Katz Steve

The Compleat Memoirrhoids: 137.n

ALMOST MOVES

The woman’s sword gleams in the sun as clouds pass. She wears a loose jade silk jacket embroidered with dragons. Across the grass and pavements of the park people practice chi gung and martial forms, alone or in small groups. I practice my empty hand Yang style form here during the week I am in Taipei. Her father or husband sits on a folding stool and sings loudly as she does a long, graceful sword form. The weighted red tassel tied to the handle swings in calculated arcs above her head and whips at her waist. I do my form several times over just so I can watch her.

At this time I know only the short yang form, thirty seven moves developed by Professor Cheng Man Ching. On the set in South Dakota of Grassland, a film I worked on as a screenwriter, I watched Scott Glenn do tai chi. I had been inquiring elsewhere about this practice. It wasn’t yet well known in the US. He suggested that when I get back to New York I look up Professor Cheng’s school on the Bowery. I would love him, he said, just as he did. One regret, he said, that he had about moving to LA was that he lost contact with Professor Cheng and his school.

I first went to study with Da Liu, a teacher who had a studio near Grand Central. He was interesting, but didn’t touch my life. When I heard from Charles Ross and his gallery owner, Virginia Dwan, that they were taking classes from Herman Kauz, a student of Professor Cheng, at the Y on 51st Street and Lexington, I changed classes. At the same time I started going to Professor Cheng’s classes on the Bowery. The contrast between the two teachers was immense. Herman was a big, nimble, athletic man, one time judo champion of Hawaii, karate many degrees black belt, who taught openly and shared his discoveries with his students. He wore clothes that allowed you to see how his body moved. There was no way I could penetrate his posture or move him off his stance in push-hands (an exercise for two people who engage in linked circular movement. One tries to find the center and disrupt the balance of the other) On the other hand tiny Professor Cheng managed to move Herman with ease. I sometimes fantasized about riding the subway with Herman and being attacked and watching him destroy a dozen or more punks. Professor Cheng was the opposite, a small man with a feathery goatee, who always wore loose Chinese garb. When he demonstrated it was virtually impossible to see how his body moved. This caused many disputes among his senior students who were charged with teaching the classes. It was sometimes like the story of the blind men and the elephant. Each of them saw something different. If I got to put a hand on Professor Cheng, when he let me feel resistance at all it felt like I was pushing a basketball down under water. There was no way he wouldn’t roll away. He pushed me only once. This felt like a breath, a feather had hurled me across the room.

A discipline began there at my age of thirty-six that has threaded my life together since, and has become the physical spine of my spirit. The internal martial arts are not what they appear to be, and their nature changes throughout the life of anyone committed to them. This might look like dance to the outsider, but its qualities are not in the display nor the apparent grace of the moves. Wushu is a training that emphasizes the pretty aspects of the arts, that you might see in a theater. Otherwise aligning, centering, relaxing, adjusting the body so it cooperates with rather than resists gravity, is some of what these arts are about, and marshaling, moving internal energy, chi energy. The practice encourages a deep knowledge of self through internal focus, interaction, movement, sinking the mind into the physical core. Its effects can’t really be told, but must be experienced. In that sense it’s a Daoist practice—“Who says doesn’t know, and who knows doesn’t say.”

Herman was my principal teacher for many years in New York City. He is an intelligent, powerful man, interesting on many levels. When my sons came to visit me on Crosby Street, I’d take them with me to watch me push-hands with Herman, as he effortlessly threw me against the wall. For some reason I thought it was important for them to see their father be defeated and then bounce back to try again. I was always aware of Professor Cheng’s maxim, “win by losing.”

Now, late in life, I believe that after some serious dances with the surgical corps my quick recoveries into an ability to keep on moving I owe to an immediate return to chi gung practices, and to my forms. Bing Lee has been my principal teacher in Denver. “Ha ha ha, Daoist shoes,” he points and laughs at the inexpensive black Chinese slippers I wear when I first show up at his school. These days I am learning a Sun form developed by a legendary tai chi, bagua, xinyi fighter, Sun Lutang. This is a small frame form, meaning the moves are smaller, the hands move closer to the body and the turns are less extreme than in the large frame sets like Yang and Chen, which have been my principal forms. This form is more erect and less strenuous than the others, appropriate for my dotage. A sequence from this system has been adapted for treatment of arthritis, with some success. I study Sun at a school in Denver started by Mearl Thompson, a skilled martial artist and gentle, affable guy. I am also refreshing my knowledge of a cane form with instruction by my friend Robert Haddock, who has also been a student of Bing. I’ve practiced knife, sword, sticks, lance, deer horn knives, and have put them all away. At this point the cane seems most appropriate. This form is derived from Swimming Dragon Bagua taught by Liang Shouyou. Liang’s school is based in Vancouver, BC, where he also trains the Canadian Wushu team. If I were young and ready to commit to Chinese Internal Martial Arts I would go to Vancouver to devote myself to study with Master Liang Shouyou, a kind and immensely accomplished master of many forms. During the Cultural Revolution he was banished with other martial arts masters to a town in the interior where they had nothing to do but teach each other. He knows and employs many systems, and hundreds of forms. The cane form is intricate, detailed in internal complexity, more than I can accomplish in my dotage, as is the Sun form also more complicated than it looks, and for those reasons they refresh and sustain me.

I taught my short form in South Bend, Indiana, when I was teaching Creative Writing at Notre Dame. Just as teaching literature makes you focus more clearly on the texts, teaching tai chi makes you focus on and clarify the moves. It was useful to me, though with just five years of experience it was presumptuous to teach. After I moved to Boulder, Colorado, I practiced with Jane and Bataan Faigao, who taught at Naropa, and whom I knew from the school on the Bowery. I occasionally helped them teach a class, and taught a class of my own at a community center. Ben Lo, one of Professor Cheng’s principal Taipei disciples, who had his own school in San Francisco, occasionally visited to give a seminar, a cause for great meals and intense practice sessions. One time as I was playing with him in a push-hands demonstration I managed to move him a little, perhaps because he was explaining something and was distracted. He settled down then and bounced me off around the gym. There was nothing I could do, as if he had taken control of my mind. I was astonished. He stepped forward and I bounced back without his hardly putting a hand on me.

When I stay in Rome with my friends Primarosa Cesarini-Sforza, a great artist, and Francesco Tarquini, a producer for RAI Due TV and a writer, I go to Piazza Vittorio in the mornings to practice. Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele is probably the largest piazza in Rome, gated and fenced. It’s surrounded by streets of shadowed loggia, cool in the heat. At one time a vibrant outdoor market snugged up against the walls of the piazza, notorious for great Roman food, flea market bargains, tourist rip-offs, and mercurial pickpockets. The whole shebang has been moved indoors nearby to an abandoned barracks, and is still a fabulous market. This is in the Esquiline neighborhood where Rosa and Francesco live, near the Termine train station and Santa Maria Maggiore. The neighborhood is a sponge for immigrant populations, many Indian, Pakistani, Chinese, Vietnamese shops and restaurants. A film, L’Orchestra di Piazza Vittorio, documents the development of a concert out of instruments and players from all these ethnicities. The Chinese practice in the park, as I do. There is a Chinese teacher occasionally who teaches a Chen form to students, mostly Italian. He sits on a bench and smokes cigarettes, and sometimes gets up to correct them. They look pretty good. Here and there on paths and lawns Chinese people do various forms of tai chi, chi gung, etc.. The largest group has a boom box placed on a table in the broadest paved space. They earnestly step each other around, practicing the tango from 7 a.m. till noon. I do my Yang and my Chen forms while the Chinese tango in Rome.

My principal teacher in Denver has been Bing Lee, a native Denverite. He is a body prodigy who has a genius for learning forms. With the help of Sifu Mike Bingo, a legendary special forces guy, a master of Xinyi, who was passed the lineage from his teacher in Taiwan, Bing has a deep understanding and is willing to teach the marshaling and discharging of energy. He is the only teacher I have had who lets you put your hands on his body so you can feel how the energy moves. It has been a privilege to work with him. When Master Liang was visiting to do a weekend Chi Gung workshop we stood for an hour with the arms extended in a circle in front of the chest. By the end of the hour most of the forty some students had given up. Only Bing, one other student, and myself remained in the posture. I felt good about that, but whenever Bing tells the story of that hour he never includes me. That feels sometimes like a pebble caught in my Daoist shoe. Bing almost never compliments the students. The closest he came to complimenting me was when he had me demonstrate something in front of the class. If you’ve spent some years trying to get deeper into this practice you are best prepared to understand this as a compliment. “Look at Steve,” says Bing. “When he first came here he was rigid, inflexible. Now he almost moves.”

ARUNACHALA

Rudy and Lynn and myself hire a car and driver to take us to Pondicherry. The car is the Indian built Ambassador, 0 to 60 in forty-three minutes. We could have rented a car, but the narrow Indian highways are terrifying. There’s an hallucinatory range of transport — scooters, bicycles, ox-carts, donkeys, water buffalo, handcarts, pedal cabs, cows wandering where they please. This agglomeration of traffic clots the narrow roads and challenges the cars, vans, trucks, and semis. Farmers winnow and dry their grain and seed on the flat road surface. Huge semis, double trailers, barrel down the middle of the road, looking like they’re headed for collision with your little Ambassador. They both swerve at the last second to go around each other. It’s like the driving culture goes by road rules derived from a game of “chicken.” I wasn’t about to test my driving skills in this.

Pondicherry is interesting for many reasons, one being that its foreign influence and second language is French, so you hear French on the beaches, unlike in the northern cities of the Raj where English reigns. Here Sri Aurobindo founded a kibbutz-like, socially conscious ashram, centered in a community they developed called Auroville. Aurobindo wrote in English an enormous indigestible metaphysical poem/treatise called Savitri. When he died a French woman/disciple they named The Mother took over and ruled with great strictness. You can see this in pictures everywhere of her stern face. The community was familiar to me because one of my ex-wife’s cousins disappeared into it. She was instructed to reject all family and previous friends, and to write them formal letters to that effect. We drive past Auroville, but don’t stop.

The driver assures us we can get to Tiruvannamalai in good time, so we head there. It’s in Tamil Nadu, where the ashram of Ramana Maharshi sits below the enchanted mountain of Arunachala. The holy man quit his body in 1950. Somerset Maugham modeled the guru in The Razor’s Edge after Ramana Maharshi. We are picked up first by a tall, slick, grey haired disciple who says he is a caretaker, and shows us around, asking for money at every turn. We give him many rupees though we suspect that won’t all go to support the institution. He explains that we can stay at the ashram, and spells out the terms of that stay. Some rupees to him is part of the deal. He sticks to us as we wander around. He’s like the rip tide of rupees. Finally we lose him when we enter Ramana Maharshi’s meditation room. We sit there for a half hour, facing a life-size photo of the avatar in reclining position. I am suddenly exhausted, distracted by small aches and pains. I wonder about the guide. Will he be waiting for us? It’s a relief that he’s gone when we leave the room. We have permission to take the walk up Arunachala to the Virupakshi cave where the master spent seventeen years of his life in meditation, but decide not to so we can get back to Madras for an evening concert. To this day I regret not making the climb. Lynn says she definitely felt something in the meditation room. I was too distracted, I say, and didn’t feel anything. I often come up dry in those situations. Rudy was non-committal. Though I “felt nothing,” these days whenever I look at a picture of Ramana Maharshi I feel something. And when I go to the website that broadcasts 24/7 a live picture of the mountain I often get a feeling of peace and balance. On the website the Lord Siva is quoted as saying, “What cannot be acquired without great pains — the true import of Vedanta (Self-Realization) — can be attained by anyone who looks at (this hill), from where it is visible or even mentally thinks of it from afar.”

AS BOBBY GOES

your eyen two wol slee me sodenly

I may the beauty of him not sustene

Bobby-Louise packs her oxygen in a shoulder holster, under her arm. The party is for her. Jack Collum boosts his from a strap across his chest. He and Jenny are giving this party for Bobby on her retirement from Naropa. When I lived in Boulder, I spent many pretty evenings in this house but have been there only a few times since I moved to Denver. The house feels overripe, not cluttered but encrusted with stuff accumulated over two interesting lifetimes. Artifacts from Jennifer’s long sojourns in Afghanistan hang from the walls and cushion the settees. Jack’s long generous career writing poems, teaching kids, collecting folk music and blues, fill shelves with tapes and books. No empty space here, but a cave-like feel of slow accretion and crowding nourished by the steady drip of time. Nothing decorated here, all of it lived. The people gather in Jennifer’s garden, near the small pond dug by herself, the plantings a crazy panache of vegetation, flowers scattered at random with edibles. We all mingle and talk in this unfeasible curtilage, beautiful as a map of Jennifer’s mind.

Keith Abbott tells me about a trip to his old stomping grounds to enrich his memoir of being a small college athlete. I tell him about the Memoirrhoids, both of us working in our memories. We exchange contact numbers again, and vow to get together if we remember. Anselm, festooned in black as always, and grey-haired as the rest of us, sits down on a cast iron love seat in the garden. We will tell stories, and toast Bobby-Louise Hawkins. Anselm Hollo says, “We are old.”

Junior, the present chair of the Naropa writing program, proposes the toast, and we lift wine glasses for Bobby. He’s less old. His little girl Simone runs around garden being charming. She hands me a tiny toy cannon that can shoot, and has me hold on to it because she might need it later. The outgoing president of Naropa tells a story of this woman who one evening showed up at his door. They invited her in and spent an hour or so in wonderful conversation. When she left, he and his wife asked each other, “Was that Bobby Louise Hawkins?” Bobby had arrived at a planned party a month early. Reed Bye, who never looks older, gives a circuitous account of Bobby at faculty meetings where they discussed applicants to their program, and she would always ask about the work at the end, “Yes, but does it have flare?” Flare was her secret requirement. Elizabeth Robinson, too young and shiny to look old as the rest of us, tells about an evening where Bobby sang, beautifully. Bobby, who doesn’t drink any more, responds, “Yes, the wine had its good qualities.” I regret that except for my admiration and fondness for her I have no story to tell about Bobby, except perhaps now this one I tell here.

Bobby turns to me from a conversation with Jack and says, “We’re talking oxygen.” “If you can talk prostate,” I say, “We’ll have a conversation.” “You really look good,” says Jane Hollo, always warm and southern. She stuffs a card announcing the show of her art into my pocket. “Good for what?” I ask.

People aging comically reiterate the physical and mental movement of their youths. If there isn’t too much pain, it’s an amusing show, a slow slapstick of fading abilities.

This comedy is breaking up. You can hear joints creak as the old friends falter towards their cars. I get into my car with good old Maureen, poet quick and wise, to drive us back to Denver. As I drive I am engulfed by a memory, as if visited by the ghost of passion past. I was riding the subway downtown once when I lived on Crosby Street. My eyes locked on the grey-green eyes of a beautiful young woman with ash-blonde hair. A sly smile curved her full lips, one shallow dimple deepening with her smile; a slim, buxom figure with a dancer’s posture. Our eyes remained locked from 89th to 42nd Street, where she got off. She looked at me through the window, as if she was disappointed that I didn’t get off the train with her. That might have made all the difference.

I look at Maureen riding shotgun. “That was such a great party,” she says. Maureen is always positive, ready to praise. I have the realization then, on the way back to Denver, even stronger than the image of the woman on the train, that my life is like that, that I am always going further downtown, and I don’t even know what that means. She was my grey-eyed girl. What does Van Morrison’s brown-eyed girl mean? Months have passed since the reverie, many years since the event, and meaning still plays no part in it. I have just the pleasure of the reverie, and the blessing of a grey-eyed girl, with no burden of meaning.

AWP AMP

Too often I tell people that when I was directing Creative Writing at The University of Colorado in Boulder I didn’t enlist our program in the Associated Writing Programs. The idea of any kind of program, even the one paying my salary, offended my sense of the calling of the artist, and the notion of an association of programs squared my nausea. The artist in American culture has to be the majority of one, even when collaborating. I’m not pushing a libertarian or “tea-party” notion. I believe that government needs to be just big enough to protect the underprivileged, the unfortunate, and to keep the greedy and the power monsters in check. Government should encourage and support a broad sense of American culture, so we can put our best spirit into the world. The artist has to be free to delight and to move the people. Please, let there be no penchant for the convention. Pummel this sucker’s conclave. Rip it apart. This lean toward academic and corporate that manifests at AWP is an unnerving conspiracy of the dreary. But as a participant who once taught in such a program I have to admit that students who belly up to Creative Writing programs need somewhere to network for potential jobs and publishing opportunities. Trust funds can help very few. Most other rides to keep the scribbling alive are exhausting and slippery. Who am I to impose my notion of the artist on the writing students? In my role as director I was being paid to be a corporate hack; nonetheless, even today I’d refuse to let the University of Colorado wordslinger operation join AWP.

This year the convention is in Denver, smack up against the auto show. It is happening not too far from my neighborhood. I get tangled into the conference, the first I’ve ever joined. I do a few ten minute readings around the city. How can it hurt, I think? I am retired from all programs. With the left hand of my own hypocrisy I fret that they haven’t organized a celebration of my work. Not for Yuriy Tarnawsky, either, a great friend and writer. I go to dinner with him and Karina, his lovely wife. Afterwards we meet up with a small gathering sponsored by The American Book Review at The Office, a bar near the convention. You can bet all your bananas and your grandma’s snowboard that The Office is the name of that bar! Help us please, lord of the fringe, back to The St. Adrian Company or Max’s Kansas City. And it’s great to see Ralph Berry, extraordinary fiction writer, editor of my KISSSSSS: A Miscellany, with FC2. He is the best editor who ever touched my work. It is great to see Steve Tomasula, a creator of gorgeous intermedia fiction. Joe Amato is at the table, wielding his enthusiasm, and flush with the emergence of Big Man With A Shovel, his terrific new novel. Except for Karina, no women visit the American Book Review writers’ beer bash.

Friends agree right and left with my flagrant curmudgeon — Too institutional! Too Corporate! Literary apparatchiks elbowing for position! Overstuffed and dry as MLA! Wan clamor for glamor! Proliferation of writing programs creates a tidal wave of mediocrity! Etc! Etc! Earlier that day Joe Amato says in response to my predictable outburst, “Yeah, I agree, but if you just walk to the back of this book fair and look around, there are some young people producing beautiful work, and they’re serious, and there are good writers.” He points into the vast hangar of a book fair. I take a deep breath and dive in. As I drift table to table among the small presses, Eugene Lim catches up with me. He’s a talented young novelist, fiction editor of Harp and Altar, an online journal. He hands me a hard copy of their first anthology, in which they have printed some of my Memoirrhoids. The anthology is attractive, full of great writing like my own. On almost every table small press books look attractive. They’ve got the graphics down. They maintain a respect for the printed word. And here is Counterpath Press, Tim Roberts and Julie Carr at their table. They are publishing Time’s Wallet, a collection of my Memoirrhoids. I’m totally grateful. It’s important that they be here. And I’m happy to see Eugene, feel his enthusiasm. And Mark Spitzer mans the Exquisite Corpse table, one of the Memoirrhoids in their new yearbook. Good to see Mark. And I am happy to see all the old friends wandering through the establishment. So maybe my curmudgeon needs some scrubbing.

But yet again on the other hand goddammit I receive an email from Sidney Goldfarb, playwright and poet, collaborator with Julie Taymor back in the day, plays performed by The Talking Band at La Mama in New York, a writer way antecedent to the present ack-ack tsunami, a writer of great precision and clarity, and he writes to me:

Spent all morning at the CU table at AWP. Remember when writers took peyote together, roared past iguanas out into gulf, pissed blue oil spills to Venezuela, ate a mound of cachappas with guasacaca on the side, did the cumbia up through Panama to Vaselka’s and slowly calmed down over a plate of kasha and varnishkes singing hymns to Helen Frankenthaler. As one cowboy said to another on a train in Oaxaca, “What happened to us?”

BABBADOODOO

Pops performed at Bailey Hall. That was at Cornell, when I was vice president of the rhythm club. Ross Firestone was president. Both our tastes ran to bebop and cool jazz — Art Blakey, Lennie Tristano, Paul Chambers, Bill Evans, Kenny Dorham, Lee Konitz, Bud Powell, Charles Mingus, and etc. The popular resurgence of Louis Armstrong didn’t interest us. The Rhythm Club booked him to raise money for hipper events.

The band had already arrived by bus, and Louie was getting in an hour or so before the concert and leaving right after. My job was to pick him up at the Lehigh Valley Railroad Station in downtown Ithaca. At that time a train ran from New York City, through Ithaca, clear to Rochester and Buffalo. I recognized him immediately as he got off the train, the only black person on the platform. He was smaller than I had imagined, but there was that broad “Pops” face, and lips that were all embouchure. I waved at him and approached. I was wearing a loose sweatshirt.

“Hey, babbadoo,” he looked at me with that toothy Louie Armstrong smile. “Look at that. You got bigger jugs than I do.” He grabbed my tit. I’d always been self-conscious about my flabby chest. I don’t know what color I turned. He was carrying only his trumpet case. I reached out to carry it for him, but he pulled it back. We got in a cab for Bailey Hall.

“Come on with me,” he said. He grabbed my sleeve and led me backstage. “Velma,” he said, as he pulled me into the performer’s dressing room. Velma Middleton, singer with the band, sat on a bench, staring at the floor. “Look at this boy, Velma. He got bigger tits than you do.” Velma looked up at me, a perfunctory smile on her face. “Sure do.” Louie let go of me then, and I creeped backwards into my humiliation out of the room. I crossed the stage behind the curtain and went into the packed auditorium.

The concert had sold out. Ross Firestone wasn’t there. I would have preferred to leave. They gave a great concert. I enjoyed it more than I was prepared to. Louie’s bright hot trumpet sound and his abrasion of a voice against Velma’s easy blues styling brought the crowd to its feet. I kept thinking I’d rather be listening to Miles, or to Clifford Brown, to Fats Navarro, Dizzy, Little Jazz Roy Eldridge, even Red Rodney, Freddy Hubbard, Lee Morgan, Woody Shaw, anyone else who hadn’t so diminished me. I arranged for Pops’s cab back to the station, but didn’t ride with him. He took the last train back to New York City.

BAXTER

Baxter Hathaway was a slim, grey-haired professor, who in his youth had been a pole-vaulter back in Michigan, setting state records. When I met him as a student at Cornell he was a championship chain-smoker, and committed coffee drinker, always ready to take a break with his writing students, go down to “The Straight,” or Noyes Lodge, and grind out a conversation in his slow, nasal, Midwestern drawl. You could finish your donut and your coffee in the humming pause between Baxter’s first sound, indicating his intention to speak, and the first complete word. Patience was what you needed to listen through the long intervals as he sucked on a cigarette, hummed, and floated equivocating phrases like, “Well, no, on the other hand, you can think about this in another way….” His dilation was an effective process, that honored the mercurial thoughts and amorphous opinions of his protégés, and got them to slow down and burnish their thoughts. He had published one novel and a book of poems, and he continued to write poetry, but spent most of his time writing about transformational syntax and Italian Renaissance literary criticism. His talent for encouraging young writers was an ability to be present, but to stay out of the way. I had, out of self-ignorance, enrolled in the Agriculture School, a pre-vet curriculum, a decision of convenience, since the Ag school was free. Equally ignorant was my decision to transfer to Liberal Arts. I couldn’t afford it, had to wait tables many hours to pay. I did it to pursue my writing, but was bumbling in my aspirations. Baxter Hathaway’s solid avuncular presence, and his soft advice, helped me to clarify my ambition. The last time I saw him he was at home in an oxygen tent, dying of emphysema or lung cancer, the condition exacerbated by cigarettes. He shut off the oxygen to have a smoke and greet me.

My roommate sophomore year was Peter Dean, who transferred next year to Wisconsin where he studied geology, and taught himself to paint, sneaking instruction from life classes where he posed as a model. He moved to Brazil as a geologist, then back to New York City with a day job testing substrates for a road crew. Eventually he painted full time his blazing impasto landscapes and expressionist fantasies. He will some day be recognized as one of the great colorists of the twentieth century. Good writers were hatching then around Cornell. Ron Sukenick, who became the pope of post-modernism, was two years ahead of me. Susan Brownmiller, great feminist writer, author of Against Our Will, was already famous for her defiance of dorm curfew rules, climbing out of her window on a rope made of sheets. After four years in the navy, a year behind me in school, Thomas Pynchon had begun to fashion his literary juggernaut, chumming with Richard Fariña. Steve Reich, who became a seminal minimalist composer, studied Wittgenstein, read Pound and Williams, and never got over it, played drums with the Joe Kurdle quartet. Harold Schimmel, whom Nabokov went out of his way to contact after reading a couple of his poems in the student literary magazine, was a close friend. We later lived near each other in Lecce, in the heel of the Italian boot, teaching English at a USIS school. He later emigrated to Israel, as much out of lust for Mediterranean sun as from his commitment to Judaism. He writes now in Hebrew. W.D. Snodgrass taught there, and impressed me by crying at a reading he gave of Heart’s Needle. He won the Pulitzer for that book.

The artistic fertility of that scene was always nourished by Baxter’s slow, open enthusiasm. It was in that atmosphere, for which he was in large part responsible, that he and his colleagues founded Epoch Magazine, one of the most enduring non-commercial small journals in the USA, and kept it going with garage sales and private donations. Here he founded the Cornell Writing Program, somewhat in opposition to the more corporate Iowa program. Anyone who was ever drawn into the slow meander of conversation with Baxter can only be astounded at his clear accomplishments.

BELGRADE WHOOPS

The Aussie couple sitting across from me at a table in Athens’s Syntagma Square complains about the pollution in the city. There is some deep smog. “We can hardly see the Acropolis.” She waves her arm. “What good is the Parthenon if we can’t see? Or the other one, Erec… something.” I’m drinking the Ouzo, and they’re drinking Amstel, and we share a bowl of pistachios. She’s an Anglo and her squeeze is East Indian. They took this trip at the last minute, and seem to be regretting it. “Sydney is very beautiful,” he says. “So clean. The harbor and the opera house. We love Sydney.” Maybe they’re married. “I’ve never been there,” I say. “Though I’ve been to Sydney on Cape Breton Island.” They looked at me sideways. “You have to come to Sydney. The real one down under. No pollution. Not like this.” The milky ouzo licorice tastes cool at the tongue and hot as it slides down. I feel almost coerced to promote Denver, or New York City, but it seems irrelevant; after all, we’re in Athens.

Suddenly a wave of agitation ripples across the people settled in the wide square. Some start to stir, rise from their tables, many toss their payment on the table and leave. When information gets to us the Australians immediately gather their stuff. They’d come to Athens only on a whim after all and now… the news is out that Reagan and the US have just bombed Libya. For a lot of the tourists Libya is too close for comfort. The Aussies throw everything into their backpacks and disappear without goodbye, without acknowledging that we have been engaged in a more or less pleasant conversation. It is as if the event has made them averse to, even ready to erase American contact. I bet they are on a plane back to Sydney by morning. I take another ouzo, and finish the pistachios. The Athens evening settles smoky and soft, revealing the Acropolis above, even a dim Parthenon in the haze.

Since the rise of US militarism, particularly since Vietnam, I feel uneasy traveling in the American skin. Military action has a lockhold on the manifest destiny, and the US takes a mad dog, a brutal imperialist stance in the world. We’ve ignored the warning of President/General Dwight D. Eisenhower about the military industrial complex. We are almost totally in that grip. Although it’s rare that my friends abroad blame me, in general America doesn’t have many sympathizers, and when I tell people I’m American I wait for the onslaught. Sometimes I say I’m Canadian. Though Canadian is not perfect, its heart beats more gently in the world. My American Legion father often insisted, “My country right or wrong, my country.” I can’t live with that. When “my country” is wrong, it’s important to try to correct it. I feel comfortable and real in the Cape Breton Skin. I spent a lot of time there, in Nova Scotia, with my kids, and alone, and occasionally I claim it as my own.

I am headed for the island of Crete, eventually to the Southwest part, which is on the Libyan Sea, maybe a hundred miles from Libya, a couple of hundred from Tripoli. This flexing of American muscle, to bomb alleged targets, killing civilians in Libya, isn’t going to turn me back. I intend to have my frolic among the Minoan sites. Bettino Craxi, Italian Prime Minister, strongly opposes the American attack, and won’t let the US planes fly over Italian air space. They probably took off from Friuli, the base in Aviano. I’ve been there, taught a class on the base in Aviano, met some decent American individuals there. The Libyan incident calms down while I’m in Crete, and I return to Athens, fixing to take the train through the still intact Yugoslavia. It’s a train ride I’ve wanted to do for years. It leaves in the morning, rides through the night, arrives in Venice on the following afternoon.

I grab a window seat, riding forward in the compartment. A grim looking Serbian couple, many suitcases and bags on the rack above them, sit across from each other near the door. They sit in silence, don’t smile, give me a gray look they maintain throughout the ride. The middle seats are empty. A swarthy middle-eastern man rides backwards at the window across from me. He is impeccably dressed in a brown suit with a narrow green knit tie on a pale orange shirt, his oxblood oxfords are spit-polished, cufflinks gold, a green handkerchief peaked in his lapel pocket. It’s a friendly face, deep brown eyes, heavy lips smiling, teeth a little off-white, complexion scarred long ago with adolescent acne.

We exchange polite nods and both of us doze off for the first couple of hours. The train moves through Macedonia at a modest clip, then pauses at the Albanian border to let the border guards crawl up the corridors checking passports. The border control lands heavily on the Serbs, shouting at them, slapping their documents, and poking at their bags. Finally we move again, rattle into Albania. I notice the same thing I did the first time I went through Checkpoint Charlie to get into East Berlin, how without commercial advertising the route seems at first colorless, but after a while it’s refreshing as your attention goes to the passing landscape and not to some intrusive commercial message.

The train winds through the grim outskirts of Tiranha as the gent across from me starts a conversation. “Hoxha,” he says, and shudders, pointing out the window at the devastation, and people watching, mostly shoeless children dressed in rags, who wave at the train. “Bad dictator. You speak English? Yes? I am from Cairo. I am Egyptian guy.” He has decided to take the train all the way to Zurich rather than fly. His girlfriend lives there. He asks me if I have ever been to Egypt. “Also poor people,” he says, and hands me his card. Okasha Eldaly is his name, Tour Manager his game. “You come, I will place you on excellent tour. Very information. Comfortable. Safe.” He was a personable guy, friendly. He seemed sincere. I would join one of his tours. My buddy, Pete Dean, mad prolific painter, returned recently from Egypt and said that the Egyptians were totally friendly, and anyone who considers himself civilized should go at least once.

The couple gets off somewhere in the early evening. We have the compartment to ourselves. As we roll deeper into the Yugoslav night both of us fall asleep. At about three A.M. the train clanks to a stop and there is an announcement in what I imagine is Serbo-Croatian. People get off. I think we are in Belgrade. Okasha sleeps. I dip back into dreams, but then I suddenly sit up. The car is dark. Something is wrong. I shake Okasha awake. There are no people in the other compartments. “What is this? Where are we?” He looks at his watch. “Here is Belgrade,” he says. We are alone in this car, separated from the train, sitting on a side track. We quickly gather our stuff and jump off the end of the car onto the tracks. There is no platform. All signs are in Serbian Cyrillic alphabet. I see BEOGRAD dimly lit on a sign far across the tracks. We try to speak to the few workers but they are not helpful, don’t respond to English, French, Italian, Arabic. Since it’s not part of their job they act as if we don’t exist. Stranded in the middle of the rail yard with our suitcases, clueless in Belgrade dark. Our confusion deepens the cold night, the smell of tar. We can be here forever, no one even to point the way. We think we see a dimly lit train about twelve tracks over. Maybe it’s alive. We rush across and climb onto the platform. A locomotive clanks into it, and the lights come on. We stare into the windows to see if we recognize anyone. Just as it starts to move we jump on. It’s a chance we have to take. By the grace of the railroad imps we have arrived on the continuation of the train that abandoned us; otherwise, we could still be in Belgrade. We find an empty compartment and settle into seats and let out a mutual sigh, bonded forever by our modest victory.

We pull into Trieste early in the morning. I’m slightly relieved to be back in the free world. There’s a long wait for security and passport control to come through. Okasha looks nervous. He says nothing, can’t meet my eyes. We hear how peremptory and strict the officers are questioning people down the corridor. On December 27 four gunmen from Abu Nidal with assault rifles and grenades attacked the El Al ticket counter at Fiumicino airport in Rome, killing sixteen and wounding ninety-nine. The Italians are being very cautious at their borders. Maybe Okasha gambled he’d have a better chance by train than by air. The guards look at my passport and hand it back. One look at Okasha and they order him into the corridor, hands on the wall. I sit down and listen to them question him gruffly. They hardly speak English. I step into the corridor to offer myself as translator. These are two big Italian border control officers. “Ma voi, qui siete?” says the bigger one, with a Mussolini thrust of his chin. I try to explain that I speak Italian and English, and ask if I can help. I like Okasha Eldaly. “Andate dentro, voi. State zite.” He uses an ultra-formal, fascist mode of address. His partner, a big wrestler type, grabs me by the arm and tosses me back into the compartment. He doesn’t say a thing, but points at my bags. He wants me to open them. I pretend not to understand. “Apritene!” he growls. I open the backpack and the little overnight carry-on. He upends the contents onto the seat and throws around underwear, shirts, camera, spare pants, notebooks, socks, laundry, airline ticket, all onto the floor and seat. I feel totally violated. The other one comes in and grabs Okasha’s suitcase. By the time I look in the corridor again Okasha is gone. My Egyptian friend and traveling ally has been taken away to be further harassed, or jailed, or sent back to Egypt. The train slowly pulls out, and I am left to repack the bags, and continue alone into the gleaming, intricate city of Venice. The tide is in, and a faint smell of sewage rises from the salt water that covers Piazza San Marco.

BIG FLUB

After handball I headed for the party. I was a fair handballer and occasionally played with Peter Campus, a video artist and photographer, at a YWCA on West 54th St., where courts were usually available. I was a big fan of Jim Jacobs, National Handball Champion, who many major athletes of the time called the greatest athlete pound for pound, inch for inch, of the twentieth century. Peter was new to the game. The only way for me to get a good workout was to keep my right hand strapped under my waistband. That was how I developed my left hand. I had a tougher time figuring out how to manage my moves in the writing world, now that interest in my work was ripening.

The party was on 71st Street and Central Park West. I showered and walked there, through a light Manhattan drizzle. The air smelled like reheated Rice-a-Roni. I didn’t know anything about this party. I’d got a call from a woman who’d read a piece I’d published in New World Writing. She invited me to what she described as an informal gathering of people interested in theater. I thought maybe she was a student this was her college theater group. Her name was Jean Van den Heuvel. That didn’t ring any of my bells, but should have struck a huge gong. My first twinge of an idea that this might be activity in a different league than I’d anticipated occurred when I recognized that the building was across the street from, and just south of The Dakota. I was wearing sweats and carrying my gym bag. I felt like a rat sneaking into a kennel of poodles.

Six doormen engulfed me as soon as I entered the building. The lead doorman was politely incredulous when I told him I was going to Jean Van den Heuvel’s party, but he covered his ass, in case I was telling the truth. He asked my name, called her apartment, scanned me one last time, then had one of the doormen escort me to the elevator. “Second floor,” the doorman said with a slight middle European accent, as the elevator door opened. “Which apartment?” I asked. He blinked slowly, nodding his head. “You go to the second floor.” I wasn’t playing four-wall any more. I knew people who owned brownstones, but no one who had a whole floor of a huge apartment building. In front of the door I listened for several minutes to the rise and fall of conversation seeping through the cracks. I didn’t have to ring. The door opened.

As I faced the smile of the French maid, I began to feel the weight of my gym bag. Out of the handball court I’d suddenly been cut into the wrong movie. Jean Van den Heuvel rushed over and, as the gracious hostess she was, escorted me in, saw to the safe storage of my gym bag, and led me as far as the catered bar. She introduced me to another young writer in the orbit, and went off to tend to the rest of her guests. The writer’s face was flushed. He was the son of a preacher man, several drinks ahead of me, on his way to big success. My conversation box was locked. I took a single-malt on the rocks, floated to the ceiling, and drifted like a reconnaissance balloon. The room was lit by incredible luminaries of the radical chic. Norman Mailer was there, Arthur Schlesinger, Gore Vidal, Truman Capote, though I didn’t see him. Tom Wolfe was present, in an impeccable white suit, dressed as if for a Chinese funeral. Gaggles of potent conversationalists surrounded each of them. Each moved through the room in a bubble of self-esteem. I didn’t know how to be there. I played pretty good handball, but was lousy at conversation. I looked for a place to come down. Rudy had told me how awful these gatherings were, and he knew because he was a Wurlitzer. Jim Dine had advised me once not to be intimidated by wealth and power. He was right. I was intimidated.

I finally came down into a niche between the buffet table and the bar, and stayed there with the servers. I had waited tables plenty myself, and knew how to be with these people, and talk to them. I realized from my position hiding among the help that this was one of those situations that could be called “My Big Chance,” if only I had the skills, if I knew how to work the room. Some people just have that instinct. It’s a separate skill, and has nothing to do with art. There were many Broadway people there, movie people too. I didn’t have the ammo to take my shots.

Jean Van den Heuvel gave me another chance in the next week. I found out much later that she was Jean Stein, daughter of Jules Stein, founder of MCA, and Universal Studios. She was a great philanthropist, patron of the arts. She invited me in the next week for tea. We sat uncomfortable in her parlor as she questioned me about my writing ambitions, and my interest in stage and film. The French maid brought hors d’oeuvres. Everything was a little too pickled, or too sweet. I felt like I wasn’t who I was, whoever that was. I’ve always been confident of my writing, but never of the person who writes it. I made some broad, ignorant comments about Faulkner in Hollywood, in response to her queries about how I’d like to write for film. I tried to sound like I knew something about him, but I was really blowing it. I hadn’t read the latest Paris Review. There was an interview by herself, with Faulkner. Someone later told me she’d been intimate with him. I can’t imagine how stupid I must have sounded to her, and can hardly describe how foolish I felt once I knew about her and Faulkner.

I crossed town to have dinner with B.H. and Abby Friedman. They were wealthy New Yorkers, B.H. a former businessman in Real Estate through the Uris family. I knew them for their kindness, himself a wonderful novelist and biographer and art collector. They were eager to know what went on with Jean Stein, like the wealthy waiting to glean some gossip about the super-wealthy. I spilled all the beans I had retained. Before long it dawned on me that I might have blown a big opportunity. These chances don’t come often, maybe once in a career. You have to be prepared. With the right handler, just giving me a few hints, showing me a few moves, cluing me to where I could go, I could have made something of this. I could have been a contender.

BIRTH; BRIS; THEFT

A rite of fire. Two women cross the room sterilizing steel bowls by swinging blue alcohol flames inside them. Jingle squeezes my hand with all the strength of our adopted Pugliese earth. “Breathe! Breathe!” The midwife insists. The waters burst. Rafael is born.

“You paid for a baby of the third class,” says Aurora, the midwife. The Putana, my landlady, stands behind her. She made her money as a whore during the second world war, and built these apartments. All the cab drivers, and everyone else call her La Putana, much easier than Signora Foti. These are two big women. “This is a baby of the first class.” The Putana, who found the midwife for us and acts as if she has my confidence, whispers “Si. Si. Justo. E vero. Si deve pagare il supplemento. Extra. Extra.” This is as ludicrous as a scene from Moliere. I don’t want to deny that Rafael is first class. He’s just born. Let him nurse. “And when the umbilical cord falls off, you pay then too. And on the first birthday, you pay again.” The Putana’s fiscal imagination is overstimulated. She knows how to milk Americans. She squeezed many American officers in WWII. “It’s our custom.” Aurora holds her hand. How about when he reaches 21, I think of asking, but I keep my mouth shut, smile stupidly, and shrug.

“Buh. Non capisce niente, povereto (doesn’t understand anything, poor little guy).” Aurora shrugs at the Putana, who shouts in my face, “Terza classe. No! Prima! Prima classe!” She gets louder. I continue to smile dumbly, my best defense. “Capisce niente, managgia.” Aurora turns her back. The putana slaps my face lightly. Jingle is in bed asleep with Rafael. The great thing about having Rafael at home with a midwife is that after he is born and everything is cleaned up, we all get to sleep together in the same bed. Putana pinches my cheeks, looks at Aurora, and leaves the apartment. The supplement issues don’t come up again.

Now Rafael is going to China again. He’s fluent in Mandarin, and has several job possibilities. It’s great to know he was no third class baby, though we were too broke to pay for the upgrade. His daughter, Charlotte, graduated from college, also fluent in Mandarin, is going as well on her own, bought a one-way ticket. She was Miss February on the Girls Of The Pac10 calendar in 2008. I believe she would have been a baby of the first class. They might have had to create a separate category. I wonder how The Middle Kingdom rates its babies, and what the toll is over there.

II

I wanted to avoid the possibility that later in life Rafael and his brothers might all be standing at a line of urinals and notice a terrible difference, Rafael with a foreskin, his brothers without. I looked for someone to circumcise the baby. At the time there wasn’t much Jewish (or Arab) culture, not much circumcision in the Salento. Foreskins hang on in the heel of the Italian boot. Lucky for us, Dr. Taurino, chief surgeon of the Salentino Provincial hospital, occasionally attended my English conversation classes, and he agreed to do it. He was a super surgeon, but had never done a circumcision before. During his year as a resident in Chicago he had watched one. He arrived with his assistant, and a bottle of his own vintage wine. He knew what a bris was supposed to be. The dining room became an operating room, and the dining room table the operating table. Everything was carefully prepped and sterilized. Traditionally the moyl, the professional Jewish circumcision practitioner, arrives and the procedure takes a few seconds, zip. He moves on to his next assignment. This project seemed to go on forever, with skin stretched and tied off. The penis is held erect like a tiny flagpole. The baby looked caught in a spider’s web. My job was to hold down the little legs. The assistant laid out scalpels, forceps, all the paraphernalia. The cutting must have gone on for fifteen or twenty minutes. I don’t know. I dropped to the floor at Rafael’s first scream.

When it was over we toasted the experience, even touched a little wine to the lips of the baby. I’ve bought the wine, Salice Salentino, from Taurino vineyards, even here in Colorado, and wondered if it was from the doctor’s vineyard. The surgeon gave himself generously to the afternoon, pro bono, a gracious act, which was very appreciated, since we were so fabulously broke.

III

So it often comes down to who needs the chicken. We were saving our odd Lire to buy a used Bianchi workhorse bike, to make it easier to get to work, get around town, and shop. This was like waiting to afford a new SUV. After Rafael’s birth the Putana suggested wisely that we hire someone for a couple of weeks to clean and look after the baby. She knew of a woman who came from the same village as the woman and daughter she and her daughter had enslaved. These peasant women seemed almost a different species, barely surviving, wild in the eyes, furtive, mistrusting as illiterate people often are when dealing with their literate “superiors.” The Putana instructed me to pay her not more than the going wage, which was less than a dollar a day, in order that we not disturb the local servant economy. This bargain was a relief for me, because even to raise this small amount I would have to tap the bicycle fund, but because of my liberal, egalitarian, New Deal leanings it also laid a load of guilt on my heart each time I handed this woman her paltry daily wage. As visitors and aliens we were fearful of upsetting the local enslavement apple cart, and we didn’t have much more money to pay, anyway. Two weeks of her help was even more than we could afford.

No matter how poor you get you can always find someone with less. Before I bought the bicycle I would sometimes walk off into countryside, often to pick a little arugula that grew wild everywhere. It’s like a gift of edible herb for the poor. One time a young man dressed in rags, shoeless, stopped to watch me, staring at my feet. He spoke only dialect, so we had no conversation. It took me a while to realize he was looking at my shoes, just a pair of sneakers, some Keds I had brought from the states. To him, I think, I was as if riding around in a Mercedes.

She was small and gaunt, her movements quick, furtive as a fox in a maze. Estrella was her name. Star. She spoke only dialect with minimal Italian. It was great to have someone cleaning up better than I could, while Jingle was still weak from the birth. She bathed the baby, washed diapers, made the beds, cleaned the furniture, polished the floors. I decided to tap out some more of the bicycle fund and buy a chicken. We’d been eating a lot of fennel, and some fish, because cooked fennel was supposed to be good for nursing mothers and we rarely had money to buy more than an “etto” of meat. A whole chicken was a great luxury. Fennel and chicken sounded yummy. I brought the bird back from the market and laid it on the old wood dining-room table, the circumcision table. We had no refrigerator, so would have to cook it that night. It lay there bright yellow and plump breasted. I hopped a bus to the school, to teach an English conversation class. The weekend was coming up. A weekend with a chicken dinner. When I got back the chicken had flown the coop, and Estrella was gone too, till the next Tuesday.

When she returned for work I asked her about the chicken. Her eyes narrowed. I watched her assemble a scenario to defend herself. She called the landlady and we waited nervously as heavy Putana slowly climbed the stairs. Estrella tugged me by the sleeve into the dining room, and the Putana translated into Italian from the dialect. “I saw that chicken,” she said. “It was a dead chicken with a nice plump breast.” She described a diagonal line across the table with her hand. “The feet were pointing that way, towards the door. The neck was looking at the window.” She was aggressive, at the top of her form. It was obvious she had stolen the chicken. “A nice yellow chicken.”

I had nothing to say. She had easily doubled her wages with this theft. And her family had a great chicken dinner, more infrequent for them, I expect, than even for us, broke as we were. Good for her! My egalitarian soul contended with my budgeting mind. I dismissed Estrella permanently that afternoon. I had no choice. It was almost a month before we could afford another chicken.

BUFFALO DREAMY

At the &Now Festival in Buffalo I participate in a panel focussed on dreams and writing fiction. And surrealism, of course. When in Buffalo the writer has to float under the storm clouds, but elevate as well to trip on dreams. What persists in the Queen City is the early twentieth century dream of wealth — Queen City rail wealth, steel wealth, shipping wealth, banking wealth. The Louis Sullivan skyscraper, the Frederick Law Olmsted roundabouts, even the great Albright Knox Museum of modern and contemporary art float on a revery of Twentieth Century fortune. Those yesterdays seep through the grime of this dozing depressed city. The old buildings and streets have been ground down by urban decay and unemployment, blasted by economic hardship in the Twenty-First century. It’s both quaint and dreary, charming and grungy. So get up on it, pale writers. Let’s dream away in Buffalo.

Ani DiFranco, a Buffalo native, has big forthright dreams. She bought a gorgeous old church which she leases through her Righteous Babe Records to a venue called Hallwalls, run by Ed Cardoni. It’s a premier place to show art and perform, and by itself can lift the experience of Buffalo out of its apparent dinginess, to make it feel dreamy and thrilling. By comparison our big hotel feels cold and art resistant. At the hotel bar, however, I have some rich conversations with Alan Bigelow, a pioneer of intermedia, of web and computer-based fiction. Without a bar to lean on we might not have talked.

I don’t get to perform at Hallwalls. That’s a little disappointing. The events scheduled there feel like the art has found its home. I expect to disappoint everyone, including myself. I’ve always been mostly indifferent to the stuff of dreams. Perhaps I’ve been assaulted too many times in conversation by people detailing their nocturnal charges, an indulgence of “wows.” No Freudian lives here. I have had a slight, a timid sense of awe around Jungian archetypes. They are an elegant mode of story-telling. I’ve always been more attendant on how to narratize the waking dream. Sleeping dream info interests me mostly for the process that presents it, and how that can be a useful tool for the exfoliation of my narrative bunching. I have a simple theory of dreams and will stick by it as long as it is useful to my work, even if others find it wrong-headed and too simplistic. I am a fiction writer. I’ll use whatever spirit moves the pencil. I’m a poet.

The wide, vaulted atrium of the hotel is vast enough to volume all the dreams of the writers, mixed media artists, and computer artists attending the conference. As I do almost everywhere these days I feel superannuated in this crowd of young writers, even middle-aged writers. If they don’t know my name people call me “sir,” which “honorific” feels like the award of a service medal tamped directly into the flesh.

We meet in a small conference room, and speak to a sparse audience. Dimitri Anastasopolous reads from a carefully prepared paper on issues of surrealism, suitable for an academic conference. Yuriy Tarnawsky, brilliant author of Meningitis and Three Blondes and Death, among other works, reads a strong piece of rare intelligence about surrealism. My ears are blind to this kind of academic performance. At an avant-garde festival I expect something looser, less conferency, more artist and less academic. I want everyone to unspeak, to unlearn. Fall in. Get wet.

I wrote the piece I read for a different panel, one focussing on the materials of writing, and the physicality of the writer. I prefer to miss the dream target. In the piece I claim that I write in bed, under the covers, a flashlight on the premises with the rest of my kit. That is how as a kid I used to enjoy reading when I was supposed to go to sleep. Writing inside a tent of blankets grabs at some fertile mischief. Bed is, I might explain to the conference cops, where you have most of your dreams, and that is my justification for reading the piece at this dream panel. I do fall in line and give some practical advice for recording dreams, which is this: keep a pencil and a small notebook hinged at the top by the bedside. Have a rubber band set below the last line you wrote. When you wake from a dream don’t open your eyes because you will spill the images. Start to write below the rubber band, moving it down as you go. This way you will lose less of the dream imagery to the illusion of wakefulness. When you finally open your eyes you will be giddy with creativity and accomplishment.

On our way into a dream we have access to a wide spread of images, a seemingly chaotic continuum of form, movement, situations, and as we present ourselves before this apparent chaos, perhaps according to some revelatory predispositions, we construct the narratives we call dreams. The mind always hungers for a story. Our flexibility in this environment is virtually unlimited, and we can be as playful or chilling as our inclinations or obsessions dictate. This navigable spread comes from a great variety of sources — personal experience, media experience, suggestions by friends, someone’s knee, the catalog of archetypes, a flash of teeth, a night of stars, a hefty sneeze, a day at Meat Cove. Every little node of cognition, every trace of subconscious provides the material of dreams. The excitement is in constructing the dream narrative, though listening to anyone awake trying to tell a dream is almost always an exercise in tedium.

When I write, particularly a first draft, I work as if in this process of dreaming. I try to create work with the same freedom I understand in the creation of the dream. Writing for me is a lucid dream state, even in its most mimetic “realistic” moments. The excitement is never in the mimesis itself but in scaling and flexing the detail to get beyond the words. The act of description is not to put an object in its place, but to move through its tangibility to get to the element beyond, invisible and ineluctable. I do this as in a dream. For my writing this allows the orphic WHAT!?! of art. Thus I understand in using the dream process even “realistic” narrative fiction refreshes. And so my understanding of the dream has worked for me as a tool for creating narratives of ambition, sorrow, pain, joy.

I do remember certain dreams, and perhaps that fact alone negates my carelessly thought-out theory. I’ve had a recurring dream of being in a placid environment, among friends, a stroll through a garden, an easy drive in the country. Suddenly I am isolated on a beach, backed against the sea-wall and there is a gathering roar and I am caught in the curl of an enormous wave that threatens to smash me. I expect this has a number of possible symbolic interpretations, and suggests that I might wake up in a wet bed. But that hasn’t happened. What has happened is that since I wrote and published the story “Nowadays & Hereafter” I haven’t had that dream. Tsunami is a major element of that story. Out there somewhere maybe the wave still gathers. I wait for the dream to reiterate, though I have a feeling it won’t. Maybe I’ve erased it by that writing, and perhaps this is the clearest example of the connection of my dreams to my fiction.

BURROUGHS VS. WILLIAMS

The University of Notre Dame is its own municipality, with a postal address separate from the surrounding South Bend, Indiana, once home of the long defunct Studebaker. The golden dome of the University gleams in the midst of this poor city as Notre Dame, Indiana 46556, much as the Vatican operates as an independent state, encircled by Rome. During the time I taught within that protective shell Father Theodore Hesburgh reigned liberally, and opened the university to a breadth of intellectual diversity. One of the forums of that diversity was the Sophomore Literary Festival, a week long celebration of writers and writing. At that festival during one year of my employment they invited both Tennessee Williams and William Burroughs.

The party on this night is for Tennessee Williams after his presentation, and Burroughs is here about to present on the next day. I am lucky to witness a conversation between them, strange and resonant because it unfolds in mid-America in the middle of northern Indiana in the middle of South Bend in the midst of The University of Notre Dame.

I sit comfortably in a stuffed chair between the two icons. The couch and easy chairs are arranged around a coffee table. It could feel like we are drawn together for warmth on a dark winter evening in the holy backwater of Notre Dame, Indiana. The great playwright slouches in his overstuffed leather chair, and watches the tall, trim, well-groomed Jim Grauerholz, Burroughs’s business manager and amanuensis, fuss around the master of the beat shadow world.

“William Burroughs (He pronounces it Burras), you’re a lucky man. You have a beautiful boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He works for me,” Burroughs replies curtly, not looking at Williams.

Williams lowers his eyes from Grauerholz and smiles his most coy Blanche Dubois smile, dim as a faltering incandescent. “Life is sad, William Burroughs. Don’t you think life is sad?”

Burroughs, in rumpled grey suit, white shirt with wrinkled collar, black tie, does a slow mechanical scan across to Williams in his easy chair, holds him a moment in the grey steel of his gaze, reverses, says nothing.

“I know the sadness in the world. My boyfriend, he’s such a sweet young man, but he just is set to kill himself all the time with those drugs he uses. He wants to kill himself. Why does he want to kill himself, William Burroughs?”

Burroughs looks straight ahead as if through the gang of demons that always seems to precede him, his voice dry as cracking glass. “He doesn’t have to take those drugs. He can stop if he wants to. Tell him you want him to stop.”

Williams sighs again and looks down at his left wrist as if he regrets the wilting there of an imaginary gardenia. This a confrontation between the parodic queen of southern decadence and the warrior king of haywire puritanism. “It’s so sad,” Williams whispers as if to himself, then he looks at Burroughs. “But he wants to take those drugs. That’s what’s so sad. I ask him to stop but he insists. He wants to die, William Burroughs. Who can prevent it?”

Burroughs looks at Williams this time, an expression of mixed compassion and skepticism on his face, as if he knows he’s being conned, but maybe not. “You tell him you don’t want him to die. Tell him to stop taking the drugs.”

“Life is so sad,” Williams fades, this his concluding line.

Jim Grauerholz arrives with a priest in tow, to introduce to William Burroughs. I slip over to the bar where I grab a shot of Bushmill’s, only one of the drugs available here in Notre Dame, Indiana, and from coast to coast with few restrictions.

BUSTING POTS

I got back from Haiti. My marriage was disintegrating. I’d been gone for two weeks, researching in Cap Haitien for a script about Toussaint Louverture. I wrote the script, called Toussaint. The movie never got made. One enigma about Toussaint Louverture, slave, autodidact, superb diplomat and politician, is why he capitulated to Napoleon III. He surrendered even though he had the war won. Dessalines and Jean-Christophe finished off the French after Toussaint turned himself over, was taken into exile to die in a prison in the Alps. He’d never seen snow before. He froze to death.

Meanwhile back in Pine Bush, Jingle was seeing our mutual friend, Masato. He was an excellent cabinet-maker/carpenter. She had him make a door from our dining room to the patio. It was an old house, post and beam construction, and nothing was plumb or square. I couldn’t have made that door. Masato was a small man. He made a small door. I could hardly squeeze through it. He also had skills at masonry and gardening. There was a lot that Jingle, author of The Craft Of The Country Cook, could learn from him.

For most of the year Masato shipped out as a merchant officer, a second mate. His profession inspired my oldest son, Avrum, to enroll at Cape Fear Tech, in North Carolina, to get his seaman’s papers. He joined the NMU, and shipped out himself. Avrum honed his poker skills on the ships, and he would often come home with triple his salary. Once, when he was just eighteen years old, he went to a VW agency and bought a new Scirocco, peeling hundred dollar bills from his poker roll, into the astonished salesman’s hands.

I spotted the new door immediately as I walked into my house, back from Haiti. Then I saw that the house had filled with plants. Jingle was a great gardener, and supplied the family with tasty vegetables, but she was never interested in houseplants. I knew that among Masato’s accomplishments was his skill with the potted plants. When I saw what was happening in my house, all my fury, my self-righteousness, whatever buzzsawed through this dismantling marriage, now steamed my philandering blood. I stealthily circumambulated my house, pulling the potted plants from all their shelves and niches. I smashed them against the walls. When I finished I stepped back to look with perverse satisfaction at my floors covered with potting soil and the remains of geraniums, aloes, hydrangeas. Who knows? Whatever the hell else they had potted together.

Jingle came in with a broom and dustpan.

“Don’t clean it up!” I insisted. “I want the kids to see it.” I had done what I had done and I wanted them to know what I had done.

We went to bed, leaving the mess as it was. All the time we were breaking up we’d sleep in the same bed. At the time Jingle was reading a lot of the early feminist literature, and it made part of our pillow talk. I was both her advocate and her adversary. It was all tender and contradictory, how we could still love each other while we were in the zones of mutual scorn.

Early the next morning I went downstairs to find my youngest son, Rafael, squatting in the muck, repotting all the plants he could rescue. He filled the new pots with soil he swept off the floor, and tenderly fitted the plants I had doomed into their new life. I felt like a child being taught a lesson.

“Do what you have to do, Dad,” said Nikolai, the middle son, when I gathered them all in my studio to tell them I was going to move to the city.

I went back up to Pine Bush several times in the fall. Jingle couldn’t bring herself to slaughter the two lambs we had raised for meat. She sharpened the knife for me. I took the creatures into the shade by the barn, and lay them down and held their heads cradled one at a time in my lap. I explained to the first one how we had given them a good life, and now it was time for us to take it away. I didn’t really have words for this ritual. It was harder with the second lamb. It was a beautiful fall day, leaves blowing in the air, but this was a dark time for me. I was like draped in lead, pressed down to the ground. The lambs, however, got very calm before I slit their throats. Jingle didn’t watch. They bled out onto the ground around my leg.

BYPASS

The anesthesiologist was young and unattractive. She pulled her black hair back in a bun, accentuating her ruddy complexion and sharp features. Her bony hands were quick and accurate. I should have been appreciative, but I would have preferred a beautiful anesthesiologist. Once she had me hooked up to the drip she had concocted, she left, without a smile, not even bidding me a safe voyage.

A male nurse came by before I tripped away to brief me on what my experience would be as I came out of anesthesia. He had been a medic in Vietnam. His compassion was powerful. Everything he predicted turned out to be accurate. The most uncomfortable tube, he said, would be the one coming out of my throat to drain my lungs. It would be removed, he promised, soon after I was conscious. His most life-affirming notion was that I would be able to have sex three days after I came out of surgery. All the tubes would be removed by then. I would be recovering big time. He warned that the sex would have to be with my wife. I explained that I wasn’t married. Then do it with someone you know really well, he countered. You don’t want too much excitement.

Fluorescent light seeped into the pores of my recovering consciousness. I was on a gurney, headed for intensive care. I was wasted. I was in big trouble. They had me where they wanted me. I wanted to rip the tube that seemed to be choking me out of my throat. That was why they had my arms strapped to the gurney. I was sweating into my eyes. I had been under heavy anesthesia when they cracked me open, but some part of me must have been aware of the violation. I was angry. Some people suffer depression as they recover from a bypass operation. I was just pissed. With the tube in my throat I couldn’t even ask someone to wipe my forehead, just to keep the sweat out of my eyes. I’m here, you pricks. Just wipe it, goddamit. The sweat’s in my eyes, you motherfuckers. Just wipe my face, bitch.

They parked me in intensive care. I was wearing a hospital rag that kept slipping off my privates. I saw one of the nurses, a big handsome nurse, checking me out. It was embarrassing. I knew my dick had disappeared, was hiding in its vestibule. She looked from my groin to my face. Wipe my forehead, cool moist rag to my face, bitch. She did it, the angel, as if she’d heard me. It was an act of love. I was alone now in the intensive care chamber. This environment felt like it was designed for Star Trek, unlike any hospital space I remember from when I was a kid sick with polio. It was like one of the glassed-in reptile cages in a zoo. My primary care physician never dropped by to ask what was up, but one at a time a regular file of emdees I’d never seen or heard of before popped in with hardly a stethoscope; these specialists introduced themselves, with expertise in stuff hardly pertinent to my case. They each asked the same questions. It was exhausting. Why couldn’t they read the chart? I soon realized that this was the freeloading scum of the medical profession, milking me like a goat for payouts from insurance or medicare. Hippocratic hypocrites. One rodentine medical researcher, a beady-eyed woman with a nasal squeak of a voice, approached me when I was barely conscious to ask if I would participate in her research, letting them draw blood over a period of time from two places. “It won’t hurt much.” If I’d had the strength I might have leapt from the bed like a rat terrier to tear out her throat. That would have been a great show for the passing gawkers.

My son, Nikolai, showed up to help me out of the hospital, and he made sense for me of the wide array of medications they threw at me with little explanation. Avrum came in for the next week, and Rafael for the third. I am grateful to the surgeons who cracked me open and repaired my plumbing. There was a team of them, with an entourage of grinning residents. I thank you, and I thank the fat little imps of coronary artery disease. I am here today, living a life of pills and visits to the doctors. You made it possible with your sharps and saws, stitches and grafts, for me to hang out with each of my sons for a week at a time, and we had some great moments.

CAFFEINE

I was fifteen when my father died. He’d been sick for seven years already, was rarely home, usually bed-ridden in some dreary veteran’s hospital in the Bronx, or upstate at some rest home. That was treatment for a heart condition at the time — stay in bed! Had my father been around, my fate might have been different. Without a father to slap me into the future I felt like upcoming life had been placed on the far side of a high slick wall. I couldn’t bust through it, nor could I scale it, but against its unyielding concrete I constantly slammed the enigmas of my adolescence.

Mr. Jacobs, who was the father of my classmate, Vernon, and his little brother, Hubby, was office manager of an import-export company, Amtria (American/Austrian) Trading Company. Because he took pity on me, or maybe sought to take advantage of me, he gave me a job at the Broad Street office on Saturdays and on some late afternoons. It was probably illegal for them to hire a fifteen year old.

I was a gofer, a messenger, the kid to blame when things went wrong, generally an office boy. If coffee spilled, I wiped it up. I opened envelopes. I stuffed envelopes. If a file was missing, I hunted it down. I cleaned windows, tidied the desks. My favorite task was to leave on a postal trip, or to deliver a document, or to buy office supplies, just so I could get out into the population on the streets.

That winter the canyons of Wall and Broad Streets were cold, full of snow and slush, winds that cut like knives. I sloshed around in galoshes, kept the papers dry under my mackinaw, moved invisibly among invisible people breathing ghosts into the air. I walked past the steps of the stock exchange, rested at the foot of skyscrapers. Everyone inside the buildings looked competent and busy, in identical suits and ties, women prim and neutral. It was on one of the most frigid, blizzard days that I discovered coffee. Returning to the office after a delivery, I let the wind blow me into a Chock Full O’ Nuts. That was the major coffee joint in the city, and I’d never been in one before. All praise goes to William Black, who founded this chain of black-owned businesses, and to the great Jackie Robinson, who signed on as personnel manager. I straddled and settled down on one of the stools at the counter. It was all blue and yellow in there, and it smelled of coffee and sugar. The waitress, a light brown woman with straightened hair streaked with blonde, asked me what I wanted. I hadn’t thought about it, didn’t even know why I was in there. “Regular coffee?” she asked after I didn’t respond. I heard someone else order a light coffee, so I said “Light.” “What else?” “A donut,” I said. I was proud to get that out. “Whole wheat?” “Yeah.” “Sugared?” I nodded affirmative. The storm mixed it up outside, snow blowing horizontally down the canyons. People skidded on the sidewalks, were whipped akimbo, out of control in the wind. I felt warm, snug in the Chock Full O’ Nuts. I wanted to return to the office never.

The waitress brought my donut and my first cup of coffee. I checked the other people at the counter, sipping comfortably. The cup was heavy. The cream swirled through the dark liquid. The acrid smell was a tough barrier. I tried to sip, but it was too hot. The waitress who seemed to know I was a virgin, enjoyed watching me. “Put some sugar in it, sweetheart.” She dumped in some sugar from the dispenser, then heaped my teaspoon, handed it to me, and I dropped in more.

It was cool enough now to taste. The sweetness made it familiar and welcome, the bitterness gave it an edge and mystery, the cream and the warmth made it feel like protection from the cutting slants of wind on the street. Perfect! I bit the donut. It was soft and crunchy. I haven’t tasted anything like it since. The world looked great. My first cup of coffee was beyond delicious. The clutter of storm outside flew down the street on wings of jubilation. “Good stuff, huh, sweetheart.” “Thanks,” I said. I laid down a tip and stepped out to part the wind. The snow melted off my face. I headed back to the office, ready for anything.

Near the termination of my career with Amtria Trading Company the office called and asked me to come in on a Sunday. They were moving, and needed me to help with the furniture. I had sprained an ankle shooting hoops in the schoolyard, and didn’t feel ready to do heavy work, not on a Sunday. I told them about my injury, and that I wouldn’t be in for a week. When I did return Vernon’s father greeted me with my pay envelope, which contained a pink slip. “You have outlived your usefulness with us,” he said. The shock backed me into a seat. I was fired. It was the first time I had ever been hired, and now I was fired.

I left the office. It was my last day on Broad Street. I headed for the Chock Full O’ Nuts. The waitress recognized me and brought a light coffee and a whole wheat donut, and I sat there like a workingman with the workingman’s blues. I was fifteen years old, and I had outlived my usefulness. How was it possible? I drank the coffee. This time it made me a little jittery. The donut was good. I was dizzy. Fifteen years old. Outlived my usefulness. I’d read Dylan Thomas. I’d read T.S. Eliot. I’d read Archibald Macleish. Do not go gentle, must not mean but be, this is the way the world ends. It was then the first time I ever realized I would have to be a writer. If you are fifteen, and have already outlived your usefulness, you’d better wise up and become a writer. There was nothing else I could do.

CHIPMUNK MAN

Marry the sagebrush; its heady scents after a cloudburst, and its grey kink that sweaters the north Nevada hills. Marry the switchback dirt roads into old mining camps. Marry a world of buckaroos, of cattle loose on open range. That big red bull won’t budge from the middle of the road. Marry the hard rock mining. Marry Buckskin Mountain. Marry the cabins of the mining camp — main house, tool shed, assay office, outhouse (two seater), where you lingered (everyone lingered) to gaze off down the cottonwood, juniper canyons of Dutch John and Cabin Creek forty miles past Hinkey Summit to Paradise Valley and beyond that to Winnemucca. Marry Pat (Jingle) Bell. You never could have anticipated the arrival of the real west in your life. This is not San Francisco, L.A., Portland, Seattle, which are an easy toggle from New York, Boston, D.C., but a West where people wear denim not as a fashion statement, but because it holds up to the rough work. Woody, Jingle’s brother, didn’t believe in washing his jeans, nor in brushing his teeth. He left school young, to work on ranches as a buckaroo. He had a way with horses. He became a professional rodeo cowboy, before he became a successful rancher. Bulldogging was his event, the most athletic, and he happily competed and broke every bone in his body at least once. As Jingle’s husband, I married the privilege of spending summers at the family’s mining claims on Buckskin Mountain. Since I lost real contact with my real father when I was eight, his heart condition taking him away to rehab centers, finally killing him when I was fifteen, I had never received a lineage of New York City manhood. I was overripe, searching, ready for the tradition of rugged Western manhood. I needed it.

I had put new tin on the roof of the tool shed, and some time later I built a second outhouse below the assay house, an A-frame one-holer. Harry Rogan didn’t like the way I built it. He was a quiet old Norwegian sourdough miner coffee brewing lumberjack bean aficionado perfectionist guy who married Jingle’s mother after Forrest’s lungs gave out to silicosis. His strength was legendary in the Minnesota woods, known as the man with the strongest grip in the world. He liked to show it off when he shook your hand. Your fingers would come out of the handshake crushed together, corrugated from the imprint of his clamp. I never heard anyone pronounce the word “potato” with so much love — puh-day-duh. He grew up at the old National Mine, on the other side of Buckskin, famous in the region for having briefly produced the richest ore ever seen in the West. What was once a lively small town there had crumbled into the sagebrush. When you walked around with Harry he told you where every building once stood, and who lived or worked there. Once when we were standing in the brush, where he remembered the old schoolhouse to be, he kneeled and lifted from the dust an old inkwell, and held it as if it was Yorick’s head, caressing it with his gaze, tears in his eyes. He said he recognized it, and it might have been his inkwell at one time. I admired Harry a lot, and his disapproval of my outhouse construction bothered me, but I still argued that the shape was appropriate to the activity within. Almost fifty years later that outhouse is still erect and functional. That’s how at the time I slowly armored my manhood with small accomplishments.

Wild Bill Maquerquiagua, the one-eyed Basque buckaroo, left a couple of old cutting horses in a rocky pasture that Forrest (Jingle’s father) had fenced off. (One skill I did claim was that I knew how to fix fence, which I learned on rugged Catskill farms.) Wild Bill said they were quiet old horses. “I always like to be close on some steers,” he liked to say. “Then if anything blows up in the world I’ll always have something to eat.” I rode one of those horses every day to work at a mercury prospect a man named Clark was developing at the top of Buckskin. Every morning I rose early and climbed the pasture to where the horses were grazing. Hiding the halter I extended a fistful of oats to entice one of the old ponies and bring it down to the house. I tied it up, threw on a saddle blanket, and gave it another measure of oats to calm it down. I went for breakfast myself before saddling the horse and riding up the mountain to work with Clark. The old horse bucked a little every day when I first mounted, threw me a couple of times, just to show it knew that I was a ringer from New York City. Clark was trying to develop the rich vein of cinnabar at the surface. People had known it was there for fifty years. No one had ever found any extension of the vein into the mountain. A prospector is the ultimate gambler, always can cook up some optimism to sell. Clark, however, was mining for stock; that is, he had handsome stock certificates printed up and spent time up in Montana, carrying a flask of mercury, and some super rich hunks of ore, selling the certificates to his wife’s Mormon relatives. Clark was a handsome man, tall, wiry, and capable, though he was somewhat “salivated” because the mercury had got to him. He had lost most of his teeth, and his hair was falling out. Sometimes Jingle and I would go for a picnic up cabin creek or one of the other canyons, with himself, his wife, and his eight kids, and we would stay there into the dark, and he liked to talk about the stars, which were so penetrating and close in the wild Nevada darkness. “The stars jump around,” he would say, his eyes staring off like a visionary’s. “They ain’t always in the same place. I seen them jump across the sky. Every night they move.” Jingle defended his observation at first; after all, his cocksure charisma easily sold chancy mine stock. Both she and Clark were desert people, and had never thought much about navigation. I saw no future in starting an argument.

This was one of the toughest jobs I’ve ever had. The rock was a rich cinnabar red when you first cracked it. I loved looking at that color, but it quickly oxidized to a dull yellow brown. Clark didn’t have the luxury of a jackleg to hold up the jackhammer, so I had to breast it into the hard rock. My body went on rattling long after I shut the hammer off, and it was difficult to eat after a few hours on that machine. The chances Clark took were downright dangerous if not foolhardy. You have to cook the cinnabar to get liquid quicksilver out of the mercury sulfide. He found a used retort through which you could distill the fumes and fill flasks of mercury at the end. This equipment had a big crack in it, and leaked fumes. Anyone who went near this operation, including his eight kids, breathed those fumes. Mercury affects your brain. I’m sure I came away from my months working for Clark a little stupider.

Everything I did added merit badges to my male qualifier sash — one more layer of male armor. As a concession to my position as an artist I cut back on work in the mine so I would have half a day to write. Some men write. I suspect that in this case perhaps I wrote to reduce my chances of killing myself at work. I assigned myself three hours every afternoon for writing. Each day I chose a mythological name (one came to me) — Hermes, Sampson, Wonder Woman, Achilles, Mandrake. I sat in the assay office in the zone of that name and wrote around it for three hours. My rule was to make a complete story in three hours and not change it after I timed out. This was the way a man would write. I called these works “Mythologies,” most of them published in Creamy & Delicious.

I had a little gun. It wasn’t much, a 22 caliber repeating rifle. I never wanted nor thought about a gun before I married Jingle. Her family had respect for firearms, and used them with discretion, killing only what they could eat. I thought we should have one when we took the job as fire lookout and smoke chaser in the Clearwater in Idaho. There I got us an occasional grouse, and one porcupine, the only fresh meat we had while on the lookout. I enjoyed my gun. I swabbed its barrel, and kept the workings clean and oiled. At Buckskin I’d practice shooting cans off fence posts, just as Montgomery Clift did in Red River. John Ireland really admired Montgomery Clift’s gun. In a titillating scene of male bonding they examine and fondle each other’s guns. I never became much of a shot. I sometimes swaggered out through the rabbit brush, hoping to bring home something, a jackrabbit, a sage hen. I stumbled down several gulches, and up to the rimrock again, across saddles and rockslides. Small clouds puffed across blue Nevada sky. A red-tailed hawk circled above me. Ravens perched and waited. After a while, finding nothing to shoot, I got itchy. A man walks around for hours with a gun, and he doesn’t find anything to shoot, that man becomes restless. That’s how I reasoned with a gun in my hands. A man wants to shoot the gun. Just in time I saw a fat chipmunk sitting on this lichened outcrop. In Sergeant York Gary Cooper could hit a wild turkey in the eye. He licked his trigger finger first. Shucks Steve, I told myself, you’re not a good enough shot to hit that fat chipmunk at this distance. I licked my finger and aimed quickly and squeezed the trigger. The chipmunk deflated instantly and flopped off the rock. I couldn’t have hit it. I didn’t hit it. I crossed the shallow draw and found that I’d shot a chipmunk. It made me sick of myself, and confused. I could never tell Jingle or Woody about this. I couldn’t explain this to Forrest Bell or Harry Rogan or Marian Bell. I never told anyone. Steve Katz shot a chipmunk.

CHUNGKING MANSIONS

Chungking Mansions is a separate universe in the midst of Kowloon commerce and grit. It’s an irresistible monstrosity labyrinth at 36–44 Nathan Road, with several arcades of shops at its base. Here’s one of the impoverished world’s hubs of globalization, 17 stories, with five pairs of elevators, two for each of the five sections of the building, one that goes slowly to the odd floors, the other that creeps up to the evens. There are long lines waiting for each, so you often prefer to suffer the filthy stairwells, that smell of garbage, blood, and offal. Each landing opens onto a whole ethnic neighborhood. A curry perfume dominates some where Indians or Pakistanis have opened restaurants, some of them very good, and the scents of roast pork and lemongrass dominate Southeast Asian landings, and on the fifth floor bank C for instance, Africa, chicken pilpil. You can exchange money, get an acupuncture treatment, buy pirate CDs. A Filipino tattoo artist will make you look Yakuza in a few days. The Pakistani barber chops hair cheap. A tailor from Madras, or a Sikh if you prefer, will make for you a suit with a silk lining, just one fitting, overnight, latest fashion, unbelievable savings. Outside the building touts for the various restaurants or for one of the 80 or more “guesthouses” in the building will personally take you to his establishment and sell you a fake Rolex on the way. It’s the only cheap beds in Hong Kong. One story from a friend has it that her cousin died there on a cold night because he lit the space heater in the tiny room and was asphyxiated before he could open the window. You’re on your own at Chungking Mansions. People of all colors, ages, sizes stagger around in a deracinated fog. The building is on some of the most expensive real estate on the planet, but the nine hundred plus owners and the four thousand people who live there beat back the bulldozers and wrecking balls. You can get anything you want at Chungking Mansions, anything you need, and plenty of stuff you don’t need.

I met my son Rafael in Taipei. He had been studying calligraphy and brush painting there for several years, and solidifying his language skills. We hung out in his neighborhood before heading to Hong Kong and the mainland. His Mandarin was fluent, idiomatic. The situation reversed our roles, since he had to translate and explain everything. Suddenly I was like his son. I had arrived near Christmas. Kids swarmed me on the streets because I looked to them like Santa Claus, bearded, paunchy, and grey. It’s not hard to draw a gawking crowd anywhere in China, and I seemed totally worth their gawking. The streets near Rafael’s apartment were perfumed with the limburger-like smell of chou-doufou. Restaurants don’t dare serve this fermented tofu because the stench would drive customers away. You smell the carts of the street vendors for blocks. Like limburger, it’s an acquired taste. I like it. They seat you on a stool in the midst of the reeking steam from the cart, and then dish out their fetid delicacy with a bowl of tasty soup. You slurp it down in the midst of traffic and smoke. It’s aggressive street food, savory and good for your health.

Taipei is a frenetic, busy city, third world, with jerry-built condo skyscrapers, constant traffic spewing black exhaust, everywhere polluted, confusing, though occasionally when you turn a corner out of the general muckiness onto a smoky side street you score a surprise, a reward as if for just being there. You can enter a teahouse that takes you back centuries into the history of tea ceremony and ancient Han elegance. The rooms of teak and ebony, are separated by elaborately carved screens. You’re served on rosewood tables beautifully inlaid, sit on soft cushions of embroidered silk. It’s a welcome retreat from urban riot. A whisper of ancient music fills the room. The lovely servers move by in a silken rustle of traditional costume, and prepare the tea at your table, a ceremony of graceful hands. Aromas nuzzle your senses, of different teas, smoky, floral, earthy, steeping throughout the room. The choreography of the hands over cups, bowls, teapot, tray, all implements beautifully crafted, dances over your servings as if disembodied, devoted to the long history of delight in tea.

The Palace Museum holds the rarest treasures of Chinese Culture. Chiang Kai-Chek and his crew hauled away everything they could carry off the mainland when the Communists chased them to Taiwan. They dragged most of Chinese heritage with them. The palace they built around these artifacts is one of the world’s major museums, housing the greatest paintings, sculpture, pottery, and jade, examples from every dynasty. The most valued carving in the jade collection is a slab of jade pork. It lies quietly inedible in its electronically secured glass case. It’s a flat piece, a little wavy, slightly irregular in shape, the size of a good portion of meat to share among several diners. The genius of this jade is that it really evokes pork. It is equally and clearly divided on the horizontal plane between a layer of meat and a layer of fat. No matter that it is two shades of jade green, the contrast in texture and color evokes the smooth snowy whiteness of the fat layer, over the tender brown grain of the meat. It is the echo in precious stone of a prized delicacy, the eternal promise of a feast, forever delicious. This piece embodies one of the richest aspects of Chinese culture, derived perhaps from so many generations that knew deprivation, even starvation. Their spirit expresses itself joyously in food.

Eternity is the destination of a lavish formal feast laid out under tents on a shopping street near Rafael’s apartment. The wealth of the deceased is reflected in the number of monks chanting day and night under the canopy, and the lavishness of the feast presented publicly to accompany the spirit into the other world. The living poor, the homeless, the hungry, the passing shoppers, the teens with giant appetites, can only gaze on this opulence and beauty — the barbecued pork, the turkey roasted and glazed, the crisp ducks, the heaps of vegetables steamed and braised, cauldrons of soup, congee, tripe, kept warm with cans of Sterno, many varieties of fish steamed and fried and roasted, shrimp, crab, scallop, squid, abalone, sea slug, lobster, jellyfish, everything you might fantasize eating in a restaurant is offered there, forbidden to the living, to be consumed only by the dead one as he invites other ghosts to dine with him splendidly in some other more lavish Taipei of the dead.

Chungking Mansions is the realm of the living, and a feast of another kind. All the ethnicities, all languages of the world percolate through it. Rafael and I fly from Taipei to land at Chungking Mansions. In that one sprawl of a building all the street cuisines of the planet present themselves side by side. Any of the elevators, and the elevators are always full, spews a wide spectrum of people, most of them migrating to improve chances for the good life. Our cheap narrow room has a double bunk squeezed into it, thin stained mattresses on sagging reticulations of wire. Rafael performs some Chinese magic at an office tucked somewhere into this labyrinth, where he applies with a fistful of cash for visas to the People’s Republic. After a few days they appear, a bureaucratic miracle. We hop a train and roll away from the free world, into the vast Communist republic, wider than any writer’s imagination.

CLAIRE

The girl lingered by our old Plymouth clunker station wagon as we loaded the tipi onto the rack. “Don’t mind her,” said her mother. “She’s okay, but she’s special. She has some weird thoughts.” She might have been talking about a dog that looked strange or vicious. This girl had a lively, freckled, tomboy look. “I don’t know what we will do with her. What will become of her?” I don’t know why she told me this. Did she think I could help? The girl looked like any lively, curious kid to me.

We had stopped at the house in Massachusetts of the couple who sewed up the canvas for our tipi. Their names, I think, were Reginald and Gladys Laubin. I don’t remember the little girl’s name. I’ll call her Claire. The Laubins wrote and published The Indian Tipi. They were scholars of Sioux and Cheyenne customs and modes of survival. They did a small business sewing tipis to order, which they did with total authenticity and care. We had ordered their largest Cheyenne style tipi, and were picking it up on our way to Cape Breton.

“I hope you have some long poles,” Reginald said, as they unrolled our twenty-eight foot lodge to show us, and then rolled it up again. I knew little about it, hadn’t even thought out the length of the poles. For a twenty-eight foot lodge you should ideally have fourteen poles, forty feet long. We had cut and peeled fourteen poles out of our woods, but I knew they weren’t more than thirty-two feet long. I began to feel a little nervous and incompetent. The poles should also be slender, with as few knots as possible, they told us. That’s why lodgepole pine is superior. It grows tall and slender, with most of the branches at the top. We had only spruce to cut in our woods, with branches jutting all the way up. We’d removed all the branches and smoothed all the knots, but any nick or splinter encourages the rain, usually channeled down the pole to flow off harmlessly behind the dewcloth, to drip from the point of irregularity into the living space. Nonetheless we were happy with our Cheyenne style tipi, which has longer smoke flaps than the Sioux style, and looks elegant and livable.

As the kids piled into the car, Claire said, “I see a flat tire.” I looked into her face at that moment. She looked much older than her eight or nine years. A smile, just a slight, noncommittal rictus drew across her lips like a line through a cloud.

“Which tire,” I asked. She took my hand, led me around the car, and pointed at the passenger side front tire. It was inflated. I kicked it. It looked as good to me as when we left New York. “It’s not flat,” I said.

“I see a flat tire,” she said again.

“Thank you,” I said, registering in my own mind some confusion and doubt.

As we drove away Jingle remarked that the girl was strange, sweet but strange.

A commendation of swans, black as night, vees away behind the clouds. All the turtles liberated in their bogs and fens and flats, in their swamps and ponds and brooks, rise up in turtle chorus to sing, “Weep, weep.” A rumble of mighty earthworms heft the earth beneath the road. Somewhere the rabbit asks a question. Somewhere else the red fox answers.

Twenty minutes after we left Claire, and were about to turn north off the Mass. Pike, the passenger tire went flat. We pulled onto the shoulder of a side road. We unloaded the Plymouth, jacked it up, put on the spare. For many years Claire has been in my thoughts. Any time I find myself skeptical about clairvoyance, I remember her. How did she know? Was it a coincidence? I don’t think so. Did she sabotage the tire? Unlikely. This was such a minor, random, clairvoyant instance. What is Claire doing now? Does she live in a tipi? Does she conduct séances in a double-wide outside of Portsmouth? I’ll bet she knows I am writing this. This was surely something different, but not the only magic to well up around our tipi.

CLARENCE SCHMIDT

I thought of this as a pilgrimage, in the late Sixties, early Seventies, to visit Clarence Schmidt and the tumult of his demesne in Woodstock, New York. He was the chief “outsider” artist, famous all over the country, his life and work a living spectacle of barely organized debris. The house and his assemblages festooned four acres on a hill outside of the town. Going there was to visit a chaos that was bearable in contrast with the unbearable chaos, violence, and deceit perpetrated by our government throughout the Vietnam war.

Clarence’s welcome was always huge and physical. The great Kodiak guy of Woodstock engulfed you in big arms, pulled you into his heat and smell. Anything that moved, he hugged. He pulled your face into the thickness of his yellowing beard. You carried the reek home, pleasant as Liederkranz. His story, as I knew it, was that he was a stonemason in Queens, though some say he was also an architect. In his early thirties he inherited four acres of land on Ohayo mountain outside of Woodstock, and soon moved there with his wife. After he worked on several houses around Woodstock as a stonemason, his brain shifted into a different modality. He started laying stone walls in abstract patterns against the hillside on his acreage, and he started to build a house. Soon his wife left him and moved into a trailer on a lot above his place and rained down her garbage off the cliff onto him. I don’t know what his emotional response was, but physically he received the stuff with grace and enthusiasm, and began to incorporate it into his project. That was how the place he called Journey’s End began.

He started building his first “House of Glass,” seven stories of stone and tar and old windows and doors, around a large beech tree, against the side of Ohayo mountain. Spreading out from the “mansion” he developed shrines and totems out of tin plates, empty jugs, plastic flowers, product wrappers, broken dolls, discarded prostheses (a nearby prosthetic factory delivered their discards to him). The dolls limbs and heads made certain nooks in the scrapscape downright spooky. Ranks of broken dolls, some of them dressed, some cracked, burned, pierced, distorted, some with hair of straw attached with tar, looked like a three dimensional, even wackier version of a drawing by that other outsider, Henry Darger, though Clarence’s inventions seemed more sinister than Darger’s playful, erotic fantasy wars. One time when I was there someone delivered two large broken demijohns, useless to everyone but Clarence. Clarence was amazing with his pleasure at the gift of these waste objects. The next time I came the cracks were healed with tar, embellished with limbs of dolls and plastic flowers, placed as if at the entrance to a cave.

“What Egypt took centuries to build,” he spread his arms from his tar stained blue coveralls, his eyes spiraling with apotheosis. “I have made this in less than a lifetime.” He swung his arm as if he were perched on a camel swaying across the plain of Giza.

I tagged along with Greg Blaisdell and Bill Lipke, who went frequently from Ithaca, New York. They were trying to document the accomplishment, and eventually published a book about Clarence. The place resisted photography, and the shots in the book are much less coherent than the experience of being there, though coherence was never as pertinent a value as energy and invention. Kathy Porter, a brilliant painter, and revolutionary spirit, often came with us. She was related by marriage to Stephen Porter to the family of the photographer Elliot and the painter Fairfield Porter. Clarence loved to hug her generous body. One of the great elements of her abstract paintings and drawings, is the power of her impatience. Her work barely contains her expansive energy. Perhaps Clarence’s work reinforced in her that feeling of momentum in stasis. His place threatened to bust loose if you turned your back on it. This intimidated most people. Clarence was their boogy man, and they feared his effect on their property values.

His preference for highly flammable tar as a binding material caused his “mansion” to burn down in 1968 and then again after he rebuilt it. Sometimes when I visited he wasn’t there. I’d smoke a joint and relax. Without his intervention and guidance I felt submerged, swimming through a strangely breathable liquid realm. It was like entering a Blakean world, a visionary other place. All around the discarded world of detritus, of garbage, floated in an immeasurable equilibrium. Sifted through his mind all this was made possible and gorgeous. My own relatively bourgeois attempts at writing were shocked into a lesson in artistic freedom, although I also understood that free as his art seemed, Clarence was not a free man, but tightly wound in tentacles of his own neuroses.

Clarence once offered to let me stay overnight in one of the “rooms” of his mansion. This was a cubbyhole, a tubelike space similar to what I’ve seen advertised as accommodations in cheap Japanese hotels, but his was slathered with tar. He had embedded a TV tube in tar at the foot, and another on the ceiling at the head so lying on your back you might watch it. I doubted they were hooked up but didn’t stay to find out. It felt cowardly to refuse the hospitality, though I don’t think Clarence even noticed me gone.

Clarence’s fans wanted his place preserved, turned into a national treasure, but we were in a minority. Many of his neighbors despised him as they looked to their property values. Despite Woodstock’s reputation as an open liberal place, it had a persistently bourgeois heart. Clarence’s wild looks and recycling survival strategy was too extreme for the town’s population. Vandals often attacked his place. He was tossed into the hoosegow in Kingston once for defending his art from three men who were tearing down the “junk” in his backyard. He whacked at them with the butt of a rifle. “This fateful day is a day of infamy,” he wrote in his Bible while in jail “shrouded within a dark cloud of bereavement and deeply rooted in the regretful act of vandalism thrust upon my hopeless art. Art is the only clean thing on the face of this earth except venerable holiness. Art may err but nature cannot miss its everlasting beauty, and dust is for a time only.” Bill Lipke said that Clarence didn’t think of what he did as art until several people introduced the idea, then he locked onto it like a barnacle onto an oyster.

He wrote in his Bible, from the rest home he was put in after he could no longer maintain his life at Journey’s End, and was found sleeping in doorways, “Lost in a deep sea of bewilderment, quandary, hoping upon hope of my successful pulling myself up and out of this travail maelstrom of dire circumstance that has so vilely engulfed me somewhere out of this impenetrable darkness of suspense and untold anxiety that completely surrounds me, holds me captive, and so subject to the emanation of the gods of fortune and judgement sentenced upon me, inconceivably powerful forces, of my mind, carries & graciously transports me along, a flower strewn path of hope, fortified by the blissful sphere of righteousness to guide me in my desperate pursuit of happiness, via my creative art.” These notebooks have pages of this overblown rhetoric of despair, always redeemed by his luminous visions of art.

As Clarence succumbed to diabetes and other health problems his place quickly deteriorated, reduced to rubble by 1974, nothing left there any more. It would have taken a devoted establishment to preserve his accomplishment. Everyone was too willing to forget about him. No one wanted to do the work. Perhaps it was fitting. Garbage back to garbage. Rubble to rubble. Thirty years after his death someone found his ashes, forgotten in a corner of a Woodstock mortuary, no one to mourn for him, no one to celebrate his passing.

What is left for me is worrying the idea of what he meant for me at that time. Whatever miseries I conjure and embrace for myself, I expect to be redeemed by art. The artist and the pursuit of art seem some of the few elements of sanity available now in our society so grotesque with greed, ignorance, selfishness. Clarence was outside all controlling establishments, including the art establishments. Including the comforts of family. From that I took enormous reassurance and inspiration, struggling against each tentacle of the establishments that squeezed myself. We live on our planet both overwhelmed and undermined by our own garbage. Clarence seemed to provide an antidote to that. He was the septic superman. It wasn’t absolute freedom. He was perhaps more trapped than the rest of us by his own mind, but he dealt deliriously with whatever was thrown at him, with his own visionary panache.

CLARK OF IT

Richard once described a phenomenon he witnessed at a quarry on an island off the coast of Great Britain. He went there to choose two huge stone slabs for a site specific commission he was going to install somewhere in his world. All the quarry workers gathered near before they split and separated the stone. They assembled to see what they called “the clark.” I’ve never heard that term before or since; in fact, I’d never heard of this phenomenon before. When they cracked, split, and separated the large block into halves there was, on the surfaces formerly fused, a glow, an electrostatic scintillation across the newly exposed faces. The quarry workers had an almost religious awe of this “clark.” Richard, as the greatest sculptor in the world, is uniquely privileged to witness such rare phenomena, and I was privileged at the time to hear him describe it.

When I try to understand for myself the splitting of one of these Memoirrhoids from the insurmountable falaise of memory I like to think of it as analogous. I free some piece into its own form and there is a scintillation, a sparking of energy on the face of the language stretched across the page; at least, I hope for this, a glow of significance, a presence. Every work of real art is present and undeniable, an elevation of itself, as if it says, “Yes! Here I am. Can’t ignore me.” When I come back to read it again maybe in a month, a year, I am grateful for any residual glow that remains as truth.

CODA

Writing the distant past in these Memoirrhoids always seems to draw out more flavor than trying to serve up the more recent past, like any of these yesterdays nearby. I don’t suffer from short term memory loss. I manage my days more or less smoothly, on a fuzzy schedule, and don’t repeat myself too often. Sometimes I misplace my keys, my wallet, the remote, and occasionally lose a scrap of paper on which I have scribbled an important phone number.

The distant past always emerges more clearly as emblems, icons, glyphs. Yesterday has no shape yet, remains dull, a broken line, as yet too amorphous for language. It takes many changes of weather for a memory to ripen into the present. It feels as if the recent past is more remote, out of reach, out of focus; while the distant is right here, plumper, riper, and more ready for the present feast.

CORNELL SWAN SONG

It was the best of times. The worst of times was a brief ramble down the road. School was almost over, almost graduation for me from Cornell. Long Cadillacs full of proud parents jammed the roads around the hill. In the old red brick Andrew D. White art museum they had set up a conference room with a podium and lines of folding chairs. This was the last reading of our college careers. Harold Schimmel and I were about to sing our swan songs. A few folks from the English Department, several visual artists, some parents and local citizens, made for a small gathering. Thomas Pynchon, a bit older than we were, graduating the year after us, because he had spent four years in the navy, sat next to Baxter Hathaway and Richard Fariña. As a student editor of Epoch magazine I looked at a couple of Pynchon stories that had impressed the faculty. My recommendation was that they send the future giant to succinctness school before they publish him. Never happened. I still feel he might have profited from being locked in a Borges room for a few years.

WD. Snodgrass, a poet on the faculty, read first from his Heart’s Needle, the book that would win him the Pulitzer later that year. At a certain point into his words he started to weep. I was impressed. He was too emotional to go on. My turn was next, hard to follow a weeping poet with some fledgling prose. I read from an unfinished piece called “Salton Sea.” That place, with a name I could taste, seemed so romantic to me then. They grow dates there in the scorching sun. Now I know it because the critic and bon vivant Larry McCaffery lives in the nearby Borrego Springs, and the poet, Alice Notley, comes originally from Needles, which is not too far away. “To the Salton Sea, where the Colorado River jumped its banks to form…” it started. I never finished the piece, and don’t know if it lies now, full of youthful romance, anywhere in my archive. Harold Schimmel read next, some poems torqued with yearning, in English. “To Betsy To Come Down From The Apple Tree” starts “Petals raining down on me…,” and another elaborating an emotionally fat image of his feelings as a boat in a harbor attenuates into, “lights are strung from mast to bow.” Schimmel and I later lived close to each other in Lecce, in the Salento, the heel of the Italian boot. He soon moved to Jerusalem and started to write in Hebrew. That was a loss to the American language. He was the first to ever show me poems by Frank O’Hara. I was jealous of the fact that Nabokov, after reading Schimmel’s poems in the Cornell student literary magazine, summoned him to his office to have his wife and assistant Vera offer encouragement.

At the reception after the readings Baxter introduced me to Thomas Pynchon. “Beautiful poetic prose,” said Pynchon. This was well before he had ascended on his V. to early immortality. It made me uncomfortable, and without a response. “Beautiful poetic prose.” I know that was probably intended as a compliment, and I don’t understand why I felt so put down.

It was a gorgeous late Spring day on the hill in Ithaca, New York. Such an exuberance of lilacs everywhere. Schimmel and I blew out of the reception, sprinted across Taughannock Boulevard, down the hill, past Goldwin Smith Hall, across the Quad, as we took off as if flying on words into the perfumed air.

CRACK OF DORN

Harry Lewis warned me before I headed for the job at the University of Colorado. “Watch out for Ed Dorn. He’s anti-Semitic.” Wow, thought I. And an important poet too, the author of Gunslinger. At the first meeting of the Creative Writing Wing I looked for something to support Harry Lewis’s claim; after all, Lewis was fixing himself to become a therapist. Come to think of it, I’ve always been anti-Therapic. Nothing I heard ever supported Harry’s claim. Ed performed as a provocateur. He sometimes said outrageous things — could be anti-Semitic, anti-Rastafarian, anti-Croatian, anti-Minoan, anti-Midwestern, just to shake up the room and rock the conversation. Maybe Harry Lewis caught him doing one of his turns on Israel or Norman Podhoretz. Ed was always present and ripping. You could never forget he was in the room.

It suddenly came to me that we had read together once in New York City, at the series Paul Blackburn ran at Le Metro café on Second Avenue between Ninth and Tenth. Out of that series Paul organized The Poetry Project, that moved to St. Mark’s in the Bowery, and survives today. Le Metro is long gone. The event was a rich experience for me, to read in New York for the first time, to break through the carapace of insecurity and self-doubt, to say to Second Avenue, “I am a writer, and these are my words.” I don’t remember what I read, or what Ed read. He was ten years more experienced than myself. I remember his presence, a craggy eminence in the room. Ed preferred to be “the other,” presenting himself as iconoclast. He wouldn’t bend his knee for the Naropa scene in Boulder. He was scholarly but never conventionally “academic,” though he did float his family on a modest academic salary.

I felt closest to Ed and Jenny when I was living with Linne. Jenny was Ed’s wife, mother of two of his kids, a beautiful, smart, spunky filmmaker, poet, biographer. She was younger than Ed, and that made my relationship with Linne seem licit and possible. Linne was my autumn-spring love affair that went on for almost three years, delicious while it was hot, but inevitably doomed. She was from Alabama, her father the former mayor of Birmingham, president of the University of Northern Alabama. As a child she was bounced on George Wallace’s knee. She grew up with the UNA mascot in the barn across the road from her house. That mascot was an African lion she would visit almost daily. How could I measure up to that? Linne’s ability to carry herself with grace and dignity among people twice her age was a gift derived from her southern upbringing. She had poise. She understood manners. I mistook that grace and ease for maturity.

She busted out of our ménage like a teenager quitting school for the summer, and returned to the South. She met a lawyer back in Alabama and wrote in a letter that he was an atheist who owned ten acres of cotton. “There is nothing as beautiful,” she wrote, “as looking across a field of cotton in the morning light.” “I’ll bet,” I thought, grieving, aching. Though I’d anticipated this rupture, that foreknowledge didn’t make it less painful.

I read the letter to Ed and Jenny over dinner at their house on Mapleton hill. Sitting at their table in the fog of my misery, I felt the cold weight of north light from their dining room window pressed down on my neck. “An atheist with ten acres of cotton.” Ed pondered that briefly, his eyes narrowing, an expression on his long face wickedly Southern Illinois and Lincolnesque. “If he had a thousand acres he’d believe in God.” “Right,” I laughed. With that crack my grief flew out the door. Suddenly laughter, like a sword, had split the fog and everything came clear. I could breathe through my self-pity. I remember Ed forever in this memoirrhoid for the charity of that provocation.

CRITTERS

John was the mule-skinner for the Clearwater camp. Only a few men were left who could handle a train of pack mules. He was a rugged, wiry, taciturn man, of indeterminate middle age, who paused occasionally only to roll a cigarette. The Eagle Lookout, where we were booked to work three months of the summer was a five hour ride from the nearest logging road. John rode ahead of his pack train, and Jingle and I followed, myself on a horse, Jingle on a mule. Though she was from Nevada, and her brother was a professional rodeo cowboy, she had no love for and some fear of horses. Mules are more sure-footed, and some of the terrain was rough. I was from New York City, and sometimes feared elevators, but had little experience of horses. We arrived without incident, saddle sore and tired, but happy to unpack and store our clothes and supplies in the efficient twelve by twelve lookout room. We lifted the shutters and were surrounded by a 360 degree vision of the mountains of the Clearwater national forest.

Our job on the tower was to track thunderstorms, record and report strikes, and I was to go out and start fighting any fire within a mile or so from the tower, until the base camp could call in some smokejumpers, or get a crew to cut in by trail. The tower was grounded to attract to it any lightning from storms passing overhead. We were supposed to stand on an insulated stool while the bolts sizzled through the grounding wires that spiraled down the tower. We heard stories of lightning that opened all the cans in storage and flash cooked the contents, that seared any fresh meat in the screened cupboard to well done. We had plenty of trouble getting both of us onto the insulated stool built barely large enough for one. When a lightning storm came through at night the strikes would wash off the raised shutters in a hallucinatory light show, cascades of blue of green of yellow electric.

The animal I feared most in this Clearwater National Forest was a doe with twin fauns. A black bear regularly visited our garbage pit, but it would skedaddle with a peanut butter or jam jar in its mouth, whenever it got a glimpse of us, and would usually discretely replace the lid of the pit. An occasional porcupine waddled across. Because they destroyed young pine trees, and gnawed tires to get the salt, we were encouraged to kill them. Elk were poor neighbors. They assembled at 4 a.m. around the tower to lick up salt from our urine. Elk are very gabby and they kept us awake. We had no wild mountain goats on our side of the river, but once we heard the guy on the Black Mountain Lookout, from the other side, say over the open mike, “I wonder if I can feed these wild goats?” No problem. From then on, at the crack of dawn, we heard the wild goats newly domesticated, bleating for food, and the cursing of our brother lookout.

This doe, however, was terrifying. To get water I had to hike a mile and a half down from the top of the mountain to a spring, fill the ten-gallon water bags, and pack them back up. We learned to conserve water. Usually Ozark, a small, feisty, black and tan mutt, a lot of terrier in the mix, whom we’d picked the year before, from a basket of pups in Ozark, Missouri, would accompany me on the walk. He lived for moments like when I lifted the lid of a grain barrel in the shed next to the tower, and revealed a large brood of kangaroo rats that scattered through the shed and out the door, to Ozark’s delight. He wasn’t afraid to chase bear, elk, whatever lurked in the woods.

On one water trip Ozark stopped in his tracks, the tan hackles rose on the back of his neck, he growled, yelped, and took off into the woods, only to soon come yelping back out, chased by a large, sage-coated, fat, healthy coyote. When it saw me it stopped, turned, and loped back into the woods. The next time Ozark scared something up, it was the doe, a ferocious mother of twin fauns. I had seen her browsing with her twin fauns on another day. It was chasing Ozark, but as soon it saw me it changed its mind and came after the human. Luckily I was near a young ponderosa pine. I dropped the water packs and shinnied up. It could barely hold my weight. Not far below me the doe circled the tree, snorted warnings to its fauns, and kicked at the duff. There was thunder in the distance. I had to get back to the tower. I called for Ozark, but the dog was long gone home. Probably no more than fifteen minutes passed, but it felt like hours of hugging this young tree before the doe returned to its bedded fauns. This my most dangerous encounter in the wild, and I know no one else who was ever treed by a deer.

After a month Jingle and I had little left to say to each other. We still loved each other, but saw little reason to talk, unless we needed a discussion about how to skin a porcupine. After a precarious process we discovered that most of the meat is on the legs, so you needn’t skin them. The one I shot had been eating pine seedlings so its flesh was not palatable, tasted of pitch. In the valley, where they eat corn, the flesh is sweeter. Nonetheless, because the porcupine is slow moving, it’s considered important survival food for someone lost in the woods. We’d also discuss how to cook a fool hen when I brought one back. The fool hen is a kind of grouse that camouflages itself by freezing in place when startled in the underbrush. It won’t fly. You can hit it on the head and take it home. It’s like Al Capp’s shmoo. There aren’t many left.

Every three weeks John packed in our supplies. By the second month we anticipated the pleasure of his arrival with fresh food, and the relief of someone different to talk to. He landed a little after noon on horseback, with three pack mules. We hovered around him as he untied the packs, and we hustled the supplies up the stairs of the tower. “Sometimes I ride Hilda on the Black Mountain trail, because that trail can be rough if it’s rained, and Hilda’s a sure-footed jenny,” he once said in a talkative mood. He refused lunch, tea. “Got to get back before five, help Celia with dinner.” He tied the empty packs back up and pulled out a twist of jerky to chew on his way back down. John was clean-shaven, but that look seemed recent. Celia was his wife, recently married, a school-teacher, and she probably had a say in the way he looked. I wondered what their conversations were like. I would have liked to tell him about my encounter with the doe. When we finally packed out, after our contract was over, we spewed conversation compulsively in every direction, at every gathering for the next month. I never talked, however, about the man who’d been treed by a mule deer.

CROSBY STREET

Living in an apartment at 33 Crosby Street sometimes felt like a residence on the subway. It wasn’t crowded, I lived alone, no straps to hang onto, the building shook only slightly; nonetheless, the empty semis clattering through on Grand Street made me feel constantly in motion. I had to wear earplugs at night to slow down. The apartment was on the second floor, on this dark street gouged into Manhattan, banked mostly by loft buildings for about ten blocks, dead ending at Bleecker Street, at the glory of the only Louis Sullivan façade in New York, and at the other end running up against Howard Street, near a Chinese chicken market, where anyone can pick out a live chicken, and get it slaughtered and dressed on the spot. The apartment was in one of three buildings built as tenements, no shower, the bath in the kitchen sink. The landlords were three decent Italian brothers. They maintained the buildings themselves, and kept the rents low. My rent was seventy-six bucks a month when I left it in 1978. I’d inherited the apartment from Joe Kurhajec, a sculptor, and his wife at the time, Primarosa Cesarini-Sforza, now a brilliant artist in Rome. Joe was deaf, so the racket of the semis never bothered him. Most of the other tenants were Italian families. The buildings have been sold now, and below my old apartment they’ve opened a tapas bar and club. The place now must be tolerable only to the deaf. William Wegman lived in a loft across the street, and more than once when I stepped out to go for a chicken, or some Chinese soup, I slipped on the Weimaraner shit.

Most mornings I carried my wooden sword up the six flights to the black tar roof where I practiced the tai-chi sword form. I liked to do it in the morning, when it was quiet, when no one else was around. One sunny afternoon I was feeling vaguely rattled, so I decided to go up and calm myself doing some forms. That was a mistake. All the mothers from the building were stretched out on lounge chairs to tan themselves on the tar beach. All at once like a grazing herd of startled pronghorns they turned to look at me, eyes wide from behind their mascara, their bouffants wobbling. I panicked and for a moment turned to go back downstairs, but then decided just to get out of sight and do the form anyway. To them I must have looked like some bearded hippy maniac waving a stick around. Before I got through three moves of the form I was surrounded. They had called their sons to the rescue. These were guys from the neighborhood, most of whom were nodding acquaintances. They were absolute models for Goodfellas ground troops, out of Scorsese’s central casting. The neighborhood was safe because of these mooks; no petty crime on their mean streets. Fortunately they recognized me as an inhabitant, and calmed their mothers’ fears.

The six or seven of them could easily have tossed me off the roof to feed the rats in the lower courtyard. Even had that happened, I wouldn’t have worried. With sword in hand at that time I was an ongoing Hong Kong movie. I could fly. I could have lifted off the roof and sailed airborne across the Hudson River. I could have lofted over the hills of Pennsylvania, over the Ohio Valley, across Indiana, over lake Michigan, past Chicago with its throne of suburbs, its dense crown of skyscrapers. I could have sailed over the great plains of America and come soon enough to the Eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, where I would have come down slowly in Boulder, Colorado, just in time to teach the workshops. Creative Writing was my game.

CROW-DOG

Henry Crow-dog, full-blooded Sioux, seventy-four years, stands straight up, face regal and craggy, noble hooked nose, his hair long and black. He is shaman of the Native American Church, an “institution” built on a jute sack full of peyote buttons. He lives on the Rosebud Reservation, in South Dakota. He calls his place Crow-Dog’s Paradise. In the portrait on the sign above the entrance to the paradise Henry hovers over the ground seated in the lotus position, arms extended right and left. In the right hand he holds a peyote button. In the left he holds a cross. Real Crow-Dog refuses a cigarette offered by Leo Garen. “Tobacco is a sacrament,” he explains. “We smoke in ceremony, not as habit.” Leo is negotiating a wage for Henry to be spiritual adviser on our shoot at the Cheyenne River Reservation. He also needs him for a couple of shots. We meet in his house, a sprawling shack near the Rosebud River. The structure is tacked together out of corrugated tin, salvaged windows, car doors, road signs, refrigerator pieces and other odd scraps. Henry refuses to live in one of the prefabs the BIA erects on the reservation. Leonard, his son, lives in one of those with his family. Two young Navajo braves visiting Henry greet us with “How!” as they are leaving. The greeting stuns me. I’ve heard it before only in movies. The sound drops like a stone through my consciousness. That one syllable resonates from the gut, from something real and ancient. It comes from the core of a whole people. This lens that starts to focus me into looking at Native Americans as they are rather than seeing them distorted through filters of white American mythmaking.

II

We get a call from the Pierre, South Dakota police, that Leonard Crow-Dog is in jail, and has given our name as someone who would go his bail. Leonard is Henry’s son, a well-known shaman in his own right, famous for selling his powers and skills around the country in shows for the white man. He is bringing Henry, and intends to camp with his wife and kids near the set, and feed them all at our mess hall. This speaks both to the depth of their poverty and to Leonard’s freeloading skills. He has been busted for driving an “Indian car” off the reservation. Leonard doesn’t have a license. The car was stopped because it has no tail light covers. It is almost midnight. Henry sits in the jailhouse with Leonard’s wife and kids. Both kids are asleep, their heads in their mother’s lap. Henry doesn’t stir when we walk in, stares straight ahead, hands folded in his lap. We arrange the bail, and Leo loads Leonard and the family into the company van. My assignment is to drive the Indian car to the set with Henry Crow-Dog. At an all night gas station 7-11 I buy a couple of cans of car wax, with transparent red caps, and tape them over the taillights. The car has no rear view mirror and only one cracked side mirror. The steering doesn’t engage until a few revolutions of the wheel. The brakes want at least thirty seconds of pumping before they engage. It’s 2 A.M now. With Henry Crow-Dog riding shotgun I pull out onto the road for the Cheyenne River reservation.

Henry stares straight ahead, not at the road, but into the darkness barely scooped out by the one dim headlight. Every time I look across the seat at his profile I feel an odd thrill, as if I am riding with an avatar lifted straight off the buffalo nickel. The first time he chants I almost fly out the window. It is very dark in South Dakota. There is no traffic. It’s just Crow-Dog and me. He chants every few minutes, the songs somehow reassuring. Between Pierre and the Cheyenne River rez there is one turn in the road. I miss it, don’t start turning the wheel soon enough. We bounce off across the prairie. Luckily there is no tree, no rock in the way. The car rattles to a stop. Indian car survives. I look at Henry. He gazes straight ahead, laughing. “Ha ha ha ha ha! If we make movie we make good movie.”

III

After a week Leo asks Leonard and family to leave. The film is on a tight budget, he explains, can’t afford to feed the extra mouths. Leonard drives the Indian car back to Rosebud without incident. Henry and I share a cottage — the shaman and the wordslinger. You don’t need to go to the Himalayas, to Pune, to Kyoto, to find a spiritual teacher. Here he is in South Dakota. The traditions of wisdom and spirituality on which Henry floats are as rich and goofy as those of any yogi anywhere on the esoteric planet. His instruction comes from power and confidence as he holds himself within himself; for instance, he has a guitar. He knows no chords, no tunings, no picking techniques. He slaps, strums, shakes, spins the instrument, treating it as some ritual object he has found in a gulley on the prairie. It makes magical sounds. All night he sings his songs for us, and jokes with us, while in his own trailer, with his golden lab, Sun, Keith Car-radine works up his song, “I’m Easy,” that later becomes a minor hit. Late one evening, Gary Busey, ecstatic with listening to Crow-Dog way into the night, exclaims, “Thank you, Henry, for helping all of us.” Crow-Dog laughs, that deep visceral laugh I first heard in the car. “Who says you can help the people?” I learn from Henry Crow-Dog an aspect of love nearly disappeared from our society, called veneration.

IV

Leo Garen gets the two shots that he needs, and I get a touch, a vision of Buddha consciousness, from being present with Henry; but things soon start to get weird. He insists once that I drive him to Rosebud for a very important meeting. There I get a sense of conflict within the rez between full-blood and half-breed residents. When we are pumping gas, a couple of young half-breed braves approach Henry, and get practically into his face and say, sarcastically, “Henry Crow-Dog, full-blooded Ogallala Sioux Indian. Ha!” Henry’s important meeting is at a makeshift brothel, where young girls sell their stuff to older men. Henry likes to carry naked girls around on his shoulders. The girls must experience altitude. I don’t know what Henry experiences.

Henry invites me to drive him to the house of a woman near Eagle Butte far out on the prairie. She is the keeper of the sacred White Buffalo Calf Pipe. White Buffalo Woman gave this pipe to the Lakota people long before anyone can remember. With this sacramental pipe she taught the Lakota people how to live. This offer was a bit like someone tapping you on the shoulder in Jerusalem, and saying, “Pssst, buddy, you wanna see the true cross?” I am tempted. I am flattered that he offers. I am also wary of Henry’s coyote trickster shenanigans. I am busy on the set. I don’t accept. All my life I regret that I didn’t accept.

Back at the set, one of the carpenters who admires Henry greatly, is returning to L.A., and gives Henry a gift of a gallon of wine. Big mistake. Henry drinks it all in one afternoon, sitting in a cameraman’s trailer. He plays his guitar, sings his songs. When he leaves, towards evening, he forgets there are steps from the ground to the landing by the door. He forgets to turn left down the steps, walks straight, and plunges eight feet. To save his guitar he holds it up and lands on his face. Luckily he is very drunk and loose, and breaks no bones. When he comes to he shuns all help and stumbles off into the prairie to find the herbs he needs to heal himself. It doesn’t work. His face swells up and infection sets in. I rush him down to Rosebud, to the hospital. Delphine, his daughter, is furious. She thinks I beat him up. Once I convince her I didn’t she still won’t accept the actual story, believes some braves from Cheyenne River mugged him. She is furious with me also for taking him to the Rosebud hospital, where everyone would know, and the Crow-Dogs would lose face. I should have taken him straight to the hospital in Valentine, Nebraska, and then told her about it. It is November. Cold winds blow across our locations on the Cheyenne River reservation. It’s going to snow soon. We are about to wrap. Henry Crow-Dog never returns to the set. I learn in the spring that his daughter is murdered, her body found on the prairie. The murderer is a white man from Valentine. Everyone knows who he is. He is never brought to trial. I still cherish a beaded medallion I bought from Delphine.

In Cape Breton I settle the cover on my tipi poles, tap in the stakes, and insert the lacing pins. I spread the smoke flaps above, then bend over and move inside. It’s a huge tipi, a cathedral-like space. The confluence of the poles is an image that remains embedded in my mind, exalting upwards like the architecture of any holy space. A black feather drifts down through the smoke hole to land in the fire pit. “Thank you, Henry,” I whisper, knowing that he knows.

DAD

When I was small it seemed a long slow walk, step-by-step through our tiny apartment, to carry my poems from the bedroom I shared with my sister into my father’s bedroom, where he was confined because of his heart condition. At that time bed rest was the treatment for a heart condition. This worked out for me, considering. It was the only time I can remember that I had alone with him. Together we fed crumbs to the pigeons on the fire escape, and we gave them names — Gimpy, Silver, Popeye, Half-beak, Snooks. We hung out in his bed in the evening and listened to the fights. Often we’d bet. He let me take Joe Louis in the one where he mashed the huge Tami Mauriello. I won four bits. I took Jersey Joe Walcott in his first fight with Ezzard Charles, and I lost, but my dad paid me anyway, as if I’d won. Four bits. That made him feel good. He died before the third Graziano-Zale fight. Sometimes I read the poems to him. Sometimes he read them himself. He wasn’t much of a reader. There were no books in the house. He was an accountant for several theaters in the city, and for some company that made fireproof doors for theaters; at least, that’s what I gathered from the crumbs of information that came down to me. He was unable to work while he was sick. He told me the poems were good, that he liked them. Though I didn’t believe him, his approval made me happy.

My sister had an anthology of modern poets, edited by Mark Van Doren, I think. I kept that book in bed with me, and was stirred by Walt Whitman, Muriel Rukeyser, Archibald MacLeish, T.S. Eliot, Carl Sandburg, Robinson Jeffers, Dylan Thomas. I vowed that I would write something, that I would use language to mitigate hatred and violence in the world.

My father wrote notes to himself on small memo pads, brown shiny covers, spiral bound at the top. I inherited these at his death, and carried them around with me for years like an urn of ashes, in a sealed box. We went from Ithaca, to Nevada, to Eugene, to Italy, to New York City, to Ithaca again, to Pine Bush, to New York City again, to South Bend, to Boulder. There was some value in these, I thought, if not for me then for my kids. I opened the box in my forty-third year, hoping to find some answers to questions I had about my own life, perhaps a hint of how to go on; I feared the nothing I anticipated from those notebooks, and that’s what I found. The memos were memos — some to-do lists, a bit of accounting, a banal address to me about being a good kid, which brought a tear, some muddled grievances against his brothers and sisters he didn’t dare express in person. I wanted language from my father, some sense of lineage in the bloodline, a few phrases of thought. I wanted great words; but there was nothing, nothing of interest, nothing to move me. The revelation was that I had to take Walt Whitman as my father in that realm, and cobble him together with William Faulkner, Dylan Thomas, Frank O’Hara, Ernest Hemingway, Marianne Moore, John Keats, Chuck Berry, William Blake, Cole Porter, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, John Berry-man — all the great wordslingers whose language I had fetched into the word hoard building in my spirit.

DARMSTADT WITHOUT SPARGEL

I didn’t find out till much later that Darmstadt is a center for new music, and has the largest archive of jazz literature in Europe. Maybe most of the development happened after my sojourn. Nowadays it even has a goofy apartment complex designed by the whimsical Austrian, Hunder-twasser, one of my favorites. Karlheinz Stockhausen lectured and performed there, as did John Cage, Oliver Messaien, Luciano Berio and many others. Maybe knowing that I might have been happier to be there. For me in 1960 it appeared as a dark, featureless city, the old buildings destroyed by the war, the new ones with nothing lively or inviting. Maybe if my stay had been timed with the asparagus season I would have been more jolly. The city sits at one end of the spargelstrasse, Heidelberg at the other end, and all along the route, in the sandy soil, farmers coddle the beloved white asparagus.

I was sent to teach there at a US Air Force base by The University of Maryland. They arranged college classes on US military bases. I did literature, Homer thru T.S. Eliot in six weeks. Darmstadt was a long way down in sunshine and spirit from Verona, Italy, where I was living with my family. I was billeted at an officer’s hotel near the downtown. At night I would plug out alone onto the streets to look for something to do, to grab some shnitzel and kartofelsalat at one of the restaurants or beer halls.

This night I was at a table alone and gloomy, staring into my hassen-pfeffer. The beer was good, pillowy head, brown, nutty, easy to drink. A woman kept smiling at me from her table by the window. She sat alone, sipping her beer. She looked fairly young, and plump, and wore no make up. When I motioned for her to come over she picked up her beer and joined me. She was more hausfrau than hotty. Her sad, chubby face cranked out a smile, teeth pitted and stained. She spoke no English. I had a pocketful of German. She asked if I was an “Englander”. It seemed to please her when I said that I was American. I managed to filter from her German that she had always lived in Darmstadt and had a couple of kids and no husband. Her good humor and friendliness was forced, lay like an oil slick on a bog of chronic despair. After I paid my bill she asked if I wanted her to come to my room. I was some lonely, a little horny, but didn’t find her physically appealing. I asked where her children were. They were staying with their grandmother. It didn’t feel like something I totally wanted to do, but I agreed for her to come.

“Gibst du mir zehn mark?”

“Ten marks? Sure.” I shrugged.

“Wirklich?”

Ten marks seemed like very little, a few bucks, but I don’t think she had been very successful as an amateur hooker. She wasn’t sure she was worth ten marks. It surprised her that I agreed, and it made her happy. Maybe ten marks solved a problem for her — paid a bill, bought some toys for her kids. She fairly skipped with her arm hooked in mine as we walked to the hotel. The desk clerk didn’t even glance at us as we entered. The room was standard government beige and brown, holding a small desk, an uncomfortable cordovan leather easy chair, a twin bed, the portrait of a Sherman tank on the wall. There was no radio, no TV. Frederika disappeared into the bathroom I shared with the adjoining room. I’d never met my neighbor, and didn’t have enough German to warn her to lock his door. If he surprised her in the bathroom that would have been one mode of introduction. She came out unbuttoned, tested the bed with her hand, pulled back the covers, dropped her dark flowered dress, raised her slip off her body, released her sagging breasts from the bra, and wiped the sweat from under them with a corner of the top sheet. She kicked off her underpants, sat naked on the stained blanket, nodded at me, watching her from the uneasy chair.

“Tun, shatzi, mein shatz.”

I dropped my clothes and as I crossed to the bed she looked from me to the ceiling and back again, as if for her it was taking a long time for me to get there. I touched her nipples. She opened her arms for me. “Kommst du doch herein.” I lay down beside her, then rolled against her. Her flesh was soft and enfolding. We moved into the business of the night. I had little enthusiasm. Her words of encouragement turned me off. “Tun, Amerikaner, tun.” It was all perfunctory, dull as Darmstadt itself. “Do it, American, do it.” I was definitely American. When I paused to rest a moment she asked, “Bist du fertig?” I guessed that she was asking if I came. When I said no she asked, “Willst du Franzoisisch?” I didn’t get what she meant, but I thought if it was French it might be pleasurable.

“Ja,” said I.

Franzoisisch was the blow job. She scrunched down and wrapped her lips around my soft erection. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy this, but it didn’t happen. I looked down at her working earnestly, her stringy hair fallen to one side. She was trying to do a good job, but there was nothing erotic about it. Maybe it was the liverish light from the ceiling fixture that made it all too dreary. She could have been sucking on a hose or licking a creamsicle. She was totally conscientious, I’ll give her that. When she asked me if I was “fertig” again, I said yes. She lay back to rest a moment, pleased with herself. She looked at her watch, and jumped up and got dressed. “I did everything,” she said. “I was good, yes? I did Franz-sische. Du bist gut fertig. Jawohl.” I agreed she was good, that I came good, and I gave her ten marks. She looked at the note and smiled. As she opened the door to leave she turned to me and what I understood that she said was, “Please, if you see me on the street, or in a shop, or at a coffee house, please do not greet me.” She obviously feared the burghers of Darmstadt. I promised I wouldn’t greet her, but I never had the opportunity to keep my promise. because I never saw Frederika again.

DEATH ON LAYAWAY

I didn’t follow the instructions, just brewed the tea as strong as it would go. The ephedra grabbed me like a slingshot and snapped me into the stratosphere. I whizzed around for two days. Then I crashed. It took my breath, chopped my legs away. I could barely shuffle up the hill from my office to the classroom. I leaned heavily on the table. I tried to listen to the students. I mumbled back at the students. I should have gone to the hospital right then; instead, I went to California where I had a reading scheduled at Chapman University in Orange County.

From the window of my room in the Doubletree Hotel I could see the Crystal Cathedral. It was over yonder, across the big empty acres of parking lots. I had to go there. I knew if I went slowly, I could get there. It was kitsch for Christ. I had to see it before I died. I trudged across the exotic vacancy, through the big emptiness. Perhaps I would die right there in the Crystal Cathedral — a stupefying option for my fading consciousness. The Museum of Money was housed on the ground level. This was a good place to die. Every time I stopped, like on a bench in the outdoor shopping mall near the hotel, I had the thought: “Is it here, on this bench, in front of this Jamba Juice, where I’m going to give up my ghost?” I might have conked out at the reading, at the podium. But I didn’t. I read every word. That could have been a memorable performance.

I had planned to visit Larry McCaffery in Borrego Springs, and I didn’t disappoint. The rental Toyota Echo got there by itself. Larry took me in his four-wheeler into the canyons of the desert he was learning to love. I was touched by how much he wanted to show it to me. He tried to get me to hike. I could hardly crawl. “Larry almost died in there once,” Sinda said. She described an all out search and then finding him drunk and lost up one of the desert arroyos, sprawled out and babbling in the rocks.

As I drove back to LAX, I could easily have steered into the next world. I stopped at a shopping mall, organic farmer’s market, and hype mill. I sat down on a bench in my fading consciousness, and said weakly into the flow of passing polyester: “Critics of American Literature! I’m almost posthumous. You can discover my works now. As Ray Federman might say, ‘I’m about to change tense.’” I don’t know how I found the rental car return. I died every time I stopped to catch a breath and wait for consciousness to return. Life had become small, inch by inch. The corridors of perception were very narrow. Every breath was a big purchase. I don’t remember how I found my plane seat. Ray met me at DIA, and we went right to a Chinese Restaurant. Just being in my home port made me feel a little better. I could still handle the chopsticks. I told Ray the story of my long wheeze through Southern California. He asked me why I didn’t see a doctor. I explained that I couldn’t handle a crisis in a freeway environment, would enjoy it much more at home. I told him I’d call my doctor in the morning. I might never leave this bed, I thought, as I crawled under my covers to try to sleep.

In the morning I discovered I was slightly alive, enough to creep to the phone. My doctor was on vacation. The doc who was taking his calls told me to get to the emergency room immediately. “Emergency room!?” “Yes. As immediately as possible. Sooner.” “Okay.” Wow. Emergency room. It’s an emergency. That was exciting. If I’d only known. I might have handled myself differently.

DISPATCH FROM A WATER TOWER

The Turks marched through the street by my hotel in demonstration against the Cypriot Greeks. I climbed to the roof to watch the parade. Haja Sofia rose like a balloon festival in the distance out of the bramble of laundry lines, antennas, and water towers. The parade was a fierce spectacle of Nineteenth Century Ottoman costume and weaponry. Brigades flowed by with an intrepid three-step — three steps with the left leg, pivoting on the right leg, then three steps with the right leg. Their forward movement was slow and menacing. Their advance was inevitable. The marching music that rang down the narrow street was also slow, minor-keyed, anti-melodic, full of menace. It looked and sounded like a reminder of the cruelties of empire. You didn’t want to be caught in this any more than in a flow of lava.

I don’t know if I heard her first, or felt the waves her belly was making, but I turned from the street and saw a woman on the roof behind me. This was more than just a woman on a roof, but a belly-dancing beauty in sequined halter and harem pants. Her finger cymbals flashed in the sun. I suddenly was in a movie, anything from James Bond to a Bob Hope / Bing Crosby road movie. This couldn’t be happening to me. I would have to be taller, slimmer, more handsome. I totally forgot about the demonstration in the street. The woman beckoned to me while she danced to the martial music. She seemed to be imploring me to leap the eight-foot gap between rooftops, to come over and enjoy the pleasures her dancing promised.

I looked around. I could feel in my loins every wave of her hips and belly. I’d miss the leap, that much I knew. I’d fall to my death. Die for beauty. Die for lust. I climbed the ladder to the rim of my hotel water tower, thinking I might go the distance better with a downward arc. The tower was a cylinder, open at the top, water reflecting the grey-blue Istanbul sky. I moved carefully around the rim of the water tank, towards my dancing succubus. It was slippery up there. Lust grinned across my face. In the streets the Turkish nation was marching towards a virtual war. Suddenly four men appeared on the roof and surrounded the woman. Two were brandishing pistols. The other two grabbed her roughly and hustled her back into the building. She didn’t look back at me. I vowed never again to endanger my life for a woman. The other two men came to the edge of their roof and waved their fingers at me in warning, their guns at their sides. I teetered for a moment at the rim, my loins vacant.

If any of you ever wonder what has become of me, I have to tell you that I slipped off the rim, fell into the water, and struggled for hours to climb out. The walls of the tank are too slippery to grip. My strength petered out, my voice failed. I floated on my back late into the night, and then I was gone, like I dissolved into the acids of lust. I was a fringe victim of Turkish/Greek hostilities. That was how frivolous lust caused me to disappear forever from my own adventures, from my family, from all my friends.

DRESDEN RESURRECTION

A casual look at Old Dresden makes me speculate that everything combustible has been furnaced away, leaving a city of structured ash. Stone, arches, spires, the low sky are all spectral and grey. The old city seems to anticipate the correct wind, a precise gust that will spirit it all into the past. I am the skulking tourist, a phantom in my ruse of research. I’m here to visit the Gemaldegalerie Alte Meister, to look at Antonello da Messina’s Saint Sebastian, for my novel, Antonello’s Lion. This is to be the apogee of my investigation of Antonello’s work. From reproductions I know the painting to be the most amazing masterpiece of all Antonello’s masterpieces, and I anticipate the pleasure, the thrill of seeing it. I can hardly bear being told that it isn’t available for viewing. It’s in restoration. I’ve come all the way to Dresden. I feel like I’ve been stood up. I was able to convince people at Italian museums to let me see works in restoration. Even The Met in New York pulled out the Antonello in storage for me to look at. No amount of pleading can penetrate the Saxon will to regulations. I leave the museum and step onto the grey phantasmagoria of Theater-platz. The old city appears in its sad history as a phantasm, an ephemeral breath of place, a fading poem, and the people move around like Marianne Moore’s real toads in an imaginary garden.

I drift back to my hotel through the hazy afternoon light like a cinder rolled away on a breeze. The five hotels rise on one side of the square, rectangular as a row of tombstones. The rows of shops around the square seem flattened under the pressure of grey sky. The sun was somewhere dimmed and diffused by the haze. I feel creepy as I do sometimes when I’m traveling alone and find I’m stuck in the purposelessness of my going. Missing the Saint Sebastian makes me feel pierced by uselessness and despair. I look across the square from my hotel. There is a shop called Schmuck: Tattooing. I don’t want a tattoo, but if one is necessary I will definitely go to Schmuck. What rut is this? Drawn by Schmuck I wander across the square and through an arcade to somewhere I’ve never been before.

At first it seems an apparition, that I can’t be seeing this. It angles out of the blandness, into the grey/blue skylessness like a crystal just forming. The light dances differently off each of the surfaces. I watch it, anticipating that it will keep growing. It seems alive, about to change every second, and in contrast to this city it is certainly living. What is this? I don’t even want to know. It is angles and surfaces. The energy of the design makes me feel renewed. It juts into my life, resurrects myself from the ashes of my disappointment and dreary self-castigation. At first I don’t even want to recognize what it is, but then I realize it is so great at being what it is. This is a movie theater. The prismatic fragments of its structure thrust into the oblivious Dresden air. It projects from the pavement as if it is part of a set from a Fritz Lang movie. It’s transparent, it’s opaque. The stairs inside angle forever upwards into the heavens of screening rooms. Evening creeps up as I watch this building. I can’t leave, as if it might disappear without my witness. No one can tell me who designed it.

A little research when I got home and I found Coop Himmelblau was the architect, his work almost unknown in the States. It is as great as anything I’ve seen by Frank Gehry, and certainly influenced the angularity of Libeskind’s design for the Denver Art Museum. This crystalline picture palace was the resurrection into a new life for old necrotic Dresden. For me it was a surprise, as only art can surprise you into recognition, and it was a welcome source of exhilaration.

DROWNING KIDS

On that August afternoon, while our kids were drowning, Jingle and I were away. It was a beautiful day to clear our land, and to cut and peel poles for the tipi. Poles are much easier to peel when the moon is waxing, because as the sap rises it loosens the bark. We cut the poles from a stand of spruce near the shore. The whole stand had suffered winter-kill because of cold and wind, so we didn’t feel bad cutting the trees. The spruce is not great for tipi poles. It has knots from small branches, bottom to top. You want the smoothest slimmest possible poles for a tipi. That’s why lodgepole pine is superior.

On the day of the drowning the ocean seemed calm, only a few whitecaps. The kids stayed at Rudy and Phil’s, where we were camping in one of the A-frames until we got our own place in order. We didn’t worry about them there. The kids were usually sensible good kids, and our friends were good friends.

We got back covered in grime, ready for the shower. Joanne rushed out to greet us at the car. “Your children drowned,” she said. She was frequently melodramatic. She had already been a founder of the Mabou Mines theater group, but this was before she became the controversial successor to Joseph Papp at the Public Theater, and long before she directed her landmark production of Jean Genet’s The Screens at the Walker in Minneapolis, long before she was distinguished Professor of Theater Arts at Bard College.

We got out of our little Saab two-stroke sedan, trembling. “What? What did you say?”

“They didn’t really drown, because we saved them. Joan and Rudy and Richard saved them. They almost drowned themselves too.”

Avrum, Nikolai, and Rafael, had drifted out on a log, with Roberta’s son, Greg. The wind picked up. The current between that beach and Sea-wolf Island was tricky, and the kids got scared. Greg, who was a little older, swam back to shore, and alerted the adults. Avrum and Nikolai said they could have swum back, but they didn’t want to leave Rafael alone. He was the youngest, and didn’t think he could make it back. Rudy, Richard and Joan tried to launch the small boat, but couldn’t. They stripped and put on the fins that were in the boat, and swam out. Joan grabbed Rafael. This was before she built her prodigious career as one of the greatest innovators of performance art, celebrated all over the world. Even today, when they talk about the near catastrophe, my sons express envy of Rafael, who was rescued by bare naked Joan. Rudy almost went down himself, as he rescued one of the other boys. He had already written the script for Two-Lane Blacktop, and was working on Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid, and had published a couple of important novels. Richard grabbed the other kid, and pulled him in. He had a great reputation as a young sculptor, but critics hadn’t yet called him the greatest sculptor in the world. These were amazing friends, courageous and selfless, who risked their lives. In my dreams it often comes out differently. My dreams are devastating.

That evening Joan did a performance she had been rehearsing with my sons. The neighbor MacPherson kids, all eighteen of them, scattered around the bluff to watch as Joan and our kids came over the hill and down towards the house carrying colorful banners in the wind. That’s what I remember of the performance, that and how gorgeous the Cape Breton evening had turned. A flock of small clouds hustled across the sky. Sunset was a clear blast of colors. The sun, a crisp orange disk, disappeared behind the island. When the stars appeared I felt their force. I watched them beam down their spears into my sobs. My eyes welled with tears.

DUBBLE BUBBLE

The subway cost a nickel. We snuck in under the turnstiles anyway because we were kids, and in those days a nickel was five cents. When I started High School at Stuyvesant at E. 18th downtown, I rode the A train through Harlem and Times Square, and changed at Union Square for the Canarsie Line. That name — Canarsie — sounded like another planet, the garbage planet, where you’d never want to go. The Stuyvesant kids got off before the train left Manhattan. We went to afternoon session for ninth and tenth grade, and then the morning session for junior and senior years. I was like the pervert of the subway, a horny teenage predator. During rush hour I could get close to a woman’s body. Stuyvesant was a boys’ school at that time, so the female was hidden from us in some delicious elsewhere. She was a mystery, especially where contact was imagined. We had homerooms packed with perpetual hard-ons. The slightest thought of a girl, and pop. The only chance I got to rub against the persistent object of my desire was on the A train from Union Square, through Times Square, through Harlem, to Washington Heights. Fresh female flesh squeezed into the packed car, to answer my need at each stop.

The subway also took me to 52nd Street, to Birdland. I stayed up all night almost every night listening to Symphony Sid, until Dinah Washington or Stan Getz or Bird with strings or Stan Kenton put me to sleep. Bud Powell was my idol. No one else breathed so profoundly into the keyboard. No one else could play such aching lines and chords. When he was at Birdland I would skip school. Peewee Marquette, the diminutive doorman and emcee, recognized me. “It’s you here again, kid,” he’d say. “Peanut gallery for you.” The peanut gallery was a row of chairs without tables, where the under-aged and the non-drinkers sat. If you arrived early, you could sit close up on the piano. I got near enough to Bud so I could practically feel the heat of his jazz dynamo. In him I first saw the transport and ecstasy of creative genius. I projected into jazz all my fantasies for a better world, of people committed to sweetness in a life of pain. Often on the subway, when I stood or sat next to black people, who were the mysterious source, I believed, of this elixir art, I would whistle or hum jazz tunes—“Celia,” “Jumping With Symphony Sid,” “Sweetie Pie,”“Now’s The Time.” I expected them to whistle with me, to join me, to let me join them.

One time, coming home from my job after school on Union Square, I found myself pressed against a woman who at first did not seem to mind my touching her. There were also some black people around, returning to Harlem. I whistled, I hummed “A Night In Tunisia,” the Parker variation on “All The Things You Are.” At the same time I pressed my ever-present erection against the woman’s soft rear. I was dangled between heaven and hell. The train roared into the long express run between 59th and 125th. No one joined me in “A Night In Tunisia.” The woman moved, and my movement matched hers.

Half the people got off at 125th street. The woman moved away from me. The train moved on to 145th. I hummed “Moody’s Mood For Love.” Before she got off at 168th Street, the woman, quite attractive even in her business suit, leaned over me and said, “Young man, you’re going to get yourself in a lot of trouble.” I didn’t dare look at her. I never thought about who the person was I was touching. It was female flesh. How could the trouble she predicted be any worse than my unrelenting horniness?

The atmosphere of Washington Heights clamped down on me, squeezed the shame into my pores as I ascended the steps at the south end of the 175th Street station. I was going home. Often alone at home I would sit in my window and watch the street, hoping some woman would pass, any woman. The apartment was on 173rd Street, between Fort Washington and Haven Avenue. There were few pedestrians. Still, I sat at the window, a book at my elbow, and watched. I hoped for a woman, an attractive woman, who might look up and notice me, and recognize my need, and be willing to alleviate my swells of desire. I would have been better off, more productive in my life had I avoided this obsession. I might have turned out to be a better guy.

The tiny green kiosk at the top of the stairs from the subway was open. Barney, the keeper of this little store, was dependable. He was not judgmental. He sold newspapers and candy. I bought a piece of Dubble Bubble from him with my last two cents. Maybe chewing would help. Maybe blowing a bubble and letting it collapse across my face was the answer. I didn’t even know the question. Jayhood Wright Park was full of young mothers wheeling their children. I went home. Dinner was ready. I ate very little. This worried my mother. I told her I’d eat later. After some chemistry homework, I went to bed and turned on Symphony Sid. If not for Symphony Sid, I could easily die. Charlie Parker with strings. Bird. Slowly the music relaxed the press of my humiliation. Slowly the shackles of my blitzkrieg lust released into the freedom and discipline of jazz, into the art I loved.

EATING DOG / TALKING TURKEY

I

The billboards stun me as we enter Communist China. Years before when I crossed into East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie, before the wall went down, the sudden lack of commercial advertising I found relaxing though the absence of color was a little dreary. A few propaganda posters created only the slightest visual static. Wide, colorful ads on the billboards across from the Guangzhou train station, my entry city to The People’s Republic, hit me flush in my preconceptions. Here are big splashes for Sony, Nike, Mitsubishi, Motorola. This is a different twist of Commie, thinks I.

Beyond the panoply of ads a small market, half covered, half exposed, offers a spread of lively hot-pot restaurants. This is 1986, one of new China’s first forays into private entrepreneurship. The perfume rising in the steam from hot-pots simmering at each of the tables is sweet and enticing. The market displays an abundance of dog sold as meat. You can get it freshly slaughtered and skinned. You can buy thighs, shoulders, quarters, half a dog. Dog carcasses hang on meathooks across the butcher blocks. You can get a live one and have it butchered, or take it home alive in a wicker basket to prepare for yourself. The dog they prefer to eat is the black chow. They lie in rows across tables, dark tongues hanging out. After I am in Guangzhou for a few days I realize the pressure of population and scarcity of living space make it impossible to think of dog as pet. The favored pet is the songbird. On weekends people stroll through the parks carrying their birds in cages, and they relax in the balmy weather with conversation and birdsong.

We settle at one of the outdoor hot-pot restaurants. They serve a savory broth bubbling at your table in a chafing dish over the blue flame of a Sterno can. The server brings a platter of veggies and instructs on the sequence of cooking them. She then brings some meats and offers similar instructions. Then she asks a question that Rafael translates for me as, “Would you like some fragrant meat?” “Of course,” I quip in my wise-ass way. “We sure don’t want putrid meat.” She brings a portion of fragrant meat and drops it into our broth. After this specialty simmers a while a perfume, lightly floral, engulfs the broth. Not until I’ve eaten a bit of it does Rafael explain that “fragrant meat” is the euphemism for dog. It tastes quite nice, like nice dog, and the bouquet it adds to the soup is the direct opposite of the smell of wet dog. The experience expands my appreciation for man’s best friend. I can hardly look at a well coifed poodle, for instance, without thinking, “yum yum.”

II

We hire a pedal cab to take us from the train station to our hotel on West Lake in Hangzhou. The hotel boom around West Lake hasn’t yet begun, and ours is probably the most upscale in Hangzhou at the time. It is called, I think, West Lake Shangri-la. It takes more than an hour for the pedal cab driver to struggle up the hills for two miles over rough pavement, pulling the weight of Rafael, myself, and our luggage. A tough way to earn your renmin-b. The hotel is a sturdy, rambling brick and stone building of some twelve stories, built as a luxury hotel by the British, probably in the twenties, and run down since the revolution. Its spaciousness and the worn grandeur of its furnishings offer a taste of faded luxury. Our room doesn’t cost much, and comes with an invitation to their New Year’s dinner. The accommodation is large and comfortable. Some of the lamps, the telephone, and other amenities, don’t work, but the beds and towels are clean, and there is hot water occasionally. They have hired a Swiss hotelier to get the place back into shape, and their goal is obviously five stars.

Large stone tablets incised with calligraphy are set in the ground all around the perimeter of West Lake. We walk among the people through the mysteries of this storied lake. Pagodas, temples, pavilions come in and pass out of view as the mists wander through. When Rafael stops to read an inscription on one of the steles — a passage of Lao-Tzu, a poem of Li-Po or Tu-Fu, a Confucian aphorism — people gather to ask that he read it to them. The people are literate, but have been taught only the simplified characters, and the ones on the tablets are traditional and more elaborate. The people can’t read them, so most of their written heritage is hidden from them. He tires of this after an official cadre member, who has been trailing us, interrupts him to lecture everyone on the greatness of The People’s Republic. We leave her standing tall in her Mao suit as she continues her propaganda lecture to the people who had been interested in the poem Rafael was reading for them off the stone. On the way back to the hotel we stop at a friendly dumpling house and eat a couple of dozen dumplings, to the great amusement of the clientele who have never seen white ghosts suck down dumplings at their restaurant before.

III

We have only the most casual clothes, but are welcomed anyway into the formal dining room for the New Year’s dinner. It’s in a large ballroom, the dance floor surrounded by tables. On one end a stage and bandstand presents a dance band, playing American swing music from the Thirties and Forties. You might expect them to roll out Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to entertain the befuddled Western tourists sitting at the tables. The ambience is derived from some Busby Berkeley film, a dinner club look from a depression era Hollywood frippery. Five waitresses tend each table, in our case five of them against two of us. Rafael overhears them discussing every slight detail of our behavior, every move we make with knife and fork to attack the dinner of turkey, stuffing, broccoli, sweet potato. and finally plum pudding. They watch us closely. They make careful notes.

After dinner they encourage us to go downstairs for a New Year’s bash, to a bar and lounge in the basement, where more contemporary rock music is being piped in. There are only a dozen or so round eyes, but suddenly the room fills with young Chinese, dressed in suits and ties, the girls in dark blue pinafores. When Sly and the Family Stone comes on, Rafael gets up to dance, and proceeds to get his freak on. I get up too and do my appreciation of rock and roll. The Chinese kids start to dance too, and seem to be enjoying themselves. Rafael couples tentatively at some distance with one of the girls. This begins to feel almost like a party, when suddenly, as mysteriously as they appeared, the Chinese crowd turns like a school of fish on some inaudible, invisible signal, and swoops back out the door. We round-eyes are alone. The music fades. The evening is over. Xmas dinner at the Shangri-La in Hangzhou has been accomplished.

It becomes obvious, finally, that they set this up as a laboratory for the great tourist rush they expect to attract as the doors of Chinese commerce swing open to the world. They anticipate that it’s coming, and will encourage it, and use us to prepare themselves. The turkey, by the way, was dry and tasteless, the gravy gummy, the cranberry sauce too sweet, the sweet potatoes like cement. The broccoli wasn’t bad.

EATING OUT

Spek was the cheapest dish on the menu. I could afford a glass of beer and a plate of spek. I didn’t know what it was. I often order the stuff I don’t know thinking it might be a good surprise, and maybe give me an insight into the culture. This was in Munich. I had never been there before. I was on my way from Verona to Darmstadt, where I was scheduled to teach a class in literature for the University of Maryland, at the American Air Force base. Germany was difficult for me. I had trouble slipping out of the shadow of the Holocaust. Just hearing the language reminded me. Here I was in Munich, the site of the Hofbrauhaus, and Hitler’s putsch, a few miles from Dachau. This was where the Nazi party got started. I doubted that spek was kosher, but neither was I. The beer was good. The plate arrived at my table. At first I didn’t recognize what it was, but then I slowly got it. Spek was fat. I was served a plate of fat cubes. The fat was white as snow, except for the sprinkle of paprika. A sprig of parsley decorated the plate.

Across from the railroad station in Guangzhou a number of privately owned restaurants had recently sprung up. China was just opening to entrepreneurship. People sat happily at tables set on the concrete under and outside a canopy, everyone dipping morsels out of bubbling hotpots. The bouquet of scents made us practically pant for food. They seated us half under the canopy, and seemed really glad we landed at their restaurant, particularly for my son Rafael, who speaks excellent Mandarin, and even a little Cantonese. The hotpot came with dog already boiling up within it. You added fish, pork, beef, shrimp, vegetables in a certain perfect order. There was an unfamiliar though pleasant perfume to it, and it was savory, slightly sweet. I ate it without a thought. It was supposed to be illegal to cook dog, but you wouldn’t know it from the market near these restaurants. Dogs, they preferred the black chow, were available like chickens. You could buy them live, restrained in wicker baskets, or slaughtered and hanging from meathooks, with fur still attached, or skinned and cleaned, or chopped into parts, ready to cook. That was my only adventure into this cuisine, but I knew that from then on I would always know myself as a man who has eaten dog.

I ordered cuyo in Cuzco because it was the one thing on the menu I couldn’t identify. It was one of the more expensive items at a well patronized restaurant on the zocalo. It arrived at the table on its back in a bed of greens, its eyes roasted grey, its skin cracked and slowly oozing juices. Guinea pig juices. Cuyo was guinea pig. They served it whole. It lay there with its little feet clenched as if it was trying to hang on to its cuteness. Perhaps it was delicious. It was one of the few things I’ve been served in the world that I couldn’t eat.

Tribes had come down out of the mountains for a festival in Cuzco. They were heating and stirring cauldrons of chicha. Chicha was called aqa in Quechua, kusa in Aymala. The word in Spanish comes from chichal, to spit. Different tribes gathered under the galleries of the zocalo. This was like a chicha competition. Women chewed the corn, and their saliva acted as the fermenting agent. They sometimes added anise or other spices. The beverage was blue or greenish, depending on the color of the corn. It was mildly alcoholic. I took a cup. It wasn’t bad. Tamale vendors posted themselves around the square. The whole atmosphere was festive and colorful, upbeat, brightly costumed. I bought a tamale. The vendor said something I didn’t understand. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps he was asking if I wanted it hot or hotter. I took one bite and my life rushed flaming before my eyes. I thought I was soon dead. Avrum likes to tell what I looked like, launched around the zocalo, mouth screaming silently, like no one else he’d ever seen. If the endorphins kicked in, they were in cahoots with whatever pepper lurked in that tamale. My mouth and throat felt like an oven used to bake my tongue. My lips blistered hot, as if they would brand anyone I kissed. My eyes sizzled shut. Maybe I was being punished for once eating dog, or for not even tasting the cuyo. How could I survive? A nibble of spek might have been soothing. Avrum found a bottle of coke somewhere. I took it sip by sip. A llama looked me in the eye without compassion. If it spit on me I would have been grateful. Thank you, thank you gods of the USA, I thought, for the Coca Cola that started to wash my pain away.

FARM IT

In the same week that I peed on the electric fence, Alfred Partridge began to see me differently. I knew better than to pee on such a fence. I just didn’t see it hidden among the leaves. The shock threw me down in some bushes, where I lay for a few moments protecting the organ in cupped hands. It wasn’t charred, didn’t blister, but was half erect as if trying to determine for itself if this was a shock or a thrill. Alfred restrained a laugh and was mildly sympathetic. “You want to avoid doing that, son, yes yes. It must hurt.” He had found no reason yet to respect me, though I could see that he was happy to let me amuse him.

Later that week he took me up the hill to a hayfield he had recently mowed, and placed a pitchfork in my hands. The weather had been dry, and the hay was ready. He had raked it that morning. He used a horse-drawn rear delivery rake, no longer in general use. Side delivery rakes were faster and more efficient, appropriate for feeding a baler. They tangled the hay, however, and made it difficult for anyone trying to put in loose hay, to cock with a pitchfork. Alfred was one of the last farmers holding out for loose hay. He thought it made better feed, and he just liked a loose mow full of bounce.

He left me there, and told me to cock the windrows, which meant separating hay into piles the right size for throwing onto a wagon. I could see his skeptical grin. It was a huge field, and he had little faith in the city boy to get it even partially done. I looked across green hills at a beautiful day. The yearling heifers grazed in the pasture just below. Some were tawny, some black. They were all young, none of them bred yet. There was my favorite, Jingle, resting near the fence, chewing her cud. Did she even see me? She was beautifully within herself. What a great thing, I thought, what a relief to know you have a cud to chew. That was the high calling of the ruminant, to retreat within itself. A cool breeze brushed my face. I leaned for a moment on the pitchfork, blessed to be on this hilltop, to look out across the greeny Catskills. My job was repetitive and dumb. I was starting to understand myself, that I loved work that taxed my strong back over and over, and allowed me to space out and dream even as I kept going. That was my specialty, to space out and dream.

When Alfred returned, later in the afternoon, with a couple of neighbors and a wagon, I saw that he was surprised and pleased. I had cocked practically the whole field, almost two acres. He put me on the wagon to arrange the load as they pitched. The horses knew to move slowly, ahead of the men. I arranged the hay so it formed a wall, hanging slightly over the sides, but square around the whole wagon. You build up the walls, I figured, then fill the center. We got almost the whole field onto one load, wide and high.

“That’s the best load of hay I’ve ever seen, son. Yes yes. How did you figure that out?” He looked at his two neighbors, who nodded in agreement. “Now you take it back to the barn.” He handed me the reins.

That was a shock. Suddenly he trusted me. Here I floated hundreds of feet up in the air above the valley, at the top of the load. I didn’t dare complain that I’d never driven a team before. I made that giddyap sound (tchk tchk tchk) I’d heard Gabby Hayes do in the movies. We started to move. I tried to steer, but it wasn’t necessary. Patsy and Olaf knew the way back to their oats. It felt like some great victory to be a kid from Washington Heights New York City sitting on top of a load of hay I’d shaped into the best load of hay Alfred Partridge had ever seen. I was king of the whole gorgeous northern Catskill hard-scrabble farm scene.

As we reached the bottom of the steep hill, and approached the barn, a sense of dread overcame me. How could I steer this so it didn’t smash against the doorway? I tried to rein in Patsy and Olaf and reconnoiter, but they already smelled their oats and wouldn’t stop. I had no choice. I had to trust them. They knew exactly where they had to go to take the load plumb down the center. Then I looked up and saw that I was a dead guy, a farm accident statistic from Washington Heights. The load of hay was high enough so it would brush the hand hewn lintel beam of the barn, and I was proudly on top of the load. The beam would rip my head off before the horses stopped. I hurled myself back at the last moment, into the slight depression I had left at the center of the load. The lintel caught my ankles and tumbled me over. I was alive. I slid down off the hay, brushed myself off, regained some pride, which remained a little more tentative after that. I unhitched the horses, and removed their harnesses. They seemed to grin at me, as if they knew what had happened. I led them into their stable and doled out their oats.

I never told Alfred about how that ride nearly killed me. He knew me differently from then on, and from then on launched his campaign to get me to stick around, forget school, and “farm it”. It was a possibility, another possibility.

FIFTEEN AND TEXTING

I followed her as she wobbled up the trail at Bandelere, texting as she went. Eight more dreary days with this girl. I was tired and disappointed. I felt mean and without patience. Maybe I was a fool to expect a real traveling chum from a fifteen year old girl. She related almost exclusively to her texting network embedded in New Jersey and didn’t care to relate to me, to the present time, the present place. She sat down on a bench near the great Kiva. “You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait for you here.” “Don’t you want to see the houses, the way they lived?” She looked at the cliff ahead, sculpted with Anasazi dwellings. “No. You go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.” “This is the great Kiva, their religious ceremonial structure.” She stretched her neck a bit, could barely see over the edge. “Huh.” She looked back down to the phone that blinked harder, it seemed, as if admonishing her for turning away. I suppose I was a bad adult, should have been more like a demanding teacher and insisted she pay more attention to where she was. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to set a bitter tone for the rest of this trip, so I smothered my frustration.

It had touched me before that on her own initiative she phoned to ask me how I was. Her grandmother, my sister, was dying. That she thought of me at that time I found special. Several years earlier her mother had flipped out and deserted the family, had fled back to Israel to her Yemeni roots. My nephew, a working musician with a musician’s schedule, was raising two boys and a girl on his own. I wanted to reciprocate for the unusual concern his daughter had shown, so I made a plan, both time consuming and expensive, to bring his daughter to visit. Except to see her uncle in San Francisco, she had never been west of New Jersey. I wanted to give her the opportunity to appreciate some of the most fabulous landscape in America.

I don’t know what she saw on our trip, if anything. She wasn’t ever present with me to share it. It seemed unimportant that I was there at all, except to drive and pay. It troubled me that she hadn’t read one book, one tourist pamphlet, one online article about the place before she visited. She had no input on the trip, nothing in particular she wanted to see, no experience she had thought about and anticipated. Nor had she read even a story or poem of mine, no less a novel, to stimulate conversation. It felt ignorant and disrespectful. I detected only a dull indifference to where she was, and no curiosity. When I slowed down as we crossed the fabled bridge over the Rio Grande gorge near Taos and said, “This is the Rio Grande.” She responded, not even looking up from her phone, “What’s that?” I filled with a mixture of rage and pity, wanted to weep. What kind of education was she getting if she didn’t know the Rio Grande? Even in New Jersey there’s an issue of desperate Mexicans. The Rio Grande! What movies had she watched?

She read a book by Dan J. Millman, The Peaceful Warrior, when she wasn’t texting. It was another block to checking out the amazing landscape. At least she reads books, I thought. The force of that title comes from the near oxymoron, a “peaceful warrior.” I would have liked to discuss that with her, but discussion never became part of our MO. We lean into the war metaphor whenever we want to show we are serious about something. The WAR on drugs. The WAR on poverty. The WAR on obesity. The WAR on cancer. That rhetoric is commonplace. The WAR on crime. The WAR on homelessness. To what extent does that rhetoric shape our reality? Does it give a favored status to WAR as solution to all problems? Can it be one of the factors that keeps our species in a constant state of warfare. “Peaceful Warrior” seems like a cheap shot. I would have liked to hear fifteen year old thinking about this.

She devoted a lot of time to making up her eyes. When young women waited on us, like at the pizzeria in Trinidad, Colorado, and the terrible rib joint in Durango, they complimented her on her purple mascara, which apparently in the mascara universe was precious, in short supply. Girls close to her generation gave her big props for this look. She explained the mascara situation to me, took some deserved pride in her eye makeup. There were skills involved. This was important.

The eyes flashed purple and awake, startled away from her phone for a moment, when a deer smashed into us outside of Chama, New Mexico. She shrieked. It was one of the few moments I remember her being in the “here and now”. The poor deer cracked the windshield, crumpled the hood, a fender, and the driver’s door, then disappeared into the underbrush. She immediately texted her network and New Jersey texted back. We were lucky neither of us got hurt, and we were able to drive on to Durango, and back to Denver, my door plastered with deershit.

She said she expected to be bored by a train ride but was surprised to enjoy the Durango — Silverton narrow gauge trip. We drove North on route 17 past Crestone, and stopped at one of the oddest tourist attractions in Colorado. It’s an alligator outpost. The owners of these hot springs first turned them into a tilapia cultivation site, then tried to figure out what to do with the waste. They started to adopt alligators people had taken as pets, that had grown too large for the households. The last time I was there, about ten years earlier, the ‘gators were all about four feet long. Just the idea of alligators in this semi-desert bonked the mind. They apparently grow very fast fed in captivity. Now you walk among the ponds full of well fed beasts, some of them seventeen or eighteen feet long, lazing around like vacationing dock workers. It’s a major alligator refuge. They also protect ostriches and emu, and some large turtles and certain lizards. And their tubs are full of tilapia they filet, freeze, and ship all over the country. My fellow traveler at first seemed bored with the whole operation, until she discovered that for a few dollars she could buy a bucket of feed, and pass among the amphibians, tossing handfuls of mana to these big guys That kicked in her nurturing instincts, and I watched her wander down the lanes happily feeding giants.

We were both relieved to say goodbye at the airport. She returned to Jersey, myself worried that maybe I was too harsh in my view of her. Maybe too much curmudgeon. I had repressed a binful of anger. It is, after all, the job of a fifteen year old to piss off the adult. However, the texting addiction, the general addiction to those hand-held devices that are being sold up everybody’s ass these days, seems a pitiful poor substitute for real social interaction. I felt the lack of this capacity in this girl and I missed it on our trip. And I got no note, nor even an email of thanks for my time and expense. Others have told me that in ten years or so, when she realizes how rare are such kindnesses, and how tough life really is, she might look back on this and understand how she had blown an opportunity. Perhaps if I indulged in texting she might have texted me. A few months later at my sister’s funeral she approached me with the old line, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

FIRST BOOK

In the beginning I weaseled through the streets, a copy of The Exagggerations of Peter Prince, just published, under my arm. If I met anyone I knew, or if anyone noticed me, I flashed my book, hoping for a “wow” or “cool” or “far out”. I was sweating in September, sick for recognition. The best part of one day I passed in and out of the Doubleday bookstore on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh to keep an eye on my book, see if anyone buys it, see if it starts to fly off the shelf. During my whole vigil, not one browser even pulled it out to see what was there. Once I sneaked it face out, but a clerk noticed and turned it back because it blocked so many other titles. I must have smelled like a needy author. The clerks began to look at me sideways. I was grubby, unkempt, and bearded, like from way downtown. I hardly dared to say, “I wrote this book.” No one in the store would think I looked even approximately published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. I figured I’d better leave before I was thrown out of the store or worse, cuffed and locked up with a copy of my book in my armpit.

In the evening I dropped into the 8th Street bookstore, important bookstore at the time because it stocked small press books and lit mags. Andrei Codrescu worked there. They hadn’t yet got copies of Peter Prince; in fact, a book of popular business sociology called The Peter Principle had come out at the same time, causing some confusion. Andrei promised to check it out, and that they’d order some copies. Later that evening I crossed from my apartment in the west village, on Morton Street, to Avenue A, where Ed Sanders had his amazing Peace Eye Bookstore. My wary youth in Washington Heights made me fearful of walking the streets in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Peace Eye was like a sanctuary for artists on the fringe. The store was open, and Ed Sanders was there. Mimeoed poetry and raw political mags were stacked on the tables for sale. All the back issues of Fuck You: A Magazine of the Arts filled one of the tables, along with The Fugs’ latest tape. He looked at my copy of The Exagggerations of Peter Prince with a mixture of confusion and contempt.

“What do you want to do, give me a copy of this for the store?”

I hadn’t thought about that. “Ummmh. Yeah.”

“Okay.” He took my copy and laid it on the windowsill. It looked way overdressed for this funky storefront.

“What else?” He wasn’t being friendly. We both had beards, though he was hairier. I didn’t know what to say to make friendship. Perhaps if my book had been mimeographed. I bought the latest issue of Fuck You and left.

I didn’t belong in Doubleday. 8th Street ignored me. I didn’t fit into Peace Eye. Not even a three page review in the Times Book Review, by R.V. Cassill, that totally trashed the book (though when I met him a year later he told me how much he liked my work), could cheer me up. It was a reason to sing the blues, if only I had the voice. The book came out in September. Holt had merged with a large media company, CBS, I think. Somehow my first book, a major production, with graphics and many other nifty accoutrements, a book like none other before or since, got shuffled out of the deck by the new barely literate corporate boardroom, and they didn’t even include it in their Christmas catalog. I felt totally orphaned. Holt, Rinehart and Winston had produced my first published book, and then erased it completely.

FIRST SUPPER

My family could afford to eat out only infrequently, and when we did it was almost always to eat “chinks.” We could afford the egg drop soup, shrimp fried rice, chicken chop suey at Wong’s Cantonese, next to the Loew’s 175th Street. This was the Washington Heights extravagant movie palace, comparable to the electric heavens of Loew’s Paradise in the Bronx, but with Oriental decor. It was later converted to a temple for Reverend Ike and his money evangelism. The building is still there but I don’t know what it does now. This dinner out was special, to honor some family accomplishment, like my sister Rita’s getting in to Hunter High School, or my mother’s passing her civil service exam. I was maybe six. That’s not far from just barely born, though a six year old feels like it’s been alive forever. The whole shebang started with me, it thinks.

This is supposed to be a treat, Gaffney’s on 181st between Broadway and Wadsworth, near the RKO Coliseum, another, smaller movie palace. This joint has tablecloths and cloth napkins. They serve steak, lobster, prime rib. The inside is clean and well lit, lacy curtains on the windows, real flowers in bud vases on the tables. I don’t remember other customers. Someone drops a basket of bread and breadsticks on the table. My sister and I immediately dive in. “Don’t fill up on bread,” my mother warns. “You won’t have any appetite for food.” My mother consults with me about what I want from the children’s selections. Rita is fourteen and gets to choose from the regular menu. I pout and whine. My father says, “Let him have whatever he wants. Let him have a steak.” “It’s too much, too heavy,” my mother says. “He’s a child.” “He’s a little man,” says my dad.

We settle on what we want, and lay the menus down. My parents look to the waiter who leans against the wall near the door to the kitchen. My father waves a menu and waits. The waiter doesn’t budge. “You’ve got some customers here,” he sings out. “Ready to order.”

“To hell with the customers,” the waiter shouts.

My mom and dad look at each other. I’ve never seen them confused before. “We’re customers here,” my father reiterates. “How do we get to eat at this restaurant?” my mom chimes in.

“To hell with the customers. To hell with the restaurant.”

My father rises half out of his chair. His face is red. He has a heart condition. Mom settles him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Can I speak to the manager,” my dad asks.

“To hell with the manager,” the waiter disappears through the kitchen door.

After waiting just a little longer my mom gathers us up and we leave the premises. My parents are indignant. My sister and I are gleeful. We have witnessed something really strange in the ineluctable world of grownups. Rita winks at me.

“He was drunk. He’s just a drunk,” my dad says as we walk home to heat up the left-over pot roast. It is delicious, always better the second day.

The first time as a reader I enter “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” the immense and enigmatic novella by Herman Melville, Bartleby feels totally familiar. This is human. It is political. It is an employee/slave constant. Perpetual, like a scientific constant. “To hell with the customers,” is what I hear with those six year old ears, whenever Bartleby pronounces in response to a demand that he do some work for the man, “I would prefer not to.”

FORREST BELL

For many years Forrest Bell, Jingle’s father, drilled with hand-steel the hard-rock face of his tunnel into Buckskin Mountain. He worked alone, tamping in the dynamite one or two sticks at a time, blowing out a few more feet. He laid the rail. He mucked the face out himself, pushing some rusting old mine cars. He had calculated that at around 900 feet, give or take a few, he would crosscut the vein of gold that had produced so richly for the old Buckskin mine on the other side of the mountain, shut down in the 40’s by a mill fire and other circumstances. He reveled in this work, said he thought of mining as the cleanest way to make money. He had quit school for mining engineering just a couple of credits away from getting his degree. When I met him he was frail and bent, suffered from silicosis. It would take just another ninety feet, he said, to find out if his predictive mapping was right. This was his lifetime gamble.

A problem was pushing enough air into the tunnel to continue the work. There wasn’t enough oxygen for him at the mine face. He couldn’t afford the huge fan it would take to do the trick. Forrest was frail, but still could put in the hours at work. Once I offered to dig out the spring that trickled scarce drinking water for the house on their remote Buckskin claims. I was fairly strong, and enjoyed heavy work. I worked for three hours with pick and shovel. I sharpened the pick. The ground was harder than concrete. When I swung at it a tiny spray of dirt loosed up, but the pick clanged and bounced. I made little progress and gave up after three hours. Forrest went out and quietly finished the job. It amazed me how fast he, in his weakened condition, could loosen up and move that earth. He hardly swung the pick. Wasting no motion he just let it fall. The hard-pan fell off in clumps. The shovel hardly turned in his hands.

Forrest talked with some difficulty, wheezing, always struggling for breath. He was well educated, an intelligent, modest old sourdough. He read a lot, and was deeply informed about the world, and everything that interested him technically. I was privileged to get to know him. He died with his gamble unanswered, with ninety feet to go. Harry Rogan married his widow, Marian, after an appropriate wait. For years of summers Harry had parked his small Airstream Trailer above the Buckskin house, the windows covered with newspaper. Harry had worked in logging on the upper peninsula of Michigan, and had a reputation for being one of the strongest men in the woods. He enjoyed crushing your hand with his handshake, leaving it corrugated for the rest of the day with furrows made by his fingers. He was otherwise very gentle, loved his coffee, and loved his beans that cooked constantly on one of his burners. He admired Forrest a great deal, and stuck around to help him. After Forrest died he removed the newspaper from his windows then married Marian. The rumor was that he, pushing sixty, had been a virgin till then. He even said he had never met any woman who appealed to him until Marian. He went the final ninety feet and found nothing, but pleaded that he was sure he would cross the vein if he could drop a shaft just twenty feet. Marian wouldn’t allow it. Harry already had some stone in his lungs, and she didn’t want to lose another husband to silicosis.

I got to know the group that came to be known as “earth artists” through Virginia Dwan’s gallery. In 1968 she showed some pages from The Exagggerations Of Peter Prince in an exhibition of language art at her gallery on 57th Street. Her great gallery did innovative shows of Robert Smithson, Walter DeMaria, Karl Andre, Charles Ross, Michael Heizer, et al; and her encouragement and support were instrumental in producing some of the most important earth works. I was living in Ithaca at the time and volunteered there to assist Bob Smithson as he put together his stone quarry / mirror piece. It felt at once obsessive, silly, visionary, useless, following Smithson through the shrubbery and the quarry. The monologue he spewed and recorded engaged even Borges occasionally. Smithson was weird, brilliant, and fascinating whenever you tuned in. The whole idea of earth art made me think of Forrest giving thirty years of his life to a tunnel that could have gone on forever to nowhere. The muck heap from that labor was art. The tunnel itself, its moist walls, its timbers threatening to collapse, its rails hidden in spots by falling ceiling and walls, that all was art. Its purposeful purposelessness was art. Perhaps we can call it folk earth art.

I don’t know what Forrest might have thought of this designation. Gold was his goal. Virtual gold was his ambition. Curiosity and speculation was his motivation, and it extended over time beyond the vanishing dream of life. The thought of his work as art might have seemed ridiculous to him, but he probably would have enjoyed it too.

G’MA DIES AGAIN

Never knew her. My mother killed her for us before she ever died. As far as myself and my sister knew our maternal grandmother had been dead forever. Our Uncle Sammy informed us finally of his mother’s, my grandmother’s, actual death. Sammy came almost every night to our small apartment in Washington Heights to play pinochle with my father, disabled from his heart condition. He stayed away only when he went to the opera. He was a small, balding man, self-effacing, kind to a fault. After his first wife died he married a woman too simple for him, with light Down’s syndrome. She dwelled mildly in affection and sweetness, but was sparse company for him. She sometimes went to the opera with him, but he got impatient with her noises. He loved opera, and when he didn’t show up we’d assume that was where he was. Or perhaps he had gone for a week with his brother Dave to pre Castro Havana to get laid. They both sold insurance, and won trips as bonuses. Dave was the opposite of Sammy, a total narcissist, married to Esther, a large, handsome woman who performed with strange willingness as his beast of burden. Dave’s famous gesture on birthdays and other occasions was to send as a gift a framed portrait of himself.

Sammy and my dad dealt the cards and smoked Chesterfields till way past my bedtime. Would that be my life, I wondered, pinochle at the kitchen table late into the night, to pass the time? To devour the time? My father always cheated on Uncle Sammy, who probably knew but tolerated it because he was a lonely man who appreciated company. Watching this ritual almost every night turned me off forever to card games, to almost all games including chess and go, often to my own social detriment. Life seemed sad in my house in the night. I vowed to get more life into my life.

Uncle Sammy kept track of his mother. He visited her where she worked as a cook in The Catskills, but one condition of his coming to our house was that he never mention his and my mother’s mother, my own grandmother, and that if he ever speak of her at all it be as if she was already dead. I worked some summers in the Catskills before she died, and there was a chance she even cooked at a resort where I was busboy or waiter. He did bring the news when she actually died. There was no chance then that my sister or myself would ever get to meet her.

I’ve never known even her name. If it was mentioned, I didn’t pay attention. She was my grandfather’s second wife. His first wife bore him seven kids and then died. The family in Belarus sent over the next oldest sister to replace her, to marry him and take care of him, and live on the Lower East Side and help raise the kids. She had no choice in this. It was, at least, an escape from the pogroms. The only image I can raise of her is of a peasant woman without a face, like a woman from an imaginary painting by Brueghel. I’d seen The Harvesters at the Met. She’s wrapped in coarse cloth smocks, soiled and torn, big strong hands curled. She bore “Poppa” six more children, my mother one of the older ones, uncle Sammy and Uncle Dave in that flock. She served “Poppa” assiduously for many years, but suddenly had enough and decided to break free, out of the trap. How did it happen? Did she run from abuse? Did she sneak away in the middle of the night? Did she tell him to fuck off in Russian or Yiddish, turn her back and slam the door? I don’t think she kissed him goodbye. I feel like I totally understand her. By the time my curiosity was whetted Uncle Sammy was dead, and Uncle Dave too. Anyone who could have told me more was gone. My mother remained too bitter to talk about it. My sister knew only the details that I’ve included here. Sally Goldstein, my mother, dwelled most of her life in resentment of the burden that was laid on her by her mother’s desertion. She was left to take care of “Poppa” and the family, the only one responsible enough to take on the task. The family disintegrated slowly after “Poppa” died. Brothers and sisters drifted apart like space debris. Contact with the mother might have held things together. My mother, however, wouldn’t have it. Her bitterness was absolute. I understand her feelings but I’m sure I would have enjoyed knowing my grandmother. She defended herself. She had to make her own life. She freed herself from slavery. I hope her “I’ve had enough of this” molecules, her “I’m out of here. I won’t take any more of this shit,” molecules are dancing in my own, in my kids’ DNA. She must have been one tough, independent woman.

GALILEO & TOT

In December of 1612, Giorgio Coresio, Professor of Greek at Pisa University, “proved” that in falling objects “in proportion as the weight increases, so does the velocity.” This confirmed Aristotle, who wrote in the first book of De Caelo, “A mass of gold or lead, or of any other body endowed with weight is quicker in proportion to its size.” Galileo claimed not to remember ever having performed the famous experiment attributed to him, of dropping a cannonball and a musket ball off the tower of Pisa, to prove that the lighter musket ball reached the same velocity as the cannonball; but he did insist that he performed a mind experiment considering the velocity of falling objects, and with this experiment he clearly refuted Aristotle’s claim.

I am two years old or maybe two and a half, and I’m setting out to reaffirm Galileo’s refutation of Aristotle. We live in The Bronx near Bathgate Avenue on the fifth floor of a walk-up tenement building. I’m about to commit criminal acts. I accomplished most of my criminal activity before the age of five. My mother is busy making pot roast in the kitchen and I’m wandering around loose on a mischief mission. I waddle in my diaper between shit and shinola, and find my way into the parents’ bedroom. It’s a sunny space, two big windows, one onto a fire escape, the other open to whatever moves in the street below. I slide my mother’s green velveteen upholstered vanity bench to the open window and climb up to look out across the endless Bronx. I could fly away into the spaciousness without regret. In your terrible twos there are no regrets, and whether I can fly or not for me is still a matter of speculation since I haven’t tried it yet. I decide to go back to my mother’s vanity where I find her most private drawer unlocked. I open the precious jewelry box where all her most valuable stuff sits nestled in blue velvet. Here’s a bracelet, gold, pretty. I carry this to the bench, climb up, lean out the window, and drop it to the street. It pleases me to watch shiny fall. I scoop tiny fistfuls of stuff to drop one piece at a time. My mother doesn’t have much that’s valuable. Here’s a pair of earrings with small diamonds, but probably rhinestones, that I drop one at a time, watching how nicely they follow the bracelet. Everything falls, I notice. I don’t time any of the drops, but I definitely observe that the direction of gravity is down. One obvious conclusion is that shiny will always go down when it is dropped from a tenement window in the Bronx. I grab a brooch, one I see my mother wear frequently, and climb with it up the bench. This will be one glittering drop, and I drool with anticipation, but my mother suddenly appears in the doorway, and interrupts the experiment. She grabs me and pulls the brooch from my pudgy fist. “Buzzy no, no Stevie, it’s bad, it’s dangerous. You’ll fall out the window.” She examines her jewelry box and starts to cry. Some of the stuff was family heirlooms, from the old country. With me in her arms she rushes down the stairs and scours the street under the window. Nothing is left, not a chip of gold, not a piece of a glitter. She doesn’t scold me, but pressed against her body I can feel her sob. I know I’ve been bad. How sweet to be bad.

This memory sticks because it was one of my first thrills, the thrill of the shiny drop. It was against rules that no one had ever thought to write. At the time I didn’t know how important it was, my attempt to support Galileo and refute Aristotle. I had no doubt (a two year old is too small to register doubt) that if I had fallen from the window both tot and brooch would hit the sidewalk in the same instant. One toddler one brooch one thud.

GETTING UP

Pole climbing was optional. The instruction from Brendan, the ranger, or from Milosz, who had a slight accent and might have sprung into Idaho from the forests of Slovakia, was excellent and thorough. The spikes, the harness, the belt were all top of the line. They didn’t want to lose anyone climbing. You climbed carrying a small chainsaw that you tied to a branch part way up, so if it slipped out of your hand it didn’t cut anyone on the ground. Someone had to be able to climb so we could take the crowns off trees we were going to fell. You wrapped the belt around the pole or tree, and leaned back on it for support, then sank the spikes strapped to your ankles and went higher, lifting the belt as you went up. You let yourself down by reversing the process. Some guys developed a beautiful rhythm going up and down. I never got the hang of it. The practice pole was thirty or forty feet high. The first time I tried to go up I strapped the spikes onto the outside of my ankles. It bent them unnaturally, and could have broken them. Perhaps it was part of the instruction that Mi-losz didn’t warn me. The second, and last time I tried, I put the spikes on right, and felt them dig into the pole, and went almost to the top, but I lost control of the belt coming down and slid too fast, too close to the pole. A bellyful of splinters.

Robert Lee Boudreau, on the other hand, lived to climb. He was from Louisiana bayou country and had spent most of his childhood in the swamps.

“Some people like to go down,” he proclaimed once at lunch. He was sitting across from Paul and me. “I’m one who likes to go up.” He practically shouted this, rising from the table. He was a little strange. The outburst brought Pinkie’s ladle down on his hard hat like a hammer. I didn’t even see her coming.

“Less talking, more eating.”

Boudreau never ate much. He had a wiry, lithe, strong body, and didn’t need to feed it much. It was the kind of body I always envied, thought I would prefer it to my own chunkiness. I had my strengths, but not the effortless mobility of Robert Lee Boudreau. He was nimble and quick, a graceful athlete, like Willie Mays, or Dom DiMaggio catching up to a fly ball, or Sugar Ray or Joe Louis in the ring.

Boudreau was a fanatic. He practiced climbing at the expense of all his other training. All the rangers said he was the fastest man on pole or tree that they had ever seen. He practiced on all the trees around the camp, and if you woke up at two or three A.M. you’d probably see him at the pole, working on his technique.

On that strange day, the day Paul was shrunk by lightning, we were about to go out for fire line training. Brendan called Boudreau down from the pole to join us.

“I think I’ll stay up here,” I remember Boudreau saying.

Brendan was a mellow, peace-loving, outdoors man, but I could see that something about Boudreau got under his skin. “You’ll come down to train with us,” he insisted. I couldn’t imagine a fight.

Boudreau hesitated. He looked very comfortable at the top of the pole, but then, like a flash of lightning, he dropped down. He and Brendan got into a staring match. Milosz came over, “Take off the spikes and harness,” Brendan said. Milosz held out his arms to receive them.

“Just once more up. One more time,” he said. There was something about his voice I’ll never forget, like a whine out of his swampy adolescence. Brendan tried to grab the smoke chaser recruit, but missed him as he flew back up the pole, as if he accepted no difference between earth and sky. I could feel what was going on in Brendan’s mind, that this was someone who would be very useful if only he would cooperate. At the top of the pole he didn’t hesitate, but kept on going. Everyone watched. I was totally jealous of Robert Lee Boudreau, who rose against the blue sky, beyond the gossiping ravens, above the clouds, and disappeared.

“We don’t usually encourage that,” Milosz said.

You could practically see steam coming out of Brendan’s ears. “Our best climbing spikes,” he muttered, as we marched off to practice building a fire line.

No one I know ever saw Robert Lee Boudreau again. I heard rumors that he came down in a stand of lodgepole south of Duluth. In another report he was seen sliding down a loblolly in east Texas. I would like very much to catch up with him and hear his story, but all I’ve heard is rumors. Nothing has been verified.

GOATS & KRAUTS

The streets of Sougia, on Western Crete, in the prefecture of Chania, were chorused with bleating kids. Each family held a small goat tethered to a standpipe or a hook on the wall. The Greek Easter approached. It follows Passover, on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring equinox. If the goats had that knowledge they would lead their kids into the hills. Every family roasts one after Easter, in celebration of the resurrection.

The bus that brought me and a smatter of other passengers from Cha-nia stopped to expel us at a modest coffee shop cum convenience store cum greengrocer cum post office. A henna-haired woman, dodging her fifties, skin like tanned leather, scrutinized me as I entered the little store to ask about rooms available. The shopkeeper gave me a list of addresses, and explained in halting English how to find the streets indicated. As I left, this beaked and wrinkled harridan dropped on me like a vulture on its feast.

“Vat you are doing here?” she demanded in a German accent so thick she must have resented speaking the language. “You are Amerikaner, is it not?”

I didn’t answer. The question seemed stupid, and her attitude presumptuous.

“Vy come you here? Sougia?” I was suddenly in a WWII flick, being interrogated by the SS Mitteloberunterfuhrer, played by Klaus Kinski. She looked a bit like Kinski wrecked by the sun. Her steel blue eyes burned coldly out of her tan, accusing me. Of what? Trespassing? Being American? Jew?

I slung my backpack over one shoulder and set out among the tethered goats to rent a room for a week or so. The encounter was unnerving. The woman acted like the official capo of the place. It felt as if I was trying to get into some exclusive club in Tribeca, for which I had the wrong tattoos. Crete had been an example of a proud and fierce resistance to German invasion during WW II. The Germans never got a foothold. This woman had assaulted me, her voice a dim crazy echo of Nazism. She (they) had somehow slipped in by the back door, concealed in the Trojan Horse of tourism.

My room was above a family home, comfortable and airy, with a view of the sea from the balcony. A friendly little goat was tethered near the door. A narrow balcony that I shared with the adjoining room looked out over the calm azure. Two women rented the other room. They were sunbathing when I arrived. I introduced myself to their toplessness. Gudrun and Beata. They were happy to meet me. It was all tits and smiles. Nobody was out on the long gorgeous beach visible from the balcony. The women pointed to some rocks jutting like a breakwater to the south of us. They explained that the town didn’t permit nude sunbathing within sight of their population, so the tourists go naked out beyond those rocks.

I jumped into my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, ran to the beach, and splashed into the calm shimmer. It was only waist deep as far as I swam out. I dried off for a few minutes, then walked down the beach to see what was shaking beyond the breakwater. I clambered over the rocks, then gazed out at blinding hummocks of white flesh. The NaktensonnenbadenVerein lay about on the small rocky beach like walruses. Most of it was female. The beach served as a griddle for roasting Germans. Its surface glistened with sun grease and jiggled like vanilla pudding. I was clearly overdressed, but I didn’t feel like dropping my swimsuit. I waded out across the froth of flesh. Some sat up to check me out. Others walked around oblivious. A plump frau greeted me, her seven year old son clinging to her thigh. She grinned, missing some teeth, her boobs thrust forward aggressively. She was happy to meet an American, though she looked disparagingly at my swimsuit. Her Fotze hid under a crease of flesh.

Back at the room I stretched out on the bed and speculated about dinner. There were only a couple of options. Which was best? Was I hungry yet? The knock on my door broke my reverie. Here was Gudrun, appearing as a barefoot Goth with purple lipstick and black nail polish. She looked as if she was about to go out for maximum damage in Berlin or Hamburg. She wore a black mini and no panties and a dark tube top tastefully sequinned. From a seat on my bed she asked questions as if conducting an interview. “Where do you come from? What do you do? Why are you alone?” During the course of the interrogation she revealed that she was from Dusseldorf and was tired of apologizing for being German. I hadn’t heard any apology. She was proud to be German. I assured her that pride was nothing to be ashamed of. As she slipped off my bed and headed for the door she told me she had decided not to have sex with me after all. After all of what? I felt as if I’d escaped an invitation to ritual cruelty.

Early the next morning I took the short boat ride to Aghia Roumeli at the base of the Samaria gorge. It’s the longest gorge in Europe. The trail was eighteen kilometers of precipice and waterfall. The guidebooks explained that everybody arrived in their tour buses at the top, and stumbled down the gorge. I started at the bottom to hike up as far as I could reasonably go and still return to catch the evening boat to Sougia. I was alone at the start, folded into the silence. I passed one goatherd with his tame goats climbing the rocks. “Yassou,” he greeted me, a universal greeting on Crete. The gorge was beautiful and quiet, with steep rock walls and occasional kri-kri, the wild goats, managing the cliffsides. Whiffs of cypress and pine and a bell-like sound of falling water enraptured me in a perfect morning. Not until about the fifth kilometer did I start to run into the people pouring down the trail from tour buses at the top. A sextet of young backpackers skipped by me, after them a squad of sturdy Brits, then a group of serious dogged Bavarians, some in lederhosen, then a battalion of Japanese tourists with cameras, some of whom took pictures of me. To them I was part of the scenery. “Yassou,” I said to them. “Yassou,” they responded and bowed. Near the church of Santa Maria, about half way up, there was some excitement. A group of well dressed tourists had gathered around a woman in distress. She had passed out. The tour guide and medics were about to load her onto a mule to haul her back to the entrance. Their efficiency made it obvious they were used to such disasters. Her companions were dressed formally, some of the women in high heels, men in suits and ties, maintaining a decorum obviously more important to them than comfort on the trail. I went just a little further, then reluctantly turned back to make the boat in time.

On the eve of Easter the priest came to reconsecrate the church. He served several of the villages around. A priest must circle the church three times counterclockwise, carrying a lit candle. If the candle blows out before the three circumambulations, he has to start again. He must not fail. At shortly before midnight all the townspeople and a few of the tourists gathered in the chilly air. The men pulled their berets over their ears, and the women wrapped themselves tightly in their shawls. They stomped their feet to keep warm, their breaths frosty. The priest had three other churches to deal with before he got to Sougia. People told stories, told jokes, none of which I understood, though I laughed along in the general good humor. At about two A.M. a wind came up, and the people looked at each other apprehensively. How do you keep the candle lit in this wind? It was 4 A.M. before the priest arrived. He was sloshed, his robes disheveled, whipping in the gusts. The other towns had marinated him in ouzo. People guided him into the church, where he said the appropriate prayer and shook a bit of holy water around. They placed the ritual candle holder in his trembling hand, and lit the candle, and guided him to the door. He was giggling. A couple of men held him erect and moved him to start on his three trips around the church. It was a small building, but the soused holy man and the wind increased the difficulties. If this failed they couldn’t use the church for the next year. People surrounded the priest and tried to block the wind, but the flame guttered in the random gusts and blew out. The priest, oblivious, plump, jovial, willing to go for hours, had to be staggered back to the starting place, over and over. I gave up on the ritual, and went back to find my bed. I am sure the priest succeeded, one way or another. When I got up just after noon, the bleating of the kids had stopped, and the air was redolent with a spicy perfume of slowly roasting goat.

GOSSIP SMUDGE

Art Carney as Norton was my favorite character on Jackie Gleason’s Honeymooners, and he still is, and always will be. The Honeymooners is forever. And Norton is the name of the franchise that dominated the lucrative academic anthology scene from the 60’s through the 80’s and beyond, used widely in beginning lit classes. These are massive volumes that seem to entrap in their literary pseudopods the most valued writing from all places in the English speaking and writing world. These presumptuous tomes are designed in the mode of fashionable work shoes: corporate uniformity, deliberately unattractive blue covers, small print that discourages intimacy with the text. A young lit student or a casual reader might assume that any writer not represented on the thin, translucent pages of a Norton Anthology wasn’t worth considering, not as literature.

During Norton’s reign my work, when it was noticed at all, was classified as post-modern by scholars and critics in the pleasure-domes of academia. The designation is a convenience for those toddling towards the voluntary menopause of PhD. It relieves the weary pilgrim from having to read too many books. It allows a person to sample instances from a category that might represent the whole shebang. The novitiate then can hurtle slowly towards tenure. My view of the situation is a bit hypocritical because though I never got a degree I did get backed comfortably into tenure, and didn’t complain. It was a survival compromise. A piece of good luck. For my sense of my own work, however, and how I want it to present in the world the “post-modern” designation feels like a shroud of heavy carpet. It presses down on my pages and makes them invisible. They were never intended as part of a subset, but as the testament of an individual, a majority of one.

When the writer and critic, Jerome Klinkowitz, told me he was editing the Norton Anthology of Postmodernism and wanted to include a piece of mine, I slipped easily into hypocrisy. It was hard not to relish the prospect. After all, thinks this writer famished for attention, how can one ever get to immortality without leaving a drop in the Norton bucket? Even the great genius of the fringe, the poet Ted Berrigan, has lines about how he was adjusting what he was about to present at a reading in case there were some Norton Anthology scouts in the audience.

My chunk of immortality was nixed by the the chief editor of the whole Norton series, Professor Nina Baym of the University of Illinois at Champagne-Urbana. My hope for payback after being smothered for years under the “postmodern” rubric was dissipated in the winds of editorial command hierarchy.

Here my writer’s world paranoia set in. Professor Baym and I were undergraduates together at Cornell. Then she was Nina Zippin, a brilliant young editor of the Cornell Writer, a widely informed intellectual from an educated family, her father a well known chemist. I was a clueless kid transferring from pre-vet in the tuition free College of Agriculture, to Liberal Arts, which I couldn’t afford. My real ambitions were in writing, to be William Faulkner, Dylan Thomas, Albert Camus, and as a city boy from Washington Heights I couldn’t see that ambition fulfilled in agriculture, though they tried to sell me the alternative of Agricultural Journalism. Maybe they were right. At some point (I can still visualize the moment, the gouged and stained blonde bench-table in the Willard Straight Hall cafeteria, friends coming and going) I told Nina that I wasn’t attracted to her. This was a terrible mistake. After that moment we rarely talked again. “I like you for your mind, not for your looks,” is not a compliment to the potential wooee during butterfly years.

Years later, while I was teaching at Notre Dame, I wandered down to Champagne-Urbana to visit Sinda Gregory. She was the girlfriend of the critic, Larry McCaffery, a well known fan of “post-modern” fiction. He had moved to San Diego to take a position at San Diego State and for a while was interested in my work. Sinda was going to join him there after she wrapped up her degree at Illinois. She invited me down for a visit and I was happy to accept. She is a writer of mysteries, a beautiful woman whom many say resembles Emmy-Lou Harris. I stayed for several unexciting days. I was at my wounded and whining worst and Sinda was friendly but seemed indifferent to me. Something about the visit stirred my writer’s paranoia. Sinda was on the phone a lot with Larry. I imagined she was reporting to Larry the critic about my habits, complaints, foibles. I feared I was being exposed, unwrapped perhaps for some critical work, some devious litworld writing.

Professor Baym was Sinda Gregory’s thesis advisor. That pumped a little excitement into the visit. I hadn’t heard yet about the Norton refusal. I called the good professor thinking it might be fun to meet briefly over a cup of tea, just to reminisce. “Hey what if I come over to your office to say hello and embarrass you?” my tongue in my residually hippy cheek. “No! No!” Professor Baym says, panic in her voice. It was perplexing. I didn’t get why she didn’t want even a brief visit. She might have called the cops if I just showed up. The bum’s rush was what I got, booted clear out of my nostalgia, perhaps indulging her own lingering resentment. Curious about her veto of me is that in addition she nixed a piece by Ron Sukenick. The three of us had been at Cornell together. It all felt kind of gummy. Was this a judgment of the quality of our work? Was it revenge? An academic power snit? I don’t know if Ron had ever said anything offensive to her. I had sadly opened my yap that day in the student union we fondly called “The Straight” and I said something like, “I’m not attracted to you, Nina. I can’t go out with you, Nina.”

I felt mostly disappointed, a little robbed. Whatever happens, life goes by with a swish. Having written, published, and presented all these books I feel I have an obligation to exist, and being in the Norton Anthology would have been at least one smithereen of evidence.

All you young artists striving for immortality listen to this small joint of sad advice, that you must never say such a thing as fell from my mouth to the young woman or young man in your sights. The wheel of recrimination turns very slowly, but it hits its points with great accuracy.

GRASSLAND

I knew I was getting sloppy seconds when Leo Garen invited me to co-write the screenplay for Grassland. Rudy Wurlitzer had already turned him down. He had done Two-Lane Blacktop, and was at work on Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, so his Hollywood career had launched big time. I’d never written a screenplay. Here was an opportunity to learn the process. It wasn’t much, but I needed money. Leo had read a piece of mine in New World Writing and thought we had a compatible sense of fantasy/reality. I agreed to talk to him. I went first to his apartment on Sheridan Square. I had no clue I was getting into a stressful collaboration with someone I would soon figure was the most obnoxious person I’ve ever liked.

Leo was on the phone when I got there at about five P.M. He wore a t-shirt and pajama pants, big belly hanging over the waistband. I watched him call women one after the other out of a well-thumbed address book, trying to snatch anyone who would agree to come over, spend the evening with him, share food from the really good Chinese take-out next door. This flash of bachelor life made me happy for the moment to be living upstate with wife and kids. His apartment was dimly lit brown and beige, furnished with collapsed couch and easy chairs the Salvation Army would have rejected. A chipped formica table with bent tubular chairs sat at the kitchen doorway. Framed posters hung on the walls, from the off-off Broadway productions Leo had directed, the most familiar to me being The Slave and The Toilet, by Leroi Jones, before he became Imamu Baraka. Leo sat in a cone of light from a floor lamp and gestured me onto the other easy chair, while he made a few more calls.

He had bought this story from Cannon Films, he explained. What he had in mind only slightly resembled the Cannon property, but he didn’t want any legal difficulties. Leo set this in Nebraska in 1919. A wandering pack of misfits, like an Ur-motorcycle gang, rattles across the prairie. The “gang” encounters a pair of half-breed sisters, the father a native-American shaman, the mother a Swede into Swedish magic. Both parents are recently deceased. The story is about their confrontation and showdown. It seemed hokey to me, very Hollywood, but not without challenge. I didn’t have to decide right away. Leo was headed for Austria to take a sleep-cure. At a certain clinic in the Austrian alps they were prepared to sedate him and keep him asleep for two weeks. They would turn him regularly so he didn’t get bedsores, and would rouse him occasionally to feed him. He would lose weight, he said, and wake up at the end of it full of energy. He’d done it before. I didn’t need to make a decision until he got back.

When he got back, I was blindly swerved into the screenwriting vortex. Despite the sleep treatment, Leo still didn’t seem very comfortable in his skin, couldn’t keep his pants up, stumbled towards you when he talked. First we took rooms at the old Warwick Hotel, on West 54th St. Leo said Rogers and Hart wrote Pal Joey there. He had some romantic showbiz notions. We hammered in tandem on typewriters. We beat a path between our rooms and the Stage Deli. Next we moved to a vacant apartment of an acquaintance of his, high above Park Avenue, where I remembered being at a late night jam session once, with Thad Jones and Sonny Rollins. It felt okay there. Dark-haired women showed up. “The word on the street is that you two have something big going,” said one volunteer. “Hm-mmm,” said Leo.

I hadn’t written a word yet that I believed in. Max Raab, the producer of Walkabout and Lion’s Love, was producing this film. He had an old fisherman’s shack in Harvey Cedars, on Long Beach Island, on the Jersey Shore. His fortune came from Villager Clothes, much of which he lost to the movies. We occupied that shack for a week, typing away in separate rooms. I still couldn’t squeeze out anything I liked. It had become like trying to take a crap through the brain. “Keep everything,” Leo said. “Every little scrap, every page. Don’t throw anything away. There might be something, a phrase like “Make my day.” An image. Don’t lose anything.” A couple of teenage girls showed up off the street, curious, and Leo invited them in. One was blonde, the other dark haired, just like the pair in the script. Leo cajoled them into posing for pictures. He got the blonde to take off her shirt in the sunlight out back. The sheriff was waiting for us when we went back in. These girls were fourteen. Sheriff was not friendly, and asked many questions. Max was his friend, and Max had some clout in the town. The dark girl was the sheriff’s daughter. She promised never to come back. Neither of them would ever come back.

We spent a few days at Milbrook. Leo knew Billy Hitchcock, who had fronted Tim Leary at this estate for several years. It was where, at the height of the acid years, Leo had met China, and married her. It was his only marriage. He made her a character in the script, an icy, gorgeous bike rider. Leo was married to the real China for only a couple weeks before divorce proceedings. The only residue left of the Leary era at Milbrook was a brandy inhaler full of cocaine sitting on the bedside table of my room. We typed fast and furious. I didn’t see anything getting done.

Once we visited an old guy in Hoboken, who was an expert on Vintage motorcycles. He had a complete manual for and expert knowledge of the 1919 Indian, among other bike info. His small parrot hopped around the apartment, landed on the table, and said over and over, “Government bullshit.”

We tried to work at my house in Pine Bush. Jingle said she was afraid of Leo, thought he might do something to the kids. Leo actually enjoyed the kids, got enthusiastic about going to Avrum’s soccer games. He was an orphan, always seemed to be struggling against an undertow of yearning and pain. That made him somewhat sympathetic, though the way he tried to commandeer our house dimmed the sympathies. He had invited a woman he met on the bus to share a pizza with him in our living room, in front of our fireplace. I don’t know how he got her to come, or how he got us to agree to let him cordon off the living room so he could manufacture a romantic interlude. The woman arrived in a bit of confusion about where she was and what she was doing there, and who was Leo Garen, and why had she agreed to this, and who were we, the family in the house? She left very quickly, not a bite of pizza. Leo returned to the city on the next day.

At a certain point the pilgrimage ended, and there was a script, cobbled together somehow. I can’t say I understand how it got done, nor can I identify my contribution. Leo got the movie made on a minimum budget through Max Raab and Twentieth Century Fox. One of his talents was to be such a persistent pain in the ass that people did what he wanted just to get rid of him. Before principal shooting he returned to Austria for two more weeks of sleep cure.

He assembled an interesting cast — Keith Carradine, Scott Glenn, Gary Busey, Bobby Walker Jr., Dan Haggerty, all of whom have had rich careers. A trio of beautiful women, Doria Cook, Hilary Thompson, Cristina Raines, took the female roles, but didn’t continue as well in Hollywood as the men. The film itself I found embarrassing at its initial screening in NY. I watched it again recently, now that its title is Hex, or The Shrieking. It doesn’t seem bad compared to the special effects flash coming out of Hollywood. At least it tells a story. It has a broad, satirical tone. There are some powerful dramatic moments. Leo should have been encouraged to make more films, but he alienated too many people. Max Raab couldn’t bear him after the Grassland experience. I would have written another film with him if the opportunity came up, and the money was right. It didn’t happen. Fox took the rights to the film away from Leo, and after that he decided he didn’t care about any of it, would work only for the money, got little work. He became a fanatical sailor, and a melancholy hunter of random pussy, as he tacked away across the wind.

GUNGA DIN

Suketu Mehta’s powerful book, Maximum City, exposes much of the street life, the gangs, Bollywood, connections to Dubai, and the workings of the economic and civic forces in Mumbai. It changed my understanding of what had been my brief mysterious brush with the city. Bombay mysteries happened to me though I never left the airport. I had arrived from New York with three hours to make the connection for New Delhi. I was going to meet my friends there. The timing was critical. In India, I found out, that’s a non-sequitur. I was in efficient traveling mode, ready to hit the transfer lounge, grab my boarding pass, head for the gate, and perhaps have time to call an old student of mine from Colorado, who had returned to her native Bombay. She would be surprised to hear from me. I turned a corner and hopped in to the transfer lounge, and suddenly I was in India. I had transferred from the light, swift medium of air travel, into a thick molasses of slow down and wait. I suddenly landed as a fly lands on flypaper onto a lethargy deeply embedded in the space. Only later Mehta’s understanding helped me figure out how much more complicated and profound this was than simple lethargy. He calls Mumbai (which he doesn’t hesitate to call Bombay) the city of “no”. I bypassed the line of people and went right to the desk. The uniformed employees swayed like seaweed in the glow of their computer monitors.

“I have an India Airlines connection for Delhi,” I said. “Is there a problem with the four o’clock?”

“No.”

“Will I be able to make it?”

“No. Maybe.”

“What do you mean? Has the flight been cancelled?”

“No.”

It was hot. I was sweating. “What can I do?”

“You can please to get in line and to wait for the computers to come back.” Her head swayed from side to side in that characteristically Indian bobble.

I turned to assess the line. People looked as if they had been there for months. Couples slouched against each other. Children whined feebly. Backpackers slept on the floor.

“Will they be back on line before my flight?”

“No. Perhaps maybe, perhaps no.”

I went to the back of the line. The three hours I had to make my connection now seemed not nearly enough. I would never get to meet up with my friends. Nothing was moving. Three hours? Three weeks didn’t seem enough. Nobody was ever going to do anything. The whole technology was aswim in the oceanic environment of resistance that is Mumbai. I was trapped in this broad subcontinent of despair. Then as if I was in some story out of the Upanishads, the miracle happened. A lean, eager man, small as a young boy, dressed in what looked like a cross between traditional garb and baggage handler’s gear, approached me and removed his toque.

“You are Mr. Katz, please?”

I could hardly muster my yes.

“You are going to Delhi, yes?”

“Yes. New Delhi.”

“Follow me then, Mister Katz.”

“What? Why?”

“You go to Delhi, follow me. Hurry up, please.”

Who was this Gunga Din, tugging on my sleeve? How did he know my name? And how did he find me? The line had grown behind me. I would lose my place if I followed him. It would have to be a leap of faith. How did he pick me out, from all the other people in line? “Follow me. Hurry up, please.”

Hurry up sounded so unlike an Indian MO. I grabbed my bags and followed Gunga Din. We passed a row of payphones. I suddenly wanted to talk to someone, perhaps to my former student, to get a reality check. “Do I have time to make a call?”

“A call?” He looked at his wrist that had no watch on it. “Yes. Yes. Time. But make it quickly.” He looked at his wrist again. I went to the phones. One of them took credit cards. I inserted my Visa but got no dial tone. None of the phones, as far as I could see, had wires attached.

“Do these phones work?” I asked my man.

“No. Of course not. Not in Mumbai. No. We must hurry now.”

I felt like I had come all the way through the looking glass. He took one of my bags and we hurried on. We passed several gates, and finally stopped. “This one to Delhi.” He put my bag down and waited for his tip. I had no rupees yet so I gave him a twenty-dollar bill. He clicked his heels together, wobbled his head, thanked me, and left without explanation. I showed my ticket to the heavy-set blonde hostess at the gate. This was an Aeroflot to Delhi and Moscow. I didn’t have a reservation on the Russian airline. I still have no idea how my Gunga Din found me, nor how I was allowed on the plane without more ticket processing and a boarding pass. The plane was a flying crate held together with duct tape, the seats loosely fastened, some without upholstery, uneven rows, fixed at angles. If this plane crashes, I thought, they wouldn’t lose much. The hostesses were friendly but they were rude, probably trained when Russia was a People’s Republic, and service was a bourgeois concept. I didn’t want to look into the raucous cockpit to see how drunk the pilots were. Vodka, Da! Thankfully it was a short rattling flight, but it got me to New Delhi in time to meet my friends. I’ll never understand how all this happened, but I did come to understand something about Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City, and that is how the impenetrability of the system, and the inertia of the process which I took at first to be lethargy, worked perfectly for this Gunga Din, so he could get his tips, so he could earn his living.

HAMMAM

I say “Hammam.” “Hammam” responds the bent old man in a brown shmatta, cracked feet shod in torn leather sandals. He lightly grabs my elbow and leads me to the middle of the street, and points. “Hammam.” I don’t see anything special. A bicycle passes, pulling a cart full of bricks. A man with his back bent under a load of two refrigerators steps slowly up a narrow cobbled side street. I was told these bearers are a particular caste. They wear a special saddle, and are paid well to shlep huge loads up Istanbul’s steep cobbled streets. Their life expectancy is cut in half, bodies bent to die young. I lug my body forward. The streets are thick with traffic, with carts selling pickles and juice, scooters, cars, human sweat, donkeys, shopkeepers, inspectors with briefcases, street sweepers, kids — tough survival. I could never qualify as a Turk. I continue up the street. I am a tourist. I am lost. Tourists are pitiful. They ambulate in their lost worlds as if they are alive. A little further along I inquire again. ‘Hammam?’ “Hammam,” responds another Turk sipping sweet tea in front of his spice shop. On his counter are trays of various halvahs and Turkish delight. He swipes at the flies with a feather duster. “Hammam,” says his neighbor, coming through the beads of his shop entrance. He stocks brooms, mops, aprons, soap, detergent, soft drinks, dried lentils, beans, pasta. “Hammam,” says a heavy woman stepping onto a balcony above the shop. They might have said many things, but all I have of Turkish is ‘ekmek’ and ‘yok’. “Hammam.” A boy tugs at my hand. ‘Hammam?’ I ask again. “Hammam, Hammam,” the boy repeats impatiently. He leads me as far as a large building nearby, like a flattened cathedral, in the middle of the square. I should have seen it myself. “Hammam,” he says and pushes me in the small of my back towards the entrance. Hammam is carved into the keystone above the entrance.

I approach the desk. “Hammam?” “Hammam. Hammam,” says the surly clerk. He might have been a sumo wrestler in Japan. He lifts an arm as if raising a derrick, and gestures with his wrist. “Ten Lira,” he says, and lays a cupped hand on the table to receive the money. “Hammam?” I say, uselessly, handing him the money. He looks at me with dark-eyed menace, as if out of a bunker, through the slits made by his pudgy lids and cheeks. He extends a locker key between thumb and forefinger. A young man appears with a large towel and a terry-cloth robe, and gestures for me to follow him. “Hammam, good.” He smiles. He knows some English. He takes me to the locker room. As I undress he points to a door through which I see several men exit. “Hammam, yes,” he says, and leaves me alone. Beyond the door is a world of steam.

A broad shallow dome of polished concrete dominates the room. It is heated nicely from beneath by what looks like a wood fire. Steam fills the room from vents around the dome. Men like walruses on a beach sprawl out on towels on the concrete. It looks comfortable and pleasantly anonymous. I throw down my towel and lay out on my stomach. This feels good, I sigh to myself. I roll over into the shadow of a huge, muscular man hovering above me. He looks like the genie in Walt Disney’s Aladdin. Like Mr. America pumped up twice. His grin stretches wide as the arched ceiling, benign and terrifying.

“Hammam.” He twists his arms and shoulders in grappling movements, then holds up ten fingers to show what it will cost. I fear it will cost more than that. Before I can agree or disagree he rolls me over and starts to loosen my joints in a process of painful manipulations that are almost unbearable. I am helpless. I’d better get out of my body, I think. I visualize Thailand. I should have gone to Thailand. If only the bruiser manipulating me, digging into my back muscles, my thigh muscles with his steel fingers, cracking my spine with his heel, were a tiny Thai woman, three or four tiny Thai women. When I open my eyes again I am on my back on my towel staring at the ring of windows high on the walls of this truncated cathedral of steam. Light penetrates the steam in a mandala of rays. I am totally limp, still as a puddle in a cow patty. My genie sits next to me in a half lotus. He leans over to see if I am conscious. He smiles, lifts me like a baby, and carries me out of the room.

We enter a polished marble room of cubicles, a man in each, throwing water over himself from a bucket. My man sits my body on a stool in one of the cubicles, balancing me so I don’t tip over. He leaves me there for a moment, and I fear I am abandoned. I can’t move on my own. He does come back with what looks like a huge shaving mug full of suds. I feel very small. He slaps and swabs my body with a large mop he pulls from the suds. Then he uses a cloth whose coarseness is almost bladelike. He scrapes my skin, pulling down scrolls of dead surface. He clicks his tongue, and points at the accumulation, looking as if he’d got to me just in time. He pours several buckets of warm water over me to wash the crud away. Then he dries me off, wraps me in a bathrobe, and lifts me again like a baby. If I were asked to, I couldn’t walk on my own. I’ll never walk, not again, not the same way.

I recognize the entrance hall. The desk clerk smiles at us, nodding. My man carries me up some stairs I didn’t see when I came in, and opens up a small windowed compartment where he lays me out on a cot. A young man follows, with a tray holding a cup of sweet tea, and a nargilah. ‘Hammam’, says my man with finality, and he leaves. An older man arrives and packs the pipe with tobacco, picks some coals out of a small brazier, and lays them on top of the golden leaf. I am lying here in the fragrances — ambergris, myrrh, cardamom. I will never move again. I have a dreadful thought that soon I will have to grapple with the street again. These vestiges of Ottoman indulgence have taken me prisoner. The tea is sweet. I bubble some smoke through the pipe and let its acrid, meaty needles penetrate my mouth. I lie back. “Hammam,” I whisper. I am here, probably forever. “Hammam. Hammam.”

HEY SUICIDE

Rudy calls to tell me about it, and Leo’s suicide registers. Do I care? Let’s see, the last time I saw him was at the preliminary screening of Grassland, which we wrote together. I drag my memories of Leo into the emotional car wash; but shiny as that old wagon gets, I don’t feel like driving it again. Then Wendy Apple calls with the same news and my reaction is more extreme, as if a tank has pulled up on the lawn and its turret turns to point the cannon at my heart. Maybe that’s overdone. My heart has nothing to do with it. Remember! Something insists. Remember what? Leo Garen? My brief Hollywood interlude? Suicide! I never knew Leo in his manifestation as a fanatical sailor, as a Marina del Rey bon vivant. From what I’d heard he continued to be obnoxious, abrasive, self-centered, selfish, endlessly curious, totally oblivious, demanding, generous. Wendy, who had also worked on Grassland, never got away from Leo because she lives near the Marina, where he spent many years surviving on his boat. He had once mentioned to me that sailing was a kind of salvation for him. Wendy tells me about the difficulties his friends had retrieving his ashes from Cartagena, in Colombia, where police were investigating his death as a murder. He had crewed on a boat, with one other person, sailing from LA to Cartagena. When they were caught in a hurricane, the captain almost murdered him. He jumped ship in Cartagena. Leo loved that city, according to John Nichols’s effusive obituary tribute in the Taos Horse Fly. He wrote to Nichols, “The women are downright gorgeous. I’ve never been anywhere with such a high percentage of staggering beauties.” According to John Nichols he planned to marry one. After that failed, lacking money to return to the US, stripped of viable options at seventy, he took a room in a cheap hotel, asked not to be disturbed, and swallowed all the pills. His friends dumped his grey remains into the ocean at Marina Del Rey, the orphan finally surrendered to mother Pacific.

So Leo checks himself out. This exclamation point resurrects a dimmed though once exasperating episode in my life. Although I’d hardly thought about Leo in the thirty plus years since we worked together, suicide put him right up on my big screen. When a friend passes naturally, it leaves its melancholy mark, notes of sadness and regret; but suicide is such a powerful dissonance, its shock rattles you to attention. It’s a heavy choice. It reminds you that you can steer the ship. I agree with John Nichols, that I would never have expected Leo to suicide. He was a survivor. Perhaps for him suicide is another survival tactic. It puts him back on our screens, reminds all of us that he directs the show.

HIGH TRAIN

I get first class tickets. When you travel hard sometimes you need first class to battle exhaustion. This is for the train from Puno on Lake Titicaca to Arequipa near sea level, the highest stretch of railroad in the world. It starts at the highest navigable lake in the world, at 12,500 feet, crosses the altiplano, and goes over mountain passes, and then down into the White City. The ride is cold, scarce of oxygen. It doesn’t make much difference to my son, but I need comfort and warmth. We look forward to a restful, hassle free ride. The car we enter is marked first class, but that makes little difference. Everyone sits anywhere. A first class ticket seems to give you the privilege to pay a bigger price, nothing else. We’d had a weird and stressful day in the tourism groove on Titicaca. Before that we endured a long, tiring bus ride from La Paz to Puno, with a cadre of Mormon missionaries, dressed in suits and ties, leaving after two years on the altiplano. They had worked with Aymala Indians to create a written language, so they could translate The Book of Mormon. “We learned more from them than they did from us,” one of them admitted with surprising candor. I want nothing more than a quiet ride to a new city. Avrum is already asleep on the seat next to me. An Aymala family squeezes into the facing seats, man, wife, three kids. They certainly aren’t holding first class tickets.

I put my camera on the seat and stand up to look around for a conductor, someone to whom I can appeal our first class status in this second-class situation. My inner huffiness is aroused. I don’t need a crowded ride on this overnight train.

The tall, handsome Hispanic gentleman who enters the car, throws his overcoat onto the seat as if to claim it. He is neatly coiffed and dressed impeccably as a Mormon in a dark blue serge suit, white shirt with black knit tie, Adidas sneakers. I explain to him that the seat is mine; in fact, I tell him I have a first class ticket and roll my eyes, believing he’ll sympathize. He apologizes politely, and gathers his coat to hand it out the window to an equally well-dressed Hispanic woman, in a dark red sweater, and flared grey skirt, also wearing Adidas running shoes. She grabs the coat, and my Olympus slips out of it, onto Avrum’s lap. It doesn’t wake him. The father of the family across from us has his fist wrapped around the strap. He has the slightest grin on his face, and exchanges a glare with the gentleman in sneakers. He knows the scam, and foiling it gives him some satisfaction. How can I thank him? That is my trusty Olympus. I used it to shoot the photos for my book, Moving Parts. Avrum is awake. I give him some money to run out and buy some oranges, oranges because of the thing that happened earlier that day on Titicaca. The family suddenly looks beautiful, their smiles wide and open as the whole altiplano. A depth of humor, innocence, wisdom dwells in their dark eyes, vast as these continents before the Europeans parceled out the land among themselves.

At first they refuse the offer of oranges, but finally take them. The father speaks a little English. As the train moves into higher altitudes he explains that the Europeans accuse the natives of thievery, but they themselves are the thieves, and it started when they first stole all the land.

HOW BILBAO

As at London’s Tate modern where you descend a wide ramp to enter and then look up at the art galleries, you enter the Bilbao Guggenheim down a wide arced staircase with shallow risers and look up into the atrium. That’s the access from Calle Iparraguire. The museum looks gorgeous from the middle distance, as most beauty does, better than from close in. From the river side it’s like an unkempt titanium lid formed to contain anarchy. This cover sits on two stories of a conventional building, where Guggenheim probably has its business offices. To enter from the street you pass the topiary puppy, Jeff Koons’s edgy eternal kitschy-cute. I think it could have been an act of self-parodic genius to commission Claes Oldenburg to build a hulking can opener to loom as an arc over the entrance.

It’s just four months after my quad bypass and I’m traveling for the novel I’m writing, Antonello’s Lion. My ambition is to see all of the works I can by Antonello da Messina. They are widely dispersed — Roma, Palermo, Siracusa, Pavia, Torino, Genova, Venezia, Paris, London, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Madrid. I am taking on the obsession with the works of Antonello of one of my characters. I can argue that Antonello is the greatest artist of the Italian Quattrocento. Outside the entrance to the museum in Genova I am approached by an African hooker. She asks me in English what I am looking for. I explain that I need to see a portrait in the museum by Antonello. “I will show you something very nice,” says she. Her smile is charming and coy. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just had open heart surgery. I can’t.” She looks down to the pavement, appearing almost shy. “I will be very gentle.” On the way back to my hotel I snarl at a beautiful grey-eyed gypsy woman with a baby on her hip, hand out for coins, breasts offered like a tray of hors d’oeuvres out of the folds of her tattered smock. She looks confused and frightened by my reaction, my anger out of proportion. She peers into my eyes as if to look for the source of this snarl. Surgery I guess can leave you angry. Despite anesthesia that is supposed to block the experience, somehow your body knows that someone has cleaved your breastbone and snatched your heart, and resentment of that violence lingers in the psyche.

Antonello is my single-minded quest, but on the way by train from Paris to Madrid I decide to divert to Bilbao to check out Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim. It has recently opened, to much fanfare, as perhaps the greatest building of the twentieth century. It does have that sheen of greatness, a powerful contemporary building. The visual impact of the titanium cladding degrades as you get closer, as when you approach someone with too much make-up and botox. The detail becomes smudges and dents. Some find that interesting. I find it less interesting than the detail up close of the 19th and early 20th century buildings on the local streets. The same quality pertains in the radical, angular, titanium clad new art museum in Denver designed by Daniel Libeskind. It immediately ages, has some leakage early on. I hope someone gets me up so I can see what this titanium looks like after fifty years.

Most revolting to me on my first and only visit is the amount of space given to the story of Giorgio Armani designs. The guy’s a haberdasher, an Italian tailor. I’ve long been comfortable in the watershed that Andy Warhol created when he punked over the gap between fine art and popular culture. Warhol is a great artist, his life tragic even prophetic at the end. I’ve liked Jeff Koons’s work that descends from the Andy lineage. Even Damien Hirst owes something to Andy. All this work has a reorienting weirdness, a sense of parody and satire, some social torque worthy of art. To make art is to respond to a high calling, to stick your neck out, commercial considerations put aside. Some artists, like the three above, are happily smart and lucky as businessmen as well, though they create the art through risk, not market analysis. No doubt Armani is a talented and enormously successful fashion designer, and probably a big donation of pesetas leveraged him into a position to sucker the opening of the museum into a boutiquish Armani showroom. I find it nauseating. Maybe my attitude is what they call “elitist” these days, but how much more elitist is Armani haberdashery? I wouldn’t mind owning an Armani suit, though I can’t afford one and don’t know when I’d wear it. I’d have to be doing business, certainly not making art. He’s obviously a great Italian tailor and clothing designer, a brand name, but I would never mistake what he does for art. Having his boutique splayed across the museum feels like a hostile takeover.

The scale of the soaring atrium diminishes the scale of Serra’s curved core-ten walls installed there. Serra’s work derives much of its power from scale that seems diminished by the vast amorphousness of the space. There was great sturm und drang in the early 80’s over the installation of his Tilted Arc in Federal Plaza in Manhattan, and a wide spray of arguments about “site specificity,” connected obliquely to removing the load of sculpture from the pedestal, and coincidentally letting painting escape the frame. Richard threatened to remove his name from the piece if they tried to install it somewhere else. The urgency of the site specific arguments has been blunted by the development of so many sites, even museum sites, designed specifically to accommodate works that are site specific. Storm King sculpture park is one, and DIA Beacon is another, and Bilbao another as a permanent site for Richard’s site specific work. Donald Judd’s goofy art outpost in Marfa, Texas, a remote air force base he bought to exhibit his friends’ works in site specific glee, has provided the art market an outback arm for wealthy collectors and curators. You turn a corner in a dusty West Texas town, and suddenly its the art world. They can gather at a newly refurbished hotel without interference from riff-raff off the streets. It makes me perversely prefer site antagonistic works at random locations, that clash with the sites of their installations, that conflict with their situations. Richard’s powerful, stately “Promenade” at the Grand Palais in Paris is a site-specific work that derives emotional tension from the fact that it is antagonistic to the space, architecture, and materials of the site. This parade of monoliths would be powerful installed in the Gobi Desert, or on West Broadway, or on the flooding shallows near Dacca in Bangla Desh. The specific site is so often most specific in the mind.

I like to watch a Henry Moore recline on a pedestal, or a Noguchi block a skyscraper entrance, or the Louise Bourgeois giant spider spook a pedestrian intersection. I’d never heard of the great sculpture park that Pepsico has installed at its corporate headquarters in Purchase, New York until Yuriy Tarnawsky, who lives in White Plains, took me there. It is one of the great collections of modern sculpture anywhere in the world. There installed across many acres of well kept lawn and flower garden are monumental pieces by Henry Moore, Isamu Noguchi, Louise Nevelson, Alberto Giacometti, Tony Smith, George Segal, Barbara Hepworth, Paul Klee, Arnoldo Pomodoro, Alexander Calder, Auguste Rodin, and many others. Some of them sit comfortably on pedestals, some directly on the ground. We wandered happily in the drizzle from Dubuffet to Oldenburg. In this generalized expanse each sculpture creates its own aura, its own specific presence.

My reaction to DIA Beacon surprised me when I visited a second time. The first time it struck me as one of the most beautiful museums, full of profound expanses of art. I was grateful for its space that accommodates comfortably the work of artists of the last third of the Twentieth Century. Many of them I’d met, had conversations with them, watched their work develop. Sol Lewitt has plenty of wall space. Michael Heizer has loads of room, and Fred Sandback has rooms for his taut strings to intersect the volumes, and Dan Flavin, Joseph Beuys, Robert Smithson, so many of them are expansive here. Warhol has almost too much room, for the kind of intimacy I like to feel with his work. Seeing this the first time was thrilling, making me feel as expansive as the work. The second time a kind of melancholy threatened me. It felt to me like a lock down of post world war two post industrial American imperialist expansiveness. This art was so American in its assumption of endless horizons, spaciousness, expansion beyond any vanishing point. It paralleled American imperialist ambitions. The artists sense of entitlement to unlimited space, physical space to grow and spread their creations seemed suddenly stuck in its own period, like Russian ikons, or Byzantine mosaics, or Fayum coffin portraits. Those times were over. I still love many of the works, but the conditions that allowed the mindset have vanished. Perhaps it is the situation now of the planet — endless Iraq and Afghan wars, ruined oceans, desertification, oil spills, helpless politics, poisoned land and water, the whole litany — that makes these works seem like a part of a brief past, post World War II triumphalism and the subsequent imperialism that need never be repeated. This museum has become an archive rather than a home of living art. The change in my perception of the museum was powerful, daunting, but undeniable.

So I leave the Bilbao Guggenheim, and visit the impressive collection at Bilbao’s own Museum of Fine Arts, and the Basque Museum. I take the train then for Madrid and head for the Prado. Its Velasquezes, Goyas, Murillos, its Hieronymous Bosch, its Breughels. What a line-up. This is one of the most intense collections of masterpieces in the world. I head downstairs to look at the small painting by Antonello da Messina I have crossed the US and all of Europe to see. A grieving angel lowers Christ from the cross, the grief on its face is the paradigm for all grief. It is worth the trip. That tiny work opens all the emotional potential of grief, spreads a total moral panoply, extends the enormous reach in time and space of great art.

HOW DO

Time I confessed

At least to one crime: I write in

invisible ink…

Anna Akhmatova

To avoid detection late at night when I was young I spent a lot of time with a flashlight, reading under the covers, even with two flashlights when I needed more technology. Perhaps for sentimental recollections of reading The Sound And The Fury, Bomba The Jungle Boy, Anna Karenina, The Magic Mountain, Microbe Hunters, The Sun Also Rises, and many other books thus cozily, I have always written my first drafts under the covers. I write them in longhand, with lemon juice, on sixteen pound recycled bond, or twelve pound when I can find it. Preserve the forests! The initial text is invisible until I emerge with a handful of work, and heat the pages either over an incandescent bulb (the new cool obligatory spiral fluorescents are repugnant) or over a candle. The words then emerge like crack dealers on a street corner. I prefer the initial invisibility of the text because my work thrives on surprise. I like to be able to say to myself, “Did someone I know really write that?” Especially when I use candle, some of the pages burn up before I can transfer the content by hand with mechanical pencil to yellow legal pads. I love yellow pads. The white paper is like the whites of the eggs, and the yellow pad is the yolks. The result is usually an omelette, because it’s rarely sunny side up. Add a little provolone or cheddar for savoriness. That I lose some of my first draft to candle flames is thrilling. I never recover those words I had so carefully soured onto the page, and like to think the work is better for it. It encourages in the final project that bright feeling of absence present in most great art, that relaxing condition of “what the fuck, this is unintelligible.”

That I use mechanical pencil technology rather than superior wooden pencil technology is a slight source of shame. Watching the fine shavings peel out of a hand-held sharpener, almost translucent ribbons of wood, is a great pleasure I deny myself for some inexplicable reason. Collect a small heap of those shavings and there you have excellent kindling for the wood stove or campfire.

The problem arose of how to support the tent. At first my head seemed good enough to lift the blankets off the writing materials, but the whole system was subject to my twitches and jerk-abouts. I had too many accidents, spilling lemon juice onto the sheets, and wasting pages of perfectly good writing, sometimes losing a whole morning of production when I dozed off and collapsed onto the mattress. I eventually upgraded my technology by incorporating a rubber sheet, and a tight inkwell I found in an antique shoppe near Belfast, Maine. When I was younger I couldn’t write without a box of Ritz Crackers next to me under the covers, Their crispness, their friability, was just the texture I was going for in my prose. At that time I wrote many works in the crumbling mode. Later I retreated to my studio with one of my favorite fruits, the pomegranate, luculent and complicated, or sometimes the mysterious durian, that manages to exude all the acrid perfumes of an excited vagina.

Thus I advanced. My greatest technological progress in the tenting realm came after I visited Borge Sornum, artist and taxidermist, in Copenhagen, in 1961. I was living with my family in Verona, Italy, at the time, teaching literature courses at nearby military bases. I spent some of my days at the Brustelin Foundry. George Schneeman, who had been stationed in Verona in the army, introduced me to Sol Schwarz, an American sculptor who cast his bronzes there. Maestro Brustelin had a beautiful daughter. At the foundry I met Jorgen Haugen Sorensen, a young Danish sculptor of prodigious talent, who also cast his bronzes at the foundry. We became good friends, and I scissored some time away from my family to go with him to Paris, where his friend, Peter Bramsen had a successful lithograph and print business. We drank a lot of pastis together. Those Danes could drink, and at the time so could I. They convinced me to go to Copenhagen and look up Borge Sornum, who had been their teacher.

Sornum was a friendly and generous guy, and it was he who gave me the stuffed donkey penis that revolutionized the technology of my tenting processes. Sornum had the penis of a blue whale in his studio, over six feet long. He showed me pictures of Henry Miller, his good friend, posing with, embracing the preserved whale member. I wish I had copies of those pictures. The donkey penis was erect, perhaps three and a half feet long, and it provided the real stability I longed for to support the blankets above my writing. I wrote many of my books under this support, and it could be said that this donkey penis is at the pith of all my works. Borge Sornum had a beautiful daughter. When I took a job teaching lit from Aristophanes to Eliot at the US base in Aviano, I spent time in Venice, and met her by chance on the boat to Murano. We spent our time on deck close together.

Long ago I gave up the lemon juice initiation. I know it has affected my work, and perhaps has contributed to my symptoms of intellectual scurvy.

For one thing I no longer can claim that my best writing has burned away. A major technological failure afflicted me when I first enjoyed the notion that writing these “Memoirrhoids” was like mining in the mountains of my past. I returned for the moment to do my first drafts under the covers. I tried to do it with sexy carbide lamps that miners used for years on their hard hats. The smell of the carbide is intoxicating. LED lamps lack smell, and therefore don’t stimulate the memory. I might have brought the canary down with me under the covers to reinforce the mining metaphor, except that many of my friends are animal rights activists, and their protests would have hurt distribution of the works. Carbide light was a powerful technology, and I knew it would have a great influence on my writing, but the open flame under the covers proved too risky, and in the heat my writing environment began to smell like roasting donkey penis.

To transfer the scribbles from my yellow pads into a word processing program I can read on the computer screen is for me like stepping back into an empty cave, into primitive technology, before Lascaux, more primitive than petroglyphs in Chaco canyon. This prototechnology is devised in environments where codes are written by primates almost human. They are trained to be corralled in extensive enclosures, each in a cubicle, each provided with a glowing screen. What happens to my writing in the context of this screenlight is almost too archaic for words.

IF MILK

Poor families often have stories of consolation. It’s a wealth that can’t be plundered. Maybe there were better times, maybe hard times should be reconsidered. The story that lay on my family like powdered sugar was that my maternal grandfather was once harness maker to the Tsar. That very grandpa spilled a samovar of scalding water onto me when I was a year old. The burn left my arms scarred for life. It’s sad this was like my only conversation with him. The harness story was prevalent when I was very young. My extended family soon ruptured, was full of bickering over tiny inheritances. I lost track of the aunts and uncles who might have verified or expanded the story. With pogroms and WWII traces of my family in the USSR (Belarus) were probably erased. It wasn’t something I thought I needed to pursue, though my interest was stimulated somewhat when I went to work for Alfred Partridge, on his rocky hillside dairy farm near Windham, New York. He worked his land with horses. I had to become familiar with the intricate technology of harness, traces, whiffle-tree. As I messed with the heavy leather strapping to harness Alfred’s team I envisioned “Poppa” in the old country, fashioning the jeweled harnesses for the Tsar’s troikas.

It’s an oversimplification to say that my mother was a bitter woman. Her mother had abandoned the family when mom was in her teens leaving her as the oldest daughter to care for an ailing father and the younger children. Before he died my father spent most of my early years as an invalid with a heart condition. She had to take care of him. Her apparent resentment stemmed from a feeling that after all those years devoted to others, no one, not my sister nor myself nor the grandchildren, devoted themselves adequately to her needs. She was genuinely bitter, but canny enough to use that bitterness as a manipulative tool to keep us hopping to her commands. She lived out the last fifteen years of her life in a one room studio apartment at the Greystone Hotel on Broadway and 91st Street. Although she liked to tell us she was too sick to ever leave her room on the way to visit one of us would often spot her coming in from a walk or sitting in the lobby, yakking with her posse of old ladies. When she knew any of us was coming to visit she would place an order that would send us scampering around the city for particular knitting implements or wool, or famously for breadsticks. She was a champion knitter and she gave you a sweater now and then full of love and the obligation to appreciate how much she sacrificed to make it for you.

The visits usually began with her complaints about the breadsticks. They were too hard or too soft or too thick or too long or too skinny. She would talk about what she’s seen on TV, a large Sony given her by my sister, whom she verbally disowned, as she disowned me and my kids at one point. She particularly had it in for Jesse Jackson whom she said she saw on the news collaborating with the Arabs. She was an old fashioned Jewish racist, though she liked the Haitian woman the city sent every week, to shop for her. “But she’s too stupid to buy a good chicken,” my mother said. She warned me not to join the NAACP, or give them money. While you visited the TV was always on. Sometimes she would lower the volume.

A different person emerged if you could get her to talk about her childhood. I often got her there by complimenting her potted plants. She had a jungle of them, and was very proud of her green thumb. Talking plants could relax her, and sometimes she would reminisce about her father. She loved him deeply, though he ended up being a lot of work for her. He emigrated to the US from Pinsk with apparently enough money to buy a small dairy farm near Ellenville, New York. When we lived near Pine Bush in upstate, New York, we would occasionally drive around the back roads to see if we could find the farm. Although details of the farm remained cushioned in her memory, my mother never recognized anything from the road. Talking about it damped the fires of her bitterness, and allowed her to free her sense of humor. She liked to talk about the cows, even remembered some of their names. She deeply loved her father as a farmer. She was just a toddler at the time. Her father was big and powerful back then. Unfortunately strapped for cash he began to milk the clouds, and soon was busted for watering the milk. “He couldn’t sell the milk any more,” she’d say brightly. The farm soon went broke. She almost giggled when she spoke of taking baths in the milk he couldn’t sell. It was a great consolation in her mind, dealing with the poverty that sent the family reeling down to a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She spoke so fondly, so sweetly, with such a sense of comedy, of the milk baths her father had provided her with his trespass that you could see the flicker of childhood innocence again in her eyes. Who else, after all, could afford to fill a bathtub with milk? The Queen of England! Ingrid Bergman! Marie de Medici! Eleanor Roosevelt! Jacqueline Kennedy! Hedda Hopper! Lucre-tia Borgia! Judy Garland!

IMAGERY AGGIE

Dan Maratos, who sat next to me in homeroom, told me he was going to Cornell to study Veterinary Medicine. I had as yet had no thoughts about college. I had no encouragement at home, or among relatives, to go for higher education, and little guidance from Stuyvesant where the idea probably was that you should be smart enough to figure it out for yourself. I had applied nowhere. The name of Cornell rang a clear bell of escape in my mind. I decided to study Veterinary Medicine. Agriculture School, where you did pre-vet, was a free school, no tuition. I’d hardly ever been near a cow, a pig, a sheep, a work horse. I never even had a dog. The only pets we ever raised in our apartment were two white rats, Franklin and Eleanor, my sister had for a few months. The Veterinary Profession seemed an honorable one, however, and certainly more attractive than dentistry, which would have been my mother’s choice for me. I was accepted into the program.

To support my application for advanced placement in English at Cornell Mr. Astrakhan, English teacher, adviser of the literary magazine wrote a recommendation. One day, waiting for him in his dark green office, I snuck a peek at it. He said that I wrote poetry of “astounding imagery”. I had never heard the word “imagery” before, or if I had I’d never paid attention to it; but now that it was attributed to me I went back through all my poets — Thomas, Dickinson, Whitman, Eliot, Sandburg, Rukeyser, Cummings, Crane — and I identified the images. Amazing, they were there. I looked for some in my own feeble handful of poems, and couldn’t find any. Just some puny adolescent thoughts. I felt like a charlatan. I didn’t dare go back to Mr. Astrakhan to ask where he’d found my “astounding imagery”. I wasn’t supposed to have seen the recommendation. I was afraid he’d remove “astounding imagery” from his letter. I vowed that from then on I would write astounding imagery forever.

IN INDIA

In the evenings, before we head for the concerts, Phil and Candy hire a pedal cab and leave our five star hotel for a romantic ride. To watch them is melancholy and sweet. I taste the melancholy, because I am traveling solo, and to see anyone else’s beautiful romance makes me yearn to be more goosy, simmering in my own love story. This is the Madras music festival. I followed Phil who is here to meet with Ravi Shankar and plan their CD collaboration. He is also fixed to meet Uttapam Srinivas, the sixteen-year-old Carnatic music phenom who became a master of the music at eight years old. Srinivas introduced the electric mandolin into Indian music. When he was four years old he heard the instrument, and fell in love with it, and it triggered his genius. I feel privileged to be on this trip with Rudy and Lynn, Phil and Candy. All of them are old India hands. For me it is an initiation, from arriving at the nearly inoperative sump of the Mumbai airport, to watching the traffic steer around cows that nuzzle garbage in the streets. Some travel, for instance wandering through Europe, is easy on you, the places familiar enough in most detail that they hardly make a dent on your consciousness. Going to India can change your whole perspective on what it means to be human. The experience can push you towards greater understanding, but everywhere you turn you can take a step towards the deep end, and can easily go off.

The Madras music festival is a banquet of Carnatic music, a week of concerts from mid-morning until late into the night. Ravi Shankar, and the great Hindustani singer, Bhimsen Joshi, are the only Northern musicians performing. Carnatic music is ensemble music. They rarely abide well the heroic stance of Hindustani soloists. It is joyful to watch and hear Ravi Shankar, who is pushing eighty, perform for six hours with his daughter, Anoushka. Bhimsen Joshi, whose voice goes from near whisper to oceanic surge can lift you into a space vibrating closer to heaven. Ravi Shankar calls Srinivas the savior of Indian classical music. The sound the young maestro strikes from his mandolin is as sweet and elevating as anything I’ve ever heard. Each note is clear, bell-like, as if a chime is struck and the sound attenuated, bent into melody. At every concert, even the minor ones in the morning, the “tal wallahs” show up, and sit up front, great fans of the music. They slap out the tal (rhythm) on their thighs. Phil does it too. This can pull you further into the music. I try, but can’t keep it up. After one of Srinivas’s performances, Ravi Shankar takes Phil to introduce them. The young maestro falls gracefully to his knees to kiss Phil’s feet. “Bless me, master,” says Srinivas. Phil doesn’t know what to do. He does the best he can, brushing the boy’s head with his piano fingers.

INFLAMED AT THE Y

This Saturday night it’s Les Brown and his Band of Renown playing for the dance at the 92nd Street Y. Usually they bring in some unknown, or their house band, but once every couple of months they get big name bands, like Stan Kenton, Count Basie, Woody Herman. It pulls in crowds of kids from all over the city. The dance is mostly for us high school kids, but with the name bands a lot of people in their twenties show up too. The only band from nowheresville was Shep Fields and his Rippling Rhythm. Drag. People stayed away from that one, but not me. I went alone. I go to Stuyvesant High School, all boys, so a dance where you can body up against a girl is irresistible. This time I go with Ray Gangi and Bobby Freilich. We take the A to 42nd, then the IRT Shuttle to the East side, and back up on the 6 train to 86th Street. At the Papaya King on the corner we fuel up with large papaya drinks and hot dogs…

“So what is Les Brown? They do slow ones or what?” Gangi asks.

“It’s a swing band. It’s really big.” Freilich says. “They did ‘Sentimental Journey’ that Doris Day sang. And they did ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.’ They jump. It makes you dance. So what, Gangi, afraid you’re going to spaz out on the dance floor?”

“You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, Freilich.” Gangi raises a fist. He has a tough time looking ferocious.

“Oooh. You got me scared, Gangi. Oh yeah, and they did ‘Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio.’ That was big. Dimag. The Yankee Clipper.” Freilich spins a few of his Freilich moves under the street lights, as we head to 92nd Street. He’s relentless. He’ll dance with the rats when they rise out of the sewers. He’s got no shame. I saw him boogie with a stranger, a fat lady unloading from a cab. He thinks he’s Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor. He dances with street lamps.

“I like some slow ones,” I say. “Because…”

Gangi finishes my sentence. “That’s when you get really close, and mmmph.” He makes some pudgy pelvic thrusts. We’re both a little chubby.

“I hope that girl, Sylvia, from the Bronx, is there,” I say. “I think that was her name, Sylvia. She was like a dry hump all over the dance floor. She crept her fingers down and touched my dick once.”

“No one gets pregnant on the dance floor,” Gangi says. He’d been warned by his mom about the dangers.

“Wiggy, man. Who thinks about pregnant?” Freilich says. “I just want to dance.”

Usually it costs a buck to get in, but because of the name band they take a buck fifty. It’s all I’ve got, saving a dime for the subway home. The dance has just started, in a large darkened ballroom, the band on the stage in an alcove of light.

“I can’t see anybody,” Gangi says.

“Just wait for your eyes to adjust,” says Freilich. “They’re all here for you.”

“No one’s dancing yet?” I say.

The clusters of girls around the room fill the air with giggles and the boys flex biceps, grunt, and swagger. The lights come up after the first few numbers. The ballroom is packed. “Look at all the cooties here. Cooties and cubes,” Freilich proclaims.

Les Brown takes the mike. “Hello, boys and girls, and welcome. I’m Les Brown, and this is my band of renown. We’ll do our best this evening to swing for you and get you to jump and have fun and get close to somebody.” A cheer goes up from all the guys.

In the dim light I think I spot Sylvia across the room, with a small flock of Bronx girls. You can always tell girls from the Bronx because they’ve all got perms and they overdress and wear tons of make-up. Not Sylvia, though. She dresses plain, in a tight knit skirt and sweater. Ready for business. She wears her hair down falling over her shoulders.

“I’m going over there” I tell Gangi. Freilich had already set out on his fishing expedition. He’s intrepid. He doesn’t mind fielding the inevitable snubs and dirty looks the girls are obliged to dole out. They look the guy up and down, and don that disgusted mask, wrinkling their noses to indicate the “What makes you think you’re worthy of dancing with me, worm?” response. It doesn’t bother Freilich. He laughs it off and goes on to the next. I wish I was that tough hearted.

Gangi comes with me. “I think that’s Sylvia,” I say, when we get close.

“You mean the skinny one? I like that one in the pink sweater, with the Dagmar melons.”

“She’s not skinny.” The lights go down again, and the band swings into “Woodchopper’s Ball.” Freilich is on the floor, his partner a big girl, a good dancing match for him, her loose skirt swinging around to flash her lace fringed white panties. The girl in the pink sweater gives Gangi the contemptuous once-over for daring to ask her to dance. He is persistent, however, and doesn’t leave. When I tap Sylvia, and she turns and immediately takes my hand and tugs me onto the dance floor, the pink sweater relents and dances with Gangi. I don’t know if Sylvia recognizes me from the dance two weeks ago. After the fast number the band slows down and does “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Sylvia presses her body against me as if she wants our separate skins to weld together. She is so far into me I feel like she can come out the other side. And she rubs all her girl stuff, everything, against my skin. I feel her nipples, the shrub between her legs. We do a slow grind, even to the fast numbers.

By eleven o’clock, when the dance is wrapping up, Freilich has boogied so hard his shirt is drenched, stuck to his body with sweat. Gangi had danced with several girls, but the last two slow ones are with pink sweater, and she finally gets close and cheek to cheek. I have been stuck like scotch tape to Sylvia all night long. We don’t say anything. We don’t even separate between songs, except for the intermission, when she returns to the chatter of her Bronx buddies.

The band leaves in a hurry for a midnight gig at Roseland. Kids spill onto the street and head for buses and subways, amidst a crowd of cops there to prevent teenage testosterone rumbles.

“That was too quick over. I could have danced hours into the morning with that redhead,” Freilich says.

“I hope… I liked,” Gangi tries to fashion a romantic reverie. “But I think they were falsies. Like they jabbed.”

“What God has forgotten, we stuff with cotton,” says Freilich.

I can’t say a word. I have to walk bowlegged, my legs spread. Descending the steps into the subway is torture. I feel like an old man. Blue balls. I never had them like this before. It’s some kind of lesson. Though the train is almost empty I won’t sit down. It’s too painful to sit down. I’ll never sit down again.

INGREDIENTS NOW

Steve Katz? PRESENT! Two feet. Five toes each foot. Hammer toes bunch back against high metatarsal, then high longitudinal arch. Heel and Achilles good. Ankles stiff from infantile paralysis, the bulbar polio that tightened it up, that made it difficult to swallow, made the voice growly. Left calf diminished from veins harvested for cardiac bypass. Right calf still plump and strong. Either prone to cramp during sleep. Knees still in service, never to extend beyond middle of foot during forms — tai chi, bagua, xinyi. Drumsticks thick, muscled, ready to work, to absorb the shocks. Hips so far so good, unreplaced. Perineum consciousness essential say the teachers of internal martial arts, to be raised slightly for the strike. I never strike. Genital package virtually irrelevant after prostate extraction, though both elimination functions almost back to normal piss and shit. Below navel tan tien collects chi, chi allocated from there. Above navel — abdomen, a one pack well cultivated, surprisingly hard after iron shirt training, that shirt now rusty. Spine expresses the length, the alignment of vertical me. Strong back, no pain. Ribs anchored to spinal column create the volume of torso, substantial, and embrace, protect organs, a squishy collaboration of kishkes on the wane. Shoulders, neck, once powerful, now less so. Sternum and collarbone, just to mention them. Biceps, happy elbows with funnybone, forearms into hands and fingers, left hand now often numb from diabetic neuropathy, away. Topping all is this bump — the head, the noggin, the old bean, the pimple, the wig, the belfry, the noodle, the dome, face white bearded, blue eyes that see less, ears hearing less, nose that occasionally erupts, lips tender and puckerable over full set of pearlies, with two implants. Skull around fatty brain meat that with the spinal cord extension more or less controls the catastrophe. Sometimes perturbation reigns, particularly emotional confusion, often trapped in the muscles, all wrapped by fascia, that membrane continuous around all muscle and organs, like one long pull of plastic wrap hugging all my stuff. And this skin is the interface, mine not tattooed, but somewhat scarred, with its sweat glands, its sudden warts and bruises and extrusions. This expresses my whole presence, my aging contraption, a receptacle for joy, for survival, for confusion, for pride and all etceteras. This skin presents me, displays my contents to the world.

ISTANBUL

The captain of the Turkish ship that did Brindisi to Istanbul asked me to deliver a bottle of whiskey to his cousin, a hotel owner. He said the cousin would rent me a nice room at a good price. I was old enough to know better than to do something illegal in Istanbul, but it was my first time to that exotic crossroads, and it seemed wimpy to enter without a touch of intrigue. The ship arrived in the evening, and I grabbed a taxi to this small, grungy hotel on the narrow street indicated on the scrap from the Captain’s notepad. The words on the hotel sign had been obliterated, except for its one star. The owner was a greasy, scowling man in a torn undershirt and pajama pants, a two-day beard, his lips stained from something he chewed. He grabbed the whiskey without thanking me. I asked about a room, though I would have quit this sleazy haunt had it been earlier in the day. He pointed at the worn leather chair and couch in what served as the hotel lobby. “Sit, wait,” he growled, and disappeared with the bottle through a swinging door behind the counter.

I expected the film noir to begin. Sydney Greenstreet could have slid through the door. Humphrey Bogart might have come down the stairs and tossed his key into a cubbyhole behind the counter. It was all dark brown veneer. A dim light-bulb hung over the front desk. The wallpaper, a flophouse beige pattern of leaves, was blistered and peeling. As soon as I sat down the real film noir started to roll. A blonde guy came in as if looking for me. He sat down on the couch, and immediately started to talk. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing there. He wasn’t staying at the hotel. Why was he interested in me? He was maybe thirty, spoke English fluently, with a South African or New Zealand accent, though he could have been a Frenchman. And he was clean, a starched white short-sleeved shirt, chino shorts newly pressed, clean sandals on his spotless feet. He looked like a tourist on a midday stroll. Anyone who wears shades at night must be up to something. He took them off to talk to me. How did I get there? Why this hotel? I explained it was the recommendation of the ship’s captain, but didn’t mention the whiskey. I think he knew about it. I turned the conversation around and asked him what he was doing there.

“Je fait le traffique.” He winked at me, and sat back waiting for my response. “Le traffique,” he repeated.

I grinned stupidly. Not until he left did I figure out that he wanted me to think he was dealing drugs. I had just arrived, was a little out of it. He left as soon as the owner reappeared. The owner gave me a key to a room incredibly cheap, suggested I grab what I need, then lock my backpack in the storeroom, which I did. He pointed me up the stairs. The room smelled like tobacco and men’s fluids. The grim green walls were so water-stained that someone might find a fleet of Buddhas or images of the Virgin Mary. There were two beds, coarse discolored sheets covered with thin grey blankets. I dove right into sleep, thinking I’d start my own Istanbul pleasures on the next day. It didn’t occur to me until much later, when my naiveté turned to paranoia, that the guy who questioned me could have been from Interpol, and they were checking me out because I’d delivered the whiskey. They wanted to see if I was up to anything else. All kinds of rumors had circulated while I was crossing on the boat. Swedish hippies had sold their girlfriends to white slavers. There were blood donor clinics, where kids who thought they were selling a pint of blood ended up anaesthetized, all their blood drained, their organs up for auction.

I woke with the first light, stretched, threw my arm across the bed, and hit a guy who had crawled between the covers with me during the night. There were two guys cozy in the other bed too. That’s why it was so cheap. They didn’t rent rooms, they rented spaces in the beds.

I grabbed my pack from the tired old woman who had taken over behind the desk in the morning, and headed for the Haja Sofia neighborhood where I secured a room with two beds. I negotiated a price for all four positions for a couple of weeks. Some ex-pats, looking for a ride to Katmandu, recommended Yener’s Restaurant nearby which they said was cheap and welcomed foreigners. It was a nondescript place on a hill, open to the Bosporus, frequented by a scruffy crowd of European hippies, before they’d taken on the designation of eurotrash. Yener himself was addicted to Romilar, a codeine based cough medicine. As he cooked, and served the food, you saw him tipping back bottles of the sticky stuff. A couple of cops were always there. They kept tabs on the crowd. They sold drugs and occasionally busted one of their clients, just to look on the up and up. It was a double bind. You could get busted also for buying your drugs on the street, instead of from the police. I stopped going to Yener’s not because I didn’t like the company or the food, but because once he realized I wasn’t a junky he tripled my bill. Maybe he had some kind of deal with the cops to draw only traveling druggies to his restaurant.

After that I hung out at pudding shops on the avenue. The smell of rosewater was reassuring. I was happy scribbling away in a notebook, at a table on a shaded patio. I looked up occasionally at the minarets and domes of the Haja Sofia and the Blue Mosque hovering across the way as if about to bubble into the sky. This is nice, I thought. A young girl sat down at the table with me. She wanted to look older, but couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She told me her name was Brigitte. She spoke French quite well, and her English with a French accent. She almost immediately revealed to me that she was British, had run away from her bloody nasty father and sick mother. Perhaps she needed to confess to someone anonymous, otherwise I don’t know why she was confiding in me. She told me she was denying her British identity, and taking on a French one. I never learned her English name. She could have been lying to me; nonetheless, I felt very protective of her. I was indulging myself in travel, was doing so leaving my wife and three kids at home. I was spending some of the advance on my first novel on myself. I was ready to take her on as a penance.

A young, muscular Turkish man sat down with us and laid a wad of money in front of me. It was Turkish Lira and American dollars all bundled together. “How much the girl?” he asked me, looking very serious. I looked from the money to his face. He didn’t crack a smile. “How much?”

I thought he must have been kidding. “I just met her,” I said. “I don’t know what she’s worth yet.” It was a terrible joke.

“How much the girl?” He wasn’t kidding.

Brigitte tried to act blasé but I could feel her fear. She didn’t know either of us.

I lifted both hands in a gesture that I hoped he’d understand as “no deal”. I don’t know what my move meant to him. His look got more serious and sullen. He brought his elbow down on the table and flexed his hand, thrusting his chin towards the girl. He intended to arm wrestle me for her. I touched her back and took her hand and signaled her to get up. The man looked desperate and grim.

“I’ll walk you back to your hotel.”

She stood up without saying anything. I paid the bill, and we started for her hotel. At a certain point, when we turned a corner, I caught a glimpse of the guy. He was following us. I didn’t like it. We stopped. I whirled around to confront the scumbag. I made myself as big as I could, as you are supposed to in the Rockies if you have to confront a mountain lion. I was wearing cowboy boots. My belt had a big, studded buckle. After a few moments the guy retreated. We waited until we were sure he was gone. I left her as she entered the dark lobby of her greasy hotel. We had agreed to meet the next day, but I never saw her again.

My favorite place to stop for lunch for the short time I stayed in Istanbul was a wide-open restaurant on the street that curved down to the Galata Bridge. You felt like you could watch the movement of a large part of the city from there, the pedestrian traffic across the bridge, the ships moving into and out of the Bosporus. They make a flatbread,yufka, like a crepe, they grill on a sac, a kind of flattened wok, over an open fire. They sprinkle it with a helping of beyaz penir, a briny cheese, olive oil, and various savory spices, roll it up, and serve it to you with a glass of buttermilk. It’s happy food. With the fire popping and lively service, everyone is in a good mood. I think I saw my interrogator pass once, looking clean as he did when I first met him. He didn’t stop. I watched for Brigitte to pass. She never did. I went back to her hotel several times and checked with different clerks. “No Brigitte,” they said. “No Brigitte here.”

JERUSALEM

It was a pleasure to settle down to write at the café just inside Herod’s Gate in Old Jerusalem. The people made me feel comfortable and accommodated. The waiter, whose name was Nasr, kept my glass full of sweet tea. He made sure the bowl of the water-pipe was tamped with tobacco and topped with a glowing ember. If I moved to leave the others protested, implored me to stay, even though we hardly ever conversed and I never played shesh-besh. They seemed to enjoy having a writer in the room. That was in 1968, shortly after the six-day war. It’s in the context of my experiences with the people then that I see the bitterness, the hate, the murderous conflict today. A story goes that as soon as the gates were opened after the war the son of the owner of this café rushed into West Jerusalem, immediately met a girl, and became romantically entangled. When she told him she wouldn’t make love to him again until he learned Hebrew, he registered one of the shortest times ever in acquiring a language. He was fluent within three weeks.

One evening I sat with my friend Dorothy in another café in East Jerusalem. You rarely saw women in these cafés, certainly not Arab women, but the men seemed to enjoy having Dorothy there. They liked looking at her short, curly hair, her mannish gestures. She was my buddy in Jerusalem, nothing romantic. They enjoyed talking to a Western woman. I was waiting for Abdul, from whom I was going to buy a “sock” of hashish. I intended to carry this sock back into the States.

We watched the men play shesh-besh (backgammon). The games were loud and animated, the players exclaiming, slapping the table with each roll of the dice. They brewed us a beverage made with hibiscus, cinnamon, cardamom, and other spices. It had a reputation as an aphrodisiac. They watched us with the anticipation of frat boys who had set up a practical joke. Abdul arrived, dressed in a dark suit with a slim black knitted tie on a starched white shirt. He carried a black dispatch case. Every inch of him was businessman. He was young, trim, handsome, with dark, intelligent eyes, a graceful manner, and a ready smile. I liked him. Everyone in the café knew him, and they certainly knew what we were up to.

“My friends,” he said, taking both our hands. He sat at our table. Other people came by and greeted him. We made small talk until finally he focused his dark stare into my eyes. “You want?” He smiled.

“Yes. I want.”

My gut twisted as if through a wringer. Abdul grabbed his dispatch case. He walked to the door, and gestured for me to follow. I suddenly panicked. All the others who stared at me, all the sounds from the games, the weird stuff I’d been drinking, all seemed sinister. “Come on, my friend,” said Abdul, at the door. The “my friend” was ominous. How was he my friend? I looked at Dorothy, as if I needed her to rescue me. “I’ll be okay,” she said. I was sure I wouldn’t be. I could have backed out of the deal, but something stubborn and stupid in me wouldn’t let me do that. I was sweating as if I’d been running miles. I followed Abdul out the door, and into a narrow alleyway. My knees were weak. I didn’t remember what I’d imagined the buy to be like, but this had a specific gravity that made me feel nothing but dread. I would have made a piss-poor criminal.

He led me through the narrowest passageways of the old city deep into the guts of the orient. “Can we stop and do it here?” I asked. “Just come,” he answered. His smile now seemed less friendly than ingratiating. We went deeper, for what seemed to me to be hours, though it was probably less than twenty minutes. It was barely dusk, but some kind of night had already invaded these passages. It felt like my own dark destiny. I would never find my way out of this. Finally he stopped, opened his dispatch case, and lifted out one of the socks that filled it. It was solid, an inch thick, six inches long, about three and a half inches wide, wrapped tightly in a coarse cotton sack, printed with Arabic, and 500G in red near the top center. It was a big pocketful. I fumbled for my wallet, dropped it, scooped it up, and counted out the agreed on price. “Thank you,” he said, and vanished, leaving me to find my way back to Dorothy alone. I went down some stairs, back through the narrow alleys. It was much quicker than getting there. I took some deep breaths before going in to the café. The sock was still in my hand. I didn’t realize it until I reached out to push the door open. I hastily sunk it deep into my pocket. Dorothy was still there. She was playing shesh-besh with a bearded old man. A crowd of enthusiastic spectators engulfed them. They had never seen a woman play the game.

The sock stayed in my pocket. On the Turkish ship from Haifa to Brindisi I paced the deck debating whether or not to toss it into the waves. “Hang on. Don’t be a wimp,” I admonished myself. “You paid for it,” I told myself. “You have to keep it.” “Get rid of it,” I said to myself. It felt comfortable against my thigh all through Italy. As I boarded the plane home from Milan I hardly felt it, like a second wallet. It began to weigh again as I approached customs at Kennedy airport. By the time it was my turn to face the customs officer the sock weighed more than the two bags in my cart. I looked around. The terminal lights were blazing on me. I couldn’t get rid of it now. My three kids, I loved. Jingle, I loved. I had nothing to gain here. I wanted to see them again. I had everything to lose. What was I doing? I didn’t even enjoy smoking hash any more. After the brief euphoria, it made me cranky and lethargic. I wouldn’t keep it. I would give it all away, to friends, to strangers. If only I could stop sweating. The customs agent was looking right through me. “Can’t you fucking stop sweating?” I told myself, as I answered the few questions. You are not cool, Katz. That’s what I found out about myself at customs.

That’s why I write this to you from my prison, to alert you to the perils of Abdul. He is an honest businessman, but do not buy the sock of hash that Abdul offers. His price might be fantastic. He seems genuinely friendly. I tell you, however, that commerce with him leads to disaster, right to your private prison. I am responsible for my own distress. If any of you finds your way to Jerusalem, and it is still an option to relax at the café just inside Herod’s Gate, greet Nasr for me. Give him a kiss. If you run into Dorothy, give her my best. She might have moved on, but maybe not. She has built a great reputation as a woman who will play shesh-besh in a café against a man. But these days, like Isabel Eberhardt in the early twentieth century, I think she dresses and travels as a man. And these days I’m sure she carries a knife.

JEWBOY

I get the email from the chair of the English Department that they, with the Department of Jewish Studies, have scored for the University of Colorado a collection of 11,000 volumes of fiction by Jewish authors of the twentieth century. There’s a substantial list of my books in that collection. I panic. What’s worse is that they ask me to read from the work at the celebration for this acquisition. Holy moley, thinks I, maybe I ought to turn around, skirt the block the other way. The Fanwoods are coming. That’s the Irish gang from across Broadway in Washington Heights. Most of them went to Incarnation, a Catholic school. We heard they still taught there that the Jews killed Christ. If you get caught alone by a patrolling band of Fanwoods they feel free to kick the crap out of you. It happened to me several times. I wrote about this in my novel, Florry Of Washington Heights. It comes down like this: I’m carrying home a couple of bags of groceries. A squad of these Fanwoods trots around the corner and they see me. There’s six or seven of them. They surround me. The littlest kid steps up into my face.

“You a Jew?”

In a situation like this, pride is not the issue. Survival first. “No.”

“What are you?”

“Unitarian. I’m a Unitarian.”

“Okay,” one of the older kids pipes up. “Then recite the catechism.”

“There is no…” Before I can get the sentence out they start to wail on me. News of the Holocaust has filtered into the neighborhood. Violence always licenses violence. They smack the grocery bags out of my arms. Cans and oranges scatter across the courtyard. I take a shot to the face and kicks at my legs. A heavy kid in combat boots stomps on my foot but I don’t go down. I do start to cry. I want to fight back, but don’t know how against so many.

“Stop,” one of them says. “He’s crying.” A compassionate Irish kid. The Fanwoods evaporate like mist down 173rd Street. I don’t think they were totally anti-Semitic. Some of my best friends are Irish. It’s an aspect of Irish sensuality. They enjoy to beat people up, and Jews is a great excuse.

So my gut response to the request for my performance is to duck into a doorway, because here come the Fanwoods. Secondly, I think, I’m not a Jewish-American author. I’m an American author who happens to be Jewish; but as many have said, you don’t get to decide how Jewish you are for yourself. It’s up to Hitler. I’m certainly not like the divine Bernard Malamud, nor the shtetlicious Isaac Singer, nor Philip Roth who profits from flattering Jewish male academics and intellectuals by excavating their lusts and angst. Best for me to hide from the Fanwoods. The e-mail informs me there will be no remuneration. That’s usually the score for artists. If I’m a failed football coach I’ll get a million dollar contract, or if I’m a big financial CFO who had screwed the economy, I’ll get a huge bonus. I tell them my fee is $1000, and that queers the deal. They thank me, but can’t afford me. You betcha!

My family in Washington Heights is hardly religious or observant, though occasionally some Yiddish words fly around the apartment. We aren’t members of a synagogue. When I am barely beyond toddler, I think it is around Purim, or maybe Thanksgiving, we get a call that uncle Izzy, my mother’s half brother, a grizzled old veteran of the garment district, is about to visit because he has no place to go for the holiday. He is called the shrayer, famous for screaming in grief at funerals, as he threatens to leap from a window. My mother panics. He is Orthodox. He lives kosher. She is baking a ham. We huddle, and decide we have to describe the meat as corned beef. The apartment air is a perfume of sugar cured pig. As he comes through the door uncle Izzy remarks at how delicious everything smells. He eats seconds and thirds and as he leaves he kisses everyone and thanks us for the best corned beef he has ever tasted.

At nine years old I decide to check out Judaism, and sign myself up against my mother’s wishes for Hebrew school at an Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood, and I spend half a year at kiddy bible studies, and learning the Hebrew alphabet. Kids are required to wear tsitsis, an undergarment with a tasseled fringe that often hangs out over the belt. This makes it too easy for the Fanwoods to certify you as Jew, so that and the total boredom of Sunday school ends my synagogue interlude. My mother can’t afford the Bar Mitzvah, which is just as well with me, but she manages to get me a free ride to confirmation at Temple Emanuel on Fifth Avenue. I resent in my pre-adolescent wildness being the poor kid in the Sunday school bunch, and often I continue on the number four bus down to Forty-Second Street where I go to a piss perfumed movie, or hang out at Bickford’s or Hubert’s Flea Circus, where fleas climb ladders, or at Grants where all shapes and colors of people eat nineteen cent hamburgers, where the religion is sleaze and I feel comfortable.

Cousin Herbie is the genius of the family, said to have graduated Harvard at seventeen. He eventually becomes Head of the Department of Internal Medicine at Belleview. Dr. Herbert Gershberg. During the Second World War he serves in the Medical Corps, and is one of the first into Buchenwald, along with Margaret Bourke-White. He returns with a folder full of her photographs, which he brings to a family gathering. I am deemed too young to look at them. When I finally get a chance to see these published I realize that anyone still alive is too young to look at them. When I self-publish The Lestriad in southern Italy, I sent copies to several people in the family, Herbie among them. After we get back from three years in Italy we pay Herbie a visit. I think his Swiss wife, Helga, is exotic and cool. Herbie tells me I don’t have the stuff. I’ll never come near interesting him as much as his favorite writer, Bennet Cerf. He tells me I should go back to school and learn a trade.

At the end of my senior year at Cornell I marry Pat Bell, rodeo queen of Winnemucca, Nevada, a sculptor. Her dad is Catholic, her mother Quaker, Christian Scientist, and etc. Though the attending physician at her birth, Dr. Weiss, was a Jew, the Jewish person in Winnemucca at the time, Pat (affectionately called Jingle) doesn’t know anything about Jews and lives with her roommate at Cornell for six months before she discovers the woman is Jewish. From studying intensely photographs of Michelangelo’s Moses she believes Jews have horns. She notices that I don’t. Jingle has primed herself to have kids from the time she was four and immediately drops three sons into the world as if out of her armpits. She is conscientious about giving them a taste of their Jewish heritage, and learns to make excellent gefülte fish, borscht, matzoballs, etc., all of which she presents in her unique encyclopedia of cooking and gardening, The Craft Of The Country Cook. She insists we do Passover, have a Seder, for which she makes the fish, the charoses, and etc. Once in Eugene, Oregon, we invite our friend, David Stannard to our mild Seder. He is a Quaker, a great potter, student of Bernard Leach. When it comes to celebrating the plagues rained down on the Egyptians, a moment in the Seder which the kids love, David is so astonished and offended that he flees the room.

The first time I walk into a classroom as a professor at The University of Notre Dame and look into the faces around the table I think, “Holy Shit, the enemy. The fighting Irish. Fanwoods!” Each classroom has a crucifix above the door, a circumsized guy hanging from it. To introduce myself I explain that the only person who might understand how I grew up is hanging there, and I point at the cross above the door. The kids look confused. They don’t get it, and I don’t push it. I have a good time at Notre Dame. Father Hesburgh makes it feel small c catholic. When my two years are up I get a letter from the English Department refusing me tenure. The communication starts more or less, “Even if you weren’t a Jewish novelist we would not….” I don’t even know I am being considered for tenure. The word isn’t in my vocabulary yet. I want to get away from teaching as soon as anything else shows up that can support me and my kids. I burn the letter, unfortunately. Lawyer friends tell me that could have been litigable. I am naive. In South Bend I make my own tofu. I never think about litigation. I think only about explaining to them that I am not a Jewish novelist, but an American writer who happens to be Jewish.

For a while in Denver I consort with a Jewish woman who does counseling and fundraising for Catholic charities. Occasionally she gets me to accompany her to synagogue for the high holidays. It has been a long time and I am curious to see how this will affect me. I am uncomfortable, as I am at most social networking scenes. It is all about who is there, and being seen. I get no spiritual charge from it. In Denver she introduces me to a good friend of hers from Berkeley, an Episcopalian woman, who is perhaps the wealthiest woman in Denver. We occasionally go to her house for dinner or a party. On almost every occasion the hostess would ask if we are uncomfortable as Jewish people here with all these Christians. It seemed like such a weird question, that never comes up in other contexts in my life. It immediately separates us from the rest of the invitees. I am usually riding in my friend’s sidecar, so I never say what I think, but the question itself was my only discomfort. This strikes me as soft anti-Semitism, veiled as tolerance. A few Jews allowed.

David Markson’s wonderful novels locate him clearly as a Jewish-American author. One of the tropes of his Reader’s Block, a 1996 bittersweet prose catalog of the author’s cognitive sweep, is the naming of antiSemites. Shaw, Yeats, Kant, Pushkin, Hemingway, Voltaire, Chesterton, Heidegger, Cummings, Lowell, Stevens, Eliot, James, Lawrence, Stravinsky, Baldwin, Gide, Santanyana, Chekov, Degas, Mencken, Jung, Kipling, Tchaikowsky, Genet, Mussorsky, all are named, and many others. Some of these figures I admire unconditionally. The book makes me sweat. What’s going on? Who are these Fanwoods in our world of intellect and pain? Anti-Semitism is some dark nascent juggernaut, the menace shifting in the lightless room. Why am I maligned only for being who I am? The answer is because as I am, I am a Jew.

Recently in Guadalajara I take a stroll in the center of the city, towards revolution park. It is sunny and warm. Rain clouds boil up to the West. Along the promenade people shop. Parents relax on the benches as their kids romp around them. One lanky US ex-pat in a cowboy hat beckons me to his bench. He tells me it isn’t hard to peg me as American. He talks up a gathering every morning of US ex-pats in the nearby McDonald’s. There they solve all the problems of the world. I can count on the fingers of half a hand the number of times I’ve been to McDonald’s — once in Rome, where a lot of young Italians hang out because Ronald doesn’t make you pay a premium for sitting at a table, and once in Pierre, South Dakota because I was hungry after 9 P.M. Most of the McBreakfast philosophers are retired G.I.’s who find their retirement money goes way further in Mexico. There are six at the tables and a small, shifting contingent of Mexicans who like to practice their English. Everyone sips coffee, nibbles their egg McMuffins, and gripes about various situations up North.

“Here comes Charlie,” someone says. Charlie is an older guy with a tumor on his left cheek the size of half his head. He sits down and the conversation immediately gets serious, more focused. The talk turns to the characteristics of ethnicities — Mexican, Chinese, Vietnamese, Italian, Japanese. Everyone has some group to size up, and a restaurant to recommend. When Charlie starts to speak the rest quiet down. He obviously loves to pontificate. He launches out of the right side of his mouth into what must be his favorite subject — Jews. His is a tone of ultimate authority.

“The Jewish people,” says Charlie, his voice distorted by the tumor that paralyzes half his mouth, “Never eat vegetables. That’s why they always die at sixty years old or younger.” Poor Charlie. I don’t argue, don’t want to disturb the tilt of his curious presentation.

“How old are you, Steve?” he asks me. I tell him I am seventy. “If you were Jewish, Steve, you would be dead ten years already because you wouldn’t have benefited from eating the vegetables. The Jewish people eat meat, some bread and some fish, but never any vegetables. That’s the truth about the Jewish people.” Charlie looks around at a youngish Mexican woman coming in the door. “Uh oh. The wife,” he says, and leaves the table.

This chaserei of moments floats up like carrots in the chicken soup when I learn my books are represented in this rich collection gathered by Daniel Liebowitz. I thank him for paying attention. It’s difficult to get any attention in this era of Creative Writing bureaucracies. I’ve written about some of these bits elsewhere in my book of Memoirrhoids called Time’s Wallet, but here I’ve folded them all into one large kreplach to present at the celebration of the collection, foregoing any fee. Zay gesunt.

JEWTOWN

The first time I see the sign for Jewtown the word hits my medulla with a thud. This is one of the stops the traghetto makes that ferries people around Cochin. What? Jewtown? Fuck my mama and all the ghosts of relatives in Baba Yar. Before the state of Israel a large Jewish population lived in Cochin. The synagogue there, which is now out of use, was built in the first century A.D., was the first and the largest in Asia. We all go to see this synagogue. There are a few Jews left, but not enough to make a minion, hold a service. Phil comes, as I do, from an ethnically Jewish family. He asks me if I feel anything after seeing the place. A vague twinge in my roots, I explain. “I don’t have any feeling for this,” Phil says. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” Phil has for years practiced yoga, studied Tibetan Buddhism. The building, which is spacious and full of light, is maintained for tourists, who then do a little shopping for antiques in Jewtown.

I stay for a few days after my friends leave. Just to eat the thalis at the vegetarian restaurants is enough reason to linger in Cochin. The servers fill your bowls over and over with savory preparations, until your appetite surrenders. I get a chance to see the Kathakali again perform at a temple festival in Ernakulum. I am psyched to learn how the group works in the community outside their school. Their performance is the culmination of the festival. I know of no religious celebrations as gaudy and entertaining as what the Hindus produce. It’s a cross between solemn worship and circus. Here are dancers, acrobats, jugglers, huge elephants decorated like wedding cakes, plate spinners on stilts. The musical accompaniment is a great noise — drums, tambourines, horns. Incense thickens the air. This is only a small temple, but the display goes way beyond Fellini. Once the elephants saunter off down the road, the clowns disappear into the alleys, people settle down in the dust behind the temple, by a small stage. I sit with a couple from the States, touring India on their honeymoon. The performance is to be a popular story from the Mahabharata, about a husband with too many wives. We capture the interest of a ragged boy, slightly deformed. His face twists into an empty grin and he drools onto the front of his burlap shirt. He circles us. The sound he makes could be language. He wants to communicate, to help us, I think, and keeps pointing at the stage, trying to touch us, withdrawing nervously.

“No no no no no! You must not touch him. Don’t touch him,” says a man who had been eyeing us. He is dressed in a brown robe and skullcap, a stocky burgher type of guy. He shoos the boy away as if he is a stray dog. I don’t think he does this because he thinks the kid is contagious, but rather because he is Dalit, or untouchable. I don’t ask. The performance begins with dancers teasing from behind the curtain. One of the curtain-holders, I notice, is the French woman from the school. All of the man’s wives are played by male dancers.

“You can come with me to my house, yes,” says the man in the brown robe.

I look at my two American friends. “We’re here to watch the performance,” I explain.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. The dancers will be here all night. I will take you to my house. Here people come and go.”

The three of us look at each other. “You come, yes, to my house,” the man insists. We shrug and stand up. It’s not that we aren’t curious. The performance is slowly progressing. All five wives pose and dance in unison, their facial expressions sweetly feminine. The man of the American couple is tall, and standing next to him our Indian friend, who seems substantial when we are sitting down, appears tiny.

We follow our host out of the buoyant light of the performance space and into the heavy darkness down the street. I try to memorize the route so we are sure to find our way back. There are too many turns. The darkness is ominous. The way seems more illuminated to our host, who shouts at his neighbors as he struts by with us in tow. He is, as far as I can gather, bragging to them about taking these Americans to visit his home. We pause at his doorway. He shouts something through the door, and when it finally opens his wife and another woman stand grinning in a dim yellow light. He doesn’t introduce us to the women, leads us into his parlor, proudly pointing at the T-V, gray and white, with a persistent forward roll, and a distinct crackle every time the musician hits the strings of his veena. He sits us down on some stools, facing the screen. The room smells, as much of the neighborhood does, of curry and excrement. “Television,” says our host, very proud.

“The death of Kathakali,” I think.

“Very good, television,” he says.

His wife and the other woman bring in trays of tea and sweets. The tea is milky and tepid. I don’t dare taste it. I bite into a sweet lump, gummy as Turkish Delight. It sticks to my palate and the back of my teeth. The three of them stand in the doorway of the parlor content to watch us sip, eat, and watch the television, very good. The point seems to be having us there, and watching us. There is no attempt at conversation. I feel pressured by the hospitality, but resist sipping the tea. My companions don’t, however, and each of them swallows a few sips.

Our host guides us part of the way back, and points us towards the Kathakali light above the gloom of the streets. He goes back to his television, very good. We settle down to watch the performance, very very good. After less than an hour my friends stand up. The tea has quickly done its damage. They look pale and greenish. I don’t want them to leave me there as the lone tourist, but they stagger off to a pedal cab waiting on the road. I am glad I resisted the tea. I hope they’re okay. Just a few of the townspeople are left as an audience, the rest are probably gone to their televisions, very good. Our little Dalit boy is asleep close to the stage. I watch the performance until I fall asleep, and then wake up as dawn is cracking. The performance has wound down to one narrator. Only a couple of people remain in the audience, one of them asleep, the other eating rice out of a tin pail. The boy still sleeps. I stand up, and feel I should say goodbye to the performers, as if some kind of formality can help me exit the experience. I say nothing. My plane leaves that afternoon. I wake up a pedal cab driver to take me to the wharf. It’s too early for the ferry to Bolghatty Island so I hire a water taxi. “Take me to Jewtown first,” I tell the driver. I just wanted to hear myself say that, “Take me to Jewtown.”

KATHAKALI

To get to Cochin from Madras we take an India Airlines flight. A few days later we hear that the same plane has crashed. A patron of Phil’s arranged a private performance for us of Kathakali Dance at their school in Cheruthuruthy. We have reserved cabins at the Bolghatty Palace Hotel in Cochin. The hotel and cabins are on an island that serves as a public park and game preserve in the Ernakulum district of the city. Cochin, like Venice, Suzhou, Stockholm, Amsterdam, is situated on water, and you get around much of it by boat. Along the shores of the many islands, and up the web of estuaries, wide fishing nets arch over the water, attached to long poles. If you are in a boat on one of the estuaries often a fisherman will pull up beside you to show off a prawn as long as your forearm. You can’t call them shrimps any more. From the Bolghatty Island you take a small ferry into Ernakulum, or Cochin City. In the morning a little door lifts from under the bench, and the boat’s beggar slithers out. He’s a cheerful guy, with a dark, handsome face. He pulls himself around on his arm stumps, a beggar’s cup in his teeth, and greets everyone. Occasionally he lays the cup on a bench, and yaks with the boat crew. Until the ferry shuts down at midnight he works the crowds, then he crawls back under the bench to sleep.

We hire two cars and drivers to take us to Cheruthuruthy. Since Phil is received as a patron we get to go behind the scenes to watch the dancers put on their make-up. Each dancer does his own. It’s a time-consuming, elaborate ritual. The result is precise and colorful, specific to character. Performances start around 10 P.M. on an outdoor stage, after the heat of the day has dissipated. They go until four or five in the morning, performing stories from the Mahabharata or Bhagavad Gita. Though the troupe is traditionally all male, with males in drag dancing the female roles, at the time we are there three young French dancers, one of them a woman, are studying at the school. After three years of study, the young woman is allowed to play bit parts. Kathakali dance is very subtle and very precise. Most of the movement is in the face and hands. The dancers train for many years to isolate facial muscles and to move them independently, coordinated with the music and story line. At the same time they tell the story with complicated mudhras (hand positions). The “private” performance means that Phil and his friends get to sit close to the stage on folding chairs. By the time the performance begins a throng of local people has gathered on the grass all around us.

Two dancers step into the light, and between themselves extend and hold high a rippling cloth that makes a curtain. Light plays off the cloth. A small consort of musicians enters and sounds a kind of overture, while dancers tease the audience from behind the curtain, peeking around it, lifting the cloth with a bare foot, showing a hand, the top of a head. A singer begins to tell the story about to be enacted, singing in the liquid syllables of Malayalam. None of us understands a word. The rest of the audience already knows the story. Once the dancers break through the curtain and start to tell it in posture, hand gesture, and controlled facial twitch, the narrative begins to reveal itself and slowly make sense. As the performance winds into the early morning, each of us occasionally dozes off, and that seems to be part of the drill. You startle awake into the midst of the thrall of this powerful theatrical experience. The music, the poses, the mudhras, the make-up, the ingenious uses of the curtain, the precision and training of the dancers, the repetitions and increments of the story, all combine to awaken in your marrow that core of wonder that great theater evokes.

LICKS

The Jaguar’s tongue rasped across my face. I woke up but never saw the big cat. By the time I was conscious enough to open my eyes it was gone. Whether this was the same beast I thought I’d seen at the window of the bunkhouse is an open question. I call it Jaguar because as a child I’d read all the Bomba the Jungle Boy series and Bomba always dealt with the mysterious Jaguar. As far as we know there are no Jaguars in the Rockies. I couldn’t call it a lion and diminish the African lion’s great size nor misrepresent my Jaguar, who is solitary and doesn’t lie around as king of the jungle, snoring in his pride, living off a work force of lionesses. Panther, too, seemed inappropriate, since Pinkie, the camp cook, was the one I took to be the big cat I’d seen the other night in the bunkhouse window. Pinkie Panther, no way. Puma is a brand of athletic gear. Okay, Jaguar is an overpriced and unreliable British luxury car, but I still think of Bomba with affection.

I fell into the affections of the cat because of the nature of my job. As fire lookouts, Jingle and I were obliged to observe incoming storms, and to record the locations of lightning strikes. My responsibility was to go to any strike within a mile or two of the tower and contain the fire until a crew could get there. Early that afternoon we saw a brief puff of smoke from a strike nearby. I packed my shovel, axe, pulaski, a couple of jugs of water, some snacks, and set off to the find the fire. I took a compass reading, noted what landmarks I could identify, and lurched out over a rockslide and boulder field across country into the forest. It was steep, rugged terrain.

The storm that threw the lightning had passed. Sky was crisp and blue, a smatter of clouds. The smell of ozone and smoke haunted the air. I got to what I’d calculated to be the position of the fire in a little over an hour. It was a rough scramble. My clothes were soaked with sweat, and the tools weighed heavily on my belt and back. I found no fire. For several hours I criss-crossed the heavily wooded mountainside, and hardly noticed that it was getting dark. I wanted to find the damned fire. At a certain point I realized that night would come before I could start back. I stopped and snacked on dried figs and nuts. It was turning cold. My drying sweat chilled me to the bone. I cut a few branches for a bed and lay down, and pulled the duff around me for warmth. Coyotes sang their excellent laments in the distance, and close by an owl whooed. The next thing I remember was the rasp of the Jaguar’s tongue that woke me up. Its breath was sweet and acrid.

I started back at dawn, feeling failure for never finding the fire, but exhilaration from the affections of the Jaguar. I’d never heard of such a thing happening to someone else. Jingle came down the tower steps and embraced me when I got back. I heard Brendan, the ranger, over the radio.

“Do you see a big fire? It should be to the Northeast.”

I looked out from the lookout and saw nothing.

“No. And I never found the strike we marked.”

“That’s okay. We’ll keep an eye on the point from the air. Are you sure you don’t see anything? It’s huge. Look past Kelly’s Thumb.”

I looked. “No. I don’t see anything.”

“Strange,” Brendan said. “Thousands of acres. Well, okay then. Brendan, over and out.”

“Ten-four.”

Once we broke contact, I saw the smoke. There had been so much of it I took it for a weather system, a bank of clouds coming in.

“Did you see it?” I asked Jingle.

“Yeah. I smelled it first.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I was so glad to see you because when you didn’t show up last night, I was worried. I wanted to touch you first.”

The thrill of gratitude when someone you love tells you she has worried about you is very great. I remember that, but even more I remember the smooch of the Jaguar’s tongue. Many of us enjoy how the first kiss of the person we know we will marry lingers as a palimpsest on the lips. Or some remember what it feels like after a fight, the first time they get smashed in the face. So does the sensation of the Jaguar licking across my sleeping eyes remain embedded in my skin as if memory.

LINEBACKER

As I watched a quarter of Boston College football I wondered if their talented young linebacker, Mark Herzlich, was related to my old grade school/junior high chum, Eric Herzlich. This kid was quick, had great anticipation, and rarely missed a tackle. The pros would definitely be interested. Eric himself never seemed athletic, wasn’t a member of our New York Bullets social and athletic club. I often went to his house to hang out with him and Bert Schwarzschild. He lived on Pinehurst Avenue, north of the entrance to the George Washington Bridge. His father was a serious European. He sat in the dark apartment in an easy chair reading books in German. Nothing below Schopenauer, I imagine. He didn’t like the tumult of teenage boys, and disapproved of whatever we were doing. He frequently looked up from his book and threw scowls our way, the way football refs throw their yellow flags. My major transaction with Eric was to trade my wax 78 of Jose Iturbi playing a Chopin Polonaise for a 78 of Charlie Parker’s “Buzzy,” with “Warming Up A Riff” on the flip side. His father wouldn’t let Eric play Bird in the house, and probably wasn’t welcoming to any other jazz. He almost launched a smile in approval of the trade; of course, I knew that I’d got the best of the deal.

These memories turned up after I got an email from Bert Schwarzs-child, former Bullet, erstwhile inventor of the imperative “Be Dere!” that he put out over the phones to alert us to scheduled games. He has been a long time editor of Physics Today. He is an actor and raconteur who had memorized in German all the ranting speeches of Adolf Hitler, and could perform an impression of the fiend at will. Bert is an intrepid tracker of the lives of all our buddies in Washington Heights. In the email he mentioned that the very Mark Herzlich I’d been curious about was Eric’s grandson, and he’d been diagnosed in his brawny youth with bone cancer. “Sobering news,” Bert remarked. Indeed sobering! I felt horrible for him, so physically gifted, to feel the bite of the axe so young. My feelings were weirdly extenuated by the fact that his grandfather had once been my buddy, though I haven’t seen him since High School, and by the fact that I’d recently done my own dance with cancer. I knew something of what the kid was facing.

My response could have been more specific, I thought, since I had asked myself questions about the kid, but the feeling was generalized into the horror, and my compassion for the millions dying young on this wide planet of dread. In the same email Bert put my pet number, 137, the fine structure constant, in the context of string theory. He explained that string theory advocates, like Leonard Susskind, who has written some popular books on the subject, like to speculate that these “non-dimensional” constants, are established arbitrarily, as if at a crap-shoot, at the instant of the big bang, and that there are many big bangs, each one with an arbitrary set of non-dimensional constants and a different physics. What a deal. I think these notions color somehow my sympathies for Herzlich and his grandson, and how I fold them into this wallet of pain. The two bits of information in the one email are powerfully coordinated for me. I don’t understand how or why, except to speculate forever into futility. It’s all a crap-shoot in an alley, and we’re led into it blindfolded, and we never get to warm the dice.

Mark Herzlich, however, beat the terrible C, but didn’t play for the Giants in the playoffs because of injury; but as his grandfather said to me, “Wait till next year.” That’s exactly what I’m doing.

LINNE

On humid nights the mosquito rules. Linne drew them to herself like filings to a magnet. When we slept they rarely buzzed me, but gathered massively on Linne’s pale skin. She was visiting me in Cape Breton. We slept without bug repellent or protection in a tiny crude cabin George had built the year before. He and family came up for a summer from New York. I cut trees for boards from a dying woods, and ripped them lengthwise with a chain saw, a dangerous system. I could easily have lost a leg. I told him he was building too close to the edge. After three summers, undermined by groundwater, the cabin tumbled down the embankment towards the ocean. In bed Linne covered herself as best she could with sheets and blankets but the mosquitoes found her anyway, drawn by their lust for her rich Alabama blood. I didn’t recognize her extreme discomfort, and she didn’t complain, as if she accepted mosquito torment as part of the cost of being with me. It wasn’t the first time I’d been insensitive and stupid. Linne told me later that she ran a fever on the way home, and fainted while changing planes at Logan, because of her burden of mosquito bites.

I admired how gracefully Linne engaged any social situation. At the time I directed the University of Colorado Creative Writing Program. She was never my student, but was an aspiring poet. Though she was twenty years younger than I, she easily endured socializing with administration, faculty, graduate students, my ex and my kids, who were close to her age, my artist friends in Chicago and New York. There was a lightness, something comic about her social ease. No matter what the age range of the group, she managed to finesse a congenial interaction. Though she was beautiful and stylish, her looks never seemed to intrude on her gracious nature. I attributed this to a precocious maturity that I loved in her, and felt it justified my being with her. Eventually I realized that it was manners that got her through, exquisite southern manners bred into her through family and southern custom. Her father had been mayor of Birmingham, and at the time was president of The University of Northern Alabama.

Her family kept a full grown male African lion as a mascot for the university. It prowled in a barn next to her house. She visited it frequently. I imagine she needed good manners on those visits.

Our love teetered on a platform of sand, and when the illusion collapsed so did I sink into the fens of midlife crisis. Though I understood it as a natural tropism that an Autumn-Spring love affair almost always drifts you towards the break-up, prior knowledge never softens the blow of an emotional calamity. I became the perpetually crying professor. I wept in the classroom when students presented their stories of relationship glitches. Emotional reality became totally the world of sad country songs. Irony had no value, only the miserable truth. Love, impossible. Relationship, impossible. Jim Kimball, professor of philosophy, giant of compassion, political activist, ignoble drunk, from the South himself, consoled me with stories of the treacheries of Southern womanhood. Julia Frey, Ron Sukenick’s wife, who is from Louisville, Kentucky tried to parse for me the Southern woman. I didn’t want explanation. I just wanted her back. At least I thought that was what I wanted. Julia gave me a book by Rosemarie Danielle, Fatal Flowers: Sex, Sin, and Suicide In The Deep South. It told the whole story. Though it was a potboiler of cheap pop psychology, I clung to it as a bible. This was one time in my life when I might have found a therapist useful, though I didn’t buy one.

Linne returned to the South. I’d always been fearful of going there with her, to Florence, Alabama. By coincidence I’d already written something in my book, Moving Parts, some scenes set in South Tennessee, near Florence, before I met Linne. I never would have had the courage to show up there, the middle-aged Jewish writer guy from New York City cohabiting with the young Alabama beauty. Meet the family? Dinner at the Country Club?

At first I thought she left for a short trip, to see her ailing father. She had taken some classes from Kumar, one of my martial arts teachers. He gave lessons in Chinese massage, tutored her in a hot tub and came on to her there. She finessed him away. Of course maybe with a gun I could have done something, but I would have been helpless against his monstrous abilities. At first I was clueless about her abandonment, but when I finally got it I inundated her with letters, hoping to bring her back by inscribing magic words. I doubt she even read them. Perhaps things might have happened differently had we married, (she mentioned it more than once) had children, what Zorba called “the whole catastrophe.” I’d already raised three kids so I’d done my share to advance the species. I had taken a vasectomy. To marry her would have been only selfish, eventually not very fulfilling for Linne. I gazed at some pictures I took on the road to Canyon de Chelles, of herself diving into a watermelon we had bought, plump lips attacking the red pulp, black seeds stuck to her cheeks. That was a happy time. I virtually prayed to these snapshots every day. No magic worked. It was a predictable situation. The reason the young one is attracted to the older one — accomplishment, maturity, stability — becomes the cause of the young one’s feeling stifled. It starts as admiration and love, then finishes with a sense of entrapment. This can happen too in “normal” relationships. To me it felt like a huge vacuum sucked my heart and spirit dry.

She met an atheist lawyer back in Alabama, who owned ten acres of cotton. When she finally wrote to me she described how beautiful it was to wake up in the morning and look out at the sunrise over a field of cotton. Cotton, you betcha. She then moved to New York, into an apartment on Third Ave and Twelfth Street. Bobbie Guillot, her brother, lived in a loft in Brooklyn. He was a sculptor who had graduated from Yale where he’d studied with Richard Serra. Richard said great things about his work. I visited Linne once in her apartment, and Bobbie, whom I liked a lot, I visited several times. Linne came to a party for Guest Editor, a short-lived journal I edited once in New York. I thought she might have come to see me, but she kissed me on the cheek, looked over the crowd, and said, “Who’s here?” then turned away and worked the room. One time I ran into Linne on the street outside her job on 53rd Street. She was about to be married to a French pastry chef, who had been a sous-chef at La Tour D’Argent in Paris. I cattily repeated something that a Spaniard once said to me in Barcelona. “Why do you spend time with the French, Estaban? They are so dry.”

They opened a pastry shop on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. I got a note from her inviting me, after they changed locations to lower Manhattan, for a taste of lemon tart. I never went. My last image of her is from her picture in the Living Section of the Times. It accompanied an article about her shop, a shot of herself dropping a croissant into a bag. Her crooked posture and the slightly bothered expression on her face was too familiar. She looked charitably unattractive.

LIONEL FREQUENTLY

Lionel stops the car between floors. He slowly pivots to look at me, his hand in his pocket. We are alone in the elevator, an old-style lift manually operated, with an accordion folding gate and a brass gizmo to work the car up and down. He is one of the few blacks working at Rothschild’s department store, the elevator operator and general gofer. Lionel is a lovable guy, radiant smile, always telling jokes, well-liked by customers and fellow employees. I am the shipping clerk, a job I have taken while Jingle finishes her degree in sculpture at Cornell. Rothschild’s is the only department store in town. I am confident of my shipping clerk skills from the training I got working after school in New York for Carl Henry Tobacco near Union Square. This is the Christmas season. I wrap and ship a record number of packages, and am done by 4:30, more than two hours sooner than anyone else has ever done. I am the greatest shipping clerk of all time.

Rather than praising me for my accomplishment I notice that everyone is pissed at me, from the store manager on down. They expect some extra hours of overtime around Christmas, to be affected partially by the shipping slowdown. Maybe that is why, thinks I, Lionel has stopped the elevator between floors. His hand slips from his pocket. palming a switchblade as long as his face. I stare into his smile. He snaps the blade open. Suddenly I feel like the totally white guy stuck between floors with the black guy swinging a blade. I see no escape for me.

“I’m going to cut you long, wide, and frequently,” Lionel says.

Is this retribution for my demonstrating that I am the world’s swiftest shipping clerk? Maybe I should return to the shipping alcove and unwrap some packages, wrap and unwrap until midnight.

I think I am terrified. Lionel is not usually a scary person, but I don’t know any other response. This is before I’ve had any martial arts training. I have no hope of taking the knife away from him. I can hear my sweat glands opening. I need to throw up. I never enjoy being hurt, and getting stabbed could be a big hurt. Lionel cheerfully waves his blade in the air, slicing, thrusting.

“Cut you long, wide, and frequently.”

He relishes my reaction, enjoys my sweating. The callboard on the elevator buzzes and buzzes. I say something. “You don’t have to cut me, Lionel,” I say, and then I say, “I think Ozark is freezing, my dog.” A non sequitur, but it is brutally cold in Ithaca this winter. We live in an old stone house near a state park. I worry about my little, shorthaired dog. She stays outside, in her own house. She could freeze.

“That’s alright.” Lionel plays his blade around with his wrist, shakes his head, grins, folds the knife and drops it back in his pocket. He levers the elevator down to the basement, close to the crannies of my shipping department.

“Hello, elevator,” says Ernie who waits for a ride up with a cart of shoeboxes and underwear. Ernie is a simple-minded guy, short, no neck. He stocks shelves. He greets everything with his “hello”. “Hello work,”

“Hello shipping,” “Hello shoes,” “Hello house,” “Hello wife.” He has nothing else to say. He pushes his cart onto the elevator. “Hello third floor. Hello going up.” As he shuts the gate, Lionel smiles at me some more. “Long, wide, and frequently,” he says. “Hello frequently,” says Ernie, as the car rises and disappears.

LOOK OUT LOOK IN

THEN I sat at an old table, handmade out of wide boards maybe in the twenties, stained traditional ox blood, a knothole punched out of one of the boards. Myles Kehoe sold me this table, at his store called Myles From Nowhere, in Margaree Forks. That it was hand made a generation before me perhaps makes the table more palpable in my memory. Memory attests only in the “now,” and “now” runs continuously forward into the past, reenters only as a glyph of nostalgia, need, desire, disappointment, delusion, celebration. I wrote with pencil on a yellow legal pad, scribbling out many of these Memoirrhoids, and many works previous to these; in fact, much of this “Look Out Look In” was first written from that outpost. I sat on a chair that I bought in Port Hawkesbury at a used furniture store, or maybe at Levine’s Used Stuff in Sydney. Myles said it was of a design called the chicken coop chair, difficult to find any more. While I was writing I often looked through the window that faced Margaree Island, sometimes called Sea Wolf Island. A lighthouse and keeper’s cottage stood on the island. Once a couple tended the light. Alistair MacLean describes their fate as they tried to cross to the mainland on the ice. They were replaced by an automated system, the batteries replenished by helicopter. That light now has been extinguished.

I watched the ocean all the time. The Memoirrhoids seemed to breach like whales. Sometimes the water was quiet, abalone green, transparent as a pool, but often it swelled and its milky froth clamored against the wind. Waves continue to crash in my mind, though no specific wave. The island disappeared sometimes in the mists, or rose like the toque on the head of a jazz drummer (say Art Blakey) in the distant thunder. I lofted with the gulls, especially when commercial fishing was still allowed and fish guts supported battalions of scavenging birds. They flew by my window in long populations in August as fledglings left the nests to practice flight. Cormorants beat and skimmed the water, then clumsied up and away in lines. Acrobatic troupes of ravens tested the wind as trapeze and trampoline. Bald eagle drifted down the shoreline, occasionally beat its wings,

shrugged off the ravens that harassed it. Great blue herons stood in the tidal pools for hours, and waited for a glimmer, a flash of food. Marsh hawk (harrier) skimmed the surface of the trees. The wind in the alders flapped the leaves from dark to pale green. Two yearling bucks, with fuzz on their antlers, and one elder with a wide rack, came up from the shore where they had been licking the rocks for salt. The blackfish, pothead pilot whales, passed in a line, stitching through the waves. Fishing boats, when there still were fish to catch, motored out early in the morning, and returned mobbed by gulls in the early afternoon. I remember all these events, though the mind whites out writing the several books and the gang of Memoirrhoids I wrote at that table. How dreamy and peculiar that the act of writing erases its own moment.

Moments gather as if on a platter of offerings. Memoirrhoids is a presentation of narrative snacks, dim-sum, sushi, hors d’oeuvres, that disappear as I consume them by writing them away. The past can be tasted only in the onward rush of the present. I’ve written a lot of them so far, and sometimes fear I am writing the same Memoirrhoid over and over. My memory of what I have done so far is imperfect. But memory isn’t ever a perfectible mode. It is no disaster if I write something twice. Even J.S. Bach did that. Contradictions can only be enriching.

NOW to work on this piece I sit at my computer in Denver and call up a memory of my situation in Cape Breton as I started to write these thoughts, remembering that table that chair that view, all pleasurable, all gone. I stared out the window at the gorgeous Cape Breton view I claimed as my own, yet somehow found the pencil and the yellow pad at my wrists, and I wrote something. I remember the circumstance of writing the Mem-oirrhoids, looking from the table out the window at Margaree Island, and somehow fetching up more distant past. The difficulty is to remember the remembering of what I remembered. How ridiculous it sounds. Better to leave it alone. Better to be satisfied just with my recall of the satisfaction of first sitting down to watch the ocean and the island, and the birds and the whales, and perhaps to imagine myself to be any bird, that one back then, ready to scatter as feathers into the wind, into the current, the moments of my writing.

LOST PARADISE

On these bright spring afternoons life is all potential romance on the New York City Subway, especially on the D train headed north from 14th Street and Sixth Avenue up to 59th, Columbus Circle. You exit into the light. I am on my way to check the art in the 57th Street galleries. I like to wander East, sun at my back, and then meander North through the galleries on Madison, my leisure a commitment to the naive hope that the art world is cleaner than other commercial realms. The pleasures of art ease the complicated ache of my recent split from wife and family. At three-thirty in the afternoon the train is a mild jostle, crowded but no crush. Old cars, big fans weakly turn, mingling thirty years of sweat, disinfectant, pork skins, cologne.

Our eyes latch. Hers are grey-green and moist, and they look softly into me. Her ash blonde hair rolls in waves down below her shoulder blades. I don’t need the art scene. This Botticellian vision is enough to erase the blues. Neither of us hangs to strap or pole. We are held up by some mutual effervescence that cushions the jolts. Our eyes don’t unhook till forty-second street, where she moves to get off. She empties with the crowd and turns back to watch me through greasy windows as doors slide shut, her gaze an inquiry. Why didn’t I follow her off the train? The D yanks ahead and I watch her ascend to the angelic thoroughfare of sleaze that Forty-Second Street is at the time. I feel suddenly desperate and bereft. She looks back and I imagine she’s crying. I feel the heat of my own tears. I cry so readily anyway these days.

It’s like an image on a shroud, that vision of her face I still maintain beseeching me through the streaked subway window, and I feel if only I’d got out then, and followed her to the street, to where? To Grant’s maybe for a nineteen cent hamburger? To Nathan’s, an all beef hot-dog to eat together? If only I’d exited with her instead of heading for the chic galleries on 57th. If only I’d followed this Botticelli gift, everything today would be different.

LOUTRO

This wasn’t like going from Iraklion to Knossos. There you rode in a tourist bus packed with other Yanks, Brits, Krauts, Japs, Arabs, Eastern Europeans, all ready with their cameras to explore the palace of the Minoan king and to speculate about the sweetness and civility of that civilization. In the frescoes their bullfighters are acrobats that somersault between the horns, no mutilation of the bulls. Even the red on the walls and frescoes have a gentle ochre softness. It might have been a kinder, gentler polis.

But there was no tourist bus to Loutro, no big tourist attraction there, no archaeological treasure. You got from Sougia to Loutro either on foot over the mountains, or you took the mail boat. The idea of the town seemed relaxing as it was undisturbed, away from the din of internal combustion engines. I had no backpack, only a suitcase I wasn’t anxious to lug over the trail, so I took the boat, a small open steamer loaded with supplies for Loutro. During the forty-five minute trip I chatted with three handsome young German women, all of them medical students, bright, perfect English. They’d heard that Loutro was isolated and beautiful. They were going to meet up with their teacher from medical school, who was coming from the other direction. She was their exalted leader, like their guru, and they invited me to have dinner with them that evening, so I might meet her.

Loutro is on the shore of a shallow bay, with a slight grin of a beach, the few buildings pushed up almost flush against the cliffs. At one end of the beach were a couple of small hotels, two restaurants, a few rooms to let. Nothing was available for me there, all the rooms filled with Germans, it seemed. On the other end of the beach, across a length of sea wall, there was a small cafe and a few rooms for rent. I lucked in to one of those. Curiously, none of the people drawn to this side of the divide were German — a gay American couple, a Norwegian woman, a Frenchman. How strange the feeling that came over me that it was us against them.

After sharing an ouzo at our cafe with all my neighbors, I crossed the divide to have dinner with the medical students and their guru. I particularly enjoyed one of the women. She was gentle and intelligent. I liked looking at her green eyes, ivory skin, dark hair. Though she didn’t really look like her, she reminded me of a young Liz Taylor. When their teacher arrived at the table, they all stood up, as I did too. She was a tall, slim woman in her forties, who made a very brown impression — hair brown, eyes brown, brown sweater, brown skirt, brown shoes. She nodded when her students introduced me, and gestured for everyone to be seated.

At first the conversation was mostly in German. I gathered it was about other students, faculty, what classes to take, what internship would be like. Dinner was the ubiquitous Greek salad, and a baked pastitsio. The retsina was good, dry and piqued with anise. I didn’t mind being left out, enjoyed watching my Liz Taylor approximate. I don’t know how the conversation got around to Jews, but it did, and in English as if for my benefit, as we ate a gummy galataboureko, and sipped sweet coffee. One of the women had brought up new technology at the hospital, how it was clever, and innovative.

“The Germans,” the guru said to me, “have always been clever and efficient people. It is our gift. Clean, efficient.” I felt as if I was being drawn into the fold of her acolytes. “Even in the war, though it was wrong what the Nazis did to the Jews. I would always say so, but the Jews have always been a problem, yes. In Europe, everywhere. And the Nazis developed a solution to that problem. It was cruel, but it was organized, efficient, and elegant. And it was convenient. You say convenient? It worked cleanly.” I don’t know if she had guessed that I was Jewish, and she was being vindictive, or if this was just a common conversational note for her. My tongue was paralyzed. I wanted to fly across the table and wring the neck of this sick doctor guru mad med school teacher monster bitch, but that would have been impolite in front of her students, and it wouldn’t have cured the disease. I got up from the table and walked away without a word, and hated myself for my silence.

Back on “our” side of the village I sat down at a table of “my” people and listened silently to the usual vapid tourist conversation — places to find bargains, prices of rooms where they’d been, great meals in Marseilles. After a while it was the Norwegian woman and myself sitting alone together. She was a big woman with a sad but pleasant face. Of course I noticed her ample breasts under her soft, fuzzy sweater. She mentioned that she was a lawyer and with eyes starting to tear, said that she had come to Crete to be alone and reassess a difficult relationship. I could feel that she needed to talk, and also that she was uneasy about sharing her personal life with a stranger. “Difficult relationship” was perhaps all she wanted to say about it. We had rooms in the same house, and walked there together. The moon was almost full and its silver light diffused through the Mediterranean haze and reflected off the wavelets that a warm breeze agitated. We paused to lean against the sea wall, and our bodies pressed against each other. She held my hands for a few moments, then pulled them to her breasts that wobbled under the softness of sweater, no bra. After a short wait I tried to pull my hands away, thinking it might have been a miscalculation, a brief indulgence, but she held them, then urged them up under the sweater. These were the most perfect breasts, so ample and shapely and warm, the nipples erect, evoking tiny sighs when I gently pinched them to punctuate our conversation about the moon. What a great gift, a reassurance, just what I needed, an antidote to the German witch.

Early the next morning I sat down at the cafe to have some coffee and toast, and scribble in my journal. I was approached by the Frenchman, who was also traveling alone. He had a portfolio under his arm.

“I notice in the morning you come here to write. You are a writer, yes?”

I nod.

“I am an artist. I am a sculptor.”

“Good,” I said, and put my pencil to my journal, to hint that I would like to continue writing. No luck. He placed his open portfolio over my notebook. “Would you like to see?” He had given me no choice. There they were in front of me, his bronzes, competent but terrifyingly sweet, idealized pubescent nudes, dancing to please. One ideal Rhine maiden offered up a tray of fruit. To whom? To the Fuhrer? I had to remind myself that he was not German.

“I can’t go back to Paris,” he said. “I can’t live there any more. Everything has changed. I don’t know what is there any more. Filth. It is all filthy Arabs, and what else? Russians, Polish, Jews, Africans. France is finished.” He paused for my response. When he got none, he went on. “You take these with you,” he said, as he handed me some publicity cards with photos of his bronzes. “Take them to New York and show them to galleries. If something comes of it, you will be well compensated. Trust me.” He laid the cards on my journal, folded his portfolio, patted my shoulder, and left.

This trip had dropped me into a nest packed with the intellectual trash of Europe, these creeps from the right wing underbelly. In contrast with US skinheads and Nazis these people seemed intelligent, artistic, in humane professions. I had the total nausea. This planet suddenly seemed inhospitable. I looked up at the cliff behind the cafe. A steep switchback trail ascended for more than a mile. I laid my journal down on the bed in my room and exchanged my sandals for sturdier shoes. At every turn of the trail I looked down at the sea, agitated by a stiff wind, but still exchanging azure with the sky. Gulls rose and fell around me. I knew they eyed me only as potential carrion. I climbed more. An arrow of small clouds pointed North. My heart banged at my chest. I wasn’t in great shape. This could be the place, a good day to die. At the top finally I sat down relieved and looked into the distance at the gathering storm. Here was a small village, one tiny store, a few houses, on a dusty road. “Yassou.” Never had I welcomed so much the feel of a bottle of Coca Cola. I walked back to the edge to think about returning to Loutro. A small, lean, swarthy man in a tattered blue sweater and beret approached. “Yassou,” he greeted with a big smile. “Yassou,” I responded. He touched my elbow and pointed out to sea. “Schon” he said. I didn’t reply. He paused and swung his arm to sweep everything into view. “Beau — tee — fool.” “Yes. Beautiful. Yes,” I agreed.

LUNA DI MIELE

Of course we had our own kind of honeymoon. We had married the week before at a justice of the peace in Ithaca, New York. We had emerged, merged. Love is a mindless blessing. It was a delicious time of life when everything seemed to be rising. We felt weightless in each other, though occasionally we looked out of the cluelessness of being barely twenty, thinking, “What have we done?” Jingle was from Winnemucca, Nevada, and I was from New York City, better acquainted with the East Coast. I picked the honeymoon site. Provincetown. She was so beautiful, her green eyes, her shiny brunette, her cheerful energy. I don’t know how she saw me. We would make a love nest on the beach, with foaming surf, and a full moon on the way. Our passion tent in the dunes. I had rigged a rope harness that went across my chest and under my arms, and pulled our stuff across the sand in a wooden crate. It was an exhibition of my male strength and bullish ingenuity, a great volunteer beast of burden contraption. I pulled tent, sleeping bags, fresh water, food, campstove, fuel. Jingle carried clothes, toothpaste and brushes, towels, soap, spoons, pajamas, in her backpack. Just two of us alone in the dunes. What a pretty idea it was here at the perfect romantic lighthouse love point of interest.

We weren’t totally uncomfortable, but sand is at best a scratchy medium for erotic initiation. And dog day heat all through the afternoon dulls the newlywed friskiness. We encouraged each other and did soldier on, hiking on the beach in the cool mornings, cooing moonwards at night. We tried to stay out of the heat through midday with a choice of baking in the tent or roasting in the open. It helped to dive into the surf and we stayed in the water like a couple of seals. That was fun and refreshing, and made our skins salty to the tongue.

We cut the beach visit short by a couple of days. After an early morning swim we loaded the crate and backpack, I got into harness, and we slowly trudged towards our VW bug. The heat had ramped up early. We were fond of our little car. It seemed very far away, the distance protracted by heat and exhaustion. Ours was one of the first bugs imported into the US. It had a tiny rear window, and directional signals that flipped out and pointed when you hit the lever. Gusty winds cut swirls of sand into our faces. The little car was parked there, in the parking lot. It was a hope. We had used all our water, and were getting a good lesson in the feel of the word parched. My tongue was so dry it scraped at the roof of my mouth. Perhaps there was some water in the car, hot by now. It wasn’t far to water if you were in a car. Maybe a Pepsi. Lemonade, O sweet lemonade. “Are you thirsty?” I asked Jingle. She looked at me as if I was nuts.

Two figures wobbled in the distance like apparitions in the waves of heat and bright sand, near the lighthouse parking lot. We were both dragging, drenched with sweat. This had become our honeymoon ordeal. Survive this and the marriage would be easy. At a certain point, when we were close enough, I realized I knew at least one of the people we had seen from the distance. It was my friend Ron Sukenick. He was romping on the beach with a girlfriend. He had graduated from Cornell two years before me, and this was the first time I’d seen him since. My first thought was to get by without his noticing. I felt embarrassed to look so shitty covered with sweat and sand. Jingle too, though naturally beautiful — in fact, she had been Winnemucca Rodeo Queen — looked bedraggled, hair stringy, full of sand, a few days without a bath.

Ron recognized me under the grime, and greeted me with great affection. He asked me what I’d been doing. He’d been at Brandeis getting his PhD, where he wrote his thesis on Wallace Stevens. That book became significant, a frequently used reference on the poet. I always thought the PhD was voluntary artistic and intellectual menopause, but Ron made it work for him.

“We’re married. We got married,” I said. I let the harness drop to my ankles. I felt like the slave in some biblical saga. Here was Ron, unencumbered, with a girlfriend and a cooler of beer, and here I was saddled like a mule, hot, exhausted, lugging our effects across the sand like we were displaced people.

“They’re married,” he said to his girlfriend. I think her name was Eva or Ellen or Edith. It wasn’t Lynn, whom he later married.

“I told you that,” she said, and spun across the sand in easy pirouettes. I don’t know what she implied, but it made me feel my life had taken a bad turn. As I got back into harness and hauled our stuff the rest of the way to the bug, Jingle trudging with me step by step, I kept repeating in my head, “Ron is single, I am married. Ron is single. I am married. Ron, single. Me married.”

MARTHA AND MEGALITHS

We eat that fish, and the fish is delicious. Then she discusses the fish with the chef, its preparation, its presentation. We are at a Michelin one star restaurant in Quimper, Brittany. It was the sea bass or dace, flesh soft and delicate. She praises the chef for his insight, presenting this fish of delicate flesh on a complementary bed of crisp romaine and frisee. The greens support and contrast the soft white flesh. She compliments him for the discrete touches of herbs and butter. She is Martha Rose Shulman, a young woman but an already legendary cookbook author of The Vegetarian Feast, a groundbreaking gourmet vegetarian cookbook. She subsequently authors many other popular cookbooks, mostly vegetarian. She wrote The Vegetarian Feast when she lived in Austin, Texas. She moved to Paris then and sublet the apartment of Paolo Picasso, Pablo’s son. She supports herself as a food writer, and by making a popular dinner once a week for a small crowd, as a rent party. The walls are heavy with signed Picasso posters. She has befriended my son, Nikolai, who works off the books for Andree Putman, the trend-setting designer. I am teaching on exchange in the Languedoc, at the University in Montpellier, and take frequent TGV jaunts to Paris.

Ms. Shulman has a hankering to investigate the cuisine of oats in Celtic Bretagne. She invites me to come with her in her sturdy, comfortable Peugeot 403. It’s a privilege to do a food trip anywhere in France, and with a well known food writer it’s doubly rich. We head out for Brittany. I note that Jack Kerouac’s family comes from Brittany, “Ker” meaning the farm or land and “ouac” being the designation of the landholder or farmer — Ker’ouac. This, I realize, is similar to Welsh Celtic designations, like Caer’philly, the provenance of my favorite Welsh cheese.

Our first stop is in Tours on the way North. Martha’s fifteen year-old nephew has been exported to France to spend the year of his potential delinquency with a French family in Tours. They are generous and hospitable. The kid seems nicely tamed. He is into bike racing in a big way. They put us up for a night so we can see him compete in one of the many junior bike races staged all over France. We drive to some point on the route and watch him wheel by in the pack. It is a thrilling few seconds. Equally thrilling is the breakfast conversation. The master of the house is a psychiatrist. On the door of his office he flaunts a poster, a portrait of Freud assembled from drawings of nude female bodies deftly drawn so their pubic bushes serve as Freud’s beard and coif. The talk over an American-style breakfast of bacon and eggs is about life in France since World War Two. The psychiatrist whines about the situation. “I don’t know what has happened. It’s all the Russians have moved in. The Poles, the Jews, the Africans.” He must know that the boy comes from a Jewish family, as do Martha and myself. The boy tells us about going with this family to a beach in Normandy, renting a cabana, setting out blankets, umbrella, but after looking around the shrink’s mother said, “We can’t stay here, Marcel.” “Why, mamma?” The shrink was slightly annoyed. “Look around. There are Jews on this beach.” Anti-Semitism is a strange affliction. How did she know? Could she smell the lack of foreskins? She couldn’t have been looking at noses. The French themselves are celebrated for their prominent noses. Cyrano de Bergerac is the world’s greatest play featuring the nose. Luckily the boy had enough equanimity to let these moments wash off him.

We first went to Normandy, to see Mt. St. Michel, which like much beauty is best viewed in the middle distance, reflected in the tidal flat. From this distance it is all serenity. It sits across the skim of water like a gothic apparition, as if its beauty unscathed has settled there from a more perfect, more gorgeous planet. Then you get close and are assaulted by the souvenir stands with their models of the abbey in all sizes, banners that you would take to a football game, t-shirts, postcards, posters. The tschottske buying pressure is on, so many merchants trying to survive out there in the tidal flat, pressuring the tourist to buy a thing that he can throw into the closet and whip out for the next yard sale.

Martha inquires wherever we stop about the preparation of oats, and it seems wherever we stop we are in the presence of megaliths, of menhir, of dolmen tombs, stones placed on the land with mysterious intention. These echoes of the stone age have a mystifying hold on me. Maybe I’m a stone-age guy. I stand awash in the pearly light of Bretagne, in the midst of lines of these thousands of great stones that once in prehistory were hauled here from far away. They have been standing at Carnac, tipped up vertically in parallel lines maybe since 4500 B.C. From the back of my skull I feel as if I’m regressing into the past while through the eyeholes the parallel lines draw me forward into whatever sessions are coming. The people who placed these megaliths knew what they were doing. They set them so carefully by the thousands to monitor the horizons. Why would people haul massive stones with nothing but manpower over great distances to make the Stonehenge? Was this a response to the night, to the power and sweep of the Milky Way? To the processes of sunlight? How do they measure solar, celestial phenomena? One story local people tell is that the stones were once a Roman legion now ossified, frozen in place. These processionals of mass have an urgency for me. Their force transcends their weight, as if they have a potential incandescence that translates weight into light and lightness. Now a residue of stone consciousness persists at the Dome Of The Rock in Jerusalem, the Black Stone of the Kaabah in Mecca, the kissable Blarney Stone in Cork. The Israelites tipped up stones all over the Negev, faced them East, and called them the house of the Lord. These Brittany megaliths sponge the light during the day, and measure out the moon and stars at night. You don’t have to see them. The blind surely take in their presence. They comb the danger out of storms. They count the wind. Yipes! I wax metaphorical here. Could be stoned. Long before I came to Brittany, or saw Stonehenge, when I lived in Italy, in Puglia, I remember coming on a megalith in the center of a tiny town called Uggiano La Chiesa. So far South, I thought. I’d been looking at plenty of sophisticated, complicated Italian art and architecture, but this grabbed me equally. I don’t know why. Like I said, maybe I’m a stone-age guy. I squatted in the dust of the small roundabout and stared at this anonymous monument against oblivion. I watched it in the grinding midday heat and sun. People had erected the megalith here millennia before Rome. Was this the spike that held the heel of the boot, The Salento, in place in the Adriatic? It rested here indifferent to worship. It took a while to pull myself away from it, and this simple stone stays in my mind imprinted as strongly as any painting by Piero or Antonello or Raffaello. The Michelangelo slaves emerging from their stones are powerful partly because they echo the megalith. These pieces manifest an intelligence, a megalithic knowledge to which we no longer have access. What trace will the current technology leave? Will these inundating terabytes of information leave even a residue?

Every time Martha inquires about the preparation of the oats the people with great patience and geniality explain that they boil this cereal. “We boil the oats, Madame. Sometimes in water and sometimes in cider (the preferred local beverage, hard or sweet). We eat this with cream and sugar.” Everywhere we go in Brittany, to restaurant or farm, the people boil the oats.

MASACCIO AND ME

The Pensione Bartolini is on the same bank of the Arno as the Chie-sa del Carmine with its Brancacci Chapel and my Masaccio Tribute Money fresco. This pensione was the setting for E.M. Forster’s A Room With A View. I was glad I found it. I looked out of my tiny room through a dormer window with a view of terra-cotta rooftops, clothes flapping on lines from edge to edge. I had never seen such beautiful rooftops. My bed in Florence was just a few blocks away from the object of my pilgrimage, the Brancacci Chapel, my Masaccio.

Before I left the US I put my work in the hands of the Sterling Lord agency, that later made tons of money for Norman Mailer, but never for me. It felt good to address letters to Sterling, as well as to Lord. I booked passage third class on the Saturnia, older sister ship of the Andrea Doria, the Italian Line’s flagship that went down in a storm the year before. We stopped for a day each in Barcelona, Naples, Palermo, and Piraeus. The final port was Venezia. We disembarked in the afternoon. I was off the boat. I recovered my land legs and got on the road again. It didn’t register with me that I was in Italy. I didn’t think to stop to see Venice, but hustled to Mestre, found the road south, and rode my thumb toward the Masaccio. “Kennedy. Kennedy.” The truck driver was thrilled at the American elections, and was hoping I would sprout some Italian language. “Kennedy,” he repeated all the way to Firenze where he dropped me off somewhere near Santa Croce. I blundered my way to the Pensione Bartolini.

The church was dark and vacant. I was the only tourist in this chilly space. Compared to the exercise in mob management that tourism is today in Italy, my experience was direct and simple. Even the Uffizi was an easy solitary stroll among masterpieces. I walked back in the obscurity to the dimness of the Brancacci chapel, with its Masaccio/Masolino frescoes, some of the chapel finished by Filippo Lippi. Masaccio died at twenty-seven, and had an enormous impact on the history of art. If I died right now, thought I, no impact.

I spent a couple of hours squinting, struggling to make out the frescoes. When I left my eyesight was dim and blurred. The Tribute Money had destroyed my eyes. I mastered Italian as much as I needed to buy some vitamin A at a pharmacy. Veetameena Ah! Once my eyesight returned to normal, I returned to the chapel. The frescoes were lit now, much easier to see. An older couple looked at them, the bearded man very professorial, wearing tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, an unlit pipe in his hand that he occasionally brought to his mouth.

I greeted them and asked if they were from the States. “Boston,” said the woman, who sported a grey ponytail, and wore comfortable blue polyester slacks and a yellow sweater. “Actually, Cambridge.”

The lights went out and the couple looked at me as if they expected me to do something. After a few uncomfortable moments, with a huff of exasperation, the professor brushed past me and dropped a coin into a box attached to the wall beside the chapel. The lights went on again. It had been my turn to pay. I mumbled an apology. To light them up all I needed was a fifty lira coin. That was the trick. The fresco had a simple presence in the light, each of the figures a player in the overall narrative, which is divided into three parts in one powerful composition — in the center stands the tax man with his back to us demanding the money from Jesus who is surrounded by his disciples. Jesus gestures towards the river. Peter kneels by the river to take the coin miraculously from the mouth of a fish. Peter appears also on the right side of the fresco as he gives the coin to the taxman. The power of the work is in the simplicity and nobility of all the figures, who dominate the modest architecture. When I see the chapel much later, restored to what they say is the brilliance of the original colors, I feel betrayed. It looks to me like a cartoon version of what I remembered.

Jesse Hart Benton, from St. Louis, daughter of the influential painter Thomas Hart Benton, was the principal eminence staying at the Bartolini. She was modest and chummy. Several of us went to the American Cinema to see some American movie. When I turned around I saw behind us a monk making out with a girl under his cassock. I was amazed. I asked the woman who managed the pensione about this and she said with a shrug, “What do you expect? He’s a man, after all.” A British woman who stayed in a room down the hall, very Oxbridgy, was impressed with my obsession with the Masaccio. She offered to polish my shoes. This was such a strange offer, and so earnest, that I couldn’t respond. “I do that for my brothers,” she said. “My grandmama told me to find a man who has compelling interests if I want a successful marriage.” I steered clear of her as my perception of Florence widened. There was, after all, the Ponte Vecchio. There were traffic police raised on platforms to direct traffic at the intersections, their hand gestures elegant and precise, their white gloves like flashes of white moth wings. Obviously they’ve been replaced by traffic lights. There was The Duomo, Giotto’s Battistero, endless great stuff to discover. Fra Angelico at San Marco. Michelangelo’s David. Ghiberti’s door. Not to mention bistecca alla fiorentina, mozzarella in carozza, carciofi & cervelli, zuppa pavese, etc. etc. There was the passegiata every evening, such strutting elegance in the Piazza della Signoria, along Via Ricasoli, through the Piazza Duomo. And any time I wanted I could walk to the Carmine and for fifty lire I could light up the Tribute Money.

MOM DIES

1

Sybil wanted to meet my mother. That was a surprise. Sybil Stork protected herself from entangling relationships by retreating, hiding, distancing. It was a dance that kept me off balance, but held my interest more than if she were open and accessible. In the first place I was surprised she wanted to come to New York with me. I met her after a reading I gave in Fort Collins. I was getting over a bad break-up and she was like my emotional rescue. She lived in a low rent apartment in Fort Collins. There was no shower. She washed up by sneaking into the shower at the Y Small, pretty, pony-tailed blonde, one wouldn’t expect her great dumpster-diving mentality. She had resolved to live on the cheap, never to work if she could avoid it. A caveat for her was the fate of her father in Detroit, a talented artist and designer, who had given his life and squandered his talent for General Motors. She had inherited his fine hand for drawing. A compassionate and generous person, she had entered into a mariage blanche with an invalid from Columbia, who needed medical treatment in the US. Aside from being attracted to her, I admired everything about her life.

For this year I had sublet Larry Fagin’s double apartment on Twelfth Street between First Avenue and Avenue A. The building was a poet’s dormitory. The great John Godfrey lived there. Allen Ginsberg lived there for a while. Rene Ricard lived right across the hall. It was Richard Hell’s building. Larry’s set-up was perfect. Sybil could have a separate studio. I appreciated the opportunity to spend some time with her. I’d explained to her how difficult my mother was for me, and so I was surprised that she was curious enough to come on the visit.

Sally Katz, my mother, lived in the Hotel Greystone, a residence hotel on Broadway, on the upper West Side. I imagine it seemed exotic to Sybil, this hive of old women, mostly Jewish, who gathered in the lobby of the hotel, humming with gossip and opinions. They eyed with suspicion every stranger who crossed their gauntlet. My mother was in her little studio apartment, dressed as usual in pajamas and robe, her room neat, smelling of lavender, her potted plants thriving, the television always on at the foot of her bed. As always she had a package of hotel towels she insisted I be complicit in stealing.

“These belong to the hotel, mom.”

“It’s okay. I pay plenty for the room.”

“Maybe if you didn’t steal towels the rent would go down.”

“Take them. It’s not stealing. I’m your mother.”

She’d had a difficult life, having to take care of her father till he died, and raise her younger sisters on the lower East Side. She also tended my father, who was sick for a long time before he died, leaving her impoverished, with myself still at home. She took a job with the city, in the auditor’s office, and often complained of how heavy the ledgers were she had to haul around. The onus of being required to express love for her made it almost impossible for me to do so. She demanded it, and prohibited it. I saw this in terms of breadsticks. Every time I visited I was required to bring breadsticks. No matter where I went to get them, Little Italy, Houston Street, Zabar’s, I could never get the right breadsticks. They were too hard for her poor teeth, or too soft for the idea of a perfect breadstick in her mind, over baked, underdone. I chased all over the city. I was swimming upstream against a current of failed breadsticks, never had a chance. Whatever sticks I brought put her in a bad mood and reflected my filial inadequacies. Occasionally I could nudge her into her sense of humor, which was often rich, particularly when she recollected life on the lower East Side. Most often my sons or myself had to confront her bitterness at being dealt such a tough hand.

I introduced her to Sybil, and we settled in to a loaded silence. My mother immediately liked Sybil. The female bonding was palpable in the room. That probably accounted for the bizarre sequence that followed.

“Steve, dear,” my mother said. “Will you go downstairs to the desk and get my strongbox and bring it up here. I’ll call down.”

When I returned with the box, Sybil and my mom were conversing nicely. My mother was able to get closer to her in a few minutes than I had in all the months I’d been seeing her. My mother pulled a sealed white envelope out of the box. She handed it to me. “For my son Steven,” was written on the envelope in my mother’s neat cursive. “To be opened after my death.”

“Open it,” my mother said.

I hesitated, looked at Sybil. She was waiting to see what would happen, an enigmatic smile on her pretty face.

“What are you waiting for?” insisted my mother.

“You’re not dead yet.” I laughed inappropriately, and held the letter at arm’s length as if to hand it back. This was a comic situation that wasn’t funny.

“Open.”

“Now?”

“Open the letter.” I did as I was told.

“Read what I wrote,” my mother insisted.

I slipped the sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and started to read.

“Read it out loud. You can read out loud.” She was trembling. She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes.

Sybil, I could see, was fascinated. Images of detergents and pain relievers sold product across the TV screen, its sound muted. The text I read went something like this:

My dear Steven, Do not grieve for me now that I am dead. I have had a very difficult life and am happier where I am now. My last request is that I be cremated and that my ashes be scattered into the Hudson Riverfrom the George Washington Bridge, followed by a single red rose.

That was the gist of it. I heard myself saying the words, as I adjusted the tone away from the mockingly sanctimonious to something more neutral. Sally Katz relished the moment, tears running down her twitching face. She indulged herself in the pleasure of being witness to her own funeral. She and Sybil exchanged quick smiles. I felt like a son from another planet.

2

Two summers later, in 1988, my mother died. Sybil had already receded into my past. I was staying in the old MacDonald house I had bought on Foot Cape Road, outside of Inverness, in Cape Breton. I couldn’t afford to fix it up. I was too broke to get a phone. Richard Serra let me use his number for emergency calls. He took the call about my mother, and drove down the road to my house to pass on the news. “I know how hard it is to lose your mother,” he said. I could feel genuine kindness and compassion from him, and have always appreciated that, through all the difficulties that came from trying to be his friend. It took me two days to get to my mother’s apartment on Broadway. This was the first time I’d ever arrived without breadsticks. The room was ripe with tragedy, the bedclothes rumpled, her beloved plants wilting. Carpet was strewn with medical rubbish, some of it bloody from the violent attempts to revive her. I felt in the room how tight her grip was, holding on to death.

After a modest, dignified memorial service at my sister’s house near Nyack, Michael, my nephew, and two of my sons, Nikolai and Rafael, drove into Washington Heights to carry out my mother’s final wishes. At the Manhattan entrance to the bridge walkways we found ourselves in the midst of a crowd of people bouncing and jumping in sweats, or shorts and wife-beaters. We were dressed in casual mourning gear. We noticed no vehicle traffic on the upper tier of the bridge. We hadn’t accounted for the New York Marathon that started then on the New Jersey end of the bridge. I clutched the can of mom’s ashes tightly in the crook of my arm. Sally Katz had hardly left her room for the last fifteen years, and during that time had never gone out into the midst of this much excitement. We went ahead with the plan. Each of us wet a finger and held it up to judge the wind direction. We didn’t want “Nanny” blown back in our faces. The south walkway looked to be the safest. People lined the way all along, anticipating the marathon. We were on a different mission.

Sally Katz’ remains rattled in a large number ten can. There was some bone left inside. I carried the can. One of the boys carried the rose. This was illegal, and my mother had known it would be. She might have enjoyed these illicit moves that turned her wish into some clandestine ritual embedded in the coincidence of the celebration of the New York Marathon. I pulled out my pocketknife as we got halfway across the bridge, at the border between New York and New Jersey, and started to pry the cover of the can. Frank Shorter led a host of marathoners on the roadway past us in an orgy of fitness. They were serious. So were we. After a few furtive glances to see if any cops were near, we let my mother, their grandmother, out of the can. Shiny puffs of herself wafted down like her ghost liberated into the great river. Then we loosed her single red rose. We all remarked that we could watch Sally Katz for a long time as a streak of grey that elongated with the current and stretched downstream. The rose was a dark punctuation. The last bit I dumped blew back in our faces. When the rumor circulated that Keith Richards had snorted the ashes of his father, I recalled that I had inhaled a bit of my mother. The day had been quite beautiful and the marathon looked exhilarating, but breathing in Sally Katz’ ashes did not produce a significant high.

MORTON STREET

I inherited the apartment on Morton Street from Richard Kalvar, who was a student at Cornell when I brought my family back from Italy to take a job teaching in Ithaca. When I left Cornell we moved the family to Pine Bush, to be closer to the city, to allow me to take adjunct positions at Brooklyn and Queens colleges. I needed to be closer to the art and publishing scenes. The apartment was a six floor walkup. For three or four days a week I bused into the city to teach and live my city life. Kalvar morphed into a photographer and left New York for Paris where he lives today. Cornell arts and architecture had a gaggle of enormously talented people, who suffered a variety of sad successes and wicked fates — Gordon Matta, Alan Saret, Susan Rothenberg, Mary Woronov, Donald Evans, Joel Perlman, Stephen Gottlieb. Gottlieb spearheaded, with the help of some of these young artists, a letterpress, hand-printed edition of my first book of poems, The Weight Of Antony. It was flattering then, even moreso in retrospect.

I sallied out into the streets from that apartment sometimes to grab a slice of pizza, or a cappuccino and a millefoglie, and then I’d meander into the evening, reluctant to climb back up the six flights. Bright thoughts, dreary thoughts, I’d stroll, wondering who I was and what was expected of me with a novel published by a major publishing house, and another book coming out with a different major publishing house. New York streets can be debilitating at the same time as they are empowering. The anonymity keeps you honest with yourself. Nobody is anybody on the street. And as the great poet John Godfrey, once said, “You don’t have to figure out what’s bothering you in New York. All you have to do is open the door of your apartment.” Artistic ambition lies as a pall of sweat on all the wannabes. The yearning for recognition seeps up as an odor through the cracks in the sidewalk. Otis Redding’s melancholy “Happy Song” is as hopeful as it gets. Dum dum diddee dee da dum. There is no measure of success that can meet the need. I couldn’t account for the melancholy that squatted in my heart. Was failure inevitable, even with these whittlings of success? Maybe it was the war, the Vietnam deluge that defiled everything in America.

I wandered into The Seventh Circle to grab a beer. The affable Christopher Cerf, my editor at Random House, was drinking there with a gaggle of Harvard buddies. They might have been his friends from the National Lampoon. He hailed me and invited me to join them. They were celebrating the publication of his jolly book, The Biggest Cheese On Earth. I was barely treading water in Lake Gloom, must have looked like the character from Al Capp’s Li’lAbner, who drags a dark cloud over his head wherever he goes. I couldn’t enter their clubby space. I knew it was a bad practice to run away, bad PR not to sell yourself whenever you have the chance. But my mood was too dark, my needs too great, though I couldn’t say what I needed. They were a congenial group, an influential bunch. All I had to do was make them laugh once, a joke, a small bright bubble of mirth from me, and that might have made all the difference.

Too many writers and journalists of the drinking profession hung out at the Lion’s Head. I couldn’t often go in there, but I did stop frequently at the Seventh Avenue bar where I’d run into Michael Herr, back between assignments for Esquire in Vietnam, from which he assembled his great Vietnam war book, Dispatches. He was the first to write about rock and roll in the war zones, troops getting stoned to Jimi Hendrix, and heading out on suicidal patrols, plugged in to the Beach Boys. Often Rudy Wurlitzer was there, feeling big success from his scripts for Two Lane Blacktop, and Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid. We conspired with each other to be bummed as possible. Pitiful and disingenuous as this sounds, it was a manifestation of the feeling in the city in the country in the world laid down with the shroud of brutality and meanness that was the Vietnam war, the stupid violence and the sense that we were all being conned into this travesty by whoever profited from it. Michael, however, was on a different ride. A most gripping aspect of his writing was his grappling with guilt at his pleasures of being in Vietnam. He mumbled about it over his Bushmill’s. When he was in New York he always got antsy for his ticket to return. Being in New York brought him down. He wanted back to Saigon, where he moved with the troops, lived on the edge. He enjoyed there the titillation of packing a gun, and assuming the license to kill someone if he needed, or just wanted to. He liked that power even if he never used it, and that pleasure made him feel weird. Vietnam was his drug of choice.

Until I “googled” Richard Kalvar, before I decided to write this piece, I carried around in my mind a tragic story about him. I don’t know where I got it. The story was that soon after I moved in he died of a rare unspecified disease. I took that for true for a long time, and told it to people, most of whom didn’t know him. It’s a common sickness, to congratulate your own sense of survival in the wake of another’s tragedy — those thick chocolates of schadenfreude, a most wicked and delicious felicity. The apartment always seemed to have a Richard Kalvar memorial timbre for me, like living in an illuminated sarcophagus. He didn’t cooperate, however, and was totally resurrected through the internet. All that time I pretended to feel bad for his fate, he’d been enjoying a successful, even notable career as a photographer in Paris. Alive! How blandly for us the world wide web anticipates the promise of resurrection. Its environment is odor free. It doesn’t discriminate. It presents an infinite field of revivification. The dead rise out of its continuum onto our screens, in our minds. One hardly has to die today to be raised from the dead. We are all dispersed, throughout the web’s addictive monotony, and we carelessly take the bait dangled through Google, through Facebook, fisher of souls.

MY BAD

Long before I was ready to understand that a career as a writer exposes you more to humiliation than exaltation I endured two elegant, though almost paralyzing put-downs. I transferred from the tuition-free School of Agriculture at Cornell, where I had misplaced myself in a pre-veteri-nary curriculum, to the pricey College of Liberal Arts, where I felt more comfortable in my ambition to be a writer. Although I had a couple of scholarships I still had to work my ass off to afford the tuition. I felt more comfortable in classes on Western Civilization, Metaphysical Poets, Shakespeare, than in Animal Husbandry, Entomology, Botany. In retrospect I feel a little different about it, and were I to go back now as fascinated as I am by life sciences, I might continue in Agriculture. My Shakespeare course was taught by the brilliant, charismatic William Keast. The privilege of listening to him exfoliate Othello or The Tempest, releasing the secrets of those texts into the room like rare scents, made my transfer worth whatever it cost me. I felt empowered through the bard to have wild literary presumptions, and to dawdle in dreams of my own works.

I got back my first paper, which I believed I had written in the throes of rare inspiration. The grad assistant had given it 55, five points below failing. I was shaken as if by a personal earthquake. People in the seats around me must have felt me shaking. At my waiting job, where I had increased my hours so I could afford the new college, plates rattled as I set them on the table. My first paper, and I’d got 55. Below the grade the assistant wrote, “This is sheer nonsense.”

Dr. Keast held office hours once a week, and I took my paper to appeal to him. I didn’t know what I wanted, perhaps for him to rescue me from trembling and numbness. I wanted my blood to move again. I feared going back to courses in animal feeds and feeding. I didn’t want a course in lepidoptery, Nabokov notwithstanding. His office was in one of the dusty corridors of Goldwin Smith Hall. He was more kindly in receiving me than I had anticipated. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with open collar, and corduroy pants. His wavy white hair was not so neatly combed as it was at his lectures. His features that were icy and sharp at the podium, softened somewhat up close. The grey-blue eyes that in the lecture hall projected an aura of terrifying intellect, were just as piercing, and fiercely intelligent. I had nothing to say. All I could do was extend the paper towards him, as if I was showing my wound. He took it and gently scanned the pages. I watched him with tears brimming. “Hmmm!” he said once. “Here’s a little something.” He finally told me that his grader had been a little harsh. He made some marks and handed the paper back. I didn’t look at it until I was outside Goldwin Smith Hall. He had raised the grade to 60, just passing. And from the comment, “This is sheer nonsense!” he had crossed out the word “sheer.”

And then the year I graduated I applied for a Stegner writing fellowship at Stanford. It was the fellowship that Kesey got, and Robert Stone, so it was slanted towards hard-bitten American realism. I had stranger ambitions for my work; nonetheless, I was close. I expected to win. I expected a two-year ride with time to think about nothing but writing. I would write something great. Stanford was where Kesey was introduced to acid through a government experiment. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had fallen into that environment at that time. Would I have become a Merry Prankster and jumped aboard the rolling, acid fueled fraternity house? I was never very good at joining anything, but acid was a powerful morphological tool. I didn’t get the fellowship, and that was an enormous blow. I knew I was way up on the short list. Out of the despair of rejection I wrote to ask if I could apply a second time, maybe in the next year. Wallace Stegner himself signed the reply. It read, “You are certainly free to apply for the fellowship a second time, and even a third time.” To paraphrase Paul Blackburn, “My asshole fell out, and crawled all the way to Baltimore.”

MY BRIDGE

Embedded in my gallery of visual nostalgia, like an unforgettable dance movement, is the shallow arc of the span of the George Washington Bridge before the lower roadway was added. It was a mile long elegant convex gesture of engineering, yoking New Jersey and New York City. My youth never kept me from sitting with the old folks on the terrace at the west end of Jayhood Wright Park to gaze on this phenomenon of grace. It made me sing. It made each day precious. Life turned gross and full of dreary practicality when they built the lower roadway. They also threw up a high-rise to obstruct the view from the terrace.

At that time, though we lived far from the lower east side, I could lie in bed in the morning and listen to the cry of the ragman. “High cash clothes, high cash clothes,” he chanted as he plied the streets of Washington Heights as if it was way downtown. And there was a knife sharpener who came by less frequently, but sometimes added to the music of my mornings. He rode his bicycle, pulling the carborundum wheel and implements behind. “Scissors sharpened. Knives sharper. Sharp here. Sharp here.” Housewives rushed to meet him with their cutlery in canvas bags. His wheel screeched as sparks and water droplets flew. Then there was Manny who pulled his horse-drawn cart up to the corner of Ft. Washington Avenue and 173rd, and sold vegetables and fruit. Manny was good to the horse, that always had his muzzle in a leather oat bag hung over his ears. My mother wouldn’t go near the beast, and didn’t want me to either. A horse had bitten her when she was a kid, and she lived in fear of them. I worked for Mr. Manny occasionally. He’d give me a penny a delivery to carry bags of vegetables and fruit to the old ladies in apartments around the neighborhood. They fearfully cracked the door and sniffed me out before they opened. Some would tip me, maybe a nickel. We were poor. I was nine. Any money was a lot of money.

Once they hung the lower roadway my childhood slowly coarsened. No cause and effect, except in my private economy. I could hardly look at the bridge any more. It was dull and clumsy. It was first proof for me that in America commerce trumps beauty.

One day, when I stepped out of my building, a teen-ager riding a delivery bike, one of those grocery bikes with a big box on two wheels in front, called out, “Hey kid.” He gestured for me to come over. “Want to make a quarter real easy?” A quarter to me was a fortune. “Yeah. What?” “Just come with me. I’ll give you a quarter.” That was six maybe seven egg creams at the Russian’s candy store on Broadway and 173rd. It was two fistfuls of Clark bars. For the quarter I let him lead me into a big building on 173rd and Haven Avenue. The interior was a labyrinth of corridors and turns. I followed him past apartment after apartment till he stopped near the back of the building. Everything around me was beige.

“Okay, kid.” He handed me the quarter. I felt it to be sure it was real, and put it in my pocket. “Close your eyes,” he said.

“Why?”

“All you got to do is hold on to my finger. Close your eyes.”

It seemed very strange. Hold a finger for a quarter? Close my eyes? I was an honest kid. I had his quarter. I held his finger.

“Now I’ll give you another quarter. Keep your eyes closed.”

Four bits? Who was this guy? I had struck it rich, but something was weird. “Now grab my finger again.”

He guided my hand and laid his finger in it, except I knew this wasn’t his finger. It was hot and snaky. I’d never held a snake, but I was sure it felt like this. He moaned a little. I let go when we heard some voices in the hallway. And he sprinted out of there, leaving me alone. He never gave me the second quarter. He was back on his bike when I left the building. He shouted to a friend of his walking up the street, “This kid jerked me off for half a buck.” I wanted to tell him he never gave me the second quarter, but I kept my mouth shut. I was disappointed, humiliated, and ready to go to Broadway for an egg cream at the Russian’s. The experience was traumatic. I’d been exploited, my innocence stolen. But what city kid wants to hold on to innocence? This was a real experience. I learned something. I’m straight as a road in Nevada. I learned that you’ve got to be alert. The delivery boy still owes me two bits, and I’ll never get it. The real trauma was the loss of the beauty of the single span George Washington Bridge.

MY NABOKOV

Now I have written a novel. I can hold the thick of a manuscript in my hand. It makes me feel full and empty at the same time. I am a writer. Am I a writer? I call it The Steps Of The Sun, a title from Blake’s Songs of Experience. These pages are a Faulknoid exploration of the time of the Robeson riots in Peekskill, New York. I think it is great. I think it is junk. I have written a whole novel. My erstwhile Prof. Baxter Hathaway likes it a lot. I am a writer, no I’m not.

Vladimir Nabokov agrees to read it. He never reads student work. Everyone is surprised. I should be more flattered than I am in my ignorance and arrogance. We have a meeting in his office. His wife, Vera, is always there. Nabokov is famous in his classes for diatribes against Dostoevsky, and singing admiration for Chekov. What will he think about my Steps Of The Sun? I knock on the door and enter the dusty office in Goldwin Smith Hall. Vera and Vladimir are almost smiling. They sink me into a dilapidated beige velour easy chair, where my butt settles to the floor. Nabokov, his body a tall, slim edifice, his narrow face grizzled, distracted, severe in expression, leans over me from a high stool. I have seen him at Taughannock State Park, nimbling through the woods with his butterfly net. He is a respected lepidopterist, a taxonomist. All novelists I think must be perhaps taxonomists. Will I ever get to be a novelist/taxonomist? Below him I feel pinned into the chair like an object of his lepidoptery. Or I’m a helpless muzhik called in to face the lord of the manor. At the end of the room Vera leans against the desk. She does all the talking. I am defenseless, miserable, as if I’m paralyzed into the chair of the tallest dentist in the world.

Vera prefaces the onslaught with what is almost a kindness. “The talent is there, but…” and then all I hear is “crude” “comic book prose” “dull repetition” “read Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, Tennyson…” Vladimir nods and occasionally issues a sound like air escaping from a valve. The comments are intended to be helpful, but I am not ready to accept help. Praise is what I need to hear. I want Vladimir Nabokov to help hoist me onto the first rung of the literary ladder. Once the opposition is silent I excavate myself clumsily from the chair, and retrieve the yellow carbon copies of manuscript with his scribbles on it. He even initialed them. Hardly holding back the tears that saturate my anger I stagger down the stairs away from Nabokov’s office back into the life of a non-entity, knowing I will never write again.

Young ego is resilient. I sent the manuscript to Harcourt Brace, to a competition for a fellowship they gave to first novelists. They wanted references from three people who had read the work. Nabokov was one of the three people who had read it. I used his name without first asking his permission. This was presumptuous and impudent, and Nabokov was furious. Vera screamed at me that Vladimir was an important writer, a professional. (He was writing Pnin at the time, serialized in the New Yorker.) How could I just use his name without permission? “Come on. A name is a name,” I said. I had somewhat reconstituted my cojones. “They asked for the names of three people who had read the manuscript, and you are one of the three.” How hollow that sounded. My explanation did nothing to mitigate Nabokov’s outrage.

It took several years for me to acknowledge that Nabokov was a great writer. I’d got a letter back from Harcourt Brace saying that two out of three judges so far had favored my manuscript. They wanted to know more about my writing ambitions and my philosophy. At the time I was ecstatically in love with Pat Bell (aka Jingle) and we were fumbling young into marriage. I believe a lot of the delirium got into my response to Harcourt Brace. I forgot to sign the letter, and sent a signature separately on the next day. They finally turned me down. I don’t know if I missed because my “philosophy” was goofed up by love, or because, as I suspect, Vera wrote to them to withdraw the name of her Vladimir as a reference.

MY SPEED

“Zis iss all excess,” says my very own Dr. Strangelove whenever my mom takes me to visit the clinic at the Medical Center on Broadway and 168th Street. He grabs my belly fat with his one mobile hand and pulls on the flab. “Zis iss all excess,” he insists. I am happier when my mother calls it “baby fat.” This doctor, whose name I will never remember, conducts the “therapy” for my long recovery from bulbar polio. This form of polio affects the upper spinal chord. The doctors say I was one sixteenth of an inch from brain dead. You be the judge. The virus grabs my vocal chords, my metabolism, and my swallowing mechanisms. Even these days when I try to swallow, food threatens to burp up through my nose. My metabolism slows enough with the disease that I put on a lot of weight, but at a certain point it seems obvious that I will survive. By the time I am in the fourth grade my mother has settled me into the clutches of Dr. Strange-love. He must have been working with drug companies to develop a diet pill. When I first see the film I am sure Kubrick modeled him on my guy, down to the accent and the withered arm. I expect Peter Sellers at any moment to come out with the line, “Ziss iss all excess.” That Henry Kissinger is the model makes sense, but my doc is the whole package.

At a certain point my mother, who has no money to pay for my therapy, signs me up through Strangelove for an experimental drug program. My metabolism is bunged up enough so I am gaining a lot of weight. I must look like a great subject for a trial course of diet drugs. The good doctor puts me on various doses of benzedrine, and other amphetamines. Later in life, when I voluntarily take “speed” the effect is too much like the Strangelove “prescription”. Once I was grown I rejected speed as a recreational drug of choice. “Zis iss all excess,” he says, as I stand for photos for some medical journals. He grabs the flab on my chest. “Vee can eliminate ziss. Vee remove zee adipose tissue sroo a cut under here.” He indicates the location under my tit with the scratch of a long fingernail.

Thus I became a subject of the conscienceless pharmaceutical industry. At school my marks for deportment sink through the floor. This lasted through most of junior high school. I developed nasty habits. I rubbed my eyes till they swelled shut. I licked my lips so they scabbed painfully around my mouth. Through a hole in my pocket I masturbated in Latin Class — Gallia in tres partiae divisa est. (Unnhhh.) This self humiliation went on until I realized I needed to take charge, and refused to swallow the pills, which never helped me lose weight anyway. I finally refused to visit Strangelove any more. That experience gave me my deep mistrust of doctors and the medical industry, which I still suffer. One benefit of that sucker therapy has been that it saved me later from exploring the drug. Anything that tastes in my mind of amphetamines, including ecstasy, which is an amphetamine, I push away. Strangelove’s “Zis iss all excess,” continues to worm through my flesh.

NAME DROPPING

The first name I’ll drop is Jackie Terrason because last week I went to hear him on two consecutive nights at Dazzle, a Denver jazz club. He’s a young jazz piano wizard of inexhaustible genius. I felt like I was fifteen and sitting in the “peanut gallery” in Birdland, worshipping at Bud Powell, whose name I drop herewith. At various interviews, after she published her rhapsodic memoir, Just Kids, Patti Smith discussed the notion that she could seem like she was dropping names when she talked of the people she hung with at The Chelsea Hotel. But times were different then, she explained, before the infestation of paparazzi and media hype (it was bad enough then). Artists were focused on perfecting their art and defining their place in the culture, and more intent on getting high, on tripping, than looking for exposure and notoriety. As I read her honest and lyrical memoir, almost finished with my own, I think, “Now that’s the life I should have led.”

I spent a month at the Chelsea at the same time Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were there, but I didn’t get to know them. Mostly I lay about in a small obscure room and occasionally descended to the lobby, or went into El Quixote for a drink or a bite. I was scouting for housing an hour or so from the city, to move my family down from Ithaca. My wife wouldn’t live in New York City so I had to turn down space in a Fluxus building on West Broadway. I spent much of my time driving around on the house search and with some financial help from B.H. Friedman we ended up with a place near Pine Bush, New York. My few friends at the Chelsea were in the literary world more than in the world of pop music. The poet, Tom Clark, lived there, as did the writer and dealer Carol Berge. On the elevator once I was shocked to be alone with Janis Joplin. I told her how much I admired her. She smiled and pointed to her throat, and said in a hoarse whisper, “I can’t talk.” That reinforced an insight I’d had about her and Aretha Franklin, that Janis had to surrender everything to create her power, whereas Aretha’s power came from the expectation that no matter how much she put out, she had more in reserve.

If I had been inclined at The Chelsea I might have collected a raft of names out of pop culture to drop at this time. Celebrity has never been attractive to me, has seemed too much like prison. A few of my friends, like Phil Glass, seem to handle it with equanimity. Popular writers these days don’t get as high a ride as popular musicians and to indulge in celebrity at all they coddle a strong sense of self importance. Thomas Pynchon has seemed to evade and be indulged in it at the same time, as did J.D. Salinger. Russell Banks has had a powerful sense of his own importance, and perhaps not as much celebrity as he would have liked. Paul Auster has managed to suck up a lot of attention, and Jonathan Franzen, bless his sour trombone, his books overwritten. The few times celebrity has shown me the glisten of its tentacles I’ve shrunk away. On the other hand I sometimes fret that people don’t pay more attention to my work. I can’t imagine that anybody would want to drop my name — Steve Katz.

During my brief stint in Hollywood, when I was supposed to write a woman’s version of the Charles Bronson Death Wish for Gordon Carrol, producer of Cool Hand Luke, he took me to lunch at a popular movie industry restaurant. “Reservation for Steve Katz,” he blurted into the face of the hostess, at the top of his voice. “That’s the way you get your name known,” he told me. “So it starts with a rape, maybe,” I say. “The script has to be written to a whammo chart,” he explained, and rape was not whammo. I failed that test. Grassland, later known as Hex, and then as Shrieking, the only film I helped write that got on only because of the persistence of the director, Leo Garen. This allowed me to play on the location at the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation in South Dakota with a group of young actors, some of them later to have big careers — Gary Busey, Keith Carradine, Scott Glenn, Bobby Walker, Jr., Dan Haggerty, Mike Coombs. The women didn’t fare as well, though they were gorgeous — Hilary Thompson, Christina Raines, Doria Cook.

One time at the men’s room in the Atlanta airport I noticed James Brown pissing at the urinal to my right. I said, “You’re James Brown! (as if he didn’t know)” He shushed me by lifting a finger from his dick to his lips. In the Rome airport once I passed Harvey Keitel with a girl I assumed was his daughter sitting at the first class kiosk waiting for service. Our eyes met, and I knew that he knew that I knew who he was, but it seemed more courteous and friendly not to acknowledge this. When my good writing friend, Rudy Wurlitzer, was in the throes of his ascendance into screenwriter prominence, I had lunch with him and Kris Kristoferson in the East Village. It was chummy. Rudy was always slick at making you envy and pity him at the same time by saying things like, “I’d much rather do dinner with you, man, but I have to meet this guy, Jon Voight, about a project. It’s a drag.” At a pensione in the hills above Spoleto, at dinner with Julie Rubsam, I spotted Giancarlo Menotti dining with his family at the next table. I was excited. When I saw Joanne Akalaitis and related this, because she had been directing great Janacek operas at Bard College, she seemed to disdain my enthusiasm with her silence; after all, she spent most of her time with people who were truly famous. Paul Simon appeared at the party celebrating Peter Schjeldahl’s book of poems, White Country. This was at the same time that Holt published my Exagggerations of Peter Prince. I saw every moment as a chance to celebrate my big book, and expected maybe at least a song in tribute.

Joan Jonas, one of my oldest friends and performance artist legend, was close to the Wooster Group innovative theater bunch, that evolved from Richard Schechner’s Performance Group, modeled in part on Jerzy Grotowski’s theatrical innovations. I went to Cornell with Richard. Joan was a good friend of the Wooster Group’s Willem Dafoe, who came to visit her in Cape Breton, and hiked down to my tipi, which was reachable at the time only by trail through the woods to the sea. At a picnic at Joan’s he cooked a well done hamburger for the self-appointed gate-keeper of the Broad Cove Banks / Site Point Road, Margaret MacDougal, and became part of her life’s legend. Spalding Gray was also Joan’s friend. The remoteness of Cape Breton freaked him out, particularly my wild place. He left almost as soon as he got there. David Byrne visited Phil’s place once, but I missed him. After Joanne Akalaitis and Phil split up she and a small entourage would come to Cape Breton every July. David Warrilow, the great actor for whom Samuel Beckett wrote several plays, would often visit her. He was down to earth, enjoyed our family. He worked with Mabou Mines theater group. In Keep Busy, a film Robert Frank made on Margaree Island, he took the lead, with Richard Serra, Rudy, Joan, June Leaf, and others. Alan Arkin, friend of Arthur and Adrienne Yorinks, built a place near Margaree Harbor in Cape Breton. The windows cost more than my whole cottage. He opened his house to gatherings of local children that he and his wife entertained with great generosity.

And I knew Gerard Malanga who was a poet and Warhol’s assistant,

and I met Andy Warhol to the extent that anyone could meet him (other than Valerie Solanis). I had little desire to visit The Factory. My interest in the gay drug scene was minimal. It seemed too indolent, too destructive. So many acolytes, like Edie Sedgwick, like Viva, died young. Ted Berrigan is one of my favorite poets, and totally great, but the scene around him encouraged the illusion of the romance of drugs. Elio Schneeman. brilliant young Arthur Rimbaud of the New York streets, O.D.’d at thirty-five. Jim Brody, alas. Jim Carroll close to Ted but on his own. George Schneeman was for a while fascinated by Rene Ricard, hysterical art queen, who discovered and promoted the careers of Julian Schnabel and Jean-Michel Basquiat. But to know Rene you had to lend him money. He lived across the hallway from me when I was subletting Larry Fagin’s apartment in the 12th Street building that was known as the Poet’s dormitory. Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlofsky had an apartment there, as did John Godfrey and Lorna Shmedman.

On the subway to Brooklyn, where I once taught at Brooklyn College with the novelists Peter Spielberg and Jonathan Baumbach I frequently rode with Alex Katz (no relation) on his way to teach at BAM, before he became the greatest Katz of all. Jonathan’s son, Noah Baumbach, simmering in relation to his family, has become an indie director of well-received high-end soap-operatic melodrama.

At a party once at the Central Park West apartment palace of Jean Vandenheuvel, where I blew my chance at fame and fortune, I was offered intro to Arthur Schlesinger, Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal, Tom Wolfe and others of radical chic eminence, but I couldn’t handle it. I was more comfortable at a party of writers at the Gotham Book Mart. All the poets gathered there for the launch of Bill Zavatsky’s Sun Magazine. There was Jim Brody, John Godfrey, Kenneth Koch, Bernadette Mayer, Ted Berrigan, Alice Notley, Ron Padgett, Dick Gallup, James Schuyler, Edwin Denby, Rudy Burckhart, Yvonne Jacquette, Anne Waldman, Barbara Guest, Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlofsky, Michael Brownstein, Maureen Owen, Bill Berkson, Tony Towle. At one point John Ashbery arrived. It was 1975. He was fresh from having won the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, the National Book Circle Critics’ award. “How do you feel?” someone asked him. “Terrible.” John responded. “What’s wrong?” A note of real concern. The poet fabricated a pout. “I haven’t won a major literary prize in almost two weeks.”

Gregory Corso was not at this party, though he was frequently elsewhere. He’s a widely admired poet. Even I love some of his work. I once saw him at a reading by Allen Ginsberg at St. Marks in the Bouwerie streak buck naked in front of the podium. “I am the first person to streak for poetry,” he declared. The irrepressible Taylor Mead, actor, social antidote, ephemeral antiwrestler, lifted his gumby-like body from his pew. “O Gregory,” he said. “I streaked for poetry years ago.” Whenever I ran into Gregory in New York or Boulder, Colorado he always tried to capture me with the same shtick. “Hey, man. Do you want to see me touch the sky?”

Kathy Acker, who at the time called herself The Black Tarantula wasn’t at this party either. Kathy granted me the anonymous blow-job in my novel, Moving Parts. I kept it anonymous to protect her from shame. My good friend Jane DeLynn, wonderful writer of lesbian novels, and journalist, explained that Kathy has no shame. If I had known how her work was going to grow her into the feminist icon she became I would have proudly named her for her performance in Moving Parts.

In Ithaca I had dinner at A.R. Ammons’s table, with Harold Bloom. I was intimidated by the reputation, as usual, and didn’t impress the monster reader of books, nor did he impress me, particularly not with his politics. He seemed to favor the idea that was abroad in this time of civil rights protest and movements against the Vietnam war of reopening those internment camps used in WWII for the Japanese, to corral the Black Panthers, and the Weathermen and other radical groups. Bloom was negotiating at the time for Archie to dedicate a poem to him, in return for which he would write about the poet, a book or a major article. Archie had come to academia from the business world. This was what Archie might have called “poetry bidnis”. The change of the title of a poem from something else to “To Harold Bloom” came out of those negotiations, and the critic then registered Ammons as one of his “strong poets.”

At Cornell at the time I taught there a potent gathering of young artists had settled either in architecture or fine arts. Charles Ross taught there, as did the remarkable painter Richard tum Suden, who showed great witty paintings at Tibor deNagy for several years, then dropped out of the fray. The sculptor Jason Seely was teaching, the painter Alan Atwell as well. Jim Dine taught there for a year. Among the students were Gordon Matta-Clark, who died too young, Alan Saret, Susan Rothenberg who before she did her horse outline paintings worked as an assistant to the great Nancy Graves, Joel Perlman, Donald Evans who also died too young. Stephen Gottlieb, an architecture student, marshalled their energies to hand print a book of my poems, The Weight Of Antony. I didn’t appreciate it enough at the time. Many of these young artists went to New York to participate in and create the artistic ferment of the Seventies, around Jeffrey Lew, Robert Morris, Yvonne Rainer, Chuck Close, Phil Glass, Steve Reich, Walter DeMaria, Michael Heizer, Lamonte Young. Charlemagne Palestine, Peter Dean, Donald Judd, Dan Flavin, Suzanne Harris, Robert Smithson, Carl Andre, Sol Lewitt, Fred Sandbach, Richard Long, many in the Virginia Dwan gallery. Many others. Many many others.

All these names I drop, along with other names throughout these Memoirrhoids. I am dropping names, and I apologize to anyone whose name I missed. After I stop writing on these pages I will continue to drop names. I do it somewhat out of my love for the great fifteenth century French poet, scholar, vagabond, thief — Francois Villon. His Testament. And I am dropping these names like paving stones along the trail of my own brief trek to oblivion. And to you who read this make whatever you will of these droppings. I say to you goodbye, I bid you adieu, adios, but more hopefully arrivederci.

NICOTINE

Under his wide beige Kentucky Stetson, Carl Henry was a smallish man. A thick cigar, unlit, projected perpetually from his face, like a stray beam out of a construction site. Sometimes it stood vertical as a chimney pipe, next to his long nose. I never saw him light one up, nor let out a puff of smoke, though sometimes I could smell the cigar coming from his private office.

I worked for Carl Henry Tobacco. When Stuyvesant High School was on 18th Street and First Avenue it ran two sessions, morning and afternoon. In your last two years you attended the morning session, and that gave you five hours to work a job in the afternoon. I became the shipping clerk for Carl Henry’s denicotinized cigars and cigarettes. I can’t say for sure if they removed the nicotine, but that was how their product was advertised. Their business was mail order. They organized the orders in the morning. I came in the afternoon and wrapped the cartons of cigarettes and boxes of cigars in corrugated cardboard and paper, stuck labels on them, and wheeled them to the Post Office.

The Carl Henry office was in a building just off Union Square, on 18th, a small, simple establishment. The office manager, Mickey Kearney from Brooklyn, presided over Hilary of the Bronx and Doris from Queens, a pair of cheerless middle-aged clerk/secretaries. In the afternoon he was my boss too. The heavily pomaded hair he combed back in wiry furrows as if to emphasize his passion for order. Carl Henry had his private office at the back, in a large room with soot-grayed windows and a big desk and a comfortable chair that tilted back. I wondered if the cigars in his mouth were his own, or some Havana beauties. He spent all his time on the phone or writing in a large leather-bound journal. Sometimes he fell asleep at his desk. The women raised their eyebrows and grinned at me when we heard him snore. Doris gestured with her thumb as if hitch-hiking to the back office, while Hilary mimed falling asleep. “All right,” said Mickey, jerking at his lapels. “You’ve heard of work? There’s work to do here.” He was a weekend lush, kind of dim and borderline. Every afternoon he came over to my station, surveyed the outgoing orders, took his glasses off, put them back on, looked at his watch, and said, “You should have these wrapped up by 3:30.” My station reeked all afternoon of the lunchtime beer off his breath. I usually beat his deadline.

My performance was good enough that Carl Henry Tobacco decided to hire me full time for the summer. They were doing a massive promotional mailing, and needed me in the morning to fold the flyers and stuff the envelopes. I took it as a rite of passage. Riding the subway to work, rather than to school, was an empowerment. I felt grown up, part of New York’s working population, a workingman among working people. I liked arriving in the morning, settling into the job with Hilary and Doris, each of us from a different borough. I liked the feel of the flat bone tool they gave me to press across the folded flyers, to make the creases sharp. My big problem in the mornings was that after an initial surge of efficient folding and stuffing, my forehead would hit the desk. I was helplessly sleepy. It was no wonder. Most nights in bed I stayed up listening to Symphony Sid. Jazz was my passion. Jazz was my spiritual foundation. “Late Night With Symphony Sid,” on WABC or WMCA or WJZ when he broadcast from Birdland, was the cathedral from which the avatars of my spiritual yearning revealed the truth.

After a couple of weeks of my nodding off on the job, Mickey Kearney finally confronted me. He shook me awake. He didn’t seem to enjoy what he was about to do.

“I’m going to have to fire you, son.” I don’t think he’d ever learned my name.

I brought myself back to full consciousness. “But no. I get the packages all wrapped in the afternoon.” I hated the whine in my voice. “And to the Post Office on time.”

“You can’t be falling asleep on the job, son. Not here in New York City.” He took off his glasses and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “I’m afraid you get fired because of that.”

Doris and Hilary communicated with each other with raised eyebrows and shakes of the head. They looked almost gleeful. I bet they ratted on me. Mickey might never have noticed from his cubicle. I felt nasty and stupid and dirty. I hadn’t planned on losing this job. I was saving to buy a camera.

“I’m really sorry. Can’t I…I just…”

“I’m sorry too, son.”

I hated that he called me son. He knocked on Carl Henry’s door, and entered to share his decision with Mr. Henry. The women looked at me, shook their heads, and whispered, “Bad break, huh. Too bad. Sorry.”

Mickey came out, straightening his tie. “Mr. Henry wants to talk to you, son.” He pointed at the door he’d left open, pulled a comb from his pocket, and left the office for the bathroom, rearranging the furrows in his hair.

Mr. Henry leaned back in his chair, his cigar between thumb and forefinger. He looked even smaller without his hat on, without the cigar in his mouth, behind his big desk. He scrutinized me for some long moments, and I stared at the tobacco stain on his lower lip. I was waiting for the lecture.

“I’m going to give you a raise, Steven,” Carl Henry said. He replaced the cigar in his mouth.

My heart stopped, or jumped, or I don’t know what. I had to hold myself down in the chair. I didn’t know which way to look. He actually lit his cigar. Everything in life, I suddenly learned, is unexpected. Everything’s the opposite of what makes sense.

“You fall asleep at the desk. Folding and stuffing is a tedious job. You probably don’t get enough sleep at night. You’re young.” He blew out a succession of the most perfect smoke rings I had ever seen.

“That’s all,” he said.

“Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

Back in the office I went to my shipping station to get ready for the afternoon. Neither Hilary nor Doris looked at me. Hilary was shuffling orders that the mailman had just brought. Doris was on the phone. Mickey Kearney looked a little neater after the bathroom. He glanced at me, then turned his back and re-entered his cubicle. I started to cut some corrugated to be ready after lunch break. After that strange turn in my working career, when my pittance rose from seventy-five cents to a buck an hour, I never again fell asleep on the job.

NOOGY

I noticed the first time we entered the mess hall that everyone wore a hard hat. If it was lunch I might have explained that the day wasn’t yet over, and they all had to go back into the woods; but here they were at the dinner table, their workday was over. They relaxed otherwise, but still wore their yellow hard hats. This was our first evening at the training camp, our first mess, so I assumed the mystery would explain itself.

Jingle and I picked up plates off the line — potted beef, roast potatoes, succotash, and the wedge of salad with a wedge of tomato, under pink dressing. We sat ourselves at the long table next to my buddy, Paul. He had arrived a day earlier and was wearing his hard hat. I hadn’t been issued mine. I was anxious to get the scoop on the camp so I threw a lot of questions at Paul. He looked a little apprehensive as he whispered in response. Even his whisper boomed out. I went on talking. Paul didn’t want to talk, which was not like him. I’ve never been struck by lightning, so I don’t know how it feels, but this was a shock that rocketed down my spine, launching chunks of beef from my mouth across the table.

“Less talking, more eating.” I heard a woman’s voice dredged up from some ancient sump of female power. She had cracked my skull with her iron ladle. “Less talking, more eating.”

Jingle had turned to see who was giving this order and I could tell by her look of curiosity and fear that someone formidable was behind me. I rotated in my seat on the pillar of pain that throbbed from the crown of my head to my heels.

“Less talking, more eating.” Pinky lifted her ladle again. In her other arm she cradled the pot from which she was doling seconds. She was a small woman, with a big presence.

“That really hurts.” I whispered the obvious to Paul. I lifted my arm just in time and caught her wrist to make her drop the ladle with a twist I attribute to some martial arts training.

“Less talking more eating,” she said with no less authority.

Pinky had been cook in many logging camps before she came to work for the Forest Service. The crews in those camps moved double time through the woods, running as they topped, felled, and trimmed trees, set choker, loaded trucks. Her job was to rush them through lunch. “Less talking, more eating,” was a habit from her days in commercial logging. I picked up the ladle, handed it to her. She wiped it on her apron, served me another scoop of potted beef with carrots.

“You’d best not cross Pinky,” said Henry, the bull-cook, her husband, as I was leaving the dining room. He was a large, muscular man who sliced, chopped, diced, peeled, ground for her, and kept her big wood stove stoked. His strong back was bent and stooped as if subservience to his wife was a kind of scoliosis.

That night I was shocked into wakefulness by a sharp pain on the crown of my head, as if Pinky had struck again. I snapped upright and looked to the window across the room that glowed strangely. I put out a hand to touch Jingle, forgetting she was in the women’s bunkhouse. All my other bunkmates were asleep. I was drawn to the window. I had never been this deep in any Idaho before. As I got closer I could see the face. Big cat stared at me. The eyes aimed bolts of lightning at my heart. “Less talking, more eating.” The windowpanes buzzed with the sound. It was Pinky at the window. Jaguar at the window. In my usual foolhardy way I rushed to the door and threw it open, because I wanted to see all of this big cat. The stars expanded above, around me, pulling me apart in their clamor. “Best not cross Pinky,” they chorused. I remembered to breathe. I had never been so enfeebled, so emboldened, so smothered in stars.

NOTRE DAME

I was hired to teach at The University of Notre Dame, in South Bend, Indiana. I half believed the maxim that “them that teach don’t do,” so I was leery of teaching. I’ve always been committed to doing. I never liked school as an institution, felt individual creative paralysis was attached to any institution. But with kids in college, I needed a steady income. This was the possibility of a salary, with the most free time for writing. I’ve been pretty good at teaching most of the time, and never really regretted the move, but occasionally it has felt itchy, like living in an alien skin.

That was a confusing time for me. My marriage was breaking up. I was pulling out of my family. I was dizzy with remorse and guilt. I staggered into the little Datsun pick-up out of our family home in Pine Bush, New York, and drove for South Bend, feeling like a fighter who has been blasted for seven rounds, punchy, knocked down several times, with no choice but to keep going.

Just like the Vatican within Rome, Notre Dame is an independent entity within South Bend. Notre Dame, Indiana, is its own Post Office. South Bend had been the home of Studebaker. Notre Dame was home of The Four Horsemen, and Knute Rockne. I pulled into the town feeling like I’d taken a right hook that put me down into flatland Midwest. I had no idea where I was. I managed to find my way to a diner and grabbed a burger and some coffee. The diner owner noticed my New York plates, and asked me what I was doing in South Bend. I told him I was about to start teaching at Notre Dame. “You’d better like football,” he said. “If you don’t like football, you might as well leave South Bend.” I liked football okay. Now I knew where I was.

One of my colleagues advised me to buy season tickets at the faculty price. I wouldn’t regret it. My seat was behind the end zone, at the “Touchdown Jesus” end of the field. Behind me was the famous mosaic on the Hesburgh library — the huge savior faced the football end zone with both arms raised. On either side of me sat a nun with a season ticket. Each had a canister of compressed air attached to an air horn. Every time there was some Fighting Irish excitement they would blast them in my ears. I knew my hearing couldn’t survive many games. I suddenly dreaded the entertainment of Saturday football. I discovered I could scalp my tickets in the stadium parking lot before each game. Many of my colleagues were out there hawking tickets with me. That was the gist of the advice I got to buy the season tickets. It was a way to supplement a modest salary.

A carefully detailed body of Christ hangs from each cross inside the door of each classroom at Notre Dame. This is a well-built savior, six-pack abs, pecs of a halfback, a white man’s face. Although I rarely give it a thought, as I entered the classroom I did think to myself, “I’m a Jewish guy.” I remember my uncle Sammy always saying, “You don’t have to worry about it. Hitler decides if you’re Jewish.” As I looked around the class I could feel myself stiffen. These kids looked like the enemies of my childhood. These were the faces of the Irish kids from The Incarnation School, who used to come around when we were gangs in Washington Heights to look for Jews to stomp. They sometimes called us Christ killers. Some of my first words to the Contemporary Literature class were as follows: “The only guy in this room who understands how I grew up is up there.” I pointed at the figure on the cross. Nobody laughed. I dropped it. I don’t know if anyone got it. They were kids. It probably was not funny.

My Notre Dame experience was pleasant enough. My relationships there felt more like family than they did at other places I worked. The faculty was lively and collegial. Father Hesburgh enfolded everything in a wide spread of his catholic cassock. Most everything was tolerated within his liberal purview. I had a budget to bring in some radical experimental writers, and often they would be entertained at the house of Digger Phelps, whose wife was getting her Master’s in English. Digger was taking the basketball team to the Final Four. It delighted my writer’s heart to hear the extreme avant-garde poet/composer, Jackson MacLow, discuss college recruiting shenanigans with the coach. The Sophomore Literary Festival was a great event, that brought in such eminences as Tennessee Williams, William Burroughs, and Ken Kesey. I taught tai chi there at a community center. A club called Vegetable Buddies brought in all the great blues singers and musicians from the South Side of Chicago. Chicago itself was only two hours away, and my son, Nikolai, was at the University of Chicago. I spent a lot of time with the lovely Jane Jensen of Mishawaka, whom I loved, but I understood that too late. I was too close to the confusion of my family break-up.

As my two-year stint came to an end, I received an official letter that I’d been considered for tenure, and turned down. I’d never thought about tenure, never applied. The letter went something like this: “Even if you weren’t a Jewish novelist we would not grant you tenure, because we do not want to tenure a novelist of any persuasion.” It was approximately that. I didn’t even get a chance to say, “But I like football.” I’d never thought about tenure. At the time I didn’t understand it, didn’t think I’d want it anywhere. Teaching was not something I saw myself doing forever. It wasn’t until several years later that I realized that the letter, which I immediately tore up and tossed, could probably have provided grounds for litigation, might have bought me a few years out of the yoke. I don’t litigate. Too dreary and time consuming. I’ll litigate only if litigated upon.

NO AND THEN

You have to accept the idea that subjective time

with its emphasis on the now has no objective

meaning… the distinction between past, present,

and future is only an illusion, however persistent.

Albert Einstein

I won’t write this. I can’t.

Before I started to produce the Memoirrhoids most of my works exercised in the grotesque, the perfectly bizarre, in erupted structures closer to the skin of my experience of the twentieth century. For me this was a more “realistic” evocation of what it felt like to be rattling around in our dystopia than anything I could ever leach from the modes of pedestrian realism that the American literary establishment embraced.

These Memoirrhoids are different. I’m looking to retrieve the past, to tell it like it was. Fat chance. I can’t write this. I can’t even establish NOW. When is it? To grab it is like trying to grip a handful of mercury. It squirts into the past as I back into the future. I never see what’s coming until it is NOW, and any NOW immediately takes its place in the reticulation of signs blinking out there that I scan as my past. Son of a bitch. There’s no way I’ll ever write this. I haven’t got the metaphysical chops. How do you describe, evoke; I mean, write any moment? The moment relentlessly disappears into language, a medium that obliterates as soon as it connects.

Okay, I accept that you can’t step in the same river twice, but if I want to go from Manhattan to New Jersey I’ve got to trust that the bridge is going to be there, and that the same bridge will be there when I need to get back. It’s still Washington Heights, even though there’s more Dominicans and Jamaicans than when I grew up. Is it the same bridge, O Chevrolet, O Mercedes Benz? I’m not going to write this any more. I won’t show off my ignorance any more. I refuse to embarrass myself this way. If you want to understand it, you write it. I’ll wait.

The door to Henry’s lunchroom opened and two men walked in. I can’t write that NOW. I haven’t got the rhythm, I haven’t got the jazz, I haven’t got the stuff that Hemingway has. What am I saying and why am I saying it? Why don’t I shut my trap? How can the life of a writer be so exhilarating and so boring in the same moment, and that moment is NOW which immediately becomes then, god bless it?

So in these Memoirrhoids I try to inscribe the past onto the present, onto NOW, which is everything that is, and that all there is constantly flows away. Yipes! I can’t write it. I have to go back to New Jersey. Maybe this writing is the bridge. A bridge from NOW to then. I trust it will be here, the same words, whenever I need to return. What a fool’s spree this writing be.

OUR BOMB

It was simply A-BOMB, the headline that announced what my world would be as I grew up. I spotted that printed on The New York Post on the kitchen table in our Washington Heights apartment, and though I didn’t yet know exactly what was what this hit me like a shock wave from the bomb itself. I staggered out of my building and crossed the street into Jay-hood Wright Park. This little park was a big part of my world, a small landscape designed in the style of Frederick Law Olmsted, who did the great Central Park, without which all of Manhattan would be dreary as a suburb. I stumbled into the park and walked the path that circled the territory, then climbed the granite outcrop that was my neighborhood mountain. It was a thrust of rock left bare in some accident of wisdom to remind us that Manhattan was a rock first of all. It was on that rock that we had only parked our ephemeral economies.

I squatted in the monotonous breeze and stared at the apartments across the street. One blink and the buildings shattered; blinked again and they were whole. The pressure of that headline laid me down, crushed me into the rock. The hazy sky, opalescent and vast, was fixed to digest me. I was only young. It was August and I was ten, just three months into the double digits. I stood back up and stretched. Behind me the graceful arc of the single roadway of the George Washington Bridge extended from Manhattan Island to New Jersey, with roads beyond to Chicago, and on to San Francisco. I was too small. I didn’t know the world. The Hudson River was great. It flowed below without complaint. All the creatures inhabiting my system had gathered around below my mountain. They had come to me as if I had the answers. I was too young even to know the questions. I scanned this multitude of multitudes, and tried to understand who I was. I couldn’t begin to name all of them. The squirrels were there, curiously silent, mingled with their brother rats, and a bordering heap of mice. Roaches occupied an ominous territory, with earwigs and centipedes. Just the representatives sent by each ant colony filled a substantial space. The ant lions came in peace. Grasshoppers, crickets. There were fireflies, darning needles, yellow butterflies, all the moths including the wretched little clothes moths from the closets of the people. Worms peeked out. Crows circled, as did their cousin starlings, and chicken-hawks, and jays, and a city of sparrows, and the pigeons at the fringe, that strutted and cooed. The Japanese beetles so reviled, so shining and metallic, accumulated with ladybugs and other beetles that were their brothers and sisters. Mayflies returned for a reprieve, buddied with the houseflies. The shad rose up from the river below, and the perch, and the river crabs so prized by the Chinese with their wire traps, and the eels that some will eat, all were there around me. Some that I didn’t even know how to name were present. One cat was as big as a motorcar. A shadowland of white bears appeared, and then dispersed. Garter snakes braided and unbraided with the snakes I didn’t know. The legendary fox of the park was so long that you could measure a mile from the tip of its bush to its snout; in fact, they say this was how the mile was invented in New York City. All of these surrounded me, waiting calm as a lake around an island. They waited like actors for my notes.

I was so young. I was diminutive, in fact. I had nothing to say, but finally I spoke. I can’t remember everything I told them. I said, Brisk Lipton S Tea. I said, You’ll Wonder Where The Yellow Went If You Brush Your Teeth With Pepsodent. I said, LSMFT, Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco. The words blew from my mouth in a spray of fire. I tried to apologize. “The humans,” I cried. “The humans!” This I said in simple words: “From now on nothing will be the same.” Of course I was naive. I was inexperienced. I was only a kid. I was wrong. Eight Great Tomatoes In An Itty Bitty Can. Everything is the same. Everything has changed. There is more of it now, and more of us to smother in it. We never stop killing the other people and we keep killing ourselves, and that is what happens till the brightness overwhelms, and that keeps happening until quitting time.

OUR ROCKEFELLER

Rockefeller Center rises out of the heart of Cape Breton Island. I made that discovery in the early Seventies. While visiting Phil and Rudy on their first summer of residence in their place in Cape Breton, I realized I might be able to afford a piece of land by the shore myself. I became obsessed with this. The landscape, the seascape, I was overwhelmed by it, and was struck with the people, friendly, kind, mischievous. It was 1971, but it could have been 1871. Some still got around with horse and buggy. Old timers, like John-Dan MacPherson and Joe Kennedy and Dan-Huey MacIsaac loved to tell sea stories, fishing stories, bootlegging stories, stories of the mysterious old days in Cape Breton, long before the causeway linked the island to the mainland. People still were tough. There were few automobiles. They hitchhiked, or walked long distances. It was a place that seemed to connect me to a rich old world of continuity and survival.

Land for sale was generally posted on a bulletin board at the county seat in Port Hood. There were no real estate agents. Phil and Rudy had bought their place from a Mrs. Gilbert of Gilbert Oil, a Rockefeller sister. Their place, a fishing and hunting camp that had never been used, had been built as a tax write-off as the company explored for oil off the coast. They abandoned that effort, leaving a few parcels of land Gilbert Oil was unloading. The one I wanted to look at was managed by Ranger Hamilton, an American sexologist who ran a camp at the end of Sight Point Road, outside of Inverness. This road is a spectacular route through the woods and on cliffs along the shore. Ranger Hamilton wasn’t around, but I was told I could get a gentleman, a fisherman, to come down from Pleasant Bay to show the property.

He took us up the dirt road, stopped after a mile or so, and we got out. He pointed towards the sea. “It’s the ten acres by the shore,” he said. “There was once a road down to it, but I don’t know where it is. It’s all grown in.” From beyond the spruce forest, under the rush of small clouds, the ocean, grey-blue and white-capped, assaulted my heart. We could actually own such a place.

“We’ll buy it,” I said. I was going on sheer nerve, because we had no money.

“This is what you have to do.” The fisherman explained the process.

We did what we had to do, and that was how we washed up on the shores of Rockefeller Center. Fast elevator took us to the offices of Gilbert Oil on, I think, the sixty-sixth floor, just under the Rainbow Room. We were directed down several corridors, and eventually invited in to an enormous office paneled in brown woods, lit around by deco wall lamps, cushy leather chairs and couches against the walls. It was like stepping into a Forties movie. We could expect The Marx Brothers; we could anticipate Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Across the room, behind a massive mahogany desk, sat a grey, spectral officer of Gilbert Oil. He looked like someone emulated by William Burroughs, but held together in his dark suit and tie with real starch. He motioned us with his bony hand to sit down on the straight-backed chairs across the desk from him. On his ring finger was a figment of his Yale graduation. He kept silent as he looked us over. I thought, this is pretty high up to have to go for a tiny fleck of Rockefeller land. “So you have an interest in the ten acres on the Broad Cove Banks road in Cape Breton?”

“Yes sir,” we said. It couldn’t have been any more intimidating if we were buying thousands of acres. This was like living out a scene from Bleak House.

He stroked his beardless chin and regarded us through the grey slits of his eyes. He was as old and laconic as the stones of Rockefeller Center. “It’s $2500, and we won’t haggle.”

“No sir,” we said. “$2500 is fine.” At the time I had $250 for earnest money. I knew I would have to steal the rest somewhere. Not a human smile showed up during the whole exchange.

We signed the agreement, and took the elevator down, papers in hand. A wind had come up, and the waves beat against the stones of Rockefeller Center. We untied our twelve-foot boat, and we shoved off. The small outboard started at the first pull, and we slowly steered into the waves, away from the towering Rockefeller Center, and downtown between the cliffs of Fifth Avenue.

OUT OF MIND

Josh Reynolds helped Adnan buy a small camp in the Sandia Mountains, south of Albuquerque, near the village of Torreon. It was remotely situated, off a dirt road, at the foot of the mountains. I pitched my tent across the gulch from the work hall and spent much of my free time gazing through the limpid New Mexico light, across the Estancia Valley. Adnan asked me to take on the responsibility of walking Josh Reynolds. Josh, in his fifties, was suffering serious heart problems. He was devoted to Adnan and his work, but he rarely participated. He watched us from a chair in the back of the room, paternal and benign. He certainly wouldn’t do the calisthenics. Belly dancing, not. Chanting, no. My job was to accompany him on walks around the grounds, and engage him in conversation. He was one of several brothers, inheritors of the Reynolds fortune. The other brothers were spoiled biker rednecks, all of whom died young. He was the “white sheep” of the family. He was big enough to be a biker, but his interests were in the arts, and he was committed to supporting this spiritual practice. He had divested himself of a share in the tobacco side of his family fortune, as a matter of conscience. His own health seemed not to interest him, and he resisted any path to recovery, bent on his own destruction it seemed. I found conversation with him interesting, though I don’t recall particulars. His attitude towards me was only slightly condescending, a common affliction of people with enormous wealth. They are constrained, some more, some less, to speak down. Some are not even aware of their altitude.

I turned the Josh-walking over to someone else when I decided to fast. Adnan encouraged fasting. With everyone eating one meal a day, and many people fasting, the situation sometimes seemed like a communal eating disorder. Long fasts were celebrated like heroic odysseys. So and so fasted for 16, 19, 22 days — Hooray! Mine lasted only ten days. The first few days were somewhat difficult, as described by the veterans, and the rest of the days were only slightly better, though they did get interesting. It was sometimes even delightful, how the process slowed me down physically, and heightened my perceptions. It seemed to take forever for me to cross the gulch to my tent. On my way every day I was greeted by the same horned toad pressed against the same rock. It seemed to know me, to be saying, “wait, wait.” I felt as if I was in a Carlos Casteneda fantasy. The New Mexico breezes felt like delicate feathers of light. The fields and clouds and distant buttes all seemed to fold close around me like a dream tapestry. I had never before experienced this variety of smells of the earth. They entered me as a phase of nourishment. Food began to seem like an addiction it was easy to resist. I was proud of that. The ninth day was my favorite, just before I quit. Clouds laden with moisture nudged through the thick azure overhead all day. They released only intermittent drops of rain, heavy enough to volatilize new scents from the arid ground. I sat on a large stone. Everything was gorgeous. I was deliriously weak from nine days without food. The heavy drops occasionally hit the stone I sat on, spread across the umber, and evaporated. It was indescribably beautiful, ineffably profound. Hit the stone, spread, evaporate. I watched for hours as universes splashed into existence, diffused, disappeared. I didn’t want to leave the stone my butt rested on. Every cell of me was cognitive. Me. Stone. Water drop and drop and drop. Hit, seep, evaporate.

How is fasting different from starvation? The experience of fasting can be pleasant, and enlightening. The process of starvation is always desperate. Is the hunger of one different from the hungers of the other? I’ve been hungry, but I’ve never starved. Is it that the one is voluntary, and the other, obviously, not? Is it that no matter how long the fast, there is always the promise of food at the end of it; but you can’t see the end of starvation. Perhaps death is the only promise that starvation can fulfill.

The day after I came out of the fast was dedicated to drumming. Boom taka taka taka boom boom tak. Al illaha il allah. This went on all day, twelve hours of the same beat. My head, my chest, my shoulders, my spine, my whole body filled with it. Towards evening we tapered off. I stepped outside to sit on the porch and look across the gully at my tent and the Sandia mountains rising behind it. No thoughts. No mind. I couldn’t have had a thought if I’d wanted to. It was delicious, skull replete and empty of thought, wallowing in the reverberations of the drums, satisfied just to be present. So many meditation practices I’d tried seemed to aim for release from an attachment to mind. Here I was, mind spontaneously unwound from the webs of thought, released, adrift in a pre-thought sensorium. It was an enormous relief, a relaxation into the moment that allowed every immediate sensation to ring with clarity. I have retained the memory of that experience, and have tried to return to it, but I don’t think I can get there again without the process — eighty people drumming together for twelve hours.

In the next year Josh Reynolds died. Even the wealthy kick the bucket, I found myself thinking, meanly. I don’t know where the funeral was held. He was the last of his brothers. I went back to Adnan’s camp a couple of times, but drifted away from the practice. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was foolishness.

OXYGEN

“There are some inverted pyramids, which are concentric circles carved into the ground. A colleague of mine, great archaeologist, has been working on them for years. He chews a lot of coca leaf. That’s a story. Helps him breathe at altitude. Keeps the mind clicking. My village is a few miles up the mountain above that site.”

Gary spells it out for us. He’s an astroarchaeologist working on ancient Inca concepts of the night sky by collecting stories. My friend, Sinda Gregory, once was married to him. She arranged for Avrum and myself to stay at his apartment in Cuzco. He offers to let us follow him into the field. What a privilege, we think. To get to Moray we walk a couple of miles from where we leave the car. The site is in a verdant bowl, surrounded by foothills, with the snow-capped Andes in the distance. The beautiful landscape tricks you into thinking it is hospitable. The spaciousness, the wide sweep of light, makes you feel airborne, cousin to the hawk. The concentric circles of these inverted “pyramids” taunt your virtual wings into a helical drift. The “pyramids” are drilled into the earth like a frozen circling of condors. One theory is that the concentric terraces were at one time covered in gold, focusing the sun back on itself. A delightful idea, tons of gold and a great homage to the sun. A more likely explanation is that it was an experimental agricultural station, and that the different levels of terrace correspond to different altitudes and microclimates down the Urubomba Valley, to help the farmers know when to plant. I want to remain here drifting among these odd earthworks for several more hours, but our objective is to follow Gary up the mountain to the small village where he interviews people to gather stories of the night sky.

Avrum and I trudge after Gary up the ancient footpath. The town is at over 16,000 feet. The local people are small and compact, with big chests and lung capacities. Because most European miners can’t work at this altitude, and the native people won’t work in the mines, the mineral resources of the Andes are mostly intact. Though the people of his town, Gary explains, are very poor, the imperialists can’t get them to violate their mountains. Some of them still wear traditional Inca garb. He walks the trail without effort. For me, after a certain point, each step is torture. The day, which I noted as beautiful when we were resting at Moray, has turned into a grim gasping game of survival for me. I chew coca leaves, with the banana ash that catalyzes the release of the alkaloids. It works only minimally. I am near blackout as we approach the end of the walk. Gary has rented half of a potato shed to stay in while he records the local people’s star stories. He pays them a dollar for each. They line up to tell their stories, hints of mischief in their broad smiles. They are happy to make things up. Gary reasons that whatever they say, whether “true” or not, is useful information about how they see the stars of the southern hemisphere. He later publishes an important book about his research.

I lie down outside the shed. Avrum, who is in great shape, is having trouble finding enough oxygen to breathe. Gary is used to it, and goes about his business. I black out and see stars. I don’t know if they are the right ones, but I see stars. I don’t tell Gary my story. I’ll never get out of this potato shed alive. That’s the melodrama. Sleep comes like a foretaste of death. Somehow, in the morning, we stumble back to more comfortable altitude. That’s how Peru taught me to enjoy breathing, and to be grateful for the gift of oxygen.

OZARK TO AVRUM

Ozark was small but mighty. She was black and tan, had a lot of terrier in her. We picked her out of a box of puppies offered for free by a mom and daughter in a grocery parking lot in Ozark, Missouri. She grew up in a stone house outside of Ithaca, New York. She came with us when we went to work for the Forest Service in Idaho, and was never afraid to chase a bear, or scatter elk. She was great company when I went down to the spring to fill the water bags. She flushed a coyote that chased her yelping out of the woods. The coyote stopped when it saw me, and ran away. She fled from the doe with twin fawns that then turned on me and sent me up a tree. She was all spirit, a happy, feisty dog. Ozark came with us to Eugene, Oregon, where among other changes, we were about to become parents. We were twenty-one. Jingle rode up to the lookout as a slim exrodeo queen from Winnemucca, Nevada. She came out of the wilderness of the Clearwater National Forest with a melon in her belly.

She was determined to nurse our child, had been preparing to do that, she told me, since she was four years old. It was December, raining as usual in Eugene, Oregon, when she entered Sacred Heart Hospital for the second time. The first time was a false alarm. This time was for real. The hospital was across the street from our house. Husbands were not allowed to witness the delivery, so Ozark and I waited at home for news of the arrival of Avrum. I felt like a young recruit going into battle for the first time. I had never been a father before. I was twenty-one. I had never been anything before. Ozark was a comfort.

They came home on a rainy Sunday afternoon. As Jingle tells it, her waters burst all over the nurse’s face and clothes as she bent over to inspect the process. It was an embarrassment she brought home as we entered the house, into the stage of life called young family. Jingle immediately started to nurse. She tried to nurse. She had a fever. She went to bed and did nothing but nurse. Her milk was failing. She was miserable. How could she accept this? For so many years she had anticipated with pleasure the responsibility of nursing her baby. Nature was failing her now. I felt her forehead. It was burning. Avrum sucked at her nipple, turned away and cried, sucked again. No milk. Nothing. I thought of my childhood. All through it I’d been taunted by my peers for having tits. The cruel kids called me “Tits”. That had been a deep humiliation, but this would be a vindication, if only I could nurse the boy. I would have done it, just to ease my wife’s despair. I was trapped in the biological harness of my sex.

What could we do? Jingle had been so focused on nursing we hadn’t prepared a fall back position. Adele Davis was her guru. She advised not even to prepare any other system. Mother’s milk was psychological. To even entertain anything else could screw up the natural process. I felt Jingle’s forehead. She was burning. No milk. The baby was screaming. Not even Billie Holiday singing “God Bless The Child” could cut into me like that. “Get bottles,” said Jingle, out of her delirium. “What?” “Bottles. Formula.” I understood what she meant. I’d never given it a thought. It was Sunday night. We were new in town, had no friends. It was raining, new moon dark. Nothing was open. I called the hospital. They directed me to the one open pharmacy in town. No, no doctor was available till tomorrow. Jingle could have gone back to the hospital. But she wouldn’t go back. That much we knew. I left her with our son. She was delirious with fever. I jumped into the Beetle, and with sirens wailing in my mind, headed across town for the pharmacy. A kind clerk, who saw my panic, explained the bottles and formula mystery.

Before I opened the door, I could hear the baby crying. He was still alive. Jingle was still trying to nurse. In the crumple of sheets she looked like she’d been abandoned in the desert. Ozark, our best friend, had thrown up all over the living room. It was too much for me. No one who hasn’t been through the pleasures of the parenting nightmare, can understand this panic. It is terminal. What do I do first? Clean up the dog vomit, comfort the wife, feed the baby? What I did is unthinkable now. I threw Ozark out the window. It was only one floor down, and she didn’t even yelp as she landed in some bushes.

“Boil the bottles. Sterilize,” commanded Jingle, hoarse from fever. I did everything she said. I mixed the formula. I filled a sterile bottle with formula, stuck it in boiling water, tested the heat on my wrist. When it felt right, I picked Avrum up. Jingle had passed out in her fever. Was she going to die? Would I have to raise the kid by myself? I’d never held a baby before. So fragile. It seemed to teeter on the edge of life. I didn’t know what I was doing, had never thought about it. I kept pushing the nipple in and out of its mouth, as if this was a blowjob. I fear I ruined the kid for life. My own kid. I was weeping. He got fed. He burped. He quieted down. This was miraculous. I lay him down next to his mother in bed. She was feverish, but breathing. I cleaned up the dog vomit. Jingle and baby slept peacefully. I went outside in the rain and looked in the bushes for Ozark. I called her name. She was gone. I set up some formula to prepare for the next feeding, then fell asleep in the easy chair. The next day we found out Jingle had pneumonia. She never got her milk back until Nikolai was born. He nursed for nine months. We never saw Ozark again.

I dedicate this kibble of prose to Ozark, to whom I apologize deeply. And I write it for all our wonderful dogs: for Junk who got smashed by a car, for Grapes whom we had to leave behind, for Face, the hyper one, who ran with me on mushroom hunts, for her son, Hank, who chased cows and had to be put down, for Sampson, the glutton, the huge willful fool. Dogs bless us with their shorter lives, and help us understand how to deal with separation and loss. I thank you all, and hope we all can meet again in the happy hunting ground.

PATRIOT

Big war was on. Big job for me was to rise at four or five in the morning and trudge up the hill to Broadway and 173rd Street, to stand in line at the A&P till my mother showed up at seven, just before the store opened, with the ration books. That way we’d be in good position to buy some of the sugar, butter, or meat that was only occasionally available. I wanted to unfold my heart into the war effort like an American flag. I prayed the war would last long enough for me to get over there and kill some Nazis or Nips myself.

We wanted so much to be heroic in her eyes. I was seven years old and she was orbiting forty. She was the mother of my sister’s friend, Joan. She looked tall to me, and gracefully voluptuous. She had delicate Semitic features — aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a full mouth she impastoed with blood-red lipstick that played against her blue eyes. A lacy negligee couldn’t have been more provocative than the blue-grey uniform of the AWVS (American Women’s Voluntary Service) that she wore as she ran that operation from a storefront on Broadway. She encouraged kids to get involved in the war effort. It didn’t take much to encourage me. For her I scoured the neighborhood, pulling behind me a cardboard box with a rope harness. I collected scraps of metal foil and worn rubber heels to be recycled into the fight against the axis. She was the foundation of my patriotism. Throughout my neighborhood every day I fought my own little war, just so I could return and be praised by her for bits of foil and scraps of rubber. Sometimes she rewarded me with a comic book — Captain Marvel Jr., whom I loved for his blue costume, or Archie and his bumbling romances with Betty and Veronica. I preferred Veronica for her black hair that made her look more like my muse. Once she took my face to her bosom and kissed me on the right cheek. I carried that kiss home, my face tilted to the right with the weight of it. “Look at that,” said my sister, Rita, who was eight years older than I. “Where did you get that?” The implications of a kiss were surely richer for her than for myself. I checked my face in the mirror. The imprint of lips was like a brand, a livid tattoo, my badge, and my medal. I would never wash it off, and I didn’t, and when I look closely at my face, I see it there today.

That was my initiation into what has become a long, complicated, not always delightful interaction with the muse. Everything I’ve done in my life for any reason greater than my limited sometimes tainted self has been for her, to invoke her, to please her, to satisfy her. Fortunately I haven’t satisfied her yet.

PAUL

My big buddy, Paul, was shrunk by lightning. He’d been diminished to start with, but had a boomer voice, the voice of someone who at one time was much greater. We trained together as smokechasers at a Forest Service camp near Pierce, Idaho when this happened. Our crew climbed to a ridge far above the camp where we were to practice cutting a fire line — dig to the dirt beneath the duff, drop any snag and get it out of the way, roll every branch, turn every stone, widen the line to the dirt with the broad blade of your Pulaski. Without clouds without warning I felt a crack and flash, as if the atmosphere suddenly split. I reopened my eyes and looked down to my right. Here was Paul, 60 % smaller, trying to work his Pulaski, though the tool hadn’t shrunk with him. Puffs of steam rose off the smaller Paul, as off a waffle iron in the morning.

“What happened, Paul?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I think I caught some lightning.” His voice boomed, but he looked small and embarrassed. “I guess that finishes the job for me. No more work in the woods for me.”

“Don’t say that, Paul. You’ll work.” I knew it wasn’t true.

That finished Paul for fire school. He was too little to be a smoke chaser, not to mention that he had hoped to go to smoke jumper school. Now he was so light he could be blown away in the breeze, or sucked into the flames.

I didn’t expect ever to see him again, but we ran into each other late that Fall. Jingle and I had moved to Eugene, Oregon. Avrum, our first son, was born there, as was Nikolai, our second. I worked at The Branding Iron, a steakhouse, the only restaurant in Eugene that hired waiters. It was a big change from the woods to a steakhouse. The logging industry was suffering a recession, so the majority of customers were doctors, dentists, and undertakers. They could afford the steaks.

I didn’t recognize Paul at first. He came in alone, sat at a corner table, and ordered a child’s portion, medium rare. Paul was surprised to find me slinging steaks.

“The only thing permanent in life is change.” Sometimes saying a cliché gets right to the point.

“Don’t I know that,” says Paul, voice blasting awake the drowsy professionals who masticated sirloin around the room. “It’s tough to find a job in the woods when you’re three feet tall. You know, I used to carry a Ponderosa log over the mountain under each arm. Now they float them over with balloons.”

“That’s a big difference,” I said.

We agreed to go for a walk on Tuesday, my day off.

Jingle, the wife, had a premonition that Tuesday, and asked me not to go. I went anyway. We walked Skinner’s Butte, and weren’t half way down the trail when I heard that all too familiar crack. It is often said that lightning won’t strike twice, so I didn’t worry, but when I looked down to my right, Paul was gone.

“Pauly, Pauly” I cried out. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” boomed his voice out of the dust. “I think I caught some lightning again.”

“Another tough break,” I said.

“I’ll never work again. Here I was headed for the Clearwater, to pop some balloons.”

“Do you want to keep on walking?” I was afraid to move. I could easily step on him.

“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

And catch up he did, and since then he has never left me. Although he is Paul, he has become like my imaginary friend. We have long conversations about war and politics and ecology. Iraq is on his mind. Terrorism is on his mind. He falls silent only if I am indiscreet and talk about the lightning.

PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC

In Guangzhou we stay in a dormitory room at a People’s Hotel. All ten beds in the room are occupied. One of the girls who works as a hostess and maid gloms on to Rafael. That he speaks Mandarin makes him doubly attractive. She’s slim and graceful, has a pretty face, long black hair, a ready smile. Her voice is damaged, as if some caustic has corroded her vocal chords. The speech sounds like velcro pulling apart. Rafael, she must imagine, could be her ticket out of the People’s Republic. It has happened to him before with girls angling to get out of China. He treats her nicely, and she is very nice to him, and nice to me as well. One of the virtues she hopes will win him is her respect for the patriarch.

Rafael introduces me in our room as an American novelist and poet. “Ahhh,” some of them exclaim, and they stare at me as if I am an example of an American panda. One of them comes forward to assume the position of leader of the cadre. He speaks as if from behind a podium. “This is an auspicious evening. We are here with our American friends, a poet and his son who speaks perfect Mandarin. I will write a poem. Each of us will write a poem. Our American friend will write a poem. His son will translate, and thus we will have an evening of poetry.”

Everyone does as he says. I am constipated both creatively and physically. I bumble out a few creaky lines of nothing interesting. We go ahead and read it anyway. My release in the communal bathroom, no stalls or compartments, is more impressive. There’s no seat, no pedestal. You squat and aim for a hole in the concrete floor. The five days of shit explodes out of me as if launched by a rocket. It hits the wall with enough force I think to shatter the tiles. Everyone in the bathroom pays attention and they seem about to applaud. If only I could have expelled my poem with such force.

The options on the trains are soft sleeper, hard sleeper, and hard bench. We choose hard sleeper on the way to Hangzhou. The compartments have no doors. It’s a series of niches, six bunks in each niche, with uppers that fold down off the wall. Each passenger gets a blanket and a pillow.

A pair of thugs that were secreted from some dark alley in Shanghai, pass through the corridor and make nasty comments about everyone sitting in the seats. Passengers carry mugs and pouches of tea when they travel. A steward passes through periodically with a kettle of scalding water and fills their mugs. Aromas of the teas permeate the car. With hands warming around the brew, travelers take comfort. The thugs come back, cigarettes dangling from lips as if they learned their tough look from some American movie. They are bony little punks, their greasy hair slicked back. They wear colorful wide ties over dark shirts. Their jeans are rumpled and soiled. One of them drops his cigarette and grinds the ember with his torn faux Keds sneaker. “You two,” he says to a timid peasant couple on the way home to Harbin. “You get up. We’ll sit there.” The couple obeys meekly, without a question. They look frightened. Patriotic music blasts over the speakers. No one protests. The punks roll cigarettes and light up again after they sit down. Their tobacco smells like smoldering horse shit. Rafael and I get up and move away. We want to do something but don’t know what to do except stand in the aisle and send nasty looks at the pair. “Take it easy. When we get off you people can sit down again,” says one of them. They smoke their cigarettes, and in an hour, a few stops before Shanghai, they leave, and we all sit down again and smile at each other wanly.

A handsome fellow across from us, who looks a bit like Chou-En Lai, speaks as if he’s the chairman of our committee. “China is a big country, with long train rides, so we make friends and entertain each other with stories. Soon Hong Kong will be part of The People’s Republic.” We are traveling in 1986, between the end of the Cultural Revolution and the tightening after the Tien-An-Men square uprising. There is relative freedom. People are itching to talk, especially to strangers. “Our diplomats are skillful and intelligent. Soon they will restore Taiwan to China.” He settles back into his seat, and everyone is silent, until a steward comes through to announce that they have begun serving in the dining car. We’re both hungry, and find our lunch chits and head for the dining car.

It is much less than we’d hoped. Most of the food experiences we’ve had so far have been pretty good. Even the street food has been good. This is way beyond bad. The floor is strewn with scraps from the previous wave of diners. The tables haven’t been wiped down, and are sticky with sauces and spilled food. A beleaguered server brings us lunch boxes that we open and close right away. The contents smell like a heap of clothes about to be laundered. I open the box again. Bits of chickenish stuff is mixed into some grey rice, with maybe some scallions stressed and chopped. I exchange a disgusted look with Rafael. Though we’re hungry neither of us wants to test this food. Suddenly a squad of young men, drunk and noisy, busts into the car and brushes by, bumping against us. They make nasty comments about the “white ghosts,” the foreigners. They stagger around the car and hassle the attendant. They stare at us and point their chopsticks threateningly. When the waiter brings their food, even they complain about it, and shout food insults at us. “Feed this crap to the white ghosts.” We decide to leave without touching our food. “They’re the right age that they probably were Red Guards,” Rafael conjectures. “They got no education. The only thing they ever learned how to do was bully. Most of a generation was rendered into this.”

In the seat across from us an old man with a brush cut looks at us benignly and smiles. He asks if we speak Chinese. As soon as Rafael says he does the old guy leans forward and starts to recite poems by Wang Wei. He even knows some verses in English. “The autumn hills hoard scarlet from the setting sun / Flying birds chase their mates, / Now and then patches of blue sky break clear — / Tonight the evening mists find nowhere to gather.” He recites softly. “I taught Mathematics,” he adds. “During the Cultural Revolution they wouldn’t let me read poetry. They took all my books. I couldn’t speak poems to my students. They wouldn’t let me. They took away my house.” The patriotic one, Chou-En-Lai look-alike, huffs, “You should keep quiet, old man. You don’t have to tell this to these white ghosts.” The old man is compelled to speak. He leans closer. There are tears in his eyes. “They shaved my head and made me sleep in the school. I had no house any more. I slept in the cafeteria on a table. And they shouted questions at me, and humiliated me in front of my students.” He sobs and weeps openly. The other man looks at him with disdain. The old guy leans back, and grows another smile. Venting this way to white ghost strangers is a relief.

On the way back we stay in the same People’s Hotel, this time in a small room with two beds. There is a knock on the door. Rafael asks who it is. A rasping voice responds. Rafael opens the door. His pretty hopeful has come with gifts for both of us. We try to refuse them, but there is no turning her away. She wants Rafael, wants to get out of China, wants to ride to the US on his back. She thinks the covered cup she gives me, and the beautiful tea set she gives Rafael will do the trick. It must have used up an enormous part of her wages. She says something about having a sister already in the US. Her appeal tweaks our male rescue fantasies, her hopes gone haywire in a world without possibilities. There wasn’t room in our luggage for these gifts. We leave them in the room and disappear from her onto the train for Hong Kong. We try to laugh it off on the trip back, and joke about waking in the morning to the sound of that voice. We imitate cruelly its irritating rasp. Neither of us finds it really funny enough to feel okay about laughing.

PIIF

It was the autumn of our discontent. We were four fictioneers bruised by the slings and arrows of commercial publishing. Each of us had begun to undergo some critical attention, and we were about to assert our importance. We were going to wipe the slate clean, take the bull by the horns, set sail in a new direction. We met at my apartment on Crosby Street in order to unite and facilitate. We were Walter Abish, Clarence Major, Michael Stephens, and myself. In our separate ways, each of us was called to innovation by conviction and necessity. None of us thought he could change the world, but we thought that changing the way it was represented in language might help it heal. We were committed to an attack on the status quo in the art of fiction, to ripping through the masks of realism that paralyzed the face of American imaginative writing. That was my rhetoric, at least at the time.

I made some coffee. We had some cookies. We sat at my round table and agreed we should do something. To do it together was a great idea, but we each sensed a certain uneasiness. It is almost always a novelist’s M.O. to work alone. The need for solitude and silent contemplation is what turns some writers to the novel. I had come up with a name for our quartet — Projects In Innovative Fiction, acronym PIIF. Everyone liked it. We closed the meeting after Walter said he could get our stationery printed very cheaply. We each threw some money into the pot for that. As we separated I’m sure each of us knew that the only project he was committed to was the novel or play, in Michael’s case, he was working on at the time. What would the Projects In Innovative Fiction be? Would we collaborate? Would we do performances? Something would come up. Something was in the air.

We did come up with the stationery. One Sunday afternoon I went to the printer with Walter. The shop was on Delancey Street in the canyon formed by the bridge abutment. Walking there was like descending into Chasid gulch. We carried the boxes of PIIF stationery to my apartment, to be divided equally among the four fictioneers.

We all waited for something to happen, as if forming the group and printing the stationery could be a magnet for ideas. None of us had real collaborative energy. None of us was a performer. We each struggled plenty to find time to write our own works. We needed some hip P.R. energy. If one of us only had the relentless self-promotional push of an Allen Ginsberg. The flood of his talent and energy lifted all the Beats with him. Just a fraction of that push and we could have been contenders.

PIIF fizzled. Except for the stationery, nothing ever came of our conclave. We each wrote and published books. We each lived in or left New York City. We never met again as the PIIF. Occasionally each of us has been asked by some stranger who has seen the stationery, “What is this PIIF?”

POLES

Richard helped us raise the tipi tripod. It was a job of some modest engineering to get the long heavy poles to vertical in the small clearing. It had taken us the good part of two summers to fell, peel, and smooth the poles for the tipi. It’s best to cut them when the moon is waxing, because then the sap rises, and loosens the bark. The design causes rain to hit the confluence of the poles and guide itself down to run off into the ditch behind the dewcloth. A small drip sizzles occasionally into the fire pit at the center of the living space. You smooth the poles as best you can. Any slight chip or irregularity causes a drip onto the blankets or books. Lodge-pole pine is the standard, slim and smooth all the way up. All we had was spruce, too thick, too irregular and full of knots from bottom to top. The tripod poles were thick and heavy, the longest one thirty-six feet, all the others thirty-two. I was impressed, though unprepared for it, how every tiny detail impacts on the result.

To fasten the three tripod poles you wind the rope around them at a point just above where the cover ends, at twenty-eight feet in this case. It seemed counterintuitive that you don’t bind or tighten the rope while the poles are down, but once the poles were up the reason was clear. We tied a long rope to the top, and then tossed that rope over the highest limb we could reach, backed off into the primrose and raspberry, and pulled. The tripod rose slowly, but more easily than I had imagined. I moved the center pole around, and then another, and made a stable triangle that cinched itself at the top, which it couldn’t have done if the rope had been bound too tight. That tripod stayed up in place for many years. The tripod alone looked quite noble, powerful. I watched Richard stand back and look up at it. I think he said something like, “Wow!” I like to imagine that this was one of the inspirations for the great vertical Cor-ten steel pieces he made in the mid-Seventies at the Stedelijk Museum, called Sight Point, and in London at Liverpool Station, called Fulcrum.

While I was making the tipi I thought about Henry Crow-Dog a lot. I was privileged to be in his company while I was working on a film in

South Dakota. He was a shaman and a man of profound mischief from the Rosebud reservation. He appeared in a couple of shots, and remained on the set as the “spiritual advisor”. On the reservation he called the place he lived, Crow-dog’s Paradise. Above the entrance to his paradise was a portrait of Henry levitating in the lotus position, a peyote button in one hand, a cross in the other.

My poles were too thick at the top, so I couldn’t fit all fourteen poles, and had to use only eleven. The imperfection bothered me, but didn’t seem to make too much difference. We tied the dew-cloth to the poles, moved the bed in, and the chairs that Jingle built according to the design in the tipi book. Before we stretched the cover over the poles a black feather floated down between the poles, and landed inside the tipi. I took that as a blessing from Henry. We stretched the cover across the poles and tied it down, put the smoke-flap poles in place, and so we had a home. It was a sanctified space. To lie on your back and look up through the smoke-hole is exalting. Sometimes now I close my eyes and visualize the poles rising like the apse of a great cathedral. It imprinted particularly during a lightning storm that came a few days after the tipi was up. We closed the smokeflaps. Rain beat on the canvas and the wind swelled and smacked it against the poles. Lightning lit us up every few seconds. I’d never seen before how each flash was a different color. This was a great revelation of how our lives are lived in power and beauty.

PREFACE: 137.N

A friendly aspect of New York is that it is a pedestrian city. Everyone rubs against anyone else. How do we get anywhere? We walk. Locals, tourists, evangelists, panhandlers, scholars, maniacs, students, pickpockets, atheists, commuters, flim flam, police all present and moving. All races on the street together. All bent genders. So sweet and dangerous. Everyone familiar. Everyone neutral. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t smile. So I am on my way down Broadway south of 8th Street checking myself out in the windows of cars parked illegally at the curb. I pause at the window of an Audi stretched into a limo and really see myself. “Geezer,” sez I. I keep going. It’s a cold damp late November day. I’ve been living in a dry climate so am not accustomed to the damp chilled knife of weather that slices through my light fleece jacket. I stop at a table of hats, gloves, scarves, assorted bling, tended skittishly by a couple of young black men trying to make a living, eyes out for cops. I drop a black knitted watch cap on my head and ask how much it costs. “Not like that, Pops. You don’t wear it like that.” Pops!!! I like that. Before I left Colorado a young woman with whom I worked on a film project had called me “dude”. That made me uneasy. It was flattering, but it raised a question. Was I too old to be a “dude”? And I don’t enjoy when the young ones call me “sir”. Perfunctory respect. A little too military. “You wear it like this, Pops. Over your ears. It’s cold out here.” He stretched the cap down over my ears.

Back in Denver the air is cold and dry. With the watch cap pulled over my ears I check myself out in the glass door of a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I snap off the cap and check the grey hair. “Geezer,” sez I. “Pops, dude, sir.” I say. “It’s time for you to write your memoirs.” Like that. It comes to me out of the grey, as if it’s some kind of inspiration. The sun beats down on my back, as it often does in Colorado. It drags time across the prairie, into the mountains. Memoirs. A revolting idea. I’d rather be a dude. I have to agree, however. I already look like someone who must be writing his memoirs.

But how to write them? The idea of constructing a narrative arc out of memories I find repugnant. I don’t understand why, but when it comes to form I’m blind and stubborn. Maybe it’s because I want to present my experience as following the incessant sputter of life, and that my recollections present themselves at random, in fits and starts, and hardly ever in chronological order. They are like snapshots shot from the hip. They come up as if you are fishing for them without a line, without a pole. They pop out to interfere with the seamless process of the present. I present these sudden swellings I choose to call Memoirrhoids as they occur at random, arranged here by title in alphabetical order, and that is how I can write this volume of memoirs. This method gives me freedom to limit the frame of each of these itchings, and to occasionally allow each story to assume its own form, and to sketch in some fantasy since fantasy often leans into and informs “reality.”

How many to write, that is the question. Will I still be writing these as my ashes are funneled into the urn? I want to be obliged to write enough of them so I am forced to deal with personal stuff beyond my comfort.

My association with an old friend, the sculptor Charles Ross, urged me towards the number 137. He was making some works that explored this number. For one series of pieces he arranged a Fresnel lens that focuses the heat of the sun onto eight-inch squares of brightly painted wood. The burns last eight minutes and nineteen seconds, the duration of the passage of a photon between the earth and the sun. He does this 137 times on sets of 137 squares of wood, each set painted a different intense color. The completed works have an undeniable, inexplicable power and beauty. 137.n (the resolution of the decimal is agreed on to about ten digits) is the Fine Structure Constant, or Alpha (a). Some physicists call it “God’s Number.” It figures as a ratio in all transactions between light and matter. 1/137 is the probability that an electron will emit or absorb a photon. It is mysterious, the physicists say, because unlike pi or Planck’s constant, it is dimensionless, not a result of measurement. It is a prime number that asserts itself out of the void of creation, a number on which all manifestation depends. Richard Feynman was fond of the number. He is said to have confronted prize-winning physicists who strut around conferences with the remark, “You think you’ve got it figured out, what about 137?” Werner Heisenberg stated that once we understand 137 the problems of quantum mechanics will disappear. 137 is the most important number of the Kabbalah. Try to figure this out. In natural sequences that arrange themselves according to the Fibonacci series, like the whorls of the sunflower, or the conch or snail shell, the angle between one level and another is almost always 137°. The great physicist, Wolfgang Pauli, friend of Heisenberg and Jung, spent a good deal of his later life obsessed with 137. He died in a hospital in Zurich in room 137. My huge handicap is that I don’t know how to read the material in the language of mathematics or physics, but it is energizing to take a poetic or metaphorical poke at it. I like to infer with what little I understand that there is always part of what we look at that is in the dark, and ineluctable. There is the darkness in everything manifest. It insures the imperfect that is our paradise. Look at Psalm 137, the opening of which Bob Marley sings with such tender inspiration. The last verses of this psalm advocate infanticide.

Why not make 137.n of these Memoirrhoids? 137.n allows for all manifestation, my manifestation, thank you. I represent the anthropomorphic theories plaguing the quantum physicists. For practice I wrote one piece, a meditation of 137 lines, that I published in the New Review of Literature, out of the Otis College of Design in Los Angeles. I scribbled that work at an apartment on the beach I owned at one time with my friend Julie Rubsam. It was in a high-rise in Punta Negra, on Banderas Bay, south of Puerto Vallarta. After the struggle we had to buy it, we learned that the Mexican government owns everything 60 meters from the high water mark. The beach below the building was eroding away. We hadn’t been told that the Mexican government owned us into the dining room. Even if the building built a breakwater that pushed the beach out again, we were screwed. We’d have to buy the land back from the government. The more the reality of owning the place was revealed, the more expensive it got. We had to sell and were lucky that it sold. It had been lovely for a time to sit on the balcony of this top floor apartment looking over Banderas Bay, and to watch the pelicans muster at evening and fly by the eaves of the building in long files of pelican. And during the day fishermen in the sun cast their nets across schools of silver fish that flashed like coins. The tourist plague in Puerto Vallarta made me nuts. Every day two or three huge cruise ships emptied their bilges of drunken gringo regulars onto the streets to spend money, and throw up. I was usually on my lonesome down there. I stayed on the balcony and read. One way I read was to count words. I counted each 137th word 137 times from the beginning of the book, and took the word before and the word after each 137th to make a phrase. I did this with several books, then stacked the extracted words into a vertical totem. It seemed nothing remarkable until I did this operation on Octavio Paz’s Labyrinth of Solitude. I was startled, amazed, even gratified when the 137th 137 out of that book read “all useless art.”

PUBLISHING UPTOWN

Here we are at a nice little party, somewhere on the East Side way up in the fifties. The only difference from other parties I rarely go to is that this one is being thrown for me. I sit on a couch holding a tumbler of single malt, maybe Glenlivet, on the rocks. I try to relax between Robert Crumb and another protoluminary. I’m expected to become one myself. “I’ve never felt comfortable at this kind of party,” I say.

“Comfortable?” R. Crumb says. “I don’t feel comfortable at parties, or anywhere else. I don’t feel comfortable at home.” That’s the one exchange I ever have in my life with R. Crumb, a man almost painfully honest about himself, whom I admire a lot as an artist. His registering in drawings of the feel and characters of the Sixties is equal to Honoré Daumier or James Gillray in their times.

This party is a celebration of The Exagggerations Of Peter Prince, my novel published by Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. Few people from Holt are present. It’s a Random House party, at the apartment of Christopher Cerf, Bennet Cerf’s son. I realize I’m being traded to Random House. Random House is still a small, friendly publisher that occupies half a landmark building on Madison Avenue in the Thirties, the other half occupied by the Catholic Archdiocese. Chris Cerf is planning to pluck me from Holt, into the Random House fold. I am clueless about how rare and privileged my position is. Ten or fifteen years later this would be sealed with a big advance. Now it’s done with an Uptown party.

Holt invested a lot of energy and money in Peter Prince. Arthur Cohen, who was Vice President and editor in chief, the man who founded Meridian Books, the first paperback publisher in the US, went way out on a limb to agree to buy and publish this strange manuscript. I grab the advance and leave for Istanbul, for Israel to see my friend Hal Schimmel, for Italy, trusting that the book is in professional hands. I’m taking license to do this, leaving wife and family for travel. While I am gone, Holt is absorbed by CBS, and Arthur Cohen is fired for keeping a boyfriend on the payroll. I can’t believe a vice president and editor in chief can be fired. Arthur’s friend is quite a pretty boy, and has even done a lot of work for his money. Bob Cornfield takes over the editing and by the time I get back the book is already in blues, about to be printed. They have screwed up the layout and graphics that are totally integral to the book. Too many six martini lunches. I tell Bob Cornfield I can’t allow it to be published this way, and though it is ready to go to press, Cornfield manages to get a lot of it redone with my closer supervision. It comes out on schedule in September. The book gets some big attention, a three page review in the Times, written by R.V. Cassill, with pictures of some of its graphic pages. Cassill totally trashes it, and even takes a swat at it two weeks later when he reviews a different book, though when I meet him a couple of years later in Oregon he tells me how much he loves my work. Holt buys several pages of advertising in The Saturday Review Of Literature. I’m on my way. I’m ready to put on the gloves with Norman Mailer. Someone in the post-literate offices of CBS has other thoughts, and they nix it in the Xmas catalog. They don’t even offer my Peter Prince for sale at Christmas. I feel orphaned.

Not even Bob Cornfield has shown up for this party. I wander among the suits and ties, trying to bubble up some conversation. I keep thinking that someone else is supposed to be here, not me, but my double, my other guy from somewhere who knows how to work the room. That other should be leaning against this sideboard, tipping a drink into his mouth. Someone as smart and conversational as Frank O’Hara could be enjoying the shit out of this event. Chris Cerf graciously introduces me to various luminaries who have appeared for the party to celebrate Peter Prince. Am I this writer? Is this my book?

So somehow I’m traded to Random House. Chris Cerf loves the work, thinks I should be put in cohoots with his Harvard buddies at National Lampoon, but they have little interest in anyone outside their Harvard circle. Random House does Creamy and Delicious, and I make some stupid temperamental mistakes. I have approval of the jacket. Just because I can I reject a terrific cover they have designed and insist on a dreary idea I have for a monotonous whipped cream effect with the title printed over. I reject their offering of fun graphic responses to my works in favor of my lame concept, just to flex some stupid muscle.

The first few boxes that come out of the bindery have my cover wrapped around the text of Elie Weisel’s A Beggar In Jerusalem. These first books get shipped to reviewers, so because of this confusion reviews are sparse. I’d got the title from a sign in Yonah Shimmel’s knishery on Houston Street — Try Our Borscht, Creamy and Delicious. I go downtown and show them the book. The boss looks at it disparagingly and asks if I talk about the restaurant in my book. When I tell him I don’t he shrugs and turns away, saying, “So what’s the use?” I sit down under the sign and get a dependably comforting kasha knish to weigh me down, and a glass of sour milk. When I finally meet Elie Weisel in South Bend, Indiana, and give him a copy of our crossed books, not even a chuckle from him, not even a conversation.

So I am here at this party to celebrate the books people insist I have written. Dylan’s song runs through my mind, “It’s Ain’t Me, Babe.” Crumb is gone. The conversations converge into a river of noise. “Not me you’re lookin’ for, Babe.” I slip past various well-dressed smiling creatures, nod at Chris Cerf, and slip out the door, into the long New York City apartment hallway, and wait for the elevator, hoping it gets there before someone catches me and pulls me back. I descend into the street where the party called New York City goes on all the time, and in its anonymous crawl and dim celebrations, in the comfort of its surprises, I feel the ease and mystery I want to play through my work.

RABBIT WIND

The compressor is too noisy so they shut it off before you read. These twelve foot high pink and white inflatable bunnies slowly flatten. When inflated they are some terrifying bunnies. Once deflated they are easy to stomp on. They belong to the Dikeou Collection of contemporary art in Denver, Colorado, occupy two corners of the room in which the readings happen. The wind of their deflation carries no words, but once they are deflated, at the podium the writers read their works between two flat bunnies. If I am ever on the road again I would like to take these two inflatables as companions and release my words into the rabbit wind as they wilt.

At the University of Oklahoma once I was paid $2000 to read to an audience of six people, nice people who told me how their anti-war movement had been betrayed by a faux hippy agitator who instigated riots in 1968. On the night following my reading Czeslaw Milosz received the $20,000 Lannan Prize at a large auditorium before an audience of eight besides myself and three of the six from my crowd. Two of the aged Lannan dedicators slept as the Polish poet read. The wind of their snoring was rabbit wind.

In Halifax once I read at a benefit for the Buddhist community many of whom had recently moved to Nova Scotia from Colorado. I was performing with Phil Glass. We both came down to Halifax from Inverness in Cape Breton. The large auditorium was packed with Haligonians, Buddhists, and tourists, most of them there to hear Phil. I read my story called “One Pinch Plut,” which was a much longer read than I had anticipated. When you read prose, it tends to go on until the end. I carried much of the audience through the whole piece, but could sense that many of them wanted me to give way to Phil. For that part of the audience I was all rabbit wind, and the rabbit was deflating too slowly. On the other hand, I thought it would be great to follow Phil everywhere and read to his big audiences, laying a pavement of rabbit wind for his serial music.

The act of performing my works, of reading them aloud, has always added another layer of insecurity to the bright garment of self doubt that makes acts of writing unnerving and vital. When I was a student editor of Epoch magazine the faculty editors wouldn’t let me me read the works I advocated aloud because my readings were too convincing and somehow unfair. I have long grappled with my talent for hamming up a poem. It always confuses me when I read my own work aloud, and grab the attention of the audience by moving them or making them laugh. Is it the quality of the work or the seduction of the performance? This is part of the imponderable quandariness of a life committed to art. People tell me that they are glad to hear me read, that it makes them appreciate the work more. I enjoy the attention and approbation, but always wonder if the work plays as well on the page without the wind of the rabbit. I know that many people take pleasure in reading aloud to themselves. Perhaps my reading helps their process. I enjoy my “dramatic” skills, but I always have the fear that the real attraction may be in the performance, not in the work where I want it to perform by itself, as language alive on the page. Thinking about this is like trying to watch yourself dance. Any glance in the mirror changes the moves. It feels to me a weak diversionary tactic to call my readings “performance,” that great academic whoops of contemporary art.

When Antonello’s Lion was released, Rafael, my son, booked some readings around Portland, Oregon. I read to a nice crowd at Clackamas Community College, then at the very precious Reed College. An old friend from Eugene and the Northwest Review, whom I hadn’t seen for years, who taught philosophy there, Robert Paul, the most soft spoken philosopher in the universe, whispered an introduction. His was a quietly snide introduction, correctly measuring the hubris and pretensions he drew from my lame entry in the Contemporary Authors Autobiography Series. I don’t think anyone heard him. The last reading was at a small resort and vineyard called McMenamin’s Edgefield, a popular watering hole outside Portland, a retreat for people with family or lover. They offer a panoply of activities and games. They had never before presented the attraction of a living author reading from his work, and probably never will again. They brought in fifty copies of the book for me to sign, and them to sell. Obviously they were novices in the book business. For my troubles they gave me a small honorarium and treated myself and Rafael to dinner at their popular roast beef restaurant. It was the time of vendemmia, the grape harvest. They had set me up in a room in their cellar, near the barrels they were filling from fresh pressings of grapes. Guests passed and peeked in to see me at the podium, then moved on to badminton or tango lessons. A few people sat down. Fruit flies ruled the air of the room. Every time I opened my mouth they flew in, checking out anything moist. I was a slave of the flies. The people, some of them perhaps at their first reading ever, witnessed an author who when he opened his mouth to read off the page, immediately breathed in squadrons of flies. I tried to keep my teeth clenched to sift them out, but they wandered across my incisors and did their stunts on the moisture of my lips. So the McMenamin’s guests who stayed witnessed the author of Antonello’s Lion as a swallower and sputterer of fruit flies. Even now, as my bones deteriorate into old age, I occasionally feel the release of a tardy McMenamin fruit fly into the remnants of a rabbit wind.

REICH

This is a dark and stormy night. Riving winds push debris through the broad streets of Denver. Safeway bags hover and swoop above the parking lot. Full moon hides in the clouds. A few people, just a few, huddle in dim light outside the lobby of the Paramount Theater. Sidney Goldfarb and I are headed for a concert by my old friend, Steve Reich. We’ve been friends from the time we were at Cornell together. I sometimes crashed in his loft on South Broadway, and then on Duane Street when I needed to be in the city. These were heady times, these were desperate times. Vietnam, Vietnam, Vietnam, was the catch and the misery. The Sixties were a’coming in. Phil Lesh visited him while I was there. They had studied together at Mills College, under Luciano Berio. I remember Lesh saying, “Something is happening, man. Something is out there, out of our control.” The US was out of control. Gulf of Tonkin deception. The lust for war was the catch. It was many years before it dawned on me that Lesh was one corner of The Grateful Dead, and the stoned music cult was starting to swell. Steve debuted “Come Out,” his powerful tape phase-shift work. It was technically innovative, politically derived. This was at the Park Place gallery on LaGuardia Place, where Charles Ross, a sculptor and mutual friend, was showing one of his early prism pieces. I went to rehearsals at Reich’s loft once or twice a week, and learned a lot about the rigor with which he pursued his narrow aesthetic. What dedication the musicians had to his vision. He was rehearsing his Music For Eighteen Musicians. The piece is largely derived from a seminal work done by Terry Riley a few years earlier, called In C. Compared to the Riley piece, I found Reich’s take a little heavy handed. At rehearsal the musicians repeated and repeated for hours the minutely incremental phrases, until they got the sound he was after. It was painfully tedious to witness, but sometimes the reward was a glorious intoxication.

“Minimalist” was not a label I would have put on the music he and Phil Glass were performing at the time. Webern’s Bagatelles were minimal. When Steve or Phil performed in lofts or galleries they cranked it, maximally. It wasn’t listening music. The sound was an inundation. It poured down the walls. My experience was like I was lying between the rails as a train passed over. There was a little room to rock, but I didn’t dare roll — no place to hide on the undercarriage of serial music.

Sometimes we did a light Passover Seder at his loft, or at my home in Pine Bush. He visited me once in my tipi in Cape Breton, during a dreary stretch of rain and fog. He hated it, maybe because Phil Glass had found Cape Breton first. I was a great fan at his concerts, and touted his music to everyone. I went to his spectacular wedding in the clouds at the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. The clouds cleared. All of New York City, all the Palisades, all the vast New Jersey, spread out beneath his betrothal. I was a great admirer of Beryl, his new wife. The Orthodox Judaism made me nervous.

Since I moved west we haven’t seen each other much. I look forward to this concert. I think he’ll enjoy meeting Sidney, a maverick playwright and poet, colleague of mine, who has had works produced by The Talking Band at La Mama, and who adapted the Thomas Mann story, “The Transposed Heads,” for the Julie Taymor production at Lincoln Center. Steve was the first to alert me to Julie Taymor’s talent. I feel bad for him that the turnout is poor, the theater only one third full. During the week I’ve called local public radio to argue that they need to present more than the short snips of his music to have it make sense. The concert is a pleasure of Reichmusic. They do a truncated version of Separate Trains, and Clapping Music, and a new piece. After the final applause Sidney and I amble down to the stage to greet the maestro. I make a lame casual joke like, “You guys are still wearing the same white shirts.” Steve was famous for insisting all his musicians wear white shirts, even at rehearsals. “White shirts,” he repeats, as if I have insulted him. He turns his back on me and walks away. This is the last time we ever speak.

I try to figure that out. How did I transgress? It couldn’t have been my white shirt mumble. Other old friends of his say he cut them off the same way. Reich snubbees make an interesting group. Charles Ross allowed Reich to use his loft to premiere a new piece for the critics and aficionados, at no expense to Reich. My son, Avrum, who worked for Ross, operated the elevator, an old-fashioned freight loader you had to stop with a hand on the cable. Avrum often says he enjoyed the evening, especially running the elevator for the faint of heart from the Upper East Side, but got not a word of acknowledgement or thanks from the maestro. Ross now is on Reich’s snub list. At Yale, my son Rafael, who was doing graduate work in Chinese language and culture, ran into Reich on the campus, and said hello, reminding the maestro that he was my son. He had always liked Rafael, and when we were speaking would ask about him, but Reich snubbed this son as well.

I get it but I really don’t get it. We never had a conversation about what the problem was. Maybe the snubbing happened because I remained friendly with his rival, Phil Glass? In the beginning they were jockeying for players and performance space. Reich always stated his opinions with a self-righteous, moral fervor. It was part of his charm. He often “disapproved” of Phil’s music. He condemned John Cage’s work. You risked being excommunicated if you told him that you had moods only Brahms could satisfy. Among writers he was faithful to William Carlos Williams, to Ezra Pound. He ran his scooter on Wittgenstein gas. He touted Jackson MacLow to me, as if threatening divorce if I didn’t like his work. I’ve admired Jackson MacLow’s work, but not as a cause to follow. Reich was competitive. When he gave me a copy of the first book about his music he said, “I’m tired of your showing me a new book every year. Here’s one from me.” If this was a competition, he definitely is the winner. Maybe my work couldn’t rest in the Procrustean bed of his opinion. Maybe the problem was that I didn’t follow him into Orthodox Judaism. Beryl’s family was orthodox, and Reich embraced this. Part of our friendship had been a sharing of spiritual interests. When I was twelve I checked in on my own, against the wishes of my family, to an orthodox synagogue in Washington Heights. I enjoyed studying Hebrew, learning the rituals. I even wore the tsitsis, the exposed fringes of which made me vulnerable to Irish gangs out of The Incarnation School. That adventure was enough religious wisdom for me. There was no way I was going to follow Reich to his rabbi.

Now I have lost the ability to hear Reich’s music. I can’t enjoy it. Many of my friends who don’t know him swoon over his work. I love much of the music of some of his near contemporaries in the new classical modes — Terry Riley, Gavin Bryars, LaMonte Young, Annie Gosfield, John Adams, George Crumb, Alvin Curran, Arvo Part, Philip Glass. I noted with interest in the recent publicity around his seventieth birthday how little his perspective has changed. His relationship to the music before him still eliminates everything after Bach. He still runs on Williams and Wittgenstein, as well as on his orthodox convictions — firm if restricting fuel sources. For me, however, with no way of knowing why he stopped what once had been a rich conversation, I can see him only as nasty, opinionated, narrow-minded, boring.

RENCINE

“Ecco, Rencine.” The bus driver pushes open the door. I step down onto the dirt road, pack over one shoulder. A light drizzle is like a cold kiss on my face. Below the road and into the hazy distance the gentle hills of the “crete” hump softly to the horizon, hills covered with vineyards, olives, wheat, beans, punctuated by lines of cypress. The bus winds away towards Asciano. I took this bus from Siena. I got to Siena from Firenze by train. At the crest of the hill above the road is the farmhouse where George and Katy Schneeman live, with sons Paolo and Elio. This is Rencine. It looms above me in the grey sky like a peasant castle.

I am far away from anything familiar to me. How strange Tuscany can be to a small New Yorker. Maybe the rain, my wet clothes make me nervous. I often fear meeting new people. I have never met George and Katy before. Our mutual friend, Harold Schimmel, with whom George served in army intelligence in Verona, described them as gods of a modest mythology. Schimmel is a poet, old friend of mine from Cornell, who settled finally in Jerusalem, where he writes in Hebrew. Katy is pregnant again. Schimmel presented her as the empress of pregnancy. I don’t know at that time that George, Katy, Jingle, and I will be friends forever. The house looks very old under grey sky — terra-cotta tile roof, cracking stucco. Next to the door is a dark fresco George has painted, Madonna and child. I climb the hill and stand by the old, crooked blue door. A kid, maybe three years old, barefoot, in tattered shirt and pants, not Paolo nor Elio, I don’t think, arrives to stare at me. “Un Ameri(h)ano an(h)orra,” he aspirates the c’s like a good Tuscan. “Dio senza (h)ulo.” Translated roughly that means, “Another American, God without an asshole.” I knock on the door, and Katy opens and laughs, even before I tell her who I am. That big laugh over the years becomes very familiar, great waves of good will and savvy. Katy will be with George forever. George, voluntary contadino, small and magnificent, smoking a Parodi, beret settled on his head like a crown, sits at the kitchen table in diffused light from the open windows. A piece of paper, some colored pencils — earthen hills, pitch green cypresses, a farmhouse, all emerge on the paper in front of him. George is fixing to spend the next fifty years correcting in pencil, tempera, watercolor, oils, fresco, the space, the hills, the trees and farms and buildings of the “crete,” a landscape that was one of his major passions. He is always the contadino Americano, prince of the “crete,” regal peasant, avatar of totally domestic genius.

RIP

Great! The prostate goes blooey. That’s one of the disasters of late life for a guy, perhaps a tax on longevity. Dr. Shandra Wilson, the urologist who examines me, asks me to drop my pants and bend over. “Let me get a feel of that humongous prostate,” she says. Okay, a woman urologist. Women have to suffer male gynecologists. Dr. Wilson is trim and lively, her face softly equine. She is quick, smart, and willing to answer questions. “Is “humongous prostate” a bad thing,” I ask. “Not necessarily,” says the doc. “Some women have big breasts, some have small.” A cute way to dodge the question.

Dr. Wilson snips out a biopsy and fetches a cancer. Great! Prostate cancer. I’ve lived long enough to get it. The skinny on this C is that it develops slowly and at my age I will probably die of something else before the cancer kills me; that is, if it’s not too aggressive. If I need to treat it, there are several options. As Rudy has had done, I could have tiny radioactive pellets implanted around the tumor. There’s a cryogenic option that freezes it out. And there’s what they call “watchful waiting”. You check your PSA regularly, and jump in with the broadswords if it suddenly peaks.

“The bad news,” Dr. Wilson says, “Is that the tumor is cancerous.” I don’t know why, but this feels like the punch line of a good joke. I hold back the guffaw. “The good news is that your cancer is very aggressive, a nine on the Gleason scale. (The scale goes from one to ten, in measuring the boisterousness of the cancer.)” I thought that was even funnier. Nine is up there. Here I am, the same mook I always was, only now with cancer. Whoops. Death comes out as cancer’s valet. “This is good news, because you have to do something about it. No watchful waiting for you. I don’t think it has metastasized yet, but it’s at the margins and easily can. So you’ve got to get rid of it.” The prostate does not get a lot of attention in one’s life, unlike breasts in women. Skillful partners can use it to enhance sexual pleasure, but usually the guy doesn’t walk around with prostate on his mind. Who even knows what it looks like?

My buddy, Eric Mayer, from way back in grade school, member of our New York Bullets Social and Athletic Club, has been a radiation oncologist forever. He lives in Santa Fe now, and consults briefly with Dr. Wilson. He agrees that the pellets are not a good option. Radiation tends to mush up the prostate, and makes it clumsy to operate on later. Neither of them thinks the cryogenic approach works. So here I am, sitting on a nasty prostate. There are a couple of surgical approaches, laproscopic and conventional butchery. Dr. Wilson describes laproscopic as if it will be a lot of fun for her, like a video game, a Star Wars kind of thing. Eric, who was a dependable second baseman back in the day, and a formidable street hockey wing man, prefers the conventional approach. Laproscopic is a milder procedure, and recovery is quicker. It magnifies the small area where the knives are cutting by twenty times, and is very accurate, but it doesn’t allow the surgeon to see the environs, and whether there has been metastasis into nearby lymph nodes. In either case I’d have to be catheterized for a couple of weeks. We all agree they should rip me open.

Avrum, my oldest son, comes up from New Mexico to encourage me through the procedural dance. The super competent nurse who preps me for the OR tells me that I am lucky. The traffic of gurneys, the babyshit beige walls, the wasted patients on oxygen, the minacious technological apparatus, and the sharp antiseptic smells, all make this one of the last places I would come to try my luck. My luck, the nurse says, is that Dr. Wilson is the best, a brilliant surgeon. After the anesthesiologist applies her oblivion potions, I’m not present to witness the brilliance. What I hear next is, “It’s all over now.” I was in the OR for four hours. I’m being wheeled somewhere, and settled there until my room is ready.

One of the most brutal aspects of a hospital stay is the multiple blood draws, and the web of I.V.’s they want to install. It’s like a needle hotel. My veins are slippery and evasive, challenging for the inexperienced phlebotomists that whiz around to vampire me. Avrum cringes on the vinyl settee as one of these young women jabs me and roots around in my forearm for ten minutes trying to trap a vein for an I.V. that has popped out. I learn from this how poorly I’d perform under torture. They call in the head nurse with the vast experience, who sets the I.V. in my upper arm. This seems to work, except that it pops out easily if I make any move at all and sets off an earsplitting alarm that eventually brings the floor nurse rushing in to reset. Now I’m held captive by needles and tubes and slowly bubbling liquids, and regular noises ominously ticking my moments into the technology. I’m expected in this chamber to recuperate.

The nurse’s assistant, happily named Hope, when she is assigned to sponge me down, settles me by the sink and slaps me with the washcloth. “Now sit still, you little pooper,” she says. The duty nurse scolds her for calling me “little pooper”. I’ve never been called a “little pooper” before. It seems affectionate. When my friend, Yvette, comes to visit, Hope rushes into the room and pretends to look for something, but is really checking out this pretty woman who is visiting her little pooper.

Rafael, my son from Portland, comes to take over on the day that Avrum leaves. His girlfriend, Jacinta, comes with him. She’s a remarkable woman, a Mother Teresa orphan from Calcutta, who has pulled herself up by her sandal straps, traveled out into the world, and become a registered nurse. She checks my catheter, and other ongoing discomforts, the first girlfriend of any of my three sons to ever look at my stuff, what remains of it.

Yvette does her Florence Nightingale after Rafael and Jacinta leave, and spends a lot of good time with me watching movies and ball games, which is all I have energy to do. She ferries me to the hospital when my two weeks of catheterization are up, and waits for me until the doctor frees up, from about 11 a.m. till 5 p.m. The two weeks of catheterization were gross, from uncomfortable to painful. It felt like some kind of penance for any number of vague transgressions.

Dr. Wilson is in high gear when she finally has time to see me. This feels like graduation day, or the denouement of some painful comic opera. The doctor usually wears her official white hospital coat when I meet with her. This time as I am stretched out on a gurney in the embarrassing flowered thin flannel hospital shmatta, she appears in a skin tight red knit dress with heels. It isn’t fair. It’s like a moment of comic recognition. Maybe she is fixing to run off on a dinner date after she does me. She pours the systogram dye through the catheter, and checks the monitor to see if my bladder is leaking. I guess it’s okay. She leans over, smiling, and whispers, “You’ve got a beautiful bladder.” It’s like a line out of Aristophanes. I should jump up and dance with her in her red dress, but “jump up” is not now within my range of motion. “You probably say that to all the boys,” I say. I’ve never fielded this compliment before. She laughs, and yanks the catheter, a brief moment of sharp pain for which she apologizes. She assumes a slight squat with her legs spread, and demonstrates how to exercise the Kegel sphincter, as if I can see it through the red dress and flesh. Then she hands me a pad to wear in my underpants. “You’ll like the ones you get at Walgreens better than these hospital pads,” she says, and my surgeon disappears through the door in a blur of red. My surgeon is gone.

Yvette waits for me in the lobby, and seems pleased that I’ve survived. She drives me home in her rattling Passat, and drops me at the door of my building.

SCIENCE PLUS

I settled comfortably into the back row of the science class. There I set myself to writing my tennis novel, in one of those lined composition books that continue to be common in the school supplies, with a mottled black and white cover of hard cardboard, stitched pages, binding glued with black cloth. This was at Humboldt JHS, P.S. 115 in Washington Heights. The story in my family was that my father had once been a tennis star, had once won a citywide doubles championship. When I was old enough he was too sick to coach me in my game; nonetheless, I had my tennis fantasies.

The science teacher was the sultry Miss Makarof. Science was her game; sexy was her fame. She always left the top two buttons of her blouse or sweater undone, exposing her cleavage to the stares of horny, curious thirteen year old eyes. She liked to sit on the boys’ desks, particularly on Zogi’s. George Zografi was already shaving, and looked almost nineteen. She plumped down there, and the fold of her buttoned skirt fell away from her knee; then she asked us about the heart of the frog we had just dissected. I stared deep into the scribbles I had made in my notebook. Sometimes I flipped through the pages, and was astonished at how many words I had already put down, and how little anything moved.

One day Miss Makarof made it to the back of the room, and settled on my desk, her cheeks spreading across my tennis novel. She asked what I was doing. I love science, I assured her. She leaned to one side and slipped the notebook out from under her flesh. What is this, she asked. When I told her of my novel she continued unctuously to ask what that had to do with science. I had no answer. Her lean over me, cleavage pouting, was too intimidating even to be sexy. I stared into the shadows of that valley. What was hidden there? It wasn’t science. It wasn’t tennis. She smelled rank and attractive, close to the power of skunk I had smelled once driving into Westchester with my family. She was the anti-muse. She was the succubus of writer’s block. I couldn’t write another word of the tennis novel. Words never came.

SEPTUA-DUDE

One afternoon as I was scratching around my Google-yard I noticed that in an article about my work someone referred to me as a septuagenarian writer. First I thought, “What a revolting development this is!” Then I wondered if there were any advantages, like the creepy if relaxing idea that I might never get laid again. Senior discounts, yes! I never expected to reach the “…genarian” stage ever. Does it mean, finally, maturity!? I hope so. Will I get as far as octo…? nono…? I’ve felt like a beginner with every book I’ve written, and I think, “If only I were mature enough, if only I knew enough, I could write this book well.” In each sentence I feel pressed to reinvent the language, re-imagine the world. There’s no let-up, no rest, not even for a septuagenarian writer.

So as I was talking with Michel Williatte-Battet, just before I sold my place in Cape Breton, we discussed the opportunities, particularly sexual opportunities, that we had passed up or missed in our lives. Michel runs a gift shop at St. Joseph du Moine, the best shop on Cape Breton Island. He’s a terrific, original painter and carver, a subtle visual ironist, whose story of how he backed into both Cape Breton and the folk art business is worth exploring. He’s at least 20 years younger than myself, so no septuagenarian. During the period of our lives when we were offered and decided to reject erotic opportunities, we agreed that we assumed that life would always be full of sensual possibilities. Gratification was endless and easy, we thought; but at a certain point life locks you in and you come to understand that these encounters are limited and that experience is finite, and each hot bump is precious. And how strange, we noted, that recollections of missed opportunity are often more erotic than memory of connecting. The scent of the sensual is almost always sweeter as potential in the mind.

I’ve never been sympathetic with the puritanical imperatives of American moral politics. Let it be. Tiger Woods, relax. Gov. Sanford, don’t cry for Argentina. Even the faithful chickadee jumps nests, and even the mate-for-life swan. They all check around to see what’s available, maybe looking for stronger DNA, or just because of what variety is. When I was a devoted husband I often went with the digression. It seems natural, healthy, keeps the social, sexual gears oiled. I’m sure many, if not most, people do this, despite potential moral stigma, despite attendant pressure to guilt. Even the twitchy little wren checks out the new feathers in another nest. What disturbs me is the pleasure we seem to take in exacting punishment, and that punishment usually hypocritical and political. It is fun to speculate how life might have been had it vectored differently. Let’s not hurt each other, but let’s not twist into rules that make the hurt inevitable. A little more tolerance of the tide of the human juicy please.

So I’m sitting in Kiki’s at lunchtime, my favorite casual Japanese restaurant in Denver enjoying a nabeyaki udon, when a big, handsome woman walks in, and I realize I know her. It’s Sue Rynhart. I haven’t seen her for more than fifteen years. She was one of the young beauties hanging around the poetry scene when I first went to work at the University in Boulder, Colorado. She had and still has a delightful pretty face, and a powerful broad-shouldered body. We lunched together, laughing and catching up. It is a great gift of friendship how quickly gaps in time dissolve, and now it is yesterday again. For me she was one of those missed opportunities, one of those attractions I never pushed towards consummation, to whose beauty I would like to have attended, even though I was involved with someone else. I didn’t, and here she was again, strong as ever, physically intimidating but still pretty, smart, lively as ever. She told me that she tried in her life to deny her childhood gift, a deep understanding of and communion with horses. How often we waste a lot of time trying to escape our natural inclinations. Now Sue Rynhart is back into her strength and makes her living rolfing horses. The horses love the deep massage, she says, and know her as soon as she walks into a stable. Everything gets quiet. The horses virtually swoon when they hear her, or smell her in the breeze. I leave that lunch wondering what intimacy with her might have been like. I can visualize the romance novel, it’s title The Horse Rolfer And The Septuagenarian.

And through my meek understanding of contemporary physics I cannibalize what I apprehend into metaphor. So I have set the number of these Memoirrhoids at 137.n…, since 1/137 is the fine structure constant, a number that as yet has no plausible explanation, except that it was set in place at the “big bang,” and its smallness, that surprises physicists, is one parameter that makes life possible. It is a constant in our universe, though according to string theorists there are many “big bangs,” imperceptible to us, each establishing its own physics and its own fine structure constant. They offer a multiverse on what Leonard Susskind calls “the landscape.” I relish the notion that everything happens, that there is a promiscuity of possibilities, even if it is outside the dimensions of our perception, and outside the domain of life.

As always it comes down to Pandit Yogi Berra, a promiscuous bad ball hitter. Once at Yankee Stadium I saw him, while he was being intentionally walked, step out of the batter’s box and smack the wide pitch for a double into right-center. On one of the few times I was flown by Hollywood first class to LA, Yogi was in the seat in front of me. He slept the whole way, otherwise I might have asked for his autograph. It’s the only autograph I ever felt I needed. Now he’s an octogenarian. Many of his sayings have educated my life. One particularly made me a follower. He famously gave directions to a friend to get to his house, and I have followed those directions assiduously. “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

SEX + DIPLOMACY

Some time before I met Adnan, Josh Reynolds had opened the Reynolds estate in North Carolina to the Sufi summer camp. People came from all over to take his teachings — Mexico, New York, Montreal, Barcelona, Copenhagen, Toronto, Paris, and etc. Adnan presented his “Sufi work” in a format that made him the king of activities counselors. We followed his movement, took his prescriptions for calisthenics, chanting, belly-dancing, whirling, drumming. We played games he invented. His ability to invent seemed endless, much of it very physical, playful, and profound in its effect. I heard that practicing on the territory of Josh and his brothers was challenging. Josh was refined, unashamed of being cultured. His brothers were millionaire rednecks who enjoyed riding their Harleys through the quietest meditative or chanting activities, whooping savagely, spewing dust and gravel. Josh decided at one point that it was time to move the Sufi camp elsewhere when he noticed his brothers sitting in the windows with rifles, squeezing off pretend shots at the devoted.

I met Adnan a year or so after they spent time in North Carolina, when I was directing the Creative Writing program at the University of Colorado in Boulder. John Hay, a writer from North Carolina, had followed Adnan to Colorado for his workshops in Boulder and Denver. He dropped in at my office to find out what was going on in the local writing world. The way John described Adnan was that when he wasn’t at the summer camp, he traveled alone in a VW bug full of doumbeks, and gave workshops at various cities where he was welcomed. At one point in his career, John said, Adnan had a motorcycle act, bikes riding the centrifugal force along the wall of a sphere. The idea of this kind of spiritual teacher appealed to me, in the real world without fanfare, without hype or advertising.

In Boulder, where a good part of his participants were young, he was particularly playful. We followed him around the room in a counterclockwise circle, imitating his movement, which was sometimes puckish, often flirtatious, sometimes graceful as dance. This was a practice that equalized the young and the old, threw them all into the same games, encouraged throughout the group a sense of mutual good cheer. I thought I would like to incorporate this practice into the Creative Writing curriculum. It was a rich, mutually encouraging practice. But almost imperceptibly these games disappeared from “the work.” I eventually realized that would be the case with any of the practices I took to be “the way.” Everything morphed and disappeared like raindrops on a stone. Perhaps they reappeared again in a different form, but change was inevitable. Adnan’s genius was his ability to constantly reinvent “the work.”

Once, at the North Carolina summer workshop, a group of the women were in revolt. Adnan had been screwing a closet harem of them, keeping them unaware one from the other. One game among the participating crowd was to try to guess what the morning activity would be. Adnan never told us the night before, probably didn’t know himself, or if he did tell us something, he was likely to change it in the moment. At an early morning meeting of the coven of his closest belly dancers one of the women bragged that he had told her what we were going to do when she was in bed with him. “In bed with him??????” several of the other belly dancers reacted in unison, and each of these paramours suddenly realized that she was not having a private affair with the teacher, but had been recruited into a harem. They immediately bonded, and determined a course of action.

Before the evening session this caucus of the wronged showed up with their luggage packed, and set it down conspicuously by the exit. Once everyone had arrived and they were seated on the floor waiting for Adnan, the women climbed onto his platform. A current of revolt and protest agitated the atmosphere. People were excited. One of the women stepped forward and read from a notebook. United as if one person, they protested the use of belly dancers for his personal pleasure. They protested with some vehemence his deception and duplicity as he exploited his influence as a spiritual teacher to take advantage of the women on stage. Just to get laid, one of them said. I don’t know if he did all of them who were protesting, but most of them. These women then marched off the stage, and stood next to their luggage to wait for the response.

Adnan entered slowly, and lowered himself to his cushion. He sat and stared out at no one in particular for what must have seemed several eternities to the women, his look impish and benign. Finally, he announced, “Tonight we will divide into two groups, beginners and advanced.” He slipped off the platform and walked among his acolytes, tapping each lightly on the head. “You are a beginner. You are advanced.” He did it at random. Confusion rambled through the room. “I’ve been with him for six years. Why am I a beginner?” Others who had been there only for a couple of weeks were proud to be designated as advanced. They always knew they had talent, spiritually speaking. The confusion totally diverted attention from the women’s issues. One by one each woman grabbed her bags and left. Later some of them slipped back in to continue “the work.” Someone from my grandparents’ generation might say the situation in Baghdad today could use a little of Adnan’s seychel.

Occasionally I felt like a eunuch in Adnan’s harem, but usually the sexual energy was distributed equitably for those who needed to participate. After this incident Adnan was more open about the objects of his activity. Everyone was aware of whomever he was doing, and it made little difference. Odile, a French woman who never told her family name, because, I think, her father was big in the French government, told me that Adnan lured her into his bed a couple of times. She was willing and curious. “C’est n’etaitpas grande chose,” she said. There was no foreplay, no affection afterwards, like gassing up your Harley. It must be part of his teaching, we decided. A woman wants it, she gets it, that’s over. You can pack your suitcase, or stay for the rest of the practice.

SHATTARI

“That little Arab. He’s done alright for himself,” Marisa says. We sit on the floor watching the young women belly dance around our Sufi teacher. Marisa is Spanish, so her take on Arabs is tempered by her country’s history. Adnan grew up in Baghdad, and loves to wax nostalgic about warm summer nights, and sleeping on the roof as the scents of bougainvillea and lavender waft across the city. He leads his Sufi group through a system he calls “shattari,” which essentially means to learn by doing. For that reason I am attracted to his practice. Any spiritual revelation for me has to come through a source preliterate. Words are too entangling, though sounds, syllables, can penetrate.

Despite some ironic distance, Marisa is an earnest participant. She is a great professional dancer from Barcelona, capable of ecstatic movement, of dancing herself out of her mind. The practice is complicated and varied. Adnan is the ultimate camp activities counselor. We follow him through calisthenics, belly dance, whirling, drumming, chanting, games, walks into the woods, improv and skits, prayer. It is all done to the lilts and rhythms of Arab music — Oum Khalsoum, Fairuz, Koranic chanting. Adnan is a small man with an unimaginably strong and supple body. He can do a thousand push-ups or sit-ups without fatigue. When he plays his doumbek he can drum a whole roomful of followers into trance. It’s addictive. People beg him to pick up his drum. His abilities transcend Marisa’s prejudices. They totally obliterate mine.

For his summer workshop this year, Adnan has rented a former Jewish boy’s camp in Fleishmanns, New York. On the walls next to the bunks the boys inked graffiti in Hebrew. Stars of David are carved into the bedsteads. The place is ripe for a Sufi intrusion. Days of the workshop are divided into two sessions, with two or three hour breaks in the afternoon. You are encouraged to eat only once a day, at around midnight. People often cheat, and rush off in the interim for pizza. The rupture of routine accounts partially, perhaps, for experiences I had that I’ll never reconcile with my daily life. I usually keep the fast, and Marisa does too. Although we rarely get together in New York City, I always feel a kinship when Marisa is there, the experience enhanced by her reinforcement.

Sometimes the evening session involves a talk, or a presentation by one of the participants. This evening session is all movement done to a tape of strings and voices stretching syllables of the Koran through mysterious melismatic curves. Adnan on the platform is dressed in loose pants and wife-beater undershirt and at first seems to be leading us in slow belly-dance. We all move in imitation of his supple grace. We wind our hips around, bend our torsos, wave our arms. It is an undersea forest waving in the currents, a knot of hibernating snakes waking up. Hours pass in this moving meditation. Adnan is imperceptibly slowing his movement down. At a certain point I notice he has lifted his arm only a few inches in the last fifteen minutes. We are trying to keep up with him, and are failing. What is this slowness? Adnan’s eyes drift upwards in his skull, showing only whites. He is in a trance into which it seems you can’t follow him. How can anyone move so slowly? The women most dedicated to him, whom Marisa calls his harem, are already frying onions in the kitchen. The dissonance and temptation that scent creates is painful. I am raging with hunger. Feed these people, Adnan, I mutter. Just get the damned arm up where it’s going and feed your people. Hurry up. We get the point. Arm goes up. That’s good. Get it up there and let’s eat. Your people are hungry. We haven’t eaten since yesterday midnight. Fucking get the arm where it’s going and give us food.

Suddenly, when I am practically blind with anger, something happens. I don’t understand how or why. Something within my chest bursts open, like a sudden blooming. A flower within my breast spontaneously tears open and light and love pours out. Marisa can see something is going on with me, and she grabs my arm as if to hold me down. I love Marisa. I love all the people in the room, the ones I know, the ones I hardly know. I love all the Jewish boy campers who preceded us in this place. I love Marisa’s tight grip on my arm. I love the floors the walls the ceiling the stage. I love Adnan who is hardly visible now. I love myself, each molecule of self that flows with ease into the molecules of other. Everything in the perceptual world I love, and everything imperceptible as well. Every atom every quark of every atom. The feeling floods out of my breast as if a spigot has opened to release a gusher of love. I want to dance with every particle of being that surrounds us. This is the ambrosial flood. This is the honeyed road from my open heart.

Nonetheless the scent of onions frying penetrates my bliss. I follow the crowd I love into the dining hall. The session is over, except I am riding this tsunami of love. My heart chakra has opened. Heart chakra. I never believed in, never trusted the new-age eastern gobble-de-gook, but here I am witness to a truth, here I am surfing in the curl of love. Suddenly I panic. Can I shut this down? Clamp the spigot? I’m returning to New York in a day. This won’t play on the subway. It could get me big hurt. Can I love New York down to the last bullet? I look at Marisa. She understands; at least, I think she does. In front of me is a plate of dates, eggs, and onions. I take a forkful. With this taste the flowering slowly retracts into my chest. These feelings do a slow fade. It happened, and now it is done. Will it ever happen again? It is frightening to think that it can. At some point without warning, quick as a breath when you come up from a dive, and even in contradiction to what you are feeling at the time, heart can spontaneously open.

SKIRT

Hers was a grey-blue plaid skirt, with cross-hatchings of pale rust and lemon and rose. The skirt was ankle length, wool, tight-fitting around a trim figure. That figure, a girl, captured me, her shapely ankles, the butt a sweet protrusion, small, high breasts in a beige cashmere sweater. She could have been a dancer. She wore dusty rose Capezios. Her ash blonde hair cascaded down below her shoulder blades, her face pale, oval, with high cheek bones, grey eyes, full pursed lips. Her name was… Maybe she told me her name. I don’t remember the name.

These dances were held in the gym of Washington Irving High School, an all girls school, sister school to my all boys Stuyvesant. The gym was lit as if for a basketball game, music piped in over crackling P.A. speakers. Only the girls way over there danced at first, with each other. The boys rough-housed a little, and shot imaginary baskets at the hoops that had been hoisted to the ceiling. We glanced over at the girls as if they lurked on the other side of some impenetrable border in another country, and we didn’t yet have passports. For me, however, riding in the constant curl of the testosterone wave, even a room as cold and contrary to romance as this gym could turn into a garden of sensual possibilities. I could not get my eyes off that supple pulse of flesh in the plaid skirt dancing gracefully with another girl.

Most of the guys were acting as if the girls weren’t there, and seemed to deny they had come to this dance to meet girls. I don’t know how I broke loose to cross the gap into the chattering, giggling territory of the girls. A few other guys followed me across the border. Someone had dimmed the lights. We were ready to dance. My plaid skirt actually smiled at me, and extended her arms when I asked her to dance. We did a modest lindy to a Count Basie “Two O’clock Jump,” then a close fox-trot to Vic Damone singing “Blue Moon.” Plaid skirt and I rode the music together, her hips pressed into my hips, our knees and thighs caressing, the palms of our hands sweating into each other, her other hand lying lightly on my shoulder, occasionally brushing across my neck, my other hand feeling the channel of her supple spine through the cashmere. It was as unbearable as an idea of heaven. An erection came out and pressed against her thigh. I was afraid to offend. Did an erection get you thrown out of the dance? I tried to back it off her flesh, but she stayed with me, pressed it with her thigh, almost as if she didn’t notice. But she noticed. She probably could feel how weak it made me, and enjoyed that.

She smiled at me when the music stopped and we separated. Something green was caught between her upper incisors. I thanked her and we turned away from each other. I sank into one of the folding chairs against the wall, and let my hard-on go down. Across the room plaid skirt moved in a dramatic ballet among the other girls. I don’t know why I didn’t get up to ask her to dance again. I was suddenly shy. I was even embarrassed. How could a kid be at fault for an erection? Did I fear this might be a step into a relationship I couldn’t handle? What would I have said to her? “How’d you like my hard-on during the Vic Damone ‘Blue Moon’?”

That encounter imprinted on my erotic memory. Any time I look into the distance and see a tight plaid skirt on a slim woman, I get aroused. Even now I start to squeak and roll when I see the plaid moving gracefully over there.

SLAVE HUSBANDRY

During the Second World War La Signora Foti fucked many American soldiers. The boys were stationed in or passing through The Salento (the heel of the Italian boot). She restricted her trade, as much as she could, to officers, because they had the money, and the etiquette. At the end of the war she built an apartment complex with her savings, placed a statue of Mary Magdalene in the pebbled yard, and put on many pounds. When I looked to settle my family in an apartment in Lecce, where I was going to teach English, I was steered by my horse-drawn taxi driver to La Putana. She was forever acknowledged for her wartime activity and admired for her enterprise as an investor afterwards. My driver knew she had an apartment empty because her son, who had lived in one of the apartments, had just been thrown into prison for printing and passing phony 20,000 lira notes at the 1960 Olympics in Rome. Jingle was due to arrive in a week, just under the flying deadline for pregnant women, seven months.

Signora Foti lived in the apartment below our rental with her daughter, Felìcitá, son-in-law Aldo, and granddaughter, Fiorella. Aldo was a neurasthenic, spent most of his time in bed, covers up to his chin, driven there perhaps by his wife and mother-in-law, two carabinieras, powerful women who set the rules. When I first arrived masons were laying large blocks of tufa, building another unit onto the Foti complex. The hod carrier couldn’t have been more than eight years old, covered in yellow dust, carrying blocks that looked like they weighed more than the kid. A vague fear came over me as I watched him. What else would I see?

To negotiate for the rental Signora Foti invited me into her “salotto,” a formal room, its french doors rarely open. She moved within a cloud scented of lavender and sweat. The furniture was covered with coarse bed-sheets to protect from dust. “Meestehr Steeb. Venire. Venire. Bene.” People rarely said my last name, because on the street in Italy cazzo means prick. She folded a corner of a sheet and invited me to sit on the ruby-striped silk of a settee as she slid around the room in a chenille bathrobe. My mother would wear something like that. With her fluffy slippers she polished the marble floor. Putana was big, swarthy, and charming, a thick neck set into rolls of fat at her shoulders, like a baby’s fist plunked into the pudding. The way she orchestrated her occasional touches to my shoulder or brushes of my knee with hers, was like the residue from her seductive past. She was a woman confident she could still empty the wallets of American officers.

Aldo had a little English. Before my family showed up I spent time with him, organizing details of the apartment. When you moved into an apartment you had to buy everything. The previous occupants took all the light fixtures, the outlets and bulbs. Figuring out how to get these necessities and hire an electrician to install was daunting. My Italian wasn’t yet good enough. Aldo, wan and gaunt, helped all he could from under his comforter. A major issue was the toilet seat, which had also been taken away by the counterfeiter’s family. Anticipating my pregnant wife having to settle her tender bottom onto the cold ceramic of the toilet rim, imagining Avrum and Nikolai falling in because the hole was too big and the rim too slippery, made me feel I might fail in my oversight as patriarch. It took a few hours for me to get across the concept of toilet seat to Aldo. He kept dozing off. You should go to Upim, he finally told me. I didn’t yet know Upim, a chain department store, where you don’t bargain about prices. In Lecce you bargained even for aspirin (taken in the form of suppositories) at the pharmacy. If they didn’t get to bargain the Leccese got nervous, but it was relaxing for me not to have to dicker the price of a toilet seat.

As a gift for moving in Putana granted us an afternoon of her servant’s time. The tiny woman had a name only in Leccese, a difficult dialect to pronounce. They called her “the (unpronouncable).” The way they referred to her made her the commodity, the slave they held her to be. I watched her clean the hallway, with La Putana always at her side, steering her towards the dirt as if the woman couldn’t find it by herself. It would have been just as easy for the landlady to do it herself. For the few hours she was granted to us she cleaned the floors, which were already whistle clean, and scrubbed the walls that had no stains whatever of the counterfeiter’s ink. (It was a couple of months before we discovered the trap door in the closet of the kids’ room. This allowed access by ladder to a secret room below the apartment. A small slot of a window almost invisible from outside gave it a bunker feel. Ink stained the walls and floor. The press was gone, but you could almost hear it spinning out 20,000 Lira notes the size of small handkerchiefs.) If this woman had a second smock I never saw it, just one soiled sack, a grimy flowered print that buttoned down the front. She worked at a frenetic pace, the imbecilic grin on her face I interpreted as her pleasure to be working without the grip of Putana. Physically she was the opposite of her mistress, small, and very strong, her body one torqued sinew, that unwound clumsily through the endless work. Her face looked like a twisted glove. Her lightless eyes, her spirit, if there was any left, hunkered down in the thicks of her skull. I wanted to talk to her, but she spoke only Leccese, and looked very confused if I spoke Italian. Except to give her orders, no one ever spoke to her. She bore her position without question, somewhere between human and goat. I had no chance to stop her when she attacked our laundry, scrubbed it on a sawtooth washboard. The cloth of my flimsy American t-shirts, comfortable and airy in the near tropical heat, disintegrated against the board, almost dissolved into the water.

She had a daughter similarly named only in dialect, always called “that one,” who was enslaved by Felicita. This girl still had some teenage glow, a friendly round face unlike her mother’s, a body blossoming through her one tattered smock, slightly chubby, attractive. She hadn’t yet been worked as hard as her mother, could show some spontaneity when something amused her. I brought home once from the market a few tiny ceramic pots, probably used for doll houses. They sold ten for ten Lire. When the girl came up to deliver laundry, I gave her a tiny pitcher. Liz Taylor, receiving the Hope Diamond, couldn’t have looked more thrilled. Her smile threatened to rip into her cheeks. She turned it around in her hands, looked at us, looked back and studied it as if it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She tried to hand it back a couple of times, as if she couldn’t believe it was hers. No one had ever given her a gift before. An immense sorrow swept over me. This was like a foretaste of disaster. The disproportion of gratitude to gift made me want to retreat back to USA. Like a storm from offshore, disaster struck. A few minutes after she got back downstairs we heard her scream. They were beating her. What could I do? My casual gift was a total transgression. After a while her mother came up and without looking us in the face handed me back the tiny pitcher. We could hear the girl sobbing. I felt totally clueless American and helpless.

After some time passed Putana visited, freshly doused in lavender and patchouli. “Meestehr Steeb,” she said, reaching for me with one of her pudgy paws. “Non dare mai. Non dare niente a quella. Mai. Mai, Meestehr Steeb.” Never give her anything. Nothing to that one. I felt a hopeless outrage. I wanted to argue, tell her how horrible this was, but my Italian wasn’t yet strong enough. I turned my back on her, and walked away, feeling her fingers score my shoulder. “Non dare niente.”

The week we left to go north to Verona (back to live in the civilized world, said a couple from Trieste who lived in the building) where I took a teaching job on a US base, there was a crisis in the house of Putana. The girl had escaped, they said. She had run away. They didn’t look worried. I was trying to negotiate our damage deposit, but there was too much distraction, Putana too preoccupied to listen to my plea for money back. The girl was loose for a couple of days, then recaptured. We heard her cries again, pitiful, hopeless, and we trembled with shame and impotence. We saw the Putana drag her through the hall below. They had shaved her head. Her face was swollen. My kids looked worried. How could this happen in the twentieth century, we asked each other? We came to realize that they had actually encouraged her to escape. There was a young man involved. They had let her sneak out to breed, to make a little slave for Fiorella when she grew old enough to need her own. Then they beat her just to show which side her bread never got buttered on. I was a coward, so powerless in the thrall of that cruelty, that barbarity. This wasn’t just a cultural difference. We left for the North before we found out if the mating had succeeded. Everything seemed futile — kindness, generosity, compassion. O humanity, I cry out for myself. O humanity, I cry out for thee. The Putana never returned our damage deposit.

SNAKE ALLEY

This is a night market in Taipei. I would happily feel again what it’s like to be in Snake Alley. You go there to spend what you’ve got, and there’s a bargain under every streetlight. There is no such market in Denver, not even in New York City, Portland, L.A., Chicago. Throughout Southeast Asia these markets open only at night, allow people to shop after the subtropic heat and humidity of day has faded. The scene is crowded with families, merchants, hustlers, hawkers of the latest cures for arthritis and subtle conditions of the triple burner. There are many crazies, and monks, and beggars and hookers. From stores and street stalls people hawk all the world’s merchandise — the knock-off fashions, the computers, the cameras, the cell-phones, the TVs, the fake watches, the medications, the sneakers, the skateboards, the scooters, everything a consumer desires. Families are up late and loving it, loving the noise, the action, the shopping. The restaurants stay open all night, and are packed well past midnight with families and dating couples and odd tourists like ourselves. The food is always fresh and delicious.

Much of the commerce in Snake Alley is about the snakes. Snakes and sex. If you want to eat a snake you go to Snake Alley. You want a taste of sex, you go to the girls who live in the brothels on the street below the line of snake vendors. Snakes and sex here go together like hot dogs and mustard. To get what you want you pause by the line of snake vendors, in the tinny broadcast of music, the strings of tiny lights blowing in the breeze, the shirtless snake butchers. The snakes are skinned and hang from hooks behind the vendors’ tables, some still writhing. It’s a wide variety — long ones, short ones, some thick as your forearm, some thin as your pinky.

A young man, shirtless, in shorts and sandals, cigarette hanging from his lip, dragon tattoo across his left shoulder and down his arm, points at the snake he prefers, and the vendor slips it off the hook. Nearby a salesman at a folding table, wearing suit and tie, pitches his specially formulated moxa and liniments, his cupping set, his moxibustion system, all guaranteed to relieve whatever muscles ache, and soothe your joints that swell with arthritis. A kid breaks loose from a family watching this demo and crosses over to study the snakes. His mother pulls him back. Another young man, this one in striped sweater and pressed chino pants, negotiates at the stall. He looks like a college student. The snake guy slips the kid’s choice off the hook, bleeds the snake into a plastic cup, squeezes some of the snake bile on top of the blood, and adds this to an equal measure of wine. He hands the cup to the customer, who looks at the mixture, wrinkles his nose, takes off his glasses, shuts his eyes, and tips the stuff down his throat. He swallows and shakes his head, hands the cup back to the snake guy. In the brightly lit restaurant down some steps below the snake butchery, some solitary men, only men, are eating snake. The young man walks down between the restaurants into the dim, veiled orange and red lights that announce the brothels. Girls move like shadows in the shadows below the snake stalls. The young man enters a dim shack down there, fortified by the snake juice for his adventure in skin. When he emerges the snake he chose will have been stir-fried, perhaps with scallions, ginger, and bamboo shoots, ready to restore his strength.

The ritual at the snake stalls repeats and repeats. Neither Rafael nor I have the interest or courage to participate. The girls look beat up and nasty. The snakes twisting on the hooks, some of them longer than five feet, are victims of a visual pun that promotes their alleged function. I wonder if a language written in ideograms makes such visual puns more potent. I hope there’s more to it than that snake/penis analog. I hope also that the advent of Viagra, Cialis, and other boner enhancers will save the lives of a few snakes. That could be a beneficial side effect.

SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR

Jayhood Wright was my park. James Renner, online historian of Washington Heights, indicates my spelling has always been wrong. It’s J. Hood Wright. Wright was the “banker and financier from Philadelphia whose home once was located within the 6 1/2 acre park.” The city bought the property in 1925, and converted it to a recreation space and park consistent with the style of Frederick Law Olmsted, designer of Central and Prospect Parks. This park is located between Fort Washington and Haven Avenues, from 173rd to 176th Street. Across the street on Ft. Washington Avenue is P.S. 173, where the N.Y. Bullets Social and Athletic Club got their early education. At one big assembly there I was traumatized by Mrs. Driscoll as I sang some Stephen Foster songs in a trio of kids. My vocal chords had been paralyzed by bulbar polio and I had to twist and stretch my neck to help compensatory muscles make the sounds. Mrs. Driscoll thought I was clowning. I had a rep as a clown. She stopped the assembly, and started to chew me out in front of the whole school. Mrs. Navazio came to my rescue, and explained the situation to her colleague, but despite the fact that Mrs. Driscoll relented, I haven’t to this day got over the anxiety caused by that attack.

The park came to be called Jew Park because the orthodox Jews in the neighborhood, who were forbidden to drive or touch anything mechanical or electrical on Friday nights and Saturdays, would stroll through and fill the benches with muttering. For me the park was a source of exhilaration, the mysterious “power center” of Northwest Manhattan between 168th and 181st streets. I woke up every day to a view out my bedroom window of a line of poplars along 173rd Street behind the park wall. Those poor poplars, my own gothics to the heavens, were toppled by the hurricane of 1938, called The Long Island Express, with winds they claim up to 180 miles an hour. The poplars were never replanted.

The southeast section of the park held a wading pool with a sprinkler to cool toddlers in the summer. In Winter the “parky” froze the pool to make a skating pond. On the asphalt paths around the pond moms could perambulate their kids and turn them loose to romp with their little buddies. We played baseball in a dirt ballpark, handball on concrete courts. We shot hoops there. Dogs ran free on the dog run. An octagonal recreation hall with rest rooms and a curved loggia separated the recreation area from the wilderness, where I liked to run. From the concession stand, a hexagonal wooden hut with swing-up shutters, the dour Mrs. Downey sold Dubble-Bubble, Cream Soda, and stick pretzels two for a nickel. I grabbed these provisions and headed Southwest till I reached the mountain in this wild, an outcrop of mica-flecked Manhattan Schist, which was split by a ravine, a crevice, a canyon, whatever the narrative of the day required. A large sandbox nearby evoked the desert. There was a broad, sloping meadow like the high plains, anchored by some big oaks. If you followed an arroyo into the northwest corner you could squeeze into a small cave, a womb hideout that smelled of piss. Civilization hit the West pretty hard when they finished a terrace there, where codgers could settle on the benches and look out across the river and see the G.W. Bridge and the New Jersey Palisades, until developers blocked the view with a line of dreary apartment buildings on Haven Avenue.

Jayhood Wright was blessed by snow in Winter. The thrill when it stormed overnight was to go to bed and know that by morning whiteness would cover the high plain and turn the slopes of its windblown expanse into a wide thoroughfare for sled, toboggan, garbage can lid, flattened cardboard carton, so we could speed down through fierce wind and cold. This year I have a small Flexible Flyer. I sit on it and steer with my feet, belly down on it and steer with my hands. Stand up to lean against the slanting wind and I can fall off and might break bones. At the bottom you understand that if you want another ride you have to carry the sled back to the top of the hill.

On this one day of snow, sleet, and wind, my seventh trip up the hill is interrupted when I look through the overcast and see an opalescent lozenge of light. Other sledders gaze at this phenomenon. The brightness of the haze has intensified and congealed into this lustrous ellipse. Suddenly it moves, disappears into the haze, then reappears between the two bridge towers. It pulses in the hammock strung from East to West. Now I myself am lifted up, levitated, uninvited but urged to dwell within this glowing intensification of joy and sweat and sorrow and dreams.

I’ve met the “aliens” preserved in Roswell. They are nothing like what I find once I settle into this placelessness. No one here assumes a form yet all are present, if I dare call the expanse within this sustenance a “present.” Once at breakfast in Cape Breton, Phil Glass announced that on the night before he had spotted the strangest UFO he had ever seen. “Really?” said his friends. I refuse to think the UFO in which I find myself, and continue to sequester, is strange. Conversations in here are rich and deep and obvious. They carry without words, though words seem possible. All here flatscreen brightness no channels all image no sign no ring tone no cell phone echo no screen no buttons no numbers no voice in this limbo of coexisting possibilities. I speak to the individual with whom I speak though there is none, just this protospecific continuum of potential but never realized manifestations, so much like myself aching for time. It’s from this place, though to call it a “place” is overreaching and understating the condition, but it is from let us call it “here” that I transmit the dispatches that I call Memoirrhoids, formed of this dust that presents as light, in order to broadcast the notion that there is a modality to be called life, and that life can be mine, lived with some intensity and confusion, and I hereby smack open the illusion that some of this is real. I offer Memoirrhoids as tokens of existence. Once I have discharged 137 of these, if 137 is possible, the agreement is that I shall be released.

SOME PORTS OF CALL

The Saturnia was headed finally for Venice. We stopped in Piraeus for a day but couldn’t disembark without paying a hefty port tax, so I had to do without the Greek salads the lamb shanks and the real galataboureko made in the place of origin. At Palermo we could disembark and had time enough to grab some ice cream and hop on a tour bus for Monreale, so I got my first look at the mighty mosaics. After we cozied up to the dock in Napoli a bamboo pole poked through the open porthole with a stone tied to a line. The stone was covered with sticky tar. It floated, with some expertise guiding it, from table to bed to floor. It was feeling for a wallet, some money, a ring. It grabbed a sock. I ripped it away, and looked out the porthole to see two kids playing the pole. They saluted me. Some of us went down to a restaurant near the dock. The waiter displayed whole fish for us. When I asked how fresh it was, the tail flapped. Caught this morning, still alive, the waiter assured us, his hand under the lettuce, under the tail, making the action real.

There could have been no better city at that time than Barcelona to be my first city to visit in Europe. We disembarked before noon, and had a whole day. Some hyped tourist destinations disappoint, but not this place. This was in the time of the dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, so the activity on the great Ramblas Avenue was somewhat repressed, compared particularly with the explosion of joyous busking that filled the avenue a few years later after the dictator died and freedom effloresced. The Ramblas continues to be one of the great strolls of Europe. It was perfect to take my first steps in Europe into the city of Gaudi, Picasso, Lorca, Dali, Miro. A leisurely lunch at Los Caracoles was more than I could have hoped for as my first meal in Europe. For thirty-five pesetas a cab driver offered most of his afternoon to take me on a tour of the Gaudi sites. None of it disappointed as often tourist destinations do. The Park Guell, Casa Battlo, La Pedrera all hit me with the shock of originality. This was impossible architecture, designed by some genius, or by some divine visionary pastry chef. That the Sagrada Familia cathedral will never be finished makes it into a public fiction, a projection, a collective dream. Watching the few workers who still putter around it creates in the mind a kind of nostalgia for the future.

By late afternoon we had exhausted all the Gaudi, and my patience and ability to see anything else. My conversation with the cab driver was animated but limited. When I managed to ask him what he thought of Franco he shook off the question, and stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel. He drove around a park dominated by a large equestrian statue. I don’t know who the subject of the statue was. The driver stopped as close as he could get under the rear end of the horse, its tail raised, blowing heroically in the bronze wind. He pointed up at the clearly sculpted sphincter of the horse’s ass. “Generalissimo Francisco Franco,” the driver said, waving his beret at the asshole, laughing as we drove away, back to The Saturnia that pulled out that evening at eight.

SOUTH CORN STREET

The black neighborhood in Ithaca, New York, took a few square blocks below the hills. Those academic worlds of Cornell University and Ithaca College unfolded on the sides of the hills, and the professors and students had little or no awareness of this quarter of their city. My family and I were lucky to find a small funky house on South Corn Street in that neighborhood. The rent was low. We were just back from three years of scuffle living in Italy and I took a job at Cornell to teach Creative Writing. I was at the bottom of the pay scale. Nobody made much money then. To support Epoch, a prestigious literary magazine produced by Creative Writing teachers and writers, the editors had to hold a rummage sale every year. This was an old wood frame firetrap built maybe in the twenties. It had a big back yard where Jingle planted her first garden, before she started to write a column for Countryside Magazine. I planted the trellises around the house with heavenly blue morning glories, and collected the seeds because rumor had it they were hallucinogenic. I swallowed them all at once one Fall evening, and got too sick to know if I was hallucinating. We had a cat named Cheery who loved corn on the cob, and ate it on the floor between her paws as if she was playing a harmonica, no butter, no salt. My kids often say that was the favorite neighborhood we ever lived in, with the best friends to run with. Pat remembers it as the most difficult time, because I was traveling a lot and she had a heavy load of work and child rearing.

When I studied at Cornell I spent a lot of time waiting tables at The Statler so I could afford the Ivy League, and send some money home to mother. I was friends, occasionally had a beer with a big man who was from that neighborhood, a heavyweight boxer named Arthur Jones, powerful enough to rise in the profession, but too congenial and affable to get mean and hurt someone. He washed pots in the kitchen where I waited tables, but was gone by the time I came back to move into the neighborhood. I’d heard that most of the population came from one town in the Mississippi delta. They lived like one big poor family. Porch sitting was our favorite daytime sport. On our porch Lee Friedlander took the picture we used on the back jacket of Creamy and Delicious. I ride a rocking chair, totally decelerating on that porch. Across the street at the laundromat sat the best soul, R&B jukebox in the whole Finger Lakes region, a total James Brown, Solomon Burke, Aretha Franklin, Bo Diddley, Otis Redding, Marvin Gay, Chuck Berry, Percy Sledge, Gladys Knight, Motown alert system. It even tolerated some Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. Often parties broke out from there, spontaneous as a rogue spin cycle. Those were the times of party and protest. Civil rights joyous and violent. Demonstrations against the filthy brutal Vietnam war made many people dance. St. James A.M.E. Zion Church, said to be the oldest church in Ithaca, was around the corner on Cleveland Avenue, the shortest street in Ithaca. It secretly drew fabulous gospel groups from all over the US before they were well known — The Blind Boys of Alabama, The Soul Stirrers, Marion Williams. I was too shy to risk being the only white guy in the African Methodist Episcopal church, where I’m sure I would have been welcomed, maybe even saved. But we sat on the porch often and long, and we rocked and shmoozed. We eyed with suspicion any white person who walked by on the way to the supermarket across Clinton Street.

My kids’ friends all were from the neighborhood. In the summer we took Lisa and Vanessa, beautiful dark slim girls of eight and ten, to swim with us at Buttermilk Falls State Park. They weren’t comfortable, Jingle thinks because their families rarely did anything like that, but also because they were the only black kids at the swimming hole. This park was another place where you would occasionally see Nabokov flitting across the greensward and into the woods with his butterfly net, a taxonomist on a mission. The novelist/lepidopterist amazed the girls. Eddie Cleaver hung out at our house a lot. He was close to Avrum. People called him ‘Goo because his thick glasses made him look like Mr. Magoo of cartoon fame. Sometimes when a lot of the kids came over they enjoyed lining up, as you might line up in size places, according to color of skin — Avrum at one end as the lightest, and the next lightest, ‘Goo in the middle, and so on until ebony. Rafael remembers at his friends’ houses being obliged to chant with them “A Fight! A Fight! A Fight! / A nigger and a white / Whitey’s got a gun / Nigger’s gotta run. It bothered him, even at kindergarten age, that he belonged to the group called Whitey, the ones at the time with the guns. Occasionally they had a dance contest at someone’s house. Avrum was a good dancer, and liked to compete. Once he actually won. He thinks they were being kind to him as the only white boy present; nonetheless, he won.

On the day of April 4, 1968, the assassination of Martin Luther King sent people tumbling off their porches out of their homes, wandering into the streets. The feeling of being cut from our moorings and left to drift was too familiar, too many assassinations in the land of the free. Anarchy and chaos like waves of acid fog blinded everyone. Everyone wanted to do something. Nobody knew what to do. Screams of grief and fury. The windows of the supermarket smashed. The laundromat jukebox landed in the street. It all happened as if by itself in the anarchic winds. People wandered around hugging each other and weeping, pounding their chests, ripping at their hair. We felt suddenly so white, afraid to go outside.

A knock on our door froze us. Shhhhhh! We didn’t answer. At least no one yet had busted the door down. The knock persisted. Finally one of the kids looked onto the porch. “It’s ‘Goo,” he said, and opened the door. The kid flew in.

“Aver. Aver.” He’d never learned to pronounce Avrum’s name. “Come on. Come on. We’re gonna kill all the white people.” He paused, and looked around at us.

“No. No. No. Not you. The white people. Hurry up, Aver.” Avrum went to find his sneakers. By the time he got them on, ‘Goo was gone. Avrum didn’t go into the street to look for him. His decision. A wise white choice.

“A fight! A fight! A fight! …”

wait start over wait wrong from the beginning please

Remington 760 Gamemaster chambered in 30–06

7 power nightforce scope

“there ought to be a law against Henry”

shatterfist falls whitey yo dead shot

Martin sent back to the mountain he’s been to

wind time back please

south corn no more for me no mild

empty heaven bindhinge bend gate shut

Please! Puhlease!

busful of faith

America! Fuck! America! Me!

whitey gotta race is the matter that matters when it matters

“against Henry”

ce freak of grace no freak of grace freak of grace

no freak of grace freak of grace no

the hat I put on doff the hat is never the hat I wear

STARTING ARTIST

The advantage at Stuyvesant High School of calling yourself a writer was that you could work on the student magazine and skip English class. I loved to skip, skip out to Ptomaine Joe’s for a salami sandwich, or skip to 14th St. Billiards where the rumor always was that Willy Hoppe would show up. Skip English class, anything; so I worked on the magazine and wrote a few poems, but I didn’t get yet what it meant to be an artist. I put most of my creative energy into wood shop, in a large dusty room of ancient flywheels, pulleys, heavy belts, all of which began to turn when Mr. Cooperstein threw the switch to start the lathes. The room smelled of lubricating oils and wood dust. The windows were dark with soot, letting in a smudge of greasy light. It was deliciously mechanical, and felt dangerous. Gears clanked, wheels screeched, moving belts slid sideways on their pulleys. I thought the room must be a metaphor for something — the government, the city, the brain. It wasn’t just a woodshop. Eventually I’d figure it out and make a poem. I started to build a coffee table, an oval, with a routed edge, out of beautifully grained pale Korina, a tropical wood. I never finished it completely, but loved turning the legs on a lathe, the chisels sharpened so I could shave translucent curls off the shape. My energy also went into jobs after school. For one I delivered yard goods and samples all over lower Manhattan for two young brothers with a wholesale business on Union Square. They treated me well. I felt a connection, a bond with the city as I was beginning to see myself more as a writer. The more passionate I became about the city, the more I was a writer. I entered factory buildings through the freight elevators, and dealt with receptionists and shop foremen, ran gauntlets of older workers, fat and boozy and tattooed — bookies, touts, queers, flim-flam. I narrowly avoided disaster in traffic on Broadway when my cart, full of heavy bolts of worsted, got stuck in the cobbles. Fellow workers came to the rescue.

I loved taking the number 5 bus downtown to the Met or the Modern, which were free at the time, and I’d malinger in front of Hieronymous Bosch or some gloomy Rembrandt, or I’d go to the Modern and gaze into the clear space of Rousseau’s Sleeping Gypsy, or Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie. Or Picasso’s Demoiselles D’Avignon, and the Guernica, or I’d go to the Frick to indulge in the lucidity of those Vermeers. I didn’t know what I was doing, though I kept doing it. For one thing I thought I was escaping from my neighborhood into a better world. Though not as bad or heavily armed as some ‘hoods are today, the streets still seemed full of ignorance, and especially for a teenage kid could blow into violence at any turn. And I was getting away from my house and my mother who could ensnare me in meaningless chores.

I spent the money I earned, that I didn’t turn in to my household, usually at Birdland, where once I went five nights in a row, skipping school, to worship from the peanut gallery at the piano of Bud Powell, my creative idol. Every breath he took at the piano went into his music. Pee-Wee Marquette, the redoubtable little person with a big voice, master of ceremonies and doorman for that fabled club, exclaimed at the door, “You back again, peanut?” He let me in every time though I was obviously under age. I heard and saw Charlie Parker there, Dizzy Gillespie, Lester Young, Slim Gaillard, Billie Holiday, Stan Getz, Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, Lee Konitz, Sarah Vaughn, Max Roach and Clifford Brown. I was very lucky to live in New York. These great artists astounded and moved me. I pledged in my heart to make with my writing an art that was as moving and full in its freedom and formal elegance as these masters did every night at Birdland. I would dedicate my work to these artists who gave me everything. My work, for whatever it is worth, is dedicated to them.

STOVE

Our problem was that we had to move the heavy old cast-iron cook-stove we had stored at Phil’s in Dunvegan to the site I had fixed for it in our clearing. This was on the western shore of Cape Breton Island. From the Banks Road, the closest to our place, access was by a mile of newly cut foot trail. It would break our backs to carry so much weight. It would be hernias galore. The other option was bad enough — load the stove into Phil and Rudy’s fourteen-foot aluminum boat. It was painted red. It had a twenty horsepower Evinrude outboard. You get some strong men to lift the stove into the boat and drive it the fourteen miles from their beach to ours. Then it would be a matter of heaving it up the steep bank to our site. We had myself and Richard and Rudy and Phil and Bob Fiore, whose film, Winter Soldier, was one of the pillars of post-war Vietnam protest. He was also, my kids would always say, the strongest man they ever saw. We had in common a foolhardiness derived from unfamiliarity with the sea we were riding. Fishermen would have warned us against it since the waters and winds were changeable and unpredictable.

The weight of the stove sank the boat down practically to the gunwales. Only two of us could ride with it. I leaned on the stove. Rudy kept one hand on the stove, the other on the rudder. Rudy had already published Nog, and was working on the great script for Two Lane Blacktop. Phil helped us push off, and supervised the operation. This was way before Einstein On The Beach, before he became an icon of contemporary music. He decided not to come. Rudy and I made our way down the coast with the stove. It was stupid and dangerous. The others went by car and down the trail. We were lucky. The sea remained calm. No wind. A slight change could have sent us to the bottom — stove, Rudy, Steve. We pulled safely into my beach, and the gang was there.

We wrestled the stove out of the boat and carried it to the edge of the cliff. My kids like to remember Richard, who slammed a door of the stove on his hand, and ran yowling down the beach. This was when he was making his amazing, equilibrated, gravity pieces out of lead, before he became the king of Cor-Ten steel, the greatest sculptor in the world. We stripped what parts we could of the stove, and carried them up separately, then trussed the bulk of it with rope, anchored it to some trees at the top, and slowly inched it up the cliff. Bob Fiore and I did most of this work. I couldn’t have done it without him. His sheer power heaved it over the tough spots. We got it to the top, and carried it to the location where I had laid down some railroad ties and settled the stove onto the ties. Though I had just eyeballed it, had hardly thought about it beforehand, the stove came out nicely level. Such was our fool’s luck. No one got hurt. Nobody drowned.

On the next day I stood on the stovetop and drove poles into the ground. My kids, and Jingle, and myself, nailed driftwood boards to the poles, to make walls, which became a comfort when the cold winds blew, to stand between the warm stove and the wall. The roof was driftwood, covered with heavy tarpaper, and a hole for the galvanized stove pipe. Soon Jingle was cooking. The oven was great. Tamale pie, Indian pudding, blueberry crisps. We boiled some lobsters we dragged out of the sea. We brought in beer and wine. Everyone came down our trail, carrying kids, for a party, such a party as the art world has never seen before, and will surely never see again.

STOWAWAY

“You’re stowing away, right?” The words fell from my mouth. It was three A.M. I was working for an outfit that hauled college students aboard Italian ships, this one the Vulcania, from New York to Southampton. No one said it, but I think it was a USIS operation. I had just got the advance from Holt for Peter Prince and I was on my way to Istanbul, to Israel, to Italy. It was a long crossing on a slow ship, eleven days from New York to Southampton. On the way the kids got to take seminars in the various cultures they were about to visit. My official title was Assistant Shipboard Director. My duties were mostly as night security officer. I was assigned to patrol the corridors at night with the Sergeant-At-Arms, do bed checks in the dorm rooms, and deal with any conflicts. I spoke Italian, so I could be liaison with Captain and crew, and Aldo, Sergeant-At-Arms. Aldo was an undersea demolition expert, once with the Italian navy. He was handsome, well put together. Every night he’d get stranded in the room of a Midwestern Catholic men’s college, the boys on their way to some Vatican sponsored retreat. I was on my own after that — open every door, say hello, don’t spoil the fun.

This was the first night out of New York. Three A.M. I spotted her in the lounge, curled up in an easy chair. “Stowing away?” I repeated.

“O wow,” she said, uncurling and sitting up. “I felt you walking there.” She stretched and yawned like a cat. “I probably needed you to know. I sent it out to you.”

“I’m the cop on this ship,” I said.

“This is so far out. Wow.”

She told me her name was Teri. She was one of those acid waifs of the Sixties. She was traveling light, wearing very little — some baby-blue leather Capezios over black mesh stockings, dark blue micro-mini, black mesh panties, see-through red net blouse. The backs of her wrists were soiled from rubbing the heavy make-up around her eyes, smeared now to make her look like a tired clown.

This was my first big decision in my official capacity. “You can go down and sleep in my cabin for tonight,” I said. There were two beds. Unlike my usual self, I had no interest in jumping on her. I felt no lust, nor was there anything paternal. With my modest success, and an understanding wife, I was indulging in a respite from family. If I had a desire to protect anything, it was my curiosity about the girl’s situation.

By the next evening she had organized her scene, found new accommodations in the cabin of a Dutch couple, managed to get some other clothes. She made a lot of friends very quickly. Most people thought she was part of the staff, the activities organizer. When she checked back with me again, she told me her whole story. She had been communicating by ESP for a couple of years with a guy in London. She wouldn’t say who it was. To connect with him she always dropped acid. In their last exchange he told her to get on this ship and sail to Southampton. Compliance was her part of the game. I doubt she could have told him to do anything. He instructed her to bring no money, and to leave her passport. It was a tough story for me to digest, but here she was, a stowaway. What was my official position? What kind of cop was I? Every hour she gained in shipboard notoriety.

One of the situations I had to police was a surfeit of pot. Many of the students packed plenty of it, thinking to sell it on the way. This was the first and only time I had ever worked in “law enforcement.” I was determined to use a soft touch. My job here was to keep the information from the crew. They didn’t want to know, anyway. No one wanted an international incident. The kids had to do something with this glut. A shame to waste it, but nobody needed to get busted trying to carry it through customs. They were frisky, but they weren’t stupid. On the third day out we hit a storm. Seasickness kept them in their bunks. Visions of the Andrea Doria going down danced through their heads. I didn’t get seasick, and did my rounds just the same. A scent of vomit drifted through the corridors.

I decided it wasn’t my job to check the private cabins that couples had rented, but I stopped outside one of them. Something felt peculiar here, an outlaw vibe. I opened the door. Here was Teri. She didn’t get seasick either, as long as she had something to do, she said. Her “to do” found her happily rolling joints, surrounded by pot and rolling papers, like a kid in a mud puddle. She had cleaned up, was dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, and had the shining face of a high school cheerleader. She had solved the problem, as much as it could be solved. Once people got their sea legs she showed up at the end of each meal with a tray full of tightly rolled joints, serving them to anyone who wanted to smoke. She was very gracious, no stranger to manners. My job as cop, I figured, was to hush this up, because if they busted anyone in Southampton, they’d have to bust almost everyone. I didn’t even tell the shipboard director, with whom I hardly spoke. He seemed very straight. If you dressed him in a dark raincoat, black oxfords, Foster Grants, you’d know where he worked.

Maybe it was Teri who had snuck into my cabin to fill my vitamin C jar with white crosses, a superdose of amphetamine. I swallowed one every morning with my other vitamins and felt fantastic, robust, smart, equal to the swelling Atlantic. It took a few days for me to get what was happening. Meanwhile I bounced around on deck, singing to the dolphins that played in the wake. All the women were incredibly exciting and beautiful, and I flirted with great panache. At the seminars I read from my new book, Creamy and Delicious. I talked Italy. I talked Europe and the benefits of travel. Who needed to sleep? I was oceanic. I was gabby and boring. After I made my rounds I went aft to howl at the algae that lit up in the foam. I listened all night as Paul Blackburn, great American Black Mountain poet, courted Joan, his future wife, in the next cabin. He told me the problem was cracking the corset. He said he liked men who stayed up and talked all night. He liked women who knew when to shut up.

I ignored Teri, lost track of her until we were about three days out of Southampton. One afternoon she sought me out. “I don’t have any money, and I don’t have a passport,” she said, blithely. “I think I have to drop some acid and see what he tells me to do.” I felt as if she was asking my approval, although my disapproval wouldn’t have made any difference.

“Sounds okay,” I said.

She kissed me on the cheek, and we never spoke again.

I held off till the end because I didn’t want to disembark until I saw how she managed. She looked presentable, like someone had gifted her with a modest skirt and sweater, and a small case for her other stuff. I watched her persuade the officer at the top of the gangplank, and then talk her way past the customs officials below. They totally let her through. She was safely in Southampton, talking with Peter and Sylvia, a couple that had befriended her. Then she was gone. I disembarked, exchanged information with the lovely Ellen D’Alelio, whom I hoped to meet in Italy, after I’d been to Turkey and Israel. I left my alleged shipboard charges to their various mischiefs.

I thought about Teri frequently, as one of the heroines, victims, of the acid culture. I wouldn’t have heard of her ever again, except that I ran into Peter and Sylvia in Istanbul, and they had kept track of her for a while. They told me what they knew over sweet coffee at a pudding shop. The story is like some hippy apocrypha. She got off the ship and through customs by claiming she had already been through once. She had returned to her cabin to get something she had forgotten, and her husband, to whom she pointed in the waiting crowd, had her passport and her bags. I could imagine how persuasively helpless she seemed. She went to London and became one of the acid princesses of Carnaby Street, working in a store that sold hippy gear. She reached the critical point in her acid transmitted ESP when she was urged by her communicant to join him. Peter and Sylvia got the rest of the story second hand. The voice on the other end of the ESP was Paul McCartney. None other. She dropped some acid, went to his house, somehow got into his garage, and sat in a car and smoked all her pot until the time was right for her to enter the house, which she did in the wee hours. She found her way to an empty bedroom and went to sleep. In the morning someone woke her, and taking her for a girlfriend of Paul’s brother, told her breakfast was ready. Teri joined Paul and Linda at breakfast. She passed on the ESP story, and was quickly expelled from paradise. It sounds like it could be true. It sounds like it could be false. This is the whole story, I swear to G-d.

STREAM

In the scrub spruce and willow shadows of the brook, down below the pool where we dip water for our camp in Cape Breton, where we keep the galvanized tub we use for a cooler, below that in the translucent green of jewelweed and shadows cast by a few maple seedlings, before the brook tumbles to the shore, Jane and I are making love; I mean, we are screwing. It is good soft water, and the brook is reassuring. It has never gone dry.

Rafael calls out “Dad! Dad!” from somewhere near the tipi. He’s twelve or thirteen. His voice has some urgency, reminds me of ravens calling to each other in flight. He comes down to the brook calling all the way. “Dad. Dad.” We don’t stop, don’t make a peep. Myself inside of Jane, I don’t want to give up our position. Rafael doesn’t see us. He crosses to the other bank and heads for the eleven-sided driftwood shack I built, and use as a studio. He’s checking to see if I am writing, or reading, or taking a nap. I go on grooving slowly into Jane, and back and more in.

“Maybe you should ans…”

“Shhhhh…”

Jane sighs quietly. This taste of intrigue is delicious. We breathe softly in the shadows. When Rafael comes back across the brook we are still embraced, repeating, repeating the movement the breath. Cool gusts ripple downstream with the current, and circle our feet in the water, rise across our backs, cold then warm. These be the details, the small flares of ecstasy.

Later at the tipi, Rafael reads in a chair. He looks fine. I can’t tell him that I heard him calling me. Perhaps it would embarrass Jane, or myself, make me seem negligent. However urgent were his issues then, it never comes up. I don’t check the title of the book Rafael is reading. It’s not Mark Twain. It’s not Virginia Woolf. Not Henry Miller or William Faulkner. Maybe it’s R. Crumb, Mr. Natural. Now I wish I could get in touch with Jane again, but she’s been lost to me. The note of urgency in Rafael’s voice blows across my past like a shroud, and I still wonder what he needed at that moment. It’s not something I will ever know.

SUNDAY MORNING IN THE AFTERNOON

I am eleven years old. My assignment on Sundays when my father is home from one of his many retreats to VA hospitals or convalescent homes is to run up to Broadway and get the Herald Tribune, which is better than the New York Times because it has funny papers. I am also on a mission to the bakery to get a sliced challah, two hard seeded rolls, two bagels, and two bialys. Then I go to the appetizing store to get half a pound of farmer’s cheese, half a quarter of belly lox, and a little sable or sturgeon if it isn’t too expensive. We share a few slices on the Sundays dad is home. I climb the hill on 173rd Street from Fort Washington Avenue to Broadway, past P.S. 173 and the schoolyard, past the Broadway Temple Apartments, so tall, with amazing elevators we sometimes ride for fun, and at the Russian’s on the corner I buy the paper, and a coffee egg cream with my own money. I turn down Broadway to the other stores, the competing bakeries. My dad likes the hard rolls and challah from one, bagels and bialys from the other. Then on to the appetizing store/delicatessen. Part of my instructions is to ask for the lox wings (fins), which they give away for free. The air is calm and the weekend slacks into it, the neighborhood easy and relaxed.

Loaded with the newspaper and the goods I head back past the clatter and spark of a Broadway trolley, and many other people yawning into the street, waking into their late Sunday morning rituals. A small crowd of church goers gathers at the entrance to the Broadway Temple Presbyterian Church, all of them well dressed, so clean, ties neatly centered, hats perched like kettle covers, a shine on their shoes. I notice Shelley down in the schoolyard, shooting some hoops alone, and cling to the fence to watch for a few minutes, then go down the steps to shoot with him. Shelley has the weirdest arsenal of shots in Washington Heights. Sometimes he throws it at the basket, even underhanded, or tosses up a contorted hook shot from anywhere on the court. I can never believe it, but often his shots go in. I love to shoot hoops, can do it for hours, just to forget about school, about everything else. Some other kids show up and we start a game of “horse.” In horse you have to imitate the shot of the kid who shoots first, if he makes it. That’s why I don’t recommend playing horse with Shelley. The first thing he does is sink one of his bizarre hook shots from outside the foul circle. No one else can make a shot from there, much less imitate the way he shoots it, like he has double jointed shoulders. Once enough kids show up we play three-man ball. I guard Shelley. He doesn’t move much, but it is impossible to guard his shot. As soon as he gets the ball, anywhere on the court, he chucks it up, sometimes without even looking at the basket, and often it goes in; I mean, swish.

I finally remember the newspaper and packages and head home. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. The sun is clear up in the sky, almost over the Jersey tower of the G.W. Bridge. I expect to catch hell. My twenty minute shopping trip has taken more than three hours. My mother says only, “It took you long enough. It’s afternoon already.”

“I met Shelley.” I say. “We got into a conversation.”

My father hands me funny papers and puts the rest of the news aside. He unwraps the lox. It’s one of the few times in recent years he’s been at home. I would love to learn tennis from him. He once was a great tennis player, or so I am told, but he is always too sick to go out and hit the ball with me. “Looks like nice fish,” he says. He slices a hard roll and scoops out the doughy interior. He does that for his health. He spreads the roll with farmer cheese and lox. In just a few months he’ll be dead. I think about how every night when he’s home he plays pinochle at the kitchen table with my uncle Sammy, and he always cheats, and Sammy doesn’t notice. I slice a bialy and spread some cheese and lox on it. It’s our Sunday treat. I’ve seen my father so infrequently in recent years I can’t but stare at him, his tired eyes, the shadow of his whiskers, the folds of loose skin at his neck. He slowly rotates his jaw as he chews. How much he enjoys this hard roll.

T-SHIRT WITH PETE DEAN

Pete Dean’s t-shirt was doomed. I grabbed a sleeve and yanked and felt it rip under the armpit. He had my shirt bunched in his fist, and he pulled. My t-shirt was doomed. I heard the rip. I grabbed his loosened sleeve and pulled. That spelled the end for Pete’s t-shirt. It ripped across the front. Just then he pulled my shirt out with both hands and snapped the neckband. The fabric pulled apart like wet paper. This Fruit Of The Loom was a goner. I had just bought it and didn’t expect it to go so fast. I pulled again on his, opening a long rip across the back. It slipped down and dangled uselessly from his right shoulder. The remains of my shirt slipped to my waist. We were laughing like two kids in a mud fight. Jingle and Lori, the wives, looked on with tolerance and disdain. This had been a ritual for several years since we were roommates at Cornell. As soon as we saw each other we went for the t-shirts. Pete transferred to Wisconsin to study geology, and secretly became a painter. I transferred at Cornell from Agriculture to Liberal Arts, thinking I was a writer.

Our wives, particularly Lori, put an end to the t-shirt ritual, because it was stupid, and maybe homoerotic, though we were both straight as Broadway through Manhattan. We were mostly broke however, and replacing shirts was expensive. Pete became one of the great neglected painters of century twenty. He was self-taught, though he skimmed some instruction as a model in life classes in Wisconsin. He did acknowledge the fauves and German expressionism as his teachers, as well as Andre Girard in New York. He had come to America with his family from Berlin, escaping the Nazis in the eleventh hour, much like the family of Kirk Douglas, whom he quite resembled. Several of his paintings deal with that personal exodus. Peter was an awesomely prolific painter, and because of the inundation of works I often disregarded or misjudged the quality of his work while he was alive. Whenever I visited his studio he had four or five paintings going at once, and would show me a box full of small paintings and drawings done since I’d last checked in. He was also a world class dumpster diver, and created powerful spooky fetishes and small shrines out of his gleanings.

Peter painted fast, with breathtaking enthusiasm. He did fantasies and narratives, for which he is best known, but also astonishing landscapes, with colors lifted from some divine palette. The landscapes alone should put him in the pantheon. Within this production are some of the most original, moving paintings of the twentieth century. He worked outside the cool, corporate trends of his time and blasted away at his own weird vision. Art trends produced minimalism, conceptualism, and etc. — neutral work that would never embarrass the corporate interests buying art. He was tough and humane and impassioned as an artist. Peter Schjeldahl told me once (he was a poet at the time) that I should tell Pete that he can’t paint that way; that it’s a no-no to do narrative paintings with such a thick impasto of oils. It was a contradiction, I guess, to the Schjeldahl way of seeing. I came to see Pete’s attack as a counterpoint of the agitation of the painted surface against the process of the story. He loved the paint, and wanted your eyes to play with it as his brushes had. The figures in his narratives are curiously static, often masked, while the painted surface is always agitated and disturbed. His subjects are strange, never sentimental, never flattered, always treated with brusque honesty. Schjeldahl went on to ignore Pete Dean’s work, as he has ignored several other wonderful artists, while he built a reputation as a sometimes perceptive, and insightful, though occasionally blind even inane art critic, now hacking it out at the New Yorker.

Pete died in 1993 after a tough battle with ALS. I can’t but believe that the pace of his production was the result of his foreknowledge of this outcome. I was out of the country for the memorial service, and it’s a great regret for me. I miss him every day. It is just recently that I realized how I would have liked to eulogize him, had I been there. I would have told the story of the t-shirts, and in honor of Pete, in front of the hundreds from the New York art scene who mourned him, I would have torn my own shirt down into shreds of praise and grief.

THE BERRYMAN BLOT

In Verona, in Italy, I got my hands on a copy of John Berryman’s 77 Dream Songs. They touched me profoundly at that time. Some locked into my memory. I recited them frequently in my mind.

Filling her compact & delicious body

with chicken paprika, she glanced at me

twice.

(Restaurants in Verona don’t serve chicken paprika. Not in the city of Romeo & Juliet.)

Fainting with interest, I hungered back

and only the fact of her husband & four other people

kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying

‘You are the hottest one for years of night

Henry’s dazed eyes

have enjoyed, Brilliance.’ I advanced upon

(despairing) my spumoni. — Sir Bones: is stuffed

de world, wif feeding girls.

— Black hair, complexion Latin, jeweled eyes

downcast…The slob beside her feasts…What wonders is

she sitting on, over there?

The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.

Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.

— Mr. Bones: there is.

Though the Dream Songs are stylized, stagy as a minstrel show, they were just what I needed to refresh my love for American idiom. We’d been living in Italy for almost three years. I understood that as a great privilege. I loved Italy, but I felt my grip on present usage in the American language slipping. We were ready to go back. My oldest son, Avrum, who was four, spoke Italian, the Leccese dialect (we’d lived in Lecce for a year) and the Veronese dialect, as well as English. I knew he risked losing that, and Nikolai, two years old, could lose his Italian smatter.

We returned to Ithaca, New York. Baxter Hathaway had arranged for me to teach at Cornell. That was a stroke of luck, and expression of his faith in me I will always cherish. I didn’t want to teach. I never really loved school, and understood the precept that “them that teach don’t do”; on the other hand, I didn’t relish the idea of hauling my family, which had swelled to three sons, back to the US with no job. We arrived in Ithaca, New York, myself packing my passion for John Berryman and his quirky Dream Song project.

“God bless Henry. He lived like a rat.”

“You’ll get to appreciate the wide palette of grays of the Ithaca skies,” Baxter said. He was founder of the Cornell Creative Writing Program, founder of Epoch magazine, a brilliant man of real integrity and compassion, the avuncular mentor of young writers at Cornell. He was always ready to take a cup of coffee with his protégés at Noyes Lodge, or Willard Straight Hall. Slow of speech, and laconic, perpetually drawing on a cigarette, he would listen for hours to amateur literary talk. He bristled against the dominance of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. I’d be curious to know what he’d think of the present plague of writer’s workshops in America. I can’t honestly complain, however. Because of that expansion, I was able to make a living.

As a Cornell Prof I pushed to get John Berryman into town for a reading. It worked. I was put in charge of the event. The poet arrived at the Ithaca airport in the early afternoon, and was scheduled to read in the evening. He was staying at our apartment. Jingle and I cleaned thoroughly to make it nice for the great poet. The Ithaca airport had no gates. An eminence could descend the stairs as a President would, waving at the crowd. The poet appeared at the door supported under the arms by a flight attendant and the co-pilot. He was totally sloshed, the kind of drunk you have to prop up while he takes a piss. No one had explained to me that Berryman was a hopeless alcoholic; in fact, he wrote most of a novel, Recovery, about the disease of alcoholism. On my first encounter with him, he stank. He had pissed himself in flight. His suit was soaked. The cabin of the plane must have reeked of him. Behind his disheveled graying beard, his unkempt hair, his expression was that of a frightened POW. I introduced myself, but I don’t think it registered. I could feel his panic. He babbled incoherently, this shaper of some of the most muscular lines in the American language.

“I’m scared a lonely. Never see my son

easy be not to see anyone,

combers out to sea

know they’re going somewhere but not me.

Got a little poison, got a little gun,

I’m scared a lonely.

Someone helped me pile him onto the bench of our VW Microbus. The car smelled of him for weeks. He slumped over on me, babbling in a kind of frothy hysteria, as I drove him home. Jingle seemed to be the tranquilizer he needed. He calmed down as soon as he saw her. He took her hand, and walked up the eight steps to our apartment under his own power. “He probably needs to sleep,” said Jingle, with basic Winnemucca wisdom. I was nearly hysterical myself, wouldn’t have come up with that idea.

We woke him an hour before the reading. He had pissed in his sleep, and the wet spot had drawn purple dye from the cushions onto the white sheet. He was used to this drill. In his suitcase, along with his poems, he carried clean underwear and a fresh suit. He washed up, and we headed for the reading, the poet grabbing Jingle’s hand on the way. He didn’t let go of it till after I introduced him and he climbed to the podium. He read pretty well, from Homage To Mistress Bradstreet, and The Dream Songs, but not with the minstrel show panache that the poems promise, that I had hoped for. We didn’t exchange more than three or four sentences. He was sequestered deep within himself. I wouldn’t suggest a drink. He wanted to sleep. The following morning he met a workshop, and several of the young women there perked him up. A later dream song is dedicated to Amy Vladeck, a student he met at the workshop. He probably never even registered my name. Berryman left on a flight before noon. He was sober. I’m sorry I didn’t get him to sign the sheet he had stained. We kept it for a long time flying on the clothesline — Henry’s banner, the flag of Mr. Bones.

Supreme my holdings, greater yet my need,

thoughtless I go out. Dawn. Have I my cig’s,

my flaskie O,

O crystal cock, — my kneel has gone to seed,—

and anybody’s blessing? (Blast the MIGs

for making fumble so

my tardy readying.) Yes, utter’ that,

Anybody’s blessing? — Mr. Bones,

you makes too much

demand. I might be ‘fording you a hat:

it gonna rain. — I knew a one of groans

& greed & spite, of a crutch

who had thought he had, a vile night, been — well — blest.

He see someone run off. Why not Henry,

With his grasp of desire?

— Hear matters hard to manage at de best,

Mr Bones. Tween what we see, what be,

is blinds. Them blinds’ on fire.

THE CHAMP

Max’s Kansas City, opened in 1965 by Mickey Ruskin, was the scene, the gathering place for Warhol’s factory people, and the art glitterati. At this hotspot present and future stars of the art and pop world like Janis Joplin, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, David Bowie, Mel Brooks, Larry Rivers, Richie Havens, Abby Hoffman, Lawrence Weiner, Cary Grant, Patti Smith, Jane Fonda, Jim Morrison, Germaine Greer, Mick Jagger, and et cetera, saw each other and showed up to be seen. They chewed the fat there. They displayed and mated. Jimi Hendrix called it the place where you could “let your freak flag fly.”

Less well known was St. Adrian’s, named for the famous group portrait of opulent burghers painted by Rembrandt. It was two dark rooms on the ground floor of the old Broadway Central Hotel, on Broadway, at the dead end of Great Jones Street. It later morphed into a notorious welfare hotel/drug market, and then was devoured by the New York University real estate beast. On the wall by the bar hung a huge reproduction of the great Dutchman’s The St. Adrian Holding Company, a celebration of Netherlands’ wealthy. If Max’s was a social scene and an endless party, St. Adrian’s was the “think tank” of the art scene. The future art world head-liners talked about books they were reading, films they had seen or were making. They strategized their moves in the gallery and art world over vodka and beer. I read there a couple of times from a new book, Saw, published by Knopf. At one table the avuncular Karl Andre might be pontificating about the de-commoditization of art, and at another an assembly of Mike Heizer, Walter DeMaria, Nancy Graves, Charles Ross, Brice Marden, by their very presence together in conversation would be destroying the limitations of the pedestal for sculpture, and wiping out the constrictions of the frame in painting. Art was expansive as America, even within the heady confines of St. Adrian’s. Installations, earth art, performance, were all being born at these tables. Listening to these artists was exhilarating for me. I stretched my brain trying to figure what the analogous moves were in the art of writing. These visual artists seemed more articulate about aesthetics and politics and art history than the writers I partied with, including myself, who were so careful about how they framed their sentences that it took them a long time to say very little. One evening I was sitting with Nancy Graves, Steve Reich, Michael Heizer and Richard Serra and others. Richard said, “Next year I’ll make my move.” He stared down at the table. “I’ll be ready to take over the art world.” That revelation of raw ambition spun me around. Who is this? Who thinks this way? I never had thoughts of taking over anything. I just wanted to grow my work, make it richer, and push it to embrace more of the world. But Richard is a powerful talent, a huge intelligence, and a limitless ambition. He grew his work, made it richer, and no one who was in New York for his immense MOMA show can argue that he didn’t take over the art world. It was as if the art powers were overcompensating for having violated and removed his “Tilted Arc.” Banners advertising his work hung from lampposts all over the city. Double page photo ads of his huge Core-ten steel curlicues installed on the ground floor of the MOMA appeared in double page spreads in the NY Times and the New Yorker. It was like a knockout in the heavyweight division. For the duration of this show the possibility of thinking of any other artist was virtually obliterated.

THE VOLLEY

Ray Gangi and I played tennis in Riverside Park on the asphalt courts near the lighthouse and the abutment of the great George Washington Bridge. These were built by the city many years earlier, and were free to the public, but they were poorly maintained, irregular, cracked, dotted with weeds. Ray and I had an agenda. We were going to practice tennis until both of us were good enough to make the tennis team in High School. We were too short and round to play basketball, and weren’t good enough to go out for baseball. We thought no one played tennis, and that was true in our lower middle-class Washington Heights world. We were members of the New York Bullets Social and Athletic Club. We let girls wear our purple and gold reversible team jackets. What we weren’t aware of was that among the more affluent middle-class, and the wealthy, there were worlds of smooth clay courts, some of them indoors. These kids could practice all year, and not just practice, but take expensive lessons from tennis pros at exclusive clubs.

We played three or four times a week, on courts that were like a separate opponent, making the ball bounce erratically, at random. It could go left or right, could flatten out, could skip, could fly. On a June 6, one of the days of our adolescence, we started a volley that will never be forgotten. We opened with a forehand lob from Gangi to myself, which clipped the top of the net. Gangi got it to my backhand, which was my weakness. I retreated and connected with the sweet spot of my Jack Kramer laminated wood racket, a cudgel of a racket, picture of Jack Kramer on the throat, made by Spalding. Sometimes I slept with it. I sent a backhand smash down the line, and Gangi lunged and returned it. I sent back a soft forehand, and we settled down to exchanging forehands and backhands from the baseline. After this volley went on for more than an hour we realized something special was happening. Our strokes were unorthodox, but we were returning everything. I hit a high lob, and caught his eye. He shrugged and returned it to my forehand. It was as if the rackets were swinging themselves. I felt like my body was light and mobile, moving on its own, just a vehicle for what was happening. We kept going, trying and making shots we’d never made before — smashes backhand and forehand, drop shots, skip shots, righthand and lefthand spins, volleys at the net left and right, stop shots, high spinning bounces, shots neither of us had ever seen before. The George Washington Bridge, graceful as it was before they added the lower roadway, loomed out over us like a swan. Dark currents of the mighty Hudson rolled by the Palisade cliffs on the Jersey banks, the tar-stained rocks on our side. We went on hitting the ball, returning the ball, as evening came and the lights turned on. We volleyed into the night.

“Do you want to stop now?” I asked. It was after midnight.

“Let’s wait till one of us misses,” Gangi said. He tried to send a lob over my head into the darkness, but the racket pulled me into the air and I dropped a shot to his backhand, near the baseline. I thought that would be it. He barely got to it, and made the return.

The sky pinked in the East. I’d never been up for dawn before. If it wouldn’t have interrupted the volley, I might have sat on a bench to watch the light change. By noon we got our fresh wind and started smashing the ball again. We were young. Our energies were limitless. And we never missed.

“Oh no. Look out,” Gangi warned. It was The Henchies swaggering down the path. It looked like the end of our volley. They were our nemesis, a gang from 177th Street between St. Nicholas and Amsterdam. The Bullets were peaceable. The Henchies were prone to violence, unprovoked, just for the meanness of it. We went on volleying. They watched from the other side of the chain link fence. Soon they started to laugh. “A pussy game,” one of them shouted. We didn’t dare miss. They shook the fence a little, then they left. Gangi sighed so hard he almost missed an easy forehand. We went on playing, better and better. Tennis was our ticket to tomorrow. When Gangi’s mother arrived he started to sweat.

“I’ve been so worried about you.” She chased him around the court, throwing scraps of sausage into his mouth.

My mother came soon after. These women rarely left their kitchens. I don’t know what intuition let them know where to find us, or how they got the courage to make the trek down to the river. “Today you were going to wash the floor.” That was one of my chores, keeping the kitchen linoleum clean. “The company you keep,” she said. I don’t know what she meant. She knew Gangi, and she liked him. She chased me around the court, splashing soupspoons of chicken soup at my mouth. She almost made me miss.

“I curse the day I bought you that tennis racket,” my mom said.

“I bought it myself, with my own money.” I hit a gorgeous crosscourt backhand volley.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that.” I returned both the matzo ball she threw at me, and the tennis ball to Gangi’s forehand.

“You two come home right away,” the women commanded as they left.

“As soon as we finish this volley,” we said in unison.

My father, who died when I was very young, was a great tennis player, I remembered. He was a New York City doubles champion. That was why I sometimes wept when I played. What could I have learned from my father?

Refreshed by the food we went on volleying through the day, and into the next night. Casual strollers stopped to watch, and then moved on. We played on. We couldn’t miss. No one understood the extent and scope of our accomplishment. The weekend had begun. Other players came to use the other courts, and they frequently stopped to watch our brilliant volley. No winner, no loser. Towards evening the storm clouds started their march down the Hudson Valley. We’d better get home, we both said. Gangi hit the next ball over the chain link towards the river. We left to the roar of thunder down the valley. With reluctance we stopped our famous volley. We weren’t tired. We were young. Everyone was leaving the river. Lightning hit the Palisades. If we hadn’t stopped then, I’m sure we would still be volleying today.

THEN NICARAGUA

In the Managua airport my attention sticks to a poster that reads NICARAGUA: A Diner’s Club Country, printed over a photo of a windsurfer on a beach. We have come by invitation of Daniel Ortega’s government as writers asked to witness the progress of his government and the atrocities committed by the US supported Contras. Chuck Wachtel, Lawrence Shainberg, Nathaniel Tarn, Marvin Bell, myself and several others are billeted in one of the dictator Somoza’s mansions, appropriated by the Sandinistas. Managua is a ghost city, never rebuilt after the earthquake of 1972. Often the directions and addresses you get are virtual sites, like “by the lamppost, where the Post Office used to be, across the boulevard from what was The Candy Disco (still flattened).”

Our guides load us into a small bus every day and drive us to a different town. We go to Matagalpa first, where the children in a school read us their poems. Everyone in Nicaragua writes poetry. The great poet Ruben Dario, father of Modernism, is Nicaragua’s pride, born in Metapa, citizen of Leon, his favorite city, where he lived much of his life. He died in 1916 and is buried there in the Leon cathedral. The guides lead us into a large grey shed where we are seated on the benches of a small grandstand. The walls are chipboard, the roof made of translucent orange corrugated plastic. A file of women marches in and lines up facing us. One by one they step forward into the orange light and tell us a story about their husbands, sons, daughters, uncles tortured and killed by the Contras. My eyes well with tears. I fall for all of it. These poor suffering people. “I can’t stand this propaganda,” Nathaniel Tarn says. He is way more mature and experienced than I, his grown-up to my infant. I know he sees it more accurately than I, but I can’t keep back the tears. Even if they are assembled for us as a propaganda thrust, there is some basis in truth. A woman grabs my arm. “How can you help us,” she shakes me. “If you’re not even taking notes?” I’m a writer and I didn’t even carry a pencil. I am embarrassed to look at her, and move away.

On the next day they walk us in to one of Somoza’s coffee plantations. The Sandinista government has appropriated all the former dictator’s property. We shamble around and listen to a talk about the coffee tree, and are encouraged to taste one of the red berries. It is surprisingly sweet. “Not what you thought,” says the guide. “Not bitter, like coffee.” We gaze idly into the neat plantation, and over the hill blanketed with the red berry, under a sky sapphire blue, dappled with clouds. It was a “what a great day” kind of a day. An attractive young woman in khaki steps suddenly out of the darkness among the trees. “Ahhh! Here’s Maria,” says the guide as if he is surprised to see her. “Perhaps we can get her to tell us what happened to her brother.” “Viva la borghesia!” exclaims Herman Gauggel under his breath. He is a scholar of Central American poetry, a Honduran expert, who punctuates all conversations with this exclamation, irritating everyone. The woman starts to tell us about her brother who was taken by the Contras. He was tied to a tree for three days. Tarn rolls his eyes and walks away. He was castrated, she goes on, his genitals crammed into his mouth while he was still alive. I watch her as if hypnotized. I will listen to and watch a beautiful woman as she tells any story. They gouged his eyes out one at a time, cut off his fingers, eviscerated him as he passed out. She knows it in such detail you’d think she might have witnessed.

On the next day, they pack us onto a bus for Leon, the home and shrine of Ruben Dario. We ride along the shore of Lake Managua and can see across the water to the cones of the volcanoes Monotombo and Masaya. “Somoza took those who displeased him, his opposition, for helicopter rides over the volcanoes, and pushed them out alive, into the caldera.” “…viva la borghesia,” exclaims Herman. The town seems empty. We visit Dario’s shrine, his grave, his house. We take refreshment at a vacant coffee house.

It’s a day without propaganda. Everyone is exhausted, listless, happy to stare at nothing. No such luck. On the way back we are hustled to a camp outside Managua to listen to a poetry reading by Ernesto Cardenal, a principal Sandinista poet. The reading is crowded under a canopy, many Sandinista poetry fans have come to listen to the poet. Cardenal admits he owes a lot to Allen Ginsberg, his poems broad and rambling.

On the last night they organize a poetry reading in the reception hall of our Somoza estate. Poets come from all over Nicaragua. We alternate one Spanish, one English. Cardenal reads again, and a well known dentist poet, whose name eludes me. Many women show up — Daisy Zamora, Claribel Alegria, Gioconda Belli — all reading poems of loss and grief. Women lose husbands, brothers, sons. The evening is light-hearted and friendly nonetheless, one great blithesome parting sob.

In bed I have a lucid dream that puts me back in the same room with the same poets. In front of me sits a young boy of twelve or so. He turns to look at me. Although he resembles none of my sons in particular, he does look like family. Just before we separated, Jingle had an abortion. She was sure the pregnancy was my doing. We couldn’t imagine having another kid. We’d raised three, and they were in good shape. Now we were splitting up. Neither of us was in the parenting mode. This time we would have ruined any kid; besides, we couldn’t imagine raising just one. It would be a sorry child without brother or sister ally growing close to it, to defend themselves against grown-ups. Hence, an abortion. Jingle took the procedure in New York City, where I was living. I put her on the bus back to Pine Bush. It was very hard on her, and on me as well, though not so obvious. This boy in my dream is the right age. In this context, in this country of loss, he is a manifestation of my loss. “From now on,” I say to him. “You can call me father.” I feel his radiant, angelic smile. “That’s the most beautiful thing I have ever heard,” says my dream son.

We have to fly out by Nicaraguan airline, and change in Guatemala City. Even though Nicaragua is a Diner’s Club Country, Sandinista planes are not allowed to fly into US air space. One of the engines of this old DC8 starts to fail, to spark and stall out. We have to put down at the daunting Toncontin airport in Tegucigalpa for repairs. Herman panics. For political reasons he is not welcome back in his native Honduras, and could be arrested. We are confined to the transfer lounge, where he helps me pick out some good cigars before he hides in a corner. The mechanics, who all look about twelve years old, run out like a bunch of elves in a circus, and bang on the ailing engine with hammers and wrenches. They then exit stage left, after seeming not to have done anything but make noise. We reembark and with fingers crossed continue on to Guatemala City.

It’s strange after being aswim in the propaganda and culture of the Sandinistas to have to accept that once the Nicaraguans are allowed to vote they put Daniel Ortega out of office. I feel somehow betrayed. By the Sandinistas? By the Nicaraguan electorate? By the mothers and poets of Nicaragua? By Nathaniel Tarn? By Herman Gauggel? By myself? There can be no self without betrayal.

TONKIN TODDLE

JFK assassinated, yowza yowza. Back from Italy into the US of A. Me to teach creative writing in political ferment of Cornell University. Yowza. University seems a place where you can get educated at that time, without being torqued into the shape that suits military-industrial complex. Doug Dowd organizes students to register black voters in Fayette County, Alabama. Yowza. James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, civil rights activists, one black, two white, murdered in Mississippi. Yowza yowza. Vietnam war escalates in massacre, stupidity, lies and deceit. Yowza. Protests, teach-ins, marches, vigils, demonstrations in Washington. Yowza. Katz does performances. Reading in combat drag, rising from behind the podium, burning candle on his helmet, reading to end the war in Vietnam. Yowza and yowza.

Here is Malcolm Cowley, visiting professor, avuncular man of letters. He reads my Kulik in Puglia, rhapsodic homage to the meridionale, southern Italy. This is the best editorial experience I will ever have, like a leisurely stroll through my own neighborhood with an intelligent and thoughtful friend from elsewhere. He takes the manuscript with him to Viking to recommend its publication. Wow yowza. Literary veteran. Elegant man of letters.

Gulf of Tonkin swindle. Yowza. The draft revived. More troops to Vietnam. Yowza yowza. Many potential inductees flee to Canada so as not to fight yowza in criminal war. That was a US perpetrated slaughter. Families, women and children, villages incinerated. Yowza. What then has the US become? Protecting what? Nothing. And this was only a sinister shade of what we become in Iraq. Yowza. Napalm roasts Vietnamese flesh. Lyndon Johnson alas corrupted; his populist fork plunged into the flesh of Vietnam people. American kids skewered and dying for the lies of the self-righteous and comfortable. If Viking had published my straightforward narrative, Kulik in Puglia, I might never have had to struggle in the straitjacket of the postmodernist label. It reeks of academia, trivializes and stereotypes, a convenience for lazy academics that need to operate out of pigeonholes. O yowza. My Lai murders. Kissinger deceit. Yowza yowza.

University job gave me time to write The Exaggerations Of Peter Prince. Story vibrates beyond realism into grotesques and fantasies and oblique narrative strategies. I use some of what I initiated in 1961, (later to be imported by North American publishers from South America as a genre called “Magic Realism”) in my self-published novella, The Eestriad. Scorch the boundaries of narrative. Use this tool to expose the structure of lies foisted on consciousness. Yowyowza. What I tried, crudely maybe, was to tell the story at the same time as I encouraged a surface of the page that constantly revealed the book as artifact. Yowzayow. I couldn’t let the page appear only as a window on illusionary space. I wanted no system of telling where the page itself disappears into a semblance of reality. I made pages and sequences that have graphic interest, visual signals that float on the surface, so the page itself is always present to play against illusionistic narrative. The self-referential chords I struck enhance that effect. This “experiment” was necessary since we were obliged to play on the public field of mendacity, to encourage any reader who would to examine critically how any story is told. Yowza. Bombing with surgical precision. Yowza yowza and yowza again. And Bobby Kennedy assassinated. And Agent Orange broadcast sprayed across the green yowza no health effects on hither or yon yowzawhoa. And Malcolm X goodbye. Then Martin Luther King. A yowza a yowza. And for another approach my limited understanding of the implications of quantum mechanics, in metaphor, not math, that the position and nature of the observer, the instruments of observation, influence the results of observation. In my fiction I needed to constantly re-examine the separation of subject and object. I wanted to make an art that exposes its own process as it engages its reality and doesn’t lose its read. Exaggerate! Extenuate!

Lively company at Cornell. A.R. Ammons arrived, and before you knew it he wrote on an adding machine tape his great journal poem, “Tape For The Turn Of The Year.” The poets David Ray and Robert Sward were there. Richard tum Suden, who showed at Tibor deNagy in New York, witty, humane painter, great friend, who got fed up and quit the scene way too early. Charles Ross, dynamic intellect, visionary artist was and still is a friend. I’ve learned a lot from watching the intellectual rigor with which he approaches his art, particularly as he got into work with prisms and fresnel lenses, engaging solar phenomena, star charts, exploded drawings, solar burns. B.H. Friedman, novelist and biographer of Pollock and Ossorio, was there for a year. Jim Dine was there, and he encouraged me to change my publishing name from Steven to Steve. He was already canonized as a “pop” artist, and had inexhaustible creative energy. One evening after dinner, at a small gathering, he improvised a song about types of ribbon — grosgrain ribbon, satin and tulle, metallic ribbon, mesh and velveteen. He made ribbon sound like the only thing worth thinking about after the cheese course.

And yowza we bomb Hanoi. And yowza we enter Laos. And the brave are bagged and returned, yowza yowza. They went over as boys imbued with rock and roll and dope and American dreams, and then were shipped back in bags as bodies. And Stephen Gottlieb, architecture student, assembles a crew to hand set and print my book of poems, The Weight Of Antony, on a primitive press. It was a crew of people with amazing futures in art — Gordon Matta and Donald Evans, both of whom died too young, Alan Saret, Susan Rothenberg, Mary Woronov. I did more performance, like a film of myself on a four-wall handball court, hitting a ball around a woman standing in the center. I did a reading with slides, against a taped reading of the same piece, and several other elements. Performance art before it was performance art. Embarrassed myself in front of my own family. One piece ended with myself covered in adding machine tape. A goof in the audience set it aflame. I couldn’t move or do anything; I was so fixed in my role. I could have been immolated like some monks in Vietnam. Yowza me yowza you. Someone kind in the audience extinguished the flames. Hey, he burned alive while doing his art. Could have made great jacket copy. Yowza yowza.

TOUSSAINT’S TURF

We realize this isn’t just a restaurant when the girls rush onto the terrace. They fan out and peck around us like hens sprung from the henhouse. One girl tries to sit on Nikolai’s lap. He jumps up and flees the premises. Nik is my son. It is great to travel with him. He’s twelve. We have just arrived in Haiti on a research trip. I like to travel with each of my sons, one at a time. Where will he go? We’ve been in Haiti for only twenty minutes. Max Raab hired me to write a script about Toussaint Louverture. I am supposed to adapt an enormous, rambling novel I can hardly read. Whitey Lutz is seventy, one of the founders of The Village Voice. He bought the rights to this book. He is emerging from the last twenty years of his life spent tending to his wife who had MS. She recently died. His interest in Haiti is in Toussaint, but also in sowing his latter day oats with pubescent girls he can get to blow him for a buck. In Port-au-Prince we are not to call him Whitey. In Haiti he is Bip. Bip leads us directly from the plane to this restaurant/brothel. Not Max, nor the line producer, Bill McCutcheon, nor myself are in the mood for hookers, though they are young and pretty. We order some food. Bip disappears into the building with one of the girls. I find Nik sulking outside the gate to the terrace, and get him to come back in to have some food.

We stay at The Oloffson, a storied hotel, used as a principal location for Graham Greene’s novel and the movie of it, The Comedians. It’s like the setting for some Forties noir. You would not be surprised to find Sydney Greenstreet sweating at a table under one of the big circulating fans. He leans on the soiled tablecloth eating his goat stew as he fans himself with a broad straw hat. Nik and I stay in a humid room, on damp mattresses, under slightly soiled sheets. Everything reeks of mildew and decades of sex. In the evening, if you wander just outside the hotel grounds, you are immediately approached by young women who tweak your nipples and offer you whatever flesh they’ve got to sell, an offering that is given up so easily anywhere the poverty is this desperate.

We take the daily Turks and Caicos Airlines flight to Cap Haiti’en on the north shore of the island. The trip is a little over one hundred miles, but there is no passable road across. It takes some nerve to get on the old DC8 that rattles its bolts and rivets as we take off. I am going to fly this route many times as I’m writing the script. The old plane can’t get enough lift to elevate over the mountains. It flies between two peaks they call “The Sisters” and the pilot, who is more than a little drunk, jokes that he hopes the wing tips don’t scrape this time. It makes a first stop at Cap du Nord, swooping down on its first pass at the pasture/runway to chase the cows away, then landing on the second pass. The plane is immediately surrounded by a troop of heavily armed men, led by some tonton macoute in starched khaki shorts and shirts who appear at the plane windows, sizing us up through their foster grants. It is big fun. We hold our breath till they let us take off again.

As impoverished as the life is in Cap Haitïen, it is nowhere near as desperate as life in Port au Prince. The North still has a bit of its forest left. Diamond Match logged the southern mountains bare during the American occupation in the twenties, and that is why when you fly in you see the water at the shoreline brown with the topsoil that continually washes away, and makes it impossible for the Haitians to grow crops to feed themselves.

The horses they rent for you to ride on the trail to Jean-Christophe’s Citadel are so starved and sway-backed that Nik and I decide to walk, tempted to carry the tiny horses on our backs. This massive structure built by Haiti’s first tyrant, at the expense of countless lives, sits like the prow of a ship going nowhere at the top of the mountain. It feels ominous. The air is weighted with tyranny in this era of Baby Doc, the current dictator, retarded and ruthless. The oppression carries from the citadel to the streets. Along all the roads men starved as the horses on The Citadel trail crack at piles of rock with small hammers to break it into paving for the roads. They work sunrise to sunset for a dollar a day. Women work for the same wage pounding peanuts into butter, with long wooden pestles in tall mortars. They add salt and a little cayenne. The butter is delicious. They get a buck a day or less. The smell of peanut lingers on the air with the smell of smoke from the wood fires everywhere of men turning the rest of their forests into charcoal for cooking.

All along the roads we see the dance that Maya Deren saw, and presented a hint of in her film Divine Horsemen, the living gods of Haiti an endless stream of women who walk with huge loads on their heads, dressed in colorful tatters, not a wasted motion, even when they are unburdened. This grace is overwhelming. The people we pass greet us with “Bon jour or Bon soir, Monsieur Blanc.” Clarence Major, a great black writer, told me that when he visited Haiti they called him “Monsieur Blanc.” Monsieur Blanc is the one with the money. Blanc also means stranger. First thing in the morning the greeting often is “E comment va la nuit, la?” So melancholy and mysterious.

In Port au Prince we go to the celebration of the opening of an ultra-luxury hotel. Rumor has it that Mick Jagger owns a piece of it, and will be there. The resort is within smelling distance of the Citè du Soleil. This is where tens of thousands live in the sewage effluent, each defending a little square of territory, many of them selling a little bit of something like a razor blade or a half tube of toothpaste or a rusty screwdriver. The units are beautiful, half open to the weather. They climb the side of a hill. Each has its own small swimming pool, a sauna, a luxurious water-bed, a view of the ocean. Although none of the lines of sight catch the Citè du Soleil, it makes its presence known on the wind.

I wrote the script. It was good. Bill McCutcheon helped me make some strong adjustments. Poor Toussaint, slave, autodidact, brilliant diplomat and military tactician, was superior, smarter than Napoleon II, with whom he corresponded. For reasons totally mysterious he gave himself up into French hands. They were winning the war handily against both France and England. He had never seen snow before. The French imprisoned him in the French Alps, where he froze to death. The screenplay went the way of most screenplays, onto the shelf, never to be translated into film.

TRAP TOURISTS

I am forced to beg in a country where many have to eat mouse to survive. We spent all our money, down to the last Peruvian sol, the last American dollar. I forgot to account for the airport tax, ten bucks a head. We can’t get on the plane, even with our valid tickets, if we don’t pay the tax. I changed almost all my dollars on the street in Lima shortly after we arrived, with a black market moneychanger. It was a great rate at the time, but we didn’t know that while we were visiting Cusco, Macchu Picchu, Sachsa-huaman, Nazca, Arequipa, Puno, the Peruvian government was about to devalue the Sole, to create the Nuevo Sole. We traveled easy on the cheap. The change hit us when the hotel owner presented the bill. I had budgeted our hotel at the same rate as when we first arrived in Lima. This bill was 60 % higher. We were way out of bucks, didn’t have near enough to cover the room. The innkeeper wouldn’t listen to what I tried to present as our dire straits. Why should he find credible some North Americans claiming they have no money? It took several hours of weeping and cajoling to finally strike a deal. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t think he was used to desperate bargaining gringos, and gave in just to get rid of us.

We still need twenty bucks to get us onto the plane. Being in Peru has been a powerful revelation on many levels, and this situation is revelatory as well. Down and out now in the Lima airport. Earlier in the trip we rode from Cusco to Pisac, over the mountains, into the Urubamba valley. There’s a famous market in Pisac on Sundays, and smaller ones on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We went on a Wednesday, so missed the action. There seemed to be no conventional buses. We rode the narrow dirt track on the back of a flatbed truck with board sides. The road was steep, without guardrails at the turns to protect from a plunge of hundreds of feet. So many shrines and crosses punctuated the sides of the roads that we had to wonder if anyone ever made it. We chewed coca leaves and banana ash to help us tolerate the thin air. The rest of the passengers hanging on to the boards of the truck were also chewing coca. They were native people, poor and shy. I had anticipated that our using coca leaf might forge a connection, but it only embarrassed them to see gringos chewing the leaf. They turned away from us, and covered their mouths. Coca was a palliative of the poor, for hunger, for weariness.

Because there was no market to distract us we found that the hillside above the town was honeycombed with tombs. I’d read about it. This necropolis extends high up the mountainside. As we hiked to the site we saw no sign that anyone was tending this archaeological patrimony. The whole mountainside had been fretted and crosshatched with compartments to accommodate the dead. The burial niches were cracked open, and pillaged long ago by grave robbers. Everything now was open and accessible. The mummified ancestors lay there still, some half out of their nooks, folded into the fetal position. It was a celebration of eternity we didn’t want to join. From this hillside of the dead you can see all the way down the Urubamba Valley. Macchu Picchu, which we had visited, was down there, as was Ollantaytambo. Avrum picked up a bone as we slowly wound by on the trail through the compartments. It looked like a piece of a finger, no skin left on it. He thought he’d pocket it as a souvenir of the Inca. Would our own “civilization” leave traces as mysterious and evocative as these mummies, and these Incan stones? Suddenly Avrum jumped, shaking his hand as if he’d touched something hot. He ran back and replaced the bone near where he had found it. “That was too weird. I started to feel like zombie,” he said. For a while, until we got away from the tombs, he held his hand as if it had been wounded.

When we first arrived, before we were awake to being in Peru, an enthusiastic fellow we met in the hotel offered to take us to a special place, North of Lima. He wanted to practice English. We drove for about an hour up the parched Peruvian coast, and got out of the car onto what seemed nothing but a barren, lifeless desert landscape. Not till he pointed it out did we see were in the middle of the unexcavated ruins of a vast urban sprawl, a city he said of three million people, a grand civilization ground completely into dust. As far as we could see, and beyond, the grey/beige humps of what once were dwellings, public buildings and spaces, pushed up and seared in the sun, locked beneath the dust like a society of moles. Our friend didn’t know its name. Moche, Chimu, Chan Chan, maybe? What name would serve it now? Some day this might be the paradigm for the lost Paris, New York, L.A., Berlin.

The wide revelation of Mochica pottery at the Larco Herrera Museum in Lima puts us in touch with the activities of a whole lost civilization. It’s like a photo archive of the times formed in three dimensions. Unlike Greek, Roman, Etruscan pottery, where the action is drawn or incised onto the surface of the pots, these pots are formed into the shapes of people performing the quotidian acts, wielding all their technical equipment. This must have been a society of great sculptors. Each aspect of their life is shaped into a ceramic. There are medical practices, cooking, cosmetology, recreation, warfare, religious ritual, all formed as vessels and lamps. In a fit of prudishness and greed the Spanish administration has separated out the “erotic” pots, put them in a separate building, both protecting the morals of youth, and raising prurient interest. They charge extra admission to this part of the museum. It’s impossible not to imagine all the houses of the enormous ruined city we visited, furnished with and using these potent works of art in their daily lives.

On our last day in Lima we visited the Chinatown. It’s an old quarter, right in the middle of the city. The Chinese built the railroads over the Andes. You enter the quarter through an elaborately carved Chinese portal. Stepping through you feel how deeply embedded is the Chinese community. The buildings are old, grey and gloomy, with run-down restaurants and shops. We chose a restaurant. It was different from those in US cities. The atmosphere was closed and rancid with Asian mystery, smelled of cooked offal. Each table was sequestered behind a curtain, as if hiding some intrigue, some deals going down. This prevented you from the pleasure and instruction of seeing what other people were eating. The menu was adjusted to Peruvian tastes, with several preparations using tripe and intestines, guinea pig, some potato dishes, corn dishes. It wasn’t bad, but nothing was remarkable. Outside the gate of the quarter several tons of garbage had accumulated. Rummaging through this mountain of trash was a swarthy bearded ghost. He was an apparition, naked, except for a toga of clear plastic wrapped around his body. He was the spirit of Xmas never. The plastic glistened in the afternoon light. His hairy body pressed against transparent folds of plastic as he climbed the steeps of garbage, ripping bags open, throwing bits of food into his mouth. This was the maniac every tourist shutterbug longed for. I went tourist mad, pulled out my camera. I chased after the guy, climbing the garbage, determined to line up a perfect shot, a “human interest” shot. He looked at me once, wasn’t interested, clambered further into the garbage. I jumped in, looking for a perfect angle. Something tackled me to the ground. My son had flattened me. I looked up. A city bus was almost on top of me. The driver waved his fist through the open door. “He wanted to run you over,” Avrum said. Scraps of refuse dropped off my pants as I stood up, a greasy napkin stuck to my elbow. The camera lens had picked up some goop. There was a stink about me. I expected an all out attack from the passengers, but the door closed, and the bus went on. The man was visible now only as a perturbation in the huge heap of garbage. We walked back to the hotel. In none of the pictures I later developed could you see the guy clearly as separate from the stuff he fed on.

So my problem at the airport is to get the twenty bucks we need to let us on the plane to New York. I’d sell the camera but it is packed into my luggage, and the luggage is already checked for the flight, which leaves in fourteen minutes. I’m not very effective as a beggar. I circulate among others departing. “Please,” I say. “Please. We have a problem. We have tickets for New York. Our baggage is on the plane, but we are totally out of money because of the currency devaluation, and we’re missing the twenty dollars for airport tax. Could you help? I’ll send a check when we get to New York.” I pitch this to group after group. They ignore me. Do I sound sincere, obsequious, smarmy? I don’t know that I’d believe myself. I’ve given many readings and have confidence in being able to create the various voices and emotional tones. I studied the intonations of singers, like Little Jimmy Smith, Billie Holliday, Frank Sinatra, Bessie Smith, David Allyn, Dinah Washington, but what do I sound like when twenty bucks is on the line? Maybe we look too Ratso Rizzo, too hippy, too delinquent? Other passengers wear suits and ties, or pressed leisure clothes. Our clothes look like hard travel. What do we smell like? Finally someone comes through. A blonde kid runs up and hands us a twenty-dollar bill. He runs back to his family. I try to wave and thank them, but they don’t want to see us. It’s like giving money to a bum on the Bowery, avoiding his eyes. Twenty bucks. Back to New York. We get to leave Peru. Bye bye, Peru.

US IN TEXAS

My oldest son is marrying a girl from Muleshoe, Texas. He met her doing theater in New York City. At the time he was an actor, and she worked in stagecraft. Muleshoe is a West Texas town, not far from Clovis, New Mexico, where Sinda Gregory, the wife of Larry McCaffery, a critic and bon-vivant, grew up, as did her first husband, the astro-archaeologist Gary Gregory whom my son Avrum and I visited once in Peru. So I feel some vague connectivity. Muleshoe is famous for housing at the Mule-shoe Heritage Center the world’s largest mule shoe, and for the largest free standing statue of a mule anywhere, at the National Mule Memorial. It honors the contribution of mules to the infantry and artillery in World War I. Years earlier I admired John, one of the last muleskinners, and his mules. He delivered supplies to the remote Forest Service fire lookout we worked at in Idaho. Some connection there too. Mules!

The wedding unfolds in Brownwood, Texas, east of Dallas, where Mamma Franky, Fran’s mother, and Daddy Monkey, her stepfather, live in a trailer on Brownwood Lake. Much of the lake is dry so their little dock stretches out over the gravel, and their boat sits on the lakebed, ready to float again if the water returns.

We stay in a Brownwood motel. Fran’s friend Joanie has come from Brooklyn. She’s quite a pretty blonde who owns the restaurant where Fran works. Joanie is a mafia daughter, and always travels with a bodyguard. Enzio is gay and muscled and mostly good-natured. The motel receptionist advises us not to go into town to restaurants and bars, where we will probably not be welcomed. At the motel we are safe. Although we see that possibly as a ploy to promote their own business, we decide to take the advice.

The only other customers present as we push some tables together for our crowd are two Texas lounge cowboys at the bar, well on their way to blotto. They look at us sideways as we sit down and talk loud enough so they’re sure we hear. “I eat at the top of the food chain,” one says. “I eat red meat. Anybody got anything to say about that?” We stare at our bottles of Lone Star. One of them slips off his stool and staggers a couple of steps towards us. The other one points in the general direction of Joanie. “Look at that one!” Enzio grips his beer bottle. “I wouldn’t care if I got my ass whupped for a piece of that one.” I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he is grossly underestimating. Ass whupped could be the most pleasant part of it. The other lounge Texan lurches towards me. He gets down in my face.

“I’ll bet you spotlight deer.” He pulls back and waits for my response. It takes a few moments before I understand that this is a great local insult. Fighting words. I can only shrug. Spotlight deer might have been the least of my sins.

The bartender comes around the bar. “Now leave these folks alone, boys. They come down here for a wedding.”

“A wedding. Whut…? Who’s getting married?”

“I am,” says Avrum. This Texas action amuses him.

“You marryin’ a Texas girl?” My drunk approaches him.

“I’m marrying a girl from Muleshoe.”

“Well, you just better be good to her.” He shakes a finger in Avrum’s face. “Because if you don’t we will.”

“Now leave it there, boys. Leave ‘em alone,” the bartender says. “You’ve got some drinks at the bar. These folks have bought you a drink.” I don’t remember doing that. It could be a bartender’s ploy. They return to their stools. It’s clear that without mediation things can get ugly in Brownwood.

On the next day the wind picks up, swirling dust over the desiccated lake, and thunder threatens the wedding. Mamma Frankie and Daddy Monkey are good hosts, staging a tasty barbecue. The Texans and the Easterners mingle peacefully. While my sons and I are relaxing on some folding chairs Big John comes over. “What are you boys doing?” he asks cheerfully. “You hatchin’ a plot against the white man?” He has an unconcealed forty-five magnum holstered from his wide belt.

“Don’t mind Big John,” Fran tells us. “He’s in law enforcement.”

“I didn’t know what to think when I first saw Aver,” he confides in me later. “I didn’t know what he was. Thought he was some kind of bleached out nig.”

A gentle drizzle softens the ceremony, thunder disputing the marriage vows. Avrum and Fran get nicely hitched, though they don’t totally live happy ever after. They have a few good years and a wonderful son. About a year after the ceremony Big John gets cranky and in the middle of the night tosses a railroad flare into the trailer of his estranged wife and shoots her and the dog as they jump out the door, then shoots himself. All dead. The dog had been a friendly wagging presence at the wedding.

As I hotfoot away from the festivity for the Dallas airport at first I get lost on the winding roads from the trailer to the main road. I drive in circles for what seems a large chunk of forever. It’s one of those panic moments. I’ve known them before. I’ve met them in dreams. I can’t break loose, drowned in Texas drought. I’ll never get out, lost forever, alone, abandoned in a rental car, circling, circling like a buzzard, circling in Brownwood.

VATICAN HOTTY

The walk back to the pensione was a penance. The kids were exhausted, and screamed the whole way. I carried Nik, Jingle carried Rafael, and we swung Avrum by his arms between us. This looked criminal to the Romans on their passegiatas — two immature yanks torturing three babies. It took forever to get up the hill to our room near Termini. My pocket had been picked on the way to the Vatican. Who would have thunk? We had no money for a cab, or even a bus. That evening I had to plead with the woman who owned the pensione. The pickpocket had taken all the money, and left us the train ticket back to Lecce. We had to get food and pay for the room. My kids, my wife, we have to eat, I pleaded. We’ll send money as soon as we get back to Lecce. The woman didn’t trust us. She had no idea what these Americans were doing in such a remote town in Puglia. Her alternative was to call the Carabinieri. She didn’t trust them either. We could have ended up in some dismal Roman lock-up. She was as kind as she was mistrustful, and gave us our cena, and our piccolo colazione in the morning, and let us go. She never expected to hear from us again.

We had come to Rome to take care of some business. Rafael had been born in Lecce, where I was teaching English as a second language. We had to register his birth, get him stamped on our passport. It was an opportunity to see some of Rome. We decided to alternate, one of us staying at the pensione to watch the kids, while the other wandered. My destination was The Vatican. I was sure Jingle wouldn’t want to go there. She mistrusted and feared anything Catholic, bruised by her experience at Catholic school in Winnemucca, Nevada. Even when we went into a deconsecrated church like The Duomo in Firenze she would grab my arm and cling, anticipating the long arm of Big Nun ready to snatch and drag her back to the church. She wanted to see ancient Rome.

I hopped a bus outside the train station. It was fun to be a straphanger with the working people of Rome. I noticed a young woman, voluptuous, in a tight green dress, dirty blonde hair slightly disheveled. She worked her way to the strap next to mine. She smiled at me. I smiled back at her. She was gorgeous, grey-eyed, lips glossed in a permanent pucker. When the bus jolted away from the next stop she pressed her body into mine. I almost passed out from the bouquet of her perfume and sweat. My erection pointed the way to God. It was a way greater revelation than I ever expected on a ride to The Vatican. She wriggled against me for a couple of stops, and when the crowd thinned at the stop between Piazza Navona and Campo de’ Fiori she jumped off. I could have followed her. My sense of loss was enormous. I found a seat as we crossed the bridge. A red-headed guy in plaid trousers, with a bad complexion, watched me from across the aisle. He was smiling. I thought it was a guy thing, that he had seen me rubbing against the beauty and sympathised. At Castel Sant’Angelo, he winked at me and jumped off the bus.

I went on to The Vatican. I thought it was good I’d calmed down. I doubted they’d let me in to the Vatican with an erection. I reached for my wallet to pay the admission, and there was no money. The train tickets were there, the passport was there, but no money. Those were some light hands that could lift the money and leave the rest, really skillful. All at once I understood what had happened. I had been so rubbed into distraction by the beautiful woman that lightfingers, with whom she was in cahoots, could lift my wallet, extract the money, and return the wallet to my pocket. This was a smackdown by my own horny demons. How embarrassing for a New Yorker, proud of his street smarts, to get scammed like this in Rome. I’d been hoisted by ancient wisdom, but blessed by the kindness. Without passport and train ticket I could have been stranded with my family, left on the street. I could still be there, begging for the money to get home.

I told Jingle that my pocket had been picked on the bus, but kept the particulars to myself. I couldn’t confess those circumstances, too embarrassing. I was ashamed. We decided to tour the ruins on foot. At the time the antiquities were open to the public for free. Without kids it’s a hike from Termini to the Coloseum. Going there wasn’t so bad. We rested inside the Coloseum, where Jingle sat down to nurse Rafael, and I told Nik and Avrum stories about Lions and Gladiators. It was a great vision, Madonna and Child feeding in arena of ancient combat.

The kids slept through the whole train ride back to Lecce. So did Jingle. I thought about my trip to The Vatican. That was a lesson to me. Let it be a lesson. Erotic on a bus can lead to trouble. It could have turned out a lot worse. From the train station in Lecce we took a horse and carriage, a little covered cabriolet. At the time there those were the taxis. They don’t exist any more. They hardly existed then. It was a sweet ride.

VONNEGUTS

It was a bright spring afternoon in Manhattan, and I was headed uptown. George Plimpton had arranged a gathering at Elaine’s with a sappy name like Convergence of Genius, or the Genius Club. It was meant to create an artistic, literary think tank. Many eminences like Joseph Heller, Robert Rauschenberg, Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, Susan Sontag, Merce Cunningham, John Cage, Yvonne Rainer, Andy Warhol, Tom Wolfe and etc. were among the geniuses. I had just published The Exaggerations of Peter Prince at Holt and doors were opening for me, though I understood little about how to use this advantage. I was invited to this gathering but was too shy and insecure to know how to maintain myself among the literary/artistic glitterati. My seat was at a table with only Kurt Vonnegut and his friend, the photographer, Jill Krementz, whom he later married.

I had almost crossed paths with Vonnegut before. He just left his teaching gig at the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, when I started mine. I did meet Edie, his daughter, whom I liked a lot. She was finishing school there, an art major. Edie visited me at my apartment on Morton Street once, with her boyfriend, little Geraldo Rivera. He hadn’t yet started on his way to being the media brute he is today. I could see he had little interest in what I was doing. Edie told me she’d shown my novel to her father, and he didn’t know what to make of it. I wasn’t attracted much to the writing in Cat’s Cradle, the only Vonnegut I’d read. My general social ineptitude and discomfort among geniuses conspired with those hovering opinions to make a nearly silent table. Mr. Vonnegut tried very hard to tell jokes and be jovial. Some of them must have been his ironic takes on the genius label. I might have enjoyed this under different circumstances. Jill Krementz enjoyed him immensely. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t laugh. I could only think foolishly that we worked on different writing planets, his obviously more popular and lucrative. I didn’t have the grace to break through socially to a more congenial posture.

When I visited Dresden I thought frequently of Vonnegut, of his distress after writing Slaughterhouse-Five. I was on a research trip to see all the paintings of Antonello da Messina for my novel, Antonello’s Lion. Five months earlier I had emerged from a quad bypass extravaganza, and didn’t know what my life would be like, nor how much of it was left. The train from Berlin pulled into Dresden in the morning. My God, I thought, the city is still charred. Vonnegut, the fire bombing, why hadn’t I talked to him? The old city had been completely rebuilt, stones charred charcoal grey. They had preserved the scar. I could feel it in my scars. I imagined I could smell the death by burning. I could feel Kurt Vonnegut breaking down in New York.

A slight feathery angelic blonde woman with pink tints in her hair smiled at me as I got off the train, and I followed her flutter across the bridge over the Elbe onto the broad modern square. I was booked into one of the five high-rise hotels lined up like tombstones before the old city. My mission was to see Antonello’s Saint Sebastian. The Zwinger Palace holds one of the great art museums of the world, a pride of Saxon culture. The collection had been saved, had survived the fire-bombing. Vonnegut must have known this, people died, art survived. It was a “so it goes” item. I had no luck with Saint Sebastian, because the painting was in restoration. The Italians allowed me to look at works being restored, and even the Met let me look at an Antonello in storage, but the Germans have their rules, not to be bent. I never saw the painting until after my novel was published, when it was hung in Rome at the Antonello exhibition. It was, I realized, the greatest painting of all time. In Dresden that was a small disappointment, compensated for by the Raphael Sistine Madonna, and great works by Brueghel, Rubens, Veronese. Most interesting to me, almost embarrassing, was a series of paintings by Canaletto, the great Venetian painter of cityscapes, and the Grand Canal. He lived in Dresden for several years, and painted city scenes. The stones in his paintings were the same grey, the same charcoal as the buildings today. Grey is the color of the tufa they quarried to build Dresden then and now. I would have enjoyed a conversation about that with the gracious and troubled Kurt Vonnegut.

But I sat tongue-tied in Elaine’s. All around us I could overhear geniuses engaged in easy conversation. I looked into Kurt Vonnegut’s face and thought this was, as Hart Crane described Chaplin, “a kind and Northern face.” I would have enjoyed a break-through to get to know him. I might at least have got Jill Krementz to include me in her book of portraits of authors at work. Whatever ridiculous opinion I had once about his writing, I finally came to recognize him as a humane and righteous advocate of truth and clarity. He carried his burden of fame with Twain-like wit and rumpled ambassadorial dignity. I left the geniuses, and headed back downtown in New York twilight. That was how I didn’t get to know Kurt Vonnegut. So it went.

WAN DON

I can’t stay away from her. I can’t let her go. First of all I’m married to Jingle. We have two great kids so far, and I love them all; but I can’t keep myself away from Connie. She is so blonde, so pretty. I am totally en-webbed in her, in fucking her. I dream about her sensual mouth, her horny advances. I have a blind potentate in my pants. I can’t keep my body off her. She begs me to come in her mouth. I promise I promise. I am so unfaithful. I am the philanderer, a womanizer, and I’m proud of it. Pleasure trumps guilt at every turn. I married too young. I tied myself to wife and kids too young, too young. I owe this to myself. I’m self-righteous as the politicians. She tells me the first time she noticed me was in a laundromat and she wanted to jump me then. Jumped in a laundromat has never been one of my erotic fantasies, but Connie made it seem like a hot idea.

I work at The Branding Iron, a steakhouse, the only restaurant in Eugene, Oregon that hires waiters. The Pacific Northwest is in the throes of a recession in the logging industry, but there are still enough doctors, lawyers, dentists, undertakers, to keep the restaurant busy. Waiting tables is great. You meet many different people casually and with just a modest obligation to serve them. If you have some charm, you can exert it, and perhaps make it pay off. I always have money in my pocket, feel rich, particularly after a year of teaching-assistant poverty. My mother is staying with us on a long visit, and with the general chaos of two little kids, I am quite selfishly happy to be at work. And the bar buys a couple of cases of Laphroaig single malt Scotch whiskey, discontinued by the Oregon liquor commission. They stock it just for me. I drink most of it, after work. I hang out after we close and enjoy this gilded elixir, the taste of peat, the smolder of its inebriating smoke. Often Connie meets me in the parking lot, and we steam up her car right there behind the restaurant.

In your twenties your loose circle of friends is a strong influence on your life. Its ameboid spread quickly engulfs and digests every bit of personal information, gossip, behavior you would rather keep outside the membrane. My people know all about my Connie romp. One evening at a party a woman who is dealing with her own philandering husband takes a moral stance and dumps all the contents of the icy punch bowl over my head. As I stand there, soaked, confused, guilty as drenched, Jingle arrives at my side, holding her own bucket of ice water. I am sure she too will dump on me. I’m a man too horny for his own good. I’m a disgrace. Dump it now. Dump it on me. To my total shock Jingle turns the bucket over the woman’s head, and remains by my side. It’s a country music moment. This is nobody else’s business, she is saying. This is my man, and my problem. My wife, Jingle, always proves awesome. I stand there like a wet twelve year old caught swiping quarters from his mother’s laundromat stash. My punishment is that I am compulsively doing something that can lose her to me. I keep doing it, knucklehead led around by unbridled uncontrollable stiffy.

I get drunk on the freedom of Connie’s bachelorhood. She’s single and smart, a student with brains and body. I’m tied to little kids and family. However, every relationship forges its own chains. I can’t easily get loose of her. She too is smarter than I am. One time I arrive at her apartment and comment on the painting on her easel. “I didn’t know you were so left-brained,” she says. “Yes,” I reply. I haven’t yet heard of the bicameral mind etc. etc. I don’t know what she means, but I don’t want to lose face by asking her. Everything is sweet for me, as long as we be fucking. Suddenly she tells me she needs an abortion. It seems strange to me that she doesn’t first say she’s pregnant. This is before the procedure is legal, before Roe vs. Wade. Abortions are practiced in damp basements and dark alleys. Eugene, Oregon has its safe abortionist, well known among abortion age people. His name is Dr. Gentle. He is a real medical doctor, and that’s reassuring. Everyone appreciates that he does this community a service. He requires that the guy visit him first to make the arrangements, pay in advance. You have to get to his office after five, after his nurse/ receptionist has gone home. I reread Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants.” This is a totally different story. I get to his place a little early. His nurse is just leaving. She nods and grins knowingly. Dr. Gentle sits behind his big walnut desk, and fusses with a mechanical pencil.

“Sit down,” says he. “Don’t be nervous. You look nervous.” He’s a balding, grey-haired, avuncular type, in a rumpled white shirt and yellow tie. His pocky red nose snitches on his drinking habit. He puts down the pencil and slides some papers from one side of the desk to the other, lifts a glass paperweight in the shape of a football and plops it on the stack of paper.

“So you got yourself a girl in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry. Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not.”

He picks up the pencil again, and unscrews it. “That’ll cost you a hundred and fifty bucks, son.” The pencil springs apart, dropping leads and a spring and other metal parts onto the desk. “That’s a pretty expensive piece of ass, I’d say.”

We arrange the date, an evening. He plies his craft only in the evening. He would do it at the end of the week, as Connie requested.

Dr. Gentle, his wife, and another couple have dinner at The Branding Iron on the Saturday after the procedure. They are seated at Charlie’s, the other waiter’s table. I notice at one point that the good doctor has ordered our largest porterhouse, a pound and a half of tender marbled beef, charred on the outside, rare on the inside. I look at him from across my station and think should I do it, stop by his table, ask how he’s enjoying his dinner? Will he recognize me? Will that embarrass him? Scare him? It seems a piece of mischief I’ll enjoy. It’s not what I’d call a nice thing to do; after all, he’s Doctor Gentle. “Hello Doctor Gentle,” I say. He lets go of the knife stuck erect in the meat, and squints at me. I want to say, “Don’t be nervous.” His face turns as red as his nose. He says hello, and finishes cutting off a rare red hunk and slips it into his mouth. Chew, doctor, chew, thinks I. He doesn’t look at me again. That night Connie shows up in the parking lot. So soon after the abortion, I can’t believe it. Maybe she never took the procedure. I ask her. She says she did, that it wasn’t so drastic. I tell her the process gave birth to a giant porterhouse.

I know Jingle knows about us. She must smell it. What wife wouldn’t? What husband wouldn’t, roles reversed? I feel like a toad, exposed, ugly, toxic. But I can’t stop. I’m too weak. I need everything. I ask for nothing. I do anything. Connie suggests we go to the coast for a long weekend. The idea is thrilling. She’ll bring her lingerie. We’ll wander among the tidal pools. We’ll get stoned on wine and lie naked in bed all day, and she’ll pop sweet grapes in my mouth. Dionysis is her god. I’ve never known a woman so Dionysian. We make the plans and I tremble with anticipation. It will be so delicious. I’m ready, but the time comes and I can’t do it, can’t defend myself at home behind a whole weekend of transparent lies.

Someone is tightening wing-nuts on the bolts that hold my head together. I am disappointing Connie. She doesn’t deserve it. I’m living with Jingle in a zone of betrayal, and she doesn’t deserve that. I stand Connie up, don’t even call her. I hide in my office and try not to think about the ecstatic moments I’m missing. I stay home with Jingle and the kids, and that feels comfortable, watching the rain, endless Oregon rain. Later that week I go to Connie’s apartment and walk in as usual. I don’t see her but I know she’s there. I try the bathroom door. It’s locked. She’s hiding in the bathroom. I knock on the door, pause, knock on it again and again. “Go away,” she finally says. “I just want to talk,” I say. “Apologize, I mean.” “Go away. I don’t care. Just go away.”

After what seems like hours she finally comes out of the bathroom. She looks totally unwelcoming and tired. I can’t think of anything to say. We have nothing to say to each other. I should leave, but I don’t. She fucks me in the kitchen, just to get rid me — on the stove, against the fridge, slipping across the table. We are finished, exhausted. We stand half undressed in the kitchen, looking at each other like strangers. We have nothing to say. An ambulance siren rips through the distance, probably headed for St. Mary’s hospital, where both my kids were born. I leave without a word. There are no more words. It’s over.

WHACKS THE CHICK

Trust never the three-year old. I was three once. That was when I held a chick in my hands. It was yellow and fluffy, and we both got very excited. This was at the Hardens in the Catskills. Hardens was a black farm family that in the summer rented room and board to some New Yorkers. I still have the buzz on the flypaper and the thick perfume of their dining room’s greasy air tucked into my memory. The memory would waft out whenever I ate at the Pink Teacup soul food café on Bleecker Street, or on my occasional trips to the South — whiffs of ham hocks and grits, greens in bacon grease, fatty ribs, chicken, black-eyed peas cooked endlessly on crusty griddles on old greasy gas stoves. And I can doze off to the leisurely death buzz of flies that stick to amber spirals of flypaper swaying everywhere as the ceiling fans stirred hot breezes in the dining room.

The chick was hot and throbbing in my hands, almost too warm, too pleasing to restrain. I knew what I was doing. I took this chick by its feet and stepped up onto a wooden crate next to the rain barrel under the eaves of the barn. I heard the chickens scratching and clucking as they ran loose around the yard. The mama hen, mother of this one, called her other chicks to peck where she scratched. Occasionally a rooster crowed. I had to find out what would happen. It was not without a small thrill of cruelty that I settled the chick into the water, and watched it struggle. The little critter quickly drowned. I was excited by this, confused, inebriated.

For my mom I invented a devious story, about how this little boy needed to find out if the chick could swim, or maybe it was a duck. Although I didn’t know the word, I represented it as an experiment. It was my first try at fiction, but it failed. My mother was totally embarrassed, had to apologize profusely to the Hardens, had to pay for a whole chicken. She never even scolded me, but I felt her displeasure, and suffered my first experience of guilt, that involuntary self-indulgence, repugnant and cloying as a tablespoon of blackstrap. I had to live with my shame for the rest of that vacation, which goes on forever. But there was also the thrill, the first taste of power for a small person, of having made a little death that caused a stir in commerce of the big people.

There should be some credibility given to the experiments of three-year-olds. I tried a chick in a rain-barrel and learned it couldn’t swim. It drowned instead. That gave me my first taste of megalomaniacal ecstasy, which was one of my first reasons for becoming a novelist. Literary characters resemble chickens; you can kill them for your sport. Fry them if they want to roost in the trees. They may have minds of their own, but you have all the weapons. It is a good thing there be this profession of novelist. It should be supported, for no other reason than it serves as a diversion for minor megalomaniacs. Keep them at their desks.

WHAT HANNAH KNOWS

In contradiction to what I’ve said elsewhere in these Memoirrhoids, about the difficulty of writing from recent memory, because the stuff hasn’t had time to ripen and take on a shape, I offer the following that happened only a few weeks before this writing. Nikolai and Genevieve visited, with my three year old granddaughter. They came from New York to Cape Breton, where I owned some land, and had built a small cottage. I was in love with this Nova Scotia island, particularly with the western shore, where my place sat close to some cliffs above the beach. In 1971, when we visited Phil Glass and Rudy Wurlitzer, who had bought a large fishing camp here, a former tax write-off for some Rockefellers exploring for oil, I became obsessed with getting my own piece of land here. I had no money, but was determined to grab some acres somehow. Where else, I reasoned, could I get a piece of coast so gorgeous for less than the price of a used pick-up truck? We found ten acres by the shore, and in the next summer we cut a trail through the woods, cleared a space for a tent, and camped. We cut poles out of the woods, stripped them, and a couple of summers later packed in a large tipi. We spent many summers here living wild.

Guiding a small boat up and down the coast, we scavenged driftwood boards from the beaches and built a cookshack and a table. Each of my sons nailed together his own shelter — Nik a tower, Rafael an A-frame, and Avrum, later, a tent platform. It was the perfect place for me to get to get friendly with my kids in the summers after my wife and I separated. After a few years I put a road down, and with the help of John Ashby designed on napkins a small house over coffee at Albert’s on the corner. It got built over several years. I loved the people and the traditional music, the whales, and the easy-going Cape Breton ways. When summer came around I couldn’t go anywhere but Cape Breton. I did a lot of my writing there, producing my books from an old table by the window, looking at the ocean and at Margaree Island.

Selling the place for me was like selling a piece of my body. It was part of my identity for many years. My hope was to have great reunions there of family and friends, but my people’s lives took directions that kept them far away. It became too costly for my sons to pack their families to Cape Breton. They would show up only very occasionally. The precious solitude I always enjoyed slowly morphed into loneliness. Loneliness is to forsake, to forget yourself. Nikolai and his family showed up in my last year there for a four day visit. It was gratifying to see Genevieve, who cuts herself a taxing schedule of job, school, and child-rearing, melt into a more relaxed mode, and to see Nik get a bit of New York City grit out of his pores. Hannah, three years old, was quite a charming, if bossy little girl. It was great to watch her slowly become aware of where she was, and what pleasure wilderness and beach yielded. By the end of four days she was running around in an ecstasy of waves and wind and rocks and shells. She was already famous for a remark she had made getting out of a pool in Hampton Bays, where she was swimming with her father. She caught a glimpse of him naked, the first time she’d ever seen him uncovered. “Poppa,” she said. “You’d better cover that up before it gets worse.” On the day they were to leave she was relaxed and happy. She ran around the table after lunch and stopped by my chair. “Grandpa,” she said. “I know who you are.” She looked at me out of her three year old wisdom. “Who am I, Hannah?” I felt a thrill, talking directly and openly to this smart, self-assured child. “You’re Steve Katz,” she said, totally sure she was right. That was, to say the least, reassuring.

Thank you, Hannah, wherever you are whenever you read this, if you do read it some time. Thank you. I needed that reassurance.

WHEEL ME OUT

We’ve been reading César Vallejo’s Trilce, translated by Clayton Eshle-man. Our group is made up of faculty and graduate students in Creative Writing from local universities. Some Denver residents show up occasionally with a relaxed interest in poetry. All of us write poetry. I am the oldest scribbler in the bunch and enjoy reading Vallejo with people who appreciate the taste of poetry.

The translator is visiting the Naropa writing program in Boulder and agrees to come to Denver to talk about his translation. Thinking about Vallejo is a totally enriching puzzlement. Clayton spends his whole time with us on the first of the poems in the sequence. It starts, “What’s making all that racket…?” We enjoyed adding ourselves to the noise. The Eshleman visit is a neat culmination to our weeks of tussling with Vallejo.

After Eshleman leaves I approach two of the MFA graduate students, in their mid twenties, and remark, “Doesn’t Eshleman look like Edward G. Robinson?” Their expressions are totally blank. They both are culturally engaged, smart young people. I like them both. “Who is Edward G. Robinson?” is their simultaneous response. The dissonance hits me like a giant powder puff. I fall into a geriatric swoon. How can anyone have grown up in the USA, under the great tent of Hollywood movies, and not have heard of Edward G. Robinson — Little Caesar, Double Indemnity, Key Largo, etc. etc? These movies were even somewhat before my time, yet I know them. He was a contemporary of Vallejo, born in the same year.

I tell this story to the woman who hosts these events. She’s a professor at CU in Boulder, where I taught Creative Writing, and a terrific poet herself. The grad students were her students. When I mention Edward G. Robinson she goes blank. “Who is Edward G. Robinson?” I want to holler, but I don’t because it would wake up the kids, “He was an icon of the silver screen. He was big as Bogart, Gable, Bette Davis. But maybe they haven’t even heard of them. Stoke the fires, I think. Wheel out the gurney. I’m ready for the crematorium.

If Edward G. Robinson has disappeared from the scans of these twenty-first century youth, what chance has my work to be remembered five minutes after I hit the exit lane? What chance has fifty years of my writing got to be remembered? Edward G. Robinson inscribed his image across the screens of several generations of moviegoers. He played gangsters often, but was one of the most gentle and cultured of the Hollywood greats. Wheel me out. How will my work invoke even a sputter of recognition? Wheel me out!

WHEN CHINA TALKS

B.H. is always ready for a course of minor mischief. So as I’m employed to write a screenplay on the Hollywood fringe he suggests a wily intervention. The project belongs to Leo Garen, an off-off Broadway director from New York. He’s making his first (and last) film. We’re writing it together. This is my first screenplay, and the only one that will ever get made. China is the character in question. She is modeled on a real life China whom Leo married during the reign of Owsley acid, after a passionate encounter in a large closet at Billy Hitchcock’s Millbrook estate. The marriage lasted two long weeks. Her character earned its place in his movie — an icy blonde á la Alfred Hitchcock. She rides an Indian kidney buster bike across the prairie in 1919, with a motley quartet of dudes that make up this Ur bike gang at the center of the movie. It’s like a prequel to The Wild Ones.

My attempts at dialogue for China don’t please Leo. “She didn’t say ‘oooh,’ Steve, not ‘ooooh’ when you fucked her. She was mean. She came from money.” We can’t say “fuck” in a script, though that might help, but not for Twentieth Century Fox. Leo’s narrow view because he held the real China in mind makes my job almost impossible.

B.H. Friedman tries to come to my rescue with a wicked idea. He is a friend of the actual China, knows her from Millbrook and elsewhere. He suggests that he call her, and that we meet, and he will try to get her to say the lines I wrote. She doesn’t have many lines, but they are important to the script.

B.H. hasn’t seen her for a while, and is surprised that she has remarried into the Republican Party, to one of the hidden power brokers, whose name I never got. They have spawned a little girl whom China named China Jr. When B.H. calls her she tells him they are on their way to catch a flight to Gstaad in Switzerland, but B.H. persuades her to meet with us before boarding, at TWA in JFK. He gives no reason for the meeting. Lunch maybe seems possible.

The TWA terminal is the international jet set staging ground, an architectural wonder, a tour de force by Eero Saarinen. We hook up on the balcony at a restaurant table. She is everything Leo described — blonde, trim, self-assured, used to luxury but open to adventure, pretty face carved out of stone, blue eyes opaque. I wouldn’t resist jumping into a large closet for a fling with her. An au pair is in charge of China Jr. The husband in his Armani pinstripe with rep tie knot loosened slightly for comfort on the first class flight, polished black loafers on his feet, hovers impatiently at the bar and eyes us with suspicion. B.H. descended from a successful business career into the art world as a novelist, biographer, art collector, and always looks casually elegant. I am scruffier and bearded and must look suspicious to the husband, like someone of little consequence, maybe even a hippy.

As slick as B.H. is, he can’t get real China to say script China’s lines, whatever they are. She senses something weird going on. That she is a character in the script has to be left unsaid. She has no fond memories of Leo Garen. After a while conversation stops. She doesn’t say anything. We stare into our empty oyster shells. The husband comes over. “Okay. That’s all folks. Gotta catch a plane.” He signals to a man behind him whom I notice for the first time shadowing as part of the entourage. The man approaches. “This is Bobby. Bobby used to work for Bobby Kennedy.” (It’s been about a year since the assassination.) “That’s why we call him Bobby.” I suppose he was the amanuensis of this fat cat. The husband makes a gesture with his chin, and Bobby takes out his wallet and starts to lay some money on the table. The husband grabs his hand. “That’s your wallet, Bobby. It’s not heavy enough to cover this. Where’s my wallet?” Bobby pulls a thicker wallet out of his jacket. “Just checking,” says the husband, and he winks at me. The wink makes me shudder. I know I’ve seen that look on Bobby’s face somewhere else. China’s husband pulls a money clip from the wallet and lays a hundred dollar bill on the table. The entourage takes off, without saying goodbye.

B.H. apologizes for not getting the job done. “That was good enough. It was great,” I said. “I learned a lot. What a crew.”

I suddenly remembered where I’d seen the look on Bobby’s face before, so plundered and blank. It was in Lecce, when we lived in southern Italy, on the faces of the women that La Signora Foti had enslaved as maids. Maybe this wasn’t quite as hopeless. At least he had his own wallet.

WHITECAPS

The wind comes up suddenly and rips whitecaps off the heavy swells. In our thirteen-foot aluminum boat Nik and I fight to keep the old Evin-rude from stalling out. We are returning from a mission along the beaches of the Western shore of Cape Breton island from Mabou to Whale Cove, a scavenge for driftwood boards to use in our projects. Nik is twelve. He is building a tower. I am not yet forty, and building a driftwood studio. Our thirteen foot aluminum boat is loaded to the gunwales with boards. The prize is a sixteen-foot plank that Nik particularly covets. It hangs way out over the bow.

We head back to our camp against the tidal current, and the 12 1/2 horsepower outboard frets the load, can’t keep the bow headed into the waves. We barely move against the current, and ship a lot of water. As fast as we can bail the water rises faster. A flash passes between us. This could be the end. We could be some drowning statistics, an article on page six of the Halifax Chronicle-Herald. Father and Son Drown Off Inverness. Two Americans in a small boat….” Suddenly I recognize the reason we are shipping water is that each time we head into a wave a lot of ocean comes down Nik’s plank. “We have to get rid of these boards,” I say. “No” says Nikolai, who has visualized where each of the boards will fit onto his tower. “We could drown,” I say. Nik gives in and starts to toss all the boards into the waves. The little Evinrude roars with relief, and heaves us home, the boat draining water through its bilge hole. When we get a couple of breakers away from our beach we cut the motor and let the waves drive us onto the sand. One look back at the whips of froth and we know we are lucky to have made it.

We don’t lose anything. All the abandoned boards, including Nik’s prize plank, wash up near our camp. Nik finishes his eighteen-foot tower in a couple of summers, and looks down on all the rest of us. By the time it’s complete he has grown enough so he has to build an extension of the sleeping chamber at the top to accommodate feet and ankles and keep them dry. It’s no surprise that Nik makes his living now as an architect. As for my studio, since I have to defer to Nik on the quality lumber, I build out of shortest scraps of board. I pound twelve poles into the ground, and make an eleven sided studio, with window openings, no glass, but fitted with lobster box covers, that lift and close with a sexy pulley system tied by rope we unknot from clumps we find on the beach. I make a Dutch door; build in a desk, a bumpy platform for the required writer’s naps, and an unstable driftwood stool on which I balance as I write. It looks like St. Francis’s hut in the wilderness. I’m sure it is the only eleven-sided driftwood writing studio on the island of Cape Breton.

WOMAN WITH FRUIT

The woman holds an orange. She takes it from a pocket in her shoulder bag, and lifts it in front of herself, ready to peel. When she looks up she sees that the people of the island have formed a semi-circle to surround her, and are closing in. Her face is crossed by disbelief and fear. What do they want? They want the orange.

The small boat left us all on one of the smallest of the more than forty floating islands where the Uros people live on Lake Titicaca. This was a “tourist site” imprinted on my mind’s itinerary when I planned on going to Peru — Lake Titicaca, reed boats, floating islands. Like a good tourist I was debating, on the way to the island, whether or not to buy one of the gorgeous ceremonial masks on sale at a souvenir store near the wharf. They were big, fearsome white faces with green eyes, black teeth, red lips, all delicately painted, the whole mask surrounded by a ring of colorful small masks attached with wire, like a mandala of demons. It looked almost Tibetan. I never bought one. I figured that traveling rough as I was doing with my son, I’d never get it back intact.

We took the cheapest possible tour, without a tour guide. The shallow draft boat skimmed the shoals at the Puno end of the lake, shallow and full of reeds that could bung up the propellor. These were totora reeds that the Uros bound together to build their islands and their boats. The boatman dropped us off and promised to come back in a couple of hours. He left us to be greeted by the island population. The Uros are advertised as poor people who would try to sell you small models of their reed boats or their reed huts. The only structure on this island is a tiny frame Seventh Day Adventist church. The people are not only poor, but many of them are sick, faces and bodies covered with lesions, bones bent from scurvy. At one time the Uros knew how to cultivate a variety of crops and had a varied diet. Somewhere along the line they lost the agricultural skills. Now they get little Vitamin C. That’s why they covet the woman’s orange. She probably doesn’t know that, or is too frightened to recognize it. All she has to do is toss them the orange and they will leave her alone. They close in. She backs up.

It happens very fast. Before the other tourists can step in somehow, or tell her to give up the fruit, the people back her onto the unstable, loosely woven reeds where they make their latrine. She falls through, and now the native people look scared, as they form a chain and pull her out covered in their muck.

One story goes that the Uros were banished by the Inca to live on the lake because they were dirty, ugly, and stupid. The original Uros were supposed to be other than human. It is told that they had black blood. They developed a rich agriculture, an ingenious ability to survive under difficult conditions. Some of them moved to the mainland, and interbred with the red-blooded Aymala and Quechua peoples. There are no purebred Uros left. Although the Peruvian government has tried to move everyone off the islands from time to time, the culture of island dwellers persists. Now they are encouraged as a strong tourist attraction. I don’t know what the Adventists do for them, but making sure they have vitamin C would help. We are with them for more than two hours before the boat comes to take us back to Puno. These are the longest hours of tourism I have ever spent. Perhaps the scene is better on the more upscale tourist junkets, on the bigger islands. This somewhat dampened in me the desire to be a tourist in the third world, where no matter how poor you travel you are always the one who holds the orange.

WORKING LONGCHAMPS

Either spend some of the $1400 we saved to get me to Italy, or buy the pair of Morandi still-lifes I have fallen for in a gallery on 57th Street. Giorgio Morandi is a seemingly timid though uncompromising artist who spent much of his life in Bologna living with his mother. He occasionally makes landscapes, but mostly there are these undulant myopic still lifes of bottles, cups, plates, that waver as if seen through wavy old or rain-drenched glass. These are small canvases with a gorgeous, quiet palette — luminous grays, ochre, pinks, pale blues. The way he sees turns tabletop solidity into an ephemeral dissolve. Stuff is caught passing out of existence. I appreciate that my understanding of materiality changes as I look at these gentle works. His vision is a great antidote to the more brash statements of modernity from Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Leger, Gorky, Mondrian, et. al. I can take the pair away for $1100.

I have hitched from Winnemucca, Nevada, intent on continuing to Italy, on a mission to see the Tribute Money by Masaccio in the Brancacci Chapel at the Chiesa del Carmine in Florence. The Italian names mean almost nothing to me yet, but I studied a reproduction of the fresco in a book of Italian Renaissance painting, and have taken an obsession with the potent figures, the dramatic space of it. Jingle drove me to the edge of Winnemucca and let me out on the road. She came by at noon to find my thumb still in the wind. Two-year-old Avrum leaned towards me in the jump seat, looking worried. He was losing his dad. I felt terrible. She slipped me a chicken salad sandwich, and said she would check back at six. If I didn’t catch a ride by six, I decided, I would give up on Massaccio, maybe use the money we had saved to move us down to Mexico for a stint. I wonder in what direction that might have turned our lives. At around 5:30 a plump guy in an obese Chrysler pulled up to offer me a ride to Salt Lake. I was almost disappointed. After all, Mexico is a great alternative. He dropped me off in Salt Lake. I found some bushes and spent the night. I was on my way.

Through some union connections my uncle Duke gets me a job in New York waiting tables at Longchamps, a chain of somewhat upscale restaurants. I work at the one on Fifty-eighth and Madison with a wait-staff of old pros. One of them in his fifties, who wears a cheap black wig that often slips and bunches above his ear, sees that I am having some discomfort and offers sage advice. “Sonny boy,” he says. “This is a tough store. You got to climb those stairs from the kitchen. Trays get heavier as the shift gets later. I can see you sweat a lot; I mean, probably down there too you sweat right in the crack. Don’t get me wrong. It starts to burn. I know what it’s like. What you do is take a small ball of cotton and put it right there, right in the sphincter, to soak up the sweat. You’ll feel one hundred percent better. You’ll be nicer to your customers. It’s about the tips. That’s my advice to you.” No doctor has ever advised me better.

Jan Mitchell notices me. He’s a sleek, slim beached blonde. He owns Longchamps, and also Luchows, the famous celebrity restaurant on 14th Street. He’s gay, and discretely lecherous. Definitely he sets his sights on me and one evening suggests there might be an opening at Luchow’s. My family used to talk about that restaurant as if to eat there was to ascend Mount Olympus. Waiters make $300 to $400 a night in tips. Dollars are big at this time. Even the busboys come away with $250 or more. Work a few months there and I can buy the Morandis and head for The Tribute Money as well. The older waiters warn me about Mitchell’s motives. I finally lose my nerve, not because I’m afraid of those motives, but because of a failure, a lapse in my waiting skills.

I am assigned to run the late night café at the 58th Street Longchamps store. It stays open until 3 A.M. I love the hours. I love Manhattan in those hours before dawn. You can hear its pulse. I walk into the quiet streets after three, into the rain, into the hours of street sweepers and garbage trucks, a few late workers trudging home, some early workers yawning into their jobs. The pigeons coo on their ledges. I love to stop at some all night bar on 57th Street before going home. You never know who’ll be singing at the piano bar — Little Jimmy Smith, Esther Phillips, even Carmen McCrae. Someone always loves to sing for free, to sing till dawn.

I run this café myself. There is only one small Polish cook in the kitchen on this shift. He speaks little English. I handle everything well, proud of my service, until one morning after 2 A.M. Jack Paar comes in with a woman, one of his perennial guests, fresh from the Tonight Show. Their smiles are wide as a two-car garage. Here is my chance to be noticed by Jack Paar, I think. I have no idea what that will do for me. They order crepes. I dreaded that someone might order crepes. The crepes are a ritual, made at the table, with a bit of flourish. I never made them. I haven’t yet ever eaten crepes. Nobody briefed me on how to make them. I know where the crepe cart is. I think I know where the batter is cooling. I always expected that if there were an order I could find someone to do it, watch him at least the first time, and then I might learn. The cook shrugs his shoulders in Polish. I don’t know what to do. I light the flame under the shallow-domed crepe griddle, but then I freeze up. I have no idea what comes next. The place is empty, just me and Paar and Dagmar, whoever she is, the broad blonde that sits with him. I have totally lost my nerve. Time crawls towards 3. Paar and friend finally realize they will never get their crepes. They get up to leave and aren’t even angry. They leave me a small tip. What great New Yorkers. What I have done is what I haven’t done. How can such a wimpy waiter ever measure up to Luchows?

I bring in a poem I have written for Roy Lichtenstein to show the gallery owner. I explain my dilemma about the Morandis or travel. “You should show this to Roy. He’d love it.” That he is on a first name basis with the artist makes me tremble. I have become such a yokel living out of the city. That I can actually show the poem to someone I think of as an icon of contemporary art makes me almost sick. I never do it, alas. I ask the owner what he thinks about my dilemma. He says he knows which he would choose. I tell him I’m choosing to travel. For me seeing the Masaccio is huge. “So you’re setting out to have a wonderful life in the arts, of writing, of travel.” He straightens his knit tie, a slim, grey-haired man in an elegant dark blue silk suit. He probably occasionally eats at Luchows. He sounds almost jealous, jealous of my youth and freedom. I don’t tell him I have two kids and a pregnant wife. I enjoy my Byronesque moment.

Travel is what I choose, eventually hauling Jingle, seven months pregnant, and Avrum and Nikolai, to Italy after me. I never regret it. We have three great years, one in Lecce and then two in Verona. Rafael is born in Lecce. I have contrary thoughts much later, only when I see my two paintings at a Morandi retrospective at the Tate in London, and then again at The Guggenheim. I mumble to myself, I could have had those for $1100.

WRITING TOUSSAINT

When the Christian missionaries arrived en masse, Nicholas, the owner of the Mont Joli hotel, asked me to move me to the hotel’s cottage, just over the hill. It was spacious and luxurious, he told me. It was a perfect place to write. I would like it. Bip had arranged the accommodations, so it wasn’t on my dollar, and I didn’t feel I could object much; besides, I was curious about the cottage. Two college age girl missionaries, one rotund and lively, the other shapely and pretty, sat on the terrace checking out the young Haitian guys who worked around the pool. I was also curious to see how that might evolve. My new digs were over the hill through absolute darkness at night that was for me, new to Haiti, a bit scary.

The cottage was about 40 yards back from the water, and down the trail from a promontory that held a chateau half finished or half ruined they claimed was built for Napoleon’s mistress. I ate in the hotel dining room, where I could see that each of the young missionary women had selected her personal juicy Haitian boy to play with. To express his regret for having to displace me Nicholas took me on a jaunt in his jeep with a young Canadian couple into the jungle, onto a palm shaded peninsula he owned. It jutted into the Caribbean. This was glorious. I felt some guilt for not sticking to my writing schedule, but then I thought, “What the hell. Take a day off. This is Caribbean romance.” The unromantic aspect was that I was alone. The Canadian newlyweds disappeared behind a dune. Nicholas, who looked as much like a West Coast surfer as a Cape Haitïen hotel owner, explained that he wanted to develop time-share condos on this site. I thought, what a horrible idea. He shouted and waved at what looked like a village across the cove, and we heard someone shout back. Soon two men from the village paddled towards us in a dugout canoe. This was too exotic. This was like totally faux Africa. I was being paid to write a script. This was almost Hollywood. One of the men dove into the emerald water off the canoe brandishing a spear. He swam beneath the canoe, surfacing to breathe, then diving again, and again, finally spearing a big fish. According to Nicholas’s instructions the fishermen built a fire, let it burn down, and placed the fish, wrapped in banana leaves, on the coals. Nicholas left. With gestures the fishermen instructed me to turn the fish over at a certain point, then they paddled away.

I retreated to a palm tree. I hadn’t worn a hat nor brought sunglasses, so the sun was fixed on bake me as the embers bake the fish. The couple emerged from the dunes and looked at the fish cooking, then looked at me probably wondering what I was doing there alone. They said nothing, were flushed and rumpled from lovemaking and weren’t interested in eating fish. They disappeared again, in another direction, back into the dunes. I sat through the afternoon and picked at white flecks of what was maybe a snapper. I thought, “This is a tropical paradise. I am having an unbelievably romantic adventure. I am having it alone. It makes me really lonesome. I wish I was back writing, or reading in the cottage.” Occasionally I heard squeals from the couple coupling. Now and then the breeze wafted a thick scent of tropical bloom, limey and sweet, to penetrate my mood. It made me nauseous. I picked at the fish and was anxious for Nicholas to return and take me back. This paradise blanketed with condos? Yes, a few jobs, but my nausea redoubled at the thought.

Often I lingered in the hotel dining room in the evening schmoozing with a missionary, or eavesdropping on the two young women with their Haitian swains. Then I crossed to my cottage in the darkness, in the warm night air. The atmosphere of Cape Haitïen in the twilight was spooky, especially after a couple of tokes. It was full of spirits wafting by on the woodsmoke. As many times as I made that walk, I never got used to it, especially in the darkness. Once at midday I passed a young woman sitting in an opening near the ocean. A little girl was brushing out her hair. A perfect beam of light focused on them through the clouds. I had a camera with me, and turned back to take her picture. “Stop,” she said. “If you want a picture you have to pay me.” I did pay her. The clouds swallowed the light. The picture turned out poorly. It was at twilight when I’d begin to feel a vague threatening. The rocks glowed white in the dwindling light, as if they were about to release their spirits. Nothing bad ever happened. There was really nothing to fear. Smell of woodsmoke lingered in the darkness. People materialized, it seemed, out of nowhere. Whites of eyes. White teeth. It was an effect I wanted to write into my script without its being corny or seeming racist. Just an image. Bon nuit, Monsieur Blanc. Bon nuit, Monsieur Blanc.

In the mornings I did tai chi forms on the small terrace in front of the cottage. That practice makes me feel more connected to a place, settles me into the gravity. Women passed all through the day with jugs of water on their heads, or baskets full of papaya, mango, banana, corrosol. They grabbed their baskets with both hands as they turned to look at me on their way over the hill. I wanted their posture and their grace to flow into my script. No matter how early I started my forms there were kids out there watching me. They had a lot of patience to sit through it but there wasn’t much other entertainment for them. One morning a young woman squatted on the edge of my terrace to watch me. She was very dark and very beautiful. Beauty often makes me stumble when my performance requires balance. When I finished she stood up and followed me to the door of my kitchen and looked in. After we exchanged smiles she stepped over the threshold. Donnes-moi une verre de l’eau glacé. It took me a moment to get what she was saying. The people were too poor to afford ice very often. She slid close to me and stroked my thigh. L’eau glacé. She touched my dick through my shorts. I turned to the fridge to fill a glass with ice and then finished filling it with bottled water. She unzipped my fly and took hold of my dick. I handed her the glass and she took it, but kept her grip on the penis, and she squeezed it lightly as she sipped the cold water. Soft hands, I thought. Then she went to her knees and took me in her mouth, chilled by the ice water. It was a cold shock, and thrilling. I trembled. What would this cost? And how many ways? This was morning, my best writing time. I was powerless, money my only strength. She tugged me into the next room offered herself sprawled on a chaise. Her pussy was lovely primrose pink against dark chocolate skin.

“Viens. Viens tu,” she beckoned, nodding her head from side to side. This was the darkest body I ever saw naked. This was like looking into a moonless night sky. I invoked constellations to emerge across the belly. Orion. Bootes. I thought how beautiful. I thought wife and kids. I thought disease. I thought I am a racist. I thought work on script. I thought how flesh how flesh. Who is this dark beautiful girl? From where comes my sadness, my confusion? The darkest skin I have ever looked at, and its primrose wound. I want the image in my script. And I didn’t touch her, and for many days I felt stupid, horny, and relieved.

One morning a whole classroom of kids arrived to watch me do my form. A powerful young man followed them, in a pale green sweatsuit. About twenty yards from where I was doing the form he started to practice karate kata. He looked very powerful and handsome and full of competitive juice. My tai chi was not about the kind of combative power he expressed. It was about centering, relaxation, meditation. I was surprised the kids could even tell it was a martial art. Did they bring their teacher in hopes that we would duke it out? The guy was powerful and limber. He could have mashed me. Did he actually come by because he hoped to spar? I knew some tai chi practitioners who might have taken him up on it. Not me. I backed into the cottage like a snail into its shell, and sat down at my table, and went back to work on what I was being paid to do — write a script. Some kind of Hollywood thing. Some kind of life of Toussaint Louverture Hollywood thing.

WRITING WRITING

In lands far away, in dark neighborhoods obliterated by time, when Ron Sukenick lived in a place he called California, and I in a different place I called New York, we met once or twice a year, near one or another of these locations to discuss the nature of the literary world, and try to figure our positions in it. Mostly I didn’t give a fuck. He often urged me to join him and do some critical writing to describe and defend our situation outside the mainstream. I could never devote myself to what he saw as an epic struggle between the ponderous old pachyderms of the establishment, slow, lifeless, and the swift nimble weasels of the guerrilla actions of our explorations. Wow! This rhetoric is exactly why I resist writing about writing. I always assumed that practice precedes theory, and that any attempt to explain it before I did it would stifle my process. And don’t get me wrong. I’ve always had absolutely the greatest ideas in the world. Believe me, immense thoughts waddle through my mind every minute. It’s to Ron’s great credit that he was able to conflate his theoretical writing and his fictional works almost seamlessly. His Narralogues are evidence of this. Both he and Ray Federman, who also did critical writing with ease, created their books, from the first to the last, as vehicles for continuous and supple monologues, like protoblogs. Rarely do they hide their own personae, but keep them talking in the foreground. I was never interested in that kind of project. I’ve wanted my work to spin stories, work my tellings in a field fertile with moral dissonance, twist the traditional narrative, explore the possibilities of language, edge towards chaos.

Though each book I’ve written raises its particular challenge, and each offers different possibilities, there are some issues that I face consistently. One lies in language itself, an enigma that confronts any writer when he tries to use it to express or describe. It never seems to do the job well enough. The subject always eludes the words you use to entrap it. It’s a blessed paradox. Inevitable failure keeps the writer working. We have to write it again, and again. And so Paul Valery tells us you can never finish a work, all you can do is abandon it.

That language can only scratch at the ineffable has made me confront another aspect of writing fiction that continually bugs me, and that is the presumption of narrator’s omniscience. I’ve done battle with that presumption in most of my works. As a literary artist I’ve tried to be a witness to my times, and to subject that witness to conscientious scrutiny. The language of fiction, and particularly the presumption of omniscience, creates a hierarchical relationship by which the reader, in his “willing suspension of disbelief” is more or less pleasantly oppressed. “It’s okay with me, dude, just tell me the rest of the story.” A post-modern cliché, established in reaction to this configuration, is the convention of self-reflexivity, where the writer “exposes” his inadequacies, and his problems writing the narrative. Here the ironies get thick as pine pitch. The writer asks for the indulgence of his readers, to understand his problems. In that way the author pretends to surrender omniscience, and opens the way for the reader as an equal, or even as his superior, to participate and sympathize.

In The Exagggerations Of Peter Prince I explored this convention till the book flew out the door. The one aspect of that book that I haven’t seen elsewhere, and that no one has commented on, is its use of graphic elements. These work against the narrative illusion by hoisting the reader’s attention to the surface of the page, reminding that this is printed on paper, this is an object, a book. No magic window here. For instance, when the narrative breaks into columns, and a hand pointing to the left column replaces the name of Peter Prince in the right column, it calls attention to the paginess of the page. Not only is the text self-reflexive, but the book itself toggles between illusionary narrative space and printed surface.

My ambition was democratic, to create a vulnerable narrator without losing the juice of the story, the excitement of the page. No whining. I’ve wanted to encourage the reader to enjoy participating with the author, to enjoy paying a kind of attention other than surrender. One excursion into self-reflexivity was enough for me. The unreliable narrator seems a weak option, because there is always the assumption in such an approach that someone who knows everything lurks at the keyboard. I’ve wanted the reader to enjoy the imperfect expression of the world the writer is forced to deliver, for the pleasure and beauty of its imperfection. It’s the mysterious duende that holds inutterable the ravish of literature. This seemed to me at least a hedge against fanaticism. Language poets offered an interesting option, to foreground language with its whizzy clatter, its plumpy delights, its misdirection and surprises. But I love story too much, and can’t get enthusiastic about taking my bath without water. Oulipo shows another direction. I’ve occasionally taken their lead, to create restraints, and I’ve seen how chains can create a peculiar freedom and exhilaration. But I can’t wait too long in the foxhole I dig for myself. I’ve been nurtured too long on jazz, and want to improvise with every chord change. This enforcement of restraint creates a muscle beach of writers, punishing themselves into brightness. Harry Mathews, the brilliant American member of Oulipo, is way too tall for me. I have to stand on a Brillo box to communicate, and even then I look up to him.

One aspect of the vulnerability of the narrator in Moving Parts is expressed by the author’s trying to live the details of a fantastic story, after the story has been invented and told. That was risky, scary to do. This book too referred to itself more as a book than as a window on a world described, juking with the moves of investigative reporting and documentation. There are turns of this exploration in Creamy & Delicious, Stolen Stories, and Saw. In the first book of my threesome, Wier & Pouce, Florry of Washington Heights, and Swanny’s Ways, I play with an obviously dominant authorial presence. I write each of the sections as if it is from a different book. In Florry, then, I write one of the books implied in Wier & Pouce. I write Swanny’s Ways with a narrative presence persistently disappearing. The narrator is elusive, the ground slips away. I try to see how far I can push the book towards chaos, without losing the narrative tang.

That’s as far as I’ll go to explain. I feel like I work in a way that my times and material demand. I can’t do what I need to within conventions of American realism. We have to question narrative conventions just like we have to challenge our moral and political position in the world. Change comes through changing the rules of the game. American power and the wealth of our ruling class makes us totally grotesque, naïve, and evil in a world that is mostly impoverished around us. As artists we can help ourselves understand how we have to change only if we keep busting through the bullshit.

There! Some simplistic thoughts about my process. Where is Ron when I need him? Off in some muted borough of the dead. Ahime, what the fuck, managgia la miseria. As a poet said, “You just go on nerve. … when I get lofty enough I stop thinking, and that’s when refreshment arrives.” I don’t know all of what that means, but it’s somehow reassuring. If I never write again, may my language be one wheel on the gurney moving our civilization into the shades.

WYLIE

While I had the apartment on Morton Street he was living in a store front around the corner on Cornelia Street. He was one of those people that puzzled me at the time, living with no visible means of support, like Michael Brownstein, like Kathy Acker, who later became Wylie’s client. That job free lifestyle confused me at first. How did they get along? Where did their next meals come from? I had a family to feed. I always had to go to a job. It usually kept me wondering until I began to understand the idea of trust funds in the background. Some of my best friends had trust funds. That easy money takes some of the pressure off, makes it easier to focus on the art or whatever. A little trust fund, or family wealth, would surely have kept me from having to teach for a living. That might have been a good thing. Maybe not.

I hung out with Andrew Wylie a couple of times in his storefront. He and Victor Bockris were collaborating on a biography of William Burroughs. That was a great idea, I thought. He was small, lanky and vulpine, had a peckish look about him. He wasn’t friendly, nor unfriendly. I wasn’t moved to pursue his company. I can’t remember anything I saw about him that made me think he would eventually be able to close lucrative book deals for third stream writers like Kathy Acker and William Burroughs.

When I left the Georges Borchardt agency and was briefly looking around for someone else to represent my work, Andrew Wylie’s agency looked tasty to me. Since I first knew him he had become the most powerful agent in the trade. On the literary street he is called “the jackal,” his practices totally unscrupulous. He was famous, for instance, for stealing agent representation of Martin Amis from the wife of Amis’s best friend. Borchardt waded in a plethora of scruples, always a gentleman, conducting business with grace, savvy, and honesty tempered by cunning. When I first joined the Borchardt agency it was thrilling to be on a list with Samuel Beckett, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Marguerite Duras, others. Jane Fonda. As it became clear that he wasn’t going to sell much of my work my visits to his office became more unsettling. I was never comfortable mixing my art with business. As I approached the offices on 57th Street I was overcome by a wistful paranoia, a velvet-lined fear. These were my pearly gates, and the agents were lieutenants of St. Peter. Was it yes? Was it no? Do I go back and sit on the stoop and wait? It was always best if I took a shit before the meeting. If I didn’t I would inevitably need to shit in the middle of the talk. “Don’t be angry,” Georges said kindly, as I tucked my stack of manuscripts under my arm. “I’ve always felt bad that I haven’t been able to sell much of your work.”

Then I thought it might be invigorating to see what unprincipled representation might do for my work. It might be good to start cold, I thought, cheering myself up. This could be a new beginning, with a rogue, a pirate at the helm. Wylie did have a great list, from Kobo Abe to Robert Wilson. He represented a huge team of writers I admired. He even had John Barth whose name on the list of the agent, Lurton Blassingame, made me go with that agency early on in my publishing history.

I wrote him a letter, reminding him of our acquaintance on Morton and Cornelia Streets, back in the good old days. I told him what I was doing, named my books for him. In a few weeks I got back a form letter from his offices, explaining that they are a small agency and have room only for a limited number of authors. I had miscalculated. Maybe I should have been friendlier years before. No. I finally realized that if he had been interested in selling my work he would have come after me and taken me away from Borchardt years before. He would have sneaked in and got me if he thought he could sell the work. So there I was, once again, in familiar territory. I finished out of the money.

YOUNG ARTIST FINDS HIS JOINT

Edith was the first spinster I had ever met, a genuine old maid who helped Alfred Partridge’s aged mother several times a week. She was thin, sallow faced, with bluish lips, a woman crooked into her fifties, who wore grey smocks with faded flowers. She rarely lifted her eyes to look at me, even when I spoke to her. It’s tough to imagine that this person, hardly present, could have had such an effect on me. I was young, on my way to college, Agriculture school at Cornell, Pre-Vet. Alfred Partridge was my farmer. I was a New York State farm cadet.

When I got to Alfred’s farm from New York City, I was a hopeless case of New York City boy. The Farm Cadet bureau manager who delivered me to Alfred felt my hands and said, “Soft. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to see how they toughen up.” Alfred, a craggy faced, grey-eyed, even-tempered man, body bent into strength by hard work, immediately ordered me to jump onto a wagon of green hay and start pitching it into the loader that carried it up and dropped it down the silo. This was the first time I’d ever touched, or even seen, a pitchfork. I could figure out which end was the fork, so I gripped the long handle in the middle and sank the tines into the hay at my feet, pushing down with my sneaker, as if it was a shovel. I’d used a shovel before. I tried to lift. Nothing. No hay on the fork. I sank the fork again; again, no result. I was sweating like a little city pig. I had signed up for this work because of the requirement of the Ag school at Cornell, that city kids get farm practice, two or three credits maybe for pitching hay. The initiation was required for entry into the vet school too. At the time I wanted to study veterinary medicine as the lesser of several evils. I sure didn’t want to be a dentist, my mother’s ambition for me. Doctor was out of the question. Veterinarian seemed feasible, though the only pets my family ever kept were one white, one black and white rat, Eleanor and Franklin, raised by my sister for some abstruse fringe of the war effort.

After watching me struggle for what seemed like hours, Alfred finally approached, and said softly, “You can’t lift the same hay that you stand on, son.” I looked down at the pitchfork sunk into the green near my sneakers, and enlightenment struck. That was why the handle of the pitchfork was so long. This was the most profound teaching I had ever received. To this day, when I am hung up on something, I pause and listen to Alfred’s voice. “You can’t lift the same hay you stand on.” Within a short time I had moved the whole wagonload of green hay into the silo.

After that I got on great on this rocky hillside, Northern Catskill farm. Alfred milked Jersey cows, because they were nimble grazers on difficult land, because they produced what he thought was the best product, milk with butterfat pushing six percent, and Jerseys are the prettiest cows; in fact, I had a crush on one heifer, a tawny brown lovely with a black, dished face, named Jingle. She would greet me in the evening before chores, and lick my hand. It’s a strange coincidence that the woman I married out of college was nicknamed Jingle; Pat for real, family name Bell.

But we have to return to the spectral Edith, moving silently through doorways, keeping to your peripheral vision, so you were never sure if someone had passed by, or if you’d felt a ghost. She had no smell. She was like an empty wind.

I was learning old-fashioned skills, that would get me few farm practice credits; but I enjoyed them. I learned to harness and hitch a team of horses — Patsy, a Belgian, and Olaf, a Percheron. I could load a wagon of loose hay as well, Alfred said, as anyone he had ever seen. I helped him pour a new barn floor. I was good with the stock. Alfred and I got along really well. On his mantle he had a model of an ideal Jersey cow, and he liked to explain the fine points. He was an advocate for the small farm as a way of life, and I felt honored when he offered to give me forty acres above on his hillside, and four heifers (I don’t think Jingle was included) if I would give up the idea of school and commit to farming. I had never had such an affirmation before, and I was flattered and confused. I was young. This was an honor. I was sorely tempted to accept what would have been the oblivion of a small New York State farm.

What Edith did shocked me into focus. One morning in the bathroom, as I was attaching a roll of toilet paper to the roller, I slipped, and it fell into the toilet bowl. I retrieved it, half soaked, and laid it on the sink, then snuck out to the barn for chores. Then we climbed the hillside, to find a yearling black bull, and drive it down to the barn. Alfred loved Jerseys with a lot of black in them. I feared the bull, but this one was too young yet to get cranky. To my shock and humiliation, Edith had strung the toilet paper out along the clothesline. At least fifty feet of clothesline expressed the passionate frugality of this intense maiden. That someone might do this had never entered my mind. After dinner I squatted with my back against the barn across the road and watched the paper dry. A tender breeze rustled it slightly. The sweet smell of fresh hay and manure surrounded me. This was like the script of Edith’s convictions, her commitment to Alfred and his mother, written along the line between myself and the house. For some reason I could see my own life too, all my work that lay in the future, encrypted along that line of paper. I was a writer. I would always be one. I looked out across the road at the clothesline, the paper, the farm-house, the fenced hayfield backed against the rocky hillside where my forty acres might be, the sky deep evening blue with small cumulus scudding. I didn’t have to make up my mind, it was written there. I had to refuse Alfred’s offer.

Edith came out from around the back of the house and carefully rolled up the dry paper. She glanced at me once across the road and, as best as I can remember, this was the only time she ever smiled at me.

YOUR PANTS

This car had been Hitler’s promise to the German people. Here was his “chicken in every pot.” It was a cunning design. The rear window was tiny. The turn signals were cute illuminated arms that flipped out of the doorposts to point left or right. This was the people’s wagon, one of the earliest VW bugs. I bought it on 55th Street and Broadway at the only VW dealership in New York City. It was my senior year at Cornell. The salesman was Mickey Shea. He was a phenomenon, always making three deals at once on three different telephones. This little bug cost me around $960 new. Filling stations around the Borscht belt sometimes refused to sell gas to Hitler’s car. I had to stop out of sight, fill a can at the station, pour it into the tank, and go a few more miles. In the high plains we were a curiosity. People stopped to check it out. This was no Studebaker, no Nash Metropolitan.

We had pulled into a town just east of The Little Bighorns. From here I saw my first range of western mountains. They were way too great for my east coast Manhattan Catskill state of mind. No Poconos these. They were too vast for the car I was driving. I couldn’t imagine the tiny air-cooled engine pushing us up the steep curves and through the country where Custer had met his destiny.

Before the interstates you hopped from town to town to cross the USA. That’s how we got over the endless Midwest in this tiny, noisy car. Each town was alive. Each provided some shelter by a river or lake, and fresh water, and bathroom facilities, and bushes where we could unroll our sleeping bags and pass the night in relative privacy. It had rained a half hour before we stopped and the air was laden with whiffs of sage and chaparral and juniper and pinon. The aromas of this arid land made me drunk. I had never felt before what it was like to be present in such an immense landscape. Was I really going to cross those massive mountains in this miniature automobile?

This wasn’t a problem for Jingle, who was a Western girl from Winnemucca, Nevada. Pat Bell, hence Jingle. We met in our freshman year at Cornell, riding opposite each other on the Lehigh Valley Railroad from Ithaca to New York City. I was going back to Washington Heights for Spring break, and she was on the way to visit aunt, uncle, and cousins on Long Island. We had great conversation and then ignored each other for the next three years, but I was always aware of this pretty young woman, sculpture major, who headed up a group called YASNY (you ain’t seen nothing yet), and built an eighteen foot dragon for the senior prom. No one had ever seen anything like it. It was a great dragon, that created a great atmosphere, for the greatest prom, and one of the last. Our marriage was almost secret, at a justice of the peace at the end of our senior year. Now we were on our way to present our union to her parents. I had never met them. I had never been west of Ithaca before.

We rose out of the bushes the next morning and I looked to the mountains that seemed more enormous gilded red-gold by the dawn. We stretched, aired our sleeping bags, rinsed our faces in the cold creek, and looked for breakfast. Over bacon, eggs and toast at the little diner I could sense that something was wrong. Jingle, usually upbeat and ready to go in the mornings, seemed very unhappy. I was loath to inquire. This was the first time I had ever been close to a woman, and it was very mysterious to me. Mystery is a good thing, but mystery can be confusing.

“Something is wrong,” I finally said. “What?”

“Nothing. No problem.” Her face never hid her feelings.

“Come on, Jingle. I can see something is bothering you.”

She looked at me, her eyes tearing, and then turned towards the mountains out the window. She was embarrassed to say it. “It’s those pants, your shorts.”

On this trip I’d been wearing a loose and nerdy pair of Bermuda shorts I’d picked up at a Salvation Army store. They were comfortable for driving, and I’d been doing all the driving.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“I can’t introduce you to my parents in those.”

Her parents had in my mind a mythical presence. Her father prospected and mined for gold at their claims on Buckskin Mountain. Her mother, originally from Brooklyn, was an early feminist who appreciated, indeed expected, macho men.

“Well what? What should I wear?”

“You should have jeans. That’s what men wear, low around their hips.” Jingle never had raised any fashion issues before, for herself or me. She was an incredibly capable seamstress who had already made me a couple of western shirts, without even using a pattern. She had never before had a fashion fit.

“Okay.” It made no difference to me. I got into my jeans. They weren’t as comfortable for driving. We were a day and a half from Winnemucca. Jingle cheered up. In those jeans, driving the popular car of the Third Reich, Steve and his happy wife crossed The Little Bighorns. They rode into Nevada. They rose up the dirt switchbacks to the cabins on the mining claims. It was Buckskin Mountain. They got out of the little car. It settled onto the Nevada mountainside like an odd button of mining equipment. There Steve met Forrest Bell, his wife Marian, Woody, Jingle’s brother, a real buckaroo and professional rodeo cowboy. He was wearing jeans. They were slung low on his hips.

In fourteen years of marriage, and subsequent years of strong friendship and mutual parenthood, that was the only time fashion and taste ever became an issue. Since then we’ve been free to be comfortable in all situations, for any encounter.

137.035999679(94)/FEYNMAN 084(51)

0: for Wendy Rogers once I wrote “The Wendy Rogers At A Glance Dance,” and she performed the dance so terrifically, and tried to keep in touch with me, but I was too confused tangled in an inappropriate, unhappy marriage, I didn’t… if only…

..3: Peter Campus, video artist, photographer, wanted to make videos of myself reading some “Mythologies” from my Creamy and Delicious. They would have been great. They could have been shown at Castelli. I should have… Why didn’t…?

…5: Random House came up with a terrific jacket design for Creamy and Delicious, that would have attracted notice on the shelf, but I rejected it in favor of my own bland idea, which didn’t work, just to assert my dominance over the project. That was my…

….9: grace to be born and live as variously as possible, except next time a better education, some richer understanding of what I am doing, and the gift of playing music…

…..9: so San Francisco again and I wonder again why I never ended up living here. It’s probably because…

……9: and even now embarrassed that it took me so long to realize that the pretty woman who sat down to flirt with me at the cafe near Termini in Rome was actually an Aussie guy. Big hairy hands should…

…….6: that once in Provincetown I had dinner with Robert Mother-well at B.H.’s, and Motherwell said all the interesting modern minds in the arts were painters, no interesting modern writers. I should have flown my Beckett up his nose, mummied him in Thomas Mann, stuffed his pants with Edward Dahlberg. But I kept my mouth shut, as I too often do when I hear stupid…

……..7: I believed the witchy woman I danced with at a loft party for Donald Judd in 1971 when she told me I would be famous, but late in life. It’s almost too late. When…

……..9: My oldest son has just now begun to pay back the 30 grand I lent him a decade ago to buy the land on which he now farms. He works hard. I love what he’s doing. It gives his kids the privilege of mud and goats, but this confirms the universal advice not to lend big sums within the family. It inevitably creates bitterness, and the lender becomes the villain for wanting the money back. I would love to give up my feelings, but they persist. His wife does acts of kindness, particularly for my ex who functions only vaguely in the present world. The daughter-in-law was raised an upper middle class girl who feels entitled to any money that comes within her purview. She has the fiduciary heart of a neocon. If only I…

………(94) too long before I really understood that the world won’t bend to my predispositions, but skillful means can make…

Feynman……084(51) I’m sorry. Forgive my presumptu…

INADEQUATE THEMATIC INDEX

compiled by Ted Pelton

Art & Artists

Clarence Schmidt; Clark of it; Drowning Kids; Forrest Bell; How Bilbao; Massacio and Me; Name Dropping; Poles; Preface:137.n; Rencine; Starting Artist; Stove; T-Shirt with Pete Dean; The Champ; Working Longchamps

Family

Birth/Bris/Theft; Busting Pots; Bypass; Chipmunk Man; Chungking Mansions; Claire; Critters; Dad; Drowning Kids; Eating Dog/Talking Turkey; Fifteen and Texting; First Supper; Forrest Bell; G’Ma Dies Again; Gallileo & Tot; High Train; If Milk; Luna di Miele; Mom Dies; My Speed; Oxygen; Ozark to Avrum; Patriot; People’s Republic; RIP; South Corn Street; Stream; Sunday Morning in the Afternoon; Trap Tourists; Us in Texas; Wan Don; Whacks the Chick; What Hannah Knows; Whitecaps

The Movies

Crow-Dog; Drowning Kids; Grassland; Hey Suicide; Name Dropping; Stove; Toussaint’s Turf; Wheel Me Out; When China Talks; Writing Toussaint

Music & Musicians

Babbadoodoo; Dubble Bubble; In India; Inflamed at the Y; Kathakali; Name Dropping; Reich; Skirt; Starting Artist; Stove

New York City

Big Flub; Caffeine; Crosby Street; Dubble Bubble, First Book; First Supper; G’Ma Dies Again; Gallileo & Tot; If Milk; Inflamed at the Y; Jewboy; Linebacker; Lost Paradise; Mom Dies; Morton Street; My Bridge; My Speed; Nicotine; Our Bomb; Patriot; PIIF; Preface:137.n; Publishing Uptown; Science Plus; Skirt; Snows of Yesteryear; Starting Artist; Sunday Morning in the Afternoon; The Champ; The Volley; Working Longchamps; Wylie

Spirituality

Almost Moves; Crow-Dog; Kathakali; Look Out Look In; Out of Mind; Poles; Septua-Dude; Sex + Diplomacy; Shattari

Travel & the World

Almost Moves; Arunchala; Belgrade Whoops; Birth Bris Theft; Chungking Mansions; Darmstadt Without Spargel; Dispatch from a Water Tower; Dresden Resurrection; Eating Dog/Talking Turkey; Eating Out; Goats and Krauts; Gunga Din; Hammam; How Bilbao; In India; Istanbul; Jerusalem; Jewtown; Kathakali; Loutro; Martha and Megaliths; Massacio and Me; Our Rockefeller; Oxygen; Preface; People’s Republic; Rencine; Slave Husbandry; Snake Alley; Some Ports of Call; Stowaway; Then Nicaragua; Toussaint’s Turf; Trap Tourists; Vatican Hotty; Vonneguts; Woman with Fruit; Working Longchamps; Writing Toussaint

The West

Almost Moves; Chipmunk Man; Critters; Crow-Dog: Death on Layaway; Fifteen and Texting; Forrest Bell; Getting Up; High Train; Jewboy; Licks; Noogy; Out of Mind; Ozark to Avrum; Paul; Sex + Diplomacy; Us in Texas; Wan Don; Your Pants

Writing & Writers

As Bobby Goes; AWP Amp; Baxter; Big Flub; Buffalo Dreamy; Burroughs vs. Williams; Coda; Cornell Swan Song; Crack of Dorn; Dad; First Book; Gossip Smudge; How Do; Imagery Aggie; Jewboy; Look Out Look In; Luna di Miele; Martha and Megaliths; Morton Street; My Bad; My Nabokov; Name Dropping; Notre Dame; Now and Then; People’s Republic; PIIF; Publishing Uptown; Rabbit Wind; Science Plus; Starting Artist; The Berryman Blot; Then Nicaragua; Tonkin Toddle; Vonneguts; Whacks the Chick; Wheel Me Out; Writing Writing; Wylie; Young Artist Finds His Joint

Content

Katz Steve The Compleat Memoirrhoids: 137.n

ALMOST MOVES

ARUNACHALA

AS BOBBY GOES

AWP AMP

BABBADOODOO

BAXTER

BELGRADE WHOOPS

BIG FLUB

BIRTH; BRIS; THEFT

BUFFALO DREAMY

BURROUGHS VS. WILLIAMS

BUSTING POTS

BYPASS

CAFFEINE

CHIPMUNK MAN

CHUNGKING MANSIONS

CLAIRE

CLARENCE SCHMIDT

CLARK OF IT

CODA

CORNELL SWAN SONG

CRACK OF DORN

CRITTERS

CROSBY STREET

CROW-DOG

DAD

DARMSTADT WITHOUT SPARGEL

DEATH ON LAYAWAY

DISPATCH FROM A WATER TOWER

DRESDEN RESURRECTION

DROWNING KIDS

DUBBLE BUBBLE

EATING DOG / TALKING TURKEY

EATING OUT

FARM IT

FIFTEEN AND TEXTING

FIRST BOOK

FIRST SUPPER

FORREST BELL

G’MA DIES AGAIN

GALILEO & TOT

GETTING UP

GOATS & KRAUTS

GOSSIP SMUDGE

GRASSLAND

GUNGA DIN

HAMMAM

HEY SUICIDE

HIGH TRAIN

HOW BILBAO

HOW DO

IF MILK

IMAGERY AGGIE

IN INDIA

INFLAMED AT THE Y

INGREDIENTS NOW

ISTANBUL

JERUSALEM

JEWBOY

JEWTOWN

KATHAKALI

LICKS

LINEBACKER

LINNE

LIONEL FREQUENTLY

LOOK OUT LOOK IN

LOST PARADISE

LOUTRO

LUNA DI MIELE

MARTHA AND MEGALITHS

MASACCIO AND ME

MOM DIES

MORTON STREET

MY BAD

MY BRIDGE

MY NABOKOV

MY SPEED

NAME DROPPING

NICOTINE

NOOGY

NOTRE DAME

NO AND THEN

OUR BOMB

OUR ROCKEFELLER

OUT OF MIND

OXYGEN

OZARK TO AVRUM

PATRIOT

PAUL

PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC

PIIF

POLES

PREFACE: 137.N

PUBLISHING UPTOWN

RABBIT WIND

REICH

RENCINE

RIP

SCIENCE PLUS

SEPTUA-DUDE

SEX + DIPLOMACY

SHATTARI

SKIRT

SLAVE HUSBANDRY

SNAKE ALLEY

SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR

SOME PORTS OF CALL

SOUTH CORN STREET

STARTING ARTIST

STOVE

STOWAWAY

STREAM

SUNDAY MORNING IN THE AFTERNOON

T-SHIRT WITH PETE DEAN

THE BERRYMAN BLOT

THE CHAMP

THE VOLLEY

THEN NICARAGUA

TONKIN TODDLE

TOUSSAINT’S TURF

TRAP TOURISTS

US IN TEXAS

VATICAN HOTTY

VONNEGUTS

WAN DON

WHACKS THE CHICK

WHAT HANNAH KNOWS

WHEEL ME OUT

WHEN CHINA TALKS

WHITECAPS

WOMAN WITH FRUIT

WORKING LONGCHAMPS

WRITING TOUSSAINT

WRITING WRITING

WYLIE

YOUNG ARTIST FINDS HIS JOINT

YOUR PANTS

137.035999679(94)/FEYNMAN 084(51)

INADEQUATE THEMATIC INDEX