/ Broke Writer /
September 18, beautiful morning. 10:45 I’ve just opened the curtains, opened windows, taken off my robe. At dawn I was closing windows, putting on the robe, muttering against my self for not having done it last night at midnight: no reason to wake shivering to piss: the pissing is necessary but not the shivering. Two days ago I would have turned the air conditioning on for a half hour if I had air conditioning. I got through every minute of August without wishing to activate any air conditioning, just as I’d gotten through July. Isn’t it odd that it’s mid-September that roasts me into submission to waste-everthing throw-everything-away America: we got where we are by not listening to God’s Commandments, now we should live forever by not noticing how we’ve sabotaged reason even more than we ever sabotaged Jesus.
It’s different in the car: I roll the window down, or roll the window up, depending. If it’s raining sideways I pull over for a few minutes, wait till I can open the window again. This car had air when I got it a dozen years ago. It didn’t last long and I was quickly sorry I’d spent a penny refilling it with Freon: leaked right back out again, back to where I’d always been: one American without AC. This house had air conditioning when Catherine gave it to me: but Catherine, bless her, was alive, and had a luxurious (to-me) income. Catherine’s AC unit still sits outside the kitchen window, dead as a doornail, rusted to hell, the compressor rusty dust. Company offered recently to maintain it for me, $18. The guy came, pronounced it dead: replaceable but not fixable, charged me the $18 anyway. No, no: leave it lie: I lived without AC before, I’ll live without it again: besides, I never turned it on, I couldn’t afford to run it for more than five minutes. The worst summer only bothers me for five minutes here, five hours there: never turn it on and you toughen up, don’t yield to softness, get softness from a woman.
Jan is up in Canada, she can’t stand Florida from May on, usually flees by August, this year July. She stayed with me through the summer our first year together, I kept telling her, bear it while it’s hard, then it will be easy: I sneeze if it’s below eighty-five.
I first came to Florida, for just a few days, March or so, 1965. Hilary and I frolicked in the Atlantic while everyone else froze on the Saint Augustine boardwalk in overcoats. I didn’t return till 1982: I still swam while others froze: on Jupiter Island.
I was in a tent in the state park, ‘t’other side of the intracoastal.
But I visited my fisherman buddy on the beach regularly.
It wasn’t till 1989 that I spent my first whole year here: I stopped in Sebring Florida Easter weekend that spring on my way back to NY, swearing to myself that come hell or high water I would write no longer, not till I’d made some money again, refilled my tanks, all of them. I made dribs and drabs of money in Florida selling fine art graphics: even when I did relatively well, it cost nearly the whole gross just to be in Florida. From 1983 on, jettisoning my “patron”, I was homeless: writing was more important than home: I had God’s message to deliver, nature’s message, messages from intelligence, from reason, from science. My society should have given me a budget to save them with: however modest it would be better than nothing. (And I’m not the one who’d going to hell for not helping me!)
I stopped to get out of the Easter traffic, give me a chance to see the famous Highlands Hammock. With my camp set up I couldn’t help it: I had to set up the Toshiba, say a final few words to my diary before wedging my nose against the grindstone: except … Except I’ll just write that very short story, the sequel to my Model story: I wrote the first story in a few hours, I’ll write this one even faster. Easter came, Easter went, my writing was going better than ever, I couldn’t stop, helpless spread-God’s-word junkie.
There was a camp ground down the road, much cheaper than the state park: it would be much cheaper still if I agreed to a years lease. No, no: I’d vowed to get to the ‘Apple: I could make $100,000 in six months in NY than I could make $1,000 in two months in Sebring: in fact, I doubt if I could make $1,000 in six months, in Sebring: it wasn’t a multiple original graphics town. I didn’t try to sell art beyond a few hundred dollars: I tried part time at the library, part time at the convenience store: had to be part time: I was writing. I’ll work for an income for two hours so I can write to ten hours; I will not work for eight hours so I can write for two hours!
People don’t understand, because people are atheists: they pretend to believe in God, but if anyone could listen I could prove that they don’t, that they couldn’t: that the pope couldn’t. People think I need to make a living for my sake, but I don’t live for my sake, never have. God’s going to ask you, everyone, what you did to help me: it doesn’t matter what you do to me in the meantime! It’s not about me: it’s about you! It’s about man’s inability to receive divine messages, always sabotaging the messenger. Jesus on the cross is a distraction: it’s everyone in hell that’s the real focus. Not Jesus; Jesus will be alright: a day’s suffering, a millennium of torture: nothing. People have no concept of eternity. Won’t and can’t be told.
(Actually, God judgment is already in effect, but we’re blind to it, we deny it. We murder more messengers to remain blind to it! We think we’re getting away with it!)
Jeez, pk: stay on the subject. (I do, I am, I never don’t.)
So here I was, 1989, in Sebring, writing like a bandit, God’s work and other work too, lots of other work.
I asked the park’s landlord to put me under a nice tree (all slash pine), to give me as much shade as possible, hoping for a cross breeze: I didn’t know how I was going to be able to endure a Florida summer: I remembering suffering something terrible around Miami when it was merely April. The landlord assured me that even in August, by 3 AM he’d want to pull a sheet up over his naked self and wife.
I figured I could write all night and sleeep all day if it was too bad: I was better I’d be able to sleep through suffering, at least for a few hours.
OK, that’s buildup to the chase, here’s the chase:
I loved that summer. Sure it was too hot some of the time: it would have been too hot some of the time if I’d had AC, waiting for it to kick in: I certainly wasn’t going to run any AC before I was past needing it!
The less I use AC the less I need to use AC. Our skins change to adapt to the environment we find ourselves in.
In Maine I’d already acclimated myself to cold for the sake of skiing before moving to Maine: to get more of it! After a year in Maine, skiing as much as I could, I noticed: zero can be balmy, depending on the wind. I got so that, skiing evenings, in the dark, the cold, I’d take my parka off on some zero evenings. Ooo, nice: ski-in-just-a-sweater weather. (In the spring we’d ski in bathing suits: one guy skied in a kilt! Boy was he sorry after a skid!)
Same is true of heat: get used to it: it doesn’t bother you. Steep yourself, adjust.
Why September? Why mid-September? I really was suffering for a couple of hours the other afternoon. A graphics customer of mine in Palm Beach in the 1980s told me that to him September was the worst: but he had AC in his gallery, he was refrigerated all day, every day. (I liked that guy; but I couldn’t squeeze a sale out of him a second or a third time after I’d done it a first time: he really didn’t want to write a check, but I got one from him just the same.
2014 09 21 The summer heat climaxed, a day later Jan had a frost at her house on the bay in Nova Scotia. And in another day I was not just pulling the sheet over myself, I was adding a light blanket: and woke up wishing I’d added more! A minute ago I open the windows, sweltering in here. Florida! September. Already the days are shorter, much shorter. But they’ll get shorter still. Will we have another Sebring winter without any frost at all?
1989 it froze so solid around Christmas the banks on Hwy 27 (with automatic sprinkler systems) looked like, were, ice sculptures. I’m very happy to be alive here and now and to have lived when, where, and how I did, but I wish I could also life in the Great Rift Valley 150,000 years ago, and keep a blog! including a weather blog.
Evolution is the extinction of species who wished for Lamarck to be true too slowly for it to matter. You’re cold? You’re hot? Goodbye.
I’m squeezing stories in here that I meant to tell in the early 1990s when I launched a personal domain (or rather let my personal domain ride piggyback on my commercial domain, PKImaging.com): all since censored by the fed. I resort stuff all the time but can’t make it perfect. I’ll drib and drab lots more in.
Jan has done so much God bless her to fix up this old house of mine for me, now she’s talking about all new floor covers, and a new AC Does she see: the AC is for her, not for me: but I’m going to have to pay the power bill. Some help can’t be afforded by the helped.
Imagine some millionaire telling the starving kid in Bangladesh You can have all the nice lamb, and lentils, and veggies you want: just come to the kitchen door in Pacific Palisades … The kind can’t afford food, he can’t afford to go to the next city, two hundred miles away: how can he afford to get to your kitchen door in California?
People who are not starving cannot see what charity may cost the recipient.
No, no, Honey, don’t listen to me, I love you, just come home.
Going to Hell
As you see above I love to threaten the daily boobs with hellfire, prophets have always done that. I saw an instance of some one threatening hellfire recently, streaming a DVD, used to be Catherine paying my computer bills, after Jeano didn’t; now it’s Jan: and she hates computers!) Yesterday’s threat didn’t seem funny to me, it was simply offensive, some Christian just showing his illiteracy in a Hollywood fiction, the audience having it hinted that they know better. But I’m always thinking of a different use: on Seinfeld, one I thought really was funny: Elaine’s boyfriend calmly tells her, to her face, “I’m not the who’s going to hell!” Julia Louise Dreyfus gave him such a face! Hysterical. My insults used to be funny: I may have been the only one who thought so, but I thought so. That’s what I meant, that’s what I saw.
PS I have the first Model story online, but not yet any of the sequels: what I wrote in Sebring. I wrote my novels waiting for support from some publisher; I offer my additions to, rewrites of, the bible giving the first as a freebie: waiting for recognition before continuing with two, three … four.
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