- -
Okay,
Father Luke

I don’t know about the rest of you fuckers, but it’s harder and harder finding work that pays. Every dish-washing job is being snatched up by former six figure salaried humps with mouths to feed willing to grovel for a crap job on skid row.

Ho ho. Yes these are tough times. I have a statement from the Social Security office in my country showing that I have had paid income every year of my life since the age of sixteen. Every fucking year. This year has been no exception. The truth be known, I have worked like a field hand since I have been seven years old. I’m not lying.

I was raised on a farm and I worked from sun up to sun down, and into the dark hours. Then it was get up, mister, make your bed, and back to work. Hard work. Slave work. Fuck you if you don’t believe me. I know about work. I’ve done it all my life.

I’m fifty years old. Today I was approved for food stamps. What the fuck? I have never lived on charity in my entire fucking life. The kindness of strangers was like a disappearing rainbow the closer I got to it. And today I fucking ate. I bought an orange, some grapes and a couple of bananas. I wanted to tell everyone:

“Look at me! I’m buying food!”

like a gleeful idiot. But I bought the orange, and grapes, and the bananas, and just took them out of the store and ate them while walking among all of us.

It’s a savage thing to starve a nation into submission. I don’t know who has all the money, but there are horrible things at work in the world today. Terrible. Maddening. A nation too weak to fight for itself, and starved into submission.

Fuck the world. I have that tattooed onto one of my elbows. But no matter. Today I ate food I bought myself. Life, in one sparkling instant, has been good.

- -
Okay,
Father Luke

- –
In Portland Oregon,
Father Luke

I’ll be fifty November 7th, and my knees are giving out. I have never made more than twenty thousand in a single year. I have no job, and I have only had paid employment for one month of this entire year. Turning fifty does not seem like I had pictured it when I was growing up.

On the other hand, I have been in quite a few books this year. I ate pop corn and cashews for dinner, and watched The School of Rock tonight.

Mostly, I haven’t a very clear idea of what the first fifty years of my life have been, and I’m looking forward to the next fifty years.

Life is fun.

- –
In Portland, Oregon,
with the woman I love,
Father Luke

Old friends are a comfort to us, I know you know what I mean. There is never a time when I stop enjoying the comfort from an old friend coming to visit.

Steve Richmond died On October 21st. Steve was not an old friend, he didn’t know that I was alive. Steve wrote poetry. And he is gone now.

The old friend is death. I know death well, just like an old friend. Death will come to visit me occasionally, like an old friend, and then be on it’s way.

One day, I shall endeavor to go with death into the next day. But for now, I allow my friend their space. Like old friends do.

- –
Waiting with the woman I love,
in Portland, Oregon
Father Luke

What would you do more of if it were fun? Probably a lot of things. Exercise, recycle, throw your trash away? Who knows. But when some thing is fun, as a rule, people tend to do it more. Parents know this with children, and so they make sleep-time fun, and meal-time, and homework-time. Because if it’s not fun. . . well, let’s rather do something which is fun.

And that’s the theory behind the Fun Theory. That is a link which goes here: http://thefuntheory.com/

Think for a minute about how to make your life more fun.

And, of course, thanks for reading.

- –
Yer’ man in Oregon,
Father Luke

Here’s a riddle. It’s not a very good one.

What can you spend, and never get back?

November 7th, I’ll be fifty years old. I’m hoping, for Jenifer’s sake, that I live that long – longer, too. I like when Jenifer is happy, and me being alive makes her happy. Oh, Christ, if I was suffering she would be the one to help me do the Kavorkian dance to my death. She isn’t mean. But as long as I’m alive, and relatively happy, Jenifer is pleased. And so am I, because she’s happy.

I’ve been wondering recently why I am nearly fifty years old, and I live on noodles that I buy in bulk from the discount grocery store. Part of it is, of course, that I love cheap noodles. I throw on some cheap ass vinegary hot sauce, and a little soy sauce, throw away the salt package, and “Bingo”. Noodles.

“These are addicting”, Jenifer said. She insisted upon trying what I eat. I mean, if you loved someone, and they only ate one thing, wouldn’t you be at least a little curious? I sure the fuck would. So, I made her some the other day, and those were her words. Addicting.

I was reading an interview with Jim Knipfel, and he was asked about his relationship with Hubert Selby, and Knipfel goes, you know, there is a lot of talk about his anger, and I never saw it.

If you were to meet me you would not see much anger. Not a lot of resentment. I’m not saintly, by any means, but you live long enough on food from Homeless Missions, and some of those places serve kibble dog food – - fuck it all, it’s food – - and a package of noodles looks pretty damn good. It’s actually food. And I bought it.

I’m poor. I’m convinced, that at nearly fifty years old, I will always be poor. There is a line in Catch-22 where the main character, Yossarian, tells us about another character, Orr. Orr, Yossarian says, has a million talents, which will keep him in a low income bracket for the rest of his life.

I’m not bitter that I am poor. But I am poor. I know poverty. And I don’t like the idea that some crap head will point out to me that I live in the richest nation on earth, where poverty is a luxury to other people in other nations. I live here. I am poor. And I live in poverty. And everything I have ever done has led me here. I have something fundamental about my existence which keeps me in poverty, and will always keep me in poverty.

But I am not bitter about it. I have learned how to survive. I am responsible about my poverty.

“Oh. What are a few measly dollars, Father Luke?” Well, I’ll take your throw-a-ways if you don’t mind.

In the meantime, I’m still looking for work. It would be nice to be able to pay rent. The rains are coming. The rains are always coming to Portland, Oregon.

And Okay to all that.

- –
Me,
Father Luke

Shadows follow us in our lives. Not always behind us, oddly enough. Sometimes those fuckers lead us by the nose, and march double time in front of us.

I have my share of shadows. . .

Writer . . .
Old guy . . .
That guy mom knows, (ewww – yuck!). . .

Reputations are something I haven’t paid much mind to most of my life. And, probably not so surprisingly, I am looking for steady work at fifty years old. I have some books I promised people I would hand write, and they each gave me eighty dollars to write them for them. I have that shadow following me, too.

Most everyone in my family is either divorced or on their way to being dead. Junkies, addicts, retards, asswipes. . . yup. I have a swell family. You bet.

So, shadows are everywhere. Standing in the sunlight of the spirit has it’s drawbacks; the light is not so kind, and I have always preferred the dark.

I’m happy I am in the new book William Taylor Jr. edited: Down This Crooked Road. Jenifer helped me pick what things I would send to Bill. I have no sense that what I write is any good. I hate most everything I write fifteen minutes after I write it.

I got my copy of the book a couple days ago when my landlord tossed me a rumpled package.

“Sorry about the mail. I should have some system.”

But I’m easy. It’s the shadows. I’m used to them.

The book is a good one. It’s coming on the heels of a wave of something I never dreamed I would experience. I used to have a chip on my shoulder about some people who chased me out of Arizona, leaving me running for my life, and scared to pick up the telephone, open my mail, step out the door, or wake up in the morning.

Wow. I haven’t thought of this shit in eternity.

Anyway, I just brushed the chips off my shoulder and moved forward. It’s kind of like when I hated my dad. He was this immense fat oaf who raped and beat my mother and my brothers and I, stole from us, and liked to wear nothing but women’s underwear in public. I really was embarrassed by this guy, and I hated him for his violence and stupidity.

Then I got Sober, and I realized it was best if I didn’t hate him so much.

Hey? It could be worse. I could be him, after all.

So, I have been letting go all my hates. Every one of them. If you hate me, drop me a comment, I’d like to hear about it. I have so few, that it might just give me something more to let go of.

Except for maybe someone in Santa Cruz who still owes me a hundred dollars. Of course? I still owe a lot of people books at eighty bucks a pop, so stealing a hundred dollars from me seems kind of petty in that light. Light? Shadows again. See what I mean?

Also? Jenifer wised me up to something I’ve been meaning to do. You’ll hear more about it in the days, weeks, months, and years to come.

I neglect her more than I realize. Eventually, I’ve always assumed, she will see me for the horrible, ingrate I truly am, shield her children from any further exposure to me, and head on down the road to a happier life without me. But in the meantime she’s still sweet on me. I don’t think I have ever been more grateful.

Life is tricky, sure. But it’s my last hurrah. I won’t be doing this again — this meaning life. Nuh uh. No way. I’m knuckling down, and doing life until I die. Writing, and Jenifer. Everything else can just slip quietly into Hell, so far as I’m concerned.

Special shout out to Rick Shupe, and Dozat, too. The only guys to really come see me while I spent nine months living in the Hell of Fresno, California. Dozat never made it, but he tried. Hence: the kudos.

- –
Alright
Somewhere in Portland, Oregon
- Father Luke

How many of us have dreams. Even the people we hate have dreams, and none of us ever wants to have to abandon those dreams.

Life has been a nearly fifty year mistake for me. There have been sorrows, and sort of like everyone’s dreams, my life has had plenty of that . . . mistakes, miscommunication, and just plain lies. Life has been full. But? No regrets. Not for me. Not even Arizona.

And life is still here, farting in my veins, and shitting in my skull, pretending to be thoughts, little turdies of experience drying up in my noggin and falling out of my mouth pretending to be thoughts, usually when there is a job interview on the line. Really. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a few coins for everyone who told me they thought my attitude sucked.

But yeah. I’m here. Still alive, and looking for work, and wondering why the greatest thing to ever happen to me in my life thinks I’m the greatest thing to ever happen to her.

I’m still alive. I’m alive in Portland, Oregon. And life is good.

- –
Okay,
Father Luke