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John Oliver Simon's Journal
What am I doing here in the flatland of
DeKalb, Illinois? This is my vacation, hanging out with Becky. And then the other night I got sick, sore throat, maybe
recurrence of the flu-like bronchitis that kept me down much of the winter. Certainly a lot of overload in the mad week
of getting ready to go. How much energy can I waste on 'I don't wanna'? I went to the local clinic where everyone was
very nice, they accepted my Kaiser card, and gave me antibiotics because I knew exactly what I wanted. Think of it as a
writer's colony. I work all morning on my novel, while Becky's at the Center. This afternoon as the weather is
gorgeous, I spread the compost on the garden and oiled the redwood bear. Already feeling a little better. Maybe by
Saturday I'll be up to a mild hike at Castle Rock. And what will we do with our lives, one day, one season at a time?
I washed all my windows this weekend with
windex and a lot of paper towels. Looking out on: toddlers riding tricycles down my block, teenagers bopping to the
beat, squirrels on their busy rounds, blackberries, lemons, the side alley overgrown with sourgrass. Looking in on: my
piles of books and papers, my ancestors in their gilt frames, my clothes draped over the backs of chairs. Cleaning the
windows of perception. Who's home?
Bothered by: chagrin that I postponed and
then spaced out getting it together to place my books from the 60's in the Dennis Koran collection at UC. Contacted his
son; is it still possible? All the ways I don't quite show up for my own work. Completely spaced out my appointment
with Tobey last week. How do I tell the young cat it's okay to kill mice but not birds? All the days that are too full
with teaching and errands and good stuff and I end up bushed in the evening and waking way before 6 am all too ready to
go when I could sleep in. Or the cat bounces in at 4 am wanting to play. Depressive lull in the middle almost every
afternoon. Unmanageability with money, haven't called the carpenter/contractors, want to argue w/ C. who doesn't see
any difference between Bush & Kerry, when will Becky & I see each other this summer...
On the other hand: great teaching days, rich friendships, my novel is rolling along including useful dialogue with
Katrina, great to work with Kia on this website, fine bike riding, over & back the Golden Gate last weekend in
fellowship and again after CAT meeting at sunset, good to have my strength back after that horrible flu in the winter,
naps! helping out my pal M. with legal troubles, showing up with immediate honesty, being of service, many days I do
get a lot done, there will always be loose ends, C's politics are beyond my control, a kick to hang out with Viv while
she did my taxes, sweet cuddling with the cat, on my way to see Becky soon...
Dreams forgotten faintly reminiscent of
last night's movie "Triplets of Belleville," up at first light and went running a slow two miles as the sun slowly
tilted from the headlands of Marin to the flatlands of Berkeley. Still winter theoretically but everything is green and
lush, highs will be in the eighties. NPR says snow in Illinois where my sweetie is leaping into her day. Garlic and red
mustard in the garden, transplanted volunteer beets, holding off on planting tomatoes, green beans, corn and squash
till next month. A feathered mess left as a gift on the couch. How can I praise Dusty for killing mice and convey to
him that birds are a no-no? The virtual baseball games will probably get replayed because of a pitching glitch, too bad
becasue we swept. Then I'll drive into the potholed reaches of San Pablo to teach poetry at Downer School, the kids'
eagerness warming me already from afar. Only three sessions left before putting together the anthology of their poems
and translations. Two of those have to be devoted to editing. How can I get the last fresh drop of imagination out of
them today?
Riding my bike through Tilden Park this
afternoon my chain abruptly broke on the short uphill toward the Brazil Building. As I was contemplating the long, long
walk home, in about two minutes a guy with a chain tool (mysterious millimetered instrument like a thumbscrew) stopped
and fixed my chain. I don't want to subscribe to the I got a parking place, God is on my side, view of Higher Power,
but I sure got exactly what I needed today.
A good long day at Downer School in San
Pablo teaching Poetry Inside Out. The fifth grade translated "Llámame" by Aurelio Arturo, a great
neglected poet from Colombia (1906-1974). "Llámame en la hondonada de tus sueños
más dulces..." Call me in the canyon of your sweetest dreams. Some of the more literal kids had to be
talked out of translating "sueños más dulces" as "dreams more candy." Since it's Theodore
Geisel's 100th birthday, I read The Cat in the Hat all the way through to Diana's fourth grade. Safe bet these kids do
not get Dr. Seuss read to them at home. Next week they'll translate some farmworkers' kids poems she picked out as
we're leading up to César Chávez's birthday. First session with a third grade class, reading
a selection from the Best of 03, then picking words to play with and improvise sentences. The best ones almost began to
fly. The other fourth grade translated Tanka by Alberto Blanco:
I see the light
of the first star
inside me
between the water and the sky
mirror of words
If you're a Spanish-dominant fourth-grader, the spelling of "light" is not at all intuitive. Reminds me of Aram
Saroyan's great one-word poem "l i g h g h t." And then getting Micaela, Luis and Hellen (that's how she spells it) up
before the class to practice reading aloud for tomorrow's big Youth Arts Festival event in Berkeley which will
hopefully begin to light the way to grander horizons beyond the barrio...
This afternoon I put my iBook in my
backpack and biked over to my daughter Kia's house in North Oakland, where she helped me create my website. Now I am
real... I exist in cyberspace. Links to my books of poems, to my teaching, to my virtual baseball team... the
possibilities are endless. To my cat Dusty. Hey, cat, you wanna be in cyberspace?
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John Oliver Simon