March 2, 2017:

Suddenly quiet — a little humble in the presence — a topless cage, a proper crucible, prepared to plummet, always upward, ever devious and uncontrollable.

Undeviating and logical as mathematical formulae beyond an incurious golden veil, an atmosphere of formal and timeless disuetude in stately, high-ceilinged rooms. Slowly rubbing the fine unruly devastation of his head, as though space itself were languid in violation. Looking backward, without sadness, untroubled as cows.

The meaning of peace: the sere and ludicrous disasters of his days.


March 1, 2017:

In the kitchen closet: a broom; a dustpan; a mop and scrub brush inside a plastic pail; two very inexpensive tennis rackets in presses; a bicycle pump; a football; a basketball; a baseball glove; frisbees; a patch kit for bicycle tires; needles for the pump to fill the football and the basketball; a BB gun. On the wall: the circuit breaker box which I meticulously mapped while malingering out of fourth grade.

On the wall between the living room and kitchen: black aluminum shelves from Sears, adjustable with black screws and washers. Not yet filled with books, but with model airplanes and ships and monsters, centered by Godzilla who I painted yellow and named my first cat for. There was the Starship Enterprise; the raylike flying sub from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea; an F4, an F8, an A4, an A6, an F104, an F106. There were Hotwheels and chess sets, aircraft carriers and battleships and Lego blocks and jigsaw puzzles.

So that her world was taken up mostly with objects of childhood. It was her way of avoiding contact. She sat in her chair smoking and reading science fiction, trusting to toys to keep me occupied.

They largely did. Between her inwardness and my malingering I spent most hours alone, entertaining myself with models and games and Tolkien, and The Dick Van Dyke Show, and Gilligan's Island.

3422 Cowley Way #1, San Diego, CA 92117. 714-276-2026. Twenty-two years.


February 28, 2017:

At first he spent his schooldays alone reading and re-reading Tolkien. Immersed in the same fantasy universe as his inward, unsociable, damaged young parent.

Later he read military history, and played war games against himself, fascinated that there was a logic to it, hypnotized by strategy and tactics.

Finally he played vinyl record albums in headphones, once the hormones had kicked in. Mostly The Rolling Stones: at that moment in history the absolute kings of the universe.

Eventually he found his school, and with it his identity, and had no more need for malingering.

He still sometimes plays The Rolling Stones, no need now for headphones, now as long and loud as he fucking wants.