Installment 3 of under the pond:

060915 Mow and pack
    Tuesday August 15, 2005, 4:19 PM  I just finished mowing the lawn.  It took me 28 minutes but I didn't do the best job ever.
    4:28  Now I am out walking.  I have to walk about 17 minutes to make up the rest of my constitutional for the day.  I am walking down toward the park.  I see a few places on the lawn that I missed.  I mowed it sooner than I would have otherwise because I'll be busy tomorrow and I am leaving Thursday.  The problem was, with the grass not being fully grown out and the dappled shade and the circuitous path in some places, I couldn't always see where I'd already mowed.  OH well, I was careful along the edges of the street and going through where the brush pile had been because there I could go straight and there I could see the path made by the wheels and the difference in the height of the grass.

* * *

Under the Pond Continued

    Sassy stroked the material of her dress.  It was smooth and silky, satiny soft and pleasing to the touch.  It was chiffonier than it seemed as if it should be, almost ethereal.  She liked the way it felt, but she couldn't see herself at the pond's edge catching frogs in such an outfit.  And frog-catching was her favorite activity.
    She glanced at Lonnie and saw that while his face looked like Billy's, his expression did not.  He had a dreamy, relaxed friendly look.   His eyes glowed with happiness.  And his clothes--he'd been wearing Billy ratty cutoff's and Power Ranger T-shirt, but now he too was dressed in satin, in a shimmering satin shirt open at the throat and a satin skirt. A skirt.  He was wearing a skirt.
    Sassy thought of the bagpipe players she'd watched at the Celtic festival.  They had skirts on.  But they didn't call them skirts; they called them kilts.  Her friend Marty had whispered to her that they didn't wear underwear under their kilts and she and Sassy had squatted down pretending to pick up some cards they'd dropped, but they couldn't see high enough under the kilts to see if the men with their hairy legs and bulging calf muscles were wearing underwear.
    Sassy flushed, looking at Lonnie and his skirt. It didn't look like the kilts the men had worn at the Celtic festival.  It was a softer and finer material, no plaid or pleats.  But the question of whether Lonnie wore undies brought color to her cheeks, she could feel it.
    She looked down.  At that moment, there was a loud trumpeting sound, a long bark of sound barely akin to music, followed by 3 sharp short barks, and Lonnie tackled her, knocking her to the floor of the open carriage. 
    He shoved her under the seat and crawled in with her.  "Get back, get back," he said, "it's an aerial dragon attack."

*   *   *

To be continued (I only had ten minutes to write today).

Under The pondweed part 2

Trumpets sounded, and Sassy turned toward the sound.  Coming out of a large stone castle was a parade of white horses decked out in dark red velvet.  Lonnie stood up tall, pulling Sassy beside him.  Tall knights in armor dismounted and came forward with a tiara and a small crown.  They bowed deeply, placed the crown on Lonnie's head, and then turned to Sassy and placed the tiara on hers.  A coach had appeared and Lonnie and Sassy were escorted into the coach, which headed toward the castle.

          Sassy looked at her watch.  "I hope this won't take too long," she whispered, "I have to be home for my clarinet practicing in half an hour or I'll get in trouble."

          "Well, the prenuptials will take three days, and feasting five days, but we should get you back in time," Lonnie said. 

          "Wait, what?  Huhn?"  Sassy was looking down at herself now, because Something strange was happening to her clothes.  Her cut-offs had disappeared and so had her Beaver Lake Nature Center T-shirt.  She was wearing a white satin gown with tiny pink flowers along the ribbons of lace.  It was smocked and tucked and petticoated.  And her sneakers were gone.  She was wearing white slippers.

"I don't wear dresses," she said, turning to Lonnie.  "I never wear dresses, never." 

"I don't see a dress," Lonnie said, smiling.  And here were her shorts again.  But in moment, the dress shimmered back into being.  If anything, it seemed fluffier and more girly than it had before.  Sassy was a frog catcher and an adventurer, not a princess.  Something was wrong with this picture.

To be continued.

Mary

Under the Pondweed Journal 1st draft

Rob's birthday
aig
060812 Loretto Quarry 3
    Saturday, August 12, 2006, 10:49 AM  I am waiting for Sara at Loretto--abd here she is!
    5:03PM I just packed one small box and carried it to the garage.  I have a load of laundry going and just washed and put away some dishes. Earlier, we visited Mom. Erin came.  Then we walked at the quarry, abeautiful sunnyday with a nicebreeze. Eeyore woulnd't work.  Guess I will have to get her fixed.  Sigh. I'd write about  it but don't want to take the time. I'm feeling depressed.  I need to work.
    I've been working, and I got another load of laundry going, but I still feeel depressed.  I am stiff and working is harder thanit should be.
    Sunday, 8:27 PM  Iam out on myconstitutional and I have to "hurry" by which Imeeanmakesurenot to walk ay extra in oder to be back in time totalk to Keith and Graham.
    I'm cutting it very close.
    Meanwhile, in the 43 remaining minutes, 42 now I am going to attempt a story.
    Under the Pondweed
    Sassy crouched at the side of the pond, looking deep into the half murky water where the tadpoles had stirred up mud and it was slowly settling.  She'd caught and released seven frogs, and now she wanted a tadpole. Not any tadpole, but the big one with back legs and the little stubs of front legs and the face that was already a little squarish, instead of perfectly round, or as Dad would say, ovoid.
    That tadpole was a teenager, Sassy reasoned.  It still had a long tail, a very long tail, and its legs were still relatively small.  But it wasn't a kid tadpole who had no legs at all.
    There it was, lying alongside a submerged branch, looking like a knot in the branch and not at all like a tadpole, but Sassy saw it, and with a sudden lightning strike, she had it.  And though she had struck quickly, she cradled the tadpole carefully in the palm of hand, keeping water around it so it could breathe.  Even though it was a teenage frog, it still had gills and couldn't breathe air.  She wondered then how that difficult transition must work, from breathing water to breathing air.
    She was admiring the tadpole, who after attempting vigorously to escape, now lay still in the palm of her hand in the rapidly draining pool of water there.
    "Kiss it": Billy shouted. When had Billy arrived?  If she'd seen him coming, she'd have beat a hasty retreat.  She just couldn't stand him, hew as the epitome of obnosticity, as her Mom sometimes whispered after Billy had left the house with her brothers.
    "I'd rather kiss the tadpole, than you, any day, Billy Sampson!" she said to him, in a low hiss.
    "Do it, then, or are you a sissy? Billy taunted.  Sassy, who was no kid's sissy, leaned over and gave the tadpole a little kiss on the top of it's slimy little head, and it grew in her hand.  "It's turning into a prince," shrieked Billy, "and you . . ."  But Sassy never heard what Billy was going to say, or what he did say, perhaps, because his voice was a roar in her head and then the water closed over her.
    She coughed and wheezed and suddenly, she could breathe.  Not by breathing water into her lungs.  Instead, she had gills, she could feel them, long and feathery around her neck like a living necklace. Some movement on the surface of the pond frightened her, and she swam for cover, swam deep into the pong and wriggled into the mud.  There she lay, terrified and stupid.  But after the panic subsided, she realized where she was, under the water of the pond. 
    Carefully, for she now had a great fear of things that ate little creatures, she wriggled up out of the mud, little by little, until she could look around
    Mud was raining from the sky, little bits of dirt and plants that had been stirred up were now quietly settling.
    And there, a little ways away, was the tadpole she had kissed.  She was sure it was the same one, because it was the only one who was as well developed.  Other tadpoles lying around looked younger, like Billy and her brother were younger than she was.
    The tadpole, though, was huge.  They all were.  But wait, she'd only kissed one of them.
    Sassy slowly realized that that the tadpole had not grown in her hand, but that she had shrunk.
    Watch out, came a voice, the dragon is behind you. :  Without looking back, Sassy swam toward the tadpole. She was sure the voice had come from him.  Then, close beside him, she turned and looked behind her, and sure enough, a large cumbersome dragon-like creature was walking slowly toward them    She knew what it was right away.  It was a dragonfly nymph.  They were vicious, but off to the side another far worse monster, a hellgrammite.  These things devoured tadpoles bite by bloody bite, while they were still alive.
    Come with me, the reassuring voice said. It sounded in her head.  And she realized it was not a voice, but thought impressions, visual pictures that formed in her mind, along with reassuring feelings. 
    The tadpole she had kissed started swimming slowly toward the center of the pond, under the duckweed and the strands of stringy green algae. 
    "Wait," Sassy thought at him, "what is your name?"
    "Lonny," came the answer, immediately.
    "I'm Sassy," she said, following him. 
    Lonnie headed for a large submerged log under the deepest part of the pond. He swamp inside. It was dark, who could tell what monsters might be inside there.  But Lonnie said follow so she did. He seemed trustworthy, though her Mom always said, "Don't trusts strangers."  And who could be much stranger than a tadpole?
    Sassy could see nothing.  But she could tell she was with Lonnie, she could feel him nearby somehow.  He turned downward into another tunnel. She couldn't see it at all, but could feel it.  Then, the tunnel turned up again in a way that made her think of a beaver lodge.
    A little light began to slow from somewhere, and then more.  They ran into something that felt like a barrier, like an elastic skin,.  It seemed impenetrable, but suddenly, it faded away and they passed through and came up again in the pond.  It seemed like the same pond, only different.  "Maerddth," Lonnie said, as if that would mean anything to her.
    When they came to the shore of the pond, Lonnie lay at the very edge and slowly, slowly pushed his head out of the water. He indicated that she should do the same.  She heard him breathing and then she was breathing, breathing air as if she'd never been under the water.  She crawled out on land and stood up and looked down at herself.  She was human again with legs and shoes and clothes.    She looked toward Lonnie and shrieked, taking a step away.  He had turned into her arch enemy, Billy.
    What's wrong? Asked Billie. But it wasn't exactly Billie's voice, it was mostly Lonnie's voice, the voice she had heard in her head under the pond.
    "You look like Billy," she said.  "I hate Billie."
    "I'm not Billie, he said, I'm Lonnie. I'm a merboy, and I've taken the likeness of the closest human so you can talk tome and I can talk to you."
    "Oh, but why Billy  UGH!"
    "I'm not Billie, I promise you.  I am a tadpole and a merboy.  What is it you dislike about this Billie person? Tell me,so I won't be like him. 
    "He kills frogs," she blurted, and tadpoles.  And that makes me mad, because I like frogs and tadpoles.
    "Yes, said Lonnie, "I could tell by the gentle way you held me, and by the way you released my friends and my parents, after scaring them half to death by catching them
    "I'm sorry.  I never thought they had that much feeling. I mean, I knew they must be afraid . . . "
    "Terrified," Lonnie corrected, "afraid for their very lives."
    She saw a picture in her mind of a great blue heron swooping down its spear-like beak to grab a frog and felt the mortal terror the frog felt as the beak plunged toward him.  Lonnie's way of talking with pictures and feeling was much more forceful than normal talking, which she had learned to screen out half the time, blabbing teachers and lecturing parents and obnoxious boys.  to be continued
   

In the Skytop Quarry again

060809 Quarry 2 Wednesday, August 9, 2006, 1:14 PM
    I am in the quarry that Sara and I went to on Sunday morning.  Mary Nicky is very happy.  Mary Nicky, for those infidels who haven't met her yet, is my inner child, usually around age 10.  Or 11 or 12.  Mary Nicky LOVES to explore, its one of her favorite things to do (she has lots of favorites, but clearly exploring is one of the best.  And this quarry is HUGE with LOTS of trails all over, many layers, old abandoned buildings and ruins, interesting f flora and fauna.  Mary Nicky would like to spend the day here wandering around but some big meany (Big Mary) says we have to go back and get to work.  Mary Nicky is particularly unfond of working.  She's rather play.
    Mary Nicky loves the many hidden places, the twists and turns, the piles and cliffs (she loves the cliffs!).
    We just saw one of those giant wasps, the cicada eating wasps, and we took as good a look at it as we dared, MN and I (I'm big Mary today, sad to say.)  And we decided that it is NOT golden all over, it just looks that way from the rapid wing beats, and that it is indeed one of those Cicada eating wasps Sara sent us the link to.  That solves that question, at least tentatively.  We might be wrong, but it sure looks like it.
    Eeyore isn't working, at all.  We're carrying tons of lenses and equipment that we can't use.  And Nikki is essentially useless out here with no viewfinder.  Nikki is an indoor camera, worthless outside.  When I try to look at the screen, all I see, literally is my own face.  UGH!
    What I am doing is point Nikki in the general direction of whatever I want to capture and pushing the button.  There's NO framing involved at all. 
    Some guy, young guy on a mountain bike just rode by carrying a shovel. His whole body was covered with tattoos and his black hair was sort of ratty looking.  He had a pleasant face, but he avoided looking at me and rode into the rough stuff off the trail even though I stepped to the side to let him pass.
    The cicadas are going crazy.  It was wonderfully cool last night, but it's supposed to be 88-90 this afternoon.
    I parked in the lot that goes with the building where Erin works and walked over here past the SU research center parking area etc.
    I am on my way back even though Mary Nicky wanted to stay longer.  I promised her we'd try to come again, maybe many times when we visit Mom and explore the area more fully. 
    Now I am out in the questionable area between the quarry and Erin's work.  I feel a little less concerned now, because if they tell me to leave, I'll just leave, which is what I want to do anyway.
    It turned out to be easy to get here from Loretto.  I'd come up this way before, but when I saw the guardhouses and street closed signs, I got nervous and left.  This time, I kept coming and no one stopped me.  So, if I make it safely back to the car and the car has not been ticketed or towed, I can try it again next time.
    YAY.  Mary Nicky says, "Can we visit Mommy tomorrow? And then go explore?" 
    "No, I tell her, "we have too much work to do."
    "Yuck!" she says, I'd rather play."
    So would I of course, since Mary Nicky is a big part of who I am.  But I want to be with Keith and Graham, be moved, be done at the house. So I have to bit the bullet and buckle down.
    But first, dang it, I have to have lunch, shop, take care of the garbage etc etc.  Then I have to work on my State Fair pictures. 
    I have ONE mostly done, one partly done, and two not done at all.  AK!  After all that, they may not even get accepted.
    1:38  I am back to my car which has not been towed or ticketed, and that's good news because it means I can do it again.
    I walked 48 minutes, which is not bad.  Only 3 extra minutes over unfamiliar ground.
    I HATE the spacebar on Psions!
    I was just thinking of the things that my narration probably does not even begin to convey:  the brilliant inescapable sunshine and reflected light at the quarry (Keith might not like that), the green and yellow greens of the vegetation, the expanses of rock and gravel, the painted abandoned buildings brilliantly colored in the somewhat sterile landscape, the intersecting trails and the terraces of rock and gravel.  Old quarries are such interesting areas.  The rusted machinery, the old power lines and old signs.
    Old quarries are not necessarily healthy environmentally, but they are interesting.

At the Quarry and Goat-N

060809 Quarry 2 Wednesday, August 9, 2006, 1:14 PM

I am in the quarry that Sara and I went to onSunday morning. Mary Nicky is very happy. Mary Nicky, for those infidelswho haven't met her yet, is my inner child, usually around age 10. Or 11 or 12. Mary Nicky LOVES to explore, its one of her favorite things to do (she has lots of favorites, but clearly exploring is one of the best. And this quarry is HUGE with LOTS of trails all over, many layers, old abandoned buildings and ruins, interestingf lora and fauna. Mary Nicky would like tospend the day here wandering around but some bigmeany (Big Mary) says we have to go back and get to work. Mary Nicky is particularly unfond of working. She's rather play.

Mary Nicky loves the many hidden places, the twists and turns, the piles and cliffs (she loves the cliffs!).

We jsut saw one of thosegiant wasps, the cicada eating wasps,and we took as good a look at it as we dared, MN and I (I'm big Mary today, sad to say.) And we decided that it is NOT golden all over,it just looks that way from the rapid wingbeats, and that it is indeed one of thoseCicada eating wasps Sara sentus thelink to. That solves that question, at elast tentatively. We might be wrong, but it sure looks like it.

Eeyore isn't working, at all. We're carrying tons of lenses and equipment that we cab't use. And Nikki is essentially useless out here with no viewfinder. Nikki is an indoor camera, worthless outside. When I try tolook at the screen, all I see,literally ismy own face. UGH!

What I am doing is point Nikki in the geral direction of whatever Iwant to captureand pushing the button. There's NO framing involed at all.

Some guy, young guy on amountain bikejust roade by carrying a shovel. His whole body was vovered with tatoos and his blackhair was sort of ratty looking, He had a pleasant face, but he avoided looking atme and rode into the rough stuff off the trail even though I stepped to the side to let himpass.

The cicadas 9or going crazy. It was wonderfully cool last night, but it's supposed to be 88-90 this afternoon.

I parked in the lot that goes with the building where Erin works and walked over here past the SU research center parking area etc.

I am on my way back even though Mary Nicky wanted to stay longer. I promised her we'd try to come again,mabe many times when we visit Mom and explore the area more fully.

Now Iam out in the questionable area between the quarry and Erin's work. I feel a little less concerned now,becauseif they tell me to elave, I'll just leave,which is what I want to do anyway.

It turned out to be easy to get here from Loretto. I'd comeup this way before,but when I saw the guard houses and street closed signs, I got nervous and left. This time, I kept coming and no one stopped me. So,if I amke it safely back to the car and thecar has not been ticketed or towed, I can try it again next time.

YAY. Mary Nicky says, "Can we visit Mommy tomoorw? and then go explore?"

"No, I tell her,wehave too much work to do."

"YuK!" shesays, I'drather play."

So would I of course, since Mary Nicky is a bigpart of who I am. But Iwantto be with Keith and Graham, be moved, be done at the house. So I have to bit the bulelt and buckle down.

But first, dang it, I have to have lunch, shop, take care of the garbage etc etc. Then I have to work onmy State Fair pictures.

I have ONE mostly done,onepartly done,and two not done at all. AK! After all that, they may not even get accepted.

1:38 Iamback to my car which hasnotbeen towed orticketed, and that's goodnewsbecauseitmeansI cando itagain.

I walked 48 minutes, which is not bad. Only 3 extra minutes over unfamiliar ground.

I HATE the spacebar on Psions!

I was just thinking of the things that my narration probably does not even begin to convey: the brillian unescapable sunshine and reflected light atthe quarry (Keithmight not like that), the green andyellow greens of the vegetation,the expanses of rock and gravel, the painted abandonedbuildings brilinatly colored in the somewhat sterile lanscape, the intersecting trails andthe terraces of rock and gravel. Old quarries are such interesting areas. The rusted machinery, the old power lines and old signs.

Old quarries are not necessarily helthyenvironemtnally,but they are interesting.

2:22 PM (really.) I just arrived home. It took me longer than it should have because I drove back Jamesvilleto Ainsley to Brighton,only to discover the on ramp to 81 was closed and I had to go all the way back andget on at Colvin. And THEN,when I was most of the way home, I remebered that I had wanted to go to Commercial art supply. WAHN. But it's 2:25 and I haven't hadlunch and Iam really really HUNGRY.

I am cooking a frozen hamburger left from one of Keith's spaghetti batches. I have to shop. I'mout of food--no meat, fish, fruit, vegetables etc.

While the hamburger was cooking,Imadeseven trips to the curb with onelarebag of trash, 4recycling bins,and two extra loads of recylcing bags.

I am thinking that even if I'd bought lunch, I might have saved money by going to Commercial art and nothaving to drive back there. My hamburger is frozen in themiddle andburnt on the outside when I comeback in. I eat itanyway, I'm hungry.

Actually, I guessitis not going to be that hot today,they say,not that it is cool. And Friday it is supposed to be "crisp."

And I carry out a fifth recycling bin. And I carry out a box of stuff to go to Detroit.

3:42 PM I just sorted another bag of recycling and carried it outto the curb.. It's not what I want tobe doing. I wnat to be working on my art and photography for the state fair. But today is trash day and it seemslike I should domy best to get as much as possible out of the house. It makes it easier to see what remains to be done. Each one of those bags,and there are a lot of them now, at least 13 that I can see clearly from here, repesents an hour or two ormore of sorting. It'snot that much stuff. But it'sthe best I can do.

Meanwhile, poet CK Williams is on the radio aspart of aprogram on arts and 911.

4:09 PM I justcarried out a fourteenth bag of sorted recycling. It was abag I'dbeen sorting in the livingroom and was already half to 3/4 full when I started on it, and I stuffed some gift boxes in it andthen sat and sorted more stuff. It's the sorting that's slow. I completed sorting another box of stuff. I don't want to be sorting but tomorrow morning they will be coming for the trash. Dang though, State fair receiving daysbegin TOMORROW. I really need to prepare my work. AK! What to do??? What to do?? I don't know how long the prep will take for the pix. Icons and images took a LONG time!

I feel suddenly a little sad. I'mtrying so hard tobe good,to work hard,andwhatdo I get for it? Apile of garabage! And Marguerite says to me, "do you think you'll be done in a week?" That's what I keep getting frompeople. It's very disheartening.

I'm sorry. :-( Taking out the garbage just is NOT fun, and doinbg it seven days a week is even less fun!

Thursday,August 10, b2006, 6:26 PM Iam out walking. It will be tight gettingback by timeto talk to Keith and Graham. I wishwalking walking fasterwould solve the problem,but, as I'vementionedbefore,it does not.

The sun has already set. The sky is pinkandornageand salmonint he west and the clouds are blue and multiple shadesof grey. They are testured in tinyclumos, a rather uncommon sky.And hereand there nitsof smears of smaller puffs,fractal-like sections fromthelargerpuffs. Ebven the largeones aresmall relativeto normal clouds.

I should work onmy novel,butIhaven't had timetoconsiderandappropriate 1 inch squarewindow. I consider havingfound the journal I keptat the crash pad and various other places to be a big help with the timeline,but ofcourse, Idon'thave it withme.

I love Janine'sblog andwould likeperhaps towrite some blog entries like hers,but it seems thatwriting soemthing that good and thatthoughtful would takemoretimethan I have available.

I'vebeen thinking about theending of the Goat bovel. Right now, Iam intendingtoend it when Strom goes back to school full time. At ESF. It's theend ofanera and thebeginning of a newlife. But it continues to afect Stromthroughout the upcoming years. There is noeasy dividing place.

In real life,I divorcedPeter, or hedivorced me,whenhe wantedtoarry patty. THat happened,I believe, when I was already at ESF. It ws twoto three years after we split up, afterpeterleft with Patty on the crosscountrytripandI stayed gratefully behind.

In thenovel, I think I wouldlike Storm to get the diivorcepapers int hemail the days she starts school at ESF as a symbol of the cutting of ties andbeginningof a wholenewlife. I would likeher tomeet Chris, Craig and Raythefirst day,as anecho ofmeeting thegoat clanpeoplethe first day at SKU. Instead of Eric the Flasher, she'll get invited to stomping, and told thatwill mean hiking in the woods, and object to the idea of stompingflowers, and find this new groupintersting and the book willend with them about to walk into cemetery ,anothersymbol of theendingand tet, thebeginning. Therehas to flowers and happiness and hope. Closings andopenings.

OK, well, thtareaffirms the endingof goatandleaves open awholenew spacefor another verydifferent book.

ont heother hand, JimAlexander seemslikesomething out of the otd story. A sort of uglyextendion of that,whichalmost seemstoneed to ebin there. Butthtaelaves the story open-enedagain,whichisnotsi bad. Or,thenew novel could be aboust abuse and Jim could be thefirst instanceof that. But Peter was Storm'sfirst abuser,so what about that?

well, the newnovel couldbackgtrack alittle,or useflashbacks.

q BeforeIcan really write thegoat novel,itneeds a container, a timeframe. Ido liektheidea of framing itover theperiodfrom starting onecollegeto thenext.

I need that book Erin gave me how to writeasamn goodnovel,LOL. Only thatkindof novel is notneceesarily thekindof novelthat Iwantto write. That is anaction novel Idowant action and conflict, and thereis lots of it. Butalso taestry and character.

Like TC Boyle'sdrop City, only different, onlymyversion of it.. But not really, because there will be more than oncecommune thatrises and falls.

For the sake of the novel,itcouldbe,like drop City,onemobile commune,the Goat Commune, moving about with Storm as the seedstone. That wouldn'tbe that far from thetruthof it.

Someone diesin Drop City and someone does inmy book, too. Heis theacid pusher and peacemaker. The bigsmile. Thereislittle about himthat sets himup asthe oneto die.

There are somany chgaracter, such a total pagentry ofcjaracters whoenter stormslife,but forthenovel,they have to be whittled down and combined. Iemtntioned earlier the improtnace of having some continuity, some continuous characters. Theone who dies needs to comeearly and be important, at leastto some extent.

I'mhaving somehealth issues I rarely have inB'ville andusally onlly have in Detroit. The currentoneis theneedto go to the bathroomwhile I'mwalking and I hiope I make it safely home.

I've walked 35minutes,andImay have to cutmywalkshort to go in and usefacilties and if so, I won'thave time to go back out.

First, I have to get home.

OK,back to the dead guy.Why is there a dead uy in all my books? Well,this is a real guy who diedand itfits inthe story. But unless I rearrnage theelemnts, it doesn'tfit inas well asin TC Boyle's book.

Then trhere's a dead girl. For real. She ODed on heroine. Only about 19 yearsold. Shelived with us.

She was rich Jeweish "pincess",small,pretty,vicacious,nice.

I pass somepeople with a dog walking the other way. Theywalk out aroundme. Iamon the correct sideof the road. They are not.

No one seems to knowany morehow to park at parking metersor which side of the road to walk on or even how to properly use a toielt.

There are cars racing at thefulton Speedway, I can hear them real It doesn't look that low.

ly well, so the ceiling must be really low tonight

None of my dead people aregoing to die in a plane crash in Alaska,proving how stupid and naivehippes were.

I walked 44 and a half minutes,not too bad, I canlive with taht. I could walk up and down the stairs for 30 second

Deathhs:

• Nancy ODedon Heroine

• what's his name was shot outsde the Wescott Street Grocery store strying to break up a fight That really ahppened. Both really happened.

Thenthere is Luke falling out of thedormwindowandsurving--but being brain damaged.

I can't remember the guy who gots hot'ss name. I haven't been able to remeber it for along time. I don't need to though. I cnagive hima name.

August 8, 2006 poems and a story and journalling

•           email Katie Rapp

•           recertifiation

060730 Another imbrookwalk

Sunday, July 30, 2006, 8:23 PM I am out on my night constitutional under a waxing crescent moon and the incessant cicada song. The sky is a gradiet of pale pastel blues and pinks with thin wispy clouds in abrighter honey pink,somealmost firey. The sunhad already set,which gives me a feeling of deep urgency. 

                A lot of things are making me feel urgent at the moment.  I want to be back to talk to keith and Graham at 9:15 and I need to timemy walk in oder to that, particularly carefully. Not to stop too often, or I won't get my 45 minutes in.  To further complicate things, I have't yet had dinner and I doubt I cando it in the possible space of time betwen the end of the walkand9:15.  To further complicate things, I also havenot had lunch,so I am very hungry, and would prefer to eat.  But Idecided it was more important to walk than eat because I can eat more easily when I'mtired than I can walk.  I didhave a bigandlatebreakfast, but no so big and late that I am notnow at 8:30 PM not hungry.  In fact I am quite hungry.

                To further complcatethings, I finished boxing up the pictures I've been working on for the Iconsand Images show,and went up to email Katie Rapp to find out if Icould deliver them tomorrow,and when I opened myemail, there were several other urgentemails and I got distratced by them and did not email Katie Rapp so I have torememberto do so.  It's hard formetoremember certain thingswhen Iamworried about makingthese little deadlines, toomany things tojuggle around in my mind at once. 

                I have an appointment to meet with Scott and walk tomorrow at 3R at 4 PM and would like to take the pictures to Katie in to timetoreach 3R a little before that.

                I wnat to get the pictures delivered so I can go on to thenext thing.

                Thenext thing is the 4 pictures for the Stae GFair.  Oneis prnted already but has tobe framed. 3more have to be printeand one needs tobe framed and two need to be matted.  I would like to get them doneand redy so Ican stopworrying about them and get on to thenext thing which is workingon the DARN HOUSE!  DANG!

                My backwasreally bothering me during and after I wasworking on wiring thosepictures.  I was sitting down,but something about the angle Iwas working at wasn't feeling at all good tomy back.

                It feels alittle beter now thiugh.

                It isnot cool out, but itis not as hotas it has been!

                However, to furthercomplcatethings, it is supposed to go up to 98 on Tuesday, a gooddaytogocreekwalking.  But I have arrnaged tomeet Scott tomorrow at 3R andnot Tuesday at Silk Creek.  I was trying to save an hour of driving time.  However,whenit is 98 degrees outside, I will be unable to accomplsihmuch atthe house, so Imay as well go to Silk Creekor somehwere.

                The little thin wisp of the moon is brightening up andthe sky is darkening.  Dark cloudsthatweren't visible beforeare nowhangingat the horizon. 

                I feel pressured because everybody keeps asking me if I'mdone with the house yet and I'mnot.  Ialsofeelpressuedbecause of themoneyit's costing me tokeep paying themortgage and dang now I will have to do therecertification,andother wasteof time!  :-(

                I desperately have to dothat or I'll be losing Twice as muchmoney.

                A LOT!

                I feelpressured by everyone asking and the recertification and the fact that I want to be with keith and Graham andwant to be done with the house and getmoved and get on with my lifer and work onmynovels etc.  and my poetryand be with Keith and Graham, BUT apparently I'm a big loserbecause I can't seem to get ittogether.

                I'mbad at this.  I have ADHD and I'm trying really hard to work hard and stay on task,but I'mbad at it.  I'm trying to stay organized and keepworking. But I get discouraged and unhappy!  I feel liek all I've been doing lately is working and for a break, I get to walk around theneighborhood, again,whoopee! 

                And then Istart feeling guilty becausemeanwhilepeople are lsoing their houses to fires innebraska and gettingkilled bybombs inLebanon,and that makes mylittleproblemsthatare overwhelming meseem prettyminorincomparison.

                WhatI wanted to do while I walked so asnot towaste anytimewasto workon oneof my novels.  Ithought I could do thetimeline for thegoat novel, but it's kindofhardto do in the dark.

                Maybe I can do a narrative timeline for the period ofmylife which I plan at thispointto be covered by thenovel.  Drop City did notcover a verylongperiod of time,and I don't want to bite off toomuch.

                OK, I graduated fromHigh School in the spring of 1964 andworked at the VA hospital with Hal Phillips and Dr. Otto Lilien that summer.  I graduatedin Juneand startedcollege at St. Lawrencein September of 1964.  That is theopening of the Goat Novel.  However,background timeline is importrant too.

                Sinceitis importantformeto write about the stuff Iactually know about,assumingIcan rememebrit,Iwant toget thisdown.

                Septmeber 1964,start at St.Lawrence University.  Tony Zak, Eric Potter, (really), Dick Zeiss, Dr. W the Germen professor.  Firate experience with pot,peyote, mescaline,LSD and sex.  Peter Black.  Bob Dylan Bringing it all back Home.

                I had the 1949 Indian then and before that, the scooter..  I used toclimb out mydorn window after curfew.  I got caught several times and made to work on the telephone switchboard, a real, old fashioed plug into the holes telephone switchboard.

                We had a 7 PM curfew every night exceptSaturdays and an 11 PM curfew Saturdays.  I joined community ONe,became an activist, also campaigned for Robert kennedy.

                Clibed the watertower and the radio towers tofly a Community Oneflag.

                Oh-h,It's 9:04andI'mstill out herewalkinga roundand a waysfrom home,Istoppedto attempt a picture of a baby bunny,buteven with theflash,itwas too dark.

                I start joggging, someyoungguys gobyandhootatme,meanly.

                Normally, I don't midnw alkinge xtra, but Idon't want tobe late for a very improtant date.

                9:14 No time for dinner.  I sign right on to messenger as soonas I getsettled

                keith is alreadyt here.

                Monday,July 31, 2006, Midsummer night's eve.  Tomorrow is Midsummer Day,or wait,maybe it's the NEXT day.  August 2?  I'd better look it up, but it's supposed to be 98 degrees and very humid.   There's an excessive heatwarning.  It's already pretty hot.  I walked with Scott at 3R.  We parked at the Spiral grove. Walked down to the normalparking and back. After scottleft, I walked down to Heron pond and back tomakeup the few minutes of time Ineeded to make 45 minutes.  I left at 3:50 or so and got back at 5:15 or so, so I was gone about an hour and a half,which is twice as long or so, than it takes me to walk in the neighborhood.

                I am tryin to use that time to accomplsih what needs to be done.

                It was,however, nice to see Scott.  :-)

                We talked the whole timeand causght up with each other.

                I did not take any pictures of him or us.

                Wednesday, August 2,2006, 4:58 PM  I am out on myconstitutional under a grey sky,walking the wet neighborhood streets.  Directly after the rain, the terrible heatbroke for afew minutes, andit's still cooler than it was, but it's warming up again. It's Very hot in the house,but when Ileft to walk, I turned off thefans taking in andblowing out air for feat it would soon be hotter outside than inside, though it's not yet, and maybe I should haveleft them on.

                In the heat, I feel as if I am accomplishinglittle, tryas Imight.  I finally went ahead and did therecetification, though not as carefullly as I'vedone in thepast orprobably should have this time.  I folded piled up laundry and started anotherbatch.  Imade myself a nice meal:  coconut soup.  I talked to Rita and Robert and Sandy about my mother via email.  I've been busy, but it isn't enough.  I need soemhow to domore.

                OK, timeline

                Last timeI was working on the timeline Iended up brainstorming,listing varioussignificant and insignificant things that happned inno particular order, which is the way theytend to come up.

                September 64,arrive St Lawrence

                June 65leave St. lawrence for home

                July 65 (?) go to NYC, see Eric and Tony, crash pad, meet Peter Schuschni..  Peter is a significantcharachter in mylifend in this story--not the original Goat novel,but the expanded oe.  Book 2.  If there's going to be a book I and a Book 2 inside the same covers,that is,thesmaenovel,they need to have some kind of coherence and continuity.  This has to be characters that continue through besides our young heroine, LOL.

                Peter Schni,however, is not oneofthose characters.  He is the beginning of book II.  Who is Peter?  Do I have enough distance yet to givehim a fair and balanced portriat?  Probably not,but I cna try.  Peter is the man who becomes the horioine'shusband andthe father ofher dead child.  It is his whims that shape her life.  It is through him that shemeets Bob Dylan, TinyTimetc, it isthrough him and his wheelingsand dealing that she dances on stage with the dead and lives in Big Sur withJanis Joplinand Big Brother and the holdingcompany etc.

                So who is this man,and what does the heroine, whatever her name is (I've forgotten, and the manuacript is in Detroit), see in him?

                Let's callher Nykol for now, and shegoes underthe name Storm, or Stormy,short for Stormlight, one ofher poetrynames.  Her realname is Nichol, but she refuses to spell it that borning way.  of course, this is temporary, since she has another name.

                Storm has cometo live at the crash pad, where Eric has taken her, but I don't have the timeline down.  Since this is FICTION that I'll be writing, it probably doesn't matter.

                But when I, Mary, first arrived, I had an appartment that Bo, Jean Boer,from SLU, Rick Cleverly's girlfriend, help me get.  That was before Iwas robbed.  Iwas ribbed and then I had no moneyand then Iended up at the crash pad.  I think thathow it happened.  I think Imet Peter there, but Imay have met him sooner.  I met him through Eric Potter from SLU.  Noneoftis really matters, I have an active imagination and can fabricate circumstances,but I like knowing the basis from which the energybehind the storyarises.

                And the details of the places where I lived can be helpful for backgroundambiance.

                So Peter.  What did I see in him?  Some of the same things I have seen in everyman I've loved, I think.  He was cute,smart, and funny. He had a great sense of humor, and active and creative imagination, always thought of fun things to do, was interesting exciting and fun.

                In the beginning, he was no one special.  I was more of less with Eric Potter.  And Peter wasin thebackground,one of the many people hanging around being cool. He worked hardat being cool.

                ((meanwhile, back at the ranch, otherwise know as Kimbrook, I get chases by a black cockerspaniel names Shamus, I see a hawk fly out of a tree, I see a man and his cute little girl walking on the wrong side of the road.))

                Everyone's got faults, including Storm.. Peter's faults wereless obvious at first.  And at first, they didn't seem like faults.  He was a wheeler and dealer.  He was a self=promoter. Hewas bssy and controlling.  And he was inclined toward violence.  But those characteristics weren't evident tome atfirst.  And thosethatwere, like the wheeling and dealing, seemed HELPFUL.  He was ableto get whatwe needed or wanted, whatever it was,though through dealings.  He was not aman ofhigh moral standards, not "Honorable".  Except usually in the sense of honoramong theirves.

                he was abusive, but Storm didn't recognizeit, because herfather was also abusive,and it seemednormal.

                At the beginning of the boook, Nichol is about as innocent as an eighteen year old girlcan be.  She's never had sex, hashadvery little exposure to jews,that sheknows of, anyway, verylittleexposure to blacks,or to cities or serious poverty. She's been poor,but poor inthe context of a fairly loving if dysfunctional family.  She has been wounded in certain ways, buther father'sabusiveness and darkmoods and her mother's over-compliance.

                At the end of the novel, she is changed in may ways. 

                Thursday, August 3, 2006, 1 PM  One never knows when something bad might unexpectedly happen.  Think 911, thinkany sudden car accident. On a much more minor level, I just got stung by a bee.  It really hurts, a lot.  Ealier,in myown bedroom,I stepped on something sharp and that still hurts.

                It makes me aware that something much worse could also happen at any time.  Ow ow ow, hurts, pain.

                I'm at Loretto.  I took my Mom for a walk, then wentfor a walk myself.  Iw alked down the path throughthe woods to the streetsbelow and walked there.  It was still a neighborhood,but atleast,it was a differentneighborhood.  It drizzled the whole time, and we're expecting more rain, so I didn't carry my "real"camera, but I did take a few pictures of flowers with mylittle camera.

                I walked 36 minutes and am going to stop briefly at OLP for the last 9 minutes.

                When I firstgot to Loretto, there were no parking places and I had to park below and then when I got to the elevators, there weremobs waiting to go up.  I was frustrated, but everything is relative.  (That bee sting really hurts, but war is worse, and fires, and hurricanes and Tsunmis!)

                I'm really hungry because I left to see Mombefore my Meds hour was up, so I've no breakfast or lunch.

                1:28  I've arrived at OLP formy 9-minute walk.  The rain has stopped.  Iwas crying thelast halfmile or sobecause thebee sting still hurts so much,and the blisters from mowing and the thorn,and that beesting wasjust the last straw, the one that broke the camel's back. Such a minor thing, but on top of the worries about getting out of the house and recertification and the title on the car and Mom's house and money and wellbeing etc.  It was just the little bit that temporarily pushed me over the edge.

                I feel I need to visit Mom, but it takes such a large hunk of my workday.

                I'm at the "Good Dog Park," LOL (Longbranch portion of OLP) and I just witnessed a huge dog fightand I'm sorry, all the people running to try to separate their dogs, but it struckmy funny bone even though it's not funny.  Excpet for the obvious irony.

                Back to the timeline,as I walk along the river here.

                SLU to NYC to California to NYC to home to California to Oakwood Ave to Chittenango? To OCC to ESF.  Hmm.  I'm not sure i have that exactky right.  I need to check my diaries and refernces,  But, Like I said, it doesn't have to be right, exactly, except that when I get timelines wrong, it ends upmessing up events and they way theymesh with each other.  If I outline the story,the novel,though, I should hope to avoid that and Strom's story is differnt.

                I'm such a dunce sometimes, intelligent as Imay be other times.  What an ass Iam.  I gabbed my camera, thinking I had the 300 on and cameto the canal where a heron stands byalog, agull sitson apiling, a turtle sits on a log, and there are zillions of lovely waterlilies--BUT no long lens.  I didn't even look at the camera, I just slung it and didn't take the lenses because I thought I had the 300 on.  I'm standing here with all these thingsin easyrane of the 300, butI have the 100 on.  I look through it at each of them and none of the pictures are een worth taking without the 300. Should I goback for it? I was only supposed to walk 9minutes. GRRRR! whyam I so dumb?

                I switchedlenses totake a dumb picture and never switched back.  I NEED to keep the 300 on.  There goes the heron.

                Iw alk a little closer--there goes the turlte.  Iwasn't closeenough with the 100,andnow theya re both gone, and Icould have gotten them with the 300.  I'm noteven close enough to get the WATERLILIES with the 100,and there's not going anywhere, but are out in the pond.

                OK, I'mgoing home.  Walking back to thecar, dejected.  At least the bee sting pain is beginning to subside a little.  It's not gone, but better. 

                At least I have breakfastto look forward to and intend to make myself a yummy onelette.

                The mosquitoes are abundant here. Some very tiny ones with extrasharp proboscises and some regualr ones, and humid and warm, but not as bad as the past two days.

                And there is nice, buteriable, breeze

                I made two trips across the country to Calfornia.  The firsttime,wegot a driveaway car, where you drive a car for soemone else.  That was the one with thebroen heater andit was summer time and we drove through the south and my legs cracked like mud in the sun,and never entirely recovered.  The second time we drove with Colin McIver and a bunch of other people ina  VWbug, there were six peopel or seven and we took turns sleeping in the back window.  I got a ticket for drive 90 ina 30 mph zone at the edge of a tiny town (Texa?) at 3AM with a carfull of sleeping hippies.

                I think we hitchhiked back both times, 13 hoursin a snowstorm in Lincoln Nebraska in California skimpy summer hippie clothes.  Somelocals gage us winter coatsandhats,but we had no boots or mittens and stood in the snow in our sandals.  We got aride after 30 hours with acrazy alcoholic who drankbottled beer on eafter the other and threw the bottles hard on the road, so they shattered as he drove. He never looked back once so we made love in his back seat on piles of his filthy clothes and blankets.  We abandoned him when his car broke down in PA.  We had no money, and no idea how to help.

                2~11 PM I'mhome,breakfast soon.  Marguerite told me thatMomwanted a scissors to cut the waistband of her pants because they weretoo tight--andthey did itfor her. She's been GAINING weight.

                3:16 PM I just threw away a pair of sweatpants that I had washed for the salvation army but then discovered it had a small hole.  If it fit me, I'd wear it, but no one there will want it, even though it is otherwiseperfect.  I did feel sad when I put it in the trash,and evenmore than that,I flet a resntment verging on hared for all thepeoplewho think that everything they own must be perfect.  Who think that their precious babies must wear something pristine without a single stain--don't they realize that the first timethebaby spitsup,voila, a stain?  We had solittle moneywhen thekids were litle that we were thrilled to takehand-me-downs so they'd have clothes to wear.

                There's aprogram on NPR about cancer and brain tumors and it's remindingme I have a brain tumor.  I was so devastatedwhen I first found out about it, but I've gotten used to it, which is hard to believe.  I'm not happy about it.  But since thereisnothing I can do that I knowof, I'm turning my attentionelse where.  I just folded a bunch oflaundry andcarried someof it up.

                I wasshocked and horrified when Erinsaid they weregoing to get adumpster and throweverything into it that I leavebehind.  Well,ofcourse they are.  The furniture Ihave used all these years,clothes and paper andbooksand boxesof stuff.  MY LIFE in a dumpster.  An that's probably what we need to do with Mom's stufftoo,her life and Pa's. Andwhile somepeoplemay not care, it HURTS, it really HURTS.  And someofmyfriends don't understand.

                Pots and pan,including the one peter and I got fromLi Sichek Black in the little house behind the big house where she and Peter lives the first timewe went out there.  Glass casseroles and breadpansmuffinpansthat I cooked for a family of four and somethat Iused to cook for everyone in Chittengo.

                Flour bins,cups, glasses,mugs, babycarebooks,poetry books more pots and pans.  I can't take all this stuff to keith's.  Instead,I have to cook with Susan'sstuff,because it'snicer than mine.  Because itnestsneatly.  But it hasnomemory,or the memories ithas aren'tmine.

                Before I can mow the lawn, I need to get more gas.  Not right away.  I carry a box to the garage.

                Pens, markers, highkighters, pencils, paintbrushes, sewing stuff, thread, shoeslaces ,zippers. (from when I used to be a writer, a papinter, and sew.

                Desk drawers and their contents, (similar to list above).

                Notecards, rulers,envelopes, a silverware drawer insert full of pencils and pens--MORE pencils and pens.  And erasers.  From another life.

                A kitchen utility junk drawer with knives, strainers,wooden spoons,pie servers, tea strainers etc etc.

                4:04 PM  I just sorted and filled one recycling bag and carried it to the garage.  I moved another load of clothes from the washer to the drier.  It's not cool, but at least I'm morecomfortable than I have been, the last few days.

                4:19 PM  I just filled and carried to the garage another bag of recycling.  Today was garbage day,so it won't go out for a week. But at least it is out of basement.  Iam takingtime to sort it because it is mostly stuff we don't want to move to Detroit just because we have to get out of here.

                It was piles of want ads when I hated themostand was looking for another joband clippingfrom Mom and Kevin Bugnacki, and notes from mom and Kevin.  The clippings were shosen forme, but Inever had timeto read them  I'd still like to read them, but I'm throwing them all away, not even looking becauseif in all this time Ihaven'thad time, I probably never will.  I saved one on whiskey Hollow for novel about Whiskey Hollow, which appened to be on top.

                Did I memntion coupons, hundreds of expired coupons?  Not all expired, butout they go anyway.

                One clipping that comes out on top says Wake-up Call, Sleepiness a driver'sworstenemy! YUP!

                4:45  I sorted another pile of stuff and took another bag out to the garage--that's three bags of recycling.  This one was slower because there wasmore stuff mixedint hathad to be examined more closely,notes from my mother etc.

                And more notes from my mother.

                Ijust found an article aboutme mixed in with abunch of other unrelated clippings so who know howmany of my articles I've tossed outbecause i'm not looking carefully.

                What about the monekey, Grim, of Peter Paula nd Mary?  Is hein the novel?

                5:26 PM I finally finished sorting through another pile of stuff and took out abag of recycling.  I feeldespserately tiredand wantto lie down and sleep.  Part of that is because I have not been sleeping well, but part of it is because I hate what I'm doing.  I know from experience that if I were to start doing something I enjoyed, I would wake up and feel better.  I haven't done ANYTHING just for fun in a LONG LONG time.

                I also haven't showered today.  I left this morning without having showered or eaten breakfast, and I'm hot.  Iwant to break and shower, but Ithink I will do some more work first, GAK.  I feel that I cannotafford thetime to play or relax.  Or laugh or have fun or socialize because there is too much work to be done.

                However, fo some reason, my neck and shoulder hhurt and I may have to at least do soemthing different.  Different work.  There are planty of different tasks that need to bedone.  For example, I could drive some of the clothes to the salvation army.  That would get them out of the house and make more space.  But it's an escape--I need to stay here.  I need to stay on task.

                I've found a few clippings thatrelate to my novels, even though Iwas trying NOT to look at thslipping.

                5:45  I am glad I stuck with it.  I got another box pcked, taped,labeled and hauled to the garage.

                :-)

                5:59 PM  YAY! I'm on a roll!  I got another box packed!  Of course it's a relatively small box.  Bit that's three boxes today and 4 bags of recycling sorted and one bag of stuff for the Salvation army washed sorted and folded.  So I am making progress, albeit slowly.

                There are 6 boxes packed to go to Detroit now, total.

                6:29 PM  I just completed sorting and filling a 6th bag of recycling. Though I'dbeen thinking there wasnothing in partiular to makeme sad, about 7/8 of the way through, I started crying again.

                But slowly, the volume of stuff in the mid-basement, where I am working is diminishing and the bags of recycling and garbage areincreasing.

                But last time Erin was here, she couldn't see where I'd doneanything in here (the midbasement or "family rroom", but I had, and to the untrained eye, I'msure itlook horrendously bad andas if I've donenothing.  ButI can see the difference, thank God.

                But what remains to be done inthis area isfar more than what I've done in here. 

                How long amI required to keep working.  Everyone seems to be judging me as "bad," but they aren't here sorting this stuff day after day, day after day?  I want to quit for a while, to take a break, but there is so much still to be done.

                I've been listening to NPR while Iwork, though I can't hear it very well inthe basement, especially when the dehumidifier comes on.  There isastory onnow about a photographer.  I didn't catch his name,but he is very interesting.  Oh dear,  the italics which were on for one word never went on..

                Alabama 1964.  !William Christian Berry (Barry?). Hejust told a story about aone-armedman wholost his arm in a sawmill accident andbuild a cement block house himself with onearm. Hetooka picture, andwhenhecameback, theman was dead. He'd frozen to death in his home. I cried when I heard the story and cried again retelling it.

                And all those people dying in Lebanonand Iraq and Afghanistan and so on, each of them had a life asvaluable as that man's, as valuable asmine.  I am wailing with sadness, but if I share this, I will be criticized for it by some of my friends.

                I cry and cry and cry and can't stop crying.

                It occurs tome that I have a prejudice.  Ibelieve that awoman who is fat or old or messy isn't as sympathetic a character as a young attractive neat woman crying.  (Who really cares if awoman who's a "fat ol slob" is sad?)

                Is she going to throw my dressers in the dumpster?

                7:15  I just took another bag of recyling out.  Can I break now? Can I please.  NO?  Not yet?  I'm getting hungry. I've only had ONE MEAL.  Can I eat?  NO? NOt yet?  Please?

                Have I died?  Is this hell? No, not yet?

                2:15 AM  I was hoping to download Sylvanna, but it is 2:15 AL tomoorw (well,today, now, but I'mstill not inbed and I just can't do onemore thing--AGAIN.)  There are toomanydagnabbit things I have to do.  And the things I "want" to do get left by the wayside..  Tic tic tick the clock is ticking and Iamwaiting for Toby to shut down. I had a goal of cleaning up Toby and I have tried nearly everynight to tranfer somefiles to Hilda, but itis taking so long.

                I wanted alsoto delete somefiles etc once I got themmoved, ut that will have to wait.  Whichmeans I've accomplished nothingforemptying Toby.

                HUH,what day is this,it must beFriday August 4th, but the date is wrong on this Psion. It's almost ten.

                Last night, I had trouble turning off Toby again because it was running slowly. I had stuff to tranfer to Hilda, whichwould speed it up, butit was running so slowly I never got to do that, I was too tired.  I went to bed so late, 2:30 AM,and then couldn'tsleep because I was having trouble with the CPAP mask. First it fell apart.  I had to turn the lights back on and fart around with it.  Then, It wouldn't settle and kept hissing air inmy face. I think it needs to be replaced, but I'm only allowed a new one every so often, I forget how often, and I wasted my new one on that weird one.  I really shoeld try that one again.  Mybe I would LIKE it if I could get used to it.

                10:49 AM Friday, August 4, 2006, OK, I fixed the clock on the Psion.  It now says the correct time and date.  I hope.

                11:01  So I went outside to trim the islandnext to theneighbors,and there isamn sitting in a whitecar on the road in front ofmy house.  Hewas making menervous,so I wnet back in.  The trimmer ranout of power anyway and needs to be recharged.

                12:12 PM I just finished onemorebag of recylcing and carried it to the garage, six so far this round (yesterday and today.)

                12:35 PM' I just finished another bag of recycling,whichmakes 7anda half, a forgot to count a smaller bag. I'm takinga short break topee andbrush my teeth etc.  Get adrink. Idon'tknowhow long I cankeep doing this without a longer break or switch to some other cleaning project, because I am getting all stuffed up

                And my nose is running.

                12:54  I pack annother box andcarry it to the garage.  It's a big box,but there's not a lot init, 2 sleeping bags,a winter jacket, my expedition weight fleece pants etc. 

                Then the realizationof a mininightmare sceario.  I am wearing filthy clothes and no bra--filthy because I am working in the basement, no bra because 1more comfortable, and 2)I haven't showered yet. I wasn't expecting company.  I'mout in the garage adjusting the positions of the boxes so the garage door will clothes when a young man arrives to survey the property.  I have to stand there old andfat and dangling breasts, sweaty and filthy,andtalk to him.  I guess of the roofer and the surveyors and people are coming here and I have to interact with them, I'd better shower and wear a braandnicer clothes.  Which of course will get dirty anyway.  AK! WAHN.

                It may be cooler than earlier in the week,but it's still hot be working.

                I still have a thorn inmy foot and I did not get the bee stinger out--at least part of it is still in there.

                One time, when I wasvisitng Robert, I stepped on a thorn in my bare foot and it stayed in my foot and bothered me for more than  TWO YEARS.  I hope thatdoesn'thappen this time.  I can't findit when I feel for it, but it hurts when I walk on it.  It's in themiddle of the right side of my right foot.

                I have to cut the mat for my state fair pictures and I don't know how to go about doing that with the tools and materials I have available.

                1:41 PM I got another box packed,labeled sealed and carried to the garage.  Once again, I had to reshuffle boxes in order to get that box, which was bigger,into the pile,not just take down the smaller ones, but move things around to make space at the bottom.  But onemorebox is packed.

                There are now 11 packed boxes in the garage. Nine of them, I believe, werehauled out here yesterday or today and two I packed earlier in the week.

                Or last week, really, because I had been working on IconsandImages.  I'm going to have to break from my Mad cleaning to work on the that fair pix.

                1:54 PM I got another box packed,YAY.  I have to admitthat bothof the last two boxes I finised were ones I'd started while Keith was still here and I had only to "top them off",not quite as easy as it sounds,as one of them was quitelarge.  I'm not counting the work I do until a unit of work is completed, so Iamy work on a box or bag for days before it is actually finished.  I don't want to take anythung unnecessary because then I'll just have to dealw tih it again and it will be clogging the new house.  However, because of the rush, I'mpacking more unsorted stuff than I'd prefer to jsut to get out of HERE as fastas possible, it's already been ridiculously long.

                2:41 PM  I just sorted through a garbage-bag full of stuff hauled down to the livingroom two weeks ago. Itwas slow growing with little final product, but I did get through the bag, and taht's soemthing.  Now I am going to make myself alate lunch and shower, I hope.

                6:10 PM  The title Keith mailed arrived inthe mail today and I addressed and stamped the DMV envelope and droveto Mailboxes etc or somewhere to make a copy of my driver's license and then drove down to the Liverpool Post Office and mailed the Title and Registration to the DMV for the second time.  I hope it arrives back before my registration expires.  It's too bad the timing is off, because once I leave the Kimbrook house, I will begetting a Michigan driver's license and registration.  Time and money simply wasted.

                But since I am hearing of people dying and being blown to bits in Lebnon and Israel and Palestine and Iraq and Afghanistan, I guess the fact that I have some wasted expenses and am tired from insufficient sleep is pretty insignificant in the greater sceme of things.

                I decided that since Iamout in the car anyway, I would walk at Radisson for a slight change of scene.

                One thing I do not unbderstand is why the Solstice is called Midsummer when it is the beginning of summer and this, which is the middle of summer is called Lammas,Lugnastad,or first harvest.  Well, I do understand first harvest, but it seems asif this should also be midsummer and not the solstice which is first summer.

                I HATE the fact that the space car on this and all Psions is (are) shit.

                I wish someonewould invent the perfect Psion (palmtop).

                I'm so tired.!

                While I was out I also got boxes, 6 of them.

                I feel more like sleeping than walking.  I feel tremendously sleepy, like curling up on the grass in someone's backatd and going rigjt to sleep.  But I am walking slowly alonbg, walking so I can continue to walk, down the paced sidewalks where two men are working in a backyard doing something with a small tractor,smoothing the ground I guess, and another man is edge trimmingw ith a very loud edge trimmer.  It is hardly the peaceful idyllic scene I'd prefer. 

                In the wooded areas, touch-me-nots are flower, and the bees are attending the flowers, and pokeweed is in flower and early fruit and the squirrels are chasinge achother around on the forest floor.  The path is wet and green withmoss, much more sothan any year I remember.

                And the mosquitoes are buzzing and humming andlighting and biting,worse than any August I ever remember in Radisson. The ditches are full of water  and Iam sure the water is full of wrigglers.

                I pass a cute baby bunny butmake no attempt tophotograph itbecause I still haven't switched lenses back to the 300.  I'm very tried and low energy and just walking is taking all my effort,something Keith doesn't always seem to undetsnad.  Plus it's very buggy here, so if I stop, I'll get bitten.  I need to changeback to the 300 and keep THAT lense on during outings.  Sothat I can get animals and birds.  If Iwant a flower, and need to 100, Ican swicth back if the bugs aren't too bad.

                There are all these warnings about getting rid of standing water in your yard,but these people all haveponds intheur yards, and how precisely can they drainthem?

                The blister on my feet frommowing on the 90 plus day when Iwas saturated in sweat havenearly deflated and don't hurt asmuch. 

                I reach Lake Oberon in 14 miutes.  There is a young woman there, African American and overweight.  I say hi.  She has a pretty face.  She reminds me of someone.  I am aware of her dark skin and judgeher a little for being so overweight, jsut as I judgemyself.  For some reason,I do not thus judge all my friends.  I don't know why thatis.

                I would prefer not to have those feelings and attempt to erase or release them

                I am walking theloop portion of the standard walkinthe opposite direction from the wayI normallywalk it.  This was because I was hoping to see water liliesstillopen, but theyare already all closed for the impending night.

                That big Rotweiler with the mean deep voice hurtles itself at me and the dfence between us,scaring me as it always does.

* * *

                Clarence stood on the stage in his Nixon mask.    He held up a mirror and spoke to his reflection.  He was saying something about a war, but Addie wasn't listening. She was watching the jerky way he walked, and listening below his words to the nervous stutter of them,   He looked like a cross between a banty rooster and a braying donkey.  Suddenly hewhopped off hsi amsk, but it was not Calrence's face underneath  but George Bush's.  He was still talking about war.  He wastalking about Afghanistan and Iraq and Lebanon and Palestine and Syria.  He was talking about collateral damage.  People, he meant,  people being killed by the bombs.   Women like herself, children like Satcie and Amber.  Babies like Jeremy. 

                Addie clutched at her heart and picked up her cell phone. She wated to call madeline and see if the kids were OK. But of course they were, why wouldn't they be.  She couldn'tcall though,because the room was so crowded she couldn't move to go to the restroom or out to the sidewalk.  Calrencewas so polular. All his students showed up at his readings and lectures, all his groupies and hanger-oners.  Adddie soemtimes worried about the girl students who flocked aroundhim, about the lady professors.  About the other poets. 

                Clarence strutted around the stage, and finally pulled offhisGeorge Bushmask.    Bust it wasn't Clarence underneth, it was Donald Rumsfelt.  Clarence has a big head, but it wasn't thatbig.  How many masks could he have under there?  Addie wondered if Clarence waseven in there.  She looked at the women leaning forward with their mouths open. Laughing. Crying.  The men with theiramsfolded.  Calrence was kind of funny looking, really, that small  body jerking around on stage blabbing at his own reflection, something about the hundred Donald Rumsfelds and the hundred Clarences.  That tiny jerky body spasing out up there and the big nervous head.

                Why did she worry about him?  Who would want him, anyway?

                Clarence stripped off another mask. This time she was sure it would be his own face, butno.  He was a dead baby. A baby who'd been killed by a bomb. The bomb hadn't destroyed his abilty to talk.  He talked like George Bush, all whiney and defensive.  Thenhewasthe motherkeening, holding a torn doll he'd pulled out of somewhere, out of a shirt that lookedtoosmall to hideit.  Clarencewas a magician.

                Was Clarence in there anywhere?  Addie wanted to jump up and just keep pulling,pulling at themasks,pulling at the skin,until the face in the mirror of her eyes was the man she loved.  There was the sudden wailof a siren outside and Addie thought, if abombhits here, we're all toast. There wasnothing to stop them from coming,either,thatmuch was clear.  Think 911.  And all the fakeIDscrossing theborder every day.

                Clarence took off another mask.  He was Adolf Hitler, talking in GeorgeBush's voice.  Addie tried to remember if Clarence normal voice sounded like George Bush.   But she could remember his normal voice.  Did he have a normal voice? Addie couldn't remember.

                But now Hitler was singing a lullaby.  And Addie could remember him again, remember him walking the floor last night with Jeremy, who was feeling collicky. Addie hadbeen feeling collicky herself.  But that nervous banty rooster up on stage had been as calm as the mirrored lake at sunrise, his face a mask of quiet love.

                On stage, Clarence took off the last mask.  His real face wasactullay inside. He was laughing nervously for just a moment until the audience exploded with cheers.  Addie crowded forward with the others, wanting to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin, to drag him away from Nixon and Bush and Hitler, Rumsfeld and the dead baby, all lying crumpledon thefloor.

* * *

OK, my walk is over, but my story is not.

                But I'm going home.  Work to do.  Didn't take any pictures, to speak of.

                8:07PM I just unpacked and repacked one of the boxes I'dalready packed,because I had brought home a better box.  I threw away about 1/4 of what was in it, which means a box that was already packed and finished now needs more attention.  But it's in a cleaner stronger box and there's that much less stuff to deal with later.

                Saturday, August 5, 2006. 11:19 AM  Cleaning in the bedroom, I just foundalittle folded piece of paper which I almost tossed out, but I didunfold it,and it had the outline of a nove, asequel to Frog Haven!

                11:30 AM And now, deeper in the heap, I just found notes from Robert on Frog Haven.

                8:11 PM  I am out walking,my constitutional, in Kimbrook, under a waxing gibbousmoon,probably the nicest day of the summer, relatively cool, nit humid for a chnage, sunny and fresh, and I was inside cleaning sorting and packing all day long. And I haven't had dinner and if I don't hurry, Iwon't get any dinner.  Because 9:15 is when I get on-line with Keith and I don't want to miss thator belate.  The ironic thing about that is that hurrying won't getme back any sooner, Ill just have to walk further. I understand why thattell finro patients to walk a time rather than adistance, because soemthings, theycan barely walk at all, andthe time of walking is isimportnat tomanaging the disease, but it makes it hard when you're runninglate, but I really wanted to FINISHthatlast box, and I did.  Of course,there was alos a bag of recycling I would have liked to have finished, but no way.  I need to walk and soemhow I need to eat too.  I'm hungry!

                Dad and Deb I mean Bruce and Debbie looked pretty good.  Their faces were more lined than they used to be and Bruce's hair is thinner on top, but they are at elast reasonably lean and healthy looking.

                I wish Iwere lean.

                I threw away a lot more stuff than I kept,either intorecyling orinto the trash, but as usual,I unearthed somethings Iwanted to keep.  I'mspendingmore time than I would preferto spend sorting, but there is SO MUCH STUFF and most of it I don't want.

                There's a little bunny, but it is so dark it is pointless to try to bget a picture of it.

                It's a nice night, it really is, but I wish Icould have done something fun today or eat had awalk whileit was daytime. But the air is a little cool, and it feels really good.  Peaopke are playing eitha largeball in the street and it rises up and echoes the moon.  Istop and try to take a pictureof themoon,but I have no tripod so it's probably a wasted effort.

                I think Imay need new sandals, these havelost their resiliency.

                If Storms's story is tospan alongtimethan originally planned-darn the stupid spacebar on this computer--then what are the starting events and mainevents and story line.  Storm becomes a hippie at St. Lawrence,hanging around withe hippies there.  She ecomes a social activist and gets herself in trouble with school and gets kicked out.  She takes a tarin to NY in June or July and gets and apartmentand begins looking for work.  She gets in contact with her friends from St. lawrence and starts hanging oith them and gets ajob modeling--a temporary job,shethinsks, til she gets abetter one--that artists modeling as a nude model for art classes.  She rides the staten island Ferry,drops acid,2wander around with Peterand Eric, goes to a Chines restaurant.  NY is full ofnightlife.   But the talk is that SF is where it's atso Peter talks her into getting a drivawy and driving to SF where they descend on Peter Balck and Janaleigh sickek. They are made welcome and stay while theylook for work but Storm gets pregnat and no one in SF will give her an abortion to theyhitchike back to NY to get an abortion  because the laws in NYare moreflxible and someoneknows soemone.

                Storm is very sick.  Morning sickness. She can't eat without barfing andgets thinner and thinner.  By the timethey get back to NY, the fourmonth limit haspassed and no one will give her an abortion there,either.  Storm names the baby Gian Maria (orchoose anothername).  She is sure it's a girl.  Then whiel living in a crashpad, the same crashpad where the fire occurs (DialM formurder, the crack and heroineheads), she starts bleeding,5 months into the rpegnancy.  Shelocks herself in the bathroom and won't comeout.  She just wnats to die.  Peter calls anambulance and they come in and put her in astraightjacket and haul her off tobellvue, to the charity ward,a huge open ward with no spaces hardly between thebeds.  The old woman next to her dies and they simply cover her face with a sheet andleave her lying beside Strom, who thinks she too will die.

                They give her a D&C and remove the baby,who has died inside her,andit is a girl, asStom has thougght. They won't let hersee it,though.  Eric,Peter, Tony andChristian etc comein and give blood, because Storm has lost alot.m

                Then she is out of the hsopital. They are livingdownon the waylower east sude on Forsythe streetl  Whoever they are living with has an Ebglsih bike and Strom rides it aroundtryingto get her strenth back.  She wantsto go home.  It is November and shewants to go back to her parntes,to get a job, to go back to school.  Herparents wire her the money (isthatwhat happened--I think so--and she goes home and shortly thereafter, peter shows up and though Strom s doesn't want him,he refuses to leave.  Seppe threatens to call the cops, so ,to prevent that , Storm and Peter leave in the middle of the night and hitchike to California--or, no they go with Colin and a buch of otherpeole. 

                That's when Stormgets thatticket going 90 in a 30 zone.

                They get out there and descend on Li again.  They workmaking porn movies as,but only with each other, and Stormgetsajob as anude model again forreala rtists and then gets a job at Rincolnannex post office, which turns out tobe a nightmare too.  Nowait,firstshe works as a toplessdanger for a while, then RincoldnannexPO.  She hates itall,wnats to go back to school, saves Money buysavanand builds it into a camper littleby little.  I forgottoemntion theirhippie weddingandhaightashbury and storms poetry beingsold their and the beins and dancingw ith thedeadetc.  All the acid taken and the good and then bad trips andLangly Poetr Institue.  All the hippie stuff.  And she has amotorcycle,herownmotorcycle,and Peter is inanaccident andalmost getskilled and hisleg is crushed and he's in thehospital along time and when Strom says sheleaving,  he cuts his throat from side to side, but not deepenough to kill him.  And Storm stays.  Fianlly she says sheisgoing andif he wants hecan come.  Colin ahs moved into a hippie house ""commune" in Chittengo andinvites themtocvomeand thisinterest Peter who agrres to coem--they camp in Yellowstone andhae aninteraction with a bear in their campsite and travel slowly across the country until theirmoneyrunsout.  Then theygo to Chittengo and Strom gets Peter ajob and herself atCaptainMac's Until shethrows a pitcher ofbeer inhis faceandhe fires her.  Meanwhile,she goes bakc to Occ. 

                I haven'tmentioned the abuse, Peter is very abusive to her,hits her,beats her,t racks her downwhensherunsoff toEscalenand Big Sur etc.  AndinChittenago,itjust getsworse. He's beating heranneighors call the cops and the cops comeandtheysaid to Strom,is thisman your husndand an she says ye and theysay I'msorryma'amwe can't help youand hebeginspummeling herandkicking herin the faceand stomach while thesops stand and watch anddo nothing.

                Storm begins a strategy of trying to get rid of Peter. She's having acid flashbacks and thinsgare confusing.  meanwhile, all this fre love is going on and storm hatesit.  When te whole hippie house comes down with the clap, Atromdoesn't have it,forwhich she isgratefull. She'sbeen hiding oouta t the student unionflirtingwil BillSkvarch and others.

                Finally, Peter leaves with Pattyafter Patty givces up siraqaforadoptuion, and Strom moves inwith Mikewhohas just returned from Vietnameandgoes tothemotcycle dirt bike races and is going to sumer school.  Ilmconfused astothe timelinehere, but Ithink she bre==no,no, that's not right,never mind.

                The story ends with Stormback at college at EsF,w here she roiginally ha wanted to go,it'sher firstdayback, and we see asimilarsebe of her arrival but now shehas been changed by these events, by the hippie stuff (an important part of the story) by all the drugs, by being raped,byebing abused, by begging on the streets, by the doctor who sexuallyabused herwhen shecut herfoot openaandsoon.

                She's sadder but wiser, still plagued by acid flashbacks and so on, but eager to startover and make a new life.

                Sunday, August 6, 2006, 11:43 PM  I am sitting at my desk feeling frustratedbecause Toby is toofullandfunningslowlyasaresult. and I can't do what I need and want to do.  12:07  I deleted a bunch of files but thecomputer still willnot work.  I wanted to do several things, none of which should take long, BUT the computer has just slowed to a total standstill. I am STUCK and cannot so anything.  I can't even turn the computer OFF and I don't want to leave it on all night so I have to sit here for hours while it tediously completes each 30-second operation in 45 minutes. Meanwhile, the spacebar on this computer does not work and it takes 5 times longer than normal to write a single sentence.  Or more.

                I would like every much to simply go to bed, but I cannot.  And I also cannot accomplish anything, between these two failed computers.

                Monday, August 7, 2006, 4:57 PM

                The poetryreading tonight is about surving domestic violence, whichI have done, but all my poems are in Detroit.  And I have to walk.  And I only have a hour before I haveto leave meet Janine.  I have to walk 45minutes and then get readytoleave.  Can I write a poem or two or three and walk in that time and have one or more of them be worthy of reading.

                I don't know.

* * *

Answering an Emergency Call, 1966 (Before they changed the law)

They stood, hands on their billy clubs

watching

while he kicked

her in the face and stomach, kicked

until her teeth broke

and her lips bled.  The stood and watched

and said nothing.  Then turned and left.

"M'am," they asked her, first, though she didn't know they meant her

at first, though she thought of herself

as a girl, as a child.  "M'am,

is this your husband?"  He'd been slugging her then, in the face,

in the breasts, and he stopped, to let her

answer.

"Yes," she had said.  What else could she say

but the truth, hard as it was?

And they stood, looking sad, their eyes wide and dark

and somehow wounded.  As if it was they who were being beaten,

as if it was their baby who might die from those kicks.

"M'am," they said, voices cracking, "We can't help you."

"What kind of law . . ." she'd started to ask, before

he mashed his knucles into her face and she went down

backwards.

 

She Remembers Alleys

 

the  crazy way they titled, the way they threatened to tip

and spill her

under his feet.  She was fast, but he was faster,

her head starts shrinking, doorways

refuse to opening, no refuge, and women's rest rooms

no haven any longer.  She remembers

the knife

he held over her head while the women in the next stalls trembled,

the length of the blade.

She remembers bushes, pricker bushes, where she crawled

shredding her skin to escape him.

Or try.

She never succeeded.  Not for long.

His arms stretched through the city, ballooning

with fists to find her. Fists with eyes.

Feet with black wings.

"Have you seen my wife?" he kept asking.

Someone always pointed the way.

 

She was aftraif to come home.

The air in the housecongelaed and stiffened

and trapped her.  It was fulloflightning, thunder

dense with crackling anger

with rage.  She never knew how to turn it back.

She couldn't be nice enough. Niceness was a crime

or plot.  It was her fault if the basketball team lost

or if his boss wnatedhimto go in early

orif his dog messed the floor. That was her fault.

She made him angry by simply existing, by breathing

his air.  At the shelter, they spoke of red flags.

Of calling for help.  But when he took her back,

everything he said and did did was red,

and ripped the phone from the wall.

 

5:24 PM Well, there are three poem,but they are first drafts.  Or they all one poem.