Notebooks

 

I climbed up on an old stepladder to the drawer filled with torn spiral bound multicolored dreams, and opened to 1980. Hand made cards tucked between the paper blankets said "Mrout I love you ". One card had a heart With Mrout across it in crayon, the other was a pen and ink drawing of four cats.

     We called the cats Mrouts, and each other Mrout. The mother cat was named Oscar: and her kittens, soon full grown cats were the Stump, Pulsar, and Sirius.

     Its too soon to go back to the beginning: to Pam Alexander, and to the second Pam who became the Hum, and the sprout, and somehow a trout, but especially Mrout.

 

     Notebook 6-2-91  to 3-26-92

 

6-2-91

 

I don't even know where the little china cat came from. It was about two inches high, and glued together where it broke. I think about it when I am sad. I wish it was here now.

     Pulsar died: "she has a tumor the size of a hand,"its not resectable". The vet suggested putting her to sleep, and I said yes. A few hours or days dying of cancer didn't seem fair to a nice cat.

 

6-22-91

 

I found a tack on the floor. It reminded me of the tack from the old Newtonville camera in Framingham. I used it to hold a picture of the Hum I took in the old green truck with my Olympus. She was wearing a black beret, and looked like Patty Hurst. When I was fired from the Framingham store I took her picture off the wall, and the tack too. I put the picture in a drawer, the same one that holds these notebooks, and stuck the tack inside a cabinet of old cups and glasses.

     Someday when I move from Acton I will remember the tack inside the cabinet, and hide it wherever I move to where no one will find it, and throw it away.

    

6-23-91

 

I sat on a train track five minutes from here in Acton. Roses grew, and grapes, and raspberries. There was a garden here long ago. The roses are small and delicate. I can only guess the variety is an old one as the flowers depend on subtlety for there beauty not the virtuosity of breeding for monster size or flawless shape. They almost look wild though probably once twined a trellis in the garden of a house and family long gone back to Earth. It is good to think these flowers remember them.

 

7-6-91

 

I took the old battery out of the back of the truck. It was sitting there for six months. The battery was from the Green truck; a Sears 48 month car battery. It seemed it was the new battery. I put it an a cart at K Mart and someone took it away.

     I wanted to take it back: all my old things: my cats, my trout, my red truck. Today I cleaned out old cans of food hidden in cabinets, and an old box of "butter buds", like a kiwi fruit gone rotten and never even tried.

     I bought some new shirts, and new gray pants, and even two new ties all in the interest of finding a new job.

     All my old things: I miss them, the stuff left in Randys garage, old boxes of old stuff. Today was a day to clean out old stuff even if it makes me sad.

     But I will always keep the old kiwi fruit in the refrigerator; and an old hat, its a day to clean up some old things, not to throw them all away.

     I have to figure out what to keep ,and what to say good-by to even if it makes me very sad.

     I once tried a chicken sandwich with cream cheese and cranberry sauce; I think I will keep that.

     And my old bottle, the one I used to keep in the refrigerator only in summer, it helped time my year like the fish in Learnards pond. I will keep it covered in dust in a door above the refrigerator. Acton water is too poor to drink; I will keep the bottle anyway.

     Pine Cone tomatoes: I had a can from 94 Central St. They were bulging out of the can. I always liked keeping that can because it reminded me of 94 Central st.,and being lonesome and hungry, and seeing a can of said tomatoes, and cheering myself up with hamburg, rice, green pepper and tomatoes. It was delicious and somehow saved me from a terrible depression. I threw it away just now. maybe the can will take away some of the feelings for other things when it gets taken away in the dump truck.

     Just this second I threw out some milk dated June 24: one of the old cans was expired in 1988 and the Pine Cone tomatoes were much older than that.

     I wonder if this is about the time that I threw out all the things when I moved, or when I went to Randys garage to sort through all the rain soaked and fungus ruined things. The green rug with the fringes and my old green canvass tent, and all the boxes of old ropes and wires, and presents I got when I was little and sick all the time.

     I wonder if the gray placemat is still in the woods and if my old red truck is still in Randys' weeds. I saved the plastic spider that lived in it and the clipboard from under the seat and the plastic flower that lived on the dashboard: and I pulled off the shift knob - it lives in the new truck - to be transferred to whatever new vehicles I ever get.

 

     Incredibly lonesome today

     One old cat left.

     He follows me from room to room.

     He must be pretty lonesome too with his mother brother and      sister all dead.

     He has no one but me.

 

7-10-91

 

Outside the Concord fitness club. Sitting in the truck. I like a particular group of leaves hanging over a wall. There are tiny green fruits on the end of the branch.

     Birds are chirping.

 

7-12-91

 

Newtonville dungeon: I always find something for a bookmark; something new for each book. This was a price tag from a new shirt.

 

7-24-91

 

Pam Alexander called to tell me she is going to Europe. She is going with "a friend" probably Dan 2, Gary or maybe Dan 3. In any case I feel angry today.

     A few weeks ago we went looking for owls in a cemetery. It might seen an odd place to have a good time, but I had an unusually happy day talking, and looking in a certain tree for two non existent owls.

     I started a letter which I might or might not send. "The world is spinning, the television is spinning, the fan is spinning in the other room, and the cat is spinning next to my face. Its hot and too Humid and too empty a day."

     Sometime we talk on the phone late and seem so close - other times we talk of pain and drugs, of glasses half full and half empty and we say nothing.

     You will probably write back " cant we just be friends " which we are, but meaning something else.

     I loved looking for the non existent owl - sometimes I feel we should be looking for little mermaids in Denmark and sharing little cars on the autobahn. I am glad you are going but you would not tell me with whom and I didn't ask too hard. We may "just be friends", and you will probably write to me about writing to you about old stuff ". That's as far as the letter got. I might not send it - for what. Why should she even bother me anymore.

 

8-4-91

 

It was gray and rainy when I drove into the Lincoln police station. They said the A.M.C. hike was on and gave me directions to the school parking lot where it began. I wanted to meet someone of the female variety as well as go on a walk. No one was there it seemed either young enough or alone, and I started off with the group.

     A blue car drove up last and I faded back to see who it was. We started talking immediately about cars, and dreams of New York city with gorillas in them: and about poison Ivy, purple flowers, running, E M T,s, "weeds" and sculpture. She was pretty and nice - her name is Karen. God knows if this will be the first or only entry in these notebooks about her; but she actually gave me her phone number after I gave her my card.

 

8-15-91

 

I just ate some canned pears that were in my refrigerator for almost a year. They were cold and better than ice cream.

     Karen called me back after I left a message with her father. The house was pink; a bright spot in the rain and her father is Norwegian and her mother Portuguese. She is a Unitarian and as nice as I thought.

 

8-26-91

 

I went to the food store with two dollars in my pocket and tried the automatic teller machine. I pressed twenty dollars fast cash and got a computer note "insufficient funds ", so I tried for ten dollars and it whirled out of the machine. Eating by the skin of my teeth, and really glad to have the ten dollars.

     I sent Karen a card with eyes on it, so far hearing nothing. I hope she calls me. I have only seen her twice so she cant be a wipe or a trout, but she has that potential - she doesn't like rock and roll, likes origami, and running, and seems genuinely nice.

 

8-27-91

 

Karen never called me. I am sending her a letter; one more. If she answers fine if not I have little need to find someone else's wall to bang my head against. I have only known her for about six hours.

 

Dear Karen;

 

I hope you got my card with the eyes on it. I wanted to ask you more about origami, And why you like to run, And why you thankfully don't like rock and roll. I wanted to show you where the turtles live in the Audubon sanctuary, and show you the great pig at Drumlin farm.

     Today a praying mantis landed at my feet. I picked it up and let it fly away.

     You have my number: call if you wish.

 

9-1-91

 

She called: we went to Whalom park and had a good time. We played ski ball for tickets later exchanged for prizes. I traded my tickets for two plastic animals; she found a Christmas tree ornament, an odd thing for the first day of September. We went down the water slide, and swam in the pond. She pointed out a clown in a glass case. Paint peeled of his wood face. The clown greeted visitors 80 years ago; her father remembered the clown when it was new. This was a family place for her. It was a nice day for me.

     I had "nothing to eat" at home for supper so I found some instant mashed potatoes and some Kraft "cheese flavored food", the orange stuff that comes in Kraft macaroni and cheese dinners and sprinkled it on the potatoes. It was fine. Later on I found an egg and slid it fried on top of the cold potatoes and cheese.

     We went on all the old rides. This was a family place for her. She said her father took her there when she was four.

 

9-8-91

 

I just went looking for my lucky fish in Learnards pond. The water was warm, and green with algae. I found last years television under water; an old black and white Philco once pink with a thirteen inch screen. It was gray with silt and algae. I jumped: next to the television was a giant fish. It  wasn't my fish who seems to be missing, but at least it was a nice big fish.

     I can go home now. I hadn't come here all summer and it bothered me all summer. This is one of the ways I keep track of who I am. At least once a year I have to look for my fish.

     There are new immigrants here: Eastern Europeans or Russians. The newcomers change: its still a good place to be.

 

9-16-91

 

Yom Kippur tonight - a day of fasting. I have been worrying about not eating for a week - overeating in pre compensation - maybe I am supposed to be hungry: maybe that is the point.

     A few days ago I made some stew so good it was culinary ecstasy. I sat on the floor with a bowl in my lap the image of a sultan of gluttony gorging like a hungry dog. It was delicious. I will think of that tomorrow when starving. Tonight I will have a tuna fish sandwich for supper. Cramming my guts full of spaghetti is a kind of cheating.

     It will be good or at least right to be hungry for a day. Lots of people are always hungry, and I have been eating like an Iowa hog this past week anyway.

     I like pigs. Wallowing in cool mud seems a perfectly satisfactory way to spend a summer day: more meaningful than working in Newton anyway.

 

10-11-91

 

I was sweating under two 750 watt quartz bulbs making copies of old pictures in the cellar of Newtonville camera. An old cat: with long gray fur walked past as it always did. The cat had an always feeling about it; like it belonged in the cellar of Newtonville camera. Actually it had never been there before.

     I picked it up quite naturally for a strange cat and carried it through the cellar and upstairs saying "is anyone missing a gray cat", and looking around for a response.

     I carried him outside where he walked away. If I didn't think Sirius would eat him I would have taken him home.

     I read about a little black cat from the city found dehydrated and alone. I wanted to take it home too.

 

10-13-91

 

I had a dream: the Hum was standing in front of her car in a mall. Scotty was there; he had a mustache and looked like an idiot. Pam held my hand and I had the feeling she wanted to come back to me.

     Karen walked up and held my other hand and said it was time to go.

    

We went to the movies: I was tired to the point of pain, and we sat in the front row which was uncomfortable. We sat close enough to feel each others warmth and I reached over and held her hand. She didn't pull her hand away and I felt how warm and soft it was - my head kind of spun around inside: Maybe.

 

10- 20-91

 

I watched as an old gray Pontiac with an Ontario sticker in the window was towed away.

     The green truck was dead like the red one unable to start. I had replaced the fuel pump, points, bought new spark plugs; it would not start. I unscrewed the fuel line from the carburetor and watched as water spewed out. The puzzle of the month was solved. The green truck works now, at least enough to move around the parking lot so it wont be towed.

 

11-6-91

 

She told me Emily Dickinson was shy: we drove home. "By", she said. I said wait I am shy too kiss me good-by: she did. I followed her to her car as though nothing had happened.

 

11-12-91

 

I wrote Karen a scary letter saying how much I liked her and that I was a little scared. I also said I was shy, that I thought she was shy too, and that she had pretty blue eyes.

     I asked her to a star treck TV. party at the Macintoshes on Saturday night. She never called - never returned my calls either, all five of them.

     I sent her another letter not at all intellectualizing: just telling her how sad I feel; how I look at the souvenir cup from the circus and feel really sad .

     My neighbors looked at me and I said "I don't know why I like her, and I don't care I just do ", then I turned away to hide the tears.   

     Maybe she will respond, maybe I scared her away. I just wanted to turn the relationship up a notch and see where it goes. Its time to sit down and talk to establish some rules mutually acceptable, to ask if she is going out with someone else. to find out if she even likes me.

     I have not felt this sad in a long time. She said "Oh thanks for the flowers ", then dropped the subject. I don't know what that means. She was overwhelmed with the flowers and didn't know how to respond? Or she gets flowers from hundreds of lovers on a daily basis. How can I know anything without talking with her.

     I certainly opened myself up more than a little - time will tell if I slashed my wrists or gave someone a transfusion.

 

11-17-91

 

I knew I would feel sad: I am thinking about the two plastic souvenir animals from Whalom park and about the circus cup with the tiger on it. I really liked her. She was the first one I cared for since the Hum. Its easy to forget about Dede Atlas and the others I saw more than two or three times. Karen had too much that was right about her and I miss her.

 

11-26-91

          

I had a dream: someone was smashing through the wall. I could hear banging and could see the panels buckle and crack. I was terrified. I found various guns but didn't have any ammunition or the wrong ammunition. There were boxes of shotgun shells but I didn't have a shotgun even in this dream. I found spent shells: empty boxes of useless jingling brass, and cartridges of the wrong caliber's for the guns I had.

     The dream ended before the thing behind the wall got me and I woke up sweating; "what if this a premonition ", not yet knowing how useless guns would be later on.

     I decided to see how quickly I could find and load ( I keep them empty for safety reasons ) a gun. There is a Smith and Wesson model 686 three fifty seven magnum in a camera bag on the top shelf of my closet packed with two speed loaders wrapped in a dish towel. The rule I made for this exercise was no lights. My first discovery in the dark was that the knobs to the sliding closet door were not were I put my hands, and I had to fumble around in the gloom with the clock running out of time. Door open I had to grope around spilling bags and boxes on the floor till the squish of nylon said "camera bag ,gun ". Bag on the floor and puzzle number two, the gun was jammed not in any conventional sense but under a seam roughly sewn. If there was a genuine bad guy breaking in I would already be dead. Once the gun was in my hands practice came into play - loading it in the dark took five seconds at most.

     The headache of Sunday was exceedingly unpleasant. It was as painful as anything I ever experienced; on the same level as an abscessed tooth. I did get to see smoke in the kitchen and the smoke had holes in it. Luckily I had read about "auras", a somewhat standard migraine symptom, but it scared me for a few seconds having never had a hallucination before and finding smoke with holes in it unnerving. The smoke went away, but seven barbiturate pills later the pain never let up and was severe enough for me to contemplate the nearest hospital .

 

There are horrible, horrible things in the world, people dying of cancer all alone .

At least the headache goes away, and leaves me whole.

 

Really sad and confused still. A headache like that is like taking a beating - its effects linger awhile.

I sat in the dark with tears in my eyes the night before. The girl is gone again and left me very empty inside; just drained.

 

12-4-91

 

Cat was the best creature in the world. Sirius curled up beside me purring: fell asleep trusting me with two paws over my arm and his chin resting on his paws. I have been so worried he would die too that I have been pushing him away. Yesterday I just accepted the miracle of aliveness and wondered at how nice another creature can Be. He must be lonesome too.

 

I cut the strip of fat from along the side of a small steak along with a bit of meat and gave it to Sirius. He didn't nibble the flesh off the fat, but chewed and swallowed the entire quarter of a pound of quivering fat from one end to the other like an oily obese piece of macaroni. It was disgusting to look at: a slice of fat fully half as long as the cat, and three quarters of an inch thick disappearing like a lizard down a pit vipers gullet. It took a full five minutes to disappear.

 

I had no sleep last night but feel rested. The headache is over; for now.

 

12-6-91

 

One thing I didn't ,say: I am afraid anyone seeing this book might think I was crazy.

     The morning after the headache I heard a voice. It was an ugly voice loud and in the room. When I saw the smoke with the holes in it the night before; for a second I thought " this is it I have finally gone over the edge, there is no smoke in the kitchen certainly not filled with holes". Then realizing it was an aura I calmed down as much as possible when in a frightening amount of physical pain.

     The voice was like that only not so easy. There were two possibilities.

     1-I was hallucinating "hearing voices", not a migraine event a schizoid event.

     2- There was a voice in the room. If 1 than bring on the thorizine and lock me up; as I was now officially mad.

     If 2- then what or who was talking to me in A- an unknown language, and - B in a tone of voice that had it a corporeal body I would rather not behold it with open eyes.

     I think it was a demon of some kind. There was a second of blind terror then the realization that it wanted to take over that it wanted "in" and I had better let it in or else. Instead I said "get lost", not exactly the stereotype of an exorcism ,but it went back to Hell or wherever it came from and left me alone.

     It was so FAST. The whole experience lasted ten seconds. Theory holds that "spirits", for lack of a better name are not powerful beings; at least not in this world without a live body to call the shots with. It was genuinely deeply horrifyingly frightening - but the theory also goes that these beings seek out the innocent, those who are the nicenesses of the world, when in pain and vulnarable.

     And if demons ( I am not talking Satan here, just some minor nameless evil thing ) then also angels and also God.

     Or maybe I just went bonkers with all the barbiturates; and with a short circuit in my head. It amazes me I can accept a demon as just another creature like a lion or an ant.

 

12-13-91

 

I liked  the little white car: the one I drove in Europe. Last night I was thinking of the X in the road in Switzerland. It was a parking spot on a small road seen at night. Cow bells clanged: the mountains were lit by the moon. Nothing would be happier than a niceness again and a little white car - and the stars in October.

 

I took my sleeping bag; foam pad and canteen and walked through the woods by flashlight alone. It was Nobscot on the first really cold day a few years ago. I slept on pine needles quite comfortably and drank cold water for a delicious breakfast. It was peaceful. Maybe I will camp in the Acton woods some cold night and sleep under the stars.

 

It's ten PM: Sirius is sleeping on the sofa. If the weather is reasonable I will go camping tomorrow night. I might just go across the street to the wood bridge, or to the secret woods behind the book store.

 

Tonight is like all those nights at Worcester  Jr. college when I sat on the orange chair and looked at the fruit fly on the wall. It was an institutional green wall and the fly would find the spot of applesauce somehow spilled in a vertical direction and fill its very small fly stomach. The fly had red eyes. On the table was a favorite glass bottle once filled with orange juice, but ever since filled with cold water.

 

I have to know it is possible to take my sleeping bag and go find the stars. It is like knowing that Wyoming is only three days away.

 

12-14-91

 

Newtonville: eating a submarine sandwich which looks like a lizard. All it needs are eyes on the bread.

 

12-16-91

 

Sirius has discovered the wonderful luxury of down coats. He is curled up with his tail over his face on my (his) blue down coat on the chair in the television room. He is more comfortable than I have been any time in my life. A C-shape of sleeping ecstasy. A soft dreaming time. Today he had his fill of turkey breast meat: more than he could finish, now he floats on a pillow of the softest down purring and dreaming cat dreams.

 

12-23-91

 

     Numb: are you numb yet.

     Not quite.

     Better give you another shot.

     Can you feel anything.

     Ahgg.

     I'll give you some more.

     Can you still feel it.

     A little.

     A little pain is good for you.

     Another tooth ground to a stump. A little silver temporary crown awaiting future gold. The dentist didn't have a temporary crown big enough for my sharks fangs so he improvised: don't floss, be careful eating, it will be sensitive.

     My future gold tooth is to be sculpted by the lost wax method; like the pre Inca treasure in the gold museum in Bogota.

     It is raining out; a miserable November rain in December. A little colder and it would be snowing little hexagons. Some industrial machine is yowling a sixty cycle Hum in this parking lot beneath the dentists window.

     I have to drive away: there is a sixty cycle Hum in my head.

                                  

12-25-91

 

I wonder where my gray triceratops is. Maybe in the sand woods if they are still there, or the bone woods long turned into houses. I looked for it for a long time. It was a gray plastic dinosaur that lived in my pocket half the time. Somewhere at home are a few of his Triassic friends; at least a stegosaurus with a missing tail and an ankliosaurus with teeth marks.

     The triceratops was one of my favorite things in the world. Gray to me has never been an ugly or a neutral color, but rather the mystery between black and white: a mixture of all the colors, and no color at all. It belongs to the world of mayflies, monarch butterfly migrations and the ancient wisdom in a serpents eyes. It is an appropriate color for a triceratops.

 

12-27-91

 

I cooked boneless breast of chicken; gave some to Sirius and put the rest in the refrigerator. Later putting in a new gallon of spring water was apparently a mistake. The dish with the chicken fell out and broke.

 

1-1-92

 

12:13 A.M. I hate new years: I always have. Something very odd. Sirius was sitting on my lap and his ears were turning independently like radar dishes. Firecrackers someplace far away: he did not hear them till 12:08, and noticing him I listened to what seemed a stereo in the distance and heard rockets.

     I went outside and saw a wonderful winter sky: a clear cold January, and I heard a hundred dogs barking. They were howling. They heard the rockets too.

 

1-3-92

 

I woke up strangely happy. The cat was a warm gift crawling around begging for food. It was a nice day for January; cold but not painfully so.

     Now I feel sad and lonesome. I met a one and a half year old today. He only had three teeth and his mother said "he really likes you ", as he smiled and then crawled across the camera store floor.

 

It hurt for two days. I looked at the bottom of my right big toe and cringed. There was a lump of something painful and sharp. A squeeze produced only blood and a throb of deeper pain; fingers refused to scrape it out. My kingdom for a needle or a pair of tweezers: and do psychologists call this an approach avoidance conflict?

 

Dread filled the air. I could not scrape it out with my fingers though I tried with diminishing hope.

Hobble about; cant find a needle. Rambo was a wimp. A Philippine butterfly knife among my collection of deadly objects  presented a cold stainless obsessively sharp blade with all too obvious utility. I jammed the point into the now festering toe under the glass and pried it out like a trophy glistening in blood.

Maybe I will take out my appendix next. Cant believe I did it. Disgusting but it had to be done.

 

It was a bit of china from the dish I broke a week ago. The dish needed a bit of revenge for my dropping it.

 

1-8-92

 

A long time ago I took a cardboard tube home. It is a cylinder about six inches high  I used to prop open the lid of the Kodak Royalprint machine at Newtonville camera. It had eyes and a face on it painted a long time before, and it was the second cylinder used for this purpose. The first was thrown out when I went on vacation by someone who "cleaned the darkroom". It must have been another vacation when I decided to take the second one home so it wouldn't be missing when I returned. It lives on a shelf at home now - I hoped it might become a souvenir of my time here.

     But I am still a prisoner and the third cylinder stands on the Royalprint machine: only it does not have a face.

 

1-11-92

 

Randy called me at Newtonville. I am bringing you a cat ,he said; for a few hours I thought ,till tomorrow , maybe the next day. "For a few months": he said, and brought Sylvester around midnight in a taped together cardboard box with holes poked in the side. Sirius looked pensive, nervous, eyes wide open. The tape was ripped and Sylvester looked out: he looked pensive, nervous, eyes wide open. Sylvester disappeared under the pliers cabinet ( some people actually keep dishes in such furniture) as far from Sirius as is possible without gnawing through the wall. He has not moved an a few hours. Sirius is sleeping in the next room as though nothing has happened. Maybe they will like each other; I really hope so.

     Oscar hid under the same place when we moved here. Pulsar was missing for hours. Sylvester is black with white patches. I will leave him alone: Let him come out when he feels comfortable; explore a little at a time.

 

1-28-92

 

"Because sand perch communities are stable, the scientists were able to recognize the same fish year after year". This is from National Geographic. It's nice to think fish have places they stay: my lucky fish at Learnards pond always stayed in the same place, or came back to it after wandering around his pond. For years he lived near a rusty fifty five gallon barrel; till it disappeared to a rust colored stain.

     I gave a slide show to the A.M.C.in Boston; surprised at how much fun it was, being the M.C.at the A.M.C. Two people sent letters saying they liked the show.

 

2-6-92

 

Mrout brains this morning. Sirius was purring on my feet and Sylvester used my hand for a chew toy. If he wanted to I would have a stump today.

     A tooth broke yesterday; a shard of enamel and silver. The last gold crown cost 710 dollars. I hope this tooth can be rescued with less dollars being drained.

     Somehow I just remembered exactly-I was sitting in the Austin cafe reading a Herald left from the last customer, and covered in hamburger grease when I noticed an ad for a cleaning service. The ad had a picture of a near microscopic and harmless dust mite magnified to godzilla proportions meant to terrorize the reader into hiring the cleaning service. I liked the picture. It reminded me of the flour beetles that lived in the cabinet above the sink at 94 Central street. The cabinet was a salmon colored badly painted plywood thing. I liked it and the beetles which I thought of as pets who had as much right to live there as anyone else. I just didn't eat the flour  they lived in and they were perfectly happy living where they were.

 

2-7-92

 

I wanted to write something about Ricky. Carol who works at Newtonville camera proudly showed off pictures of the two cats she owns; soon to be displayed in a calendar. She always talks about the two cats. One time I went to a Store pizza party and found a fat multicolored scared cat in her house. "who is that", I asked: Ricky she said or maybe "just Ricky". Anyway I could detect his leper status right away.

     She had him for a year and never mentioned he existed; while constantly talking about how cute her "two", cats were. She called me at night to see if I would take him (she knew I liked him ) in the morning as she was moving and he "ruins the window sills".

     If Sylvester was not here I might take him. He is in a vets.office in a cage. Carol said "I had to break the wall down to get him: he freaked out when I moved".

     I just wanted to hold him and tell him he was a nice cat. He has feelings. I feel really sad about him.

Carol got him from a police lady who rescued him from an abandoned house : now she dumps him at the vet. "to find a decent home for him". Why didn't she want to keep him?

 

2-11-92

    

The answering machine said to go to building 5 unit 8 to pick up my U.P.S. package. It was the Mirro aluminum bakeware.

     I love things to come in the mail - it always seems like a present. These are six aluminum baking containers designed for toaster ovens. An ordering form came in my Christmas present toaster oven, and I sent away, "four to six weeks for delivery".

     I always like little presents like this as much as big ones. There is no over inflated expectation, no buyers remorse: just a nice surprise in the mail; only 8.95 plus shipping and handling.

     they are perfect; now I want to bake something.

 

2-13-92

 

Ricky is gone: not killed at least, someone picked him up at the vet. Someone liked him enough to take him home. I hope he is happy away from someone who didn't like him; and two cats who chased him into permanent sadness. I almost added him to the collection.

     Randy may not get Sylvester back.

 

Karen didn't answer my valentine. I really liked her. I don't expect to write to her again.

 

2-14-92

 

I ate two Idaho baked potatoes; baked in the toaster oven, they were a feast.

 

2-17-92

 

The snow fleas are back. Winter is not one season but one of many parts. Late February is the time of the snow fleas: and ice covered ponds with water on top of the ice; and a few flies and moths saying hello to Spring. The snow fleas are really springtails and no relation to the July blood suckers. They live invisible lives to us: near microscopic dots against brown dirt, pleasant strange moving semi Winter dots.

     Pine cone tomatoes: I made a feast of turkey, onions, carrots, and rice. Pine cone tomatoes made it all nice to look at as well as eat.

 

2-22-92

 

Pam Alexander called and talked for almost two hours. She is very upset about her psychiatrist abandoning her. Dr. Shrink Wrap "accepted a position", in Philadelphia. In other words dollars spoke louder than caring.

     Maybe she should not pin her caring onto such people, but to ones that love her back. Maybe she can't do that. In any case I think a mental health professional should not abandon those in need for a few more dollars. What about all the poor people who can't afford fifty to eighty dollars per hour. Now I feel mad too. The group I belonged to ended for no healthy reason. The therapist wanted another night off. I am still of mixed feelings. I didn't want to go to the group forever, and at a point nothing new seemed to be happening. He said much of the goodness was of the process of saying good-by. It still was not quite right.

 

I had some kind of stomach flu four days ago and still can't think too well or write too well. This virus has scrambled my brain. It will take another week of recovery before I can think clearly again. At least I am not emulating President Bush and throwing up anymore. I did barf all over the road in Waltham on the way home; deeply sorry that I didn't throw up ten minutes earlier in Newton.

 

2-25-92

 

Not a virus at all. On Friday I suffered the same fever chills as a week earlier, and went to the doctor at nine in the morning. "Acute hemorrhagic cystitis", said the doctor after saying, "you really look sick". Fever was 102; probably worse initially. Fevers scramble brains. An infected bladder: "this would not have gotten better by itself".The doctor gave me an old fashioned sulfa drug; one of the original wonder drugs.

     I am almost all right now: a condition far better than the infected kidneys, and slow agonizing death of sixty years ago.

     I can make a joke of it maybe, but its not very funny. I am alive and in good health in two days from a simple curable illness that a very short time ago in history might have killed me.

 

"I am your new diving girl". That is as quote from a promo for a new Walt Disney movie about a girl who wanted to dive with her horse from a pier at an amusement park. She looks so happy I wish I could talk to her and say "I really like you". I have about a zero fantasy need to meet the usual Hollywood sex goddess. They strike me as air wafting along in air. But this diving girl isn't like that at all. She strikes me as someone I would like to know.

 

It feels so good to have some potatoes and have them taste good; and it feels so good to have some cold water and have it taste good.

     Being healthy is better than being sick - no surprise with that; the surprise is how wonderful are the things we take for granted. No wonder there is a Hebrew prayer for food, and, water, and wine.

     Water tasted bad a few days ago - my favorite thing in the world turned to a curse. I am never sure God hears me: but thank you for the water; and for onions and milk and potatoes. And I feel sad about eating a bird that was once alive. Thank you for your life: the chicken counts too.

     I wandered into the kitchen a few hours later and found a pear green and perfect.

 

I shot an elastic up to the ceiling: Sylvester is still looking for it two minutes later. He is staring at the ceiling looking - poor confused cat. I shot it again: maybe he thinks its a bird; he looks down for awhile then takes in the sky scanning. He is looking, looking, looking everywhere. The poor thing just stood on his hind legs and waved in the air while making a strange noise. I won't shoot it again: he is still looking and making hideous noises in his throat. He just gave Sirius a clawed poke to wake him up, and is now prowling like a panther. He just climbed the sofa for a good view and stared up again. He needs to be played with, but I am afraid of being eaten.

 

2-27-92

 

I always felt bad for 1974. I sat in the car waiting for the toll booth on the Mass. pike. I thought no one will care about 1974 but will think of 1975 the mid. year. Every time I go by that particular toll booth I think of the time I wondered about 1974. It is 18 years ago .I thought about it in 1974 knowing I would think back. Time always confuses me.

 

2-29-92

 

I found the tack today: the one inside a cabinet. Its still alive inside next to a cup with a picture of a bear on it. I was going to give her that cup, but she was already gone. I never took it out of the box it came in. Actually its a box with a picture of a cup inside as I have never opened it. Maybe it is empty: I always thought I would give it to her.

 

3-4-92

 

The frogs will be back soon: its almost warm out. I saw a small tree with three starlings one of which was so close I could hear it hop. These are pretty birds with iridescent subtle blacks and grays. They are the "weeds", of birds. Bird watchers peering through binoculars with dog eared life lists in hand would not notice a starling if it stood on there heads and pecked at there eyes. Gardeners call them "pests", Hunters "trash", and ecologists invading parasites.

     All of the above reasons stand starlings in good stead with Me. I have always liked them: ever since rescuing one with a broken wing and hearing "its only a starling", spoken in the tone of voice a Brahmin reserves for an untouchable. All I saw was a sad frightened bird; rather good looking  with shiny almost black feathers bright eyes and a yellow beak.

     Today I saw three of them enjoying the almost Spring. One was close enough to hear hopping, close enough to look happy.

 

Leftover sale of ice scrapers: last year I bought one that lives on the floor of the truck. They seem like pliers to me: eminently collectible. Today I bought one for $ 1.49 with an aqua handle. Maybe it will even snow now. I have five or six ice scrapers and didn't "need"' a seventh. I like it though. It reminds me of the winter barely had: 1991-92 winter of almost no snow, and only a little ice. Maybe it will snow so much next year I will need all the ice scrapers on a daily basis. Where is the snow?

 

3-16-92

 

She had very blond hair: a cowboy shirt with fringes, and white snakeskin boots.

I was walking the ugly corridors of a red brick building designed for utility while searching for the cable TV. office to pay an overdue bill. The girl could not find it either and we spoke for less than a minute. She had a well healed scar on her face and one of her eyes looked a bit hurt. Perhaps she was in a car accident a long time ago. She favored the right side when talking (the scar was on the left ) as if sharing a residual self consciousness and wariness.

     I wish I knew her well enough to tell her she was really pretty despite an old scar. There was something nice about that girl. She was late paying her bill too: perhaps that is all we have in common, perhaps not.

 

3-17-92

 

Sirius went exploring. He went upstairs in the hall and looked at me from the front steps. For reasons known only to himself Sylvester looks out the open door but never goes out. Sirius runs out and always looks around.

 

3-19-92

 

I should have bought or stolen the little tripod ball head a year ago. It was a little one made in Germany and beautiful in the way a gun is beautiful. It was flawlessly made in black and silver, and heavy. Someone bought it today. I saw my mark in the corner of the package. Some woman who works at the Globe. It was mine.

 

3-21-92

 

Skip Clark always showed up at Newtonville camera with his cheerful wife and always pictures or negatives of old trains. He called my answering machine sometimes to let me know when the train was running through Acton. He was the engineer and offered to give me a ride on the freight train. Last week he died. He was one of the few customers I liked - even trying his best to be pleasant when his heart and life had only days left to beat. I hope his wife is well.

 

3-22-92

 

It snowed on the second day of spring.

It felt good to take the RB-67 out to the new woods in Acton. There is a small bridge over a stream with birch trees white on white with new snow. I walked past both trucks on the way there. The Toyota, window covered white, and the old green truck dripping like a large ox in a field.

     Mostly I saw last years dry leaves and little pine trees and a stick lying on its side recognized by a lumpiness in the snow.

     I haven't used that camera in a year: Somehow it reminds me of a big window; a wood creaking window with cool wind and bright snow on the other side.

 

     This has been a good notebook. It's almost full.

 

Pam Alexander suggested I find a camera store closer to home than Newton to work in. Doesn't she know I hate working all alone in a darkroom. It's not only Newton I hate; it's living such a shallow life. She missed the whole reason for ten years of notebooks in one sentence.

     And the other Pam doesn't have the slightest idea.

     Maybe only the cats know. Only Sirius is left: and the new beast, the one who woke me this morning by chewing on my hand.

 

It makes all the sense in the World to pay off my credit cards: buy a new oven, save for a new car, But I am buying a computer instead. A place to save all these notebooks. More important than another late visa bill: all I own that is me.

 

3-24-92

 

In Newtonville: I turned around quickly and saw Sylvester standing in a corner. He soon resolved into a gray gallon bottle of T-Max developer. Cats on brain: reaction to seeing Sylvester was panic. "What are you doing here"? Bottle of chemicals much more comfortable on darkroom floor than transplanted mini lion.

 

Sylvester likes to lie on top of the television. Last night he went somewhat wild listening to birds coming out of the TV. speaker. His head was tilted over the edge and his ears tried to locate the bird the same as his eyes did the night before.

 

I just bought a new notebook at CVS. a garish almost magenta pink one.

     It makes me sad. This notebook has been a good one. For awhile I felt empty of things to say, but re-reading this book makes me feel better - about notebooks - not about being endlessly stuck in a dumb job, or about losing the Hum, or about having nice days with Pam Alexander, and then not seeing her for six or seven months.

     But I did meet a nice girl: and go to the circus, and to Whalom park, and we laughed till two AM., and I have a souvenir cup with tigers on it, and two plastic animals to remember her better.

     She was almost a Hum.

 

3-26-92

 

I just heard the frogs.

Doing laundry: went outside to get a bottle of water out of the truck and the frogs were out in the rain.

     Peepers; Spring peepers, most think they are birds.

           Swamp things. Spring things.

     I always like them - they are like my lucky fish.

 

6-27-78 to 11-24-84

 

This is the first notebook and the hardest to even open. I am still good friends with Pam Alexander: Christy Waterstradt is long lost, and the second Pam who called me the niceness, I think about her all the time. Her old handmade cards hidden away in this notebook make me cry whenever I look at them. She gave me a cup with a cat for a handle and a trout inside. Every night before I go to sleep I have a drink of cool water from her cup - still, now every night I miss her.

 

6-2-78

 

The stump is curled up on the blue pillow, and all the other cats are purring and happy. Pam Alexander is coming tomorrow I will ask her if she loves me. This is like so many letters written beside the green house: afraid to say what I feel and ask what " you "' feel. Christy I haven't seen you or spoken or reached you in eight years, and you frighten me still. I walked across the trees and empty grass at Parsons college, and the leaves of a desk calendar were blowing in the wind and one stopped and called me to it. It was august 28 four or five months away. It was two years before I found your address. I used to go to the library and look at phone books, but sent letters to unknown Waterstradts and lost you. On August 28 a useless boring day at the warehouse: hot, sticky, a jar with a lid, you called from the dead. Who are you C.W. I still don't know. I remember looking at you kneeling in the grass and your eyes glowed and melted me. I wanted to hold you but would have disappeared from fright. Remember the rope slide from the pine tree: you were a girl but had guts, you laughed and dared wrap a towel around the rope fifty feet off the ground and flew down like a spider. I was afraid to ask you to that dance but you know that. Were your eyes blue or brown? They changed color unlike any others. Did you join that coven in Tampa or was it the "others"' and you only watched. I hated that pink motel with its stinking ice machine: and the heat, and walking West Kennedy Ave. to the museum with the Arabic crescent on the roof. I saw that building in a book about the Spanish American war. Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders sailed out of Tampa bay, and the stokers shoveled coal and fainted glazed with sweat on those first iron steamships headed for Cuba. History didn't matter. The past was no more: you told me. "The old Christy died". I asked how she died and you said "That's none of your business"' and gave me a book by J. Christamurti or however its spelled. He was an Indian philosopher who espoused only now and tomorrow. You were not born today. I threw away the empty book. I gave you a "who am I test"' gave you a sheet of paper and asked you to write who you were fast without thought. People spill out values pretty fast - maybe its a simple shallow freshman thing but you said first sentence "I am a metaphysician". What value espousal is this? What is a metaphysician. Well deceased person, living zombie I found out. I spent the next few years searching for holes in empiricism, in science, in "the method", but you were already gone.

What can't science answer? Almost everything. I mean science is empty, without values: a box of tools, a way of seeing, but what is better? Why do I look at the cat curled up on the floor and feel love? Why do yellow flowers make me happy? These may have "simple"' psychological causation's - I need to love someone, the cat is more a someone than the rocks or a table - not so simple though. I drove across a glowing place, the Sevier lake desert in Utah: the sun set behind and the tufts of gray green sagebrush turned orange, the sand blue purple, and the strange sometimes lake on the horizon filled with icebergs. Not a painting of a sunset - real, devastating. I burst into tears; they flowed across my cheeks. I was not sad. "Fear of God"' awe at creation? You know Christy Waterstradt, and you know that I understand. Ghost person: shadow, wraith, you were supposed to go to Peru with me: gone two years,and I dreaded changing planes in Miami. I made sure connecting flights were minutes apart, and raced through that awful climate you call home looking around the airport somehow expecting to see you. I am frightened whenever the phone rings on August twenty eighth: and we met and you searched Heaven and Hell and I hitchhiked home from that stinking beach at Tampa Bay, and found a note in the door that said you were gone for the week with friends. I will never go to Tampa again, even to see the Chinese vase in the museum, even if the Rough Riders return. I hope you married an obese belching clod - no I am just mad, time soothes a little. You took eight years out of my life. Dreams fantasies, hopes. I actually got to Peru and drove across the highest road in the world on no sleep in a rented orange Volkswagen. Well fool; you’r probably still selling witches tools, and evil books. I learned a lot; you taught me. I hated the South, likened Dixie to Nazi Germany, and Southerners to Gestapo with no purpose but lynching black people. How stupid, how bigoted. I learned New England won The war and still teaches hate: see history counts. I hitchhiked through Louisiana and a teacher of sociology said, "I am surprised you didn't end up on a slab". What I saw was kindness, openness and a hospitality genuine, and so filled with love in its simplicity. A local middle aged couple saw me growl awake from beneath a plastic makeshift tent, and cloud of mosquitoes. They asked me to join them - fed me, gave me drinks, asked "what country are you from". I said "Boston", they asked me what my nationality was: I said "American" then seeing the confusion said "Russian Jew". The South isn't all a land of crackers and lynch ropes: they were delighted and asked if I had ever met the Kennedy's. None of these questions struck me as silly. I knew as little of Louisiana and asked just as silly questions such as "I have been looking for alligators in that swamp, where are they".  They were hibernating, and the kind people held there laughter. I told them I was somewhat afraid of the South but found only nice people, beautiful cypress swamps, and the best food I had ever eaten. They said they were afraid of the big cities up North. They were genuinely afraid, said they would love to see cape cod but were afraid of driving past New York. What fools we all are. Stump the cat just woke up stretched a paw, licked it and wiped his face.

 

Squares and triangles; Klauk remembered your poem. You are squares and triangles. Can they both live together? How long can I wait Wipe - stop thinking and feel; maybe both of us.

Always "analyzing"' really picking apart and shredding, tearing me to pieces: had to build in pieces, with "reason"' to label feelings.

 

Sick and tired of Pam situation - am going to the movies - don't know what to feel now - numb with low level anger, a kind of disgust. It took years to not think of Christy. I have trouble writing her name. I have trouble looking at it: taboo to my conscious, metaphysician my ass. Cold Aztec victim, no blood, burnt crosses cold dead bodies. Pallid mind: the fire went out; who snuffed it. I remembered flares and embers, sun and light, and found skulls and catacombs, base trembling fears, hollow places. What would Freud say? I am looking for answers again: what a mystery to dissect and put on slides; to rattle out blue books, and please the gods of power. But the hurt is still deep, the scar on the surface shows but what lies beneath it. At least a scar is better than an open bleeding wound. Why didn't you love me back? "All I ever wanted was for you to love me back". I wrote that with a Green pen. You were with me day and night; a true "dream girl" almost, if the dreams were always nice which they were not.

 

Maybe Pam can be displaced, and or replaced. She took over and filled the dream voids (Freud may see other things in that; who knows maybe the old cocaine sniffer was right, maybe he hadn't enough "depth" himself).Truly love is more complex than that. Freud leaves me blank sometimes, but study may go beyond the simplistic.

 

Mrs. Kalkar - ethical rescuer, woman on a white horse: you lived with no need to grovel, you were powerful and soft, Kind and never stepped on. Can't spell Bordeaux 1964, a long way from cokes and fanta orange. Maybe I will order 1964 Medoc for Pam - you will know why.

 

Thwap. Wipe; I am less mad at Pam now - she likes to play, be a little girl. I love that otherwise it's all cigar smoke and California. I love to hit her over the head with cardboard tubes (paper towel cores; bonkers ). The sound is terrific, and she always grabs my hands and pummels me with the bonker - two little kids; all smiles, pure fun.

 

Mosquitoes ,wipes, wipers, tubes: triangles and squares, blue helmets and kittens.

 

I better not have a duel with Dan with that old flintlock, it hardly ever shoots. Freud have a field day. A duel with Walthers that is another story. I drove out onto the high plains between Laramie, and Centennial, and held the black modern pistol: loud. Jesus was it loud, and I could not hit a large can at six feet. Practice, practice; now I can hit a four inch square at seventy five feet. Odd hobby or is it a statement having a few guns.

 

" Did I contact you first "? Pam called or reached out after six, really eight months. She wondered if it were her. Why, repression, guilt?

 

Kenny in a box. I saw Pams' house: she unlocked a closet, dragged a cardboard box covered in dust and opened a collection of camping equipment. In it were a fur hat, needle nosed pliers, a blue rope, and memories sealed away for eight months. Did she ever look inside? Why did she keep the box in locked storage.

 

Writing with Pams purple pen. I left monument St. and we kissed each other on the lips like Human beings. The great granite phallus of Bunker hill (does anyone mean what they say or say what they mean) blurred in the background of confusion. A twilight place for the castration image of a duel with flintlocks. Pam had the same image as me only the location was different; Boston Common instead of at the base of the  Charlestown symbol of war. A duel among gentleman by rules, single shot flintlocks, one shot each. If I lost I'd be dead anyway, and if I won? How many people have lived out this image?

 

Ankles still sore from black flies, and my tongue searches out the gaping divot in my tooth, the one that broke on top of Mahoosic arm on an M and M."Is Pfoxer behind me"'always made her look. Pfoxer was a cross between a collie and a husky. She always played with us and went Mt. climbing with better skill than most Humans. Her favorite thing was grabbing onto an old sock and trying to rip it out of my hands. She also loved to grab my ankles and wrists in her quivering jaws while growling playfully; I always hoped. She is probably the origin of Wipe as a name; As I have just been "wiped" 'bitten but not too hard. Pam, Pfoxer and I had a problem: how to travel the most difficult single mile on the Appalachian trail. I lowered Pfoxer on a blue nylon rope to Pam from a cliff precursor to the difficult part. This ten foot drop was the first place Pfoxer had difficulty with in her life as a climber. The notch was a narrow gouge up ahead filled with house sized rocks rolled in from the weathering cliffs on both sides. Poor Pfoxer tried to maneuver the first boulder cave: she tried jumping across the top, tried scrambling through a wormhole, and around the side. It was not possible: the dog who climbed Lafayette, and Garfield, Cannon, and Washington was defeated.

     I emptied Pam Alaxenders pack on the ground and stuffed one somewhat unhappy fifty six pound quivering dog inside. There was nothing for it but a British stiff upper lip; and the most grueling mile of brute labor in my life. The notch has rocks of such size that one can crawl under them much like an ant, and being splayed out with hands and feet on different, in places snow covered boulders would have been trying without a fifty six pound quivering dog moving about in a nylon bag balanced on my shoulders. Hikers ever insightful said," is that a dog in your pack", and I said brilliantly, "yes". At the end I bowed as to Allah, and one very grateful canine spilled out of the pack like the overgrown puppy she always was. We tied her to a tree and walked and crawled back across the worse one mile of the Appalachian trail to retrieve our supplies; and back again one more mile to collect our tired dog. Or was it us who were dog tired?

     Take the second right on the dirt road past where the wood piles used to be. Some locals helped us find the trail to where we were.

 

Spontaneous happiness at the pool. Perfect drinkable ice water slid down a granite path into a pool; clear, clean, life giving: a view of trees moving in the wind, and mountains past the horizon. Arctic islands, split log bridges across peat sphagnum moss bogs filled with flowers and cotton grass.

 

Oscar the cat is chasing me all over the house - rubbing against me and purring quite loudly. She prefers to lie down at a certain "social distance", about two and a half feet. Pulsar just walked in with tail vertical in the "greeting"' in cat language sign. She and Oscar started licking each others faces. Oscar at first pummeled Pulsar then a few face licks then two loud purrers. Sirius is behind my head on the sofa, and Stump is elsewhere. Four cats: sometimes I wish they were all in comas or at least had encephalitis so they would just purr, and provide soft heads to pat. Sometimes they are really wild animals, unlike dogs who grovel there inferiority, and want nothing beyond mindlessly pleasing there masters. Cats have no masters. It makes me mad sometimes when they are over the edge wild, but I still like and trust them implicitly. My cats are gentle, don't claw or bite unmercifully, and provide good dependable if moody company. At least they never deceive. Three of them are asleep in attitudes of absolute trust, the forth a bit jumpy of late is elsewhere.

     Pfoxer is coming over: poor cats will be quite uptight, will hide under sofas, in boxes and in the air. Pfoxers owner is coming too leaving me uptight and willing to join the cats under the sofa. Wipe came with a new red and white bikey helmet. I told her I was still crazy about her and that I was still here, and she let me hold her tight. She may join the Army. She said she feels like she pedals uphill all the time and never gets anywhere.

     Pfoxer walked over to the cats; some ran, others kept a safe distance, staring. Pam walked over to the refrigerator and startled, jumped back. One of the cats underwent an identical reaction. That cat soon fell asleep on the footlocker as I am leaning against her favorite blue pillow. She is streetwise and smart: the kittens all run into the kitchen like Skinners rats whenever I go there as they expect a reward of food. Oscar ,the mother, only bothers to run after me if I come home late and she is hungry; and after she positively rewards me by purring, and almost dog like groveling. She in fact has conditioned me. A few times today I patted her, she gave a low growl like purr, and I walked into the kitchen. She didn't follow while her less sharp kids ran after me wide eyed pacing the floor looking for a treat. Big brave macho Stump cowered rabbit like under some wood.

 

7-10-78

 

I found an electric bullhorn under Learnards pond while snorkeling. The life guard said it was stolen three weeks ago. I found a golf ball too underwater and put it in an eight inches across pink half ball and will find it again.

     On the hill at Learnards are a bunch of "Hells Angels", types in shredded dungaree vests or jackets with the arms ripped off. A kid said "I want to be a policeman", and a bearded "Angel"' said with a smile on his face, "you know what we do to policemen"'we shoot them. "They are no good, they hit people with there billy clubs, they are no damn good". The kid changed his mind concerning a career choice with a certain newfound prudence. One of the angels looked at me and said "Why the fuck are you staring at me". I said I was just writing a letter, and was looking around the beach at people. I was staring at them: fascinating anti social bunch; language regularly punctuated with words such as "fucking"' etc. I like or at least am impressed by such anti social behavior to a degree. I hardly think I am ready to join a motorcycle gang however.

     Still hot as hell. I am going in the water again. July has arrived : high summer good for beaches, and snorkeling, and swimming, and water,but too damned hot for comfort otherwise. I don't mind the heat as much as some though I went close to bonkers last summer in New Mexico when one night it cooled off to a hundred and where I lost the extension tubes for the macro lens in the creosote desert and started getting scared. I was living in a lost in the desert dream: and the dream lost its romance, it was simply much too hot, and I was thirsty.

 

8-24-78

 

Manx cats with half tails are called stumpies. They are one person cats with loud voices who like to talk and have large hind quarters. In short The Stump seems to have Manx ancestry. Its too bad I can't look at Pam and say Ah.ha. two thirds Greek one fifth Irish one twelfth Protestant, and come out with a computer printout. The Stump is looking out at the rain. All the cats have been acting very cat like; running and pouncing and meowing. I like them even if ambivalent. Nothing is absolute. Pulsar rolled over on the refrigerator looking with pools for eyes and fell right on her ass. Poor cat rolled off most un-catlike, and I laughed. Even cats aren't perfect at things cats are supposed to be perfect at. They have to learn how to balance. Maybe there is something innate about complex behavior but the cats definitely and absolutely have to practice. I have watched Pulsar, the Chevy Chase of cats, fall and misjudge and make a feline fool of herself so often it is expected, but she is learning. I can't get inside their brains, but I love them, even if it's not possible to know whether they love me. I enjoy their company most of the time, and would give a great deal to be able to sleep as comfortably as the Stump curled into a C shape with his head resting over folded furry paws. He just came over to visit. I patted him till he purred vociferously. He is now resting on an old shoe.

 

8-25-78

 

What is the reality of Pam? I just called from making deliveries to ask if she would have lunch with me: no, but will answer my letter, but will not call (probably), or come over. Maybe I'll be better off not seeing her for awhile.

     A hearse with a dragging exhaust system just screeched down the Pike; recycled stiff carrier. I have been at this delivery spot so many times (Newburry St.at Mass Ave.),and watched hitchhikers with signs at the Pike entrance; fantasies of picking up desperate blond on the way to Wyoming.

 

Old things. Sinker and wire, rock, ropes etc. old friends.

 

8-26-78

 

" Is Pfoxer behind me "'I hear Pams voice. I went to Nobscot alone, and sat on the trail all green with moss and overgrown shrubbery. There are good things in you: I love those, first person to be as valuable as my collection of rocks. I know rocks can't call me names or pound me on the head unaided, at least usually, but you were worth it. I like romanticizing you, I need to value another Human being, but the rocks just sit and they feel what I want them to.

 

You meant a lot more to me than the wraith and shadow person. We did things together, I didn't just dream them, and the shadow became real. Old feelings: pre Pam, pre Christy Waterstradt, pre Mrs. Kalckar. I look sadly at the green and yellow leaves and belong here. You whoever you are, when you find this notebook, and if you love me go outside and speak to a rock and tell him he has feelings too.

 

I have been thinking about this book; what it says and what it doesn't. No place does it say that I want a lot of material things. Material things; rocks, sticks, wires, trucks, have always been friends. This is not, and is far different than " materialism ", a need for acquisition, for status, for power, position: Gucci shoes, or a Mercedes 450 SL, or a Sony color television. I do have a liking for some status objects and perhaps some power needs as well, but this book is filled with love needs. Poverty however does not thrill me. I see no positive value in asceticism, and the lack of money can be a serious problem. What I am saying is that a certain amount of money would take away the " problem ", aspect of not being able to pay rent or to eat, and leave me freer to solve other problems. I would and have given up money for a chance to be with Pam. I wish money (all it buys, status, an acquired sense of worth etc.)was not so important to Pam. She needs recognition, she needs love, but can't find it when she is drowning in it. My brain tells me how much better off I will be with a person who wants to "tango" to use Pams phrase. This leaves me free to fantasize some ideal perfect person. I see the danger in this. I am always telling Pam her ideal person can't possibly exist. I am really ready to accept someone far from perfect, but major needs have to be filled this time. Giving love: as I learn to compromise some too so does she. I am going in circles; will write again later.

 

8-28-78

 

I saw two painted turtles underneath Learnards pond. Snorkeling has always been an entrance to a different world. I saw the half ball with the golf ball I found a month ago: but the barrel is gone. A 55 gallon barrel lived for years ten feet beneath this pond with a giant fish inside. The fish was a bass over a foot long and would always escape in the same pattern; left down slope, right across, than sharp right back to the barrel. Certainly the fish had the edge in swimming, but once I learned the pattern I could cut it off at the pass, and be certain of a piscatorial surprise after a few seconds of waiting. I visited that fish every year till last when the barrel turned to rust and disappeared. I don't like things to change. I would have liked to visit that fish every year: like the road side rest area fifty miles south of Albuquerque where the sand begins the creosote desert, and I always know I'll be back.

     Sudbury road - now eight or nine years of visits. The road on the way to Concord where a curve was cut off at least thirty years ago, and allowed to drift back to the natural world. Plants grow through the white line: grapes cover the road in summer, pine needles cover one end ,and it stays the same in patterns and peacefulness. It is a refreshing place for Me. I like the Sudbury road as much as any exotic place probably more. A bright red leaf is on the sand; I put it in my pocket.

 

9-2-78

 

Everything looks clear and sharp. I just went snorkeling again: sheer joy of vigorous exercise, seeing new and old vitality. Slow boring day waiting for the clock to run out; then I came here like a fish. Only slight flaw of ringing in my ears; had for about a month. I wish it would go away: my own private white noise, hope it's not a new and permanent problem. It is most likely either psychological or a minor physical symptom that will clear up in awhile. It worries me because my grandmother always complained of "ringing"' in her ears, but probably a sign of her atheroscleroses. I am too young to be going senile.

     The sun is glinting on the water. I am going to take a picture. I am getting a hamburger than taking a walk with Nikon at the place I often go shooting in Ashland; lots of flowers and ponds and insects.

 

I still miss wipe; but maybe the Pam I miss became a shadow too. Hate today; one Summer day left: bored, and lonesome. Pfoxer fell in the water in yesterdays woods. I dread September. October is nice, and cold with yellow leaves. September is nothing but a dying Summer. It's Pams' favorite month.

     What bothers me most: I am lonesome and miss her and want to sit on the sofa and play wipers, and go for walks in the fall woods with Pfoxer, and she doesn't have the feelings doesn't love. Ann Atherton of San Mateo wanted to be "friends" too. Why do I seek out woman who are safe? Maybe Klauk is on to something in that "winning and losing"' is often the issue behind the walls; and I pick the easy path where I have years of defenses and find losers for women or am I the loser. Ann Atherton though had a boy friend or two, but was certainly available, and I certainly looked; blue eyes and long dark hair. Big old California house: what does it hide, why didn't you show me your room? Why do you wear a diamond ring, what secrets? You looked wonderful in red next to the telescopes overlooking Alcatraz island, and hanging from the cable cars. Images from another place. I never did get to Haight or Sausolito or the California scene, but that was never really my trip though with you it might have been fun. What happened to Flower children, Moonies, Hare Krishna, LSD., and peace symbols? I was really outside of that too, and maybe glad of it. Pam spent those years believing "more people died in Vietnam then in any other war": a second lost generation isolated from history, caught up in self and time, ignorant and suffering. Some good came out of that, and some bad: a more open society much more accepting of individual lifestyle choices, and differences. Damn few cowboys and crackers left; And now a more "mellow"' radicalism too. The Russians are still the bad guys, little has changed. No: lots of things have changed, but some things whether good or bad are not known yet.

     Sonja Kalckar comes to mind; she called me for a date because her mother asked her to, and we went often to Haight Ashbury East, to Harvard square. We slid on the ice sidewalks, climbed trees in Harvard yard, and looked in a store that sold bowls she liked. When I stepped in front of a window full of magnifying glasses she kept on walking, her meager brain Humming a tune of Bobby Dillons and forgetting my name.

     I should write something about Amy Speiler: realistically the closest female friend I had till Pam Alexander, and also realistically equally unattainable. I was always a "friend", she found boy friends elsewhere. She said that I was "too special"' to more or less violate with sexual impurities;(her idea).She really needed to talk to someone, and be open to orange roads in the Red Desert, and not be threatened by a "lover". I hope, her second marriage doesn't go the way of her first. She was "attracted" to someone of apparently a beach boy physique, and jock personality. She eloped despite parental pleas to the contrary. He was the equivalent of my "dumb blond"' stereotype. After the sex Amy was left with a brutish insensitive kid, and the marriage was annulled. She needed a sensitive friend, and I was that, and I was safe because I was frightened off and "needed"' perhaps a more aggressive female to break the ice. So we fit. I took her to the desert for most of a week and we camped in an area the size of Connecticut where we were the only Human beings. We both gained. I lost some of my fear of female people, and she found a male person who loved sand, and toads, and lizards ,and badlands and sunsets. She loved to cook: had a lazy Susan filled with vitamins ,and a rack filled with bibles. She was enjoyably theological. She read all the books from Bahai to Mormon and at least was able to laugh about them; to question the frightful book of Revelation, but not to mire herself in absolutism. Wonderful abstract conversation, but we never held each other, and she married a damned Mormon in Boise Idaho. OK. I am a little mad; but I doubt this is right for her. I bet she runs out on # 2 and collects husbands all her life. A Pam with some lust: different, but still filled with sorrows, acting out, and problems.

 

I am a good teacher despite any hidden reasons for teaching. If a few kids like what I say it will make a difference. The truth is in Biology that we are not the crowning glory of creation: only all life together; what I showed Amy in the desert, and when I saw rainbows at night by the butte alone, and silent. I must take more pictures, and get them published, and write books; this is the goal and what counts, and how I can matter in a life that always turns to dust at the end.

    

8-22-92

 

I am cutting into the old notebook because I just talked to a nice woman named Sarah. Its to early to say if this will lead anywhere, but the conversation triggered old feelings. Someone has to know about the nicenesses. The second Pam called me that once when she was still a trout. She said "you are the nicenesses", and reached inside where no one else has ever been able. I felt valuable, and needed, and loved more deeply and at a new found level then I believed possible. She was wearing a wool coat and her beret, and she put her arms around me, and gave me a hug that will hold me till the end.

     Once a time later I said,"tell me I am the nicenesses again", and she said "no". Everything I loved was betrayed. It was bad enough letting her use my phone to call Mr. Michael who she told me was a friend who took her dancing, but she made love to Scotty with bouncing springs heard through the wall. I never loved anyone so much and never hurt so much. Sometimes it all comes back: I used to go by her old apartment next to mine and slow down as though she was really still home. Once when I was still a Mrout she came over and found a dehydrated kiwi fruit in the refrigerator. She laughed and told me that she also would buy odd strange vegetables, and then somehow never eat them. The day she moved away with Scotty I left a kiwi fruit in her mailbox. She took it out and put it in mine; a reminder of all we had and lost. I kept it in the refrigerator where it still sits shriveled and dried up in the corner next to the spring water.

 

 

Back to about 1979 or 80

 

Dream: I had a box of gold which I took to Switzerland. It was valued at 250.000 dollars and I was given a check. I was home (Grove St.) and lost the check. My father was insulting me, and telling my mother not to lend me fifteen dollars because my wallet was empty.

Reality: My mother cleaned out the room next to the garage, and I have to go over there and pick through the last remnants of my things, and take them away. My mother always cleaned out my things and my father always insisted "everything has to go"' and I could keep a few things hidden away. I will look through old boxes that mean nothing to anyone else: old magazines, a few rusty toys from a long time ago, ropes wires and sticks. My favorite thing at the old house and first Framingham house was a fish net, and when I was gone to Parsons college my mother purged the garage and threw it out.

 

Student teaching: all I wanted to do was leave the first day. Very difficult. One girl said " you are a good teacher ", and really made me feel good. I am not overwhelmed by the few trouble makers. They are a minimal problem although I was very worried about how to handle them. Most kids listen. I have to be the maximum leader like a dictator giving directions for everything, and slowing down so twelve year olds can keep up. Lots to learn: the data base of twelve year olds is very small; must repeat, and ease up. Mr. Kioses said student teachers common problem is going to fast. I am learning and receiving constructive criticism which is not meant to hurt and doesn't. Certainly I have gained a great deal by a few weeks of this. Overcoming fear of speaking to a group: realizing that the problems of twelve year olds fighting are not necessarily my problems anymore, feeling some respect which I never felt working on newspapers as a public dreg. I am most amazed that I can get up at 7:00 AM. and go to sleep at a reasonable hour; didn't think I could do it.

     Do I really belong here though? I want to visit all the wild places in the West with a 4x5 camera, and with Pam and Pfoxer for company. I am lonesome and have to create: or is a classroom my creative medium?

     I feel trapped. No money - will have to get an uninspiring job at Lechmere, and no trips. Have to die sometime; may as well see crocodiles and lions first. Will I be happier spending the rest of my life in Framingham going through one peer group phase after another: apartment, decorative wife, fancy car or whatever is the next status entity. Maybe I'll find someone to share the kind of life I want. If there are such people - have to know what I really want first. I definitely want recognition and some power, as a tool to get what I want; black footed ferrets in Alaska.

 

9-28-78

 

This time she would not go on a trip. The first time she didn't "maybe"' an absolute no, maybe forever.

     I cant go alone anymore. Kelty is packed and ready to go, but I am empty. This time all my cards were face up and on the table and it did not matter. Much feeling is missing and wrung out; though I start to cry sometimes I think she is a damned fool, that must be the difference, I don't blame me anymore at least not totally.

     Not too far below the surface and I know there is anger though there is still a lot of love and it hurts. Exactly one year ago we went to Mt. Washington; the first trip after not seeing each other for six months. It was troubled, not perfect, but filled with hope. Would I really marry her? No doubt for a time it would have taken little. I told Debby, and Edmunds, and everyone knew. Every one except Pam.

     The Stump is curled up beside me purring. The sad comes back when I think of Pfoxer, and it makes me cry. She will be very sorry later when I hunt black footed ferrets, and she stays alone with Dan; and she picked that road alone. She will miss Mt. Washington too, and right now misses patting this curled up purring cat.

     I just went to my road: dying Fall color, I took 27 pictures. I showed this road to Pam. It was one of the first things I showed her at the beginning of our relationship. The road is still peaceful and time spins in circles.

 

1. The camera show when you told me good-by, that it was best not to see each other - that Dan was your special person, that I would have to accept that or get lost - I hurt for a year.

 

2. The time I said I needed you to come and you never came, and.

 

3. The trip, I could not come unless that girl came otherwise you would not come.

  

4. The time I had some water in a pot and sat on the floor and cried for a blur.

 

5. The time at Edmunds house when I didn't know what anyone was saying. Empty - empty I don't feel that much any more and am very wary.

 

The cats were chasing and snapping. Around the light was an ugly strange and very large insect. I was afraid to catch it in my hand. I didn't want it to get eaten, but knew that if Sirius ate it I would be relieved of having to rescue it. I didn't know what to do. The insect flapped away to the goose neck portion of the light. I grabbed it in a lens case, and let it go outside.

 

Dear Pam;

     Sirius was chasing a particularly large and ugly insect; flapping almost bat like around the light. The poor creature was doomed. It had a right to live: the cat could eat Calo, so I decided to rescue it. It's easy to catch a moth between both hands: sometimes with only one hand; the plan being - catch the moth and take it outside. I saw it land on the goose neck half way between the bulb and the lamp base. I idled over slowly; it wasn't a moth! It had mandibles half an inch long, and four membranous black veined wings, and two furry feelers. Even worse with all the knowledge I have of insects I had no idea whatsoever what this creature was. I could not even assign it an order i.e. a fly, beetle etc.

 

Three years ago -- sometimes memory is deep.

Today I drove to a dirt road for a picture I could not take before for lack of a lens. I borrowed the lens needed today and drove down a dirt road.

I reached a pond a long time ago. I took Pam's picture past the pond in a small field with the same camera. A small knob was twisted from N to M for mirror up. None of the pictures came out

     I took my picture; maybe it came out, but Pam is gone. Maybe

 

June 1979

 

Last night was freezing: I dreamt Amy Speiler came and I held her because she was warm. In a few minutes I looked down, and she turned into Oscar the cat. I was amazed. Oscar was at least three or four times bigger than the real Oscar; at least as big as a large dog.

     It's June tenth or so, but Wyoming Rocky mountain weather: as dry clear, and blue as when Amy was real. I never held her like in the dream; but we went to the Red desert together, and lots of places where the weather was clear cold and blue. And we saw a badger at night who looked like eight cats.

     And now: memories weave together; the fool, married a welder in Pocotello Idaho.

     Maybe I will write her a letter today - she was an exercise in the Pam relationship: a test before the final exam. She wanted to be " friends "' too; said I was too special to be otherwise. Maybe I ought to be a nun.

     Now it's morning: my very favorite blue weather, and Oscar the cat is purring and rubbing against me, and The Stump is sitting on a chewed up letter to the Oyers.

     West on my brain. In one month I will be in New Mexico, and maybe four corners, and the Hopi reservation. Shiprock is an evil place; it frightens me. If I can drive around it on the way to Hopi I will. I don't think it's haunted: I know it is.

    

June 16,79