i did my apprenticeship in the ‘work’ under the care of lord pentland.

i would spend most of the day doing chores around the house trying to work on myself.

for me, then, it was mental exercises i had found in orage’s book “psychological exercises and essays”

i would be raking furiously, the leaves around the bushes and the yards reciting “mary had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as snow.” with numbers. (13-1-18-25),(8-1-4),(1),(12-9-20-20-12-5),(12-1-13-2), etc.

now and then i would steal a glance at pentland seated at his desk by the window of his office.

i always had the feeling i was being watched and it helped me habituate my mind to the present moment.

Invariably, when i had lost everything and was in a faraway dream, i would feel a hand on my shoulder and i would be invited to come to the office for a conversation or we would simply sit for half an hour or so. That was my training at the house in riverdale.

At lunch, i would be taciturn; ever careful not to blow my cool and say something stupid. But either lord Pentland or lady Pentland would always draw me out. I learned more by listening. Sometimes it was the silliest things that struck me. Like one day when lady Pentland excused the paucity of the fare that day. “i didn’t have time to go shopping and all we have is a large can of whale meat and some vegetables.” and Pentland reprimanded her. “Don’t make excuses, Lucy, we have what we have to offer. That’s it.” she called him john. “Yes, john.” she would answer demurely. On the surface lady Pentland was docile but when she would come to my rescue when he was being hard on me, i loved her.

Once she let slip, “well, scott, you, being an artist, must already be freer than most.” lord Pentland hushed her. But it was too late. I heard and would remember that. He himself had told me once, “you’re way ahead of most everyone here in many ways.” but I had no illusions about my shortcomings. I was a lunatic tramp and had a long row to hoe to catch up with the ‘good householders’ in the ‘work’.

The house was about a two-mile walk from the end of the subway in Yonkers. I usually arrived around 9:00 a.m.

My last meeting with Pentland at Rockefeller center, he had said to me, “and call me anytime, so far so good.” referring to the abstinence from mood enhancing drugs. So I called him at least once a week and from then on he would always invite me to his house on Saturdays.

One day he called me and asked me to meet him at the subway entrance underground at 7 Rockefeller place. He was a little late and was walking fast. His arms were entwined in about five straw baskets. He excitedly said, “we’re going to take these apart to learn how it’s done.” then he said, “oh, scott, there will be a meeting for you at 61st st.” he handed me a tiny slip of paper with the address and time; 7:30 Wednesday. Then he was off to catch the train. i called out, Lord Pentland! He didn’t hear. i yelled it louder, “lord Pentland!!” he turned around and stopped. “What?” “Will I be in your group?”, “I hope so.” He answered and took off.

This puzzled me a bit but i was happy. At that time, in New York, there were about fourteen group leaders, and I could just as well have been relegated to one of the other ‘preparatory’ groups.

i went to the meeting. i was the first to arrive. lord Pentland was there alone. He asked me to man the buzzer, which opened the door downstairs. We were on the fifth floor of a ‘brownstone’ house. It was a small apartment. I helped set up chairs for about twenty people. This was the first group meeting for all of them except me. In the spring, I had gone to a few meetings at the ‘foundation’ in an older group. I never asked about these kinds of things; just accepted whatever he wanted for me.

That was all I did except for my jobs for money (next chapter); Wednesdays and Saturdays at the apartment and the house in Riverdale. About a year later, I would stay overnight and ride up to Armonk for a day of work at the country place. this didn’t last for long. i had to make my way as a ‘train person’ after a few of these weekends. lord pentland said one day when we were driving back to the city, “i don’t think it’s very good for you to be seen arriving with me all the time. you understand?”

i did… jealousy. no problem. i would ride the train to north white plains, have breakfast at the diner with other “train people” and car people would stop there, and rides were made available for everyone.

many many years later i asked lady pentland what she remembered about me from those days. after her usual interminable pause when answering any question, she said, ” i remember that you always left a trail. if you brought wood in for the fire, there would be pieces of bark on the rug from the door to the fireplace. if you did some painting job there would be brushes standing in jars waiting to be cleaned by someone else.” i was chagrined.

i will always be grateful and unable to pay for the help i received from these two beings. it brings to mind how once, wishing to give something concrete besides ‘thank you’s, i brought a portfolio of drawings to the house. lord pentland perused them all patiently, complained about people bringing things to him so that the drawers were stuffed, but picked out a pretty tree and spoke. “i’ve always loved trees.” me too.

we huddled together
under brilliant stars
by the drum firepit
no wood, no fire

the full moon rose
over the eastern bluff
and bathed the open field
with silver light

and dead composers
thrilled our souls
denying the past
erasing the future.

she watched me wash in the river.
john thomas stood at attention
saluting the past, i guess.
no reason except the breath of the wind
a tickling zephyr.

it all started when julie called me two weeks ago.
“i want to talk to you about going to big sur…” etc. on my voice mail.
so i called her back and arranged to meet julie at demian’s house at six on monday.

i was on time except the bay bridge delayed me another hour.
fourteen lanes i counted; all lanes feeding into four cash booths and people switching lanes laboriously at a snails pace to get to the “pass holders” lane.
i was stuck for five minutes at a time with no movement and then julie called to find out where i was. i suddenly saw an opening and with the phone in my right hand at my ear did a left handed swoop out of my position behind a white pick-up truck. i could hear the crunch. i thought my whole side was scraped. but it was just the side mirror. don’t drive while you’re on the phone.

after dinner and sleep, the next day we took the scenic route out of san francisco and down the coast towards monterey. beautiful drive it was. and we chatted continuously and listened to james taylor tape and some wild coltrane.

---

my tent was plenty big for the two of us. without the rain “fly cover” you could see the night sky through the ceiling; we had a full moon and we watched it rise. and later outside for a four in the morning saunter to the outhouse i watched it set in the west.
the full moon
rises slowly
from behind the hill
suddenly the night is illumined
then it sets on the other side of our field
and the sun gradually brightens the day
over the same hill
they go round and round
taking turns dispelling darkness

---

at war with the groundsquirrels, in spite of their prairie dog stance, artful thieves in a gang. they felt the sting of my stick… eyes behind my head i can feel them surrounding the table. and they are wary of me.
in the daytime they are grazing on the grass like a herd of buffalo. but if i start to prepare dinner it’s bait an switch and there goes the chocolate. sometimes i leave them some lemon seeds in a hole in the picnic table. they even ate my plastic sandals.

today the yellow leaves floated down
became little boats
drifting in the quiet stream
not far now to the ocean
a buttefly parades by me
and a blue/black bird rests
on a nearby branch
over the river
my feet in the stream after a wash
the water is cooling my blood.

when julie was getting rebellious on the third day she actually said, “i should have made love to you last night. then i wouldn’t have this problem with you.”
she wanted to hitchhike to partington canyon and stay at big sur forever. she denies alzheimers, but every night, “where are we?” and “are we in a boat?”

we huddled together
under brilliant stars
by the drum firepit
no wood, no fire

the full moon rose
over the eastern bluff
and bathed the open field
with silver light

and dead composers
thrilled our souls
denying the past
erasing the future.

she watched me wash in the river.
john thomas stood at attention
saluting the past, i guess.
no reason except the breath of the wind
a tickling zephyr.

it all started when julie called me two weeks ago.
“i want to talk to you about going to big sur…” etc. on my voice mail.
so i called her back and arranged to meet julie at demian’s house at six on monday.

i was on time except the bay bridge delayed me another hour.
fourteen lanes i counted; all lanes feeding into four cash booths and people switching lanes laboriously at a snails pace to get to the “pass holders” lane.
i was stuck for five minutes at a time with no movement and then julie called to find out where i was. i suddenly saw an opening and with the phone in my right hand at my ear did a left handed swoop out of my position behind a white pick-up truck. i could hear the crunch. i thought my whole side was scraped. but it was just the side mirror. don’t drive while you’re on the phone.

after dinner and sleep, the next day we took the scenic route out of san francisco and down the coast towards monterey. beautiful drive it was. and we chatted continuously and listened to james taylor tape and some wild coltrane.

---

my tent was plenty big for the two of us. without the rain “fly cover” you could see the night sky through the ceiling; we had a full moon and we watched it rise. and later outside for a four in the morning saunter to the outhouse i watched it set in the west.
the full moon
rises slowly
from behind the hill
suddenly the night is illumined
then it sets on the other side of our field
and the sun gradually brightens the day
over the same hill
they go round and round
taking turns dispelling darkness

---

at war with the groundsquirrels, in spite of their prairie dog stance, artful thieves in a gang. they felt the sting of my stick… eyes behind my head i can feel them surrounding the table. and they are wary of me.
in the daytime they are grazing on the grass like a herd of buffalo. but if i start to prepare dinner it’s bait an switch and there goes the chocolate. sometimes i leave them some lemon seeds in a hole in the picnic table. they even ate my plastic sandals.

today the yellow leaves floated down
became little boats
drifting in the quiet stream
not far now to the ocean
a buttefly parades by me
and a blue/black bird rests
on a nearby branch
over the river
my feet in the stream after a wash
the water is cooling my blood.

when julie was getting rebellious on the third day she actually said, “i should have made love to you last night. then i wouldn’t have this problem with you.”
she wanted to hitchhike to partington canyon and stay at big sur forever. she denies alzheimers, but every night, “where are we?” and “are we in a boat?” I_ArtMan

i am so happy. words cannot express the waves of gratitude

and relief i have experienced in the last four days since i first

moved into my new home.

for the past twelve years, since i left new york to spend a

year and a half with my dying father, i have been shunted

around against my will. after my father died my brothers sold

the house my father designed and built on camano island.

it had a lovely view overlooking the puget sound.

i would gladly have stayed there. i would have to

pay off my brother and two stepbrothers for their share of my

father’s legacy.

i didn’t have a penny to my name.

due to a series of circumstances and the laws of the universe i

took up with a lady who had a house and a restaurant; the “fish

in'”(a play on words for a restaurant which had been serving

breakfast to the fishermen at 4:00 a.m. since 1923. rockport

was high up in the cascade mountains of Washington state right

at the confluence of the mighty skagit and sauk rivers.

a famous spot not only for the prized game fish the steelhead,

a wily young salmon, but also for the congregation in the

winter months of about 554 american bald eagles. on a typical

rainy, misty day they would be hanging out in the trees along

the river looking all broody and bored.

my brother bobby lived on the sauk prairie on a lot of land in a

small house where he and his wife kathie had birthed six

children; five boys and finally the last child was a girl. so i

was close to my brother and his family. that was good.

dixie and i renovated the fish in’ working side by side for

months. and when we weren’t busy with the construction and

decorating i made a place of my own, with permission, under

the ‘fish’ as everyone called it. dixie was a volatile ’empress’

type and even though i not only fit her list of attributes for

the man she was praying for, plus some she learned to

appreciate, she broke up with me seven times.

so, after a couple of years in rockport, i moved to a pig farm in sumas on

the canadian border…. flatlanders, we upriver people called

them down there on the flood plain.

i had put an ad in the paper… to the effect ” artist will fix up

your house or old barn in return for a place to stay. here

again, i had to leave because the conditions were intolerable. no need to go into the details, it’ll be in the book though.

my agreement with the owner was two hours a day as a handy

man, five days a week would be equivalent to what one might

pay to live on planks with walls covered with a hundred years

of pig shit. i put in some windows upstairs and mowed and

pruned and painted. i had plenty of time for my own work but

i was pissed at the world and extremely depressed.

then at the end of august 2000 i rented a u-haul and dragged

it down to los angeles with my father’s old cadillac (1978). it

was an old golden warhorse my father dubbed “xanadu”…
“in zanadu did kubla khan his stately pleasure dome decree…”

from the poem kubla khan by coleridge.

i called an l.a. friend to stay on his couch. even though i had put him up at my house in new york, he refused. so i slept in the car. I put everything in storage the next day and slept in a residential neighborhood by the curb in the grass to get flat. you don’t sleep very well sitting up.

the next day in redondo beach i showed my paintings… unframed and leaning against trees and folding chairs… they thought i was crazy, everyone else had these lovely gold frames and each one had it’s own easel or stand or pavillion.
a generous artist named bela gave me some advice. “go to venice.” she meant venice beach which i had never heard of.
so i went there. i did a few portraits and stayed in the hostel a block away.

i did o.k. on the venice boardwalk until november when the rain and winds make it very uncomfortable. and of course, no tourists.so no money for the hostel… so i wound up sleeping upright in the car again. until i let a young fellow move it from the library to my regular spot in front of the post office vehicle parking lot. (very impersonal and all my friends knew where i could be found.) but he got pulled over for no seat belt going three blocks, and he had a suspended license so they busted the car and gave it a sentence of thirty days…

thirty days’ storage would have been over $800 here.

that night i dreamed i was in my father’s cadillac flying…
then i was hanging onto a building parapet with the seat belt on clinging to the wall with my fingernails holding the full weight of the car…. i yelled down to some pedestrians. “can anybody cut me out of this car”

like a good amatuer indian i took it as a sign, and didn’t go through a struggle to save xanadu. but that left me pushing a dolly with all my paintings and equipment down streets wide and narrow to the boardwalk and then at night to somewhere where i could sleep beside it.

then i managed to get into the ‘yes center’, a supposed ashram run by a mister a. at first i had high hopes, sharing a small room with three other people; a japanese surfer/student, an english musician of considerable skill and an iranian nanoscientist named behzad nili.

but it turned out to have no traditional activities and was more of a slum and i ended up sitting in the garden every night trying to drink myself to death… i guess.

I called my best friend.   mr. h. rescued me one night and i wound up in a sober living house in culver city.

after two years they decided to sell the house and couldn’t provide a next place where you could share a house with thirteen people and a room with one other man which is big enough to walk between the beds.

then i lucked out.. i found a nice house which was organized loosely by four sober people. i stayed there for almost a year. i lost that by letting my friend barbara park her car in my spot.
too bad because i was really wailing with the painting and that’s where i started my opera journal.

so it was back to a nomad life for a month with my noble destrier the jeep cherokee i bought for $600 by paying $100 a month from my married friends b. and b.a. ; if i put everything from the back on the roof i could actually sleep flat.

then a good friend mr.s. hooked me up with mr. l. and i had a small private room in a made-over garage at the orchid farm called ‘serenity house’ lmao… because that’s when real hell ensued. the owner decided to move into the garage-house which i shared with two others.

i was put into a small room in the front house to share my room with one other man and the kitchen with about ten men… all slobs when it comes to culinary arts and clean-up.

and finally, after a few months of that, they put me into a trailer with a total space of 7 feet by 11 feet to share with a new evacuee from the renovation.

they said we could all move back into our rooms in december. great only eight months without a kitchen or cable t.v.. and worst of all. no internet. and we were using a porta potty with a construction crew of sometimes twenty men.

the kitchen was gutted and i was living on peanut butter and graham crackers and desperate to get out of the box with a window. then they made us move everything out that might break so they could move the trailer out of the street.

all this time, for twelve years i have wondered what forces were involved in pushing me around.

i still don’t know. but i am happy and have landed in a very nice apartment which is mine alone, with a clean kitchen and a lovely bathroom of my own. i also have a nice bedroom and a very big living room on the ground floor so i can grow herbs for cooking and maybe a few roses. i am so happy.

in the game “go” there is a move called kikashi. it means, ‘it is a move which must be answered’.

Ukraine would form a spear of everything and every soldier and militia and go for moscow.

i know i am anti-war but when you have one, you have to know there will be many deaths and casualties. but “it’s better than just sitting at home waiting to get hit.”

the other thing i haven’t heard on msnbc or anywhere is join them to the nato alliance immediately. that changes the legality. then we can really protect them all and vlad will go to bed crying.

I_ArtMan