At about 2 am, I was kicked off the Internet. I had both my old and new computers on and couldn't figure out what was wrong. After too many tries to get on my new computer, it closed me down. This morning, I looked at my old computer and saw it was in airplane mode. In my hazy late night, early morning stupor, I thought, as the cat walked back and forth over the keyboard, he had changed settings before, so I closed it. Too late. He had turned on airplane mode and said, "For Heaven's sake, go to bed." So, how was your night?
Chapter 49
My Friend Bill
"Life, you know, is a constantly chuckling teacher
of unexpected lessons."
—Bill Fisher
"The human brain is genetically disposed toward organization…I
knew her, she was a managerial fragment to another on the flimsiest pretense
and in the most freewheeling manner, as if it takes a kind of organic pleasure
in creative association without regard for logic or chronological
sequence."
—Tom Robbins.
Isn't that what I said?
Hardly. I do not have the elocution of a Tom Robbins.
I had to laugh, though, when I read it. Not only does it weirdly, creatively, and articulately describe how the mind works, but it also reminds me of Bill Fisher, my old buddy from far away.
Bill loved Tom Robbins' writing style. And his dream was to write in that vein.
This morning, as I searched through old emails, I found an email from Bill Fisher. I knew I was missing some and wondered where they were. It was one of Bill Fisher's final letters to me.
For years, Bill and I shared our writings with each other. I loved Bill like a brother and his wife Beverly equally. Bill had a Ph.D. in medieval literature. He was a former Real Estate Agent, and during the time I knew him, he made his living writing a weekly newsletter called The Wednesday Wrap. He sold The Wrap to various Real Estate Agencies, which published it under their brand.
He taught writing in Colorado in the summers and dreamed of being a published Robbinest novelist. (Robbins described ordering Thai dishes as "sounding like a harelip pleading for a package of thumbtacks." Now, what sort of mind comes up with those things?)
Bill, Beverly, and our family lived in the San Diego area. Shortly after we ended our two consecutive training sessions at The World Healing Center, both families moved to the Pacific Northwest. Bill and Beverly moved to Olympia, Washington, and we moved to Eugene, Oregon. And we kept in touch.
In his letter, Bill told me that Bank of America wanted him and his colleagues in the newsletter trade to take over the writing of three monthly 4-page newsletters, plus a weekly economic summary. He said the pay was remarkably good, but the work was soul-deadening. "I had to unlearn much of what comes naturally to me now as a writer. They wanted 8th-grade level, simple, uncontroversial, and uninspired. We would go round and round over a piece. They don't believe dashes should be used. Vocabulary should be simple. Humor should be avoided (good old humor usually offends at least one person.) And everything I wrote was reviewed by roughly six VPs, and one or two from the legal staff (speaking of an unimaginative, humorless bunch)."
Bill had recently taken a trip with his family to Portugal.
"I knew from the get-go that there was nothing I would love more than to create a book out of the travel experience and intuited that the experience would have much to teach me. Little did I know. The central learning experience was a broken ankle--my right leg broke in two places, actually, when I fell on a hike, we were attempting as a shortcut to a close-by secluded beach. I continued to walk on that leg for ten days in huge pain but nonetheless loved every moment of the trip. I tried to convince myself and everyone else that it was a sprain, not a break. I was wrong."—Bill Fisher.
The doctor in the States said he would have operated on Bill's leg immediately, but since he had walked on it, the leg had set, and it was healing, he put a boot on him and sent him on his way.
Wow.
During one of Bill's and my sessions at The World Healing Center, a young man from our twice-a-week, full-day group meetings was emoting, sharing how he, a white boy in Africa, loved the comradery of the other boys. They would play and walk down the street with their arms around each other. Here, he felt lost and had no such friends.
From the back of the room came a voice in Swahili.
The rest of the group didn't know what it said, but the kid did. He fell apart, and the room exploded into hugs, kisses, and whooping. It was Bill's voice, and the words meant, "Welcome, Brother!"
Bill had been a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa.
'' Those who deny freedom to
others, deserve it not for themselves; and, under a just God, cannot long
retain it.” - Abe Lincoln
In my dreams...
Stop Obsessing over the polls says Michael Moore:
Jeez, my mailbox is exploding! Everyone is freaking
out over the latest polls, the pessimistic pundits, the sudden (?) rise of
Trump, the warnings of doom and gloom! Mike! Mike! Please tell us he’s
gonna lose! She’s gonna win! Flowers will bloom in December! Unicorns will ride
on the backs of lions! The McRib will return!
Whoa. Everybody please calm down. We’ve all been here
before. Exactly 3 weeks til Election Day — so that means it’s official,
folks! We’ve entered the fear-mongering, pendulum-swing stage of the election
season. We are no longer basking in the glow of Biden’s withdrawal and the
adrenaline shot from Kamala’s injection into this race...
For more, Read Michael Moore on Substack
