sun is out and the wind is still, / Youre one

this is a perfect description of todays weather, which seems intent on April 20, 2003 If my fathers father were still alive, he would be all smiles today because it is Easter. Easter was his favorite holiday

because it was his name day in the Armenian Church. My grandfathers

name was Haroutiun, which means resurrection in Armenian. For Gramp, Easter meant putting on a nice shirt, tie, and hat and going to church. If the small local church was between parish priests and closed, house, where he, my grandmother, and the rest of the family were that, we would have an Easter egg fight, a game my father and grandfather enjoyed immensely. How you held the egg was crucial. The less of it you exposed to your opponents sharp taps, the better. After the

as was occasionally the case, he would still wear his tie and hat to our treated to an enormous Armenian meal prepared by my mother. After

egg fight, there was plenty of dessert and coffee, plus a minimum of heard so much about the old days that I felt very much a part of them. I

three hours of talk about the old days. In fact, while I was growing up, I still do. And of course now I am also part of my own old days, which children are still having to listen to my rendition of the old old days, as well as my mothers rendition of hers, which includes the old days as they were handed down to her by her mother and father. And so they dont stand a chance, the lucky brats.

constitute a neverland of growing force and magnitude. Meanwhile, our

April 21, 2003 Two days ago, I finally managed to turn over a small portion of our garden space that is nearest the house. Four or five feet away, though, the soil was still too wet to dig. Our other space, where

our tomatoes were last year, is even worse. A test shovelful yielded a juicy, worm-filled slab of clay. And now its raining again. Assuming we minute bout of digging and preparation. But we still like the rain, having become addicted to blue skies and fresh air soon after our move to Salem in 1987. The funny thing about it is, 1987 was a hot, dry year, and have a warm spell in early May, I expect to be engaged in a furious last-

it was ninety-five degrees here this same time in April. Having come from the San Joaquin Valley, the heat that year didnt bother us a bit. But it did rain an inch on the last day of June, surprising no one but us weather people, who are frightened when a single cloud passes overhead. Personally, I dont feel threatened by rain. I like clouds. The

newcomers. Another funny thing is the childish yammering of television

sun is fine, too. In fact, I am grateful there are seasons. I can even figure out what to wear without a meteorologists advice. Apparently, though, outside once in awhile and paying attention. there are many people who cant, even though all thats required is going April 22, 2003 Its hard to work when youre hungry, but its much

harder when youre weighed down with food. Personally, I prefer working on an empty stomach. Eventually, though, when the bitter acids take over and the stomach lining comes under attack, I know its time to eat. the brain waves. Brain waves are important. If my stomach is full, my

The thing I like about working on an empty stomach is that it liberates brain waves shut down, except for a few concerned with breathing and so on. Take now, for instance. My stomach is empty, but my brain waves are zipping right along. It feels great. At any moment, I could decide to

start work on a new novel. This is something that would never happen after lunch. After lunch I could continue working on a novel, but taking on a new one wouldnt even occur to me. That would have to wait until much later in the afternoon. Of course, by then it would be too late, because supper would be on the horizon. This is probably why I have written more short stories than novels. Be that as it may, I have been thinking lately that it might be fun to write another novel. In fact, I know it Because its almost lunch time, thats why.

would be fun. Thats why I write in the first place. So why dont I begin?

April 23, 2003 There are times when this high-tech universe drives me absolutely mad, and I long to be back in the vineyard with my hands gripped around a low-tech pair of pruning shears. When it comes to hardware, good old pruning shears, shovels, and hoes cant be beat. And there is still no greater software than ones own brain. In my case, the brain is really soft, but that is only because I have spent too much

time recently grappling with high-tech issues. The matter will be solved, of course. Eventually. But at present I am consumed by details that have absolutely nothing to do with writing and everything to do with frustration. No novel will be started today, no story, no poem. An ulcer, maybe. My

prediction, though, is that things will look better by the end of the day. Or worse. Or they might even look the same. Really, how am I supposed to today. It certainly feels like there is one brewing. know how things will look? Come to think of it, maybe I will write a story April 24, 2003 I never did buy any tobacco for my uncles pipe. But

today is his birthday, so maybe I will. I dont think hed mind. He hasnt used it for almost sixty years. And I just had another strange thought. All of my uncles are dead. All of them my fathers two brothers, one a violinist, the other a mechanic; their uncles, one an artist and poet,

another a produce manager and lover of the opera, and still another an operator, as clever, ambitious people used to be called. No uncles. aunts in no rush to go anywhere. Thank goodness. Please stay put, What a truly sad state of affairs although I do have many wonderful ladies. You are desperately needed in these lonely, preposterous times. off so soon? . . . Yesterday while driving home from my mothers house, I heard the most wonderful song in the world or at least it was the most wonderful song I could have heard at that moment. A soft,

As for you eternally resting men, whats the big idea? Why did you take

melancholy rain was falling when the announcer on the radio introduced Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans, performed by Louis Armstrong. Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans / And miss

it each night and day / I know Im not wrong . . . this feeling is gettin stronger / The longer I stay away / . . . / Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans / When thats where you left your heart / And theres one thing more . . . I miss the one I care for / More than I miss New Orleans. Oh, that voice of his. That personality. And then I turned the

corner and saw two schoolgirls on their way home, laughing and throwing wet cherry blossoms at each other. The tree they had picked them from hung down over the sidewalk. Do you know what it means? Does anyone know what any of it means?

April 25, 2003 All is calm, all is serene. In other words, Im going being nuts. We like it, and frequently compare notes. All we lack is an

crazy. But thats okay. Lunacy runs in the family. We are comfortable annual reunion of demented relatives. Some of us get together on occasion, but we have never organized. But its probably for the best. That might really attract attention although there are those among us whom I suspect would relish being certified, because it would satisfy a happened. Were all still at large. . . . Speaking of sanity, the sick hunger for notoriety and extra attention. And yet it has never technological nightmare I was complaining about a couple of days ago is now mostly solved. A look in the mirror, however, tells me I have aged at seven. Oh, well. One cant expect to get through life without a few battle rest. Of course if I am, I will have to get rid of our mirrors. least five years in the last seventy-two hours. So now I look twentyscars. I just hope Im still around when the problem is officially laid to

April 26, 2003 In kindergarten, my good friend Edwin and I were

always first to request use of the small building blocks. The big building blocks were okay, but they were rather crude. About all you could do was stack them up and knock them down again. The little blocks, on the other hand, were well suited to the building of fortresses. If stacked

properly, it was even possible to remove a block here and there from a was dispensing graham crackers for our morning snack, felt it necessary

wall to form windows. The problem was, our teacher, whose main job for some reason to allow other members of the class an opportunity to halfway to the blocks. Well let someone else have a turn. And then meant we were stuck with the big blocks. Talk about a waste of

use our blocks. Not today, she would say when we were already Edwin and I would stop and look at each other, knowing full well that this expertise. To get even, we rode our stick horses up and down the corridor during recess, screaming at the top of our lungs. Without a sure she liked anybody. She even made us take a nap every day. I doubt, the teacher didnt like us. But she was a crabby soul, so Im not never could understand why we should lie down on a towel for thirty

minutes at 11:30 in the morning. What was the point in being five years old if you had to stare out the window in silence, jealous of the summer came, and our nine months of kindergarten were over. orchards. And freedom. dragonflies buzzing around outside? I never did learn the answer. Then Overjoyed, we returned to our backyards and fields, our vineyards and April 27, 2003 Today is our youngest sons sixteenth birthday. To

celebrate, we will do all of the things we usually do, only they will be in his honor. There will also be a cake and lots of ice cream, and plenty of other stuff to eat and drink. The sun is even shining today. This means

the street will be dry for an afternoon basketball game great for working up an appetite. It also means that we are still here to admire the sun, and that the world is still here to receive the suns warming rays truly a miracle in light of current events. So we have many reasons to worldwide epidemic. . . . celebrate. Now, if only our simple birthday happiness could become a April 28, 2003 Last night I tried using a new pillow. I still havent

gotten rid of the pain in my shoulders and neck. The old pillow is already back in place. The question is, if I go to bed now, in the middle of the day, will the old pillow help undo the damage? Or maybe I should just try lying down for fifteen minutes and see if that helps. It might. But I dont

have fifteen minutes. If I try to rest now, Ill just lie there and fidget, and my eyes will dart nervously in my head, because there are too many woods are lovely, dark and deep. / But I have promises to keep, / And more things I need to do today. Or, as Robert Frost once said, The miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep. Good old Robert Frost. He knew. And he proved it by going many more miles before he slept and he wore those miles upon his face, as I am rotten pillow. beginning to now, and on his shoulders, as I am now, thanks to that April 29, 2003 This morning I dreamed my wife and I had found a new

bike trail in a huge park we had visited many times before, but that was

still somehow unfamiliar. The trail was smooth and led past shimmering waters, around which leafy green trees had congregated to give thanks and pay homage. Part of the time we were riding, part of the time we

were on foot and the trail was covered with fir needles. I remember realizing a few times that I was dreaming, but each time I managed to fend off the realization and dwell a bit longer in the dream. After our trek,

we came to a strange building. I knew our nineteen-year-old son was inside, because there was a familiar noise emanating from within. The sons room just a few feet up the hall. Five oclock. Oh, well. It was time noise turned out to be his cat, Joe, trying to knock down the door to our to get up anyway. . . . Now, hours later, I am trying to make sense of to the hills. Another dream, another park. Both seem more familiar, though they, too, are constantly changing. April 30, 2003 Mental Breakthrough: Ive finally come to the

another dream: a patch of blue sky being chased by clouds on their way

realization that doing ones work to the best of his ability while constantly seeking to improve isnt enough. If one isnt controversial, and live and die in obscurity. In two simple words, controversy sells. Thats Nice Guy. I want to be famous. When I walk down the street, I want to be controversial in a big way, then he will almost certainly be condemned to why Ive decided to become controversial. No more Mr. Diligent Reliable mobbed by adoring fans and asked for my autograph. I also want my

books to be banned and burned. I want to be known as a hell-raiser, a troublemaker, a lunatic, and a threat to society. The only problem is, I havent figured out how to accomplish all this. I get up in the morning

and drink coffee, have a bite to eat, and go to work. Ive been following this procedure for so long that I can go halfway through the day without even remembering that Ive been doing the exact same thing for years and years. And then when I do remember, I dont have time to think about it, because I am too busy trying to get my work done. Its a difficult

cycle to break. Also, theres the added burden of knowing that not just any controversy will do. With deviant behavior at an all-time high, its in. I could take off all of my clothes and burn the United States flag in getting harder and harder for the first-time controversial person to break

downtown Salem while shouting Give Peace a Chance and get myself right around and find some other controversial thing to do. It just isnt easy.

on the evening news, for instance, but then what? Then Id have to turn

Unless . . . unless . . . by not embracing controversy, I can become even more controversial. No, that doesnt make sense. What am I supposed to do, go around telling people that Im not controversial? Theyd think big, really insane. Ive got to grab for the gusto while I still have the completely. But what? And how?

Im and idiot and theyd be right. No, Ive got to do something really energy, before this lifetime of stable, predictable behavior does me in May 1, 2003 The thing is, they dont want us to have the time to think.

Its easier to conduct wars and steal our rights if we are distracted and worn out from rushing around and struggling to make ends meet. Add to this the propaganda that passes for news and youve got a real formula what the government any government tells them as the truth? How

for disaster. My question is, why would anyone in their right mind accept many lies, coverups, and self-serving military operations are they willing corporate profit? Has having plenty of hot water, ample groceries, and abundant entertainment stunted our ability to reason? Or do we close our eyes because our everyday behavior is the same as the

to ignore? How much environmental degradation in exchange for

governments, but only on a small scale? When I was a kid, one thing that amused my father was how various small-time crooks posing as businessmen would attend church every Sunday. He used to say, Go to church on Sunday, stab your neighbor in the back on Monday. It also angered him to see some of the things they got away with. I dont know. Are people basically rotten? My own observation is that people can be

pretty darned decent if given the chance. Expect the worst from

someone and youre much more likely to receive their worst in return.

People are decent. We are only rotten as a matter of self-defense. We avoid being hurt again. Vulnerability is thought of as a weakness. But if

dont like to be hurt. Having been hurt, we will do almost anything to we are not vulnerable, then a shell builds up around us that keeps out

the bad and the good. But it still boils down to one thing. We dont have so many other things. We have time to wave flags and watch wars on television as if they were football games and then we have time to

time to think. Or we dont think we have time. And yet we have time for

become bored with it all and go off in search of other entertainment, often while ignoring the very people who live under our own roof. We do the other guy. have one thing to be thankful for, though. We can be thankful its always May 2, 2003 Too bad the president didnt make yesterdays victory

speech in downtown Baghdad. Or was he afraid of the greeting hed receive from the liberated Iraqis? . . . For the second day in a row, the sun is out, the temperature is warm, and the sky is blue. And for about the thousandth day in a row, I am sitting at a computer tending to business. Its not that Im addicted to work. I just cant afford to get any

further behind. But Bill, you were born behind. You will always be when the brains were passed out. Thats what really got me into trouble. It happened like this: I had heard there were going to be some brains

behind. Yes. And you forgot to mention how I was also behind the door

passed out, but on the appointed day I was busy. At the last possible

moment, I raced down to the central brain depot, and, wouldnt you know door and the wall just as my name was being called. When I failed to

it, the brain-dispensing room was so full that I got pinned between the

step forward in the allotted five seconds, what would have been my brain was dropped into a stainless steel tube and flushed out to sea. A few days later, my brain was caught by a fisherman, who got his picture in partly nibbled away by the tide and various forms of sea life. I claimed undo the damage ever since.

the paper as a result. But by then it was too late. The brain had been the brain anyway, and got my picture in the paper. Ive been trying to May 3, 2003 Today is my cousins birthday. Happy birthday, Vahan,

wherever you are. Do you still remember climbing the big pine tree in the corner of our front yard in Dinuba? And throwing the frisbee in the open tree? One thing you might not know or remember is that the heavy iron to play on as kids in Fresno. A fine bit of family history. . . . Once again, I am behind on my reading. I have a couple of new poetry chapbooks Im area next to the graveled driveway, by the basketball goal and mulberry rim on the basketball goal was the same one your father and uncle used

dying to get to, but I simply havent had the time. But I have enjoyed looking at the covers and reading about the authors in the back, and their widely varied experiences. Both chapbooks are on my work table, a

few inches away from my keyboard, atop a pile of correspondence. Next to that is a another pile of books, and behind that is a cardboard file containing a couple dozen more small press publications. There is also a style manual I rarely use, three Armenian-English dictionaries, a hardbound thesaurus, and an old paperback thesaurus. And at the edge of the table is a five-by-seven framed photo of a city known as Bitlis, where my fathers mothers mothers people were from. Taken by my brother, the picture is a daily source of inspiration. All of the

aforementioned material occupies only about a quarter of the table,

though. But the really important thing is that the table is the same table

we used to eat around when I was growing up. So every time I sit down

to work, I am reminded of all that took place at this table the wrong. And its awfully easy to feel lucky in work, in life, in general.

conversations, the eating, the noise. So, really, its pretty hard to go May 4, 2003 Yesterday we enjoyed a visit from my wifes brother, who lives on the Oregon coast. Unfortunately he was unable to spend the night. He claimed he had to be at work at seven-thirty this morning, but I think the real reason is that he was afraid to face my scrambled eggs. beach. Once when he was out jogging, he realized he was about to put

But he did have something interesting to say about running on the his foot down directly into the middle of a dead, rotting seal. Relying on some recently acquired Tai Chi skills, he managed to withdraw his foot in mid-air and to land gracefully and with full mental clarity at a safe

distance from the carcass. A trained biologist interested in all manner of decaying life-forms, he stopped to investigate. The seal was teeming with maggots, which turned out to be the only thing allowing the creature to maintain its shape. Luckily for us, we learned of this adventure well before it was time for our evening meal. But we also talked a little about politics and current events, and that nearly ruined our appetite. As the drank coffee, and talked about everything under the sun. He left a little before midnight to face a drive of over two hours. It was raining again. May 5, 2003 The lilacs are in full bloom, as are these words from evening wore on, we sprawled in our sitting area adjacent to the table,

Whitman: . . . In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the whitewashed palings, / Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, / With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, / With every leaf a miracle and from this

bush in the dooryard, / With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped

leaves of rich green, / A sprig with its flower I break. . . . which place us appreciate our own. Words have undeniable power. We must choose them carefully, respect them, and be amazed then we must forget

directly before his lilac bush and no other, and remind us to notice and

them, lest they come between us and what they are meant to describe. heart, in the mind, and on the tongue.

Only then can we begin to appreciate their daily resurrection, in the May 6, 2003 Ive long been in the habit of jotting things down on scraps of paper and on the backs of business cards. Its a good way not to have to remember whatever it is I dont want to forget if that makes down ensures that I do remember. This is one reason my mind is so

any sense. At the same time, Ive found that the very act of jotting things cluttered. But there have also been times when I have deliberately not written something down, based on the assumption that if its worthwhile, whether it works or not, because some of the things I remember dont seem to be worth remembering. And so Ive come to rely on my notes. I will be able to remember it later. The trouble with that is, I dont know

This morning, for example, I unearthed several important reminders: 1) in 1941; 2) sometime when Im at the library, I need to check out at least

Josh White wrote the famous Animals tune, House of the Rising Sun, one book by Zora Neale Hurston, and one by Ezra Pound; 3) blues-great John Lee Hooker once recorded with Woodstock phenom Canned Heat, with a microphone attached to his foot; 4) according to an old friend, I

need to rent Local Hero, a 1983 movie starring Burt Lancaster; 5) Under is not really a word, though it has been used on occasion for rubbish; 7) weather is funny, because you can hear rain falling gently on a roof,

an Old Gray Hat is a story title of possible merit; 6) the word rubbage

but you cant hear the sun beating down; and 8) there are ways other

than language to communicate effectively. At times like these, I am especially grateful for that last reminder. May 7, 2003 The question is, should I take a break, have a bite to eat,

and watch Perry Mason, or should I just sit here and listen to my to several e-mails and composed and sent some new ones of my own

stomach growl? So far today, I havent been very productive. Ive replied always an enjoyable task. But I havent really settled in to work. I was

dazed when I got out of bed at five-thirty this morning, and Im still because I am worried about not being rich and famous, and about still terms at best. Of course later on when I am rich and famous, I will hanging onto my money. At least Ive heard of this possibility. While Im

dazed. This happens every once in awhile. I have trouble sleeping, having to work for a living working and living both being abstract probably lose even more sleep, because then I will be worried about waiting, I should probably write a story about a person who isnt rich and famous and who cant sleep, and who then becomes rich and famous but still cant sleep. Something tells me I have plenty of time. And now, case but still somehow manages to win in the end. . . .

on to Perry Mason. Todays episode is the one where he loses the May 8, 2003 There is an old Gordon Lightfoot song that begins, Im on my second cup of coffee, and I still cant face the day. Thats me. Im trying to make sense of it all, but cant. Last night I dreamed that I made

a right turn from the left lane, after joining traffic from a hidden route. But I was polite about it, and used my signal before cutting off the driver next to me. After turning, I was alone on the road. And then, once again, I

found myself on foot inside an enormous empty building, looking for an

exit. Finally, I found one, but the area outside was fenced in with razorwire. I entered another empty building. There was a small window with

light shining in. I opened it. But before I could climb out, a man who

looked like the bloated, corrupt executive of an evil corporation floated into view, then up past the window and out of sight. I was dumbfounded when I realized it was the vice-president. Then I woke up. Now Im dreaming that I am sitting at my work table, typing these words. Its

funny, but it always happens this way. One dream leads to another. I

dont mean to be redundant. I just am. Maybe I should change brands of sale, that remains a remote possibility. Or maybe I should drink more coffee, and change the words of Mr. Lightfoots song to, Im on my And I still cant face the day. second POT of coffee, then go stick my finger in a light socket ffzzzz! May 9, 2003 The stack of reading material at my bedside is now

coffee. But as we have purchased several cans of our regular brand on

higher than the lamp. Newspapers, books, and magazines are crisscrossed at every angle as a stabilizing measure, the dust on the lower edges is an inch thick, and yet I go on adding to the pile. Before long, Ill need a ladder. Behind it all is a radio I cant get to, and a jar of pennies that could be converted into useful spending money if removing it

werent so dangerous. One false move and everything could wind up on the floor. But the worst part is knowing there are things scattered throughout the pile that I havent finished reading. How am I supposed to

get to them? I could dismantle and rearrange everything, but that would ruin the aesthetics. And anyway, the project would take a whole even more stuff to read. But at least I havent done what William afternoon time that could be spent writing, reading, and accumulating Saroyan did. He used old newspapers as tablecloths so hed always have something to read when he ate, and spread papers on his

bathroom floor to read during prolonged visits. Now thats ridiculous. Or is it? May 10, 2003 Im tempted to say writing is what keeps me sane, but I

think wed better reserve judgment on that. The opposite could easily be true. Writing might be what keeps me insane. Or, my insanity might be what keeps me writing. Then again, it might be my sanity that keeps me

writing though it should also be noted that writing is an insane act at least according to several sane people Ive known who were, in fact, miserable, because their sanity prevented them from seeing how running an errand downtown on Ferry Street, I walked up High Street to seems to have been redesignated as a church, turned left on Court

insane they were, and from enjoying the fact. . . . Yesterday after State Street, crossed State, continued past the old Grand Theater, which Street, crossed the alley, and entered a used-book store called The gift I was looking for: a hardbound copy of Longfellows Song of Hiawatha. Then, on the shelf behind me, I found a copy of the second published in 1844. The copy I found was published in 1892 in retrace my steps entirely, headed up the alley back toward Ferry Street.

Book Bin. After searching for about one minute, I found the Mothers Day

series of Ralph Waldo Emersons essays. The essays were originally Philadelphia, by Henry Altemus. I bought both books, then, so as not to In the alley I passed a young man and young woman sitting with their backs against the brick wall of the book store. They were deep in conversation. Last night I read the first essay, The Poet, from which I

quote: . . . For, though the origin of most of our words is forgotten, each the moment it symbolized the world to the first speaker and to the

word was at first a stroke of genius, an obtained currency, because for hearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a

brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. . . . And there you have it one more reason to go on writing, and to go on being insane. Or, to driven her sane. / And wept, for in so doing, had made of her a stranger. quote from an as-yet-unwritten poem: He loved her, only to find he had May 11, 2003 Our garden spot is still a sea of mud, but I have finally planting. So far there is room for about six tomato plants a far cry passing week, there has been just enough rain to keep things from

managed to prepare a narrow strip of ground next to the house for from last years twenty-four. But there is nothing else I can do. With each drying out. If all goes according to plan, I will visit the nursery and buy tomato plants today. But I might not plant them until tomorrow, because tomorrow is my grandfathers birthday, and thats bound to bring luck. If he were alive, he would be 107. And if I were alive, I would be almost

forty-seven. And if he were able to hear what I just said, it wouldnt make a certain young celebrity took his own life, and he remarked, Huh what could be so bad? The answer, of course, is plenty of things. But

sense to him. I remember once years ago, back in the late 1970s, when

he also had a point. His father was murdered in Turkey before he was He escaped with some of his family to America ten years later. Those

born in 1896, by people who thought Armenians had no business living. who remained behind perished. In Troy, New York, it was so cold where he and his mother and grandmother were living that there was ice on the walls. In Dinuba, California, where I was born, he had to defend his way their country. He lost one of his sons in World War II, and, with my

through school against people who thought Armenians didnt belong in father, tamed eighty acres of raw, rolling farm land almost literally with his bare hands. So. What could be so bad? The answer is easy: Everything. And nothing. Over and over and over again.

May 12, 2003 Yesterday afternoon I hauled my shabby carcass into bought two more books at the Friends bookstore. One was Seven Plays, by Bernard Shaw, published in 1951 by Dodd, Mead & Company. The other was Sixteen Famous European Plays, compiled by Bennett A. Cerf

public and bought six tomato plants. Then I stopped at the library and

and Van H. Cartmell and published as a Modern Library Giant in 1943. So now I can read The Wild Duck, by Henrik Ibsen, The Sea Gull, by Anton Chekhov, and The Playboy of the Western World, by John eventually. Then, yesterday evening, there was a big thunderstorm. It rained so hard the gutters overflowed. And so my tomato-planting will

Millington Synge, among others. Im not sure when I will do this, but I will

have to be put off a little longer a disturbing, though familiar,

development. But the storm was great. Just as the rain was beginning to fall, we were outside saying farewell to my mother, who had politely escape. The atmosphere was charged with microscopic particles of birds. In short, the universe was laughing again. endured an evening meal in her honor and was ready to make her newly moistened earth, various spores and pollens, and the music of May 13, 2003 There are times when the best thing you can do is have a cup of coffee and relax. This is one them. Ahhh. . . . And with that I say farewell to an unproductive morning, and celebrate the beginning of a shining afternoon full of potential. . . . And then the telephone rings . . . a boring discussion ensues . . . my coffee is growing cold . . . wait . . . just . . . a . . . minute. . . . And I hang up and finish my cold coffee. Now.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Shining potentials full of promising afternoon

interruptions. No, that wasnt it. Unproductive discussions about cold coffee? Morning celebrations of telephone cups? Ringing farewells to relaxation? Grrrr. . . .

May 14, 2003 An hour or so ago in the neighboring town of

Woodburn, I saw an elderly woman breaking up clods in her garden with an iron rake. The ground was already nice and level, and it seemed to stopped and asked her what she was going to plant. But as I was in a have aired out sufficiently for planting. Had I been on foot, I would have line of traffic approaching a stop light, all I could do was admire her straw hat and the peaceful, gentle scene. A couple of minutes later I was on the freeway, headed back to Salem. And now I am here, though part of me is still in Woodburn, kneeling down to pick up a handful of moist earth to see and smell what the soil is like. And another part of me is remembering the many years I spent on the farm, and the quiet

moments alone, walking with a shovel resting over my right shoulder, and listening to the sound of my footsteps. And now I am here again, wondering about all the changes there have been in what, for lack of a better term, I call my life, and about all the changes yet to come. It is

not hard to imagine myself as an old man, working in a roadside garden. the limbo known as death, yet somehow still wondering if I will ever get my tomatoes planted. May 15, 2003 I heard on the radio this morning that over seven

It also is not hard to imagine myself never arriving, bound up instead in

percent of the children in Iraq are in the process of starving to death idling in line at a fast-food driveup window. About fifteen minutes ago, it afternoon. They sustained no damage from the hail. A friend of my

something interesting to think about while filling ones gas tank, or while hailed briefly. Now its mostly sunny. I planted my tomatoes yesterday fathers called from Fresno today and said he is now a grandfather, and that tomorrow he is going fishing. I remember going fishing with my father. Last night I had a dream in which two doctors told me I had

cancer, but that it was in a very early stage. The first treatment they

prescribed was a special helmet with a metal finger that pressed firmly

against the back of my neck. For the second treatment, they placed me in front of a very bright light. After the treatments were over, they seemed optimistic probably because they knew their bank accounts

had just grown larger. Many other things also happened today. For instance, I bought two packages of corn tortillas, saw someone get stopped for speeding, and had a spearmint cough drop. Of course, these are just a few highlights. I also put on my shoes once and took them off.

Pretty soon I will be putting them on again, because I have something I

need to do downtown and I dont like to drive while wearing slippers. When I get back, I will take off my shoes, and, with any luck, be able to walk, in which case I will need to put my shoes on again. But Im getting ahead of myself. Thats what I do when I am overwhelmed with leave them off. On the other hand, I could just as easily decide to take a

excitement. What I need to do is learn how to calm down and take things one step at a time and stop thinking about starving children. After all, whats good enough for the government should be good enough for me, right? May 16, 2003 A very important part of my job is to have coffee

occasionally with a very good friend of mine who is also a writer, and

another friend, who is an artist. Todays discussion was highly

informative. The topics included prickly heat, black widow spiders, the sold in refurbished cigarette vending machines, and the sleep habits of

absence of snakes in Hawaii, paintings the size of cigarette packages bullfrogs. As it turns out, at least according to information printed on the hours a day, 365 days a year. This was a disturbing surprise, so much

inside of a Snapple lid, bullfrogs dont sleep. They are awake twenty-four

so that my writer-friend said he wouldnt be able to sleep at night,

thinking about millions of wide-awake bullfrogs around the world. Then

one of us suggested a scene in which a bullfrog was in bed and unable to sleep, and he turns to his wife and asks, You awake? and the wife answers, I am now, and the bullfrog says, Do you think you could

make me a sandwich? And I said, Poor guy. He cant sleep even when and dysentery.

he croaks. After that, our conversation drifted on to welding, baseball, May 17, 2003 More rain. But at least I dont have to water my tomato

plants. At the rate its going, I may never have to. And Im thinking of

hiring a professional grain-harvesting outfit to get our lawn back under control. I say that only because I know the neighbors would be less alarmed seeing a combine in our yard than half a dozen goats. Ah, the we used to have years ago when we lived on the farm. Goats are price we pay for calling ourselves civilized. Personally, I miss the goats wonderful, clean animals, and great entertainment. One we had, a on its back. She had a tremendous personality the goat, not the

Nubian, liked to go with us on walks. It also permitted a chicken to ride chicken. But this is not to say chickens dont have personalities. That

would be unfair to Hop-along, our old red hen that hobbled around the yard on its one good leg, the other having been stepped on by our goat. And then there was Bent Comb Hen, whose comb was so big that it flopped over on one side and covered its eye. Talk about demented.

May 18, 2003 Today we joined the herd and bought a cart-load of need to something that closely resembles a cattle drive. What a scene:

supplies at one of those huge chain stores that have reduced human narrow aisles full of wrung-out, poverty-stricken consumers dejectedly shoveling merchandise into grimy baskets laden with germs. Really, its

hard to beat. We saved tons of money, and all we lost was our selfrespect. Fortunately, we have three or four weeks to regain it, then well Experiment. Dipped into the broth of commerce by evil corporate go back and lose it all over again. I call it participating in the American thieves, we stay immersed until our skin turns blue, then pop up and boy so much so, that you cant help feeling a little sorry for the

wash it all down with artificial cookies and cheap soda pop. Thats living, criminally overpaid and overfed, reading the Wall Street Journal and suffering aboard their yachts. On the way home, when we passed a people inside the church would probably go into shock if they knew what church parking lot full of cars, I remarked to my loving bride that the Jesus really looked like. Not that it matters, of course. Because, as we all know, looks dont mean a thing. Ask any publicist, or anyone else waiting in line to buy tickets for the next big show. May 19, 2003 It might seem strange, or even a little sick, but I really

am doing exactly what I want to be doing. This includes the present moment, which finds me slumped with tired eyes and a sore neck at an old computer. It is the culmination of years of refusal: I have refused,

passionately and sytematically, to give in to the notion that a person can who wait. At the same time, I am fully aware of what it costs not to wait.

always do what he wants, later. I have seen what happens to people Having tasted the results of both, I would choose my brand of suffering advice, perhaps, but sound nonetheless.

anytime. Its better to suffer in joy than in frustration less than poetic May 20, 2003 Today is my birthday, and also the birthday of Honor de Balzac, whom I havent seen since his untimely death in 1850. And exit, because, by and large, writers are an unreliable lot. I suppose I we still had so much to talk about not that I was really surprised by his

should have told him to slow down and take it easy on the coffee, but in owing to thousands of modern conveniences. I remember the time well.

those days life was a hurry-up affair, and not the peaceful thing it is now, The promenade was jammed with carriages, and the horse fumes were

awful. It took hours just to get across town, and even then you had to do battle for a place to park. It didnt help that everyone spoke French, either. When I returned to Paris with my brother in 1982, the Armenian and asked half a dozen policemen where to find 74 rue Taitbout, which different direction, then returned to their idle chatter. What six policemen were doing on an abandoned Paris street corner in the middle of the

driver in charge of showing us the sights that late fall evening stopped is where William Saroyan lived while in Paris. They all pointed in a

night was anyones guess. Needless to say, we never did find Saroyans youths operating some sort of mechanical pigeons in front of dozens of

apartment or anything else, for that matter. But we did see several wide steps leading up to an imposing edifice that might have been a government building. Just as well, because Saroyan was dead anyway. I guess Paris just does something to writers although my long life would seem a contradiction. I also knew Guy de Maupassant, the discuss our experiences and fallings out at another time.

Goncourt brothers, and mile Zola, but as this is not their birthday, I will May 21, 2003 Like Balzac, I drank too much coffee yesterday, but it was necessary if I was going to get any work done. At 5:30 a.m. I crawled out of bed looking like a stunned gopher, got dressed, and

made my way to the kitchen, where I proceeded to make breakfast for half an hour later. While we ate our bacon and scrambled eggs, he read the comics and I stared at, but made no sense of, the sports page. Then

our youngest son, who crawled out of bed looking like a stunned gopher

he went to catch the bus for school and I took a shower. Still dazed, I got

dressed and put on some coffee and almost fell asleep here at my drinking a cup of good strong brew, I felt my energy level rise. So I had another cup and really got to work. A few hours later, I made the mistake of having two slices of bread topped with peanut butter and honey. Almost immediately, I was back at square one, and so it was necessary to make some more coffee. Then I picked up steam again. But for the life

work table while I waited for it to be done. Its pathetic, I know. But after

of me, I cant remember what it was that I did yesterday afternoon. I

wrote something or other, talked to our eldest son about something or other, wrote some more, signed on to the Internet and visited a couple of websites I cant remember a thing about, and then went downtown. When a policeman woke me up on a bus stop bench, I knew I was in trouble. My van was gone, my mind was gone, and with it any trace of information that might get me home again. When he asked me my

name, I pointed at a nearby street sign. Very funny, he said. Do you

have a wallet? I gave him my wallet, and then he fished out my drivers He showed me my license. Is that me? I said. The guy in the picture smiled. So it is, he said. So it is. But Im sure this is you. Why? Dont you remember? No, I said. Not a thing. . . . And then I finished my days work and we celebrated my birthday with a beautiful carrot cake

license. Okay, Mr. Mishelayleaon, he said. I see you live here in town. has short hair. My hair is long. The officer studied my appearance, then

my wife made and more coffee. Late last night, I went to bed and gopher, got dressed, and oh, my. This is sounding awfully familiar.

couldnt sleep. This morning, I crawled out of bed looking like a stunned May 22, 2003 Images of the road: This morning I was driving

alongside a young family in a shiny red Lexus with fancy chrome wheels.

The car moved to the center turn lane, then entered a McDonalds parking lot, proving the real value of money. Awhile later I saw a huge truck. The name on the truck was United Salad. Im not sure what this

proves. Probably the same thing. The other day, I saw a bumper sticker that said I poke badgers with spoons. An interesting thought. At the corner of Edgewater Street and Wallace Road in West Salem this morning, a gravel truck with a long trailer ran a completely red light while

turning right from Wallace onto Edgewater, driving over the curb and sidewalk in the process. No pedestrians were killed. Downtown I saw two youths, a boy and a girl, dressed in black leather and with dyed black hair, chained to each other. Their expressions were so sad as they crossed the street. And a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that Rock Salt and Electric Secretary were playing at one of the local taverns. I made it which has been a bit rusty lately. to neither show, choosing instead to stay home and perfect my insanity, May 23, 2003 Early this morning, my ten-year-old computer monitor gave up the ghost. At the moment Im using a monitor harvested from our youngest sons computer. But the thing is small and has poor resolution and occasionally, as happened at just this moment, the picture shrinks, then expands. Not a good situation, although such

problems are to be expected from nineteen-dollar monitors purchased at buy a new computer. Because, as it happens, my computer is the same

Goodwill. So this afternoon I need to find a real monitor either that, or age as my dead monitor. But I hate to give up on it, because it has been oops, there goes the picture again a good and faithful friend. Also, about three years ago, I put in a new power supply. My main fear now is

the hard drive. How long will it last? As I understand it, sometimes an old

hard drive will go without warning. Then where will I be? My old Royal

typewriter doesnt have a disk drive. Not only that, the ribbon needs to be changed. Oh, well. Like everything else, well see where it leads. . . . May 24, 2003 I am now staring at a brand new monitor. Its far better than my old one, at a fraction of the cost. But I didnt buy a new computer. That will have to wait until the next disaster, or until I crack up completely, both of which could happen at any moment. The salesman worked up about my purchase or about anything else, for that matter.

was nice, though. He wasnt on commission, and therefore wasnt too But he did have this to say: How do you know when a salesman is lying? When his lips are moving. I thought that was pretty funny, even though Ive met a salesperson here and there who didnt lie in order to

make a sale. Ive met a lot of the other kind, too, but dealing with liars

can be very entertaining, and keeps a guy on his toes. Heres another good thing that came out of my monitor problem: I moved everything and dusted my work table. It only took about half an hour. In the process, I found a few interesting drawings I had made, and a ton of scribbled notes that no longer mean what they used to and so are extremely valuable. I used to clean up every couple of weeks, but this time it has been months. I think I may be on to something here.

May 25, 2003 My latest brilliant idea is to write a collection of great challenge, and might give birth to a whole new art form. Each ending would have to be the natural and inevitable result of everything that

story endings, but without the story. This would be an intriguing

could have happened, but didnt. Another interesting possibility would be to write stories from end to beginning, rather than beginning to end. The trick would be in the patient subtraction of events and the simultaneous devolvement of the characters. Otherwise, one could end up with more at the beginning than at the end, when the obvious purpose of

unwriting a story is to reach the point where there is nothing at all to talk about, thus leaving the reader free to take a walk or make a sandwich. May 26, 2003 Who and what we remember on Memorial Day varies by what we have lost as by what we have gained. Also, much of what we gain during our lifetime comes through loss, or as a result of loss.

from person to person, but one thing is certain: we are defined as much

Wisdom is one good example. It is hard to imagine becoming wise learned from success, but, as in all things, there must be a balance. Success wouldnt have much meaning without failure just as failure prolonged absence of success. Remembrance itself is a balm. It can can cease to be failure and become a way of life where there is a

through unremitting success. To be sure, there is a great deal to be

also be an instrument of torture as real and as damaging as that which is recalled. Memory defines us. Setting aside a day to remember is a good thing, if we make proper use of it. It is a day that can be likened to the the rule. It reminds us of who we are and from where weve come. It

Lenten period observed in the orthodox churches, where introspection is helps us see our mistakes, and what we need to do better if we are to

live life more fully and gracefully. It also reveals the wickedness of government propaganda, and the futility of war. Today the news, so firmly in the hands of the government, is being used to glorify our most

recent spate of killing in the name of democracy, the very thing it is

seeking to destroy. In this way, the government uses the day to further its own destructive aims. This, too, is worth remembering today, and every day. May 27, 2003 I am pretty excited about my new shirt. Its wild pattern

and 1960s design is a definite departure for me. Between that and my

uncut hair, I look like a Haight-Ashbury retread. All the shirt needs now is a few miles on it, and a few stains of questionable origin. Then we wont our second-oldest son replaces the battery in his camera, my darling be able to tell where the shirt leaves off and I begin. Later today, after bride is going to snap a few pictures. With any luck, one will be good enough to use with my interview in the second edition of the collected Barbaric Yawp interviews, which, according to editor John Berbrich, will Trios greatest hits, featured on a CD borrowed from a friend of mine Hollow Lemon. Unfortunately, the collection doesnt include two of my

be out later this summer. In other news, Ive been enjoying the Kingston who played folk music during the Sixties at a coffee house called the favorites, Take Her Out of Pity and Raspberries, Strawberries. Come a landsman, a pinsman, a tinker, or a tailor / doctor, a lawyer, a soldier, or a sailor / rich man, a poor man, a fool, or a witty / dont let her die an old maid, but take her out of pity. Amazing. They just dont write songs

like that anymore though I have heard some pretty decent-recent folk than ever. Rap only went so far too far. And, typical of most

music lately on KBOO. Thank goodness, because its needed now, more movements, it was unaware of its own demise. Not that this bothers the money. But its a business. Theyre supposed to make money. Yes, they good quality and lasting value. So, there.

recording companies, who are unaware of almost everything except are. But over the years, money has also been made selling things of May 28, 2003 Yesterday afternoon a water main broke downtown,

filling several businesses, basements, and an underground parking area with water. Five oclock traffic was snarled for miles in all directions, and I was out there in it. What would normally have been a fifteen-minute drive took me over an hour as I zigged and zagged my way across town

and away from the trouble. People on narrow streets in old residential areas watched the parade of vehicles from their porches and yards. A couple of them even waved, which I found rather touching in a silly, days. Whereas when I was a kid, waving was quite common, just as was

sentimental sort of way. After all, people dont do much waving these nodding and saying hello to strangers one met on the sidewalk. As a way they do now. Being trapped in traffic also gave me time to listen to

general rule, people didnt look the other way, or right through you, the my new George Harrison CD, Brainwashed. His sarcastic, humorous,

serious words of wisdom and fine guitar-playing helped me keep relaxed reading when he died that when he was fourteen and teaching himself to play the guitar, he would keep at it until his fingers bled a statement of character, and a reminder to the rest of us that you can take out of

and calm. Excellent work from a dedicated musician. I remember

something only what you are willing to put in. And speaking of taking something out, when I finally made it home I promptly emptied a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer called PBR by stylish college students and

members of the jet set into a tall beer glass I bought at Goodwill a and very muggy. I was tired and glad to be home, even though I dont know where home really is. Everywhere, I guess.

couple of years ago for ninety-nine cents. It was eighty-five degrees out

May 29, 2003 A few days ago I received a subscription solicitation from a literary magazine produced by a university. It came in the form of a small glossy booklet stapled together, with a postage-paid payment envelope tucked into the pages. Inside, there were short excerpts taken from the magazine, the obvious assumption being that the writing is so good that only an uneducated fool could resist sending in his money. I

read several of the excerpts this morning, however, and was bored silly.

One, having to do with the death of a child, was marred by the glib, wellfed tone of voice that has become all too familiar in much that is being written today. In the space of just a few words, it was obvious that the writer had no real mental investment in what she was writing about. The story simply didnt matter to her, although Im sure she thought it did. But maybe Im wrong. Maybe the story is really great and I am too dumb to realize it. Maybe it gets going a few pages later. But if thats the case,

why didnt the editor choose a better excerpt? Or it could be that he was was in his annual budget. I dont know. But over the years I have

more intent on producing his direct mail piece and spending money that received many similar solicitations, and have suffered through enough issues of venerable literary journals to know that something is lacking. What is lacking is content. What is lacking is risk. For every good story

out there that really matters, hundreds and hundreds are published that

reek of self-satisfaction and tritely predictable turns of phrase learned in workshops and writing courses. That this is condoned and encouraged by editors I find abominable. Are they so concerned with their rsums that they are unable to see whats happening? Or has mediocrity simply become a way of life? If literature really matters to them, as they claim it does, they would dynamite their magazines and start over.

May 30, 2003 The first chance I get, I am going to reread Jack

Kerouacs On the Road. I read it three or four years ago, along with Dharma Bums and a couple of others. The idea of writing a book in two me, as I myself have always been one to write quickly. But Im not or three weeks on a continuous roll of paper as Kerouac did appeals to comfortable with popping pills in order to stay awake the whole time. I

certainly dont condemn the act. Its just something I dont want to do.

Nor would it fit in too well with the family lifestyle, which I happen to think

is a pretty worthwhile and enjoyable thing. But even without pills, I have

managed some pretty fast writing. I have written novels and book-length works of nonfiction in as little as thirty days, and never more than ninety. And there is also the collection of seventy short stories I wrote last fall, also completed in a ninety-day period. Why do I write so fast? The short

answer is, it is a natural, comfortable pace. The long answer, though, is a bit more complicated. Actually, I dont know what the long answer is. But I think it has something to do with an eagerness to see the finished

product, and an eagerness to find out what happens in any given work. knows exactly where he is going, I would feel free to take my time. But I

Perhaps if I were the kind of writer who maps things out beforehand and prefer to begin where the reader begins, and to remain as much a reader as I am a writer during the entire writing process. In fact, I have read many stories where it is obvious that the writer hasnt really read his work at all, and hasnt listened to it to be sure it makes sense and falls naturally, so to speak, from the tongue. My theory is, if it isnt easy to say, then it wont be easy to read. And reading should be easy. Words reader realize what he already knows, but perhaps has forgotten. And

shouldnt get in the way. Words should be effortless, and should help the they should be musical as well. Anyway. As I said, the long answer is a bit more complicated. This is another thing that keeps me writing, and keeps me reading. May 31, 2003 The assumption that everything will be all right is they are. To be sure, things are what they are, and this is a fact that

comforting, yet dangerous. It too easily leads to acceptance of things as must be recognized. But it is the fact itself that demands action, just as awakening from a nights sleep demands that we get out of bed and get on with things. Meanwhile, there are no real indications that everything

will be all right. There is hope everywhere, but this often goes unnoticed smile by which I mean a smile without any strings attached and other examples. There are also ample reasons to think the end is near, or that it might as well be. We have ravaged the planet, upset its

or is ignored, and is therefore wasted. There is hope in every genuine there is hope each time a baby is born. And there is an abundance of

ecology, poisoned our air, food, and water, killed countless millions of our own kind, caused the extinction of other species, and invented television. We have deliberately tortured and starved one another, and proven our ignorance by voting for insane and corrupt politicians, while turning our backs on history, culture, and common sense. Personal and in so doing tell our childrens childrens children to go to hell. But its better. We are carriers of excellence, dreams, decency, and responsibility is at an all-time low. We take what we can when we can, not too late. We are still here. We all have it in us to be better and to do accomplishment. We are tragically ugly, but we are also beautiful. The world is at war because there is war within ourselves. And then a clean, ancient and good and timeless that will one day be again, if we permit it: clear drop of water falls upon a leaf, and we remember something unconditional love. And we will realize that it was there all along, that it was always within our grasp, and that those who clean the gutter are not inferior to those who cure disease, that those who compose music are

not superior to those who mop floors in hospitals, and that those who

cannot take care of themselves are a gift and not to be abandoned. We will realize it is now, not later, not before, that is our moment. And we will rejoice. But to assume it is dangerous. It wont happen by itself. June 1, 2003 The wind is coming from the northeast a sure sign of

warming weather. Bit by bit, we are reclaiming our backyard and

readying areas to plant. This afternoon, if all goes well, we will visit a

nursery or two and find a few more things to plant. Like the bees, we are soon as we can in order to take advantage of the oncoming heat and it will be hot, and the heat will make us curse the fact that we dont have an air conditioner, especially on those nights when the temperature

busy making up for lost time. We need to get as much into the ground as

refuses to go down until dawn. Thank goodness there arent too many

like that, although for me one is too many. We paid our dues in

Californias San Joaquin Valley. We did our time. We passed our sleepless nights, sweating all the while, and moved less and less and and had to park ourselves in the shade and say Enough! Dealing with more slowly during the daylight hours, until we finally reached a crawl the heat is something you dont forget. In fact, I remember one lovely July day back in the 1960s when the temperature hit 114 degrees. The funny thing about that kind of heat is that when you first step out into it, it with sweat, and the band inside your straw hat soaks up moisture from

feels good for about one minute. And then your arms begin to glisten your forehead, and you head straight for the nearest shade and water. spiders and yellow jackets thought they were in heaven.

But the dragonflies and horned toads loved it, and the black widow June 2, 2003 Today I was driving west on Market Street and had just gone under the freeway overpass when, of all things, a softball rolled across several lanes of traffic and right in front of me. Its leisurely pace made the ball seem sort of like an urban tumbleweed. Luckily, I just

missed hitting it. Otherwise, there might have been an explosion that scattered seed everywhere and clogged up peoples windshields. It could have been a disaster involving several insurance companies,

attorneys, and doctors offices, instead of an unexplained comical event.

Half a minute or so later, I came up behind a slowly moving car in the right lane. The car sped up as soon as I tried passing it on the left. When we were alongside each other, the driver looked at me as if I had stolen

his softball, then held up a catchers mitt in a threatening manner. Realizing he had problems, I stepped on the gas and surged ahead. Instead of doing the same, he drove off the road and up onto the

sidewalk, then uprooted a white picket fence, which he dragged the next pole, but I had an appointment at the bank and I didnt want to be late. In

several hundred feet. I thought of going back when he ran into a power the bank parking lot, I was greeted by the friendly old security guard,

then we both looked on in wonder as several more softballs sped down

the alley. Well, will you look at that, he said. Those balls are going the wrong way. And, sure enough, he was right. The city had just installed a new one-way sign. I shrugged and went into the bank, only to learn that the person I was supposed to meet was running late. The reason? An

invasion of softballs. I think theyre coming in through the duct work, the woman said. Maintenance is on it. Have a seat, and Ill be with you in just a few minutes. I thanked her and sat down in the waiting area next to a man who was holding a coffee mug with a softball resting on the rim. He smiled. I smiled back. June 3, 2003 It has been eight years since my father left this world. I

marked the occasion yesterday by planting three hills of squash and a

new parsley bed in his memory, because nothing gave him greater pleasure during his brief sojourn here than planting and growing things. He also considered providing for his wife and family to be his sacred his health and safety on more than one occasion. I am not the man he

duty, always putting us before his own desires, and willingly sacrificing was, and I dont think I ever will be. But some of him rubbed off. I seem

to have inherited his understanding of soil and his ability to grow things.

He used to admire the way I pruned fruit trees and grapevines, because cut for cut I made the same decisions he did, leaving each plant balanced and ready for another productive season. In fact I have said

many times that pruning is a lot like writing, more specifically editing, which of course is an integral part of writing and not a separate thing at all. To write well is to prune well. It means knowing what to keep and what to remove. It also means understanding the long-term aspects and

ramifications of what you are doing, as well as the danger inherent in an approach based on greed. Ask too much of your vineyard or orchard in The same holds true in the publishing world, where writers who are known money-makers are frequently encouraged by editors to leave any one year, and you are sure to see a long-lasting decline in quality.

everything in as a way of increasing the page count, and therefore the profitability, of a manuscript. But more is only better in the hands of a true master. Stephen King is not Leo Tolstoy. Norman Mailer is not in between, at the very least, is a sign of good manners.

Dostoevsky. Writing short is an art. Writing long requires wisdom. Writing June 4, 2003 You know youre working too hard when dying sounds

like a good way to get some rest. But the trouble with that is, you never wake up, and so you dont get to enjoy the results. Last night I ended up with a lousy headache because I continued working well into the evening, which caused my neck to stiffen and my right eye to feel like it

was going to pop out of my head. I slept for a couple of hours, then woke up and took some aspirin and went outside for some air. There was certainly a lot of it. And the neighborhood was quiet. There were no

arguing voices, no dogs barking, no cars zipping around the corner.

After filling my lungs with cool fresh air, I went back to bed and stayed

awake until about three in the morning, after which I dozed until about a quarter after five, occasionally noticing with gratitude that the pain in my eye was subsiding and that my neck muscles were continuing to relax. Now its afternoon and my head doesnt hurt at all. But my shoulders feel goes on. I have just a few more details to attend to, then Ill call it quits

like theyve been carrying around a railroad tie all morning. Still, the work for the day except that I also want to do some reading. While I was a used book store and get a copy of Gullivers Travels. I havent read Swift has to say.

downtown yesterday afternoon running errands, I managed to duck into that one in a great many years, and think it is high time to see what Mr. June 5, 2003 Sure sign of summer: A shirtless man with a cigarette

hanging from his bottom lip drives by with all four of his windows down. Baby, Im home! he says. Bring me a beer, willya? Glistening with sweat, he strides manfully across the floor. Baby? Yhear me? And his baby replies, Im out here, on the patio. Your mother called. She wants you to fix her sink. And he thinks, what in Gods name can be wrong with a sink? then hollers, Did you tell her I was still outta town? He goes to the refrigerator, takes out a can of beer, and pops it open. Yes, she did, another voice answers. And he strides manfully out to the patio and take you a minute, Larry. Please, she says. Then Ill be on my way. opportunities.

greets his mother, who is holding her defective sink in her lap. It will only Other sure signs of summer: mental lapses, mirages, and missed June 6, 2003 While the television meteorologists chatter about the

heat in their air-conditioned studios, the rest of us have to sit here and sweat. And while they point out the high pressure areas and air flow patterns on their digital maps and charts, we lowly demographics are left

to wonder who chose their wardrobe, did their hair, and applied their head weather reports and parade of sports scandals is a nauseating hybrid of facts, half-truths, hyperbole, and blatant advertising that we are expected not only to be grateful for, but to base decisions and form opinions upon. All I can say to that is, ha! . . . This morning at the

mounds of makeup. This is the news, or whats left of it. Between the air-

grocery store, we met a mother and her very young daughter coming in

our direction in the open area at the end of the aisles. The mother ignored us, but the little girl, who was pushing a tiny cart and wearing a for groceries, and there were things in her cart to prove it. The woman she was with was a stranger she was merely willing to tolerate at beautifully serious expression, looked directly at us. She was shopping

least until lunch time, or until she fell down and scraped her knee. In the meantime, she was doing for herself, and doing quite well, thank you. Awhile later, while waiting in line at the checkout stand, we saw an old man with a long white beard, and a slightly younger man with a big white mustache that turned up at the ends. They were also doing well, but they They were there. And now theyre somewhere else, and theres a good chance we will never see them again, which is a dirty rotten poetic shame.

were doing it a little more slowly than several of the other people nearby.

June 7, 2003 It pays to live in the best neighborhoods, as evidenced by a loud argument that took place this morning in the driveway of a house a couple of doors up the street. While I dont dispute the need to appreciated the people who feel the need to make them public. Let it be

occasionally air ones problems or concerns, I have never admired or a little loud, thats fine, but why not go inside and close the door behind you instead of shouting in the street and waking up the neighbors,

startling their cats and dogs, and scaring their children? Learned behavior is the obvious answer. It all starts in childhood, in what is seen by young eyes and absorbed by young minds. It is also a way of getting attention, a way of saying Look at me, here I am, I exist, and I am unhappy. Years ago, when my wife and I were just starting out as the

life of newlyweds was once commonly referred to we lived for a short couple next door had a violent argument, which ended with a visit by the the wall, and potted plants had been uprooted and scattered around the

time in a small apartment in my home town. One evening, the young local police. Food had been thrown, dishes had been shattered against living room. From this we gathered there had been a disagreement of some kind, which, oddly enough, we were unable to make sense of during the shouting match. There were, however, an abundance of neighbors love for words and demonstrating their flare for the use of the

choice four-letter words launched into the warm evening air, proving our English language. Their destructive behavior, of course, earned them an turned bloody, thereby earning us an eviction. And so it goes. Our lives unhappy neighbors.

eviction. This robbed us of a potential friendship that might have one day are irrevocably altered by vengeful landlords and the outbursts of June 8, 2003 As I sit here guzzling coffee and getting ready to face

the day, it occurs to me that if I am writing these words, I am already

facing the day, whether I am prepared or not. I am further reminded of the many times I have thought I was ready to face the day, only to find out I wasnt. Thats what happens when you foolishly expect a

convenient repetition of events or circumstances, which is another way of saying youre in a rut. The potential of a new day is directly proportional to ones eagerness and openness to recognize that

potential. If you expect a convenient repetition of events and circumstances will repeat themselves, leaving you comforted, irritated,

circumstances, then one of two things will happen: either the events and depressed, or bored, or you will be lucky and something else will take place that will cause you to wake up and take a look around. But if you look at a new day as an adventure, a journey full of challenge and possibility, there is a far better chance that this will turn out to be the case. And I am not ignoring responsibility in this equation, or the reality of busy lives and demanding jobs, all of which have a way of sapping things cant be avoided. Whats needed is a presence of mind, an ones strength, and even, on occasion, ones will to press on. Certain awareness, and a longer view of things. Even if you are doing something you hate something that is all too often the case paying attention to or imagined about the world, and about yourself. At the same time, if nature and the people around you will reveal things youve never noticed you are doing something you hate, this must be carefully examined. How did the situation come about? If you hate your work, what would you rather be doing instead? It has been my experience that many people feel they have been hit by life as if theyd been hit by a truck. So if you dont know, regardless of age or circumstance, its important that you

dont really know. All they know is that they are unhappy, and that they

find out. I have told our children many times that their real job in life is to find out about themselves and find out what they want to do while theyre here, and then, once they know, to keep on finding out. Of course, when

they see the doddering fool that Ive become, they wisely run in the other direction. But my advice still stands. Better to be a doddering fool who thinks than a doddering fool who doesnt. Better to be a doddering fool

who realizes hes a doddering fool though I suppose theres no sense wallowing in it. Or is there? June 9, 2003 On my way back to town after watching a leisurely played baseball game in the small town of Amity, Oregon, yesterday afternoon, I realized once again that there have been a great many changes in the Salem area over the past several years. For some

reason this made me think of my father, which in turn made me wonder what hed think if he returned and saw these changes all at once, rather than little by little, as I have. And not just the changes here, but the changes everywhere. He hasnt been gone so long that he would be overwhelmed, but there is no doubt hed be surprised by a few things.

The biggest changes, though, would be in our own appearances, and, to a certain degree, in our mannerisms and in the way we talk. Then again, else. One thing that wouldnt surprise him, though, is that I have eight years ago when he bid farewell to this world. maybe hed be so surprised to be here that he wouldnt notice anything continued in my unorthodox ways and have no more money than I did June 10, 2003 Lying is an addiction. Once a person is hooked, he will go to almost any length to tell his next lie. Temporarily satisfied and distracted by the result, it is then only a matter of time until the next lie must be told. Not to lie is a pain too great to endure or so it seems to an addicted mind. In this way, lying is like any other addiction. It sets

forth its own rules, and, through repetition, the rules are enforced. When a liar comes to believe his own lies is the beginning of his downfall. The useless shell where a vital human once was. In this condition, it is very habit of lying then strangles his dreams and potential, leaving a corrupt, difficult to stop lying, or to even see the necessity. There are no support

groups for liars, but there are many profane institutions based on lies

that are led by professional liars who are more than willing to pretend. So it has been throughout history. So it is today. Lying is a profitable business. It is also a merciless, self-perpetuating killer.

June 11, 2003 Today is the last day of school for certain young members of our household and others in the neighborhood. This means tonight there will be noisy celebrations in the street, and a general last until midnight. Its the same every year, and I dont blame them. There is nothing more unnatural than kids having to get up at the crack

eruption of pent-up energy that will continue well past dark and probably

of dawn and sit at a desk for several hours five days a week while teachers posing as adults drone on and on about subjects that could be interesting but usually arent because of the way they are presented. School, like television, is full of wasted potential. Both are capable of draining the life out of young people, leaving them dazed and frustrated without really knowing why. That much said, I will also readily admit that subjects and their students with enthusiasm. These are the teachers who leave a positive lasting impression on the young people who dwell there are many teachers who really do care, and who embrace their

for a time in their classrooms. At the same time, many are frustrated by having to deal with an overloaded, over-administrated system that is more concerned with institutional legalities and public relations than learning. And so my hat is off even though I wasnt wearing one to the teachers who really are teachers in spite of it all, and to the students who somehow are able to see through the bogus aspects of the whole

affair and actually learn something, with or without the help of their parents. My hat is also off to Mr. Goehring, my old much-loved chemistry teacher, who passed away several years ago after spending his entire

popular and highly effective career at one school. When I think of most

of my other teachers, however, I either feel sorry for them, or for their students, whose lives they sought to destroy. Of course the destruction worked both ways, and thus was achieved a small amount of poetic justice. The rest, as they say, is history.

June 12, 2003 Ive never been a big Hemingway fan, which is exactly

why I bought a used book containing his letters yesterday. The other reason I bought it is because I was downtown and found myself with a few minutes to spare, and so naturally I paid a visit to the little book store

located just inside the main entrance of the Salem Pubic Library. I was in the store no more than two minutes long enough to find the book, pay three dollars for it, and enter my name in a drawing for a free book. But letters seemed like a good way of finding out what made the man tick. Right off the bat, I discovered he had quite a sense of humor, as is back to Hemingway. He is supposed to be great, and so a look at his

illustrated by this brief opening excerpt from a letter Papa wrote to poet

Archibald MacLeish in 1927: "Dear Archie: If I praise your damn poetry

any more youll think Im a fairy or a critic but I thought your poem in the Caravan (which by the way smelled like a caravan that had been forced if you want to make Papa happy write like that and then dedicate to me. . . . Well, this alone makes me think I should give Mr. Hemingway to shit in a closed room) was wonderful. It was a grand lovely poem and

another chance. Its been years since Ive read one of his novels or stories. Maybe Ive grown up enough in the interim to recognize his brilliance or to be reaffirmed in my current opinion. Either way, it would be worth it. To be perfectly honest which of course I always am

I would be delighted to be proven wrong, because this would not only

give me more reading to do, but bring to light changes that have occurred in my own life and mind. June 13, 2003 During a telephone conversation with a young woman in the insurance office where our automobile policies are on file, I was told that, thanks to a recently launched program, the young drivers in our household could save a percentage of their monthly bill if they watched a video provided by the company and then kept a detailed driving log for a

month. But, if they were later issued a ticket or were in an accident that

was their fault, the deal would be off and their rates would go back up. people who already had perfect driving records, and that the company

When I suggested that this seemed like an awful lot to go through for should give them the discount on that basis, the subject was quickly

dropped. Now, it seems to me that if the company can afford giving the

discount after putting a person through their meddling little course, then proven himself to be a responsible driver. In other words, why play games? The official answer, of course, would be that such programs reduce the number of accidents and help save lives to which the

they can also afford giving the discount to someone who has already

logical official reply would be, Gee, thanks, Im touched by your concern. Because, the only reason an insurance company does anything is to make more money. This includes posing as a friend and pass the savings on to the customers. calls himself the president

neighbor which gives me a radical new idea: can the advertising, and June 14, 2003 Always one to lead by example, the man who glibly Kennebunkport, Maine, just in time for a Fathers Day round of golf with his dear old dad. It was a touching scene and suddenly a great sentimental sigh rose up across the land, as millions of Americans arrived at his familys estate in

looked up from their news papers and said, Aw, shucks, hes a pretty

good guy after all. Its interesting. Despite the puny fact that America is wont be celebrating Fathers Day because they no longer have fathers,

broke, Iraq is in shambles, and thousands upon thousands of people the man who calls himself president is taking a break. Thats quite a

message hes sending. In fact, it reminds me of all the long weekends Abraham Lincoln took during the Civil War or the ones my own father took when there was work to do. Gee, whiz. I can hear him now. The hell with the peaches, hed say, they can pick themselves. Ah, well. Its just something great men have in common, I guess. As for the members of the armed forces who are busy doing the presidents dirty work, they they arent too picky about the year.

can always look forward to having a day off on Christmas as long as June 15, 2003 Every once in a while, its a good idea to set aside ones bitterness and observe a quiet moment of appreciation. . . . There. Im glad thats over. But seriously, in my own bitter quest for enlightenment, I have found that even bitterness as natural and bountiful as mine is not sufficient unto itself. For bitterness to be worth anything, it needs a good target. If it doesnt have a good target, it can devour its host in no time. Luckily, there is an abundance of targets. But not

everyone can see this, and so their bitterness turns against them and they become negative and sour, rather than cheerfully sarcastic, like me. And so we find ourselves with an important distinction that of negative people I have known were negatively bitter meaning there was shone in anyone elses. My father had a specific name for this type of

bitterness and positive bitterness. I am positively bitter. Whereas several absolutely no light in their lives, and they wanted to make sure that none person. He called them miserable sonsofbitches. Sometimes, for the

sake of variety, he called them miserable bastards. I have faithfully

passed these terms along to my children, accompanied by an important explanation: you can say almost anything and get away with it, as long as you say it with a smile. I have also told them that there are times mouth shut. For some odd reason, that remark has been routinely met with derision.

when nothing is more important or more valuable than keeping ones

June 16, 2003 After attending to several details of a mundane and time-consuming nature, I am finally free to sit down and write. Unfortunately, the mundane details are still circulating in my head. I suppose I could write about them, but I dont want to. They have taken something grand, but I know from experience that when I set out to say up enough of my time already. It would be a lot more fun to write about something grand, something petty ensues. Thats why I gave up trying to memorable, because the same thing happens. On occasion I try to say

say something grand years ago. I dont even try to say something something coherent, but little by little I think Im kicking that habit as well. As a general rule, the more trying I do, the more trouble I get into, whether I am writing or not. But this brings up an important question: is is no. I dont define writing as the act of writing itself. To me, writing and

there ever really a time when I am not writing? Im pretty sure the answer observing cant be separated. Writing is an around-the-clock thing. A

writer is always on duty, even when he appears to be thousands of

mental miles from anything remotely related to his literary endeavors, is tearing through the countryside in an automobile borrowed from a novelist at a major league baseball game is busy on his current or next

such as when he is on a wild binge of gambling and drinking, or when he friend, and recklessly swerving to miss random skunks and boulders. A

novel; a poet chopping wood is attentive to his inner struggles and harmonies. The novelist may appear to be wrapped up in the game, and the poet may be sweating up a storm, but they are both writing. I confess, however, that I have never actually asked a writer about this. Maybe there are writers who dont write all the time. There certainly must be some who think this is the case. The so-called creative process is

hard to pin down. It shouldnt be pinned down. Neither should creativity

be associated with certain times of the day, certain kinds of work, or certain types of people. Real creativity is what happens when we dont stand in the way of ourselves. It is the first moment incarnate, the source, the fountain, the bubbling spring. Creativity is the vast distance

between one thought and the next. It is a foul ball whizzing by a tired novelists ear, an open car window and a sunset, a church steeple beckoning swallows. June 17, 2003 While driving through town yesterday afternoon, I saw

an inspiring sight: a young man playing a guitar on a street corner with a and to speak and sing through, but his anonymity was secure. And I

brown paper bag over his head. There were holes for him to see through thought, what a great way to deliver ones message, whatever it may be.

With a bag over your head, all focus is shifted to the content of what is

being said or sung at least once the listener gets used to the idea of the bag. Besides, when were in public, dont we usually try to conceal who we really are? Dont we try to hide whats on our minds? Maybe we player was that his bag made him more approachable. The people

should all wear bags. One thing I noticed about the bag-wearing guitar around him seemed to enjoy talking to someone they couldnt see, even though he could see them, which might be considered a disadvantage. Another benefit of wearing a bag on ones head would be no longer

needing to shave or to wear makeup. On the other hand, maybe the reducing anonymity to yet another petty competition. I dont know. Ive

fashion industry would respond by selling designer bags, thereby been reading Gullivers Travels lately. It occurs to me that a modern

version might well contain Gullivers journey to the Land of Bags. The natives would study Gulliver in amazement, and wonder at a strange culture that would condone running around bagless. Gulliver,

meanwhile, would do what he always does: learn their language in record time and then talk himself into the good graces of the ruling clan, only to become mired in some sort of scandal or intrigue instigated by a he would say at his trial. And everyone would look on in horror.

jealous member of the court. Where I come from, we recycle our bags, June 18, 2003 I see in the paper that the smirking spokesman of those who rape the planet and want to control its resources is now gearing up to raise money for his next presidential campaign. This

reminds me of something funny I found in the book of Hemingways

letters I bought a few days ago. In his introduction, editor Carlos Baker said Hemingway often echoed a phrase about the gradual downfall of mankind into modern times, which he said he had picked up from an actual old Indian: Long time ago good, now heap shit. June 19, 2003 Nearly 300 years after writing Gullivers Travels, the

words that flowed from Jonathan Swifts satiric pen might just as well have been directed at todays governments and society in general. During Gullivers stay in the kingdom of Brobdingnag, where every living thing was many times larger than it is here in our own world, he took it upon himself to explain English society in great detail to the king. historical account I gave him of our affairs during the last century, According to Gulliver, the king was perfectly astonished with the

protesting it was only a heap of conspiracies, rebellions, murders, massacres, revolutions, banishments, the very worst effects that avarice, faction, hypocrisy, perfidiousness, cruelty, rage, madness, hatred, envy,

lust, malice or ambition could produce. By putting these words into the acidic observations, as well as those made by the king shortly thereafter: . . . you have made a most admirable panegyric upon your country, the

kings mouth, Swift kept a brilliant, artistic distance from such delightfully

king said; you have clearly proved that ignorance, idleness, and vice, may be sometimes the only ingredients for qualifying a legislator; that laws are best explained, interpreted, and applied by those whose interests and abilities lie in perverting, confounding, and eluding them. I

observe among you some lines of an institution, which in its original might have been tolerable, but these half erased, and the rest wholly blurred and blotted by corruptions. . . . by what I have gathered from

your own relation, and the answers I have with much pains wringed and extorted from you, I cannot but conclude the bulk of your natives to be to crawl upon the surface of the earth. Inspiring words, indeed. If I the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered thought the president capable of reading anything other than a financial statement, I would suggest he read this book. Then again, why bother? country he professes to lead, as well as those living and dying in the countries he pretends to be concerned about. June 20, 2003 The best thing about writing yourself into a corner is To benefit at all, he would have to care about the people living in the

that it gives you the opportunity to write yourself out again. And quite living. Living yourself into a corner is a great way to find out more about

often, the result is some very good writing. The same can be said about life. And it stands to reason that a writer who lives himself into a corner

will be all the better at writing himself out of a corner. If a writer gambles become more daring. His characters will be real people instead of

away everything he owns, for instance, chances are his writing will conventional cardboard cut-outs, because he will understand what point where a writers life itself becomes a work of art, though this is

makes them desperate and what drives them to ruin. And there is also a something he might not be aware of. In a sense, he becomes a

character in the novel he has been living. In other words, his eccentricity is genuine, and not a publicity stunt. Then the writing moves forward of its own accord, with little or no interference from the writer himself. Great own death, thus writing himself out of yet another corner. It must not be turn to recreate the world. It is, in fact, their sacred duty.

literature is the result. And a writer of great literature justly outlives his forgotten by young writers, though, that dead is dead, and that it is their June 21, 2003 The sudden realization that you are happy can sneak

up on you at any time. Usually it is something you can shake, but there you can do is hang on and ride it out. The important thing is to

are instances when the happiness is of such great magnitude that all continually remind yourself that your misery will return, that it is not really

gone, but only taking a holiday. Its the only way to survive. And for prolonged bouts of happiness, it is comforting to know there are many drugs on the market that will help restore that gloomy outlook and frown.

In fact, studies show that it is best to take these drugs before happiness sets in. Happy attacks are a leading cause of pleasant behavior, which is contagious and must be monitored carefully to keep it from spreading. Doctors understand the danger of being happy, and how closely The best way to prevent happiness is to visit your doctor regularly. happiness is related to good physical health. My recommendation is to

see your doctor at least once a month. Between visits, be sure not to open any windows. Fresh air is a killer. So is sunlight. Most importantly,

engage in any physical or mental exercise. And whatever you do, dont if anyone smiles, get up and leave the room immediately. Follow these amazed. And be sure to take the free samples your doctor gives you.

simple rules, and the next time you see your doctor, he or she will be Dont even wait until you get home. Swallow them at the water fountain two from the last person who used it. This will help ensure the cycle of happiness in our lifetime.

on your way out of the office. With any luck, you will pick up a disease or misery. Then, with perseverance and a little luck, we can abolish June 22, 2003 Journalists always seem curious about how writers

survive financially. In interview after interview, they probe their subjects about their so-called day jobs, even though such matters are no ones business and have nothing to do with the writers themselves or the books they have written. The important thing is that the writers have

survived, and that they are doing their work. Everyone has to make a

living somehow. Whether a writer pays his bills by teaching, driving a taxi, or digging holes in peoples yards is something that should be kept writer who is willing to work hard, and who is willing to try to create between him, his family, and his closest friends. Personally, I believe any something new to give to the world, should be able to earn at least a

modest living by doing so. Certainly he makes more of a contribution to the general welfare of humankind than the corporate thieves who only time a writer should be expected to discuss his means to a accumulate wealth by stealing the fruits of other peoples labors. The livelihood is when those means have a direct bearing on what he has

written. If an author has spent several years working as a war

photographer, for instance, and has written a book about his

experiences, then learning about his job will help shed light on his writing. But if a writer has spent several years mowing lawns just to put food on the table and finally has a novel coming out, the focus should be on the novel, the writers insights, his message, and so on. Making him talk about how hard it is to write when he is forced to spend most of his

time doing something else that he hates is disrespectful, pointless, and become. Let him talk about his real work.

cruel. Let him be the writer he is. Let him be the writer he has suffered to June 23, 2003 A couple of days ago, I was following a car with a Pennsylvania license plate. But instead of a catchy phrase or slogan meant to capture that states spirit, pride, and glory, the address of their official website was given. So I guess its come to this. Needless to say, I didnt race home and call up their propaganda. I did remember, though, how the members of my sixth grade class and I undertook the project of hauled around by our parents. I never did see all fifty, but I did come writing down every state license plate we saw while we were being close. And many years later, one of our own kids got in the habit of

writing down license plate numbers, filling whole notebooks with them. Theres a good one, hed say, picking a license plate out of the crowd. I havent asked, but Im sure he still has his old notebooks tucked away family was on its way to San Francisco to visit relatives, was to pick the

somewhere. Another thing we used to do when I was a kid and our letters of the alphabet out of road signs in consecutive order. The rule immediately preceded it. When the excitement of this game wore off, wed get out our deck of cards and play Battle, or War, as it is often called. By the time we were bored with card games, we had usually

was, you couldnt move on to the next letter until youd seen the one that

reached the town of Los Banos, which was exactly ninety-nine miles from Dinuba, and home to alfalfa fields and millions of insects, as proven Pacheco Pass, one of the rumored hideouts of Joaquin Murietta. I used by our bug-spattered windshield. From here we would push onward into to love gazing out the window and up at the rocky crags covered with oaks, and to dream of caves and campfires and long starlit nights. I still do. June 24, 2003 It is never alarming to sit down and discover that I

have no idea where to begin. I have been writing under exactly these begin, and that all I need to do is to continue from where I left off. There

circumstances for years. It can also be said that I no longer have to is a rhythm to my days, even when they are almost wholly given over to the chores, duties, and responsibilities of family life, and I am left with hardly any time in which to write. The rhythm comes from knowing that I

will write when the first opportunity presents itself. In time, I have learned recognize. I dont wait until conditions are perfect. I dont wait until

to take advantage of writing opportunities many people might not even everything is quiet, or until I am well rested, or until I know that I will have writing done. For example, just a few seconds ago, there were three

several uninterrupted hours at my disposal. If I did, I would never get any people here in the room with me: my wife, our second-oldest son, and our youngest son. Our second-oldest son needed money because he wants to go and buy car-washing soap. Our youngest son heard us talking, so he came in while he was brushing his teeth. And my wife commotion is over, and I am temporarily alone. Someday, when I am came in to get a load of clothes that need to be washed. Now the older, maybe I will be like Zola and have a huge desk in a huge study, and I will be able to write and smoke cigars for hours on end. But at the

moment I dont even have time for a cigarette which is fine, because I dont smoke cigarettes anyway, despite the fact that not smoking is bad for my image. And I am drinking coffee instead of Scotch, which is yet

another embarrassment. Every once in awhile, though, I announce at

the dinner table that I plan to spend the whole night writing, drinking Scotch, and smoking cigarettes. Then I fall asleep at nine oclock. What night and sneak off to wild parties. no one realizes, though, is that I often get up again in the middle of the June 25, 2003 Well, how about that? Last nights wild party consisted of a strange dream in which my mother and I were sitting in the back row of an Armenian church covered to our necks by a large blanket. While

waiting for the priest to enter and for the service to begin, non-liturgical music emanated from speakers in the ceiling. At one point dance music was played, and several young members of the congregation, none of whom we recognized, stood up and began waving their arms as if they were at a rock concert. From this I got the feeling that something was Where is the priest? I said, to which he replied with a most serious stood up and went outside. My mother and I followed him into a field. But

amiss, so I asked a man sitting nearby if he knew what was going on. expression, He finally hit bottom. When I asked him for clarification, he instead of talking about what happened to the priest, he launched into

the topic of farming. After trying several times to get him back on our original subject and failing, I woke up. It would be interesting to know the meaning of all this, if there indeed is one. Another interesting thing that happened last night was that while I was lying there not sleeping, I heard an acoustic guitar being strummed. I looked at the clock. It was 1:00 a.m. The music consisted of several random, pleasant chords. As it turned out, our youngest son, who is teaching himself to play the guitar,

decided to practice a bit before going to bed. Much to my

disappointment, he stopped after only a few minutes. About half an hour later, I drifted off to sleep, wherein once again my mind took up a dozen pressing questions, none of which were answered by the time I awoke again at 5:30. June 26, 2003 Now that most newspapers charge a fee to run

obituaries and wedding notices, I think the time is ripe for launching a paper that publishes that information exclusively, and which also expands a bit on each story. The paper would be a great service to the community, and could be funded by subscriptions, advertising, or both. record, counting their pennies, and laughing all the way to the bank.

The regular newspapers, meanwhile, can continue slighting the public With any luck, my paper will go broke in about six months especially since I have no money to get it rolling in the first place. I suppose I could talk to bankers and investors, but they would never understand the importance of keeping this sort of community record. So people get buried and married so what? Besides, theyd take one look at my getting those kinds of looks for years the kind that say, Im sorry, but

shabby appearance and know I wouldnt be safe to deal with. Ive been you arent adequately insured. The same looks are accompanied by a quickly show myself to the door. Of course, on the way out, I always bump into something or knock something over. Clumsy me.

nervous shuffling of the conscience, and the petrified hope that I will

June 27, 2003 One possibility Ive been considering lately is to begin writing the days journal entry the moment I get up in the morning and to not stop until I go to bed at night. If I were to write steadily for seventeen or eighteen hours, theres no telling what would be revealed besides being an idiot, I mean. I dont need to write to reveal that, although it

helps, because I can reach more people that way. The truth is, I am

thinking big thoughts this morning. For some odd reason, I feel like

something great is about to happen. Last night was horrible. I was up yesterday afternoon. Its hot again, so that didnt help. Last night the house was like an oven. And being that its light until very late, there is so much noise in the street that going to sleep isnt easy. At about midnight, a loud motorcycle roared by our street-facing bedroom

most of the night with a rotten headache, which had its beginnings early

window, nearly scaring us to death. This was followed a few minutes later by a loud pickup playing an even louder radio. All this brings to mind an intriguing question: why are we here, instead of in a secluded cabin in the mountains situated at 7,000 feet? Why are we here, and not in a little shack about a quarter-mile from the Pacific Ocean? In short, why are we here? Maybe because if we leave, there will be no one to water my tomato plants. That could be it. Or no one to keep our sons cat, Joe, company. Joe is very sensitive. He needs to be reassured, otherwise he will only eat two or three bowls of cat food instead of the

usual five or six. And what if, while were away, the mailman brings one is pretty obvious. Hell keep it, just like hes kept all the others. Ah, well. Every year, this happens. It gets hot, and I get disgusted. Then, in the and everyone else gets disgusted. Thats when I cheer up. I feed off of

of those huge checks Ive been waiting for all my life? I think the answer

fall, it cools off and I stay disgusted. In the winter, it gets cold and rainy, other peoples disgust which is disgusting. Which brings to mind yet

another question: how on earth did I end up being such a small-minded person? I didnt learn it from my parents. Did I learn it in school? Did I learn it second grade when I was coerced into saluting the flag for which

it stands, and into singing oh beautiful for space age skies, and amber

waves of pain? Did I learn it when I was standing in line in the cafeteria, waiting for my five-cent carton of milk? Did I learn it when a kid I hardly knew pulled my chair out from under me when I was about to sit down,

causing my tray of food to wind up in my lap? If I did, that would be a shame, since I dont even remember who he was or what he looked like. he deserves it. But enough about that. Enough, because I am thinking Something important. And now, here it is. . . . no, thats not it. Maybe its And what did he learn? Or is he also disgusted? I hope he is, because big thoughts this morning. Something great is about to happen. this: . . . nope, thats not it either. Hmm. A complete blank. Late last night, while lying in a pool of sweat, I told my wife that I wondered if Id actually wake up in the morning. She didnt appreciate the remark, even though I was only trying to cheer myself up. And now, here I am. I think.

Or is it a dream? Or a nightmare? The birds are singing in the trees, the innocent have rested, and have now gone off to resume their graceful, minded perpetrator of evil. A complainer who hates politicians. But I am

sky is blue, a soft breeze is blowing in through the open window. The humanity-saving toils. I am alone, wrestling with my conscience. A smalla good driver. Does that count for anything? It should, but something tells me it wont. Or is it that my thoughts today are so big that they cannot be described or explained? Because, at the moment, it feels as if

they are bumping into each other like great, rumbling clouds. Flashes of earth teem with the living dead. Remember, they say. It is not too late.

lightning illuminate a dark mental sky. The lonely roads that bind the More wishful thinking? Or is there really hope? Let there be light. Now, there be peace. Or this one: Fresh watermelon for everybody. The

theres a statement that will go down in history. How about this one? Let important thing is that we mean what we say. Because, whether we

realize it or not, what we really mean ends up being said anyway. The only ones fooled are fools themselves everyone, in other words. Especially yours truly.

June 28, 2003 Yesterday evening at the table, we were laughing about some of the ridiculous shows on television, so many of which involve fast cars, fast women, and bad dialogue. Then I said I had come the Embalmed. The show features a hip crime-fighting duo. One is

up with a good idea for a summer replacement, called The Inflamed and disease-ridden and the other is dead conditions they frequently discuss and use to their advantage. I had to laugh, the embalmed says inflamed answers, Whoa, like, you are way out of context, dude. The to the inflamed in one scene. Did you see the look on his face? And the girls, though, flock around these guys, ignoring the health risks. The

Inflamed and the Embalmed would also be a good title for a soap opera as well as an accurate description of many veteran soap actors who would be perfect for the show. Another good soap title is The Trite and

the Troubled. Or how about Misery Hospital, in which people who cant hand, this would probably work better as a documentary.

afford health care are forced to take care of each other? On the other June 29, 2003 It was ninety-seven degrees yesterday, and in the

evening a layer of clouds drifted in, raising the humidity and trapping the heat. We slept quite unsuccessfully with our curtain and window about five minutes. Since I was awake anyway, I got up, went to the open, but there was no breeze. At three in the morning, it rained for window, and inhaled the great smell. Now a strong breeze is blowing from the west cool ocean air is on its way. Tomorrow it will probably be thirty degrees cooler than it was yesterday. To celebrate, I made a small pan of soup, using a few pieces of lamb stew meat, two tomatoes,

an onion, three large cloves of garlic, a handful of parsley, four potatoes,

and a pound of frozen cut okra. I added plenty of salt and pepper, and also quite a bit of dry purple basil. The last thing I did was to squeeze the juice of half a small lemon over the whole concoction. Well have the And now its time to see what the rest of the day holds. Maybe Ill even take a nap. But the house is heating up again, so this may not be in the cards. Either way, something will happen. It always does. June 30, 2003 What I would really like to do is plant some trees. But

soup this evening, among other things, once weve decided on a menu.

there isnt any room. We already have several big pine trees and a fir tree. But if I could, here is what I would plant: two poplar trees, side by side. One apricot tree. One fig tree. One lemon tree. One olive tree. One pomegranate tree. One peach tree. One cherry tree. One plum tree. If I

had a lot of room, I would plant several of each. I would also plant several kinds of grapes, but not the varieties that are sold in stores, because those are generally lousy, the seeds and flavor having been problem. Summers here arent hot enough and long enough to grow some of the things I want to plant. I dont know what to do about this. It

bred out of them to suit current marketing trends. But there is another

isnt always convenient to drive 735 miles to our old stomping grounds money enter into it? Grapes are sacred as are olives and attract hummingbirds. You cant have a better arrangement than that. My

for a bunch of grapes. It isnt cost effective, either, although, why should pomegranates. And when pomegranates are in bloom, the blossoms mother has a small fig tree, but it is overshadowed by her neighbors fir trees and doesnt produce any fruit. The leaves are beautiful, though. Seeing the tree reminds me of the Black Mission fig my father and

grandfather planted almost sixty years ago. The tree was enormous, and

its smell was intoxicating. Once, when I was sitting in the crown of the tree enjoying the shade and listening to sparrows, I saw a completely white spider before, and I havent seen one since. Now Im not eight white spider. I was about eight years old at the time. I had never seen a years old. Or am I? I still feel the same about the tree and the spider, from a vine or fig tree is a sacred act, a bringing forward of everything

and many other similarly important things. I know that planting a cutting that life has been and meant from the beginning of time. It is a way of

remembering your loved ones. It is a promise made to those yet to

come. Do this in remembrance of me. Many have said those words. But

the story is still being written. Jesus should have grown grapes. It would

have changed his outlook. For the real religion is the earth we are all choose not to and even when we can no longer remember, it is there, painted upon our brow.

anchored in, growing out of, returning to it is the fruit we bear, or

July 1, 2003 I had to laugh when I saw the cover of the June issue of

Readers Digest, which came our way via a friend whose mother buys

him a subscription every year. You would think a magazine thats been around so long and that has such a huge circulation would be a little more heads-up in the design department. I am referring to the bold headline that runs across the top of the front cover, which says, Americas Fastest Growing Crime. Directly underneath is the

magazines name, leading one to the natural assumption that Readers Digest is the crime in question. That was my assumption, anyway. Listed Fastest Growing Crime, which turned out to be about identity theft. I in the table of contents, though, there was an article called Americas was so disappointed. In fact, I might have been thoroughly destroyed if I hadnt received a telephone call from someone working in the Friends of

the Salem Public Library bookstore, saying I had just won their first-ever monthly drawing for a free book of my choice. That turned me right around. The last time I was in the store, after I paid for Ernest Hemingway, Selected Letters, 1917-1961, the person who took my money asked if Id like to enter their drawing. I said of course, and scrawled my name and number on a little piece of paper, then added it to collect my prize, which, for some odd reason, I fully expected to win. to a fistful of others in a fishbowl. On my way out I said, Ill be back later Now that I think about it, though, I probably won because there was no books anyway.

money involved. But thats okay. I have a much easier time holding onto July 2, 2003 Someday, just for the fun of it, Id like to spend six or eight weeks in a remote mountain cabin with a typewriter and several eight weeks in a diseased fleabag hotel with a computer and several bottles of Scotch. And if that doesnt happen, then maybe I can spend six or eight weeks under lock and key and behind bars on Center Street here in Salem, which is where they made the movie of Ken Keseys novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. The only thing Id be afraid of want to leave. But at that point I guess it wouldnt matter. Then again, reams of paper. If that doesnt happen, then maybe I can spend six or

there is that theyd never let me leave, or, even worse, that I wouldnt maybe it already doesnt matter, and I just havent realized it yet. Maybe depending on how you look at it. Is sanity a choice? Are sanity and

Im already on the inside looking out, or on the outside looking in insanity like chocolate and vanilla? Is everyone waiting for my decision? If they are, they dont seem to be. I wait for my turn to buy stamps in the post office lobby, and no one even clears their throat. The radio behind

the counter is playing hits from the Sixties My Little Runaway,

Going to the Chapel, etc., and I think, What the hell am I doing here? I Then my turn comes to face the cheerful clerk who for some strange

dont need stamps, I need a vacation from everything and everybody. reason always remembers my name. Staying out of trouble? he says,

and I answer, Is there any reason why I should? Suddenly, a panel in the ceiling slides open and stamps flutter down like snowflakes. Thatll be thirty-seven thousand dollars, the clerk says, and I answer, But I only asked for a hundred. Ah! My mistake! Everyone laughs. Get the janitor on the phone. Tell him to clean up the stamps. No, no, I say then, thats all right. Dont bother him. Give me the stamps. Ill use them

eventually. And so I write a check for thirty-seven thousand dollars. get busy and write some letters. Dear Mr. President: You dirty so and so, Astoria, Center Street, Salem, Oregon, comma, comma, comma Im

Well, thats it, then. Thats the formula. With all these stamps, Id better and so on and so forth. Yours truly, etc., etc., Room 1215, Waldorf sick of commas! Ive been using commas all my life! If the president

doesnt use them, why should I? He doesnt even know what a comma

is, for crying out loud and they are crying comma youd better believe There. I feel better now.

theyre crying comma youd cry too if you had any sense period (.) July 3, 2003 Salems street people are breathing a little easier now

that the nights arent so cold and the days are filled with sunshine. I see found at certain corners or in certain crosswalks at almost exactly the

them out making their rounds. Many follow a set schedule, and can be same time each day. One man Ive noticed in particular walks many one of the benches downtown. His hair is a lot longer than it was a

miles a day. He talks to no one, and Ive yet to see him stop and sit on couple of years ago, he looks much older, and he has found a pair of

heavy black-rimmed glasses, the kind commonly worn in the Sixties. His

nose is bigger. He has let his beard grow. He is I am you are we are all I could be him, and the rest of us could all change places. Such things have been known to happen, especially when we least expect it. Assumptions are dangerous. Often, we have a shorter distance to fall

together in other words, with a simple twist of fate he could be me, or

than we think. No one is immune. Its something to think about when relaxing in a warm bed. And they are out there, walking. Shivering. No one understands better than the street people, the fleeting days of summer, the fleeting nature of life itself. July 4, 2003 While Americans flex their patriotic muscles by setting off to keep out the smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Of course, the

winter rolls around and we are sitting by the fire or in a warm theater, or

fireworks this evening, I will be sitting here with my window closed trying racket and nonsense has already been going on for several days. Yesterday evening, from just a few houses away, there came a blast so loud that it made me jump out of my chair. This sort of thing happens every year. Once a neighbor and her son even took it upon themselves to aim fireworks at the dry roof of our house. Luckily, they missed. These people are not what youd call the finer elements. Over the years, the police have been their frequent guests, thus giving them the attention People all around the world know about the empty cowboy hat that

they so desperately crave. Well, Americans have the attention now. occupies the White House, and that, in reference to the ongoing violence in Iraq, says things like, Bring em on. What? You didnt know hats could talk? Well, they can. They cant make sense, but they can talk. They have a limited vocabulary that consists mostly of words like freedom, and terrorism, and homeland security, and democracy. They

love that word, democracy, even while they roast the concept on a spit wells, logging roads, toxic dump sites, and nuclear testing sites. And isnt

over an open fire out there on the good ol range between the oil it interesting how the great American economy can afford to pump untold

millions of dollars each day into killing people, destroying the planet, and taking over other countries, but it cant afford to help people get the food, medicine, or employment they need? I think its interesting, anyway. I

think its just fascinating when people who are laid off cant find work for two years. And I think its absolutely intriguing when young people cant find jobs in fast food restaurants because college graduates with advanced degrees are taking them. So what are people supposed to

do? Let off some steam on the Fourth of July and then head back to the forces in the fight against freedom and understanding? Say whoopee?

unemployment line? Get drunk, blow off their arms, and join the armed July 5, 2003 There are moments when you understand beyond the shadow of a doubt that you arent getting anywhere, or that if you are, the progress is so slow that you wont live long enough to enjoy the fruits of your labor. There are also moments when you realize that you have can be proud. And there are moments when you care so much that you already accomplished a great deal, and that there is much of which you dont care, and work so much that nothing works, and worry so much that everything finally seems pointless and laughable. But what is one to do with this knowledge? Combine the moments and take an average? What is the argument about, really or is there an argument? Why all the fuss? Why not just sit back and enjoy life while you can? Or can

Or settle on a certain type and be elated or depressed accordingly?

you? Should you? Do you have that right, or is contentment something

that must be earned? And if it is, who decides the worth of your

achievement? Or is time the judge? And if you are contented, what

about all the people in the world who arent? Is it their problem and not

yours? Or is your contentment selfish and self-centered? Does anyone have the right to be contented while people are starving and being tortured and killed? Or is contentment derived from good work the best more of the same?

remedy for the worlds ills? For doesnt good work and happiness breed July 6, 2003 The other day, after reading several of these journal entries, our daughter said to me, When its hot you go crazy, and then when the weather cools off you become normal again. She said these words with a twinkle in her eye, which I knew meant, Normal for you,

anyway. Shes right, of course. The heat and I really dont get along, and havent for many years. I resent high temperatures or, to be more specific, I resent being where high temperatures are. It can be as hot as

it wants as long as I am somewhere else. The trouble is, I am never somewhere else. I am always here. Then again, where else could I be? A person is always here, even when hes there, which hardly seems fair. farm in Dinuba, California, surrounded by friends who

Last night, for instance, I had a dream in which I found myself on our old unaccountably grown old. At the time, though, I wasnt there. I was here. had

Only in talking about it later can I say I was there. And then suddenly a great wind came up, and we watched as it stripped the leaves from one funnel clouds appeared, heading southward. Someone said, Those funnel clouds descended over a neighbors vineyard. But they didnt of the nectarine trees in our orchard. The sky darkened, and then three could do damage if they touch down. And then, sure enough, the trio of make it all the way to the ground. They rose again, and continued on their way. About this time, our telephone was ringing on the floor in the

kitchen. I didnt want to answer it, but I had a feeling it was my wifes I called to tell you where I have been. Then he hung up. And I thought, Fine, then. Hang up. See what I care. Only then did I notice that the

brother, so I did. I was right. Where have you been? I said. He replied,

telephone wasnt plugged into anything. Where was I then? And where am I now? I am here. But it is not hot. The weather is fine. A cool breeze reach the low eighties, but thats about all normal for this time of year, like me. is blowing in through the window. This afternoon, the temperature will

July 7, 2003 After telling the volunteers on duty at the Friends drawing for a free book, it took less than a minute to find a title I wanted:

bookstore that I was the lucky individual who had won their June A World of Great Stories, published in 1947 by Avenel Books. The 950page hardbound volume contains 115 short stories from around the section, a German and Scandinavian section, a Russian and East world. It has an American and British section, a Romance Language European section, an Oriental section, and a Latin American section. paid the gigantic sum of two dollars. Short Stories from the New Yorker, Thurber, Sherwood Anderson, Erskine Caldwell, E.B. White, Dorothy authors Ive never heard of. So now I have 183 stories to read. On my

While I was in the store, I couldnt resist getting another book, for which I published in 1940, contains sixty-eight stories. It includes work by James Parker, Morley Callaghan, and Christopher Isherwood, as well as many way out of the store, I noticed there was another drawing under way for July. But I didnt enter, because if I had I most certainly would have won again, thereby casting doubt on the contests credibility. For some odd reason, this makes me think of the last presidential election, which is something I dont want to do at the moment. What I really want to do is

to spend some time reading my new books, because when I read I often

find new answers to old questions, and old answers to new questions. And sometimes I find answers without questions, and vice-versa. There are also times when the questions arent worth asking and the answers and answers at all, which is a pretty fair description of television.

arent worth hearing. But that is still better than there being no questions July 8, 2003 A moment ago, I was thinking about how pathetic it is

that professional athletes who earn millions each year are paid millions more to sell tennis shoes, cars, and credit cards. Its even more pathetic that this kind of advertising works. But I dont know what got me started time, Ive stared out the window, taken several sips from a cup of coffee, lousy business about professional athletes

on this. Ive only been sitting here for two or three minutes. During that and wondered how much longer Ill be able to stay awake. And yet, this

endorsements pops into my head. Whats the use of thinking about that? Its not like Im going to say anything new on the subject. Everyone

and their so-called

Whats the use of thinking at all, if thats what Im going to think about? knows its a joke, a sham, and an insult at least deep down, they do.

Dont they? I can understand a young kid getting the idea that wearing a

certain kind of shoe will help him be more like the hero whos advertising twelve, say? Should we really sign up for a credit card because a on the town? What sense does that make? But enough of that. What I

it, but shouldnt we outgrow that sort of thing by the time were ten or commercial shows a player for the Yankees using it during a wild night say or dont say, or think or dont think, wont make a bit of difference. Or will it? Maybe if I say it, then someone else will also say it, and then pretty soon everyone will be saying it. Of course, by that time, I will have

moved along to saying other things, like, I drive a Ford, or, Id rather

fight than switch when the truth is, Id rather fight a Ford, switch off

the light, and go to bed. But I cant go to bed. Its only one-thirty in the the bed because I was trying to find something that wasnt there because its somewhere else. And now I can hardly remember what it

afternoon. Besides, this morning I piled a bunch of books and papers on

was I was looking for in the first place. This probably explains why I doesnt. But something needs explaining, I know that much.

ended up thinking about professional athletes. Then again, it probably July 9, 2003 He was playing a cruel, sophisticated donkey, but I still agree with what Rod Steiger bellowed after falling down the stairs of Laras Yuriatin apartment in Doctor Zhivago. He said, We are all made of the same clay, you know. Clay, or, if you like, we can call it stardust, Stardust, clay it amounts to the same thing, though stardust is a bit as Joni Mitchell did in her generation-defining anthem, Woodstock. more poetic. Clay so often turns to mud which is why clay is probably a more apt description although more and more these days, there is an argument for plastic. We are all made of the same plastic, you know. That does have a nice ring to it. Or how about this: We all use the same cosmetics and toothpaste, you know. Anyway. I was driving through millionth time that the people on the sidewalk were walking in step with the song on the radio. They were graceful, poetic, and tragic, and for a and sisters if not long lost friends, who, by some evil twist of fate, had beautiful moment I was sure we were all related, that we were brothers become strangers who spend their precious time looking for the obvious like me, who insists on using long sentences. But I must say, long

town this morning, listening to a little music and noticing for perhaps the

in all the wrong places a problem further compounded by someone sentences arent needed to describe what is happening this very

moment at the neighbors house across the street: They are sawing see into their backyard. What a treat that will be. We may all be made of privacy?

down two trees. Now everyone who drives by or walks by will be able to the same clay, you know, but why would anyone want to sacrifice their July 10, 2003 Gee, it only costs the U.S. $3.9 billion a month to

maintains its presence in Iraq. Thats quite a bargain. Throw in a little entertainment. Dear Mr. President: I know youre busy telling lies in yourself to the lions? It will only take a moment. Or maybe you can cut

murder and suffering, and you have some really great summer Africa at the moment, but while youre there, would you please throw the ribbon at the grand opening of a rhinoceros factory and then be trampled to death. Yours very truly, Ima Writer. Dear Ima: The president thanks you for your humorous letter. He asked me to tell you that if he

thought you were serious, you would disappear from the streets without a trace within the next twenty-four hours. Being the son of a kinder, gentler ex-president, however, he is happy to cut you some slack (i.e.,

give you the benefit of the doubt). Best wishes, Someone Standing in for the President Because He Never Learned to Write. Dear Someone: Tell the president I meant every word, and that I have already disappeared from the streets because I cant afford groceries anymore. Catchya later, Ima. Ima: Someone was just relieved of duty. Your letter has been

forwarded to the appropriate authorities. Have a nice day, Someone

Else. Dear Someone Else: Im awfully sorry if I got Someone in trouble. holding us all hostage and I could afford my medicine. You might

Im sure it would never have happened if the drug companies werent mention that to the president, even though I know he doesnt care, and

figures when he gets old hell be immune to health problems because he has lots of money. Oh! Theyre here already! Gotta go, Ima. July 11, 2003 This just in from the Who Would Ever Have Guessed Department: the U.S. will be in Iraq for several years. What a surprise. And isnt it interesting that the so-called seeds of democracy otherwise known as life, oppression, and the pursuit of oil would be

shaped exactly like bullets? Yes, indeed. There is much happiness on the horizon. Fortunately, here in the homeland, we have plenty to care. But, as a wise man once said, you can always rent a video. Of distract us, such as poverty, unemployment, and unaffordable health course, we wont have too long to wait until we are treated to a rerun of the last election. I predict some pretty good entertainment: this countrys finest wrapped in flags, safely debating the issues, coupled with the asinine commentary of pinhead columnists and other experts. But the results, Im afraid, are already in. No matter who wins, everyone those who have appropriated it for their own ends.

loses. Not that I dont have faith in the system. It obviously works for July 12, 2003 Its seven oclock. Ive already eaten breakfast and had a look at the newspaper, and have just ah, there had my first swallow of coffee. Im writing on the early side this morning because in a short while we are driving to the coast. Our destination is Newport, Oregon, where todays high temperature is expected to be fifty-nine

degrees. The plan is to leave Salem and drive west on Highway 22, then either take Highway 99W to Corvallis, and then Highway 20 to Newport, Kings Valley and the towns of Nashville and Summit, and then to pick up or to bypass 99W and drive through the town of Dallas and then on to Highway 20 further west. Either way, well end up on Highway 20, unless we take Highway 34, I believe it is, and go by way of Philomath and the

Alsea River, which would land us in Waldport a few miles south of

Newport. We came back that way one evening a few years ago. It was

beautiful and we had the road almost to ourselves. The Kings Valley route, on the other hand, comes highly recommended by a friend, who said going that way would probably add forty-five minutes to our trip, and

that we would most likely get lost. Its hard to beat a recommendation it with two brown eggs with cheddar cheese, tabasco sauce, and basil. I

like that. For breakfast I fried a potato in a little olive oil, then scrambled also had a piece of toast with butter and homemade peach jam. And

now it should be noted that there is a huge uproar being made next door by a commercial gardening outfit mowers, blowers, edgers what an size of a postage stamp and doesnt grow because it gets almost no water. The house is a rental, currently unoccupied. And here it is, idiotic racket, especially at this hour of the morning. The front lawn is the

Saturday morning, and there are great clouds of dust floating into the street. Time to get up, everybody! Rise and shine! No rest for the wicked! Fools. July 13, 2003 Instead of turning left onto Highway 99W, at the last

possible second we changed lanes and continued west on Highway 22. We passed through the tiny towns of Rose Lodge, Otis, and Neotsu, then landed in Lincoln City, along with several thousand other people who had escaped to the coast. But we didnt stop there. Well, actually, Lincoln City and made our way south on Highway 101 to Newport, traffic was so thick we stopped several times. But we soon cleared where the beach was almost completely abandoned. There was a sick

grebe sitting near a pile of rocks, bravely waiting for the tide to end its

cares. The steady crashing of the waves afforded it a frightening measure of privacy. We walked on the beach for a time, battered by

strong winds beneath a mostly cloudy sky, then stopped for lunch. After we had eaten, we took another walk on the beach. The clouds thickened and lowered. It began to mist, then rain, and we were soaked. In the were coated with grit. Still, it was a fine time, and we got a bit of a tan. process, the dry sand further from the water blew all over us and we On the way home on Highway 20, I missed the turn that would have to Corvallis, enjoying the scenery and place names like Burnt Woods and Blodgett. It rained off and on until we were about ten miles from

taken us through Nashville and Summit, so we stayed on 20 all the way

Corvallis. In Philomath, the town has invested in a huge number of

roadside flags affixed to inch-thick poles planted at regular intervals.

While the stars and stripes fluttered madly in the breeze, we nearly wore ourselves out saluting. We picked up 99W in Corvallis and enjoyed a beautiful drive through the country, passed through Monmouth and the clouds are here, but not the rain, and only a little of that blasted sand. Sunday morning. The calm. The quiet. There is already talk of

Independence, the latter of which will soon have a new library. And now

taking another drive, this time east toward Silverton and the hills. There seed fields, and fields of flowers also grown for seed. There are filbert farmers telling their kids how hard they worked when they were kids, and

are some fine old cemeteries between here and there, and rolling grass groves, blueberries, marionberries, and pumpkins. There are sweating being entirely ignored, or put up with, or listened to, or laughed at. And to help their husbands make ends meet. And somewhere there is a dog across its noble forehead.

there are farmers wives who are exhausted from working in town, trying dozing on a creaky wooden porch, unaware of the fly that is walking

July 14, 2003 One day, a boy riding a bicycle came upon a

philosopher sitting beneath a tree. Good morning, said the boy. How are you? Im fine, the philosopher replied. Im trying to figure out this with it? he said. Nothing, the philosopher said. Nothing at all. But its looked at the philosopher and at the tree. I think its an oak tree, he said, trying his best to help. The philosopher smiled. Ah, yes. An oak. But why is it an oak? Why isnt it a walnut tree, for instance, or a maple? tree. The boy looked at the philosopher, then at the tree. Whats wrong here, and thats what I am trying to understand. Once again, the boy

And why is it a tree at all, instead of a person, or a cat, or a dog? The The philosopher sighed. If only it were that simple, he said. But why

boy stared at the philosopher in disbelief. Because its an oak, he said. isnt it? the boy said. I dont know, the philosopher said. Thats learned men have wondered that very same thing. Well, the boy said,

another question entirely. Down through the ages, many great and what did they decide? Nothing, the philosopher said. Not a dadblamed thing. When it comes to simple things, the learned men of this finished making this statement, an acorn fell from the oak tree and landed on his head. This puzzled him even further. Before long, he world are as dumb as a post myself included. Just as the philosopher

forgot to notice the boys presence, and began mumbling into his beard. The boy got back onto his bicycle and rode away. He had to. He still had a life to live.

July 15, 2003 Details. A stream of tiny ants, carrying eggs to a new home, forty feet away. How many trips do they make in a day? What do the ones coming say to the ones going? Plenty more where that came

from? Theres a great tavern not far from the first dahlia on the right, but watch out for the puddle? I could sure use a vacation? Details. A man

stands in his doorway in the morning and spits on his lawn, on his sidewalk. Spits everywhere. Makes a horrible sound. His son, a little boy, runs through it a few minutes later. Runs through the spit, which

accumulates day by day. The spit, which gathers force and runs down the driveway, clogging the gutters. The spit of a man, who barks at his child, who in turn ignores his father, who spits, spits, spits, and we

havent even mentioned the wife, the mother, nor will we, because we are sick of the subject and wish to proceed no further. Details. Strands of clouds, braided clouds, yellow and pink and orange and gray. In the evening, an eerie yellow light. Drops of rain. A soft breeze, the scent of way, adults looking for a way out, looking for the way home. A stream of

fields, the advancing season. Summer. Long days. Children finding their ants, bumping into each other. Coming, going. Its a good life, though nothing like the one envisioned. The fairy tale, the happily ever after. Though it could be. Almost. If it werent for the details. Those pesky details. Funny how they invent themselves. Cute little buggers. Mom, may I have another serving of details, please? They taste great.

Buttered details. Details with homemade jam. A quiet gathering at the

table, trembling beneath the weight of details. The gathering, not the detail. Baby detail. I think Ill write a story today. Call it Waiting for the

table. The table is fine. Papa detail, Mama detail, Brother and Sister Echos Return. What are you doing? the hero says to the lonesome

stranger standing at the edge of a cliff. And the lonesome stranger says, Im waiting for the echos return. And the hero says, The Echos already been here and gone. Fastest stage in the West, as a matter of fact. To explains a lot. And he walks off the edge of the cliff. The End. which the lonesome stranger replies, Really? Ill be darned. That

July 16, 2003 If this starts making sense, please let me know. Also, it might be wise if you were to check with your doctor. Its too late for me, but there might still be hope for you. . . . In other news, earlier this

morning my mother and I were in nearby Woodburn, and we happened to pass the garden plot I had seen being prepared for planting back on the fourteenth day of May. The space is now an organized jungle of successful growth. There are rows of corn, squash, beans, tomatoes, and possibly more, but, as I was also paying attention to traffic, I cant be

sure. But what I did see was inspiring. Our own tomatoes are doing well, though it will probably be another month and half before we have anything ripe enough to pick. The parsley I planted is growing rapidly, as is the zucchini. There are several about an inch-long, so we wont have to wait too much longer and then suddenly well have far more than see. What else? Late last night I killed a mosquito in bed. It was so cute rascal anyway. No, wait. I was the one in bed. Anyway, after that, I we can use, which should make a few people we know very happy. Lets and peaceful lying in its little bed, but I went ahead and murdered the turned the light back on and read four short stories from Short Stories

from the New Yorker, published in 1940: The Girls in Their Summer Dresses, by Irwin Shaw; Over the River and Through the Wood, by John OHara; The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, by James Thurber; and

The Net, by Robert M. Coates. All very enjoyable, and certainly better than most of the stories one is apt to find in big-name magazines these days. For some reason, an awful lot of stories now are well written, but safe, and boring. I call this movement Token Fiction. In other words, its devoid of life and purpose. They are clinically sophisticated, predictable, just another way of breaking up the advertising. Or maybe its all very

realistic, and people are living token lives. That would be even worse.

Wasnt there a saying somewhere about life imitating art? Then again, what is art? I had an Uncle Art, and he was definitely worth imitating. But I doubt thats what they meant whoever they are. Then again, they

didnt know Uncle Art, who was himself a work of art, a pipe-smoking

wise man with an incredibly dry sense of humor, well read, a lover of all with my father so well.

kinds of good music, and fanatically honest, which is why he got along July 17, 2003 So far today Ive written three letters and tried to figure out how to delete the colored background from an image on the Id tried a dozen or so different options and failed. At least next time Ill computer. The letters were easy. So was the computer operation, once know how its done if I remember, that is. In fact, I think Ive already interested in. Its a lot more fun to remember the time you struck out

forgotten. Thats the trouble with doing something youre not really fifteen batters in little league, or bowled a 234 in high school, or went fishing at Pine Flat Dam with your father. I find myself remembering things like this every day. Sometimes, family members are surprised by how much I do remember. I tend to come up with some fairly detailed reports on long-ago happenings, including complete conversations.

Either that, or I make up new ones to fill in the blanks, and convince myself that so and so really said such and such, and, having been convinced, am all the more convincing to others. In other words, when the wind isnt whistling through, a lot of talk goes on between my ears. July 18, 2003 Watching our children spread their wings reminds me of when I first spread my own. But before I could spread them, it was necessary to slave away for two summers at one of the local fruit an hour, the second for $2.55 an hour. During the height of the season, I

packing houses. The first year, I worked for the whopping sum of $2.35

started at seven in the morning, and then often stayed on the job until midnight or later. It was a grueling schedule, especially in the San Joaquin Valley heat, but it didnt matter because I was earning big money. I bought a 1967 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport for $900 and never looked back. Actually, I looked back quite often, just to be sure no one was chasing me. I drove all over hell and gone. Then I moved out

and went to Fresno, where I worked as a cook in a restaurant, worked in a nursery and did some landscaping on the side, and worked as a groundskeeper for a doctor and for an author of livestock handbooks. for some crime. I found this amusing, because when I knew him he was with us, because he was well into his seventies when I worked for him

Later, we heard the doctor had fled the country because he was wanted quite a weasel. And I can only assume the livestock author is no longer almost thirty years ago. But I could be wrong. It could be that with his hours a day, from six in the evening until nine. The rest of the time, he

rigorous schedule, he never found the time to die. He slept only three worked. Once, he and his wife had company in the evening; when the people left, it was already past nine oclock, so he told his wife, Put on the coffee, Im going to work, and skipped his three-hour nap. He even looked like an owl, albeit a featherless one. For some odd reason he seemed to like me. I suppose it was because I was always courteous and respectful. When I finally quit, he was disappointed, even a little angry. But watering his house plants and trimming his roses three days a of the others I worked for or with. When I worked at the nursery, one of my fellow employees was a twenty-nine-year-old young man from

week was hardly a career. And of course I never saw him again, or any

Japan, named Mitsuo. We got along very well, and occasionally I would

help him with his English. He found similar sounding words like full and

fool intriguing, and would say, I am full, but not fool. Then I would say, Where is Mitsuo now?

Yes, and I am fool, but not full, because its almost time for lunch. July 19, 2003 I have always found it impossible not to exaggerate. At

the same time, I am bound by a rigid code of honesty that I inherited in a way that leaves the truth intact, and, preferably, in a way that

from my father and mother. So when I do exaggerate, it has to be done reveals that truth to others. At least thats my hope. This might very well be the reason I became a writer. When I read over the stories I have many cases they are a complete circus. It is my belief that each of us written, I am pleased by how much truth they contain, even though in lives to tell the truth, and to be truths witness. It is also obvious that we moment, I am too pig-headed and self-centered to answer that question. But over the years, exaggeration has stood me in good stead. I have

often fail. I dont believe failure is inevitable, though it could be. At the

found that a great many people appreciate the humor involved in stretching things to unlikely, if not impossible, proportions. They instinctively understand that an honest effort is being made to point out what is right and what is wrong. And when I am misguided, their smile lets me know. You cant blame a person for trying. Not trying is a crime. evil, both of which pale and melt away in the face of laughter.

Each moment must be its own small revolution against ignorance and July 20, 2003 Even in their juvenile stage, it appears our zucchini plants are going to take over the small garden plot they are supposed to be sharing with our tomatoes and parsley. But the tomato plants seem ready and willing to compete. They are now between four and five feet

tall and covered with blossoms, and new tomatoes are appearing every day. And it wont be long until there is enough parsley to pick. We could

already get away with picking a little here and there, but we still have about a weeks supply in the refrigerator to use first. Then, look out. Now, I just remembered the white asparagus we used to have growing by our house well, which was referred to as the pressure system, when vineyard once, and had transplanted it by the house. I used to wait for it I was growing up. My father had found a patch of it growing in the to come up in the spring. When it started poking out of the ground, Id

check daily on its progress. For a long time, the white asparagus was the why. And I havent seen white asparagus since. Another fine memory is that of our old clothesline, one end of which began just a few feet from the asparagus. The line actually there were several of them was

only kind I liked. But eventually the patch died out. I dont remember

made of twelve-gauge vineyard wire that had been stapled on each end to redwood cross-arms nailed onto redwood four-by-fours buried in the ground. My mother visited the clothesline several times a day. When I wasnt off playing somewhere, I liked handing her the wooden clothespins, or putting them in the bag shed hung from one of the lines. My father was always careful about doing tractor work nearby when breeze would shift and a cloud of dust would drift over Moms freshly cleaned sheets.

there were clothes on the line. Still, every great once in awhile, the

July 21, 2003 I remember reading in the paper a few years ago that mulberry trees do well here in the Willamette Valley. And yet, after living here for sixteen years, I still havent seen one. I have read the same about fig trees, and have seen only a few of those. I can understand there not being any pomegranate trees, since even in a warmer climate pomegranates ripen late in the year. And I can understand the lack of

citrus, since we have colder winters. Its a shame, but I can understand

it. I also understand that most people no longer know what to do with mulberries, figs, and pomegranates. To make matters worse, each fall, come with a two-dollar price tag. Thats two dollars apiece. A few of when pomegranates appear in area grocery stores, they are wilted and these find their way onto the occasional Thanksgiving Day centerpiece,

along with desiccated bunches of grapes that have been wrapped and two. Ive often heard it said that pomegranates are difficult to eat as if

shipped in plastic, gassed bananas, and occasionally a stray walnut or this were a legitimate reason to deprive oneself of one of the worlds oldest and greatest fruits. My answer to that is, so, let it take a few minutes. And if you are willing to take a few hours, you can make some the seeds in figs, because they remind them of bugs. My answer to that

of the best jelly on earth. There are also people who say they dont like is, if bugs tasted that good, Id probably eat them too. Why does

everything have to be smooth, blemish-free, seed-free, and generic? Besides, doesnt that contradict societys fascination with low-grade, greasy drive-through burgers? I see people grappling with these messy things in traffic, and yet a pomegranate is hard to eat. I admit that a

pomegranate doesnt quite make a meal, but thats what bread and days isnt really fit to eat but its pre-wrapped! and that makes all the difference. Notice to Consumers: In some cases, contents may Acme Cardboard Company.

cheese are for. Of course, most of the stuff that passes for cheese these

resemble actual cheese. We apologize for the inconvenience. Sincerely, July 22, 2003 Last night while we were waiting for the house to cool down it was ninety-five degrees yesterday I took it upon myself to read each of these journal entries straight through from the beginning. I

made it through June 2003, finally gave out, and then finished the rest

this morning. Not counting todays, there are 126 entries, and a total of over 35,000 words. But those are only minor statistics. While I was reading, I gradually became aware of several other things, which I

suppose are obvious to anyone else who has suffered along to this

point. First of all, there is no doubt that I am against war. Second, I dont seem to be very fond of the current government or any government, for that matter. I dont have an us and them mentality, and resent the them. Third, I love to write. Fourth, it is my belief that people owe it to themselves to do what they love, and that if they dont know what that is, importance of family, and I love family life. Sixth, I try to be honest, but I

artificial divisions imposed by the fat cats of the world who benefit by

that they should do their best to find out. Fifth, I believe in the dont always succeed. Reading between the lines, it seems quite possible that I am more honest with others than I am with myself. This might be hard for a stranger to judge or very easy. Im not sure. I dont

even like to use that word, stranger. Why should any of us be strangers? Why shouldnt we begin with assumption that we are friends and relatives, and then go from there? Seventh, I am one sarcastic S.O.B.

Eighth, I am realistic very nearly to the point of mental illness. Ninth, I live in a dream world that might really be mental illness. Tenth and probably a dozen or so other things that are equally obvious, but this list this is perhaps the most important thing of all I mean well. There are has gone on long enough, at least for now. In closing, though, I believe

there is one other important thing to consider: if you are reading these dare to admit. And if you are not reading these words a statement that makes no sense whatsoever then the same is likely true.

words, we may have more in common than either of us would care or

July 23, 2003 I have been thinking lately that it would be interesting to towns, as they are referred to in this part of the world. There is no shortage of scenic backroads in the area, and there are plenty of old barns and homesteads that beckon study and contemplation. I could sleep in abandoned ones, or perhaps in seldom-visited cemeteries

take a walking tour through the countryside and several villages, or

located at the end of graveled roads. I would need a good walking stick, two other items related to survival. A months journey should be Under extreme circumstances I could even pay for it, but I doubt it would

of course, as well as a notebook and a sturdy hat and shoes, and one or sufficient. Since its summer, there is plenty of fresh produce available. be necessary. Or I could take along copies of stories I have written and

offer them in trade. In fact, it might even be possible to travel the entire length and breadth of this country in just such a manner. After all, each of us has something unique to offer, and by trading, all our lives would is impractical, but that only makes it more appealing.

be enriched. Its something nice to think about. Many would say the idea July 24, 2003 When I was a boy and first came under the influence of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, my new burning ambition was to run away. Actually, I had long been doing just that on a daily basis, but

within the boundaries of our farm, and always with an eye on supper time. But now the thought of floating down a river stirred powerful images in my mind. I pictured myself wearing a straw hat and lazily smoking a pipe on the nearby Kings River, which I had in fact floated

down many times already with my father in his twelve-foot wooden boat light-blue and permanently stained by salmon eggs and fish scales. Of

the one my mother called The Eggcrate. It was a good boat, painted course I wouldnt be using that boat; what I needed was a raft. About this

same time, one of my brothers and a friend or two had taken it upon

themselves to build one, which they planned to use in the irrigation ditch that ran along one side of our property and continued on through the countryside. Being a bit too heavy, however, it sank on its maiden no way of getting to the river anyway. Somehow, asking my father to put voyage. This made me think twice about building my own, which I had a raft in the back of his pickup and then to drive it and me eight miles to the boat landing in Reedley seemed less than authentic. So I decided to handkerchief, into which I bundled a few necessities: marbles, feathers, become a hobo instead. I found a long stick and a bright-red an old one-dollar pocket watch, and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. I

tied the handkerchief to the stick and put it over my shoulder, then took a under my bed with plans to sneak off during the night. I woke up the

look at myself in the mirror. Deciding I was ready, I slipped everything following morning and forgot entirely about the bundle under the bed, and then kept on forgetting about it for the next several days. By the time I finally remembered, the cookies were completely stale. I ate them happened by and my scouting services were needed.

anyway. After that I practiced bird calls, just in case a wagon train July 25, 2003 Last night before my eyes finally gave out, I read two weeks ago at the Friends bookstore at the Salem library. The stories

short stories from A World of Great Stories, the free book I won a few were O. Henrys The Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein and Ring

Lardners Ex Parte. Ill say this: these boys not only knew how to write, the block a time or two. Ikey Schoenstein, the night clerk at the Blue breakfasted at Mrs. Riddles two squares away. Mrs. Riddle had a

they had a genuine gift of gab. Its also obvious theyd made it around Light Drug Store between the Bowery and First Avenue, roomed and

daughter named Rosy. The circumlocution has been in vain you must

have guessed it Ikey adored Rosy. She tinctured all his thoughts; she

was the compound extract of all that was chemically pure and officinal the dispensatory contained nothing equal to her. And so on, all the way through to the end, when Ikeys plan to keep Chunk McGowan from

eloping with Rosy backfires and the sleeping pill hed intended for her is given by Chunk to her father instead. A fine story, indeed. And here is a snippet from Ring Lardners story: . . . Only one thing was more unreasonable than the chairs, and that was the table itself, consisting of underneath by a whole forest of cross-pieces and beams. The surface big planks nailed together and laid onto a railroad tie, supported was as smooth on top as the trip to Catalina Island and all around the edges, great big divots had been taken out with some blunt instrument, probably a bayonet. There were stains and scorch marks that Florence

fairly crowed over, but when I tried to add to the general ensemble by laying a lighted cigarette right down beside my soup-plate, she and both the Dwans yelled murder and made me take it off. . . . Florence is the

narrators new bride, who, much to her husbands surprise, would rather live in a salvaged barn like their friends the Dwans than in the fancy reminds me of the house my fathers parents lived in for a short time furnished house he surprised her with. Now, for some odd reason, this during World War II. The place had a neatly swept dirt floor, accented mother-in-law wash clothes in a big kettle heated by a fire in the yard. It

here and there with small rugs. Once a week, my mother helped her was hard work, but also a good way for them to get better acquainted. After all, there is nothing quite like sweating together for a common purpose.

July 26, 2003 Not infrequently, I will be sitting here minding my own business when out of the blue one of the hairs in my mustache will suddenly spring up and tickle my nose. Either that, or it will curl upward in such a way that I cannot help but see it, causing an unsettling distraction. Sometimes I am able to grab the offending hair and tuck it back into my mustache. But there are also times when the hair refuses

to obey and I am left with no choice but to lop off an inch or two, after which it recoils in horror, and doesnt dare show itself again for weeks, realize I have had my mustache since the fall of 1974. In the almost even months. This type of behavior begins to make sense when you twenty-nine years since, the only trimming I have done has been in the manner just described. If stretched to their full length, many of the hairs run to six inches. On rare occasions, one will even fall out, most likely

due to overcrowding. It is always a sad moment though I do manage to stop short of holding a funeral. When I was growing up, the men in the family all had big mustaches. With this example, it was inevitable that I

would follow suit. Long before I needed to shave, I had decided to have my own. The beard was a natural addition. In fact, the one I am now wearing had its start about sixteen years ago. In 1993, I cut it off on a whim, and then immediately let it grow back. This is something else that

I picked up from my father and his uncles. After about eight years, one of

them would suddenly appear with a sheepish expression and a cleanly a new mustache would be visible.

shaved, pale upper lip. Everyone would holler, and then a few days later . . . Last night I read another old New Yorker story. Home Atmosphere, by Sally Benson, is a sparely written piece about a small-minded wife who is jealous of her husbands aging housekeeper, Mattie, whose only joy in life is the time she spends with her employers little boy, Billy.

Determined to come between them, the wife tells Mattie she no longer needs to bathe the boy and put him to bed. She does so under the guise of caring about Matties tired, aching feet, but her purpose is clear. Mattie stared at the door and a murderous rage filled her heart. . . . The

evening loomed starkly ahead of her. No bath, no talking in the dark, no stories. That Woman had taken the last moment of the day from her, the anything. Mr. Kirk had married her, hadnt he? She had got him. As the only moment now when Billy was still her baby. That Woman could do story ends, Billy comes in from playing for the evening and Mattie scolds him gently, one last time. . . . And now I am looking at the recently how many more gems they might contain. There are thousands of challenge. acquired books I have stacked here on my work table, and wondering pages, and probably close to a million words a comfort, and also a July 27, 2003 To help them understand the gravity of the situation,

those who order soldiers into war should also be required to spend a night alone with each resulting corpse. I also think the requirement should extend to corpses originating from both sides of the conflict. In all

fairness, the same should be required of people who blindly swallow their governments propaganda, and who support its destructive policies. thoughts and actions and what goes on in the world. But why stop with This would help them see that there is a direct connection between their corpses? Why not require those responsible to spend time with the fallen anyone who is willing to think war is an acceptable activity for human battlefield, it must first take root in the mind.

soldiers destroyed families as well? And by those responsible, I mean beings. After all, war has to start somewhere. Before it can reach the

July 28, 2003 Yesterday we drove eleven miles through the country to

the small town of Silverton, then continued on into the hills until we reached Silver Falls State Park, where there are ten waterfalls and several miles of hiking trails. Though the weather was really too warm for hiking, it was great to see, feel, hear, and smell something real again. We walked for about two hours, and felt the cooling spray of South Falls hollowed-out, fern-covered cliffs. There were a lot of kids on the trail, and Lower South Falls, both of which you can walk behind beneath including two of our own, laughing and kicking up dust. There were also asleep in pouches slung over their mothers or fathers backs. It was

babies in strollers being banged about by the rocky path, and babies obvious by their parents expressions and sweat-moistened clothing that

these little ones weighed a ton. The park trails descend rapidly, lulling hikers into thinking they are out for a leisurely stroll. But what goes down must come up, and if you want to see home again there is no way other than climbing back out of the canyon. In my case, slow and steady didnt win the race, but I did make it to the top alive. Today I am suffering no many faces we met yesterday along the path the faces of young new aches or pains, which is encouraging. And I am still thinking of the couples noticing only each other, and of tired couples trying not to notice in the fact.

each other, and of old couples noticing they were still alive, and rejoicing July 29, 2003 Its hot too hot. And I find it interesting that even

drinking two large mugs of very strong coffee isnt enough to agitate the long, dull ache. What is 100 degrees? It is good weather for growing watermelons, peppers, squash, eggplant, and tomatoes. Cotton also loves the heat. But I am not a cotton grower, so I dont care about that. I

mind and body after another sleepless night. The mind and body are one

have, however, picked cotton, and played in a cotton trailer full of cotton, even though the activity was deemed unsafe. Cotton is sort of like quicksand: the more you struggle, the deeper you sink. Thats what

makes playing in it so much fun. I never had trouble climbing out, picking cotton, but not that many people have actually picked it. Not many have had the opportunity to drag a long, heavy sack over the

though. At one time or another, just about everyone has read about

ground between two rows of cotton plants, or to be scratched by the dry growth and ragged edges of the fully opened bolls. Bolls theres a word for you. How long has it been since you uttered the word bolls? Or what about boles? According to my trusty 1924 dictionary, a bole is The trunk or stem of a tree, or that which looks like it. It is also Any of

several varieties of friable earthy clay, usually colored more or less substances; it was formerly used in medicine. It consists essentially of hydrous silicates of aluminum, or less often of magnesium. A third for giving, occasionally, air or light; also, a closet, crypt, or locker in the cavity on a hill, where lead was formerly smelted. Maybe for today, over. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Its hot. Too hot.

strongly red by oxide of iron. It is used to color and adulterate various

definition lists bole as An aperture, with a shutter, in the wall of a house, wall of a building. Or what about this one: A place, usually a round though, we should just stick with boll. Otherwise, we might be boled July 30, 2003 Just a few days ago, we acquired a delightfully sweet thirty-five-pound watermelon that was grown in Hermiston, Oregon. Now its almost gone. Weve also been working on a couple of very good just to be sociable, we have managed to force down a few containers of

cantaloupes. In this weather little else sounds appealing although, ice cream. In general, though, weve been traveling light, and are being

careful to not become dehydrated. Nevertheless, by the time evening rolls around, we are wrung out and look like weve been hit by a train. Last night, awhile before dark, I sat outside and passed the time by weeks. I am bound and determined to finish the book and just started reading some more of Gullivers Travels, which I had set aside for a few the last part, about the intelligent, horse-like beings known as

Houyhnhnms. They are fascinating creatures, and so are their beastly dung at their enemies. For some reason, this activity reminded me of the definitely read some more. If I am not, I will have to finish Gullivers Travels at a later date. July 31, 2003 Yesterday evening, in Her infinite mercy, Nature of blackberries from the bush we have allowed to take over the

human-like counterparts, called Yahoos, which climb trees and hurl behavior of modern politicians. If I am still alive this evening, I will

delivered unto us a breeze. To celebrate, my wife and I picked two bowls southwest corner of our backyard. While we worked, our youngest son chopped back some of the wild growth that was spilling over the fence and threatening to strangle the neighbors bushes. Some of the canes with thorns, making our berry harvest a necessarily timid affair. The

were almost an inch thick, and the entire mound of growth is covered breeze continued until well after dark, and at times it was an actual wind. still too warm the attic and walls are full of heat but now there is

The heat spell is beginning to break. Ocean air is arriving. The house is legitimate hope for a few nights of decent sleeping weather. Meanwhile, I didnt read Gullivers Travels last night after all. Instead, we were caught up in a show on PBS about Nixon and the Watergate affair.

Listening to the tapes was quite a treat. Nixon may have been a monster in many ways, but there is no question that the man could think. And it

was great hearing him and Kissinger swearing about the latest

developments in the Watergate hearings. When I think of the current

president zipping around the globe with his limited vocabulary, puny mental capacity, and inability to survive without a script, I cant help but wonder how he will fare when both shoes finally drop. Or will he be women willing to sell their souls so that he may go free? At present,

protected by the frightened media, and have found enough men and there seems no shortage of either. But this is still America, and funny,

unpredictable things can and do still happen here. Who knows? Maybe country back, instead of focusing on reality television. Well, maybe

someday, people might even decide they are fed up and want their thats going too far. Then again, maybe an Iraqgate hearing would be reality TVs crowning achievement as long as it doesnt interfere with sports.

August 1, 2003 Something called a wish just floated by my window wish being the word my wife and children have long used to describe the fluffy seed pods produced by dandelions. I have never comes to mind. But I never actually say, There goes a puff. To a

called them anything myself, although occasionally the word puff member of the family I might say something like, There goes one of

your so-called wishes, or, It looks like one of your wishes is on the

loose. I dont know why I dont just say, Look, theres a wish. I should,

because its a perfect name for something thats lighter than air and full of promise. A dandelion wish is a brilliant idea that needs no further work unlike my own brilliant ideas, which always lead to more and more work and a lot of wishes. Today, it seems the wishes outnumber the

ideas. But thats not unusual. What would be unusual would be a day

without wishes or ideas. In the absence of both, what would a person

do? Wait, I suppose. Watch. Think. Wonder. Or simply go back to bed. Go back and dream up a new beginning, then get up and try again. August 2, 2003 The first thing I have to do this morning is rectify the

mistake I made yesterday by saying that wishes come from dandelions. If I had stopped to think for a moment, I would have remembered that the fluff of a dandelion comes apart in the wind, and that there is consequently no way I could have seen a whole one intact, floating by

my window. What I saw was likely the seed pod of a thistle, or possibly some other plant. Or it might have been a message. For I learned very short while later. I dont believe in such things, of course. Nor do I early this morning of a death in the family that occurred yesterday a ascribe any meaning to the fact that my mother and I both went

sleepless the previous night. These are just coincidences that take on

significance in light of the facts. When our father died, my brother, who is conducting in his lab. I forget the exact details, but his calm assumption

a research scientist, noted a sudden change in an experiment he was was that this was related to the event. The question is, what wavelength are we on? Do we receive information in ways other than those which technology affords? And if so, could this be one reason humans are fellow creatures around the globe, and affected only by the suffering that is immediately before our eyes?

generally in a state of turmoil? Or are we oblivious to the suffering of our

. . . She was born in 1947, and was the mother of two fine boys. Her life

was claimed by multiple sclerosis. Todays wish is that her husband, my find new strength, and with it embrace whatever lies ahead. It is hard to say good-bye when you havent finished saying hello. But such is life.

brother, will find understanding in his sorrow, and that my nephews will

Each greeting contains its own farewell, while each farewell bears seed

of a new beginning. Grief and comfort walk hand in hand. Wishes rise, then float past an open window. And then, so quickly, they are gone. August 3, 2003 Before the day is out I absolutely must buy two new intense and long delayed bill-paying session, all of my pens quit at once.

pens one with blue ink and one with black. This morning during an Now theyre in the wastebasket. I scratched out several checks with two making notes. I need a black pen for making drawings. But if I make a

colors of ink, and in varying degrees of legibility. I need a blue pen for note under a drawing, I make it in black ink. And if I make a drawing while I am on the telephone, I make it in blue ink. I sign my name in blue. I also carry a blue pen with me in my shirt pocket wherever I go. If the weather is cold, I carry the pen in a pocket inside my coat. Having a pen is important, because I never know when I might need to make a note of

something. I have stacks and stacks of notes. I like paper. I like to see

something that has been written down, by me, or by anyone else. one reason I make a lot of notes. Even the subject of making notes is notes later, if and how they are used, and what they finally come to

Handwriting is fascinating. So are an awful lot of other subjects, which is fascinating, because there is always the question of what happens to the mean. The same can be said for so-called finished pieces of writing,

whether they are published or not. And the same can be said for thoughts in the head. I think. I am also aware that a great many people make no notes at all, or only mental notes. But you have to be pretty organized upstairs for that to be reliable. Or you might be totally bored writing down, in which case you are not noticing anything in the first

by everything, in which case nothing will seem worth remembering or place, though it should be mentioned that this condition could also be

due to having suffered through a horrible time during which you noticed

everything, and that what you noticed caused great and lasting pain, or fear that the pain might return, which is very nearly the same thing. I think. On the other hand, maybe you dont need to make notes simply because you are content to accept things as they are, when they are, and to leave it at that. Writers, though, are expected to make notes. So rather than to disappoint anyone, we make them. Then, when we die, there are piles and piles of notes to dispose of. In the case of famous writers, the notes are handled with great care and preserved for careful out what makes the writers tick. In the case of writers who arent famous, throw away when he is gone, unless they were smart and took off before he did. If the writer was loved by his family, which is doubtful, the notes will be kept another generation and then disposed of by the

study at a later date, usually by other writers, or by people trying to figure the notes are just one more thing the wife and kids have to pick up and

grandchildren unless one of them also happens to be a writer, which is something he isnt likely to admit to anyone for fear of embarrassment. He will, however, mention it in his notes. August 4, 2003 The city of Salem is not exactly known for its wild,

edgy flamboyance, which is why I have been thinking strongly of buying the biggest cigar available and smoking it on various street corners aside by conservative store owners and community enforcement officers and given a severe beating for exhibiting signs of life. But even that would help wake things up a little. Really, though, I love Salem. Its a fine downtown. As far as I know, this is still legal, although I could be pulled

town in the old Western tradition, and still bears a certain resemblance to its dustier, crustier past. The streets are wide and in some cases lined with trees, and big baskets of flowers are hung at intervals along the

sidewalks. The windows of big empty brick buildings where businesses

have failed are painted over with cheerful artwork and promotional slogans, making it appear that all is well. Eventually, someone with a huge amount of money will come along and reclaim the decaying of which will be crushed by the exorbitant rents and forced to vacate,

carcasses, divide up the space, and lease it to small businesses, many thus creating room for several more Starbucks, whose name might more

appropriately be Corporate Coffee. Another thing I could do would be to hurl myself out of an upper window of the Reed Opera House and onto finally hits bottom. Or maybe this: City bills wife of writer for cleanup costs. Either way, the excitement is bound to wear off about five minutes after the event, when people realize it involved no one of consequence, and instead just another member of Salems fringe element. Because the real business here is government which the sidewalk below splat. I can see the headline now: Salem writer

means, among other things, that barbers and local sign makers have an important part in the decision-delaying process. On some news

plenty of work to go around. Doughnuts also remain popular, and play broadcasts, Salem is even on the map, though it tends to move around according to the whim of the graphics department, the members of which, apparently, didnt major in geography. Either way, though, I am

here, and so are a lot of other people. And together we do our best to will have a place to complain about. Its the least we can do.

stifle aspiration and keep things on an even keel, so future generations August 5, 2003 This morning the dim-watted bulb that is my brain has through the area during the last two and a half hours. This is not a

been preoccupied by a loud thunderstorm that has been rumbling typical August morning. A few minutes ago, there was a bright flash of

lightning directly north of here, and then less than a second later there

was a sharp, window-rattling crack of thunder. This was followed by a brief shower of large raindrops. Then, for thirty seconds or so, the sun Now there are puddles in the street, but the rain has stopped. And, though it is less than poetic, honesty compels me to mention the fact that a diesel-belching garbage truck just stopped in front of the house. broke through and the wet maple trees just outside were bathed in light.

Now its at the house next door. And now well, never mind. The really important news is that I finished reading Gullivers Travels yesterday evening. This means I am free to begin Revolution in the Head, a book by Ian MacDonald about the Beatles and the Sixties. The book was recommended by an old high school friend who surfaced recently via email after each of us had spent several years assuming the other was dead. But it turns out that we arent. At least I know he isnt. And now

for crying out loud there is a street sweeper approaching the corner. There it is, its in front of our house. What a noisy morning. How is a guy supposed to get any work done around here? To top it off, the garbage

truck has made it around the block, and now its idling in the street, and there it goes, its leaving the neighborhood. Very well, then. Where were we? Oh, yes. Revolution in the Head. A couple of days ago, I did sneak and Paul McCartneys spontaneous approach to composing music,

it just emitted a loud hydraulic blast of air. I suppose I could quit, but

a peak at the introduction, and was delighted to read about John Lennon which arose in great part from their lack of training. Early on, Lennon composed on the guitar. After awhile, though, he switched to the piano because he was less familiar with that instrument, and felt that the change would help keep his music fresh. Well, damn it, this is a point

that I have been trying to make for years: more often than not, the less

you know about something, the more likely you are to create something

vital and new. This is why, when it comes to writing, I am against the

idea of advanced educational degrees and workshops. The situation

breeds uniformity, and uniformity kills the spirit, which is the source of spontaneity. Now, I know plenty of people will disagree with this statement, but that only makes me glad I uttered it. Learning is fine, as you to sit down and do your work unless, of course, you work

long as you are able to forget what you learned when the time comes for standing up. It should also be noted that this doesnt apply to surgeons. Basically, it is just a general statement being made on a very noisy recycling truck. Okay, thats it. I give up. morning. And here comes the street sweeper again. And now heres the August 6, 2003 Two events of roughly equal importance took place in Portland, Oregon, recently. One was the grand opening of a new Krispy Kreme factory a few days ago; the other was the appearance of

Senator Hillary Clinton, who was in town yesterday afternoon to sign copies of her book. In one case people camped on the sidewalk overnight to buy doughnuts. In the other, people camped on the a stab at getting Hillarys autograph. In both cases, those who

sidewalk overnight in the hope of receiving a free ticket into Borders and persevered got what they deserved: they were relieved of their cash and given something valueless in return. Of course, thats just my opinion. Someday, history might show how wrong I am. History might show how

Krispy Kremes and Hillarys book formed a great turning point in the evolution of democracy. Future archaeologists might even discover time of the early twenty-first century, such as parking tickets, food stamps, capsules containing both items, along with other miscellaneous scraps and the stubs of unemployment checks. History might also bear no trace

of either, proving I was right another fact history wont be interested

in. In fact, there will likely come a time when history isnt even interested in itself, having become just another form of advertisement. Or is that day already here? I could say other meaningless things about history, claim has happened, or think has happened. Occasionally a little of the which makes the truth false. Fortunately, this doesnt mean that there

but I wont. Besides, history isnt what really happened, its what humans truth seeps in, but only inasmuch as it serves those who benefit by it isnt a great deal to be learned by studying history. There is. For instance, we have always messed things up, and we continue to do so. Somehow, though, we refuse to take this message to heart, and are therefore condemned to an existence in which history repeats itself able to speed up our mistakes. What this means is that history must will have to give. Probably us. except now we have cell phones, computers, and cable TV, and are thus work overtime to keep up with our activity. Sooner or later, something August 7, 2003 I watched part of a PBS program about Sparta last

night. I dont think I would have done too well in that environment. Then as Yogi Berra might say if he were in my shoes. Had I survived my

again, had I been born in those times, I would have been someone else upbringing, I certainly would have been in better shape. But I find the idea of throwing weak or otherwise imperfect children off a cliff less than inspiring. The same goes for twelve-year-old boys attacking a mountain of cheese that is protected by people with whips. This seems like an odd way to live, and a lousy way to die. Not that our current existence is

anything to write home about. Dear Mom: We learned all about Sparta in school today. We have sure come a long way in our methods of killing each other. Love, Bruce. And who is Bruce, one might ask? Well, I dont

know. But at least he writes to his mother. Too few of us write to our

mothers these days. As I understand it, though, Spartan men learned very little in the way of reading and writing, which was fine for them since they didnt have much of a chance to know their mothers anyway. Dear Mom: I stab Bruce today. Then he stab me. After that, we eat big sheep. Your son, Isosceles. Still, there is something to be said for the idea of it involves slavery on a massive scale? That does seem a bit of a people working for the common good although, how good can it be if contradiction. On the other hand, somebody had to do the work while the you defend yourself against marauding Persians? And what did they want? They wanted what the Spartans had. They wanted more. And if

main population kept in shape and practiced killing people. How else do

the Spartans didnt defend themselves, what would have happened? Would the Persians have said, Well, shucks, since you guys are so nice, why dont we just all share what we have and get along? No, of

course not. They would have said, Idiots, and then killed everybody. killed each other. Its quite poetic, really. Adolph Hitler was certainly inspired by it all. He liked the idea of throwing babies off cliffs. He liked it

Instead, the Spartans were ready for action, and they and the Persians

so much he even extended the idea to include adults and where there werent cliffs, he found other ways. Thank goodness thats behind us give or take a few fences, bombs, chemicals, guns, missiles, planes, tanks, and cemeteries.

August 8, 2003 A square piece of land the sides of which measure a have walked one mile. If you walk from one side to the other and back,

quarter of a mile contains forty acres. If you walk around the square, you you have walked half a mile. If you walk that distance over and over and over again while concentrating on other things, you eventually lose track of how far you have walked. But if you lose track of how far you have

walked, it doesnt matter, because you will have still walked the same distance. In fact, by that point, it is probably best that you dont know stop walking altogether. Still, it is interesting sometimes to stop and how far you have walked otherwise you might get discouraged and figure out how far you have walked. It is nice at the end of the day to be anywhere, because, instead of continuing on in the same direction, you kept turning around each time you walked from one side of your forty acres to the other. This is a pretty fair description of farming, minus a few instead. And sometimes you walk very little, because most of your time

able to say, I walked twelve miles today, even though you didnt get

details. For instance, sometimes you dont walk and you drive a tractor is spent standing in one spot, as is the case in the winter when you are

pruning in your orchard or vineyard. And sometimes you get mad or you go to the bank and ask the manager for another loan because you are even more broke than last year. If he gives you the money you need, you go back and walk some more. If he doesnt, you do the same thing, only you are more nervous and have a bitter taste in your mouth. Then drought. The crop is good, or bad, or mediocre. At supper time, you eat something either happens or it doesnt. It rains, or it hails, or there is a like a horse because you have worked like one all day, and you smile at

disgusted and go fishing instead, or you go to town and get a haircut, or

your children, who also eat like horses, because they have been playing and growing all day. Your wife, though, doesnt eat like a horse, because she is the only one with manners. She eats like a delicate bird with she uses a fork and a spoon. Then she flutters off to do the dishes while colorful plumage, except that instead of pecking her plate with her nose you saw logs in your worn-out chair, and while the kids make themselves scarce. A few months later, a check arrives in the mail. The amount

written on it represents what you have earned for your years labor. There will also be a note with the check that says the money is for so many boxes of peaches, or so many tons of grapes, or bales of cotton,

or whatever it is you have been growing on your farm, not counting the weeds. The very same afternoon, after making some painful calculations, you go to the bank and deposit the check. Then you go feeling a little defiant. You say to yourself, Let them try to take this away

home and work some more, grateful for your independence, and even from me, and you look around with a crazy glint in your eye. And then

you notice the sun and the sky, and the clouds and the breeze, and the your barn. Then you notice your very own footprints in the dust, and you think of all the times you have walked up and down, back and forth, and

birds darting about, and the lizards doing pushups on the woodpile by

over and across this place that is your home, knowing full well that you

would be lost without it. And then you wake up one day and find yourself some strange reason words are appearing on the screen. You read the and that they very nearly make sense. And you get up and walk from

sitting at a table and facing a computer screen, and you notice that for words. And as you read them, it occurs to you that they are your words, one side of the room to the other, back and forth, again and again, like the farmer you once were. You know there is no turning back. You know that what once was, can never be again. You are glad about it and sad you laugh just like before, like always. about it and mad about it. You rejoice, you lament, you moan, you sigh, August 9, 2003 Today at the grocery store my wife and I bought two grotesque plums that looked like apples. Theyre huge. The skin is light and flecked with color, and the flesh is red. After lunch I washed one and cut it up and we tasted it. It was okay and it tasted like a plum, but there

was nothing distinctive about it as is often the case with new stone fruit varieties. Give me an old Santa Rosa plum any day, or a Kelsey. All during my growing-up years, my mother made spectacular jelly from

Santa Rosas. We ate jars and jars of the stuff, along with boysenberry jam, fig jam, and apricot jam. She also canned huge quantities of And we consumed a ton of oranges, raisins, and walnuts, all of which fleshed nectarines, but they didnt look appealing. This was a shame, peaches and apricots, which we had for dessert throughout the winter. were homegrown. While we were at the store we also saw some whitebecause they were packed by a very familiar outfit located in Dinuba, wrapped packages of enormous white eggs, with ten eggs to the

California, our old hometown. Another thing we saw were plasticpackage. They were being presented as something very special, despite the fact that they must have come from ancient arthritic hens that died while laying them. The white of one egg would have no doubt filled an

entire frying pan, spreading itself aimlessly in a thin layer around a yolk of three dollars a pound, and various brands of bacon priced between pound watermelon for twenty-five cents a pound and came home.

as big as the setting sun. We also saw baloney at the special sale price four dollars and five dollars a pound. And so we bought a thirty-oneAugust 10, 2003 In my latest strange dream I was coming in for a landing at the airport literally. My arms were tired, and at the last moment I watched myself become a jet, which attached itself to another jet that was landing ahead of it. The next thing I knew, I was first in line and familiar. There was a form on the counter with my name on it, at some sort of departure counter. The young man in charge was friendly waiting to be stamped. But instead of stamping it, the young man said,

That will be another ninety-two dollars. And I said, Ninety-two dollars?

I already paid 600. Why should I give you anymore? To which he replied, The plane was several minutes late. We have to make it up somehow. This, of course, made me angry. I have news for you, I

said. There is no way I am going to give you ninety-two dollars. And

then I said, How many passengers were on that flight? Two hundred

and fifty? Are you going to charge everybody ninety-two dollars? When and yelled, Hes going to charge us $600,000! Theyre criminals! I knew full well my math couldnt have been right, but at the moment it

he said he was, I turned to the gathering crowd of my fellow passengers

didnt matter. The crowd was bristling. Even so, the young man wouldnt Well, that did it. I had to have my luggage. I had no idea what was in it, out a credit card. You and I could have been friends, I said. But not

budge. Ninety-two dollars, he said, or you dont get your luggage. but the thought of losing it was more than I could stand. I quickly pulled anymore. I hope this makes you happy. Judging by the young mans smile, though, it did make him happy. After signing my name on the credit slip and having my form stamped, I went ahead to the luggage department. But instead of a suitcase, I was handed several small appearance, I put them onto a cart and pushed the cart through two wide swinging doors. One of my brothers was waiting for me on the written themselves into a corner like to say I woke up. cardboard boxes full of books and papers. Comforted by their

other side. He, too, seemed happy. And then as writers who have August 11, 2003 One thing I hope to try one of these years is traveling around the country and writing a book at the same time. I think in many different places, and to have the places and the people in them that would be fun. The idea would be to write different parts or chapters become part of the book. I think this might be called travel writing

although most of the travel books I have read tend to have been written so to speak, and then coming home with a finished manuscript. It would be interesting to see the kind of writing that would come out of the

after the journey, not during. But I like the idea of leaving empty-handed,

experience especially since I would approach the project in my usual fashion, meaning without plans. I doubt the finished result would fit in the entirely new category forgetting for a moment the oft-repeated verse about there being no new thing under the sun, which may or may not be true, especially when you consider that there was a time before our sun, and that there will most certainly be a time after. In fact, a few million years from now otherwise known as tomorrow some wise writer could easily say that everything is new under the sun, because he will be talking about a whole new sun and a whole new set of circumstances. Of course, a wise writer could also say it now, and it would be just as true. travel category, but it might. Or it could end up being the first book in an

August 12, 2003 I was going to write about the new girl in the

neighborhood who screams every evening, but have decided against it. parents, whom I have never seen, it appears I dont have to. There is an

Im not going to write about her brother who spits, either. As for their old saying, but it doesnt apply here, so I wont utter it. Neither will I utter anything else that isnt pertinent and to the point. Saying something often gives whatever youve said undeserved credibility especially if what is said is said with conviction. I dont want to fall into that trap. I want to live a clean life, and I want to go down fighting. And what am I

fighting for? Clarity. Meaning. Laughter. Money. The past, present, and Old age. Beer. And while Im at it, everything else. What am I fighting

future. Macaroni and cheese. Fountains full of splashing children. Youth. against? Ignorance. Primarily my own. That I have made this fight public

shows two things: my sincerity and my stupidity a potent, dangerous combination. August 13, 2003 Yesterday I read that the eighteenth century British

poet, William Blake, was buried nine feet deep in an unmarked grave on him. This seems like a terrible way to treat the body of the man who wrote the lines, Tiger! Tiger! burning bright / In the forests of the night, / What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry? On the

top of three other people, and that four others were later added above

other hand, according to some accounts, the poet was far less interested

in this life than he was in the next, and where his body ended up mattered little to him, if at all. Still, it is a statement about his times, and about the poverty he endured. It is also a statement about our own times, because there is still no shortage of starving poets and writers. up in our own private grave, where we suffer the weekly roar of

With a little luck and the aid of local burial laws, however, we usually end commercial landscape maintenance. This is unlikely to change anytime writer cemeteries, where the weeds are allowed to grow and nature is together, their sheer mass would make people stop and think. Visitors

soon. One mark of progress, I think, would be the creation of poet and allowed to assert itself. It could be that if literary toilers were buried could spend hours walking over the rough ground and reading the inscriptions. And the natural setting would help bring them closer to those who labored long in silence and were ignored. August 14, 2003 Dear Mr. President: Thank you very much for the

check. It was so nice of you to return some of the money you extracted

from me under threat of imprisonment. Dont worry about the rest, or wars. I dont mind. Oh, and before I forget, I like the way you hijacked

about the interest you owe me. Go ahead and use it to finance your

the U.S. Treasury checks for promotional and campaign purposes. That

was nifty. Tax relief for Americas families is a powerful, meaningful message to find printed on an official government document. Doing so certainly gives you a leg up in the next election. Which reminds me will you still be calling it that next time around, or will there no longer be

any need? In addition to the media, I imagine you have the balloting technology firmly in hand by now, and will be able to avoid any more close calls. Either way, you can count on my unwavering support. In fact,

with the money you sent me, I intend to jump-start the local economy by buying some of the groceries I couldnt afford last week. The dental teeth I have left. Your faithful servant, Ima Voter. work, though, will have to wait. But dont worry, I can make due with the August 15, 2003 Someone told me yesterday that the people holding signs asking for money at one of the freeway entrances south of town making as much as $1,000. Since he was so proud to relay this And while I certainly dont believe that every person engaged in this form were making $600 a day for their efforts, and that some in Portland were enlightening tidbit, I didnt bother to ask where he got his information. of livelihood is honest, the figures did seem a bit high. Of course, I dont know for sure. Maybe they are making that kind of money. And if so, maybe thats what I should be doing. The implication, though, is what I

resented: If you are homeless, if you are out begging and panhandling, you are low-life scum and are doing so purely by choice. By and large, I have found that such condemnations are uttered by people with jobs and bank accounts. Again, I am well aware that there are plenty of evil and aggressive panhandlers out there just as there is an overabundance of evil and aggressive businessmen and politicians gouging us at every turn. The big difference is, the businessmen wear ties, and the

politicians were elected. In one case, well dressed evil-doers rape the make a few hundred dollars begging at freeway entrances. Which is more evil? Does it matter? No. What matters is that evil exists in the first place, and that enough of us choose to go along with it.

planet and steal billions of dollars; in the other, poorly dressed evil-doers

August 16, 2003 Habitually out of step, I am mostly unaware of what is going on in the so-called literary world, as well as any writing make much difference, because I am too busy writing and living to go to New York, but I have no idea what I would do once I got there. movements that might currently be under way. If I were, I doubt it would spend much time hashing over other writers ideas. I suppose I should Meet with my colleagues, I suppose. Have drinks and go out to dinner.

Make acquaintances, form alliances, use people, step on them, and claw my way to the top. The trouble with that is, it sounds awfully boring. I have nothing against New York, per se, and nothing against my fellow scribes, but it seems 3,000 miles is a long way to go just to talk. If they want to come here, fine. If they knock on my door, I wont turn them

away. Theres a good chance I wont answer the door, but thats

something else entirely. If Im busy and dont feel like being bothered, I hand, there have been times I have talked an hour with salesmen. In

have no qualms about letting the telephone or doorbell ring. On the other fact, a year or so ago, after telling a vacuum cleaner salesman that I had absolutely no intention of buying one of his machines, he insisted that was all right with him and came in anyway, just to give me a quick demonstration. Several attachments and half a clean rug later, he asked if I was interested in making a purchase. I told him no. This

surprised him. But it didnt surprise my wife or any of our children, who were watching and listening from a safe distance. My view of the literary

world is almost as simple. I am very interested in what is being written. Some of it is good, and some of it is bad. I read as much as I can, always wishing I could read more. I read a certain number of book reviewers. Usually, though, I just write. For as long as I can remember, I

reviews, both for what they contain, and for what they reveal about the have been able to find out more about myself and the world by writing. If

I am part of a movement, I dont know it. If I am a cheap reflection of my

times, I dont know that either. I am deeply interested in what people think, but in specific terms rather than general. I want to know what you the street. It is necessary to stop and have coffee somewhere, or to take that the project will take years, not hours or days. Finding out what I think. But finding out takes more than just bumping into each other on a long walk in a park. It is necessary to listen. It is necessary to realize think, though, is relatively easy. All you have to do is read what Ive

written. Its all there, in one form or another. I am not trying to hide anything, except that which is my personal business and mine alone. I value my privacy, in other words, the same as you. On a celebrity scale doing what I love is. But I also want to contribute. What is the use of living if one doesnt contribute?

of one to ten, I am a zero. To be famous is not my goal. To earn a living

August 17, 2003 One night when I was about sixteen or seventeen, an old lumberyard burned down in Dinuba, California, the sleepy little farm town where I sort of grew up. It was a tremendous blaze that drew quite a number of onlookers, myself and several friends included. We were out carousing anyway, so the event was easily added to our busy slate of activities. One thing I remember is that as we stood watching from a short but safe distance, I was smoking a cheap cigar, and that the

others found this amusing. So did I. I was already smoking the cigar

when we arrived, but if I hadnt been, I probably would have lit up in honor of the occasion. As I said, Dinuba is where I sort of grew up. At the time I hadnt made an incredible amount of progress, though I

suppose I might have been trying without really knowing it. Anyway. The

lumberyard burned to the ground, and in its place the owner built a new one, along with a nice little hardware store out front. Before long, a grand opening was held, and the local folks dropped by to have a look and to offer their congratulations. My father was one of them. When he

greeted the owner, however, the man surprised him by saying, Maybe

we should spread a little manure around the store so you farmers will

feel more at home. As soon as he had made this remark, the owner knew he was in trouble. My father left the store. He went home and got a the bucket with fresh Holstein uh, leavings. He put the bucket into the back of his pickup and returned to the store. Then he took the bucket in, shovel and a five-gallon bucket, then went to a nearby pasture and filled

spotted the owner, and said, Where do you want it? The owner apologized for the next fifteen minutes. During the years that followed, he treated my father extraordinarily well each time he came to the store. They had known each other before the incident, and continued on friendly terms thereafter. But that was one joke that backfired.

August 18, 2003 A dog with a big deep voice is barking somewhere in the neighborhood, begging for its freedom. And for some unknown reason, as I sit here listening to it, I find myself thinking, What if I died now and this were the last thing I heard? Its a poetic thought, full of potential, and might well be the seed for a future story, or for an now.

individual scene in a story, a story perhaps not unlike the one I am living

August 19, 2003 Tomorrow the Commander-in-Chief of the Alarmed campaign funds and promote his forest destruction policy. Since most of

Forces of the Occupied States of Generica will be in Oregon to raise the states workers are unemployed and on the hungry side, a large

turnout is expected. This means the police will have their hands full, and that newspapers will be able to blab for days on end about how the men and women in blue handled the affair. On the other hand, maybe the

police department should hire Californias top gubernatorial recall contender and let him beat up all the evil protesters. Coincidentally, todays issue of the Oregonian contained a full page about A.S.,

complete with a picture of him flexing his muscles in 1976. Its interesting that the other candidates dont rate similar coverage, but, as they say, thats show biz. Turning to household news, my plan to stay awake and death fell through due to a complete lack of energy. The spirit was nothing else was. The funny thing is, I fell asleep in our hot bedroom

drink coffee last night in honor of the anniversary of Honor de Balzacs willing, but, after a long day spent trying to solve the worlds problems, with the window and curtain open, only to be awakened later by a cool breeze shredding everything. After that, I swooned in and out of consciousness, noting each voice, passing footstep, and car, until about

four in the morning when the car bearing the neighbors newspaper creaked to halt in front of our house, announcing the beginning of a new day. After that I managed to doze for about five minutes, then the car gun. Resolved to get at least some rest, I went into the kitchen and which took place in Paris in 1850. And so I decided to celebrate my own, before everyone else does.

that brings our newspaper roared up, sounding like an automatic popmade coffee. But by then it was too late to celebrate Balzacs departure,

August 20, 2003 The good news is that I have finally realized today is Wednesday, not Thursday, and that yesterday, therefore, was Tuesday. I really am going to have to see about getting a little more rest

although, last night I was pretty successful in the sleep department,

having had only one brief nightmare. But now Im having trouble remembering what happened. Oh, yes. I was driving on a four-lane highway through hilly terrain, and something was wrong with my the car in my lane. I woke up just as I collided with a car next to me in

eyesight. Suddenly my vision became blurred, and I was unable to keep the right lane. . . . Meanwhile, it is a lovely cool morning, and fall is definitely in the air. Yesterday evening, we picked five small tomatoes already look like one would expect them to look in October. Many of the from our plants in the backyard the first of the season. But the plants leaves have turned yellow, and the foliage has lost its crispness and experienced this summer. It also explains, at least partially, why I am so

vigor. No doubt this is due to the roller coaster temperatures we have wilted myself. . . . Something else worth mentioning is that yesterday something major is about to happen that might well alter the way I

evening, and again this morning, I have had a very strange feeling that approach my daily activities. I realize this sounds vague, but I feel fairly certain that change is in the wind not that I havent felt this way before, only to have nothing come of it.

August 21, 2003 Not counting one very late sleeper, the children are job-holders. This makes for a quiet house. So far in this silence I have taken a shower, imbibed two cups of strong coffee, written and sent in Armenia, e-mailed a column to a monthly newspaper, and eaten a

off wreaking havoc on the world in their capacity as young adults and

several e-mails, looked at several new photographs sent by my brother

fresh local Elegant Lady peach. With these details out of the way, I am

finally ready to begin my days work which is good, because I am

eager to find out what it is. Or, more accurately, I am eager to find out the end of the day comes, I need to be able to look at myself honestly and say the day was not wasted. Like most everyone else, I have thought of as wasted might not really be wasted at all, if we learn from

what the result will be. The most important thing, though, is that when

wasted my share of time, and I dont like it. I also realize that time the experience. I am also not foolish enough to think that a little time from work for awhile means one is failing in the line of duty. In fact, it is

spent relaxing with friends and family is a bad thing, or that getting away often easiest to waste time by working too hard and too long, which is something I have been known to do. In this way writing is a lot like eyed. But this, too, can be a good thing, as both are valid forms of experience which begs the question, are there invalid forms of experience, or is experience experience no matter what? Now I am drinking: it feels good, so you keep going until you are drunk or bleary-

looking at the repeated word, experience, in the previous sentence, instance, there is the initial experiencing of experience, and the subsequent experience of experiencing experience, through memory,

and feel compelled to ask, how does one experience experience? For

and through the sudden, direct realization that our experience reveals us for what we really are inexperienced. There is also the experience that the last thing we need is to experience more experiences. But experience them we do, and we go on experiencing them until we that is said to come with age, which is often accompanied by the feeling

experience the final experience, which is a lot like the first experience in that neither experience is remembered though it might be argued that

even these experiences are part of our collective memory, or collective experience, and therefore take their place within the vast realm of What We Do Not Know or Would Rather Choose to Ignore.

August 22, 2003 Yesterday in Oregon, the president kissed a baby

and collected a million dollars. Then he flew off into the sunset, leaving Really funny. Ha-ha-ha. I say, let him kiss the babies whose parents

the real people to live out his nightmare. Its a funny business, politics. have been killed in his war, or kiss the parents whose babies have been what else motivates him and the slime ball businesses he truly represents? Compassion? Concern? Mom? Apple pie? . . . This morning

killed. The sad part is, if he thought he could profit by it, he would. For

while I was waiting at a light, I noticed a small sign on a gas station wall. On the sign were a well known and often published portrait of Beethoven and the words, Were gasoline virtuosos. Gasoline virtuosos? Gasoline . . . But there is a bright spot. Yesterday, the young man who comes by

virtuosos. All I can say is, Ludwig, old buddy, youre lucky you aint here. every month or so to collect cans and bottles for their nickel deposit knocked on our door. He was wearing a bright-yellow cap, and carrying a large plastic trash bag that was already over half full. We shook hands

and he said, Youre looking good, and I said, No, Im looking like a pile of you know what. Then I told him his cap was on backwards, and he turned it around so the bill would be facing forward. Thats better, I said. Before, I couldnt tell which way you were going. Then I gave him

the cans and bottles we had accumulated since his last visit. This person

is always friendly, and always very neat about his work. He has been general area, lugging one, two, and as many as three or four bags of

coming for the last couple of years. We have seen him elsewhere in the cans and bottles. He walks. He does his work every day, repeating his

various routes like clockwork. He has his list of regular customers, and takes good care of them. I have no idea how much he earns by doing this, but I am happy to contribute, because he sticks to it and makes a lot of complaining people who earn tons of money look sick. Dear Mr.

President: Too bad you didnt meet our can collector while you were here, and accompany him on his route. You might have learned something. Sincerely, Ima Cashcow.

August 23, 2003 Its an inspiring fall morning, with a low temperature of fifty degrees or a little less the kind of morning that makes me want to jump and shout and take off on my bicycle for another grand tour of the world. What will I find? Bugs; worms; slug tracks; dead birds with of ants; cherry pits; dandelions; acorns dropped by birds; discarded gum their little feet in the air; the first fallen leaves; cracks in the sidewalk full wrappers, cigarette butts, and sports cards; and a thousand other miscellaneous items, feelings, and perceptions. Days like today arent destroyed by television. They are meant to be lived, and then written about later or not written about, but remembered or not meant for writing ask any kid whose mind hasnt been completely

remembered, but recorded on our faces. Not that writing isnt living. Writing is an intense form of living. It is also a way of life a foolish, unrealistic way, perhaps, but a way nonetheless. A way for those not are self-made and unnecessary. A way that keeps ones demons, if not at bay, at least distracted and entertained.

encumbered by common sense. A way for those whose largest burdens

August 24, 2003 Today is Sunday and its almost noon. The house is

empty. Everyone in the family but a son who is working has gone to the zoo in Portland, leaving me alone to pace in my cage. I could have gone, but they all know Im not a big fan of zoos. Hmm. The plural of zoo looks

funny. Maybe it should be zooes. No, that doesnt look right either although it does remind me of Zeus, so at least theres that. I wonder if the old boy is alone on Mount Olympus, pacing in his cage? Or maybe and trying to comb the tangles out of his hair. Anyway. Where was I? Nowhere, it seems. Here? Wait. Let me take a deep breath. Ah. Yes. I

he is surrounded by a bevy of goddesses who are feeding him grapes

am here. And now I hear a train approaching. Its coming from the south,

and just sounded its horn at the crossing about a quarter-mile away.

Now its rumbling past the little clump of mobile homes that snuggle up against the track near the next crossing, which is protected only by a stop sign. So far, no one I know of has been killed there. But I have

known of several crossings where people have been killed, and this was when a train draws near. The train is gone now. But I am still here. I

followed by the installation of flashing lights and guards that come down missed the train. The train went on without me. But thats okay. I did ride Yosemite. I was also there when my father and mother took my mothers Mildred showed me her teeth in a glass in our bathroom. And I have met people at the train depot here in Salem my brother, my fathers sister,

on a train once. It was in California, in the mountains somewhere around Aunt Mildred to catch the train in Fresno. And I was there when Aunt

and the daughter of an old family friend. I like train depots. Many years ago, the one in Dinuba was converted into an A&W drive-in. A couple of times each summer, my father would take us there, and he would roll down the window to the right height and a girl with her hair tied back would hang a tray on the edge of the glass, and we would sit there and drink root beer. That was fun. The railroad tracks were just behind the building. Later on, the depot was moved to a spot where it could be

appreciated for its historical value. I had no trouble appreciating its

historical value where it was, where it belonged, next to the railroad tracks. I wonder what is there now? August 25, 2003 Late yesterday evening, I was sitting in a dazed wasnt turned into an A&W, and that the A&W was in its own little

condition when I suddenly remembered that the train depot in Dinuba building. The train depot was several yards up the track. And so, once again, the mind has failed at its task, and I am left to pick up the pieces. The next thing you know, Ill be remembering the time James Arness, of Moms Cafe. This really happened. If I remember correctly and I probably dont he owned property somewhere in the vicinity or it Gunsmoke fame, came to Dinuba and ordered a side of bacon at

might have been up in the hills. Well, never mind. He was there, and the incident was recorded in the local paper. And if Im dreaming this, maybe some gentle soul from Dinuba will read this and set me straight

someday. Dear Mr. Michaelian: When I knew you, everybody called you Bill. What happened? Oh, by the way there was never any train depot in Dinuba, because Dinuba didnt have any train tracks. Just kidding. As

you know, Dinuba became a thriving city when the railroad went in back in the 1880s, leaving the nearby town of Traver to dry up and blow away. This resulted in many of Travers buildings being moved to Dinuba. Sincerely, Ima Fromthere. Dear Ima: Thank you for your kind letter. Sorry, but your name doesnt ring a bell. Have we met? Is Fromthere

your married name or maiden name? All the best, William Bill Michaelian. Dear Billiam: Im surprised you dont remember me, because we went steady for eight years. Not only that, we were about to be Ima. Ima: I remember disappearing, but nothing else. Are you sure it was

married when something sudden came up and you disappeared. Love, me? Villiam. Dear Vill: Oh, it was you all right. But dont worry, I finally

got over it after several years of primal scream therapy. Ima. Ima: Im

so glad everything worked out for you. And now, if you dont mind, I need to get back to whatever it is I am supposed to be doing. With warm wishes, James Arness.

August 26, 2003 Now Im wondering if a person is born with a distinct

identity, or if identity is an acquired thing. Do we become who we are through experience, or is there a blueprint already in place? As every parent knows, a childs personality is readily observable from the beginning. But is that the same thing? I dont think so. Our personality Through an ongoing string of events, the world leaves its imprint.

definitely plays a part, though, in how we see the world and react to it. Something happens, and it is recorded, and little by little we become who we are. Soon, there are enough standard reference points that we age, things keep happening and we keep changing. Few of us are the same person at thirty that we were at seventeen, and so on. process, one that allows us to believe we are who we are, and who we feel safe in the knowledge of ourselves as ourselves. But as we live and

Accordingly, we adjust our perception of ourselves. Its a very gradual always have been. And yet, who among us wouldnt be surprised if, at we will be when we are fifty or sixty? We would be in shock. Look at that

the age of sixteen, say, we were suddenly permitted to see ourselves as doddering fool. That cant be me. That isnt me. Its someone else I

hope. Conversely, we dont seem to be able to see ourselves accurately

as we once were. We remember ourselves and the past according to our current needs and desires, and through the filter of added experience, some of it pleasant, some not. While we know now what we didnt know then, this knowledge often prevents us from knowing what we knew then. And yet we think we know. We are absolutely certain that we know

 much to the bewildered amusement of our children, who are equally sure of the same thing when it comes to themselves, and of the opposite when it comes to us. Its all very interesting. August 27, 2003 I heard through the grapevine today that Armenian translations of three of my poems were published this summer in Garoon, a magazine in Armenia. Garoon means spring. So the poems

were published this summer in spring another fine example of putting the cart before the horse as is the fact that the poems have yet to appear in their original language, or tongue, as we hifalutin literary these days which I know could turn out to be months or years, as is

people like to say. But I am told thats also supposed to happen one of so often the case in the publishing world. Writers do an awful lot of sorts of bad things about themselves and their work, very little of which can possibly be true. The best thing a writer can do is write, not wait. What is written is written. Acknowledging this, it is time to move on. And

waiting. This is unfortunate, because it gives them time to imagine all

yet its all easier said than done, especially when the reception of any I put that word in quotes because it is one of the most comically

given work of writing can bode extremely well or ill for a writers career. inappropriate descriptions of a writers life and work there is. The word career has too many stiff and sensible connotations. One can have a career in real estate or insurance, but not writing with the obvious

exceptions of technical writing, advertising, and so on. Novelists and poets dont have careers. We have sore necks and mental problems. We pretty darned silly when spoken aloud. So we keep it to ourselves, or we have unreasonable hopes and soaring dreams, many of which sound write about them in ways that are less likely to engender ridicule. When we are ridiculed anyway, we rely on what is called a thick skin, otherwise

known as the ability to not cry in public. The toughest of our number learn the art of laughter, which we use for the benefit of others and our own survival. The most fortunate, though, are those who never forget how to laugh in the first place, and who recognize that laughter is one of the things that made them start writing and tears and injustice, rest.

bitterness, anger, outrage, compassion, the luck of the draw, and all the August 28, 2003 When I was seventeen and working in a packing house in the tiny town of Sultana, California, one of my fellow workers part of it ripped from his scalp. When he returned to work a few days got his long carrot-red hair caught in a box-making machine and had later, he had covered the hairless area by combing over some of the hair from the other side. I wonder what he is doing now? And what about the same clothes every day? I imagine hes long gone. I remember him old guy who stacked boxes, and who bathed once a week and wore the saying how he wanted to retire, and that when he did, he was going to get a cart and sell peanuts on the street. I wonder if he ever did that? I and stand and talk for hours by the entrance of the Bank of America who were the old ladies who used to drive their silent little carts at five also wonder who those old men were who used to wear striped overalls building in Dinuba back in the Sixties. How old were they, really? And miles an hour past Dons Shoe Store on L Street, looking for an open

parking space? Were they real, or am I just imagining things? And where is the little farm boy who used to look at them in wonder? Was that really me? Was that the sound of my footsteps echoing along the sidewalk under the awnings? They might have been voices. They seem to be voices now.

August 29, 2003 I am still reading Revolution in the Head, the book part yet where John Lennon tells the groups producer, George Martin,

about the Beatles recordings and the Sixties. But I havent reached the that he wants a particular piece of music to sound like an orange. I know about it because our oldest son, Vahan, read the book before me. I love sounded like. Or at least he thought he did. Either way, I know he listened. And listening is what really counts. that statement, because it meant that Lennon knew what an orange

August 30, 2003 All of a sudden, having the door open when I work is because when I close the door the room gets too hot and there is amidst the swirl of family activity. Now it isnt. And yet if I close the door, weather, but after about ten minutes I would regret that too. What did I do last summer? I worked with the door closed and sweated. And

starting to bother me. I have worked this way for the last several weeks, insufficient circulation. For quite awhile, it was fun to sit here and write I am bound to regret it. I suppose I could stop writing and wait for cooler

once the room was heated, it stayed that way long after I had opened the door and quit for the day. What was I working on last year at this time? Short stories. In fact, I wrote a total of seventy stories in a period of ninety days, beginning in August and ending in October. And what sweating with the door closed. That one took me fifty-six days. And the summer before that? Another novel. And before that? Stories. But what about the autumns, winters, and springs in between? What was I doing a vacation. Or maybe its time to close the door. I cant tell which. And was I doing the summer before that? I was writing a novel and

then? More of the same but without the sweat. So, maybe it is time for heres something else: Ive never thought about the effect the open door might be having on the others. Depending on my mood, they probably

find it disgusting or discouraging or entertaining. So, then. Its come to this? August 31, 2003 I am sitting here in the sacred cool of the early morning, gazing in wonder at the rapidly accumulating debris of my life. My life itself is debris, but thats not what Im talking about. Im talking about stuff. Im talking about books, papers, and dust. Im talking about stacks of bills needing to be paid, shelves needing to be cleaned and reorganized, and weeds needing to be pulled. Im talking about at least a thousand other items that need my attention if they are ever to be Of which, oddly enough, sounds like an inscription on a tombstone. Its not that I put things off, either. I just cant get around to them. I write involved enough as it is. When the opportunity presents itself, I cant let entered into that holy column under the heading of Finally Taken Care

instead. Time is a finite resource. The days are already scattered and it get away. But Ive talked about this before. And talked and talked and talked. And here I am, saying it again. But show me a person who Finally Taken Care Of. The truth is and I say that all the time as well I am tired of being mundane, mediocre, and melodramatic. But I dont know what to do about it. So I sit here and write. The truth is there I doesnt repeat himself, and Ill show you someone who really has been

go again I am talking about the fact that my life itself is debris. Who

am I trying to kid? Flotsam and jetsam I just looked that up in an old paperback dictionary I got from who knows where: The wreckage of a ship or its cargo found floating on the sea. A pretty apt description, when a bottle. But what news do I bear? Gloom and doom, mostly. The worlds at war, blah-blah, the president is a jackass, etc., etc., look both ways

you get right down to it. On a good day, I might be considered a note in

before you cross the philosophical street. Who needs it? People are

hungry, or they are tired, or disappointed, or busy, or they dont give a

damn, or they are on their way to a football game, and I respond by

saying John Lennon wanted a piece of music to sound like an orange. Lennon is dead. The idiot who killed him is in prison. And during the

Isnt that lame? Isnt that silly? What good is that supposed to do? John intervening twenty-plus years, an equal number of orange crops have ripened and been harvested, and no one in the recording industry has about money. And to this day, people still buy the latest cheap image that? You either know it already, because its painfully obvious, or you but thats not quite true either, is it? You might be on the fence. For the sick of things being the way they are, and that you are sick of yourself. cared a fig about music that sounds like oranges, they have cared only thats served up. Still, who cares? Why should I bother anyone about

first time in your life, you might be waking to the realization that you are You might be just like me, sitting in the sacred cool of the morning,

looking around and disgusted as hell with the pack of lies you just read in the Sunday morning paper. Oh, they are so glib the so-called journalists, the editorial writers, the book reviewers all of them. So few Anyway. Enough of that, even. I need to shut up. Dont I? Or shall I go are willing to rock the boat though several pretend to rock the boat. on? Shall I sit here all day and spout my nonsense? Is that what I should

do? Shall I mention the fact that I bought two more used books

yesterday, even though I am nowhere near finishing the pile of books

sitting on my work table? Shall I mention that today is William Saroyans mention that I am hungry because I havent eaten breakfast? Shall I

birthday, and that if he were still alive he would be ninety-five? Shall I mention that I am writing these words with a smile because I am really pulling your leg? Shall I mention that I am not pulling your leg, but that I

am smiling anyway? Both are true. Both are false. Oh, yes, I could go

on. But at some point even I would get sick of it and I could still go on. But I wont. And I am not sick of it. Not yet. And I realize the that admitting it doesnt let me off the hook. The truth is I said it again! difference. I realize that what I say can. I realize it wont, I realize it will, I realize it has, and I realize it doesnt matter, and I realize it does. I pointlessness of what I am doing, and of what I am saying. And I realize I realize a lot of things. I realize that what I say cant possibly make a

realize everything and nothing. I also realize that I dont know what Im talking about, with one very important exception I do know what Im talking about. I just have a strange way of proving it, thats all. The an orange can sound like a piece of music. An orange is music. It is an

truth is heh, heh a piece of music can sound like an orange, and orange, certainly, but it doesnt stop there. Nothing does. Just because an orange is an orange, that doesnt mean it isnt something everything else. An orange is willing to pretend its an orange out of kindness, and for the sake of convenience. Oranges grow on trees, confused. And yet, as children, we have the wisdom to say, Listen to my because if they issued from the clouds as rainfall everyone would be orange. We have the ability to hear trees talking to us and to one another. We know that everything is made of the same stuff, and that we are made of the same stuff, and so we rejoice until we starve to

death, or are beaten, or killed, or manipulated, or taught to be something we are not because it happens to pay a better salary then being something we are unless we are lucky and are encouraged by wise perfect mistakes, in which case it is entirely possible to remain in

parents, and allowed to breathe, and allowed to make our own glorious,

harmony with the oranges, as well as the cucumbers, grapes, melons, and bananas of our sad and beautiful existence. September 1, 2003 With the exception of family and a small handful tolerate me on a regular, ongoing basis. Its not that I am particularly obnoxious in fact, I am really quite considerate. The trouble is, I refuse to give in on certain matters. I am too honest. If someone says

of misguided and mentally disturbed friends, very few people are able to

nice things about a crook, I dont go along with it. If a neighbor works for a public utility and takes four-hour lunches at home during which he surfs the Internet, he is pretty well disqualified in my mind, no matter how who cares little about the poorer people in his flock, he isnt likely to receive my praise. Not that he needs it, or cares. Its just that I have no respect for that sort of person. And yet I have respect for them as funny his jokes are. If a popular clergyman is a polished raiser of funds

people, if that makes any sense. I have respect, because I know how

hard life can be, and because I have watched small children have their natural inquisitive enthusiasm systematically drained out of them by their parents and society. I have watched big-eyed, sparkling, talented kids and who are dishonest with themselves and others didnt get that way overnight. They had a lot of help. Even so, I rarely argue the point. If a become dull, materialistic drones. In other words, people who dont care

person showers praise on a crook, I dont tell him hes an idiot. I just give no reassurance. And so he ends up looking for it elsewhere. It should also be mentioned, or pointed out, or admitted, that my honesty is only relative. Over the years, I have done a few things I am not proud of. I

remember them still, and it bothers me that there is no way to go back possibly as a means of mental survival that I can do just that by

and set things right. Yet, I allow myself to think foolishly, and quite

writing. I am also aware of the many things that are my responsibility, and that receive my neglect. The word selfishness comes to mind. I can write as much as I want, but that is one bullet I am unable to dodge. I it whatever you like. I deserve to be treated no differently than the crooks I rail against. I am not immune to the human condition. I am also quite

write anyway, but I am bleeding and still I write. Call it a sickness. Call

able to laugh at it, at us, and at myself. Its obvious no one has the answer. Who even knows the question? There doesnt even have to be one. Weve built pyramids and railroads, rocket ships and computers. destroyed entire cultures and species, and tried to cover up the fact by Weve composed symphonies and painted pictures. We have also rewriting history. And yet we cling to the idea that we are civilized. But a

civilized person doesnt wave a flag and fill his tank with gas bought with Changing systems wont help. It has already been done, countless

human blood. A civilized person finds this kind of behavior unacceptable. times. We are the ones who need to change. Politics are nothing but a willing to go along with things and refuse to change, why should we to have plenty while others have none, if we refuse to kill for the sake of resources to destruction, what then? Its a good question. Isnt it?

distraction, an ongoing refusal to face ourselves. If we as individuals are expect more of our so-called leaders? And if we do change, if we refuse our own convenience, if we refuse to devote our talent, energy, and September 2, 2003 The palm closes, then, miraculously, it opens again. Far away, two villagers, an old man and an old woman, warm themselves in the sun. They are the inevitable culmination of the sights,

sounds, and smells that surround them the children laughing, the flute. They are also the culmination of each other, as man and wife.

chickens scratching, the bread baking, the blind neighbor playing his

Overnight, fully ripened grapes have painted themselves onto the vines

climbing over their house. Overnight, grandchildren have sprung up around them, some like weeds, others like flowers, and still others like of color, birds, wind, and song. The palm opens, and life is brought forward, to this very moment as it is being lived. Look at us, William is. the wild animals that live in the forest. The palm opens, releasing a riot

Saroyan said in a book title once. Lets see. It was good advice. It still September 3, 2003 The same villagers would be unable to

understand why we do it why we rush, why we have so many cell phones, TVs, microwaves, and other gadgets why we sign so many papers, why we look so worried and strained, why we are willing to eat

fruits and vegetables that taste like grass instead of having our own magazines why we anyway, enough. They would wonder how thing to explain, or to defend, if you want to look at it that way. Because a great many people wouldnt have it any other way, despite the fact that

gardens why we want to look like the gloomy stick figures posing in such a thing could possibly have come to pass. And it would be a hard

the current way is killing them. A great many people want to have the

lights on all the time, and to always be walking on pavement, and to be surrounded by tall buildings, and to be immersed in constant noise. They are as at home in this element as the villagers are in theirs except

their faces and guts are strained, and the villagers arent. The villagers also dont have credit cards. Poor fools. And they dont have In the meantime, they move in with relatives. And life goes on. Or, as they say here in Western society, you get what you pay for. homeowners insurance. If their house burns down, they build another.

September 4, 2003 I just listened to part of a radio interview in which art by pretending to be outrageous, when she is, in fact, a predictable combination of the labels and stereotypes she claims to abhor, and wears them as badges. But thats okay. The session was still interesting.

a woman with a somewhat forced gift of gab promoted herself and her

Generally speaking, its a shame artists either find or feel it necessary to pursue this kind of overt salesmanship. For one thing, it is so frequently out of character. For another, after putting so much energy into their work, which is often accomplished under difficult conditions and circumstances, to have to turn around and sell it can feel like an insult. Artistic creations in whatever medium are a deeply personal thing. Yet

they are not complete until they have been experienced and appreciated existence. In a distracted world already drowning in information, though, such news has a way of getting lost in the shuffle. The high-stakes players monopolize the media, leaving the low-stakes players to go out

by others something that is impossible, if no one knows of their

and beg. All too often, this begging becomes an all-consuming affair, to happily discuss and explain their work, when the work is more than be awfully wearing, and can have a strong negative effect on an artists natural rhythm and output. The sadly ironic thing is, most artists are

which results in occasional opportunities in which artists are expected capable of explaining itself. Besides being a terrible distraction, this can

artists because they are not salesmen. If they were, they could make a or think they need. In a perfect world, art wouldnt even be for sale. It

heck of a lot more money selling something that a lot more people want would be a gift, freely exchanged, for the benefit of all. In a perfect world,

artists would be revered, and they wouldnt be required to jump through flaming hoops. In a perfect world, everyone would be revered, and no

one would engage in psychological blackmail as a means to personal otherwise, is capable of fully imagining such a world. Its possible that if he did, it might kill him, or lead to his being killed.

gain. The question remains, however, whether anyone, artist or

September 5, 2003 It is never a good sign when the president of the quantify. It also isnt a good sign when he uses the opening game of

most powerful country in the world says quantrify when he means the professional football season as a vehicle for promoting his war in died. What does football have to do with it? Football is a sport. Or is that his point?

another country. People are being killed in Iraq. Thousands have already

September 6, 2003 Yesterday our second-oldest son, who is

nineteen, bought his first car. While this brings relief to our household in the transportation department, the really good and important news is that paid with his own money, which he earned honestly by the sweat of his he tested the car and negotiated the deal entirely on his own. He also brow. It is one of the greatest lessons he will ever learn, along with countless others waiting around the bend. And its good timing, too. embraces his unknown future. I see in him the same impatience I felt at Because I know it wont be long until he moves out on his own, and fully his age, and which I still feel. It is the impatience that led me to leave home when I was eighteen, to marry when I was nineteen, and to that I wanted to do at the time. Fortunately, I also see in him a trace of bypass many a sensible opportunity in favor of doing whatever it was common sense, something I never possessed. And so perhaps he will look at me and turn right where I turned left, or stop and think before jumping off a cliff. I hope so. Otherwise, he might end up a raving lunatic

like his father, instead of just a regular lunatic. Either way, though, I will be proud of him. I already am. September 7, 2003 I was pleased to learn yesterday that a poem of

mine was recently translated into French, and that the translation was published on a French-language website. The work was done by Louise Kiffer-Sarian, a writer/translator born in Paris. We are as yet unacquainted. As far as I know, this is the first time something Ive written has appeared in the French language. Friends is a short poem

about an old woman sharing a croissant with her dog at a sidewalk table outside a coffee shop. As they warm themselves in the morning sun, it is apparent by their sympathetic ease of communication that they have poetry quarterly called The Synergyst. Later, I added it to my website.

known each for quite some time. The poem first appeared in a small That someone read it there, and found it not only enjoyable but worth translating, gives me real joy. As Ive said many times before, a published piece of writing can live many lives and take on many different

meanings. This is but one example. A translation is an open door to other thoughts, other minds. It is a means of recognizing the vastness of our common ground. September 8, 2003 Last night on TV, the president of the United

States said he needs another eighty-seven billion dollars to continue his offered few specifics. One thing is certain, though: later on, he will say imagine him announcing that terrorism has been defeated, and that from now on the governments focus will be on the needs of its own people?

glorious battle against evil. As for how the money would be used, he that it turned out not to be enough. Or, to put it another way, can you

September 9, 2003 I am gazing out upon a gray misty morn, quietly

rejoicing in a sudden change to cool fall weather. It even rained last

night. Its good to breathe fresh air again. The lack of it has always been my biggest gripe about summer. I can stand the sunlight, I can stand wearing short sleeves and eating fresh local produce, but I hate dirty air, And yet the air we breathe during the summer here in Salem is

and I hate having to dig solid chunks of it out of the corners of my eyes. immaculate compared to the nasty soup we lived in in the good old San

Joaquin Valley. I cant count the number of times we watched the darkred sun setting in the filth, and how it disappeared well before it reached the horizon. For weeks at a time, we were unable to take a deep breath. Headaches were ongoing. In addition to the smog created by traffic and industry, our bodies also had to filter out a steady onslaught of

agricultural chemicals. I was even adept at identifying various pesticides and herbicides by their smell as they floated in on the breeze. Still, when I told people we were leaving, many of them thought it was ridiculous,

and insisted that things werent that bad. What they were really saying, the health of their children. And I dont blame them. Money always looms move. But Ive never regretted it especially since the area we left

though, is that their incomes were more important than their health and large. It has certainly loomed large in my life, as a direct result of our behind has become worse each year. How much residue remains in our bodies, though, is another question. Who knows what evil is gnawing at our tissues and bones? September 10, 2003 This morning during an eighteen-minute trip to main entrance. The first is an oversized book called Faces of

the library, I checked out four books from the new book section near the Photography Encounters with 50 Master Photographers of the 20th

Century. The book contains portraits of the photographers and interviews conducted by Tina Ruisinger. The second is titled Poets on

the Peaks Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen & Jack Kerouac in the North number three is The Complete Poems of Kenneth Rexroth. Last but not

Cascades. This volume features text and photos by John Suiter. Book least is Sixpence House Lost in a Town of Books, by Paul Collins, countryside. Apparently Hay-on-Wye, not to be confused with ham on

about the authors adventures in the village of Hay-on-Wye in the Welsh rye, is home to 1,500 people and 40 antiquarian bookstores. Sounds like died recently. Not that people dont die in Hay-on-Wye sigh. But Id rather die among books than mouse ears and ticket stubs any day.

a fun place to visit, and probably safer than Disneyland, where someone

September 11, 2003 Exactly one year ago, I wrote a short story called The Death of a Tiny Bird. Part of my collection, No Time to Cut My Hair, the story was my response to the mainstream medias rallying cry for the war on Iraq then being planned by the White House. In it, a tiny bird is killed in the act of singing by a stray bullet resulting from a parade-turned-war that takes place in what is normally a quiet neighborhood of maple trees and cul de sacs. A surreal tale of suburban carnage, the story is a tragedy narrated by an eyewitness who struggles to maintain his objectivity and sense of humor, but who ultimately fails due to what he has seen or imagined. It is a burden I am sure he still

carries, because, sadly, the events of the past year have only proved the storys pertinence, necessity, and truth. We are another year older, but are we any wiser? If we are, then why do we keep making the same mistakes? Why do successive generations believe their governments before understanding how insane war is?

lies and go to war? Is it really necessary to see the results first-hand September 12, 2003 So far Ive read seven chapters of John

Steinbecks The Winter of Our Discontent, one of my most recent used

book purchases. And, unless the author somehow forgot how to write halfway through, I would have to say this is one of his finest works. If he were still alive, I would write him a letter and congratulate him on his first seven chapters. The writing is fluid, and full of sadness, humor, and insight. His characters are noble insects caught in the sticky web of human folly. If they would think first, rather than struggle, they just might

be able to break free. Of course if they did, then Steinbeck would have been known as a writer of fantasy. I have read that Steinbeck cared deeply about what he wrote, suffered over it, and held himself to very high standards. Such is evident in this work, as it is in The Grapes of

Wrath. He wanted his writing to make a difference. I believe it did, and that it still does, even to those who have never read a word of it. Real everyone. But they do rely on readers to help bring their message to the world, and thereby keep poetry and decency alive. September 13, 2003 I read in the paper this morning that at one point in the depths of his confusion and despair, the part of him that wanted to writers dont write for readers only. They write for everyone, and about

in his life, Johnny Cash crawled into a cave and waited to die. But even go on living intervened, and so out he crawled again into the sordidbrilliant light of day, to survive along with his own grieving personality. Now the long period of survival is over and he is gone. The face was true, as was the deep, mournful voice, neither of which is possible to arrive at without a great deal of suffering, some self-inflicted, some not. Johnny Cash was not the empty cowboy hat that passes for so much of todays country music. The music came first, then the money, and not the other way around. When the money came flooding in, and with it the one really needs a huge amount of money, and certainly not the fame. fame, his music helped him survive in that awkward dimension. For no

All thats needed is an honest opportunity to feed, clothe, and shelter oneself and ones family. While in todays so-called economy the amount needed to do so is a lot of money, the principle doesnt change. dont want it.

Meanwhile, it seems fame is inevitable for some people, even when they September 14, 2003 I cleaned my work area, dusted everything, and vacuumed the rug this morning. Now everything looks strange, even locations. I also wound my fathers old watch again, set it for the correct though I returned the various piles of books and papers to their former time, held it to my ear, and listened to it tick. Its Sunday. I have no big plans, writing or otherwise. Late yesterday afternoon, I called a writer in upstate New York I have been corresponding with for several years, to see what was on his mind. He told me Mencken, which I thought sounded reasonable. In the evening I read another chapter of The Winter of Our Discontent, but my eyes were too tired to continue, so I went outside and looked around instead. I saw spiders. Dust. Blades of

grass. I went back inside. Everyone was preoccupied and doing fine without me. As a matter of fact, I would have been fine without me too, but everywhere I went, there I was. A couple of hours later, I fell asleep. But I woke up enough times during the night to know I was still there, right, but Im not quite sure what it means.

and that the condition would probably carry through until morning. I was September 15, 2003 Today or tomorrow, I need to spend some time going over a new Armenian translation of one of my stories, to see if it makes sense and all is in order. This will probably involve looking up a few words in a couple of Armenian-English dictionaries I keep handy, and result in more questions than answers. Fortunately, the story itself is

on the short side and fairly straightforward. But there is also a certain

poetic element to it, and it is important that this be preserved. While I am

by no means accomplished in the Armenian language, I have a good where something has gone wrong. Someday, I would like to learn Armenian well enough to do my own translations, or even to write a story require a major change in gears, if not lifestyle. For now, I must limp come to think of it, is exactly what I do in English.

enough ear to recognize when something is missing in a translation, or

or poem in that language. But that is still many years off, and would along with the little I know, and use it as efficiently as possible which, September 16, 2003 At the moment, I am waiting for an e-mail should have come no later than yesterday. A brief note is all thats

response on a certain business matter, and I am annoyed because it required unless there is something crooked going on, in which case on, what I will do about it depends on how blatantly crooked it is. I can

the delay makes perfect sense. And if there is something crooked going live with a certain degree of dishonesty. In fact, it is impossible to go through life without coming into contact with all sorts of crooks and crooked dealings. With a little practice, though, one can usually avoid serious problems. Unfortunately, the only way to be entirely safe is to do absolutely nothing, go nowhere, and take no chances of any kind. The living. It is better and healthier to venture forth. In this particular case, if I

trouble with that is, it makes crooks of everyone, and life is hardly worth am up against crooked behavior, it will have extremely interesting consequences. If Im not, the results will be every bit as interesting, but in another, slightly more predictable dimension. This time around, I I hate telling crooks theyre crooks. They know it already. would prefer the latter, because it would make life a lot simpler. Besides,

September 17, 2003 This afternoon several items not related to writing require my attention. My plan is to put them off as long as possible, then do them all in rapid-fire succession and collapse. Most collapses often lead to head and elbow injuries, which in turn

people I know dont plan to collapse. I think this is a mistake. Unplanned necessitate long periods of recovery. On the other hand, if you know you are going to collapse, and also when and where, you can avoid injury. taking a nap, or suffering from indigestion. Whatever they think, they will Even better, no one will really notice. At the most they will think you are soon be bored and leave you alone. Not so with an unplanned collapse. As soon as you fall and hit your head, well-meaning people come out of the woodwork. They call an ambulance, and while theyre waiting for it to

come they ask you your name and how many fingers theyre holding up. Often they will have eaten a truckload of onions and will knock you out a arrives, a huge crowd will have gathered, made up of curious onlookers, second time by breathing all over you. By the time the ambulance finally all wanting to know what happened. I dont know, youll hear someone say. He just collapsed. And so my advice is, dont be trapped. Collapse regularly, and do so at a time and place thats convenient for you. You owe it to yourself, and to those you love. September 18, 2003 Where do I go from here? How many choices do and find something sensible to do or at least something not so done sensible things before, but they were always out of character. Not only didnt I belong, everyone knew I didnt belong. The same is true

I have, really? Do I have any at all? One choice would be to stop writing abstract. For the life of me, though, I dont know what it would be. Ive

now, of course. Im not really sure Ive ever belonged anywhere. Where do I belong? Im a human being, so I guess I belong on the earth. The

earth is a nice place. I like the earth. In fact, when I was in the fifth grade at Grandview School, I did a report on the earth. But when I began to gather information, I didnt like what I found. I didnt want to say that the it was comprised of various elements, and so on. That missed the point jagged clods on a 100-degree day, and in the smell of the mossy the place where my great-grandparents used to live. To me, that was the earth was part of the solar system, and that it rotated on its axis, and that entirely. I was far more interested in what it felt like to walk barefoot on irrigation water moving lazily in the ditch by the eucalyptus grove near earth. The earth was a garden. It was a place to roam and be free. It unpainted pump houses, power poles, and jackrabbits. But at the time I

was a pleasing pattern of narrow country roads, vineyards, orchards, old was only eleven years old, and I didnt know how to put this knowledge into a report, and so my report was a failure. It was a failure because I did say the earth was part of the solar system, and that it rotated on its miserable axis, and so on and so forth. In other words, I betrayed my

vision. And this happened many more times, until, little by little, I became

better at expressing what I know, or at least what I think I know, and

what I wish could be. Another thing I remember from the fifth grade is a no one seemed to understand. Frustrated, I jumped up and said, I know

class discussion during which one of my friends was making a point that exactly what he means. Without waiting to be asked, I hurried to the

front of the class and proudly explained what my friend had said. When I was finished, he said, Thats not what I mean at all. Then everyone laughed and I sat down. I have never forgotten the lesson I learned that friends will say anything to make you look stupid.

day. I learned that, to hide their embarrassment, people even close

September 19, 2003 Let us consider for a moment what is taking

place in the street outside my window. Just a few feet away, there is a

pleasant-looking bald man in his upper fifties out for a walk with his two

tiny grandsons. One of the boys is riding, or trying to ride, a squeaky

tricycle. The other is picking up leaves and pieces of gravel and showing them to his grandfather, expecting some sort of explanation, which the grandfather is only too happy to give. Now they are moving on. The grandfather is enjoying himself, but he has no intention of letting the

walk take all morning. In fact, it already looks like the smallest and

youngest of his grandsons, the one with the leaves, has a problem with his pants. Judging by the way hes walking, they contain more than just his legs. And if the grandfathers relaxed expression means anything, I would say the boys mother or grandmother is at home. This means that

while the ladies take care of business, he will be safe outside, cleaning the windshield and checking the oil in his car. And now they are gone, like sweet ghosts of early autumn. September 20, 2003 If I had a nickel for every time Ive decided to drop everything and go in another direction, I wouldnt be rich, but Id have quite a few nickels. And if I had a nickel for every time a new

direction turned out to be nothing but the old direction in disguise, Id have nearly twice as many nickels. Once in awhile, though, a new and left California sixteen years ago and settled here in Oregon. That was a major change. But even within the scope of this change, I direction really turns out to be a new direction, as when we packed up

continued my old habit of dropping everything and changing directions. That much said, I think it is also true that I have never changed directions, because the only true direction is the one that began when I was born and that will continue until I die. Call it fate, call it whatever you

want, I just dont think I have that much to say about it. I used to think so,

but not anymore. Why else would I have systematically rejected so many

practical solutions and opportunities in favor of what I am doing now?

While I might argue that for me, such solutions and opportunities were impractical and unsuitable, a sane person would surely disagree. And he would be right for him. I see sane people every day, busy keeping

their ducks in a row, busy minimizing their losses and adding to their possessions, and I think, Thats insane. Why would anyone want to live that way? And yet here I am, a shaggy fool seemingly intent on writing his way to an early grave. Why would anyone want to live this way? Well, theres no easy answer. But if theres one thing Ive learned from

putting up with myself all these years, its this: one way is as good as another, as long as a person is honest with himself and honest with better than any other liars, whether you think it is or not. others. If youre a liar in either dimension, then your way is no different or September 21, 2003 I finished reading Steinbecks The Winter of Our Discontent. Unfortunately, the last several chapters degenerated into confusion and the ending was a failure. After many chapters of very characters. He asked them eloquently, but this still put him in the good writing, the author simply asked the wrong things of his main awkward position of having to tie up several loose ends that shouldnt have been loose in the first place. But it was still a very good book. I have since read some harsh criticism of the novel, leveled by people after the publication of The Grapes of Wrath, or, for that matter, to have

who apparently think Mr. Steinbeck had no right to change or grow older had marital problems or suffered a stroke. I can only assume they are pressures in their own enlightened existence. At least the author tried.

equally incapable of recognizing the same kinds of changes or

He tried to capture what he saw as the cheapening of America in 1960.

In retropsect, its obvious he was on to something. In challenging the integrity and honesty of his main character, Ethan Allen Hawley, a poor, proud man caught up in a strangely coincidental vortex of fate, he was

asking people to take a careful look at themselves and at their motivations. The Winter of Our Discontent was his way of saying, Be careful what you wish for, because not only might it come true, it might The advice is still valid.

well create a spiritual or psychological debt you will be unable to pay. September 22, 2003 Well, its been one of those days. First, I saw a

bumper sticker that said, Its called thinking. You should try it tailgate me or Ill flick a booger on your windshield. The message was in

sometime. So I did. It hurt. And then I saw another one that said, Dont small type so small, in fact, that when I read it, the driver made good on his threat. Somehow, that hardly seemed fair. Finally, I came up beside an old VW van smothered in anti-establishment stickers from

days gone by. The stickers were as faded and peeled as the driver, who

was peering through small round spectacles at what looked like a and tattooed teens to cross the street in front of us, I gave the driver a wave. He didnt see me. I got out and tapped on his window. It cracked.

prescription windshield. While waiting for several dozen heavily pierced

He looked at me and smiled. Then he cracked. The light changed. The something one never sees. A few minutes later, I had to wait for a

van died. The driver died. The tattooed teens looked back and cheered train. I have been waiting ever since. No telling who or what will be in the caboose. But you can bet I am going to wave. After all, one doesnt stop being friendly just because things arent going right.

September 23, 2003 While the big bullies fight to control whats left of the worlds oil and other resources, it would be wise for the rest of us little people to get used to the idea of doing without those resources. At

the present rapid rate of consumption, that day is certainly coming. In war, because the world economy is based on such short-sighted

the meantime, many more people will be sacrificed to starvation and ignorance, arrogance, and greed. Military adventures like the one in Iraq human rights, or for any of the other fine, noble ideas the bought-off

arent fought for freedom, or against terrorism, or for democracy, or for politicians claim. Thats just sales talk. What were witnessing is simply

business on a giant scale. Without realizing it, young people who think they are fighting for their country are in fact fighting against their own future by helping further the bullies aims. In the process, yet another generations life and character will be defined by having participated in the destruction. Its a lot to live with. Eighty-year-old veterans who survived the horrors of World War II still cry, and their voices still

tremble, while the families of those who didnt survive were permanently altered. The other day on the radio, I heard some Vietnam veterans say they had great respect for those who had refused to fight, and who had they said, are the ones whose wealth and favor kept them from serving, criminal behavior.

gone to prison instead or fled the country. The people they dont respect, and who now order young people to kill and be killed. They regard it as September 24, 2003 I received a traffic warning from a city policeman to my posture. Rather, I had parked our van next to the curb in front of my mothers house and left it facing the wrong way, against traffic

yesterday. The violation? Improper positioning. But he wasnt referring

except that there is no traffic on my mothers street. Mom lives in one of

the quietest neighborhoods on earth. Days and days go by during which you wonder if the neighbors are dead or alive. Even when they emerge from their tidy dwellings, you still dont know for sure. To top it off, I have been parking the van almost daily in exactly the same manner for the

last eight years. But Im not complaining. Its nice to know the police are out there watching. It makes me feel safe. And it certainly makes sense for a highly paid officer to take the time to run a DMV check on a boring the tougher neighborhoods, where real crimes are committed on an hourly basis. That way, he can feel safe too. September 25, 2003 Sometimes I think I should take a few years off and tend sheep in the Armenian highlands. The trouble is, I might not want to come back. Or when I did, I might find myself so at odds with life

white minivan and write out a warning instead of cruising through one of

here in the American lowlands that I wouldnt be able to function. Hmm.

To tend sheep, or be one thats the question. I can see it now. Shortly through the drive-up lane of a fast-food restaurant. Then, with the news cameras rolling, I will say that I was just trying to make a point. Any

after my return, I will be arrested for trying to herd a flock of sheep

further questions would be answered with Bah, which would no doubt anger the local authorities. But my answer to that would be, you cant have it both ways. If I am not free to make my social statements, then I must be free to act like a sheep, and vice-versa.

September 26, 2003 Here I am not exactly who I was, where I was

yesterday, but similar to a frightening, appalling degree. Day, then night, then day again. Hours. Minutes. All very deceiving. Convenient, certainly. But absurd. We call them days, and draw comfort from the ourselves. Measuring something doesnt change what it is. It only limits fact that they end, and that new ones begin. But we are fooling

our understanding. We need clocks so we can catch the bus and show up at work on time. We need them in order to commit mayhem in a simply live. Why cant we? Is it because we know our stay here is profitable, efficient manner. The other animals dont need clocks. They limited? If so, what sense does it make to count the hours? Wouldnt we be better off just living? Why count something that doesnt really exist? Why not accept life on its own relentless, continuous terms? September 27, 2003 Perhaps an apt new slogan for the U.S. would

be, Poverty. Its what we do. According to the latest findings, 34.6 person, the poverty line is an annual income of $9,359. For a family of

million people in this country now live below the poverty line. For a single four, it is $18,244. So, lets see. That means if you are single and you take home at least $779.92 each month, you should be okay if you live in your car, if you even have a car. If you dont, and you feel funny about living on the street, you can always rent an apartment with three or four other people who also arent living in poverty. You will, of course, have no money for medicine should you become ill. But, hey, its only be taking the bus to your high-paying and personally satisfying job, and your health. Toughen up. Or, as the president would say, Bring em on. Of course, this reminds me of the additional $87 billion he and his in poverty feel about that? I wonder how the elderly who have to choose realize, if they havent already, that the robbery wont end there? But back to those income figures what they really mean is that far more cronies want to siphon out of the country. I wonder how the people living between medicine and food feel about it. And what happens when they

than 34.6 million people live in poverty, and that even more are barely scraping by, and are living under all sorts of daily, ongoing pressure. And they do so while the president plays golf and jets around the country

raising millions of dollars for the next election. The thing to remember is, rich people who give him money dont do it because they think hes a nice guy. They give him money because of the financial benefits they expect in return. At whose ultimate expense, I wonder? September 28, 2003 Two or three days ago at a nearby produce

stand, my wife and I noticed a small pile of fresh leeks for sale. Inspired, we brought an enormous one home. This morning it is simmering in lamb broth and a little olive oil, along with several cloves of garlic, a crude contribution to our Sunday evening meal. On the same visit, we

tomato, lots of carrots and celery, and about ten potatoes my rather also picked up seven or eight yellow peppers we thought would be mild, but which turned out to be fiery. We roasted them in the oven that same evening. I ate two, and my darling bride ate one. The next day for lunch, either cure you or kill you. In this case it killed me. But I finally seem to I had the rest in a sandwich. My motto when eating such things is, It will be making a comeback. And I will surely make the same mistake again,

because I have been doing just that for years. Although, I do remember a time when my father and I planted hot peppers in our garden that turned out to be so hot, even touching them was painful. Wicked from the start, they grew upside down. They were quite beautiful, really, what to do with them. Then one day Dads Uncle Archie stopped by for a him it was too hot to eat, he plucked one off a plant, bit off half of it, we filled it with fresh hot peppers for him to take home.

bright-yellow, shiny, and about three inches long. But we didnt know visit. Archie loved hot peppers. When we showed him our crop and told chewed, laughed, and proclaimed it mild. Then he took off his hat and September 29, 2003 Believe it or not, some people think its silly to be

excited about fruits and vegetables. But this is because theyve never

raised a garden or lived on a farm, or in a small farm town, and have only eaten the imitation produce found in grocery stores. Fresh produce is an experience. When I was a kid, I used to take great pleasure in to wash in our big laundry tray next to the washing machine. There is

picking peppers in the garden with my father, and in bringing them inside nothing quite like washing a five-gallon bucketful of fresh green and yellow peppers. They squeak when you rub them, they smell great, and elderly, cantankerous family member. Another important facet of you never fail to find one here and there that looks like the nose of an gardening in the San Joaquin Valley is having to deal with tomato Weve lived in Salem for years, but have yet to see a tomato worm. But

worms, or tomato horn worms, as I believe they are officially called. in Dinuba, we harvested them from the plants by the dozen. Like most

worms, they are easiest to find in the morning. But when theyre fully

grown, theyre easy to find any time of day. Once, when we noticed

some extensive damage, we plucked forty-four enormous worms off our plants and tossed them into a coffee can. Ill leave out what happened next. On another occasion, Dad found a huge worm and dropped it on the ground. Using his shoe, he covered it with dirt, then stepped on it.

Despite his careful intentions, the worms innards squirted out and landed on my arm. I was standing about six feet away. And then there was the year that the tomato plants grew and grew and grew, but add extensions to the stakes and tie up the plants while standing on a

produced hardly a tomato. They were over eight feet tall, and we had to ladder. We never did figure out why this happened. It was hardly due to inexperience, since my father had been growing tomatoes since the 1930s. Anyway. These are just some of things I like to think about and remember. No wonder I feel emotional when I see a pile of onions at the

local fruit stand, or fresh apples and pears just in from the field. Its like my life flashing before my eyes. September 30, 2003 A few days ago, we had a record-setting ninetyeight degrees. Yesterday it was overcast and cool, and this morning it was foggy. At the moment there are several crows shouting at each

other in the nearby treetops. The air is heavy and moist, and the leaves from a local building supply store, asking for Jeff. I told him there was no Jeff here and that he had the wrong number. He apologized, I told him

arent moving at all. The telephone just rang. It was someone calling

that it was quite all right, and we both hung up. I just finished a cup of Armenian coffee. The two cups of regular coffee I had earlier this morning didnt quite do the job. I feel better already. In fact, maybe I

should go out and look for Jeff. He might even live in the neighborhood. I But before I go, I should probably put on a pair of pants. Its important to

could knock on doors and ask everyone I meet, Have you seen Jeff? remember things like that. Venturing forth without pants can dilute ones message. It can also give the wrong message, or an unintended one. Really, there is so much to think about and to be aware of that Poor Jeff. I hope he understands. sometimes I find it safer just to sit here and wait and hope for the best. October 1, 2003 This morning I supervised while a friendly handyman hung a new back door in my mothers garage. He even let me sweep up when he was done. Luckily, he was able to paint over the protective plastic pieces stapled to one of the corners. The slice in my enough to keep me from washing dishes for the rest of the day. It isnt

blood Id smeared near the top of the frame after popping off one of the right thumb is only about a sixteenth of an inch long, but it should be enough, however, to keep from putting in some time here at the

keyboard, as the wound is well away from the part of the thumb that strikes the space bar. Then again, I am feeling a bit woozy, so I might have to lie down and rest here in a few minutes, and possibly do a little reading in order to take my mind off the pain. Which reminds me my library books are due today. More trouble. And the doorbell just rang. . . . vigorously shaking my hand, he said, Did you just get out of the

It was the guy who comes every few weeks for cans and bottles. After shower? I told him no, and then he said, I did. So I told him he looked

great, as fresh as a daisy. Then we admired a large brown spider suspended in a web over a bush, and the neighbors cat asleep nearby in a bed of pine needles. During that time, I saw the mail truck turn at the

corner, so pretty soon Ill have to go out again and retrieve todays load of junk. On the other hand, maybe there will be a check. There was the other day, for a short story I wrote that will be published in a magazine

soon. It wasnt much money, though about enough to pay for a fiveminute shopping spree at the grocery store, as long as we dont rush. heres the mail truck, pulling up in front of the house. . . . I was right. It was all junk and three bills. So much for our shopping spree. But its still money, by gum, and I earned it fair and square. And now

October 2, 2003 Yesterday morning when I was leaving to meet the

handyman at my mothers house, I found a friend of our second-oldest just been talking to him, and had, in fact, awakened him from a sound closed door. I said, This is interesting. She smiled somewhat

son sitting at the edge of our driveway, holding her cell phone. She had sleep, which I knew, because I had heard him mumbling from behind his sheepishly and said, I guess I woke him up. I found out later that she so she had called to relieve her nerves a bit. And I thought, it certainly

was on her way to a new job at a fast-food place nearby and was early,

begins early, doesnt it the nerves, the pressure, the need to compete

and do well. And then it continues, especially in todays less than robust pressure from each other and from above, as is each layer of

economy. Everywhere you turn, rank-and-file employees are enduring management above that. It seems no one is able to relax anymore. relief they exercise their anger on those around them. In this scenario,

When the money isnt flowing, people become rude and mean, and for those able to maintain their equilibrium and grace assume the role of same. And they still have to go home and convince themselves that they

mediator, entertainer, and go-between. But they feel the pressure all the are on the right track, and that things will be better by and by. Whether that happens, of course, remains to be seen. How a person meets the situation makes all the difference. It helps to remember that there are always people whose suffering is far greater, and that they have no power to change the situation they are in. It helps to remember that millions of people are starving or have little to eat. It helps to step back entire nations have been marched into deserts and killed, and that and take a longer view of things. Above all, it helps to look in the mirror and realize how truly ridiculous it is to be alive how preposterous, thrilling, and insane.

October 3, 2003 I hate it when a novelist states in an interview that he wrote his latest book because he wanted to explore this, that, or the other thing. I am absolutely sick of seeing that word in that context. Its

almost as bad as the phrase, honing ones craft. My advice to writers craft, if there is one, will take care of itself. This is not to say that an

who think they are honing their craft is this: Get busy and write, and the incredible amount of learning doesnt go on during the process of writing a novel. But the best things learned are things that come as a surprise

 things that erupt from uncharted areas of the mind and brain, things

about yourself you had no idea existed. Such revelations not only help

you understand yourself, they help you understand the tightly interwoven writing. Phrases like honing ones craft and being passionate about writing were spawned in writing workshops. They should have stayed years and theyre still boring. Theyre boring because the time they spent honing could and should have been spent living which, in my puny mind, includes taking chances. Deciding ahead of time that you are going to explore such and such in a novel is very much like conducting a

nature of everything going on around you. They also bring life to your

there. There are plenty of writers who have been honing their craft for

study or an experiment in the expectation of certain results, with the

knowledge that, upon completion, you will be able to continue on just as you were. Take homelessness as an example. Is there really any way to Even if you go as far as to live on the street for a set period of time as a explore homelessness without actually having to live without a home? way of gathering first-hand information, your experiment is polluted because you know it will end at a given time, and that you can walk away from it should things become tougher than you expect or care to fully observe who and what you are within your own set of There is no end to what can be revealed. endure. In my opinion, it is far more valuable and courageous to try to circumstances, and to wonder how those circumstances came about. October 4, 2003 While I was waiting at a light yesterday morning, a Last night, I dreamed I was holding a one-pound frozen turkey at the

truck-and-trailer load of rumpled turkeys passed through the intersection. grocery store and showing it to my wife. I asked her, Isnt one pound

awfully small for a turkey? The bird itself was deceptively large. My wife

looked at the package and said, Those are just the feathers. This sale on turkey breasts at ninety-nine cents a pound. Of course they were

morning we went to the grocery store, where there was supposedly a sold out. But there were hideous pork chops covered with gristle for three dollars and sixty-nine cents a pound, and ten-ounce boxes of imitation-cheese crackers for three dollars and twenty-nine cents. So we bought a container of salt for fifty-five cents and came home. When we apparently bought while we were distracted by the absent turkey and weeks supply of cheese, milk, bread, butter, eggs, and vegetables. The arrived, we discovered several bags of groceries in the van that we had overpriced junk. We carried the bags inside and found they contained a only frivolous items were ice cream and beer, both of which were on sale. Total cost: $116.99. Tonights dream: one pound of turkey feathers for three dollars, plus all the lousy imitation crackers we can eat. three times a day unless, perhaps, I make good on my threat to make

Tomorrows realization: we cant eat bread, eggs, and cheese every day, a lettuce and cucumber omelette. That should cure us of eating food moguls.

altogether. Then well see who has the last laugh us, or the megaOctober 5, 2003 One of these days, perhaps soon, I will assign

myself the task of getting back into shape. Im not in horrible condition, by any means, but little by little all this sitting is making me weak and flabby. Its disgusting. Occasional walks arent enough. Neither is digging in the garden. What I really need to do is to prune five acres of two- or three-year-old plum or apricot trees, or ten acres of Alicante

vines. The wood of young plum and apricot trees is extremely hard, and there are a lot of major cuts to make because at that age the shape of the tree is still being determined. For that reason, pruning five acres of

young trees isnt something one accomplishes overnight. The same

goes for pruning ten acres of Alicante vines. Alicantes are a wine grape, also with hard wood. Each vine is a bush that requires dozens or even hundreds of cuts to be pruned, depending on the plants age and vigor. Pruning a row of vines that is a quarter-mile long can take as much as six hours. In ten acres, there are twenty-seven quarter-mile rows.

Assuming eight-hour work days, that represents about three solid weeks of work and thousands upon thousands of cuts. And of course one of the great things about pruning is, its a lot like writing. Ive said this before, but it bears repeating. Like a story or poem, each vine and tree has its this, and will not ask the vine, tree, story, or poem to be something it is plant-story itself tells the pruner-writer what to do. But he has to be of art knows best. And a vine or tree is a work of art, to be known intimately and experienced on its own terms as is a piece of writing. October 6, 2003 Here is here and there is there, but the two are really own distinct shape and identity. A good pruner or writer will recognize not by cutting and leaving the wrong canes, words, or branches. The willing to listen. He is free to make suggestions, but ultimately the work

one and the same. One persons here is another persons there, and the there we seek is the here someone else is trying to escape. Even so, sure that there is different than here. And quite often it is, but the most of us dont want to be here, and would rather be there. We feel differences are superficial. The mountains are higher, the languages and food are different, and so on. But we are the same. I myself have been there. What did I find? An awful lot of people who wanted to be here. there. How did you like being there? they said. Its better than here,

And when I returned, I found an awful lot of people who wanted to be isnt it? Well, to tell you the truth, I said, there really isnt much

difference. But the food was good. Ah-ha! they cried. We knew it! Did

you take any pictures? I told them I had, but that they had made me

give them back. It was either that or prison. I wish I could go there, they said. It sounds like fun. Oh, yes, I said. Its great fun. Then I showed them a map. I pointed to a big X on the map and some words below it give me funny looks.

that said, You are here. They gave me a funny look. People always October 7, 2003 I had heard it said that it is good to exercise ones intelligence. Years ago, I took mine out for a walk. It was such a beautiful day, my intelligence broke its leash. I havent seen it since. But

I still carry the leash, just in case. On a good day, the foregoing might

have been a poem. Today, however, it is merely clever and irritating. Or am I too distracted at the moment to realize how brilliant it really is? Because, now that I think about it, it is really quite Zen-like. A person could meditate upon such a verse for hours. It is as tightly woven as a heard it said that it is intelligent to exercise. Years ago, I took a walk. It But my intelligence still carries the leash, just in case. Yes, yes. I do believe Im on to something here.

rock, and as light as a cloud. Maybe I should try another one. I had was such a beautiful day, I broke my leash. I have been free ever since.

October 8, 2003 Today I need to visit our friendly neighborhood optician to see if he can fix my glasses. Yesterday, I finished reading Poets on the Peaks, a fine book about Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, and the summers they spent working at remote fire

lookouts in the northern Cascades. When I was done, I closed the book

and took off my glasses, only to find that one end of the wire that holds it and the lens fell out. Now I cant read, at least not for pleasure. I can

the bottom of the right lens in place was flapping in the breeze. I touched

read words on a computer screen because of the lighting and the size of the letters, but I need my glasses for printed matter. This morning the newspaper was one big blur. It was so bad, in fact, that I could have

sworn I read something about California electing yet another bad actor.

Of course that cant be true. No one in his right mind would vote for a improve things. Voters are too smart for that arent they? Uh, yeah. me want to move to Kerouacs lookout on Desolation Peak. For that attention. The rest of the time, Im as happy as a lark.

guy without first hearing him give a detailed plan on how he is going to Anyway. I dont live in California anymore, but news like this still makes matter, so do a lot of other things. Luckily, it only hurts when I pay October 9, 2003 It took no more than a minute and a half for the

optician to fix my glasses. The wire that holds the lens in place is really nothing more than fishing line, which the wily craftsman keeps on spools in his workshop behind a pair of swinging bar-type doors. He pointed to the line through them, and then through another hole on the opposite corner, and then cinch up the lens. But I couldnt see what he was talking about, because I didnt have my glasses on. Later, my wife and I

holes in the top part of the frame and said all he had to do was thread

decided to pay our first visit to the new Goodwill store that opened in town, only a little smaller. The book section was tiny, and most of the a nice long-sleeved sweater I can wear, for four dollars and ninety-nine

recently not far from where we live. It was like the other Goodwill stores books were too generic or popular to be of much interest. But we did find cents. A couple more finds like that, plus a used sport coat or two, and

Ill be set for the winter. Not that theres anything wrong with my old used sport coat. Its made of wool, and still in great shape. But a little variety is nice. Speaking of variety, the weather so far today has been sunny,

rainy, windy, cloudy, and calm. At the moment, its sunny, cloudy,

breezy, and dry. And cool. But we havent turned on our furnace yet, and probably wont for quite awhile. I tell the family that its good to shiver Then, when mold starts growing on the walls, I know its time to buy new that way, when it really gets cold, theyll be toughened up and ready. filters for the furnace. This takes another two or three weeks. A week or two after that, I install them. A week or so after that, I turn on the furnace and everyone says it smells bad. So I turn off the furnace. By then its awhile, it doesnt smell bad anymore and everyone is happy. A month furnace.

Christmas. Then theres a cold snap, so I turn on the furnace. After later, the heating bill comes. I read the amount we owe and turn off the October 10, 2003 More odd dreams. This time I was walking down from the mountains on a wide road of gravel and packed mud. In some places, loose dirt was piled high on each side so high I couldnt see over the top. As the terrain flattened out, I began to run. Then I reached a big warehouse and went inside. There were a few idle forklifts, but immediately discovered by a dog. The dog seemed friendly at first, but it

nothing else, and no one was about. I floated into another room and was quickly became annoyed with my floating. It started barking, and with each bark it jumped up and tried to bite me. So I guided myself back to mighty leap and latched onto my left hand. Thats when I discovered I was wearing leather gloves. I thought I was safe. It seemed the best the doorway. As I was trying to push the door shut, the dog made a

course of action was to let the dog hang there until it got tired, and then

to let it drop of its own accord. This is exactly what happened. Then I index finger, along with a shallow hole made by the dogs tooth. I woke

removed the glove, only to find blood in the area between my thumb and

up. It was almost four in the morning. My hand didnt hurt. It still doesnt. careful of where I float.

But I will definitely stay away from empty warehouses today, and be October 11, 2003 When I first sat down a few minutes ago, I was

going to write about what its like to write in a corner. But Ive decided against it. I write in a corner. So what? I belong in a corner. Anyway, there is more than one kind of corner. There is the physical kind, where two walls meet to form a right angle, and there is the mental kind, where challenging maze. Like most mortals, I am familiar with both. I have also do so. In fact, Corners would be a good name for a story or novel. Hmm. multiple walls of exaggerated proportions collide and form a sanitywritten in both, am presently writing in both, and will no doubt continue to Ill have to remember that. Another thing Ill have to remember is to count the corners here in the house where we live. I wonder why I havent done that already? Isnt that strange? The thought never occurred to me.

Bathrooms, closets, hallways there are a lot of corners in this place. A frightening number, Ill bet. Corners filled with animosity and lint. Corners, hushed and expectant. Fallow corners, waiting for a fall rain. Corners I have lived with, but have failed to explore. Its almost more than I can stand.

October 12, 2003 Yesterday afternoon, I watched several multimillionaires in uniforms and caps and funny socks argue and try to hit each other on television. In one instance, a man in his early seventies

tried to attack another man in his thirties. To defend himself, the younger man tossed the older man aside, and the older man rolled on the ground like a lumpy gray potato. Awhile later, though, the older man was smiling, so I guess he was proud of the incident. It was all very strange.

Also, for several minutes, a small group of the multi-millionaires were

engaged in a heated debate mediated by three or four other men

wearing black clothes. One of the men had padding beneath his clothes had come prepared. The entire production was supported by advertising, and by millions of people called fanatics, or fans, for short. In other, unrelated, news, the multi-millionaires in charge of the war in Iraq have

and held some sort of mask. Apparently, he had expected violence, and

been busy trying to convince people that the war is a good thing, even

while violence in the region continues to spread. There has been some

shuffling of important skirts and suits recently, based on the assumption

that if different people tell the lies for awhile, the lies will be taken as the dollars. I dont know. It all seems pretty transparent. And yet millions of

truth. And of course theyre still angling for their eighty-seven billion fans er, I mean voters, seem unable to see and understand whats the baseball playoffs are over, and after that the World Series, they just

going on. Luckily, there are also millions who are able. And as soon as might work up the energy to do something about it the ones who anyway. Besides, as I was saying oops! look at the time. Id better get in there and turn on the TV. The games about to start. October 13, 2003 I lost track at fifty-four corners. Im pretty sure I

arent homeless or out of work, that is. But of course they dont count

missed some, and that I counted others twice. Also, I didnt get around to counting the corners in cabinets and under sinks. In a couple of instances, where two walls met and didnt form right angles, I didnt count the spots as corners. But maybe I should have. I had no idea it would be necessary to define corners so precisely. But I did find a few

spider webs, and some daddy-long-legs. Why do they call them daddy, though? I dont know. I saw blobs of spattered paint, known in the building trade as texturing. Dust. Shadows. Onions. Well, not really.

But wouldnt it have been something if there had been onions? And so, these are the results thus far. The next step, the logical step, is to revisit the corners and conduct a thorough study of each. I need to find out not open mind, and spending long hours on my hands and knees, and climbing on stools, and making extensive notes. But I am up to the task. Oh, yes! And I pity the person who says I am not.

only what they contain, but what they mean. It will require keeping an

October 14, 2003 I finished reading Faces of Photography, the book about famous twentieth century photographers by Tina Ruisinger. I enjoyed the pictures of the people who took and, in some cases, still take, pictures. It was a good idea. Also included were excerpts from the

photographer/authors interviews with her subjects. They were on the repetitive side, and some of the translations from German were a bit rough, but some of the photographers answers were still interesting. Often the encounters were too brief to allow much depth. A handful of was one. To express her disapproval, Ruisinger took a picture of his studio door and said that she had expected more of him. In my opinion, photographers even refused to meet with Ruisinger. Richard Avedon

she should have left him out altogether, because her statement really

said more about her than it did about him. But maybe she was afraid

people would think she had overlooked an important photographer. That would be understandable. Even so, why not give a brief listing in the front or back of the book of those who were contacted but refused to book itself? Oh, well. No one asked me. And no one is likely to ask me

participate or didnt respond, rather than using valuable pages of the what I think of Kenneth Rexroths poetry, which I am now attempting to guy keeps pecking away at it. And pecking away at it is really what

read. He certainly wrote a lot of it. I guess thats what happens when a

counts staying with it, week in and week out, year after year. Tina

Ruisinger is young yet, in her early thirties. Her book about photographers is just one step of many that she will take. Kenneth Rexroth is dead. He took all his steps, and then time ran out. Then some

brilliant dope like me comes along and says, How about that? And then my time will run out, and someone else will say, Thank goodness. If anything is said at all. October 15, 2003 Now the president is whining that the media isnt giving Americans the truth about Iraq. What he means, of course, is his truth, not the truth. But the media has no interest in the latter. If people knew what was really happening, and the history of why it was presidents head. Thus far, the media has helped keep this from happening, they would storm the White House and demand the happening, just as it was instrumental in helping convince enough people that invading Iraq was the thing to do. And so, in saying that the truth. It would be funny if it werent so sad. media isnt giving Americans the truth, the president is actually telling the October 16, 2003 Well, well, well. I see in this mornings newspaper that the president of our great nation visited Dinuba, California, my old hometown. In fact, according to an article filed by the Associated Press, he was at Ruiz Foods, which is only a few hundred yards from where I countrys largest producers of frozen Mexican foods. After the president was greeted warmly in the bright sunshine in Dinuba, he said, For a

learned how to prune vines and drive a tractor. Ruiz Foods is one of this

man who loves burritos, I am in heaven. So, there you have it. Dinuba is heaven unless we question the presidents sincerity, which of course we wont do, because that would be unpatriotic. If the president says

Dinuba is heaven, then, by gum, Dinuba is heaven. And we have Ruiz Foods and their frozen burritos to thank. October 17, 2003 I have two letters I need to answer, but I cant

answer them until I receive an answer to a third letter I wrote to someone else, because both answers would be incomplete if I didnt say something about the answer I received to the third letter. And so I am waiting for an answer to the third letter. As soon as it arrives, I will

answer the other two letters. I should also mention that it doesnt really matter what the answer to the third letter is. Whatever it is, I will make the answer known in my answers to the other two letters. After that, I will

wait for answers to my answers but not until I have answered the answer to my third letter. In fact, it is highly likely that I will answer the answer to the third letter before I answer the first two letters, even

though the people who wrote those letters have been waiting longer for an answer. At least I assume they are waiting. On the other hand, it is perceived as such, and therefore exists only in my mind. Once they possible that both have a life, in which case the delay has not even been receive my answers, though, they will realize how foolish they were to write in the first place. And now Ive thought of something else. Depending on the answer I receive to the third letter, and my answer to that answer, there is the very real possibility that I will have to wait for an answer to that answer before answering the first two letters. I sincerely hope that is not what happens. The pressure is killing me.

October 18, 2003 Once upon a time, a man died and entered heaven. He knew it was heaven, because the first thing he saw was a sign that said, Dinuba, California, Home of Frozen Burritos. Looks like I finally finally get to meet God. The man continued on. He was nearly hit by a

made it, he said with tears of joy streaming down his face. Looks like Ill

long black limousine on Alta Avenue, but he was too happy to be frightened. Ill bet thats God now, he said, trembling in awe. The limousine turned right at the light. Like a dazed pilgrim, the man followed it into a parking lot. Suddenly, the smell of burritos filled the air. God got out of the car. Where the hell are we? he said to one of his

bodyguards. Dinuba, the bodyguard replied. Smells like a grease fire, God said. Lets make it quick. We still gotta get to San Bernadino so I can get Arnolds autograph. The man couldnt believe his ears. Then a crowd gathered and God began to speak. But instead of talking about a

peaceful life in heaven, God talked about money and war, and said all

sorts of things that didnt make sense. Sitting alone on a burrito wrapper at the edge of the crowd, the mans joy turned to sorrow, then fear. After listening for a few more minutes, he knew he hadnt entered heaven after all, but a life of eternal suffering. October 19, 2003 I have been busy all day, writing a poem without sheets of paper, and all are perfectly blank. Perfectly. Blank.

any words. So far, the work is going quite well. I have used several October 20, 2003 About thirty years ago, on a warm night near the

university in Fresno, a friend and I were sprawled out on the lawn at his future, and about how much money we wanted to make not from the

apartment, enjoying a quiet conversation. We were talking about the vantage point of greed, but of need. I said twenty thousand dollars a was sure that twenty thousand wouldnt be enough to live on, or to raise a family. And of course he turned out to be right. But at the time, rent

year. His figure was higher, somewhere near forty thousand. He said he

was cheap, gas was fifty cents a gallon, and a twenty-dollar bill bought a lot of groceries. Twenty thousand dollars seemed like a lot of money. To me it still does, except that I know it really isnt, unless you happen to

need twenty thousand dollars, as I always do. Now my friend earns more he bought years ago, before home prices became completely obscene, and a house and vehicles to insure and maintain. And he works hard to harder, and yet my bases are rarely covered. Or, to put it another way,

than forty thousand, but he doesnt have money to burn. He has a house and a family to look after. He has bills to pay, clothing and food to buy, make sure his bases are covered. I work just as hard, possibly even all of them are rarely covered at the same time. Covering one or two bases usually means leaving another one exposed. Its an interesting, challenging way to live. Some people would call it stupid. And they

would be right although, when I see what some of them spend their money on, and the desperate way they go about it, I know Im not alone in the stupidity department.

October 21, 2003 Telling the truth is easier than some people realize. So is telling lies. Living with the results is where things become interesting. It is far easier to live with the results of having told the truth since one lie usually leads to the next, living with the results grows

than it is to live with the results of having lied. One lie is bad enough. But increasingly complicated. More and more lies are needed to keep the liar afloat. Telling the truth seems impossible. Things become tangled in the liars mind. Finally, the liar gives up on the truth completely. In time, this there for everyone to see. is recorded upon the liars face. Or, to put it another way, the truth is October 22, 2003 We are out of apples, pears, and eggs, but we have plenty of potatoes. In fact, we have approximately thirty-five pounds of potatoes on hand, because potatoes have been on sale recently. We neighborhood produce stand last Saturday prevented our visit. When we

would have apples, pears, and eggs too, but a huge event at our

arrived, the building was surrounded by a sea of cars, and people were milling about all over the grounds and feeling their way through a nearby corn maze. There were also mountains of pumpkins swarmed by children, and vans from a local TV station. Other than that, the place was

quiet. Today, assuming the sky doesnt fall, we will return and catch up on our pear and egg shopping. The Bosc pears are in. I have already like them better than Bartletts and you can quote me on that. Then eaten several, and I plan to eat dozens more while theyre available. I again, thats a pretty bad joke, so youd better not. I also like pears better than apples, or at least the waxed generic breeds currently being shoved down our throats by Corporate Food and Agriculture. But I do like some being waxed. And of course fresh real apple cider is also a treat. of the smaller crisp local apple varieties that are picked and sold without October 23, 2003 For awhile this morning, I sat in a waiting room

while the oil was being changed in our van. The TV was on, blaring

away. A young woman was glued to the set. She was watching several

well known (i.e., highly publicized) rich women sitting around a table, who shrieked with laughter convulsions on cue. I tried to read a newspaper, and succeeded for a time, but the ignorant racket finally

engaged in cheap gossip and dirty talk in front of an audience of women

pierced my inner calm. I was about to get up and leave when the young soap opera that featured more screaming, with the added benefit of spurting blood. I went outside. The sky was clear and blue, just as it is

woman watching TV suddenly changed the station to a popular medical

now, and the air fresh. A few minutes later, the van was done, I paid for the job, and then drove home. But I can still hear that ignorant shrieking. It is chilling, frightening, sad.

October 24, 2003 This morning I made French toast. Our youngest

son had three pieces, I had two. I used four violently beaten eggs and several drops of vanilla extract. The kid poured molasses on his breakfast. I poured honey on mine. Now hes at school and Im drinking coffee. I showered awhile ago, and despite the chilly temperature this morning I have yet to don a shirt. But we did buy new furnace filters a

few days ago. They are still in the package. While I was making our breakfast, the kid said, Its ten degrees in here. He was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood, and the hood was pulled over his head. I told him what I tell him every morning to toughen up. Eat hearty, I said.

Youll warm up in no time. In a brief show of defiance, he made his teeth chatter. Great, I said. That works too. How many pieces of French toast do you want? Ten? A groan. I remember my father making French toast. Every once in awhile, he called it havgit hatz havgit

being the Armenian word for egg, and hatz meaning bread. So we had pronounced ah. And the standard response to this sort of information

egg bread. The i in havgit has a long e sound. The a should be should be Oh, as in Oh, really? In a pinch, however, I see would that would simply be rude. After all, I am doing my best. And I mean no harm. If I did, I probably wouldnt be talking about French toast in the first place.

suffice. But under no circumstances should you say So what? because

October 25, 2003 The Friends of the Salem Public Library are

conducting their annual book sale this weekend. With any luck, I will stop by and help them along by purchasing another batch of books that I will even seen them. The one thing I wont do, however, is become a suddenly find I desperately need. In fact I need them now, and I havent member of their organization. Ive never been a member of anything. Or

maybe I should say I have never belonged. That would probably be I was approached by a couple of my fellow students who wanted me to become a junior member of the Kiwanis Club. I asked them what my membership would entail, and they said it would mostly involve city meant to be beautiful. Count me out. In high school, I took German for a

more accurate. Im not a joiner. When I was a freshman in high school,

cleanup and beautification projects. In Dinuba? I said. This place isnt couple of years from an Armenian teacher, no less, whose advice to me upon graduation was, Get the hell out of Dinuba as soon as possible, which is exactly what he did shortly thereafter. I think he German class meant I was an automatic member of the German Club.

moved to Oakland, but I could be mistaken. Anyway, being in the What did the German Club do? Hardly a thing, except we tried to sell sausages in the park once, behind the city library. Of course other clubs were trying to sell other things, so no one thought a thing of it. Otherwise

we would have been shot. If I remember correctly, and I probably dont, we also sold foil-wrapped baked potatoes at one of the football games. If we didnt sell them, someone did. The spuds were popular because they served as hand-warmers. But I dont remember actually helping in that endeavor. Who knows? Maybe it didnt happen at all. Not only that, but I took German for two years and came away knowing how to say only two

things. One was, Wir gehen ins kino, or, Were going to the movies. The

other was, Ich trinke bier an den see, or, I drink beer on the lake. Wouldnt my old teacher be proud of me now, seeing how much I have retained?

October 26, 2003 To entertain the inmates, I have made a point lately of speaking in a loud, deep voice several times a day when it is least expected. The boys have responded in kind, so now there is no telling

when someone is likely to erupt with a tidbit of useless information

delivered in an overblown, exaggerated voice. Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I asked our youngest son if he had been eating a daily handful of the fresh raisins we purchased recently. Luckily, he was sitting at the When he said he hadnt gotten around to eating any yet, I lowered my liked raisins, which of course he does, though he tends to eat less when

time. Theyre wonderful! I hollered at him. Best thing in the world! voice a bit more and in an accusatory tone said, Why? I thought you he thinks I am forcing them on him. Isnt that just like a kid, though? It has to be his idea. I remember being exactly like that. As a matter of fact, I still am. And yet I go on telling the family, Ill do the thinking around here, even though it was proven long ago that I am unreliable leader, and that the mother in this outfit is the one who does the real mistake in your life, and that was marrying me. Too bad I was so

thinking. I tell her, You know, its a pity, but youve made only one irresistible. That usually gets a laugh. At the same time, though, she doesnt disagree with the first part. Furthermore, I say, I have done only one thing right in my life, and that was marrying you. Without you, Id be nothing even less. This time, she does agree. And, like magic, I feel ready to face the world once more.

October 27, 2003 I did make it to the Friends book sale yesterday

afternoon, but I was far too late to find anything worth bringing home. I was there for about three minutes long enough to see several tired volunteers, and half a dozen glassy-eyed book buyers picking through sight. Also, the sale wasnt held in the library basement as in past years,

the few remaining books like dazed vultures. It was a pretty discouraging but in a vacant store downtown where an outfit used to sell typewriters

and the like not the best of atmospheres. And the place didnt smell

right. It didnt smell like books, but more like an overheated gymnasium

during a sock-hop. I dont know why the sale wasnt held in the library basement. Maybe a string quartet moved in several weeks ago, then library newsletters, I would probably know why. But it doesnt matter. I like my version better. became angry and refused to leave. Then again, if I bothered to read the

October 28, 2003 Being a writer of serious drivel and universal humor is no easy job. Humor is everywhere, but profundity doesnt grow on trees. If anything, it is more of a root crop. You have to dig for it. But

unless you know your way around and are good with a shovel, youre just as likely to dig in the wrong places and come up with something trite. But the trite stuff isnt useless by any means. It fills daily newspapers and news broadcasts, and is the substance of many a political speech. This is another way of saying that humor is everywhere. Trite stuff is especially humorous when it is treated as if it were profound with

gravity, as it were. What could be more ridiculous than two newscasters

trading sentences and looking at each other as if they were listening to standing in front of a picture of a swimming pool and telling parents to not let their kids fall in? or the fact that they call this type of thing journalism? But, as I said, the real stuff, the stuff with substance,

the Sermon on the Mount? or a respected national news anchor

requires more effort. It requires attention and an inquiring mind. Is it true,

or isnt it? Is all of it true, or is it just so much more advertising? Does it even matter? The other day, my wife and I attended our youngest sons parent-teacher conferences at our neighborhood high school. Talk about cafeteria and auditorium, the noise level was so high that it was

ridiculous. Held in the school cafeteria and the area between the impossible to hear ourselves think, let alone have a decent conversation

with a teacher. Ten minutes were budgeted for each conference. Each teacher had his own table and a time schedule for parents to sign. Every ten minutes a buzzer sounded, and everyone jumped up, shook hands, parents standing nearby, hoping for a brief word between meetings. I

and scampered off to another table. Most of the time, there were other shouted at one teacher, The least they could have done was give us megaphones. Then we smiled at each other through our headaches. This is education?

October 29, 2003 This afternoon we need to move my mothers huge we let it freeze. For the last several years, the plant has spent the coldest part of the winter in the sunniest room of her house, not far from

potted jade plant from its spot outside into her garage either that, or

the ancient oak dining table my father used to sit under when he was a kid and the table belonged to his grandparents. The jade plant looks good inside, but this past winter especially, it suffered from the dry air. By the time we wheeled it out on a hand-truck, it looked like it might not survive. A couple of months later, though, it picked up steam and started growing. Now its bigger than ever and, for the first time, its getting ready to bloom. Weve never seen a jade plant bloom. Ive seen

philodendrons bloom, and a few other plants that arent known or cultivated for their flowers, but not a jade plant. With the onset of colder weather, though, its quite possible the blooms wont develop. And I wonder if we will even be able to haul the thing back inside this year. It morning. Its called The Pilgrims Way. It took less than an hour.

might not fit through the doorway. In other news, I wrote a poem this October 30, 2003 This bright day is meant for joy and madness. Leaves swirl in the icy wind. They gather by the door, where they whisper and wait to come in. This is not quite what we had in mind. And

the old neighbors garden by the field, by the road, framed by unpainted yellow chrysanthemums is a poem unto itself. Thus ends morbid

outbuildings brown folds of expired growth, spires of weeds, brightcaution, for a time, for a time. The harsh lines of sanity are erased the allowed to happen, for fear of happiness or loss of control. The voices whisper and wait to come in. How I have longed for their return.

roads, the sidewalks, the precise lawns, the accidents of beauty never are many. The ghosts are near. They gather by the door, where they October 31, 2003 I am sipping coffee now, and I will be sipping coffee later this morning when I meet a friend of mine at one of the steamy old summers ago, the two of us took sweet red onions, fresh cucumbers, a country on the west bank of the Willamette River. If we did that today wed be frozen solid. So well stick with the coffee. I find it strange, coffee joints downtown. It is certainly coffee-drinking weather. Several knife, salt, and beer, and spent the afternoon in a quiet shady spot in the

though, that weve yet to return to the riverbank. More than strange, sad.

Because I know why we havent. Its easier to steal an hour for coffee in

a convenient central location than it is to steal an entire afternoon that

involves a drive several miles out of town. As it is, stealing an hour for coffee has become more and more difficult. Both of us prize our freedom, but we seem to have less of it these days or I do, at any especially considering the sketchy financial returns. But if I dont do my writing, who will? Not that I dont feel free when I write. When I write, I rate. Much of it is self-inflicted, as I tend to write more than is logical,

couldnt be freer. Its when Im not writing that the walls begin to close in. And yet this, too, is a form of freedom I am not willing to trade. As a rule, I am most miserable when my time belongs to someone else. It is an

unnatural state of being, and contrary to my wiring. When I do work for

others, as anyone Ive worked for well tell you assuming they are still alive I go all-out. Nothing is held back. I do the work as if I were doing it for myself. Its the way I was taught, and its the way I am. And so inevitably in those situations, my own work suffers. I dont know how to people, I hear the clock ticking. But unlike millions of other people, I am less capable of ignoring the sound, or of pretending it isnt there. I am

save my energy for later. From this, conflict arises. Like millions of other

too resentful of the fact that a person cant always do what he wants to am only able to accept it for short periods of time. Of course, that isnt bones left in my body.

do, and what he feels he must do if he is to remain reasonably sane. I really acceptance. It just shows that there are still a few responsible December 1, 2003 Its only nine in the morning and it has already been a long day. I have been slaving away for the last two hours, but my the Portland airport to pick up my brother and his wife, who will be list of things to do still contains a dozen items. Number Eleven is a trip to arriving tonight from Armenia. Number Twelve says, Collapse. When the time comes, I hope I have the strength. If I dont, maybe I can find something else to do, such as build a bird house or bake cookies. Or maybe I can teach myself how to do needlework. Then again, its high time I began studying the handwriting of Classical composers. Why put it just have to delay my collapse until there is more time. Ill move it to tomorrows list, or the next days, or next years. Better yet, Ill put off White House swat! Ah. . . . off any longer? Comparative religion also beckons. So it looks like I will

collapsing until my next life, when I come back as a fly on the wall in the December 2, 2003 I didnt go to the airport after all, because the travelers missed their Washington, D.C., connection and had to stay

overnight in the nations capital. Instead, they are supposed to arrive this afternoon. On the bright side, a night at the Holiday Inn courtesy of the airline should take at least a small bite out of their jet lag. Although, were awake all night due to a cast iron bed, a groaning elevator shaft,

come to think of it, the last time my wife and I stayed at a Holiday Inn, we and an ice maker that made more noise than ice stationed just outside our door. When I complained at the desk the following morning, the girl on duty, armed with a corporate air of irresponsibility, informed me with a

straight face that I was the first to ever mention anything negative about that particular room. After I told her they must have been keeping deaf people with rubber skeletons in that room, she agreed to move us to another, and to not charge us for the previous nights suffering. We were

moved several doors down the hall to a charming replica overlooking a small swimming pool lined with pastry wrappers. It was quieter, and the cast iron mattress had been given some sort of teflon coating, so we stabbing pain set in. We checked out as cripples and went on our merry way. The next night, we slept in the gutter. It was a marked improvement.

were able to sleep three or four hours before our spines rebelled and the

December 3, 2003 Yesterday afternoon, instead of meeting my lanes of traffic due to a big accident not far from the airport exit. When I

brother and his wife at the airport, I was sitting at a dead stop in three finally arrived, their plane had already landed, and they were nowhere to be found. I checked the luggage area. They werent there. I went to the place upstairs where the passengers come out. They werent there. I

went to the restroom, the magazine shop, the tie store, the bookstore, hats, I went back downstairs to the luggage area. Nothing. Back

the barbershop, and half a dozen gift shops. After trying on several wool

upstairs. Nothing. After reading the paper and having a drink in one of

the bars, I watched an exhausted man being shaken in some sort of

vibrating chair for a minute or two, then I went back downstairs. Finally, I

heard someone call my name. It was my brother. He was sitting in a tiny

phone booth talking to our mother, whom he had called because he the whole time, and somehow I had missed seeing them, which I find

wondered where I was. It turned out they had been in the luggage area odd, because there werent that many people down there. On the other hand, they didnt see me either, so I guess its all right. We started the hour-long drive home. By then, the accident had been cleared and the northbound traffic was flowing freely again. We found out later that no one had been killed, though two people had to be cut free of the wreckage. They came out of it okay, apparently. But it will give them assuming they live that long.

something to think about and remember for the rest of their lives, December 4, 2003 Later this morning, someone is supposed to stop before last, just about two minutes before my wife was going to take out oven, the element on the bottom was in flames. She took out the chicken

by and replace one of the heating elements in our oven. The evening some chicken, we heard an odd buzzing sound. When she opened the and closed the door. So much for baking a cake. Last nights supper was a stove-top affair. Among other things, we had a mountain of rice pilaf made with turkey broth left over from Thanksgiving. We also had pomegranate wine from Armenia. The wine was in a container that

looked like a pomegranate, though I have never seen one quite that big. So we managed okay. Of course, we would have been fine without the stove entirely, because, as Moe Howard once said in an episode of the Three Stooges, It cant be that bad, lady. You can always open a can of

beans. In fact, we still have a little turkey left, so we could have had yet another round of turkey sandwiches. The meat is a bit leathery at this point, but food is food. There is also plenty of dried fruit in the house. What could be better than turkey sandwiches with raisins, prunes, dates, those for sensible people. and dried apricots for dessert? A lot of things, obviously. But well leave December 5, 2003 Late yesterday afternoon, I was called upon to take our sixteen-year-old son and two of his buddies to basketball practice at one of the facilities here in town. Along with a few other comical thugs and blowhards, they have formed a team and will compete against others in their age group in a seven-game season, not counting playoffs. So far their team is nameless, but thats only a minor detail. They do have a coach, a nice guy in his thirties who realizes the boys are supposed to have fun, so thats good. When I went after them a couple of hours later, they were steamed up and happy. The windows were instantly fogged over, so I had to turn on the defroster to keep from

driving blind. On the way home, I learned that our sons two pals are as well, the other part German, and both are a lot of other things in smaller amounts. None of this seemed to be of major importance to them. They were more concerned with homework assignments and

half-Portuguese, which of course is fascinating. One is part Norwegian

class projects. But I imagine their ethnicity is an occasional topic of conversation at home, especially when their grandparents are around. It Armenian from my parents and grandparents that for a long time I certainly was when I was growing up. I heard so much about being thought Armenians were a race separate from human beings. Later on, I found out that this was actually the case although in time, some Armenians have managed to take on human features and adopt human-

like behavior. But humanity shouldnt be fooled. It would be a good idea to keep an eye on the Armenians, or things could get out of hand. December 6, 2003 Sometimes I wonder if we really know what our intentions are. We think we know. But we think we know a lot of things, even though we are frequently reminded that we dont. We tell ourselves we are doing such and such, for such and such a reason. Then someone comes along and says, I know why you did that, and it turns

out to be for a completely different reason. And its a good reason, in the embarrassing reason, because it reveals a part of ourselves that runs

sense that it is logical and believable. Its also an upsetting or counter to our self-image. To put it another way, we are never as noble realize, and that this is what saves us from being the completely selfish monsters we could so easily become. Of course, some of us are completely selfish monsters. And some of us do intend to take

as we think we are. But I also believe we are noble in ways we never

advantage of others, or to do away with them altogether. While

disgusting, having such people in our midst should also be a reminder to look within. We are all carriers of the same disease. Some of us are in remission. Others are only mildly ill. Others well, others should be shot before they do anymore damage. But which one of us is qualified to do the shooting? And once we pull the trigger, havent we become a bigger part of the problem?

December 7, 2003 It has been raining for hours, and it looks like there is plenty more where that came from an easy prediction this time of year here in Oregons Willamette Valley. In Californias San Joaquin Valley, where I was hatched off a flat rock, as my mother likes to say, it was also easy to predict rain: usually, it didnt. But where we lived, a day or two before an approaching storm, the atmosphere cleared and the

snow-covered Sierra Nevada Mountains were revealed in all their glory. This was an inspiring sight. A great many of the peaks directly east of our home were well in excess of 12,000 feet. While we pruned in the vineyard, they were our silent companions. When the first veil of clouds stretched itself across the sky, and then later as the clouds thickened, the mountains glowed. Often, the first drops of rain were as big as nickels and many inches apart not like Oregon raindrops, which are the San Joaquin, the arrival of rain was a blessing. Not only was it

much finer and so close together that they seem to blend and overlap. In always desperately needed, it was the only way farmers could get a day off. Here the rain is also a blessing. Some people get tired of it because of its abundance. I dont. I am grateful for every drop. I spent the first thirty-one years of my life waiting for it to rain. I have spent the last neither is suffering through endless polluted summers of extreme heat. and rejoice. I can breathe.

sixteen and a half making up for it. It is not always convenient, but Thats why today, like so many other winter days, I look out the window December 8, 2003 I havent been feeling particularly cheerful lately, days has been cheerful and positive. Im not sure why this is. Am I

and yet Ive noticed that much of what I have written during the past few cheerful, but dont know it? Does the act of writing itself make me

cheerful? I do feel better when I write, and immediately after I have written. This is true even when I write about serious matters, which is a fair part of the time. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, but when I write about it I feel great. Does this mean I secretly enjoy the worlds misery? I dont think so. Its just that I enjoy writing, and saying what I think is true. I am happy to be able to write, but to a great degree my

outrage is what keeps me writing. This is probably why I have never

been interested in writing purely entertaining fluff, the like of which as paperbacks by the millions in airports and grocery stores. I hate

appears in most major magazines under the guise of fiction, and is sold stories and novels that dont say or mean anything. Theyre a waste of always is. But without genuine, challenging content, fiction falls flat on its

time and paper. I do think fiction should be entertaining. The best fiction face and is quickly forgotten. Cardboard characters that end up being played by expressionless actors who stage scandals to gain publicity might have a certain monetary value, but they have nothing to do with literature. Reading a good book can change everything. It can change book can expose lies and shake a society by its roots. This is why so threaten us by revealing ourselves to ourselves. the way you think, the way you live, the way you look at things. A good many fine works of literature have been banned over the years. They December 9, 2003 Yesterday I read in an Armenian newspaper that

Leo Hamalian, one of the first editors to accept and publish one of my

stories, died on the eighth day of November at the age of eighty-three. the most recent issue of Ararat, and to ask about some poems of mine

That very same day, I had written to thank him for publishing a story in he was going to include in a future issue of the quarterly magazine. Now I know why he didnt answer. . . . Leo and I never met. He lived and worked in New York. He was the magazines editor for about thirty years.

We knew each other only through letters, and through our writing. His his battle with Parkinsons Disease. His handwriting was difficult to read,

letters were short, especially during the last two or three years, due to and sometimes it took a day or two to completely decipher what he had said. It will be interesting to see how Ararat changes now that Leo is gone. It will take time to sort through his correspondence, and to act on

some of the things he had planned with various authors. Some of those things might not happen, or will happen differently. It is not the job of a before. But it is his job to remember the past, and allow the best parts of it to illuminate the present. new editor, necessarily, to do things exactly as they have been done

December 10, 2003 Many years ago, I read in The Gulag Archipelago Solzhenitsyn devised a way of writing and memorizing poems without

that while he was a prisoner in Russias frozen north, Aleksandr using pen and paper. If I remember correctly, he counted pebbles in his as he got the hang of it, whole stanzas, in his head. This allowed him to compose new work and cling to his sanity while his camp mates were get their work done would be wise to remember this the next time they

pocket to a set cadence while reciting first the lines of poems, then later

dying all around him. I think writers who whine about not being able to put off writing because they are tired, or poor, or busy, or under the gun for various stressful reasons. Life and its circumstances may indeed slow a writer down, but if he is to be able to live with himself he must press on by keeping his work at the forefront of his mind. If he allows

days, weeks, and months to pass without writing, it becomes more and more difficult for him to get started again. When he finally does start, the practical, negative side of his brain tells him his work isnt good enough, or that he should wait for a more opportune moment, or for inspiration, etc. The best thing a writer can do is to not stop writing ever. The next third best thing a writer can do is to admit to himself that he is not a writer if he spends all his time making excuses for not writing. Either that, or he should write out his excuses, and make that his new beginning.

best thing a writer can do is to start writing again if he has stopped. The

December 11, 2003 If you think youre stuck, then its possible you

arent. If you dont think youre stuck, then theres a good chance you are. If you know youre stuck, then you are well on your way to becoming unstuck. If you think being stuck is beneath you, and that its something that happens only to other people, then its quite likely you are so stuck arrogant, and the kind of driver who takes out his frustrations on the road, or on children and pets. If you think Im stuck, you are right in also right. But I am an excellent driver, and I have the record to prove it. either. The neighborhood cats, though, are another story. For some odd

that you cant see straight. You are also probably pigheaded and

more ways than one. If you think I am pigheaded and arrogant, you are And while children dont exactly flock around me, they dont avoid me, reason, they will walk several blocks just to rub against my leg and flop how much I despise them? Or do they find my long hair and beard irresistible? Do they see me as some sort of leader? Maybe someday I and I will be free at last. will play a flute and lead them over a precipice. Then they will be stuck, December 12, 2003 For quite some time now, I have been sitting here

over at my feet, looking for attention. Dont these creatures understand

in an absolute daze, sipping coffee. Though I have already been up for over three hours, I have yet to gain a head of steam. Rather than being the engine that could, I am the engine that was derailed. I am the engine birds, a quaint artifact from a bygone era, an amusing reminder of what might have been had the world stopped in 1934, before television,

stuck in the mud and overgrown with weeds, a handy resting place for

before computers, before the brilliant intellectual and technological being he is. My great iron body is rusted right down to my soul. I am a

advancement and progress that has made modern man the superior

dilapidated carcass of disbelief, an elbow in the gut, a half-chewed blade of grass hanging from a cows lip. I am what was and what will never be minds, and in the lint that collects behind their refrigerators. Future again. Even so, my glorious decay will live on in peoples hearts and generations will yearn for what I represent, even though, like me, they

will have no idea what that is. Suffice it to say, I will have fallen like a rotten tomato upon the stage of history, and someone else someone equally pointless and brilliant will have to clean up the mess or, if that doesnt work, build a new stage. December 13, 2003 An impromptu stop at the library bookstore

yesterday afternoon led to an expenditure of $279.50. Unfortunately,

only nine dollars and fifty cents of that went toward the purchase of valve on our van. The gadget gave up the ghost when I emerged from

books. The rest will go to pay for the installation of a new idle air control the library delighted with my purchase and tried to start the engine. Over and over, it said, So much for your fun. Two or three times, I managed to get the engine started, and to keep it running through violent pedalaction, but as soon as I let up, the thing died. I was in the lower level of the library parking structure. When I got out of the van, the place was friendly neighborhood towing companies. A rig was dispatched in my had no trouble latching onto the van in the tight space. We were off to

filled with vile fumes. I trudged back into the library and called one of our direction. It arrived forty-five minutes later. An obvious expert, the driver the mechanics in about ten minutes. But my question is, would this have happened if I hadnt stopped at the library? I dont know what makes an idle air control valve stop working. Maybe its time had come. I didnt ask by Henrik Ibsen: An Enemy of the People; A Dolls House; Ghosts; and

the mechanic. . . . Now Im looking at the books. One contains four plays

John Gabriel Borkman. Another is the third printing of Nana, by mile Eugnie Grandet, and, finally, The Bridge of San Luis Rey, by Thornton

Zola, published in 1925 by Knopf. This is joined by a copy of Balzacs Wilder. All four are beautiful hardbound volumes. Eugnie Grandet even comes in its own case and has illustrations. The Wilder book is also illustrated. The mere thought of owning these books has me in a state of mild agitation. Then again, it might be the cup of Armenian coffee I just

finished. Or just life itself, which seems intent lately on slapping me around. And of course there is no way to get even with life. Life is always in charge, and it has a wicked sense of humor. A perfect example of this published recently. For two and a half years, I thought, okay, this is is what happened to the novel of mine that was supposed to be good, I have a novel coming out, and people are going to be able to go what a wonderful writer I am. Then the publisher turns out to be a lying thief, and now, no book, no bookstores, no discoveries, no checks in the mail. Instead, the van dies, and my check is in the mail. But thats fine. I

into bookstores and buy it, and they are going to be able to discover

dont really know what life has to gain by this, but Im willing to go along with it. What else can I do file a protest with the Universal Life Association saying Ive been mistreated, and demand justice? A lot of

good that will do. As it is, the organization is probably trying to cash in on the war in Iraq. Your call is important to us. To reach our body-bag division, press 1. To reach our fuel price gouging division, press 2. If you would like to talk to an operator, hes busy posing with a turkey. No, course, that there is a first time for everything. obviously, that wont work. I have to be smarter than that meaning, of December 14, 2003 I really do need a good long rest. A few years

ago, this meant taking a couple of days off, then pretty soon it meant a

week, and then a month started to sound about right. But I know now

that a month wont begin to be enough, and that, realistically, I need about six months to a year of rest if I am to be able to carry on without turning into a complete physical and mental wreck. As it is, I have already moved a long way in that direction. But I think I can stop, if not

reverse, the process by taking a year or two off, or maybe five. During be to learn how to sleep without thrashing around and yelling, and how

that time, I would set for myself several important goals. One goal would to rise without needing to be immersed in scalding water in order to

recover my ability to move. Another goal would be to do some strenuous pavement walks, which is another goal. Yet another goal is to read to my hearts content. To do that, though, I will probably have to rest my eyes

physical exercise each day. This doesnt count the taking of long off-

for the first month or two by reading nothing at all. Last night I read for awhile, and then when I got up to stretch and walk around, I was so bleary-eyed I kept running into the walls. So I think my eyes are trying to

tell me something. I also want to live without a clock, telephone, radio, or television. I have had enough of those contraptions to last me several lifetimes. I am tired of being yelled at and told what to buy. I am tired of

being interrupted by imbeciles. And I am tired of knowing what time it is,

and being expected to think that it matters, when it really doesnt and

cant. Given the age of the universe and the accidental nature of our early. Even the concept of being sounds a bit silly. On the other hand, it

existence, nothing is more ridiculous than the concept of being late or could be that our being here isnt an accident at all. Either way, I know

this: It will be impossible to find out if there are TVs and radios and telephone and clocks around to do my thinking for me. And this brings to mind my most important goal of all. While I am taking my five or ten

years off, I want to do absolutely no thinking. I want my head to be the

empty vessel everyone thinks it is, instead of the tired sponge it has

become. I have long been convinced that thought is the enemy of selfunderstanding, and that the very word, thought, is dangerous and misleading. Many of the great thinkers written about in history books may well have been great thinkers, but an awful lot of them seem also to system. And of course many of them managed this long before there

have been morons who missed the point by trying to reduce things to a were TVs and radios around to distract them, so what was their excuse? with self-centered stupidity. In fact, let us consider no. In fact, let us life, and leave it at that.

The same as mine, I imagine: faulty wiring and limited ability, combined not consider. Let us keep our mouths shut and behold the miracle that is December 15, 2003 Well, well, well. This is interesting, indeed.

Saddam Hussein has been caught like a rat and humiliated after being found hiding in a hole, and now he will have to face justice. This is even more exciting than the staged toppling of a Saddam Hussein statue before a hand-picked crowd of cheering onlookers. One thing you can say about this country: when it fires an old employee, it be difficult to forget the many lies told by Bush you pick the Bush, really fires him. Now the war-weary world can rejoice although it will there are plenty from which to choose the excuses and fabrications, the photo opportunities, the stolen 2000 presidential election, the ravaged environment, the protected status of drug companies, and, of

course, the thousands of people who have died so a foothold could be secured in that part of the world, and who have starved, and who have been and still are exposed to health-destroying compounds. Yes, we will forget it all, because the tyrant has been toppled. And we will gladly

accept the continued U.S. occupation with the help of a few bought-off,

economically threatened leaders who contributed men and women to people. We will gladly accept the fact that the good old U.S.A. can do

the coalition forces despite the overwhelming opposition of their own what it wants when it wants while other countries cant, and, while we

are at it, we will celebrate the triumph of the gasoline-powered engine. Wahoo. Im so happy, I think Ill go out today and help the economy by spending beyond my means. December 16, 2003 Tonight an interview with the president will be shown on TV, as Bush of Arabia wastes no time in making political hay. the news as saying Forget politics when asked about the coming This is what campaigning has come to even though he was quoted in election. Forget politics? Well, okay. But it wont be easy, especially with the media filter the president complained about serving up its ignoring everything else. For instance, there are evil, heartless, predictably safe, trite-phrased reports on Husseins capture, while murdering dictators all over the world who have scarcely earned a wink or a nod from the White House. I wonder why that is? Could it be that that their location offers no military or strategic advantage? those countries are poor in natural resources and have little to steal, or December 17, 2003 On the other hand, maybe I should just let it go.

For as long as humans have existed, there have been liars and criminals. Why go on repeating the obvious? Why not smile and be happy? Millions have been killed and millions have been tortured and starved, and the killing, torturing, and starving continue. So what? Why be upset just because a few ruthless, low-grade donkeys are draining the life and hope out of millions of poor, defenseless people? After all, business is business, right? Its their fault for being poor and defenseless

anyway. If they dont want to be poor and defenseless, they should do something about it. They should emulate the president. They should get a hold of a few oil wells and steal when others arent looking. They

should create events and manipulate them for their own purpose, and then smirk about it on television. Then maybe theyd earn some respect. But this wont happen until they learn to appreciate the American way of life, the fast food, the stress, and the heart disease that are the begin to make true progress.

hallmarks of our society. Without such an appreciation, they will never December 18, 2003 The guitar-playing continues in our house. Our youngest son plays an acoustic guitar; our oldest plays an electric. Both are teaching themselves and making good progress. Last night at about eleven, our oldest son was running through various combinations, turned down, but the music could be heard all over the house. It wasnt

working on his fingering. His door was closed and his amplifier was loud by any means, just noticeable. I love it. Ive told both boys that they should feel free to play whenever the mood strikes them, even if its in the offer. Several times, Ive heard him strumming at three a.m. Music is the middle of the night. So far, only our youngest has taken me up on a wonderful thing at that hour. And of course he plays differently not

because he is afraid of waking us, but because it is night, and the house

is dark, and the streets are quiet and empty, and because of a thousand Night music is different than day music, just as night writing is different so on. Just as we are different. And what better way to find this out than simply sitting alone in the dark?

other mysterious and sorrowful things that remain hidden during the day. than day writing, and winter writing is different than summer writing, and by playing a guitar in the middle of the night, or by reading, or writing, or

December 19, 2003 I spent far too much time and energy yesterday a bit of wear and tear. It still prints beautifully, but more and more often lately, the finished pages have been getting jammed in the final set of

wrestling with my laser printer. Almost thirteen years old, it has sustained

rollers. As a temporary measure, I have been able to hold down the

revolving plastic pieces beneath the rollers and coax the paper through, still be a jam. Yesterday, though, even that didnt work. I looked in the telephone book hoping to find someone who could replace the rollers,

but it requires letting go at exactly the right moment, otherwise there will

only to discover that there are next to no printer repair people in town. I sounding young man who was sure they could take care of my

called the only one that looked hopeful, and was greeted by a sleazyproblem. Then he informed me that he would have to ask either Soand-So or So-and-So, and then one of them would give me a call. This was at one oclock in the afternoon. Of course, no one called. In the rollers with a cotton swab. By doing this I was able to clean off some of

meantime, I resorted to dabbing a tiny bit of rubbing alcohol on the the toner that had built up over the years. Later on, our oldest son, for the rollers because it dries them out. I said that I was aware of that,

Vahan, who is our resident computer wizard, told me that alcohol is bad but was at wits end and really had no choice. Also, it worked. I even

managed to get a few sheets through without holding down the plastic be seen. But I wont even try until Ive finished my coffee. That way, if the printer jams, I will have enough energy to throw it out the window.

pieces under the rollers. Whether that luck will continue today remains to

December 20, 2003 A small formation of geese just flew by, headed east, and two sparrows flitted by the window. It makes me wonder where do bumble bees spend the winter? In the summer, I have seen

them burrow into the ground or spend the night in flowers, but where are they now? Two crows just flew over, headed north. A car drove by. Now which. A few minutes ago, I removed a dust-encrusted spider web from I can hear a small bird of some kind cheeping, or peeping, Im not sure the lamp on my table with the pointy end of a black-handled pair of scissors. The web was dangling, and the light on the specks of dust made them shine. Do they contain gold? Probably not. As far as I know,

the web wasnt there yesterday. It must have been hidden under the shade, possibly for months, or even years. And I have disposed of it government. (Is there any other kind? I do not know. But a book could thoughtlessly, with no regard for its glorious past, just like an evil be written on the subject. A book could be written on any subject but and that should probably have been asked long ago, is this: Am I a

thats another subject. I think.) Another question that should be asked, fraud? I mean, I know I am, and have known it for some time, but am I

really? Or am I just a bogus character? And if so, is that better than being a fraud? Frauds, I believe, are more dangerous. Most bogus people I have known have been fairly harmless. It is the frauds who

cause all the trouble. And yet I myself have caused trouble. The only come out ahead. I always come out behind. So, no, I dont think Im a

difference is, I havent gained anything by it. Frauds usually manage to fraud after all. But I still feel it was important to ask the question. I also feel it is important to point out that frauds are losers. They might get away with their fraudery (is that a word?) for years and appear to benefit question: Do frauds die peacefully in their sleep? I have read that this frauds, who seek to gain by the dead frauds fraudism. (That must be a

by it, but ultimately they are caught up with. And here is yet another does in fact happen, but such information is usually given by other

word.) Still, some frauds probably do die peacefully, just as some of the

nicest people on earth die in pain and anguish. But I would say it is best

not to dwell on such things. It would be better to dwell on the fact that

some people live in pain and anguish, and that some people spend their lives causing pain and anguish. Although, I must admit, even dwelling on this for too long is bound to make you miserable. Better to dwell on the birds, which bring us joy, and on the bare branches of trees, which are seldom guilty of fraudulent behavior.

silent in their strength, and on the habits of bumble bees, which are December 21, 2003 It is my sincere belief that even if we were to improve nothing but our posture, the world would be a far better and straight and heads held high is the same energy and attention that happier place. The energy and attention required to keep our spines brings mental clarity and a healthier outlook. If this seems silly, then I would suggest trying it yourself. I would also suggest that you get into the habit of eating a lot of apples and oranges, or whatever fruit happens to be in season. Eating apples while maintaining good posture is a holy act. Sometimes, when I eat an apple, I imagine I am a monk, and that I am looking out the window of my monastery cell upon snowy

mountaintops. It helps if the neighbors roof is covered with frost, but

even if it isnt, the apple and the posture are enough to complete the image. The most important thing to remember is that our posture is something we can control. Think about it. And once we are in control of discouraged by the government. The last thing the government wants to deeply and walking around with pride. The government wants the

our posture, we can move on to other things. Thats why good posture is see is a nation full of people with straight, healthy spines, breathing population to be couch potatoes, entertained out of their minds. If people

feel good and have good posture, they will begin to ask questions, and a threat. If enough people have good posture, there might even be a

to focus on things like reading and education. This means they will pose revolution. Also, farmers will benefit. Junk food sales will plummet, and

produce stands will spring up everywhere to satisfy the new hunger for fresh fruits and vegetables. As good posture continues to spread, our life here on earth will enter a new, glorious phase. War will cease, and public servants will be held accountable for their actions. Poverty and and no demarcation between the spirit and the senses. Our daily existence will be a celebration. At long last, we will be free.

greed will melt away, and we will all be as one. There will be no borders,

December 22, 2003 Last night when I tasted my wifes fudge, I nearly lost my mind, or whats left of it. She made two batches one with walnuts, one without. The fudge without walnuts is great, and puts other fudges to shame. But eating the fudge with walnuts is a life-changing experience. Im at a loss to understand how anything can taste so good,

and how it can be so emotionally upsetting. She has baked some other things recently as well: molasses cookies; chocolate chip cookies; cookies with jelly in the center, an Armenian cookie called shakarish; and some intensely sweet apple bars, which have a glaze and are more like pastry. Much has been given away, and of course the children are myself only one treat at a time about every ten minutes. In between, I stagger about, clutching my stomach and babbling nonsense.

the ones who eat most of the rest. I try not to overdo, and usually allow

December 23, 2003 Last night I read the first few pages of Henrik

Ibsens play, A Dolls House. It seemed only right, as I had read earlier on the Internet that the play was first performed on December 22 in 1879. And then this morning, I read that on December 23, 1888, Vincent

Van Gogh cut off part of his ear, and that when he wrote to his brother and enormous sideburns. I mention this because, if he were seen now on a street somewhere, people would think he was dressed up for a play, or that he was making a public appearance to promote a PBS production of Masterpiece Theater. And speaking of PBS, I am pretty

about it later, he ascribed it to an artists fit. Henrik Ibsen had curly hair

sure I remember seeing a production of A Dolls House around ten or twelve years ago. But the details are sketchy. It was Christmas in warm setting that included the prominent presence of a stove. The main Denmark and very cold outside, but it was even colder inside, despite a characters were a husband who didnt understand his wife, and a wife

who was just learning to understand herself. And of course the husband didnt understand himself, either. If he had, he might have realized that incapable of adult reason and behavior. While this might sound dull to a his wife was a real person, and not a twittering lark or little squirrel modern audience trained to slobber in front of exploding movie screens, in 1879. How could a woman act independently of a man, or do without

it should be mentioned that A Dolls House caused quite an uproar back altogether? Poor Mr. Ibsen was publicly roasted for being an agent of evil and also heralded as a perceptive genius. Meanwhile, Vincent Van Gogh was listening to the voices in his head, and no one was without him. Such is the power of art, and the power of those who create it, so often, if not always, at their own expense.

arguing about him at all. And yet now, we cannot imagine our world

December 24, 2003 When I was a child, I knew Santa Claus entered fireplace. My fathers answer: Santa will use the front door. This was not

houses through their chimneys, so I used to worry about the fire in our exactly picturesque, but it made sense. And I knew that Santa did come,

because not only did he leave us all presents, he ate the cookies my and ornaments and tinsel. And my parents exchanged so many

mother set out for him on my behalf. We had a tree, of course, with lights Christmas cards that my mother used to set them up in huge displays in the dining room. I think they must have exchanged cards with everyone they had ever known, including friends they had made during World War II. For years and years, there was always a card from Cotton and Polly. I never saw Cotton and Polly, but Christmas wouldnt have been the foggy nights, bare vineyards, muddy work shoes, and stacks of firewood same without them. Other things I associate with Christmas are oranges, on the front porch. Christmas was a great time, at once happy and until later years. And then there was the time my wife and I went to a tree farm by the Kings River west of Dinuba on Christmas Eve, and cut

solemn, although the solemnity was something I didnt really appreciate

down a tree to take home. That tree stayed up until after our sons birthday on February 19. We really got our moneys worth that year. But we didnt have a fireplace. Instead, we had a big woodstove. So once because by then he had put on quite a few more pounds. Trying hard

again, Santa had to use the front door. But he could barely squeeze in, not to laugh, I used a crowbar to pry the old boy loose. He collapsed in a sweaty heap on my favorite chair. My wife brought him cookies, which he ate with a martyred expression the same expression, in fact, that he wears when obnoxious little kids pull his whiskers and nose at the you to our regularly scheduled advertisement.

mall. Let go, ya little runt. Ah, Santa. Ah, Christmas. And now we return December 25, 2003 Its eight oclock, Christmas morning. There was a time when the kids would have been up hours ago, anxious to see if Santa Claus had paid us a visit. Now that theyre older, theyre still in

bed, sawing logs. Two of them dont even live here anymore. They have as well. Meanwhile, the wife is in the kitchen baking a cake, and I just

moved out on their own. But there is little doubt that they are sawing logs finished putting together a pan of string beans to go with the leg of lamb we are having for our Christmas meal. Hopefully it is free of mad lamb disease. On the other hand, that could be what we have been suffering from lo these many years. Either way, judging by the headlines, it looks like the American beef industry is in for some rough times. Since an

animal was found to be infected a few days ago in nearby Washington State, there have been product recalls, and several countries have banned the importation of beef from this country. It is amazing just how

important beef is to this economy. For instance, if the problem worsens, what will happen to the fast food business? Fast food is the heart and soul of America. Well, maybe not the heart and soul. Maybe its just the gut. But even the gut of America isnt something to joke about. Or is it? beans. After that, I also need to take a shower and make myself was going to ponder. I have relied on this approach for years. It has never let me down.

Before I seriously begin to ponder this, I think Id better go check on my presentable for the day ahead. By then, I will have forgotten what it was I

December 26, 2003 My wife knows I like hats, and yesterday she gave me one for Christmas. Its made of wool, and its dark-gray, almost black. When I put it on, everybody said I looked great, but I could tell by it on. How could I not look ridiculous after? The hat fits perfectly and is

their smiles that I really looked ridiculous. I looked ridiculous before I put very comfortable, with a nice lining. Its the kind of hat one should wear in the winter to keep his thoughts from escaping through the top of his head and into the cold air, where they might really do some damage.

The trouble is, my hair is so long now that the hat makes me look like a recently exhumed rock star ready to set out on another tour. And so I expects me to go on looking like a nut? I would ask her, but Im pretty sure I know the answer. wonder is the new hat my wifes way of saying she has given up, and

December 27, 2003 The coffee is a stronger than usual this morning, because we were close to finishing a can and I didnt want to leave the remainder for next time. When we make coffee later again today, we will start with a fresh, newly opened can, and experience the joy that brings. I have loved the smell of fresh coffee since I was a child. Even when I

was five, I knew that I would grow up to be a coffee-drinker. I also knew I

would have a mustache. My father had a mustache, and his uncles had mustaches, therefore I would have one. In fact, I have had a mustache for the last twenty-nine years. But my father and uncles trimmed theirs. As I have mentioned before a hundred times or so, I dont, except for the occasional wild hair that springs up and tickles my nose, or that pokes then start a new one. This is something I refuse to do. I have had my mustache since 1974, and not once have I been tempted to cut it off. I me in the eye. Also, they used to shave theirs off every few years, and

will be buried with this mustache, and I expect it to keep me warm during the next life though I might not need it where Im going. Then again, it cant be much hotter down there than it is where I started my mustache

in the San Joaquin Valley, which, according to old friends, now outdoes Hell in many respects. Still, I havent seen any brochures from Hell lately. Maybe its keeping pace with the competition unless, as I have long suspected, Hell and Heaven are right here on earth. In fact,

they must be, since thats where we are, and since there is no real need

for them anywhere else. Then again, I shouldnt rule out other

advanced life-forms experiencing similar problems in other parts of the universe. Gad. What a thought. Soap operas in space. December 28, 2003 Today in the Sunday Oregonian, pictures of the

471 U.S. soldiers who have died in Iraq since March 19, 2003, were

published, along with miniature biographies. Unfortunately, those who died after press time will have to wait for the papers next shrewdly calculated display of patriotic gratitude. With a few exceptions, the faces

of the dead belonged to children. Sadly, this is in keeping with tradition. Also in keeping with tradition is the omission of the names of the soldiers who escaped death, but with shattered minds and bodies not to

mention those foolish enough to have been born on the other side, whose pictures and biographies would fill many newspapers. March 19, 2003, is, of course, a convenient date to begin ones tally. But the

violence was going on long before then, and this country played a major part in it. By pretending otherwise, newspapers reveal the true motivation behind their editorial decisions, as does the government with

the lies it tells. But as long as enough people are content to believe that the pictures of everyone whose life has been destroyed by war the

one and one makes three, it will go on. If only it were possible to publish young widows and their children, the parents and grandparents, the or begin to understand.

friends. Maybe then, people would see. Maybe they would understand, December 29, 2003 It has been raining a lot lately, but this morning at

about one, the rain turned into snow. Now there is about six inches of

white stuff on the ground, the wind is blowing, and there are tiny flakes falling. The storm looks as if its beginning to wear itself out, though. And the tiny slope at the neighbors house on one corner. They look to be there are several little kids playing outside, screaming as they sled down

about six to eight years old. Just now, one of their mothers came out to

check on them. She was bundled up and holding a tall paper cup with

her gloved hands. The snow is already melting, but I doubt it will all

disappear before the air freezes again. This means the roads will

probably be icy tonight and in the morning. Ive already driven downtown once today, but it wasnt too bad. It isnt that hard to drive in snow and slush, as long as you make no sudden moves and follow the ruts made driveway can be a dangerous undertaking. Now, this reminds me of a wasnt snowing or raining, but there was such a strong wind blowing by the traffic. Ice, though, is something else. Even backing out of the time several years ago when I was on my way to the Portland airport. It from east to west out of the Columbia River Gorge that it was almost

impossible to stay in ones lane. Fortunately, everyone was giving each other plenty of room. At the time, I was driving our 1979 Buick Riviera, that it literally moved me from one lane into the next. That was an which was a fairly heavy car. Despite this, I was hit with one gust so hard interesting moment. But I eventually made it to the airport at least I up. Nor do I remember the drive back. How strange. Oh, well. Maybe it will come to me later. December 30, 2003 Solid ice. In general, Salem had six to eight

guess I did, because now I cant remember who it was I had gone to pick

inches of snow, but from the hilly areas there were reports of snow as deep as nineteen inches. Travel yesterday afternoon was fairly easy; this morning, it shouldnt be attempted. And yet somehow or other, our newspaper arrived, almost at the usual time. Outside, the tires rolling on the ice and frozen snow sounded like miniature explosions. A moment

ago, someone walking a big furry dog with a curled tail skidded by on the sidewalk across the street, puffing steam. The sidewalk on that side of

the street is in a little better shape, because it faced yesterday afternoons sun. The sidewalk on our side is a frozen mess. All of this snow and ice makes me think today would be a good day to read some

of Jack Londons stories of the frozen north. There is one in particular I

especially like, called To Build a Fire. In it, a man is caught out in the

cold and tries desperately to get a fire started. When he finally succeeds, the heat melts the snow on a tree branch overhead, and a big blob of snow falls off and extinguishes the fire, and with it, the mans last hope for survival. Brrrr.

December 31, 2003 Well, here I am at the end of another year, and questions now than there were when the year began. So I guess I must

nothing has been solved. In fact, it seems there are more unanswered be doing something right. At least I am alive, and still in the game, which is more than can be said for one of our new neighbors several houses vacant for quite some time. We never met them, or even saw them, down. Just a few weeks ago, a family moved into a house that had been except from an abstract distance. Then, just a few days ago, two

ambulances and two police cars raced up to the house with their sirens the garage, apparently after arguing with his wife and drinking. . . . And

blaring. We found out yesterday that the husband had hung himself in then the beautiful silent snow fell. . . . Last night, my wife and I listened Johnny Cash. The songs were from the late Fifties and early Sixties. All

to a new CD that contains twenty-four short gospel songs sung by of them were good; some were even humorous; but a few were

sublimely moving and mournful. In my opinion, what a person believes or doesnt believe about life and our place in it doesnt even enter into it. Johnny Cashs voice communicates something profound. It reminds us

that not only are our joys and travails our common bond, they are what

gives us our strength and character. And these days, we need all the strength and character we can muster, otherwise we run the risk of The question of continuing on is a uniquely human one, I think. The birds in the bare trees outside my window dont ask it. They just live, from believing that there is no hope, and therefore no reason to continue on.

moment to moment, until Nature declares an end to their activity. Whereas we the noble ones who suffer nobly and wreak havoc around the world fight against the laws of Nature every step of the

way. We fight against ourselves. I dont know. Maybe as individuals, we are simply here for too long, and so we cant help finding fault with puppets on a string. Maybe, maybe, maybe. What do I know, really? out but also smart, at least on some days and, most importantly, everything. Or maybe we are Natures supreme joke, and are merely Her Only that I am here, and that I am glad, and that I am as dumb as all getthat I am a complete fool and jackass. And it is this glorious combination of traits that allows me to look forward to next year, and to expect it to be the brightest and best ever. May it be so for all of us. This is my wish. November 1, 2003 Last year at this time, I had just emerged from a

ninety-day story-writing spree that resulted in the seventy stories

collectively known as No Time to Cut My Hair. Each story was published on my website as soon as it was completed, and has remained there in its original form ever since. A few have appeared in small magazines,

and three that I know of have been mentioned by other people online, in forums and weblogs, otherwise known as blogs. During the past year, the number of times the stories have been accessed each month has

increased dramatically. Part of the increase is accidental, due to the the stories apparently because they want to, and because they have

random nature of Internet searches. But a good number of people read

been told by others of their existence. A few have even expressed a desire to see the stories published in book form, which I think is a fine idea. With any luck, this will happen in my lifetime. If it doesnt, I will still

have had the satisfaction of knowing the stories were read not only in this country, but in many countries around the world. This is something that couldnt have happened a few years ago. That it is happening now, I am more than willing to take in stride. Life in the twenty-first century does have certain advantages. No longer do we have to be rich, or famous, or powerful, to abuse technology. Unfortunately, it is still the powerful and basis. That they do so for profit and with the blessing of the law, which they have written themselves for their own benefit, is a sad, disgusting embarrassment to the entire human race. That enough of us dont say No to their insatiable demands is just as embarrassing. wealthy who abuse it to the detriment of all humankind, and on a daily

November 2, 2003 Another Sunday. I could spend it watching

football, but I wont. Ill probably watch for twenty minutes or so during lunch, but its hard to take much more than that. The blaring advertisements, the shouting announcers, the made-for-television antics of the overpaid players the whole scene has become incredibly only slightly easier to take. Luckily, the game itself is slower, and so its announcers dont shout nearly as much. But the players are still grossly overpaid, as are basketball players. The logical thing to do is to go outside and play, and leave the millionaires to settle their own irritating and boring. The recent baseball playoffs and World Series were possible to get a decent dose of baseball between ads. Also, baseball

meaningless scores. But its cold and rainy. Earlier this morning, it even snowed briefly. It happened while I was preparing a big batch of string beans for this evenings meal. So it looks like well be inside all day.

Maybe I should use the time to learn a foreign language. Better yet, I

could learn English. Nah, that would be going overboard. Or I could play

the piano. I havent played the piano for years. I could dig out some of my old sheet music and play Beethovens Moonlight sonata, or one of Muzio Clementis bright and cheerful sonatinas. Im sure I could make all of my old mistakes, plus a few new ones. I took piano lessons. I had a lesson. One Saturday afternoon, I played for three hours without habit of not practicing enough. But I played other stuff not included in the stopping. It was winter, and my father and grandfather were in the vineyard pruning. So were my older brothers. But not me. I was playing the piano. My mother didnt mind. She was baking cookies. All afternoon I played. Then my father came to the house and gave me a disgusted look. I guess I should have been helping in the vineyard. But I thought I was supposed to practice. The lives of great artists are so difficult. best pruners in the San Joaquin Valley. My father used to marvel at my loved music, too. And now its all mixed up in my mind, as it should be.

Eventually the lessons went by the wayside, and I became one of the pruning ability, though he was the one who taught me how to prune. He November 3, 2003 What a waste. Sixteen more killed. And now their shattered bodies will be laid to rest along with their unrealized dreams, and the evil monsters benefitting from this war will wave their flags and call them heroes. I call them dead. November 4, 2003 Oh, well. Donald Rumsfeld, the Secretary of

Madness, says therell be days like this. Thanks, Rummy. Thanks for your concern. And President George A.W.O.L. Bush says he mourns every loss. Of course it wont keep him from flitting about the country to raise campaign money. Dont forget to wash the blood off your hands before you sit down to your thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners, Mr.

President! Oh, and one more thing while youre busy mourning every unpublicized number of those who have died or been maimed on the other side. You know the ones you call the enemy. Yes, I know its corny. After all, theyre only your fellow human beings with homes,

loss, you might take a moment to remember the for-some-odd-reason-

families, children, parents, grandparents, cousins, and all that boring stuff. But call me a softie. Actually, you can call me anything you like. I dont care. I wasnt raised to think some people are better than others, or that dropping bombs on strangers and taking over their countries is a economy. Those may be your kind of friends. But real friends dont want to kill each other. Real friends respect each others differences. They each others right to think and breathe freely. They dont take turns good way to make friends. And by friends, I dont mean puppets of your

realize there is much to be learned from each other. Real friends defend shoving propaganda down each others throats. They dont say, Well

trade you hamburgers, heart disease, and cable TV for your cultural and

spiritual well being. Of course, these are just the kind of little details you too busy defending democracy and stealing money from the American

dont have time for. Very well. I can understand that. After all, you are far people to be worried about such petty concepts. Yes, indeed. Thank

goodness someone is looking out for our welfare. Thank goodness someone is willing to put his good name on the line where truth and freedom are concerned. My hat is off to you, sir.

November 5, 2003 Well, frost is on the pumpkin and everyones jacktwo-degree nights. An uncarved pumpkin, though, is amazingly resilient.

o-lanterns are beginning to rot. A carved pumpkin is no match for twentyOne can draw inspiration from a sleek pumpkin sitting outside on a cold

front step, stoically resisting the elements. Equally inspiring is a jack-o-

lantern caving in on itself, demented and toothless and full of

personality. I remember one such subject that looked very much like a

grizzled old tractor driver I knew. This gentleman was a hard worker who his stubbled face expanded horizontally by several inches, and the top of very entertaining, a proud survivor of Oklahomas Dust Bowl.

laughed at anything and everything, uh-hah-hah-hah, and as he laughed his head caved in to fill the vacuum. He was a wonderful person, and November 6, 2003 Downtown Salem was extremely busy this

morning and it was almost impossible to find a parking space. Finally, I found one in front of a tattoo and body-piercing parlor. Right away, I could see the strange-looking owners sizing me up through the grimy window. On the sidewalk, a young woman pretending to read a newspaper an obvious plant looked up at me and smiled. She had

what looked like a small door knob in her left eyebrow, and was sporting hair. I nodded and ducked around the corner. When I saw she was couple of doors down and pretended to wait in line. Outside, she

several other pieces of hardware, which blended nicely with her purple following, I stepped into the instant payday check-cashing office a pretended to light a cigarette, then opened her newspaper again and pretended to read. A puff of pretend smoke rose up around her. May I help you? the person at the counter said a moment later. Uh, maybe this paycheck-advance thing works? Im in a little short of funds, and I

so, I said. I glanced nervously out the window. Could you tell me how Just then, the door opened and the young woman who had been

following me came in. She smiled. The person behind the counter also

smiled. Then she pressed a button under the counter. A trap-door opened beneath me, and I slid through a highly polished stainless steel tube that led directly into the basement of the tattoo parlor. Weve been

waiting for you, the owners said, standing over me. And the room filled

with evil laughter. One of them held up a long needle. The other held me in place. As they were about to begin the disfiguring process, I blacked out. Awhile later I have no idea how long it was I came to on the

sidewalk in front of the tattoo parlor. Again, the young woman with purple hair smiled at me over her newspaper. I got up and dusted myself them. Quickly, I pulled my trusty note pad out of my coat pocket, and a off, then looked at my reflection in the window. I had become one of pen. I wrote down what had happened to me, and while the young woman wasnt looking, I tore out the page and handed it to a passing woman wandered off and I managed to escape. When I got home, my got out a suitcase and started to pack. . . . derelict, who promptly ate the message. An hour or so later, the young wife listened intently to my story. Then, like so many times before, she November 7, 2003 Todays paper included an article about the

presidents ardent desire to spread democracy throughout the Middle people to fill vacancies on local draft boards an interesting

East. There was also an editorial referring to the militarys search for coincidence, and a frightening one. Apparently the bad economy and myriad dead ends confronting the nations youth havent resulted in enough eager volunteers ready and willing to, as one appalling and well known military advertising slogan puts it, be all you can be. Strange as it seems, some kids even follow the news, and know a bad deal when

they see one. They know that being all you can be includes killing people and winding up maimed or dead yourself. And they have also seen how well surviving veterans are treated. So you were exposed to a

little radiation. Big deal. And what are a few unexplained illnesses and

undisclosed microbes between friends? We thought you were tougher

than that. Boy, were we wrong. Boy, are they. When I asked our son what kids at his high school thought about joining the military, he said, Most of them think its stupid. Its an unofficial and unscientific survey, of course. Im sure Parade Magazine or Readers Digest could do much better, and come up with much more patriotic results. After all, isnt that why they are such treasured gems of the free press?

November 8, 2003 Sure enough, like clockwork, the president just raked in another million-plus dollars for his next campaign. Isnt that wonderful? And yet someone had the gall to say in todays paper that that amount of money could sure buy a lot of food for a lot of hungry people. What a misguided statement that was. After all, everyone knows

the president will get around to the hungry people as soon as hes done spreading democracy around the world. Hungry people should learn to be patient. And so should the rest of the unemployed, underpaid, and

uninsured people who for no good reason at all dont like it when their fully insured representatives in government give themselves annual pay raises. Oh, well. Some people just dont understand how lucky they are. And they obviously dont understand greatness. In fact, Ill bet that coin. They can call it the bushel. Hey, buddy, how many bushels does someday the presidents head will appear on a brand-new American it take to fill up your SUV? It taketh a bushel of bushels, foolish person. And yet I can see, thee haveth none. Begone, vile wretch! You deserveth not a single breath of my heavenly monoxide.

November 9, 2003 Today for lunch, we will warm up the enchiladas

left over from last night, which were made from pinto beans left over from earlier in the week. Along with the warmed-up enchiladas, we will have yesterdays warmed up boiled potatoes. Later on, we will have leftover heartburn. But really, the enchiladas were quite good. This is

something the wife has been making for years. This batch is a little

different, though, in that I had cooked the pinto beans, and they werent flavored the way my darling bride usually flavors them. We both use plenty of tomato and onion and garlic and salt and pepper, but I also use a handful of lentils and a handful of pearled barley. The beans were great, but hardly something youd find in a Mexican restaurant. Thats why, when she was making the enchiladas, I expressed some doubt

some celery, bell pepper, dried purple basil, and olive oil. I even threw in

about the outcome. But she said they would be fine and they were

fine. Somehow or other, she managed to camouflage my Armenianflavored beans and turn the evening meal into something not only edible, but enjoyable. Amazing. And shes been doing this for years. This afternoon I plan to make another batch of beans. This time I will use

Great Northern beans. Again, there will be tomato, garlic, celery, salt,

pepper, basil, and olive oil, but in this recipe I dont use onions or peppers. Instead, I use carrots, and also two or three or four potatoes, depending on their size. I slice the potatoes crosswise. Ive been making yet. But I dont let it go to my head. Theyre probably just glad theres something to eat. November 10, 2003 The beans were fine, but, for the time being at

beans this way for the last couple of years, and no one has complained

least, I think Im sick of beans. Thank goodness there are only five or six although there have been several requests lately that I make a batch

bowls left. In a couple of days, Ill be able to begin a new bean-free life of chili. So who knows? Maybe beans are my destiny. What an odd,

disturbing thought. Meanwhile, I just finished my first reading of a new parts of it, especially in the dialogue, were so funny that I laughed out

Armenian translation of a short story I wrote a few years ago. Certain

loud and my eyes watered. All I have to do now is read the piece six or eight more times searching for defects, so I can tell the translator whether or not any changes are necessary before publication. Then he can tell me Im crazy, and everything will be fine.

November 11, 2003 Each time the weather changes, something

happens to the little plastic button that holds our shower door closed and the door pops open unexpectedly. When the weather turned cold and dry a couple of weeks ago, the door popped open. A couple of days moist again, the door popped open. It popped open just a minute ago. later, it stopped. Then when the atmosphere recently became warm and My wife closed it, and it popped open again. She tried two or three more times, and then finally gave up. Weve adjusted the thing before, but it doesnt seem to matter. It could be that the age of the button itself has longer than a mere twenty-five years, but there you are.

something to do with it. Youd think a plastic button would last a lot November 12, 2003 Now our youngest son is becoming a blowhard in

his own right. This is an important milestone, and a wonderful thing for a father to witness. Its a little harder to take for the boys mother, though. the calm with deep-voiced nonsense. Even the kid thinks its ridiculous. when I walked in and asked in a bogus baritone if he wanted me to And of course she blames me, citing my habit of periodically shattering Yesterday afternoon, for instance, he was using his brothers computer make him a big breakfast. After yelling that it was afternoon and that he like I was picking up a bundle of sticks. Then he got up to demonstrate.

didnt want any breakfast, he said that when I talked in low voice I looked I have to bend like that, I said in the same low voice. Thats where I made a point of taking exception to most everything the rest of us said. It

get the strength to talk like this. Later in the evening, during supper, he

was a riot. His put-on belligerence was superb. Three or four times he water. Then hed come back and say, I shouldnt have to put up with

even jumped up in outrage, strode to the sink, and drank a big glass of this. Again, his mother found the racket a bit grating on her nerves. It

doesnt help that they sit beside each other at the table, and that every manages to bump her head or shoulders in the process. Its all part of

time the kid gets up to leave, he has to walk behind her and always growing up, I reminded her last night while we were outside taking a walk around the block. You have to admit, hes funny. In spite of herself, she agreed. And the cool night air did us both a world of good.

November 13, 2003 A few days ago, I borrowed my mothers copy of

Doctor Zhivago the book, not the movie. I read it once several years ago, but decided it was time for another go-around. One thing is certain: there is no doubt that the author, Boris Pasternak, was a poet. His

descriptions are beautiful. This, for instance: In one corner the piano tuner struck the same chord dozens of times and scattered arpeggios like handfuls of beads. I looked up arpeggio in the dictionary. An than simultaneously. But before I found the word, I stumbled across Armentires, a city of northern France west-northwest of Lille, which became known through the World War I song Mademoiselle from Armentires. But back to Zhivago. This time through, I find that I am

arpeggio is the playing of the tones of a chord in rapid succession rather

reading the novel with more than the usual appreciation of Pasternaks story and language. Having seen the movie several times, I have also become preoccupied with trying to figure out how the screenwriter managed the daunting task of retelling the story while leaving out some of the people and events in the book. One thing he did was to change the sequence of certain scenes and events. He also combined others,

and made some things happen to the characters when they were at a

different age than they were when the things happened in the book. Its

really quite fascinating. Ive only read seventy-some-odd pages so far, so maybe I will learn something. Down the road, I might even look at a few real screenplays to see how theyre put together.

November 14, 2003 I was unable to continue my reading of Doctor Zhivago yesterday. There were just too many things going on, mostly related to the business end of my wretched existence. I did have a little physical and mental wreck. There was a local arts program on the PBS station, one segment of which was a boring repeat. My wife was reading on the couch. Our youngest son wandered in. Since he is quite interested in music and is teaching himself to play the guitar, I mentioned to him how many groups there were in the area, playing at various coffeehouses and pubs bluegrass, folk, blues, and so on. Then I told him that one of these days hed have to get one of those

time in the evening, but by then my eyes were too tired and I was a

things Bob Dylan and Donovan used to wear that held their harmonicas

near their mouth so they could play harmonica and keep their hands free to play their guitars. Right away, he was curious about harmonicas. And it just so happens that we have two nice ones that used to belong to my father, so I brought them out. He tooted on one, I tooted on the other.

And the cat, which was in at the time, nearly went through the ceiling. Served it right, the ridiculous creature. The kid quickly discovered, though, how easy it is to make music with a harmonica. So I entrusted him with both. Now well see where that leads.

November 15, 2003 When a professional liar posing as a

businessman has been exposed and is forced to tell the truth in order to avoid being sued or to stay out of jail, it is important to remember that

the truth he has been forced to tell is also a lie, because it has been said not as a result of some inner revelation, but with resentment and malice. And it makes no difference if the momentary truth is told with fake warmth and sincerity. Those are a liars tools, and they are used to set as all of us at one time or another are forced to do is to give them

up his next victim. The best approach when dealing with such people plenty of rope. At the same time, one must be vigilant against feeling a liar at his game. By keeping you occupied, the liar has succeeded in wasting your time, and in making you think the way he does. Liars, whether they are exposed or not, feed on this activity. It gives them a sense of purpose one definitely not worth sharing.

sense of victory, importance, or accomplishment in having exposed the

November 16, 2003 Its mid-November, so it makes perfect sense to

look out the window and find the street plastered with wet yellow maple leaves, pine needles, and miscellaneous natural and man-made debris. At this very moment, the sky is completely gray, its raining, and a strong wind from the southwest is shredding the trees. The funny thing about the maples is, the seed pods remain glued to the branches all winter.

Then in the spring, they jump ship and twirl to the ground, where they sprout almost immediately upon contact. To me, this is a heartening miracle that flies in the face of the big chemical companies, which in their advertising portray Suburban Man as a rugged sprayer-toting individual out to protect his property from unsanctioned, unfertilized growth that has, coincidentally, been developed by the same companies to be

resistant to the chemicals they have to sell. Meanwhile, on a far bigger and more dangerous scale, they are monkeying with the environment by and I hope they will pardon me for not using the little registered developing food crops that are resistant to evil potions such as Roundup

trademark symbol here thereby furthering our dependence on their poisons. Or so they hope and think. Inevitably, though, nature steps in, the wind blows, bearing seeds and pollen, and before they know it they have weird hybrids on their hands that threaten to take over the crop

they were trying to grow, and the hybrids are also resistant to their poisons. But the chemical companies are blinded by their mentally ill pursuit of profit, and continue on. They ignore the fact that a man and a hoe are a powerful, if not sacred, combination.

November 17, 2003 Speaking of a man and a hoe, I just remembered that the cover of my Penguin Classic edition of Zolas novel, The Earth, features a beautiful detail of Man with a Hoe, a painting by Millet. And while I could easily pretend to know who Millet is, I wont. I dont know a thing about him, other than what is revealed in his painting. Standing upon the rugged, stony earth is a large man bent in exhaustion, his mouth open to catch his breath. With all his weight, he is leaning with that resembles a club. The blade is twice as large as the blade on a

one hand upon the other against the end of a short, crude hoe handle modern hoe, and much thicker. His feet are encased in heavy shoes a

fairy tale giant might wear. He is alone, and, judging by the terrain, his work will never be done. One can easily imagine him collapsing at the end of the day, after removing his shoes and devouring some coarse bread and stew. Removing the shoes thats the key. Let them sit and breathe, preferably somewhere away from the table. Let them be time to work once again, time to inhale the sweet scent of soil, grass, blessing or a curse.

revitalized by the night air. . . . Then, all too soon, daylight returns. It is and dew, time to wonder about natures design, and whether it is a

November 18, 2003 Well, curiosity finally got the best of me. It took

me almost twenty years, but yesterday I finally got around to looking up Millet. Jean-Franois Millet was a French draftsman and painter born in 1814. He began studying art when he was eighteen, and lived most of his life in poverty in Barbizon in the Fontainebleau forest. He died in 1875. He was intimate with farms and fields, and his portrayal of the hardships endured by common laborers led many to think of him as a

Socialist revolutionary. As it turns out, Man with a Hoe caused an uproar when it was first shown in 1863. Apparently, the man pictured was too brutish for the classy, sophisticated folks in Paris. Amid the Industrial Revolution, the painting was seen as a social protest of the peasants plight. This led Millet to write, To tell the truth, the peasant subjects suit my temperament best; for I must confess, even if you think me a socialist, that the human side of art is what touches me most. And

there you have it, in ultra-condensed form. I suppose I should really look up things like this more often. Maybe then I could begin to chip away at this ignorance of mine. November 19, 2003 President-select George W. Soundbite is in

London, whooping it up with his buddy, Tony Baloney Blair, and

defending the ongoing destruction of life and culture in Iraq proof actions are necessary to keep the world safe from . . . uh, to keep the

once again that small minds stink alike. Both men assure us that their world safe from . . . uh, the very things they are doing, but which they call by other names. Following the usual blood-stained script, they say the good guys must fight the bad guys or we will all perish. Well, we are

perishing. We are perishing on the battlefield. We are perishing at home. mediocrities like Bush and Blair spout their evil nonsense in order to

We are perishing around the world. And while we are perishing, utter

protect the profits and future profits of those who see war as a lucrative, self-perpetuating business. Around the world, millions have protested. children and grandchildren in peace. They want to keep them healthy, and to give them a proper education. And so they take to the streets. They dont like war, and are sick and tired of it. They want to raise their

And they are ignored. The government says, We know whats best for

you, you miserable bastards. To hell with your schools, to hell with your sitcoms. Then they invent more lies and create more dire situations specifically designed to horrify the world. And the world is horrified. November 20, 2003 The violence continues. While I was checking my

old people, to hell with your medicine. Stop squawking and watch your

e-mail this morning, I noticed a news article about a bombing in Istanbul the second this week. The targets were a London-based bank and hundreds were injured. And so more fuel has been added to the fire. erupt, more grief will permeate the atmosphere. Meanwhile, the the British consulate. More than two dozen people were killed, and More bombs will be dropped, more people will be killed, more anger will president plans to spread democracy throughout the Middle East.

Presumably, he will accomplish this by tank and by air. This will create no-bid contracts) and violence for decades to come. For this there can

long-term instability (good for the arms business, good for the winners of be no political answer. Politics, by its very nature, is a lie. The only hope

is for human beings to recognize, one at a time and each in his or her own mind, that violence only begets violence. The only hope is for human beings to decide that enough is enough. We have to examine and understand our own daily behavior, and see how it influences others human psyche. Ive said this before. There is a direct connection

and makes them react, and how that in turn becomes part of the larger

between our seemingly small actions and the horrible things that are mentally terrorize your wife, husband, and children, you are in fact

going on in the world. If you cheat in business, or physically and/or waging war, and you are contributing to the climate that creates war on a large scale. It does no good to complain about war, or to protest against because a store doesnt have your size or color is an act of war. it, if you are at war with yourself and those around you. Abusing a clerk Expecting an endless array of products to drop into your hands at the oversized gas-guzzling fume-belching vehicle when a smaller, less harmful one will do is an act of war. Where does gas come from? Oil.

expense of terrorized, sweatshop labor is an act of war. Driving an

Where does oil come from? (Oooh, thats a toughie.) Where does it go color of our lungs. Anyway. I could go on and on. In fact, I already have. And it makes me sick. November 21, 2003 I would say thank goodness its Friday, but

once it has been burned? The answer is in the air we breathe, and in the

saintly martyr that I am, I follow the same basic schedule seven days a week, so it doesnt really matter what day it is. Instead, I think its more goodness I survived another day, and then drag myself off to bed and fitting to say thank goodness Im alive, and then in the evening, thank collapse in a heap. There were times, though, when I celebrated the arrival of Friday for the pending freedom it represented from school, from hateful forms of employment, from pointless activities that sopped and in the mood for wild, reckless fun. Now I am never frustrated and angry, and I have wild, reckless fun all the time though it might not

up my time and burrowed into my soul, leaving me frustrated and angry

appear so to a casual observer. A casual observer, or even an intense

one, for that matter, might get the idea that I am always frustrated and

angry. And of course he would be right, except that I enjoy it so much it

seems like wild, reckless fun. This is just another of those contradictions that are a part of my nature, and which to me make perfect sense until I try to explain them, as I am doing now. First of all, I heartily

subscribe to the notion that if you arent angry, you arent paying attention. Second, I see no reason to be undermined by the worlds ever-growing misery. I am still convinced that we are here to be happy, and that happiness exists in the tiny miracles that are always taking place in us and around us. Happiness cannot be achieved. We are try to hang onto that happiness, it quickly slips away. To put it in the

happy when we are receptive to life. If we notice we are happy and then simplest of terms, we are unhappy when we think only of ourselves.

Third, we are accompanied through life by the strange, silent knowledge that our time here is limited. Depending on our experiences, our health, and many other factors, our relentlessly approaching death is feared, ignored, or welcomed. For me, death has been, and still is, a kind of

companion that is alternately silent, taunting, friendly, and humorous. So far, we have gotten along well. I think this is because neither of us has yet overstepped our bounds by claiming supremacy over the other. I need death as much as death needs me. My willingness to accept

deaths talent for renewal seems to coincide with deaths willingness to accept my need to understand and make a fool of myself. We have both made our share of mistakes and poor choices though I must admit I

am a bit jealous of deaths monopoly on having the last laugh. On the loneliness. If it is, I hereby extend to death my deepest sympathy.

other hand, for death, it is quite possible that also might be a source of November 22, 2003 Being off my rocker, I occasionally dream of a

world in which people can be found reading on every street corner and

in every coffee shop, and overheard having animated discussions about life and the far-reaching influences of art, music, and literature. I dream of a world that appreciates the contributions made by artists and writers,

and that recognizes what a shallow world it would be without them. Then

I wake up in a place like Wal-Mart, and behold the grim psychological tragedy that is America, that is modern society, or at least a very large part of it. And I wonder, is this mess too large and too overwhelming,

even for writers? Are we failing society, or is society failing us? While too many writers fail to provide the intellectual spark society so

there is no question that society is failing its writers, I also feel that far desperately needs. Not only do more writers need to step forward and

tell the truth, they have to do so in a far more compelling fashion. They

have to rejuvenate old forms or invent entirely new ones, or do whatever is necessary to breathe life into their work and make it an undeniable force. I also feel that that is what everyone else needs to do. As long as will remain perfect prey for the entertainment industry, politicians, and comfort in exchange for money. In short, we all have some thinking to do. we are content to merely connect the dots and color inside the lines, we the purveyors of cheap, casual religion who promise psychological

November 23, 2003 Again I bless coffee, that miraculous substance the Internet, I read that not only did Balzac consume great amounts, but

without which I might well be unable to simulate the living. Last night on also Voltaire, who apparently imbibed between fifty and seventy cups a day. I also learned that Beethoven loved coffee, and insisted that the of painstaking research. Then I stopped reading about coffee and its best cup of coffee contained exactly sixty beans. He based this on years famous proponents, because the few cups I had enjoyed earlier in the

day had long since worn off and I was exhausted. After reading a few pages of Doctor Zhivago, which I am enjoying immensely, I brushed my teeth and went to bed. Tired as I was, I stayed awake for most of the

night. Whenever I did manage to drop off, I was ravaged by disturbing dreams. Finally, I crawled out of bed this morning at five-thirty in a crippled state, my neck twisted, my shoulder paralyzed, my toes numb,

and my very existence in the grip of some evil force that was using me to sharpen its claws. But now, thanks to a warm shower and a cup of hot coffee, I feel at least ten years younger, which Id say puts me at about

ninety-five. But just wait until Ive had my second cup. Then Ill be enough strength to take a nap.

unstoppable. Or at least Ill feel human for a few hours, and muster November 24, 2003 When it comes to vegetables, our neighborhood chain grocery stores deal mostly in corporate-farmed, pesticide-soaked greens that are at least a week old by the time theyre put on display.

They specialize in rotten eggplant, tired celery, withered peppers, and mushrooms well on their way out. Its frustrating, especially since they charge exorbitant prices for the stuff and pretend that its good. To top it off, they repeatedly soak their produce with water, because someone somewhere a long time ago discovered that a bit of moisture makes vegetables look fresher than they really are and therefore more

appealing. The truth is, the water annoys customers and helps things rot faster. Then, these same customers go home, and where vegetable fertilized lawns and pointless shrubs, and where there isnt, there is why do yourself in completely and eat lousy produce? Well, of course, gardens, fruit trees, and canning cellars should be, there are overcement. I have nothing against flowers and ornamental horticulture, but no one has the time. Instead, hours are spent waiting in traffic, waiting in

lines at fast-food driveups, and watching TV. When people get home from work they are either angry, exhausted, or both. In many cases, meals are an after-thought. The sad part is, nothing could be better or healthier under such circumstances than changing clothes and spending time working in the garden. It is an important thing missing in modern life. When I drive by fancy churches and apartment complexes surrounded by huge parking lots and lawns, I am always struck by the

waste of growing space. Why not establish community gardens, or gardens for people who dont know where their next meal is coming ancient ones in the stores that have been wrung out of tortured, overcrowded hens? I realize only a portion of ones food could be from? Why not raise a few chickens and enjoy fresh eggs, instead of the

supplied this way, but isnt something better than nothing? Wouldnt it be better to live a healthier life and remember where food really comes from? November 25, 2003 The cat has put me in a strange mood this

morning. As usual, Joe came in for a bite to eat. But after he was done, wandering around the house and yowling like a lost soul. Every so often,

instead of cleaning himself quietly or going back outside, he started he would stop yowling long enough to look out one of the windows at the When I asked him what he was yowling about, he looked at me and yowled some more. Because I know how much he likes it, I scratched the left side of his head with the toe of the slipper on my left foot. He

rain, which has been coming down in buckets for the past several hours.

seemed to enjoy the attention, but he was too distracted to relax

completely. I stopped scratching him, then he wandered off down the

hall and began yowling at the closed bathroom door, behind which our oldest son was shaving and getting ready for work. A couple of minutes

later, I found Joe at the front door, looking like he was ready to go out.

He wasnt. Then he went to the door that leads into the garage. I opened Im sitting here in much the same state, watching and listening to the beautiful, melancholy rain. And I feel like yowling for the strange, sad half a world away, for the lonely men and women roaming our city streets, some of them hungry, others made repulsive by greed. Its

it and this time he left, though still without direction or purpose. And now

world we live in, for the people living and dying like frightened animals

enough to break ones heart. And yet, oddly enough, I find it inspiring,

too. I find it so because in these quiet moments I am also aware of the

many good things going on the attention being lavished on the elderly despite being underpaid and overworked; the listening ear offered by the insightful girl working at the cosmetic counter to women whose marriages have fallen apart; the friendly treatment given by city bus drivers to passengers who are obviously down on their luck. And I think, him.

and sick by the handful of caregivers who havent forgotten their calling

there is purpose after all. Maybe I should go outside, find Joe, and tell November 26, 2003 I am ashamed and embarrassed to admit that I

allowed a grueling round of sordid business affairs to eclipse an yesterday, my wifes father passed away in Fresno. But I havent

important date on our annual household calendar. Twenty-five years ago forgotten that today was my mother-in-laws birthday. And as I remember the wonderful daughter they raised, and who eventually became my anywhere and visited often. I will never forget how much fun it was to sit

them both, I am grateful to have known them. I am especially grateful for wife. I know it was hard for them to let her go, though we really didnt go at their table. In fact, early on, I earned my father-in-laws acceptance in

part because I was relaxed and unafraid to eat my fill. He had a great

sense of humor, as did his four sons. To put it simply, we carried on like noisy jackasses. And then, just a couple of years later, cancer claimed the man who, decades earlier, had left his home in the French Pyrenees

to start a new life in this country, and to eventually earn enough money to send for my wifes mother to become his bride. As a sheepherder and newcomer, he knew what work was, and loneliness. As a father, he was unafraid of sacrifice. We still miss him. And we miss his bride, who joined him a little over two and a half years ago as part of our rich family history. November 27, 2003 Its Thanksgiving Day and we are still here. killed because someone else decided it was their time. And so we are

Others are not. They have died because it was their time, or they been sad. We are also happy, miserable, gloating, lonely, frightened, worried, vexed, and quietly pleased. We are what we are wherever we are, all in our own good time, just like any other day, except that this is a national holiday, which means more of us than usual have the day off, even though its Thursday. Some of us who usually have Thursday off feel

cheated. Some of us would rather work. Some of us dont care either way. Some of us care desperately, to the point of distraction or despair. Some of us will spend the holiday drunk. Some will spend it cursing eat or drink. Some will clip the coupons from advertisements. Many church leaders or politicians. Some will beg for money or something to grandmothers will be working hard in the kitchen, though it is high time enough food consumed to last us a week. There will be physical and moral starvation, football games, board games, and boring games. There will be stories of the old days told by old people, even as stories of

for someone else to do the cooking. There will be large gatherings, and

the new days are being written. There will be smiles and eruptions of laughter, cold and disapproving glares, arguments, celebrations, declarations, and tribulations. Babies will be born. Hello, Ma, hello, Pa

Im here. Whats for supper? And the day will be remembered and cherished, or forgotten and brushed aside so much like all other days that it will be hardly distinguishable, except in its dazzling, precious, elusive reality.

November 28, 2003 Under an expensive veil of secrecy, George

Photo-op Bush descended on the free land of Iraq yesterday to pose

with a turkey and several hundred bodyguards. Its too bad the twentyfive million people he freed werent able to meet him at the airport and offer him their best wishes. Its too bad the dead couldnt rise up and and good old American values. Its too bad the maimed couldnt have

thank him for cleansing their country of evil and replacing it with order been carried before him on stretchers, their line reaching the horizon. Its too bad the orphans, the sick, and the hungry couldnt have had a slice of that ceremonial turkey the one on the platter, not the one in the exercise jacket with the military patch. But, thats the way it goes. There is never a wishbone when you need one. November 29, 2003 Another month is just about gone. I have written

thousands of words during that time, littering my cage, as it were, with at

least a partial record of my puny existence. I have also done many other things. I have risen early and made breakfast for our youngest son before he trudged off to school in the rain. I have made a few interesting dishes and the laundry. I walked around the block. I brought in the mail. I dropped by and said hello to my mother. I had coffee with friends. I

concoctions in the kitchen that turned out to be edible. I helped with the

made weekly trips to the grocery store with my wife. I took a shower and

shaved, though it hardly shows. I did some reading. I read longer works, and I read short bits and pieces. I wrote a passel of letters. Some were about pleasant things, others were not. November will go down as the it necessary to publish the novel he left high and dry myself. I have no

month that I finally pulled the plug on a lying, cheating publisher, making idea whether he thinks he won or lost as a result, and it doesnt matter.

What matters is that I told the truth every step of the way, and that he did justify his actions until the cows come home. As a liar, that is part of his own work to do. I have a family to enjoy; I have books to read; I have

exactly the opposite. Now he can tell himself any story he pleases, and job description. As a writer and semi-conscious human being, I have my writing to tend to. I have a thousand reasons to rejoice. And I will rejoice, even if it kills me. I will die eventually in any case. Or maybe I already have, and this is heaven. Wouldnt that be something? Yikes. November 30, 2003 I am very near the end of Doctor Zhivago, but I dont know whether I will finish the book today or not, because I am buried in work. And when I say Im near the end, that doesnt count the twenty-four poems of Zhivago that are presented after the story. Of course, they arent really the poems of Zhivago, but those of the author,

Boris Pasternak. The last several years of Zhivagos life were just as

amazing as those he spent surviving the Russian Revolution. Their relative tameness was a natural outcome of the physical and mental exhaustion brought on by the suffering he endured. His eccentric life in thought, bore testimony to mans hunger for meaning and purpose.

Moscow, where he stood out like a sore thumb in appearance and While those around him were content to spout currently acceptable and government-mandated phrases about life and politics, he went on living and speaking as before. During and after the revolution, he marveled at

the endless number of petty decrees issued by the many temporary governments seeking control of various areas of the country. He marveled at the blindness of people who could issue one decree one day, and then abolish it as foolish nonsense the next by replacing it with another. On an almost daily basis, the absolute truth gave way to the

absolute truth and it was all uttered with a straight face under threat of imprisonment or death. The spirit of the revolution was forgotten. Many nothing left to destroy. And so they destroyed each other. of the people who had helped to bring it about felt lost when there was January 1, 2004 Did I make any resolutions a year ago? I dont remember. If I did, its safe to say they werent kept. Am I making any resolutions this year? I feel I should. There is certainly ample room for improvement. But as of the moment, I have made exactly none. I even stayed in bed later this morning than I have for months: seven oclock. I was awake much earlier, but, undeserving as I am, I permitted myself to

linger in the relaxing warmth. When I did get up, I looked out our window and saw that it was snowing again. It has already snowed another inch and a half, and it is still piling up. So it looks as if we will begin the year by sitting at home not that we were planning to go out. But you never know. We might have. The wife and I might have dressed up and gone out to one of Salems finer hotels for a brunch of champagne and strawberries, or some other out-of-season fruit shipped in from South America and laden with chemicals. Then we might have danced for a

few hours, or traveled to a lodge in the hills and chatted about our nonexistent investments with other bored souls while warming ourselves hotels. Salem has motels, a few if which pretend to be hotels, by hosting area business meetings. But Im not aware of any that have uniformed at a big stone fireplace except that Salem doesnt have any finer

people waiting at the door, for instance, or that offer fine cuisine nearby, however, that has an unaffiliated burger joint in its front yard,

prepared by world-traveled chefs. There is one hospitality establishment complete with drive-through services. So its possible that if one were to

ask politely, a pimpled employee might be willing to dash over for a few with strangers in front of a big stone fireplace is the last thing I want to

packets of ketchup and some French fries. As for lodges, being trapped think about. But since I am the one who brought it up, I feel obliged to defend myself by saying that I am not anti-social. If strangers want to get together and brag about nothing, thats fine with me. I will be glad to listen for about five minutes. Beyond that, ha-ha, ho-ho well, its more than I can stand. Not that it matters, though, because I have never set foot in a lodge anyway. But I have been to Tharpes Log, which isnt National Forest. As you might suspect, Tharpe was a man who lived in a far from the 3,000-year-old General Sherman tree in the Sequoia log. There was a time when people did things like that. There was a time when people exposed themselves to all sorts of danger, just for the sake of discovery. Some of them even have logs named after them, or cabins, or mountain peaks. And speaking of danger, it was just last night that my

brother said that he had resolved to live the new year more dangerously. The first thing he was going to do was stay up later and start smoking cigarettes. I said, Great. What kind of cigarettes did you buy when you

were at the store today? He said, I didnt buy any cigarettes. I forgot. ended. I, too, am all for living dangerously. But I cant smoke cigarettes, because when they are about halfway done, my mustache catches on fire. I have smoked a few cigars in my day, but, anymore, they are so

And so his dangerous new year will begin just as his safe old year

expensive that I feel foolish. Id rather spend the money on used books.

Besides, I think I already live dangerously enough as it is. I write, for heavens sake. The entire future rests upon a mound of words, and my ability to arrange them in a way that might be meaningful to others. So far, it appears to be a losing battle. But maybe thats what Tharpe thought, too, before he had his log named after him. In fact, Ill bet he

looked out at the falling snow just as I am this morning, and wondered how he was going to survive. Maybe the new year will bring the answer. Maybe it wont. January 2, 2004 It snowed five inches before the storm blew itself out

yesterday. Now its melting again. But the giant seven-foot snowman our youngest and oldest sons built yesterday with two of their buddies is still standing at the northwest corner of the house, facing the street. Unfortunately, it lost its head during the night, and with it its pair of red

plastic eyes, its carrot nose, its stick-shaped mouth, and its giant green ruled out. There were a couple of younger boys out earlier yesterday throwing snowballs at it from the sidewalk. When one of them noticed So maybe they returned during the night to finish their dirty work. If they me watching from the window, he told the other and they sulked away. did, I dont really blame them. School starts again on Monday, and I can

scarf. While this might be due to natural causes, vandalism cannot be

tell the kids in the neighborhood are already beginning to feel the tension several hours in a classroom. Then again, maybe I am the one who is have to visit our sons school for parent-teacher conferences, or pick him

and resentment associated with having to get up early again and rot for tense and full of resentment. To this day, I get a queasy feeling when I up or drop him off when he cant ride the bus for some reason. Schools make me nervous. Almost always, I felt imprisoned in them. Its not that I dont have many wonderful school-related memories. I do. Its just that I

hated having my time arranged for me and spoken for. I especially hated

being trapped in classrooms with teachers who had no business being teachers. There was one teacher I had who was literally so dense and so dumb that he didnt even notice me drawing on his fingernail with my pencil while he was leaning on my desk and expounding to the class.

There was another who, when asked by one of his students whether or not he was married, arrogantly replied, My wife is. There was one who preached the Bible, and one who was unaware of tennis balls being thrown across the room while he misspelled words on the blackboard. And there were others, who commanded absolutely no respect, because

they were either completely out of place in their line of work, or had no a healthy, creative, intellectually stimulating atmosphere. But I will say

respect for the kids they were pretending to teach. This hardly made for this: I certainly learned to appreciate the handful of really good teachers brains at the door. Without them, school would have been a complete mockery, instead of the partial mockery it was. Now, despite all this, I think it is only right and fair that I should assume some of the blame.

that somehow managed to slip into the system without checking their

Maybe if I had been more of a person, I could have helped improve the atmosphere in some of the worst classes. There is no way I could have sarcastic remarks. But I was bored. Thats what it comes down to. I was defended a dopey teacher, but I could have made fewer jokes and fewer bored, and people laughed. And now that I think of it, maybe I did help under the circumstances. The more I think about it, the truer this sounds. out of line. Isnt that interesting?

improve the atmosphere. Maybe I was doing the only thing I could do Because in the good classes, I was a good student, and I never stepped

January 3, 2004 Now that most of the snow has melted again, I see that the pine tree behind the neighbors garage across the street has changed its shape. About ten or twelve feet from the top, there is a broken branch snagged upon other branches, unable to fall. And

branches that were formerly growing upward are now parallel with the ground or pointing slightly downward. In our own backyard, we have five couple are from the fir tree by the fence. Since the area is protected, there is still some snow on the ground. After the weather settles down, I will venture out with a pair of pruning shears and a saw. But Im in no or six broken branches. Most are from the big pine tree in the corner; a

hurry. The birds seem to be enjoying the additional shelter at ground

level, as well as the food my wife has been giving them during the cold done no damage, and they can do none where they are. So maybe Ill

weather. I hate to disturb this happy scene. The fallen branches have wait until spring to clean up the mess. Right now, in one of the maple and a long beak perched on one of the lower branches. It might be some

trees just outside my window, there is a bloated bird with striped feathers sort of woodpecker, Im not sure. It certainly isnt an owl, or buzzard, or black-capped chickadee though in a pinch it could be a finch. Uh, yeah. Anyway. Where was I? Ah, yes. I was about to say that I have

been enjoying the jar of pickles my sister-in-law made shortly after she

and my brother arrived for their visit last month. I have been eating a daily celebration one I intend to continue by making pickles of my prevented me from following through. All thats needed is some

pickle or two every evening before supper, and this has become a minor own. I have been aware of this recipe for some time. Only laziness has cauliflower, green cabbage, carrot, celery, a jalapeo pepper, and garlic. When I make it, I think Ill also add a little pimento for color. And the

pickling mixture couldnt be simpler: water, salt, and about a tablespoon of distilled white vinegar. I have found that at the end of a long day, eating a good strong pickle causes an inspiring mini-riot upon the lunch and the most recent cup of coffee. This is turns stimulates the

tongue, which, I suspect, kills any germs that have accumulated since mind, or what is left of it. After eating a pickle, I feel rejuvenated both mentally and physically. Unfortunately, the feeling wears off after about fifteen minutes, making it necessary to eat crackers and cheese, which in turn creates a craving for mulberry vodka or some other strong liquor, which naturally makes me think of writers like William Faulkner and work day. I have no idea whether or not they liked pickles. I would surely writers named William, or who have William as part of their names. William Saroyan. William Shakespeare. William Carlos Williams. William Somerset Maugham. William Michaelian. It would be nice if there were some profound force at work here. Yet I cant ignore the fact that William

Tennessee Williams, who were known to take a drink or two during their like to know. I would also like to know why there have been so many

is a common name, and that there have probably been just as many

Williams who have been bricklayers, grave diggers, and tractor drivers. Incidentally, I have been reminded by a friend several times recently that before William the Conqueror was called William the Conqueror, he was known as William the Bastard. Why my friend keeps bringing this up, I have no idea. January 4, 2004 When it comes to story beginnings, I love

Dostoevsky. From White Nights, translated by David Magarshack: It was

a lovely night, one of those nights, dear reader, which can only happen when you are young. The sky was so bright and starry that when you looked at it the first question that came into your mind was whether it

was really possible that all sorts of bad-tempered and unstable people could live under such a glorious sky. From Notes from the Underground, also translated by Magarshack: I am a sick man. . . . I am a spiteful man. with my liver. From The Gambler, translated by Jessie Coulson: I am No, I am not a pleasant man at all. I believe there is something wrong back at last after my absence of two weeks. From A Gentle Creature,

(Magarshack): . . . Well, while she is still here everything is all right: I go up and have a look at her every minute. But they will take her away room, on a table. Two card tables put together side by side. They will bring the coffin tomorrow. And finally this, from one of my all-time favorite short stories, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (Magarshack): I am a ridiculous man. They call me a madman now. That would be a distinct rise in my social position were it not that they still regard me as are many others I could, and probably should, have mentioned tomorrow and how can I stay here alone? She is now in the sitting-

being as ridiculous as ever. I find each of these beginnings and there impossible to resist. And isnt that what beginnings are supposed to do? Not only that, but who could write such a beginning and then go on to right from the get-go. They begin nowhere and end in an abyss of write a boring story? In my reading experience, boring stories are boring unrelieved pointlessness. Each feels as if it were written by a person admiration before a mirror. Im not even sure what makes writers like that get up in the morning. Of course, many of them mean well. And a

long ago hypnotized by the sound of his own voice, or paralyzed with

great many have had their heads filled with nonsense and their egos massaged in award-winning writing programs offered by prestigious universities. But who gives the awards? To this day, I still dont understand why anyone would want to go to school to learn to write. A

writers job is to turn things upside down, not to go along with the crowd. A writer must turn himself upside down if he is to discover his own truth, voice, and style. How can he do that if he is sitting in a classroom and working toward an MFA? Why not subject himself to a rigorous course in Life, and do his reading and studying on his own time and on his own enough to have his card punched by lifeless, intellectual drones. But terms? I truly cant imagine a genuine writer being willing to sit still long there are quite a few who have achieved financial success by playing this game. And they are part of a sick intellectual monopoly that thrives in the wasteland that is current literature. January 5, 2004 It looks like more fun is on the way. The next snow

storm is poised off the coast. For the last few hours, millions of tiny falling. They are dry, and swirl about like glittery sand. Already,

snowflecks they arent big enough to be called flakes have been everything is white again. The temperature is in the mid-twenties. Unless with magnolia blossoms when the main part of the storm pushes

we are bailed out by a surge of warm southern air preferably scented onshore, the snow will begin to pile up. And now I see that the flecks are

big enough to be called flakes. This could prove to be interesting, especially since I need to make a couple of stops downtown this and has front-wheel drive. And, luckily, the pavement was dry when this morning, and one again later in the afternoon. At least our van is heavy started. So ice shouldnt be a problem yet. Still, you never know what some nut will do. The impulse to stomp on the brakes or to suddenly get going. Its snowing even harder now. Sleigh ride, here I come. change lanes can be overwhelming for some drivers. Oh, well. Id better January 6, 2004 Today is Christmas in the Armenian Church. It is

also my fathers sisters birthday, and the day upon which my

grandfather died in 1990 at the age of ninety-three. A few months later,

in September, my grandmother died, very near, if not on, her ninetieth September 24, 1900. But later on, someone in the family I think it eighth or ninth day of the month, which is roughly the day she died. I

birthday. Until then, I had always thought that she had been born on might have been one of her sisters said that she was born on the dont remember the exact date. But I do remember making the drive from Salem to Fresno, and along the way spending a rotten night in a diseased motel room in Redding, about three feet from the freeway. Before going to bed, I wandered into a nearby restaurant for a bite to supper, a couple of fried eggs, hashed browns, and a bottle of beer. I felt

eat. It was the International House of Pancakes, so I had pancakes for human for nearly an hour after that. Then the headache I had acquired pollution, and noise of the valley night. Finally, I managed to sleep a couple of hours. I hit the road early the next morning. At the funeral, I

during the trip reasserted itself, making it impossible to ignore the heat,

was able to visit with several relatives I hadnt seen in quite a while, and to marvel once again at the strange similarities we all seem to share. This happened again when my father died in 1995. Listening to his aunt, of her voice, her way of talking, and her mannerisms. For a moment, I

who is my grandmothers sister, I was absolutely amazed by the sound didnt know who she was. She seemed to be my grandmother, my

father, and several other relatives all rolled into one. And I am fairly

convinced that she didnt know who she was either, and that she was playing a sort of comic-tragic role that had been given her at birth. In short, she was completely ridiculous in an earnest, priceless way that is this. I would like to think it is this way in all families. At the same time, I

hard to explain. I have never talked to anyone outside the family about

feel bad about what is happening to the family in general, and about how

family members continue to drift apart. Indeed, some never get to know because of stories they were told by embittered and embattled adults. That is an awful way to live. January 7, 2004 I am beginning to feel like Doctor Zhivago.

each other, and live their lives full of misconceptions and resentment

Everything is white from the last snow, and there are ten-inch icicles hanging from the eaves and trees. The maples are encased in ice. The dogwood by our front door looks like a frozen willow. And the neighbors pine, already out of shape, is now missing its top. Schools were closed yesterday, and they remained closed today. Sleet fell for several hours yesterday afternoon. That gave way to a light rain, which froze as soon Car windows are coated with bumpy ice about three-eighths of an inch

as it landed. So things are far from fluffy and innocent-looking out there. thick. Lawns look like partially melted, then refrozen, cakes. Meanwhile,

a friend and his son were scheduled to return from England yesterday. at the Portland airport. They could be anywhere at the airport, at an

Who knows where they are. Around 300 flights were cancelled yesterday airport on the East Coast, or sleeping it off in a hotel room. Or the allpowerful Homeland Security might have saved them the trouble and kept them in England. Dear Passenger: In order to protect our country

against evil, you are required to step up to the counter and have your picture and thumbprint taken. Those failing to salute the likeness of Oil Well Airlines, and have a nice day. This reminds me: I have been Emperor Bush during this procedure will be shot. Thank you for choosing feeling so safe lately that I have entered a new era of confidence in And since we have just embarked upon an election year, I cant help

the government, in the economy, in health care costs, and in education.

wondering when they will conveniently find Osama Bin Laden cowering in a spider hole and trapped like a rat. Maybe Bush and the boys will even arrange for another 9/11 type of event, thus making it necessary for the U.S. to go and take over a few more countries. Otherwise, without the right kind of distractions, the president-select might actually have to

explain his actions to voters. Its simple, folks. Youre broke because we took all your money and gave it to a handful of obscenely wealthy monsters. But dont worry, you are still relatively safe from Mad Cow symptoms occur. Disease as long as you die from snowmobile pollution before January 8, 2004 The tops have broken on most of our pine trees.

There are two robins perched in the ice-covered maple tree just outside my window. The temperature is now slightly above freezing. Three geese just flew by. One robin flew away. The other is puffed up to twice its size. I cant tell if its just sitting, or if its feet are stuck to the branch.

Yesterday afternoon, several robins and starlings took baths in a few were taking good long drinks. The other robin is gone now. The sky is a light, uniform gray. There is no school again today. But for the most part,

small puddles that had formed in the street. In between splashes they

the roads are now safe at least the ones not blocked by downed trees electricity for about a day. Of course, all they have to do to preserve the contents of their refrigerators and freezers is put them outside. Why,

or power lines. Many people in the south part of town have been without

thats nothing. When I was a kid, I used to walk five miles to school in the you, old-timer. If you had chopped as much wood as you said you did, no one alive today would even remember what a tree looked like. Why

snow, and it was uphill both ways. Ah, shut up. Ive had about enough of

must you always exaggerate? Why cant you be sane and sensible, like

me? You left out boring. All right, thats the last straw. Gee. Am I really

boring? Well, sometimes you are. Not always. Sometimes youre just dull. Well, thats better, then. Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean, dull? I mean yawn what was the question again? I said oh, delusions. Snore. Yeah, thats right. And Im entitled to mine. And if I

never mind. Go back to sleep. At your age, youre entitled to your choose to believe that I am a highly fascinating and intriguing character Snore. Well, the least you could do is let me finish. As I was saying, it on a farm. My father was, and my mother well this is not to say that all started during my childhood. I was born in a small town and grew up my grandparents werent every bit as anyway, to make a long story short, I was born in a small town, and I grew up on a farm. This was back in the Fifties. You probably dont remember that. McCarthy was,

and Nixon was just getting started, and then there was Krushchev, who resembled a potato. Im leaving out a lot of important details, of course, such as Kennedy stocking up on Cuban cigars before shutting off older by then. It happened on a Thursday. Am I going too fast for you? It was a Thursday, and my mother was in the kitchen making supper. I relations with Cuba and the time I learned to tie my shoes. I was much

dont remember what we were having that day. I was preoccupied with my shoes. Well, actually, it was just my right shoe I was preoccupied with. It was the one that was untied. Are you getting all this down? I should probably mention that there was a Thompson vineyard across the road, and an Emperor vineyard adjacent to that. Behind the

Emperors, there was a small patch of Ribiers. Ribiers are a wonderful grape. You dont see them around anymore. Anyway. I have no idea whats there now. Probably some kind of peaches or nectarines,

although it might be plums. Really, its a shame you dont remember any

of this. But Im happy to explain it to you. You know, as funny as it

sounds, I used to admire you when I was a kid. Of course, you were awake then. And you didnt yammer about your childhood sufferings nearly as much. But even then, I was fully aware that your wife did most

of the work, and that all you did was visit with the neighbors. At least I looked like you, though Im not sure where that leaves your wife. Hey, wake up. Im just getting to the good part. . . .

think that was you. It might have been someone else, someone who

January 9, 2004 On the eve of our twenty-eighth wedding anniversary, I am more amazed than ever that my wife accepts me as I am. She should have killed me long ago. On the other hand, it could be that not killing me is her way of getting even, since I am such an expert at inflicting suffering upon myself. I dont really seek it out, it just seems to be a natural consequence of my activities. The harder I try to do

something practical, the further off I seem to veer. What I dont know is think it is both, but that is probably just wishful thinking. Or, if it is both,

whether this is the result of faulty wiring or selfishness. I am inclined to then selfishness plays a dominant role. And yet most of the time, I dont

feel selfish. I feel unsuccessful, even though I have succeeded in many managed without the unconditional support of my loving bride. So really,

ways and in many realms. But even those successes couldnt have been its all very confusing. All these years, I have been a good and faithful husband, and, judging by how our four children are getting along in the world and with each other, I would have to say I have been a decent married to a good and faithful wife, and a devoted, unselfish mother. between my possible sanity and complete lack thereof, but the main father. But again, none of this would have been possible if I hadnt been Thats why it is safe to say that my wife is not only the difference

reason I am able to get up in the morning. Not only that, she is willing to read every word I write. And when she reads these words later today, after working hard for my benefit and the benefit of our family, she will probably shrug and say I exaggerated the part about her. But I predict

she will be willing to let the other parts stand, especially the part about getting even. And I wont blame her. As I have told her many times, she ago. It is sad that she has suffered so much for that one mistake. At the has made only one mistake in her life, and that was twenty-eight years same time, I feel I have made one truly sound decision in my life, and

that was also twenty-eight years ago. But thats love for you. Meanwhile, reach a patch of level ground. When we do, I hope I recognize it.

our fate seems to be to tumble down this slippery slope together until we January 10, 2004 My horoscope this morning tells me I should get off

my high horse. I will ignore this advice, however, because if I do get off

my high horse, I might not be able to climb back up again. Besides, I like

the view from up here. Never mind that my high horse bears a striking attended kindergarten. Though I didnt know him in those days, I felt like grass unfolded like the Spanish countryside, and the far edge of the

resemblance to the stick horse I used to ride at Lincoln School, where I Don Quixote when I scuffed across the playground. The dry bermuda school grounds appeared to be miles and miles away. Behold, Sancho, I said, the sun is setting on yonder sidewalk. And Sancho looked at me my friend by the elbow and twisted it with a sick grin. Poor Sancho, I moment that it is a school bus, as you say. There is still no doubt that it is enchanted. To which Sancho replied, Verily, Master, I think you and said, Sun? All I see, Master, is a big yellow school bus. I gripped said. You are as blind as a bat. But very well. Let us suppose for a

should get off your stick horse before something dreadfully evil befalls us

both. Just then, the school bell rang. Ah-ha! I cried. Its a message from another realm! And then, miraculously, it was 2004. Was that the message? And am I now in that other realm? I must be, because late newly thawed roads to meet our nephew, who currently resides in the trip again to pick up our brother, who is arriving from Edmonton, Alberta, on another flight. If only I could greet him from atop my old stick horse, instead of the lame one I use now. Because I know he is going to be ready for him. I will tell him to get off his high horse.

last night my brother and I made our way to the Portland airport over Amherst, Massachusetts. And in less than twenty minutes, we will make

look at it and say, Crimony, why dont you trade that thing in? But I will January 11, 2004 Of course he said nothing of the kind and neither did I. Homeland Security doesnt permit that sort of thing. We waited obediently, and when my brother appeared in the narrow escape chute adjacent to the passenger screening area we greeted him soberly and with due vigilance. First, we had to be sure he really was our brother,

and not a terrorist agent here to compromise our freedom. Nor did he

trust us how could he? When I asked if he had brought any luggage bags of peanuts from the folds of his sport coat. I heaved a sigh of relief.

other than his carry-on, he twitched nervously, dislodging several small He was our brother, all right. Just then, a voice came over the loudspeaker, urging us all to watch our hats and coats and to trust no one but the president. For the next couple of minutes, everyone in the

airport eyed each other with suspicion. It was a profound experience, forget. A little girl walked by, laughing.

almost like being in church. Then something happened that I will never

January 12, 2004 It looks like the first things I will have published this year will be Armenian translations of several of my short stories. These appear in Armenia in a new publication that features translations from will be accompanied by my odd drawings, as space permits, and will around the world. The first issue is scheduled to be out early in February. So that is something to look forward to. With luck, it will partially erase the bad taste in my mouth from last years novelpublishing fiasco, which has left me temporarily high and dry. Quite a few people are reading A Listening Thing on my website, but it is still important to get the book novel, The Smiling Eyes of Children, finished, and further by the fact that

into print. This is complicated by the fact that I already have another it is every bit as good as the first novel, if not better. Its all quite strange, only represent a possible income, they are vital works of art that point is my sweat that is invested in them, I think I have the right to state it.

really. Its disconcerting to have these novels lying around, for they not the way for humanity. Granted, this is only my humble opinion. But as it And this seems only fair, since their publication gives readers the right to conclusion that I am an arrogant nut. I just hope they realize that is not all I am. On some days, I am a haunted recluse. On others, I am a silly idiot. Occasionally, I am even a contented dope.

state their opinions, or at least to think them. This includes reaching the

January 13, 2004 Yesterday I read a little about Bob Kaufman, a San

Francisco Beat poet who died in 1986. Apparently, Mr. Kaufman had a

knack for drawing attention to himself, and was often arrested for being a public nuisance thirty-some-odd times in 1959 alone. The account didnt elaborate on his behavior, but Im sure with a little Internet research all would be revealed. For every subject and subcategory that

exists, and even for some that dont, there is someone out there who is fanatically dedicated to discovering the most trivial details. But something tells me I wont pursue it. For me, it is enough to know that Kaufman read his poetry out loud in traffic, and that his goal in life was to be completely forgotten. Obviously, he didnt mean it. And even if he did, it wont happen anytime soon, because he and the Beats were and are

too much of a topic. Eventually, more energy will have been expended in learning and writing about the Beats than the Beats expended takes more energy to write a single poem than it does to sit around true when you take into consideration the great amount of living that themselves or so it will seem. Because it can easily be argued that it talking about the poem and the person who wrote it. This is especially goes into the making of a poem. Not that something cant be learned by sitting around and talking about poems and poets. But it does depend on what a person expects to learn. If he expects to learn how to write a poem this way, I think he is in for a rough ride. Or if he expects that knowing about a poets behavior will somehow make him more of a poet

himself, he is definitely missing the point. Bob Kaufman did what he did because he was Bob Kaufman. From a poets standpoint, the best thing to do is to accept the fact and move on. Now, I was about to say that it is

possible to gain insight into a poets work by knowing more about his life and times. But in many cases, that probably isnt true. A poems secrets are best revealed through attentive reading and attentive living. And

really, isnt that the point? On one side of the equation there is the poet,

who writes what he writes out of his own life and for his own reasons; on his own reasons. One can exist without the other, but only with difficulty.

the other side, there is the reader who reads out of his own life and for A poet certainly must write for himself, but in the end, if his poems are

unread they amount to therapy though by no means does this make him less of a poet. And a human being can certainly exist without reading, as difficult and uncomfortable as this is to imagine. But in

imagining it, the possibility of a completely different kind of poetry also daily lives are made up of unwritten poems, and that we are all poets because it is our instinct to seek truth and beauty. To varying degrees, of course, the poems and truth and beauty are beaten out of us, or taught out of us, or frightened out of us. In some cases, they are stifled

arises. For it all depends on what you call poetry. It is my feeling that our

altogether. For instance, it is hard to imagine the president or vicepresident seeking or recognizing truth and beauty. And that is whats so sad that people can be so twisted that they can look at a mountain or a flower, and then discard them as useless if they offer nothing to gain. They may know all the words my, thats a beautiful flower but the words will be meaningless until they understand the consequences of their evil behavior. And to do that they have to want to understand which is why the rest of us poets shouldnt hold our breath.

January 14, 2004 Yesterdays fifty-three degrees was thirty degrees

warmer than it was several days ago when we were having our snow colossal snowman, which is still about two and a half feet high and have resumed their shape. Our backyard is still full of fallen limbs,

and ice storms. Everything has melted, except for the base of our nearly four feet wide. The trees in the neighborhood that werent broken underneath which is a bed of pine needles at least four inches thick a

miniature forest floor, if you will. At the moment, its raining. And in about an hour, we will be making yet another trip to the airport, because the lives, one in Alberta, the other in Massachusetts. It will be strange with time has come for my brother and his son to return to their regular daily

them gone. I remember reading an Armenian saying once, which true if the distance is the result of estrangement, but not if it is merely a

claimed that a close friend is better than a distant brother. This might be matter of miles. A close friend will be able to understand the

estrangement of brothers. He will also feel no jealousy toward brothers who are not estranged. And of course many brothers are close friends. And many close friends feel like brothers unless they happen to be friends and distant sisters. I am also well aware that many brothers dont give a hoot one way or the other, and that many friends who say they are close are really only psychological or financial leeches which is than to put up with a brother who is a selfish, immoral jackass. Notice that I said easier, not better. For it is better to state the facts than it is to preach though it is not better to assume you know the facts, which

sisters. But as far as I know, there is no Armenian saying about close

why their sisters keep their distance. For it is easier to be a distant sister

disqualifies everything I just said. Ah, well. Good luck, boys. May your journey be a pleasant one. Maybe when I see you next, Ill have this sorted out.

January 15, 2004 For the last three days, there has been an insect attached to the inner side of the screen on my window. It was able to make its way there because the screen is bent and doesnt fit into the

top part of the frame. The insect belongs to the order Hemiptera one of the few orders I remember from my high school biology class. crickets and grasshoppers. Diptera is where we find the common Lepidoptera, I believe, includes butterflies, and Orthoptera includes housefly, and bees and ants fall into Hymenoptera. Anyway. Theres a bug on my screen. But now Im beginning to wonder if its still alive. Okay, there. I just checked. When I opened the window and blew on it, it

moved its antennae or is it antennas? Hello, Bill. Whats wrong?

Nothing to write about today? Oh, theres plenty to write about. There

always is. I just dont feel like doing it. Well, leave me out, why dont three days. None of your business. Why? Isnt it my window? Yes, but me, have you? I most certainly have. And its been pretty dull, I might

you? Maybe I will, if you tell me what youve been doing there for the last you werent using it. Ah. Right you are. Say, you havent been watching add. Yeah, well. Ive been tired lately. Whats your excuse? I dont need an excuse. Im a bug. Right again. And with a rather strange attitude. to an end. Yes, but you wont. How can you be so sure? Thats easy. You wont be able to wash the smell off your hands. Ewww. I guess You know, I could easily squash you and bring this whole conversation

youre right. On the other hand, I havent killed anything lately, and now might be a good time to end the drought. Havent killed anything? What about all those bugs on your windshield yesterday? That couldnt be day without saying that. Me? I didnt say anything. Im a bug, remember?

avoided. Oh-ho you sound like the president. You couldve gone all Bugs cant talk. Well, youre talking. President, indeed. Yep. And thats why Im glad Im a bug. Oh, yeah? To the president, we are all bugs. Its just that some of us pay taxes. Not only that, but hey, where are you conversation. Im not going anywhere. Im just doing my morning exercises. Jeez, what a weirdo.

going? You cant leave now. If you do, no one will believe we had this

January 16, 2004 Last night we attended the first game of our sons basketball season at the Boys and Girls Club here in Salem. His team lost, 49-45. But the teams were evenly matched, and they could have won if they had made just a few more of their free throws. The name of our sons team is the Goodfellas. I didnt catch the other teams name.

But we did hear that there is a team in the league called the Crazy aspects of the game was that none of the players had a bad attitude.

Chickens, and another called the Artichokes. One of the most enjoyable There was no complaining about the referees calls, and the players didnt mind when they were substituted. There was only one referee, a good-natured guy who was shorter than most of the players, and, for that matter, most of the people watching, children included. But he knew his rule book and called a fair game. And if a player needed to tie his shoe, or if his glasses slipped off, the referee immediately stopped the game. All told, it was a refreshing experience. Even the parents were began telling the coach what he should and shouldnt do, and insisted my advice, Im sure the team would have won. When I told him that I well-behaved. Of course I immediately took a seat on the bench and that my son play the whole game and take every shot. Had he followed was ready to play myself, he said I was too old. I punched him in the nose. What do you mean, too old? I said. Im in better shape than you. And he said, dabbing at the blood streaming from his nose, I mean, this league is for high school kids. I said, Oh. Then I helped him

up. When I turned to sit down, I noticed my wife had moved to the other side of the gym, and that she was wearing a fluffy blond wig and a pair of dark glasses. After the game, I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. I received a slap in return. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Much to my surprise, it was my wife. Are you ready to said, Oh, no, you take him, honey, hes not my type. On the way home,

go? she said. Or will you be going home with her? The other woman I tried to explain, but the more I said, the worse matters became. My wife

said I was a disgrace. Our son agreed. I had ruined a perfectly wonderful evening. My sincere claim that I had been caught up in the excitement of

the game, and also in our sons performance and happiness, and that I therefore wasnt thinking clearly, fell on deaf ears. This morning, however, everyone acted as if nothing had happened. This makes me Club. Something tells me I shouldnt ask. To make matters worse, Mr.

wonder if anything did happen, including our trip to the Boys and Girls Hemiptera is still on my screen. He looks bigger today, and is used to be here, and now they are here.

maintaining an angry posture. Also, the room seems smaller. The walls January 17, 2004 Hes gone. My little bug friend is gone. He didnt even leave a note. Where is he? Did he crawl out into the open, and was crush him, and swallow him? Or is he rummaging around in a pile of dry rhododendron leaves? He had an intelligent face. Maybe he is in a meeting with other bugs and they are trying to decide what to do with he then noticed by a bird, and did the bird snatch him up in his beak and

me. Maybe he is Franz Kafka. No, if Franz Kafka were still alive, he to know the answer to that question. But I dont anymore, because my

would be a beetle. To which order of insects do beetles belong? I used biology teacher hasnt been around to ask it. My biology teacher married my algebra teacher. Maybe he asked her. And maybe she said she didnt care, which might or might not have been true. People often say

things they dont mean, if they think it will give them an advantage. My stolen from the locker room, and after attending her class several times without it, she decided I would have to pay for a new one. Then, shower or tried to flush it down the toilet. It was at least three times its

algebra teacher hated me. Among other things, my algebra book was

miraculously, it turned up. Evidently, some kind person had put it in the normal size, and many of the pages were partially glued together. But I had my book. I took it to class and showed her, and she was mad that

she wouldnt be able to charge me for it. Then the real battle began. Each time she asked the class to turn to a certain page, I would calmly As I said, she hated me. Then she married the biology teacher, and he hated me. He didnt hate me before. We got along fine. But once they were married, her hatred became his hatred. Due to surgery of a very and patiently peel pages apart until I came to the one she had asked for.

serious nature, one of my best friends used to drive his car from one end

of the campus to the other between classes. While he was recuperating, we were friends, I would occasionally ride along with him. Often, he

he didnt have the strength or energy to do much walking. And because parked on the street in front of the biology classroom. The biology teacher saw us, and decided to report me for being in a car when it wasnt authorized. I received a note telling me to go to the office of the

vice-principal. The vice-principal said, Have you been riding in your friends car between classes? I said yes, I had. Obviously embarrassed, he said, Okay, dont do it anymore. So I didnt at least not when the biology teacher was looking. This was ridiculous. My friend was seriously ill. He died when he was eighteen. What right did a pair of small-minded, meddlesome teachers have to interfere? What moral right, I mean? For they certainly had the authority. And now they are probably retired, and dont remember the incident at all. But I remember. January 18, 2004 Thank goodness the president has decided to rejuvenate the space program. The moon? A piece of cake. Mars? Why, its just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Wed be danged fools if we didnt home. Affordable medical care? Solved. Hunger?

seize the opportunity especially since things are going so well here at Unemployment? Solved. Education? Solved. Pollution? Solved. War?

Solved.

Why, its odd you would even ask, because war is quite obviously a thing

of the past. So, by all means, let us go plant another flag on the moon, and let us sow the seeds of democracy on Mars. And let us fly there under the veil of secrecy and serve plastic turkey to the troops. Oops.

Im getting ahead of myself. But not by much. And now, kiddies, we

return you to Cowboys in Space. Cowboy George, you will remember,

was in his red-white-and-blue Hummer hurtling toward Mars. Theres oil George didnt know was that another cowboy, Cowboy Dick, was way

there, and Im gonna get it! he cried. Whee-ha! But what Cowboy ahead of him. And Cowboy Dick was no dope. Cowboy Dick had already lined up a big oil-pumping contract with the Mars Oil Institute, and had arranged for an underpaid army to protect his drilling operations and to infrastructure. Cowboy Dick laughed at Cowboy George. He thought about Mars or its history or about anything else, for that matter. In

keep the Martians in line by starving them and destroying their Cowboy George was funny, because Cowboy George knew not one iota fact, as long as Cowboy George had his Hummer and a full tank of gas,

he was a happy camper. We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin. This journal entry has been deemed unpatriotic by the editorial board of Homeland Security. Anyone caught reading it under the covers with a flashlight will be shot. Cowboy George was approaching Mars. . . .

January 19, 2004 If all goes as planned, my brother will be driving to California this week to visit friends and relatives. Two of our fathers aunts are in their nineties, one is eighty-five, and his dear little sister is and, to a certain extent, in our actions and outlook, as we contend with are in my thoughts. And when theyre not, they are still present. They

seventy-one. His uncles have all departed. But they live on in our minds, the odd exercise known as living. It is amazing how often these people fought a good fight, a fight dignified by outrage, honesty, intelligence,

and humor. And the aunts are still fighting, and still mocking those who petty control. Such poor misguided fools make easy targets, because inconvenience. They say things like How dare they make me wait? as

take comfort in being sensible, and in believing that life is within their they are so often bent out of shape because of this or that minor they barge ahead of other people waiting in line. They cant imagine

being hungry; they only know their steak was improperly prepared, and

that their exhausted waitress should be fired. They cant imagine being kind isnt welcome to live in certain neighborhoods, or that it is

on the receiving end of ignorant racist remarks, or being told that their impossible to hold membership in certain organizations. But an awful lot of them vote, by gum and look at the kind of people they vote for. And look at the commodity their arrogant ignorance has become, and how it daily at the expense of this planet and everything that lives upon it.

is used and manipulated by those whose wealth and power is increased January 20, 2004 The president will be reading his State of the

Union speech on TV tonight. This will no doubt be followed by a bunch of idiots trying to explain what he meant by what he said and what he didnt say, and making statements about how effective they think the speech was even though he didnt write it, and, in fact, couldnt

possibly have written it, because in reality he has trouble stringing two or three intelligible sentences together. Its even worse than Ronald technology. Of course, millions of people were distracted by the bronzed Reagan pretending he knew something about the so-called Star Wars hairdo and Hollywood smile. In Bushs case, one must settle for the

smirk of an unpunished rich child, or the furrowed brow of ignorance. Not presidents fund-raising trip to Portland a few days ago, protesters lucky

much of a choice. Meanwhile, it is interesting to note that during the vice-

enough to find the designated free speech area found themselves enclosed in a fenced area a safe distance someone said in the newspaper that is was about half a mile away from the hotel where element, Cowboy Dick extracted $400,000 from wealthy supporters.

the event was held. While police in riot gear kept watch over this evil According to one report, $1,000 got you in, and $10,000 earned you the privilege of being photographed with Cowboy Dick. Can you imagine being one of those people? Can you imagine the arrogant mind-set and assumptions that go along with it? In this mornings letters to the editor, one writer said he foolishly thought all of America was a free speech area, but that now he knows he was wrong. This is a sad, significant presidents speech tonight. Instead, we will hear, or later read, that statement. But the ongoing erosion of rights will not be addressed in the Cowboy George said, We got Saddam, as if some sort of schoolyard

justice had been meted out. In my opinion, if this kind of talk is enough to surprised when all America is designated as a speech free area.

satisfy the American people, then the American people shouldnt be January 21, 2004 Mmmmmpphhhh. . . . Just kidding. They havent found me yet. Or, if they have, theyre waiting for just the right moment to chuckle or yawn. For this country is full of people who know the difference between right and wrong, and between truth and lies. Unfortunately, it is also full of people who swallow everything they are told, as long as it is told to them in an oversimplified way that stimulates to fight em there than on our own soil i.e., the soil that was stolen their ego. Well smoke em outta their holes, for instance. Or, Its better from the people who were here when this continent was colonized. Talk

about worthless statements. How can you go and fight against people

you know absolutely nothing about not their history, or culture, or

traditions, or way of life? How can anyone be so thoughtless and their homes and cities as if they were ants? How overwhelmed by

ignorant as to travel thousands of miles and then destroy people and propaganda must we be to not be able to tell our children that cheating How can anyone be satisfied thinking we are the good guys and they are the bad guys? After all, isnt that what they think? The terrible truth is, there is so much ignorance in the world, and so many bad things that have been put into motion, that it will take nearly forever to play out. More trouble is put into motion every day. Every home that is bulldozed, every person that is killed, every child that goes hungry or must watch his parents die, increases the insanity and keeps it going. Children are throwing rocks at soldiers with guns what will they grow up thinking? What will become of them? This country pumps millions of dollars every year into other countries where these things take place. It helps them take place, and ensures that these things will happen. At the same time,

and lying and engaging in war are horrible things they should never do?

it allows its own people to be held hostage by drug companies, and by policies that send jobs out of the country, leaving more and more workers to fight over fewer and worse-paying jobs. And yet, under these

blatantly transparent circumstances, we still go and take over another country, and are surprised to find out that people in other countries dont like us. Aspiring democracies if indeed there is such a thing look at this country and see a president who was not elected, but selected, and

who didnt even win the popular vote. Instead of hope and leadership, they see maniacs out to take over the world. Put yourself in their place. through smoke-filled streets with blood streaming over their bodies. What would you think? Imagine your own children throwing rocks at soldiers and running

January 22, 2004 Eight-thirty a.m. Im off to a ragged start this morning, thanks to a head cold that has my sinuses in a knot. But its better now, at least, than it was when I first got up over three hours ago. Then I could barely see. The cold officially began with a sore throat the day before yesterday. Yesterday, the sore throat was gone, but the sinus pressure was beginning to build. I expect today will be the worst, and one wants to hear about someone elses cold. The only reason Im that by evening I will be on the mend. Of course, Im well aware that no bringing it up is that I catch them so rarely. But since no one wants to hear someone else brag about his general good health, either, I suppose I should drop the subject altogether. So. How are you? Yeah, I thought so. I dont blame you for being fed up. You have every right to be. But

look at it this way: at least youre reading. Im the one doing the work. Although, I guess it could be argued that this kind of reading is work. My man. Youll more likely find him in the magazine aisle at the grocery answer to that is, why shouldnt it be? If its fluff you want, Im not your store, or on the shelf near the checkout stand. But youd better hurry, be. So, come to think of it, you might as well take your time after all. In

because he wont be there long though someone else just like him will fact, dont even go. Why encourage that sort of thing? By and large, the people written about in those kinds of books belong to the Cardboard Character Association, as do a great many of their authors. I have even books. In our neighborhood grocery store, I stood face to face with a

seen life-sized cardboard cutouts of the authors holding displays of their strategically unshaven John Grisham. John, I said, damn it, howre of lifesavers. He looked up and smiled. You know John, I said to him.

you doing? A store employee happened to be nearby, uncorking a crate Wonderful author and a great guy, to boot. Not surprisingly, shy man

that he is, John didnt say a word. He just stood there, holding his books. I think he blushed, but through the stubble it was hard to tell. Here I should probably say a few words about who John Grisham is, or was.

John Grisham is, or was, a lawyer who wrote a book, and who then went on to write a few more books almost exactly like the first one, although some have said the first one was the best. I myself have tried to read a

few paragraphs in some of his books, but I found the writing devoid of life and impossibly bad. John Grisham is, or was, however, a huge financial success, and some of his books were made into movies. So, there you are. While its a bit dull, this information might be useful if youre reading this a hundred years from now and need some trivia to cutouts of authors back then? Yes. Not only that, it was necessary, relate at a party. Who was he again? Did they really have cardboard because there were still some authors who were made of real flesh and subjected to rigorous programming, and to a series of electronic tests

blood. Weve done away with all that, of course. Authors are now before they are released onto the market. Its all here in my microbrochure. If youd like, I can implant the chip in your sensory definition cage. Gee, thanks. Hey, dont mention it. Im here to help.

January 23, 2004 With no urging or prior knowledge on our part, our youngest son called on a local farming operation yesterday to line up a job for the coming summer. The outfit specializes in growing irises, and is in need of many hands and strong backs after the blooming season. interested in the job and not just fooling around. According to one of his buddies who worked there last year, the work days are long, from six By calling early, the kid let his potential employers know he is genuinely

a.m. to five in the afternoon. So even at minimum wage, the money will quickly stack up. This will likely lead to the purchase of an acoustic

twelve-string guitar a subject that has popped up frequently during the in tune than a standard six-string, but he is obviously up to the

last few months. Im all for it. He knows it will be trickier to play and keep challenge. Fact is, he has been making some pretty nice music lately. working his way through that. What I like, and what impresses me most

He also bought a thick book containing thousands of chords and is about all of this, is that it has all come about naturally, of his own volition. And being self-taught, he has already made progress in the development of his own style. Even at this early stage, his playing is

beginning to express his mind and heart. Where this leads is anyones artistic pursuits, I am resolved to stay out of his way. A few months spent

guess. As a parent, and as one also engaged in abstract and semisweating on a farm will only help. It is something everyone should have the opportunity to do. In fact, there was a time when kids in this area were allowed to pick berries and beans during the summer. Now they

are expected to either sit at home and rot, or to go around filling out applications at fast food places, which have room for only so many workers, some of which have college degrees. This makes for a lousy

start on the road of life. Without some real initiative and some decent expectations. Of course, based on their observations, they can also form

guidance from parents, kids can form all sorts of bad habits and false some painfully real expectations, which is one reason so many kids go has stated he will leave no child behind. And I believe him. Just look at the opportunities awaiting our children in the armed forces. So hang on, a fine job waiting for you once you drop out of school. kids. Whether you can read or not, whether you can think or not, theres

bad. But there is no real reason to worry, I guess, since the president

January 24, 2004 A week or two ago, two hospitals closed in

Portland. They were small, and not enough of their patients were able to Salem, which is considerably larger than the ones that just closed, the

pay their bills, so they went out of business. And at the hospital here in number of people who couldnt pay their bills increased drastically last year alone. To make up the difference, the patients who can pay are charged more, which in turn drives up insurance rates. As it is, to save money, nurses and nurses aides are already expected by their

employer to care for more patients than they can safely and sanely handle. This results in a worn-out staff that often cant complete the most basic items of care, right down to personal hygiene. It also results in a

high level of turnover, because many of the workers, especially the aides, simply cant take the underpaid grind. But for some strange reason there is money for war, and there is money for the Bush and to go to Mars. This is an embarrassment and a disgrace. I think the really headed. I could be wrong, of course, but it seems to me that

Cheney campaign, and, if you listen to those boys, there is even money hospital situation also offers another clue as to where the country is people are being systematically reduced to poverty, and that more and more wealth is being concentrated in the hands of a few evil businessmen who want to control the earths resources, while keeping people around the world divided and at each others throats. More and more people are broke and cant afford the barest of necessities. The U.S. government, meanwhile, claims consumer spending is up. Oddly

enough, so is personal debt. People are paralyzed by a dangerous They pay more, receive less, and ask fewer questions. And when they do ask, they are labeled as unpatriotic. Or, as in the case of the

combination of ignorance, lethargy, inertia, hunger, and propaganda.

enormous anti-war protests that took place around the world prior to this countrys latest attack on Iraq, they are ignored altogether. January 25, 2004 Zoology has never been my favorite subject, but I was in the mood to start out with the letter Z this morning, and zoology was the first Z-word that came to mind. Yet I could have used zebra, or even Zanzibar which reminds me: I once wrote a childrens story about a guy named Zanzibar McFadden, who was a pickle farmer. I

wonder where that is? Probably in a folder in a box in a closet, where it belongs. Someday, though, it will come to light, and it might or might not mean something to the lucky person who discovers it. If that lucky

person is me, it will probably be read and briefly marveled at, and then put away again. In fact, thats probably what happened the last time it was found. There are many other writings similarly tucked away. Whether or not I ever look at them again remains to be seen. Whats done is done. They are written. Some are so old that I dont see how they could possibly be as good as something I have written recently, but I could be wrong on this. They might be better, or the same. My writing might be like my life on a rapid downward spiral. Or, as my life

degrades, my writing might be improving. I ask myself foolish questions like this every day. And like the foregoing, many of the questions end with periods. The reason for this is that they dont start out as questions,

but as half-baked suppositions. Anyway, every day I sit here like a dope mulling things over, and when Im not sitting here, when Im taking a walk or peeling an onion or engaged in some other lively pursuit, Im still

mulling. Even when I try not to mull, I mull, with nary a lull, and thats no bull. For instance: why do people so often pronounce the word zoology as if it were spelled zooology? And how many onions did my

grandmother peel in her lifetime? How many football stadiums would they fill? January 26, 2004 Well, I guess the president will be impeached now in order to justify the war. After all, it wasnt that long ago that the White House was torn apart because a president committed adultery. Or is adultery a more serious offense than mass maiming and murder? President Clinton lied. Life goes on. President Bush lied. For a great many, life doesnt go on. One guy is a weasel and a slimeball, the other is arrogant and a murderer. And early last year a whole bunch of fine, along with him. So I guess that makes them arrogant murderers as well. upstanding elected representatives broke out their flags and went right I mean, what is a person to think? If actions speak louder than words, the street someone like me, in other words can see through the lies, and yet college-educated government officials, many with degrees

that everyone knows he lied about Iraqs weapons of mass destruction

actions like these scream. You have to ask yourself how a basic dope on

in law, cant. Im joking, of course. We know those boys and girls make decisions based only on what they have to gain or lose. Their children arent fighting and dying in Iraq. Their families arent muddling along without health insurance. If something happens to their precious health, they have immediate access to the best of care. And so they stand up in Iraq. Then they go home or to a restaurant and eat a fine meal. Then front of the world and say things like we must help bring democracy to they go to bed and rest their weary democratic bodies so theyll be able to face another hard day of representing not the poor saps who elected health care. Sorry, no money for education. Sorry, no money for you them, but themselves. Sorry, no money for schools. Sorry, no money for jobless, homeless, hopeless idiots who happen to have been born in the

richest country in the world but arent propped up by family wealth or a corrupt political system that rewards liars. Weapons of mass destruction, indeed.

January 27, 2004 A few days ago, one of Portlands professional basketball players was fined $100,000 for missing a game. The fine was equal to one games pay. In the regular season, there are eighty-two

games. So the burning question is, how is this young man going to survive? Will he have to sell his house and move in with family, or can he hang on until the end of the season and then get a summer job? I am sick with worry. Also, I need to buy a couple of shirts. But with a problem the trip to Goodwill.

like this on my mind, I dont know if Ill be able to muster the energy for January 28, 2004 What does it mean, really, when athletes are paid and many other people who do many other important things are paid even less? To me, it means society places more value on entertainment than it does on things that make an immediate and lasting difference. I

millions of dollars a year and teachers and nurses are paid thousands,

have nothing against entertainment or sports. I dont even mind having fun on occasion. But having to take out a loan to go to a basketball millionaires, doesnt make sense to me. Whether they win or lose, the players still collect, and many of them play with exactly that attitude. If game, and to then be subjected to the antics of whining and complaining

they feel like taking the night off, or if they are mad about something, And its no wonder: with a few simple investments, most of them could quit working immediately and not lift a finger the rest of their lives. As a

they simply coast. They dont play as if their livelihoods were on the line.

fan, why would I want to contribute to that? But the lazy athlete scenario is just a handy example. What really needs to be examined and

understood are the values we place on things and on each other. And it

should also be noted that there are many lazy people in all walks of life.

There are nurses who refuse to get off their duffs, and teachers who they were ballplayers.

couldnt care less about their students. The bums. They probably wish January 29, 2004 Forget the overpaid ballplayers, forget the greasy politicians, forget the celebrities on trial, forget the news, forget the latest technology, forget past wars, present wars, and future wars, forget stand for and what you are against, forget what you had for breakfast, forget to shave, forget to put on your makeup, forget to bathe, forget to

poverty and hunger, forget your name and address, forget what you

dress yourself before leaving home, forget where you parked or what

bus youre supposed to take, forget who said what, and when it was

said, and in what tone of voice. In short, forget everything and then, dont forget to forget that you forgot. Because if you remember that you this all again. forgot, then you didnt really forget, in which case, well have to go over January 30, 2004 This is my philosophy: mumble, grumble, yak-yakyak. For transcripts, please send five dollars to Fun Unlimited, State Mental Hospital, Salem, Oregon. Or, for five dollars, please send a mental hospital, please dollar trans sendscripts. We are who we are, but weve been very busy lately, so we think we are someone else. At

transcripts. Or, for five transcripts, please send a mental hospital. Or, for

least thats what they tell us. Either way, it doesnt matter, because they normal people. Normal people are not only weird, but dangerous.

wont let us out. This suits us perfectly, though, because we are afraid of Another thing they tell us is that we are not we, or even three. They tell

us that we are only me, and that until I see, I wont be free. When we tell

them that we are already free, they shake their heads and leave the own company. Still, we worry about what they are doing out there. We people crying. Poor, lonely people. We would help them if we could. If other long enough to listen.

room. And we are always glad to see them go, because we prefer our can smell the pollution, and we can hear the bombs dropping and the we knew how. If they would stop lying and cheating and killing each January 31, 2004 Like Cinderella at midnight, a large billboard on nearby River Road has suddenly disintegrated here at the end of the first month of the new year. Just a few days ago, the suit-clad image of one of our several dozen friendly neighborhood insurance agents smiled down benevolently upon the sheep in his bustling domain. Alongside him were the words, Invest with someone you know. For the entire month of January, I pondered this message. It was meaningless, but it radiated warmth and hope. Then the sign started to come apart. Half of the agent

was up and smiling, half of him was ragged and torn. A giant, frosty beer bottle appeared. Hey, buddy, you only go around once in life. Hic! Invest with someone you know. I found this very troubling. What would have happened if I had invested early in the month, before I knew the my wife and I did see this very same insurance agent at the grocery guy was a drunk? And what about all the others who did? As it happens, store three or four weeks ago. I said, Thats him. She said, Who? I

said, The guy on the billboard. She said, Oh. Did we buy any chicken last week? The guy looked at least ten years older than he did in his suit on Saturday? I mumbled into my collar as he walked by us with his his cart into the next aisle. Maybe we should give him our money, I said picture, but he was wearing the same suit. I wonder why hes wearing a cartload of sensible items. Its frightening. The insurance agent steered

in a louder voice. What money? my wife said. Good question, I said. Wait. Ive got it. I could sign over the rights to my next book. My wife looked at me. She smiled sadly.

February 1, 2004 After I finish my coffee this morning and attend to a warehouses to see what they have in the way of portable electric heaters. We had to turn off our gas furnace yesterday, because it seemed to be pumping unburnt natural gas fumes into the house, and

few other details, I might make a trip to one of the local building supply

because it nearly exploded a couple of times when it was getting ready probably due to a partially clogged burner, a small gas leak, or both. And so the house is pretty much an igloo this morning. Still, to prove I am tough or that I am a basket case, the choice is yours I am sitting

to cycle on. At least the noises it made sounded like explosions. This is

here in a worn-out pair of old athletic trunks, without a shirt. My fingertips

and the palms of my hands are cold, and so is everything else, except for the part of me that is in direct contact with the fabric on my chair. I do having completed about fifteen minutes of exercise shortly after that. So, have the benefit, however, of having taken a hot shower earlier, and of other than freezing to death, Im fine. In fact, if I were living alone, I would likely skip buying a heater altogether. I still might, just so the family can appreciate going without heat for a day or two, or however long it takes to have the furnace fixed. I know it wont be fixed today, because today is Sunday and not just any Sunday, but, as the advertisers say, Super Bowl Sunday. I just checked my calendar.

There is no reference on it to football. There is just an italicized 1 in the first little box in the upper left-hand corner of the page. Someday, though, I imagine Super Bowl Sunday will be an officially recognized

holiday, as will the Monday immediately following, which could be called

Super Nauseated Monday, or, simply, Recovery Day. But, back to being cold. The more I think about it, the colder I feel, because now I am reminded of a couple of stories my grandfather used to tell from his

childhood. The first happened when he was a small boy in what our story house that had a metal railing around the balcony. For some odd

family has always referred to as the Old Country. He lived in a threereason, once when it was very cold, he decided to touch the frozen

railing with his tongue. Instantly, his tongue became attached. When he

tried to pull away, it caused great pain. But now I dont remember what rail, or his mother might have heard him struggling and rescued him by means of a wise Old Country method, or he might have waited for the weather to thaw. Some story, eh? The other one is even less of a story,

finally happened. He might have left part of his bleeding tongue on the

especially since I tend to mention it every few weeks as an illustration of to this country in 1906 was Troy, New York. Age ten at the time, he lived walls. End of story unless you ask where his father was. His father, 1896 shortly before my grandfather was born. He was a victim of

some point or other. The first place my grandfather lived when he came with his mother and grandmother in an unheated room with ice on the my great-grandfather, was dead. He was killed in the Old Country in fanaticism and ignorance that was encouraged by the government.

Sound familiar? Except in this case, he was only one of what eventually

became approximately a million and a half Armenians who were herded into the desert or otherwise systematically exterminated. This is all well documented and by some strange coincidence, this country sits atop

a mountain of evidence that it doesnt officially acknowledge due to its military and business friendship with the current government of the country where the genocide was carried out. Many countries around the

world have officially recognized the Armenian Genocide, but not the U.S.

This, despite the written account of one of its own ambassadors, Henry Morgenthau, who was ambassador to Turkey from 1913 to 1916. His book is called The Murder of a Nation. It is sickening to read, but

everyone should read it. And there are many other books that deal with the subject which, for the life of me, I wish I had not thought of this morning, leave alone brought up. But there you are. Such is life. Its cold

this morning. But its far colder where my dear grandfather is, and even colder than that in the hearts and minds of those who deny the truth of between complaints, between government excesses and lies. what happened. It gives us something to think about between snacks, February 2, 2004 Who knows why, but this morning I find myself

thinking about jackrabbits, vineyards, and dust. These are but a few

significant emblems of my childhood, which, rather than ending, slow-moving mossy water. The sound of our tractor in the distance, the seeds, and worms. As I look out this morning on our cold, wet street, and at the gray sky above, and at the crows circling the firs one street over, I cant help wondering what I am doing here. Here. In this chair. In front of this computer screen. Writing incomplete sentences. Its not that I want to go back. Once was enough, as it is for so many things. But I am

gradually became the insanity I labor under today. Polliwogs, crawdads, tractor and my father pursued by a cloud of blackbirds looking for bugs, at the drops of water clinging to the bare twigs on the maple trees, and

grateful for the memories. Its all very tangled, I know. Much of it cant be things, yes. I played baseball on a team called the Alta Apiaries, and I

trusted. It happened, but did it really happen as I remember it? Certain batted over .400. Once, while running from first to second base, I was hit

directly on the left eye by the ball when the second baseman tried to

throw out the runner heading to first. It hurt. I kept playing. Later, the white of my eye changed colors. There was no trip to the doctor. The infield was hard dry dirt. A ground ball hit on that surface moved so handcuffed. You had to be on your toes. It was scary. But did we have a

quickly that an infielder, especially a third baseman, could be instantly coach? If we did, I dont remember him. I want to say we coached

ourselves, but I cant be sure. Countless hours spent rattling around the

countryside in a big yellow school bus. Riding through the dense valley fog. Riding through the heat, windows down, hollering. Nearing home one early spring afternoon as hail stones pelted the bus. I will say it

happened when I was in the fifth grade, but it might have been earlier, or later. And the collective memory: my father, walking from his home on Road 66 to Grandview School every day when he was a kid. His house

getting electricity in 1932, when he was nine. His father, herding home a neighbors turkeys and sheep after the neighbor lost his property during the Depression. Which neighbor? Which property? How did the animals taste? Were they stringy and tough? Probably. But it was better than vineyard to keep them from starving. Grapes, raisins, tomatoes, weeds. Old boxcars, with people living inside. You? Me? Everyone?

starving. In the winter, they had to feed their horses bare brush from the eggplant, mulberry trees, umbrella trees, shovels, hoes, pruning shears, February 3, 2004 If the world says no, where will you go? If the world A flute-playing coot in a suit? Or is the point moot? If the world

says yes, how will you dress? If the world is mute, whom will you shoot? disappears, then what of your fears? Were they worth it at all, or will they and left a note. It said, Youre missing the point. And of course the

earn only jeers? No one knows. While I was away, the world dropped by world is right. Many times, I have seen the world running naked through

the street, not making any sense at all, knocking on doors, trying to sell magazine subscriptions. And what has been my response? Tap, tap, tap. If that isnt missing the point, I dont know what is. While I was away, And so I looked all over, expecting to find some scrap of paper. But I

the world dropped by and left a point. It said, Youre missing the note. found nothing. Then the telephone rang. It was the world, asking if I

could come out and play. Tap, tap, I said, tap, tap, tap. The world hung up in my ear. I looked out the window. I was amazed by what I saw and what I heard, and by what I didnt see and what I didnt hear. But I went on tapping, just the same.

February 4, 2004 Come baaaaack, little Sheba. There. I have no idea I cant get the image of Burt Lancaster out of my head. Wasnt he in Come Back, Little Sheba? I know Shirley Booth was. Shirley Booth. Theres a name you dont hear much anymore. Once upon a time, didnt

what brought that on, but I feel much better now except for one thing:

she star in a weekly show called Hazel? If she didnt, who did? But a said, No brag, just fact. That was about 1969 or 1970. The Guns of Brennans masterful performance in To Have and to Have Not, with

program I liked even more was the one with Walter Brennan, in which he Will Sonnett. And who can forget The Real McCoys? Or Walter Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall? Wasnt that Bacalls first movie?

Wasnt she just nineteen at the time? Im pretty sure To Have and to Have Not was based on a novel by Hemingway. But maybe Im thinking of For Whom the Bell Tolls. I havent read either one. Not yet, anyway.

Perhaps I will after I become fabulously wealthy and am ensconced on a rubber room, whichever comes first. Who cares? What does it matter?

desert island, sipping big flowery drinks or am locked up in a round, How could it matter? But its nice to dream. No TV. No radio. No Internet.

No newspapers. No politicians. No insurance companies. So, where are the flowery drinks going to come from? What about glasses, for that it amazing how the mind works, or doesnt work? Could it be that my shows and movies? Amos and Andy. There was a great one. In my matter? Or will I be drinking from coconut shells? Gilligans Island. Isnt entire view of the world is nothing more than a hodge-podge of old TV opinion, the men who played Kingfish and Andy in the 1950s TV show far outshine the actors of today. So do the Three Stooges. Give me Curly Howard over Tom Cruise any day. Or the Marx Brothers. We used

to watch the Marx Brothers in a tiny little theater in Fresno, somewhere the Bijou. Thats where we saw Duck Soup, Animal Crackers, Monkey

around the corner of Cedar and Shields, I believe. The place was called Business, The Big Store, and, one of my all-time favorites, A Night at the

Opera, starring Alan Jones and Kitty Carlisle. After seeing a Marx

Brothers movie, we wandered around Fresno in a state of delirium for withstood, depending on how you look at it. My suggestion is, dont look sign that says Fresno, Next Exit, pull off the road immediately and shoot yourself. Youll come out ahead. Ah, Fresno. Gone are the street street corners. I wonder if the Basque Hotel is still there on F Street? We

days. And really, thats the only way Fresno can be appreciated or at it at all. If you find yourself driving along the highway and you see a

cars, gone is Armenian Town, gone are the boys shouting headlines on ate a pile of lamb chops smothered in garlic there once. What was the occasion? We were alive. We have been alive once or twice since, but Believe me, it wasnt the same. Many times, I have told my wife that we there were no Basque restaurants handy so we ate pizza instead. should open a restaurant here in Salem and call it the Basque Hotel. I

have also told her that I want to sell homemade chili on a downtown

street corner. There is a Russian fellow who sells hotdogs that way, so

why shouldnt I sell chili? I think its a great idea. Maybe we could his little umbrella. We could get a big umbrella. But now, suddenly, Im

combine forces and sell chili dogs. I saw him yesterday, standing under depressed. It just occurred to me that the business would be a big success. People love hotdogs, and they love chili. Fine. And yet if I tried to sell stories or books on a downtown street corner, people would only ha! Thats why Im depressed. Why should it be easy to sell hotdogs and beans, but hard to sell literature? On the other hand, maybe Im

laugh. Look at him, theyd say. What does he think hes doing? Ha-ha-

looking at it in the wrong way. If I did sell hotdogs and beans, I could give customers copies of my books. Watch the mustard, there, sweetie. You dont want to muss up your novel. Before long, there would be bean-stained copies of my work all over town. Trash cans would be literary waste. From there, it would be easy to get on talk shows. The next thing you know: fortune, fame, and the cover of Parade Magazine. overflowing. I can see the headlines now: City fines street vendor for

February 5, 2004 Any minute now, I expect the furnace repairman to arrive with four new burners and a heat exchanger. I was told yesterday . . . His name is Zane, and he is the same young man who took the that the job will take all morning. There. He just arrived. Ill be right back. furnace apart a few days ago to see what was needed. The house has

been cold this week, but not so cold that we had to take extraordinary capable of heating a small area. We also learned that if we use it in this

measures. We found an old electric heater at my mothers house thats room, and if someone uses a hair dryer in the bathroom, the power goes off in this end of the house. As it is, when we turn the heater on, the lights dim. Zane is a nice guy. The other evening when he was here, an

elderly woman pulled up behind him in our driveway, lost. When she had

trouble with our directions, Zane offered to lead her to her destination in his van. She was so grateful, it was heartbreaking. When he stopped by the next morning to double-check the furnaces model number, he said going only about fifteen miles an hour. When she did, she drifted to the

he had had to stop at one point to let her catch up, even though he was middle of the street and stopped. Then, as so often happens at times

like these, an impatient driver arrived on the scene. The driver leaned on his horn behind her, rattling her further. When she finally figured out how to pull aside, the driver honked again and roared off down the quiet residential street. In spite of all this, Zane managed to get the woman to her destination. But the rude idiot who couldnt spare fifteen seconds of though I dont see how he could be. . . . Now I can hear all sorts of his precious life is still out there somewhere. I hope hes happy banging through the floor vent. I think Ill go see how the work is coming along. . . . What a mess. No wonder the job takes so long. For one thing, designed to hinder repair. For another, the furnace is in a tight spot, certain strategic screws are hidden behind metal panels specifically making it impossible for anyone but a nine-year-old girl to fit hands and portion of the shared wall between the garage and our entry way or, as the Three Stooges used to say, Well have to blast. I see Zane is going to the van now. . . . Uh-oh. Hes holding a stick of dynamite. . . .

tools where they need to go. It looks like it will be necessary to remove a

February 6, 2004 I found a couple of interesting tidbits in the usual liars, I noticed a brief entry on Page 15 of the A section, titled

newspaper this morning. After paging through the usual lies told by the Bush prays for soldiers, nation. Here it is: Washington President Bush on Thursday offered prayers for fallen U.S. soldiers, for troops still

serving in Iraq and Afghanistan, and for the safety of our nation in still uncertain times. Speaking at the National Prayer Breakfast, Bush urged residents of all faiths to recognize our dependence on God and pray with one voice for his blessings on our country. Americans are a that they may live in safety and freedom. Amazing, isnt it? With all the prayerful people. . . . We pray for the people of Iraq and Afghanistan, blood and oil on that mans hands, he still has the gall to stand up and say things like that. Of course, as Liar in Chief, he says things like that every day. I found the other tidbit in the letters to the editor. There has Bowl half time show last Sunday as if TV hasnt been littered with or not revealed anatomy-wise hardly matters anymore. The message

been a tremendous amount of attention given to the lewd CBS Super such garbage for years. Ill skip the sensational details. What is revealed and intent are loud and clear. Anyway. The letter-writer pointed out that CBS refused to air a thirty-second anti-Bush ad that shows small is going to pay for President Bushs one-trillion-dollar deficit? The children doing menial labor, and that ends with the caption, Guess who reason CBS denied (censored) the ad? It thought it could be too controversial. Its worth noting that CBS is part of the media filter the president was complaining about a few months back the same media behemoths with the help of the White House.

filter that is rapidly passing into the control of a handful of corporate February 7, 2004 Since our son, Vahan, just finished the book, and

since I have read it only once about sixteen or seventeen years ago, I The Raw Youth. This was Dostoevskys next-to-last novel, the last being

have decided to take on Dostoevskys The Adolescent, also known as what is generally considered his masterpiece, The Brothers Karamazov.

The book was published in 1875. It is told in the first-person by an

illegitimate nineteen-year-old boy with the surname Dolgoruky. The family of the same name, and that he is not therefore a prince, but

narrator points out immediately that he is by no means related to a royal simply Dolgoruky. This earns him ridicule wherever he goes, as he is

shuttled back and forth between relatives, towns, and schools. Finally,

he gets tired of telling everyone that he is simply Dolgoruky, which he happens to think is an incredibly stupid name. Upon being asked for the time, No, Im the son of a household servant, a former serf, he breaks thousandth time if he is a prince, and after answering for the thousandth with tradition and instead says, No, simply Dolgoruky, the illegitimate detail within the first few pages of the first chapter. Last night when I

son of my former master, Mr. Versilov. This is all explained in great began reading, I was overwhelmed once again by Dostoevskys brilliant, of small print, and yet each densely packed sentence contributes to the think Dostoevsky is one of the greatest writers who ever lived, if not the greatest. Tolstoy? Great. Cervantes? Great. Victor Hugo? Great. Maupassant? Great. Balzac? Great. And of course there are others Im

psychologically revealing prose. The book contains well over 500 pages story. And what humor. I have said it before, and Ill say it here again: I

forgetting, who are also great. But theyre not as great though they are most certainly so momentarily. For instance, what are War and Peace and Don Quixote if they are not two of the greatest novels ever written? But not everything Tolstoy wrote measured up nearly as well, in my humble opinion, as everything Dostoevsky wrote. The same can uneven and full of windbag digressions something I am intimately definitely be said of Balzac, whose immense body of work was more familiar with as a third-rate hack and blowhard. And yet Balzac was brilliant, as was Tolstoy, and as were all the others. What I would like to

hammer into everyones soul here, too, is how tremendously difficult it is

to be a great writer the amount of suffering that must be endured, the

sweat, the toil, the insanity, the incongruity involved with transforming

what is seen, experienced, and understood into enduring, life-giving, lifeaffirming revolutionary art. I know this because it is hard enough to be a third-rate hack, and because the same rules apply, if only on a puny scale. But to be a great writer is to be a human giant and the

embodiment of truth and hope. Being a great writer is like being a great beyond the simple, obvious consequences. It requires genuine love,

mother, or a great father. Being a great anything requires an awareness even and perhaps especially of oneself though to the untrained eye humanity. Another part of what makes a great person great is that he realizes he is great and that he also realizes it doesnt matter, which contains all, expresses all, and has no master. because his greatness is only a reflection of the greatness of life itself, February 8, 2004 Three or four of us were in a big car, and the car was being driven by the fourteen-year-old neighbor kid from down the street. I knew he was too young and inexperienced, especially since we were on a dangerous mountain road. And then it happened: instead of hurtled off into space. I said to myself, Well, okay, this is it. I could see slowing down, he sped up for a turn; we hit a concrete barrier and there was water below. I tried to remember what it is that youre

that love often appears to be self-hatred or a general hatred for

supposed to do when your car lands in water. Roll down one of the windows? Roll it down an inch? We fell for a long time, much longer, really, than the situation called for. But thats the way it is in dreams. We

fell, and finally we landed and I found myself alone in a hotel room. I

could hear the voices of the others out in the corridor. I dont know

where the car was, or the water, or anything else. Then I noticed the

telephone on the table beside the bed. It dawned on me that all I needed

to do was to dial 911. I did this, and immediately I heard myself saying in we were trapped in our car under water. The man on the other end assured me help would arrive soon. I hung up, relieved. Then the others came into the room. Except for our neighbor, I didnt know who they

an urgent, hoarse voice that we had been in a terrible accident, and that

were, before or after the accident. Now the neighbor was gone, and one school. As soon as they had shut the door behind them, one asked me in an angry voice why I had called for emergency help. I said I didnt fine, he said in complete disgust. And so it seemed. But I knew better.

or two seemed to have been exchanged with people I had known in high

know for sure, but it had seemed like the right thing to do. But were all Apparently, I was the only one who remembered what had happened. The others, for whatever reason, had forgotten. This might have been been with me in the car. The most interesting thing, though, was that I about to happen, whatever that was. Thank goodness, I never found out. due to shock, or to the fact that they werent the same people who had felt totally responsible for what had happened, as well as for what was February 9, 2004 About all we can hope for, about all we can expect, is excuse me. Someone is handing me an envelope. Sorry about that. be a note inside. (More paper-handling noises.) Ah, yes. Here it is. It This will only take a moment. (Paper-handling noises.) There appears to says, Dear Bill: You are a big fat idiot. Hey, who are you, anyway? Wait a minute! Stop! Come back here, you! Im not fat! Why, the nerve of some people. Imagine, pulling a stunt like that. The lengths some people will go just to get a little attention I tell you, its sad. Anyway. Now. So. Where was I? Oh, thats right. I was about to say that all we can hope

for, and all we can expect in this day and age, is for people to huh? You want me to what? Im sorry, but that would be physically impossible. The keyboard is much to big. But listen. Ill tell you what. Since you were aside. . . . Oh. Really? Youll do it? . . . No, of course I wasnt kidding. I little balanced reporting around here. . . . There we go. Thats right.

gracious enough to come back, why dont you take over? Ill happily step think its great. (Chair-shuffling sounds.) Besides, its high time we had a Make yourself comfortable. Relax. Now, lean forward a little. (The sound surface.) Oh! thats too bad. You should have been more careful. . . .

of a brief struggle, ending with the sound of a head cracking on a hard No, I think youd better just lie there on the floor for the moment. Better not move. Does it hurt? . . . Really? Not too bad? How about this, then? (The sound of several neatly delivered slaps.) Now. As I was saying. All we can hope for is that we will someday learn how to be more tolerant,

more accepting of others. (Noises difficult to describe, but which might

involve a knee landing on a throat.) Think about it. If we are unwilling to remarkably similar to those made by a person in extreme pain), and if we

listen, and unwilling to explore different ways of thinking (noises are further unwilling to try to see ourselves as others see us (a terrible gurgling sound), then how can we expect there to ever be peace in this world? (A sudden, deafening silence.) February 10, 2004 This morning my thoughts are going in every

direction at once. Old days, new days, who said what, where, when, and raindrops, telephone calls, empty cigar boxes, bags of marbles, old Oedipus Rex, Oedipus Rex, you killed your pa and married your ma,

why, narrow country roads, time spent alone in vineyards and orchards, cemeteries, crazy uncles sipping lemonade, a funny song on the radio: they dont even do that in Arkansas. And so here I sit, awaiting some

sort of epiphany, some sort of grand transformation, or even simply a you will remain wrong until further notice. If my grandfather could see

message from on high: Youre wrong, youve always been wrong, and me sitting here, he would wonder why I am not working. And I wouldnt be able to explain to him that I am. But I would know better than to try. If only there were a shovel handle attached to the computer. How does this thing work? he might ask. And I might answer, Its simple. You press this button here, and this button here, then you wait a couple of days. Then, when a couple of days have passed, you press this button here, and those over there. To which he would most certainly reply, Bah. Youll never get anything done that way. Even if I were to have not be swayed. One hundred thousand and then some. So what? Its

the computer perform a word count on this document alone, he would just so much talk. What does it solve? You cant plow a field with it, or pick grapes with it, or prune a vineyard. I dont know. Maybe Gramp is right. Or maybe he was right in 1962. But this is 2004, and I dont have any fields to plow other than those that exist in my mind, or grapes to pick, or vines to prune. Nothing remains the same. In some cases,

nothing remains at all. But even then, nothing is something, and what you make of that nothing-something is vitally important, meaningless, may. and profound. It is all fertile ground. I say, let the seeds fall where they February 11, 2004 Well, another brother has been delivered safely to

the airport. In thirty hours or so, after layovers in Washington, D.C., and

Vienna, this brother will be back on the streets of Yerevan, wondering if it is all really real. And sometime later today, I will be back on the streets of Salem, wondering the same thing. I think we both know the answer: it is, and it isnt. It is real in every ounce and fiber of its exaggerated

unlikelihood, and it is unreal in its comically pathetic solidity and predictability. But we will keep checking, just to be sure. February 12, 2004 Yesterday afternoon I met with the friendly

accountant who annually cooks our books. He was tired, and said he had to do was stay up and work through the night, he said, I just cant do it anymore. I work ten-hour days. Thats enough. Hes right. And if I

was running twenty-eight tax returns behind. When I suggested all he

were in his shoes, Id only last about ten minutes. On the other hand, if he were in my shoes, hed be dead already, and darned grateful for it. I dont know whether he realizes this or not. But he does find it amusing stop and think that we both spend our time sitting in front of computers, which is also what the accountant does. The difference is, the accountant is behind and will have to work overtime to catch up, while I

that my son would earn more than me. So do I especially when you

am behind and will never catch up, and my son is ahead and comes games. It hardly seems fair. Then again, he is smarter than me, and me in a position: bent over. But I go on working just the same, even

home from work with enough energy to play three full-length basketball hard work is what has put him in this position. Hard work has also put though my hands have been reduced to lame claws. I had to fill out a check yesterday at the drug store, and could barely control my scribble. I told the pharmacist, Gee, I can almost write. Unfortunately, he had been counting pills and answering questions all day, and could only manage a blank stare. Finally, he said, But its warm outside today, meaning, I suppose, that my handwriting problem couldnt have been the result of cold temperatures. This meant I had to explain, which I out of the situation. But I had to say something, because now he was

absolutely did not want to do, because the spontaneity had been drained

standing there wearing a pleasantly puzzled expression. He wanted to understand, and I commend him for it, but there was nothing to understand. And so I said, Ive been at the computer all day. This made sense to him. He was satisfied. I wasnt, but at least I was free to thank him and leave. On my way to the parking lot, I found myself find nothing wrong with the arrangement. Why is that? I find no comfort

cursing the practical nature of things, and the fact that so many people at all in putting one foot calmly and sanely after the other. It disturbs and angers me. When I come to a well trodden path, I want to bounce over it with a pogo-stick. February 13, 2004 The last couple of days have been clear and

relatively warm, about sixty degrees, but now the clouds have returned. This is hardly a surprise. Around here, sudden, spring-like warmth is almost always followed by rain. Even so, the news people will wring their hands in despair and the weather people will give us cloud-by-cloud updates disgracefully embarrassing behavior in my opinion, not that anyone ever asks. Meanwhile, it was cold enough last night before the

clouds moved in that windshields and rooftops are still covered with

frost. Its still more winter than spring in Salem, though I have noticed the green tips of bulbs poking up everywhere. Our daffodils are emerging, as are my mothers tulips and hyacinths. As far as planting a garden goes, thats probably a good two months off. For me, this waiting period is an annual torture, because my internal farming clock was set long ago in the San Joaquin Valley, where it is possible to eat fresh tomatoes six months of the year. I might get used to it eventually, but I sort of doubt it.

Weve been here almost seventeen years, and Im still just as restless as

ever. My darling bride feels the same way. The other day, she bought a

four-inch pot with a pansy in it and placed it on the window sill by our

kitchen sink. Right away, as if by magic, the clouds parted and bright

sunlight bathed the plant. This was followed by the arrival of a beautiful head and neck. Our son told me what kind of bird it was, but Ive already

little bird, smaller than a sparrow, with bright yellow feathers around its forgotten the name. He said it was unusual to see them here. Several habits, examining their pictures, and watching their activities through binoculars. And I daresay he remembers everything he learned

years ago, Vahan made quite a study of birds, reading up on their

unless he is like me, and has mastered the ability to repeat what little he of knowledge, which fools no one but himself. Lets hope not. Its a lousy

knows with an air of authority and confidence, thereby giving the illusion way to live. Every now and then, I even try to remedy the situation by circuitry is jammed with useless information.

reading and paying attention, but I quickly become bogged down. The February 14, 2004 The White House spokesman I forget his name, Magellan, or McFelon, or something along those lines thinks its shameful for people to question the presidents honor and integrity in any and all matters, but especially in regards his past military service, of which many say he skipped about a year. Actually, its highly unlikely that McSwellguy cares, but the show must go on. To that end, he reads his lines and does what hes told like any other political weasel. For some reason, he has permitted himself to believe that because its his job, it is therefore all right to stand up and tell lies every day. When I see

people like this in action, I cant help remembering that they were once filling their pants as if there were no tomorrow. The transformation always amazes me. Its one of the saddest things there is, if not the

little boys and girls running around and playing games, having fun, and

saddest. How does an innocent child end up a deformed liar on Meet

the Press? What must he or she go through, what kind of psychological suffering must he or she endure? But back to the president. He must have been feeling mighty invincible when he made his heroic flight suit

landing lo those many months ago. And now, most recently during a special television interview, he has called himself a war president. So the question of his military service is, in fact, valid. If you are going to ask

young people to murder for you, if you are going to send them to their maimings and deaths, if you are going to put their families through hell, it seems only fair that you should account for your own time in the military. Personally, I think anyone who avoids serving in the U.S. military is

doing the sane, natural, responsible thing. But the president is not about to come out and say he was scared and didnt want to get killed, and that his family pulled a few strings and kept him out of danger even things went on all the time. Anyone who lived during the Vietnam era and who wasnt a child at the time knew it was going on. The sons of the

though its obvious that this is exactly what happened, and that such

privileged dont become soldiers. They didnt then, and they dont now. So what was that ridiculous flight suit appearance for? Why did he do it? Imagine being a real soldier, a real pilot, and having to watch that sort of insulting nonsense. Who gets to go home at the end of the day, and who

winds up in his little White House bed, and who will get up tomorrow in

complete safety and be treated to three gourmet squares? The soldier? The pilot? No, of course not. Its little toy soldier Georgie, the man who goes on, and the shameful lies meant to justify it all. If you are fooled by this, then stop being fooled. See the lies for what they are, and for what they are meant to accomplish: the enrichment of a few, at the expense posed in Iraq with a plastic Thanksgiving turkey. Meanwhile, the killing

of everyone else. Add up the lies. They constitute an amazing amount of evidence. February 15, 2004 Ive been feeling lately that it is about time once

again to undertake a major work. This might be due to the approach of

spring, though historically I have done my major writing during the bothered to think about it for more than fifteen seconds at a stretch. But

summer and autumn months. I dont know why that is, and I have never maybe I should. And while Im at it, maybe I should question my use of along the lines of a novel. Granted, the novels I have written so far may novels I will write may come to be thought of as major. For instance,

the word major. By major, I mean, or at least I think I mean, something one day come to be thought of as minor, if they havent already; and the Dostoevskys Poor Folk isnt usually thought of as being one of his major works, whereas Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov definitely are. There is also the very real possibility one might even

say likelihood that none of my works will be considered major. But this

is all beside the point. The point is, I have been feeling the urge lately to undertake a big writing project. Its the same feeling I used to have when morning with the burning desire to build something. This usually meant I was ten or twelve, and I would walk outside on a glorious summer hunting around for scraps of old lumber, a hammer, a saw, and a coffee

can full of rusty nails. Then the banging began. Or, if patience and

resources were limited, I could always fall back on putting together a plywood, a few nails and rubber bands, and marbles, and in no time I

wooden marble game. All that was needed was a flat piece of wood or had a miniature pinball setup. If I used enough nails and they were strategically placed, it would take several seconds for a marble to bounce its way from the top of the board to the bottom through the

pathways formed by the rubber bands, which were stretched from nail to nail. As the marble bounced its way down the board, it also made a satisfying plinking noise whenever it hit one of the nails. Now, for some

reason, I cant imagine kids doing this today, or being satisfied by a simple plinking noise. But I did, and was. I was also only too happy to again, we see a direct correlation to writing. What is writing if not the digress. At the moment, the urge to write is what I want to write about. I spend hours digging holes I have mentioned this before and here digging of holes, both in a literary and economic sense? But again, I was saying that I feel now as I used to feel when I was ten or twelve.

This is true. I still feel the restless need to make something, regardless of what it is, or of what it turns out to be. Then, I had no worries and boundless energy. Now, I have boundless worries and no energy. But even here, I need to stop myself. What I just wrote sounded clever, but it

wasnt really true. I do have energy, though it is no longer boundless, than keeping me from my work, tend to be a motivating factor. I also

and I do have what I will call certain concerns, but these concerns, rather recognize that almost everything I have said is inaccurate, or, at the very least, incomplete. How can I say, for instance, that my energy isnt boundless? I do get tired, and I often wake up nearly as tired as when I next day brings, in terms of both living and writing. So my energy in that

lie down, but I never feel like quitting. I look forward to seeing what the dimension is boundless except that it isnt, because it can only last as it can be argued that this sort of energy is a shared, cosmic force that is

long as I last an assumption that should also be questioned, because used and reused and replenished and refreshed, just like water. Who

can say how old water is? When we drink a glass of water, we tend to

think of it as a fresh, new thing, which it is. But isnt it also ancient? And

after we have used it, doesnt it reappear again later as rain, and doesnt it come bubbling up once again from underground? Well, it seems to me that the energy that is our life-force, so to speak, is of the same nature. I

realize this is a clumsy way to put it, or to go about putting it, but it

seems the best I can do at the moment. Maybe I will do a better job later on, and the result will be what can truly be called a major work. And if I do, and if it is, the result will be a better understanding of the fact that the creation is more important than the creator, who is really just an instrument through which energy flows and of the even more chosen or self-appointed few.

important fact that the energy is there for one and all, and not just a February 16, 2004 I have noticed many times, and am noticing here now once again, that the act of putting down the days first words seems to cause a rush of chemicals in the brain, and that this in turn leads to an

exhilarating feeling of fright and delight as if one had just jumped into an icy river, or set off on a great adventure into the unknown. Such is the pleasure in seeing where that work leads. What will I discover as a pleasure I feel in resuming my work. But there is an even greater result? What further trouble will I cause myself? How angry will I become, how tenderhearted, how foolish? How low will I sink, and how little of my own putrid ignorance will I be able to accept or recognize? These are important questions questions that accompany and haunt me throughout the day. Writers say they write for many reasons, some of them so precious that I wonder how they keep a straight face: In this

book, I wanted to explore this or that trite or boring notion. Oh, did you,

now? It seems to me that if you really wanted to explore something, you all, you can always achieve the desired results if you conduct the right

might try something you havent already made up your mind about. After

experiments. And while youre at it, stop whining, and stop being so deliberate and gentle. How bitter, how sarcastic, will I be? How intolerant, how brazen? I understand as well as the next writer, perhaps even part of a living. But does that mean the author must misrepresent

even better, that a book must be printed and sold if it is to earn its author himself, and convince himself that he is fascinated about things which in truth bore him to death? And if this is not so, then why are there so many do they come into being? Fear is the one-word answer. The three-word utterly boring books for sale? Why are such books conceived, and why answer is, mediocrity and fear. The four-word answer is, mediocrity caused by fear. How belligerent, how arrogant, how narrow-minded, will I be? How lucky?

February 17, 2004 I was so tired last night that the first few times I fell

asleep, I awakened myself shortly thereafter with a loud snort. Even under the circumstances, I was aware of the comedy of the situation. But after half a dozen snorts, the joke was wearing thin. Finally, the snorting night after this or that odd dream. I got up at five-twenty in a state of

subsided and I drifted off, though I did wake up several times during the puzzled exhaustion, glanced at the paper, squeezed an orange, and made our youngest son breakfast. Then I took a hot shower, which felt great, but also revealed a nearly desperate need for coffee. While the

coffee was being made, I signed onto the Internet to see if I had any email. I did. There were two notes from my brother in Armenia, a couple of unsolicited drug ads, and a daily subscription installment I receive making my replies, I started sipping my first cup of coffee. Then I signed about ten minutes, and that my cup was already half-empty. So I

from a website called Today in Literature. While reading my e-mail and off. Awhile later, I realized I had been staring at the computer screen for

wouldnt slip away again, I started writing. A sentence or two ago, I

finished my coffee and went to the kitchen for a second cup, and what will be my last until later today after lunch, when I will have another. So. There you have it. This is my list of accomplishments so far today. Somewhere along the line, I will probably wake up enough to get public. And I fully expect to be inspired, if Im not already. Is it the coffee? Is it working? I think I can feel something.

dressed and put my best foot forward. I might even venture forth into the

February 18, 2004 There is a pair of adult-sized tennis shoes dangling by their laces from a heavy power line that spans two busy lanes of traffic on Commercial Street a few blocks north of downtown Salem. They were probably tied to the wire during the night when traffic was sparse, but the line is well beyond the reach of a conventional ladder, so perhaps it was a professional job, perpetrated by a utility crew or a batch of city employees unless it was the work of a talented

squirrel. I have seen many squirrels dashing across similar power lines. None were wearing shoes. But that doesnt mean they dont have them. Thats why I think the case would be a good one for a new reporter coming up. Writing a story about squirrels and mystery tennis shoes would be a great way to make a name for oneself. In fact, maybe Ill do

the story and submit it to the local paper, which, of course, is only local in name, but owned by Gannett, the same outfit that publishes the publication emerged many years ago, awash with color, and in all its hideous paper known as USA Today. I still remember when the latter cheap-looking glory. I thought, how could anyone take a paper like this seriously? And then it seemed to turn up everywhere in barber shops and waiting rooms, and on the doorsteps of motel rooms. Get that thing away from me! I cried on more than one occasion, stomping my feet.

But it was impossible. The papers spread like a disease. Soon, real information on the front page, and more and more childish graphics and

newspapers were adopting Gannetts technique of putting less and less self-praise: We won an award never mind which award, we won it,

and so were great. A few years after that, the standard broadsheet was trimmed down in size, making it more difficult to hide from hecklers at bus stops something I find particularly annoying. After all, why does one buy a newspaper these days? It certainly cant be for the news, which is pre-chewed and spit into readers mouths by Uncle Sam. (This

is a grotesque image, when you think about it.) For example, the president is supposedly popular with people who like to race cars. There is your news. Or this: the president telling hand-selected supporters busily write down his every word, and photographers stand around taking his picture for the umpteenth time. This means something? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it does. And what it means is very sad and very ugly and very, very dangerous. February 19, 2004 As it happens, my wife and I had occasion

that he will fight terrorism until the threat is gone, while journalists

yesterday to drive under the dangling tennis shoes on Commercial Street. And as usual, even in something as simple as this, she was able able to determine that the lace of one shoe had been tied to the lace of the other, making it necessary only to throw the shoes up from the ground and let them drape themselves over the wire. It might have taken to remind me of what a dense fool I am. With a single glance, she was

a few tries, but no special equipment would have been needed, and certainly no squirrels had been involved. I said, Well, there you are, then. Ive done it again. Instead of seeing the obvious, I assumed the most difficult. Why do I do that? She said she didnt know, but that that

was indeed what I always did. This probably explains why Ive made such a mess of things over the years. When confronted with simplicity, I suppose this is why I write, and why I am unable to make my way through this world in any sort of practical fashion. But I dont care by see it as something convoluted, with a dark, mysterious background. I

which I mean, Im not worried about it by which I also mean, Ive But even if there is no hope, Im not worried about that, either by which I mean, its quite possible that Ive already given up. In fact, the

made it this far and by which I further mean, maybe there is still hope.

more I think about it, the more obvious it is that I have given up, and that way, when it couldnt be more plain that I am a burden to myself, my

this is what allows me to believe I am spending my time in a worthwhile family, and most everyone I meet except that they laugh. Why do they do that? Is it because I brighten their day somehow, or is it because they are glad they arent me? If I were them, I would be. I think. But Im not them. Im me. And yet this is preposterous. How can I be me? Was I

always me? Was I me when I was born, or did I only become me after several years of trial and error, with an emphasis on the error? Maybe Im still not me. Maybe I wont be me until Im dead, and then it will be those crazy things he said? Well, that I can answer here and now: Yes. I

too late. And then others will say, who was he, and did he really mean all meant every single word, otherwise I wouldnt have kept repeating myself all the time. I mean what I say, though I dont always say what I mean but I mean to, and thats what counts. You have to read

between the lines. Saying what you mean isnt easy, especially when what you mean keeps changing. And its not that Im trying to confuse things. They are already confused. At the same time, I think I have a

certain knack for clearing things up. I realize this sounds like a

contradiction. But even as I confuse things that are simple, I untangle things that are complicated. I am able to do this because the complicated things arent really complicated, but simple. Yes, yes. I know. But think about it. The tennis shoe incident, because of its

simplicity, deserves to be complicated; whereas, on the other hand, the and accept and which clearly cause us sorrow and pain, stem from basic

dangerous assumptions we make and the outlandish things we believe fear, ignorance, and insecurity. In short, our problems are simple, but are in desperate need of clarification. We are afraid because we are foolish notion that makes us feel physically and mentally safe. Down made excellent use of this. Yet they too have died, in fear and ignorance. For some odd reason, knowing this always cheers me up. insecure, and we remain ignorant because we are willing to follow any through the ages, politicians and religious leaders have understood and

February 20, 2004 A couple of days ago, a writer-friend of mine passed along a library copy of the 2004 edition of Writers Market, which, according to a front-cover quote taken from the Tampa Tribune, is the

Bible for scribes trying to get paid for their work in todays fast-paced, competitive market. Its been quite a while since Ive looked at a Writers Market. Ive never really cared for the publication, though it is useful to a

certain degree because it contains publishers addresses and editors names and so on. What I hate are the inspiring how-to articles, which blatantly rehashed year after year. A copy of Writers Market costs one sound as if they were all written by the same person, and which are penny less than thirty dollars. Writers Digest Books publishes an

updated edition each and every year, as well as several other annual directories that focus on different parts of the so-called writing market, such as fiction and poetry. So they have a pretty good racket going.

Anyway. One thing I did find interesting in the book is a section called names are there, such as Knopf and Random House, etc., but

Publishers and Their Imprints. Many of the old familiar publishing nowadays these are names only, which are strategically maintained by their corporate owners to give the book-buying public the impression that it has a choice. It doesnt, really unless you subscribe to the notion Here are just a few of the highlights: Viacom owns Simon & Schuster,

that there is a difference between eating at McDonalds and Burger King. not to mention Scribner, Pocket Books, and Atheneum. News Corp. owns HarperCollins, as well as Avon, Ecco, and William Morrow. Bertelsmann AG owns Random House, under which operate the

following publishing groups, each with their own familiar imprints: (USA) publishes Dutton, G.P. Putnams Sons, Jeremy P. Tarcher,

Ballantine; Bantam Dell; Crown; Doubleday; and Knopf. Penguin Group Viking, Dial, Grosset & Dunlap, and Philomel. Again, these are just a few major selections. AOL Time Warner? Little, Brown and Co., just to name doing business as St. Martins Press, Henry Holt, Farrar, Straus & one. And finally, an outfit from Germany named Holtzbrinck Publishers is Giroux, and Faber and Faber (and here a Faber, there a Faber, and everywhere a Faber Faber). Keep in mind, meanwhile, that the same thing is happening in all other major business sectors. The result is

something we are already living with, and will go on living with for a long time to come: namely, you can have any kind of apple you want as long as it is Red Delicious, and you can buy any kind of book you want as

long as it is generic, mainstream drivel. Coincidentally, I heard a while

back that many university book stores are owned by the big chain book sellers. By focusing on heavily promoted and financially tried and true titles, the stores help narrow students perspectives rather than

encouraging and feeding eclectic interests which, as we all know, haha, school is really all about. February 21, 2004 The mail weve been receiving lately is so

worthless that Ive been tempted to tell our carrier not to bother. Instead,

I went out yesterday afternoon at precisely 2:35 and asked him how his delivery vehicle died in the intersection near our house. He almost got it

official jalopy was holding up. About a month and a half ago, his square started three or four times, but finally he had to take me up on my offer to push it through the resulting cloud of noxious black fumes to a safer spot. Then he called the main office to tell them he was stalled, and that he would need another vehicle to finish his route. Id be dead without this cell phone, he said after hed hung up. He repeated this statement yesterday, after confessing that hed been stranded several more times and that this was compounded by their use of cheap, lousy parts. At the somewhere, he makes his call, straightens things out in his little truck,

since. He said the post office mechanics werent the best in the world, same time, I could see he didnt really care. If he breaks down and then reads someones paper or magazine until help arrives. This dont have far to go. He handed me five envelopes. Only one was of

sort of thing would drive me crazy, but, as I have been told many times, I legitimate concern. The others I tore up and tossed into our big blue lot like a certain violinist in the Irish musical group, The Chieftains, but I didnt.

recycling bin. As usual, I thought of telling the mailman that he looked a

February 22, 2004 Today I mourn the loss of the presidents dog, Spot, a.k.a. Spotty, which was kindly and gently put to sleep at the age of fourteen by what I assume was an accredited physician. I am

surprised and saddened by the First Familys decision to end Spots life

instead of trusting their bosom friend to Gods infinite wisdom and beneficent care, confirmed by previous court rulings affecting humans. But perhaps the experience has reminded them of how people feel when they must watch their loved ones suffer in medically prolonged agony. Then again, probably not. And now I am reminded of the day Cisco died. Cisco was a dog we had back there in the good old days, otherwise known as the Sixties. To paraphrase, if you dont remember the Sixties, a war going on. There were body bags, burnt draft cards, drugs, then you were probably there. And good old days they were. There was protests, campus riots, shootings, speeches, and assassinations. Then the Sixties became the Seventies, the Beatles broke up, and there were more body bags, more protests, more drugs, and so on. It was a great time. Thank goodness those days are gone, except, of course, for the

body bags, the protests, the drugs, the speeches, and the war against civil rights. Anyway. It was a Thursday, in the summer, in the evening, at when someone drove into our yard. My father got up to open the door. It was a man we knew, a man named Jack Day. Dad invited him in. But about nine oclock. I was sitting on the couch enjoying a root beer float

Jack didnt sit down. Instead, he told us he had some bad news. He said he had just seen our dog, Cisco, dead a quarter of a mile away on Alta Dad felt about dogs, and how we all felt. He left. Dad followed him Avenue. Cisco had been hit by a car. Jack felt terrible. He knew how outside and thanked him, then came back and put on his shoes on got the keys to our pickup so he could go get Cisco and bring him home. Burying a pet is no fun. Over the years, our vineyard became a veritable cemetery for loyal hounds. That night in bed, I thought about Cisco, and how he had learned to play tetherball, and how for hours he trotted up and down the vineyard rows beside our tractor. Cisco was a good friend,

as I am sure Spot was. And that is the wonder of animals. They dont

judge. Little did Spot know what his master is capable of. Little did he

know that the news of his passing would be published in papers across

the country, while the news of American and Iraqi deaths, numbering in name of obscene profit could have their names published in American newspapers. Farewell, Spot. You were a good dog. February 23, 2004 The writing of Fyodor Dostoevsky never ceases to amaze me. I am now nearly 300 pages into his novel, The Adolescent, and I am not exaggerating when I say that this mans writing has kept

the thousands, goes untold. How nice it would be if everyone killed in the

me under a spell. I almost said trance, but that would be carrying it too far not because I havent been in a trance, but only because the trance hasnt been continual, whereas the spell has. I have been able to eat when reminded, and to utter the occasional incoherent sentence. I have also been able to write, which amounts pretty much to the same thing. Through it all, I have been desperately happy, but, as I dont

deserve such happiness, I have also been tormented by guilt, which in turn has left me in a state of abject despair. Such is the power of Dostoevsky, at least over simple minds. On the practical side, I have that of grabbing you by the throat with some new absurd and contradictory thing could have come to pass. He wasnt the first or

enjoyed his use of a certain storytelling device that he employed so well development, and then going back and telling just how such a strange last to use this device, but his use of it was brilliant. As for the device it was extremely popular in its highly polished wooden form; now it is up.

itself, I understand that it was originally made of stone, then bronze; later commonly made of plastic, and it wears out the day after the warranty is

February 24, 2004 Its hard to believe that I have added to this strange, meandering piece of writing every day now for almost a year. When I mentioned this to my wife a couple of days ago and asked her if she thought I should quit when the year was up, her answer was a definite no. When I asked her why, she said, Because its interesting, and because its a record of the times. Then I said, Well, maybe it is,

and maybe it isnt. But the real question is, isnt it also kind of boring? I on? She confessed she is used to that, and that nearly thirty years of marriage have possibly conditioned her a bit. Ah-ha! I cried. I knew it.

mean, is there any point in listening to someone who is just going on and

When the year is over, Im going to quit. In fact, Ill quit right now. But she said I couldnt quit. She said didnt want me to. And so there you consecutive days. During that time, nothing has been solved. I am a little have it. Counting today, I will have been clapping with one hand for 345 older, dumber, and creakier, and so is the country in which we live. Things havent gotten better, here or abroad. They have gotten worse. I take no particular pleasure in saying such a thing; I am saying it simply

because I believe it is so. During the months ahead, we will be swimming in lies even more so than we are now, since this is an will play theirs. The killing will continue. At the same time, I believe it is entirely possible to be cheerful and happy in ones own daily, be disgusted and angry at the same time. I also think its necessary. As election year. The politicians will play their games. The news people

anonymous existence. And I believe, in fact, know, that it is possible to for this journal, it will either end after a year or it wont. I have never been one to plan that far ahead. For me, two or three weeks are an eternity. As for it being a record of the times, so are the stories I have written and published on my website and elsewhere, and so is my novel, A Listening

Thing, and so is another finished novel I have waiting in the wings which possibility is that I will continue with One Hand Clapping, but that it will take on a new form. Still another possibility is that I will continue with the some other desperately futile piece of writing that is sure to leave me

is every bit as good if not better, The Smiling Eyes of Children. Another

journal as it is, and at the same time begin work on yet another novel, or irritable, exhausted, and blind. Whatever I do is bound to be the result of undercurrent in my thinking. I almost said subconscious mind, but thinking is already stretching it far enough. And now its raining. Hard. February 25, 2004 Last night, a short time before I went to bed, I

some foolish impulse, as well as some unrecognized or misinterpreted

scribbled these words on a small scrap of paper: I will explain something, even though no one asked. . . . I am looking at them now, instance, they are a pretty apt description of the work at hand. But thats these words as the possible beginning of a story. The I wasnt me. The trying to remember what they meant. I see what they could mean. For not what I had in mind. Or is it? Wait. Now I remember. I was thinking of I was an inconsiderate bore interested only in the sound of his own voice. I repeat, the I wasnt me. I am a considerate bore. And while I sound of other voices which reminds me: several years ago, Im pretty am interested in the sound of my own voice, I am also interested in the sure I had a story rejected by a magazine called Other Voices. I know

there was a magazine by that name. I think it might have been published by a university. And since I have had stories rejected by almost every magazine in the country, it seems likely that I had a story rejected by that called Voices. That story was published in Barbaric Yawp. It was about

one as well. Oddly enough, a story I wrote that wasnt rejected was a son who was crazy, a father who was crazy, and a mother who was

really crazy. The story was told by the son, who, though he was the sanest of the bunch, heard voices coming from the bottom of a hole. But he wasnt the only one who heard them. His father heard them too.

Anyway, as I said, these people were nuts. They were nuts not because they couldnt relate, but because they understood far too much except for the mother, who was independently nuts, not unlike those who are

independently wealthy, in that they just sort of sprout up without rhyme they are unable to produce a shred of proof. For some reason, it is up to everyone else to prove that they shouldnt be there a hopeless task, and a dangerous one as well, because usually, along the way, what is

or reason, with the definite conviction that they should be there, though

proven is that they are in no better shape than those they are trying to expose, or certify. As for myself, I know better than to try to prove insanity. someone is crazy. I couldnt do it without revealing and proving my own February 26, 2004 The latest news on the financial front is that

Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan says the government needs to cut back on the size of Social Security payments for future retirees. He says this is necessary because of our rapidly changing

demographics. Simply put, when the so-called baby boomers reach changes need to be made very soon to avoid disaster and, to

retirement age, there wont be enough dough to go around. He thinks paraphrase, so people can make other plans. For years now, my wife

and I have assumed there will be no Social Security left when we are no

longer fit to pursue the great American Dream. And judging by several that opinion. And of course it makes sense. What doesnt make sense is

quotes in this mornings paper, there are quite a few people who share Mr. Greenspans unspoken acknowledgement of the fact that our

pockets will continue to be drained to pay for resource-grabbing, empirebuilding wars, while the remainder goes to the wealthy owners of giant But I take that back. It does make sense. It makes perfect sense, corporations that decimate the environment and use people like cattle. because he is part of the system, and because he knows full well that

this is whats going to happen. Its a pity someone like him cant simply

stand up and say, Look, why dont we quit spending money on killing decent life? Come to think of it, I have heard none of the men running

people and destroying the planet, and instead use it to help people live a for president say it either. They say safe things, which in the long run they know will prove to be entirely meaningless. They are meaningless now. And just what does Mr. Greenspan think our other retirement plans survive? Once a week, shall we put a nickel in a jar? should consist of, when millions of people are already struggling to February 27, 2004 A few minutes ago, the telephone rang and it

nearly scared me to death. I didnt want to talk to anyone, so I didnt

answer. Now Im looking at the phone, wondering if its going to ring again. Had I answered the first time, I wouldnt have had to wonder. But if I had answered, then I would have had to talk to someone. Why should party likely to take notice and be offended? No, its better not to answer.

I talk to someone if I dont feel like it? If I dont feel like it, isnt the other Let the person call again later. Maybe Ill answer then. And if he or she

doesnt call later, that proves it wasnt important in the first place. Either possibly crawling out into the street for help. I probably should have answered. Why didnt I? What am I doing thats so important that it cant be interrupted for a moment? Maybe it was a friend, wanting to talk.

that, or it proves the exact opposite, and he or she is now dead, or

Maybe it was a radio station wanting to ask me a silly question as part of

a big giveaway. No, it was definitely somebody who wanted me to give them money. Have you heard about our this, that, or the other thing? We phone. Pardon me, but my tea kettle is whistling. I am making tea for the queen. Thats great. Maybe the queen would be interested. No, I dont know youre interested, otherwise you wouldnt have answered the

think so. The queen is interested in one thing, and one thing only: tea. and have weathered as many scandals, tea is hardly too much to ask. you going to send me a check? Wait a minute. Hold on. . . . Yes, yes.

And I think shes entitled. When youve lived as long as the queen has, But arent you interested in saving money? Of course Im interested! Are The teas right there. Get it yourself, you old battle axe. Cant you see Im on the phone? . . . Oh. No check, eh. I thought so. You are not going to send me money. I am going to send you money. Yes, master. Yes. I hear, and I obey. I . . . will . . . write a . . . big . . . check. Will . . . give you

. . . my . . . credit card number. . . . Seriously, the queen and I get along quite well. She stays in her palace, and I sit here in my squalid corner. She doesnt tell me how to run my business, I dont tell her how to run

hers. Once a day, I invite her for tea, and once a day she politely ignores my offer. That way, we both get what we want. We drink our bloody tea alone, thank you.

February 28, 2004 It might sound corny, but last night it was so clear that the stars shone like lamps in the heavens. Distant suns, planets, constellations, endlessly unfolding, the blackness between,

unfathomable. Measure it if you like, call it what you will, divide it into little squares, break it down according to books and tables, explain its how insignificant that knowledge really is. And dont forget that even if origin in religious terms but dont forget how little you truly know, and you were to know everything, in the grand scheme of things it would still

be less than nothing. There is an old proverb . . . well, not really. I mean was passed down through the ages and which finally took the form of a

there is, but I have forgotten it completely. There is also an old fable that beautifully sculptured stone near a shimmering pond, and this I havent

forgotten. It is about a young man and an old man who quarreled over why and how the universe came to be, and how in the end they were unable even to define the term, and how both were content to merely could take the form of a beautifully sculptured stone is, of course, the stone and the pond are ignored.

argue, and to be impressed by their own illogic. How such a paltry fable real fable. The shame of it is, the quarrel continues to this day, while the February 29, 2004 I didnt have time to read The Adolescent yesterday. I am now on Page 400, and am set to begin Chapter Four of Part Three, which is the third and final part. Not counting the notes at the back of the book and the chronology in front, I have 164 pages to go. catastrophe, which concludes my notes. I have no doubt that the final Here is the first sentence of Chapter Four: Now Im approaching the final catastrophe will be the catastrophe of catastrophes. Judging by the

catastrophes so far, it is inevitable and fitting. There have been suicides, wild gambling sprees, financially ruined princes, hidden documents, conceptions out of wedlock, fevers, deliriums, challenges to duels, of it all is, none of this comes across as gratuitous or forced; the

revelations, manipulations, intrigues, and counter-intrigues. The beauty characters are desperately and poetically true to themselves. Now, on to something else. In recent days, the Hollywood publicity machine has created a media circus to coincide with its release of a new Jesus movie.

The Passion of the Christ, directed by a well known actor of middling

talent who, we are told, is a devout Catholic, hauled in nearly thirty

million dollars the day it was released. Thanks to Hollywood, and to the publics gullibility, the violent and bloody R-rated film has become controversial. Curious individuals and entire church congregations

have already visited theaters and paid good money to see for Christianity? is it the duty of Christians to see this film? is it anti-Semitic,

themselves. Meanwhile, the media dutifully ask, is this good for etc., etc. as if suddenly now, after thousands of years, humankind has out, it probably hasnt, and it probably doesnt matter. If you see the

reached a crossroads. My humble suggestion is, if you are paying to find movie because you like to see movies, fine. If you enjoy it, fine. If you

dont, fine. If it is thought-provoking, fine. If it is too violent for you to

stand, fine. The director says he wants people to realize just what it thinks for a moment can figure this out for himself.

means to be crucified. It is my contention that anyone who stops and March 1, 2004 My mother remembers my grandfather, I remember the way he looked at different stages of his life, the sound of his voice, memories. Someday, those of us who knew him will also be gone. This remembered. Still further down the line, only the memory of the memory didnt make history, he wont be remembered at all. And so it goes.

my grandfather, our children remember my grandfather. We remember and the things he did. My grandfather died in 1990, but he is alive in our is significant, because then, only the memory of my grandfather will be of my grandfather will be remembered, and then, eventually, since he Such is the ephemeral nature of our lives. When my brother was visiting from Armenia, he made a trip to California to see relatives. During that time, he went with one of our fathers cousins to see my grandmothers recorded our aunt as she told stories about long gone family members

sister, who is almost ninety-two. While they were there, my brother

she remembered. Listening to the cassette was a deeply emotional heard these stories before. But hearing them again after so many years,

experience. It was as if her familiar voice were calling up spirits. I had told as if for the first time with effortless certainty, made me feel like I

was home again. How else can I describe it? When I was growing up, these people I have never met, these tragic-comic characters from the not, seemed close enough to touch. I couldnt touch them, but they were persecution, dispersion, tragedy, humiliation, torture, and tumult. How Old Country, some of whom made it to these shores and others who did there all the same. These were people who endured violence, can one grow up hearing about such things and not be permanently affected especially when the family elders, the survivors, possess such a triumphant sense of humor and take such joy in living? March 2, 2004 Once again, this room needs cleaning from top to

bottom. Its the worst it has been in a long time but not the worst ever.

There was a time when the walls were lined with cardboard boxes full of empty canning jars, piles of magazines, boxes of clothes, books, sheet with only a path to get through. This wasnt my work room then. I worked music, hats, and quite a few other items, all from three to four feet deep, in a different bedroom when the kids were small, and we had lumped them together in another part of the house. Later, when they started to the big room we had them in became a storeroom. Also, when my require more space and privacy, the bedrooms were all taken over, and brother first moved from California to Oregon, he lived with us for a time.

And in the mid-Nineties, a friend stayed with us on two separate occasions, each time for several months. And so, bit by bit, more space was cleared in this room, which is also the master bedroom. I sit in a

corner by the window. The bed is behind me. My table is heaped with

books, drawings, old manuscripts and letters, and a disgraceful layer of dust. I have plastic desk trays stacked three feet high, with each tray stuffed to the gills. On top of that is an old straw hat I sometimes wear when I work outside. But I have mentioned only a small portion of whats in this room, and the fact is, almost every speck of it is the result of my

activities. My wife has a few papers stacked on one corner of the old box. The rest is mine, all mine.

desk on my side of the bed, but they could be stuffed into a large shoe March 3, 2004 Nearly 200 people were killed yesterday in Iraq, and

hundreds more were injured. Springing from this one event alone will be on to the children and to their children. This is the circular nature of violence and war, the circular nature of human ignorance. . . .

the grief and anger of thousands, and this grief and anger will be passed

Meanwhile, they have found strong evidence that water once existed on Mars. Who knows what went on there millions or billions of years ago? And who knows if we will ever find out? We arent even sure of what went on here millions or billions of years ago. About all thats certain is

that the world was better off before we arrived on the scene, and that Mars.

someday, if we keep going as we are, this place will end up looking like March 4, 2004 I was jolted from my torpor yesterday evening by a in 1990. He was on a business trip and was calling from a hotel room in

phone call from a cousin I havent seen since our grandmothers funeral Washington, D.C. Fairly early in our conversation, I asked him if he still gum, but that now he was hooked on the gum and thought he might have to take up smoking again in order to break the habit. This struck me as an extraordinary piece of information. In exchange, I told him

smoked. He said he had quit seven years ago with the help of nicotine

about the time I took our grandfather to the grocery store, and looked on while he dismantled a large display of cantaloupes to get at the ones he wanted. He was about eighty-eight at the time and walked with a cane.

When he got his hands on a shopping cart, however, he put the cane in of melons and sale items. It was almost impossible to keep up. While we were on the subject of melons, I also told my cousin that during the Depression, Gramp was one of the best-known watermelon pickers in

the basket, leaned on the cart, and sped all over the store with his load

the San Joaquin Valley. Yes, in those days, one could be known for such a talent. Thats why I miss those days, even though they happened before I was born. But Gramp was not merely a great watermelon picker. He was a watermelon consultant. They didnt call it that back then, but thats what he was. When a farmer was having trouble getting an

already-picked load of melons past inspection because too many green melons had been picked, Gramp was called in to separate the green melons from the ripe melons. This is not as easy as it might sound. It is

one thing to judge a melons ripeness while it is still attached to the vine, faced with thirty tons of melons stacked together. To most people, they

within its natural setting and context. It is entirely another when you are all look alike. And you certainly cant thump them all, because that would take forever. No, in a situation like that, what is needed is an at first glance. He didnt have to stand there and think about it. My understanding of melons. Gramp knew the degree of a melons ripeness cousin was amazed. I said, Yes, we also have this in our blood. It is

something to be proud of. When he said sheepishly that the melonpicking gene seemed to have passed him by, I encouraged him with, No, you have the talent, it only needs to be awakened. While he mulled this over, we chatted about other things, until we finally realized the

conversation had run its course. I found this tremendously sad. It was almost as if a door had miraculously swung open, only to slam shut again.

March 5, 2004 There are moments, and sometimes even hours, when that seems impenetrable. I dont know whether I am on the inside looking out, or on the outside looking in. The simple ticking of a clock still another and I know, and sometimes I am glad, that they are

the insane roar between my ears gives way to a deep, brooding silence

reverberates like thunder. First one second is gone, then another, and irretrievable. Am I rushing, or am I standing still? Am I ascending, or descending? Does it matter? Or am I even asking the right questions? I come and I go. I see people, they see me. We talk or we dont. We smile

and hold open the door. How nice it all is, how painfully real, how jubilantly unreal. Surely, its all a joke, and there is nothing to understand, think, say, or do. A joke. An accident in time and space, a to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn, My lip the secret Well of Life to learn:

cosmic hiccup. If it is, then Omar Khayym was right when he said, Then And Lip to Lip it murmurd, While you live, Drink! for once dead you Because he also said this: Oh, come with old Khayym, and leave the the Rest is lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

never shall return. And if life is not a joke, he is still probably right. Wise to talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and March 6, 2004 Twenty-five years ago on this day, at nine-thirty in the both sex and weight, right down to the quarter-ounce. When my wife and

evening, our first child, a daughter, was born. My father had predicted our beautiful baby girl were wheeled into the corridor and ready to be was just big enough to wrap around it. We looked at each other, and the

taken to their room, I held out my little finger to our daughter. Her hand

world was transformed. These were the days when it was beginning to be the fashion for fathers to join their wives in the delivery room. I did stay with my wife in another room for the two hours we were in the hospital before she was ready to be taken in for delivery. But as she was

also a nurse and we were both a little old-fashioned, we had already decided I wouldnt follow. I watched through the window instead. Dr. Wonderly was there, the best and most capable family doctor we have and arms. The man was thoroughly delighted to be there. Everything heard her say, We have a girl. A few minutes later, Dr. Wonderly

ever known. The two of us chatted outside while he scrubbed his hands went well. My wife turned in my direction, and through the window I emerged carrying a big round pan, and, with a wry smile, asked me, Do you want to see what your baby lived in? That was Dr. Wonderly. And that was the beginning of what has proven so far to be the longest,

strangest, happiest, most tiring, and most challenging period of our lives. In slightly less than two years, our first son was born; our second son followed a month less than three years later on my wifes birthday; and our youngest son, who is now sixteen, joined us three years after that. By that time, Dr. Wonderly had died, and was resting in the tiny

Adventist cemetery on the corner of Road 64 and Avenue 408, not far from where we lived and from where my father was born. I have thought and written about that cemetery and those like it many times. If a person

is going to be buried, a little cemetery surrounded by vineyards and

orchards is the place to do it. The absence of crowding means having to listen to fewer complaints. Instead, one can hear the sounds of birds, the voices of men singing and working in the fields, and the rumble of tractors in the distance not a bad way to spend eternity. But I am

getting ahead of myself. Happy birthday, my dear little one. And thank you, thank you all, for giving meaning to this old fools life. March 7, 2004 Part of yesterdays festivities included a trip to the Boys and Girls Club, where we watched our youngest son and his team, losses for the year. Yesterdays game was the first of the playoff the Goodfellas, play basketball. They won, giving them six wins and two tournament. Had they lost, their season would have been over. They another about three hours after that. If they win both, they will be champions of their division. There are two divisions. As far as I know, the

play again early this afternoon; if they win that game, they will play yet

division winners dont play each other, meaning their will be two

champions. After the game yesterday, we convened here for our daughters birthday meal. Of course, before eating, the boys immediately hit the street for another round of basketball. The rest of us so-called

adults stayed inside, set the table, got the food ready, and blabbed. After the meal was over, the boys remembered there was a basketball game on TV when isnt there? so we were all subjected to more sports. Then our daughters cell phone rang. It was my brother and his wife hours ahead, so they were calling on Sunday morning. Now its Sunday morning here and its night there. As we correspond frequently, the time difference is something I think about most every day. If I send e-mail

calling from Armenia to wish her a happy birthday. Armenia is twelve

now, for instance, they will still be awake there to receive it, and so on and so forth. The amazing thing, though, is that it is possible to communicate with them at all. I have been alive long enough to know that this is something that shouldnt be taken for granted. Talking to someone in Armenia on a hand-held gadget one-third the size of the old transistor radios we used to carry with us when we worked in the

vineyard is big stuff. Transistor radios were big stuff. And sending email? Why, it defies logic. People used to send letters, which would arrive six months later, if at all. In that amount of time, everyone involved could be dead. Now its satellites, computers, and around-the-clock perpetrated against Armenia and so many other nations and peoples dont happen again. Ha! Wake up and smell the coffee, is all I can say. news. If anything, this should guarantee that the genocidal atrocities

March 8, 2004 The Goodfellas lost in a thrilling see-saw battle, 42-41. The season is now officially over. After the initial shock, which lasted about three minutes, no one on the team seemed too upset. In fact,

since the players attend different high schools and not everyone knew each other beforehand, its quite likely some of them wont see each other again. I played on three city league teams after high school, and

thats just how it was. I dont remember most of the players. I remember a few because they were friends or acquaintances, but their acquaintances Ive long since forgotten. All that mattered at the time was getting enough players together to have a team. Still, it was fun. The first

team I was on was composed of several rejects from the high school varsity team. But we werent rejects in the usual sense. We were actually the ones who had done the rejecting, because the basketball coach at the time was a mental case. He even used to watch our city league how much we were enjoying ourselves. But who knows what stories he told himself. I do know what he told the high school basketball team

games. I think it bugged him a little when he saw how good we were and

before practice one day after I had quit the team. He gathered everyone together and announced that I had crapped on him. This is the same person who had me play in a varsity tournament when I was still a freshman, and who made me a starter on his team when I was a

sophomore. After that, though, things became political. For the usual

childish reasons, certain other players had more pull on the team, and though they werent as good as me he stated in all modesty they got to play and I was suddenly relegated to the bench and brought in at the end of games, when everything had already been decided. And so I told him there was no point in me being on the team. This couldnt have chose to be surprised. To get even, he branded me as a traitor. This was

been a surprise to him it certainly wasnt to anyone else but he funny, under the circumstances. Even funnier is that one day in the specifically asked me to rejoin the team and be part of the starting

locker room the following year, he invited me into the office area and lineup. I found this offer very interesting. Since I enjoyed basketball so much, I agreed. But as soon as I agreed, he said, Of course, after what up the gym. I remember this just as if it were yesterday. In that case, I you did, Ill expect you to do a few extra things for awhile, such as sweep said without hesitation, you can forget it. And once again he was alive, and I dont care. But I do know there are too many still out there want desperately to win, but they are losers, each and every one.

surprised. Now, years have passed. I have no idea if this man is dead or like him, who exercise their puny power over eager young people. They March 9, 2004 I really need to spend more time in alleys. Sidewalks and storefronts are fine, but alleys are a good place to meet interesting people, even though most are only posing as eccentrics, including roughness that they view everyone they meet with suspicion. I met a

myself. Some, of course, truly are rough, or have endured enough man in an alley yesterday afternoon who fitted that description, though he still seemed to possess a sense of humor. After struggling and ultimately succeeding to light his cigarette, he picked up his backpack,

looked at me, and smiled. That is, a spark of recognition, or something like it, momentarily brightened his eyes. The rest of him wasnt smiling. know him? Was I someone he should know, or could know, or just The rest of him was dejected and worn, yet alert. Did he know me? Did I another pretender? It didnt take long for him to decide. I was a

pretender. After we had finished our wordless conversation and parted company, I passed about twenty minutes in a nearby used book store. I spent five dollars and ninety-five cents on a hardbound copy of Thomas Wolfes Look Homeward, Angel, which I will get around to eventually. Finding the book was an interesting coincidence, since Thomas Wolfe was someone who lived large, meaning, among other things, that he

didnt shy away from people in alleys. I have read with pleasure on more than one occasion that Wolfe, who died of tubercular meningitis in 1938 at age thirty-seven, said early on that he wanted to meet as many people, see as many places, and do as much writing as he possibly could. As those who knew him soon learned, that turned out to be the only way he could live. And now, sixty-six years later, his books are still in libraries and book stores, waiting to be discovered. That is the beauty of books, and the beauty of those who suffer to write them not that writers have a monopoly on suffering. Everyone suffers, whether they realize it or not, whether they care to admit it or not. And but for fate, everyone could be that ragged man, woman, or child who feels more at

home in alleys than on the street. It might not be something to dwell on, but it is important to recognize. It is also important to realize that this formula works both ways. With the right accident of birth, which one of

us couldnt have been the self-centered, evil, grotesque rich person who thinks nothing of treating his or her fellow human beings as commodities to be bought and sold? The news is full of people who were once little

children, and who have long since become monsters. The worst of them

wont be found in alleys. They might not stick a knife into you, but they will kill you in a thousand legal ways, and make you pay them to do it. Again, its something to think about, if only briefly. Because there is also the sun to enjoy, and the wind and the rain, and the steady approach of another spring. There is the miracle of living to behold, and to wonder at, and to feel in ones muscles and veins. To ignore it would be a great tragedy.

March 10, 2004 For the last couple of weeks, just before daylight, a dove has been calling outside our window. I think it must be the same dove, because it starts in at the same time each morning and always says the same thing: oohoohoo, hoo, hoo not that Ive heard a dove when they are startled and take flight, a prolonged exclamation uttered in time with fluttering wings an eruption of graceful fright, as it were. In any case, Im glad the doves have returned. It seems we have more now say anything else. But there is also that wonderful sound doves make

than we did, say, ten years ago, but I could be mistaken. Every evening through the warm months, there is usually a pair or two feeding on the ground under the pine trees in our backyard. We do our best not to in being disturbed, like quite a few people I know. When I was a kid on disturb them, though doves are easily disturbed, and might even take joy the farm, there were many doves, and over the years we had several close encounters. One thing I learned early on was that a mother dove will flap around literally at your feet in order to distract you from its nest.

When you try to catch it, the bird flaps along the ground just out of your reach and leads you away. The first time I saw this happen, I thought the dove was hurt, which is exactly what it wanted me to think. Then there were the nests themselves. These were often built into the crowns of

grapevines, from about belt- to chest-high, and mostly concealed by

foliage. On quite a few different occasions, we would be working in the vineyard and suddenly find ourselves staring a mother dove right in the face, the bird frozen in its nest, with its eggs under her. In that situation, bravery by slowly backing away and working around them. Before I knew

the doves sat there trembling, but wouldnt take flight. We rewarded their better, I also shot at doves with a BB gun while they were perched on power wires. When I aimed well enough to actually hit one, the BB would bounce off and the dove would sit there and yawn. And so I spent most

of my time shooting at beer cans lined up on the rugged redwood posts at the end of the vineyard rows. Most of the endposts around the house were dimpled with BB holes. Then I moved on to the .22 rifle my father found in his fathers vineyard when he was in high school. Someone had just left it there. So he cleaned it up and used it, and we had it for years and years, until it was stolen one night when no one was home and early Eighties. In the Fifties and Sixties, it wasnt necessary yet to lock even used to leave the key in the pickup during the day. Anyway, I

someone broke into the house. This happened in the late Seventies or the doors, unless we were going to be gone for a few days. My father learned how to use the rifle, but as it was capable of killing someone a mile away, the gun usually remained in the house. I did kill a jackrabbit with it once when I was about thirteen. The rabbit cried like a child. So did I. March 11, 2004 I finished reading The Adolescent. Once I recover, I

will probably move on to Look Homeward, Angel. I cant begin right away, because I am still seeing the world through Dostoevskys eyes. The last 150 pages, especially, were nothing less than a literary whirlwind, in which most every character went completely nuts, so great

was the pressure they were under all of it self-induced or self-inflicted, I might add. This could be why I relate to Dostoevsky so well. But for the moment, thats enough about him. I need to think things over before I

say anything more. I am desperately afraid that I will say the wrong thing trauma. Basta! That was an exclamatory remark uttered by the novels changing moments. But thats it. I will say no more. To calm myself, I will coverage. On second thought, Id better not, because I might

and give the wrong impression, and that this will lead to guilt-laden narrator during one of countless emotionally charged and potentially lifecall my insurance agent and ask for a complete rundown on our accidentally tell her what I think. Crooks! Liars! Thieves! You are not my friend, you are not my neighbor, you are not a member of my family, so one thing only my money. Basta! I ask you, is that any way to live? stop your pretending and admit that you want one thing from me and March 12, 2004 You know youve cracked when you start having dreams like these. Last night, I dreamt someone was at the front door not of this house, but some other house, which was built on an

extremely high foundation. I opened the door and looked out, only to find pecking on the high concrete steps. The horse was mottled and mangy,

a horse milling about on the ground, and about two dozen red hens with a sunken back that reminded me of Thunderbolt, a broken-down race horse in an old Three Stooges episode. For some reason, none of this surprised me. The hens and I remember this distinctly looked just like the ones we used to have when we lived on the farm in Dinuba.

I even thought I recognized two or three. And so I was glad to see them. were, and because they hadnt knocked or rung the bell. Instead, I

I didnt invite them in, though, because they seemed content where they simply smiled at them and turned away. I walked off down the hall, and

soon discovered that the hall was the whole house. There were no rooms. The hall was bathed in a soft yellowish light. The light, I reasoned, was the color it was because it had been used long ago. Fresh light was never that color. Eventually, I decided to go back to the looking young stranger was letting himself in. I quickly shoved him out, open again. He stepped in with a wicked smile. A scuffle began. I tried to stomach. That got his attention. I hit him a few more times. Each blow door to see if the animals were still outside. When I arrived, an evilclosed the door, and put on the latch. Without a problem, he pushed it shove him out again, but he was too strong. So I punched him in the stunned him, but he didnt seem to mind being stunned. Finally, I beat the tar out of him, only to find I was hurting myself more than I was hurting him. It was aggravating. I stopped hitting him and went back to

the door. Well, no wonder, I thought. Look at this stupid latch. Suddenly,

it seemed, our entire security and well being depended on a metal hook bent at an awkward angle, totally useless. Bah! I said. This is that everything was ridiculous.

that fit into a tiny eye screw. I fiddled with it madly. Soon the hook was ridiculous. And that was when I woke up, with the confident realization March 13, 2004 During the past week, one of the big grocery stores four self-service aisles. They werent operational yet, but I have seen the

nearby removed two of its regular checkstands and replaced them with same setup elsewhere, and I find it disgusting. It isnt enough that we pay their exorbitant prices; now the corporate bean-counters want us to friendly terms laughed and said he was told by management that the new arrangement would mean more hours for employees. Of course, he do the work for them as well. A store employee with whom we are on

wasnt buying it. Training customers to beep and bag their own items

might require employee time and attention in the beginning, but its

obvious such a move isnt made for the long-term benefit of workers or customers. If they could do away with employees altogether, they would. And if they could convince customers to mail in their checks instead of coming to the store, they would do that, too. While the checker was

beeping his way through our basket of groceries, I told him that if and

when the lines for the regular checkstands become too long and an be done with the store. This was the same checker who, moments

employee tries to herd us into the self-service aisle, thats when we will before, had politely and without the slightest complaint rechecked an elderly womans entire order because she thought she had been cheated, when the truth of the matter was that she wasnt quite able to make sense of what was going on. By the time he was done, she had forgotten what he was doing and why. When she asked him what he

was doing, he said he was rechecking her groceries like you wanted me

to. She said, Oh. Its hard to imagine that particular customer using the switch over completely. . . . On a not quite related note, I had occasion

self-service aisle, which is one reason the store will never be able to to visit a small office recently, in which the receptionists desk is located just a few feet from the entrance. When I stepped inside, an electronic voice proclaimed, Front door, open. Unfortunately, the receptionist looked up before I was able to steal any of the furniture. March 14, 2004 I cant help wondering if the tragic train blast that would have happened had the Spanish government heeded its own

killed 200 and injured hundreds more in Spain a couple of days ago peoples anti-war protests a year ago. As one outraged citizen yelled on the news, Your war, our deaths. This, on the eve of elections there. Ah, and what a shame it would be to unseat the Spanish officials who bowed

to U.S. pressure on Iraq. Those boys must be very pleased with

themselves, and feel very proud at a time like this. Surely, all they need is a little more time, like the U.S. president, to root out these forces of evil. A few fly-overs during soccer games ought to do it. I know the

massive expense of showing our military might during football and baseball games here has struck fear into the hearts and minds of terrorists. See how they tremble!

March 15, 2004 Oops. The Spanish elections didnt go quite the way Bush and Company wanted them to go. How about that? And now the newly elected Spanish officials say one of their first orders of business is distributed some new hybrid videos to television stations, in which what are nothing more than blatant advertisements for its Medicare

to bring their soldiers home. . . . Meanwhile, I see the White House has people paid to pose as journalists lend an air of serious reportage to policies. The videos were accompanied by scripts intended for use by by the reporters. Kind of makes you wonder about what is already

news anchors when they introduce the stories, which are then related being presented as news, doesnt it? I know this: if their policies werent designed to benefit the drug companies instead of the people they pretend to serve, such low-grade manipulation wouldnt be necessary. . .

. Now, on to other things. As strange as it might seem, this odd journal of days, I have made a conscious effort to write about what I think, see,

mine is now a year old. On each and every one of the preceding 364 and feel just as if it mattered, while knowing full well that if it does matter,

it matters no more than it would matter if anyone else were doing the trying to make all along. It seems to me that everyone who is fortunate enough to have a roof over his head and enough to eat can, and should,

same thing. And, believe it or not, that is one of the points I have been

make the same effort. Perhaps that effort wont materialize as words on washing, talking, dreaming, or any of the countless other things we do them. And this is important, I think: by the word effort, I dont necessarily assume understanding comes with a struggle. That assumption, as

paper or on a computer screen, but in the form of gardening, baking, that make living worthwhile, as long as we are conscious while we do mean work. And yet work is definitely involved, if only because we noble as it sounds and as good as it feels to proclaim, is a killer. Living is need, or wanting to be someone else, or wanting what we are told to want by other wanters who want so much that nothing will satisfy them.

easy until we poison it and make it difficult by wanting things we dont

At the same time, there are millions of people in the world who want only something to eat and drink. They want to live and raise their children in people have been taught to think it is their right to throw away food and go tearing around from store to store in gas-guzzling vehicles. It is not their right. Such rights do not exist. The only real rights are the rights to think, dream, and work according to our natural abilities. We have a right to food and shelter, because this is clearly what we need. We have a safety. And yet, they are made to pay with their very lives because other

right to interpret this thing we call life as our inner wiring dictates. But we dont have the right to expect others to fall in with our interpretation, or to threaten them when they dont. The law is just that the law and nothing more. Unless and until our actions are motivated by an honest remain the hideously corrupt thing that it is. . . . Now, as far as this

desire to improve things for everyone in the world equally, the law will journal goes, one big question remains: do I call it quits after today,

having stayed with it for a whole year, or do I let it end? I think back to

what I said in the beginning, about how One Hand Clapping was my

response to a world gone mad. In a way, it was a foolish statement, because the world was mad long before I was born. Of course, the madness I was referring to was the blind ignorance that brought about someday end. But that was another foolish statement. I knew no such

the worlds latest war. I also said that I knew the madness would thing, couldnt possibly have known it, and I still dont, unless we count the cheery day when the sun finally burns out or when the earth is struck by a Texas-sized asteroid, as seemingly happened during the last presidential election. The question still remains. Even now, at this very

moment, I dont know what I will, or should, do. Perhaps youre thinking, Hes not going to quit. If he cant even end the days entry, how will he lies in the comforting, frightening realization that the daffodils I again. end the journal itself? Thats a good question. Most likely, the answer mentioned a year ago in my first entry are, by some miracle, blooming

One Hand Clapping Volume 2 March 16, 2004 Yesterday I was thinking about some of the things I

have accomplished during the past three or so years. I was also thinking about some of the things I havent accomplished, because, for me, it is impossible to think about one without remembering the other. Beginning in 2000, I have written two novels: A Listening Thing and The Smiling

Eyes of Children. In one ninety-day period, I also wrote seventy short stories, which are collectively known as No Time to Cut My Hair. Most recently, I finished what I am for the moment permitting myself to think of

as the first volume of my daily journal, One Hand Clapping the word volume representing a whole years work. Taken together, these writings amount to more than 330,000 words. But I also wrote a lot of other things, the bulk of which appears somewhere on my website, to

which I seem to have become a slave and fanatical devotee. Finally, for better or worse, several of my stories and poems were published in magazines here and in Armenia. These are publications that most of the world has never heard of, and probably never will. Be that as it may, they

exist because someone reads them, and for this I am grateful. Now. It is

important here to state the obvious: these things are all in the past. They are done. There is no going back. Granted, I will live with them for years and years, just as if they were children. Some have already begun to haunt me, even as I am haunted by new ideas and half-baked plans, which I know are the eternal bane of my existence. For whatever sad reason, it is necessary for me to make new mistakes, or, at least, old mistakes in a new dimension. At the same time, I am fully aware that I

might be in the midst of making one big, long, continuous mistake, and that I am dividing it up only to understand it and give myself a reason to go on though I have a reason: I keep waking up in the morning. And even afford to take the time? what havent I accomplished? Oh, brother. Where do I begin? And can I March 17, 2004 Ive read about fifty pages of my recently acquired used copy of Thomas Wolfes Look Homeward, Angel, but it only took a page or two to realize the author was writing out of an intense,

overwhelming desire to unburden himself, to unburden his mind of all

that he had seen, heard, tasted, and experienced thus far. One also gets

the sense that his continued rapid accumulation of dreams and sensations made it impossible for him to succeed. The writing is unquestionably good, full of poetic raw energy. But there is the distinct feeling that here is a man who will die with the last chapter of his story

on his lips. Granted, in saying this, I do have the benefit of knowing that Thomas Wolfe died young. But my meager knowledge of his life alone isnt enough to support the feeling. I am getting it from the writing itself. This brings to mind the unreliable nature of even the very best

biographical writing. Through books, we can learn an incredible amount about any given person, and yet come away knowing very little about him at all. We can know what he accomplished, and to a certain extent what he thought about and what his preoccupations were, but it is

impossible to know how it really was for him. This is something I think

about from time to time: a simple ten-minute drive down the road is capable of arousing so many deep feelings about so many things, which in turn can have a profound effect on a person, that it is impossible to explain or relate what is taking place, even for the person himself. This

one truth cripples even the best autobiographies. Life is too complicated and richly overwhelming to put it completely and accurately into words. Still, language and literature are miracles. They try. And the great works living and about ourselves, but may have forgotten. In the same way,

stir something in us and remind us of things we already know about thats why it can be said that a real teacher doesnt teach. A real teacher helps others recognize and understand what they already know, but is lying dormant.

March 18, 2004 What a difference a year makes. Last March our backyard was a sea of mud, and it was kept that way by frequent rains.

This year, we have had what for us amounts to a prolonged dry spell, with only minor showers to interrupt our labors. The ground is still wet, been digging. The day before yesterday, I turned over, to a full shovels vegetable-wise, though, because there is bound to be more frost. But but not so wet that it resists the shovel and iron rake. And so we have depth, the area directly behind the house. Its too soon to plant anything this is a great first step toward being ready unless heavy rains return, in which case well resume this discussion in April or May. There is The year before last, I raised a huge tomato crop there. Last year, I another, larger area out back that I began work on yesterday afternoon. never was able to get the ground ready. This year, there is an abundance of worms a good sign. But before I could get much digging done, I realized I would have to do something about the

blackberry bush that we allowed to take over the southwest corner of the farming days, I chopped back the thorny growth to the fence, thus new places; I chopped and dug the rootings out as best as I could, but I

yard. With an old pair of vineyard pruning shears salvaged from our reclaiming a ten-by-fifteen-foot space. The bush had rooted in several know fresh berry growth will erupt here and there as the season

progresses. Faced with a mountain of tangled growth, I then chopped

everything to small bits and raked the result into a neat and surprisingly small pile, which I will dispose of later. I was drenched with sweat when I heard the sliding back door to the house open, and our oldest son call partially dug earth and dreamed of the garden yet to come. When I tomatoes.

out that it was time for supper. Before going in, I looked longingly at the turned away, I almost tripped over several bushel baskets full of ripe

March 19, 2004 At first glance, my mothers walk-in closet is a neat, she hasnt worn for decades and will never wear again. Just yesterday,

tidy affair. But the truth is, it is stuffed to the gills with clothes and shoes she told me she was going to box up most of it and give it away, and

keep only the stuff she uses. Of course, there will be a few things she

will understandably decide not to part with, and quite a few other things

she will probably try on in the process, just to be sure. And so the job

will likely take several days. While we were mulling this over in her living

room, she said something about getting things ready for the knacker And she said, You mean you dont know what a knacker man is? This

man. I said, Knacker man? Thats a new one. Whats a knacker man? led us to her big dictionary, which she keeps open and ready at all times.

It turns out knacker is an old English term, one meaning of which is a buyer of old ships, houses, etc., for their materials. A knacker is also one who buys and slaughters worn-out horses and sells their flesh for dog food. Knacker has also been used to refer to the worn-out horse itself.

After marveling at the knacker entries in her dictionary, and at words and dictionaries in general, I asked why I had never heard her use the word knacker before. She said, I guess the situation never came up. When I asked if it was a word her mother had used, she said it wasnt, and that

she must have picked it up long ago in her reading. This is another fine years, and then suddenly be coaxed out of hiding further proof that think we know. It is something to think about.

example of how things can be tucked away in our brains for years and we dont know what we know, and that we likely know far more than we March 20, 2004 This morning I almost feel like I felt when I was ten and one of my fathers younger cousins asked me what I thought was the best age to be, and I answered without hesitation, Ten. At the time,

we were in our equipment shed, which had replaced our old barn six sacks that my father had stacked neatly atop a makeshift pallet of overturned wooden grape boxes so they wouldnt absorb moisture from

years earlier. We were standing by four or five dozen fifty-pound sulphur

the concrete floor. I remember being fully aware of how physically good I felt at that moment, and of how powerfully I belonged in that very spot, in that building, behind the house in which I lived with the greatest family in the world, nestled among orange and walnut trees, surrounded pheasants, doves, and jackrabbits. There was simply no way on earth by vineyards full of black spiders, yellow jackets, horned toads, quail, that things could have been any better. And so my answer couldnt have made more sense. Now I am forty-seven, closing on forty-eight. Judging by my appearance, I have passed through many trials and have been singed by many flames. I dont feel as good physically as I did when I

was ten, but I feel pretty good. In fact, since I have been spending time with my old friend the shovel lately, I have been feeling better and more alive than Ive felt in months. I expect this trend to continue. Meanwhile, I still belong. But I belong differently now. For one thing, I belong

somewhere else. I shouldnt be living in a so-called neighborhood, spitting and conducting their lives in the street like jackasses. We have been here seventeen years, but I have never grown accustomed to living my life in public. My loving bride, who also grew up in the country, feels the same way. So why are we still here? Basta! I dont even want to talk about it, other than to say that I am an idiot, and that everything was, is, sunny spring morning, talking about shovels and sulphur sacks. To put it

surrounded by houses, lawns, fences, driveways, and people yelling and

and always will be my fault. And yet here I am, feeling good about a even more succinctly, I feel tremendously lucky. Again, though, basta! I

have always been plagued with this feeling. This feeling has gotten me into more trouble than you can imagine. On the other hand, the fact that we have survived proves the feeling works. Does that statement make

sense? No. Does it bother me? Of course not. Am I in need of a support group? Absolutely not. Besides, none would have me and if they member. Its hard enough being part of the human race. Why would I would, I would immediately distrust and despise each and every want to join a club? Id rather die trying to figure things out than have someone come along and figure them out for me, or even think he is figuring them out. Why should he have the satisfaction, for one thing, and for another, why doesnt he mind his own business? Let him learn to about shovels someday. stand on his own two feet, then maybe we can have a nice conversation

March 21, 2004 Once again, people around the world have taken to

the street to protest the evil, insane actions of the U.S. government in

Iraq. And in predictable fashion, our free and unfettered press is doing

its best to downplay the significance of the protests, saying that far fewer reasoning is simple: by telling people there were fewer protesters, they hope to convince them that more people now support U.S. policy. In

turned out than a year ago on the eve of the U.S. invasion. Their

other words, they are lying in order to protect the governments interests. Its sickening. At the same time, they are quick to point out that their love for their beloved president, George Bring Em On Bush. somewhere a handful of armchair generals waved flags and proclaimed Perhaps it would be different if millions of people took to the street in

support of the war. But this hasnt, and wont, happen. People who believe in Bushs war would rather sit in their offices and count their

money, or listen to pig-headed government tough-guy puppets mocked by the very people they support.

proclaiming their hatred on talk radio while they are financially raped and March 22, 2004 Yet another sunny day. I should probably go out and buy an old Volkswagen van, hit the road, and wend my way across the country. But as I would have to be back by no later than two this

afternoon, it looks like Ill have to postpone the trip. Sigh. Why an old Volkswagen? For one thing, there would be no chance of getting in too big a hurry. For another, their quaint, prehistoric appearance somehow distance for fear I might have fleas which, by the end of my journey, I

seems to match my own. This is good, because people will keep their would probably manage to attract. Its also possible I might attract other people with fleas. Such is the power of appearances. If I were to rent a late-model Japanese sedan and race across the country wearing a coat

and tie, chances are I would attract a posse of insurance agents a country is a black 1957 Cadillac. Not only would it be more comfortable, I

fate far worse than fleas. Another car I wouldnt mind driving across the could pick up flea-bitten strangers stranded by their old Volkswagen vans. This would be a valuable service, since flea-bitten strangers arent the middle of nowhere as if he would stop anyway. likely to trust someone in a late-model Japanese sedan, wearing a tie in March 23, 2004 Last night we watched Alfred Hitchcocks North by about every actor who ever appeared on the old Perry Mason show.

Northwest, starring Cary Grant, James Mason, Leo J. Carroll, and just Really. There were several individual scenes that featured not one, not

two, but three or four Perry Mason actors, all of them doing their level best to keep a straight face not an easy thing when you stop and think just how well some of those people knew each other. And so we

sat there most of the time saying, Jeez, theres another one, or, Jeez, theres Les Tremaine, or, That guy was the judge in a lot of episodes, remember? The movie itself, though, was quite good. Weve seen it

probably three or four times by now, but it was just as enjoyable as always. Hitchcocks humor and camera angles were great, and Cary been shot with blanks by Eva Marie Saint and hidden in a hospital room Grants delivery was typically outstanding. Toward the end, after he had by Leo J. Carroll, Cary Grant told Leo J. Carroll he was thirsty and

wanted a pint of bourbon. Leo J. Carroll said, Sure. Do you mind if I join

you? And Cary Grant said, In that case, youd better make it a quart. The lines were simple, but uttered so well that I laughed out loud. There are a few other movies we brought home, all of them free due to various coupons and promotions. We have Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon still to go, and A Night at the Opera, with the Marx Brothers, Kitty Carlisle, and Allan Jones. Weve already seen each several times, but arent actors like Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, and Sydney

every once in awhile everyone wants to see them again. There simply Greenstreet anymore. Im not saying there are no worthwhile actors, but effects that they are hard to take seriously. In most cases they have no

so many of them are lightweights dependent on quick cuts and special character to begin with, and so have nothing but their strategically opinion at all.

whitened teeth to fall back on. Other than that, I have no opinion, no March 24, 2004 A bit of wisdom quite possibly in danger of being lost is that madzoon can be used to seal leaks in bicycle tires. Madzoon is later in my day, our area was plagued with a vicious weed we called the Armenian word for yogurt. When my father was growing up, and also puncture vines. Puncture vines grow flat against the ground, and their

seeds are encased in hard thorny shells that easily embed themselves in bare feet and bicycle tires. If you drive a tractor over a patch of puncture vines, the tires will pick up the seeds and spread them everywhere, leading to a massive infestation. If you ride a bicycle over them, you are problem for farmers and their children alike. I dont know whether my

assured of one or two flat tires. Thus, puncture vines were a serious father discovered the madzoon cure, or if it was someone else in the

family. It might even have been one of the Armenian neighbors, of which stuff on the valve stem and pumping it into the flat tire, the madzoon eventually coated the inner tube. As the moisture in it evaporated, it set up and clogged the holes. He told us about this many times. But I forget

there were quite a few when he was a kid. After repeatedly dabbing the

how long the remedy lasted. I wish now that I would have asked whether it became necessary for my grandmother to increase her madzoon production so the family wouldnt be shorted at mealtime. Im sure he would have said yes, just for the effect.

March 25, 2004 For the last five years or so, we have needed to replace our couch a term I never see used in furniture advertisements. The official word, it seems, is sofa. For some reason, though, I cant stand that word, and refuse to utter it. All my life, we have had couches. My mother and father said couch. My grandparents said couch. Everyone in our family said couch. I have said couch, my wife has said couch, and now all four of our kids say couch. It is almost a

mental illness, this insistence on the word couch. We are not militant about it; we dont get into fights over it; indeed, its likely that I am the only one who even thinks about it. The others say it because thats what they grew up hearing. I say it for the same reason, but also because I despise the word sofa. I know it sounds a little unreasonable, but some

words affect me that way. Its even possible that we have kept our current couch far too long because of my reluctance to face this problem. We bought the thing at a furniture store on Van Ness Avenue in downtown Fresno almost twenty-five years ago. We also bought a stereo with an eight-track tape player there once, which was

subsequently stolen with one of our favorite tapes featuring arias sung by Mario Lanza a crime that disrupted our lives for many years, until we found the same music on a Long Playing record, and again later on a cassette tape. The mans name was Bloom not the burglar, but the owner of the furniture store. Each time we were in the store, we talked

for at least an hour about the items we were considering for purchase. Mostly out of boredom, Bloom knew an incredible amount about what he was selling. And it was Bloom himself who delivered the couch to the house we were renting in Dinuba at the time. When we brought the

couch in, he quietly noticed that our living room was as big and as long as three handball courts, and that the couch looked like a piece of doll the room as we reconfirmed our faith in the couchs quality and house furniture when placed against the wall. Our voices echoed across durability, and marveled that it cost only three hundred dollars. Bloom, I

said happily, I appreciate all youve done. Im sure well be back in your store soon, once we get things sorted out here. We shook hands and Bloom departed. That was the last time we saw him, and we still have disintegration which was hardly noticeable at first; I will skip over its the same couch. But I will skip over its glory years, and its gradual settling, creaking, and groaning, its crushed and dilapidated cushions, and the final prying apart of one end from the main frame, and the springs which have recently been poking up through the bottom. I will

skip all of these things because the couch has been so comfortable, and

is still seen as the best place in the house to be by our youngest son, who says if we ever replace it that he wants the couch moved into his room so he can use it as a bed. Just to look at the thing, you have to wonder how it could hold up a cat, leave alone a person. The sitting surface is now about six inches above the floor. Suffice it to say, something needs to be done, and done soon. To that end, my wife and I

ventured forth yesterday in search of a new Bloom and a new couch. All we found were disinterested dullards selling sofas. One guy even had eyes painted on his eyelids so he would look like he was awake. If you have any questions, he snored, dont hesitate to ask. Finally, in one store, the outside of which was painted to look like an amusement park, we found two couches that were possibilities. The first looked like a

Viking ship. I told my wife, There it is. We found it. She laughed and said it was ugly. Then we looked at the other couches, and found out what ugly really is. We came back to the Viking ship. My wife said, I

kind of like it. There was one other couch, out of about eighty or ninety way to our couch here at home, and it was priced at just under seven stupid couch, fully aware that good couches these days routinely cost far more. I think we should look around some more. There have got to be more furniture stores in this town, and so on. We drove home. When wed been gone. It had shriveled, and had lost at least thirty pounds. It

couches, that seemed okay. It was big and soft and superior in every hundred dollars. I said, You know, thats a lot of money to spend on a

we saw our couch, we couldnt believe what had happened to it while looked like it was ready for intensive care. We were immediately plunged into grief, doubt, and despair. After all that couch has done for us, it would be sad, even immoral, to desert it now.

March 26, 2004 While trying to add to my meager store of literary

knowledge yesterday evening, I read part of Alan Ginsbergs controversial poem, Howl, on the Internet. As the story goes, Ginsberg Gary Snyder, and Philip Whalen at a place called Gallery Six in San read the poem to an audience of about 100 that included Jack Kerouac, Francisco. If I remember correctly, the event had been organized by the poem was published by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the owner of San on the grounds of obscenity and made to stand trial. Ultimately, the

another well known poet, Kenneth Rexroth. The year was 1957. After Franciscos City Lights book store, the book was confiscated by police judge ruled that the book wasnt obscene, stating that it did in fact have

redeeming qualities, despite its coarse, vivid language. Before the trial, the tune of a million copies. Some reviewers compared the work to Walt

the poem was basically unknown. After the trial, it sold like hotcakes, to Whitmans Leaves of Grass. Indeed, Ginsberg embraced Whitmans approximately 3,600-word poem, of which I read about half, is that its phenomenon, whereas Whitmans words seem to spring directly from

open structure and use of long sentences. But my first impression of the clever, jazz-like word combinations come across as more of a surface the poetic source of life itself. If the two poets can be said to have had a strategy, Ginsbergs somehow seemed more apparent. The times were significantly different, to be sure. Ginsbergs America was not would be like if he were writing in 1957 and beyond, who is to say that

Whitmans. If we ask the foolish question of what Whitmans writing he wouldnt have gifted the smirking establishment with the same sort of

literary dynamite? In Whitmans own time, his poetry was thought by Howl, even Ginsbergs crude images have lost much of their shock

many to be obscene. Now, almost fifty years after the publication of

value. Some retain their effect, others are merely repulsive. I cant help forgotten and Leaves of Grass will remain. I could be wrong. I often am. No doubt I have put down these thoughts prematurely. But there is

thinking that if we survive another 100 or 200 years, Howl will be all but

something to be said for first impressions. In this case, I feel it unlikely that I will return to Howl, while I know definitely that I will return to Whitman.

March 27, 2004 I am sick to the roots of my being about this countrys insatiable hunger for more more resources, more power, more control, more domination over others. All empires come to an end. Rome came to an end. No matter how much an empire does or pretends to do for the people it conquers, ultimately, people resent being conquered. centuries. Then, slowly, inexorably, what goes around comes around. When I think about what our particular empire brings to the world its

They dont forget what happened. They stew over their losses for

decaying values, its corruption, its drugs, its unhealthy appetites and habits, its lack of respect for other languages and cultures, and so on I feel tremendously sad. There is no thought for the future, other than the this empire is like a thick-headed schoolyard bully who takes what he wants and repays those who resist with violence. Only the arrival of a stronger bully on the scene can shift the balance of power. But even the

future immediately within our grasp. On a grand and grotesque scale,

strongest bullies are eventually replaced. According to the natural order of things, their days are numbered. Our days are numbered. The suns and earths days are numbered. All that begins, ends. And yet we act as

if we have forever to get things right. We dont. We have only as long as each of us have, whether its a week, a year, or many years. And even that is an illusion, because we cant be certain of the next moment. So if

any decision is going to be made, it must be made now. Waiting is a

criminal act. By and large, we are unaware of our power to change those whose evil plans are threatened by it. Be good, they say in

things. We dont believe in it, are afraid of it, and are taught to doubt it by various forms, or youll be spanked. And great multitudes bow their heads, and trundle along in herds to the nearest church, club, theater, or designated safe spot approved by the authority of the moment. It is no dangerous, destructive way to live. The results are readily apparent. way to live. As right or safe or comforting as it might seem, it is a March 28, 2004 I dont know how many people realize that there are bills presently in the Senate and House of Representatives that, if passed, would reinstate the draft. Bills S.89 and H.R.163 would

effectively bring this country back full circle to the glorious days of also be called to serve in the armed forces. Another is that the bills

Vietnam, with, of course, a few refinements. One is that women would generously allow for young people to finish their high school educations. But as soon as they do, look out. The presidents empty No Child Left Behind pledge will take on a new and far scarier meaning. The purpose of the bill is stated as follows: To provide for the common defense by requiring that all young persons in the United States, including women,

perform a period of military service or a period of civilian service in purposes. I love that for other purposes. I assume that refers to

furtherance of the national defense and homeland security, and for other things like taking over other countries and stealing their oil. Also, it

should be noted that the civilian service referred to is not a choice of the

inductee; the president alone gets to decide how many bodies he wants that number is satisfied will anyone be ordered into civilian service. The

to send into the maw of ignorance, destruction, and death, and only after

intention of the current administration has long been clear. If it is able to

sneak these bills through while attention is diverted by the barrage of

nonsense surrounding the upcoming election, and if the president again manages to steal his way into office for another four years, it will be open flow. season on young people everywhere and their blood will really begin to March 29, 2004 A couple of days ago, over the course of several hours and interrupted by various comings and goings, I wrote a two-part, sixty-six-line poem. I didnt know what I was writing about at first, or if it

would turn out to be anything worth saving, but soon I had a feeling something good was developing and I was eager to find out what it was. speaks to the power, magic, and frailty of our existence. Either that, or it It turned out to be The Enigmatic Child, a rhythmic, driven work that is a bunch of good-sounding drivel, as quite a few of my poems tend to

be. In any case, I am still trying to figure out what the poem means. saying that each line was almost a poem in and of itself. But there does be said to represent the adult world welcoming a new child into its midst,

When my wife read it, she described it as a harrowing experience, seem to be one meaning ready at hand. The first half of the poem can while the second half tells how the child views his arrival. Along the way, much is said about the transformation from childhood to adulthood, about what is lost and what is gained, and about how much there is that remains unknown or misunderstood. This is quite a lot for a poem to do, work. But it was work I tremendously enjoyed, though, I must confess, I

which is one reason writing it took so long and turned out to be a lot of felt angry by the time I was done. I wasnt angry with anything or anyone in particular, except maybe myself, though there was no real reason to

be. The probable cause is that I was just tired and wrung out, and had had enough for one day. March 30, 2004 I have come to the conclusion that contradiction lies

at the heart of all things, and that it is a wonderful and entirely necessary participant in, quiet uproars, raging silence, stern laughter, joyful suffering, wise folly, painful victory, and fortunate misunderstanding. I have been comforted and sustained by defeat, and leveled by success. I an expression of their own defeat. The longer I live, the more I have also been leveled by the successful, whose actions, ultimately, are understand and the less I know. I find that people really are what they seem, but that that is not all they are. They are, in fact, much less, but the less is far greater than can be imagined. To make sense is not through logic. Even if it was made by someone willing to let himself,

component of life. For years, now, I have been a witness to, or

divine. It is an affliction, a burden. The universe did not come about herself, or itself be known as God, it is still illogical to create something out of nothing. It was a mysterious, celestial hiccup, or an accidental, playful enterprise right from the beginning. And immediately, it was too late. It has been too late all along. The sooner we recognize this, the happier we will be. The sooner we realize that we are prisoners, the dimension, where, I might add, we have been along. sooner we will be free to laugh and cry this existence into another March 31, 2004 And now, a word from our sponsors. What? We have are afraid we will be censored by the government. Well, then. Thats

no sponsors? Youre kidding. How can that be? Oh, I see. The sponsors okay. Uniformity, conformity thats what its all about. If we are going

to survive as a society, we need more regulation, strangulation, and

homogenization. Why, just the other day, I was listening to the radio and

in his eye as they chanted his name and trotted joyously off into battle

After good Saint George blessed his troops today, a tear formed

against the Freedom-Hating Forces of Evil Who Dont Like Hamburgers

and SUVs. Really, he said to his wife as she simultaneously posed for Readers Digest and Parade Magazine, how could a man ask for anything more except for all the worlds oil, maybe, and anything else worth taking? And the queen, too, shed a royal tear. You are so gentle, she said. So kind. You are just like your father. Good Saint

George smiled. Now, dont forget Mom, he said. Where would we be without her? And now, a word from our sponsors. Be all you can be. Hurrah! Smoke em outta their holes! Hurray! April 1, 2004 Look at their faces. Thats all I ask. Look at them and

study them, and you will find out all you need to know. For a good, long explanations and promises. Just look at their faces. Do you find the truth there? If you dont, then you already know the value of what comes out this concept of faces, or if you question your ability to read them, then I

moment, dont listen to what they are saying. Disregard their

of their mouths. You know they cant be trusted. If you have trouble with suggest spending time in front of a mirror, and asking yourself the same question. Do you find the truth there? Does what you find vary from day to day according to your involvement with the world? What you see, and might sound as if I have a very high opinion of myself, and that I am

your willingness to see it, can make all the difference. Now, I realize this preaching. But my direct form of expression isnt due to a feeling of superiority; quite the contrary. I speak directly because I feel that what I have to say is important. Possibly better than anyone else, I recognize my shortcomings. I have made serious mistakes, and I continue to make them. I havent always acted responsibly, and still dont. I try hard to tell

the truth and manage fairly well, but there are things about myself that I

either refuse or am afraid to acknowledge. I forge ahead just the same, hoping illogically that the damage I do will somehow turn out to be only temporary, when what I should really do is stop everything and force myself to admit once and for all that drastic changes need to be made. interpreted and used in my favor. Who am I trying to kid? Who are any of Simply put, I am selfish. And I am fully aware that saying so can also be us trying to kid? Only myself, only ourselves. And we are succeeding. as being ridiculous I feel tremendously happy and optimistic not

Having said all this and this will surely strike the innocent bystander about anything in particular, but about all of us being here. Who knows when the next Beethoven will appear, or when the next brilliant, mad genius will accidentally give birth to a new and ultimately meaningless They are singing, dancing, carrying on, and making fun of themselves.

religion? At this very moment, people are laughing all around the world. There are young men and women smiling at each other, believing in Life is a miracle. Death is a sacred confirmation. What a shame it is,

their future. There are old people holding hands, believing in their past. therefore, that these bastards with their ugly, lying faces take such joy in stubborn hope. We know who they are. Their names are unimportant. The fact that there are plenty more where they came from, though, most certainly is.

killing people, and in controlling them, and in mocking their beautiful,

April 2, 2004 The problem with and also the good thing about writing for daily, immediate publication is that there is no way to consistently hide ones feelings, ones ups and downs. I am not, of

course, talking about the kind of writing done by nationally syndicated columnists and news people, the majority of whom are merely

professional, and in some cases unwitting, mouthpieces for politicians, big business, drug companies, arms dealers, and so on. What they write is ad copy a dangerously sophisticated breed of ad copy, but ad copy than the watchdogs for democracy they pretend to be. Trying to write

nonetheless. And so what they really amount to is a sales force, rather honestly about what is on ones mind, though, is a vastly different thing.

Sometimes its easy, but often it isnt. First of all, there are times when times when there definitely is, but one doesnt dare bring it up. Privacy is important, and so are peoples feelings. Frequently, at least in my own case, it is surprising to find out what I am thinking about. That is one of wouldnt surface, and that I wouldnt pursue. Therefore, I can say with

its hard to tell if there is anything really on ones mind. There are also

the benefits of writing every day. If I didnt, there are many things that conviction that I know more about myself and the world because of my what is enough? I dont know. Everything, I guess. I say that with a

daily writing. I also recognize that it isnt anywhere near enough. And smile, because, obviously, the threat isnt imminent. And what of the ups

and downs? On the one hand, there are times when I feel bad for foisting off my gloom onto other people. On the other, its possible that not trying to hide my gloom is appreciated. To some extent, after all, misery does love company. Again, speaking for myself, the last thing I

want to hear or see is only a persons good and cheerful side. Its fine when we accidentally meet at the grocery store or library, but if I am to get to know someone, it is only possible if I am exposed to all sides, and vice-versa. Granted, the process can take years. But I have also known it to develop quickly, as if great currents of understanding freely flowed both ways. There is nothing more inspiring and rejuvenating than spending time with someone you feel you have known forever, though

you have only just met. I do feel that if more barriers in our thinking were dealt with and removed, that this kind of event would become more for, or are willing to admit. For the sake of simplicity, we accept the common. We are far more closely related than we give ourselves credit barriers of language, culture, and geography, without realizing the under a completely different set of circumstances. That we werent is an accident of fate worthy of our recognition. April 3, 2004 Thanks to the over-zealous efforts of a demented

implications. Any one of us might have been born anywhere else and

neighborhood horticulturist, the house is filled with poisonous fumes this

morning. It is my humble opinion that some people take their lawns and them out with a hoe to keep them from the tomatoes, but when trucks

weeds too seriously. I can see mowing them once in awhile, or chopping bearing thousand-gallon tanks painted with a skull and crossbones are called in, and uniformed technicians deliberately saturate every square inch of turf with chemicals, I think its going a bit far. Its spring, for crying out loud. Things are supposed to grow this time of year. Bah, anyway,

Ive said it a thousand times, so why repeat it? I like dandelions. I like their flowers, and I like their puffy blooms. I also like hairy vetch, thistles, reminder that we havent won yet, and probably never will. The real winners are the chemical companies. Through decades of training, they have succeeded in convincing people that they cant live with a few weeds and bugs, and that their lawns must look like golf courses. My chickweed, and all of the other so-called weeds. They are a pleasant

question is, Why? If you want to have a patch of grass to sit on and play water. But dont turn your private acre into a chemical test plot. If you

on during the summer, fine. Throw some seeds out there and turn on the have the time to fret over every weed and insect, then you have the time

to be doing something more useful and productive, such as learning another language or reading about how people live in other parts of the world. Granted, that sounds anti-American, and is probably on

Homeland Securitys List of Behaviors to Report and Stamp Out. After all, the first rule of Evil Government is that knowledge is the enemy. The second rule is, if enough people are distracted by weeds, Evil Government can do whatever it wants and get away with it. Patriot Act, anyone?

April 4, 2004 Yesterday morning we dragged our old couch through

the kitchen and down the hall to our other sitting room, which these days

is a store room for ancient family furniture, cardboard boxes, a 1950s set inch TV that doesnt work. Once it was in its new place against the wall, We took turns comforting it for the next several hours, until the truck that

of Funk & Wagnalls Standard Reference Encyclopedia, and a thirteenit sighed, then shivered, as if it understood that it was being replaced. contained our new couch arrived. When the delivery men brought the it looked at least half again as big as when we had first seen it in the

new couch into the living room and put it where the old couch had been, store. It will definitely take some getting used to. For one thing, the new

couch is comfortable. For another, we can sit on it without feeling the there, we kept waiting for Mr. Bloom to pop out and give us the history of

floor. We bought the couch at a furniture store downtown. While we were couches and their manufacturers. It never happened. Nor did he come

for the delivery. Instead, there were three young men who managed a total of about eighteen words between them. They were fine, capable young men not the least bit interested in furniture. They would have

been even less interested in the story of how we bought our last couch

twenty-five years ago in Fresno from Bloom, or in Bloom in general. And

so, choking back my emotion, I said nothing about it. I also said nothing been silly and out of place, they would never have believed it. O Scraggly, Dilapidated One, how far you have fallen! April 5, 2004 In restless sleep I walked the sinewy streets of an

about how hearty and ambitious I was back then. Not only would it have

ancient city, searching for someone or something I had lost. The stone walls spoke in great waves of scented color, bearing a message of music and light. Strangers knew me, and welcomed me into their homes.

In an outpouring of kindness, they showed me the graves they had long kept hidden in their hearts. Perhaps what you are looking for is here, they said. I wandered among the graves. I found there all the strangers said, the deeds they had done, and the promises they had yet to fulfill. But the someone or something I had lost, I did not find. I offered them

knew, all they remembered, all they had forgotten, everything they had

my gratitude. We wept together and sang together. Then they followed me to the edge of the city and watched as I traveled on. And I wondered: who are they? And how is it that I know them so well, but still do not know myself?

April 6, 2004 Literally no day passes during which I am not reminded of how little I know. But I have learned to take it in stride. That I have learned, though, disgusts and embarrasses me. In turn, this makes my

ignorance harder to hide. Add to this my natural inclination to tell formula for disaster. This, too, I have learned to take in stride. I have childishly idealistic, and egotistically outspoken if not all at the same

strangers what little I do know, or think I know, and you have a real learned to accept that I must appear foolish, ignorant, narrow-minded, time, then at least by turns. Luckily, out of kindness or boredom, or possibly because its fun to see me squirm, no one has complained.

Most likely, I am considered harmless. This is a humorous and mildly derogatory term our family has long applied to those who are nice but basically useless, and only a threat to themselves. Thanks to my fathers uncles, I learned at an early age that there were a great many harmless at times even valiant, though to no end. Thus, while there was a hint of our family have always been considerate and gracious with the

people in the world. A harmless person was earnest and hopeless, and ridicule in the term, it was tempered by pity. As a rule, the members of harmless. In their presence, a joke is never uttered at their expense,

unless it is absolutely certain that it will not be understood and recognized as such, or that it will be taken in the opposite sense. Simultaneously, we realize that we might be thought of in the same light. harmless by the harmless is a true honor. In other words, it is of no real

This makes the situation even more enjoyable. To be considered value. For what is feeling honored but another way of admitting that you those bestowing the honor?

think highly of yourself, or of assuming that you are somehow less than April 7, 2004 Im still making my way through Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfes writing is not something to be hurried through, but mother was in her seventy-fourth year, but she had the strength of a healthy woman of fifty, and the appetite of two of forty. She was a savored. The following description is one example: Hugh Bartons

powerful old lady, six feet tall, with the big bones of a man, and a heavy

full-jawed face, sensuous and complacent, and excellently equipped with a champing mill of strong yellow horse-teeth. It was cake and pudding to see her at work on corn on the cob. . . . When thwarted or annoyed in any way, the heavy benevolence of her face was dislodged by a

thunder-cloud of petulance, and her wide pouting underlip rolled out like

a window-shade. Since starting the book, I have read elsewhere that in Angel Wolfe wrote honestly and openly about himself, members of his family, and the people of the town in which they lived so honestly, in

fact, that he was worried to death about his familys reaction once the privacy far better than the townsfolk. To avoid the latters hostility, Wolfe and the authors old haunts are tourist destinations.

book was published. Apparently, they accepted the invasion of their stayed away for two years. Now, everyone who was offended is dead, April 8, 2004 Someday, long after the bodies from both sides have

been devoured by time and the rivers of blood have evaporated in the hot desert sun, people will realize that the war in Iraq was not a unique event rooted in politics and religion, but simply the continued manifestation of human greed, fear, and ignorance. We will realize that

the war in Iraq was part of the larger, greater war that we waged upon they are justified, recorded, and named, were the result of our own actions, and that these actions were the deadly legacy we left, generation by generation, to our children. . . . At this very moment on the radio, a very smart and evil woman named Condoleeza Rice is lying to the world about the current administrations forceful occupation of Iraq.

and within ourselves. We will realize that all wars, however honorably

What she says will be reported in the news, interpreted, and analyzed. None of the liars will be concerned with the real causes of war, or with

After her, other liars will follow, just as she followed the liars before her. the common needs of all life on earth, or the earth itself. They will only lie and their lives are a complete waste.

to cover up or explain previous lies. In other words, they are poisonous April 9, 2004 If I were famous and knew lots of other famous people, think of the delicious rumors I could spread. But Im not famous, and I

dont know anyone who is. I know a few people who are internationally known, but only in certain circles. They are hardly the type one gossips about, and anyway, I have never been one to gossip. Quite a few people know who I am, but they are scattered hither and yon. The chance of them coming together as an admiring, supportive group is further than remote. There is no imminent threat to my anonymity. I dont need a secretary to answer my mail. I dont employ a publicist to tell people how eccentric and wonderful I am. My wife and I buy our own groceries. When we are in public, no one rushes up to us and takes our picture, couple of times through the mail to sign something I have written. What it

and no one asks for my autograph although I have been asked a amounts to is, I have to muddle along like everyone else, but without the although for the sake of appearance, and to prove I have a sense of humor, I maintain a small checking account. But it wasnt always so. I

benefit of common sense. I certainly do so without money in the bank,

have managed without for years at a time, dealing only in cash, on the rare occasions when some was available. Whatever money I earn was even be a month or two ahead, but I have come to suspect that this is already spent years ago. Someday I would like to catch up, and maybe possible only through a rare combination of fortuitous events. Clearly, I prestigious law, accounting, or brokerage firm. But I turned my back on these opportunities, and many others like it. Real estate tycoon. Congressman. Architect. Jewelry designer. Restaurateur. Barber. still is, that I have never been very good at doing things that I am not

should have been a professional basketball player, or the head of a

Plumber. Brain surgeon. Fisherman. Meteorologist. My trouble was, and interested in and which for me have no meaning. Granted, I have taken this to the extreme. Even so, the longer one follows this course, the

more difficult it is to change, or even to see the need for change. One reaches a point where it seems change can be wrought only through the use of dynamite, or some form of cataclysmic upheaval. If I were living in

Iraq, for instance, it is highly unlikely that I would be spending my time musing at a computer. I would be running for cover and burying murdered family members like everyone else. And I doubt very much that I would have the time or mental composure to hope there is a me, and about why it is happening.

foolish writer in Salem, Oregon, who cares about what is happening to April 10, 2004 One must always make a conscious effort to not fall in

with the herd. The herd is a deaf, blind, senseless, roiling mass of stupidity. But if one doesnt fall in with the herd, then what? Well, it way, to avoid being trampled, spit upon, taken to court, or, as is seems most of his or her time is spent trying to stay out of the herds presently the case, killing or being killed in one of the herds wars. The

herd mentality, the insecure craving to belong to something larger than oneself even if ones self is obliterated in the process, is a frightening thing to behold. Over the years, I have watched in horror as it

systematically seduces, then claims, young lives. Beautiful, laughing,

intelligent children full of hope, goodness, and light gradually become idiots in their parents image. They believe what their parents believe, think what they think, do what they do, eat what they eat, go where they go, want what they want, and share the same paralyzing forms of

dissatisfaction, illness, depression, and loneliness, all the while longing for escape. But there is no escape. There are many ways in which to hide, such as drugs, entertainment, and religion, but these only face what his life has become. And what a terrible thing it is if that

postpone the moment when one must be alone with himself and finally

moment is postponed until death. It is important to give thanks, therefore, if you are one of the lucky ones to have had real parents parents, in other words, who were intelligent enough and daring enough own dreams according to your natural abilities. And it is just as

to teach you that it is all right to think for yourself, and to pursue your important, if you are a parent, to give thanks for your children, who, with your encouragement and lack of small-minded interference, can make a positive, lasting difference in the world.

April 11, 2004 The continued absence of rain, combined with the

explosive rejuvenation of life, has transformed the atmosphere into a People are sneezing great horse sneezes, but it doesnt keep them from

broth of perfume and pollen that is both intoxicating and devastating. roaming around outside, or from pulling weeds and working in their flower beds. In a word, they are drunk. And on this sunny Easter morning, a great many of the drunkards will bathe and dress themselves up and go to church to listen with varying degrees of attention to a

familiar message of timeless renewal, which they will somehow interpret as permission for them to carry on with their lives as usual despite the obvious need for drastic change. Im not sure which is the biggest amazing and often dangerous assumptions that follow. But its all fine,

miracle the resurrection itself; believing it really happened; or the whatever we believe, or whether or not we believe. Although it seems to me that our nature is such that, even if we dont believe, this, too, is a form of belief, because we believe that we dont believe. This might be

important, or it might be meaningless. It just seems impossible for a thereafter follows the belief that we exist, and that we are who we are,

human being not to believe. Being born in itself is preposterous enough; and that our mother is our mother and our father is our father, and that it

is only logical and right that we have been called forth from the void at

this particular time to think our particular thoughts, even though they are

remarkably similar to everyone elses. Who doesnt believe he exists? makes himself sandwiches. In my novel, A Listening Thing, the main Beckett called The Unnamable. The narrator of The Unnamable is a disembodied head, or a voice in someone elses head or something.

He can disbelieve it all he wants, but he still bumps into people and character occasionally takes time out to read a puzzling book by Samuel

Ive never been able to figure it out. Had I actually finished the book, I might know more, but not necessarily. Thats the kind of book The Unnamable is. The key is, though, that the narrator questions exists. Instead, he prefers to wait, through eternity, if necessary. Its

everything, even his own existence. He is not prepared to believe that he possible he has already waited that long. Its also possible that eternity is momentary, transitory, fleeting. Who the heck knows? Anybody who claims he knows, or feels he knows, believes. Or, to put it another way, if you doubt your own existence, who is doing the doubting?

April 12, 2004 Im off to a slow start this morning due to a rough night in which I was drenched in sweat and plagued by nightmares. The one dream that I still remember was another strange one. For whatever reason, I had agreed to help out someone by doing some proofreading. I went to their office, and things started off okay, but then a man came in hurry or Id miss the deadline, which was just a few hours off. This made

with a huge armload of stuff for me to go over and told me Id better me angry, because I had been told nothing about there being so much work, and certainly nothing about there being a deadline. A few minutes later, he brought me even more to do, then quietly left the room. The

pages were covered with microscopic print. My vision was blurred. With

great effort, I managed to finish one page. Then I left the room and went

out into the hall, which was full of people scurrying around. I knew at

once that they were trying to meet the same deadline that I had been given. When I saw how worried and preoccupied they were, I decided right then and there that I was through. I said something like, If I dont quit now, I will end up just like them. I went outside. My wife was there. expect me to do. My wife was very concerned. We walked away from

This is ridiculous, I said. I cant believe it. You should see what they the building, which turned out to be on some sort of dock. Water was

lapping up all around. Then I began to feel tremendously guilty, because I wasnt doing the work. When it seemed we had been outside for about twenty minutes, we went back inside. The place was quiet. Everyone eight hours later than I thought it should have been. Well, I said, I

had gone home. I looked at the clock. It was midnight at least six or guess they found someone else to do their dirty work. Maybe they

learned something. We went into the room where I had been working. The pile of unread material was still there. On top of it there was an insultingly neat, hand-printed letter from the man who had brought me the work. In it he expressed grave disappointment in my decision to abandon the project and my co-workers. I felt horrible all over again. I felt rotten, even though he had obviously tried to take advantage of me, and I had not agreed to do what he had asked. I no longer remembered who had requested my help in the first place. That person never wondering where I went wrong. appeared. I put down the letter. I woke up with a strong sense of failure, April 13, 2004 The simple truth is, I havent written enough. I have written quite a bit in a fairly short amount of time, but I feel strongly that most of my work remains undone. If I were to die today I wouldnt be

ashamed of what was accomplished; but if I were to go on living for many more years and I didnt continue writing, I think I would be health, blindness, or the further erosion of my faculties, but until that happens I plan to work. The work might include more than writing. It way, I might even learn patience, which in itself is an art. Somehow, I ashamed. I will definitely not retire. I might be forced to retire due to poor

could branch off into music, painting, film, or photography. Along the have to learn to express what needs to be expressed in a language as powerful as that spoken by flowers and understood by bees, or as spoken by the wind and understood by the smallest blade of grass. I hammer, as I so often do. I want them to gently take the hammer from man.

dont want to spend my whole life hitting people over the head with a my hand and hit themselves with it. Then I know I will die a happy April 14, 2004 A narrow-bodied, long-legged, almost blond spider is crawling around on the wall near the art calendar Ive left up for the last four years because I like looking at the picture for April, which is Marc Chagalls The Glowing Bouquet. Little does the spider know that I once wrote a poem while admiring that picture, and that the poem is called Papas Song (clam chowder blues). The spider, which is now partially hidden by a an oversized bargain volume of Renoirs paintings, also picture on another calendar, this one on the wall to my left. The painting,

doesnt know I wrote a story called A Way to Survive based on another Christmas Eve, is by Swedish artist Carl Larsson. It shows a sumptuous be a family that knows little want. The Carl Larsson calendar, a gift from

feast, which is just beginning to attract the attention of what appears to my mother, has been hanging there on a tiny nail since 1998. And little does the spider know wherever it has gotten to by now that one

day soon I am going to dismantle this entire corner and give everything in it a serious, long overdue cleaning. Just a few days ago, our oldest son was marveling at how Ive let my work area go. You used to clean off your table every Saturday, he observed kindly. What happened? I

told him the only thing I could tell him that I was conducting an conditions to write, I said. Then I pointed out the artistic side of the

important writing experiment. One shouldnt have to depend on ideal equation. I had him look at the dust, lint, and spider webs that have formed drifts at the base of my lamp. Then I blew gently on the table, and he watched in amazement as the surface was transformed into a desert scene, complete with blowing sands. What we have here, I said,

is Nature in miniature. But I did have to confess that it has been getting harder lately to sit here without sneezing every five minutes. And so, little Electrolux one of these days if its not careful. does the spider know that it just might get slurped up by our old April 15, 2004 I hate to part company with Thomas Wolfes Look

Homeward, Angel. Having finally finished the book the night before last, I can say that it is easily one of the best novels ever written by an American writer. That it was Wolfes first, and that he wrote it while still in his twenties, makes this autobiographical work all the more impressive. The language is powerful, richly poetic, and at times harrowing, so vivid are Wolfes descriptions. It is also full of laughter not the cheap kind yearning, suffering, disappointment, and survival. Now, when I in buying the book that followed, Of Time and the River. But Im not in a served up in nightly sitcoms, but the hard-earned kind achieved through eventually stumble across it in a used book store, I know I wont hesitate hurry, because I still have a mountain of stuff to read here on my dirtencrusted work table. Last night, for instance, I read another of Henrik

Ibsens plays, Ghosts, which I understand caused quite an uproar when it was first performed in the late 1800s, as did another of his well known plays, A Dolls House. Ghosts is a fine work, very simple and direct. Like all good writers, Ibsen hated the hypocrisy in the society of his day. In Ghosts, he took aim at the fraudulent relationships of men and women,

protected and codified within the context of marriage. He was outraged what kind of behavior her husband engaged in, and that he should nonetheless be able to hold his head high, while if the situation were reversed a woman was treated as an outcast. When Ghosts was performed, Ibsen found himself hated by some and idolized by many Farewell to Arms. My son read this not long ago and wasnt too

that a woman was expected to suffer silently and do her duty no matter

a nice measure of his success. Next I am going to read Hemingways A impressed. When he finished it he started on Thornton Wilders The Bridge of San Luis Rey, upon which he immediately remarked that it was far better written. Ive read Wilders book, and from the little Ive read of

Hemingway over the years, I can see where this is probably true. One fashioned use of English, which sounded almost as if it had been translated from Spanish. This served the story well. An interesting coincidence is that Look Homeward, Angel and A Farewell to Arms were both published in 1929, and that The Bridge of San Luis Rey was

thing I liked about The Bridge of San Luis Rey was Wilders old-

published in 1927, and that they were all written at roughly the same doesnt mean a darned thing.

time. Or maybe it isnt interesting. Maybe its just a coincidence, and it April 16, 2004 Yesterday morning I dropped off some of my mothers

old clothing at Goodwill. Afterward, since Ive been needing another book shelf lately, I wandered into the store to see if they had something I

could use. There wasnt, but there was a strangely attractive couch with

a tangled, leafy pattern that made it look like it was overgrown with ivy, farm house. There were also a couple of old student desks, as desks copy of Mad Magazine have come to be called. While I was looking them

and that it had been recently uprooted from the porch of an abandoned that have no room for anything but a box of crackers, a pencil, and a over, a scraggly fellow nearby picked up a tall glass thing I thought might of purple beads, which clattered and rolled all over the floor. With no

have been a shadeless lamp. He turned it over, releasing an avalanche change in expression, he put it down and headed for another part of the

store. I decided not to follow him. Instead, I entered the aisle where the cups and glasses are displayed. Right away, I found a nicely shaped little glass that could be used either for wine or for rooting sprigs of mint or various house plants. It was only forty-nine cents, so I decided to keep it. Then, on the next aisle, I found a two-quart crock, complete with

lid and in perfect condition, by its looks probably never used. It was only

two dollars and ninety-nine cents, so I decided to keep it. Then I went for a look at the book section. There was nothing really worthwhile, but on a rack nearby there were sunglasses for four dollars and ninety-seven

cents each. And since mine are scratched and mangled and keep sliding son came home from work for lunch, I showed him my new sunglasses. When I put them on, he started laughing. Those are Eighties sunglasses, he said. You look like Jeff Lynne from the Electric Light

down my nose, I decided to keep a pair of those as well. Later, when our

Orchestra. I said, You mean they look that good? Great! I had no idea. We have long admired Jeff Lynnes rather large sunglasses, which he has stayed with over the years. I am glad such glasses still exist. Some

of the sunglasses for sale now are so small that they barely cover the

eye, and make people look like insects or aliens, or alien insects. The day wore on. I made a cup of coffee and returned to work. Before long, I began to feel tremendously stupid and useless. Or, to put it more

accurately, I couldnt get over how tremendously stupid and useless I really was. I dont know. Did Peter Pan ever feel this way? Or Mozart? What about Henry Ford, or Ford Madox Ford, or Austin Ford, who lived,

once upon a time, around the corner from where I grew up, and who had foolishly planted his Emperor vineyard in rows running north and south instead of east and west? What a shame they were never interviewed by Oprah Winfrey or Larry King, and allowed to spill their guts to a hostile, unlistening world miraculously held together by random acts of kindness worse knowing it. Did Huck Finn ever feel this way, or Odysseus? We

and intelligence. Bah, it is hell being stupid and useless; but it is even will never know. But with luck and the right blend of youthful eagerness and honesty, we might someday come to understand why they are in some ways more real than we are, though they never existed. April 17, 2004 Not long after we left Dinuba, California, for Salem,

Oregon, back in 1987, one of the Armenian old-timers, an alcoholic bachelor farmer who as a boy had won foot races at Mooney Grove in nearby Visalia, told my father, Hell be back. It was quite a statement,

especially since he and I had exchanged only a dozen words or so in the he knew me well enough to make such a prediction. In his narrow mind, I way he thought. Quite simply, he was an Armenian, the son of Old

thirty-odd years that we lived in the same area. Yet somehow he thought had abandoned ship, which, in a sense, I had done, though not in the Country refugees who, along with so many like them, had managed to relocated attachment in the process. My fathers parents did the same

scrape together a living far from home, building a deep feeling of

thing. My father could never have pulled up stakes and moved to home was his farm in Dinuba. His lifes work was there, and, quite

Oregon, unless it was a matter of safety for his wife and children. His literally, his blood, sweat, and tears. And though I was well on the way to

joining him in that status, I still felt it imperative that we leave. The air was foul. The water, so sweet and wonderful during my childhood, was laden with chemicals and going from bad to worse. Clearly, it was no place to raise our children. So we jumped ship and left. Ironically, in the process, we became refugees. I mean this in the fullest sense of the word. We knew the language, but that was about it. We left home; we

left everyone we knew behind; we were complete strangers who knew nothing of our destination save where it was on the map and that it had fresh air, clean water, and cooler weather. We started over. Fortunately, their new home. But in many ways, their parents are still starting over.

our children, who are now almost completely grown, are doing well in This is especially true of their father, who has been pushing his horseless cart uphill through the mythical streets of Never Land for the last seventeen years, and who is now bent, haggard, and prematurely under his breath. Where it leads, I have no idea. I will be the first to

aged, and who, in his weary, stubborn delirium mutters insane curses admit that I was in just as pathetic mental shape long before we left

Dinuba. Still, I miss our three poplar trees, and our pomegranate tree,

and our olive, apricot, and fig trees. I miss our barn, our goats, and our chickens, some of which even had names. Hell be back. Did he ever leave? Where is he now? Lost as usual, as always, as he might well forever remain. April 18, 2004 Phase One of my massive Workspace Reclamation

Project is now complete. My table is clean, and the stacks of papers and

folders have been filed in a new heavy-duty plastic tub with a securely sealing lid something I should have done years ago. My most recent and ongoing correspondence has been gathered, roughly organized, pertaining to my novel, A Listening Thing. This leaves the books, which I

and put into a cardboard file holder I had on hand, as has all material dusted and rearranged in a towering stack to the left of my computer monitor, with their spines facing out so they can be properly admired. I four more used books yesterday afternoon after my son and I went to still need to find a small book shelf, though, especially since I bought the office supply store to get the plastic filing tub. The new titles are:

Peer Gynt, by Henrik Ibsen, a nicely illustrated hardbound volume that ran three dollars; The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by Henry Fielding, another hardbound volume, this one with its own sturdy slipcase, with illustrations by Lawrence Beall Smith; Essays of Michel de

Montaigne, selected and illustrated by Salvador Dali; and The Tragedy

of King Lear, by some guy named Shakespeare. On the inside cover,

one of the books former owners made a nice pencil sketch of either Lear or Shakespeare, I cant tell which. It is a wonderfully depressing drawing, itself worth the dollar I paid for the book. The Montaigne book fifty, I can continue searching for answers and clues to my own ignorance, as eloquently revealed by the ignorance of others.

cost two dollars; the Fielding book was two-fifty. And so for a mere eight-

April 19, 2004 Im so inspired by having a clean place to work that I

cant work. I was afraid this would happen. Yesterday morning I bought a small book shelf, the kind you assemble yourself. It only took me half an hour of hammering and cursing to put the thing together. But I succeeded without doing any damage. I even followed the directions. Its

nice and sturdy, with an imitation cherry finish. Now all the books that

were on my table are on the new shelf. But to make room for the shelf

itself, I had to wrestle the shelf I already had, which is much larger and heavier, into a new spot in the corner. Now the shelves come together at an inviting angle, beckoning the reader thither or is it hither, or yon? is still room on the shelf for a few more books. The bad news is, I am

Go thither with your zither, or Ill tell your mither. The good news is, there probably only a month or two away from running out of space again. After that, Ill have to go back to stacking them on my table. Or is that really bad news? Its pleasant to have a clean place to work, but there is something comforting in being surrounded by piles of books. This reminds me of a poem I wrote almost four years ago, called The Books by My Bed. It goes like this: 1. The books by my bed / are full of words / hard shells / hide a thousand shades / of complexity, / that once I do not comprehend, / yet how I love them, / like people I know / whose revealed / become rivers of light / and dreams that penetrate / the

farthest depths of space. 2. The books by my bed / are full of people / I hard shells / hide a thousand shades / of complexity, / that once farthest depths of space.

do not comprehend, / yet how I love them, / like words I know / whose revealed / become rivers of light / and dreams that penetrate / the April 20, 2004 In his televised campaign advertisements, he looks you

straight in the eye, and with the serious gravity due his stolen office, Democratic candidate for president uses the same approach. Well,

says, Im George W. Bush and I approved this message. The leading thanks, boys. Im glad to know you approved your messages. It brings a new heartfelt dimension to the lies you tell, and the truth you use at the funerals of fallen soldiers: Im George W. Bush and I conveniently forget. Speaking of the truth, heres one the Mighty W could

approved your sons death. Or heres one he could beam to Iraq: Im

George W. Bush and I approved the occupation and destruction of your country. Or, to those feeling abandoned as they stand in the unemployment line, he could say this: Im George W. Bush and I

approved the corporate rape of the United States of America and the exportation of your silly little two-bit jobs suckers. Anyway. It seems weve come along way from I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree. Indeed, with the current George, it would have to go like this: I cannot tell a lie. I logged the holy hell out of the old-growth forest to protect it from fire. Or this: I cannot tell a lie as long as Im seriously, folks, Im William Michaelian, and I approved this message.

asleep. Or this: I cannot tell a lie. Whee-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! But April 21, 2004 I finished reading Hemingways A Farewell to Arms

yesterday evening. I found the sentence structure somewhat annoying, Over all, the writing was decent and even shined briefly in spots, but it

though I got used to it after the first few pages and was able to proceed. relied too much on what to me felt like a gimmick of calculated

understatement. I think this betrayed the two main characters in the end, mainly because the language didnt reflect the urgency of their situation. I also think the novel would have been better treated as a short story.

But, what do I know? Hemingway was a world famous prize-winning author, and I am a pea-brained hack who publishes himself on the Internet. I will definitely give Papa another chance out of fairness and curiosity, and to show what a magnanimous guy I really am. April 22, 2004 The escalation of violence in Iraq comes as no

surprise, though the politicians like to pretend it does, and many people in the news business like to play along with them. People dont like it when another country takes over their own, especially when the

aggressor supports and gives a green light to the exact same tactics it

claims it wants to bring to an end. Witness Israel. Through their arrogant, evil actions, the U.S. and Israel have made themselves the most hated nations on earth. This is quite a distinction, when you take into account

all of the other countries vying for the job. Thats one reason it is nice to

see that Spain, Honduras, and the Dominican Republic are withdrawing is around 2,000 small potatoes compared to this countrys 135,000, if

their troops from Iraq. According to news reports, their combined number that or any other figure can be trusted. But that doesnt make their withdrawal any less right, especially since it was countries like these that the monsters in Washington have been referring to as allies and

coalition forces. Sadly, as long as the U.S. and Israel continue along the present lines, which they surely will, the turmoil in Iraq and the surrounding countries is guaranteed to increase. It is impossible to set something like this into motion and expect otherwise. The millions of

people who protested worldwide over a year ago, and who were ignored, knew that. This countrys soldiers are like an infected thorn in the body of Iraq; it is only logical for the body to retaliate and try to expel the thorn. The thorn is deeply embedded and painful to remove, but there are millions and millions of people in and around Iraq, a sufficient number of

whom are willing to give their life to be rid of the disease this country represents in their minds. And now, months too soon, there are reports that the war is costing far more than was expected. My, my, another big

surprise. And just where is the next round of funds going to come from?

Are Bushs tax-exempt buddies going to step up and pay the bill? And violent future ruled by hatred and sorrow. Think of it. And think of the

where is the money going now? To death, destruction, and an ever more food, housing, medicine, and education that kind of money can buy.

Knowing this, the president has the gall to stand before the people, his brow arched in mock concern, and say he is fighting for freedom? April 23, 2004 Both Shakespeare and Cervantes died on this day in 1616, but Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and King Lear live on. When a character in a book outlives its author by 388 years, the author must

have done something right. He must have understood something of

human nature. Its inspiring to think of the generations that have come others like them, in common. And yet it is also true that countless

and gone in that time, and how they have all held these works, and millions of those who have lived and died never so much as heard the names of Shakespeare or Cervantes, though quite a few might have starry-eyed knight in rust-bucket armor, Don Quixote. But whether they uttered the phrase tilting at windmills without knowing it refers to the have known or not, I believe they have benefitted. Life without great art, sometimes is. It would be like a forest without trees, or the night sky

music, and literature would be even more barren and frightening than it without stars. People who dont read also dont realize that their lives have been based upon it, and nations have gone to war over its interpretation. To remain ignorant of it, especially in these times, is to

have been shaped in great part by the written word. Whole religions

invite suffering on oneself. Literature is not the answer, however, any more than is religion or politics. Literature is a question. Great literature asks. It asks us to listen, to wonder, to pay attention, to look without, and

to look within. It asks us to ask. It is our gift to ourselves, given in the beyond superstition, beyond selfishness and fear.

hope that we may one day understand in a way that is beyond language, April 24, 2004 Yesterday morning our second-oldest son, Lev,

rumbled into the driveway in his most recently acquired automobile, a

1987 Lincoln. He was all smiles, because the car is basically a worn-out piece of junk with a bad muffler, though still solid and with a good engine. And of course its loaded to the gills. This is the third car he has owned. He sold the first car, a 1985 Oldsmobile, around four months ago, a short time after buying his second car, a 1993 Ford Escort station

wagon, which he apparently plans to hang onto, since its in good shape and gets him where he wants to go. But he had to have that Lincoln. And since he knows people who know how to fix cars, and who do the work

almost for free, he should be safe until something major happens except, what am I saying? He probably wont have the thing that long anyway. The kid loves cars, and to buy and sell them, the way my father and his brother did. And since today is my uncles birthday, I will mention before the Second World War, in which his brother lost his life, in a the time my father watched him tearing down the little road they lived on souped-up 1932 Chevrolet at sixty miles an hour, when suddenly and without warning, he spun the car around and headed off in the opposite killed. I wish he wasnt buried in a military cemetery in Italy. I wish he direction. I wish I could have known my uncle. I wish he had not been could have come home and married the girl he loved, and had a family. I have known my grandparents before their son had been taken from

wish I could have known my cousins who were never born. I wish I could them, and my father, before his brother had been taken from him. I wish

I could make people understand the waste, folly, and ignorance of war. I

wish the wishes of those who wish the same thing would somehow rise up and overwhelm the poisonous, ugly wishing of the people who propagate and use war for the short-term profit it brings them, and the long-term profit it brings their descendants.

April 25, 2004 In one letter to the editor in this mornings paper, someone took exception to the presidents glib reference to the most recent escalation of violence in Iraq as a couple of rough weeks. The

letter writer responded by saying, For all those families who will be burying their young sons and daughters in the coming days, the rough weeks have just begun. The paper is full of similar letters, and yet for the past few days the front page has been used to trumpet the so-called football, enlist, and get himself killed in the war. He gave up all that heroism of a professional football player who was stupid enough to quit money to serve his country, the news people chirp in unison, even though he had already earned enough to keep his family in beans for the incredible: his daddy had fought in a war, and other members of his rest of their lives. The reason he gave in an interview for going was family had fought in a war, and so he figured to be worth anything he

had to fight in a war. And now that he is gloriously and stupidly dead, the every TV news show when the pictures they should be showing are shipped home, or the heaps of wounded soldiers, or the thousands of

government says hes a hero and his picture is in the paper and on the forbidden ones of flag-draped caskets lined up and waiting to be dead and wounded people who made the foolish mistake of being born Think: Who gains in this equation, and who loses? The tiny country of

in Iraq instead of here, under the red, white, and gas-guzzling blue. Laos is still picking its way through the millions of pounds of bombs that taught what to look for and where to walk, and the next several bombs? Did they produce them for free? Who got the money? Who is it

were rained on it back in the days of Vietnam. Children there have to be generations are faced with trying to defuse their land. Who made those that is always so willing to trade life for cold, hard cash? Who is it that is

so willing to destroy a country and the people in it just to get their hands

on some oil and strategic real estate? Who are the people who over the years have smirked their way through mock news conferences, telling lie after expedient lie, knowing full well that their actions are the surest guarantee for continued misery and strife? Who are they? Why do so

many people pretend not to know? Why do so many people fall for their lies? Why are they willing to go along with it and think a football player is suddenly a hero, when the fact is, his lame kind of thinking is what helps wars come about in the first place? April 26, 2004 What a beautiful day. Days like this make me want to a novel about a novelist who is writing a novel about novelists. As I

write a novel about a novelist who writes a novel about a novelist writing picture it, the book would go like this: in the beginning, the novelist is inspired by what a beautiful day it is and he cheerfully dives into his a storm is brewing. At first, the novelist, whose bloodstream is full of caffeine, doesnt notice. Eventually, though, he hits the scotch and the work. But by the middle of the afternoon, the weather has changed and

day unravels. It gets worse when he realizes he has already introduced three main characters, and they are all novelists who are writing novels about novelists. Bah, he says, this is what I get for attending the Acme

Writers Workshop. But he presses on, because his writing instructors and mentors have promised that if he sticks to their formula, he will be giving readings and signing novels in book stores in no time. And then

he has a brilliant idea: one of the novelists in his novel about novelists goes to a book store and quietly starts signing other novelists novels. trail of signed first editions. Then the manager sees him and says, Hey, Pretty soon, he has signed every novel in the store, leaving behind him a what are you doing? You cant go around writing in books. Youll have to

pay for all of them, now, buster, or Ill call the police. Instead of answering, the novelist kicks the manager and runs out of the store. When the manager finally recovers, he says, Man, these novelists are a pain. Thats the fifth one this week, and its only Wednesday. Then he back and forth in front of the store, carrying signs. Unfair to Novelists, looks outside and notices that a group of about 300 novelists are walking the signs proclaim. No More Signed First Editions. Behind the novelists, a crowd of novel-buyers gathers. Whats this? they say to each other. By gum, Im through buying novels from this store. Ill go to the store up the street. When the manager hears this his hearing is very sensitive when it comes to such matters he rushes outside armed with coupons

for free espresso. Here! Here! he cries. When the novel-buyers see this, they create a stampede that scatters the protesting novelists. Coffee! they scream. I want mine! Give it to me now! While they are drinking coffee, the manager ups the price on all the incorrectly signed novels, waves them under the novel-buyers noses, and makes a killing.

Meanwhile, the novelists go home in defeat, where they begin writing novels about novelists who wring their hands and say, Where, oh where, did I go wrong?

April 27, 2004 For the gardening record: I planted tomatoes late in the afternoon two days ago. It was seventy-eight degrees. Yesterday it was weve had a little warm weather, a breeze is puffing in from the eighty-three. All twenty of the plants look great. Now, as is typical after southwest, bringing cooler ocean air. Todays temperature will probably

be around ten or twelve degrees lower, but the tomatoes wont mind. For the musical record: a few days ago, he and I went to a music store and I

the family record: today is our youngest sons seventeenth birthday. For bought him a harmonica holder, which is a metal contraption worn

around the neck that leaves the hands free to play the guitar. It works.

For the household record: I rolled our garbage bin and recycling bin out to the curb yesterday evening so they would be ready for this mornings pick-up. For the sleep record: I have had very little the past two nights, due to mental distress brought on by futile attempts at thinking. For the

business record: today I dont expect a swarm of publishers, editors, literary agents, and talk show hosts to storm the house and carry me off wave multi-million-dollar contracts under my nose. But I can be ready at decent pair of pants and a shirt. to New York and take me to the swankiest restaurants and clubs and a moments notice after Ive had some more coffee and put on a April 28, 2004 Finally, I got some sleep and just in time, too,

because, as I was telling everyone in the house yesterday evening, I had had an idea earlier in the day about having an idea that I wanted to spend some time thinking about today, and had even written a note on

the back of an old business card to remind myself to not only have the idea, but to flesh out the details. Now that Im rested, I can go ahead with yesterdays idea and have the idea. But first, I cant help wondering: if I had not been so tired the last couple of days, would I have had the idea to have the idea in the first place? Possibly so, because I tend to have ideas quite often. But a great many of those ideas quickly vanish, worth pursuing. What was exciting about yesterdays idea is that I could sense something very complete hovering just beyond my weary mental

or are so impractical that even I can see they are hopeless and not

reach, and I knew, moreover, that it was something I should have

thought of a long time ago. This is where I think being exhausted might prevent me from having the idea in its truest, fullest form? I dont know.

have paid off although, that begs another question: will being rested

Maybe I should put off having the idea at least until later in the day, when I am more tired. On the other hand, I could be pushing my luck. I fact that I havent had it yet. But, we shall see. We shall see. might already have squandered the idea by talking about it, despite the April 29, 2004 In the blink of an eye, another ten soldiers are dead. Here, meanwhile, we muddle along. The gas prices continue to rise, and are now well in excess of two dollars per gallon. People who still can, remains to be seen. How many lives they will be willing to spend to maintain this countrys most-wasteful-nation-on-earth status does also. Judging by past performances, the number could go very high. It isnt

pay the price and keep driving. How high they will be willing to go

just gas. Its everything. America might easily be known as the

Disposable Nation, or the Disposable Society. Enough waste is created I dont know what the figures are, or if there even are figures. But I do

in this country to feed and fuel a disgusting portion of the worlds needs. know what I see, and multiplied several million times over, it amounts to

a lot. For many decades weve been taught and encouraged to

squander; now we think it is our right. And to a great degree, we are trapped by our own lifestyle and technology. We live too far from where walk to the corner for a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk, both of which we work; we are often too lazy or too physically or mentally exhausted to are full of chemicals and impurities; TVs and computers do our thinking for us, as we spend hours slumped before them, our brain waves slowing to meet the lack of demand. This is America. This is the modern

world, where poisoned lawns take the place of bountiful gardens, and

where pavement comes between our childrens feet and the wonderful desert several thousand miles away? In the nearest cemetery? Or both?

earth from which all life springs. Where does the sidewalk end? In a

April 30, 2004 Yesterday, the president and vice-president of the

United States met with the commission charged with investigating the events of September 11, 2001. They told their lies off the record, behind closed doors, and later called the meeting cordial. Today, while they snicker and count their money, how many more will die? May 1, 2004 It has been a year since George Flight Suit Bush

swooped in for a spectacular landing aboard an aircraft carrier and

announced the end to major combat in Iraq beneath a big sign that said of the United States did this. Hundreds of dead and thousands of

Mission Accomplished. Yes, this really happened. A real, live president wounded soldiers later, this country is hated by millions, and seen, quite understandably, as root of the worlds evil. It isnt, of course. The worlds evil was in full swing long before the United States was around. Its just

that at this moment in history, more of it seems to be concentrated here than anywhere else. I dont mean to slight other countries, however. If the U.S. hasnt bled them dry or blown them all up first, their turn will come, and the evil monsters in their midst will hold sway. Mission since then? How many have been crippled, disfigured, wounded? How Accomplished. What a strange thing to say. How many Iraqis have died many Iraqi children have been neglected in the years since the last Bush

go-around, when George Read My Lips Bush drew his infamous line in the sand? What a nightmare to visit upon a nation. And what was in the stage production a year ago? What are they thinking now? What is minds of the people who stood by and cheered the younger Bushs anyone thinking, who still believes this country has a right, and is right,

to do what it is doing? How can they think that occupying a country and killing thousands of people can lead to a positive outcome? What kind of dream world are they living in? The ghosts of this war, which is still

gaining momentum, will haunt this country especially, and the world for years. They will haunt the minds of those who participated and survived; they will haunt the minds of those whose loved ones were lost; they will haunt the collective mind in subtle, destructive ways that will not be

understood, and for which there will be no name. Each generation be built upon graves. It has yet to be done. People may prosper in

inherits the pain wrought by the previous ones. A truly good life cannot material ways and call it a good life, but where is their happiness? Who can honestly say after a war, It is good that we killed? We know the arguments. It might be convenient to say something like Hitler had to be stopped, but there would have been no Hitler to stop if people had refused to go along with his madness in the first place. The evil madmen of the world acquire the power they do only because they are bold enough to act out the madness the people carry inside them. We need

to understand the power of the word No. We need to listen to that other part of us that still remembers what it means to be a child who is in love with life and in love with the world and the people in it. It is just as real as the part of us that hates, and the part of us that wants more than we need or what someone else has. Goodness can spread as rapidly as evil, if only we are unafraid to embrace it. May 2, 2004 Somewhere in Texas a village is missing its idiot. So

read a sign at a peaceful May Day gathering yesterday in Portland,

Oregon. The police made no arrests. But they were ready, in case the

displeasure of the citys tired, unemployed, underemployed, uninsured workers got out of hand. As it is, everyone in Portland is on edge these days, since every so often the police shoot or beat someone during a routine traffic stop. Most recently, a rugged member of the force who is

also an ex-Marine found it necessary to shoot and kill an unarmed black

man within twenty-four seconds of pulling him over because he thought with him. For some reason, they were unable to simply grab and hold the driver, who, according to the murdering officers testimony, was fishing in his pocket for something he assumed was a gun. He said he was digging in his pocket furiously, or something to that effect. This sounded furiously would he have to dig for it, considering the fact that the gun

his car was too nice for the neighborhood. There was another officer

a bit odd to me. If a person has a gun in his front pants pocket, how would almost fill the pocket? Also, the driver was wearing a seat belt. Where was he going to go? Anyway, after the driver had been murdered, they found out that all he had in his pocket was some change. validity of the Portland Police Departments unofficial slogan, It pays to profile, which is a nicely updated version of Shoot now and ask

He also had some illegal drugs in his mouth proving, once again, the

questions later. At any rate, it is pretty much agreed by everyone that the inquest this past week left many questions unanswered, the main one being, why should a muscle-bound, thick-necked ex-Marine who is twice as big as a dopey guy restrained by a seat belt be unable to officer leaning in from the other side of the car? The officer stated that handle a situation like that without killing him, especially with another everything about the situation told him something was wrong, and that respond. So, without realizing it, he admitted that his judgment is unsound and that he should be fired from the police force. But there is still the little problem of the murder he committed, or, rather, that his

the driver had a gun, and that he responded exactly as he was trained to

training had him commit. To hear the officer talk about it, you would think the guy isnt dead. His family and friends, though, know otherwise. Of course, killing people in a war isnt considered murder either. It is

honorable to kill someone in the line of duty. To be a hero, all you have to do is put on a uniform, have yourself shipped off to someone elses country, and kill complete strangers because society says its okay. Ironically, though, the mistreatment of prisoners is a big no-no. This is accused of using all sorts of violent and humiliating tactics against prisoners of war. Bush and Blair, the greatest comedy team of our time,

currently big news, as both American and British troops have been

have both said they are appalled. Investigations have been launched. but the idea of hurting a prisoner why thats terrible. What will the man ought to rejoin the Marines. It sounds like he is missing his calling.

Its okay to take over a country and to blow up buildings and kill people, world think? Meanwhile, maybe the police officer who killed an unarmed May 3, 2004 What writer or writers working today will have the

combination of talent, energy, and luck to rise up and change the way are small successes, partial or momentary successes, but no one, it

people think, or at least to start them thinking in new directions? There seems, has gripped, or has been allowed by commercial forces to grip,

the imagination of the general public. Or is the imagination still there to grab? Have television and the entertainment industry killed it? Is reading their thinking done for them? And has growing up and living amid the constant barrage of electronic nonsense drained the creative life out of too much work? Would people really rather stare at a screen and have

writers as well? Much of todays fiction seems rooted in television. The the work is without purpose or conviction. And yet some of these books

writing is poor, the dialogue is cheap, the characters are contrived, and sell by the hundreds of thousands, even millions. This is possible because they are served up by a powerful publicity machine to an undemanding public that is conditioned to respond. Meanwhile, writers

who try to challenge readers with intelligent, thought-provoking work are expected to dance like puppets on a string before the altar of Commerce. They are expected to beg to be heard, and to be grateful

when they are granted fifteen minutes of the distracted publics precious time, and asked all sorts of stupid questions about how and why they wrote their book and what they have been doing all these years to survive financially. And many writers, desperate for any sort of progress

and recognition, throw themselves into unnatural, performance-based Dickens. So-and-So will read from his novel. Why? Cant the people read it themselves? Its an accepted form, I know. These days, writers are expected to turn up at book stores and read from their novels. It is a

public speaking, hoping against hope that they will be the next Twain or

convenient way to sell a few books. But if a writer happens to be uncomfortable in a room full of people, it can also be tremendously embarrassing and humiliating. He knows he is going to be judged on his

presentation, rather than on his writing. As far as Im concerned, a writer shouldnt be put into that situation, unless public speaking is something that comes naturally to him and is what he really wants to do. If carpenters arent expected to appear at lumberyards, show slides, and have to do the equivalent in book stores? What can be done to

sign scraps from their latest remodeling job, then why should writers overcome the unwillingness of Corporate Publishing to promote writers who truly have something to say, and, with a little help and encouragement, will be around to say it for many years? Are there Corporate Publishing, like all of its big business counterparts, wants a

enough people left who are willing to vote with their dollars, so to speak? sure thing. When people buy garbage, Corporate Publishing will immediately serve up more garbage. Of course the writers, too, are at

fault. We have to work harder and write better. We have to continue working whether we are paid or not. We must also remember that good things can happen only if good things are expected. Its a lot to ask, I know. Thats why, above all, being crazy helps.

May 4, 2004 In spare moments during the last couple of days, I have

been reading a little of the used book I picked up several months ago that contains seven plays by George Bernard Shaw, as well as some interesting prefaces he wrote. The great thing about Shaw is that he was

unafraid to speak his mind. In the first preface I read, which was written in 1898, he tore the Censorship and the society that made it possible to Chamberlains Examiner of Plays a gentleman who robs, insults, and meanest of his subjects, and continues, the robbery takes form of shreds, with logic, humor, and sarcasm. Early on, he calls the Lord suppresses me as irresistibly as if he were the Tsar of Russia and I the making me pay him two guineas for reading every play of mine that

exceeds one act in length. I do not want him to read it (at least officially: impertinence on his part. But I must submit in order to obtain from him

personally he is welcome): on the contrary, I strenuously resent that an insolent and insufferable document, which I cannot read without

boiling of the blood, certifying that in his opinion his opinion! my

play does not in its general tendency contain anything immoral or otherwise improper for the stage, and that the Lord Chamberlain therefore allows its performance (confound his impudence!). In spite of prosecute me, or to instigate some other citizen to prosecute me, for an this certificate he still retains the right, as an ordinary citizen, to outrage on public morals if he should change his mind later on. And so offensive, Mrs. Warrens Profession. Mrs. Warren has been very

on. Then I started reading one of the plays the Lord Chamberlain found

successful in what has been called the worlds oldest profession. Shaws argument was that women were driven into that kind of work by a society menial jobs that paid starvation wages or marrying for money. I have that did not value them, and left them the choice of scraping by on read two acts so far, and the only offensive thing is that Shaw made plain the hypocrisy of his characters, men especially. There is one station, afraid anyone will find out that once upon a time, he, too, was character in particular, an elderly clergyman who hides behind his one of Mrs. Warrens clients. Anyway. As I said, its quite interesting,

and very well written. The characters do a lot more blabbing than do Henrik Ibsens in A Dolls House and Ghosts, intelligent plays Shaw points out as also having been targets of censorship. These days, it is

almost impossible to shock people, because we have seen and heard it all, or because we are bored and dazed by what passes for the Good Life, or worn out by trying to achieve it. And yet ironically, as in Shaws time, many of us still dont know whether we are shocked or not until someone employed in some official capacity tells us. When they do, we are outraged. Witness the burning of an American flag the same flag

murdering leaders wrap themselves in and wave under everyones nose each time they want to further erode what the flag supposedly the shallower we become, the more desperately we cling to outward symbols. May 5, 2004 We have seen many a cloud in recent weeks, but represents. To those who are offended, I offer this thought and reminder:

scarcely a drop of rain has come out of them. It has been dry and weak band of moisture has dragged itself inland from the ocean,

warmer than usual. But it is cloudy and cool this morning, as another apologetic and lacking conviction. Our young tomato plants are happy,

and have already tripled in size. When I looked at them yesterday

evening, they were coated with pollen from the nearby pine trees,

making them look like they had been dipped in sulfur. Its no wonder so

many people have been clawing at their eyes lately, ourselves included. Allergy season here in the Willamette Valley is no laughing matter. People suffer. Newcomers think it odd at first, but often after theyve been here for a few years they find that they, too, are among the

afflicted. At a certain point, the body decides it has had enough, and it works overtime trying to banish the offending particles of mold and never suffered from allergies end up with symptoms. But it passes. A pollen, leaving the immune system in an uproar. Even people who have nice rain helps. And luckily, most people arent allergic to everything, but to just a few, or even only one or two, things, so its a matter of outlasting noses and bulging, bloodshot eyes and sniff our way through pleasantries, hoping we dont look as bad ourselves. the source. In the meantime, we look kindly upon one anothers red

May 6, 2004 The two-dollar hard-bound volume of Michel de

Montaignes essays I picked up at the Friends of the Salem Library book store recently has provided an interesting change of pace. Montaignes the sentences are long, with phrases marked by many commas and writing isnt something one rushes through. The thoughts are deep, and semi-colons; the author was obviously taking his time; he wanted to be observation, was an accurate representation of what he meant. This

sure that what he was saying, being the fruit of many years of living and might sound boring, but it isnt, because not only does Montaigne make a lot of sense, it turns out he is a delightful skeptic with a sense of humor. It is also nice to know that he wrote his essays surrounded by

books in the many-windowed room of a tower he called his solitarium.

There simply arent many writers writing in towers these days. Most

writers, myself included, write in bedrooms. We have books. We also and spiders, and the view outside tends to be of other bedroom

have windows. But the window sills are covered with dust and dead flies windows. But Montaigne did have the advantage of living in the sixteenth in 1592. Despite this, his thoughts on the medical profession are surprisingly appropriate today. When it came to sickness, he strongly

century, when towers were more in vogue. He was born in 1533; he died

believed in letting nature take its course, rather than taking cures upon which no three doctors could agree. He said the surest way to lose ones many examples of people who were victims of the medical profession, and of doctors who blamed their failures on other doctors, or on the patients themselves. While reading, I couldnt help but think of how underlying cause for their distress, and how this leads them away from, health was to place oneself in the care of a physician; then he listed

willingly so many people take pills today without trying to find out the rather than to, any lasting relief. Trained by technology and advertising to expect instant results, they are consumed by their short-term anguish, and will pay good money to escape. And there is always a doctor handy

who is willing to prescribe the latest pill, instead of telling the patient it

would be far better to examine his or her daily habits and lifestyle and

see what changes can be made. The result: a society hooked on antidepressants, pain relievers, and whatever else the evil drug companies can create a bogus demand for and sell. Montaigne said, Tis the fear of death and of pain, impatience of disease, and violent and indiscreet our belief so pliable and easy to be imposed upon: and yet most men do not so much believe as they acquiesce and permit; for I hear them find

desire of a present cure, that so blind us; tis pure cowardice that makes

fault and complain as well as we; but they resolve at last, What should I Is there any one of those who have suffered themselves to be

do then? As if impatience were of itself a better remedy than patience. persuaded into this miserable subjection, who does not equally surrender himself to the mercy of whoever has the impudence to the medicine we understand, no more than we do the drugs we promise him a cure? He also pointed out that we do not easily accept ourselves gather, and said, if the nations whence we fetch our guaiacum, sarsaparilla, and China wood, have physicians, how great a value must we imagine, by the same recommendation of strangeness,

rarity, and dear purchase, do they set upon our cabbage and parsley? for who would dare to contemn things so far fetched, and sought out at the hazard of so long and dangerous a voyage? These words were directions.

written over 400 years ago. They lead, I believe, in many interesting May 7, 2004 It finally rained a little last night, not enough to water our recent plantings of flowers and vegetables, but enough to tide them over for a couple of days if it doesnt rain anymore. Its nice to see the ground dark and moist again. The change has put me in a reflective mood, which in turn has caused, or allowed, my mind to wander back to my

growing up years in the San Joaquin Valley, where rain was scarce and summers we made our own rain by turning on the hose and spraying water over the dusty ground around the house and yard. It not only way to feel cool and imagine the end of summer. The smell rising from settled the dust, but was a comforting way to spend a few minutes, a the settled dust was always, and still remains, one of my very favorite

the big drops seemed to fall several inches apart. During the long, hot

smells. My father loved it too; it was something we mentioned to each

other several times a year. We loved that smell, and the smell of grapes drying on the ground, on their way to becoming raisins. We loved them as one loves his home and family, because they were a part of both, and

seemed to express the sorrow and joy of living. When a boy suddenly finds himself a man, and then a husband and a father, the best thing he can do is turn on the hose and settle the dust in his yard. For he needs through his dream, and the wife who is a willing accomplice in it all. He

to think, and to try to figure out the meaning of the children running needs to understand his place, his moment, his truth, and the eager helplessness that sustains and guides him. Those were the days. These are the days unfolding as one, unbroken yet impossible to put

together again, for there is no way to assemble the many witnesses who

carried off their part of the story with them, forever lost, forever gained, their birth, joyously received into Wise Earths mothering embrace, mistakes forgiven, dreams silently recorded, and then, when it is least expected, reborn in drops of sweet spring rain.

tragically misunderstood, sternly rebuked for the innocent conspiracy of

May 8, 2004 The feigned surprise and outrage of so-called top government officials like Donald Rumsfeld and George W. Bush, along with various generals, congressmen, and news anchors, over the torture of Iraqi prisoners of war is as transparent as the war itself. But far more disgusting is their implication that the war is a lawful, honorable enterprise, and that war, if conducted according to certain accepted rules (which they have ignored and rewritten anyway), is a legitimate form of behavior. Hence, we have a term like war crimes, when in fact

war is a crime itself. When after a long delay the news was finally could muster, that the behavior of the men and women accused of

allowed to break, the president said, with the best furrowed brow he

torturing prisoners does not represent the American people. But when I see Americans charging up and down the road in their flag-bedecked Hummers and SUVs, and observe their conduct in business, and their insatiable appetite for things they dont need, and their willingness to waste food and energy at the worlds expense, and the way they physically and psychologically dominate their children at the expense of their natural talents and gifts, then the actions of the armed forces in Iraq and elsewhere in the world seem an apt reflection indeed. It is a shame more people dont see this connection, and dont realize, or refuse to

realize, that the way we live our daily lives has a direct bearing on what goes on in the world. Without that understanding, war, and the horrible suffering it brings, is sure to continue. May 9, 2004 A couple of days ago, when I suggested making a batch of chili for Mothers Day, I had meant it as a joke. But it turns out that everyone took me seriously. And so early this morning I washed two

pounds of pinto beans and put them in a big pan to soak. This afternoon, while they are in the early stages of cooking, I will get the rest of the ingredients together: tomato, onion, bell pepper, jalapeo, garlic, ground beef, salt, pepper, crushed red pepper, cayenne, and chili powder. when they are roughly halfway done. It isnt the most glamorous thing to These will be simmered together in a frying pan and added to the beans serve on such an occasion; then again, how formal does one need to be? Unlike some families, we dont wait for a commercial holiday to acknowledge the desperate shape wed be in without our mothers.

Likewise concerning Fathers Day, no one waits to acknowledge the mess we are in because of me, and how there is no argument when it comes to my hard-earned title, Designated Jackass. So beans it is. Now,

as I sit here, I am wondering if there isnt some sort of clever literary spin

I can put on all this. The trouble is, beans are beans. It is hard to talk

about them in a serious way. And yet where would we be without them?

Writers have written about bread in poetic and powerful ways that have Misrables, Victor Hugo caused his hero, Jean Valjean, to be cast into

served as a call for justice or to revolution. But beans? In Les prison for stealing a loaf of bread. To my knowledge, no character in literature was ever imprisoned because he stole a dish of beans. If beans are mentioned at all, it is likely within a Western context. I dont

remember specifically, but it isnt hard to imagine Zane Grey assembling the Purple Sage, and having them eat beans out of dented pie pans.

some rough-and-tumble horsemen around a lonely campfire in Riders on Although, it occurs to me that a realist like mile Zola might have used beans as a way to illustrate the poverty and drudgery of the nineteenth century French working class. A dish of beans thrown in violent anger against a dingy, grease-stained wall would have helped get his point across. This area of literature should be thoroughly explored. Possibly, it

has already. Nineteenth century Russian literature is full of cabbage will come to be known for its many references to beans. If things

soup and cockroaches. Perhaps twenty-first century American literature continue in the current sad direction, beans might be the only food the reached that point already.

average person in this country will be able to afford. Enough have May 10, 2004 After reading the fifth chapter of John Steinbecks The Grapes of Wrath, in which the bank-owned tractors first begin to push over their Dust Bowl tenants shacks while the tenants look on in paralyzed disbelief, I have to ask myself in all seriousness if I have yet

written, or ever will write, a work that makes as powerful a statement and

difference as this novel has. It is my arrogant and possibly misguided belief that Stephen Monroe, the main character in my novel, A Listening Thing, represents and speaks for millions of people who are trying to find a measure of inner peace and a better, more honest way to live. But am I right? Or am I blinded by my desire for this to be true? I

also wonder how Steinbeck and some of the other late nineteenth and

early twentieth century writers whose work is considered great would driven publishing. Would they be able to break in? Would they have It is certainly hard to imagine them attending workshops and

respond to todays world of corporate-controlled, safe-bet, celebritywebsites like mine, into which they would pour their efforts and energy? conferences for writers and getting masters degrees in creative writing, my mind, this widely accepted and embraced facet of the current literary

and then going on to teach writing to herds of other aspiring writers. In scene completely contradicts what should be a writers fiercely protected independence, his drive to express himself in his own way and to do justice to what he understands, and to make something of real value.

Why pretend to teach others to write when one could and should be

writing himself? If the answer is Because it pays, then perhaps it would be better to think of oneself not as a writer, but as one who trades on the hopes and aspirations of others while leading them down a blind path. At least it would be more accurate. On the other hand, if a person has the courage to admit something like that, maybe he is a writer after all. May 11, 2004 Our neighbor, dressed for work, came outside this

morning and picked a small bunch of roses from the bushes that line the

narrow sidewalk in front of his house. When he was done, he paused to garage. A couple of minutes later, he backed his van into the driveway,

study the plants, then held the roses briefly to his nose and went into his

closed the garage door by pressing a button in his van, and drove away. Now the house will remain empty for hours, the front blinds closed, the clocks ticking, the faucets dripping, the dust mites rummaging around in the upholstery, the pictures staring blankly from the wall, crucified and forlorn, the refrigerator humming periodically and blowing its warmth on the kitchen floor, sighing through great wads of lint while breakfast stains harden on the counters and the telephone goes unanswered in an surviving roses will whisper secrets and add their scent to the fresh spring air. unheard symphony of stagnation and stale air. All the while, outside, the

May 12, 2004 Thanks to a lousy bug that has invaded our house, I up all night drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I know, because this

have had a sore throat going on three days now. It feels as if Ive been is something Ive actually done a few times, though the last was about

twenty years ago. It happened in Fresno, which is such a polluted place withered and coated lungs not a very sensitive thing to say, but in filthy brown air with compromised lungs and respiratory systems. A

that a little smoking isnt likely to make much difference to ones already almost true nonetheless. The real truth is far worse: little kids growing up friend of mine, who had spent several years in the Armenian seminary of St. James in Jerusalem and who didnt go on to become a priest, and I used to get together every so often to compare notes on our personal philosophies and experiences, and also to discuss the state of the world. At the time, he sold carpet in a store on Blackstone Avenue. Our in the evening. One afternoon, I arrived with a big watermelon, which he occasion, we feasted on several fresh Armenian cucumbers I had found

meetings usually began there, then moved on after the store closed later cut open on top of his desk, juice spilling everywhere. On another

at a corner fruit stand in the country between Dinuba and Fresno. These werent quite as messy, but we did manage to sprinkle salt over his catalogues and contracts. On still another occasion, we were sitting in

the store talking when an earthquake jolted the building, rolling us was centered near the small town of Coalinga, which is southwest of Fresno quite a few miles and underwent a lot of damage. On each visit,

around wide-eyed in our chairs. The temblor, as I believe theyre called,

we would eventually wind up in the smoking section of a coffee shop,

eating pie, drinking coffee, and sharing a pack of filterless Camels until two in the morning. Then I would drive home in a highly agitated state, go to bed, and stare at the ceiling until dawn while my loving bride slumbered peacefully. Those were great times. It has been years since I have seen this particular friend sixteen, or thereabout. Sadly, we have fallen out of touch. I have heard through the grapevine that he is married now, and a father. But Im pretty sure well meet again someday. And when we do, there will be a lot to remember, a lot to catch up on, and a sixteen years, should either of us make it that far.

lot of unsaid things to wonder about probably enough to last another May 13, 2004 The wise and wondrous politicians are in an uproar over the increasing number of photos showing the abuse of Iraqi prisoners at the hands of the Americans. Who do we blame? they want

to know. Whose fault is it? And how are we going to placate the people and still get ourselves reelected? How ironic, since these are the same leaders who gave the green light to the occupation in the first place.

What principles. What courage. What a joke. Meanwhile, the right-wing over the air waves. Its the liberals fault! Squawk! Weve got a job to do in Iraq! Squawk! We cant cut and run! Squawk! We need to bring

lunatics on talk radio fan the flames, spewing their ugly, ignorant hatred

democracy to the Middle East! Squawk! Jeez. No doubt their sons and these people have to gain by spouting their garbage? Only two things:

daughters are all in uniform and fighting on the front lines. And what do their bloated egos are fed, and they benefit by Bushs tax laws. Imagine making it your lifes work to help people like Bush, Rumsfeld, and Cheney take over other countries and steal their oil. Now thats a real

calling. Imagine telling your grandchildren that you promoted an ongoing blood bath in the name of Greed and Profit. Imagine them looking deep into your eyes and saying, But I thought killing was bad, Grandpa. I thought if you killed someone, you had to go to jail. What would you say? Would you say it was your duty as an American and give them a dollar and distract them with ice cream? Or would you admit the truth that shines brightly in their eyes?

May 14, 2004 In our neighborhood, a gallon of regular gas now costs two dollars and twenty-two cents; premium is twenty cents more. In fuel is also being passed on in everything else one buys. This is some parts of town, the price is four or five cents higher. The price of especially apparent at the grocery store, where costs have been rising steadily. For example, basic so-called lunch meat, which in reality is garbage, goes for four dollars or four and a half dollars a pound unless its on sale, when it is still overpriced at three dollars. Bacon is three, four, or five dollars a pound. A forty-eight-ounce plastic jug of cooking oil is routinely three or three and a half dollars. A big jar of sugared-up name brand peanut butter goes for seven-plus dollars. A jar of pickles is almost four dollars. Bread is obscene. And the list goes on. Even a diet shock. Meanwhile, according to an article in the business section of

restricted to the leanest and meanest of staples results in cash register todays paper, the number of those admitted into Oregon hospitals

without health insurance increased by thirty-nine percent during the past year alone. The number of people who wind up in hospitals because they cant afford their prescriptions has also surged. To make up for it,

the price of medical care and insurance will go even higher, meaning, from now. And of course Oregon is not alone. One way to deal with this selling ones vote to the highest corporate bidder. But what am I afford to pay for insurance, leave alone food, wouldnt get too far in a run splat.

the people who can afford it now might not be able to afford it a year would be to become a politician and live off the peoples sweat, while thinking? It takes big money to become a politician. People who cant for office. It would be more like a limp, then a stumble, followed by a May 15, 2004 O Blank Page, have mercy upon me, your poor servant; forgive my fits of triumph and arrogance; they are but passing well I know that yesterdays words are at the heart of todays suffering; There is a scourge upon the land, O Blank Page, and it speaks in things born of ignorance, while Your wisdom is infinite and eternal. For yea, and just as surely do they form the knot on tomorrows noose. righteous, seductive tongues; lo, even the serpent hides himself in shame. The idol of Commerce is worshipped at every board and altar; misery, death, and hunger are exchanged freely for pieces of silver; fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, brothers and sisters and

cousins and aunts and uncles and in-laws scurry like rats beneath the angry bristled broom of Commerce. Lo, and they know not when they have been gored and squashed; crippled and bleeding they lie, begging

to be treated yet more cruelly, as if their suffering were a great privilege. Yea, and their faces are like defiled temple ruins, and are hardened masks against the bright light of Truth. O Blank Page, the world is full of

sorrow and wonder. Might I not inscribe at least one or two words upon that a small kernel of joy might be found within?

Your shimmering countenance and hope that they have meaning, and May 16, 2004 The illness that began a week ago as a sore throat is

still lingering. The sore throat itself is gone, but there have been many ups and downs marked by aches and pains and sinus pressure and even, as recently as yesterday evening, a fever. This morning, I feel tired and weak. Thats another lousy thing about this bug it saps the energy. And yet I did manage to mow the lawn yesterday afternoon. I

thought about letting it go, but as I had already let it go, I decided it was better to tackle the job while it was still possible by ordinary means. Then again, it has been years since Ive used a scythe which reminds me of

an old Russian I met once years ago when I was working at a place

called Yosemite Nursery in Fresno. He was in with his children, and working in vast grain fields in Russia when he was a kid. He was proud of how hard he had worked proud in the same Old Country way as my grandparents, from whom Id heard many similar stories. Yosemite

while I was helping them get a few plants together, he reminisced about

Nursery was owned by an elderly Japanese couple who lived in a house on the nursery grounds. The nursery occupied five acres of prime real where, if Im not mistaken, William Saroyan picked up his mail. Now I estate on Blackstone Avenue, not far from the little post office branch wonder where I get this notion; I never saw him at the post office or did I? And yet, I must have known it at one time. Saroyan owned two small tract homes west of there. The houses were side by side and overgrown with weeds. There were fruit trees in various decaying conditions all around and an olive tree. Im not sure what became of the houses after he died; I seem to recall they became part of some sort of

foundation bearing the authors name. But I do know this: if they cleared

out the weeds and cleaned up the two yards and put up a sign, it would have been contrary to his wishes. When he was still alive, there was talk of naming a school after him, but he opposed that sort of thing. Then, after he died, Fresno named a large downtown auditorium after him: the

William Saroyan Theater. There was a program in his honor there, and in the lobby they had his old bicycle and typewriter, which was two dollars and fifty cents an hour. Is this important? interesting to see, if a bit out of context. At Yosemite Nursery, I was paid May 17, 2004 I need to visit the Department of Motor Vehicles by Thursday, or else risk the chance of driving without a current license. I received a notice over a month ago that said they want to take my

picture. That and payment of their fee will keep me in their good graces for another eight years, unless I start breaking traffic laws left and right or commit a rash of crimes or at least the wrong kind of crimes. For instance, it is possible to crush whole villages with a tank without losing over other countries. In fact, it is possible to do those sorts of things and comes to my license. Let them take my picture if they want. Let them see whats happened to me during the past eight years. It will give them a your drivers license, and to send young people to their deaths and take to not receive any punishment at all. Still, I dont mind complying when it

good laugh. I just wish it didnt take so long. Every time Ive been to the

local DMV, Ive spent at least an hour surrounded by coughing people while their children race around and play hide-and-seek behind the of people and hear them speaking Spanish, Russian, and English in various interesting combinations, and you get to observe whats left of their customs before life in this country has turned the kids into plastic chairs. Actually, its pretty darned entertaining. You see all sorts

advertising parrots, imitation rappers, and sitcom wannabes. This is a withstand the forces of assimilation for a generation or two, though change is inevitable in any case. Wherever they go, humans imitate each other, and the behavior of the majority always wins but not,

slight exaggeration, of course. Some families are resilient enough to

thankfully, without absorbing at least some of the behavior of the various minorities. And so you have all sorts of people who think they are in the majority, who now behave in ways in which they did not formerly behave, or still claim to despise. This, too, is entertaining, not to mention

even though the behavior was learned from minorities they once claimed disgusting. When thousands upon thousands of people poured into even though they were just as American as the Americans who were

California from Oklahoma in the 1930s, they were treated like animals, already living there who were there, coincidentally, because someone else had stolen the land from someone else long before. And the same animals. They dont think like us. Why would they live that way? Well, my thing happened to every new group of people that arrived. Theyre dear righteous and superior fellow, they live that way because they dont honored customs which you refuse to acknowledge or understand. And while were at it, just what have you done lately that gives you the right to think youre so much better? I was here first. Ah, yes. Yes, you were. once theyve hauled you to the cemetery.

have much choice at the moment, and because they have their time-

Congratulations. Thats quite a distinction. Im sure it will be meaningful May 18, 2004 What a night. For what seemed like hours, I walked the

strange streets of a grim city in my own personal Twilight Zone in my dream I thought the scene was being filmed confronted time and again by faces haunted by anguish and torment, into which I peered

intently, searching for clues. In some the sorrow and pain were so great that I thought their owners had been crucified, but that their crucifixions had somehow failed, and that this had condemned them to reliving what should have been their final moments on earth. I was angered by this, though I was aware of a mocking, antagonizing presence. I woke up awkward position. In the evening yesterday there was a thunderstorm

but the person responsible for the cruel film was nowhere about once. It was warm and stuffy in the room, and my neck was twisted in an and a good, strong rain; now the house was enveloped in humidity and

silence. I straightened my neck and tried to relax, then fell back asleep. then woke up again, to find my neck twisted as before. This time I kept

The dream resumed. There were more faces. I endured it awhile longer, my eyes open. I didnt bother trying for more sleep. I was already worn out enough by the sleep I had had. Now, five hours later, I still havent shaken the dream. It makes me wonder if I am really awake, and if I am really here at all.

May 19, 2004 Every now and then I get the urge to do something really worthwhile, but I always end up writing instead. Its much easier, despite the fact that writing is the hardest, most challenging thing Ive ever done. Meanwhile, I tell myself there is still a small chance that what I write might end up having value, if not immediately after it is done, then later on, when I am dead something Id rather not put to the test. Most every day, I read about one dead writer or another whose work was

spurned or ignored during his lifetime, and is now published in beautiful editions. I read about their bravery and poverty, and the difficulties they had with evil governments, small-minded censors, and crooked

publishers. Most, it seems, were ahead of their times which is another

way of saying that people in general refused or were afraid to open their

minds and think. Now, in the Glorious Present, it is obvious that nothing has really changed. We have technology, but we are just as stupid as stupid because we think we are smart whereas only a person of when we used clubs and stones to stake our claims. We are especially intelligence is able to recognize his own stupidity. Writers, though, fall

into an even smaller and stranger category, because not only do we sympathy and are expected to keep to ourselves.

recognize our own stupidity, we flaunt it in print. No wonder we get no May 20, 2004 On the surface of things, my forty-eighth year turned out to be quite a bit like my forty-seventh year, which was close to a mirror image of my forty-sixth. But underneath, life has been a steaming cauldron of revelation, inspiration, victory, disappointment, and setback. In other words, my forty-eighth year was a lot like my forty-seventh, and license, and my picture makes me look like a mangy thug. Yesterday, so on. What can I say? Today is my birthday. I have a new drivers members of the U.S. armed forces bombed a wedding party and killed at the old public relations skills. But I mustnt dwell on that. Today is my

least forty people. There is nothing like a few murdered children to test birthday. I woke up this morning, and there I was, thrilled to be alive. And now here I am, thrilled to be alive. And I do have some fun things lined up for the day. Today I am going to visit the Friends book store at the

library and treat myself to one of their delightfully inexpensive used books. I am looking forward to this, especially since Oregon held its people sitting at tables by the library entrance trying to get patrons to selfish person I am (something I have never done), I must say that I primary election this week, which means there wont be any obnoxious sign their petitions. At the risk of revealing what a small-minded and despise those people. I have yet to meet a signature gatherer I have

liked not that Ive given them much of a chance. But that goes both ways. I dont like it when someone Ive never met tries to tell me what to think in fifteen seconds. Crimony, lets at least have a few beers first, or a few cups of coffee. How about a walk in the park? How do you feel about oak trees and squirrels, my friend, and the music of the birds

overhead? Bah, anyway. Another thing I am thinking seriously of doing four dollars and that I have worn dozens of times with great enjoyment since has finally disintegrated, so a replacement is in order. Or maybe I

is stopping off at Goodwill. A shirt I bought there many months ago for

am the one who has disintegrated, and the one who should be replaced. Id ask my darling bride, but why take any chances? Besides, I dont want to do anything that might jeopardize having a birthday cake. May 21, 2004 There was only one person accosting patrons at the

library entrance yesterday morning. She sat behind a little table, to the them being malpractice. She was involved with a victim as I

front of which was taped a sign that had three or four words on it, one of approached, so I was able to slip inside without any sort of confrontation. Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, by Laurence Sterne, a beautiful

I bought three books at the Friends store: The Life and Opinions of hardbound edition published in 1935 and in perfect condition; Sixes and Remembrance Rock, by Carl Sandburg, published in 1948. Total

Sevens, a collection of short stories by O. Henry, published in 1925; and investment: eight dollars. As I was leaving the library, another visitor was headed toward the entrance. Paralyzed by a sense of decency and insecurity, she seemed drawn to the malpractice table by strange, pulled a muscle in her shoulder, so crippled she was by the situation. I

magnetic forces. For a moment I thought she had broken her neck, or briefly considered leaping to her defense and thrashing the malpractice

woman, but something told me the former would have screamed and

called the police and the latter would have enjoyed it. And so once again stranger clutching his Tristram Shandy as if it were salvation, which it very well might be. May 22, 2004 If making war is not a choice, if it is, rather, a natural, integral part of our makeup and wiring, then why do those members of the human race so intent on propagating it feel the need to make excuses for their actions? Their enemies hate them no matter what they say; indeed, they hate them more because of what they say. So why not

I made my escape, passing into the city like a dumb shadow, a shaggy

simply have at it? Or are we changing? Is our ability to reason slowly

winning out over our bloody heritage? And if so, doesnt this lend further support to what I have said many times, that war will continue as long as we are waging it within ourselves? It is highly unlikely that we will see an end to war in our lifetime, newborn children included. Too many terrible things have been set in motion, and they will have to play out first. There are too many sick and hungry people in the world; too many of us are

being used by the more powerful among us as a means to increase and

maintain that power. The earth is strung with visible and invisible fences. Every day that passes is a lost opportunity. And yet somewhere, even at this very moment, I am sure someone is finding the courage to bring it to an end. They see the ugliness and ignorance that manifests itself in the faces and actions of people like Bush and Rumsfeld, who are

understand this ugly part of ourselves, and making the decision to help

so consumed by greed and an arrogant sense of invincibility derived from money and power that they are only able to hide their true motives from people infected by the same disease. At the same time, Bush and Rumsfeld are truly a dime a dozen, and are being used by people even

more powerful; both will be discarded when they no longer serve their purpose, and quickly and easily replaced with clones. They are mediocre puppets, satisfied with puny material rewards. They are the dregs of humanity, with humanitys blood on their hands. But I hope I am wrong

about war not ending in our lifetime. Maybe we are closer than I think; or maybe enough of us will recognize what needs to be done, and the The amazing thing is the beautiful and tragic thing that we are so cooperation too frightening a prospect? balance will suddenly shift, making politicians and their lies obsolete. much closer than most of us realize. I wonder, though: is real peace and May 23, 2004 Ive read around fifty pages of Tristram Shandy. not something to be rushed through. The author says as much himself,

Laurence Sternes circuitous sentences and humorous digressions are taking time out to encourage the reader to play along, addressing him as your worship, and her as madam. Sterne, who lived in the eighteenth century, promises rewards that never seem to come; and yet, for some odd reason, the book is enjoyable, quite possibly because it takes such delight in its own aimless existence. That, I suspect, is the reward Sterne some time a book that quite literally goes nowhere, but which isnt really has in mind. I myself have considered writing such a book for boring because it is already there, in the sense that there is everywhere and therefore here. I realize that to a large extent, this journal meets the foregoing description, except, perhaps, for the part about not being

boring. And yet, if you are reading todays entry, its possible that I could be mistaken in that area which only means that I could mistaken in upon a foundation of wretched misunderstanding is a possibility that has not escaped me. And while I have taken it upon myself many times to go other areas as well. That all of which I now believe might have been built

back to the beginning and try to find out where I went wrong, I have failed so consistently that it now seems wise to turn my gaze forward which in my case, it could fairly be argued, might be considered an act of of us must do whatever it is we feel we must do; that we do it is brave;

the utmost bravery. I dont mean for this to sound noble in any way; each that we pretend we are doing it because we want to, rather than

because we dont know what else to do, is where the humor lies. In other words, the joke is on us and always has been, but it is the proud telling of it that makes all the difference. May 24, 2004 It isnt easy. Its crazy especially in its relentless sanity, which I find amusing: for it is so: but just that and no more, save matters the way we long thought it mattered but which is, or has where I started: by saying it isnt easy, and that it is crazy: not that I am the puzzle of its existence, which does not matter, or perhaps no longer become, a matter of convenience. But I digress. I go nowhere. I begin complaining; but I am trying to express myself despite my limitations: the

carpenter without a hammer or saw, the bricklayer without a trowel, the carry the weight of centuries upon his back? and who made that

captain of a ship on dry land: to wit: why should a man be expected to decision for him: I told you so: but you didnt, whomever you are, and why dont you come out of hiding? But let us say that the decision was not made for him: let us say that he made it himself: what then? Does it

change anything? I certainly refuse to wait for clarification from the pope,

who is too busy with politics to notice the pickle I am in: or for a modernday Moses to come down from the mount with a recycled tablet: here we go, children, if you dont believe me, ask Him. No, I refuse to wait. I have waited long enough: the time has come to act: but, as I said in the

beginning, it isnt easy: as it is diligently and faithfully misunderstood by

the collective mind for lack of a better term taking action is an admission of mental instability: it is a compliment, in other words: you, my friend, are crazy: while I, my friend, am not: see me not being crazy? see how easy it is to win approval? but you, I fear for you, courting precipices for I have heard, though I have not been there myself and

have no desire to go, that the fall lasts for days, and in some cases even entire lifetimes, and ends upon a tiny sponge in a bath tub: if you land on the sponge, then all is well: but if you miss and your head hits the faucet or tub, which is what happens ninety-nine times out of a hundred

splat. So why would you want to take that chance? Why would you want to provoke your insurance agent, who has worked so hard lo these many years on your behalf, that you may go forth knowing you are covered? friends: but dont cross us, lest we withdraw your coverage: at the very

Their faces are on billboards: see us? we are smiling: we are your least, your rates will go up: fool! the statisticians are on our side: their columns of numbers are your prison bars. But thank you for calling, and have a nice day. Oh, woe is me: woe, woe, and more woe: so close altogether. And when that day comes, it will be time for me to move on.

have I come to making sense, that one day I fear I will be understood May 25, 2004 Yesterday afternoon I drove a carless friend to the little town of Dallas, which is a dozen or so miles west of Salem. Dallas is also the seat of Polk County. The part of Salem that is on the west side is in Polk County. The part on the east side is in Marion County. The seat of Marion County is Salem. Our destination was the Polk County

of the Willamette River, which, incidentally, flows north instead of south,

courthouse, located in the heart of historic downtown Dallas. Across an antique store, a title company, and one or two other places that might

the street from the courthouse there is a tanning parlor, a jewelry store,

or might not have been open for business. Adjacent to the courthouse is showing. Adjacent on the other side is the office of the local weekly corner is the Dallas Public Library. I went into the library for a few

on one side is a small movie theater, where something called Mean Girls newspaper, the Itemizer-Observer, and next to that is a bar. Around the minutes while my friend was in the courthouse. Their collection is small, anything the system offers. Behind the courthouse is the Polk County courthouse, near the main entrance a few feet away from a set of mill

but as the library is part of the Salem system, it is possible to request jail. For quite awhile, I sat on a wooden bench in the shade in front of the stones that were given to the Indians as part of a treaty that granted the Polk County Historical Society. It was windy, but the air was fresh

them the privilege of living on a reservation. The stones now belong to and pleasant. As I sat there, I watched people enter and leave the courthouse. At one point, a young woman emerged in tears; she came a very large deputy, who remained at the top of the steps. The women down the steps accompanied by two high school-aged girls followed by walked across the courthouse lawn, got into their car, and drove away. A and announced into the phone that he had won custody, and would therefore need a couple of beds. Time passed. My friend came out; there were delays, he said, and so it was necessary to wait a little

couple of minutes later, a young man with a cell phone came outside

longer. Twenty minutes later he came out again; there were more

delays; somebody who was supposed to be there wasnt, though he was

thought to be in the building. I waited some more. He came out again, shrugged, and said the whole thing was getting ridiculous. Finally, I had to leave him there and drive back to Salem due to prior arrangements;

then I returned and found him sitting on the same bench, relieved and

finally able to go. What should have taken fifteen minutes had eaten up two and a half hours, thus ensuring the job security of those employed at the courthouse. Later in the evening, my friend called to thank me again for the ride. I told him that I was happy to help, but that something was bothering me, and that was the absence of old men on the benches at at home and watch TV instead of sitting in the park? There are no the courthouse. What is this world coming to, I said, when old men stay tables, either. Maybe thats the problem. If there were tables, it would be easier to play cards or dominoes. I only hope there is another park somewhere in Dallas where old men are welcome and treated like

human beings. Or have old men here grown tired of sitting in parks? In and playing backgammon. No church or monument is without its old men reminiscing by e-mail? Have they taken themselves out of the game, or is society keeping them out of it?

Armenia, for instance, there are always old men sitting around, talking men, sitting and passing the time of day. Whats going on here? Are old

May 26, 2004 Its possible, I suppose, that old men are busy being vital go-getters in keeping with the good wishes of the AARP (Arrogant park and play cards than take trendy drugs, burn gas, work on my tan, Armenian Raisin Packers). Personally speaking, Id much rather sit in a and talk about my portfolio. Have I mentioned that I despise Modern Maturity? Advocates my eye. Instead of telling the elderly to eat a handful of raisins every day for their health, they pack their magazine full of corrupt advertising. Oh, its perfectly legal, but its corrupt all the same. sake it will only cost you several hundred dollars a month and you, the fresh air and make conversation when you could be fantastic, Be this, be that, look like this, feel like this express yourself, for Gods too, will be a movie star. Why would you want to sit in a park and enjoy

darling? Oh, and by the way, we have all of these wonderful insurance opportunities for you not that we have anything to gain by it, or are in business for ourselves, mind you. We just want you to be mature the modern way wild-eyed and panic-stricken all the days of your life, a frantic stranger to yourself and to the universe.

May 27, 2004 In the heart of downtown Salem in the left ventricle,

to be exact a massive structure is rising that will consume a great deal of skyline and every inch of an entire block. This will be the citys new convention center. Once completed, all that will be needed is some are expected to arrive by crop duster or helicopter. No doubt the city of

fancy advertising and a commercial airport unless convention-goers Portland, forty-five minutes up the road, is fretting mightily over this. It

wont be long until the floods of business people who land daily at

Portland International Airport will be hopping into buses and limos and heading for Salem. They wont want to miss the view of the abandoned International House of Pancakes restaurant across the street on one side of the new convention center, or the fire station on the other, or the Boise Cascade building and parking lot on the other, or Magoos tavern the stained Liberty Street parking structure around the corner. Its and satellite dish, or the small government-run liquor store next door, or exciting. Thanks to the city fathers and mothers, who knew better than to first century harvest of gold. Tear down them hitchin posts, Ned, we park their horses round back. Oh, yeah? Where you headin? Me? Im Wheeeeee doggies!

put the convention center to a vote, Salem is poised to reap a twentyhave finally arrived. From here on in, them hayseeds is gonna have to goin to the vestment semeenar. Gonna learn how ta make real money.

May 28, 2004 I hear a train coming. The crows are riled up this earlier, but not enough to make the ground wet under the trees. The

morning, and are yelling at each other from the treetops. It rained a little street is quiet. I just heard a sparrow. The clock is ticking by the bed. Its breezy outside. The sky keeps changing: white clouds, gray clouds, sunlit clouds, patches of dark-blue. The cat is asleep in his box in the garage. I dont have to look to know. I just looked anyway. He is in his now, though, he is probably asleep again. He is not particularly me sitting here before, and was not impressed. To him, what I do while sitting here has no connection to food. For the most part he is right, box, but not asleep, because I woke him up when I opened the door. By interested in what I do, unless he is hungry. For instance, he has seen

except that sitting here never fails to make me hungry, because sitting more comfortable. But while one is working, its best if he isnt too but just sitting not that this is a crime, but well, never mind. It shouldnt. One of these days, I will explain why.

here is work. If it wasnt work, I would be sitting somewhere else that is comfortable, otherwise he might soon find that he is no longer working, doesnt need explaining. Very few things do, really, or at least they May 29, 2004 Perhaps it is foolish of me to be sitting here at 7:22 on a Saturday morning when I could still be in bed, but, to state it quite simply, I feel that I must. It is also what I want to be doing, which makes the situation ideal. If a person wants to do what he must do, it stands to reason that he will enjoy doing what hes doing. But its also possible to convince oneself that he wants to do what he must do; indeed, at times there is no other way to survive, physically or mentally. There is the real gradually undermined by his own efforts, poisoned, as it were, by the

risk, however, that the person who lives his life thus will find himself

ongoing denial of what he really wants to do and must do, assuming, of course, he knows what that is. To a great extent, this is what my novel, A Listening Thing, is about. The narrator, Stephen Monroe, knows he is undermined, and is finally beginning to realize that he is the true source of the problem. The world is the corrupt, rude, rotten, strangely wonderful thing that it is; how he has reacted to it over the years is what

has gotten him into trouble. By acknowledging this, he opens the door to

self-understanding. It is a small opening, but an opening nonetheless. wife, he gains the courage to push the door open a little further. It is

With the gracious help of Mary, an intelligent woman who is also his extempting to go on, but I wont, in case you havent read the book, which I recognize is a distinct possibility. Now, this brings to mind something that I have mentioned before how the publishing houses of old exist today in bothers me a lot, and that is the current state of the publishing business. name only, and how they are treated as brands in the same fashion as

toothpaste or dish soap by their monstrous, faceless corporate owners. Books are merchandise a concept I understand and am willing to live demand maximum profit in the shortest possible time. In the case of with to a certain practical extent. But by definition, corporate economics publishing, this means printing that which is deemed most likely to sell hence the big-name gossip that crowds book displays, and the rest of

according to a strict schedule directly tied to quarterly accounting reports the petty garbage that is available. The illiterate accountants who run these organizations care nothing about literature; they dont know what it is; what they are after is predictability; without it, they stand to lose their jobs. On the other side of the equation, the media apparatus used to publicize these unbearable Kennedy and Princess Di books is often

owned by the same corporations that are shoving the tripe down our

throats. And so when one opens the book section of a newspaper, or one of the major book reviews, he is faced with what amounts to advertisements for the foregoing garbage. The same can be said for music. Take American Idol, for instance, in which the contestants on the TV show, who despite their courage all look and sound alike, and are simultaneously laughed at, used, and ultimately discarded by the advertisers and the accountants who run the music business. While this

is going on, while little girls and boys are voting for their favorite idol, there are countless musicians of genuine ability who are busy making music across the country, and who are playing it either for free or for a

pittance in bars and clubs, selling self-published and unpublicized CDs whenever and wherever they can. A similar fate is shared by writers, because nothing is said about these writers, or musicians, or artists, in the media, they dont even exist in the publics mind. At best, they exist as a kind of shadow, or, if you will, even a form of conscience. through. But this slippage, which is more or less an accident, is not enough to remedy the situation. What becomes of the rest of the writers, who, barred from the mainstream, must beg to give their work away. And

Occasionally, the accountants let down their guard and someone slips

artists, and musicians and the work they create, as well as the work they becomes of society? Will it cease even to recognize art when it sees it?

are unable to create, because they are too busy starving? And what Will it be content to live without literature and music that was created out

of a genuine desire to understand, and to live instead on an advertising formula? Those who create art cant, and shouldnt, be expected to do is responsible. everything. When it comes to making the world a better place, everyone

May 30, 2004 One of my tomato plants is a freak. It is just as green

and healthy as all the others, but the leaves are distorted and grotesque. Ive seen this kind of plant before. It will produce far fewer tomatoes than it should, and the fruit will look like the back of Frankensteins head meaning, of course, Frankensteins monster and not Frankenstein himself. Or was it Frank N. Stein? No matter. As soon as possible, I must find a new small plant at the nursery/grocery store/department will be later than the others, but it least it wont antagonize them. As it is, this before as well. The freak draws nourishment from this negative form

store, and then yank the freakenstein plant and replace it. The new plant the other plants are already growing away from the freak. I have seen of attention and grows even stronger. I must act soon or lose my entire crop. I must fight back before my beautiful garden is suffocated by exaggeration, even if it costs seventy-five cents to do it. For that is what I

paid for each of the eighteen plants I planted. The plants were in twoinch containers. Its getting harder each year to find them in little sixpacks. And gone completely are the days when they came in flats. One of my favorite spring rituals as a kid was going with my father to Dinuba Feed and Seed, across from Smith Auto Parts, to buy tomato and pepper plants, and watching Ray Rose cut however many Dad wanted out of the wooden flats with his pointed trowel. I loved the scene, the situation, the smell everything. In a strange way, I even loved Ray

Rose, though I knew nothing about him and rarely saw him anywhere and lined with shovels and various other implements and items of use in

else. Dinuba Feed and Seed was full of sacks of fertilizer and chemicals, a small farming community. It was simple. It was a real place. You went there because you needed something you knew they had, and you didnt have to wade through forty million unrelated items to get it. And after you

left, you knew you had been somewhere. This afforded you a brief

moment of satisfaction and a feeling of accomplishment. Then, if you

were really lucky, you had to go to another place that sold another specific kind of merchandise, like staples and vineyard wire, or shoes, or cigars. Now you go to one place where you are ignored by uniformed finally tackle them and ask them a question that is, after you have Mirrors? Youll find those on the top shelf on Aisle 24B. Just climb the ladder, then grab the rope and pull yourself the rest of the way up. Soap, customer service elves who are puzzled when, out of desperation, you held a small mirror under their nose to see if they are really alive.

paper, sweat shirts, candy, CDs, cameras, auto lubricants, bobble-head dolls, bicycles, meat, unassembled furniture, doughnuts thats all in need the store shuttle to get there. Say, here comes one now. Oh, too minutes. Aisle 999A, right next to the tire shop and popcorn machine. But youll bad, that ones full. But dont worry, the next will be along in fifteen May 31, 2004 I surprised myself yesterday by writing a poem,

Reading Tristram Shandy. When it happened, I had been sitting here cup of Armenian coffee. This was later in the morning after Id had two

minding my own business, looking over some old poems, and sipping a cups of regular coffee, which, for some odd reason, didnt have the usual desired effect. The Armenian coffee was excellent; it was made from an extra-potent blend #3 as opposed to #5, which I usually drink brought by my brother and his wife from Armenia when they visited this past winter. Finding nothing of any particular interest I have looked at four lines without thinking, and knew instantly that I had a poem on my

these poems dozens of times I put them away and typed in three or hands. The next dozen or so lines followed effortlessly, and then the

telephone rang. It was the friend I drove to the Polk County courthouse several days ago. We talked about sports for an hour, spending most of the time on baseball, which we agreed has changed far less than

basketball, which has become almost impossible to watch because

players are allowed to travel with the ball, palm the ball, steal tips, step in

the key too soon during free throws, and draw offensive fouls by flopping conversation, I returned to the poem and picked up where I left off. In all. Just then, my loving bride and our oldest son came in, so I read them

over shamelessly on their backs. As soon as wed finished our another twenty minutes or so, I was done. There were sixty-five lines in the poem. Vahan laughed an appropriate response. His mother smiled and said the poem was amazing, or something along those lines, which I knew meant, So, its come to this. even though it came to this years and years ago, and was apparent from the very beginning of our blissful journey together. Later in the afternoon, I added the poem to my website with a short introduction, thereby proving once again how dangerous technology can be when it falls into the wrong hands. Then again, Reading Tristram Shandy wont kill anybody. I cant help feeling a little proud of that. June 1, 2004 Be it hereby noted that I am beginning the new month

with a vicious sinus headache and a right eye that feels like it might pop

out at any moment. Other than that, everything is fine, and I am following yesterday, which he also sent to two other old high school friends. In it aluminum boat my father owned and eventually sold to his father for a hundred dollars sometime in the late Sixties. When my friend went to

my usual routine. I received an e-mail from an old high school friend he said he had been out fishing several times in the old twelve-foot

pick up the boat in Dinuba he now lives in Arizona, and his father, like

mine, has since departed this life his mother found a slip of paper with my fathers handwriting on it, saying he had received the money for the boat. My friend also said that he had just attended his sons high school and our own graduation thirty years ago, which I didnt attend because I had finished school a semester early and I hated such things anyway. In fact, while my classmates were receiving their diplomas that June

graduation, and that this had gotten him thinking about the old days

evening, I was working at the George Brothers packing house in nearby Sultana for two dollars and fifty-five cents an hour. There was a big noisy party around the corner from where we lived in the country that night, though, and after work I attended that. In other words, I did have my

priorities. The next day, I believe, many members of the graduating class boarded a bus bound for Anaheim, California, home of Disneyland. Since I was working at George Brothers and wasnt interested in going to Disneyland either, I entrusted my high school annual to my friends so other people could sign it during the trip. This proved to be a mistake, as

the book was returned to me with the first page sealed by a bandage, beside which was written a warning not to open it and read what had been written on the inside cover. Of course this amounted to an

invitation, and the bandage was wrinkled and finger-printed and barely sticky anymore by the time I saw it. There were several scrawled should have gone to Disneyland after all. There were also a lot of nice profanities all in fun, of course that led me to believe I probably messages from people I had known and met in the halls during the preceding four years, almost every one of whom I havent seen since, the memories, and the memories, and the memories. and, in all likelihood, never will again. In the meantime, though, there are

June 2, 2004 I responded right away to my friends e-mail about our old boat and sent my reply to the others. Yesterday, the others also weighed in one in the morning from Idaho, and the other last night from California. So now we have each been reassured that the others

are alive, and, every bit as important, that we still have a sense of

humor. One thing I find interesting is, despite how well we knew each us in different combinations that the others never knew about. Two of us grew up and went to grade school in town, two of us in the country. We

other back in the day, we each remember things that happened between

really got to know each other later, in junior high school although we did have some contact when we played little league baseball at Roosevelt Park on Elizabeth Way. I take special care to mention she was a kid, and because it was within walking distance of the city Elizabeth Way because my mother lived on that street for a time when park and the old public library, which played such an important role in her life and mine. What perhaps none of them know, except of course because today happens to be the ninth anniversary of my fathers death. This is another of my Dinuba memories. My father lived in Dinuba all his my mother, is that these communications have added significance

life, except during World War II another time the world was turned upside down by human ignorance, if one cares to make note of such things. It can truly be said that he was of the place, and that he belonged in the place, and that if he had been forcibly uprooted from the place he would have suffered a great deal. He would have survived, but he wouldnt have liked it. The town of Dinuba was part of it, but it was his

farm, and the country roads and farms around it, that gladdened his heart. That a time came when it was necessary for me to leave, and to

heart beyond measure. That I felt the same way also gladdened his

take my wife and children with me to another place for the sake of their health, was a source of grief. Salem is a good place. It, too, is surrounded by farms and country roads. But the country roads I travel in leave. Sometimes, still, I meet him there.

my dreams are the ones we left behind, and that my father never did June 3, 2004 Of all the things I miss from my childhood, one either at foolishly demolished and replaced by a generic one-story reading room

or very near the top of the list is Dinubas old public library, which was devoid of personality and meaning. The old library was a real place. I

would give almost anything to climb its steps and be in it again, and to listen to its old-fashioned silence, and to see and smell the books, and to presenting a big stack of books to the librarians, Mrs. Jamison and Elizabeth Chang, at the circulation desk, and watching them check them look out the windows at the park below. I would take extreme pleasure in

out in my name. When Dinuba lost its library, it lost something precious and irretrievable. I want to use the word soul, but that word means so many strange things to so many different people that I wont. Instead, I

think Ill use vision. For, in my mind, a town without a library is a town

that is blind. I was in the new library, the aforementioned reading room, only a few times. It was small, cheap-looking, and unbearable to be in. It was more like an office or waiting room than a sanctuary and repository of dreams and ideas. People werent reading, they were talking and

chewing gum. Thats what happens when you tear down a building with and convenient. The hush is gone, the sense of privacy and solitude, the feeling of expectation and adventure. It makes me think: there must be

history and character and replace it with something supposedly modern

many ghosts now in the old city park ghosts of librarians past, ghosts of the people who used the old library, ghosts, even, of the discarded

books that fell by the wayside. It is true that a man surrounded by plastic is still a man, but there remains within him a hunger for places and things that are real, places he can go in search of his sanity.

June 4, 2004 Whatever the so-called reasons for the current war or any war, it is clear that we have failed as human beings, and that we continue to fail, because we send our children to fight, torture, and kill other children. And what are the reasons? Quite simply, they are the lies we tell ourselves and each other to avoid taking responsibility for our own actions. But if we arent responsible, who is? Have the zebras and elephants conspired to do this to us, or the lizards, whales, and armadillos? If they have, they have been pretty sneaky about it. So,

then. Here we are. The great brains, killing each other, starving each

other, poisoning the earth. Here we are, waving flags and saying God is We are not ashamed? Think about it: We have children, we feed them

on our side, and that the other side is evil. And we are not embarrassed? and clothe them and worry over them and then we send them off to convenient. How stupid. How sad.

kill someone elses children but it is not our fault, it is theirs. How June 5, 2004 We bought two large baskets of local strawberries

yesterday, three cantaloupes, and several large red onions. We bought

other food items, but none as exciting as these. Oregon strawberries are fertilized berries grown commercially in California. Spring in the Willamette Valley is especially conducive to berry-growing.

truly an amazing experience; they are far superior to the distorted, over-

Unfortunately, the berry growers are being driven out of business and are on the brink of disappearing altogether. All you can find in the stores are California berries. For local berries, you have to go to fruit stands in

the country. On the other hand, the best red onions weve ever had

come from central California. They are big and sweet and make living worthwhile. Cantaloupes are nowhere near as good as they used to be, though we are usually able to find a few decent ones each summer. have gradually drained the flavor from melons and other fruits. As I know

Depleted soils and extensive use of chemicals and synthetic fertilizers from personal experience, how soil is cared for and how fruit is grown makes all the difference. Soil is a living thing, and it must be treated as two might be related? such. Come to think of it, so are we. Say, I wonder do you think the June 6, 2004 Today the nation is in mourning for the second-rate Global Takeover back in the Eighties, a time also known as the Me

actor who served two terms as public spokesman for Big Business and Generation. When our son, Vahan, told me yesterday that Reagan had died, I said, You watch within a few hours he will be used in make. Thanks to the hard-nosed, unbiased media, weve already republican campaign material. Granted, it wasnt a difficult prediction to learned that during his presidency, Reagan restored the nations spirit apparently by uttering terms like star wars technology while having no idea what they really meant, or by saying things like Tear down that wall, while the cameras zoomed in for closeups of his bronzed hairdo. president for his optimism and sense of humor, because they are scared to death to appear unpatriotic by saying something negative, i.e., true. This, too, wasnt hard to predict. The entire front section of todays Sunday Oregonian was drenched in red, white, and blue ink, and with

Meanwhile, politicians on both sides of the fence are praising the dead

each turn of the page readers were treated to more pictures of the great communicator. The man was an actor. Like the current president, he was not a thinker, but a reader of lines the main difference being,

Reagan could actually read them, and, after nearly a full term in office, Little Boy Bush still messes them up. And speaking of Little Boy Bush, I read a few days ago that his brother, Jeb, is busy purging Floridas voting rolls again in anticipation of the upcoming election. An interesting thing, democracy. Or, as they used to say in the Old Testament, If the voter offends thee, pluck it out.

June 7, 2004 Well, this is interesting. According to the media, Ronald Reagan will rise again in three days. He will stand at the Heavenly Podium and say, Roll back that stone! And who would deny him? For will he not take his place at the right hand of the Father, nudging even Jesus off His stool? The funny thing about all this is, everyone in the media and politics who was alive during Reagans presidency seems suddenly to have had their memories purged of what went on in those what is going on now. I dont remember Reagan walking on water, but restored although I dont remember that happening either. Maybe it

days which, strangely enough, bears a remarkable resemblance to apparently this happened. No wonder the spirit of the nation was was something like the freedom that the people of Iraq are now experiencing. You dont realize how happy you were until later, after you are dead.

June 8, 2004 In a letter to the editor in this mornings paper, someone actually said he wept uncontrollably upon learning of Reagans death. of certain Reagan Administration highlights, such as El Salvador, On the side of reason, there were several other letters reminding readers Nicaragua, Grenada, and deregulation. In the coming days, there will be In the meantime, the best we can do is hang on until the current media

talk about the Iran-Iraq war, the Iran-Contra affair, and Saddam Hussein.

blitz is over. But it wont be easy. Such behavior is a frustrating, tragic thing to behold. June 9, 2004 Now the main roads leading to the as-yet-unfinished towners. Say, wasnt there a Jack Lemmon movie by that name? Or am I

Salem convention center are being repaved. This will impress the out-ofthinking of The Sundowners, with Robert Mitchum? Oh, well. It doesnt

matter. They will be impressed except for Jack Lemmon and Robert Mitchum, who are dead. It is hard to impress dead people almost as hard as it is to impress those who are alive, whom, when you think about it, are a rapidly dying breed. But there is nothing like fresh pavement to lesser streets in town that could use a coat of varnish, but those are flare the nostrils and stir the soul. Granted, there are several dozen merely the ones people go back and forth to work on every day, and live

on in many cases, literally. And one cant help wondering how many Salem residents will actually ever set foot in the new convention center. For instance, will the homeless be allowed to hold a convention there?

Or the owners of failed small businesses suffocated by regulations and respect and gratitude. But I cant help it. I want to be escorted out of the is immature. And I dont want to make it easy for them, either. Before

high rents? I dont know. I guess I have trouble showing the proper building by security guards for smoking a cigar in the lobby. I realize this they catch me, I want to smoke in the elevators, in the restrooms, and in guards are closing in, I will threaten to throw myself out a window. What purpose will this serve? I have no idea. Why should it serve any purpose? And yet, I am convinced this needs to be done, and that I am

the kitchen. I want to light up in a real estate seminar. Then, when the

the one who needs to do it. I am also convinced that no one else will. Oh, sure, several thousand will think about it. But will they act? Or will

they be afraid of Homeland Security? Mad smoker linked to terrorists.

FBI says fingerprint on cigar matches print on McDonalds wrapper in William Saroyans The Three Swimmers and the Grocer from Yale in My Name Is Aram? Only time will tell, if it hasnt already.

Madrid or was it Malaga, the little town near Fresno mentioned in

June 10, 2004 If my guess is correct, some people renting a house nearby are in the process of being evicted. They are a sad group comprised of a mother who is gone most of the time and many children, who are left to fend for themselves and wander the streets around town. younger boys ruined their mower and it started spewing clouds of requesting that the lawn be mowed, came by yesterday and took Their lawn is a foot and a half tall, having grown wild since one of the smoke. The landlord, no doubt after first sending a proper letter pictures. Then, yesterday afternoon, one of the older kids, who is about

sixteen, found himself locked out of the house, so he started kicking the

front door and prying at it with a piece of metal. Such behavior is never a probably face a major cleanup job inside as well. But the saddest part of

good sign. When this is over and the people are gone, the landlord will the situation is the children. Their expressions tell the story. Theirs is a

broken home, and they are desperate for a steadying influence. The expression and manner of dress. I have seen them miles from home,

older boys are already taking on the tough look of hoodlums, in walking along beside traffic, obviously on no particular mission. They have no set schedule, and come and go during school hours. What will become of them? What will become of their mother as if her current

mess isnt bad enough? Most likely, she will form more temporary

alliances with irresponsible men who will either hate or feel nothing for her children. Or, maybe she wont. Either way, time is quickly running

out. It might already be too late for the older kids to learn how to be parents, and how to work together to make a go of family life. And yet sense. What then? one day, parents they will surely become, at least in the biological June 11, 2004 Ray Charles is dead. A man of genuine, wide-ranging musical talent and creativity whose career spanned many decades, it is a shame he couldnt have died two weeks earlier, before Ronald

Reagan, or several weeks from now, after the unbearable, shameful an illustration of what the so-called news has become in this country, we

spectacle surrounding the Teflon presidents exit has quieted down. As need look no further than yesterday evenings national ABC broadcast, in which Ray Charles was shown singing America the Beautiful with Reagans image in the background. This touching send-off was glibly introduced by anchorman Peter Jennings, who knows better, but would rather sit there and collect his huge salary than tell the truth. If a man like

that and there are many in similar positions with a full background and knowledge of current affairs were to quit his job and write a book the world, it could really make a difference. And I am sure the royalties would coincide with its publication, would more than offset the loss of his about what this government is doing to its own people and the people of earned from such a book, not to mention the speaking engagements that regular paycheck. This is something that has bothered me for a long time. People who are in a position to speak out, remain silent. This is true in all walks of life. A professional basketball player or major network sports announcer, for instance, who already has enough money to last a lifetime, could easily hold a news conference and discuss the blatant cheating by NBA officials, and the obvious favoritism shown by the league and the broadcast networks for the teams with the most

superstars, especially those with huge advertising endorsements. Who do they think theyre fooling? I want to say no one, but the truth is, they are fooling millions of people, because the money keeps rolling in. The result? Ronald Reagan is great, no questions asked. Kobe Bryant of the Los Angeles Lakers is great, no questions asked. This is the same

Ronald Reagan who was at the helm when tens of thousands were being murdered in El Salvador, and the same Kobe Bryant who is on trial for rape. These are heroes? Just how desperate are we in this millions of us are mentally and physically exhausted from work, worry, and family concerns. But does this excuse us from thinking?

country? How distracted, how mentally lazy, how misinformed? I know

June 12, 2004 Painful Observation Department: The flag flies at half

staff for the people who start the wars, not the people who die in them. The flag-draped caskets containing the people who start the wars are paraded before the public; the flag-draped caskets containing the people who die in the wars are kept hidden from view. . . . Moving right along to where? and for what purpose? but we must, or well go crazy. will have him in heaven so fast it will make Gods head spin. . . . Where, Above all, we must hope no one assassinates Bush, because the media then, shall we turn? What shall we talk about? Pizza? Soft ball? Boat

races? Dirty fingernails? Parallelograms? Malpractice insurance? Golden Gate Park? Hey, what about them Giants? Recycling? Old cubes? Great musical hits of the Forties and Fifties? I know lets talk movies? Tacos? Route 66? The Chicago blues? Mass transit? Sugar about Mario Lanza! Nah, I dont feel like it. Mario Lanza was a great King Cole? Nope. Forget it. Caruso? What on earth for? Mickey Mantle. Yogi Berra. The Three Stooges. Dizzy Dean and Pee-wee Reese. Or is

singer, but Im not in the mood to talk about him. Sinatra? Bleah. Nat

it Pee Wee? Oui? Who remembers Falstaff beer? Lucky Lager? Hot put out that cigar. Its bad for the stadiums health. Steroids.

dogs! Peanuts! Get your program! Excuse me, sir, but you will have to Hemorrhoids. Elephant hoids. Tarzan. Edgar Rice Burroughs. Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelittle. Hounded in the Baskervilles while driving a Coupe DeVille owned by Cecil B. DeMille. Filigree. Folderol. Isnt it time you moved up to Folderol? Pretty postcards. Wish you were here. Return to sender. Where the hell are you, anyway? Legal letters. My half is bigger than your half nyah, nyah. I cant hear you, Houston. Are you there? Yeah, Im here. I had to go to the bathroom. A fly in the ointment. John! Martha! Come home, Lassie, you old hound dog. Im sorry, maam, Lassies dead. He was hit by a truck. What a shame.

Maybe its time for a new refrigerator. Spigot. Spigoon. Spigeree! The plot. Say, who was that masked man? That wasnt a masked man, you idiot, that was a raccoon.

meek shall inherit the earth, but they shall not be able to afford a burial

June 13, 2004 There comes a time in every writers life when he must

either choose to write, or pretend to write. If he chooses to write, then he becomes dangerous and nothing can stop him. If he chooses to pretend, on his own potential. A couple of days ago, I read an essay by a successful ethnic-American writer who long ago chose to pretend. In literary and cultural movement, or renaissance, or force, or well, Im as a great many do, he becomes a parasite who has slammed the door

carefully constructed, lifeless language, he spoke of a nonexistent not sure what to call it. All I know is that it doesnt exist. I have read work by several of the writers he mentioned as being part of his vital ethnic whatever-it-is by the way, he was forced to humbly count himself

among their number and they are similarly dull. The purpose of the

essay was clear: if such a whatever doesnt exist, then neither does the the existence of this whatever-it-is. At the end of his essay, the writer,

writer himself, because his so-called writing career is predicated upon who is also a comfortably paid university professor, chides fellow

members of his ethnic background for not appreciating the hard work he and the other writers are doing on their behalf. He wonders why they dont see the importance of their work, without once questioning whether or not it really is important, or if it is important for good reasons or bad. Had he done that, his words might have carried some weight. Instead,

and probably without realizing it, he alienates his potential readership if they were to bother reading his essay, of course, which they wont, because the vital whatever-it-is is a club For Intellectual Members Only The only real remedy for the problem, if it is a problem, is for these

who spend their time praising each other and giving each other awards. writers to write, instead of pretending to write, and to welcome and

encourage other writers who are already doing so, but who have thus far been kept at a safe, infrequently published distance because they are perceived as competition. Also without realizing it, they have conformed breeds mediocrity. This is ironic, because they place so much

to the modern American literary model, which is based on exclusion and importance on their ethnicity. One would think that if these writers were better and more specifically addresses the needs of their own.

so concerned and brilliant, they would come up with an approach that June 14, 2004 This morning I am confronted with three choices. They are, 1) write about the inaccurately remembered past; 2) write about the elusive present; or, 3) write about the future, which doesnt really exist and is impossible to know. To this we might add a fourth choice: write about the other three choices simultaneously. But isnt that what I

usually do, or try to do? There might also be a fifth choice: write about none of the above. But if I dont write about the past, present, or future, or all three at once, what will I write about? This is worth looking into. First of all, I dont like the idea of being limited by reality. Second, I dont believe I am. I am definitely limited, but not by reality. I am limited by and around me, which I sense might well be one and the same thing.

myself, and by my own inability to understand what is going on in me Third, the assumption of a past, present, and future as we commonly terms; at the same time, it seems we are far too comfortable with them. For instance, if what is happening today, at this moment, has its roots in

understand them might well be wrong. Certainly they are convenient

what we call the past, due to actions taken and not taken and so on, past leave off and the present begin? But back to reality. To say that I

then how can the present be separated from the past? Where does the am not limited by reality, but that I am limited by myself, sounds an awful lot like reality and I are two different things. That doesnt seem possible. I must be part of reality if reality exists, that is. And what if there is more than one reality? What if there are several in simultaneous bored with this discussion. I start off feeling like I am on the verge of some kind of mental break-through, only to realize that I am rapidly

operation? Further proof of my limitations is that I am quickly becoming

losing ground. No wonder I usually write about the past, present, and Bah!

future. In fact, now that I think about it, it looks like I just did so again. June 15, 2004 Now Im trying to figure out what to do with the 1,600word poem I finished a few days ago. I could submit it simultaneously to three or four hundred little literary magazines that no one has ever heard

of, and then sit back and wait for my three or four hundred rejection

slips; lets see; the poem is ten pages long; ten pages times 300

magazines (well take the low number) means Ill need 3,000 sheets of large paper clips, 300 return envelopes, and 300 stamps for the return

paper, or six reams. Ill also need 300 nine-by-twelve envelopes, 300 envelopes; and of course Ill need to pay postage on the whole package to get it there. Oh I almost forgot: I will need another 300 sheets of paper for my cover letter. One mustnt submit ones poetry without a proper cover letter saying that one is submitting ones poetry, even

though its mighty obvious, since thats what the envelope contains and poetry is what the recipient publishes, assuming he can scrape enough money together to print a few dozen copies of his magazine that no one has heard of. So. Thats one option. Another is to publish a limited edition at my own expense. This poses no technical problem, since I know how to lay things out on a computer and have dealt with printers many times before. I daresay, assuming I printed only twenty-five or fifty copies, I would spend less doing this than I would if I were to pursue the

first option. At that point, all I would have to do is take out an ad in the

New York Times Book Review, saying the poem is available. This would of the New York Times Book Review are hungry for good poetry. And

be a considerable added expense, but it would be well worth it. Readers once they realize that I am offering a limited edition (Ill even sign it), they wont balk at my price which, according to my rough calculations, would have to be somewhere around seventy-five dollars a copy. To put this in perspective, people frequently pay that much just to go to a

restaurant, only to wind up hungry again a few hours later; whereas a

nicely printed poem is something they can read and hang onto for years. downtown, and read the poem to passersby while they put money in the

A third approach would be to take a coffee can to a busy street corner

can. A fourth approach would be to publish the poem on my website, as

I have done with quite a few other poems Ive written, not to mention

several dozen short stories, a novel, and a ton of other assorted and sifting through our options would be to find a patron of the arts

nonsense. A fifth option we writers are very good at coming up with willing to pay for a lavish, fully illustrated edition (I can do the drawings myself in about five minutes), as well as a full-blown advertising campaign and a nationwide reading tour. Im not sure how I would find such a patron, but stranger things have happened, although not to me. So. Thats five good, solid options. But there is also a sixth: I could put there would be no expense, no wasted resources, and no the one copy I now have in a manila folder and be done with it. This way embarrassment. There would also be no money coming in and that,

my friend (we are friends, arent we? please, say we are friends), is the glue that keeps this operation together. This might be hard to understand for people who are used to buying groceries and paying bills

and so forth; writers, however, arent hampered by such crude formulas.

Writers are accustomed to living on air and sunlight, and the occasional while they are pretending to be interested in whatever else is offered in

crumbs that fall their way. Writers are also very good at eating radishes the produce section, and at filling up on greasy free samples at the end senses sharp always important for that next big work.

of the grocery aisles. This is how they keep their minds open and their June 16, 2004 In yesterdays mail, our youngest son received word that the summer job he lined up several months ago will be starting in about two weeks. He will be working for a farming outfit nearby that grows and ships irises. The hours will be long: from six in the morning

until five in the evening, six days a week, until school starts again in

September. After that, he will work on Saturdays through planting season in October. He will be paid the minimum wage, which is $7.05 per hour, and which also happens to be $4.50 more than I was paid packing house in Sultana, California. I spent two glorious summers at

during the summer of 1974 when I worked at George Brothers, a fruitGeorge Brothers; the previous year, I earned $2.30 an hour stacking boxes of packed fruit on pallets or palletizing, as the job was officially called. In other words, I was a teenaged palletizer. The hours hotter) and which varieties were ripening at the time. I started at seven in

there were even longer, and varied depending on the weather (hot or the morning, and worked until nine at night, or ten, eleven, or twelve, staying awake on my morning drive in to work. Once I was on my feet

and a few times even into the wee hours. On those days, I had trouble and working, though, I managed to make it through the day without my mother sent with me. Every time I talk about this, our sons shake their heads in amazement. Pretty much day in and day out, I ate three

collapsing. I ate a lot of ripe fruit, not to mention the enormous lunches

ham sandwiches on sourdough bread, several bell pepper rings, an

Armenian cucumber, and a big piece of cake, washed down with a quart supper at night. Sometimes, even I was amazed. If I tried to do that now,

of milk this in addition to a full-sized breakfast in the morning and I would be ill. Of course I was still a growing boy back then, and

actually working for a living. Now I write and as we all know, writers new job, because I know it will be a fine experience for him, and

dont work, all they do is sit. Anyway, I am looking forward to our sons because he will be able to understand why Ive harped about my packing bonus, although he wont have time to spend it. When things finally

house days so much. Having a little money to spend will be an added

settle down, he will probably buy a new and better guitar, likely a twelvestring acoustic. He has made a tremendous amount of progress on the guitar he has, and still plays every day. To me, this makes a lot more sense than buying a car and becoming a young slave to insurance

payments and upkeep, though I realize it is a time-honored tradition. And gas is no longer thirty or forty cents a gallon, as it was when I began my driving career. When you have to spend thirty or forty or fifty dollars to fill the tank, it makes you stop and think. It makes you say to yourself, This week.

is stupid, or, in the case of many, Oh, well, I guess I wont eat this June 17, 2004 A harsh, dry, pollen-laden, sinus-tormenting east wind degree heat of the summer. The big pollen source at present is the percentage of the nations lawn seeds. And I dont care. As far as Im

has been blowing for the last two days, bringing with it the first ninetygrass seed fields. The seeds are for lawns. Oregon produces a large concerned, there are far too many lawns, and far too many people fertilizing and mowing them. But Ive said this all before so I wont say it again except that it doesnt make sense to have a lawn where tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, peppers, and eggplant could be. The heck with it. I just sneezed again all over my arm. Ive been sneezing all morning. My nose is raw from blowing it so much. Hooooooooot! Excuse me. I dont mean to be rude hack, kaff. Maybe if I try really hard I can come up with something positive to say wheeze, murgle. How about this: I finally finished reading Tristram Shandy. That was a project, believe me. But I did it. And I read every word, except for the Latin here and there, and the Greek. snort. Laroon-sniff. I spent part of yesterday afternoon trying to write out my thoughts on the book. skringe. With any luck, I will finish it up later today. funkle, kiff, glurn.

Last night I read a story by O. Henry called The Last of the

Troubadours. It was all right. It was mildly clever in a half-hearted, Anyway, O. Henry decided at the end that he had given the story the wrong title. The title, he said, should have been The Last of the in debt, his innards pickled, hiding out in Honduras for a year. To

melancholy sort of way. Poor guy O. Henry, not the last troubadour.

Barons. But I dont think he really cared one way or the other. Poor guy, Thomas, from Mary. Oct. 12 - 1926. Thats what someone wrote on the first rough inside page of my used book of O. Henry stories. I imagine it must have been Mary who wrote it. While I was reading the story, I found

myself thinking about Thomas and Mary, and the kind of people they short stories. And what a nice thing to know someone who would be

must have been. What a wonderful thing, to give someone a book of glad to receive a gift like that, instead of a tie or an electric razor. And how great it must have been for Thomas to know someone like Mary, likelihood he would have preferred a big smooch. Kiss me, my darling. Hold me in your arms. krinkle. who had the sense to give him something truly worthwhile, though in all

June 18, 2004 I love polls. Theyre so meaningful. If it werent for polls, I wouldnt know what to think about the myriad problems facing us today. And I trust the polls. I know they are honest, and are conducted with the countrys best interest at heart. Thats why the latest poll that says Bushs approval rating went up after the Reagan media blitz is so important. Since we know the poll is true and can be completely trusted, we also know that enough of the people polled are absolute idiots. How else can such a poll be interpreted? One crook dies, and anothers ratings go up? What, exactly, is the reasoning behind that? Even if Reagan was a saint, it wouldnt make sense. Meanwhile, there is a

wonderful summer vacation going on in Iraq, where people are dying left and right. Maybe the Iraqi people should be polled. Maybe George downtown Baghdad. The poll would only take a couple of minutes, and respond with another poll, and another media blitz. At the very least, Freedom Fighter Bush ought to fly over there and take a stroll through would be very easy to tabulate and interpret. Of course, America would snowmobile owners would observe a moment of silence, as well as race

car drivers, and the executives of drug companies, and chemical polluters, and various arms dealers, and . . .

companies, and oil companies, and the countrys major environmental June 19, 2004 I ate a ripe nectarine a few minutes ago, and as the

sweet juice rioted on my tongue I felt a sudden wave of emotion. How

can anything be so meaningful and so good? Having grown nectarines and other fruit myself, the answer is simple: sun; wind; rain; heat; cold; water; soil; insects; worms; birds; sky; clouds; the whisperings of leaves; silence; night; morning; afternoon; strength; long hours alone; majesty; memory; legend; the sound of passing footsteps; animal tracks in the

dust; color; the senses; song; laughter; anger; pride; brotherhood; adventure; work. The rest the being here, the knowing, the suffering, the wondering, the waiting, the rejoicing is part of the same miracle. . .

. Someone just knocked on the door. It was the lead man of the Mexican

gardening crew that takes care of the yard for the rental house next warranty, the battery on their pickup suddenly died. Speaking with a strong accent, he apologized for bothering me and asked if I could give

door. Though it was only a year old and came with a seven-year

him a jump. I backed our van out of the driveway, got it into position, and

he hooked up the cable. After three or four attempts, their engine finally turned over. He thanked me, I said I was happy to help, and we shook

hands. As I was pulling the van back into the driveway, an eighty-nineyear-old man who lives a few streets over walked by, full of vigor and carries it instead. The guy is in better shape than I am. The cane is gusto. Lately he has had a cane with him, but he doesnt use it and probably for thrashing stray dogs or obnoxious children. One of these

days, maybe Ill ask him. Ive talked to him before. Several years ago, he names and thought he had the perfect formula for hiding the fact. His

told my wife and me a story about a guy who had trouble remembering trick was to say, Lets see, now, how do you spell your last name replied, Oh, thats easy. Its S-M-I-T-H.

again? But it finally backfired when a fellow he said it to smiled and June 20, 2004 For the last several minutes, while Ive been waiting for my coffee to do its work, I have been listening to the sparrows in the maple trees along the street and a dog barking in the distance. Just now, a crows voice echoed over the street. It is summer. The east wind has settled down. The valley is now bathed in bright light, with high and we keep our windows open in the early hours to get as much of the pollen, but there is only so much one can do. At the same time, Ive

temperatures hovering around ninety. The mornings have been cool, cool air into the house as possible. And with it comes the dust and noticed the last couple of days the smell of cut fields on the breeze. This means the grass seed season is advancing, and that there is hope in sight. In a couple of weeks we will be done with the worst of the

allergies. . . . At the moment, I would like to describe how the maple trees look in the morning sunlight, because it really is spectacular, the green, like quiet pools along a brushy riverbank. But beyond that I dont outer edges reflective and bright, the inner recesses a darker, shadowy think Ill try. There is something stirring deep within, a timelessness, an

urge, a longing, a hush of expectancy, very much like the feeling one gets while watching rain descend upon a dry, empty field. Mixed up in this are memories of my boyhood, because summer was a great time, a what I see and feel now, while looking out my window. This is what I time for boys to celebrate and return to their natural free state. This is remember: trying to keep up with my father as he quickly went about his vineyard; walking between the rows and feeling the fresh, tender growth irrigation valves; looking for crawdads and polliwogs; listening to the house; feeling a complete intimacy and understanding of every inch of

chores; chewing on the sour green tendrils from the vines in our of the canes against my arms; listening to the water bubble up out of the symphony of sparrows in the mulberry, ash, and walnut trees around our ground, every stick, every clod, every dry weed, and every vine and tree on our farm, and the mossy water flowing lazily in the ditches through the countryside, past vineyards, past orchards, past fields, past eucalyptus groves, past the lives being lived along the way. And there is

so much more this is the amazing thing. How can there be so much? revealed and told and explained? Can it really be mine alone? At times it

And how can it be so incredibly, intensely private, even after it has been feels like it. If it is, then does that mean it will also die with me? Are we possible for one person to give his memories and understanding to another? Certainly it is possible to try. But this is inaccurate, Im sure,

that isolated? Or is the telling, revealing, and explaining like giving? Is it

words being what they are, and the filter of personal experience being what it is. And yet, might these words not also be like the water moving through the countryside, carrying meaning in addition to its own? helping to awaken the others own memory and understanding. If so,

Possibly, when one person so gives to another, what he is really doing is

then it truly is a gift. And the gift grows in importance when the two find common ground, when they remember and understand similar things. I know the ditches of my past will mean one thing to people who grew up

as I did and where I did, and mean another to people who have never set foot outside a city. But the longing, the urge, the expectancy, will be the same. June 21, 2004 Perhaps it is more than a coincidence that my mothers

father worked long ago as a ditch tender in Dinuba, and that as a kid

during the Depression she often accompanied him on his morning rounds through the countryside. As an employee of the Alta Irrigation among the farmers along his route. Everyone had to take turns, District, my grandfathers job was to regulate the flow of irrigation water otherwise there would be no water for the farmers further along the ditch. Stealing water during the night was not uncommon, though such activities were engaged in by a very small number of farmers, whose their right. (For some odd reason, here I am reminded of Iraq.) My

arrogance and obnoxiousness led them to believe stealing water was grandfather was very popular and liked by everyone. A farmer himself

who had lost his place a few years earlier, he was anything but an fruits and vegetables to take home. He held the job for many years, and

outsider. He treated people fairly, loved to talk, and was frequently given though it paid little, it kept his family afloat during the 1930s. And my mother and her father creeping along the ditch bank in their car, was born in 1878 and died two years before I was born. As a boy, he

decades later, there were still old-timers who fondly remembered seeing followed by a small cloud of dust. I never knew my mothers father. He rode west from Illinois on a train with his family in 1888 and settled in the small town of Kingsburg, which is just a few miles southwest of Dinuba.

Kingsburg took its name from the Kings River the source of melted snow that was and is still used to feed the farms in that part of the San Joaquin Valley. Little by little, Kingsburg, the river, Dinuba, the ditches, and the farms became his life or his life became them. And so long before the time I happened, I was already a part of it all. June 22, 2004 Now Im here, though it hardly needs pointing out.

Even so, it often catches me by surprise. Its not that I would rather be in

Dinuba. I wouldnt unless, maybe, it was the simple unpolluted 1962 version, before the air was filthy and the ditches were routinely sprayed with the nasty weed control chemicals that killed the polliwogs and crawdads and made the water unsafe to be in. But, I guess thats what reruns of the old Andy Griffith show are for. By gum. By golly. Why, I

remember when every housewife in town had an apple pie cooling on her window sill. The heck, you say. Why, shore. And every boy was born wearing a cub scout uniform. You betcha. Looked like dang fools, too. They all went around tying knots and helping old ladies across the

street. Why, we had more traffic jams in the old home town than you everything. If thered been a fire, nobody woulda got out alive. No, sir.

could shake a stick at. Herds of cub scouts and old ladies, clogging up Whewee. Then the Beatles came along and ruined everything, and the long and started taking drugs, and the Sixties turned into the Seventies, and everything went to hell in a handbasket. Now we have Wal-Mart,

cub scouts turned into boy scouts, and the boy scouts grew their hair

and K-Mart, and Bi-Mart, and this warehouse and that warehouse, and dirty air, and dirty water, and asthma though this, too, hardly needs pointing out except that it does, because ignoring it or going along with it only helps it get bigger and uglier and stranger and more frightening and more insane. (Yet again, I am reminded of Iraq.) Thank

goodness we now have Clintons new book, My Life. That will help us

get things sorted out, you betcha. One and a half million copies in hardcover, a ten million-dollar advance for the author, an ocean of advertising, publicity on 60 Minutes, etc., etc. yep, that will take care of everything. We need those insights. We cant do without em. In fact, Im off now to get in line for my copy. June 23, 2004 June is quickly evaporating, and with it so am I. By

July, nothing will be left of either of us. What happened to June? people will want to know. It just began, and now its gone. Are you sure thats legal? But I doubt anyone will ask what happened to me. Instead,

they will attribute my disappearance to mental and physical erosion, or some similarly irreversible psycho-geologic force. Im surprised he lasted this long will be the likely refrain, capped off with a yawn. Too bad he took everything so seriously. And they will be right. I have

always taken things too seriously. Even as a kid, I foolishly assumed that all. A long look at the clear night sky was enough to set me straight on do matter, but not in the way we think they matter. And by that I mean,

everything mattered. In time, though, I also realized nothing mattered at that point forever. By this I mean, or I think I probably mean, that things things mattered before we existed, and they will go on mattering after we are gone, and after our sun and earth are gone. In other words, it is a mistake to put ourselves at the center of the equation. Not one of us is may choose the time and manner in which we leave, but that doesnt mean much because we cant stay anyway. And so we are left with a

here because we chose to be here. We may choose to leave, and we

cosmic mattering, which might well be beyond our ability to comprehend, though I refuse to close the door on the possibility. The reason I say this is that I think we might already comprehend it at the cellular level, or

even at a level that cannot be seen or touched. For we are of the things; as individuals, we are like planets or stars, or rocks or trees; as a

universe; the universe flows through us, as it flows through itself and all race of beings, we are a galaxy unto ourselves. This is why I think our religions and philosophies and theories are so feeble. When you get right down to it, they are incredibly juvenile and narrow-minded, and are bound by their own petty assumptions. They dont ask enough, and they of minds worn to a frazzle by fearing the unknown. This happens, I think, because we bestow upon ourselves an unreasonable degree of importance. When you think of the miracle that is Life, that is the Universe, and the vast, poetic, harmonic, ongoing upheaval it satisfy us too easily. Ultimately, they are the refuge of closed minds, and

represents, our concerns seem pathetic. We can blow ourselves and the mosquito. Billions of years from now, billions of light years away, someone or something using an unimaginably powerful instrument might there, but Im not sure. What do you think?

planet up at any moment, but on a cosmic scale it would be like killing a

notice a tiny ripple and say, I think there might have been something June 24, 2004 It took me only three minutes yesterday to find and buy another four books at the library bookstore. The result: four nice hardbound volumes for a total of six dollars. In addition to a hefty tome

containing the complete works of Shakespeare, I brought home Here

Lies, a collection of short stories by Dorothy Parker; a 357-page book of volume of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay. With the arrival of these to stacking books on my work table again. Not that I mind, really. Its just that I know where it leads. And I dont mind that, either. In fact, I dont

poems by Walt Whitman; and Wine From These Grapes, a slender books, my new shelf is now full, which means that I will have to go back

mind anything when it comes to books, because even when I just look at

them, I am comforted. In other words, I am comforted pretty much all the another. So, I am both comforted and disturbed a contradiction I should probably investigate, but wont, at least not at the moment, because I would rather investigate my new books which, come to

time a lucky thing, since I am always disturbed about one thing or

think of it, are all old. Another contradiction. Do I have something against current literature, if I may use that term? Yes. I hate it except for the few parts I like, none of which spring readily to mind. But if I live long

enough, I suspect I will get around to current literature eventually, after it

has become a thing of the past and is available at the library bookstore, case anyone was still listening), by then, maybe the current current old current literature. I can hardly wait to see how this all turns out. But,

assuming that sane outpost still exists. On the other hand (he said in literature will be more worthwhile, and I will be reading that instead of the as we all know, literature is not something that can be rushed. Or is it? twenty minutes already. What kinda joint is this? Relax, pal. We just hired a new guy. Hes slow. He aint got the hang of it yet. Ill say. I dont

Hey, buddy, will you speed it up? Ive been waiting for my literature for

even hear any typing. Whats his name, anyway? His name? Its kinda hard to pronounce. Its Tolstoyevsky Cervantes Shakespearzac Zolatwainpoe Faulknerhemingbeck. Or something like that. But thats

okay, because he goes by Bill. Yeah? Well you tell old Bill that hed

better crank out something in a hurry, because Im tired of waiting, see?

Okay, Ill tell him. Hey, Bill did you hear that? Are you gonna write this Hey, Bill! Shoot. Hes gone. Guess Ill have to do it myself.

guy a book, or just stand there playin with them onion rings? Bill? Bill?

June 25, 2004 At long last, I think I am learning to learn. If Im right,

then maybe when I have learned to learn, I will go on to learn whatever it is I need to learn, and then in turn learn it. But first I have to finish learning to learn. The reason I am so slow is that I have had to learn how to learn to learn. This project took me almost forty-eight years, and suffered many setbacks along the way. It also involved a great deal of unlearning, which is to say, I had learned an awful lot of things that were

road blocks to real learning. One of the biggest road blocks was

learning. It might sound odd, but I know now that learning is learnings biggest enemy. This is so because quite often what is learned is of no Several weeks ago, though, I emerged from this difficult phase. For one thing, I figured forty-eight years was enough, and that if I was ever going to begin learning to learn, I had better get busy. I dont feel the time was real value, or applied incorrectly or selfishly by the person who learned it.

squandered, necessarily only about ninety-six or ninety-seven me personally and I am doing my best to add you to that number

percent of it. The remainder was merely wasted. Now, people who know might say that I am being too hard on myself not because its true,

however, but because they are nice, though there is also another reason: if I am not being too hard on myself, then it implies that they are being too easy on themselves. Because, how different are we, really? A lot different! I hear you say, and for your sake I hope you are right. Still, if

you understand me, and find that what I say makes reasonable sense, in spite or even perhaps because of the circuitous way in which it is presented, then chances are you are in as bad a shape as I am. And so

I happily extend this offer: why not join me in learning to learn? Let us learn what needs to be learned, and then let us go on to learn it. Let us dispel the darkness of misguided assumption and create a bright new

world that is a good world for everyone and not just a privileged few,

who only think its a good world because they have money in their pockets and tickets for the theater. Let us learn to be the privileged many, the privileged all. Let us learn to bring children into the world with and to grow old with dignity and grace, and to make our departure from love, and to welcome and care for them with joy. Let us learn to live fully, this sphere a moment of joy, surrounded by our loved ones in whose faces are reflected our accomplishments. Finally, let us learn to learn that the dream is every bit as real as the nightmare, and that it is every bit as attainable, if we would only dare.

June 26, 2004 A couple of days ago, a pharmacist at one of the major grocery stores in the area and I were talking about the new drug discount cards being offered to senior citizens as part of the governments so-called improvements to Medicare. When I told him that

I had assumed all along that the cards would be worthless, he smiled

and said they are nothing but a ploy by Bush. I hope people see through it, he said. Since not all drugs are covered by all cards, and drugs can be dropped and prices raised without notice, I asked if anyone

was saving money. He said he didnt know, because he has seen only one card, even though most of his customers are eligible. Thats one do see through it. Either that, or they are completely confused by it, and card information. Oh, well. Its only medicine. Health can wait. Theres a war to fight, remember? You know, freedom, democracy, and all that. Freedom to bleed, freedom to go untreated, freedom to rot minus an arm card, in a huge, busy store, open long hours. Interesting. Maybe people have grown tired of being put on hold when they call the 800 number for

here and a leg there. Democracy built on the death of children, democracy that condones the torture of prisoners, democracy that

plucks people off the street and holds them without charges. In other words, the compassionate, conservative form of democracy that clearly states, We will take what we want, at whatever human expense, anyone thinks. In other words, the kinder, gentler form of democracy that and psychological bill.

because we are stronger than everyone else and we dont care what benefits the wealthy few while everyone else is left to pay the financial June 27, 2004 I have been reading a little about the London of Shakespeares day, and how there were 200,000 people packed into the eleven years two bubonic plague epidemics carried off over a quarter of citys sewage-filled streets and rat-infested crannies, and how within the population. At one point, stray dogs were thought to be carriers and

large numbers were put to death. This allowed the rat population to increase and the problem to worsen. Garbage was routinely thrown into wash it away. Night soil was loaded onto barges and dumped into the ocean. Through all this, Shakespeare or Shackspere, or Shakspere, even by Shakespeare himself was writing his poetry and plays. the gutter, where it lay rotting and stinking until a rain came along to

or Shake-speare, or Shakspeare, as the name was alternately spelled, Although, I understand that now some scholars believe somebody other than Shakespeare was the author of Shakespeares work. This might or might not be true, but either way, the important thing is that the work was written, and the author is no longer around to file a lawsuit. These days,

it is hard to imagine the city of Salem losing 30,000 residents to disease in an eleven-year period. If Oregons capital loses residents, its because they cant find a way to earn a living here, or are bored by the lack of night life, which is dominated primarily by raccoons. One would think that

in such a benign environment, where hamburgers are worshipped and

politicians keep the barbers busy, that writers would be cranking out

great literature left and right. Granted, most are worn out from flipping make up the difference. Now, moving right along, it is important to note

burgers and pumping gas, but still, the politicians are enough like rats to that there are still many places in the world that rival Shakespeares London in matters of filth and disease, and many other places where people are dropping like flies because of starvation and war. It is even more important to note that these problems are not caused simply by

bad luck, or bad karma, or bad weather. Rather, they are caused by bad

people, who refuse to be satisfied with their own good fortune, which, all too often, they havent even worked for, but have stolen or inherited. This is humankinds worst plague of all. The Plague of Greed and Ignorance haunts us and defines our sad history.

June 28, 2004 Its nice to know my loving bride hasnt lost her ability things behind the house when a dove called from high atop one of the hands and moving them to emulate the mourning sound a trick she

to converse with doves. Late yesterday evening, we were looking at pine trees. As soon as my wife answered by blowing into her cupped learned growing up on the farm the dove replied with the same

sound. This went on back and forth for the next few minutes, until the

dove suddenly flew off probably embarrassed, my wife said, when the

bird realized it was talking to a human. . . . The flowers are watered, as are the tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant, which are making nice strides in the longer days and warmer temperatures. The breeze is coming out of the east again, and temperatures are on the rise. It was cloudy and in

the seventies most of last week. The grass seed pollen count is still high, ago, I sneezed loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. But it is

though I can tell by the smell that the varieties have changed. A minute

now after eight-thirty, so most everyone is awake anyway. Too bad. I

hate to waste a sneeze, though it was still an emotionally and physically satisfying experience. The best sneezes, though, are the ones that are combustion. violent enough to actually clear the mind and cause spontaneous June 29, 2004 I suppose I shouldnt let it bother me, but I am really

tired of hearing the neighbor spit in his driveway every morning. He has been doing it for years, and the spit has been landing right out in the open where his son plays. After clearing his throat and spitting two or three times, he and his wife go to work. Their son goes with them and is dropped off somewhere to spend the day. Then, when they return in the evening, the father spits some more. He spits on his lawn, on his

sidewalk, in the street. Once two or three years ago, I heard his wife yell at their young son, Dont spit! For about a week, there was no spitting, father or son. Then the father resumed his spitting, and the son moved around and refusing to come down while his parents scream at him. The

on to other forms of torture, such as climbing onto their roof and running other morning at about seven-thirty, after the father had done his spitting, he directed a blood-curdling scream at his son for not promptly getting into their car. Being relatively early, the neighborhood was still windows open. The father and son were about ten feet apart when the peace was shattered. As they backed out into the street, I could hear the father screaming again, even with the windows up on their car. Now, I

calm and quiet. And the weather being warm, many people had their

dont begrudge anyone their unhappiness. I know people have it hard, even people with good jobs and benefits and money to spend. But still, when you get right down to it, stupidity is stupidity, and spit is spit. I have known many people who have had a much harder life and who were

clean beyond reproach, and who were happy and raised intelligent disappointments to the world. There is such a thing, in other words, as personal pride.

children, and who managed it all without spitting and broadcasting their

June 30, 2004 On yesterdays local news, there was a brief interview with one of the 5,000-plus former soldiers now being told by the government that they will be called up for another round of active duty.

This particular person, who is twenty-four years of age, said he had already completed four years of service. Not only is he married and going to college, he is noticeably overweight and out of shape, which he hastened to point out himself, along with the fact that for the last two

years he hasnt been thinking like a soldier, but like an ordinary person with a life to live. His expression was one of helplessness, shock, and fear a normal, healthy reaction, although I would hope that anger and outrage will soon take their place. I have never read the contracts signed by volunteers, but they must contain some mighty powerful fine print. and doing another and worrying about the consequences later, after the

Either that, or the government is up to its usual trick of saying one thing damage is done. To sign on their dotted line is crazy enough, because it literally gives them the power of life or death over the person who signs. By signing, one says, in effect, Take me my mind, body, and future is in your hands, and can be used for whatever purpose you devise, and I

will not question, I will not investigate the reasons behind your actions, I and heritage of the people you send me to fight, wound, maim, imprison, torture, and kill. For years now, as an inducement to sign, the

will not learn the history behind them, I will remain ignorant of the culture

government has been dangling the promise of paying for ones college education. Meanwhile, it has been systematically dismantling the

economy, leaving less and less in the way of decently paying

employment. At the moment, they are bragging about the relatively small number of so-called jobs that are being added to the nations economy, from the herd of desperate applicants dont pay nearly as much as but it is clear that the new jobs if one is lucky enough to be selected the hundreds of thousands of jobs that have been lost. And so serving in fewer and fewer prospects, and who dont know where to turn. Under the

the military becomes more of an option for young people, who have circumstances, even if they survive their term of duty however long

the government decides that is and go on to earn a college degree, there is still no guarantee they will go on to find good employment. There a dime a dozen. Even worse, colleges have become businesses; like the rolling. Otherwise, they go out of business. It takes an exceptionally are plenty of unemployed degree-holders out there already. Degrees are military, they need a certain number of bodies to keep their machinery intelligent person to survive this mass market production model, and to make something worthwhile come of the experience. In truth, a government that cares about the welfare of its people would see to it that

education comes first. And by education, I mean real education not

merely the kind that leads to a job, but an education that helps open even more trouble finding soldiers to fight its senseless wars again, not good for business. June 1, 2004 Be it hereby noted that I am beginning the new month

ones mind. But of course if that happened, the government would have

with a vicious sinus headache and a right eye that feels like it might pop

out at any moment. Other than that, everything is fine, and I am following yesterday, which he also sent to two other old high school friends. In it

my usual routine. I received an e-mail from an old high school friend

he said he had been out fishing several times in the old twelve-foot aluminum boat my father owned and eventually sold to his father for a hundred dollars sometime in the late Sixties. When my friend went to

pick up the boat in Dinuba he now lives in Arizona, and his father, like my fathers handwriting on it, saying he had received the money for the

mine, has since departed this life his mother found a slip of paper with boat. My friend also said that he had just attended his sons high school and our own graduation thirty years ago, which I didnt attend because I had finished school a semester early and I hated such things anyway. In fact, while my classmates were receiving their diplomas that June

graduation, and that this had gotten him thinking about the old days

evening, I was working at the George Brothers packing house in nearby Sultana for two dollars and fifty-five cents an hour. There was a big noisy party around the corner from where we lived in the country that night, though, and after work I attended that. In other words, I did have my

priorities. The next day, I believe, many members of the graduating class boarded a bus bound for Anaheim, California, home of Disneyland. Since I was working at George Brothers and wasnt interested in going to Disneyland either, I entrusted my high school annual to my friends so other people could sign it during the trip. This proved to be a mistake, as

the book was returned to me with the first page sealed by a bandage, beside which was written a warning not to open it and read what had been written on the inside cover. Of course this amounted to an

invitation, and the bandage was wrinkled and finger-printed and barely sticky anymore by the time I saw it. There were several scrawled should have gone to Disneyland after all. There were also a lot of nice profanities all in fun, of course that led me to believe I probably messages from people I had known and met in the halls during the

preceding four years, almost every one of whom I havent seen since, the memories, and the memories, and the memories.

and, in all likelihood, never will again. In the meantime, though, there are June 2, 2004 I responded right away to my friends e-mail about our old boat and sent my reply to the others. Yesterday, the others also weighed in one in the morning from Idaho, and the other last night from California. So now we have each been reassured that the others

are alive, and, every bit as important, that we still have a sense of

humor. One thing I find interesting is, despite how well we knew each us in different combinations that the others never knew about. Two of us grew up and went to grade school in town, two of us in the country. We

other back in the day, we each remember things that happened between

really got to know each other later, in junior high school although we did have some contact when we played little league baseball at Roosevelt Park on Elizabeth Way. I take special care to mention she was a kid, and because it was within walking distance of the city Elizabeth Way because my mother lived on that street for a time when park and the old public library, which played such an important role in her life and mine. What perhaps none of them know, except of course because today happens to be the ninth anniversary of my fathers death. This is another of my Dinuba memories. My father lived in Dinuba all his my mother, is that these communications have added significance

life, except during World War II another time the world was turned upside down by human ignorance, if one cares to make note of such things. It can truly be said that he was of the place, and that he belonged in the place, and that if he had been forcibly uprooted from the place he would have suffered a great deal. He would have survived, but he wouldnt have liked it. The town of Dinuba was part of it, but it was his

farm, and the country roads and farms around it, that gladdened his heart. That a time came when it was necessary for me to leave, and to health, was a source of grief. Salem is a good place. It, too, is

heart beyond measure. That I felt the same way also gladdened his take my wife and children with me to another place for the sake of their surrounded by farms and country roads. But the country roads I travel in leave. Sometimes, still, I meet him there.

my dreams are the ones we left behind, and that my father never did June 3, 2004 Of all the things I miss from my childhood, one either at foolishly demolished and replaced by a generic one-story reading room

or very near the top of the list is Dinubas old public library, which was devoid of personality and meaning. The old library was a real place. I

would give almost anything to climb its steps and be in it again, and to listen to its old-fashioned silence, and to see and smell the books, and to presenting a big stack of books to the librarians, Mrs. Jamison and Elizabeth Chang, at the circulation desk, and watching them check them look out the windows at the park below. I would take extreme pleasure in

out in my name. When Dinuba lost its library, it lost something precious and irretrievable. I want to use the word soul, but that word means so many strange things to so many different people that I wont. Instead, I

think Ill use vision. For, in my mind, a town without a library is a town

that is blind. I was in the new library, the aforementioned reading room, only a few times. It was small, cheap-looking, and unbearable to be in. It was more like an office or waiting room than a sanctuary and repository of dreams and ideas. People werent reading, they were talking and

chewing gum. Thats what happens when you tear down a building with and convenient. The hush is gone, the sense of privacy and solitude, the

history and character and replace it with something supposedly modern

feeling of expectation and adventure. It makes me think: there must be

many ghosts now in the old city park ghosts of librarians past, ghosts of the people who used the old library, ghosts, even, of the discarded books that fell by the wayside. It is true that a man surrounded by plastic is still a man, but there remains within him a hunger for places and things that are real, places he can go in search of his sanity.

June 4, 2004 Whatever the so-called reasons for the current war or any war, it is clear that we have failed as human beings, and that we continue to fail, because we send our children to fight, torture, and kill other children. And what are the reasons? Quite simply, they are the lies we tell ourselves and each other to avoid taking responsibility for our own actions. But if we arent responsible, who is? Have the zebras and elephants conspired to do this to us, or the lizards, whales, and armadillos? If they have, they have been pretty sneaky about it. So,

then. Here we are. The great brains, killing each other, starving each

other, poisoning the earth. Here we are, waving flags and saying God is We are not ashamed? Think about it: We have children, we feed them

on our side, and that the other side is evil. And we are not embarrassed? and clothe them and worry over them and then we send them off to convenient. How stupid. How sad.

kill someone elses children but it is not our fault, it is theirs. How June 5, 2004 We bought two large baskets of local strawberries

yesterday, three cantaloupes, and several large red onions. We bought

other food items, but none as exciting as these. Oregon strawberries are fertilized berries grown commercially in California. Spring in the Willamette Valley is especially conducive to berry-growing.

truly an amazing experience; they are far superior to the distorted, over-

Unfortunately, the berry growers are being driven out of business and

are on the brink of disappearing altogether. All you can find in the stores are California berries. For local berries, you have to go to fruit stands in the country. On the other hand, the best red onions weve ever had come from central California. They are big and sweet and make living worthwhile. Cantaloupes are nowhere near as good as they used to be, though we are usually able to find a few decent ones each summer. have gradually drained the flavor from melons and other fruits. As I know

Depleted soils and extensive use of chemicals and synthetic fertilizers from personal experience, how soil is cared for and how fruit is grown makes all the difference. Soil is a living thing, and it must be treated as two might be related? such. Come to think of it, so are we. Say, I wonder do you think the June 6, 2004 Today the nation is in mourning for the second-rate Global Takeover back in the Eighties, a time also known as the Me

actor who served two terms as public spokesman for Big Business and Generation. When our son, Vahan, told me yesterday that Reagan had died, I said, You watch within a few hours he will be used in make. Thanks to the hard-nosed, unbiased media, weve already republican campaign material. Granted, it wasnt a difficult prediction to learned that during his presidency, Reagan restored the nations spirit apparently by uttering terms like star wars technology while having no idea what they really meant, or by saying things like Tear down that wall, while the cameras zoomed in for closeups of his bronzed hairdo. president for his optimism and sense of humor, because they are scared to death to appear unpatriotic by saying something negative, i.e., true. This, too, wasnt hard to predict. The entire front section of todays Sunday Oregonian was drenched in red, white, and blue ink, and with

Meanwhile, politicians on both sides of the fence are praising the dead

each turn of the page readers were treated to more pictures of the great communicator. The man was an actor. Like the current president, he Reagan could actually read them, and, after nearly a full term in office, Little Boy Bush still messes them up. And speaking of Little Boy Bush, I was not a thinker, but a reader of lines the main difference being,

read a few days ago that his brother, Jeb, is busy purging Floridas voting rolls again in anticipation of the upcoming election. An interesting thing, democracy. Or, as they used to say in the Old Testament, If the voter offends thee, pluck it out.

June 7, 2004 Well, this is interesting. According to the media, Ronald Reagan will rise again in three days. He will stand at the Heavenly Podium and say, Roll back that stone! And who would deny him? For will he not take his place at the right hand of the Father, nudging even Jesus off His stool? The funny thing about all this is, everyone in the media and politics who was alive during Reagans presidency seems suddenly to have had their memories purged of what went on in those what is going on now. I dont remember Reagan walking on water, but restored although I dont remember that happening either. Maybe it

days which, strangely enough, bears a remarkable resemblance to apparently this happened. No wonder the spirit of the nation was was something like the freedom that the people of Iraq are now experiencing. You dont realize how happy you were until later, after you are dead.

June 8, 2004 In a letter to the editor in this mornings paper, someone actually said he wept uncontrollably upon learning of Reagans death. of certain Reagan Administration highlights, such as El Salvador, On the side of reason, there were several other letters reminding readers Nicaragua, Grenada, and deregulation. In the coming days, there will be

talk about the Iran-Iraq war, the Iran-Contra affair, and Saddam Hussein. In the meantime, the best we can do is hang on until the current media blitz is over. But it wont be easy. Such behavior is a frustrating, tragic thing to behold.

June 9, 2004 Now the main roads leading to the as-yet-unfinished towners. Say, wasnt there a Jack Lemmon movie by that name? Or am I

Salem convention center are being repaved. This will impress the out-ofthinking of The Sundowners, with Robert Mitchum? Oh, well. It doesnt

matter. They will be impressed except for Jack Lemmon and Robert Mitchum, who are dead. It is hard to impress dead people almost as hard as it is to impress those who are alive, whom, when you think about it, are a rapidly dying breed. But there is nothing like fresh pavement to lesser streets in town that could use a coat of varnish, but those are flare the nostrils and stir the soul. Granted, there are several dozen merely the ones people go back and forth to work on every day, and live

on in many cases, literally. And one cant help wondering how many Salem residents will actually ever set foot in the new convention center. For instance, will the homeless be allowed to hold a convention there?

Or the owners of failed small businesses suffocated by regulations and respect and gratitude. But I cant help it. I want to be escorted out of the is immature. And I dont want to make it easy for them, either. Before

high rents? I dont know. I guess I have trouble showing the proper building by security guards for smoking a cigar in the lobby. I realize this they catch me, I want to smoke in the elevators, in the restrooms, and in guards are closing in, I will threaten to throw myself out a window. What purpose will this serve? I have no idea. Why should it serve any purpose? And yet, I am convinced this needs to be done, and that I am

the kitchen. I want to light up in a real estate seminar. Then, when the

the one who needs to do it. I am also convinced that no one else will. Oh, sure, several thousand will think about it. But will they act? Or will they be afraid of Homeland Security? Mad smoker linked to terrorists.

FBI says fingerprint on cigar matches print on McDonalds wrapper in William Saroyans The Three Swimmers and the Grocer from Yale in My Name Is Aram? Only time will tell, if it hasnt already.

Madrid or was it Malaga, the little town near Fresno mentioned in

June 10, 2004 If my guess is correct, some people renting a house nearby are in the process of being evicted. They are a sad group comprised of a mother who is gone most of the time and many children, who are left to fend for themselves and wander the streets around town. younger boys ruined their mower and it started spewing clouds of requesting that the lawn be mowed, came by yesterday and took Their lawn is a foot and a half tall, having grown wild since one of the smoke. The landlord, no doubt after first sending a proper letter pictures. Then, yesterday afternoon, one of the older kids, who is about

sixteen, found himself locked out of the house, so he started kicking the

front door and prying at it with a piece of metal. Such behavior is never a probably face a major cleanup job inside as well. But the saddest part of

good sign. When this is over and the people are gone, the landlord will the situation is the children. Their expressions tell the story. Theirs is a

broken home, and they are desperate for a steadying influence. The expression and manner of dress. I have seen them miles from home,

older boys are already taking on the tough look of hoodlums, in walking along beside traffic, obviously on no particular mission. They have no set schedule, and come and go during school hours. What will become of them? What will become of their mother as if her current

mess isnt bad enough? Most likely, she will form more temporary

alliances with irresponsible men who will either hate or feel nothing for her children. Or, maybe she wont. Either way, time is quickly running out. It might already be too late for the older kids to learn how to be parents, and how to work together to make a go of family life. And yet sense. What then?

one day, parents they will surely become, at least in the biological June 11, 2004 Ray Charles is dead. A man of genuine, wide-ranging musical talent and creativity whose career spanned many decades, it is a shame he couldnt have died two weeks earlier, before Ronald

Reagan, or several weeks from now, after the unbearable, shameful an illustration of what the so-called news has become in this country, we

spectacle surrounding the Teflon presidents exit has quieted down. As need look no further than yesterday evenings national ABC broadcast, in which Ray Charles was shown singing America the Beautiful with Reagans image in the background. This touching send-off was glibly introduced by anchorman Peter Jennings, who knows better, but would rather sit there and collect his huge salary than tell the truth. If a man like

that and there are many in similar positions with a full background and knowledge of current affairs were to quit his job and write a book the world, it could really make a difference. And I am sure the royalties would coincide with its publication, would more than offset the loss of his about what this government is doing to its own people and the people of earned from such a book, not to mention the speaking engagements that regular paycheck. This is something that has bothered me for a long time. People who are in a position to speak out, remain silent. This is true in all walks of life. A professional basketball player or major network sports announcer, for instance, who already has enough money to last a lifetime, could easily hold a news conference and discuss the blatant

cheating by NBA officials, and the obvious favoritism shown by the league and the broadcast networks for the teams with the most superstars, especially those with huge advertising endorsements. Who do they think theyre fooling? I want to say no one, but the truth is, they are fooling millions of people, because the money keeps rolling in. The result? Ronald Reagan is great, no questions asked. Kobe Bryant of the Los Angeles Lakers is great, no questions asked. This is the same

Ronald Reagan who was at the helm when tens of thousands were being murdered in El Salvador, and the same Kobe Bryant who is on trial for rape. These are heroes? Just how desperate are we in this millions of us are mentally and physically exhausted from work, worry, and family concerns. But does this excuse us from thinking?

country? How distracted, how mentally lazy, how misinformed? I know

June 12, 2004 Painful Observation Department: The flag flies at half

staff for the people who start the wars, not the people who die in them. The flag-draped caskets containing the people who start the wars are paraded before the public; the flag-draped caskets containing the people who die in the wars are kept hidden from view. . . . Moving right along to where? and for what purpose? but we must, or well go crazy. will have him in heaven so fast it will make Gods head spin. . . . Where, Above all, we must hope no one assassinates Bush, because the media then, shall we turn? What shall we talk about? Pizza? Soft ball? Boat

races? Dirty fingernails? Parallelograms? Malpractice insurance? Golden Gate Park? Hey, what about them Giants? Recycling? Old cubes? Great musical hits of the Forties and Fifties? I know lets talk movies? Tacos? Route 66? The Chicago blues? Mass transit? Sugar about Mario Lanza! Nah, I dont feel like it. Mario Lanza was a great

singer, but Im not in the mood to talk about him. Sinatra? Bleah. Nat

King Cole? Nope. Forget it. Caruso? What on earth for? Mickey Mantle. Yogi Berra. The Three Stooges. Dizzy Dean and Pee-wee Reese. Or is it Pee Wee? Oui? Who remembers Falstaff beer? Lucky Lager? Hot put out that cigar. Its bad for the stadiums health. Steroids.

dogs! Peanuts! Get your program! Excuse me, sir, but you will have to Hemorrhoids. Elephant hoids. Tarzan. Edgar Rice Burroughs. Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelittle. Hounded in the Baskervilles while driving a Coupe DeVille owned by Cecil B. DeMille. Filigree. Folderol. Isnt it time you moved up to Folderol? Pretty postcards. Wish you were here. Return to sender. Where the hell are you, anyway? Legal letters. My half is bigger than your half nyah, nyah. I cant hear you, Houston. Are you there? Yeah, Im here. I had to go to the bathroom. A fly in the ointment. John! Martha! Come home, Lassie, you old hound dog. Im sorry, maam, Lassies dead. He was hit by a truck. What a shame.

Maybe its time for a new refrigerator. Spigot. Spigoon. Spigeree! The plot. Say, who was that masked man? That wasnt a masked man, you idiot, that was a raccoon.

meek shall inherit the earth, but they shall not be able to afford a burial

June 13, 2004 There comes a time in every writers life when he must

either choose to write, or pretend to write. If he chooses to write, then he becomes dangerous and nothing can stop him. If he chooses to pretend, on his own potential. A couple of days ago, I read an essay by a successful ethnic-American writer who long ago chose to pretend. In literary and cultural movement, or renaissance, or force, or well, Im as a great many do, he becomes a parasite who has slammed the door

carefully constructed, lifeless language, he spoke of a nonexistent not sure what to call it. All I know is that it doesnt exist. I have read work by several of the writers he mentioned as being part of his vital ethnic

whatever-it-is by the way, he was forced to humbly count himself

among their number and they are similarly dull. The purpose of the

essay was clear: if such a whatever doesnt exist, then neither does the the existence of this whatever-it-is. At the end of his essay, the writer,

writer himself, because his so-called writing career is predicated upon who is also a comfortably paid university professor, chides fellow

members of his ethnic background for not appreciating the hard work he and the other writers are doing on their behalf. He wonders why they dont see the importance of their work, without once questioning whether or not it really is important, or if it is important for good reasons or bad. Had he done that, his words might have carried some weight. Instead,

and probably without realizing it, he alienates his potential readership if they were to bother reading his essay, of course, which they wont, because the vital whatever-it-is is a club For Intellectual Members Only The only real remedy for the problem, if it is a problem, is for these

who spend their time praising each other and giving each other awards. writers to write, instead of pretending to write, and to welcome and

encourage other writers who are already doing so, but who have thus far been kept at a safe, infrequently published distance because they are perceived as competition. Also without realizing it, they have conformed breeds mediocrity. This is ironic, because they place so much

to the modern American literary model, which is based on exclusion and importance on their ethnicity. One would think that if these writers were better and more specifically addresses the needs of their own.

so concerned and brilliant, they would come up with an approach that June 14, 2004 This morning I am confronted with three choices. They are, 1) write about the inaccurately remembered past; 2) write about the elusive present; or, 3) write about the future, which doesnt really exist

and is impossible to know. To this we might add a fourth choice: write about the other three choices simultaneously. But isnt that what I usually do, or try to do? There might also be a fifth choice: write about none of the above. But if I dont write about the past, present, or future, or all three at once, what will I write about? This is worth looking into. First of all, I dont like the idea of being limited by reality. Second, I dont believe I am. I am definitely limited, but not by reality. I am limited by and around me, which I sense might well be one and the same thing.

myself, and by my own inability to understand what is going on in me Third, the assumption of a past, present, and future as we commonly terms; at the same time, it seems we are far too comfortable with them. For instance, if what is happening today, at this moment, has its roots in

understand them might well be wrong. Certainly they are convenient

what we call the past, due to actions taken and not taken and so on, past leave off and the present begin? But back to reality. To say that I

then how can the present be separated from the past? Where does the am not limited by reality, but that I am limited by myself, sounds an awful lot like reality and I are two different things. That doesnt seem possible. I must be part of reality if reality exists, that is. And what if there is more than one reality? What if there are several in simultaneous bored with this discussion. I start off feeling like I am on the verge of some kind of mental break-through, only to realize that I am rapidly

operation? Further proof of my limitations is that I am quickly becoming

losing ground. No wonder I usually write about the past, present, and Bah!

future. In fact, now that I think about it, it looks like I just did so again. June 15, 2004 Now Im trying to figure out what to do with the 1,600word poem I finished a few days ago. I could submit it simultaneously to

three or four hundred little literary magazines that no one has ever heard slips; lets see; the poem is ten pages long; ten pages times 300

of, and then sit back and wait for my three or four hundred rejection magazines (well take the low number) means Ill need 3,000 sheets of large paper clips, 300 return envelopes, and 300 stamps for the return

paper, or six reams. Ill also need 300 nine-by-twelve envelopes, 300 envelopes; and of course Ill need to pay postage on the whole package to get it there. Oh I almost forgot: I will need another 300 sheets of paper for my cover letter. One mustnt submit ones poetry without a proper cover letter saying that one is submitting ones poetry, even

though its mighty obvious, since thats what the envelope contains and poetry is what the recipient publishes, assuming he can scrape enough money together to print a few dozen copies of his magazine that no one has heard of. So. Thats one option. Another is to publish a limited edition at my own expense. This poses no technical problem, since I know how to lay things out on a computer and have dealt with printers many times before. I daresay, assuming I printed only twenty-five or fifty copies, I would spend less doing this than I would if I were to pursue the

first option. At that point, all I would have to do is take out an ad in the

New York Times Book Review, saying the poem is available. This would of the New York Times Book Review are hungry for good poetry. And

be a considerable added expense, but it would be well worth it. Readers once they realize that I am offering a limited edition (Ill even sign it), they wont balk at my price which, according to my rough calculations, would have to be somewhere around seventy-five dollars a copy. To put this in perspective, people frequently pay that much just to go to a

restaurant, only to wind up hungry again a few hours later; whereas a

nicely printed poem is something they can read and hang onto for years.

A third approach would be to take a coffee can to a busy street corner downtown, and read the poem to passersby while they put money in the can. A fourth approach would be to publish the poem on my website, as

I have done with quite a few other poems Ive written, not to mention

several dozen short stories, a novel, and a ton of other assorted and sifting through our options would be to find a patron of the arts

nonsense. A fifth option we writers are very good at coming up with willing to pay for a lavish, fully illustrated edition (I can do the drawings myself in about five minutes), as well as a full-blown advertising campaign and a nationwide reading tour. Im not sure how I would find such a patron, but stranger things have happened, although not to me. So. Thats five good, solid options. But there is also a sixth: I could put there would be no expense, no wasted resources, and no the one copy I now have in a manila folder and be done with it. This way embarrassment. There would also be no money coming in and that,

my friend (we are friends, arent we? please, say we are friends), is the glue that keeps this operation together. This might be hard to understand for people who are used to buying groceries and paying bills

and so forth; writers, however, arent hampered by such crude formulas.

Writers are accustomed to living on air and sunlight, and the occasional while they are pretending to be interested in whatever else is offered in

crumbs that fall their way. Writers are also very good at eating radishes the produce section, and at filling up on greasy free samples at the end senses sharp always important for that next big work.

of the grocery aisles. This is how they keep their minds open and their June 16, 2004 In yesterdays mail, our youngest son received word that the summer job he lined up several months ago will be starting in about two weeks. He will be working for a farming outfit nearby that

grows and ships irises. The hours will be long: from six in the morning

until five in the evening, six days a week, until school starts again in season in October. He will be paid the minimum wage, which is $7.05

September. After that, he will work on Saturdays through planting per hour, and which also happens to be $4.50 more than I was paid packing house in Sultana, California. I spent two glorious summers at

during the summer of 1974 when I worked at George Brothers, a fruitGeorge Brothers; the previous year, I earned $2.30 an hour stacking boxes of packed fruit on pallets or palletizing, as the job was officially called. In other words, I was a teenaged palletizer. The hours hotter) and which varieties were ripening at the time. I started at seven in

there were even longer, and varied depending on the weather (hot or the morning, and worked until nine at night, or ten, eleven, or twelve, staying awake on my morning drive in to work. Once I was on my feet

and a few times even into the wee hours. On those days, I had trouble and working, though, I managed to make it through the day without my mother sent with me. Every time I talk about this, our sons shake their heads in amazement. Pretty much day in and day out, I ate three

collapsing. I ate a lot of ripe fruit, not to mention the enormous lunches

ham sandwiches on sourdough bread, several bell pepper rings, an

Armenian cucumber, and a big piece of cake, washed down with a quart supper at night. Sometimes, even I was amazed. If I tried to do that now,

of milk this in addition to a full-sized breakfast in the morning and I would be ill. Of course I was still a growing boy back then, and

actually working for a living. Now I write and as we all know, writers new job, because I know it will be a fine experience for him, and

dont work, all they do is sit. Anyway, I am looking forward to our sons because he will be able to understand why Ive harped about my packing

house days so much. Having a little money to spend will be an added bonus, although he wont have time to spend it. When things finally string acoustic. He has made a tremendous amount of progress on the guitar he has, and still plays every day. To me, this makes a lot more sense than buying a car and becoming a young slave to insurance settle down, he will probably buy a new and better guitar, likely a twelve-

payments and upkeep, though I realize it is a time-honored tradition. And gas is no longer thirty or forty cents a gallon, as it was when I began my driving career. When you have to spend thirty or forty or fifty dollars to fill the tank, it makes you stop and think. It makes you say to yourself, This week.

is stupid, or, in the case of many, Oh, well, I guess I wont eat this June 17, 2004 A harsh, dry, pollen-laden, sinus-tormenting east wind degree heat of the summer. The big pollen source at present is the percentage of the nations lawn seeds. And I dont care. As far as Im

has been blowing for the last two days, bringing with it the first ninetygrass seed fields. The seeds are for lawns. Oregon produces a large concerned, there are far too many lawns, and far too many people fertilizing and mowing them. But Ive said this all before so I wont say it again except that it doesnt make sense to have a lawn where tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, peppers, and eggplant could be. The heck with it. I just sneezed again all over my arm. Ive been sneezing all morning. My nose is raw from blowing it so much. Hooooooooot! Excuse me. I dont mean to be rude hack, kaff. Maybe if I try really hard I can come up with something positive to say wheeze, murgle. How about this: I finally finished reading Tristram Shandy. That was a project, believe me. But I did it. And I read every word, except for the Latin here and there, and the Greek. snort. Laroon-sniff. I spent part

of yesterday afternoon trying to write out my thoughts on the book. skringe. With any luck, I will finish it up later today. funkle, kiff, glurn. Last night I read a story by O. Henry called The Last of the

Troubadours. It was all right. It was mildly clever in a half-hearted, Anyway, O. Henry decided at the end that he had given the story the wrong title. The title, he said, should have been The Last of the in debt, his innards pickled, hiding out in Honduras for a year. To

melancholy sort of way. Poor guy O. Henry, not the last troubadour.

Barons. But I dont think he really cared one way or the other. Poor guy, Thomas, from Mary. Oct. 12 - 1926. Thats what someone wrote on the first rough inside page of my used book of O. Henry stories. I imagine it must have been Mary who wrote it. While I was reading the story, I found

myself thinking about Thomas and Mary, and the kind of people they short stories. And what a nice thing to know someone who would be

must have been. What a wonderful thing, to give someone a book of glad to receive a gift like that, instead of a tie or an electric razor. And how great it must have been for Thomas to know someone like Mary, likelihood he would have preferred a big smooch. Kiss me, my darling. Hold me in your arms. krinkle. who had the sense to give him something truly worthwhile, though in all

June 18, 2004 I love polls. Theyre so meaningful. If it werent for polls, I wouldnt know what to think about the myriad problems facing us today. And I trust the polls. I know they are honest, and are conducted with the countrys best interest at heart. Thats why the latest poll that says Bushs approval rating went up after the Reagan media blitz is so important. Since we know the poll is true and can be completely trusted, we also know that enough of the people polled are absolute idiots. How else can such a poll be interpreted? One crook dies, and anothers

ratings go up? What, exactly, is the reasoning behind that? Even if

Reagan was a saint, it wouldnt make sense. Meanwhile, there is a

wonderful summer vacation going on in Iraq, where people are dying left and right. Maybe the Iraqi people should be polled. Maybe George downtown Baghdad. The poll would only take a couple of minutes, and respond with another poll, and another media blitz. At the very least, Freedom Fighter Bush ought to fly over there and take a stroll through would be very easy to tabulate and interpret. Of course, America would snowmobile owners would observe a moment of silence, as well as race

car drivers, and the executives of drug companies, and chemical polluters, and various arms dealers, and . . .

companies, and oil companies, and the countrys major environmental June 19, 2004 I ate a ripe nectarine a few minutes ago, and as the

sweet juice rioted on my tongue I felt a sudden wave of emotion. How

can anything be so meaningful and so good? Having grown nectarines and other fruit myself, the answer is simple: sun; wind; rain; heat; cold; water; soil; insects; worms; birds; sky; clouds; the whisperings of leaves; silence; night; morning; afternoon; strength; long hours alone; majesty; memory; legend; the sound of passing footsteps; animal tracks in the

dust; color; the senses; song; laughter; anger; pride; brotherhood; adventure; work. The rest the being here, the knowing, the suffering, the wondering, the waiting, the rejoicing is part of the same miracle. . .

. Someone just knocked on the door. It was the lead man of the Mexican

gardening crew that takes care of the yard for the rental house next warranty, the battery on their pickup suddenly died. Speaking with a strong accent, he apologized for bothering me and asked if I could give

door. Though it was only a year old and came with a seven-year

him a jump. I backed our van out of the driveway, got it into position, and

he hooked up the cable. After three or four attempts, their engine finally turned over. He thanked me, I said I was happy to help, and we shook year-old man who lives a few streets over walked by, full of vigor and carries it instead. The guy is in better shape than I am. The cane is hands. As I was pulling the van back into the driveway, an eighty-ninegusto. Lately he has had a cane with him, but he doesnt use it and probably for thrashing stray dogs or obnoxious children. One of these

days, maybe Ill ask him. Ive talked to him before. Several years ago, he names and thought he had the perfect formula for hiding the fact. His

told my wife and me a story about a guy who had trouble remembering trick was to say, Lets see, now, how do you spell your last name replied, Oh, thats easy. Its S-M-I-T-H.

again? But it finally backfired when a fellow he said it to smiled and June 20, 2004 For the last several minutes, while Ive been waiting for my coffee to do its work, I have been listening to the sparrows in the maple trees along the street and a dog barking in the distance. Just now, a crows voice echoed over the street. It is summer. The east wind has settled down. The valley is now bathed in bright light, with high and we keep our windows open in the early hours to get as much of the pollen, but there is only so much one can do. At the same time, Ive

temperatures hovering around ninety. The mornings have been cool, cool air into the house as possible. And with it comes the dust and noticed the last couple of days the smell of cut fields on the breeze. This means the grass seed season is advancing, and that there is hope in sight. In a couple of weeks we will be done with the worst of the

allergies. . . . At the moment, I would like to describe how the maple trees look in the morning sunlight, because it really is spectacular, the outer edges reflective and bright, the inner recesses a darker, shadowy

green, like quiet pools along a brushy riverbank. But beyond that I dont

think Ill try. There is something stirring deep within, a timelessness, an gets while watching rain descend upon a dry, empty field. Mixed up in this are memories of my boyhood, because summer was a great time, a what I see and feel now, while looking out my window. This is what I time for boys to celebrate and return to their natural free state. This is remember: trying to keep up with my father as he quickly went about his vineyard; walking between the rows and feeling the fresh, tender growth irrigation valves; looking for crawdads and polliwogs; listening to the house; feeling a complete intimacy and understanding of every inch of

urge, a longing, a hush of expectancy, very much like the feeling one

chores; chewing on the sour green tendrils from the vines in our of the canes against my arms; listening to the water bubble up out of the symphony of sparrows in the mulberry, ash, and walnut trees around our ground, every stick, every clod, every dry weed, and every vine and tree on our farm, and the mossy water flowing lazily in the ditches through the countryside, past vineyards, past orchards, past fields, past eucalyptus groves, past the lives being lived along the way. And there is

so much more this is the amazing thing. How can there be so much? revealed and told and explained? Can it really be mine alone? At times it

And how can it be so incredibly, intensely private, even after it has been feels like it. If it is, then does that mean it will also die with me? Are we possible for one person to give his memories and understanding to another? Certainly it is possible to try. But this is inaccurate, Im sure,

that isolated? Or is the telling, revealing, and explaining like giving? Is it

words being what they are, and the filter of personal experience being what it is. And yet, might these words not also be like the water moving through the countryside, carrying meaning in addition to its own?

Possibly, when one person so gives to another, what he is really doing is helping to awaken the others own memory and understanding. If so, then it truly is a gift. And the gift grows in importance when the two find common ground, when they remember and understand similar things. I know the ditches of my past will mean one thing to people who grew up

as I did and where I did, and mean another to people who have never set foot outside a city. But the longing, the urge, the expectancy, will be the same. June 21, 2004 Perhaps it is more than a coincidence that my mothers

father worked long ago as a ditch tender in Dinuba, and that as a kid

during the Depression she often accompanied him on his morning rounds through the countryside. As an employee of the Alta Irrigation among the farmers along his route. Everyone had to take turns, District, my grandfathers job was to regulate the flow of irrigation water otherwise there would be no water for the farmers further along the ditch. Stealing water during the night was not uncommon, though such activities were engaged in by a very small number of farmers, whose their right. (For some odd reason, here I am reminded of Iraq.) My

arrogance and obnoxiousness led them to believe stealing water was grandfather was very popular and liked by everyone. A farmer himself

who had lost his place a few years earlier, he was anything but an fruits and vegetables to take home. He held the job for many years, and

outsider. He treated people fairly, loved to talk, and was frequently given though it paid little, it kept his family afloat during the 1930s. And my mother and her father creeping along the ditch bank in their car, was born in 1878 and died two years before I was born. As a boy, he

decades later, there were still old-timers who fondly remembered seeing followed by a small cloud of dust. I never knew my mothers father. He

rode west from Illinois on a train with his family in 1888 and settled in the small town of Kingsburg, which is just a few miles southwest of Dinuba. Kingsburg took its name from the Kings River the source of melted snow that was and is still used to feed the farms in that part of the San

Joaquin Valley. Little by little, Kingsburg, the river, Dinuba, the ditches, and the farms became his life or his life became them. And so long before the time I happened, I was already a part of it all. June 22, 2004 Now Im here, though it hardly needs pointing out.

Even so, it often catches me by surprise. Its not that I would rather be in

Dinuba. I wouldnt unless, maybe, it was the simple unpolluted 1962 version, before the air was filthy and the ditches were routinely sprayed with the nasty weed control chemicals that killed the polliwogs and crawdads and made the water unsafe to be in. But, I guess thats what reruns of the old Andy Griffith show are for. By gum. By golly. Why, I

remember when every housewife in town had an apple pie cooling on her window sill. The heck, you say. Why, shore. And every boy was born wearing a cub scout uniform. You betcha. Looked like dang fools, too. They all went around tying knots and helping old ladies across the

street. Why, we had more traffic jams in the old home town than you everything. If thered been a fire, nobody woulda got out alive. No, sir.

could shake a stick at. Herds of cub scouts and old ladies, clogging up Whewee. Then the Beatles came along and ruined everything, and the long and started taking drugs, and the Sixties turned into the Seventies, and everything went to hell in a handbasket. Now we have Wal-Mart,

cub scouts turned into boy scouts, and the boy scouts grew their hair

and K-Mart, and Bi-Mart, and this warehouse and that warehouse, and dirty air, and dirty water, and asthma though this, too, hardly needs pointing out except that it does, because ignoring it or going along

with it only helps it get bigger and uglier and stranger and more frightening and more insane. (Yet again, I am reminded of Iraq.) Thank goodness we now have Clintons new book, My Life. That will help us

get things sorted out, you betcha. One and a half million copies in hardcover, a ten million-dollar advance for the author, an ocean of advertising, publicity on 60 Minutes, etc., etc. yep, that will take care of everything. We need those insights. We cant do without em. In fact, Im off now to get in line for my copy. June 23, 2004 June is quickly evaporating, and with it so am I. By

July, nothing will be left of either of us. What happened to June? people will want to know. It just began, and now its gone. Are you sure thats legal? But I doubt anyone will ask what happened to me. Instead,

they will attribute my disappearance to mental and physical erosion, or some similarly irreversible psycho-geologic force. Im surprised he lasted this long will be the likely refrain, capped off with a yawn. Too bad he took everything so seriously. And they will be right. I have

always taken things too seriously. Even as a kid, I foolishly assumed that all. A long look at the clear night sky was enough to set me straight on do matter, but not in the way we think they matter. And by that I mean,

everything mattered. In time, though, I also realized nothing mattered at that point forever. By this I mean, or I think I probably mean, that things things mattered before we existed, and they will go on mattering after we are gone, and after our sun and earth are gone. In other words, it is a mistake to put ourselves at the center of the equation. Not one of us is may choose the time and manner in which we leave, but that doesnt mean much because we cant stay anyway. And so we are left with a

here because we chose to be here. We may choose to leave, and we

cosmic mattering, which might well be beyond our ability to comprehend,

though I refuse to close the door on the possibility. The reason I say this

is that I think we might already comprehend it at the cellular level, or even at a level that cannot be seen or touched. For we are of the things; as individuals, we are like planets or stars, or rocks or trees; as a universe; the universe flows through us, as it flows through itself and all race of beings, we are a galaxy unto ourselves. This is why I think our religions and philosophies and theories are so feeble. When you get right down to it, they are incredibly juvenile and narrow-minded, and are bound by their own petty assumptions. They dont ask enough, and they of minds worn to a frazzle by fearing the unknown. This happens, I think, because we bestow upon ourselves an unreasonable degree of importance. When you think of the miracle that is Life, that is the Universe, and the vast, poetic, harmonic, ongoing upheaval it satisfy us too easily. Ultimately, they are the refuge of closed minds, and

represents, our concerns seem pathetic. We can blow ourselves and the mosquito. Billions of years from now, billions of light years away, someone or something using an unimaginably powerful instrument might there, but Im not sure. What do you think?

planet up at any moment, but on a cosmic scale it would be like killing a

notice a tiny ripple and say, I think there might have been something June 24, 2004 It took me only three minutes yesterday to find and buy another four books at the library bookstore. The result: four nice hardbound volumes for a total of six dollars. In addition to a hefty tome

containing the complete works of Shakespeare, I brought home Here

Lies, a collection of short stories by Dorothy Parker; a 357-page book of volume of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay. With the arrival of these

poems by Walt Whitman; and Wine From These Grapes, a slender books, my new shelf is now full, which means that I will have to go back

to stacking books on my work table again. Not that I mind, really. Its just that I know where it leads. And I dont mind that, either. In fact, I dont mind anything when it comes to books, because even when I just look at

them, I am comforted. In other words, I am comforted pretty much all the another. So, I am both comforted and disturbed a contradiction I should probably investigate, but wont, at least not at the moment, because I would rather investigate my new books which, come to

time a lucky thing, since I am always disturbed about one thing or

think of it, are all old. Another contradiction. Do I have something against current literature, if I may use that term? Yes. I hate it except for the few parts I like, none of which spring readily to mind. But if I live long

enough, I suspect I will get around to current literature eventually, after it

has become a thing of the past and is available at the library bookstore, case anyone was still listening), by then, maybe the current current old current literature. I can hardly wait to see how this all turns out. But,

assuming that sane outpost still exists. On the other hand (he said in literature will be more worthwhile, and I will be reading that instead of the as we all know, literature is not something that can be rushed. Or is it? twenty minutes already. What kinda joint is this? Relax, pal. We just hired a new guy. Hes slow. He aint got the hang of it yet. Ill say. I dont

Hey, buddy, will you speed it up? Ive been waiting for my literature for

even hear any typing. Whats his name, anyway? His name? Its kinda hard to pronounce. Its Tolstoyevsky Cervantes Shakespearzac Zolatwainpoe Faulknerhemingbeck. Or something like that. But thats

okay, because he goes by Bill. Yeah? Well you tell old Bill that hed

better crank out something in a hurry, because Im tired of waiting, see?

Okay, Ill tell him. Hey, Bill did you hear that? Are you gonna write this

guy a book, or just stand there playin with them onion rings? Bill? Bill? Hey, Bill! Shoot. Hes gone. Guess Ill have to do it myself. June 25, 2004 At long last, I think I am learning to learn. If Im right,

then maybe when I have learned to learn, I will go on to learn whatever it is I need to learn, and then in turn learn it. But first I have to finish learning to learn. The reason I am so slow is that I have had to learn how to learn to learn. This project took me almost forty-eight years, and suffered many setbacks along the way. It also involved a great deal of unlearning, which is to say, I had learned an awful lot of things that were

road blocks to real learning. One of the biggest road blocks was

learning. It might sound odd, but I know now that learning is learnings biggest enemy. This is so because quite often what is learned is of no Several weeks ago, though, I emerged from this difficult phase. For one thing, I figured forty-eight years was enough, and that if I was ever going to begin learning to learn, I had better get busy. I dont feel the time was real value, or applied incorrectly or selfishly by the person who learned it.

squandered, necessarily only about ninety-six or ninety-seven me personally and I am doing my best to add you to that number

percent of it. The remainder was merely wasted. Now, people who know might say that I am being too hard on myself not because its true,

however, but because they are nice, though there is also another reason: if I am not being too hard on myself, then it implies that they are being too easy on themselves. Because, how different are we, really? A lot different! I hear you say, and for your sake I hope you are right. Still, if

you understand me, and find that what I say makes reasonable sense, in spite or even perhaps because of the circuitous way in which it is presented, then chances are you are in as bad a shape as I am. And so

I happily extend this offer: why not join me in learning to learn? Let us

learn what needs to be learned, and then let us go on to learn it. Let us

dispel the darkness of misguided assumption and create a bright new world that is a good world for everyone and not just a privileged few, who only think its a good world because they have money in their pockets and tickets for the theater. Let us learn to be the privileged many, the privileged all. Let us learn to bring children into the world with and to grow old with dignity and grace, and to make our departure from love, and to welcome and care for them with joy. Let us learn to live fully, this sphere a moment of joy, surrounded by our loved ones in whose faces are reflected our accomplishments. Finally, let us learn to learn that the dream is every bit as real as the nightmare, and that it is every bit as attainable, if we would only dare.

June 26, 2004 A couple of days ago, a pharmacist at one of the major grocery stores in the area and I were talking about the new drug discount cards being offered to senior citizens as part of the governments so-called improvements to Medicare. When I told him that

I had assumed all along that the cards would be worthless, he smiled

and said they are nothing but a ploy by Bush. I hope people see through it, he said. Since not all drugs are covered by all cards, and drugs can be dropped and prices raised without notice, I asked if anyone

was saving money. He said he didnt know, because he has seen only one card, even though most of his customers are eligible. Thats one do see through it. Either that, or they are completely confused by it, and card information. Oh, well. Its only medicine. Health can wait. Theres a war to fight, remember? You know, freedom, democracy, and all that. Freedom to bleed, freedom to go untreated, freedom to rot minus an arm card, in a huge, busy store, open long hours. Interesting. Maybe people have grown tired of being put on hold when they call the 800 number for

here and a leg there. Democracy built on the death of children, democracy that condones the torture of prisoners, democracy that plucks people off the street and holds them without charges. In other words, the compassionate, conservative form of democracy that clearly states, We will take what we want, at whatever human expense, anyone thinks. In other words, the kinder, gentler form of democracy that and psychological bill.

because we are stronger than everyone else and we dont care what benefits the wealthy few while everyone else is left to pay the financial June 27, 2004 I have been reading a little about the London of Shakespeares day, and how there were 200,000 people packed into the eleven years two bubonic plague epidemics carried off over a quarter of citys sewage-filled streets and rat-infested crannies, and how within the population. At one point, stray dogs were thought to be carriers and

large numbers were put to death. This allowed the rat population to increase and the problem to worsen. Garbage was routinely thrown into wash it away. Night soil was loaded onto barges and dumped into the ocean. Through all this, Shakespeare or Shackspere, or Shakspere, even by Shakespeare himself was writing his poetry and plays. the gutter, where it lay rotting and stinking until a rain came along to

or Shake-speare, or Shakspeare, as the name was alternately spelled, Although, I understand that now some scholars believe somebody other than Shakespeare was the author of Shakespeares work. This might or might not be true, but either way, the important thing is that the work was written, and the author is no longer around to file a lawsuit. These days,

it is hard to imagine the city of Salem losing 30,000 residents to disease in an eleven-year period. If Oregons capital loses residents, its because they cant find a way to earn a living here, or are bored by the lack of

night life, which is dominated primarily by raccoons. One would think that

in such a benign environment, where hamburgers are worshipped and politicians keep the barbers busy, that writers would be cranking out great literature left and right. Granted, most are worn out from flipping make up the difference. Now, moving right along, it is important to note

burgers and pumping gas, but still, the politicians are enough like rats to that there are still many places in the world that rival Shakespeares London in matters of filth and disease, and many other places where people are dropping like flies because of starvation and war. It is even more important to note that these problems are not caused simply by

bad luck, or bad karma, or bad weather. Rather, they are caused by bad

people, who refuse to be satisfied with their own good fortune, which, all too often, they havent even worked for, but have stolen or inherited. This is humankinds worst plague of all. The Plague of Greed and Ignorance haunts us and defines our sad history.

June 28, 2004 Its nice to know my loving bride hasnt lost her ability things behind the house when a dove called from high atop one of the hands and moving them to emulate the mourning sound a trick she

to converse with doves. Late yesterday evening, we were looking at pine trees. As soon as my wife answered by blowing into her cupped learned growing up on the farm the dove replied with the same

sound. This went on back and forth for the next few minutes, until the

dove suddenly flew off probably embarrassed, my wife said, when the

bird realized it was talking to a human. . . . The flowers are watered, as are the tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant, which are making nice strides in the longer days and warmer temperatures. The breeze is coming out of the east again, and temperatures are on the rise. It was cloudy and in

the seventies most of last week. The grass seed pollen count is still high,

though I can tell by the smell that the varieties have changed. A minute ago, I sneezed loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. But it is now after eight-thirty, so most everyone is awake anyway. Too bad. I

hate to waste a sneeze, though it was still an emotionally and physically satisfying experience. The best sneezes, though, are the ones that are combustion. violent enough to actually clear the mind and cause spontaneous June 29, 2004 I suppose I shouldnt let it bother me, but I am really

tired of hearing the neighbor spit in his driveway every morning. He has been doing it for years, and the spit has been landing right out in the open where his son plays. After clearing his throat and spitting two or three times, he and his wife go to work. Their son goes with them and is dropped off somewhere to spend the day. Then, when they return in the evening, the father spits some more. He spits on his lawn, on his

sidewalk, in the street. Once two or three years ago, I heard his wife yell at their young son, Dont spit! For about a week, there was no spitting, father or son. Then the father resumed his spitting, and the son moved around and refusing to come down while his parents scream at him. The

on to other forms of torture, such as climbing onto their roof and running other morning at about seven-thirty, after the father had done his spitting, he directed a blood-curdling scream at his son for not promptly getting into their car. Being relatively early, the neighborhood was still windows open. The father and son were about ten feet apart when the peace was shattered. As they backed out into the street, I could hear the father screaming again, even with the windows up on their car. Now, I

calm and quiet. And the weather being warm, many people had their

dont begrudge anyone their unhappiness. I know people have it hard, even people with good jobs and benefits and money to spend. But still,

when you get right down to it, stupidity is stupidity, and spit is spit. I have known many people who have had a much harder life and who were clean beyond reproach, and who were happy and raised intelligent disappointments to the world. There is such a thing, in other words, as personal pride.

children, and who managed it all without spitting and broadcasting their

June 30, 2004 On yesterdays local news, there was a brief interview with one of the 5,000-plus former soldiers now being told by the government that they will be called up for another round of active duty.

This particular person, who is twenty-four years of age, said he had already completed four years of service. Not only is he married and going to college, he is noticeably overweight and out of shape, which he hastened to point out himself, along with the fact that for the last two

years he hasnt been thinking like a soldier, but like an ordinary person with a life to live. His expression was one of helplessness, shock, and fear a normal, healthy reaction, although I would hope that anger and outrage will soon take their place. I have never read the contracts signed by volunteers, but they must contain some mighty powerful fine print. and doing another and worrying about the consequences later, after the

Either that, or the government is up to its usual trick of saying one thing damage is done. To sign on their dotted line is crazy enough, because it literally gives them the power of life or death over the person who signs. By signing, one says, in effect, Take me my mind, body, and future is in your hands, and can be used for whatever purpose you devise, and I

will not question, I will not investigate the reasons behind your actions, I and heritage of the people you send me to fight, wound, maim, imprison, torture, and kill. For years now, as an inducement to sign, the

will not learn the history behind them, I will remain ignorant of the culture

government has been dangling the promise of paying for ones college education. Meanwhile, it has been systematically dismantling the economy, leaving less and less in the way of decently paying

employment. At the moment, they are bragging about the relatively small number of so-called jobs that are being added to the nations economy, from the herd of desperate applicants dont pay nearly as much as but it is clear that the new jobs if one is lucky enough to be selected the hundreds of thousands of jobs that have been lost. And so serving in fewer and fewer prospects, and who dont know where to turn. Under the

the military becomes more of an option for young people, who have circumstances, even if they survive their term of duty however long

the government decides that is and go on to earn a college degree, there is still no guarantee they will go on to find good employment. There a dime a dozen. Even worse, colleges have become businesses; like the rolling. Otherwise, they go out of business. It takes an exceptionally are plenty of unemployed degree-holders out there already. Degrees are military, they need a certain number of bodies to keep their machinery intelligent person to survive this mass market production model, and to make something worthwhile come of the experience. In truth, a government that cares about the welfare of its people would see to it that

education comes first. And by education, I mean real education not

merely the kind that leads to a job, but an education that helps open even more trouble finding soldiers to fight its senseless wars again, not good for business. July 1, 2004 No one tells me to write. Should I decide not to, no one is going to fire me or threaten me with legal action. I write by choice. When I get up in the morning, I know I am going to write. When I go to

ones mind. But of course if that happened, the government would have

bed at night, I know I will write again the next day assuming, of

course, that I wake up. Some might call this self-discipline, but they would be no less accurate if they called it stupidity. Others might actually there is a good chance they are unaware of what this freedom costs. It envy my situation, lacking this sort of freedom in their own lives. But has nothing to do with bravery. I am not brave. Stubborn, yes. Hardheaded? Absolutely. And we mustnt leave out selfish. I also write because I dont know what else to do. Writing is what I like. Why should I

spend my time doing something else? And yet the pay is lousy, the

hourly wage is comically low, there is no retirement plan, and there are sinking ship with land on the horizon. Will the ship stay afloat long enough for the crew to swim ashore? Because, the funny thing is, a writers fortunes can suddenly change. After enduring years of poverty, to, admired, and appreciated for about five or ten minutes. Then, just

no health benefits. Financially speaking, it is like being aboard a slowly

he can awaken to find himself adored by millions, sought after, listened as quickly, he can enter the realm of disappointment and disgrace, for which there doesnt have to be a good reason, only that someone in New York took exception to something the author said or wrote, or didnt author was homesick and had gas from eating in too many restaurants.

say or didnt write, or implied, even though, if the truth were known, the And then the whole thing unravels, and he finds himself back where he

was at the beginning, back at getting up in the morning and doing his work, and by this activity he is restored to his healthy nose-thumbing self. No wonder so many critics and media people are jealous. As fun as it must be to destroy someones career, it must be frustrating when they cant destroy the person himself, and the person goes right on with his work. It takes a small-minded individual indeed to think it is all about

money, and that by preventing a hard-working writer from earning a living, that he or she has actually accomplished something. And yet I cant help feeling sorry for people like this, because they are servants of term gain. This is part of what makes my choosing to write so important.

a cold-hearted corporate system that murders potential in favor of shortI am free to work to my own standards, to recognize and overcome my own weaknesses, to have my own say, and to do something about literary agent? A magazine editor? A critic? A talk show host? No. It will my ignorance. Who is going to stop me? An unscrupulous publisher? A take a lifetime to put this fire out, though I have already been charred and burned in the process. And I am free to laugh at this ridiculous image of myself, and what I have become, and the circus that is my daily

life. How many people can say this, or are willing or foolish enough to admit it? Therein the secret of survival lies, the secret of the flower that blooms and dies, and yet is not forgotten.

July 2, 2004 Since everything having to do with the presidential debates including time, place, format, and who is and isnt included is controlled by the republican and democratic parties with the goal of protecting their candidates from public relations harm, the debates are

just one more meaningless step on the road to yet another bogus

election. Even using the word debate for this kind of show is ridiculous.

What would happen, for instance, if the current president actually had to sit across the table from someone and respond to his unrehearsed questions? He would be tied in knots. What would happen if his opponent was Saddam Hussein? Judging by Husseins court

appearance in Iraq yesterday, Bush wouldnt have a chance. Hussein is the U.S. for so many years but its obvious he is not dumb. Whereas,

a criminal he would have to be, having been used and encouraged by

Bush is a criminal, and its obvious that he is dumb, because he cant where the press is forever having to edit his comments to make him

even string together a few intelligent unscripted sentences. Ive read sound less stupid than he really is and he still sounds stupid. So,

what would happen if these two criminals had a legitimate, open debate? What would happen if people could see them as they really are, and not and sound-bites? Unfortunately, this question will not be answered, as it wont be answered later during the presidential debates. We will have Meanwhile, you have to wonder why more people cant simply look at plenty of entertainment in the coming months, but no real substance. these pretend leaders and see them for what they really are. It doesnt already clear, and are also written on their faces. as they are safely presented by the media via carefully selected images

take a debate to know what these monsters are up to. Their records are July 3, 2004 Now Marlon Brando has made his final exit. Fortunately,

the Bush campaign wont try to hijack his image as they did with Ray and Ill make him an offer he cant refuse are statements the current administration wants to be associated with. Nor would they touch Brandos activism or lifestyle with a ten-foot pole. Oh, well. Its their loss. Brando once said he didnt have the moral courage to refuse

Charles when Reagan died. I dont think I could have been a contender

Hollywoods money. If a politician said something like that, he would

instantly gain respect, and would probably be reelected in a landslide, The real point is that Brandos death is a reminder that when someone dies, famous or not, the biggest part of him departs unknown. Like everyone else, Marlon Brando had his own life, and his own private questions and understanding. In this way, he was no different than the

or, at the very least, a mudslide. But of course this is all beside the point.

anonymous man on the street, or the hermit or monk or forklift driver. To

think a famous person is either above or below the average person who ability, or a fortunate combination of personality and luck, but this doesnt make him any more or less human. Indeed, some of the motivations of famous people have been grounded in the basest of

isnt famous is a mistake. He might possess an outstanding talent or

desires, or have been the result of their trying to overcome feelings of inferiority, disappointment, loss, anger, or just plain fear. This doesnt enjoyed. It means the people who appreciate and enjoy them shouldnt is famous in one way or another, whether they know it or not. The pay might not be as good, but that is no reason not to celebrate. mean their talents and accomplishments arent to be appreciated and sell themselves short. To idolize others is to denigrate oneself. Everyone

July 4, 2004 In his fascinating introduction to Shakespeares Complete Works, editor G.B. Harrison mentions a clever money-making scheme hatched by Will Kempe, the clown of Shakespeares acting company, the Chamberlains Men. Kempe bet that he could dance from London to Norwich, a distance of about a hundred miles. Says Harrison, On his arrival the Mayor and chief citizens gave him a civic reception. It

He set out on February 10 and reached his destination in nine stages. was a triumphant progress and was talked of for years. Kempe was so

greatly elated by his success that he planned a much more ambitious the Globe Theater, left the Chamberlains Men, and set out. A couple of

venture: to dance over the Alps to Rome. He therefore sold his share in pages and several months later, Kempe turns up in London again after fulfilling his Rome bet, somewhat down in the mouth because his accomplishment didnt generate the fanfare hed expected.

Unfortunately, Harrison gives no other details, though its likely there

were none available to give. But this is still quite an episode, and one, it seems to me, that could be turned into a very good short story. Imagine the thoughts that pass through the clowns mind during his strange journey, and the kind of person he must be to pursue such an idea. Think of the sun going down at the end of a lonely days dancing, and doubt creeping into his mind as daylight fails. A clown on the road, now? laughing, dancing, driven by silent grief. . . . Ah, well. Whos the clown July 5, 2004 Beginning at about nine oclock last night, our entire

neighborhood for blocks around was transformed into a major firework

battle zone. A surprising number of the fireworks were the large, fields. Such explosives are forbidden in Oregon, but they are sold in as showers of sparks drifted over dry rooftops, pine trees, and fir trees.

airborne, illegal kind once reserved for displays at small town football Washington, only an hours drive away. As always, it was hard to relax Every year we keep our fingers crossed as ambulance and fire truck

sirens wail in the distance. Until about eleven last night, there was a

steady sizzling, cracking, popping, thundering din; but the final deep show of patriotism while people are enduring the real thing made me

explosions didnt come until around one in the morning. This childish sick. I cant help wondering how these local heroes would enjoy vehicles burned, and the bodies of loved ones lying in the streets. But

spending a few such nights in Iraq, each morning to find buildings gone, maybe I am being too harsh. After all, isnt it fun to watch the bright, your sternum, and to smell the gunpowder in the air? For me, no. I hate

colorful lights? And isnt it thrilling to feel the explosions vibrate against it. I am angered and embarrassed by it. I cannot separate the images

and sensations from what they really represent. I dont believe in the

rockets red glare, and the bombs bursting in air. I think people should ask themselves why they are mimicking war, when war solves nothing and is our very undoing. But, again, maybe I am missing the point. This

nation and countless others were founded on war, and on the willful

destruction of other peoples and cultures. And around the world, enough human beings are still willing to sacrifice themselves, their children, and the future for reasons they have not fully considered, or, more often than not, for reasons of which they remain blissfully unaware. So why shouldnt they celebrate in this way? Granted, a more fitting way to

celebrate the birth of a nation would be for the people of that nation to

declare an end to war, and to see to it that the money formerly spent on

destruction be used to feed, educate, and care for people. Then, each up at the stars and listen to the sounds of the night instead of setting off fireworks and scaring their pets to death. Yeah, yeah, I know. Just listen

year on the birth of their great decision, they could go outside and look

to him. What an idiot. Well, fine. I am an idiot. Thats hardly news. But Ill tell you what: at this very moment, a street sweeper is coming up the street, cleaning up the debris left from last night. Very early this morning, at the filth people had left behind, the casings, the canisters, the fuses. Some people had cleaned up after themselves, but many others hadnt,

as I was taking our son to his first day of work on his new job, we looked

or had done a careless job. Everywhere, there were burn marks on the pavement, and on the houses behind where the burn marks and the messes were the most, flew the biggest flags. It makes me wonder: do morning in Baghdad, to clean up the mess from the night before?

the owners of these flags think a street sweeper comes through each July 6, 2004 When I picked up our son from work yesterday at five, he was tired and caked with dirt, but obviously pleased with the way his first

day had gone. Naturally, it didnt hurt that his ten hours of farm labor had earned him seventy dollars. He isnt crazy about math, but he has no trouble figuring out what hell make doing this six days a week for the

rest of the summer. When I suggested this morning that after awhile he rise, he seemed skeptical, then mumbled something about it being twice, yet Im already looking forward to our morning trips to the iris farm.

was going to be hooked on getting up at five a.m. and seeing the sun awfully cold at that hour. But well see what happens. Weve only been I noticed activity in one blueberry patch this morning, as pickers were getting ready to make another pass through the field. And I was pleased to see that most of the grass seed fields have been cut. At one point along the way, there is a sign by a pair of birch stumps that says Free

Wood, but there is no wood, unless they are referring to the sign itself.

There are also a couple of big walnut trees by the roadside, a scattering of barns and houses, and a nice assortment of flowers and weeds. In cottonwood trees. The whole scene is quiet and calm, and the atmosphere of early summer is full of promise. one place, the newly rising sun is temporarily blocked by a small stand of

July 7, 2004 Later this morning, I have an appointment with the eye doctor. It has been over two years since my last exam, and I know my glasses will need to be replaced. Anymore, I can hardly read without

them, and in some cases I can hardly read with them, especially when its only seven in the morning. It might have helped, though, had I slept I had already fallen asleep when a couple of kids set off a loud firework in the street not far from our open window. That happened at ten-thirty, and nearly sent me threw the ceiling. I jumped out of bed with my heart

my eyes are tired, which they often are. In fact, they are tired now, and more than four hours. I tried, but the neighborhood refused to cooperate.

pounding and slammed the window shut just as a cloud of smoke was

drifting in. After that, each time I managed to relax enough to almost go back to sleep, firecrackers were lit somewhere nearby, a house or two dont blame them, because it was a beautiful, cool, breezy night. But I do away. Between times, small herds of children thundered by, laughing. I blame their parents, or at least those who are still around, and their parents current boyfriends and girlfriends, some of whom by daylight pretend to be adults. Perhaps I should have knocked on their doors this

morning at five, and invited them to join my son and me for breakfast. Or front steps and ring their doorbells. The county fair is about to begin. The horses are arriving daily. Im sure theyd be willing to oblige. Of course, we dont really call it horse manure. We use the same name our family

maybe tonight I should set bags of fresh horse manure afire on their

has always used, beginning back when my father was a kid and his summer. It is a wonderful term comprised of two words that I am proud

uncles used to visit from Fresno and stay at his house during the to reveal here: road apples. Once, when my father was very small, his

uncle, Archie, told him to go out and look for road apples. Dad happily set out, having no idea what road apples were. He looked and looked, then finally came back in defeat. When Uncle Archie showed him a real live road apple, the revelation set something profoundly important into motion that strengthens and guides us to this day. And so, thank you, Uncle Archie. The exact date is lost in the mists of time, but today cant

be too far from the seventy-fifth anniversary of my fathers discovery of the corner on Avenue 404.

road apples on Road 66 in Dinuba, California unless it was around July 8, 2004 Lately were not sure when our telephone is ringing

unless were in the same room, because more often than not the ringing

sound we hear is being made by a bird in our backyard. Several weeks

ago, this bird, which we have yet to identify or catch in the act, learned to

imitate the telephone. Theres the phone, one of us would say. Do you sure thats the phone? And someone would reply, What else could it be? The answer: a bird. This creature not only sounds like the

want to answer it, or shall I? And then another of us would say, Are you

telephone, but the rings it makes are of the proper interval and duration. Hello? Well, Ill be darned, no ones there. As if that werent enough, more recently, the bird has taken to imitating the rapid-fire action of a then, once it has made it all the way, quickly returns to its original birds spend too much time in the city. It makes me wonder if half the racket I hear every day isnt being made by these demented birds the lawn mowers, the leaf blowers, the air compressors, the jackhammers, the staple guns, the news helicopters, the hydraulic lifts, the radios

lawn sprinkler the agitated kind that clicks its way across an area, and position and starts clicking again. I guess this is what happens when

playing country music. By the same token, maybe the tweeting I hear isnt being made by birds, but by cats trying to hypnotize their psychotic prey. And maybe the human voices I hear are not human voices after all, but the voices of trees speaking through their leaves. . . . There they are now. Theyre saying, Hey, arent you going to answer the phone?

July 9, 2004 Is this really me, or is it just an approximation? Is what I leave out more important than what I leave in? Do I even know what I am leaving out? For that matter, do I really understand what I am leaving in? And what about these questions? Are they of any value, or are they a substitute for substance? Are they just a clever way of saying I have nothing to say? If they are, wouldnt it be better if I simply said so? Wouldnt it be more honest? For if I come right out and say I have

nothing to say, can it not at least be said that I said something a statement? Wouldnt I be deserving of thanks? Shouldnt my

worthwhile, however brief? Can I not in fact be admired for making such accomplishment be publicly acknowledged, and shouldnt I be rewarded discourse, will I not have made a great contribution to the world, and to my fellow human beings? Would I not be lighting the way for future

with a modest stipend? By disentangling myself from pointless, weary

generations, and opening the door to peace and harmony throughout the or, even worse, ignored? And, finally, having said I have nothing to

ages? Or would I still be just an idiot? Would I be laughed at and spit on say, how would I feel if ten minutes later I suddenly had something very meaningful and important to say? Wouldnt it be embarrassing to come back and say I have something to say after all, and that what I said before should be disregarded? Isnt it best, therefore, to say something, however trifling it seems, and hope some good will come out of it? And doesnt say he has nothing to say, and who instead says the first thing isnt that approach just as worthy? Might it not be said of a man who that comes to his mind, that here is a man who means well, and who carries on despite his limitations, or, perhaps more accurately, his afflictions? Well?

July 10, 2004 Its early yet, but it feels like a good day to spend at the mountains, or playing solitaire on a rough wooden table on the porch of a remote cabin beside a clear, cold stream. None of these things, though, will happen. What will happen instead? Uh, well, not much. But I far, Ive made our resident farm worker a big breakfast and hauled him

public library. It feels like an even better day to spend hiking in the

do hope to eat a piece of watermelon. What has happened so far? So off to his job, taken a shower, made coffee, and tried to work up enough

energy to stay awake. And just now, right outside our open window, a woman walking her dog blew her nose like a trumpet. . . . There they go, continuing up the sidewalk. In my experience, women seldom blow their noses like trumpets in the street later in the day when people are around. Men will do it, proclaiming their presence like proud elephants. Men are crude, and take pride in their crudity. Women are refined. They horns a few feet away from open bedroom windows: Feevoooop!

wait until they think no one is listening or watching, then they sound their Actually, this Feevoooop! is borrowed, again from Uncle Archie, who other things, Archie, who had a tremendously loud voice, used to call my father old elk. This dates back to the Sixties, when my father was

frequently made the sound to represent the call of a wild elk. Among

younger than I am now. Back in junior high school, an Armenian friend and I would call out to each other from down the corridors and across the school grounds, Feevoooop! To this day, I still unleash an occasional Feevoooop! in honor of the past, and to keep in shape. The neighbors foolish enough to leave their windows open.

stress is on the last syllable. It is also on my loving bride, and on July 11, 2004 Ah-ha! I just had a brilliant idea: One Hand Clapping

needs an advertising spokesman, like the dynamic TV nerd who turns up satisfied smirk, Can you hear me now? Good! Except my nerd wouldnt

in all sorts of strange places with his cell phone and says, with a selfbe carrying a cell phone, he would be clapping with one hand. Swish, was waving at flies, and would wonder what it was he was selling. That people will wonder what Im talking about. What is a cell phone? they will

swish. Can you hear me now? Of course, most people would think he part I havent worked out yet. Note: Someday, if this document survives, ask. What is a TV? What is a nerd? Scholars and historians will devote

years of their lives to sorting this out. For that matter, people might also want to know what scholars and historians are, and there might not be any scholars and historians around to tell them. Am I concerned about this? Not really. If it doesnt matter now, it probably wont matter then, either.

July 12, 2004 For two and a half hours yesterday afternoon, my dear wife and I sat in the hot sun watching a friends son play baseball in Amity, a small town twenty-some miles northwest of Salem. His team won the first game of their double-header, 7-6. Our arms already burnt to

a tingling crisp, we didnt linger for the second game, though we would have liked to. Most of the players were in their twenties and played together in high school. They wear uniforms, but the league is casual. The Amity team has no coach, and Im pretty sure the other team didnt

either. His first three times at bat, our friends son hit singles; he flied out his last time up a successful day, except that he had promised me the said it would come in his first time at bat. And so I told him how week before that he would hit a home run. As if that werent enough, he disappointed I was, and how I didnt appreciate being lied to, and that even though he pitched two innings in relief and struck out four batters and saved the game, I knew he had done it not to help his team, but to

distract me. As it happens, Amity is surrounded by grass seed fields,

almost all of which have now been cut. Even so, I spent the evening fell asleep at about eleven. What seemed like a few minutes later, the

sneezing violently, until I finally collapsed in exhaustion and despair and alarm clock went off, telling me it was time to get up and make breakfast for our iris laborer, who has the luxury of sleeping in until five. Lucky guy. How he can eat a big breakfast within three minutes of waking up is beyond me. When I was his age, it used to take me at least five or ten

minutes before I could face a stack of pancakes or several scrambled eggs and toast with butter and homemade boysenberry jam. July 13, 2004 At about three-thirty this morning, a feeble

thunderstorm moved slowly through the area, like a coughing old writer on crutches. The lightning, I suppose, could be likened to brief flashes of insight, but thats probably carrying the analogy too far or maybe not far enough. Poor guy. Hes worked hard. Lets give him some credit. Altogether, I think I counted twelve drops of rain. But the storm was

enough to sweeten and lighten the air after a hot day yesterday a

welcome relief, though in reality it has so far been a relatively cool, dry oak tree and reading the work of eighteenth century rhyming poets. Most

summer. Now the old writer is in the hills somewhere, leaning against an likely, he will be dead by this afternoon and forgotten forever, even by werent so busy working at doughnut shops and seeking publicity. Wait. Whose voice is that I hear? Ah, tis only the wind. Only the wind. July 14, 2004 Yesterday afternoon, while exchanging sarcastic

his fellow writers, who should know better, and perhaps would if they

pleasantries with a store cashier who, owing to his current status as an

underpaid, underinsured corporate drone, appeared to be hanging onto his sanity by a thread, I said, Well, its either laugh or go crazy. Since he readily agreed with this statement, I added, In my case, though, the

order is reversed. This earned a genuine laugh, albeit a sad one. For the life of me which I recognize isnt worth much I hated to leave him there, wearing his demeaning uniform and standing bravely at his earning a living, but hes not. The whole thing makes me sick. Indeed,

post. On our way out I said to my wife, It might be tolerable if he was what has happened and what is still happening to the people of this

country, and to the people of the world, is enough to drive anyone mad.

While monsters like the Bushes and their Saudi oil buddies conduct

business as usual, and while their mutual buddies in the arms business

make money hand over fist, and while their other buddies get paid innocent people and creating untold misery, the people are kept poor, ignorant, and entertained. Confused unemployed young men are

exorbitant amounts to rebuild what they have destroyed while killing poor

actively recruited by slick members of the armed forces telling lies and bearing business cards. Those who choose to enlist are then chewed up psychological problems, and then abandoned by the government, which during the Bush regime has quietly slashed veteran benefits. There are partners in crime are doing: those who are ignorant of the truth behind their dealings, and those who stand to gain monetarily. There is also a believe they and their country are superior, and that this gives them the kind of ignorance is more dangerous than the most drastic form of from generation to generation. and spit out either dead, maimed, wounded, or with other health or

only two kinds of people who agree with what the Bush family and their

third, or at least a subcategory: those whose ignorance allows them to right to kill perfect strangers in their own homes, on their own land. This mental illness, because it is deadly, and because it is a disease passed July 15, 2004 To attract people downtown, the City of Salem closes summer and hosts an outdoor market. Since we were in the area

two blocks of Chemeketa Street to traffic on Wednesdays during the yesterday morning, my wife and I decided to stroll through and see what was being offered. Vendors were selling flowers, fresh produce, at the booth of a local bee man, he gave us samples of vetch, homemade food, pottery, soap, and other such items. When we stopped blackberry, and wildflower honey. Then we bought a big bunch of

flowers at another booth, returned to the honey booth for a small jar of

wildflower honey, and then bought about two pounds of string beans and three large ripe apricots at another booth. It was a nice atmosphere, corner that said live music would be starting in about an hour, but we didnt wait around to find out what kind of music it was. Instead, we put away, where we bought a loaf of sourdough to go with the lamb stew I though being early it was still on the quiet side. There was a sign on one

our stuff in the van and headed for a small bakery about three blocks had made the day before. Then we drove the back route through the country to Independence, a small town a few miles away on the west side of the Willamette River. We looked at the fields, orchards, and

surrounding hills and sighed, glad to be away from the hustle and bustle of the big city, even though Salem is relatively small and tame, with only minor bustle and even less hustle, generated by locals tending to their affairs or engaged in various time-honored scams, or by people like us who suddenly find themselves with a couple of free hours they werent expecting and so decide to take a mini-vacation. There were flowers along the roadside, some kind of wild sweet pea that seems to be having an excellent year. There were big old houses with long, shady porches and overgrown yards surrounded by oak trees and wild blackberry growth. There were dips and cracks in the road, and then further along deeply grooved in preparation for being repaved. We ate one of the Dinuba, but it was still good. It was real. And so were we.

as one approaches the river the road had been scraped to the bone and apricots. It wasnt as sweet and juicy as the ones we used to grow in July 16, 2004 The adventure continues. Yesterday we enjoyed a long, friendly neighborhood auto dealership and garage, where a mechanic

windy ride in a tow truck, all the way from Silver Falls State Park to our

will try to figure out why our van wont start. Recently, I had noticed

every so often when starting the engine that it seemed like I had to hold Most of the time it was normal. Thinking it might be the battery, I took the

the key down a little longer than usual before the engine turned over. van to the shop on Monday. They tested the battery, the starter, the

alternator, and so on, and everything was normal. I left on a well-seewhat-happens basis, right after the mechanic and service advisor both said, Well, I dont think it will strand you anywhere. When my wife and I appeared at the garage in our windblown glory three days later, the first Thats what you said. At first, he thought I was mad. Every so often, I will run into a person who thinks I am mad, when in fact I am joking. My face, rendering my mouth invisible, and leaving only my eyes to go by. If

thing I said to the service advisor was, You said it wouldnt strand us.

wife says its because my beard and mustache cover so much of my he could see my eyes, he shouldve been able to tell I was smiling, I

said to her later, after our complimentary ride home which, met. Anyway, after Id made a few additional comments to put him at

incidentally, was given by one of the most obnoxious men wed ever ease, the advisor finally realized I wasnt mad. I was hungry from going without lunch, but not mad partly because the tow truck driver was a nice guy and had laughed at all of my bad puns, though he did groan a couple of times. The driver who took us home from the garage, however, was another case altogether. I will do my best to never ride with him

again. Among other social infractions, he was stupid enough and coarse enough to comment on a womans weight as we passed her walking toward the entrance of an ice cream parlor. His exact words were, You

dont need to go in there, lady. A legend in his own mind, the driver was

in his sixties and old enough to know better. They say its never too late to learn. In his case, I wonder. July 17, 2004 Like the great Willie Nelson, were on the road again. The van has a new starter, my wallet is empty, the sky is blue, and will we do when we get there? Ha! That depends on where it is. We however far our remaining gas will take us, thats where well go. What might gather some dry brush and build a fire, take in a little league baseball game, or huddle in our van in a Wal-Mart parking lot. The possibilities are endless. We could even drive home and stay there, like

we usually do, and try to figure out a way to make some real money, and thereby leave Wal-Mart behind forever. Have I mentioned that I despise customers alike, are thinking about one thing and one thing only: money that place and everything it represents? Everyone there, employees and and how to get it. Or is that two things? All other thoughts are subsidiary and beside the point. People dont go to Wal-Mart because its romantic or fun. If they do, then they are in serious trouble. Even so, on occasion I Mart and see the entertainment value, but only after several days of meditation. Usually, though, I am angry at the thought of millions of

am able to rise above the hideous economic manifestation that is Wal-

people dancing on the rim of the insatiable Wal-Mart volcano, especially process. But things are so much cheaper there. Twelve bars of Ivory washing liquid is half the price. Light bulbs are even less. Isnt that

since they are cutting their own and their towns financial throats in the soap cost $1.50 less than they do at the grocery store. A jug of dishgreat? No, it is not great. It just means that wherever you go, you get cheated. Buying cheap light bulbs and working at Wal-Mart wages doesnt make people happy or give them a feeling of hope and security. The whole setup is demeaning, unless you have piles and piles of

money, and if you do, chances are you are still feeding and furthering the system that leaves millions without proper medical care, and with an environment that ensures mediocrity. But its not my fault. I didnt invent the system. Maybe not. But the system is invented and reinvented with ever-eroding form of education in an increasingly lifeless and pointless

our every move, as we wiggle and squirm our way to higher ground, all the while looking for some sort of advantage. That is why, from this moment forward, I will leave my room only when it is most drastically

necessary, and will subsist on whatever forms of life I can find or cultivate in the backyard. No more light bulbs. The sun is enough. No more soap. I dont like my neighbors anyway. No more pleasure trips to state parks, unless I walk, no more juvenile frolic at the expense of my no more

fellow human beings, no more vans, no more starters, no more gasoline, July 18, 2004 The humidity was so oppressive yesterday that we

were surprised to learn it was only eighty-three degrees. There were even a few drops of rain, the first couple of which startled the cat when they landed and made it jump in the air and look around with suspicion. Then, in the evening, the sun came out with incredible, blinding ferocity, nearly breaking up the whiffle-ball game the boys had going with a

couple of their pals in the driveway. Luckily, the clouds returned, and down. What a relief, especially since the house was an oven. This

finally, at about nine oclock, a nice breeze came up and cooled things morning its cloudless and cool, and not nearly as humid. Its eight

oclock. The boys are still asleep, and will be for at least another two get up to make breakfast and take our youngest to his job, I was free to

hours. What a gift they have. Since today is Sunday and I didnt have to sleep in. I got up at five-thirty. And though Ive since showered and had

a small bite to eat, I have only now gotten around to my morning coffee.

Until that begins working, I still feel like I was dragged around the block behind a dog sled. The question is, why am I in such a rush to get this all I dont know. An hour from now might be too late. A lot can happen in an down? Wouldnt it be better if I waited an hour, and then started writing? hour. What if Im called away on an emergency? What if an old friend I havent heard from in thirty years suddenly appears at my door? The whole day could go up in smoke. Not that it would be unpleasant. It

would be great. Hi, how are you, good to see you, my god you havent changed a bit except your hair has fallen out and youve put on a few pounds and I hardly recognized you, come in, sit down, tell me all about it, tell me what youve been up to, do you remember the time we and the other time we and how so-and-so always used to holy cow I

still cant believe youre here, how long will you be in town, can you stay awhile, say is that your mother in the car, why dont you tell her to come in, oh its your wife, Im sorry, where has the time gone, so tell me all about your career in real estate, me? oh, same old same old, you know me, I never grew up, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, its a shame you have to leave so soon.

July 19, 2004 It ended up hotter and every bit as humid yesterday as breeze. Then the clouds deepened and it sprinkled during the night,

it was the day before, but once again we were bailed out by an evening wetting the street and perfuming the air. Now its completely overcast where an old school friend is currently vacationing. In an e-mail message

and not a leaf is stirring. This is a bit different than the situation in Maui, from him that I read this morning, he said he was bored to death by the and down the beach. Had he asked me ahead of time, I would have

sunshine, the steady breezes, and the girls parading all but naked up

steered him away from Maui and recommended several fine museums close to home, such as the Museum of Raisin History, or the Museum of victimized by tourist propaganda. Poor guy. I feel sorry for him. Early Plows and Wooden Handles. Instead, he allowed himself to be Meanwhile, I emptied another can of coffee this morning. The next can screw-on lid and a magic freshness seal. We had one of them before

isnt a can at all, but one of those new stupid plastic containers with a and found that the coffee becomes stale much sooner than in a regular can. Besides, I like coffee cans. Not only have they been around for as long as I can remember, I have long regarded them as a minor art form behind bottles, of course. Old bottles and old labels are great. But

traditional coffee cans seem to be on their way out. Many brands have

disposed of them altogether. And, as usual, the companies say they are bottom line. It would be easy enough to step up my coffee consumption into their hands. As it is, we are already victims of the Great Mayonnaise Scam, which involves selling mayonnaise in narrow-mouthed jars, thus

doing it for the customers benefit, rather than admitting it helps their and use the stuff before it loses its zip. But that would be playing right

making it impossible to scoop out the last of the mayonnaise, which in turn makes you buy your next jar sooner. Oh, how I hate the people who think up things like this. And does the Common Man rise up? Does he revolt? No. He hangs his collective head and goes right along with it, No wonder we cant solve our problems.

and acts as if mayonnaise is supposed to come in narrow-mouthed jars. July 20, 2004 Is life just a battle to survive, marked by colorful,

poignant episodes, or is it something grander, better, more meaningful? definition we give them in our quest for security and sanity? What about

Are our personal victories and defeats of any value beyond the narrow

people who dont have proper medicine or enough food to eat, and who

die of starvation and disease? Do their lives mean anything beyond their own circle of grief? What must it be like to open ones fly-covered eyes to a new day and not have the strength to lift oneself up, or to even satisfied, well-fed bundle of petty concerns, selfish thoughts, and unexamined beliefs?

understand or care? And yet, is it not equally tragic to be a bored, self-

July 21, 2004 At this very moment, my blushing bride is in the kitchen the heat, as temperatures will be near 100 for the rest of the week. She has marionberry. And now the first peaches are appearing, so peach jam already made strawberry jam, strawberry-raspberry, and

making a batch of apricot jam. Shes doing it early in the morning to beat

isnt far off. Yesterday afternoon, she made a peach pie and a boysenberry pie, and we have been eating peaches every day for about a week. The variety available in fruit stands is called Early Red Haven. said someone had brought peaches into his place of work, and that they rest were devoured by his co-workers within a few minutes. When I told

They are sweeter and juicier than usual. Last night a friend called and were so good he could hardly stand it. Actually, he only had one. The him we had fresh peach pie, he cursed and said he wanted some. Then

I cursed, and he cursed some more, then we spent several minutes

cursing, and blaming each other for every problem weve ever had and will have. To top it off, it was his birthday. I dont like birthdays, he said, and I answered, Thats just because youre old. If you werent old, you wouldnt mind them a bit. My friend, who is eight years older than I am,

thanked me for this reminder. Tell you what, I said. Since its your birthday, I will bring you some pie. Ill stop at the grocery store and get you a frozen pie, or maybe a chicken pot pie. How about that? He

cursed at me again, and told me he was going to fix himself another margarita. As we were both tired after a long day, we decided to call a temporary truce and hang up. Awhile later, I had a piece of peach pie. I didnt feel guilty at all.

July 22, 2004 In a letter to the editor a couple of days ago, someone suggested that the presidents daughters, who have been trotted out on wearing military uniforms rather than evening gowns. I disagree. While the campaign trail in another attempt to humanize their daddy, should be the idea holds a certain sick appeal, the girls shouldnt have to pay for the crimes of their father and his family any more than the good-natured old man go to Iraq, and let him take his brothers and business cronies with him, along with the peoples so-called representatives in government who approved the war. In other words, let those who profit George II made this clear when he disappeared from duty his first time unemployed kid up the street who cant afford college. Instead, let their

most pay the most. If they dont like the idea and of course King around then no one should go. No one. If the president isnt eager and willing to die in his own war, then he shouldnt expect anyone else to die in his place. And if he is eager and willing, then he should be locked up. Thats the trouble with money and power its impossible to have too much, because what you dont have, someone else will grab, and you have to cry and go wee wee wee all the way home. I suppose I the next thing you know, you dont get to be emperor anymore, and then could have put this more intelligently, but the truth is, like the president, I

am the victim of faulty intelligence my own, not someone elses. The buck stops here. Unfortunately, it stops only long enough to rest, then it moves on, and I have to go looking for another buck. Buck, buck. Buck, buck. Now Im a chicken. And we all know how intelligent chickens are.

July 23, 2004 The big story or, rather, the big complaint at the

moment is the extreme heat that has engulfed the region. Todays is expected for tomorrow. Yesterday was ninety-eight, and it was a

temperature is predicted to be in excess of 100 degrees, and the same warm, gummy night. I woke up at two with a headache, fell back asleep, had a bad dream, and got up at four with the same headache. It has since subsided, with the help of aspirin, breakfast, and coffee, but it hasnt left completely, and I dont expect it will. Its a matter of surviving

the next few days until the weather breaks. Air conditioning would help, but most homes in the area, except for those built recently, are without. The number of extremely hot days here is generally limited. A typical summer averages about a dozen days of ninety-plus-degree weather. Temperatures in the mid-eighties and cooler nights are most common. I realize this is dull. But, thanks to the heat, so am I. At least thats my excuse this time. But I did pick up two more books the other day: Mademoiselle de Maupin, by Thophile Gautier, and The Reivers, by William Faulkner. So far, Gautiers preface has been interesting. Its

main purpose is to rake critics and journalists over the coals a cause

as worthwhile now as it was in the nineteenth century when the book

was written. It seems Gautier might also be preparing readers for his

novels racy content, but I wont know for sure until Ive finished the

preface and read the story. Other than that, there is nothing new to as the 2004 presidential election nears, the headlines tell us that we arent safe, and that evil terrorists are lurking. After all, a scared around the world are generating more enemies every day. It is a strange population is a compliant one. Never mind that this countrys actions

report. Life, in all its insane variety and splendor, continues. Predictably

logic that says if we are to be safe, we need to kill people, steal their

resources, and set up permanent military shop on their land. One would and encouraged them to help others in turn? Or is such a thing

think it would be the opposite: wouldnt we be safer if we helped people impossible because we have hated each other, and have been told we hate each other, and have been told to hate each other, for so long? Who would trust us now if we were to lay down our weapons and tell the world we want to heal instead of kill? And if we set such a glorious example, wouldnt it spell our doom? Maybe it would. But, as I see it, we

are doomed anyway, just as all nations throughout history have been doomed. One of our most basic human failings is our short-sightedness. We think only of ourselves, here and now and a few years hence. We dont concern ourselves with the common good and our common future

on this planet. We want what we want now, and leave the future to our unknown progeny, even though it destroys the planet and makes us miserable in the process. This is why we are constantly at war, and why

some of us have far more than we need while others needlessly suffer and die. The most amazing thing of all, though, is that countless millions of us dont see it, and dont care enough to see it. We are surrounded by beauty, and yet beauty is not enough. Life is a miracle, but not a big enough miracle to satisfy us. We want more. We want convenience. We what we have. And yet we already have everything. It boggles the mind.

want what someone else has, and we dont want someone else to have July 24, 2004 This mornings paper arrived in a colorful plastic bag advertising a well known over the counter pain killer. There were coupons to cut out, and in a specially sealed pocket there was a

package containing two sample pills. I took them and began to feel better immediately. A short time after that, I realized I was hooked, so I sped to the store with my coupons and bought the largest box of the pills

I could find. When I got home, I took another pill, just to be sure. It worked. I felt even better. I woke everyone in the house and gave them pills. They were hooked even quicker than I was, so I raced back to the

store this time without coupons and bought another big box without

looking at the price. Have you tried these? I asked the cashier who she said. I take them every day, several times a day. In the parking lot, their car. Aisle Nine, I said. You cant miss them. They thanked me, and actually seemed to do a little dance on their way to the store

took my money. Theyre great. The cashier smiled. Of course I have, I gave pills to some people who had just arrived and were getting out of

entrance. Back at home for the second time, I had sat down and started to work when I realized I felt a little too good. Just to be on the safe side, I took another handful of pills. That seemed to help. I began to feel

worse immediately. A few minutes later, I was completely ill. I began to sweat. Thinking it was a fever, I took two more pills. The sweating stopped. I felt better again, so I took one more pill. This went on for some time taking pills, feeling ill, taking more pills, feeling better take all of the pills. The family was taking them too. For awhile there, the container never touched the counter as it was urgently passed along. It and that ambulances and fire trucks were parked in front of several of until finally I had run out of pills. But dont get the wrong idea. I didnt

wasnt until after wed run out of pills that I noticed the sound of sirens, the neighbors houses with their lights flashing and their drivers calling for assistance. Wanting to be of help, I rushed outside and ran toward the nearest ambulance. Later, I awoke in a hospital bed. A nurse smiled at me. Then she filled a glass of water and handed it to me with two more of the pills. And, wouldnt you know it, they turned me right around.

July 25, 2004 It looks like the worst of the heat is over. After days of

104 and 99 degrees, the wind came crashing in from the west, bringing clouds, and the temperature is in the lower sixties. When I got up, I

with it cool, coastal air. This morning there is even a thin layer of ocean found our tired farm worker sawing logs on the couch with the light on,

where he had fallen asleep many hours earlier. I addressed a few kind words to his sleeping face, but my voice didnt penetrate his slumber. So I looked at the Sunday paper to the accompaniment of his steady

breathing and occasional snorts, had a small bite to eat, and washed the meal. Then I took a shower and made some coffee. Now I am sitting

few dishes and glasses that had accumulated since yesterdays evening here drinking the coffee. And I just heard something the kid just got

up and went to bed. Its almost eight oclock. All is well. Not counting the cat, Im the only one up. Poor Joe. He suffered in the heat. But now hes happy and full and outside licking his paws. And Im stupid and dumb

and tapping on my little keyboard. But at least Im clean and the dishes are done. Just think how many people there are who would love to be able to say that, but cant. And just think how many other people there are who would consider what I am doing right now to be a complete and utter waste. Its amazing, isnt it? Who would have thought Id be so important to so many people? The fact that they dont know it doesnt sleepy, very sleepy. . . .

change a thing. They are still under my power. Now they are growing July 26, 2004 Due to the heat and the strange hours Ive been

keeping lately, Ive fallen even further behind in my reading. This preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin, and went on to read the first few

morning at about a quarter after six, I finally finished Thophile Gautiers pages of the novel itself before having to tend to a few household

matters. The opening paragraphs were appealing and had a nice enjoy it and do it justice. Assuming I survive the day and am not

rhythm. But I definitely need to read the book in larger chunks in order to detained by Homeland Security for unspecified charges, I will continue book in my next life, and also to catch up on other things, such as

this evening. If I dont survive, then maybe Ill be permitted to read the understanding how the president balances his Christianity with the

maiming and murder of small children and the steady production of war widows. Not that I question his deep belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ his savior. Its his interpretation I wonder about. Since he has so much trouble with English, its possible George the Good has been reading a new translation of the Bible rendered in Republican Twang, as the Abridged Cheney Edition, containing a special key to

with the words of Jesus printed in red, white, and blue, otherwise known mispronunciation and astute commentary by Donald Rumsfeld, and

featuring a new map of the Bible Lands showing redrawn borders,

military installations, and retaining walls, as well as a diagram of heaven that specifies parade routes and the number and placement of flag poles and Ronald Reagan statues. Verily I say unto thee, it is easier for a enter the Kingdom of Heaven (Dick, 9:11). president to pass through the eye of a camel, than it is for a needle to July 27, 2004 This might sound strange, but part of me wonders if I

shouldnt drop everything and become a folk singer. Ive always loved music, and music continues to play a profound role in my rather odd existence. I already know how to read music, having had five years of

piano lessons as a youngster not that not knowing would make any can learn whatever I need to learn, when I want to learn it. More likely

difference if I actually made such a decision. Ive always believed that I

and there is already ample proof in other areas to bear this out is that

I would have trouble unlearning what needs to be unlearned. In any case, I have long been aware that I possess a strong musical instinct. And I have mentioned before how music plays an important part in my

writing. For me, words on a page are far more than the meanings they represent; ideally, they should have a certain appearance, rhythm, and sound that makes what they mean more accessible intellectually, garbage, and maybe it is. But I really do feel this way. And of course singer, I didnt mean necessarily that I would drop writing. If it hasnt

emotionally, and physically. This might sound like bogus, egotistical when I said I wonder if I shouldnt drop everything and become a folk already, writing might drop me somewhere along the line, but Im no more capable of dropping it than I am of dropping well, you name it. I wanted to come up with something clever or poetic there, but the heck

with it. What I mean is, that whenever I decide to do something, I go all out, to the point that it appears I have dropped everything, when the truth is, I already dropped everything long ago, at least in the realm of common sense. Now that thats been cleared up, I think it might be

worthwhile to examine why else I wonder about becoming a musician. deliver his message anywhere, including on street corners, at most any

One reason that springs readily to mind is that a musician or singer can time, whereas a writers options are more limited. Its true enough that I as a performance art. When I write something, I write it to be read not

could write a story and read it on a street corner, but I dont see writing by me to others, but by others to themselves. For my work to be read, it

must be published, and even publication itself is not enough; there is the whole rigmarole involved in telling people that the book exists, and is available at all the usual outlets. The publication problem is partly solved

by making use of the Internet, but the problem of publicity remains. If I

were a folk singer, on the other hand, I could take my guitar and my

songs anywhere. If I finished a song that I especially liked, I could go and no one would think it strange. They might think Im strange, but Im

and sing it this afternoon in front of one of the coffee houses downtown, used to that. Moreover, I could sing for drinks in taverns all over the great Northwest, little by little making a name for myself, and coming up with new material along the way. As a writer, I cant do that though them. Likewise, I could attend poetry slams and yell my streetwise insanity and grief into a smelly microphone, but its just not me, and it

Ive long thought it would be fun to visit taverns and later write about

certainly isnt writing, though writing is occasionally involved. For me, it wouldnt be much different than writing ad copy for real estate either, as long as they enjoy it, in which case Im all for them. companies. Although, I must say, I have nothing against people who do July 28, 2004 The days are growing shorter. Now our early morning a vehicle has its lights on, though it isnt really necessary. By the time its this is has turned out to be our sons pre-dawn breakfast of choice. I

trips to the iris farm take place before the sun is up, and here and there over, this summer will be known as the Summer of Scrambled Eggs, as offer him other things, but hes not interested. He says there is no way he could face French toast or a bowl of steaming mush at five in the morning. There are times, though, when I think he might not recognize the difference. This morning, he ate most of his breakfast with his eyes closed. For the sake of efficiency, I eat with him. In self-defense, I try to vary what goes in the scrambled eggs, by using different kinds of cheese, adding mushrooms or a small amount of fried potato, and alternating between seasonings. I always use tabasco, and rarely skip

dry purple basil. I dont know if the kid notices, but having been up awhile longer, I do. And for whatever odd reason, I am still able to convince myself that I am inspired by whats on my plate. When we first

sit down, I usually say something like, Isnt this fantastic? or, Theres

nothing better than scrambled eggs first thing in the morning. The kids

eyebrow goes up, but thats about it. Hes used to me being a blowhard, even at that hour. One evening, I suggested I make both pancakes and eggs. He said, Thats a blowhards breakfast. I took it as a compliment. The following morning, I made scrambled eggs. If my calculation is correct, with Sundays off, there are thirty-three days of scrambled eggs of that when he comes home this evening. Then again, maybe I shouldnt. to go before school starts. Maybe I should remind my breakfast partner

July 29, 2004 Ongoing Torment Department: It is impossible to

respect a man who early every morning coughs up a lung for the entire neighborhood to hear and then spits several times on his concrete driveway where his wife and son cannot avoid either seeing the result or stepping in it and carrying it elsewhere on their shoes or bare feet. There he goes again. Its absolutely amazing. Hes dressed neatly and respectably for work, he has a new minivan, he flies his flag on the

Fourth of July, and he spits. He cant do it in his house, in his bathroom. He has to come outside and let his hideous gobbets fly, and the people concrete splat. I am not exaggerating. How his wife remains married Honor. So help me, I was sick morning, noon, and night. What else was I done us all a favor, my good lady. You are free to go. And if you like, the who live around him are subjected to the sound of his phlegm hitting the to him or doesnt kill him is beyond me. I couldnt stand his spitting, Your to do? I had my son to think about. Very well. Case dismissed. You have

bailiff can recommend a reliable pressure washing service to clean your driveway. July 30, 2004 Last night a man named John Kerry accepted the

Democratic nomination for president. We watched his speech on

television. It lasted forty-six minutes, and was frequently interrupted by applause. It was a pretty good speech as speeches go, and typical in that it painted things in broad and predictably safe, patriotic terms. I do

believe the United States and the world stand a chance of being slightly better off if Kerry is elected instead of Bush, who was never elected. The all-out assault on the environment will be slowed somewhat. As for the corporate rape of the population, that remains to be seen. The war in remain, as it always does. One thing that is refreshing is that Kerry actually seems to be a functioning human being, one capable of

Iraq will continue for some time, and if and when it ends, the military will

independent thought and intelligent and coherent speech. Its probably a

little old-fashioned, but I cant help thinking that a president should be able to speak the language of the country he supposedly leads, and that he shouldnt have to rely on a script from the moment he gets out of bed pillow. As if he were running through a checklist, Kerry systematically

in the morning until he lays his empty head on his freshly laundered addressed Cowboy Georges failings and crimes an easy enough

thing to do. Personally, I have no faith in anyone for president, or, for willingness to be completely honest and accountable in our daily lives,

that matter, any other office. I still believe our only hope lies in our and to recognize that how we live has a direct effect on people not only

next door, but around the world. This doesnt require legislation or leadership, it requires a personal, private revolution. This cannot happen as long as we are wearing buttons and waving flags. One can and

should love his home, but he must also recognize that the entire earth is

his home, and that the people in it are his neighbors. There is no political or religious system that is capable of bringing this about. There is only one person at a time getting up in the morning and doing his best work, expense of no one. When we refuse to be satisfied until hunger is then we might call ourselves truly blessed. Then government will be an instrument of prosperity and continued accomplishment

and doing what is honest and right for the benefit of everyone and at the abolished, and war, and the rape of the environment, and ignorance, and

improvement that benefits everyone, as well as the earth and all other species. I know in my heart that this is true, and that it is unlikely that I will ever live to see the day. But I do feel there is hope. Yesterday, while spending a few minutes in a waiting room with my mother, a young mother and father sat down nearby. With them was their little boy and a but it was clear what was in their hearts the fathers pride, the mothers shy strength as she covered herself with a small blanket to preserve her modesty while she nursed her baby, and her mothers

newborn, and the girls proud mother. The family was speaking Spanish,

amazement in finding such a wonderful moment had arrived in her long and difficult life. I felt lucky just to be sitting there. These were real people, living not mentally ill celebrities or politicians afraid of losing their looks or their advantage. This family doesnt need speeches and flags, it needs honest work to do and a clean, safe place to sleep and wholesome food to eat, and the adults need to know that their children wont grow up to be used in someones evil war. Imagine the world if this were so. July 31, 2004 Yesterday afternoon at five oclock, a local printer Ive

known and worked with for many years closed his doors. Despite being

one of the best, most efficient, and hardest working printers in town, he can no longer afford to keep his shop open. The primary reason is the economy; because of this he has also been unable to keep up with changes in technology, further compounding his problems. And so, come Monday morning, he will go to work for a larger, more modern

shop nearby, taking his experience, service ethic, and wounded pride with him. Visiting with him in his shop yesterday was a painful experience. From the beginning, he ran the place by himself, capably

handling all aspects of the business from A to Z. Now there were price

tags on his equipment, two or three pieces of which he had managed to books were stacked near the door and also for sale, as was his desk of my projects; I said no, and that anyway, even if I did, my heart wasnt

sell. Chairs for his customers to sit on while looking through sample and the clock on the wall. He asked me if I needed some paper for any in it. Knowing me as he does, he would have been surprised if I had

accepted his offer of free paper and started pawing through his supply.

Bah, what a life. We try, try, try, but often it just isnt good enough. In who is mentally lazy and basically corrupt, but who just happens to be engaged in a bit of timely commerce. Not that bums like that dont fail too, but at least they deserve to fail, since they think only of what they to make a grown man cry.

many cases, our trying amounts to less than that achieved by someone

can get and not of what they can give. Bah, and again bah. Its enough July 1, 2004 No one tells me to write. Should I decide not to, no one is going to fire me or threaten me with legal action. I write by choice. When I get up in the morning, I know I am going to write. When I go to bed at night, I know I will write again the next day assuming, of

course, that I wake up. Some might call this self-discipline, but they

would be no less accurate if they called it stupidity. Others might actually there is a good chance they are unaware of what this freedom costs. It

envy my situation, lacking this sort of freedom in their own lives. But has nothing to do with bravery. I am not brave. Stubborn, yes. Hardheaded? Absolutely. And we mustnt leave out selfish. I also write because I dont know what else to do. Writing is what I like. Why should I

spend my time doing something else? And yet the pay is lousy, the

hourly wage is comically low, there is no retirement plan, and there are sinking ship with land on the horizon. Will the ship stay afloat long enough for the crew to swim ashore? Because, the funny thing is, a writers fortunes can suddenly change. After enduring years of poverty, to, admired, and appreciated for about five or ten minutes. Then, just

no health benefits. Financially speaking, it is like being aboard a slowly

he can awaken to find himself adored by millions, sought after, listened as quickly, he can enter the realm of disappointment and disgrace, for which there doesnt have to be a good reason, only that someone in New York took exception to something the author said or wrote, or didnt author was homesick and had gas from eating in too many restaurants.

say or didnt write, or implied, even though, if the truth were known, the And then the whole thing unravels, and he finds himself back where he

was at the beginning, back at getting up in the morning and doing his work, and by this activity he is restored to his healthy nose-thumbing self. No wonder so many critics and media people are jealous. As fun as it must be to destroy someones career, it must be frustrating when they cant destroy the person himself, and the person goes right on with his work. It takes a small-minded individual indeed to think it is all about money, and that by preventing a hard-working writer from earning a living, that he or she has actually accomplished something. And yet I

cant help feeling sorry for people like this, because they are servants of term gain. This is part of what makes my choosing to write so important.

a cold-hearted corporate system that murders potential in favor of shortI am free to work to my own standards, to recognize and overcome my own weaknesses, to have my own say, and to do something about literary agent? A magazine editor? A critic? A talk show host? No. It will my ignorance. Who is going to stop me? An unscrupulous publisher? A take a lifetime to put this fire out, though I have already been charred and burned in the process. And I am free to laugh at this ridiculous image of myself, and what I have become, and the circus that is my daily

life. How many people can say this, or are willing or foolish enough to admit it? Therein the secret of survival lies, the secret of the flower that blooms and dies, and yet is not forgotten.

July 2, 2004 Since everything having to do with the presidential debates including time, place, format, and who is and isnt included is controlled by the republican and democratic parties with the goal of protecting their candidates from public relations harm, the debates are

just one more meaningless step on the road to yet another bogus

election. Even using the word debate for this kind of show is ridiculous.

What would happen, for instance, if the current president actually had to sit across the table from someone and respond to his unrehearsed questions? He would be tied in knots. What would happen if his opponent was Saddam Hussein? Judging by Husseins court

appearance in Iraq yesterday, Bush wouldnt have a chance. Hussein is the U.S. for so many years but its obvious he is not dumb. Whereas,

a criminal he would have to be, having been used and encouraged by Bush is a criminal, and its obvious that he is dumb, because he cant

even string together a few intelligent unscripted sentences. Ive read

where the press is forever having to edit his comments to make him

sound less stupid than he really is and he still sounds stupid. So,

what would happen if these two criminals had a legitimate, open debate? What would happen if people could see them as they really are, and not and sound-bites? Unfortunately, this question will not be answered, as it wont be answered later during the presidential debates. We will have Meanwhile, you have to wonder why more people cant simply look at plenty of entertainment in the coming months, but no real substance. these pretend leaders and see them for what they really are. It doesnt already clear, and are also written on their faces. as they are safely presented by the media via carefully selected images

take a debate to know what these monsters are up to. Their records are July 3, 2004 Now Marlon Brando has made his final exit. Fortunately,

the Bush campaign wont try to hijack his image as they did with Ray and Ill make him an offer he cant refuse are statements the current administration wants to be associated with. Nor would they touch Brandos activism or lifestyle with a ten-foot pole. Oh, well. Its their loss. Brando once said he didnt have the moral courage to refuse

Charles when Reagan died. I dont think I could have been a contender

Hollywoods money. If a politician said something like that, he would

instantly gain respect, and would probably be reelected in a landslide, The real point is that Brandos death is a reminder that when someone dies, famous or not, the biggest part of him departs unknown. Like everyone else, Marlon Brando had his own life, and his own private questions and understanding. In this way, he was no different than the anonymous man on the street, or the hermit or monk or forklift driver. To

or, at the very least, a mudslide. But of course this is all beside the point.

think a famous person is either above or below the average person who

isnt famous is a mistake. He might possess an outstanding talent or ability, or a fortunate combination of personality and luck, but this doesnt make him any more or less human. Indeed, some of the motivations of famous people have been grounded in the basest of

desires, or have been the result of their trying to overcome feelings of inferiority, disappointment, loss, anger, or just plain fear. This doesnt enjoyed. It means the people who appreciate and enjoy them shouldnt is famous in one way or another, whether they know it or not. The pay might not be as good, but that is no reason not to celebrate. mean their talents and accomplishments arent to be appreciated and sell themselves short. To idolize others is to denigrate oneself. Everyone

July 4, 2004 In his fascinating introduction to Shakespeares Complete Works, editor G.B. Harrison mentions a clever money-making scheme hatched by Will Kempe, the clown of Shakespeares acting company, the Chamberlains Men. Kempe bet that he could dance from London to Norwich, a distance of about a hundred miles. Says Harrison, On his arrival the Mayor and chief citizens gave him a civic reception. It

He set out on February 10 and reached his destination in nine stages. was a triumphant progress and was talked of for years. Kempe was so

greatly elated by his success that he planned a much more ambitious the Globe Theater, left the Chamberlains Men, and set out. A couple of

venture: to dance over the Alps to Rome. He therefore sold his share in pages and several months later, Kempe turns up in London again after fulfilling his Rome bet, somewhat down in the mouth because his accomplishment didnt generate the fanfare hed expected.

Unfortunately, Harrison gives no other details, though its likely there seems to me, that could be turned into a very good short story. Imagine

were none available to give. But this is still quite an episode, and one, it

the thoughts that pass through the clowns mind during his strange journey, and the kind of person he must be to pursue such an idea. Think of the sun going down at the end of a lonely days dancing, and doubt creeping into his mind as daylight fails. A clown on the road, now? laughing, dancing, driven by silent grief. . . . Ah, well. Whos the clown July 5, 2004 Beginning at about nine oclock last night, our entire

neighborhood for blocks around was transformed into a major firework

battle zone. A surprising number of the fireworks were the large, fields. Such explosives are forbidden in Oregon, but they are sold in as showers of sparks drifted over dry rooftops, pine trees, and fir trees.

airborne, illegal kind once reserved for displays at small town football Washington, only an hours drive away. As always, it was hard to relax Every year we keep our fingers crossed as ambulance and fire truck

sirens wail in the distance. Until about eleven last night, there was a

steady sizzling, cracking, popping, thundering din; but the final deep show of patriotism while people are enduring the real thing made me

explosions didnt come until around one in the morning. This childish sick. I cant help wondering how these local heroes would enjoy vehicles burned, and the bodies of loved ones lying in the streets. But

spending a few such nights in Iraq, each morning to find buildings gone, maybe I am being too harsh. After all, isnt it fun to watch the bright, your sternum, and to smell the gunpowder in the air? For me, no. I hate

colorful lights? And isnt it thrilling to feel the explosions vibrate against it. I am angered and embarrassed by it. I cannot separate the images

and sensations from what they really represent. I dont believe in the ask themselves why they are mimicking war, when war solves nothing

rockets red glare, and the bombs bursting in air. I think people should

and is our very undoing. But, again, maybe I am missing the point. This

nation and countless others were founded on war, and on the willful

destruction of other peoples and cultures. And around the world, enough human beings are still willing to sacrifice themselves, their children, and the future for reasons they have not fully considered, or, more often than not, for reasons of which they remain blissfully unaware. So why shouldnt they celebrate in this way? Granted, a more fitting way to

celebrate the birth of a nation would be for the people of that nation to

declare an end to war, and to see to it that the money formerly spent on

destruction be used to feed, educate, and care for people. Then, each up at the stars and listen to the sounds of the night instead of setting off fireworks and scaring their pets to death. Yeah, yeah, I know. Just listen

year on the birth of their great decision, they could go outside and look

to him. What an idiot. Well, fine. I am an idiot. Thats hardly news. But Ill tell you what: at this very moment, a street sweeper is coming up the street, cleaning up the debris left from last night. Very early this morning, at the filth people had left behind, the casings, the canisters, the fuses. Some people had cleaned up after themselves, but many others hadnt,

as I was taking our son to his first day of work on his new job, we looked

or had done a careless job. Everywhere, there were burn marks on the pavement, and on the houses behind where the burn marks and the messes were the most, flew the biggest flags. It makes me wonder: do morning in Baghdad, to clean up the mess from the night before?

the owners of these flags think a street sweeper comes through each July 6, 2004 When I picked up our son from work yesterday at five, he was tired and caked with dirt, but obviously pleased with the way his first day had gone. Naturally, it didnt hurt that his ten hours of farm labor had earned him seventy dollars. He isnt crazy about math, but he has no

trouble figuring out what hell make doing this six days a week for the

rest of the summer. When I suggested this morning that after awhile he rise, he seemed skeptical, then mumbled something about it being twice, yet Im already looking forward to our morning trips to the iris farm.

was going to be hooked on getting up at five a.m. and seeing the sun awfully cold at that hour. But well see what happens. Weve only been I noticed activity in one blueberry patch this morning, as pickers were getting ready to make another pass through the field. And I was pleased to see that most of the grass seed fields have been cut. At one point along the way, there is a sign by a pair of birch stumps that says Free

Wood, but there is no wood, unless they are referring to the sign itself.

There are also a couple of big walnut trees by the roadside, a scattering of barns and houses, and a nice assortment of flowers and weeds. In cottonwood trees. The whole scene is quiet and calm, and the atmosphere of early summer is full of promise. one place, the newly rising sun is temporarily blocked by a small stand of

July 7, 2004 Later this morning, I have an appointment with the eye doctor. It has been over two years since my last exam, and I know my glasses will need to be replaced. Anymore, I can hardly read without

them, and in some cases I can hardly read with them, especially when its only seven in the morning. It might have helped, though, had I slept

my eyes are tired, which they often are. In fact, they are tired now, and more than four hours. I tried, but the neighborhood refused to cooperate. I had already fallen asleep when a couple of kids set off a loud firework in the street not far from our open window. That happened at ten-thirty, and nearly sent me threw the ceiling. I jumped out of bed with my heart pounding and slammed the window shut just as a cloud of smoke was

drifting in. After that, each time I managed to relax enough to almost go

back to sleep, firecrackers were lit somewhere nearby, a house or two dont blame them, because it was a beautiful, cool, breezy night. But I do

away. Between times, small herds of children thundered by, laughing. I blame their parents, or at least those who are still around, and their parents current boyfriends and girlfriends, some of whom by daylight pretend to be adults. Perhaps I should have knocked on their doors this

morning at five, and invited them to join my son and me for breakfast. Or front steps and ring their doorbells. The county fair is about to begin. The horses are arriving daily. Im sure theyd be willing to oblige. Of course, we dont really call it horse manure. We use the same name our family

maybe tonight I should set bags of fresh horse manure afire on their

has always used, beginning back when my father was a kid and his summer. It is a wonderful term comprised of two words that I am proud

uncles used to visit from Fresno and stay at his house during the to reveal here: road apples. Once, when my father was very small, his

uncle, Archie, told him to go out and look for road apples. Dad happily set out, having no idea what road apples were. He looked and looked, then finally came back in defeat. When Uncle Archie showed him a real live road apple, the revelation set something profoundly important into motion that strengthens and guides us to this day. And so, thank you, Uncle Archie. The exact date is lost in the mists of time, but today cant

be too far from the seventy-fifth anniversary of my fathers discovery of the corner on Avenue 404.

road apples on Road 66 in Dinuba, California unless it was around July 8, 2004 Lately were not sure when our telephone is ringing sound we hear is being made by a bird in our backyard. Several weeks

unless were in the same room, because more often than not the ringing ago, this bird, which we have yet to identify or catch in the act, learned to

imitate the telephone. Theres the phone, one of us would say. Do you sure thats the phone? And someone would reply, What else could it be? The answer: a bird. This creature not only sounds like the

want to answer it, or shall I? And then another of us would say, Are you

telephone, but the rings it makes are of the proper interval and duration. Hello? Well, Ill be darned, no ones there. As if that werent enough, more recently, the bird has taken to imitating the rapid-fire action of a then, once it has made it all the way, quickly returns to its original birds spend too much time in the city. It makes me wonder if half the racket I hear every day isnt being made by these demented birds the lawn mowers, the leaf blowers, the air compressors, the jackhammers, the staple guns, the news helicopters, the hydraulic lifts, the radios

lawn sprinkler the agitated kind that clicks its way across an area, and position and starts clicking again. I guess this is what happens when

playing country music. By the same token, maybe the tweeting I hear isnt being made by birds, but by cats trying to hypnotize their psychotic prey. And maybe the human voices I hear are not human voices after all, but the voices of trees speaking through their leaves. . . . There they are now. Theyre saying, Hey, arent you going to answer the phone?

July 9, 2004 Is this really me, or is it just an approximation? Is what I leave out more important than what I leave in? Do I even know what I am leaving out? For that matter, do I really understand what I am leaving in? And what about these questions? Are they of any value, or are they a substitute for substance? Are they just a clever way of saying I have nothing to say? If they are, wouldnt it be better if I simply said so? Wouldnt it be more honest? For if I come right out and say I have

nothing to say, can it not at least be said that I said something

worthwhile, however brief? Can I not in fact be admired for making such

a statement? Wouldnt I be deserving of thanks? Shouldnt my

accomplishment be publicly acknowledged, and shouldnt I be rewarded discourse, will I not have made a great contribution to the world, and to my fellow human beings? Would I not be lighting the way for future

with a modest stipend? By disentangling myself from pointless, weary

generations, and opening the door to peace and harmony throughout the or, even worse, ignored? And, finally, having said I have nothing to

ages? Or would I still be just an idiot? Would I be laughed at and spit on say, how would I feel if ten minutes later I suddenly had something very meaningful and important to say? Wouldnt it be embarrassing to come back and say I have something to say after all, and that what I said before should be disregarded? Isnt it best, therefore, to say something, however trifling it seems, and hope some good will come out of it? And doesnt say he has nothing to say, and who instead says the first thing isnt that approach just as worthy? Might it not be said of a man who that comes to his mind, that here is a man who means well, and who carries on despite his limitations, or, perhaps more accurately, his afflictions? Well?

July 10, 2004 Its early yet, but it feels like a good day to spend at the mountains, or playing solitaire on a rough wooden table on the porch of a remote cabin beside a clear, cold stream. None of these things, though, will happen. What will happen instead? Uh, well, not much. But I far, Ive made our resident farm worker a big breakfast and hauled him

public library. It feels like an even better day to spend hiking in the

do hope to eat a piece of watermelon. What has happened so far? So off to his job, taken a shower, made coffee, and tried to work up enough energy to stay awake. And just now, right outside our open window, a woman walking her dog blew her nose like a trumpet. . . . There they go,

continuing up the sidewalk. In my experience, women seldom blow their noses like trumpets in the street later in the day when people are around. Men will do it, proclaiming their presence like proud elephants. Men are crude, and take pride in their crudity. Women are refined. They horns a few feet away from open bedroom windows: Feevoooop!

wait until they think no one is listening or watching, then they sound their Actually, this Feevoooop! is borrowed, again from Uncle Archie, who other things, Archie, who had a tremendously loud voice, used to call my father old elk. This dates back to the Sixties, when my father was

frequently made the sound to represent the call of a wild elk. Among

younger than I am now. Back in junior high school, an Armenian friend and I would call out to each other from down the corridors and across the school grounds, Feevoooop! To this day, I still unleash an occasional Feevoooop! in honor of the past, and to keep in shape. The neighbors foolish enough to leave their windows open.

stress is on the last syllable. It is also on my loving bride, and on July 11, 2004 Ah-ha! I just had a brilliant idea: One Hand Clapping

needs an advertising spokesman, like the dynamic TV nerd who turns up satisfied smirk, Can you hear me now? Good! Except my nerd wouldnt

in all sorts of strange places with his cell phone and says, with a selfbe carrying a cell phone, he would be clapping with one hand. Swish, was waving at flies, and would wonder what it was he was selling. That people will wonder what Im talking about. What is a cell phone? they will

swish. Can you hear me now? Of course, most people would think he part I havent worked out yet. Note: Someday, if this document survives, ask. What is a TV? What is a nerd? Scholars and historians will devote want to know what scholars and historians are, and there might not be

years of their lives to sorting this out. For that matter, people might also

any scholars and historians around to tell them. Am I concerned about this? Not really. If it doesnt matter now, it probably wont matter then, either.

July 12, 2004 For two and a half hours yesterday afternoon, my dear wife and I sat in the hot sun watching a friends son play baseball in Amity, a small town twenty-some miles northwest of Salem. His team won the first game of their double-header, 7-6. Our arms already burnt to

a tingling crisp, we didnt linger for the second game, though we would have liked to. Most of the players were in their twenties and played together in high school. They wear uniforms, but the league is casual. The Amity team has no coach, and Im pretty sure the other team didnt

either. His first three times at bat, our friends son hit singles; he flied out his last time up a successful day, except that he had promised me the said it would come in his first time at bat. And so I told him how even though he pitched two innings in relief and struck out four batters and saved the game, I knew he had done it not to help his team, but to week before that he would hit a home run. As if that werent enough, he disappointed I was, and how I didnt appreciate being lied to, and that

distract me. As it happens, Amity is surrounded by grass seed fields,

almost all of which have now been cut. Even so, I spent the evening fell asleep at about eleven. What seemed like a few minutes later, the

sneezing violently, until I finally collapsed in exhaustion and despair and alarm clock went off, telling me it was time to get up and make breakfast for our iris laborer, who has the luxury of sleeping in until five. Lucky guy. How he can eat a big breakfast within three minutes of waking up is beyond me. When I was his age, it used to take me at least five or ten eggs and toast with butter and homemade boysenberry jam.

minutes before I could face a stack of pancakes or several scrambled

July 13, 2004 At about three-thirty this morning, a feeble

thunderstorm moved slowly through the area, like a coughing old writer on crutches. The lightning, I suppose, could be likened to brief flashes of insight, but thats probably carrying the analogy too far or maybe not far enough. Poor guy. Hes worked hard. Lets give him some credit. Altogether, I think I counted twelve drops of rain. But the storm was

enough to sweeten and lighten the air after a hot day yesterday a

welcome relief, though in reality it has so far been a relatively cool, dry oak tree and reading the work of eighteenth century rhyming poets. Most

summer. Now the old writer is in the hills somewhere, leaning against an likely, he will be dead by this afternoon and forgotten forever, even by werent so busy working at doughnut shops and seeking publicity. Wait. Whose voice is that I hear? Ah, tis only the wind. Only the wind. July 14, 2004 Yesterday afternoon, while exchanging sarcastic

his fellow writers, who should know better, and perhaps would if they

pleasantries with a store cashier who, owing to his current status as an

underpaid, underinsured corporate drone, appeared to be hanging onto his sanity by a thread, I said, Well, its either laugh or go crazy. Since he readily agreed with this statement, I added, In my case, though, the

order is reversed. This earned a genuine laugh, albeit a sad one. For the life of me which I recognize isnt worth much I hated to leave him there, wearing his demeaning uniform and standing bravely at his earning a living, but hes not. The whole thing makes me sick. Indeed,

post. On our way out I said to my wife, It might be tolerable if he was what has happened and what is still happening to the people of this While monsters like the Bushes and their Saudi oil buddies conduct

country, and to the people of the world, is enough to drive anyone mad. business as usual, and while their mutual buddies in the arms business

make money hand over fist, and while their other buddies get paid innocent people and creating untold misery, the people are kept poor, ignorant, and entertained. Confused unemployed young men are

exorbitant amounts to rebuild what they have destroyed while killing poor

actively recruited by slick members of the armed forces telling lies and bearing business cards. Those who choose to enlist are then chewed up psychological problems, and then abandoned by the government, which during the Bush regime has quietly slashed veteran benefits. There are partners in crime are doing: those who are ignorant of the truth behind their dealings, and those who stand to gain monetarily. There is also a believe they and their country are superior, and that this gives them the kind of ignorance is more dangerous than the most drastic form of from generation to generation. and spit out either dead, maimed, wounded, or with other health or

only two kinds of people who agree with what the Bush family and their

third, or at least a subcategory: those whose ignorance allows them to right to kill perfect strangers in their own homes, on their own land. This mental illness, because it is deadly, and because it is a disease passed July 15, 2004 To attract people downtown, the City of Salem closes summer and hosts an outdoor market. Since we were in the area

two blocks of Chemeketa Street to traffic on Wednesdays during the yesterday morning, my wife and I decided to stroll through and see what was being offered. Vendors were selling flowers, fresh produce, at the booth of a local bee man, he gave us samples of vetch, homemade food, pottery, soap, and other such items. When we stopped blackberry, and wildflower honey. Then we bought a big bunch of flowers at another booth, returned to the honey booth for a small jar of wildflower honey, and then bought about two pounds of string beans and

three large ripe apricots at another booth. It was a nice atmosphere, corner that said live music would be starting in about an hour, but we didnt wait around to find out what kind of music it was. Instead, we put away, where we bought a loaf of sourdough to go with the lamb stew I

though being early it was still on the quiet side. There was a sign on one

our stuff in the van and headed for a small bakery about three blocks had made the day before. Then we drove the back route through the country to Independence, a small town a few miles away on the west side of the Willamette River. We looked at the fields, orchards, and

surrounding hills and sighed, glad to be away from the hustle and bustle of the big city, even though Salem is relatively small and tame, with only minor bustle and even less hustle, generated by locals tending to their affairs or engaged in various time-honored scams, or by people like us who suddenly find themselves with a couple of free hours they werent expecting and so decide to take a mini-vacation. There were flowers along the roadside, some kind of wild sweet pea that seems to be having an excellent year. There were big old houses with long, shady porches and overgrown yards surrounded by oak trees and wild blackberry growth. There were dips and cracks in the road, and then further along deeply grooved in preparation for being repaved. We ate one of the Dinuba, but it was still good. It was real. And so were we.

as one approaches the river the road had been scraped to the bone and apricots. It wasnt as sweet and juicy as the ones we used to grow in July 16, 2004 The adventure continues. Yesterday we enjoyed a long, friendly neighborhood auto dealership and garage, where a mechanic will try to figure out why our van wont start. Recently, I had noticed every so often when starting the engine that it seemed like I had to hold

windy ride in a tow truck, all the way from Silver Falls State Park to our

the key down a little longer than usual before the engine turned over. Most of the time it was normal. Thinking it might be the battery, I took the van to the shop on Monday. They tested the battery, the starter, the

alternator, and so on, and everything was normal. I left on a well-seewhat-happens basis, right after the mechanic and service advisor both said, Well, I dont think it will strand you anywhere. When my wife and I appeared at the garage in our windblown glory three days later, the first Thats what you said. At first, he thought I was mad. Every so often, I will run into a person who thinks I am mad, when in fact I am joking. My face, rendering my mouth invisible, and leaving only my eyes to go by. If

thing I said to the service advisor was, You said it wouldnt strand us.

wife says its because my beard and mustache cover so much of my he could see my eyes, he shouldve been able to tell I was smiling, I

said to her later, after our complimentary ride home which, met. Anyway, after Id made a few additional comments to put him at

incidentally, was given by one of the most obnoxious men wed ever ease, the advisor finally realized I wasnt mad. I was hungry from going without lunch, but not mad partly because the tow truck driver was a nice guy and had laughed at all of my bad puns, though he did groan a couple of times. The driver who took us home from the garage, however, was another case altogether. I will do my best to never ride with him

again. Among other social infractions, he was stupid enough and coarse enough to comment on a womans weight as we passed her walking toward the entrance of an ice cream parlor. His exact words were, You

dont need to go in there, lady. A legend in his own mind, the driver was in his sixties and old enough to know better. They say its never too late to learn. In his case, I wonder.

July 17, 2004 Like the great Willie Nelson, were on the road again. The van has a new starter, my wallet is empty, the sky is blue, and will we do when we get there? Ha! That depends on where it is. We however far our remaining gas will take us, thats where well go. What might gather some dry brush and build a fire, take in a little league baseball game, or huddle in our van in a Wal-Mart parking lot. The possibilities are endless. We could even drive home and stay there, like

we usually do, and try to figure out a way to make some real money, and thereby leave Wal-Mart behind forever. Have I mentioned that I despise customers alike, are thinking about one thing and one thing only: money that place and everything it represents? Everyone there, employees and and how to get it. Or is that two things? All other thoughts are subsidiary and beside the point. People dont go to Wal-Mart because its romantic or fun. If they do, then they are in serious trouble. Even so, on occasion I Mart and see the entertainment value, but only after several days of meditation. Usually, though, I am angry at the thought of millions of

am able to rise above the hideous economic manifestation that is Wal-

people dancing on the rim of the insatiable Wal-Mart volcano, especially process. But things are so much cheaper there. Twelve bars of Ivory washing liquid is half the price. Light bulbs are even less. Isnt that

since they are cutting their own and their towns financial throats in the soap cost $1.50 less than they do at the grocery store. A jug of dishgreat? No, it is not great. It just means that wherever you go, you get cheated. Buying cheap light bulbs and working at Wal-Mart wages doesnt make people happy or give them a feeling of hope and security. The whole setup is demeaning, unless you have piles and piles of money, and if you do, chances are you are still feeding and furthering the system that leaves millions without proper medical care, and with an

ever-eroding form of education in an increasingly lifeless and pointless environment that ensures mediocrity. But its not my fault. I didnt invent the system. Maybe not. But the system is invented and reinvented with

our every move, as we wiggle and squirm our way to higher ground, all the while looking for some sort of advantage. That is why, from this moment forward, I will leave my room only when it is most drastically

necessary, and will subsist on whatever forms of life I can find or cultivate in the backyard. No more light bulbs. The sun is enough. No more soap. I dont like my neighbors anyway. No more pleasure trips to state parks, unless I walk, no more juvenile frolic at the expense of my no more

fellow human beings, no more vans, no more starters, no more gasoline, July 18, 2004 The humidity was so oppressive yesterday that we

were surprised to learn it was only eighty-three degrees. There were even a few drops of rain, the first couple of which startled the cat when they landed and made it jump in the air and look around with suspicion. Then, in the evening, the sun came out with incredible, blinding ferocity, nearly breaking up the whiffle-ball game the boys had going with a

couple of their pals in the driveway. Luckily, the clouds returned, and down. What a relief, especially since the house was an oven. This

finally, at about nine oclock, a nice breeze came up and cooled things morning its cloudless and cool, and not nearly as humid. Its eight

oclock. The boys are still asleep, and will be for at least another two get up to make breakfast and take our youngest to his job, I was free to

hours. What a gift they have. Since today is Sunday and I didnt have to sleep in. I got up at five-thirty. And though Ive since showered and had a small bite to eat, I have only now gotten around to my morning coffee. Until that begins working, I still feel like I was dragged around the block

behind a dog sled. The question is, why am I in such a rush to get this all I dont know. An hour from now might be too late. A lot can happen in an

down? Wouldnt it be better if I waited an hour, and then started writing? hour. What if Im called away on an emergency? What if an old friend I havent heard from in thirty years suddenly appears at my door? The whole day could go up in smoke. Not that it would be unpleasant. It

would be great. Hi, how are you, good to see you, my god you havent changed a bit except your hair has fallen out and youve put on a few pounds and I hardly recognized you, come in, sit down, tell me all about it, tell me what youve been up to, do you remember the time we and the other time we and how so-and-so always used to holy cow I

still cant believe youre here, how long will you be in town, can you stay awhile, say is that your mother in the car, why dont you tell her to come in, oh its your wife, Im sorry, where has the time gone, so tell me all about your career in real estate, me? oh, same old same old, you know me, I never grew up, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, its a shame you have to leave so soon.

July 19, 2004 It ended up hotter and every bit as humid yesterday as breeze. Then the clouds deepened and it sprinkled during the night,

it was the day before, but once again we were bailed out by an evening wetting the street and perfuming the air. Now its completely overcast where an old school friend is currently vacationing. In an e-mail message

and not a leaf is stirring. This is a bit different than the situation in Maui, from him that I read this morning, he said he was bored to death by the and down the beach. Had he asked me ahead of time, I would have steered him away from Maui and recommended several fine museums close to home, such as the Museum of Raisin History, or the Museum of

sunshine, the steady breezes, and the girls parading all but naked up

Early Plows and Wooden Handles. Instead, he allowed himself to be victimized by tourist propaganda. Poor guy. I feel sorry for him. Meanwhile, I emptied another can of coffee this morning. The next can screw-on lid and a magic freshness seal. We had one of them before

isnt a can at all, but one of those new stupid plastic containers with a and found that the coffee becomes stale much sooner than in a regular can. Besides, I like coffee cans. Not only have they been around for as long as I can remember, I have long regarded them as a minor art form behind bottles, of course. Old bottles and old labels are great. But

traditional coffee cans seem to be on their way out. Many brands have

disposed of them altogether. And, as usual, the companies say they are bottom line. It would be easy enough to step up my coffee consumption into their hands. As it is, we are already victims of the Great Mayonnaise Scam, which involves selling mayonnaise in narrow-mouthed jars, thus

doing it for the customers benefit, rather than admitting it helps their and use the stuff before it loses its zip. But that would be playing right

making it impossible to scoop out the last of the mayonnaise, which in turn makes you buy your next jar sooner. Oh, how I hate the people who think up things like this. And does the Common Man rise up? Does he revolt? No. He hangs his collective head and goes right along with it, No wonder we cant solve our problems.

and acts as if mayonnaise is supposed to come in narrow-mouthed jars. July 20, 2004 Is life just a battle to survive, marked by colorful,

poignant episodes, or is it something grander, better, more meaningful? definition we give them in our quest for security and sanity? What about people who dont have proper medicine or enough food to eat, and who

Are our personal victories and defeats of any value beyond the narrow

die of starvation and disease? Do their lives mean anything beyond their

own circle of grief? What must it be like to open ones fly-covered eyes to a new day and not have the strength to lift oneself up, or to even satisfied, well-fed bundle of petty concerns, selfish thoughts, and unexamined beliefs? understand or care? And yet, is it not equally tragic to be a bored, self-

July 21, 2004 At this very moment, my blushing bride is in the kitchen the heat, as temperatures will be near 100 for the rest of the week. She has marionberry. And now the first peaches are appearing, so peach jam already made strawberry jam, strawberry-raspberry, and

making a batch of apricot jam. Shes doing it early in the morning to beat

isnt far off. Yesterday afternoon, she made a peach pie and a boysenberry pie, and we have been eating peaches every day for about a week. The variety available in fruit stands is called Early Red Haven. said someone had brought peaches into his place of work, and that they rest were devoured by his co-workers within a few minutes. When I told

They are sweeter and juicier than usual. Last night a friend called and were so good he could hardly stand it. Actually, he only had one. The him we had fresh peach pie, he cursed and said he wanted some. Then

I cursed, and he cursed some more, then we spent several minutes

cursing, and blaming each other for every problem weve ever had and will have. To top it off, it was his birthday. I dont like birthdays, he said, and I answered, Thats just because youre old. If you werent old, you wouldnt mind them a bit. My friend, who is eight years older than I am,

thanked me for this reminder. Tell you what, I said. Since its your birthday, I will bring you some pie. Ill stop at the grocery store and get you a frozen pie, or maybe a chicken pot pie. How about that? He

cursed at me again, and told me he was going to fix himself another margarita. As we were both tired after a long day, we decided to call a

temporary truce and hang up. Awhile later, I had a piece of peach pie. I didnt feel guilty at all. July 22, 2004 In a letter to the editor a couple of days ago, someone suggested that the presidents daughters, who have been trotted out on wearing military uniforms rather than evening gowns. I disagree. While the campaign trail in another attempt to humanize their daddy, should be the idea holds a certain sick appeal, the girls shouldnt have to pay for the crimes of their father and his family any more than the good-natured old man go to Iraq, and let him take his brothers and business cronies with him, along with the peoples so-called representatives in government who approved the war. In other words, let those who profit George II made this clear when he disappeared from duty his first time unemployed kid up the street who cant afford college. Instead, let their

most pay the most. If they dont like the idea and of course King around then no one should go. No one. If the president isnt eager and willing to die in his own war, then he shouldnt expect anyone else to die in his place. And if he is eager and willing, then he should be locked up. Thats the trouble with money and power its impossible to have too much, because what you dont have, someone else will grab, and you have to cry and go wee wee wee all the way home. I suppose I the next thing you know, you dont get to be emperor anymore, and then could have put this more intelligently, but the truth is, like the president, I

am the victim of faulty intelligence my own, not someone elses. The buck stops here. Unfortunately, it stops only long enough to rest, then it moves on, and I have to go looking for another buck. Buck, buck. Buck, buck. Now Im a chicken. And we all know how intelligent chickens are.

July 23, 2004 The big story or, rather, the big complaint at the

moment is the extreme heat that has engulfed the region. Todays

temperature is predicted to be in excess of 100 degrees, and the same is expected for tomorrow. Yesterday was ninety-eight, and it was a warm, gummy night. I woke up at two with a headache, fell back asleep, had a bad dream, and got up at four with the same headache. It has since subsided, with the help of aspirin, breakfast, and coffee, but it hasnt left completely, and I dont expect it will. Its a matter of surviving

the next few days until the weather breaks. Air conditioning would help, but most homes in the area, except for those built recently, are without. The number of extremely hot days here is generally limited. A typical summer averages about a dozen days of ninety-plus-degree weather. Temperatures in the mid-eighties and cooler nights are most common. I realize this is dull. But, thanks to the heat, so am I. At least thats my excuse this time. But I did pick up two more books the other day: Mademoiselle de Maupin, by Thophile Gautier, and The Reivers, by William Faulkner. So far, Gautiers preface has been interesting. Its

main purpose is to rake critics and journalists over the coals a cause

as worthwhile now as it was in the nineteenth century when the book

was written. It seems Gautier might also be preparing readers for his

novels racy content, but I wont know for sure until Ive finished the

preface and read the story. Other than that, there is nothing new to as the 2004 presidential election nears, the headlines tell us that we arent safe, and that evil terrorists are lurking. After all, a scared around the world are generating more enemies every day. It is a strange population is a compliant one. Never mind that this countrys actions

report. Life, in all its insane variety and splendor, continues. Predictably

logic that says if we are to be safe, we need to kill people, steal their resources, and set up permanent military shop on their land. One would think it would be the opposite: wouldnt we be safer if we helped people

and encouraged them to help others in turn? Or is such a thing

impossible because we have hated each other, and have been told we hate each other, and have been told to hate each other, for so long? Who would trust us now if we were to lay down our weapons and tell the world we want to heal instead of kill? And if we set such a glorious example, wouldnt it spell our doom? Maybe it would. But, as I see it, we

are doomed anyway, just as all nations throughout history have been doomed. One of our most basic human failings is our short-sightedness. We think only of ourselves, here and now and a few years hence. We dont concern ourselves with the common good and our common future

on this planet. We want what we want now, and leave the future to our unknown progeny, even though it destroys the planet and makes us miserable in the process. This is why we are constantly at war, and why

some of us have far more than we need while others needlessly suffer and die. The most amazing thing of all, though, is that countless millions of us dont see it, and dont care enough to see it. We are surrounded by beauty, and yet beauty is not enough. Life is a miracle, but not a big enough miracle to satisfy us. We want more. We want convenience. We what we have. And yet we already have everything. It boggles the mind.

want what someone else has, and we dont want someone else to have July 24, 2004 This mornings paper arrived in a colorful plastic bag advertising a well known over the counter pain killer. There were coupons to cut out, and in a specially sealed pocket there was a

package containing two sample pills. I took them and began to feel better immediately. A short time after that, I realized I was hooked, so I I could find. When I got home, I took another pill, just to be sure. It worked. I felt even better. I woke everyone in the house and gave them sped to the store with my coupons and bought the largest box of the pills

pills. They were hooked even quicker than I was, so I raced back to the

store this time without coupons and bought another big box without

looking at the price. Have you tried these? I asked the cashier who she said. I take them every day, several times a day. In the parking lot, their car. Aisle Nine, I said. You cant miss them. They thanked me, and actually seemed to do a little dance on their way to the store

took my money. Theyre great. The cashier smiled. Of course I have, I gave pills to some people who had just arrived and were getting out of

entrance. Back at home for the second time, I had sat down and started to work when I realized I felt a little too good. Just to be on the safe side, I took another handful of pills. That seemed to help. I began to feel

worse immediately. A few minutes later, I was completely ill. I began to sweat. Thinking it was a fever, I took two more pills. The sweating stopped. I felt better again, so I took one more pill. This went on for some time taking pills, feeling ill, taking more pills, feeling better take all of the pills. The family was taking them too. For awhile there, the container never touched the counter as it was urgently passed along. It and that ambulances and fire trucks were parked in front of several of until finally I had run out of pills. But dont get the wrong idea. I didnt

wasnt until after wed run out of pills that I noticed the sound of sirens, the neighbors houses with their lights flashing and their drivers calling for assistance. Wanting to be of help, I rushed outside and ran toward the nearest ambulance. Later, I awoke in a hospital bed. A nurse smiled at me. Then she filled a glass of water and handed it to me with two more of the pills. And, wouldnt you know it, they turned me right around.

July 25, 2004 It looks like the worst of the heat is over. After days of

104 and 99 degrees, the wind came crashing in from the west, bringing

with it cool, coastal air. This morning there is even a thin layer of ocean

clouds, and the temperature is in the lower sixties. When I got up, I

found our tired farm worker sawing logs on the couch with the light on,

where he had fallen asleep many hours earlier. I addressed a few kind words to his sleeping face, but my voice didnt penetrate his slumber. So I looked at the Sunday paper to the accompaniment of his steady

breathing and occasional snorts, had a small bite to eat, and washed the meal. Then I took a shower and made some coffee. Now I am sitting

few dishes and glasses that had accumulated since yesterdays evening here drinking the coffee. And I just heard something the kid just got

up and went to bed. Its almost eight oclock. All is well. Not counting the cat, Im the only one up. Poor Joe. He suffered in the heat. But now hes happy and full and outside licking his paws. And Im stupid and dumb

and tapping on my little keyboard. But at least Im clean and the dishes are done. Just think how many people there are who would love to be able to say that, but cant. And just think how many other people there are who would consider what I am doing right now to be a complete and utter waste. Its amazing, isnt it? Who would have thought Id be so important to so many people? The fact that they dont know it doesnt sleepy, very sleepy. . . .

change a thing. They are still under my power. Now they are growing July 26, 2004 Due to the heat and the strange hours Ive been

keeping lately, Ive fallen even further behind in my reading. This preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin, and went on to read the first few

morning at about a quarter after six, I finally finished Thophile Gautiers pages of the novel itself before having to tend to a few household matters. The opening paragraphs were appealing and had a nice enjoy it and do it justice. Assuming I survive the day and am not rhythm. But I definitely need to read the book in larger chunks in order to

detained by Homeland Security for unspecified charges, I will continue book in my next life, and also to catch up on other things, such as

this evening. If I dont survive, then maybe Ill be permitted to read the understanding how the president balances his Christianity with the

maiming and murder of small children and the steady production of war widows. Not that I question his deep belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ his savior. Its his interpretation I wonder about. Since he has so much trouble with English, its possible George the Good has been reading a new translation of the Bible rendered in Republican Twang, as the Abridged Cheney Edition, containing a special key to

with the words of Jesus printed in red, white, and blue, otherwise known mispronunciation and astute commentary by Donald Rumsfeld, and

featuring a new map of the Bible Lands showing redrawn borders,

military installations, and retaining walls, as well as a diagram of heaven that specifies parade routes and the number and placement of flag poles and Ronald Reagan statues. Verily I say unto thee, it is easier for a enter the Kingdom of Heaven (Dick, 9:11). president to pass through the eye of a camel, than it is for a needle to July 27, 2004 This might sound strange, but part of me wonders if I

shouldnt drop everything and become a folk singer. Ive always loved music, and music continues to play a profound role in my rather odd existence. I already know how to read music, having had five years of

piano lessons as a youngster not that not knowing would make any can learn whatever I need to learn, when I want to learn it. More likely and there is already ample proof in other areas to bear this out is that

difference if I actually made such a decision. Ive always believed that I

I would have trouble unlearning what needs to be unlearned. In any case, I have long been aware that I possess a strong musical instinct.

And I have mentioned before how music plays an important part in my

writing. For me, words on a page are far more than the meanings they represent; ideally, they should have a certain appearance, rhythm, and sound that makes what they mean more accessible intellectually, garbage, and maybe it is. But I really do feel this way. And of course singer, I didnt mean necessarily that I would drop writing. If it hasnt

emotionally, and physically. This might sound like bogus, egotistical when I said I wonder if I shouldnt drop everything and become a folk already, writing might drop me somewhere along the line, but Im no more capable of dropping it than I am of dropping well, you name it. I wanted to come up with something clever or poetic there, but the heck

with it. What I mean is, that whenever I decide to do something, I go all out, to the point that it appears I have dropped everything, when the truth is, I already dropped everything long ago, at least in the realm of common sense. Now that thats been cleared up, I think it might be

worthwhile to examine why else I wonder about becoming a musician. deliver his message anywhere, including on street corners, at most any

One reason that springs readily to mind is that a musician or singer can time, whereas a writers options are more limited. Its true enough that I as a performance art. When I write something, I write it to be read not

could write a story and read it on a street corner, but I dont see writing by me to others, but by others to themselves. For my work to be read, it

must be published, and even publication itself is not enough; there is the whole rigmarole involved in telling people that the book exists, and is by making use of the Internet, but the problem of publicity remains. If I available at all the usual outlets. The publication problem is partly solved were a folk singer, on the other hand, I could take my guitar and my

songs anywhere. If I finished a song that I especially liked, I could go

and sing it this afternoon in front of one of the coffee houses downtown, and no one would think it strange. They might think Im strange, but Im used to that. Moreover, I could sing for drinks in taverns all over the great Northwest, little by little making a name for myself, and coming up with new material along the way. As a writer, I cant do that though them. Likewise, I could attend poetry slams and yell my streetwise insanity and grief into a smelly microphone, but its just not me, and it

Ive long thought it would be fun to visit taverns and later write about

certainly isnt writing, though writing is occasionally involved. For me, it wouldnt be much different than writing ad copy for real estate either, as long as they enjoy it, in which case Im all for them. companies. Although, I must say, I have nothing against people who do July 28, 2004 The days are growing shorter. Now our early morning a vehicle has its lights on, though it isnt really necessary. By the time its this is has turned out to be our sons pre-dawn breakfast of choice. I

trips to the iris farm take place before the sun is up, and here and there over, this summer will be known as the Summer of Scrambled Eggs, as offer him other things, but hes not interested. He says there is no way he could face French toast or a bowl of steaming mush at five in the morning. There are times, though, when I think he might not recognize the difference. This morning, he ate most of his breakfast with his eyes closed. For the sake of efficiency, I eat with him. In self-defense, I try to vary what goes in the scrambled eggs, by using different kinds of cheese, adding mushrooms or a small amount of fried potato, and alternating between seasonings. I always use tabasco, and rarely skip awhile longer, I do. And for whatever odd reason, I am still able to

dry purple basil. I dont know if the kid notices, but having been up convince myself that I am inspired by whats on my plate. When we first

sit down, I usually say something like, Isnt this fantastic? or, Theres

nothing better than scrambled eggs first thing in the morning. The kids

eyebrow goes up, but thats about it. Hes used to me being a blowhard, even at that hour. One evening, I suggested I make both pancakes and eggs. He said, Thats a blowhards breakfast. I took it as a compliment. The following morning, I made scrambled eggs. If my calculation is correct, with Sundays off, there are thirty-three days of scrambled eggs of that when he comes home this evening. Then again, maybe I shouldnt. to go before school starts. Maybe I should remind my breakfast partner

July 29, 2004 Ongoing Torment Department: It is impossible to

respect a man who early every morning coughs up a lung for the entire neighborhood to hear and then spits several times on his concrete driveway where his wife and son cannot avoid either seeing the result or stepping in it and carrying it elsewhere on their shoes or bare feet. There he goes again. Its absolutely amazing. Hes dressed neatly and respectably for work, he has a new minivan, he flies his flag on the

Fourth of July, and he spits. He cant do it in his house, in his bathroom. He has to come outside and let his hideous gobbets fly, and the people concrete splat. I am not exaggerating. How his wife remains married Honor. So help me, I was sick morning, noon, and night. What else was I done us all a favor, my good lady. You are free to go. And if you like, the driveway. who live around him are subjected to the sound of his phlegm hitting the to him or doesnt kill him is beyond me. I couldnt stand his spitting, Your to do? I had my son to think about. Very well. Case dismissed. You have bailiff can recommend a reliable pressure washing service to clean your

July 30, 2004 Last night a man named John Kerry accepted the

Democratic nomination for president. We watched his speech on

television. It lasted forty-six minutes, and was frequently interrupted by applause. It was a pretty good speech as speeches go, and typical in that it painted things in broad and predictably safe, patriotic terms. I do

believe the United States and the world stand a chance of being slightly better off if Kerry is elected instead of Bush, who was never elected. The all-out assault on the environment will be slowed somewhat. As for the corporate rape of the population, that remains to be seen. The war in remain, as it always does. One thing that is refreshing is that Kerry actually seems to be a functioning human being, one capable of

Iraq will continue for some time, and if and when it ends, the military will

independent thought and intelligent and coherent speech. Its probably a

little old-fashioned, but I cant help thinking that a president should be able to speak the language of the country he supposedly leads, and that he shouldnt have to rely on a script from the moment he gets out of bed pillow. As if he were running through a checklist, Kerry systematically

in the morning until he lays his empty head on his freshly laundered addressed Cowboy Georges failings and crimes an easy enough

thing to do. Personally, I have no faith in anyone for president, or, for willingness to be completely honest and accountable in our daily lives,

that matter, any other office. I still believe our only hope lies in our and to recognize that how we live has a direct effect on people not only

next door, but around the world. This doesnt require legislation or leadership, it requires a personal, private revolution. This cannot happen as long as we are wearing buttons and waving flags. One can and should love his home, but he must also recognize that the entire earth is

his home, and that the people in it are his neighbors. There is no political

or religious system that is capable of bringing this about. There is only

one person at a time getting up in the morning and doing his best work, expense of no one. When we refuse to be satisfied until hunger is then we might call ourselves truly blessed. Then government will be an instrument of prosperity and continued accomplishment

and doing what is honest and right for the benefit of everyone and at the abolished, and war, and the rape of the environment, and ignorance, and

improvement that benefits everyone, as well as the earth and all other species. I know in my heart that this is true, and that it is unlikely that I will ever live to see the day. But I do feel there is hope. Yesterday, while spending a few minutes in a waiting room with my mother, a young mother and father sat down nearby. With them was their little boy and a but it was clear what was in their hearts the fathers pride, the mothers shy strength as she covered herself with a small blanket to preserve her modesty while she nursed her baby, and her mothers

newborn, and the girls proud mother. The family was speaking Spanish,

amazement in finding such a wonderful moment had arrived in her long and difficult life. I felt lucky just to be sitting there. These were real people, living not mentally ill celebrities or politicians afraid of losing their looks or their advantage. This family doesnt need speeches and flags, it needs honest work to do and a clean, safe place to sleep and wholesome food to eat, and the adults need to know that their children wont grow up to be used in someones evil war. Imagine the world if this were so. July 31, 2004 Yesterday afternoon at five oclock, a local printer Ive

known and worked with for many years closed his doors. Despite being can no longer afford to keep his shop open. The primary reason is the

one of the best, most efficient, and hardest working printers in town, he

economy; because of this he has also been unable to keep up with changes in technology, further compounding his problems. And so, come Monday morning, he will go to work for a larger, more modern

shop nearby, taking his experience, service ethic, and wounded pride with him. Visiting with him in his shop yesterday was a painful experience. From the beginning, he ran the place by himself, capably

handling all aspects of the business from A to Z. Now there were price

tags on his equipment, two or three pieces of which he had managed to books were stacked near the door and also for sale, as was his desk of my projects; I said no, and that anyway, even if I did, my heart wasnt

sell. Chairs for his customers to sit on while looking through sample and the clock on the wall. He asked me if I needed some paper for any in it. Knowing me as he does, he would have been surprised if I had

accepted his offer of free paper and started pawing through his supply.

Bah, what a life. We try, try, try, but often it just isnt good enough. In who is mentally lazy and basically corrupt, but who just happens to be engaged in a bit of timely commerce. Not that bums like that dont fail too, but at least they deserve to fail, since they think only of what they to make a grown man cry.

many cases, our trying amounts to less than that achieved by someone

can get and not of what they can give. Bah, and again bah. Its enough September 1, 2004 The telephone just rang. It was someone I know, because he needs and expects me to do it. To be more precise, he

wanting me to do something I dont want to do, but that I will do anyway needs someone to do it, and expects me to do it, because I have done such things for him in the past. In other words, its my fault for not telling him to find someone else. Naturally, I didnt let on that I dont want to do what he wants me to do. Im too polite and too stupid for that. And yet all

I would have to do is tell him that I am no longer available to do what he wants me to do. He wouldnt even be upset. The fact is, he doesnt care. His only concern is getting done what he needs done. Even more

ridiculous is that we arent friends, though we have known each other since 1988. And if we have known each other since 1988 and still arent friends, it isnt likely that we will ever be friends. Not that he isnt a nice enough guy. Hes plenty nice. We just have nothing in common, except

for what he calls me about and wants me to do. I keep thinking that one of these days I will tell him politely and with all due respect, of course for about one minute. I even know who he would call in my place. Then him? Is it because he pays me to do what he needs and wants me to Im through. It would simplify my existence, and only complicate his life would go on. The question, then, is, why dont I go ahead and tell do? Possibly. And yet, the money is so little that it would hardly be missed. It isnt a matter of survival. Do I put the money in the bank? No. spent. The only reason I hang onto to it is to tease my creditors. Oh, Its spent before he gives it to me. Every cent I have has already been well, then, here you go, I tell them eventually. If its really that important

to you, go ahead. Take it. If this sounds contradictory, thats because it but I hate it and dont want it. At the same time, I do want it but only money that the average business person lacks. It is this lack of understanding that allows business people to succeed,

is. I have a very strange relationship with money. I need it desperately, because I need it. The good thing is, this gives me an understanding of and

simultaneously leads them to believe all sorts of silly things about funny thing about it is, these very thoughts go through my mind every time this person calls me which, fortunately, isnt very often. If he

themselves that they couldnt possibly believe if they had no money. The

called me every day, I dont know what Id do. Sometimes I wont hear from him for two weeks. Those are happy days, indeed. September 2, 2004 And then there are people I want to hear from, but who choose to remain silent for exaggerated periods of time. I write to them and get no answer. I ask them pertinent questions, or specifically address something they have said, or mention something important they ask me something or tell me about their problems, I always reply, thats happening on my end, and then receive silence in return. When whether I have time or not, and whether or not Im in the mood. I reply

even if they dont ask me or tell me anything, and are just writing to say natural impulse to acknowledge someones greeting, and because I know what it feels like when someone doesnt acknowledge mine. Eventually, though, my anger subsides, and then I start to worry about the people I havent heard from. Everyone has their own set of everyone is held hostage by the lunacy of modern life. Often, at the end

hello. When someone says hello, I say hello back. I do so because its a

problems, be it health, mental, or otherwise, and to some degree of the day, it hurts to think, and it seems nearly impossible to compose a reasonable reply to someones urgent ramblings. I am accustomed to writing all the time, so maybe its easier for me. I find the act of writing, in better, and less tired. What physical exercise does for the body, writing

whatever form, to be therapeutic. I get caught up in it, and soon I feel does for my withered gray matter. It creates a positive charge, and gives me the energy I need to continue on. And continue I must, because so sounds foolish. But unless I am horribly mistaken, writing is the tool I am many things remain unsolved. That I will solve them by writing I know meant to use. Writing is like a shovel. With it I dig myself deeper into

trouble, and yet with that same shovel I will dig myself out assuming the handle doesnt break. September 3, 2004 Good news: Ive decided to undertake several

new projects. The idea came to me late yesterday afternoon. What you more. And so I quickly wrote down the word Projects on a slip of paper. Whenever I write something on a slip of paper, that makes it official. Oh,

need, I said, are new projects not two or three, but a dozen or

no, I said, holding the paper up to the light. You realize what this means, dont you? It means youre stuck. Now you have to follow through. Undaunted, I started thinking about what projects I might

undertake. Possibilities rushed in. Pick me! Pick me! they all yelled.

Im the project to end all projects. Some of them werent bad, so I threw considered the other rapidly accumulating projects. A scribble here, a crumple there, a sketch, a scratch, a puzzle. Hmm. Ah. No. Oh? Ah-ha! Why didnt I think of that before? Where was I yesterday? What have I been doing with my life? What a fool Ive been all these years! Just then, my wife walked in. What on earth is going on in here? she said. I

them into a pile on the corner of my work table and let them argue while I

looked up at her. From now on, I said defiantly, things are going to be different around here. There are going to be major changes. She sighed. Again? she said. What is it this time? She looked at the mess I was making. I know what youre thinking, I said. But dont say it. This pile of scraps represents whats going on in my head. Her smile was sweet and full of understanding. At the same time, it was obvious that hard to prove Im off my rocker? Besides, I still have my projects. I have them, and no one can take them away from me. I know the truth and the truth is, I cant be stopped. she felt she had proved her point. But so what? Since when has it been

September 4, 2004 Our new neighbors have placed a gallon concrete swans near their front step. The swans have a little round platform growing out of their backs, making them look somewhat

container of yellow chrysanthemums on each of the two decorative

deformed. But the general scene is a cheerful one, and there is every who tried to destroy the place. Meanwhile, the spitter across the street

indication that these people are nothing like the former troublemakers has taken his adorable little family on a vacation somewhere. They have been gone a week. And what a pleasure it has been to see their house sealed like a tomb, and not to have to listen to the daily spitting and yelling. The neighbors around the corner are in charge of picking up the usually the paper sits there half the day announcing the owners absence. But, in all fairness to the paper-picker-uppers, it takes time to decide which of their shiny SUVs to drive on their many important trips of this is true, mind you. I dont really know where they go, or why it newspaper every morning. One day they didnt bother until evening, and

each day to the video store, hair parlor, and club meetings. Not that any takes such monstrous vehicles to haul one or two people. Maybe they another problem developing. When the spitter parked his pickup by the

do contract work for local mortuaries. You Call, We Haul. There is also curb before he left, he left one of the interior lights on. It flickered bravely for three or four days, but it has finally gone out. I feel just terrible about him having to face a dead battery when he gets home. Why, hell be mad enough to spit. September 5, 2004 Good little student of literature that I am, I read

one of the short stories in the stack of Harpers magazines that recently came my way. I chose a story by a well known writer with several novels and story collections to his credit not too difficult since the authors

whose work appears in the magazine generally have an extensive track of, or have attended several prestigious workshops. The story was

record, or have at least studied with important writers no one has heard terrible. It was hopeless. Nothing happened. Its author was playing a clever word game, depending on his vocabulary to carry the piece, which it did right into the garbage. Quite simply, he did not care about gave them a chance to speak for themselves. There were a couple of almost-observations, and there was some almost-sex thrown in at the

his characters. He couldnt, because he never got to know them, never

end, when the author apparently realized hed better do something. He that sort of thing, but I refuse to believe that in a country this size it isnt

was too late. He took the money and ran. I suppose Harpers can afford possible to find better stories. The reason Harpers cant or doesnt

bother, I would guess, is that the editors feel the same about their work as the author who took the money and ran: this will do, the bases are covered, and so on and so forth. How boring, and what a waste of ink, paper, and circulation. . . . Now, there is something else on my mind, piano teacher, Mrs. Crawford, had risen from the dead to give a steps in a huge abandoned building. As a crowd gathered, I felt

and that is the rather dramatic dream I had last night, in which my old masterful performance of Chopins Polonaise at the top of some wide tremendously proud to see her performing on her shiny-black grand piano. She began softly with another piece of music, but soon she dum, dum-dum-Dum-dee-dee-dum with her ancient bony fingers. When became inspired and switched to Chopin, hammering out the Dum-deshe finished, the crowd erupted into applause, and she looked so happy admirers. I told her how beautifully she had played, and reminded her of

I thought I would cry. I met her soon thereafter, surrounded by a group of

the difficulty Id had with the piece years earlier when it had been part of our lessons. Growing younger every second, she smiled and said, With you, it is a gift, because the music is in you. And then I found myself alone in the building, wondering about what she had said. I knew it was

true, because she had said it. But what I didnt know, and still dont, is

what she really meant. Was she referring to music, or writing, or was she perhaps referring to living itself? And then there was the way she had spoken: it seemed she was giving me her permission to what? be

myself? I know this: if anyone could grant such a preposterous thing, it would be her, and she would do it in just that manner, simply and graciously, without drawing attention to herself. And here is another question: why that particular piece of music? I havent heard or thought of it for years which begs yet another question: what else havent I heard or thought of for years?

September 6, 2004 Maybe now is the time to read some Shakespeare. The book is still sitting here, right in front of me. I read the introductory material, which was quite interesting, but then I became distracted and read three novels and a collection of stories, some poems, and a few pages of Mencken. (A writer knows he has arrived when people refer to him by his last name. With any luck, he is still alive when this happens. But if hes dead, he still knows. This is my hope, at

any rate.) But even as I say this, I doubt I actually will read Shakespeare. should have left them together on the table, since Shakespeare fills a massive tome, while Kafka is relegated to a few pages in a fusty anthology between Faulkner and Wolfe, who are a couple of windbags. sigh. And I can see that Shakespeare would like nothing more than to

For one thing, he and Kafka arent speaking to each other. I never

For the last couple of minutes, Kafka has done nothing but blink and

argue and brag about his accomplishments. Its sad, really. Theyre both dead, and yet they persist in this childish behavior. And Mencken is dead, and Faulkner, and Wolfe, and almost everyone else. Am I dead? Quite possibly. I cant say for sure that I am alive. I think I am, but everyone else thinks theyre alive too. Thats hardly encouraging, when you consider some of the other things that everyone else thinks. Maybe Im just tired. But Im not. Im full of energy. I feel great. I feel rotten, too,

but thats to be expected, because feeling rotten is part of feeling great.

Once, after a particularly emotional funeral, I told an Armenian priest that thing, and that it brings out the best in people. This he almost

I liked funerals. He couldnt understand it. I told him grief is a beautiful understood, but he was too caught up in the idea that sorrow is bad and happiness is good for it to soak in as if they were two separate things, which of course theyre not, because nothing is separate. Everything is

part of everything else. Thats why I felt so happy during the funeral, and so sad, and why I usually feel that way in general. Now all I need to do is to figure out what this means. September 7, 2004 I read two more Harpers stories last night. One something is said and said well. But nothing was said. There was no

wasnt really a story, which isnt necessarily a bad thing as long as point or, if there was, the author was determined to keep it a secret.

The second story wasnt a story either, but it was a vignette, though a

lifeless one that didnt work the way its prize-winning author hoped it characters like crash-test dummies. On the other hand, she did use several French words and phrases, and though I didnt understand them,

would. It might have if she had been specific, and not treated her

I felt, how do you say? sophisticated. All in all, this Harpers story thing has become quite a challenge. Its beginning to look like Ill have to read

several more. I might even turn it into an all-out Quest for a Genuine Story and read three or four years worth. Meanwhile, I have a stack of The Atlantic to go through. But I fear this will be like switching from

McDonalds to Burger King. Not that I mean to sound bitter. Heaven forbid. Theyre only trying to run businesses, after all. What gets me is literature, but their spread sheets are showing. the pretending. They say they are publishing stories, or fiction, or September 8, 2004 What a shame that each war-related death in Iraq on both sides as well as each and every injury, doesnt merit the same attention as Milestone U.S. Death Number 1,000. After all, wasnt the number reached one tragic, bleeding moment at a time? And yet

during a visit to Portland yesterday, National Security Advisor Condoleeza Rice had the nerve to say that the U.S. is winning the war, both against terrorism and in Iraq. She said it with the same smirk that she, Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld are unable to wipe off their faces

when they utter their hideous lies. And who can blame them? Look at the illegitimacy of Bushs presidency, it is important to remember that

what they have gotten away with, and continue to get away with. Despite millions of people did vote for him. Can anything be more frightening? Have they learned anything? Have they been paying attention? Have assault on the environment? Have they bothered to notice who is

What are those people going to do when the 2004 election rolls around? they taken note of the lies, the destruction, the lost jobs, the continued profiting from the war? And do they think the next 1,000 deaths will be any less painful? Because if they grant the monsters another four years, 1,000 will quickly turn into 2,000, and 2,000 will turn into 5,000. If Bush stays in office, by legitimate or fraudulent means, his first term will seem like a picnic compared to what lies ahead.

September 9, 2004 If it were a few degrees cooler this morning, I

would be able to wear my new gray sport coat. I found it yesterday, with off and on last year, but not until it was late in the season. Then, a couple of days ago, it occurred to me that we would have better luck sense. The coat fits perfectly, is made of wool, and is worth every bit of its $7.99 price tag. The funny thing about these coats my black one is

the help of my long suffering bride, at Goodwill. We had looked for one

finding one now, while it is still relatively warm. Such is my keen fashion

also from Goodwill is that they are better than anything I can find in department stores which is interesting, since that is where they originally came from. But there is something wonderful about a coat that begins to show through. It is possible to relax in such a coat, to move

has been worn. The stiff, careful period is over, and its true personality freely, and to not worry about it coming in contact with the elements. The wearer a feeling of confidence. Thats why, when I see men wearing new

fact that it is still here proves its worth and durability, thereby giving its sport coats and looking like strangled two-by-fours, I feel sorry for them.

There is nowhere that I would be ashamed to be seen in either of my

sport coats, be it a wedding, funeral, or meeting with the governor. Thats how good they look, and how confident I am in their ability to make the right impression. Now, this reminds me of the time my brother grandfathers cousin, who has since passed on. Papken always wore a coat and tie, and he smoked cigarettes and loved to talk. One evening something or other, he forgot to flick the ash off the end of his cigarette.

and I were in Armenia in 1982, seeing the country and visiting with our

we were visiting a friend of his, and while he was going on and on about The ash grew and grew, until it was nearly two-thirds the length of the

original cigarette. It sagged, but somehow it held together, though the

cigarette was in his mouth much of the time. My brother and I watched coat. Papken didnt notice. He went right on talking, as the chunks of ash slowly found their way through the creases and fiber to the floor. I maybe someone in Armenia is wearing it still, and absorbing its wisdom and energy.

with amusement until the ash finally broke free and landed on his sport

wonder where that coat is now. Maybe Papken was buried in it, or

September 10, 2004 I woke up at about three-thirty this morning and couldnt go back to sleep. Now its almost eight and I cant wake up. Im here at my post, but an entire army might already have passed behind me without my knowing it. Or a herd of cattle, on its way to slaughter not that there are any similarities between the two. No. Of course not. Let us speak plainly, then. Let us not mince words. Let us say there is a

light fog this morning, and that scarcely a tired, dirty maple leaf is

stirring. Let us say the spitting neighbor is back, and that he just did what I enjoyed so much not hearing him do while he was gone on vacation. know about his dead battery. Finally, let us say that I am tired of saying Let us also say that he has yet to try starting his pickup and still doesnt let us say. Summer is dying a slow, graceful death. Fall is peeking biding her time. Spring is busy reading next years seed catalogs. unanswered questions and misunderstood replies. Lean messengers

through the leaves and starting small fires along the roadside. Winter is Everywhere, the ground aches underfoot. It aches with a thousand run from village to village with the news, but they are really looking for brides, for they are tired of running, and tired of being alone. The young women know this, and greet them as they approach. What news do you bring? Have you seen our friends? But the messengers look at them strangely. They say everyone in the village has been killed, or that they

have all gone mad. They make up fantastic stories, causing the young women to tremble. If it is so, what will become of us? But they know it is a game, and they walk hand in hand with the messengers into the village. When they arrive, the elders smile, for they, too, know. They remember, and laugh, Is everyone in your village still mad? Yes, yes. Of

course we are mad. We are all mad, and we have all been killed. But with your kind blessing, your daughter and I will go back and save them. It is the least we can do. The blessing is given, and then there is a great your business. Ignore the man behind the curtain. He is the maddest villager of them all.

celebration. This is how we live. This is how we die. Please, go about

September 11, 2004 In downtown Salem yesterday, I held a door open for two babbling Mexican women pushing strollers. Then, as it happened, there was another door several feet ahead, and since they

reached it before I did, one of them held it open for me and said with a nice it would be if everyone were so friendly and willing to take torns.

smile, Now is my torn. I thanked her and passed through, thinking how And earlier, when I was in a print shop on extremely important and highly confidential business so important and confidential that even I didnt know what it was I found myself stranded at a busy counter with customers lined up on one side and employees lined up on the other. employees seemed uncertain of their menu. And even earlier so

The customers looked like they were ordering sandwiches, while the early, in fact, that it was the day before upon leaving the bank, I He flashed a silver-laden smile and said, Very good, thenk you, just as

asked the Russian who sells hot dogs on the corner how he was doing. if he had already sold a hot dog to every citizen of Salem, and I was the

only one he had missed. It was inspiring to see a genuine old-style

entrepreneur in action, bringing life to a street corner. What a shame headlines from beneath floppy woolen caps: President reads book!

there arent also paper boys on the sidewalk hollering the days President holds map upside down! Then wed be getting somewhere. people, and behavior is so regulated and predictable. Worst of all, hardly

What a time this is, really. It seems so much life has been snuffed out of anyone gets my jokes anymore. People just look at me and look, and look, and look. Well, Im sorry, buddy, but if you dont get it by now, home and watch your little screen, or big screen, as the case may be. youre not likely to anytime in the near future, so why dont you just go Im sure you can find a cheap money-mad game show, or talk show, or reality show, or something else youve seen 10,000 times. When youre through, come back. Ill still be here. Maybe then we can talk, unless them these days. Hello? Hello? No, I cant talk now, Im using the really? Good for you. Im baking a damn cake.

youre too busy playing games on your cell phone, or whatever they call shaving attachment on my phone. Im networking. Im conferencing. Oh, September 12, 2004 Phlegm update: Finally, after two weeks, the

neighbor tried to start his pickup. He opened his garage door yesterday morning and coughed and spat his way to the street, unlocked the pickup, and sat down behind the wheel. Click-click-click. Nothing. He got out of the pickup and coughed again, and then, splat. The coughing,

spitting, and splatting when on for half an hour while he tried to jumpstart the battery with his van. Click-click-click. It might have helped if he had started the van and left it running, and given the battery a chance to charge, but he didnt. He went back inside, then returned a couple of

minutes later, spitting. He called someone on his cell phone, and

actually spat during the conversation. When he hung up, he realized he

was standing in a river of phlegm, and that the drain in the gutter had backed up. The phlegm had crept over his neighbors sidewalk next door. Birds were falling dead out of the trees. Sirens wailed in the distance. He was trapped. Luckily, our house is across the street and on higher ground. As our moat filled with phlegm, I raised the drawbridge. Then I fired several cannons, killing the neighbor and destroying his house. A giant crater formed, swallowing them, it, everything. This morning, the street is quiet. I am at peace. September 13, 2004 Now our iris worker has a nice fat bank account

and is back in school. He still has a couple of Saturdays to work on the

farm, then the season will be officially over. Meanwhile, the farm owners will enter a new cycle of activity, one that moves along at a slower, saner, more human pace. Back in my farming days, this didnt happen until October. Then the Fresno Fair opened and Id sneak off and spend a day at the horse races, which was an ideal place to study human

behavior, including my own. Now in his senior year of high school, and son is attending school in the mornings only. One of his classes will

having satisfied almost all of his so-called educational requirements, our focus on Shakespeare, so it will be interesting to hear his impressions. In the afternoon he will be free to study and play his guitar in fact, he claims a new one is on the horizon, now that he has money. Hes still

talking about buying a twelve-string acoustic, which I think is a fine idea,

especially since he is the one who will be paying for it. The house is full

of music these days, as he and his older brother have continued their on the way that he says is just a junk guitar that he plans to

guitar explorations. Vahan has three amps now, two guitars, and another experiment on. Judging by the progress the boys have made boys? Vahan is twenty-three Im one hundred percent behind their activities.

Vahan, who is quite a wizard in computer matters and is actually paid for his knowledge and ability, has said many times that the last thing he wants to be is a geek who knows nothing beyond the computer realm.

Between his musical pursuits and extensive reading, I would say there is geek, or even a productive citizen at least in ordinary terms. For the

no danger of that. There is also no danger of me becoming a computer truth is, I am quite productive, even though most people think I do misguided perceptions. It certainly beats explaining why I mumble to myself and hit my head against the wall.

nothing. I find this extremely amusing, and purposely encourage their

September 14, 2004 Propaganda, anyone? How about this front page

headline in todays Oregonian: U.S. risks losing Iraqis support. Thats a clever one, all right. Its clever because it assumes the U.S. once had the Iraqis support, and also because it assumes the U.S. still does despite the occupation, despite the U.S. takeover of the Iraqi economy, homes. This kind of propaganda goes on day in and day out. We are soil? Who is where they should not be, and have no right to be? Who

despite the ongoing death and destruction of the Iraqis families and liberators. They are insurgents and terrorists. And yet, who is on whose has killed tens of thousands of people in their homeland, and starved their children and deprived them of proper medical care? And yet many people will fall for just such a headline, and never once stop and think of reversed. They cannot imagine running through a smoke-filled street with their dead child in their arms. That only happens on TV, reported news anchors with strategic hair and mock expressions of concern

how they would feel and what life would be like if the situation were

between advertisements for unaffordable new prescription drugs by until its time for a feel-good story, when they miraculously cheer up, as if

the blood had suddenly stopped flowing and peace were declared. This is whats happening. September 15, 2004 Shall I write about the sixty people who were killed yesterday in Iraq, or shall I sit here and pretend to go about my business? What is my business? None of your business. They were on TV several months ago, Freedom is a messy business. Ah, there

killed because Iraq has been liberated. Or, as the great Rumsfeld said we go again, with that hideous word, business. But business is what the Im thinking quite seriously of raising my lemonade price from five cents were busy killing people in the name of freedom and democracy, I

war is all about. It is what the war is. As for my own business hah! to ten cents a glass. Lemonade, mister? Oh, Im sorry. Had I known you wouldnt have asked. Excuse me. Really, Ive got to find a better location. Or a better business. Hey, I know. Ill be a writer. That ought to be easy. I can sit in my room all day and wait for the war to blow over. get in here? I ugh. Once again, I must apologize. It was one of my

No one will find me here. No one will hey! who are you? how did you cutthroat lemonade competitors, trying to poison my supply. I use real

lemons, you know. Did I mention that? I dont use frozen concentrate.

Oh, yeah, that reminds me of a good blond joke. A blond was staring at the blond said, It says concentrate. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. You see, this is because there are too many people making too much money from it. So Lemonade, mister?

a can of frozen orange juice. Her friend said, What are you doing? and what happens when you try to outlast a war that is nowhere near ending you go crazy. Really, you should try it some time. It feels good. September 16, 2004 Hurricane Ivan is battering the coast of the

southern U.S. This means it wont be long until the president flies in and

hands out bottled water and sandbags with his shirt sleeves rolled up. I told you, take it of my good side. Very well, Mr. President, as you wish. Turn around. There. Now. Bend over, please. Excellent! Oh? Youre Dont you want to stay and help? The least you could do is check the

leaving already? But you just got here. What about all these sandbags? voting machines before you leave, to make sure they are malfunctioning properly. Whats that? Your good buddies at Diebold are in charge of said, Ill be seeing you, in all the same old places. . . . that little detail? Im sorry. My mistake. Well, then, as Mario Lanza once September 17, 2004 Yesterday evening, an obnoxious-looking young man in a cheap tan suit marched up to the house and rang the door bell. vigorously to let us know he knew we were home and that he didnt appreciate being ignored. Then he left. But about forty-five minutes later, youngest son asked me, Arent you going to shred him? When I told him I wasnt in the mood, he was disappointed. You can if you like, I When we didnt answer promptly, he rang it again, then pounded

he was back again, this time ringing and pounding simultaneously. Our

said. Then his brother came in and said, I know. Why dont you open the door but not say anything? Just stare at him. I said that was a pretty tempting idea, and then we acted out the scene for our own amusement, man had leaned on the bell one last time and given up. A couple of

our eyes getting bigger and bigger. While this was going on, the young minutes later I went out to apologize, but I couldnt find him anywhere. I which Vahan cranked up his Fender 59 Bassman, rattling the house. to the door? Vahan shrugged, but continued playing. So I went back

felt terrible. Then I closed the garage door and came back inside, after Shouting over the noise, I said, Hey, how will we know if anyone comes outside, and began searching through the neighborhood for the

obnoxious salesman. Had I found him I would have shredded I mean dont like having their doors hammered unless there is a fire, or a visit

explained to him that contrary to what he learned in school, most people from aliens, or some similar development, and, further, that some people bothered. After circling the block, I noticed flames leaping from our roof, where an alien space ship had landed. I was about to call the fire department when several obnoxious-looking young men in cheap tan

also feel it is their right to not answer the door if they dont feel like being

suits jumped out of our pine tree and began spraying me with cologne and trying to sell me vacuum cleaners. It was then that I realized how far-reaching the effects of Bushs economic policies are. Because, just bearing recruiters for the armed forces of the Intergalactic States of as I was showing them my empty pockets, a fancy space shuttle arrived America. The poor aliens didnt stand a chance. They listened excitedly Soon, everyone was gone. I called the fire department, and they came

to the recruiters for about fifteen seconds, then signed their lives away. and put out the fire, and disposed of the wreckage. I thanked the men for their efforts and told them all that had happened. Weve seen a lot of left. I went back inside, wondering where it all would end. this lately, one of them said while he was rolling up the hose. The men September 18, 2004 Someday, possibly much sooner than I think, these words will have lost their meaning. They might already have done so. On the other hand, who is to say that they wont live and breathe for a thousand years, or even longer? But if they do, they will probably mean something else, or more, or less, than they mean now. A thousand years is a long time almost as long as the time it has taken me to write these few sentences. And no, I dont know where this is going. All I

know is that it is going. Anything might happen, and my course will

abruptly be changed. Its raining. That means something. It means the

air is fresh and cool, and that we wont have to water anything. And that means something. It means that what we have to water wont last much longer anyway. It means summer is over. And then there is the coffee

Im drinking, and the encouraging sounds rising from my keyboard, and

the ringing in my ears, and the fact that the gardening crew that takes

care of the house next door just started a noisy leaf blower and lawn mower. What do they hope to accomplish in the rain? Being paid. There is no other reason for them to be there. Because the truth is, what they are doing is idiotic and unnecessary. But what about what I am doing? I

know its idiotic, but is it also unnecessary? I, too, want to be paid, but being paid for raking leaves or mowing a lawn. It involves the use of

being paid for a piece of writing is a lot more difficult to arrange than several complicated formulas and equations, all of the known sciences, of physical laws, the study of languages, history, and music, the

religions, and philosophies, the interpretation of dreams, the suspension observation of ants and termites, and drinking huge quantities of water. grapes, which are to me one of the earths dearest commodities. Last year, we had none. I worked an entire year without Muscat grapes. A few days ago, we found some at a local fruit stand. They were small, of course, and not quite as sweet as they should be, but they were

Without the water, all else goes for naught. I should also mention Muscat

Muscats. I ate a small bunch last night, grinding up the smaller seeds, eaten all year, because I refuse to eat grapes from the grocery store, which are stacked in ignorant heaps and sweating in plastic bags. Is my writing necessary? I believe it is, but is it even for me to say? And yet I have said so, many times, and will probably continue to say so. Why the

spitting out the larger ones. They were the first and only grapes I have

heck shouldnt I say so? If I didnt feel it was necessary, I wouldnt be my lack of accomplishment. As I survey the wreckage of the preceding hours, I can only shake my head in wonder. There is always so much more that needs to be done, that I feel I should take a shower, put on a night. This in turn severely reduces the quality of my sleep. Last night,

doing it. And yet, at the end of the day, I am often deeply disturbed by

pot of coffee, and start another shift. I feel I should work through the for example, from about midnight on, when I awoke from a nightmare

kicking at a strange assailant, I tossed and turned and woke up every

fifteen or twenty minutes. By five this morning I was crippled, and I still our son, and I did get him to his iris job on time. It was a beautiful trip,

havent straightened up completely. But I did make a nice breakfast for cloudy and windy, and we saw a man from our general neighborhood walking past the corn field along Tepper Road. Perhaps he wondered, This is what I do. I wonder about what people are wondering. I also really a wonderful life, though it is fraught with peril. as I did aloud, whether the crop would ripen fully in the cool weather. wonder about myself, and the strange life I seem to be living, which is September 19, 2004 A few minutes ago, my precious bride told me

about an elevator accident that took place last night in the Reed Opera

House in downtown Salem. The Reed is a very old brick building with an alternating array of shops, offices, restaurants, and vacancies in the primarily by a spacious ballroom with windows that look down on the basement and on the first and second floors. The third floor is occupied street. The ballroom is frequently rented out for events, last nights being

a wedding reception. It seems the main elevator has been under repair, so guests and the elevator operator didnt stop as expected on the

and for that reason the freight elevator was being used when a dozen or

ground floor, but continued all the way to the basement in what one passenger said was a free-fall. Three or four people went to the hospital with minor injuries. The elevator repairman, though, who

happened to be in the building at the time, smiled at the term free-fall. He said that wasnt the case it all, and that the elevator was traveling at instead until it reached the basement, where it had to stop, giving the times myself, but have always preferred taking the stairs, because it I remember correctly, is supposed to be haunted. Not only that, many the normal speed and simply didnt stop when it should have, continuing passengers an extra jolt. I have ridden in the Reeds elevators a few allows one to better appreciate and experience the old building, which, if years ago, a friend and I had a small newspaper office in the basement.

I still remember arriving one morning to find water dripping onto my large pipes overhead. To make matters worse, the entire front wall of the like being in a fish tank. When we spoke we had to do so quietly,

computer monitor. The ceiling wasnt finished, and so there were several office was glass that didnt reach the ceiling, so being in the office was because our voices echoed. Still, everything was great, because we were in the Reed Opera House along with a tailor, a hair salon, a work. Unfortunately, no one ever asked us where our office was, and no guitar repairman, and a business that helped people with handicaps find one paid us a visit, except for the downtown parking police, who came in the people who would be using the free parking spaces outside the building when they came to our place of business. We told them no a business, but we were still charged the minimum of two parking

to measure the place so they could decide how much to charge us for

one ever came, and since we made no money we could hardly be called spaces, which came to about eighty dollars a year. Early on, we also

received a visit from a cologne-soaked representative of the local Chamber of Commerce, who was unnaturally excited about the idea of having a hand-shaking and business card-exchanging party in our aquarium. This idea evaporated into thin air when the Chamber realized that one of the papers we were publishing was a new monthly business gazette which competed directly with one they had started, or, rather,

had been roped into doing by Salems local daily. Instead of embracing our presence for the good of the areas business community, we were treated as outcasts a situation we relished, especially in print. These

days, the Chamber still holds its hand-shaking parties, while vacancies town, and places like Wal-Mart thrive. The chain-owned daily, of course,

continue to escalate in the Reed Opera House and elsewhere all over still charges exorbitant advertising rates, thereby draining the pockets of business owners desperate for customers. All in all, it is a happy formula that benefits everyone. September 20, 2004 Somehow, we must break free of the rats grasp. His foul teeth and claws have poisoned our systems, our minds. We think we think, but what we think is not what we think we think. It is what

he thinks, and what he wants us to think which is not thinking at all, but stinking. He chews corpse-flavored gum, twirls nations by the tail, has buzzards for friends, saves the flies, and throws out the ointment with the bath water. Other than that, he is a nice rat, a good, fat, rat-a-tat

rat, a fancy dude of a card-playing rat, a hat rack rat with a belt buckle,

the head rat who speaks through his tail. He is a rat with eyebrows, a

most important characteristic, a foibling rat, a lungful of bad air rat that chases ducks around the pond until they sink, then smiles at them

stifles a young century, a roasting pan full of mud and onions rat that through the window in the oven. Who is he? Who is this rat that mocks

the sorrow-laden world? Who is the rat with teeth so long that they leave a lightless miners shaft of oily pain? Is he who we think he is? Are we really who he thinks we are a deaf, dumb, blind multitude asleep at our watch? Or is everything and everyone something and someone else?

September 21, 2004 If it werent for my work, I would have gone mad far sooner, and in a different, more dangerous way. I would not only be mad, I would be angry, and the world would be missing out on my irresistible warmth and magnetic optimism. Everyone would think I am

impatient, bitter, cynical, arrogant, and opinionated, and that I see no reason to change. They wouldnt know me as the mild, unassuming, gentle, forgiving person I am. And what a shame that would be. Yes, if it

werent for art in general and writing in particular, I would not be sitting here today, blessing the world with my wit and wisdom. Instead, I would be clawing my way up the ladder of commerce, eating in traffic jams, and

playing telephone tag with people who pretend to like me but in reality are trying to keep me from getting anywhere and vice-versa. Truly, writing has saved me from myself, and the world from the monster I could have become. It has saved my wife and children as well, from

having to cope with someone who flies off the handle for little or no

reason, and who curses inanimate objects for refusing to cooperate. The

peace and tranquility they know and have come to expect and rely on their happiness, or mine, or the worlds. I owe everything to art, and to Hey wake up, damn you.

would be nothing more than a dream or fairy tale. But I take no credit for my battered muse, who lies crumpled in a drunken heap in the corner. September 22, 2004 It was interesting to see George Served

Honorably But Wasnt There Bush speaking before the United Nations

yesterday. His expression said it all. It said, Man, these people hate me. The smirk was temporarily gone. All he wanted to do was read his piece about how he is saving the world from terrorism by destroying Iraq able to get in a few rounds of golf, or a make trip to his ranch. . . . In

and leave. Poor guy. After seeing him suffer, one can only hope hell be other news, our iris worker did in fact buy a twelve-string acoustic guitar with part of his summer earnings. Its a Taylor, and truly a thing of beauty, with thrilling, rich sound. This, too, is what is happening in the world: a seventeen-year-old boy deciding a year in advance that he will buy an expensive musical instrument, and then working ten hours a day digging, cutting, sorting, and packing irises during the summer to earn home the one of his dreams. It is inspiring to say the least. Best of all,

the money he needs, and, finally, after trying various guitars, bringing after two days, he is already playing the thing as if he had been doing so all along. It feels to me, and Im sure it does to him, that a new door has opened, and that all he needs is to walk through. This is why we work, or to take over the world and control its resources. The monsters of the why we live not to get ahead, or to have more than the next person, world, the real terrorists like the current president, will never understand this. They will never know the pleasure of productive labor that enriches the spirit and benefits all. They will know only the pain of acquisition, and the mind-numbing, spirit-killing desire for more. Greed and suffering are their inheritance. These are powerful forces, indeed. But there is still music in the world. And as long as there is, there is hope.

September 23, 2004 Last night I read The Cop and the Anthem, a

short story by O. Henry that was beautifully adapted for television back in the Fifties by none other than the great Red Skelton. I found the piece in another book of O. Henrys stories that I picked up earlier this week at

the library book store. The Complete Works of O. Henry runs close to in New York. On the same trip, I also bought Hemingways For Whom

1,700 pages, and was published in 1937 by Garden City Publishing Co. the Bell Tolls. Even though I found the aforementioned volumes within the first thirty seconds, I was in the store for a full five minutes long enough to browse through the entire fiction section while sitting on a some odd reason is in exactly the same spot every time I visit the store.

child-sized but very sturdy and nicely varnished wooden chair that for The Cop and the Anthem is about Soapy, a bum who, noticing the warm confines of jail. His methods are simple enough. First he tries to

rapid approach of winter, follows his usual plan to secure lodging in the enter a restaurant and order roast duck, and then to be turned over to the law when it is discovered he is unable to pay. But he is thrown out as ignored by the police because Men who smash windows do not remain soon as he sets foot in the door. Then he breaks a store window, but is to parley with the laws minions. Then he tries to steal an umbrella, but as another policeman approaches, it turns out that the person he tries to steal it from has also stolen it, so the thief gives Soapy the umbrella and policeman makes lewd and suggestive remarks to a young woman who, much to his disappointment and surprise, takes him up on the offer. bench in defeat, he is stopped by the sound of beautiful music emanating from a small church. It is a captivating tune, . . . for he had Everything he tries, fails. Finally, as Soapy slowly returns to his park

flees. Then he decides to be a masher, and in full view of another

known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers

and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and

collars. Following the sudden impulse to reclaim his life, he decides he

is still young enough to resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue

them without faltering. He knows of a job, and decides to apply for it the

following day. Then, while he is standing there listening to the music, he loitering and given three months in prison. It is a classic O. Henry

feels a hand on his shoulder. It is a policeman, and Soapy is arrested for ending, and one that Red Skelton played to perfection as Freddie the

Freeloader. With his painted clown face, when Freddie hears the church

music, his expression is so tragically sad and full of remorse for a life illlived that one cannot help but recognize Skeltons genius and personal sorrow. And such is the life of a good story, that it can not only be read and understood within the context of its own time, but that it can live and be re-enacted fifty years later, and that fifty years after that it can be read minds. If that isnt enough reason to live and work, nothing is.

again and remembered in conjunction with what it has meant to other September 24, 2004 The writer best able to forget is the writer best

able to move on. This writer feels no need to reinvent the wheel, only the need to examine it more carefully in the light of his accidental knowledge, its natural ebb and flow. For the wheel itself is also changing, as the writer is changing, and the worlds perception of the presence. The opportunity to work is all he asks. If you give him money, he will take it, because he needs it desperately. But if you give him

writer and what he does, and the possible meaning of his rebellious

money with the understanding that he is not to work, he will return the money unspent. If he doesnt, if he takes the money and quits writing, then he was not a writer in the first place, but an imposter instead. The

world is teeming with pretend writers. It might be in everyones best

interest if these pretenders were paid off and allowed to fold their gaudy for real working writers to be heard. At the same time, a truly advanced

tents, because doing so would save countless trees, and make it easier

civilization would never place a price tag on art. An advanced civilization would see to it that art is made freely available to all, and that everyone, young and old, has the opportunity to pursue their artistic instincts, and to be exposed to art in general. We do not live in such a civilization. We

choose material things instead. We choose war. We teach our children healthy innocence is replaced by fear, anger, and frustration. Like father, like son. Like mother, like daughter. The fact that art survives at all

to stifle their instincts and pursue money, then wring our hands as their

shows how powerful it is, and how powerful the creative impulse is within us. Art is a healing force. We need to be healed. For whatever reasons, we have not yet realized the foolishness of our ways. We have not recognized the emptiness that lies at the heart of thinking we are republicans or democrats, or Christians or Muslims or Jews. As children, destroy a nation than study a butterfly. we know better. But we are afraid to be children. We would rather September 25, 2004 A fourth hurricane is on its way to Florida after killing more than a thousand people in Haiti and leaving many of its Thousands and thousands of people are dying in Sudan in what amounts to yet another genocide those little events the U.S. claims to inhabitants homeless, hungry, sick, and without safe drinking water.

condemn but regularly denies, ignores, condones, or helps to happen. The war in Iraq rages on. Thanks to the consistent backing of Israel by the United States, the Palestinians continue to suffer. And there are many other upheavals around the globe, both large and small, from which someone, somewhere, is managing to make a profit. The result:

human beings are killing each other at an alarming rate, and revenge. This is our world. I mention Haiti because it is one of many

simultaneously perpetuating the cycle of grief, anger, hunger, and

poor countries around the world that are used by wealthier nations as international sweatshops, industrial dumping grounds, the sites of secret government prisons, or military jumping-off points. If these countries

werent used in this manner, if the money that is spent killing and subjugating people were spent on helping them live a better life, then they would be far better prepared for natural disasters, and be better able to cope with their aftermath. If billions of dollars werent being spent on war, it could be spent on food, housing, medicine, and education. If entitled to everything, then there would be more left for everyone else. people in wealthy nations like the United States didnt think they were Nothing could be more plain. And yet to most, the idea of voluntarily

doing with even a little less isnt worthy of consideration. Millions actually think poor people deserve to be poor, and hungry people deserve to be hungry until it happens to them. What a shameful state of mind to be rights of another, a crime against humanity has been committed. When in. When through his selfish actions one human being denies the basic mothers and fathers teach and encourage their children to get ahead at all costs, a crime against humanity has been committed. The evidence is everywhere. There is so much of it that it is disregarded the garbage cans overflowing with food, the fancy vehicles transporting one person, the frivolous waste of resources, the willful destruction of the

environment, the inequalities in the legal system, the rape of the general public by wealthy corporations the list goes on. And yet surrounded by such evidence, we still choose to continue along the same path. Sadly, many who do care still think change must come from without,

rather than within. They think it will come through legislation, or by

belonging to political and religious organizations and adhering to their shortsighted doctrines and dogmas, all of which are based on or

furthered by fear and exclusion. It is a strange way to live, but this kind of and honorable and, we must remember, worth killing for.

thinking has been going on so long that it is considered right, virtuous, September 26, 2004 Much to the dismay of my loving bride, I now

own an oversized European beret the kind with a floppy crown that

sags to one side, like the combs on the demented old hens that used to

peck their way around our barn. Its black, and I think it looks great. Our oldest son agrees, but everyone else thinks its ridiculous, out of place, Maybe it would be all right if you were in Paris. I took both statements as compliments. Since Vahan said he liked it, I asked him if it was or just plain stupid-looking. Our daughter said, You look like a painter.

because he thought it was comical, or because he thought it looked good. He said, Both. Another victory. After all, if it werent at least a a hat you can pretend to be as serious as you like, but the fact remains, little bit comical, I wouldnt have bought it. Hats are ridiculous anyway. In there is something perched on your head. Whether its a finely tailored piece of felt or a bowl of fruit makes no difference, unless the fruit happens to be real, in which case it would pay to have a strong neck. I ordered the beret from a haberdasher in Portland. They mailed it to me

in a nine-by-twelve envelope. Its made of wool, and cost eleven dollars. When I put it on, my wife frowned and said it reminded her of an old Basque man who stayed at her house once when she was a kid. He wore a beret, and she hated him. Apparently, ever since then, she has my decision to buy the beret, and to do just about everything else I do, including getting up in the morning. But I look at it this way: its better to them, Id take the Basques every time.

hated berets. Its unreasonable, but completely understandable like

hate berets than Basques. And if it ever came down to deciding between

September 27, 2004 What does it mean that Ive yet to write an

intelligent sentence this morning? It might mean this is Monday, though I like Mondays and the clean slate they represent. But as I work seven already be clean? The answer is simple: I dont have a slate. My slate is in the basement. And I dont have a basement, either. I like to say I do, because basements have their own charm and potential, but the fact days a week and have foolishly done so for ages, shouldnt my slate

remains, I only have a crawl-space. The same goes for my attic. There

are no trunks up there, and no family secrets. There is insulation and spiders, and maybe a dead mouse or two. I live in a boring house. This house doesnt even have a porch, which raises the question: is this really a house, or is it just a dwelling? We have a front step. Its made of

concrete. There is enough room on the step for a large pumpkin and a muddy pair of shoes. And so its obvious: I need to get out of this dwelling and into a real house while I can still tell what day it is. Then maybe I can have a slate all my own, and a basement to keep it in, and a porch to relax on while inhaling the perfume of honeysuckle and pondering my next move, which will be to the attic, where all sorts of fascinating objects will be stored, old phonographs, picture albums, and treasure maps. But how will this come to pass? Should I work eight days a week instead of seven? Or should I quit working altogether? Shall I go to school and learn a trade? If so, what about the trade I already have? I could be a welder, or a dental assistant, or a court reporter, or a paralegal, or a chef, or an insurance coding specialist, or any of the rewarding, exciting, and fulfilling careers. Exciting?

other things that are being advertised these days as financially rewarding? In most cases, these jobs dont even exist. Fulfilling? Yes,

Financially

Ive always wanted to work in the closed-captioning field. It has been a

life-long dream of mine. Or what about medical transcribing? She comes in today, complaining of right-sided wrist pain. Who knows what she will do tomorrow, the old bat. He spent $40,000 learning to be a chef, now he bakes muffins at Costco. So says the social transcriber, who doesnt have a porch. September 28, 2004 For the last ten or so minutes, I was under the noise coming from his room and thought, Thats odd. I got up and

distinct impression that Vahan had already gone to work. Then I heard a walked down the hall just in time to hear him close the front door and

start his car. I looked at the clock. It was 7:35, about the time he always

leaves. I thought it was later. Why? I thought I had already heard the car start, but I must have dreamed it. Ive been sitting here drinking coffee, Am I ready now? It would appear not. Ive finished most of my cup of not really thinking anything in particular, more or less just getting ready. coffee, but I dont remember drinking it. I notice now that it tastes quite my entire existence. Maybe I should drink tea, or juice, or buttermilk.

good. Maybe I should start making bad coffee. Maybe I should rearrange Usually, at times like these, the telephone rings. Why doesnt it ring ring. The point is no. Wait a minute. I was wrong again. Its early yet.

now? I dont want it to ring, but thats not the point. The point is, it should The phone isnt supposed to ring until later. Why do I keep getting ahead or so it seems. It might be that I am so far ahead that I only think Im

of myself? Thats funny Im ahead of myself, but behind everyone else behind, or vice-versa. Who are these people who keep ignoring me? buttermilk? Am I to go to the store for them? Am I to milk their blessed with them ignoring me like this. The pressure is too much, simply too . . .

Have they no manners? Have they no coffee of their own, no tea or cows? Cant they see how busy I am getting ready? I will never be ready

what time is it now, I wonder? And where did this full cup of coffee come from? September 29, 2004 This morning I unwrapped our last bar of soap. money for her school. For books and things like that, she said.

Last night we ordered a CD from a neighbor girl who was trying to raise Imagine, I said to my wife later. There is money enough to kill people and take over their country, but not enough to buy school books. The bar of soap should last about three days. Then we will have to buy more, or do without. After the CD arrives in about twelve to fourteen weeks, it and save. But in order to do that, the soap will have to be for sale at a canned tomato sauce, is subject to wild market fluctuations. Often a trip

is likely we will also find ourselves on yet another mailing list. Buy now reduced price. And, as we all know, soap, like crackers, sponges, and to the grocery store turns into an all-out bidding war, with voices on the floor, having gambled on the weekly soap price and lost his early music or late music or both. The CD has a title, but I dont

screaming over loudspeakers, horns blaring, and people dropping dead everything. The CD is by Johnny Cash. I dont know whether it contains remember what it is. The girls dog was sitting in the entry, smiling at us. have forgotten within three days, about the same time our last bar of girl for our Johnny Cash CD, we could have bought around fifty bars of soap assuming we were lucky, of course. But the CD isnt important. Granted, she knows who we are and we know who she is, but with most

Long before the CD arrives, we will have forgotten we ordered it. We will soap runs out. For fifteen dollars, which is what we gave the neighbor

What is important is that the girl came to our door and wasnt refused. of the money in the country going to kill people and take over their country, there was no hesitation on our part, even though we are down

to our last bar of soap. The presidents wife was in Salem yesterday. has done for education. Someone should have washed out her mouth with soap. September 30, 2004 I never did get back to my pile of Harpers. There

She spoke at the junior college. She commended her husband for all he

is already an accumulation of drawings and letters on top, along with a folder containing notes on the Armenian translations of some of my stories, and even a package of colored pencils. I had meant to read the short story in each issue, but the stories I did read made it difficult to continue. Now I no longer care which means I should probably take

the magazines to the library and leave them in the free magazine area for someone who does care, or who thinks he cares, or who once cared unable to care when his caring is needed the most though in my and is thinking about caring again, fearing that if he doesnt he might be humble opinion Harpers isnt worth such a crisis of conscience, or even everyone knows Harpers is a highly intellectual magazine full of progressive ideas and wry commentary. No wonder they lost me. I have subject? Nothing at all. Is Harpers interested in my socks? No. Of enough trouble putting on my socks. What do socks have to do with the course not. What I need is a magazine that caters to people who have trouble putting on their socks. A magazine that cares about me. A magazine for the common man, attempting common things and failing who then go on to lose their train of thought. Anyway. Where was I?

a trip to the library. I say this at the risk of sounding ignorant, because

miserably. A magazine for people who are confused to begin with, and August 1, 2004 O Happy Day. Early this morning on The Gospel Express, a show hosted each Sunday by Derwin Boyd on KBOO radio in Portland, I had the good fortune to hear this classic sung by the Edwin

Hawkins Singers. I love all kinds of music, from Beethoven to the Beatles to Bluegrass to the Blues, and I can honestly say that I am just as thrilled to hear O Happy Day as I am to hear Ode to Joy from

Beethovens Ninth Symphony and I am nearly paralyzed by the latter.

Im paralyzed by all good music. I was paralyzed yesterday morning Melody. I was paralyzed when I heard Tammy Wynette sing

when I heard, again on KBOO, Marty Robbins singing Unchained Yesterday, by Paul McCartney. And I am paralyzed when I hear Johnny Cash sing Ghost Riders in the Sky, and when I hear Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald sing Gershwins Summertime. In fact, with so much good music in the world, its a wonder I can get around at

all. Good old Derwin Boyd. Week in and week out, he says, Lord, have

mercy. We gonna move, groove, and be smooth, right on down the line. He also says, This rotation is for your one and only appreciation. In or Corporate Oldies, or Corporate Smooth Jazz, or Corporate Country. Indeed, in that constrained environment, he would suffocate within two hours. Hes far better off as a volunteer DJ at KBOO, a small, independent, member-owned advertisement-free radio station. And I am other words, he wouldnt get very far working for Corporate Rock Radio,

better off, and stand a far better chance of hanging onto what remains of my sanity, listening to KBOO, instead of the constant barrage of advertising and lightweight, insincere DJ babble on the other stations. Lord, have mercy. How we gonna move, groove, and be smooth if pizza, diamonds, cars, and gutters? someones yelling at us all the time, and telling us where to buy our August 2, 2004 A dewy, poetic, rose-scented romance such as candlelight, and not at five-thirty in the morning as, for the most part, I

Mademoiselle de Maupin deserves to be read in the evening by

have been doing. But the other evening I did manage to read a chapter outside, while sitting in a tattered lawn chair beside our tomato plants. done. Im also aware of the way things sometimes have to be done, if, Its not that I lack culture. Im aware of the way things can and should be indeed, they are going to be done at all. Still, I cant help recognizing that the characters in Thophile Gautiers book would turn their noses up at which case they would deem me harmless and see to it that I had a me, unless, perhaps, I was employed as their gardener or stableman, in decent pair of boots. Were Rosette and DAlbert to learn I had been listening outside the window of their love nest, they would smile at my lumpy peasant curiosity and then continue about their business. After all,

everyone has their job to do. Some of us are born to indulge ourselves in the harrowing pursuit of love when love is already within our grasp, while others are born to keep their masters horses and automobiles at the moonlight walk through the countryside. Such is life, I guess or at ready, should they feel the need for a late-night hamburger or a least such will life be until I finish the book. After that, depending on what I pick up next, life will be something entirely different a train ride through Siberia running away from or toward my doom, or fifty years

spent talking about sports and the weather in a small town barbershop, when all I ever really wanted was to be a park ranger. And such is life, that books make it possible to inhabit more than one existence intersect, run parallel, or collide with our own.

simultaneously, and that the happenings in really good books so often August 3, 2004 DAlberts latest confession to Silvio, the old friend to almost the entire narration of Mademoiselle de Maupin, is that he is in

whom he addresses the long, flowery letters that so far have made up love with a man. The confession itself filled several pages, though it

might have been done in a paragraph. Indeed, I saw it coming from the first few sentences, and thought to myself, Come on, just say it and move on. Meanwhile, I suspect that this, too, will be just a passing

phase in DAlberts self-absorbed existence, as a little over half the book remains. A few chapters hence, I wouldnt be surprised if he is in love with a horse. For DAlbert, who is sensitive to the extreme, this is entirely possible. Thats why I will stick with the book. I want to find out what happens to the horse. August 4, 2004 Assuming I survive the French horse affair, the next

thing I plan to read is John Steinbecks Cannery Row. I borrowed my Faulkners The Reivers, about an inch and a quarter to the right of my

mothers copy yesterday. Its resting just beyond my keyboard atop recently acquired volume of Shakespeare, which at the moment is

holding up Gautier (hes very weak and needs help, poor guy) and my glasses. And I am embarrassed to say that my table is covered with a hours a day for several weeks running, a fair portion of the Willamette thick layer of dust once again. Having had our windows open for many Valley has settled over my work area. Its The Grapes of Wrath all over again. I should clean it up, but in honor of Steinbeck and agriculture I think Ill wait until Ive read Cannery Row. Anyway, theres a lot less dust I dont expect things to get too much worse over the next week or two. Besides, what does it matter? So everythings dusty. Things are in Monterey, California, where the book is set, and no shortage of fog, so

supposed to be dusty this time of year. Strangely enough, this reminds me of something a friend of mine said to me many years ago after Id used the bathroom in his apartment in Fresno and told him in no should be ashamed to have let it get to that stage. His answer? Its a

uncertain terms that he had the dirtiest toilet I had ever seen, and that he

toilet. Toilets are supposed to stink. We had a good laugh over that one. The next time I was at his apartment, though, his toilet was spotlessly clean, and it remained so. About a year later, his mother arrived from

Istanbul and moved in with him, and immediately took over all household doilies everywhere, and Old Country quilts stuffed with wool. Now they live in L.A., and I hear through the grapevine that my friend is married and the father of eighty-two children, each with his or her own toilet,

duties. Not only did she keep the bathroom clean, there were handmade

which their grandmother keeps clean. This is typical of grapevine

information, but its better than no information at all. I also hear they are other than the great Tom Ridge, head of Homeland Security. Like Middle Eastern cooking clubs, doily factories are known to be hotbeds of

running a doily factory, and that this has attracted the attention of none

terrorism. Thank goodness Mr. Ridge is on the job especially since he looks like a cross between Dick Tracy and Alley Oop, and issues terrorist can we go wrong? alerts based on four-year-old information. With Tom on our side, how August 5, 2004 Well, well. Thodore is not Thodore after all. He is a she. And she is none other than Madelaine de Maupin, who has disguised herself as a man in order to spend time with men when they

are not around women and thereby learn what they are really like before allowing herself to be loved by one. Thats pretty tricky, and Madelaine is pretty gutsy to leave home, and on her first night out sit in a wayside inn and have drinks with the boys on a tempest laden night. Luckily for her, everyone is too drunk to notice her long eyelashes, delicate features,

and less than rugged voice, and is taken in by her strategic ensemble.

Later, because the inn is crowded, she even has to share a bed with one of her drinking buddies. While he sleeps the sleep of the dead, she lies

wide awake beside him, wondering what would happen if he woke up woke him up and explained it to him herself. But she doesnt. She

and discovered the truth wondering, in fact, what would happen if she survives the night without sleeping a wink, and arises with her virtue somewhere. Its only a matter of time until DAlbert realizes the truth,

intact to face the dawn, then goes her own way. So. Now were getting which to his trembling poetic delight he has already begun to suspect, morning that Guy de Maupassant was born 154 years ago on August 5, 1850. When he first read Mademoiselle de Maupin, I can imagine him

perceptive soul that he is. . . . Meanwhile, back here on earth, I read this

thinking, What the heck? This Gautier is nuts. I dont care what Balzac

and Hugo said. Indeed, according to the books introduction, Honor de Balzac and Victor Hugo hailed Gautiers book as a masterpiece when it author was twenty-three. When I was twenty-three, I was a father and came out in 1835. As it turns out, most of the book was written when the had already been married four years. Our daughter was hailed as a nothing but rave reviews. She hasnt been translated into dozens of

masterpiece by everyone in the family, and since then has received languages, but she does know a lot of Spanish, and was able to haggle with taxi drivers and street vendors when she was in Ecuador several years ago. But I have no desire to diminish Gautiers efforts. He did his best.

August 6, 2004 A while ago a nice shower blew through, settling the

dust, perfuming the air, and drenching our south-facing window sills. I toweled them dry and reluctantly closed the windows, but have since opened them again part way, as the rain has stopped and I hate to miss

out on the fresh breeze. The front door is also open. This is unusual

weather for early August, but certainly not unheard of. Rain-lover and

heat-hater that I am, I see it as a day stolen from the jaws of summer. But I fully expect another blast of heat in short order. After all, it is August. There are more ninety-degree days yet to come, as well as known as the human body. By gum, at this very moment, I can almost

more sudden adjustments to be made by that ridiculous lumpy thing feel myself retaining water in preparation for the next heat wave. Within

two days I will have gained five pounds, and will be able to hear myself grotesque, aged stump. In fact, I have long thought that the best way to

slosh as I chug around the house in my underwear, looking like a scare off the neighbors is to make shirtless appearances on the sidewalk

with a can of beer in hand. Then again, my shaggy appearance already be a better word. Anyway. This is all nonsense. No one really notices, and no one cares. The neighbors race by in their cars with their cell This is at seven or eight in the morning, not thirty seconds out the door. I

has them scared though when I think about it, puzzled would probably

phones glued to their ears, in a pointless frenzy and worried to death. understand how they feel, and am fully aware of the financial and emotional concerns that drive them. But I also know that an unfortunate amount of what we suffer in so-called modern life is self-induced, in that we dont grant ourselves a quiet moment now and then in which to think things through. We insist on constant activity, entertainment, and noise,

when what we really need is to take a walk or sit quietly for an hour and do absolutely nothing at all. Most unfortunate, I believe, is how we are conditioned by television, and to what extent our speech and mannerisms have come to reflect the poisonous nonsense that is served up twenty-four hours a day. Who needs it? Coincidentally, I saw a great

bumper sticker yesterday that said, You wouldnt dump garbage in your living room, so why let TV do it? How true, except a lot of people do

dump garbage in their living rooms at least I assume they do, because they also dump their garbage in the street, in the form of fast food wrappers, cans, bottles, and so on. What a filthy, self-absorbed way to live. I will go so far as to say that people who litter are, in their present mental state, incapable of appreciating nature. As it is, being out of touch with nature is one of our most serious problems. The same thing

that happens to our penned-up animals happens to us. We gradually

lose our ability to observe and respond. We need a television weather person to tell us what should be obvious by going outside and sniffing the wind. We are oblivious to the changes in our body and what they mean, and to the timeless activities of plants, insects, and birds, which

can tell us all we need to know. We eat improperly, dont exercise, and make our decisions. We think we are intelligent, but we couldnt grow a potato or milk a cow if our life depended on it. And who knows? Maybe someday it will. August 7, 2004 The big news, the exciting news, is that I made

consequently go to pieces. In this condition, we form our opinions and

pancakes two times this week, thus ending our pre-dawn scrambled egg marathon. They were heavenly. And making them is an emotional experience, because it takes me back to when my father made pancakes for me when I was seventeen and working at the packing

house. As I watch them cook, spatula in hand, it is as if he is standing there beside me. Arent those ready to turn? I was just going to turn them. It looks like theyre ready. Im turning them now. There. See? Perfect. How many would you like? Four? I could eat twice that many. coffee? No. Im going now. Going? Whats your hurry? I cant stay. You know that. No. Wait. Dont leave. Im going. . . . Oh, God damn it all. . . .

Eight it is, then. Sit down. Theres the paper. Dont you want some

an eruption of wings, footsteps in the dust, a falling star, light shining on a drop of dew. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye for now. And good morning to you, dear son. Here are your pancakes. Eat them and rejoice. Eat them, and be aware of the spirit in this room. are well. Sit with me, then, and well talk awhile.

. . . Ah, grief. My old friend. You have found me once again. I see you August 8, 2004 Miss de Maupin was a singular girl, at least as far as

DAlbert was concerned. To others, she was a singular young man with superior command of rapier and steed alike, and always busy fighting duels. What a sensitive lass! what a daring lad! so very near a god

was she, and forever young, for we know not what became of her after the one and only night she granted DAlbert, whose heightened dreams DAlberts beautiful mistress, Rosette, who loved Madelaine as a man. One can only hope she and DAlbert were able to find solace in each other, even if their love was of the earthbound variety. I wonder. DAlbert real estate. And it is equally difficult to picture Rosette as a mother with dish pan hands, hurrying to her next P.T.A. meeting. O Life! Sometimes of love and beauty were finally realized. But what a nightmare for

was a poet. It is unlikely that he went on to enjoy a career in banking or

you are just too much! And you, Thophile Gautier, with your honeydipped pen! What are we to make of you? Shall we set about finding allow you to remain hidden in the literary mists of time? Shall we dissect your complete biography written by some sensible scholar, or shall we your corpse with detached precision, or give thanks for your rosescented phrases? Even now, we can hear you laughing. We can hear you say Do as you like, for it doesnt matter, and can never matter in the way any foolish, practical person thinks it matters. We can examine each

and every stone that you encountered on your path through life, but we

will still be confounded by the rubble. Therefore it is our decision at this

time to offer you our heartfelt gratitude, and to move on to Steinbecks Cannery Row, set in a new century that has since itself miraculously first, I fear it has already grown old before its time, so tragically grown old. As for the current century, childishly referred to as the twentydebauched it is, so shallow, ignorant, narrow-minded, and self-centered,

so without grace and style, as if its hundred years were an illiterate about this. We are not even a decade into the century, and already it reeks. Where is our spirit? Where is our flair? Where is our sense of humor? Why are we offended at every turn, and in such a hurry to press wolves, jackals, sheep, and hyenas?

doodle on a CEOs list of things to do. By gum, we need to do something

legal action? Are we really that insecure? Is it really our nature to act as August 9, 2004 Im off to a sluggish start this morning, mostly

because the heat has returned. It was ninety-five yesterday, and today is going to be hotter. Life on the Pacific roller coaster continues. We bought a big watermelon Saturday morning, a hefty twenty-ninepounder; this will serve as our air conditioner. We also have plenty of really, there isnt much more to ask for. We will either figure out the rest later or we wont, and the disappointing actions of family members and ripe home-grown tomatoes, and plenty of salt, so we should survive. And

loved ones will either be explained or they wont, and we will either sustain lasting scars or achieve new levels of understanding or both. Thats why it is just as reasonable to put our faith in watermelons and tomatoes as anything else, and probably better. At least watermelons and tomatoes are real, and are honest, dignified representatives of this

vast, wondrous universe. And having said this, it should also be noted that I have just closed our windows to ward off the pollution drifting

eastward from the freeway. What a shame we have taken simple

elements and mixed them up in such deadly fashion. One would think power so much, but were not. Watermelons are smarter. Watermelons

wed be smarter than that, especially since we brag about our brain dont pollute. They dont cut people off in traffic and yell obscenities, or line up with other watermelons and try to kill other kinds of melons on the other side of the world, the stripes versus the greens, the longs versus and in the process lose their own. It would be nice to be a watermelon, we eat, so maybe there is hope for me yet.

the rounds. Watermelons dont kill in the name of religion. They give life, and to bring joy on a hot summer day. Then again, they say we are what August 10, 2004 In honor of an untold number of poetically aligned and misunderstood events, I lit a cigar a few moments ago. This is something I havent done in the last two, or maybe even three years. I established habit, but I have loved the activity since I lit my first nickel

have never smoked regularly, and smoking has never been an cigar when I was in high school, and even long before. My father smoked cigars for years, as did his legendary Uncle Archie, who not only smoked them, but chewed them violently as he educated us on diverse subjects in his booming voice. In his cigar-smoking prime, which went on for decades, Archie smoked about ten or twelve cigars a day. Archie was also a first-rate poet and painter. It is quite understandable, then, that I

would think of these great men now, as I sit here in an agreeable cloud of smoke and set about my days work. It is more than agreeable complemented by my first cup of coffee, it is a moment straight from heaven. As a kid, Dad would smoke anything he could find, including eager quest to smoke he even sampled dry horse manure, which he

discarded butts on the roadside. And I have mentioned before how in his

found a bit harsh, and which probably kept him from sampling other varieties of manure. Ah, well. Those were the good old days days I am reliving to some extent since having begun Steinbecks delightful and easy-going Cannery Row. That this could be, even though I wasnt fortune. Had it not been for my parents and an amazing cast of around in the 1930s, I regard as a profound, yet natural bit of good storytelling relatives, I fear this would not be the case. Certainly, I would what I am doing. I suppose this is both obvious and meaningless, or at least the thought is so common that it seems meaningless. Be that as it

not be who I am, and there is an excellent chance I wouldnt be doing

may, this is for me a tremendously happy moment, especially since a lump of ash just landed in my lap and on the edge of my keyboard. Though it probably wont work out that way, I feel as if I will remember this moment forever. One thing I know: its mine, and no one can take it away from me. But Im not a selfish person. As far as it is within my similar memories. Such is life on this fine August morning. power, I give it to you to enjoy, with the sincere wish that it awakens August 11, 2004 As I had feared, this has turned into a week to

survive, as temperatures continue in the middle and upper nineties. the house is hotter and sleep is harder to come by. It isnt bad inside until about four in the afternoon. The indoor heat is at its nastiest, and

Each day the air is a little dirtier and harder to breathe, and each night

the air is most stale, at about seven in the evening. Then the heat begins to break and we can open the windows again. Last night at nine oclock, it was about eighty-five in the hottest part of the house, which also happens to be our bedroom. We use fans to bring in the cool night air, but the walls and attic are so hot that it takes all night to cool the house.

Then we start all over again. As a result, I stagger around with dark

circles and bags under my eyes during the day, barely functioning. And,

to add insult to injury, our long dry spring and current hot weather have

caused legions of ants to swarm all over the house, and to appear inside where you least expect them. Lately, for instance, there have been ants in the shower, coming from the area where the pipe that feeds the nozzle goes into the wall. This means, I presume, that the wall is full of

ants. A few days ago, when it cooled off and rained, there was no ant

activity. There are also a lot of yellow jackets this year, and tons of little brown spiders, which will later be big brown spiders. We are already enough to give shade and cool the place down. walking into their webs. With any luck, the webs will soon be thick August 12, 2004 Tomorrow Portland will have to endure simultaneous campaign visits by the two eminently cool dudes running for president, George Members Only Bush and John Come One Come All Kerry. As so

often happens, Bush will be speaking behind closed doors to a preapproved crowd of loyal supporters, while Kerrys rally is open to the public an evil ruse if there ever was one. Hopefully the good voters of our current emperor, so he can continue his fight against tourism I Commander in Thief of the Harmed Forces of the United Fakes of Wheres my wallet?

Oregon will see through Kerrys bogus tactics and pledge allegiance to mean terrorism. What a leader. What a man. What a hero. Hail to the America. Oops. Sorry, mister. I didnt mean to bump into you. Hey! August 13, 2004 Thank goodness George Did It All By The Sweat Of showing the state is still a job seekers, grocery buyers nightmare. From

My Brow Bush is arriving in Oregon just as figures were released an undisclosed, heavily guarded, by invitation or ticket only location, his compassion will rise up and act as a balm for the weary masses. Hes

one of us, will be the general refrain. Hes our friend. Then Georgie Porgie will fly away, flappity flap flap, leaving the people to sink or swim, will do without art and music and be ideal recruitment targets. Thanks, and their kids to rot in under-funded, overcrowded schools, where they old buddy. It was nice of you to drop by. Be sure to let us know if you need anything. We dont have much, but what we have is yours, or soon will be. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do. I have to squeeze some blood out of a genetically altered turnip.

August 14, 2004 Before moving on to genuinely interesting and of 50,000 was on hand for John Kerrys outdoor public rally yesterday in

important things, i.e., my life, its worth noting that an enthusiastic crowd Portland, while George W. Bush spoke before 2,300 ardent, prescreened supporters. And there we will leave the matter, because it speaks plainly enough for itself, and especially because yesterday evening we gathered at my mothers house and cranked up a batch of peach ice cream. Now, thats important as is the fact that we all took

turns turning the crank in the ninety-degree heat, thereby earning the ice cream the good old-fashioned way. And what ice cream it was, and what wonderful summertime memories it awakened. When I was a little whelp, by, we made ice cream. When friends dropped by, we made ice cream. old White Mountain freezer withstood an amazing amount of use. It

we used to make ice cream at the drop of a hat. When relatives dropped When someone drove slowly past the house, we made ice cream. Our could frequently be found full of water in the shade necessary to make the wood swell and thus keep it a viable unit. But it did finally disintegrate. For a short time we had an electric freezer. It worked, but nobody liked it, because we knew we were cheating, and so we got

another White Mountain. And speaking of home-made ice cream, there

is a scene fairly early on in my novel, A Listening Thing, that involves a

White Mountain freezer. Its funny how these things work their way into novel, I was writing about the one we used during the Sixties. Some

pieces of writing. Obviously, when I included the ice cream freezer in the might call this writing what you know. I call it inspiration. While I do know a lot about making ice cream, it is the spirit of doing so that moves me to write about it. It is the brain cells bathed in sweet memory. It is the tremendous meaning. I have even written two stories with the title Ice joy derived from the work, the process, and the result. Ice cream has Cream one back in 1997, the other in 2002. The stories were about much more than ice cream, of course, but ice cream was still an important character in each. In fact, I can imagine writing a novel and title? Probably the same people who can resist everything else I write, but thats beside the point.

calling it Ice Cream. Who could resist a book with such an appealing

August 15, 2004 Late yesterday morning, I took a leisurely drive through the countryside in our daughters 1991 Toyota Corolla. She least for the time being, because our youngest son, the iris farm hand, bought a new-used car recently, but we decided to keep her old one, at might find it useful one of these days. The car has 180,000 miles on it and it runs and shifts remarkably well. One thing it doesnt have is very much paint, though its still possible to tell it was red at one time. Three

or four days ago, Lev, our son who switches cars often for the sheer pleasure of it, had a mechanic-friend of his install a new serpentine belt. After the job was done, he instructed me to drive the car thirty miles or checked and tightened. And so I did as I was told, sticking to the country

so, and said that he would then take it back and have the belt doubleroads, taking my time with the window down the car has no air

conditioning anyway and enjoying the standard transmission. I even lit another cigar, so that makes two cigars smoked this week. At this rate, goes for used books, not cigars. Which reminds me last week I Ill become a real chain-smoker except that my spare cash usually invested another seven dollars in books. I was lucky enough to find the Language, as well as a book containing two novels by Anthony Trollope, whom Ive never read, and a hefty anthology of stories, poetry, essays, drama, and novels called A Quarto of Modern Literature. I like that a

sixteenth printing of the fourth edition of H.L. Menckens The American

quarto. Pardon me, but have you seen my quarto lying anywhere about? Damn and blast I do believe Ive lost it. I should have asked the crusty fellow I saw walking along the edge of a hops field, but he seemed to be enjoying his privacy so much that I couldnt bring myself to stop. I was happy to see that the hops have reached the top of their massive the empty framework always reminds me of streetcar cables. I saw a

trellises, and have begun to fan out over the wires. Early in the season, patch of cucumbers in which there was a small stack of bee hives, alfalfa fields, corn fields, and flowers being grown for seed. I saw the infinitely I said. Youre looking rather well. The woman working at the Friends of wise and patient Mother Earth in all her summertime glory. Hello, dear, the Salem Public Library bookstore asked me what I thought of Trollope, and wondered whether the name was pronounced Trol-lope, or Trollop, and didnt know how the name was pronounced. She said she had picked up several of Trollopes novels, but had yet to read any of them. I said, Oh? And she said, Seven dollars. The summer sky was hazy or simply Trollop. I said I didnt know, because I had yet to read Trollope,

and magnificent, and the cloud-remnants of a thunderstorm that had

briefly spattered the dust earlier in the morning were drifting eastward.

Trollope worked for the Post Office for thirty years, and I think I read

somewhere that he invented the street-side letter boxes that are used in England. But I could be dreaming. In fact, I know I am, but this changes and could do only what Trollope could do. Scattered about us is an endless array of inventions that we take for granted, for we have nothing at all. Trollope did what Trollope did, for Trollope was Trollope,

forgotten the inventors suffering in their workshops not because no and their spouses wanted money for food. Ridiculous. Trollope wasnt worried about such things. He wrote novels and worked for the Post

one thought the inventions would work, but because the lighting was bad

Office. He saw a need and filled it, as they say at business seminars. Its the same with me, except that I dont fill the need. Rather, I create the need, and leave others to fill it. And if a statement like that makes sense, succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. Oh, where is that quarto of mine?

I have accomplished what I set out to do. If it doesnt make sense, I have

August 16, 2004 The absence of departed family members is acutely

felt on summer Sunday evenings, when food is on the table and talk is at its loudest, and outside the dusky shadows begin to fall. They are gone, gone, gone, and we are here, here, here. As our plates fill with the blood of fresh tomatoes, onions, and watermelons, laughter is both a sacred calling and a lunatics lament. We have a wonderful time, for anything

less would be a disgrace. We are grateful for our memories, but we are also angry, because we share a feeling of outrage that springs from a history of family trials massacres, emigration, poverty, fathers plucked

from life early in their prime, long hours of physically exhausting work, children sent out to earn a living in the street, and success, a kind of trial all its own. We have won and we have lost, and in our losing we have

gained, and in our winning we have been humbled. We are a gambling alert. Quite often, we do not know whether we have won or lost. But we

family, quite accustomed to betting it all. The stakes are high, the senses feel like winners, even when we know we have lost. Summer Sunday

evenings are like standing before a painting of our childhood, in which bolts of lightning pierce the canvas. They are a lonely shepherd watching his sheep from a high rock. The sound of his flute echoes the unspoken silence that informs and guides our conversation.

August 17, 2004 From childhood, we are trained to believe that every problem has a solution, and that thinking otherwise is a sign of weakness. But is it really? While its safe to say most problems do have

solutions, I think its healthy to admit that there might be an occasional years and years, or even an entire lifetime. Take poverty as an example. A poor person can work his fingers to the bone and worry his nights

one that is unsolvable or beyond our grasp. Some problems last for

away, and do everything within his power to alleviate his familys pain and suffering, and yet never manage to bring it to an end. A problem of this magnitude can undermine his physical and mental health, make him see people and things in an unfairly negative light, and lead him to

believe all sorts of terrible things about himself. In this condition, he doesnt stand a chance. He is literally consumed by his problem. And yet if he is a man of conscience, and because of his childhood training, he blames himself and keeps right on banging his head against the wall. Surrounded by material wealth, he asks himself why he isnt smart enough to figure out what it takes to get ahead in the world. The

question is, what would this same person think if everyone were poor, and it was clear that the situation wasnt about to change? Would poverty still be a problem? Would being poor even be recognized as

such, or are poverty and wealth relative determinations? Isnt it possible that if everyone were poor, they might not only think they are rich, but be doesnt necessarily mean that you lose. It just means you cant win. What happens in a persons mind when he acknowledges this years? Does a problem remain a problem if it meets no resistance? rich? To put it another way, if you cant win in a particular situation, it

possibility? What happens to the problem that has been torturing him for August 18, 2004 I am especially pleased to be here writing today, because when the alarm went off at four-twenty this morning, I was dreaming that my death was at hand. I forget how the dream started, but

toward the end I was taking clothes out of a dryer that was outside in a milling about, and one of them approached to see what I was doing.

covered patio. As I was folding the clothes, two or three strangers were About that time, I realized some of the heavier socks were still damp, so I put them back in the dryer and turned the machine on again. This seemed to satisfy the stranger, who was an older Mexican woman. Then time was almost up. It didnt bother me at first. The only thing I was concerned about was getting my work done. As my rendezvous with fate approached, however, I began to feel tremendously sad. I said to myself, I hated terribly the thought of being found by the family, and of them

the strangers disappeared and I was alone. This is when I realized my

Well, soon it will be over, and what I leave undone will remain undone. having to do something with my remains. It was a poignant moment. I

can even remember the word poignant passing through my mind, and

then feeling momentarily amused, because there also seemed to be an aspect of performance involved. But the amusement quickly passed. I was dying. I knew I was dying, and I knew I didnt want to die. I knew

that despite lifes many difficulties, I really did love being alive. The socks

were done. I folded them neatly, knowing it was to be my last act on this earth. I had begun to weep when the alarm went off. I said, What? What? and my wife said, Its time to get up. And so I did.

August 19, 2004 It is obviously time to take a completely different approach, but I have no idea what the approach should be. Furthermore (quoth the raven), I often feel like pulling my life up by the roots anyway,

and burning it like an old orchard or vineyard. What pleasure it would bring to stand before such a cleansing fire! Quite amusingly, I am being smoke is drifting in through the open window. Aack! Get away! There. attacked by a giant crane fly at this very moment, and field-burning Oh, great now the neighbor is out spitting in his driveway again. I ask

you, how can a humble writer revolutionize his life when he is always under attack, as I am? I have so much work to do there are dozens of to take and it must all be done today. Instead, I am battling spitters and crane flies. Well, theyre real, anyway. They exist. I am telling the novels and stories I need to write, there are people to see and journeys

truth. No one can take that away from me. Not that anyone wants to. Besides, who needs the truth? Were sick of the truth. What we need is some entertainment. Very well, then. Entertainment it is. When I woke up

this morning, I was a giant beetle named Franz Kafka. When my mother she said. I nodded meekly in her general direction, rattling my you how her bitter words stung me. My thorax quivered. My six

came in to change the sheets, she was horrified. Is this your antenna? mandibles. I thought so. Thats all she said. She thought so. I cant tell repulsive, hairy legs squiggled aimlessly. She huffed out of the room.

Just a few seconds later, I heard her voice addressing someone in the kitchen. Be grateful your sons are normal, she said. Today, mine is a beetle. Tomorrow, who knows what hell be. This was followed by a dull

murmur. I knew right away that it was Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Kratzenshade, my mothers two best friends. I could even hear them nodding in agreement, because it always made their fake pearls rattle.

Then Mrs. Kratzenshade said, My Harold just received another promotion. And Mrs. Murphy said, That reminds me, I havent told you replied, Yes, we know. Oh, how we know. Then I heard my mothers voice again. My son thinks hes a beetle. At this I wanted to cry out, Thinks! Thinks! but I couldnt, because beetles dont cry out, they just yet about my Dennis. Hes a lawyer, you know. Mrs. Kratzenshade

sort of skitter and buzz, neither of which I had the hang of yet. Maybe it

wont last, Mrs. Kratzenshade offered in an insincerely sympathetic

tone. My mother snapped, You forget the time he was a fire hydrant for And neither could I. But I didnt need to. For a whole week, the dogs in the neighborhood wouldnt leave me alone. August 20, 2004 In my Quarto are the complete texts of two novels: Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton, and The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have read neither, so yesterday evening I started on The Great Gatsby. I read the first chapter, then my eyes gave out, so I put the book down and started wandering aimlessly around the house, doing my best to imitate the sound of a winter wind moaning under the eaves. This morning in the ten-minute time slot after breakfast and before it was time to head to the iris farm, I read the second chapter. So far, so good.

two weeks. Oh, Im sorry, she continued, but you just cant imagine!

There is a hint of melancholy I find appealing, but here and there the ubiquitous modern writing workshops. This is just an early impression, of The Great Gatsby occupies such a prominent place in twentieth century

writing sounds almost as if the author had attended one of our course, and might change. Either way, I am eager to see how and why

American literature, though its unlikely I will put the knowledge to good use. Who knows? Maybe someone will ask my opinion at a swanky cocktail party. Then again, they probably wont, because I will make a

point of arriving in our faded-red Toyota, and of being seen opening the Isnt it rather late for the gardener to be about? (Snort.) Who is he? Really, darling, dont you know? (Smirk.) Thats F. Scott Fitzmichaelian, the famous writer. Quite eccentric, you know. And you should see him dancer. He looks more like a . . . more like a . . . oh, what is the word Im my dear, and thats quite enough for me.

door through the window with the outside handle. Who is he? (Sniff.)

dance. (Sip. Chew.) Oh, really? (Gurgle. Smack.) He doesnt look like a looking for? Ahem! Yes. Well. We wont worry about that. Hes charming, August 21, 2004 So far, reading The Great Gatsby makes me glad of one thing: no one calls me old sport. Such is the power of great English class this past spring, and didnt think much of it. How was it? I literature. I might add that our iris laborer read the book in his Advanced said. Well, he said, heh-heh. I said, That bad, eh? And he said, I

dont know, Bill. From past experience, I knew this was a horrible review. When he likes something, he says so. When he doesnt, he calls me Bill. He loved Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath, and said Saroyans The Human Comedy? Hes read it several times. He doesnt far? he asked me yesterday when the subject of Gatsby came up. Its peanuts into his mouth. The container was almost empty. Ill let you they were great. The Sea Wolf? Very enjoyable. He likes Jack London. read a book several times if he doesnt like it. What do you think of it so clever, I said. Frightfully clever. He shoveled a handful of roasted know, I said. We ate scalloped potatoes and washed the dishes. This is

what happens in real life. I try to tell the folks in Hollywood, but they just

laugh. Put some sex in there, they say, and you might have a winner. I tell them, Youre not listening. They say, Huh? Next. Look. All I have is one minute. In one minute, I want you to tell me your story, and then I

want you to describe your audience and convince me it will sell. Dont give me any background. If you have to give me background, that means one of two things: either your story isnt finished yet, or its too long. I dont want paragraphs. I want faces. A story without faces wont sell. People relate to faces. Okay? Ready? Go ahead. . . . Thanks. I, uh . . . Thats it. Times up. I told you, I only had one minute. Next.

August 22, 2004 After two miserable weeks of ninety-degree weather, a fall storm has rolled in. It hasnt rained much yet, but there have been a few nice showers, and a cool ocean breeze promises more to come.

Once again, the air is a pleasure to breathe, and the daily battle to keep the house cool has been suspended. Yesterday evening we picked about fifteen pounds of fully ripe tomatoes. The rain would have cracked them if we had left them on the plants. The wind also blew in some new neighbors across the street and one house down, where no one has weekend several weeks ago though a few seemed to be hiding out been living since the previous rough crowd disappeared quickly one inside for a short time after that which is when the window on the side of the garage was broken by someone to whom they apparently owed money. Anyway, well see what the future holds in that department. Hopefully the new man of the house wont belong to the same spitters

union as our other neighbor, Mr. Spit n Splat. Say, that would be a good name for a car wash. Anyway, I hope the landlord learned his lesson the last time around. Talk about a poor judge of character. After the

troublemakers left, it took his dedicated hirelings three weeks to clean up the yard and house, and the people had only lived there a couple of

months. Personally, I would have burned the house down and started

over. In fact, Id still like to burn down the other houses in the

neighborhood, and dig out all the lawns and pull up the sidewalks. Then own. This area has suffered enough.

Id burn our house and go live in the hills, and leave nature to reclaim its August 23, 2004 So much for The Great Gatsby. My general feeling is a long short story that could have been a shorter one. I hope I will be memorable, but if Im not, Im not, and I will do my best to carry on. Great

that its a competently written short novel that is really nothing more than forgiven for saying the book is not great literature, or even particularly literature is great because it transforms the outlook and understanding of its characters and its readers. Gatsby does neither. Fitzgeralds people become upset when something distracts them from their superficial lives, but there is no reason to think they have undergone, or ever will undergo, a profound change in their thinking. Did I miss something? was obviously no dummy. But the fact remains, he didnt push his

Probably so. To be sure, the author turned an elegant phrase. And he characters far enough. He relied too heavily on his eloquence, and hoped his clever observations would carry the day. And they almost did. The wine, old sport, was served in beautiful glasses, but the taste was a bit disappointing. August 24, 2004 Two cups of strong black coffee and not a spark of

life. I wonder should I make a third cup? I dont know. I never make a of Armenian coffee? Yes, I think thats what Ill do. . . . Ah. There. I would

third cup. I dont want a third cup. On the other hand, what about a cup have been back sooner, but I decided to wash the regular coffee pot first and get that out of the way. Now for my first sip. Oh, my goodness thats coffee. Wait. Let me take another sip. Lovely. This ought to get the

old nerves jangling. . . . What a peculiar morning it has been. Its ten more coffee. I should be on the phone with my agent, shouting in a fit of absolute brilliance, I refuse to take a penny less! But first I would have to find an agent, and sign his contract, and agree to pay his photocopying expenses. That could take months years, even. So that I refuse to take a penny less, and then quickly hang up. In fact, I

oclock. Half the day is shot. I should be making a ham sandwich, not

much for spontaneity. Then again, I could call an agent, tell his assistant could get a giant list of agents telephone numbers and do that all day and every day this week. Then, if I happen to do business with any of them later, they will already know Im not a push-over. That makes

sense. . . . The funny thing is, with all this talk about calling agents, the So I said, I think you have the wrong number. And the lady said, Who is this? Is this the Simpson residence? I said, No, it isnt. And who are you? Are you a literary agent? Because if you are, I refuse to take a

telephone just rang. I said, Hello? and an elderly lady said, Vinnie?

penny less. Then I hung up. That took care of her. Imagine, a literary agent posing as an old woman looking for Vinnie. How stupid do these people think I am?

August 25, 2004 It has been a long time since Ive mentioned politics. I think thats a good sign. I hate politics. Or, to put it more accurately, I hate politicians. I hate the lies they tell, and the steady stream of putrid garbage that flows through their corrupt beings and out of their twisted campaign: vomit. And we still have to endure over two months of it. And mouths. There is only one word to describe this years presidential will it end with the election? It doesnt seem possible. And how many will have been made by the worlds low-grade Bush-like filth in Iraq and

more lies will be told by then, and people killed, and how much money

elsewhere? How many more economies will be hijacked, and cultures

raped, and people made to go sick and hungry? And what do we get?

The Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, a republican attack group with longtime ties to the Bush family which claims on TV that the democratic candidate for president lied about his military service in Vietnam. Imagine that, considering the presidents sterling record in that

department. As I said, vomit. Pure vomit. The other morning, my wife

and I saw a homeless man crossing the street in downtown Salem. He

was worn out and old before his time. He was carrying his belongings, this man and listen to his story. Let them take off his shoes and wash his aching feet. Your Swift Boat of Lies is sinking, my friends. Why dont you do something worthwhile with your lives, instead of poisoning humanity? August 26, 2004 Several days ago, a writer-friend of mine suggested in one of his e-mails that I read A Hunger Artist, a short story by Franz then you must read A Hunger Artist. Metamorphosis, of course, is Kafka. His exact words were, If you got through The Metamorphosis, Kafkas much-anthologized story about Gregor Samsa, the young man who one day wakes up to discover he has turned into a large beetle or maybe it is a cockroach, for I seem to remember a place well along in the story in which his mother cheerfully refers to him as a cockroach.

and his feet hurt. I say, let the politicians sit down on a park bench with

Anyway. He was an insect, and it was all very tragic, and beautifully Hunger Artist. But I promptly forgot all about it. Then, yesterday written A Hunger Artist. Ah-ha, I said to myself, for at that moment I

done, and not funny at all. And so, I was more than willing to read A evening, I found a tiny slip of paper near my work table upon which I had was alone in the house, A Hunger Artist. Realizing I had a few minutes to spare, I signed on to the World Wide Web and quickly found the story.

I read the first translation I came to probably a mistake, because I

found another this morning that seemed a little better, though both had errors. Anyway, I didnt read past the second paragraph this morning, so I cant say much about the second translation. I cant say much about translations in the first place. Oh, well. I read A Hunger Artist. It is a the first, either, which makes me wonder why I brought up the subject of very short story, and consists of a few long paragraphs. Once again, the was an even greater burden for him than it is for most of us or, rather,

story was different, as Kafka himself was different, in that his loneliness his loneliness figured far more prominently in his life than we are

generally willing to admit it figures in ours. Kafkas hunger artist is a man

who fasts professionally, going without food for days and weeks on end

in a public place. As such, he is just about the loneliest person on earth. appreciate the art of fasting. He doesnt blame the spectators, because he knows they have never fasted and therefore cannot know what its

One thing that makes him lonely is that no one is able to understand and

like. Nevertheless, he finds their insensitive gawking ignorance almost unbearable. Eventually, when public fasting loses its popularity, the route to the caged animals. But circus-goers are eager to see the hunger artist is obliged to join a circus and fast in an area along the busy animals, not him. Still, he fasts. He fasts for so long that he is all but forgotten, and then he is finally found lying in his little heap of straw. With his last bit of strength, he whispers to the unfeeling circus manager that he could have eaten as much as anyone else, if only he had been able to find food to his liking. Then he dies, and the cage is used to house a panther everyone likes to see, and which seems utterly content hunger artist is referring to is food for his mind, or spirit. It certainly to live in a cage. Again, it is all very sad, for it is clear that the food the

makes one think. What are we hungry for? And why are we so willing to live like the panther at the end of Kafkas story? August 27, 2004 Since Im between novels at the moment, Im

thinking it might not be a bad idea to reread Metamorphosis. I did sit

down with that intention last night, but I quickly realized I was too tired to give the story the attention it deserves. I read a few poems instead, just Eliot to Frost to Pound to Yeats to Auden to Cummings. This morning I remember almost nothing, except for Sandburgs line about Abraham for the pleasure of it and to relax, jumping at random from Sandburg to

Lincoln being shoveled into the tombs and forgetting everything, in the dust, in the cool tombs. Thats quite an image: a great man being how do we know he was great? We need only look at pictures of his shoveled into his final resting place, while the entire nation looks on. And beautiful, amazing face, and notice the pain it mirrored and the

transformations it underwent. Which of our recent presidents can be said to possess the tiniest fraction of Lincolns depth and character? And yet political opponent of theirs, they would do their best to destroy him and they have routinely traded on his name. If Lincoln were alive today and a his poor wife on television. And if they had been alive in Lincolns time,

they would have attempted the same thing by whatever means at their disposal, because that is the only thing corrupt, empty, ignorant people know how to do. August 28, 2004 As it turns out, Franz Kafka will have to wait,

because in yesterdays mail I received a proof copy of a friends new

short story collection, along with his flattering request that I look it over for typographical errors. There are nine stories in all, and the book runs Yet nowhere is his agents name to be found. Hmm. Where are those about a hundred pages. I like his note: Contact my agent for payment.

glasses of mine? Oh, well. I guess Ill have to do my proofreading without them. Joe went two town and eight a hamburger. Fine. I see nothing wrong with that sentence. I ought to have this done in no thyme.

. . . Interesting. I just got off the phone with another friend, who says he along to him. The magazines he mentioned were Harpers, The Atlantic,

will be stopping by later with a pile of magazines another friend passed and Smithsonian, none of which I have seen in quite some time, mainly

because I have no time. I hope The Atlantic has a piece by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Well, I guess it hasnt been quite that long. But I do know its been a long time since Ive found a short story in there that Ive liked. I

find most stories in The Atlantic to be well written from a technical to take chances, or the editors dont, or both. Even more likely is that they dont know how, and derive a feeling of security from painting by and terribly limiting, but its so common that no one in the mainstream

standpoint, but safe, predictable, and boring. Either the writers dont like

the numbers. Certainly, thats an odd way for a writer or an editor to live, even talks about it. As Ive mentioned before several dozen times, they

would rather attend workshops and talk about being passionate and expressing himself or herself by buying the exact same clothes everyone else is buying, and by imitating people on television. When one thinks of the great writers in history, its hard to imagine any of them attending minded thinking and ignorance.

honing their craft. This is about as logical as someone thinking he is

workshops. They were too busy living and being outraged by narrowAugust 29, 2004 There is nothing like having a jolt of apricot vodka be zapped with a fake cigarette lighter. But what was I to do? It was a

with a friend, especially after his son has tricked you into letting yourself nice-looking lighter, and he asked me to give it a try. So I did. The thing

delivered quite a shock, accompanied by a buzz. I suppose the shock wasnt really a shock, but a strong vibration. In any case, I jumped and laughed their fool heads off. After the joke wore off, we went inside and I yelled, and the lighter flew out of my hand, and then father and son poured us each a shot of vodka, which my brother brought on his last

visit from Armenia. You guys dont deserve this, I said, but go ahead and drink it anyway. Sitting at the table, we disposed of the shots in one their stomach lining. They were delighted. Before pouring another shot, I cracker bread, or lavash, though in Armenia lavash is soft, not dry and had another shot of vodka, and nibbled a little more bread. After that, my gulp. I watched their expressions change as the 130-proof fluid coated moistened some batz hatz, the flat, dry Armenian bread also known as crumbly. I brought it to the table and we ate some of the bread. Then we friends son, who knows enough about drinks to be a bartender, told me about one called an Irish Car Bomb. Its a simple drink with only two ingredients: a pint glass about two-thirds full of Guinness Stout, into drink it. I said, You leave the shot glass in there? He said, Yes. I said,

which is dropped a shot of Baileys Irish Cream, glass and all. Then you But when you drink, doesnt it hit your teeth? He said it didnt, but I told

him I didnt see how it couldnt. By his bleary-eyed smile I knew I would never get a satisfactory answer, so I poured us all another shot of vodka. Judging by their tears of joy, it was the best thing I could have done. on the far end of the table. An hour or so later, my wife found them in the same place. Oh, yeah, I said. Those are the magazines. I picked them up and hauled them back to my lair, then separated the titles and arranged them by date so I could ignore them in their proper order. Its

Later, after they had gone, I found a plastic bag full of magazines resting

important to be organized. If I werent organized, Id never get anything done. August 30, 2004 Yesterday in New York, several hundred thousand people turned out to protest Bush and his evil actions on the eve of the republican convention. If the economy and employment situation are bloodbath in Iraq, as Bush says, and everything else were as Bush says,

improving, as Bush says, and if the world is really safer because of the it seems unlikely that so many people would hate him and want him out

of office. And if he is such a wonderful man, why doesnt he have rotten his democratic opponent is? Why arent there hundreds of Are they too busy counting their money? Or are they stuck in an unemployment line somewhere, wondering what hit them? Or maybe

hundreds of thousands of supporters in the street shouting about how thousands of people out praising his war, and chanting Bring em on?

they are the parents of those whom Bush has sent to murder and be blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, pretending to be a real working man. What an insult to people who really have to work, and whose work, though it saps them of strength and takes up all their time,

murdered in Iraq. Meanwhile, around and around he goes, wearing his

often still isnt enough to pay their bills. Clearly, he is laughing at them which means he is laughing at millions. And so its no surprise that the streets of Manhattan were full of protesters, despite the heat, humidity,

and possible danger. Its no surprise that they marched with flag-draped cardboard caskets signifying Bushs war dead. What is a surprise is that there is anyone left at all who cannot see through the mans lies, and time in office. I can understand the super-wealthy sticking by their boy,

recognize what has taken place here and around the world during his but anyone who has to work for a living, or anyone who cares about their

children and grandchildren, or anyone with hope for a decent future who still thinks Bush and Company are on their side are living in a dream world or paralyzed by propaganda.

August 31, 2004 Well, shucks. I finished my proofreading job. That means its time to read Kafkas Metamorphosis. But now I dont want to read Kafkas Metamorphosis. I want to read something else. Im not in the mood to read about a man who wakes up to discover he is a chickens? The fan is running down the hall, thats why. But Im not

cockroach. Kafka was sick. And why does the room suddenly smell like worried. It wont get far. The fan is on the window sill. I think its going to jump. What a ham. Thats it. Ham and eggs. No wonder I smell chickens. The fan ran all night, yet it still isnt out of breath. But it has bad breath. Chickens should be allowed to run free. They shouldnt be crammed into cages off the ground with the lights always on. Is there a chicken farm nearby? Not that Im aware of. Then whence the smell? Whither the

Chicken breath. Feathers, dust, excrement, frightened chicken thoughts.

aroma? And what do chickens farm that is, when they are given a choice? As I said, Kafka was sick, staying in his room all the time and writing about man-bugs and hunger artists. A guy like that wont make it very far in this world, let me tell you. He wont be elected to the city someone like that. Very sorry indeed.

council or made president of Rotary. Yes, you have to feel sorry for September 1, 2004 The telephone just rang. It was someone I know, because he needs and expects me to do it. To be more precise, he

wanting me to do something I dont want to do, but that I will do anyway needs someone to do it, and expects me to do it, because I have done such things for him in the past. In other words, its my fault for not telling him to find someone else. Naturally, I didnt let on that I dont want to do

what he wants me to do. Im too polite and too stupid for that. And yet all

I would have to do is tell him that I am no longer available to do what he wants me to do. He wouldnt even be upset. The fact is, he doesnt care. His only concern is getting done what he needs done. Even more

ridiculous is that we arent friends, though we have known each other since 1988. And if we have known each other since 1988 and still arent friends, it isnt likely that we will ever be friends. Not that he isnt a nice enough guy. Hes plenty nice. We just have nothing in common, except

for what he calls me about and wants me to do. I keep thinking that one of these days I will tell him politely and with all due respect, of course for about one minute. I even know who he would call in my place. Then him? Is it because he pays me to do what he needs and wants me to Im through. It would simplify my existence, and only complicate his life would go on. The question, then, is, why dont I go ahead and tell do? Possibly. And yet, the money is so little that it would hardly be missed. It isnt a matter of survival. Do I put the money in the bank? No. spent. The only reason I hang onto to it is to tease my creditors. Oh, Its spent before he gives it to me. Every cent I have has already been well, then, here you go, I tell them eventually. If its really that important

to you, go ahead. Take it. If this sounds contradictory, thats because it but I hate it and dont want it. At the same time, I do want it but only money that the average business person lacks. It is this lack of understanding that allows business people to succeed,

is. I have a very strange relationship with money. I need it desperately, because I need it. The good thing is, this gives me an understanding of and

simultaneously leads them to believe all sorts of silly things about funny thing about it is, these very thoughts go through my mind every

themselves that they couldnt possibly believe if they had no money. The

time this person calls me which, fortunately, isnt very often. If he from him for two weeks. Those are happy days, indeed.

called me every day, I dont know what Id do. Sometimes I wont hear September 2, 2004 And then there are people I want to hear from, but who choose to remain silent for exaggerated periods of time. I write to them and get no answer. I ask them pertinent questions, or specifically address something they have said, or mention something important they ask me something or tell me about their problems, I always reply, thats happening on my end, and then receive silence in return. When whether I have time or not, and whether or not Im in the mood. I reply

even if they dont ask me or tell me anything, and are just writing to say natural impulse to acknowledge someones greeting, and because I know what it feels like when someone doesnt acknowledge mine. Eventually, though, my anger subsides, and then I start to worry about the people I havent heard from. Everyone has their own set of everyone is held hostage by the lunacy of modern life. Often, at the end

hello. When someone says hello, I say hello back. I do so because its a

problems, be it health, mental, or otherwise, and to some degree of the day, it hurts to think, and it seems nearly impossible to compose a reasonable reply to someones urgent ramblings. I am accustomed to writing all the time, so maybe its easier for me. I find the act of writing, in better, and less tired. What physical exercise does for the body, writing

whatever form, to be therapeutic. I get caught up in it, and soon I feel does for my withered gray matter. It creates a positive charge, and gives me the energy I need to continue on. And continue I must, because so sounds foolish. But unless I am horribly mistaken, writing is the tool I am many things remain unsolved. That I will solve them by writing I know meant to use. Writing is like a shovel. With it I dig myself deeper into

trouble, and yet with that same shovel I will dig myself out assuming the handle doesnt break. September 3, 2004 Good news: Ive decided to undertake several

new projects. The idea came to me late yesterday afternoon. What you more. And so I quickly wrote down the word Projects on a slip of paper. Whenever I write something on a slip of paper, that makes it official. Oh,

need, I said, are new projects not two or three, but a dozen or

no, I said, holding the paper up to the light. You realize what this means, dont you? It means youre stuck. Now you have to follow through. Undaunted, I started thinking about what projects I might

undertake. Possibilities rushed in. Pick me! Pick me! they all yelled.

Im the project to end all projects. Some of them werent bad, so I threw considered the other rapidly accumulating projects. A scribble here, a crumple there, a sketch, a scratch, a puzzle. Hmm. Ah. No. Oh? Ah-ha! Why didnt I think of that before? Where was I yesterday? What have I been doing with my life? What a fool Ive been all these years! Just then, my wife walked in. What on earth is going on in here? she said. I

them into a pile on the corner of my work table and let them argue while I

looked up at her. From now on, I said defiantly, things are going to be different around here. There are going to be major changes. She sighed. Again? she said. What is it this time? She looked at the mess I was making. I know what youre thinking, I said. But dont say it. This pile of scraps represents whats going on in my head. Her smile was sweet and full of understanding. At the same time, it was obvious that hard to prove Im off my rocker? Besides, I still have my projects. I have them, and no one can take them away from me. I know the truth and the truth is, I cant be stopped. she felt she had proved her point. But so what? Since when has it been

September 4, 2004 Our new neighbors have placed a gallon concrete swans near their front step. The swans have a little round platform growing out of their backs, making them look somewhat

container of yellow chrysanthemums on each of the two decorative

deformed. But the general scene is a cheerful one, and there is every who tried to destroy the place. Meanwhile, the spitter across the street

indication that these people are nothing like the former troublemakers has taken his adorable little family on a vacation somewhere. They have been gone a week. And what a pleasure it has been to see their house sealed like a tomb, and not to have to listen to the daily spitting and yelling. The neighbors around the corner are in charge of picking up the usually the paper sits there half the day announcing the owners absence. But, in all fairness to the paper-picker-uppers, it takes time to decide which of their shiny SUVs to drive on their many important trips of this is true, mind you. I dont really know where they go, or why it newspaper every morning. One day they didnt bother until evening, and

each day to the video store, hair parlor, and club meetings. Not that any takes such monstrous vehicles to haul one or two people. Maybe they another problem developing. When the spitter parked his pickup by the

do contract work for local mortuaries. You Call, We Haul. There is also curb before he left, he left one of the interior lights on. It flickered bravely for three or four days, but it has finally gone out. I feel just terrible about him having to face a dead battery when he gets home. Why, hell be mad enough to spit. September 5, 2004 Good little student of literature that I am, I read

one of the short stories in the stack of Harpers magazines that recently came my way. I chose a story by a well known writer with several novels and story collections to his credit not too difficult since the authors

whose work appears in the magazine generally have an extensive track of, or have attended several prestigious workshops. The story was

record, or have at least studied with important writers no one has heard terrible. It was hopeless. Nothing happened. Its author was playing a clever word game, depending on his vocabulary to carry the piece, which it did right into the garbage. Quite simply, he did not care about gave them a chance to speak for themselves. There were a couple of almost-observations, and there was some almost-sex thrown in at the

his characters. He couldnt, because he never got to know them, never

end, when the author apparently realized hed better do something. He that sort of thing, but I refuse to believe that in a country this size it isnt

was too late. He took the money and ran. I suppose Harpers can afford possible to find better stories. The reason Harpers cant or doesnt

bother, I would guess, is that the editors feel the same about their work as the author who took the money and ran: this will do, the bases are covered, and so on and so forth. How boring, and what a waste of ink,

paper, and circulation. . . . Now, there is something else on my mind, piano teacher, Mrs. Crawford, had risen from the dead to give a steps in a huge abandoned building. As a crowd gathered, I felt

and that is the rather dramatic dream I had last night, in which my old masterful performance of Chopins Polonaise at the top of some wide tremendously proud to see her performing on her shiny-black grand piano. She began softly with another piece of music, but soon she dum, dum-dum-Dum-dee-dee-dum with her ancient bony fingers. When became inspired and switched to Chopin, hammering out the Dum-deshe finished, the crowd erupted into applause, and she looked so happy admirers. I told her how beautifully she had played, and reminded her of

I thought I would cry. I met her soon thereafter, surrounded by a group of

the difficulty Id had with the piece years earlier when it had been part of our lessons. Growing younger every second, she smiled and said, With you, it is a gift, because the music is in you. And then I found myself alone in the building, wondering about what she had said. I knew it was

true, because she had said it. But what I didnt know, and still dont, is

what she really meant. Was she referring to music, or writing, or was she perhaps referring to living itself? And then there was the way she had spoken: it seemed she was giving me her permission to what? be

myself? I know this: if anyone could grant such a preposterous thing, it would be her, and she would do it in just that manner, simply and graciously, without drawing attention to herself. And here is another question: why that particular piece of music? I havent heard or thought of it for years which begs yet another question: what else havent I heard or thought of for years?

September 6, 2004 Maybe now is the time to read some Shakespeare. The book is still sitting here, right in front of me. I read the introductory material, which was quite interesting, but then I became distracted and read three novels and a collection of stories, some poems, and a few pages of Mencken. (A writer knows he has arrived when people refer to him by his last name. With any luck, he is still alive when this happens. But if hes dead, he still knows. This is my hope, at

any rate.) But even as I say this, I doubt I actually will read Shakespeare. should have left them together on the table, since Shakespeare fills a massive tome, while Kafka is relegated to a few pages in a fusty anthology between Faulkner and Wolfe, who are a couple of windbags. sigh. And I can see that Shakespeare would like nothing more than to

For one thing, he and Kafka arent speaking to each other. I never

For the last couple of minutes, Kafka has done nothing but blink and

argue and brag about his accomplishments. Its sad, really. Theyre both dead, and yet they persist in this childish behavior. And Mencken is dead, and Faulkner, and Wolfe, and almost everyone else. Am I dead? Quite possibly. I cant say for sure that I am alive. I think I am, but everyone else thinks theyre alive too. Thats hardly encouraging, when you consider some of the other things that everyone else thinks. Maybe Im just tired. But Im not. Im full of energy. I feel great. I feel rotten, too,

but thats to be expected, because feeling rotten is part of feeling great.

Once, after a particularly emotional funeral, I told an Armenian priest that thing, and that it brings out the best in people. This he almost

I liked funerals. He couldnt understand it. I told him grief is a beautiful understood, but he was too caught up in the idea that sorrow is bad and happiness is good for it to soak in as if they were two separate things, which of course theyre not, because nothing is separate. Everything is

part of everything else. Thats why I felt so happy during the funeral, and so sad, and why I usually feel that way in general. Now all I need to do is to figure out what this means. September 7, 2004 I read two more Harpers stories last night. One something is said and said well. But nothing was said. There was no

wasnt really a story, which isnt necessarily a bad thing as long as point or, if there was, the author was determined to keep it a secret.

The second story wasnt a story either, but it was a vignette, though a

lifeless one that didnt work the way its prize-winning author hoped it characters like crash-test dummies. On the other hand, she did use several French words and phrases, and though I didnt understand them,

would. It might have if she had been specific, and not treated her

I felt, how do you say? sophisticated. All in all, this Harpers story thing has become quite a challenge. Its beginning to look like Ill have to read

several more. I might even turn it into an all-out Quest for a Genuine Story and read three or four years worth. Meanwhile, I have a stack of The Atlantic to go through. But I fear this will be like switching from

McDonalds to Burger King. Not that I mean to sound bitter. Heaven forbid. Theyre only trying to run businesses, after all. What gets me is literature, but their spread sheets are showing. the pretending. They say they are publishing stories, or fiction, or September 8, 2004 What a shame that each war-related death in Iraq on both sides as well as each and every injury, doesnt merit the same attention as Milestone U.S. Death Number 1,000. After all, wasnt the number reached one tragic, bleeding moment at a time? And yet

during a visit to Portland yesterday, National Security Advisor Condoleeza Rice had the nerve to say that the U.S. is winning the war, both against terrorism and in Iraq. She said it with the same smirk that she, Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld are unable to wipe off their faces

when they utter their hideous lies. And who can blame them? Look at the illegitimacy of Bushs presidency, it is important to remember that

what they have gotten away with, and continue to get away with. Despite millions of people did vote for him. Can anything be more frightening? Have they learned anything? Have they been paying attention? Have assault on the environment? Have they bothered to notice who is

What are those people going to do when the 2004 election rolls around? they taken note of the lies, the destruction, the lost jobs, the continued profiting from the war? And do they think the next 1,000 deaths will be any less painful? Because if they grant the monsters another four years, 1,000 will quickly turn into 2,000, and 2,000 will turn into 5,000. If Bush stays in office, by legitimate or fraudulent means, his first term will seem like a picnic compared to what lies ahead.

September 9, 2004 If it were a few degrees cooler this morning, I

would be able to wear my new gray sport coat. I found it yesterday, with off and on last year, but not until it was late in the season. Then, a couple of days ago, it occurred to me that we would have better luck sense. The coat fits perfectly, is made of wool, and is worth every bit of its $7.99 price tag. The funny thing about these coats my black one is

the help of my long suffering bride, at Goodwill. We had looked for one

finding one now, while it is still relatively warm. Such is my keen fashion

also from Goodwill is that they are better than anything I can find in department stores which is interesting, since that is where they originally came from. But there is something wonderful about a coat that begins to show through. It is possible to relax in such a coat, to move

has been worn. The stiff, careful period is over, and its true personality freely, and to not worry about it coming in contact with the elements. The wearer a feeling of confidence. Thats why, when I see men wearing new

fact that it is still here proves its worth and durability, thereby giving its sport coats and looking like strangled two-by-fours, I feel sorry for them.

There is nowhere that I would be ashamed to be seen in either of my

sport coats, be it a wedding, funeral, or meeting with the governor. Thats how good they look, and how confident I am in their ability to make the right impression. Now, this reminds me of the time my brother grandfathers cousin, who has since passed on. Papken always wore a coat and tie, and he smoked cigarettes and loved to talk. One evening something or other, he forgot to flick the ash off the end of his cigarette.

and I were in Armenia in 1982, seeing the country and visiting with our

we were visiting a friend of his, and while he was going on and on about The ash grew and grew, until it was nearly two-thirds the length of the

original cigarette. It sagged, but somehow it held together, though the

cigarette was in his mouth much of the time. My brother and I watched coat. Papken didnt notice. He went right on talking, as the chunks of ash slowly found their way through the creases and fiber to the floor. I maybe someone in Armenia is wearing it still, and absorbing its wisdom and energy.

with amusement until the ash finally broke free and landed on his sport

wonder where that coat is now. Maybe Papken was buried in it, or

September 10, 2004 I woke up at about three-thirty this morning and couldnt go back to sleep. Now its almost eight and I cant wake up. Im here at my post, but an entire army might already have passed behind me without my knowing it. Or a herd of cattle, on its way to slaughter not that there are any similarities between the two. No. Of course not. Let us speak plainly, then. Let us not mince words. Let us say there is a

light fog this morning, and that scarcely a tired, dirty maple leaf is

stirring. Let us say the spitting neighbor is back, and that he just did what I enjoyed so much not hearing him do while he was gone on vacation. know about his dead battery. Finally, let us say that I am tired of saying Let us also say that he has yet to try starting his pickup and still doesnt let us say. Summer is dying a slow, graceful death. Fall is peeking biding her time. Spring is busy reading next years seed catalogs. unanswered questions and misunderstood replies. Lean messengers

through the leaves and starting small fires along the roadside. Winter is Everywhere, the ground aches underfoot. It aches with a thousand run from village to village with the news, but they are really looking for brides, for they are tired of running, and tired of being alone. The young women know this, and greet them as they approach. What news do you bring? Have you seen our friends? But the messengers look at them strangely. They say everyone in the village has been killed, or that they

have all gone mad. They make up fantastic stories, causing the young women to tremble. If it is so, what will become of us? But they know it is a game, and they walk hand in hand with the messengers into the village. When they arrive, the elders smile, for they, too, know. They remember, and laugh, Is everyone in your village still mad? Yes, yes. Of

course we are mad. We are all mad, and we have all been killed. But with your kind blessing, your daughter and I will go back and save them. It is the least we can do. The blessing is given, and then there is a great your business. Ignore the man behind the curtain. He is the maddest villager of them all.

celebration. This is how we live. This is how we die. Please, go about

September 11, 2004 In downtown Salem yesterday, I held a door open for two babbling Mexican women pushing strollers. Then, as it happened, there was another door several feet ahead, and since they

reached it before I did, one of them held it open for me and said with a nice it would be if everyone were so friendly and willing to take torns.

smile, Now is my torn. I thanked her and passed through, thinking how And earlier, when I was in a print shop on extremely important and highly confidential business so important and confidential that even I didnt know what it was I found myself stranded at a busy counter with customers lined up on one side and employees lined up on the other. employees seemed uncertain of their menu. And even earlier so

The customers looked like they were ordering sandwiches, while the early, in fact, that it was the day before upon leaving the bank, I He flashed a silver-laden smile and said, Very good, thenk you, just as

asked the Russian who sells hot dogs on the corner how he was doing. if he had already sold a hot dog to every citizen of Salem, and I was the

only one he had missed. It was inspiring to see a genuine old-style

entrepreneur in action, bringing life to a street corner. What a shame headlines from beneath floppy woolen caps: President reads book!

there arent also paper boys on the sidewalk hollering the days President holds map upside down! Then wed be getting somewhere. people, and behavior is so regulated and predictable. Worst of all, hardly

What a time this is, really. It seems so much life has been snuffed out of anyone gets my jokes anymore. People just look at me and look, and look, and look. Well, Im sorry, buddy, but if you dont get it by now, home and watch your little screen, or big screen, as the case may be. youre not likely to anytime in the near future, so why dont you just go Im sure you can find a cheap money-mad game show, or talk show, or reality show, or something else youve seen 10,000 times. When youre through, come back. Ill still be here. Maybe then we can talk, unless them these days. Hello? Hello? No, I cant talk now, Im using the really? Good for you. Im baking a damn cake.

youre too busy playing games on your cell phone, or whatever they call shaving attachment on my phone. Im networking. Im conferencing. Oh, September 12, 2004 Phlegm update: Finally, after two weeks, the

neighbor tried to start his pickup. He opened his garage door yesterday morning and coughed and spat his way to the street, unlocked the pickup, and sat down behind the wheel. Click-click-click. Nothing. He got out of the pickup and coughed again, and then, splat. The coughing,

spitting, and splatting when on for half an hour while he tried to jumpstart the battery with his van. Click-click-click. It might have helped if he had started the van and left it running, and given the battery a chance to charge, but he didnt. He went back inside, then returned a couple of

minutes later, spitting. He called someone on his cell phone, and

actually spat during the conversation. When he hung up, he realized he

was standing in a river of phlegm, and that the drain in the gutter had backed up. The phlegm had crept over his neighbors sidewalk next door. Birds were falling dead out of the trees. Sirens wailed in the distance. He was trapped. Luckily, our house is across the street and on higher ground. As our moat filled with phlegm, I raised the drawbridge. Then I fired several cannons, killing the neighbor and destroying his house. A giant crater formed, swallowing them, it, everything. This morning, the street is quiet. I am at peace. September 13, 2004 Now our iris worker has a nice fat bank account

and is back in school. He still has a couple of Saturdays to work on the

farm, then the season will be officially over. Meanwhile, the farm owners will enter a new cycle of activity, one that moves along at a slower, saner, more human pace. Back in my farming days, this didnt happen until October. Then the Fresno Fair opened and Id sneak off and spend a day at the horse races, which was an ideal place to study human

behavior, including my own. Now in his senior year of high school, and son is attending school in the mornings only. One of his classes will

having satisfied almost all of his so-called educational requirements, our focus on Shakespeare, so it will be interesting to hear his impressions. In the afternoon he will be free to study and play his guitar in fact, he claims a new one is on the horizon, now that he has money. Hes still

talking about buying a twelve-string acoustic, which I think is a fine idea,

especially since he is the one who will be paying for it. The house is full

of music these days, as he and his older brother have continued their on the way that he says is just a junk guitar that he plans to

guitar explorations. Vahan has three amps now, two guitars, and another experiment on. Judging by the progress the boys have made boys? Vahan is twenty-three Im one hundred percent behind their activities.

Vahan, who is quite a wizard in computer matters and is actually paid for his knowledge and ability, has said many times that the last thing he wants to be is a geek who knows nothing beyond the computer realm.

Between his musical pursuits and extensive reading, I would say there is geek, or even a productive citizen at least in ordinary terms. For the

no danger of that. There is also no danger of me becoming a computer truth is, I am quite productive, even though most people think I do misguided perceptions. It certainly beats explaining why I mumble to myself and hit my head against the wall.

nothing. I find this extremely amusing, and purposely encourage their

September 14, 2004 Propaganda, anyone? How about this front page

headline in todays Oregonian: U.S. risks losing Iraqis support. Thats a clever one, all right. Its clever because it assumes the U.S. once had the Iraqis support, and also because it assumes the U.S. still does despite the occupation, despite the U.S. takeover of the Iraqi economy, homes. This kind of propaganda goes on day in and day out. We are soil? Who is where they should not be, and have no right to be? Who

despite the ongoing death and destruction of the Iraqis families and liberators. They are insurgents and terrorists. And yet, who is on whose has killed tens of thousands of people in their homeland, and starved their children and deprived them of proper medical care? And yet many people will fall for just such a headline, and never once stop and think of reversed. They cannot imagine running through a smoke-filled street with their dead child in their arms. That only happens on TV, reported news anchors with strategic hair and mock expressions of concern

how they would feel and what life would be like if the situation were

between advertisements for unaffordable new prescription drugs by until its time for a feel-good story, when they miraculously cheer up, as if

the blood had suddenly stopped flowing and peace were declared. This is whats happening. September 15, 2004 Shall I write about the sixty people who were killed yesterday in Iraq, or shall I sit here and pretend to go about my business? What is my business? None of your business. They were on TV several months ago, Freedom is a messy business. Ah, there

killed because Iraq has been liberated. Or, as the great Rumsfeld said we go again, with that hideous word, business. But business is what the Im thinking quite seriously of raising my lemonade price from five cents were busy killing people in the name of freedom and democracy, I

war is all about. It is what the war is. As for my own business hah! to ten cents a glass. Lemonade, mister? Oh, Im sorry. Had I known you wouldnt have asked. Excuse me. Really, Ive got to find a better location. Or a better business. Hey, I know. Ill be a writer. That ought to be easy. I can sit in my room all day and wait for the war to blow over. get in here? I ugh. Once again, I must apologize. It was one of my

No one will find me here. No one will hey! who are you? how did you cutthroat lemonade competitors, trying to poison my supply. I use real

lemons, you know. Did I mention that? I dont use frozen concentrate.

Oh, yeah, that reminds me of a good blond joke. A blond was staring at the blond said, It says concentrate. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. You see, this is because there are too many people making too much money from it. So Lemonade, mister?

a can of frozen orange juice. Her friend said, What are you doing? and what happens when you try to outlast a war that is nowhere near ending you go crazy. Really, you should try it some time. It feels good. September 16, 2004 Hurricane Ivan is battering the coast of the

southern U.S. This means it wont be long until the president flies in and

hands out bottled water and sandbags with his shirt sleeves rolled up. I told you, take it of my good side. Very well, Mr. President, as you wish. Turn around. There. Now. Bend over, please. Excellent! Oh? Youre Dont you want to stay and help? The least you could do is check the

leaving already? But you just got here. What about all these sandbags? voting machines before you leave, to make sure they are malfunctioning properly. Whats that? Your good buddies at Diebold are in charge of said, Ill be seeing you, in all the same old places. . . . that little detail? Im sorry. My mistake. Well, then, as Mario Lanza once September 17, 2004 Yesterday evening, an obnoxious-looking young man in a cheap tan suit marched up to the house and rang the door bell. vigorously to let us know he knew we were home and that he didnt appreciate being ignored. Then he left. But about forty-five minutes later, youngest son asked me, Arent you going to shred him? When I told him I wasnt in the mood, he was disappointed. You can if you like, I When we didnt answer promptly, he rang it again, then pounded

he was back again, this time ringing and pounding simultaneously. Our

said. Then his brother came in and said, I know. Why dont you open the door but not say anything? Just stare at him. I said that was a pretty tempting idea, and then we acted out the scene for our own amusement, man had leaned on the bell one last time and given up. A couple of

our eyes getting bigger and bigger. While this was going on, the young minutes later I went out to apologize, but I couldnt find him anywhere. I which Vahan cranked up his Fender 59 Bassman, rattling the house. to the door? Vahan shrugged, but continued playing. So I went back

felt terrible. Then I closed the garage door and came back inside, after Shouting over the noise, I said, Hey, how will we know if anyone comes outside, and began searching through the neighborhood for the

obnoxious salesman. Had I found him I would have shredded I mean dont like having their doors hammered unless there is a fire, or a visit

explained to him that contrary to what he learned in school, most people from aliens, or some similar development, and, further, that some people bothered. After circling the block, I noticed flames leaping from our roof, where an alien space ship had landed. I was about to call the fire department when several obnoxious-looking young men in cheap tan

also feel it is their right to not answer the door if they dont feel like being

suits jumped out of our pine tree and began spraying me with cologne and trying to sell me vacuum cleaners. It was then that I realized how far-reaching the effects of Bushs economic policies are. Because, just bearing recruiters for the armed forces of the Intergalactic States of as I was showing them my empty pockets, a fancy space shuttle arrived America. The poor aliens didnt stand a chance. They listened excitedly Soon, everyone was gone. I called the fire department, and they came

to the recruiters for about fifteen seconds, then signed their lives away. and put out the fire, and disposed of the wreckage. I thanked the men for their efforts and told them all that had happened. Weve seen a lot of left. I went back inside, wondering where it all would end. this lately, one of them said while he was rolling up the hose. The men September 18, 2004 Someday, possibly much sooner than I think, these words will have lost their meaning. They might already have done so. On the other hand, who is to say that they wont live and breathe for a thousand years, or even longer? But if they do, they will probably mean something else, or more, or less, than they mean now. A thousand years is a long time almost as long as the time it has taken me to write these few sentences. And no, I dont know where this is going. All I

know is that it is going. Anything might happen, and my course will

abruptly be changed. Its raining. That means something. It means the

air is fresh and cool, and that we wont have to water anything. And that means something. It means that what we have to water wont last much longer anyway. It means summer is over. And then there is the coffee

Im drinking, and the encouraging sounds rising from my keyboard, and

the ringing in my ears, and the fact that the gardening crew that takes

care of the house next door just started a noisy leaf blower and lawn mower. What do they hope to accomplish in the rain? Being paid. There is no other reason for them to be there. Because the truth is, what they are doing is idiotic and unnecessary. But what about what I am doing? I

know its idiotic, but is it also unnecessary? I, too, want to be paid, but being paid for raking leaves or mowing a lawn. It involves the use of

being paid for a piece of writing is a lot more difficult to arrange than several complicated formulas and equations, all of the known sciences, of physical laws, the study of languages, history, and music, the

religions, and philosophies, the interpretation of dreams, the suspension observation of ants and termites, and drinking huge quantities of water. grapes, which are to me one of the earths dearest commodities. Last year, we had none. I worked an entire year without Muscat grapes. A few days ago, we found some at a local fruit stand. They were small, of course, and not quite as sweet as they should be, but they were

Without the water, all else goes for naught. I should also mention Muscat

Muscats. I ate a small bunch last night, grinding up the smaller seeds, eaten all year, because I refuse to eat grapes from the grocery store, which are stacked in ignorant heaps and sweating in plastic bags. Is my writing necessary? I believe it is, but is it even for me to say? And yet I have said so, many times, and will probably continue to say so. Why the

spitting out the larger ones. They were the first and only grapes I have

heck shouldnt I say so? If I didnt feel it was necessary, I wouldnt be my lack of accomplishment. As I survey the wreckage of the preceding hours, I can only shake my head in wonder. There is always so much more that needs to be done, that I feel I should take a shower, put on a night. This in turn severely reduces the quality of my sleep. Last night,

doing it. And yet, at the end of the day, I am often deeply disturbed by

pot of coffee, and start another shift. I feel I should work through the for example, from about midnight on, when I awoke from a nightmare

kicking at a strange assailant, I tossed and turned and woke up every

fifteen or twenty minutes. By five this morning I was crippled, and I still our son, and I did get him to his iris job on time. It was a beautiful trip,

havent straightened up completely. But I did make a nice breakfast for cloudy and windy, and we saw a man from our general neighborhood walking past the corn field along Tepper Road. Perhaps he wondered, This is what I do. I wonder about what people are wondering. I also really a wonderful life, though it is fraught with peril. as I did aloud, whether the crop would ripen fully in the cool weather. wonder about myself, and the strange life I seem to be living, which is September 19, 2004 A few minutes ago, my precious bride told me

about an elevator accident that took place last night in the Reed Opera

House in downtown Salem. The Reed is a very old brick building with an alternating array of shops, offices, restaurants, and vacancies in the primarily by a spacious ballroom with windows that look down on the basement and on the first and second floors. The third floor is occupied street. The ballroom is frequently rented out for events, last nights being

a wedding reception. It seems the main elevator has been under repair, so guests and the elevator operator didnt stop as expected on the

and for that reason the freight elevator was being used when a dozen or

ground floor, but continued all the way to the basement in what one passenger said was a free-fall. Three or four people went to the hospital with minor injuries. The elevator repairman, though, who

happened to be in the building at the time, smiled at the term free-fall. He said that wasnt the case it all, and that the elevator was traveling at instead until it reached the basement, where it had to stop, giving the times myself, but have always preferred taking the stairs, because it I remember correctly, is supposed to be haunted. Not only that, many the normal speed and simply didnt stop when it should have, continuing passengers an extra jolt. I have ridden in the Reeds elevators a few allows one to better appreciate and experience the old building, which, if years ago, a friend and I had a small newspaper office in the basement.

I still remember arriving one morning to find water dripping onto my large pipes overhead. To make matters worse, the entire front wall of the like being in a fish tank. When we spoke we had to do so quietly,

computer monitor. The ceiling wasnt finished, and so there were several office was glass that didnt reach the ceiling, so being in the office was because our voices echoed. Still, everything was great, because we were in the Reed Opera House along with a tailor, a hair salon, a work. Unfortunately, no one ever asked us where our office was, and no guitar repairman, and a business that helped people with handicaps find one paid us a visit, except for the downtown parking police, who came in the people who would be using the free parking spaces outside the building when they came to our place of business. We told them no a business, but we were still charged the minimum of two parking

to measure the place so they could decide how much to charge us for

one ever came, and since we made no money we could hardly be called spaces, which came to about eighty dollars a year. Early on, we also

received a visit from a cologne-soaked representative of the local Chamber of Commerce, who was unnaturally excited about the idea of having a hand-shaking and business card-exchanging party in our aquarium. This idea evaporated into thin air when the Chamber realized that one of the papers we were publishing was a new monthly business gazette which competed directly with one they had started, or, rather,

had been roped into doing by Salems local daily. Instead of embracing our presence for the good of the areas business community, we were treated as outcasts a situation we relished, especially in print. These

days, the Chamber still holds its hand-shaking parties, while vacancies town, and places like Wal-Mart thrive. The chain-owned daily, of course,

continue to escalate in the Reed Opera House and elsewhere all over still charges exorbitant advertising rates, thereby draining the pockets of business owners desperate for customers. All in all, it is a happy formula that benefits everyone. September 20, 2004 Somehow, we must break free of the rats grasp. His foul teeth and claws have poisoned our systems, our minds. We think we think, but what we think is not what we think we think. It is what

he thinks, and what he wants us to think which is not thinking at all, but stinking. He chews corpse-flavored gum, twirls nations by the tail, has buzzards for friends, saves the flies, and throws out the ointment with the bath water. Other than that, he is a nice rat, a good, fat, rat-a-tat

rat, a fancy dude of a card-playing rat, a hat rack rat with a belt buckle,

the head rat who speaks through his tail. He is a rat with eyebrows, a

most important characteristic, a foibling rat, a lungful of bad air rat that chases ducks around the pond until they sink, then smiles at them

stifles a young century, a roasting pan full of mud and onions rat that through the window in the oven. Who is he? Who is this rat that mocks

the sorrow-laden world? Who is the rat with teeth so long that they leave a lightless miners shaft of oily pain? Is he who we think he is? Are we really who he thinks we are a deaf, dumb, blind multitude asleep at our watch? Or is everything and everyone something and someone else?

September 21, 2004 If it werent for my work, I would have gone mad far sooner, and in a different, more dangerous way. I would not only be mad, I would be angry, and the world would be missing out on my irresistible warmth and magnetic optimism. Everyone would think I am

impatient, bitter, cynical, arrogant, and opinionated, and that I see no reason to change. They wouldnt know me as the mild, unassuming, gentle, forgiving person I am. And what a shame that would be. Yes, if it

werent for art in general and writing in particular, I would not be sitting here today, blessing the world with my wit and wisdom. Instead, I would be clawing my way up the ladder of commerce, eating in traffic jams, and

playing telephone tag with people who pretend to like me but in reality are trying to keep me from getting anywhere and vice-versa. Truly, writing has saved me from myself, and the world from the monster I could have become. It has saved my wife and children as well, from

having to cope with someone who flies off the handle for little or no

reason, and who curses inanimate objects for refusing to cooperate. The

peace and tranquility they know and have come to expect and rely on their happiness, or mine, or the worlds. I owe everything to art, and to Hey wake up, damn you.

would be nothing more than a dream or fairy tale. But I take no credit for my battered muse, who lies crumpled in a drunken heap in the corner. September 22, 2004 It was interesting to see George Served

Honorably But Wasnt There Bush speaking before the United Nations

yesterday. His expression said it all. It said, Man, these people hate me. The smirk was temporarily gone. All he wanted to do was read his piece about how he is saving the world from terrorism by destroying Iraq able to get in a few rounds of golf, or a make trip to his ranch. . . . In

and leave. Poor guy. After seeing him suffer, one can only hope hell be other news, our iris worker did in fact buy a twelve-string acoustic guitar with part of his summer earnings. Its a Taylor, and truly a thing of beauty, with thrilling, rich sound. This, too, is what is happening in the world: a seventeen-year-old boy deciding a year in advance that he will buy an expensive musical instrument, and then working ten hours a day digging, cutting, sorting, and packing irises during the summer to earn home the one of his dreams. It is inspiring to say the least. Best of all,

the money he needs, and, finally, after trying various guitars, bringing after two days, he is already playing the thing as if he had been doing so all along. It feels to me, and Im sure it does to him, that a new door has opened, and that all he needs is to walk through. This is why we work, or to take over the world and control its resources. The monsters of the why we live not to get ahead, or to have more than the next person, world, the real terrorists like the current president, will never understand this. They will never know the pleasure of productive labor that enriches the spirit and benefits all. They will know only the pain of acquisition, and the mind-numbing, spirit-killing desire for more. Greed and suffering are their inheritance. These are powerful forces, indeed. But there is still music in the world. And as long as there is, there is hope.

September 23, 2004 Last night I read The Cop and the Anthem, a

short story by O. Henry that was beautifully adapted for television back in the Fifties by none other than the great Red Skelton. I found the piece in another book of O. Henrys stories that I picked up earlier this week at

the library book store. The Complete Works of O. Henry runs close to in New York. On the same trip, I also bought Hemingways For Whom

1,700 pages, and was published in 1937 by Garden City Publishing Co. the Bell Tolls. Even though I found the aforementioned volumes within the first thirty seconds, I was in the store for a full five minutes long enough to browse through the entire fiction section while sitting on a some odd reason is in exactly the same spot every time I visit the store.

child-sized but very sturdy and nicely varnished wooden chair that for The Cop and the Anthem is about Soapy, a bum who, noticing the warm confines of jail. His methods are simple enough. First he tries to

rapid approach of winter, follows his usual plan to secure lodging in the enter a restaurant and order roast duck, and then to be turned over to the law when it is discovered he is unable to pay. But he is thrown out as ignored by the police because Men who smash windows do not remain soon as he sets foot in the door. Then he breaks a store window, but is to parley with the laws minions. Then he tries to steal an umbrella, but as another policeman approaches, it turns out that the person he tries to steal it from has also stolen it, so the thief gives Soapy the umbrella and policeman makes lewd and suggestive remarks to a young woman who, much to his disappointment and surprise, takes him up on the offer. bench in defeat, he is stopped by the sound of beautiful music emanating from a small church. It is a captivating tune, . . . for he had Everything he tries, fails. Finally, as Soapy slowly returns to his park

flees. Then he decides to be a masher, and in full view of another

known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars. Following the sudden impulse to reclaim his life, he decides he

is still young enough to resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue

them without faltering. He knows of a job, and decides to apply for it the

following day. Then, while he is standing there listening to the music, he loitering and given three months in prison. It is a classic O. Henry

feels a hand on his shoulder. It is a policeman, and Soapy is arrested for ending, and one that Red Skelton played to perfection as Freddie the

Freeloader. With his painted clown face, when Freddie hears the church

music, his expression is so tragically sad and full of remorse for a life illlived that one cannot help but recognize Skeltons genius and personal sorrow. And such is the life of a good story, that it can not only be read and understood within the context of its own time, but that it can live and be re-enacted fifty years later, and that fifty years after that it can be read minds. If that isnt enough reason to live and work, nothing is.

again and remembered in conjunction with what it has meant to other September 24, 2004 The writer best able to forget is the writer best

able to move on. This writer feels no need to reinvent the wheel, only the need to examine it more carefully in the light of his accidental knowledge, its natural ebb and flow. For the wheel itself is also changing, as the writer is changing, and the worlds perception of the presence. The opportunity to work is all he asks. If you give him money, he will take it, because he needs it desperately. But if you give him

writer and what he does, and the possible meaning of his rebellious

money with the understanding that he is not to work, he will return the money unspent. If he doesnt, if he takes the money and quits writing, then he was not a writer in the first place, but an imposter instead. The

world is teeming with pretend writers. It might be in everyones best

interest if these pretenders were paid off and allowed to fold their gaudy for real working writers to be heard. At the same time, a truly advanced

tents, because doing so would save countless trees, and make it easier

civilization would never place a price tag on art. An advanced civilization would see to it that art is made freely available to all, and that everyone, young and old, has the opportunity to pursue their artistic instincts, and to be exposed to art in general. We do not live in such a civilization. We

choose material things instead. We choose war. We teach our children healthy innocence is replaced by fear, anger, and frustration. Like father, like son. Like mother, like daughter. The fact that art survives at all

to stifle their instincts and pursue money, then wring our hands as their

shows how powerful it is, and how powerful the creative impulse is within us. Art is a healing force. We need to be healed. For whatever reasons, we have not yet realized the foolishness of our ways. We have not recognized the emptiness that lies at the heart of thinking we are republicans or democrats, or Christians or Muslims or Jews. As children, destroy a nation than study a butterfly. we know better. But we are afraid to be children. We would rather September 25, 2004 A fourth hurricane is on its way to Florida after killing more than a thousand people in Haiti and leaving many of its Thousands and thousands of people are dying in Sudan in what amounts to yet another genocide those little events the U.S. claims to inhabitants homeless, hungry, sick, and without safe drinking water.

condemn but regularly denies, ignores, condones, or helps to happen. The war in Iraq rages on. Thanks to the consistent backing of Israel by the United States, the Palestinians continue to suffer. And there are many other upheavals around the globe, both large and small, from which someone, somewhere, is managing to make a profit. The result:

human beings are killing each other at an alarming rate, and revenge. This is our world. I mention Haiti because it is one of many

simultaneously perpetuating the cycle of grief, anger, hunger, and

poor countries around the world that are used by wealthier nations as international sweatshops, industrial dumping grounds, the sites of secret government prisons, or military jumping-off points. If these countries

werent used in this manner, if the money that is spent killing and subjugating people were spent on helping them live a better life, then they would be far better prepared for natural disasters, and be better able to cope with their aftermath. If billions of dollars werent being spent on war, it could be spent on food, housing, medicine, and education. If entitled to everything, then there would be more left for everyone else. people in wealthy nations like the United States didnt think they were Nothing could be more plain. And yet to most, the idea of voluntarily

doing with even a little less isnt worthy of consideration. Millions actually think poor people deserve to be poor, and hungry people deserve to be hungry until it happens to them. What a shameful state of mind to be rights of another, a crime against humanity has been committed. When in. When through his selfish actions one human being denies the basic mothers and fathers teach and encourage their children to get ahead at all costs, a crime against humanity has been committed. The evidence is everywhere. There is so much of it that it is disregarded the garbage cans overflowing with food, the fancy vehicles transporting one person, the frivolous waste of resources, the willful destruction of the

environment, the inequalities in the legal system, the rape of the general public by wealthy corporations the list goes on. And yet surrounded by such evidence, we still choose to continue along the same path. Sadly, many who do care still think change must come from without,

rather than within. They think it will come through legislation, or by

belonging to political and religious organizations and adhering to their shortsighted doctrines and dogmas, all of which are based on or

furthered by fear and exclusion. It is a strange way to live, but this kind of and honorable and, we must remember, worth killing for.

thinking has been going on so long that it is considered right, virtuous, September 26, 2004 Much to the dismay of my loving bride, I now

own an oversized European beret the kind with a floppy crown that

sags to one side, like the combs on the demented old hens that used to

peck their way around our barn. Its black, and I think it looks great. Our oldest son agrees, but everyone else thinks its ridiculous, out of place, Maybe it would be all right if you were in Paris. I took both statements as compliments. Since Vahan said he liked it, I asked him if it was or just plain stupid-looking. Our daughter said, You look like a painter.

because he thought it was comical, or because he thought it looked good. He said, Both. Another victory. After all, if it werent at least a a hat you can pretend to be as serious as you like, but the fact remains, little bit comical, I wouldnt have bought it. Hats are ridiculous anyway. In there is something perched on your head. Whether its a finely tailored piece of felt or a bowl of fruit makes no difference, unless the fruit happens to be real, in which case it would pay to have a strong neck. I ordered the beret from a haberdasher in Portland. They mailed it to me

in a nine-by-twelve envelope. Its made of wool, and cost eleven dollars. When I put it on, my wife frowned and said it reminded her of an old Basque man who stayed at her house once when she was a kid. He wore a beret, and she hated him. Apparently, ever since then, she has my decision to buy the beret, and to do just about everything else I do, including getting up in the morning. But I look at it this way: its better to them, Id take the Basques every time.

hated berets. Its unreasonable, but completely understandable like

hate berets than Basques. And if it ever came down to deciding between

September 27, 2004 What does it mean that Ive yet to write an

intelligent sentence this morning? It might mean this is Monday, though I like Mondays and the clean slate they represent. But as I work seven already be clean? The answer is simple: I dont have a slate. My slate is in the basement. And I dont have a basement, either. I like to say I do, because basements have their own charm and potential, but the fact days a week and have foolishly done so for ages, shouldnt my slate

remains, I only have a crawl-space. The same goes for my attic. There

are no trunks up there, and no family secrets. There is insulation and spiders, and maybe a dead mouse or two. I live in a boring house. This house doesnt even have a porch, which raises the question: is this really a house, or is it just a dwelling? We have a front step. Its made of

concrete. There is enough room on the step for a large pumpkin and a muddy pair of shoes. And so its obvious: I need to get out of this dwelling and into a real house while I can still tell what day it is. Then maybe I can have a slate all my own, and a basement to keep it in, and a porch to relax on while inhaling the perfume of honeysuckle and pondering my next move, which will be to the attic, where all sorts of fascinating objects will be stored, old phonographs, picture albums, and treasure maps. But how will this come to pass? Should I work eight days a week instead of seven? Or should I quit working altogether? Shall I go to school and learn a trade? If so, what about the trade I already have? I could be a welder, or a dental assistant, or a court reporter, or a paralegal, or a chef, or an insurance coding specialist, or any of the rewarding, exciting, and fulfilling careers. Exciting?

other things that are being advertised these days as financially rewarding? In most cases, these jobs dont even exist. Fulfilling? Yes,

Financially

Ive always wanted to work in the closed-captioning field. It has been a

life-long dream of mine. Or what about medical transcribing? She comes in today, complaining of right-sided wrist pain. Who knows what she will do tomorrow, the old bat. He spent $40,000 learning to be a chef, now he bakes muffins at Costco. So says the social transcriber, who doesnt have a porch. September 28, 2004 For the last ten or so minutes, I was under the noise coming from his room and thought, Thats odd. I got up and

distinct impression that Vahan had already gone to work. Then I heard a walked down the hall just in time to hear him close the front door and

start his car. I looked at the clock. It was 7:35, about the time he always

leaves. I thought it was later. Why? I thought I had already heard the car start, but I must have dreamed it. Ive been sitting here drinking coffee, Am I ready now? It would appear not. Ive finished most of my cup of not really thinking anything in particular, more or less just getting ready. coffee, but I dont remember drinking it. I notice now that it tastes quite my entire existence. Maybe I should drink tea, or juice, or buttermilk.

good. Maybe I should start making bad coffee. Maybe I should rearrange Usually, at times like these, the telephone rings. Why doesnt it ring ring. The point is no. Wait a minute. I was wrong again. Its early yet.

now? I dont want it to ring, but thats not the point. The point is, it should The phone isnt supposed to ring until later. Why do I keep getting ahead or so it seems. It might be that I am so far ahead that I only think Im

of myself? Thats funny Im ahead of myself, but behind everyone else behind, or vice-versa. Who are these people who keep ignoring me? buttermilk? Am I to go to the store for them? Am I to milk their blessed with them ignoring me like this. The pressure is too much, simply too . . .

Have they no manners? Have they no coffee of their own, no tea or cows? Cant they see how busy I am getting ready? I will never be ready

what time is it now, I wonder? And where did this full cup of coffee come from? September 29, 2004 This morning I unwrapped our last bar of soap. money for her school. For books and things like that, she said.

Last night we ordered a CD from a neighbor girl who was trying to raise Imagine, I said to my wife later. There is money enough to kill people and take over their country, but not enough to buy school books. The bar of soap should last about three days. Then we will have to buy more, or do without. After the CD arrives in about twelve to fourteen weeks, it and save. But in order to do that, the soap will have to be for sale at a canned tomato sauce, is subject to wild market fluctuations. Often a trip

is likely we will also find ourselves on yet another mailing list. Buy now reduced price. And, as we all know, soap, like crackers, sponges, and to the grocery store turns into an all-out bidding war, with voices on the floor, having gambled on the weekly soap price and lost his early music or late music or both. The CD has a title, but I dont

screaming over loudspeakers, horns blaring, and people dropping dead everything. The CD is by Johnny Cash. I dont know whether it contains remember what it is. The girls dog was sitting in the entry, smiling at us. have forgotten within three days, about the same time our last bar of girl for our Johnny Cash CD, we could have bought around fifty bars of soap assuming we were lucky, of course. But the CD isnt important. Granted, she knows who we are and we know who she is, but with most

Long before the CD arrives, we will have forgotten we ordered it. We will soap runs out. For fifteen dollars, which is what we gave the neighbor

What is important is that the girl came to our door and wasnt refused. of the money in the country going to kill people and take over their country, there was no hesitation on our part, even though we are down

to our last bar of soap. The presidents wife was in Salem yesterday. has done for education. Someone should have washed out her mouth with soap. September 30, 2004 I never did get back to my pile of Harpers. There

She spoke at the junior college. She commended her husband for all he

is already an accumulation of drawings and letters on top, along with a folder containing notes on the Armenian translations of some of my stories, and even a package of colored pencils. I had meant to read the short story in each issue, but the stories I did read made it difficult to continue. Now I no longer care which means I should probably take

the magazines to the library and leave them in the free magazine area for someone who does care, or who thinks he cares, or who once cared unable to care when his caring is needed the most though in my and is thinking about caring again, fearing that if he doesnt he might be humble opinion Harpers isnt worth such a crisis of conscience, or even everyone knows Harpers is a highly intellectual magazine full of progressive ideas and wry commentary. No wonder they lost me. I have subject? Nothing at all. Is Harpers interested in my socks? No. Of enough trouble putting on my socks. What do socks have to do with the course not. What I need is a magazine that caters to people who have trouble putting on their socks. A magazine that cares about me. A magazine for the common man, attempting common things and failing who then go on to lose their train of thought. Anyway. Where was I?

a trip to the library. I say this at the risk of sounding ignorant, because

miserably. A magazine for people who are confused to begin with, and October 1, 2004 We watched the first of three presidential debates last night, and never laughed harder. Then we cried. The democratic hopeful ran circles around the president-select, while the latter, who

looked like Mad magazines Alfred E. Newman minus the intellectual capacity, desperately repeated phrases from his campaign commercials. He had no facts at his command, he made no historical references, he contradicted himself, and, in some cases, he said things that had nothing to do with the subject at hand. The important thing to bear in mind is that both men knew the questions they would be asked in

advance. Our sons looked on, amazed and appalled. When John Kerry

was speaking and the camera would rest momentarily on his opponent, Bushs expression seemed that of one bothered by an uncomfortable our own ears, we actually heard David Brooks of the New York Times crease in his shorts. Then, after the debate, the real lying began. With say both men held their own, and that there was clearly no winner, and that nothing that was said would be enough to make a voter change his mind. Then, in this mornings paper, in an AP article about the debate, a making him sound as if he had been in command of the situation. This is

so-called journalist said that Bush jabbed sarcastically at his opponent, the news supposedly educated men and women being paid to write a

sanitized version of events, and high-profile editors and columnists who have sold out to the highest bidder, spinning their web of lies. And make no mistake. I am not a democrat, and I am not for John Kerry. I am a

human being, and I am for the rest of humanity. Humanity doesnt win by

electing liars, or by choosing the lesser of two evils. Humanity wins when bothered to hold the door open for someone in public, or to greet people who then turns around and votes based on the garbage thats passed off

people take responsibility for their own actions. A person who cannot be in a pleasant way, or to treat them fairly and honestly in business, and as news, is not on the side of humanity. He is on his own side, which is the most limited, destructive side of all. People are dying. They are

starving. Yesterday, thirty-five children were killed in Iraq. The casualties continue to mount. People have to do more than vote for the shiniest belt buckle, or the best hairstyle, or whomever they think would make the best drinking or hunting buddy. People have to vote with their own others. actions, rather than depending on the destructive, self-serving actions of October 2, 2004 When Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980, we were still steam and ash yesterday, we were close enough here in Salem to watch

living on the farm in Dinuba, over 800 miles away. When it spewed the sky turn brown to our north and east, and to inhale a smell that was

distinctly different from that generated by a forest fire or a burning grass

seed field. A tiny bit of ash, apparently, found its way to Portland, fiftyfive miles south of the volcano. Experts now think another eruption is likely, and that it will be stronger, though not nearly as strong as the one that removed the top of the mountain in 1980 and killed fifty-seven people, including a man named Harry Truman, who chose not to flee to northeast, which puts us downwind. During the greater part of safety. For the last couple of days, the wind has been out of the September, the wind was off the ocean. Well see if it turns around in

time or if, indeed, the volcano erupts before our attention is diverted Better yet, well see if Homeland Security blames the eruption on

elsewhere to the World Series, say, or the presidential election. terrorists. Red alert, Mr. Sulu shields up! Scotty, we need that power,

now! Im givin it all I got, Captain any more, and shell blow! Never mind that, Scotty. Ill take full responsibility I mean, well blame it on Bin Laden. And so ends another episode of Bush Trek. . . . Iraq. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Imperialprise. Its

ongoing mission, to seek out and destroy new life. To boldly steal what

no man has stolen before. Ah-aaaaaah-ah-aaaah. . . . Oh. Please

forgive me. But, you know, I live a strange life, and often cant tell the real, and what should be real is fiction, if not pure fantasy. And so its

difference between fiction and reality. Anymore, what should be fiction is understandable that I would go off the deep end occasionally, and then stay there. But if I stay there, how can I go off the deep end occasionally? In all modesty, that is where my talent lies. October 3, 2004 Adjacent to the bank parking lot is a small open field full of flowering weeds visited by birds. In business terms, this plot of land is considered prime real estate. But it is really an oasis surrounded by oil-soaked pavement and ugly buildings that frown at its effortless self-determination. They are jealous, and would do anything to see the little field destroyed. But they cannot accomplish such a mission on their own. They need people to help them eager, enthusiastic, obnoxious, selfish, enterprising people, the kind who are forever out to

make a buck the kind who turn corn fields into half-vacant shopping centers and call it development the kind who worm their way into local governments in order to achieve their financial goals and then move on, leaving the communities they have raped to contend with their mess. At the same time, the communities themselves are in a state of flux. People have a hard time staying put. They move to find work, or to escape family problems. They are here temporarily, and what goes on around them is of little importance. Instead of building parks and libraries, instead of planting trees that will give inspiration and shade to future generations, giant boxes full of cheap merchandise spring up, and peoples hard-earned money is siphoned into distant coffers. It is not a

happy formula. It is a numbers game, a game of dueling cash registers that no one wins especially those who think they are winning,

because, contrary to what they have been trained to believe, it is

impossible to win at the expense of sanity, simplicity, and decency.

Flitting from sale to sale and from theater to drive-up window to video cheap used one. A sixty-inch television screen is useless when what

store is no way to live, whether you are driving a $50,000 car or an old appears on it is corporate-sponsored garbage. People would be better off watching a potted plant. When they grow tired of that, they could watch their children, or their parents, or each other. They could listen and learn something, and remember that life is short and something to be treasured.

October 4, 2004 I learned something important in the book section in yesterdays paper. I learned that regular people dont wear berets around the house and eccentric artists do. This news excited me greatly, because I not only wear my new beret while Im inside, but I alternate

between several other hats as well. Occasionally, I even wear more than one at a time. I should probably contact the book editor and ask him if he wants to do a story about me. A few days prior to this discovery, on a local arts show aired on Oregon Public Broadcasting, I learned that

writers will do just about anything to put off writing, and that sitting for hours at a typewriter or computer is drudge work. I wonder if I should tell them that writing is the only thing I dont put off, and that my happiest hours are those I spend at the keyboard. Then again, that might make featured was wearing a hat outdoors, though, not in. So. Lets see. I me a little bit too eccentric. The important thing is, the writer they wear hats inside, but I dont put off my work. Where does that leave me? Should I bring home a cat and name it Balzac? Should I walk mumbling through the streets, scribbling on a note pad? Thats what the writer on

TV did. Or should I walk scribbling through the streets and mumble on a

note pad? Is there a difference? Does it matter? Or am I missing the

point, as usual? Ha! At first, instead of typing point, I typed pint. Maybe one. Uh-oh. Im running late. Its time to change hats.

thats what Im missing. I am not only a pointless writer, but a pintless October 5, 2004 While staring off into space yesterday afternoon, I had the idea of writing an essay called How to Write a Story. But I quickly realized I didnt have enough material. More specifically, I have an abundance of material, but the material can be summed up in two short sentences: First, decide to write a story. Second, dont stop until you have written a story. Every day, thousands of would-be writers ignore these two simple steps. Often, they pay good money for the

privilege, expecting the secrets of story-writing to be revealed to them by others, who receive a salary for doing so. The sad fact is, some who stick with this approach long enough, and who spend enough time and money, do learn to write stories. But they are pathetic, boring stories, without personality, life, or meaning. This brings me to another essay I thought of writing, called How to Write a Good Story. It goes like this:

First, decide to write a good story. Second, dont stop until you have written a good story. A writer unwilling to follow these directions, regardless of the time and effort involved, is either scared, lazy, or not really a writer. The same goes for writing a great story. Here is my essay

on the subject: First, decide to write a great story. Second, dont stop

until you have written a great story or die trying. Indeed, if one isnt and the world, there is little point in writing. And of course the same can the best in ourselves, and the best we have to offer, and to push on from there. Its either that, or sit in our own muck.

willing to die along the way, and to abandon foolish ideas about himself be said for living, whatever our pursuits. It is absolutely vital to discover

October 6, 2004 The new neighbors have decorated their front step chrysanthemums atop the flat-backed swans that flank the walk. The entire yard is as neat as a pin, and framed by a worrisome number of

with tall, arching corn stalks, and pumpkins have replaced the potted

bird baths and statues. The question is, should I attack them now before coalition of neighbors? Bah, forget the neighbors. I have to act now. I

they unleash their weapons of mass decoration? Or should I first build a have to do what I know is right. For the good of the neighborhood, I have to fight the terrorists on their own front lawn. I have to spray it with Round-up and sow the seeds of democracy and then break down the front door and free the children being held hostage inside. I will free them from their milk and cookies. I will target their refrigerator and spice cabinet. I will destroy their plumbing. Then I will hire their eternally grateful parents to stand guard while some buddies of mine rebuild the house and install a new landscape. Of course, this will mean sacrifice of the neighborhood into harms way. I would send my own, but theyre too busy going to parties and trying on clothes. Uh, what I mean is, they

here at home. I deeply regret having to send the young, able-bodied kids

are working hard to improve the economy, which is improving, because, uh, you remember the old saying: You can lead a fox to the henhouse, arent the only people who lie. The neighbors hate our freedom. Thats evil. Understand what Im sayin? I wont back down. Not on my watch. a fund-raiser. but you cant make him, uh, drink. Now, let me finish. Sleeping dogs why they have corn stalks and statues. Thats why their car has axles of Mission accomplished. I mean well, never mind. I gotta go. Im late for October 7, 2004 A boy just rolled by on a skateboard on his way to school. He had no books, no backpack, not even a pencil. At the school,

theres a big parking lot full of skateboards. When I see it I get dizzy,

because the white lines that mark the spaces are so close together. backwards and a pair of dark oval sunglasses with white rims. I wave at

Theres a parking lot monitor out there. He wears a baseball cap him. He sneers and writes me a ticket. Its for the school play. Shakespeare. All the actors come in on their skateboards. Romeo! Whereya at, dude? Wow. Rodney Dangerfield comes in. Hes dead. I Angeles Times. It says Im dead. Wouldnt you know it, I said. Im always says, I told my wife I had a bad headache. She said, Oh, yeah? Stick

get no respect, he says. This morning I see my obituary in the Los the last to know. His eyes get big and he loosens his tie. One time, he your head in a bucket of water three times and pull it out twice. Thatll cure it. The thing is, she was right. Ill never forgive her for that. Pretty soon, a cop comes up and starts talking to the parking lot monitor. Right off, I can tell its a drug deal. You know how it is these days. Lots of money is changing hands. Big money. Then the cop sees me. To make

it look good, he winks at me and then casually chains one of the

skateboards to a light pole and staples a red tag to its windshield. Well, it

turns out to be the same skateboard I saw the boy on earlier. He and his girlfriend are in the back seat. While his girlfriend tries to get dressed, he stubs out his cigarette and says, Whoa. Thats it. Thats all he says. Whoa. Like, this is the crowning glory of evolution, this proves once and for all mans superiority to all other life on earth. Whoa. The thing is, this kid is mad. He doesnt like having his skateboard chained to a light pole. So right away he calls his lawyer on his cell phone. He doesnt one number, I think its X, and the lawyer answers. Dont worry, he know his mothers name, but his lawyer is on his speed-dial. He presses says, Im in the neighborhood. The cop hears this and scatters. The

parking lot guy, he hides in the bushes. The girl is fixing her hair and putting on more makeup. The boy is working on a fresh cigarette, looking outraged and sleazy like Marlon Brando. Im thinking, jeez, junior high school is tough these days. When I was a kid, we rode the bus and ate burritos, then we went home. Nothing ever happened, except for the

time two girls got mad at each other and tried to claw each others eyes out, or the time some bullies with dented heads wouldnt let a kid with thick glasses go into the bathroom and pee. Now the bullies work for the eyeball surgery, and he wont let the bullies pee until its break time. How cool is that?

same kid, and the kid doesnt wear glasses because he had laser

October 8, 2004 In a puddled alley lined with creaking elevators with ugly metal doors, I was approached by an armless man with a pillow case over his head. I was looking for the elevator that went to the

second floor. I had already gotten in the wrong elevator and ended up on the fifth. There was no button for the second. I got out and found myself in the alley, and there was the armless man, coming at me. At first I

thought he didnt see me, but then he narrowed the space between been painted red. The armless man ignored me and trundled on. My

himself and the elevators and I ran into a cold metal pillar that had once room was on the second floor. I had escaped a rather strange meeting in which an arrogant wealthy man with too much time on his hands was arranging dangerous stunts for people who had sold their souls to the computer, and then said I should have no trouble with the task if I

devil. He told me to go to his room and enter certain information on his remembered a set of code words, which he uttered quickly one right

after the other. I thoroughly resented his assumption that because he was rich and powerful, I would do his filthy bidding. When he looked the

other way, I ran. Next, I found myself waiting in line at a nursery that was

out of plants. The man working at the cash register instructed the woman carry her plants. But she had no plants. She complied anyway. I left the line and looked again for plants. There still werent any, only empty

in front of me to use one of the cardboard flats on the table beside us to

tables and bits of bark and planting mix on the ground. Night was falling.

I had to get to my room on the second floor. Thats when I ended up in the alley, after getting out on the fifth floor. Earlier, I had been in some kind of hotel. Now I was in a decrepit building with an alley on the fifth floor full of armless men and creaking elevators. And I knew the elevators werent suspended by cables, but by ancient, half-rotten ropes.

I also knew that if I could only get to my room on the second floor, now Im thinking about reading the newspaper. But why subject myself to another nightmare?

everything would be all right. But I never made it. I woke up instead. And

October 9, 2004 Its still dark out, but I have the curtain open so I can watch the day break. There is a light on in one of the spitters bedrooms across the street, and another shining on the new neighbors corn stalks. I can just determine the outline of the maple trees in front of our window.

I was up later than usual last night, listening to part of a nine-hour John Lennon birthday special on KBOO radio in Portland. The program began at nine and ran until six this morning. I slept through most of it, but I did enjoy what I heard, which was mostly bootleg recordings and alternate

versions of officially released songs. I can see the trees a little better now. The sky is a little lighter. We watched the second of the presidential debates yesterday evening. John Kerry again ran circles around George W. Bush. At one point, after Kerry gave a thoughtful, serious answer to a young womans difficult question about abortion and embryonic stem cell

research, the presidents first response was, Im trying to decipher that. Over and over again, whining defensively, the man proved how stupid he really is, and how little he knows about world affairs. When his

opponent challenged the Bush Administrations horrible environmental record and referred to the United States withdrawal from the meetings on global warming in Kyoto, Bush said he wasnt going to go to meetings just to please the halls of Europe. Then he went on to call himself a

good steward of the land. The halls of Europe? Now, daylight has judging by the way it sounded last night, probably that much more again.

arrived. Its windy and cloudy. It rained about half an inch yesterday, and It looks like I wont be able to do any work outside today. The garden is

finished and needs to be dismantled, but it will have to wait. Depending election is over. I hope it isnt stolen again. Or how did King George W. characterize it? Oh, yes. He called it a mandate from the American people. What a statement. Which reminds me last night on TV, he

on the weather, it might have to wait until spring. I will be glad when the

promised the people that if he is elected, there will be no draft during the next four years. I am mentioning this just in case, because he has said a lot of things and gone on to do the opposite or, I should say, he charge, and who are wreaking such havoc in the world. For the man is a

has gone on to do what he has been told to do by those who are really in puppet in the worst sense. He is a puppet of his own family, whose longterm business goals have caused thousands of deaths. He is a puppet of arms dealers. He is a puppet of giant corporations, chemical

companies, and drug companies. Despite this, there are still people in this country who think he is their buddy. They think he is a tough guy. They like his personality. Why? It can only be that he represents what

they are themselves, or what they want to become. Why does anyone

follow another person? Often its because they are afraid to think for themselves, or because thinking is too much work, or because something about the person they are following appeals to their ego and makes them feel more important. And so what does their vote really represent? What does it mean? When a grown adult cannot see the

connection between his actions and what is going on in the world, and

when he thinks his hero or buddy will take care of everything, isnt he

voting in ignorance, and isnt his vote therefore a dangerous thing? The psychology involved in following is a scary thing. If a so-called leader is decent and reasonably intelligent, following him can seem wise. But

wouldnt it be wiser to question him instead, and to question oneself? Wouldnt it be wiser to question the systems and beliefs that are the framework for the destruction we bring to the world? Doing so doesnt mean we cant enjoy life. It doesnt mean we have to be gloomy and or go to a football game. Is that what people are afraid of? Missing out have a good time. Hee-haw. miss all the parties, or that we cant sit around with friends playing cards, on the fun? Ill vote for the fun candidate. He looks like he knows how to October 10, 2004 I should go out and pick up our Sunday paper, but I

think Ill sit here for awhile instead. Delivery was late today something

I dont appreciate, because a morning paper isnt a morning paper unless it arrives early enough to be read first thing in the morning, before the days activities begin. And while it is technically still morning its about a quarter after eight, in fact I have work to do, and I am moving ahead to do it. I might get to the paper later in the day, or I might not. I

suppose it doesnt really matter, since its pretty much a soap opera anyway. Kerry blames Bush. Bush blames Kerry. Blast leaves 36 dead. Green tea relieves constipation. Relationships suffer under

stress. Man unable to remove finger from nose, decides to go for record. On the other hand, this is Sunday, and surely I can afford to put off work for awhile and read the paper. I can do that. No one is telling me not to. I can read the paper all morning if I want, and put off work until myself a drink, and watch television. But I wont, and I never do. While it might reasonably be argued that the results arent worth it I have this argument with myself frequently enough there are other results that the afternoon, or skip work altogether. I can say to hell with it, pour

are less apparent but every bit as important. For instance, there is the

example I set. There is evidence that my strong work ethic is contagious, refer to as the real world. I have encouraged several of my fellow writers

both here under our own roof and outside in what I sometimes jokingly into going about their work as if their lives truly depend on it, which, as I

know from personal experience, it truly does. And I have encouraged non-writers as well, who have renewed their efforts in their own areas of expertise. I have also made quite a few people mad, though I can remember only one person who bothered to write and tell me so, and

even he wasnt mad, he just considered me a fraud. The reason he

thought I was a fraud is because I told him that I write in order to find out what I will write. His response came in the form of an interesting aspirations. Those might not be his exact words, but they are very close accusation. He said, No matter what, you cant hide your commercial to it, and they convey his meaning. My answer was, and remains, The the sweat of my brow. Anyway. I really do write to find out what I will write. The statement hardly needs explanation. The way I feel about it is,

only commercial aspirations I have is a desire to earn a decent living by

if I already knew what I was going to write, there wouldnt be much reason to write it, unless it was a business letter, and even that job I

approach with enthusiasm, because it is, after all, a form of writing. The

fact that I am still here writing after all these years, despite being ignored by Corporate Publishing, further weakens my accusers argument. Conversely, his argument wouldnt be strengthened if I were to sign a

big contract tomorrow, even if the contract made me a millionaire. I have worked long enough and hard enough for nothing to be able to accept the fact that the law of averages is finally acting in my favor. If he thinks

that makes me less of a writer or less of a human being, then I can only wonder what strange rules he lives by. Everyone deserves to live by their honest labor. Certainly, enough live by dishonest labor. Or am I not supposed to mention that?

October 11, 2004 I just put on a long-sleeved dress shirt. Like me, the

shirt has seen better days, but it is a dress shirt, and with the frayed the world to what? Well, it doesnt matter. Im going anyway. Its publicity sense. Very few appearances of that kind take place in Salem

cuffs hidden by my new-old sport coat, I will soon step boldly forth into Monday, and Im going to make an appearance, though not in any grand although I hear the former basketball star, Clyde The Glide Drexler, will soon be at Borders Books to meet fans and sign his new book. Anyway, hes tall, and thats what counts that, and the fact that hes worth them. He might only be worth a few thousand. Come to think of it,

worth millions well, he has millions, anyway. That doesnt mean hes isnt it kind of an insult to say someone is worth a certain amount of terms? Hes worth a million. Well, yes, but does that excuse his

money anyway? Shouldnt a persons worth be measured in other behavior? Did you see him cut that guy off in traffic? Well, that was his

million dollars speaking, not him. Hes a nice guy, really he is. I hear he just got a big tax break for buying a Hummer not Clyde the Glide, but

some other guy. Clyde wouldnt buy a Hummer. What is a Hummer? Its

one o them there military vehicles they drive around in Eye-raq. Theyre

real handy for buying groceries, or pickin up yer kid at school, or for sittin in line while u wait fer a burger to be handed to you by someone who works for starvation wages. Yes, sir. Im gonna get me one o them dress in the fashion of a fop, said the starving young writer in William maybe while Im out and around this morning, looking dapper. I will Saroyans story, The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze. Who knows? Maybe today I will find a penny in the gutter. If I do, I will polish it Millionaire Behind fund. Its the least I can do. until it shines like the sun and then donate it to the Leave No October 12, 2004 I found no penny, but I wound up in the gutter just

the same. Some good-hearted truants tried to pull me out, but the light

changed and they let go of me just as a shiny flag-festooned Hummer and splattered me with secret sauce. The truants ran. A man from

roared by, and with its rugged tires smashed a discarded burger wrapper Homeland Security appeared from nowhere. Ah-ha, he said, thumbing through his Manual of Easily Misconstrued Streetside Occurrences, assaulting a Hummer. That, my friend, is serious business very

serious. Im afraid youll have to come with me. He produced a pair of addressing him in a bantering tone. But he didnt laugh. Not by a long shot. Just a few feet away, a grand piano crashed to the pavement from a window high above the street. He didnt notice. A swarm of

handcuffs the hard way. I said, You should see a doctor, friend,

pterodactyls descended on the burger wrapper. He wasnt interested. Across the street, a bank was robbed, a man was shot, a woman was raped, and several elderly people were relieved of their life savings by con artists posing as friends. But somehow, I was the criminal I, who

had been looking for a penny to donate to the Leave No Millionaire Behind fund, which just happens to be the most ambitiously patriotic program in the nation today. Weve been keeping an eye on you, he said as he fiddled with the handcuffs and tried to get them to open. Oh,

yes, indubitably, sir. It was then that I realized he was an imposter, because no one working for Homeland Security would ever use a word kneed him in the groin, then delivered a vicious chop to the back of his neck, crippling him, maiming him, and upsetting him. Ow, he minced, what did you have to do that for? Using both of my fists, I explained to like indubitably. It just isnt done. And so I leapt up out of the gutter and

him that it was my duty as a citizen and a lover of freedom. Then I asked

him for his library card. I said, What have you been reading lately, friend? He looked at me wild-eyed. Nuh-nuh-nuthin, he snurbled. I cccccccant read. Honest. Sooooo, I thought, he really is from returned home, more afraid than ever. Homeland Security. Theyre getting more sophisticated all the time. I October 13, 2004 In an AP article in this mornings paper about tonights third and final presidential debate, it was stated as fact that both candidates did well in their second debate, and that the debate was a tie. So the obviously intelligent question to ask is, whats the use? An even more intelligent question would be, who are you for, the Yankees tonight, at the same time as Kerry and Bush. To that I say, isnt America

or the Red Sox? Because the Yankees and Red Sox are also debating great? If you dont want to waste an evening watching two guys say analysts what they said and what they meant by what they said and

what you already know they are going to say and then be told by expert which one of them said it more effectively well, then! you can watch a

couple of great baseball teams playing for all the marbles, not to mention

a huge amount of cash. New polls show candidates in dead heat. These are polls produced by the same kind of people who stated as fact debate wasnt a tie it was a piece of old rope, and I can feel it that both candidates did well and that their debate was a tie. Their tightening around my neck. It amazes me millions of people dont know whom to trust or believe. When it comes to basic human observation, they are lost, they are without instinct. They dont

understand body language, they cant read facial expressions, and worse they cant even judge a man by his destructive actions. So again I repeat, whats the use? Why get up in the morning? Well, Ill tell you why: to find out what happens, and to be proven wrong, and to be reminded by small children that we are stupid, self-centered, and blind, and to find out if today will be the day that we finally wake up and say, I the point, can you ever forgive me, O my lovely fellow human beings, I apologize for oops! excuse me! I have to take this call. October 14, 2004 Did I ever mention the time I met William Saroyan am a complete ass, which, translated, means, I have really been missing

on a bus? It happened in Fresno, not too many streets away from where the whole bus. We were waiting at a light when he rode by. I said, Look,

he was born in 1908. He was larger than life. In fact, his picture covered theres Willie, and my wife and her brother stared in wonder as he rumbled through the intersection, framed by an announcement of an annual event called William Saroyan Days, or something to that effect. We were on our way back from visiting the graves of my wifes parents at a cemetery in the country west of town. Being dead for almost twenty years, the great writer was on his way to nowhere in particular. William

Saroyan on a bus, rattling all over town. He used to ride a bicycle, but

when a man is dead he often has less energy, and his hearing is also

affected, meaning there is always a chance he will be hit by a train or run over by a corporate executive out enjoying his tax breaks. There are many Basques at the cemetery we visited, and the cemetery itself is

adjacent to an onion field. The first time I saw the place was a foggy morning in late November of 1978, when my wifes dear father was laid to rest. Saroyan was still alive then, but he didnt attend my father-inlaws funeral, though had he known about it Im sure he would have, as was, however, at Phil Manoogians funeral in Dinuba in 1976. June it he was quite a fan of the Basques, and of the Basque language. He was. Phil, an old family friend, died on Fathers Day. We were gathered at the table when his son Charles called us with the news. And now Charles is gone, a heart attack victim like his father. Willie made an interesting statement at Phils funeral. He said, Im glad Phil died, because now I get to see everybody. Aint it the truth. When my wifes

father died, we saw dozens of people we havent seen since, including his sister, who looked just like him, and who now is also gone. But only Willie ended up riding around on a bus in his afterlife. I wonder if he stops at the Basque-owned Santa Fe Hotel, where a big memorial

dinner was served in my father-in-laws honor, and where we drank wine and ate bleu cheese and everyone was happy for having known such an honest, comical, and unpretending man. Where is Willie now? Where is Phil? Where is everyone? October 15, 2004 In Fresno there was also the wild fruit-eating sculptor and artist named Varaz, who happened to be traveling to mother in 1986. Varaz and Saroyan were friends, or, if not friends, at Finland, Russia, and Armenia with the same group as my brother and least good acquaintances who found solace in each others comical Armenian behavior. Varaz, though, wasnt really fit for public

consumption, and therefore didnt end up with his picture on the side of a Fresno, however, and this statue earned such laughs from my father and

bus. He was responsible for the statue of David of Sassoun in downtown his Uncle Archie when they saw it that it has never been possible to look at the thing in any sort of serious context. The definitive David of Sassoun statue is in Yerevan, Armenia, and was sculpted many years looks like a lunatic on a stolen horse that he has been riding for hours

ago by Yervant Kochar. That is a great work of art. The Fresno version through a vineyard, jumping over wires and smashing grapes. The real

David of Sassoun is a powerful expression of the Armenian character, and serves as a reminder to Armenians that they ought to shape up, and that they should definitely not expect legitimate help from countries like the United States, which continue to sniff around in search of a profit and useful real estate. For help is not truly help unless there are no strings jumped into an icy river and took a swim, he scrambled up rocky attached. Anyway, during the trip to Russia and Armenia in 1986, Varaz hillsides, and he devoured most of the fruit in the countryside, creating a short-term famine that is still remembered today. There is a lesson to be be dead soon enough. Varazs studio was downtown in a tiny remnant of what was once called Armenian Town, pinned beneath a freeway learned from this kind of gusto, and that lesson is, dont hold back, youll

overpass. In his lot was a collection of rubble sculpted heads with bulging eyes, arms, torsos, and body parts, none of which were really nostril from a safe distance, but quite another from the artists sidewalk. meant for up-close viewing. It is one thing to ponder a cavernous horses This brings to mind an interesting question: are artists crazy in the first it is both.

place, or is it their art that makes them so? I happen to know the answer:

October 16, 2004 Every so often I think of renting a small storefront

downtown and using it as a place to work. When Im there, people would be free to come and go, and to sit, read, talk, and drink coffee without anyone trying to sell them anything. There would be no sign outside, though I might put my name on the door in simple small letters with the word welcome beneath. The rest I would leave to chance and human

nature. I would keep regular hours, as I do now, and take interruptions in

stride, as I do now. If I felt like taking a break and walking around town for an hour, I would lock up and leave, or let someone keep an eye on the silverware. I would slowly fill the place with books, which visitors could read and examine while they were there. If I did this, I wonder how many visitors I would have? On most days, probably none. But it seems

likely that, little by little, a handful of people odd enough to appreciate such a haven would find their way to my door. Some would be writers; some would be bums; some would be writers who are bums; some would be city employees trying to figure out the arrangement; some chasing down stories meant to please their major advertisers. The point

would be working for the daily paper that is, if they werent too busy is, most people would walk on by. They might glance in and wonder briefly, but without an explanatory sign or a window full of merchandise marked with half-off sale stickers to captivate them, they would continue commerce, and unafraid to discover something new, or to appreciate something old that everyone else thinks has gone out of fashion. Now,

on their way. Only the truly curious would stop. Only those unswayed by

the interesting thing about this is, to a great extent I have also described my own writing. Of course, my writing has readers other than writers and and by pleasantly weird, I mean people who havent given up on living a bums. Over time, it has attracted all sorts of pleasantly weird people

full life that doesnt seek guidance from advertising, or depend on religion and politics in their current destructive forms. I know this laugh another sign of my success. because a certain number have told me. More typically, though, they just October 17, 2004 When I told my mother yesterday afternoon that our old family friend Simon Ketenjian had died, she said, Ohhh . . . ohhh, kitchen talking about mutual acquaintances, farming, money, politics, immediately recalling the countless hours Simon had spent in our current affairs, and philosophy in an entertaining, blissful way that

involved pack after pack of cigarettes and no small number of four-letter words. Simon and my father were friends back in their high school days. impromptu boxing match in Simons fathers barn and mischievously them killed by the old man, who wasnt old then and had a knack for Their friendship included things like getting drunk and having an draining a drum of oil onto the dirt floor an incident that nearly got solving problems with his fists. Then there was the afternoon they rode working in their vegetables. As they rode by howling, the husband work then she looked. Life is funny. Life is sad. Simon was a farmer. I

bicycles naked on a ditch bank in front of a Japanese couple bent over scowled and his wife tried not to look until her husband returned to his drove tractor for him a few times, and made boxes for his grape-packing operation. Simon kept peculiar hours for a farmer. It was not unusual to waking up. As far as we could tell, he spent most of the 1970s sitting at drop by his place for a visit at two in the afternoon and find him just his kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and talking on the phone. When I

was in high school, he called my father almost every morning sometime before seven-thirty, and the two would say the same things they had been saying for the last several months. In the summer of 1960, Simon

raised a patch of watermelons around the corner on what had been my since moved to San Francisco. Every day for weeks on end, Simon and father would take a nap on the floor. What I am getting at, I suppose, is

great-grandparents farm, which was still owned by their son, who had his son Russell came to our house for lunch, after which Simon and my that Simon was a natural part of our lives for years and years, and though we hadnt seen him for some time, life being the strangely relentless thing that it is, knowing now that he is gone forever feels like

something has been uprooted. In my own case, it is like driving down a out and burned. Simon is gone. The smoke is still rising. Where do we go from here? He was far from perfect, he had his faults, he made his

country road and discovering that a favorite old vineyard has been pulled

mistakes and had his blind spots, but who doesnt? His personality was his own, and he lived his life as only Simon could live it, paying the price as he went, paying it with his steadily eroding health, and with the can you ask of a man? disappointments that come when desire and reality collide. What more October 18, 2004 This is perhaps a good time to emphasize the importance of personality in daily life not personality in any complicated psychological sense, but in terms of ones ability to observe and entertaining. One might also refer to this quality as having native intelligence, but unless intelligence is combined with a sense of humor, intelligence can exist where humor is absent. At the same time, we might say that humor is intelligence, or a manifestation of intelligence. To put it more often than not it is a bore. It would even be appropriate to ask if

and apprehend the moment, and to turn it into something meaningful

another way, dull people are not as much fun to be around as people with real personalities. The times themselves also come into play. We

are not living in hopeful or optimistic times. Today, if a couple of high school boys were to take off their clothes and ride their bikes in front of someone on a ditch bank, there is a good chance they would be

arrested and forced into counseling. Far too many people take delight in being offended, and in going to court, and in airing their gripes on the local television news. A case in point: one summer night several years ago, one of our sons and a girl from down the street pulled out the and turned it so the names of the streets were switched. About ten minutes later, they returned the sign to its original position. In that

already-loose wooden street sign post thats in our corner flower bed

amount of time, though there is little traffic in our neighborhood, a woman who lives several houses away called the police and reported their crime. The police arrived to find everything in order, yet they were fact have been patrolling a tough neighborhood or drinking coffee at Starbucks. This is a pathetic way to live. Humor is being drained from our lives at an astonishing rate, and replaced with sitcom laugh tracks, compelled to take names and issue a warning, when they could in

the abrasive noise of advertising, and other related forms of secondhand behavior that render people unable to function in the moment. Instead of laughter, a woman used her intelligence to remind them that society happen to be designated personalities, such as movie stars, being glad to see some kids showing signs of life and joining in their doesnt appreciate people who step out of line unless, of course, they professional athletes, and war mongers. Those people can do whatever they want, whenever they want. They can siphon the last cent out of our pockets and millions will thank them for it. Talk about being dull. October 19, 2004 What does it mean when you walk around swearing in an empty house, your voice echoing, the windows rattling, the cat

running for cover? In my case, it means I am vigorously pursuing my what is a dangerously sedentary occupation. I look at it this way: I am

work, and that I have chosen to add an active, physical dimension to crippled enough as it is. Long hours at the keyboard have taken their toll. Since I am in this for the long haul, I have to find a way to keep myself way than to exercise and write at the same time? True, I am sitting here physically and mentally fit. With time always at a premium, what better now, but thanks to my recent trip through the house shouting and waving my arms, my heart and lungs are sending vital messages throughout my body, which, on good days, includes my head, which in turn houses my brain pan, wherein sloshes my clump of gray, tired noodles. . . . Excuse

me. What I just said made me laugh so hard that I had to get up again and walk down the hall and into the room that faces the backyard, where I laughed some more and exclaimed, again in full vocal force, Man, you are a dumb son of a bitch. Now, I tend to swear very little when I write, keeping four-letter words in reserve, as it were, for the right moment. But

I think its important here for the sake of clarity and accuracy to repeat

exactly what I said after I got up laughing and walked down the hall and into the other room. This information will benefit someone somewhere, Im sure. And if doesnt well, Im sorry. Like anyone else, I can do only so much.

October 20, 2004 All at once, the geese have begun honking again, and masses of the birds have been stirred by nature and instinct to flap around like mad, even though many of them live here twelve months of

the year. But geese are geese, by golly, and if they dont get their honking in now, people are likely to write them off as failures. We have little enough patience with nature as it is. I just checked my watch no

geese. Where are they? Whats the matter with those birds? Never mind,

Ill watch television. Yawn. Hey, the Red Sox won again. Thats three in gentle souls who play not for money but for love of the game. Well, maybe their third baseman, Alex Rodriguez, plays for the money. It

a row, after falling behind three games to none to the Yankees those

certainly showed last night when he was running to first base and

hacked the covering pitchers arm, knocking the ball loose and the glove a big conference, the umpires called Rodriguez out for interference.

off the pitchers hand as the pitcher tried to tag him on the baseline. After Though replays clearly showed what he had done, he raised his arms

and put his hands on his head in utter disbelief, feigning surprise and innocence, and acting as if the rule had just been invented. Shortly thereafter, police in riot gear were called out and the fans were told to when you need them?

stop throwing things on the field. My thought: where are those geese October 21, 2004 When the Boston Red Sox made sports history last

night by winning a fourth consecutive game to defeat the New York

Yankees in their seven-game series and claim the American League turning over in his grave. What? Hes not dead? Thats funny. The last used book yesterday. Actually, I bought two. I bought The Mysteries of

pennant, one could just picture Yankees owner George Steinbrenner time I saw him, he looked dead. But never mind. I bought a fascinating Honor de Balzac, which is the tenth volume of the Classics of Mystery

series published by Juniper Press in New York. The book contains three stories: The Gondreville Mystery, The Grand Bretche, and Ferragus, was thinking of when I brought up books in the first place is The which is subtitled Chief of the Dvorants. The other book the book I Readers Encyclopedia, An Encyclopedia of World Literature and the Arts edited by William Rose Bent and published by Thomas Y. Crowell

Company in 1948. As the third and fourth entries under the letter A

plainly show, this book is sure to bring hours of enjoyment: Aagesen, Historia Regum Daniae (300 to 1185 A.D.); Aani. In Egyptian mythology,

Svend (ca.1185). First historian of Denmark, author of Compendiosa the dog-headed ape sacred to the god Thoth. Each of the books 1,200plus pages is littered with similar entries about authors, words, phrases, famous characters in literature, and other intriguing, invaluable tidbits. My intention now is to read at least a page a day, and to make a special effort to absorb as much of the information as I can, with a three-year goal of becoming an interesting person. I think this is reasonable, and certainly a goal well worth pursuing. Hello, Mr. Jones. How are you today? Did you know that in Arthurian legend, Broceliande was a magic No, I didnt see that movie. Well, Ill be darned. Then let me tell you that hey! Where are you going? Hmm. Jealousy. Thats one thing I didnt take into account.

forest in Brittany, where Merlin was enchanted by Vivian? Oh? You did? about Michel Fokine, the great Russian choreographer. Did you know

October 22, 2004 A couple of days ago at a local camera shop, a clerk with very thin lips said he liked my beard and long hair. Then he mumbled something about a Santa Claus project and asked if I would

like to pose as one of his Santas. All youd have to do, he said, is dye

your beard. I told him, Not now, maybe in a few years. When he asked why, I explained that I was too miserable to be a Santa Claus. No, he I meant bitter. But heres another idea. If you want, I could be the said. That cant be true. I replied, Youre right. I didnt mean miserable, centerfold for a bitter Santa Claus calendar. He graciously declined my offer. After finishing our business, I was already at the door when he called out sarcastically, Happy holidays. I answered with a bitter Ha-

ha-ha that was definitely too loud for the situation, then stepped out the

door, thinking, What an irritating idiot, though I was also amused by his some pigeons on the eaves and sent them flying. As I wandered up the sidewalk, I was amazed by the sudden clarity of the moment, and of the moments that followed. Though I was surrounded by thousands of my

sense of humor, and by the realization that my fake laughter had startled

own kind, I was nonetheless wonderfully alone, breathing, listening, watching. The very pavement was alive, the walls, the bricks, the parked cars, as if the differences between metal and bone had ceased to exist. Everything hummed, vibrated. Slowly, I made my way home. I took the long way.

October 23, 2004 Will the upcoming presidential election be decided

fairly? Will the votes be properly counted? Will there be no shenanigans, no intimidation, no violence? It seems unlikely, given what happened in 2000 in Florida, and what is at stake for the evil monsters who benefit from having Captain Zero in the White House. And if the election is

stolen, then what? Well, thats simple: Captain Zero and his loyal cadets the world, while systematically impoverishing those who werent smart enough to be born into wealthy families. In other words, it will be the as bad. When he says I will hunt down the terrorists and kill them, it

will step up their campaign to spread freedom and democracy around

same, only worse. And if Kerry wins? It will be the same, only not quite makes my skin crawl. It bothers me when a grown man says he will hunt he kills will be immediately replaced. Of course this is just tough talk,

down and kill people, especially when he knows full well that the people designed to make voters think he will keep them safe. Both candidates

talk tough, and act as if they spend their spare time wrestling bears and building log cabins, when all they really do is play golf and ride fancy

bicycles. Apparently they think real men want a real man in the White House, not some guy who goes around thinking all the time. As for real women, our daughter, who meets dozens daily where she works, has

witnessed a consistent hatred for the hunter-killer currently in office. The angry at the thought that anyone could vote for Bush. Granted, this is an

other day, in fact, she told us that some of these women are visibly informal poll, with no plus or minus given for error. And this is Oregon,

after all, otherwise known as the Unemployment State. Naturally, you

cant expect a bunch of broke women to think clearly, especially when president. But let us not trivialize what is happening. Anyway, there is no axes and chop down all the trees before the president can get them. Let

they are surrounded by broke men who want a good drinking buddy for need the candidates are doing it for us. Let us instead pick up our us refill our gas tanks as quickly and often as we can, because the sooner we run out of oil, the better. Let us close the schools, turn the criminals into the streets, abandon the elderly, and steal anything that that we finance in Iraq and elsewhere around the world. If its good enough for them, shouldnt it be good enough for us?

isnt nailed down. In other words, let us embrace the kind of democracy

October 24, 2004 It isnt difficult to imagine myself a shabby old nut wandering along the sidewalk, because, to a surprising degree, that is what I have become. I dress neatly enough, but not in such a way that I would be eyed by a savvy business executive as potential board room material, or even a worthwhile client. Quite frankly, I am well aware that

my appearance and demeanor suggest that I am playing by a different set of rules. They do more than suggest, they convince. This is not an natural consequence of my work, and my absolute dedication to it. Now image I set out to project. Rather, it is one that has developed as a

it has reached the point that I could wear even the most stylish clothes,

drive the most stylish automobile, and be seen in the most stylish places, would pay attention to me because they thought I had money, but they would quickly sense that I was an imposter, which in fact I would be. The

and still look completely out of place. Granted, for a short time people

reason I bring this up is that yesterday morning, I again found myself walking around downtown, having purposely arrived a few minutes early and acquaintances. By normal-looking, I mean they are at least to have coffee with a small, relatively normal-looking group of friends employable, and appear to pose no immediate threat. To begin with, I

felt a bit strange, because on the sidewalk on the north side of State Street, between Commercial Street and Liberty Street, I was greeted by a scent that immediately transported me to Armenia in 1982. I was woman to emerge from the alley with lavash draped over her arm

unable to identify it, but for several seconds I half-expected an old lavash being the large, thin, round, flexible bread that is indispensable to Armenians in the same way tortillas are to Mexicans. When this didnt happen I wasnt surprised, but I was still disappointed, because for a poetically charged moment it seemed possible. After that, I couldnt help noticing my reflection in various shop windows, one of which, ironically,

belonged to a small barbershop. Had I walked in there, the barber would either have licked his chops or passed out and hit his head on the sink behind his chair, perhaps knocking over his bottle of Barbicide and creating a terrible mess. Barbicide is a name Ive always liked. The stuff might be good for killing germs on combs, but with a name like that it

could just as easily be used to kill barbers or their customers both

parties driven by raw emotions that do indeed frequently arise in

haircutting establishments. But back to the windows. Seeing ones

reflection in a store window is much different than seeing it at home in a bathroom mirror, because when a person is in public he is also part of the public, and therefore better able to see himself as others see him.

That is my theory, anyway. On the other hand, the opposite might also image. This in turn magnifies what we perceive as our physical

be true, because our general tendency is to be more critical of our public shortcomings and imperfections unless we happen to be alone, as in my case, and which, I might add, is almost always the case, even when I am with someone, as contradictory as that sounds, although there are exceptions even here. The other day, for instance dont worry, this will only take a moment my wife and I were at the mall looking for shirts when I chanced to see ourselves in a department store mirror. My wife and had aged significantly. But not so yesterday. Yesterday I saw myself looked normal and wonderful in every way, but I was about four feet tall as I really am: a grizzled caricature acutely in step with his hopes and dreams, and out of step with everything else. When I finally reached the coffee shop, a man a few years older than me with a small gray ponytail looked up at me through the window and smiled almost as if he recognized me. The fact is, I have seen him several times before, and

always in the same coffee shop, but we have never spoken to each my direction. What did he see? Why did he smile? And why, a few

other and this was the first time he had more than casually glanced in minutes later after I entered the shop with the first arrival of our group, did he study me once again as he went to the counter for a clean spoon? He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, and had a cell coat and a black wool sweater. Did he wonder why I was dressed so warmly? By then I was wondering the same thing, but before I had left

phone clasped to his belt. Is that significant? I was wearing my new sport

the house it had seemed cold, and so I had dressed accordingly. Or had he seen me as I had just seen myself? For that matter, who am I, and where does this kind of thinking lead?

October 25, 2004 I dont know. Wherever I go, I see people plowing along, being imbeciles. Quite often, its possible to stand right behind them or next to them without their knowing it, so oblivious they are of their surroundings. They clog the grocery store aisles, gawking at overpriced cardboard boxes of prepared food, just as if they were

making an important decision, when in reality they are buying a threedollar packet of nutritionless flakes. Ah, but they are party flakes. They are instant. Finally, they snort and lurch two or three feet further down and handling everything. All the while, I am there, losing my mind. There it goes. There goes my mind. Oh, well. I wasnt using it anyway. I was only trying to find an affordable alternative to eating. I tried staying in bed, but I ended up with a backache. So I got up, and the next thing I knew, I was hungry. I went to the store. Everything, no matter what it is,

the aisle, their mouths open, their noses running, their children whining

costs twelve dollars a pound. I cant afford twelve dollars a pound. Two items, and Im over my budget. I barely have strength to push the cart. And then, there they are, clogging the aisle, thinking they are intelligent, when they dont even know they have opposable thumbs or are they disposable thumbs? When youre at the store, his wife said, remember to get a box of disposable thumbs. Yes, dear. Thumbs. Its right here on my list, next to the pressurized Cheese Squiggle. I still remember a

special unadvertised event called The Great Cracker Sale. Two people

died in the ensuing stampede, their heads crushed like overripe melons. vegetable that hasnt been gassed or coated with wax. I struck out

It reminded me of something else on my list: Any kind of fruit or

again. The only thing unwaxed was a pile of dilapidated mushrooms. But

they were on sale! I was so excited, I slipped and fell and hit my head. During the few seconds I was out, I dreamt an ambulance came, and it was raining pumpkins. The ambulance was an armored car. The smell we going? The armored attendants said they were taking me to the cemetery, where I belonged. One of them said, Its okay, champ. Ya that I was loaded onto a stretcher and hauled into the parking lot where of cash revived me. So this is where my money is, I said. Where are

done good. Then he jabbed a needle into my arm and started pumping me full of on-sale apple juice from concentrate, product of China. Another deal! I was so happy. Then I really came to, and found the store Then he said, Have a nice day, and melted into a pool of grease. The only thing left was his name tag. Spill in produce! a voice cried over the

manager leaning over me, mumbling something about liability insurance.

loudspeaker. And dont forget to visit our deli! For the next hour only, all bouts of food poisoning are absolutely free, or your money back! They always been. I am living proof of that. say dead men tell no tales. How wrong they are. How wrong they have October 26, 2004 Sane, insane whats the difference? Who cares?

If Im mad, Im mad. So what should I do? Take a pill? Report for treatment? Give some other nut the satisfaction of thinking hes okay and Im not, and pay him for the pleasure? Calling Doctor Labcoat. Calling Doctor Labcoat. Room 12 in need of assistance. It doesnt

matter. There is no one in Room 12. Cant you get that through your head? No one but us mice. Squeak. The corridors are long in this place. full of wire. Yes, yes, we will break the windows if there is no wire. This is Exceedingly long. The doors weigh a ton, and they have little windows what we think about, day in and day out. We think about breaking

wireless windows with our pale fists and slithering through the six-inch

space like snakes, or pouring through the jagged opening like cartoon

spiders with big knobby knees. During the night we think about other things. We think about how lonely we are, and we wonder if it is hunger we feel or something else. Other than that, everything is fine. Other than

that, we dont know whether we are out or in, off or on, down or up, or dead or alive. We wait for Doctor Labcoat to tell us. Good old Doctor Labcoat. He knows. We dont know how he knows the man is truly a marvel. He jumps from room to room on his big funny pogo stick, bouncing down the long corridor that leads from one town to the next,

bouncing under streets and over railroad tracks when necessary, smiling even helps direct traffic. Stop. Go. Wait. Okay, now its your turn. By the

all the while, his freshly laundered Ph.D. fluttering gaily in the breeze. He way, how often do you experience these feelings of uncontrollable rage? Really? You do? Well, dont worry, because I know a place, a place, a place . . . you can go where everything will be all right. Calling Doctor Labcoat. Calling Doctor Labcoat. Room 12 in need of assistance. Again? Oh, very well. Have him do his writing exercises until I get there. That always calms him down.

October 27, 2004 Today looks like a good day to replace the turn

signal light bulb on the front left side of our van, assuming a dead bulb is

whats causing the signal to flash double-time in the back while doing lever itself is not the problem. Once several years ago, the lever had to

nothing at all in the front. The right side works, so chances are the signal be replaced, and it cost over a hundred dollars. Levers are complicated mechanism, the turn signals, the radio, the hair-dryer, the map-folder,

these days. They operate the windshield wipers, the windshield washing the cowcatcher, the shaver, the toothbrush, and half a dozen other

things a person simply cant do without. And to think there was a time we

signalled with our arms after we had rolled down the window by hand, of all embarrassing things. Most people thought the other person was waving, and so waved back, after which there was a low-speed collision that no one was too worried about because things like that happened so Really? Ill be darned. Say, why dont you stop by for supper tonight? Id like you to meet the wife. Thanks. Id be delighted. And so on. Of course we havent dispensed with all hand signals, as any trip down the road will prove. And guns have made a comeback, giving drivers another way to express themselves in these stressful times. And stressful they are, since so many people are unemployed, and most often. Didnt you see my signal? No. I thought you were waving.

others are living from paycheck to paycheck while hoping disaster doesnt strike in the form of a repair bill or medical bill, either of which can push them over the edge and into insolvency. Which reminds me the other day, after waiting over two years to buy a new shirt, I went to

the bank to sign the necessary papers and take out a loan. Since it was for so much, the loan was refused, so I went to one of those brightly shirt was going to cost more than the van was worth, I reconsidered, painted places that lends money against car titles. When I realized the telling myself that in the grand scheme of things, shirts were not that

important. Yes. Its a grand scheme, all right. First you give up on shirts, then socks, then underwear, and then, finally, pants. Then someone calls you for a survey. They want to know if you are better off now than

you were four years ago. When you tell them that four years ago you had a shirt and a pair of pants and then break down in tears, they quickly makes you feel safer? And you sputter, They both have pants. I hate move on to the next question: which of the presidential candidates

them. Now please leave me alone. And then Election Day finally arrives. old pants. This one is rather unfortunately placed, so you stay in the in the booth, your ballot clutched in your hand. As it turns out, yours is

You are in the polling booth when you discover yet another hole in your booth, hoping not to be discovered. The polls close. They find you dead the deciding vote. But you died before you voted, so its a tie, which can candidates run on a new platform, promising shirts and pants for the

mean only one thing: the campaign starts all over again, and both masses. This revives you at this point, why not? You sew up your most recent hole, then you plot and you plan until your big chance finally arrives, and then you shoot both candidates during one of their debates and steal their pants. Immediately, you are declared the winner of the acceptance speech, and then die a second time. This time you stay pants, but two. The End.

debate and elected president for life, after which you give a proud dead. But you are happy, because you are buried not in one pair of October 28, 2004 Now is as good a time as any, I suppose, to apologize. In doing my best to make something out of nothing, I have accidentally made nothing out of everything. This was never my intention, and still isnt, though the opposite might seem to be true. And

of course it is true, if that is what you happen to believe. I happen to through, despite its apparent unimportance, will recognize the validity of my belief. Why would I labor long and hard with the goal of making nothing and going nowhere? I have a good sense of humor, but not that good. Besides, hasnt television already cornered that market? No, I am

believe otherwise. And anyone willing to stop and think the matter

honestly trying to make something out of nothing, which is really just another way of saying that I am trying to make something out of

everything. Or, still more accurately, I am trying to make everything understand it myself. Is it any wonder, then, that I fail? Youre just tired. Why dont you relax and take a break? Well, I am tired. Of course Im tired. I am the father of four children, the husband of one wife, the son of there are an awful lot of people expending far more energy than I am,

easier to endure and to understand, while trying to endure and

one mother, and a full-time dope. These things all require energy. But who are without food, without family, or without hope, all because people like me are too selfish or lazy to recognize that we arent the center of the universe. Some of them both the lazy and the distraught live

right here in our neighborhood, which really isnt a neighborhood, but a place where people go to hide at night while they recover from a grueling day doing something they hate in order to survive, only to turn around and face it all again tomorrow. Ive been here long enough to see them come and go, to hear them fight and argue, and even for one man to

commit suicide by hanging. And yet the area appears peaceful, and happy. I only wish to point out that there is much more than meets the

even desirable. This is not to say that no one here is productive and eye, not only here but everywhere, and that if more of us would take a

moment to recognize that fact and look into things more deeply, we would all be better off. At any rate, we would be less likely to live as strangers, which we most certainly do, now more than ever. I find it extremely interesting and extremely sad that the more there are of us,

the more isolated we become. We are isolated by fear. We are isolated

by new technology. We are isolated by our desire for more, when we made nothing out of something. In part, at least, I guess that is what I am writing about.

dont even know what to do with what we have. In that way, we have all

October 29, 2004 The clock is ticking. Quiet, you. Leave me alone. Cant you see Im busy? I have far too many things to do today. Far too many. My mind keeps racing ahead. I cant concentrate on the task at hand. Tick, tick, tick. Tickety-tick. Yes, I will get to it. But not now. I have Tickety-tock? What? That too? Id forgotten about that. Well, Im afraid that will have to wait as well. Now why dont you tick, tick stop that

to finish what I am doing first. Tickety. Tick? No. Not that either. Not now.

confounded ticking and let me get my work done? Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. Twas a misty morn, and the leaves were fallin down. Tick. And

lo, tick, the lazy river was windin tickety-tick through the valley. Twas to the farmsn fields. TICK. The brown cows with their smudged white faces and dreamin eyes tock pressed their heads against the fence, and OUT came the maid with her TICK-TOCK pail. Tweedle-dee, she sang,

lappin at the murky shores, tick-tock, tick-tock, and singin a sad lullaby

tweedle-dum, how are my ladies this tockety-tickety morn? Did ye sleep my masters snorin, the old goat. Well, this will only tick a moment, she said, then we will be done, and I will tock you out to the field. No. This isnt working. This is a mess. All right. You win this time. But I will get even. You can count on that.

well, or has the tickin kept ye awake? Ah! So loud it is, louder een than

October 30, 2004 Like all war, the war in Iraq, still far from over, has

done more than kill people and sap the economy. It has passed the lust

for revenge to the next generation. Meanwhile, people who live in this

country are already suffering grave moral, psychological consequences. Whether an individuals response to the war and the propaganda that drives it is silence, acquiescence, outrage, or affirmation, that response happy with war on its conscience. Even people who do not think about

exacts a toll. And the toll is collective. A nation cannot be healthy and

war are affected by it. They are part of the body. The body is sick. If the

head hurts, the rest of the body is forced to adjust until the pain

subsides. If the cause of the pain isnt treated and the pain continues, the body and not just the head will inevitably be compromised. When a he is helping to perpetuate the illness, both in himself and in the person believes what he wants to believe instead of facing what really is, collective conscience. This is why it is imperative that we learn to think and act in our place, we will be unhappy tools of destruction. As long as we believe in the things that keep human beings apart, war, injustice,

for ourselves, and to know ourselves. As long as we allow others to think

poverty, and hunger will continue. No politician, no form of legislation, no doctrine or dogma can bring about the necessary change. Only we can decide, one at a time. Until we do, our suffering and the suffering we

cause will continue. Even if we try and fail as individuals, our collective positive effort can take us in the right direction. Doing nothing is what is our hands. killing us. Silence is murder. Ignorance is grief. Acquiescence is blood on October 31, 2004 And so we come limping to the end of October,

weary from summers chase. The maples are yellow, the fields are brown, and pumpkins have taken center stage. Im not referring to the various political candidates, most of whom are first class jackass-olanterns, but to real pumpkins. A friend called this morning a few minutes after seven, having forgotten to set back his clock. He was doing his laundry, or, as he calls it, tending to his fruit of the looms, getting ready

to face a new week. He said his twenty-three-year-old son has a new job near Portland, a new apartment, and a new car. Poor kid. Hell learn. Hey, maybe he can get me a job. Im still pretty good with a shovel. Maybe I can clean up after the elephants in the parking lot. In situations

like this it pays to know someone, since there will probably be 3,000 SUV owners, mostly, people who feel they need something just a little

applicants. Who rides elephants these days? Lots of people former bigger. I have already seen several elephant lanes at drive-through java joints. Little bigger I like that word combination. Little bugger is feedin him? Oh, we feed him bugle corn and slats. Well, no wonder. Yes. No wonder except when it comes to apples. Yesterday I had a fantastic apple. It was a Fuji apple, grown in an orchard not far from another good one. Say, your little bugger is a little bigger. Whatre you

here. It was very crisp and very sweet. So, things are wonderful in the apple department. And by now my friends laundry is done, and he has changed his clocks, and maybe even his socks. Isnt life grand? No? Well, would you settle for a little bigger? November 1, 2004 Oooooooh, tomorrow is Election Day, otherwise known as Halloween Revisited. And in a few days, weeks, or months, when democracy triumphs once again and the results are finally

processed, the candidates will remove their masks and the next round of

promises will be broken. Bush: I honestly caint remember saying thered be no draft. Kerry: When I said Id build a coalition, I meant I would build an ition out of coal. Im sorry if anyone misunderstood. The people: Wah. You said. Im gonna tell my mommy. Political talk show hosts: Oink, oink.

Blut. Last night our seventeen-year-old son went trick-or-treating with

two fifteen-year-old friends, a boy and a girl. Our son wore a long black wig parted in the middle and an old pair of almost-round sunglasses of mine that I had filed in our kitchen junk drawer years ago. He looked exactly like shock jock Howard Stern of radio fame. The girl wore a white wedding dress and tennis shoes. The other boy, who is thin and

already six feet two inches tall, went as a bright-yellow plastic mustard

squeeze bottle. They had great fun. People gave them candy. Now its

Monday, and theyre stunned by the good fortune of finding themselves in school. Monday, Monday. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, but I dont care by which I mean I care so much it hoits. But what the heck can I do? Dont worry, Bill, youve done enough already. Thank you. . . . Hey, wait. How do you mean that? Duh. Snort. Whats wrong with me this morning? I know I ate no candy last night. None. Zero.

Why? I forgot. I became distracted. I was busy thinking ahead. What

lies ahead? I asked myself whilst sitting in a crumpled heap and staring at the wall. Is it really November, or something else, something no one tell them. We are lost without you, O Great One. Where do we go from expects? Ive got to get a leg up on this. People are depending on me to here? Thats easy. Were going back to Square One. We need to start

over. Everything we have done to this point has been a mistake. Look at

me, for instance. There are over 200,000 words in this journal, and I still speak the same gibberish. Maybe I should stop this journal and start twenty-odd months and I do mean odd but didnt write down. Why another. I could include all of the things Ive thought about during the last didnt I write them down? Well, for one thing, if I had, this journal would be six times the size with half the meaning. Thats only a rough estimate, of course. Ive never been good at math. Another reason is that I oh, who am I trying to fool? I have no other reason. I have an affliction. A disease. Its called hope.

November 2, 2004 A wild southwest wind is roaring through the valley, promising a wet day ahead. A cow just flew by, a fence post, a milking barn, and a farmer on his tractor. An uprooted apple tree is goes a ballot box. My, my. And look! Why, its the president on a broom

rolling down the street with the dexterity of a tumbleweed. And there

stick. Say, is that snow I see? No, those are falling chads. Well, so much for the Election Day weather report. Now, a message from our sponsor: Has this campaign left you feeling worn-out and depressed? Ask your doctor if QuickExit is right for you. Known side effects may include one or more of the following: regret, sudden realizations of past mistakes,

desperation, and permanent drowsiness. Do not take with other medications unless you really want to or have nothing better to do. Do other means of self-expression while using . . . while using . . . while . . . not attempt to use a pen, typewriter, guitar, paint brush, carving knife, or

November 3, 2004 I almost hate to begin this entry, since it must

inevitably be about politics, a grim subject I truly despise. At the same

time, I am eager to begin. I am always eager to begin. Starting anew is a get out of by writing. In other words, I write my way into trouble, and I and out of trouble. Am I in trouble already, for instance? Or am I

weakness of mine, a silly habit that often gets me into trouble I can only write my way out. But I cant always tell the difference between being in permanently in trouble? Well, of course I am. I am alive I think.

Scribble, scribble. I confess I slept almost none last night. When I fell to call, although the incumbent was confident of a victory. When I got

into bed around midnight, the election wasnt decided. It was too close up at five this morning after enduring several nightmares, I saw on

television that the incumbent had amassed 254 electoral votes of the

270 needed to win, and the challenger 252. This time around, it seems

the election hinges on the state of Ohio and its provisional ballots ballots cast by people whose registration either didnt appear on the voter rolls, or whose eligibility was challenged prior to voting by decent, God-fearing republican lawyers who were dispatched enmasse to

discourage or trip up voters they thought might vote the wrong way. This

is America. Thank goodness we have decent, God-fearing republican lawyers to protect our rights. My question is, does anyone really trust the election results? Naturally, if the incumbent wins, most of the people who names this morning will think everything is hunky-dory. (Is that how

voted for him Im sorry, I cant even bear to write the candidates you spell hunky-dory? Ill be darned. Ive been alive all these years, and I think this is the first time Ive ever written hunky-dory. I hope I have it right. Anyway. You see I still have my sense of humor. Har-har. Weep.) Personally, I dont see how the results can be trusted. There is simply too much at stake for the monsters in power to leave things to chance.

They dont operate that way at least they havent during the last four years, during which they have turned the world upside down for their own benefit and the benefit of their cruel, wealthy buddies. And thats what amazes me about voters. Whether the election is honest or not, millions of people will have voted to keep a regime that is bleeding them

whether in the end the incumbent wins or the challenger wins, tens of economically dry, that is raping and impoverishing the planet, and that is responsible for murdering thousands and thousands of people and those are just the highlights. To top it off, the man the regime has chosen as its puppet-mouthpiece is a blatant moron who cant talk, and And still and still tens of millions of people said, Yes, he is the man who was soundly beaten by his opponent in three televised debates. for me. They said, I will follow him. What could be sadder? And what does this mean? It certainly doesnt mean that happy days are here again. At the moment, I am assuming the incumbent will win. I have

always assumed that if it were a close race, that he would be allowed to continue as president. Everyone remembers what happened in Florida

four years ago, and how that race was decided not by the voters, but by

the Supreme Court. Why expect any different? Still, I could be wrong.

But there is one thing I am not wrong about. People need to wake up

and stop trusting politicians with their lives, and their children and grandchildrens lives. We dont need a president. We need an honest moment alone, in the dark. We need to step away from our bibles and race, and that we are alive on a planet floating in space, and that there about. Ka-ching. Oh, sir wait! You forgot your change.

cash registers long enough to remember that we all belong to the human are millions of other planets, all in a universe we know next to nothing November 4, 2004 Well, the nightmare continues. The man who stole coming four years as his second term. I call it a countdown to

the presidency in 2000 has been re-elected. Many are referring to the conscription. Ye shall see, my dearies, what thou hast done. Meanwhile,

let us all embrace the mighty Ws new health care plan, which is doing nations, beware. If you dont behave properly, we might decide to to the glorious subject of life. This morning here in Salem, Oregon, we

jumping jacks while waiting in the unemployment line. And you other liberate you, too. Now. Let us wash the blood from our hands and return are experiencing our first fall frost. The sky is clear, the air is still, and the youngest son, sans wig, sans spectacles, to the local Goodwill store to retrieve a five-dollar one-string ukelele he had seen there a few days earlier. It was gone. He was horribly shaken. I did my best to console him, of course. But, good father that I am, I also gave him some

rooftops are completely white. Yesterday afternoon, I journeyed with our

important advice. I said, Thatll teach you to pass up a good deal. He German for no accountable reason. Incidentally, the first time I heard

was about to bite my arm when I said, Nicht hier, suddenly lapsing into

those words was almost twenty years ago when our family was visiting the General Sherman tree in the Sierra Nevada Mountains east of Fresno. For many decades, the giant redwoods have attracted people family from Germany. Whenever his little blond son got to scampering about and enjoying himself, his father would say, Nicht hier. My

from all over the world. On that particular day, it had attracted a young

question is, if not hier, where? We left the store. But instead of heading home, I suggested we make a trip to the little book store at the library. While there, we picked up several nice, inexpensive books mostly

poetry this time, and mostly old stuff no one is interested in anymore, except for a few people in colleges, who are still trying to snuff the life out of literature by explaining it to death to young people who would be

better off frolicking in the sunlight, or, better yet, writing their own poetry. Nicht hier. At any rate, sometime during the next ten years, I plan to read The Vision of Sir Launfal, by James Russell Lowell. Ten years after that, I will make a brief attempt at finding out who James Russell Lowell is, or was. Well, lets say is. I like is. Just because someone dies, that doesnt mean he becomes someone else. James Russell Lowell is still bought a beautiful hardbound edition of Twains Life on the Mississippi, James Russell Lowell. Death didnt turn him into Samuel Coleridge. We complete with the illustrations that appeared in the 1883 edition. Price: three dollars. A bit extravagant, to be sure, but I was willing to do anything to help put the ukelele incident behind us. One must move

forward in life. One must be bold and daring, and then go home for supper. But before we did that, we stopped at my mothers house. You see, I had known since early morning that it would freeze today. There

had been a big storm the day before, and now it was foggy and the air

had well, suffice it to say I knew. I wasnt a farmer all those years for

nothing. So we stopped at my mothers house, and we dragged her enormous potted jade plant into her garage to keep it from freezing. Do you really think it will freeze tomorrow? she said, and I said, I dont

think it will freeze, I know it will freeze. Theres a big difference. And left out this entire story.

now, look: its frozen outside. Naturally, if it hadnt frozen, I would have November 5, 2004 Ill never figure out politics. The president says he opposes gay marriage, then he goes out and gets a mandate. Isnt that a bit contradictory? What message will that send to the morally upright what Jesus said so long ago: We gotta liberate them Eye-rackees,

masses who voted to keep him in office? For it is important to remember before they liberate us. (Bush 2, Verse 3, the Upended Edition.) Another frozen morning Im tempted to call it a frozen day in hell, but actually things are quite pleasant as long as you dont turn on the the future will bring? We know it will be bad, but, hey, were used to it. Cant afford to go to the doctor? Dont worry about it. Cant afford to heat dirty water? Toughen up. Unemployment? Soon a thing of the past. We television or read the newspapers. The future? Well, who knows what

your home this winter or put gas in your car? Ditto. Tired of dirty air and have war, and that takes care of everything. Never mind that members and calling them cardboard coffins. Thats a minor detail. Death is a

of the armed forces in Iraq are padding out their Humvees with plywood minor detail. One hundred thousand Iraqis are dead, but we dont care, because freedom is on the march. Listen. I think I can hear freedom now. No, Im sorry. Those are tanks, guns, and helicopters. And crying yes. There she is. Listen. Can you hear her weeping?

mothers and children. But Im sure freedom is out there somewhere. Oh,

November 6, 2004 It isnt a surprise that the merchants of death and oppression are shown in a positive light, now that a handful of giant corporations own the media and derive benefit from their laws and policies. At the same time, the merchants of smut and crass materialism are also given free reign, since this helps keep the masses distracted or perhaps stunned would be a better word. But it all amounts to the same thing: unhappiness, frustration, ignorance. The thing to do, of the ancient art alive. It might as well be you.

course, is to walk away from it and live. After all, someone has to keep November 7, 2004 Yesterday a friend in San Francisco told me

November is National Novel Writing Month, or National Writing Month, or something similar, and that to celebrate he is trying to write a complete novel by months end. I think I did see a short article about it in the paper a few days ago, but I tend to dismiss such things. At any rate, I have always encouraged my fellow rotters I mean writers to take

on that sort of project. There is nothing like writing against a deadline to stir up the creative bile. In fact, I rarely take on a new work without first imposing a time limit. While this approach might not be for every writer, I

do believe every writer should try it at least a time or two, provided he is

willing to keep to the bargain he has made. If he says he is going to write cant allow the reasonable side of his brain to convince him that what he if he took a week, and so on. In other words, he cant make excuses.

a story in a three-hour sitting, then he must not take longer than that. He is doing is ridiculous, or that the results wont be as good as they would Years ago in an interview, William Saroyan said that all that is needed to write a novel is thirty days, a ream of paper, and a typewriter. These days, many writers feel threatened by a statement like that, having been

told since the first grade that the first order of business is to write a rough

draft, and then to go back over what they have written a dozen or two dozen times until they hate the piece enough to call it done. What teachers should be telling their young students is that they shouldnt be afraid to trust their instincts, and that if they stay alert while they work, the writing itself will tell them what comes next. And isnt that the point of

writing in the first place? One of the scariest things about taking an overly careful approach to writing is that the writer can get into the habit of not trusting himself. This is a terrible way to proceed. If a writer than his first, third, or fifth? Now, for some strange reason, I am

doesnt trust himself, why should he expect his eighth draft to be better reminded of something the Spanish pianist and conductor Jos Iturbi said to Keenan Wynn in Mario Lanzas first movie, That Midnight Kiss. In one scene, when truck driver Keenan Wynn is hammering out a melody on the piano as if he were banging on a load of scrap iron, Iturbi says, Play it, my boy, dont beat it to death. November 8, 2004 A lot can happen between now and the

presidential inauguration in January, but it seems likely the event will draw massive protests, not only in this country but around the world. In Pacific Northwest. As usual, the incidents were played down in the news. But this morning on an independent Portland radio station, one witness recent days, there have been protests in Portland and elsewhere in the

said that an unlucky woman who wasnt even a protester was dragged by her hair and then restrained by four police officers and arrested. The the same broadcast, there was also mention of an AP article that told of bystanders response to this treatment was, Im a protester now. During a single Ohio precinct in which around 600 votes were cast on electronic for Bush. The article disappeared within about ten minutes. One can

voting machines furnished by Diebold. The results: 4,200 votes recorded

only assume it didnt meet the news industrys rigorous standards for spin and suppression. To be sure, there is a very frightening aspect to are being otherwise manipulated in other words, if the results of an this whole situation. If peoples votes are not being counted and results election cannot be trusted then people will be forced to find other ways to make their voices heard. In other words, they will resort to violence. Already, the administration has shown its true colors by the supporters to attend its rallies, and by suppressing all forms of dissent.

way it conducted itself during the campaign, by allowing only staunch Under the circumstances, it is not about to address the subject of fair elections, or the anger and doubt felt by the millions of people it has years. Back in March 2003, the media was trying to sell the idea that the war in Iraq would be quick and neat. Since then, the man in the White House has proclaimed Mission Accomplished, made a surprise already betrayed many times over. This is not a recipe for a happy four

Thanksgiving visit to Baghdad in which he stood before the troops with a

plastic turkey, and changed his story many times about his reasons for going to war. Now Iraq is going up in flames, and has become a rallying point for great numbers of people who hate what this country has come to represent and want it out of the region. Knowing this, the media has on moral values. Moral values, of all things.

the gall to say the recent election was decided on the presidents stand November 9, 2004 With the news camera pointed at him, the young soldier described how he was feeling at that moment. He said, Anger. Thats all I feel. I just want to find the person who did this. His face was school, goofing off in class and trying to impress the girls. Now he is

distorted by ignorance and fear. A couple of years ago, he was in high thousands of miles from home and wants to find a stranger and kill him.

Why? Because this is war. Because a soldier is not trained to think for himself. Because he is trained to follow orders and kill, and along the way, he is taught to believe that killing is not murder. But it is murder, and deep down he and every other human being knows it is murder. Now U.S. forces are storming the town of Fallujah, thirty miles west of

Baghdad. As if they were referring to a new video game, the government know that grown men are the ones who come up with these names?

has named the assault Operation Phantom Fury. Is it not troubling to November 10, 2004 My sleep has been so lousy lately that I have to

get up and work just to rest. In fact, I cant rest unless I am working. Take now, for instance. I have typed just a few words, but I can already feel the tension beginning to subside. What kind of tension? Well, there is muscular tension, and there is psychological tension. Both are the result of stupidity. What I need, most likely, is a long, solitary walk in the woods. Oh! But dont you know? They chopped the woods down long ago. Theres a big mall there now. Everyone looks at me strangely. Are you new around here, by any chance? No. Well, yes. I am new. Ive lived here for seventeen years. Isnt that new? No answer. Ha-ha. Well, this

happens all the time. I try to make a little conversation, and then people walk away. Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. A long walk in the woods. I like the sound of that. Hoooooooot, says the wise old owl. Chick-chick-chick, love you very muchee, says Groucho Marx. Ha-ha-ha-ha. . . . Jeez. And

says the bushy-tailed squirrel. Ridi Pagliacci, says the weeping tenor. I yet, and yet, I can feel myself relaxing. Really. I feel much better now than I did just a few crippled sentences ago. Isnt that interesting? Or is it merely sad? Am I recovering from something I didnt know I had? Am I

afflicted with something I am aware of but refuse to acknowledge? These are not idle questions. In all likelihood, these are the questions

that keep me up at night. There is no rest for the wicked. Great. Now you want to talk. Ridi Pagliacci . . . November 11, 2004 It is amazing how often I feel I am about to step off a glorious precipice, and how exhilarating that feeling is. I am speaking in a literary sense, as it applies to sudden revelations about did not exist. I am also speaking of my life itself, which I also regard as a work in progress, lumpy, disorganized, and hum-drum though it may be, and obviously in need of several re-writes before it reaches the big screen. For instance, at this moment, I feel as excited as a small boy who is beholding for the first time the wonders of a freshly peeled

works in progress, and ideas for new works that only a moment earlier

orange. Could there be anything more grand? Well, possibly. Waiting for an elevator before an important meeting at the U.N., the president could two tons of dry pinto beans. We might call this terrorism with a sense of humor. Imagine. When a terrorist strikes, no one is hurt, they are merely startled by the perpetrators devious sense of humor. These random acts beans had been removed from his ears and shoes. Hey! Whats this in be greeted by an avalanche of ping-pong balls when the door opens, or

of humor will not go unpunished, the president warned after several my coffee? Those? Why, sire, those are the crusty toenails of shadegrown peasants. Fruits of the World Trade Agreement, you might say. Oh. Well, thats all right, then. There is a bowl of oranges on a sunny breakfast table in a faraway land, beckoning. There is a knife with which to perform the sacrifice, and ancient dishes made of bone. A priest enters, wearing a beautiful apron made by his mother. Its nice to have a

day off, he says. Those rituals have a way of wearing you down. He

bows to his guests, then to the oranges, and begins a long prayer. While

he prays, a small boy grabs one of the oranges and rapidly peels it in the

middle of the kitchen floor. When the fragrance of the orange reaches the nostrils of the assembled throng, there is a mighty commotion. The priest blathers on. The boy eats the orange. Everyone gets up to dance.

While they dance, the dishes are broken, and the ancient bones ground to dust. Someone stabs the priest with the knife, then strangles him with nuts. Still, I grab an orange before I go. his apron strings. As quietly as I can, I leave the room. These people are November 12, 2004 I sat on a dock on a faraway bay, peeling my orange, which was just an orange until I claimed it as my own. But the Suddenly, a turbulence commenced, sending waves over the dock, rind, I reasoned, remained just a rind, so I dropped it into the water. moistening me a great deal and dumping the rind in my lap. All right, I

said, Ill look at the rind, and I turned the rind over in my wet hands. This caused me to drop the inner part of the orange, the part I had planned to eat. Plop! it went, right into the water. Much to my surprise, water was very clear. I could see the orange on the bottom. It winked at

this time, the water remained calm. The bay was very deep, but the me. I looked at the rind in my hand. Thoughtlessly, I threw it back in the

water, and waves crashed over me again. Well, I said, noticing that the The water was calm once again. I looked for the orange on the bottom, really, better than I had expected a rind to be. I smiled to myself. As I sat

rind had been returned to my lap, it looks like this might go on all day. but it was gone. I looked at the rind. I ate the rind. It was quite good, smiling, the sun began to set. But it was not really the sun. It was the pondered the lesson I had learned that day.

orange, in all its juicy glory. And as I sat on a dock on a faraway bay, I November 13, 2004 What I learned among a great many other things is this: even the sun deserves a holiday. We take it for granted,

you know, the sun. And yet it is the key to our existence. Well, its there,

isnt it? So why worry about it? Im not worried, I am simply making an observation. The sun is the key to our existence. Without it, were finished, whether it dies tomorrow or forty billion years from now. Now,

the government will tell you it doesnt matter. The government will tell you it believes firmly in science, but that in this particular case, there are too many variables, or not enough facts to go on, or something along those lines. The government will tell you that the best thing you can do is to go out and buy stuff you dont need, and watch as many videos as

you can get your hands on, and let it worry about the sun. In other words, it will tell you the same thing it does about global warming. But if what? Well, in the beginning, most people wont even notice most the sun does die tomorrow, and is replaced by a big juicy orange, then adults, anyway. Small children will notice at least the ones not forcibly strapped to television screens. They will say, Oh! and it will make tomorrow, a lavender apricot and a side order of French toast. The perfect sense to them. One day the sun, the next day a big orange, poets, too, will notice. Right away, they will call a big meeting, by which I

mean several hundred thousand small meetings held simultaneously, except in matters of extreme importance, such as coffee and cigarettes. smokers and coffee drinkers? The answer: of course not. Most poets

because, after all, poets arent the most organized people in the world, Ah! you say, but isnt that just a silly stereotype? Are poets really all cant afford coffee and cigarettes. Thats why its a matter of extreme as the sun being replaced by an orange? They will say, I dont think it

importance. And what will the poets say about such a momentous thing looks like an orange. It looks more like a raging bull dragging an island across the horizon. They will say, The bull I can see and how,

brother but the island, youre making up. And an argument will ensue. But no one but the poets will know its an argument, because only when the editors have enough money to publish them. Still, there contrasting views will appear only in obscure literary magazines, and will be an argument, and this will slowly become a movement, and the

movement will eventually die a natural death without having solved a

thing, because most of the original poets will have died of poverty and

societal neglect and new poets unaware of the nuances of the original argument will have taken their place and be more concerned about advancing their careers than they are about suns, oranges, bulls, unoriginal language in journals that go widely unread, is coffee and that the sun was really an orange all along. Should this seem hard to

islands, and horizons. What we need, they will proclaim in highly cigarettes. Thus preoccupied, they wont realize that it is quite possible swallow, er, ah, uhm, it is only necessary to see the universe as a child sees it, or a playful god: suns, suns, everywhere suns, all on the tree of life! isnt it grand, I could pick them an eat them like an orange! November 14, 2004 One book Im not reading at the moment, but

have been on the verge of beginning for quite some time its right

here, no more than six inches from my keyboard, beneath a couple of I bought quite a few months ago for three dollars and fifty cents at the

other books is an international twentieth century short story anthology library book store. Its called A World of Great Stories, and was

published in 1947 by Avenel Books. I mentioned the book here when I distracted by other books. But now it appears it might be its turn to do Life on the Mississippi, about half of which I have read so far. At the

first brought it home, read two or three of the stories, and then became the distracting. First, though, I will have to finish Mark Twains wonderful

same time, I have been pondering a rather frightening idea that came to me a few weeks ago while I was brushing my teeth. Like most of my ideas, this one, if undertaken, threatens to further undermine my health and sanity which is what makes it so appealing. The idea is this, and it is really quite simple: to read a story in the book, and then, immediately afterward, to write a story of my own, and to continue that way one by one through the entire book, until 115 stories have been read and 115 stories have been written. I confess that I felt a strong flush of

excitement when the idea first popped into my head. This was followed by a wave of nausea, which made it necessary for me to abbreviate my oral care. Despite that, I bravely took the book off the shelf, paged taunted me ever since. Such are the days of my life. Now, its quite this kind of project. I dont know. But I really dont think it matters. In my

through it thoughtfully, and then left it on my work table, where it has possible that there are other, better books to use as a springboard for mind, a story read is a good thing, and a story written is a good thing.

Also, I like the idea of listening to voices from around the world, though I these days, I wouldnt be surprised if such books are banned by the Bush regime as it relentlessly tightens the noose. I dont mean to

realize how un-American that sounds. In fact, the way things are going

suggest that anyone in the Bush regime reads anything other than duckhunting or golfing manuals. In matters of repression, their lawyers do the reading. Suffice it to say, time is of the essence as usual, as it has looking at me like that. always been. Oh! There it goes again. I do wish that book would stop November 15, 2004 Oregon lost another 3,200 jobs in the month of would think this state would cheerfully join the rest of the nation as it

October, once again hindering the presidents economic recovery. One

makes rapid strides toward higher standards of freedom and prosperity, blood out of its collective turnip. This negative thinking is hard to give us all jobs at McDonalds and Wal-Mart, and we thumb our noses at

but, no, it would rather attract attention by deliberately failing to squeeze understand. Here we have a compassionate president working hard to him. Talk about ungrateful. The least we could do while we wait for more the military. Of course, many here already have. An interesting coincidence, that. From the halls of Umatilla, to the fields of Amity, we

Wal-Marts and McDonalds to be built is to meet him halfway by joining

fight our nations battles, on the sand for little fee. I love a rousing war tune, dont you? What? What did you say? I cant hear you over the just one week? Say, how about that? Thats what I call democracy in newly granted freedom. For awhile there, I was afraid they didnt appreciate all we weve been doing for them. shooting. Oh, really? You say we killed 1,600 insurgents in Fallujah in round numbers. Its nice to know the Iraqi people are embracing their

November 16, 2004 If we peel away the hair and skin to reveal the

skull, and then crack open the skull with a special mallet and chisel made for that purpose, we are pretty sure to find the brain. Like toes, eyeballs, and fingernails, brains are quite similar in appearance, though all practical purposes, brains are alike. For instance, if we were to remove the brains of everyone in the Bush administration and put them

experts, of course, will notice differences that the rest of us miss. But for

in jars and line the jars up on a table, it would be impossible to tell which brain belonged to the president and which to his newly appointed Secretary of State, the gentle Miss Condoleeza Rice, or to any of the other noble servants of our great nation though it might be reasoned that since the president hasnt used his brain, that brain might be in

better condition but, then again, my guess is that his combined

alcohol and cocaine abuse nullifies that advantage. Anyway, the point

being, here are several dozen brains in jars lined up on a table, and here we are, looking at them, and wondering how in the world these coiled lumps of gray matter could have done so much harm. And yet, if we

were to perform our hypothetical operation on a group of sweet, cookiebaking grandmothers, and if we were to mix the grannies brains with the politicians, we would still not be able to tell the brains apart. I dont know. I find this very upsetting. We should be able to tell. I say this because, for some odd reason, many of us are unable to differentiate

between a genuinely nice person and a corrupt, evil person, even side kind man. There are even good, kind cookie-baking grandmothers who think this. How can this be, you ask? Well, one thing is certain: if we

by side while they are alive. Some people think the president is a good,

crack the grandmothers heads open like an egg, and drop their brains in a frying pan, and scramble them in olive oil with just a touch of garlic, we we promise the world that we were only joking. My advice is, therefore, to scramble only the brains of politicians. After all, turnabout is fair play. will not only be no closer to the answer, we will also be put in jail, even if

November 17, 2004 How about that? I have already been contacted by the SGA, otherwise known as the Squeamish Grandmothers Association. Now, calm down ladies. If you will take the time to read

back over the last several hundred entries, you will find that I have what between the lines, you will realize that it isnt my fault, but, rather, the

is called a wicked oh, all right, sick sense of humor. But if you read fault of your kind, gentle, compassionate, God-fearing, murdering,

cocaine-snorting president. Humor is a survival instinct. I would never really crack a grandmothers head open and scramble her brain in olive

oil with a touch of garlic while your morally upright family values president has signed off on the deaths of tens of thousands, to mention but one highlight of his career. Seen in that perspective, I think my sense big enough to handle a couple of brains hardly worth the effort with a of humor is a valuable, praiseworthy thing. Besides, my frying pan is only hungry family to feed. Oops. There I go again. What Im trying to say

and you can read this at your next meeting is that you should stop

hiding behind your cookies and start paying attention to what is going on, because the adorable kids you are baking cookies for will soon be old enough to put on a uniform and have their brains scrambled by Mr. Blood-On-His Hands in the White House. And believe me, he isnt joking.

November 18, 2004 Its a beautiful morning here in the good old USA,

land of the blissfully unaware and home of the electronic voting machine

with proprietary code and no paper trail. Outside, a gentle literary rain is falling the very type of rain that Mark Twain eschewed, because he thought writing about the weather was taking the easy way out, unless

said weather could be proved to have a direct effect on character or story development. And since only a fool would disagree with a writer as great as Mark Twain, it seems I must now prove that my mention of the weather is necessary, and not mere window-dressing. Very well. I will do foundation of the house, and the foul language violently erupting from

just that, beginning with the canoes jostling for position against the the mouths of their drivers. Alas, the good folks in our neighborhood busy lifestyle. I dont own a canoe myself. Being a bit old-fashioned, I would much rather remain in the ark and wait for the waters to recede take a cubit. The neighbors, though, are quite afraid to miss even half a

have little experience with canoes, SUVs being better suited to their

than join in the general panic. In that way, I guess I am like Noah, give or

days scurrying and shopping. Quite simply, they deem it a waste of

good caffeine to stay at home. And so out come their canoes, and up they wash upon our lawn, and bang they go against our foundation, Everyone is angry about the rain. They are more than angry: they are take it out on me. Often, those able to free themselves from the where they remain tangled for hours amongst our rhododendrons. personally offended, and they take it out on our foundation. They also wreckage crawl up the side of the house like spring peepers and look in our windows. Others come to our door and ring the bell, and shout minded among them want to sell me an insurance policy, or real estate, obscenities when I dont answer. The most persistent and businessor satellite television service, or caustic liquids with which to spray our kitchen counter. Between assaults, I open the door and maliciously to sell, and they know I am inside knowing it, and they think they know that I am calling their competition, which of course Im not, because I collect their business cards. That way they know I know what they have

hate their competition as much as I hate them and their stupid canoes. But I am not always this evil. There are times when my heart overflows with compassion for these wretched souls, and I want to reach out to them. When I feel this way, I usually have a quick snort. If the feeling

persists, I have another snort for good measure, and then I go to one of most amiable voice, Hows the weather out there? This drives them wild.

the windows facing the street, slide back the glass, and call out in my

November 19, 2004 The hardest thing about writing is not writing, but

recognizing and accepting the fact that writing is a solitary pursuit. Until this is understood, writing will be more difficult than it should be. It is not possible to write by committee. A writer might feel comforted by

discussing a work in progress with others, but it is this very feeling that cripples him and keeps him from discovering his natural style and voice. If a writer feels the need to discuss anything, he should discuss it with himself, in his own head and on paper. He should refrain from sharing work that isnt done, or that he feels might still need improvement. When one shares a piece of writing or anything else, it should be the best he has to offer. What prevents a writer from moving forward in this fashion by others. For writers, and for everyone else, fear is the great stumbling block. Fear has to be faced. November 20, 2004 I have always reserved the right to drop from is fear fear of himself; fear of being alone; fear of not being accepted

sight without notice, but at the moment I can remember no time when I is probably because I have never really been in sight. For instance, I

exercised the option, as they like to say in the financial world. But this have little trouble with autograph hounds, and have yet to be the subject drive an old minivan that looks like a hard-boiled egg. Well, Im a family man, anyway. Stable Im not. Loyal and predictable, yes. But to get back

of tabloid gossip. My formula is simple: I am a stable family man and I

to the subject, which I admit doesnt really exist, I do seriously cling to lead to such a move? First and foremost would be a threat to our familys

my right to drop from sight without notice. What circumstances would safety and well-being. Second would be needing to work on a major project but not having the time. I almost said not having the peace of mind, but I didnt because I rarely have that anyway or, more accurately, I have it in some dimensions but not others and it doesnt keep me from writing. In fact, not having peace of mind might be why I profound effect on what I write. This is not to say I am a tortured soul, write in the first place. Its hard to tell. Either way, it certainly has a

though I reserve the right to become one should the need arise. Now, I but only for short times. Sometimes I drop from sight for an hour;

will contradict myself by admitting that I do occasionally drop from sight, sometimes for a day, sometimes for three or four days. This hardly being readily available, it is a major thing. These short-term

qualifies as dropping from sight, but for someone who prides himself on disappearances almost always have to do with my work. Now and again saying two things: one, I dont feel like listening to myself blab, and two, I

it is because I dont feel like talking to anyone, which is another way of have temporarily lost the will to drag others down to my level. Those who have known me for any length of time are aware of this, and I am sure appreciate the break. Those who dont know me, but who think they do,

take offense. To them I say, fine, if being offended somehow makes you feel better, than go right ahead. It beats putting yourself in my shoes, and is therefore healthier and safer for you psychologically. November 21, 2004 My brother called from Armenia last night. He

calls most nights, but this time he used the telephone, so we had what amounted to a conversation, more of which I could hear, apparently, than he. At one point he said, How does my voice sound? and I said,

a little thin, but clear. After a brief silence, he told me he could barely hear me, and I said, Im already shouting at the top of my lungs, which was true, much to the amusement of everyone in the house. Then, in the background, I heard his wife say, Tell him to come for coffee. I said I would rather have a glass of Hasmik wine. Hasmik is my brothers wifes

name. When they were here briefly last April, Hasmik brought a bottle of

dessert wine with delightful Muscat overtones, and the label said Hasmik 1980. In other words, it had been bottled when Armenia was still a Soviet republic, and when Brezhnev was alive. This was even

before my brother and I had traveled to Armenia for the first time in 1982, when Hasmik (the girl, not the wine) was still a mysterious dream floating across the night sky. There was an early snowstorm while we were there in 1982, and then Brezhnev died. I dont think he died and somber music was played on TV for hours on end. Then the sun because of the snow, but the nation was plunged into official mourning, came out, the snow melted, comrade Brezhnev was salted away, and shouting below the window of my room, thinking, Well, here I am, now

life resumed. I lit an Armenian cigarette and listened to the mechanics what? There was water in a pitcher on a table near the bed, and near the water were several ripe pears and a knife. It was a beautiful scene, very poetic and very lonely, so I sat down and made some notes to that now is to be haunted by notes that are twenty-two years old. I am effect, none of which survive, thank goodness. The last thing I need right haunted enough by the ones that are two years old, and five, and ten.

And later on, no doubt I will be haunted by these, especially since they are already part of the public Internet record, and since I have every intention of defying common sense and shepherding them into print. Then again, that might be left to my literary executor, a person I pity

even now. In the meantime, I still wonder about those shouting mechanics. What are they doing now? What is everyone doing whom I confusion? They are living, of course, and blissfully unaware of my saw from the great vantage point of youthful ignorance, love, and ramblings. And to those who have died, I offer a belated farewell. I kneel shadows.

at your graves, and light incense there, and go humbly among your November 22, 2004 This morning I am pleased to see that real leaves

have begun to fall from the two poplar trees printed on the Armenian

postcard I keep here on my work table. Such is the power of memory.

Before the trees a river runs, and behind them looms the majestic twin

peaks of Ararat, known to Armenians as Massis. I inhale the aroma of

the sticky poplars, and marvel at how the leaves have partially covered my papers and books, as if to soften the edges of my grief and watching the river, and wait until its pulse merges with mine. Only madness. I will not brush them away. Instead, I will spend the morning yesterday, there was no one in the picture. Today, there is. And perhaps as soon as tomorrow, the poplars will have gone bare, and winter will have arrived. My winter. The mythic winter of truth and folly finally revealed, while the trees, like two silent brothers, watch over me. November 23, 2004 Where our old Alicante vineyard should have been, there were ten acres of grotesque tomato plants. My father pointed to a large ripe tomato that was as wide as a dinner plate. I went to it and said, This one? and he said, no, that one, directing me to a too big to be appealing. Then we abruptly turned our attention to the tomato beside it that was even larger. It was a big tomato, all right, far neighbors Thompson vineyard. It was a mess, as usual, full of weeds father and I exchanged a few remarks on the subject, but they seemed

and broken grape stakes, and the soil was in horrible condition. My rather pointless, since our own vineyard had disappeared and a freak tomato patch had taken its place. And thats as far as the dream went. my father. The first night, the situation was more practical, and had to do But it is the second night in a row that I have dreamed I was talking to with some sort of work on the farm. I cant remember the details. What I

remember is my fathers presence, and his obvious concern about some interesting days. It takes awhile for the spell to lift in the morning.

whatever it was we were talking about. Dreams like these make for

Its always nice to see my father, but its sad, too, because even during the dreams I know he is gone, and has been gone for over nine years, this is just his way of saying so. and isnt likely to return unless, of course, he isnt really gone, and November 24, 2004 It is amazing how far people will go to avoid facing themselves, and how often it involves behaving in a way that is unnatural and put on, and how these same people eagerly congregate with others who conform to the same pattern, while they suffer under the delusion that they are remarkable individuals. If only there were a psychological hammer one could use to break the shells that surround these poor souls. Of course if there were, I would use it on myself first to Seriously, though, self-expression is a wonderful thing, especially be sure it worked crack peep! peep! oops. Wrong hammer. because it is so rare. Unfortunately, our insecurity prevents selfexpression. It is insecurity that makes us follow prescribed modes of embraced manifestations. Some modes we stick with all our lives; others we use until we are bored, only to discard and replace them in a cycle of we talk alike, act alike, and fret alike, according to the wise path of least resistance, though this rarely turns out to be the case. But Im a weary unproductive enthusiasm that keeps us distracted. All the while, comfort we have chosen a path which might also be called the path of real person. An individual. Of course you are. And if you would just relax a moment and let down your guard, you might discover what an exciting thing that really is. And just who do you think you are, talking to me that living, in all their religious, political, and other earnestly and blindly

way? Well, thats hard to say. At the moment, I am the voice in your head. But any second now, I will likely revert to my natural state that

of a dope in the same boat which I reserve the right to rock, especially if it means falling out. November 25, 2004 I was sitting on a bench on the sunrise side of

the ancient cathedral of Holy Echmiadzin when an old man came up and

asked me in Eastern Armenian where I was from. In crippled Western Armenian, I did my best to tell him I was from California, near Fresno, aware that all Armenians know Fresno to be the birthplace of the author William Saroyan. The old man was genuinely pleased, and said he was sure I would learn to speak Armenian very quickly which I most certainly would have done, had I stayed in Armenia instead of going home four weeks later where everyone spoke English and Spanish. The old man ambled off. A minute or two later, I was approached by a small group of children who were openly curious about my appearance, as well as the small cigar I was puffing on at the time, which I had bought on the French airplane before landing in Moscow. Had I been puffing on

a cigarette, they would have thought nothing of it. I was also wearing coveted black market item and that, had I not needed the pants myself, I

Levi blue jeans at the time. I found out later that Levi jeans were a could have sold them for an outrageous amount of money even more amount indeed. Now, here is more evidence of my lack of business acumen. When I say I needed the pants, that wasnt exactly true. I

than they cost here now, twenty-two years later, which is an insulting

needed some pants any pants would have done. I could have sold my two pairs of jeans and replaced them with inexpensive and quite serviceable Soviet slacks one pair at a time, of course, otherwise I would have had to have done my shopping in my underwear. No doubt I

could have conducted the deal right then and there with those marvelous

villains, or with the villains older brothers, who were probably

somewhere nearby, operating their own rubles-for-dollars exchange. But novelty descended from the skies for their momentary entertainment. journey thus far. This is what we do when we are far from home or,

it took them only a minute or two to realize I was hopeless, a mere Once again, I was left alone to absorb the moment and ponder my lifes rather, far from the place we normally live. For I felt quite at home sitting when he is in a new place, and knows no one, and hasnt the slightest idea what might happen in the next few minutes? That is the beauty of being somewhere far away, even though, at that moment, I was here. I wasnt thinking, I am far away. I was thinking, I am here. Actually, I

on that bench. And really, what else can one do but ponder and absorb

was thinking nothing of the sort. I was thinking, This is wonderful, it is that door and a new life will begin. But even that isnt accurate. I wasnt priest who had served in London told my brother and me in perfect

very much like a door has just opened, and all I need is to walk through thinking, I was feeling. The words came much later. On another day, a English that it might be wise if we didnt drink the water. We told him that we had been drinking it for a week already, with no ill effect. The funny thing is, we never once stopped to think that the local water might harbor microbes that our systems werent used to. All we knew was that we were in Armenia, and that we were thirsty from eating so many onions

and so much bread and cheese. The priest was quite happy to hear our news, and it was immediately apparent that he had little respect for anyone who was so weak that he couldnt drink Armenian water without and had a funny little twinkle that reminded me of certain pictures of George Bernard Shaw. Maybe it was the eyebrows. getting sick. The priest was wry, but in a slightly calculating sort of way,

November 26, 2004 In an important, carefully researched news story because it beats sitting at home and watching TV. The man wore an

yesterday, a man in his fifties said he planned to spend today shopping, expression of resignation and pride indicative of a life that is going

exactly nowhere. And I thought, Theres a cultural statement for you. The idea of spending a free day watching TV or going shopping makes store shelves this time of year, and the desperate way people go after it, me cringe, especially when I think of the idiotic merchandise that gluts and paw through it, and mindlessly stuff it into their carts, all the while of these before. Isnt it cute? I dont know what it is, but its going in my friend an orange. Give him a lemon. Give him a bowl of hot soup. And if he is not your friend, he soon will be, because what you have given him

thinking they are getting somewhere. Look at this. Ive never seen one cart. I can give it to someone. All I can say is, dont do it. Give your

is not a silly gadget, but something real. If he doesnt understand, if he resents your gift or takes it as an insult, then smile and remove him from next years list. Go out and collect some leaves, twigs, rocks, and curledup sow bugs, and arrange them nicely on a dish. Next, fill a glass of water, then place it beside the dish, so that the sunlight spilling in the window will shine through the glass and make a rainbow on the dish. watch TV or go shopping. It isnt true, my friends. It isnt true. Now watch as the dish comes to life. Voila! And you thought you had to November 27, 2004 Once upon a time, when I was a fuzzy, roundheaded little boy standing alone in right field, another boy hit a high fly ball in my direction. When I tried to move under the ball to catch it, the

ball sailed over my open glove. It hit the ground behind me and rolled, and rolled . . . and I ran after it, frantic with failure, shame, and embarrassment, my heart pounding in my ears. It was my first night

game, and the bright lights bore down on me and my mistake. As the

ball continued to roll, it picked up speed. That was when I discovered that the entire playing field was tilted drastically toward the right field fence, and that the fence itself was not 330 feet away, but 330 yards.

When I finally caught up with the ball, it was on the neighboring school grounds, in front of the door of the room where I attended the fourth grade. I picked it up, turned around, and tried to find home plate, but

during my long absence the game had ended and everyone had gone home. I was walking home in despair when I heard a familiar voice in the darkness. It was my voice. It said, Throw the ball, stupid. I looked at the warm. I looked back in the direction of home plate. By some miracle, the

ball in my hand. It was stained and ragged from its journey and still lights were on again, and I was much closer to the infield than I had thought. I threw the ball to the second baseman. The batter was already voice. This voice was also familiar. The voice said, Its all right, Bill. on third, dusting himself off and wearing a big grin. Then I heard another Youll get em next time. After that, I never missed a fly ball again. whom, like the coach who knew the value of encouragement, were great human beings without knowing it, and have since passed on.

These days, I still hear voices my own, and those of other people

November 28, 2004 Like it or not, everything one says and does is

open to interpretation. Even the simplest statements and actions can be

understood to mean something entirely different from what was originally that everyone is right, at least to some degree, despite our wishful, eager assumptions and unconscious manipulation of the facts at hand. I

intended. At the same time, it is important to recognize the possibility

say this because, as human beings, there is ample evidence that we

also travel at a deeper level than we ordinarily recognize or are willing or

courageous enough to acknowledge. However, this does not give us the

right to ignore or stop trying to understand each others original communication and replace the other persons needs, wants, and desires with our own. The word superimpose comes to mind. To put it another way, real understanding can only arise between equals who

intentions, because when we do, we effectively close the door on deeper

have moved beyond persuasion and the need to be right. A person

unwilling to accept the fact that he might be wrong, no matter how right he feels, places himself above others, and even above Life itself. His rightness comes at a terrible price, because he denies other possibilities. People and things are only what he thinks they are, and no more. And yet somehow, he sees himself apart, because he knows. But there is a difference between knowing, and knowing everything. In my mind, even

the assumption that humans are more intelligent than rocks, or are

superior to them, is dangerously suspect. It is a petty, self-serving

notion, and a narrow interpretation of intelligence. How can a rock be without the rest of the universe and all that is in it. For that matter, why

less of a miracle than a human being? Human beings are nothing do we feel such a need to differentiate in the first place? Is it because, claim?

relatively speaking, we are newcomers, and are still trying to stake our November 29, 2004 This commercial culture of ours is really beginning to bother me. Yesterday my loving bride and I saw some stereos that actually looked like armor-plated meat grinders. On top

there was an ugly chrome trough where you put the meat, and then

down below, beside a flashing screen, was a two-inch mesh-covered hole where the ground meat was supposed to come out. Besides costing too much, these machines were so hideous that neither of us would

have allowed one in the house. They seemed hostile and arrogant, and more appropriate for mounting on a Humvee. About this time, a young man with an incredible amount of grease in his short, colored hair appeared at my side, wanting to know if I was finding what I was looking for. I told him I had found far more than I was looking for a statement he took as a compliment. My wife said, Why dont we look at the new looked. We saw plasma TVs, and LCD TVs, all of which were flat and shaped like miniature movie screens, and had a wonderful picture. I And my wife said, No, thats 348 dollars a month. The TV costs 6,000

TVs while were here? Id kind of like to see what theyre like now. We

said, Look, this one costs only 348 dollars. Thats a pretty good deal. dollars. She pointed at the tag. I said, Thats ridiculous. In 1964, a house on Golden Way only cost 2,000 dollars. Golden Way was a little street in Dinuba, not far from the railroad tracks on College Avenue, near the courthouse on the south side of town. The houses on Golden Way warmer during the winter than a stupid 6,000-dollar TV. We moved on. werent fancy by any means, but they could keep you a lot drier and The cheapest TV we saw was about 1,200 dollars roughly the price of employee rushed over, wanting to know if everything was all right. Out of

a used car that might or might not last a year. Just then, another store politeness, I pulled the gun away from my head and said, Sure,

everythings great. Then I pointed the gun at him and fired. He clutched not really blood, but some sort of digital molasses. I looked at my wife. still ring in our ears.

at his heart, but I was shocked when I realized the blood on his shirt was She shrugged. We left the store, amidst a hail of Have a nice days that November 30, 2004 Mr. President? May I ask you a quick question? No? I didnt think so. How about you, Mr. Vice-president? Or are you too

busy counting your money? Uh-huh. I see. Well, sure. Dont worry about that we might be able to sit down and wait a minute. Why are you

it. I just thought that since you gentlemen were public servants and all, laughing? Did that public servant part get you? Ha-ha-ha-ha! Its a good one? Elected officials. Wheeeee-ha-ha-ha! Oh, man, I dont know how I free world. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Guardians of democracy. Gurgle. Snort.

one, all right. That one gets everybody. Hey wanna hear another come up with these. Hold on. Listen. What about this one: leaders of the Blat. By the way, while were on the subject of freedom and democracy, I count jumped from 1,237 to 1,255, just since yesterday. Of course, on the other side, the poor misguided fools. Thats died, as in

noticed in the paper this morning that the death count your death those were just American military personnel. Who knows how many died D-E-A-D, just in case youre wondering. But youre not, are you? No. Of

course not. You plan to live forever. Well, I hope you do. May you find created in your own image and tried to shove down everyones throats. Hes waiting for you, boys. Run home to papa.

yourself in the mad, eternal embrace of the gruesome god youve

December 1, 2004 I will try my best to face this new month like an adult. On second thought, why would I want to do that? Acting like an adult is clearly bad for ones health, and it has a terrible effect on the Santa. Hellooo, Santa! Dont get stuck in our chimney, we might not be able to get you out! Excuse me, I see a puddle I need to step in . . .

children. No, Ive changed my mind. Instead, I will clear the deck for

there. What do I want for Christmas? I know a little rowboat for my

bubble bath. A rowboat, and a train, and a hammer, and some nails, and blocks, and a gold cigarette lighter. I never smoked when I was a little boy, but, by gum, Im going to now. So add some gold cigarettes to that

list, willya? And I want a pyramid for the backyard, where I can go exploring and find King Tut the Uncommon, or whatever his name was. And Ill need a shovel and a pail, so I can tunnel under the street and hide my treasure. I want everything! I want a bus ride to the moon, a hollow spoon, and a dragon that plays the harmonica. I want a buffet sweater, a buttered boot strap, a bathysphere, an onion dome, a have fifty-three, and that would make a dollar. A pound of flour, the

riverbed, and forty-seven cents. I need forty-seven cents because I only witching hour, gum drops, a big log cabin, and a cellar full of jam and maple syrup. And make sure theyre in bottles, or itll be might sticky down there. A horn full of corn, a magazine all torn, and an avalanche dipped in honey. Oh, yes! And an honest Joe, whose name is Moe, with a big toe he calls Sonny. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, well. It doesnt matter. There are still twenty-four days til Christmas. December 2, 2004 Why, heres one of them right now. Unless I am

would be funny. And last but not least, a field of wheat and a rainbow

way off base, this is the one that comes right after the one that came sack of autumn leaves. Where that one came from, I dont know. But the same table, beside the same window in short, on the surface, at

previously the one that grabbed me by the throat and shook me like a here I am again, in the same chair, slumped over the same keyboard, at least, today looks a lot like yesterday. I do see signs of a struggle,

though. Papers are out of place, pens, folders, old business cards with

scribbles on them, a stack of bills paid but not mailed, a signed check mutilated objects that probably once had meaning, and might again, later, after I have firmly re-established the crook in my neck, and made

with the name filled out but no amount specified, and miscellaneous provided I can summon up the courage to examine them. But thats for

certain my shoulders are slumped at just the right angle. In other words, the writing, and then I top this off with a little writing. What does a stack of bills have to do with writing? Everything. But no more than that. I go here, I go there, I walk, I drive, I attend, I visit, I stop by, but in each and wheels of writing continue to turn in the background, as I learn weeks,

the writing comes first. After that comes the writing, which is followed by

every case I am writing not always consciously, mind you, but the months, and years later when I am writing, and what went on in the

background finally reveals itself in a single clear sentence completely signs of abating, due to circumstances beyond my control. There. Did but because it was time for it to end. The sentence itself is still going.

unlike the sentence that we are currently mired in, and which shows no you notice that period? I put it there not because the sentence ended, December 3, 2004 Every so often, someone will ask me if writing is really the only thing I do. My answer: Yes. Absolutely. Of course not. How could it be? Do you think Im some kind of nut? I suppose I could

take an average day and examine it under a microscope, and subject it

to various tests and compare the results against established societal rejected. So why bother? Especially when writing really is the only thing I do, despite a mirage of evidence to the contrary. Yesterday I went to the

norms, but even if I did, I am sure my methods and research would be

little library book store again. Was I writing? Yes. Did the three women working in the book store think I was writing? No. They thought I was Dantes Divine Comedy, with the masterful artwork of Gustave Dor. shopping for books. Were they right? Partly, because I did buy a book: Still, I was writing the whole time I was there. I was writing the scene in the book store itself; I was writing the womens conversation on the invisible tablet in my head; I was writing my trek through the Inferno that

had brought me to the delicious moment in time when such a beautiful youngest son, who hopes to find several books of poetry in his

book would fall into my hands, knowing it would be a gift for our Christmas stocking this year. Beyond this, what is left to explain? I wrote

my way through the traffic downtown; I wrote the brick buildings and the people walking along in front of them; I wrote the disappointed face of a tired young woman pushing her baby in a stroller in the crosswalk before me, the two of them unable to explain what they know and how they listen for a day, an hour, a moment and then they were gone, and I remembering, pleading, smiling, weeping, singing, and saying hello.

came by their knowledge, at the same time seeking someone willing to was somewhere else, still writing, which is to say, living, breathing, December 4, 2004 I spent a peaceful hour yesterday evening assessing projects currently under way, and pondering a few others that One Hand Clapping is concerned, one thing I found out is that to date, I I hope to tackle in the coming year, circumstances permitting. Where have been at it exactly 628 days in a row, and have written in the

neighborhood of 216,000 words. I dont what this means, really, and I a few other things: poems, letters, short reviews, commentary of a

am almost afraid to find out. During that same period, I have written quite humorous, serious, or sarcastic nature or of all three combined, miracle, were good when presented at the bank. All in all, I would say it has been an interesting and productive time, by which I mean I am still

reminiscences, and a number of checks, all of which, by no minor

hanging onto my sanity by a thread, and if something doesnt give soon I count is accelerating, as I knew it would, and as it must, because of the relentlessly awful thing that has been set in motion. Evidence of U.S.

am bound to crack completely. The war in Iraq rages on and the death

election fraud continues to mount, but is suppressed by the media, they are supposed to be exposing in this country. The sad truth is, great

which are more interested in Ukraines election problems than the ones numbers of people here dont know what hit them, and what is still hitting

them, and what it is likely to mean to them and their children and grandchildren. To varying degrees, they are snowed under, blind, worried, desperate, selfish, confused, angry, lonely, hungry, and morally bankrupt. This is accompanied by a general coarsening of attitude and

behavior, both in public and at home, as well as an increased desire to that is encouraged by the religious right and its representatives in the White House, which are working hand in hand to create a nation of

see things in terms of black and white a deadly approach to thinking

frightened, intolerant sheep who dont question increased poverty, failing education, corporate thievery, and ongoing war. The only remedy to all this is to go on working and living, and to go on learning how to work and live in a way that is not harmful to others and to the home we all share. When enough of us are so engaged, the balance will begin to shift, and

people like the president will have to find honest, productive work or starve. There was a homeless man, hat in hand, the former president. In his eyes, where once were lies, were rusted tanks and battleships. A

blessing, sir! he cried. Please, a blessing! But the people turned away from the homeless man, hat in hand, the former president. The people turned away. December 5, 2004 A couple of weeks ago, the woman who lives across the street and one house down blew the leaves out of her yard and into the street with an electric leaf blower that sounded exactly like a hair dryer, and was capable of only slightly more force. Unfortunately, after her leaves were in a huge neat pile in the street, she still wasnt

satisfied, so she started blowing the leaves out of her neighbors driveways and gutters on both sides of the street, and then off the street itself, until she had cleared a space the size of an acre. Except for those

immediately in front of our house, the beautiful fall leaves we had been enjoying the previous few days were gone, and the ugly sidewalks and pavement were once again revealed. The job took her a full and very noisy six hours, and Im sure she would have continued had night not our gutter, since they were closer and more visible from her front window

fallen. I still dont know what prevented her from tackling the leaves in than a lot of those she went after. And then there is the neighbor two

houses down in the opposite direction, who recently hollered at our seventeen-year-old because a car loaded with teenagers roared by her house. By the time she came out, the teenagers were gone and our son was standing there alone. He doesnt drive, and had no idea who the he was responsible, and so gave him a piece of her mind, which she people were who roared by, but the neighbor still had the gall to assume obviously cant afford to do. Knowing she is prone to these righteous

eruptions, he smiled at her and walked away, having long since learned hand from his old man. But as I have told him many times, if youre going

there is no reasoning with some people. Of course, he learned that firstto be a basket case, go all out, dont hold back. Blowing leaves for six

hours and scolding the neighbors for things they didnt do is mere childs play. Look at me, I tell him. The very moment I set foot outside, people know Im nuts. I dont have to prove it. Its obvious. And then he smiles and walks away, the dear, brilliant boy. Even at night, in my dreams, I leaves, now turned to brown sludge.

can hear him laughing, as he watches me kick through our beautiful fall

December 6, 2004 He places his hand on the Bible (which

interpretation is hard to say, but it doesnt matter because he hasnt read it anyway) and swears to uphold the laws (his friends have written) of his country. My fellow citizens, he says, I will always act in your best interest (even if it kills you), because thats the kind of guy I am. Im a good guy,

have always been a good guy, will always be a good guy, so have no

qualms when I say to you that you must now run off yonder cliff, because

it is only mete and right that ye should dash out your brains against the Christmas), and a bright light of a suspiciously commercial nature shines upon the scene. No one moves. I said, says he of the knitted brow, his At this, a murmur arises, followed by a hubbub, followed by a hand still on the Bible but twitching slightly, I said, head for yonder cliff. commotion. Just as a revolution is about to begin, he switches to Plan B.

rocks for the Greater Good. And then the heavens open (just in time for

Okay, he says, here are some video and pizza discount coupons. Have his hideous claw. His lawyer-friends are working overtime. Soon, one of

at em. And the anger temporarily subsides. The Bible is steaming neath them whispers into his ear, Good news, Sire, revolution is now illegal. To

which he replies, Took you long enough. Zot! (This is an old biblical term, used mainly to describe the sound of a bolt of lightning passing There is a cry, and nasty fumes arise from a pile of ash, from which two gold cufflinks shine like a pair of evil eyes. through the expensive suit of an evil man who wields great power.)

December 7, 2004 Just the other day, a fifteen-year-old boy weve

known all his life told our son about an interesting experience he had in more bodies, the main branches of the military sent recruits to his class

his high school weight-lifting class. To satisfy their insatiable demand for to explain the benefits of enlisting. They did this by talking tough and

issuing a competitive physical challenge to the strongest boys in the class. Then, after the adrenalin was pumping, they collected the telephone numbers and addresses of all the class members, giving them

the impression that this was both routine and something they were required to do. When our son told me about this yesterday, I blew my stack and asked him whether the other boy actually gave out his

information, or had told the recruiters to shove it. Not knowing any better, goes on at his school, and at others. And though it wasnt necessary, I explained to him once again that never, under any circumstances,

he had given out the information. And then our son said the same thing

should he feel obliged to cooperate with such people, and that they have no right to harvest kids phone numbers and addresses, and that what they are doing has nothing to do with school and everything to do with preying on defenseless young minds in order to feed the governments recruiters to your Shakespeare class. I wonder what that means. When war machine. Its fascinating, isnt it, I said, that they dont send I told my wife about the incident later, I said it was a shame they dont send the ones who come back from the war in wheelchairs and without their arms and legs. There are so many thousands of them that no class would have to be skipped. But we dont hear much about those boys, do we? They are no longer of any value to the monsters who used them. And they come home to live their shattered lives, and watch as their big, tough fellow Americans pull up at the gas pumps in their SUVs and proudly say, Fill er up with blood. December 8, 2004 There are three basic ways to look at this journal.

If you are reading it now, day by day as it is being written and presented on the Internet, you can look at it as a pleasant journey without a destination. If you are reading it in the future, as in ten, twenty, fifty, or

a hundred years from now, you can look at it as a record of the times.

Or, if you are reading it now and in the future, which is to say at a

deeper, more farsighted level, you can look at it not only as a journey or record of the times, but as a living, breathing, changing thing in which you yourself are included. Naturally, I prefer the latter, but any way you approach this work is fine, even if, as I jump from the frying pan into the I dont mind being laughed at. But if that is your main purpose, I feel I

fire, you are only having a laugh at my expense. I want you to laugh, and must warn you that sooner or later, there is a good chance that you will be asking disturbing questions about yourself and what you think and believe. Quite possibly, you have already asked one or two without realizing it, and answered them in a way that would astonish you if you ordinary hammer. It just seems that way.

werent so busy laughing at me. In other words, I am not writing with an December 9, 2004 In my next life, I will be a stone, a large, speckled granite mass with moss on my back and a cold spring at my feet where give to each my ancient blessing. They will not hear my voice, but they pilgrims come to wash away their cares. I will listen to their hearts and will carry it away with them in their sinews and bones. And they will be glad. In my next life, I will be a stone. But I will still remember what I was before: a man, a poet, and nothing more. December 10, 2004 When this journal is done assuming that

glorious day ever comes I think the best thing to do will be to Its so obvious, I dont know why I didnt think of it sooner. And then, Two Hands Finally Meet and Are Gravely Disappointed. At a very

immediately begin a second journal and call it The Other Hand Clapping. when the second journal is done, I can start a third journal and call it The modest two years per journal, this would take me all the way into the

year 2009. By then I should be able to figure out a more productive way in 2009? Or will Americas rules have been rewritten to bypass this silly voting business altogether, so that George Hitler Bush can stay on as

to spend my time. The real question, of course, is, who will be president

this countrys first official Marionette Dictator? I wouldnt be surprised. As it is, Im already having nightmares in which I am being chased by vegetables wearing suits. Its very unsettling, especially when the em on. vegetables have cabbage heads with eyes, and say things like bring December 11, 2004 Lets see here. First Ill move this pile of papers hmm . . . here are a couple of interesting drawings I did a few days ago there. Now. What shall I do with the rest of my life? I can plan for the worst, or I can expect the best, and do everything within my power to the worst might seem wise, but it doesnt sound like very much fun. And see that it happens. Considering the information at hand, planning for if it isnt fun, it cant be wise. Or do you believe wisdom is crusty and dull, and for old people who cant get around? Granted, you dont hear too many rappers saying Wisdom is cool, the world is my school, the fool is Well, rapping is an art form. Thats what it is. No. Wait. I was thinking of the tool of the ES-tablishment. But they do have strong neck muscles. Christmas wrapping. I always get the two mixed up. Anyway. Where was expect the best and then try to make it happen. And it is certainly wise, effect a single smile has on those who witness it. If this isnt proof of the

I? Oh, yes. I was about to say that living is a lot more fun when you because pursuing that course benefits everyone. Consider the magical power we have to dramatically change the world, nothing is. Everyone money, or religion, or politics. Those things are just a mirage an

thinks change is complicated. It isnt. Change has nothing to do with

excuse to continue with our sorry behavior. We could change the world this minute if we really wanted to. But we dont want to. It gets back to something Ive said many times before: no matter how bad it is, we

prefer the known to the unknown. We are afraid to let go and be happy.

We cling to our misery like barnacles on pier pilings. Misery is our precious selves were worth keeping in this condition. In other words,

identity. The fear is, if we lose our misery, we lose ourselves as if our blah-blah-blah-blah this guy is boring blah-blah-blah-blah I wish hed shut up blah-blah-blah-blah. And that may well be. But what amazes me about our situation is that we are so close to the happiness we are meant for, and are only a single, simple decision away. All thats needed the experience. Life is not to judge, but to live. We didnt create Life, it we were, and, as strange and threatening as it seems, it is quite likely is the courage to celebrate everything, without trying to measure or label created us. We are one of Lifes expressions. Life was here long before that it will be here long after we are gone. It is incredibly small of us,

therefore, to think of Life in terms of win or lose, better or worse, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, or mine or yours. Its obvious where such thinking has gotten us, and where it leads. Isnt it? December 12, 2004 A tree, a hand, a waterfall. The night sky, fire, a

childs worn-out shoe. A grain of salt, a breeze, and a stiff paint brush. A breeze, a brushed sky. A worn-out hand, a salty shoe, a childs stiff fire,

painted hand, a stiff tree, a firefall, a childs worn-out grain of salt, a night a falling tree, a painted nightgrain, and a brushed wet breeze. In the shoe in the grainy breeze beside a falling waterbrush. Yes, I can see it all quite clearly. Maybe thats my problem.

worn-out night sky, a salty hand paints a childs burning tree with a stiff

December 13, 2004 That concludes the preface. Now let me tell you

who I really am. I am the baby boy who first wailed his grief, joy, and

astonishment nearly half a century ago in a small-town hospital at twothirty on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and whose voice was loud enough to hear down the corridor and out in the street, and in the fields and vineyards beyond. Despite this, there was an upsetting case of mistaken identity when my father looked through the window of the maternity ward and saw a five-day-old Japanese baby and thought it was me. . . . I

wasnt named until the day I was taken home. I wonder about that period of limbo. I dont question the indecision, for that is entirely understandable. What I wonder about is that blissful time when I was or, as my mother remembered later in a short poem she wrote commemorating the occasion, He is a William in miniature, the

who I was, without barrier or interpretation, before I became William

conqueror of our hearts. I blush only slightly at her sentiment, and even believe in it within its proper context, of course. For what child isnt, at least momentarily, a conqueror of hearts, or doesnt possess that

power? The fact is, I made note of this and other observations on my empty mental tablet after I was taken home. It seems I have made a good impression on them, I scribbled. Off to a good start. I made other notes as well. Brothers rambunctious an encouraging sign, was one, and another was Father has a loud voice and smells like tobacco. Then profound that I was unable to put into words: I was hungry. And so the world was temporarily, urgently defined. December 14, 2004 I dont remember the first time I met my fathers

I woke up screaming bloody murder, for I had understood something

father, but Im sure it was an event worth recording, so I will record it

here. He was wearing a straw hat when he emerged from the vineyard

between our house and his, and was only slightly dusty, for it was still

relatively early in the year. In May, the heavy soil on our farm had yet to shoes grinding against it was needed to raise a cloud of dust. My

crumble entirely, and a disturbance more violent than a mans work grandfathers shoes were dusty, but his pants and shirt were scarcely so. He had also oiled his shoes recently a detail that revealed Gramps grandfather smells is extremely important. His was an honest, inhaled, and which was effortlessly imprinted on my mind. I was not practical nature. He smelled good. I mention this because the way ones uncomplicated, Old Country, working-mans smell a smell I eagerly Gramps first grandson. I was his third, and his fifth of eight

grandchildren over all. I do not believe he walked to our house that day

expecting to be surprised, but he was surprised nonetheless when he we knew each other, but hadnt expected to meet again so soon. Such is

first saw me, as I was when I first saw him. We were surprised because the unpredictably fluid nature of centuries. Neither of us demanded an Gramp made a gentle clucking sound in his throat, and then his strong

explanation. We were simply grateful that our paths had crossed again. hands lifted me up, and I floated away from my mother and toward the rest against his shoulder, over which I could see a warm pattern of

open plain of his chest, and then willingly let my great, ponderous head painted brushstrokes on the wall near the refrigerator in the corner of the

kitchen. And there I remained for an eternity, or what might have been,

had the moment not been so fleeting. We will meet again, his spirit said to find himself alive.

to mine as he returned me to my mothers arms. And he laughed gently December 15, 2004 I do remember the first time I met my fathers

mother, for a moment in her presence was enough to awaken the

brooding anger she had passed on to me and that would bind us together, even after her death. More than once, my father said it was a shame I didnt know her when she was young, and especially before she had lost a son in the Second World War. What he didnt know, or had from the War Department announcing my uncles death, and that I was perhaps forgotten, was that I was present when the telegram arrived present when she and my grandfather were given a neatly folded flag as a token of their sacrifice, and that while they wept, I cursed. My uncle died in Italy, and was buried there, but I still did everything in my power to bring him home to restore him to his mother and father, even if for a moment and failed. My spirit raged through the rooms, and echoed in the heavy silence. The beautiful young woman who had been engaged to my uncle appeared in the mist, for she knew what had unborn children, and I hungrily memorized the limbs and faces of the fade, and as their great brown eyes melted into the dawn. But the loss of

happened even before she had been told. She was surrounded by her cousins I would never know. Then I watched as their spirits began to her child was not the sole reason for my grandmothers anger. She was angry long before he was born, and restless, and uprooted, and outraged. She didnt belong in Fresno, California, any more than her mother and father and grandparents and uncles and cousins who had escaped destruction in Armenia at the hands of the Turks. I have always caused, and the sorrow it engendered, and the exaggerated forms of been conscious of this fact, and proud of it, and aware of the pain it success to which it gave rise, and which were rooted in the familys

singularly mad, poetic strain. Oh, yes I knew my grandmother, in ways my father was afraid to imagine. But let us speak practically for a moment. I also knew nothing, nothing at all. And I know it still.

December 16, 2004 Gently, gently, I was lulled to sleep. But in my

dreams I heard the sound of a million footsteps marching through the desert. And over the clatter of horses, sabers, and guns there arose the cry of young women and mothers and children as they were brutally raped and tortured by the Turkish soldiers who were marching them out bones. Desperate with thirst and mad with grief and shame, women children in their arms, to prevent them further suffering. By the time I had awakened, their prayers and cries had found a voice in the poem I am

to die. The countryside was littered with corpses, the desert strewn with threw themselves into wells and rivers to drink, and to die with their

writing now. In the beginning, I thought it not possible to laugh, that

laughter was a crime. But I quickly learned from my family that laughter is the only way to survive grief and destruction, and is therefore a moral duty. And so I laughed, and in laughing, the poem was given light, and breath, and hope, and those who had murdered a nation were hung forever on a scaffold for all the world to see. In a word, I became mad. my forehead. Thereafter, each time I opened my eyes, I felt someone had just kissed December 17, 2004 Do you know what it is to be mad, to hear the whisper of mad angels at night? Do you know what it is to dream by a sacred river one day, only to see it run with blood the next? To slowly die

beneath a blazing sun while vultures circle overhead? To have your unborn child cut from your womb and thrust high as a prize upon a bayonet? To desperately hunt for edible grain in horse manure, or to lick your dead child while your brain echoes with her cries for milk? To a dead sisters filthy, sweaty rags for the moisture they contain? To rock escape, to live, to work in a shoe factory, to weave rugs, to build, to dig, to freeze, to sweat, to bleed, to beg on the streets of strange cities, to

rejoice at the sight of an apple though it remains out of reach? . . . And dream? . . . Or are you imprisoned by your sanity?

then to be awakened by a kiss on the forehead to a verdant, smiling December 18, 2004 There is no turning back. Once something is

said, it is said forever. Only time, events, and fading or unwilling memory can blur the lines we have foolishly drawn with our tongue and our pen. breeze, or the smoke that rises slowly from chimneys and drifts like a But what of sorrow and grief left unspoken? We do not deny a summer prayer across the slumbering winter plain. I speak of words as deeds,

because all deeds are rooted in words each kindly and heinous act, each blessing or murder. Long before the Armenian Genocide was Only then did the words have the power to become the act. Now the conceived and committed, it was written and spoken in millions of minds. world wonders about Iraq. It wonders about Israel, and Iran, and the

United States, the governments of which all preach hatred so the people human being, he must first come to regard the other as something less away from participating in the mass murder condoned by governments and religion. In other words, Jesus was the Prince of Peace, but and passed down through the generations. We choose blindness instead of

will do their bidding. In order for one human being to hate another than himself, something less than human. From there, he is a whisper

the Lord said Thou shalt not kill, unless and our bloody ignorance is sight, destruction instead of kindness, death instead of life, and then say

Merry Christmas, or one of its many equivalents. If we really meant it,

there would be no need to celebrate on a specific date. Every day would be a day of brotherhood and peace. Hunger and poverty would end. We and women begging with signs on street corners. We would not allow would not tolerate them in our midst. We would not tolerate crippled men

ourselves to be represented by wealthy liars, thieves, and murderers who rewrite the law to suit themselves. If we really meant it, we could write, speak, and sing to each other about the sweetness of Life, instead

of the blind sorrow of Unnecessary Death. But even through sorrow, we their dear dead children whose bones lie bleached beneath the desert To turn away from it now would be to turn away from Life forever.

can arrive at the truth. Even through the sound of mothers weeping after sun, we can arrive at the truth. It is, after all, the road we have chosen. December 19, 2004 The coffee is strong this silent Sunday morning,

the sky is calm, the street is dry, and the patient graves have reclaimed rusted grains of sand, and in the courtyard, flowers have sprung up The merchant is a builder, and the judge sails in search of cures. The

their dreams and bones. On the sacrificial altar, the blood has turned to between the stones. The priest is now a farmer, the king is baking bread. scientist praises mystery, the rich man serves the poor. And the ragged wandering poet is the same wise child as before. Have pity on the poet, for it is he who remembers your dreams and calls them forth. When in gentle eventide you hear him knock upon your door, fear him

not, and turn him not away. Give him food and shelter, and show him the

warmth of your fire. Do so, and your children will be blessed. Do so, and it will be counted as your gift to the future. And in the bright morning favorite shirt missing, dont blame me. Wisdom, like everything, comes with a price. December 20, 2004 There is a marvelous quote by Andr Gide at the front of a book I am about to read called My Brother Jack. Here it is: Fiction there is and history. Certain critics of no little discernment when you find the poet gone, and your refrigerator empty, and your

have considered that fiction is history which might have taken place, and

history fiction which has taken place. We are indeed forced to acknowledge that the novelists art often compels belief, just as reality sometimes defies it. Alas! there exists an order of minds so skeptical that

they deny the possibility of any act as soon as it diverges from the

commonplace. It is not for them that I write. Yes, indeed. Thats the kind Johnston and first published in 1964. I know nothing about the book except that it is supposed to be great, and that it is a favorite title of a

of talk I like. My Brother Jack was written by Australian author George

friend in Australia who just sent it to me. The first paragraph looks promising: My brother Jack does not come into the story straight away. Nobody ever does, of course, because a person doesnt begin to exist

without parents and an environment and legendary tales told about ancestors and dark dusty vines growing over outhouses where remarkable insects might always drop out of hidden crevices. My, my

sounds like an echo of the last few days. Amazing. I wonder if my friend is trying to tell me something? She also sent two other books: The Sound of One Hand Clapping, by Tasmanian author Richard Flanagan,

and A Creed for the Third Millennium, by Colleen McCullough, who also wrote The Thorn Birds. The funny thing about Richard Flanagans book is that I had never heard of it when I began this journal. If I had, there is a good chance that I would have called it something else, or at least have written to Mr. Flanagan and asked him to change the title in subsequent editions of his oft-reprinted novel. In any case, I am set with

a ton of good reading. I must read more. I dont read nearly enough. I am sick of being ignorant. But the hours slip through my fingers, and the days, and the years, and I am more ignorant now than I was ten years ago, because not only do I not read enough, I am forgetting most of what

I have read in the past. Ah, well. And then theres this One Hand

Clapping business. Maybe I should change the title. Maybe I should Knowing Is Not Enough. Or here is something even better: ? Has anyone ever used a punctuation mark as a title? Bah! If I read enough, I would know the answer to that!

apologize to Mr. Flanagan and all the Zen masters and rename this work

December 21, 2004 Late yesterday evening when I was no longer good for anything else a tragic, recurring condition I signed onto relieved to find that it still hadnt been updated a situation that has continued now for a number of days. I suppose he is busy with the Internet and visited the friend of a friends friends blog, and was

Christmas. But really, busy or not, it doesnt matter. Another thing that Next Blog, and continued clicking on Next Blog links for ten or fifteen

doesnt matter is that I clicked on a link at the top of the page that said minutes, stopping long enough at each new page to read a few lines, and in some cases a whole paragraph except, that is, for the ones in consistently rotten, unoriginal, self-absorbed garbage, some of it riddled foreign languages. What possibly does matter is that I found nothing but with clich filth, all of it echoing television basically a cross between sitcoms, prime-time soap operas, and a McDonalds advertisement. And parroting the trash they are constantly bombarded with. Its a shame I thought, Its a shame these people arent really living, instead of they have become paralyzed members of their media-assigned demographic. Naturally, Im all for self-expression which is exactly my themselves. Thats what makes it so sad. point. The people whose words I read think they are expressing December 22, 2004 Now that I think about it, an interesting challenge would be to read a hundred or so blog entries like those I mentioned, and extract certain words and phrases from each and arrange them as

poems. After all, it is not the fault of the words themselves that they lack fire. They are only doing as they are told quite reluctantly, I might add, for you can see the embarrassed look in their eyes as you read them

and try to guess their meaning. In that way, they are like music in the and a power outage away from oblivion. Each causes pain for those on

hands of two-chord trash-metal guitarists, who live their lives a publicist the receiving end. And while real art can and often does cause pain, it

should be remembered that the pain it causes is accompanied by new understanding. It can be argued, of course, that most bloggers and trash-metal guitarists dont claim to be artists. But the truth is, many of

them could be if they would slow down, roll up their sleeves, and give themselves the chance. After all, they are alive. And living is what art is all about.

December 23, 2004 Beep-beep-bee-beep-beep! This special bulletin just in from the Fearless Free and Unbiased Press, otherwise known as the Watchdog of Democracy: Mr. Bush cares about Mr. Rumsfeld. Mr.

Rumsfeld cares about the American soldiers killed in Iraq and their families. Mr. Bush cares about freedom and democracy. Mr. Rumsfeld cares about Mr. Bush. That is all. We now return you to that cheerful all the way! Oh what fun it is to buy with a bible every day hey!

Christmas tune, Jingle Bombs. Buy, buy, buy buy, buy, buy bible Dashing through the sand, in an unarmored open sleigh, oer the bodies we go, shooting all the way. Bombs on bobtails sing, causing spirits bombs, jingle bombs, jingle all the way . . . fright, oh what fun it is to ride and sing a slaying song tonight. Oh! Jingle December 24, 2004 Random thoughts the day before Christmas:

What if courage were defined by shaking hands instead of pulling the

trigger? . . . Tell me again, Mr. President how does shooting strangers

in their homes and destroying their country lead to friendship and trust? . gone home except for the homeless. . . . We speak of Peace, but we

. . Silent night, holy night, the stores have closed and the people have all dont know what Peace is. A life of ease and plenty at the expense of me. I can no longer tell the difference between oil and blood. . . . The

others is not Peace. It is thievery. . . . Something must be wrong with soldiers on our side are freedom-loving heroes. The soldiers on their side are freedom-hating insurgents unless you are on their side. Then When he forgets what he knows and is imprisoned by words, he is proclaimed an adult. If he remains a child and speaks the truth, he is considered insane. If he persists, he is considered a threat to society the roles are reversed. . . . When a child is born, he is infinitely wise.

that must be removed. After he has been removed or has conveniently died, someone says, He was right, you know. Then he goes to bed and forgets all about it by morning. The next day, someone else says the same thing, and then he goes to bed, and forgets all about it by morning. This goes on for a number of centuries, until finally everyone says, He though not in the way everyone thinks he was. But thats okay, too, was right, you know. But by then its too late, even though he was right, because they are adults who dont know what hit them, and are busy,

and tired, and cant wait to get to bed so they can forget all about it by children again.

morning. And forget they do. Then they rise, and wish they could be December 25, 2004 Its ten minutes after seven and everyone is still asleep. I also stayed in bed longer than usual: five-thirty. Ive had a look at the newspaper, and taken a steaming-hot shower, and made coffee, for the next several hours, but I wont, since a day of family activity is

which I am just starting on now. At the moment, I feel like I could write

planned. We have family activity every day, of course, but it usually isnt planned. Today it is planned, but it will be very similar to the activity that isnt. In other words, we will eat and talk. Actually, the only plans that are afternoon, and how long it will need to be in the oven. What can I say?

really necessary revolve around the leg of lamb we will be having this We are simple people. My loving bride made two pies last night one

apple, one pumpkin. Later this morning, I will make a big pot of soup maybe one or two other things, depending on what I find. I might use

with potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, garlic, parsley, and olive oil, and some lamb stew meat for flavor, or I might not. Its good both ways.

Anyway, thats later. This is now, and now is what its all about, which be forgotten, because this is now the real now, the potent now, the want or need, because a moment like this only comes once and lasts

means that what I just said about it being now is in the past and should wondrous now, the now that contains everything a person could ever forever, if we could accept such a simple fact, but our wiring makes it

difficult, our ability to remember, our inclination to yearn, and to be easily when I am making soup it will be now, and then still later when we are

distracted. Now where were we? Ah, yes. I am writing now, and later eating it, it will be now the moment and the soup. It really isnt

complicated unless we insist that it be so. The trouble with insisting is, while we are busy insisting, we forget to notice that it is now, and so are blind to the wonder of the moment which, as I have said, lasts forever,

which in turn is a very good thing, because it means we can wake up hard to think of anything more exciting and wonderful, except maybe the lasts forever.

and catch the train at any time and still be in good shape. Really, its leg of lamb we will be having now, in this fleeting, joyous moment that

December 26, 2004 I realize I am supposed to be out shopping for after-Christmas bargains this morning, and that I am a lazy, unpatriotic bum for staying home. But as there was nothing in the stores that I

wanted or needed before Christmas, I dont see how there could be anything there that I want or need now. But I do have a new book. Its called Letters from the Earth, and it contains work by Mark Twain

published after his death, all of which I am eager to read. The book was

given to me by my long suffering and ever faithful bride, probably with the hope that it will keep me distracted while she struggles valiantly to keep our household running. Im sure it will do the trick. In the Christmas soup department, I did use a piece of lamb with bone for the base, with

excellent results. No one actually cheered, but a brief silence fell over the crowd as bowls on both sides of the table were summarily drained. And the leg of lamb itself was outstanding. My wifes brother was with

us, and we confessed in whispers to each other afterward that the flavor had nearly brought us to tears. Naturally, we noted a similar reaction to the mulberry and apricot vodka my brother brought last year from Armenia. Well, where is a big cigar when you need it? All this talk about something I havent done since August, if memory serves me correctly. money from my used book fund again and invest in tobacco. From what I

Mark Twain, lamb roast, and vodka makes me feel like lighting up Oh, well. It will probably be next August before I am willing to divert gather, Mark Twain didnt have this trouble, though he had plenty of

other things to worry and mourn about as he would if he were alive car dealership while computer technicians try to locate the source of his wearing a white suit, and watching an endless line of cars creep past the

today. Imagine Mark Twain waiting in the customer lounge at his local automobiles malfunction. Imagine him smoking outside in the doorway,

drive-up window of the fast food joint across the street. Imagine how strange he would look to everyone. Interestingly enough, I suffered a reported for regular vehicle maintenance. Everyone there was crazy. They looked crazy, they acted crazy, and they thought I was crazy similar fate last week when I was at the dealership, where I had dutifully

because I didnt look and act like them. Some of them were friendly,

though, because they thought I might buy a car. That shows how

perceptive they were. I was told to eat a holiday cookie or doughnut, or to have some holiday coffee, but as the stuff had obviously been sitting out for hours I politely refused, saying I had just eaten. There were some street, some costing in the neighborhood of thirty or forty thousand very fancy, expensive cars stopping at the drive-up window across the dollars, and a few others quite a bit more. In the parking lot, I saw little parents casually-arrogantly pressed buttons on their key rings to unlock their car doors while they were still several feet away. Is it hard to

children clutching grease-stained bags of processed junk, as their

imagine what their future holds, the values and herd-minded ideals? I want everything on it. Well, okay. But you still wont be able to cover it up, my friend. It will still be exactly what it is, despite the secret sauce. My advice is to stay home next time and peel some onions and your kids how to make a good stew. Its not too late. You will feel better, you will be happier, and your breath will smell better. potatoes, and chop some celery and carrots, and teach yourself and

December 27, 2004 Twenty-one thousand people have already died from tidal waves caused by a massive earthquake in the Indian Ocean near Indonesia yesterday. India, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia were Thailand and Malaysia, and even as far west as Somalia. One news

especially hard-hit, and a number of deaths have also been reported in

broadcast last night said that more than a million people have been left homeless by the quake, which registered 9.0 on the Richter Scale. It is amazing, indeed. With a single wave of her mighty hand, Mother Nature

has reminded us of our insignificance, and that she could just as easily as an act of God, in which case it is reasonable to think that the Good

do without us if she so chose. Of course, some will see the earthquake Old Grump has grown tired of watching us kill each other, and has too lighthearted in the face of such widespread disaster, I will record

graciously decided to step in and help. And lest I be accused of being here that my wifes brother and his family were in Malaysia as recently

as the eighth day of this month, and were planning to sail from there for South Africa, and that we do not know where they are at the moment, or if they are safe. We have sent them an e-mail. Now we wait. December 28, 2004 My wifes brother and his family are safe still in

Malaysia, but on high ground. They had just left their dingy on the beach and gone into town on visa business, where a travel agent tried to tell them about the tidal waves, but didnt quite succeed due to a language barrier. Then, while they were having lunch, they saw a CNN broadcast and found out what was happening. Later, they found their battered toll from the earthquake now stands at 44,000.

dingy in a parking lot, with its anchor wrapped around a tree. The death December 29, 2004 There have already been several letters to the

editor saying what a shame it is that the United States spends five billion dollars a month to occupy Iraq when the money could be used to help the earthquake victims in South Asia, where the death toll now stands at

76,000. This is true. But its also important to remember how and why the Iraq situation came about in the first place, and how all such situations come about. The monsters in power must first be given that

power by the people they claim to represent. People like the Bushes, who are nothing but low-grade wealthy business weasels in suits, couldnt get away with what they are getting away with if the man on the

street would ponder the outcome of the decisions he makes in his daily life and the actions he takes. Even if he began to ponder, to question, it would make a big difference. But the monsters know this, and do everything they can to keep the masses distracted, entertained, misinformed, and stunned. This is why they have seized control of the media, and jammed the airwaves with right-wing filth, and the papers

with patriotic rah-rah articles while skirting the real issues the election fraud, the war for oil, unemployment, poor education, unaffordable health care, and on and on. That this isnt plain to millions of people, and that the monsters corrupt behavior is even praised and emulated, shows just how successful they have been. How sad it is that even a devastating earthquake isnt enough to wake them.

December 30, 2004 When I first sat down a moment ago, I was going

to quote a few of the glaring inconsistencies I found in this mornings paper, first about the U.S. economy, and then regarding the foul lies to hold in Iraq at the end of January. But Ive changed my mind. And Im issuing from the presidents mouth about the so-called election he plans not going to talk about the earthquake, either, or about the paltry thirtyfive million dollars the U.S. says it will contribute to the relief efforts, or the letter to the editor in this mornings paper that said thirty-five million is what this country spends every eight hours in Iraq, or the fact that 114,000 lives have now been claimed by the earthquake disaster. The reason I am not going to write about these things is that they seem to be my help. And so I will write about something else, or will try, at any rate. doing a pretty good job of writing about themselves and dont really need

In a little Armenian newspaper that is mailed to my mothers house every week, there was a short and pathetically written article that begins like system, dating to prehistoric times, has been unearthed in the eastern Van, of course, is an ancient Armenian stronghold, and was the setting man. The article continued: The sewerage system was found by Gurpinar region of eastern Turkey. According to Professor Dr. Oktay this: What is believed to be the worlds oldest first toilet and sewer Turkish province of Van, according to NTVMSNBC.com August 23. for some of the most horrible atrocities ever committed by man against archaeologists working on excavations at the site of a Urartian castle in Belli, the director of Istanbul Universitys Eurasian Archaeology Institute, the find was of particular significance. The discovery of a toilet in the western part of Cavustepe Castle built by Urartian King Sarduri II in 764 with the Anatolian news agency. We revealed that Urartian architects had formed a sewer system before building the castle. The toilet and

BC pushed back the dating for such systems, he said in an interview

sewer system in the castle is similar to todays toilets, the professor said. And there you have it. Armenian kings used toilets in ancient times. And now back to the present. This is from the front page of the same paper: Turkish mob attacks five young Armenians in Valance Five young French citizens of Armenian origin were attacked by a

Turkish mob of 15 Turks at the Town Hall of Valance while they were

distributing leaflets against the Turkish entry to the EU. After destroying their stand, the Turks started throwing bottles and later attacked the Armenians injuring them. One was hospitalized. Local Armenians who

went back to clean up the area were later attacked by another Turkish

mob of 50, who were shouting our grandparents massacred you and we

will continue. And so, my dear friends, we near the end of another year

of Human Enlightenment. Tomorrow is the last day of 2004. May we all give thanks and celebrate at least those of us who have toilets. Those who dont will have to wait.

December 31, 2004 The other day, I used the word iceberg in a

poem, and it occurs to me now that there was a time when, depending found out, what an iceberg is. Even now, most of us have to learn about icebergs in books and on television, and have had no personal experience with them whatsoever. And yet there I was, casually using achieve the desired effect. I would like to think that this is an example of

on where they lived, many people in the world didnt know, and never

the word iceberg, just as if I were part penguin, and fully expecting to the miracle that is language, and it is, but there is also something else at work here, something powerful yet largely taken for granted, and that is foreign to us, or that has hitherto gone unnoticed, all at the mere our ability to see, feel, hear, taste, smell, and imagine something that is suggestion of a word a word, moreover, that might not even have been uttered and heard, but only seen on a page, and in the company of other words that are each fully ripened mysteries unto themselves. It

would be easy to jump to the conclusion that writers and readers are in a better position to understand and appreciate this, but the fact is, we are all endowed with the ability one might safely call it a need to be an Everything around us is a messenger every blade of grass, every

instrument through which the music of Life is played and understood. grain of sand, every drop of water, all that beckons to our senses and then the harmonized vibrations in between, the colors we dont see but to tears, and the universal language we have forgotten but still know are there, the sounds we dont hear but that touch us and move us understand at a molecular level, and which calls to us and blesses us

and waits for us to respond. We are here not for any of the reasons we doesnt need to be, and in so doing reduce Life to inaccurate, paltry

think we are. In our fear and puzzlement, we crave an explanation that terms, to crippled dogmas and beliefs, and to complicated systems that only serve to entangle and confuse those who adhere to them. We are here to find out. That is our curse, our joy, our destiny.

January 1, 2005 According to the Great Arbitrary Calendar Imposed Upon the Universe by man, yesterday was the last day of the year. As a way of acknowledging the Holy Event, I took the time to address some said, Hello, bills. Then I put them down again and went on about my

bills that I had been ignoring for quite awhile. I gathered them up and business. A little before midnight, there was an embarrassing eruption of gunfire in the neighborhood similar to what we experienced last Fourth of July, but it went on only about half an hour. This morning, the street is

strewn with Dick Clark dummies. Poor Dick the latest victim of Father Time. Alas, poor Dick. We knew him well. Did someone say he suffered a health setback recently? A stroke, was it? There are two things I

remember about old Dick. One is that he played the murderer in the last Perry Mason episode back in 1966. The other is that in an interview, ex-Beatle George Harrison described him as an unproductive leech who reading that remark, but I still wouldnt wish a stroke on Dick, or cancer,

preyed on other peoples talents. I had had that impression long before or any other of the years Top Ten Maladies just to put it in Dick Clark

terms. After all, Dick is our friend. He is an icon. We want our icons to be

rich, happy, and forever young, even as we limp along in poverty and grow older and lumpier with each passing minute. Hey, and speaking of public relations, how about this news: the U.S. increased its earthquake relief package to $350 million. Boy, I hope that doesnt slow the spread

of freedom and democracy in the Middle East. As a proud citizen, I

dont think I could live with that. But I did notice something interesting Lie Colin Powell to make the announcement. With a completely straight face, he referred to the president as being at the Crawford White House. Heck, theres nothing calculated or strategic about that

when the administration trotted out the great Look-You-In-the-Eye-and-

reference. I wonder what ol Georgie is doin there on the ranch, in his little ol Texas White House. Probably polishin his belt buckles, guns, and cowboy boots, cause he sure as heck aint runnin the country which reminds me of another guy named Dick. But enough of that.

Rather than speak of things cheerfully, let us speak of cheerful things. Imagine my surprise. I tell you, I was tickled pink. The first thing I said to

Uh, lets see. Cheerful. Uh . . . oh, yeah. I woke up again this morning. myself was, You know, Bill, this should be seen as an opportunity and a new beginning. And I answered, Dont bother me until Ive had a happened. I havent heard from myself since. shower and some coffee. After that, a strange and wondrous thing January 2, 2005 It occurs to me that this would be a very good year to

make a big pile of money. Last year would also have been a good year,

and the year before that and the year before that, but not nearly as good as this year. In fact, as the years have gone by, Ive noticed that each year has been a better year than the year before in terms of it being an appropriate time and setting for a sudden increase in wealth, to the point that it can safely be declared a trend or pattern. So looking at it an a broad sense, its probably lucky the money didnt pour in sooner. But this

time around, I feel certain we are looking at a year that wont take no for an answer. This is fine with me, as I am tired of dealing with years that refuse to put up a decent fight. For one thing, I plan to have a lot of ideas

this year had a good one earlier this morning while I was combing my

still-damp hair, as a matter of fact so its going to take a year with some resilience and gumption to withstand it all. Call it a threat, call it a the wind is right this year. I noticed it yesterday, shortly after the clock promise or just more whistling in the wind, I dont mind, because even struck midnight. Of course, I have always had a lot of ideas, but what

good are ideas unless you act on them, or at least on those that are

most promising? I will even go as far as to say that a less-than-stellar idea, if acted upon with relish and zeal, can out-perform a great idea that concentrate my efforts and energy not in the sense of lashing my ideas or beating them into submission, but in a way that allows them to with my ideas, and at the same time see that I dont get in their way. is left to fend for itself. I have seen it happen. Therefore it is necessary to

bear fruit. To put it another way, I need to become more actively involved January 3, 2005 For the last twenty minutes or so, I have been sitting

here thinking not about what I am going to write, because I have no thinking about writing in general, and the wondrous thing it is when we

idea yet what that will turn out to be, but about other things. I have been allow it to be. Writing is a privilege, and not one to be taken lightly. Even our very best effort. If what we write is meant to be read by others, we

if we are writing only for ourselves, we owe the medium and our reader must be willing to work as hard as other writers who have given us joy

with their writing and helped us see, feel, and understand that which has readers, but ourselves. I have also been marveling at the frosty stillness

moved them. If we arent willing, it is a sign of disrespect not only to our of this first Monday morning in January, and at the fat robin perched atop side and his tail is jumping as he announces his presence and surveys

the neighbors pine tree in the bright sunlight. His head is jerking side to

the frosty rooftops. What a fantastic symbol of Life. I wonder how many ounces of grub hell have to muster up to stay alive today? There is a lesson here, but it doesnt need stating. At the moment, I am more

concerned about those of us without a roof over our heads, or who are is a roof over my head. For the sake of those I live with, I hope the situation continues.

but a shivering step ahead of homelessness. I am still amazed that there

January 4, 2005 Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! There. Now that Ive done my morning exercises, its time to get to work. Lets see, here. What trouble shall I get into today? More to the point, what trouble am I already in, why am I in it, and is there any chance of getting out? Answer: the usual; thats obvious; not likely. Efficiency thats the name of the game. The Name of the Game was also the name of a TV show once upon a time. Dont remember a thing about it, though. No

time to remember. Too many things to do today. Too many things on And Amos and Andy, for that matter. Man, what a shame I dont have

my plate. Then again, what about Room 222 and The Mod Squad? time to remember these things which reminds me of a guy who years

ago ran a manure-spreading business in our part of the good old San Joaquin Valley. He was the busiest man on earth, and every chance he had, he would take half an hour to tell you just how busy he was, and to would be running, and he would be standing there coated with the fine particles of dairy manure. Gas was cheap in those days. Diesel was

complain about how he had no time for anything. All the while his tractor

sixteen cents a gallon. Even manure was cheap. The thing about get rid of they were glad when you took it. Later on, though, the tide turned and they started charging big money for it, and the people who

manure is, it used to be something the dairy farmers were desperate to

hauled it to the farms charged big money, and the people who spread it in the vineyards and orchards charged their fair share, and before you knew it a truckload of manure going down the highway was well worth hijacking, and drivers were held hostage, and a massive terrorist plot

ensued, and manure was stockpiled and wired with high explosives, all of which meant a higher price to farmers, who were having a hard enough time as it was. Finally, we bypassed all that and started

spreading gold. It was cheaper. Tough on the soil, though. After three or four seasons, the ground wouldnt take water, and the gold was hard on the equipment as well, and then there were the insurance forms to fill out tractor. When we told one particularly brazen miner that he was

and the lawsuits to contend with when we ran over prospectors with our trespassing, he even had the gall to say, Your place aint posted as

if a mans property wasnt a mans property unless he had a sign out backed over him with the heavy rear tractor tire. Sorry about that, Dad said when the tractor reached level ground, didnt see ya there. And I

front saying it was his property. And so I distracted him and my father

thought, Thatll teach him, or something along those lines. I really dont might make a difference.

remember. Dont have the time. Sure wish I did, though, because it just

January 5, 2005 Interesting. Colin Powell is visiting the earthquaketorn area, and is stunned by the devastation, and has never seen anything like it before. I guess he means he hasnt seen anything like it that wasnt caused by man, or by the kind and gentle government he represents. That kind of devastation he has seen plenty of, and lied

about, and tried to cover up, and made excuses for, and called by other names. And now the presidents oil- and blood-soaked daddy and Bill

Clinton have been dispatched on his heels. No doubt those classy boys

will spend a lot of time working side by side with relief workers that the leaders of this country feel the need to use the disaster to try to are responsible for in Iraq and elsewhere. Meanwhile, real people from

enough time, anyway, to have a few strategic pictures taken. How sad improve their image, and to deflect attention from the destruction they around the world are reaching into their pockets and rolling up their sleeves to try to help. This is another example of the good things humans are capable of, and the speed at which those good things can happen. It is also something the political-business monsters of the world

dont understand. They want a return on their investment no matter is really a calculated business wager this is the way their minds work, and they are incapable of seeing it any other way.

what. They do not know the meaning of the word gift. The help they offer

January 6, 2005 A couple of evenings ago, the kid who dressed as a

mustard squeeze bottle and went on a candy hunt with our youngest son that he had decided to work with our son at the iris farm this coming couch under a blanket until about nine oclock. We have known him

and another friend of theirs last Halloween, stopped by and announced summer. Then he ate two bowls of lamb stew and sprawled out on the since he was just a few months old, and was being pushed around by his mother in a stroller. Now hes six-two and has his learning permit, and drives his mother around town. Stew and bread. Thats what we had for supper that evening. Yesterday my charming bride made a fantastic tomato, garlic, onion, parsley, potato, salt, pepper, basil, and olive oil. batch of lasagna, and I made a heavy-duty soup out of eggplant, lamb, Eggplant and lasagna are great together. And I just remembered, there is one small hunk left of the sourdough we had with the stew. If no one

claims it by evening, maybe Ill have it with the leftover soup come mealtime. But thats a long way off. Even if the bread survives, I might not, as the twists and turns of my so-called writing life continue to create enormous demands on my system. Its not just the time I spend here at many of which are complicated and magnified because I refuse to give the keyboard that is wearing, but keeping up with lifes other demands, up and become an insurance salesman as if anyone would buy the first place. Come to think of it, it would be worth trying just to see again, Im not qualified for much else, either. When pressed, I am still often to the surprise, I think, of those I am conducting them with. By friend. Ill have to work on that. We are here, and that is good. I am who I

insurance from a long-haired wild-man in a black Goodwill sport coat in peoples reaction. But I wont. Im not qualified thank goodness. Then able to conduct the ordinary business affairs that pop up in daily life, God, he doesnt look like he would make sense, but he does. Thanks, am, and you are who you are, and those people over there are who they are, and that drunk being given a ride home in a cab is who he is, as is the cab driver himself. Tis a miracle, friend. Get used to it. In the insurance? meantime, Ill try not to bother you. Oh, by the way. Need any January 7, 2005 I was resting peacefully last night when I was suddenly awakened by a shower of dry clods on the lid of my casket. I jumped and hit my head, then realized it was the telephone Id heard, not clods. My wife hurried into the room and answered the phone. It was the mustard squeeze bottle, wanting to talk to his Halloween buddy. Whats going on? I mumbled after my wife returned from telling our son to pick up the phone in the kitchen. Man, my tongue is dry. I looked at the clock by the bed. It was only a quarter to ten. He wanted to say that

he called Schreiners for the job, my wife said Schreiners being the name of the iris-growing outfit our son worked for last summer. Here, let me close that lid for you. Before I could thank her, my considerate bride

started to nail the lid shut. I tried to tell her that turning off the ringer on drowned out my voice. A moment later, the hammering stopped, and I experienced the most wonderful silence Id ever known. But it didnt last

the phone would have sufficed, but her cheerful use of the hammer

very long. Soon a drop of water landed on my forehead, and another, found a bar of soap and picked it up. Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to finish my shower. January 8, 2005 I suppose its rather cruel of me, but I havent responded to the presidents last several letters. I am trying to teach him

then another, and still another, until the drops were like rain. Half blind, I

the alphabet, you see. I send him a letter R, for instance and he hunts for an R in his pile of plastic letter cards. When he finds the R, or a letter he thinks looks like an R, he has a member of his staff put the corresponding card in an envelope and mail it to me. Of course the staff

member has to address the card, but I suspect the president himself is

the one who seals the envelope, because there are usually bloody reason I havent been responding to the presidents letters. I really want

fingerprints on it when it arrives. But the bloody fingerprints arent the him to learn the alphabet, because then he might be able to learn to world he uses as his doormat, and if he learns about the world he uses

read, and if he learns to read, he might at least begin to learn about the as his doormat, then it might occur to him that the people living under that doormat have better things to do with their time than hate him and go hungry. This is not a project with much promise, Ill grant you, but the man is the president, whether he was properly elected or not. No. The

reason I havent responded to the presidents letters is that I have been supply before I send him any more letters he has gotten three of them right, by the way. Three out of fourteen so far. In one case, I sent him

feeling mean. Also, I have run out of stamps. I need to replenish my

the letter W, thinking hed be sure to get it, but he sent me an M. Anyway. Stamps are one thing, but meanness is another. Im not sure why Ive been feeling mean. But I think it might be because I cant afford

the stamps. Also, I have gotten the feeling lately that he doesnt really care about the alphabet, or learning to read, or about anything else that Now, if someone were to walk up to me and say, Hold on a minute, the doesnt have a dollar sign attached. By lately, I mean since about 1967. president knows how to read, he reads speeches, doesnt he? I would smile and say, No, reading speeches doesnt count. Speeches are just laundry lists of lies, or something like that. I dont know. I might say might start laughing as well, and we could side-step the subject of the

something else. Or I might just laugh. In which case the other person president altogether as I might have done myself several minutes ago, had I had the sense to start laughing then, instead of now, but you one. I like the sound of that. know what they say, better late than never. Had I had. Thats a good January 9, 2005 Yesterday in Iraq, the U.S. military missed its

intended target and accidentally dropped a 500-pound bomb on a home regrets the loss of possibly innocent lives. Well, heck, if they were only

nearby, killing the people inside. The good news: the military deeply possibly innocent, then dont worry about it. And since theyre dead now and cant explain how they were accidentally born in the wrong place at they thought it was their home and had nowhere else to go, that lets you the wrong time and how they foolishly stayed where they were because

off the hook. As I said, dont worry about it. You guys are heroes, so go right ahead with your killing. You are helping spread freedom and that silly little voice in your head that keeps saying, This is wrong, I am a democracy, so keep your chins up and remember, above all, to ignore murderer. Real men dont listen to little voices. Real men drop bombs, and go on to live confused, angry, haunted lives in a society that would rather buy useless junk and watch TV than worry about little things like

the loss of possibly innocent lives. Forty years from now, a hundred yesterday will still remember what happened to their family. Multiply that

years from now, the relatives and descendants of the people killed by the thousands and thousands already killed and wounded and tortured and starved and poisoned in Iraq and the future looks rosy indeed. What a sad, sad time this is. What a sad, sad time it will be. The

future is here, now. We are creating it and living it and passing it on to

our children. We are the unborn children of the already murdered future, if that isnt sad, nothing is.

living in the mad delirium of assumed intelligence and superiority and January 10, 2005 Today my dear bride and I are celebrating our twenty-ninth year of wedded bliss. But the truth is, we have celebrated a little each day since our twenty-eighth, and our twenty-seventh, and all the way back to our first. I say a little because most days we havent had celebration, because our time and energy have been devoted to raising a family, while seeing to it that the kids dont end up like me. Here is another reason to celebrate: my brother will be arriving from Armenia late tonight for a visit. Well, we can celebrate the visit part, anyway. The the time or energy to celebrate a lot. But even that is cause for

late part will be a bit of a challenge, since I rolled out of bed around five

this morning, as usual. But Ill manage. Ill get my second wind along

about nine oclock while Im on my way to the airport. Then, at about one

in the morning, Ill go to bed and be wide awake, knowing that just a few breakfast before he goes off to school. This is what we do. I suppose we could rely on boxes of cereal, but my mother and father always got up at the crack of dawn and made my brothers and me big breakfasts, and I and if later never comes, there is always the cemetery.

hours later, Ill be up at five again, making our youngest son a big

believe it is a tradition that should be continued. I can always rest later January 11, 2005 My brothers plane was only half an hour late from

Los Angeles, but that was enough time for me to enjoy a small Mexican

family sitting next to me in the waiting area. The young man and his even younger wife are just starting out together, and are the proud parents of a little girl who looks just like a Mayan doll. The child has recently learned to walk, and spent a good deal of time staggering Once, her daughter came up to me and studied me with a serious smiled, and at that moment I was sure we were the four luckiest,

around the area with her mother, who was obviously enjoying herself. expression. When I smiled, she smiled, and her mother and father happiest people in the airport. The couple spoke Spanish. I could tell by

their tone of voice how much they loved and respected each other, and how they were still surprised and delighted to find themselves together, and how they thought their daughter was the best thing that had ever happened. And when she dropped a little plastic container full of cereal, and the pieces of cereal scattered over the carpet, we all laughed. And two minutes later, when an airport employee with a grim expression came along with a toy-sized carpet sweeper and made the cereal disappear, we watched and smiled to ourselves. The family left before I

did. When they got up and walked away, I said good-bye, good-bye, but they didnt hear me. January 12, 2005 The beautifully strange and poetic thing about it is,

twenty years from now, the little girl I saw in the airport the other night could meet and marry our grandson assuming we have a grandson someday and we would never know it was the same person. And when we met our new in-laws, those same twenty years would likely there might remain a glimmer, a hint of recognition that one of us might decide to bring up. I guess it is all pretty unlikely, though. And yet, is it

have erased the memory of the first time they and I were together. Or

any more unlikely than anything else? I have been married twenty-nine be my bride. It didnt have to happen, but it did. Or did it have to

years and I still marvel at the luck of meeting the amazing girl who would happen? Had it already happened, thus making our meeting a mere the surprise of it, and the wonder.

formality? I dont know. But it is happening still, to this day, along with January 13, 2005 Its time to go back to the book store. I need more twelve days old. Never mind that I have piles of books Ive yet to read, stacks, mounds, walls, shelves, fortresses of books. I am ashamed by

books. I have bought no books this year, and the year is already over and other piles I am currently working on. I want more piles, bigger piles, how few books I have, embarrassed, sickened, mortified, dejected, worried, bothered, disgusted, disturbed by the paltry number I possess. Why, I have so few that they would fit in a freight car and still leave room for a couple of hoboes. That is sad. When I think of my poor books

rattling across the nation in the company of hoboes who havent washed their hands, it makes me weep. There they go, up the grade, through the meadows, past the grain elevators and small towns, winding through the

factory and warehouse districts, moaning at lonely crossings in the middle of the night. And the hoboes arent doing so well themselves. No. ever onward! This situation must be remedied. I must not fail. I must push onward, January 14, 2005 Its hard to explain, but I feel much better now that

Ive read the first two acts of Eugene ONeills Long Days Journey into Night all the more so since I had no immediate plans to read the play, and didnt have a copy until yesterday afternoon. Thats what a trip to the

library book store will do for you. Besides the ONeill play a nice hardbound volume for a dollar and a half I found Gentlemen, Scholars from its beginning in 1850 to 1959. That book cost two dollars. I had read before that ONeill had given instructions that his play not be that it never be performed. His wife, Carlotta, however, decided University Press in 1956 and performed in Sweden not long afterward, and Scoundrels, a hefty collection of work that appeared in Harpers

published until twenty-five years after his death, which was in 1953, and otherwise, and Long Days Journey into Night was published by Yale and then in the U.S. a few months after that. It was said that playgoers were reduced to tears by ONeills deeply personal drama. In the dedication to his wife, he referred to writing the play as facing my dead at last. Of course, the playwright meant something very specific by that statement. But it can also be said that a work of art cannot come about

unless the artist faces his dead his dead past, his dead selves. This

reminds me of a short parable by Kahlil Gibran, which can be found in his book, The Madman. Its called The Grave-digger, and it goes like came by and said to me, Of all those who come here to bury, you alone I like. / Said I, You please me exceedingly, but why do you like me? / this: Once, as I was burying one of my dead selves, the grave-digger

Because, said he, They come weeping and go weeping you only

come laughing and go laughing. It is the laughter of the self-burying great paintings and other art-forms. And everything is art where such laughter is present. January 15, 2005 So much for Eugene ONeill for now, anyway. cheerful about it, though there are painful, laughless moments of humor,

artist that we hear in great literature and great music, and witness in the

Long Days Journey into Night is a good play. There is nothing at all as if ONeill had squeezed a ripe literary lemon over his autobiographical misery to help bring out the flavor. In any case, its easy to see why he felt better after writing the play. Not only did it help explain him to himself, it helped explain him to others. His father was a handsome stage actor who betrayed his talent for easy money, his mother was a was an alcoholic who as a child passed a lethal dose of the measles to you have the perfect formula for fine drama, not to mention a life of torment. And a tormented life needs to be explained if it is to be

profoundly disappointed woman addicted to morphine, and his brother their infant baby brother. Add to this his own bout with consumption and

endured, and especially if it is to be understood. That an explanation of such a personal nature can also be made into an enduring work of art shows how we are all tormented in one way or another by ourselves,

and by circumstances beyond our control. How we each explain it in our turn, and how we act as members of the audience, makes all the difference. January 16, 2005 The fruitless search for weapons of mass

destruction in Iraq has officially and quietly ended. But the U.S. military

occupation of that country has not, and wont for a long time to come.

This week, George Sorry He Said Bring Em On Bush will be sworn in

for another four-year term as president. The ceremony will take about a

minute. The antics surrounding the event will cost forty million dollars someone, somewhere. By a strange coincidence, the glorious and wonderful Parade magazine that is stuffed into Sunday newspapers nationwide features a picture of the presidents wife on the cover today, woman will be working hard on behalf of the nations boys. Yes, she is

money that could have paid for food, or medicine, or shelter, or books for

and contains an article about how that glazed, embalmed-looking suddenly worried about our lonely, aimless, misguided role model-less boys the same boys her husband and his buddies want to eventually grind up in their bloody death mill. It seems to me that wife and hubby are working at cross purposes here not that either cares, since every value. Welcome to America 2005. Kind of reminds me of America 2004, away there. But someday today, tomorrow, a thousand years from move they make is scripted, staged, and timed for its public relations 2003, 2002, 2001, 2000 blast off! Oops. Sorry. Got a little carried now I hope someone will find this message in a bottle and be amazed by how stupid people were back in this Dark Age. If the bottle survives, that is, and if there is anyone left who can read. And if someone finds it driving a big gas-guzzler, and is the proud parent of a fine, patriotic

and is not amazed, I hope he, she, or it is living a happy generic life, and soldier. Dear Future Person: You might not know it, but you are missing the point. That sunshine on your back? It isnt yours. It doesnt belong to whose head you are stuffing with filth and nonsense. Granted, mine is a you. And neither does the earth you are walking on, or the innocent child voice from a Dark Age. Back in my time, the main subjects taught in school were Poor Diet, Cosmetics, and Fashions and Accessories. What are they teaching now? Anything? Do you even have schools, or are

your children surgically extracted and placed in military incubators? Oh, which amounts to the same thing.

well. I dont expect you to answer. After all, I am dead and you are busy, January 17, 2005 What seems like a hundred painful years ago to

those of us who rudely survive, the president landed aboard an aircraft carrier and proclaimed Mission Accomplished to the assembled troops and stalwart members of Team Media USA my new name for the media. For those who have forgotten, George Braveheart Bush wore a

flight suit that day and pretended to be one of the enlisted men. Yesterday, however, he refused to give a time-table for the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Iraq, saying they would leave as soon as possible but stay until our mission is complete. No doubt this will take several decades, because the military was never trained to complete a mission that has already been accomplished, especially when they dont know what that mission is. Also, missions have a way of changing. Or, as the have, not the mission you wished you had. I try to draw comfort from the

great Donald Rumsfeld might say, You go to war with the mission you knowledge that these monsters will be dead someday, but it isnt quite enough to go on. Even if they were struck down by a poetic bolt of lightning on the eve of the inauguration, another batch of monsters would rush in to take their place. World domination is a lucrative business that attracts the very best minds.

January 18, 2005 The thing about writing is, there are always plenty of reasons to quit financial ranking highest among them and so few to keep going. Many writers in fact do quit, but without admitting it to

themselves. Some even continue to write long after they have quit, with pitiful results. Of course, the same can be said for a number of writers whose words have brought them wealth. The reasons to continue, on

the other hand, though few in number, are so good that quitting, in my what are the reasons to continue? Sanity. Fulfillment of ones contract

mind, at least, amounts to tragedy, embarrassment, and failure. And with life and nature for the person who denies his talents and abilities must inevitably live as a ghost in this world. And the simple truth that one must. These are all really expressions of the same thing. One cannot be truly sane if he denies his talent; one must do his work if he is not to live

as a ghost. This is true even if for a time it is necessary to postpone ones work in order to survive. The trick in that situation is to keep the work alive, to keep it present in ones mind, and to know that the situation is only temporary, even if it persists for many years. It isnt hold during apparent good health. A quitter in the early stages can seem easy, but it can be done. It must be done. Quitting is a disease. It takes robust and on top of the world, but within a few short years the effects of

the disease will be noticeable in his face, his eyes, his voice, his work. again. Quitting isnt a temporary condition, it is final.

The disease is incurable. Once a person has quit, he cannot begin January 19, 2005 I was just thinking how effective it would be to end this journal today with the following two-word entry: I quit. Now that would be a funny way to go out. It also occurs to me that saying I am

going to quit in the near future might be a good way to build an

enthusiastic readership. Did you hear the good news? Hes finally going to quit. I wouldnt miss this for the world. I should have thought of it sooner. In fact, I probably would have if I hadnt been so busy not quitting. The trouble is, I dont know how to quit. Ive seen others do it, the same time, I have witnessed other writers rank amateurs, really but I could never get the hang of it myself. How does one go about it? At who have tried to begin by telling everyone how important writing is to

them, and how dedicated they are to their so-called craft, in words

borrowed from other would-be writers trying to convince themselves of

the same thing. Many live in this la-la land for years, where they spend their precious time reading how-to articles aimed directly at their egos and meant to substantiate and encourage their fear, thus creating the

need for more articles, classes, workshops, and lifeless support groups. My advice to them: Quit while youre behind and find a more productive way to spend your time.

January 20, 2005 Last night I decided to switch dramatic gears and read Anton Chekhovs final play, The Cherry Orchard. A dozen or so years ago, I picked it up in a one-dollar Dover Thrift Edition, but never got around to reading it. On the same trip, I bought Dover editions of Jack Londons The Call of the Wild, James Joyces Dubliners, and Joseph Conrads Heart of Darkness. I read Dubliners right away, and The Call of the Wild right after that, but every time I try to read Heart of Darkness, I cant summon the will to move beyond the first page. I dont Cherry Orchard was first produced by the Moscow Art Theater on

know. Maybe I should start on Page 2, or read the book backwards. The Chekhovs last birthday, January 17, 1904. So it says on the back cover.

Imagine. That was 101 years ago. Chekhov was born in 1860, and died a victim of tuberculosis, or consumption, as it used to be called. He was a physician. My eyes were tired, so I read only the first act. But even that has a great sense of timing and humor:

was enough to make me feel I was visiting with an old friend. Chekhov

YASHA. [handing a box to MADAME RANEVSKY]. Perhaps youll take your pills now.

PISHTCHIK. You oughtnt to take medicine, dear lady. It does you

neither good nor harm. Give them here, my friend. [He empties all the pills into the palm of his hand, blows on them, puts them in his mouth and swallows them down with a draught of quass.] There! PISHTCHIK Ive taken all the pills. MADAME RANEVSKY. [alarmed]. Have you gone off your head? LOPAKHIN. Greedy fellow! [Everyone laughs.] gallon of pickled gherkins.

FIRS. [mumbling.] They were here in Easter week and finished off a MADAME RANEVSKY. Whats he talking about? used to it.

BARBARA. Hes been mumbling like that these three years. Weve got YASHA. Advancing age. Pishtchiks comment on the uselessness of medicine is far more than

just a passing remark. It is Chekhov himself speaking from the vantage point of experience and fully aware of his pending death. Six months after the premiere, he was gone. January 21, 2005 The $40,000,000 coronation of King George II took

place yesterday as planned. Caught up in the festive atmosphere, one democracy next? A grandmother said, I am here first of all to show my

protester in Portland carried a sign that asked, Who do we bomb into grandchildren that they have the right to protest. She went on to say

that she was marching because she feared for their lives, and also for her own future, referring to the administrations rush to dismantle Social Security. My own simple view is that those young enough to have what those days were like except this time around there is a much missed the Great Depression wont have to wait much longer to find out

larger population, a rampant drug culture, and widespread weaponry to contend with. I could be wrong, of course. But if you look at the way money has been systematically siphoned out of the peoples pockets to and war, and if you look at the employment and health insurance situation, and the steadily rising costs of everyday goods, it seems the formula for depression is in place. I know Im depressed. But thats natural for me, so it doesnt count. What does count is what I see when I

support a few evil families and corporations and a long-term occupation

am out in public. I see what people are buying and what they are not about how close to insolvency they live. Indeed, for many, the

buying, and I see and hear about the things they are doing without, and Depression is already here. But their voices arent being heard. Or, more

accurately, they are being heard, but ignored. This has happened so many times before that no one should be surprised it is happening now. Those who have much, want more. Those who have little or nothing, suffer and wait while the Mighty Dunce ascends his throne.

January 22, 2005 The monsters are already talking about Iran. Iran is

on their list. After all, if youre in Iraq, you might as well be in Iran too, right? Right especially if you dont have to be the one to do the bleeding and dying. Bleeding and dying is something the people of Iraq

and Iran have long been accustomed to. For most Americans, bleeding and dying is something that happens on television. Bang, bang. Youre dead. For the president and vice-president, bleeding and dying is what and dying. Bleeding and dying. Has a nice ring, doesnt it? Is that a cash you in their sights. happens to the animals they kill on their manly hunting trips. Bleeding register I hear? Watch out, young people. The Great White Hunters have

January 23, 2005 I put in a longer, more strenuous day yesterday than planned. As it turned out, several things had to be written. First, there was a poem that couldnt wait. In fact, I was awakened by it the night before at about two a.m. In the quiet dark I said, So, its you. Okay tomorrow. Just to be sure, the poem waited and watched for awhile at my bedside not the words of it, but the spirit. We exchanged later, I remembered the poem before my feet hit the floor. But I could tell smiles, then I drifted back to sleep. When I got up about three hours the poem was intact, so I went on with my morning rituals of cat feeding, newspaper reading, showering, and coffee making. I wrote the days entry for One Hand Clapping, then turned to the poem. I was mostly finished with it when I had to tend to some website chores. This led to factor into my thinking alongside the poem. Soon thereafter, I left with

some unexpected work in that realm, the writing of which I began to my darling bride for our Saturday grocery shopping. We were gone for an hour and a half. Then I returned to the poem, and to the other work that was forming in my mind, fine-tuning the first, and preparing to write the latter. I finished the poem, had some leftover scalloped potatoes, several hundred words. But before I finished it, I sent the new poem to a publisher I have been working with lately, because I thought there was a good chance she would be willing to present it on her website. Within a addition to my own website and uploaded the file. After some more and started in on the days third piece of writing, which ended up running

couple of hours, she had done exactly that. By then, I had finished the website work, I rested for about five minutes while reading some new email. By then, it was time for us to go to my mothers house, where we doing what I was doing. Thats when I realized how tired I was. For some gathered for the evening meal, which my bride had prepared while I was

reason, we got on the subject of composers, and I tried to remember as many of their names as I could: Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, Bach, Haydn, Schubert Tchaikovsky is one I didnt think of, as well as Rimsky-Korsakov Liszt, Wagner, the Strauss boys, the Gershwin

brothers, Stephen Foster, Muzio Clementi and then we got onto the We left at about nine oclock, or maybe a little sooner. Back at home, I

opera names, like Verdi, Puccini, and Donizetti, and so on and so on. found some more interesting e-mail, and spent another bleary-eyed half hour at the computer. I ended up too tired to sleep, tossed and turned most of the night, and woke up with a stiff neck and a broken back, but the pain has mostly subsided, thanks to another hot shower. But even as up our second-oldest son, who had dropped off a U-Haul truck a few

this was being written, it was necessary for me to break away and pick miles away and needed a ride to his new apartment. He switched apartments yesterday, so there was a lot of commotion here that involved his two brothers and another girl he works with, who helped him

move. In the process, they wrestled our old couch out of the house. After that, the boys got up a basketball game outside that ended at dark. for one day. Where the rest of this day will lead remains to be seen. There are probably a few other things Im forgetting, but thats enough January 24, 2005 Chekhovs The Cherry Orchard was a treat. What a

gift he had for leaving out all but the most necessary. Rummaging through my book shelf last night, I found another play of his, The Sea Gull, in a collection called Sixteen Famous European Plays, a book I mentioned many moons ago. I almost started reading it, but read the first

act of Luigi Pirandellos Six Characters in Search of an Author instead. I

dont know anything about Luigi Pirandello, except that he is a dead

Italian writer. I read a few of his short stories many years ago and

enjoyed them, but I couldnt tell you what they were about. I just

remember liking them, but not enough, apparently, to turn the library upside down to get at the rest of his work. And yet, over the years, his with the nagging thought that I should read more of his stuff. The play is humor. The characters dont have names. The curtain is open from the name has popped into my mind perhaps two or three dozen times, along good quite entertaining and well done, really, with a good sense of beginning and the stage is empty, then several actors walk on and begin to rehearse a Pirandello play called Mixing it Up. The manager is giving directions to everybody you do this, you stand there, we need more light over here, and so on and after a couple of minutes six the manager impatiently asks what they are doing there, one of them

characters come onto the stage and interrupt the proceedings. When says they are looking for an author. The manager says, There is no author here, we are not rehearsing a new piece, and basically tells them to get out and let them do their work. But the characters are persistent,

and claim they have a right to be there, because they have an important

story to tell, which immediately begins to leak out here and there in

provocative, tempting tidbits. Eventually, the manager decides he and later today, and find out what happens to the six characters that is, if

his cast should hear them out. With a little luck, Ill be able to read on Im not too busy acting in my own play, which closed years ago but continues on in a private run out here in the formerly wild West, way off Broadway.

January 25, 2005 Shall I tell how it ends? No, that wouldnt be right. what happens as it goes along or even what it is, for that matter

On the other hand, since I have said nothing about how it begins, or revealing the ending might not be such a bad thing after all. In fact, if the

ending is good enough, then we could go back to the beginning and find out what led up to it. But the real question is, how, if we know nothing about the beginning and subsequent events, is it possible to know the day. We imagine what it is that we want to happen, and then try to make

ending? Thats simple. We make it up. People make up endings every it happen by saying and doing things we think will lead to the desired conclusion. Our failure is called experience. Our success is called ending. Because all too often, we accomplish our goal to the detriment accomplishment. Thats why its so important to imagine the right kind of of others. But we still call it success, and even receive praise for it,

sometimes from the people we have harmed which, I cant help

thinking, is rather stupid. Its stupid because they are praising the ones mind otherwise they wouldnt be praising them. They praise them in is worthwhile. They dont realize it is rotten to the core, and that the

who have harmed them, and its stupid because they had similar goals in order to stay in the game. They still think the ending they have imagined success they have been pursuing and praising is really failure. So in a of ending, and have, in fact, ended where they began. This means they

sense, they have failed from the beginning by imagining the wrong kind have really ended up behind as did those who crushed them on their way to the top the miserable, egotistical pea-brains. The lesson in all this is that we must imagine the right kind of ending, or imagine no ending at all. This would be a true beginning. The End. January 26, 2005 When a man who knows as much as ABC news

anchor Peter Jennings stands up before millions and with a straight face monsters in power have succeeded in their takeover of the media. You

says that Iraq is having a genuine election, you know how well the also know that poor Mr. Jennings has long since traded in his humanity.

He is but one of many, of course. I dont mean to imply that Peter great Dan Rather, or any of the other pompous puppets pretending to be journalists while collecting millions of dollars each year for their glib, misleading performances. Lies are lies. If you tell them, youre a liar. And one countrys military occupation of another, he is helping to maintain

Jennings is less of a person than the great John Brokaw, or the late-

when a highly respected professional liar lies to sanitize and legitimize the ignorance and arrogance that leads to untold grief, suffering, and as everyone must. The sad thing is, he has made an informed choice.

bloodshed. Peter Jennings isnt stupid. He has simply made a choice January 27, 2005 Late yesterday evening I spent a good twenty minutes roaming from room to room with a book in my hand that I couldnt find the inspiration to read. Every so often, I would return to my

shelf and select another volume, with the same results. Finally, our son

Vahan took pity on me. When he saw me standing in his doorway

looking forlorn, he said, Do you want to read my Bob Dylan book? He which came out last year. I said, I suppose I could. Should, probably. I put down Pinocchio and picked up Chronicles and read the first few lines. It was Dylan, all right. I said, Okay, Ill give it a try. Its bound to be wouldnt be necessary. So I settled in and read the first forty-five or so

was referring to Chronicles, the first volume of Dylans autobiography,

entertaining. Shall I leave Pinocchio with you? Vahan smiled and said it pages of the book. It starts when Dylan first arrives in New York City as

a confident young folk singer, and takes off from there with the same kind of rambling street-level observations one finds in his songs. When something pops into his mind or reminds him of something else, he satisfies the impulse to blab about it right then and there. All of what Ive

read so far has been interesting, both culturally and musically, and well

written besides. Here and there is a line that could easily be used in a has to do, and what people have long expected and still expect him to

poem or song. He knows it, too. He knows what hes doing, and what he do, and what he expects of himself. Life, apparently, is a game he still than back in the glory days of the early Sixties when a new age was

finds appealing and worth playing, though perhaps a little more by habit seeping up through the cracked pavement and rising through the grates and manhole covers and leaving steamed bloody fingerprints on the walls of decayed institutions. But thats okay. Dylan is no saint, but he will remain an inseparable part of the history of that time as a poet and songwriter, not a filthy politician. January 28, 2005 Thanks to an impromptu visit to the library come my way. This time its The Oresteia, by Aeschylus. It says in the

bookstore yesterday afternoon, another exciting reading assignment has introduction that the drama was first performed in Athens in the spring of 458 B.C., two years before the poets death. The volume itself is a beautiful oversized hardbound affair published in 1961 by the Heritage Press in New York. The type is large, the margins are generous, and there are striking full-page illustrations by Michael Ayrton scattered throughout. Cost: three dollars. Meanwhile, I read around fifty more

pages of Bob Dylans Chronicles. Unless he makes a drastic wrong turn

somewhere, I will definitely finish the book. There is no way of knowing his artistic development are well worth reading. As it is, and as I have

what he is leaving out, of course, or if it matters, but his observations on mentioned before, the whole business of autobiography is fascinating.

There is a natural and not always productive tendency for the writer writing about himself to make himself the hero of his own work I know this from personal experience and to edit past events to his own

benefit. In Dylans case, too, there are bound to be legal considerations. But there are also things better not remembered in print things which, though true, might prove hurtful to someone. Every writer faces this characters in his drama have died. And if the writer dies first well,

dilemma. Sometimes its necessary to keep quiet until long after certain then, there you are with a hole in his story. Thomas Wolfe, on the other hand, didnt wait. He couldnt. He wrote about his family and Look Homeward, Angel, was published. The saving grace was that he acquaintances, and stayed away from them for two years after his book, was as harsh on himself as he was on them. He was also brilliant, and believe we have. Some of us even know it. We are the most dangerous of all, especially to ourselves, and to those we love, and to those appointed by Fate to love us.

had a literary calling to fulfill as many of us nutty writer-types think or

January 29, 2005 Months and months ago, I said I liked the idea of

going forth armed with nothing but a guitar. It sounds more poetic than forth armed with, if I were to go forth. I could go forth armed with a pen and notebook, but then I would have to retype everything later very

being armed with a laptop computer, which is what I would probably go

inefficient. While I was forth, I would always be thinking about going back to catch up on my typing, which would dilute the impact of my being way and type up my notes there, but I hate using public machines. They obnoxious sitting nearby chewing gum and popping it in your ear. Writing is hard enough without putting up with that kind of nonsense. Not that Im not forth right now. The fact is, I have been forth so long that it forth. I guess I could find typewriters and computers in libraries along the are dirty, for one thing, and for another, there is always someone

seems like Im back. Some might think that it is impossible to go forth

without leaving ones room, but they would be wrong, especially in light of current technology. This is not to say that I am an advocate for staying forth. It has a lot to do with how a person is wired, and what kind of work he is involved in. There are also times when going physically forth is absolutely necessary if one is to continue going mentally forth and are one and the same thing. A fine example of this is Ross Freeman, the home, or that I think there isnt great value to be had in going physically

vice-versa. And there are times when going physically and mentally forth main character in my second novel, The Smiling Eyes of Children. forth. And, I might add, he takes his old manual typewriter with him

Freeman is a writer who not only goes forth in both dimensions, he lives everywhere, lugging it through hotel lobbies and parking lots to the

amusement of bystanders. His typewriter is a physical burden, but it is the key to his freedom. Not many are swift enough to understand this. If he were carrying a guitar case, people would say, Look, isnt that

wonderful? There goes a free man. But what do they know of freedom? What do they know of its price? The rebels and outcasts they worship pay dearly for their freedom, and will go on paying. Still, this gives me an cases and start lugging it around, but with no guitar in it?

idea for a social experiment. Why not borrow one of my sons guitar January 30, 2005 Two low-flying ducks with outstretched necks just in such a hurry this early on a Sunday morning? I dont know. But I can

streaked by, barely clearing the treetops. Where would ducks be going guess what they will say to each other when they arrive: That was great. lot of quacking around the house as an expression of excitement, outrage, skepticism, confusion, wonder you name it, I quack. I look at

Ill race you back. Ducks, speaking English. Lately, I have been doing a

it this way: a guy cant bark all the time. Its good to mix things up. A little

quacking does a lot to lighten everyones load though in this case I

am the load. I know it and I admit it. Quack? I also realize that by

quacking in print I am probably ruining my chances to be thought of and troubling themes and issues of my time, and the next Im quacking. Did Tolstoy quack? Perhaps. He had a large estate, and thirty or forty children. If that doesnt get a guy quacking, nothing will.

remembered as a serious writer. One minute Im grappling with the

January 31, 2005 What a nuisance. The newspaper was so full of lies was handy, or I would never have been able to put it out. I grabbed him and Joe turned on the faucet and I held the hose. Afterward I told him

this morning that it burst into flames on our kitchen table. Luckily the cat

it was time he started earning his kibbles anyway. And you know what? He agreed picked up a broom, started sweeping up his stray wads of fur, and the pine needles he drags in. Poured himself a cup of coffee,

asked me if Id seen who won the game before the paper exploded. I said nope, Im tired of whining millionaires, I dont even look at the sports section anymore. Well, I look at it, otherwise I wouldnt know which section I was ignoring. Im particular that way. Then Joe says he had some money down on a few of the games, so if I didnt mind, would I give him a ride to the corner for a fresh paper. I told him what do I look like, a taxi? Take the bus. He smiled, then stood up the broom in the corner. Right away the broom starts crying, youre leaving me, I might have known, blah-blah. Sickening. On second thought, I says to Joe, I could use a little ride. Let me get my shoes on. By the time my shoes

were on, Joe had the van started and was backing out of the driveway.

This hero thing had gone right to his head. But you know what? He standard transmission, but if I know Joe, hed figure out a way.

turned out to be a pretty good driver. Dont know how hed do with a

February 1, 2005 The family, the writing, the books, the folly. I could

have done worse. I still can, and maybe will someday further down the beneath the surface of these placid waters, a wild current runs. This isnt a threat, or an attempt to gain artistic credibility, it is simply an

line, but this looks like the formula Ill be working with for awhile. And yet,

observation. Ideas rumble in the depths, and loom in the gray turbulence like underwater mountains. It might take years for them to make known the full force of their presence. Then again, one could rise up like a great whale and swallow me whole tomorrow. What then? The beauty lies in now. not knowing, and perhaps having to forget everything Ive known until February 2, 2005 Bills to pay, forms to fill out, telephone calls to make, appointments to keep its ridiculous, time consuming, and so beside the point. Paying bills is inefficient, because it doesnt stop more people, because they are rarely there, and then I have to leave a message and wait for them to call back, and when they do Im in the middle of things and the phone startles me half out of my wits, making it hard for me to remember why I called them in the first place. And if they from coming. By filling out forms, I invade my own privacy. I hate calling

do answer on my initial try, thats almost worse, because it means putting off my own work that much longer and having to explain been listening and paying attention. Keeping appointments is an something simple that they could have grasped immediately had they exercise in futility, because I am almost always told upon my timely have a seat, hell be right with you. This is the same as saying my time

arrival that so-and-so is running a little bit behind and would you please is worthless. I know my time is worthless. I need no reminders, and I

certainly dont need to read putrid gossip magazines that everyone in the

world has breathed on and handled with their greasy biscuit hooks. Other than that, though, I am pretty well adjusted. February 3, 2005 Its looking more and more like a recording studio around here. There are guitars and guitar cases leaning against the everywhere, and now, at the heart of it all, there is a new sixteen-track recorder capable of things that would have once made Sixties rockers drool not that some didnt drool anyway. To say those two sons of ours have kept up with their music would be an understatement. They walls, an obstacle course of amplifiers, cords and cables running

have been making steady progress right along, expanding their knowledge and ability, experimenting, and listening to a wide range of music. One plays electric, the other acoustic. From the beginning, they have been on separate musical paths. While one is working his way through Jimi Hendrixs Machine Gun, the other is strumming his twelvestring in a style reminiscent of folk legend Gordon Lightfoot, or playing blues on his steel resonator. But the thing I really admire is that both spend most of their time improvising. When they play at the same time in rooms only a few feet apart, as frequently happens, it makes for some

mighty interesting results. When their not-musically-inclined brother walks in and hears the racket, he invariably asks how we can stand it. I say, Stand what? A few minutes later, he roars off in his old mufflerless Lincoln, rattling the neighbors windows. Who knows what they think. I know what I think. I think the neighbors deserve it. I also know probably dont even hear him go by. But I could be wrong. They might be studying languages, playing harmonica, or making quilts. I met a guy once who thought he had invented a way to keep dish rags from

they are sprawled out on their couches with their TVs blaring and

smelling. He had built a little contraption that kept the rag suspended in

such a way that air could circulate around it. Apparently the idea of washing the rag had never occurred to him. But now that I think about it, he didnt live on our street. I met him somewhere else, and saw him just the one time. I wonder what else hes invented, or if hes alive, for that matter.

February 4, 2005 The time is rapidly approaching when the people of

this country will be either very rich or very poor, and when the very poor will greatly outnumber the very rich, and the very rich will hide behind their walls of money, and the very poor will be boiling mad about having to work like slaves and do without decent housing, proper food, and health care, and the very rich will shake their heads at the very poor and say, Look at them, why do they live that way, why dont they make something of themselves, and the very poor will hate the very rich and Indeed, the time is already here for many so many that words like

say, Look at them, they have everything and they still want more. freedom and democracy are stinging insults. People who are free and equal shouldnt have to do without health care. They shouldnt be made to wait eight hours to cast their ballots, or be harassed in line by republican party thugs trying to prevent them from voting if they

havent left already because they cant afford to miss another hours work at their preposterously low-paying job. They shouldnt have to breathe poisoned air, or drink polluted water. They shouldnt be forced to alternatives waiting in the wings. The humane government of a free and

drive high-priced polluting vehicles when there are safer, cleaner democratic society wouldnt dismantle a program like Social Security and commit genocide or pay for it to be committed by others. It wouldnt

leave its people high and dry. It wouldnt condemn genocide and then complain about civil rights violations in other countries and sanction the

use of torture by its own military, or hold people indefinitely without being charged. On the bright side, though, I did see a good bumper sticker the other day. It said, Bill of Rights: Void Where Prohibited by Law.

February 5, 2005 Who the heck is, or was, Benito Lynch? According to the short biographical note about him in the 1947 anthology A World of Great Stories, Lynch was born in Buenos Aires in 1885, and was of Irish-French ancestry. Hmm. I guess that means Lynch was. The note

says Lynch possessed private wealth, and lived a secluded bachelor life in the university town of La Plata. Here is the first sentence of his short story, The Sorrel Colt: Mario was tired of Tiger, a game of his who was supposed to defend himself bravely by using green figs as projectiles. Clever, eh? Naturally, we assume that Mario and Leo are

own invention, played by pursuing through the tree-tops his brother Leo

kids. But what if they arent? What if they are adults? What if Mario and

Leo are identical twins and are thirty-seven years old? What then? And what if the treetops in question were not in their own yard, and what if painted pots, ate crickets, and played the cello? Then Benito Lynch, the green figs belonged to their neighbor, a demented old man who eminent bachelor and possessor of private wealth, would have had a real story especially if he had revealed at the end that the old man whom their mother claimed to be married. Eh? Whats that you said? was in fact Mario and Leos father instead of the college professor to February 6, 2005 Next on Ripleys grotesque political agenda is to clear the way for Hollywood brain stem Arnold Schwarzenegger to become president. Anyone who finds this preposterous needs to look back only as far as Ronald Reagan. That mental giant was born in this

country, but the idea of electing a bad actor to the highest office in the

land is even more appealing now than it was then. The dazed American

public is ripe for such a move. This is to be expected of a nation that has

already seen its glory days and fallen into acute mental and physical lethargy. Americas best days are not ahead. The coffers are being systematically drained by the wealthiest and most powerful, the countrys military is an occupying force in Iraq and is meddling constantly

elsewhere, the air and water is polluted, the trees are all but chopped down, millions are without decent food and health care, the schools are a fourth-rate babysitting enterprise, the media has traded in its

conscience, people are addicted to cheap entertainment, and business

diva Martha Stewart is temporarily running her empire from inside prison

walls. All thats left are idiotic bumper stickers and a hideous right-wing version of family values, which are simultaneously mocked and ignored by the political monsters who evoke them. So bring on tough-boy Arnie. is really made of, just like the current Howdy Doody. Let him be the next marionette-elect. Hell show the world what America February 7, 2005 And then theres Horacio Quiroga of Salto, Paran jungle, where he kept himself busy by writing nearly a hundred

Uruguay, a writer who spent many years in the northern Argentine stories about life in the jungle. Quiroga was born in 1878 the same year my mothers father was born in Illinois. Quiroga moved to the jungle. My grandfather moved to Dinuba, and as far as I know wrote no trumping Quirogas 1937. Isnt it wonderful? Life, I mean. I had a nice

stories about life in the vineyard. He liked to talk though died in 1954, letter from a friend yesterday. He said he plans to do some traveling for several weeks this summer, and that upon his return he is going to pull up stakes and move somewhere, hes not sure where, possibly to an apartment across the street, city, state, or country. In Three Letters . . .

and a Footnote, Quiroga writes in the voice of a twenty-year-old girl. In

the beginning, the girl is talking about riding the bus, and about how easy it is to discern the intentions of the young men who get on. Maybe Ill go ahead and read the story later. It doesnt exactly reach out and

grab me by the throat. . . . Excuse me, I need to keep an eye open for the police. A couple of days ago, a policeman left a warning on our daughters old red Corolla, stating that the car had been parked in excess of 72 hrs. My question is, what else are you supposed to do with we were here at the time listed on the warning I could have told him

a car when youre not using it? Had the officer tapped on our door for that we drive the car every so often, and that afterward we park it along the curb facing one of our bedroom windows because it seems to make sense to park it there instead of in front of someone elses house. My

question is, were there that many buses in the Paran jungle, or was My friend uses public transportation a wise thing, since he lives in a big city. Was that the kind of jungle Quiroga was writing about? February 8, 2005 I heard a beautiful little true story yesterday that I would love to repeat, but cant, for privacys sake. Such is life. Now I am obliged to carry the story with me, along with others like it that have and know how any of the stories will be revealed, or when, or in what form.

Quiroga writing about the time he spent in Buenos Aires beforehand?

will come my way, until the time is right for it to be revealed. And I dont Some will find expression in a single word, phrase, or sentence, while others grow and gain force and meaning. Some will merge or swap identities. Others will be forgotten, which might be another way of saying they will be remembered at a deeper level. Still, I wish I could tell the story now. But maybe it is a good thing that I cant. Maybe I dont yet

fully understand and appreciate it, despite its apparent clarity and

simplicity. I feel like I do, and that if I were to tell it now it would make a

strong impression. Oh, well. Now, I should also say that the stories and novels I have written are literally teeming with such stories. There is the larger story itself, the one with the title and its own momentum and set of heard yesterday and cant tell now. The interesting thing is, if I had not

events. But within the larger story there are the smaller ones, the kind I written the larger stories, the smaller ones would still be in limbo. At the them. In this way, a story is like a persons life a life that is fed by other lives, and which in turn feeds other lives tiny streams that

same time, the larger stories wouldnt be the stories they are without

relentlessly make their way to larger ones, and larger streams that give atmosphere and given back as rain. I am aware of this when I write. What would happen to me?

themselves up to lakes and oceans, which in turn are absorbed by the Indeed, it is why I write. If I didnt, what would happen to the stories? February 9, 2005 It would also be a shame not to mention Gabriel Miro of Alicante, Spain, whose short story, The Woman of Samaria, I have not read. Years ago, we raised Alicante grapes on our farm. The

Alicante is a seeded grape prized for its red juice and the color it imparts to wine. For a time in Fresno, I worked at a nursery with a young man from Japan. He knew something about making wine, and was quite

interested when I told him about our Alicantes. When the grapes were ripe, I arranged for him to have some. My father picked them himself and brought them to Fresno. Unfortunately, not long after that, I left the nursery in search of thornier roses, and the young man and I fell out of

touch. I dont know how the wine turned out. Gabriel Miro studied law at novel, The Adventures of Wesley Jackson, thus: My name is Wesley

the universities of Valencia and Granada. William Saroyan begins his Jackson, Im nineteen years old, and my favorite song is Valencia. And

then Wesley says he likes the way the fellow hollers at the top of his

voice: Valencia! In my dreams it always seems I hear you softly calling me! Valencia! Dat tarrata Dat tarrata Dat tarrata, dat ta ta! Gabriel Miro Two of the best known are Our Father San Daniel and El Obispo worked on a sacred encyclopedia in Barcelona and wrote many novels. Leproso. I myself have been to San Luis Obispo, in California. Miro was

born in 1879. He died in 1930. Did he finish his sacred encyclopedia? Or did it finish him? It is easy to imagine him surrounded with books and papers and notes and candles and bottles of fine Spanish wine stopped with fine Spanish cork, working away on his encyclopedia, wondering what was really sacred and what wasnt, and becoming angry when he eternity or two, he might finally have figured it out. Was he married, I wonder? Did he have children and grandchildren? If so, they were

realized hed mixed up the two. Had he lived a long time, say another

probably the only encyclopedia he really needed. But it is easy for a man good home-cooked meals trying to put them into some kind of

to become distracted by seemingly sacred things, and to miss perfectly meaningful order. Next to Christ, for instance, you would have chrysalis and chrysanthemum. On the same page as Aquinas, you would have everything. alto saxophone and apple. Under God, you would have Im hungry for February 10, 2005 Due to ballot irregularities, the results of the Iraq

election wont be known for a few days yet. But of course the results are

already known: the U.S. is still an occupying force and people are still being killed twenty or thirty a day is the officially confessed number. Theyll stick with that for awhile until the propaganda consumers get used to it, then raise it a dozen or so a week until they are able to take that in stride, hold it there for a few weeks, and then but what am I

saying? Its almost as if I dont believe in but that cant be true,

because Bush and Cheney and Rice and Rumsfeld and Powell are

good, honest, upstanding Christians who believe in peace, freedom, and democracy. But enough about that. Yesterday, our son Lev gave me a ride in his car not his roaring Lincoln, but his everyday practical mobile and for entertainment tapped on his horn, which emitted a feeble little mouse-squeak that no one else on the road could hear. Thats pitiful, I said, and he agreed, saying the car had poor tootage. I said, Did you say tutelage? And he said, No, tootage. The fact is, tootage is an excellent word, and I strongly encourage its use. Imagine tootage. Hah? Dateline 2005: Due to bowel irregularities, the results of

being at a used car lot and asking a salesman about a particular models the U.S. election will be ignored until further notice. Not until the nation has switched entirely to a diet of mad cow and chemically laden, biologically manipulated corn will the real results be released. Immediately thereafter, they will be shot down like skeet at a Texas-style

mad cow barbecue, at which time the price of skeet repellent will triple and everyone will be issued a bible with all pertinent passages crossed out otherwise known as a campaign brochure. February 11, 2005 I hadnt seen the girl at the corner gas station in quite some time, so when she hurried over to clean my windshield I asked her where shed been. With a big smile, she said, On an adventure. I said, Really? Where did you go? She said Berkeley, and I

said there are a lot of good book stores in Berkeley, and she said there was also a good library, and a place where they feed the homeless so that she had been among their number. She had hitchhiked from Salem no one goes hungry. I gathered from her expression and tone of voice to Berkeley with two of her friends. I asked her how many rides it had

taken. Four. But one of them was on something. He drove the speed hand. But the last person took us right where we wanted to be. By the

limit, but he was all over the road. She made a swooping path with her sound of it, the return trip a week later had taken at least two dozen

rides and many long hours. The girl said she wanted to hitchhike at least do it. She looks about twenty or twenty-one. She also meant to find work

once in her life, and was afraid if she waited any longer she would never in Berkeley, but nothing turned up. Then there was an opening at the in the van stood by and listened to our conversation. About ten years the but his smile was different than the girls. Its only a guess, but I think he

gas station, so she came back to her old job. The attendant putting gas girls senior, he had heard her story before. He smiled when I paid him, was wondering why he had never done what she had done. Or, maybe

he had, and was glad and amazed that she had made it back alive. I sad for everyone beneath the strange and miraculous blue sky.

thanked them both, said good-bye, and drove away, feeling happy and February 12, 2005 There was once a beautiful young girl who had mother, saying, There must be something wrong with me, but I dont

never been kissed. One day, the girl confessed this awful secret to her know what it is. Her mother listened patiently, then told her daughter not true love is still far away. But do not be afraid. He hears your voice, and is on his way. The girl thought about this, then laughed. Mama, she said. Thats silly. Life isnt a fairy tale. If my true love hears me from so

to worry. The reason you havent been kissed, she said, is that your

great a distance, he must have big ugly ears. She laughed again, and not because her true love was far away and probably even riding a big white horse, but because she knew how much her mother loved her.

this time her mother joined her. Afterward, for a time, the girl felt better

In time, though, she began to worry again. She looked at herself in the

mirror, but did not see how beautiful she really was, how clean her skin, saw her standing at the mirror, she said, If you are not too busy, dear, back for us all day. The least we can do is break our backs for him. And

how noble her brow, how innocent her expression. When her mother Id like you to help me scrub the floor. Your father has been breaking his together they scrubbed the floor, even though it was clean from being

scrubbed the day before, and the day before that. Awhile later, the girls father came home. The first thing he did was to take the girls mother in reminded the girl of her problem. We scrubbed the floor, Papa, she his arms and kiss her. It was a wonderful thing to behold, but it also said. Isnt it nice? Her father smiled and said, Its beautiful. The girl waited for him to say something more, to acknowledge, perhaps, the effort that had gone into making the floor so clean. But he didnt. The girl altogether. One thing, though, was certain: her mother was

looked at her mother. She seemed to have forgotten about the floor tremendously happy, and so was her father. She was the only person in the house who wasnt happy . . . the only person who hadnt been kissed. . . . Late that night, in the girls dreams, she saw a young man riding a big white horse. She tried to call out to him, but her tongue wouldnt obey. In desperation, she flung herself into the horses path. Expecting, almost hoping, to be killed, she closed her eyes, clenched

her fists, and waited. Suddenly, there was silence. She opened her eyes. In the distance, still coming toward her, she saw the young man direction. After what seemed an eternity, they met in a beautiful green and the horse. Confused, she left her bed and ran in the young mans meadow. The young man drew up his horse, jumped down, and took the

girl in his arms. Just between you and me, he said with a glint of fiery

laughter in his eyes, that is just about the dumbest horse Ive ever met. Then he kissed the girl, and she kissed him. . . . The following morning, the girls mother noticed immediately how her daughter had changed, and how happy she looked. I know what happened, she said. Tell me. How did you like your first kiss? To hide her embarrassment, the girl be home again in a few hours. This made both of them laugh. Outside,

replied, Mama, dont you think we should scrub the floor now? Papa will a young man walked by, leading a white horse. Eh, he said. You dumb snorted, then the two continued on their way.

beast. Thanks to you, I am lost again. The horse nodded its head and February 13, 2005 I need to do something with the phrase ideas leaking out of his head. Imagine a person being so revolutionary a can see ideas leaking out of his head. And he has so many of them that thinker that even as he goes about his everyday mundane business, you he doesnt even notice. When he goes out to get the paper, ideas run down the arms of his pajama sleeves and land on the sidewalk. Within seconds, little weeds of thought sprout in the cracks, and by the time hes dressed and ready for work the whole sidewalk is in bloom. But

does a person like this really get dressed and go to work? What office

would tolerate such a nut? Ned is an idea man. A little peculiar, but help for the strange unwarranted seepage. By the time his turn came to

handy to have around. And then there was the time Ned sought medical see the doctor, the philodendron in the waiting room had blossomed into a jungle, complete with monkeys and its own rain cycle. No one else saw it, of course. Everyone in the room was preoccupied with their own list of disorders, and thought philodendrons had always been house plants.

Im referring you to a psychiatrist, the doctor told Ned after a cursory examination of his ears and other portals. Hell know what to do. Ned

put his shirt back on. Within seconds, it was literally soaked with ideas. He smiled at the doctor and gave a helpless little shrug. Later that afternoon, he went to see a Dr. Zoozle, who had been curious enough to make room for Ned in his busy schedule. Shortly after Neds arrival, there had been a massive explosion in the parking lot across the street

from Dr. Zoozles fifth-floor office. Bored by what he assumed was gang warfare, Dr. Zoozle never dreamt that the explosion was Ned or, rather, one of Neds ideas. When Ned entered the office, his hair was

several feet long and tied in braids, and he looked like an ancient wise

man from Nepal. Dr. Zoozle, of course, didnt notice. His walls were lined with diplomas and certificates of distinction and he wore his little glasses way down on the end of his nose and wryly hummed Puccini arias. But none of this meant a thing when it came to diagnosing Ned. Ned was the diagnosis. Ned was the spirit wandering in the void and the creator of so educated, in fact, that not one of his thoughts was truly his own. vast worlds of startling beauty. That was Ned. Dr. Zoozle was educated He was in essence a dead man, albeit with a very nice office and a

dandy income. None of this was lost on Ned, who like a raging Viking took a mental bite out of the good doctors polished desk, leaving it with three corners. The doctor didnt notice the missing corner. He thought Ned was the one with problems, and wasnt even aware that the entire

building had been moved to another planet. This amused Ned. At one

point, just to see the doctors reaction, he said, You know, I think you his nose had been transformed into the beak of a toucan, Dr. Zoozle year, maybe two. But if we work together, Im sure we will be able to . . .

might be right. I never thought of it that way. Completely unaware that leaned forward eagerly and said, It will take time, of course. Perhaps a

 But Ned was no longer listening. He had just had another idea. This one brought an end to war. February 14, 2005 Here is the beginning of Pio y Nessi Barojas short

story, Blasas Tavern: Some nights Manuel would hear Leandro tossing about in his bed and heaving sighs as deep as a bulls roar. Things are looks like another story Ill have to read. All the more so, because a another named Lechuguino. Baroja was born at San Sebastian in 1872, and earned a medical degree from the University of Madrid. Two years going rotten with him, thought Manuel. Ah. Well, then. Blasas Tavern quick scan of the piece reveals a character named Valencia, and

later, he gave up his practice and worked solely at writing. There have Zhivago oops. I forgot. He was a fictional character. There was Anton Chekhov the Russian playwright and master of the short story, and Morton Thompson, who wrote the novel Not as a Stranger. And of others if I were to take the time to think about it, which I wont, because

been quite a few doctor-writers over the years. There was Doctor

course there was James Herriot, the veterinarian, as well as many whats the point? Writers have emerged from all walks of life. And they

have retreated from writing into any number of preposterous professions preposterous because writers have no business pursuing them, unless you count their quaint desire to survive. Survival can come in

handy if you plan to do any writing later on. But, all too often, later never comes, and time that should have been spent writing is spent pressing requested article of clothing has been spotted excuse me, a little joke the grimy button that makes the dry cleaning rack go around until the identified as the one belonging to the customer, who doesnt care or want to know that the button-presser is a writer. Thats just one example. It is just as unlikely that a patient in the hospital will find comfort in the

knowledge that his doctor is a writer. In fact, it would, and probably should, scare him to death. Manuel, following the example of the bully, had made his escape by the back door. Thats how Pio Barojas story

ends. The story of the writer working at the dry cleaning shop, though, ended long ago. He was fired for burning a hole into the governors pants. February 15, 2005 The young tree was magnificent. It had started

from a nut. The nut had fallen, like its sisters and brothers, beneath its saw the nut, found it more appealing than the others, and carried it off in over a lake. And, quite by accident, the nut landed not in the water, but

wise, ancient mother. But then something miraculous happened. A bird its beak. Quite by accident, the bird dropped the nut while it was flying in a small boat in which there sat a lone fisherman. When the nut landed in the bottom of the boat, the fisherman looked at the nut and then up at the sky. He saw the bird flying away. The fisherman looked at the nut many nuts and many birds in his lifetime, and wasnt about to worry

again, then forgot all about it. He also forgot about the bird. He had seen himself over them now. The nut enjoyed the ride. It was a new experience for him, as anything would have been, but this he knew was extraordinary. The fisherman was an amazing being with strong arms

and hands. He wore a grim expression on his sunburned face as he fiddled with his bait and tackle. There were no fish in the boat, but the nut wouldnt have known what a fish was anyway, or what the fisherman a long interval of silence the fisherman finally exclaimed, Bah! Whats

was failing to accomplish with his small assemblage of gear. When after the use? and threw his gear overboard, the nut sensed the fishermans despair. The fisherman grabbed his oars and rowed the boat ashore. Feeling angry and sorry for himself, he picked up the nut and walked

home, where he found his wife waiting for him to bring some fish to cook for their supper. He gave her the nut and said bitterly, This is the sum total of my efforts. Everything else I threw into the lake. The nut felt

himself leave the rough hand of the fisherman and enter the rough but gentle hand of the fishermans wife. As the warmth of her hand place deep inside him. The woman said, Well, no matter. We still have a penetrated his shell, the nut gradually became aware of a change taking handful of flour and three potatoes. We wont starve. As she spoke, she

caressed the nut in her toil-worn hand. What is this you have brought her hand and together husband and wife looked at the nut. I dont know, the fisherman said. It looks like some kind of nut. His wife

me? she asked in a kind, rhetorical voice. Its beautiful. She opened

smiled. It is much more than a nut, she said. Here. Look carefully. The fisherman studied the nut. More than a nut? he said. I dont know nut. Again, the nut felt something stir within him. It is a sign of good luck, the fishermans wife said. Take it outside and plant it. The what you mean. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly on the

fisherman laughed. Youre as crazy as I am, he said. What good will tree. Well both be dead of hunger long before then. His wife didnt

planting a nut do? Even if it sprouts, it will take years to turn into a real answer. Instead, she closed her hand around the nut and with a great

sense of resolve carried it outside. Her husband followed. He watched that, they went back inside and the fishermans wife prepared their very last morsels of food. The next morning, they had nothing to eat. The fisherman sat dumbly, staring at the fire. Seeing this, his wife said, Why are you sitting here? Arent you going fishing today? When the fisherman reminded her that he had thrown his gear into the lake, she

as his wife planted the nut, and then moistened the earth around it. After

said, I still think you should go fishing. Remember the nut? Today you

will have good luck. To make his wife happy, and because he didnt know what else to do, the fisherman put on his shoes and walked to the lake. Along the way, he stopped at the place where the nut had been continued on. He came to the boat. Much to his surprise, it was full of

planted. Before long I will join you, he said to the ground. Then he fish. While he was trying to understand this miracle, a shiny fish jumped and then another. The fisherman called to his wife. She came running. It took them several hours to carry all the fish home. From that day on,

out of the water and landed in the boat. This was followed by another,

they were never hungry. The fisherman rowed his boat out onto the lake and fish jumped into the boat. Some days there were only a few, and some days there were none. But they never ran out of fish. One day the

following spring, when they were visiting the place where the nut was planted, they saw something green poking up out of the ground. Together, the three rejoiced. February 16, 2005 As much as I hate reporting things like this, it

turned out not to be a tree, but a stupid lump of moss. Then came a

drought and the lake dried up. The starry-eyed couple noticed that the cooking. After a time, the fisherman made a plow out of a stump. It took

fish werent nearly as tasty when they had been dead for a month before quite a bit of hacking and carving. His first few attempts ended up looking like strange modern sculptures, pleasing in their own way, but useless. He eventually succeeded and began to farm the lake bottom. some of it his own, he noted with irony pieces of driftwood, tires, He raised bottle caps, mostly, and old rubber boots, fishing gear batteries, nets, transistor radios, radiators, gas tanks, sludge-filled beer cans, and other agricultural products too numerous to mention. His wife

sold their inventory to tourists up along the main road, eight miles away. It was a good life, not the life they had imagined when they first started out as newlyweds her father had actually fired a few shots at his nonetheless. What happened to the nut? Well, the nut was fine. The

future son-in-law, just to see what he was made of but a good life truth is, the fisherman and his wife had forgotten exactly where it had a bit spindly in its early years, due to the drought. But then the rains the fisherman went back to fishing he had kept some of the finest

been planted. It did sprout, and it did turn into a lovely tree, though it was returned and the tree flourished. And the lake filled with water again, and lake-bottom gear for himself and then he finally hired out his vessel for cruises, and by and by was lost in a violent storm, leaving his wife a happy widow. She is gathering nuts to this day. February 17, 2005 I happened to be in the vicinity of the used book couple of cardboard boxes of books they were giving away. There was one hardbound volume in the lot a book called Dry Guillotine, by

store in West Salem yesterday, so I stopped for a quick glance through a

Ren Belbenoit, who, for fifteen years between the first and second world wars, was Prisoner No. 46635 at Devils Island in French Guiana. After four failed attempts to escape, Belbenoit tried one last time and succeeded, along with five other Frenchmen twice his size. Belbenoit was about five feet tall, toothless, and weighed ninety pounds. Clutched in his hands was his thirty-six-pound manuscript detailing the cruel life endured by prisoners at Devils Island. Belbenoit eventually made it to this country with his manuscript, mostly on foot. For several months in Panama, he lived in a remote Chakoi village, and also collected butterflies to sell to tourists. When the book was finally published, it helped blow the lid off Devils Island. When I told her about the book, my

darling bride said she remembered reading one very similar called

Papillon, which was made into a movie with Steve McQueen around made by an unnamed fellow prisoner. This particular volume was once part of the U.S. Navy Library at Treasure Island, San Francisco, where it

1970. Papillon means butterfly. Dry Guillotine also contains drawings

was Copy 10. In my opinion, the image of an escaped prisoner carrying a heavy manuscript would make a terrific logo for a book publisher. In fact, it makes me want to become a book publisher myself. I already Anyone have a few million dollars they can lend me? have the manuscripts, so I guess Im about two percent of the way there. February 18, 2005 My, oh my. The president doesnt like the way

Syria and Iran are behaving. But he is not issuing any threats. Being the

good man he is, he prefers diplomacy. Of course, if our ally, Israel, is

threatened, he will do whatever is necessary. This means there are more happy days ahead, boys and girls! Oh, he has tried so hard to solve things peacefully. He is a peace-loving man, gentle and wise. But president must be vigilant at all times and ready to make a stand. In our next lesson, boys and girls, we will talk about the Ten

the world is full of bad men, boys and girls, and good men like our

Commandments, and about how good men are above moral law. Until

then, read your little newspapers and watch your little news broadcasts and believe everything you see and hear. Remember, you must believe. believe. If you dont, then bad things will happen to the ones who want you to February 19, 2005 A random selection from Dry Guillotine, near the top of Page 121: Another convict got up and snatched the small sack the dead man kept his possessions in . . . an Arab took the eggs which lay on his table . . . his neighbor, across on the other side from me,

found the tobacco again and kept it for himself. A prisoner has just died; harden according to their character and constitution. This includes the

life goes on. No material thing is wasted; those who survive melt or reader, alive in another century, sitting at his work table, or riding the bus, or waiting for his one true love at the train station, lost in thought, in knowing, happy beyond deserving, full of wisdom and regret and expectation. He cannot escape feeling what the dead man felt, the memory, in himself, lost as only a human being can be lost, sad beyond

despair of his final moments while vultures waited. He cannot, because he is the vulture, and he is the carrion. Blessed man, blessed woman, purpose. thou art exalted and deranged, the childish seeker of an unknown February 20, 2005 It is still winter, but the springtime earth has begun

to stir. The green shoots of bulbs are breaking through the crust. Buds bloom. Awhile ago, I heard what sounded like a nestful of baby birds

on bushes and trees are fattening, and the crocuses are already in chirping under the eaves. It has been dry here in the valley for weeks. This year, California has cornered the market on rain and snow. In the we have had brilliant blue skies with excellent visibility. On a trip to at once Jefferson, Hood, Adams, and the smoldering Mount St. southern part of that state, there have been destructive mudslides. Here nearby Woodburn recently, four snow-covered volcanoes could be seen Helen. Its interesting, and perhaps indicative of the times, that we have listening. When the old blowhard thwarted local newscasters a few

an angry saint in our midst. Im warning you. But no one seems to be months back, she lost credibility. Dont call us, well call you. Meanwhile, in other news, a high school coach has run off with one of his underaged students. At eleven, see our exclusive on what YOU can do to keep your

child safe from predators, while learning the latest fashion tips. . . . Uh,

yeah. Oh, by the way about ninety people were killed in Iraq during the last two days. There will be no spring for them, no baby birds, no today, no tomorrow. February 21, 2005 Today is Presidents Day that special Monday in February when schools, banks, and government offices are closed so Abraham Lincoln and have a three-day weekend. A few weeks ago, people shopped in honor of Martin Luther King. But it was tough more people can go shopping in honor of George Washington and

between holidays, when they had to shop before and after work and on behind. Holidays are needed to restore the balance. When I was little, I

their regular days off. In a situation like that, shoppers fall desperately had the silly notion that holidays were days set aside to remember and acknowledge the contributions of those whose names were being recognized. Hence, on February 12, I would go around thinking that Honest Abe was quite a guy, and, on February 22, that George

Washington was the father of our country despite his wooden teeth. Now I know better. A holiday isnt a holiday. It is a day to boost the economy. And when you think about it, nothing could be more patriotic or disgusting. Meanwhile, it turns out that George Washington wasnt the father of our country at all. This country didnt have a father, or a mother. This country is stolen property built on lies and genocide. Oh, there were some good moments. But they were systematically obliterated by greed. A poet named Walt Whitman remembered Lincoln brilliantly and unforgettably. He also did more for life and letters than the next freight Walt Whitman Day, just as there is no Mark Twain Day, or John

car load of time-honored politicians and warmongers, and yet there is no

Steinbeck Day. Who decides these things? Sadly, it is the people who decide. Always, the people. February 22, 2005 No doubt about it, the current president felon to his job quite by accident. Had he been born to an everyday working family, he might have been killed in Vietnam. Or, if he had dodged that bullet, care, and the rape of Social Security. Whatre we gonna do, Laura? We got bills to pay and no money to pay em. Thats all right, George. We can write rubber checks, like the government does. Oh, by the way on

hed be quaking in his drawers about outsourcing, unaffordable health

your way home from your job washing cars, could you pick us up a bag o them deep-fried moth balls? The girlsre hungry again. Why, you betcha, honey bunch. . . . Oh, what a sorry waste of time. All of this while

I should be talking about the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo gonzo journalism. I read part of something by him a number of years ago, but I dont remember what it was. All I remember is that I didnt care

journalist. The trouble is, I have nothing to say about it, or him, or

enough to finish it. And now hes dead. There was an editorial cartoon in this mornings paper mocking him, so I guess his talents werent should try reading him again. appreciated by the current media regime. Hmm. That probably means I February 23, 2005 I need to look at some paintings. Nothing special some Van Gogh and Renoir will do, and maybe some Rembrandt, and what was that guys name? Michelangelo? Da Vinci had some couldnt settle on any one thing very immature. I have in my

talent too. Of course he was disorganized and jumped around a lot, and possession a book called Art and Architecture in Italy, 1600-1750, a Penguin-Pelican book I bought in Fresno in the early Eighties. There are some interesting paintings in there. Lets see. Heres one by an artist

named Morazzone, painted in 1615: St. Francis in Ecstasy. And heres

another St. Francis in Ecstasy right beside it, painted in 1630 by maybe St. Francis Full of Green Onions and Wine. Heres something:

Francesco del Cairo. Wow. St. Francis in Agony would be more like it, or Giambattista Tiepolos etching from Varj Cappricj. A bunch of guys are

looking with a great deal of apprehension at a partially clothed skeleton sitting upright on a piece of rumpled canvas. The skeleton is looking back at them. There is a skinny dog with its back arched in fear. Man, I wonder what this one is all about. Maybe the text will shed some light. The Villa Valmarana frescoes also reveal the extent to which Tiepolo abides by the classical compositional patterns of monumental painting. One finds a distinct emphasis on triangles and basic diagonals and, while this may not be so obvious in multi-figured works, a close study significant compositional relationships. Hmm. That sort of misses the shows that even in these each figure is clearly defined by a network of point, doesnt it? What I want to know is, what was ailing that boy? Man, these little triangle things are a bear. I wish theyd just let me paint. Or, work a lot from memory, but I think it turned out okay. By the way could you send me more socks? Yours, G.T. Dear Ma Heres that picture of Uncle Giovanni I promised. I had to

February 24, 2005 Come to think of it, I wish someone would compile a book of letters from writers to their mothers. It would make fascinating fathers, though I would guess far fewer of that type have been written, reading. A good companion volume would be letters from writers to their since mothers are generally more sympathetic to a foolish sons woes. disgusted to have a writer for a son unless, of course, he has hit the

Not that there arent plenty of mothers who would be embarrassed or financial big time. But with that attitude, they can hardly call themselves

mothers. Managers would be more like it. Books that contain a well known writers letters are common, and are generally as interesting as the writers other works. Some are dull, some read like novels. Dostoevskys letters can be desperate and frantic; almost all are entertaining and revealing. Some books do contain letters writers have sent to their mothers. Often, though, the letters were written when the writers were six or eight years old and on their first sea cruise or train ride. Their presence seldom serves much purpose, unless the writer died at a very early age, or was a literary Mozart. Meanwhile, some writers refuse to say anything worthwhile or important in their letters. They write

as if they are afraid of giving away one of their precious ideas, or are

worried that their letters might return to haunt them one day and show each and very word, and as if holding anything back would cause them

them in an unfavorable light. Others write as if their lives depend on pain. But all this brings to mind another question. Generally speaking, are women writers more likely to write to their mothers or their fathers? It might depend partly on whether they are mothers themselves. I dont

know if any research has been done in this area, but there is probably a lot of anecdotal evidence floating around which, not being a scientist, is my favorite kind.

February 25, 2005 For the last couple of weeks, the doves have been of a February moon. They are a bit ahead of schedule, but the clear, dry,

hoo-hooing in the pre-dawn hours, calling to each other in the eerie light and fairly warm weather weve been having seems to have touched their spirits, as it has their feathered cousins and all the other creatures, save the adults of the human species. These are preoccupied as usual and A walk through the neighborhood in the evening is like a walk through a

hanging their heads, and seem not to have noticed the prelude to spring.

cemetery, without the pleasant atmosphere. The drapes and blinds are drawn; blue light flickers at the seams. Here and there on the street surface are the bold chalk marks that define childrens games, along with colorful hearts, names, and other flourishes. Cars and pickups, creaking, smelling, dripping, settling in for a long night in the gutter. The artificial scent of fabric softener issuing from softly moaning dryer vents. In the

distance, the numb roar of traffic beneath a dome of garish light, burning always to show the way, and to beguile those who are bored and have money to spend. A train rumbles by. Its horn sounds at the crossings. No one knows where it is going or where it has been. It is just another expression of eternal restless night.

February 26, 2005 I wonder how many writers there are in this country per square mile. How many musicians, artists, sculptors, basket weavers? How many insurance agents, real estate agents, teachers,

doctors, lawyers, truck drivers, construction workers, dairy hands,

dentists, toy makers, midwives, cheese tasters, coffee grinders,

concession stand operators, utility workers, dream interpreters, movie tortilla bakers, bunion removers, horse race announcers, barbers, ice

producers, stunt men, politicians, impressionists, cauliflower growers, carvers, furniture polishers, tilers, mechanics, welders, launderers, inventors, magicians, clergymen, accountants, hotel clerks, librarians, policemen, firemen, computer programmers, undertakers, drug addicts, scientists, homeless people, janitors, printers, architects, crop dusters, pharmacists, pimps, prostitutes, gas station attendants, talk show hosts,

newspaper reporters, hog callers, security guards, moonshine distillers, prisoners? And yet there is only one president in the entire land, and look at who and what he is. One president for hundreds of millions of people, a man who cant speak intelligently, sensibly, or clearly off a

script, a man who ran business after business into the ground, who

skated by in college, who took drugs, who went AWOL, who lied in order to occupy another country in which thousands of people have suffered and spokesman for the drug companies, chemical companies, arms it make you wonder, especially about the rest of us? and died, who pretends to be a Christian, who is a willing accomplice dealers, and his fellow oil men this one man is the president. Doesnt February 27, 2005 One thing a member of the medical profession Selfishness. The diagnosis is too simple and requires no tests or return

isnt likely to tell you is that you suffer from a disease called Laziness or visits. You would feel better if you did something helpful and productive, instead of waiting for someone else. No, a doctors job is to complicate things by dispensing unproven medication and probing areas of the Back off. If its that hard to get to, there is a reason for it. Still, the anatomy that do not respond well to being probed. Common sense says, probing continues, and all sorts of strange things appear on the computer screen. Why, this man is dead already. What on earth is he doing here? More important, what will my other patients think? Quick

take him out the back way. Yes, hes dead. You killed him slowly with your pills and scopes, tortured him until he became a stranger to himself and to his family, until he hated everything including Life itself. Im sorry. We did all we could. And then comes the bill, and the We turns out to

be an I, pay up or else. But what about the good doctors, the real understand something about yourself during your time with them. Some

doctors? Arent they wonderful? Yes, they are, because they help you happen to be bus drivers and bartenders, gardeners, teachers, and

clerks. Some are even trained physicians who have moved beyond the stultifying roles of Doctor and Patient. They know we are all in this

together, traveling on the same road, and that true healing happens to the degree a person understands himself. They dont necessarily know it in these exact words, but they know it. Being around them is a cure in itself, and can make a healer of anyone. February 28, 2005 The little piece of fishing line that holds the left lens of my glasses in place broke yesterday afternoon, so now Im left with a double-framed monocle. Luckily, I need my glasses only for reading, not for writing. I can see the words on the computer screen well enough. But I have trouble focusing on the print on government forms, mail, so I could end up in all sorts of trouble before the day is over. I contracts, business cards, food labels, disclaimers of any kind, and junk would zip over to our friendly neighborhood opticians office for repair,

but as these words are being written, a tow truck is hauling our glorious hardboiled egg to the garage because something has happened that prevents it from being taken out of park. It can be tricked out of park by of the shifter. And it can be driven, but due to the problem there are also

turning the key in tiny increments until a magic spot triggers the release no brake lights, so I wasnt about to drive the thing through morning traffic and have someone run into me from behind because they couldnt tell I was about to stop. The good news is, the tow truck driver is the same one who hauled us down out of the mountains last summer when

the vans ignition went bad. It was nice to see him again. I said, You dawned on his face and he smiled. When he was filling out the were three years old and that he could tell it was time for a new

look familiar, and he said, I do? and then the light of recognition paperwork, I told him about my glasses, and he confided that his own prescription. It was a pleasant reunion. We rolled the van out of the

driveway and into the street. He had everything hooked up and ready to

go within a few minutes. Who knows when, or if, well meet again. I same eye doctor.

guess it depends on the van more than anything unless we have the March 1, 2005 We have been buying some gigantic oranges lately. every morning and leave all the pulp in, which means I literally chew my another days duty. My father used to brush his teeth first thing in the

On average, each contains about eight ounces of juice. I squeeze one way to health while waking up my taste buds and reviving my tongue for morning, before eating, before having coffee. Hed brush his teeth, and then head for the kitchen sink, where he would drink two large glasses of cold water, winter or summer, spring or fall. He did this for years and

years. He also loved oranges, as I have mentioned many times here and my orange juice, he would strain the juice and squeeze as much out of

elsewhere. When I was little and still didnt care to have wads of pulp in the remaining pulp as he could. Then he would scoop up the pulp with a spoon and eat it, saying cheerfully, Theres no sense in letting something this good go to waste. To this day, I appreciate that valuable related context I can, for its truth, and to honor his memory. I cannot look remembering the orange trees in our old backyard. And I cannot leave grateful he was that there was food on the table.

lesson. And I make a point of saying the same thing in whatever foodat the pile of oranges on our kitchen counter without thinking of him and food on my plate knowing how consistently he cleaned his, and how March 2, 2005 The trouble with setting high standards and making

things look easy is that people quickly take it all for granted and expect perfection at the drop of a hat, when in reality there are times when it is necessary to drop several hats, as well as canes, radios, refrigerators, safes, and pianos in order to achieve the delicate balance that makes

the imperfect appear perfect. The trick is to clean up the mess before

anyone else sees it, though the debris itself can be interesting and illuminating, to the point that some people spend their entire lives have, usually related to increasing their income. But what of the debris of combing through it and looking for clues that will support an idea they the people searching through the debris, and the debris of those who follow, the myriad collectors and traders in debris? This recycling of the garbage of perfection is going on everywhere all the time, and can be summed up in one handy word: imitation. On the surface, it would seem wise to imitate perfection. But what makes perfection perfect is that it

cannot be imitated without the results being easy to distinguish from the imperfection, if you will imperfection that bears the mark of genius. be achieved, except by God an amusing thought, since if God exists,

original. And again, I mean perfection in a relative sense universal Perfection itself is a tricky word. A lot of people think perfection cannot He has made such a pathetic mess of things that He obviously shouldnt be trusted. Then again, His idea of perfection might be different than ours. Or we might just be sifting through His debris. My own opinion is taught that admitting such a thing means we are arrogant, and so we go

that perfection can be and often is achieved, but that we have been around kicking ourselves and tampering with things that are done and admit that they have accomplished something that is perfect are often

beautiful in order to prove our humility and fallibility. People who readily considered threats to society until after they have died, when their ideas and their perfection are embraced and imitated by others who are afraid to admit or pursue their own perfection. Its a deadly cycle, thats what it is.

March 3, 2005 As I sit here drinking strong black coffee and chewing on the stump of a stale unlit cigar, I cant help marveling at how lucky I am to have lived as long as I have, and to have done so much writing, not necessarily a good sign, and is, actually, a little disappointing. Now I and that neither has landed me in the nut-house or jail though that is wonder where I went wrong. But as I am still here, and still chasing words angrily around the room with a fly-swatter, maybe the stalwart Representatives of Good will come after me yet. I realize they are busy trying to decide if the display of the Ten Commandments in government buildings is constitutional and offensive, and that urgent matters of that

kind must take precedence. Its sad, when you consider that long ago they decided that war is not offensive. But what else should we expect of people who ban smoking in public places, but encourage corporate

polluters to go on poisoning the environment, and chemical companies the public as if we were laboratory rats? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. health are at stake, and our childrens futures, and the very future of this amazing planet, which, as silly and sentimental as it sounds, I like to

to alter the food we eat, and drug companies to peddle unproven pills to And yet we allow them to continue, even though our mental and physical

think of as home. Its interesting when you think of all the people driving around with little flags on their cars, and little fading Bush campaign stickers, and little bumper sticker statements intended to prove they are good little Christians, and how so many of these profound thinkers the sorrow, suffering, and destruction that results. How convenient it accept and believe in what the government is doing in their names, and must be, really, to have God on their side while they pursue their recycled thoughts and dreams, the world burning, children starving, families weeping and killing each other, get out of my way, I was here

first, fill it with premium, you owe me big-time, so dont be surprised when you hear from my lawyer, its mine mine mine mine mine mine at the Academy Awards ceremony the other night? mine and dont you forget it. Oh! Did you see what was wearing

March 4, 2005 Now, if we were to set this book to music, what form

would that music take? Would it be a symphony, or a cacophony? accused of being urbane. Hmm. I need to think about this. It might be

Blues? Folk? Rural? Urban? Urbane? No, probably not. Ive never been important. Someone could ask me about it in an interview someday. B.K. People have said that your writing has a musical quality. This seems especially true in your journal, One Hand Clapping. Tell me. Was this

intentional on your part, or did it grow naturally out of the subject matter? W.M. Before I answer, I want to know what B.K. stands for. Have we had in the hotel lobby yesterday. W.M. Oh was that you? B.K. Yes. met? B.K. No, I dont think so, unless you count the brief meeting we W.M. Yes? What is that supposed to mean? B.K. Uh, it means it was

me, and not someone else. W.M. Ah-ha. Then that would explain why I thought it was you. B.K. Possibly. W.M. But you understand, I like to be sure about these things. So, then. You refuse to answer? B.K. No, it was mean. What the B.K. stands for. I might not have mentioned it, but I am definitely me in the lobby. W.M. For heavens sake. About your name, I fascinated by names, and the effect they have on their owners not better word. B.K. Yes, I think it might. Now, about my question. W.M. Question? I thought I was the one who had a question. B.K. The

that anyone can own a name, mind you. Perhaps renters would be a

question I mean is the one about your writing having a musical quality. interview.

W.M. Oh. That. All right, then. Go ahead. Ask it. It might be good in our

March 5, 2005 Its a foggy Saturday morning, and those guitar-playing boys of ours just left to take part in an all-day basketball tournament meant to raise money for an area food bank. They will play at least three to feed people in this enlightened society of ours. Every day the games, and more if they win some along the way. Its an interesting way newspaper says the economy is on the mend and that more people are finding work how much the work pays isnt mentioned. Then, tucked and the toll it is exacting on the economy. Meanwhile, the U.S. military is away inside, there is gloomy talk about the rapidly escalating cost of fuel having a much harder time finding recruits. It seems very few of the sons

and daughters of the brave people who voted for Mr. Bush are interested parents themselves should join. Im sure their good buddy George will let them take their bumper stickers and flags with them. Brrr I feel a draft.

in risking their lives for his glorious ideals. It is only logical, then, that the

March 6, 2005 Lives, reduced to notes: Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin (1895-1925). Russian poet, founder of the Russian imagist group (1919). His first wife was Isadora Duncan; the second, a granddaughter of Tolstoy. Esenin became insane and committed suicide. He has been

called the poet laureate of the Revolution. I found the foregoing in my anything in particular. Somewhere along the line, I have heard of Esenin. The name Isadora Duncan is also familiar. Tolstoy, too, rings a bell. I

old copy of The Readers Encyclopedia. I wasnt looking for it, or for

have never belonged to a literary group or a school of thought. Ive never been caught up in a movement. To the best of my knowledge, I havent tried to set one in motion. Esenin became insane and committed suicide. What a sentence. Imagine all it represents. It has a slightly

better ring to it than Wilson moped for years and finally got a divorce. Wilson (1942-2005). American shoe salesman, active member of the

Watercooler Association. Did without health insurance for seventeen

years, until he lost his teeth. Directed the Storage Room Betting Pool wash. . . . Ah, poor Wilson!

(1986), until he lost his shirt. Best known for frequent visits to the car March 7, 2005 First of all, you want to relieve pain physical, You say what you say and do what you do words, actions. You

psychological. You dont want people to suffer family, friends, anyone. succeed, you fail, you wonder, you think watching, waiting, listening. You get up in the morning and try again, or resolve to give up and try something else, or nothing at all, no faith in effort, no effort in faith, hypnotized by the dance of grief and hope, held fast by the moment in its

glorious ferment. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will tame the malevolent flanks. But not today. It will not happen today. You know it, you feel it, have witnessed other miracles.

volcano, and green silken grass will clothe the mountains scalded you understand it and yet you cannot help but expect it, because you March 8, 2005 Several days ago, I wrote these words on the back of

an old business card: Are you who I think I am? But I dont know who

asked the question, or of whom it was asked. Was I asking myself? Or was I asking someone, perhaps everyone, else? Or I might have been asking on someones, everyones behalf: Are you who I think I am? If you are, chances are we share a great many things in common. Am I

who I think I are? I are who I am, whether I think I are or not. Am you me? Be we are, but only when we is. Are we were, but only if we be.

who I think you be? Or is you someone else? And if so, might you not be Come to think of it, I wrote a poem that addressed this very conundrum several months ago. It is called A Prefix of Obscure Meaning. I am pleased to say that I reached the same conclusion in the poem that I am

reaching now: No one is that isnt, whether he was or not; no one was

that wasnt, even if he is were when right now. The two arent mutually caves, but they are content to stay where they are, and to be as they

exclusive, but mutually reclusive. Ive tried coaxing them out of their are, whither whence begone. Such is the riddle of my existence, such have been wrong. Given to doubt, all things are blissfully certain: I is,

are the words of my song. Such are the answers I arrive at, where others you is, when the were was now, and the when we remember is. And how maybe something else, both silly and profound?

else can it be, really unless, of course, it is just the opposite, or March 9, 2005 The president says history is moving quickly in the

Middle East. But all thats happening is what has been happening for thousands of years: someone wants something that someone else has, everyone else is mad. Those who believe the reasons given by the and is now in the process of taking it, or as much of it as possible, and thieves for their actions are laughed at by the thieves. Those who do not

believe are also laughed at, but their actions are carefully monitored,

and steps are taken to limit their ability to protest and otherwise be people are completely blind to this simple truth. And if they are blind to

heard. The amazing thing, the sad thing, is that millions and millions of that, what else must they be unable to see? What must daily life be like Idol, Enron, fast food, Martha Stewart, and an unelected president that caint neether talk ner spel? The answer can be found everywhere in

for those who buy into the system and society that produces American

conversation, in business dealings, in what is bought and sold and believed and worshipped and coveted and taught and fought over and ignored. Young girls and their mothers, dressing like tramps and smearing pounds of goop on their faces because they were taught by

advertising that doing so is a declaration of their individuality and desirability. Young men and their fathers, arrogantly spitting and swearing and wearing their caps backward, being obnoxious at sporting laziness, proud of the fact that they are getting by on a minimum of

events, playing simulated war games on their computers, proud of their effort, proud of getting something for nothing, mindless targets of sexdriven advertising. Is it any wonder that there is war in the world, or hunger, or that there are broken families? March 10, 2005 Lets see, whom shall we hate today? The Syrians? plastic hate cards with schedules printed on the back. It would help a lot.

The Iranians? The Koreans? I do wish the government would issue little A magnetic hate card to stick on the refrigerator would also be nice. And for the game room, how about a dart board with the pictures of evil dictators no longer behaving according to the U.S. governments wishes? Bad dictator. Bad. Poik! Hee-hee! Blump! Come to think of it, didnt the Bush regime issue playing cards with evil Iraqis on them to the

media some time back? Was that in this lifetime, or another? Weapons of Mass Destruction. Im not sure why I said that. I guess it just slipped out. Smoke em outta their holes. Oops. Where did that come from? Is this really real? I mean, is it really really real? Or is it the nightmare I

think it is? Here are two interesting figures: 100,000 violent deaths in Iraq since the United States occupied that country two years ago; the number of malnourished Iraqi children has doubled. Freedom is on the march? If it is, it must have some wicked spikes on its boots, because

people are being crushed and mangled and turned inside out in the very actions are helping bring into existence. Not the real terrorists. Not the United States. Not Israel. The trouble is, I dont want to hate

process. Well, then, lets hate the terrorists you know, the ones our

anybody, plastic cards or no plastic cards. There are evil rotten people in

the world, but I dont hate them. Whats the point? Its a waste of energy. I say, look at them. Look at them, and see them for what they are. Understand what theyre after. Recognize the ways they go about

getting it. See the difference between their words and their actions. Look friends, their allies. Do they really represent and try to further noble

at Bush and Blair and Rice and Rumsfeld and all the rest. Look at their dreams and sacred ideals? Are murder, torture, starvation, and anything in common with their actions in the world?

corruption really family values? Does the Christianity they profess have March 11, 2005 Everyone is talking about the dry winter weve had, say this winter is the driest the area has seen in thirty years. The news is

and the unseasonably warm temperatures. The official record-keepers full of dire warnings: a terrible forest fire season looms ahead; lakes and rivers will go dry; campgrounds will be closed; water will have to be conserved; insects will go berserk, and might even carry off small children. The governor of Washington State has already put her branch of the National Guard, or what is left of it, on alert to battle the fires that are sure to come. To top it off, good old Mount St. Helens spewed ash the other day. I called the mountain Mount St. Helen awhile back. It doesnt make sense to me for the Saint to be singular and the name to

be plural. If the volcano is named after more than one Helen, shouldnt it be Mount Saints Helen? Anyway, a look at an old map revealed the currently used name, Mount St. Helens, so I guess Im the odd man out as usual. And now I think I remember that even further back, I used the pluralized version. But I wont go back and check. For all I know, I

wrote Mount St. Helenz. Is it important? The plume rose 36,000 feet and gentle winds carried it off to the northeast. A crowd of TV news people

stormed the nearby lookouts and resumed their wild-eyed babbling, calling the eruption a significant ash event, creating in the process a significant ass event, while reducing the mighty to the trivial and making geology seem like a rush hour traffic report. Ah, but youre wondering, what about our precious lawns this summer? If there is a

water shortage, our lawns wont be their usual lush emerald-green. This,

too, is being discussed on the news. It is a grave concern. The grass will go brown; the roots will survive; dont worry, together we can pull through this thing. Support groups are being formed for lawn-waterers

and car-washers. Professional counselors are being dispatched, and will arrive shortly in your neighborhood. Our lawn is always brown in the summer. This isnt Ireland, or the Olympic Rain Forest. For some reason, we are able to accept that. Granted, we accept little else, but and survival.

that is a different matter a matter of personal pride, common sense, March 12, 2005 While at the grocery store yesterday, we noticed before, which in turn were higher than the week before that, and the month before that, and the year before that. I said to my loving bride, It

many prices that were significantly higher than they were the week

will be interesting to see just how far this will go before it all collapses. Ever the optimist, she said, I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, gasoline prices have gone up about nine cents a gallon in the last four or five we need food, socks, underwear, shoes, you name it prices days, after a similar jump last week. Wherever we go for the basic things continue to rise. Around the world, the sinking dollar is being quietly unloaded by investors who see the economic writing on the wall. They are saying, in effect, Thanks, Bub, it was nice while it lasted. Recently, a new law was passed which, if I understand it correctly, makes it more

difficult for people to declare bankruptcy, and easier for banks to collect the money they are owed by people who are going under. With so many people living on the edge of insolvency these days, this will make those Whichever way you turn, doors are being slammed shut, and there are

who are hit by an employment or health crisis even more vulnerable. more people doing without. The cost of higher education has also been

going up by leaps and bounds. Colleges are full of kids beating their brains out at full time jobs while trying to study and stay awake for their tests. College has never been easy, and it isnt meant to be. But if a new graduate emerges only to find himself deep in debt, something is

obviously wrong. If a kid does poorly in school because he works too

hard to pay his way and cant concentrate properly on his reading and assignments, something is obviously wrong. When there are billions of country and no money for education, health care, and food, something is satisfying it might be to blame the republicans or the democrats or the corporations or the man in the moon, it all still boils down to us what we do, how we think, what we want, what we are willing to ignore. dollars to spend each week on occupying and destroying another obviously wrong. We are wrong. No matter how convenient or fun or

March 13, 2005 The daffodils are blooming again. The lilac buds are swelling. The cherry trees are in full flower. In downtown Salem yesterday morning, I saw yellow daisies growing in a little square planter by the sidewalk. Someone with hopes, dreams, worries, fears, beliefs, memories, and secrets planted them. It makes me think that instead of should put on a sturdy pair of shoes and take a walking tour of the city

taking bribes and driving us further into debt, members of the legislature and state and see them as they really are, and see the people as they really are, and keep their mouths shut and senses open and pay

attention to what is going on around them. We should all do it. Then we should do it again when summer comes, and fall, and winter. And we too late and we are dead, dead, dead. We should do it every day. We should do it in between. We should do it wherever we live, before it is should do it with our children, and with our neighbors children, and with our cats and dogs and chickens and hamsters and goldfish. We should open the prisons so the prisoners could do it. As long as some of us are

prisoners, none of us are free. The president should do it, and while he does it, he and his bodyguards should be wearing short pants and funny they can do it. There should be no soldiers anyway, no fences, no bloodshed for profit. As long as there is war, none of us are free. As long as some of us are hungry, none of us are free. As long as some of us have much and some of us have little, none of us are free. We are not little caps with propellers on them. We should bring the soldiers home so bloodshed for oil, or religion, or real estate. There should be no

free just because we read it in the newspapers or hear it on TV, or because this or that government tells us we are free. No one is free unless everyone is free. March 14, 2005 Our youngest son has taken it upon himself to study

the songs of Robert Johnson, the Mississippi Blues legend who sold his soul at the crossroads and died young after recording only twenty-nine songs. To the casual listener Johnsons guitar playing can sound simple, and in some cases almost childish. Guitarists who have tried to imitate him know otherwise. It has taken experts decades to make sense of Johnsons unorthodox tunings and technique. And then there are the their spare simplicity would seem to allow. But thats art for you men

words of the songs themselves, which have a far greater impact than and women singing their astonishment and grief in a way that brings

others joy, and thereby gaining immortality. Old at birth, young at death, to ask dangerous questions. It is the artist who exhorts us to see life through our own eyes. Those of us who do not know or care about art

it is the artist who gives his fellow wayfarers the courage to dream, and

are affected by it just the same. We speak differently because of it, view

ourselves and the world differently, and act differently. Homer changed the world. Whitman changed the world. Beethoven changed the world. Van Gogh changed the world. It happened because they answered the call and were willing to do their work. Everyone who does so is an artist. Everyone who seeks perfection in what they do is an artist. There is no shame in being a human being. There is only shame when we do not try mysterious and beautiful and much larger than we are.

to understand our humanity and the part we play in something that is March 15, 2005 In yesterdays paper, there was an article on the front

page about how people with money to burn are building larger and larger homes. In one example, a husband, wife, and child were wandering about like lost souls in well over 3,000 square feet of space. It didnt say, but I assume the extra room is for lawyers, counselors, and intercom

repairmen. Life is tough when you have money and dont know what to

do with it. Its tough when you decide to teach your children to collect gadgets and insurance policies instead of how to plant and tend a garden. Its tough when your grotesque dwelling covers almost every

inch of your property, leaving scarcely enough room for a professionally installed generic landscape, a golf cart, boat, motorhome, SUV, and a The number of maimed and psychologically destroyed was not given. timed sprinkler system. The latest tally of U.S. war-dead was on Page 2. The number of murdered Iraqis and their starved, frightened children was not given. There was no mention of the latest group of wounded

soldiers who were flown back to the United States and shuttled to medical facilities under cover of darkness. I am looking at the palms of my hands. Would they look different if I, too, believed in killing? What do and silver spoon? What do a murderers hands look like? What about his dreams? Or are they nightmares? I am looking at the palms of my feeble sound would they make? hands. If I were to bring them suddenly and forcefully together, what

the presidents palms look like? Are they worn from handling his putter

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