it sounds cliché, it’s utterly degrading and it is horribly depressing, but at some point around seven years ago now, I lost faith in humanity. the journey to this low- down predicament began at a slow build, but by
the time I truly got there,
I was dramatically and
quite treacherously
snowballing toward
the general direction
of said faithlessness.
and thusly I wandered, a sullen, lost soul, for five years or so. until, with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning before you even realize a storm is about to arrive, my faith was swiftly and wholly restored. it was the
most incredible stroke of luck that I have yet to encounter. and what
I’ve never once hit a human, not even raised my fist to one, ever since making it past toddler-hood. But I once threw a glass of water at a spineless, cowardly liar of the evilest sort. And it hit him in the face in such a place that it rather humorously looked as if he’d tried to take a sip of it just as it sped past his nose. And man, did he ever deserve that!
if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thou sand times (and I may be a naturally educated, good- natured, generally honest, rational and romantic one at that, but), I am, above all else, a true hedonist.
I’ve trekked across this treacherously gorgeous country, from coast to coast or so (relishing each of the contiguous 48 states; the majority of them on several occasions), I sup pose, if all told, 6 or 7 times, and that’s not even counting
the routine dozen
or so that I’ve
traveled those stretches made just for visiting
home from any
number of others like, say, in the
upper midwest
or from boston or
san francisco straight to dad’s old farm.
and to his folks’
in detroit grow ing up. or our vac ation to the nation’s capitol in 1976. or to california about 5 years later. but those 7 full stretches from the at lantic to the pacific and back, only one of them by airplane, once (and only one way) in a u- haul truck by way of a series of motel 6’s, and thrice by train, all the way there and back, which is my favorite way that I’ve ever traveled (a cross land, at any rate), and I am here to tell you that this land, the land which we call ours, the land of the entire world, as experienced thus far by this body, and all that was and is left
of its senses, can be so godawful flat and vast and boring at times, sure, but not only is there a won drous beauty in all of that vast, boring flat ness, but when that terrain gets divided up, for example by such varied magni ficences as the oz arks, the ouachitas, the appalachians, the rockies, the rolling hills of utah or the endless mountainous highways in vermont, the grand canyon, the metropol ises or the blips, even
those two- maybe three-
dog towns, over nation al parks like yosemite and yellowstone, each of these are wonders to behold again and again. there is a deep, mesmeric beauty in all of it – a texture and a unique history and a gorgeousness in every step or mile or parcel of land on which you might have found yourself, whether it be only once ever, or dozens of times, be they long or short bouts studied, deciphered, and then, remembered, and I can’t imagine a square inch of it to which I would not return, happily, to take it all in once again, to dive ever deeper within (the great lakes, the creek banks and riverbanks, the ponds and the swimming or fishing lakes that some times seem to take up most of whatever great state in which which each is gloriously embed ded). and while, for various harsh reasons, I haven’t driven out of this city for nearly a decade now
of the two and a half in which
I’ve called it home, and although
I lost, before my 50th year had passed, every single material item that I’d
up to that point gathered,
deciding for some reason
or other not to let go, what a
resounding privilege it has
nonetheless been to be
variously transported from pacific to atlantic and back again, etc. the sum of each and every moment of every single mile traveled has been the greatest
accumulation of blessings
that I have beheld. and I shall return, I have no doubt,
Jennifer Grey dug up her diaries. They were dusty. They’d been in a crate for some time. She’d written them from when she was fourteen until she was forty-one. She says about dancing that she has a very interesting relationship with dancing. “It’s all about con nection. You just feel it,” and “the thing is if you love to dance, you have to dance,” and “If you’re not a good dancer, it doesn’t fucking matter.” I think she said fucking. It was bleeped out of her interview on Seth Myers. Also, she hates the term diarist. It’s
embarrassing is what she means, I guess, to be dubbed a diarist. To explain, she talks about when she opened that crate and dusted off the diaries to read them for the first time (She had decided she was going to write a memoir – she’s a celebrity, so, of course.) – they were very musty, she says. She had this surprising realization that she was the same person at fourteen that she was at forty-one. It was almost all silly stuff about crushes. She was disappointed. She thought perhaps she’d have matured during that timeframe, at least a little. So, anyway, she wrote the memoir, which gets good reviews (from a review on Amazon: “This memoir is one of a kind. It’s intimate and honest. Candid and raw. Nothing is held back…”), and so she’s come out of her mostly reclusive life – there’s hasn’t been a lot of spotlight since the brouhaha died down from her infamous nose job, it seems – to do a press junket for the book and, while I was never a fan of the big movie she did with Patrick Swayze (to say the least, and with apologies; the big dancing movie for me from that era, or so, was, of course, Footloose, just so you know), and by extension of that, I honestly never paid much attention to Jennifer Grey (that is, until I realized, quite surprisingly, that she happens to be Joel Grey’s daughter (and it is here that I cannot help but add that the guy here with two degrees in theatre has only seen one show on Broadway, and I’ve always
taken great satisfaction and
pride in the fact that at that
one single show that I saw on Broadway, I experienced the wonder of seeing Mr. Grey do a little song and dance number – it was a revival of Chicago, which also starred Lilith from Cheers, I believe, (and yes, that number was “Mister Cellophane”), and that connection, of
Joel to Jennifer, must have only become known to me some eight or nine years ago, I suppose? Any
way, so after tonight,
I’m a big Jennifer
Grey fan because I can totally relate to her. Also, apparently she and Madonna were pals, and in the interview with Myers she says that Madonna’s hit “Express Yourself” was inspired by Jennifer. So, while I don’t think Madonna ever wrote a song inspired by me, there is a lot that I have in common with Jennifer Grey. And that’s cool enough to give a little shout out, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I did, anyway.
Schöne Wrote Palavras bonitas Lus zoo Όμορφα λόγια (Ómorfa lógia( Sheyn verter (שיין ווערטער) ʻŌlelo Nani Ładne słowa Красивые лова (Krasivyye slova) Từ ngữ đẹp Palabras bonitas 예쁜 말 (yeppeun mal) 漂亮的話 (Piàoliang dehuà) Belle parole அழகான வார்த்தைகள் (Aḻakāṉa vārttaikaḷ) Hezka slová Amagambo mez সুন্দর শব্দ (Sundara śabda) Lijepe riječi စကားလုံးလှလှလေးတွေ (hcakarrlone lhalhalayytway) Әдемі сөздер (Ädemi sözder) Paraules Boniques सुंदर शब्द (sundar shabd) Cuvinte frumoase Mooi woorde Faclan Bòidheac Erayada Quruxda Badan Керемет сөздөр (Keremet sözdör) Matahum nga mga Pulong Mantswe a Matle Vackra ord Mooie woorden Maneno Mazri Матур сүзләр Belaj vortoj Gražūs žodžiai کلمات زیب Awọn ọrọ lẹwaคำสวย (Khả s̄wy) સુંદર શબ્દો (Sundara śabdō) Geiriau Pretty Хөөрхөн үгс (Khöörkhön ügs) Bèl Mo Teny tsara tarehy Pretty words
You didn’t expect me to list them all, did you? Right here? Who’s to say what words might be pretty to you? Only you, I suppose. And how might your pretty compare to my pretty? Wouldn’t the beauty of the sound of words vary wildly among cultures, not to mention, as I just said above, among individuals? What if every word and every language is pretty to me. I believe this must be true if my faculties are still in order. One might spend a lifetime seek ing out all of the pretty words in the world and find only a tiny por
Sure, it’s nice and even a big relief to get straightforward talk, under standable personality, mood swings that have logic, instructions that are easy to follow to a conclusion, to rec oncile a budget or a checking or cred it card account. But, oh the allure of mystery, of something or someone that makes no sense at all, at least at first; that takes a lot of work fig uring out. And to read a book that has you backtracking and rereading previous pages to see how you must have missed something because what?! Or that mesmerizing quality when you first meet someone who has that certain chemistry you’re always looking for, and you look into their eyes and there are all sorts of contradictions, and you wonder is he just teasing, is he flat-out lying, is this a real true-to-the-facts story with which he’s regaling you, luring you in almost inconceivably, irretrievably. And then you look closer, once you’re in the light of day, at those tricky, tantalizing eyes that drew you in for so many hours the night before, and that’s when you get it, almost literally (or maybe you do, literally) pop your noggin with the palm of your hand as in Now I get it; this makes total sense! His eyes are, no lie, two completely different colors. And you’re a Gemini, to boot. When you had glumly made your way to the nightclub the evening before, a more fortuitous turn of events could have scarcely been envisioned.
How can I even begin to thank you for these? Their power is indescribable, how just a few words, sometimes it could be from a perfect stranger, sometimes from the one person you believe to be the cause of let’s say a month of worries, at least, can with but a moment of attention along with a few peaceful words, perhaps they are recon ciliatory, perhaps just complimentary, some times it might just be “Hey, how are you doing in there, fella?!” can in one fell swoop eliminate all of your woes. You tell yourself through it all to think positively. You promise yourself you’re going to make this day a beau tiful experience. You swear that in order to displace anxiety and grief and despondence you’ll be gracious and full of gratitude. And sometimes it works. Sometimes it does actually work. But most often it doesn’t. And then out of nowhere you become the recipient of a few kind words, directed at you, sometimes they are all but innocuous. And as your hero ex its your office, or your room, or as you pass each other after the brief exchange, say, on a sidewalk, or at the grocery store or at Target, having been at first taken aback that you’ve run into a friend or acquaintance, or bristling at first because a stranger has approached and begun to speak – when you go your separate ways, a smile crawls all the way across your face and you feel a wave of relief as whatever that’s crept into your system and sort of rotted there for however long its been gets somehow released by an exhalation or two through that broadening smile, and life is good again, it’s a beautiful day, you feel your mojo and your motivation seeping back and there’s an electricity inside of you that you’ve missed for too long, and there’s a bounce in your step that you thought you lost thanks to that ache in the bottom of your back that you somehow no longer feel . . . .
no. 14 – A Thank You Note to the Will, the Initiative and the Discipline to Bring Palpable, Seeable and Fruitful Accomplishments into This World on an Ongoing Basis
It’s perfectly normal and okay to feel pride at what you’ve clearly done in this world, if what you’ve done has brought more positive than negative into the atmos phere of this godforsaken earth. But is it pride that says when you say to yourself “Look at this!” (and, for real, “Look at this!”) Or is it just that impera tive means of motivation that will move you over the hump and to the com
In general, I’ve seen a lifetime of, by all appearances, as far as I can surmise, a long set of progression in which there is three steps forward, followed inevitably by about two steps back. This is not a mathematic al absolute, more in a bit on
how this is definitely not one
one of those times now, but it has been something I have lived long enough to come to appreciate, particularly during the times in which the whole world seems to be stepping backwards. I guess if this is actually a note of appreciation, it is sent not to faith, based upon the logic of my own per sonal history. I could give co untless examples. Or point to gay strides, which, in my life time, has been more of a spr int (in general, and, once ag
ain, there will be more about
how this unfortunately has changed in my most modern existence), with little to no backwards movement at all. Sure, there was the Prop 8 punch in the gut, and was it ever (a punch in the gut). That was steps backwards, but it did not last long, and it never went any further back than we al ready were only relative moments ago. But the punch in the gut was simultaneous with the election of our first pres ident of color, a stupen dous step forward. These things have always tended to even out. In my lifetime. So, for the purposes of this letter of appreciation, the a formentioned “difficult times” would be those timeframes during which the steps back ward were being taken with
the quick bounce of steps for
ward. One could argue that
backwards and forwards are
matters of opinion of course.
And I confess that I have
no idea what you, the indi vidual to whom I’m add
ressing this note, feel is moving backwards versus moving forwards. So let met clarify this. If you are of a general opinion that the last few years haven’t simply been the difficult times when the two steps backwards are transpiring and we’re just waiting around, biting our nails, all antsy with angst and anxiety awaiting the pivot back to forward, back toward progress, knowing full well that it will inevitably come . . .? Well, let me be fervently clear when I say that what we are in the middle of now is definitely NOT one of those traditional dif ficult times. I appre ciate the determina tion and the solidif ication of values that those bygone difficult times gave me. But this, this, my friend, and I do hope you are my friend and can re late to what I have to say here, this is not a difficult time for which I’m grate ful. This is way too many steps back, I fear. I miss and do very much apprec iate the difficult times of yesteryear. I hope you do, too. Enough to make a quorum, and give me faith that we’ll make our way back to a big leap in pro gress, followed by
a bit of a backlash,
perhaps, but always followed soon enough, by another big leap
no. 11 – A Thank You Note to S.O.S., 9-1-1 and Fleeting Employment
I am thinking that, as an assistant who is on the verge of having a missing mouses breakdown, any thing I might could do to assist you is the answer to my help with a question mark.
Having had the misfortune of several years without any of these sessions, and yet having experienced thereafter
and ever since such a lovely sum of seemingly endless, warm, happy durations of lips pressed onto lips, and with a partner other wise entwined and mobile (legs, arms, spine, etc.), what effervescent mem ories, and what hell-bent desire burns in me to know first-hand that penultimate flurry of ecstasy again. A cessation of such sensations might be just the thing to keep one alive in such times as these, not just a drought but a prolifera tion of disastrous distancing and disconnections that have led to such a dizzying, fogheaded retreat that leads me further and further along this bleak path toward some solitary center. And what if I find my way there, wending through a thorn- filled muck? What if I reach my very center? Does one have it in him to then turn around and find a way out again? And not only out of me but out the door and onto, where, say, a dancefloor, say, Peru, say, I have arr ived at the airport and would I be on time, would I even be, as in have yet to kick the bucket? I used to travel the world. I used to be a cartographer. What else might be pressed softly by a pair of lips spending an evening in each other’s comp any? And that is to say nothing of the tongue. How to keep these of my own uncracked, and not yet casketed, before they see such borders and such boundaries once again explode?
Some nights I’d give anything for a casual embrace. Meet someone on subway or street
corner & live together forever. —Lewis Warsh
This is an appreciation of having a sense of purpose. A particular purpose. I’d rather not delve too deeply into this sense for fear of succumbing to the silliness of it, the ridiculousness of what is really not just purpose – I could say an elevated or higher purpose, or come right out with the notion that I feel like I’ve been put here for a reason. That I’ve a duty to perform this reason, to see it through to its end, best as I can. Which means I believe in my pumped up, egomaniacal self. And this is imp ortant. How else would these lofty notions be swirling around so? Sure, I should be putting together better strategies; I should have better than a six-month or so plan that I never quite get into the first month of. I don’t even think I have all of the answers, or even most of them. But don’t I have a few of the questions? Doesn’t it go a bit beyond that? Why preach for hour upon hour, red-faced, in support of anything, if I don’t believe in it? And purport to listen intently to my red-faced companion,
the two of us
growing more
and more adamant?
I’ve revised my plan over and over again. And
over the years, it has been
honed down to just one word,
all else seeming superfluous:
listening. That’ll teach them!
I am but a receptacle with no
action. A barrel of knowledge with nothing doing. A mere suggestion box never once opened. This is when one stops being a deity. “You’re doing well, Del!” Sit. Breathe. Take a break for a couple of years. Then, if still doing
Let’s not, however, get side- tracked by negativity. The impulse to give thanks does not come from such a del eterious source. One thing that might be said to bring it all about is having about oneself a general optimism, happy begetting happy, etc., so from wherever this part icular characteristic (and it is within me) might have derived (and I have my own ideas, in fact, I’m pretty certain that it isn’t mere genetics, but in my case, I do so much believe, a certain rebellion or repulsion of the opposite, being as sur rounded as I was by it from the tender ages and at least until I left for college), I feel quite lucky to have picked it up, this veritable spring that from so deep within must keep me with at least a toe or two yet in my youth and what comes from it shines a light upon the day or, say, the night, my path ahead always a bit less indeter minate, yet dimmer still than it once was, let’s say, but still less clouded and less bleak than most times that,
no. 4 – A Thank You Note To Liberty (Lost & Found)
If we happen to cross paths without a hello, with no wave of recognition, if I pretend not to notice, thinking, somewhat sourly, “old friend,” behind a furrowed veil of older skin with in which I might be flushed all of a sudden with misbegotten giddiness, memories, a voice speaking, in reverse, within, inwardly, that says “what nonsense!” and says “you old fool!” . . . .
If who you see, should your eyes be let go, to settle for a bit up on this person that is me (and
was) seems almost recognizable
save a certain grim and overbear
ing emptiness upon my sagging
slab of face, as if a curtain limp
ly furled right at the precipice
of a cold and empty stage, its aura (I once had one and did it ever glow; or else I think it did—do you remember?)—an aura. It shone as if my soul had some great news to tell . . . .
If this look that I now portray disturbs you in the least or is unsettling and/or (furthermore) should it generate if but a faint, a tiny feeling, say, of pain, as if a pin too dull had set about to prick you in the heart, a feeling, a pain, but not remorse, I do not wish you ill, of course, for surely the short purpose left in me was made corrupt by no-fault tragedy (an act of God, they say), or the blame I’ve placed for these declining years upon myself was never mine nor was it ever yours . . . .
I have known much more liberty than this. In fact, have I known even less? I must confess I have. But that which you see emptied of me is gone for lack of it, of liberty, I mean, the sweet thirst-quenching freedom I once knew when I knew you, or thought I did, and you convincingly (I did not even think to doubt— how much time passed from when we met must it have taken to get there; I am summarily a skeptic, as you know. Or did you ever?), and well, if not enough; and you knew me.
no. 3 – A Thank You Note to Not Becoming a Disappointed (and Disappointing) Old Man
granted, this note of gratitude is premature, at best; perhaps it verges on the fantastical. however, even if the chances of a positive outcome are debatable, i figure that this small attempt at facing inev itability with such a forced and focused attitude might possibly help getting from here to there be a bit more sustainable and enduring — if not a degree or so more pleasant — than any alter native perspectives might. here’s to hoping that’ll be the general trend, anyway.
I’m not known for my criminal work. I’m not known for much of anything. One of those state ments is true and one of those statements is false. Which is which?
Hint: Who knows anyone? Hint: What do you know? Who do you know? I know, I know, I’m either tamper ing with evidence or lead ing the witness. But what are we witnessing? And can I get an amen?
The question is: What are you witnessing? Is it an optical illusion? Is this sleight of hand? In gen eral, leading questions are not allowed during the direct examination of a witness. However, they are allowed during
I come from a long line of sturdy frames, nice arch itecture: I’m talking about my thus far unbreakable bones. And a genetic pre disposition for the taste of milk to quench a thirst, or just about anytime other wise, for that matter. Milk. It really slakes a thirst. Plenty of personal evidence shows that a tall, singular glass (or 2) can function nicely as a complete meal. I have popped my noggin onto the low-hanging arch of a bus’ front entrance maybe a total of ten times at maximum hoppity-skippity im pact, it’s true – it should be said, given I’m spreading so much truth, that I am quite a clumsy dude – and each time I’d stand back upright, and kind of slink up the bus entrance steps and into my seat, with nothing but a little bump atop my head. There are similar endings to similar events from toddler-dom to pre sent. Thanks, for example, to a yappy nipper and an overly afeared colt that I hap pened to be atop, I’ve shot straight up into the sky and – I’m told in seem ingly slow motion – flipped a one-eighty at the apex and bolted head down into the ground, which happened to be covered in gravel at that particular spot, scaring “the living shit” out of my dad, who quickly hopped off the mare and carried me home where I was given quite a bit of att ention for naught but another bump on my head. I’ve walked full speed into doors, be they glass or wood en, the porch door of the home in which I was raised (several times), bathroom doors, mall entranc es, pasture gates and pasture fences. I’ve had my big toe get caught between the chain and gear of my bicycle once, and spun nearly all the way back out again before even realizing what a pickle I’d gotten myself into, and later the same eve ning received five stitches over the top of said toe while dad and the doctor shook their heads back and forth in awe of only the skin being broken. I’ve hammered thumbs and forefingers, had fingers slammed into doors and caught in electrically raised car windows, so snug I thought surely they’d pop right off my hand and out onto the inter state, but never, not even once, has any crazy clumsy collision or accident of such proportions caused anything but broken skin or a lump on the skull or bit of discoloration that quickly faded away, and here I am a month away from double nick els, never having worn a cast, or bro ken even a pink ie. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s a whole lot for which to be thankful.
The world can be such a nightmare. And this life of mine has surely been quite the uphill battle back to some semblance over the past half dozen years. Five years ago today I was kicked to the streets, where I mostly remained for almost two years. And I started a new job recently; one I’d love to keep, but one in which I was hired as a fill-in, a temp—a contract job. I’d been employee at nothing
but gigs that quickly turned out to be, if not immediately begun, as full-time positions all my working life until about 12 years ago, when I parted ways with a job and the man for whom I’d worked for ten solid years, as he transitioned, we transitioned, through three jobs, each more “elevated” than the previous. After that, I had the
luxury of taking a couple of years
off, began to look again during what turned out to be a recession, wherein most all employment in my profession was contractual, short-term, and I have been niched into that square peg
of work ever since, it seems. Anyway, there are a lot of things that can quite easily get me down, whether simply psychologically, or due to lit eral downtrodden, penny- pinching circumstances. What is there to do that might get me, and finally, back over the hump and up into a life-space within which I feel more comfort able, that seems more nat ural and less derogatory if not plain torturous? Well, something that works for me is to focus on ways in which I can be thankful. It turns out, through even the worst of the times I’ve found myself in, there are always plenty of things for which I have a full heart of gratitude. Thus begins what shall be a set of me anderings over things for which I am thankful. Like you, of course. Here’s to giving thanks for a few days with gusto. Kindly stay tuned. Or simply come back at your leisure. I don’t seem to be going away. Thank fully (for me,
my hyperbolized—my fanta sized—mother, my heart broken (stolen?) reality, oh, Mom! Is this (really?) what it’s like? A sort of tongue-in-cheek, perjor ative call to arms?
I read the news today— oh, boy. . . .
So what do I now have in his stead? It appears to be a slice of chocolate cake with strawberry icing. Or else cherry icing? The intent of it, the calendar that hangs upon my wall, like the gregorian calen dar itself. . . .
I am to provide a sense of structure, of normalcy and steadfastness.
The higher purpose of any civil rights move ment is to incite move ment toward an equal ity, toward an ideal, an ideal set of civil rights, true or false? It isn’t to. . . .
Wake up! Walk! Three steps for ward, two steps backward.
I’d rather give my self up for a mere tidbit of reparation than be the math ematician who’s in charge of summing up all of our steps backward and for ward, only to sur mize regression.
Say it ain’t so, Joe!
When the struggles are this idiotic. When, in summation, I’m dumb as a bum in a battle am I, cog in the wheel of a civilization that’s just been slung such a wrench.
At the burial ground of battle-cries, one of us has to start shoveling.
Oh, Mom. Oh, Mom, Oh, Mom, Oh, Mom, Oh Mom, I could have done you so much better.
We are no cinematic adventure, true or false? I’d say false, if ever there was one, a cinematic adventure, that is; and you might probably beg to differ. And who cares? After all, we’re just a couple
of critics. But if you ask me (and you didn’t—)(—mind you, I’m not here to apologize). . . . But. If you were to ask me. What I’d say is that ours is a show that should most definitely be taken on the road. Indefinitely. If for no better reason than to spread those vivid, real-time, and they lived happily ever afters out
as far and wide as the Great Divide.
Which, these days, as we both well know, is about as far and about as wide as anything could possibly get.
I/Think it is the writing that makes/Me sick. —Cedar Sigo
I suggest to most anyone that I have a lousy memory, and I believe this to be true. But, say, when I’m asked to regurgitate what I’ve been doing all day, or for any dur ation, I most often reach a very solid and anxiety-in ducing blank, unable to be gin to even explain what it was I was just a moment ago doing. That doesn’t mean, though, that I’m not so often, if not rather incessantly, flooded with memories. And some of those memories seem to cloud my brain more com pletely than others. For example, dad’s cattle that were kept up Pine Mountain when I was just old enough to re member anything, or to bring that memory with me this far, any way. These, my first cattle and pine mem ories, on Grandpa’s coniferous land, which would soon be sold, so that the cows, poor things (or maybe not, I suppose I couldn’t at all judge such bo vine notions), were nomads, moving from pasture to pasture, in Franklin County and beyond – Logan, Sebastian, etc. – count ies with names all too similar to the names of all of those Lolita- esque, teenage lovers one could find in almost any of the heady gay novels of the 80’s or 90’s, which were al ways so dreary and full of the plague, and they were the same names that would appear as the names of char acters in those tv series that began to pop up not too long afterward, the ones with the hypersexual char acters wherein the teen-esque drama would mostly trans pire on expansive dancefloors off of which (and through the television set) us gawkers could swear we could lit erally smell the ec stasy emanating. These televisions had always been fortuitously hooked up in some messy way (and illicitly, most usually) to an unknowing neighbor’s cable box, or else to one of those newfangled dishes that started popping up on apart ment roofs everywhere. Not by me, though – I was never the hacker in any of my clicks. But I would at least occasionally gawk at these more life-affirm ing, soap-sud shows. These were suddenly happier times. Some how. It was as if there was a collectively con scious decision. But death was still a stench that just could not be escaped, much as the smell of the pine trees that lined the trail that I’d walk with my dad halfway up Pine Mount ain to call the few (but always growing number) of cows down to be fed. Somehow this admixture
of pine and cowpies and ecstasy and death still lingers with me, so that I can close my eyes and take a long and deep breath, and there they are, all within me, I’m smelling them alto gether and also in dividually. I can pick each out. Which is hardly un pleasant. It’s just inescapable, this olfactory nostalgia that fills my nose for days on end sometimes. And by the time the air is cleared, or I’m filled with new aromas, be they from the present or the past, that same mix is back, a blast from the past that remains present, with pro mises of reprisal, making home out of anywhere and everywhere.
“Can you get more specific,” said the attorney, my first, who wasn’t an actual attorney, just something of an advocate, but I’d avoided such things for over half a century, except
when schmoozing in board rooms, schmoozing of the most naïve and hunky-dory kind, nothing improper about schmoozing, or that’s what they teach us in the textbooks, I was never comfor
table schmoozing. An “advocate,” she called herself, with “over 25 years” of dealing with the folks down at general assistance. “So, these folks, the ones we’re taught are our
advocates, they’re actually . . . evil?” I ask, a bit lost in space, a bit more lost in space than usual. There was a pause, I think, and so it was a dramatic one, by all means, until
she kind of quietly said (the most calm portion of the hour and a half-long conversation), “Yeah, they’re evil.” Long, extended silence. Which was quite a change from one of us steamrolling the
words of the other, something I know I do all the time when I get a bit too excited, something she did because she’s not an attorney but an advocate working with the folks who deal with the folks down
at general assistance, day in, day out. It was one of those draining “Aha!” moments. At least for me, surely not for her, Sabrina was her name, no, surely
not for Sabrina, because she’s been doing this for
25 years, right? She knows the idiosyncrasies of how to handle these things, of how to fight them, even though she’s not a real lawyer. I had just been doing what I was told to do, answering the
questions honestly, saying everything I thought relevant. But it turns out that what’s relevant has nothing to do with how I was wronged, how I was lied to, that simply doesn’t matter. It has
nothing to do with the fact that everyone on the other end of the phone down at general assistance kept repeating the same lie, which, upon being repeated and repeated, despite the fact that it
was absolutely untrue, was, according to my advocate-not-attorney, and here I’m not sure exactly whether she, well, she kept asking me why I did that, what they said I did, that I didn’t
do, over and over she asked me that. And I’d tell her no, nothing of the sort, and then I’d say what I said instead, and then what they each had told me, the promises I’d gotten from
all of these people on the other end of the phone that were simply not going to happen. Sabrina was completely uninterested in this part. I’d been coerced this morning into, well, I’m not
even sure. I was just handed a phone, told what to say. This before I met over the phone my first and only advocate-not- attorney. How helpless I felt. I had
followed their every request. I had double-checked and triple-checked that I was doing things correctly, in such a way that when I showed up
today I’d get my check. There was no check. Will there ever be one? It was promised? But yet. Why was I spending half the day speaking
with Sabrina, my advocate-not-attorney, who answered when I was given the number for legal aid and told I needed to speak with an attorney; that that will help? Will she? Or
will I, at some point, finally break, finally realize that everyone is evil, that I’m just performing whatever I’m told for kicks, and not my own, but somebody else’s? Whose I wonder?
These ranchers are nonetheless jolly, which, whose noses turned in rancor, rank in memory nothing of the stinker we expect. Oh, honey- bush, you just hush. Like these two fans blowing at each other all the way until dawn and back again, we flip ourselves over and around, over and around this world of blood-covered veneer. It’s a queer world, you and me and our blood- curdling glee, holding onto each other’s heads for dear life, at least, after all, until our mottled carrion becomes the dinner that we boiled from break fast all the way through lunch.
My content is not satisfied but it was once, true or false? Turns out, it’s a strange and beautiful world, this all-too- happening planet. I am intent upon taking you some where. Is the journey pleasant? Please fill in the blank. Are your customers sat isfied? I mean, I know you’d never fill out the survey (I told our market ing guys to just take you off the list, but I know when you receive them in your bloated inbox – I get pinged every single time) because some things work and some things do not. And then we’re down to the specifics and it’s like we’re living that feeling of help lessness all over again. And who wants to do that? Oh, I kvetch. I bitch and moan. And, you know, what if I actually believe that I provide fairly un wavering top-notch customer service and yet – let’s face it, the truth about any sat isfaction I do or do not provide lies within the skulls and the chest cavities of others. I’ve been working on my presentation. Half a century mingling amongst humanity, what a sullen word, amongst the citizenry, almost entirely unable to portray any one but someone you can’t help but like, is interesting, is complex, slightly mischievous, at ease with the performed efficacy of being earnest, knowing when to wall up and when to be too revealing – right! No matter that the entire script is written and performed to break down everything; that fourth wall doth confuse, doth skew the portrayal into something so other that it’s often the opp osite of authorial intent. “This ain’t me you see,” I want to scream at you all, every last one of you. But I’m much more left- brained than my passion must (might? probably does not in the least) con vey; I can do that math. The sum of me has very little to do with who I think I am. But if I never meet the guy who lives inside my skin, it won’t be because I did not try. Nope. I figure, until or unless I’m pro vided a more enticing distrac tion, if I never crack the nut that finally re veals my very essence, I will surely have died trying.
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