And then after you write, time enters a lonely phase.  Administrative tasks to attend to, health insurance renewal, laundry, a few bills to pay, ho hum.  No real desire as energy to go out on the town, would feel pointless anyway, except for Betsy, a few old friends, but most of my friendship time spent at the old Dying Gaul, and not up for that, certainly.

And really there's not much else for you to do than to pour yourself a glass of wine, after the little bit of inspiration you had earlier.

The phone calls, the phone calls, on the one hand they are distracting, on the other hand they are life. Yes, Mary came and took care of some things, good.

People ask me at work, how's your mom's cat...

Drinking a glass of wine relieves some of the monotony.  It will also bring, potentially, some exuberance...  A creative freedom of feeling...

Without the wine, this time would be too difficult by myself.  The night needs a little magic, a foreign touch, a sense of novelty.

Get the laundry ready.  Down the stairs.  Guitar tonight, maybe later...

Bob & Lynette comes by on the fucked up big party downstairs night Wine Tasting, when I have to parse out the St. Veran, they sit there at the bar, hi ted, and I don't feel much like waiting sometimes, but I hang in there.  Lynette pipes up, as I get him a Kronenbourg, and ponder what she might like as she ponders too, ultimately deciding upon a Manhattan, I read your Facebook about Kerouac...

Oh, yeah...  Yeah, the anniversary, 50 years...   And I lay out how I'm torturing myself reading On the Road, which comes to a boil for me...  "No, don't go down and see William Burroughs...  That's not a good idea!"  I reel from my own irresponsibility...  over all the years...  Why are you hanging out with such people?  Don't you have a plan?  (But unfortunately, artists never really have much of a plan, but that of creating, however they might fall into it, sometimes, like me, my art the humor that comes out spontaneously from dark places in the form of a magnificent and humorous hospitality... as I have found, time and time again, only rarely being unable to feel so burdened by the events of a particular shift that my powers of circumspection and wit deserting me...)  So, somewhat jokingly, I lay it out for them, the only two here at the bar, trying to catch up as we should...  Burroughs wife is a benzedrine addict...  It's just going to be weirdness.  They get it, they have kids who've turned out to be artists.  Chef.  Musician.  Writer.  Great parents.  Solid.  Responsible.  And I'm feeling low, but rise again to the occasion.  I admit my own lacking as far as planning, but Lynette dismisses the notion, and yes, I have been showing up here for years, to work, to work, to the bar, to wine tasting night, to many an other kind of a night...  And up comes Tombow, he'll be two at the bar for dinner, him and an old work colleague, Brian, I make him a French 75...

The fancy older couple is brought upstairs by L.m., sat at the front of the room by the windows, but then she of the couple decides she really likes the table in the back, which is of course the hardest to get to... why?  On wine tasting night, you do that to me, Jesus Christ...


The problem is not how little there is to write, the problem is how much there is...

When I met Betsy, again, I wanted to spend my time with her.  I wanted to stay up all night talking with her, to meet her out for lunch when I could, even with my mind stewing over work and money.

I walked down MacArthur to Foxhall, along the sidewalk taking me into Georgetown to cross Key Bridge.  Over the great bridge in the darkness, moon a sliver, underneath the Key Bridge Marriot, across the lanes of Lee Highway, and up the little urban skyscraper hill to Wilson Boulevard, and then it was not far at all to the nondescript Saigon Grill and Noodle to meet her.  I'd had a glass of Beaujolais, in a surreptitious Canada Dry little soda bottle, keeping to my right as night cyclists and careening electric scooters weaved by.   Over pho, hers vegetable, mine with top round and brisket and flank steak I had three glasses of Woodbridge pinot noir, we had a nice time, I paid the check, she took me back part way and I caught the Circulator Bus from Rosslyn back over the bridge, getting off at the first stop along M Street.  I attempted to rent a little scooter, but it felt dangerous and the pick-up on was very inconsistent.  With a need to use a bathroom, and not to pee, I made it up the hill to the Tombs, using the john, and then having one more glass of wine, and then I walked back along underneath the University up on the hill with the traffic zooming by, and then up the quiet hill and the long blocks along MacArthur Boulevard, coming in rather tired out and ready to hit the couch.

And then I was awake.  Unable to go back to bed.  So I pulled out On The Road, the copy someone left out in the laundry room, and like I say, it's easier to read, for me at least, after  you've struggled with getting to that Dean as Holy Goof passage in Part Three, when they are in San Francisco, planning to get back East.

For then the writing, Kerouac's, seems to better fall into a tradition, less about mad personal choices and irresponsible behavior, becoming a recognizable account, within the American Tradition, let's say, of writings of travel and adventure, like Melville, Twain, Hemingway...

I had some cheap Beaujolais in the rocks in a tumbler, and even pulled out my old book, and read from it, which is surprising in many passages, even to the author.  I'd passed out a copy of it here and there, and while there are parts I, in the attempt to get it finished and over with, over worked and things like that.  The narration getting just a bit ahead of itself, say, trying to sum up The Brothers Karamazov themes, when the action is not ready for it.

But I was reading, and it felt good, and I went back and forth a little bit, and of course Kerouac is laying down these magnificent lines, so rich in their offering of language and words put together gain in the way that fires up something inside of us.  And it was nice for me to have this reassessment of Kerouac in my own mind, not just oh, the drunk who ends up lonely and alone.

As if preparing for a next step, me, in life.  Putting a book behind me, a decent enough one, but assessing the cost of it, as it were, the cost of the time and the making of it.  I wouldn't say necessarily a wish to capitalize upon it, or monetize it, but to find a way of treating it as a kind of artistic professional accomplishment, now behind me, that would allow me to develop personally.

And then, tiredly, after speaking with mom again, having a nice conversation about New England Transcendentalist Literature, me maybe trying to ease Kerouac in with that, spiritually, I had a sip more wine and now went to bed in the early light, having assured her that Mary would indeed be coming with cans of cat food and groceries and wine if she needed.

And then I slept all day, even as the construction noise and the bachata music too loud and the shouting kept me ill and distracted from deeper sleep until the noise had somehow come to an end.

Well, shame on you, this is your day off, and this is all you can do with it and you don't even feel well, Jesus Christ, and I had felt earlier drinking the wine and reading, but one too many rounds in one day sort of a thing, can't you control yourself?

But I wasn't up for finding a barber shop, nor for getting out to the old movie theater CVS to charge up my metro card, the sky is overcast, and I managed yoga yesterday anyway, and now it becomes a matter of what to eat, and there are loads of laundry to do.

Somewhere, though, as a remembered thought from the early morning and the reading of one's own book, placed next to Kerouac, man, I begin to wonder, does one have to be his own sort of Neal Cassady Kerouac's friend character in order to generate the misadventures necessary for a narrative story line arch as they call it in creative writing classes...   And meanwhile I've become this fool who gets up at a late hour in the afternoon to get ready for work, work my five night shifts, struggle, etc., and don't even have the pay-off of any kind of a personal life of a consistent kind, except calling my mom many times a day...  and maybe two nights a week to meet Betsy out, but getting late for her or too early for me, though I will certainly make the lovely sacrifice...

And do I still write?  Do I still bother with it, except as some form of calibration bearing upon psychological health and balance...

I wake up with a heavy head and congested enough in my nose that a gag reflex kicks in, such that I spit up some bile then back on the couch.

Okay, it was a fine Transcendentalist thing to write such a book, as mine, and fine to keep on writing, but... can one sustain it...  is that even practical...

All I'm saying is that it would be very difficult not to write.  I don't know, that's life in a nutshell for me.

Wake up on couch after dream of remembering the bright face of the Princess expectant of my not being awkward with her after our affection for each other came out from some old classroom long ago, the way her face would shine, the brightness of her look up at me, and then I'm awake and I have to go get ready for work, after three exhausting nights, and this one is going to be shitty too.

I get a text from old Phil Tombow, you working tonight...  Oh, goddamn, the night I'd rather just dial it in, anonymously, and there's more coming the barman's way because there's a large party, say, 24 Frenchies in for a planned menu dinner, they'll churn it out downstairs, but upstairs, I'll take the spill over and it's not going to be pretty and the kitchen at the old Gaul will be backed up, and when the regulars show up for wine-tasting night it will amount to them watching gleefully as I bleed out my enthusiasm on the floor, disgusted, sad, trying to entertain, all of them smiles, but me having to deal with New York Bar lawyers and their wives, and the delay from down below from the kitchen after I fire entrees has become ridiculous, and the wine we are supposed to be tasting is only about four bottles so what's the point I have to improvise...

And oh, people who usually eat downstairs have decided it would be better to come up and dine up at the wine bar, but I've got a whole show and here they all come, clamoring, telling their stories, and reservations are made and I don't even know about them but here they are, all showing up...  Just as they did at 5:45...  expecting me to jump for joy upon their arrival, oh, how nice to see you, except that they are kind enough to mention my Facebook post acknowledging the strange fact that it's been fifty years since Kerouac met his death, working in his favorite chair, writing about his father's print shop and all of a sudden he has nausea and goes to the bathroom vomiting a hemorrhage of blood...

I finally get rid of the last neighbor at the bar, a good Christian woman, who has invited me to Spook-eghti and Meatballs...  I get the bus home, fall upon the couch with the kitchen light still on, and now, errh, erhr, erhrr, my cell phone is vibrating off the ikea coffee table, or course, guess who...  1:30 AM...  my heart is not in a good place as far as beating...

But you have to remember, how the web works for the spider...  the connection, the circle, all points framed, reachable, tangible, the spider's patience, waiting for any tick on her radar graph.  She needs speed sometimes.  Patience other times.

The tree has its web.  Vertical, spread out in all directions, up and down, limb and leaf.  Catching sun and dew...


And any great idea or thought, or moment precise, for the thoughtful of humanity, those with an ear turned, vigilant, participate in the craft of a strand in the collective unconscious web.

Any great imaginative conception...  Be it done, be it done by, be it done to, be it thought of by the subject of the imaginative conception who becomes what imagination wants to conceive, or be it represented by, who knows, all these lines become less clear divisions...


And so here is Peter, looking at Jesus, the man, the prophet, the strange poet of live theater of a very important kind of news...

And Jesus does not know the answer when he asks the question, and maybe it's even a vulnerable moment...  What do they say I am, what do you think I am...  And the fledgling apostle friends, what do they say, but words bandied about.  "What do you say I am, old Peter?" the man with his followed visions must ask, knowing that by now they are all outside of the norms of accepted behavior and jobs, moving into a field that has no system of credential granted unto it safely recognized by the rest, and they were just as scrupulous about paperwork and documentation then, as they are now.

So here's this rather reckless kind of a guy, Jesus, who really seems to thrive, as it were, on a way, a path, a walk, a journey, a strange professional choice...

He's the guy who was out there with them on the lake when the storm was coming.  He was the one who associated himself with the publican and the sinner.  He was the one who did such things as to be eyed with some suspicion by the normal media gatherers as a man "gluttonous and a wine-bibber," not to mention his habit prone to parables, beautiful poetic statements that really cut so deep and into everyone's basic understanding of existence, whether or not they hid from it, the childlike ability to get it, how did all these beings of nature come into existence, and being so perfectly created that they have just the right and perfect means to gather sustenance just as they are, the bird having its seed, the violet having its own perfection of raiment such to catch the sun and the rain from down up the ground...

Here's the guy who gave a long talk that captivated people, and then he did something strange, which was feed them...  Out of nothing.  Here's a guy who knowingly took his friends out on the boat when it was the season of storms and all the conditions just perfect for them to sink to the bottom.  Here's the guy who made faith come out in certain individuals by doing strange things that only a stranger would be able to understand or being to account for.  It's even in his parables.  Who the hell are you, Jesus, and he gives them the story of the Good Samaritan on the road, saving the poor guy who robbers beat the hell out of, because they are logical, robbers, robbers who need money, preying on travelers by surprise and thuggery.  And here's Jesus telling us this whole reckless story, of not only saving the poor bastard, but then giving money, giving money to the innkeeper to take care of him, until he is "better," as the pay the innkeeper until the guy is healthy and able to walk out on his own two feet is definitely a part of the story...

(And if you've listened to one of Jesus's parable stories about the vineyard and the owner and the vineyard keeper, you know yourself, that the guy is hard to understand sometimes... downright mystifying...  It only makes sense perhaps, because Jesus likes his wine, a fixation...  It's telling, that he would chose the particular setting for his little lectures...)  Jesus, WTF, the apostles, would-be, texted each other, on their cell phones....

Who do they say I am, who do you think I am?

And old Peter, he gets it.  He's the mortal bridge.  You're not the reckless, you're not the whatever they might say you are...  You're something...  Let's call it, The Son of Man...  I don't know.

And old Jesus is pleased, of course he is. For Peter hasn't judged him.  Jerk.  Asshole  Winedrinker.  Peter has acknowledged that the man, Jesus, is working, working on something, doing his job.

His job.  We might speculate about that now, or compare it.  Jesus delivered sutras.  He did yoga cures.  He was a reader, a thoughtful person, a scholar.  He knew from inside out, sin and stupidity and lust and all that, but rather than letting it get to him, he chose to live in the present and be sin free, as that's what living in the present is, not imposing any kind of great plan or selfishness, as such things are foreign to us anyway.

All we know is things like "driving down the road."  We are on the road.  We're in a car.  We're driving from Clinton, down College Hill, and out Bristol Road, Route 233, to either catch 5, the slow way, or on to Westmoreland, to gas up, to get on the New York State Thruway westward, out along the flats, past Lake Oneida, and on through toward Syracuse, and then off to catch 481 to Route 48, on up to Oswego..  From Dad's, your old home town, up to where Mom is, and her life at the SUNY town...



Kerouac, On The Road, by this point you're read a lot and your tired out by it all, and we're out in San Francisco now, and Dean Moriarty, his thumb is up in a great bandage, and he's being called out, by the women folk, for caring nothing about anyone else but for the thing hanging between his legs...  And Kerouac, as Sal Paradise, despite it all, and even what the reader might want, or feel up for, offers a quiet defense of Moriarty, who is of course Neal Cassady, son of good tinsmith worker father gone wino in the depths of old Denver and railroad tramps and jails...   It's not been an easy life for Dean.

In some quiet mimic, one we have to go look for backward, unconvinced upon the first careful reading, and readings afterward, here is Kerouac, a gentle Catholic Christian sensibility kind of a guy, offering a pronouncement.  Here is IT.  Dean is The Holy Goof...  Dean is Beat.  Beatific. Beatified.

You'd miss it if you weren't' careful.  After the Holy Goof passage, Part Three, Chapter Three, reading On The Road is easier, more fulfilling, less a torture of irresponsible travels, the writing grounded, falling into a tradition.

Another crazy Saturday night, selling almost five thousand dollars worth up at the wine bar.  There's that point in the night, head down, running, opening a Gigondas bottle at table 53, a five top, one guy wanting martini with blue cheese anchovy stuffed olive, but we're out of them, because barmen are run pretty hard, and then back to the bar and you've got a familiar pretty kind face, happily married, commercial real estate guy, and they all want cocktails, and who is sitting where...

I watch episodes of Chernobyl on my lap top, eating black eyed peace and rice, having some wine to unwind, when I finally get back, letting everyone else go, and the paper work drags on, entering all the tips into the system.  Alone.  Bar cleaning some to do still.  Before the Uber cab home to the apartment.

I wake tired and it's pouring rain, Betsy's up in New York City, I'm headed to work, mom is calling, telling me there's no food, and she's had some wine...  After the shower I pull a box marked winter stuff out of the closet and cut it open, and there's my good winter jacket.  I go out and catch the D6 bus in, waiting under the overhang of the little bus stop there by the curve with the field of the Urban Ecology Center behind me.  Mom has left some voicemails...  My pant legs are wet with the rain by the time I come into the restaurant.

And to my relief, there aren't many reservations made for upstairs, though the downstairs is booked solid.  Which means we will be running at some point...


But at some point, walking in the rain, careful at an intersection, standing aside in the tall grasses to let some Georgetown University girls go by, looking up at the scene of the rainy sky above the row houses of Reservoir Road--did Bobby Kennedy live in one near here when he first came to town?--I get to read my little snippets of blog entries.  They aren't much, Lord knows.  But...

The spider makes a strand, from here to there, pulls on it a bit, attaches another strand.  And eventually, a web begins to form, and in accordance with its own form and the principle of the integrity of the circle, attached to its surroundings just so, it makes sense, and the spider can abide there and its little part of the greater doing its little spider stuff, activities best seen at night, but that depends.

After the drone useless galley slave work of Saturday night, ignored for all but my gopher go get it, Sunday night there is a vibe, a more personal kind of engagement, regulars, neighborhood, comfortable people.

Things are thrown off a bit from the start when Marie Reine brings up a four top of elderly couples who swear they have made a reservation, they are over by the window, but there's a draft, and everyone starts fumbling over it until I cut through...  So much for stuffing olives project.


As the night winds up and then down, I speak in French to a couple of ladies in a humorous way, je vais a la plage, mais il pleut, je suis un jambon, as they sit next to a lady friend of mine whose friend from Sweden is from originally the Dordogne region...   I give away a copy of my old book to the lady who comes and has liver then an endive salad in the corner as she listens to books on tape, and at the end my psychic sense is rewarded for my good treatment of a woman with husband and boys, as she is a celebrity chef, Pati's Mexican Kitchen, come to find out.

But there's something, something about the work of a bar...  valid, honorable...


I can't seem to move before 2:30 in the afternoon to get ready and go do work again, but that's how it goes.

I see the art in it, but I get sad reading On The Road now.  The misled.  The great unproductive.  Bad decisions, willfully chosen.

I'm not the only writer led astray for the sake of, for the need for, lyricism, I say to myself, turning the book face down on the bed, but picking it back up again, "oh, now they're driving down to New Orleans to see William Burroughs, a strange chapter indeed, the whole thing...  the drug addiction, the madness, the lack of control..."


I turn to a yoga book I found at the library.  Kino MacGregor, The Power of Ashtanga Yoga, reading therein about the history of yoga and also its benefits.

I sip a Nicolas Pinot Noir, as I do so, being awake at this hour, attempting to entertain myself in the hours of sleep and then waking after the work week's vicissitudes.  I read about the conscience of a responsible yogi, about going vegetarian, about Ayurvedic diet...

I try to find a place in On the Road to read from, but every passage I pick it up, it's the bleak waste of time, so it seems to me...  Which hits home, I gather, as I know it all myself, misdirected, misguided, along for a ride, tho' in my case, trying to make a living while keeping something creative going.

I wake up to the phone call from Mom.  Yes, dad died nine years ago...  "Am I being abandoned..."  No, mom.  I'm coming up to see you soon.  I was just there.  "There's no food, no wine."  I convince her to look around a little bit.  She finds a bit of both.

I'm still tired.  The last of the siding is going up, but after lunch break now, out comes the radio blasting whatever that music is, cumbia, bachata, merengue, repetitive guitar chords spelled out note by note, the same single note guitar sound in each song after song, string by string, singing over the top, the same predictable rhythm...  some sort of weird marching music, ant like.  I put in ear plugs...

I read through the beginning passages of the yoga book as it describes a sequence of poses and the mechanics of each pose.  Lift the sacrum, pull down the shoulder blades, expand, flex the quadriceps while the hamstrings stretch...  To do a pose is to wring out the poisons accumulated through living that sit within the body like sediment, like plaque.

Another nap, and then I get out to the field by the Urban Ecology Center out in the sun, flat enough for the yoga mat and go through my usual poses and some difficult ones new to me, rotated triangle...

Ending up with a good five minute plus headstand in the breeze, and then a solid lotus pose.  When I stand I can barely walk, but it's good, you can feel it, progress.


I reflect on the week.  Funny how we get accused by the others of their own worst faults.  That is a two way street, yes, but if you step back, you see it, you see the connectivity, you see how angry people are, how they make your life miserable, temporarily, at least, while not seeing their own behavior that's even worse and more demoralizing to the human being.


Somewhere, I think there is a place for such writing as this, a kind of journalism that catches how people act around each other, a recording, maybe it's yellow journalism, maybe it's small potatoes, things no one wants to hear or might care to ponder out very much, a sort of detailed note taking about human behavior, and maybe so, if such were established, if we had the talk of the ever observant person wise to how people actually act, say, out on the street, or in a bar, well, maybe we'd be better at getting the truth of a person, say, a Trump, as Trump was observed by bar people to be cheap, a tight wad, a big spender only if he thought there was a chance he might get some action...  how he was the shitty miserable to deal with person who wanted to talk about himself, and this after only a Coors Light, maybe two, tops.  If bar people had spoken, come out as a tribe, telling their truth--and their truth portrayed the man in the light, revealed, as he is, not a nice person, nor a good person, nor a genuine thoughtful honest person, nothing of the like, just in it for himself,who cares--if that truth had come out, the bartender's Middle Earth Elf Union had spoken out, "this, Pennsylvania, is the asshole you will be getting, if you vote for this lying chump in it for himself and greed and megalomania and bullying...."

It was left, however, to journalists of a journalist sort of profession, and they could not talk the truth enough, covered the aberration of Trump as a phenomenon, gave him air time...

Sketches from the so-called week

I had planned on working tonight, having made a switch, an attempt to get Saturday night off, as part of a vague plan to join Betsy in the Big Apple for a quick trip, but the managers wanted and expected the normal guy Cisco, given what the night would bring.  "Not your cup of tea," the boss said, over the phone, politely enough.  Sure.  Quiet tired anyway.   No desire to do the lugging for the twelve top in the back right at 5:30, would prefer to take the silent treatment from LM Saturday night down the road.

The stone mason's saw revs up as it is readied to make its cut.  Can be heard throughout the neighborhood, and it's right outside my windows fifteen feet below.  There was quiet for a couple of days, but the men are at it again, with the nail gun and the half-shouting on ladders as the last of the siding goes up on top of the white Dupont Tyvek house liner sheet now that the window casements and the windows they hold are in place.  The mason is capping the balustrades of the stairs and walkway into the building.  The basement is still a bare shell of concrete, with PVC pipes rising out of gravel to be covered over.

It's cold out and overcast, and after reaching mom on the phone and dealing with the work confusion, with the wind blowing in the tree tops, I snooze on the couch in a form of meditation, taking the mind off its usual thought track.  The working men laugh in the distance, pleased to be working, dressed in heavier sweats and work jackets for the first time.

Lankavatara.

Tuesday night wine tasting, the regulars come in, one by one.  There's the Democratic debate, and a Washington Nationals series baseball game going on.  Monika's late husband's cousin is visiting from London for IMF meetings, arriving before, and though I recognize her there is no reservation for them and it is as if I have to be prompted to recognize her, though I do.

A pretty girl comes in, Jeremy gets her seated, as I roll around and take care of the two by the window, getting her a taste of the Haut Pila Roussillon red.  She is joined by a young man, and I pour him a taste, and then for her the taste of a comparable wine, the Minervois, Paraza, which she prefers.    Will they order food, who knows.  People are being sphinxes tonight.  A younger man comes up and seats himself by the window after the other couple has left.  He looks out the window.  Okay.   I let him sit there.  "He had a glass of wine downstairs.  He's waiting for someone," Jeremy tells me.

The local lady comes in with a tale from the art studio of breaking a glass shelf, and the bar is full with kibitzing.  Jake finally orders a rose.  Fine.  Run out the clock.

9:10, the kitchen closing, Jeremy informs me, when he comes by to stand at the bar's mouth and talk with local lady, helping out with wiping down the clean glassware from the washer.

At 9:03 M the busboy man comes up and tells me, kitchen close at 9.  Okay.   And just a good five minutes later, Cisco shows up with two young women friends.  To drag my night out.  I can barely look up.  "Kitchen's closed," I mutter.  He goes down the stairs and soon comes back up, and then he's behind the bar getting plates, silverware napkin set-ups, three of them, bread and butter.  No, don't do this to me...   Soon a plate of escargot, and two onion tarts arrive.  And then a salmon entree.  And I'm pretty exhausted at this point, having dealt with the holiday weekend... followed by jazz night, some crazy shifts.

I am frustrated by this move, and mom is on the line and I'm trying to explain where her phone charger might be.  No option, but to turn to the bottles and pour myself some red.

I clean the kitchen counters when I get home, I go take a walk down to the woods on a bluff, one deer running away, another invisible in the bushes puffing a warning at my closeness.  In my bedeviled mood I come upon one of those red Uber slightly powered bicycles and figure out how to take it for a spin, unimpressed with its pickup, but taking it off road for a whoop and I flush a young deer out of a field and feel like a bad intruder upon the night's peace.  Back in the apartment, I eat chicken salad from the Korean market and have more wine and damn I'm still frustrated.  Happens every time, every single time.  The last people, and when I go to work next day my shoulders hang down defeatedly, and it's going to be a busy night too.



In a dream between Tuesday and Wednesday I am with my family, brother, mother, father.  Or perhaps just by brother.  We are in Utica, in the midst of a tour of the grand old Italian restaurants there, and in the dream mind they are palaces, with great buffet like feasts laid out with tomato sauce gravy and cheeses and meats and all things, rigatoni, greens, meatballs, sausages...  And one, after seeing all number of magnificent dining rooms well-attended to, the last one is like a great theater, with a magnificent mansion like entrance of steps up to the grand doors, and inside a great well-lit lobby almost with a fountain and people have their pictures taken in grand style.  Not bad for old Utica.

And then the iPhone is rumbling silently and Mom is calling and with a dry voice I answer, and "did I wake you up..."


It turns out the fourteen in the back are familiar, members of the Norwegian military attache, largely, dressed in plain clothes, or maybe they are in a private enterprise now, but anyway, many of them very tall and beards and strong manly faces, Vikings.  Friends, straight forward, easy to deal with.  I get their wine order, running down to the basement to grab the Sancerre Reverdy Ducru with the yellow orange label and also the 2017 Gigondas, La Formoune, stopping to get cold bottles from MR, server of the main dining room floor from the cooler, four of the reds under my arms, running back upstairs and opening them up, then going down the table, who wants white, who wants red...   Mineral water served.

The day off, I finally warm to it later in the afternoon before going out for a walk in the light and then round to the little market for cold cuts and wine after taking in the river.  I wear my puff down light jacket and a winter hat for the first time in a long time.  The noise of the stone mason's saw follows me, and so do the thoughts in my head of a certain kind that make you feel down about yourself and where you are in life as an attempted adult with his fool habits, but also thoughts that are part of a stream, as well, a stream that leads one to try to wrap his head around the Transcendent thoughts of Buddha and what-not.  Things are, in the final analysis, projections from the mind, consciousness, in other words, as I walk slowly down by the woods, considering the Lankavatara Sutra.

My father wrote me, after he'd read my book, his analysis, which was that the main character is a Theosophist, one who is grappling with larger issues such as what comprises the nature of reality.  Of course, the Princess, the Beautiful Girl in the text, with whom one would want the things of a good relationship with, perhaps even she in time turns into less of a reality and more of a figment of the once imagination, know what I mean?  Something by which a Buddhist point is examined by, why make such a big deal...  And the Buddha considers this a very serious and central lesson for us here in the world...

And furthermore, as is more or less outlined in the Sutras, Lankavatara and other, that the whole point is to be the teacher teaching such a fine point, so as to liberate the suffering.  Hmm.

Much ado about nothing...  Nothing is but thinking makes it so, as Shakespeare put in to his plays.