Stopped at Powells at the airport. I go right to the staff picks table. It’s a curated work; the experts’ choices of what to read. This time the book I pick is a selection of readings having to do with night. A curated collection on a curated table – just my kind of thing.


How fun Tropic of Capricorn must have been to write! I think along with Rabelais, and maybe Whitman, Henry Miller must have just had a ball when he wrote. Capricorn isn’t anything but a dream, a surrealist screed, one long rant. I imagine Henry upstairs in the Villa Seurat, a few years removed from the success of Tropic of Cancer, fresh off purging his soul in Black Spring, sitting up there having cup after cup of coffee, indulging in one long masturbatory tap on the keyboard.

How else do you typify stuff like this?

“The city grows like a cancer; I must grow like a sun. The city eats deeper and deeper into the red; it is an insatiable white louse which must die eventually of inanition. I am going to starve the white louse which is eating me up. I am going to die as a city in order to become again a man. Therefore I close my ears, my eyes, my mouth.”

Literary masturbation. A jerk off tap-tap on the keypad. You can almost hear the punch punch and ring of the machine. And the wry grin Henry Valentine Miller must have had on his face as he stepped out at 12:45 in the afternoon for a three course lunch (on Anais’s dime) at the corner bistro:

And they’re going to pay me for this shit too…

The Heart Of Markets

“I need to go back and buy some, I’m afraid they might run out.”

– Overheard at PSU this morning. But really farmers markets, futures markets, stock markets, any market…

Spring (2014 Version)

vees of geese honking northbound
as 8am bells bonging ‘sad Kathleen
(according to Kerouac)
rolled scrolls on the magnoilas
no more bogs of grey
no more drip dropping for weeks
now downpour from cells and sun showers
parks, trails, ideas
“a morning even War and Peace sounds good” –

two kids ready for the opening.


Walked to Belmont to get a Zipcar. Floating along. Amazing trees, everything in bloom.

A year since Crema. The Crema morning after the bloom. I’d been taking Coursera classes but stil unsettled over what i needed to work on. Knew it wasn’t where I was. Need to be in a place where I can play well. Play it like playing cards. Minimal emotions attached. Why worry about anything? It’s like a trade, a big trade. And this is just a probe. It’s supposed to take heat.

A year later…

Montara, In The Manner Of Lawrence

Such pure and vivid memory; Poignant visually, odorously, tactilely.

Reluctant morning. The houses on Cedar Street clinging to a last tendril of fog underneath the pines and the eucalyptus. Through breaks in the trees, Montara Mountain. High peaks that shelter but also ensconce the town, divide the town from the exciting world. Far off the other way, between houses, the sea.

The weathered wood. The grey wood fences, decks, siding, shingles. A Spanish-style roof down that street, overshadowed on one end by a second storing deck teetering and cock-eyed, on the other end by a regal Cypress.

Picture windows that look out into the empty lot where the big kids put up a rope swing and we dared each other to jump off the high limb and Jesse did it, and lived.

The ditches where rain water runs to the sea. The school that overlooks the sea. You can see the islands the school was named for.

In the field a family plays. Montara Mountain rising up like a benign Vesuvius. Nothing but a barrier, a berm, our way of keeping the summer fogs to come to ourselves. It is April and placid. Montara Mountain is bare with sand and dust trails like Spain, Northwestern Spain, Catalonia, you expect to run into a burro, or a vaquero…

* Style and content directly inspired by / ripped off from Lawrence, The Letters Of DH Lawrence (2002) as cited in by Dyer, Out of Sheer Rage: In the Shadow of D. H. Lawrence (1997)