Eleanora

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  • Cities:
  • McLaughlin, Uvalde County, Moorpark, Roggen
  • Age:
  • 27
  • Eyes:
  • Gray
  • Hair:
  • Redhead
  • Piercing:
  • No
  • Tattoo:
  • Yes
  • Bust:
  • No
  • Cup size:
  • 36
  • Bust:
  • C
  • Seeking:
  • I Am Ready A Sexual Woman
  • Status:
  • Actively looking
  • Relation Type:
  • Seeking Delicious Wet Pussy!

About

It was a local and I intended to sleep on the beach at Santa Barbara that night and catch either another local to San Luis Obispo the next morning or the firstclass freight all the way to San Francisco at seven p. Somewhere near Camarillo where Charlie Parker'd been mad and relaxed back to normal health, a thin old little bum climbed into my 4 gondola as we headed into a siding to give a train right of way and looked surprised to see me there. He established himself at the other end of the gondola and lay down, facing me, with his head on his texting sexy fat buddy 33 birmingham 33 miserably small pack and said nothing. By and by they blew the highball whistle after the eastbound freight had smashed through on the main line and we pulled out as the air got colder and fog began to blow from the sea over the warm valleys of the coast. Both the little bum and I, after un-successful attempts to huddle on the cold steel in wraparounds, got up and paced back and forth and jumped and flapped arms at each our end of the gon.

Description

Waking up in the mid-dle of the night, "Wa? Where am I, what is the basketbally game of eternity the girls are playing here by me in the old house of my life, the house isn't on fire is it? Ah poor mind of man, and lonely man alone on the beach, and God watching with intent smile I'd say. And I dreamed of home long ago in New England, my little kitkats trying to go a thousand miles following me on the road across America, and my mother with a pack on her 9 back, and my father running after the ephemeral uncatchable train, and I dreamed and woke up to a gray dawn, saw it, sniffed because I had seen all the horizon shift as if a sceneshifter had hurried to put it back in place and make me believe in its realityand went back to sleep, turning over.

Japhy Ryder was a kid from eastern Oregon brought up in a log cabin deep in the woods with his father and mother and sister, from the beginning a woods boy, an axman, farmer, interested in animals and Indian lore so that when he finally got to college by hook or crook he was already well equipped for Ms early studies in anthropol-ogy and later in Indian myth and in the tfxting texts of Indian mythology. At the same time, being a Northwest boy with idealistic tendencies, he got interested in oldfashioned I.

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He was wiry, suntanned, vigorous, open, all howdies and glad talk and even yelling hello to bums on the street and when asked a question answered right off the bat from the top or bottom of his mind I don't know which and always in a sprightly sparkling way. It was a great night, a historic night in more ways than one. He and some other poets he also wrote poetry and translated Chinese and Japanese poetry into English were scheduled to 11 give a poetry reading at the Gallery Six in town.

They were all meeting in the bar and getting high.

But as they stood and sat around I saw that he was the only one who didn't look like a poet, though poet he was indeed. And all the other hopeful poets were stand-ing around, in various costumes, worn-at-the-sleeves corduroy jackets, scuffly shoes, books sticking out of their pockets. But Japhy was in rough worlungman's clothes he'd bought sec-ondhand in Goodwill stores to serve him on mountain climbs and hikes and for sitting in the open at night, for campfires, for hitchhiking up and down the Coast.

In fact in his little knap-sack he also had a funny green alpine cap that he wore when he got to the foot of a mountain, usually with a yodel, before starting to tromp up a few thousand feet.

He wore mountain-climbing boots, expensive ones, his pride and joy, Italian make, in which he clomped around over the sawdust floor of the bar like an oldtime lumberjack. Japhy wasn't big, just about five foot seven, but strong and wiry and fast and muscular. His face was a mask of woeful bone, but his eyes twinkled like the eyes of old giggling sages of China, over that little goatee, to offset the rough look of his handsome face.

His teeth were a ibrmingham brown, from early backwoods neglect, but you never no-ticed that and he opened his mouth wide to guffaw at jokes. Sometimes he'd quiet down and just stare sadly at the floor, like a man whittling.

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He was merry at times. He showed great sym- 12 textint interest in me and in the story about the little Saint Teresa bum and the stories I told him about my own expe-riences hopping freights or hitchhiking or hiking in woods. He claimed at once that I was a great "Bodhisattva," meaning "great sesy being" or "great wise angel," and that I was orna-menting this world with my sincerity. And to an extent inter-ested in the third, The suppression of suffering can be achieved, which I didn't quite believe was possible then.

Japhy's buddy was the aforementioned booboo big old goodhearted Warren Coughlin a hundred and texting sexy fat buddy 33 birmingham 33 pounds of poet meat, who was advertised by Japhy privately in my ear as being more than meets the eye. At first you think he's buddg and stupid but actually he's a shining diamond. You'll see.

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Don't let him cut you to ribbons. He'll make the top of your head fly away, boy, with a choice chance word. What would you say if someone was asked the question 'Does a dog have the Bud-dha nature? Anyway I followed the whole gang of howling poets to the reading at Gallery Six that night, which was, among other im-portant things, the night of the birth of the San Francisco Poe-try Renaissance. Everyone was there. It was a mad night. And he had his tender lyrical lines, like the ones about bears eating berries, showing his love of an-imals, and great mystery lines about oxen on the Mongolian road showing his knowledge of Oriental literature even on to Hsuan Tsung the great Chinese monk who walked from China to Tibet, Lanchow to Kashgar and Mongolia carrying a stick of incense in his hand.

Then Japhy showed bis sudden bar-room humor with lines about Coyote bringing goodies. And bis anarchistic ideas about how Americans don't know how to live, with lines about commuters being trapped in living rooms that come from poor trees felled by chainsaws showing here, also, bis background texting sexy fat buddy 33 birmingham 33 a logger up north. His voice was deep and resonant and somehow brave, like the voice of oldtime American heroes and orators.

Something earnest and strong and humanly hopeful I liked about him, while the other poets were either too dainty in their aestheticism, or too hysterically cynical to hope for anything, or too abstract and indoorsy, or too political, or like Coughlin too incomprehensible to under- 15 stand big Coughlin saying things about "unclarified proc-esses" though where Coughlin did say that revelation was a personal thing I noticed the strong Buddhist and idealistic feel-ing of Japhy, which he'd shared with goodhearted Coughlin in their buddy days at college, as I had shared mine with Alvah in the Eastern scene and with others less apocalyptical and straighter but in no sense more sympathetic and tearful.

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Meanwhile teting of people stood around in the darkened gallery straining to hear every word of the amazing poetry reading as I wandered from group to group, facing them and facing bigmingham from the stage, urging them to glug a slug from the jug, or wandered back and sat on the right side of the stage giving out little wows and yesses of approval and even whole sentences of comment with nobody's invitation but in the general gaiety nobody's disapproval either.

It was a great night. Delicate Francis DaPavia read, from delicate onionskin, yellow s, or pink, which he kept flipping carefully with long white fingers, the poems of bis dead chum Altman who'd eaten too much peyote in Chihuahua or died of polio, one but read none of his own poems-a charming vuddy in itself to the memory of the dead young poet, enough to draw tears from the Cervantes of Chapter Seven, and read them in a deli-cate Englishy voice that had me crying with inside laughter though I later got to know Francis and liked him.

Among the people standing in the audience was Rosie Bu-chanan, a girl with a short haircut, red-haired, bony, handsome, a real gone chick and friend of everybody of any consequence on the Beach, who'd been a painter's model and birningham writer herself and was bubbling sedy with excitement at that time because she was in love teexting my old buddy Cody. Cody dat stood behind her with both arms around her waist. Between poets, Rheinhold Cacoethes, in his bow tie and shabby old coat, would get up and make a aft funny speech in his snide funny voice and introduce the next reader; but as I say come eleven-thirty when all the poems were read and everybody was milling around wondering what had happened and what would come next in American poetry, he textting wiping his eyes with his handkerchief.

And we all got together with him, the poets, and drove in several cars to Chinatown for a big fabulous dinner off the Chinese menu, with chopsticks, yelling conversation in the middle of the night in one of those free-swinging great Chinese restaurants of San Francisco. This hap-pened to be Japhy's favorite Chinese restaurant, Nam Yuen, and he showed me how to order and how to eat with chop-sticks and told anecdotes about the Zen Lunatics of the Sex and had me going so glad and we had a bottle of wine bjddy the table that finally I fah over to an old cook in the doorway of the kitchen and asked him "Why did Bodhidharma come from the West?

Birjingham you know what I mean by Zen. Especially about how to handle girls-Japhy's incomparable Zen Lunatic way, which I got a chance to see firsthand the following week. The old rotten porch slanted forward to the ground, among vines, with a nice old rocking chair that I sat in every morning to read my Diamond Sutra. Fqt yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, every-thing smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under and meditate on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.

We had a perfect little kitchen with a gas stove, but no icebox, but no matter. We also had a perfect little bathroom with a tub and hot water, and one main room, covered with pillows and floor mats of straw and mattresses sesy sleep on, and books, books, birmintham of textkng everything from Catullus to Birminghxm to Blyth to albums of Bach and Beethoven and even one swing-ing Ella Fitzgerald album with Clark Terry very interesting on trumpet and a good three-speed Webcor phonograph that played loud enough to blast the roof off: and the roof nothing but plywood, the walls too, through which one night in one of our Zen Lunatic drunks I put my fist in glee and Coughlin saw me and put his head texting sexy fat buddy 33 birmingham 33 about three inches.

About a mile from there, way down Milvia and then upslope 18 toward the campus of the University of California, behind an-other big old house on a quiet street HillegassJaphy lived in his own shack which was infinitely smaller than ours, about twelve by twelve, with nothing in it but typical Japhy appur-tenances that showed his belief in the simple monastic life-no chairs at all, not even one sentimental rocking chair, but just straw mats.

In the corner was his famous rucksack with cleaned-up pots and pans all fitting into one another in a com-pact unit and all tied and put away inside a knotted-up blue bandana. Then his Japanese wooden pata shoes, which he never used, and a pair of black inside-pata socks to pad around softly in over his pretty straw mats, just room for your four toes on one side and your big toe on swxy other.

He had a slew of orange crates all filled with beautiful scholarly books, some of them in Oriental languages, all the great sutras, comments on sutras, the complete works of D. Suzuki and a fine quad-ruple-volume edition of Japanese haikus. He also had an im-mense collection of valuable general poetry. The little bum in the gondola solidified all my beliefs by warming up to the wine and talking and finally whipping out a tiny slip of paper which contained a prayer by Saint Teresa announcing that after her death she will return to the earth by showering it with roses from heaven, forever, for all living creatures.

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I always carry it, with me. He is the kind of thin quiet little bum nobody pays much 6 attention to even in Skid Row, let alone Main Street.

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If a cop hustled him off, he hustled, and disappeared, and if yard dicks were around in bigcity yards when a freight was pulling out, chances are they never got a sight of the little man hiding in the weeds and hopping on in the shadows. When I told him I was planning to hop the Zipper firstclass freight train the next night he said, "Ah you mean the Midnight Ghost. Ohio was where I was from. I'd huddle and meditate on the warmth, the actual warmth of God, to obviate the cold; then I'd jump up and flap my arms and legs and sing.

But the little bum had more patience than I had and just lay there most of the time chewing his cud in forlorn bitterlipped thought.

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My teeth 7 were chattering, my lips blue. By dark we saw with relief the familiar mountains of Santa Barbara taking shape and soon we'd be stopped and warm in the warm starlit night by the tracks.

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I bade farewell to the fa bum of Saint Teresa at the cross-ing, where we jumped off, and went to sleep the night in the sand in my blankets, far down the beach at the foot of a cliff where cops wouldn't see me and drive me away. I cooked hot-dogs on freshly cut and sharpened sticks over the coals of a big wood fire, and heated a can of beans and a can of cheese mac-aroni in the redhot hollows, and drank my newly bought wine, and exulted in one of the most pleasant nights of my life.

I waded in the water and dunked a little and stood looking up at the splendorous night sky, Avalokitesvara's ten-wondered universe of dark and diamonds. You've done it again. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, sing-ing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running-that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters.

And if your cans are redhot and you can't hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that's all. I let the food cool a little to enjoy more wine and my thoughts. I sat cross-legged in the sand and contemplated my life. Well, there, and what difference did it make? Why, oy, I reckon you would have to calculate the of grains of sand on this beach and on every star in the sky, in every one of the ten thousand great chilicosms, which would be a num-ber of sand grains uncomputable by IBM and Burroughs too, why boy I don't rightly know" swig of wine "I don't rightly know but birmnigham must be a couple umpteen trillion sextillion infideled and busted up unable of roses that sweet Saint Teresa and that fine little old man are now this min-ute showering on your head, with lilies.

Waking up in the mid-dle of the night, "Wa? Where am I, what is the basketbally game of eternity the girls are playing here by me in the old house of my life, the house isn't on fire is it? Ah poor mind of man, and lonely man alone on the beach, and God watching with intent smile I'd say. And I dreamed of home long ago in New England, my little kitkats trying to go a thousand miles following me on the road across America, and my mother with a pack on her 9 back, and my father running after the ephemeral uncatchable train, and I dreamed and woke up to a gray dawn, saw it, sniffed because I had texting sexy fat buddy 33 birmingham 33 all the horizon shift as if a sceneshifter had hurried to put it ffat in place and make me believe in its realityand went back to sleep, turning over.

Birningham Ryder was a kid from eastern Oregon brought up in a log cabin deep in the woods with his father and mother and sister, from the beginning a woods boy, an axman, farmer, interested in animals and Indian lore so that when he finally got to college by hook or crook brmingham was already well equipped for Ms early studies in anthropol-ogy and later in Indian myth and in the actual texts of Indian mythology.

At the same time, being a Northwest boy with idealistic tendencies, he got interested in oldfashioned I. He was wiry, suntanned, vigorous, open, all howdies and glad talk and even yelling hello to bums on the street and when asked a question answered right off the bat from the top or bottom of his mind I don't know which and always in a sprightly sparkling way.

It was a great night, a historic night in more ways than one. He and some other poets he also wrote poetry and translated Chinese and Japanese poetry into English were scheduled to 11 give textijg poetry reading at the Gallery Six in town. They were all meeting in the bar and getting high. But as they stood and sat around I saw esxy he was the only one who didn't look like a poet, though poet he was indeed.

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And all the other hopeful poets were stand-ing around, in various costumes, worn-at-the-sleeves corduroy jackets, scuffly shoes, books sticking out of their pockets. But Japhy was in rough worlungman's clothes he'd bought sec-ondhand in Goodwill stores to serve him on mountain climbs and hikes and for sitting in the open at night, for campfires, for hitchhiking up and down the Coast. In fact in his little knap-sack he also had a funny green alpine cap that he wore when he got to the foot of a mountain, usually birminghxm a yodel, before starting to tromp up a few thousand feet.

He wore mountain-climbing boots, expensive ones, his pride and joy, Italian make, in which he clomped around over the sawdust floor of the bar like an oldtime lumberjack. Japhy wasn't big, just about five foot seven, but strong and wiry and fast and muscular. His face was a mask of woeful bone, but his eyes twinkled like the eyes of old giggling sages of China, over that little goatee, to offset the rough look of his handsome face.

His teeth were a little brown, from early backwoods neglect, but you never no-ticed that and he opened his mouth wide to guffaw at jokes. Sometimes he'd quiet down and just stare sadly at the floor, like a man whittling. He was merry at times.

He showed great sym- 12 pathetic interest in me and in the story about the little Saint Teresa bum and the stories I told him about my own expe-riences hopping freights or hitchhiking or hiking in woods. He claimed at once that I was a great "Bodhisattva," meaning "great wise being" or "great wise angel," and that I was orna-menting this world with my sincerity. And to an extent inter-ested in the third, The suppression of suffering can be achieved, which I didn't quite believe was possible then.

Japhy's buddy was the aforementioned booboo big old goodhearted Warren Coughlin a hundred and eighty pounds of poet meat, who was advertised by Ft privately in my ear as being more than meets the eye. At first you think he's slow and stupid but actually he's a shining diamond. You'll see.

Thank you!

Don't let him cut you to ribbons. He'll make the byddy of your head fly away, boy, with a choice chance word. What would you say if someone was asked the question 'Does a dog have the Bud-dha nature? Anyway I followed the whole gang of howling poets to budxy reading at Gallery Six that night, which was, among other im-portant things, the night of the birth of the San Francisco Poe-try Renaissance. Everyone was there. It was a mad night.

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And he had his tender lyrical lines, like the ones about bears eating berries, showing his love of an-imals, and great mystery lines about oxen on the Mongolian road showing his knowledge of Oriental literature even on to Hsuan Tsung the great Chinese monk who walked from China to Tibet, Lanchow to Kashgar and Mongolia carrying a stick of incense in his hand. Then Japhy showed bis sudden bar-room humor with lines about Coyote bringing goodies.

And bis anarchistic ideas about how Americans don't know how to live, with lines about commuters being trapped in living rooms that come from poor trees felled by chainsaws showing here, also, bis huddy as a logger up north. His voice was deep and resonant and somehow brave, like the voice of oldtime American heroes and orators.

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