001
THE FIRST YEAR
tales from the year of the ox
He said: The way out is via the door,how is it that no one will use this method.
in the beginning
001-005
livin' on the easy
006-008
009 and the four voices
within you, without you
010-014
consider the lilies of the field
015-018
trying to get to heaven before they close the door
019-022
steppenwolf
023-028
lama sabachtani
029-033
okage sama de, genki desu
034-037
from the mountains to the ocean, from the windward to the leeward side
038-050
back in the saddle again
051-056
001
Commencing October 8th, 1997 ...I left the apartment at about 5:30, slipping an envelope with the keys under the resident manager's door, and walked over to Magic Island to await the sunrise. Early fishermen were already out and soon a touching older couple made the rounds of all the cats, giving each a spoonful of something from a bucket. The cats all know them and went running, not surprisingly.
Waikiki makes a kind of (very tacky) Stonehenge. Over a period of time one could undoubtedly observe the movement of the sunrise depending upon the towers. From my spot this morning, the Rainbow Tower at the Hilton blocked the sunrise until 6:59, but I didn't feel it was appropriate to change location when I realized that would happen.
I went to the University to check email, then Nathan picked me up to join other onliners for lunch at Dixie Grill. I had two chores to do after that, was quite hot and steamy by then, so took the bus back to Ala Moana, had a shower, slept for awhile on the beach and then went splashing in the Pacific. Had another shower, that time with a quite cute Filipino fellow. Because it was still so steamy, I decided on one of my valley expeditions ... take a valley bus and ride the circuit. Last week was Pauoa Valley, today Manoa Valley. Then back to UH to feed my cat, Chloe, and visit with her, some web work and email ...
Some fine tuning is required. I immediately dropped off two tee shirts in the file drawer a friend at UH has given me as a locker ... silly to carry things around unless I need them that day, since I can access the locker any weekday. Replaced some large size items (deodorant, soap, etc.) with "trial size" equivalents. The main objective of the day was to become as lightweight as possible. However, the rice bag has to go. It doesn't maintain its shape so everything tends to settle into a lump in the bottom. A small backpack is in order when possible (and will be more fitting "attire" on campus, where everyone carries one).
All in all, not a bad start but nothing to be overly proud of, either. The dawn, however, was indeed quite beautiful so it was a difficult act to follow.
I had been asked in the late afternoon what I planned to do for the night and answered, truthfully, that I hadn't a clue. When I left Hamilton, I walked through the side streets of Moili'ili, past the brightly illuminated Convention Center, giving me my first glimpse of its cavernous interior, and on to Ala Moana. Took the bus over to Kapiolani Park, having decided to see what Waikiki itself was like during the passage of a night.
I wandered from the Natatorium to the Duke's statue and back, stopping in different locations and lingering for an hour if there was no reason to leave sooner. Some are sheltered and have sufficient light for reading, so I continued the Rudolf Steiner lectures on morality which, with the sound of the waves in the background, provided an especially rewarding hour.
Less exalted, but pleasurable, adventures occurred during the course of the night, some of which are as well left undocumented. I wouldn't want to spoil the pleasures of nightlife in Waikiki. Only once did I abandon a spot early because of the clean-up effort directed at the infamous banyan tree rats.
I was struck by the fact that St. Augustine's was dark and padlocked while the ABC store in front of it was brightly lit and open until an early hour. Jack in the Box and Denny's by the zoo stayed open all night.
There is a large population of homeless people not seen during the day who appear along the beach in Waikiki, especially after three in the morning. I only heard of one troublesome incident, when a black man tried to rob a crippled man near the Queen's Surf Pavilion. Trying to rob a man who is both homeless and crippled is really pretty low.
At around 4:30, I left Kuhio Beach and walked over to DeRussy Beach where early risers were already beginning to jog. The sprinkler system along the beach goes off with a vengeance just after five, leaving all benches no longer useful.
Calling it a day and a night, I caught the early airport-bound bus back to Ala Moana where this first 24 hours of the rest of my life (as they say) began.
002
Standing on the beach at Waikiki, facing the ocean and looking directly upward, if Orion is at the eleven o'clock position in a clockface superimposed on the sky, then it is almost time for the first bus to leave Kapiolani Park for the Airport. Who needs a watch when the sky tells you it's 5 a.m.Unfortunately, having neglected any sustained observation of the sky during my years here, I have no idea of the seasonal shift and could end up missing the bus.
The weather gods turned the night into a soggy mess with a series of heavy downpours and one spectacular display of lightning and thunder. The deluge did not arrive before my visit with Chloe, for which I was grateful. It is a delight to watch the continuing transformation of her personality and her increasing courage in exploring new territory. Already I feel certain that, no matter how anything else evolves, it was the best thing that could have happened for her.
The mind suddenly having been freed of thoughts related to the apartment leaves empty space which thoughts from people I've regarded as my teachers are rushing to fill. Castaneda's discussion of "a spot" is one of the more immediately relevant ideas to surface from memory, and certainly a top priority is to locate the right "spots". One was easy, the shower at the Ewa end of Ala Moana Beach Park. It has a regular, friendly clientele most of whom make use of it in the immediately pre- and post-dawn hours. It has a safe, comfortable atmosphere where there is no feeling of uneasiness about brushing teeth and shaving or washing out a shirt or pair of shorts. The cleaning man, also very friendly, arrives at eight so it is necessary to be finished by then and to postpone any plans to use it until he has completed his chores. Otherwise, it is open and hospitable 24 hours a day.
I've tried a number of locations on the beach but don't feel I have yet found THE spot there. By 5:30 in the morning, there are already 20-25 people in the Ewa end area ... some who make that their permanent location and during inclement weather use the covered patio of the concession stand, some who (like I) arrive from wherever and however they have spent their night, shower, and settle down to sleep for awhile on the beach. The joggers and surfers are next to arrive, then the lifeguard crew, the cleaning crew, and then finally, the tourists. If not raining, that is the best place to sleep that I've found and is very quiet and peaceful from 5:30-8.
When I was researching this via observation during the past few months, I became convinced that the best plan is to stay up all night and adjust to sleeping in a series of naps during the day. The change creates a severe case of jet lag and I shall be very happy when the adjustment is completed. I had my first encounter with the Law early this morning. I had taken shelter from the rain at a covered bus stop on Kuhio Avenue near the Regent. A young policeman in a scooter pulled up and told me "You can't sleep here, it's a bus stop". I did not point out the fact that I was not sleeping, that it was obviously a bus stop but there were to be no buses for another three hours, or to ask if he had noticed other bus stops around town, most of which are inhabited by sleeping patrons after midnight. I just said "ok" and he went on his way.
003
As you'll see, these initial impressions of the Honolulu International Airport soon changed.If there were a Panther's guidebook called Homeless in Honolulu, the Honolulu International Airport would rate four-and-a-half stars. It would get the full set of five except that having a shower there would cost $7.50, and there is no laundromat (an enterprise I suspect would make money were someone to start it). The airport is open and active 24 hours a day although departing flights between the hours of 1am and 5am are few, so the main terminal area stays relatively quiet. No one is hassled for taking possession of a bench and sleeping the night away. One man was asleep when I got there shortly before 1am and he was still asleep when I left at 7am. A sound sleeper, he was. I embarked upon one short nap and was definitely awakened from it when a Philippine Airlines 747 pulled up a few feet from my ear. I tested both sleeping options, the plain wooden bench and the molded plastic seating modules. Preferred the plastic.
I didn't actually sleep very much, sticking to my plan to go nocturnal, but appreciate the option and the hospitality shown by the airport staff. I think it's highly appropriate, too. If this is the "Land of Aloha", then surely its main point of entry should be a Temple of Aloha, and it is. The restrooms are far superior to any public facilities in town and are numerous. Only a small snack bar remains open throughout the night, and the coffee is just under $1.40 a cup, reasonable by airport standards and decent enough coffee (if not as good as that available from the UH vending machines).
Japanese tourists begin to arrive around 4:30 for the first two large departures on JAL, along with a mixture of tourists headed for Bali on Garuda Airlines. That 747 was so crowded I wondered how an island as small as Bali could absorb such an instant invasion.
A young departing Japanese fellow named Taisho sat and chatted with me before his plane boarded. He loved his first visit to Honolulu and wasn't deterred by the absolutely wretched weather we have had for the past three days. He was eating what seemed to me a very odd breakfast composed of various bits of fish, some tofu and cole-slaw-looking stuff in little cups. I said the fish smelled good, and he offered me a piece of it. Strange breakfast, delightful breakfast companion. I took his photograph with his homeward bound plane in the background, and we bowed to each other several times as he took his leave. I notice the Japanese tend to suppress the bow while they are here, but seem to actively resume the custom once on their way home. That's good to see ... I think it is their most charming social asset.
Hamilton Library has a copy of one of my favorite books, the Analects of Confucius, translated by Ezra Pound. One that rang true immediately and has never left me is "have no twisted thoughts". My thinking got very twisted for a time yesterday and I'm grateful for a pleasant night at the Honolulu International Airport which, along with many wonderful tracks from Israel Kamakawiwo'ole which were played during it, helped get the thinking back to at least a less twisted state.
An airport is so completely artificial, such a monument to technology, that it nags at me a bit to feel it a place to be at this time, when romantically I envision life under the palms with the surf lapping at the shore to be the setting for whatever this process is. I enjoyed the synchronicity of reading Jonathan Cainer's weekly forecast which casts the current astrological scenario in technological metaphor and seems, not for the first time, to mirror my own speculations.
004
Rating the quality of living on a scale from zero to 100, with zero being dead and 100 being Nirvana, the past 48 hours have wildly oscillated from about a 5 to a 90, often within the same hour.I described elsewhere one of the experiences in the 90's:
Last night I took the bus over from Ala Moana to Kapiolani Park. When I got off the bus there was an acute triangle in the sky to the south, pointing to the ocean. It was formed (I discover) by Venus as the point of the arrow and two stars in perfect position to complete the arrowhead. Following a line back from the point of the arrow midway through the line formed by the two stars, straight as an arrow, was Mars, with the Moon just behind. I sat and watched it until the arrowhead sank into the sea.
Just the triangle itself had resonated for me because I had been thinking during the afternoon of the Rosicrucian mind-body-spirit triangle, and the heavenly triangle seemed to be a sign that I was on the right path.
I've read enough psychiatric literature to know how to diagnose the miraculous as the pathological, so no one needs to do it for me. But I have long accepted the fact that there are no accidents. None. It is the basic premise of my way of living and has been for thirty years. Thus even tiny, seemingly insignificant events form pieces of the overall picture and, during a time of such radical self-examination or "pilgrimage", often suggest courses of action or provide encouraging nudges that things are going well.
I wanted to get a large ziplock bag. The shorts I wear in the ocean frequently do not get fully dry by the time I am ready to leave the beach and I needed something less bulky than a plastic shopping bag to wrap them in. I didn't want to spend the money on a box of the bags, though. So when I discovered a new, unused ziplock bag just the right size under a bus stop bench, it gave me a smile, indeed.
But there have been times in the past two days when I couldn't get a grip on my thinking and didn't seem to be doing anything right. There is a very great difference between having very little money and having no money at all. The latter condition interferes far more than it should with my internal balance, which is thrown even further off when I get annoyed with myself because it is making such a difference. Yes, it is delightful to have a cup of coffee while sitting under the stars at the Manoa campus, but it is hardly a necessity of living and a cup of water should serve the same purpose, without the need for fifty cents. That it didn't irked me very much.
And also most irksome is the constant emphasis on self which this life on the road seems to encourage. The mind is churning away full speed, freed from the concerns of a householder and lacking the constant stimulation and diversion of electronic toys and games, but so much of it is aimless inner-chatter which eventually gets to be extremely boring and discouraging.
For some days now, I've had the feeling that there is one book in this library which I should be reading. I have visited all the old favorites, and have wandered up and down the stacks looking at the titles, waiting for one of them to beckon. It will happen.
Late in the afternoon, about an hour before it was time to go listen to BB Shawn, I suddenly felt just awful, mentally and physically, the worst moments of this trip thus far. Shawn and his wonderful music, followed by Harold and his wonderful music, the company of excellent people, and yes, even a few glasses of beer, pulled me out of it. But I was left feeling drained and exhausted, collapsed into sleep in the back seat of D's van. It was time for a recharge of the batteries.
005
This is being revised the following day. Too much was being thought, and even worse, being written about, which is irrelevant. All that matters is now.Whether to write about the external journey or the internal one ...
In the early 70s, at the beginning of my first India journey, a long-time friend wrote and advised me "don't look for results too soon". It is only one of many parallels between that trip and this one.
It is an artist's duty to challenge.
I wrote that in notebooks kept while in the Himalayan foothills and in later years it became amplified, perhaps overly so at one point, by Gurdjieff's thinking on the subject. Of course, it is oneself that first and foremost must be challenged. One of the most irksome things about some people's thinking is how they interpret this as my trying to force them into "rescuing" me or feel I am sitting around expecting people to help. I don't need rescue. Support and assistance is most gratefully received, it makes this process so much more comfortable, but I do not expect it and I do not want anyone to feel they are obligated to provide it. Indeed, I do not want it if they are giving out of a feeling of obligation. I am not afraid of being cold or hungry. I am not afraid of dying, why should I fear discomfort? I am prepared to accept each challenge of this trip and hope to learn from each, and I am prepared to endure the moments of weakness or twisted thinking which have been scattered through this first week.
Just after midnight, like a cat appearing to a flock of ground doves, a security man approached all the "residents" at the airport and told us no one could remain in that area who did not have a ticket. This is in fact the rule, as a sign clearly states at the security checkpoint. It is supposedly for "security reasons" which makes no sense. People lurking in the outside area who have not gone through the security check, it seems to me, could be far more of a threat. In any case, he delivered his message and went on his way. The more veteran among us watched until he was out of view and went back to sleep. There was no further mention by anyone of the matter.
To continue with this on a "first level reality" basis, I slept until about 5:30, washed and shaved, and took the bus back into Waikiki. An old friend sent me $100 yesterday with instructions to use it for food, so I continued the process begun yesterday of following that condition by having breakfast at Smorgy's which provided the best cup of tea I have had in some days. I then went back downtown and, using another "grant", paid the LavaNet account for two months, then went to the Federal Building and applied for a card to replace the Social Security card which has long been missing. In true "federal" style, that took two hours, so I decided to postpone the challenge of acquiring a state ID card and returned to Waikiki, went sailing with the delightful Captain John on the catamaran Manu Kai.
John washed people's feet (pouring water on them from a jug) once we were all on board. The symbolism was delicious. The voyage was, as always, a pleasure, Molokai was clearly visible and for the first time I saw Lanai which has always been obscured by haze before. A splendid interlude.
Then I stopped in Moose's for a couple of beers before coming up to the Coffee Cove, the net cafe, because I wanted to write this without competing with students at Hamilton where it is often very busy at this time of day.
That much can be left from yesterday's scribbles.
The evening was spent looking at some books which have recently been recommended by readers of the Tales and continuing to look for that book which will somehow tell me itself it is the one. One did today, at the Honolulu Bookstore. Samuel Weiser has reprinted Aleister Crowley's translation of the Tao Te Ching, complete with the hilarious photograph of Aleister in the guise of the Happy Buddha. That certainly merits re-reading, but I'm not paying $12.95 for the privilege.
Last night at the airport, the same midnight ritual was repeated. The security guard (a different one) actually made two young fellows from New Zealand leave the area. They had been staying there for the last three nights, and I think they were asked to leave because they had gone a little too casual about it, shirtless and playing cards. Whatever the reason, they did leave, but came back about 15 minutes later and settled down for the night as usual.
I had earlier explored the options should one night this peculiar midnight ritual be repeated through the night. There is a small mini-hotel with rooms for $30 a night but it is usually full, and there is one last bus back to Ala Moana at 1:25am. But outside the terminal I discovered a small army of the homeless. I've not seen anything like it since Delhi, and it is understandable why they are exercising at least some control over the interior terminal. I am not sure why I have been allowed to join the "elite" who gain the inner sanctum, but it would not overly distress me if I had to relocate outside, so that concern was put to rest.
I took an early bus into Waikiki and ate again at Smorgy's, haven of the affluent homeless. At all-you-can-eat for $5.20, it is probably the best bargain in town, and with discreet use of ziplock bags one could even take away fruit, bread, etc. for snacks later in the day. I get more than my value for money from multiple cups of tea which would cost me 75-80 cents each elsewhere.
I left my backpack in a locker at the airport so as to be unburdened for Genoa and Willie this evening, and it is delightful to walk around empty-handed with nothing slung over my shoulder. I can sympathize with the more radical members of the community who carry nothing with them.
After rain showers earlier, it was splendid at Magic Island and the shade from a large bush made a most excellent place to add a few more hours of sleep. That I woke up pondering the fact that I don't believe "in the beginning was the Word" and that only after that came the Light just goes to show how silly I'm still being. Be here now ... and wave to Richard Alpert.
006
Thursday evening I went to hear Auntie Genoa Keawe and then on to Willie K at the Pier Bar. I managed to catch the last bus back to the airport and when I got there, they wouldn't let me into the inner terminal. I explained that my bag was in a locker and I'd just like to get it out. The gateman let me through, but when I couldn't immediately find the slip of paper with the locker combination, he made me leave. This man, Spencer Springer, is a Man With an Attitude Big Time (his initials are really appropriate for him). Even when I found and showed him the paper, and even though the locker was right there by his gate, he wouldn't let me back in. He wasn't too bright either, suggested I used the locker so often I should remember the combination. Duh ... like it doesn't change each time it is used?So I spent my first night in the outer terminal, without my long-sleeved shirt. There's little difference between locations, aside from having no all-night snack bar for expensive coffee. As has been my habit in new places, I stayed awake to check it out rather than joining the army of sleeping realists, with four hours to do "nothing" but look at the night sky, watch the infrequent activity going on around me, and think. I remembered Crowley and other guides cautioning that anyone on a pilgrimage absolutely must "obey the laws of the land". Wise advice. I decided I would in future remain in the outer terminal between the forbidden hours of midnight and 5 a.m.
The following morning at five there was something of a mass movement as people relocated once the security gates opened to the ticket-less. I wondered why everyone got up so early to move. I found out the next night when I did sleep in the outside area. For some reason, the guards make the rounds at 4:30 a.m. and wake everyone up. No idea why. I picked my spot near the United Airlines area since they didn't have a flight scheduled until 8 a.m. and it seemed likely to remain quiet longer than other areas, but the mass wake-up call made the choice irrelevant. Perhaps they don't want departing Japanese tourists, the first to arrive in the mornings, to see the Delhi-like spectacle of dozens of people sleeping on an airport floor? If I ever find a friendly member of the guard brigade, I'll ask.
The outer terminal provides everything that is needed for a safe, sheltered sleep so unless conditions change, I shall abandon my plan to remain nocturnal. It is too difficult to find quiet places to sleep in the morning, especially if the weather is bad. The short night-time sleep in the outer terminal, supplemented by brief daytime naps, will suffice.
Date: Sat, 18 Oct 1997 09:06:46 -1000 (HST)
Subject: Bold chicken
At approximately 10:30 a.m., Hamilton Library Time, Panther shall sit on the steps, peel a sun-ripened banana, and eat it. This tribute to Andy Warhol, Robert Indiana, the Velvet Underground, Lintilla, Helen, KM and the inventor of the banana-ripening machine may appear at:
http://www.uhm.hawaii.edu/webcam.html
Should the cam not be functioning, I am sure the banana will nevertheless be an excellent mid-morning snack.
_______
Date: Sat, 18 Oct 1997 10:48:31 -1000 (HST)
Subject: Re: Bold chicken
Helen said:
: Camera seems to be off. Maybe they are doing backups.
Cheer! Banana was delicious, but. I was walking from DeRussy Beach, where I'd gone to watch the dawn, over to Kuhio to catch the #4. Passed a bench in the Magoon area and there was a nice big banana sitting on the bench. Kept walking. Stopped, said to myself, what the hell are you doing, go back and get that banana, or at least check it out. Did. It was a fine, ripe banana. No idea why someone had abandoned it like that, but promptly adopted it.
later ... on one more Saturday night ...
CHEER! It finally happened. I got bored.
007
What was so special about getting bored? When I was contemplating and researching this path, I thought boredom might be the biggest problem. With nothing specific that had to be done and without the electronic toys formerly used to fill empty hours, I expected to find myself frequently sitting in gloom wondering what to do. It was almost a relief when that moment finally arrived. I regret to say I used the same old ineffective remedy to get rid of it ... I spent money to be distracted. But then every day I do at least one thing and later ask myself "why the hell did you do that!".No accidents. I cut my finger on the lid of a cat food can. Now this may seem no more special than getting bored, but it has been many years since I dealt myself a cut on the finger or saw blood pouring down my skin. (Please remain conscious at all times, Albert.) Luckily, I had packed a few Band-Aids in the bag, and with a cute twist of fate, as I was leaving Hamilton Library for a smoke break in the evening, there was a fresh, unopened Band-Aid laying on the floor near the exit.
Then I lost my watch. Auwe! Some one of me is pushing it. Most of us weren't quite ready for that step yet, even if it was expected eventually.
Meanwhile, life at the airport continues, although I am told there is a quiet effort underway to eliminate the "problem" of the homeless there and some developments in that direction may be expected very soon. I think this is unfortunate. The vast majority of people seeking a place out of the rain to sleep at the airport are among the "upper-class" of Honolulu's homeless. They are clean, well-behaved, and try to find spots out of the busier traffic paths. They get a dry place to sleep, whether a bench or a spot on the floor, until that mysterious wake-up call at 4:30 am, and they manage to get some sleep despite the unending muzak and other noise. They don't do anything but sleep, unless engaged on a lengthy search for an open toilet facility. (Several of the cleaning ladies have a knack of putting up a "closed for cleaning" sign on their lua and the sign stays up all night). My initial impressions of the Honolulu International Airport have undergone some adjustment and I suspect they will be further adjusted in the near future.
One thing it certainly is: an excellent laboratory in which to study society's attitude to the "homeless". Perhaps the most common myth is that homeless people stink. Now it is true, I have met a few who do (and wondered why they didn't take advantage of the numerous places to take a shower). But most of them don't, despite the rather silly security man at the airport who always fans himself as the homeless pass him. I've smelled much worse on the bus in the morning when office-bound folks board the bus immediately after leaving their perfume and after-shave bottles.
There is very clearly a prejudice against the homeless and it is especially obvious at the airport. Since many of the people who exhibit it there have shitty jobs with, no doubt, lousy paychecks, it is perhaps more understandable there than when coming up against the folks who seem to feel it is a threat against the very fabric of civilization as we know it. Humbug.
At UH, the unhurried search for that book I thought was waiting continues, even if, after nibbling at a number of possibilities, I begin to think books aren't the answer at all. It is somewhat like sitting in the library waiting for people to stop using the two email terminals. Like me, they sit pounding away on the keyboard making words, words, words. So many words, so little to say. The books are all history, even the "cookbooks" for Stewed Enlightenment. Krishnamurti lurks in the wings. I know I can wallow in the warmth of his elegant thinking, his delicate manner of expressing the beauty and simplicity of sensible living. In Kathmandu in the early 70s, I welcomed every morning by sitting on the roof of the hotel awaiting the dawn and, as soon as there was sufficient light to read, would attempt to absorb a chapter of his, but the time isn't right just now.
There is one corridor between stacks on the 2nd floor which is especially loaded. On one side, Mesdames Blavatsky, Besant and Bailey cluck away very near a huge collection of Edgar Cayce's utterings and when facing them, it is almost possible to hear Crowley chuckling from the bottom shelf on the other side. Sometimes I flee out of that particular area without taking a book from the shelf, much less opening one. Other times, a little ray of clear light shines from the denseness ... a tiny book by Alan Watts discussing meditation is a special treat.
After two weeks of this change, I think the most difficult adjustment not only hasn't been made but hasn't even begun to be made: ending the feeling that it is necessary to be "doing something". Perhaps doing nothing is not so easy after all.
008
Several readers of the Tales have mentioned meditation. Except in rare circumstances, I have not made much use of the classic forms of Eastern meditation. Repetition of a mantra in the mind is a useful tranquilizer. Otherwise, I find myself trying to shift levels of the mind via meditation, and trying gets me nowhere. What works best for me is slipping into a special mode of watching, just watching whatever is happening around me with the rating mechanism turned off. It has led a couple of times to brief moments of no thought, a happily refreshing experience.This may not be a different reality from that shared by people with fixed abode, but everything is perceived differently. I'm still very much a tourist in it. I had not stayed overnight in Waikiki for a couple of weeks, but did on Thursday night. After Willie K's Pier Bar gig ends, dawn is not all that far away, so I sat at various spots on Kuhio Beach. A policeman told someone "You cannot sleep in the park. Sleep at a State park, like Ala Moana". The City Council has passed a law against sleeping in parks? If so, it is being applied in a blatantly discriminatory manner. Jetlagged Japanese visitors are often seen sound asleep in the parks, on the beaches and in hotel lobbies. And it is amusing that the City & County is trying to herd the street people onto State-controlled property. They had so thoroughly discouraged sleeping that few of the usual crowd were around. Of the long-time veterans, only the lady who takes the bench by the Zoo corner kiosk and the lady who sits across from Saint Augustine with clothes covered in scribbled petitions were in their usual places.
A second night in Waikiki confirmed that impression. Some effort has definitely been made to clear the main part of Kuhio Beach, and there are few sleeping folks to be seen after the midnight hour. The police appear to have decided to utterly ignore the stretch between the Zoo corner and Sans Souci. Maybe they worry that the gay community, which uses it for early morning cruising, may be more vocal than the homeless community if their playground is annoyed by policemen with nothing better to do? I saw no police at all from about 1:30 to around 5 a.m. in that area.
The Orion clock is still functioning accurately. I had no other way of telling time this morning but could tell from Orion's position when the first bus to the airport was due (and to Ala Moana, where I was bound, having foregone the airport for two nights in a row).
Almost everyone else welcomes the weekends, but Friday and Saturday are my least favorite days of the week. Hamilton Library closes at 5 pm, Waikiki is far more crowded than usual and doesn't start to settle down until about 2:30 in the morning. On Friday, I went to the 10 pm showing of "Devil's Advocate" (a rather silly film) and then wandered around the beach until Orion struck five. Except for a brief rain shower, it was a beautiful evening, leading to a clear dawn seen from Magic Island and a comfortable morning sleep out by the lagoon.
The following night I went directly to Magic Island at around 3-3:30 in the morning. There was absolutely no one out there. I sat for awhile and marveled at the multitude of stars which can be seen from there but are not visible amidst the lights of Waikiki, but then began to feel totally spooked by the solitude. If no one at all sleeps out there, is that a sign that it's dangerous to do so? Certainly it is isolated and very far from any assistance, if trouble did occur. Or does no one sleep out there because there's little shelter if rain comes and it is a long walk out there? I stayed nearer the brighter main part of Ala Moana (where there were only a few people sleeping at the bus stop), remaining awake until the first joggers arrived shortly after five. During that time, I saw no one come or go from Magic Island, so could have had a nice quiet sleep out there.
The levels of this trip seem to be, first, the search for food and shelter; then attention to a feeling that it is after all a pilgrimage, even if I've no idea where I am bound or why, and thus some kind of spiritual exercise should be involved (thus far that has mainly been interior discussions about the whats, whys and hows); then the ordinary tourist aspect of it, sitting in bars and chatting to strangers, stuff like that; and finally, the underworld part of it, observing the people who seem to be living only on a sensual plane, interested only in gratification on that level.
009: introduction
I don't like the word "homeless" but continue to use it, and continue to ponder a structure which views the homeless life as existing within four levels. More accurately, it views my life that way since I am not a mainstream archetype of the urban nomad and the patterns would no doubt differ for most homeless people.The first level, Survivor, primarily involves the search for food, shelter, clothing, toilets and places to wash. I have thus far only experienced briefly being hungry and having no means to purchase food. Rescue arrived in the form of the Japanese tour hostess with an extra bento. Had she not arrived? Perhaps watch the tour group, see who only nibbles at their bento, and retrieve it from the trash as soon as the group departs. Starvation need play no role in this journey but acquiring necessary food may be more time-consuming and involve some adjustments in the concept of pride.
The search for shelter will be an ongoing task due to the inconsistent behavior of the authorities, making it difficult, if not impossible, to establish any set pattern. When it is not raining, there is such an abundance of fine places the only problem is deciding which. Finding pleasant dry places in the rain is a more delicate task. Toilet facilities and showers are plentiful and adequate, so the Survivor needs only to be patient in wet weather, keep an eye out for free food, and maintain a watch on the few, but convenient-to-have, possessions being carried. The Survivor also has the task of conserving resources vital to its mission, but encounters significant static with that task.
The second level of existence could be called Pilgrim. Discussion of that level is the main reason for writing this series. It is far more difficult than Survivor.
Third, the Tourist in the Land of Urban Nomads, continuing life on many fronts as if there had been no change in lifestyle, sitting in bars and talking to strangers, going to UH to get online, going to movies and reading books. It would be the easiest level if a nagging voice from the Pilgrim would go away and bother someone else. As the Tourist told him early one morning, throw all that junk away, come join us, sit and watch. But at this stage of the journey, the Tourist is almost always happy if there is money in pocket and almost always miserable if there is not, and that earns him no points with the Survivor and the Pilgrim.
The fourth level is the Underworld Dude's. It is there all the time, interwoven with the other levels, but sometimes dominates so strongly that everything else is temporarily forgotten. In the external world, it can take the form of watching two people have sex on the beach or saying good morning to the young fellow at one shower who so enjoys displaying his ever-erect equipment. Some of it is arousing and amusing, some saddening and depressing, but only rarely does it offer an invitation to participate rather than pass by as a neutral spectator. I have no complaint with that; the invitations take so much energy, in deciding whether to accept or decline, and in the followup to that decision, either way.
When there is a real need, Survivor has the ruling hand, just as it does for the man who comes to that shower to bathe, sees our exhibitionist friend (not for the first time) and says "that's very interesting, but I need to wash". It is a fine example of the general attitude of the urban nomads. They are far more tolerant. The exhibitionist is tolerated because he is a smiling, direct person who clearly enjoys making a public display. If he wanted more than that, he would no doubt pick a different venue and certainly a different time. He provides satisfaction on all four levels for me: the Survivor needs to wash but doesn't mind the entertainment, the Pilgrim sublimates himself with thoughts of adoring the lingam and such, the Tourist is delighted, and the Underworld Dude's appetite is fed. And my regard for the Ala Moana Shower Club is increased by observing their tolerance, patience and good humor.
The I who exists in all four levels and yet has an undefined existence separate from all sometimes gets caught up in one or the other, or in the interaction between them, and forgets himself. But more and more, he becomes the Watcher, watching the reality of the shadow of trees on a deeply green lawn or watching the custodians of the four levels attempt to manipulate the others to achieve what it considers the prime directive of the moment. For the Tourist, that could be another beer, even though the Survivor hisses warnings about how miserable life will be again for the Tourist when the pockets become totally empty.
A seeming gain for one level can increase the workload for another, as in the remarkable increase in the ability of the Tourist to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. The Survivor is pleased with this, since sleep is vital to his mission, but is both displeased and alarmed if the Tourist fails to curb the knack of sleeping when the place and circumstances are of uncertain safety.
The Underworld Dude was content for the first month of this new journey to remain quietly in the background, only occasionally exerting influence on the choice of where to go and what to do. Only when the comfort level of the Survivor had reached a level of rare-nervousness did the Underworld Dude step out and play for a few hours and, eventually, an entire day. That so concerned the Survivor that he brought on a physical fever, setting off an alarm on all systems and chilling out the Underworld Dude. A similar alarm was sounded when an unexpected play area for the Underworld Dude was discovered on the university campus. After one interlude there, everyone else joined forces to declare the area off limits in the longer term best interests of all concerned.
After a month of the urban nomad life, all four voices agreed that the best path to follow is the one that is continuously being suggested by subtle and some not-so-subtle hints in the immediate environment. A more delicate than usual state of attention is required to notice those hints; they can't project over a mind set upon getting from one specific point to another one or moving with some task in mind. It is when walking "aimlessly" and paying attention that a slight urge is noticed to turn this way or that, to head in a direction, to step onto a bus, to sit and do nothing. Following those urges inevitably provides the best for all four voices and thus for Albert.
the survivor
Albert calls me the Survivor. It is not an entirely appropriate label. Except for a very small, genetically-programmed segment of my existence, I don't care if we survive or not. But unless Albert decides to override that programming, my duty is to keep the physical organism in good working condition by finding sufficient food, attempting to deny excesses of consumption of anything, locating safe, dry and comfortable places for sleep, and keeping an ever vigilant watch against possible danger.What he calls the Tourist is my greatest burden. The fellow is basically irresponsible, a child who seems to think karma will forgive his excesses and continue to somehow provide the basic needs for continuing existence, few of which play a role in the Tourist's everyday concerns. As Albert pointed out, the Tourist is almost always happy (or at least, content) when there is money in the pocket, almost always miserable when there is not, even when having no money does not actually interfere with his enjoying his life as the Tourist.
The Pilgrim admires the Tourist's insistence on living for the day with no concern for tomorrow. It fits the Pilgrim's desire to Be Here Now, and challenges the Pilgrim to accept that all the spiritual baggage I have been guarding for him is actually unnecessary, either to my mission or to that of the Tourist and, indeed, unnecessary for the Pilgrim himself, possibly even a hindrance to reaching his presumed goal.
I listen to the extended discussions between the Tourist and the Pilgrim, frequently carried on while Albert sits alone with a mug of beer and an occasional friendly word from a bartender as diversion from the continued debate about our shared goal and the best way to proceed toward it. I enjoy the discussions but inevitably we reach a point where the Tourist does a quick analysis of expenditures, funds in hand, and expected immediate expenses and decides to order one more. I quickly point out the flaws in his financial analysis and urge caution, reminding him that his inability to overcome his absurd descent into misery should at least inspire some moderation, some saving of that one-more-beer for another day when the money has gone and that beer would be a welcome antidote to his condition of misery. He rarely pays attention to my argument, thus time and again finds himself in the same place, having no money and remembering the many occasions when he was stupid, overly generous, or greedy, thinking how much he would now enjoy the money that was squandered. Time and again ...
There is cause for optimism as a result of joining the League of Urban Nomads; each cycle of having little or no money finds the Tourist more at ease with the situation, less apt to sit and mourn the lack of a beer, more willing to join in the spirit of the moment even if it may be totally unlike what he would prefer. There may be hope for the fellow, yet.
the pilgrim
I am not sure Pilgrim is the right label. A pilgrim is generally thought of as someone on a pilgrimage, traveling to some special place for some reason. I, on the other hand, have no idea where I am going or why. Like the other voices of Albert's life, I do have ideas about how. They are not generally very popular ideas.For example (and it's a prime one), I think Albert should stop smoking tobacco. He has been doing it since he was 14 years old and knows almost nothing about existence without it. It interferes with the task of the Survivor in a major way, causing a constant and, from the survival viewpoint, totally irrelevant drain upon resources. When he does not have the money to buy cigarettes, he is reduced to hunting for viable leftovers from sand-filled ashtrays. The Tourist encourages this activity, having only enough sense of appearances to conduct the hunt as inconspicuously as possible. He has already been overruled on the matter of asking strangers for a cigarette; Albert has said no, that goes too far.
I have nagged and cajoled Albert for many, many years. When he was still a child, I made him eagerly await each monthly issue of "Weird", not so much for the stories but for the lessons in mind expansion it gave. He'll never forget being in bed after lights out, holding a large golden marble in the position of the "third eye" and attempting to open that other means of vision. He may not have found out for another 25 years what he was trying to see, but I laid the foundation.
I am trying to lay the foundation for this new trip, too, but the Tourist is, as usual, ignoring most of my ideas and recommendations. I had a delightful victory earlier today when I managed to get one dollar of the resources for photocopying pages of Ezra Pound's translation of the Confucian Analects. The Tourist countered with a four-dollar demand for refreshments to accompany reading of the pages and the Survivor went tsk, tsk at both of us.
Tackling the Analects again after an absence of over 20 years is typical of the strategy I have used. Once I had the power to direct exploration, after the grandparents' and parents' power had waned, the first efforts stayed within the Christian framework they had established. An attempt to replace Southern Baptist with the Latter Day Saints was premature and was overruled by the parents. They had some cause to regret that later; if the Mormon influence had gained a foothold at an early stage, the rest of the life might have been much different and would perhaps have been closer to the ideal dreamed of by the parents. Learning from that early failure, I was more careful a few years later when I contrived a conversion to the Roman Catholic Church. Although that created a firestorm within the family, even a formal disinheriting by the grandmother, it had been promised that 15 would be the age of religious independence. The Catholic church then still offered magic and mystery, the power of the Latin language (also pursued in two years of schoolwork), the beauty of the music, vestments and ceremony, the smell of incense and the stimulation of the Church Fathers and their voluminous writings. Saint Augustine may have years later yielded to Saint Theresa of Avila, but in those early years he and Francis of Assisi were the revered icons.
In one wayward experiment, I led an excursion into the very different realm of a Pentecostal sect, where Albert marveled at a room full of people "speaking in tongues" and eventually fell into a trance and rolled on the floor. It was our sole experiment with Holy Rolling, abruptly ended when we moved to a distant neighborhood. But it was especially memorable since it was one of the few occasions Albert let go of the controls completely. Not even LSD could manage that.
The Roman church has never completely lost its power to interest, inspire and comfort, but the magic weakened so strongly when the ancient Latin mass was discarded that it no longer had any central role in my plans. It had already lost some of its influence as the constant, voracious appetite for reading led into the later European philosophers and then to Carl Jung and on to Eastern works, modern and ancient.
As a very young child, Albert lived in an environment adorned with many beautiful objects from India, Burma and China selected with naive innocence by the young father during his travels as a warrior, supplemented some years later by similar treasures from Japan and Korea. A special memory is of a child sitting under a round table, its three legs shaped as elephant heads with an image of the Taj Mahal inlaid in ivory on its top. It is a standard tourist-industry design these days, but only in costly antique stores is there anything approaching the quality of workmanship of that childhood shelter. That table and the other objects, images of gods and silk flags bearing strange symbols, were sufficient to create a desire to learn more about the aptly-named mysterious East, a desire which is as strong now as it was in childhood, always greatly helping me in my effort to grab some time and attention from the Tourist and the Underworld.
Some years later, it was an amusing and somewhat amazing discovery that there had been a flag on the childhood bedroom wall which featured not only the yin-yang symbol, but trigrams from the I Ching.
the tourist
Corps de ballet eight rows deep in Head of Chi's courtyard. Kung-tze said: If he can stand for that, what won't he stand for?A very good friend of the Tourist has written this tale for him, so, with thanks to Kory K, the Tourist can sit back and have a few more beers before trying to speak for himself.
... now where are those salmon buds???
Oh, hi. I guess you've all been waiting to hear from me. I'm the Tourist as Albert calls me. Kinda like a cross between Cheech and Chong and the John Belushi character from Animal House. Don't know why I'm actually sitting down and writing this. Guess those other guys ganged up on Albert and won't let him leave this terminal until I'm done with my part. Guess the sooner I get this over with, the faster I can go outside and get a smoke.
That's one thing wrong with Albert being homeless. I can't sit in front of that infernal computer and have a smoke or drink a beer. Too bad they didn't have internet access at Manoa Gardens or Moose's. Actually Manoa Garden wouldn't be the perfect solution. You can't smoke in that place. Been having to go outside to enjoy my liquid refreshment in the afternoons. Such a pity. Beer there is cheap too. Just four bucks for a 32oz bucket. Domestic of course.
Actually life with Albert hasn't been all that bad since we changed our address. Thanks to a bunch of great friends and some unexpected "grant" money life has been better than I expected since Mr. Pilgrim decided that we needed to go on this little venture. Sure there are some times during the month when I go a little overboard. Okay, every Thursday this month... but a guy's gotta have some fun. I really can't help it sometimes. With Genoa and Willie sounding soooo good these days it's hard not to get caught up in the moment. And the beer at Moose's is only a couple bucks each. So what if I indulge myself a little and order one or five beers in the afternoon. Not like I've gotta go to work and face my boss or anything.
I guess you've heard by now that everyone wants me to quit smoking. Albert included. I don't know what the big deal is. We've been doing it since we were 14. Why stop now? It hasn't killed us yet. Wish that we'd budget a little more money for smokes. Can't stand that generic stuff. Actually resorted to rolling a little left over tabacco I had in envelope flaps while I was still at the home front. Wish I had that luxury now. I've been having to convince Survivor to swallow our pride every now and then when we run out of cigarettes and pilfer some of the good ones out of local ashtrays. Kory K gave me a good hint so now I have two reasons for following Japanese men around. [g]
Can't wait... Smoke break... Back in a bit.
[ ... ]
Okay, I'm back.
Albert keeps telling everyone that once he makes it to social security age we'll be fine. Well that's a couple of years from now and I don't think this is fine. Albert's pockets get empty too fast to let me enjoy myself through the entire month. Haven't gotten way out there in a long time. Well, out of town guests in this week and a couple of important birthdays to celebrate. Maybe things will change.
Been sleeping a lot since the move. Letting those other guys take control when we've been low on cash. Survivor always nagging me to slow down when I want a beer and Pilgrim aways wanting to go sit out on the beach or under a tree and ponder the meaning of life or whatever. Guess he's trying to be Sidartha Gautama or something. Maybe we need to go back to India and find a Bo tree so he can meditate and become enlightened. Whatever the case, they can have Albert during the day... as long as they let me come out and play at night.
Nights have been interesting since we started our journey. Most of the time the others let me have some fun until Survivor pops in and tells us it's time to go. I really wouldn't mind staying up near the Manoa area but there's no real place to hang out there. I guess it's not much of a college town. Nothing open around there after 2am. Not even a coffee shop for the kids to study in. Strange campus that Manoa is. Especially in the rain. [G] Wonder if I can convince Albert to tell that dude how much we hate that song.
the underworld dude
He said: The proper man is not a dish.These tales talk about sex. They are intended for adult readers, but I very much doubt anyone sophisticated enough to find them would be harmed in any way by reading them. Bored, perhaps.
Did these things really happen, or are they just fantasies? I'm not tale-ing.
sex
Since I began these Tales, people have asked for more specifics or asked what it's like to be gay or variations on themes with sex as the central focus. With the exception of the Tale of the Japanese Garden, I've stayed deliberately vague about it, not out of coyness but because writing each of these Tales has involved a process of trying to write as honest and candid an account as I can. To do that, I have to sometimes examine my own motives or reasons for acting as I did or, in some cases, admitting that I didn't then and still don't understand the reason. That process is probably more difficult when sex is the subject matter than with any other topic because I honestly don't know why with so much of it.Despite all the volumes of writings on the subject, too many of which I have read, I think much of it remains a mystery. Why, for example, am I interested in seeing other men naked? It was a curiosity from as early an age as I can remember. There are explanations about it being a natural childhood thing, but few of my contemporaries seemed to share it. Later, or perhaps even then, there is an explanation about male dominance, as if there is some primeval law that says the man with the biggest prick is chief. That one particularly doesn't satisfy me. I never felt superior because mine was larger or inferior because it was smaller. But it did matter on some level because in my younger years, especially in the Army, I was always annoyed to have one of those which gets so small in repose compared to how it looks after even a few tugs, and I did envy men who could walk around giving a more accurate estimate of their full potential. On the other hand, I was grateful not to have one of those long, floppy types that hardly get any larger when aroused. It wasn't until I began taking acid that I reached a more comfortable relationship with my body in general and my penis in particular.
But my fascination with naked men has little, if anything, to do with comparison. I like seeing men naked, I always have. I've never had the same interest in naked women. It is a mystery to me, but I feel fortunate that I've always been comfortable with it, never felt ashamed of it being one of my interests. Some of my favorite friends were determined heterosexuals who either knew or sensed that seeing them naked gave me pleasure and were casual about sharing, both of us secure enough in our friendship to know they were not just teasing me and I was not going to misinterpret it as such or to ask for more than they were willing to give.
I think that interest in seeing men naked is central to my sexual history, although it is present whether I have any sexual interest in the man or not.
Certainly it was that which led to my first sexual experience with another person. I was thirteen and was a member of the school choir. The boys had one class each week without the girls and the classroom was a sort of tiered amphitheatre with desks in front of each seat. The choirmaster either could not see, or ignored, much of what went on behind those desks (or perhaps did see and enjoyed it in silence). The older boys sat up in the back rows and those of us whose voices still had not changed, or were in process of doing so, sat on the sides. From my desk, I could clearly see what a group of Mexican boys were doing and it often involved pulling out their hard cocks and stroking them, and watching each other do it. I was naive enough to think that was it, they just enjoyed watching. One afternoon, two of them asked to be excused after a few minutes of their play and one told me to follow them. I did, and when I got to the men's room, they had their pants down around their ankles and were really pumping away. They told me to join them, and when I did one of them moved me into a stall, bent me over and slid it in me. I suppose technically it was rape, because not only had I not asked for it, I didn't even know men did such a thing with each other. And it hurt like hell. Fortunately, the other boy was so aroused by the show that he shot his load before trying to take a turn.
So that was my introduction to human sexual interaction and it wasn't something I was eager to repeat. Until that afternoon, my only experience had been with my best friend, Kenneth, and that usually involved standing together in front of the bathroom sink pumping and seeing who could shoot first. Kenneth was the only person I told about the Mexican experience and we agreed that it was gross, although we both were intrigued by the idea that people actually sucked on them and he had the advantage of having once had a blow job. Even that we weren't willing to try.
I had a steady girlfriend at the time but the most she would let me do was feel her breasts under her clothes and she would rub my cock the same way. Any move to pull down my zipper, and she called a quick halt.
Those three early relationships form something of a pattern which has often been present throughout my life. Casual encounters with a dominant strange male, a comfortable and warm relationship with another man where the balance is about equal, and a relationship with a female where I am uncomfortable about how and how far to proceed.
The next scenario changed. We moved. My new girlfriend was bolder but she, too, was terrified of getting pregnant and there was no question of "going all the way". But she would jerk me off with her hand, or oil her breasts and let me slide between them to orgasm. My best buddy, Terry, I never saw naked. But I actually had better sex with him. I don't remember how the habit started, but we used to remove our shirts, and take turns rubbing each other's back. I invariably had an orgasm as a result of his back rubs. He probably did, too, but we never talked about it or said anything about wet stains on our Levi's. The pleasure of those sessions stayed with me so strongly that I could not for many years get a back massage without coming, something which greatly amused the masseurs in India.
Having one close female friend and one close male friend continued for many years. They almost always disliked each other; it was quite some time before I discovered the added pleasure of having both in the same bed. Gradually I began to rely more on the male friend for sexual fun than the female. The male friend had the advantage. I was interested in his body to begin with. Having sex with the female friend was more a question of satisfying her demand, a way of getting closer to someone I liked very much and to say thanks for being my friend.
I enjoy sex with a man more, even when it is a very one-sided relationship. Many of my favorite lovers were men who would just hold me while I reached my own orgasm after having satisfied them in whatever way they liked best. I prefer that. Fucking a man is for me the same as fucking a woman, I've only done it if that is what they wanted from me. And I'd much rather be on the giving than receiving end of a blow job.
Those are aspects of my sexual preferences and tendencies I am comfortable with, even if I don't understand them. I was never overtly "gay" in my youth, never had to cope with any of the prejudices and problems such people encounter, but I also never went to any special effort to conceal it. My twenties, when I might have become involved in more exotic scenes, were spent in two stable relationships. I've never actively participated in gay organizations and except for one brief time in London, have rarely made a predominantly gay club my main place to socialize. In many ways, I've never had to think of myself as being "gay" and so when people ask me what it's like, I think they are asking the wrong person. I doubt that I know.
There are other aspects of my sexuality I am less comfortable with, and maybe that's why these Tales go under that strange title "The Underworld Dude". Certainly exhibitionism is one of those aspects which was especially a nuisance to me in earlier years, and I'll deal with that in a separate tale.
the japanese garden
It was a beautiful, sunny morning and I had some special mushrooms for breakfast. I went to the Japanese garden to await the descent into the rabbit hole. There was no one around, the first time I have had that beautiful place to myself. I lay on the grass and watched the few clouds drifting by and the branches of the trees, closed my eyes for a time and was reminded by the sound of water flowing over rocks of a small waterfall in the Himalayan foothills. Rare for India, it was a secluded place not often visited by anyone but porters carrying goods from one village to the next. The waterfall ended in a small, clear pond amid large boulders which provided further seclusion and I often made the long trek there to splash naked in the pool and sit on the boulders while drying in the sun. With closed eyes, the Japanese garden had much the same feeling.Once there was an encounter at that Himalayan pool which is a sweet memory and lingering once again over the experience, I got a boner ("erection" is such a clinical term). It was not so much being aroused by sexual desire, but an accent to the oncoming mushroom consciousness, the warmth of the sun and the sensual sound of the water, the memories from decades past. Then I heard a movement, opened my eyes and was slightly startled to see a young Japanese man sitting on a rock near me. I had not heard him approach and had no idea how long he had been there. I smiled at him, he returned my smile. I made no effort to conceal my aroused condition since he had clearly seen it already and, as I told someone recently, it has never made sense to me to practise false modesty, especially after someone has seen all there is to see. He may not, in this case, have seen it all but since I was wearing shorts of lightweight fabric, little was left to the imagination.
He looked back at the water flowing past the rocks for awhile, then shifted his position, lowering one leg and giving me a clear view of his crotch. He clearly shared my condition.
I have so long anticipated my first sexual contact with a Japanese man that I was in a somewhat befuddled condition, increased by the sudden unexpectedness of the situation and the knowledge that my perception was being distorted by the mushrooms. So despite what seemed his obvious display, I did nothing but once again smile at him. Then he began to rub his hand over the bulge in his shorts. I got up and moved over beside him, replacing his hand with mine.
We moved to a more inconspicious spot and he removed his shirt. I would guess he is in his early twenties, but might still be in his teens, and he has a slim, just slightly muscular body with a flat, tight midsection. I rubbed my hand over his chest and he lay back on the grass and enjoyed it for awhile, then pulled my head down to his nipple. I licked and gently sucked on one while caressing the other with my hand, and it seems to be one of his favorite things because he began to breathe more heavily and make slight thrusting movements with his lower body. Continuing to toy with his nipple with my tongue, I moved my hand down and inside the front of his shorts. He reached down and unbuttoned them, then slid them down enough to uncover his thick black pubic hair and well-shaped rod. It was larger than most Japanese men I have observed in showers, but small (as who is not) compared to the norm of the alt.binaries crowd.
I shifted my attention from his nipple to the rod, the first time in many years I have had that experience. He took over the directing task, indicating when I should return to the nipple while he stroked the rod, then back again. Repeating this several times, he then gave a slight gasp, quickly moved my head back to his crotch and pushed into my mouth as deeply as it would go, and shot his load.
As I wrote elsewhere, Japanese men taste as good as I always thought they would.
We remained still for a few minutes, then he slowly withdrew, sat up and very softly said "thank you". They were the only words spoken during the entire, wonderful interlude in that beautiful garden.
let me entertain me
Enjoying the sight of a naked man is a mystery, but it is almost understandable compared to getting pleasure from exposing my own body, and getting the greatest pleasure from exposing it, either completely or just the penis, to men who aren't already familiar with it or have only seen it rarely.In my youth, this was a special nuisance and I am grateful it has at least chilled out, even if not completely vanished. It was especially tiresome when there was so little "legitimate" opportunity to satisfy the urge. As a fourteen year old in Germany, I would go into the woods near where we lived, stand behind a tree near a path but distant enough to pretend I thought I was hidden, pull out my pecker and pump it, hoping some poor man would come walking down the path and spot me. They often did and many times that was enough to make me shoot my load, be overcome with shame and go scurrying off in the opposite direction. Sometimes they would take partial cover themselves and watch, only once did a man come over to me. I let him approach, he knelt down and sucked it, my first blow job.
But that wasn't what I really wanted, then or in most such adventures. I wanted most to be caught naked, caught masturbating especially, greatly enjoyed being watched, but it wasn't the same kind of fun if they watched openly or made an effort to join in. And the very best times of all were when it happened totally unexpectedly and unarranged.
The fewer opportunities I had to stage such entertainments for myself, the more frustrated I would get by the lack of them, and often the more absurd my antics would become to arrange them. I never understood why it gave so much pleasure, even less why it became such an urgency at times, and thus even though it has always remained a part of my life, I was never comfortable with it and still am not.
The Army, of course, provided more than ample opportunities. Walking into a communal shower and finding someone jerking off was no big deal, so I could get caught at it and have my pleasure without getting into any trouble. That was also one of the great side benefits of living at the Vanderbilt Y in Manhattan, although there it was more apt to lead to someone joining in than it had been in the Army.
There were other treasured places: the creek near our summer studio in New Jersey, secluded enough to swim naked but always with the chance the lad from the next farm would pass on his tractor; those secluded waterfalls in the Himalayan foothills; even that tacky chalk boulder beach outside Brighton. Predominately gay places like Fire Island never interested me.
Those strong, almost uncontrollable urges no longer exist, or at least I hope they don't. It is stronger than I thought, however. Most of time, that appetite of The Underworld Dude is satisfied by the beach showers of Honolulu and so even when I began to contemplate this part of the Tales, it wasn't something I thought much about. Then I was visiting a friend who was supposedly going out for some hours. I planned to have a shower, so took off my clothes and sat for a moment on the lanai. Just as I got up to go into the shower, my friend unexpectedly returned, with me standing naked in his front room, and it brought back so many memories in one grand rush that I was stunned to realize how much power the thing still had over me. I tried to just act casual about it, even extended the exposure longer than was necessary to try and test whether it really was the big deal it seemed, or was it because of the memories, or was I just being slightly drunk and silly. Maybe all of them.
It certainly shook me into thinking more carefully about what it has meant to me and what it means to me now. But I have to admit, I remain baffled by it, and this is one instance where writing this preliminary report is not likely at all to lay it to rest in my mind, as has happened with many of the other tales.
my so-called lusty life
As prefaced in Tale 056: A reader whose opinion I respect has accused me of cowardice, says I must be deliberately leaving a lot of stuff out. Knowing me perhaps better than most readers, he suspects that lust is playing more of a role than I am admitting and, with his characteristic bluntness, asked "don't you ever jerk off?". In a time when incoming email has played a large role in this endeavor, often in a fairly disturbing manner, I enjoyed the laugh that question evoked.The timing was amusing, too. I got back to the "hacienda" later than usual, sometime after midnight. An older man who seems to be a long-time regular and my young buddy were the only residents, both asleep, the buddy on his bench beside my usual spot. He was sleeping on his back, evidently enjoying a pleasant dream judging by the flagpole in his shorts. Having just departed from three hours spent very closely watching a young man I find totally desirable, no matter how unattainable, it was a vision I really didn't need just then. As I wrote, this young nomad seems to look upon me as someone he can trust. I certainly don't intend to make any kind of move on him, most especially when he is sleeping. I'd be most happy to, but given the circumstances, he'd have to make it very clear that's what he wanted from me.
So I got ready to settle down for the night but draped my cover over the back of the bench blocking the view of the older man. Certain that my buddy was soundly asleep, I unbuttoned my Levi's and started to stroke, with the vision of his shorts as inspiration. Now there is a big contradiction there, because if he had happened to wake up and saw me pumping away while staring at him, it could have been almost as much a violation of trust as if I'd touched him instead. The debate sufficiently dampened my desire that I knew I'd never get off, might as well put it away and go to sleep. And did.
So yes, gentle reader, I do jerk off ... or at least start to.
Generally speaking, it happens a lot less as a nomad than it did as a householder, partly because of fewer comfortable opportunities. Although some fellows seem immune to the effect, I find a cold shower lives up to its reputation as a way to dampen physical desire, so the place where it would most likely happen is literally chilled.
Sitting in a toilet cubicle is not my idea of a great environment for auto-eroticism, either, unless there is a hole in the wall and someone is on the other side enjoying the same pasttime. There are such places on campus but I deliberately avoid them most of the time. I really don't want a reputation as a Dirty Old Man on Campus and that would surely be the inevitable result of regular visits to those particular luas. Admittedly, the few times I have indulged were quite delightful, even if most of the time it just involved mutual observation.
(A delightfully handsome young fellow of Asian descent just sat down at a terminal across from me. Perfect timing.)
Concerning the reader's challenge in less specific terms, no, actual lust is not playing a greater role than I indicate. I should qualify that by saying that I am aware of. I mentioned in one tale that my main pleasure is in just looking or enjoying company in a bar. (The fellow across from me must have been sent as a Test, because I just glanced at him and he gave me a wonderful smile). Ok, I'd be delighted to end up naked in bed with him, but it's in no way a driving force. I'm content with the pleasure of seeing him, sitting close to him at this table, and the gift of the smile.
As the Underworld Dude said in the beginning of this series, some years ago he would have ruled this trip and it would have rocked. We grow old, we grow old, we shall wear our trousers rolled ...
010
He said: Study with the seasons winging past, is not this pleasant? To have friends coming in from far quarters, not a delight?I said last evening that I would follow the basically internal concerns of the 009 series with a quick overview of what I have actually done recently. "But will you remember it?" I was asked. Perhaps not, so it may be best to begin.
April Healani Kellett arrived from San Jose for a week in Honolulu. I had spent the night at the airport, so waited to greet her. We spent much of the afternoon at the Shore Bird with drinks, talk of mutual friends and good conversation, a pattern to be repeated throughout her visit. As Captain John observed, Healani is a woman with "character written all over her". Despite our jokes about where the letters were located, it was a very accurate observation; Healani is a warm, loving and tantalizingly mysterious woman who knows much about the Art of Living.
We met again at the Regent's Lobby Bar to enjoy Genoa Keawe and her crew, with the special treat of Healani dancing, both solo and in a trio with the inimitable Mamaloa and young Myra. Healani danced again at the Pier Bar later while Willie K sang "Makee Ailana", a rare Hawaiian moment in an evening when Willie wanted to rock ... and did.
I stayed on Kuhio Beach that night and went to Magic Island on the 5 a.m. bus, and that has been the routine most nights since. In the mornings, the small beach at the lagoon on the end of Magic Island is wonderfully quiet and peaceful, a fine place for a long morning nap. For those hours between one or two a.m. until five, after trying several locations in the Queen's Surf and Sans Souci areas, I finally settled on a bench of the group facing the bandstand. If careful to select a bench out of irrigation's reach and with the right angle to the bench in front of it (thus blocking the lights from the bandstand), it is a decent place to spend the night. It, too, was not being used by anyone else but it is well lit and not so remote as Magic Island so I felt no concern about being there. There is no overhead shelter, however, so sleeping there can involve waking up to put on the poncho.
And, writing the following day, it is essential to get the full nightly clock of sprinkler activity. I arrived at my favorite bench a bit early last night and was rudely awakened by a huge splash of water on my feet. Those particular sprinklers only stay on for a very brief time, but I shall nevertheless try a bench further from them. I noted several police patrols (via scooter) of the area, so I suspect the hospitality there will depend upon the individual lawman and not any actual law.
The search for the book to carry with me ended yesterday afternoon when I decided to buy a dollar's worth of the Confucian Analects translated by Ezra Pound. The copy machines provide one page for ten cents, and Jai Maharaj can now add bootleg book criminal to his list of reports to alt.crime. I am not as happy with Pound's translation as I was 25 years ago, but I am still certain it is the book to have at this time, and shall continue to buy a dollar's worth until the entire book is in my backpack.
I had spent the evening again at Hot Lava Cafe, listening to Mackey Feary and Clayton Apilando with another guitarist who was never identified. John Feary sat and drank beer but did not sing, alas. I ate some chili-and-cheese fries, madness which gets stuck in the long list of the Tourist's silly moments (one plate of fries and a beer equaled seven Jumbo Jacks). Despite the brief foot-washing, I was able to get sufficient sleep at the bandstand, so took an early bus downtown to pick up my replacement Social Security card which I had been told was waiting. I then looked for the office which issues State ID cards but couldn't find it. One would think each State government building could have a simple directory telling not only what is in that building, but what is in each building of that downtown complex. The Department of Transportation has a handy map showing what the name and location of each building is, but with no key to what goes on in each building.
I stopped in Long's for a little shopping on behalf of the Survivor and went on to Ala Moana Beach for a shower and a wash of my blue Duke's shirt, sitting in the sun while it dried, reading the Analects again. On to Kory K's office at UH, where I found him alternating between reading Tale 009 and browsing the Hawaiian Heritage Jewelry site, then to Manoa Garden for a beer and a look at the Honolulu Weekly, out today, with its massive supplement for the upcoming International Film Festival.
The details of everyday life ...
This has been a time of delightful excess and luxury, conditions which somehow seem entirely appropriate when someone as special as Healani is in town. Her visit concluded with an evening at Hot Lava listening to Mackey Feary, Clayton Apilando and others, with the special treat of John Feary sitting in for two songs. Afterwards, I was given a ride down to Kapiolani Park where I selected my bench and settled in for the night. Unlike the night before when it was so cool I used the poncho as a jacket, it was comfortably warm. I woke up and saw there were three local men sitting on nearby benches, so sat up and lit a cigarette. One of the men asked for a smoke, and then a second one did. Although their conversation was vague, it seems one of the men had robbed a Japanese tourist earlier and had then gone to sleep on the beach where someone had kicked him and told him to move on. Either they assumed I didn't have anything worth taking, or it was a case of honor among nomads that kept them from doing more than asking for a smoke. I talked with them for awhile and then said I was going to get some coffee, gave them two more cigarettes and prepared to leave. One of the men said quietly to me, please tell the first policeman you see to check this area. I am not sure why he asked that but perhaps he, too, was worried about the mugger. The only police I saw were busy with some young men gathered by the pier at Kuhio Beach, but I'm not sure I would have said anything to one had he not been occupied.
I went to Jack-in-the-Box and the fellow only charged me 25 cents for a cup of coffee, a kindly gesture. The buses had just started running so I waited for the 19, and was amazed to discover that the HPD appears to have plainsclothes young Japanese-looking men standing on street corners along Kuhio Avenue. A young fellow in Levis, tee shirt and with a backpack was just standing on one corner near the bus stop, and I saw several different policemen talk to him. He gave some information to the first one which caused the officer to turn on his light and rush off, soon joined by two other scooters with lights flashing. Waikiki was unusually busy in those early morning hours, so I was relieved to board the bus and go on to Magic Island for sleep under the stars, sorry it was the end of Healani's visit but grateful for the happy hours shared with her.
011
Someone asked: What does the sacrifice mean? He said: I do not know. If one knew enough to tell that, one could govern the empire as easily as seeing the palm of one's hand.No, the question of the book was not settled. There are too many parallels between this journey and my first Journey to the East to ignore so obvious a one. I carried only two books with me then, the I Ching and Hesse's Magister Ludi. The I Ching asked to be left behind when I shifted from being a tourist in Delhi to living in the Himalayan foothills, Hesse stayed with me throughout the journey and was read several times. After a trip down to Rainbow Books, it is with me again.
Sitting at Manoa Garden earlier, re-reading some of the Analects, Ginsberg's opening of Howl surfaced. The best minds of my generation ... who would that be? "Generation" is a tricky term, where does one end and the next begin? In what I think of as my generation, I noted as best minds Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Ken Russell, Carlos Castaneda, Stephen Sondheim, Richard Bartle and Sid Meier. An interesting dinner party in hell that crowd would make. I don't think any of them were driven stark raving mad, but it would be totally understandable if they had been. In an email exchange earlier this week, I mentioned I had experienced a day when I felt surrounded by "subhumans", and I was reminded of that while waiting outside a video arcade/club called The Source. It isn't, of course, that its patrons are really subhuman, just that they are so distant from being truly conscious and aware, they might as well be.
But why the entire best minds reverie took place, why I (unusually) took the trouble to make notes, or what purpose is served in writing it here, I don't know. The answer to that is as unclear to me as would be my answer to Florida Mark who asked "what is the purpose of life?" Like Confucius with the meaning of the sacrifice, I don't know. But it is always a pleasure to find some reason to use my favorite pen.
Everyone who has had experience with LSD knows those moments when, no matter how thoroughly the house had been cleaned, everything looks incredibly dirty. How can we live in such a pigsty! Minutes later everything might look miraculously beautiful. There has been no change at all in first level reality but the point of light called "I" moved from one alternate reality to another, each having points of contact with the other but nevertheless being totally different. Such direct experience does more than any book to convey the truth that reality is a mirage.
This pen I love so much is merely a tube of metal but it has stored within it traces of the mana of its original owner, thus gives me a warm and happy feeling when I hold it in my hand. It is a treasure which at an auction would fetch no fancy price; Possession in Great Measure has nothing to do with diamonds and gold. As it happens, the original owner of the pen scolded me for even contemplating this nomadic life, viewed it as whining failure, and grumbled prophecies of cold and hunger.
When we're hungry, love will keep us alive ...
In fairness, the owner of the pen endured some months of my company when I teetered constantly on the edge of extinction. That was a hunger greater than any bodily need could be, and love did keep me alive. Love for him, love for a cat, love of the hope that something might still be left in this ill-chosen life which would let me, perhaps again, write a book called Life Was Worth Living. On the surface, it could be done already. I have had tastes of fame, fortune, love and happiness, have dined with some of the people of my lifetime who are assured a place in history. I could do as Graham Robertson did and write a chapter on each of my famous friends, but I think not. I know them no better than the owner of the pen knows me, what I wrote could be as far off the mark as some people's view of these Tales and the life they are describing.
I've had mails expressing surprised disbelief that life on the street can possibly be as pleasant as I am making it sound. I do not mean to promote it as a desirable lifestyle; earlier today I told an English friend who was thinking he should just sell everything and join me on the beach that he shouldn't, it is an "old folks' trip". Like the LSD swings of perception, how pleasant or unpleasant this trip is depends more upon the mind than the actual reality.
I think Kory K did an excellent job of speaking for the Tourist. Since Kory has been for some time one of the Tourist's best friends, this is perhaps not surprising, but then even best friends often have ideas about who we are that differ greatly from our own view. The Survivor rarely surfaces socially or, except in times of great stress, within friendships. The Pilgrim, too, leads a solitary life. Since the Underworld has been locked up as much as possible, it has been the Tourist who most people know as Albert.
The Tourist does not, perhaps, view the Pilgrim quite as harshly as Kory's interpretation suggests. Despite his love of handsome young men, jugs of beers and good music, the Tourist has more sympathy for the idea of sitting under that Bo tree than might be expected. He has been around long enough, sampled many pleasures, and has no illusions about the true importance of what makes life fleetingly of interest for him. If infatuation matures into love, it leaves the Tourist's domain and moves into the Pilgrim's fold. That is possibly the Tourist's main contribution to this Life.
But it is also the case that the Tourist stumbles upon pleasures which greatly enhance the ability of the others to perform their tasks and for Albert to achieve goals they have set for him. In the revolutionary, evolutionary years of psychedelia, it was always the Tourist who led, who dared to experiment, who marveled and partied, then bowed to the Pilgrim and asked "is this what you were looking for?", often achieving in a few minutes what years of reading, study and exercise had failed to illuminate. Without those years of intense inner exploration, this trip could not be. It is the Tourist who gets the major credit (or blame) for that, even if this trip often interferes with his own agenda for enjoying life.
012
He said: Observe the phenomena of nature as one in whom the ancestral voices speak, don't just watch in a mean way.I feel sorry for people on wheels. Skateboards, bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles, cars, trucks ... it seems that once their wheels start to roll, they automatically get in a hurry. People rushing here and there, no time to see the world around them or to be kind to people they pass on their hurried journies. Every now and then a car stops at the freeway entrance ramp and the driver waves for me to cross first. Now that is cool, and something I'd bet rarely, if ever, happens on the Mainland. But far more often, wheels seem to be a curse.
My week is anchored on Thursday. Other people's weeks may start with Sunday or Monday, but mine starts on Thursday. I've rarely missed the double bill of Genoa Keawe at the Regent and Willie K at the Pier Bar on Thursday evenings and as soon as one of those magical evenings ends, I begin to look forward to the next one.
After leaving the Pier Bar on Thursday, I decided I'd take the easy way and catch the last bus to the airport for a few hours sleep. I got on the bus, sat down, and the next thing I knew a young man was asking "excuse me sir, do you have military ID?". "Why would I want that?" I asked as I emerged from a sound sleep. I had slept right through the airport and was at the gate to Hickam Air Force Base. Fortunately the bus makes one trip back to the airport, so I was able to leave the bus and re-board it after its round of the base. I left the bus at the Interisland Terminal so I could have a look at the overall night scene out there. Despite rumors that some effort was planned to eliminate the "homeless problem", there were more sleepers than ever. I slept on a concrete bench until the 4:30 wake-up call (perhaps that is the effort to discourage people from sleeping out there?) and took the first bus back to Magic Island for a nap on the beach.
I had not been looking forward to Hallowe'en and was still debating how I would deal with it. Hamilton Library closing at five meant a long evening to fill in a place which generally goes a little over the top on October 31st, especially in Waikiki. Determined to avoid that, I went to Ala Moana instead, ate a boringly over-cooked dinner from the Mandarin side of the Panda Express, and watched the long line of parents waiting to enter their children in the costume contest. The night before I had been given a ticket for the evening at the Pier Bar, where Fiji was the star entertainer, so I went over to check it out. Wasn't very crowded (although it did get so later), so I stayed and enjoyed the costumed folks parading around. The music was over-amplified to the point of pain and provided little amusement, so I left before midnight, walking back toward Ala Moana. I was going to walk along the beach, but there were a lot of people gathered at the far Ewa end so I veered off to the sidewalk along the highway. There is a large tree in that far corner with a massive complex of above-ground roots. I found a perfect seat formed by the roots and, instead of my original intention just to stop for a break, decided it was a fine place to sleep. There was something quite special about sleeping amid those roots.
When I lived in an apartment, I used ear plugs to eliminate noise so I could sleep, and it is still something of a surprise to me that I can almost immediately fall asleep no matter what is happening around me. The same is becoming more and more the case with watching, that strange state of mind when chatter stops and there is just quiet observation of the reality within my view. I slip into it involuntarily and am not aware it is happening until something reactivates the mind and it again analyzes, critiques or begins to think of how those moments will be written about (the latter being a long-time trap of on-line life). There is now more often a special quality of light to the scenes being watched, reminiscent of psychedelic-induced vision. The view of Magic Island this morning from a distance had all the sharp brilliance and illumination it would seen through mescaline eyes, but that special view did not last long. It was too special for the mind not to start leaping about and celebrating, thus losing the Magick Theatre performance.
The dawn of All Saints Day was a fine one. No postcard could capture the beauty of Diamond Head under a sky with wisps of clouds placed in just the right position to turn golden and pink as the sun came into view. It is so quiet and peaceful at Magic Island in the pre-dawn hours that joggers who cannot do so quietly seem almost to be intruders, and I have several times felt sorry for a man whose wife appears to awaken with motormouth in first gear. The fine day soon gave way to dense clouds and heavy rain as a storm moved over the island, so I took refuge at Hamilton Library until the storm passed and the sun returned accompanied by unusually strong winds which persisted through the night and into the next day. I had not properly researched shelter from the wind and found no viable solution during the first night of needing it, so spent an uncomfortable night cheered by the fact that it was at least not raining. On such nights, the airport may be the best option.
Earlier I had gone to Hot Lava Cafe to hear Sunburn, a band whose members I have met although I've never heard them play. While waiting for them to arrive, though, I began to think of other pieces to add to these Tales and they began to write themselves in my head, so I went across the street to the net cafe and emptied some of it into the rented terminal despite that being a foolishly extravagant luxury. Whatever else these tales may be, they are perhaps most useful to me as a way to empty the mind; once distilled into words here, I can stop thinking about writing it.
Now to see how effective a method it is of filing away the past ... once the tale is complete, can it sit on the shelf and make room in the mind for now?
013-014
These numbers, in accordance with the I Ching, were reserved for a series of Tales. 013 became the series known as Tales from Panther's Past and 014 the series, Possession in Great Measure.015
Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses yearning to be free ...Is that right? It's the way I remember it, anyway.
I left my new main sleeping place (the hacienda) just before dawn on a beautiful Saturday morning. On weekday mornings, a man claps his hands several times at six o'clock and says "time to get up!", but there was no one around on Saturday, not even other members of the huddled masses. I walked over to the new Kakaako Waterfront Park for the first time. It is a beautifully designed area providing a splendid panorama of the ocean, Waikiki and Diamond Head; I've seen no other place in this part of Oahu better for watching a sunrise. Only fishermen and a large colony of cats were there but joggers and walkers arrived as the sun was rising, soon followed by local families already staking claims to the picnic tables.
I have never seen so many calico cats at one time before. Many of them had the telltale notch in their ear, indicating they have been part of the campaigns conducted to round up stray cats, neuter them, and re-release them where they were found, but clearly some calicos managed to escape the round-up. While sitting on the wall watching the surfers, a very large orangish-cat with short dense fur came over to say hello and was so pleased by my strokes and scratches that it climbed into my lap. Auwe, that is one heavy cat. I think it would have stayed in my lap all morning if I had remained there, but after a half an hour or so I bid it farewell with a promise to stop by again soon.
Walking over to Ala Moana, I spotted a plastic ziplok bag on a bus stop bench. In it was what must have been at least a quarter pound of fresh fruit salad, so recently abandoned it was still chilled and the bananas not yet turning brown. As the I Ching says, a melon falls from heaven, and provided a most delicious breakfast. Since I had spent the last of my cash the day before on cat food, such "accidental" finds take on a lilies of the field aura.
A young fellow with very straight blonde hair, dressed in camouflage fatigues, was leaving the shower house as I went in for my morning shower. When I finished and went over to sit on a bench by the beach to dry, he showed up again with a folding chair which he placed near my bench. I noticed he was feeding crumbs to the birds. After awhile he moved the chair over onto the beach, took off his shirt, and then walked back to the area where he had been sitting. He seemed to be attempting to catch one of the zebra doves. Fat chance, I thought. I was wrong. He walked back to his chair with a ground dove in his palm, and it sat on the back of his chair with him. I don't know if that is a specific bird he has befriended or if he just has a general knack with birds, but it was a touching and impressive addition to the list of people I have observed who have special relationships with "non-owned pets".
For a brief time the evening before I had been feeling the same way I did when I last wrote about the difference between having very little money and no money at all, but glided out of it, helped and amused by things turning up at the moment I needed it. The definite champion of the evening was finding a cold, unopened large bottle of Budweiser, abandoned at Ala Moana. I waited around for quite some time to see if its owner was going to return, but no one ever came to claim it, so I had the equivalent of 2-3 glasses of beer while listening to a lady doing show tunes at the Hawaii Prince, or more accurately, from the Hawaii Prince, since the sound carried very well across the water of the marina and provided perfect background to the moon and Venus and the stars.
The provisioning angel arranged for a student to abandon a plate lunch and bottle of some strange berry tea drink for Saturday lunch; the abandoned lunch container, left right on a picnic table, was half full of Zippy's chili. But the best "accident" of all occurred on Saturday evening. I had been concerned because I needed a dollar to buy cat food and thought I might have to break my rule against asking people for money. I was walking through Ward Center on my way to hear Harold Kama, Jr. at Kincaid's. On the railing was half a sandwich, neatly folded in a ziplock bag. I put the bag in my pocket and continued walking, not opening it until I left the Center. Under the sandwich was a folded one dollar bill. I had half of a fine ham and cheese sandwich; Chloe had Captain's Choice for Sunday dinner with Whitefish and Tuna standing by for Monday.
Jonathan Cainer wrote of a minor setback to be expected during the week just ending. As I reviewed the week under the stars at Magic Island, I felt it was in many ways entirely a setback, or at least a state of stagnation. I did not do as many things I later thought were stupid; I did some silly ones which helped very much with the self-examination that has been underway and were thus perhaps not as silly as they might seem; but I didn't expand my time of doing nothing, yet accomplished little.
A major shift is still waiting to take place.
016
Tse-Kung asked about friendship. He said: Speak out from the centre of your mind, maintain the true process; if he can't hitch to it, don't disgrace yourself.Friday, the start of a new week in the Thursday-to-Thursday scheme of things, and the living is easy, fish are jumping and the cotton is high. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were hunting days; Wednesday was rags to riches.
After buying a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the kiosk near Hamilton Library on Sunday morning, there was exactly one penny left in my pocket. Even that was almost lost when I realized there was sand in the pocket, turned it inside out to empty it, forgetting the penny. It rolled down the sidewalk and it took some time to find it. It took even more time to hunt down suitably long cigarette butts and things to eat, all the while shaking my head at myself.
I had promised Captain John I would be at the Hot Lava Cafe on Sunday evening to help celebrate his long-worked-for submarine pilot's license. "You want something to eat?" was the first thing he said when I walked in. "No, but I want something to drink." The wish was more than fulfilled. When I left, I walked around the building and sat down on the first spot I found with overhead shelter. Wade Nakaya walked past, asked if I was ok. Yep, just fine, I said, pointing to the roof. He went on his way, I went to sleep. I woke up awhile later and started to walk down to the park on the Ala Wai at McCully but couldn't make it, stopped again in another sheltered spot and slept. Eventually I did make it to the Ala Wai, not long before dawn. When the sun came up, I was still drunk and stayed that way all morning.
The desire for a cup of coffee was fierce. It is easy to find abandoned cups half-full of Coke or Pepsi (even one root beer turned up), but abandoned coffee is rare. One of the places in the Food Court at Ala Moana has a basket on the counter with bread and pastries neatly wrapped in plastic. They are too stale to be sold, but still definitely edible and it is most kind of them to leave it for the hungry rather than just throwing it away. I took two croissants, then had the great good fortune of finding an almost full cup of coffee to dunk them in. It was a fine breakfast.
The tobacco supply was easy to maintain, thanks to the Japanese habit of taking only a few puffs on a cigarette and putting it out. An early morning hunting expedition at the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center yields a full day's supply. But the hunting mode was running so strong, I continued to look for tobacco, drinks and food even when I had more than two boxes of cigarette butts and wasn't hungry or thirsty. I was in very good spirits throughout, made even more so by being amused at how silly it all was. There have been so many times in the past month when whatever was needed just turned up that it was total nonsense to so actively hunt, but at least the Tourist didn't go into his misery act.
The Pilgrim had his moments, too. On Monday, I took a break from the hunt and sat in Saint Augustine's for awhile, said 40 Hail Mary's. I don't know why. When I left to get the bus to UH, an elderly Asian man waiting at the bus stop was reading The Confessions of Saint Augustine, a sweet little twist of fate. On Thursday, Sister McKinnon from the Mormons came over to me at the bus stop to chat as part of her missionary effort. She is a delightful young lady with clear, beautiful eyes that say more than any of her words. It was a pleasure to meet someone that young who is so much at peace with herself and the god she believes in. And there was also a fine moment at dawn when a cleaning man at Ala Moana walked by wearing a tee shirt with Matthew 7:7 on it, one of my favorite verses from the Gospels.
The State Library computer system went down on Monday evening and did not return until Wednesday morning, the longest time I have been offline in years, but I didn't miss it as much as I expected to. That was largely due to two friends: Helen Rapozo, who kindly treated me in the afternoon with a ticket to the enjoyable film "Starship Troopers" and two hotdogs (and provided Chloe with two cans of food, along with quarters which let me enjoy a cup of coffee while Chloe ate her turkey dinner); and, again, Captain John who asked me (ordered me, more like) to join his continuing celebration party at Duke's and the Wild Irish Rose. After another evening when Surfer on Acid drinks were flowing freely, I staggered out at some point and made it to DeRussy Beach where I spread out the poncho and fell asleep. The tide was out. It came in. It's quite a sensation, being awakened by the ocean rushing up your legs.
I moved over to Fort DeRussy itself and tried another sleeping spot. The sprinklers came on. Wet, slightly cold and still wobbling, I set out for Magic Island, only getting as far as the small building that once was the entrance to the vanished Tahitian Lanai. A circular staircase there has carpet on it, so I sat on a step until dawn. For the first time, I felt a tinge of regret, just a hint of it, but enough to fulfill the anticipation that it would eventually happen. I was reminded of the small village in the Himalayan foothills where I sat one afternoon and wanted nothing more than to return to the USA and get an ordinary job. A beautiful sunrise banished the regret. So two expected hurdles have come and gone: feeling bored, which hasn't reoccurred since the first time, and feeling regret. Neither was as bad as I had feared they might be.
On Wednesday morning money from a friend arrived. One of the readers of the Tales wrote that he felt sorry I have to live the way I am living. But I don't have to, it is entirely by choice. There are enough office-suitable clothes (and a pair of shoes) stored in a box; the arrival of this money gave me the option to move into the Nuuanu YMCA, retrieve the clothes, and tell the temp agency I have worked for in the past that I'm looking for work. Not going to happen.
The first thing I did was head to Smorgy's for breakfast. Then I went to buy a heavy cotton shirt, gray "chamois cloth", which I had spotted at Penney's when looking for something warmer to sleep in. There was only one left and I expected it to be gone before I could buy it. Instead, it was on sale at 25% off. That was the start of the shift to gray.
The usual Thursday evening, first with Aunty Genoa and her crew at the Regent, then Willie K and Harold Kama at the Pier Bar, was a mixed bag. Genoa was, as always, a delight to watch and to hear. There is so much love in her expression as she watches the young people performing with her that it seems to envelop the entire area in a joyful glow. With Willie it is sometimes so back-and-forth, so uneven that the wonderful moments get overshadowed by the trite. He and Harold both have a touch of arrogance that is even harder to deal with after being in Genoa's company, and I left there grumbling to myself.
Overall, I feel happier about this week than the prior one. The hunting nonsense on the penniless days was just that, nonsense, but clearly recognized as such each step of the way. Drinking too much is partly the result of feeling far more confident in my ability to live "on the street" and also a part of feeling in such good spirits. Drowning my sorrows has never been my way; I drink when I am feeling happy. Watching becomes more and more natural, a tree is still a tree but the manner of seeing it is changed. Right from the beginning of my experience with LSD, the thing I wanted the most was to get there and stay there without chemical assistance. I seem finally to have moved a step closer to that dream.
017
A second focus of resistance to degeneration was the League of Journeyers to the East. The brethren of that League cultivated a spiritual rather than an intellectual discipline. They fostered piety and reverence, and to them we owe important elements in our present form of cultural life and of the Glass Bead Game, in particular the contemplative elements. The Journeyers also contributed to new insights into the nature of our culture and the possibilities of its continuance, not so much by analytical and scholarly work as by their capacity, based on ancient secret exercises, for mystic identification with remote ages and cultural conditions.Standing at a bus stop. Young fellow was sitting on the bench reading aloud to himself from the Bible. I sat down next to him and asked "is that the entire thing?" (I knew it was, but as Confucius said about entering a strange temple, ask all the obvious questions first). He affirmed my suspicion that it was and I asked him to read Matthew 7:7. He read Matthew 7:1. I said "what?!" and he read it again. I needed to hear that one, too, but reminded him it was 7:7 I was asking for. A lady even older than I sat down between us and was listening to our conversation. He read 7:7 once, then once more. I said "I keep knocking." I asked the lady and she said she, too, keeps knocking but nothing happens. Poor lad, to be stuck between the two of us.
I had been wondering about the truth of my closing remarks in Tale 016 but I couldn't test them on Saturday because there were places I had agreed to be. I first went to the International Marketplace to hear BB Shawn. I got there somewhat early and, sitting at the bar, met a black fellow who has been in the Navy for 14 years, has been twice to the Persian Gulf. A young fellow came in and sat between us. He was relatively new to the Navy and was reporting to duty at Pearl Harbor the next morning. The veteran had a keen sense of what is happening in the Gulf area, understood the silly game the USA is playing with Saddam Hussein. It was an interesting discussion, all the more so considering the daily headlines. We were joined, after an interlude when a lady I know from another bar joined us briefly, by two young fellows from Brittany who are here for a two-week holiday, braving what they expected to be more active anti-French sentiment (as if Americans could maintain political memory for as long as it has been since the French exploded their most recent Bomb in the South Pacific).
I left our interesting conversation to listen to BB Shawn. Then I had to depart Shawn's gig early to attend a dinner party in honor of some misguided souls who are leaving Hawaii for San Diego, and after that, to hear Harold Kama, Jr. at Kincaid's.
Consequently, it was not until Sunday morning that I could mix a few special bits of fungi with a peach yogurt and have a peek down the rabbit hole. During the period of lift-off, there was a much-anticipated experience which I shall not at this time write about and it did not disappoint, nor did my first expedition in a very long time into the alternative reality of chemically-fueled existence. But I was right in 016, it was not the giant step it would have been at one time. The tricks of vision are there now any time I want them, except for that molecular level which only comes with very high octane fuel; music could be listened to with a special significance which I could no doubt have any time if I would shut up, slow down, and listen; watching was, as always fun. As Karoli Baba said to Ram Dass after his first dose of LSD, "more medicine, give me more medicine". I've always thought that parallel to Dylan's "what else can you show me?" and that was, in a kindly sense, my response to the mushroom breakfast.
When evening arrived I had no desire to venture into the usual music club scene, but walked down to the Ala Wai Community Park and fell asleep in the little bleachers they have there. Ah, but the ever-changing game between the Authorities (in this case, the City & County of Honolulu) and the urban nomads goes on; the rules may have been in place all along, I know not, but the strict enforcement of those rules seems to be a matter of personal choice of the Enforcer, often total amateurs with no training in the mantle of Authority. Such was the case with the poor fellow who wakened me shortly after eleven, telling me the park is closed from 11 to 5 and that I had to leave, adding "if you don't leave, I'll call the police". "That won't be necessary", I assured him, and went on my way wondering why he was so nervous he had to add that threat when speaking to someone who had already pleasantly assured him there was no problem. There is a problem, but it is not with some young man who has a minimal-wage job looking after a small park all night long; the problem is with the City Council and their absurd arrogance, but that discussion is for another place.
As I walked to Ala Moana, I thought of writing a Tale, a history of the League of Urban Nomads, written from a viewpoint decades hence when a more enlightened society has better come to grips with the debate between the nomad and the settler, a debate which has existed from the earliest time of humankind, a drama which is still being played out in the streets and parks of Honolulu.
Readers of the Tales write to me, some puzzled, some complimenting, some challenging and questioning. One challenge was to my remark that I drink when happy, not to drown my sorrows. I was asked why I wanted to "escape" happiness. But that is the fallacy about drugs of all kinds, not just alcohol. "Escape" is not the reason to use them, although it may well be why so many people abuse them, hoping it will provide them with such a luxury. Alcohol is a fuel to get from one place to another place. I may be sitting in Hamilton Library at the University of Hawaii, but if I am in a happy state of mind, I am in a very different place than I would be if I were in a miserable state of mind. From the launching pad of happy, I know where I can travel with alcohol and it is a place I like very much. Unfortunately, too often greed eventually appears and the journey goes off to befuddlement. Confucius was said to drink liberally but never to the state of becoming fuddled, yet another way in which that gentleman is an admirable role model.
At Ala Moana, then, I settled onto the sand of the beach of the lagoon at Magic Island and watched meteors streak dramatically across the sky. But the sand was too cold with only a plastic poncho as a shield, so I went off in search of some grass mats. I found a large bag of potato and macaroni salad which looked and smelled quite fresh and thus made an excellent post-midnight snack. I couldn't finish it all, so left the remainder on a bench near where other nomads stop for the night, and it was gone in the morning, as expected. I found two grass mats, returned to Magic Island and slept with them under me and, in the hours just before dawn when it became quite chilly, with the poncho as a blanket. Dreams have returned after an absence of some time, or at least after a time of not remembering them, and there was a pleasant night in the Austrian Alps with only a person who did not properly care for his house plants to concern me.
Dawn was beautiful, as it has been for several days while the sky over Oahu has been remarkably clear, but I was too lulled by my Austrian existence and returned to sleep after only briefly admiring Mother Nature's panorama. Waking again, it was almost ten o'clock so I had a shower, took the bus into Waikiki and spent some time at a laundromat reading Hesse while all the clothes I carry, save for the shorts I was wearing, were washed and dried.
Once upon a time, the day after a journey with exotic fuel was often the occasion for melancholy, a wish to return, as Steppenwolf wished to return to the Magick Theatre every time he got himself kicked out. But sometimes it was, as Grace Slick said so memorably at Woodstock, "a new dawn." The body was refreshed by the sleep and the shower, the mind was refreshed by its holiday journey and its overnight visit to the Alps, and all seemed for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
018
I've been all around the world, boys ... trying to get to Heaven before they close the door ...One day, decades ago in London, the postman delivered a 12x12 parcel which contained Into the Purple Valley, one of Ry Cooder's delightful albums, with a note saying "You must hear this." I was very grateful for the gift and the advice and continued to follow Cooder's career closely for many years. When Chicken Skin Music was released, I am sure I read the liner notes and checked out the credits, but Gabby Pahinui's name meant nothing to me so I spent a long time listening to him without knowing who he was. A reader of the Tales kindly sent me a tape of that album. It brings back many happy memories, accented now by the added appreciation of Gabby and Atta Isaac's participation.
On a beautiful sunny Friday morning, I awoke just before dawn and made my way on foot from Manoa to Ala Moana Beach where I had a cup of tea and a shower, then sat in the sun to dry. I walked on to the new Kakaako Waterfront Park where, on top of the highest hill with a view of this entire part of the island, John and Mariah Feary exchanged vows in a simple, but touching wedding ceremony. Later, I ended up at Jelly's with Kory K and thanks to a piece of paper sent with the Cooder tape, I bought Bob Dylan's new album, Time out of Mind. One evening long, long ago, I went for a walk alone through Greenwich Village and passed a club where I heard the most extraordinary rasping voice and almost-pounding acoustic guitar. It was my first encounter with that genius, Mr. Zimmerman, and I then almost made a nuisance of myself trying to convince everyone I knew that he is, indeed, a genius. The new album reconfirms that long-held opinion more strongly than anything he has done in years, and it was a special pleasure to sit on campus Saturday morning as the sun was just appearing over the hill and listen to the album from start to finish, enjoying every track. So my tape collection has expanded and both are well worth the extra weight of the backpack.
The week just past included one day when it rained almost continuously throughout the day and evening, the first time that has happened since this trip began. It was irksome to either stay inside all the time or to wrap up in the poncho whenever going outside, reminding me how spoiled we are by the weather here and how much less pleasant the life of an urban nomad would be elsewhere. The week also included, as usual, a number of evenings spent listening to fine musicians make excellent music: BB Shawn with Bobby Ingano; Matt Swalinkavich, also with Bobby Ingano sitting in; Aunty Genoa and her crew; and the very special evening near Pearl Harbor at the Feary Wedding Party. All three Cruz brothers, BB Shawn, Taz & Thomson, Mackey Feary and others jammmed together in various combinations all evening with the groom occasionally joining in.
It was one of those rare weeks when I didn't make it to the Willie K gig at the Pier Bar. The bartender at Manoa Garden was in an even more jovial mood than usual, several of the regulars were there and I got into something of a drinking contest with a young Japanese fellow whose name is Tomita, a fact learned by asking him about the characters he has tattooed around his ankle. The tattoo is only in its early stages and will eventually include a dragon with its head near the knee and a tail curled around the lower ankle. Tomita-san was a delightful bar companion and a champion drinker; by the time I left to go to the Regent to hear Genoa, I knew it wasn't going to be an extended evening in bars.
It was an "ordinary" week with a few extraordinary touches: the wedding; the compass on top of that hill; the music at the wedding party; the hours with Tomita-san; an incredibly graceful young man doing Tai Chi at Ala Moana Beach one morning; a black cat I have courted for weeks finally allowing me to stroke her head; the Dylan songs.
Nearing the end of the main section of Magister Ludi, I particularly enjoy Knecht's discussion of his decision to so drastically change his life, and saying What I am seeking and what I need is a simple, natural task, a person who needs me. What more could any man wish for ...
019
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there ...My Saturday evening often includes taking the bus to Ala Moana when Hamilton Library closes at five, spending some time looking around the shopping center, crossing over to the park to wash and watch the sunset, walking over to Ward Center and visiting Border's. The experience is heightened now by the onset of the Christmas shopping mania; what always seems rampant consumerism takes on the atmosphere of a major mass psychosis. I saw nothing which excited my desire-to-possess center at Ala Moana, but those dormant energies are always fully aroused at Border's.
It still amazes me that so much music I once diligently collected, and with some difficulty, is now all available in huge boxed sets. The odd thing, though, is that while this is true of vintage music of all kinds, more recent once-available recordings aren't in the bins at Border's. The only stage work of Philip Glass they had was his "Beauty and the Beast", which I still haven't heard. I listened to a few things via their headphone sampler set-up, the most enjoyable of which was an album of London theatre music done by Twiggy. She leans heavily on Gertrude Lawrence for style and mannerisms, but that's a decent role model to be sure.
On the bookshelves, I looked with some longing at a new one-volume edition of Gurdjieff's Beezlebub's Tales to His Grandson, or All and Everything, but the $55 price tag is even more impractical than carrying around that heavy a book (both in weight and content), even more so since they have the 1950 edition at Hamilton. Border's had several copies of Be Here Now by Ram Dass, one of my favorites from the psychedelic years, and a goodly number of other books on esoteric matters which I would want to own if I had a bookcase.
Kanilau arrived to sing but I was on my way to see Harold Kama so didn't linger, walked out of Border's, made the ritual nods to the Buddhas in the windows of the restaurant up there, and continued on to Ward Warehouse. I arrived at Kincaid's before the musicians and stayed until the end of their gig at 11:30. Harold was in excellent form and my mind stopped playing Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet" for awhile. I spent a week's food and drink money in three hours, the first such fit I've had for some time, almost started berating myself afterwards but decided it is stupid to go on playing that game, even more stupid than whatever foolishness I berate myself for.
I hadn't decided where to spend the night but walked out to Magic Island to enjoy the stars. It was, as usual, almost deserted and the few people who could be noticed in the darkness could only be seen as silhouettes when moving around. I put the Dylan tape on again, went out to the end of the peninsula and danced to my favorite songs in a mood which had more in common with the late 60s than the late 90s. I've often wondered how Dylan would handle old age. He seems to be thinking about it now, too, and while I certainly wouldn't follow him by wishing I could trade places with a young man (as he sings in one song), "Not Dark Yet" is almost an anthem for this age and some aspects of the way a man can look at it. Many of the tracks are great for dancing, especially when alone, slightly drunk and under the stars, but "Not Dark Yet" is also a wonderful walking song.
When I finally settled down to sleep, it turned out to be the coldest night yet this winter. The grass mats sufficiently insulate the sand's coldness but the poncho is too difficult to keep in place as a blanket. When the sun finally appeared after a beautiful and colorful dawn, its warmth was much appreciated. I had a shower and took the bus to UH, with almost three hours to go before library opening. After a breakfast matching the previous Sunday's, I sat for awhile in the tranquil Japanese garden and finished reading the main part of Magister Ludi, then moved to the little Thai-style pavilion on the hill facing the Mall and listened to the Dylan tape again. It is a great pleasure to see one of the men I most admire from my generation add to his already impressive legacy with such fine style.
020
But what then? Then there was a brief pause of unconsciousness, or slumber, or death, and immediately afterward you were awake again, had to admit the currents of life into your heart once more and once more let the dreadful, lovely, terrible flood of pictures pour into your eyes, endlessly, inescapably, until the next unconsciousness, until the next death. That was, perhaps, a pause, a moment of rest, a chance to catch your breath. But then it went on, and once again you were one of the thousand figures engaged in the wild, intoxicating, desperate dance of life. Ah, there was no extinction. It went on forever.Cainer has been warning about a square between Mars and Saturn, so I was prepared for static this week, possibly amplified by the Thanksgiving holiday. I have never been totally sure of "forewarned is forearmed" when it comes to astrology, but then I have also never been totally sure how valid a discipline astrology is. Accepting no accidents, it is reasonable (for me, at least) to assume the pattern of the solar system at the time of birth might contain relevant information; accepting the very obvious effect of the moon upon this planet, it seems reasonable to assume that each of the planets has some effect as well. So I have long accepted astrology as having relevance and have many times been impressed by how events fit into the scenario indicated by astrological calculations, while never being totally persuaded of even the basics, much less the elaborations like the various house systems.
Imagining Mars squared off in a boxing ring against Saturn is somewhat mind-boggling; Cainer interprets it as encountering some obstacle that blocks progress, but in his usual fashion of looking for the silver lining, suggests that the pace was perhaps in need of adjustment. I haven't felt any progress was being made anyway, or certainly not much, so feel no slackening of pace. But it is an observably less harmonious inner landscape and I have been moving through the days with caution. Some of the lack of harmony is, as expected, reaching the time of the month when each penny spent must be weighed carefully. That should, of course, always be the case for someone in my position but I strongly dislike living like that, always have, preferring to spend money as I please and when I please when I have it and suffering the consequences if it runs out before more appears. I have never argued with anyone who called this an irresponsible attitude (and many have, including at times myself). So in one aspect of the Mars-Saturn dance, I am squared off against myself, denying myself things I want to do, trying to hang on to the dwindling dollars, even though I know it is in some ways easier to have none than to so tediously debate whether I should have one beer now or four cups of tea later. And worst of all is knowing that it doesn't really matter. Like the fellow in Hesse's Indian Life, I can get very discouraged by my undisciplined mind. Unlike him, I don't know of any sage sitting in a forest clearing waiting for me to become his servant and disciple.
Oh