Bill - I showed Steve's postcards to some artists in N.Y.C. and they're going to ask around. "Outsider art." In the meantime, I need to get my promotional flyers ready in case you can make it. Can you send me a couple good photos of you, the cover one for Texas Gang or something similiar, looking like "Wild Bill?" One reason we're using you as the #2 writer on the card is because you have a persona we think can be marketed in New York, authentic Texan, etc., and the flyers have to live up to that. I want them to appeal to all those frustrated yuppie women working in skyscrapers. See what you can find. Thanks. - K
One Sunday or Monday a month or two back I returned from the weekend at my parents', Jim and Bob's sister Mary Jo with niece Venessa had cleaned the kitchen, taken away the sink's heap of stinking dishes. Bob answered me they were gone to Mary Jo's dishwasher. With several utensils left for Jim and Bob was a large stack of paper plates, and several brand new shiny plastic cups. This was good. My impression was the pile of stinking dishes was gone for good. But Xmas the Brundretts had their big Xmas dinner here in the old family house, and there are a few more of their plates here again, still in the drain, too bad.

Jim is not spitting all over the floor and furniture and storming and slamming heels in floor and spooking Medicine Dog since his anti psychotics got increased, couple years or so back. Jim is mostly stretched out and wrapped up in bed even more than Bob now on his couch. This winter we get some colder days and Bob is mostly wrapped in his boots on his couch, but sits up some, at TV. Saturday night late Bob who is more a night person will take the middle room bed for the alarm clock in that room in order to rise for weekly shower and change of pants and shirt to get to pentecostal church in Corpus Christi, prefers that one some way to the pentecostal church in port Aransas. Jim could be seeing more TV himself, from the couch across the living room from Bob's couch, but somehow this winter Jim is messing up the sofa pillows on that couch, till he can't even perch on them without sliding to the floor. He does not muster the force to straighten this sofa, and if it is not sunny or comfortable enough to sit in his porch swing on the front porch - if Medicine is not tied out there, Jim is uncomfortable near the bulldog - his next most likely easiest move is go wrap up in his bed like a mummy in shoes.

Jim's reservation or inability in straightening his couch is like his not being able to fix himself food from any leftover dish that is in the refrigerator. When subconscious protein hunger gets to him too much he may reach in there to pour himself a cup of milk. With their pensions (while john the elder is Jim's keeper and gives him $10 a week to spend), the IGA grocery bill is shared, but Bob does the shopping, and summers he gets a lot of cola, and Jim will reach in there in the summer and drink cola after cola. With the $10 Jim will not buy beer he wants, buys big bags of corn chips, waits for me to buy beer, and if I get him beer he will reach in there for that, drink like a sixpack in a day. I only get him an 18 pack maybe twice in a month. They have to drink coffee and Jim is usually up earlier than Bob and can fix coffee for self with their coffee maker, and, like as not, go wrap back up in his shoes in bed. Bob may or may not remember to pick up the cut peanut butter, the American peanut butter, which Jim can put on bread for himself if Bob remembers to get bread. Bob buys cigars and plenty of sweet roles always, and maybe nothing else if I am around and cooking something, for Bob does not care to wade through the IGA, or go anywhere, but he makes the post office trip faithfully too, knocks on my door or puts stuff on my desk. Many days Jim eats only sweet roles. His belly is big now and he passes from bed through kitchen and living room holding pants in one hand up past his groin. He looks through front door window, see if the bulldog is fastened on his porch. Medicine Dog is spoiled and a restless Sagitarious and goes in and out all the time but if he is not out there, putting fear on Brundrett Street, Jim may judge the weather not too harsh, and go to his swing. But any distraction Jim may lose grip on his pants and they fall below his jockey underwear. These boys were raised in jockey underwear and were drafted and sent to Vietnam and returned and resumed older habit. Pants Falling Down Man is Jim's name for self after reading a few things in a book about Crazy Horse, whom he likes, we like, as Crazy Horse is a singular personality, a weirdo. Bob is more a regular guy and his other job is dole out Jim's pills. Both get Prosac plus mucho anti-psychotics and I don't keep up but maybe toss in another one or two type pills. Bob is not constipated, shits in this middle bathroom every day, but I suppose in Jim's case, his constipation is the anti-psychotics, what else. When I am not here there are three dishes Bob will fix, this is link sausage with canned green beans and canned little white potatoes, to boil, or, pork ribs and carrots with green tops left on, to bake, or, huge hamburgers. I had introduced the boys to half pounders and now when I am not here Bob fries them even larger, to save time. But Bob either way will be eating from these leftovers, and Jim not. Jim will eat leftovers if I warm it up and place it in front of his face, but I have quit that some years back.

John the elder brother or Mary Jo the one sister will at times take up Jim's soiled clothing to put in the washing machine here, and lately Mary Jo has found a pair of Jim's jockey underwear bloody. John drives Jim to mainland to see the VA shrink, whom naturally Jim trusts no more than he would a cop or an armed stranger. The shrink gave Jim three little sticks with cardboard to be dabbing his feces on from three seperate bowel movements. I asked John does he think Jim will do this. John said he does not know. I asked Bob his opinion when he was up in his chair at TV, and Bob said he does not know. A man what does not shit every day nor can fix his couch pillows nor feed self from leftovers from the fridge nor of course answer an uncaring shrink about hearing any voices past couple months, such a man might dab shit on cardboard three different times if his siblings keep at him about it long enough, maybe.

Before William died and Dan had, Jack and Vicki visiting had gone to the men's Club so I with them, and Tiddle asked us why do we think some of us are dead while the others are alive. We found nothing in reply to Tiddle, being stoned, and later I did get around to focus, the couple known deaths before William, Tom Bowman and Dan McConchie, were clearly bad off physically. But, William, is he a month after Dan, nobody was expecting William to go yet. William had some poorer drug practices, and carried fat, but he was strong. In high school he starred as a fullback, and he hurt his knee, then he did power lifting, early ate peyote with Hatch, became a gregarious pothead, pot his drug, and in prison he was a champion power lifter, champion painter, too, the federal one out of Bastrop, Texas. Second time they got him he did maybe eight years, I forget. William Grant had come down with a heart aneurysm, is what I understand now. Nobody had realised this fact and he layed up and shot some smack for pain- I still do not know wherefrom Sammy the preacher's account of it. Sammy's son and William's son are close. I hear Della the one sister of William brought in Sammy, but it does not matter. In a few hours past smack - smack only good for pain, couple hours, William died.

Jim plugs his gouged guts with chips, does not even get the merriment of beer. Beer, he babbles from kitchen or porch in a spirit. Merriment is health. Nobody lives on bread alone. What impossible crap. Beer and marijuana are tried and true human self medication for uncounted thousands of years. I have just seen this Discovery Channel thing on schizophrenia. It was an M.D. thing, of...soul denials? My brother the physical therapist, Kelly, put it, nothing seems to be learned since ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST. What's this, Jim boy, you hear voices, have a double dose of anti psychotics. I said, damn, Kelly, all this prosac one day there could be all these brain tumors or shot livers, and he agreed. Jim got duller after his family had R.D. Hatch III to get his money, and he got onto "medication. But little time anymore for a man a shrieking and a spitting. He buys chips and waits for me to buy him beer..... I am thinking we are entered period of folks who die are not necessarily the ones who look worse.

When I grew up here in the forties and fifties trees on the barrier islands were gone, since the post Civil War cattle industry. Oak trees had held together little fresh water ponds with fishes and crabs and snakes and alligators. When the trees went hurricanes washed and blew away the top soil. From about 1948 to 1955, my family lived on Harbor Island, as did the Joneses and several families, between the mainland and the barrier strip of island of Mustang and Padre. Little Harbor Island, where our fathers loaded tankers, once had oak trees, as accounted by Frenchmen conferring with Karankawas. I used to walk the several dogs down Harbor Island looking for coyotes. This past year there has come this big white gambling ship moored on Harbor Island. The gambling ship must go out a ways for legal gambling, short cruises which cost $20 and one need not gamble and one may eat all the good food one cares to, one may sit on deck and read or enjoy the ambiance. I wonder if Jim has even heard of this ship. He no longer walks far enough to see it across the ship channel. Port Aransas had a population of five hundred in the fifties, and now is some thousands, I forget, it is growing. We were Cub Scouts in this old Brundrett house in 1950, our mothers were the den mothers. I had returned here several years ago now, took cognizance of there being trees in port Aransas. I took the late Chessie and the pup Medicine down the Laguna side, Charlie's pasture, where I and Dan and Sieb had lived in a shack the summer of 1963, if I am correct, and we were run out the start of September for our flagrant vagrancy and wearing goatees like beatniks - well, in Sieb's case, he was AWOL. I am surprised, enchanted this time by little thickets with tough mesquite, some roots bared by erosion of wave of passing ships, some mesquite falling into the dredged channel, while mesquite is tough and it is here. But this is happening with an added tangle of an extraordinarily tough plant, strange plant everybody tells me is the Brazillian pepper tree. I have been told by a retiree this is actual black pepper. It gets small clusters of tiny berries that go from green to red to black and smell rather like black pepper. The pepper tree sprawls with long drooping thickly leafy branches and in order to get enough sun on all this the plant grows taller developing a sturdy trunk, becomes a tree, of great bushy canopy. The pepper tree grows faster than any tree can grow big in two or three years. It destroys oleanders and even aboriginal gnarly salt cedars. It takes deeper root than anything and the citizens cut it down and pile it up for therapy, for the garbage men. But the roots are deep in wetter earth and in half a year the upper plant is returned, wider and taller than a person. It is wondrous, there is no way any regular citizen can kill a pepper tree except maybe planting poison six feet down. Six feet down on these barrier islands, of the Texas Coast a digger is into potable, unsalty water. The pepper tree is no more stopable than possums. I think the natives have not yet awakened. They are alcoholic, they cut it down for sweat and therapy, and kill not root, and kill not seed.

Xmas of 2000 was reasonable, Bonnie had Madrea flown, and not once did Bonnie burst into tears with me, and everyone, including her old buddy David (Bix) Bayless thought her more relaxed than they had seen her in years. Before family were drifting in at the Olive parents' Aransas Pass house, there I encountered Jacky and Jimmy Jones, who were rushing through overnight. They were talking with my loquacious parents their next door neighbors from Harbor Island, who were this night awaiting late arrival of Bonnie, Mike, Madrea Olive. I got the two Jones boys (of 3 brothers and one sister) to follow in their car Medicine and me in pickup to flats just off the causeway, where frequently I do beer stops for Medicine. Jackson and James are drinking and smoking cigarettes, Jimmy saying he has six months to retirement and he isn't sure he can make it. I had not seen Jimmy since maybe 1973 I had seen these guys and brother Larry and sister Caryl one Xmas when our fathers were working in stinking Baytown, Texas, where Texas petroleum is refined and gives me asthma, gads. Then year 2000 I see Jacky and now Jimmy. Out in cool salt night on shrimpboat channel and flats of possum and coon and bird and crab and fish where the bulldog relaxes we drank plenty liquor and beer talking about it all, and world upheaval, disagreeing in a place or so. A thing Jackson said to me I had not heard, is the Libertarian party, who say to legalize drugs and liberate the prisoners, are also addressing the consequent collapse. Though I have known the Libertarian party's objective has been nothing about winning an election but to air these matters the politicos will not, getting what votes they may to help them do so, it surprises me they should be far enough along to speak of that gap that economic turmoil necessary to avoid this presently pending serious carnage, repression, martial law. Our main media has played at times with Ralph Nadir but much less the Libertarian party. I did see the Libertarian candidate, is his name Brown, once on CNN's show Talkback with classy Bobbie Battista, but what's his name Brown said nothing about the illicit drug economy then. If Jackson who sees it we are sliding into a Yugoslavian scenario is purely correct about the current platform of the Libertarian party, all humanitarians should vote Libertarian, to voice opposition against the border wars, this swelling river of blood. U.S. citizens who could fear legalization and collapse do not matter. Children matter, on either side of the river.

Then we went back to the Olive parents' house and let them talk and Mike and Bonnie and Madrea Olive were there. Jones boys and I drank on. Mike or Bonnie hardly drink or even smoke pot. My kid does whatever she wants. When the Jones boys left us they drank on in the parking lot of their Aransas motel. They returned in late morning, while needing to get on their way for their own family Xmas gathering. This time they were having to miss Kelly and Janus and Jessica and Geoffrey. Jack did tell me that when he and Vicki return here this summer to live and for Texasgang. com he will quit smoking and lift weights. Said they had quit before alright, but had bumped into one another out in their backyard, each sneaking out for a smoke. This morning he and Jimmie stepped outside the Olive Aransas house to be smoking chemical cigarettes and R.D. Hatch III had been called and he walked up while we three were in dialogue. Next Mike and Ronnie came out too. From the night's big drinking my nerves were too metabolic and disjointed, and at one point I was not listening, probably dealing with the noisy bulldog - Medicine Dog wants to talk too - Hatch was telling of some case where this guy who was "not my client got whipped on by cops when he was handcuffed. I think Hatch's client was with this guy, something like that. Somehow, my misunderstanding went that the battered fellow had won in court. I do not know how I imagined this. In forty years of sundry associates of mine hit by cops nobody without O.J.'s money can win. Thus, I craved to know exact factors in this case I so imagined Hatch to be talking of. Cops stop me a lot in these forty years. Mainly do they when I am not in a vehicle, just to run down my ID. These instances may be funny stories but due process is not extant. Something of my carriage titilates cops, whether or no I have hair on face, wear Medicine Hat, Cops in this country are the dorks from high school but armed and enforced by the U.S. government and trying to make up. My own leverage with U.S. cops is I might enter their poorer sleep. I use good English and talk neighborly, which helps, my family is aristocratic, but we have the same fear. What if they hit or shoot me or I them. When I am driving, they do not look at my seatbelt, but at my face, and in town I am always forgetting the silly seatbelt and I get on past them. But last month an Aransas Pass cop pulled me over about the inspection sticker. This pickup laid on me that I be on hand for my aging parents is in my father's name and the past year and half or what is it I had not thought about the inspection sticker. I rolled the windows enough to contain my nervous pitbull killer and stepped out of the truck. I was not wearing my Medicine Hat but was wearing a wool cap Jessica Olive gave me a year ago that has her rugby team's logo, Berkeley Blues National Champions. The guy asked for my driver's license and secondly he asked in a smile had I murdered anybody lately. It seems to not matter these dorks encounter some real life, their notions of an outlaw remain with television. I smiled to him who is wasting his own useless time that "not in my case" has anyone been murdered, lately, ho hum. Yet not to go on with one more stupid incident, outside its example. I broke into my lawyer's tale, what is this, this guy won, how did anybody win who was beat up by cops. Next, siblings forever, Mike Olive on my right waylaid me about this black guy beat up on TV because somebody had video taped it, and I was striving to disengage from my brother, and Bonnie Olive up on my left sounded about LAPD - she lives in the Los Angeles big pile and in no time for reading newspapers - the very morning I had chanced to see in the CC Caller Times of all idiot sheets 3 more L.A. cops got off but no time for that for Bonnie because I craved this hallucinated information from my lawyer Hatch. My query was so disrupted, I soon went through this babbling circle, everybody watching, madness. The Jones boys and Hatch were amused. Hatch said, well, Bill, it sure must be tough, to always be RIGHT. Jacky, laughing, tried to put arm around me. I had lost temper with Hatch too, but it was important I get the information. My siblings and the Jones boys promptly carrying on in their charm of one another about their mutual past, I got Hatch off to a side. Therein I learned nobody had won against cops in court, the case was still happening. Here is Bill's lawyer wishing to guffaw with the others but his old compadre is hounded, or disturbed at minimum. Hatch did then put it that the so called war on drugs "is destroying the country". He is hardened, tired, would like to retire and goof off, past couple of months he complains to me that I am "too serious." R.D. Hatch III who is serious for his living is asking me to not be serious in his off time.

That evening, Kelly and wife Janus came in, and Packy Gunter came through, and Richard Hatch who had been home came back over. I could tell of Packy, most talked about person I in my life have known, except one Last Laugh chapter would be no great start. I grow impatient of our surfeit of quips and prattle, whilst Packy craving control like a small child struggles to babble several fold more than anyone else is inspired to babble. Too, the fake war on drugs is rolling the nation and world over a cliff like lemings, and I have a daughter. Mike, Bonnie, Hatch, Packy were guffawing at the dining room table, Packy orchestrating and the others tolerant and glad to see him, Kelly and Janus would drift in to the dining room table to listen to Packy and drift back to a professional basketball game on TV in the livingroom area where B.E. sits at his solitaire, Lyla out from there in her gallery painting on her latest, and I and Madrea have important talk and were sitting well apart from the others in the dining area. Packy maybe had told Madrea hello, but my wise child is not interested in his ordinary performances. I will exchange with Packy when he is sincere, whether or not he is working at humor. Or, he may show depth in humor, when he does not try, when he is not so paranoid or competitive. Argh, enough here on this most talked about man alive. Shortly after my kid had gone on up to bed, and I was thinking about doing so, I heard the drug subject resurge. Or to say a flash of it, nobody was keeping much context. I am like part of this MD definition of schizoprenia given the other night on The Discovery Channel, how I cannot blot out many voices to focus on a single voice I hear the entire clamor, whole thing, can't help it. Hearing a voice singly, of drugs, I thought maybe I could intercept, slow it all down possibly, for some dialogue. But nobody was ready, I failed. I tried two or three sentences, even reminded Hatch he had said the war on drugs is distroying the country. Pissed that I won't quit being serious, my old compadre and lawyer denied he had said this. I pointed out to him, he is turning schizophrenic.

I interrupted the dining table bunch a couple or so more times before I got on up to bed, in as the drug bit resurfaced again. That time it was the so called hippie vein, the hippie drug thing. There are two classes of drugs, or drug takers, in the fake war on drugs, of course, while our government and the nudging fear from the top on down wants it blurred. Ye have ye seekers, which threaten authority, ye have ye "hard" drug market, escapist drugs, smack and crack, which pull in uncounted billions and float the U.S. economy. I heard Mike say drugs used to be important to him but are not any longer. In the earlier sixties Mike had been a student radical on the Berkeley campus, or for a short period before the word hippie was in the newspapers headlines. Mike is quite sociable in a group and will embellish a story and I have seen him claim t o have been a hippy, but he was not a hippy, in my opinion Mike Olive was never altogether comfortable with pot and acid. Bonnie is somewhat in category with Mike, another eccentric with tendencies of rigidity, but who was not uncomfortable with pot and psychedelics, but simply found no particular interest in these means. Hatch, and Packy, were also not real hippies, but were a couple of odder fellows in the Coastal Bend who got into peyote back when it was legal, they found they could purchase it at a nursery in Corpus Christi, and they and friends got far out, got a little startled and before 1965 they were backing off and trying to make a living in the silly society where one who is very earthy is a weirdo. I had been advised by old friends to not take peyote, they feared I was "too morbid." Consequently I only took acid for the first time in, I think, 1966, was amazed it is this, that it is only earthy, or say a biological turn on, which with the human being may be startling, electric, unlimited. was 1t in 1967 the first "be-in" in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, where all these middleclass kids come to the Bay Area to fuck off, were shoving back and forth trying to get nearer the bandstand, and some old dumb fuck standing up there telling them: Welcome to our Brave New World. And the next day the word "hippie" was on the San Francisco Chronicle's headlines. It has made me cross the decades since hearing nostalgic crap about the sixties. The U.S. government nudged its chickenshit media and stepped on the sixties and kept its heel on best it can. People do not know what is real but oh yes we were hippies. Ah, me, I arose from where had been sitting with Madrea before she had gone to bed, and I enabled to interrupt packy, Hatch, Mike, Bonnie, at the dining room table again, said I am never through with psychedelic drugs. This time they were jolly enough to let me get my piece in. I spoke of having just read a book called TRIPPING, by this Charles Hayes, who had put this anthology together of a bunch of people's psychedelic experiences, from the fifties through the nineties, and that maybe much in these accounts which got selected is exaggerated, and too, the folks Hayes selected are all at least making a good living and most of them professional sorts, but one of the more interesting is this guy who says he is an electronics engineer, what is interesting is he says in his work of "wiring the world" he is meeting many scientists, politicians, artists, businessmen and so on, who are using acid all the time, are acidheads, though they are afraid to say they are acidheads, "in a secret society that is changing the world". I chunked this to my clanfolk, was on my way up to bed. I told them I will quit while I am ahead and go to bed, and they were amused. But I was back down the stairs a couple times, tossing in some detail. Hatch said I am too serious. I said hell yes I am serious, we are moving into a police state, I have a daughter.

That night my parents invited Packy to stay over but he secretly needed to go smoke a bunch of cigarettes so drove to Port Aransas to "stay at the Billolive suite," but when he walked into the Brundrett house, Bob and Jim slept, and smells of the living room put Packy off- I expect he never opened the door to my neat room. I think he had wanted some kind of rise out of me saying he would go sleep in it. I could ask him did he open my door, but as there is no instant gratification for him in answering that question, I would get no straight answer. He went out to his car in the Brownrat yard and slept there a few hours. He went over to the Vaughns' for coffee, bemoaning that nobody at the Olives would hear him out. He talked a few hours at Steve Vaughn, who should have been painting. Steve defended him, said Packy did say a couple of interesting things.

Packy surprises us saying he shall retire in six months. With long periods living on unemployment - and one where he got compensated for having arthritis in his fingers from punching a computer and he visited France - nothing to be understood about that one without his receiving instant gratification naturally - he has had these mysterious state jobs, where he "shuffled papers", but last couple years he went to working again he has had this job counceling young men from this prison in Giddings, Tx outside Austin someplace. Back in college he had got a degree in psychology, if that has anything to do with it. All these sudden prisons stuck onto small Texas towns, he got his job and he told his son, who is my close friend, Barron Second Generation, same as he told Bix, to not give me his address, a claim he feared I should bust into his work place and tell these twenty year old crackheads and killers to take LSD, and I suppose his real reason was fear I should snicker at him, though either way I would have to borrow some gas money to get there. Ah, enough, no time for this, for this maniac with a perversion for secrecy. It should be enough, Dear Reader, that I tell you, should ever you live next door to this man, pull him quickly to your bosom, that if you should not, you would have a ... dangerous paranoid, a creative paranoid, for your neighbor.

And Hatch wants to retire, but in his mind cannot yet. In his moment of honesty he will say the fake war on drugs is arranging law upon police state law, wrecking the constitution.

Nothing much complex about it. Start from 1776. All men were not equal, ever. Entire twentieth century people of mostly darker skin were frequently jailed and killed when innocent. Hypocrisy unto the schizoid, devide and conquer. Right at the end of the twentieth century the U.S. Supreme Court, via DNA, is exposed to have been chickenshit. Darker skinned people already had begun standing up to the U.S. presidents. By time of Ruby Ridge rednecks had taken to seeing that macho ignorance in itself is chickenshit, that they and their white kids were getting nothing. It becomes official homosapiens are 100,000 years the same critter, skin and hair and noses come and go, same critter, same mass of clumsy gray matter. Should a bloke be a hippie, should a bloke go on the dole, should a bloke get a job and raise some kiddies. In the United States of North America, more children wish to kill their sick parents. More children get tortured. More adult ass raped wretches turn to serial killing here than ever in Canada or Mexico or anywhere else on Earth. Of course the drug market is biggest here. Forget the hippy stuff, a huge population is buying crack and smack, forget the ghettoes. Tragedy abounds, offending pothead mothers ripped from their children, marijuana as scapegoat. The average high school kid before greater stress likes pot better than crack or smack but our media does not care about much that is true. It is doubtful Big Brother has a plan. This is fear.

First we will get this talk. Talk is the American way. More wetbacks are killed, and shot. More crackers get violent. More wetbacks return fire at crackers and Border patrol. More wetbacks run drugs. The Border patrol runs more drugs. It is where the money is. Naturally cops on both sides of the river will collaberate, less fear, more profit. More crackers and wetbacks gang up and marry one another, less fear, more profit. Sometimes cops and peons and crackers will all get married. This will frighten regular U.S. citizens and retirees who have not experienced rape by crazed IRS. Talk starts, how a little martial law, to straighten it all out, we best try this. In 1967 or 1968, Danny McConchie put it: people reading of a military takeover in their newspapers the next morning would head on to their jobs.

"and blood of man will live past the law no matter who you kill, you just can't kill them, the young will kill you like the Mescan Texas Gang killed the posse what had finally killed the old Texas Gang. Anytime you get a state under law you will have to kill and get killed before your pipes and faucets can even rust, and you ain't believing in God then."

Bix was visiting us at the parents' house and Packy came back through then. Bix is retired and moved back to the Coastal Bend and Packy was having to return to his prison town. If say back in 1960, Packy and I could have been more or less equally crazy, in our different propensities, he is crazier now because of his greater respect for authority. Packy tried to make it in the city state and I was aboriginal and proudly remained so, had a lark with psychedelics, wrote TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG, and my attorney got me SSI so that I could retire from any problem about sufficient food. Wheras, Packy's paranoid delusions evolved immensively creative - might I say again there is not space in any single LL for this material - and he paid for every sort of therapy he could find inclusive of rolfing and a Catholic priest, except reincarnational, tried a hypnotist and balked at any reality and so on - today he is fatter than he has ever been, addicted to chemical cigarettes and losing honesty and deluding self that to fuck somebody's wife or girlfriend is significant, etcetera. My partner Bix is one more separate case, unto infinitude, not even twin humans are alike and so on. Bix is up for and we wish to encourage old Packy. Maybe when old Packy retires from this regular nightmare of working for wages he can start clearing up, a tad, remembering who his friends are, shift into some sincerity, reality. We did get his attention, this next morning, to welcome him to write, for, and hopefully realistically, without his gnarled concepts. No telling what he could do, on retirement, maybe in a year or so.

Month or two back, at a supper with my parents, neither whom I have been ever to predict, as I am apt to repeat, in its significance, I thought to amuse myself saying I am invited to read in New york except I have to get my own plane fare.

Lyla said to me she hopes someday I might make a living with my writing. She whacked that one before it got further, always afearing these days of rattling B.E.'s reality. She lopped it off so quickly I was surprised. I had hoped to get some humor from it. That they in New york who think my writing is real cannot afford my plane fare.

Month or so back, one of my siblings, had said to B.E., that as he and the original Jack Jones were partners, now second generation, Jackson and Bill are again, have a Website. Billy Eugene knows not a thing about the Internet and wants to keep it so. Yet he surprised my siblings in a sudden clarity, said: Well, no reason why they shoudn't, they are both intelligent men, they are both good writers. This mildly shocked everyone. B.E. had not even been informed that Jacky is writing also. Hell, in my own memory, he never agreed I am intelligent, if even a writer. These are strange times. Week or so after my aborted attempt at stirring up anything between the three of us, I had, some way as I tend to do, rather conversationally, tossed at Lyla aside that in New York they were hinting at their going into more debt to maybe get me and Steve Vaughn to New york, artist Vaughn to be sketching the affair. Lyla respects Steve's work. Really, Wenclas sounded a bit frantic and had impressed me with a short zine, how he had gone into a bar and told these locals about the underground read, featuring a giant from Georgia and a wild man from Texas. Jones has scanned the short Wenclas zine for and hope to hell he alerts to artist sensitivity, catches any errors. Too, he is doing the latest DORIS, about feminism, and Cindy is my favorite but messy in a charm, and missing a word in one of her sentences could wreck the sentence. Anyhoo, maybe it is a week later, I was standing with Lyla well aside, admiring her current painting. She surprised me totally off the wall. She said she would get my plane fare to New york providing Steve can get his, but "to keep this quiet right now." I was kind of knocked over, bewildered. She is also the only person these days I could leave wild Medicine with, she likes him and has this large fenced yard with squirrels. I have not inquired about this condition that Steve get his ticket. I used to hitch hike to New York, early sixties. What is this, Steve is sober but I draw cops, don't know. Is Lyla becoming a seer? But, now, Bix can come. Bix is a good bodyguard, yay.

My father is dying faster than he was, and I come from Aransas and put on beans in crockpot Bonnie had given me somewhere back, and put in oven turkey drumsticks and brown rice and turnips I grew in Lyla's garden, and get a bit drunk pulling my mind to a focus, partly watching how long it will take Jim to find beer in fridge, sitting back in my room partly listening to his babble. I drink some Negro Modelo, drink a little Virgin Islands type rum by Ron Carlos I learn why writers are drunks. I wish to not be a drunk. I have far to go. I have a daughter. I am imagining what must Karl Wenclas be encountering, trying to do all this, such a vision he has taken on. I may be living with Lyla soon, one of us should, she is spirited but eighty years old, or is it eighty one in March, surviving broken hip and leans on a fancy staff. But Jim's better nutrition has been when I fix a dish or have a pot of beans out, before anything goes into the fridge, this darker place in his mind.

By now it is not just my family but old friends too agreeing my temper is worse. Maybe when Tammy gets out of school in a year and sets me up with a computer, maybe I should get a hoard of weed and LSD like used to do. I am seldom seeing the website at this point. Saw it couple days ago briefly with some of Lyla's paintings, and very amusing big prices Jackson is putting on_humble Lyla's paintings. I was appalled though drinking a sixer of Negro Modelo seeing this mountain of errors he has left for me to get at on a heap of my stuff he has on there now. Maybe this was the twentieth of January - it kept me awake. Five A.M. I had to climb over Medicine burrowed under my electric blanket in my mother's house and go out to my truck and pull out my new fifty pound dumbbells and pump out, like in thirty Coastal Bend degrees out there. I have a journey.

But Jackson is invaluable, and an artist too - verbal, this loud guy swinging at this little guy on the Galveston sea wall - you kicked me in the nuts: - and he catches the guy with a round house right. Right, sir, same hero what bit off a finger of his first father-in-law. We are artists only, whoever might ever do the labor. We should hire the secretaries, the editors, big time workers, someday, and so on, forever.