On Rainy Days Even in the Sun

<img src="" alt="On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry for Himself 2001. Gouache on paper, 14 x 11". Rose used this painting on the cover she designed for me." />

This morning I’ve been picking up around the studio and preparing for acrylic repeats that will launch Advertism, the (partial) free art initiative coined by Edgeworth Johnstone (@edgeworthjohnstone). At first I thought to paint on unsold Throop books and delved into the library (cardboard boxes) to choose a few to begin. I guess I knew already that the covers were too thin to paint on with ease and speed. I think my (no)mind was steering me to one of my early books, which I seem to revisit every year in early autumn, and I don’t know why, except perhaps nostalgia. It was a flourishing time, teaching my oldest daughter and nurturing Rose during her pregnancy, on and off restaurant work, cooking new meals, tasting the bread, eating and drinking with relish, writing, painting, sitting in a tea house (musty work shed) watching the leaves change color…

The book is divided into three sections, the first is made up of excerpts from a journal I was keeping. Try some of it:

From On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry for Himself. I won’t link to Amazon. If you’re interested in reading it, just ask.

Preface to second edition

I have always wanted to have a preface to a second edition. Here it is. There are very few changes from the original publication, besides a better proofread. This was meant to be a book of feel. A very rare find eleven years ago. Even moreso today. I remember sending copies off at my own expense to obscure bookshops in cities across America, hoping to be read by anyone, by chance. I would sneak them on the shelf at my local Barnes and Noble time and again, until I was threatened by a representative in New Jersey. I cannot recall the particulars of the threat, but it must have been good. I got scared and stopped the practice. I shelved it at the college library next door after the librarian refused to circulate it. Every couple of weeks I’d go back and find it gone, to which I would put another in its place (right beside Thoreau). It must have made her crazy angry.

September 9

Our gifts

Why Democracy doesn’t work.

The same everywhere

Last week I wanted to try prison. Now I don’t know.

All too often I am having flights of daydream that take me to the essence of life. I see the light so to speak, and promise myself to get to it. Always later. I can have news radio turned on while driving up my street and hope that by the time of my death, I possess nothing besides a small cabin in the woods and a bushel of ripe apples resting in the autumn sun. There is too much stuff. It is difficult to remain aloof of things. But a single smell can show me the truth. Stuff doesn’t have a smell comparable to the washing of dead leaves. Yet, when the right smell comes, stuff overwhelms it, and so many things get in the way. Is that not true despair? It’s a feeling of ripping your clothes off and running, or staying dressed but keeping nothing. You want a world of people, but you want them to be exactly like you. Nobody cares. You begin believing in squirrels. Last week I would not mind going to prison. I welcomed the thought with an open mind. That was last week. Then I watched a movie about a man in prison. If he wanted visitors, he had to stand in line naked with other prisoners, while uniformed guards sat at the front of the line forcing each man to turn around, bend over, and spread his butt cheeks apart. If that is what prison is like, then I won’t go. If that is prison, then I agree one hundred percent with murder. Any man who gets paid to inspect assholes cannot possibly respect his own human heart. So who should care if his heart stopped beating? We kill our food for standing in a field. We slaughter, chop, slice, dredge the meat in flour, splash it with wine over high heat, and call that dinner. We have no respect for hearts outside our own species. Armed robbery or asshole inspection? You tell me which man is more proud. Prison is a nice place to sit alone for hours and wonder. These foggy mornings at the start of Indian Summer... Oh, my inspiration! My most natural lust! The first leaves to color are dead and stripped naked along the roadside. Three crows stand in the shape of a triangle, waiting. They must be witches. Squirrels forage. Life moves. The wind blows the leaves off the curb. They swirl around the bird’s tiny feet. In the morning haze this scene appears ethereal, so much better than human. Whatever the crows are thinking will not be profound. They are positively not whispering the song “Reunited” by Peaches and Herb. Each might wish that she was a very big crow and that I was a worm. You would think autumn could make us hungry. By 7 a.m. I should have scrounged enough nuts and pears for the week. I could fill up the rest of this journal with “Ha, ha, ha, etcetera.” I am six feet tall. My spine is straight enough. My big hands could easily wrap around a crow’s throat, maybe even an eagle’s. I can count. My brain is tremendously active. I can speak. I am so ashamed of my careless waste of manhood.

September 19

My Ford is Lord (to the tune of “Empty As a Frog’s Stool”)

Daddy’s got a big truck, big truck, big truck Daddy’s got a big truck, He’s sad, he’s fat, he’s old I’m gonna drive his big truck, big truck I’m gonna drive it to the Ford truck store They’re gonna loan me thirty grand, thirty grand They’re gonna loan me My Daddy won’t disown me My wife will be so lonely My dog will even bone me My kids will always stone me for a big truck, big truck My kids will always stone me I wish somebody’d kill me in my big truck, big truck I wish somebody’d kill me in my depreciating Ford.

I am reading to Rachelle about the European explorers. Bartholomew Diaz, Amerigo Vespucci, Christofo Columbo, Balboa, Cabot, Cabral... What names! Great, brave, potentially consumptive men who really knew how to murder. The book might read, “...and the stark naked natives showered Columbus with exotic fruits and flowers, brilliantly plumed birds, and golden arrows. He and his men were in awe. This might be the lost Garden of Eden. The beauty was spectacular, the inhabitants peaceful and happy, food and drink plentiful. Europe was such a hard place to live in with all its disease, poverty and ruthlessness. It would be difficult to think of this new found world as anything but a paradise.” What the book might hint at but refuse to show in detail is the sardonic look on Columbus’ sweaty face while he rapes a young island girl. She came aboard to deliver an armful of flowers. No mention of the chief’s disgust of Columbus for emptying his shitbucket overboard. No words about the offensive smell of the Europeans, nor the slaughter of any man over fourteen who could not deliver his bell of gold every three months. Did it matter that there wasn’t enough gold on the island to fill four bells? No. These were Tainos, naked and stupid. Put on this planet to wait forty thousand years for an anus-scented mad man to arrive on their beach demanding the impossible. And of course, to rape, plunder, and murder with the kind of obsession which only the most serious religious persons can muster. So teach them. Instruct our little Columbus’-to-be on the virtues of fear. Give our future explorers and murderers of the soul an early education on what happens when a man kills because he will not understand. Why not create a holiday in his name? A day to Columbus, to Washington and Lincoln, to veterans of foreign wars, why not to Hitler, de Gama, Popes throughout the ages, tomorrow’s American president, the serial killer who boils bones? This morning I will ask her which stars in the night sky she would search for in the event that she became lost on a sea voyage to Greenland. Moments ago I was out in the dark marveling at the moonlight shining through the autumn leaves. I saw Orion the Hunter and gave to it my silent admiration. This will be my patron constellation. It must be so tired of men who look to it for gold. I will always give my wonder and praise to the mystery of the unknown. The simple question of a star. What is it? Now where do the dead creeps of old Europe go after discovering what has already been discovered? To obscurity? One would hope so. But that isn’t the case. Today their flesh rotting disease blows into my living room via the Illusion Winds. Into my home? How come? What do Columbus’ twisted, sick thoughts have to do with our pancakes and maple syrup for breakfast? “Today we went ashore and met with a band of natives. They had a strange habit of clasping their nostrils shut and making sour grimaces at my men. Fernando offered their leader an iron ball. The chief smiled, but did not appear sincere. Then, after a dramatic display of nose holding and hopping up and down, waving a hand back and forth under his nose, their chief vomited at Fernando. I had the entire band arrested immediately, attempted to convert their heathen souls overnight, and killed every last one upon discovering they could mutter only a ‘goo-goo’ in the name of Jesus Christ. Still no strait to the Indies.” Before dawn I am an explorer too. There is a part of your brain that instructs itself to stop where it is, and search for the moonlight through the leaves. At this simple moment in time it accepts the wet grass, the soft breeze, the zillion stars in the pre-dawn sky as the starkest reality. I want her and everyone to be a poet. People have got to bury history in a deep hole. Cover it with dirt that is ancient but never mentioned in books. Love and superstition must regain their rightful thrones. Fifth graders know all about the European explorers. They have listened long enough to your candy-coating of arrogance and prejudice. Homework for Rachelle next week: A pre-dawn exploration through the woods. Listen for running water. Sit on a rock in the water and wait. What do you see? That is a proper lesson plan for exploration. Bury the Spanish, Portuguese, English, and French. Their forefathers do not deserve a respectful heritage. Cross off their history. Make it a blank, a blotto. We are devoting too much time to death. Angst this week. Heavy without explanation. Stress.

September 23

She said, “Somewhere, there’s a far away place where all is ordered and all is grace. No one there is ever disgraced. And everybody there is wise, and everyone has taste.” —Lou Reed

The obvious question: Where is heaven?

Here are some answers from a booklet some smartly dressed Witnesses dropped at my door. They left in a hurry when I told them that I already love God, and don’t need a donation, thank you. I think their book is too confusing. If you want to convert the modern mind, don’t use words. Words are no longer productive. Laxatives and trickery is smart marketing. Over the last hundred years, diarrhea is the most effective way to get God’s name called out loud. Sex is somewhere in the middle. Joy is at the bottom, tied with finger slicing and toe-stubbing. Anyway, here’s an excerpt:

Page 1: Wally’s (God’s) Witnesses

Q: Where is heaven?

1.Under your feet, asshole.
2. What you see at the exact moment you wake up
3. In the blue house across the street
4. “Acklebantinklebicow!”
5. Oh God! My toe, my toe, my toe!
6. Wherever the dog sleeps.
7. Forget it. Unless I can smash your face with this shovel.
8. Behind that cloud.
9. Sleeping.
10. Definitely not in Bob’s garage.

• Free laxative

Page 2: Wally’s Witnesses

Take laxative before reading... Do you love? Then you are in heaven. Hold on tight. Let no one harm your love. We are strangers at your door. We do not love you. The man next to me standing in his sharp suit has a dog he loves more than anything. Before he gets dressed he sits at the table with coffee and stares into his puppy’s big brown eyes. He will outlive his dog, his father and mother, maybe his sister and brother, all of your family, the dog’s family—Oh my God, not my babies! Oh my God! Excuse me, but I have to go to the bathroom...

Hold on tightly to your love. That is heaven. Let no one come and take her. Heaven is the child wrapped up in your arms. Heaven is her safe keeping. But it’s all up to you. God is your enemy. He put the evil bastards on earth. He created these sorrowful storms. He killed the two skunks we drove over on our way to your neighborhood. He darkened the skies that drenched today’s crusade. He threatens us with fire and brimstone. He murdered Job’s family. He will murder your family! My wife and children are at home unprotected. Oh, what am I doing here? Oh my God, why am I dressed like this? Steve, give him the Lord’s poem and take me home. Jesus, my stomach... Brother, can I use your bathroom? We are all in this together. Where is heaven? Do not let anyone hurt her. Stay out of the car. Don’t fly in an airplane. Wash your bodies. Cleanliness is a smart way to keep God and disease at bay. Eyes wide open. Constant openness. He’s gonna get ya! No chance. No heaven. We need a new word for that dream. Earth. Laughter. Helplessness. Art. Beauty. Everything under the sun except car parts. Skin. Where is heaven? Leave us alone. Say, “I love you,” roll over, and turn off the light. You can not get away. I’m sorry about my friend. It must have been the tacos we had for lunch. Here’s a piece of a poem about why you should push me outside and kick my ass immediately:

...O let the print of her hurrying sandal be unrecorded in the meadow’s thousand deaths yet upon his heart it has signed the angel’s name. For him the distance of the world is never less than when he is forced to think how all he loves must soon be taken away

—Kenneth Patchen (from Heaven on Earth)

September 24

The rain is keeping me indoors. I love the face of forced laziness! Walk throughout the house today. Make an apple crisp, and waste an hour to smell its baking. These are the cool days when boys stop talking and just do. What do they do? Well, if they want to be men, they do nothing at all. Just throw on a flannel shirt and read a good book under the light. A good book damn you! Here’s what I want all of you to aspire to...

Sunday, September 23:

The Day the Artist Clipped His Toenails

Frank lived with his family in an old logger’s camp at the base of Mt. Hope, two miles in from the highway. The road to his cabin could not be traveled by car. He had to walk to get food and mail. It was 1943, a year when all of America came this close to eating their human kill. Frank wanted nothing from the outside but food and mail. He was patriotic enough for the U.S. Postal Service, and fond of Sam, their mail man. Frank’s wife and child were content and peaceful. He often thanked his lucky stars for that stroke of good fortune. They kept their dreaming personal, that is, the daughter walked the dog around the lake while the wife calmly waited for the landing of the loons. The days were magic. “To be human,” he often thought, “was too beautiful for words.” Frank painted a thousand watercolors of the mountain. That was his art. Portraits of the mountain in the seasons. Mostly of the rain and snow, when his model was barely visible through the fog. Nobody bought them. Sam, the mailman, would reassure him. “Really, these look a whole lot better than a smiling Jap.” Most of the time, on his walk back through the forest with his bundle of mail and milk, Frank would come to his senses and push the sorrow out of the way. Meanwhile, the whole world was at war. Sam told him about the death of his sons and nephews in the Pacific. It made Frank sick to his stomach and once, he threw up at Sam’s feet, over box elder and wood rot. “Isn’t everyone sick Sam?” Frank foolishly wondered. Sam sighed. He tolerated Frank’s questions because there were only two men left on his route. The other guy was an old WWI vet, who sometimes shot rock salt at Sam, imagining him to be Kaiser Wilhelm, the mailman. Sam shrugged his shoulders, “It’s war Frank. It’s ugly, but it’s war.” The summer of ’43 passed just like the summer of ’42. White flowers and the fresh green leaves of lazy June. The geese sounds in the gray overhead mingled with the hopeful smell of dinner in late September. This was the artist’s simple routine. NOW, stand Frank’s calm melancholy up against the wide-eyed fear of your only son ten thousand miles from home the second he spies a flash of light from the brush, and the next second when he sees his mommy kissing him good night. He’s dead. Do you understand? Oh boy, here I go again. You gave him life and now it has been taken away. Who took it? The President? Yes. The mayor? Yes. You? Yes God, you. You horrible parent. You rotten human being. You devil’s devil. You no longer possess the instinct to protect. What kind of mammal are you? Why aren’t you tearing the flesh from your son’s murderers? How can you justify this? Is your child a rabbit? Did you make love to his father who was a rabbit? Can you squeeze out a hundred more of these before you die? Mother sends her child off on a train whistling straight to his grave. What a cute face. Showered and shaved. What an ugly thing a bullet does to his precious face. But war is ugly, and that’s a fact. And thank God almighty your son was murdered, Mrs. Smith. His sacrifice really slowed Tojo and Hitler’s advance. Yes ma’am! That’s what the letter says, so it must be true. “Morning mom. Wow pancakes, thanks!” No. He’s dead. His happy face had bullets shot into it. The letter gives thanks for your son’s life. They dragged his dead body over the bloody wasteland, tossed him into a used coffin, and dropped him at your door. And tomorrow if Mr. Pres. says we’re going to the Middle East, then let’s go. Hurry up! Yes, by God let’s go! It’s got to be more exciting than listening to those silly bird calls and waiting. Just waiting. Always the endless waiting. Acquiesce. Give in to the power of your elected leaders. Frank? Where’s Frank? Why bother with Frank? Oh I am so sick and tired of stories. I wish Frank was a glowing hot steel ball shoved up your colon.

So instead, I clipped my toenails.”

---

While looking for the image of the painting to headline the post, I scrolled past a painting hut I built in the woods 20 years ago. I called it “Lazy Bones” and painted at night in kerosene lamplight. Even in February! I had no friends, no enemies, a small family, three cats and a dog.

Yup. Today is definitely a nostalgia day! Recall yours and sip some tea on it.