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43 M Los Angeles, CA

My Details

Last Online
Online now!
5′ 8″ (1.73m)
Body Type
Strictly anything
Virgo, and it’s fun to think about
Graduated from Ph.D program
Art / Music / Writing
Relationship Status
Relationship Type
Doesn’t have kids
Has dogs and has cats
English (Fluently), Russian (Fluently), French (Fluently), Yiddish (Okay)

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My self-summary
Did anyone see the eclipse last night?

"Why, Miss Lou, you look lovely and most fetching tonight."

"Why, thank you, Crawford, I sure do appreciate the nice things you do say."

More Indie
More Artsy
More Energetic
More Scientific
More Logical
More Spontaneous
More Mathematical
More Kinky
More Confident
More Progressive
More Trusting
More Experienced In Love
Less Organized
Less Spiritual
Less Kind -- honestly, this is the deal breaker as far as I can see. But why am I less kind? I hate Cupid, what a silly web site!

Less Conventionally Moral - presumably I don't keep my answers in the right boxes, so what? I don't know, I don't care and it doesn't matter anyway. Who said that? I think it was Jack Kerouac.

Etty in the room a cry
Mama say she must wipe her eye
Papa say she no fi foolish
Like she never been to school at all
It is no wonder
It's a perfect ponder
While they were dancing in that bar room last night.

Johnson in the room afret
Uncle say he must hold up him head
Aunty say he no fi foolish
Like a no time fi him wedding day
It is no wonder
It's a perfect ponder
While they were dancing in that bar room last night.
One pound ten for the wedding cake
Plenty bottle of cola wine
All the people them dress up in a white
Fi go eat out Johnson wedding cake
It is no wonder
It's a perfect ponder
While they were dancing in that bar room last night.

Oh! someone just had the photo taken down by OKcupid, now I have to rewrite my entire profile!

I was shopping at Von's and found a DVD of "Annie Hall" in the Bargain Bin for $5.99! Here is the famous balcony scene that
that has been often imitated, never duplicated.


Jewish Sex:

No matter what Isaac the husband did in bed; his wife never achieved an orgasm. Since by Jewish law a wife is entitled to sexual pleasure, they decide to consult their Rabbi.

The Rabbi listens to their story, strokes his beard, and makes the following suggestion: 'Hire a strapping young man. While the two of you are making love, have the young man wave a towel over you. That will help your wife fantasize and should bring on an orgasm.'

They go home and follow the Rabbi's advice. They hire a handsome young man and he waves a towel over them as! they make love. It does not help and the wife is still unsatisfied. Perplexed, they go back to the Rabbi.

'Okay,' he says to the husband, 'Try it reversed. Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them.'

Once again, they follow the Rabbi's advice. They go home and hire, the same strapping young man.

The young man gets into bed with the wife and the husband waves the towel. The young man gets to work with great enthusiasm and soon she has an enormous, room-shaking, ear-splitting screaming orgasm.

The husband smiles, looks at the young man and says to him triumphantly,

'See that, you schmuck? THAT'S how you wave a towel!'


I don't know where to begin! My mind is flooded, saturated with material. Alors, I got your letter, the telegram. First of all, bravo! I am immensely elated by the interest you take - and that is quite enough to sustain me.
It will not be necessary to return to Paris, or Louveciennes tho' certainly I deeply appleciate your hospitality. Let us reserve the occasion -
there may come a worse day. For the present I feel sufficiently fortified to stick it out…

Perhaps I sounded like a crybaby. What a yawp I set up! Damn it, I wasn't supposed to fall into a bed of roses. So, if in the future I rave or rant, just set it down to literary ebullience.
Everything has it's compensations… Now that I have cleared the deck with these practical explanations ( and hell how I detest them) let me make other apologies - and then to
more interesting matters, First excuse the paper. I have good typewriter paper that I am holding in reserve , and if you do not mind the lack of formality why O.K. Maybe the random notes
on the reverse side will titillate you. They are of no use to me any more. Secondly, excuse the absence of salutation. I haven't yet learned to call you by your first name, and Miss Nin
sounds so stiff, like an invitation to tea. I should like to say simply Anais, but it takes time. ( Osborn, for instance , is still Osborn.) How Germanic this is…
Since I shall not be back to engage in long discussions (except perhaps during Easter, or will you be going away then?) why let's thrash things out by the letter.
The notes I sent you, after you read them, please hold them. As I said, so much was left out of the novel. I want to return to it. supplement it by incorporating some
of my present book [Tropic of Cancer] . Naturally you have divined how precious this "Albertine" must be for me. Is not June very similar - perhaps much more complicated,orchestrated
as it were? How many more enigmas are there for me to solve than was presented by Albertine?…God, it is maddening to think that even one day must pass without writing.
I shall never, never catch up. It is why , no doubt, I write with such vehemence, such distortion. It is despair…

Yes , I hope, Anais, that you will write. There is lots I have to say which does not fit into books. And I want to know what you think. I come back to your book, to my first, vivid
impressions. Certain passages are on an inestimable beauty. Above all a sureness, a grasp, a mature dexterity which I, alas , will never attain. The very composition of your blood , your
inheritance, has without your knowing it perhaps saved you from problems and pains which most writers are obliged to suffer, You are essentially the artist, whether you choose a
small or a large canvas. You have a power, through sheer feeling, that will captivate your readers. Only beware of your reason , your intelligence. Do not attempt to resolve…Don't
preach. No moral conclusions. There are none, anyway. Don't hesitate. Write! Keep on, even if you go from Switzerland to Timbuctoo, though why Louveciennes shouldn't suffice is an
enigma to me.


February 12, 1932

(Henry Miller to Anais Nin)

Lord, i asked for cabbage, she brought me turnip greens
Lord, i asked for cabbage, she brought me turnip greens
I asked her for water and she brought me gasoline
What I’m doing with my life
“This is a world where everybody’s got to do something. You know, somebody laid down this rule that everybody’s got to do something. They got to be something. You know, a dentist, a fighter pilot, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that. Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things I don’t want to do. All the things that I don’t want to be. All the places that I don’t want to go, like India, or to get my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that. I don’t understand that.” ~ Henry Chinaski
I’m really good at
Je tiens à faire l'amour avec vous ce soir.

The Fundamental Theorems of Asset Pricing, Theorems 5.4.7 and 5.4.9, can be found in Harrison and Pliska [78] , [79] . It is tempting to believe the converse of Theorem 5.4.7 (i.e., that the absence of arbitrage implies the existence of a risk-neutral measure). This is true in discrete-time models (see Dalang, Morton, and Willinger [45] ) , but in continuous-time models a slightly stronger condition is needed to guarantee existence of a risk-neutral measure. See Delbaen and Schachermayer [49] for a summary of relevant results.
HARRISON, J. M. AND PLISKA, S. R. (1981) Martingales and stochastic in­ integrals in the theory of continuous trading, Stochastic Processes Appl. 1 1 , 215-260.
HARRISON, J. M. AND PLISKA, S. R. (1983) A stochastic calculus model of continuous trading: complete markets, Stochastic Processes Appl. 15, 313-316.

Setlist -Nürnberg , Zeppelinfeld, July 1, 1978 ( Thanks to Olof Björner)

1. She's Love Crazy
2. Baby Stop Crying
3. Mr. Tambourine Man
4. Shelter From The Storm
5. It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
6. Tangled Up In Blue
7. Ballad Of A Thin Man
8. Maggie's Farm
9. I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met)
10. Like A Rolling Stone
11. I Shall Be Released
12. Going, Going, Gone
13. A Change Is Gonna Come (Sam Cooke)
14. Love Minus Zero/No Limit
Steven Soles: Laissez-faire (David Ackles)
15. A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
16. One Of Us Must Know (Sooner Or Later)
17. You're A Big Girl Now
18. One More Cup Of Coffee (Valley Below)
19. Blowin' In The Wind
20. I Want You
21. Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)
22. Masters Of War
23. Just Like A Woman
24. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
25. All Along The Watchtower
26. All I Really Want To Do
27. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
28. Forever Young
29. I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
30. The Times They Are A-Changin'
The first things people usually notice about me
I'm a big Bob Dylan Fan.

"You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known" he said.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Ach Mutter, der ist der Welt und den Menschen auf ewig entzogen. - Er hat sich den Eingeweihten gewidmet.214
Den Eingeweihten? - Unglückliche Tochter, nun bist du auf ewig mir entrissen. -
Entrissen? - O fliehen wir liebe Mutter! unter deinem Schutz trotz’ ich jeder Gefahr.
Schutz? Liebes Kind, deine Mutter kann dich nicht mehr schützen. - Mit deines Vaters Tod ging meine Macht zu Grabe.
PAMINA Mein Vater -
Übergab freywillig den siebenfachen Sonnenkreis den Eingeweihten; diesen mächtigen Sonnenkreis trägt Sarastro auf seiner Brust. - Als ich ihn darüber beredete, so sprach er mit gefalteter Stirne: Weib! meine letzte Stunde ist da - alle Schätze, so ich allein besaß, sind dein und deiner Tochter. - Der alles verzehrende Sonnenkreis, fiel ich hastig ihm in die Rede, - ist den Geweihten bestimmt, antwortete er: - Sarastro wird ihn so männlich verwalten, wie ich bisher. - Und nun kein Wort weiter; forsche nicht nach Wesen, die dem weiblichen Geiste unbegreiflich sind.- Deine Pflicht ist, dich und deine Tochter der Führung weiser Männer zu überlassen.
Liebe Mutter, nach allem dem zu schließen, ist wohl auch der Jüngling auf immer für mich verloren.
Verloren, wenn du nicht, eh' die Sonne die Erde färbt, ihn durch diese unterirdischen Gewölbe zu fliehen beredest.216 - Der erste Schimmer des Tages entscheidet, ob er ganz Dir oder den Eingeweihten gegeben sey.
Liebe Mutter, dürft ich den Jüngling als Eingeweihten denn nicht auch eben so zärtlich lieben, wie ich ihn jetzt liebe? - Mein Vater selbst war ja mit diesen weisen Männern verbunden; er sprach jederzeit mit Entzücken von ihnen, preiste ihre Güte - ihren Verstand - ihre Tugend. - Sarastro ist nicht weniger tugendhaft. -
Was hör ich! - Du meine Tochter könntest die schändlichen Gründe217 dieser Barbaren vertheidigen? - So einen Mann lieben, der mit meinem Todfeinde verbunden, mit jedem Augenblick mir meinen Sturz218 bereiten würde? - Siehst du hier diesen Stahl219? - Er ist für Sarastro geschliffen. - Du wirst ihn tödten, und den mächtigen Sonnenkreis mir überliefern.
Aber liebste Mutter! -
Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,
Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her! Fühlt nicht durch dich Sarastro Todesschmerzen, So bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr. Verstoßen220 sey auf ewig,
Verlassen sey auf ewig,
Zertrümmert221 sey’n auf ewig
Alle Bande der Natur,
Wenn nicht durch dich Sarastro wird erblassen! Hört Rache, - Götter! - Hört der Mutter Schwur.

The Lady Who Loved Lightening by Vivian Darkbloom

The author is an anagram for Vladimir Nabokov.

He called her back to pay for the cognac. He closed his book (the emblem of the secret brotherhood), and she thought of asking him what he was reading.
Can you have it charged to my room? he asked.
Yes, she said. What number are you in?
He showed her his key, which was attached to a piece of wood with a red six drawn on it.
That's odd, she said. Six.
What's so odd about that? he asked.
She had suddenly recalled that the house where they had lived in Prague before her parents were divorced was number six. But she answered something else (which we may credit to her wiles): You're in room six and my shift ends at six.
Well, my train leaves at seven, said the stranger.
She did not know how to respond, so she gave him the bill for his signature and took it over to the reception desk. When she finished work, the stranger was no longer at his table. Had he understood her discreet message? She left the restaurant in a state of excitement.
Opposite the hotel was a barren little park, as wretched as only the park of a dirty little town can be, but for Tereza it had always been an island of beauty: it had grass, four poplars, benches, a weeping willow, and a few forsythia bushes.
He was sitting on a yellow bench that afforded a clear view of the restaurant entrance. The very same bench she had sat on the day before with a book in her lap! She knew then (the birds of fortuity had begun alighting on her shoulders) that this stranger was her fate. He called out to her, invited her to sit next to him. (The crew other soul rushed up to the deck other body.) Then she walked him to the station, and he gave her his card as a farewell gesture. If ever you should happen to come to Prague...

Much more than the card he slipped her at the last minute, it was the call of all those fortuities (the book, Beethoven, the number six, the yellow park bench) which gave her the courage to leave home and change her fate. It may well be those few fortuities (quite modest, by the way, even drab, just what one would expect from so lackluster a town) which set her love in motion and provided her with a source of energy she had not yet exhausted at the end of her days.
Our day-to-day life is bombarded with fortuities or, to be more precise, with the accidental meetings of people and events we call coincidences. Co-incidence means that two events unexpectedly happen at the same time, they meet: Tomas appears in the hotel restaurant at the same time the radio is playing Beethoven. We do not even notice the great majority of such coincidences. If the seat Tomas occupied had been occupied instead by the local butcher, Tereza never would have noticed that the radio was playing Beethoven (though the meeting of Beethoven and the butcher would also have been an interesting coincidence). But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty, and she would never forget that music. When-ever she heard it, she would be touched. Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty.
Early in the novel that Tereza clutched under her arm when she went to visit Tomas, Anna meets Vronsky in curious circumstances: they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train. At the end of the novel, Anna throws herself under a train. This symmetrical composition—the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end—may seem quite novelistic to you, and I am willing to agree, but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as fictive, fabricated, and untrue to life into the word novelistic. Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.
They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven's music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.
It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station, and death or the meeting of Beethoven, Tomas, Tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty. ~ Milan Kundera ( from: "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being")
The six things I could never do without

Poor Bull came home in his Texas Chevy and found his house invaded by maniacs; but he greeted me with a nice warmth I hadn't seen in him for a long time. He had bought this house in New Orleans with some money he had made growing black-eyed peas in Texas with an old college schoolmate whose father, a mad-paretic, had died and left a fortune. Bull himself only got fifty dollars a week from his own family, which wasn't too bad except that he spent almost that much per week on his drug habit-and his wife was also expensive, gobbling up about ten dollars' worth of benny tubes a week. Their food bill was the lowest in the country; they hardly ever ate; nor did the children-they didn't seem to care. They had two wonderful children: Dodie, eight years old; and little Ray, one year. Ray ran around stark naked in the yard, a little blond child of the rainbow. Bull called him "the Little Beast," after W. C. Fields. Bull came driving into the yard and unrolled himself from the car bone by bone, and came over wearily, wearing glasses, felt hat, shabby suit, long, lean, strange, and laconic, saying, "Why, Sal, you finally got here; let's go in the house and have a drink."

It would take all night to tell about Old Bull Lee; let's just say now, he was a teacher, and it may be said that he had every right to teach because he spent all his time learning; and the things he learned were what he considered to be and called "the facts of life," which he learned not only out of necessity but because he wanted to. He dragged his long, thin body around the entire United States and most of Europe and North Africa in his time, only to see what was going on; he married a White Russian countess in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the thirties; there are pictures of him with the international cocaine set of the thirties-gangs with wild hair, leaning on one another; there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat, surveying the streets of Algiers; he never saw the White Russian countess again. He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons-server in Newark. In Paris he sat at cafe tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Istanbul he threaded his "way through crowds of opium addicts and rug-sellers, looking for the facts. In English hotels he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just for two minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience. Now the final study was the drug habit. He was now in New Orleans, slipping along the streets with shady characters and haunting connection bars.

There is a strange story about his college days that illustrates something else about him: he had friends for cocktails in his well-appointed rooms one afternoon when suddenly his pet ferret rushed out and bit an elegant teacup queer on the ankle and everybody hightailed it out the door, screaming. Old Bull leaped up and grabbed his shotgun and said, "He smells that old rat again," and shot a hole in the wall big enough for fifty rats. On the wall hung a picture of an ugly old Cape Cod house. His friends said, "Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?" and Bull said, "I like it because it's ugly." All his life was in that line. Once I knocked on his door in the 60th Street slums of New York and he opened it wearing a derby hat, a vest with nothing underneath, and long striped sharpster pants; in his hands he had a cookpot, birdseed in the pot, and was trying to mash the seed to roll in cigarettes. He also experimented in boiling codeine cough syrup down to a black mash - that didn't work too well. He spent long hours with Shakespeare - the "Immortal Bard," he called him - on his lap. In New Orleans he had begun to spend long hours with the Mayan Codices on his lap, and, although he went on talking, the book lay open all the time. I said once, "What's going to happen to us when we die?" and he said, "When you die you're just dead, that's all." He had a set of chains in his room that he said he used with his psychoanalyst; they were experimenting with narcoanalysis and found that Old Bull had seven separate personalities, each growing worse and worse on the way down, till finally he was a raving idiot and had to be restrained with chains. The top personality was an English lord, the bottom the idiot. Halfway he was an old Negro who stood in line, waiting with everyone else, and said, "Some's bastards, some's ain't, that's the score."

Bull had a sentimental streak about the old days m America, especially 1910, when you could get morphine in a drugstore without prescription and Chinese smoked opium in their evening windows and the country was wild and brawling and free, with abundance and any kind of freedom for everyone. His chief hate was Washington bureaucracy; second to that, liberals; then cops. He spent all his time talking and teaching others. Jane sat at his feet; so did I; so did Dean; and so had Carlo Marx. We'd all learned from him. He was a gray, nondescript-looking fellow you wouldn't notice on the street, unless you looked closer and saw his mad, bony skull with its strange youthfulness-a Kansas minister with exotic, phenomenal fires and mysteries. He had studied medicine in Vienna; had studied anthropology, read everything; and now he was settling to his life's work, which was the study of things them-selves.-in the streets of life and the night. He sat in his chair; Jane brought drinks, martinis. The shades by his chair were always drawn, day and night; it was his corner of the house. On his lap were the Mayan Codices and an air gun which he occasionally raised to pop benzedrine tubes across the room. I kept rushing around, putting up new ones. We all took shots and meanwhile we talked. Bull was curious to know the reason for this trip. He peered at us and snuffed down his nose, thfump, like a sound in a dry tank.

"Now, Dean, I want you to sit quiet a minute and tell me what you're doing crossing the country like this."

Dean could only blush and say, "Ah well, you know how it is."

"Sal, what are you going to the Coast for?" "Only for a few days. I'm coming back to school." "What's the score with this Ed Dunkel? What kind of character is he?" At that moment Ed was making up to Galatea in the bedroom; it didn't take him long. We didn't know what to tell Bull about Ed Dunkel. Seeing that we didn't know anything about ourselves, he whipped out three sticks of tea and said to go ahead, supper'd be ready soon.

"Ain't nothing better in the world to give you an appetite. I once ate a horrible lunchcart hamburg on tea and it seemed like the most delicious thing in the world. I just got back from Houston last week, went to see Dale about our black-eyed peas. I was sleeping in a motel one morning when all of a sudden I was blasted out of bed. This damn fool had just shot his wife in the room next to mine. Everybody stood around confused, and the guy just got in his car and drove off, left the shotgun on the floor for the sheriff. They finally caught him in Houma, drunk as a lord. Man ain't safe going around this country any more without a gun." He pulled back his coat and showed us his revolver. Then he opened the drawer and showed us the rest of his arsenal. In New York he once had a sub-machine-gun under his bed. "I got something better than that now - a German Scheintoth gas gun; look at this beauty, only got one shell. I could knock out a hundred men with this gun and have plenty of time to make a getaway. Only thing wrong, I only got one shell."

"I hope I'm not around when you try it," said Jane from the kitchen. "How do you know it's a gas shell?" Bull snuffed; he never paid any attention to her sallies but he heard them. His relation with his wife was one of the strangest: they talked till late at night; Bull liked to hold the floor, he went right on in his dreary monotonous voice, she tried to break in, she never could; at dawn he got tired and then Jane talked and he listened, snuffing and going thfump down his nose. She loved that man madly, but in a delirious way of some kind; there was never any mooching and mincing around, just talk and a very deep companionship that none of us would ever be able to fathom. Something curiously unsympathetic and cold between them was really a form of humor by which they communicated their own set of subtle vibrations. Love is all; Jane was never more than ten feet away from Bull and never missed a word he said, and he spoke in a very low voice, too.

Dean and I were yelling about a big night in New Orleans and wanted Bull to show us around. He threw a damper on this. "New Orleans is a very dull town. It's against the law to go to the colored section. The bars are insufferably dreary."

I said, "There must be some ideal bars in town."

"The ideal bar doesn't exist in America. An ideal bar is something that's gone beyond our ken. In nineteen ten a bar was a place where men went to meet during or after work, and all there was was a long counter, brass rails, spittoons, player piano for music, a few mirrors, and barrels of whisky at ten cents a shot together with barrels of beer at five cents a mug. Now all you get is chromium, drunken women, fags, hostile bartenders, anxious owners who hover around the door, worried about their leather seats and the law; just a lot of screaming at the wrong time and deadly silence when a stranger walks in."

We argued about bars. "All right," he said, "I'll take you to New Orleans tonight and show you what I mean." And he deliberately took us to the dullest bars. We left Jane with the children; supper was over; she was reading the want ads of the New Orleans Times-Picayune. I asked her if she was looking for a job; she only said it was the most interesting part of the paper. Bull rode into town with us and went right on talking. "Take it easy, Dean, we'll get there, I hope; hup, there's the ferry, you don't have to drive us clear into the river." He held on. Dean had gotten worse, he confided in me. "He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence." He looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "If you go to California with this madman you'll never make it. Why don't you stay in New Orleans with me? We'll play the horses over to Graetna and relax in my yard. I've got a nice set of knives and I'm building a target. Some pretty juicy dolls downtown, too, if that's in your line these days." He snuffed. We were on the ferry and Dean had leaped out to lean over the rail. I followed, but Bull sat on in the car, snuffing, thfump. There was a mystic wraith of fog over the brown waters that night, together with dark driftwoods; and across the way New Orleans glowed orange-bright, with a few dark ships at her hem, ghostly fogbound Cereno ships with Spanish balconies and ornamental poops, till you got up close and saw they were just old freighters from Sweden and Panama. The ferry fires glowed in the night; the same Negroes plied the shovel and sang. Old Big Slim Hazard had once worked on the Algiers ferry as a deckhand; this made me think of Mississippi Gene too; and as the river poured down from mid-America by starlight I knew, I knew like mad that everything I had ever known and would ever know was One. Strange to say, too, that night we crossed the ferry with Bull Lee a girl committed suicide off the deck; either just before or just after us; we saw it in the paper the next day.

We hit all the dull bars in the French Quarter with Old Bull and went back home at midnight. That night Marylou took everything in the books; she took tea, goofballs, benny, liquor, and even asked Old Bull for a shot of M, which of course he didn't give her; he did give her a martini. She was so saturated with elements of all kinds that she came to a standstill and stood goofy on the porch with me. It was a wonderful porch Bull had. It ran clear around the house; by moonlight with the willows it looked like an old Southern mansion that had seen better days. In the house Jane sat reading the want ads in the living room; Bull was in the bathroom taking his fix, clutching his old black necktie in his teeth for a tourniquet and jabbing with the needle into his woesome arm with the thousand holes; Ed Dunkel was sprawled out with Galatea in the massive master bed that Old Bull and Jane never used; Dean was rolling tea; and Marylou and I imitated Southern aristocracy.

"Why, Miss Lou, you look lovely and most fetching tonight."

"Why, thank you, Crawford, I sure do appreciate the nice things you do say."

Doors kept opening around the crooked porch, and members of our sad drama in the American night kept popping out to find out where everybody was. Finally I took a walk alone to the levee. I wanted to sit on the muddy bank and dig the Mississippi River; instead of that I had to look at it with my nose against a wire fence. When you start separating the people from their rivers what have you got? "Bureaucracy!" says Old Bull; he sits with Kafka on his lap, the lamp burns above him, he snuffs, thfump. His old house creaks. And the Montana log rolls by in the big black river of the night. " 'Tain't nothin but bureaucracy. And unions! Especially unions!" But dark laughter would come again.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
I will close by telling of what happened when we were really baffled; some people know this story already -- I apologize to them. We did the discussions in English for my benefit; my German was not as good as Einstein's or Infield's, of course.When we got into a situation where we did not quite know what to do next, without realizing it, Einstein would lapse into German. Infield immediately switched to German, and I did my best to do the same. We went on like that, and very often just doing the German sufficed and we found the solution to the difficulty. But there were occasions when switching to German did not work. And then, and this happened at least three times, Einstein would say -- I mean we would be looking at each other in blank despair -- and Einstein would say, " I will a little think; " that was his best way of saying, " I will think a little." And then he would twirl his hair like this and he would walk up and down or stand still and his face had no sign of strain on it.He seemed as if he was in another part of the universe, only his body being with us, and Infield and I kept absolutely silent. I simply do not know how long this went on. There was Einstein thinking like this and after a while he would suddenly relax, come back to earth, look at us, smile at us, and say, Yes , we should do such and such. Of course, it worked, and that was how we got out of all those deep difficulties. Now, Infield and I had hoped that by working with Einstein, we would learn how it was done, to some extent. Here we were , looking at the thing being done in front of us and there was not the least clue how it was. I must say that I have tried this [twirling his hair] . Thank you. ~ Banesh Hoffmann , Working with Einstein from "Some Strangeness in the Proportion."
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
“Now look, girls, be realistic. None of us hardly know one another. We’re basically strangers to each other. We’ve passed in the night and met again in a bar. Be realistic. There’s no way, there’s no reality to any of this.” ~ Henry Chinaski

I married Isis on the fifth day of May
But I could not hold on to her very long
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong

I came to a high place of darkness and light
The dividing line ran through the center of town
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right
Went in to a laundry to wash my clothes down

A man in the corner approached me for a match
I knew right away he was not ordinary
He said, “Are you lookin’ for somethin’ easy to catch?”
I said, “I got no money.” He said, “That ain’t necessary”

We set out that night for the cold in the North
I gave him my blanket, he gave me his word
I said, “Where are we goin’?” He said we’d be back by the fourth
I said, “That’s the best news that I’ve ever heard”

I was thinkin’ about turquoise, I was thinkin’ about gold
I was thinkin’ about diamonds and the world’s biggest necklace
As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold
I was thinkin’ about Isis, how she thought I was so reckless

How she told me that one day we would meet up again
And things would be different the next time we wed
If I only could hang on and just be her friend
I still can’t remember all the best things she said

We came to the pyramids all embedded in ice
He said, “There’s a body I’m tryin’ to find
If I carry it out it’ll bring a good price”
’Twas then that I knew what he had on his mind

The wind it was howlin’ and the snow was outrageous
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn
When he died I was hopin’ that it wasn’t contagious
But I made up my mind that I had to go on

I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty
There was no jewels, no nothin’, I felt I’d been had
When I saw that my partner was just bein’ friendly
When I took up his offer I must-a been mad

I picked up his body and I dragged him inside
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover
I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied
Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her

She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise
Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed
I came in from the East with the sun in my eyes
I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead

She said, “Where ya been?” I said, “No place special”
She said, “You look different.” I said, “Well, not quite”
She said, “You been gone.” I said, “That’s only natural”
She said, “You gonna stay?” I said, “Yeah, I jes might”

Isis, oh, Isis, you mystical child
What drives me to you is what drives me insane
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin’ rain
I’m looking for
  • Girls who like guys
  • Ages 18–99
  • Located anywhere
  • For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating
You should message me if
You've read all of Italo Calvino's Books.

No, just kidding. Well , it is pretty amazing that people are able to decide who it is they'll date from something that is written on a profile in a chat room.
"If On A Winters Night A Traveler" by Italo Calvino
You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.
Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally.
Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading on horseback; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the book propped against the horse's mane, or maybe tied to the horse's ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.
Well, what are you waiting for? Stretch your legs, go ahead and put your feet on a cushion. on two cushions, on the arms of the sofa, on the wings of the chair, on the coffee table, on the desk, on the piano, on the globe. Take your shoes off first. If you want to , put your feet up; if not, put them back. Now don't stand there with your shoes in one hand and the book in the other.
Adjust the light so you won't strain your eyes. Do it now, because once you're absorbed in reading there will b no budging you. Make sure the page isn't in shadow, a clotting of black letters on a gray background, uniform as a pack of mice; but be careful that the light cast on it isn't too strong, doesn't glare on the cruel white of the paper, gnawing at the shadows of the letters as in a southern noonday. Try to foresee now everything that might make you interrupt your reading. Cigarettes within reach, if you smoke, and the ashtray. Anything else? Do you have to pee? All right, you know best.
It's not that you expect anything in particular from this particular book. You're the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. but not you. you know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion you have reached, in your personal life and also in general matters, even international affairs. What about books? Well, precisely because you have denied it in every other field, you believe you may still grant yourself legitimately this youthful pleasure of expectation in a carefully circumscribed area like the field of books, where you can be lucky or unlucky, but the risk of disappointment isn't serious.
So, then, you noticed in a newspaper that If on a winter's night a traveler had appeared, the new book by Italo Calvino, who hadn't published for several years. You went to the bookshop and bought the volume. Good for you.
In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop pas the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out:

the Books You've Been Planning To Read For Ages,
the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success,
the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment,
the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case,
the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer,
the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves,
the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified.
Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.
With a zigzag dash you shake them off and leap straight into the citadel of the New Books Whose Author Or Subject Appeals To You. Even inside this stronghold you can make some breaches in the ranks of the defenders, dividing them into New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Not New (for you or in general) and New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Completely Unknown (at least to you), and defining the attraction they have for you on the basis of your desires and needs for the new and the not new (for the new you seek in the not new and for the not new you seek in the new).
All this simply means that, having rapidly glanced over the titles of the volumes displayed in the bookshop, you have turned toward a stack of If on a winter's night a traveler fresh off the press, you have grasped a copy, and you have carried it to the cashier so that your right to own it can be established.
You cast another bewildered look at the books around you (or, rather: it was the books that looked at you, with the bewildered gaze of dogs who, from their cages in the city pound, see a former companion go off on the leash of his master, come to rescue him), and out you went.
You derive a special pleasure from a just-published book, and it isn't only a book you are taking with you but its novelty as well, which could also be merely that of an object fresh from the factory, the youthful bloom of new books, which lasts until the dust jacked begins to yellow, until a veil of smog settles on the top edge, until the binding becomes dog-eared, in the rapid autumn of libraries.
No, you hope always to encounter true newness, which , having been new once, will continue to be so. Having read the freshly published book, you will take possession of this newness at the first moment, without having to pursue it, to chase it. Will it happen this time? You never can tell. Let's see how it begins.
Perhaps you started leafing through the book already in the shop. Or were you unable to, because it was wrapped in its cocoon of cellophane? Now you are on the bus, standing in the crowd, hanging from a strap by your arm, and you begin undoing the package with your free hand, making movements something like a monkey, a monkey who wants to peel a banana and at the same time cling to the bough. Watch out, you're elbowing your neighbors; apologize, at least.
Or perhaps the bookseller didn't wrap the volume; he gave it to you in a bag. This simplifies matters. You are at the wheel of your car, waiting at a traffic light, you take the book out of the bag, rip off the transparent wrapping, start reading the first lines. A storm of honking breaks over you; the light is green, you're blocking traffic.
You are at your desk, you have set the book among your business papers as if by chance; at a certain moment you shift a file and you find the book before your eyes, you open it absently, you rest your elbows on the desk, you rest your temples against your hands, curled into fists, you seem to be concentrating on an examination of the papers and instead you are exploring the first pages of the novel. Gradually you settle back in the chair, you raise the book to the level of your nose, you title the chair, poised on its rear legs, you pull out a side drawer of the desk to prop your feet on it; the position of the during reading is of maximum importance, you stretch your legs out on the top of the desk, on the files to be expedited.
But doesn't this seem to show a lack of respect? Of respect, that is, not for your job (nobody claims to pass judgment on your professional capacities: we assume that your duties are a normal element in the system of unproductive activities that occupies suck a large part of the national and international economy), but for the book. Worse still if you belong--willingly or unwillingly--to the number of those for whom working means really working, performing, whether deliberately or without premeditation, something necessary or at least not useless for others as well as for oneself; then the book you have brought with you to your place of employment like a kind of amulet or talisman exposes you to intermittent temptations, a few seconds at a time subtracted from the principal object of your attention, whether it is the perforations of electronic cards, the burners of a kitchen stove, the controls of a bulldozer, a patient stretched out on the operating table with his guts exposed.
In other words, it's better for you to restrain you impatience and wait to open the book at home. Now. Yes, you are in your room, calm; you open the book to page one, no, to the last page, first you want to see how long it is. It's not too long, fortunately. Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears. We can rediscover the continuity of time only in the novels of that period when time no longer seemed stopped and did not yet seem to have exploded, a period that lasted no more than a hundred years.
You turn the book over in your hands, you scan the sentences on the back of the jacket, generic phrases that don't say a great deal. So much the better, there is no message that indiscreetly outshouts the message that the book itself must communicate directly, that you must extract from the book, however much or little it may be. Of course, this circling of the book, too, this reading around it before reading inside it, is a part of the pleasure in a new book, but like all preliminary pleasures, it has its optimal duration if you want it to serve as a thrust toward the more substantial pleasure of the consummation of the act, namely the reading of the book.
So here you are now, ready to attack the first lines of the first page. you prepare to recognize the unmistakable tone of the author. No. you don't recognize it at all. But now that you think about it, who ever said this author had an unmistakable tone? On the contrary, he is known as an author who changes greatly from one book to the next. And in these very changes you recognize him as himself. Here, however, he seems to have absolutely no connection with all the rest he has written, at least as far as you can recall. Are you disappointed? Let's see. Perhaps at first you feel a bit lost, as when a person appears who, from the name, you identified with a certain face, and you try to make the features you are seeing tally with those you had in mind, and it won't work. but then you go on and you realize that the book is readable nevertheless, independently of what you expected of the author, it's the book in itself that arouses your curiosity; in fact, on sober reflection, you prefer it this way, confronting something and not quite knowing yet what it is.