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Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
"A silent conjunction between what one thinks and what has been thought."



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Brief Tales on a Whim.
There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller without his stories.



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Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?


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In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
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THE POET OF MY DREAMS

[[college avenue]]

Before restaurants were famous in Berkeley there were plenty of places for those who wanted to hang out, eat, do a little writing, and observe the passing show. I would meet Fid up at the Buttercup on College Avenue. Rumor had it that it was owned by the Unification Church of the infamous Reverend Moon but we didn't know and didn't care at that point. I figured if the cults got too big they would fight among themselves and kind of mute the danger of it. Fid and I wanted the free and open road without all this absoute loyalty palavar.

The restaurant was a noisy place, a place to think in the middle of chaos as people came and went with their muffins and coffee. They had small tables and small cups for the coffee. Fid and I were large but we managed ok and talked like gossiping women about people we knew.

A street was a good thing. But streets dominated by cars was simply a thing and meant little unless you walked those streets or had good expriences on those streets. I walked everywhere because I didn't have a car but soon realized that when you walk, in defiance of a car even, you were swallowing the effects of the car, its size and noise, smoke, even the personality of the driver, many drivers it was a forever stream of metal and glass hunched above the concrete making a mess of everything.

College Avenue was a decent street though. It took you into Oakland and onto the main thoroughfare, Broadway. It connected with BART and the University. There was always a soccer game up on the field behind the high fence. It ran parallel with Telegraph but was a more modest street, a friendly street with good shops and happy people swinging their bags and listening to their music.

It was integrated. The various races and languages in the area passed through each other with hardly a ripple so there came a feeling of participating in a grand, free experiment.

[[oxford street]]

Just one decent dinner with the Professor and his wife, that was all he wanted. Poor, pathetic Ull looked up to the professionals and wanted to be counted as one of them. And they usually took him in for a time and prided themselves on tolerating a broken down old hippy. But, he was desperate to have dinner with this couple.

He walked all the way across town, up the slope to the kind looking house that professor's live in. He was making a salad, she was making something in the wok. The conversation was low and not dramatic. There was no tension but the professor smiled more. The Professor and his wife lived in a wonderful cocoon. He had a wonderful, generous library upstairs filled with classics and commentary, pyschology and philosophy. There was a tattered hard-covered copy of Spengler's Decline of the West that he had lent out. The house was finely cluttered with paintings and odd knick knacks, comfortable chairs. They had small parties in the house with poets like Duncan reading or else watching movies.

The Professor was tall, dressed casually, very pale, a Scotsman while his wife was still young looking, attractive, with "hippy dresses," as she called them. They had married at the Unitarian Church and after everyone drank Tequila with salt on the hand and everyone left out in a daze in the beautiful afternoon.

The one dinner had been a disappointment for Ull. Perhaps he had wanted to start something with the wife and that fizzled out, perhaps he was looking for a reference from the professor that would give him an edge on a position he wanted at the University. It was difficult to tell where Ull was. I knew he had a connectdion with the university but he always came on as a dropout prophet the university produced out of the twinkling of its tired eye.

Go to the From the Start: The Poet of My Dreams

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