"The Mumbler [Muderder by the second self]

The Jazz age comes alive

“The Mumbler”
Murder’s by the Second Self







By Dennis L Siluk





The Mumbler,
Murder’s by the Second Self

Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk, 2003
All Rights Reserved
First Edition


Dedicated to Elsie Siluk, my mother who always liked a good suspense story


Acknowledgements

Thanks to my little Inca wife, Rosa
A gift from her Inca God, who is of course
The same as mine, Christ; and to Jon McWilliams,
And to Greg Bear for his little spark of encouragement
It kind of motivated me to finish this book—saying:
“[The] Mumbler sounds intriguing—good luck with it!”
≈
Photograph of Dennis and Rosa Siluk at the
Tower of London, 4/02
≈
Water Painting, cover of the book
By Peruvian Artist Chusty,
Painting owned by the author,
Permission given by the artist to use.

Disclaimer: This is a book of fiction, all persons and names, times and locations are fictitious; in no manner was I, the author trying to imply, or produce a real life event, or situation; even though the author has been to all locations mentioned a number of times.






Other Books by the Author


Books Out of Print


The Other Door: Poetic Exhortations! Vol 1 [l980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [l981]
Two Short Stories of Immigrant Life [l984]
The Safe Child/The Unsafe Child [l985]

٭

Books by D.L. Siluk; check at your local bookstores, and at:
www.amazon.com and www.bn.com
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Books in Print


The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants

◊

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

◊

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Everyday’s an Adventure
[Short Stories]

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1099 AD
[The Green Knight]

A Path to Sobriety,
The Inside Passage
Volume I [addictions]
/
A Path to Prevention,
The Inside Passage
Volume II

◊

Romancing San Francisco
[Volume I] l968-69

A Romance in Augsburg
[Volume II] l970

Where the Birds Don’t Sing
[Volume III] l971]

◊
Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]


The Mumbler,
Murder’s by the Second Self


Books in the Making


The Fruit Cake
A Romantic Comedy —Tragedy


The Unendurable
Curse of the Viper Family
[The Abyss Worm Virus]


Through the Woods and Into the Trees
Plus “Stay Down, Old Abram”

ÐLS





This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,--
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!”

Emily Dickinson





Index Chapters:

The Mumbler,
Murders by the Second Self

Chapters 1 through 22




Second part of the book: “Broken Images” of the some 40-poems the Mumbler is famous for, he has allowed us print 17-of them in the back of this book.






Overture


I warn you, this book you are about to read, is going to be something of an agglomeration, or better put, a jumbled mass of thick water. I wanted to, and have set out my own odd, distressed paragraphs; it seems to me to be full of debatable explanations and descriptions -- but this is what makes it what it is, special.
I light the plot and theme up—, I assure you of this indeed I do, with more comprehensive ideas rather than with a depressing old theme with a rhythmic playful cadence, --n…no, no, one might rather expect that, but not, not at all in this book. On another note, the main character seems to insist on hording the story with his psychological gobbledygook, but so be it, he has a wonderful eye for that area, and so I allowed it, this time.
It has I now see, now that the book is written, an impression if anything—to a theme that fragments as one turns the pages, lump by lump that is, this may seem so, but it is, is not quite so, therefore, --you, you do see I hope, yes you, you, you, the reader must see, must watch and read every word with a clear mind and eye; clear, lucid as can be, liberated from all the smoke in the room.
I suppose what I’m really trying to render—or at least, so I tell myself in this story, is, how so many [and I’m included on this], how so many of us common and good folk get fooled, driven, lured if you will, and let’s add, stuck, stranded into the cages of the wolf; and yet we so often spare the wolf, only so he can kill more sheep. Maybe I should say this is where the insight lays, if there is any.
I once knew a man, he remains in jail yet, after 40-years, who killed a little girl, and a little boy; if I told you his name, you might recognize it, and so I shall not. I was fifteen at the time when I met him and he was, oh let’s say, possible 19, or 21, or like 21 I’d guess; yes, and a young impressionable person I was. He never left my mind, never, never ever. And afterward some years down the road I met another man who killed his wife, and again, that is another story that never left my mind, and then there was some crudity of war I witnessed, that pop up now and then. Yes, I talked to them as I am talking to you, face to face, one might say the two killers, the war and all. And the guy who killed the two children, who was released from a …let’s say, place that helps people readjust their minds; he took me on a few of his episodes. I didn’t believe some of the things he said, but his actions were a bit disquieting, and then he killed the two children. And I was with him a few days before that. Had I known, well, why cross that bridge, it’s too late now. But all in all, you will get a glimpse into someone’s world that is not too far off the non-fiction path. As they say at the café –Enjoy!




My Father in the Great War

The decorated American’s built their stack,
Those like my father, in the war way back,--
And left their son and soil
On the pale hope of sunless Britain
The fronts of the Great War and Flanders Field;

The French came, they bore their pain,
He fought, they fought, died, in their soil,--
Europe’s fountains swept their souls away
Beside their arrogant old!

The Germans fell, the war was won,
Their feet set firm, under German sun
Because of the America’s stay; --yet,
The sounds of Paris were all about
To fight another day; yes
To fight another day…

From their cozy Paris lofts—
JJ Pershing woke them up
And fought, and fought
And fought—telling
The old manor—lot
Stalemate…or not?

And so the story’s told:
Creeds, territories, the working class,
All in decay,
With Europe’s autonomy
And power restored;
For the entire well and brave.

And yet, my Father’s sweet life
And those like him—still
Fleets away
Beside the manor old…
Down into obscurity,
Their stories never to be told.

By The Mumbler






London News Report January 6, 1926:

Found on a dead man in a local Inn, late yesterday evening in London Town, was a manuscript of notes; -- he was stabbed to death by a customer of the bar at approximately 1:30 AM, --this being all we know of the young lad, yet it is assumed he was working on a novel, a work of fiction, at the same time some poetry, god help us if it was non-fiction, if there is any truth to the rest of his manuscript, one note read:

“This I know to be a fact, you are the enemy. I am: --the second-self to the mind that is, a vulgar, corruption of ancient Greek madness; and my soul, if any person has seen it, would instantly report, ‘…it is made of squeezed blood from the snobs I have killed…’
I have said before, no one has heard of me –I am secretary to the dead, this is my title. If you are reading this, I have accomplished my mission on earth—that, that is, being a read author of sorts. You may not think this is winning statement, but in my eyes it is, for it took a lot of effort to produce my book, notes, poetry, etc. All the same, I never knew if my ghosts [the ones that whisper to me—you most likely know them, or possible even chat with them like me, but will not share your information to others, haw, haw…]; as I was saying, or about to entail, I never knew who was telling me the truth ----notwithstanding, the good ones offered my mind strenuous exertions, if there was any good ones to speak of. And the rivers, especially the rivers, but I can add, the waters of the world also, they all calm me for a moment— but for only a moment, and shortly lived at best, for where they come from, they return, --they always return [the spirits, the nasty, bastard devils, sorry for the swear word, don’t know how else to express my weariness… of these impressions] they tell me so—that is, that they will return, and they do, you can count it; you can’t count on many things in life, but the ugliness of those creatures will haunt you even when you are asleep and return, yes, oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes, similar to a snake crawling up your nose, and shifting into a coil around your brain, and squeezing and squeezing, they come, and plant their deadly seeds, nightmares, and paralyze your loins; trying to give you a heart attack or something—insomnia sometimes; the smells they carry will wake you, and their whispers will annoy you until you become crazy, man-crazy and want to run. Come into my world if you dare, read my tale of tales. Of course you know what I mean, there is death just around the corner, but none of us live forever anyhow, --do we? No, a rhetorical question at best: --yet it is always there at least, isn’t it, DEATH, Yes DEATH!! What do you think I’m talking about?”

٭ ٭ ٭

On another leaf-note, we found this: “Today the River Thames [in London] overflowed [which it did yesterday], her banks that is; --it gave me no comfort to rest my dashed mind and soul onto this city I have slain; --like my father, who was massacred by the enemy, the Germans, during the Great War [WWI], to end all wars. Now it is the rivers that have deserted me, become my enemies. Where now do I go, for the gates of the rivers have closed…? And so, and so… I have learned the hard way, and you may ask what that is, the hard way I mean, it is that, simply, we all have at least two faces, two self’s, it is only an issue when you are trying to figure out which one you are dealing with, which one has control; the me or the I, oh yes we are different, like day and night, the me and the I that is; I myself prefer the first self, which is the ‘I” compared to the “me” self.




Let me share a poem with you I enjoyed from my High School days, it is the way I feel, --sometimes, it possible could have even been written with me in mind, I wonder if he knew of me, you know in some mystic way [?]:

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good –morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Edwin A .Robinson



To the Curious

If you wish to get to know the Mumbler
In a more personal way, his poetry may possible be published soon, a companion book, it has been called, the name of the books that is [if we can find it]: “Broken Images.”









The Story of:
“The Mumbler”


On a Ship to Europe:
[August 3, 1925]


The ship is quite impressive I thought, The ‘Duchess of Atholl’, owned by the Canadian Pacific, gross tonnage 20,000 tons, 17-knots, a turbine supplied by oil fire high-pressure boilers. It has about 1200-passengers to my understanding; and it has a new band in the dinning hall for this new so called —Lost Generation of ours—the clientele like it, and I guess so do I, supposedly I am witnessing the Age of Jazz, which everyone is talking about, or were talking about before I left on this trip; —and are talking about as I float to my destination. Like the end of the war, —jazz as they call this music has come suddenly upon us, for whatever reasons, and now they are playing it, night and day as if we can’t get enough of it, —all day long this kind of music in the dinning hall, sometimes at night out on the deck, on the radios, everywhere; —it is here to stay, some say, and maybe, just maybe, it will stay—to be quite honest, I could care less.
I’ve never been on a ship before, but then, I have never been anyplace outside the United States before; it is amazing, this ship, huge as it is, just the size of the anchor is taller than me, and those tons of steel and iron floating. What keeps it up —keeps going through my mind; --iron and steel floating, --glass and wood, everything under the sun is attached to this ship, --simply floating, floating, floating in the endless blues of the water and skies; a mystery to me?

I’m looking over the railing into the water now, it calms me, water that is, it always calms me, something in it tranquilizes me; I have been out to sea for two days now. My body seems to float with the rocking of the waves. Or is it my head with the waves, and my body with the ship, whichever, or whatever, --my stomach has gotten acclimated though, thank goodness. A little old man with beady little eyes and a towel in his hands is wiping his fingers, --he is watching me from a doorway about twenty feet away in the ship’s metal-archway that leads down several flights of stairs. What should I do? It annoys me. Like I can’t breath, or pick my nose without him witnessing my faults. Who appreciates a guard over them: --what a disrespectful person. I cater to making people accountable for their bad behavior, why do I like it? Why not, someone has to!
But now, now for my continuation of looking into these giant waves the ocean has to offer me; --these giant waves make the ship twist a little, the ship is not as powerful as the waves I see, interesting, yet the ship is friends with the water—that my friend is power, they are a great multitude of cold watery-waves, they are similar to monsters that want to eat me up, if they could get a hold of me that is—and they can’t. I tell them to skedaddle, move over but they don’t pay heed to someone like me, a little grasshopper, that is all I am to them, just a little, little, tiny grasshopper; in their language, I would be a baby fish.
I’m going to Paris, Paris, Paris like everyone in the world, we’re all going to Paris, --now why is the goofball still watching me, watching me-- I got to rehearse and figure out what to say if some important people ask me silly questions in Paris, but I can’t concentrate with that goofball watching me. By rehearsing, you got a jump on those kinds of people,--that is, you kind of know what to say, and it helps you—Paris that is what I am thinking about, Paris and rehearsing what to say. And the goofball keeps gawking at me, the goofball—the goof, goofball.
If people ask me what I do, and they always seem to ask that silly question, I will remark, ‘I’m a writer.’ Very plain, if ever I can get a novel written that is, --but until then I am still a writer, but I think I have to write 60,000 words, or something like 300-pages, god forbid, who can write that much…I will be bordering on Joyce, Fitzgerald. I may not be an official writer yet, --but when I get a book published I will be a certified one. Now, maybe I am a writer in waiting. Sounds funny, let’s leave it at that ok, sure—why not, and if someone says something contrary to this, --they better not, I’ll deal with it then. In any case, my father told me I could be anything I wanted to, and I must use the word ‘to’ sparingly, yet it frightens me. And so that is what drove me somewhat to this occupation, my father, the word ‘to’. Matter of fact, I remember him saying when Fitzgerald had his first book published, “This Side of Paradise,” I think, a romance, I think, I never did read it, and the critics loved it, so dad said, but he also added: “… after a while they discredited his book, which is the same as discrediting him, saying it had a lack of polish, bad spelling, and many bad word choices.” Many critics, if not most, went along with that I guess. You see, they love you one day, and turn on you the next; but how can a critic, say anything, when the book is only out for a day, week, or even a year. I’d think time would be its critique of bad or good, if it stays on the shelves or is going to be read, and re-read, it is good—maybe.
Dad told me I could be a writer, but he also said,
“When you recognize the heart of the people, you will be able to write for the people.” I thought about that statement,
Then asked,
“For example, dad?”
He said,
“Danny Boy, a song written in l913 is by an Englishman, not an Irishman, but when you listen to it, you can see a lover lost at sea—and someone waiting for his return, for a moment we forget it was an Irish song written by an English Lawyer—‘why’, I’ll tell you son, because he found the heart of the people.” I do really love the part that says:

♫

“If I am dead, as dead
I well may be,
Ye’ll come and Find the place
Where I am lying
And kneel and say an Ave there
For me.”

[…]

“And I shall sleep in peace
until you come to me.”

--Frederick E. Weatherly



That old man is still looking at me. He wonders who I’m talking to, “No one Mister!!” He heard that, he poked his head back beyond the iron white door way; --the creep!!
When I think of dad, I often think of the Mississippi River, yes, the Mighty Mississippi, it often calmed me as a youth, matter of fact, it still does, ----all water does, especially rivers for some odd reason: --maybe because, because, because, I can walk along side of the banks, yaw, yaw, that’s why, I can walk the banks, I love the banks; --the banks, the edge of the river seems to give me power under control, funny I say that, I often feel so out of control. As if nothing in the world can stop my next move, nothing, I mean nothing at all. When I was young I used to play in the caves along the cliff sides of the Mississippi, down along the banks, by the river’s edge, the banks, the banks the banks, I love the banks. We had three bridges that surrounded, or should I say crossed the two sides of the river, the two banks, --the immediate area being the downtown center of St. Paul. The Robert Street Bridge, the High Bridge, and I think there was one that was called …just can’t think of it now, maybe, yaw, the Jackson Street Bridge, I got a bad memory; --all the same, I used to play a lot by the river even though I had nothing to do but just sit and look into the waters, look into the waters hour after hour, look into the waters until the clouds got gray and it was time to pick up and walk back home. It was as if it took the cursed illness away from me, you know, my curse, my damned curse: my temperament, my fever for privacy, confusion, the ones that whisper to me all the time, my curse-sss—the demons.

Let me get back on Fitzgerald; --he has a classic out I hear, or it will be a classic, I am told; -- I haven’t read it yet. I will read it while in Paris, if I can find a copy of it, and at the same time write my novel, and my poetry. I already have a few things I can say in it, in particular, the beauty of this big North Atlantic Ocean— and that creep watching me over there, you know, there, over there—over in that damn…got to calm down; I am writing poems also, that’s what I am about to say, was about to say, when that creep snuck back into my thoughts. I am not a rich boy, nor will I claim to be in pretense while in Paris, so I will not think I am better than anyone; matter of fact, if they read my writings I’ll be surprised, yet, I am not equivalent to many of the writers I read about. I am at the age of reason you know —youthful. I do feel at times I have a sense of superiority, not sure where that comes from—I expect this is a natural thing, a survival thing for all writers to possess; a need —maybe, not a want. Much like a prize fighter, they have to get on an ego-high and psycho-themselves out, something resembling that; otherwise they’d not beat their opponent. Just like writers, so we got to believe in ourselves, and I suppose put on something of an act.
As I think now, my father was sufficient in most everything, always confident, or so it seemed; I could be a little envious of that, if I didn’t love him so damn much. It was I who was not always confident. Yes, yes, I, I, I. In a like manner, I should say, I am still not all that confident. But just going on this trip alone is noteworthy, and is building up my confidence. In part, my father would be impressed; actually so am I, that is, so am I that I actually got onto this damn ship and will be working on a new career in my life. I will reinvent myself…I can appreciate that term. It is similar to writing a book. Like, reminiscent of Jack London, who goes here and there, you know, all over the world; --I will go forward and be the man of the hour, as he was; he lived the adventures he writes about, although this is not totally me, we do have similarities.

∑


I mean, I am really scared. You say [The Whisperer]:
“Scared of what?”
“Fuck-you, scared of everything, get away from me, demon; you already know that of me, why do you ask?”

You see, once I get on a positive roll, they [the demons]—and I say they purposely, for there are more than one of them,--they take their turns visiting me; I don’t want you to answer me either... Mr. Demon.
“…go away!”
I shouldn’t swear, my father says it just shows your limited vocabulary, and I’m a writer to be, and have to have a big one I think, vocabulary, or know someone who has a big one. But with the Whisperer, I find myself at times limited to the vulgarities, I make them up because I can’t find them in the dictionary; matter of fact, I think I created a few new words for the big book, the dictionary that is.

Wherever we went, dad and I, that is, he seemed to feel at home, I never did, oddly enough I learned to have engrossed dialogue by watching him—I owe him a lot.

What else about me [still rehearsing] let me see, dreams yaw, I have many dreams, not that I care for them, in particular, those that are haunting, which is just a statement: --something to say—to pass the time of day away, on this voyage [feeling wildly and un-eulogistically]. But dreams for me often transform into nightmares, and can be exacting, trying if you will, maybe I should praise God more, he’d take this curse away, but I’d end up insulting Him as well as the devil I suppose, and mankind, damn mankind, what is the matter with us all. Somehow the nightmare demon gets a hold of me and does an end to end job on my memory lobe; I often can’t remember so many effortless things, as if I was 100-years old. “In due course, due course,” my father would say, “…you will remember what is important, you will eventually come back to it, you only loose it for a moment”
--the ocean is so, so very, very, very, very blue, VERRRyy blue…; --just think you could jump over this railing and be lost in another world, the fishy world, deep and deeper and deeper to the crust of the, the ocean floor, where possible Atlantis is, or was… Funny, the sky is blue with a thin atmosphere for birds, to in and about, to live, and fly through, and the ocean is thick with a heavy atmosphere of water, for the fish to live and swim through, and swim in. Now the birds can come to earth, as well as some fish to the surface. And man, who lives on earth, can fly with the birds, or swim with the fish, but he is home bound on land. Not sure where I’m going with all these thoughts, but standing by this railing looking into the sky, and the deep blue sea, it makes you think, --think, think and think.
Water is starting to splash on the deck, getting my shoes wet. The sun is out, I find that it lights up everything, light over the ship, light over the ship, it seems to be just enough to make you want not to move, just enough to enjoy; matter of fact, sitting outside and having the sun shine in my face when I eat, is great; Paris will have all those outside Café’s; outside, outside, oh I like the outside café’s …yes, yes yes…. I like that, it will relax me, the water, the, the-- yes, Paris to be, the Café’s; all such things relax me.
I will go to England first [my first port of call] and then take a train to Paris. I think I will not get lost from one train to the next. They have a funny train system I’ve heard.
In mid-winter in Minnesota, where I am from, everything seems to close down as soon as the Arctic winds come over the American boarder from Canada; -- freezing everything up solid, -- life slows down to a snail’s pace--. I swear we are living in an Ice Age in Minnesota: --and people who go there, not knowing the severity of the weather often get frost bitten, --but “…once bitten, twice shy…” dad always said. People learn quick how to dress in our winters, they have to.
But I always liked October in Minnesota —it is the most breath-taking time of the year, and the most slenderest place on earth with the changing of the leaves in autumn; oh yes, even the word brings in beauty to my soul, a chill with warmth. You see how poetic I can be with words. That is why I can become a writer, it is natural for me [The Whisper is laughing at me, ‘fuck him....’ there I go again, sorry].
I come from St. Paul, where the great Fitzgerald lives, and Jessie James robbed a bank in Northfield once back in the late 1870’s; the place he robbed, or bank is about two hours drive from St. Paul, by automobile, if you get a fast one that is—the bank, that is what I’m talking about, the damn bank. Yaw, we got a little history all right: --“How about you?” I feel better the way I rehearse, it helps
I may even say I am writing the Great American Novel if someone asks, like everyone else is trying to do, or so it seems, such as, Jack London and his now classic, “Call of The Wild.” Funny, I thought the Great American Novel was written in 1850 by Hawthorne, you know “The Scarlet Letter,” or was it Mark Twain’s “Huck Finn…,” or now the “Great Gatsby” by Fitzgerald, or will it be something by this new Hemingway guy; or Joyce’s newly published Ulysses…? Or Bram Stoker’s “The Lair of the White Worm,” I brought that book along on my trip, I’ll finish reading it somewhere along the way, that is, before this trip is over I expect—I think they all will be trying to write the Great American Novel for eternity. In brief may I say, to be able to write such a novel, you got to live it, and then write what is on your mind, and express that, and I, ooo0000-0h yes, I can do it. No big thing; --like Jack London, he did it. He sure traveled a lot that London guy, lived in the slums of London just to write that one book about the ‘…Abyss,’ and in Maui… yes he wrote about the natives of Hawaii… he sure impresses me.
It is possible that —that this new writer Hemingway could be around in Paris, let me add, possible Faulkner also, or maybe even Fitzgerald, all could be around, when, and if I ever get into Paris. I could possible meet them at a bookstore, or newspaper office, or some known café, I’ll check them all out when I get there; you know, get to know my own kind, we got to all stick together. Like movie stars do, and politicians do, and teachers do, and even on the other side of this extreme coin, the bums, or tramps, they stick together also. Let’s see, my watch…here, it’s four o’clock, time for dinner I think.
My father had brought me up a Christian, but I only felt like one when it was convenient. To be quite honest, I have friends who are atheists, and would make better Christians than I. But I do remember what they often said at St. Louis Church in St. Paul when I was a young boy and my dad would bring me there, they’d say it was a French school and church; you see, right along side of the church was the French school, I attended it, “Ecole St. Louis,” on Tenth Street Near Cedar Street.
The little French school, opened in 1873, about fifty years ago, my father went to it also. The church is adjacent to it, as I already said; I guess I already SAID THAT! The classrooms were big, the school held about 130-kids. The school consisted of two main stories, and an attic-theater; you see I have a good mind, memory, and ability for facts, when you know who is not around—I mean the demon that is attached to my shadow. Anyhow, it stood on a high basement of native limestone, with a slate mansard roof broken by circular windows with a face composed of forward block. The back and sides of the building were of a plainer design. I loved that school, but not so much the nuns. Once, one of them cut my hair with a grass cutter. Another one made me write my name on the blackboard fifty-times; such things that stick in a person’s head. Everyone said you had to be French in the Church to go there, hell, I went there for several years, and 80% were not French—those French get to me [their perfidious, arrogant and a slave to their guts].
I remember three things that stand out in my head that they tried to pound into me at the school, the nuns that is: -- “For all have sinned…,” can’t remember the rest, I liked that one because there is no way of escaping that. And for number two, “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul,” that one scared the shit out of me. And the third, “God be merciful to me a sinner,” that is all I can remember … after seven years, that is iiiitttt-!
Now that I think about it, the English are too phlegmatic, to make life interesting. The Germans are Sadists, if not sadistic by nature. Russians are not worth while, or at least not worth my time, and the Italians, are gullible, in the sense they want to live the past, and repeat their old road as to have a new Emperor, as if they didn’t have enough suffering in the past. Americans…

[Still in thought leaning over the railing on the ship looking at the water]

☼

Let’s see now, I sent one to Florida, Chicago, San Francisco, St. Paul, Minnesota, New York City, --I sent them on Easter Sunday. No, no, I sent them a week before [April], so they would arrive just before Easter Sunday. I remember it well, kind of well that is. It was my revenge for my father’s death…the Army took him, the Germans…the...Grea...at War, yaw, that’s right…oh, who cares anyhow-way, not me. I get my good and bad days like everyone else. Oops, I sent one to Seattle, I almost forgot, --one to Columbus, Ohio; no, I sent two to Columbus. That’s enough reminiscing.



I’m tired-- need to—to go downstairs to my little cramped room, I sleep too much I know, but it helps me focus. Another day on this ship, another sorry day, --Easter Eggs, I colored them myself, sent fifty to each library, yes, I sent them to the libraries. They will give them to the kids. The kids will go to school
…I got to write this in my novel, this will be a good plot…a good start on my book; ----this will be part of the plot, the experience I am talking about, that I need. Oh I knew it would come to me, it is natural, like Emily Dickinson’s poetry, she was a natural in writing poetry. Not like Robert Browning, I can’t stand his poetry. It was not made for us common folk to read, only Princeton scholars—like Fitz….

٭

As I started to walk to the door entrance of the ship, on my way to my room, down a few flights of stairs on this somewhat rusty aging tank of a boat, undoubtedly I’m quite aware I have to walk by that old man, and so I shall--he is still standing in the doorway, and he keeps gazing, staring at me.

[Now standing in front of the old man in the doorway—he spoke to him.]

“Something wrong old man,” I asked him as he stood by a fire extinguisher?
“Wha ya r –you-o dhinking,” he replied. He doesn’t even know proper English. And if he knew what I am thinking he’d be dead.
“Do you mean now, or when you were gawking at me while I was day-dreaming by the railing of the ship over there…for the last two hours! [?]” [Pointing with his finger.]
“I not sure, ay u seem odd, yaw do.”
“You don’t even know me, now why would you say something like that?”
“I h-ve dream, and dhey’re true-o, I me-n dhey ell me truths [pause] I dhink I h’ve see y’ou in dhem.”
“And what was I in your dreams —doing?”
”I soaw-shipwreck, ait was struggle… through storm, you were captain.”
“And old man what do you think that means?”
“I no sure, but…do dhink yow hav’ dif-cult…in … Earup.” I looked at him straight in the eyes, without a doubt, he looked guarded and fearful, for an old coot— [eyes penetrating the old man’s as if he was in a dark hypnotic trance, a dark, dark trance]
“Old man, it doesn’t mean that, --where is the interior part of the ‘stem bar’, of the ship, you know, the ship’s inner bow, where the vessel cuts the water, and can hear all the ocean slapping you in the face from all sides of the interior parts of this wreck of a ship; I value, welcome—the, the sound of water as you have noticed, take me there and I’ll give you $25.”

[The old coot looked strangely at the face of the person making the request.]

I don’t think he wants to take me there, or for that matter, anyplace, but out of some hidden fear not to, he will, and $25 dollars is nothing to laugh at.
He looks as if he worked someplace on the ship, maybe a cook, or dishwasher, not sure, and I really didn’t give a hoot. He has a black sailor’s hat on, thinks he’s a man’s man, a white apron—m-maybe a dishwasher—yaw, that’s more like it, he has to be close to sixty. As we started to walk, I noticed he had a club foot, squinty eyes, a long forehead, small ears, not much hair by the looks of the back of his head anyhow—the old buzzard.
“Oh…yaw,” said the old man turning around a bit, to see how close I was in back of him, I was almost on top of him, “…yá like me too, yaá got dae an-shent anguage, I see dhat.”
“Something like that old man, now show me if you can, the place I’ve request in the ship, and stop chattering like an old hen.”
He took me down several flights of stairs, and around several corners, and then we crossed over into an area where you could hear water on all sides of the ship, in particular, the right and left sides of the ship, and underneath my feet, “Hare,” the old man said, “Hare yá are…sir…me money plea..s?”


∑

Victory-Day- For the Mumbler
[On the Ship in the Atlantic—1926]


He is now under my feet
With no place to go--.
My game is not over,
They don’t even know …

You are what you were
Twenty five dollars I gave—
You were my first on my trip,
And now a dead slave…
≈
My name is the Mumbler
My first poem to be: --
And you knew not my name…
But you were staring at me.

And now you are dead, like a lion
And I am alive like a dog—
And so who is the better
The live one or you
Who is gone?

Note, written on the ship while to London--
First poem of my trip.




[Later on] I’m back on deck again; the old man’s a fool. I need to relax, look at the waves, the water, it always relaxes me after…after…oh well, don’t think of it ----it only depresses me. But I know of Paris, especially after the war, the Great War, to end all wars they said; now they’re cutting the world up similar to a cake: but they’ve left out the main ingredients, Russia and China; they’re going to be the main ones in the future, you can bet on it. Either destroy them or take them along for the ride that is my motto. It is like me, you take me or kill me, but don’t leave me standing, or walk with me to the front or back of a ship, --alone at least [ha ha—a chuckle]; --something more for my book.
I must not forget to have the valet press my cloths, especially if I am to partake in the Jazz and dinner this evening. I don’t drink but I could use a whiskey-sour after dealing with this crazy old coot. He asked me not to leave him there, I told him, “Kiss my ass…” but he couldn’t, that was a joke, but I mustn’t talk dirty, a small vocabulary dad says, that is what it shows, a very, very, very small one—but I ‘m fond of swearing, I get my stress out, my emotions. I have never liked drinking as much as F. Scott Fitzgerald, or Jack London, both alcoholic’s. I’ve heard they both are drunks [Jack London, was a drunk, he is dead now]. Not sure how one can write in that kind of condition; I know the little I drink, I’m too unsteady to do anything but sleep.
I think they’ll have snails at the dinner table tonight, I don’t necessary care for them, they are unquestionable an acquired taste menu item, kind of like leaving sandpaper in your mouth after you eat them, but it looks handsomely,--I’ll try some this evening, be impressive, do the show and tell thing…you know, be cool, I got to re-invent myself, might just as well start with snails. I’ll eat practical food afterwards, you know, beef and potatoes, and apple pie.

Paris, they make two kinds of people there: scapegoats and leaders with mongolism. Oh yes, since after the summit of 1919;--but everyone seems to be going there —especially all the hot shots. They’ve created a new world map, adding Iraq, Yugoslavia and Israel to it. I say leave Israel alone, God will stomp on you if you don’t, yes stomp on you akin to a bug; but Iraq, we best stop those A-rabs, before they infest our lands, and one day, you mark my words, one day we’ll wake up and they will be like ants all over us; killing us, eating us alive.
What people need to remember in Paris is one thing and one thing only, ‘We, Americans, because of our timely involvement, saved Paris’ ass, and by doing so, helped the unthankful allies win their screwed up war.’ This most likely will escape their minds [sooner than later], when all is said and done, for it is starting already,--but it is none-the-less true. And I say their war because there is a 3000-mile ocean between they and us; I hear the French people walk with their noses in the air as if they got a pencil stuck in their neck, or up their ass. They are lucky I am not the commanding general; I’d have my Headquarters at their Versailles palace, and take Germany and put them all in prison. Why wait for another conflict to come about. I know I’m opinionated, but who isn’t [?]

The League of Nations was to be the answer to all future conflicts—this also will become a farce. And Winston Churchill a new name for the newspapers coming on the horizon is just another leader to be used and thrown away in time, like so many, so very many others: --they come and go. And that Laurence of Arabia guy is becoming famous, he’s joined the A-rab delegation and some man named Ho Chi Minh— a kitchen assistant at the Ritz in Paris, is becoming another name to be reckon with, he should have stayed there washing dishes, he looks like trouble, a big mouth with a lot of pots and pans in his hands, and he wants to throw them at whoever gets in his way. I bet I could become a world leader, just get a good charm to my voice, and have the nerve to stand up and talk, and be a revolutionary,--yes, today a high profile revolutionist, tomorrow I will be recognized as a legitimate leader of a country, a profound leader of the people, most are silent lunatics comparable to me anyways. That is how it works you know; --you pick out the crazy’s because they are not afraid to have mud thrown in their faces, and they will convince the people they are smart, when all they are is cleaver, offer them what they want on a silver platter, and give them shit as soon as they sew up the package; it’s the devils way I know, and we have a lot of followers in the leadership area. It is easier to fool the mass than to fool the few. It has got to be so, just look at the fools running the masses. Logic, I speak logic, because common sense is not common anymore.
Give them some power, and they turn into Greek gods. Everyone got something important to say, and when two or three people listen, then they get a big head and start thinking they actually make sense, when a minute before they were minimally angry and trying to get it out. I get it out all the time. But lately, since my father died, it has been coming out sideways.

Stop-day dreaming —looking over this railing is getting me dizzy, here comes the waiter with some drinks: “Got a beer…”
“Yes sir, here…”
“Thanks.” They do have good service on this wreck of boat.

I want to be a writer, and I thought about it a lot. I thought about Fitzgerald, he is a genius and natural; but is a drunk, has a crazy wife, and no drive. Hemingway, on the other hand, is not a genius or natural, but has perseverance, sometimes that will overpower the intelligent, if the intellectual takes too long of a nap. Kind of like that turtle and rabbit running a race, and the rabbit takes too long of a nap thinking the turtle will not catch up, and of course he does. And that frog race Mark Twain talks about and they put that gun powder in his stomach, so the frog couldn’t run. That’s the drunk…But then I never cared for Twain all that much anyway, coward who deserted his own Army, his comrades, or maybe they all deserted one another --running off to dig for silver, and not having a god of any kind [agnostic], and after his kids and wife died, he was so pessimistic not sure why he even wrote anymore… but then who am I to talk, I get like that about my father I suppose. In any case, he tried to believe he was for the black man by writing about him. The only thing I see is he was for making a lot of money off the black man,--if he was for him, he’d have fought for him in civil the war; but he fooled everyone thinking he was a caring soul. I could care less about the black man, or the yellow man, or the Indian. Matter of fact, I’d burn down his big tent he calls a home, make him pay tax’s just like me. How about all those soldiers that died for the black man, they are my kind of heroes; but the black man don’t give a shit, he will tell everyone in the future like the Indians, “You owe me, you owe me”. A lazy man’s way of saying I want something free. But the coward gets the lime-light, as one would expect the squeaky wheel to get oiled. I just can, can not figure it out, Mark Twain, that is, but he died broke anyways, couldn’t get rich enough soon enough, and lost it all before he hit the grave.
On one hand Faulkner is quite intelligent and skillful, if not crafty, on the other he is quite difficult; just try to read his crap, --who is he writing to? Or for? I am pleased about some of the sketches he wrote, or should I say short stories on/of or about New Orleans. I do wish I could see a picture of him smiling some time. Yew, yaw, he is writing for the Princeton graduates I think, that’s because he couldn’t stick it out in school. When I read him, I have to read over all the hard words, and have to read him twice. Matter of fact, I’m sure he’ll win some award, those people always do, but the sad part is, his books will go on the shelves and gather dust. Now for such writers as Edgar Rice Burroughs, oh yes, the Tarzan man. He is a natural, but is not intelligent, but has drive; his imagination is resembling the endless universe; and Jack London, neither one of them will have books on the shelves gathering dust, for everyone wants to read them over and over and over. Bram Stoker is a smooth writer, I feel though—he’s not as good as some, not as bad as others
now who has it all? Poe, some say, although he was a genius, he was also a drunk like F. Scott, they both got the frog-syndrome, or the turtle walk. Hawthorn had it all that is who I want to be similar to. A natural, as I am, not a drunk, a genius, like me, and drive like me; --I and Hawthorn are one of a kind, except he was a little more stable. I could be considered parallel to Zelda, Fitzgerald’s wife I believe, and that Woolf gal, she also is a little off her rocker [Looney] —but you know, it is this kind of a person that genius’ are made out of, except, we tend to go a little too far sometimes.



Paris

[The Mumbler has now arrived]


I



It is August, l925,

I’m-m in Paris now, I’ve actually been here for about a week, I got to put some notes in my journal and add some to my book; I’m sitting on a bench in the park. When I saw him the first time, that is—the old man with his monkey I speak of, was when I was walking to my hotel nearby the Luxembourg Gardens the second day I arrived here. I am discovering that the old man comes here daily now, or so it seems. I found myself after my daily walk today, that is, at this very moment, and then again after breakfast awhile ago, as I strolled back through the park, there he still stood, remained. As if time was froze for a moment, just frozen for him—how very strange.
I expect to remain in Paris for three months; I figured at this rate, I’d get to see the old man and his Miss Monkey, almost daily, along with his little company, which consists of a colorful wooden box placed on a four legged table; it is more akin to a standup theater, where the box fits into it somehow, and has some small drawers to it.
The Old Man stands playing with Miss Monkey most of the time, as he is now, and he avoids his stool, which he uses when he feeds her, sometimes almost falling to sleep. Today I notice he is standing and his movements seem to be in slow motion, as his monkey is jumping all around his three by two foot theater stand, red and white theater, as if he is preparing her for the stage, yet I have never seen them put on a show, inasmuch as I’d enjoy seeing one, his Miss Monkey only gives out pieces of paper to people, which is probable more than enough energy spent.

For a ½ frank [2 ½ cents] the monkey will dig in one drawer in the miniature theater and pull out a slip of paper and hand it to you, it tells you your fortune. He must of have some kind of gimmick, telling the monkey which slip of paper to pick out, because I noticed for men, they got kind of men fortunes; and for women, they got women fortunes; and for kids… well, he followed the same pattern, he’d give those notes that might say something to the effect ‘Expect a gift,’ or ‘A toy is on the way.’ I once noticed a note saying —as I read it, peeking over another person’s shoulder:
‘You will be getting a doggie.’ Then two days later I saw the same kid with a doggie standing by the Monkey Man smiling, maybe coincidental, maybe not, in either case, it’s haunting.
I know I should not be peering over another person’s shoulder, but my curiosity got the best of me that day. It pains me to think that is how I have to acquire my information, but it is better as a writer to do this than to not attain the information, plus, he was in a public park, I had a right to listen if I please. Wait a minute, got to write this note….
Dad said, in his preachers tone:
--“When you can look at something that seems improbable and at the same time, see that it is possible, --in consequence, removing the obstacles in your head,--you have sharp intelligence,” he said it sternly. And that is what I am doing. First the boat ride, then Paris, now the books; --one thing at a time I tell myself, so I do not have to put anything into the hopeless category.

I think more people who walk by, are mealy amused by the old man and his monkey, never knowing or caring that he gives out slips for ½ frank; --plus, the old man never goes out of his way to cohere or draw a crowd for a sale, or service.
With his dark charcoal old-worn, but pressed looking suite, and white shirt, and white slightly tarnished cowboy hat, the people mostly glanced at him and his operation, then quickly went about their business or rested on the nearby half wood and iron benches, as I did:-- simply to pass the time of day away. All the same, I marvel at this old man and his monkey, for some reason there is a contagious movement of posterity that lingers around him, as if to say:
‘Here I am’, you can’t help but take note of him.
I had been gone since ha’ past nine this morning, it is now, 11:40 AM.
Actually one day I paid a photographer to take my picture with the old man and the monkey, and gave the old man a frank for allowing it. Other people started to do the same, thereafter; in consequence, he ended up making a little more money from it I imagine. I feel a little proud of that, --for some odd reason. One of the messages Miss Monkey gave me, I mean, one of the slips from the Monkey Man, who had his monkey give it to me —I’m a little confused, a thinking disorder someone once told me, and I care not to search my memory banks to find his ugly name again,--but, as I was about to say, before I rudely interrupted myself, I know what I’m trying to say,—well, possibly I’m confused.... even so, I remembered what it said to the last letter, “Like a sparrow in your hand, you carry life or death…” I think, or was it, “Like a sparrow, God feeds all?” Quite disturbing, I can’t remember exactly, damn, damn, damn. No, it was the first, “…you carry life or death….” And I know what exactly does that means? He and I know. That Monkey Man reads my mind, similar to a seer. He’s talking about my eggs, the eggs I sent to the libraries. He wants me to send them to places in Paris. But no, enough is enough. I wrapped those items in linen, all thirty-five, or was it fifty [?] Hard boiled, they were… all hard boiled. I even painted them several colors. I made up a quote:


‘Something different,
Something new,--anything will do,
But first, perseverance…then I will kill you.’▒




I must remember not to get too excited. I need to sleep; I could get inordinately depressed if I do; I should write a poem, now, not a quote by me, for others to live by, a poem gets my emotions out, you know, I get to express these feelings deep inside of me, it doesn’t matter if it gets read, as long as I get my emotions out, I mean really out, I mean, I mean, they are expressed once and for all when I create a poem, not a damn quote for others to live by; they could steal my quotes and sell them, and they are not for sale, not yet; after the poem is written, I can go about my life again. Plus, then I can’t talk or think straight I get frustrated and yes, excited again. But instead of standing here, I will sit here, calm down a bit.


[The Mumbler: sitting on a bench now in the park—clothed in a long trench coat, brown hat, he stands about 5’8” tall, about 165-pounds; he has a square jaw, strong looking shoulders, walks with his head back, as if he is an elite of the Jazz Age; he has a flannel shirt on, with a brown tie, a big tie. He really is not dressed in the garb of the day, but thinks he somewhat is. His hair is combed back kind of plastered to his head; he has thin eyebrows, a receding hair line, light brown hair, clean shaven. His shoes are brown and somewhat scuffed. Under his coat he has a suit jacket on, more like a sport coat, brown with a belt that he ties in a knot; and his suite coat buttoned down. ]


[Craftily, moving about on the bench in the park, a bit restless.] I kind of had a liking for him, the Monkey Man that is —he inadvertently helped me to see the straightforward things in my life, as I watched him these past days.
Yes, I’d often think, when I watched him, often, often think, of one day growing old like him; --he seemed so peaceful with that monkey, so very serene, hardly ever looked at you when he was with his monkey, as if there could erupt a jealousy, and when I’d get a slip, and read it, I’d put it in my suit jacket I was wearing for the day, and think about it, think very hard on what it said, every word, similar to some writers looking at commas and question marks, thinking they are so important, when a comma is simply a stop, dead end, and a question mark is simply something rhetorical at best, I could write without them, if people only could read and apply imagination, but this double task is too hard for too many; --I’d think while he was trying to get his Miss Monkey to give me the slip, …he was so pleased with such little things in life, in short, he was so simple happy, both him and the monkey… so as to, give the impression, peace was at your finger tips for the taking; and for some odd reason, I told myself, this is where I’d like to be at, at the ripe old age of, age of, let’s say, let’s see, how about: 60? No, 70? …or 80, however old he was,--would do, yes, when I get old and gray, I’d love to be in his place. But that was, was for now, but I can say ‘is’, a fleeting thought of course. And at his age, I’d probably say, I never really thought that. But I do often think that, when I watch him.
Maybe having a monkey when I get his age will take dad’s place. When dad went abroad to enlist in the British Army I had no one to take his place, I tolerated, instead of enjoyed life, but Paris is changing all that. I am not bored with life, and I am starting to live; a change of pace. I really do not have the answers, only questions, which are harder anyways to come up with, that is, between an answer and a question, the question would outweigh the answer. And so I ask the questions now-a-days, those who come up with the answers don’t know what they are talking about half the time anyhow. And ten years down the road, they have to revise their answers, and in-between the reason they revised their answers is because they forgot in the beginning to ask questions: a simple deduction I’d say.


The Gardens


“Hmm…” I said when I’ve first seen the Luxembourg Gardens, -- then walking across the two most romantic bridges in Paris [The Pont Neuf,’ and ‘Pont des Arts], I said, the same thing, each and every time I see the Gardens, I’d give the same remark to my artistic part of my mind. Yes, yes, Paris is hardhearted “Hmmmmmmmmm…” all the way, but I like it.
The gardens were on the left bank, next to or should I say by, the Latin Quarter, --resembling central park in New York City, where I had been three times in my life, all three times with my dad of course; and in a like manner, here was the joggers, tennis players, toddlers, grandparents and lovers just as if I was back in Central Park. Not much change by the separation of an ocean. I guess some things will never change, meaning, parks in particular,--for parks no matter what city they are in, people seem to know what they are for. And for me Paris, this park, the Luxembourg, is no different, no different at all
many statues surround they seem to me to be a little hypnotic—at this moment, as I sit here and watch the old man and his monkey, the organ grinder, the boat man floating his boat in the pond, the shoeshine boys, men walking about. All doing their thing, as if they did not have a care in their lives; is it only me who seems to struggle with the simple things in life, the voices, the nightmares, the up and down emotions [-?-] Sometimes I feel --like, like, a madman chasing after his own foot prints, liken to a dog trying to bite his tail. I only hate to stop in fear I’ll run into something worse, maybe run into a bear, or pole. But even, dizzy people, or crazy people must stop sometime, but first they need to start, and this is, my time, my moment, and my new start, mad or not, I am here, and I am starting. I have a new quite I just made up; it will be for the book:

“If you have lived a life
Others have dreamed about
You have lived.”

I am the dreamer, my father was the one who lived, but I am now living, and no longer the dreamer, and so, well, I heard everyone goes to Paris, and so I am following their reasoning, and creating a dream, that other people will say, “Look at him, he went to Paris, as did Hemingway, and Fitzgerald, and wrote a best seller, boy I wish I was like him.” That is part of why I am here. We do things for funny reasons, don’t we [?]

The old man and his sail boat, --that is, the boat man that is by the pool in the Luxembourg Gardens here, his boat is drifting in the wind as a number of pedestrians eat their pastry in one hand, wiping their mouths with the other. I feel I have every reason to be envious—for they have found their peace in this park. Somehow I feel my peace is hiding in the completing corners of my novel, and partly in the impressions of my poetry, yet my poetry is my ongoing peace, similar to water; up till now, I need to find an enduring plot, a conclusion to life, I mean the life within the book, I think I mean that. I know I should not start out thinking, without such things —no ending that is to my story, and an incomplete plot, but this is my first novel— I am allowed some grace, —I think I had the theme put together in my mind, however, I started it last night for better or worse, or was it the night before, can’t remember, I put the old man that was staring at me on the ship as...as, my first character, but he was not very enduring to say the least.

[Looking over at the pond—whipping his brow, cheering up a little] There, over there, a middle aged black-man is playing the saxophone, he is playing it quite well, --he has a little show going on for him, but he keeps away from the crowed by the pond, I’m fond of his music, I’ll write a poem for him today, I’ll read it, then listen to him again:



The Paris Nigger

He played his saxophone
Like Al Capone played his
Drums of war in Chicago…

They called him:
‘The Paris Nigger’, --he’d cry!!
His sax…would hit the sky
Then tower back to earth
Sweat drops of sweet jazz
Poured from his brow
His stomach
Pumping air like a windmill—
Jazz no one ever heard before
He sang:
The nigger from
Chicago’
Has got more…
(Everyone laughed and cheered)

For his little show—I can see, is
Making more money than me.



Now

Now I will listen to him play and sing, again—his name I understand is jim dimes:

Dimes, the horn player☻
[My name is jim dimes]
[Poetry in motion—1925, Paris]


I nev-ar liked to fight ‘tis ture ♫
I warn you now in plenty time
I’ll fling yo musc in de air
Ef you wants to see me shine
Now you dare jis cross dat line…
♫
I gots is my bran ne sax—
As sho as I do libe ♫
But beliebe me, Mr and Mrs’ Paris
Afta I’s ply dat song fo yu


Dey cums from near and far
♫ To see dat show [of mine]
Yu heah? I’ll be right dar
If you has paid me rent
En I gots your shiny dime—.


It sho looks good to me
They stans en watch me play
Who is the monkey?
Wo ‘s got da money?
Cuz I play’s it well
Cuz [I jim] shot to hell
Yet I play’s it well
Nos matter wht for my dimes


De folks don’t go to church I see
Nor me…
I dun wuk to long I say—
[Oh dem cotton fields and vines.]
To wuk away from pay

D-hem clean cler wonder dimes
[I must not beg I knows.]
So I’s play to day…☻


†


[The Mumbler now walking across one of the bridges by Notre Dame]



The, the bridges, the old wooden ‘Pont des Arts’, connecting the island to the mainland —there is something in this bridge, I swear there is. I’m keen on standing on it in the brisk evening nights, “Night Fall’s Over Paris,” I’ll call my book, I’m warm on that name----twilight is the best time to stare at the motionless river to look over its edge onto Notre Dame, but right now, right this very, very minute, will do also, right, right now, right this early afternoon will do quite fine.
My eyes are stone-still and quick, as silent as a camera, snapping its shutters at all the stylish gargoyle architecture on Notre Dame awaken me to their splendor, their carved intricate character; yes, it is as if they have a soul of their own. And around them the river, the Seine, surrounds them, as a mother would to her children; a fetus, with crushing arms–so very beautiful the Seine, with its picturesque rolls of bridges covering and creating shadows at night as the lights reflected off them. Yet I can not write a word of that in my book, it will not fit, fit. My voice is silent on Paris’ beauty; my Notre Dame is for me, not my book, nor my readers, this they cannot have of me, they must come themselves to see it. No, no, it belongs to me. Let me watch, everyone leave me alone, go, go, go away.

[Several people are walking around the Mumbler now as he leans on the bridges structure staring at Notre Dame, talking, mumbling to himself.]

≈

I had walked back to the Park, I liked it there, and I was sitting now writing a poem, I just finished it, a man is peering over my shoulder, I looked up at him, and he smiled. I wonder if he is Fitzgerald, he kind of looked like him.

Let me see if I spelled the words right, got the feelings right:


Red, Red Insane—Rain

In my awakening sleep—
An old demon comes to peek
Opens my door
Chilled by the winters wind
I curse him as he comes in.

Listening to my song---
As I lay calm in my bed, until he brings
Red Insane aches and pains to my head.
Nightmares…if you will
I think, what is he waiting for—want?
He’ll never tell.

He waits in a leopard’s skin
Disheveled hair, teeth marble hard
As if I cared.

Underneath his calm----is…de a th
In his heart he waits for me?
He breeds red, red insane—rain.




I think I’ll save it, put it in my poem book, yes, that is what I may do. Now I must think a little. I can think and rest here.

٭

[Thoughts]


I can’t remember when I first started talking out loud---but I do it when I’m by myself mostly: --maybe a little more often now, that is, since dad died,--prior, I sang a lot to myself, yaw, when dad left for the British Army –I remember now, that’s when it started. When I was with dad we mostly spoke when necessary: --especially on those cold winter nights when there was a snow storm in Minnesota, for this reason, isolating us in the house. Yes, we talked, and talked all night out of boredom I think, and maybe to settle me down. Now I have only me, myself, to talk to, and my journal, and now my novel, and poetry to counsel my emotions, you see it comes back to me.
I talk out loud—but I careless, crazy or not. The rich have friends and women;--I have only me and the radio at home, and in my hotel room. I just thought of a new quote, I made it up—let me see: “Something different, something forbidden, anything will do, but first perseverance, before I kill you.” I wonder if made that up before [?] Maybe I did, so here’s another one, “Nothing is free, not even your bizarre behavior,
Like me, for somewhere along the road, you got to pay the tab.” I already now that…




I am working on a book called, “Love Returns,” my second book; my first is a collection of poetry called, “The Other Door,” or maybe I’ll call it “Broken Images,” I’m not sure yet; a few poems completed, and now another. Take this for instance, I have not finished either one to be quite honest, but have finished about 15,000 words on the novel; --got to put this in my journal, wait a minute with that thought; getting a little ‘worked out,’ I suppose you could say, say ah…between the poetry and prose that is. But writers do that you know, work until their minds become fragmented, fried if you will, and then have to go fishing or someplace to get restored. But as I was about to say, few people can write two books along side one another. How do you care for that? I didn’t mind watching the Monkey Man and his monkey all the time, it restores me back to suitability, if you will. Suitability, suitability, I like that word.




√




[End of August]


[Journal Entry] I started to sleep late in the last part of August, somehow knowing it was coming to an end, this made me a little depressed, I didn’t want it to end: -- I’d get up and take a walk with a book under my arm pit, find the gardens, like I have been doing everyday, sit --watch the old man, and then read. Along with watching other people, that is, thinking each person had his own extreme history and hazards, each person lived with an endless flow of daily thoughts like me, and use those to perform actions, accidents; --bumping into strangers by chance, thus, lives of people being altered, and —sometimes—, maybe most often, profoundly. Even some being infected cognitively; had I not been standing on the deck of the ship the old man would not have met his fate. Had I not walked into this garden, I would not have met the Monkey Man.
So many thoughts, sometimes they become frozen as an utterance comes out of my mouth, they defrost as they hover over my head, clusters of them meeting together and melting, --it is best I sleep then; otherwise, melancholy wins, that is to say, it is not created in man, it is born to him, it is his legacy, handed down by the anger of past sins committed by our father’s father, and yes, man is stupidly bound to it, unable to harness it, yet he has to learn how to…to live …to live with it, as I must.




[The Mumbler a walk to the river from his hotel—guarded.] Let me account for my pleasures as I walk to the river, so I will not forget when I get back to the hotel, for I must place those in my journal, my book…I love my Paris so very much, so very, very, very much. Breakfast is cheap in Paris, I’ll have you know, coffee, bread for 1 ½ franks [.07 cents]. Like now, I can take my walks along the walkway of the river Seine, by Notre Dame, which faces me ahead. I have energy and high spirits when I take these walks, as I start out each morning –I am like starting a… a car, and no one can stop me even with a gun– I love that cathedral, ahead of me, I know, I already said that [Shaking his head as if to clear his thinking.] But I must not forget it—it is detrimental that I remember this; --now as I glance at its surrounding waters —it is the most magnificent in the world I believe, I mean the whole wide world, the whole, whole, whole wide world. I have seen three cathedrals for the most part, the one in St. Paul, St. Patrick’s in New York City, and Notre Dame.
I have often thought of walking up Notre Dame’s haunting stairway to its summit —with its towers looking down upon the city, as a father to his child, how it would be, --to be a gargoyle overlooking all of Paris. I liked standing adjacent to the master gargoyles [medieval statues], such as Le Diablo-The Devil, or Gargouille, or still Le Faune–The Faun, the L’Elephant Le Pelican: --yes, oh yes, Victor Hugo knew what he was doing when he wrote “Notre Dame De Paris;” I’ll bet people don’t know it took 200-years to finish this master piece of a church; as I was about to say, I think as I peer down upon the city, I think, ‘…how wonderful it must have been to be part of its construction a thousand years ago.’ To have put the last stone in place, and say, this is our marvel, our jewel of Europe, for the world, with its satanic gargoyles watching over the saints—a paradox in-itself… yes, oh yes; --France was, or I could possible say, is, a scavenger, but Paris is not, --Paris is agreeable with me, the lull of the water, the sound of ragtime music as I have walk its narrow cobblestone streets, by the tarnished houses listening to their gramophones.
I’m affectionate to good tobacco and I have found out, it is quite expensive compared to the other prices in Paris. Actually affectionate is a good word, because, a nice cigar right this minute would be better than a warm kiss from a woman, or so I feel;--for no other reason, it’s a symbol to me of success. Dad smoked one on occasions. For example, sitting back after conversations with me on cold winter nights pacing the floor as if he had a certain route, from the front door where the porch was through the living room, to the boarder of the dinning room, and back again, that is, -- after making an about-face, that’s army talk for a 360 degree circle. His cigars were mild; I tried a few of them. They were full-flavored though, I’d say medium size. Sometimes he wasn’t even aware he had one in his mouth; unconsciously he drew the leafy smoke from it, then when it became a stump at its end, ready to be put out, I’d get two or three puffs, sometimes he’d purposely wait to put those stumps out, letting them last a little longer so I could get a better draw.
In St. Paul, a waitress told me once, after dad died, Connie I think her name was, “As time goes on, God’s peace will ease your sorrow, and you’ll have only happy thoughts and memories….” Maybe she is right. I do have so many good thoughts.

∑


I want to tell you about a poetic dream I had a few nights ago, yes I talked to those demons—well, one of them anyhow, which ever one he is [one called Woodbridge, if there is another one, his name is Arian, I think], I wrote it out in poetic form so I would not forget:


[A poetic dream the Mumble had during his stay in Paris, along with a conversation with a demon.]



It shall be morning soon,
I said in my dream,
Backing close by the hotel-apartment door;
Looking out the window, down several
Floors: --
I go to create a serious crisis,
My mind schemed—

‘What can you do with a man like me?’
I heard God say.

“Leave him alone,” said the devil;
“God forbid…” I said.

“Oho! That’s it,” said the demon. [Swiftly the demon
Jumped on my bed.]

“You’re crazy and lazy…” the demon hissed.

“All right,” I said, and
Sat back on my bed in despair [still in my dream],
Overhearing the Whisper…mumbling as I do….
[Chatting, philosophy…]
With no answer to be

‘Wow, Wow—Wow—‘[applauded the demon] “…you’re
A driven man,” said the demon;
“A mad, foolish man, barmy-man, whose soul is finite, and hardly
Under his own control, like a fog, I control your character too.”

Addend the demon, “Mad — nutty man.”

“Never mind me,” whispered the demon,
“I am commissioned to smite you whenever…”

“What has happened to me?” I asked him.
“Where have you come from?” I asked him.

Blinded for a moment I was, now face to face with the demon

[A putrid smell filled the space around my bed—
My dream bed; the air became stale; eeriness prevailed
Filling, cramming my stomach].

No words were spoken, just a body shadow, pearl-white;
Croakily—sounds came from him,
He, nor I didn’t spoke though [but I thought, in my dream]
‘It is absolute frightful to be driven apart, out of your body,
No balance, trying to catch it as it breaks up into images;
You can never quite put the puzzle back together, you know;
Never, by no means, ever can you.’

The images do not go back, and when you find them, you
You try to pound those back in place, ----they don’t… fit, that is me.’

“I’ve seen you before,” I tell the Demon. He is utterly…
Into himself though…--an intensively emotional state, of self vs. ego-oooo;
[‘Don’t say it,’ says the demon; ‘don’t call me bad names,
It is not wise’.] “Yes, yes you are right—it, it is a matter of temper control;
And possible, not wise.”

“Wait, where did you see me,” asked the demon.

So I told him, “…yesterday you were in the picture
In my room here, inside the picture of the lion: or was it
T--the day before?” I added, in a somber tone:
“Also, you were in the lamp shade, reflecting in my window,
Resembling a skeleton with a derby hat on…I think it was you, or
Your partner…?”

“Matter of temper haw,” said the demon….
The demon—
Didn’t quite know why he felt instinctively uncomfortable,
Leaning over my bed now, but he did feel that way.
“Derby hat you say?” Remarks the demon.

I don’t know, maybe it was that other one,
They all look alike— with a derby hat on [not so
I’m just kidding, they are quite different].


“I must keep you humble, the master demon, says so,
You know who he is…you call him the devil.”

So I tell the demon: …”so you are the wolf, and he is the lion?”

The demon caught notice of the last word, “‘ion’…”

“Maybe a wolf can be, a wolf-ion [short for wolf-lion I suppose]
That would make me akin to the Lion, right?” Asked the demon.

“A matter of temper,” I said; “…it’s just a matter of displeasure.”

“What, impertinence…” said the demon.

“There is no virtue here let me sleep, go away.”
I said—adding, “Go, leave, exit, please…!”

Every time I try to improve my soul, the devil drags
The demon out to be an antidote against my healing.

Providence has set me, set me up, to be weak—
A weak mind that is, for his teeth seem to crack’ my soul
Into little pieces of chewed up gum, everything sticking
To one—one another that is.

I lay back, resting backside onto my pillow, looking
Straight ahead, at the picture on the wall,
The lion moves, it really does, as he steps into
A blue deep waterfall within the picture…bleeding for power, the
Demon cries… “See I am the lion,” he moves.

The demons quest, has been met—
I create images within my dream now; but I have changed
Some when he was thinking about the wolf and lion;
I created a ‘Sea-sick pig,’ and as the demon asks me again,

“Am I not the Lion in the picture?”

I say, with resolve, “No, you are the Sea-sick pig,”
And my soul grabs him, for he has committed an
Unpardonable sin, with the Almighty, God, and with his god Satan;
Thus, wanting to be, both of them…
And the soul grabs the demon, as the devil watches
And quickly departs—

And now the demon is hurled down into the bottomless pit.

For he had touched the temperament of a modest man,
And, and the part of the soul God gave to him,
And this demon cannot do, not without reprisal at least,
Can not do a damn thing, for he is the ‘Sea-sick-pig…’ now falling,
Declining, diminishing in the bottomless and deeper into the unending pit.

And so this extraordinary dream, which is me,
Found a light he thought could never be,
And so the dream ends like with nail clippings…
That is attached to bits and pieces of the dream.




A confusing dream to say the least, --and now that I’m awake, and back to being sensible, I feel better. Let me write a little bit in my Journal:


[Journal entry.] Instinct=a habit imprinted into our genetically predisposed heredity, I do believe this. In a way for me, it knows [my second self that is] when the demons are present; I can even step into their weird world. Their presence ignites my cerebral cells. I possible come from a time long ago, which is, my second self, my primitive self. For one personality belongs to that world and the other to this;--I feel comparable to a two headed snake. My second personality is so pronounced at times, one might mistake it for an alien. I do not believe in reincarnation, only in—experiencing. And my experience with my second-self proves to me we all have this, which all mankind has, and I do mean we [you and me, whoever is reading this journal note]; you see, some folks feel they have lived before, denying this fact of the second-self, they just do not recognize their other self, simple as that. I have seen these demons in their ancient robes, and in their ancient times, it is just a matter of the second-self, or the second personality, shifting into a time machine.




٭


My hotel is $1.00 a day; I am spending a total of $1.50 cents a day. I get to writing at about 11:00 AM until 2:00 PM, and then have lunch, a little wine with my bread: --usually dinner is around 7:00 PM, soup, some meat, and a few other items, about seven frank’s [5-cents per frank].
At around nine I go for coffee, maybe a little wine at a nice place, I’m partial to the Café de Flora, and between 9:30 to 12:30, I write some more at the Café. My dinner never cost over 10-cents, my lunch never over twelve-cents: --including spaghetti, beans and salad, with my lunch.
I visited the Louvre, the Venus de Milo, Mona Lisa, Monet’s and Goya’s paintings. I liked visiting the Arch de Triumph also, I climbed its many stairs, and had to rest a few times on my climb up, but there is quite a view at its summit, and well worth the effort. The promising painter Picasso has some new paintings, they seemed to be a little square or too square for me, but I’m sure he’ll make a name; everyone seems to bring his name up around here.
I could live on 20-franks a day if I watched myself.
I liked the Moulin Rouge, even though it is more like Vaudeville, I was a bit surprised at that; incidentally, it has fine music. I think Americans get the wrong impression of the place, it is not the sum of Paris —nasty women, and all that —rather it is a fanciful place, with lovely women, with little cloths on, I do agree, but Michelangelo is noted for the same thing, nudity that is, --is he not? Matter of fact, now that I think about it, the women, --they had more lipstick than cloths on, but I’ve seen worse in pictures by this Picasso guy.

This is the ‘City of Lights’, romance-citYYY, my Paris which I’m discovering, and still for me it is not a city of fun per se, rather a city of art, if you will, ‘par excellence’ and for this city of fun,—like Berlin and/or London—I will leave it thin, for I want all she offers in the core of her soul…that is her art. I am seeing the rich and famous, if not in person, through history, as I walk the streets, banks, parks, restaurants, and the river Seine, for they walk them too?’ At times I feel as if I am looking for the secret of gravity, then in the corner of my mind I forget what I am looking for, I mean really looking for, and when I get direction again I forget that I was looking for something, and go about my business as if nothing happened. Sometime later it comes back to mind though. It just doesn’t make sense to push all that energy out, and why try. It is always my novel, my father, my health, very thing ends up being that. I want to hide, but I push on, and on, and on, to the bitter end of it all, the end of the…the day, that is all I can expect, hope for, and that is quite an achievement. Let me add to my journal, about my nightmares:


[Journal entry] I live in a wake-a-day existence; I got to avoid the nightmares. I know I was always different from my kind of human kind, people; I’m more of a creature person. [Pause to think]
As I continue to write this in my journal, you may feel I am reasonless, yet I know the demon world quite well, and they keep chopping pieces out of me as if I am a collapsed tree, free for the picking, soon there will be nothing left of me, nothing, nothing at all. I hate some times the sad silence of the end of the day, for then I have to go into a night mode.
[Pauses to look about]
In my dreams the demon world makes incoherent mocking sounds at me, confrontational faces of terror. My father would be frightened for me—for when he asked, “Son, are you all right?” Out of my mouth came unintelligible sounds, words as if they were ancient Hebrew? At least it sounded like that. The strangeness of it is I never did share with him my second self completely. I kept my ghosts and dead people to myself; I was just a boy back then, just a little boy. Even back then I knew I was abnormal, for only I could understand.



Someone once told me: do all you can in your search of your quest, pray, and then duck. I know, I keep holding on, not knowing how to let go, a control element I suppose, or so I’ve been told.



II

The Monkey-the Protector



The old man just plays constantly with his monkey, sometimes I think he is asleep, and the monkey just sits there. The people never seem to approach the old man when he is sleeping, --I mean really sleeping, for sometimes he is resting and he looks as if he is sleeping, and he is not; but rather he is day-dreaming, I think. And to be quite candid, I can’t tell because both of his positions for day-dreaming and sleeping are the same.
I think the monkey is the guardian for the Monkey Man. I saw the monkey get rattled a few times when someone tried to get close, during these ‘…me-think periods’ he has. You wouldn’t think a little fellow like that could scare anyone, but Miss Monkey does. She can be like a buzzing bee jumping all about, and her teeth show when she gets annoyed, and her fingernails are long, very long, that is when she is most dangerous, and that is when I smile at her—I’d love to poke her eyes out of those sockets of hers, but I am civilized with the day, and the first-self, and have to allow for the lack of reasoning of the animal race. You got to think, ‘If I were a monkey, now do you think I would act by thinking, or senses of danger” …and/or [pause—the Mumbler is thinking], whatever else, --can’t think of the word, but you get the idea, I have to give her the benefit of the doubt, that’s it, that is what I am thinking about, kind of was—thinking about.
I had heard he had two monkeys, one had died; too bad, less mouths to feed though. The old man is always present early in the mornings, sometimes there are four or five people sitting on the benches watching the monkey eating popcorn or a piece of a cracker, or peanut, a bite from the old man’s sandwich, while the old man fixes this and that; yes, so damn early. He always looks like he is doing something, but when I look closer, getting into his space a little closer, nothing is getting done. Or so it seems. Maybe it takes twenty motions to open up a drawer, or put a dress on Miss Monkey; but then I’m fast, it is just the way I am, I can’t help it. He is like a turtle, a snail.
But I like the old man none the less, with his sunken in face, deep rooted eyes, a scar above his right eye extending across his forehead. He is a small man maybe 5’2”, about 70-years old, 115 pounds if wet. He has a few upper teeth and lower ones that seem twisted [if that is the right word], --you could see them when he opened his mouth, but he seemed not to do that too often [mumbling ‘I don’t blame him’]; --his smile is a light smirk, but a friendly one. I think he smiles more with his eyes than he does with his face, if a person can really do that, and if he can’t, god help me, I must be seeing things. His cheeks are somewhat sucked in, as if he lost the mouth structure, elasticity, to keep it firm. And again I repeat that smile, a glitter to his face, I assure you, was created by his eyes. He talks very little, but seems to have the world in his pocket. In his own way, as I closely observe him he seems quite focused, in a fumbling kind of way though; and quite concise as he’d set his Miss Monkey on the upper part of the box-theater, and dress her similar to a doll, slowly with each movement of his hands and fingers as to not panic her; it would seem she was of a precious porcelain. Miss Monkey has a string tied to her leather harness in the back of her, as if she is a ship ready to sail away.


₪

The Mumbler on Paris

[Says the Mumbler to his second-self]: “The French know we know because they know they are arrogant—they hold no grudges to this label, it is honest and forthright. What they don’t like is ‘copycats’.”
[He puts this in his journal notes]


[Journaling] It is the end of the first week of September, I still have a little less than two months to go, or should I say to stay in Paris writing my book. I liked most of the people I’ve met, although meeting them is only an acquaintance thing, not an ongoing friendship, I don’t ask for addresses or phone numbers from anyone; --incidentally, I have gone to visit some sites, if not most, almost most, of the sites Paris has to offer; especially the gravesite of Oscar Wild, I read his recently discovered book called: “The Portrait of Mr. W.H,” l921, it was lost for 26-years I heard—most interesting.
One morning I went to Versailles, I like the Glass Room, otherwise known as the Crystal Room, otherwise known as the Musee National des Chateaux de Versailles et de Trianon. What a long name for a museum room, of sorts! But be that as it may, it was a worthwhile afternoon. Again, the Crystal Room I must bring up, as I walked down its long corridor it sucked me into a vacuum filled with mirrors and fine crystals, all consuming me as if I were in a black hole, and there was no way out. But of course I am out, so I did find my way, did I not.
It seems to me it rained quite a lot here, or at least these past few days that is, and as it does, I just stay in my hotel room thinking, comparing, accepting, rejecting, and changing words and more words to my novel, my poetry. I changed the name so many times to my book; I could have written a novel on that alone; like Fitzgerald, he liked to change names as he readied his book for publication.
And then I finally came up with the name “A Romance and Killing across the Atlantic,” yes, that would be the name of my romance novel; and for my poetry, I will change the name to be: “A Death in Paris,” possibly, or “The Monkey Man, Poetry Book,” and possible, “Broken Images”. I biased to those names. I have learned, as I am reading so many novels, to compare with mine, --no one really wants a love novel to be a love novel, they want a love novel to be a tragedy; oh yes, and that is what they want. I heard of Fitzgerald new novel, a romance they say, and the man, the original lover gets killed at the end, and the woman goes off with the spoiled rich goofball. Now who wants to read that, EVERYONE!!! And Hawthorns’ Scarlet Letter, now tell me that is not a windy-love story, again a tragedy.
How about one that ends well, that should be a love story: --can’t think of one at the moment. But I’m sure they are out there, just no one wants to read them. Even Longfellow and his poetic epic’s are tragedies.
And how about that gal called Virginia Woolf; I have read a great deal of her essays, so they are called. She is as sick as that Zelda lady, --the wife of Fitzgerald, and Poe, who was a drunk like F. Scott. Isn’t there anyone out there of sound mind? And they call me crazy, mad, insane; the demon does at least. I sense Mrs. Woolf is over concerned with the fate of women in general, or maybe just of /or for her genius breed of woman, like her, and hell with the rest of them. Never the less—I do not see that she seeks justice, as many have said, rather her passion, to write. I apply writing as a means to an end, --I think she uses writing for life’s beginnings, and because she is trying to curse the world she lives in for giving her, her illness.
If all these drunks and crazy people can write a book why can’t I? One thing she and I have in common, and the only good thing that came out of my dad’s death is now I have a room of my own, not only at the hotel room, but at my home in St. Paul; --I think Mrs. Woolf, missed that also, you see I have something in common with almost every writer. And so I can grieve with her on that note. But she’s still as crazy as a fruit cake. You see, crazy people are intelligent, just unwise; we have no freedom from rage. Mental illness is not a choice. We are encumbered by our anger, sense of doom, through destroyed illusions. In other words, we fart when we don’t want to, but do so because we don’t give a shit; --something like that. And think not, some of us are very much aware of our farting. [End of my journal note]




III



The Novel and the Paper
[Standing by Notre Dame admiring it]


I’m inclined to watching the horse and carriages go by, yet I do not like riding on them, or in them, they cross these Paris bridges all day, clunk, clunk, all day, all day long; always in front of my Notre Dame.
I tell them to give it a rest, so I can sit here and enjoy looking at the stone art work. But no, the carriage doors wrenched open, young and wealthy tourist come out, out and out. Block my vision. I really don’t care for carriages, per se; I know I said that, so what? I’ll say it again; I’ll write it down a hundred times so when they read my notes my novel, they will say, ‘He really liked Notre Dame!!!!’ What can I do, I can’t kill them, can I [?]
I really don’t like those big ugly, smelly shitty horses; shit all day long, pick it up, and shit some more. Shit, shit, and more shit, building little piles like huge ant hills. What a life, shitting and picking it up, and shitting some more. The horse is bigger than the man, he should jump on him [pause—the Mumbler is a bit chilly, he is covering his neck with his scarf].
I’m in Paris and this is fresh, I mean fresh and adventurous, I like it. I just saw a fast carriage go by, it grabbed my eye, it had four harnessed, four fine looking beasts, not sitters—like, like the others, but movers. I’m predisposed to movers, like me. Plus all the luxuries on the carriage make it look quite useful. As I walk these streets, the silent travel, that is me; --quiet are the streets of Paris this morning.

I ask myself, ‘…what is more powerful, reality or dreaming?’ I think the dream can enhance my reality, if this is so, I have a chance. I am damn cold… well, I must go back to the hotel, history can not be kept in the waiting, when you are living it, you must except it while in the making, or so my father used to say, I think he said that.


٭


[Journal Note] It is the second week of September now; I put the book to rest again for a week, and need to find someone to see if it is any good. I need to find someone to look at my draft, and to advise me if possible; I do feel it is all important at this juncture, as time is running out, to do this. My poetry, a few poems that is, that I have written thus fare, are coming along quite well, I mean, I’m doing well, just couldn’t get enough to create a book for. How do those writers come up with 130,000 words or so? Some even with 200,000-words and the editors have to demolish 75,000 of those because they talk about a lily or rose for a hundred pages as if someone really cares. And I throw out all those big words out, why, because I can’t read them so I figure neither can my reader, and I’m a—somewhat of a genius. I think it is only fitting—that you show your success by simplicity, and it is not because I don’t have the vocabulary, or I mean, I do have a dictionary, [1.40] lunch time soon.
I am at 20,000 words and I just can’t seem to get past that. Today I went to the bookstore, “Shakespeare and Co.,” I have seen this upcoming novelist Hemingway [hot shot]: --he and Gertrude Stein were talking, he said, he is going to stop at the Café Voltaire, while working on some sketches called “Torrents of Spring,” a parody of some kind. I think Fitzgerald is helping him out, or so I heard someone say, I wanted to introduce myself, for he was [I should say is] part of the inside group, yet I think most of the Europeans, I have met, --think us Americans to be goofballs [we got the balls all right more than they do]; --and I didn’t want them to sense I am one of those critters the goof part, for there were a few around the bookstore kind of glimpsing here and there. Plus I didn’t think I needed those kind of friends all that much, and I knew this flock, or should I call them, ‘herd,’ caters to their own click…you know, we are the Jazz Age Group, big deal. In any case, I left well enough alone.
I am more similar to Picasso I suppose, wanting to be left alone, --I even know where he lives, actually I walked by his place a few times, you know to get inspiration, 7 rue des Grands-Augustins; I have seen him working, as I’ve looked up at his window and he was pacing, holding a paint brush, --and his son-in-law, or was it his son, I’m not sure, but whomever he is, he is driving him around, and I noticed him standing by the car he uses to drive him around [I prefer cars to carriages], just waiting for him to announce he had a destination to go to; he had a little boy by his side, I recall—maybe the grandson.
And I have seen the up and coming Bill Faulkner, I talked to him, he is working on a book called “Soldier…” something…can’t remember the other word he called it, he said he is at 20,000 words like me, and can’t find a name for the second part of the book, but he did give me an idea of it, can’t remember. He is also doing a book of poetry—he’s going to England he said in a few months. I have seen him at the gardens watching an old man float his boat, the same one I watched I think. I hope he does well, I do know he comes from a similar background as I, that is he is from the south, and myself from the Midwest, yet my family was migrants from Russia, poor, not dissimilar to his. I should have to keep tabs on these new and promising writers, like Hemingway and Faulkner and the painter Picasso. But I didn’t see the old man this morning I hope he is all right, The Monkey Man that is, as I got to calling him, since I don’t know his real name, none the less, he shall be in my book.
I wonder if Faulkner is writing about the World War we just had. If he is that should be interesting. I sense the end of the war has brought to mankind a lost illusion, that is to say, we are all dogs with no legs now—all we see is frustration and dismay instead of possibilities and security. What is the matter with us all? We’ve all become fragmented. The Great War is over. I will agree with one fact only, men are not quite knowing their new role, the war has done this. Women know what they can do, and it is much more than before the war, now they, they can do whatever they please, and thus, have given dependency to the graveyard; Virginia would be proud of that statement I’m sure. [End of my notes]



٭

Walking Down Saint-Germain
[Mumbling to himself]



I love, I mean really adore, the Saint-Germain area the most, in comparison to the rest of Paris, possibly because it has my Cafés –the ones on the corners, the ones by the beautiful church Saint Germain-des Pres and Picasso’s sculpture by the rue Bonaparte; I liked the old bookstores in the area also; and now that I think about it, I got looking at a bookstore by Victor Hugo’s house the other day; although it is quite a distance from here, there is nothing more to say on that, and so, here, let me write that in my notes:ڤڤ
The Café de Flora is right where I want it to be, if you could plant cafés as you do corn, this is where I’d plant it, right on this corner, with the Les Deux Magots, I like both of them, but the best food is at the Lips across the street. I know Ernest likes that place for its beer and Alsatian cuisine. And so do I, but not for the beer. I did see E. F. Cummings and James Joyce eating there one night—when it gets crowded there you can not get a place to sit, unless you know the manager, and so I got to know him a little, nobody gets to know him a lot, he’s too damn busy. Still I like going after 2:00 PM for lunch if I decided to eat there at all, being it is quite expensive. The manager, you never know if he is in a good mood or not, and on occasions would turn a few people away in place for me. Sticking me in-between two families or some hotshots; --but they thought I was one of them I suppose.
Café de Flora—which Hemingway I think cares less for than the other two cafés, one being the Lip’s, and the other,-- Magots all in this area—is the one I cared for the most. Not sure why. Maybe because I liked those long ham and cheese sandwiches, strong coffee, and photogenic waiters; they will take your picture and jump in one with you, and they all seem to look good in the pictures as if they took lessons.
One time a week I walk down to the “Chicago Daily News,” it is on the Boulevard des Capucines. It is a good place to watch the people and military parades go by. They have a huge sign outside; --it is more like a club, with palms and oriental rugs and leather armchairs. I like it. I would sit at their reading table which had nice stationery on it and made notes for my novel, I’ve done that, oh, a few times I’d guess, several times maybe; the few times anyways, that I was there, I saw Edgar Mowrer; --he has written a few novels to my understanding, although I have not read him as of yet.
I grabbed a paper, Wednesday’s a week ago.
It said:

“1925, a new strain of the smallpox virus found in packages of Easter Eggs—has now caused an outbreak and spreading through the country [USA]. It was contained to a fatality rate of 1% after the invention of the Ice Box--, at which time it was killing 103,0000 annually in the US [1921], it went down to 5,000 to 15,000 thereafter…it is expected to account for over 25,000 lives this year, with hopes of containing it in l927. The strain is not as deadly as the “Spanish Flue,” of l918-1919 of which 20-million perished worldwide. But all school children may be required to get the shot in order to register for admission to school.”


I threw the paper in the garbage basket. Now why don’t these people find a cure for that damn virus, it is a, a, vicious virus, akin to a snake coiled inside you, its sole function is to self-replicate, and it enters the human cells, I know that for a fact. Oh yes, even I know that, but I can’t put that in my book, not sure how I came up with that. When they reproduce they churn out virus particles. They come from ancient rats, even I know that----why don’t they cure this thing, I think they know how but don’t want to, to, to…tell people. You can’t control something wild, like war, or rats now, can you? It only killed 20,000 more people than expected. What if the strain was twenty times stronger, then what? Oh yes, the virus has killed more people in 5000-years than all the wars combined; from the time after the Great Flood, to the Roman Empire, the Crusades, and now today. It killed the Aztecs, Incas, and God knows who else.
I even know the symptoms: fever, headache, nausea, peppered face, trunk and limbs, mouth, boils. And how do you get it: saliva, mucus, sneezing, and urine. I know much about this skin version of the consumed virus; you are consumed by fire, tormented. Yes, I have consumed you all with my fire.
War is fine to die in, but not by smallpox, why? Why not heal war, and hell with the smallpox virus. Just get rid of the rats. I think our ancestors ate rats and passed it on down the human digestive line. Noah brought [over from the old world in his ark], the rats, and then it happened, disease. Yes, maybe that will be part of my plot: ‘death has its roots [and it demands, and it desires]’, --didn’t put that in yet though…I’m thinking, got to think before you act you know, yaw, ya a yaw…it will make a good plot; oh yes, I’m creating my book, step by step; my father said, “Patience is a something,” shit, I always forget the ending… You got to live some of it, you know. And instead of looking for an imagination to go along with it, take another step an extra step beyond the normal, and create the imagination, that is my philosophy. Napoleon, the great Napoleon, the leader of good old France, a hundred and some years ago, kills all these people and he remains a hero to the world, blessed by France, and most assuredly to the France, a Greek god of sorts. . Via la France; how about Vie la Germany—something like that; --how about via le me…haa, ahhaa. Yaw, via nothing. Mass killers get the “via” stuff—why?
Many of the soldiers died in the trenches with smallpox I know. People used it as a war gimmick, to win a country, for example, Cortez in Mexico…over 12-million Aztecs were taken over by his Army, but it wasn’t by fighting, but by smallpox. The Europeans brought it over, but no one blames the Europeans for their bad deeds. What’s a dead Aztec worth today, or a dead Maya, how about an Inca [I should ask the Monkey Man he’ll know]? They skip over that and give Cortez the credit for killing—Victory they call it over great odds; is that not the wrong message to be giving our growing little children. I gave them my entire message before I left for overseas, a good doze of it. Maybe I’ll be a hero, but don’t I need to kill more people? I believe it is a disease, killing that is. It gets deep into the marrow of one’s bones,--as ludicrous as it sounds, it is true. It explains to me the wild blood and curding nightmares in the dead hours of the night I get; --the nightmare-demon has an open door to my cells, my brain, and my second self.

We need not wonder why they have killings on the side streets of Chicago, or in New York, or any place for that matter, simply look at history, for example, Cortez was no more than a school boy running around with a wooden Spanish sword in his hand, --then in a few years it got to him, and he traded it in for one of steel, and killed all the bloody Aztec’s with it, and down came the empire, and his people infected the leaders, and down came their empire. Why is everyone so alarmed about 25,000 deaths this year when they had 103,000 in 1920 [small pox]; can’t figure it out; how about Spain paying back Mexico for all the lives they took. No way, no way, no way, no way,--that is what they would say. No way…yet they want to know how these eggs got infected with smallpox, as if they didn’t know, they just don’t know who. Go get the killers who wanted to kill more Americans in France and England by continuing the war. No, No, we can’t do that now, it is two governments vs. individuals.
I shouldn’t have read that paper, my thoughts are going wild again, it got to me, and it’s getting to me. Now all I’m getting is angrier and frustrated, I am becoming manic. In years to come, they will all see, killing breeds killing, and it will be more of a game, like it is for me, why not, everyone is doing it. War is a license to kill by another government. They protest here and there about war, --they call it a peace protest, and yet they are aggressive, peace my ass, what they are doing is exactly what they are protesting about, war. Yes and when the cops hit them on the head and give them war, they protest about that too.
Billy the Kid is a hero for killing twenty-one people. John Wesley Harden is a hero for killing over forty-people; no one says, I wonder who he killed, they just look at the number and say “OH GEE, what a man…” —I should be a hero for killing 20,000 + 1-people. I have more notches on my gun than anyone alive maybe [be quiet, quiet, did I say that]. Am I a hero, no, I am not. How about that man called ‘Jack the picker’ no, I mean, ‘Jack the Ripper,’ he’s a folklore, a, a damn hero, if there is such a thing. Heroes come in many forms. Why am I not a “…hero-oooooooooooooooooo!”


٭


[The Mumbler now is at the Café de Flora, and is sipping on his double shot espresso, with a ham and cheese sandwich; the air is brisk, and the sky is a bit gray. He is sitting outside with a warm coat on. It was a long walk from Notre Dame, and he is drinking a soda to wash the bread down.]




٭

There was another group that met on Wednesdays, I was told, and I sought out, but didn’t join, called the “Anglo-American Press Association of Paris,” they had good lunches I‘ve heard, and they liked writers to visit them; about 20-members in all. There is also the “Paris Times,” a newspaper that started up about a year before I came to Paris, l924, and I’m sure will not last all that long, it has not received a very good rating from what I hear. But I am getting to feel at home in Paris a little. If I could stay here longer I might just get involved with one or both of these groups.







IV

Shakespeare


[Tired and discouraged, sitting at the Luxenbourg Gardens; it is now October the Mumbler’s book has not gotten any further than 22,000 words, --at times it seems it takes on a life of its own, that is say, the story in it is becoming him, but not so much at this very moment, as he is reciting poetry in the park to himself.]



My,--my, my poetry…well, it has slowed down, hasn’t it [?]…that is, to a stop, a very solid stop—although I have found several poems I really liked among those I have written. I will recite a few to myself I suppose, unless someone over hears me:



◊

Shadow
[In Paris]

The shadow comes
On big horse hoofs.

They stand staring
Over bridge and river,
On bored gestures,
And then cross over.


◊


Dad’s Clock


My dad was old before his time—
His clock kept ticking, ticking
Out of rhythm; --

People loved him once he said—
But when he had no more to give
Or couldn’t give enough
They played he was dead.

Yet his clock kept ticking, and ticking—
Away, ----until some one said
One day: “Let go,”
I think he was happiest then.

When his clock stopped ticking—
Ticking, ticking –a away
They forgot his name …
But not I,
For his ashes lay in my
Living room
Never more to die…


Yes, I like my poetry, it has a certain genius to it, oh yes, and I am worth my salt.


The old man has not come back either, I’ve asked a few of the shoeshine men about, around here of his where-a-bouts, and they say he’s sick and should return soon, not too sure how long ‘soon’ is, but it has been about two weeks now. I wonder what is going on.


٭


[Journaling] I’ve discovered today after talking to one of the shoeshine-boys or was it a man? Can’t remember, in any case I am in the park now, as I was about to say, that the Monkey Man lives in a basement of a huge hotel over by the Voltaire, yet the name of the hotel escapes me. I do hope he will get well, --the more I reflect about it, the more it seems to haunt me—‘the poor old man, with only a monkey to keep him company.’
I had met Sylvia Beach the owner of the bookstore, “Shakespeare & Company,” I fell in love with her in a kindly way, and I noticed Hemingway borrowed a multitude of books from her like a crazy man possessed; --I’m sure he is her best customer. I am a customer also, but I’m surely not her best. She had told me she was a minister’s daughter from Princeton, New Jersey, and had opened the store about six years prior. I was given to her wit and shapely legs to be quite honest. My books were not done, and I knew she had money to assist me, for she published Joyce’s, Ulysses in l922, but I thought, just thought now, no more than that, that, that, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know her a little, just a little, that is, a little more than ‘a little’, if possible. I won’t expect her to help me though, no, no, no, I’m not that kind of a person. I have honor. By the way, I think Beach talked Hemingway into using her bookstore as a post office, as well as club house and library, that way she can admire him at close range, he isn’t bad looking. But she seemed quite friendly to everyone, notwithstanding.
I was asked to give a reading at the “Shakespeare and Company,” of my manuscript’s first chapters and some of my poetry, to raise money to save the bookshop, but that is not in line with my agenda, although it was a great offer, and quite an honor.
I have also seen Hemingway and that Gertrude Stein at the Luxembourg Gardens a few times; I believe he [Hemingway] was critical of her work or something. He said in so many words: you do not care for the drudgery of revision and that makes your reading unintelligible. You can’t win. I don’t like revision either. Every time I revise, I add more words, and I never get to the end of the page without adding another thought to it, making the previous page into two pages. From what I have seen, Stein liked to talk, talk and talk…like a chatter box. She had a nose like a hawk too.
I would much prefer to see Jack London in the flesh, but he died a few years back. I read his book, “Call of the Wild,” funny: here was a drunkard, and a drug addict, but –a man’s kind of man. Who came from the slums of San Francisco, made his way to and through the ‘Gold Rush’ digging in the Yukon for that yellow dust, --been all over Alaska, lived with the wolfs; sailed the seas from Hawaii to Tahiti to Sydney. Wrote and wrote, yes he wrote some fifty books, and here comes Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Jack gets put back into the igloo, forgotten for another time. They say he was silly with drink, I could care-less, he was still more of a man than most writers are today. He was a boxer of sorts also, as I hear Hemingway is, sort of, but Jack wanted to go pro; a skilled swordsman and only the lord knew what else Jack was.
In a way I felt Jack was a little, or possible a lot similar to me, impatient, but with more of an appetite for life, I preferred to avoid it, if I could. He chose the path of adventure, as I am trying too now, but again, the only thing that took him away from his seeking out life, his fever for it, was books, and his illness towards the end of his life. In a like manner, I seek it out, but when I find it, it crushes me edgewise. I think Hemingway is trying to out due Mr. London in experiencing life, in that contrast, I do somewhat admire. [End to my Journaling]

≈

I got thinking about my hotel for a moment, odd, I really enjoy my room [The Mumbler has put down his pencil, and is looking about, talking to himself], it is as nice and warm and pleasant as anyplace I have ever been, and more-so because it is mine. It is the beginning of my third week here —an October chill is filling the streets of Paris. People preparing for winter I guess, with the sale of wood, coal and the braziers: --outside the many more expensive cafés. The gravel paths at Luxembourg are still full of people though, --the leaves of the trees are also starting to fall all about, all around, and they are becoming almost naked—naked trees, somehow that brings to mind Oscar Wilde, but I don’t care for that famine part of him…he courted Bram Stoker I heard…funny people, and they say I’m funny. But I like Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ and that 17-page short story he wrote, “Dracula’s Guest’, I like the wolf in the story in particular, as it lays its weight on the persons body, and his hot breath is felt by the recipient. Yes, yes…I can read that over and over. I’ve read it; it is kind of written in letter form [Dracula], a journal of sorts. But mighty good, and Wilde has done a few good books also. Funny, they are not all that famine in their books; must be the Greek in them.



V

The Coming of fall



[Looking out his hotel window] There are but a few days left to the month of October, October’s end, and 1925, --I have to leave Paris soon, I am running out of funds, and I cannot write another word on the book anyhow. If I had discovered one thing on this voyage, and only one thing, I would name it ‘freedom,’ oh yes, a kind of a new freedom, that is, freedom to flirt, smoke, pet, drink, dance, you name it, I learned I could do it. The more I mull over it, I, I learned two things I liked mostly, now that I think about it, mostly that is, is, how to write a novel. I just kept reading and listening, listening and reading, and reading more of this and that, and everything. And then one night, about a week ago the ‘whisperer’ asked me—the smart ass—how do you write a book, and you know, I fooled him, I had the answer:


Dad always told stories, but stories to me were not novels, I have learned for myself, they are different. One you read the other you say. I discovered there are four keys to making a novel. First, you prepare, or compose; second, you have to have expectations [which are mine]; third, descriptions, you got to describe so the reader knows this and that, and forth, explanations. And this is how I’ve been writing the book. Then you must add to this.
Preparation is just like dad said, get a ticket for the boat, get reservations for the hotel in Paris, and get a train ticket from London. That is the same way you prepare for a book. Now I told the Whisperer, ‘…how do you see that?’ He laughed, the jerk.
He said, “Explanation for what?” I fooled him again, for the plot, what else. It is like ingredients, like soup. You create an introduction, chapters narrative style, interruptions, points to slow the reader down in changing of thoughts, and thoughts in general need to be separated, and description to keep in tune, the ending and afterward. As soon as I figured out the characters that is, when so, this will emerge, along with activities and my imagination.
Then the Whisper said, ‘…what about the theme,’ I forgot about that, but I had it in the back of my mind. For me my theme would be how people die unexpectedly—again and again and again. You see people meet as strangers, die the same way and the more you meet people the more you notice death surrounds you, is a must, one we push in the corner too often. One experience you can only have once.
Then he asked me “…why are you paranoid, fearful, dangerous and fragmented?” I didn’t like that. He was trying to anger me. But the only thing I could come up with on that note was: ‘my thoughts have rhythms’ and ‘they are just there,’ I seem to have only a little control of them and I don’t quite know what triggers bad thoughts. Oh, but I did add the second-self, but that is useless, no one believes, they all think they are glued together in one piece.
And back to writing I explained to him, that when I write I write in a thought-rhythm pattern,-- it is not like my father telling stories, as they were his way of thinking I suppose. I write similar to the way Picasso paints, my emotions maybe that’s why I get so confused, so ugly. I told him point blank, the Whisperer [the demon], “I write my thoughts without translating them into narrative terms,” it is the only way my mind works, I feel I confused him. I call this term “Thoughts on Thoughts”; I made that up, and will be famous for it someday. The devil laughed.


٭


As I was thinking or about to reflect, I think I was thinking [the Mumbler silently looking, stone-still, intently out the window, his eyes blazing so that the blue tint in them shone like sun-lit-diamonds, from the hotel room] on it, or thinking about it, at any rate, you sometimes get that way, some kind of a block they call it, where you can’t write. I made arrangements to sail back on a ship from England October 31st; I bought tickets to catch the train to London, 3rd class, not so expensive that way; I’ll stay there for a day. It was a great time here in Paris, I am hoping I find the ability on my way back to the Midwest to finish my writing though, but I just don’t have the spirit in me at the moment. Look at these foolish people walking aimlessly to the stores, to the bars to the churches to ask for forgiveness of their sins, so they can go sin again, --they know they will, they even got it planned, as I do.

The Train



As I found my seat on the train, and it started to take off, I noticed someone left the “Paris Times,” laying on a seat next to me by the window. A hidden thought seemed to creep into my bones: -- the black and white picture of a monkey appeared, I looked closer, the hat, the box, it is the old man and his monkey…I caught my breath I thought, ‘no, don’t pick it up, something bad is in it…’ and I quickly grabbed the paper before someone claimed it. It is the old man, really, the old man in the park, Paris, Luxembourg, the old man, the old man, the old man, --it reads:

“Report: an old man and his monkey were found dead in the basement of the Hotel… [Leaving the name of the hotel out by request]; he died of natural causes at the age of 74, Malcolm Nay. He leaves the hotel $200,000 dollars, and notes expressing his gratitude for letting him live in the basement of the hotel for fifteen-years. Mr. Nay spent most of his time in the largest gardens in Paris, the Luxembourg, with him—at one time, he had two monkeys. He will be missed by the passers-by in the Gardens. The Hotel has taken upon them to bury him in a fine manner.”



[A moment of disassociation for the Mumbler, as the train seemed to disappear for the moment, he is completely overtaken].

I couldn’t believe it; believe that the old man has $200,000 dollars. I am fragmented, my thoughts are not holding together. I can’t see anything around me, everything is a blur, the moment is still, as still can be, [thinking, $$$$$$$$$$$$$$]. Of all the people I met, he has turned out to be the richest, somewhat, most, famous, at least for the moment, the most humble, the most mysterious, and surely the most interesting of all the human race up to this very moment, except for my dad of course. If I were to write a hundred books, he would stand out above the rest of my characters, he will not fail to haunt my memory, no, no, no, not fail to haunt it: --that’s what my book must do, standout like him, forbidden, different, therefore, he should be part of it.
I can’t stop staring out the window, holding this paper on my lap as if it is a signed autograph book by Nathaniel Hawthorne, or Mark Twain; I am holding on to it tight, as if it is a jewel, almost putting thumb holes in it, as if it is going to fly away. How could this be? I …how this-s-s be-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!
He was my friend, he smiled at me, the little crooked smile he’d give you now and then, as if he knew something you didn’t know; as if he swallowed a frog, a live one that is. My goodness, he knew all the time of his plight. It seemed at times he could even read my mind. He really could, I mean, really could read my mind. I could say he lived a thin life, but who am I to say. I have traveled to Paris to find wisdom, and write a book, no, write a novel, and I go home with no book, and with over twenty thousand words that say nothing, and here in my lap I hold the mystery to life –my, my gosh! Let me look at the paper again; ‘damn’ it is really him.’ Now I got a hero, I just need to find the plot. Yes, yes, yes, I got a hero, and theme, now a plot. Maybe I’ll call the novel, “The Quiet Monkey Man.” I bet when he went home at night he respected the river too. It calms him as it does me. You can’t miss it—you know the river on the way home, you got to go one way or the other, and to get to the other side, you got to cross it, and so he had to cross it, and it calmed him down, yes, yes, like me. What am I talking about, I got to calm down, maybe he never saw the river—who really cares though [?]. He left all that money. My money comes from a dead man’s grave—my father, I am sorry to say.
As I looked at the paper for the third time, I started searching my pockets for that damn note the monkey gave me, ‘yaw, it’s here…’, it read:
“A book forth coming,” I remember it at the time he gave it to me, see he knew. Matter of fact he gave me several notes, this was the last one I think, before he got ill, ‘no’ I, I, think, --‘just coincidence, no more.’ But the more I think of it the more my ending to the story comes into play and a new title is circling my head; yes, yes, yes, its coming to me, to me, ---stop, stoppp…, damn, I lost the thought.

‘If you want to write, then write something different,’ my dad would say, or did he say that or someone else, this is good wisdom for my now chain of thoughts, none-the-less;--how about ‘The Man and the Monkey,’ ‘The Gardens of Paris,’ surely food for thought, or simply I could call it ‘The Monkey Man.’

٭

As I sat back in the seat on the train, I let the air out of my lungs and whatever was left resting in my stomach. I would miss the markets of Paris, the walking in the markets in the morning, so many, many markets; the Parisians as they shopped the fresh fruits, and vestibules, a sight that was disappearing back in the United States, back in my home Midwestern town. I will miss the organ-grinder, the shoe-shine boys, of which most were men, notwithstanding; the sailboats in the pool and its cool looking water—its deep blues and freshness, along with the gardens itself and all the different colors of green, and flowers, but most, most of all, the old man and his monkey, I will miss, and the calm still waters of the Seine River, for surely the river is part of my red soul, my painful, hurt, and angry red soul; and again I say, for sure the old man; ‘…for I have spoke, let it be written,’ I read that some place. I love the tone to it, the ring.
Yes, even the Eiffel Tower I will miss, especially it giraffe looking neck, where I wrote one-thousand words of my story while having coffee at 11:00 AM on morning; and a few poems to boot. And the Arch of Triumph, where I had to huff and puff to get up those stairs; YYYes these are the, the mighty symbols of Paris, possible of all of Europe—and possible yet, the whole world.
Somehow I am becoming drained as a flag pole standing in the wind all alone waving, and waving, and waving, uneventfully, waving, that is the flag I am speaking of. I am practicing my descriptiveness, see how good I am.
I will miss the bells ringing on the day of ‘St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre,’ which is celebrated on August 24, each year, like me, it was a day that was damned by someone [I was damned long ago to by someone I feel]. A reminder of the evil deeds the Catholic Catherine de Medico did back in 1572 AD. You see, people remember the bad, how about the good, for example, the Monkey Man—he will be forgotten tomorrow, yes oh yes, tomorrow, no later, tomorrow, tomorrow, that will be old, old, old news, yes, yes it will beeee. Oh I know, he had his day of glory’…under the sun…’, and it cost him $200,000 for it, and so you may say, let him rest in peace. No, no, he is a hero; I will make him so, in my book, in the pages of time, I will write him in. I guess 99% of all these books will be second-hand firewood someday, no one is really writing anything worthwhile anymore. But I will, I will write him as a hero. I will give him the eternal light of words that live forever. That is exactly what I will do!
I bet he didn’t go into those smelly bars, --you know, that smell similar to old rotting books, that they leave on the shelves for decades; full of body sweat, sour smelling. Where the drunkards crowed together, cluster up to pass out for the evening and piss on the side of the wall, or in their pants on the stools in the bar, not able to walk to the bathroom, I’ve seen that happen, shit-in and puking all the way to the toilet, while it’s dripping off their legs. Their breath frosting up the windows with carbon dioxide, heating up their bellies and coming out of their ass defrosting the coldness around them; yes, they do all this, while trying to show their mental weakness by swearing. You learn quick in Minnesota the cold is the Master of Arms, the one that has all the weapons and it has a big storehouse of arms ready to subdue you. It is stronger than anything, it freezes even Minnehaha Falls every year, oh yes, I’m sure Longfellow knew that, as he referred to our land as “From the great lakes of the Northland…”* he also wrote in his earlier poems,


Woods in Winter:

“When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows
The gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overgrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert
Woods,”


But to me his most famous will remain *The Song of Hiawatha, from which I have quoted. I think Mr. Longfellow got pleasure and calm from water like me, and of course now the Monkey Man. He listened to it, its silent numbness of the mind and body; --and the pleasant songs it gave to the soul.

No the Monkey Man, stayed home and fed his monkey akin to a good father would…not like the drunks, nor did he have time to write like Longfellow, or me. He had to feed the monkey…hm…you understand! Responsibility….

٭

Writers are heroes you know, makers of dreams. In the vein of Robin Hood, and Huck Finn…, and Billy the Kid; --I doubt he ever killed anymore than four people, they make such things up you know, saying he killed twenty-one, Billy the Kid I bet couldn’t far his way out of a paper bag. And it is people like me that make them up, so I know this for a fact. Matter of truth, King Arthur, who is he really? Some say legend, some say a true person. And those ‘somebody’s’ were writers just as I am, me. The bible also is full of heroes. You know the ones everyone wants to be comparable to, and never lift a finger to put any effort out in the trying area--, so they go to sleep dreaming they are the hero, cowards, that is all they are; living someone else’s life, dreaming it away. But that isn’t true either; they only live as long as your country survives, heroes that is. Most of the heroes were at one time social outcasts; --that’s how they became a hero, and they made the bad right. And what is right today will be wrong tomorrow. Oh I know this for a fact also. That is why the world can be wrong and me right. Oh yes, this is mighty true.
And Shakespeare, who is he…the writer of a million words, I don’t think so…I think he had a million people writing him each one word, and got a million words out of it, and credit for it. How do I know this? Well, maybe, just maybe, Mark Twain has something to say on this matter. But this is my idea, not his. He just might agree with me.

[The Mumbler now is holding his head as it hurts him to continue thinking, and he is loosing his balance, and seemingly fighting with himself; as he continues to babble.]


The reason the good die young is because God needs more time with the bad, no other reason, if there was another reason, my dad would have told me. Although I think he may have needed the space also [freedom that is]; when I say space, he wanted to give me room to live, and possibly himself, so he went off to war.
I will miss the “Shakespeare And Company” on 37 Rue Del La Butcheries, 5th…in the heart of the city where writers, readers, browsers go. I will miss Victor Hugo’s spirit; it is all around the city you know, isn’t it? I even went into his house, looked about. Bid him farewell, I did it on my birthday, October 7, l925.
I guess we find our stories in funny places, do we not, --but you got to be there to get them. Stories and sketches of life, I will be one of those books on the shelves for decades, and when someone picks me up off the shelve, blows the dust to kingdom-come, he will say, “I don’t understand this language,” English, French, German, all the languages will be history, it will be the aliens from Mars and Venus. Or at least that is what Edgar Rice Burroughs thinks: --I resemble him I suppose, a little bit, we both have great imaginations.

If I ever live to finish this book, I want to say that this old man really cared; the Monkey Man, who else? That is who I’m talking about. I would give my right hand to have his money, and he would give nothing to buy my books. He could have bought fame like Stein did, or Picasso as he is now trying, his pictures are becoming quite expensive; and the rest of the in group [Jazz Age] of Paris is trying to get them… : --yet the Monkey Man chose the little red and white theater made of wood and tin, with a monkey to produce his play, as his grand-stand, his greatest show on earth, his performance, his way. And it was the greatest performance I have ever seen. Let me look one more time at this damn paper, I still can’t believe it; I got goose-bumps all over me.




VI




Tenet of Truth


Everyone’s trying to figure out:
Whose right and whose wrong;
What is right and what is wrong;
Why it is and why it isn’t;
What it is and what it is not;
Where we’re going, where we’ve been;
I think either everyone is a fool,
Difficult, asleep, or simply
Needs to learn;
My god, where have all the
Wise-men gone…?

Human nature, is simply bent
[No big surprise, no big event]
On not knowing the truth…
Who gives a hoot—?


By the Mumbler








London


Just a little ways now, a little while longer and I’ll be in London, I’ll miss the Paris show of the Surrealist Painters, of which Pablo Picasso was to be part of, along with Max Ernst and Joan Miro, but I now have a new quest, my novel, --I do not mean, totally new, rather a new spark, spirit inside of me; that is, a new and old quest, inasmuch as, to try and add the Monkey Man and his monkey into it. For it is little I can do, to show my appreciation for those notes he and his monkey gave me. And for the most part, it’s been a busy year, so many things can happen in just one year—you go along for many years and life becomes boring, routine, and then in one year you don’t even have time to write a note on your activities, but I must, I really, really must, not sure what November will bring but I hope more luck—luck, luck, luck, I need more luck. I feel lucky now, real lucky. The old man and his monkey brought me luck, even in his death. And luck has never been my selected side in life: Luck, Luck, and Luck, that’s me now.
Funny how things work out, while in Paris I was not able to write about Paris, and now I will be in London, and surely be able to write about Paris, because I sense I want to, meaning my mental powers will produce the motivation for me to start writing. That means if I want to write about London—if I want to write about London that is, I must go some other place I suppose. London has a nice river I will have a day to check it out. I think I will walk it, it will relax me, take the edge off me a bit.
You know, now that I reflect on it, I never took a writing lesson, but then does a fish need to learn how to swim [?]: --I have a very sensitive eye, and a beat to the rhythm of human nature. I know people better than they know themselves. I can follow tracks into the dark thick woods, oh yes I can, and end up facing the bear before he smells me. That makes me the best of writers, odd, eccentric, but none the less, the best or equal to the best. What other writers can claim that? --none none, just me; that is why I will never get caught, my doom is myself, as is my real enemy. Most people can not stop anything when they are ahead. That is why I never sent anymore Easter Eggs. You got to walk away from it.

◊

I grabbed the rest of the paper, there was an article on this Hitler guy, they had let him out of prison, and hell, he wrote a damn book in prison called “Mein Kampf,” and he’s back in circulation. I get the feeling that was a dumb move. Anybody who changes his name from Schicklgruber to Hitler, has some neurotic impulse to hide, oh yes, believe you me, that is so, you say, unrealistic, no sir, I wouldn’t trust him with my father for five minutes, he’d kill him in a heart-beat. And this guy is not psychosomatic; it is real, real mental illness. He is dead emotionally to the world.
Sometimes I feel as if I missed life, with so many opportunities I had, and so few taken, that is why my father I think left, because he was alive without living. That is why I went on this trip; I also must live before it is too late.

Anyways, damn, I’ll miss Paris, especially the Jazz, yaw, the New Jazz Age, freedom to do what you have never done, that is all it is, besides little swing to it [freedom without responsibility], -- a fad, nothing else, tomorrow it will be something new, and Jazz will look commonplace: it will pass, as does everything with only a spark in the rift of time.
Paris is where it is happening. I suppose London will be a fine place also, but I’ll not be there long enough to find out, how fine.
I see the Leaning Tower of Pisa is starting to lean too much, in the paper here, or so the picture shows; and over here, this side of the paper, yaw, Mussolini’s Fascism is growing, another trouble maker. Oops, Babe Ruth fined $5000; so what, he’s got the dough, misconduct they say. I see that China-guy died, Sun Yat-sen, the leader. Who cares, we got to die, when I die no one is going to put me in the paper so who gives a rats-ass. We all want to live forever, for what? Charles Dickens died, Hawthorn died, Hitler will die, I will die, we’re all going to die, just like my dad, --but I’m not afraid to die, just like my dad. That’s where the fear comes in, the unknown! If you knew when you were going to die, you’d die a little bit right there. But I’d like to know. I assume God gave man a great gift in not knowing, but for me it is just the opposite, if I knew, I’d make peace…WITH HIM QUICKLY. But does the person that does not know [what I know], that should have known [for there are churches all over the place] get sent to hell [do they know this?] because everyone thinks they got one more day to figure things out. Everyone thinks they are going to heaven. And everyone thinks their loved ones are there already. Most likely they sinned all their life, now why would they want to go to heaven. Why, why, they want to sin more, they do not want heaven, you can’t sin there. Even I know that. They really want hell, there they can screw everyone they have been thinking about screwing for the past 50-years and not offend anyone. I may not make it to heaven, but it will not be because of wanting to screw everything that has to nice legs and ass; nor will it be for drugs or getting drunk, nor will it be for killing people in the war, it will be for my intolerable temper, and my unspeakable thoughts in my head that I carry out into reality.

You know, “God, if you gave me one more day I would have figured it out, but you took me too soon, too soon from this earth…,” something resembling that; that is what a person would say, if He had all those sins piled up in front of him, and God was questioning him on the sins, and saying “Look, just look.” Do you really sense he is going to listen to bull shit? No, no, no. We think he will because we want him to, but we make God into our image, not his, not the Bible’s. We simply do not explain to our minds that He is the Big Man upstairs, what He will and will not tolerate, and we cross red lines all the time He paints on our foreheads.
You see, I got it straight—he, he’s the head man, no more, no less. It all stops at the front desk, his front desk [like it or not he can kick our ass if he wants to]. Ok, now, this, this is a business you know; --He got the earth, and a few others He has got to deal with, or a few thousand other places, or –you know, all those planets rotating, working somehow manage to stay in a rotated or semi-predictable orbit, circles I call them, and all that kind of stuff. And we are his bees, sort of. If we do not produce honey, well pal, the King Bee is not going to be too happy, not sure where you go from there, but it’s not going to be back to the hive, or in our case, the human case, back on earth.
And another thing, I didn’t say, but I will, if He showed up in your back yard and said, “YOU over there…” that is all it would take to make any man shit in his pants. I hate to put it that way, but that is why he does not show up downtown, or at movie theaters, and all those kind of places. That is why the demons sneak around, because they know God is not going to be poking his nose in our business.


VII



The train stopped, we’re at Victoria Station, good, let me get a cab. “Over here Cabbie ☻!”
“Where yaw going bud…?”
“Kensington… area, you know the area?”
“Like the palm of my hand.” I jumped in the cab.
[Thought the Mumbler] ‘Like the palm of his hand, horse shit, they all say that,’ then mumbling out loud: I often find out cab drivers get lost on the simplest of streets,--so they can charge you more [the driver paid no attention].

As the cabbie drove I noticed a few parks that we drove by, as we left the area of Westminster, that is, and beyond the two parks one being, Hyde Park, seemingly the largest of the two; people riding horses, as others rested and did such things like in Paris’ Luxembourg… and New York City’s, Central Park, joggers, --and kids were all about.
“Big Park…” I commented to the Cabbie.
“You bet, I stroll through it myself, now and then…”
“Are we close now…?”
“Yaw, the hotel is right down this side-road, there are two hotels there, and look to your right, that old church you can go to it on Sunday’s. You see it? “Yaw”, I answered, as he continued,
“And as you can see, it gets busy around here, so be careful crossing the streets.” He added.
“Behind me is a fine Chinese restaurant you can get some good duck there.”
“Thanks,” I paid the cabbie, stepped out of the cab shut the door, and made my way into the hotel. I had already made reservations.

As I checked in with the clerk at the register, there I saw my name, --good, I told myself, my name’s right on his pad of paper, I liked seeing that, my name that is, what is sweeter than hearing or seeing your name, nothing, nothing at all; no, not even the word death can get in the way of a persons name, it is as my father said, no matter what, you signature on this earth. Yet I say, a name is only a name, if we were known by our character, it would be more worthy of a title. Then he gave me the key [the desk clerk], he handed me a sealed envelope. It was white with no markings on it.
“For you sir, left yesterday.”
I opened it, it read: “Finish your book, here is $2050, stay in London, and will contact you later…I might help publish it for you,” signed, SAC-‘Love-d’ — I thought, and asked myself, ‘…now who is SAC?’
I turned around and told the clerk to make arrangements for me to stay here for the whole month of November, for sure it would take me that long to modify my book, and I had now time and money to add the old man in it somehow—
The clerk was more accommodating than I had expected for some reason, as he quickly modified my stay to lengthen it for an additional month.

[In the lobby.] As I turned around to look out the window it still wasn’t raining, I thought to myself, everyone says it rains here all the time, where is the rain. The weather is a bit chilled, but nice enough to only have a light scarf and sweater on, along with my older suit jacket, and my green hat I figured I’d be fine for a month.
As I checked out the hotel, simply just walking around a bit, I loved it. I then went to my room, gave my escort a tip, and sat on the bed looking at my hat, it had two holes in each side, resembling a hunters hat, purposely made for ventilation. I wore sandals, my right foot had an operation on it many years ago, and I shift my weight to my left. And this can activate my goat, and when it is activated I could be laid up for weeks to months, I couldn’t afford that. And so kicking off my sandals I laid back on the big huge bed, kind of feeling braver than what I should, or better put, overly secure for the moment.




VIII



The Devils Parade


The demons that haunt me
Will be gone tomorrow
They’re riding in a parade
[I will have one day of peace];
With rabbits, rats and squirrels
To pull their carts—
They have dressed I see
From head to toe
With orange purple and black
Royal robes to impress
The devils circle and me;
Let them go I say, let them be,
And pray they catch the flue
On the way back
In their royal splendor crap,

I’d rather watch the Queen.

The Mumbler
[I wrote this poem today while farting so much, I lost my breath
… [Pause] and fell to sleep]




I rested the fist day, simply stayed in my room counting my blessings that is, counting the money, the, the $2050. It was all too astonishing, comparable to a story in a novel. Man goes to Paris, meets many famous people, or soon to be famous people I should say, --finds his ending for his novel in the happenings of an old man with a monkey. Goes to London to find out he has money waiting for him to finish a book no one but I have seen, up to this point; by some anonymous person with the initials SAC. That is a story in itself.

It is all too much, way too much for my mind. I am getting a headache thinking about it I will rest d...ad always says to do that when my head hurts, ‘rest’, and so I shall



≈ Time ≈

‘—Up-up-up…’ I think I slept 15-hours, I’m starving, and I shall find that Chinese restaurant and have that duck.

≈≈



It didn’t take me long to dress and find the Chinese place. As I sat by the window, watching the pedestrians walk by, it was hard to absorb that I was in this international metropolitan part of the world. I am not well traveled, and I know that, but it is necessary for me to be—or to become well traveled, so I can become a writer, you know what I mean, see and experience the places you will be writing about, as Jack London did, Jacks my man, I think, or he’s becoming my man. His nick-name was ‘The Wolf,” I should be called,” The Mumbler,” why, you know why, uc..k you…I mumble all the time, that’s why—

[His thoughts are shifting—he is staring out the window…]:


I don’t really think people understand my mental illness—
I can’t rest, sleep and when I do I can’t get back out of bed at times. I say nothing to people about this, least I be stigmatized and jailed for disorder. What triggers it—is a good question? Was I predisposed? Was, was, was, was, so many was’…travel through my head. My symptoms are part of my whole life: focusing is the big one; restraining my sprit, reasoning is another, another might be organization. In essence my illness has cost me my brain. I get tired, so very, very tired at times. I can be shy and quiet, even polite, not really overly depressed, I can smile and laugh, I just get that inhuman cruel psychotic feeling in my stomach, a numb face, if not psychopathic episodes, as some have called them. Yes I hear voices, and I see demon flying around my room, my head, but yet I am luckier than most with this illness, my father was very supportive…

-- [He now shifts back to Jack London, mumbling out loud.]

Yes, oh yes, he even went to the ‘abyss’, or better put, the hell hole of London, so his book implied. But I am the abyss, haw—haw. You got to be different. I like his nick-name, the Wolf, and now I have my own nickname, the Mumbler.

Here, in London, is where the great churches, cathedrals are, like St. Paul’s Cathedral here in London, I noticed as the cabbie drove me through the city it was a grand looking building with so many pillars, it gave life to the city. I will have to visit Westminster Abbey, another great church; I heard it is more of a graveyard for safe keeping of tombs of the great people, and preserving their monuments, kind of a death place for the rich and famous. I know it goes back to the 10th century, but that is all I really know. Maybe I will be buried there someday, and everyone will walk over me and say, that’s… awww, forget it, they will not bury me there. As I was about to say, it is a possibility, a real reality, isn’t it? ‘Sure it is.’ I must tell myself this, give myself positive affirmations. My doctor once told me that.
I noticed the Royal Albert Hall was very close to my hotel, I could walk to it in fifteen minutes, or less, for some odd reason, I felt that was a plus; and right across the street was Kensington Gardens which went into the Hyde Park area. I walked along the side of them both. They are quite huge when viewed together. I loved the River Thames already, but I noticed it didn’t have the beautiful walkway that I was utilized in Paris. But the people were friendly here, more so than in Paris; I don’t imagine they liked getting their ass kicked by the Germans; they said to themselves, ‘…if only we could resurrect that crazy man Napoleon’. Oh believe you me, they would if they could. And yes, oh yes, in England here they all speak my language, -- great.

Yesterday, I had walked along the River Thames it gave me a better sense of security than in Paris, but that has to do with, people speaking English I think, a language thing, not a river thing.
Matter of fact, I waved hello to every other passerby as I walk its banks, its river front.




At the Restaurant


“Me-how...” I think that means hello in Chinese, “You got the food I see,” she put the food in front of me, cut several nice shaped slices of duck for me, the duck was fine smelling: --made my eyes almost budged out. I’ve had duck before, but it was always too expensive for me in the States, I mean dad bought me duck once before.
“A glass of wine, please,” I asked without taking my eyes off the duck, I think I was afraid it was going to walk away. And I quickly started to eat even before she had time to turn around and get the glass of wine to me.
As I ate, she left the wine, and as I put the third piece of duck into my mouth, I noticed the dark of the day came about, or was it dark when I left the hotel, funny that I just noticed it now. Damn, was it, or was it not --this dark before? The sidewalk is not as busy now either. I sometimes get to day-dreaming and loose all sense of time, maybe I am doing that unconsciously —now.


[The Mumbler planning]


I figured I’d see the British Museum tomorrow, and possible the Tower of London the following day. I’d have to find a new routine for London writing, I think I had something like 23,000 words to my story now. But I have to modify it …the whole damn thing, but I got it in my head, that is where I want to keep it now. You got to have a plan; I read that all writers do, do have a plan that is, a plan, an undemanding plan. And for most every career, you got to have a plan--such as for brushing your teeth, exercising in the morning, making your bed. That kind of plan, something your subconscious will do for you automatically; dad was always my plan, no backup plan necessary, and then he went to war and died. Plans don’t always work the way you expect them to, do they. None the less, you got to have one.





IX




Grace be Given

I will not limit myself to killing people
God forbid I do such a thing, hence, in the pit of my mind, somewhere, somehow, Divine Mercy may creep through, there maybe a prospect—
As small as it seems, for an appeal before I pass-on—
Would not humanity hate that?
God have mercy on them, should they.

The Mumbler





The Tour


The next day… he walked around the Kensington area, Church Street, the Palace, with its beautiful white statue in front of it. Back down to Albert Hall, he got thinking that would be his landmark to find his way back to the hotel, should he decide to do more walking?
It hadn’t rained yet, ‘…where is the London rain?’ He ended up mumbling about, as he walked, then stopping to rest, leaning against Westminster Abbey, and going inside of it, he liked it very much, but he told himself, he’d take Notre Dame any day, saying as he walked through the isles, “If only you could put the nice London people in Paris, then I’d love it more, get rid of them French creeps”….

It is the afternoon now, the Tower of London, as he had planned is surrounding him, he had walked all the way from his hotel, to the river, and Big Ben along with Westminister Abby, and now to the Tower, a long thinking walk; with its many rifles, knifes, and weapons of every kind, the Mumbler was awestricken—mostly the medieval kind, and along with that came many things such in the areas of torture he was most curious in. “Maybe I’ll use that in my story, the torture things.” He commented in front of a few people, as if to let them know he was a writer. ‘People like to read about such effects’, he mumbled on…adding, ‘…but when it comes to reality, they hide. Funny, you can read it, but not live it, or even believe it, but not feel it—it all hits my soul somehow. Maybe that is why people read it, because it is not an experience for them anymore. It is the beast in man: a substitute for the borderline-reality they seek, when the beast wants to come out—’


[His thoughts are now starting to shift again as he continues to walk through the tower.]


It is not because of my strength I am dangerous—oh no, that is not it at all. It is because of the capacity for me to bedevil a person. My cunning, even my fear and cowardice play a wining hand in my survival. Frightfully so, and that is why only I can will be stopped by God, or myself.


--[now he shifts back to his former focus—he was daydreaming as people were walking around him, as he is leaning on a polo, looking at old armor and swords]


“[Mumbling to himself] …people really are keen on seeing that kind of stuff though…, they just do not want to believe what it was used for, or for that matter, they want the government to turn them off to its reality. People do torture you know, why make them think otherwise, look at it, do you feel it was not really worn, all this armor, knifes, swords, every creative thing to massacre a persons body? Hell, if I was going to take the time and effort to create such things, I’d bring into play my resources, I’d employ them [looking at the battle axes and the swords, and the finger pullers, and a horde of other devices], and apply them and exploit them, just like they did. That’s reality in the raw, and in the real world. How silly can a person be to see in your mind's eye one would not use it if it would benefit them? If you want a yes, and the guy gives you a no, you purely take out the torture item, and you get the yes you’ve been wanting. Simple as baking a pie, no, pies are not simple—let me say, simple as kicking the dust off your sandals.
Just like in the Great War, no one thought they were going to put into practice the mustard gas, but they did. That’s why they created it, to use it, the dumb knuckleheads. And then they turn around and said, never again will it be used in war, will shall see. That is like saying you got a horse to escape by, and you run and leave the horse behind because you made a deal not to use horses in war. Hell, if there is a donkey standing by, I’d draw on him, no questions asked, anything to get away. I have no laws yet, only promiscuous customs. When you look at that horse, you forget the promise, I’ll bet my novel, --yaw every dime I make on it, that that horse will be used. Now just who do you think is not going to use the horse if you’re being shot at? We simply lie to ourselves to tame our guilt down. We are not honest with God, mankind and ourselves. Shit, we might as well kill at will…no, no, where do such thoughts of mine come from?

You know you got to draw on every little bit you can. The old man and his monkey would be proud of me. I bought a jumping rope that had two wooden arm-handles at each of its rope ends, with metal coverings on them to hold on to as you jump-roped or I suppose one could use it for battle, to hang another person with, it would go around a neck quite easily, or whip a person with leaving deep groves for scars. Or maybe it was—or could have been—used for, or to jump rope across someone’s body with, and if you missed, woops, there goes the somebody —you know, a few ribs, among other body parts.
It looked medieval, everything that is; and could be used as a weapon in itself. I put it in my back pocket, and then went outside of the tower. And now that I think of it, everything looked as though it could be used for a kill.
Furthermore, across the courtyard is where the famous Crown Jewels are, I will see them next
as I looked at them, they are as precious looking as everyone said they would be, yet I get no thrill out of seeing them, not compared to the London Tower with its weapons, and torture devises…”

It was getting late and so the Mumbler found his way out of the tower grounds and back onto the river road, on his way back to the Kensington area.

[The Mumbler, still sarcastic and is getting fatigued]

“It was a long walk back …but that is how one learns a city,” he tells himself as he walks by the obelisk along the river bank. Then he chats: “If only I could find a damn ‘Fish and Chips’ place today.”
As he is walking back to his hotel, he doesn’t see one along the way home a ‘fish and chips,’ to eat at, --no rain, no fish and chips, he goes back to the duck-shop café –and orders dinner, then back to the hotel.




٭



Hyde Park

[The Mumbler is walking to Hyde Park, mumbling]

It is the fifth of November; --I’m walking down to Hyde Park, passing the green Kensington Gardens, with its round pond, looking toward Albert Hall, checking them both out, as I always do. I’m now in Hyde Park; I am sitting on a bench by the Serpentine, a long waterway in the park, like a lake almost.
I appreciate all kinds of water areas, such as ponds, lakes, pools, rivers, parks, places you can sit and think; be alone. I cannot regenerate with people around me, they take my energy away. Yaw, writers are thinkers you know. They have to observe people, observe, get empirical data, that’s information for your book you know, yaw, if I need to give a lecture some-day, someday I will say, I will say that. That’s called ‘social comparison,’ also, something along that line. This way you can tell if your behavior is correct or if it is wrong, contrary to what one might think, although. I also am prone to good café‘s and libraries; I mean besides water areas. I have my leather briefcase with me, and my manuscript. I see some horseback riders to my right, and two boys, no three; no…now two boys are playing by the water, one’s looking at me, kind of staring, glancing over at me. I’ll wave back, ‘shit, just a moment,’ damn case in my way…here ‘Hello over there…☺’, he’s waving back.

∑----------------------stop
§______________stop
▒stop…he…he, stole…



“HAY YOU, you stole my briefcase…”

I, I—


The Mumbler is running, running, running, “…those little bastards, bastards…!” he yells.

“It was a set up; they all set me up, that mother f...cheersss.
If I ever see you again I’ll kill you, you little son-of-a- bitche-s.”
They were no more than ten or twelve years of age, the Mumbler now is trying to catch his breath.

[The Mumbler starts to talk out loud]

“Now what do I do…I — I lost my story. It’s all [break] shit…everything’s shit. I had a manuscript half ready… and the kid steals it. ‘Shit, shit’ now what? Let me rest, this park is bad news, bad, bad, bad…”

He sat back on the same seat he was an hour earlier. “I think I’m depressed.” He tells himself, “I want to kill the little creeps. My book, the old man and the monkey [why am I thinking of him? his mind intervenes.] Now what; I have $2000 left, I’ll just have to put my mind to it, and write a complete new manuscript. Shit, that asshole of a punk kid…. Some how I feel I need another monkey note to tell me what to do. I’m lost. Where do I start? There’s the hotel, I’ll rest [been walking for 15-minutes now, didn’t even know it, walked right to the hotel didn’t even know —I’ll be damned.”




X

A Time to Die




[It’s the next day….]

Let me write in my journal: I am feeling a little better this morning, -- it’s early, 6:00 AM, had breakfast, walking back to Hyde Park, of all places. I need to figure out how to write my new story. I took a pencil with me, and pad of paper I bought at the hotel.

There, right there I’ll sit, just like yesterday, -- but nothing is coming to me; no new story.
‘Wait a minute, look…yaw, it’s that damn kid…’ I got up slowly, he hadn’t seen me yet, and he’s alone, waiting for his little gang to rob someone else. I’ll sneak up on him.

[The Mumbler walked as quietly as the flow of water over polished rocks, through the wet grass; it must have rained a bit last night, he told himself; about time. The sun is peeking through the clouds, rising with a little briskness to it; he has a sweater and shirt under his brown sport jacket on.]

[He mumbles] ‘Qqqqqqqq iiiii tttt……’ to himself, then out loud says: “I got yaw…” [He says scornfully as he stands directly behind the bent over boy, and then grabs him by his arm, pulling him toward him.]

“Where’s my manuscript, my case…?”
“I don’t have it, I sold it…let me go, I’ll call the police.”
“Call the police, I’m the one that should do that.”
“They won’t believe you sir, I’m a kid…”
“You’re a bastard that’s what you are, a kid bastard with no respect, how about a little of this ’bang…
ggg
ggg
gg!”’

He has pulled his fist back, his right hand, and thought for a moment, he was hitting a man and broke the boys nose, his blows went square in the nose, it broke, he heard the snap, the crack, something went up into his frontal lobe he could see some kind of bone splitter, ”shitttttttttt-!”

[The kid dropped backwards onto the ground, eyes wide open looking into the sky, one might say, his last light, he is dead, the bone went to his brain, the Mumbler told himself,
“I bet, he presupposed, sssssssssssssshit, now what, where do I go?” he asked himself, as he looked around, nobody there,
“…get out of here quick,” his secret friend in the back of his head told him, ‘out, out, now…’]


Щ

He ran all the way back to the hotel, but when he got to the entrance, he walked in a circle a few times slowing down his heart rate. It was racing faster than the horses at the Kentucky Derby; he jokingly told himself to calm down, then walked into the hotel, put a smile on, walked past the porter and up to his room, and no one was the wiser. ‘Funny, they call me crazy, or mentally ill,’ he mumbled during his walk, ‘…yet I can fool the best. Is that being crazy-crazy? or just a behavior people don’t adjust so well to? they find a category you know, to put one another into so as to label everyone’ His mumbling only assisted him in justifying what he wanted freely to do, that being get revenge. “If I am caught,” he mumbled out loud, “I am crazy. My father killed for the British Army, he was not crazy. I do firmly believe crazy people would make better killers, they have an iron will, an Iron fist, inordinately speaking.”





XI

[A change in plans]


He stayed in the hotel for a week, and tried to put his thoughts together, and then on the 8th day, he did it, and that is today, the 8th day that is, all morning he was writing page after page after page of his novel, a few poems for his poetry book also; he thought he’d call it, ‘The Monkey Man, and a Death in the Park [the novel];’ a bit long for a title, but he could change it later. And in any case he reminded himself: “I can use half it for a subtitle in front of the main title, they do it all the time; I am proud of myself,” he mumbled, adding, “Yaw, that’s good, good, good, good. I’ll just change things on the second draft, I can utilize the monkey man, for he’s my inspiration, and this stupid ass kid I accidentally killed, well, he’ll be part of my story, part of the damn plot, as will as that old man in the boat, and those unfortunate smallpox additives. Yaw, I’ll make the story better, much better than before. Things happen for certain reasons. It was meant to happen, to be,” he told his second-self out loud in his hotel room.

◊

“I am getting along well with my poetry also,” he proudly stated, talking to his second-self, “I am a bit careless about it, not as much as I used to be back home, I am less on style and more on impulse—revulsions, divagation, evasion. I have no identity; my father took it so I look for none when I plant my seeds in my poetry, upside down now one might say; if, if that makes sense.”
“Kram Niawt!”
“Who said that?”
“Who do you think?”
“My demonic somebody I suppose…?”
“Your demonic friend you mean, and all you do is mumble, mumble, and mumble, don’t you ever get tired of it? You know, I get tired of listening to you mumble, and I’m suppose to be able to endure such things, but people, or humans don’t understand, we creatures of the mystic dark, have limits too.”
“Funny hearing you say that.”
“Funny… why?”
“Which one are you, Arrack or Woodbridge?”
“I’m Woodbridge, see my derby [the Mumbler looks, ‘oh’]; tell me about your poetry.”
“Why, you’ll just laugh.”
“Maybe, maybe-so, but you got no one else to share them with, right?”
“Well, I was thinking, Wordsworth could do no better…”
“You lost me brother, what you talking about?” commented Woodbridge.
“Inside of me, there seems to be a child—I seem to act randomly, unselected poetic verse, insensibly drawn to unappealing rejects…I have no perfect poems anymore, Eliot can painstakingly service the world with them, I don’t want to, I need to get my emotions, anger out, and I can only do it imperfectly, leaving mystery, death in my path, throughout my lines. My lines are not metered, or with any kind of thought out rhyme, no, it has no melody, no nothing but hurt and pain, nothing to devour the reader into the classical spell, only to devour the dead and tranquilize the living to wish they were dead. I guess I don’t want my readers to recognize a style, it is easier that way. You see they label a “poem,” with apprenticeship, something Shakespeare never had, anyways, like a painter, singer, writer, but if I allow this to take presidency, then I will never write what I want, but what they want. Does that make sense?”

[Woodbridge] “Well, one thing makes sense, I was around when Shakespeare was doing his thing, and I still can’t figure out how he got all that glory long after he was dead, and no one remembers him in his little home town, or for that matter, when he died they never celebrated him in London, not like Bacon, and all the other notoriety of that day. But he died rich, none the less, and that is what he, after, Shakespeare that is. And he did write one poem, he put it on his grave, and to be quite honest with you, it is kind of horseshit. But back to your questions, you lost me somewhere along the line.”

“Well, Mr. Woodbridge, let me explain how I feel in a different manner. One has to take out the sounds and syllables, mix up the words, phrases, and hell with the rhythm, the flow, stanza’s, a couplets of two lines, or unit set off to the side, as I often use, --such as one has utilizes in the heroic couplet [s] in “The Canterbury Tales,” --push iambic and troches, and tetrameters, aside. And the Octameter, Heptameter, fuck-a meter, and pentameter, damn, just thinking about all those meters gets me tired, and I’d never get my job done, you know what I mean? Take the traditional forms and trash it, I mean trash it, you know why Woodbridge, haw, do you? I am not objective and do not aim to teach, as in didactic poetry. And fuck the lyric, something to sing that is all it is good for, happy days. “Out of the cradle endlessly rocking…” that is Whitman’s crap. You see Woodbridge, in poetry, as I have done before often, you must chose the exact meaning, the invisible aura --the individual word must be the one and only. But if I do this now, why do I feel like I will, I’ll fall short. It is not hard for me to do it, no harder than talking to you.”

“Well, my dear friend, if I may call you that for a moment, the best guess I can come up with is, --and I say guess, but if you stop to do all these things you talk about, the iambic tetrameter, let’s say, which I presuppose you have certain beats and rhyme schemas, if you force yourself to do these, you are back in society, and you will mess up with your killing at free will [because you want to], or better put, you do your killing at random, out of fear, love, wanting a high, instinct, out of detestation [no discernment, or segregation involved]. If you plan a murder, as you found out, something is missing; that my friend is called style.”

[The Mumbler—intensively] “Yes, I suppose you are right, it is as I had mentioned before, you got to eliminate the sounds in poetry…I mean the consonance. I never did kill before because I suppose, I thought about the beginning and end of a word, or in this case, deed. I don’t know. There is no rhyme, or for that matter, devise to go by. I am free. I don’t look for words such as, love, care, when I kill. I only see red, red and redder [and then blood appears].”

[A pause] “And now my androgynous spirit, leave me alone.”


٭ ٭ ٭


As he put his jacket, he took his note book, and headed on down to Hyde Park again, he figured within himself, --maybe he might call his book, “Monkey Notes”, then as he pulled his hand out of his jacket, it was his blue-felt jacket, --he found another note from the Monkey Man, he figured he must have put them in his jackets he wore in Paris, forgetting about them, as he would almost daily, give the old man a ½ frank or on some occasions, a whole frank, and dropping the notes at random in his jackets to read later, and he often forgot they were there. He looked it over quickly: “Time is short, do all you can now,” it read. Then mumbled out loud on his walked toward the entrance of the park,
“Monkey Man, you are right: --time is very short for me to write this book, have this SAC publish it, which, or should I say whom, ever they the hell are, become a famous author, maybe this is actually possible. Yaw… you are so very right.”

As he got to the park, he found that very seat he sat in before, and sat there, it might give him more inspiration he told himself, and his secret friend confirmed for him.

[The Mumbler—pryingly looking about on the bench]
“Those two kids are not around, maybe they learned their lesson, ‘…play with the bull, you get the horn’ that’s my motto. Little rug-rats, is all they are, trouble makers: --got nothing better to do but cause trouble.”

As he started writing his thoughts for my new story, it was flowing like water over Niagara Falls --thought after thought after thought, “gooooooood …gooooood,” he told himself. “This is what I needed, a break something enticing, and a mystery.” He wrote about the slaying of the boy, changing it a little. He said the boy was a man of over six-feet tall, not 5’ 4” his real size, and he gave him a mustache like Hitler, then hesitantly with an intent look ahead, looking up in the sky, and he starts to put his story together, its plot, and theme:
“The kid, I mean person in my new story tries to cut the innocent man’s throat, but the man is too wise for the kid [like me], and did a karate chop into his upper part of his nose; --yaw, that is real good, I’m a genius, oh yes, far beyond my time. I made the kid twenty years old, not fifteen or whatever he was, maybe twelve, who cares, his parents are probably in the damn pub getting drunk.”

He made the hero of the story, muscular and handsome, the hero you could say happened to look a similar to him, as expected, yet he gave him a different name, “--people will see the truth in this story, that I, I mean, the hero stopped the little bastard from robbing a poor old woman of her life savings.” He mumbled out loud again, now looking toward the ground full of emotions, “It kind of fit me [he claims]; my book is my life, more so than people will ever know,” he adds.

Then he fell to sleep……..ssssssssssssssssssssssssss t
I
M
e…………………..time…sleeeeeeeeeeeeppp:

“Sir, sir [a shaking of his right shoulder]--wake up, wake up…!”
“What…,” the Mumbler said in shock, --then tried to focus, “Yes officer, hooow, can I help you?” He had to shake his head a little—he had fallen to sleep.
“Do you live around here?” the cop asked.
“Not really, but I’ve got a hotel room up the road a ways, why?”
“It’s 3:00 AM in the morning, and you’re in the park sleeping, do you not think sir, something is a little out of place?”
[Said the Mumbler with an bigheaded tone] “Let me explain, I’m a writer, I fell to sleep, it is as simply as that. I had to dig for some thoughts on how to write a story.”
“And sir, did you find those thoughts,” the officer asked with a smirk, and snub in his neck, as it jerked to the left.
“I think I did.”
“Let me see your note book?”
“…god-damn it, everyone trying to take my note book away…” the police officer did a double take on him. That was not the smartest thing to say, then there was a pause between the two, as there eyes connected, and the Mumbler started to adjust his thinking more clearly, remembering the boy found dead, it was right in this area, the cop, knew this for sure.
“I said sir; let me have the notes…”
“Ok, but they’re personal, it is bad luck to show the story before you have completed it, matter of fact, I will send you a signed copy of my forthcoming book if you just leave well enough alone, I do not want bad luck, or for that matter neither do you, right?”
“Hog wash,” commented the officer, “…just give me the damn notes or I’ll blow my whistle, and have you hulled in for vagrancy, and the whole gang at the jail will have a good laugh over your notes….”

He took the note book from his hands, read the first page, not much on it, but the second one where the story was of the boy opened his eyes, they were upset, started to open wider, as the lights from the park reflected on them. The Mumbler pulled the jump-rope out of his back pocket as the officer held his notes, and his night stick, still tied to his belt—in a flash of a second he got it around his neck, and with the wooden handles the Mumbler strangled him until he fell to the ground. He was in his fifties, a little plump, he died quick: ‘die, die, everyone dies old man…’ He whispered-in a mumbling way as his body pulsated on to the wet grass. He knelt down to see if he was breathing, he wasn’t. Then he looked up in the sky, sometimes when they die, he told himself, people that is, their ghost hides in the trees and looks down at what just happened, “…oh yes,” he claimed, “…this once happened to me so I know such things are possible.” He then looked about carefully, but no sign of a ghost.

‘Damn,’ he told himself, explaining: “I go and tell him it is bad luck to read a man’s script, and so he should have known what was coming. Now what…see what you made me do old copper …?”
He grabbed the jump-rope, his notes and ran back to the hotel again. He walked in a few circles to lower his heart rate, and again isolated himself in the hotel. His consolation, he had 20,000 words again written on the book, “…can’t get better than that,” he told himself.
Then pacing his room, looking out the window, agitated, justifying his actions, he explained, in his mumbling way: “What is another life for a well written great novel? Stalin and that Bolshevik Lenin killed people for picking their nose. So, so what about an old man, and young kid, no one cares about them anyhow. Why isn’t the world doing something about the poor Russians? You know why, because no one cares, that’s why. Killing is in the vein of eating, keep the bad food away from me, just let me see the good steaks, chicken, yes a big fat, plump chicken, and you will over look tragedy in its face.” He then stopped for a moment to get his wind. He figured the book could be between 35,000 and 50,000 words in no time, at this rate anyhow; convincing him: “That makes for a good book I suppose, 30,000 words are about 125-pages, and so 50,000 would be about 215-pages depending on the type, but most places want you to have 300 pages, but not all places. I’m doing dandy.” Then he sat on his bed to rest.

[Now exhausted, laying back in his bed, trying to calm himself down, talking to himself, but becoming more manic and depressed; more tired.]


“Yes, yes, yes… Europe will never learn it will go to war again, and again, and again. They are given to picking out wicked leaders to lead them astray, then cry and expect the world to come and save them. It is in their soul, they got a wicked soul that is why the few good ones leave and come to America, to get out of this hell-hole, the one I’m in. But England is not as bad as the rest. I liked Paris, but they are like the rest of Europe, arrogant until the war beats the shit out of them. But they will rise up again, and make the same old mistakes. Their leaders take the spirit out of them; --making them into cowards…. Like the boy and the cop, the cop and the boy, just like them…trouble makes, makes, makers…boy am I tired…

[Shifting thoughts of the Mumbler, as he falls to sleep and starts to dream and talk in his sleep] In Europe, the rich eat the poor, the strong eat the weak, and the possessed eat whomever they can, why not, it is only fare, and there is a cost to being fare, there not [?] After all, what else is there to do?



[Talking in his sleep.] …the Tsar and Empress of Russia thought Rasputin was a dear sweet unforgettable friend, when he was nothing but a rapist, possessed of the devil, fucking everyone he could find and blackmailing the whole of Russia; and the Empress stood by blindly, unbending for her devotion to this iron link of a priest of sorts; this Siberian peasant who tried to steal Mother Russia from its people, only to give it to new dictators, fascist, that is what they all are, fascist [wanting nationalism, unity and killing at will]. Maybe she was fucking Rasputin, the so called ugly saint, the sinful saint—my ass saint, he had black magic, not saintly things, I wouldn’t doubt it that is, if he was having an affair with the Empress, but Rasputin was smart, cleaver, although a little before my time, l913-15, and he was pulled from the Neva River dead. Rivers are quite the thing you know. They have a mind of their own; it is akin to God putting a soul into them. That is why they can comfort one, and if they leave you, close their gates to your spirit; you are as dead to them, as dead can be. They want no more to do with you. These Russian leaders go from bad to worse. The rivers never stop flowing, like a man’s blood in his body, it flows, and from where it starts, it flows back to where it came from. Both systems are the same; --man’s internal river is connected with the rivers of the world he lives with or in. We are all a part of the circle you know, like it or not.
Funny how people see things, the Tsar was bad, and then they selected Rasputin which was no better, and then came the communist, Trotsky, Stalin, Lenin, and hello to the new Marxist government. Stalin is another Genghis Khan or Tamerlane; he is an Asiatic—he thrives on its deadly history. Reminiscent of the Romans, he will take the religion away from the Russians, when I see his picture this man is capable of anything. You need someone to kill him before he kills half his country, and given the chance, the world. But this Hitler guy may do it for him.

[The boy and the cop are appearing in his light sleep, he is trying to avoid the images, and is tossing about in his bed, and some sweat is coming off his braw.]



XII

The Poem


November is closing out as a month of much trouble for the Mumbler. And the world around him is not much better; --he has thought about his father quite a lot these past days, and of the many writers, artists that live in Paris, America, and London, and he has come to the conclusion, he is his own hero, in place of finding better one [he is staring out his window in his hotel apartment, a stone-stillness to his look; he has not ventured out much, and is trying to overcome his depression].
“You see,” he tells himself, “…life demands more of us than we may expect [writers that is], we normally do not find this out until we are tested in someway, in some far off disaster, for example, the raging sea, or in the cold killing winters, or by the robbers in the world, and one must be strong, it is a test of who will survive, those who are paranoid will out survive most others, they have to, they prepare better, like me. Those who have had an easy life will not survive, not especially when the winter gets cold, survive, or for that matter, the sea builds its towering waves, you must learn to swim through them. You must look at the robber in the eyes, and then do what must be done. So I am my own hero …and the rivers, for they have provided my comfort. I have become strong, and as time passes, I see it as an asset to life. Hell with this locking myself up in an apartment because I killed two people who deserved it.”

[He is now looking at the newspaper left by his apartment door] England’s Queen passed away on the twenty-first of the month. He comments, “You see, I am still hiding in my room, but now I’m coming out.” Then reads on: ‘She was born 1844, and so she lived a long life seventy-two years.’ He comments to the paper, “That is better than the peasant gets.” Then he reads on again: ‘The Kennedy’s had a child, and named it John F.’ “You see how life is, a birth and a death. It is how the world goes around. One dies, another is born. We are simply being replaced similar to cows, yaw like chickens. Kill one, eat one, you die, he’s born, and it goes back into the endless circle, or is it cycle I want to say, don’t know, you figure it out. The police officer knew his days were numbered, funny he didn’t retire early. See what he gets for being a nosey man. He should have minded his own business. Let writers alone. Like the Monkey Man, he didn’t bother anyone, he has given me two notes, and they are wise letters from beyond the dead, ‘Thank you Mr. Monkey Man.’”

◊


Today is December 1st; a new year around the corner for the Mumbler, the last one went quite fast for him, with all its issue and tribulations. At least he has decided to stop hiding, for today he is going back to the park. Maybe go to a jazz-club this evening he tells himself, meet some girls, people; you know, be like the great white hunter Hemingway, and drink up a storm. Or Victor Hugo, and play the senator from Paris, with a cigar in his mouth, as he prances around the hotel room dreaming.
Now that he was thinking of it, as he puts his sandals on, Big Ben, comes to mind, he pictures it in his head, and comments,
“I never thought of it as part of a building, that being Parliament. I didn’t think it was a connection to anything, just a big dumb clock tower, or tower clock, whatever. You see what you learn by traveling. Hawthorne once said he was thin on traveling, although he was sure good at writing short fiction, having that Puritan background, he stuck sin in here and there wherever it fit, and sometimes even if it didn’t fit he stuck it in, yet he did not take it to bed with him; as I do not take these deaths to bed with me. A form of lunacy one may say, but it is not contagious, and no one will come and rescue me, so I will just move on in life, like Big Ben, and tick away. On another note, as time passes all subtleties disappear; --in that I do not feel the need to explain myself anymore.
I often tried hard at explaining myself in high school, only to find out I was punching air. It is fresh not having to do that anymore. A thousand voices in my head say I can simply say nothing; I do not have to respond.”

[As he stopped talking, he had found he had walked all the way from the hotel to Big Ben, down by Westminister Abby, now standing in front of it looking up at is clock he is a little taken back that he had lost time]

“Hello Big Ben that is London for me, as Notre Dame is Paris for me. Ben is the ‘sound of London,’ and it seems everyone sets or stands around, like me, simply watching the clock, time fly, fly away. I think it is about three-hundred feet tall. Look, the, the clock’s face alone is something like twenty-three feet in diameter; one mighty big alarm clock you could say.”

[Now sitting down on the side walk, looking up at it, he comments to the clock] “I want to read my new poem to you, I call it “My Poem and a little of Dad’s”, I really liked the name [a few people walk around him, a stand by the river not far from him is selling replica’s of he clock, but he pays no head to them, yet the man behind the stand is looking at him a bit as if this American has no piety]:

“I liked London—but I shall like Amsterdam as well,
I will leave this smoky London town and its busy streets,
That smells like hell,
Of chatter all-about me…young women flaunting; --
My father once told me, boldly, as if I would not
Remember, ‘My pleasant years will come and go
--Over your heart they will flee: --and rest you will need,
For your unwilling feet to find the world to be…:-- so
Will it be, --yet, do not let it stall in the heart or mind…
Is the master of the ship, travel, let not?
The winds, snows or wilds of the land or sea
Make you retreat….’”






XIII


Amsterdam: December 5th l925



For some odd reason the Mumbler was getting stressed out on writing his book, but I guess writers do that, he tells himself, also implying; --what people will do to get a by-line. As he gets ready for bed, mumbling on.
“I’m sure Hugo, and Hawthorn and Melville had such issues [feeling guilty for not writing for a few days]. And H.G. Wells, as well, especially when he was writing ‘The Soul of a Bishop,’ I read that in l917, and Jules Verne, that guy who wrote ‘Around the world in 20-days,’ no, maybe 50-days, that sounds more reasonable—how many days it doesn’t matter, it’s all fiction. My book will be historical fiction, oh yes, with lots of realism to it. --Oh! How did he do it, write that book, so many thoughts.”

Sleep is getting to the Mumbler, --that is, the lack of it; he had at this point feels he has to get out of town, far away for awhile; he also feels he has found his genius out, actually after he killed the policeman is when it occurred to him; but along with guiltlessness, comes a passage of lunacy, he now seems to be battling with this, that being, darting emotions inside his head, at times --dangerously too fleeting for him to stop the flow of them. He is starting to sit up each night in the darkness of his hotel room now, feeling gropingly in his bed, moving about, around the bed like a snake trying to shed his skin, rubbing it off, --moving about the edges, first one end, then the sides, then he’d sit upright by the bedside table. As he would stare in the dark, the darkness fled, his eyes adjusted. It is a big bed, but he has a shadow across it, two dead people’s shadows, yet they brought it upon themselves, ‘yet to be told tells of the dead,’ the ones he killed [not murdered, no, no, oh…no]. And now he added them into his story. Above his head is a canopy, reminiscent of the trees in the park; it is of a red silk curtain-type, gilded crown of carved mahogany-wood, adding a good rich reddish color to its darkness.
Tonight is no different than all the other nights I suppose, but it is happening again, as he is trying to close his eyes, fall to sleep. Yes, this cop and boy has baited him, he is convinced, now in the shadows and motions of the canopy, they are hiding he claims, as he opens his eyes, watching the movements of the silk like canopy over head; movements, as if trees were swaying, ripples, shadows, he compares it to, unholy water; then tells himself, half drugged with sleep:
“I am just too smart for them; they want revenge, but will not get it.” Furthermore, he adds, as he starts to drift off: “Like a good writer, I wrote my script out of the scene, and overcome them. That is why I can see in the darkness, they hide from me, try to infect my soul, but I dare them to show their ugly faces. I will kill them again, and again. It is me or them. Thieves are liars, and liars will steal from anyone, my father told me so, and now they come to steal my sleep. Ever since I met the Monkey Man, I know my destiny; they can no more change it than I can [the thieves]; funny how things come to light if you just have patience.”

[Drifting into a deeper sleep, yet his second-self alerts him not to fall too deep into sleep, his second self tells him]:

‘In the morning go to the railway station and head onto Amsterdam, rest from all this disgraceful hounding of the London’s unpleasantly.
Amsterdam, Amsterdam, you must go to Amsterdam, for some…’ Even in his dream state he needs to be a little more reassuring. And tells himself, or possible his second-self: “I wish I could find another note, I’ll check my pockets in my green suite coat, and maybe I left one in there…” [Still dreaming]
“OHHHH…good, here is one.” And now the second-self whispers again in his dream-state, “Yes you must go to Amsterdam for sure now. I remember exactly when you got this note. The Monkey Man was with a man named Cody, he told the monkey man his name, I stood nearby, peering at his note, I know, I did this twice despite my efforts not to, and my note was the same as his, I remember it clearly, it said: ‘For a gentleman, happiness comes in many places.’ Yes, it is so true. I remember that well. Amsterdam, you will be happy there, insofar as having a place to retreat to, as things cool down here, then you will come back and finish the book. You can gather up more notes there.”


[Trying to sleep-partial dream state—yet]




In the deep of sleep he sinks to the level just above death—the soul is in torment, protest and agony; -- the soul is not to be trusted he senses’. His joints are sore from the day’s walking; he had left the hotel, but is always in a panic to get back to his room. He turns in his bed this way and that way: --he feels like the mad-dog of Europe, he will emerge out of this cold dream he logically tells himself, fragmented, and tired as always, in the morning. ‘Where is peace to be found if not in sleep,’ he thinks, a question that begs an answer but he gets none. And then he will go back out into the world again, only to return to finish the dream in the evening; but it never ends.



His eyes are shut now, completely, his mind is closing down entirely, his body is letting go, his face is not as tense, his mind is shifting the day’s events into their proper places… an easier and more calm life would have been to stay in Minnesota; every thought has told him so, yet he has enjoyed Paris and London, with its many bridges, gardens, rivers and afternoon walks. He has not laughed since his father died, somehow, for he had slipped into death itself after he died, or was it an on and off neurosis? Man does not easily change his destiny, only by sacrifice on the spot, or so he convinced himself of this—but his mind, not his heart is unwilling to stay awake anymore.

[The Mumbler with a little energy an fragmented impressions] “Why? I’m actually talking to myself in my shifting and wavy thoughts in this dream. No, no…resting state. I can’t seem to open my eyes though, but they will if I say ‘emergency’. Did I ask myself ‘Why,’ I did, and then what is my answer? No answer…
It means nothing to me, that’s my answer,--funny way of expressing that. I didn’t expect to get an answer so soon. Maybe it is buried perhaps deep in a corner of my mind for this very moment, a moment when it can sneak out, and I will not deny it. Far deep in that corner is murder.
A so reliable civilization is my key, it opens doors for me to extend my revenge—I can journey with my anger, displaced of course, cold, cold world… but I do not deny I will die…maybe in London. Matter of fact, it is the dead who have a tale to tell. Like the Monkey Man, and what a tale he left behind. I wonder where he is now----laughing at the world he left behind. If I ever reach my civilized mind again, I will have this tale to tell, yet, perhaps, had I stayed rooted in that one spot in Minnesota, none of this would have happened, the killings that are. My dreams now feel open to the demon of nightmares, that is, ever since I came to liking the killing part of my life, the genius part of my life.
But quite honestly I prefer the adventure of this part of my life, even if it is not always uphill, in a way I want to say in this dream state and never awake. The death of the Monkey Man only gives me more encouragement to go ahead though, as he wanted me to ……………….sleep-ing-ggg
gggggggggg.”




٭ ٭ ٭


Morning


When morning arrived, the Mumbler found himself at the train station, sitting on the train, as before, at Big Ben; as the train left the Paddington Train Station, his soul seemed somewhat naked, as if everyone could see through him. He kind of kept his eyes low, not sure why; he really didn’t do anything wrong, other than protect myself from a would-be-robber, and a cop that was trying to steal his book, so he had told himself a hundred if not a thousand times. Both thieves in their own way, and of course his way of thinking.

He didn’t sleep well last night it took a lot of doing to fall to sleep, a lot of thinking went through his mind, the image of the boy came back into his mind, horrible, horrible, the boy’s finger was accusing him of his death, he was exasperated, but not humiliated, oh no, no shame, he told the boy, point blank: “You asked for it, got it, and now come back to haunt me.” The policeman didn’t do that, and he wondered why. Maybe his soul is more at peace he told himself, yet he was in the canopy above his bed somewhere in it, he could taste his presence with his tongue, he said he actually got sensations when he sensed something along that order, and his senses were always correct, and he was never wrong. Maybe it did not resurrect itself to come and haunt him like that bastard boy, just needed a place to rest for a few weeks, like he needed now; in any case, the Mumbler was going to Amsterdam for that rest. His eyes were paralleling yew-trees, big and leafy, un-rested, as was that dreadful little boy’s eyes in he canopy he saw, he tried to kill him again in his nightmare, he was sure of it.
“The little creep, he even comes to steal my sleep now.”
The train is now in full speed, so the Mumbler sits back to relax, enjoy the ride. [Not able to sleep the Mumbler write a letter to his friend Larry back home in St. Paul, Minnesota.]


Dear Larry,

I’ve been meaning to write you, couldn’t sleep last evening, or early this morning. I’m in London, was. I was trying to read, what you had once suggested to read, “Leaves of Grass,” by Walt Whitman, but I really have a hard time reading him. Number one his poems are not all that great, I prefer his wife’s better, not forget what I said, that’s the other guy, and I still don’t care for him. Second the man’s a fagget, and that bothers me. But then everything bothers me nowadays. Funny I say that, people in high school used to call me a fagget because I neither dated women or men. And the truth of the matter is I still do not date much. You, I can tell this too because you’re one of my only friends, I call a friend. I know you fancy Whitman, but I heard he not only had an affair with Oscar Wilde, which I like reading his stuff, and I do not have a hard time accepting him, but Whitman I do have a hard time with for some odd reason.
Matter of fact, he was caught dating some damn kid at the black’s smith, in New Orleans. About the only one I can stomach to read over and over is Hawthorn. Even Mark Twain, with his arrogance, and stupid wit [as they call his humor nowadays, wit for some reason], gets to me. Why does he not exploit his real name, a man with two names is a man trying to prove something, you know an attention getter. Twain, that’s an old expression on a boat, for 12-feet deep, I think. So you say mark-12-feet now. And that is a name. Man o man. Maybe I’ll have a classic name, like “The Mumbler.” I named myself that now you know. I consider that one the best, it suites me, everyone says I mumble all the time to myself, or—if I recall right you used to say that awhile back in school at St. Louis [in St. Paul]. Well by for now, if I never write you again, I doubt you will care, you never did much anyhow. Although you were my only friend, you were not what I’d call a close friend, and if you do not remember who I am, just throw this letter where you throw everyone else’s.

From one eccentric to another.






XIV

The Weigh House




The conductor just called the station, the train is slowing down. He heard him say, “Next stop, Amsterdam station”. It was big, with a huge amount of people, going here and there the Mumbler had noticed, looking out his window; --then shortly after, as he dismounted the train-steps, onto the platform, it was exactly as he had heard it described to him ----busy, busy, and busier! The hotel in London had made arrangements for his stay for two weeks at the Amstel Hotel, he’d return on the 21 of December, in time for Christmas in London, and New Year’s Eve. This mysterious SCA, or was it SSA, the person’s initials who sent him the money, all the same, that person will most likely contact him he has told himself, by the time he got back to London, then, possible the book would be at least somewhat completed, realizing he would have to work diligently on it while here in Amsterdam.
The hotel was on the banks of the river, as he walked towards the hotel, he noticed the many, houseboats along the banks, and discovered they had rooms for rent in them, old and rustic floating hotels and much cheaper than the hotel grant you, but he had decided to remain with the hotel, it looked, and smelled better, and was a lot more flattering; if not more fitting. He justified it by telling himself he could play the tourist and finish his book in style.
“I have 25,000-words now completed on the new book and soon to be 35,000 if I could get down to business, I mean really down to business I could get to 60,000 words, or possible 160,000 words, but I just can’t keep the concentration.” He told himself as he walked into the hotel.
He got a room that overlooked the River Amstel, the same name of the hotel. He could see the tourist boats up and down the cannel; what a lovely sight—he thought as he looked out his window; admiring the many house boats, with there painted white, greens and reddish with a rustic look colors.

٭

For two days he just walked around the city, he liked doing that, as if he was lost, which he was in a way, lost, and so very, very lost in his own world it seemed.
There again was a house he had seen a few hours ago, only 3 ½ feet wide, unbelievable he told himself, also, he didn’t think he’d ever seen so many bicycles in all his life than here in Amsterdam; the city was packed with them, some even stacked on top of others; old rusty ones, new ones, every color you could think of. Not even in Central Park, in New York City, were there so many, as here in Amsterdam.
Yesterday he bought a pair of wooden shoes, otherwise known as clogs, he told himself he’d use them as souvenirs, although he had seen some people wear them, he doubt they’d be comfortable enough to walk in, --they were carved smoothly, looked hand-made, a slight polish to them, with wooden arches in them, nonetheless he bought those shoes for show and tell, he confirmed in his mind; other than that they simply told the world he was here.

Ξ


He ate lunch two days in a roll at a few different café’s along the canal, while visiting a few museums: --he has seen the Van Gogh’s paintings, in particular, the one painted in 1888, where he was pale, half dead, thus, the Mumbler carefully that one best for some reason, he commented when he saw it,
“What a scabby looking man; I bet he was sick in the head like me.”
He knew he looked like that sometimes, maybe not so bad, or as bad, but not good, for he’d been feeling that way lately, to be somewhat honest with himself, quite a lot; he defined it as a: ‘…scabby kind of feeling,’ similar to a sensation of being sorry for oneself. He gazes into nothingness, a stone-soundless stare, as he walks the streets, half zoned out; --he also goes to Rembrandt’s Quarter, he liked the flea market there, full of treasures and bargains, but he didn’t buy anything, he had already purchased the wooden shoes, again, that was enough memory for him.
Several times in the following week he went by the Weigh House [Waag] originally built in 1488 AD, it was haunting he felt, and some abnormal attraction seemed to be pulling him back that way, as if it was the Magnetic North Pole. He walked around it several times. It had been converted into a café inside; --more similar to a deli one might say, with beer and pastry and sandwiches, etc. He walked around its huge insides, down into its cellars. Next he sat quietly over in a corner drinking some hot chocolate, while listening to the brisk wind outside the window. It was cool he thought, to absorb the wind into your bones by sound, some of it still seeping through the window sill.
As he sat down at a table, enjoying his visit at this unique place, a friendly acting man came over asking to sit down with him. The Mumbler quickly said, “No,” and started to do some writing in his journal, for quotes to be put into his book at a later date; he had spread his notes out on the table. Mumbled the Mumbler:
“He’s watching me, suggestive of that old man on the boat, yaw, [hour-after-hour]…he is watching me with those deep eyes of his [he notices him from the corner of his eye], this very minute, he’s watching me watch him; --drinking, eating I can’t even eat my chips in this wicker basket in peace. He’s walking by me again, let’s see now … [with a deadly smirk on his face he slowly turns to the approaching man’s advance]”.
The stranger says:
“A word of warning mister…there are three guys waiting for you outside to rob you, but for fifty-bucks, American dollars that is, I can chase them away?”

The Mumbler didn’t say a word—for a moment stone-silence prevailed, thereafter he mumbled in an un-understandable form of English, more of a gobbledygook, “fuck head, that’s what I want to say though” [‘…a question or an answer, what is it Mumbler?’ says a voice, an invisible voice.]
Said the stranger, “What did you say?”

[The Mumbler is not looking at the stranger, but now is talking as if he’s talking to someone, and the stranger just looks bemused]
“Yes, yes, my demon friends, I know, I know, what he is really saying he wants my money without a fight.”
[Then turning to the stranger he says in an almost different voice, yet it is his voice, with a more rustic tone]
“Go away; stop bothering me, Woodbridge…” [The man is looking at the Mumbler with curiosity, thinking, he’s talking to him or himself]
“What you writing mister…” the stranger says, as he now is standing over head of the Mumbler. [The Mumbler is thinking, ‘…he thinks he’s the damn police officer,’ but stares upward at him, says]:
“You damn moron, --you a cop or what?” An insult that took the man back a little; at that moment the stranger walked away as the Mumbler started to stand up, and headed downstairs to the bathroom, the stranger following him.
When the stranger got into the bathroom the Mumbler was waiting, leaning against the urinal, the stranger tried to grab his billfold, and was kicked in the groin as he dropped to the floor, then the Mumbler seemed to go into a sudden trance of sorts, that is after his kick [it’s happened before], all he has seen was ‘kill signs’ in his head. Staring at the man on the floor, ‘kill, kill, kill the bastard, kill the moron, kill the stranger, kill, kill the son of a bitch, kill, killٱٱٱ…’ s he looks at his hand, and made a fist, as if it was the back of a hammer, and cries,
“My iron, solid fist, my hand of Thor,” as the stranger tries to get to his knees, “…now, now, now, now—“ yells the Mumbler, and he starts pounding him on the back of his head, shoulders, back, spine with the bottom of my fists, as if they were hammers of steal, iron, rock. The sounds of ‘now,’ keep coming out of his mouth, and he cries loud: “To my, my—hands —I hear…” he stops, looks, his neck cracked, “stop hand, stop…” he tells his hand, his second-self; “he is still alive,” he confirms with a closer look, looking into his morbid face, his face that is turning colors, bubbled out, “…stop, stop hand,” he tells himself again, yet he is not pounding any more, he is just watching the stranger die, slowly. The stranger is petrified and says: “…not again!”
He looked huge as a tower leaning over him, his hands now obeyed his request, “You are the grasshopper” he told the stranger, “I am in the vein of a god, one might say, taking a life. But I don’t want to be, I want sanity, I want to be left alone. You see, you got what you asked for. Do you really think you can continue doing what you are doing forever, and no one like me is ever going to show up and put you in your place? You know it was just a matter of when, where and how…” The stranger doesn’t respond, just gaping with a limp head that is resting against a wooden beam. “If my father would be alive none of this would be happening. But maybe this is for the better, what good, or use are you to anyone” [said the Mumbler looking at the stranger dying].

He took the cloths off the dying stranger, and his hat, they we were about the same size, and he found he had $200 dollars in his pockets, thus, he took that also. He beforehand, had $1500 to his name, now, combining what he just got, had $1700, a little treasure he thought. He pulled his hat off, and put it on his head, covering some of his face as much as he could, so all you could see was his lower eyes and nose, and some shadows on his face; he left the stranger naked by the toilet over in a far corner, had pulled him there, his neck lying against his shoulder. He looked at him for the last time, it seemed to him he had stopped breathing, but the corner of his left eye was still looking at him: “Shut that fucken eye, or I’ll cut it out…” he mumbled,
He did shut to his amazement. “Yaw, he shut it, he’s still breathing, the bastard,” commented the assailant.
“You picked the wrong man didn’t you, dead-meat-head!” and he added for revengeful reasons, “A word of warning my friend, fuck with the butcher, you get the iron fist…no, let me try again, bull, you get the horn. You know what I mean.” The Mumbler after that swayed back and forth for a moment, as if drunk with blood. Inside of him were ambitions and contradictions stretching back a thousand years, as if he was some savage, lost in a vortex of time, a time from Homo erectus, or Austro.
He kicked him again in the groin “…die you bastard,” he unintelligible muttered. His eye did not look at him again; he was now dead or nearly dead, his body had collapsed within side itself one could see, he was limp all over. Innately, the Mumbler’s aggression was that of an act of war, and to him normal emotions to a connecting means to an end. Somehow, someway, this brought stability back to his environment, the aggressive trait was now pacified for the moment. The stunning, volcanic pre-disposition of the Mumbler had sent its ancient-beastly genetic strain to an act of survival, for truly this is how the Mumbler felt after killing him, that being; it was a matter of survival. The most common ground to justify the act; --one would think his nomadic instinct was ‘all or nothing,’ yet to him it was simply a safety measure, the animal was no longer around him. Fate would have it no other way he told himself.
As he walked back up the steps, he wore the stranger’s cloths over his, it was cold enough outside to allow that and not be overheated, plus, he didn’t look over animated. He proceeded right out the door so no one could get a better look at him. The dark night was to his favor, surely the others had seen him, the stranger’s friends, but not studied him. ‘Writers know these things,’ he told himself, ‘…they got to, so one can make sure they are safe.’ Then as he approached the doors ready to open them, he said to him, “I just got to dodge the bastards outside.”

As he opened the huge heavy doors, for it must have been carved out of some big solid trees four-hundred years ago [the beast look in his eyes, told one his neuro-motor machinery in his brain was activated, events were going to take place, determination in his forehead was evident] there were two men standing by a flag pole about fifteen feet from the door to his right, he took off walking, and picked up pace almost immediately, as he turned to the left, walking faster.
“Han’s,” someone called.
“Yaw,” said the Mumbler, camouflaging his voice, knowing there would be no diplomatic procedure here, only beast against pray.
“Where yaw going…?” Asked the voice; yet the Mumbler kept walking faster and faster, now they were talking together the two who were to gang up and rob the Mumbler. He started running and hid by some trees to the north side of the doors about a half block away. They didn’t chase him; rather they went inside the Weigh House to find their friend. He thought, ‘…when you see your shit ass friend, consider yourself lucky it wasn’t you.’ Then lying against the tree, he starting to think this Monkey Man thing was more than a curse than a good omen. “I had never killed anyone before,” he told his second-self, “…and now look, it was getting easy to do.” He was even becoming insensitive to the act. Matter of fact, he kind of liked the high. The blood, almost, –as if it was a sacrifice, was all a riddle to him, like sex, which is for power, pleasure and procreation, but everyone leaves out the ultimate goal: territorial investment, the future of your stock, of your own kind. He knew his kind was out of date, as was that of the strangers, who cared about fertilization of sperm and egg with such a blood craving genetic alien strain that was 40,000 years out of date. Suicide was never his cup of tea, but if it was, or would ever be, it would be on the grounds of sacrifice, like the terrorist do, or the one’s who get the medals in war, after jumping on a mine and saving others up.

[The Mumbler now stands up, checks out the surrounding area, and looks on the ground, by the light of the moon to see if there are any shadows creeping up or around him. The tree over head is sparse at best, but it did give him cover. He is brushing himself off now. Says the Mumbler with a more delightful tone of voice, out loud now]:

“The more I think of it, I keep getting material for my story, my new bestseller, to be. And SAC would be proud of me; --whoever, that person may be. I’ve only killed scum despite what other people may think, no one will ever know at least. The more I think of it, all the lives that must have been taken and no one ever, I mean, never ever, or ever-ever, found out who did it. How many? Millions upon millions I bet; who will ever know unless you tell them? No one, simply no one; it, it is easy as making, or properly put, baking a pie. People get scared and don’t even want to look your way when you do it, kill someone that is.”

As he walked out of the shelter of the tree unguarded now to the Skinny Bridge [Magere Brug] famous for something but I’m not sure what, just an old Iron bridge to him, one of those lift-bridges it looked like. One thing crossed his mind that was new,--that being, he found he was not running back to the hotel, as he had done before. He was not as scared as he used to be in the good old days in London; or so he told himself.
“I loved these, -- these canals. I am actually hungry, to be rather honest. I worked up an appetite; I walking down by the Royal Palace this moment, originally built as the city’s Town Hall; --Napoleon took up residence in it in l830. It is a beautiful structure. It reminds me a little of Paris.”

٭ ٭

For the following next few days, he walked about the city, as free as a bird, no cares, almost feeling complete for some reason. His neuronal machinery in his brain was running a mile a minute, his choices seemed to be influenced by his genetic adaptation of a hunter as if his ancestors were the ruminants of the Neanderthal; where in London, he was the hunted, the vanquished. He was given to this sequence of events better; at least a day at a time. He walked by the Tower of Zuiderkerk, a tower structure of some kind added onto a church it looked, a beautiful design though, built in 1614. Rembrandt lived opposite the site. If anything he was getting more culture than what he anticipated, yet he was not completely satisfied with this side trip.
He had much time to think about things in Amsterdam, one thing being, God. He had claimed a few times to be a Christian, followed by, at other times an agnostic. He felt confused on the matter, although his accepted wisdom told him God was an illusion in the minds of many, the world, the universe, the water, and gravity, and all such things were to overwhelming for a statement that said a God didn’t exist. Thus, looking at its many roots, and covering them up again, for lack of a better understanding.

٭

It is December 19th now, and the Mumbler has 40,000 words written to his story; he is aiming for 50,000, no less. “I am getting there, even added Han’s to my novel now. He will be the butcher, the one who comes after the hero with a knife, and the hero being a karate expert, kicks him in the face with a flying kick and kills him instantly; everyone picks up dumb heroes now-a-days, I can be one, why not. Yaw, I must leave this alone, it is getting good.”


٭

[The next day] It is the 20th of December, and he had a thought going through his head all night long, last night that is, all last night to be exact, and now is thinking about it as he’s walking the Amsterdam streets this chilly morning. He walked by Oude Hoogstraat 22, between the Dam and Nieuwmarkt, there is a narrow house there, some say the narrowest house in Europe, but the Mumbler says he’s seen one smaller when he first arrived here, “this one was six meters deep,” he tells his second-self. It had three floors, and an attic --it seemed. He walked by it a few times, up the street and then back again, saying [as if he is dramatizing for a play]:
“The narrowest house in Europe, nooooooooop, no sir re, there is one by the canal, over by the train station I’ve seen it, it is narrower. But this one is close. This one is 2.02m wide, measured it with my super vision, I’ll put that also in my book. Why do magazines lie about such things in tourist books?”

[Then out of nowhere the Mumbler comes up with an extravagant idea—a hideous one]

“I got a new plan, I dreamt it last night, I feel I got one anyways, --for it came out of my thoughts this morning, as I was about to say, I think, … I want to see how it is to kill … someone, and not by accident, just, just, just [a pause] …once, only once, no more♫
It is a high when it happens by accident. But you know if you plan it, execute it, and watch it. I wonder how it can fit into my book, and would it give me a better high, longer than by accident. Or perhaps, none at all, let me see, I mean to find out. I know it is wrong, but people have done worse and got away with it. I have twenty-four hours to grab the opportunity. Yes, yes, I will, I will do it, for the sake of the book. I am no different than a president of a country, or a scientist, who has to experiment. You see it all the time. Go to war for the sake of your country, kill the enemy. Yet they have no connection to me; you know what I mean, the Germans didn’t do anything to Americans, why did America have to get involved, why, why, I might have a father had America, --no, no, dad went to England, I … he did it on his own. But now I can do it legally, that is, kill another person because my country has allowed it to be so. It is called a license to kill.
So I am the king of my palace, my space, I wonder if the Monkey Man—with all his drab and plane looking garb— would be proud of me, or hate me. I think he’d be proud of me for the last three people, and maybe ok with this if he knew it for science, you know the book, scientist need only to say they are a scientist, and it is for science, and they can do anything they want… of course, in the name of science though; why? ---because he is the one that gave me the notes [the, the Monkey Man, you know who I’m talking about, stop playing with my mind]: --especially the one that said a book is forth coming, the note, and see what happened, it is developing; two books to be exact, I must travel to gain experience, and he has told me so [he has forgotten about the scientist], and here I am, and I am gaining experience and knowledge because of this, and three, damn, what is three…can’t remember it, but I’m a gentleman anyway.”


٭

He went back to the Weigh House Café, to see if he’d get any negative reactions, like scientist do, you know, check out your results, and test everything. The two men were gone, and the waitress didn’t really recognize him, plus he had not shaved for a few days. He ordered a beer, to build up his nerve for the job yet to be completed this evening, hopefully; --he would need to do it tonight.
“A ham and cheese sandwich, please,” he ordered, he liked those sandwiches at the Café de Flora in Paris, and these were not as good, nor were they as expensive, but it would do.


[Thoughts while staring out the window of the Weigh House; waiting for night to fall]



When my father was around life was pretty predictable for the most part. Now with all the disruptions, the natural rhythm to my days is interrupted by the unexpected. Thus, being one annoyance to my life, and focus thereof. I am never happy about it, yet it has given me some kind of satisfaction------along with an ongoing swizzle-d mind.
I had a considerable repartee in high school, my teacher, Ms Arts once said, “Say, you’re pretty sharp today” – I’d often be reading in the Library during lunch and after school. She’d wink at me, always had a smile. I never cared for girls all that much can’t say even my mother, not sure about her though. But I was fond of Ms Arts. I think she was the only female I’ve ever respected. She wasn’t a snob like so many other teachers; she seemed to know me pretty well, surprisingly well. She was the only one I’d allow, besides my father, to nurture me and empathize with me; for they were both genuine.
I shied away from further conversations of any length with her, she scared me, she was too insightful, and mysterious. Her academic background did not stop her from enjoying life. I guess it is December, and I miss dad, and Ms Arts. I guess that is normal for people to miss other people when holidays are close by.



He stuck around the Café until 7:00 PM, then left; he had three beers in his gut, and as he faced the cool salted breeze, he walked to the Skinny Bridge—night always seems to come quickly in winter, and so he walked slowly in the darkness as he quickly came to an area that was all lit; ‘…it is the bridge of course,’ he told himself. It would seem he had never seen it lit up so bright before, only in the hours of day light had he noticed it, in which he got a few reflections from the sun in his eyes, hence, not getting a complete picture of it. He stood there waiting in the middle of the bridge as people crossed over with children in hand; wives, husbands and old men with canes; young kids running home; some joggers. All going some place, all but him.
“I am at my destination, my scientific destination, I have a test to do, in the name of science I will do it; scientist have this right. Oh yes they do. They can say, ‘don’t go here, don’t do this, it will destroy this or that,’ but they can go here and there and pick it apart, in the name of science. And so what is good for the cat is good for the rat, I favored those old sayings: it makes the most sense, especially when you add a little garlic to it.

[At this point, the Mumbler is soundlessly pacing with in the cool air of he evening, even a bit of snow on the ground; approaching the bridge, with what little faint light there is, the time being, 12:01 AM, he sees a woman and child coming, no husband. He asks himself, ‘Now why would a husband leave a woman walk in the dark at night like this?’ As he readied himself, the Mumbler focuses in on her.]

“Mrs.,” he says with a soft voice, “Can you take a picture of me against the bridge, here?” adding, “Please, try and get the light in, ok?” She’s looking at him strangely, hesitantly he noticed, then he add a smile to his pretense—“…here’s a smile for you ☺” [he increases his smile two fold]. She has a nice baby carriage, he deliberates—now glancing at her baby carriage he notices the child is bundled up pretty well; he ends up saying, “It must be a one year old I’d say.” She is about nineteen years old he estimates, or so she looks. He gets a fairly good look at her even with the glares, shadows, reflections and all. She is cuter than pretty and less pretty than plane, he deduces.

She takes the camera and snaps a picture quickly: --

[The Mumbler starts to think]:

… she’s bringing the camera back to me, how about the, the way the Europeans implemented infanticide just last century, they’d kill the children, babies, leaving them out in the cold to die on English soil analogous to a dead cat, rat or dog, I suppose in all the European countries they did the same, Amsterdam’s no different, if not worse, my dad would say, “Out of sight, out of mind.” They’d leave their children, so as not to feed them like dogs to die in garbage cans: I read in the library in high school all this stuff on how they’d do that; -- on streets, porches, steps, everywhere they were left, it was very common. Now I’m that I think of it, -- all these women who have abortions, killing babies only to have a new baby six months later, and to be quite honest and frank, it was done—the abortion that is, for convenience sake only, I’m sure of that, maybe even for scientific reasons, who knows. Why do they think after they kill what they feel is a useless fetus’, they are forgiven for the sin, and now go have a new baby. Like a piece of rotten meat. Now why is it so different if I simply reverse this trend…? I kill her and say I’m sorry, and go on with life. To me she is a useless fetus at any rate, just a little bigger than average one.


“Here is your camera sir…” said the pretty young woman.

“I must have been day-dreaming,”
he told her as he shook his head out of a trance state; --while she turned around he hit her in the back of the head with a hammer he had bought this morning, having stuffed it in his coat’s inner pocket where he kept his billfold. She fell to the ground liken to a sack of potatoes, he picked her up quickly scouting the area with his eyes, in the dark, and yet somewhat lit night; she wasn’t all that heavy, about 105-pounds, short, and had no trouble throwing her over the railing into the water. It happened so fast, she didn’t start screaming until she hit the lightly frozen sheet of thin ice over the river, with only a shadow of the bridge to direct one to the opening, of which she made in the river. The Mumbler knew ice was normally thinner when closer to bridges than farther away; again it is something writers need to know he told himself, especially when they write mystery novels. Under the ice she went. He stood there a minute longer looking over the metal railing, leaning both arms on it now as to rest while watching, she never came back up.
“Hay mister…” A voice said as he stood by the bridge staring yet.
He turned around, “Yaw?” said the Mumbler with a dislodged thought, and ready to commit murder again if necessary.
“You better get on home, that child is going to catch its death out here.”
Said the Mumbler with a little relief: --“Yaw, you’re right I was just marveling at these pretty lights, my wife’s waiting for me at home, Merry Christmas sir.”
“Yaw sure…” he replied, ‘He is not a Christian, he’s not even bothered by, or anxious for Christmas I bet, the, the --ass hole,’ he said in a whisper as the stranger kept on walking, and he walked over to the child, saying:

“You know little baby, I didn’t get a damn thing out of that killing, I couldn’t even see her face when she hit the ice. Now how can I write about that? And what should I do about you…? Do you want to go join your mother? I picked up the child, walking over to the bridge, leaning her over the rail, she’s a, a baby girl: “Now look around little one, see this world, I’m a writer and I’m writing about it. You have been held by the greatest writer in the world. Oh yes, me. Now you’re not afraid of me are you…just look how quiet you are, human fear you know [looking into the water] is based on lack of control, and you have no fear I see, for you seek no control, or you are in control, actually, I’m in control; you do not fear if you have control—you and I are alike I fear; yes, yes, yes, similar traits of my own you have.”

٭

As he walked back to the hotel, the Mumbler went in through the back door, noticing a cleaning woman who was inside an apartment making a bed. Her back was to him, and her cart was outside of the door, with supplies and fresh linens
he rushed quickly by her, then up the stairs and into his room…. In the morning he’d have to be on the train, he knew, headed back to London, so he jumped right into bed with his cloths still on, kicking his shoes off.
“It’s been a good trip I have 41,000-words written now, and soon to be 45,000-words. It will be a fine book, the Monkey Man would be proud of me,” the Mumbler told himself.


XV

The Hotel’s Mystery



As morning, which seemed to be quickly, he shaved and cleaned himself up; packed his cloths. He had put the robber’s cloths –the one he met the other day—into the hotel’s furnace; it was all burned up by now, he was sure by now it would be, along with the hammer from last night, everything in the furnace, he told himself a half dozen times; going over this and that of the night events.
He had woke up early this morning and completed that task, actually not all that much after he had arrived back to the hotel, fell to sleep, got back up finished that little work, fell back to sleep, and woke up again. He took one more look at himself in the mirror, spit on his hands to put a few hairs in place, rubbed the hairs down, rehearsed a smile for later on, it looked real, took a deep breath of air and headed for the door.
As he walked downstairs to pay the bill, a big ruckus was going on, police were talking to the cleaning woman that he saw last night.

“My bill, how much sir,” he asked, adding, “Incidentally, what’s up…?”
“Some woman left her child in the maid’s basket last night…and the police are asking everyone if they saw the woman. Did you sir?”
“No as you can see, I’ve never left the hotel, otherwise I’d have given you the key, and here it is.”
“Yaw, you must have been tired last night because I was on all night and I usually see you, but I didn’t last night.”
“In my room…I was in my room all night.”
“It would seem so, sir. Have you finished your novel yet sir?” He notice the police started looking his way; he put that rehearsed smile on his face instantly, while turning to the clerk. He noticed the clerk was shaking his head ‘no’ to the police whom were looking over at them, at which time the Mumbler quickly gave the clerk a $5.00 bill down for his tip, which put an instant smile on his face while finishing his ‘no’ to the police, as if all was well with his customer, thus, the rest of the bill was paid in cash.
“Thanks a lot sir, I hope to read of you someday.”
“Oh you will, just like Hemingway, Picasso, Faulkner, and Hugo; but, I will be the best. This novel is a monument to world literature, and to your question of, ‘…have I finished it,’ no I have not, not yet, in spite of all that has taken place on my trip to Europe, but I will soon do so. It will be a bestseller, yes, no questions asked, a best seller, very soon.”
“What is the name of the book…?” asked the clerk.
“You know, I’ve changed it so many times, I think it will be ‘The Monkey Man,’ but I dare not say anything else in fear I will not ever find the right name if I do.’”
“That’s a funny name…but catchy. Have a safe trip back to London, and America Sir!”

He walked by the police, as they followed him with their eyes, then the Mumbler saw one of the three officers walk over to the desk clerk, but he said only a few words as he looked from the side of his eye, and got the picture of them talking together through the glass doors. The cop walked back by the woman they where taking notes from, as he continued out the doorway.

٭

As he stood at the station, he knew he had created a work of art with this novel, and he liked the attention he was starting to get. He really didn’t want to read the paper anymore; he knew it would have bad news in it. ‘They never talk about the good things you know,’ he often complained.

“All aboard…all aboard…!” a man yelled…

As he got situated in his seat on the train, he put his head back and fell to sleep, Mumbling out loud: “Maybe I could get 50,000 words by Christmas, and SCA would like that, I just need to polish it up a bit.”


≈ ≈ Ś ≈ ≈



“Your ticket sir…” the Mumbler heard as he was woken by the request.
“Here…here’s my damn ticket…”
“Thank you sir, sorry to wake you…”
“What time is it?” asked a pretty lady across from the Mumbler. He tried to focus his eyes; --it reminded him of that lady he killed, “What do you want…!” he yelled.
“Only the time sir…the time-ee,” as she held on tight to her seat with stiff hands --scared of his dogmatic reaction.
“No…you come to haunt me like the boy…” he leaned forward, closer, took a better look at her, wiped his eyes, “Oh, sorry, I thought it was…”
“I’m sorry I asked…are you all right?” —commented the woman
“The Great War, I was in it, the Great War, a battle, I was an officer, the battle was bad I have flash backs now and then, -RELIVING the war, it’s the war, the war you know,” repeated the Mumbler.
“Oh how sad, and you fought for the world to be at peace…”

[A pause, the Mumbler had to reflect; it didn’t sound right, not at least the ‘peace’ part.]

“Yaw, but look at it, it is worse than it ever was. There was no honor in this war, to have killed so many for so little a gain. People from all over the world lay in silent graves because of the Kaiser; the Doughboy’s the ones the French and English wanted to keep on fighting in the trenches of Europe for their glory. Bayonet, bullets, bits and pieces of metals still lay all over the blood stained ground of France and England. Fear is not conquered. Oh yes, I fought as if I was a madman. I know it all too well; --each man willing to let go of his vision and give up his flesh and soul in the trenches of death. And still France and England were bent on fighting on, of course with American lives that is, what the hell for? The world will not remember my dad, nor will he count to anyone but me. The world has lost its future, the one they, they once, they wanted to preserve.”

Said the Mumbler to himself: ‘I hated lying, but what could I say, a good writer has to have a good answer ready for any occasion, at any moment, people are predisposed—that is, of a nature to stealing your imagination, and making money off your hard earned efforts. Plus, I needed an excuse to be startled…’

The lady is now looking at him strangely, still with her tight grip on the leather seats; --she remained sitting across from him, yet a bit uneasy.
“Do you know Miss, when the war, this thing we called the Great War,” commented the Mumbler, “as it is now known, was going on, that the new German Chancellor, Maximilian, I think is his name, over looking France and England went right to President Wilson with a proposal for an Amasses?”

“I’m not much at war Sir... but [hesitation] but, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Just that, wait, you are supposed to ask me ‘why’.”
“Ok, why then?”
“I’ll tell you why; --because we had the army that was defeating them plain and simply.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure what you mean though.”
“Miss, I mean this again, you’re not listening, now listen: the damn French and British had nothing, I mean nothing, nothing, nothing, but contempt for both Wilson and Germany, because of the agreement that Wilson was going to sign. They wanted our soldiers to continue fighting for them, and die, yes, die, die, die, when there was a possible treaty in the making. We should have let the German’s kick their ass. You know they were from… from… from…, I’m so angry, I’m stuttering… being beaten by them.”
“I didn’t know that sir, very interesting…but please—please, calm down.”
“Yaw, I knew you didn’t, and here is something else you didn’t know, General J.J. Pershing, the American Commander knew the stupid allies wanted to continue with the Great War, but he and Wilson figured it out, and gave the Europeans an alternative, a choice if you will.”
“And what was that sir.”
“I am getting to it, just hold on… you see between the British and French there were about 700,000 killed, my dad being one of them, besides, we were both in the Great War.” He hesitated a second, caught his breath, then continued: “… as I was saying, Pershing had two million men in place in Europe and two million men ready to go fight the Germans. In a nut shell, Germany could not fight or face those odds, and so the USA said to the hot shots, that being the French and English, ---in so many words---if you do not go along with me, or us, we will withdraw our troops.
You see how it goes. We help them, and they feel like the big shots telling us what we should do for them. And you mark my words, this Europe will continue to do this with us until they drain all our blood; yes blood, they like better, think about, blood, as long as it is someone else’s—yes, someone else’s resources to replace, replace things with ‘…now get out of our countries…crap…’ but do not be fooled: it is not always the keener culture that survives.”
“I sense you are taking this a little too far sir,” she commented.
“I thought, --where did all this come from? I get in this manic state and just don’t know when to stop. Sorry miss.”
[The Mumbler feels a little taken back, not because of what he said, but how he said it, a little embarrassed.]


“Can I buy you a lunch miss…?”
She looked at the stranger then started staring at his body movements.
“I assume you’re not well sir, you need to rest, and can I help you?”
“Not well, what are you talking about…not well! And how can you help me by telling me to rest?”
“I’m a doctor and you seem to be suffering from something.”
“Stress that is what I am suffering from doctor-lady, I am a writer.”
“Oh my, what have you written, maybe I’ll recognize your name.”
“I’m writing it now nnnnnnowww…”
“Oh, [a pause] --subsequently you’re trying to be a writer?”
“I have here in my pocket, right here, right here—the, the number one bestseller, and SAC wants to publish it.”
“Oh gee, that is great, and who is SAC…”
“I don’t believe this. Who is SAC? What have I published? So many questions, why do you care who SAC is, and do you really, I mean really have a need to know? NO, NO, NO, you do not. It is your nose it gets in your way…it wants to know too much. Do I ask you what day of the month you get your…your—you know what I mean, those things girls get—your damn phase thing, can think of the word? NO, NO, NO, I mind my own business…my nose doesn’t want to know what your nose wants to know.”

[She is not sure if she should laugh, smile, cry or what, but a surprised look comes over her face.]

Says the Mumbler: “Oh you consider me funny now that I’m jesting with you?”

“I don’t care, I just thought if we were going to eat, what could we talk about, and this might be part of our conversation.”
“This my dear little doc, will not be part of our conversation because it is a secret until my publisher sees it… don’t you know all writers keep their manuscripts hidden in case someone wants to steal it; and there have been a few people already trying to steal my book. It is no different than music, they steal that too. You doctors have secrets also, you don’t tell people what you’re going to charge them until you’re done, and then you charge them so much that they have a heart attack.” She started laughing, “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” said the Mumbler, but even he chuckled along with that remark.
“Oh, but you are funny…” adding “Who are they…?” said the Doc.
“Man-oh-man, who are they, now how would I know who the people that want to steal my great manuscript are, or where they are: --they simply are thief’s, they do not have names only faces,-- a woman’s face, a boy’s face, maybe a cop’s face, you know faces, and faces. They don’t publish this kind of stuff, or broadcast it to you, you know—before hand that is. I don’t know, maybe you are one of those people, but you don’t act like one.”
“I’m a doctor, not a writer, or thief. I wouldn’t know the first thing about finding a publisher, or editing a book; I only read books, and leave the drudgery of writing to such scholars as you.” The Mumbler cherished that last comment…
“Well, that is good that you do that, but you are one nosey broad,--I mean doctor.”
“Does that mean we get a meal?”



XVI

Dinner with the Doc


As they both sat down in the dinning car he knew he was in for some diagnosis dialogue, something told him so. He also knew one thing, she was no ordinary doctor, to many of those statement-questions, and you know the ones you want to ask, but feel you need to come in the back way with, the Mumbler picked up on them. “Yes, oh yes, no ordinary doctor,” he told himself.
“Can I help you,” asked the waitress.
“I’ll have a bottle of your best wine and a 16 oz steak, and for the Doc here, anything she wants.”
“I’ll take an 8 oz steak with a glass of wine,” she answered with a smile that was tightly held back with her teeth, almost to a grind, or a mash.
“And so here we are Doc, you tell me about you, and see what you can get out of me.” She smiled, “As you wish,” she commented.
“I work in San Francisco, I was doing a study with some doctors in London, and I went to Amsterdam, probably for the same reason you did, to rest and have fun.”
“You got that right…but I got very little rest there.”
“Why’s that…?”
“Here’s the wine sir…” the waiter filled the glasses up and left. He was not the original one who first served them; the Mumbler took note of that.
“To be quite guileless, you seem to be moderately bothered. If I was to guess, you seem to be racing one moment, and the next depressed,” she alleged.
“Here we go again, I thought with the maybe-so’s, the wondrous, phenomenal, extraordinary questions that end up never having a complete white or black answer, those open ended ones, would stop.” He took a breath, and then continued to comment:
“Doc, you hit the hammer on the nail though, I do feel that way, my book you know. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out; in other words you are not telling me anything I do not already know.”
“Some people call it a thinking disorder, or manic-depression conflict, or borderline…let’s just say, a form of psychosis,” added the Lady-Doctor.
“I’ve heard of that term a number of times in my so called past, and my mother died of syphilis, and my father was overprotective, but that doesn’t make me ill. Is that what you are aiming for, my background, my childhood, to pronounce me mentally ill, to figure out the ‘might have been-s in my life, had I this or that’?”
“No, not at all, I really find that you are interesting but I can explain some things for you possible if you wish.”
“You mean my thinking disorder. I do have bizarre behavior now and then and at times what you would call psycho-social adjustments…The great ancient culture, the old genetic structure that man was born with in the days of the nomadic tribes, the tribal era if you will, the hot blood, where death is looked upon as a thing of courage, that is me.”
“You seem to be quite aware of medical terms…from the Great War… I would guess [?]”
“No, I lied about that, you see writers can’t be telling the truth all the time; do you think the fiction you read is real?”
“No, I do not, but then, do you…?”
“Sometimes I do; sometimes we writers just coat it with plaster-of-paris, and make it look like something else.”
“Where were you born…?”
“In a psychiatric hospital, then my father took me out. We lived in poverty, but that just gave me more muscle for my drive. You see there are worse things than death; for instance, poverty, or at least it is its equal. And what is worse than poverty is hunger.”
“Were you in someone else’s care for a long period of time? …like adoption or a foster home for awhile…?”
“For a while…yaw, about four years, why?”
“No reason…”
“Another glass of wine Doc?”
“If you will, I will…?”
“Why would someone find pleasure in killing?”
“What a question, why ask me that?”
“Who better to ask than a writer?”
“Yaw, you got a point there…let me think. Jesus once said in the book of Matthew: ‘In the days of Noah, so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be.’ In those days Doc, people will feast on the kill; make it a sport, for the pleasure of it, the high, and the hunt; like in the days of Noah, and the days of the nomadic tribes.”
“But you didn’t answer my question completely…”
“Avoidance doc that is what I am doing. Well the best answer I can give is one side of the world likes to terrorize the other side, and the reason is, is because it works; that is to say, you get results. It is a devilish thing. One might say bewitching, magic also. Do you think I am sick…?”

[The Mumbler shifting his thoughts a bit]

“Let me also say, I know a few demon, oh yes, one’s name is Arian, I learned he had no feet, only hands, his toes were thumbs, he could not walk, rather, grab his feet; you think this a joke but it is not. Anyhow, he likes to scare me…this Arian demon that is, so he comes out of a pig half way, in my dreams, night mares, so forth, flings his teeth at me. Needless to say, after a while it gets old and he does not scare you any more, it becomes more annoying than daunting. He has skinny legs that look similar to arms. Yes, I whacked him once in the snoot, across his nose, which he really does not have one, only two holes in his upper bridge that is, above his upper lip…”

[Back to refocusing, and to where he was going before.]

“I’ll give you a reasonable reason, a down to earth reason instead of a philosophy. You heard Franz Liszt, he’s a great, if not, the greatest pianist. He not only was a natural in writing music, poetry, and books, but he had what you would call that touch, you know, magnetism, attraction that drew people to him. He was never, I don’t think, in doubt of his ability. Now why do you think Robert Wagner, his close friend hate him so; despised him, when it was Liszt who put him into the lime light? Don’t answer Doc; I need to get this thought out of my mind now. At any rate, it was envy, pure rotten envy. Wagner would not share what he got free from Liszt, which was popularity, by way of Liszt, like Hemingway and Fitzgerald. He was an ass-hole, in plane English.
Now let’s bring this up to date, and you have, have you not, heard of that young popular writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, and his buddy Hemingway. Well, who do you think is helping who? I know I repeat myself. I’ll answer that again, Hemingway is getting help from Fitzgerald. Now Fitzgerald is a natural, and Hemingway is not. Do you not think there is some envy there? Not for selling books, but for being natural. You see, Hemingway has to work for every word he writes, Fitzgerald just puts them down on paper, like leaves falling off a tree, and they just land right, or better put, come out right, most of the time that is. Case closed. This kind of envy can kill.
Here comes our stakes; incidentally doc, can a crazy man do what you just said, kill at will, plan it, or if not plan it, just do it and never get caught?”

“They look good,” [the steaks] the doc said as the waiter walked away leaving the steaks on the table, “…as I was about to say----”
“Oh, I see, you don’t get one without the other.”
“What are you talking about sir…?”
“Doc, it goes this way, if I am mentally sick, consequently I am also possessed, and you can’t have it any other way [?] /…you can’t have it one way and not the other, it has to go both ways…”
…she sat looking at him dumbfounded, ready to say:

[Think about it, think about it, what he said, she whispered to her thoughts.]

“You evidently know your psychology and theology; so what you are saying is a person who kills is possessed?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I said if you’re mentally ill, and you are killing you’re possessed. But if you kill for a good reason, such as for war, that being a form of national protection, you are said not to be of guilt or insane, but rather you could be a sane hero of sorts, is this not true? But again we must look at what we consider truth, because for Napoleon, truth was that he could killed a million people, enemy and/or even his own soldiers, and at one battle did just that, and not blink an eye, and had no problem looking the other way; yes, yes, yes, I am saying the unbelievable, he could sacrifice his soldier’s lives to meet his ends, and again, not blink an eye, not an eye, not one little eyeball. Now he is a hero to the French, isn’t he? Is all of France crazy? You see the French are sick—with a sick hero. But because it is France, we deny this, and allow him, like Greece to have Alexander the Great as a hero, when in essence, they both were sicker than a serial killer.”
Having said that, he was starting to make her a little nervous he thought, —or so it was starting to show on her face, and he noticed it.
“God created man, next He had a Great Flood, as we had the Great War—like father, like son—or better put, like children, now is God a killer? [An awkward moment takes place]
Let me add Miss, a terrorist today is a hero to his people tomorrow, and in twenty to fifty years he is a hero to his country, and in 100-years, he is looked upon as a world leader, and a world hero. And in a thousand years he is reminiscent of Alexander the Great; --thus, here are our great heroes of sorts; --all nothing but asshole killers, and considered masterminds, geniuses in their own time, and now in ours. Sick, sick, sick, that is what they were, with brilliant minds, like me, a brilliant mind.”

“But sir, if God kills, he can resurrect…” she was right he thought; ‘…oops, where now do I go.” [Again an awkward moment.]

“If I kill twenty-one people akin to Billy the Kid, I will be a hero someday maybe, maybe-so. Let me add, resembling the gangsters in Chicago, today’s enemies are tomorrow’s heroes. If you kill a child not yet conceived it is not murder, but if you kill the woman who was planning on killing the child, you are guilty of murder. Do you see…?”
“I think what you are trying to say is you’re torn on what right does anybody have to give a death order, or take life away by making it legal, without authorizing, or acknowledging the other person’s right to do the same. And I guess that goes for governments as well. And to each person he is in essence his own government…” She stopped and took a deep breath. It was all too much for her, plus, it was his turn now.

“I know enough to say, one counters the other: --meaning, psychology believes man works his way up to sin, whereas, Christianity believes we are born with sin; I know I’m getting away from the killing part, but there is also a religious element involved here.”
“Yes, this would be true,” replied the Doc.
“Then in a like manner, if I had a mind to kill for pleasure, I am not only sick in the psychological sphere of mankind, but in the demonic sphere of the unholy --or to the holly.”
[Uneasy] “If this is so, how would a person get better?” asked the Doc.
“That’s a good question…how about a Christian Psychologist…?”
She started laughing, saying: “There is no such creature.”
“Not today, notwithstanding, but maybe you tomorrow, maybe that is why we are talking.” She looked at him closely, her arms were full of goose bumps…she started to eat her steak faster and never said another word until the steak was done. At which time, she excused herself from the table, thanking him for the dinner. As she walked away, she said, “Maybe…just maybe…” she shook her head as if she was struck by some lightening, and then he burped, saying, “I held it for a half hour.”

Some people he noticed in life, like Picasso, when he saw him at the park in Paris, when caught by surprise, couldn’t come out with their witty cruelty, as normally they might be able to. The Mumbler could see it in his paintings though, the sharpness that is to his disposition. But he loved his cruelty in his paintings, yet he was sure he did not always reserve it for that.

[Thought the Mumbler]

‘Funny thing about Picasso, when I was in America I didn’t really see him as being a successful painter…not sure why I didn’t, and not sure why the Stein’s did, she in particular saw him as a great painter, but then, Picasso painted Gertrude’s portrait, and so she would have to like him no matter what… In any case, in Paris many folk’s adore the Stein’s: in comparison, to a theme running through a whole book, or sap running through a tree, people were converting over to his art like pigeons eating corn from the tourist’s hands [I think Stein helped it along]. Like that new leader, fascist dictator in Italy called Mussolini, another funny name if you ask me, another killer of the 20th Century to be, or not to be—like Shakespeare that phony. And so, I guess he [Picasso] is more successful than I had thought, ----matter of fact, now that I think about it, even the Austrian’s, German’s and Swedes, are buying his paintings, in spite of my unawareness, and along with the folks is Paris. I guess he expresses his emotions in his art, like me in my writings. That is his genius—and is mine of course; --it is cruel emotions, lustful emotions he is painting; dread, he can create better than anyone. This is maybe why I am attracted to his ugliness.
He is making the hideous, revolting, repulsive, ugly popular, like it or not. That kind of tells us where we are…’

As he got back to his seat --a few cars beyond the dinner car she was gone. He sat back and rested, the leather seats were a bit uncomfortable but they looked nice. He liked her no matter what, or so he was telling himself now, next he reminded himself that also said that at table awhile ago also; --looking out the side window of the train, he kind of wished she had not left. “If I am sick, God will have mercy on my soul. If we were living in the times of Noah, my excuse for killing would be solved, for that was a way of life back in those days,” he mumbled by himself, still staring out the window, “…still my soul would be dammed, none the less, but so was, and will be a horde of others. I wonder if God is more merciful to people who are mentally ill than to people who are not? …or is he, or will he be cruel to be cruel, if there is a God in the first place, that is to be cruel just to be cruel, or if that is also a crazy way of thinking; another idea comes to mind: will He let us folk get through heavens door on a technicality? I wonder. The courts allow that, allow that you oh you know, you know, in that case, He is God, and dad used to say, ‘Give to Caesar what belongs to him,’ and so he, or governments have a right to judge, so my father says, and ‘Give to God that which is not Caesar’s,’ I’d say that was most everything; confusing. I get a little paranoid at this point.
Sad but true, I do get pleasure out of it—killing that is; we live in momentous days. And unfolding before our eyes are the prophetic scriptures. I will put that in my book also, it sounds a little profound.”

“London in twenty minutes,” a man was hollering —everyone could hear him down the corridor as he said it a half a dozen times. The Mumbler seemed to be getting into a depression again. He liked the Doc, she was a bitch, but I liked her, and she took the time to talk, to care, to be for him, and now she was gone. Even if she was bad, she was better than nothing he felt.


Two Dreams


He fell to sleep, a dream came like fire to him, burning at his brain: --a beast that looked similar to a lion, it was flying like an eagle, and four more beasts came out of nowhere, with six wings on each beast, many eyes, so many, many eyes, --and was heard saying: “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come.”

Now, followed by a second dream, it took him back to the old man on the ship:

I think old man you should have had a vision-dream of a sheep, that means you will live to be fat and healthy, much happiness and prosperity. But you had to have that damn cursed dream; how about that difficult affair starting right now?
The old man tried to run from me, but I grabbed him by the back of the pants, and I hit him, twice, no three times…yaw, three…he dropped to the floor. I found a spike lying about and I turned him around, and as he was almost past-out, having no fight in him left, with my foot I drove the spike into the back of his neck, oh a little farther down maybe, maybe-so, toward his spine, --so he would have a slow death. And then I hung him up on a lever with a hook made of steel, left over from the days when they must have built the ship, I expect. I hung him there by his belt, tied around his neck, and kicked him with all my lunacy, my madness, oh yes, who makes history is the —is the dark side of the madmen, and so the world must be mad like me for they call them heroes to be…I have a right to my madness as much as any government; and the people like reading about this crap inside my screwed up mind. His hands tied around the huge chain coming down from the upper part of the bow, made it easy for me to push him about, and I kicked him in the groin. When people see this, find him there, do you think they will ever forget the image I have provided for them…oh no… nnnnnnnnnn-never…never-ever. But like “Jack the Ripper,” who is a hero of sorts, a folklore one might say, is he not remembered for his ‘ripping,’ oh yes [nightmare…nightmare stuff…get out of it it ti ti it it… help mmmeeeeeee].
His eyes were still opened—I can still see them, gobble-eyed,--toting a smirk on that old rustic face of his —he knew he was dying, that’s when I walked away. I knew by the time they found him he’d be dead, I figured less than one day at best, but who knows; sometimes old men like him survive longer. Why are people so dumb, if I knew a man’s dream, I’d not tell him, I’d look the other way, or kill him, but never would I tell him?

“Help…help…!”
“What’s the matter sir…?” The Mumbler woke up, a black man with a white shirt, with a hat on, was looking at him, “Are you ok…sir?” He looked around the room everything looked fine; there was nobody about, “I think you were having a nightmare sir.”
“No alarm, just a bad dream,” responded the Mumbler.
“Yes sir, we get to London in about five minutes…” he closed the door. The Mumbler got to thinking about his sleeping; he’d have to learn to sleep with one eye open he told himself, one to watch himself with.
At this point he felt he was part of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, in that he could not hold himself together at times, which was becoming more of a chore since his father passed away, as a result, he needed a calm down pill, or something.
“The King is coming, the King is coming, the King is coming,” he kept saying out loud, then he stopped to catch his breath. And the train stopped.▒




XVII


Christmas Day Coming
[December 21 to 24, l925]




London Hotel


[The Mumbler after arrival at the Hotel in London]

I got back late in the evening to my hotel [December 21st, 1925] I mean I guess it’s not real late but I need to rest, --put some of this in my journal; my mind needs to digest the train ride…………sssssss
Sssss
◊

Sssss☺
Sss…


♫ I rested eighteen hours
Out of twenty-four….▓: --

I’m awake, Im...mm awake, awake…for once a good sleep…thank goodness, I deliberated a lot on what the Doc had said…then I must of fallen to sleep. I felt fresh…my body ache somewhat, but my stretching seemed to open up every living valve inside of me. I rotated my head a little, shook out my body, as if it was a wrinkled old blanket. I have learned in life one deep truth, that sleep is a great gift of God to mankind…a source of regeneration, keeping youthful; it has to do with treating your body with respect and appreciation for God’s handy work, that is sleep. That is why God gave it, to see if you respected him…you know, if you treat your body bad, and don’t sleep, it’s kind of saying you don’t appreciate the car He gave you; he could take it away. We’re nothing but a shell, not unlike a car you know; God’s the big shot, and if he wanted to, hell, He could have our chromosomes so they didn’t fall apart, and we’d live forever like the angels and devils all over the damn place. So when we do not sleep, He gets angry, and breaks a few more of those chromosomes, maybe, you know the respect thing again, he warned us some place in the bible. Sleep is great nurturing, food to your body, we have to feed ourselves, like putting gas constantly in a car, in addition, to polishing it all the time [the car], but women do that mostly, the polishing part. They polish this and that, as if they needed a new paint job everyday.

[Frenziedly] He gave us this body for us to make use of, that is –to show us we need him, and we do. Yet we go around thinking we’re doing God a favor as if he needed us, like a hole in the head. For want of anything better, I think god is playing a trick on mankind, he could have given us wings like angels, or invisibility like ghosts, but no, he has to give us flesh and blood; and let the demons get us, the ghosts haunt us, the angels dominate us, and the aliens scare us. I think he maybe is on a power kick, sometimes, but I better not say that too loud, He can hear me, plus, who knows what He is thinking, all we are is little grasshoppers with big heads. Yet, he does step in at times and kick ass; --you know, when any of the things I mentioned get a little out of hand. I guess being god is a hard job. Thank God, I’m not God, I’d kick ass everyday.
I know when I die I’m going to be ducking and hiding and doing everything to get away from the big guy—because He’s going to kick my ass, but maybe I’ll get my act together by then; I think everyone says that. And I think I’d rather play hide-n-seek, and then He will toss me down in some pit and shut the door and never come back. I really do not welcome the dark.

As I looked out of my window from the forth floor here, onto the busy street below, people are going all about, shopping, talking. Today, today is the 22nd of December, three more days before Christmas.

It seemed I kind of knew where she was coming from, the Doc that is, now my mind is trying to give my heart some signals. The ‘eye of my heart’ that is, the bible would say —I was enlightened by the Doc, which my father used to explain to me was that the “heart” is the same thing as “…the center for understanding.” And to understand, it has to open, something like that, a little like a valve I guess.
It looked cold as I glanced out the window, --it’s all frosted up, --the morning ‘…another morning, what is time to a God that has control of it [?]’. The clock says 11:45 AM. I got to look closer…yaw, -- it’s 11:46 AM alright. My mind just never rests nowadays. I seem to have someone at times sitting in the corner of my mind whispering. I --I call him, ‘that little gobbling of a devil’, whisper, whisper, whisper, that’s all he does is whisper, that is —I should say, infer, she or he or is it he or she, I don’t know; he goes, or she goes to great lengths to whisper, oh yes whisper if you will. But it is your will not mine. Today you are a he, he, so he-heeee, like it or not.
He captured me for awhile, used me. He is still trying to use me. Dig into my dreams, making those nightmares, and/or I suppose trying to scare me and laughing while he is doing it, the demon of nightmares that is. Parallel to some of Picasso’s paintings, believe it or not; I’ve seen him painting on canvas from his window—he painted a picture in three-minutes, and then another in five hours; I timed him. He is the god of that creation, he can bend “How old you will be in a painting…” and the other God, the one in heaven, can do the same, so am I the “Five hour person in the making, or the three minute, quick job. And if this is so, therefore you are a lesser painting, a lesser valued person.”
And so who is the better? —the three minute-god, or the five hour God made person? I think the three minute one—me

--or the five hour-god, painting? Paintings have feelings, they give their emotions, and inside the painting they have their own kingdom, if I could live in a painting I’d hide forever. Why do I feel like the three-minute painting, a god of three minutes in the making, by Picasso? I ask myself why I ask such questions, and I answer myself;
subsequently —I have answers to questions I never
asked–funny how we think with thoughts and gestures, gestures and thoughts, all over the place and we come up with gobbledygook at the end of the road…that is short for crap, shit…need I say more. And maybe one just talks to talk, so forget receiving an answer if that is what you are waiting for. The whisper is waiting for the answer, the rhetorical question. I am the god of the painting today.
I am not an unbeliever, no, no, nooo: --I don’t think so; I’m just a cursed believer. I think somehow, someway, my psychological make up at present refuses to allow me —more and more as time goes by—to be unable to understand certain truths. Or so it would seem. My truths are not the same as everyone else’s. I used to be a Christian. Can you be a Christian one day and not the next? I should have asked the Doc that question. I can follow the logic and reasoning of the Christian, but it does not touch my heart, not like it used to [interrupting himself, pausing to think]…. Hawthorn, the great writer was a Christian, a Puritan, never let it bend his paragraphs though, oh no, he got the people at the “Custom House in Salem,” kicked their ass with words, they got mad at him when he wrote about them…or implied all they did was hang about, or better yet, something like loaf around, and still he never bent his paragraphs to suite them; -- my kind of man, with grit. And Mark Twain, shoved his two-cents down the public’s throat about the—perhaps theory—that Shakespeare was really not Shakespeare rather Francis Bacon wrote all the works, and Shakespeare just cut meat in his fathers butcher shop, perhaps, maybe-so, maybe not, who gives a shit?
Yes, maybe it is the core of my sinfulness that strikes me right in the eye of my heart which deadens the messages God’s sends to me— or would send to me, if I gave Him a inclination to. I could scarcely deny the fact, God—yes, God himself could have made me a fish, but he chose to make me a man haunted, with no escape: unless he is waiting to show me the secret passage—the way out of my dilemma. My father used to say, and I loved my father with all my heart, I even said to the nurse at the…… ‘crazy house’, --well, I said to the nurse [looking upward as if to God himself, visualizing], ‘…if I had to die, --I mean really, really die, not sleep, not pretending, but, really, really die, and thought my father was in hell, I’d not want to go to heaven,--oh no, I’d go to hell…yes, yes, that is what I’d chose [heartedly he speaks]. I’d want to join him in hell.’ The nurse told me that was ‘…unwise…’—in essence, saying I am unwise, and possible meaning, or better put, being, a little rash, and in the back of her mind she might have been saying, “You’re an idiotic for thinking the way you are thinking…”, but it is the way I think, like it or not. Can you tell one person he should not be ashamed of this or that, and the other person it is ok for him to have his kind of shame? NO, NO you can’t, shame is shame, and it is different for each person. My shame is not the same as another’s. It is like saying: --don’t be shameful for this or that. Brother, my shame is different than yours, and I’ll keep my shame you keep yours [the Mumbler is starting to go into a panic, repeating himself]. The nurse even tried, she really did, I swear she did, try to convince me my father might be in heaven…might be, possible be, could be, all negatives to me, how dare her…might be crap. That is, as if saying, I might kill you, either you do or you don’t, either you are or you are not. It is simply, black and white; no room for gray, not in this area my friend. It is all or nothing. Yes, yes yes…you know what you can do with your ‘might beeee’s’ or maybe’s.
Oh, I was saying my father frequently said: “…an unsaved person is totally unable to understand the Holy Book’s grammatical data…,” something like that. He died in WWI, he was an officer. It is hard on my soul, my heart [getting fatigued].

He habitually would say—and it is why I have never sold my house—:

“No matter what kind of person you are, rich, poor, industrialist, socialist, communist, what, simply what have you got if you do not own anything to look upon, such as, land, or a house. In the entire world everyone seeks a job, and once it is lost, it is like taking the shirt off your back, for you were just renting it…you end up with nothing, which makes you less than a slave, which is nothing again: --is this happiness [?]; that is why peace without freedom is nothing, -- You are naked, but alive. With peace and freedom, you are clothed and alive. Do not sell your house son, not without a replacement. Do not become naked; the world will take advantage of you, as they do for the seekers of peace without freedom. You see, it is a fool’s game, give them peace, and pretend freedom is attached; fools gold.”

My father had come over to America …oh it doesn’t matter, not now. It is very cold out there, --and very hot in here. Just look at the people, all going here and there, no one controlling their steps —to one place, out –then to another place. I got to pull this shade down, got to check the corridor, see if anyone is coming…nnoooo! As I was about to think, I mean say, Dad said the Army told you where to go, when to go, when to shit almost. But everyone here is going any old place they please. No order…when dad left me… that is, is… how I felt, no order…dad needed the Army—maybe, and I needed dad.

I think I will read, and go back to sleep, I’m getting tired of thinking, too much thinking. Listen to the radio, yaw. I want to go uptown and see a movie for Christmas. I think I know which one. It came out last year; I’ve wanted to see it for awhile now. It was made in Germany. It’s called “The Last Laugh,” being a writer I even know who the screen play is bbyyi: --it was Carl Mayer, see that is what writers know. I’m a writer you know. My father would be proud of me. If that fucken war with Germany didn’t take his life. In those damn dug out holes, this was the war to end all wars. How about the war in my head….MYYYYYY HHHead!!!! Yaw yaw yaw
I didn’t have to go, my father made sure of that.
I still dream of the trenches my father wrote home to me about while he was in the Gr∑at War.
He went in, --in 1914, and died in 1916, when I was, I was twenty-five years old. He had fought with the British Army, when he died they sent me a medal, and some insurance money. I paid the house up with the money, and some left over for this journey to Europe. I think we have not heard the last of the Germans. They like to kill, kill and have bloodbaths, and then eat steak, and sauerkraut. And then seek peace, and too bad for the-ddddddddd-dead dads of the world. And those bratwurst’s, that’s all I know about them, and all I care to know. Oh yaw, they are better fighters than the British and French I believe. The Germans find irresistible the Kill along with eating. I don’t think they like Jews either, never have never will; I do, because Jesus was a Jew, or one might even conclude, is a Jew yet, but gone. Matter of fact, I don’t think anyone in Europe cares much for Jews, I wonder why, God sent his Jew Son down for mankind…not a damn German, or Englishman, or for that matter, the great French son, but a Jew… can’t anybody get that right. NOOOO…he was not an Italian, no…nor was he a Pope…he was Jew, with a Jewish nose a bent one at that, I bet, and black hair and dark eyes. NO, not green or blue eyes, like on the statues in the churches back home. Not red hair, nor white or black skin, TTTtan, he had bronze skin. AAAAA Jew…funny, so were the apostles.
We should hate the Italian’s; --they gave the order to let Jesus get killed, or captured. All that big shot of a Roman-governor Pilot did, was nothing to stop it, I think his name was Pilot, -- what was I going to say now…I know, the guards were playing dice for his cloths because…not sure why but they were gaming for his cloths none the less, and we’re not going to kill God, just do Him in, you know, nail Him to the wall for the Jews who didn’t want to do their own dirty work, like the French with the Germans, wanting America to do it for them; anyhow …he was a coward, all Italian’s are cowards. They eat too much spaghetti, and it gets them fat, and they fart all day.

Now John L. Sullivan and this guy named Dempsey they are some good boxers, and they are not German or Italian. Good Irish names, I bet they got some Russian in them. They could kick the shit out of everyone in New York. Sullivan tried I think, going from bar to bar I heard. Those two were the best of the best.
My father was a Second Lieutenant. He was in the “Battle of the Marne,” where 1,275,000 Germans, 1,000,000 French and 125,000 British troops, and one American, --my father fought four days. Britain lost about 4000 soldiers that day or so my father estimated. My dad was at Flanders fields in l914 also when the German troops march through those fields. But he died in a trench, a dirty old rotten trench made from wooden poles, he was with a machine-gun post near Guillemot, it was in September [I think], l916. They buried him some place in that area; they put a plain cross over his head, and then sent me a picture of it. It looked like they had some kind of ribbon on it, a few dying flowers circled the cross.
I’m very tired I’ll sleep a little

sssssssssssssssss… but dad keeps coming to mind ssssssssss……..



[More thoughts—resting-dreaming]


Germany had a system of trenches equipped with communication equipment and dugouts especially for them, and listening-posts, so my dad wrote me about. The war ended me think kkkkkk…. [Drifting into sleep] in November of l918, noo l919 noooo l918, but we sent two million American soldiers to France, and another two million were ready to go, [I see them all standing with no faces, all in white] even Fitzgerald was ready to go, but didn’t have to.

Not sure why dad had to go, he went because he wanted to, --maybe to get away from me.

I suppose we, we, we, wwwweee…getting tired, can think, will end up being Europe’s police force-eeeee, with our tax money; we will simply end up getting what we have always got, ‘ingratitude,’—the invention of France’s social class—that took place after Napoleon lost his tarsal. They never forgot it, which to be quite honest, has not been that long ago.

President Wilson sends troops to a war we have no interest in, any compelling need to be, but to ‘kill’— why,

so we can show the world the Anglo-Saxon race can save civilization ‡ and kick the shit out of the rest of the world.
General Pershing, the American Commander, with his ‘Doughboys’ let the British, who’s favorite hunt is the human kill, teach our soldiers how to fight, and so now they and us, we and them, are all thirsty for blood [he is seeing faces and sweating in his dreaming.]

You see, one thing triggers another.

Dad complained about the rations, but he said, ‘…so did everyone else…..’ But he got free cigarettes and chocolate, and aand anddd and, and…sssleep… a a coffin. Dad said the blacks in the Army had the shitty jobs that the Americans had a whole regiment of black soldiers, the 369th, funny I’ve never heard of them.



December 23, l925


I notice when I got up I had slept another fifteen hours, I doubled checked the clock again. I just got dressed and I’m down at the little café in the hotel now. It is 11:15 AM. I just ordered a steak. The whole hotel is very decorative with tinsel, green ribbons, trees and reefs, ----Christmas dressings everywhere—beautiful, lights, lights and more lights. I had noticed when I sat at the table a few minutes ago, drinking my coffee waiting for my breakfast, I got to thinking about how wonderful my sleep was last night. Heaps of thinking and dreaming, but that is how a person enables himself to digest the day; like a whale coming up for air, he’s got to get air to be able to go back down and live in the water again—yes, like it or not we are much like the whales when it comes to sleep.
It was the first time in weeks I slept well; sleep is surely a gift from God, one should appreciate it as one would the pretty flowers you see in the parks, it is made for peace of mind, as is the water, I can listen or watch the water and be tranquilized into a spell of peace, and fall to sleep. The Monkey Man had not returned to my thoughts for a few days, this is good, very good. Only the Doc seemed to hold any memories for me now, for the moment at least, --the Monkey Man was fading, like the letters I received from my father during the Great War. Time is a great healer, or can be.
My father always told me I could become any kind of person I wanted to. He liked to read a lot: “Good writers,” he’d say, “…make good friends.” I always seem to have my world within him, his world and my world together, he knew that I think, and maybe that was why he left for war, he knew too much I think sometimes. What he may not have understood, if anything, was that for some of us, like me, our world within includes handicaps, deformities, -- defects. No two people are the same. And even though he knew I was a little different, he wanted me to accept as if I was like everyone else. I do not hold this against him, oh no, he was always so proud of me. Satan would like to bring into play our feelings as a weapon, he plays with us, blinds us, our minds. Makes us feel inferior, inadequate, self-belittling, defeat, and my father knew this. He’d say, “Let God and his Holy Word bring about [or was it, bring out] your false beliefs.” I never understood what the hell he was talking about until he died, and then I figured it out, what he was really saying,--or what I think he was really saying, which was: ‘you may think you’re wise in your virtue,’ meaning, you can not think rightly and wrongly at the same time. That’s what he would say alright.
I think this is what has been happening to me. Something triggered something in me, and I just get fragmented, scared, and a bunch of other crapp…
“Your brunch sir…” said the waitress. She had a cute smile as she put the plate in front of me. Shapely legs came out from under that black skirt, and nice little round breasts that stuck out of her blouse as she leaned over; a cup full I’d say. If sin gets me, it will be now I think. But I fear she just wants a bigger tip. Plus I’m an ass man. Actually, I don’t have much sex in my life; wait a minute, just who am I kidding, I don’t have any; -- it doesn’t even bother me, ----at times I wonder why? Why o why, doesn’t it, … doesn’t it bother me; then I stop wondering, for wondering is not worth the salt of a man, I mean it weakens him, makes him into a mouse, not a man. I know it is a high of sorts though, but killing is a better high. She knows she has a nice ass, nice legs; bad news, she knows she can find a guy just by standing outside and smiling. Men are meat heads, or meat-minds. And women don’t know what they got sometimes. Take any woman, even a plane one, she can stand outside in the rain, and make money just by opening up her blouse and letting guys get a free look, and maybe a little touch. Soon she’d own the hotel if she stood out there long enough.
“You are quite lovely Miss…” she smiled. Did I say that?
“And you sir, you are fresh, but handsome looking, but you should wash your hands before eating…” she walked away with more of a wiggle now than she did when she first arrived within my vision. I looked at my hands, they were dirty, and so I got up and went to the washroom. She had a point, but funny she said that, most people, waitress’ and/or waiters’ wouldn’t usually say anything like that, “Humm…” I wiped my hands going back to the table now.
[Sitting down at the table, looking at the steak.] The steak looked good, medium rare, about an inch thick, 16-ounces of choice meat, a T-Bone I believe. My father used to tell me what his father time and again would say, or told him, which was, meat, preferable beef, but he’d use pork also, and chicken, is worthless, tasteless, without fat and bone to it, that is, a piece of meat with no taste such as that, he’d say, “Get rid of it son, throw it away,” he’d add, “It’s good for nothing.” And I think he had something there. I ate this steak down slowly and looked about. There were about ten tables in the restaurant, about half filled. An old couple over in the corner by the cash registers was sitting shyly. The old man looked up at me, and when he saw I was looking back at him he quickly turned about, held his wife’s hand a little tighter. I think he was in the Great War, such things make you appreciate the things you got, especially a good wife, I think most wives are not good wives, they want and when they get they want more, never really knowing what they want in the first place, only wanting to want, the right to want that is. And when they think about wanting, they really do not know what they want, just want to want. It is true, they go window shopping, and never stop shopping, or buying, or wanting. Tell me that is not a sick behavior. They will sell their bodies for a new alligator purse, or a mink hat. I’ve seen people with those hats on in Paris, with their little feet on top, you now, the little feet of the animal on top of the hat, oh yes, where else would they put them, so cozy looking. Yet you had to slaughter it.
I’ve never been married, but my observations do count for something, and they tell me, women never know what they want, I’m getting of this want kick I’m on. And when they change you, and the challenge is gone, they go hunting for another gorilla; because that is what they found in the first place, and made it into a rabbit, and now want that gorilla back, see we get back to that want thing again, damn, when I get on something, I just can’t seem to let go: --but it never can be you again. If you ask them what they are looking for they got a list, and if you asked them what they got to offer, they lost the ink pen, or pencil and say they are busy and got to go shopping, or open their blouse, spread their legs, and then go shopping. I know what they got to offer, and it is not what I want, or for that matter, need.
I’m waiting for Christmas, I made this Christmas interesting for I’m going to see that movie everyone has been talking about “The Last Laugh,” I guess they are experimenting with making talkies. I should see one, to hear it as soon as they perfect it. Next will be color movies I expect. The world is growing too fast for me.

After breakfast I went for a short walk around the hotel grounds, I didn’t feel up to going too far today. I was still burnt out from Amsterdam. And I am kind of thinking about the waitress in the café. She gave me a lot of what I’d call body language. I should go back and see if I can get a date. When she sat down I noticed when she looked at me her legs were tight against one another. Not sure what it means, but it is something sexual. She stared at me, and either that is a threat or I don’t know, but maybe a good omen, --I think; --she even gave me an eye, that is, a side glance with her eye peaking back at me, as if she was coy, a thought, a gesture of sorts, that my friend is what I call bold shyness. But I highly thought of those legs crossed, so relaxed looking. After that she started to stroke her legs, I know she finds me attractive, and of course she told me so.
Maybe I should ask her to go to the movies with me tomorrow. I did give her a big tip. And her eyes got big and bigger, she was saying to me, “I like what I see,” yaw, and I think she gave me one of those eye winks I’ve seen in the movies, the secret blink, that no one is suppose to see, yet everyone does. Or maybe she was telling me, “… go to hell.”

Thoughts

I’m not much good at flirtation.
I am too little understood, and too ill tempered to get it shoved in
My, my…my face. Not surprising, so I avoid such advances
Usually…

Maintain and control, control me, I tell myself, for in the face of my heart are
… [Pause] terrible odds that work against me, and I do not wish anyone to
discover them, if they did, I’d be put away.


I headed back up to my room after a fresh walk in the cool outdoors. This waitress gal is a problem for me, and to be moderately honest with myself, my formal opinion or thinking, or, put the way the hospital used to tell me, my orientation toward problem solving involves isolating myself, and hence, looking at solutions, kind of an adolescent way of doing things one might argue, and to be rather honest again, I have never been able to go beyond this mark of additional logical possibilities to set a stage for new solutions. I once told my father what the doctor said on that very same subject, to hear his wisdom, and he said, “Whatever works for you, whatever floats the boat son.” He had an easy way of making a problem successful with a blink of an eye, while these doctors played with word-games all day long. Yaw, ‘Whatever floats the boat…’ I’m ok with that. I should make one of my own up, and pass it on to my clientele, my future readers…how about, ‘If you care little bear…’, oh yes, I like that one also, --no, let me see, it has to be adjusted so it sounds as if I’m giving wisdom, like dad repeatedly did, ‘Whatever works, jerk…’, shit, I just can’t put it together, ----now I’m getting too tired to try any more. At any rate, as I was about to say, I’m not sure if I’ll enjoy the movie if I take this gal…you know, she’ll spoil my insight to it.
One time when I brought a problem to dad, he said “Swing with the pendulum,” and I said “…what?” not quite knowing what he meant, and he added, “Go with the flow son, if the water is going down stream, don’t try to swim up.” I understood that. Now the doctor said, “You can develop an increased capacity for planning, mental rehearsal, will help alternate plans of action, thus, guiding your behavior according to long-ranged purposes.”
I have a mind for remembering certain things; the doctor only impressed himself. Furthermore, my father would simply say to that, ‘you will remember what is important to you, the rest—f-file it in the waste basket.’ I think pop’s way of thinking was best for me, let me try again, ‘Make your goal and search you soul.” I fancy that one also. I get a little something out of that. Maybe I’ll put that in my book.




At the Movies
[Christmas Day, 1925]



I finally made it to the movies; --I’ve waited and slept all week waiting for Christmas to come, to see this movie. I’m sitting in the 4th row, in the middle of the show-house. There are seven other people. I counted them; the movie is starting, no damn waitress either, thank god.
“The Last Laugh”…░ presenting: --Emil Jennings, [30-minutes pass by] I am getting a tear in my eye, I seem to be connecting emotionally with this guy, this old man, he is an aging doorman, his happiness is simple, he likes his uniform, and his neighbors are proud of him, which has something to do with his uniform, yet the hotel has fired him, let him go—the bastards, that’s what I say. This movie is getting me frustrated and anguished. Like so many people, they get thrown in the garbage can when they get old; I know, we’re all dead somewhat, ghosts in the making; forgotten people, yet we fight for immortality in a mortal world. When we die, all humanity will be erased from the stones and metals left on the earth, it will float into outer space prone to be smashed up into meteorites, then into a million pieces, thereafter. A little piece of earth here, there and everywhere.
I bet this story is true. He is a good actor; he makes many leering faces, coupled with lots of body language. The writer was good. I think the Monkey Man must have, maybe—given him one of those slips like me, and helped him with his story like me, and told him it would be a … a movie someday, like my book.
Now the old man has lost his self-esteem [65-minutes later]; the tenement buildings that surround his environment and the people thereof are shaming him now as he walks among them. He is pretending he is going to work, but as I said he has been fired; he has taken his old uniform back out of the hotel, --he puts it on, he could be considered a thief now I suppose. I am very sad, and it is Christmas day.
The movie is over now…I’m glad I came but I am angry also. I’m glad I didn’t take that young waitress to the movie; she would see my dismay in my face and think I am weak, and take advantage of me, women do that, they take being open with oneself as being vulnerable, and that to them equals weakness.
I seem to know this is just a movie, but people are not dumb, we are emotional beings, what we read and see infects—or put another way, produces within us, emotion, for we are all emotional beings effects as it is suppose to, and everyone says, it is just a movie, it shouldn’t affect you, it wasn’t going to, they’d not make any money, because no one would go; just like in a movie when they apply ‘special affects’ it produces, generates, and brings into being. My doctor once told me he had to rest after each person he talked to. I asked why, and he said “You can’t help but absorb the other person’s pain…sadness [etc].” He was right. And in a like manner, if you are not exhausted after writing a story, the story is no good. Every time I write and finish a page or two, sometimes even a certain paragraph, I become congested with emotions. And all these smart-heads that say it is only a movie, it is one made to capture your heart, soul, emotional insides, your guts, chest, your bowels, your throat. That is why they sell so many tickets. And they say it is art, some of it is, and some isn’t. It is only art if it has wings on it and a halo over the naked person’s head. Art my ass, it is a cheap way of saying I want to sell rubbish legally; Picasso and especially Dali can claim a lot of sins in that area. Salvador Dali and Sigmund Freud should work together, they’d make a good team, and Picasso wouldn’t be far behind.

I want to go back to the hotel, rest, --I’m very tired again.

As I walked back I passed the hotel, I must have been day-dreaming, I’m by the Chinese Duck Restaurant, I’m not hungry though…. I made the name up because I can’t pronounce the real name. I got to turn around, back to the hotel.


Thoughts


… when dad took me to the Wild West Shows, well, one at least. A man named “Pawnee Bill,” was running it [G.W. Lillie], I had heard he used to be with the Buffalo Bill’s outfit at one time, and then started the [a] show up for himself.
What I cared about the most was when Frank James, the brother of Jessie James, and Cole Younger—who was I heard, imprisoned at Stillwater, State Prison, in Minnesota, close to where I live, twenty-five miles from St. Paul, that is. In short, they both performed and that was it; it was the same as seeing a piece of history that would never suck in air again.
My father was once taken to the l904, World’s Fair in St. Louis, maybe some day I’ll go to a World’s Fair. He has seen Lucille Mulhall, she was like Annie Oakley. Roosevelt was quite taken by her, impressed I mean, she could shoot, rope and tie steers better than most men. Interesting, maybe she was a man, dressed up as a woman.
I think my father would be proud of me now, just like Roosevelt was with Lucille. Sometimes I dream of being a gunfighter, the fastest in the world, a hero of sorts. This can’t be wrong just look at Annie Oakley, or Wyatt Earp; --John Hardin, who killed forty-two people.


I am proud of being an American, if anything, even more-so after living in Europe; it is the simple things that wakes me to this bigheaded feeling for being an American; --one need not have uneasiness in one’s eyes about peacefully going about his or her business. The rest of the world can not claim this.


◊


[He fell into his bed as would a boxer fall to the floor after getting a good right hook to the jaw; --he had walked home having views upon judgments and his mind didn’t rest, it was heavy and tired. Now he was shifting back into time within his sleep, to his childhood, looking at the ceiling, his eyes closing, opening, closing, and opening, his mind going back as if someone or something pulled him back in time.]:


More thoughts
[Growing up]


It really isn’t fair that my mind shifts so much; seemingly it never gets tired of pushing and pulling at my frontal and occipital lobes. I wasn’t successful at anything. In consequence, I knew what the ‘whisper’ wanted, control; it is what it or he always wanted. I wanted silence for my mind, and in trade I got it, but upon doing so I had to give it the flesh of my emotions, which somehow I got the anguish of the world in my veins. I can’t explain it right but my mind knows what it means. For the price of peace, and rest, he gave me hate.

My father had very few abstractions, accept me in his life; he seemed to be an unassertive figure, but was continually occupied with caring for me.

‘Damn, I have no early pictures of him…’

In his less important moments he’d sit in the living room sofa chair, a bit sad looking at times; I being his only child----, a little sad looking, ----sad, oh gosh, too sad to remember. I don’t want a visual picture of him, ‘whisper’ do you hear me, do not put it in my mind [‘…is it you Woodbridge? or Arrack?]. He’d sit in the sofa chair, a bit sad looking, I being his only child, he had no other marriages, or children, I was the only one, the one and only. I think he became tiresome, burdened----yes, I suppose he did just that, burdened and sad, but he brought me into this world.

When I was five, I was a delightful companion for him. On my tenth year, I had a ‘handsome look,’ he told me so. He always told me such things; -- how smart I was, good looking. To utilize my intelligence when I got older, that he was not half as smart as me, so do not hide from my intelligence, exercise it, --make, and make use of it wisely. But sometimes I got jealous, or is it called envy, that he may have liked other people better than I. I have no real proof, but you know you sense that kind of stuff. But no real proof, no proof to back up such a claim. But why did I feel it then [?] Maybe, just maybe, I needed him too much.

My father would say, “I am feeling very old,” I hid a tear; his face was raw from worry, hard work, and the other ongoing things in life. He was only, only, only 34-years old.

At my young age I had no illusions about life per se; water and Franz Liszt, with his piano music relaxed him, my father that is, and me, yes, I think I inherited some of his traits. A cigar now and then relaxed him, as it does me. But I never could relax him; that is my sad summit.

“Oh-h-h--!” I wrote a poem, I just remembered it. Am I dreaming that I wrote a poem, I don’t remember writing it when I was alive, in reality? If someone could come into my dream and let me know:

Father and me
That’s all there is
We stand alone
Both in a deep fog
Both in a sinking boat…
Both in this dream…

I never wrote that. That belongs to the ‘whisperer’ he wrote it, and sits it in my mind. Oh yes, beware of the demon-of-nightmares, he plants seeds and quietly harvests them within a very short time.

“Oh-h-h—papa I miss you!”



٭

The Judgment



The walk to the hotel had calmed me, and my half-sleeping mind and body brought me back to wonderland, sort of. I’m sitting on my bed now, my journal in hand, I will write some [stretching]:


“I hate these games…and the devil knows it, but he will go on and on, against my will he stirs my blood until it boils, then I sleep to rid myself of him, and then he sends his nightmare demon to haunt me. I chose the silence, and when I have to speak at times I scarcely know what to say, despite my jarring natural look at first, I make it through the ordeal and speak. Life is pressure, a long thought of pressure against me, a man of little faith. I man above the world, looking down on it with no boundaries.”


My mind never seems to stop, now it’s shifting to …let me lean back against the bed, that is, the back-board here, as I was saying, shifting…Judas, if I was his lawyer, would I set him free or put him in hell [Jail/incarceration]. How will God judge me? Might be how I would judge Judas. Let me see.

The Judge:


Herod, Pilate all dead, I must judge now….me, me I’m the big shot. I can judge as I fancy, against or for. Christ was crucified, killed because of Judas, Herod the Jewish king did nothing, Pilate, did the same, nothing. Conspiracy…plays a big role here. Did not Christ say, “It would have been better that you had not been born…” to Judas? Yes, yes, he did. Wild fire was in his veins, I know that, for it is in me as we; -- a Jewish face against a Jewish face, as was Herod’s and Judas’. Pilate was nervous as he walked his pace to and fro; everyone was a killer.
I have to know how to judge this, for I will be judged. One thing if anything, Judas was not dull like the rest of Jesus’ followers. Judas had a mouth on him for he scorned a bitter-anger; he was jealous, no, no envy, like Satan. Was Judas a vile man? So I have heard, as some would say I am. Abraham would have me killed at a stake if he was judging, giving me justice as I deserve. But I am the judge, and God will judge me, not Abraham.
I know myself better than anyone, as I’m sure God knows me better than me. And so, maybe I know Judas better than most people. I need to know the uncomplicated truth, how to judge this man who followed Christ like me. Who betrayed Christ like me? Both of us having a noble nature, frank and bold…too bold and frank to be seriously honest, and too sensitive to be frank, but I shall, if I am ambiguous so be it.
He, Judas like me, had a thought, and acted it out…we both at one time followed our faith, earnestly I believe. Except we were swatting flies, something my father once said; --“…if you want attention become a fly, because everyone wants to swat them.” And Judas similar to me was the fly, I think. We had wings and haloes--, that is, up to that point. What we didn’t say was, “Get thy behind me Satan!” –that was my sin, and Judas’. We both were selfish, honest, and grudged; that is to say, we held one on God.
Judas had a price and it was paid to him, for betraying the Lord. For me, God took my father away, if He would have let me have him, I might not be this way. Is it not kind of a reverse, yet the same as a payment I am asking, and never got? Why did we both betray the Lord?
Or is the question, what he and I did, the “Unpardonable sin?” How long shall I be taunted and tormented with my sins, my broken mind? Yet I throw all my issues and blame the Lord, or so it seems. The Lord knew Judas’s mind, and knows mine; that’s called cheating. And like Judas, I too left him. Was Judas mad, as I am? Maybe this is the question? Did Jesus not walk beside both of us? Judas kissed the Masters cheek, to identify him. I have killed and shamed him. In the name of the law we are both betrayers, and betraying.
And like Judas, I too will be alone to meet my fate. But beyond this, were we, “Guilty or not guilty?”
I know my destiny will be on my knees, on the ground, gray and dirty, in a dreadful nightmare alone; --infected with Satan’s curse, eternal death. The ghosts will circle around me, bringing me into a tunnel of darkness, with black wings, and no haloes. I will be lost. But now I must judge…what crime was it for Judas to kiss his master, and what crime is it for me to protect myself, to play the role of government, to get revenge for my father’s death. John’s view must be taken into account, John 6:47, “Truly I say unto you, he who believes on me has eternal life,” for if one can be pardoned on that account, or on those grounds, arguemetivly I am purified, am I not, or can be? Peter was not much better, he denied Christ, not with a kiss, but with his mouth. Put that on the Judges’ table, he was for a moment, like random poetry. If I was to point out to any man, not yet born, but soon to be born, or who has been born, how many of my sins would belong to each person—even though they did not commit them yet, I would say they will commit just, if not more, than me.
Like Judas, I will be mentally tortured to death, is this not enough? I know this does not answer my question. What I say now will affect the unborn, if I were God, or if I were the Judge: I must leave it here for people to see, and drag my judgment to the court, for it is now in session, and to the sky to the earth I must bring my plea, the unpardonable sin=disbelief-not betrayal per se, and disbelief is it not trust or faith, hence, no faith equals no life; what you believe in is where you go—and to those kind you will go, for they are who your heart seeks out, if it is the corner of hell so be it, but good fortune waits for the faithful, remembering the man on the cross who was pardoned…but how can I appease if I am tortured with my sins… is my faith too weak?




XVIII



December 27, l925
[F. Scott Fitzgerald]


Again I seem to have slept fifteen-hours straight. These days I have not been able to work on my book. Holidays get to me. They make me think of dad, and home back in St. Paul, Minnesota. It is where Fitzgerald lives. I want to buy his new novel, it came out in April, I heard it is a masterpiece; I haven’t had time to read it, that is, “The Great Gatsby.” But I will. Maybe today I’ll look around for it.
I’m a bit older than he, and here he has a great book out, I can’t believe it. I know he met Hemingway also, now they are uneasy friends I suppose, you know, two after the heart of the public. One is a drunk the other a caretaker; this window gets more frosted up everyday, got to wipe a circle in it and look…the people outside are clearly walking, on foot, talking and more talking. What are they saying, ‘I got to go shopping,’ yaw, but in a few days she’s going to be saying, ‘I got to bring it back…’ And that old man walking by himself—there, what is he saying, I know, he is saying, ‘How long will I live, maybe one more Christmas, maybe not. Oh God just one more Christmas,’ and when it comes, he says it again and again, and again. And then the Lord says, ‘You’re seventy years old, why not just say them all today, and see where we end up?’ But I don’t blame the old man; he doesn’t want to be replaced by Germans, or Italians, or Jews I suppose. I liked Jews though, and see the old man doesn’t even know he’s praying to a Jew, that guy on the cross that is. Or maybe he did, if so, then here you got a Jew praying to a Jew, can’t get better than that.
I never got to go to Princeton University, like the alcoholic Fitzgerald, matter of fact I never made it through high school. But Edgar Rice Burroughs, who wrote Tarzan, he never went to college either; got his first Tarzan book published in l914, and I read it, and the “Son of Tarzan,” in l917, and a few more I read. But I have read and re-read every book I could get my hands on. F. Scott Fitzgerald married that Zelda. I know he did some magazine articles I read. He lives at 599 Summit Ave; my uncle owns a place not too far from him…yaw, in St. Paul. I read his novel “This Side of Paradise,” got another one out in ’22, can’t remember the name but it has to do with his sick wife--like me. They will not last either. And so be it, I got no comment, except he became famous over night because of it. And believe it or not, he goes and marries that Zelda woman, right at the St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York.
I was in New York in l920, but I didn’t see the wedding. And the book “The Beautiful and the Damned,” got to the best-sellers list, l922—that’s the one I was thinking about before.
Before I came to Paris, I heard he stopped in St. Paul and was on his way to Europe. Now he’s in Paris with that Hemingway guy. Man what a life these writers have; the self proclaimed Jazz Age elites. Maybe that is why the Monkey Man gave me the slips: --he confuses me though; sometimes I think it is good and sometimes I think it is the devil’s work. I get very confused.
Fitzgerald is all right, it is me who is all wrong, he has a lot of family in St. Paul I think; I know he goes to the Cathedral of St. Paul, like I do. It was built— I should say completed, a year after dad’s death. It has the biggest pillars I have ever seen in the whole world. I walked around those pillars once, and one pillar measured 46-feet. I made a bet with myself it would be somewhere between thirty-two and forty-two feet, it is forty-six…
I saw F. Scott…a few times on Grand Avenue, walking with Zelda. He was born you know at 481 Laurel Ave, St. Paul, Minnesota. You see, St. Paul has famous writers, like me and him. All this thinking gets me tired.
Yet I know also, I am sicker than them, I know I would kill, come what may, anger my second self, deep inside of me, and it will declare war; and a secret is no secret once told, I must remember that. You see I don’t even know when I’m going to kill next, but I sense I will.


On New Year’s I’ll go dancing maybe. I don’t dance well, and drinking makes me more subject to what the Doc calls defects of my illness, and what I call, disorientation when I drink. Maybe I am sicker than I realize. I’ve killed a few people you know, or I know. But you know, all but one was by accident. The boy tried to steal from me. The cop walked into it, and tried to take my book. The man in Amsterdam, at the Café threatened me. And the woman, no different than abortion, or infanticide, I just happen to kill the mother not the child. I get a pleasure or a high after the killings except for the woman, I felt nothing, I wonder why. I may become desensitized. If I kill again, how would I feel? I’ve discovered planning it is not for me. But if I can’t walk into it accidentally like I’ve done in the past, the only other method is by terrorism. It is the terror thing that made my high, my instant pleasure, I think; one may say it is my mind, the way I think, but I will have to look at that when I have more mental power to track it from birth to death
I’m feverish happy when people, call them ‘they’ don’t believe in Capital Punishment, I get caught, I’d get fed everyday, you know, what a revengeful trick on the tax payer; people don’t realize Capital Punishment is an investment [you got to think like the Romans], that is why they call it Capital, I think so anyways. And so in some places I can kill, and not be killed, and have the tax payer take care of me. My motto is kill in a place they have such rules; the do-gooders will take care of you: --not like that Samuel in the bible who cut off a man’s head for his crime; I don’t like people like that. If the Roman’s didn’t have work for you to do, you went to the grave for your crime. If the Muslims don’t care for the way you look or if you don’t pretend you’re scared of them, in Allah’s name, off comes your head. Also, in a like manner, someone long ago created the greatest invention of history, or concept when they founded Islam; where else can you kill somebody and if you die in the process, in the name of Allah, get a special invitation to god’s intoxicating whorehouse. In all cases no one ever had intentions of feeding, housing and clothing dead-beats.
I am not sure what the Doc would say, but I do not want to be a soldier, or terrorist. I do not want to justify my killings, only in self defense is it right, and now that I’ve killed and got away with it, I see how easy it can be done. And you do not need to be crazy, only brainwashed into thinking what someone would have you think; but let the people think you are crazy, it is a good way to get pity, food, and attention. I have learned one thing for sure in life, if you let another person control you it is exactly what s/he will do. And it is not normally for the better, --but you could say, for their betterment, not yours—not sure why I’m saying that except, my mind is racing. We all think we’re going to be remembered, my dad said, “No one’s going to remember you on earth after a few decades, centuries, etc., not even the path you walked on so humbly everyday. And even the trees will out live you. You are but a puff of smoke in a big bond-fire.” And he’d always say, “Everyone thinks they’re going to heaven, after they did crap all their lives, now why would you think that.” I never had the answer; but I suppose it is too gruesome to think otherwise, maybe that is why we buy peace so often instead of fighting for it. We do not want to pay the top price.

Maybe the waitress will go out with me on New Year’s Eve; I think I’ve thought that thought before.
Should I ask her?
What if she says no?
She’ll say, ‘Why, sure, I’ve been waiting for you to ask, it’s about time.’
I wish I had another slip from the Monkey Man; let me check my pockets in my coats…no, none. Maybe my pants, I haven’t worn the brown ones since Paris, nor had they been cleaned. Yaw, Yaw, Yaw…Good, here is one. It’s ripped in half, it says, “Shit comes with all Criticism…” can’t read the rest.
She was nice to me, did she criticize me?

Let me think…Yaw, she did, “My hands, my dirty hands”, leave her alone, she’s trouble. The note tells me so. She criticized me, and didn’t even know me, even if she is right—the bitch. I didn’t tell her she had buck-teeth, now did I [?] Or that the only nice thing on her body was her legs. No I kept quiet. The bitch, I’m glad I read the note now. She’d have only made me feel little. Probably flirt with every guy around me. The bitch, I should have figured that out. It took the Monkey Man to let me know. You see, you see sometimes I get good advice from him, and other times I get bad vibes.
But no matter what, this is a good move. I will go out by myself. There are other people out there that will be grateful for me for who I am, not criticize me.
I’ll just rest a bit on the bed now, rest is good for Holidays, and it takes the stress away…ssssssssssssssssssssss….



XIX



Thoughts within my sleep-dream [s]


When I walk among people I look into their eyes, like an iceberg that is now in front of me, melting into a picture of a mind, their minds, it is asking me, the brain is asking me, I hear it ‘…why can’t people like me figure out people like you, detect them especially before you do those monstrous destructive violence…?’
I know my responses at times are automatic, and the feeling I get from my bad behavior, which is likened to an alcoholic, drug addict, a sex addicted person, or compulsive gambler, etc. To figure me out, you got to first come into my world, if you dare. The questions you will have to first ask yourself are ‘do you know human nature,’ or just think you do. Jesus knew it; --I hear dad talking, he is saying, “Tell the dream maker, if you follow bear tracks, at the end of the road do not expect to find a chicken.” Yes dad, I will. I remember you saying that to me before, thanks.
“Dad… helps me out with these questions… please.” He is talking, it is coming louder: “Tell them son, if there is no discipline, there is no limitations, and if there are no limitations, who can predict? These people asking the questions son can not tell if it is going to rain one day or snow the other, and if you can not forecast the weather, how do they expect to forecast your behavior. They need to be able to forecast.”
“What is the secret dad, I want to tell them so they can stop me?” How do you forecast. I hear other voices asking me ‘tell me, tell me…’ My dad didn’t like Freud’s way of thinking, he used to say ‘Freud missed the boat and is still afloat…’ He didn’t think of such things as some things were merely natural; and he talked about mature love, but never knew about it. Like Picasso and Dali, Freud, they all had some kind of abnormal fixation on sex, dad would say. It solved all problems. But me, that is the question.
“Help us; help us, what is the secret, ask your father.” Now how should I know? “Dad, help me out…” I hear him again, “What do you know about me, that is the secret.” The only thing I know is if you can give me something better than killing, or something to replace the high, my system might take a different route. But I don’t think that’s the secret. My system has found a natural course; it is high, for better or worse. What my experience means to me, is not the same for someone else, unless you can jump into my world or my dreams and figure me out –and dissecting my dreams into logic, you will have to decode the illogical side of my brain while living in the logical part. In terms of me and others you must know me and my interpersonal-connections--,my spirit if you will, give me something better, or I must find something better to stop. But dad said “What do you know about me…” I’m starting to wake up: --I know Dad gave me his life until there was none of his own left, --damn, yes, that is why I was ok, and that is why he left.


A tear


New Year’s Eve
[31 December l925]



When I woke up from a twelve-hour sleep [sweating profusely], I had made up my mind, I’d ask the waitress out, and maybe the note was wrong. Maybe she didn’t mean to be rude. Sleep does wonderful things. I would have to ask her today, so we could plan on where to go for that evening…the Monkey Man isn’t perfect, only God is. Actually the more I think about it the more unreliable he seems to be at times. Maybe I’ve had poor judgment trusting him.
I have emotions just as everyone else does, no matter what the doctor says I’ll prove it. The waitress…it will be New Year’s Eve this evening, and I’ll let her know as soon as I get dressed and have breakfast, I want to take her out…


☼


At the Hotel Café



Oh here she comes, “YES SIR, and how can I help you today?”
“I’ll take two eggs over easy and dry toast, coffee…”
“Is that all?
“No, and a date tonight, you decide where we go...”
“So certain are you?” Somehow that seemed a trivial reply; although, I could careless, but I considered it to be a good idea, I told myself. I said nothing, I wanted my coffee, if I’d tell her what I was thinking she’d not get my coffee, and I really needed that, the date was not as important as the coffee.
“Well, I just thought…”
“Sure, I get off at 7:00 tonight, I know a pub down the street, lots of jazz, the folks are a little rowdy, but maybe, just maybe you can take it. Oh, I like Champaign… can you afford me?”
“Spoken just like a true woman, I’m a writer: --I have enough money if that is what you mean.”
“Baby that is all I mean.”
She smiled, and walked away. You know sometimes I, I surprise myself with my charm.


As I am eating, there she is again, damn, tight legged, caressing them so I can see her…her ‘Lovely’ I whispered so she could read my lips...
I finished eating and went back to my room, I am tired, and that took some energy out of me, yes, yes, just simply asking her out. Sometimes it was hard to smile, when people played games as she did, but it might be better to socialize a little, the doctor would say a lot: it showed you were not antisocial, part of the prognosis [or projection] that goes with my illness. What a mixed-up word. People who like to be alone were antisocial. Woodrow Wilson our recent president wrote books, he had to be alone to do them. He didn’t get his Ph.D. by having people around him 24-hours a day. No sir, he had to be alone. But people prefer to analyze and get paid for it, a job, they need a job, so they go to school to scrutinize themselves, and make big bucks evaluating people like me.
And now our new president Calvin Coolidge, he is also like me, shy a silent type of guy. So what do you say about that haw, -- nothing, just nothing at all; how about his coherence of perception, and his fragmentation of psychic activity. I bet he feels similar to me sometimes, you know, kind of loss of freedom of action, or better put, shut in, unable to communicate with the environment. I feel that often. Senseless, but I do. My biggest hurdle is suspicion; I feel something is going on behind my back, call it delusional but it true. I know this waitress has some alternative motives for going out with me, and she is showing me her body as a test to see if I will fall into her trap. The only thing I really know at times point is whatever one wants to call my condition or neuropsychological disorder, I sure acquired a loss of energy, almost to disability at times. It is difficult for most people to understand; I do at times get catatonic and paranoid, but I seem to come out of the silence, and fright. Maybe someday I will not be able to; that in itself scares me.
He had that quite perseverance, the kind I have—‘who,’ the president of course! He is just a calm person like me!! More, no less; actually I think he was a psychopath. Have you ever seen him standing there with a flat looking smile? Yaw, he was dead inside, silent, catatonic like me. I’ve seen him once in the newspaper, he was always getting his picture taken—like a hot shot. He liked himself so much; he was what you would call egocentric, yaw that is what he was. But that is not bad in itself. He worships the Indians, he had them come to the White House to visit him, had a damn paw-wow with their chiefs… smoked the peace pipe I suppose.
Just like the pennies, and the gold, everything has an Indian on it. What for, they lost the damn white-man’s war? Now we got to support them also. We pay for the Great War, and now we pay the Indians; there were probably white people before the Indians on American soil, who do we pay next, the Romans? the Greeks? The only thing I fancy about them is their dancing…and they got some pretty squaws; what I don’t akin to is they all got long hair, a savage looking face, a hook nose, a little like Jesus, woops, so maybe I’ll like their nose, ok, ok, I’m alright with the nose; anyhow, they don’t put on much cloths, and use more makeup than the white trash that sells themselves all over the place, especially in the Red Light District [s]. I liked long black hair and olive skin though, but on women, even if they are a tint on the red side. I got such white skin I look like a ghost…not that bad; they can’t drink worth a shit either, or fight, unless they got one of those tomahawks. They get drunk and think they can lick the world. The black men or niggers don’t need to get drunk to think they can whip the world; they just go steal everything in site, eat watermelon, and chicken wings, and count your money. Nevertheless, the president and all those Indians at the White House all sat out there on the lawn. In short, no one can tell me he didn’t need a little emotional stimulation, he sat there like a dead crow; now what should we call his, or this behavior, as my doctor would be searching for. How about low frustration tolerance? That is what he exhibited – also, difficulty in control of his impulses when he’s not in public, just like me. Watch the aggressive and sexual impulsive behavior Mr. President; it will drain your energy. I shouldn’t be talking like this, don’t know how I get on these downs and ups.


I think I’ll sleep and then meet the Waitress;
--all this thinking gets to be real tiring.


٭


I turned to the side of the bed, “s…shit,” I said out loud; it is 6:00 PM. I slept six and a half hours. I am really tired. Something woke me up, what?
A knock at my door…no one ever knocks on my door. Let me see…

Knock ---╞

“Yaw, I’m coming…whose there?”
“Your new girlfriend.”
“Oh lord, now what.” Adding, after a pause-- “Wait, I need to put my pants on.”
“No you don’t, just let me in.”
“NO! Wait.”
“Ok sweetie…” Does this so called lady, or date of mine, have no shame.
“Ok, the door is unlocked, come in…” she opened the door walked in as if she owned the place and started to stare at me as I was tucking my shirt into my pants, and putting on a plain black tie.
“I’ll be ready in a moment…” it took me another minute, then I was ready, and out the door we went. I grabbed her by the arm to lead her out [she was checking out my place, maybe to sneak back and steal my notes, or cloths].
“Not so pushy…” she commented.
“Sorry, I am in a hurry to get started.”
“Well, I guess so am I?” We walked up the road to what I called main-street, the main area where all the shops and train station were, and took a left, away from the train station. There, --down the block is the pub; it didn’t look like much, more of a hole in the wall.
“Is this it?” I said to her.
“Yaw, it’s where I’ve come before, kind of a hangout…people know me here a little.” I contemplated who could feel safe in a dump like this but a loose woman. We went in and as I looked around, it reminded me of an old style saloon back home, a long bar, nice shade of wood though. Old chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling, and the whole place were quite narrow, with tables all the way back to the little strange looking half-moon bandstand, where a three piece jazz band was playing. And behind them, two bathrooms, but you could hardly see them with the band in the way, and a back door that led out to--I assume--the back open area, where the garbage was kept, and supplies were possible kept.
“Let’s sit at the bar babe…” she said.
“Sure, why not…”
“Henry,” she said to the bar keep, “A bottle of your best Champaign”—
As we sat there, she started to look about. The place was filling up, all the tables were filled up by 9:00 PM and we were on our 2nd bottle of Champagne, and all the seats were taken at the bar, people were starting to stand one in back of the other three thick, and the band hadn’t taken a break yet. My Waitress date kept looking at everyone who walked through the door; --as if she was looking for prospects for tomorrow, or future reference —that I guess is being social or over social. Now why don’t they have a name for that, you know, instead of antisocial, how about aggressively-social. That should be a psychological classic. I call it idiopathic.
“I want to dance,” she said to me.
“Sure…” I said, and started to get off my stool.
“Not with you dear, I’ll be back in a minute.” I got back up on my stool, and she walked over to a big man sitting with three other guys right by the band. She tapped him on the shoulders, and he did an eye scan of her body, and got up and grabbed her by the waist, which was quite thin, and started dancing. I think it took him two minutes and he had a noticeable hard-on, right on the dance floor, and as they danced close she knew it, and she teased him immensely.
To be quite truthful, I didn’t mind them dancing. Matter of fact, I kind of liked it; but she is getting on my nerves. Although this is what I called over socialization on her part, and not quite in my life plan, I think the more I think about her, she is incapable of loving anyone, anyway, but I am being companionable, social, the doc would say. Yaw, that is what bothers me, she’s very artificial. But that doesn’t make her bad. Here she comes. She’s trying to get me green-eyed, you know, jealous, and to be quite frank, I wouldn’t mind getting jealous, but I’m not.
“He dances very well.” She said as she sat back down by me. The big guy looked over at me, I smiled, funny he turned sharply when I smiled, as if he was either afraid of me, and why should he be, or my impulsiveness tells me I have what he wants, and surprised him with my smile.
“Let’s dance Hun…” she asked me.
“You sure it’s me you want to dance with…?”
“I said you, didn’t I?”
“That you did, I am just double checking.” We both went out to dance, I wasn’t half the dancer the big guy was, but then I didn’t sit in the bar unlike him, half my life socializing until I got too drunk to become antisocial. Oh here comes the big chump: now what [?]

[Thoughts] As he approached me, my mind shifted with the sway of the dancing, I got thinking, I could have been a movie star, you know, make a lot of money, and everyone knows you. Why then did I pick out being a writer? It kind of bothered me all of a sudden…not sure why. The answer is coming I can taste it on my tongue. I gave up riches and power for independence and legend, yaw, that’s it, that is it. All movie stars are soon forgotten, but writers live on, and on, and on. That is why. And you can not be independent standing around the movie grounds waiting, and waiting for this and that. Yew, now I know.
My body is cracking, or so it seems, slowly…when I think I can, I can’t. All these faces around me, social nobodies; but me, I’m different. I’m not sitting in my back yard cooking up hot dogs, I’m in London dancing, dancing my life away…


“Do you mind if I dance with the little lady?”
No response.
“I said do you mind if I dance with the LADY!!”
No response.

[The big guy is trying to butt in-between the Mumbler and his gal on the dance floor. He shakes his head, he was day dreaming.]

“It’s up to her… [said the Mumbler automatically as if his subconscious answered for him]” why’s he standing there looking me in the eyes, I’ll give him a smile [☺] I think he lost his nerve he’s turning around, walking away. Now she’s grabbing him by the arm.
“Yes big man, I want to dance with you…” He’s looking at me for some kind of answer…
“Be my guest,” it was my dazzling, automatic response. He didn’t care for me I could tell, but for some reason he didn’t challenge me. As far as I feel the whole thing was kind of impersonal, this date, that is, no big thing –we’re here to bring in the New Year. No more not less. Plus, I liked day-dreaming better than her company, maybe I should thank him. I could have been, or could be a Charlie Chaplin, or even a Rudolf Valentino, or possible a Fairbanks, yew, but I gave it up for writing—for longevity in my works. It is the price one pays for becoming a legend. Much reminiscent of Davy Crocket, who had to die at the Alamo, but who really cares, he’s a legend; he even wrote a book—like me, just like me. He also was daring and took life as it comes, like me, just like me. I crossed an ocean, I don’t think he did. Maybe I’m a little more daring, maybe, just maybe.
The big guy is looking at me, as if, as if … not sure, he may find it odd I talk to myself; I try not to move my lips, but I forget I got to try, and just go on doing it. If he keeps looking at me I’ll, I’ll poke his eyes out. He steals my gal, and is making fun of me…maybe.
“Listen to the damn music♫” I think he heard me; he’s not looking my way anymore. Good, I really do not want to do to him, what I did to the man on the boat.


♫


As I drank down a whole glass of champagne, I looked for my date, and she was nowhere to be found. I got up and looked for the big guy, but he was gone also, and his two buddies were sitting by the table alone. I walked down to the band which was still playing. As I was about to walk around the corner, by the men’s bathroom they were arguing [my date and the big guy]. He seemed a little demanding. I stood peering over the edge. He was grabbing her ass, saying she was playing with him half the night and now she wants to go back to that moron at the bar. I guess that’s me.
“Wham…∑-!” A punch to the nose, he hit her, the blood is spiriting all over his white shirt, now he grabbed her by the hair, as she is starting to scream, but no one can hear her with all the loud music going on. I’ll follow them.
He’s pushing her through a door into the cellar, down the stairs; I hear the drag of feet. I’m following about twenty feet behind them, --as I got to the last step, my foot hit dirt, I looked down, it’s an all dirt floor and kind of dark, a little light creeping down from the hallway above the stairs, --there are beams all over the place, wood sticks holding the place up, got to watch myself in the dark, knock myself out if I walk into one of those wooden-sequoias, I think he’s been here before, he knows his way around pretty well. There’s a mattress on the dirt floor over there, over to the right of me, he just shoved her down, ripping her dress off, he slapped her again “ – help-łł help” she is crying; and her mouth is bleeding. Her nose is broken- I can see it displaced, he really hit her hard. He lit a small candle by the mattress.
She’s naked from the waist down, and he just got in between her legs, she’s crying, “No, please, I didn’t mean to lead you on…!”
“You fucken witch —think you can do what you want with men, and then…”
“It hurts,” she’s crying, he stuck a sock in her mouth and hit her again in the face; one eye is brushed-shut, closed completely. He just saw me, he’s staring at me—he’s got a far-fetched grin all over his face, as if he’s just won something at the Paris World’s Fair.
“You can have her next…” I didn’t say a word; I didn’t want her at all, much less next. By and large, she wouldn’t be worth much after this, after his smelly, odd looking body took her. But what was going on through my head was: --here is a guy with no shame, no remorse, only sex on his brain, a creature who knows he can dominate, not men, but weak women, and does, I go for whomever gets in my way, I’m no dominator. That is a psychopath all the way, not me. He is drunk, and not me. Now why am I considered the sick one? I’ll bet he never saw a doctor in his life. He, I mean he needs a doctor, maybe I should suggest one.
I heard a noise, it came from behind me, I looked in back of me, there were six men standing waiting for a piece of her. Now I got it, when he said, “You’re next…” He meant all seven of us. She spotted me; someone had turned a kerosene lantern on behind me, --they all wanted to be able to see her as they screwed her… a man thing I think. The basement was half lit up now. She’s trying to signal me with that body language again.
I winked at her I do not think that is what she wanted. You know when you ask for trouble you get it, and now she wants to be rescued. I got a tap on the shoulders, “You go next mister,” a heavy looking short guy said—kind of frog looking.
“No, you can have my spot…”
“Oh thanks, thanks a lot,” he almost fell trying to get around me and behind the big man as he was getting off her. As the big man was leaving, she started to get up, and the little pudgy man—the frog, slapped her in the face and jumped on her with a hard-on [ouch] I think he knocked the wind out of her, but he didn’t care, he pushed himself into her body curves as if he was starving for an erection. Men can be bastards I thought.
The big guy just walked by me as if nothing happened, I smiled, not sure why—maybe because I want a piece of him. I think he’s as sick as she is. I’m the only one sane here. Leave it alone; leave it alone, I tell myself.

I went back up to the bar and sat down to finish my drink, it is five past midnight, and everyone was cheering and kissing and everything—going crazy around me. I’ve seen the big guy go into the bathroom; maybe he’d be grateful for some Champaign. I grabbed my half bottle and walked to the bathroom. There he is washing up.
“Yaw buddy, what you want…” he asked me.
“Just thought I’d come to share my Champaign with you, since you took my socializing partner away…”
He hesitated, trying to figure out what I was saying, “Yaw, wait a minute and I’ll have a drink with you.” He was washing off his dick with a beer, wiping off his dick with toilet-paper…good timing I thought, and I hit and hit and hit him over the head and the side of his face with the bottle, he was laying cut up on the floor, he hit the sides of the wall, sink and wooden toilet stalls as he fell like a leaf to the wooden floor, and ended up laying half dead against the wall.
“I know, I’m a little impulsive, and I have poor judgment. You’re unresponsive, why? It must be a loss of interest. No more signs of flirting? Haw? Haw? I can’t hear you. You know what the problem is my friend?” He didn’t move. “I’m talking to you…” I kicked him in the groin, he opened his eye, he only had one to open I see, the other one I must of hit him there ----it is full of blood.
“Should I start all over?” He shook his head no. “See, I got your attention. I seem to have a few automatic responses like you this evening.”
“I’m debating if I should kill you or just leave you for the dogs.” He closed his eye again.
“If you do not keep that eye open and look at me mister, I will take it out.”
He opened it immediately. “Personally I do not care one-way or the other for you. And perhaps the only disagreement is with the waitress. But I do not know her or you well enough to …” he closed his eye: --“Now what did I say’ and ‘……………zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’


◊


I found myself back at the hotel, it is 2:00 AM, and I had been walking the streets, with the bottle of Champaign still in my hand. It was almost gone though. Tomorrow I’ll read about this I suppose, ‘Local man slain in bar over waitress,” it wasn’t over a waitress, it was over closing the eye. Tonight I’m really tired; I think I’ll sleep, if I can find the damn hotel, it was on one hand a good night, my adrenalin is in high gear, I felt powerful, and as if I was full, I mean filled with some kind of euphoria. But a sadness came over me intermittently [asking myself if I used excessive force, and I came to the conclusion I had to do what I had to do].
Wherever I go, I seem lately to have conflict with society; appalling choices. When dad was alive he’d tell me where not to go. Things like that. Kind of guide me, but he died. Maybe that was best also, you know…you can’t live forever, and he, he kind of watched over me too much. And the Monkey Man, he kind of took his place, for a moment, but those damn notes keep getting me in trouble. Well, maybe the last one warned me not to go out, and I did. So I’ll have to look at that later on. Dad always says to sleep on it, “A fresh mind can do wonders.” He had a lot of that crap, phrases for everything, for this, for that, for every damn thing.

I am standing at the hotel entrance; looking at myself I have a bottle in [looking at the bottle], in my hand.
My hand… [Still looking at the bottle—stone-still] the bottle was the weapon I used I suppose… [?], gee, I can’t quite remember.
There is a garbage can, let me throw it in…; weapon gone… [Somewhat pacing]

as I walked to my room, I looked at the clock in the hotel lobby; it was 2:35 AM now. It was a fascinating evening to say the least. I did a double take on the clock, I’ve seen it before, but for some odd reason it seemed to connect with me a little more this evening—it, it was an old Seth Thomas wall clock [reddish brown wood, with carved pillars, one on each side of the clock, with a huge glass window for the upper and lower part of the clock, and a fine wooden frame], with roses around the face, and Roman numbers for the time; the size was that of about two feet tall, by a little more than one feet wide, and about three+ inches thick; --made around 1870. My dad’s clock was a little plainer, made around l850, with the same dimensions. Both clocks I’m sure were made in Thomason, Connecticut. Dad’s old friends from the coffee shop sold it to him, Eddie and Jean; Eddie was a prospector up in the Canadian woods, and Jean worked for a hospital. Not sure how they met. Dad always had those 4-shot latte’s, for myself, I could live with two; and they’d come over and talk to dad; likening his clock, and Eddie being a clock-smith of sorts. He had his own little shop.
Dad had lots of friends, I wish I did. Royce was his friend from the coffee shop also, and there was Mr. J. P. Dudley, of Dudley and Samson, can’t remember how to spell all the names anymore, maybe it is with a ‘…ee’ in stead of ‘…ey’ [?] and the middle initial I’m not sure, but it is as I remember it; anyhow, he was the elite lawyer of the city, dad’s legal adviser; matter of fact I remember once, dad was in a meeting with two people, and Mr. D, short for Dudley you know, was there, and dad was having to answer questions on some matter, I was but ten, can’t remember those big terms, anyways, Mr. Dudley, just looked with those stone-silent, gawking eyes, an iron face to go with it, mean as a man-eater could be, more silent than a ghost, in any case, he scared the shit right out of me and them, you know, those people who were questing dad. Dad told me afterwards, he’s worth his weight in gold just to stand still and look mean. We all laughed, dad me and Mr. D…who overheard dad. And there was Brad his real estate adviser, and god knows who else. And me, I had dad.

When I got into my room, the bed looked so very good, appetizing, refreshing, like jumping into the shower, or bath tub. I wonder what happened to the waitress. What if she…no, she will be happy the big guy is dead, I think, plus no one saw me. And maybe she’s dead, she didn’t look very well. But she’s a survivor, I can tell. That big guy was just a clumsy ox, no future plans in life just to get drunk, fuck, beat women, shit, sleep, and start all over again, oh yes, that is the cycle; and in-between, if there is an in-between, he will cause nothing but trouble, difficulty, and more trouble, and nuisance for everyone around him; he is better off dead, deceased and deader, for he was lifeless besides. Plus it was even easier than last time. It is getting so easy, it is like swatting flies. I got plans, I’m still a writer; dad often said: to have a future plan, and then work it. I suppose that is what got me going on being a writer. I had to be something, right? Especially after dad died. Dad told me mom used to say to me, “Good night’…sleep tight, and don’t let the cockroaches bite you tonight,” or was it “bed bugs…” can’t remember.



XX


The Dream



For some odd reason as I walked about my room, I didn’t want to go to sleep, I felt as though I needed to think, and reflect hard, I had notions to mend, digest, grasp, process, yet my eyes were closing, unwillingly,--and my mind was going blank, as I sat on my bed, sinking a bit, slowly leaning back until I was laying completely on the bed, falling into that mysterious world of the dead—sleep, the plants around me were sleeping or starting to with me, --flowers were closing their buds, the ocean tides seem to have a rhythm and I was able to engage with everything- --the sun was going down, my internal clock was signaling my brain, my wits, my reasoning—I, I saw it…I really saw the clock. As I woke up into my dream-brain, I was on a pile of ashes, and over in the not too far distance was an alligator, a big mama.
I was trying to watch and listen to my dream; the voice of my unconscious, its symbolism, imagery, everything in this world is representations, for I’ve been here many of times, awake in my own dreams. It is basically an ancient way of communicating, the ancestors of my dreams I had met them before, and they told me so; much like the Monkey Man, with his predictions of the future with his notes.
Sometimes, now being one of those times, I don’t care for dreaming, my dreams are too telepathic, clairvoyant, psychic if you will, and they told me of my father’s death, before he died.
‘Wake up, wake up…’ a sigh just went from my stomach out my mouth.
I’m awake, good. Let me see, it’s 3:00 AM. I need to catch my breath; I seem to have been choking for oxygen. The alligator, I know who you are, you think I will not overcome you, but…but I will. And the ashes, I know you also, for you are my sorrows to be, I have seen you before…but I will fool you also.
I laid back down, and this time I knew I was falling into death, that is a real sleep you know, a sleep beyond knowing, expressiveness is nil, beyond being perceptive, a real death, but once you wake up from it… and I’d wake, I have every time so far, I was alive again: --ssssssssssssssssssssss…leep…

Water, I love water and sleep. Of all the wealth on earth, water is among the most precious and sleep. With these two things, I could live in peace forever…not needing anything else of wealth. No travel, no gold, no silver, no wife, just the sound, sight and smell of water, and resting with a little sun hitting you as you fall…falllll…..fall deep into a peaceful sleep with no dreams, nightmares, just a dead, dead, deader sleep, that’s what I worshiped for. Keep your precious stones and cars and hotels, give me a river, the sound of rain…the glance of ice, water is the perfect tranquilizer………§sssssssssleep-ing…


XXI


The London Pub
[January 5, l926]


I was still a bit tired from New Year’s night, but I got a lot of sleep the past couple of days; and that haunting dream, evaporated, like saturated vapors too heavy to be held in the sky, and thus descending into rain.
I had breakfast each morning as usual, but that waitress was nowhere to be found. No one said a word of where she was either, and I guess I didn’t feel it was up to me to announce I missed her, but I really didn’t, curious—yes, nosy—yes, miss—no.
Snow was on the ground and the trees were a bit frosted, I liked the fussiness to that. I did feel good, my insides were a little uneasy for some reason, but,-- yes  …good enough to go down to “Harrods” department store and do a little shopping. Why not, it is part of being a member of society, and an adventure into the commercial sphere of influence, the shoppers domain, one I do not normally seek out; it is the 5th of January, a new year had started, time for change. I heard “Harrods” was originally a grocery business when it first opened in l849, and now it was the main store in London,
Quite a
Change…

as I walked through its Brompton Road entrance I saw all the fine candies, and watches, ties and billfolds all in their nice little settings. I went to the second floor and walked around, looking at the sales women; some chocolate for sale, it looked first-rate. I usually did not patronize any businesses such as shopping department stores unless I had a specific reason, but today was just a sunny day, something to do, that normal people do, a New Year, I know, I already said that. Plus I needed to simply get out. Somehow I felt redeemed.

On my way back to the hotel I walked past Albert Hall again; I always liked walking by it, and especially looking at the 175-ft high memorial. It had a seated figure of Prince Albert, about 15ft in height, with a gothic canopy over it. It was beautiful to say the least that is beautiful in a bulky way. Albert Hall is what would be considered on the other side of Kensington Gore, and on my way to the hotel. I knew near by was the Royal College of Art, but I didn’t care to get too involved with the Art world in London, like I did somewhat in Paris. Too much culture spoils a good thing. My father didn’t say that, he never would, I did. And if I had a kid, he’d quote me, as I do my pop.


٭


It is 9:00 PM, January 5th, 1926 I left the hotel to find a pub, I had heard about one that was a little dashing and so I figured I’d try it out. All famous writers had a girlfriend or two, so I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for me to acquire one. In my book, the main character was a hero of sorts, and he had two, like Dick Tracy, he was a man of many means. And so to write the part, I needed to play it, you know, live it like Jack London. And so I took a cab to Piccadilly Circus, to Ronnie Scott’s, on 47th Fifth Street, W1, there I sat, the jazz music, was grand, then as the night went on I went to the “100 Club” at 100 Oxford Street, was a popular venue for jazz. They stay open until 1:00 AM the bartender said.
As the night went on I met a woman named Palma, she is as pretty and fresh looking as the day is long; milky white skin, thin, with a nice pear shape to her bottom. Small breasts, but a palm full, with a hairstyle that seemed to be in style. She is a waitress resembling the one at the hotel but prettier, and will be getting off work at 11:00 PM, and said she’d keep me company. I told her I was a writer, and had met such writers as Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, you know the counterpoise. I even added Picasso to the list.
She knew of a bar called “The Sags Head,” something like that, it was a corner bar, all lit up. When we got there I liked it better than the other establishments I had visited throughout the evening. It was my kind of place. It had two floors to it, the dividing part of the building was lit up as was the upper part and lightly lit on the lower part. A nice big archway, it reminded me of the Triangle Building in New York City; --the bar-part of the building had two floors, and the third floor of the building, the top floor was for some other kind of another business, unless it was the living area [apartments] for the owners, or their tenants. As we walked into the club, we sat at the bar again, and started drinking Champaign. Not sure what it is, but women pick the most expensive Champaign, and wear the cheapest breathtaking perfume.
We drank about half the bottle, and then I felt something in my blue sport coat pocket. I pulled it out [it is a Monkey Man note] I just read it, “The Alligator is near.”
“What is it,” Palma said.
I said:
“I found this note; --it says ‘The Alligator is near.”’ She took the note and started laughing.
“What’s so funny,” I asked.
“You, you’re funny, it reads ‘If you fart, don’t drink too much.’ And she started drinking down her class of Champaign. I didn’t think that was so funny. And she threw the note away. She knows damn well, exactly what it said, and that is why she threw it away, it said ‘The Alligator is near,’ and I’m not blind.


[The Mumbler has a few free minutes so he writes on a napkin ‘On Death’]:

“We must not confuse the end of the world-world, with the end of our-world. There is a little difference,--that being, I will certainly die someday, if not today, and that is the end of my world, whereas, the end of the world-world is the end of the human race.
In both cases if you have a signed copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s book ‘This side of Paradise,’ it will be of little use –you cannot take it to the next world, and according to the book of Revelation, and Daniel, in the Old and New Testaments [bible], the world will be all burnt up. So if you leave it behind, I’m sure whoever you leave it to will take a vacation on the collectable-proceeds. So as my father always said: ‘Prepare yourself for life, while in life; in a like manner, prepare yourself for death, to enter it, for that is the end of your world. Every breath is your last breath,’ he’d say, adding, ’every decision is your last decision. We will wear out like a garment and pass away to the Book of Deeds, and then when it is opened we shall be judged.”’





XXII



Demise


They danced the night away, when the Mumbler came back to the stool to sit down, Palma was a little ways behind him, he quickly looked for his note she threw on the floor, ‘…there it is,’ he mumbled, then put it in his pocket. He didn’t trust her anymore than he trusted the hotel waitress, or the cop, or the boy in the park now. No sir re, trust no one with your treasures.

He started to think as he glanced at the bar keeper putting some glasses away, looking at the ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. His mind shifted as if he was brought back into another—

Trance:


Everyday I seem to get a new neurosis; I just wished my father was here; this sickening fear I have of never freeing myself of mediocrity: --and now the Monkey Man, what next? It is hard for me to exist in this world on any terms, without dad for sure. I am not like everyone else, they all have a warm voice to call back home to, it is better to die than to be left swinging on a swing alone, aimlessly.
Often times I find out what I see as reality is an optical illusion, now I will find out if God, or even possible Satan is an figment of man’s imagination—one dimensional configurations. I see faces that droop, houses and notes disappear—then I must sleep to regain my judgment. What a life.
To the doctors I meet, or have met should I say, on the train, back home, I’m sure they’ve all felt me ungrateful, but it is reasonable to be so to a world that is unstable and vacillating as my ill mind sees it—oh yes. The primitive creature they say I am…you know, I was, at one time, considered normal, just not in this new world.

There was:
The strangers of Paris I will remember though, London, Amsterdam, and the window panes I’ve seen daily on this trip to remember as I’ve watched the people out of those windows, and the prickly snow of early winter seeping through my veins as the windows frost up, and this tour ends; all things to remember. And I went on my own, my very own. In Paris I breathed in the twilit, the garden smells, and the beautiful pictures of the good books in my mind I will write. Now that I think of it, compared to my life before Paris, London and Amsterdam—I’ve spent my days in a graveyard; --a sad comparison but the truth, none-the-less.
I really do not want to leave this dream-trance. I know there are people around me and I have to refocus on them, but I like it here. Sometimes I get rashes, like eczema, especially when I worry. Another sick sign I suppose. At times I feel similar to a sick horse trying to pull a heavy load with my father… [When he was alive], it was one sick horse and one healthy horse, but now it is only the sick horse pulling the load, and it is too much.
I never wanted a fairytale life approximating some folks want, no I just wanted a life. I have learned I am neither complete nor incomplete because of another person, but still, this lone horse can not pull much longer, and depending on the day, time and my moods, I am complete or incomplete. I never know until the sun rises.
I often enjoyed engaging with my father in debate, I rather enjoyed myself back when, oh yes, I remember calmness within me, and his emotional excitement to be with me. I wish I was with him now. Maybe I will be, as the note said, the alligator is near; --if this is so, maybe, just maybe I can turn the tables around, if God is willing. I think good guys die sooner than bad guys so God can give them a second chance, Abraham learned that the hard way.


“You’re all right Mister, aren’t you?” Said the bar keep, as the Mumbler opened his eyes, “Yes, oh yes, I kind of-aw, –was day dreaming I guess.”
“Good, some people die suddenly while drinking, I was hoping you were not one of them; --ready for another bottle of the same?” He asked.
“In a minute…” he walked away. The Mumbler contemplated for a moment, ‘I must have been out for about fifteen minutes,’ as he looked at his watch, it was 10:30 PM.

◊


Palma and the Mumbler danced until 12:45 AM, afterward the bartender called for the last drink to be ordered before he stopped serving but he didn’t order anything, rather his date wanted another glass of champagne, so he bought one.
As he was getting it, a fella, about the Mumbler’s size, about 5’ 8” came in the Inn, grabbed Palma by the arm and dragged her over by the woman’s bathroom; --she was crying and trying to get away from him. He took out a knife and put it to her throat.

“This is the Alligator I told myself, the beast…” commented the Mumbler.

He walked up slowly to them both, pushing several tables away from him so he’d not trip over them, and wouldn’t loose his focus, everything inside of him told him to back off, they knew each other, yet he couldn’t: ----I think the Doc had gotten to him along with other things, ‘…and maybe I to her,’ he thought, his little judgment the other day was still fresh in his mind. And for once in a long while he was actually praying inside of himself, --that the Lord would forgive him for everything, and take him home, “I am tired, very drained, worn-out and the book doesn’t mean all that much anymore, for some unknown reason; nothing really means much to me at this exact moment. I am not Judas, --and I am not the judge, and I liked what John said in 6:47 in the Bible. I am ill, sick, and God knows, possessed, I am ready, and I’m ok with it. Would you live like this?” He questioned himself, his brain.

[Thoughts] ‘I really do not care anymore. I chased a dream, and found the devil. How can it be, --I asked myself 1000-times since I met the Doc, and now if I can redeem myself, so be it, for surely death is not much more than a long sleep, we all die each night for a few hours. How many people can pick the moment of their death? Not many and be correct, and not suicide, rather a brave hero…and yet, no one but the big Guy in heaven will know. Like the Monkey Man, I may surprise everyone.’

He looked at this Alligator, he was mad, nutty looking, drunk and tormented. The Mumbler whispers,
“…he’s around the bend, like me inside, real angry, and he is going to kill someone, anyone would do I bet, even me.”
He is now looking at the man with his stare; the Mumbler is holding a drink in his hand…to give to Palma, he’s seen that stare before, matter of fact, he’s seen it in the mirror quite a lot, “I think I invented it,” he mumbles, the other man looking odd at him as if to say, ‘What you rambling about…”.

[The Mumbler comes to the realization this man is reminiscent of him, that is to say, possible an innate killer. It doesn’t bother the Mumbler to kill, nor does it make him sick, or dizzy like 98% of the rest of the human race, to include soldiers; so he tells himself in these last moments before the confrontation. It was a high for him, if anything, fun he was almost addicted to it. His mind did not freeze, or panic as most other people do under such conditions; stress, yes, but again, that was part of the high. He was what might be called a natural killer, second to no one; --he is now looking at this stranger, thinking, is he natural? ‘Not sure, he has to be drunk to do what he must; maybe he’s just a fool’s killer’ he tells himself.]


“Let her go mister, please let Palma go…” Funny, the Mumbler thought, he really doesn’t feel anything for her, or have any interest in her. She probably was similar to the waitress at the hotel for all he know, screw a dozen guys and not blink an eye, but he cared this time…I think he did…why else would he be standing by a guy with a knife, that doesn’t make sense, a man and woman he doesn’t even know.
“You’re what… you’re Palma’s what?”
“Jake, he didn’t say that, let me go please…I just met the guy, I don’t even know his name…”
“Don’t hurt her, please…” repeated the Mumbler.
He dropped his arm from around her neck, and pushed her to the side, as the Mumbler walked closer about to give her the drink, thinking it could be over, at that moment Jake starts lunging forward with a strike towards his upper chest, he connects, piercing the heart, he shoves the knife in deep…was-aaaaaaaa, he’s down on the floor looking up, “…my, my book,” he’s trying to grab it…then thinks, ‘Let it go, drop it out of your fingers. It’s over.’
Palma is now screaming as the Mumbler’s vision is starting to get fussy, hazy. The man runs off, as the man on the floor is dying. He is mumbling something, it sounds like: “I really didn’t want to die this way, not really, I’d like to go home, if I could, but it is better, she will have a chance, and he, I will now have to face my Maker, I hope He is kinder than I was to my fellowmen. We all say that when the chips are down, don’t we, I know, that He knows. It’s not in the book I didn’t put kindness in my book. I haven’t finished it. Everyone is vaporous now, many faces looking down on me. Here is a new face, a cop.
He’s saying something, I can hardly hear him, I can’t discern what he is saying but I do hear…” [A suspension in time]
“…the book, he took my book…” muttered the Mumbler…
[Thoughts] ‘He wants to read my book, they all want my book. He pulled out a page, he dropped a few, they are lying by my side, and I can’t feel a thing, nothing anymore, no pain, no pain… in my body. He’s reading it, my book, I mean my manuscript. I don’t care, I’m almost finished, die over a girl I don’t even know, how silly can I be…this is really it, I mean really, in actuality, I will not wake up from this dream, it is not a dream this time. The cop is leaning over me, looking me in the eyes, he got a big, gigantic head, and he looks to be in slooooooooow-motion, lips trying to say something as my breathing is becoming more shallow, he notices my chest going up and down, up and down, up and down, my air coming out of my mouth a little, carbon dioxide…’
“So you’re a writer haw…!” He says, ‘I want to say yes to him, but it is better left alone; plus, I’m really too tired, not sure if I can. Nobody else is saying anything, they’re passing my notes back and forth, Palma’s walking away with a disgusted look on her face, she’s walking away and I’m dying because of: hhhhhhhhh
Eeeeeeeeeeee
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… I can’t see anymore, it’s black,


…dark…shadows…I feel as though I’m looking down from a tree…oh yes, thank God it is over…am I really dead? I died—I’m… dead…ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd♫--†!



End to the book,
“The Mumbler…”



◊


“Broken Images”
[The Poetry of the Mumbler]




Note: poems from the Mumbler’s Manuscript:



Cannel #2
[Written while in Amsterdam]


Forsaken and Alone
Nightly I lay awake—
Where Shadows creep—
Along the cannels,
And empty streets.

Cries the whistle of boats
Endlessly, like a child’s tears
Haunting the cannel, --
For man or beast—
For Cannel eyes—
Which is everywhere…?



London Town #3
[Written while in London]

I have learned you are the wicked
Peace keepers of the Oceans
Tea lovers, designers
Pub Owners, Fish a’d Chips
Europe’s’ ribs;--
Men of war, fighters, killers
City of the Big Ribs: --

As you are loving, for I have
Walked your cobble-stone streets—
Your parks and into your pubs,
For a drink, peek… to seek…

Yes, it is so, you have everything
On your harbor docks: --even
Hunger, prostitutes, and cops.




The Great Death #4
[Written just before he died; second
Poem before his death, written at the bar while drinking]


I will live in the grave one day
Where dead men live…today
They have already called me,
Awaken me, like a slave in the grave
Come join us, they call, whoever you are
‘The Whisperer,’ I call him—
I cannot be deaf to
His calls,--

Even voiceless he haunts me,
Like a spark o’ a shadow: --
He sends a signal ----
That the end of the road
Is near… road carved out of
Bloody dead rats, and weeds
Cultivated, and re-bleed.

‘He died alone,’ is what—?
They shall say of me: --
No flowers will grow—
Above my grave, nor
By my tree….

Like me, the face of the grave
Will grow old and fade
Away………………..




Power #5
[Written after seeing a picture by
Marc Chagall, while in Paris]

I met Chagall one day—
He attempted to get
A gesture from me—

I commented on his painting
“To my Betrothed,” –again
One could tell, he painted
What he seen, not what—
Was pleasing; --
He asked me, “What did I paint [him]?”
“Like me,” I replied,

“Power…






Shadows #10
[In his room in London-1926]

I have no lover
No children as well
No instruments of music
Only shadows: ----that tell
I will sleep
And one day
I will not awake.
[Only my shadow will be left
On an empty path that once
I walked.]



City & War #11
[Written after his father died, 1925]


City after city
Runs red with blood
Where once a war was

City and war
Runs death, door to door
Where once civilians lived




The Whisperer [Demon light] #12


Your dark light, whispers to-day, to me:
Demon, demon, what have you got to say,
--from the earths crust: --
Remember me, from my dreams

last night, after you turned off my lights.







Winter in Amsterdam #13
[Written while in Amsterdam just before
He killed a woman by a river]

I shall go now
The evening is dark—
Against the City’s walls
Like a shadow set upon
An empty alley
My mumbling stops…
As I walk the streets,
In Amsterdam’s cheap
Red light District----.
Alleys and streets that meet
My grudging intent—
Will blind you----
And throw you away if I can find you;
The right insurgent within my veins.




A Moment of Peace #16
[After returning to London from Amsterdam]

Life hounds me—
Both will and soul
I am no martyr,
I’ll let you know…

Paris, London—
Amsterdam,
And hence, it occurs
I kill by chance—
I kill once again…

When they die
I hear no more—
The tongue that cursed
Shuts its door…



Flaws [Albert Einstein] #26
[The Mumbler wrote this poetic thought while deliberating
Over his father’s death; his thinking about going to Paris,
And the peace talks in l919, that took place in Paris; and
Mr. Einstein’s Nobel Prize; written in l922. Also it was
Before he infected ‘with a virus-small pocks’ the eggs he
Sent to the public.]

A talking Poem:
When I start to think, that I’m more than human, --which is coming from my thoughts and emotions, more than, and subsequently more than a human being, I get mixed up, confused, --for humans have flaws you know [that’s catchy], I myself—am very human, with big flaws, and more to be.

Albert Einstein just won the Nobel Prize [1921], like Newton, Galileo, smart as a whip, --but he was a humanitarian before a mathematical physicist or philosopher; or so I believe.

He [Einstein] knew man’s nature, their flaws, if you will. He will kill a million people someday though, with all that knowledge, and me with just a few flaws [just wait and see].




Where Should I Kill? [The Mumbler] II #28
[Written while sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, l926, London Town]


There is no place I cannot kill—
I am the hunter, a human bomb,
A virus if need be…
No—place is too holy to Kill you see,
Not for a Soldier, -- a warrior like me.
Only the sound of
God’s voice can stop me…

Everything else is conflicting
At best--, Risky with death; but that is
A soldier…we thrive on it…

[As is a secret no secret once told.
We curse the soldier, yet pay his dues.]



Christ-x- mass –
Reconstructed #22
[Written l926]


I wish I could be
Reconstructed—
On Christmas day
Just the way—
Picasso would paint
Zebra strip’s on a whale
Or whale fins on a horse
With scrolls of paint of-course

The moment I ended, stopped
Looking for Christmas
I also stopped looking for:
The storeroom of dreams
Those things [called imaginings]
That, that brings faith alive
Had I, had any, no I have not—only
Dumb silence— and thin air…
Is what I got:
On Christmas I must reconstruct…



Dad’s Great War—Devastation… #30

Doughboys are coming—British
Machine Guns
Orders he cries—
Orders superceding orders…

Collar side buttons—ankle boots
A helmet
Camouflage—
Sandbags, sand-bags’ –
And more to come

Ammunition carries—[hump-er’s]
Like frogs carrying children
On their backs—
They wait—wait for a wagon
Or locomotive…few come back

Trenches, mortars, trenches
Ladders—trenches
In the woodland, more trenches
I’m a paid, trained, legal-killer
By the Government, to live
In trenches, for a war I never
Started…

German assault troops
Shell holes
Entrenching tools
Shell holes—messages
Carried by dogs,
Riflemen…that’s my dad

Goatskin Jacket—British made,
The gunner’s assistant
[My dad], --died today.



My Philosophy #36

If you are not intelligent
You must be shrewd—
[True or false?]
Shrewd, shrewd, shrew-d


If not successful,
You must be courteous
[False or true?]
Courteous-s yes, yes!

If resentful
Act gentle…
[True or false?]

Neither [I fooled you], you must lie, lie, and
Lie until you die [or pretend will do]




[If you are saying this poem doesn’t rhyme, it is not supposed to [true or false?]; that is why it is called My Philosophy, it is free from metered –verse, --free, free free, like me—the Mumbler!!!!☺]

If I have offended anyone, gee, I’m quite sorry, but please do not wake me up from my long, long sleep, that would be a mistake, I’m dead you know].


My Grand Pa Augusto #39
[Written after his father died, around l917, concerning his
Grandfather and how he was being treated by his family,
Brothers, sisters, etc.]


Leave me alone, leave me alone
Let me have a few years in peace,
Here I am an old man, standing in
The Rain…

The train goes to the mountains
[I should be on it],
The maid has left for good; --
No money for the race tracks,
I am waiting in the rain like a kid…


Thoughts on thoughts, no sense to
Mumble a word—
No one listens to old men, no sir,
All they do is bury them…

I listened among the whispers—
[In the house I live [d], which is
No more a home]
Carelessly given as if I cannot hear them
“He’s just an old man,” they say,
“Nearly forgotten…”

I go to the jungle to get away, far away
From them, to live their lives free
Of me …
The worms and crows in the
Family nest…just keep picking

Leave me alone, I say in my thoughts,
Silent thoughts leave me alone [and dream
Of being in Italy], once
I said out loud, only one person heard though…
[My son-in-law]
“Let me have a few years in peace,” I said,
Yet they tell me to move over, go here, there
And leave me nowhere…

I’d rather stand in the rain like this, a kid to them,
Yet, God forbid…I should stand, less than a man,
For proud I am, to stand alone, with white linens
On [if even in the rain] thus, I can call my own,
For the Maker knows: the Bones that are old,
Nobility and dignified, will be
Welcomed home…




End of book two Poetry



≈◊≈


More poems

These poems were going to be taken out of the book, but the Mumbler at the last minute, said it would be all right to put them at the end of the book… of the five, here are—two of those:




The Whisper [The Devils work] # 14
[After killing a police officer and boy in a London park]

In some strange tongue
I hear his voice
An Endless scrawl
Of thoughts to translate….

“The Sea trembles,”
He says, when he laughs—.
“My anguish is like, like
Babylon’s Ancient might!”
He farts all night ….

“All things come to an end,”
I reply—

“For you, it will not come
Today—
He sighs with delight.

[And I whisper in my mind—he
Can not hear my secret]





The Eavesdropper #24
[Written in London, the day after Christmas, l926]


I was eavesdropping
On the devil [or was it a demon,
The devils helper?]
Spying perhaps sounds better;
Which organ will he attack —?
[Was my motive] --.
Thoughts I had on thoughts
He was the proprietor
Of one of the compartments
In my psyche.—
Accepted wisdom, I was THINKNG.
Then it occurred to him [thoughts]: --
If he was the landlord, I’d not think
He was the ‘Whisperer’,
I must get back to my view, stop
Thinking,
[The demon in my second-self]
Self—
He knew, I knew now,
The indefinite shape of truth
Can – be altered [I was sitting at the
Movie Theater on
Christmas day.]
He has plenty of time though
But I don’t…



About the Authors Books



The Tales of the Tiamat: This is a trilogy, consisting of “The Tiamat, Mother of Demon,” the second book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat, and the third, “Revenge of the Tiamat”. All three are full of adventures and travels by Sinned, the main character of the three novels, as is the Tiamat involved, yet we see many other antagonists along side of her. The series takes you to Malta, Easter Island, ancient England, and Avalon, where the Tor is being built, Asia Minor, where Yort is, Sinned’s home, and a half dozen other places. In addition to the main three stories, the author has added a forth, short book to the series, called “The Tiamat and the King.” It is a good conclusion to the trilogy.

The finality of this collection which is completed will be put into a book forthcoming, the title being: “The Tiamat and the King,” yes, the saga stops in this suspense finality of the Tiamat series. So for those who have enjoyed the Tiamat Saga, you now have something to look forward to in its conclusion. It could not be made into a book of its own because of its briefness, yet it conjures up all the old images of the previous three volumes...





The Chick Evens Sketches: In this trilogy, we have sketches of life that incorporate the late 60’s to the early 70’s; the hippie generation, the new era, the awakening of Aquarius, the peace era, it has been called many things. In his sketches, his first book, “Romancing San Francisco [l968-69], he introduces us to karate’s famous Yamaguchi family, to include Gosei, and his father Gogen “The Cat”; along with the famous Adolph Shuman, the once owner of the line of cloth Lilli Ann, along with other sketches. In the other two books, “A Romance in Augsburg,” and “Where the Birds Don’t Sing,” the sketches start where the first book left off, from l969 to l970 and to Vietnam in l971. Here you go to Europe for a Romance with a Jewish German girl, and on to Vietnam where there is a war going on. Mr. Evens will also end up in Sydney, for one week of some great adventures.





Short Story Collection [s]: this is not a trilogy, rather three books, of which two are similar, that being of Suspense, “Death on Demand,” of which there are seven stories and “Death by Desire”, having nine; and the third book, being a mixture of short stories, called “Everyday’s An Adventure”.




Spiritual: The Author has some strong religious and spiritual views. Having studied and done graduate work in theology, and missionary work in the mountains of Haiti, and being at an earlier age an Ordained Minister, his two books, “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” being his first talk abut experiences of the early eighties, where he had visions concerning end time events that are coming to pass right this very moment. In his second book, “Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib,” he talks about the ongoing subject terrorism on America, and the world as a whole, but in a different manner; instead of trying to figure out the mind of the Islamic-Arab, he looks at this god.




Addiction: As of this writing [May, 2003], Mr. Siluk is still a licensed Counselor in good standing with the State of Minnesota. He has also held international licenses in Drug’s and Alcohol, and has worked for hospitals and clinics in dual disorder facilities. In his book, “A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage,” which is a common sense book on understanding alcoholism and addiction, the book is an ultimate guide to substance abuse, a powerhouse for preventing relapse and curing the disease.

In his second book to this series, called: “A Path to Relapse Prevention,” the author takes you on a step by step march through the gamut of circumstances that will create armor for you in protecting your sobriety. There will be a third volume coming out possible in 2004, the conclusion of this series, called, “Aftercare, a Path through it”. As the author as claimed, one first must know about the Beast he is to fight, then he must take action, and then he must protect himself. All three books make an excellent formula.



Travels: Mr. Siluk has travel, or has been traveling I should say for 37-years out of his 55 ½ years of his life to this date. He has traveled 25 ½ times around the world. And in most of his books you can see, feel and almost taste this [to be more exact, he has 613,000-air miles, not to include ground miles]. In his book, “Chasing the Sun,” he takes you to a variety of place, by showing you some 40-pictures, and giving you an overall view of his story on how he got started. Each picture has its on caption. This is a must read book, for a wishful be traveler, or one who would like to reminisce.



The Beast Books: I wasn’t sure what to call these three next separated books, so I named the, the “The Beast Books”. For in their own way, they all have their own beast. The first book being, “Mantic ore: Day of the Beasts,” which is the author’s favorite of the three, you step into the demonic underworld. A lot of him is in this book it seems. A touch of Vietnam, a touch of his home town, St. Paul, Minnesota, and invisible shadows that change shapes into animals and human forms; visions upon visions. In the second book, the “The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury, 1199 AD, you are involved with a suspenseful story of revenge, and at the end of the book is a nice surprise, another story. And for the third beastly book, “Angelic renegades & Rephaim Giants,” you get just that, no more, no less. It is a book on the ancient dictators of the world, the ones who have cursed God, to have man worship them.




Out of Print book: For the curious reader; although they are out of print, the author has a few left in storage. “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981; a book on poetry. It is a Volume one, of which he is working on volume two, yes, 22-years in the making. This book is so scarce that only 25-copies are left, at a price you most likely not want to pay. Second, is the authors 2nd book, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” which got much attention in the l982 year, although it did not get a Pulitzer Prize, it was an entry, and considered. At present the author is considering a 4th printing, and revised edition. He does have a number of copes available for interested people [a limited number]. And the book “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,” that is more of a chap book that came out in l984 as a trial run. Only 100-copies were printed, of which one of the stories were printed in the “Little Peoples Press,” and then the book was pulled back for personal reasons, and off the market by the author. This very limited book of which there are possible 30-copies left can also be acquired, but again, this overview is more for the inquisitive than for selling these very rare and hard to fine books.


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Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers