I wan, I wax, I don't work since I got my raise

Still no work. I'm starting to get cheerful about it.

Which sounds, zounds! ---human. Even if it does rain everyday and is a bit chilly.

Mornings, I open my eyes and if there's light I'm up, to go sit in the kitchen and say a little prayer and have a holy smoke while the coffee filters.

The Prior will come down to lead us in a remedial N.A. reading. He's rich lately, after landing a roofing job in this still hail damaged, small city. Still behind on rent but he's got gadgets I've never seen before, like a video phone. Now he'll interview me on camera and I have about 10 seconds. What do you think of Vanna, John?

I mumble. Retake. Speak up , you have a strange way of speaking in the morning, Mr. Jackson.

"What do you think of Vanna, John?"

"Oh, Pruf? Ah, she is truly wonderful, Sir. I would put her on a pedestal to have a look up her skirt but I ..." *Beep* Was going to add that of course I would not.

HAW! Good one, John. That's a keeper. I'll send it to her now. She's upstairs you know, just got off work.

"Can I see that?"

"No, "Bob", you can't. You'll make an 18 and 1/2 minute gap or something, if I know my history."

If the sun comes out over the verdant back fourty we shout. It's so rare. Murf comes in from work at 7.

K.B. and the puppy, who is now adopting his characteristics, shuffle in around then, without greetings, or acknowlegment of anyone, to call and register his existence at his probation officer's office.

If his number doesn't come up over the recording, signalling that he needn't come downtown for a U. analysis, he brightens a little. Two fists out, flexed waist high, no thumbs up: sign of it's awright but it's still what it is. We understand.

Moise disappeared for a week. She was back in bed, skipping work, refusing calls. But now she is out of her spiral. The Prior calls her up and puts her on the speaker phone, asking her the most vulgar questions imaginable ('can i have some pussy i know you got some on ya') and she laughs til she complains about her bladder.

"Come on over," the Prior says, "it's time for the meeting."

To our surprise we hear a door open down the hall and then there she is. OH. She and Murf patched it up in time for his birthday, that's good.


The morning readings are quick, and then the Prior is making such an ass of himself I'm considering a phone call to the abbot. ("heyyyy ABBOT!")

I make coffee-house rounds in the afternoon. Still surprised how I don't know anyone usually. Met a new Character named Josie, who is one of only two people I've witnessed getting sober without starting at "Go". ("Go", that's the third floor.) ("The third floor", that's the psychiatric 72 hours where you suffer a little, and can drink sanka if you can get the tap water hot enough.)

She's a talker, and wears me out. Comedian, though.

She says she can read faces and tell if people are real alcoholics or just faking it.

I was in the middle of the story of my last arrest, a short story, when she started talking to a guy three tables down. She called out "Oh, I'm sorry, I was staring at you , I know, I'm sorry."

Later, she turned back to me and said, "What was I talking about?"

"You can read faces, you say."

"Oh yeah!"

Unfortunately I'd already agreed to go to a meeting with her in two hours and I was stuck.

But usually things go well. I'll read in a coffee house and sometimes talk to a barrista (you know, coffee grinder/grad student) about art and literature. I'm flipping over a Denis Johnson short story in one of the Paris Review anthologies (the anthology is titled "People With Problems").

Johnson first got my attention with "Jesus' Son", a very short book of connected, very short stories, told by the same addict, out of time and sync (the stories and the addict).

You can write that way if you can write like this story he has in the anthology, which is a thoroughly researched, beautifully written, long detailed account of a man in the 1890's clearing forest for the railroad in the Northwest. My god it's beautiful and instructive. About human nature, and about history. He's my new favorite literary artist, this Johnson. I've put away Wodehouse for awhile.

Josie kept trying to find a movie to talk about with me. I hadn't seen a one. I told her before hand, I don't get to the movies (or have them mailed to me DVD).

I remembered some advice from Mudhead. When you have a babbler, just let them run the show, you don't have to say anything. And here he was right. The time passed rather quickly, actually.

Some rough spots, when I'm idle, but I'm realizing this happens to everyone. Grim moods, I mean. There was an hour this week when I got caught in a spiral myself, thinking what do I want? there's nothing I want. In other words, I'd spiraled down to a spiritual void.

Then I think I want attention. But I'm learning that what I need to do is pay attention to someone else. Josie is good for that, actually. Eventually she was sharing some secrets about magic tricks.

I still say, all in all the good life. Grateful to be sober, so grateful...