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Sundays are the worst
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 535
Sundays are the worst Wake up, hit the café, but you can only drink so much coffee. There's the heat of the afternoon, find a bench, enjoy the sunlight, follow the sun from bench to bench, lie down, nap, listen to the fading of conversations passing by, invariably trivial things that really don't need to be spoken about, certainly not out loud. Move on, find another bench, read a book, by 4:30, 5;00 it's starting to get cool, then by 6:00 it's time for a sweater. And the sun goes down and there's little to do, spend money in a bar, restaurant, but all this spending money, it's unsustainable. And these days off, October, it's crazy to see how on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon the streets are empty, where is everyone? Sunday, no library to hide out in, nowhere, really, and the weather, for a few hours OK, then too cool and even that will soon be over.
I need a place, and soon...
Bedbugs and Vietnam
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 761
First Dream: That a friend was returning some coats I had given him for dry cleaning (dark skinned, I recognize him - ??? - who?- in the dream as a friend), and I see upon one of my blue suit jackets what appears to be a little white bedbug, and I'm handing them back to him, this won't do, and now do I have to change all my clothes, bedding? And did he dry clean them in the first place and if he did why in the heck are there bedbugs on it?
To this he just shrugs, not his problem, it's no big deal...
Second Dream: That I am in Vietnam with my family, not Vietnam with not-my-family, it's someplace else, a dreamscape, the colors too pastel, the grass the plastic kind you see in Bento boxes, when up from the grass there rises a green viper, it strikes me on the leg, but, surprisingly it doesn't bother me, I examine the wound, bite marks, what looks like plasma running down...
Across the river there's an kindly older Vietnamese lady who's showing me some large old coins, the busts of king or politicians on one side, the rest of the coin is worn away, just the busts, rococo stylized swirls of fabric, and I resolve to take a few of these with me as souvenirs
Poetry Slam - Moved Indoors
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 456
On Sunday, the Poetry Slam, moved indoors, into the old used bookstore on Baker, the room is full. I'm late and so have to sit close to the front beside an older hippy. Carpet Vest guy isn't here, perhaps it's too far from his home under the bridge, or, as likely he's picked up with winter approaching and found himself better digs.
The standard readers, with an emphasis tonight on the older readers. Beside me the older hippy gets on the sign-up sheet, he'll be reading, not poetry, but a chapter from his upcoming book on his life in a commune...
When he gets up and begins reading it's clear it's not what should be read here, much like an agricultural report or dry biographical details of someone you have no interest in whatsoever. He's reading to us from Chapter 73 of his untitled Opus, in which he details the commune experience, "100 elders and 200 children, we worked 3 days on, 3 days off, except for the summer solstice....we talked about the Vedas and the Upanishads...we took turns minding the children..."
After about 5 minutes the host/mediator gently tries to cut him off...it's only supposed to be 3 minutes. "Almost done..." he barks, he's got to get this read....after another minute the bell rings, and he barks again "I'M NOT DONE YET!" as if he's paid for the time, and then, swearing at the hostess, the audience in general, he's lost his temper and he's as much swearing at himself for tipping his hand, all of this, and he storms out of the crowded bookstore. Your classic bad sport, your older hippie-asshole who's mastered the theory of some spiritual practice or another, but not the application, and if this reading was intended to reach or convert any new disciples it failed miserably. His was a heartfelt entitlement and arrogance, the first example I've seen at one of these readings.
It will be an interesting winter...
Haruki Murakami - First Person Singular
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Books
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I liked this, he's an easy style of telling you stories that "happened to him", "First Person Singular", easy to read, and always with a little twist.
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