Houston (5)

Tuesday, 17 June 2003. Isolation was the most inevitable thing I took into account when I decided to come to Houston. I knew that this summer was going to be the toughest summer I’ve experienced since 1995, and there has been none tougher since. “1998 was a joy in comparison.”

I brought projects to pursue, research tasks to keep me busy, so that my self-esteem can remain at a manageable level. My self-esteem is the paramount issue here in Houston as it was elsewhere. “I must continue to make my life worth living or else I’m a dead nigger.”

What? “You mean to tell me that the Negro community won’t sympathize?” I am not in the least bit surprised and I can honestly say that I expected as much:

“Sometimes the [magical] word nigger is useful for gaining all kinds of negro sympathy but it doesn’t always work. I am alone in all this struggle – the psychological sieges that occur every summer since I found the answers in 1995. And it gets worse during the rest of the year if I am not studying or holding down a job someplace. Orwell!”

The one positive thing I can gain from all this, in terms of isolation, is that there won’t be anything to get used to once I’m out at sea. A need to adjust won’t be necessary since I’ve always been alone. Over the years I’ve been able to cultivate a monkish, Zen-like approach to life without losing my sense of humor. Facing death won’t be a novel experience for me. I’ve learned to overcome pain and disappointment through the several years of mortification.

Quoted qualifications: “Facing death won’t be a novel experience for me either. I have learned to overcome most pain. I am at home with disappointment and suffering. The ocean won’t hold any great terror for me since I’ve managed to struggle through the recent years of mortification with a solid intrepidness left intact. No sea, however terrific, can terrify me as much as the United States’ government has been able to do. After facing FBI [snipers], Secret Service [unmarked vehicle pursuits], NCIS [arrests] and TDCJ [harassment], I now know no fear.”

“Make your mark,” Captain Slocum responded. “Welcome to the Around the World Club, sailor.”

*It has been three weeks since I’ve sent away for the plans for Glen-L 7.9 and already I have considered some modifications to the original design: The forward double berth should be converted into a mini stateroom since I won’t need all the space for sleeping. “There’s ample room for a desk of sorts with a bench, stowage, and a bunk someplace, all of one piece wooden construction.” (I should consult the IKEA catalog for ideas.) I don’t know the exact dimensions [yet] but I do believe there’s plenty of space forward for this.

[Continued] I reckon I should add two more terms to that category the FEDS placed me into [back in 1979]. But before I do I must say that this classification came about through observations some behavioral scientists made about me at Friendship House [in Washington, DC] four decades ago, which was a long, long time in the making: Evildoer! Satanist!

“Red Devil on archaeological digs in sandbox as baseball bats circle the occult cards and chess pieces” – a stupid, half-witted poem I wrote about devils sticking me in the ass with a Trinidad hooker’s pitchfork called, “Satanism: A Love Story” (1990).