Min Tull. Friday. September 28. 2018.

According to people familiar with the debate, some officials at the State Department have urged the administration to scale back its military support. Meanwhile, others at the White House National Security Council want to see the U.S. provide more intelligence and advice when the Saudi-led coalition is carrying out risky strikes, such as the one on Aug. 9 that mistakenly targeted the Yemeni school bus, killing more than 40 children.   WSJ

When killing children on a bus

the State Department doesn't fuss.

Why should they ever feel unease

with massacres far overseas?

(Jon Talton, Economics Columnist of the Seattle Times, responded to my above poem thus:  Endless war. USA USA.)

********************************

5:23 a.m. 

My friend in the Pacific advised me to plant fewer poems in my story. Which, on reflection, seems like a good idea. I'll limit myself to just one poem per chapter. But that doesn't mean I should stint on photographs.

Fresh Market Fall for sale

Adam gave me eight Adam Aberback rewrites this week; in order to motivate myself to get them done in a timely fashion I promise myself a fresh bagel from Fresh Market each morning as soon as I finish the first rewrite. Aberback is as dull as dishwater, so these rewrites, which make me twenty five bucks each, are a pain in the tuchas. 

They're a friendly bunch at Fresh Market

I prefer the Cheddar/Jalapeno bagel, smeared with smoked salmon-flavored cream cheese. With a couple of green onions on the side. And an ice cold V-8.

The baked goods case at Fresh Market

I've stopped taking photographs of human beings, even my own family. Everyone nowadays is painfully proprietary about their image. Even my kids get mad when I post a photo of one of the grand kids that they don't think shows them in the best light. Phooey. Bagels don't give me any lip when I post their picture. 

I consider my life to be a work of art, so am anxious to spread the glorious manifestation of my genius to the entire world. Christina Zhao, a reporter for News Week magazine, interviewed me on the phone 2 months ago and promised the article would post by the beginning of September. It never did, so I emailed her about it. Here is her reply from this morning:

Hi Tim,

Apologies - everything has been quite hectic around here. Today is my last day in the London bureau as I will be moving back to NZ to be with family. I'll still be working for Newsweek from NZ :) We haven't killed your story but I had a backlog of stories to do over the past month, as yours was not super time sensitive, I've pushed it back. I will be taking a few months off from writing quick hits and will spend the next few months travelling and spending my time writing longer stories.

I will get your story out Tim. Definitely no later than end of this year. When's your book coming out?

I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Should I be glad that it's still in the pipeline, or furious at her cavalier attitude towards my story? I guess I have no choice but to grin and bear it. But I gotta say, my desire to stay even-tempered today is wearing mighty thin. 

Still, I had somewhat of a pleasant epiphany earlier today after eating at the Silver Dish. I had their Udorn Pork Noodles, for $8.99. The kind of soupy dish that is slurped up with an oversize spoon and chopsticks. Enough of it dribbled down my chin to feed a moderately sized orphan. I chatted up the owner and nonchalantly hinted that I'm looking for a Thai girlfriend. He just kept grinning like a jack-o-lantern, bobbing his head up and down until I was afraid it might fall off. I'm not a mind reader, but I doubt he cares a fig about my romantic inclinations. So I'm scratching the place off my rendezvous list. Besides, something has come up that I'll have to deal with first before proceeding with my Asian bride quest. But more of that in a moment.

 (Note to my future publisher:  I want each page of this novel to be impregnated with aloe vera, lanolin, and vitamin E -- so that each time the reader turns a page their fingertips become a little bit softer, moister, and healthier. Should be a great selling point, nu?)

I can't help it -- this headline from the New York Times today is irresistible --   "Facebook Network Breach Impacts Up to 50 Million Users."

A hacker took Facebook apart,

serving him up a blanche carte

to pick and to choose

what data you'll loose

so crooks can their fortunes jump start.

Now back to my reality -- or at least as much of it as I choose to reveal and analyze. I walked out of the Silver Spoon, having left a two dollar tip in greenbacks, and walked into the Pioneer Bookstore to find a copy of Laurence Sterne's 'Tristram Shandy' -- a book that every civilized being should review and enjoy once a decade. I hadn't read it since Amy and I lived in Wichita, Kansas, where I worked as Ronald McDonald. I found a 1950 Modern Library edition for seven dollars, then sat down to savor it a moment amidst the shelves and piles and heaps of used books. And that's when it struck me that although I loved strolling on a randy beach with Joom in Thailand, and felt easy in the hot tub at the Provo Recreation Center -- there is no place I'd rather be than seated comfortably in a used book store. The smell of decomposing glue and paper and buckram works like aroma therapy on me. Each book, with its sagging spine and dog eared pages, is a tattered friend patiently waiting for me to sit down with it and go over the glorious old times together. The patrons are quiet and timid. They dress in corduroy and baggy sweaters, wearing dingy woolen caps. Most of 'em wear glasses. The floor gives a little creak as I drift from Classics to Sci Fi, and then to Naval History. 

If I had my druthers I'd own a used bookstore and sleep right in the middle of it, making change for customers in bed from an old cigar box, still in my linen nightshirt and night cap. There'd be an insolent and fat tabby cat in the window next to the potted geranium. I'd give away cans of cheap sardines to any customer I took a fancy to. Probably eat them in bed, too, with some Ry Krisp crackers and a half dozen mozzarella sticks. 

That, that is my Happy Place -- the place I'm going to from now on as the possibility of darker and heavier matters looms on my horizon. 

3:42 p.m.

I emailed an older Thai lady of my acquaintance up in Salt Lake City yesterday to see if she could recommend anyone for my bridal cravings. She replied thus:

Hi Tim,

I am well, thank you.  How about yourself?

I don’t have anyone that I can think of right away.  But will keep in mind that you are looking.

I consider you my friend.  You gave 2 years of your life to serve the Thai people.  I am grateful for that.  I will want you to have someone who have your happiness and well being in mind.  Finding a good people in this day and age is like trying to find a needle in an ocean.  Every one has his or her own agenda.

What is marriage to you?  What are you seeking?

Talk soon,

What is marriage to me, indeed? I was going to give her a list of my specific desires after going to the Rec Center for a swim this afternoon, but after I left the Pioneer Book store, headed to the Rec Center, I suddenly became exhausted and disoriented, sweating profusely. This is not the first time such a thing has happened to me. In fact, I often have to stop and catch my breath while walking the six blocks to the Rec Center. My mind clouds over with baseless despair. And I sometimes forget where I'm going. My stamina has evaporated, and I am also becoming incontinent. I can't avoid the Argentinosaurus in the room any longer; I'm too sick to muster the energy to court a woman right now. I need to find out what's wrong with me and see if I can get better.

After waiting eleven minutes on hold I got through to my clinic at the East Park Building and made an appointment to see Dr. Walker this coming Wednesday at 10:30 a.m. Having turned 65 this month I now qualify for Medicare, so I can afford all the tests and specialist examinations my GP wants to recommend. 

But who wants to read another old man's story about his aches and pains? It'd be like watching fish sleep. Of course, if I'm diagnosed with something terminal like cancer then my fortune is made -- there's always room for another bestseller about the plucky little everyman who beats the odds with the help of heroic doctors, sexy nurses, earthy orderlies, and eventually triumphs over the villainous insurance companies that want to do him out of his cure because of their skinflint ways. It's a surefire movie option or I'll eat my tam o'shanter. I see Tom Cruise in the roll of me, stoically enduring one colonoscopy after another with that ironic little grin of his.

So that's it, then. My pursuit of an Asian helpmate must be put on the back burner for now, as I marshal all my wit and resources to conquer whatever it is that is demolishing my energy and libido. Right now the thought of taking even Tao Okamodo out to dinner and a movie fills me with dread, not lusty anticipation. I'd rather sit in my recliner sipping Bengal Spice herbal tea while watching Supergirl on Netflix. 

So once again we come to the problem of what the 'narrative arc' of this novel will be. For I am more convinced than ever that this work is not a mere memoir, a jumble of place names and name dropping blended into a jejune cocktail. No! There must be strum und drang aplenty, and raucous, memorable characters whose shenanigans serve to highlight my own flaws and favors. 

Perhaps, since I have already started on an improvement plan to captivate an Asian woman, I should hold to that self improvement motif -- as wise old Benjamin Franklin did in his Autobiography. He listed the virtues he would incorporate into his life thus:

Temperance; Silence; Frugality; Industry; Sincerity; Cleanliness; Tranquility; Humility; and Chastity. 

Some of these virtues I am already on friendly terms with, like chastity, frugality, and cleanliness. I'm a bit rusty with some of the others. Old Ben doesn't mention curbing his temper, so I'm assuming he never saw that as either a problem or much of a virtue. However in my case I feel the need, as I have mentioned before, of combating the sourness and petty meanness into which I so often fall. So I shall add Kindness to the above list. And I intend to do something kind before the end of this day:

I've been reading Deanna Paul's reporting on the Kavanaugh hearings for the Washington Post, and I'm impressed with her balanced and low keyed reporting style. I'll write her a note saying so, and send it snail mail.   Lemme see . . . 

Dear Ms. Paul;

Your work on the Kavanaugh hearings is superb. I enjoy reading it, and learned much from your professional research. Keep up the powerful prose!

Sincerely yours,  Tim Torkildson

There. I wrote it, put a stamp on it, and dropped it in the mail slot in the front lobby. To me, sending a card snail mail is not only kind, but quaint -- kinda like old Ben himself. 

5:49 p.m. 

That tired, confused feeling is creeping over me again. Think I'll go to bed for a while . . .