Morning.
It’s Mother’s Day.
But my mind is on Sweep Optical long ago and the dirty street life I was introduced to. I remember Amy. Once I saw her treasure hunting on the RR tracks next to 1st Street as I drove by.
“Raising high the weak and lowly
Thanks be to You forever”
I dunno what to think. Christianity is a tremendous wish fulfillment. Today the order seems inverted to exalt the strong and proud. But which is right and which is upside down?
In my diary today I said that I tend to psychologize too much, in fact a lot of people do. There’s too much emphasis on subjectivity and morals, and trying to find meaning in events that satisfy our sense of justice. This is also philosophy and theology. But what if things don’t occur for human purposes, but our fortunes come to us quite randomly except for the action of material causes and effects? Again I mention the boy I knew in junior high school, Tim Olson, who was dxd with some blood disease and who afterwards avoided talking to anyone at school. Was there any reason to dramatize his little tragedy, or rather accept what had happened and work with the situation the best way possible?
For some reason it reminds me of As I Lay Dying. The family is traveling to Jefferson to bury their old grandmother. At one point in the narrative, they encounter a flood that sweeps away the coffin. The old patriarch just stands there saying, “Was ever a more misfortunate man,” while his sons scramble and work hard to control what is happening.
The scene is absurd but fairly realistic. Perhaps life is absurd from a perspective of theology and morality. Things simply happen to people without discrimination for their moral worthiness or whatever.
So, it’s probably futile for me to examine my life for reasons for my own tragedy. Once, I remember that Bill Clinton said something interesting about his broken ankle. He said it was an accident. Accidents happen to people. The simplicity of this statement made an impression on me.
Why is it that most people today try to pin moral significance on everything that happens in their lives, from Pollyanna to Stephen King? Or perhaps I was indoctrinated too hard for too long in the church.
Six thirty AM.
When it rains in spring, the flora turns fluorescent green, and everything outdoors glows green and gray. The guy who services my yards was here yesterday evening to mow. This reminded me of the previous guy, a Mexican named Juan; and from there I began to feel sad for friends I no longer see for whatever reasons. Part of it seems to be due to my sobriety, which can put some people off, feeling like it’s a silent criticism of their own style… I was just at the corner store where I felt tempted by the Kit Kat minis displayed by the front counter, and I actually bought them for five bucks. Lisa told me the price was fairly good for a convenience store. So I added those to the typical Snapples and doggie jerky and left out of the door. A little after six o’clock, it was already daylight. When I got to my house, I stood in my driveway to look at my maple tree: it was beautiful and healthy looking, fresh and a rich green. The lawn was electric green from the recent mowing, and behind the house, the oak was a lighter color than the maple. Then I went indoors and fed Aesop the jerky piece by piece. He knew exactly what to do with it.
Six forty.
The expected rain came. I put on a hooded rain jacket and marched off to the market amid the sound of bird calls while the light was enough to see by. If I wanted a spiritual beacon, I just can’t find one today. But belief in essences can also be scary. When you eliminate spooks, the fear goes away. This is like the long poem of Lucretius based on epicurean philosophy… The rain wasn’t heavy for my trip either way. I met with only one pedestrian coming home: he wore no rain gear at all; just a red long sleeve shirt, and his eyes were on the pavement. I hadn’t seen him until we nearly collided. The surprise gave me a start, but I recovered myself and kept on my way… Outside the chain link fence, the cement gets slippery when wet with rainwater, and this was where I was careful. My imagination saw a few things, just negative fantasies of being hit by a car or whatever. Sometimes the rain reminds me of my second grade teacher and the playground at Silver Lea. My perceptions were very clear as a child, and maybe why the teacher disliked me. My honest eyes didn’t sugarcoat anything, and I was in trouble when my perceptions found a voice. For this reason she thought I was socially challenged, and wrote up a nasty progress report to show my mother. She was the teacher who forced her whole class to sing for the talent show. I remember doing “Grand Old Flag” and other patriotic songs… While other kids could misbehave on the sly, I never got away with anything… I see my image in the rain and recollect rains many years ago. Some children are like mirrors for the truth yet they have no voice and no vote. They are seen and not heard.
Five thirty AM.
Soon the store will open and I’ll go get the daily things for Aesop, me, and Gloria. I don’t like being up when it’s still dark outside, and I feel a little tired. I have a package coming in the mail later today and another one next week to two weeks. I’m a bit impatient for the second package: I would’ve wanted it yesterday.
Six thirty AM.
At the store I ran into Scott the taxi driver. He’d come in to cash out his lottery tickets, as it appeared to me. He said he hadn’t seen me around very often so I said I don’t go to Springfield that much, and it depends on the route which service I get. Then he observed that he sees people all at once or not at all, as if they came in waves. Now I think of old friends who are absent, and it occurs to me that the thing that matters is not individual people but the spirit of the times that uses people as its agents. It’s an old romantic idea, though it’s more or less supported by sociology. It may sound backwards to say that ideas use us, yet it can explain why people come and go in and out of fashion. I think about my psychiatrist who retired fairly recently and other friends with similar opinions, and how I don’t see them anymore. You get onto a track and it determines the people you meet and see often, and it creates your own little reality. This is all you can know anyway, like the notion of “representation” in Schopenhauer: the world is my picture book. But how can we have romantic theories of life in an age of industry and information? Maybe some ideas are timeless after all. And maybe the ideas we hold rely upon necessity and their usefulness.
Nine o’clock.
Gloria comes in an hour. The weather is mostly cloudy though the sun is out. I just texted Damien about my front lawn, so I’m waiting for his reply. Yesterday the eclipse didn’t amount to much where I am. When Gloria arrives we’ll go to the grocery store and to Bi Mart for dog food. Life is just plain and ordinary to me right now, and I’m good with that. The less drama the better, and no spooks means no fear. It’s like what Lucretius wrote on the fear of death. He echoes Epicurus in saying that death is nothing to us. And this is the point that Christians refute so violently… Gloria called to say she had a plumbing disaster this morning and will be late for work. She’s leaving the house just now… I like to reminisce on a philosophy class I took in the fall of 88. I was young and everything seemed to go my way. I can see the instructor’s face as clearly as if it was yesterday. His name was Bill Holly and he was new on the faculty. It was before I got the news of my diagnosis, which shot down my pride and confidence forever, or at least mellowed me out. It makes you wonder if accidents are purposeful, or if everything works out for the best, as in Leibniz: all events predestined by an omniscient God who chooses the good because he can’t do otherwise. Or is that too convoluted to be believable?
Two o’clock.
But 88 happened ages ago.
Today with Gloria I’ve been to Bi Mart twice, the second time to make an exchange. I tried to replace an attachment screw to my front doorknob and picked the wrong size. But the important thing was seeing Sherri at the customer service counter. I asked her how it was going since the pharmacy was closed and she told me she missed it, particularly seeing the people who relied on Bi Mart pharmacy. Now they mostly don’t have reason to come. Sherri, Shawn, Scott, and Jeanine were all extremely nice and it was really good to see Sherri in customer service today. I also saw Kristen at a checkout register where I bought dog food cans. She sometimes works the home electronics department but that area has shrunk somewhat from its heyday. I remember going there to replace watch batteries, back when I owned a watch, an old Citizen quartz that mom gave me at my high school graduation very long ago. I hadn’t thought of it in quite a while. In fact I don’t often summon memories of my mother. I don’t have that wristwatch anymore and I don’t cling to souvenirs as much as I used to. Everything I want to know is stored in my head. And it’s a rather nice day in springtime, with sunshine from among huge billows of white clouds. A good day for remembering things and for appreciation of being alive. Aesop was very patient with Gloria’s workday and now we’re just coasting and chilling out till the next event comes along.
Quarter of five.
I haven’t seen the weather forecast for today. I plan to walk to the bank to sign some papers this morning that will put everything on the right track. It pays to communicate with people everywhere and be honest. Before I leave the house, I’ll call my sister for a few minutes… I just thought of Caliban in The Tempest, whose acquisition of language from Miranda enables him to curse. Caliban the missing link. Is he the voice of the animal kingdom? His mother was a witch and his father imponderable, and he smells like fish. Now I forget his fate by the end of the play, but Prospero sets Ariel free and drowns his book of spells. The image of Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess is like something from a dream to me. And the return to sanity after all the enchantment is a welcome thing… Daylight is supposed to come at seven. Maybe I’ll make a run to market to see Lisa very soon. And it’s Friday.
Seven twenty.
On my way home, a white van came towards me in the middle of my street and halted in front of me. I went around to the driver’s side and the window rolled down to show Jeff’s face. He told me about his Friday routine with his girlfriend: riding bikes up at Fern Ridge after morning donuts. I asked, “Where do you do that?” He said up at Fern Ridge. I pursued, “I mean, where did you get the donuts?” He told me Cal’s in the Riviera Center. And he said the management had changed recently from the Cambodian owners, but they still accept cash only. He’d been going there since 2001, he said. It was just kind of interesting to run into him this early morning; usually we don’t talk much together.
For once I’ve got too much stuff to report for today, so I have to speak more generally about my day. First of all, the weather today is fantastic. Gloria came at ten o’clock and she drove me to four different places. I should explain that now she’s doing five hours on Tuesdays and working one day a week to save gas money. My first stop was the bank, where I talked with Debbie for a half hour and she requested a new arrangement for me that should help my debt situation. From there we drove to the bottle drop, Carl’s Jr., and lastly Grocery Outlet. Afterwards, we came home and Gloria cleaned the bathrooms and vacuumed several rooms of the house and even changed my sheets. At two o’clock she called it a day. I felt more tired than she did and didn’t do as much. An hour later, however, I made a run to Community Market and paid cash for two Snapples and five chicken jerky treats for Aesop.
All in all, it was very nice to get away from Maxwell Road for a few hours. The least enchanting place was the bottle drop. But with the sunshine and everything, people really turned out today and the stimulation was good for me.
When I got the mail a while ago, I had a little package from Amazon. It was the CD I ordered Sunday: American Pie by Don McLean! It is such a classic of folk rock. It also has “Vincent” on it—
Starry starry night
Paint your pallet blue and gray
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
When no hope was left in sight
On that starry starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could’ve told you Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you
I must be a little punchy just now, and rather tired, because the song made me cry a bit.
So bye-bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Then good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing this’ll be the day that I die
And when you listen to “American Pie,” do you realize how many times he sings the chorus without resolving the key? He doesn’t do this till the very end of the song, on a G major chord. He keeps you waiting and waiting through the whole song to finally let you breathe.
Ten o’clock PM.
It was an okay day. In the middle of the afternoon I made a trip to the store in the pouring rain to get a Cherry Coke and something for Aesop. It was nice because I spoke with Kathy about nothing significant; she saw the small white bag in my hand and joked that the treats were for me. And then I walked back home in the rain, and the rain hit the ground like ricocheting bullets… Before going out, I made some racket on my bass guitar and finally decided to buy new strings for it, some stainless steel ones from Amazon. It was years since I restrung a couple of my guitars; funny how the time slips away. I’d almost given up on music until I broke the ice with it today. My kit bass is a J style but I rolled back the bridge pickup for a P Bass tone good for rock and roll. It sounded quite aggressive and satisfying with the Omega zinc bridge that I ordered from Allparts five years ago. 2019 was also the year of the house fire in the springtime… Finally I got a return call from Clinton from Comagine around four thirty. He’s a very nice person and the conversation went enjoyably for us both… Whatever the season, life is an odd mix of present and past, and the past sneaks into what we’re doing currently: or perhaps it’s a peculiarity of mine to act out bygone scenes.
Quarter after eleven.
I’m just up from a nap with very odd dreams of being a sleuth of some kind but also someone in trouble with the law. Part of the dream hinged on logic that makes sense only in a dream. There was an element of a great white ape which sounds like “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The ape in reality could be Randy whose hair is white, and I’ve always felt a bit suspicious of his car lot on the corner of N Park, now moved to his farm close to the airport… Dreams try to process information from daily life, particularly your feelings about what you see during the day or week. I may have misjudged the guy, or maybe not. He’s a fairly enigmatic figure at that intersection. I’ve had other dreams of Fremont Ave on foot where it ends at N Park. Overall there’s something illicit about the place, squalid and perhaps criminal. I don’t like walking through there, and that’s the substance of my dream.
robgradens 