Now reading:

Half-Asleep in Frog Pajamas, Tom Robbins
Portrait of the Artist, James Joyce
The Paradoxes of Delusion, Louis A. Sass
Wild Ducks Flying Backwards, Tom Robbins
Mindfield, Gregory Corso
The classifieds.

My frustration is too intense to cope. I need something to do, and writing isn't concrete enough to cut it. I am going to stop posting and start looking for paint.

Thank you to Donovan for being a little bastard. <3

Check out Dermot Cole today.

I started re-reading Fierce Invalids today, and page 1 I realized that the moral is "the hand of fate is compassionate". It's too much. Too vivid? I am losing my mind. It's probably okay, but I think the world is concussing me with this point.

Have I spoken too soon? I may have a job tommorrow, and they want six months. My policy has always been if it looks like love, do it, no question. It still is, so I think I will explain myself to them - on the other hand, when six months is over it will feel like it never happened, because the present is the only place you live. Do I continue like Odysseus or go home to my lover like Bond James Bond? Dare I speculate about visitation? I'm impatient with this kind of conflict. However it resolves I'll set myself to making it work.

I am coming back. When? That's up to our Lord and Savior, money. The pineapples closed (repeat, they closed the pineapples; remember how Maui grows pineapples? Not any more), Fairbanks' classifieds are bursting with opportunity, and I might as well say it, I'm in love. All excellent reasons to cancel my vacation. I'm going to settle down in a crooked house with a crazy boy and start waiting tables and reading Finnegan's Wake. Could be a week, maybe a month, but not April.

My grandmother died last night. Please do not express sympathy, some of you might be good at it, some of you have met her, and I don't doubt that all of you would mean it. I'd just rather be left alone with it.

Left alone altogether is a different story. Seph finally got back to me (I wrote him last week to see if the radio silence was emphatic or incidental), Sean expressed certain things that relieved my mind considerably, and the coup de grace of surprise comforts:

This cute guy I'd seen around the hostel these past weeks - tall, dark, pointy, the only other person on the island who brought a sweater - waved to me at a far away beach I was visiting with some fantastic girls. I was half-drowned, so I quit the ocean and went to talk to him. We ended up hanging out all day, he bought me duck and drinks, but most of all he took me to some crazy classy bar in Napili with stolen Ritz Carlton towels. We were treated like kings. The bartender looked like Christian Bale, and they actually bought us the second round. He didn't try to get in my pants at all (not that I would have minded), and as he's leaving tomorrow, he gave me the towels.

The way I see it, the sad part was her being sick. And ultimately, her and I and everyone else are on the same road at different points. I'm not sure what else to say. It's been a weird day but I feel alright.

I am doing well, made some much needed cash. My internet thinks I'm a German. Makes spell check kind of intrusive, but it's still fun. Debating the idea of love poetry, especially the sense or propriety of me trying to write some. And if I did, then what? Maybe in a few months it will happen (poetry happens sometimes, but I can't sit down and "try") and whoever it may be about won't think it's totally pazzo. Excuse me if I'm ridiculous, hung over from cheap wine and a two hour conversation. Just wanted you all to know I'm not dead and in fact slept indoors for several days extra thanks to my reckless plan.

Did you know the CIA has a kids' page?

Halloweena in Lahaina. Wore all black, dyed my hair with plants, smoked camels, and drank way too much tequila. Went with a cool guy called Ben who eventually got fed up with being stuck there and sprung for the 80$ cab. It'll come back to him. Ended up drinking still more tequila and blue cans (which got me drunk) with an MtF (mahu) from Hana until 6 or so, whereupon I passed out on the couch in the hostel lobby. A good time was had by all but Ben's wallet. Happy hangover and merry November. Oh, fuck.

The old man I met in Iao Valley told me that to get the most out of the bible, you should take one verse a day to meditate on. The bible isn't really my scene, so I've been using the Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates. On request from Maria, here is my "verse" from yesterday:

"So, will you go?"
Switters shrugged. There are times when we can feel destiny close around us like a fist around a doorknob. Sure, we can resist. But a knob that won't turn, a door that sticks and never budges, is a nuisance to the gods. The gods may kick in the jamb. Worse, they may walk away in disgust, leaving us to hang dumbly from our tight hinges, deprived of any other chance in life to swing open into unnecessary risk, and thus into enchantment.

(Incidentally, here's today's:

As Switters continued to retreat, finally reseating himself on his cardboard divan, the Indians continued to express amusement. Maybe I should open my own comedy club in Pucallpa, mused Switters. Call it Arachnophobia. Instead, he opened his valise. Rummaged among his shorts and socks and handkerchiefs. And fished out the automatic pistol.
"Nothing personal," he said, as he stood facing the stalk. "I respect all living things, and I'm aware that to you, I, myself, must appear a monstrosity. But you've got my goddamn bananas, pal, and this is the law of the jungle!"

So take it for what it's worth.)