SACRED JOURNEY
Red Jordan Arobateau
SACRED JOURNEY
Copyright © 2010, by Red Jordan Arobateau
All rights reserved.
JOURNEY Volume’s 17-21.
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
All un-attributed quotes are from the Prophet Red Jordan Arobateau.
ISBN: 978-0-557-33541-1
Published by RED JORDAN PRESS
Redjordanarobateau.com
USA
To be an artist you must have complete dedication. Single minded—from this place such beauty arises. Are artists a higher order of people—yes—in this one thing—they can be real jerks in other areas of their lives—they take for granted the services and friendships of those around them unscrupulously—in order to pollinate an entire community, a whole generation—and leave behind a long legacy for those who will come to appreciate their work, multitudes to be inspired. They are worth their often-expensive price.
THE OLD MAN’S JOURNAL
2009
Book 1— April 21.
Book 2— June 9.
Book 3— July 23.
Book 4— August 28.
Book 5— September 22 to
October 24.
PART 1.
JOURNEY 17.
213.
April 21, Tuesday.
PM
The ocean is 60,000 feet deep. Only 3% of the world’s oceans are known. We don’t know what lives in the deep. Giant squids, the size of a London bus wash ashore, but never has one been seen alive.
You can transfuse blood from a chimpanzee to a human, but cannot transfuse blood from a chimp to a gorilla.
--From the movie Earth, on Charlie Rose.
Wednesday
—Headed out to do survival stuff.
If had $ it would be simple.
Lack of money could not get latex rubber bed cover needed to prevent dust mites by a few $ difference. So he purchased an inferior one, hoping it would stop his itching. Flea outbreak. 8 bites, pink, ugly; on arms; one on leg. They itch, ugh.
His heart fluttering like a little sparrow flutters towards the sun. Transman was upon his daily duties; another emergency was to transfer tiny monies from all his little accounts into the main one: Am running around trying to make the check good—or my website will crash!
Now he was encountering men he knew from the store in the street—they looked normal size, since he was standing up, where as before they had looked very tall; he saw now, this was because he’d been sitting down in the window seat for 2 years.
Wednesday balmy. Sun going in, & out. Coast Hotel. Grace Free Food Program. Across the warm asphalt street, a metallic clank; a set of keys tossed down from 4th floor strikes with a ferocious clatter directly in the path of a Chinese girl with long thick black hair down her back; unperturbed, she stoops, picks them up, and lets herself in the front door of a tenement building.
Red got there. He took charge, found out the designated dining area; began setting up the tables/chairs, directing others to help.
10 minutes later The White Man came in, he got a different greeting. Better. –More respect, and respect assumed. It is he who will get all the credit.
Thursday Approaching noon, April 23
Nada.
PM Thursday, April 23
Guess you will think I’m pretty stupid for just now thinking of this. ---To truly take the vow of poverty I should not complain so much! Should live like those others, low off, live—and I should do this happily—for that is my vow!
Sometimes, T. thought of his loneliness. Tears washed his face in pain.
Sky drifts smoke overhead like a white dappled pony; there is still light shining in the heavens, but down here the streets are dim, soon darkening.
He encountered the Mosque’s local Inman walking on his daily routes; a smaller, lighter-complexioned Arab; wears robes, and a colorful fez.
People do what they are good at. Here along the sidewalk of Polk Strassa comes a big burly guy; he has self-enhanced 21” biceps, which are a landscape of jumbled blue & red tattoos. Has a jar-head; bull neck. He is the manager of the boxing rink. Further along, there is an artist; sensitive, non-muscled, given to empathy and cultural interests. These are the gifts given to them; and these they have developed.
Pigeons eat out of the common gutter. Yellow particles of paint from an aged median divider lines crumbles up off the street—can they tell the difference between toxic plastic and dropped crumbs of human food?
Transman had his head stuck in a bag of Cheetos from the free food pantry, dining guiltily. He feels like toxic slum dweller of India. Those in such abject poverty where there is little food, so they eat pharmaceutical drugs in lieu of bread to curb their appetites. Am eating chemical fat processed fat dyed yellow (Cheetos) to give myself a boost.
He; so different a person; one odd character. Ripe for a cult of personality. People miss me after I’m gone from their presence because I’m one of a kind. He was a reflection of poverty of spirit in the others.
To be an artist you must have complete dedication. Single minded—from this place such beauty arises. Are artists a higher order of people—yes—in this one thing—(they can be real jerks in other areas of their lives)—they take for granted the services and friendships of those around them unscrupulously—in order to pollinate an entire community, even a whole generation—and leave behind a long legacy of works, for those who will come to appreciate them. Multitudes will be inspired. They are worth their often-expensive price.
Comancho (Mr. Moonface) gives my catalogue & 1st Art Retrospect to author-publisher AK, with parting love, as he prepares to leave California. Well! Transman thought---it would be great to be published again! Was last experienced in 1998.
Noon, Friday, April 24
Well, if you join you must dance like us. The wolves said, looking at the human, expectantly. Their paws in place, ready to begin. On step the wolves walked back and forth with a 2-step gait. Back and forth the whole pack—of some 100 wolves, and wolf-dogs. As they stepped, s/he saw they were slowly forming a circle. In awhile Creator began to descend among them, & in the middle of the circle Creator Herself began to move—majestic, shimmering, a magnificent Wolfess, dancing. This is the wonderful thing I saw.
--To the Prophet Red.
***
My ways are not your ways.
My thoughts are higher then your thoughts.
God sees above—above the constriction of time—sees the future & what we want or request for our lives might be ill-advised with this foreknowledge. So God—being a loving parent does not grant the thing we’ve so desired—knowing it will kill us.
Near Midnight, Friday April 24
Swine Flu spreading fast. It worries medics. This flu has killed 60 people in Mexico, and has crossed the border into America—In Texas & California. Combination of swine virus, avian virus, and human virus, from Europe, Asia & America—all wrapped up into one strain.
Day room at Trans full of people. Chicken Adobe had been served-- too small an amount. Absolutely no food remains in the joint, from the large meeting room in front to the locked-kitchen in back. Refrigerator & table bare. Because he had arrived late. He had arrived late because Art had called. It was vastly more important.
Am back at Babylon Falling, where a heated discussion progresses. Concerning the World Bank, the IMF agency—more money comes back into it then goes out in loans. Yet it is called World Aid. This is deceptive; it is predatory. It is the Global Loanshark. Then T thought of this at the store: When I get my money for being a world-heralded artist I would be generous.
X, a well-known author/poet has told us a sad tale of the estate of the late Jack Michelean, poet, alcoholic; who died ten years ago, clutching a bottle of red wine in a brown paper bag, aboard BART subway on route home. The elderly Michelean had an important body of work, which is turning to dust, inaccessible, and unknown by new generations. This author/poet says that Michelean failed to promote himself sufficiently while he was still living—his papers, rights to his published work has reverted to his brother who has taken them in boxes off into the desert and there they sit. No publishers nor reviewers nor biographers have come sniffing around trying to liberate the work—since he was not well known in his lifetime. The suspicion is that the poet would not cooperate with would-be publishers & promoters, thus the sad state of his work today. --So this should not happen to you! The author/poet admonishes, somewhat in the manner of a scolding Jewish mother, pointing his forefinger at Transman’s dumpy small form seated peacefully in his windowseat.
Poet/Author was given some of Red’s books from the kind Proprietor who is trying to promote the old guy so the world will know him. This poet is well-connected. However he testifies sadly, the publishing industry is dying. It is going downhill rapidly, the end is near. Art he thinks is what can remain individual, fresh. He declares that T needs to concentrate on his painting. This art will become famous, then they will buy your books, because they want to see what you have to say.
Later that evening, in a delayed reaction, Transman felt queer stirrings in his nerves, as if he was suddenly encased on top of an uneasy base. As if the rock of security upon which he’d been perched was now revealed to be temporal, and might begin to shift. ---Was publication right around the corner? Was fame not far off? Finally? After 65 years of living? The product sat there, assembled boxes and stacks; books—all archived here and there over the globe; the paintings done, photographed; their images on the Internet--- his wares had been manufactured inside the small studio-factory-home at midnight, then dragged out here to the world marketplace in the early morning. He was ready! Or he thought he was.
214.
I have always been secure in my identity as part blax because I came from 2 generations of part-blax folks, Creoles, who knew who they were and were proud of it.
Noon, Saturday April 25
Transformations. Idea for a book title. Am on way to Trans Center, to attend one of the POC (People Of Color) groups—and dine. Also get on Internet.
Must mention my feelings back at that POC group. One new person asked others with a similar shade color of dark skin as himself what he can expect from folk newly perceiving him as a black male (feared & despised) instead of a black female (accepted, & encouraged). Of course I was not asked. My own situation being lightskinned is never brought up, so as to balance, to have equal validation for my own life situation. So that there is a continual barrage of folks talking about Asian problems, black (visibly black) problems, Latino problems; at which time a lively repertoire breaks out among those respective groups. Persons Of Mixed Race Heritage--they are never going to speak to it. If I don’t nobody will.
PM
Oh periodically in the progression of my JOURNEY must remind you readers, any quotes un-attributed to someone else, are My Own creations!
Remember his teens & young adulthood when he was younger, wilder, crazier, & knew less; & had the soul of a poet. A poetic mind is part dark madness. Determined he strode thru the years. By straining to concentrate, became more focused, developed a clear mental path; then some of the poetry took leave of his mind, some, but not all.
My usual style of writing is to continuously capture inspired thoughts, poetic phrases which are instantaneously given to me from some subconscious source, some heaven-sent sphere; write them down, put them into my NOTES. Later sort these various NOTES into one of my various corresponding books-in-progress that it matches, and when a book gets fat enough, sit down & go thru the NOTES, (which consist of dialogue, description, character, flora & fauna of scenery), stringing them together in a burst of inspired energy, applying this golden glue between them, while simultaneously using my mind to craft it; make a plot, read in meaning, develop character descriptions, place; watching the book take wings, as my mental powers to take it to its finished height.
So then during this process, his mad poetry went into it too… part of the golden glue.
The poet/author & Proprietor continued their discussion of Transman's Outsider Art, racking their minds as how to present his yet-undiscovered works. @ bookstore they berated me for putting my stuff on Google, free for anyone to read, a’la The Information Age:
X: A publisher will not want to publish you if they think the public can get all your stuff on line, for free.
Red: Yes but only about 30 of my books are on line, the other 60 aren’t… I couldn’t put them up because they are typewritten & not on disc.
X: Yes, but the publisher will think, OK, the public will just read thru the 30 books on line first before they are interested in getting to the one we publish that they have to pay for. No I’m telling you a publisher won’t touch your book when you’ve got all that stuff up on line for free.
And this made sense. Then Comancho berates me: You’re so anxious to get up 23 titles up on the electronic book! What they don’t realize is that—publishers have ignored me for 11 years. And, prior to my New York publisher, all my life before! And being up on Google—at least my work is seen! Also, having my stuff on the cutting edge of modern technology today—the Electronic Book, is a great inspiration to me! It encourages me to keep on---I see my work is out there, despite having no publishers, and no promoters! In short, both maneuvers have allowed me to break out of my eggshell like a baby chick does, into the public world—and me remaining confident and inspired is most important for continued execution of new works! That is key! What is the true base of all this hubbub is not sales, not revenue, not money, not publishers—but the words created! The art painted! That is the goods! What would happen if, in devoting all my energy to superficial dealings—I lost the drive to do more art?
Sometimes when arising from a seated position, Transman Red took 1 full minute to slowly rise on creaking knees, and stand there besides his window seat, as his knees lock into place, his joints jointed once again—the affects of arthritis.
Things are changing. Things are moving. T thought, as he made his way across the store to the back room. Dipped under the curtain. Bare white shelves greeted him. The storeroom, empty. He went to the coffee pot & poured himself & the Proprietor a cuppa'.
This society takes every opportunity to make money off you—charges for anything extra, it is sickening, maddening, makes you murder, makes you give up--- finally it all comes to a boiling point as now, stock market collapse, realestate flipping collapse… the corrupt financial world shaken to its knees.
Noon, April 26, Sabbath
Think I will begin painting again as soon as Retrospect 2---STATEMENT OF THE ART—is sent to Miss Art Book POD.
PM
Life; as digested thru my eyes.
Church, spirituality, God—are all denigrated by religion—the religious hate turned against people like us. So there is a barrier between our small human mind, and the gigantic mind of God. Plus at this upscale church everyone appears richer then him with more advantages, and less understanding of him, because they haven’t been stuck down there, in moribund poverty—which is aggravating.
Red prayed briefly as he wandered the avenues between designations—the POC group at which he’d obtained computer access, food, a place to be, and a measure of support. The bank, to see if miraculously any funds had been added to his account (they had not). Thinking, he might be so late he’d miss the service, and that it didn’t matter much anyway—due to the aforementioned barrier. Yet the Spirit came to him and said there would be a Word for him.
So he turned in the Cathedral to hear the Word of God.
Pulling his silver cart up the steps he entered the stone gray cold, towering edifice, which blocks out the sun. It is warm still, in the sun outside. Inside, cold. Stone. Keep your coat on, he thought. Yet here is warmth of a different sort.
Getting thru this lonesome Sunday, thru this life. Very rough, but not impossible.
The 6pm service was being held on top of the labyrinth, beside the baptismal font—in fact the communion table set dead center upon nirvana---or the center of the labyrinth. Congregants all sit in a circle upon the labyrinth’s stone demarcations, waiting for the bells to chime. He took a seat by which he could salute the Cross, from time to time, nodding his head at it. ---The Crucifix hung way down at the opposite end of the cathedral in the nave---about half a city block away. And before him to his right with a small turn he could see a magnificent stained glass window on which was written words so appropriate to his situation—DARKNESS BEFORE LIGHT. Then suddenly he saw it. —The Word… THE WORD! THE WORD PROMISED HIM!
NO! NO! There emblazoned in the red-run light of sunset which filtered into majestic colors of the stained glass window, a lively jumble of saints in medieval clothes, religious symbols, were scattered a few words. And one of these words was---Pussy. Yes. Pussy! Transman nearly howled in delight! Well, God certainly does have a sense of humor! Pussy! ---In his very own favorite stained glass window!!!! WOW!
From the bell tower Cathedral bells ring. 6 times. The service begins.
The Buddhist gong intones with a long-lasting echo. A pool of water is the human soul. God requests; respectfully asking permission:
Can I write upon the stillness of your heart?
And Transman bowed his head, biting his lower lip in a sad pout, child-like. Yes. Yes God, You can. Lead me in Your ways. Write a path for me on the waters of my heart.
After the service, he immediately rose and rolling his cart over the marble floor went to stand before the towering multi-color window. He read names. So! It was a name! And there saw; Pussy was not Pussy at all, but Pusy. —That is probably some famous person. So what! Its close enough! To P*U*S*S*Y! HA HA HAHA! He thought gleefully.
Talked to church pal Jay after service, and a gay woman from MCC, the gay church. Then he walked down the hill with X. one of the sacrocents there who he suspected was also ‘family’. Although may not be public. Then he walked on down his street alone.
They’re striking the stage at the storefront theatre. All the gaudy plywood cut-out set design outside, wood broken into kindling for transport to the dump. What is to be saved carted off in trucks.
PM
Death toll in Mexico from Swine Flu; 100 cases. This becomes a peril when your loved one is a case.
Noon, Tuesday, April 28,
Hope to receive my 4 paintings from Richard tonight—the last 4 images in Retrospect #2. Awaiting art book POD book to be completed at bookstore—even when it’s finished have no money to purchase test copy. Waiting for Bancroft. Waiting for Obama stimulus package. Waiting for retro-Renters Rebate, or current rebate—if ever. Then can put up 4 new pix on website and online art gallery commercial site— Yeah!
4PM; afternoon, Wednesday April 29
I realize thru no fault of my own, but thru societies constructs— thru circumstances I’ve never had any control over, that I’m never going to have any money; and I see the end of my life in old age I’ll probably be homeless, destitute…
--Lady V., Trans Support Group
Her voice trailed off. A sad, too-intelligent, big-eyed girl dressed in lace & lavender; in our trans support group.
Now on his self-drawn calendar was marked in one of the made up boxes, under June 18th -- bookstore closing.
9AM computer lab, enrolled. 10:30 seniors diner at St Anthony’s. 12, St. Boniface service. T marched thru the streets, back and forth between 4 facilities, determinedly on his destinations of survival.
In the streets he spied a rotund friar in a brown habit, rope around his waist. There are very few of them.
The regimen of servers parade out, each baring a trey, fully loaded with today’s menu. Lady with tall, perpetual smile holds a faded picture of a rotund friar, St. Anthony in brown monks habit & rope belt, identical to the friar just saw in the street. His hand points in the direction the smiling processional of servers must go—to tables full of us hungry, who await.
They move in a circular pattern, around the great dining hall. Foods getting nearer, nearer. Soon the servers circle Transman’s table handing down their trays. He shared the long table with half dozen others, including the old Philippina who always somehow has 5 meal tickets instead of a single one 1 allotted everyone else, and puts her excess of broccoli, or cabbage, turkey & rice into plastic baggies; as she says; “for de’ blind man”.
T dined, while hustling himself up 3 treys & packing stuff away in an orange & a red carrying sack, which he hung on his silver cart, so that this dining experience was not so much about eating food, but foraging.
At the Living Room was a short TV documentary concerning Jim Jones. The Evangelical Preacher who brought destruction to 900 of his cult followers. Although he was brought up poor, and lonely—abandoned as a child, ---his criminal path was not a lust for riches, or for companionship, but a lust for power.
Dear God, I must be very intelligent; very well-advised, and not seek power for powers sake, but for Your work sake---that is separate & not a adjunct of myself or my personal reasons or desires.
--T Red’s vow.
Red sat at a small table in the Living Room amid a plethora of old black & white men, crooked, beard-grizzled with age. Wrapped in soiled, but warm coats, many slept. Others, faces focused on the sole entertainment, a television set, uncaring. Having fixed himself a good cuppa’, w/real milk. He watched the corrupted downhill fiery crash of the false prophet Jim Jones, & thought of all the aborted tries of so many failed prophets thru history—would-be champions for social justice, attempting to act on the Holy beliefs of Jesus’s teachings taken directly from his sermon on the mount. Then, there are a few successes:
Mother Teresa
St. Francis of Assisi
St. Anthony
Dorothy Day
Princess Diana
And he felt the difference may be that some do not veer from The Path.
Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech haolam ashar kidshanu be mitzvotav vetzi vanu laasok be divrei Torah.
Which translated from the Hebrew simply means to follow the instructions written down by God in Torah. (Also can be found in the Christian bible, Koran, etc.) Check every move you make against these right teachings.
Awhile later saw Transman enter the dingy, magnificent St. Boniface’s; taking his now-accustom front-row pew. In the back of the church came a THUD as a kneeler flipped over onto the marble floor, opening for use, noisily. Un-respectful. It’s loud echo rippled mightily thru the grand church. He soon discovered a causality. 1 food bag from dining earlier had turned upside down & leaked thru its carrying pack, wetting the fringe of his coat where it had been attached to the silver cart during the temporarily hot weather. Liquid from the bag had also leaked over the golden brown/yellow ancient wood pew beside him in a pool. Hastily, embarrassed, he mopped up the pool with a napkin, his square short-nailed fingers rubbing anxiously over the wood grooved grain.
& then the lighting of the lamps…
At St. Boniface was only a single chalice; bread dipped in wine—so he could not take communion.
PM
Another frustration. That laptop promised now months ago, has still not made its way to me; its in the hands of a sick person—probably dying. This makes me feel strange. How can you argue with someone who is dying? Saying to the actual owner of the laptop who made the promise—you agreed to give me that laptop! ---And so on and so forth. This is putting me in a bind and am mildly pissed about it. But dare not say anything. Hard to argue with death! Another frustration. Another reminder that when and if I ever do get rich I’ll be a son of a bitch! Then I can control material goods! Yet this is one of the very things have spoken to God about (repeatedly!) My vow of poverty!
215.
Our society has become an evil of such unfathomable depths and we’re choosing that!
--Illuminations
Somewhere in public, Transman shouted out something to the effect of: To maintain the gargantuan lifestyle America has, we have to enforce it. Send out our military all over the globe to do the job. Transman and his inappropriate comments.
Approaching Midnight, Thursday April 30
Honestly don’t believe that the average person thinks very much, they just set out to imitate the others, be like what they know. They might try to think outside the box, they might try to muster up compassion for a stranger they do not know, they all have heard of the parable of the Good Samaritan who helped a stranger who had fallen by the side of the road, and did not pass her by, and they do help—for a while, for a minute; but few devote their lives to a cause, especially of a good nature which has little or no material gain for themselves. Observers see the struggle of artists, who put in many hours at their art-jobs over a long lifetime, and have little to show for it in money or security at an old age—tho the same amount of work, harnessed to drudgery of the common world in an equal amount of time would have provided for them substantially. Some breed of people are afflicted in their early years—and this affliction makes them different from the common herd. Some whine and mope about their disadvantage—but others use it to gain greater insight. For some, affliction becomes a blessing—in disguise.
Oh how human beings constrict themselves, so they cannot wiggle out of the trap!
Recall a family in which the mother was schizophrenic. Babbling to herself, no longer fit to be a wife, nor a mother to her children. One child was severely crippled. The father could not take his plight much longer—and committed suicide, in the closet of their home—leaving the crippled child, and one normal child, to live on with their insane babbling mother. The father must have felt so trapped—with only one exit—into the closet with a loaded pistol, never to come out again.
Friday, May 1, Pay Day
Lousy $20 State Disability deposited. Good. Can by food. Had to borrow $170 from Dr. S. Will repay at $85 two payments of each, when Bancroft & Obama arrive. Will we get Renters Rebate this year? Was cruel for the rich Governor & his cronies to cut that from us poor disabled & seniors—whereas they did not cut their own overpriced salaries. All the safety nets one depends on dry up when greater further-reaching emergencies come.
1st painting episode; teens to 20’s.
2nd 1967-1970.
3rd begun 2008, continuing.
During the 2nd dispensation, late ‘60’s after the white heat of a painting day, if he was not entirely satisfied with a picture, he’d wash it off of the canvas with turpentine & start again. He was working in oils then. Today he valued his brushstrokes and would keep and finish a picture—one of those portrayals of the inner workings of his mind. His ‘starting again’ was to begin a fresh new canvas.
A few nights ago got the returns from Richard. So now more canvases fill the length of my canvas rack. Each one represents a thought, an idea. Deep greens, blues, pinks, multicolor
After dropping disc off at friend Comancho’s he headed vertically up the hill to Grace. —Late to service, arriving at the end of the robed priests homily, but in time for communion. The liberal Episcopal might be where he would do his work… more chance of it here, then down there. Recalled the lower priests (down the hill) at St Boniface mouthing the required words--- Lord I Am Not Worthy.
I am not worthy---do not need to hear this in the church. Saying it. —I already know it. The human race for all its pride, and self- accomplishments is like an ape beating its furry breast. It is like an un-diapered child.
Red: All the wrong I’ve done, the mistakes.
Jesus: I forgive the past.
He then took a serious communion. Want to spit it out of my mouth--- one part of him, the negative side, the angry side, the so-hurt-from- childhood side, the brittle side, the hopeless side. But he would not! He welcomed in the Christ with his conscious mind.
Bless you as you go out to with God to do God’s works and works that God has appointed you to do. The priest made large sign of the crucifix in front of his white-robed body. This was exactly what Transman needed to hear—he must forge ahead with his written/art ministry! No matter what!
No matter how selfish, and pushy he had to be with others, to make those who could, help him! The Work must continue! For it is, ultimately, a gift to all of humankind!
The acts of men upon the bodies & minds of women definitely curtail the female sphere—and contain it into a much smaller area then those of men. In this they survive, sometimes better-off even then men—if they do not wish to venture out of the sphere, nor be heard by men when they speak.
PM
Toxic incursions upon myself this past few weeks:
a. Second hand fumes into my kitchen from parts unknown, more then likely basement Troll, and perhaps cigarette smoke.
b. Cigarette smoke from passerby’s selfishly smoking on the street as you walk past.
c. Blast of toxic roach spray in the face.
d. After affects of days of living inside twice-toxic bombed studio until it completely clears out.
e. Cumulative X-rays taken in dentist office,
f. 1 x-ray in dentist office taken without the lead chest shield—the student doing this particular x ray forgot it! And apologized profusely
g. et al; general garbage in the air of the early 21st century.
Noon, Saturday, May 2
Last night’s TV news: ANARCHIST STRIKE ALONG EXCLUSIVE GRANT STREET TOURIST SHOPPING AREA! Shows broken windows. Reported 50 anarchists dressed in black shouted chants decrying kapitalism—distributed fake dollar bills to shocked onlookers. They ran down Grant into crowded narrow streets of Chinatown to escape.
***
Newspapers won’t survive the 21st century. They go the way of the milkman, the iceman, ----both of which he remembered. More layoffs—news truck drivers not needed.
--From JOURNEY 17
Kitty Kastro had flung her last rolled up newspaper out the window of her little sports car at dawn, however, no problem about employment, for now she is in heaven.
Oh, have begun the Internet fad, Social Networking. The Blog is a major component in this dance. It is the way earth-bound humans can communicate, all in an instant across the globe! Find each other, work together, advertise their wares on the common marketplace, so from time to time expect to read these:
Blog:
Hello friends, have just entered a new chapbook on my print-on-demand publisher. Text .com. This latest chapbook is titled Illuminations –Part 3, or at least it was suppose to be that—however in my great panic to get the damn thing entered—in a measured amount of Internet time available at some wretched facility—I misspelled the title! So look for lluminations-part 3; you can read some of it for free in the preview. Red.
--Entered into World Wide Web 5/3/09
***
The gay life. Street life. Life! So many broken promises. They’re striking the stage up and down this street…. Troll still smoking in basement. He is a good liar.
PM
His clothing shop banner reads: Clothes, Accessories. Ideas—now gone. Graceful, white writing on black cloth.
And that familiar person, slim, quiet; the clothes maker chain-smoking in front of his store, or hunched over his sewing machine in back. Never thought, as he walked past for years, that he’d meet that man. Now his store is vacant, clothes racks departed, hung pictures taken down. Bare white walls. FOR RENT. He is gone.
The clothes maker still hangs on briefly, gone down the street to the bookstore for a last game of Garbage Ball. Someone should write a Brief History of Garbage Ball. —This balls a dud! Throwing the little orange ball towards a wastebasket, wild; knocking down DVD’s off racks; knocking shit off the shelves, injuring those infernal books.
Hip-hop rap lyrics are like the slave’s songs, your ancestors & mine, from when they picked cotton on prison-industry plantations deep South in Dixie in the Ante-Bellum 1700’rds—rap lyrics, a free discipline no instruments needed. So this writing, it started off cheap—a typewriter, consent procurement of paper at drugstores. Expensive blue-inked typewriter ribbons on spools. No space needed but a small surface. Kitchen table. Hotel room nightstand. Bureau top.
I struggled to get what I got. Hope it does some good out in the world—I remember summer nights, cool jazz, wee small hours dawn; all the hi’ yella, ebony & tan black folks driving in cars, summer fleeting, future unknown. They say your life passes before you when you’re going down for the 3rd time, drowning.
Noon, Sunday, May 3
Woke up remembering something I cannot now recall….
Yes people’s lives unfold as a plot—things added now, they’re different later. Something you did or failed to do a decade ago, fifty years ago, comes back to bite you like a venomous snake. Others add to your golden treasure pile.
My neighborhood changing –for the worse. Meaning, BIG MONEY flooding in—driving up prices of each thing; from the cheaply renovated old slum tenements—today featuring hardwood floors restored to a golden, shiny sheen; modern electric fixtures installed to accommodate the modern Internet/television & other appliance lifestyle; coats of paint in hallways & building fronts--- to the bare table eating places with no table cloth and delicious but small portioned foods which blithely pass themselves off as gourmet restaurants. Clothes shops upscaled into boutiques. Stylish Asian ladies walk past in fine money clothes—like fashion models. They come, the global rich, from Korea, Japan, Europe. Now… The Good News being numerous big red black & white FOR RENT signs dangling on the front of buildings.
Money—they use it for toilet paper in heaven.
Oh—Swine Flu, 5 states toll first deaths in America. Another boy 11 months old… Are boys more vulnerable? It is they who are getting sick one after another here in the states.
Am slowly being poisoned. Am slowly giving up hope. My only passionate hope is that this corrupted society’s skeletal system of finance will dissolve, collapse down to the bottom rung again—from where it once grew up, thus sending rental prices down so low that I can move out of this small studio to a better place with cleaner air, and pay much less rent and get a better foothold in this city of St. Francis, City By the Bay… home of artists & dead beatniks… poets… dancers… wanderers.
I recall Trans Space, Transman still hung over computer keyboard, working feverishly in the last dwindling minutes of his free Internet time, policies dictated he should leave at 5pm and it was now 5:20. Room filled with dishes of delicious food. And he wanted a plate. Yet the beautiful young transwoman denied him this! Sorry, It’s for the youth only. Now you have to leave! Well in Fact this is true, yet in human sense it is False. The place was teeming with under-23 year olds. And only one lone old man. They easily could have spared one plate of delicious food out of a table bursting with abundance, wrapped it up to go, but per rules of the staff (one FTM male, and that other big beautiful girl)—they gave nothing to him. And kicked him politely out.
Do not deny me my plate, because I have walked the distance! Dear Children, many of you young people here today—will not walk the distance. Sadly, you will not get as far as I have! And I still have a long way to go!
Sometimes the rules are corrupted by ignorance. Sometimes the rules don’t make human sense, much less God sense. So break them Dear Children. Use your God-given Human Sense! Break the cruel rules, as you would dearly love to break the iron shackles around the ankles and necks of slaves!
216.
Recall several poor trannies testimonies as to quality of life in those infamous slum SRO hotels. One claimed how she had to move out of the whole hotel—even after having painstakingly overcome all trans-issues with management & other tenants; establishing herself there:
The roaches, the lice, the mice, and bedbugs are too much girl. Its useless to try to keep your own room clean, and to use a bug bomb, when the whole hotel is infested. There's a girl down the hall, I went over to her house & saw bedbugs, these little brown specks walking across the floor in a zig zag line there was so many of them. It was an awful sight. She got roaches crawling everywhere—in broad daylight. What good is it for me to go spray my unit, when she’s got all this going on just down 2, 3 doors from me! The bedbugs, the lice, the roaches, they all come marching right back, thru the holes in the walls! It was a blessing in disguise when I had to move---‘cause I got away from those bugs!
Another trans gentlewoman testified how she saw a man being killed, slowly, inch by inch, by bedbugs in the cheap SRO hotel where they both had rooms:
I saw him sittin’ out on the landing, outside his door. The roaches & bedbugs had taken over the place girl. His face was covered by red sores. He had bites all over his neck, his arms, his legs—he was just sitting there shaking, rocking back and forth, delirious. I think he had got sick from all those bites. He was moaning; I can’t go back in there, they’re killing me. He had talked to the management, they shrugged their shoulders. They refused to do anything about it! He didn’t have the money to buy a bug bomb. He’s out sitten’ on the steps crying; I can’t go back in there! They’ve taken over my room! He was in shock. It was bugs driven him out of his own room, and done bit him to death!
Transman had heard some horrible tales, and himself seen some nasty sights. Insect invasion must be avoided. Prevented quickly. It must be treated with mega doses of pesticide:
I had seen roaches in the low rent hotels I’d inhabited. But when I bought a house in Oakland, around 1979—just before I became poor once again, saw nothing during the day, but that night, went into the kitchen and switched on the light—there was a wave of them, roaches crawling over the walls, hundreds of brown moving roaches. Sickening. And the wall of my bedroom the same. I slept with the light on, and called a pest control company the very next day. They took care of it. We were locked out of the house 4 hours while the poison did it’s work. I wasn’t super clean, but the bugs never returned during my stay. It was a house—with no common walls with other people’s houses who might have bugs that could migrate.
PM
Cathedral. Reminds of the thing talked about—multi-faith, in DOC (DAUGHTERS OF COURAGE—LAMENTATIONS IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING, JOURNEY 3.) regarding, I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. DOC will be a multi-faith spiritual order & community:
Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Parent Creator knows me and I know the Parent. And I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. For this reason the Parent loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Parent/Creator.
--John 10:11-18.
Took communion—bread, while crossing his arms over his chest & bowing--denying the Blood of Christ! —Simply because it is Wine and I am an in-recovery Alcoholic!!
May 4, Monday, 4PM
Brief scare. Transman returned home after his TL Day, anticipating check from Dr. S. to front rent money, until either of his 2 x-tra checks arrive (Bancroft/Obama) on message machine note from pharmacy, can't PU prescription until get medical billing OK. Terrified the old man rushed to the phone! Having only 1 pill left in his bottle, vital medication, and what with so many cut backs by Gov, he feared-- had they now cut his life-saving medication? It was a false alarm, and all was straightened out briefly by a courteous Wall Grims staff person. He relaxed in chair to wait for the mail.
This day I have made it to the 10:30 Seniors feeding at St. Anthony; then a cuppa’ and one to go in a bottle I brought at The Living Room, while entertained by hideous TV documentary on the El Salvador drug cartel—a poisonous killing machine which slaughtered thousands and thousands of innocent civilians in that nation—all funded by the USA’s coke habit. Also perused the Arts section of newspaper—the only section left laying around unnoticed. In it was article about the late Sun Ra, a black musician of intergalactic proportions. Red had been referred to Sun Ra by jazz artist milieu aficionados; black men who study black history un-scholastically, thru shared books in each others rooms, & outside on windy corners, with whom he ran the Hyde Park streets of the 1950’s. Along with ‘Trane, Bird, Sonny Rollins, Eric Dolphy albums, Trans-teen had purchased one wild, out-of-time & space Sun Ra recording—which he could not decipher at that point in his young adulthood. Some small voice warned him as he departed the Living Room at their new 12 noon closing---due to budget cuts—that he could visit the men’s room once again before he left, but instead, strolled blithely down to St. Boniface’s—only to find the 12 foot tall medieval iron wrought castle gates of the church chained and padlocked! And a notice, they would not be open all summer. Due to budget cuts of their own, in the religious sector. Now he had nowhere to go for 1 hour. Bathroom issues were suggesting themselves on an increasingly stronger basis. He went to library to piss, and to get on the 15 minute Internet; no library card needed, and you can get on and go back in line, wait and get back on it again, circulating onto the machine, back off to sit in one of the row of chairs, & go around in a circle all day for 15 minute intervals of free web time. There he found he had made no money in any of his 5 on-line art/book businesses. Then to Miss Lady’s group, tea & pizza and a wonderful meditation, again led by Philippino man Richard. Another T-guy was there out of the room of predominated ladies; after mediation they chatted man-to-man while strolling back up the hill. So that had been his day. T-buddy suggested a very interesting viewpoint on one of Red’s problems. This is what T-man L. & Red said:
Red: A certain friend seems to keep promising me stuff—which never materializes.
L: People who are wealthier, or more better off, will string poorer folks along---with promises—which they subconsciously resent giving or doing, thus quite often they re-nig on their promises.
Red had not thought of this. The T guy suggested:
L: The best thing to do is to let it out of your mind. Forget about it. Give it back to the universe. Realize you don’t really need the thing. And relinquish it.
So I am!
Will tell you this, rich people resent poor people. Why? Because they perceive poor people have some kind of currency they don’t.
What a strange currency the poor have that those above them would envy it! Is it freedom? Is it that they perceive the poor to be looked on with more charitable eyes then they themselves? Do they assume the sins of the poor are faster forgiven then their own—they who have plenty and do not want for material goods and never did, and never will?
Is it that their convoluted, masochist, De-Sade-like private pain is so great they truly hate one whose pain is obvious? As in deed the poor have a visible, public display of pain, which they cannot hide?
Well the humanbeing is a convoluted conundrum, which only the Higher Power has mastery over, knows, and has solutions for. I call upon God for my answers!
Transman's check did not come that day. But he began to try to relinquish the worry it caused him---realizing that he could probably squeak by if he deposited the thing Tuesday—even Wednesday! So now his focus relinquished from material goods, to another, much more difficult. The boredom of the remainder of his day with no people contact, no friends around, no companion. The loneliness. This is much more difficult to manage and it drives folk to do strange stuff—self-harming stuff. Oh, here are a few short testimonies from that girl-dominated group, it speaks to the way we harm ourselves, out of the very loneliness I’ve just spoken about:
You know the girl! She wear a short skirt shorter then her ass, she bend over show her butt—she good at tucking--she get drunk, calling people the N-Word then run for her life!
One girl in group testified to her new romance. How she did not want to be the archetypical transsexual ‘other woman’
The man is married, but getting a divorce. Just like the movie Princessa. I vowed I won’t be the other woman this time—with a married man! The woman he keeps secretly—who he won’t be seen with! I want to meet his parents; how come he won’t take me over to his house and say, this is who I’m going out with! He’s taking me out in his car, and we sit and talk. I feel like the old days when I was working—turning car dates! I’m clean now, sober, and applying for jobs. I’ve got my résumé, my job skills certificate! I’m a different person! I want to take care of me first!
10 AM Monday May 4
On the street these rich people will slide right by you in their expensive polished cars; sheen dazzling; they will drive right by just inches away, careful not to hit you as they force their way past—first--and watch you die. Transman thought as he made his way downhill to begin his Monday at the food line
Huge multimillion dollar constructions rise above the tenements low level roofs where the poor are essentially confined. I must get a better way of life for myself. T. thought. His head swimming from eating too much salt—peanut butter—from free food bank—fighting fat which is creeping up on him again; already he had gained 4 pounds, far from being under 185 last year prior to The Holidays.
Bleak. Building tops downtown are a hazy backdrop; grey. Bare. Sounds of fire engines. Duefully the old man took a number from the St. Anthony’s volunteer, and joined the short line of seniors. The line for those under 50 was already very long. And they had 1 hour plus, to wait. Motorcycle cops on mini cycles zoom past choking their lightweight scoots like bucking broncos, eyes intent for trouble. Two cons, middle age white paroles jeer to each other; chicken in the house, chicken in the house---which is Carney talk-- code for cops.
Some intelligent people down here discuss books. Their grey beards neatly trimmed. Many others are illiterate.
He shared the dishes on his trey he did not want with his tablemates. Felt sick from the rotten diet last few days. Insufficient protein (meat), high salt. But the nourishing meat & cabbage restored him.
I know that my weight & my health are entirely in my hands. I must try! Continue to fight!
You don’t need anything, it came to me. You have everything you need.
So! I have everything I need? Then now I have to put it all together. All the puzzle-parts. —So that the thing works. Get a budget. Stick to it. Keep my mind elevated and not allow blues, depression in. Were there more parts to this puzzle yet to occur to him?
PM
T-man settled into the ambience of a local Star Fucks; absorbed in the outdoor scenery outside plate glass window, towering corporate buildings in the background infringing on our lifestyle, which are killing us all.
A schizophrenic man at table next to his was not one bit lonely, nor bored, babbling away to himself. He thought of all the social networking he’d enrolled over Internet—in which he must participate. Twitter being the most recent.
T told God Almighty about his paranoia, his fear, his worry, & God reassured him-- I know everything.
God knows everything that is to know. After which he was reassured & calmed & sat out to do his budget on a piece of paper from the sheaf he took out of his worn shirtpocket and a found pen, to do his budget—for when his monies might arrive… hoping that may be soon.
Midnight, May 5, Tuesday Morning
Fleas are back. Cat doesn’t scratch. But I have a new bite. Itch. Red, ugly. Several weeks back, in my crazed state over multiple insect outbreaks I applied Fluffy’s flea medicine haphazardly—wasted most of it on his thick fur. Will give him another dose when he is confined to bathroom—making sure to push the nozzle of applicator thru his extremely thick 3-fold woven fur to apply directly onto skin, per instructions.
Tuesday, May 5 Noon. Rent Day
T. saw the difference between him and others in the low down groups, in the fonky poor sector, of those inhabitants of trans life, of TL life, of food line life—they were permanently stuck. Stuck. He was moving thru situations, slowly solving them, coming to grips… he was still in motion.
29” X 29” painting over found-canvass stretchers, re-stretched. On its back, someone had written “Summer Triangle”. Feel the sense of pride & accomplishment—and haven’t yet put brush to canvas—(in over one & one-half months?) Retrospect 2 is in the pipeline now—2 advance order promises, and am very pleased with my new budget! Will save all money diligently to fund rent/food for 2 months—until can pump out next Bancroft offering. This steady journal—and my grand desire to re-start fiction writing! w/SEDNA! 4TH, in my SF-Fi series UNITY OF UTOPIA.
Red was a free Spirit.
Oh money must come soon. Then I can get:
Dental floss
Toilet paper (not have to keep stealing it from facilities)
Cat litter
Parrot seed
Cans cat food
Laundry detergent
Floppy discs
Hew hair clippers—or new replacement blade for the old one as it is cutting raggedly all of a sudden.
There are yet no brushes on the pallet. Lights aimed at canvas on easel, tubes of paints await. Brushes in the opened drawer… the subject in mind, not yet grasped, not known, nor hinted at. It will emerge with the strokes of shoulder movements; of arms, hand; eyes fixed on the spot where color emerges from the tip of a brush, onto bare white canvas. Creation out of imagination!
This was a major component of the Old Man’s SACRED JOURNEY—creating art. It had been his driving force thru 25 years of atheism, unknowing of God. His goal as a teen. His reason d’etra thru much of his life—with the omission of 11 years when he preoccupied himself totally in the job work force, 8-hours per day, acquiring things—which were now lost. Only the Works remained.
So now he stood, (after brief phone call w/Jasmin), before the easel; wire rim-glasses slipped onto bridge of his nose; his yellow forehead, furrowing into wrinkles; the serious look overtaking his face, eyes squinting, ascertaining The Mission.
Blue-white mixture on brush tip to perform first important outline of the subject. Pigments molded onto the canvas thru painting application, wiping almost clean, application again, wiping. Residue suggesting forms. Forms to be defined. Like definition of dreams from the unconscious.
Students In The Café? Acrylic on Canvas.
I want the interplay between people—and am getting it, after a short burst of Dogs. Want 2 African-Americans, one chocolate, dark, the other light & bright like myself as were in Put Our Thinking Caps On. Small figures in background al la Evening Descends/Poolhall.
Oh, gazing up at kitchen wall, realize Red Dog-2, is naked and barren. Over simple—as far as what else is going on beside the principal figure (the Dog) and, in color, very monochromatic; only used, red, brown, green, blue, no purples, violets, shades and gradations of these colors etc.
Think Picasso’s work habits were vital for any artist to feast upon in books, and I do, fascinated, pouring over biographies; Richardson, etc. Although as a person cannot admire him. Love Van Gough as a person. Tormented. Poor. His was a much shorter work history (lifespan).
Oh lay on bed, cozied up w/Mr. Fluffy last night, he lay so sweetly against my feet, warming them---discovered later had a big red flea bite. Itching. Today it itched terribly, applied alcohol, cortisone. Hope the Good Lord(ess) anesthetizes it so I wont be irritated all day upon my rounds! The first application of flea medicine 2 weeks ago, which I stupidly applied most to the fur—has not worked properly. So this second one hopefully is working in bathroom right now. I tried to get right down to Fluffy’s skin! Next time should shave the bastard in that spot—but don’t have an electric spot shaver and no money to get one!
So, we have lost Renters Rebate, as the last acid slap against the poor; the bowing-to-the-Republicans rich man’s butthole-sucking Governor of this State, Swartzinegger, is trying to do away with Renters Rebate to the poor & disabled permanently. Which means once the economy gains its strength back—we still won’t have it. This Renters Rebate will not automatically be reinstated along with the return of an affluent society; this is the problem. The clever Rich make emergency measures which eliminate rights and grants to the poor—allotments which give some measure of recompense in a rich society to the struggling, the elderly--- they steal these grants away, but never return them—even when the going gets good and there is times of plenty! Thus by the perpetual economic imbalance, the struggling poor are mired even deeper in hopelessness, without one ray of sunshine—that the former grants of old provided. The Rich blueprint every move far into the future—this is why they are successful. Thus, it illustrates that we, the poor, and those who labor on the side of the poor must fight to restore all which has been undone in the matter of economic civil rights, and equalities! And be ever-vigilant about it! We must get back into the streets, arm the people with knowledge, and fight as if we are fighting for our lives—which we are Dear Children, we are!
Running around, no money--waiting for check, didn’t come, gave rent agency $1,000 plus, in night deposit—they can’t get it in before Wednesday maybe not until Thursday-- bides me two more days grace for PO to deliver Dr. S’s check! Walked many many blocks go home to see if check had arrived it had not. Went to Wall-Grim’s to PU high blood pressure medicine; they charge me $3 which puts me 83 cents over drawn at bank! Must deposit one dollar plus the check tomorrow. Walking, walking. Got on bus without paying to get a ride back up hill to FTM meeting. Scrounging food at 2 groups. Home, bird screaming—they are waiting for their bird seed and not responding to pieces of bread with mayonnaise, slices of orange, apples, and half a pot sticker each---scrounged food. Steady breathing in of cigarette smokers fumes slowly driving me crazy. Oh will I be happy when my ship comes in!
PM
OH MY GAWD! OH MY GAWD! (T. smacks forehead with the palm of his hand.) I forgot! I said so in my very own DOC (DAUGHTERS OF COURAGE—A NEW ORDER OF JESUS CHRIST) under the section Rules Of The Order, complete with its own vow:
Vow of Poverty: Many things will connect us. One being, all delight in taking the vow of poverty.
Delight! Delight In Poverty! —Not mope about, depressed, complaining about what I need, but can’t get! E-Gads! Transman thought—I got it all wrong… He had been whining & complaining for years! He had neglected to do his very own vow!
Wednesday May 6, 4PM
Just returned home after a 2nd TL day food-foraging, et al, to find no check in mailbox. Form letter there, some crap—so not sure if mail has run. This is pushing it. Did the bank get my address wrong? Did the Post Office mess up on that letter delivering my check? That has happened before! This is pushing it---is it possible to deposit money tomorrow with sufficient time to cover check before the landlord gets it? Since I dropped it in the night deposit at property management Tuesday night, there is probably no way they can deposit it until tonight, so it will hit my bank Thursday. Thank God for Obama stimulus package. Will save every cent—for rent! Making do with scavenged breads & fruits for parrots. And Mr. Fluffy’s cat litter is almost gone! Must keep being upbeat. Today I did: