From his desk by the window Raul Botello surveys the sunny cumulus clouds of a regular day. Granny Ernest pounds his arm lax on his desk.
Does this hurt? Does this hurt? Now does this hurt?
No. No. Naa. Well, maybe a little.
As the late Tom Bowman put it in maybe 1957, you begin high school as children and leave it as adults. I doubt it in 2000 A.D., because now a kid may be forced into maturity early or never make it, but in these years hormones suddenly rage, knocks a child off balance, emotion runs away, people get hurt. Our work-a-day parents believed in U.S. is natural way and told us our high school years would be the best years of our life. These years were my worst, many people's worst. I don't know about our nostalgic Botello or nostalgic Gay Gathright of class of 60, see texasgang. com.
A thing following me is UFOs, whether or no I ever get to see any. I was hospitalized in 1955 for asthma several times, given oxygen, and synthetic adrenalin injections. One of these times, in a hospital in Aransas Pass or Corpus Christi, I read this book The Flying Saucers Are Real . I don't recall the author. The book only spoke of sightings, from any written history, Astecan, Egyptian, simply any and all. Spaceships hovering over cities. That was 1955 or 1956 when I weighed 130 lbs. Following year I fought welterweight in high school Golden Gloves at 142. High school was many things each year. In 1956 and 1957 many UFO sightings went nation wide or world wide and alongside the boxing, same time my sensitive friend Dick revealed his secret to me and we studied the homosexual scene in school, our gang of UFOlogists met UFO authority Ray Stanford. In the united states there had come to be at that point a George Adamski who was famous for flying around with the beautiful flying Saucer people, who had written a book called Once Inside the Saucers. I think we missed that book, but next day Stanford was Adamski's buddy and himself flying around with the saucer people, though firstly we had heard of Ray in that he and some young guys had contacted a UFO down Padre Island, by mental telepathy, Corpus Christi guys. A highway patrol car had been notified about this gang of young guys down the beach and so had gone to hassle them, ask them what are they doing, but the fellows pointed to this hovering brilliant orb above, and we had this magazine with photo of statement cops signed,they too saw this, brilliant orb hovering. When next day Stanford was flying about with the beautiful flying saucer people who are worried about bur blowing ourselves up here on Earth, Richard Hatch got his father who was head of the Lion's Club in Aransas Pass to get Ray Stanford to come speak to the Lion's Club, and that 8 of we true believers get out of class to come too, which necessarily left out Mike Olive and Packy, and Packy was pissed and I am not quite sure just who all of us was the privileged eight. Ray Stanford was small and dark haired and used big words though maybe only age 21, very poised. He had a lot of material, photographs. In the Grill Gafe, Aransas pass, I remember the middle aged louts watching him stonily, our coach Mackelhannin studying him, later to opine somewhere he figured Ray Stanford had hypnotised himself. Entrenched minds, but Stanford had some way tossed in something about hypnotism, his friends hypnotising one another, as we ourselves were, at the time practicing. 1ndeed, after the rage of Bridy Murphy, book and movie of this Irish girl taken back through hypnosis, Larry Ray, not present here at the Lion's Club I believe, had got with Tiddle and been hypnotising some in the Port Aransas bunch, Tiddle and Jim leastways, and Jim could be entertaining, could beat me in arm wrestling though a small guy, or do James Dean quite well if hypnotised. I was never able myself to get hypnotised, could not go under, but Tiddle and Jim had learned how to hypnotise themselves. I do not know why they ever gave it up - I have asked Pants Falling Down Man why cannot he make use of it in his present terrible circumstance, but he will not muster an answer. It is true that after the Lion's Club meeting Ray Stanford advised us to cease hypnotism, said it is dangerous, somebody might get stuck in a place, and we did quit for then, but Stanford did not hold up too well, I think he maybe said he would recontact us and I am sure he promised Hatch he would send him a bunch of material, photographs and such, none of which he did and Hatch is still pissed. We privileged eight had stood with him outside the entrance of the Grill cafe, talked before we were obliged to go make the next class. I did stump Stanford then, standing with him outside the Grill cafe in Aransas Pass, we who believed him. Being he had learned mental telepathy from the beautiful Flying Saucer people, I asked him there to read my mind. He said he needed this special gadget, in order to do this. Ye olde science fiction, so smiled Jim couple days later - these two or three years were the clearer high point in the life of Pants Falling Down Man. Secondly, I asked Stanford, about a recent case off the television news, a mere strip off a spaceship that was a number of yards long which is more than half a mile, found on the coast of South America somewhere it was, that the U.S. had grabbed and was towing on up to this country, Texas. Suddenly the U.S. news had gone quiet, and Stanford enjoyed saying again our government fears common panic, had to clamp down on this news. In innocent curiosiity, I asked how could something so huge be towed. He went blank. Yet I was so into believing him, I was not cognizant, till looking back, as I do, that twice I had got him. I suppose he had tried to change subjects. When we had to turn and go on back to class, his eyes followed mine, his knowing I had got him, while I was not the moment being aware I had got him. Perhaps it is my fault Hatch never received the material.Footnote to manuscript draft above:
Recently Hatch was telling me and Mike Olive and Bix his memory of this camping trip, his of this brilliant orb hovering over us on the beach. Everybody's physical recollections are invaribly not the same. Mine has it a light in the night sky, which went a little brighter or closer, and it was maybe hovering. Mike Olive the sceptic who with Packy the other sceptic was present this time, remembers it that people were losing their heads except for him. I do remember I blurted out to the beautiful flying saucer people that we want their women, and Hatch snarled shutup Olive.
I suppose the thing vanished. The camping trip became fairly ordinary. We were bedded down inside the first line of sandhills and Packy the cynic was the last person trying to get others to attempt to contact the saucer people via telepathy, on his back in bedroll, hollering. From there he and I took to harassing Mike Olive with this sobrequet he did not like, "Gooseneck." Mike age 15 was too thin in his wiriness then and Tiddle had found this name for him and Mike had already explained that whereas "Goose" or "G.N." was acceptable, he did not like "Gooseneck." Dick, age 17, tried verbally taking up for Mike. Then Hatch at some point had gone for a piss or something and was on his feet, age 17 strongest guy there next to me, called Mike Gooseneck and Mike arose in a fury and grabbed Hatch into a spin and brought him to the ground. Next morning we played king-of-the-hill naked on a sandhill. Dick held his own quite well in the tussling and that following Monday he told me he felt he was turning normal. This was still the point where only I knew his secret.Next I saw Ray Stanford was on television in Austin, maybe 1975 but a year there was a rash of UFO stuff in the U.S. Too shortly later he was in some magazine with his pal Uri Gellar in a traffic jam on the freeway and they elevated or did the worm hole bit but got ahead of the other traffic, then too my wife and I had this friend who knew him from some group thing of the Austin area, wherein he had desired our friend's girlfriend and our friend had eaten too much pizza and was having indigestion so Stanford said his vibes were evil and he could no longer attend, something like that. But first I saw him on Kelly and Janus's TV the year they were there, the same slender dark guy alright. But now instead of riding around with the noble flying saucer people, he was talking about trying to contact UFOs by this gigantic construction of lights set up out in the countryside some place secretly. The age he gave for himself would have had him only 21 in late 1956 or early 1957 with us at the Grill Cafe (now it is called ye 0lde Grille, Dear Reader, and couple places down the sidewalk is still the Bakery Cafe, where we could eat at a big table in the back and bother our friends the dishwashers, Vincinte and Polo, whom we still say hello to and still run across - anytime I see one of them he asks how is old Tiddle these days) (Once Vincinte and Polo gave Bowman a marijuana cigarette, though we were not quite yet hip to it and I only heard of this fact in the 70s or 80s). Next was on Bix's porch with my dog pack my gypsy wife would not abide as I would have had her to, she who generally supported me, more or less, ah digression - it was about 1977, about a year before I got cash to print TG Ray Stanford got onto this radio talk show, people calling in and relating their UFO experiences - maybe Stanford was the host. It was a case with a studant and buddies driving to San Marcos, maybe 30 miles away where is SWTU. A brilliant orb hovered over their car so they stopped the car and got out and looked at it a time. Stanford on radio with this kid voiced encouragement, yes, ahem.
The eighties were odd for me in they went quicker than other decades including the nineties. The Queen is born. 0ctober 2 in 2000 was Madrea's seventeenth birthday. I am twice divorced. Her mom wrote me around 1990 from Florida that as I had written Madrea to never take any shit off these skinny necked extraterrestrials, this was very funny to Madrea. I was modeling at the UT art department and had met the Schizoid Beloved. I had been sleeping with Rosa and Beast in bushes along Austin's creeks or on couches of friends till a speedily built shack in Barron and Heather's back yard and on to rent of $50 room at Stuart's house.. when I did meet the SB I had left Bix's place like any such day wondering might I meet some kind of romance modeling, which is unlikely, as I am quiet and the little art students generally pretty normal, square and intimidated. In this class was a brunette and a reddish blond, who looked well, except the reddish blond with great ass did appear slightly dazed and unwholesome. She was however interested in me and shifted her easel closer to the model stand. Later on she told me she was right off a binge, which is couple nights full tilt, which leaves her hormones wild. A1so she had been disturbed at my awfully shabby clothes (hand-me-downs from good Kelly) when I put them on to go to the bathroom in a break. Her memory had it she had entered class to see me up doing the gestures (a craft) like a Greek but my memory is she was already in class when I had got there. When I came back into the room in the break she was sitting on the model stand, radiant and not longer appearing unwholesome, smiling, sociable. She wanted to know about me and I told her what I was about and she said she is old friends with James Jones's daughter who is in New York with a publishing house and who had told the SB to be on the lookout for her for Texas writers, they were seeking new dynamic Texas writers. I am the one, I said, and she said she was sure she would enjoy reading Texas Gang, heh. In ensuing events of three years about, she found no time to read TG (once her brother took her copy into her bathroom and was heard laughing loudly) nor talk more on James Jones's daughter in gew york seeking Texas writers, though she related how the James Jones's had lived next door and James Jones was a father figure to her brother, and disrespected their drunk father. She did though that day catch me at Bix's apartment as agreed, whilst I was stretching for my back injury, impressed Bix by walking in so at ease though she looked straight to him. When I said this, that annoyed her. What's straight? she asked. I guess she had such affect, hair well done or whatever. Then Bix in his bed reading in the little place behind his great bookcase was taken with how her voice changed telling from couch how a few years earlier she had gone out this third story window and crushed her face. Her uppers are inplants and she showed me. This first evening, I asked did she think there was any demoniac possession. She said she did not know. Next evening I was at her place with the dogs, she had a cat but likes dogs, no place for me to leave them too. She fixed a big meal, without alcohol. I gorged and the talk went forward. We had very much talk. I don't quite remember when she brought up her biggest rape, but fairly quickly, in bits. Three Mexican types ("wetbacks") with knife had taken her to this cornfield and while smoking a lot of crack repeatedly raped her three ways all at once. I would learn over these three or so years this was big damage, but, she had other and equally large damage. Yet, this first night, I asked could I sleep with her and she said yes and I kissed her and there was electricity. She smiled she hadn't felt that in a long time. We got naked to bed and romanced and had easy orgasmic sex.
Read LL, from Bix's I had gone to Packy's couch, briefly, before I had to retire to the bushes. She was calling drunkenly telling me we could be mates except I am dragging my balls in the dirt, or something like that, not to be plowing through back LLs. Packy resented it was not him getting the pussy though it was his couch being used. Twisted, of course, I with neither apartment nor money for dates get few girlfriends, but not to digress.
In 2000 she is 45 if alive. Ten years ago she had returned to college on her mother's inherited money. The unspoken agreement was she not acknowledge her father's rape of her. This is a common schizoprenic circumstance in this land. Every week or so she became madly drunk, or twice a week, now I remember two weeks was very rare and too hard on us. She would come screaming, wherever I was, in bushes, on couches, till at Stuart's, where she could phone to send me a taxi, wee hours. Then I had to endure her utter escapism - talk about melodrama - till dawn. Then she settled in to hormone rush. Her bountiful orgasms charmed me. I fell in love again, ho hum.
But, she is a talented artist, a compassionate person, intelligent, a person of adventure. Trouble was the threatened mother was telling her every week for three years to turn me out or no more rent. I was a grown man so could support her. Chore, or she get a job, chore. She had nightmares wherein she screamed, and was glad I be there to awaken her, and she never remembered these nightmares but one, where we were homeless in an alley, and she needed to use the bathroom, and for this purpose we went in this place, and somebody in there stabbed her.
This took three years and Beast, a lost pit I had found looking for my lost Lady was an escape artist and he impregnated my half pit Rosa and escaped during my absence a time I was was with the SB in New Braunsville, long story re. LL, and Rosa was to die of heartworm. The SB's addled mother knew naught but to have me illegally jailed for stalking. It went poorly on my friends who had been repeatedly awakened by the SB's wee hours honking and screaming and falling into their shrubbery, only in sake of taking me away. Friends provided me a sharp lawyer, except he was ignorant of circumstance, of my honesty, of the new stalking law. One was legally required to be warned 3 times, re. LL. It is a dreary tale, but, that I am Austin's first stalker. But now stalking is on my record, with the other dumb shit, re. LL.
This above is unimportant. Important is she is/was big talent, but who could affect material objects without physically touching them, in particular electrical stuff, appliances, but seemingly too things without any electric wiring, or I can say we would be in her bedroom bedded in for night or dawn but with noises of objects falling on the floor from her living room, if maybe we found nothing amiss next sobriety. Hell, maybe she set stuff back upright, I don't know. I have already talked enough of these things in Last Laugh. She had this Haiti experience, different views, her father, demonology, UFOlogy. She was in Hati two or three times maybe, once on a boat with father and brother, once with a drug dealer or what, I forget, but some kind of curse from Haiti. I said I can whip any demon but this annoyed her - not her program. Understand, Dear Reader, we deal with melodrama this, yet strangeness I saw. In Haiti she came out of this jungle to this beach where were several little stocky blue extraterrestrials sitting around their space craft. One of her genius sort of impressionistic pieces is this large self portrait thus enthralled, which her mother said looks psychotic.
In the last year of this period I modeled for' and muchly liked, this Vincent Marianni, complex, physical, intellectual, eccentric, several years older than I, art teacher who was buddies with artist and former UT art teacher Bud Hopkins, who can yet be found in Omni Magazine or on TV as the first and main counselor for the UFO abductees. Hopkins has been hypnotising then recording these people, and group counceling them, and he is a believer, while Marianni, who too has met abductees and heard recordings, says he is only maybe ninety percent a believer, just can't be sure either way, or he said, though he was into some mysterious grapevine, told me there are three types, or mainly, the little stocky blue or is it green fellows, who are benign, and the thin necked goggle eyed cloned bee hive types, who are decadent thus bleeding us genetically, in sake of our bestiality or instincts, spontaniety, genius, intuition, what call it, messing with us for this, and, third type are these beautiful humanoids a la Stanford who by interrupting apes or beasts of Earth have catapulted our evolution off the grapevine came word the humanoids were telling the skinny types, or Grays, or Reticulians, as they are from the star cluster Reticulum, to let the Earthlings be. Vincent and I laughed Well, we shall see.
Among the S.B.'s and mine many hilarious dramas, we watched videos she rented and one was Communion, taken from claimed true account by this fantasy writer, himself a person counceled in Bud Hopkins' groups. The book is OK - its sequel is shit and the movie is shit. She kept watching the silly video but I went to her bed to hopefully sleep. She is not much for silence but I work out my muscles and rest is good. Before I hit any doze, the entire bedroom illuminated, though like a spotlight, like a helecopter gunship, a great beam. From her living room in this apartment she came into her bedroom, raised arms to light. It is them! I being cross thought this was some kind of big light turned on in this alley under her second story apartment bedroom. She was changing her living quarters every year, kept getting more expensive places, the mother trying to control her. Next daylight however, I was dumbfounded, wished I had looked out when I was sleepy and cross. Down below was one drugstore in the alley, with small bulb at back door. Nothing down there could have lighted the room for her saying it is them.
It was actually fortunate for me I had my seperated daughter and the mother's madness to fret throughout, thus this mere love affair. never truly traumatised me. Might be the SB and I are old friends incarnationally but without her parents killing themselves off in a carwreck or some-way, I cannot help her this time. During the stalker shit, many months, she would call, and not speak. Her phone had this snarl before it would click and give the dial phone. This one night I awoke to sense evil, an invisible spirit, at three AM. I was detached, it was very interesting. Next Stuart Magness's phone rang. It was she and I said hello hello hello, goddamnit, if you call, you can at least SPEAK. I hung up and returning to bed noted the evil had gone. Ever again, I had run off evil spirit for her. Very interesting, how the evil spirit had been so tangible. I never saw her again. Which is really too bad for her and her cursed family. Still, for years I was getting these electrical shocks, when asleep at night. It was rough. I think it is over. Don't think I have had this for is it a couple of years. But, remarkable, I would awaken, think: Damn, I don't want to go through that again.
Yo Bill -
I think about writing, then don't, as whatever rational features coalesced from the void re-evaporate. I've put a few ideas down in the form of the story - 4 or 5 stories so far to be further fleshed out. I am not a natural prosist since I disdain the use of outlines, I could more easily render it as sonnets or even in "terza rima." For some reason I like to keep one foot in the archaic root of things - like a reminder of the harmonic structure of time. In the fifth house of consciousness the religion of all past is joined in the unity of the here and now, which, in turn, reduces the structures of guilt, shame, judgement and blame, to understanding, compassion, acceptance, and support. Perhaps, then, we shall be rid of feeling we must practice self-repression.
Another question: If matter and energy are constant and balanced in this universe, neither created nor distroyed - then is it not also true of spirit - that it can be neither created nor distroyed, but only changed - and, like matter and energy - will be all unified and contained, and ready for the next chapter of the universal story to explode into being.
Joseph had purchased his dog, Scooby, from somebody out of Baton Rouge, whose family's line of fighting dogs goes back to the twenties, if I am correct. Scooby is smaller than Medicine but a little bigger in the head, beautiful lighter colored eyes, very long teeth, ears cropped looks wolfish to me.
Medicine's mother was fighting line and as been said her brother was a champion going for bigger purses till a sport killed him with an arrow for chasing a cat. This uncle was built like Medicine, sixty five or more pounds with the longer legs, big for a pit. Lyla likes it there is a streak of the larger American bulldog from Medicine's father, tells folks Medicine is not full blooded pitbull, has even told me to quit calling him a pitbull. The American bulldog out of his father is not evident in Medicine, that bulldog that is a hundred pounds and longer legged dog, the catch dog or hawg dawg~, original bulldog sometimes called the old country white, a mythical working dog. Knowledgeable people like Vicki Jones or Joseph, both who fought dogs and gave it up, see but pit in Medicine, whose mother too had the longer leg, and Medicine's siblings, unlike Medicine who was put into my arms age six weeks from Tamara free, had papers arranged and were sold as registered pit bull terriers. He is enormous in whip strength and fast twitch and I cannot hold him on the ground if he resists.
It is very interesting and a deceased author whose name I misplace who wrote several books on the American pit bull terrier argues there was never any terrier in it. Fighting dogs in America descended from the Staffordshire Terrier of England when dog fighting in England was outlawed and the Staffordshire became a show dog, and the author says the Staffordshire who fought bears and bulls evidently had no terrier - what would any terrier contribute, argues the author. He tells of writings thousands of years old, survival of the fittest of thes dogs for man, of the African lion being in Europe a couple thousand years back and that says he it is written 4 can defeat a bear and 3 can defeat a lion, and he supposes these fittest of dogs were only averaging 50 pounds a bodyweight then too. I am thinking no healthy lion or brown bear would spend itself on shifty, hard biting canines, without cubs envolved, but main point being we have had this critter for our first, more or less, domesticated animal. A bulldog is bred to latch on like wolf, but this called pitbull can be shiftier than purely stubborn, can wolf-like divert the course of a lion or bear. 0ur children are safe. We may keep the grizzly, please.
There are lines of survivor dawgs brought down to us with necessarily greater intensity and necessarily greater intelligence than regular domesticated breeds will tend to keep. S0 what. And so. Leashed, our dogs sniffed, seeing what one another is. They acted calm enough. Though, they had not known other pitbulls, since puppies. Joseph, too, got Scooby at six weeks, maybe too young. Or I've wondered is this why Medicine is such a lout around females, that he had too little time with the mother. He will not bite a female but he is a sap, well so am I. He and Scooby have not been raised to kill for their lives and neither will bite lap dogs, even should the little freaks bite them. Re. LL poor Beast I held briefly, who had fought for his life and broken a canine tooth before he dropped his balls, would kill a lap dog, to eliminate it. While, Lady, purely fighting-line, left on me pregnant with curs by a hustler, obliged my half pit Rosa in sharing Lady's pups, in our strange gypsy circumstance, both nursed, and they got along most days, played together roughly, though should they quarrel it took a couple days for them to get back to playing together easily. In their second or third fight, Lady let herself turn beserk, and Rosa learned Lady was too much for her inside a minute. Read The Emeryville War.
Scooby and Medicine are raised where the master can remove his dog from a regular dog in no uncertainity. A neighboring larger dog and half pit attacked Scooby on his chain, and Joseph did so, but took a bite on his arm. In the Aransas brush it had felt OK for Joseph to unleash Scooby at this pond, to demonstrate how Scooby liked to retrieve stuff from water. I held Medicine leashed. Unlike most pitbulls Medicine dislikes getting wet except in hottest weather, and too he is noisy often, and that author says pitbulls do not bark excessively. He was instantly jealous of Scooby, barking, instantly Scooby never reached his object in the water but came from the water and locked onto Medicine's right chest muscle. In this second, lifting Medicine who was not himself locked on, I wag at a bit of a loss. I am used to it the other way. Having automatically jerked Medicine, all we had was a pitbull on him, and I got my finger caught in the chain. I am a tad blank here, I got my finger out alright. Medicine chomped down and we were tugging our dogs. Joseph and I had been verging to sit down and drink a Guinness we each had carried in our jackets. We were tired and worried before we got the beasts apart before big damage. We have had fights and likened our tiredness to that. We sat down for the Guinness to quit bubbling and Scooby burst forth into Medicine again. We went through it again, the strain and worry. Joseph is a small strong man and he took risk wrapping his whole body around his dog. Said later even his neck is sore. I pulled the mass, Joseph was partly dragged in the water, I took a skin tear on the back of my left hand hooking my arm under Medicine's throat and lifting my dog who was long in turning loose of Scooby's ear. Scooby gave a yelp in his long moment of frustration, wanting to get his jaw back on. This one had been closer, I had feared my endurance would go. But we were thankful for the remaining Guinness. The two dogs are contrasting personalities. Maybe the entire scuffle Scooby had been wagging his tail. Now the two were eyes locked, Scooby wagging, delirious, this is better than sex. Medicine was murderous. His eyes bulged with the whites gone red. For a second I feared he had been bitten between the eyes. But no, his own biting had been done higher and Scooby's lower. Medicine was pure cold murder. He literally had blood-in-the-eye. Scooby was cheerful and crazed. Neither had once growled. Joseph and I had not seen our dogs this intense before. When we drug them back through the brush they would twist around to lock eyes, possessed.
Normally, they are hunters, mindful of smells in the brush, love the brush. Possibly had we brought them together from puppyhood they would not work to kill one another. I have hypothesized, a litter of pitbulls left to their own in the wild, were they fed enough to start, could like Wolves come to understand they needed one another, to head off larger game and to feed pups, could devise the alpha order without killing. A wolf in the wild will not kill a wolf in his or her pack. Well, for pits it would have to be a warm climate, probably too with much water. I want to live somewhere very isolated to cross wolf and pit. Maybe never to be. And so, pitbulls are not for everybody. We are all very different, pit bulls, wolves, people.
Another old friend goes, William Grant, heart attack. Many different people were at his memorial. I wonder how happened this hellfire preacher, born again wretch who was once the Olive's closest neighbor, Sammy. I wonder whoever asked for it, that Sammy delivered his entire morbid spiel. I sat with Mack Colley in a back pew who was affronted, pissed. I say Sammy's entire morbid spiel because after his basics he did not stop and he took it to the teenagers. Said that because he is 53 years old he is no fool and must impart his wisdom to "you young people" about sex and drugs leads to hellfire, and " all babies are born in sin but we". I had not noticed teenagers in the audience so looked around and saw a few. Sammy clawed onward, when it should have come to a close, he reved it back up. Very foul, anti spirit, sickest sect on Earth, the dumbest fucks on Earth ever seep their dregs throughout U.S. of North America, screaming in the nation's sleep, claw to turn infants to maggots of fear. Absolute most diseased puke in history of dumbest fucks, under law by puny man of course it ought to be illegal, yet in U.S. of North America it can still go. I can but wonder what percentage of. U.S. population do consider a child may be born in sin and toe the line and slip and scream mindlessly tortured for ever after. Finally people were free to leave without being rude about the fact that somebody had put Sammy Lip there, and Sammy was at the doorway shaking hands, and Mack roused to stand and get out of there before having "to shake that self rightous motherfucker's hand." I am unsure if self rightous is the definition, but this is filth, a hand of filth. I too take umbrage, and we broke on through the bodies and got around the preacher. Decades back, Sammy was this super friendly, hard working young fellow - seems he worked on the tugboats, but he impressed my father with how he manually cleared the brush from his property. Then he was tolerable, odd in his way. About William, Sammy as minister from death said william was a good man who "had made some mistakes." But that on his death bed William had told Sammy he William believed. I forget how many years penitentiary William Grant did for running marijuana across the Gulf. Maybe eight years locked up, he did power lifting and painting, champion in both in his prison, out of Bastrop, Texas. Kelly and I stood by him, corresponded, though we had only been on the fringe during the action. Most people around him had naturally been scared into turning, trying to spare themselves. William has been one of the good artists among us, got out and grew a few plants and sold lids but manic depressive could not find any road back to a few million dollars. He kept spirit, defiance, mirth. He had helped many people. Before they got him one could get ten grand for two or three hours unloading fifty pound bales. I printed the Texas Gang book. I got hold of the New Mexico five acres, and had it in Bonnie's name and she got the payments and taxes.
Time passes so swiftly. Time and time again I have thought about writing but never followed through. Writing letters is not my strong suit. Fred and Norma forward your LL's to me and I have read them, one and all. Mostly, they are thought provoking. However, at times, they are too scattered for me to keep pace with your thought processes and writing style. Maybe it's me, maybe it's you, or just maybe, there is a song in there somewhere.
The summer went by quickly. It was hot, dry, and scary. There were a lot of fires. Some close, some far, some just waiting to char the land at some future date. I thought I'd gotten your old Dodge truck given away, but after closer inspection, the people decided it wasn't worth the effort to dig it out of the ground and get rid of the rats. They (the rats) have pretty well stripped the non- metal parts from the entire truck. By the way, Kelly wanted me to try and get rid of it. I don't know if you're aware of it but I had the place cleaned up. All the trash and all your empty beer bottles were removed. Kelly sent me the money to have it done. The place looks good. I realize that would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for you to do since you did not have a vehicle.
I am on the internet now (firstname.lastname@example.org) We bought a new Gateway. I have looked for the Texas Gang site but as of yet, I'm not able to find it. I am curious about it. As you know, I began your book, Texas Gang, but never finished it. Maybe I wasn't into it at the time, and therefore it was difficult for me to read. Maybe I was too critical of the way it was written and didn't accept it for what it was. Maybe I was jealous that you were published and I never have been in all my writings. Perhaps, I lost my objectivity. Sometimes I see some of your work as hypocritical, preaching a certain amount of anarchy, yet, living off the SSI.
Yet, at other times, your writing is brilliant. As for your Medicine Dog troubles, the dogs arrest was way out of line. You seem to thrive on having a dog that intimidates other dogs and people, causing unnecessary stress in you life and the lives of those close to you. However, I do sense, after reading your many tales of Medicine Dog, you need that chaos in your life. Besides, it gives you a lot of material for LL.
Now, I'll catch you up on my life. I think I told you when you were here that I had hepatitis C. Well, my liver became inflamed and I developed some super white cells that couldn't kill the virus so, they decided to attack the connecting tissues in my joints. My elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips mostly. There are times that I feel like I'm over one hundred years old. I'm going to the VA next week for a liver biopsy and if that's ok (no cancer), I'll start on self injections of interfueron and steroids three times a week and ribovivin pills every day for at least 18 months. If that doesn't cure it, my chances of living a long life (51 now) are slim and none. The type of Hepatitis C I have is Type 1, which is the worst kind and in most cases it turns into liver cancer. Hopefully, the treatment will work. Incidentally, I can't drink anymore and probably won't be able to drink ever again even if I get cured. Such sacrifices to live longer! Only upon my death will I know if they were worth it.
I've been working on my spirituality. I tend to lean toward the ways of the Ogalala Souix Indians. I built a sweat lodge south of the house and have done many sweats. I feel comfortable in that and, I gain much from the sweats. Mostly I find peace of mind and heart.
I feel so wonderful after a sweat. I couldn't begin to describe it in words. Well, I'd better get this in the mail. Hope all your projects work out for the best and you accomplish the things that are important to you. I am sending $25.00 for the 5 copies of LL that I received. Actually 10 copies, because Fred and Norma never read them and pass them along to me, both copies. Also, I still watch the Friday night fights but I do miss your company and your knowledgeable comments about the fights and about boxing in general. As you know, Kathy's not a boxing fan, or as far as that goes, a sports fan of any kind.
By the way, the cabin is still there. I check on it fairly often. Not much left in it though. I think the kids, (many more of them now-the woods are filling with people), are doing the rummaging. I put a lock on it but it didn't last. I don't really see any point in putting another one on it. They just tear shit up getting in. However, if you want another lock installed, let me know and I'll get it done. There is little of value left. I did rescue you bow and featherless arrows. All the appliances are still there. I guess they are too big for the kids to carry off.
P.S. I'm sending you a copy of a poem I wrote once. I don't know if you ever saw it but it seems very timely to me now.
Time can build a mountain
Or turn one into sand.
Time can take a small boy
And change him to a man.
Time can take a second
And end up with a day.
or take a week in January
And March right into May.
Time is always present.
It's always been that way.
So don't you think we should make,
The most of every day.
Samuel 0. Dixon
Copyright C2000 Samnel Dixon
Jake is a small black and white short-haired mutt, maybe fox terrier extraction. Thousands of dogs have been dropped off over the years on this red dirt country road, and when this pup was dumped here many years ago, Perry pressed the muzzle of his deer rifle down against the top of his head before declaring that he was, alas, sick and tired of shooting dogs and walked away. Murl ended up taking him home and he is now like a family member that even stays in the deer stand with him.
Motoring to East Texas from here is pretty boring, scenery-wise, until reaching the Texas border where the piney woods begin to offer some relief; the thump thump thump of I-10 in Louisiana is monotonous and back wrenching after a while, and is the reason that road signs become noticeable. Road signs of every description iminaginable: Speed limit, low shoulder, yield, yield right of way, slow, speed zone, reduced speed ahead, school zone, work zone, road work next 3.2 miles, traffic fines double if workers present, exit 35 mph, speed limit strictly enforced, deer crossing, low bridge, slippery when wet, plant entrance, entering Calcasieu Parish, left lane for passing only, truck speed limit 65, weigh station ahead, rest stop 1/4 mile, right lane closed, bump, do not cross median, do not cross solid white line, do not pass, food next exit, minimum speed 45 mph, speed limit radar enforced, no right turn on red, left turn on green arrow only, no u-turn, emergency parking only, no parking, no fishing from bridge, no parking on shoulder, no driving on shoulder, adopt a highway, your taxes at work, uneven lanes. Endless variety of signs, one after the other. I know most of these signs must be helpfiil to a lot of people, but after a while, how can one help but wonder who is the guy in charge of deciding what signs need to be put where? I saw several "Guardrail Damage Ahead" signs. How could that possibly mean anything to anyone? Should you slow down? I mean, even in neighborhoods there are signs every few feet. In the middle of a quaint subdivision I saw "No Littering." Everyone knows littering is against the law, so why the sign? Why not "No Murdering?" Or how about "Church Zone, No Fornicating?" I'd like to see No Tax Fraud." or "No Voting Irregularities." Go to the mall and see a sign "No bookmaking on these premises." Passing through downtown Livingston, we saw one that said "Senior Citizens Crossing", I swear, and it had one of those depictions only instead of a deer or schoolchildren it had an old person. I would really like to meet the guy that makes these decisions and talk with him for a while philosophically. It is my inclination to believe that, being a government employee, he is caught up in the critical mass syndrome and knows that if he doesn't continue to identity sign-needy or sign-deficient places, then his job will no longer be so important.
At the first explosion, Jake knows that soon a big dead deer will be arriving at the camp, and he is anxious. He pees on everything in the perimeter of the campfire and thereby starts the ritual; he whines and looks at everyone, scratches the ground and peers anxiously up the trail. Finally, the growl of the first four-wheeler.
It rained hard the whole week, which was nice except that I couldn't get in as much reading as I had planned. Sitting under a leaking canopy, I had a hard time keeping books dry plus it was sometimes too dark to read. So there was a lot of story-telling and eating and drinking. I did, though, finish Swaggart. It is one of those books that you are hooked on once you start; not only very interesting material, but engrossing style.
Some of the hunters bring their quarry to the camp draped across their four-wheelers. Mike brings his in the bed of his muddy maroon pick-up; it's an eight-point with its head laying on the tail gate, tongue hanging out. Other hunters gather around to study it and measure the distance between the tines. Mike picks its head up by the antlers and touches its nose to his: "You're dead. I killed you." The hunters pick it up and hang it from hooks attached to the scales. Its weight is recorded with the note that it has been "field dressed," then the spread measurements are recorded. Someone will win the pot when the season ends. The dressing process begins: a two hour chore that is done expertly and meticuously. The backstrap is set aside for camp supper tonight, the rest placed in tubs of ice water. The head with hide attached is laid on the ground where Jake plays with it, pulling it around by the tail and growling. Next the head is cut loose and set up on top of the pile of fire logs. Tomorrow a hack saw will crack through the eye sockets and the "rack" will be hung from the side of a large oak tree beside all the others. The backstrap is now soaking in milk and the propane fryers are hissing. Wives and children begin showlng up at the camp with bread, salads, Mexican dips and pickled jalapenos, cakes and pies, utensils and paper plates. Potatoes are peeled and sliced. Raymond has brought fresh snapped pintos from his garden and Joe some jars of home made pickles. The drizzle is getting heavier, so another tarp is tied between the trees to shelter the flyers and wood pits. Hilton fired up two of the pits earlier and they are loaded with a pig he trapped yesterday. Beer and whiskey is flowing. It's dark now and the four hour celebration is just beginning. It is raining hard.
Well, back to Baton Rouge in time to vote for the next politico that will lead us further down the path to destruction. Which reminds me of your note that I should sign some nom de plume to entries on the website. I assume you are speaking of a page on there called "The Gate." When I was learning how to create a website and write in html, that was a page I made for practice and to learn how to link from one page to another. I just typed out some stuff without much thought because I, at that time, didn't have any of your material and I am now ready to remove it or add to it, whatever. I never meant it to be an ongoing page of texasgang or to represent texasgang in any way. In fact, I didn't expect anyone to see it actually, as I figured on removing it before advertising the site, and then just kind of forgot about it. Also, don't know why you couldn't find the Botello stuff, it is still there. I think you may perhaps need more time to look around the site. There are probably some more things you have missed. I am glad to hear the skin medicine is working. Vicki said she doesn't have any more, it was prescription, but you can buy lesser strength over the counter. It is called "hydrocortisone" under any brand name. Over the counter is 1% and her prescription was 2% so I guess use more.
Mike is Vicki's brother. Hilton, Perry, Buddy, Muri, Earl, and Joe are her uncles who were all born and raised there in those piney woods. Raymond was born and raised there, too; disability retirement after rebar went through his back in Texas City.
As I recall, the James Bovard book had a relevant chapter on the drug war that I intended as a sort of prelude to the next book I will send which drescribes the economy of the war. I just finished "The Tyranny of Good Intentions" that you may find interesting. It also has some insightful information about how we got this far along toward the fall, albeit from a different perspective. (It is written by a lawyer and an economist.) It is easy for one to imagine that what we are now witnessing is the rumbling of the beginning of a cultural civil war. It is important to consider that in light of what is the proper roll and objective of texasgang.com.
Thanks for the post card. Remember that I don't have a computer, so I haven't seen your web-site.
Find enclosed a copy of a "protest." We're trying to free up some of the grant money floating around New York, which right now goes only to rich kids like Rick Moody. His real name is Hiram F. Moody III.) We'd appreciate your support. I also have enclosed a short zine. I am also sending one to Steve Vaughn.
Regarding our big reading: We would want Wild Bill in person to read. That's what people would be looking for. You have a marketable persona, a Hemingway type. The intellectual literati have never seen a writer like you. I think you'd be a big hit.
Anyway, I need someone to be a co-headliner with Big Jack, someone to share almost equal billing, in big letters, "Legends of the Underground" and all that. We'd be marketing you as much as your work. Our goal would be to have some big-time editors and journalists in the audience. It'd be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
You'd only have to read for 10-15 minutes, because we'll have a lot of writers to cram in. The main thing would be to get you up on the stage. Or really, the main thing will be the publicity for the event. The reading is just an excuse to do a lot of hype and get our names in front of the media nad public. You'd get second billing, right after Big Jack. (The little guy he read with in Lansing just doesn't cut it-he's a poet, and we promote prose writers only.)
You could probaably get a round-trip plane fare from Houston to NYC for $200. We'd put you up in a hotel for one night. You'd fly in and out. Maybe your friends & family could help you raise the $200. Anyway, think about it, because we need someone with a big-enough personality to promote. (We've invited Cindy to be on the undercard, which will be zinesters, but have heard no response.)
Think about it. The reading's not until March. We won't announce the venue and the date until January, so there's time.
Please don't forget to sign the enclosed postcard. We're taking on the snobs. (We could use a sketch artist at the big event, so I am going to try to persuade Steve Vaughn to attend, as I guess he has a son in N.Y.
P.S. Do you have Ann Seaman's mailing address? I'd want her to write an essay about you.
Saturday night in Hoboken, the weekend we founded the Alliance. We were returning to our hotel and a coterie of people mistook us for a rock band--I suppose because we had striking-looking Ann Sterzinger surrounded by a group of grungy-looking men. Someone asked, "What's the name of your band?" Michael Jackman, who can be volatile, shouted back, "The Losers!" and a fight with a group of well-dressed preps almost resulted.
There was much about Hoboken that was mythic to me. On saturday, the group of us alone in a glass-walled back room in a saloon, listening to Michael read Chris Estey's extraordinary letter. On Sunday, sitting with Michael by the river conversing while staring at Manhattan, at the castles of the enemy, as we awaited the others. Later, the glow of the six of us around a table, Steve and Ann excitedly reading. That evening waiting alone in the darkening bar for Bassett's return, then the starkness of the Newark train station at night, and my cold journey back to Philly.
I was tired and depressed on the train that night; a depression that stayed with me like a thread during Steve's visit, amid our drunkenness, then after Steve left the depression sprung to the surface and became overwhelming.
To occupy my disordered brain I read an obscure play. A character in the play is a man I took as a model when I set out on this lit-movement idea over a year ago, because of the man's fanatical belief in his cause. The past year I've tried, in some small way, to live like him, to be as spartan and disciplined.
In the play, the world offers the man the choice between maintaining his goal, or experiencing quick and violent happiness. He chooses his goal, and for that choice is brutally executed. The point of view of the play of course is the audience, but if looked at through the dead man's eyes, at the end, it becomes the saddest and most horrific piece of literature ever written.
I was sick and depressed anyway. Reading the play, which had so much raging under the surface, unhinged me. My mind filled with conflict. I went immediately to a bar and poured down shots. I drank not to get drunk, but to destroy myself. Then I walked the city for hours looking for encounters on the streets, for fights, as I'd done when I was younger; growling back at mad shouting crazy people, but no one obliged me, and I walked long enough to exhaust myself so I could return home and sleep.
Did I recover? Not hardly. I was so confused, had so lost my purpose, AI felt I was drifting toward death.
On Saturday afternoon AI walked toward Rittenhouse Square. Across the street from it the grotesquely fat blind woman sat on the sidewalkcontinue