So i'm back from Indiana and the farm and Chicago etc. The wedding was hella interesting. i can't believe to start to tell y'all the kind of conversations i had with drunk mid-westerners. it's its own socio-cultural anthropological study, especially when one considers i'm in the middle of reading Cornel West's work.

i also featured at the Green Mill in Chicago on Sunday evening and had two of the hugest steak burritos to close the night off. that'll have to be an extra half hour on the treadmill... talk to you all again soon...

1:51PM (central time) – Saturday 25th September, 2004 Bremen, Indiana – The Rogers’ Farm

So check it right… stay with me. The soybeans are being harvested, except that these soybeans here need to die and dry out some more before they can be picked. Apparently, soybeans (and some other types of grain) cannot be picked and stored ‘wet’ because they will spontaneously combust! You actually have to wait for the plant to die before you can harvest!! This season they’ve grown soybeans. Next season, it’ll be corn. They rotate the crop because soybeans put nitrates into the soil and the corn takes it back out. Down to the back of the property, the pond has recently been dredged and deepened (the fram owner, the groom’s step-father, Bruce Rogers, son of the poet Roy Rogers – not that Roy Rogers, but a Roy Rogers nonetheless who wrote poems – took me out there in the middle of the night last night, on a John Deere gator), so now the pond is stocked with bass and a couple other kinds of fish. There is an island in the middle of the pond. From time to time one can row out there, catch fish and release them (though according to Bruce they’ll have to pretty soon start catching and keeping them so it doesn’t get overcrowded). The wedding (Marty’s sister’s wedding) is in about an hour, so I have a lot of time on my hands right now, since we did all the getting ice and beer and setting up stuff between yesterday and this morning.

I flew into Chicago night before last, and the flight was delayed so I had lots of time to get into Cornel West’s “Democracy Matters”. This is his sequel to “Race Matters”; a call-to-arms as it were for intellectuals and philosophers in our midst to do the work necessary to pursue real democracy in America. West has a few major contentions about what is necessary to do this; but his most belabored point is that America has to get honest with itself about its own racist past and present; its own imperialist past and present if it is to be able to genuinely pursue real democracy on its own shores, or have a chance of really being able to foster it in other places. West asserts, through pointing to a rich tradition of democracy in American letters, in Jewish American scholarship, in African American music, in Arab American scholarship, that we must foster and re-examine these traditions in order to wake up a populace that has been lulled pretty much by fear and conned by its uninspired leaders into complacency, and even worse nihilism.
His observations on the Israel/Arab conflicts of the Middle East and the part that must be played, within both the Jewish and Islamic prophetic traditions (which both sides in the conflict seem to have abandoned), are fascinating, and I think present a brilliant philosophical blueprint from which to approach the conflict. Probably, the most difficult thing though, will be our first step; that acknowledgement of America’s troubled past (and present) on the fronts of racism and imperialism; the idea that our experiment with democracy was built on these two foundations, and that they continue to be central to the manner in which the US involves itself with the rest of the world.

Suffice to say, it’s a book I think everyone should read. It is a fascinating discourse (and urgent call) on the state of democracy globally. It’s also an interesting bit of scholarship to be contemplating in the middle of a wedding in the middle of Indiana, amongst many, many, many mid-Western white folks.

The wedding should be a hoot, though. I’ve bought a cd that is the best of the 80s and one that is the 30 best one-hit wonders of all time. That should turn the comic factor up sufficiently. Get Cornel West’s “Democracy Matters”. Tell me what you think.

7:30PM Wednesday Sept 23, 2004

I have not written in at leats three weeks and I’m in a bar on the lower east side going throuhg one of those 5 times a year crises; the one in which I wonder serioulsy if I’ll ever again write anything of note. and then, it dawns on me – what if I haven’t written anything of note yet? and then the winter comes and it’s depressing and I drink a whole lot for no reason and little by little something squeezes itself out of me so that by the time summer comes, I’m sure I’ll be the next significant poetic voice; that I’ll become a canon onto myself; lower east side formalist/punk rock and roll/ neo-funk afro-caribbean form performance poet with subtle hints of neruda all over my shit.

but there’s a hooka in front of me (did I spell that right?) and a brother needs some apple tobacco. it’s all so surreal. tomorrow is mara’s birthday and that’s what mara does – mara does surreal, so she’ll meet me here for a drink and something strange will happen and we’ll giggle our asses off, sure that the low red velvet seats and the sheer curtains are part of the plan that will bring us to the attention (eventually) of every poetic school ever created…

and maybe the man is waiting for deliverance
who knows – he is handsome (he thinks)
and spends his evenings in
eclectia – yes

there is never a good reason
for all the lies he tells
if you ask the people to whom he tells them

from his point of view though…

a bird could fly through this room
right now and make him delirious, happy
and it would verify every thing he thought
of this day

and maybe the man is waiting for a woman
one to whom he’s made love before
but now – just loves
for the idea of all the things she could be
and all the dishes she could throw – at him, of course

(more to come) about to go have some drinks

1:50Am and i'm still up. i've returned from our monday night series and proceede to clean the bedroom and change the sheets. i have no idea what would make me do that at 12:30am after a night performing in the poetry slam and having six drinks of rum with lime and 2 heinekens.

anyway, here we are. this past night's feature was a treat. a little over a year ago, adam rubinstein sent out an e-mail asking folks to read his manuscript and blurb it if it felt right. i was headed out to a gig upstate in ticonderoga (a 5 hour train ride) when i finally received his manuscript, and settled down to read it. before that, my only experience with adam was a poetry festival he organized at hampshire college that left a bad taste in many poets' mouths because hampshire college fucked around with many people's payments afterwards and adam had to bear the brunt of people's shit. i had absolutely no expectations one way or the other about his poetry. but i found "inhaling the train wreck" fresh and innovative, risky and surprising. the poetry was well-crafted, from somewhere far in someone's belly and new. i liked it. so when a few months later, adam wrote asking for features in the nyc region, i vouched for his work and booked him.

as his feature got closer (and my co-curators asked about him, wondering whether or not he could hold his own for a 30 minute set), i began wondering if his work was as good as i thought it was; if my judgement was worth anything. i know what i felt when i first read it, but suddenly i was second-guessing my own instincts. i should not have worried. many of the pieces adam read were from that very collection and i heard them tonight as though for the first time (well... it was the first time i was 'hearing' them but i had seen them before). the poems were intelligent, the metaphors well-turned and surprising in a way you always hope an image to be. from kurt cobain to his high school dance, every thing rubinstein touched was infected with wonder and treated with brilliant skill. his half-hour set concluded with a hilarious bit from a collection of poems in the voice of an old-school private-eye. adam rubinstein was way way way more than adequate and i thank him profusely.

...so now i've changed the sheets and pillow cases. i've swept the bedroom and cleaned under the bed. the building i live in is about 100 years old and i suspect there are rats living in the walls now (though i hope not). i've finally downloaded the application forms for grad school for sarah lawrence, warren wilson, vermont college and the new school. i'm going to start filling them out now. there is one heineken and one guiness left in my fridge from when my uncle was here two weeks ago. one of them is about to fall...

by the way, read XXL magazine's article where dave chapelle interviews Talib Kweli, Kanye West, Common and dead prez. it is refreshingly honest and underscores much of my thoughts about hip-hop and why it gets a bad rap (no pun intended). dave chapelle's work; brilliant satire almost all of it is clearly fueled by a mind which has thought intelligently and significantly about its place in the world. i urge you all to read it, even if you're not a rap music fan. tell me your thoughts afterward...

When the revolution comes finally, in whatever form it takes there are a couple of things i want. i want a garden; a backyard garden. i want to grow tomatoes and sunflowers and corn and peas. i also want hibiscuses (hibisci? - whatever); but that would mean the revolution would have to take place for me in a slightly more tropical climate. hibiscuses need a little more room than is generally available in a new york city backyard anyway, so i might have to expand possible revolution locations (i'd also be willing to grow squash and the like). as a child i remember all sorts of things growing out of the gravel and red dirt that was my backyard. there was one time we had planned to pave over the backyard, and make a carport. Gravel and sand had been brought to begin the job, but the plan never came to fruition so it just ended up over time being spread over the yard. eventually these things all flourished their way up through the mound of gravel: sorrell, papaya, passion fruit, pigeon peas. in other parts of the yard there were mango trees, an avocado tree, a lime tree and sugar cane. cilantro grew wild everywhere as well as an assortment of wild teas, that grew all year round. recently i've wanted to grow things again, and i have no idea what that's about. maybe it's some sort of nesting instinct. maybe i'm hungry. maybe i miss being 5 or 6 or 7 again; and somehow i feel like this will help. i'm not sure but i want to turn the earth. i want to be bareback in the sun and fork the earth up, while the sweat runs off my neck and into the pockets i make in the ground. i want to put seeds in the earth and cover them over, water them and for a few moments wait, like i expect flowers and fruit to come up out of the ground right then. i want to chuckle at myself then and retire to the edge of the plot, marked out in neat rows which i have to label for the first few weeks to know where i've planted what. i want to wash and dry the hoe off (because this is what my grandfather would have done - so that the hoe wouldn't rust) and then open a beer (my grandfather would not have done this), sit back and feel the movement beneath the surface, feel the growing and know for sure that the rumbling in the soil was mine and that for once all my efforts to change the world had come to something , and that i'd managed it in the most elemental way any of us ever has; with my own bare hands.

It's late september and already the wind outse my window sounds like december 28th; so i'm under my covers at 11am cuz i'm not ready for thlieve this shit. this week came and went like a cup of rich chili (what does that even mean?) and next week promises more whirlwind.

i'm involved now for the next 9 months in a story telling project which aims to develop a curriculum for anti-racism for grades K-12. it is ambitious, but we are made up of educators, artists and scholars and this promises to be rather interesting and rewarding. the funder, addressing us at the beginning of the first meeting, said that he didn't think that anti-racism could be taught necessarily, but that it came about as a result of positive experiences that this project could generate through really cutting-edge curriculum. Still, that is teaching to me; and i have to believe that since we were taught racism, then we can be taught something else to replace it. it's not easy. folks hold to some notions on race harder than they hold to their religious faith, but i think that as long as we can find dynamic ways to explore power and whiteness and be self-critical in our pesponses to racism, and as long as we can find that delicate point at which whites can speak with other whites critically and honestly about privilege and power and institutionalized racism, then we can actually develop something effective.

meanwhile, i've read in peekskill last night at an outdoor event, no less (there was a tent but i was still cold). i think that is the first time i had to wear three layers to read poetry; but it was a good time and the crowd was appreciative and warm.

winter is coming. i need to get to the gym, get something to eat and do a lot of work today. however, there is also football on, so i have no idea how all this is going to work. i have this ridiculous season-long bet with eric, so i must leave now to make my picks for the week; so i can whup his ass over the length of the season and get my free ticket to colorado...

http://slate.com/Default.aspx?id=2104994&#ContinueArticle

mahogany sent me this article a while back and i just got to reading it. below is off-the-cuff response. folks should feel free to respond as well...


this article is interesting and raises someinteresting points including the way we, as black folkinternalize racist thought and perpetuate it againstourselves. however, her definition of racism differsfrom mine in that she saw her response to the whiteman who had parked his truck in her driveway as racistand i don't think it is. it wasn't based solely onthe fact that he was white (and even if it was; it'sstill a response to a lifelong institutionalizedtreatment of blacks by whites in a particular way),but on the fact that his white privelege made himthink he could park his truck just about anywhere hewanted. likewise, the black man's siding with her isnot racist. he recognizes the need to stick togetherin a world in which whites will routinely cometogether to deny folks of color their fair shake.while we do need to pay attention to class conflict,it can't replace race conflict. both issues exist inthis country arm in arm with the other. they cannot,given this country's history AND continued identity,simply part ways. she might LIKE to think that shehas more in common with a rich white man, that shedoes with a poor black one, but i think that's whattoo many of us tell ourselves in our scramble up theladder; in our mad dash to distance ourselves fromthat part of our community. in this way, we use theoppresor's language to define for us who our alliesare and that oppresor's language says in this case,that money is the deciding factor. this i cannotaccept, because no amount of money stops her frombeing profiled on the new jersey turnpike the same wayi would. no amount of money changes the perception ofthe average american about who she might be when herface appears on the TV screen or the newspaper, or shewalks into an elevator somewhere....and as a last salvo. i don't care what she says,what her kids look like. they aren't white, even ifthey don't darken at all. america will remind them ofthat, soon enough.

i just started re-reading marie howe's "what the living do" and reading tony hoagland's "sweet ruin". i am sanctified...

The euhporia is easing back into reality nicely - slowly. The show was really good, and for me good in a number of ways i could not have anticipated. I did much more promo work than i have for shows of mine in the past, and it paid off. I was of course deathly scared that i would book the club for a Saturday night prime time slot and let Bob Holman down with a poor turnout. Then i was of course deathly scared that i'd get loads of folks there and then fall flat on my face; so by the time show time came, i was of course a nervous wreck; especially since the night before's drink antics left me with very little voice.

One of the perennial phobias i have going to the stage is that i'm sure i'm always unprepared; or that i haven't prepared enough. Maybe it's because i know i'm usually procrastinating or that i've spent much of my life underachieving, but i'm always sure i could have done more work and that the universe will punish me for taking it, for taking my work for granted.

But there are so many different things on a night that can swing the balance of one's confidence. Fish and Eliel calling me to wish me luck and give me words of encouragement even though they couldn't make it, getting to the club and finding it pretty full long before 8 o'clock. Seeing folks at the club from several different parts of my life (art crowd and non-art crowd), having Anthony in the audience seeing me perform for the first time and performing stuff about home no less, and havng an opening act that absolutely makes you want to take the stage; that so completely makes the energy in the space sanctified that you can't help but have a good time on the stage and do a good job. In general i felt so supported, by everyone who was there and everyone who helped me with the show, by Marty who was on a completely other coast but broke into my e-mail and retrieved my poems and made me a chapbook on Word and e-mailed it back to me, by Lynne who became my de facto stage manager at the last minute, by Patrice and Rebecca who came from DC to see the show (happy birthday Patrice), by Cherrie and Fish who both sent the e-mails to their personal list serves and brought mad folks along. There were Cave Canem folk there and LouderARTS folk there and it all felt really good to be able to perform for their enjoyment.

So now; what to do with the show. It needs some work. It needs to be looked at for its overall theatrical possibilities. I need to memorize the entire script and maybe look at the possibility for transitions. I need to figure out where i can take it and perform it as a show and i need to book it for sometime again soon at Bowery. So again, thank you thank you thank you thank you to everyone who made it and everyone else who couldn't and gave me mad love, and even silent prayers.

Meanwhile, i have a second interview for this job tomorrow and i have to come up with a workshop on communication that i will present for this interview and i feel like i absolutely do not have the energy right now. I think i'll go get a beer and then sit down with this thing and see what happens.

I'll let you all know what happens after it. Need to get back to some writing right now.

It's 1AM and the cars are again reminding me of the drizzle outside that is too light to hear. Last night it rained so hard it woke me up in the little hourse of the morning and wouldn't let me back to sleep, and the rain soothed the fact that i couldn't sleep even as it tortured me like a saucy lover; lulling me one moment and dragging me up from sleep the next. Tonight the bed is huge and the rain is finally relenting; allowing me in to give me satisfaction - finally. The rain is laying me down; expert in its seduction, so still as it enters me, i can barely tell it is moving. all i know is, i am full of its water - again.

4:26AM – Wednesday Sept. 8

So, I can’t sleep. I couldn’t say why for sure. I have an interview later today at noon for a job that reads in its set-up and descroption very much like Urban Word, except it’s called Urban Dove. It attempts to offer children of diverse backgrounds a more enriched educational experience through peer mentoring in sports and academics and life-skills. I would be a part-time mentor co-ordinator.

I’m somewhat excited about this opportunity, but not for all the usual reasons. I NEED a job right now. I don’t really want one; and many might wonder how that makes me different from the average person getting up every morning and headed to work. I haven’t needed a job outside of the world of poetry for quite a while now. I’ve freelanced on occasion to make ends meet, but no real job and therefore, no real interview. I feel like I’m entering a completely new world. I haven’t held a traditional job since 1999 and mostly, I’m needing this job because I now live with someone and therefore my responsibility supercedes the affairs of my finances alone. On the one hand, this is some weird sort of signal. On the other, I’m applying for a job I think I could really like, really be passionate about. On the third hand (yeah, the thrd hand) I’m a little scared about how this will shake up my writing. I don’t imagine for a second that I’ll stop, but know the scheduling will have to be more precise and I won’t be able to let it come to me as much as I have in the past year. Certainl, I’ve gone after it and pursued it and sat down and wrestled with poems, but I haven’t had to (on a consistent basis anyway) sit down at a pre-appointed time and get the writing done. I’ll have to do this now. Of course all this gnashing of teetch and general wailing pre-supposes I’ll get this job, or any job. I feel woefully wok-force unready; so last night Salome grilled me in the possible questions I could be asked, the questions I should ask in return, and the things to consider (since she worked for a long time in a similar non-profit job).

Meanwhile of course, my show comes up on Saturday and I guess having a good interview will be one of the many ways I can give myself good impetus for a good show on the weekend.
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On Monday past, I went to the Labor Day Parade. It has got so absolutely lame, that not even the half bottle of rm I had could make it better. In the name of making the parade more orderly (who ever heard of orderly Carnival celebrations – cuz THAT’s what this parade is supposed to be mimicking), Giuliani has sent more cops into the streets, prohibited folks from being able to party with the revelers and prohibited the sale of alcohol along the route. When I first moved here in 1987 (yes, 1987), Eastern Parkway was awash with life and color and at least a sincere hankering after the spirit of carnival back home that inspired the parade here. Revelers took to the side streets, had a good time and thee was no more violence (ratio of revelers considered) than any other parade in the city. Can anyone imagine St. Patrick’s Day being clamped down on? Can anyone imagine THOSE revelers being denied alcohol? Why specifically is it the folks of color whose parades have to be hyper-policed all of a sudden? And what is the relationship between the rise in violence in crowd situations and the numbers of police involved? I’d love someone to do an independent study on that, because I might be crazy, but I think all crowd activity considered, it appears to me less heads get busted overall, the less police you get involved.

But this speaks to a greater trend in the country as a whole. 9-11 has brought home this to us in more stark terms; but we do live in a police state; and for some the “policeness” of the state is more than for others. Try to gather as people of color (and more recently people of the left) and your sense of being part of a police state will be more acute than if you gathered as part of say, the Columbus Day parade (but then again, half the police are IN that parade – nevermind).

It’s almost five. it’s began to rain. I can tell only because of the sound of the cars sloshing through the wet outside; brakes straining for purchase, so that now I can hear the pounding on the window sill. I hear tell of the wonders falling rain does for one’s ability to sleep and besides, I have an interview in the morning. I should try my best not to have bags under my eyes.

Word! – Later…

4:26AM – Wednesday Sept. 8

So, I can’t sleep. I couldn’t say why for sure. I have an interview later today at noon for a job that reads in its set-up and descroption very much like Urban Word, except it’s called Urban Dove. It attempts to offer children of diverse backgrounds a more enriched educational experience through peer mentoring in sports and academics and life-skills. I would be a part-time mentor co-ordinator.

I’m somewhat excited about this opportunity, but not for all the usual reasons. I NEED a job right now. I don’t really want one; and many might wonder how that makes me different from the average person getting up every morning and headed to work. I haven’t needed a job outside of the world of poetry for quite a while now. I’ve freelanced on occasion to make ends meet, but no real job and therefore, no real interview. I feel like I’m entering a completely new world. I haven’t held a traditional job since 1999 and mostly, I’m needing this job because I now live with someone and therefore my responsibility supercedes the affairs of my finances alone. On the one hand, this is some weird sort of signal. On the other, I’m applying for a job I think I could really like, really be passionate about. On the third hand (yeah, the thrd hand) I’m a little scared about how this will shake up my writing. I don’t imagine for a second that I’ll stop, but know the scheduling will have to be more precise and I won’t be able to let it come to me as much as I have in the past year. Certainl, I’ve gone after it and pursued it and sat down and wrestled with poems, but I haven’t had to (on a consistent basis anyway) sit down at a pre-appointed time and get the writing done. I’ll have to do this now. Of course all this gnashing of teetch and general wailing pre-supposes I’ll get this job, or any job. I feel woefully wok-force unready; so last night Salome grilled me in the possible questions I could be asked, the questions I should ask in return, and the things to consider (since she worked for a long time in a similar non-profit job).

Meanwhile of course, my show comes up on Saturday and I guess having a good interview will be one of the many ways I can give myself good impetus for a good show on the weekend.
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On Monday past, I went to the Labor Day Parade. It has got so absolutely lame, that not even the half bottle of rm I had could make it better. In the name of making the parade more orderly (who ever heard of orderly Carnival celebrations – cuz THAT’s what this parade is supposed to be mimicking), Giuliani has sent more cops into the streets, prohibited folks from being able to party with the revelers and prohibited the sale of alcohol along the route. When I first moved here in 1987 (yes, 1987), Eastern Parkway was awash with life and color and at least a sincere hankering after the spirit of carnival back home that inspired the parade here. Revelers took to the side streets, had a good time and thee was no more violence (ratio of revelers considered) than any other parade in the city. Can anyone imagine St. Patrick’s Day being clamped down on? Can anyone imagine THOSE revelers being denied alcohol? Why specifically is it the folks of color whose parades have to be hyper-policed all of a sudden? And what is the relationship between the rise in violence in crowd situations and the numbers of police involved? I’d love someone to do an independent study on that, because I might be crazy, but I think all crowd activity considered, it appears to me less heads get busted overall, the less police you get involved.

But this speaks to a greater trend in the country as a whole. 9-11 has brought home this to us in more stark terms; but we do live in a police state; and for some the “policeness” of the state is more than for others. Try to gather as people of color (and more recently people of the left) and your sense of being part of a police state will be more acute than if you gathered as part of say, the Columbus Day parade (but then again, half the police are IN that parade – nevermind).

It’s almost five. it’s began to rain. I can tell only because of the sound of the cars sloshing through the wet outside; brakes straining for purchase, so that now I can hear the pounding on the window sill. I hear tell of the wonders falling rain does for one’s ability to sleep and besides, I have an interview in the morning. I should try my best not to have bags under my eyes.

Word! – Later…

So it's been a lot since Wednesday. My best friend Anthony came in (the flight was delayed till 2:30AM on Thursday) and the foolishness began. We've pretty much been attending one party or another since he's been here. Well, Thursday evening into night wasn't so much a party but a bunch of Trinidadians, plus Staceyann, TorKwase (sp?) and Marty drinking too much, arguing about things like raising children and how Jamaicans pronounce their words and eating anything we could get our hands on.

The question about raising children was particularly fascinating because i think most of us in the group find ourselves in a strange limbo; having been raised according to very colonial/puritan modes of "spare the rod and spoil the child" discipline, and having spent many of our formative adult years here in the U.S. in a changing world that offers alternatives in the way of discipline. Still many of us find that one has to be careful not to let a more liberal way of child-rearing turn into the licentiousness, that seems to prevail in some folks raising of their kids. Even as i say this though, I feel like i must re-assess what this idea of being too licentious is about; and whether or not this is not itself a self-preservation instinct of child-rearing that black folk have undertaken in a world in which the consequences for not toeing the line have always been more dire than for our white counterparts. Of course, there was no resolution in this discussion, but it continuously begs this question: If we have to give our children a greater sense of boundary than other folks have to give their children, how can they compete consistently in a world in which accomplishment often requires the mind-set that one can overcome any obstacles whatsoever; or even that there aren't obstacles?
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Having Anthony around the last few days has been another kind of joy. We've known each other for as long as we've known ourselves. This is his first trip to the U.S. and therefore the first time i get to host and entertain him, since i left home in 1987. It is good again to be in the presence of a friend, with whom you're not required to talk at all times to know that everything is cool; if for no other reason than you know that silence on that person's part is not indication of distress.

His wife and son call him every day, and while those are conventions that i do not crave for my own life, i find myself enormously happy for him, that he has these people in his life that make him as happy as they do. It's a little dorky but i'm almost relieved that i can finally introduce him to my friends and the folks in the poetry world, because i feel (with no sensible reason for feeling this whatsoever) like meeting him will make others understand me more; like i can relax more because there is something familiar, really familiar around me again.

Suffice to say then that i'll have to be very vigilant this week about working out, since his brother (my ex-roommate Andy) is also here and that's a little like the band getting back together and it means too much being drank for the duration of the week. Show's on Saturday to besides, i have to get my material sharp...

Subject: Saroyan, William: August 31 in literary history

On this day in 1908 U.S. novelist and playwright William Saroyan was born in Fresno, California. The son of Armenian immigrants, he left school at age 15 and educated himself. His writing concerns itself with the basic goodness of people. His novels include: "The Human Comedy"(1943); and "The Laughing Matter" (1953). His play "The Time of YourLife" (1939) won the 1940 Pulitzer Prize for Drama, but he refused the prize, saying the play was no better than anything else he'd written. Saroyan died in Fresno in 1981. Near the end of his life he said: "Everybody has got to die, but I have always believed an exception would be made in my case."

"Try to learn to breathe deeply; really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell."
--William Saroyan, advising a young writer


So i think i have that last piece of advice pretty much mastered. If i could get the actual writing down now, i'll be in good shape. My best friend, Anthony comes in tonight at midnight. This is the guy who beat up people for me back when i was 5 and a wimp and any body who felt like it could kick my ass. I taught him how to ride a bike. This has been my "go anywhere in the world and know we can come back to each other" friend, and this is his first time here. It's bound to be a good one.

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The city continues to be ridiculously mobilized. Everywhere there are protests and protesters all the time. Union Square is again the hive of activity it was right after 9/11/2001. Mara and I had a couple drinks and a conversation and we've decided (among other things) that no matter how much people disappoint, we still like people (generally speaking) and we think that's a good thing.

That's all. I need to drink some more of this echinacea tea to fend off this flu; and then i need to go start on mopping the house.