Letter 3.24

Met a fella the other day, a poet of sorts, sez he's putting together a book. 'Oh?' sez I, 'Yeah, it's an anthology,' sez he, 'Oh?' sez I, a bit more 'nerested this time 'cause it sounds like there's some action in it that's still loose. 'Yeah,' sez he, 'it's gonna be both prose and poetry, shorter pieces mostly, and mostly directed towards Eastern themes.' 'Eastern?' sez I, 'cause when I say 'Eastern' I mean India and the like, but I've talked to people who, when they say 'Eastern' mean like New York, or Boston, or someplace like that. Maybe even Cleveland. 'Yeah,' sez he. 'You know, Hindu, Buddhist, that whole thing.' 'Oh,' sez I seizing opportunity by the balls, 'Are you looking for contributions?' And then I tell him about myself, and so he gives me his name and address, sez he's mucho 'nerested and will seriously consider whatever I send him. He's a published poet who's spent the past summer with the other published poets who seem to flock each summer to the Naropa thing in Boulder. He's doing the book with another dude, the name escapes me at the mo. So anyway, I tell him too that I got this friend up in B.C. who lives in a stump and does prose poetry of a very unique nature but with an Eastern angle and mebbe he'd like a look at what my friend is doing too? And he sez, 'Why, sure thing. Just tell him to send three or four things, don't let any individual piece get much over 1000 words. Tell him that if I have to edit anything I'll send him an edited copy for approval. Then he writes down his name and address. We talk some more, and then before leaving he sez, 'Oh yeah, tell your friend to include a note so I'll know who he is and all that,' And he splits. About five minutes later I'm telling all this to someone else, and he asks me, 'Does he pay?' and gol'durn it to tarnation, I knew all along that there was an important question I wanted to ask him, but I couldn't remember in time what it was. Don't that beat all?

V.

Letter 3.23

Panajachel, Gautemala -- December '75

I ran into a big legal hassle in Mexico over possession of a roach, and the upshot of it all is that I left the country and have now found a place in Guatemala. Since that place fits well I'm not too perturbed over the situation, though it would have been nice to have continued my swing through Mexico. There's just more uptightness in this part of the world than in Asia, and so it's necessary to be careful.

Anyway, I've got an adobe hut in the barrio of Panajachel, which is the main town on Lake Atitlan, so I'm close to water, but pretty high up -- about a mile, like Colorado, and, like Colorado, in very hilly, even mountainous country. Unlike Colorado, however, there is no snow at all, and the highest peaks are volcanic. There are three volcanos around the lake, in fact, and it makes for a primeval scene.

My life here is organized along lines similar to my Mexican days (how few of them there were!): meditation, writing (I'm getting near the end of Chapter III of Getting Off, playing the recorder, going for walks (but no swimming: this lake would freeze your fipple!), just being quiet and peaceful. By the way, I'm finding the letters I wrote you (which you returned to me a while ago) a good source of ideas in reconstructing my attitudes and concerns in those days. Thanks, man. Give my love to Mirotchka, wherever she roams, and keep some for yourself: there's plenty for both of you.

Letter 3.22

(Fragments from a Mexican Diary – Hūm)

November '75 -- El Llano

Dumped bike twice today. Popping out of gear. Clutch-plate or what? Once it just slowly came to a stop and tipped over. Don't know why I can't handle it. Overloaded, overtired, maybe.

Pass commemorative monument at 28th parallel (commemorating, apparently, the 28th parallel). Without a doubt the ugliest monument I have ever seen; all angular, ending nowhere, and making no sense at all, like a staircase without a house.

Crest a hill to feast eyes on Gulf of California: fantastic. Descending to sea level: birds of prey, some hovering motionless, barely moving their wingtips, others by the side of road lunching on some creatures that didn't look both ways before crossing the road. Wayside chapels, two feet high adobe with crosses and fading wreaths. All Hallow's Day the wreaths put out. Forest of stately tall green cactus; beyond them clean beaches, white frothy surf, pale green waters of a lagoon, the deep dark waters of the gulf, white-capped. Some miles out a large island, barren red-brown, sharp jagged mountains jutting out with grey-white cliffs; a little village barely visible nestled in a cove of the island; and in the far far distance vague shadowy shapes of mainland Mexico.

Camp near the sea in the shade of a date palm grove; only natural sounds, no human signs. Lovely, lonely beach: volcanic stones, colored shells, fish skeletons. Desert cacti meeting pure sea and sparkling lagoons.

Pass a monster on the road -- it was going maybe 40 MPH, probably as fast as it could go: a half-ton truck with a big camper on it pulling a long trailer with a large boat on top of it and two trail bikes mounted to the front of the truck. Guy must have every toy going. Reminds me of someone who goes through a cafeteria line and takes one of everything there is, until his tray is so piled up he can hardly walk without spilling things. Monster passes me as I siesta. Later on a steep downgrade I see a truck missed a sharp turn and went over the side into the bay of La Paz. The toy truck?

Under the stars, power failure: I was watching the lights reflected on the ocean, when they all went out (except the stars of course) -- when that happened it reminded me of the solitude and peace of Godawaya, in Ceylon.

Morning: bit to hell by something, maybe everything -- notice lumpy spots in my arms smaller: competition? a case of self-arrest?

A glimpse of the future: had a flash, while working on Getting Off that its completion will require me to live up to its viewpoint by taking the robe again. There are several layers of irony in this fact, which makes it seem both extravagant and compelling.

Letter 3.21

(The next year Bob rode his motorcycle through the Rockies to see me in Sooke, on Vancouver Island, in British Columbia. At the time I had a room in a ramshackle old rooming house. One day I opened my door and saw Bob in my bed with bemused smile. How was the trip, man? Learned something about bikes. Nothing about Zen. Yeah. No real problems -- only going through a bridge. Wha?! Somewhere in Washington his front wheel went through a rotten plank of a wooden bridge and the bike flipped. But you're OK?! Some parts more than others. He poked his foot from beneath the covers: it was in a cast. Wha?!! A busted ankle. My twinge of shocked sympathy burst into hilarious laughter till tears ran down my face.

Bob could tell a joke -- like slowly, slowly setting a mousetrap -- a mellow-toned, most excellent teller of tales -- not even the glint in his eye telegraphed the punch-line. Me, I always just wanted to blurt it out, but Bob made getting there the best part.

Foot-cast humming in the wind, we rode into Victoria and that evening saw a movie: Sleuth with Lawrence Olivier and Michael Caine. Some buddy picture. His review: Who did it ain't who done it. Hmm? We all do it -- and did it -- only a Buddha done it.

When he left Sooke -- with his dark, unruly hair and beard, shades, and leather jacket -- some heavenly Hell's Angel with a plaster foot -- he was heading for Mexico. --Hūm)