April 22nd, 2003


Time with the Beat

Dorothy and I went to the Beat Hotel yesterday afternoon, met Steve there. He showed us the materials in a fair amount of detail, showed us the rooms, the plumbing leaks, the holes in the floor, various other things that need to be fixed before the hotel can open. While we were there talking, his latest worker, Rick, showed up to do the subfloor. We can hope there won't be too many stories about Rick, of the type that Steve has about others working there. The painting of the deck and stairs that has the guy's girlfriend's toeprints in it, the sealed-in plastic cap, painted into the deck, things like this. Nightmarish.

He's very discouraged about ever finding good help in the desert. Surely there is someone, but who?

Afterwards, we took off to pick up my hike pictures and D's meds, and reconvened at a good Mexican restaurant in town, had a good meal and better conversation. I think I enjoy Steve as much as I enjoy the motel, and would feel like I had not gotten the full experience if I did not get to spend time with him.

very windy last night, still fairly so today. I don't want to return just yet. I really would love to have one or two more days. Perhaps this mornign we'll get to the spa.

The White Cat

The white cat symbolizes the silvery moon prying into corners and cleansing the sky for the day to follow. The white cat is "the cleaner" or "the animal that cleans itself," described by the Sanskrit word Margaras, which means "the hunter who follows the track; the investigator; the skip tracer." The white cat is the hunter and the killer, his path lighted by the silvery moon. All dark, hidden places and beings are revealed in that inexorably gentle light. You can't shake your white cat because your white cat is you. You can't hide from your white cat because your white cat hides with you.

...W. S. Burroughs, from The Cat inside

(no subject)

I am not a Burroughs fan, although I admit I have not read much of his. I feel he had many prejudices, not the least about women, and obsessions, mostly with semen. Yet there was genius there, at times, in spurts. I don't think it was always evident.

Like other geniuses, he was, I believe, especially able to stay in touch with his right brain, find the connections others would miss, the relationships between parts of his own life. And he would find exactly the right thing to say at times, in the right way.

As in:

This cat book is an allegory, in which the writer's past life is presented to him in a cat charade. Not that the cats are puppets. Far from it. They are living, breathing creatures, and when any other being is contacted, it is sad: because you see the limitations, the pain and fear and the final death. That is what contact means. That is what I see when I touch a cat and find that tears are flowing down my face.

from Burroughs' The Cat Inside