I refuse to read daily astrology b/ what is written there could apply to anyone. Plus, it is supposed to be Luciferian, although I doubt if its aficianados see things that way. Neverless, there was serious weird in the air of departing September: a really bright guy, bag of secrets in bright tow, a resident of the Hope(less) Center for his own reasons--to play the system, although I'm not sure for what gain at this time. He smokes, which is usually enough to bench him; and he has a vicious hardon for blacks. This is a definite bench, and perhaps a suspension: today on the phone he said "nigger", this in reference to one of his peers at the Hope Center. This man--We'll call him 'Dale'--is 52 and wants to become a physician. A little late for that is what I think, although I sometimes wind up in the 'benefits for old people' head too, scholarships and grants and such. By his responses, I can tell that he's heard what I had to say about treating blacks with compassion in the  process of becoming a doc many times before. He thinks that some past and maybe awful experiences, or set of the same, permits him to judge ppl on the color of their skin, and everything else that goes into negritude. I don't know what he would think of my sister-in-law-only: she is darker than most blacks I know, and from India, which seems to whiten up everything.

I met this person as I sat outside the Gratz dungeon, where nightly AA meetings are held. Was discussing writing with another person who uses big words too often. As I told him that I made &200 on my best sale, a short story over ten years ago, he stopped to listen, and eventually joined and co-opted the conversation. We'd moved to talking writing to talking the perimeters of medicine. This Dale informed me that both of his sponsors were MDs and had both approved him as suitable to be squeezed into a doctor suit at some point down the road.

He's not bad-looking for 52, although he is a bit too solicitious, and overvalues the reaches of his IQ, whatever that may be. When I mentioned that I'd sold a round of eggs in my mid-twenties, he picked up what I wanted him to know, assuming he was up on the criteria to sell them in the first place. He's smart, no doubt, major wit and good memorisation skills. Some of what he told me is suspect, like that Tommy dude who had made and lost a million in a custody battle, the man who seemed to think a spot of cheese dip on my lip was a major embarrassment to him, the guy with a little black gun in his glove compartment, the first place a cop would look, and so on. Dale, too, had come from wealth. When his father died, he left his third and younger wife all the goods and gettings. Dale worked the railroad, which is interesting--there's an advertisement in the help wanteds that occasionally comes up and is intriguing. He has lost an impressive amount of flesh and bone from the front of his right calf, a railroad accident that ended in disablility, he said. I dunno--this isn't an issue for me. I just wish he'd try to quit smoking, and moreover, to allow the explanation of why he hates African Americans so much. With the exception of the year I lived with my mother when I first got here, I've lived among them all my life, and like whites--yes, we are the majority, although I am often ashamed of being Caucasian, mostly Irish with a sprinkle of German and Cherokee thrown in. Guess I got my height and frame from the Germans, the cheekbones from the Cherokee. The beer-lovin' gene from the Irish, no doubt; I'd throw that one back if I'd had a choice at the time--

---but I did not. I'm here and now, and must not think about that, at least not now. The weird dude Tommy was narcissisticly explosive about the matter of booze, which caused me to think that he was white-knuckling it. This guy Dale is in AA. Dale's outspokenness about blacks is troubling--racism is not a value that I espouse. But Dale, like Tommy, who also muttered here and ther about not liking "black people" very much, wants to get his money back as soon as I can. These two guys, both vehement non-drinkers, black haters, and money lovers: sumpin very weird going on. I don't wish to attract ppl who value, and loathe, those things. Money, yeah, if I could get some on a regular basis, that'd be cool: I could erase my debts, pay back my parents for the years of picking me up when my arse hit the street, etc. Pictures of retaining my individually while being able to pay back what I might have stolen, all thoe dance in my sleepy head. (Took one seroquel, 100 mgs., on top of my 200 of trazadone last night, and things with fuzzy auras come slow to me, all wrong; they sit there, dead spots at the front of my mind. Too long to recognise them unless I pop some DMAE to counteract the effects of the drugs I took the night before.)

Suppose what confounds me is this sudden influx of demographically-synchronous males suddenly peeling out from the floorboards, flaunting promises of money and other nasty attitudes. If I can do anything to get Dale to think about the way he relates to blacks (the AA folks maintain that in ANY conflict, all parties have some part in the disconnect and further, if any, hostilities--so Dale is obviously a part of his ongoing tiffs with the many black youth and men who reside at the Hope Center). (I have to think about my use there of 'obvious', for I've been jumped on for no reason by persons I'd never seen before, or so it seems right now. Those incidents pale in comprison to those in which I'd had some part. I just gotta say that sometimes, folks are innocent of perceived wrongdoing.

And I'm presently facing a situation in which I must return two security uniform tops. I'm dreadfully embarrassed about this: I accepted on Monday a gig at a local art show--equine art, in fact, and for this I would have no training, no radio in case something went down, no log to fill out, no clock to punch, and so on. Not finding pants that fit--a sixteen, even, had those pockets that stick out like wings--hurt pretty bad. But I'd accepted it, and so I went to bed on 300 mgs of trazadone--this pretty usual--and 100 of seroquel, just to seal the deal. Set my electronically-challenged little alarm clock for five thirty--two hours to wrestle with the mane, put my full face on with makeup that promised to make me look younger in two weeks. So far, nothing.

The little clock failed to rouse me. I came awake at exactly 8:20, with no ride to the Red MIle racetrack, which is about seven miles from where I live now.I could think of no one who could stop what they were doing and give me a ride. I felt bad, ensewaged as it were with bad thoughts and flying reminders from all angles. The only thing I could see to to--the only thing I felt myself able to do at that moment--was to pop another Seroquel and go on back to sleep. I'd had an interesting dream, wanted to see if I could reenter it and see what happened.

I then slept to 12 noon, earplugged, white noisemachine at top volume, door closed in order to muffle the ineffably loud ringtone of the phone in the kitchen. My "guilty" function crawled into operation. Two dollars in my pocket and what to do about that? The logical response is not the one I turned to--i went out can-hunting, and attracted yet another crazed admirer, a small, fiftyish Middle Easterner named Sammy, who was involved managing the food and beer store across the street. Twice I read my palm. It crawled. He told me that he would have to read it every day for his observations to get into a comprehensible reading of my future. Then he wanted me to help him start his old car, bought for $300 as a fixer-upper. The thing was parked behind one of the apartment buildings, had a lot of collectable cans nearby.

I sat there and turned the key in the ignition as per usual. The old car was refusing, just like many old horses I've seen, to turn over, to move, to go. I sat there for about five minutes that felt much longer, and tried to start the car. Each time, the same response: it just didn't want to go. But Sammy was eager to get me up to his apartment. Even though I was considering him as a potential job source, I told him no, that I already had a job, and had to do right, be there on time, and so on.

I ditched Sammy. He'll probably never talk to me again. And the computer has warned me that my timeis up, so good-by, all of uyou formerly rich middle aged men who would like to get to know me. I am crazy, tooo.