4:55:11 PM So I'm walking outside this afternoon, passing St. Mary's Church on 79th Street, and I find two (2) one (1) dollar ($) bills. They were loosely folded in half, and had not that quality of crumpledness about them that would suggest they'd fallen from a wallet or out of someone's clammy, grubby clutches. No, these bills were clean, they still seemed to glow a little with whatever warmth those smart government mint people put on money before releasing it into currency. The proximity of these bills to a Catholic church (where mass had just ended), and the perfunctory way they'd been folded makes me think they fell out of a collection basket, and that these two (2) dollars ($) had started their day with a higher purpose than that of normal streetcash. Well, they've not answered to any higher calling since being in my possession, I'll tell you that much. I see the holy intentions of these bills going toward an egg salad sandwich and some coffee. Been on the phone most of today. Feel like shit, got up too early and sat around all day waiting for the tv repairman to show up. Too tired to practice, too tired to read. I was outside a moment ago (when I found the two [2] dollars [bucks]) en route to the local public libraries. Trying to find a copy of "Why She Would Not," by George Bernard Shaw, but neither of the two tiny libraries nor the used bookstore had it, and it's snowing too waterfully to walk to any other stores. I'm sure I'll find it ont he internet. The entire corpus of western thought is right here at my fingertips, why bother with libraries and bookstores? When I get tired like this I start doing big projects, because I get these adrenaline rushes, but the brain is too tired to build anything of any depth. Speaking only for my own personal brain, of course. Listening to the radio now, the host is Bob Shannon, who I think used to DJ at Q105 FM in Tampa when I was in high school. He and some other guy would drone on for hours sulking and complaining about how journalists from the Tampa Tribune had commented negatively about the Q-Morning Zoo (their morning drive-time radio show which featured a lot of eructation and Porky's-esque humor). He seems pretty low-key here. Oldies. Maybe it's not the same guy. Sure sounds like him, and I seem to remember the Bob Shannon from Tampa packing it up and heading for the bigtime. When I get angry about something I get this really tight feeling in my mouth, like all the spit is getting sucked back down. Then I get dizzy, and the back of my neck turns red. My shoulders and forearms tighten, and my spine flushes itself of any composure I consciously maintained. Sometimes my eyeballs shake. Always, the veins in my neck bulge and pulsate, and that's when I really know for myself that I'm angry about something. Then it becomes a complicated matter of deciphering the source. But I almost never yell. Yelling is weak, and more importantly, people remember the things you say when you think you're angry enough to get away with it. One of my weaknesses is I only yell at strangers. Phone operators and customer service representatives, and people or companies which portray themselves as vague abstractions, Entities against which restless, irritable brains like mine are invited to project their most paranoid fantasies. I always regret doing it. Well, usually. Kool-Aid sent me a coupon for free ade. But Lever 2000, they never answered my inquiry requesting a list of all "2000 body parts" mentioned in their fleshy, giggly commercials. Someone on the radio just said "My father has bone cancer." For some reason I found this amusing. Once a friend told me about the death of his friend's brother, and pausing after the word "dead," he said: "They found him dead . . . in his bed." For some reason we both just laughed and laughed and laughed for several minutes, and for the rest of the day the joke was (pausing after "dead"): "Dead . . . in his bed." We never did decide what the hell was so funny about that. Most people yell a lot more than I. They also seem to talk a lot more loudly than I. I don't know that anyone is ever listening. 5:52 PM Feel bitchingly negative today. When someone on the radio says something, anything, I mutter something contentiously pesky or contrary. radio: Burlington Corporation supports the International Children's Drive mt: No they don't. radio: Here she comes mt: And there she goes. radio: That's the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it (uh-huh, uh-huh) mt: Well I fuckin' hate it. I'll be sure to jot down these thoughts as they occur throughout what is shaping up to be a long evening turning into night. By purging myself of all this pesky and peurile bitterness, or by at least becoming aware of it, maybe I can use the energy for more meaningful pursuits. It's my ambition, of course, to be vice-free, because this world is so full of nobler pursuits. radio: uh-huh, uh-huh mt: uh-uh. nuh-uh. These pictures of me talking on the phone with my friend Dwayne remind me of a time I responded to a "write-to-me" personal ad by writing to a woman who from her 3-line ad sounded like the thang of my dreams. She got my letter and called me, waking me out of a near sleep, and for some reason I decided to turn on the tape recorder and record my end of our conversation. I mumbled, though, and the only thing the tape picked up that sounded like anything was me saying "Do you wanna get together sometime?" I remember she said "Soon." I don't know why I'm always drawn back to the personals, except that I find them strangely erotic. They contain little more then expectation and the tease of wish-fulfillment, but they're safe from the dreary ruins of dating and going steady. Thanks, pal. Date: Mon, 18 Dec 95 18:31:04 -0800 From: david millikan <[email protected]> To: [email protected] Subject: (no subject) Happy Christmas. My reading of your poetry leads me to the view that you have a great need for one.