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The Irony Storm
I feel that something has happened to upset the irony balance on the planet and so we should all be careful with our meanings until such a time I deem it safe to carry on. Why I should be in charge of such an important task I cannot tell you but something has to be done. Everybody, please be careful. Also, everyday, you might want to try to find somebody who really likes you no matter what, and utter a few proclamations of what you deem to be simple, literal truth. See what happens. But again, I implore you--be careful. You may find that the people you thought really liked you only like you when you speak about the weather and other subjects that in no way challenge the potential balance of the meaning of meaning. Or it may turn out that your friend cannot understand you unless your speech is peppered with irony. This is not just about drunken, awol, frat boy, mama's boy world leaders in flight jackets but you can use that as an example if you have reached this far and are scratching your head--irony?
Leaving this phenomenon unchecked we run the risk that simple truth will be lost forever. Our vacuous and vapid popular culture will rule the day, as it now appears to be--let's hope temporarily--ruling the world.
Thanksgiving 2003
The idea of looking for meaning in a meaningless world was underscored by the kid in the pantry when he said, "what's the use?" in response to his mother's admonishment and subsequent offer of compromise.
I was going to tell the kid the use but it gets complicated and its hard to be sure how to say it exactly and it really gets difficult when trying to explain it to someone so much closer to immortality, as children know themselves to be.
But kid, as I see it, the use is to simply be, to survive every onslaught, and absorb as much or a little more than as much as you can stand and then give something back so that you don't become a human black hole.
I celebrated Thanksgiving with other humans this year. Contrary to my affinity for solitary existence I enjoy humans pretty well, obviously some more than others, but the repetitive action of interpreting new personalities and approximating appropriate response has left me feeling, while somewhat satisfied, totally frayed.
Of course I medicated throughout with deep breaths and alcohol, one day having my first Guinness shortly after noontime, and my last shorty before 10 pm. And then there's that surprising emotion of missing people once they are gone which I am not as experienced dealing with as perhaps I should be.
I called my nearly ninety-year-old mother Thanksgiving night, ashamedly I admit only after being prodded to, and she is doing fine but seemed a little frail, and the deterioration of her memory is not a completely new thing but I hated hearing it over the phone, my least favorite communication device. I guess she was forgetting that rarity of rarities, my recent writing to her, with return address clearly marked on envelope, and we danced shyly and awkwardly around the fact that it was proving to be a rather difficult task for her to hear, remember, and write down the five numbers of my Rappahannock zip code. Of course why should any mother have to remember so many addresses? Why won't that son just stay put somewhere?
As I think of all the addresses I may inhabit over the next several months I look forward for better or worse to the blur of uncertainty. If I just remember to keep those frayed edges trimmed I'll be okeedokey.
Welcome Home
Not having anything to say, why should that stop me?
My nephew got back--is back in America-- from his job as a military grunt, flying around in helicopters, in Iraq.
So many helicopter headlines these days that I can't tell you how relieved I am. Some things are no fun to consider.
Hi, welcome to my wordless world.
I'll have the baby cakes and bacon, ok, more coffee?, please, cold enough for you?, yes, very much so.
Where do thoughts go?
I See Colors
Fall colors, yeah, that's one thing. A thing like the top rated TV show or the weekend's top movie or the bitchin' automobile driven in the weekend's top movie. But if you are looking for real color wait until all the leaves fall down. Wait for that low lying winter sun to cast upward shadows. Wait for those colors that have no name.
Kid Not
The thing about working for yourself is that not only is your boss an asshole, your only worker is a no good slacker.
It's Friday in Rappahannock, latter part of November, and the day is looking too perfect for working.
Who's in charge here?
I am
You're fired.
I will miss the park when I leave so I should go there today, work tomorrow when all the weekenders are flooding in.
You got beaten up with premonition the last time you went to the park.
Jesus, I know, and it all came true.
You scared?
Are you kidding?
What then?
I'm going back.
The Calendar
Wow, Okay, another great sunrise. What have I got, what have I got?
There's this, that calendar thing: it has sprouted new tentacles.
Some clergymen have told other clergymen to lighten up and even the Rappahannock News has not so subtly implied that the Baptists are a little overboard on their anti-nudity stance.
The calendar, conceived as a fundraiser, and which I finally got the courage to look at, is black and white photographs of local Rappahannock men, some old, some young, nude but with essentials covered up. There is one shot of naked butts, younger men, that may titillate some, somewhat. Otherwise, the calendar is totally tame and even has one or two shots which in my unschooled opinion contain some artistic merit.
One of the anti-calendar preachers offered this bible verse, which I really like, and so here it is: "Whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy--meditate on these things."
The anti-calendar preacher who offered the bible verse ( from the apostle Paul, fourth chapter of Philippians) meant to imply that the calendar was not something to meditate on.
Obviously, we all must decide for our ownselves what is "lovely."
And good luck to each of us.
Wait For Me
To the person living under my house in New Orleans I have to warn you that we have called the police.
--I don't see any phone wires under here--
You can't stay there.
--Why not?--
First and foremost because you snore, mane.
--I can sleep on my side, if you had just told me earlier...--
No, I'm telling you now, go find a shelter.
--People f with you in them shelters, they steal your shit, and I got beat up last time.--
You probably got beat up because you pissed somebody off not doing what they ask you to do.
--Man was trying to handle me.--
And you're driving the neighbor's dogs crazy. So you snore and the dogs bark, it's no good.
--I could sleep on your couch?--
No.
--People aren't nice to me.--
It is unnatural for some to be nice.
--I won't snore, please...--
Look man, I'll give you a ride to an uptown shelter, that's the best I'm going to do for you.
--You're not here to give me a ride.--
I will be there.
--When?--
Soon.
--Ok, I'll wait for you.--
The Inn At Little What?
You might ask what could be better than the chococlate cream pie at a Waffle House and the truth is nothing is better unless you think back to the night before and that foi gras laid atop medium rare handcut tenderloin filets, with baby carrots, and potatoes baked in cream, preceded by sushi-grade tuna seared in some herbs I can't remember and wines I can't specifically remember that well either except they were French, Californian, and South African.
So it turns out fine dining really is fine and can in this case be seen as the reward for your laissez-faire attitude concerning work--or "sure" being your answer to the question "can you stay until Monday morning?"
There was a wine from the night before, I think Sonoma Valley born, that is made from vines which grow out of holes bored into rock, creating that stress which surviving makes all of us tastier.
Did I mention the mashed sweet potatoes yet?
So, that was Bucks County, PA., where horses named Bear and Jacque may be this very minute loitering near the bottle dump, chomping on the soft two by four toenailed brace of our design.
Down With Love
I was telling Miss J at the video store/art gallery, "you know what you need in here--a beer machine." She nodded knowingly, as if I'd just said, "ice is cold," and said if it weren't for all the complications of an ABC liquor license they would have a beer machine. I was returning two that I really enjoyed, The Good Thief, and Identity, and thought hey, while I'm here, mine as well get another one. This was Monday, they're closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, who knows when I'll get another Netflix (it is just as predicted, Netflix treats you really well in the earlier stages of your membership but they f you around a little as time goes by), and so I just picked up the first thing that caught my eye.
J said, "this is what you're getting?" I said, "yeah," and then noticed to my left the discreetly placed calendar reputedly full of semi-naked local men. "I'm glad you have this somewhat hidden in case one of God's little children should come in here."
J said, "I know, I feel like I'm running a porn shop now." We, the locals, both temporary and permanent, don't have just a whole lot of in your face local news to discuss so we are getting maximum mileage out of this little local charity effort which somehow found it's way to Good Morning America last week. J and I stretched the conversation about as far as it could go without a beer machine and then she said again, "so this is what you're getting?"
I caught the little bit of attitude in her voice this time, which was seeming to imply that my standards were going to hell in a handbasket. "Yeah J," I said, " this is what I'm getting, a light silly romantic comedy (Down With Love), so whaddaya?"
"Oh nothing," J said, "she (Renee Zellweger) was good in Chicago, did you see that?"
"Not yet," I said.
"She's good."
"Yeah, she's cute," I said.
Furthermore, I quite liked it, so shoot me, or, go shoot your ownself for that matter.
Hunger
The only thing I have on my mind right now is being hungry. And the next word. Unfinished business. Church steeples. A tennis ball. Wrinkled shirts. Leaves on the ground.
Next paragraph. He is still hungry. Cognition brings distraction.
Sunrose.
Oh yes, now I remember, the dreams, not so bad last night.
Thirty-eight minutes until I can eat.
Other People's Children
I was having the worst cheeseburger ever with all the other sheep, at MacDonalds in Culpeper, and even with the power to seat myself I ended up by the restrooms, surrounded by tables full of children. You know how children will sometimes stare at you with that look of recognition like they are recognizing something so obvious and you just want to smile at them because you don't want to seem stupid, or mean, or out of the loop, but mostly you just want to be back in touch with the essence of that most pure curiousity that seeps or overflows from the pores of children?
This one little girl was bequiling me with her charm and ability to find 16 different ways to sit in her chair and her father was trying to make her eat the same thing I was having, those little plain cheeseburgers, which as I mentioned, are nasty, so I know she wasn't just being picky or a 3 year old brat when she said to him with perfect timing, delivery, and attitude--YOU eat it. I had to look up and smile at this and when I did she was looking right at me, smiling back. Other people's children make me so happy sometimes.
Business Or Pleasure?
Boy, that John Cassavettes sure got himself in a pickle in The Killing of a Chinese Bookie. What great fun. I have it paused, indefinitely, so it will last longer.
This has been a real gas for me this Rappahannock sabbatical from the urban environment. There was a brief point where New Orleans and all its complexities disappeared like it one day will under twenty feet of water and I was all be here now and shit but I'm on the downhill side of my stay and I'm starting to yearn for fresh oysters and shrimp and the beginning of crawfish season in February. And I miss ghosts.
I guess I won't miss the heavy tourist inundation, I mean we're all tourists yeah, but in such a small town the overwhelming influx is sometimes disheartening.
I haven't looked up an old friend in DC but I could have, that was a possibility that existed for me. I drove up to NY a couple of times, met a few new people. That was fun.
I miss the shy waitresses at the Chinese Buffet on the West Bank.
And the plate lunches at the grocery on Canal and Carrollton.
I'm a bigtimer bopping to another country estate next weekend, up in PA., hey ma, look at me.
I've met a few bright children from the DC area who will be future diplomats, and senators, and heads of multinational corporations.
Met a few hippies.
Weather-wise, this may have been the most pleasant summer I've ever spent.
I had a swimming pool.
I had some ideas.
Pretty soon I'll be sitting on a porch in a New Orleans ghetto, thinking about breakfasts at the Country Cafe in Little Washington, and Rae's in Sperryville. The dealers will sling. I will stare at them with blank eyes. And we will all be minding our own fucking business.
The Other Caretaker
That other caretaker over there is already working, burning a pile of something which sends a white plume up into the sunrise.
I took the brace off of Betty's gravestone yesterday. None of her people came to see her on All Souls Day so maybe there are no more people as far as Betty is concerned.
The white plume is now a miasma obscuring my forward vision.
Jimmy the pool guy came and closed the pool Sunday. We had a few laughs. The pool now looks like a trampoline. He asked me if I wanted him to disconnect the diving board. I said, "well, I was thinking about the kids..." He said, "kids, say no more." So the diving board is disconnected.
Now I can smell my fellow caretaker's burning work. Smells like the Wall Street Journal, burnt possum, walnut, chestnut, and hickory.
Last night I watched on DVD Camille Claudel. She was one of Rodin's lovers and possibly a superior artist in the sense that she was portrayed to be more purely tied to her work and not at all to the conventions of her time. Her reward was the DVD, the shattered heart, the madness, and the eventual incarceration. She spent the last thirty years of her life locked up in a mental institution.
Since I don't remember so well after the fact I would like to inform Dave that three of his Netflix suggestions are either in my P.O. Box today or will be there tomorrow. They are, or will be, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, High and Low, and The Lady Eve.
I got an email from my brother yesterday. It included a picture of his very tanned son, Micah, in a flak jacket with bayonet in pocket over heart, or solar plexus, in front of a Chinook helicopter with crude Dallas Cowboys helmet emblem, standing next to Bruce Willis, in Iraq. He looked really great my nephew did. It was so good to see him.
Miss Jeanne
I was shocked by it and then overwhelmed with the dull ache of undefined emotion. She wasn't even someone I knew but I have accessed the pain of her leaving, strangely combined with every sad thing I have ever collected. Tears are our reward for unspoken anquish, through which the living see sunrises. Please rest peacefully Miss Jeanne.
America The Beautiful
I was keeping my eye out the window on that star hovering over the Lower East Side as I laid comfortably awake on a couch that was deceptively comfortable. I would leave when I couldn't see the star anymore and go move my vehicle parked nearby.
In the parking lot I studied a map for a minute but who am I kidding, I don't read maps that well. Winging it had me on Delancey going the wrong direction and right before the Williamsburg bridge with the sun in my eyes blinding me to the reality that cops are everywhere I jumped a piece of real estate that we call neutral grounds in New Orleans and other people call medians but in New York the cops call...
...rushing across the street two NY traffic cops are gesticulating, at me I guess.
"Sir, what the hell are you doin, you wanna tell me that, just what the hell you're doin? Jumpin a sidewalk? Are you crazy, you can't jump sidewalks, where are you from?"
"I know I'm a f***up but I'm turned around again and I can't go over the Williamsburg Bridge, I'm tired of my mistakes and I have no business in Williamsburg." I said all this in pleading voice.
The lead cop paused to look at my inspection sticker, with it's distinctive upside down white crescent on red background, and said, "Oh, you're from New Orleans, I just got back from New Orleans two weeks ago, great town, I go a couple a times a year!"
It was barely seven in the morning, cars were rushing off the bridge from Williamsburg, looking at me up on on this sidewalk/neutral ground/median hanging out the window talking, now just talking, conversationally, to these two cops.
"You know, it's more expensive down there than I would have thought."
"You're staying in the Quarter?"
"Yeah."
"They get you pretty good there and all up Canal, yeah."
"I go twice a year, like in October and April; the weather was perfect this last time."
"Those are good times; don't go in the summer though, it will break your heart."
"Yeah, it get's hot I hear. Hey, where you goin, you goin back to New Orleans now? You need directions, you want me to lead you out of here," the lead cop said happily.
I told him my plans, the most immediate being the entering of the Holland Tunnel and about Virginia and New Orleans and how I was thinking about moving after all that, maybe next spring. The second cop said,
"You're not thinking about moving here!" I think he meant it in a nice way like you seem all free spirited being able to consider moving any place you like so why the hell would you consider New York. I have so many thoughts. I could have told him a few of them but it might have been embarrassing for all of us so I just spoke the blanket truth.
"I don't know where I'm going or where I'll end up most of the time."
The lead cop gave me directions, making sure I knew the Bowery and how to spell it, and then the right on Canal, easy as pie.
I got lost three more times between the tunnel and my eventual departure from Jersey City, where I spent the earliest part of the morning napping upright on a bench with a sack full of books between my knees and a sliver of the sun on my face listening through my headphones to Catpower and every so often smelling the sweet aftershave or perfume of morning passersby. I would open my eyes to look at a dog barking at a puppy or a mother pushing her baby on the swingset and since it was Halloween there was also a dog or two in full costume: capes, hats, dinosaur suits and such.
Very close to where I stay, in familiar territory, someone took down all the pertinent road signs, so I got lost again, added an hour to the trip, against my will exploring new roads through the pastoral beauty of farmland backdropped with mountains backdropped with an exploding red, white, and blue sunset while my hand got numb from squeezing the steering wheel because I was trying not to fall asleep at the wheel.