My wife and I were having problems. Not the kind that are talked out, or even talked of – rather, the kind of problems where, when we look at each other, it is plain that we both would prefer to be looking at something else. The wall, maybe, or the sink, if it is not full of dishes. At any rate, the passion was gone. That’s how she phrased it, one night, during one of our rare verbal outbursts. "The passion is gone!" she declared with a jabbing finger. "The love between us has grown stale."
I responded that I did not like it when she got "Fresh" with me, which was a witty and fresh thing to say, doubly so because her irrationality had set in as we were deciding what to order for dinner. She had thrown the menus to the floor and huffed that I “always have to over-qualify everything!” Well, I’m sorry. Sorry that I fail to find remote geographical justice in the fact that there can be tons of Canadian bacon on a pizza, but they throw a few piddling slices of canned pineapple on there and suddenly the whole pizza is “Hawaiian?” It’s a nonsense arrangement. Canada is always being forgotten.
Lois was right, though: The passion was gone. Inasmuch as the passion was ever there, was ever not-gone between two people who had agreed to hasten their wedding when the Mother-of-the-Bride’s gout went into unexpected remission.
She told her sister about the Pizza Incident without telling me that she had told her, which was smart, actually, because her sister is an unconscionable snoop and I cannot. Tolerate. Her. And sure enough: Just three days after the PI, we received a call from a self-described “Interactional Sufficiency Counselor” by the name of Professor Ford Spink. Not a “telephone" call, mind you. This was an old-fashioned, “here-I-am-at-your-doorstep, don’t-mind-if-I-push-my-way-into-your-sitting-room" call. His face glistened with oil and his thick, wild mustache evoked the facial stylings of a close-minded walrus. Before he had said a word I knew he was an associate of Lois’s sister, probably someone she had met at the local Lyon’s Club. He sat us down on either side of him and got straight to the business of pitching us on his Program, which promised to “restore an acceptable level of intimacy” to our relationship. I looked at Ford Spink, then past him at Lois, who had an appallingly congenial look on her face. But then he began to lay out the details of the Program, many of which were about doing the sex more often. Or, more accurately, thinking about doing more of the sex. This appealed to me, so I allowed him to continue without riposte.
The most intriguing element of the Program was a series of step-by-step guides he gave to each of us: Mine were under the heading “His Wild Behaviors” and the ones for Lois were called “Her Dark Places.” Ford was quite persuasive, and, after clarifying that he would accept payment in installments, we agreed to his conditionally-guaranteed 20-day Program to bring “something not unlike affection” back into our lives. We walked Professor Spink out to his Vespa, and, filled with the optimism that comes as you embark on something new and risky, we went straight to our separate bedrooms and spent the night devising ways to enjoy each other.
Not wanting to rush things, we had decided that our first foray into Project Learning to Like Our Deal (PLLOD) would happen two days hence. Steps 1, 2, and 3 fell under the heading “Choose the Other’s Adventure,” and involved composing a series of multiple-choice lists from which the other would select whichever choice they most fancied. At the agreed-upon time, we convened in the sitting room. I moved the furniture and arranged some couch pillows on the floor while Lois lit a votive candle and some incense she had purchased from the Target. When we were settled we looked at each other with apprehension. This was a slightly different sort of apprehension than I was used to, though – it was concerned with what she might say rather than if she might say something.
“Ready?” we asked at once, then traded lists and took up our pens. The directions for each of our lists were the same, and read as follows. Pet names are the centerpiece of establishing a viable connection between Man and Woman. Choose one of the following 5 options, created by your partner, which will be the nickname for your genitalia for the duration of Phase 1 of the Program. Trust is yet to be established at this early stage. Therefore, once the choices have been made (in silence), this task is complete. The next is to address in turn the other’s genitalia genially. Following introductions, you may ask if it would like to be engaged in some way, perhaps even fondled. Only after the re-naming has taken hold is this task complete.
We would not make it to Step Three that night.
For my Penis Nickname, Louis had given me the following choices:
1. Skewer Stick
2. Biscotti
3. Drain Rooter
4. Rolling Pin
5. Warner
I was disheartened. None of these choices were remotely acceptable: While Lois's shining attribute was her skill in navigating the kitchen, it was expressly not my domain, and the notion of applying any of those choices to my bedfellow was grimace-worthy. "Rolling Pin" had momentarily appealed to me – what with it being round and dense and thick – but it brought on the image of Lois in her apple-red apron, humming to herself as she applied an even coating of flour to my penis. "Drain Rooter" had an element of vigorous expulsion, but it conjured a visual of long, thin tubing covered in thick wiry hairs that was hardly appealing. Desperate to participate, I lightly sketched a question mark next to it. Perhaps the venture could be saved: I, at least, had invented for her a range of vaginal nicknames with nuance and specific evocative power.
But when I looked up I could see her straining. When at last she started to write something, her knuckles quickly grew white around her red #3 pencil and she began to scribble frantically. She stopped and looked up at me, her eyes ablaze. Her lips had disappeared into her mouth. I gazed back at her evenly, with a calm I might call "Zen-like" if "Zen" were not a word for hippies. We stared at each other for quite some time, an uncomfortable lack of space between our faces. A steady curl of rank incense smoke curled up from its home on the floor next to us. Lois had told me earlier that, at the store, she had had trouble choosing; apparently she had decided to go with the "Dirty Beach" scent. At last I spoke.
"Do you want to say something?"
She shook her head, but then held up her list to me, the paper trembling violently in her clenched fist. "What," she said, "what are these?"
"They are the choices for your vagina," I replied in a mistakenly optimistic tone.
The paper shook even more as she extended it toward me, mere inches from my face. The page was covered with the tiny random-seeming scribbles of her pencil, but beneath those lay the choices I had given her:
1. Foxhole
2. Little Bighorn
3. Operation Iron Triangle
4. Dakota's Canyon
5. Fort Sumter
Lois's whole body was shaking with emotion, but this coolness, this Zen-without-the-pussiness calm had taken hold of me. "I like 'Operation Iron Triangle'," I said. "Although admittedly much of that is because "OIT" is a fun acronym. And you know how I love a good acronym. 'Dakota's Canyon' is probably my favorite. It has the most power."
"It's a fucking canyon!" she screamed.
My voice softened in response. "Yes. And it does reference essentially the same thing as 'Little Bighorn', I realize," I said. "But it implies the broader range of Cheyenne stomping grounds, which gives it more metaphorical oomph."
"I know what it is!" yelled Lois. "I can't help but know! You never shut up about those stupid sad Western Indian battles that no one cares about!"
This struck me to the core. "Only two of the five are Native American battle references. 'Sumter', you should know, is Civil War, and OIT is Vietnam. And what about 'Foxhole'? It has 'fox' right there in it, and 'fox' is supposedly a sexy word."
"Hole is not! And if I have to tell you,” she said as she sucked in a frantic breath, “if I have to tell you that 'hole' is not a word i want associated with my girl-part –"
But I cut her off, my Zen-ness evaporated. "You want to tell me about 'Skewer Stick' then? You want to explain to me 'Biscotti' or 'Rolling Pin' or how all of your choices relegate my man parts to your beloved goddamned kitchen?" Lois recoiled, literally – she drew her knees to her chest and looked at the floor.
"What about 'Warner'?" she asked, her tone unexpectedly meek. "You like the name Warner.”
"I do," I answered. "It took me some years, but I have grown a certain fondness for it. And I'm glad I did, seeing as how it's my middle name." She looked at me, then, and I would swear that in that second she saw what I saw. She looked very tired.
Simultaneously we began to stand and without thinking I offered her my palm; we pulled each other to our feet. Lois sniffled; I drew a long, deep breath through my nose, which I do when I get emotional. We looked at each other a second more, then started to move away to our usual bedrooms. But Louis could not stop herself; she reached out and touched my shoulder:
“'Foxhole'? Really? The best name you could give my wetty-wet is the place you go to hide from bombs?”
I said, "You left me only with 'Warner.' And it is already a name I have. So what about that."
“I can’t stand the thought of it,” she said. The distance between us was miniscule. We stood there for some time, our eyes leveled, unchanging. I could not recall ever having been part of a literal stand-off, and for the first time it occurred to me that I would be quite good at it. Never mind the “stand-on” or the “stand-around” – the stand-off I could do.
But then her grip tightened around my arm and she pulled me towards her. Her hips pressed into mine, just slightly, but with a suggestion that was almost foreign. I froze, stunned. It felt good and I was stunned.
"Goodnight, Warner," she cooed. My pelvis retracted from hers in an instant. Was her sass deliberate or just willfully ignorant?
Either way, I would get off the last shot. "Goodnight, Operation Iron Triangle," I said. “I’ll see you in the foxhole at oh-five hundred.” With that I turned away, and with a little faux-goosestep I began to march down the hall.
“See you then,” she called after me, “Make sure your skewer stick is polished, Private!”
“Plenty of room for it in the foxhole!” I kept marching.
02 October 2005
21 September 2005
Things I Know About Writing. (TIKAW)
so i am scrambling to get pages laid down and in order for grad school apps due next week. the muse is supposed to be around, you know, encouraging me -- laying a re-assuring and slightly suggestive hand on my knee. maybe chucking my chin once in a while. turns out the muse is high maintenance; the muserly id is constantly in need of stroking. i cannot afford a fluffer, so a lot of my time is spent finding things to keep the muse occupied. one thing i came across is this bit, TIKAW, that i wrote for a friend a while back. after reading it the muse posited that the things it illustrates are very different from what i set out to illustrate. i responded that sometimes being illustrative is good enough.
1. when I find myself pondering the question of What I Want To Write About, I have already taken a wrong turn; this question does no good at all unless I am living in the summer cottage that i built out on the Edge or am like 20 years old and all self-righteous and obsessive. the matter needs to be turned on its own edge, to address either:
a. to Whom am I writing – the question of audience is all-important in that it provides a jumping-off point: when I pick one soul I know reasonably (or imaginatively) well, and just start moving my pen across the page, very quickly I find that the matter of what is interesting and what is not becomes clear; and since all writing is intended to have an audience, I have found that the narrower I allow the scope to be – one person as opposed to one pepsi focus group-style demographic – the more readily I am able to choose one particular voice or aim or intent.
b. What do find interesting. today. in this moment. right at this very second. this is far from an insightful track; except that how it has manifested for me is very simple: I sit and think of a first line. just a good opening line, with no thought to what comes after or from where it may come, except that both of those considerations are sort of the point – a good first line does have something that comes after (what with it being the First and all), but also it tells of something that has already transpired. so I write the first line, then pick up that thread and write the 1 – 2 pages that follow it. if I am really hopelessly stuckedly grim, I make a list of first lines. no thinking allowed : just write them. just write
i. The floorboard creaked under his heel, an ominous aide memoire of that night during his boyhood when the Nurse had turned loose a shoebox of crickets in his bedroom.
ii. As morning sunlight curled around the building’s edge and poured into the room, the devastation was plain; and she wondered if it had been necessary.
iii. Maybe she just needs to be reminded, he thought as he took down his pants.
2. …or whatever -- just go. the old self-helperly pre-eminents may sing the praises of moving the pen across the page. and that is true. but one of the few partners to that practice is, I think, a confidence. a cockiness: you can write without being concerned whether you’re writing about something that is important; your goal is to get to where you’re writing without caring whether it is any good. if you enjoyed it – if you labored through your first page and then without noticing you began to forget yourself and your fingers began to quiver all on their own and then you take a breath or a smoke break or whatever, your job is done. nice work. you do it again; you take a small window of your life and make it sacred, make it dedicated to the pursuit of Whatever You Think Of At The Time. and, soon enough, that becomes part of you. this is good at the same time that it is nothing to tell the girls about. but you keep doing it, because it does feel damnably good to produce and to sanction a spot in your head and your life, without expectation. and the thing of it is, shauna, the thing of it is that creativity needs a petri dish: it needs a familiar framework in which it can move and bounce and copulate. that is what you are after now – parameters that fit your particular head. this list is not called Things You Should Know That I Already Know About Writing, and there’s a reason for that. at the same time that there’s a reason that I knew in advance that I would sit down to write you a list and I would get caught up in it, would have you as my audience at the back of my head and would not be able to segment it off, to write it in a voice that did not have you particularly in mind.
3. sometimes making a list lets you believe that you have more than one worthwhile thing to say because you don't have to support any your ideas, you can just move on to the next thing on the list. and sometimes that feels nice.
1. when I find myself pondering the question of What I Want To Write About, I have already taken a wrong turn; this question does no good at all unless I am living in the summer cottage that i built out on the Edge or am like 20 years old and all self-righteous and obsessive. the matter needs to be turned on its own edge, to address either:
a. to Whom am I writing – the question of audience is all-important in that it provides a jumping-off point: when I pick one soul I know reasonably (or imaginatively) well, and just start moving my pen across the page, very quickly I find that the matter of what is interesting and what is not becomes clear; and since all writing is intended to have an audience, I have found that the narrower I allow the scope to be – one person as opposed to one pepsi focus group-style demographic – the more readily I am able to choose one particular voice or aim or intent.
b. What do find interesting. today. in this moment. right at this very second. this is far from an insightful track; except that how it has manifested for me is very simple: I sit and think of a first line. just a good opening line, with no thought to what comes after or from where it may come, except that both of those considerations are sort of the point – a good first line does have something that comes after (what with it being the First and all), but also it tells of something that has already transpired. so I write the first line, then pick up that thread and write the 1 – 2 pages that follow it. if I am really hopelessly stuckedly grim, I make a list of first lines. no thinking allowed : just write them. just write
i. The floorboard creaked under his heel, an ominous aide memoire of that night during his boyhood when the Nurse had turned loose a shoebox of crickets in his bedroom.
ii. As morning sunlight curled around the building’s edge and poured into the room, the devastation was plain; and she wondered if it had been necessary.
iii. Maybe she just needs to be reminded, he thought as he took down his pants.
2. …or whatever -- just go. the old self-helperly pre-eminents may sing the praises of moving the pen across the page. and that is true. but one of the few partners to that practice is, I think, a confidence. a cockiness: you can write without being concerned whether you’re writing about something that is important; your goal is to get to where you’re writing without caring whether it is any good. if you enjoyed it – if you labored through your first page and then without noticing you began to forget yourself and your fingers began to quiver all on their own and then you take a breath or a smoke break or whatever, your job is done. nice work. you do it again; you take a small window of your life and make it sacred, make it dedicated to the pursuit of Whatever You Think Of At The Time. and, soon enough, that becomes part of you. this is good at the same time that it is nothing to tell the girls about. but you keep doing it, because it does feel damnably good to produce and to sanction a spot in your head and your life, without expectation. and the thing of it is, shauna, the thing of it is that creativity needs a petri dish: it needs a familiar framework in which it can move and bounce and copulate. that is what you are after now – parameters that fit your particular head. this list is not called Things You Should Know That I Already Know About Writing, and there’s a reason for that. at the same time that there’s a reason that I knew in advance that I would sit down to write you a list and I would get caught up in it, would have you as my audience at the back of my head and would not be able to segment it off, to write it in a voice that did not have you particularly in mind.
3. sometimes making a list lets you believe that you have more than one worthwhile thing to say because you don't have to support any your ideas, you can just move on to the next thing on the list. and sometimes that feels nice.
28 August 2005
Les Storéables!
A Play in One Part of One Act
by Marques the Sade
Cast (in order of appearance):
- Marques, an employee – Despite the eager green of the polo he wears beneath his red apron, Marques is a weary-beyond-his-years part-time employee who is convinced that everything sad he sees is important. Marques has rapidly graying hair that is matched by the graying of his worldview.
- The German Woman, a customer – Has a fine point for a nose and blue plastic daffodils for eyes. The German Woman’s shiny skin comes into view at the toe line of her black flats and continues up to the hem of her simple black dress, which is roughly the size and shape of an oven mitt. An oven mitt, with holes cut in it for the arms and head. Her voice is melodic, which is unusual since it is also German. In one arm she cradles a pair of brown cowboy boots.
- Samad, a manager – Is the kind of person people talk about only by accident. Samad raises his voice only when announcing things everyone already knows. The length and slope of his neck suggest the lovechild of Snoop Dogg and Dopey Dwarf. Samad’s idea of keeping things light is encouraging his underlings to call him “Sam-to-tha-Ad.”
- The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s, two customers who buy nothing – Against the backdrop of un-tucked white button-downs with the collars open, The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s wear striped rayon ties loose around their necks. They each are drinking Slurpees and smile at everything, making it clear that the weed is stashed in the glove box of the ’85 Peugeot, which they share.
The scene - The interior of Storables, a place of business that sells boxes and box accessories, which exist in a number well beyond reason. It is a sunny August Saturday afternoon and customers are scarce. Having been zoned in the windowless back quadrant of the store with the hanging shoe racks and the closet poles, Marques busies himself by imagining a screenplay starring a deaf child who speaks only in beat-box and the gay priest who saves him.
The German Woman walks past him on her way to the shoe racks. The eyes of Marques bob in time with her tiny hips. Marques follows her at a distance which is discreet, though the shape of his mouth is not.
Marques: Are you finding everything?
The German Woman (Holding up a metal hanging-rack system with one hand while the other holds a pair of cowboy boots): Does zis really fit on top of ze dohr?
Marques: Zes, ahem, yes. This one is the display model, so the hooks are bent a bit. (Marques takes the rack from her and straightens the metal hooks in as suggestive a way as possible.)
The German Woman: Now it vill fit?
Marques: It’ll fit. It may be tight, but it will fit. Anyway our return policy is so open.
The German Woman (moving rapidly away): Vell then, tank you I see.
As Marques watches The German Woman walk toward the exit, he feels a voice calling to him as if from behind his nutsack.
Samad: The rods should be straight at all times!
Marques: Vertical.
Samad: Perfectly vertical! The rods.
Marques: What was I thinking.
Samad brushes past Marques, his nipples jutting out authoritatively from behind his shirt. Samad does not wear an apron. The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s appear at the other end of the aisle.
Marques: Hello. How are you doing.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s are busy slurping from their Slurpees. They wave at him. Marques momentarily considers them both to be deaf and wonders after their beat-boxing skills. Eventually they speak.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s: Hey man.
Marques: Are you finding everything?
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s (smiling): They make us ask the same thing at our store.
Marques: Where is that.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s: Bartell’s. Up the street.
Marques: Can I help you with anything.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s (smiling): It hurts me, you know?
The Other Dude Who Work at Bartell’s: Fully. It’s like I ask if you need anything then you are guaranteed to ask where to find the keychain studfinders we haven’t carried in like eight years.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s: And you'll be very insistent and probably get upset.
The Other Dude Who Work at Bartell’s (pointing): Always. I think I see refrigerator magnets over there.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s: Let’s go.
(As he watches them move off, Marques considers that if he looks at his watch then he will know how long it is until his break.)
The end.
by Marques the Sade
Cast (in order of appearance):
- Marques, an employee – Despite the eager green of the polo he wears beneath his red apron, Marques is a weary-beyond-his-years part-time employee who is convinced that everything sad he sees is important. Marques has rapidly graying hair that is matched by the graying of his worldview.
- The German Woman, a customer – Has a fine point for a nose and blue plastic daffodils for eyes. The German Woman’s shiny skin comes into view at the toe line of her black flats and continues up to the hem of her simple black dress, which is roughly the size and shape of an oven mitt. An oven mitt, with holes cut in it for the arms and head. Her voice is melodic, which is unusual since it is also German. In one arm she cradles a pair of brown cowboy boots.
- Samad, a manager – Is the kind of person people talk about only by accident. Samad raises his voice only when announcing things everyone already knows. The length and slope of his neck suggest the lovechild of Snoop Dogg and Dopey Dwarf. Samad’s idea of keeping things light is encouraging his underlings to call him “Sam-to-tha-Ad.”
- The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s, two customers who buy nothing – Against the backdrop of un-tucked white button-downs with the collars open, The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s wear striped rayon ties loose around their necks. They each are drinking Slurpees and smile at everything, making it clear that the weed is stashed in the glove box of the ’85 Peugeot, which they share.
The scene - The interior of Storables, a place of business that sells boxes and box accessories, which exist in a number well beyond reason. It is a sunny August Saturday afternoon and customers are scarce. Having been zoned in the windowless back quadrant of the store with the hanging shoe racks and the closet poles, Marques busies himself by imagining a screenplay starring a deaf child who speaks only in beat-box and the gay priest who saves him.
The German Woman walks past him on her way to the shoe racks. The eyes of Marques bob in time with her tiny hips. Marques follows her at a distance which is discreet, though the shape of his mouth is not.
Marques: Are you finding everything?
The German Woman (Holding up a metal hanging-rack system with one hand while the other holds a pair of cowboy boots): Does zis really fit on top of ze dohr?
Marques: Zes, ahem, yes. This one is the display model, so the hooks are bent a bit. (Marques takes the rack from her and straightens the metal hooks in as suggestive a way as possible.)
The German Woman: Now it vill fit?
Marques: It’ll fit. It may be tight, but it will fit. Anyway our return policy is so open.
The German Woman (moving rapidly away): Vell then, tank you I see.
As Marques watches The German Woman walk toward the exit, he feels a voice calling to him as if from behind his nutsack.
Samad: The rods should be straight at all times!
Marques: Vertical.
Samad: Perfectly vertical! The rods.
Marques: What was I thinking.
Samad brushes past Marques, his nipples jutting out authoritatively from behind his shirt. Samad does not wear an apron. The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s appear at the other end of the aisle.
Marques: Hello. How are you doing.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s are busy slurping from their Slurpees. They wave at him. Marques momentarily considers them both to be deaf and wonders after their beat-boxing skills. Eventually they speak.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s: Hey man.
Marques: Are you finding everything?
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s (smiling): They make us ask the same thing at our store.
Marques: Where is that.
The Dudes Who Work at Bartell’s: Bartell’s. Up the street.
Marques: Can I help you with anything.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s (smiling): It hurts me, you know?
The Other Dude Who Work at Bartell’s: Fully. It’s like I ask if you need anything then you are guaranteed to ask where to find the keychain studfinders we haven’t carried in like eight years.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s: And you'll be very insistent and probably get upset.
The Other Dude Who Work at Bartell’s (pointing): Always. I think I see refrigerator magnets over there.
One of the Dudes Who Works at Bartell’s: Let’s go.
(As he watches them move off, Marques considers that if he looks at his watch then he will know how long it is until his break.)
The end.
26 August 2005
if I could just put it all into all I spit.
i haven't been around to post much lately. have been working quite a bit but even more have been working on my Dear Fat Kid piece trying to get 40 absolutely pristine pages laid down for grad school app purposes. it's starting to get pretty fun; i mean we're still in the first draft stages but close to having enough that i'll be able to spend the next weeks paring them down and playing around.
this past week my theme song, the one that my alarm plays when i try and wake up early so i can write some pages before work, is Rabbit Run from the 8 Mile soundtrack. i know, eminem as creative auteur -- sophisticated shit. but that song is all about digging down and finding the momentum you need to lay down words:
i'm like a skillet bubbling until it filters up
i'm about to kill it, i can feel it building up
blow this building up, i’ve concealed enough
my cup runneth over, i done filled it up,
the pen explodes and busts, ink spills my guts
you think all i do is stand here and feel my nuts;
well i'mma show you what, you gonna feel my rush
you don’t feel it, then it must be too real to touch
i'm about to tear shit up
goosebumps, yeah, i'mma make your hair sit up.
that's my battle cry. next week it might be the girl from ipanema, or whatever, but for now Em's got my back. the pap below is excerpted from pretty early on -- it's probably nonsense without any context at all, but, hell. i'm still writing this chapter and Patois has proved an unexpectedly fun character to write.
this past week my theme song, the one that my alarm plays when i try and wake up early so i can write some pages before work, is Rabbit Run from the 8 Mile soundtrack. i know, eminem as creative auteur -- sophisticated shit. but that song is all about digging down and finding the momentum you need to lay down words:
i'm like a skillet bubbling until it filters up
i'm about to kill it, i can feel it building up
blow this building up, i’ve concealed enough
my cup runneth over, i done filled it up,
the pen explodes and busts, ink spills my guts
you think all i do is stand here and feel my nuts;
well i'mma show you what, you gonna feel my rush
you don’t feel it, then it must be too real to touch
i'm about to tear shit up
goosebumps, yeah, i'mma make your hair sit up.
that's my battle cry. next week it might be the girl from ipanema, or whatever, but for now Em's got my back. the pap below is excerpted from pretty early on -- it's probably nonsense without any context at all, but, hell. i'm still writing this chapter and Patois has proved an unexpectedly fun character to write.
Dear Fat Kid,
..Yesterday, in your absence, I plugged around your house, just taking stock of things. And did so with an enthusiasm Howard Stern might call “the feeling of having your hand down the pants of somebody new.” (I do not think he discounted for the scenario in which the pants are empty – are in fact wedged in a time-honored dark place in the hallway closet where they live between stacks of brown boxes, all bearing the title “Things I Need” – but, still. The image has power.) I really gave myself over to the process; in the upstairs closet I modeled some of your clothes in the manner of a committed 9-year-old stalker. I cruised the other rooms looking for signs of life that stood out against all the unfamiliarity of your world now. (And found some stuff; more on that later.)
When I heard the knock at your back door I was in the middle of being disappointed by the lack of anything even mildly pervy under your bathroom sink. How does a person end up with five open cans of Comet, I wondered. None of them are even close to empty. Five? Somehow not aware of the B-grade snooping with which I was busy, I heard the knock and trundled downstairs to find your door open and a man sitting on your couch, a white dinner plate on his lap. I stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“Hi.” I waved at him.
“Greetings,” he said without looking up. From a leather hip purse he withdrew a small pair of scissors and a conservatory of marijuana stuffed into a vaccuum-sealed pouch. Removing a long, crystalline bud, he began to cut away slivers of weed that quickly piled on the plate. My suspicion that he had done this before was confirmed when he looked up at me while his fingers continued to work. The look on his face told me that he was confused; it was then that I remembered I was standing there barefoot, wearing a pair of striped legwarmers and your commemorative Linkin’ in Lincoln! sausage contest hat. “Welcome,” he said loudly, as if to a foreigner.
“Thanks for having me,” I said eventually. “It’s nice to be here.”
His forehead unwrinkled; he shrugged and bent again to his work. I went and sat down next to him on the couch – see, saving face is not the top concern when one is presented with a strange man getting ready to smoke drugs on your friend’s couch. And this man was strange: His long, flowy black locks matched perfectly by bulging eyes; his tailored, French-cuffed business shirt was complemented by fitted denim shorts and brown clogs.
I crossed my legs so I could better admire the legwarmers you used to wear during intramural basketball games. After a while I said, “I’m Hal, an old friend of Fats.”
“Yes, yes you are,” he said, rather as though I had told him something he’d already known, such as my pro-legwarmers attitude. He ran the blunt paper along his tongue and, following one fluid roll-smooth-and-twist motion, turned and presented me with a joint the size of George Foreman’s thumb. “The thing to know about this stuff is that it doesn’t take much,” he said. Between my wary lips the joint was frightening for its girth; just the scent was so powerful as to be dizzying. High-ifying.
“I haven’t smoked weed since—”
“Shh,” he said. “Hush. Now is not the time.” He flicked a silver lighter to life and extended it to me, and as I took a deep drag he announced, “I am Patrick, though Fats calls me Patois.” I began to cough with enthusiasm.
“If it’s been that long,” he said, “you could be in real trouble.”
When I heard the knock at your back door I was in the middle of being disappointed by the lack of anything even mildly pervy under your bathroom sink. How does a person end up with five open cans of Comet, I wondered. None of them are even close to empty. Five? Somehow not aware of the B-grade snooping with which I was busy, I heard the knock and trundled downstairs to find your door open and a man sitting on your couch, a white dinner plate on his lap. I stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“Hi.” I waved at him.
“Greetings,” he said without looking up. From a leather hip purse he withdrew a small pair of scissors and a conservatory of marijuana stuffed into a vaccuum-sealed pouch. Removing a long, crystalline bud, he began to cut away slivers of weed that quickly piled on the plate. My suspicion that he had done this before was confirmed when he looked up at me while his fingers continued to work. The look on his face told me that he was confused; it was then that I remembered I was standing there barefoot, wearing a pair of striped legwarmers and your commemorative Linkin’ in Lincoln! sausage contest hat. “Welcome,” he said loudly, as if to a foreigner.
“Thanks for having me,” I said eventually. “It’s nice to be here.”
His forehead unwrinkled; he shrugged and bent again to his work. I went and sat down next to him on the couch – see, saving face is not the top concern when one is presented with a strange man getting ready to smoke drugs on your friend’s couch. And this man was strange: His long, flowy black locks matched perfectly by bulging eyes; his tailored, French-cuffed business shirt was complemented by fitted denim shorts and brown clogs.
I crossed my legs so I could better admire the legwarmers you used to wear during intramural basketball games. After a while I said, “I’m Hal, an old friend of Fats.”
“Yes, yes you are,” he said, rather as though I had told him something he’d already known, such as my pro-legwarmers attitude. He ran the blunt paper along his tongue and, following one fluid roll-smooth-and-twist motion, turned and presented me with a joint the size of George Foreman’s thumb. “The thing to know about this stuff is that it doesn’t take much,” he said. Between my wary lips the joint was frightening for its girth; just the scent was so powerful as to be dizzying. High-ifying.
“I haven’t smoked weed since—”
“Shh,” he said. “Hush. Now is not the time.” He flicked a silver lighter to life and extended it to me, and as I took a deep drag he announced, “I am Patrick, though Fats calls me Patois.” I began to cough with enthusiasm.
“If it’s been that long,” he said, “you could be in real trouble.”
21 August 2005
ogle goggles.
her eyes have a gleam, a glisten and crack
they look from between sharp strands of bangs.
god, how her eyes do inquire
and lay down that affection be given
they legislate faster than congress
or the bodies thereof.
they demand that i look longer than planned
that i suck the marrow from life
--but i am not so sure what "marrow" is,
just that it has something to do with bones--
instead let's say her eyes tell me to draw
in my breath, to wait for a beat
to hold if i please,
and enjoy having lost track of what's real.
they look from between sharp strands of bangs.
god, how her eyes do inquire
and lay down that affection be given
they legislate faster than congress
or the bodies thereof.
they demand that i look longer than planned
that i suck the marrow from life
--but i am not so sure what "marrow" is,
just that it has something to do with bones--
instead let's say her eyes tell me to draw
in my breath, to wait for a beat
to hold if i please,
and enjoy having lost track of what's real.
you. complete. me.
from the collection Riddles for a Person of Medium-High Culture.
If it weren't for all this ______1_____ surrounding us, trying to _____2______ our every attempt at ______3_____, we totally would have _____4______ by now. That much is clear. As it stands though our task, our true task, is to _____5______ with a vehemence becoming a _____6______ on the night of her first true _____7______.
No. No, I remember your first ______8_____, of course i do -- it's not as though you would allow me to forget the slightest degail -- but it doesn't count. Why? Because of the way it happened, the way you tell of the _____9______ that took you by "surprise," you say, and _____10______ you in the back _____11______. That by itself is barely credible, but when you insist on emphasizing the _____12______ and how you knew you shouldn't keep _____13______, but you couldn't help it, how every time you opened your eyes you saw only _____14______ and felt fated to _____15______ again ... That's why it doesn't count. It's either fake or it came way after your first or both. Well, let's discuss it more later.
What we need to focus on right now is neither your _____16______ nor even my _____17______; our efforts must concentrate on finding the best, most ____18_______ way to _____19______ in the history of _____20______. Their humiliation at our _____21______ will be all the more profound if we were to _____22______ in some public fashion, don't you think? Yes, let's. Let's do it until the _____23______ come _____24______, until all they can think of is our _____25______ and how they will never _____26______ again.
Answer Key:
1. twinkling
2. blink
3. sparkling
4. Penguin City
5. thinkthinkthink
6. coterie extravagance
7. intersection
8. con-de-jour
9. circumspection
10. hallowed
11. vithertulously
12. "spirituality"
13. fucking around
14. sweet, sweet thighs
15. bless & bless
16. insight
17. foresight
18. difficult
19. hypothesize
20. it all
21. concern
22. blast it all
23. carabinieri
24. fire us
25. giddy juiciness
26. try this all
(thanks to the esteemed dr bryn for her help in sussing out the answers.)
If it weren't for all this ______1_____ surrounding us, trying to _____2______ our every attempt at ______3_____, we totally would have _____4______ by now. That much is clear. As it stands though our task, our true task, is to _____5______ with a vehemence becoming a _____6______ on the night of her first true _____7______.
No. No, I remember your first ______8_____, of course i do -- it's not as though you would allow me to forget the slightest degail -- but it doesn't count. Why? Because of the way it happened, the way you tell of the _____9______ that took you by "surprise," you say, and _____10______ you in the back _____11______. That by itself is barely credible, but when you insist on emphasizing the _____12______ and how you knew you shouldn't keep _____13______, but you couldn't help it, how every time you opened your eyes you saw only _____14______ and felt fated to _____15______ again ... That's why it doesn't count. It's either fake or it came way after your first or both. Well, let's discuss it more later.
What we need to focus on right now is neither your _____16______ nor even my _____17______; our efforts must concentrate on finding the best, most ____18_______ way to _____19______ in the history of _____20______. Their humiliation at our _____21______ will be all the more profound if we were to _____22______ in some public fashion, don't you think? Yes, let's. Let's do it until the _____23______ come _____24______, until all they can think of is our _____25______ and how they will never _____26______ again.
Answer Key:
1. twinkling
2. blink
3. sparkling
4. Penguin City
5. thinkthinkthink
6. coterie extravagance
7. intersection
8. con-de-jour
9. circumspection
10. hallowed
11. vithertulously
12. "spirituality"
13. fucking around
14. sweet, sweet thighs
15. bless & bless
16. insight
17. foresight
18. difficult
19. hypothesize
20. it all
21. concern
22. blast it all
23. carabinieri
24. fire us
25. giddy juiciness
26. try this all
(thanks to the esteemed dr bryn for her help in sussing out the answers.)
21 July 2005
i can write as many stories as i want
in the next 2 or 3 years and not run out of character names; cos today at the hospital office i filed away all the info for the incoming class of chaplain interns. some of the highlights (and there are more):
2. Alegria Albers
3. Jack Brace
5. Shayne Flowers
9. Chevy Spink
10. Bong Yang
15. Eunice Awino
16. Kollin Hogan
17. Junker Wong
18. Flavia Roach
Eunice is in kenya right now so there's no way to confirm it, but the suspicion within the office is that her name is actually pronounced A Whino. which is almost too explicit: it's like a Catch-22 name.
Alegria Albers is just beautiful; definitely she has had a lilting concerto written for her by a tortured autistic wunderkind from austria or romania or somewhere.
now that i am 30, my age prohibits me from commenting on the name Bong Yang without
a) sounding like the faux-cynical stoner of my late 20s who deliberately mis-pronounced it Ambi-ition or
b) dating the fuck out of myself by making a 16 Candles No More Yanky My Wanky the Donger Need Food reference.
Flavia Roach is a woman, and a dignified one. which is a very good thing as it will save her from the unsavory consequences of being mistaken for Flavah Roach, the roadie who stole off with the cooler containing the entire supply of nicey-nices for Too Short's west coast tour.
2. Alegria Albers
3. Jack Brace
5. Shayne Flowers
9. Chevy Spink
10. Bong Yang
15. Eunice Awino
16. Kollin Hogan
17. Junker Wong
18. Flavia Roach
Eunice is in kenya right now so there's no way to confirm it, but the suspicion within the office is that her name is actually pronounced A Whino. which is almost too explicit: it's like a Catch-22 name.
Alegria Albers is just beautiful; definitely she has had a lilting concerto written for her by a tortured autistic wunderkind from austria or romania or somewhere.
now that i am 30, my age prohibits me from commenting on the name Bong Yang without
a) sounding like the faux-cynical stoner of my late 20s who deliberately mis-pronounced it Ambi-ition or
b) dating the fuck out of myself by making a 16 Candles No More Yanky My Wanky the Donger Need Food reference.
Flavia Roach is a woman, and a dignified one. which is a very good thing as it will save her from the unsavory consequences of being mistaken for Flavah Roach, the roadie who stole off with the cooler containing the entire supply of nicey-nices for Too Short's west coast tour.
13 July 2005
she looks so good in those smartypants.
she gathers up her keys and smokes, kisses the air, turns away. a silence ensues as she walks off. soon enough, the two friends refocus and find themselves looking at each other across the table.
we both just watched her leave, says the first.
probably, says the second friend, probably that has happened before and we just haven't noticed it.
i guess usually i watch while she walks off, says the first friend, neither confessing nor confiding. there's something almost austere about her now.
totally! agrees the second. lately i've been noticing that every time i'm with her... she has a, not a sadness but a somberness to her lately. and it’s a good thing; I know it’s a good thing but I can’t figure out why I know that, because I love her, her kind of humor.
when she’s on. but yeah, usually she's on so much of the time — she’s so f'ing sharp — you love it. when she turns on you, even. even then it doesn’t matter much because the way it’s funny to you; it smarts.
right. and you know this because, because you —
love it too, yes.
you do. okay. sometimes you sound like yoda if he became a therapist? but, of course you do. so what is it about her?
which part, then?
the part that is like the class clown only mean.
he laughs. the class clown only by default, but she does have that part. because right at the start she gets tired of the class clown – she decides to wait for him in the parking lot after school.
she mixes her school-related metaphors.
but she does it so fast, relentless, and the class clown doesn’t know to defend himself, and then he is all sad inside, and takes off his clown hat and gives it to her. and now, back in class, she has it in her lap.
just holding it. but what I’m asking is why her being in a smart and reflective phase makes her less barbed. barb-ish.
barby.
right, but not. it’s not like I don’t want to be around her now, quite the opposite. but she has this reserve about her, almost; she is a lot slower to rise to the surface and bite.
well, the class clown and the smartest person in class are different people.
that’s why.
that’s why. those are the types. they're just a bump on each end of the graph -- any time you go towards one you move away from the other.
we both just watched her leave, says the first.
probably, says the second friend, probably that has happened before and we just haven't noticed it.
i guess usually i watch while she walks off, says the first friend, neither confessing nor confiding. there's something almost austere about her now.
totally! agrees the second. lately i've been noticing that every time i'm with her... she has a, not a sadness but a somberness to her lately. and it’s a good thing; I know it’s a good thing but I can’t figure out why I know that, because I love her, her kind of humor.
when she’s on. but yeah, usually she's on so much of the time — she’s so f'ing sharp — you love it. when she turns on you, even. even then it doesn’t matter much because the way it’s funny to you; it smarts.
right. and you know this because, because you —
love it too, yes.
you do. okay. sometimes you sound like yoda if he became a therapist? but, of course you do. so what is it about her?
which part, then?
the part that is like the class clown only mean.
he laughs. the class clown only by default, but she does have that part. because right at the start she gets tired of the class clown – she decides to wait for him in the parking lot after school.
she mixes her school-related metaphors.
but she does it so fast, relentless, and the class clown doesn’t know to defend himself, and then he is all sad inside, and takes off his clown hat and gives it to her. and now, back in class, she has it in her lap.
just holding it. but what I’m asking is why her being in a smart and reflective phase makes her less barbed. barb-ish.
barby.
right, but not. it’s not like I don’t want to be around her now, quite the opposite. but she has this reserve about her, almost; she is a lot slower to rise to the surface and bite.
well, the class clown and the smartest person in class are different people.
that’s why.
that’s why. those are the types. they're just a bump on each end of the graph -- any time you go towards one you move away from the other.
26 June 2005
all grows up and grows up.
am seated outside in the chilly air, here at the coffeeshop, trying to sketch out a savings/budget plan -- trying to look sophisticated and unflappable. and failing; i just caught my reflection in the window and saw that my face resembles that of a sexually confused gerbil. my 30th birthday is tomorrow. it looms -- not the i-will-now-weave-you-a-fabulous-hemp-blanket kind of loom, but more the abstract-yet-ominous signifier type. on this last day of 20somethingness i am struggling in my search for a bit of peace; for a bit of confidence, a bit of resoluteness in the face of the sizeable solitude that sits before me. as well as to find a way or a mode by which i can do a good job of loving the ones i love. ..and the task feels wantonly tall, today, shit. why is that? shit. i don't know.
so here i am on this gray windy sunday. i try to sit still while i fight the inertia, while i struggle against an all-at-once need for a comprehensive mission statement**. and i do eventually succeed: my body manages, for just a moment, to pass from idleness into stillness, and, then, the furthest-back place in my head clears its throat and ever-so-calmly reminds that the only needed means of strengthening myself lies in remembering my loves. just stating them to myself. then stating them to the ones i love. then demonstrating it where i can; even if, today, that is just the saying of it, there is something very nearly big in the small number of words it takes to do so. then: i love you, my peops, my bruddahs and sistahs who have been and will be there for me; you know who you are; i love you. you have kept your hands on me, have offered me your arm even at times when it has been damnably inconvenient and downright hard. i love you. am so grateful.
** thus far, rejected candidates include:
"I understand perfectly, but that doesn't mean you have to get all emotional."
"Is that really necessary?"
"Mark's Eightfold Abs - The way to the end of suffering that will help you grasp the impermanent and imperfect nature of worldly ideas and make your tummy the envy of everyone if properly developed"
so here i am on this gray windy sunday. i try to sit still while i fight the inertia, while i struggle against an all-at-once need for a comprehensive mission statement**. and i do eventually succeed: my body manages, for just a moment, to pass from idleness into stillness, and, then, the furthest-back place in my head clears its throat and ever-so-calmly reminds that the only needed means of strengthening myself lies in remembering my loves. just stating them to myself. then stating them to the ones i love. then demonstrating it where i can; even if, today, that is just the saying of it, there is something very nearly big in the small number of words it takes to do so. then: i love you, my peops, my bruddahs and sistahs who have been and will be there for me; you know who you are; i love you. you have kept your hands on me, have offered me your arm even at times when it has been damnably inconvenient and downright hard. i love you. am so grateful.
** thus far, rejected candidates include:
"I understand perfectly, but that doesn't mean you have to get all emotional."
"Is that really necessary?"
"Mark's Eightfold Abs - The way to the end of suffering that will help you grasp the impermanent and imperfect nature of worldly ideas and make your tummy the envy of everyone if properly developed"
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