Complain if you want but you are bound to do this by me or I will cut you out of this forum, I swear to God I will:
share what Salinger meant to you, that first teen day you cracked open your dad's dog-eared copy of TCITR or had to write 2 pp about a short story "of your choosing" in Jr. High. Oh, and if you did it already? Copy and paste it. That's your homework. I'll follow suit.
ps, don't elaborate. Please...greatness isn't the point, just, in the true spirit, nothing...not genuine. There's a word for it---
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Prepare
On some level I think we have talked about preparing in almost every post. But I want to try to go further. Maybe there is no further to go but you can see it dancing in its flesh and blood suit all around you.
Today it danced rings around me.
We sat in the waiting room with Logan and his parents. We don't know each other. But his mom and dad spoke about four decibels too loudly, which is how I came to know his name. They spent most of that breath on telling Logan's two year old sister not to do ANYTHING. Yes, we certainly wouldn't want that child to get a hold of The Roughing Grouse Society magazine. Then they called her name and we went downstairs.
Look at her. Big blue eyes. Full lips. Arched eyebrows. Soft hair. Sprinkles of freckles. Laughing. What a lark. Everyone was so gentle, letting her be a part of the process. First they asked her to stand on the big yellow feet and then they gave her purple pajamas with little aliens in cars all over them. All part of the lure. Everyone that came into our room spoke to HER. How that tube and bag would be attached to her hand. What scent she wanted inside her mask (bubble gum, to each his own). Booties with grip. Look at Momma, she's wearing a funny hat and gown too. It's all hilarious. Even the machines look like b-movie robots, nothing to fear.
Breathe in deep, honey. "Ok, Mom, she's going to be a little goofy and then her eyes may role back and her breathing will become sharp and rapid. All normal......she's asleep now. You can give her a kiss and then Arla will take you to the waiting room." "ah, ok."
Whoopi Goldberg is on the television talking about men that leave the seat up and asking why there seems to be piss in places there shouldn't be when men are done. That's fine.
The father three seats away is crying quietly into his hands. He is a big man. His wife is expressionless but she was pretty, maybe even a little sexy, once. Their 10 year old son has brain cancer. He won't have to have another surgery for three or four months. That's good. They get up and roam the halls, stricken.
Oh...the heart...
Why did she look so small? As she drifted off her skin seemed to turn transparent. This is a strange time to be alone. But. Really. It's ok. The cancer patient's parents are back and all the noise in the room is being provided by those four women and their ground breaking conversation about 'Going Green' causing marital problems. Logan's parents are back too. I hope they keep it down and not for my sake.
She's done. Oh, she IS so small. And she is pale now even if she wasn't then. Keep it together. How many countless times have you been in this place? Never. With her. All went as planned, a breeze. That's wonderful. It was so easy for her to be taken in, wooed. The recovery room is dim and she doesn't want anything but for me to lie in the bed with her. The father of the cancer patient goes past, his son is in the next room. I hope he doesn't look like that when he goes in but maybe there is no helping that and maybe no one should.
Ah, Logan and Co. are on the other side. "You want an owie!? If you don't stop it I'll tell that man to give you a shot too!" "We traveled a long way for this so just stop it!" "Logan are you fine, you're fine." "What?! WHAT?...you better fuckin’ tell me!!" "Come on, crabby girl. You're going to the car" "Gimme a hug." "And a kiss."
The father from next door goes by again. His son is complaining of headaches. They are in new places.
We cuddled in our dim little room. We are a good match. She dosed and I thought about how we prepare people. Anyone. Everyone. Gets prepared.
It was scary to send my child into surgery. I'm her mother. They are supposed to do no harm and I'm supposed to keep her from harm. We could have both failed. But we didn't. And it was very unlikely that we would. Breathe easy. No one else here can. Be grateful. That man will never again think that a little ibuprofen will get rid of a headache.
Earlier, a social worker was sent to speak to the cancer patient’s parents in the waiting room. I was the only other person there so they talked quite freely. It turns out that the parents have been shying away from telling the boy much of anything, other than he has cancer. Leaving the room. Changing the subject. Cagey. The boy is ten years old. They were carefully instructed to stop doing these things. They were not preparing him to survive or fight or live or die. They were just changing the subject, it's own preparation to be sure. [I pass no judgment on their handling of this, I will not even think about that possibility or the unimaginable task they have to face.]
Prepare. Preparation was the theme, the thread, of this day. Maybe everyday? It seems preparations effect is unavoidable. Preparation leads somewhere, as lack of preparation leads somewhere. Is life found in our preparation? Not just in the morning but all day long.
Whew.
Now I will prepare a very stiff drink.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Attention, please.
Quickly, I'm swinging on ropes across a great ravine, and your attention is the next rope.
Ah, thank you. Life-giving sunlight, your attention, strikes right in the solar plexus, spreads pleasure, propels me another slow, sure, enjoyable twenty feet.
Look, look at me! Hurry up. Thank you.
[I perform a small dance in the air, gyrations. Payment for your trouble.]
Your attention has disappeared. That's fine. I have its ghost. Your foot has come off the gas pedal but the fuel hasn't entirely stopped flowing. I'm still moving forward.
Slowing.
[(There's a trick involved, here, bystanders. You have to pick the right moment to launch your bid for attention. Do it too soon and you're wasting perfectly good fuel. This is assuming some ecological model in which fuel is exhaustible and can be wasted, but you should assume that. If you don't, and you're wrong, you may not make it all the way across to your death. You may run out of fuel and die before your death.
The cartoon character has just raced off a cliff into mid-air, come to a stop and realized its dilemma. We are in the micro-vicinity of the moment to strike. You have between now and your blinking take to the watching audience (the other watching audience, the one that doesn't matter) to launch your bid. If you wait until "reality"/"gravity" kicks in and your limbs just barely begin to flail, your performance will have a whiff of desperation about it. This isn't immediately fatal, it's just foolish. You have a long way to travel across to your death. If you are to hold the desired audience's attention, your performances must inspire trust. Your performances should be assured, seemingly careless, professional without showing it. Your technique must be firmly in place. Then you can allow real life to come into your performances! And you should, you must. You have a long way to travel across to your death. These performances should be worthwhile, should nourish your audience with something real. Your audience is also in mid-air, is quietly struggling, has a long way to travel across to their death. If you are always yelping for attention and then holding up an empty box, your audience will begin to ignore your pleas, however tuneful your yelp, however shapely your box. The trick is to inspire loyalty, lifelong loyalty, create a valuable symbiosis. You and your audience should have a real exchange at each of these desperate crossroads.)]
[(However, you both have a long way to travel across to your deaths so you should occasionally also just have fun. For every four times your bid for life-giving attention involves the removal of your skin and bones and the revealing of your pulsating internal organs, there should be at least one bid that's just flashing some skin or telling a joke or popping and locking for a second. Feel free to adjust that ratio, if you're confident. Play it by ear, if you have a good ear. Don't fuck with it, otherwise - lives are on the line. When in doubt, 4:1.)]
And....
NOW.
Ah, thank you. Life-giving sunlight, your attention, strikes right in the solar plexus, spreads pleasure, propels me another slow, sure, enjoyable twenty feet.
Look, look at me! Hurry up. Thank you.
[I perform a small dance in the air, gyrations. Payment for your trouble.]
Your attention has disappeared. That's fine. I have its ghost. Your foot has come off the gas pedal but the fuel hasn't entirely stopped flowing. I'm still moving forward.
Slowing.
[(There's a trick involved, here, bystanders. You have to pick the right moment to launch your bid for attention. Do it too soon and you're wasting perfectly good fuel. This is assuming some ecological model in which fuel is exhaustible and can be wasted, but you should assume that. If you don't, and you're wrong, you may not make it all the way across to your death. You may run out of fuel and die before your death.
The cartoon character has just raced off a cliff into mid-air, come to a stop and realized its dilemma. We are in the micro-vicinity of the moment to strike. You have between now and your blinking take to the watching audience (the other watching audience, the one that doesn't matter) to launch your bid. If you wait until "reality"/"gravity" kicks in and your limbs just barely begin to flail, your performance will have a whiff of desperation about it. This isn't immediately fatal, it's just foolish. You have a long way to travel across to your death. If you are to hold the desired audience's attention, your performances must inspire trust. Your performances should be assured, seemingly careless, professional without showing it. Your technique must be firmly in place. Then you can allow real life to come into your performances! And you should, you must. You have a long way to travel across to your death. These performances should be worthwhile, should nourish your audience with something real. Your audience is also in mid-air, is quietly struggling, has a long way to travel across to their death. If you are always yelping for attention and then holding up an empty box, your audience will begin to ignore your pleas, however tuneful your yelp, however shapely your box. The trick is to inspire loyalty, lifelong loyalty, create a valuable symbiosis. You and your audience should have a real exchange at each of these desperate crossroads.)]
[(However, you both have a long way to travel across to your deaths so you should occasionally also just have fun. For every four times your bid for life-giving attention involves the removal of your skin and bones and the revealing of your pulsating internal organs, there should be at least one bid that's just flashing some skin or telling a joke or popping and locking for a second. Feel free to adjust that ratio, if you're confident. Play it by ear, if you have a good ear. Don't fuck with it, otherwise - lives are on the line. When in doubt, 4:1.)]
And....
NOW.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Existentialism for Adults
We all did it with joint tar staining the same lips that formed the words, "But why are we HERE?"
As teens.
I ask you, panel of grown wizards, Why?
Children, the act of having and shepherding them, would seem to beg the question more deeply, but I sense that they, may be an answer of sorts, that it quiets the question. A balm. That creation itself answers the question of why were we ourselves created.
But I may be wrong. Please advise.
I look in the mirror and ask the question, abetted by liquor.
I feel it when my dog looks into my eyes and I almost hear words.
I sense a stampede just behind the silver of the office bathroom mirror.
I muse like a starved ape when our race conspires to do something hateful or pretty.
In other words, what in the ever-loving fuck are we doing here?
Why am I asking Why at 37 years of age? Why do clouds, literal clouds, seem to speak at times, just a fraction of a percent past my ability to comprehend them, like the pulse of a flourescent light, just beyond my ability to know that it's a pulse, not a continual shine...and yet they give me headaches, those tubes, for the same reason?
Maybe I just need a new job. But that seems awfully convenient.
And if anyone quotes the Bud Dry ad campaign I will fly to you on a jet so swift and jam a used toner cartridge employed only to print the word WHY down your cute gullet.
Why do I feel like a "young soul,"--that abominable concept of knowing existence--while others, like TR, and Higgins from Magnum, seem so old and wise? And Cosby? Stevie Wonder?
In even OTHER words, and rounding out my query, what do you feel in your goodness-given bones (if they are real and hard at all! If they are in fact calcium and ossified What Not at all!) about why we are here, and why we Are, at all.........................as an adult who has had some time to consider this question, and who is not, unless you happen to be, high?
Mean it.
As teens.
I ask you, panel of grown wizards, Why?
Children, the act of having and shepherding them, would seem to beg the question more deeply, but I sense that they, may be an answer of sorts, that it quiets the question. A balm. That creation itself answers the question of why were we ourselves created.
But I may be wrong. Please advise.
I look in the mirror and ask the question, abetted by liquor.
I feel it when my dog looks into my eyes and I almost hear words.
I sense a stampede just behind the silver of the office bathroom mirror.
I muse like a starved ape when our race conspires to do something hateful or pretty.
In other words, what in the ever-loving fuck are we doing here?
Why am I asking Why at 37 years of age? Why do clouds, literal clouds, seem to speak at times, just a fraction of a percent past my ability to comprehend them, like the pulse of a flourescent light, just beyond my ability to know that it's a pulse, not a continual shine...and yet they give me headaches, those tubes, for the same reason?
Maybe I just need a new job. But that seems awfully convenient.
And if anyone quotes the Bud Dry ad campaign I will fly to you on a jet so swift and jam a used toner cartridge employed only to print the word WHY down your cute gullet.
Why do I feel like a "young soul,"--that abominable concept of knowing existence--while others, like TR, and Higgins from Magnum, seem so old and wise? And Cosby? Stevie Wonder?
In even OTHER words, and rounding out my query, what do you feel in your goodness-given bones (if they are real and hard at all! If they are in fact calcium and ossified What Not at all!) about why we are here, and why we Are, at all.........................as an adult who has had some time to consider this question, and who is not, unless you happen to be, high?
Mean it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
2010 Nukkka
CBA will have all year to perfect these ...http://www.nbcchicago.com/news/local-beat/chicago-gang-signs-colors-hand-gestures.html
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