Mozart's birthday. Reading Jack Todd's Desertion in the Time of Viet Nam, four fifths of the way through. He humbles me. Compared to my own effetely effortless, hysterical evasion of the draft, Todd's hard-scrabble, hard-won manly (life and) defiance is infinitely more grown-up and heroic. When I've finished, I'll send him a properly self-effacing, laudatory note. Weather continues lovely.

Lingering on at the homeless shelter, trying not to let it be a central fact of my existence, despite that I sleep and eat there. There is something morbid about it, not to say nightmarish. So, conscientiously, I continue reading: Rex Stout and Jules Verne lately. So far I haven't been disappointed in my rediscovery of Nero Wolfe, but Verne's decidedly dumb-ass francomaniac anglomiso/philia is beginning to wear thin. What a mediocre intelligence, is what I find myself saying to myself. Anyway, it somewhat distracts from the sudden glaring horrors of existence here. For example: I went up to the university to do my 'mail yesterday, and decided to skip the music library in the Hamilton Library and go directly to the music building on my way off campus, and found something strikingly reminiscent of Norman Bates's basement: Dirt--actual, physical dirt. Doors falling off their hinges. Unlocked, unsupervised, filthy practise rooms with scarred, neglected, out-of-tune instruments. Dispirited little groups of students. An awful gloom and sad, moldering silence. And this right across the street from the regal nay palatial Founders' Building. Ooh. And there's more, but I'm scared to expatiate on it--lest I attract it.... The weather continues lovely indeed.

Bush is going for it. I'm out on a limb here with dire prediction: As of the twenty-third, those with eyes to see will see; the Reign of Terror will have begun. Woe to them who think their innocence will protect them.

Picked up my EBT card ($130.00 on it) at Care A Van this morning. Whatever else, I won't starve, nor want for vitamin C. Still, with all the free food, adequate sleep, and perfect weather, I don't feel somehow like I'm thriving. Odd. Anyway I go on reading Jules Verne's Mysterious Island (I'm a little over halfway through) and somehow this is bringing joy to my life. Talking to Dr. Murphy (psychiatrist) at the Diamond Head Mental Health Center yesterday, he told me to be sure not to burn my bridges, however psychotic I get: "This is a small island, and everybody knows everybody--absolutely everybody."

It is happening. Bush, defiant, has asked the Democratic congress to approve a troop increase of 21,500, and to pour many more billions into the hell he's created in Iraq--apparently with some hope or belief that Congress will. There is a vast intaking of breath, an incredulous silence. No one seems to realize that we're some ways over the brink, or what this descent into the Maelstrom must entail. This is why I've fled into the hinterlands. Life, so-called, at the IHS shelter continues: stinking, raucous, without dignity or amenity. And yet, my meals are free; I sleep eight hours a night; and I have a prescription on my person for amphetamines. And of course, today, as every day, I stop at the splendid Hawaii State Library, to blog, check my 'mail, and continue my many lines of curious and esoteric research. So that, while on some levels I am wretched, on others I am serenely exhalted. And the weather is simply beautiful. I'm trying, not too unsuccessfully to put it all in perspective.

Fancy this. Here in Honolulu for nearly five weeks, and I'm still living on the extreme edge. Played bridge with the rich old ladies at the Central Union Church today; Phyllis twitting me as hard as ever she could about my trampiness, like she always does, and me as gentle as a dove in my replies: "Am I really so disagreeable? Why do you want me to have a job? Etc." Then I went on to play pretty damned brilliantly, making top score at my table and, I suspect, in the room. I'm halfway home from there now, stopping in at the Main Library to check my 'mail and blog; then on to the homeless shelter, passing through sordid old Hotel Street. It's hot, humid. I still have a touch of flu, diarrhea--which is perfect hell, living at the shelter. Despite it all, I rejoice that I am sick and tired here and not well and paranoid in freezing old Spokane. Lately I've been reading Jules Verne's "Mysterious Island" and enjoying the hell out of it. Time's up. I'll blog more tomorow.....