Early Bard Gits Da Woim
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Subject: Early Bard Gits Da Woim
Date: Thu, 14 Oct 1999 05:47:13 CDT
So here it is knocking at 5:30 in the freaking morning and Dickens is sitting at a computer terminal doing his thang. Can'tcha get arrested for doing that in public? Hee hee. Giddy this morning, so bear wit me.
Awakened at 3:30, the old eye crashing open like runaway blinds, those old type that never wanted to work right. That's me, all right. Smoked a couple of cigarettes there in the dark and just thought about things.
Wasn't all that cold, but the cold was enough to make me aware of it. The maroon sleeping bag was keeping most of me warm, but a bit of a chill about my shoulders. Took the plaid wool tablecloth I bought at a yard sale so many years ago in Honolulu and draped it about my shoulders. Ahhhhh. Toasty.
MonteBoy gave me a larger Dharma tent the other day, and night before last I set it up. Gives me enough room to set up the little shelves I found in North Lawrence rubbish. They hold my folded clean clothing, a few books, and whatnot. My life is elegantly simple still.
Laid back down, reflecting that JavaBreak doesn't open until 7, and was wondering what the heck to do with myself since I obviously wasn't going to do the sleep thingie tonight when I suddenly remembered the obvious: Computer Center is open 24/7. Ahhhhh.
Dressed for the ride. Quilted shirt found in Tulsa (which I've come to love), maroon sweats beneath the paint-splatter gap jeans. Class ack, lemme tellya.
Flashlight which I strap to the handlebars with a bit of rubber innertube needs batteries, so I rode down the path by that sliver of moonlight. Twas lovely, let me tell you. The white of the path, the slow and rhymthmic pumping of thighs, the houses sleeping. The barking of a solitary dog, but not at me.
Rode past the tipis set up by the river, although I could not see them. A family of dad, daughter, and son live there. Plastic sheeting wrapped around driftwood poles. Year in and year out. I see them at the FeedTheBums deals all the time. First time I saw the girl, thought she was a guy. Nice looking. Speech impediment. I hear they're Bible Freaks, whatever that means. Keep to themselves, have grunting atcha down to a fine art.
Across the river and thought of Wordsworth and that poem he composed upon Westminster bridge: "Dear God, the very houses seem asleep!/And all that mighty heart was beating still." Something like that. I will look it up and quote the whole thing for you.
Not a cop in sight. I kept the light turned off, but would reach up and press it on with my leather gloved hand when I would see a car coming. Only saw a handful the entire trip. I could hear the whirrrr of the tires, Lawrence was so silent.
I now carry two bags with me. My over-the-shoulder black woven nylon, which makes me look like a grad student or professor (have been asked several times what it is I teach. I tell them, Survival 101.). Holds razor, tootbrush, paste, books, notebook, pen, lotion, aftershave, and so forth. And a flimsy little blue nylon which holds the poncho, extra shirt, towel and whatnot. Y2K reddy, Freddy.
So here I am. Wearing my brown wool jacket which is quality. The freebies here in Lawrence are so much superior to any other place I've been that there is simply no comparison. I remember back in '81 going through piles and piles of clothing before finally finding a Brooks Brothers herringbone coat.
A lady wants to do my portrait. This pleases me. Watercolor, no less, which is one of my favorite mediums. We shall see.
My birthday party is coming up this Saturday. All those of you who neglected to see me a birthday card...well...you'll get yours, my pretty. (Cackle of the wicked witch here, Wiz of Oz.) Just a small get together. Am told one of my ex's will be there. Guess she's finally got the knife sharpened well enough. Grin. Naw, we parted on good terms. Good lady. We were an item way back in 1970, if ya can imagine.
The bard comes home to roost.
So. I'm hoping this day finds all of you out there being true to who you really are. It's time to do that, folks. Honoring the False Self may get ya property and mortgages, but don't know that it'll ever make the heart sing.
I want to write a poem today.
I love you all.
Dickens
