tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63766828141702848372024-03-21T15:52:14.852-07:00Bookshop JournalMy Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-81954764916933579842013-05-30T06:23:00.002-07:002013-05-30T06:24:53.674-07:00<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\Admin\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="222" /></a><i>Al's Burnt Book: May 30, 2013</i><br />
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For the pedants among you, today is Thursday, May 30.<br />
Okay, we did that.<br />
I want to celebrate the return of my friend, Joseph Syzleyko, to Greensboro. Of course, he won’t stay long, probably only this summer, because if anyone has <i>wanderlust</i>, it’s Ol’ Joe. Here’s a scratchboard he did, a self-portrait, Joe on his bicycle (see below). These days he rides a motorcycle, and he’s a bear, not an elephant. If the pedants are still with us, they’ll want to know that Joe’s untitled scratchboard drawing is from the Guilford College student magazine, <i>The Piper</i>, Winter 2002 issue. I notice a lot of art work by Noah Howard in that issue of <i>The Piper</i>.<br />
Yes, alas, Joseph left Nadia, the Colombia beauty he met at the U. S. Social Forum in Detroit several years ago. He’s been living with her Florida way. But, well, you know <i>wanderlust</i>.<br />
Me, now, I ain’t got wanderlust. I got turtleitis, stayputness. Hate Moving Lust.<br />
Jennie asked me what my travel plans are for this summer. She’s off to Holland and who knows where else. (Anya off to Holland next month, too. Is it the free <i>kif </i>in Amsterdam or what?) I answered Jennie I might make it to Aycock & Lee Streets or, again, off to Freeman Mill Road and Florida . . .<br />
Yes, it’s eight o’clock, and I’m already hard at work. Daniel and Lauren Goans, nice enough to share their home with me, are in D. C. or Richmond, or Who Knows Where. They’ll stop in Sunday, then–you guessed it–off again. Strum, strum, strum on the guitar. Tra-la-la singing. They’ll introduce their first big album at my bookshop August 9 (Nagasaki Day).<br />
“So, Al, Joseph Syzleyko is back in town. What else?”<br />
Patience! I’m not through with my friend, Joseph.. He’s gonna build me at least two (2) bookcases. And fix the flourescent lighting better. One reason he returned is the wealthy private school he attended is re-doing another whole building on their campus, and Joe’s the best worker, they asked him to come supervise the operation, because he understands fluorescent lighting.<br />
Joe came in the shop yesterday and donated a dozen good books to the bookshop <i>cache</i>. Mike Bohlen came in, too, and dropped off a dozen superb books–he brings a carton of books every once in awhile for a twenty dollar bill. <br />
Jonathan Starch got the job he wanted at The School of the Arts. His supervisor said she had never seen a Reference Letter such as I wrote for Jonathan in her whole life.<br />
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<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-17101795286265905602013-05-12T07:39:00.000-07:002013-05-12T07:39:03.179-07:00May 12, 2013 :: <i>from </i>Bookshop Journal<br /><br /> Paul Lavack visited Glenwood Coffee & Books yesterday (Saturday), and we had a nice talk and “catch-up.” I had visited Paul in his home, when he was recuperating from recent surgery. (He had collapsed at work.) Paul has written a novelette, 70,000 words, and he’s hired me to edit it. (I only charge $15/hr.) He also wants me to check out his blog, his “autobiography,” to read it and perhaps to see if it is publishable.<br /> Just last night, I was reading Ruskin’s <i>Praeterita</i>, which expanded the realm of autobiog genre considerably. Before Ruskin’s late-19th Century unfinished autobiog, there hadn’t been much of such a genre in Literature. And what autobiography there was concerned spiritual issues; one thinks of Augustine. Ruskin was the first to combine what today we would call a journal or even a blog and snapshots of one’s personal life. “ “Praeterita” seems to be a Ruskin neologism that he says simply means a rendition of past events of one’s life.<br /> Of course with my recent writing explosion of 20 journals in two years, I’m interested in anything written in this realm.<br /> <br /> Last night was the first use of The Back Room for an event since Maureen Kessler left the bookshop’s employ. Cakalak Thunder had a fund-raising benefit, party, dance, silent auction <i>thingy</i>. Cakalak is definitely a women’s creation. That was clear via the women who arranged it, the women who collected and distributed all the money, the women performers. I saw some of my old women friends (or, at least, once-friends): Joy, Audrey, Margo, Leila, Alyssa. Marnie, Devon, etc. Saw Juan M. for the first time since Mo’s defection. ne of the silent auction offerings was a massage at Lotus Center, offered by Kamaleathahh Livingstone. Is she back in town?<br /> Cakalak gave the bookshop 20% of their “gate,” $30.00. And I sold a volume from my Penguin Classics. And some soda and coffee. I sat around, reading, until they finished shortly after midnight. <br /> I’ve done away with the amplified noise Mo brought into The Back Room (<i>Punk Rock</i>). Although, last month, the bookshop took in over five hundred dollars from renting out space in The <i>Front </i>Room, where the bookshop originated, where the coffee is. I like use of the front room much, much better than the raucous goings-on that used to break up The Back Room, with drinking and smoking and bad behavior in general. Punk Rock seems to be a Boy Thing, and today’s boys in their 20s aren’t a mob you want around, trust me.<br /> The girls do it differently, as last night’s party proves. The women were all dressed in extravagant puttings-on, costumes, silver and gold dresses, exotic headgear, wonderful! Creative and entertaining. Not just noise, dirt, alcohol, fights, and insults, like the boys do when Mo gave them their punk rock nights.<br />A very different crowd, neither the women I have described nor the men, is found in the bookshop when there’s a folk concert with acoustical music. That crowd seems religious, somber, reserved (total silence in fact, with respectful listening). It’s a much smaller group that comes to those here. Those concerts begin early and end early, and they’re my favorite. Think of Daniel and Lauren Goans' <i>Lowland Hum</i>. Although an Extravaganza like the Cakalak Thing last night would be good, say, once a month. After all, I’ll be 77 this month, and I already work from 8 a.m. until 6 p.m. 7 days a week, <i>without </i>parties at night, cleaning up, extra work . . . For thirty dollars! Of course, providing a community center for just such activities, has been part of the mission at Glenwood Coffee & Books. But, for me, obviously, what I really want to do is have a great bookshop resource for the community and, yes, if I can, have peace-and-justice meetings and a Public Space.<br /><br />- -<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-91130620256049707682013-05-02T06:06:00.001-07:002013-05-02T06:06:23.250-07:00<u>May 1, 2013.</u> <i>Criminal Journal Entry</i><br />
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MAY DAY. A group of university seniors have been meeting in the bookshop all year, planning a big statewide May Day Event in Raleigh. God knows there’s plenty for them to protest: huge classroom increases, fewer faculty, too many students, much higher fees, emphasis on sports and de-emphasis on The Humanities, tuition increases every semester, inflated administration salaries. You name it! The state legislature is planning Draconian cuts in education budgets!<br /> So a big rally has been planned for today. In the Occupy Movement and other exceptional activist meetings in which I have taken part thousands of times, time is strictly observed, usually two hours. One starts on time, say 4 p.m. and one ends at 6 on the dot. It’s part of the solidarity discipline. But these Milleneals, as today’s young people are sometimes called, are different. Because of the Cell Phone Revolution, this is a “fly by the seat of your pants” generation. Meetings are arranged and changed at a moment’s notice, all with the smart phone, with texting and its ilk. Nevertheless, the rally organizers met pretty consistently. Another difference is that students talk for hours, meetings last all day. How much organizing do you have to do? For four months, I’d say the six or seven seniors and graduate students met for a full day about twice a month. To plan the Greensboro contribution to the May Day Rally in Raleigh. Much of the meetings were efforts to be made to get a large turn-out.<br /> A couple of weeks ago, Alyssa emailed me, “Could those going to the May Day Rally park their cars in the Bookshop Parking Lot?” The students wanted to car-pool, to pile into just a few cars and go together. Hey didn’t have enough people or enough money for a bus. Of course, I was happy to have the bookshop chosen as the gathering point for the cadres. Alyssa said the cars would be there from 7 a.m. until 7 p.m.<br /> Got up early. Perhaps the students would want to use the bathroom in the bookshop? How about complimentary coffee? But no one came. At 10 a.m., three of the organizers arrived. That was it. One automobile in the parking lot. The other with three kids driving to Raleigh to protest all these detrimental changes to what was once a pretty good state university system.<br /> One year ago, exactly one year ago, OCCUPY had been a pretty vibrant group. And, looking back, it died that week. May Day, 2012.<br /> When I say a pretty vibrant group, that’s an understatement. No fewer than 50 people attended “general assemblies” that were meeting twice a week. In addition, there were six active Working Groups that met weekly, that never had few than six in attendance and sometimes eight or ten to each meeting.<br />
Amendment One won heavily that first week of May, 2012. The women who had bottom-lined Occupy disappeared. Four of the six active working groups, a large gaggle of over 50 people who had been in the movement at that point for 9 months, dissolved instantly. They had been bottom-lined by the talented women who had become engaged in the Amendment One fight. But they abandoned their working groups without notice and without handing on responsibility of leadership, which meant the groups disappeared, never to reappear. Attendance at the general assembly (G.A.) dropped from 100 a week to less than 20. Finally, the General Assembly dissolved altogether. A few valiant souls kept two of the working groups–Energy & Foreclosure–going, and they are extremely active and successful to this day; although just four women pretty much killed Occupy in a single May Day ‘12, a blow from which Occupy never recovered. Were they burnt out? Were they so disappointed at the disgusting success of Amendment One anti-gay legislation? But why did they all . . . just disappear? No notice. No warning. Worst of all, no handing on of the baton they had assumed. Aside from numerous journal entries about this extraordinary betrayal that I have doused, not a single word has ever been said or written about this. The women were very popular and, to my knowledge, remain so. None of them has ever entered the bookshop since May 1, 2012, although they were in here two, three, four times a week for 9 straight months previously.<br /> Well, that’s my May Day ‘13 reflection. The working groups that were destroyed were: Education/Enrichment; Employment/Unemployment; Civil Rights; and Process/Access. It would take a book in and of itself to describe these incredible undertakings, what we members hoped from them, the benefits that would have accrued to the community. I think the story of their dissolution belongs in the <i>Criminal Journal</i>. And it seems to go, I’m not sure exactly how, with the invisible turnout<i> sans students</i> of May 1, 2013.<br /> When I was in Columbia in the 50s, one of the big international events was the U. S. assassinations of Patrice Lumumba and, immediately afterward, Dag Hammarskold, engineered bv the CIA.<br />I organized a rally on my campus, a march from New York’s West Side to the U.N. building. There were 2,000 undergraduates at that time at Columbia College–and another 20,000 students at the entire university, excluding Barnard. Plus a huge college staff and liberals in the adjoining neighborhoods. It was a pretty important issue, perhaps the single starting point of U. S. postwar oppression? But there were only nine (9) of us who attended the March.<br /> My disgust with Academia starts with that disappointing turnout. Hadn’t thought about that for a long time. Until today.<br /><br /><br />- 24 -<br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-8794203711827114532013-04-27T04:57:00.000-07:002013-04-27T04:57:53.385-07:00Saturday, April 27, 2013<br />
E-Mail to Daniel Levi Goans<br />
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<i>Daniel and Lauren are in Nashville, on the first leg of a southeastern tour for their music.</i> </div>
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Dear Daniel,<br /></div>
Woke up at 7:00, as usual. Decided that today, for the first time in years, I would <i>not </i>charge up my computers and get to work. I'll read.</div>
Now it's an hour later, and I've already worked an hour and have plans
for another two. Then I'm off to the Farmer's Market.</div>
The
Yanceyville Street Farmer's Market is my favorite thing in Greensboro.
Thousands of people, and I know so many of them. Fresh, local produce.
Today, I'm after a crusty homemade bread, the unpasturized milk from a
local farmer, and some flowers. (Bought a flower vase yesterday.)</div>
My new neighbor, Kristie, is driving me. She's never been to The
Farmer's Market. She's after flower plants for her first garden, being
built across the bookshop parking lot. (Kristie rents from Andrew The
Bad.)</div>
I guess you guys have a "gig" it being Saturday?
But, I remember, you said one of your gigs has been tragically
cancelled! I'm so sorry.</div>
I made a special huge cold cup of coffee for Kristie. I bought 1,000 cold cups (and lids) made out of corn (<i>clear </i>plastic).
I love those cold cups made out of corn. Got a "deal" . . . $88 for
1,000. Deal on lids . . . $58 for 1M. Free shipping, too. Eco-Co. in
Boulder has "deals" every day. I bought 3 oz corn-clear-containers and
lids in one of those deals: $20 for 100. I'm selling oranges in them and
"Trail Mix." Can't wait for Lauren to set up "The Espresso Bar." Aren't
we like kids playing <i>Store</i>?<br /></div>
Love you both,My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-64351208895366910982013-04-22T05:49:00.001-07:002013-04-22T05:49:32.862-07:00CAT’S JOURNAL: April 22, 2013<br />
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Cats are said not to talk, in other words, we don’t speak English. Americans don’t believe Chinese “talk” either, unless they’re talking English. American travelers brag that, “Everywhere we go, everyone talks English!” Right this minute, there are a million Chinese students learning English. (And around 10,000 Americans learning Chinese.) Well, they say, “Ignorance is Bliss.” I hope so, for all your sakes. You deny “the climate crisis,” and how long before the Chinese rule the roost?<br />
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Sure I can talk. What kind of idiot question is that? I speak Cat, and, you might want to know, I can talk nglish, too. If I wanted to, that is. But I don’t want to. I’m not Chinese. I don’t want to conquer the Planet, I feel we cats have already conquered the planet enough. We’ll be here long after you’ve drowned yourselves with the water from the Greenland Glaciers.<br />
Anyway, if you could hear Al talk, you’d be embarrassed. “Glenwood,” he talks, “this morning we’re going to the supermarket, Glenwood. Yes, this morning, we’re going to buy kitty some food. Yummy. Cat food, Glenwood. Good, huh?”<br />
That’s the idiot way he talks to me. I say, “That’s just fine, Alan. You run along now. I’ve got work to do. Don’t forget your glasses. Don’t forget to put on a jacket, it’s quite cold out this morning. Don’t forget your wallet. Don’t forget your “food stamps” card. Better take some cash, too, because you need Kleenex, and they don’t allow that on the Food Stamps. And take some quarters for the Laundromat. Their change machine was broken last time you went.” On and on. Between you and me, I think we’re looking at early onset of Alzheimer’s. We need a new stronger word for “forget, when it comes to him. You know he’s going to be 77 in 30 days, right? Look for more “Senior Moments,” is what I say.<br />
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<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-52804564106203610822013-04-21T09:45:00.001-07:002013-04-22T05:48:02.487-07:004/22/2013<br />
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<u>April 21, 2013</u><br />
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I bet you're surprised to see a photograph of me in my blog, since I've had so much trouble importing graphics lately. But there I am, posing next to one of the three Library Ladders in my bookshop. And how come?<br />
Because a Ms. M. Lopez, a graduate MFA-Art student at UNC-G who's a computer whiz, showed me how. She's a "MacIntosh Person," and I was given a "P.C.", but she figured it out in a jiffy.<br />
You "right click" on the image you want to import, and you select "Picture" and you save that <i>as a JPeg.</i> Then you simply import that graphic (now a JPeg) into your blog.<br />
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Ms. Lopez and her friend are also giving me an iPod so I can get a "PayPal Square" credit card account in order to offer credit card payments at the bookshop. Yesterday was my "best" day at the bookshop in about six months. I think I'm finally restoring it, having unpacked all the books that were in boxes and am now keeping regular hours. I have more or less closed The Back Room. I think we've done our duty for the Punk Rock Music Scene and Occupy Movement, which used that public space. There's still the large bookshop public space for smaller gatherings. In fact, the U. U. Covenant Church meets there this morning (Sunday).<br />
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Last night, I totally missed Daniel and Lauren's Home Music Event. I was so tired I forgot all about it, although I had been looking forward to it for a month. I also irretriveably lost my glasses. I have to face getting too old to run around the way I do. What wore me out was a fabulous activist event we all did downtown in Center City Park, which we rented for $350--imagine the city charging that for citizens to meet in their park--and Cakalak Thunder wanted to rent my Back Room for a fund-raising event and took umbridge at my asking one hundred dollars for a whole day! The Energy Working Group of Occupy Greensboro planned and pulled off a great Earth Day Event downtown, I'm so delighted with us all.My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-42747767801397805522013-04-18T07:32:00.001-07:002013-04-18T07:32:04.926-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<![endif]--><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><u>the nice journal: april 18, 2013</u><br /><br />I had decided to write about non-profits in my <i>Nice Journal </i>this morning before this latest irony arrived in my GMail inbox. <br /> This is a photograph of Dr. Andrea Smith, who will be giving a lecture at the local Academic Institution Saturday. (<i>Note</i>: I couldn't import and insert the photograph.)<br /> Dr. Smith is first among equals when it comes to liberal politics and movements on the West Coast, for example editing <i>Incite Magazine,</i> for example her book, <i>Conquest</i>, for instance another book she edited, <i>The Color of Violence</i>. And she speaks to my journal entry today in her book, <i>The Revolution Will Not Be Funded.</i> Even the lecture she will be giving at the university is <i>bizarro</i> in that she will be condemning Academia for not teaching but being really in the business of making money by parasiting off Education and peoples' real aspirations and pitiful yearning for learning. "Learning, doing this in the Elliot Student Center of a university that is destroying our Glenwood neighborhood! Not Schooling," is the title she gives her $5,000-a-shot lectures.<br /> Dr. Smith is a Professor of Media and Cultural Studies at the University of California, Riverside branch and a student herself, in Law School.<br /> Well, enough about Dr. Smith. There's hundreds of them in the university factories, and that's the point of this journal entry.<br /><br />In my 77 years, I have noticed that in our Western Culture, people, especially young people, are full of high principles and high-principled ideals. Often, they begin achieving them, begin laying the foundation of some radical enterprise. Then it stops. "It" being the creative, revolutionary side of their endeavors. What takes its place is usually increasingly high salaries and fund-raising on the "do good" cause of the moment. You can always note that turning point, because its when the "idea" becomes an Institution. It is the institutionalization that causes the rot.<br /> <br /> Once an individual tries to actualize his or her ideal, in our culture, it's time to make some money out of it. To do this, you institutionalize, often creating a non-profit. So, creativity ends and commercialism begins. Sometimes, young people plan this "milking" process from the beginning!<br /> Nice middle-class liberals become Democrats, naughty doers for themselves become Republicans. A plague on both their houses.<br /> Nice, un-nice. Who cares? It's still The Bourgeoisie. <br /> So, no, I dislike non-profits. They're out for money, they're out for profit. But they add to this disgustingness by <i>disguising </i>their profit motive under the <i>umbrella </i>of Do-Good. <br /> It's like Mao Tse-tung said, "Republicans are easier to deal with than Democrats. Republicans are war-mongers, and they make no bones about it. Democrats are war-mongers, but they pretend to do good, they hide their barbarityand brutality. And he hadn't even met Obama.."<br /> Academia is the obvious receptacle for liberals who feel guilty if they admit their materialism. When you sit in on their private discussions, it's all about money. But, in class, in their "departments" as they call it, it's all about doing good and how corrupt <i>everyone else</i> is.<br /> <br />One of the most popular radical non-profits in North Carolina just at the moment is N. C. Warn. Give them a few more years to get utterly corrupt. But the roots are already there.<br /> The finest person in Greensboro in organizing along the lines of N. C. Warn is V. Warren. She foolishly applied for a non-profit job with them, organizing. And they were wise enough to seriously consider offering her the job. I mean V-- is The Most. Courageous and experienced, great mother, idealistic beyond her 20's, when it takes gumption.Sensational administrator, hard worker. She's got it all. The only other woman put together like V-- in Greensboro is Marnie Thompson.<br /> N. C. Warn warned V-- she'd have to move to Durham, where they are headquartered. "Why?"<br /> Of course she can't move from Greensboro, where she and her husband live and work, where her children go to school, etc. etc. Why does she have to move? After all, her job will take her all over the state. Organizing in Durham? It's already organized.<i> N. C. Warn is already ther</i>e. But, of course, when you realize N. C. Warn isn't created for organizing. It's created <i>for </i>N. C. Warn, for the administrators, for their salaries and other needs. That's why you have to move to . . . Durham!<br />It's an institutional non-profit is what it is–organizing for . . . itself! It started life doing good and, well, it's doing <i>very well </i>thank you.<br /><br /><br /><br />
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<span id="goog_1129043402"></span><span id="goog_1129043403"></span>My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-16334128134536816212013-04-17T06:27:00.000-07:002013-04-17T06:27:31.795-07:00<u>April 17, 2013</u><br />
<i>from </i>Another Publishing Journal <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQXUamj94CBaosctO6WeLAR52S98w0bqO1VCZUe_YiAm3yadvAU3hAiEknoRJG9DKyCPwhr3-xzN_mV2D8A9lsiWuqSo3_IYU5ZuWS7ZfheBdV6uH17e3kdj0BIkXgoF-cP6cE6IVqDrH/s1600/000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></div>
That’s a scan of the first copy of Unicorn Press’s (and my) book,<br /><i>Robert Smithson. A memoir</i>. Well, it was supposed to be a scan, but I've forgotten how to crop scans that I import into my blog, so I can't include it, alas.<br /> I’ve boxed in an email I just sent Dr. Tim Martin, whose email to me a couple of months ago launched the Smithson project (in smaller type below).<br />Meanwhile, Paul Vavack emailed me that I Mustn’t mention Maureen “Mo” Kessler anymore in my blogs. He’s sure it will prejudice the <i>Mediation </i>he and Kate Dunnagan are planning for the reconciliation between Mo and I (former partners). Paul had some serious surgery but yesterday went back to work.<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Tim,<br /><br />Progress! Sent Copy # 1 to Nancy Holt. Have another dozen all set to go. How many do you want? They're $18 apiece. (Numbered/signed edition, 100 copies.)<br /> You can pay through Pay Pal once I get that set up (I'll let you know when that's set up). Send me your address again and how many you want.<br /> Would it be all right to "split" the postage cost (in addition to the list price of the book)? It turned out to be more expensive than I assumed. (The postal service has done away with "Printed Matter" rate abroad.)<br /><br />All the best,<br />AL</span><br /><br /> My friend, Ken Knight, warned me when I hired “Mo” that it would be “Marriage Without The Sex.” And so it’s proved, especially now that there’s a “divorce”!<br /> And, like a divorce, one has to process the experience, especially the bitterness and disappointment. I don’t have a partner like Mo has (Dave Reed). I have no doubt Mo’s really filled his ear about Ol’ Al and his misdeeds and all her complaints. But who is my “ear”? I guess the universe, in the form of my blog. (And these journals I write.)<br /> I apologize if it’s been tedious. I’ve taken comments from my Cat’s Journal and my “Criminal Journal” as well as Another Publishing Journal to place on my WWW.BookshopJournal.blogspot.com.<br /> Mo separated from me, “divorced me” Friday April 5. Here it is 12 days later, less than 2 weeks, and I’m ready to move on. Not bad! So <i>no mo </i>Mo for your dilectation.<br /><br />On a another happy note, my Art Department buddies have re-emerged.<br />In the 2011/2012 school year, Lee Walton and Sheryl Oring brought their art department students here to the bookshop to hold classes here to which I was welcome. But, in these past 8 months, they have completely disappeared. Even though they invited me to give the COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS May, 2012–which was pretty exciting.<br /> Last week, Lee brought an interesting class and their project over for a session in the bookshop, first time in a year. And yesterday, Sheryl visited the bookshop and asked permission to bring her “Art and Politics” class over to the bookshop next week. I get to be the co-teacher at these art class sessions.<br /> My style of teaching–and I do this with Spoma Jovanovich’s “Communications Class” too–is to put everyone in a circle of comfortable seats and begin with a “Check In.”<br /> “What’s a check-in?” I ask the group. We discuss the Woman’s Liberation contribution of the check-in. Then we check in! I get to know everyone’s name . . . And a little about each member of the class.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-57695239707837316622013-04-16T06:42:00.001-07:002013-04-16T06:42:08.177-07:00<br /><u> April 16, 2013: Bookshop Journal</u><br /><br /> Lauren Goans was nice enough to include me on a safari to Costco. Mo bought a Costco Memberhip for <i>Glenwood Coffee & Books</i> soon after joining us. She buys huge boxes of individually packaged snacks that we sell for 75-cents to $1.25 in the coffeeshop and drinks like "Izzie's" and "Coca-Cola" for a dollar or more. These items generally cost less than half what we charge. Lauren told me they charge almost two dollars for a banana at Green Bean; costs less than a quarter. What we used to do before Mo was buy from Angie, who lives a block away and has her gluten-free bakery here on Grove & McCormick, <i>ZenKat </i>she calls her business. Very tasty, very local, very healthy. But Angie charges $1.75 per package, and you have to sell it for $ 2.50. Mo got rid of the ZenKat business and went for Costco. Ultimately, I think, Mo got disgusted with maneauvers like that she felt forced into: profits, money-making.<br /> Unlike me, Mo can't live on nothing. As long as I could, I gave her $700 a month, little enough. But, then, there just wasn't any more money. Ironically, the well dried up because she closed down the bookshop for 5 months while trying to form the A-Z bookshelves into categories. Book sales dried up. On the one hand, almost all our books were unavailable, in cartons, in piles on the floor in the back room . . . no customers allowed. On the other hand, while Mo and her assistant, Juan, played with these cartons of books, she kept the door locked. Customers came to the store, as they had, intermittenly, for five years, and like as not, found the store closed.<br /> Where was I while this devastation took place? I had turned management of everything over to Mo, who, after all, had to run it when I died or got too old to work anymore. She had to learn sometime, although Christmas retail season maybe wasn't the best time! Our 2011 sales had been $2,500/mo during November and December. Under Mo's tutelidge this went down to $500 per month. So she couldn't get her $700/mo any more. Where was it supposed to come from? At 77 years of age, my income, social security, didn't even cover the rent, which I pay every month ($750). <br /> Mo insisted she knew retailing. So I didn't butt in. But, finally, in March, with books still in cartons for the fifth month, I asked her permission to begin doing the shelving. She was very grateful for the help; she disappeared; I returned as manager. The shop looks terrific now, six thousand titles all in order and available. Of course, it will take the rest of the year to build back the business.<br /> I'd like to return to Angie and Zen Kat and her delicious gluten-free brownies.<br />Profit is half what you can make from Costco, but, really . . . <i>Costco</i>!!! As my mother used to say, "Feh! <i>Tref</i>!" I embrace the "Slow Food" ideal. And I'm sure, in her heart, Mo did, too. Only she felt driven to make money, I think. It's 10 days since Mo stormed out of here and Dave threw her keys in my face. I've gone through the six stages of grief Kubler-Ross talks about when there's a death in the family. Anger and denial and depression . . .<br /> Mutual friends and Peace Movement comrades are trying to get Mo and me to a Mediation Table, which I've been in favor of since Day One. I don't know how Mo feels about any Reconciliation. In the two long talks we had when she told me she was leaving (with three days notice after a year and a half partnership), we were peaceful with one another. But there was a flare-up the next night, Mo stormed out, "Dave And The Keys," and she left me in the lurch, she left hurt, in tears, furious.<br /> Yes, I've felt a lot of resentment and depression in the past ten days. But that's foolish. The truth is I love Mo, I admire her tremendously. I'm sure hardly anyone knows how intelligent she is. She's a whiz. And, of course, she's known for her bravery. I assume everyone knows she's an extremely talented artist. She's made this place beautiful, and we get many a compliment when someone finally comes in.<br /> I've been humming the old hymn, "Love will guide us/Peace inside us" for the past week. Trying to find a peaceful center, return to my loving heart, caring for Mo like I always have. I realize, yes, there might have been a little too much of This, not enough of That in her year and a half here. But 99% of it was magnificent. I'm sorry she thinks, if she really does, that she failed. That we failed. That Glenwood Coffee & Books was a failure. I'll bet you no one else, except maybe Dave Reed, feels that way. I definitely don't.<br /> From any point of view of my desires when I first opened this community book shop, all my goals have been reached, I am 100% satisfied. Sure I wish people would support their local bookshop. But do I support my local Gluten-free Bakery, owned by Angie, who lives a block away? No one is perfect. Ours is a Selfish Individualistic Culture.<br /> Mo and I did a great job. Our intention was to create a public space, a community center. We certainly did that. I was willing and able to live without taking any money out of the business, without relying on it for a cent. Partly because it provided free rent or at least a futon on which to sleep at night. (I miss a shower, a stove, hot water, Heat, air-conditioning.) I get Food Stamps, and Mo is eligible for Food Stamps, too, but for some reason she refused to apply for them. I get $125, which is all I need every month.<br /> Mo's needs are more complex (student loans, rent, medical bills). But Glenwood was unable to meet her needs. So she left. I don't believe she's correct in saying, "I failed, because you were living here and people are uncomfortable coming into a place where an old man lives." I doubt if one person in a hundred know I live here. For four years, the landlord didn't know I lived here. Even some of my best friends didn't know where I lived. And those who knew I lived here shopped here. So I think she's just making excuses, justification for what she perceives as some kind of "failure." Yes, she failed in the Money Department. But this place wasn't set up to make money from the get-go. That wasn't the goal. We had a very different mission, as Mo knew fully. For the only meeting we ever had, when she began work here, we wrote down our common goals and desires and "making money" wasn't one of them. Of course, at the beginning, she got $700/mo out of my pocket, but then my pocket dried up. The bookshop didn't generate any cash any more. And she couldn't get enough out of the coffee/snack sales and amplified music in The Back Room. A little but not as much as she wanted. <br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-23851921765675341992013-04-13T06:45:00.001-07:002013-04-13T06:45:49.817-07:00<u>CAT’S JOURNAL: April 13, 2013</u><br /><br /> Today I want to meow about my relationship with Al. The 21st Century (for Humans, Cats have been around much, much longer) has seen quite an interest and development in Relationships. You can’t climb a tree without having a relationship with the tree, the squirrels, Who Knows What. It’s not just humans, cats too are filled to the maw with the “R” word. So, much as I despise cliché, I’ll bow to my peer pressure and fill you in. Al is a co-dependent jerk, if you already know him. You know that song from Oklahoma, “I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say No”? That’s the man I have to look after. Always up to his neck in trouble. Of his own making. And, why? Because he doesn’t know how to use the “N” word. If there’s one thing cats are good at . . . You know it!<br /> Some one comes into the coffeeshop. Grabs a bottle of Vitamin Water. “How much?” “Oh,” says Al, “It’s only a dollar.” Everything with him is a dollar. I’m crying inside, “$ 1.75,” you moron, I’m telling him. But he’s a “people pleaser.” “It’s only a dollar.”<br /> How much for a cup of coffee? “It’s only a dollar.” Well, let me tell you, it’s a dollar and a half everywhere else. Even here, Mo charged $ 1.25, and she’s almost as bad as he is.<br /> “How much for this book?” Al . . . The tag says clearly twelve dollars.<br /> Al says, “Twelve dollars! That’s too much. Let’s say $10.”<br /> He paid ten dollars for that book. Just glance at the invoice, moron. Let’s get a grip here, fella.<br /> You see what I mean? You’d think, when it came to my food–now we’re getting to the nitty gritty–I’d be in Cat’s Heaven? Not so. He’s very diligent about my food. Doesn’t want me to get fat. I ask you! I can look after myself, thank you very much. <br /> In other homes, Humans have gotten it into their heads that cats only eat what they need. So they fill our bowls with tons of food. We keep them thinking that way. But, Al? He never heard of that. I get a handful of Kibbles sometime in the morning, sometime at night. Forget regularity.<br /> You’d think a man 77 years old would have learned something? He prides himself on Communication. Another buzz word with you Humans lately: communication. There’s even a <i>fehrstunkenah </i>Department of Communications at the local Educational Facility, you all call an (ugh) University. There’s a damn University at every train stop in North Carolina. I swear, every 25 miles! It’s so the locals can watch Basketball. The local yokels are bankrupting themselves to get a Class 1 basketball team going. They don’t even play at their local gym anymore. No, The Coliseum. Gym ain’t good enough. It’s positively <i>Roman </i>I can tell you.<br /> But back to . . . Communication. Thinks he’s the cat’s meow when it comes to that. Here’s the gen. I communicate that food would be a good idea. We all had our little handful this morning. How about the “one cup a day” rule? Says so on the package. Handful loads about a quarter of a cup, even if you’ve got a large paw.<br /> So I do what any self-respecting cat would do. I follow him around. I sheep-herd him to the food bowl, to the larder, I dog-heel him, you’ll excuse the expression. I use every trick in the Animal Farm. Does he listen? No. Does he understand? I ask you.<br /> I’m reluctant. I don’t want to do it. But, okay! I shit in the corner. I piss on the couch. But he just doesn’t get it. He takes me to the Vet to check for Urinary Infection. <i>I’m hungry!</i> It ain’t no <i>urinary infection</i>, you idjet. It’s just simple, ordinary <i>famished</i>. <br /> “Look how big that cat is,” well, that’s doesn’t help. He already thinks I’m too big. Didn’t the Vet tell him two years ago, when I got my passport that my natural weight was ten pounds? That’s what I am. Ten pounds. Give or take a few pounds.<br /> Well, excuse me while I drink some water. I might as well start pissing in the cat’s pan again. He can’t communicate. You call that Communication? I don’t. He thinks he’s a good Listener. Let me tell you something. It’s not how much you listen, it’s how well you listen. Might as well purr for a . . . a <i>dog</i>!<br /> I’m getting hoarse, it’s so irritating. You can cry till the cows come home. No one listens. No one cares. Cats know this in their bones. They can make nice all they want, but we remain properly skeptical.<br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-72071555713742377522013-04-10T06:30:00.001-07:002013-04-10T06:30:14.525-07:00<u>April 10, 2013: <i>Cat's Journal</i> excerpt</u><br /><br /> Al isn’t much fun to be with the last four days, because Mo left him over the weekend. She doesn’t like us anymore? They seemed to get along fine. I don’t get it. It’s true Mo hadn’t been to see me for four or five weeks, but I was busy, I guess Al was too, and no one said anything. Then she came in, about a week ago, after this long absence and said she had failed to do what needed to be done to make the bookshop successful. Seems successful to me!<br /> She said it was a failure. And she blamed me for living here. Wow. Doesn’t make sense to me. Because I live here, that’s why there’s no “street traffic,” not enough book/coffee sales? That’s why The Back Room isn’t more profitable? I thought customers liked me! They’re always bending down to pet me or play with me. In fact, it’s quite exhausting sometimes. I’m working my butt off!<br /> Maybe she’s wrong? Who knows? The bottom stripe is she gave about an hour’s notice, then she was outta here.<br /> At first the parting seemed amicable, as far as humans are amicable anyway. But then, suddenly, she hissed at him and wouldn’t speak to anyone. Her tail got all big and her cheeks pouched up. You'd think there was a dog in the room. Haven’t seen her since. She sent another cat over the next day with her keys.<br /> That was tough, because she had arranged to have “Vagina Monologues” performed Saturday and Sunday. Come Saturday Night, Al and I were worn out. But we had to “cover” the Theatre, because Mo just isn’t comin’ back. Confusing. She also had another gig planned for tonight. We didn’t know about that. Truth is she isn’t a Great Communicator, and Al and I never know when we have to be on tap. But then she cancelled that performance, a punk rock show put on by WUAG, for which they paid $200. I bet they weren’t happy having that canceled less than a week before the event. Phew. Never a dull moment.<br /> Well, it’s none of my business. Al has to deal with that. I have enough to do. But my feelings are hurt. I thought Mo liked me. She was pretty good with cats and dogs, as far as humans go. I mean you all are just plain dumb when it comes to knowing how to treat anyone, even yourselves. That’s why I’m writing this here journal.<br /> Mo was pretty nice to clip my nails from time to time, if she remembered. They’re really sharp right now. She’s also forgotten to give me my flea medicine, and it’s getting’ hairy I can tell you!<br /> At least Al never forgets my kibbles and water. Not once. And he’s fanatical about keeping my pan emptied, fresh, and clean. Thank God for small favors. Phew.<br /> Ever since “Vagina Monologues” is over and Mo is gone, it’s real peaceful around here. I have my daily chores, same as before. So the only impact on me is probably going to be less work. Mo kept the place pretty lively, I can tell you. Although she was always locking me up in my room. I guess now I know why. She really thought my living here is a deficit. Golly! I thought a lot of these people, especially the children, actually came to visit <i>me</i>.<br /> I’m beginning to see why Al is mopin’ around the last few days. What a bummer. Turns out we’re the reason Mo failed.<br /> But, you know what? I don’t see that we’ve failed at all. I mean, how do you measure success. Just by money? From that perspective, yes, the bookshop don’t pay for itself, can’t afford Mo and Juan, or any worker. We just don’t sell enough books, never will. For sure, Al and I have never gotten a dime. Those cats at AMAZON have it all wrapped up and tied with a pink ribbon. No loyalty around here for a local business. Can’t tell you how many of our friends have bragged to us they got this and that at amazon.com, how they downloaded this and that on to their <i>Kindle</i>. Thanks a big bunch! Bookshops dyin’ like flies all over the place, not just us.<br /> But we’ve been in business five years. Created an important public space here in ol’ Greensboro. We’re gonna <i>carry it on</i>. For sure. So where’s the failure? That’s what I want to know!<br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-81932487313076069112013-04-09T08:11:00.000-07:002013-04-09T08:11:26.561-07:00<u>the nice journal: april 9, 2013</u><br /><br />Once again, I must get to the Carolina Dermatology Center, Dr. Tateen. I had to go there to get a growth cut off my ear last May, something they call "basil cancer" or somesuch. Now there's a new growth that Dr. Eihger at Eagle Physicians Corporation thinks has to be looked at, similar scalpel need from the funny, Brooklyn-born Tateen. Looking forward to seeing him again. He told me he loves novels but he can't find any he can read. He reads the first chapter, then throws the book away. I gave him the best novel in my bookshop, Giuseppe Lampedusa's <i>Il Gattopardo</i>, translated as <i>The Leopard</i> (N. Y. Pantheon, 1958). So April 30, when I have to go again, I'll surprise him with <i>Doctor Zhivago</i> or Teo Savory's <i>To A High Place</i>. I'll enjoy doing that.<br /><br />Charlie drove me to the doctor's office yesterday. And he'll probably be nice enough to drive me to Dr. Tateen at the end of the month. Kate Dunnagan and I visited Paul Lavack yesterday. Paul's out of the hospital. And, last night, I saw Kate again–and Carol, Tom, Sarah, and Valerie Warren, too–for an Occupy Energy Working Group Meeting here in the bookshop. We're working on an action entitled "The Raleigh Convergence," coming Earth Day weekend . . . bicyclists from all over the state converging to work for alternative energy (alternative to mountain top removal, coal, fracking. alternatives to oil and nuclear fission). Interesting how we citizens have to work against our political leaders! You'd think "political leaders" would lead, politically. Instead, they have to be pushed and, often, pushed out of the way! We're having an artist sign party, for the event, here in the bookshop's Back Room this Sunday, 3 p.m. (Earlier I'm off to I.R.C. to serve a free breakfast there, with my fellow Unitarians--something we do once a month at IRC and once a month at the bookshop!)<br /><br />I felt pretty bereft in the bookshop yesterday. Because Mo wasn't here anymore. She left without any notice after a year and a half. She meant to leave with at least a few days notice, but she got angry at me and used that as an excuse to leave with about 4 hours notice!!! After a year and a half. Fortunately, I've worked with young men and women in their 20s all my life, and I'm used to their ways, which includes appropriately enough getting bored with idealistic enterprises they join for awhile to try them out. They get over-enthusiastic and then overly disabused. They're going to change the world in a flash, and get burned out trying. I know I did. That may also be Mo's passionate style, which I admire tremendously. But. <br /><br /> In the Occupy Movement, as a woman member in her 30s shared yesterday, there were a lot of men and women in their 20s who just left. No notice, no warning, no nothing. They seemed to be responsible people, but they simply dropped working groups that they had agreed to bottom-line: Education, Civil Rights, Employment–and several other crucial working groups: just <i>kerblang!</i><br /> I have had over 40 young men and women work for me and with me in the 47 years I've been member and a director of Unicorn Foundation and Unicorn Press, an alternative small press craft poetry pubisher and peace and justice activity. Over 40 who worked two years or more full-time. Half of them dropped out after those two years in anger and resentment, justifications flying. Too much work, too little pay, impossible working conditions, misunderstandings–all true. But never taking responsible for <i>their </i>part of all the mess. Accepting praise for the goodness, yes, but unable to see <i>their </i>part in the disarray.<br /> Mo says the reason she failed was I was living in the bookshop space. You can see her point: an old man who is obviously camping out in the bookshop office. Unappetizing. But was that really 100% of the affair? In any case, why does she think she failed? We kept a vital, enviable, successful public community space going. We did this together. Without any money. That's failure? Of course, as usual, ol' Al is left to pick up the pieces and <i>carry it on</i>!<br />I certainly intend to carry it on, as I have for 60 years now. I'm not a quitter! Mo will join the 20,000,000 college students in America . . . she says. Half of those drop out, too. I wished her "good luck," and I meant it.As the French say, "Bon chance!" Love will guide me. Peace inside me.<br /><br />Charlie had a great suggestion from George Huger. Charlie married George's mother 18 or more years ago. George is a wizard at computer stuff, the new internet entrepreneurship, that kind of thing.<br /> Charlie's <i>schtick </i>is Permaculture gardening just as mine is books (book-making, book-selling, book-writing, book-publishing, teaching about books). Charlie teaches about Permaculture. Gives workshops for which he might charge $500–$1,000 a person. He has one workshop now with 22 subscribers.<br /> Anyway, George was giving Charlie some suggestions about how he could use the new youthful technology to further his service, his Permaculture ministry, and make even more money, broaden his approach, etc.<br /> The advice was simple. "Charlie," George recommended, "walk around your garden with a smartphone . . . and take a couple of interesting pictures. Then write for an hour about them. And blog it." That was step one. The second step, which George said he'd help Charlie with, is marketing and promotion (to build up an internet following). And the third and final step is how to turn all that into money.<br /> I have no interest in steps two and three. But step one sounds terrific. As you know, I write journals. Completed ten (10) last year, and I'm working on another ten, like this one and my new Criminal Journal, Cat's Journal, Childhood & Old Age, Another Publishing Journal, Glenwood Coffee & Books, Al's New York Journal, etc. What if, when I talk about someone, Charlie for example, I take a picture of them and include it in the journal, in the blog that I usually create from my journals?<br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-5380731477628462162013-04-08T07:28:00.001-07:002013-04-08T07:28:20.356-07:00<u>Another Publishing Journal: April 8, 2013</u><br />
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<br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I was unable to get the two illustrations referred to in this blog</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">into the blog. I'll do better in the future, but it didn't work <span style="font-size: x-small;">graphically today!</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span> </span></i> <br />
Emil Antonucci drew this illustration for Teo Savory for the contribution, <i>Little Bear</i>, in her 1977 Unicorn Press volume, <i>A Clutch of Fables</i>. <br /> Little Bear is a fable about being an artist, a writer actually, misunderstood by just about everybody important to her and to her success. Teo was portraying herself.<br /> Whenever I think of Teo, to whom I was married 32 years, I picture her immediately at her typewriter. Teo’s stance at the typewriter was not slouching like Little Bear but much more upright, not a depressed expression on her face, but more vigorous. But she’s typing. Hans Rey portrayed her just right in a letter he wrote to her about the same time as the Antonucci drawing. I’ll put the Hans Rey drawing at the top of the next page.<br /> Hans of course is the creator of Curious George, and he and Margaret Rey, who wrote most of the Curious George books, were good friends of ours. Hans wanted us to publish something of his, but Teo wrote back that we had just moved and, in fact, had no office . . . She had to do her work right there, in the P. O. Box we rented at the post office! And this quick-witted artist got it right.<br /> Today is my first day of work without Mo. That’s Maureen “Mo” Kessler, with whom I’ve worked in harness for the past year and a half, here at <i>Glenwood Coffee & Books. </i><br /><br />When I think of Mo it’s not sitting straight-up in front of a typewriter or even standing tall before an easel, it’s running into the bookshop, needing a cup of coffee. But I like decaffeinated, and that’s what is usually brewing.<br /> Mo grabs three or four empty gallon jugs and heads for the water supply in the back room. One of her <i>bette noirs</i> is there’s no water supply into the coffeeshop, no drain. We use gallon jugs and an empty bucket! For a year, Mo has desired to get me out of the little enclosed room in our shop, where I live. She wants to see that used as a kitchen, one with a door and a hatchway, that you can keep clean, that has a water supply and a drain.<br /> Moreover, as she shared when she told me she’s “outta here,” she doesn’t see how she can attract customers into a place where an old, sick man lives!<br /> This morning, Mo won’t be running in here (“running” is how she walks, which to a turtle like me is memorable). Won’t scrunch up her nose when I tell her it’s decaf in the carafe. Won’t grab three or four empty gallon plastic bottles and head for the bathroom to fill them. Won’t flash her wide, toothy smile at me, although she doesn’t feel like smiling before a big cup and huge gulp of coffee. What a ragmuffin. I feel this echoing silence, this emptiness in the space this morning, very depressing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />- 16 -<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-44999361633011706182013-04-06T06:11:00.000-07:002013-04-06T06:11:43.737-07:00<br />
<u>April 6, 2013</u><br /><br /> As of yesterday, Mo and I ain't speaking to each other.<br /> We closed up at 9:30 last night, because it was the first formal performance of "Vagina Monologues" (they've been rehearsing here for a couple of weeks now). Mo left without saying good-night. We hadn't talked all day, her first full day in the bookshop in four weeks.<br /> How we got to this point is what I'd like to journalize. (I hope you know all the stupid slang in my journals is intentional, not that this makes it less vulgar, but at least it isn't as stupid as you might think.)<br /> So, you're warned. This won't be pleasant to read.<br /> And, I suppose, I owe you an explanation of why there were no entries in February and March, 2013, in this journal entitled <i>Glenwood Coffee & Books. </i> I've covered my disregard of the journals the past couple of months in my new journals (Criminal Journal, Cat's Journal, Another Publishing Journal). Basically, the excuse is a good one, I've been writing like mad, but small booklets (on Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, Robert Smithson–memoirs about people I've known who have influenced me: Thich Nhat Hanh, Daniel Berrigan, s.j., Teo Savory).<br /><br />This week, Mo and I had a couple of good talks. As you know, I think she (and Valerie Warren and a few other "Occupy" women) is the finest person I have ever known or met. I have to go all the way back to Zakira ("Patti Field"), 1970, or a superior person like Kammaleathahh Livingstone, to find her equal. I've been privileged to be friends with a large number of really saintly or extraordinary or talented or brilliant young men and women in my 77 years. None are finer, perhaps none are as fine, as Maureen "Mo" Kessler. She has more qualities, certainly, than anyone I've ever met, because not only is she intelligent, not only is she a committed peace-and-justice personage, but she is also an incredibly talented and creative artist. It goes without saying she is a feminist and a very handsome woman. She'll be 28 next week.<br /> Mo's one failing, if she has any, is she doesn't communicate, at least not with me. I have no idea why she has gone from extreme affection to extreme antipathy as far as I am concerned. Why did she care about me so much to begin with? I have no idea. Why is she so hateful now? Don't ask me. <br /> I can repeat some of the things she said. But, I think, it's like a marriage. Two people are so in love they get married. They live together, have children. But when they divorce the hatred between them can overwhelm everything. Surely, the two extremes are connected?<br /> But, how?<br /> I feel unhappy that Mo suddenly now hates me. But I never had extreme feelings for her, and, now, I don't have anything against her. For example, I'm not speaking to her, if I'm not, because I blanch at the way she now looks at me. I feel this intense disgust and dislike, and it unnerves me. But I don't share it. However, the little I know and understand about Mo's character, I think I'm in for it. I have a strong belief that once you lose Mo's affection, it's gone forever. I mean forever.<br /> She don't like old white men to begin with! Mo has shared some pretty strong prejudices about old white men with me. I'm sure I'm now one of those worms.<br />Oh, boy! All this against a background of "Vagina Monologues" in our bookshop!<br />In my defense I offer only that Mo isn't thinking too good lately. She's burnt out.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-89405632284044592722013-04-02T07:56:00.003-07:002013-04-02T07:56:58.623-07:00<u>April 3, 2013</u><br />
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GLENWOOD'S CAT’S JOURNAL: April 3, 2013<br /><br /> Al has asked me to include our dinner party from last night in my <i>Cat’s Journal.</i> Normally, he’d put it in one of his other journals. Like <i>Out Journal</i> or the <i>Glenwood Coffee & Books Journal.</i><br /> So, okay, never rest for the weary, yes, we did have a little dinner party last night. Pizza. Daniel and Lauren Goans. Al likes them, but I don’t know–I’m not sure they’re “cat people.” Not that it matters. Humans have got it into their heads that we cats don’t give a damn about them, so it’s good to keep it that way. The truth is of course that we worry like hell about them, incompetent fools that they are. Don’t know shit. Sigh.<br /> I lay over, “floppy do's,” I call it. They didn’t even notice. Lauren did see me up high on the Coke Refrigerator, where I like to perch. “Al,” she said in her pretty voice, kind of like a cat when you think about it, “I think Glenwood likes to be nearby you.” Well, duh, of course, I have to be nearby him, clumsy ass that he is, I have to keep an eye on him day and night, miserable sucker. You never know what trouble he’ll get into next!<br /> It took him all day to make the Pizza, set the table, polish the silver. I could have done the whole thing in half an hour! Fortunately, I don’t like Pizza (<i>Tofu </i>– can you believe it?!) . . . Because none was forthcoming. Humans are so rude, hardly ever offer to share. Oh, well, what’s new? I certainly don’t share my food, such as it is, either. In fact, come near to it, and I’ll scratch your eyes out.<br /> So I flopped over. And gave them a purr or two. Did they notice? Well, Lauren did, at least once or twice. Daniel too busy for a mere cat. Humpf! He’s kind of scruffy, in one of those “human” sorts of ways. Lauren had on a nice sweater-blouse. Very pretty. Nice fur, too, I mean hair. Of course Al’s bald. Of course, compared to cats, humans, you’ll have to forgive me, are <i>ugly</i>! Sorry about that, but cat’s aren’t sentimental, you know.<br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-38182876996872227852013-03-29T06:50:00.000-07:002013-03-29T06:50:15.632-07:00<u><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">March 2<span style="font-size: x-small;">9, 2013</span></span></span></u><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><u> </u></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">My cat, Glenwood, has begun his own journal today. He's already written the PREFACE.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">But this is his firs<span style="font-size: x-small;">t entry.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">What got him started was someone came into the bookshop and insulted him, saying,</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Doesn't that cat do anything but sleep!?" Glenwood got his dire up.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span> </span></i> <br />
CAT’S JOURNAL: March 29, 2013<br /> It’s Good Friday. “Christ on the Cross” kind of thing. You’d never find a cat doing that. Anyway, it’s Friday. Friday’s begin with the usual human insanity, huge garbage trucks plowing up and down the Avenue (here it’s called Glenwood Avenue, the spinal tunnel for the neighborhood’s vehicles). Inhibiting to say the least. There’s only two things worse than a garbage truck: (1) the # 2 Bus that runs by the bookshop every half hour (ugh!); (2) fire engines (ugh, ugh).<br /> There was a fire here the other night. You probably don’t know it. Because you were asleep. Ahem! But was I? No. Had to put up with all that racket. <br /> Buildings they’re building on Lee Street burned down. Probably set on fire by a disgruntled neighbor. Wouldn’t find a cat doing that–this phrase will probably come up a lot in this journal, let’s create an acronym, <i>WFACDT</i>. You humans are far out.<br /> “Issue is” (I’ve been hanging around The Occupy Movement too long, I’ve begun to talk like those nuts) –anyway,<i> the issue is</i> the (ugh) university here, Un-Goo I call it [U.N.C.–G.]. Un-Goo has barreled into my neighborhood, Glenwood, and is starting their tenancy by tearing down all the buildings and trees and putting up new buildings, a police station, what they call a Park [more about that later] and a recreation center for the intellectual students to rest their weary minds, some 50,000 sq. ft. and thousands of cars.<br /> Of course they do this against the community’s wishes–<i>TYWFACDT</i>–so there’s a lot of anger. I mean a lot. Wouldn’t surprise me if some angry neighbor just burnt the place down!<br /> Newspaper says the fire may be arson and is being investigated by just about every local, state, and federal bureaucracy there is. Un-Goo’s own police are said to be investigating. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re the ones who set it. <br />
You see, I have to go outdoors from time to time, to keep things neat and, well, <u>cohesive</u>. You wouldn’t understand. Which is why, of course, I have to write this journal for you all.<br /> I have to go outside, but then come these mammoth garbage trucks, it being Friday, Good or Not. And buses. And firemen tootin’ their sirens. Makes my fur stand on end. Yes, I’m fearless–and smart, too–but I ain’t no match for trucks and engines and buses that big! Scary, let me tell you.<br /> And right next door, a German Shepherd. Without a leash. Illegal that is. Until he gets run over, I have to keep a lookout for him. But there’s always a (ugh) Dog. You know that? You, too? Always a dog in the way? <br /> But us cats are used to dogs by now. Humans and dogs. The enemies of cats. Oh, I know, you<br />
S e n t i m e n t a l i s t s think we cats love you, and you love us, etc. etc. etc. Yeah, and ten cents will get you a glass of milk these days. It’s like gardens. Yes, gardens. Gardeners are the enemies of gardens. Librarians are the enemies of books. And humans are the enemies of cats. The gardener, in his effort to help the garden, carries germs and disease everywhere, sprays water which causes black spot and mildew. The librarian rubber stamps the books, marks them up, sometimes punches them with punches, glues things all over them, writes in them, you name it. They hate books. Same with humans and cats. They want to help us, so they mess everything up. Just keep the kibbles flowin’, buster. That’s the only help I need. Thank you very much. To my mind, helpfulness is the sunny side of control, with you humans. <i>WFACDT</i>. <i>All together, now, </i>YWFACDT.<br /> Well, enough lecturing. I’m not being paid enough to set you all right. Couldn’t pay me enough. That would be a fulltime job and a half. I’ve got enough to do. Have to sleep all day, yeah, right! <br /> Let me tell you. When morning comes, I’m worn out. And if I take a brief nap, it’s only my due. While you guys are snoring away, there’s work to be done, man. You just don’t know!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-1023809066952482222013-03-23T05:17:00.002-07:002013-03-23T05:17:21.296-07:00<u>March 23, 2013</u><br />
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Today's Entry from <i>Criminal Journal:</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>. . . illumed with the fatal<br />character and intelligent<br />actions of their lives<br /> </i><i> </i> Allen Ginsberg</span><br /><i><br /></i>Nothing criminal to report! Nothing today that is. (It’s only 7 a.m. Stick around.) Lots criminal from the past. M– and I went to Edward McKay’s used bookshop, and I bought $50 worth of good, practically brand-new titles. You might say that’s criminal, since I promised Mo I wouldn’t buy any more books for awhile. But that was five months ago, and I’ve been hesitant to break that promise. Since I’ve shelved and alphabetized at least 5,000 of our current stock that was piled around and squashed into cartons, I feel I am re-acquainted with the stock and know what to buy to fill in some gaps.<br /> I treated M– to dinner at Ghassan’s. Ghassan’s is the cheapest restaurant in Greensboro. The whole thing, including tips cost me less than $15.00, and it only cost that because M– purchased a “Sprite.” She didn’t look happy, but I didn’t take that personally.<br /> I intended to ask M– pointblank what was so criminal about wanting to hold her hand and put my arm around her, as we watched a movie. But at the beginning of our date, if you can call McKay’s+Ghassan’s a date, she looked so bitter, and by the end of our date, she looked so happy, I didn’t have the heart to bring up something sour.<br /> My rule for several years now is I don’t watch a movie with a woman without holding her hand or putting my arm around her. Consequently it’s been several years since I’ve watched a movie with anyone but men. This makes me a criminal?<br /> Lots of criminal activity from the past to report, but I intend this journal entry to be very brief. I’ll save some juicy stories for further down the road as we wordsmiths say.<br /> Anya off to New York for ten days. She’s braving the audition circuit, very ambitious of her. Nothing criminal about that. But. But Anya hasn’t been to see me for over a month. Nice emails. Excusing herself. She’s busy walking dogs and substitute teaching once a week. No time to visit Al. For at least three, probably four years, Anya has visited me for dinner, for a walk, for a visit once a week. This is the first month that’s gone by without such like, with the sole exception of her seven weeks blissing out at Omega Institute last summer. (She’s off to Buddhaville Omega again this summer. Nothing criminal about that on the face of it. But I wonder. Only kidding. Only kidding.)<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-86729503468661423642013-03-21T05:18:00.001-07:002013-03-21T05:18:10.310-07:00<!--[if !mso]>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CAdmin%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_image002.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="225" /></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6376682814170284837" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 16.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Another Publishing Journal: </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 16.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">March 21, 2013</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">This is not Cesare Pavese </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">but Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937). Here is how Wikipedia writes up Gramsci:</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="language: en-US; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Antonio Gramsci was an Italian writer, philosopher, politician, political theorist, sociologist, and linguist. He was a founding member and onetime leader of the Communist Party of Italy and was imprisoned by Benito Mussolini's Fascist regime.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Not just “imprisoned” Mr. Wikipedia but confined in prison for twenty years and then executed. The journals and letters Gramsci wrote in this confinement are some of the greatest documents of the 20th Century. I regret that the bookshop’s priceless 3-volume boxed mint set of Gramsci’s writings were one of the victims of our recent “sale.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning I can look over the first finished copies of my book</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">“obert Smithson.” I printed it yesterday, F & G (folded it and collated it, “fold & gather”) and sewed the signatures together. Further joining of the book’s five signatures is accomplished by gluing the sewn signatures together and pressing them overnight (in a bookpress I bought 45 years ago, from Gaylord Brothers.*</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, I had printed the covers. Since they’re “jet print” and color, and printed on coated card stock (</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">C1S</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"> in the papertrade vernacular = </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">coated one side</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">) they have to dry a couple of days.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">I also designed a way to reproduce the lengthy fold-out cover of </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Pan </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Smithson did on my commission in 1956, and I printed that, too, and glued it into my new book as a “paste-in fold-out”). This morning I get to open and read my book, its first copy off the press, a special moment. I am sending this first copy to Nancy Holt, Smithson’s widow, to whom my book is dedicated. I think Nancy would agree she and I were Bob’s first supporters and probably his most influential friends and comrades.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same series as the </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Smithson Book, </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">I have published a memoir I wrote and published on </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Dorothy Day. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">And I’m 50% done on the third volume in this series of memoirs of geniuses who influenced me lifelong: </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Thomas Merton. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">I intend three more books: </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Thich Nhat Hanh; Father Daniel Berrigan; Teo Savory.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">*</span><span lang="en-US" style="language: en-US; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">The Gaylord Brothers book press cost $12.50 then. It is exactly 10X that amount now, $125, an interesting example of the “value of the dollar” in my working lifetime.</span><span lang="en-US" style="language: en-US; mso-armenian-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-currency-font-family: "Palatino Linotype";"></span></div>
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<br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-52290765510050180292013-03-17T05:58:00.000-07:002013-03-17T05:58:04.416-07:00<u>CRIMINAL JOURNAL: March 17, 2013</u><br /><br />‘Fess up, it’s Sunday, and in an hour, my Unitarian Universalist Covenant Fellowship will be meeting here at <i>Glenwood Coffee & Books.</i> Good to have “Confession” before the Unitarian Mass. (My ordained minister wife, Liz, says Unitarian Communion is . . . Coffee.)*<br /> Since this is a <i>Criminal Journal,</i> I might as well go ahead and confess my crimes.<br /> I gave up . . . Romance! . . . Two years ago. I was crazy about A– at the time, and I told her so in some indiscreet letters from Martha’s Vineyard (where I had no business being, although I wasn’t acting criminal. That everyone on Martha’s Vineyard is a one per center criminal is another story, houses there being in the 2-3 million dollar range.)<br /> A– wasn’t interested, of course, and I think I was only pursuing her out of habit. Same with E–. I wasn’t in love with those women. They were just young and pretty and available, so I went after them. I decided that since I was now a dignified 75 years of age, I had to stop doing that (fun as it was). And, surprisingly, I was successful.<br /> I remember a visit Oscar Zurer, an old friend from New York, paid me way back in the early 1980s. I was 50 then, and Oscar was recently retired at 65. He told me that the most surprising thing about growing old was he was hornier than ever and [he used a very rude word for fornication] _____ing like never before. I was surprised and shocked. But it’s true that The Old Adam doesn’t seem to be much different than The Young Adam.<br /> So I’m cruising along, happy in Neutral the past few years, thinking nothing of it. Not a single thing for a <i>Criminal Journal</i> to be concerned about. Enter M–.<br /> What was it about M– that would break the celibate priestly vows of a happy fella’ like I’ve become in my old age? Why is it a hundred people enter your life, and you’re as good as gold. Then, <i>wham</i>! This one catches your eye and tugs at your heartstrings?<br /> About three years ago, I was minding my business in the old premises of The Community Bookshop, before Andrew The Bad found my new 1310 Glenwood Avenue site. In comes this Guilford College underclasswoman and does some serious browsing. Happens irregularly. I think everyone likes a bookshop, but there are some people that really love bookshops. Obviously this young woman was one. There was something about her. I was really taken. Struck, you know? This was in my feisty days before my Vow of No Romance.<br /> What’s so strange is even in those Rough & Ready Days, very few<br />______________________<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Well, she ain’t my wife anymore. Her first sign of the Dementia that’s placed her on the Fourth (locked) Floor of the Woodhall Assisted Living Facility on High Point & Holden was divorcing me.</span><br />
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women moved me in that way. There had been K– whom I was crazy about for three years, then no one really, only two mild flirtations in the next few years (half-hearted interest in A– and <br />E–, whom I admit were movie star beautiful). M– wasn’t movie star beautiful. She was a quiet, serious “co-ed,” obviously well-brought-up, dressed conservatively . . . I have no idea why she, rather than a hundred others, just gave me that <i>frisson</i>.<br /> I chatted her up. Her nature is unnaturally quiet. Had an exquisite smile, somewhat shy and hesitant, but full-blooming once it got going. Yes, she was like a voluminous tropical flower. And she seemed to respond to my interest. She and I made a date for that weekend.<br /> But she never showed up. We had exchanged phone numbers and email contact info, but when she just never showed up with no communication of any kind . . . Well, to hell with it, I thought.<br />I was moving into my “No Romance” post-75 years anyway.<br /> Four years go by. I’m doing real well. Behaving myself. No <i>Criminal Journal.</i> Not a single miscue. Then M– walks into the bookshop again, the new one here on Glenwood Avenue. Yeah, about a month ago. And you know what? I felt the same way. I had behaved myself perfectly for a long time. I was through with Romance forever. That went out the window in one second.<br /> M– came in with an older friend, turned out to be her landlady. She had graduated. Didn’t look any different to me. Exactly the same. And I felt exactly the same. When she came into the bookshop a week later, I made a “date” with her. Sure enough she broke it. But, this time with her contact information, I made another date. She broke it less than an hour before she was due. <br /> Foolishly, I then made a real though casual “Saturday Night Date” for a movie and dinner at the bookshop. She changed it to a Monday Night, the one day of the week we’re closed. I warned her I had really poor taste in movies, didn’t like good movies at all, only liked “Romantic Comedies.” “Me, too,” she said. (She was just the same as ever, real quiet, spoke very little, very quietly.)<br /> This time she actually came. And, after I put the film on–Amy Irving in “Crossing Delancey Street”– I put my arm around her and held her hand. But she moved as far away from me as she could on the narrow futon in my room. Removed her hand, and when I asked if I could hold her hand, she gave me a look of disgust and pulled even further away. I thought, “Surely, a Saturday Night Date, watching a movie, gives a fellow the right to put his arm around a girl and hold her hand?” Evidently not. So it comes down that I hit on her? Seems such an innocent thing to me. I wasn’t trying to seduce her. I was just hoping to hold her hand, like in the Beatles’ song. But here I am, outed into my own Criminal Journal!!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-8984750988153041892013-03-14T06:56:00.001-07:002013-03-14T06:56:52.338-07:00<img src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQWd0O1H7wAw1JjC7n0UrA96aIsxG07JGcPCTTGOYVJW6gjobdn" style="border-style: none; height: 80px; margin-left: -16px; width: 113px;" /> <u>March 14, 2013 </u><br />
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Here's my very first official posting in my new <u>Criminal Journal:</u> <i>March 14, 2013.</i><br />
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"></span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 18.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal Journal: </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 18.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">March 14, 2013</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">That’s ol’ Benjamin Brittain up there, on the podium, conducting. Leading off the opening entry in my new </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal Journal.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, of course he’s not a criminal</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever since Andrew The Good taught me how to scan from my H/P 8500 Pro All-in-One printer, I love to include graphics in my journals! Taught me how to snatch images off anyplace on the Internet, too. Ol’ B.B. was snatched from a Google Site.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But what’s he doing there up top, Al?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glad you asked. But sorry you had to. Got to focus better, if I’m to be a successful </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Journaliste</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like this.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Christ, Al, your </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">writing style </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">sure leaves much to be desired. You don’t have to say, “It’s like this,” when you start off one of your stories. You just say it. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Say it</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">!</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I’m sorry about that.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Say It!</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All right already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m saying it. Ever since Monday Night, when I was last criminalized, my partner Mo has been very nervous and upset, worried, you know? I have to text or phone her when I go to bed, and I have to text or phone or email her that I’m alive and well, when I get up in the morning. “Mayhem in the A.M.” You know?</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And that’s why Benjamin Brittain, England’s greatest composer since Henry Purcell, starts off </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal Journal</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m getting to that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Well, get to it!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">This morning’s email to my partner, Mo, began. “Seven o’clock, and all is well.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I realized this brand-new over-educated generation doesn’t know anything, despite the fact that every graduate averages $30,000 in debt, so I figured I’d better explain to her why I said that. So I added that this form of address, to start the day, you know, “7 o’clock, and all is well” is what the old-fashioned Night Watchman sang out as he made his rounds or perhaps doubled up as a Gaslight Lighter, street by street, in Merry Old England and all over Europe and America.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when Benjamin Brittain wrote </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Peer Gynt </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">or whatever opera it was he was composing, he started his libretto that way. You know, like “</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Enter the Night Watchman, </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">singing, “Seven o’clock. And all is well.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife, Teo Savory graduated from The Royal Academy of Music in 1929. And her first job was singing the opening line in Brittain’s new opera, conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she goes to her first rehearsal, and she belts out her only part, “Seven o’clock and all is well.” Sir Thomas taps his podium impatiently. “</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">All is NOT well, Miss Savory,” </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">he shouts out critically.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And that’s why Benjamin Brittain opens up your new journal, Al?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t like?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Well, I’ve already told you how the </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal Journal </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>came about. Notice we’re far, far from my first journal, the scholarly </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">ethnographic </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">BUS JOURNAL </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">of </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span dir="ltr"></span>2007 and 2008, used as a textbook at the (ugh) state university Lo, these past six years. But I wasn’t being </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">criminalized every day in those enlightened times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">On the other hand, I was mugged six times in my six months in New York after my wife died November, 1989. And I’ll get to that. But I should begin </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal Journal </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">with the latest, <i>most </i>recent </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">mugging</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">, don’t you think?</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was fast asleep three nights ago when all of a sudden there’s a stranger standing over my bed! I leap out of bed and scream, “What’s going on? Who are you?” I’m trembling all over. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t be alarmed,” this stranger says calmly. “I’m a police officer. I found your side door unlocked, and I came in to investigate.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to clear my head. My cat Glenwood’s tail was all swelled up, I noticed, as if a dog had suddenly appeared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the presence of mind to walk this young fellow to the side door, to show me it was unlocked, thinking to get rid of him that way. He was weird-looking, </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">emaciated </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">really. The kind of face a premature baby has. As if squeezed with a forceps. His arms were unnaturally thin, too. He was like a miniature person. He wasn’t Black or White, as I must have explained to the authorities, under questioning, a million times.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Kind of a <i>mawkish beige.</i> </span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he leaves, thank God, reminding me to lock the handle of the door. Unfortunately, the deadbolt doesn’t work. You can’t get it to move. Paul Carranno, from The Occupy Movement, backed his huge truck into that metal door a year ago, smashed it, and the deadbolt hasn’t ever lined up the way it’s supposed to.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And this was the </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">criminal </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">portion of your evening?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be patient. This creepy guy comes back.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After he left, I was so shaken by being awaken that way, I couldn’t go back to sleep. So, late as it was, I turned on all the lights in the Back Room of the bookshop, a huge 5,000 square foot barn full of bookshelves, and continued my chore of shelving all our novels and fiction in the new shelving Joseph built for us recently. It’s satisfying to dump all the junk and alphabetize all the goodies. I dig into cartons where my partners Juan and Mo have been hiding all the books, and I find treasures, which I alphabetize in Joseph’s bookshelves. Bernard Malamud, Isak Dinesen, even P. G. Wodehouse. Of course, Juan and Mo and everyone else’s never heard of these 20th Century authors. For one thing, they don’t do graphic novels, although let’s hope some comic book artist comes around to straighten them out soon.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">If only James Joyce had been born in the 21st Century and did a ‘zine. Oh, well. I’m gonna be 77 in two months, and this is the way I want to end my days: finding used copies of the books that meant something to me all my life, my pre-digital life, before Kindles and Androids, Microsoft Office Word, and iPhones, iPads, iPods, and ibityourcockoff.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, I was exhausted enough to try to go back to bed. Glenwood, my cat, is nocturnal, but I ain’t. He decided to take a crap in the corner of the barn back there, so that had to be dealt with, too.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m lying in bed, but I’m hearing creaking and scratching everywhere. It’s probably Glenwood searching for phantoms, but I can’t fall asleep, with all these nervous sounds.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Al, the sounds weren’t nervous. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">You </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">were nervous.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever. I get out of bed, and I start poking around. Check out the bathroom. Think to check the side door, and by God, it’s unlocked!!! Oh, my!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had any brains, I would have run outside. But I keep looking. And lurking in a corner of the front room, by the front door, which is double-locked, is that creepy ugly son-of-a-bitch,</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">He’s got a fist full of dollars in his hand and the change tray from our cash register.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the hell?!” I shout at him.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s so calm. In that halting voice, kind of </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">chicano </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">accent, if you know what I mean, he says again, “Don’t be alarmed. I’m a police officer.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah. And I’m the King of Siam.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He goes on. “I apprehended a criminal in your parking lot. With this cash and your change tray in his hands.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He calmly hands over the one-dollar and five-dollar bills, all we collected the day before, maybe $30 total. And the heavy change tray, full of pennies and nickels, dimes, and quarters.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk to the cash register, my mind in a whirl. I feel so sick. Nauseous, you know?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slowly walks through the doorway to the back room, and as he leaves by the infamous side door, he says smirkingly, “Don’t forget to snap the </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; text-decoration: underline; text-underline: single;">deadbolt </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">this time.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awww. I </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">can’t </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">work that damn deadbolt. All I have between this creepy Perpetrator and me is a loose handle lock a child could open with a tinker-toy.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Back in the Mists of Antiquity, when Mo was an employee, not a boss, and </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; text-decoration: underline; text-underline: single;">I </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">was the Boss, she began this thing about worrying because I’m so old and frail. Not that I’m really old-and-frail, but I </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">should be </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">old-and-frail, I mean I am </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">old</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">, but I’m not frail. The last time I went to a (ugh) Doctor, oh about fifteen years ago, it was a young woman of all things, she supposed to look at my eye–a cinder got in there thrown up from my bicycle wheel, but first she has to doctor me, listen to my heart and lungs through her stethoscope. “Are you a professional athlete, Mr. Brilliant?” she asks. Boy, was hearing </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">that </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">worth a hundred bucks! I modestly told Dr. Young Woman I didn’t have a car, but I rode my bicycle everywhere, and that probably accounted for the stethoscope information and highest medical ranking. Well, she took care of my eye.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, Al, Mo is worried, right? She thinks you’re not up to living in the bookshop, coping with armed robbers?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right! I have to text or phone her before I go to bed. But, you see, I threw out the damn cell phone. Couldn’t stand using a telephone that way. And it was always interrupting me when I’d be trying to write my journals, or my memoirs, or my novels. I hate being interrupted. Expensive, too.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sorry to interrupt. But how do you phone or text Mo when you throw out your cellular device?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exactly. Mo made me get a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">new </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">cell phone. But I draw the line at spending any money. Hey, it turns out if you’re on Food Stamps like me, an outfit called </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Assurance </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">gives you a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">free </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">cell phone. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">And </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span dir="ltr"></span>200 </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">free </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">minutes a month!!! Check it out!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not <i>on </i>Food Stamps, to use your term, thank you very much.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crazy, man! I get $125 every month. Not in cash. But automatically on to this credit card thing that I take to (ugh) Food Lion. Bangs right in there 15th of every month. Like clockwork. You don’t have to do a thing. Somehow this “EBT Card” it’s called, picks up $125 smack on the 15th. I ain’t shittin’ you. Really. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">And </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">a free cell phone. No wonder the Republican one-percenters are so livid at us 99% on welfare.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The point is . . . I </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">do </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">have a cell phone. Free! And Mo entered her name and number in the speed dial. I’m to phone her every time we get broken into. Or, she says, any time I hear strange noises or, really, for any reason whatsoever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not thinking straight. This guy has given me the willies. I‘m so confused. I haven’t had to use my free cell phone but once, a month ago, when we got broken into last. Then I called “911,” as if El-Quida was on the loose. But this time, should I call the Police? I mean, I got the money back and the tray full of change. The guy is gone. I don’t know what to do. But I’m thinking, “Mo wants me to phone her.” That’s the only coherent thought in my poor head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m always telling my friend, Anya Russian, that Yiddish sounds like what it means. She says it’s called </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">anyamatopoetic. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">After her? No, just being silly, but you would say, “Al, you were at sixes and sevens.” Because you’re a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">goy. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Sixes and Sevens my asshole. In Yiddish you say, “You’re </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">fa’shimmeled!”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fa’shimmeled! </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">That’s what I was. Not “Sixes and Sevens.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank God I had the sense to call Mo. Of course, she answered right away. It’s the middle of the night. I’m hesitant to bother her, to wake her up. Don’t be hesitant. Everyone in their twenties is awake. Anya Russian never goes to sleep before 4 a.m. Mo answers on the first ring.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in no time at all, seconds it feels like, she and her boyfriend, Dave, are driving up to </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Glenwood Coffee & Books. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">I knew at once I had done the right thing. Jinxed as I was, I got it right. I felt so good. I had been through at least three hours of hell. So confused. Slimed, really. But it was </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">so good </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">to see Dave and Mo walk through the front door.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally, I told them the whole story. Word for word. They hate that back door and its loose handle lock as much as I. Dave said he could open it in a second with a credit card or even a piece of paper. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mo said we had to call the Police. Well, of course we had to. But my brain was so</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"> feshtookenah </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">I couldn’t think straight. I tried to prevent her, but Mo has a smart cell phone, and she had a Police Car over in a jiffy. Sargeant Held and Officer Jackson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mo tried to get the Sargeant to look at the Side Door, but he said he had to ask me some questions first. He and Officer Jackson listened to my tale. Then he asked the strangest questions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first one was, “Are you on any medication?” Then he asked me who the President of the United States was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 75%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him, “He ain’t </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">my </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">President. As a member of Occupy Greensboro, I’m against Citizen’s United Supreme Court decision.” Turns out the Sargeant didn’t know what I meant.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Officer Jackson, a nice woman, asks kindly what my name was. I asked her what was her’s? But I got mine right. “Alan Brilliant,” I told her. Sargeant Held again, “What day is it?” Who the hell knows the date? </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">He </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">didn’t know the date! But I knew it was Monday. Even though it was already Tuesday. Of course, being a policeman, he thought it was Monday, too.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, the two policepeople check out the Side Door with the loose handle. “It’s open all right,” says the Sargeant. Well, </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">duh</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explains to Mo that it’s no good taking fingerprints. That was his Big Mistake. ‘Cause Mo knows all about fingerprints. She practically cuts him a new asshole. Turns out she didn’t like </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">any </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">of his questioning line. What right did he have asking me if I am on medication? Points out he didn’t know the date it was either. “Hold on a minute,” says Sargeant Held. “You hold on!” shouts Mo. She talks very fast, you know, And extremely loud. She’s not trying to be impolite, she just happens to talk fash and loud. She’s practically jabbing Sargeant Held in the chest with her finger. At any rate, he’s backing up.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize, now, going over all this, what a sleeze ball he was. Mo was right. But it just added to my confusion at the time. At least Officer Jackson was a really beautiful young woman. I had that much </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">presence of mind</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">, as us victims say.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, they stayed for hours. Officer Jackson had to somehow type up a complete report. I have a copy if you want to see it. Then she slowly and distinctly explained the report to me, as if I was in kindergarten. “If you have any questions” kind of thing, “the phone number you call is right here, in bold type, see?”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dave and Mo finally drove me to their home, after Mo and Sargeant Held finished their fighting. Officer Jackson gave me a really nice smile. I felt we had made a pleasant connection, you know?</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slept well. But my dratted cell phone woke me up at eight, a few hours later. It was </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">another </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">policeperson, a Policeman, who said Sargeant Held had given us an 8 a.m. appointment, why wasn’t I meeting him at the bookshop like I was supposed to?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, Al, that certainly was an adventure . . .”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold on. I’m not done.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, I really have to go . . .”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s two more policemen to come. One a real butch dyke!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s time to get to work . . .”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This will only take a second. And there’s a really good Punch Line to end everything with.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well . . .”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This policeman with whom I was never told I had an appointment, well he was a pleasant enough fellow. Explained he didn’t carry a gun. Okay, says I. What he means is he doesn’t want to go into the bookshop.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t carry a gun,” he says to me. “I only do fingerprints, things like that. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">We need back-up</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I was about to just unlock the front door and walk right into my bookshop. Without a gun. Without any back-up.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you ask me why I am calling this a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">journal!!!</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, he gets on his walkie-talkie, and he calls for back-up. Can you believe it. He thinks the spooky criminal still lurks inside my bookshop, just waiting for me to arrive. Sargeant Held thinks this guy is a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">phantom</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">, a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">chimera. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Well, he didn’t use the word, “chimera.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another police car arrives! </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Squad Cars </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">they’re called.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a 220-lb 6’2” white-haired woman with a mammoth bosom absolutely bursting out of her police uniform shirt. She’s totally </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">packed </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">with weaponry.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cautions us to remain outside, as I unlock the door. She rushes into the bookshop. “Come out with your hands up!: she screams. “I am a policeman! Everyone in here come out with your hands where I can see them! </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">I am armed</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">, and my weapon is drawn.”</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m standing safe in the parking lot, and I’m scared of her. Luckily, no one was inside. Had there been a customer in there,. Business would be over for that day, for sure.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After quite a long time., she comes out to where this unarmed fellow and I, also unarmed in this lifetime, are patiently waiting. I almost put </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">my </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">hands up when she finally came outside.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Situation is clear,” she says, in a normal tone of voice, normal for her maybe, but still pretty booming. She walks up to me. “I liked your sign on the bathroom door,” she says. She chuckles, reciting the sign Mo put up about how bathrooms don’t have gender, so ours isn’t a </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Men’s Room </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">or a “Ladies Room,” anyone can use either bathroom. “But,” she says sternly, but still with a sense of humor I think, “I didn’t like all those posters about </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Police Brutality.” </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">I kind of blanched.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, that about wraps it up. Aside from still shaking in my boots three days later and having to call or text or email Mo every morning and night, that’s about it. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">For this one event. </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">There’s a whole mess of </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">events </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">to catch you all up on. I’ve waited too long to write this here </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-style: italic; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Criminal </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">Journal. Should have started years ago.</span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s the six muggings in New York. Two more, right here in the bookshop. And, since this journal will include </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: bold; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">everything </span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 75%; mso-ansi-language: en-US;">criminal that happens, I might include a few things Charlie had to say after our last game of chess.</span></div>
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My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-71336260653390282652013-03-13T06:55:00.002-07:002013-03-13T06:55:44.534-07:00<u>March 13, 2013</u><br />
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<i>Criminal Journal: March 13, 2013</i><br /><br /><br />
Ken Knight, to whom I’m dedicating this new journal, took the <br />photograph on the facing page. He calls it “Arsenal.” It’s supposed to show me armed to the teeth, ready to confront the next criminal who breaks into our bookshop at 1310 Glenwood Avenue, Greensboro, NC 27403: Glenwood Coffee and Books.<br /> I had just described the latest break-in and the bizarre police response to Ken–and to Andrew Saulters (whom I’ve renamed “Andrew The Good.”)*<br />Of course I dramatized the Event, the way I do. Ken and Andrew were laughing at my presentation. Ken said, “You should put that story in all your journals, Al.”<br /> “I certainly will,” I said, “All of them!”<br /> Then Ken said, “You should begin a new Journal. Criminal Journal.”<br /> He was probably thinking of all the break-ins we’ve had in this bookshop in a part of town with a bad reputation.<br /> This morning, Ken said I should call it “Crime Joournal.” But Criminal Journal I’m thinking, might make the reader think I’m the criminal–and so it’s a funnier title. Criminal Journal = a journal by a criminal. Crime Journal is obviously, even at first glance, just a journal about crime.<br /> Ken and Andrew The Good were amused by the arsenal of stout sticks and broom handles, a 2”x4” I had assembled with which to protect myself and my bookshop. Ken whipped out his Smart Phone, the way people do these days, and he snapped the picture on the facing page. Then and there, he e-mailed it to me for use in my new journal. Phew, this technology!<br />_________________________<br />* My first “re-naming” I just remembered was in my freshman year in college (1953), when there was this friend of my brother Dave, just too good to be true. His name was Jerry. He was such a “oody Two-Shoes” that I renamed him “Noble Jerry.” Soon, everyone was calling him “Noble Jerry.”<br /> <br />It’s hard to believe I’ll be able to fill up an entire journal with “Criminal” undertakings. <br /> For sure, I’ll begin with descriptions of the three break-ins. And how I’m feeling right after frightening intrusions. Two nights ago, I was awaken out of a sound sleep by a man standing right over my bed! For I sleep here, in the office of the bookshop. To save rent of course. No one has any money these days (except the one percenters.)<br /> Dave Reed says I may be entitled to “Section Eight” support from Welfare–in order to get a real apartment. My living quarters in the bookshop hardly even include a bed–I sleep on a couch with my cat, Glenwood. The room is filled with office supplies, file cabinets, two computers, bookcases . . . It’s an office after all. And my sleeping couch, which is usually piled with books, too. There’s a big desk. And it’s a little room to beign with. There’s no heat or hot water. No kitchen or stove. A dormitory-size refrigerator my friend, Sarah Mae, gave me. I use a clever little “pizza oven” for my all my stove needs. No, I don’t eat too well. Food Stamps, you know. $125 fifteenth of every month. It’s the 13th today, and of course my $125 is long gone. Prices at the local (ugh) Food Lion have gone up considerably since the recession began. And a poor neighborhood’s supermarket is always priced higher than the one you middle-classers whop at. For example, I live on hotdogs, and my favorites are Hebrew National (seven to a package). Food Lion charges $5.00 a package. But the middle-class fancy supermarket (Harris-Teeter) only charges $3,50.<br /> I don’t own a car. It would take me well over an hour via bus transportation to get to the Harris-Teeter. The Food Lion is a short 15-minute walk away. I bring my four-shweel buggy along with me, so I don’t have to heft heavy parcels back “home.” If you can call it a home.* Since the Laundromat is right next to Food Lion, I often add dirty laundry to my buggy–it gets washed while I shop.<br />_________________________<br />*For more on the subject of car/nocar bus transportation, my “buggy,” my bicycle, see my journals: Bus Journal and Bike Journal. <br /> Bus Journal has been used at the local state university as a textbook the past six years, but the teachers tell me they’re not using it anymore. Just as well, because I hate colleges and the academics who teach there. It’s pretty stupid to be a student these days, too. More and more bright kids are wise enough to drop out, and the best don’t even bother going. Of course their class-conscious parents practically imprison them and kill them if their offspring don’t (gulp!) attend college! My friend,. Antonia, is typical; she told her son if he didn’t attend college, she’d kick him out of their house and not give him a penny. Her bribes have given UNC-Asheville one more college freshman! Next will be all the resentments and misunderstandings, drug use, conflict, of such strong-arm tactics (“criminal”? As in Criminal Journal?)<br /><br />- 12 -<br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-64035866400164070872013-02-18T09:27:00.001-08:002013-02-18T09:27:21.696-08:00<u>February 18, 2013</u><br />
<br />This past Sunday, the Unitarian Universalist Covenant Fellowship, which meets here in the bookshop the first and third Sunday of every month, had a most unusual guest "minister." I place "minister" in quotes. because I'm not sure she would consider herself a Minister (with a capital "M"). This Unitarian Fellowship of mine has unusual offerings on Sunday. Last month it was "Singing Bowls." We had a fine Baptist preacher, too, and many ordained Unitarian ministers, real ones.<br /> Sophia Dilkusha McGuire is a "real one" all right. She announces herself as "Representative, Guide, and Teacher, Sufi Order International." She called her "sermon," "message," – I'm not sure what to call it – "Splendor Amidst the Everyday." She spoke in a whisper, at least to my 77-year-old ears, but what I heard seemed unusual and unusually interesting and soulful. Unfortunately, a lot of her murmurings–in a sweet Scotch/Irish soprano voice–were instructions. It was embarrassing not to know what her instructions were. My neighbor turned to me and said, "I like how gentle your eyes look." Obviously, we were to do something like that . . . Ms. McGuire's instructions. Inspired, I said back, "I'm glad you're here." My neighbor was one of the few, local African Americans who have braved our informal Sunday "services" "observances" – I'm not sure what to call them, "Worship Services"? – said her name was, "Joy."<br /> Noticing everyone clutching their throats, I did too. Another whispered instruction. Turned out it was our hearts (I think) we were supposed to touch.<br /> I found all this touchy-feely stuff very nice. It made me feel–as I'm sure it was supposed to–touchy feely myself! I liked Ms. McGuire's appearance and loved her soft, sweet voice. Just as there's a distinctive "Sufi Script" typographically, there's a special Sufi way of talking: extremely mellow and whisperish, caressing each word, repeating platitudes. "God walks beside you," said in this way, over and over, becomes less of a cliche. You think, "Maybe God is walking beside me?"<br /> I noticed that when we were instructed to "Repeat After Me," Tammy wouldn't say the "G" word. Reminded me of that joke about Unitarians:<br /> "Why does it take so long for Unitarians to sing a hymn?<br /> "Because they have to check every word to see if they're willing to sing it."<br /><br />Dilkusha McGuire began her thing with, "We see with our eyes.But we see with much more. We also see with our heart . . . with our soul." I thought that was a simple idea lovingly expressed–I didn't remember ever hearing that from The Pulpit before–not that my bookshop has a "pulpit." Dilkusha stood right in front of the soda pop glass door refrigerated unit. No pulpit.<br /> One of my oldest friends and former 4-year Unicorn worker (1970–1974), Patti Field, became a "Representative, Guide, and Teacher" for a Sufi Community in Charlottesville, Virginia when she left our Unicorn work community. She changed her name to "Zakira," which is how she is known to this day: "She who is searching for God," . . . Zakira. I bet Sophia McGuire has at least one, probably two, name changes. That "Dilkasha" doesn't sound <i>kosher</i>. I bet it means, "Brings God to Your Supper Table," or something like that. "Sophia" of course means "Wisdom" in Greek. That's probably a made-up name, too. Funny how many people in my lifetime have accused me of changing my name to . . . Brilliant!<br /> Reminds me of an early Jewish immigrant joke popular in the 1920s on the <i>Borscht Circuit</i>. An old Jewish man goes to Court and asks the Judge to allow him to change his name.<br /> "What's your name now?" the Judge asks.<br /> "Goldberg," the old man replies in a strong, foreign, Jewish accent.<br /> "Okay. What do you want to call yourself in the future?"<br /> The man beamed. "O'Reilly!" he exclaimed.<br /> But a short time latter the old man came back to Court. He asked the Judge if he could change his name again.<br /> "You're Mr. O'Reilly now," the Judge remembered. "What do you want to change that to?"<br /> "O'Shaunnessey!" exclaimed the old Jewish gentleman.<br /> The Judge was puzzled. "But why do you want to change your new name, O'Reilly, now, to O'Shaunnessey?"<br /> "Well, Your Honor," said the petitioner. "These days, everyone asks me, What was your name before it was O'Reilly, and I have to confess it was <i>Goldberg</i>. But if I change O'Reilly to "O'Shaunnessey . . ."<br /> "I get it. I get it," said the Judge. "Okay, you can change your name again."<br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-18216456878834460112013-02-04T05:57:00.001-08:002013-02-04T05:57:52.844-08:00<u>February 4, 2013</u> <br />
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<i>PREFACE TO MY CHAPBOOK ON DOROTHY DAY</i> <br />
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On February 1, 2013, my friend and fellow bookperson, Michael T. Bohen, 102 South Mendenhall Street, here in Greensboro, North Carolina, surprised me by suggesting, "Al, I will give you one hundred dollars if you will write a book on Dorothy Day."<br /> I had written ten volumes of journals the previous year, 2012, and Mike buys them as I publish them. But he didn't mean a journal exactly, although he wanted my personal reminiscence of Dorothy, and anything else I cared to say about her. Mike knew Dorothy had been the most important formative influence on my whole life. And he obviously has a high regard for her himself.<br /> Mike seemed to have in mind what I would call a "chapbook" and he would probably call a "booklet." I enjoyed the challenge of a separate publication only about Dorothy Day. And a hundred dollars, while it may seem "small potatoes" to all of you reading this, is a large sum to Michael and to me. Oddly, my first thought was of Anais Nin being offered money for a series of erotic sketches that became her <i>Delta of Venus</i>. Although I have been offered money before for writing this or that, it hasn't happened very often.<br /> That was yesterday. I knew at once I would accept the challenge. I have had published at least three little books of prose, all 4 1/2 x 7 1/2 inches, and I could immediately picture the final product, a book, in a small edition, hardbound, maybe with a cover of art work by my daughter, Mariah, just like the other little prose booklets I've produced. Mike said he didn't care if the edition was only one (1) copy, but of course a publisher like me can hardly think in terms of editions of one!<br /><br />I wish Dorothy could see what my partner, Maureen "Mo" Kessler and I have going here at Glenwood Coffee & Books, 1310 Glenwood Avenue, Greensboro, NC 27403. I know she'd like it. Well, what would she like? That it's a public space. That I live here, suitably modest dwelling (no kitchen, no hot water, pretty cold, sustainable.)<br /> She would love the dozens of peace-and-justice organizations that have met here. In our first two years, how many meetings, maybe 200? Gay and Lesbian LGBTQ groups, regional groups from all over the South, state groups like N. C. Warn and Coalition Against Corporate Power. Today the Energy Working Group sof Occupy Greensboro is having an important meeting. The place is filling with activists (and probably half a dozen agents of various government surveillance groups, nothing strange about that to Dorothy Day). Just now, the church fellowship (Unitarian Universalists) had their Sunday worship here. Being the only independent bookshop in Greensboro, we have book signings and poetry readings and writers and artists galore. The <i>Catholic Worker, </i>which Dorothy founded in 1936 with Peter Maurin, had as its mission "Three C's," cult, culture, and cultivation. The cult was The Roman Catholic Church; the culture was art of course but primarily their monthly newspaper, <i>The Catholic Worker</i>; the cultivation was the small farm C. W. owned, on Staaten Island. We also have gardens. We have culture galore. As for Dorothy's primary mission, people who are destitute, people who are homeless, we do that,too. Mo and I are "Food Not Bombs" occasional workers, and the bookshop has always offered at least one free meal a month to the whole neighborhood. We're in cahoots with Liz Seymour and the Interactive Resource Center (IRC). Mike Bohen himself volunteers at Servant Center.<br /><br />Dorothy was a writer all her life, a journalist, a reporter, an author. She would have appreciated Unicorn Press, all my journals, a bookshop . . . but, most of all, she would have loved all of this together, the feeding and clothing of the poor, the writing and the publishing, the bookshop and the almost daily public readings. And that's not all. How about our prison library book project? Occupy Greensboro meets here. The anarchist groups, the Wobblies? Oh, she would have loved The Wobblies! My vow of voluntary poverty she would know all about, because it was she who urged it upon me, the first day I met her, November 14, 1955. <br /> I'll save the story of how I came to be with Dorothy that first time until I leave this "preface" and begin my booklet's main story. Which is what? Truthfully, I don't know. Until now, I had never thought of an extended writing about Dorothy. Although she appears, in what I would call a deep way, in my just-published <i>Spiritual Journal</i> (available from Unicorn Press). She is one of three people who influenced me the most in my life: first of all, Dorothy Day. Next in importance, Thich Nhat Hanh, whose first five books in English I published (1967–1975). Thirdly, Thomas Merton, and I published five books of "Father Louie" also, as well as much literary and religious ephemera of this Cistercian frair/priest. Each one of them generously led me to a real life, a life which, without them, would hardly have been worth living, so important have them been to me. But of the three, it was Dorothy who had the greatest influence on my inmost living. Profound as Tom and Nhat Hanh are, without Dorothy I find it hard to believe my life would have amounted to anything. Even with her enormous influence and significance upon me, I can still hope that to dust I shall return and no one will be the wiser. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6376682814170284837.post-35202809094898847762013-01-28T04:32:00.001-08:002013-01-28T04:32:04.523-08:00<u>January 28, 2013</u><br />
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<i>Here is the first page and a half from today's entry in my </i>Sex Journal<i>. It continues my thoughts on the Nature vs. Nurture Science Wars between femnists and reactionary male evolutionists.</i><br />
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The most interesting development(s) in work on sex-and-gender today seems to me the acrimonious debate between feminists and evolutionary psychologists. I will attempt to present the various issues and their protagonists and explain why this is as important as it is interesting. I have found the most useful and objective overview of the problems and situations in an 2007 issue of <i>Politics and the Life Sciences</i>.*<br />________________________<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Laurette T. Liesen, "Women, Behavior, and Evolution: Understanding the Debate Between Feminist Evolutionists and Evolutionary Psychologists," <i>Politics and the Life Sciences</i> 26:1 (March, 2007), 51–70. If you are as interested in this subject as I am, but limited as to time, read pages 52-54 of Ms. Liesen's essay and the footnotes on pages 66 & 67. Liesen gives a combined historical and analytical introduction.</span><br />
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As you know, feminist scholarship began in earnest in the 1970s. By coincidence, or perhaps not by coincidence, there simultaneously began in the 1970s a big shift in the way men began investigating Charles Darwin's evolutionary theories. This male development brought about a new academic discipline called Sociobiology, and focused attention not just on species but more on how natural selection affected individuals and our behavior. For example a lot was made of a new belief among male academics that altruism was much more than it appeared, it was no less than an evolutionary device for the replication of an individual's genes.<br /><br /> Looking back, the big breakthrough for these conservative gentlemen biologists and evolutionists was Robert Trivers, still carrying on at UCSC's Sinsheimer Laboratory, whose 1972 publication in Bernard Campbell's anthology, <i>Sexual Selection and the Descent of Man </i>(Chicago: Aldine) was entitled, "Parental Investment and Sexual Selection." As recently as last Sunday, a gentleman in the New York Times "Review" section used Trivers to begin a discussion much like I am doing here.** <br /> Trivers' work is sometimes referred to as "sperm expenditure theory," wherein males practice a "mixed strategy" seeking extrapair copulations, i.e. polygynous males.<br /> You can see how a disagreement was in the works. For might not the Trivers idea be seen as an "excuse" or "justification" by women for what doesn't seem very nice behavior? Moreover, entire programs and disciplines were built from such 1970s Darwinian investigations, for example Edward O. Wilson's <i>Sociobiology: The New Synthesis</i>, biological basis of social behavior!<br /> As you know, I believe our individual behavior is not genetic but socially constructed. In thinking this way, I am influenced by feminist theorists as well as by their many philosopher allies, such as Michel Foucault. In fact, I believe sociobiology has long been discredited; but new more sophisticated offspring have evolved from these 1970s reactionaries.<br />_________________________<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">* I find the hundreds of articles on altruism and these new ideas about it uninteresting and unconvincing, but it is impressive how male biologists and the scientific establishment have embraced these ideas. It all began with George Williams, Adaptation and Natural Selection (Princeton University Press, 1966).<br /><br />** Dan Slater, "Darwin Was Wrong About Dating," NYT (January 13, 2013), page 1, continued on page 6.Slater helpfully reduces the evolutionary psychologist proposals to three: that men are less selective than women about whom they sleep with; men like casual sex more than women; men have more sexual partners than women during their lifetimes. No doubt, if you are a man reading this, you agree wholeheartedly in these stereotypes.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My Bookshop Journalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09009194964101027791noreply@blogger.com0