Chugging Along

Monday, November 12, 2012—Long Beach, CA

Long time no write—for all the usual reasons. Mostly what’s been keeping me away from here has been school. I’m at that point in the semester when things start piling up. I’ve just about dug my myself out a deluge of grading. I have another big pile of stuff coming in next week, though. But once I’m thru that I should have a few weeks of relative calm until finals start rolling in. I’m feeling pretty burnt out at the moment, but not to the point of past semesters. Still, I’m looking forward to winter break, to some time to myself, to write, think, and generally get into grooves that don’t revolve around teaching.

A few interesting things have been going on, though. I’ve just signed on to do a reading in Sacramento at the beginning of January. It’s going to be a combo gig with Myler and Starr, S—‘s band. It’s at some coffee shop/bar, which looks like it could be a good venue. It’s been a long time since I’ve read anywhere (about three years now, not since the demise of Acres of Books). Readings aren’t something that interest me all that much these days (maybe because poetry is not something that interests me all that much), but it will be nice to get out there again. It will of course also be cool to do a gig with S—. I’m also looking forward to getting out of the L.A. Basin. The literary culture here, like most other things, largely because of our urban geography, is so fragmented that it might as well not exist. Smaller communities like Sacramento are where one can really connect with a readers on a level other than book sales. I wish I could move someplace like that, someplace smaller and more graspable. I’ve spent years writing about Southern California, as my way of trying to get a handle on this place. I believe I’ve succeeded in this—and I don’t like what I’ve found: a collection of communities that don’t understand each other, that don’t want to understand each other because their inhabitants are either trying to hide from the other, or because they’re so broke that all they have time to do it to work. The rich-poor divide in other words. I want to live someplace that has actual civic conversations. I’m tired of feeling as if I’m doing battle with nearly everything around me …


Been reading a fair bit. I’ve gone thru most of two volumes on Roman Britain and am currently involved in a popular history based around the journeys, of Posidonius, a Greek philosopher (b. around 130 B.C.E., I think) thru some of the then Celtic regions of Europe. I’m also finishing up Dracula (I got a little burnt out on it and put it away from a bit). The second half of it is definitely not as good as the first. The main problem is that it goes on to long, which causes the tension to slacken (a hundred pages could easily be edited out). It’s still a fun book, though, to the point where it’s gotten me interested in reading some more serious work in that general genre and era. I just ordered a copy of The White People and other Weird Stories, by Arthur Machen. I also got other Machen books on my reading list, as well as a couple books by Lord Dunsanay, which I’ve been wanting to get to for a while. Other projects I have on the back burner include increasing my knowledge on European pagan religions and starting George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series (I dig the cheesy TV series made from them and could really use some fat escapist fiction over winter break).

Thinking about my own writing of late as well. I’m doing a little better in accepting my fallow period. Still I have projects on the horizon. They’re really fuzzy, though, broad outlines or in some cases little more than feelings. I like where they’re going, though—because I know I’m where I should be with them. I’ve been thinking about the third Backwaters book too. But I’m still too burnt out on that world to put any work into it.

On the subject of books … My sister got me a Kindle for my birthday. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole e-book world. But I’m interested in checking it out. I’m a little worried that the rise of that world is tied mostly into convenience—having tons of “books” at your fingertips is certainly easier than having to have a big dusty library. But convenience is not the only criteria for a good reading experience, and I get the feeling that e-books will ultimately take away more than they give. I’m trying to go into things with an open mind, though—there’s nothing to lose by giving this new world a try …

Dracula Musings

Saturday, October 27, 2012—Long Beach

The heat is back, this time courtesy of some moderate Santa Ana winds, which began coming in a few days ago. As usual, as well as cranking up the temperature, they’ve dried everything out (dry skin and chapped lips are the order of these days) and stirred up a bunch of dust and pollen, which has had me sneezing my head off. Still, I don’t mind this weather too much. There’s no humidity, to go with the heat, which means things are still comfortable. Also, unlike summer heat, the desert air coming in cools off at night (it actually can get a bit chilly), so my apartment cools off too and I can get a good night sleep. It wouldn’t surprise me if these winds are with us off and on for much of the next few months. It’s been a decade and a half since we’ve had a heavy Santa Ana winter and we are way overdue.

My school routine goes on, but I’m suddenly ahead of the game, so I’m moving thru it pretty easily. This has left me a little more time than usual to myself. Last night I spent some of that time having dinner with K—, who’s in from Rome. Mostly, though, I’ve been just relaxing at home, taking care of some long-put-off housework and attempting to relax; I’ve been feeling pretty uptight lately and when I start feeling like this I know it’s time to withdraw a bit and recharge. Mostly I’ve been spending my time trying to get caught up on my sleep (which hasn’t been going too well, mainly because I’ve been dealing with a series intense dreams that have also been annoyingly nonsensical). I’ve also been diving into my reading.

I’m still chipping away at the Verlaine poems (I can’t quite get into them, though). I’m still working my way thru Grimm’s complete fairy tales as well. A few days ago I started reading Dracula, by Bram Stoker. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a novel (maybe even a book) so much. I tried to read it several years ago but couldn’t get into it. I now have no idea why. It’s simply one of the most fun novels I’ve ever run into. Great ideas, great atmosphere, great imagery—great creepy everything. Well, there’s actually not much in the way of character development, but that’s OK, because that would just slow things down. It’s a book about plot, broad desires: the characters so far seem to be mostly types, or at their higher moments, symbols—who they are is all of us, from different angles, which is a kind of writing I’m coming to greatly appreciate …

I’m seeing a lot of myself in Stoker’s masterpiece. More accurately, I see my goals. With the Backwaters books I’m trying to write this sort of simple mythology, this kind of innocent storytelling. The story fragmentation of our post-modern world seems to me to be coming out of a kind of social dead end. The inwardness, the lack of plot is almost analogous to our giving up on something greater, on forces beyond us. We’ve been everywhere, done everything, disproved the mysteries, so there’s nothing else left but narcissism, cynicism (I know because I’ve been caught up in this as much as anyone). I want books to be about big things—hope, terror, love, death. Most of our literature today is about ennui, in some manner and from some angle. Adventure should not be a dirty word amongst novelists. The trouble is when we think of adventure today we think of crappy Hollywood movies. This is all part of our exhaustion—we expect fake thrills to be pushed upon us because all that’s left for us is exploitation augmented by our delusions ...

Man, this has all got huge somehow (and pretentious?). Wasn’t I just talking about a vampire novel? The point is I want books to be fun! I want life to be fun. These are almost unheard of desires in the art worlds today. I’m becoming more a child of Homer than Hamsun (talk about pretentious!) …


Been rethinking some things. My Greek studies have fallen off. Maybe this is for a reason. I’m thinking of expanding my travels this summer. I still want to head back to the Greek isles, but maybe that should just be part of where I go. Reading Dracula has got me thinking about eastern Europe (there’s a few places there I’ve wanted to see for a while). Last night K— also recommended Croatia as being a place I might like. I’m feeling a bit more of a bounce in my step since I started thinking like this. I tend to get obsessed with things, places, people, and when I do life starts to become a job. This, I think, is because it is my nature not to be tired down. I believe this is why I get obsessed so easily: I’m looking for something more permanent. Because my own nature frightens me a bit? Too much freedom is lonely? I’m on some level trying to fit into broader society (why is hard to say—out guilt, desire to be loved?)? I’ve been writing about how I want to move on in so many ways? Changing my traveling plans could be a part of that ...


Just realized that I started reading Dracula a handful of days before Halloween. Just a coincidence, I think: I've been planning on hitting this book since last summer ...

Moving Forward ... Slowly

Saturday, October 20, 2012—Long Beach, CA

Busy week, but a very productive one. Somehow, for the first time since the beginning of the semester, I’m not only caught up on my teaching work, but I’ve gotten ahead of the game—I’ve written all my upcoming exams and study guides, made the last of my lecture revisions for the entire semester (with the exception of one lecture). I’ve even managed to clean up my house a bit and catch up on some correspondence. On top of all this I proofread all of Backwaters of Beauty this week (I’m going go thru it once more and then get it to some outside proofreaders). I’ve even managed to work out four of the last six days. One result of this, though, is that I’m now exhausted: it’s only 7:15 on a Saturday night and I’m already in bed, for the night.

I’m not out of it just because of this, though. My seemingly endless sinus infection is still existing at a moderate level. One of the worst aspects of a sinus infection, at least for me, is how draining they are; when fighting them I always feel a little run down and at times I’m completely wiped out. This week featured a lot of the latter. In fact this one’s been a particularly annoying infection all around. In addition to being really tired, I’ve been feeling feverish from time to time and there’s been a lot of pressure throughout the lower part of my face (at times). Most annoying is that my teeth are hurting, (though not as bad today as earlier in the week). This sometimes happens when I get a sinus infection. This time around is a little different, though, in that my lower teeth have been hurting as well. If this thing doesn’t start clearing up soon I’m going to have to see a doctor. Luckily I’ve been planning on setting up an appointment for a checkup anyway.

As usual for this time of year there’s not much going on beside work. Still, I’m trying to squeeze some other things into my life. In addition to proofing Backwaters I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing and where it’s going. I’ve also been thinking about my life in general. I’m almost sure now I’m going to lose the Irvine job at the end of this semester. This is going to force me to move in some new direction, if for no other reason than I need to replace that income. I’ve also found out that the lit graduate program I have been seriously considering going into has been canceled because of state budget cuts. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I need to shake up my life but maybe yet another degree is not the answer. I love the idea of throwing myself into such a project, and of getting the teaching monkey off my back, but I know I don’t need the degree, on a personal level—intellectually I am not a work in progress. Besides the fun of it, the main reason I’d be doing the degree is to expand my teaching options—for money in other words. I’ve found that whenever I do anything primarily for the money it’s a mistake. My problem is that I’m already who I should be—I have enough degrees—but who I am does not pay. I have many things I want to do, need to do to be happy, to be who I am. But poverty thwarts me. This is the long run could be a good thing. I need to force certain issues in my life, break free from constraints, which are coming from both the outside and from within me. Having few traditional options could be a big benefit—I’ll be forced to cut my own path, a path that could from me from the both kinds of the constraints that hold me. The problem is of course figuring out that path (or perhaps how to continue that path—isn’t this, cutting my own path, something I’ve been doing my whole life) …


Not writing much. The Backwaters stuff has gone fallow. I’ve been playing around with some ideas in my head, but little has made it on paper. The truth is I don’t really want to write much these days. Writing is often about not writing. I’ve found that successful writing comes at the end of things, after certain decisions have been made in one’s life; it’s the finishing touch. Right now things are growing inside me; I’m coming to new conclusions. Any writing I do now (besides here, of course) would just be to fill space, a waste of time, in other words. I think I’ve known this for many months at least, but haven’t been able to admit it. Writers, by which I mean serious writers, have often given up a ton to do what they do—writing is all they have. When the writing stops flowing panic sets it because a writers identity seems to be ebbing with it—and without that identity a writer truly feel to be worthless. I think I’m getting over this fear. If so, this must mean that I’m growing up a bit, that I really understand who I am …


Been reading a book called The Civilization of Europe in the Renaissance, by John Hale. Good stuff, a slow and winding take on many topics of that era. Very erudite. I’m also still slowly working thru my big book of Grimm’s fairy tales. Picked up Selected Poems, by Paul Verlaine, from Oxford World’s Classics (I love their books). I grabbed it mainly because the translation looked good. I’ve been interested in getting into Verlaine for a while, but every time I’ve tried crap translations have quickly put me off. I’ve only read a handful of poems so far, but I think I might finally have found the right edition; the translator is ignoring the rhymes and going for the big-picture feel of the work, which is something I almost always approve of in regards to translating poetry.


There’s still not enough people in my life. S— and E— were in town a couple of weeks ago, which was great. Seeing them, though, made me realize, as it always does, how I’d like to have those close to me closer, geographically; I’m just about the last of my friends who has remained in Southern California. K— is in town from Rome. I haven’t seen her yet, but we’re planning on getting together next week. I’m sure seeing her will stoke similar feelings as those I felt with S— and E—. Again, I need to make some changes in my life …


Lots of weird dreams lately. Not bad dreams, for the most part, just odd—strange swirling stuff whose existence I feel the need to note, but don’t interesting enough that I want to spend the time writing them down. I wish I could sleep more soundly. I’m tired of what’s running around in my head at night …

Old Ground and New

Saturday, October 15, 2012—Long Beach, CA

A warm, mild day, high 70s, a touch of breeze. A nice change after the cold little storm that moved in a couple days ago. It’s supposed to be back up into the high 80s (at least) by the beginning of next week. I’m not looking forward to that, though I prefer those temperatures to having to ride my scooter thru the icy rain, like I had to do on Thursday. Like most Southern Californians I’m never quite happy unless the weather is perfect, which I define as being about between 72-74 degrees with a slight cooling breeze and just enough humidity so one’s sinuses don’t dry out. A lot of people agree with me on this, I assume, based on the facts that we often come at least close to this weather nirvana and that so many people live here.

Feeling scattered lately, (which might be why I haven’t written here in quite a while). I’ve been busy in all the wrong ways and I’ve been feeling very confused as to what should be my next move, in regards to a lot of things—in other words I’m feeling pretty much as I felt for the last year or so at least. I do know that I want to shake up my life. I’m still not sure how I should do this, though. Get an English masters? Move to Greece, their economic collapse be damned? Stay here and just find some other job than teaching? Throw myself hard into publishing and see what happens there? Probably connected to all this is that I’ve been feeling alternately old and that I’m still relatively young, that I still have so many good years ahead of me. I think this means I’m simply at the end of something—I am old in regards to what I’m doing, but I will be reborn once I figure out what’s next. An hopeful, downright enchanting, thought, (which makes me distrust it—we fear decline and death so much that our minds can conjure up all sorts of improbabilities to avoid facing these inevitabilities). Despite my misgivings I’m inclined to think I’m right on this one. I swear I see flashing lights one the horizon, and I’m can’t shake the feeling that they have something to do with me.

On a more down-to-earth note, a lot of my problems I'm seeing more clearly than ever stem from my teaching anthropology: I’m bored to death of it. Because of this, I don’t think I’m doing a particularly good job of it lately, which makes me feel less than thrilled with myself (especially as I know that I’ve got it easy, that the world is filled with people who do things like mining coal, working in slaughter houses, and hauling garbage who’d kill to have as cushy a life as mine). Figuring out how to make enough money to survive, while still having time to write, and not teaching anthropology is the key for me. This is why I’m again thinking seriously about going back to school and getting an English lit masters. I still like teaching, I think—I’m just teaching in the wrong field. (Damn it! I’ve been writing about this kind of stuff for many months—make a change, Rob, do something!)

There’s been little time for much beyond teaching and keeping the basics of my personal life together. But I have been discovering some new music, lots of stuff British acid-folk and related music from the sixties and early seventies I’ve either never heard and had before only explored lightly. So far my favorite of these discovers are the band called Trees, which released two amazing albums before disbanding. They'd fall into the same broad category as Fairport Convention, though with a harder edge. They’re also more consistent songwriters than the former. The best Fairport songs are better than the best Trees songs, but Liege and Lief is the only Fairport album that stands up as a whole to the Trees albums. I’ve also been listening a lot to a far more obscure band from England called Dando Shaft. Their first album is one of the most brilliant and original folk recordings I’ve ever heard—swirling mandolins, wild tunes that both drive and waft at the same time, that are both whimsical and serious, traditional yet totally original. Strange good fun.

Haven’t been able to read much. I keep starting books and then putting them down. Part of this is because my time is too limited to take on books that demand a great of concentration over a long period—I simply lose track of and then interest in such work. There’s also a been-there-done-that feeling that comes over me when I read many books these days—I feel like I’ve figured out the book long before its end, which of course makes going further a drag. This really bothers me because it connects perfectly with how I’m feeling about many aspects of existence. There’s a repeat quality to so much of what I do these days, so much of what passes thru my world—little surprises or thrills me anymore. This obviously ties into what I was discussing earlier and it scared me. For example, I’ve been trying to read Dangerous Liaisons, by Choderlos De Laclos, a classic 18th-century French novel, a majoy classic. It’s a great book—I recognized this in the first few pages. It snaps, sizzles, while deftly diving head first into the human condition—and I got it after about fifty pages—I didn’t feel the need to read anymore, I knew more or less what would happen, what would have to happen. This is definitely my problem, not the book’s, not life’s (so to speak). Again what (if anything) can I do about it? What will make me enjoy experience again? Where is my God damn sense of wonder? (but then again, like I just said, I have been really enjoying some of my musical discoveries—this bodes well for me having a future). Oh well, fuck it. I have been reading and enjoying White Bicycles, by Joe Boyd, a record producer and manager, who worked with a lot of artists I adore, including many in the acid folk world I’ve been exploring. It’s a very well-done memoir of his life in music and I’ve been having trouble putting it down (see my previous parenthetical statement, as it applies here too). So there are some literary places for me to go, to be …


I almost forgot—Edgewater has come out! Or perhaps leaked out is a better term: it’s on the BSP site but not yet available anywhere else. I have little hope that it will sell much (most people would rather have their toenails pulled out than read poetry), but it’s nice to have those poems all in one place. It turned out well too. The cover painting looks great, like its painted right onto the white cover. I’m also happy because it’s simply a good book. I’m so tired of the Bukowskiesque publish-everything-you-got-and-see-what-sticks philosophy—that just sets up a situation where a lot of 2nd and 3rd-rate crap gets put out. I was brutal with my editing, as evidenced by the fact that though the book is subtitled Poems 1992-2009 it’s only seventy-five pages long. I wanted only the best of my poems, the stuff that might have a chance to outlive me. I think I got that: I may never write a better book. Again, I doubt it will sell, but I’m satisfied, and with poetry that’s about all one can hope for …

A Little Dream Post

Wednesday, September 26, 2012—Long Beach, CA

Had another odd dream last night. I was at the beach, at an endless beach, which looked a bit like a wilder, much longer, and more crowded version of Huntington Beach. It’s winter, or at least late fall; I can tell this because the air is cool and there’s a big north swell coming in. I also know this because I’m wearing a full wetsuit. I’m heading up and down the long beach because I’m looking for a place to go out. But there’s nothing but big walled-off surf and nasty rip currents where ever I go. There are surfers in the water, but none of them seem to be having much fun; they’re just continually eating it on the big dangerous waves. There are lots of people on the shore watching them.

At some point in this dream I begin panicking because I realize that I don’t have my surfboard with me; I’m afraid I’ve left it on the beach somewhere and it’s been ripped off. I begin combing the beach looking for it. Then I realize that I have a body board under my arm. But it’s about half the width of a typical body board. I realize that riding that trying to ride the big waves that are coming in on this board would be difficult and dangerous. I also realize at around this point that the board also doesn’t have a leash and that I have no fins with me, making dealing with the dangerous surf even more problematic. I don’t remember clearly what happens after this. I do remember that various events keep keeping me from hitting the water. This doesn’t surprise me. Back when I used to surf regularly I used to have tons of dreams where I’m at the beach, I’m trying to go surfing, and something keeps getting in my way. A common issue is that it’s the evening and I can’t quite make it out before it gets dark. I think that may have occurred in this most recent surf dream too—I have a vague feeling it did—but, like I’ve said, I can’t remember for sure.

Strange restless sleep in general lately, odd, uptight dreams I can mostly remember in just tiny vague fragments. Part of this is because I’m getting up so early for work. It doesn’t matter how early I get to bed when I know I have to get up early I kind of panic on some level and my sleep becomes restless, sometimes debilitating so. My currently erratic sleep patterns are no doubt could be pushing this too. When I become sleep deprived the sleep I do get takes on this panicked quality I just discussed. There are more than these technical issues going on, though. There are some real feeling of frustrations coming out in my dreams (this is based mostly on the feelings I have when I wake up, not direct remembrances of what I’ve been dreaming about, which, like I just said, I’m generally not recalling). I’m not sure exactly what these are, though.

A Better Dream

Friday, September 21, 2012—Long Beach

I had an interesting, positive Margo dream last night; I woke up from it feeling almost joyous (though I’m fully sure why—the dream didn’t strike me as being that positive). Unfortunately it’s details have become very sketchy as I’ve moved thru the day. We were together, as a couple, or at least we sort of were—even when I dream her at her most stable she’s a squirrelly flight risk. I’m no longer sure of the “plot” of this dream. Mostly what I have left of it is little fragments of the two of us walking down streets hand-in-hand. As usual our interactions are not going smoothly; she’ll hold my hand for a while, but then feels the need to extricate herself from it as if she’s feeling trapped, only to again seek it out and grip it more tightly than before once she’s got it back. We’re even having trouble walking at times, because we’re alternately rubbing up against and then pulling away from each other (actually she’s instigating most of this; I want nothing more to be as close to her as possible, though not in a wide-eyed way—I understand how little courage she has and how limited she is emotionally and ultimately don’t expect anything from her).

The most striking scene in this dream (of the ones I remember, at least) is one where were lying together wrapped up in a white sheet, or maybe it was a light blanket. We’re entangled in each other. I’m deeply in love, but not a slave, as in so many of my past dreams featuring her; I have a handle on my emotions, they don’t overwhelm and rule me. We’re kissing here and there and she’s actually kissing me back, tentatively, though like she can’t quite decide how she feels about what she’s doing. She’s also running her fingers thru my hair, while telling my not to worry, that she likes bald guys. I protest that I’m not bald and she says that I don’t have that much hair left and what I do have will be gone soon. I remember being very confused by this, because in this dream, as in real life, I have plenty of hair.

This scene in the sheet/blanket seems to go on for a long time. I remember having other conversations with her during this time, but I can’t remember what they were about. I do remember that they were relatively positive and that they were part of the reason I woke up feeling so good about this dream. I also remember that at one point, from the waist down, she was wearing only her panties and that I had my hand just barely down the front of them and was running my fingers thru the top part of her pubic hair. This is significant because in many of my Margo dreams, if things begin getting overtly sexual she usually finds some reason to pull away from me.

I just realized that I forgot to mention the weirdest part of this dream. While Margo and I are in the sheet/blanket we’re lying on a front lawn somewhere, for part of the time. Other times we seem to be under a parked car. At other points we appear to be in a house or apartment or something. In all these places, though, there are lots of people walking by. I also vaguely remember that she and I were shopping together at one point, which was why we were out in public.

Like I’ve said, I woke up feeling really good after this dream, deeply happy to the point where I was kind of upset that I’d woken up and consciously tried to both fall back to sleep and pick up the dream again. Neither of these things happened (sometimes I can pull this off). Again, I don’t know why I felt so good—it wasn’t that good of a dream. I say this not just based on what I remember now. Even right as I woke up, when everything was a fresh as it could be, I knew that the dream’s content and my mood didn’t quite seem to go together. These positive feelings aside, I’m getting very tired of dreaming about this woman—this has been going on for a decade. I long for an experience with a woman that can rival the power of my Margo debacle, that can finally blow her out of my mind (her presence in my heart has long-since diminished). I need to feel that deeply again. I need to love again. I’ve bailing water like this for way too long …

The Secret Garden, A Bad Dream

Monday, September 17, 2011—Irvine, CA

Hanging out on the IVC campus, killing time between my last class and the start of a talk I’m going to be attending this afternoon. The talk is on Andy Warhol as a portrait painter and is being given by Amy Grimm, a friend of mine here in the art history department. I’m really looking forward to it. The four o’clock starting time is a bit awkward (two or six would have been better), but it’s still doable. However, the minor hardship should be worth it: I’m really interested in the topic and Amy really knows her stuff.

The last several days have been a bit quiet and odd; I’ve been quite solitary, even by my loner standards. Part of this is because I’ve still been fighting a cold. It’s also been so hot and unpleasant (it got up to 103 in Long Beach a couple days back) that I haven’t been in the mood to do much other than struggle thru things I have to do for work and basic survival. Still, I’ve added a bit more to the third Backwaters book. I’ve also managed to study a touch more Greek than has been the norm of late. I’ve also been reading some interesting stuff. On a whim I picked up The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, from the Santiago Canyon College library last Thursday. This was perhaps my favorite book I read as a child. I’m about halfway thru it and I’m enjoying nearly as much as I did when I first read it at age seven or eight, (though in somewhat different ways).

In retrospect, I understand exactly why I liked the book so much when I was a kid. The idea of their being a secret place, a place where you an experience and create the beauty and hope that is not in the rest of your life is extremely compelling. But The Secret Garden is more than just that—it's a place where you can understand what beauty and hope are, and why these things matter. For me it was a way to help forget about, and in some small way attempt to transcend, all the things around me that were dragging me down: abandonment, divorce, forced relocation away from most of my family, psychological and emotional abuse (unintended for the most part), lies, raging ego, fear, being unwanted and completely misunderstood (or aunderstood—I don’t think anyone then ever really tried to figure me out) … I felt so much like Mary (the book’s protagonist), starting at about age six. I too was taken from the only place I’d ever known and placed with people who I didn’t really know and didn’t seem to have much interest in me (beyond the surface level at least). I too had to come to my own understandings about life with little in the way of adult help. I too found friendship in odd places, in my case (the occasional housekeeper, with whom I interacted with when my mom and stepdad were at work, sort of like Mary does with Martha). I didn’t find a secret garden, though—just a book about one. The magic of that book meant so much to me because my life had no magic—I just fought thru each day and was happy if nothing scaring happened.

Reading it today I realize that I’m still looking for my secret garden, my place where I can grow and matter and feel pure. In other words, I understand this book differently today because I’m coming at its truths from different angles, not because its truths have changed (by definition “truths” cannot change). In fact, in some ways I still feel like how Mary is first described before her transformation: ugly, plain, sallow, alone, unloved … As I read this book the last couple of days, I realized that the reason I’ve been so unhappy most of my life, am still not anywhere near as happy as I think I can be, is because I’ve thus far failed to fully become myself. I’ve yet to find the key to unlock my secret garden—I’ve found lots of keys and doors, but I never been able to put the right two together …

On a less harrowing note, rereading The Secret Garden has made me realize that I’m not comfortable with the way books are labeled as being for children, “young readers,” or adults. While maybe kids aren’t going get much out of James Joyce or Henry Miller, there is no reason why an adult can’t be enthralled by books like The Secret Garden or, say, A Wrinkle in Time (another one of my childhood favorites I plan on soon rereading). Growing up, by definition, is the process of trying to  come to grip with the wonders of the universe, both those enchanting and terrifying. I think a lot of us get lost emotionally beginning around our early teens and in a sense forget (or never fully learn—that’s probably more accurate) what growing up is—we begin to substitute the fears of those around us for what we know in our hearts to be true. By this I mean that we tie ourselves to notions of survival and leave the wonder of living behind, as if it was some juvenile misconception. I’m coming to believe that readers should return to their favorite childhood books periodically thru life, not as a way of hiding in the past, but as a way of reconnecting with fundamental truths of life. There is nothing to do with life other than live it. And there’s nothing more important in life than the warmth of the sun on your face or the feel earth or water running thru your fingers. Growing up is to take this knowledge thru all your life and use it as the basis from which you grow. Most kids get this, until they get it beaten out of them (sometimes literally) by adults. So to be truly adult is to avoid becoming an “adult.” Good “children’s books” are usually in some sense about this attempt, or at least the preparation for this attempt.



Had a very disturbing dream last night; I woke up at four this morning feeling confused and upset, a little lost. Some of the details are quite fuzzy now, but the dream was centered around what seemed like a kind of horseshoe-shaped set of buildings (where these builders were I can’t say—at one point they seemed to be in Hawai’i, but later I vaguely remember something about them being in New York). Some of the buildings are apartments, but others are businesses, all of which appear to be car repair shops. I’m in an upstairs apartment in one of the buildings. From this apartment I can see my old friends E— and S—. I’m looking down on them as they’re wandering thru the car repair places. I can tell that’s there is something wrong with them—they both seem to be severely mentally disturbed. The images at this point fragment. I remember S— rolling around in a parking lot next to a car that is being worked on. Later I’m talking to E—. I can tell he’s completely gone. I’m not sure about the reasons. He’s working a ridiculous number of hours; he’s so tired and burnt out that he basically work drunk. I remember as I’m noticing this he’s telling me how he’s just gotten another job. He’s also proudly wearing the work shirt from this new job. I’m not sure why I know this, but I’m aware that what’s also causing a lot of his troubles is that his marriage is falling apart. Is he working so much as a way to hide from this?

The situation for S— seems worse. He’s gone completely over the edge. He’s speaking gibberish, while wandering thru the various car repair areas. I somehow know his marriage is falling apart too, and that there are other horrible things going on in his life (what these are I either never knew or don’t remember). Later in the dream he’s basically raving. I’m in a car with him. He’s driving. There’s a roadblock and he immediately swerves the car into a detour that soon has us driving into a lake filled with milky, light-brown water. The car’s sinking and I have to pull him out the driver’s side window and drag him to the shore to save him (how I got out of the car I don’t know). By this point he’s making no sense. Later we’re dry and in some building, a restaurant or coffee shop or something. The cops come in and take him away. They’re treating him like a criminal and I don’t get why—he’s just sick and in need of help. For a moment his wife is in the scene. She looks like she did when they first got married, twenty years ago or whatever it was. She’s in her twenties, still has long hair. I don’t know why she’s there or why she’s so young. Other stuff happens that I don’t remember, which all revolves around the crack up of my two friends. Then I wake up.

What I found/find most disturbing about this dream is that the way E— and S— were cracking up was just how I know it would be with them if it ever happened in really life—I understood every emotion they were having , understood exactly how their issues were interacting with their basic personalities. It was incredibly painful watching these people I love go down like this. I tried to help, but could never seem to get thru to them, which also hurt. Life suddenly seemed very fragile when I first woke up from this dream. More disturbingly, it also seemed preordained—thru this whole dream I felt that I always knew this would happen to them and it had just been a matter of time. I don’t know what any of this means (I did when I woke up, to some degree, but now it’s nearly all gone).