LAST LAUGH CLXI


Last Laugh CLXI Bix and I tried an overnight down the island beach with our trucks and dogs between rains. There has been hard raining after a summer of mostly drought, and couple days without rain all wood kept thoroughly damp. We could only get a fire by using charcoal, then it smouldered and winds blew all the smoke in circles. The dogs were having fun, he has a young female mix of setter and chow who plays with Medicine. I drank a bottle of wine and our talking never got great in purpose. We had a poor night. Or I did and my impression is he did. I had drunk a gallon of milk to fix the wine better but I kept needing to piss and my air mattress kept deflating and my sciatica has taken upswing again and would wake me. Daylight the tide was coming in too quickly. I was enabling to make expresso by sitting in my cab with my coleman burner. Bix does not like expresso, and I don't know if after drinking most of a shot of expresso he had had it in mind, but before he took off before I did, he was asking me of my hitch hiking to New York in 1960. He had in 1965 to call up somebody and try to sell a short story. We both did this when highways went through small towns state to state, before the big freeway. I could not recall for him my own first arrival in New York, can't remember the ride, but that Manhatten, promptly intrigued me, looked like another country. Ambiance and brick laid streets.

I had gone to get an advance on my scribbled half of a novel, first novel, GROW BEAT. I was nineteen. GROW BEAT is about my falling in love with a San Miguel de Allende prostitute, Margarita, age 20. I had read SUBWAYS ARE FOR SLEEPING - I did too! exclaimed Bix - and in New York City plan had been to hang out in the great subway system after calling up a publishing company from the yellow pages, and going up there. I went up there in a big backpack of all my clothes and talked to some friendly guy in a suit and explained what I wanted and handed him my manuscript in longhand (I don't even do longhand anymore, too poor). He looked at one page, and smiled to me that things are usually not done this way but that it is not unheard of....The tide was coming in and Bix jotting this down in a notebook he had taken from his truck. He asked me another question or so. Of this funny naivete we each had had, I spoke of leaving the subway system to sell blood in order to eat - a $5 I think in 1960 - when milk was 25 cents a quart - meeting a hipsterish young bum who sold blood, and we sat on a curb in the street talking and eating these buns of good bread and drinking milk. I had not seen bread like this available in the states before, in 1960, bread tasty enough to eat by itself, and I had read Henry Miller's THE STAFF OF LIFE, an essay making some sport of the United States, said because of poor bread the birds here were dying. We sat in gusto and an employed black guy passed by busy, grinned at us: Man, that's living!

Another country, another time. I cannot remember our drinking beer or wine, but my next recall is the guy was drunk on his back in this stoop and argued for me to lend him money so he could buy a fifth of whisky. I was not doing this, was choosing to go see Harlem. He was telling me I would get killed in Harlem. I think he had a room or flop (screened in bed) in the building - a good looking Puerto Rican girl in new mini skirt pale b1ue suit came out and got in a cab and he informed me she was a whore. Trusting the guy, I left my backpack of clothes with him while I went to see Harlem. In Harlem nobody bothered me naturally. It became night and I interviewed a policeman in the middle of the street. Not much traffic there, I think. Hi, I am a writer, do you mind if I ask you about police brutality? This guy was helpful enough to talk a little and opine most policemen do not beat on people.

The only thing I can remember about my bum friend who had my pack of clothes is he and my clothes were gone whenever it was I next got back there - seems I would have got there,that night but no recall. Material loss never meant much in my universe. In the street that night I met Lenny Lark, maybe in Greenwich Village, for he lived near Greenwich Village.

I remember Packy laughing anybody named Lenny Lark had to be a queer. One would not know just looking at Lenny, who was husky with noisy macho front. He was 37, likely Leo named Leonard Lark. He was ex merchant marine, an artist. He did interior decorating, had a little apartment for fifty a month. He was friendly and helpful. I cannot remember what was I next up to or looking for when he approached to help. I was friendly and rather expected people to be friendly and helpful, and anyway half the guys who will pick up a young male hictch hiker are homosexual. We slept in his large enough bed and when he put his arm around me I said: I have no homosexuality. So he let it go for a few days. We liked each other. He would get dramatica1, pedantic, about sundry bullshit, loudly try for a psychological advantage. I would smile, ignore him. It's a story. I was. back at Lenny's a few times in the early sixties, use his seventy pound barbell, use his typewriter, eat hearty - he cooked well - and rebuild and get kicked out. Friends of his tried too hard to figure me out. I could get bothered while in his absence using his barbell or typewriter. There was this Italian macho type but not very big, jumping on my back when I was pumping with the barbell, and my tossing him over onto Lenny's bed. There was this effeminate type one day I was typing, telling me Lenny says your dick looks like mine and I want to see if this is true. He went to unzipping flapping his flacid penis during my typing. Hey, man, I'm. busy, don't bother me. Lenny doesn,t know what my dick 1ooks like. I would be polite, and it is interesting always in the civilization is this large world of male homosexuals, includes many husbands and fathers. Normal folks don't know much more about it than they do their government. Directly across from Lenny was Sal, Italian-American around 30, had humor. He would knock and ask in sheepish smile all the time if Lenny had any "cawfee." Sal should have had a heterosexual life, very attracted to good looking women, but Catholicism in 1960 still had him in such a way he had never had sex with a woman, and he fucked effeminate men. The swishes meantime never know what a woman is, that a woman is normaily maternal. In their fantasy they serve as women. Both sides of the chasm, citizens do not know what they have no inkling of. When in late summer of 1965, I did let Lenny suck me off, last time I was around him, it depressed us. Which, however, could not last long, same day he was right back to his regular, loud melodrama. and so forth.

Bix asked did I work ever in New York. Sometimes Lenny bugged me about it and I would go get this poor work. I think the first one was an assembly line for lawn chairs. It is inhuman, and I would go blank. What am I doing here? Oh, I am in this assembly line, for lawn chairs. Put the little pieces together, keep putting the little pieces together. I stood facing a window with a big crack and frequently the little metal pieces were too bent to fit so I tossed them through the crack. Right now, I have a sense this alley lay a short drop below the crack in the factory window, but I had no perception of damaging anybody out there. The Puerto Rican foreman tapped my shoulder. Come with me. We went to the manager's office and I was fired. The foreman never explained anything and I believed it had to do with the flirtatious Puerto Rican girl working next to me but who knows.

One should not have to get up and jump into the throng and go to a job in New York, but like Mexico it was another country and livened my senses. Forty years later, I am not getting dreams of California, or glorious and mystical New Mexico, places where I have spent years, yet I may get a surrealistic and difficult to remember dream of being in Manhattan, and also, hunting for Margarita in Mexico. I said to Bix, it is all the same trip, hunting for Margarita clear into right now. I need to make a living, need to get published because there is nothing else legally I can do. Of Margarita, Bix has heard about pieces. I have only spoken in bits, however much I may have jabbered about it early, and Bix has probably been more interested in it than anyone. Meeting Margarita was the start, same trip to now. This beach, tide coming in, bones aching.

She was having the squirts?

Yeah.

Bix remarked I seemed agitated. I said, yeah, my boy here (Medicine, noisest dog in the Coastal Bend) wants a longer run and I need to shit again and I have not even stretched out my back yet. It is strange, to be here (facing the wild Gulf), 60 years old (62) and all this stiffness, soreness, afore I can stretch the back. But this is all the SAME TRIP since 1960. I am maladjusted and trying to figure some kind of legal living and writing is all I got and I go through these indignities like with my family and now I have a daughter. When I come up things are worse than ever before for American writers. The U.L.A. is dealing with this, but, even these pedple at first were put off with me. LL got bad reviews. At first, only Wenclas saw where I was at. Blackolive is like Kerouac, like the ocean, he said. And then we both got bad reviews. Here I had put the price of LL at a $100 a year (hell, it had been the price, my cousin Crate, and Ann Seaman, paid it)(maybe somebody else paid it), I was crazy, as usual. Doug Holland, who did this zine DIARY OF A FAT SLOB, I liked, and he put out this review magazine, told me maybe LL is worth $100 a year but people don't know this yet, and Wenclas who is blunt said to me when I was at the cabin and he was organising the U.L.A. that I act like everything I write is "Holy Writ." Sure, I think it's Holy Writ, sure I am arrogant, I am always crazy, but in these sick times when I cannot even make a living I I am crazier than I should've been!

Sure. The great editors are dead. GROW BEAT could have been a seller. I could have saved Margarita. And then? Who knows.

I forget was GROW BEAT mailed to me at Lenny's or General Delivery or did I go get it, but there was no comment, and I kissed it, a classic. It has been lost, carbon copy and the other, with a couple of lost friends, and could turn up but I doubt it. In that next year, GROW BEAT firstly was stolen, in a suitcase of mine in a Houston YMCA room. I think it must have been just about finished by then. My parents in nearby Baytown had me see some shrinks, being suicidal, and the first two shrinks I would disturb - they were brittle - third shrink was a nice guy in fact from Mexico, understood much about me but too there was nothing for it, and he, a Dr. Cortez, said we could do shock treatments. Rather pacifying my parents in the moment, I took fifteen shock treatments. Nothing changed after fifteen so I returned to my parents' home in Baytown. But GROW BEAT was written again, next year or so. Around 1962, I got kicked out by Lenny when I would not cease doing calf raises on the stairs outside his door. I had been told by personnel at Belview that if I wanted to check in for a rest I would have use of a typeriter to type my book. I had been pecking at my mother's typewriter in Baytown. My mother was a secretary and I simply never took typing in high school. I went on into Belview and was having a decent time, talking with these older hipsters in there, and it was very funny seeing Lenny come down the hall, looking to his right and left, saying: Isn't this terrible. We were glad to see each other. He was just seeing how I was. But, as to my getting hold of a typewriter, I had been mislead. This was in an unusually hot New York spring, and in a month or so I was shipped out with the mob, poor devils and winos and heroin addicts, to Central Islep State Hospital on Long Island. Seems Central Islep was "a thousand acres," and one could get ground prvileges and go to the commisary and drink coffee and have girlfriends (now the girls get birth control pills), but to use any typewriter I had to get into this typing class, I believe the typewriter teacher let me work on GROW BEAT.

I was there a whole summer and they flew me to Texas, the state hospital in Austin, because I was not a native of New York. I was not there very long before Mother drove up from Baytown to sign me out. I remember my fairly normal teenage sister with her normal boyfriend came along for the ride. Craig, nice guy, I remember playing touch football one day with him and some high school footballers, though I could communicate with Craig but not his friends, funny. But naturally funny shit went down at the Austin hospital before Lyla sprung me. There was some gathering, with a pack of MDs - I can't remember this except I went on stage with my story - recall this lout saying: So! You think you're a writer! I do not exaggerate, these usless people were working at embarrassing or intimidating me. I smiled at them. I was superior and they could not deal with it, pretty funny. Then I went out and played tackle football - where I can star - with a gang of teenage misfits, violent ex high school footballers, I could run the ball or go for passes.

Anyway, the typing class at Central Islep had this woman running it, who let me type at GROW BEAT, and I let her read the first chapter, which visibly shook her. In San Miguel, before GROW BEAT happened I then read, from a hipster NY friend who is a bit of personality in GROWBEAT, the Henry Miller famed books the friend purchased in San Miguel, for they were still banned in the states, TROPIC OF CAPRICORN and TROPIC OF CANCER. CANCER is great, about France, and CAPRICORN has autobiographical sex fantasy, but both are graphic, while being poetic, socialogical, philosophical, and very funny. It was all reasonable to me and doing GROW BEAT I never thought about it. In the next couple of years even insane NAKED LUNCH by William Burroughs was set free inside the United States, but the typewriter teacher in Central Islep State Hospital had never in her life read sexually graphic prose.

No, Margarita did not really have the squirts, our first night, exactly. She did soil her panties, in bed, maybe she had put her panties back on, in our tussles in the Hotel San Miguel. She was ill and I young and uncomprehending and stupid. I had been saying: Mas! Which means: More! Or maybe she had put the panties under her, but we would wrestle and she was quite little. But in the shower she held up the soiled panties smiling like we are old friends. We are. Over all, it was a painful six weeks in San Miguel with her, but I would again see the familiar smile the day I left., Though I have always felt reincarnation likely, at that point I was not thinking of these matters.

When Margarita had first spied me, she was at a table behind the jukebox in El Bordel. I was laughing with some foolish youths in the front doorway. She leaned forward to look at me. I saw this beautiful, troubled face, dark brow knit. Then I was interested. But the look would haunt me for years. She peeked out once, and a second time, and I went on over.

She was much female, with humor, had this bare smile. I was writing before I knew I was, before GROW BEAT, in San Miguel wrote several lines or ideas but one I remember is: The secret of man is in woman. Hot damn. Otherwise I would have returned to wolf.

Margarita's real name was Emilia, though if I have it right, one sister of this family in Cortezar is named Margarita. Cortezar is not far from San Miguel. Emilia's husband had kicked her in the stomach when she was pregnant and run off to work in the U.S. The pregnancy miscarriaged. There had been a son already, whom she took to San Miguel, where her sister, Josefina, worked in El Bordel. Josefina had retired before I came, but she was later my friend in my search for Emilia/Margarita, and how four years onward I located the true love in Cortezar. Margarita, in San Miguel, had firstly only waited on tables, in El Bordel, but got pregnant, maybe from this gringo writer character, but she had Guyo, very lively, gringo looking child I met as an infant when a woman friend brought him to visit her in the hospital, where she had the tumor removed which was attributed to the husband's kick. Most of GROW BEAT is my visiting her in the hospital, and there I discovered she is illiterate, and my amazement caused tears. Josefina is not illiterate, and told me Emilia would never settle down in school. Josefina has literary talent, wrote a short poem to me, long lost now, but strong, well structured.

In the states in my condition I could never get any money together at all. One trip I was down there to be getting five dollars a week from my parents and would be waiting and hungry and write them I was starving. My parents never had money. Lyla tells me this house was built off B.E.'s poker earnings. I remember my father complaining to me that I had written them I was starving. I was, I answered. In the sixties, with five a week to eat, I could live inan adobe room around a little courtyard with uno shitter. I would have the shits and get on through in a couple of weeks, get resistence going. Though, there was a trip, I thought I was killed, too wasted to rise from cot to arrive at the public shitter. A Mexican, a friend of friends, apparently saved my life, with red wine and lime juice. Today, I cannot get these several trips in sequence. I remember the five a week trip and Josefina visiting me in my hole in wall, yet my memory does not have me meeting Josefina till two years later. Amazing, but to go see Margarita in Cortezar after four years, I got crazy old friend Sieb to foot the bill, for he was somehow in possession of some hundreds of dollars from being kicked out of the army for paranoid-schizoprenia.

Then Margarita was reunited with the husband, and they had had another male child, and the husband did not love Guyo, who was a sullen boy. Margarita had some love for her husband and they were getting along. Here is funny tales - when matters got dramatic Sieb gave me fifty dollars and went to Port Aransas with word I had been about to get him killed. Real world, reel world. Ah, the husband in his temper did bring up did I want to fight. Emilia/Margarita had jumped into bed with me, a morning for the market, and sometimes he could hit her but she knew better than to leave with me. I said to him that my being larger he could use a knife. I had enough Spanish in those years. I had a move, from past life or genius inspiration, to get a knife, a feint oblique of the knife hand, then other direction slide through the ground, but kick the crotch on the way by. Then, simply enough in rebound, torque on in the telling blow. Take the head face up in crook of arm, and swing. Snap left, right up. Whatever, but he passed. Thought we should go visit the police force. I went along, and the police I already knew - we were friends - they had checked out me and Sieb first thing. I do not remember the husband and me visiting the police station, but next day or so the chief of police smiled he could have milia kidnapped for me if I paid him, a reasonable fee, I forget. Emilia/Margarita had collected from her market money this secret stash of pesos and in order for me to even get out of town gave me fifty pesos. She had always felt bad that back in San Miguel she had in the hospital someway, some ruse I disremember, got me to give her most of my money. And, next there, my finding her gone from the hospital, and back inside the bordello, which suited the madam whom she owed for at least the hospital bill, this was my first adult trauma, I wept. She later, as girls will, would leave the bordello and her pile of debts. I departed Cortezar, went shrimping out of Brownsville and got hepatitus, went to the marine hospital in Galveston and next my parents in Baytown had me there again. I think this was around when Jackson Jones was out of the Air Force because - as his father like mine had been transferred from Aransas Pass to Baytown by Standard Oil - he briefly discussed with me our getting a car and going to kidnap Margarita. We were unfocused, distracted, for example had this memorable brawl on the Galveston sea wall with some other rowdies and our Aransas Pass blood brother Tommy Atkins fell maybe six feet and broke his cheekbone on a piece of cement. Always in my suffering are so many other meanwhile funny stories and this stuff was forty years ago. Or 39 or 38, suddenly I am remembering I rode to the Cortezar cop station with Margarita's husband in his pickup - wow, this poor Mexican had managed a life, had something going.

But I would run out of next moves. I would fall in love with a black girl in Berkeley in 1964, and in Berkeley another in 1965 or 1966, traumatic situations in the longer hauls. And other women to a sum of ten or twelve dramas, of course past incarnational. All is same trip, my being maladjusted to pretentious, noxious, boring, U.S. twentieth century workaday experience. It is so boring for me to be working for living quote unquote in it. Had I sufficient money it would have been tolerable. Seems karma was too heavy for me to meet the wealthy and intellectual glamor girl. Ow well, now I am living with my old mother.

The essays Henry Miller wrote in the fifties about the United States were regards its schizoid pretension. I ought to read again THE AIR CONDITIONED NIGHTMARE, have not since maybe 1958. I am not recalling if Miller did suggest causes.

We had beatnics, then hippies. The media hammers and hammers. The "War on Drugs" I think came early in the Nixon administration. Liberal articles on marijuana facts are always good for one day in any newspaper in the states from 1967 to 2002 and in any of these years can be perfectly alike. We have more prisoners than China or Russia. It is perfectly insane.

Cocaine brings more revenue than petroleum. Naturally involved in the U.S. are highest officials and if the President is not directly getting a cut he understands legalization of illicit drugs would cause a depression, at least in the United States.

Is it not amusing, normal TV newsfolks sit in little circles discussing their world, and there can be 3 or 4 or a half dozen males, effete in their ties, and a single female, who is younger, genetically better looking too, in a mini skirt, one hand on a knee, imparting as frequently and as knowledgeably as the dorks who are not allowed on camera to look at her healthy legs.

In that world, if Oswald or O.J. or John Walker Lindh are picked to be guilty, but rogue journalists point out all evidence is fake, the main media has but to hammer, till via repetition, fact is unacceptable. It is without meaning in main stream U.S. there are Palestinians in any refugee camps. It is unheard the U.S. kills more Iraqui children slowly a month than U.S. citizens died in kamakazie of 911. Politically, unlimited murder from U.S. Presidents abroad is acceptable. U.S. citizens do not mind the U.S. coming assault on Iraq is oil. They do not mind nobody regular in their news is allowed to speak this. I suppose they appreciate the scenario Saddam is giving terrorists weapons of mass distruction to bring to the U.S. Or would they rather not live in fear. I dOn't know.

It is ingrained in U.S. culture that facts are least important, or if nobody tells, they are least important. My family treated their slaves good. They wanted for nothing. Just tell nobody slavery is terror, imprisonment, denial of dignity.

Since 1776 denial inside the United States beats that in Russia under Stalin. It is how the Jews got gassed. Citizens of Rome or Great Britian never required any make believe concerning colonizing, ensaving, gutting, paying off, starving, blasting. When in 1776, radicals had won, naturally conservatives kept true to their nature and applauded,and so cowards and everyone white went to mytholgizing, our favor from God Himself. Kind of like returning to the Holy Land and shooting wild Indians.

Because Iraq's culture on women is sick, and Saudi Arabia's is worse, I say bring it all down. Burst that boil, kill millions of innocents for womanhood. Get it over with. Stir that bed of ants. And after tremendous suffering for all involved, the children in Iraq shall have cleanwater and food, or like before the Desert Storm bullshit.

The U.S. will be locked in and bleeding over there, cancer amuck from "depleted uranium." Plenty alcoholism and heroin addiction and profiteering and all forms of depravity and distruction of the culture of Saudi Arabia.

Latin America selling heroin and cocaine for guns shall flood a torrent throughout the U.S. of A., refugees blindly desperate, some who will be armed and shoot back. Rednecks firing on movement in the Texas Brush Country will learn more than women carrying babies. The Anglo ranches at the border shall be engulfed, turned into rancheros, communes. And to Florida, and to Chicago. All babies are the same. It is OK with Jesus.


Nov 7th

Papa,

Just got your letter and $50. Don't worry Damon bought me a fireproof box with a lock to store my money & such in.

It has been a bit chilly hee the past few days. Nice change from the hot weather, but now we need to get around to building a greenhouse for all the plants we have.

Surprised your CD/tape player has went out already. True it is almost a year old, but maybe your next one will last longer. Damon just got a CD burner so I can start making CDs again. Anyways, finally read Cindy's latest Doris - inspiring as usual. Hope Lyla is feeling better.

Love,

Madrea


The Olive address on North Campbell in Aransas Pass is 1776, because a three decades back my sister and her young son, the Dear Reader's dear Geoffrey, were here - an odd period in Bonnie's life she was not employed and she said it was wonderful - and the city extended this far and asked her what number would she like for this address.

Bonnie, while employed as a computer programmer in Los Angeles, has gone through ambitions of being folk singer, movie star, screenwriter, and currently at age 59 while yet employed she is studying to be an M.D. Same time she is interested in alternative medicine. Sometime back she had bought several copies of COYOTE MEDICINE, by a Dr. Mehl-Madrona, to give to friends and she sent one to Bix, who enjoyed it much, and I read and enjoyed it. This M.D., a native American, conducts sweat lodges, is a humanitarian. He will cure cancer and tussle with evil spirits. Bonnie continues traveling between science and shamanism and getting a decent income. I got around to reading Edgar Cayce material. Four decades I have had friends reading the material but it had been a bit dry for me. In this house I came upon four Edgar Cayce books, different takes by three authors, which Bonnie had been reading parts of 30 years ago, oldpaper backs, plus THE SEARCH FOR BRIDEY MURPHY, by Morey Bernstein who just lately died. The Bridey is another story I and amigos were familiar with in the fifties. Life Magazine and other fools went on claiming to have debunked it, their big lie and neurosis, psychosis, schizoprenia. The book itself I had not previously read - had read an excerpt in True Magazine. The book now is fascinating for several reasons, which would be another conversation. Edgar Cayce may be sort of fallible as a prophet, but as a healer, it is sounding like he is infallible. The Edgar Cayce story, this is a phenomenon.

Old Dave (re. TG) has been having "shrinking brain syndrome." I forwarded the COYOTE MEDICINE book to him when he was in a clinic in Taos. His ex-wife was taking his mail and maybe he did not get the book. Not to talk now about his mad ex, The Dear Reader understands many people react to me in strange manner. But lately Old Dave is with a good daughter in Austin, a nurse with girl child and latest boyfriend said to be a good guy. I spoke with Dave last night. He says he never got the COYOTE MEDICINE book. I had in fact sent it in care of another good daughter (he has 3, good daughters), for her to read it to him, for he no longer can read, and who knows where went that book.

Old Dave has a shifty personality. Some call him Shifty Dave. I brought up sweat lodges and Edgar Cayce and LSD and the bountiful Web. But at my speaking of LSD, he went shifty. He once was an acid head. Though always in our twentieth century experience my obsessiveness makes him uneasy, we were good friends but when I talked to him he would pick up a newspaper or turn and start doing something. This time he handed the phone to his daughter's boyfriend and I was very disconcerted getting this strange voice, too disconcerted to hear whatever it was saying, and I said, hey, I want to talk with David! The nice boyfriend handed the phone back to Old Dave. I can barely understand what he is saying, He slurs, no...Bill...not...acid. People are saying Dave is going fast.

Governmental propaganda has obfuscated all issue of illicit drugs. The lilicit stimulants and illicit sedatives bring in more revenue than petroleum while the government is concerned pot and psychedelics might cause thinking, or questioning of authority. Thus the government's media hammers and hammers about "drugs," and even old hippies can get bamboozeled, sometimes even keeping it secret from their children they experienced pot and acid in their youth. Old hippies too can get brain washed that LSD is "bad." Somebody shoots speed and drinks all night and jumps out a window - a thing no acid head or even any first time user could do - less maybe a hundred mikes of acid and two quarts of whisky - the newspaper says LSD.

I withold hurry to opine what it is just exactly with Old Dave, but I prefer he not go so early. Bix says my talk frightens our old partner, and I suspect it really is not my speaking of psychedelics or anything.

I had said, Dave, I don't think you are doomed. I don't think so either, he uttered with difficulty. But, Dave, even if you are doomed, afterall, so what. We don't die. You and I have known each other many times. Old Dave sobbed.

David, get hold of yourself. He did this easily.

David, have I ever told you how when Danny (his late brother, Rattlesnake Dan, re. TG) and I camped in this snowstorm on LSD I learned to chop as well with a hatchet in my left hand as my right hand and I still can?

Yess...Bill. .I...have...heard that many...times.

Dave, anything you can do on acid you can do when you are not on acid.

Bill., .not. . .acid....

Old Dave had known my spiel on psychedelics for decades. He had not heard that one can take LSD and pass piss tests, which surprised me. I had thought this common knowledge, guys in the military know it. True psychedelics are very alike, basically, with visual difference, some temperamental difference, LSD-25, psilocybin, mescaline, and the very many plants on the Earth long known to homosapien containing these and accompanying effects. The difference between LSD and psilocybin and mescaline is micrograms and milligrams. LSD is in micrograms, how in an hour or so it is passed through sweat if not urine, and while getting higher the sailor or soldier can pass any piss test. LSD is a catalyst. It merely sets off chemistry which high adrenalin can set off. LSD does all this, to body and mind, but the pulse need not rise. The pulse certainly can rise, and promote frenzy in previously disturbed minds. And the true hippie can go lie down and see God or take a nap, Or go hiking.

Psychedelic drugs have immense value. Except, our society is sick.

I.. .dunno,..Bill...not acid.

I have a daughter. I have a long life. I have not taken psychedelics suddenly for several years, not since re. LL Kelly and I took strong stuff and I felt I am still getting over being shot through the chest in the 1800s. Perhaps I was shot through the chest...it is not important today. Ah, wrong again it is important, because I am still pissed off.

I need getting one of these big batches of 100 microgram hits. This is frat rat stuff, keep drinking all night easier than with say methodrine. For my own purposes - medicinal - the 100 mikes batch is simplest, in as these little hits do not build much tolerance - I can drop just about every other day, tend to the body and be cheerful.

In my experience peyote is el favorito, designed by THE GREAT SPIRIT OF ALL THINGS for greatest dreaming and psychic power. There are many kinds of peyote, some with alkalcids more stimulating physically, or more dreamy or sedative, or more mescaline and stimulating or dreamy, depends. But today I was speaking of bodily preservation. And maybe peyote covers all that best too. Just let us get past governments. Whew.

Some mornings the dogs and I have gone opposite direction and crossed the Rockport highway over to the intracoastal, and return, takes about an hour. In a tent in a clump of mesquite and salt cedar has lived an old fisherman, Al, for years, has a little female smart mongrel, that past year Medicine impregnated. He got away from me, but Al took it well, intending to get his dog fixed, and he kept two female pups, one dying from rattlesnake. One day Al got snake bit, had to rush off on his bicycle to get help getting to the hospital. In a couple days his thinned puppy caught me and Medicine, whining and following, thus I went and saw Al not home, had to take the pup to Lyla's to fatten her up. This is a sharp pup, Al calls her Puppy.

In these big rains of late I asked Al if he got flooded. He had not, he is high enough. But he says the tides are higher now, because of global warming. He does have one of these radios that get information internationally. We have talked.

How the Jews got gassed is this ever oblivion of the commoners, they who know they have no power and less known of it is less pain. The folks were starved and humiliated as punishment for the first world war, so Hitler appealed. And Germany rearmed, in help from international money corporations, mostly U.S. naturally. We have the same thugs now, except, more, people, fear, starvation, disease, lies. Much of Africa is hell of European rape, and now U.S. oil is into certain countries. I would like it could the children anywhere get clean water again, and food, but it takes time, who knows how long to get past governments.


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