Min Tull. Wednesday. September 26. 2018

Starting your day with a laugh

is not what Trump does with his staff.

But at the U.N.

the ladies and men

did chuckle at his early gaffe.

(John Schwartz, a reporter at the NYT, responded to this poem thus:  He often said that America has become a laughing stock, so there’s a promise kept. )

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

At the ripe old age of 65 I have exactly $290.31 in my savings account at America First Credit Union, and exactly $664.51 in my checking account. I owe nothing on my one credit card (which has a $500.00 limit.) My monthly Social Security is $789.00. I own no assets, no property, vehicles, boats, stocks, bonds, antiques, no coins and no precious metals. My furnishings are all from Deseret Industries, as are most of my clothes -- except those items that some of my kids have thoughtfully bought for me. I have a $9 thousand life insurance/burial policy, with my daughter Madelaine named as beneficiary. 

(Do I pay tithing on my Social Security? I do not. Some of the residents here at the Valley Villas do pay tithing on theirs, but I figure if it's not taxed it shouldn't be tithed.) 

My mother left me forty thousand dollars in her will, but my sister Sue Ellen, as executor of her estate, got a court order to pay my inheritance directly to Amy for back child support instead. I never saw dime one of it. 

And at long last I think I know what my mother meant when she said:  "God throws money out the window." It means that not too much of it has ever drifted my way. 

Taking stock of my financial situation this morning is a necessary prelude to my master matrimonial plan. I don't believe I am in a position yet to offer any woman a decent life with me. Unless, of course, I am canny enough to find a rich widow. One who has a tidy nest egg laid aside and is willing to support me in my literary efforts and moonbeam snatching. I guess it could happen; and so could bowling balls growing feathers.

(Apropos of nothing: The Provo City Housing Authority had the hallway carpets here steam cleaned yesterday. Now they smell like a pet store. I wanna buy a hamster.)

(Another bagatelle:  Yesterday at the pool I asked Lorraine, our aquatic aerobics instructor, if I had ever told her how nice she is. She looked startled and said "No, you haven't."  

"Don't worry" I replied, "I will someday." Then I hurried away, but I think I heard her laughing.)

But seriously, folks. How am I gonna make some steady extra income? Several years ago, right after I got fired from Nomen Global here in Provo for writing a blog about homophones, I set up a GoFundMe account. I wanted to raise nine thousand dollars so I could move back to Thailand and resume my career as an English teacher. The site raised a total of $345.00:

• $50.00 from Eric Budd, an old friend from Minneapolis
• $50.00 from an anonymous source
• $50.00 from Laurel Montgomery, a complete stranger
• $15.00 from Natalie Lennon, another complete stranger, who wrote: "From one teacher to another. They don't pay us enough  to put up with administrative bullshit."
• $10.00 from a Peter Bunting. Don't know the guy.
• $25.00 from my daughter Madelaine Whitmore
• $10.00 from a Jennifer. No last name
• $20.00 from a Lorrie Nolasco, with the message:  "This is for you so you can run away from this ridiculous 'homophonophobia.' It may become an epidemic!"
• and $5.00 from a Noel. No last name.

Obviously, I never made it back to Thailand. Now as I review this old account I'm wondering if I'm under any obligation to pay these people back. That thought makes me uncomfortable, so I'll just pretend I never asked myself about it at all. Which reminds me; I owe Dave Phelps fifteen hundred dollars from when he loaned me that amount for airfare back to the States from Thailand when my passport was revoked. I'd like to start paying him back ten dollars a month, but can't find any contact information about him. He's one of my old missionary companions, and I've asked around for contact information, but nobody seems to know how to reach him. Or am I just pretending I'm trying to reach him? By golly, I am much more self-deceiving than is good for me.

And then there's Bobby Hunt, an old friend from Disneyland. I remember borrowing three hundred dollars from him when Amy needed a D&C after a miscarriage. And I've pretty much paid him back, but now he insists that I owe him fifteen hundred, not three hundred. Is my memory deceiving me again? Be that as it may, I'm not paying him any more money. 

Well, anywho, my thought here is to set up another crowdfunding account -- this time to help me get married. I'm thinking I'll pitch it something like this:

"To help ease international tensions I'd like to marry a 40 year old Asian woman. She couldn't possibly be happy on the small amount of Social Security I am currently getting, and in many Asian countries the family demands a bride price. So won't you help me build world peace?"

I'm thinking I'll ask for thirty thousand. 

Of course, the real money maker at hand for me is my poetry book "A Clump of Trump." It's available on Amazon for $5.99. Readers, here is a chance for you to spread culture like confetti and good humor like whipped butter on toast. Remember, there are only 89 shopping days left until Christmas. So now's the time to order a baker's dozen copies for friends and family. Just think of the smiles you'll put on their careworn faces. The burbling chuckles that will issue from lips too long drooping with frowns. Research has shown that my book will cure anything that isn't serious, or real. Can you afford to ignore such a vademecum of literary lusciousness? Place a copy in your bathrooms; donate copies to your local library; send it to your Congress person and Representative and insist they read it immediately. Use it as a doorstop. And why stop there? Just think what could happen if you and everyone you know who has $5.99 laying around in loose change were to order my book and send it to the President himself. By the Great Horn Spoon, copies should go to ALL the world leaders! It would be a game changer. It would provoke a New World Order. There's no doubt, not a single quibble, in my mind that inundating the world with my book in such a manner would hasten the New Jerusalem. You owe it to your children to do this.

By so doing you will make me wealthy "beyond the dreams of avarice," as Dr. Johnson so elegantly put it. Then I might be able to marry two wives, instead of just one. Sequentially, of course. 

Yessiree bob, I think my poetry book is the best bet for an income boost. Plus a bestselling author is much more attractive than an obscure scribbler. So be the first on your block to make me obscenely rich, won't you?

 Or I could just look for a regular part-time job like an ordinary person would. Nah, that would take away too much time from my writing. The world needs my writing. They may not know it yet, but they will.

I want to return to the subject of epistles, or, since those don't exist anymore, emails. My mind is firm on the subject: if you send it to me it belongs to me and I can do whatever I want with it. So don't send me the pin number to your Bitcoin account. But obviously not everyone agrees with me. My Thai pen pal did not like the inclusion of her email in my last chapter. She wrote me this morning:

It was a big surprise to me Tim, to see that you posted my latest email in your blog on 26/9/2018. Parts of what I shared with you, I thought it would be between you and me. Because some of the messages are quite personal. By this time a lot of people that know you and a few good friemds that knew me probably have read it already. It is really embarrasing to me even though you did not post my name on it. 

I am confuse. I do not know what to think? Just wondering about your intention towards me. Are we still good friends?  And who were you referring to if you won a hugh Rottery Prize?  And you will buy her a nice cottage so she will acts as your match maker. I wish to hear your explianation. Please help me to understand you okay Tim. 

My initial urge was to email back "Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk's still good" -- a rude phrase from my childhood that meant 'You can like it or lump it.' But instead I sent this:

I am sorry you feel that way about being included in my new novel. Your words reveal a loving heart and tender spirit, which I believe should be shared with others to help brighten their lives. I wish you would write some more poetry, so I could include that as well.

Years ago I wrote a column for Circus Report, called Clown Notes. In one of my columns I quoted from a letter I got from my old clown sidekick Steve Smith. It was a harmless paragraph, as I recall; but when Smith read it in Circus Report he blew his top. Krakatoa was a fizzle compared to his pyrotechnics. But then, he always was a snippy little fellow. His feathers were always in a continual state of ruffle. I refused to answer any of his wickedly profane letters to me on the matter, and eventually he cooled off and we brushed the scoria off to continue our friendship. 

I'm dropping the subject for now, since my feet ache after walking over to the Silver Dish for lunch and then to the Rec Center to swim and then taking the 850 bus down to DI and back again. Right now I'm soaking my barking dogs in lukewarm water with baking soda in it. That's a lot cheaper than using Epsom salts. (Gotta save those dollars for my future wedding.) And I am delighted, and thankful, that Adam has just sent me 8 more rewrites. At least now I can afford to keep going to the Silver Dish for lunch. The lady who brought me to my seat was obviously Thai, in her forties, with no wedding ring. She gave me a great big grin when I spoke Thai to her, but then disappeared into the kitchen and I didn't see her again. I had pad lad na with tofu. $10.50. I drank only water. See, that's another step I'm taking to control my weight; no more fountain drinks when I eat out. Plain old water will do the trick just fine. I'm going to insinuate myself into their hearts little by little, until I can find out more about that Thai woman. My first step will be tomorrow when I go get my bagel at Fresh Market I'm going to get some change in dollar bills, and then leave a big cash tip each time I eat at the Silver Dish. Sarah, who used to work as a waitress, told me that the wait staff loves getting cash tips cuz when it's put on a credit or debit card the restaurant owner gets the tip and usually keeps it. But if it's put on the table as cash the waiter or waitress keeps it. 

Walking to the Silver Dish I go by the big outdoor display of pumpkins in the Fresh Market parking lot. Pumpkins are a zen thing with me; they evoke feelings of peace and still depths in me that I should access more often: 

withered pumpkin stems

twisted and grey like goat horns

mounted on fire

The trees are not really showing bright colors here in Provo this year; perhaps it's because of the extended heat and drought. Not like the colors that caressed me as a child in Minneapolis:

the dim leaves are still,

draining in the butter sun,

losing their resolve

Riding the bus up to DI this afternoon I noticed that most of the passengers looked like they were going to an execution -- their own. The driver was glummer than all the rest. I always wear sunglasses when riding the bus, to avoid interaction with the overly whimsical. Sunglasses on the bus are a universal language that clearly says: "I am invisible and you can't see me." It usually works. 

I just took a moment to go into the bathroom to smile into the mirror. It's getting harder to do. My face in repose resembles a basset hound's, down to the cold nose. I need to make more of an effort to smile and look pleasant. But maybe not on the bus; that will just attract the brainless bees who want to buzz around and around without ever landing on a topic. When I lived at my daughter's house in Virginia I took the bus every day, and noticed everyday a man who wore no shoes but plastic bags over his feet. Otherwise he wasn't dressed oddly at all. 

They've already started to put out the Halloween stuff at DI. There was a large green Robin Hood cap, with a peacock feather in it, that I should have bought for a dollar, but didn't. When I go shopping, I do it by subtraction. I'll stroll up and down the aisles like a normal person, picking out an item here and there and putting it my cart. Then, just before I go to the cashier I start taking things out, saying to no one in particular: "Do I really need that?" "Can't I get this cheaper online?" and other such twaddle. By the time I'm done I only have one or at the most two items to buy. I feel really good about all the things I don't buy. Like I'm getting away with something -- sticking it to the concept of Conspicuous Consumption. Joom would literally grind her molars in a rage when I shopped like this with her in Thailand. 

"Khon baa!" she'd yell at me. "You're a crazy person!"  

So today I only brought home two items from DI. I went there looking for a winter coat. The one I have now, which Madelaine sent to me four winters ago, has a huge tear in the front, which I have sealed up with duct tape -- but it puts the mark of the eccentric on me; I might as well start wearing plastic bags on my feet.

I didn't find a coat my size (Hippo Plus) but picked up a paperback of The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, with some other short stories, for seventy five cents. And a large bag of sea shells for a dollar. I put back a large gray sweatshirt, two neckties, a Teflon griddle for making pancakes, a battery powered pepper mill, a large plastic pitcher with a lid, and the Complete Poems of Robert Frost, which cost 3 dollars. 

The shells are going into my patio koi pond. When I lived with Joom in Thailand we were less than a mile from the Gulf of Thailand. Each day I'd spend hours, after work, rambling up and down the beach putting shells in a yellow net bag. At home I soaked them in bleach water for an hour, then put them on the stained concrete fence that ran around the property. When the fence could hold no more I put them on the front porch railing, and then scattered them across the driveway to discourage snakes from slithering into the yard. This didn't go over well with Joom, who liked to strut about the property in her bare feet, watering the orchids she bought for ten baht apiece and put in the mango tree branches, and weeding her Thai basil and eggplant plot. The sharp edges of the shells gave her paper cuts. So I had to sweep up all the sea shells from the driveway and put them in a pile next to the abandoned squatter in the back of the house. Everyone collected sea shells in that neck of the woods, turning them into jewelry. I could buy a long necklace of wentletraps for a quarter. 

The question I'm asking myself as this day comes to a close is inspired by the only advertisement I ever see at the bus stops here in Provo, for Gun Shows:  

Why aren't there ever any mass shootings at Gun Shows?  

Min Tull. Tuesday. September 25. 2018.

What in the sam hill prompted me to use the adjective 'Oriental' yesterday in my story instead of 'Asian?' The online Merriam-Webster defines oriental as:  "Of, from, or characteristic of East Asia." While Asian is defined as:  "Relating to Asia or its people, customs, or languages." Asian is capitalized, oriental is not. I would never use 'oriental' to describe a person; to me it seems demeaning.

Rereading that portion of my story I sense that the whole pitch is off. I'm ringing a tin bell. It's not that I was insincere when I wrote of my desire for companionship. That is real, and I intend to pursue it as remorselessly as Javert pursues Jean Valjean. But I crafted it wrong, which led to the use of a wrong word. I was flippant and diffident when I should have been simple and direct. So I must restate the theme:

I long for companionship to rekindle love and trust in my silent heart, and to motivate me once again to serve someone besides myself. I have a compulsion about Asian women, and will find one about 20 years younger than me (so we don't have to worry about children) who wants to enter into a lawful and binding marriage with me. A woman who is willing to investigate my beliefs as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. 

Aye, there's the rub -- the troubling nub of my pursuit. I'm not so much interested in finding and dating an Asian woman who is already a Church member as I am in finding and dating an Asian woman who is not. Because why? Because of what I call the King Solomon Syndrome: the desire to consort with heathen and pagan beauty so I can conquer them and invite them into my faith. And perhaps be seduced a bit by pagan and heathen inclinations? Alas, there is a soupcon of that in me. Solomon was not strong enough to overcome the wicked beauty of his concubines. But I suspect the old goat enjoyed his trip down the primrose path immensely. 

8:42 a.m. 
I went over to Fresh Market for a warm bagel. I'd seen the cashier there hundreds of times over the past two years. She's Asian, her name tag reads 'Elvi,' so I asked her where the name came from.

She grimaced and blushed.

"Philippines" she said very softly.

"Oh, are you from the Philippines?" 

"Yes."

End of social interaction. She's in her twenties, with a bad case of acne, so not on my companionship radar. But I gotta start somewhere, somehow. I'd never spoken to her before except to give her my Fresh Market ID number:

Conversation:  For me, the final frontier. These are the dialogues of Tim Torkildson. My continuing mission: to meet and greet Asian women. To seek out new life and become more civilized. To boldly go where I've never been before. 

The jalapeno/cheddar cheese bagel, by the way, was delicious spread with smoked salmon-flavored cream cheese. I drank a can of V-8 with it. I'm eating a light breakfast because I hope to go over to the Silver Dish Thai Restaurant on Center Street for lunch today, to scout for any forty-ish Thai women in the kitchen or on the wait staff. 

But easy does it; 'discretion' must be my watchword. I often hurtle pell mell into my goals and whims, with the inevitable disastrous consequences. After my divorce I moved back to Minneapolis to help my recently widowed mother and went to work for AT&T in their new cell phone billing department. Back then there was no such thing as prepaid cards. Every cell phone user has an account and was billed each month. When an account went 30 days overdue a little gnome somewhere in the bowels of the AT&T building out in Edina pulled a switch that routed all calls from the delinquent account to me and my cohorts, no matter what number they actually dialed. The cell phone owner had to make payment arrangements with me over the phone in order to get their service restored. Crude, but effective. 

Hurting, and hungry for a new relationship, I took a few of the gals in my office out to dinner and a movie, one by one, but nothing clicked until Jody started to work in the cubicle next to me. She had bad teeth and was herself recently divorced. I decided I would fall in love with her in the grand Romantic tradition of The Sorrows of Young Werther. So I surreptitiously began leaving little trinkets on her desk, all labeled "From an admirer." She swept them all into her wastebasket without so much as a glance my way. She spoke in a high nasal whine and chewed gum incessantly, which made me obsessively enamored of her -- just like Philip Carey in Of Human Bondage. I was in a sad way and the whole shebang ended in farce when I bought a two-pound box of Fanny Farmer chocolates, wrapped in bright pink tissue paper, to deposit anonymously on her desk. When she came in that morning she took one look at the conspicuous package and immediately went to her supervisor to report a bomb threat. We all had to clear out of the office while the Fire Department cautiously dismantled the nougat-filled explosive.

I currently have a Thai woman pen pal of sorts. My old friend in the Pacific wanted to introduce me to some Thai women I might consider for companionship. Initially I wanted to tell him to mind his own beeswax, but a compliant mood stealing over me by accident one day, I emailed one of his suggested contacts. We have kept up a friendly but reserved email correspondence. She is anxious to move here, but her ill health and lack of means will probably prevent that from ever happening. She used to live here in Utah, but moved back to Thailand to take care of her mother. She's reading this story, and here's what she said about it today:

Dear Tim,

Thank you very much for sending me your Min tull. 1 and 2. So this is your new way of writing. It was completely different style from the way you used to write. I think it is quite interesting. There were many topics to read from you at once. 

One of your topics that surprised me Tim. It was that you are hoping to find your self a new companionship. With an oriental woman who is 20 years younger than you. Wow! That is really a wonderful news to me. Now you have opened your heart and willing to be fulfill with your heart desire. Tim I wish you will find the woman of your dream someday soon. I want you to have someone who will loves you and willing to do anything for your happiness.

For me I had made my wish since the start of 2018. I took the leap of faith. Searching for a kind, warm hearted, open minded, have sense of humor, willing to compromise our differentces, understanding and honest. I usually do not make friend request with anyone. But it happened that there were guys made their friend requests with me. But most of the time after I accepted them, I founded that they were not my type or they were scammer. Now my expeience taught me how to separate the good from the bad. This thing hapoened to me because in my real life here in Thailand. I am not interested in Thai guys and I don't go out to socialize with people. I still live like a hermit. Till today I still have no luck in searching for my special man. That's too bad. But well, I guess that's life. 

So I think I should pay attention to what my blessings once said. In due time of the Lord and in his own way, I shall find myself a mate. This tells me to continue to live with faith and  being worthy for his blessings. 

Tim I don't think I have share with you about the 20 years relationship I spent with my ex. family. I was a mom for his 2 young children and raised them until they become adults. I belived that was my misson and I fully success with it. 

I do hope someday I would save enough money to buy me a lap top and a printer. So I can start seriously with my writng. I am sure I have so much to write about. My right hand is not well yet from the stroke. It is not easy to do a long writing. 

As usual Tim, I wish all is well with you.  I am sure you will soon accomplsh with what you have hope for. May our Heavenly Father bless you with what you wish for. I am looking forward to hear from you soon.

In my recurring fantasy of winning a huge Lottery prize I go to Thailand to set her up in a nice cottage with a fruit orchard and fish pond. Then she acts as a matchmaker to find me one of her numerous cousins to marry. All Thais have cousins coming out the wazoo, when there's money around. 

This may become an epistolary novel, what with all the emails from friends and family I'm quoting. I'm wondering what the current laws are on quoting emails in a work of fiction, which I stoutly maintain this is. Here's what I'm seeing more and more frequently at the end of personal emails:

Confidentiality Notice: This e-mail message, including any attachments, is for the sole use of the intended recipient(s) and may contain confidential and privileged information. Any unauthorized review, use, disclosure, or distribution is prohibited. If you are not the intended recipient, please contact the sender by reply e-mail and destroy all copies of the original message.


Will any of that hogwash stand up in a court of law? I don't think quoting from a personal email is actionable. 

"If the law supposes that, then the law is an ass" as Bumble the Beadle says quite rightly in Oliver Twist. But enough of this. Let us move on to other, more congenial matters.

The matter of me losing some weight, for example. My current weight is 326 pounds. At a height of 5'11'' I am obviously grossly corpulent. So I have decided that I will no longer buy or drink whole milk. I'm going to 2 percent as of today, and eventually will descend to 1 percent. 

As to my ill temper and overall grumpiness, which has been growing like a weed of late, I am determined to appreciate the good and kindly things that happen to me. So I may have a drug, so to speak, to sweeten my disposition. For instance, one of my daughters emailed me today, in part:

Your emails lately have made me think about what life must have been like for you as a small boy. Although you report being quite mischievous and silly, it feels like you never felt loved and accepted by your parents. I want you to know that I have always felt completely loved by you and mom, despite all the wacky twists and turns in your lives. I hope you have lots of inspiration for your writing today, it always puts a smile on my face.


Now that benevolent little note should be enough to keep me in a happy and tolerant mood all day, if I keep the memory of it with me. May God set a rose upon her head. 

4:04 p.m.  
The Silver Dish was closed when I got there a little after 11 this morning, so I walked down to China Garden. The waitress was about the right age for me, but wore a wedding ring. Besides, she was missing several front teeth. I had the Luncheon Special of shrimp with mixed vegetables for $8.99. Then I walked down to the Rec Center for an hour of swimming, then went down to the Transit Center at University Mall in Orem to get my Senior Discount card for the bus. Instead of $2.50 per ride it's now $1.25 per ride. On the way home I stopped off at Deseret Industries to buy a fleece vest for the coming cold weather, along with a yellow silk polka dot necktie (should go good with my blue plaid shirt) and a glass measuring cup so I don't have to keep guessing at measurements in recipes, when I follow them. Most of the time I make up my own recipes as I go along. 

Adam has sent me 3 rewrite assignments, five hundred words each. I groaned when I saw his email, because I want to write so much more to fill out this installment. But Adam pays me $25.00 per rewrite, and if I work really fast and don't lose focus I can produce fifteen hundred words of smush in just over an hour. Then I'll watch Netflix the rest of the evening and eat a corned beef sandwich while I watch Netflix. All the portentous thoughts I wrote down in my little black notebook to flesh out into sparkling prose while riding the bus today will have to wait until tomorrow -- or, more likely, simply become meaningless scribbles to me.

Here's the best thing I read today:

"Is there any good in saying everything?"

Basho

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

My friend in the Pacific wrote me in response to my quixotic marital plans:

'll try to mind my own beezwax after this email, maybe.  (Google response.)

After returning from China the first time, I decided to take a Chinese language class from the community education thing nearby, because I knew I wanted a Chinese wife.  It may have been after the first class that I asked the teacher (who was not wearing a wedding ring) in bad Chinese if she was married.  She actually finished the question for me, as I couldn't say it right.  She said she was, and asked why.  I said I thought I wanted to marry a Chinese woman.  Did she know anyone?  She said maybe, and would give me information next class.  Turns out her sister-in-law was my wife's best friend in college, and she knew that my wife was single and that she should have an American husband.

Like I said yesterday, Chinese women do not pursue.  They must be pursued and convinced by the man.  And it was by luck, or by blessing things fell into place, and I have been grateful every day for the past 21+ years we've been married.

Moral of the story: I let it be known I was looking.  

I often wish all my single male friends could find someone like my wife.  I used to think "Just go to China and get one."  Now I realize that 80% of what makes this marriage work is not that she's Chinese, but that she's X who just happens to be Chinese.

And another thing.  Because of the Kavenough thing lately I asked her an old question: "Do you think all women should have access to abortion?  Do you think that morality should be forced?"  She said "Of course all women should have access to abortion, and it's not a matter of morality.  It's practicality.  You don't want to compound a mistake of pregnancy by having the baby.  I'm from China.  We were forced to have abortions if we got pregnant more than once.  I've had an abortion.  What's the big deal?  I wasn't born religious."  And I thought "Thank goodness".

This crap about Jezabels and heathen and pagan women.  Good freaking crap.  How about life?  How about humanity.  How about the heart?  How about kindness and love and realness?  Oh no, it has to be the Lord's way.  The Lord's the one who shares in the marriage.  Oh, I really resent anyone trying to make anyone else feel that way.  And fortunately I don't believe it one bit.   I happen to still believe in the Heavens, and I happen to believe the Heavens helped me find and marry my dear wife.  I honestly wasn't smart enough to do it on my own.  I was nudged all the way to the day we got married on June 27, 1997 in a small room at the building with the words "Marriage with Foreigners" or something like that.  And so, the Heavens helped me marry a heathen woman.  How do you figure that one?  And I've never been happier.  Yeah, I thank the heavens for her.

But that doesn't mean some people would be happier because of a shared religious belief.  That does make sense.  But I honestly don't think women from Thailand or China will ever really fully believe in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and all it says it is.  My wife would join if I asked her, but she'd never really believe.   Okay, marry a heathen, and get her to join up and go to the temple.  She'll think it's fun.

I'm pretty sick of myself recently.  Pretty disgusted with myself.  So maybe I'm going to go home now and ride my bike.  Maybe I'll start riding my bike to work now.  It will take about 3 hours every day.

A Message from My Missionary Daughter in California

Hello Friends and Family!!!

Today will be a short message because I've inevitably run out of time, but it's been a wonderful week! 

We had interviews with our Mission President, President Clark and his wife Sister Clark. I can't say enough good things about the both of them! They are always generous, kind, understanding, loving, compassionate, and encouraging in the best way possible! We are so privileged to have them here overseeing us missionaries. Whenever I have questions they are always able to answer them. 

This week I learned the importance of giving people multiple chances to say "no" when we ask them if they would like to hear what we have to share. As a missionary, you sort of get used to people saying that they aren't interested in hearing the message, so you kind of expect rejection all the time so that it doesn't hurt as much. But really, we should expect people to say yes, because there ARE people who are ready to hear about this beautiful gospel of Jesus Christ. Even though they don't really know what they're saying "no" to, you should still give them more than one chance. The truths we have are too precious, too impactful, too important for us to be content with only offering it to people one time.  If a friend doesn't accept an invitation to come to a church event or hear more, don't be discouraged! You have done your part to extend the invitation, but keep giving them chances to say yes. It will always be worth it, I promise. You never have to force people to come see what we're about, but sometimes all people need is a simple invitation to get the courage to actually learn more. The more genuine your love for others, the more prone they will be to accept your offer, whatever it may be. Never give up on yourself or those you know; the Savior never has and never will. 

One more thing I would like to share: In church yesterday, we sang "Families Can Be Together Forever", a beautiful song that we learn as children,  and I felt the Spirit testify to me of the joy that I will one day have when I can be married in the Temple for all time and eternity. I felt such a profound feeling of love and joy for my family and gratitude for the knowledge that we have that families can be together forever through our Heavenly Father's plan. Even though families are not perfect, they can be made perfect through Jesus Christ. I don't claim to know how everything will work out for everyone and their family situations but I do know that God loves His children and has prepared a way for us to be together for eternity if we do what He has asked us to do. 

I leave you with my testimony of the Savior. He is the Light, the Life, and the Hope of the world. Through Him, all things are possible. He is the reason we are able to have new beginnings and fresh starts and why families can be together forever. There is no other way to our Father, but by Him. I know He lives and loves each one of us. May we all seek to be more like Him each and every day, and we will be happier and more able to help others. I love you all, may God bless you this week and always! 

Love, Sister Torkildson 

Min Tull. Monday. September 24. 2018

I told a friend in Thailand about the requests I get from reporters at the New York Times for poems to give to their friends for consolation during illness and to celebrate weddings. This is his email response:

This is great Tim!

I'm sorry for the slow reply. I try to read every email you send and often wait until I have an uninterrupted space of time to read them, which is why this response is coming 10 days later.

If this kind of thing makes you feel good, that's all that matters. No baggage attached. There's no need to feel you're a fraud. If doing what you do gives you pleasure and fulfillment, what other purpose is there in doing it?

I've heard about the fires. We are enjoying the wet wet weather here. Rain almost every day... I love the nighttime sound of the rain.

I responded to him thus:

I'm just glad you read my stuff at all. Sometimes I think my writing is tedious beyond words. Right now I have embarked on an ambitious and foolhardy new literary project, called Min Tull. A monumental waste of time that will make my name synonymous with vapidity. 

Am I fishing for further compliments? A bit. But I really do struggle with deep feelings of inferiority, incompetence, and a foreboding that I will be found out as nothing but a hollow hoax. Perhaps if I persevere with this obsessive writing long enough those feelings will dissolve. That's one of the themes I'll play with. So I guess I am both the protagonist and antagonist of My Nonsense.

The night sound of rain

metallic on the gutters --

the old Fall quibble

I just got an email reminder from Amazon about an item I thought to order:

Hello Tim Torkildson, 
Thank you for visiting Amazon.com. You recently added items to your Shopping Cart. If you haven't already purchased or removed them, simply visit your Shopping Cart to complete your order.

Limburger Cheese - Creamy, 8 oz.

by For The Gourmet I'm still tempted to get it -- just for the shock value when I serve it to my next dinner guests. Limburger cheese is a slapstick food item, like Tabasco Sauce -- these items feature in many an old silent two-reeler, where their use elicits fearsome double-takes and ribbons of steam unfurling from comedian's ears. I could have severely injured my baby sister Linda in her playpen years ago when a Three Stooges film on TV gave me the idea to blow a heavy pile of black pepper from the palm of my hand into her wide-eyed innocent face. Luckily my aim was off and most of the pepper blew past her. But enough got in her eyes to set her squalling -- and my mother's gilt hairbrush soon made definite and vigorous contact with my rear end.

8:48 a.m.

I made rice for breakfast, adding turmeric, butter, and dehydrated onion for a flavor boost. It sat steaming in a porcelain Ikea bowl on the counter top, with a tablespoon stuck in it -- doused with fish sauce and red pepper flakes, ready to eat. Then I grabbed a towel to wipe up some stray drops of fish sauce. The towel caught the tip of the tablespoon in the bowl of rice and sent the yellow buttery rice catapulting all over my kitchen walls. With the kitchen speckled in risotto, I cried out in vexation: "Oh, sugar buns!" That was my mother's favorite oath. When we kids were around. When she thought we were out of earshot she reverted to her French Canadian heritage by muttering "la pisse du diable!" 

I intend to buy a gecko at the pet store on Center Street to eat all that dratted yellow rice as it climbs up the walls in search of bugs. The geckos in Thailand keep the indoor walls spotless. 

(McAfee just threw up a cookie telling me my pc is safe. Safe from everything, I guess, except McAfee cookies.)

I ended my first installment of this rigmarole with the promise, or threat, of revealing the time table of my bowel movements. That was a facetious jest, of course, and in poor taste. But it elicited very strong reactions from several people -- along the lines of 'please don't!' Wondering if there are any books wholly devoted to dung, I googled 'List of books about defecation' and this is what I got:

• Clearing the Air: Art of the Bowel Movement
• What's Your Poo Telling You?
• The Origin of Feces
• What Shat That? A Guide to Poop Identity
• Poop: A Natural History
• How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art
• Poop Culture
• Bodily Functions
• History of Shit
• Everybody Poops 410 Pounds a Year
• Kama Pootra
• The Scoop on Poop: Lifting the Lid on the Science of Poo and Pee

And there are more. I think there is a Stephen King story about a carnivorous outhouse, and I've always wondered if Jeeves ever helped Bertie Wooster out with a spot of constipation, dontcha know?

(9:30 a.m. First robocall of the day on my Tracfone. An automated voice telling me that the factory warranty on my vehicle may have expired. I don't own a car or truck or Sherman tank. I believe I'll power down my little black phone until I want to place a call myself.)

Going back to my quest for personal revelation, I'm reviewing some of the replies I got from the 'timericks' I wrote last week, as I was praying for inspiration on what stories to rhyme about:

Kelly Crow, from Dow Jones; I wrote about her article on Nigerian artist Nijideka Akunyili Crosby.

Thanks so much for reading my story and sending this awesome note!

Sounds like an automated note to me. Phooey. 

Vidhi Doshi, of the Washington Post, replied to my poem about his story on the Dow Jones going through the roof with his own set of verses:

has everyone forgotten the crash?

of '08 when we all lost our cash

maybe im grim

keepin it trim

maybe its time for a big splash

I like inspiring bad verse in other writers. I have a taste for literary maliciousness that does me no credit.

When I did a verse on the aging Japanese military, from a story by WSJ reporter Alastair Gale, he emailed back:

That was quick! And funny!

So apparently speed of composition is just as impressive to a reporter as the content itself. Quick Draw Tork; that's me.

I got an odd and puzzling response from Jon Talton, the Economics columnist for the Seattle Times, when I sent him some verses on a tweet from Donald Trump about John Kerry being a traitor:

Bone spurs

My stubborn pride keeps me from emailing him back "Huh?" 

But just a minute ago Talton responded to my Lectric Shave poem with this:

Good one. Hadn't thought of LectricShave in decades.

So now I'm becoming the poet of the retro? Uff-da. 

After a swim and a soak in the hot tub at the Provo Recreation Center this afternoon I am now ready to peruse the online news. Bob Davis, a reporter with the Wall Street Journal, has given me a lifetime online subscription to the paper. He's a fan of my doggerel. (Well, how many people do you know who get lifetime subscriptions from reporters? They don't hand 'em out like Pulitzers, ya know. I hinted at a free online subscription for the NYT with some of their reporters, but they didn't pick up on it. So I canceled my online subscription in a pique of fit -- or is it a pit of fique?)

This story immediately grabs my attention:

AIRLINES TRY TO WHIP UP BETTER MEALS FOR COACH FLIERS.   by Alison Sider & Patrick McGroarty. 

Airlines are trying to persuade economy-class passengers that they can buy meals on the plane as good as they would find in a restaurant.  WSJ

A passenger meal on a plane

is usually something profane.

It's mush or cement;

a food nonevent.

Gourmets ought to get on a train. 

I'll send the above to both Sider and McGroarty, to see if they respond, but I'm not holding my breath. Experience has shown me that when a story is by two or more reporters none of them ever respond to my poems. (Well, I'll have to eat my words; Sider just emailed me back:  "Good one!" I wonder if I should ask her to buy my poetry book, A Clump of Trump? Nah, that's too commercial for an artsy-fartsy guy like me. Besides, I think her reply was just a Google Response.)

The last flight I took was from Washington DC to Salt Lake City back in 2014. Gove Allen, an old friend from Minneapolis who is a professor at BYU, had heard I was homeless and ill -- so he offered to fly me out to live with him until I recuperated and could find work again. God bless him for that. The stewardess served me something called a 'dinner salad' that consisted of flagging lettuce, rubbery radishes, a pale yellow lump that might have been a piece of cheese or a superannuated egg yolk, shredded carrots turning bronze, and several strips of something that tasted like wall paper. I never got the dressing onto this concoction -- the packet was so hard to open that when I finally managed to rip it apart it sprayed all over the in-flight magazine.

I was talking to Margaret Young today at the pool, telling her all about Min Tull cuz she taught creative writing at BYU for 30 years. She kept calling it a memoir but I kept insisting it's an autobiographical novel like Knaugard's stuff. To me a novel is classier than a memoir. Any apple knocker can write a memoir, but it takes a bona fide artiste, a nascent genius, to write a novel. But she got me thinking -- how can this be a novel if there's no story line or anticipation of any action, good or bad, happening to or with the protagonist? 

So I'll start chasing my dream of companionship again. And detailing the results, if any, here. That'll keep readers on the edge of their Kindles. When Amy left me over 20 years ago it was such a terrible blow that I nearly died from self abuse and several suicide attempts. Then when I moved to Thailand as a TEFL teacher I hooked up with Joom, a Thai woman my age. I asked her to marry me, but she insisted I'd have to build her mother a house first. Since I didn't have that kind of money we fell into a common-law marriage that was not recognized by my Church but had some legal status in Thailand (and nowhere else.) When I had to leave Thailand suddenly, due to my passport being revoked for back child support, Joom shed abundant crocodile tears over our tragic lover's fate while she quickly looked up an old Chinese lover in Chiang Rai to go live with. After several years back here in the good ol' USA I decided to ask Amy if she would be interested in getting married again. She initially balked, then agreed, and then scared the pants off me by insisting I invest my entire Social Security pension ($789 a month) in a doTerra Essential Oils dealership. I broke things off with her, and have remained footloose and fancy free ever since. But sometimes my bachelor's paradise palls on me. 

I believe in the efficacy of sincere prayer to our loving Heavenly Father, and so I will be making this a matter of honest faithful prayer. I will certainly need to, since I am fat, homely, short-tempered, broke, and exceedingly lazy. Plus, I am really only interested in an Oriental woman about 20 years younger than me (but past childbearing.) I refuse to use an online dating service. Period. Instead I will rely on my own native wit and the goodwill and guidance of my friends and family. And whatever inspiration the Lord may grant me.

I realize that I'm going to have to work on my faults -- lose some weight; curb my sharp tongue; find a way to make money and discipline myself to work at things harder. The homeliness I can't do anything about, except maybe with a face lift. 

Does my plan, my goal, go against the grain of the #MeToo movement? I suspect it does, and I suspect that if these installments that I'm posting on my blog site ever go viral I will become a hiss and a byword amongst women everywhere. But why should a lonely old man who daydreams of a loving loyal companion be a villain to anyone? Pah! The die is cast. I hereby resolve to be in a loving and fulfilling relationship with an Oriental woman about 20 years younger than me by the time my next birthday rolls around on September 11th, 2019. I swear it on a stack of pancakes. 

I wonder if I should try to get Joom back? We had some good times together. But no . . . she would be a Jezebel to me. Her highest ambition in life, she often told me, was to become a 'Mama-san' -- a procuress. That's almost as bad as being constantly chivvied about doTerra Essential Oils. 

Well, now that that's settled I'm going to go back to my online perusing . . . 

4:14 p.m. Here's another story that tickles my fancy, from the WSJ. By Nour Malas:

Labor unions representing Disneyland employees are campaigning in favor of a ballot measure facing voters that would require large hospitality businesses receiving tax rebates to raise their hourly minimum wage to $15 next year, with annual increases reaching $18 in 2022.

Old Walt wouldn't take it too kind

that Mickey is gouging him blind.

The Kingdom of Magic

is growing quite tragic

with axes that need a quick grind.

Not very good, is it? My lyric voice is growing hoarse as the afternoon shadows lengthen. What I need is wine, women, and song. But what I'll settle for is Alka Seltzer, Netflix, and flossing my teeth. 

There's chicken thighs in the slow cooker and a box of Kraft Mac & Cheese on the stove. Ohen, Lance, and Brooke are coming for dinner with their dad Jonny, while daughter Sarah works at her new massage job. She makes about 200 dollars a day at it. She's saving the money for a Disney family cruise this winter. I feel like writing a biting comment on the fact that they never invite me along on those types of things, but since I'm working on sweetening my disposition so I can find my new helpmeet I'll forbear. See what a peacemaker I am, gals?  

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

An email response from an English professor:

Honestly, I quite enjoy your writing. I like the fascinating quirky details, the distinctive voice, the zingers (such as about McAfee), the best of which get their zing from joining a burst of illumination with paradox or irony.

I don’t care for the bathroom material—and you can classify that as a matter of personal preference on my part. But the presence of that material will have an effect (mostly limiting or off-putting) on your potential audience.

Your desire for companionship does add an extra bit of interest—and suspense—to your narrative.

One interesting pattern: You tend to second-guess the meaning of the responses you get to your poetry and other contributions, questioning the motives of the responders and sometimes engaging in self-doubt. In observing that pattern, I’m not suggesting you change anything—this second-guessing is part of the personality that comes through. And in novels, we are told, characters need to be consistent or at least need to surprise convincingly. But in reality, personalities are a fluid thing, and it wouldn’t hurt if you learned to accept responses to your work with a bit more child-like delight.

Note the irony—and the potential danger—in my responding to your writing by critiquing how you respond to people responding to your writing.

So, don’t you dare, now, analyze anything I said. I’m pretty thin-skinned about . . . just about everything. But seriously, I’ll gird up my loins and prepare to hear whatever you have to say.

Oh . . . and about your looks: I love your face mainly because it’s the only one I know that belongs to you. And I really, truly like you.

And my response to him (or her):

You are absolutely right in bringing up my response to praise (and criticism, when it comes -- and it will) as a point to examine more closely and work on improving. This hasn't appeared in Min Tull yet, but both my parents were very judgmental and critical of just about every aspect of my life from joining the circus to joining the Church to marrying Amy and having so many kids, etc. It's hard to escape their shadow, even after I've made my peace with their attitude towards me. And that will need to appear as a motif in my work, sooner rather than later.  tt

Here is what a retired editor from the Saint Paul Pioneer Press thinks of my story so far: 

WTH is this? Are you playing Boswell to your own Dr Johnson?

A friend in the Pacific reacted to the above installment like this:

My wife's Communist/Marxist neice (Oh, I'm not supposed to talk about her that way, I forgot) will probably be joining us in November for a year or so.  She'll be doing some traveling during the year.  Most of the time she'll be doing "research", because her university requires it.  She's a PhD in modern Chinese history or something.  If you were here for part of that time you could practice up on being nice to a woman (more than) 20 years your junior, and you could teach her to speak better English (for a fee, probably), and help her with her writing (for a fee, probably).  I think she might have money from her university for stuff like that, though I'm not sure.  There's one problem: she's a nudist I'm told.  She'd be downstairs and so we'd have a protocol to ring a bell if she wanted to come up, or we'd go down.  You'd be downstairs too.  She's married, by the way.  

She could really learn a lot from you in several areas, but I don't think it's worth your effort and your expense.

My deal with you is that if you promise to open your your mouth and speak out loud every time in church you feel like you've got something to say, I'll consider paying your way over and back.

Her English is pretty good for someone who lives in China.  About the same as Liping's when I first met her, and Liping was an English major in college.

After letting this one sink in a while, while I grind through updating boring lists of patient information for my computer program here at work, I realize I like it more.  I quite like stream of consciousness, especially when it reminds me of Calvin (of Hobbes), or when it's very sincere and humble and real.  I will say that upon first glance I didn't have time to read it all, but I went back and did, just to check that my name wasn't used in your piece.  In other words, I don't have the luxury of long pieces when I'm such a slow reader, here at work.

You're gunna let your friends and "fate" find you a woman?  I always thought that was so lame when people said they were going to let fate take care of their future love.  But maybe that's more of an Asian thing.  Liping yesterday said that it's against her culture to make any kind of advances toward a man.  If she did, then she'd be considered a low status woman.  (I think she said "bitch" -- a word that our Chinese friend uses a lot when she talks of any other women who her boyfriend might be attracted to.)

You know the conflicts better than anyone with regard to your swearing to find a -20 year old woman in the next 350 days (and counting -- just ask Google.  You can say "Hey Google how many days old am I?"  It knows.  You can say "Hey Google remind me in 350 days at 8am that I'm supposed to have a woman in my life by now."  It will.)  But the obvious is you might be away from your kids and grandkids, and that would be a very big sacrifice, I think.  

I forgot how much Ron had to pay to get his expedited retirement visa in Thailand.  And by "expedited", I mean no health checks, no financial checks, no background checks, no nothin'.  You do have to open a bank account, but you don't have to keep much money in it, contrary to what some people think.  My brother is a happy camper with two women -- one a lover and massage person, and the other is a driver.  He can walk to the beach in 10 minutes.