story from a while back

This is the story of Joe Altenburg, of who we know very little. He is a man, lost among the sea of men, and moving about them lost in his own way, subsumed in his mere ability to think as he can, and confused, as the most of us are, or would be, or could be, if we thought enough or didn't think enough.

His alarm went off at six, as it did every morning without fail. Spring was coming on, through the Venetian blinds. He had the blinds closed, because it always seemed as if there was too much light coming through the windows when he was trying to sleep. The sky was mostly cloudy lately, and he looked up at it from time to time, when he took the time to open the blinds. The clock was a blue GE model built in a square shape and antique desing. It must have been about twenty years old because he got it from an old pawn shop for five dollars, and the thing was quite dependable, although its clock radio only picked up AM, so he ended up listening to a whole lot of right wing sound announcers when he woke up. Somehow the clock alarm was timed so that it would turn on just when the news was going off, and today it had something to do with the election. At least it is not the weather, he thought to himself, because the weather had been quite terrible recently, with flooding, and intense cold, and just about everything else, it had seemed. Everything was spread out on his floor, and there was nothing separating his own body from the floor but a mattress. The floor was covered with a red carpet that gave the room a strangely bright and faded look. His books were spread out here and there, and clothes were here and there, piled on the dresser, and piled underneath piles of other clothes.

The first thing that Joe did every morning, upon coming into his conscious mind, was to take one step over to the wall socket, and plug in the white cord that connected to the lamp on the table, so that he could see what he was doing. Sometimes the cord would get caught on something, or the lamp would be turned off at the base, and this would lead to more lurching in the dark. Finally he got it turned on, and then turned back to his bed to look for his glasses, which were usually right off the bed by the side but there were a number of different locations where they could be at different times. They had silver rims, and round frames, and held up well for a number of years, and would hopefully hold up for several more, he thought to himself, with some anxiety. A few days before he had woken up to find one of the lenses to have fallen from the rim, and he had to put it back in again. That was always the first sign that they were starting to go, that the lenses would start to fall out and become loose in the frames. He had bought them over three years ago from an optician in Berkeley with a little black mustache who had said that they looked great, compared with the monstrosities that he had worn before that.

Everything was quiet at this time of the morning, and the air smelled clean and fresh, and there was an aura of tranquility and acceptability about that time of the morning. As he put on his clothing, a sense of the wonder of the sense of things came to him and he looked at himself from space looking down onto the oceans and continents, and there he was, in his room putting on his clothes. "Today I will think of the unity of the way of things, and the universal sense in the part of the actual course of my own activities," he thought to himself, and put on his jacket. "Every action has its significance or insignificance, for in the long view of things, in the infinite course of time, there is no significant actiion or worthy or unworthy goal, or any thing at all but the forces of man struggling in the here and now, the thrashing about. The drift of things..." he went on and on and on, and went down the stairway to the kitchen, and there was the espresso maker, hexagonal, sitting on the stove, and also the coffee pot, and the pan from last night, and the rice cooker with the light on.

There was a scratching at the door. It was Fred, the old cat, who knew when Joe got up, and knew that if he was lucky he could get some attention. But Joe went down to the basement to get his clothes from the dryer, and then back up to the kitchen to sit and wait for the time to be right for him to leave. He never left the house until 6:38, because any earlier and there would be a long wait, and any later and he might miss the bus. He went over to the freezer and cut off a slice of bread and put it in the toaster, and waited for it to heat, still in kind of a daze from the morning. There was a copy of Whitman on the table and he flipped it open and started to read..."did you think these were the words, these lines, dots, swirls, these are not words.....the substantial words are in me, in you." he read slowly.

He took out his key and opened and closed his door on the way out, and the cat stood there looking for him. "Bye cat, I have to go and make some money." he said. The trees were starting to look greener and the sun was making weird patterns over the north hills. His feet pattered on the ground, feeling the pavement carefully through the soles. His pack was light on his back, and the morning was unusually warm, as if the day would certainly be warm. The bus pulled up at the curb and he got on, and recognized most of the people on the bus, including the driver. The lady in front of the seat where he was sitting was talking about macaroni and cheese. "She uses some kind of fancy pants recipe and she puts it in the oven and it turns out quite well" she was saying. "My husband doesn't have a fancy job like yours does." she was saying to the girl beside her. Joe got off downtown and crossed the street to the bus stop where he had to wait for the bus to take him to Beaverton. It wasn't long in coming. There were a bunch of people standing and waiting around already, waiting for the same bus. The cafe in the office building near the stop was crowded and it seemed like it might be nice to go in and have a bit to eat, but there was no time. The bus pulled up, and there they were, having to get on for sure, because it only ran once every thirty minutes, and by that time he would be late for work. He recognized everybody on this bus well, because it ran every day, and it took about twenty minutes to get tohis job, ....

what the heck is going on?

I often ask myself that question when I look or try to look too far into ways that aren't productive or possible for me to figure out, so I usually end up just sticking to the program and trying to screen out the negativity and all around messed up to beyond all belief nature of the question being what in the heck I was wondering of speaking of, but decided I didn't care anyway,


So back to just enjoying the weather and stuff I like doing and keep things to the positive level here.


I think somehow I can't avoid trouble, for some reason.  At least we have this musical gig coming up.  I don't know what the heck I'm doing tomorrow though.  Maybe just the usual, or more of the usual, and maybe something healthy to eat instead of my usual unhealthy diet, or go for a walk.  I sure hope the weather gets a little less cold.  People are funny and unusual and the world seems incredibly messed up really, which is bizarre because I thought I liked the way this town was, but there goes to show that I'm clueless.  Maybe I'd rather stay that way, not that I care anyway.

The point being, I should go back and listen to Obscured By Clouds, the whole album, at least once or twice .....

What the fuck happened to our trailer park?

eating pizza at Blondie's was a big reason to walk down telegraph.  They sold (maybe still do) a lot of slices.  Good pizza.

So, beyond that Telegraph: it had some good coffee shops, populated by students much like myself.  (I didn't start drinking coffee until age 25, but that's another story.)  So, yeah, great bookstore, Cody's books, sold new books, and then the next door shop, Moe's, had five floors of books.  Then there were Shakespeare's, one other cool one, then Shambhala books.    Not that that means much.  Then there was your classic head shop, AnnaPurna.  Couple record stores, ....lots of food.  Yeah, sounds pretty good.  Well, it was easy living because I lived in a dorm and just had to go to class and try to learn stuff, much of which was interesting.  I got my grade ten.
The other thing about Berkeley and Oakland is that, when I was there most, 89-91, walking up Telegraph from Oakland...or is it Shattuck?...was quite a walk, and you'd just be walking gradually uphill .....
nice walk.  the air's worse and the sun is brighter, so it is a trade off.  between Oregon, I mean.

poem nineteen, sonnets to orpheus

Though the world change as fast
as cloud-shapes manifold,
all things perfected at last
fall back to the very old.

Past flux and vicissitude,
more freely and higher,
still endures your prelude,
god with the lyre.

We do not understand
grief, nor love's phases,
and what death keeps concealed

is not unveiled.
Only song through the land
hallows and praises
-Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus

Beginning My Studies

BEGINNING my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion

The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,

The first step I saw awed me and pleas'd me so much,

I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,

But stop and loiter all the time..

-whitman

steeply sloping hour

My life is not this steeply sloping hour,
in which you see me hurrying.
Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree;
I am only one of my many voices,
and at that, the one that will be still the soonest.

I am the rest between two notes,
which are somehow always in discord
because Death's note wants to climb over,
but in the dark interval, reconciled,
they stay there trembling.
               And the song goes on, beautiful.

-Rilke

Expostulation and reply

Why, william, on that old grey stone,
thus for the length of half a day,
why, william, sit you thus alone,
and dream your time away?

"Where are your books?..that light bequeathed
To beings else forlorn and blind.
Up! and drink the spirit breathed
from dead men to their kind.

You look round on your Mother Earth,
as if she for no purpose bore you,
as if you were her first born birth
and none had lived before you!

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake
when life was sweet, i knew not why,
to me my good friend Matthew spake,
and thus I made reply,

The eye-it cannot choose but see;
we cannot bid the ear be still,
our bodies feel, where'er they be,
against or with our will.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers
which of themselves our minds impress;
that we can feed this mind of ours
in a wise passiveness.

Think you, 'mid all the mighty sum
of things for ever speaking,
that nothing of itself will come,
but we must still be seeking?

-Then ask not wherefore, here, alone
conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
and dream my time away.
--wordsworth

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Lean out the window,
    Goldenhair,
I heard you singing,
    A merry air.

My book was closed;
   I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
   On the floor.

I have left my book,
   I have left my room,
For I heard you singing,
   Through the gloom,

Singing and singing
   A merry air.
Lean out the window,
   Goldenhair.

(why the last word above is appearing larger than the others, I don't know)



 

this picture is of the sink at the New Morning Bakery, my workplace for years and years, washing dishes.

She asked a dime of me

I wrote this long ago, probably late nineties.  altered it slightly



She asked a dime of me
I could not reach my pocket
She asked me for the time
I could not raise my arm
She turned to go, I thought to smile
but could not change my face
I finally reached, it seemed to me,
quite a sorry place.

 keep rewriting this, but the idea's the same

I have an idea of living out in some small valley in the coast range, surrounded by the beauty of nature, living simply, doing a lot of gardening, and living in proximity to many friends. I would have a place with a wood floor to teach yoga, tai chi, kempo, karate, aikido, if the instructor is good. Me and anyone who wanted to would play music or do art.
People would stop by from far-off places, and there would be great discussions in rooms fueled by wood fires, and mellow parties with music on special occasions, but music would be happening all of the time, as would art of all kinds. We would all be living in close proximity, so we could bicycle or walk everywhere. This would be in a valley in the coast range, and would not be any sort of cult, because people would live there voluntarily, and there would be no conflict with the laws and policies of the local government, for the most part. Those of us that wanted to spend a lot of time gardening could do so. Privacy and space would be respected, but there would be a constant social environment with good conversation and good things happening, to take part in or not, and hopefully some good writing would result from it. Sort of like the next step up from the famous parties at Ken Kesey's place in La Honda that Jerry Garcia and the Dead attended. It would be a similar beautiful environment, but a step forward from the drugs and chaos of the past, to an environment where we could talk about the kind of world this should be. And safer in terms of keeping control of excessive drug use, in some way.
I know there are such hippies hiding out in the coast range already (definitely know that now!), but maybe we could take it to the next level, beyond where it is now. Many people live out there at peace with themselves and surrounded by beauty, but in my mind, the interactions of people living there and people visiting can have a real effect on the course of events and negotiations in the real world of wars and politics.
I always hoped to live in a place where good social interactions occurred on a daily basis.
This type of thing already happens every year in the form of the Oregon Country Fair, but I was thinking of a permanent community with many visitors and no sense of stress...and much time to live in a quiet way in tune with nature. Quiet would be a big part of it. I’d like to live in a quiet place and work on gardening more than now.

Tell me if you want to be untagged, but it seems like a good idea, right?

Good discussions would be nice. It's like that Henry James story where he and certain people greet each other and acknowledge that they were both at a place, hosted by somebody, where great, or substantive in some way, discussions took place. Collin's the only guy who remembers those Berkeley days, but those days weren't all great, that's for sure.

Here's a little aside about yoga and karate:
Doing a lot more yoga would be great. It's a very important aspect, in that it sorts out the connections and strengths in the body, and yoga people understand those ideas and go beyond what we know in karate, because although we stretch, most of the class is movement, some of it fast. Still, doing the forms in karate is, like tai chi, meditation in movement, or they can be done that way. People are put off karate because they see strength and anger and fighting, but in our style it's affectionate anger. We always shake hands after a

Highland Reaper  (mostly but not all borrowed from a Wordsworth poem.  However, some of the words are based on my experiences, that's for sure)

v1

   C                F           

behold her, single in the field, 

   C                 G

scattered highland reaper,,

  c               F

alone she cuts and binds the grain

 g          C

and sings a melacholy strain

v2

will no one tell me what she sings

perhaps of plaintive far off things

or some more humbe pain

which may be or be again

chorus

dm              em               

she wears a coat of blue

f                  g

oh too deep,  oh too true

dm              em

 f                 g

more than I can find    

V3

F C 

she sang her song as it had no ending

as when she cut and binds the grain

and I listened motionless and still

as the song came through the hills

V4

when I think over those days

through the earth’s fire and flame

the music echoing tthrough the trees

and the song came through the hills

The Song the Idiot Sings

They don’t bother about me.  They let me be.

They say, “Nothing can happen.”

That’s good.

Nothing can happen.  It all comes and wheels 

steadily around the Holy Ghost,

always around that same Ghost (you know)-

that’s good.

No, of course not, one mustn’t think any danger

could come in that way.

Of course the blood exists.

Blood is the heaviest.  Blood is heavy

Sometimes I think I’ve had too much.

(That’s good.)

Oh, isn’t that a wonderful ball!

round and red as nothing at all.

Good things that you created it.

But will it come if you call?

How strangely this whole thing behaves,

into each other driving, out of each other swimming,

friendly, a touch uncertain.

That’s good.

   

Keats

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still, 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

Had not yet lost those starrry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn

highland reaper

The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,	5
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands	10
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas	15
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:	20
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang	25
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,	30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more. I used parts of this poem and wrote a new song based on it recently.  Here it is: Highland Reaper v1    C                F            behold her, single in the field,     C                 G scattered highland reaper,,   c               F alone she cuts and binds the grain  g          C and sings a melacholy strain v2 will no one tell me what she sings perhaps of plaintive far off things or some more humble pain which may be or be again chorus dm              em                she wears a coat of blue f                  g oh too deep,  oh too true dm              em  f                 g more than I can find     V3 F C  she sang her song as it had no ending as when she cut and binds the grain and I listened motionless and still as the song came through the hills V4 when I think over those days through the earth’s fire and flame the music echoing tthrough the trees and the song came through the hills It's gonna be a huge hit.  (well, that would actually be a drag because I'd get accosted by fans....)

a copse in winter

Shades tho yere leafless save the bramble spear

Whose weather beaten leaves of purple stain

In hardy stubbornness cling all the year

To their old thorns till spring buds new again

Shades still I love ye better then the plain

For here I find the earliest flowers that blow

While on the bear blea bank does yet remain

Old winter traces little heaps of snow

Beneath your ashen roots primroses grow

From dead grass tufts and matted moss once more

Sweet beds of vi’lets dare again be seen

In their deep purple pride and sweet displayd

The crow flowers creeping from the naked green

Adds early beautys to thy sheltering shade

-john clare

another day coming up

It is early in the morning.  Maybe I should go for a walk.  I guess I could walk down to sheris...get a coffee..

I think I will do that.

mi corazón, por pablo neruda

mi corazón, es tarde y sin orillas,
el día, come un pobre mantel puesto a secar
oscila rodeado de seres y extensión,
de cada ser viviente hay algo en la atmosféra,
mirando mucho el aire parecerían mendigos,
abogados, bandidos, carteros, costureras,
un poco de cada oficio, un resto humillado,
quiere trabajar su parte en nuestro interior,
yo busco desde antaño, yo examino sin arrogancia,
conquistado, sin dudo, por lo vespertino.

My heart, it is late and without shores,
day, like a poor tablecloth put to dry,
sways, surrounded by beings and extent,
there is something from every living being in the atmosphere,
lawyers, bandits, mailmen, seamstresses,
and a little of each occupation, a humbled remnant
wants to perform its own work within us.
I have been searching for a long time, I examine in all modesty.
ovecome, without doubt, by evening.
-pablo neruda, ....un hombre chileano\

another day

the refrigerator sits full of juices in the corner
the wooden chairs gleam in the light
the sober reflections of mentalist ways through our changes
the birds sit down, and the cats fly across the grass
We all feel as if they are stand up men somewhere, editing themselves
the houses sink down in the moonlight.
it's the winter, the edge of things, the changing light
it's all dark in the head, we would have thought, and we change
somnabulent criticism, edited detail, and the marks of honor
we come home through the breezes
we tell black women to stop staring, they start yelling
we slice through the edges of our emotions and the edges of actions
the fast energy of a mentality, cutting through the conscious,
the reality of positivity, guitarists with sweet lyrics,
all the emotion, all the energy, all our ambition
suddenly gone through cookie-cutter lights.
-chris farrell

patsy and other poems by me...

Some words on Patsy

Patsy Todd was born in Compton, California, on August 3, 1929.  She moved to Oregon in ’37 during the depression, picked fruit, and her father bought a farm and sold it in ’47, moved to the coast, built a motel, called the “Miles Motel”, went to Chemeketa, learned to weld, worked at Wade’s manufacturing plant.  Mother did rations, worked for a millionaire, the father building fences, mothing taking something, moved father out to St. Helens and rioting started.  Worked at Smokecraft in the ‘70’s, linen mills in Jefferson, talked about Burt Reynolds.  Smacked her because she liked Bob Hope, not Burt Reynolds.  Joined the union and quit, kind of fraudulent run in Salem, bring my grandchildren. Can’t see after wreck, living with man, worked in restaurant “Chilibowl”, early shift, met guy, snow started, guy came over, started the affair, died of a heartache.  Clarence came home smelling of gasoline, left, after six years

-Chris Farrell


The following are more poems that I wrote:


Down in Reno
some seedy hotel
two fat people
amused by a rubber dinosaur

was down at the circle k
a bum looking for a cup of coffee
grizzled and disturbed
had encountered an old black man with a cane
had been here and there with a backpack
learned an odd sort of kung-fu
demonstrated in the misty grass
needed a ribbon to tie back the hair
needed a sleeping bag on a cement floor
asked me for a dime later
walking around with an indian
lighting up cigarettes in Starbuck's.

grass outside waving in the wind
wood bench on the large porch
Ann coughing in her large hair
cars whizzing by
notes of hope and worry
and tunes of bruce and jerry
the fourth string in need of tightening
the module coming out in rapid haste
and more trouble and worry
and the thought of the ant
and the poke-weed and parturience
and limitless are the leaves
stiff or drooping in the fields
portraying a frightening eschatology
and sense of the smart-ass

When I am in my room
I see again
the thousand daffodils laughing in the wind
and think again
of her long hair and green eyes.

So, when it comes to locating the precise measure of things
and leading to a preoccupation with the word
of where all this came from
who are active and residing on an earthly level
as one who is a doubter by practice
and tends to by longing reach the other side
who keep such a disconnectedness
that it is impossible to know what is rational, as
the lady that goes on about airplanes
the smoke trails are giving her signals
by sign language she communicates with them
by sign language she is in touch;
to sullen doubter she says
"well, buck-o, what do you know?"
and with wanton excitement will explain
how they follow her around




On Mary's Peak the rain came down
out the foggy windows the huge trees
I drove out a side road
far hills covered with green
electric poles cutting down the hill
a little creek ran by
in which I washed my feet, and drank
blackberries and thimbleberries here and there
failing heavy force of that which remains...
unsaid, and yet pervades all things
from this eye of the world
nature and its quiet rain

thoughts and Neitzsche

Thinking of my life, and how it has been going the last three months or so...I've been pretty stressed, seeing things that I didn't like, seeing people that seemed dangerous around town, and did the impression I have match with reality?  I'm going to assume that it did.  I've met a lot of people, a lot of good people, or people that have good qualities, and that is in some kind of contrast with the nastier people in the world...but the fact is, does what is going on in my mind really correspond to the world and how it is?  I think it does, because I get feedback from real people, who value my judgements and observations, but maybe haven't gone through precisely what I have gone through.  On the other hand, I think a lot of people, older people, have gone through getting stressed out like me, from who knows what.  I don't want to go into the details, and it is hard to see what about me would appear that interesting.  I guess a quality of me that is pretty interesting is that, for one thing, I'm kind of in my own little world, and on my own schedule, and for another, I'm not really seemingly connected with an identifiable group of peers.  But I got to where I am through some painful processes, through trying hard to make it in the working world, through having to go into the mental hospital at various times...the first time being back in Berkeley, when nothing seemed to make sense, but I did have friends that cared what happened to me, and I appreciate that....and over the years, slowly gaining some self confidence, finding some groups outside karate..finding people that meant something to me, that also might have been having issues, and trying to make sense through the personalities, and through trying to do the right thing and get through the hard points, to get to a place that makes sense.
  And as of now, I theoretically need to go out and get a job.  I guess I will volunteer at stone soup again, and at the homeless drop-in center, because I'm familiar with those.  Somehow shelving books at the library doesn't appeal to me.  I went over to the co-op to try to see about volunteering, and I mentioned stone soup, and the lady seemed to get really agitated with me, like she was making some unfortunate assumptions about me just because I'm working in programs that help the homeless.  People making judgements about me who don't really know me are kind of annoying.  For one thing, I don't have much to feel guilty about, having tried hard my whole life to improve as a person.  And furthermore "ye who has no sin on his hands, cast the first stone" as bob weir said.
  It's good I have one roommate who seems to be doing well.  The other seems to be moving out.

Nietzsche, from "Thus Spake Zarathustra", "On Scholars": I am too hot and burned by my own thoughts, often it nearly takes my breath away.  Then I must go out into the open and away from all dusty rooms.  But they (scholars) sit cool in the cool shade: in everything they want to be mere spectators, and they beware of sitting where the suns burns on the steps....

I think of the above line when I think about why I'd rather do actual creative writing than try to write academic papers, or teach.  I never enjoyed teaching, whether it was trying to teach english, or karate,....that's about it ..but I seem to write stuff.

 

xiv-dickinson

I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I'm accustomed to him grown,--
He hurts a little, though.

I thought if I could only live
till that first shout got by
Not all the pianos in the woods
had power to mangle me.

I wished the grass would hurry,
So when 't was time to see,
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me.

.....the day is warm and I just got back from driving to Portland...I seem to have no tolerance for the traffic, or much interest in hanging out up there these days...and I feel dead from all the sitting in the car.  However, the day is peaceful and there's things to look forward to...

Story I wrote about visiting my brother in dc a few years ago

I stepped out of the taxi and into the rain, relieved to be moving after a day either sitting around or in traffic.  I had actually wanted to get out a block earlier, as the car was stuck in traffic, but the driver, an African that was driving me crazy with a long rambling dialogue to his wife in a language consisting of some English words that he would only describe as an "African dialect" or "pidgin", said that it was a very violent neighborhood and I should stay in the car, so since it was only another block to my brother's house, I acquiesced.
  I took a moment to admire the solid brick of the house that somehow gives that feeling of lasting sturdiness and a classic sense of history.  It reminded me of an elaborate painting of a building on the wall of a co-op I had lived in as a student.  Every brick was painted with painstaking detail.

  brick and mortar
  a sure and even hand

  Those rowhouses were build between 1890 and 1905, and were not in danger of falling down.  The door was an old deadbolt that I opened with a square key and carefully locked behind me.  Depositing my excess baggage, I headed out rapidly again down the street, bound for Dupont circle.  Many of the streets in DC run at a 45 degree angle, which makes for some very bizarre intersections.  I walked warily for a few blocks, and failed to detect much danger other than the traffic.  The street was quiet, and although the Howard University area was not much to look at, it was a calm street and things gradually improved as I walked.  North of Dupont was clearly a high rent area, and to the right the land rose slightly and looked as if it got even pricier.  I headed south and enjoyed the hustle of an uban district, but continued west toward Georgetown University.  I hardly know what to expect, but after crossing the parkway and admiring the trees wet with rain, the sidewalk turned to brick and the houses were beautiful.

  walking out in the dew
  the trees
  the drops of rain

  The university buldings were phenomenal, many looking European in age.  The library was a new and bland structure, and I had little hope of getting in, not being a student, but was admitted after showing a picture identification.  To my surprise, they did have a number of books in Japanese, so I went to look them up.  They were on a quiet floor, students sitting around with laptops.  An old card catalog was near the wall, but may have been there just for nostalgia.  The stacks were those kind that move when a button is pushed as a space-saving technique.  I keep imaging the headlines: "Scholar crushed to death by moving bookshelf", but I figured them out and after much hassle photocopied a couple of stories.  By that time I was starving and headed out of there eating a ham sandwich.  Flocks of students hung around outside on their cellphones, looking well-heeled and preppie.  I passed therough the commercial district again, but elected to head back to Dupont, where I figured there would be an older crowd in the cafes.  The light was dimming by the time I got to a cafe.  I ordered my coffee.
  I sat and read the paper, watching the busy people walking by.

  people on their cellphones
 
  The walk back involved a gourmet grocery store and a sideways street filled with cars and a man stumbling around on burgundy wine.
  The next day I came upon a nice little Japanese import store full of those amazing ceramics.  They had some of the strange and wonderful Japanese candies.  A book called "A Zen Wave", on Zen and Basho, contained a quote saying essentially that meditation can bring one to where anything can bring the joy of enlightenment, perhaps the "divinely superfluous beauty" mentioned by Robinson Jeffers.  There was a book of essays by R.H. Blythe, a scholar who wrote what is still the most amazing set of books on haiku.  I walked out of there and considered the day a success, having seen many things not seen in my everyday small town existence.
 
  a car passes by
  a foot reaches out
  the curb drops
  the foot lands

  I think we went out and saw some show by Sterolab after that, some French group that did not have a whole lot going for them.  I continued to have to endure the taxi driver who would not get off his phoen.

two poems...

I cannot live with you-
It would be life-
And life is over there-
behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to
Putting up
Our life-his porcelain
Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife
Quaint-or broke
A newer sevres pleases
Old ones crack..

I could not die-with you
For one must wait
To shut the Other's gaze down
You-could not

And I-could I stand by
And see you-freeze
Without my right of frost-
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise-with you,
Because your face...
would put out the sign..
that new grace..

Glow plain-and foreign
on my homesick Eye
Except that you than he
Shone closer by-

Wow, I don't understand half of Dickinson...and this poem in particular is tricky to figure out.  She's done some other great ones...many great ones.

Lean out the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.

My book was closed.
I read no more.
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.

I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.

Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.
--james joyce