| in america 17 part 1 - 2009 february - march | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
24 February 2009 Tuesday aft. Sowbel's letter objecting to glamour in the way I run workshops. Beauty awes and stuns she says. I reply that it demonstrates a possibility. But am I worried, apart from what I say. A little worried to have a note from Martin though I haven't replied to his letter yet. Am I too much for regular people, when I'm just looking for company. In conversation I'm almost nothing, I can't do much unless I'm running on my own. In performance when I'm not adapting to the hearer am I dangerous? [left side monograph notes] 25 I was dreaming Rowen was moving to Read Island with Morris. He had been pulling back, I thought. Now I was going to lose him altogether. I was distraught. Talking to Louie. Then he was with us looking at the back of a kitchen chair. He was feeling something for it and I thought he was remembering the kitchen at 824. He was sitting on my lap cosily talking. The chair back was a broad carved one like the one on the chair I bought in the antique shop when I first got to Vancouver. Leah has it now - the one Janeen said she liked, because of the layers of color unstripped in the knobby rungs. - I'm realizing now that the chair back is like my back, the chair is my lap. In Vermont the hiss was almost completely gone, and I didn't wake with sore palms ever. The first two days back the hiss was there all day. I'm wondering whether it was the airplane noise. I came back better looking the way I usually do when I've been away. What is that, is it being respected? Or maybe just talking more. It's power probably. There's grey dawn through misted windows. A few Point Loma lights. Palm fronds drifting underwater. While I was gone most of the TV stations went digital. I've only got PBS and 39. Last night Obama's address to a joint session. He was firm and energetic. He says, This is what needs to be done and we are going to do it. He conveys disgust with the state of affairs he's found. Michelle on the balcony with a small very dark-face person on her right. Is that Malia? No. Is it a very short black adult? Intense from a distance. Toward the end of his speech Obama read the letter of a southern schoolgirl who had written the president describing the state of her school. Close-up of the person next to Michelle, a girl with a stolid very black face. Michelle was hugging her and she was unlit, she was an unforgiving blackness holding solemn intention. Grim, even, in her new dress given for the occasion. Michelle next to her creamy light brown, a glamorous queen. T'y Sheoma Bethea. Intense small person working on the perinatal, Sheila Spremulli.
local particularity as full a vision of the medium in which a character moves WW: the Poet binds together by passion and the knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth and over all time Lewes a natural historian in botany, marine and physiological studies - wrote on Goethe Now constantly growing in me to escape from all vagueness and inaccuracy into the daylight of distinct, vivid ideas practical and generous irony Of Wilhelm Meister "What is really moral in its influence without exaggeration quietly follows the stream of fact and life." -
28 In the dark last night lying tight all over, tight internally, because I'd been working with a new version of Photoshop. TV has switched to digital and I've only got PBS, which doesn't decompress me for sleep. Have had to switch to gmail to get any mail at all. It's ugly, rudimentary, I don't have access to my folders. And have had to learn it. Forgot to get milk yesterday and can't make tea. Have too many projects unfinished -
Better things: when I got back I wondered about the California smell, the one that's often there in the week when I get back from a res, the one I traced last year to the tree across from the cathedral's flank. This time it wasn't there, had I missed it. Had a look on the way home from Starbucks, tiny buds unopened. Then two mornings ago it was there. Emilee's report on the love woman lecture. There is something very important here: setting up understanding of these archetypes, these figures, these dream people as structures of our own bodies, as ways of talking about psychological facts. Grounding what is being discussed in this body, in experiences had by bodies. These images are a language that we use to talk about how the body thinks without words. Tickled by the notion of helicopter gorgon lady. I found her so choppingly delightful that I laughed out loud. Work Woman is a bodily skill.
For myself, I underlined: For these kinds of conflict your thread out of the labyrinth is always commitment to the truth. You have to want truth more than you want the lover or your own evasion or your own buzz. And then the teaching Love Woman to write. I feel a deep stillness, some kind of well. I see the question and answer, the subtle movements, and I am startled by the vulnerability, the wide vistas in the middle of this outline. I am so vulnerable now, and I find myself here at the back of this handout, vibrating. And yesterday someone in Abbotsford had been in GW11 and I clicked through to it. An early Sunday in the beautiful - how can so awkward a word acquire the sheen it has - I am sitting in the beautiful day writing the outline of my thesis. My heart is an ache in the centre of my chest. I'm seeing the star in it, the way I wrote it. The white tower and the blue sky, and the fingernail moon made of real cuticle, that stuck to the paper by its own stickiness - that was a real poem made without language, which never had language in any way. It was my silent mind that felt itself when it saw that. The silent mind that made Trapline and couldn't defend it. Alright I've spoken for it today. The woman who lives in that tower. I've had to revise philosophy for her. 1st March I love waking in daylight. Woke in the dark at 5:30, peed a lot, went back to sleep and woke at 7:30 with subtle shadows behind the tulips against the far wall. These tulips are on their bulbs in the rectangular glass vase and they have grown nearly a foot in the week I've had them, so they are lanky and leaning, and old now, white with red/pink/mauve streaks like ikat fingernail-woven silk. The leaves have a narrow white edge. Yesterday I got the magazine nearly finished and then went into Photoshop, into Foxface, close in among the leaves. I haven't figured out how to do what I want, for instance superimpose a rectangle outline, or keep the fine grain of resolution when I transpose into a detail for the web. The detail of these images is so lush, so lushious. When I see it I feel I don't have long enough to live, to do all I will want. Sunday morning of the first of March. 2nd I dreamed a business meeting in Nora's big boardroom, a wide hollow-square table with a lot of people around it. I was there because the client was someone I knew in the film community. I was expecting a woman but a man arrived. Was I supposed to introduce him. I didn't know his name. More of that uncertainty about what I should be doing. I was watching Nor. She had moved to sit opposite her - a woman had arrived? - and when the client mentioned her dog, who was a floppy fat bulldog quite a lot bigger than she was and sitting next to her, Nora responded with one of her lively warm lines. More of this and that. The remarkable parts were surreally large animals being led - a camel and two others I don't remember - and then everyone from the meeting going out to the parking lot to see tiny people, maybe 8 inches high. The scent is strong on the roof. Ivory light on the apartment building and on the palm's new braids. I liked Tom yesterday. I went with my laundry, bought food, came back and made us steak and eggs, heard his Pilgrim stories and his Carol stories, brought him here to see my monograph pages, washed the jeep, went to the library to get Photoshop books, lay next to him looking at them while he read through Eurydice's voice, which he praised. He was interested in the section on alternative states and said the writing was good. He wanted to keep it and show it to Morris Mathews. What I liked best was being alongside in the kitchen squabbling, insulting him inventively. Then I felt like Oma happily married. He liked the cover I designed, with the Olson house on a dark pink matte. 3rd In Labrador. The title is perfect. It means in the worker, and in an unexplored place inhabited only on its stormy edges. It also means NE - is that correct?
- I edited 74 pages of In Labrador and then worked until 9 on background gifs. 5th Sent out the finished edition of the mag yesterday, proudly, and click into email all day looking for admiration or conversation, and there isn't any, except for Kri who is punctilious about debts, and Jaes who did the right thing, thanked the writers, and is back into her difficult remembering with Dr Epp's photo watching over her desk. It's cold today, though bright. I'm going to Taft when this potful finishes cooking. Was on the big monitor this morning adapting color layouts for the web, learning how to center the slide in relation to a background page. Looking for image pairings or maybe sequences. Have put them all on pale grey mattes. [left side lists of slides] I have a lot of work energy, is it the B vitamins. Yesterday Goldberg did send a note about the magazine - it seemed she had only looked at my piece - she did what she does, begin with a sentence of praise transparently meant to soften what follows - and then she protested what I'd said about our mothers dropping us. I won't reply to that. What else. Louie's home from India. -
6
Not freaked about any lover Little bit willing to have conversations with people I'm not thrilled with 8 Friday night at Tom's, we were lying on his bed not watching TV because he has given it up. I could feel him all up and down, we were transfusing. I was stroking his arm, could feel it in my crotch. Sexual fur, it was there, hadn't been for years. Next night lying next to him again back to hard and closed unconnected bodies, feeling the hardness. I was in the bath soaking in deep hot water. Light off. He came and squatted next to me. Put his hand on my pussy and poked around. I went rigid. Angry. Confused. Angry that what he's doing is so wrong. It's cold diddling, it's not real. So then he was angry and didn't want to talk about it and said we're like the Sargasso Sea going around forever, no escape, don't I feel that too. I do. He thinks of packing his place up and going 3000 miles away. I say I'd be alright. And then he laughs and goes on. I say he thinks I'm neurotic sexually but actually I'm maybe gifted. I haven't been married, I have sexual integrity, I haven't fucked out of duty. He doesn't get hard with me, he says he still does on his own. It's a zone of helpless ambivalence and confusion. We both think it's the other person's fault. I said we should be intelligent and figure out what works for the other person but it doesn't seem likely. 9 The Sargasso Sea is resignation. In me it's sexual anger. In him it's sexual fear. He has refused to read Henderson's book for probably twelve years. That means he has refused to know what I want sexually for twelve years. That's remarkable. I know what he wants. Blow jobs. The kinds of servicing he could get from a hooker. Sexual happiness. Core joy. I've had it with two people. With Tony it was because of his intelligence. I relaxed into his intelligence. How are Tom's hands different. Tom's hands are beautiful but they are aggressive not sentient. He puts his hand on my puss and it's a crude touch my part is offended by. Poke poke poke. It's related to the way the kitchen looks when he has breakfast, a sticky mess, how can he make such a mess just making toast and coffee. He doesn't have craft in his hands. That can't be fixed and I resent it increasingly in half unconscious ways. With Rob I was happy because he was like a teenage boy turned on all over, he didn't have craft but it didn't matter because his penis was a gift of the gods and he was light spiritedly purehearted in giving it. We were together in sex. With him it was intelligence too, engineer love for the organic.
We did lie there in electric fur Friday night. That's mutual. He was there briefly. I'm angry that he's a dud and I'm shut out of core happiness. I'm never not angry about that. That anger is what makes me look closed when I'm here. It goes away when I'm not with him. To be core happy I need to be happy in touch. He's not in touch. He can't be in touch. He's somewhere else.
I didn't know what to do today - went into Forming 1, which is Raw forming now, and checked through the first volume, distributed into 7 parts. 11 March Glorietta Canyon Wednesday morning. A miserable night. When the moon was overhead it shone so bright I could see the yellow in the brittlebush and the blue in my plaid sheet. I was lying warm but awake worrying about my whole life. This is what I was saying: it was a mistake to move here. I've been living wrong for 7 years. I'm okay in work but I'm starving. I'm dying back. But I don't know where to go. I would be setting out into the rest of my life with no intimacy and no touch. I don't want to be a woman with a dog. I don't have enough money to pay rent somewhere. I don't know where to go. I'd have to go somewhere and start over completely, and I haven't been good at that the last 7 years. In Vancouver I would be aching all winter. I don't know what to do. I'd sometimes stop and try to just be what I was in the moment, a squashed-feeling body tight at the solar. It was hard to hold myself there. I'd go on saying I'll finish the journal project, I don't want to plunge myself into grief for a year, I don't want to be at [the college] stove in with loneliness, shamed in failure. I'll hang on with Tom and just work. Then I'd beg the universe for instructions. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. What happened, I arrived at Tom's and found him white faced and wolfish with tension. I had the hatch up and was stowing, arranging. He had brought up a bag of his poor-man food, powdered creamer, white sugar, wieners, tortillas, the half-sack of oranges I gave him. His tin cup. I said I had oranges in the cooler and there were enough cups in the jeep. He went into a rage. Took the oranges back to the fridge sending me a look of violent hate. Explanations as we were driving away but I took a hard hit somehow. My solar was holding tight. Sore heart. I'm still not alright, although driving slow through the Yaqui Pass with Nathalie Merchant was wonderful - the rock garden it is, cactus placed well among burnished rocks.
12th Desert lavender. Brittlebush, phacelia, a lot of bees working in this nook at the head of a little wash, yellow all over the redbrown rock pile. Creosote is quite green, and here's the very short grass already in seed. 3". That rock pile baking silently through the eons. In a hundred years a couple of rocks will have had their footings washed out and they'll have rolled a little distance. Looking at the mountain from a distance I could see a couple of white scars where ground had slumped. All these rocks are coming apart, they're like coarse-ground hamburger. Red, blue, yellow, green, white. Drinking light, no, that isn't the way to say it - catching light, using its activeness to act. It was a good night, the moon a little filtered. I slept. It was perfectly warm. When there was red along the horizon I could see Tom's bed-lump like a pupa and could hear him breathing aloud. His long cocoon had slipped downhill off its pad. Desert lavender smells just like that. Sat 14th I noticed the air. It was perfect air, a clean fluid, light and very faintly scented. By yesterday I was saying sorry to Tom for always sniping. He said, It's because you have high standards. I want him to be smarter and more efficient so I can enjoy him more and not be so irritated by his remarks and his ways with objects, for instance always losing his glasses or sunglasses or something else, and there he sits on the desert floor scratching around for a staticky radio station. But there he also is forgiving my crabbiness and staring at a pile of rock. He wants to be in his moment and he often is. The man who came home from camping was brown-faced and had a three-day beard and looked real and I was sweet on him though I didn't stay for the evening. I liked him for liking to sleep on the ground and fold his sleeping bag down and look at the red in the east or the black and white sky. Master blister beetles. The scent of incienso. The honey pollen scent of the sheets of yellow flowers we passed Thursday aft as we were cruising the streets looking at houses. Lying in my bed under stars, before the moon wiped them out, I was thinking how I could learn the stars (I had Ridpath and Tirion Stars and planets from the library) if I lived in the country alone but when I'm in town I can't read any of my reference books. Should I think of Tom as a gift I won't have for long and am not trapped with? So I should soak up his lovingness and be intelligent to find ways to enjoy ourselves. He does that. 15 And then I stop at Tom's with a library book for him and am disgusted in these ways: He has his shades down and is reading by artificial light though it is daylight. His tooth is out and I can't want to look him full in the face. I say, You cut your hair, and he says, I cut all of them - that hideous line he uses every time. He takes angry offence at the line in the letter to Bill that says he has been a reluctant camper. He demanded praise because I'd met Bill Sullivan through him. I want to turn around and go home immediately and next time I should do that. School is great. Ellie is a gentle giant genius. I'm working like an intellectual animal. Still just a million fragments, but they're all shiny and such. 16 Listening to Mountolive read on a Naxos CD. Have I read it? I don't think so, Mountolive didn't interest me when I was 20. Now I like the stately pace and worldliness. Anyway: the line he finds in his father's book: "For those of us who stand on the margins of the world as yet unsolicited by any god the only truth is that work itself is love." The scene where he walks through the snow to his family house, turns the key and stands in the hall "which smelt of apricots and old books" before he goes to find his mother sitting beside the fire with a book. Five students in. I've spent two days on Zach, interested. What do Dewey and Gendlin mean by experience. What is Zach's structural disconnection, can I tell. I like his showing me trustingly what he is. 17 Empathy - they are now talking about mirror system in the insula, cingulate, as well as inferior frontal. - Today I have worked until after 11 on formatting the rest of RF2, and then all of RF3 and 4. Second year and then the summer with Rash and Frank. I'm agog at the balance I had, how strong I was. What I mean by strong is the way I always believed myself rather than others, and overrode them humorously and kindly without worry. I marvel to see Frank and Opa and Oma and Dyck's cabins and 3660 Clearbrook Road still there, still somehow there, given me by myself, a love that held constant, not personal, I mean not for me as I am but for the fate that includes me, whatever it would turn out to be. I'm saying I love her, I find her admirable, honourable in relation to her large task, which is to be present in life. The fact that Tom will never want to read any of it makes me feel him a chimera. 18 The warm clean stones in my mouth. This morning polishing format for the Raw Forming 1 index page and RF1-1. Would gladly go on doing that all week. The RF1 index photo is the view from a window, and so is the index photo for second year / RF3. They are both third floor windows. Journal and overview. 19 The first vol of RF is up - I've been driven. The index image is the 21 year old at the typewriter in Brussels with the Grande Place outside the window - was that another third floor. Moment of anguish this aft when I was riding to Whole Foods on the bike. Familiar. Then I started thinking I could move to Berkeley. I'd know people there. Nyingma. Kathryn, and she'd have artist friends. Anna and Carolyn. It wouldn't be as far to BC. There'd be experimental film. 20
Morris Davis on Bill Moyers' Journal - a beautiful guy impassioned and shaking - talking about labor - he's from San Diego. What it would be like to be with someone I could admire. Tom saying, All I've wanted was to be your hero. That's sad if it's true. It takes a lot to be a hero of mine. Would he like me to fake it - I think so, and that is one of the ways he isn't my hero. 21 Saturday morning. A thick white sky. Saturday means I have the place to myself, two stories down. A thick blank day. What can I do with Cameron. I looked up the guy he did his workshop with and found the hideous old language of astral dimensions, astral planes, astral matter, etheric matter, astral body, negative astral entities. I'm repelled by all of that, I read it holding myself tight shut as if something warty and slimy could get into me through it. But then when he described the atmic level I suddenly felt clean open space. Silver light the intensity of an arc light, a great bowl of space with angels at its rim, and all our dead loves greeting us with joy. What is it with Cam. His self-conscious broken laugh. His awkwardness, the lack of you in him. Fantasies of supernatural power? I don't know how to like him. He wants to think himself a mystic. I can think of him as investigating the possibilities of a body in fantasy. I can think of the whole paraphernalia of the astral as metaphoric, and I could try to decode it as spatial fantasy. What I hate about it is that it devalues the real world and the real body, and it is meant to. He's robotic in some ways. He lacks knowledge of art, he lacks knowledge of science, he isn't learning the possibilities of the present. Tart's notion of state specific science is wrong, there's only one world. Science has been done in a cut-off state but the one world is not science's world, it is childhood's I think. [left side Robert Bruce notes]
Tart 1972 bright kids rejecting science. -
22 Here's Sunday. These nights and mornings I listen to audio books for consolation - last night and this morning Brick Lane about a Bengali girl married to an older man in Tower Hamlets. There is a small drug of attachment anxiety - I don't want to call it missing Tom because that would make me weak and because I don't think I do miss Tom. I've been holding off the old wish to list what I like and don't like about him. It's a week of suspense. Sitting on the sand at Glorietta Canyon distraught because of his rage- no I wasn't distraught anymore but I said it experimentally - I said, I think we should break up. Why do I think that. He has his thousand a month and doesn't want to work anymore and that means he needs to move back into an SRO, though he vows he'll stay in his beautiful apartment. His other wish would be to live in a van, but he isn't getting himself organized to save for that. He wants to live in his moment and he does that well. I'm bored though, listening to his anxious retellings of what money he has and what money is coming. And why on my side. Because I'm locked alone in this little room with nothing happening but work and I see only him and I'm not able to be heart with him. I snack privately on his wonderful nose and hands and voice, his manliness in general, when I am not watching him hobble like an old man or in some other way not able to snack. I'm contemptuous of his narcissism, his male wank novels, the pretension of his writing. He has tried to make me at home in his house - he cleans it, puts up the shades, turns down the music, when he knows I'm coming. He has learned to ask about my days. All of that hasn't been nothing, I've been peaceful, not hooked, coming and going. But when he starts on a topic I space out, I don't even try to attend. I try to remember not to ask him questions because I am not going to want to hear the answers because they are always too long, he can't say anything in one good sentence. There are moments when he comes on and he's brilliant in his way, but they are performances he does alone, I listen with a lot of pleasure when he gets there but we can't collaborate in brilliance - or yes, we can when there's something of mine he's actually interested in, like the Love Woman paper. Then he's astute and focused and I love his company. I keep my phone unplugged so he can't phone me. I have arranged our beds so we don't sleep together, I won't go to see his friends and don't want to know them. I don't want to go to his kind of concerts with him though that would give him a lot of pleasure. He has to hold back his natural self with me because it's rough, he would naturally say Shut the fuck up. I have got fed up with his violent speech and told him to stop. I can't imagine fucking him though I'll often gladly kiss him and hold his hand. I hate it when he sings. I wouldn't want him in any of my professional contexts, I'd be ashamed of his sleazy manner - what do I mean - the way he's adapted to be popular with stupid people by ingratiation, exaggerated appreciation, flattery. I can't believe any of his avowals, always reserve my opinion, which in effect wipes out his moment in me. I hate the stuff of his own he puts up in his house. I love his best moments. I write them down. I photograph him. I have shared my jeep. I have brought him books he's loved. I've supported an intelligent self that's earlier than his bluster. I've helped him stay out of booze and drugs and a slide into utter shame and defeat. I've stuck with him for thirteen and a half years of my only life, I've gone through terrors of insecurity, years of agony, loneliness, confusion. I've known his story, I've read his father's letters, his uncle's, his first wife's, I've found his son. I've written his second wife. I've made a beautiful house he lives in and I don't. I've bought him a computer and got it repaired. I've stayed in a town where I have no connections only to be with him. Writing the first list I know I don't love him or want to be with him. Writing the second I see that I've been devoted to him. Am I still? No, it says. Am I free to go? No, it says.
23 When the sun reaches the west window the room changes. There is the glassful of purple sweetpeas whose scent spreads blissfully. My own copy of Stars and planets came today. When I stop working I suffer - was asking whether to call it suffering and body said yes - little one bearing that blank suspense every day, so many days, will they come for me. I don't want to say she. Meantime I am somewhere but can she be, my live true one. I am here with loud hissing in my ears. I don't understand its coming and going. It is so much a real sound, as if I'm hearing what's ringing through this little room all the time - television, radio, cellphone streams. Often it's gone and I don't notice it's gone. It's not a bad sound, I can see it as [sketch] parallel lines, and I like its silvery fineness of grain. Angelic.
It rained yesterday. I was at the Starbucks in the Ralph's mall reading the Sunday Times and when I was ready to leave I saw the street was wet. This is a foreign voice - whose is it. It's softer than mine, maybe it's come in with packet letters. It's a fake voice. Now I'm thinking how my own is different. It's lower, stronger, more tensile, less girly. The foreign voice is here because I want to have something to say - because I'm lonely - and I don't, my actual voice doesn't. 24 Tuesday morning. The apartment building I see from my bed is St Paul's Care Home. It gets first light on its wide white east face. There's the shadow of a whole palm tree on a white strip between windows. Clear mornings this week, to my faint joy. Posted RF2, RF3 later today. Bored the second time reading them, I guess first time through they have the liveness of what they make me remember. The writing is bad, that is to say the voice is alright only for instance when I describe someone realer than I was, Detweiler or Peter Hagedorn, sometimes Olivia. The journal passages are worse than the letters. Inflated, literary. They open downwards when I sleep with Frank those last couple of weeks. I'm grateful for those. Oh a bird, a tiny voice at a distance. Early last week I found a short piece of cord on the sill of my gate, frayed at one end, sliced straight through at the other. I wondered whether Tom had put it there. It wouldn't be like him. Or whether it could mean something no matter how it got there. Sunday morning when I came from the farmers' market in the rain there was a wet pile of human shit, with a tuft of toilet paper, at the downstairs front gate. A theme. Feeling what it would be like to have open space around me, to not have Tom blocking me in whatever way he does - the fact of Tom. It's a definite sensation. An opaquing, a closing back of the distance, unconscious and automatic. I could go free in the world again. Talked to Louie this morning - one of our good ones - grounded on both sides. Formatting Europe, four of five parts of vol 5 - the tone changes that year - I want to notice how. 25 Louie and I were talking about the journal project. I said I am sorry it isn't more readable, the way Virginia Woolf is, but that I'm not so much about being a great artist. I was seventeen in that room in Sexsmith and knew I was alive and would die and I wanted to bear witness. I said I was crying as I said that. She said she had cried in the film about Philippe Petit when he described sitting in a dentist's chair when he was a child, seeing the Twin Towers in a magazine, drawing a line between them. She was describing Gabriela who when she was young got a PhD in physics though she wasn't so interested in physics, because that would tell anyone what she is. And then became a yoga teacher, which is what interests her. And now doesn't entertain frivolous questions from her students. "I am suspicious of that question, eh." Leaves it at that. Louie's core commitment - I don't know that it's a commitment, it seems more just her nature - has been to see whoever she is with, give them being seen. Bill's letters - he was born Nov 7 1911. The last letter I have from him was 1974, the day after he turned 63. There was a later note I don't have, 1979 or 80. Someone on an engineering blog says he had an MA from Rutgers in 1959 and a BA (BSc?) in chemical engineering from New York University. 1958 first edition of Applied statistics for engineers. This man in 2008 still talking about working with later editions of the book. Patented a slide rule procedure 1969, 3485447. If he were alive he'd be 98. Would he like me now? No, he liked that I was young. "You're not the still half wild, almost ethereal bird that flitted into and out of my life in Strasbourg." A Victor Felix Volk who graduated from NYU in 1939, "survived by a brother, William Volk of Freehold, New Jersey." That's in the paid classifieds NYT 2000. -
I'm waiting to see whether I'm going to lapse into pain or whether I'm
in the clear.
|
Nicholas