Witness Protection

 Snow falling down, endlessly, relentlessly, those cold, grim, heartless, stabbing flakes of gossamer ice, spreading their melancholy net out for miles across the heartland; and the cold winds rattling through some forgotten hamlet in a remote corner of the Dakotas (or was it Iowa? Nebraska? Wyoming? ) - a tree deprived flatland of sorts with a town plopped down upon desolate earth -  a town with one main road, one ramshackle gas station, a tiny post office (now closed for renovations) a nondescript general store - a Bunny's Burger joint (also closed because of inclement weather at lunch time, no less!) -  business in these parts having been bad or non-existent for years - except for the constant stream of big-rigs - with drivers typically continuing on to the Regal Truck Oasis in Kindred Village 20 miles further down highway 94. Our protagonist (D.S.) - for some reason always kept in basement settings or some secret loft spaces that cheap hotels were sometimes known to boast of - consuming corn flakes and watching reruns on old-timey tv sets, accompanied by his  intrepid handlers - part-time detectives outsourced from the F.B.I  - who at this point in time must have been figuring that this type of work assignment amounted to some kind of serious demotion... Waking up on this particular day was indeed troubled for the aforementioned Damien - in part because his dream of the night before corresponded quite precisely with the view outside of the loft space hotel room - and his fear - quite justified - was that a new home was to be found for him - in this locale - which to put it mildly did not represent his first choice of venues. 

The Mystery of Flop House for One in Suburbia

 Caretaker Alice came to visit me again today,...the house is feeling empty again...She seems to think I'm making good progress and I'm hoping that she will apprise me more as to my situation...I realize I've been somewhat hazy and brain-foggy lately - I simply want to know about my family and where they have gone...I'm not to the point of panic, but I just need to know what's happened. And then there's the matter involving my dog...I seem to remember having pets at one time - a dog and maybe a cat. Alice reminds me that I've been through so much - with my head condition (injury or whatnot) and to take it one step at a time. Yes - I'm resolved to be hopeful about my status and to conquer my fears...

Winter Poem

weeks after you have resolved

to do that thing...it fades

like a bird egg at Snowqualmie Pass...

was it go again to shop for salt and gravel?

was it sign up for pickle ball  in April?

was it cancel your nightly ration of duck sauce lo mein?

learn to live inside a makeshift 4-star hotel lobby of the mind

one with large-back swivel chairs and flowing fountain fish tanks

one with long red runner carpet and coffee bar refills

art murals and mirrors - and luggage carts to match

a pool with swan boats both inside and out...

a line outside bookstores in hot July

distracted by thoughts of mud in gardens

you fall on ice

more than once, asking why

over-scheduled for hibernation

hands cold inside of gloves

you play a word game over and over

until propelled outside again

reaching for hand and coat

observe how the cars collide slower than normal

one day is actually warm and the sun

plays upon the cardboard horizon

The Dream of Johannes Chorister - Pt. 1

Emerging from the bleary mist and fog, as if from a trance,  ascending stairs in the dark,  through massive doors I enter into a warm, stately, cathedral-like edifice, and then down along the marble corridor with footsteps echoing along the hall until one reaches near where the concert is to be held. A long corridor with portraits hung of older, serious-minded folk, each projecting looks of somber hope, grim alacrity, austere joy.  The large rectangular windows are eye-catching as well, but in a different way,  with geometrically precise patterns of tinted glass, a more festive aura shedding beams of green, red and yellow light. At the end of this strange corridor, a vestibule, with alcoves and side rooms lit by flickering candles. In one of these cordial voices can be heard reminiscing... Here gather the guests and loyal devotees of the much-venerated Johannes Chorister, teacher, visionary, virtuoso, musical progenitor of life-altering approaches to melody and counterpoint....The receding set of panel doors leads into this grand lobby where a cadre of serious-minded followers have gathered, humming familiar tunes from the Chorister catalog. I make note of their faces - humble, respectable, unsophisticated - everyday, salt-of-the-earth people ...The sign near the table reads - please sign in and join our gathering before partaking of tonight's concert. Embarrassed by the unexpected protocol, I search out the least conspicuous "corner" along the wall, but to no avail. Despite my best attempts at small talk,  the stiff upper-body language betrays a stubborn aloofness. How did you hear about our concert? And have you studied the works of Chorister before? I nod affirmatively not wanting to state the obvious. Who of my age and description had not been immersed in  Chorister music, lore and general conformity?  And have you traveled far to reach us here?  Do you play an instrument yourself?   - Yes more than one, piano, organ, some trumpet here and there...  And do you sing? - Not well, but I have studied music for many years.  -And I have sung in choir... 
United they are, it seems, by a secret pride at keeping "real music" alive, music with a long history, an august tradition, a maze of ritual and pageantry surrounding it, while others fall prey to shallow trendy sound-scapes, lustfully arrange mechanized percussion binges, therapeutic noise, elevator muzak and other false idols... I am as yet  unable to inform them of my patchwork of day jobs,  as erstwhile musicologist, piano tuner, make-shift journalist, concerned friend, amateur private investigator ... made curious by their ostensible obsession with a rarified strand of music, cognizant as to the attrition rate that plagues their lot. The heartfelt testimonials blur within memory.

- Chorister's melodies have taught me the true meaning of music...
- His hymns have changed my outlook entirely..
- It has been six years now since first I heard the joyous "Prelude in E major" of blessed Chorister...
- How different my life became since ....
- I was wandering aimlessly, despairingly for many years, a wretched prisoner of my own dim routine until...

Such heartfelt testimony... How predictable such anecdotes come to sound after a while. But perhaps I am too much a cynic. The glib anecdotes of "visions" and "revelations" -  simple answers to life's great ills falling from the sky as it were...instant cures - for pain, for grief, disappointment, despair - how soon they forget that such "solutions" are nowadays a dime a dozen - one choice among many possible options...The feeling of "serenity" that descends...the "clarity of purpose" that only this music can supply... the magic, enchanted, joyous atmosphere that surrounds one, that guides one's choices step by step...  And yet on a certain level I understand this need, this unquenchable craving for something to fall back upon...a buffet from the harshness and cruelty of existence -  I can hear the staunchest defenders and their rejoinders: What would you suggest then? What do you have to offer us? If not this sublime music, what is there... to live for? ...Perhaps this is not the time to get cheeky with my replies...Don't some people collect paintings or climb mountains...? Don't others amass fortunes...or pursue ill-fated romances... invest in their children's futures or in some fleeting glimmer of fame...? ***Why do I seek to disrupt this quaint gathering - watching as the elder folk sip at their hot chocolate? Who would believe me if I announced as my mission some obscure musicologist's quest for clarification on a thorny issue involving dissonance, half-notes, chord progression, and the theory of harmonic spacings? The mere mention of music, of an interest in music per se would appear to place me in good graces with my hosts - and yet - as has been witnessed so often before - I can anticipate their reactions if I deviate from certain answers when mentioning specific works and composers...It is frustrating to say the least at hitting such walls of narrowness and provinciality on a subject seemingly so universal. It is such rigidity that transforms their "love of music" into a more burdensome passion. And here I hit upon what is perhaps really bothering me under the surface given all my past experiences- and those a few kindred spirits who have fallen away from the pack so to speak if not at all from the true spirit of music...I reflect in particular here upon the case of a promising cellist driven to despair amid such ostensibly cheerful surroundings...  And yet for all this, I see that a real bond has been built up over time among these old people - and their trust in the music is solid, their love of hymns, of song. Is it their sheer complacency that i resist, that on some level I envy? This need for truth at all costs which has been my scourge in life; do I seek to pass on this virus to these happy few -  those who do not spend time over maddening riddles or tragic irreversible mishaps? I am also made aware down the hall of a younger crowd of zealots who seem on some mission to redeem the lost glory of prior ages when Chorister's name was it seemed on every lip... No doubt they will be intent on replying in kind to mockers and skeptics - those who come to fleer and scorn at this solemnity... They will have much to complain about enemies and adversaries, those who have fallen away and those who wander through life aimlessly without the sustenance provided by a  Chorister's melody....

In the middle of these, my roaming thoughts, a young man with flashing red hair and an awkward, ecstatic energy about him sees fit to  grasp both of my hands leading my down the hallways saying: Please join us...Friend, you have a curious look about you as though, like the rest of us, you also were searching for something ... as if you too were alarmed at what is happening to music, chagrined at young people giving in to all manner of noise, perhaps you seek to help us to preserve this joyous heritage, to prevent it all from passing out of existence entirely...May I...May I simply share with you a line for that famous passage from the Chorister diaries, volume 1, chapter 7, verse 18... when Chorister, beset by worries, in the midst of composing his most spectacular B minor symphony, observes: "on your next walk, look for the simplest twig, enfold it within your safe hands, and carry it back through snow and sleet, lay it upon thy table at home and cover it in warm dry cloth. Make it into your strongest element." How oft I have pondered those amazing words! - Do you not hear the remarkable wisdom hidden in those simple lines? Only someone in touch with the deepest mysteries could utter such words as this! Brother - I know you have been led here for good reason... And is it only to hear the concert or do you wish to join our communion? 

Politely, I stand back, slowly explaining my humble agenda, paying homage to Chorister's reputation as a composer of compellingly simple, elusive melodies that have acquainted themselves with me since my earliest youth;  I recount my obsession with classical music, with the standard ensembles, trios, quartets, choirs, etc. along with my compulsive habit of frequenting the meager concerts that find a hungry, if diminishing audience.  I share my curiosity as to the spectacle that has grown up over several decades attaching itself to Chorister and his music. From humble beginnings the movement had for a time caught fire with the popular imagination embedding themselves into the yearly calendar with feasts and processions and groups of adoring pilgrims migrating from one venue to the next, only to find in recent years, a precipitous falling off of enthusiasm...people for various reasons distracted away from Chorister chorales, from music in general, for that matter, toward what some might see as shallower pursuits: fascination with more plastic arts, more tangible pleasures and gadgetry of all kinds.  Even as I stare at this rag-tag remnant of some former glory, it occurs to me that they have been drawn here as much by an aversion to more worldly pursuits as by the sheer sensuality of this music, a sensuality they would deny themselves in every other respect. A good part of me shares perhaps their desperate obsessional need to escape from the chaos of the world outside, to find a sense of order and even predictable morality amid these ritualistic gatherings - to huddle next to other, like-minded misfits, those bearing scars of cruelty and neglect, for whom other outlets of connection seem overshadowed by sinister worldly interests and self-destructive habits. (I can myself recite at least one famous passage from the Chorister journals: "Consider this, brethren, the very essence of music: deliverance from all fears, fear of pain,  fear of death...") Among his acolytes, Chorister, has remained that often-invoked name, like Rembrandt or Shakespeare - a figure so associated in their minds with the word perfection, a word so rarely attached to human endeavor, a tenaciously idealized descriptor used to separate him from other illustrious composers of note; behold his perfect tenor voice,  his perfect ear, his perfect technique, his illustrious teaching method, his unmatched humility, etc. etc. This quixotic quest of theirs, somewhat ridiculous in the earnestness of a shared secret wisdom that to outsiders must appear inane, tedious or else completely redundant... is for them a crazily plausible lost cause worth fighting for. And yet, even early on I admit to a feeling of being overwhelmed by these somewhat loopy strangers, accosted and exhausted by the onslaught of well-wishes, their incessant repetition of helpful admonitions,  oft-quoted verses, and welcoming gestures - which I fear may turn less auspicious [a provisional form of acceptance based on the expediency of growth...]. Here again I am brought back to the strange elaborate ceremonial brocade that had come to surround the simple music-making that once had characterized the original students of Chorister's music. Complaints had been heard again and again about the obsessive fervor and over-wrought sensibilities of the more recent adherents...and for so very long I had made excuses on their behalf until a series of incidents made me question this level of devotion to a music whose very significance in the grand scheme of things was slipping from my grasp...it had almost been a necessary step for me to let go of this established ancient paradigm of melody in order to expand my understanding of music in general - to re-ask a set of simple questions involving melody, harmony, rhythm, instrumentation and all the rest of it....And then - almost as an after-thought, he time comes for the actual concert...We enter the hall together, sitting in endless rows with wooden chairs, our attention drawn forward to the vast stage that seemed to float and rise before us,  and upward, noticing mural with musical notations at every turn and the massive wood beams above us and the high, majestic ceiling. The full sensual appeal of it all was brought back to me by such a setting.

But within minutes, almost oblivious to the people still entering the chamber,  the concert has already commenced, without fanfare. the music simply begins perfunctorily out of nowhere with one (?), two (?), three (?) soothingly slow, soaring, piercing orchestral pieces followed by an omnipresent choir singing all-too-familiar Chorister songs and cantatas - and with audience members invited to join in at certain places, some of whom chose to sing or hum along with the entire production. A goodly number held spellbound by the mesmerizing spectacle, others approaching it with a sort of business-like stoicism. Afterwards during another reception, people mill about chatting. The conversation is more subdued than before but more than a little predictable - with most alluding to the superiority of the Chorister melodies when compared to contemporary trends dismissed as either painfully out-of-touch "elitist-composer noise" or the "purposeful therapeutic elevator music" - cloying, sickly-sweet, prepackaged sound manipulations - the working of ads-men, hucksters, manipulators of enlightened opinion. I find occasion then to strike up conversation with a few about the actual music itself, with references to time and key signatures - Choristers seeming preference Eb and F#, Gmin and Cdim chords - but to my surprise almost everyone seemed offended by my intentions - as if to discuss these matters were a subtle way of poking fun or stumbling upon dangerous lines of inquiry.

Afterwards, a goodly number of folk stream out into the cold; many are tempted to linger, to greet and recruit the stragglers such as myself... It has dawned on them now that I have a reason for being there other than mere concert-going. Am I a potential devotee of this music that I seem already so familiar with ...Understandably they are suspicious of my motives. Am I a typical "nay-sayer" - another disenchanted soul  come to mock and fleer at their solemnity...? The small talk turns every now and then to such mistrust of outside nefarious forces  - the media and others doing their utmost to discredit, to ridicule the antiquated aspects of their approach - if not to music per se - then to the arts in general... My host - the ebullient greeter - is most intent upon discerning my connection to the composer and his work. I inform him of my musical background, my interest in theory - western harmony, counterpoint, etc. - and the controversies swirling around Chorister and his use of the "jarring discords..." - strange unexpected disruptions sewn amid otherwise simple and accessible chord progressions - especially  in the larger orchestral works. - Ah yes - you and everyone else these days seems fixated on that thorny subject, but really you should not let that be your stumbling block.  - And along with that - I persisted - the question of the original editions  of particular scores - the debates over which version of Chorister is to be performed and in what manner - Yes, my friend and this two perhaps relates to what people call the discords... And of course the famous diaries...From behind his smile, i could begin to discern no small amount of annoyance... It is clear to me, friend, forgive for sounding cynical, but your standoffishness suggests that you are either a scoffer, someone who hath come "to fleer and scorn at our solemnity" or else you are a journalist here to sniff out a scandal. It is the latter option i admit, somewhat sheepishly - you have found me out.

On the Court...

 ... you find yourself on a court, a basketball floor, with the parquet wood if you can find it with a group of injured, aging former something-or-others living for that elusive adrenaline rush...and there, on that very court, (forget the polished wood, you'll take what you can get...)  you enter into that parallel universe where a certain kind of "perfect" or shall we say 'optimum" social interaction not only happens but is mandated, where the individual actually counts for something because he or she (in this case, myself) is actually necessary as one of only five players on a team working together towards a common goal...where the personal connection get validated even by complete strangers. Plunged into this dynamic vortex,  you suddenly finds yourself moving - gliding - shuffling - stopping and starting in a wild, arduous, fast-paced macho ballet of sorts  - but that's a good thing -  as long as you're on the floor - even for a pickup game - the light shines upon you and whatever gifts or contributions you can offer are noticed by others, even appreciated. The fact that such a world can exist - a sweaty world yes - but one in which that "people working together" cliche really comes to fruition. Let's forget about those games where no one passes the ball or plays defense, where elbows fly, where travels and double-dribbles occur; no one gets a charge call; people get fouled - as in hacked, hammered, taken out, quasi-decapitated - every time they drive the lane. The two or three hog-doggy, show-boaters get their 20 points with zero assists and suck the proverbial air out of the gym while others stomp off cursing under their breath.  Let us dwell on those more civilized show-downs where people who know the game somewhat are able to reach that lofty plateau known as spontaneous "team ball" (think: New York Knicks circa 1969-1973, Boston Celtics 1986 and 2008, Dallas Mavs 2014, San Antonio Spurs, 2007, 2014). It's here where a real sense of possibility takes over and you get caught up in that collective unconscious task of striving, working, toiling for the greater good - often times not even realizing the sheer exertion you're putting forth - here again in contrast to "jogging" where every step is sheer torment - in this game - you get lost in the group effort, and by the time you know you're tired, the game is almost over...It's that universe where five people are called upon to do great things - having only met and memorized each other's first names minutes before -setting screens and blocking out, doing pick-and-rolls on the fly, making outlet passes and alley-oops,  keeping the ball moving in a continuous series of deftly executed precision passes until someone - winking at his compadres - breaks these beautiful rhythmic motions with a well-timed shot. A channelling of passions - yes - that is a huge part of what makes this universe hum. A proper venting - release of certain overwrought, aggressive instincts, including but not limited to: anger, enmity,  petulance, hubris, fear, sorrow, regret, insecurity, grit, folly, vitriol, desperation, vain-glory, delusions of grandeur (is that a feeling?) such as must and do show themselves ON THE COURT sometimes - but in a good sort of unavoidable way as when the point guard to takes the ball to the rim and gets taken down by the power forward - before he can even mumble "and one..." is already glaring at this guy (who, truth be told, is perhaps not a natural athlete or "baller" at that by any means, somewhat clumsy with the footwork, but making up for it with brawn and swinging elbows) and the guy who just got mauled staring daggers at this bruiser as if to say: "Think you're somebody, dude, tryin' a break my neck like a @$#@#$% linebacker? You think we playin' hockey out here?

Halloween Night

The day had begun just like any other with my black cat scratching on the mattress at 5:30 a.m. and making her endearing little squeaky noises,  rousing me from slumber on a typical Thursday. "Halloween..." - I teased her "is that your favorite holiday, kitty?" Outside the window, the last few leaves of deep crimson and amber were clinging to the otherwise bare trees. School was already an afterthought. The day would race by in a blur with the usual kids in costume, traveling in pairs or packs, munching their candy in the hallways, and trading stories about their favorite scary movie. It was to be the last year of trick-or-treating for our nerd posse who were, as per usual, venturing out in our slovenly, ill-conceived, makeshift costumes. Opting for simplicity, Aaron decided to go again as a "dust-pan ghost" with a gray and dusty bed sheet he had pilfered from his basement.  Russell went as a make-shift sorcerer/magician with a droopy wand, a black cape and purple boots. Will wore a polyester shirt and disco pants. I wore a worn football jersey passed down from my big brother and an old Rams helmet with floppy horns attached. The sketchiest haunts in town were up and down a neighborhood called Edgewood perched on a hill where rows of old maple and oak trees lined quiet blocks with a minimum of street-lights. There were old houses there, many of which had been turned into to multi-unit apartments; but the people were generous, gave away lots of candy, and seemed to revel in the scare-factor of their enclave. Pumpkins glowing by candle-light could be seen up and down the blocks, whereas the usual artificial illumination was lacking. It was a weird feeling going from house-to-house, as it had been the year before, because we looked so out of place, still young of course, but awkward, and getting too old for this kind of thing, almost like people were expecting us to start pulling pranks in dark alleyways, egging pedestrians, smashing decorations, lighting fires or stealing hubcaps as a random alternative to the most innocent routine of gathering up hordes of candies in our pillow sacks. There was this one house in particular that Aaron wanted to visit because of a girl named Marcie who lived there; she was a field hockey player and Aaron wanted to tell her that he had been to her game and watched her score a goal and that he admired athletes who weren't stuck up. Russell thought this was a tedious plan and said so; he offered to show us the glowing neon house inhabited by the aging hippies that we had heard about but had never seen because we weren't sure where it was. Wills was voting with Russell which left me with the deciding vote. I saw that Aaron was giving me a look as if to say that if he didn't find a way to rendezvous with Marcie in some inanely casual sort of way, that his life would be over, so I proposed that let Aaron have his moment of glory before venturing down to see the hippie house with the ghouls in the front yard...But soon enough Aaron began back-peddling and getting cold feet.  I just want to see her, briefly, just to confirm a hunch. I don't necessarily want to talk to her - yet. I don't really know her all that well. Just need to see if she's with some other guy, etc. etc. We gave him grief about that. And so...we went up and down a few streets, letting Aaron engage in his lost puppy routine, until Russell put his foot down and demanded that we check out the hippie house, remembering the splendid weirdness he had encountered from a year before, with a "headless hippie" driving a motorbike through a makeshift "cemetery" on the front lawn.  It was all kind of dream-like on that "final" Halloween outing - the night when I really felt an unsettling transition taking place, not just like when your voice becomes all bent out of shape during puberty and your limbs hurt and you start bumping into furniture, but an actual saying goodbye to childhood, a moment after which I would not have a full excuse by claiming that I was "still a kid" and could get away with being clueless and unaccountable for my actions. Even during that nocturnal trek, I could feel a weight of added responsibilities being piled on my back as my oversized football costume began to feel unduly fake and ridiculous.  With Russell leading us in tow, and Aaron resigned to losing out on his fateful rendezvous with Marcie, Will emerged as the lucky recipient of female attention - in part because so many eyes were drawn to his funky disco attire. I noticed him walking behind us at one point after having been whisked aside by an enthusiastic trio of admirers - each one dressed up as felines (lions, tigers, cheetahs) of one sort or another. He seemed to have disappeared for a full ten minutes until somehow miraculously re-emerging near the front of the hippie domicile just as we were finishing our climb up the hilly street. He gawked at us with his goofy smile and pointed to the side street he had used as a short cut, then proceeded to give us the run down on his three new friends and the one who had been flirting with him the most. It was sort of awkward and irritating for the rest of us that we weren't sure how to react to his success; part of me felt like certain rites of passage came easier for Wills, that he wasn't quite one of us, the maladjustment factor just wasn't there for him. His boyish charm, his love of Monty Python movies and Steve Martin comedy routines allowed for a plenty of banter between us, but his jaunty confidence did not jibe with our dark insecurities and our sometimes barely-concealed, erratic self-loathing. This night would perhaps represent for him a rapturous beginning of a long string of success; he would no doubt break ties with us in the coming months, unintentionally, good-naturedly, almost as an after-thought. Our paths simply would not cross once he and the lioness began dating. In his stead, we would invite Larry or Leonard or Ben to "hang with us" late on Friday and Saturday nights from the ever-present repository of young, hapless, somewhat spacey, under-achieving,  wall-flowerish males-in-waiting. At a certain point in the evening I looked inside my pillow case to count up my candies, noticing how many of the "goodies" I had previously relished only a year ago, seemed dated and stale now to my aging taste-buds. I wasn't sure that this loot-in-the-bag had any real value except for the sheer bulk that I had accumulated. The way people stared at us when we said "Trick or Treat..." with our strained, half-husky, half-shrill voices was beginning to grate upon my nerves. Even the hippies juggling their citrus fruit and putting on their make-shift ghost theater in the drive-way failed to leave me mesmerized and enchanted, the way I once had been, the way I once had responded to the smallest of gothic decorations adorning porches and front laws in late October. Aaron was becoming exhausted; I could tell he wanted to quit early. He gave me one of his looks that it was time to take leave of Russell and Will; we would head back to Aaron's early for a quick count of candies and then watch some lousy late-show horror movie on channel 9.  I can't do THIS anymore he said to me. My heart's not in it. We're done with this routine, my friend...  and despite all the banalities that Aaron was known for spouting, I felt that truer words had never been spoken. We were both the type that did not look forward to the future. The idea of progress had not been hard-wired into our DNA.  To the contrary, we were looking for ways to stem the tide, to move backwards, to stop time in its tracks, to make believe that each change of seasons was identical to the one before. This shared melancholy was a secret bond - but even in this regard I felt that I possessed it more than either Aaron or Russell or Leonard, if we decided that Leonard (although younger) should prove worthy of our company. Walking down Rosewood Place, a shiver came over me and I was brought back to the time - a mere five or six years prior - when those menacing oafs Dan Powell and Evan Rhodes had jumped out of the bushes and sprayed us with vinegar, defacing our costumes, snatching our candy bags, calling us "losers" and "dorks" - which in retrospect was pretty tame, but at the time left me twitching for weeks on end with panic. What a crazy year that had been, filled with my superstitions about lucky and unlucky shirts destined to bring blessing or misfortunes;  the year Aaron and Brett and Guy and myself formed our secret society against the world, before Brett's abrupt departure in 6th grade and Guy being sent away for special help because of certain emotional difficulties. He had bragged to us that he broke down crying every day - he had counted he said - that the random (and, as we ourselves witnessed, sometimes ridiculous) crying spells broke out something like 565 days in a row, and when his parents finally discovered the streak, they sent him to another school and we never saw him again.) I had always loved this street because of the rose buds and orange blossoms of early spring, but now a certain grey house and its prickly hedge retained the aura of past trauma. For old time's sake, it seemed, Aaron purposely took us down that stretch as if to show our victory over time, to underscore for me that the spot where this sad, visceral encounter had once transpired was no longer that same spot, only a barren square of sidewalk next to an untrimmed hedge near a flickering autumnal street light. It was eerily quiet on this residential block from which the other treat-or-treaters had already fled;  we walked in the middle of the street and felt the weight of so many similar walks to and from school.

Career Search #237

When it finally occurred to Q that it was his turn to speak, after listening to the career counselor drone on for what seemed like an eternity, he realized that he had missed his golden opportunity to refute her supercilious jabs, in which he found his ego sliced and diced into a dozen neatly-arranged geometric shapes. The phrase that stuck with him, perhaps the only description that really sunk in and did damage the way hydrochloric acid does to skin, had something to do with his "lack of affect" his annoyingly opaque, inscrutable countenance. The face was a problem. The stiff head attached to rigid neck, shoulders and body. Did he ever smile? Did he ever laugh? It might be one thing to be "in a mood," but at some point you had to put your game face on. Yet another hapless male. She was getting burnt out "helping" people who inexplicably could not or would not receive it. Three hours worth of tests and inventories, plus one cognitive-skills test that Q was unable to finish in the allotted 15 minutes. The counselor, a Ms. Piero, was politely unimpressed by the limited options indicated by the logarithm on the computer screen. This was for her another chance to lift an underachiever up by his boot straps and send him on his way except that her obvious frustration was seeping out through a veil of encouragement. You show very little affect. It is as if you are not responding to stimuli in a timely manner, failing to bring appropriate gestures, smiles, nods, guffaws to a particular interaction. In a typical job setting (with competitive salary mind you) you will need to be more transparent with feelings, more politically attuned to other people and their point of view. Am I reaching you? Are you hearing this? It's hard to tell because of that blank expression on your face. She scribbled a few notes, but mostly was scanning her computer screen in search of a diagnosis. Yes, she said conferring with her laptop, I can see from the answers you've given in the personality inventory. You are a definite follower. I might even say a dangerously impressionable follower-type, with a repressed skeptical side that you feel the need to suppress at all costs. Again puzzled and miffed by Q's quizzical look, she inquired: Is any of this registering with you? Are you following me? Q spoke at last: A follower. Well, I can see that. - You can see that? So you agree then? Yes - I can see that. How you arrived at that... - How I arrived at that... But do you agree Mr. Dennison? I can see that, but what about my job choices, my career path, I'm not sure how - Oh, well that is very complex. There are definitely certain professions I would entirely advise against. For example, I would stop even considering any sort of self-directed job such as doctor, lawyer, engineer, pilot, architect, business owner, CEO,  pro athlete, fashion designer but of course....(laughter) ... you haven't been thinking in this direction, have you? I've boiled it down for you, Mr. Dennison...How to put this. Yes, what is absolutely essential for you is order, structure, routine, repetition, following a firmly established rote protocol - not having to deviate from a set of guidelines. How do you feel about such an arrangement? I mean, given your personality type, this may sound draconian, but it's really quite necessary. - I can see that. - Is that so? Really? You can see that? Well then, assuming that you're not being sarcastic. I can't tell from that hyper-subdued, poker face of yours - I'm going to recommend for you any kind of low level bureaucratic position - possibly a job for some local or state government office. Maybe a clerical position, maybe something at the DMV. Does that sound in line with your...uhm...your....what's the word I'm looking for...your ambition? - Is that really how I appear to you? I can see that. - Yes, Mr. Dennison, you are giving off an aura of inwardness that is really not what today's job market is looking for. - I can see that. - You keep saying that, Mr. Dennison, but are you really sure what I'm trying to tell you. You look like someone who's not really interested in working. You don't wear any kind of enthusiasm on your sleeve. Do you think an employer wants to hire someone who is already "checking out" during the job interview? - Right. I see what you're saying. - You can see that. That's good. So - ah well - our time is up for today. Perhaps we can schedule a follow-up appointment. Would that be alright? - Shall I write you a check for ... The fee for today is $100. Debit cards are fine. How about next Friday at 10:00 a.m. I think we definitely need a follow-up. So...for this coming week, I'd like you to investigate these four employment opportunities and see if any of them appeal to you. Can you handle that? - Sure, said Q.

The Original Conversation

Standing before you in the ethereal, egg-shelled waiting-room are two nondescript, if impeccably dressed, celestial functionaries, both attired in business black, conspiring to open a single brief case overflowing with papers and manilla folders; they smile as a nurse or health-worker of some sort wheels you into the room. Your body seems more amorphous, inchoate, smaller than normal. Is that a baby pram they're got you in? Or perhaps an incredibly cozy, combed cotton blanket that you find yourself snuggled up with, the fabric clinging seamlessly to your gossamer epidermis as if your very person itself was welded to these surroundings; you listen as some underlings bring out charts and graphs and start consulting with you about your future life down on earth. You seem to be on the highest floor of a large skyscraper, the room surrounded by windows on all sides looking out onto misty clouds and some kind of sprawling, well-lit metropolis below. Sleek, modern furniture in the room, fresh-cut flowers, paintings on the wall by artists you've never heard of, pastoral scenes of stoical women spinning, measuring and clipping thread. The faint sound of harp music plucking from a nearby elevator. Despite your lack of mobility, your dazed curiosity, and your reduced size, you feel about as wise, focused, clear-headed and perceptive as you've ever been. It appears as though you are preparing for a momentous event. This is the moment before birth, it seems, the gestation of ego, of experience - a time for negotiation and for prolonged explanations of what awaits you. This is that first conversation that you've heard tell about, that perhaps you have imagined in day-dreams or had hunches about,  the one that gets the ball rolling for you, the conversation that supposedly will justify wherever it is you will end up on the planet. As it turns out, the two angelic "reps" want some feedback, before assigning you to a particular destiny. There is some initial banter about geography. Sort of like an ice-breaker. Do you have any interest in exotic locations. Siberia, Nepal, Chile, western Australia, the Sudan, Madagascar - for example? You mumble a reply and they begin taking notes. Life in the big city or out in the country? Shall we place you on a farm? Near a factory? In a bustling suburb perhaps? Near an ocean, lake, river? Do you mind long winters? Hot summers? Do you envision lots of autumn color wherever you end up? Do you fancy a nomadic, itinerant sort of existence perchance? You have to wonder at this point: How much of a choice do I really have in this matter? The conversation moves away from geography to the question of family life, language, culture, religion. Any penchant for a particular language: Mandarin? Italian? Portuguese has a lovely ring to it...As far as cultural settings, well the world is more unified than ever before. A global village as it were. Secularization continues apace. So the question of "which religious upbringing?" allows for some flexibility given that people often drift in an out of religious traditions, sampling as they go, maintaining convenient-if-tenuous bonds with whatever faith they were raised with. Bottom line: from out of any situation lies  a "path to salvation." Here the "reps" nod in agreement at their own insight. Family life is quite a thorny issue, however. A proper familial placement is what we really need to decide upon...Some sort of "middle child" issuance used to be quite common of course, but with the birth rate declining in various western countries, it might be a matter of simply "older" or "younger" sibling. Then of course, "only child" status is always a possibility. The "reps" begin to confer privately, whispering heatedly. Words and phrases trickle out... references to "parents,"  "guardians" .... "dominant influences" ... "Something about "degrees of domestic security" weighed against "other challenges of youth"… The question of influence: mothers and fathers, identity issues. The state of the parents' relationship is quite crucial - one of the reps declares. You might see (all too frequently) a lust-laden, whirlwind romance yielding unexpected offspring to a young couple woefully unprepared for child-rearing responsibilities or otherwise a more prolonged courtship settling down into a somewhat staid routine. It's difficult to predict with all the ebbs and flows of human sexuality. Add to that the question of whether people take marriage seriously... And then there's the issue of doting vs. overprotective vs. domineering vs. indifferent parenting strategies and all of the gradations that kick in along the continuum. Maybe it's time for a break. One of the reps says she needs a hot cup of tea. The other rep goes to the window and stares downward, seemingly in search of a particular domicile. When the conversation resumes - a somewhat ironic description in that you have not said much yet -  the reps try to cut to the chase as it were. What really matters in all this is YOU as an individual - i.e. your temperament, personality-type, underlying outlook, attitude, sensibility, mindset - along with your physiological endowments and general comportment. Once again - a seeming infinity of possible permutations arises - in need of sifting through… An awkward question, but let's get it out of the way: How much of a premium do you put on external appearance? Do you real care how you look in terms of …. let's say… eye color, girth, shoe size, skin pallor? One of the reps could not restrain herself: Ah, yes beauty and physical prowess. Besides beauty, the reps explain, strength, stamina, flexibility, vitality, general health - all these enter into the picture as well. What is absolutely crucial, they inform you, is how much suffering you can handle; this is no doubt a wide-open category. What do you mean by suffering? - you ask. Well - you know - they reply - a rough-and-tumble kind of life. We're very interested in determining precisely how much pain (physical or mental anguish) you could conceivably endure "stretched out on the rack of this tough world" - as Shakespeare said. - What if I said I don't think I can handle a large portion?- Ah - portion!  Yes - it's all about portion allotments. Very good of you to say portion! -More shuffling of paper...  Some muffling coughs. A valet arrives with a tray of some sort of miniature doughnuts. He offers you some, but eating seems too sophisticated a chore to undertake. We would nevertheless encourage you to be receptive...try to cultivate an open-mind with regard to...uhm...to ah....the issue of pain. Think of it more as a widening of life-options. What we are about to show you...

The Legend of Damien Starchild

Damien Edgar Hosanna Starchild was born into a traveling hippie commune during the late 1960s, a lanky street urchin with shaggy dark hair, known at various times for riding his bike up and down the strand in Santa Monica, selling frisbees down at Laguna Beach and Newport, skateboarding at Cow-Cow Corners in Corona Del Mar, playing volleyball at Seal Beach, napping on nearby golf courses, loitering in smoothie bars and yes, taught from an early age to play bongo drums and strum ramshackle acoustic guitars while sitting on orange crates, camping out near where the tourists spend their money, earning his keep via make-shift performances with minimal rehearsal time, subsisting on so-called veggie burgers (stuffed with real meat) and egg burritos, scarfing down ramen noodles with M&Ms for lunch or breakfast, a brooding iconoclast drawn to bright colors and supple textures (an OCD issue, ditto to hoarding tendencies), preoccupied with all manner of pill bugs, butterflies, logos, buttons, bottle caps, marbles, seashells, flower petals, box tops, and given over to stuffing his random "street findings" into a bright red-rainbow backpack, having forsworn all manner of illicit drugs, having rebelled against the dominant paradigm of free love, disco dancing and souvenir-vending - educated by the wind and the streets with help from his part-time protective mother-mentor, Martha Belle-Agnes-Louise ("spiritus liberatus") who signed him up for all manner of tennis lessons and poetry seminars sponsored by the local park and recreation department. Having endured for years on end the deprivations that all-day frisbee tournaments and raucous hippie craft fairs can induce, Starchild grew into a brooding adolescent; lacking a definite career path, and having few good options to choose from, he settled upon the metier of a make-shift performance artist, causing a scene among his fellow non-conformists with a nod to the obvious and the predictable, and so, after watching multiple re-runs of The Brady Brunch and The Partridge Family, decided to jettison his long curly hair, using a cereal bowl and his own pair of left-handed scissors (how they teased him about that!); he took to wearing muted tie-dye shirts with matching dark socks. His plan worked to the extent that people took notice and could not help but gawk and gasp at his egregious fashion choices; he became a creature out of no-man's-land, secretly proud of his "mismatched threads" and his outlandish blend of faded neon and neutral colors, which his fellow hippies deemed as "drab" - "square" - "reactionary" and "tasteless". D.S. reveled in these epithets. And, wanting to push the envelope even farther, he taught himself how to be austere and serious, how to saunter around like a fop, how to tilt his head skyward like a snob, how to wear dark sunglasses, exhaling slowly, how not to smile his goofy smile in the midst of the typical "peace and love" greetings that he was so tired of receiving from every Biff and Buffy and MoonUnit that he came across.  Oh, he was quite the confused sad-brooding sack, alright, but in California it takes decades (sheer decades) to mature, as they say...And so, he became, like many another ex-hippie, runaway Amish child or disgruntled Scientologist, intense but not scary-looking, always staring, dazed, preoccupied with the tiny little details of life in the glamour-ville, Lotus-land demi-monde of the oh-so beautiful people. (Perhaps the real issue was simply that he had become near-sighted and needed glasses.) He would often walk backward or sideways just to be contrarian; he collected campaign buttons from the 1950s, bounced around the Sports Arena before Springsteen shows, became a devotee of dime-store comic books, old Life magazines and obscure Rosicrucian philosophies.This same Starchild, as you have also heard, was witness to a terrible crime many many years ago, on a day where something went terribly wrong out of the blue, without warning, one of those otherwise perfect days on which Damien saw something transpire on the idyllic side streets of a residential neighborhood near Santa Monica which changed his life forever. Leaving work early with a mega-large smoothie in his hand, he found himself counting flower beds and sidewalk cracks until he stumbled upon a weird scene: two men in the midst of a fierce argument in a driveway: two guys, one waving his arms saying 'What about the shipment???", the other, holding his head with both hands, wailing, "It got lost, man, I told you fool - it's overdue..." Something about "shipment" and "stash"  and "Manny don't play that way!" then a car speeding by and noises like firecrackers and then the two men lying prone on the ground - with Starchild smiling his goofy smile, not realizing what had happened. And then, in shock over the sudden chaos, the carnage. a few neighbors peeping their heads out of windows, with no one emerging (everyone knowing more than they would later admit) and Starchild making his way over toward the crime scene...It became an instant blur; he seemed to walk in slow motion. A dog was barking behind a fence. A woman motioned to him, shaking her head. No. No. Don't go any further. And then, suddenly, without warning, the figure emerging from a side-gate at the house next door,  an elderly man with a gray mustache, using a cane, his strange, foreign-sounding elocution or enunciation (whatever that's called): slowly repeating, almost hypnotically: It's time for you to leave, my friend. It's time for you to go. I don't like what I see, mi amigo. And I don't want you talking to no cops.  And then, having mentioned the police, the man let forth a stream of crude expletives not worth repeating, pausing only to cough up a long rattle of phlegm. Damien noticed a steel-eyed glare behind the fake smile.  You have seen too much - eh mijo? Now is NOT a good time for you to be here. In fact, I don't EVER want to see you around here, my friend. In this area. In this city. On this street. What-ev-er you think this is, what-ev-er you think you saw... NEVER HAPPENED! Can you dig it - little hippie boy? Damien had enough street sense to realize, even during such an incredibly awkward moment (and there were many more to follow), that his only option was to run like he had never run before - which he proceeded to do - through side yards and over fences, through garages and sewer pipes, heading eastward across the overpass until he could see the campus of UCLA hailing him in the distance.  In the span of a few hours, he had became a marked man. There's a lanky little frightened hippie boy...yeah, man... just "some weird dude with a tie-dye shirt,  dark socks and a rainbow visor - and a nervous goofy look on his face" hiding in the bushes somewhere, wishing that cell phones had been invented. It was not so much a matter of placing a call, you see, as it was a matter of finding safety on one's home turf. But that sense of safety had now been shattered, and Damien found himself shivering in the 85 degree heat. When the squad car eventually pulled up beside him, he was climbing over some ivy bushes trying to find his way to the 17th green on that favorite  golf course of his in the town of D_______ (which shall remain nameless)...That had always been his sanctuary...But the cops had need of some "eyes and ears" and Damien was their man. He soon found himself in drab, austere, uninviting, nondescript, icy-cold interrogation room - ostensibly a basement warehouse of sorts  - being mulled over and prodded by two ever-so-calm-and-patient detectives, who sat there sipping their coffee, grilling him for hours on end about "what he knew and when he came to know it..." Fortunately, for the cops, Damien was an easy-sell, as long as they brought in junk food contraband such as Dorrito chips, bubble gum and Mountain Dew. He had nothing to hide. He just sat there wondering: when are these grey suits going to let me get back to my "restless, peripatetic, itinerant routine...?" as he called it. But that hoped-for return to the beach, the strand and the comic book stores was, alas, not in the cards for poor Damien. He realized the awful truth at the moment when Detective Zygote asked him if he had ever visited the "snow belt." Snow belt (?) - as in where those people on television in places like Buffalo, New York and Duluth, Minnesota spend all of January, February, March and sometimes April digging out from an onslaught of white, fluffy powder droppings from the sky? Yep. That's what we're talking about...  "Hey kid, you interested in seeing what a long winter is like - heh, heh, heh? Would you like to make a little foray to Blizzard Springs, North Dakota - heh, heh, heh?" Damien brought out a note from his doctor that he always kept in his organic wallet, a withered parchment palimpsest with faded scribble markings all over it advising against exposure to "inclement weather" and "oppressive climates," and signed by Dr. Quag.  Zygote took one look at this obvious forgery and cackled: "Inclement weather...that's a good one. Look my man, let's get real for a moment, shall we? Are you trying to tell us that you've never dealt with cold weather before!?!" "Well actually sir," Damien began, using his best sotto voce young-hippie-lost-in-a-basement routine, "I'm not supposed to live more than 20 miles inland of any coastal region on account of A.) my allergies B.) certain metabolic irregularities involving digestion and respiration C.) my vertigo and related balance issues operative at altitudes exceeding 500 feet above sea level and D.) a hunch I have that hippies or the offspring of hippies are not so entirely welcome in the heartland of the Midwest portion of these United States." Zygote put a stale cigar in his mouth (yes, there was a time when stale cigars were still used as props) while his partner, Detective Benza, a man known for his sharp bristly crew cut, five o'clock shadow and bulging neck, started scribbling his own set of copious notes on a legal pad (breaking four pencils in quick succession) before looking up and glaring at Damien very abruptly and very intently, exhaling stale coffee breath into the young urchin's face followed by a stream of carefully chosen words. "Now look," he began, "we need you to start dealing with this very real situation - Mr...ah...Mr. Starchild, is it? What we're alluding to in these proceedings is not simply a change of venue, if you will,  i.e. of make-shift domiciles in various undisclosed locations. What we're talking about here is a change of identity - for your own protection - y'understand. You're going to require is a new name and perhaps a new direction in your life - if you can handle such a thing? Are you up for the challenge?" Damien stuttered a cough along with a shrill wheezing noise such as he was used to making when overwhelmed by stress, fatigue and general despair. "May I please call my lawyer, Phil" - he begged. "He'll know what to do."

Once Upon a Time in CCD Class

It all goes back, I suppose, to that guy in CCD class with the half-goofy smile, half-quizzical look on his face, an avuncular, inattentive fellow with freckles, big teeth and a clean-cut head, on the verge of growing his hair out long, this being the early 1970s; he was your typical teenager-in-waiting with no discernible interest in religion, theology, philosophy or spiritual matters in general and no intellectual curiosity extending beyond what the snack would be on a particular Saturday, but he did have a way of "getting a rise" out of people so as to garner his daily fifteen minutes of negative attention. And so on this routine occasion, like a patient monk chanting a single mantra to charm an obstinate brick wall, he kept asking the nun who was substituting for our regular teacher, in the midst of a discussion of the most important event in human history next to the creation itself: How do you know? How do you know? What if it weren't that way? How do you know for sure? -  How do we know? repeated the nun with bemused incomprehension. Yeah, said the kid. How do you know that all this stuff really happened? The nun was beginning to reach for the answer to the easiest question ever asked, when Bobby Blaylock preempted her: It says it did in the Bible, stupid! said Bobby. He had no patience for fools. But how do you know for sure? We just do, Timothy. Trust me...we do, said Jean Anne. She was impatient for the art project to begin. And in truth, the art project was usually the best part of CCD class. I just want to know, Timothy declared, how we know that someone could die and then be alive again and then never die after that. And then...I mean because of that, we wouldn't have to die either. After we died the first time. How does anyone know that for sure?-  They saw it with their own eyes, Timothy, Jeanne Anne said. Really. Who had time for this nonsense? It was bad form somehow to drone on about such settled pieties. The point was to just deal with it. Chin up. Smile. Put a brave look on life. God has a plan for you... She was almost giggling at this male tendency to pick apart unbroken objects, whereas Bobby B. simply could not restrain himself: Hey genius... there were witnesses....Okay? They saw Jesus, knew him, hung out with him, saw him rise from the dead; they wrote it down, moron. It's all there in the gos-pels. We got four of them, is that enough evidence for you? Bobby was indignant. He couldn't stand questioning-for-questioning's sake. The nun told him not to call other people morons. Timothy knew somehow that he was on a roll. But what if....he paused - let's just say they didn't see it for themselves...what if they just heard it from other people. Then would it still be true? - Then wouldn't some of the information get garbled or something? He was almost being shouted down at this point, but the nun had found a teachable moment. I think perhaps what Timothy is telling us is that we need to have faith. We may not know (with absolute mathematical certainty if you will) that this or anything else in human history actually happened, but we have a strong sense that it did. Timothy did not make any more comments. Someone in the back of the class said, I forget who, raised his voice somewhat anonymously and declared to no one in particular: that faith might start to feel pointless if not enough people saw the reason behind it. The nun was beginning the art project at this juncture and I was the only one who heard the comment that has been haunting me ever since. Flash-forward to what I remember as the last CCD class I ever attended at the end of my 8th grade year, when I was embroiled in a conversation about the perfection of the universe with the leader of the guy clique...Much like a typical doubting teenager, he was taking the bold (if well-worn) position that the universe was - to all appearances at least - hopelessly flawed and seemingly random in scope, with no apparent goal or design...and that this made it hard not just to conceive of a Supreme Being, but feel obliged to commune with such a power, with any kind of feeling of gratitude, obedience,  reverence or humility. I was arguing the point that human nature was so "messed up" and "self-centered" that we were not in a position to accurately judge of the status of evil in the grand metaphysical scheme of things. The mixture of good and evil was necessary to maximize the dramatic potential of our individual destinies and to bring out the absolute best in us through a series of mysteriously-planned but precisely calibrated hurdles and challenges. My opponent's name was Gus - who had his peanut gallery backing him up, Gus who gathered minions around himself, Gus who wore well pressed shirts with big starchy collars, Gus who just laughed in my face as if I was spouting outdated science. Our teacher at that point was a former hippie, quasi cultural Catholic, and part-time Buddhist who had an open mind and couldn't resist a good debate.

The Tyranny of Cool

At the oppressive party made more unbearable by the surrounding cadre of extroverts effortlessly chatting away through yet another round of spontaneous merry-making, Simon made his way around the large room, picking up random objects - little trinkets, souvenirs - twirling them about in his hand; when that failed to assuage his anxiety, he would sample the available chairs or stand perched in a corner taking in the dimensions, half-hoping to not drawn attention to himself and half-needing Terrence and the Old Soul to stand guard nearby. It was a typical Saturday night affair, the effete young crowd feigning energy and excitement, fervently gesturing to one another as they gossiped about professors and other local celebrities, dawning those affected voices that drove Simon crazy, so needlessly advertising their rarefied intelligence to anyone who would listen. Did you hope to take Dr. Werner's seminar on modern warfare? You really should. You really must. But then, of course, you'll want to do his sequel course on power-dynamics and peace-making in the age of terror. You'll be hooked - but don't go near psychology - it's  ticking time-bomb with the present chairperson...I've got an internship for the summer (how about you all?) and after that I'm doing a semester in Rome...Actually the three of us are...If you have the chance, do come see us at our summer retreat in Vermont - will you? There's a killer band playing tonight down in P-town. I went shopping today as best I could, but it's nothing like New York. Oh look....someone should really introduce those drips to a controlled substance or two. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes and ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Holding court as usual amid all this chatter was someone named Drew or Drake or Donald or Dudley - one of those dashingly forward individuals always at the center of attention and who seem to have the last word or the punch line for otherwise tepid banter. The big D could be heard, at various intervals, dispensing advice, issuing edicts, making snap judgments on education, style, fashion with his nothing-if-not-glib, off-the-cuff remarks: Oh don't take that course - it's a dud. You should really hang out more with Ken - he's just your type. Everyone needs to stop wearing purple as of now. Yes, doll, I'll have another shot of that. Ha. Ha. Ha. After about an hour and a half of such boorish, faux-raucous conversation and canned laughter, having foraged to excess at the the appetizer table, while sipping and spilling punch, Egg had planned a delicate exit - like an photographer whose camera (in this case a psyche) has reached its limit - yet, inexplicably, he found himself stalling, half-paralyzed, for fear of offending Olivia - a girl that he secretly sought to impress through his powers of endurance - i.e. his ability to withstand unbearable situations such as others would think completely harmless. Olivia was one of the few there who were able to convey a genuine sincerity even when seeming to agree with the inane/recycled/predictable opinions that the cool ones saw fit to bounce around. But Simon (nickname: Egg) refused to join in - making a point of being off in the corner sulking with his supposed coterie of like-minded dissidents. Before dissecting the male specimen that was sucking up so much of the air in the room, he made a point of referring to a disturbing trend that he had once again noticed while searching downtown for a rarefied poster of an Andre Derain landscape.... So first I go to Brewsters Prints and they DON'T have any Andre Derain....not a single landscape or portrait or harbor image....And no they can't order one ....And no I can't order one online because such a poster has never been made and does not exist. Can you believe it? -  You've have a rough day - said Terrence quietly.  - Yes a rough day, but to make matters worse here I am ambling from shop to shop in search of any late-impressionistic work to hang on my wall and I walk past not one, not two, but five (count 'em) five women of substance - you know... beautiful, vibrant, charming, intelligent, attractive, well-groomed females paired up with absolutely degenerate, bummy, loser guys. -Oh, said Terrence, absent-mindedly. That's..........not good. - You're finally catching on? - C'mon Egg - you're sounding quite melodramatic with your idealized angelic women on on side each paired up with a devilish male.... -  Sure...you can laugh if you want to...where do you think this beauty and the beast stereotype comes from? Huh? Huh? - The beast must have something special to offer her... said Terrence. - The beast is an illusion - a sham - a walking travesty - that anyone can see from a mile away. Why does it bother me so much? - Because you wish you could be the beast. - Fie. Fie. Don't be ridiculous. - Because you want what the beast has.  - No. No. No. That's not it. This cutting-edge specimen of manbeast has nothing to offer - that's my point.  We're talking ratty, disheveled, arrogant, egotistical males of the type that will drag anyone they meet into a large black hole. - Oh - that kind. - Yes - that kind. -Well - I still think your missing the key insight - said Terrence. - Terrence - are you really going to try to sell us on your bizarro-universe concept of love? - No Egg. You're forgetting the wildness factor. These male specimens as you call them offer up danger and mayhem in doses that guys like us can never hope to achieve due to our self-repressive, civilized tendencies. -So because they have "reckless" and "irresponsible" written all over them - that's enough to trump any of the regular common human decencies that someone else might bring along? - Basically, yeah. - And to make matters worse - here we have Exhibit A holding court across the room - and hoodwinking even the smartest of the bunch people like Oliv--- Oh I don't know said Terrence,  with his usual contrarian streak - he has a certain energy to him.  -Yeah - he's quite charismatic, chimed the Old Soul. - I take that back - said Terrence. - What? - Well - what I just said. Let me revise that somewhat. It's the wildness quotient + the fantasy. It's both of those together. - The fantasy? - Yes - people seek the danger as part of their fantasy....they crave the adventure that can never be - the one-sided scenario that ignores the complexity of things.... ....they chase after this flame - which seems to promise the fullness of life but in reality a desire for self-annihilation. - -Back to your theories Terrence! Guys your torturing me! - Bottom line is - cautioned Terrence - the women love him....And this is going to sound weird to someone like yourself Egg - but what they love about him is the chaos factor... -The chaos factor?  - He's the wild horse they all want to ride upon.... the freight train they want to chase after... the cheetah that they seek an encounter with... -Argggh! - Stop with the metaphors - please Terrence! - It all taps into the fantasy - which requires that a person chase after death.... Do I make myself clear? - Not really said the Old Soul - but I think I understand you. - Well it just goes to show you said Egg - how Mick Jagger is responsible for this complete degradation - this utter farce - the tyranny of cool. - Mick Jagger? Is that what you just said? - Well - who else would you blame? Casanova? Jagger - he's the one who started this ball rolling - as it were - with his decrepit degenerate example.

The Looming Legacy of a Living Legend

Oh I want to talk to you Marci had said and suddenly Chloe had departed and Fiona was nowhere near getting to speak with Billy or for that matter R.J. And so the two started walking, meandering really around campus and the conversation invariably steered its way back to the subject of Fiona's famous aunt, the same woman that Terrence had found himself smitten with in the most non-amorous terms possible, that same mysterious, outspoken professor/provocateur who had stirred up so much controversy over the years calling attention to the atrocity that was manbeast, thereby raising the spectre of the ongoing "war" between the sexes (a term she saw as entirely fitting) and dredging up the entire chasm of worms on the viability of healthy male / female interaction compatible (that is) with universal female autonomy on a future planet earth. Marci, like others, drawn to Bourgeois-Pain's charismatic reputation, kept going on and on about her vast accomplishments, uttering gushing praise at every turn and grabbing Fiona by the shoulders almost while dancing across the quad: Oh I just love your aunt, don't you just love her, and what she's done and what she's meant for us - you know - uhm - us as ....women. It's not just her amazing teaching career and all those books and speeches, those amazing speeches, and who she's known and where she's been...it's more than just her worldview ...It's her living example, her aura...  I just love her.... She's our local superstar - our living legend. And to think I've grown up here and heard her speak and been in the same room with her...without ever appreciating what she's accomplished...  And now it hits you - all of a sudden? And Fiona looking off across to her Aunti's favorite spot, where she had imagined a memorial statue or better yet, a wildly abstract symbolic sculpture might be erected someday. - Yes Yes Marci, I'm very proud of my auntie - but you don't need to act like a groupie. She's had enough of those.  You've met my auntie. You know what she's like. Marci was shaking like a leaf at this point.  But I'm so embarrassed to think that I've actually seen her up close, basically ignoring her (!) as just some other adult (with interesting braids, no less) when I should have been there just soaking up wisdom from her lips - bowing down at her shrine, taking notes on her style, her art, her fashion sense...  Oh Marci please.  Don't be such a lackey. She would really hate that.  As you should know, my auntie's really quite normal, not-so-intimidating or mysterious - even somewhat ordinary - well - almost - in some respects - except for - of course - certain incidents.  You sound like you're carrying around all her secrets, Fiona. Well - I want in on this action. I want some gossip and I want to you to bring me to her so that I can thank her - And even bring Terrence and Simon. I'd love to see her reaction to THOSE SPECIMENS.  - That's probably not a good idea. - She'd flip. Right? Am I right? She'd absolutely freak. Oh I have to see that! - Well, considered Fiona - they are relatively harmless. And my auntie has reliable radar when it comes to hapless males. A certain type of specimen actually amuse her - contrary to popular opinion. already - Oh, but she's not You don't understand. I never realized how much she's done...Doesn't it make you want to follow in her footsteps? My auntie has paid a high price for her labors. You don't realize that she endured a very unhealthy upbringing along with my mother and almost got sucked up into that as a young woman before her great rebellion. But what about her love life - her greatest paramours? Marci, please. Are you trying to reduce her to just that - like she's some tabloid celebrity? No- but I'm still curious. Yes, Marci - she was in love - she had love affairs - Is that so unusual? But with men? Yes - with men - back when she was young. And she tells you about it? Well - I've pieced some facts together with help from my Mum. And what does she think of your father? Oh - she wants nothing to do with my father - I mean he's a total fop as far as she's concerned.  So she hates him then? He's like a vile manbeast specimen! Do tell...do tell.  No, no, no, Marci - it's not like that. She really has nothing against him - you know my dad ....uhm.... she just finds him ridiculous and irresponsible. He is stupidly irresponsible (with regard to my mother, not me) which is irritating (to her, my aunt), but not as bad as certain other vices that attach to your typical man. Angry's not the word for her. She's BEYOND that, she's so BEYOND everything really - like the Buddha. But there must be baggage - Marci interjected. Yes. Yes. Baggage. She's only human after all....she's very hurt by people and their inane decision-making...Then perhaps she's sad - about people misunderstanding her. Yes. I think that's part of it.

There Once was a Man Who Loved Cats...

There once was a man who loved cats, a retiree of sorts, with sad green eyes and a hollow stare, who sat on his porch for long stretches of time shuffling cards and sorting bingo chips while the cats came from all around to seek him out: Abyssinians, Aegeans, Persians, Ragdolls, Exotics, Brazilian and British short-hairs, Siamese cats, Savannahs, Niebelungs, Tabby cats, Calicos, Oreos... People walking by or children passing on their way home from school could not help but pause to take in the scene and count the numerous breeds and colors.  This was perhaps just another "quietly desperate" fellow - one who had lost his job  in mid-career because of a certain "incident" that shall go unmentioned here,  involving a breakdown of sorts, accompanied by shouts, curses, tears and delusional thoughts. But to see him now, the man was quite calm, mellow, docile, beyond serene, sipping his lemonade and making unbroken eye contact with visitors to his porch be they humane or feline. In lesser numbers, the humans sought him out as well - for advice - as someone who had failed and suffered magnificently - as if speaking to a person who had electrocuted himself or fallen from a great height and lived to tell...Attempts were made to resuscitate the poor man's career, but he resisted, biding his time, enjoying the strange publicity that revolved around him and his cats. Standing guard over his cats, especially at the time of day when the young ruffians were about, he would shake his cane at the worst offenders and feel old before his time.

Randomness Happens...

Time is ticking before the big event, and there you are, brooding upon the drama and uncertainty surrounding the possible outcome....you mark off the upcoming "golden moment" on your calendar that theoretically will alter the status quo, disrupt the dominant paradigm, chart a new course, change things for the better, usher in a new phase of existence, make real communication possible etc. etc. So you roll this future contingent over in your mind, map it out step by step, imagining a thousand possible permutations of the same event, including what you plan to say and how that special person or persons will respond, but somehow it never goes as planned. Maybe it's that one chance you have to meet up with a potential soulmate or kindred spirit...you wait for your cue, anticipating violins playing or confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling; you look around for a sign, but by then it's already happening. You're talking to that person, making full eye contact.  Pleasant banter ensues, relaxed body language, laughter, smiles, nodding of heads, culminating in a shared and lasting mutual attraction, but then when the moment finally arrives, you find yourself becoming tongue-tied in mid-sentence, another person intervenes, the conversation stalls, someone faints, a stranger hands you a bill and suddenly you're out the door back in the shadows because the sequence that was supposed to unfold fails to materialize... Or perhaps, alternatively, the impending encounter is one that is fraught with tension, controversy - because the necessity of the case makes it more of a confrontation than a happy rendezvous...you are making an intervention so to speak with someone who annoys you, someone you typically try to avoid, whose very being grates upon your nerves...but you consider that you alone have an opportunity to change the dynamic and bring this person on board, to mitigate their rough edges, to pacify their vexing stridencies. There is no guarantee that such a ploy on your part will succeed, that the person will be permanently moved, altered, transformed for the better. In fact, the odds are against you; it's a long shot, but one with the same kind of what-if appeal that drives certain people to read - and sometimes lose themselves within - long romantic novels...On such a day, for whatever reason, perhaps the mild weather, perhaps because her morning tea was so unexpectedly delicious, Fiona - having  mulled over this dreaded  "event" in her mind, scoping out the sequence of awkwardness as would likely transpire - was, now that the day have arrived, strangely calm; she felt a sudden burst of serenity overtake her. She felt magnanimous toward others, even accepting of those most likely to annoy or offend her (which was most people). She was not one to suffer fools gladly and yet for some reason,  lacking her usual cynicism regarding the sad state of the world, a trait she no doubted inherited from her famous aunt - the notorious Katherine Bourgeois-Pain, she now found herself inexplicably giving in to strange feelings of docility and acceptance. When the familiar plebeians passed her way, she barely flinched; distracted shoppers, one-track-minded pedestrians, coquettish girls, well-dressed matrons, delivery boys, androgynous melancholics, slow-moving old men, aimless college students on extended summer break taking all-day lunch breaks- all failed to incite any kind of reaction - and this was a good sign, as she sauntered past this crop of "diverse individuals" in search of her adversary, that singular, woebegone, awkwardly over-confident, would-be prophet with a gift for driving her mad. It occurred to Fiona that little Billy Figgs was in some respects the most dangerous specimen of the male persuasion that she had ever allowed herself to fraternize with; yes, this was true. She had, it seemed, quite consciously made a point of collecting an assortment of hapless, starry-eyed males as friends....she had been around nice, clueless guys for so long that the other varieties of what her Aunt referred to as "manbeast", namely those alpha-male, type-A control freaks, corporate CEOs, sales execs, martinet-militarists, brigadier generals, back-slapping politicians - even muscle-bound, spoiled athletes - seemed like comic-book parodies or stock characters from old  B movies. Fiona had expected the worst from Billy, had anticipated in advance his desperate brand of faith with its unnecessarily rigid, feverishly dogmatic approach to every issue, his tiresome need to feel righteous, smug, and condescending like some forgotten minor deity with a chip on his shoulder....What she did not see coming was any admission on Billy's part that his own world-weariness had in fact caught up with him....Of late she had heard him invoking the doctrines of the medieval Cathars and Albigensians of the 12th century - counseling people to avoid romantic entanglements, admonishing strangers to forego their usual public-displays-of-affection, to sever existing ties with boyfriends and girlfriends, to dissolve any and all relationships that gave any inkling of having been tainted  by lust or fraught with the fatal seedlings of sensuality and concupiscence. Where did that leave him and Gabby Grailsmith as a couple - Fiona wondered. Was this some ridiculous preparation for a bogus apocalyptic scenario in which young single adults would gather in the cornfield? It was perhaps entirely logical for Billy to assume that the world had already ended, but that the finale had been delayed. Fiona had wanted so very much to denounce him as a fraud, a fanatic, an aberration of what true spirituality represented. She had planned to corner him as he made his way from diner to donut shop.  Billy - listen for a second... Things cannot go on like this with you and Gabby running wild in the name whatever crazy concept of God or religion you happen to be advocating. Therefore, I am cordially inviting, or rather, I am hereby demanding  that you void your membership in the Prophecy Club - and that you sever your affiliation with the Esoterica Society and the Higher Consciousness Continuum. She knew how empty her words would sound in the zealot's ears. They would have no more impact than a fly buzzing around his head or a leaky faucet dripping. With her reputation - as Billy called it - for outworn, new-agey, hippie-dippie, secular-feminist-spiritualism (whatever that means)  she had no more clout than a construction worker trying recruiting lost souls for an opera company; the fact that it was Fiona telling him all this would only raise a smirk, or perhaps a silent glare. Oh yes, of course,  if R. J.  had not handed down any kind of imperial decree or executive order, had not given a thumbs down on this one, or thrown Billy and Gabby under the bus or sold them down the river - which it was safe to say, he had not, then they were permitted, nay encouraged to continue their crusade...Amazing, truly, how much space Billy was taking up in her thoughts...But his presence continued to elude her...It was simply not meant to be...she would not be having the big encounter today despite her best laid plans...Instead she heard horns followed by a loud crash; a hideous fender-bender was erupting a mere two blocks away. A few concerned citizens rushed over immediately to survey the damage. Moments later, as if to add distraction upon distraction,  Marci and Chloe came barreling out of the gelato shop sharing the same  cup of frozen wonder, happily oblivious to the sudden commotion. Walking higglety-pigglety in a zig zag fashion, they laughed uproariously - in the midst of one of their "giggle fits" - striding virtually arm-in-arm, slurping, shrieking, moaning, yelping like two wildly uncivilized girlie-girls,  happily gossiping about two or three "dreamy guys" who held them spellbound for the past day or week or full moon.  Oh brother - Fiona gasped - overhearing their mindless chatter. Why did they let themselves descend to this level? Was this their way of letting off steam?

Snobbery

Strange to think that here in the modern world, as they say, with everyone having been declared equal, both at birth and before the law, alike in dignity no matter what the circumstance, equivalent in standing, commensurate in outlook, celebrated as participants and full-fledged also-rans, careful observers may discern a low-flying series of petty snobberies and vendettas, i.e. randomly arrived-at pretexts for feelings of intense superiority and preeminence, such that they are now driven by a subterranean set of ambitions, to escape the anonymity of statistics,  secretly, even desperately pining for avenues by which to stand out from the crowd, for a more benign form of social hierarchy - an official weekly mapping out, no less, of "winners" and "losers," complete with updated rankings and bell curves. Alongside the wellsprings of good-will and compassion, side by side as it were with sentiments of sharing and cooperation,  those old, unruly, unsavory, primordial demands make their appearance, demands for naked attention and garish recognition, for  awards, titles, prizes, entitlements, perks, special privileges - under the facade of humbly interacting with one's fellow citizens as fellow citizens.  Notwithstanding these forbidden thoughts, it was unavoidable that along with such desires, there should be fears as well - fears of "falling behind," of "not measuring up," of being found out as "deficient" in some crucial regard. As if to guard against gnawing insecurities, or to insulate themselves against any snide-yet-subtle comments from various self-appointed elites, people continue to do as they have always done in setting up little bubbles and enclaves for themselves to thrive in - by arranging it so that their best features, their interests, tastes, avocations,  possessions, acquisitions, shopping patterns, etc. would be highlighted to optimum advantage making it so that "those who are not like us and of us and with us...of our type and our ilk"  shall be, will be (how does the saying go?) - oh, let them be anathema. Chloe (who had grown up in this milieu and was a fine observer of human foibles) saw it as "one big game" (as she explained to her friend Fiona) in which the participants must continually vie for leverage and/or supremacy in myriads of little ways without (and this is crucial...) coming across as snooty or pretentious. Drama and intrigue carries over from high school - wouldn't you say, doll? Fiona would remark with her sardonic wit. It's sad to watch people get burned in middle age, sometimes just a repeat of what happened to them as teens. Needless. So needless... But tell me something that I don't already know... Chloe would reply in a voice of contempt that evoked her investment in this topic and perhaps her fear. It was still a dog-eat-dog world out in the suburbs, but the rhetoric of egalitarianism left no room to acknowledge the bestial cravings of the would-be victors in pursuit of their spoils. And so it happened on a bright summer morning in late June that a certain gathering took place - call it a "casual brunch" or a "sumptuous pot luck" among the established up-and-coming families in town, neighbors and friends of a select group mingling cheerfully and comfortably, while sipping libations and sampling home recipes. Nothing unique here: the usual spread, new furniture to announce, a debate about paint colors for dining rooms, someone's deck project or gardening plans, the loud banter interspersed with laughter or playful gibes, the preeminent ladies of the group proudly yet tacitly displaying some new item of clothing or jewelry, the men transfixed on sporting events, golf tournaments, betting strategies, hockey, basketball, the upcoming playoffs. It was all very safe and familiar until an unusual couple strode in and immediately turned all heads their way....because...well...for starters something about how they were so damnably well-dressed and polished and coiffed without even trying, not that they were dressed up at all really, but just well-put-together which could not help but place into stark contrast the nondescript attire of the other guests. Husband and wife, these sudden debutantes, with their amazingly well-behaved daughter, seemed bemused by the scene before them - like aliens from another planet - they waltzed in - perfectly poised, comfortable, and were summarily introduced, the husband that is, as someone or other's second cousin (?) or brother-in-law of Danny's uncle down in Florida (?). No matter. It was that look on their confident faces that said it all - that sardonic smile combined with a glance of partial elan and partial wonderment. The woman was literally accosted by two queen bees who pummeled her with compliments. Oh I love your necklace. Would you like a drink? How old is your daughter? Where did you get that? She was immune from everything - it seemed, from their opinions, their gossip, their subtle digs, their middlebrow sensibilities (Don't be shy...Come on in... join the party...We'll introduce you...)  This couple glided through the midst of them, greeting everyone with perfect tact, sampling appetizers, accepting beverages that were handed to them without complaint. The husband spoke effortlessly about the latest sports highlights while his spouse made vague positive comments about the size of the place - its "clean decor"  its "modern kitchen space" its "very nice big yard"- but the effect of all this was maddening. The way this woman looked at these surroundings - unable to hide a certain puzzlement, unable to repress a twitch on the cheek that was not quite a raised eyebrow. It was not a matter of money - oh no - far from it; everyone there was well provided for. Income was not the issue here. Trust funds, stocks, bonds, health care, spending cash - no cause for complaint, no reason to feel upstaged based strictly upon a financial ledger. But there it was - that feeling of inferiority, creeping out, permeating the room, fomenting ripples of mild, unconscious panic, first among the ladies and only secondarily among those men who could only surmise for the moment that the air felt stuffier,  thinner than usual. One comment in particular had the effect of an explosion when this well-put-together arriviste (for lack of a better term) - her name was Eve or Eva for the record... when this "Eva" casually mentioned to the others the name of a favorite clothing designer in response to persistent questions about what she was wearing. She named the designer as if to say, oh don't you know him? But then, adding insult to injury she gravitated to a print on one of the walls and began speaking rhapsodically at first, before catching herself, about an artist she knew who made similar sketches....And what do you do? - they asked as if expecting to hone in on some hidden secret. She "worked" at "such-and-such," she said, offering only a casual disjointed response, "in the arts...with patterns and colors...buildings... homes...rooms...design projects..." And what were they to make of that? Her mention of names and places and books only served to confirm what the women had expected - that she was from some far-away exotic place and had actually touched and tasted the tapas of experience that they had not even begun to have dreams about...

The Wildness Quotient

Terrence was in one of his happy trances again - wide awake yet staring off into space, trudging along with that unique stride, with that unpredictable, whimsical bounce in his step, secretly proud, giddy, impatient to speak with Simon and Fiona at the gelato shop, wanting to tell them about how he too was THERE at that lecture the other night on campus - that he had snuck in to see the renowned and controversial Katherine Bourgeois-Pain, that he had remained incognito in a dark blue hoodie - that he had not blurted anything out - despite the heckling that went on - that he had actually listened to what this amazing woman had to say, about the present state of the impersonal, mechanized technology-laden, late-capitalist behemoth-leviathan, about the role of women in society, about the crimes of manbeast, about the amnesia that the younger generation is so afflicted with; he listened and he went away thinking that something was missing - he wanted to find a way to speak with Professor Bourgois-Pain up close and personal - to tell her how thought-provoking her speech had been, to tell her how brilliant he thought she was, and - possibly - to remind her - ever so subtly - that she had (perhaps) forgotten to mention a crucial detail - had forgotten this strange intangible factor that Terrence had dubbed the "wildness quotient" - which, he felt was also the key to Simon's dilemma - when he had heard Simon complaining about the "absolute nighttime of the world" and the terror and brutality that lurks just below the surface of mundane normalcy. He thought about all of the members of the prophecy club - those goofy, grail-quest pilgrims, hungry for some purposeful activity, in need of a spiritual goal or goals, not to mention a path that was actually viable, that could actually be believed in without being laughed out of the room. This "wildness" notion that he'd been kicking around and poking at for years and years - that was somewhat different from Simon's notion of the "invisible terror" - because, in contrast to Simon's moralistic sense of outrage at the sad, unbearable silence of non-oracular, non-deified matter, the disenchanted eery presence of mere atoms and void unwilling and unable to respond sufficiently to human needs, wildness was not in itself either good or bad per se, because this idea of "wildness" could not be reduced to an abstract theory or a logical argument - because it was so expansive and divergent - it touched upon so many aspects of experience and would appear here or there never to be pinned down - that it just was such an "uncanniness principle" that had to be taken into account - not that it totally negated all forms of logic, language, science, philosophy or tangible discourse - but just that it represented that weird "ineffable energy" (or call it what you will) the unique self-assertion, the inexplicable aggression, the volatility, ambition, wanderlust, disorder - housed within all living creatures - within entities as such for that matter - that had to be reckoned with - that one could not confine to this one group or this one individual...And because it was not a theory, not even a fact or a set of facts of an event, but more like a story, a mythos that called for interpretation by persons dealing with "situations" at various times and places, he felt that he had succeeded in some kind of breakthrough; he wanted to explain how this "wildness" factor that came to visit now and then and brought with it by turns, chaos, destruction, terror or else (perhaps by corollary) adventure, rapture, heightened awareness - like a contagion spreading by means of various unlucky "carriers" and "infected ones" - sometimes a villain, sometimes a tragic hero...or involving, for lack of a better term "innocent onlookers" and "affected populations." Was this enough to rebut Simon and that old soul mentor of his - with their world-weary explanations - with their instinctual religious melancholy lashing out against the raw data of human vulnerability before the randomness of time and chance that "happeneth" to all? He thought again of that remarkable woman, that quintessential aging rebel and her radical indictment of relations between male and female throughout the animal kingdom, ending most conspicuously with men and women of today....it occurred to him that she had perhaps not felt the need to invoke any over-arching metaphysical principles or general concepts as part of her discussion, and yet...there was no doubt a philosophical underpinning to her remarks and a definite sense of cosmic injustice meting itself out. Did she believe that "justice" was then but a human construction along the lines of socially-constructed gender relations? Did she believe that nature itself somewhat of a hoax, a misnomer, a false construct, an illusory panorama of make-shift order and stability projected outward like some false glittering advertisement or continuous hologram that people simply absorbed as part of the scenery without noticing the role of language in the very acting of seeing and perceiving the natural universe?

Can Someone Just Agree with Me?

Lionel H. was sitting in the barber's chair at the Clip-n-Snip discount hair salon, petulant and brooding, high up on his perch, chair #4 to be exact, monitoring the haircut in progress - his own in fact, a sacred event on his calendar, a mental cleansing similar to yoga or meditation;  yet there he was on a lazy Sunday afternoon, holding his head stiffly in place while fiercely admonishing the young stylist with a strangely impulsive laundry list of do's and don'ts; nothing unusual here except that for Lionel haircuts were typically so fluid and serene; he had frequented this humble salon as a means of lessening his anxiety, and felt that nothing was so soothingly beneficial as a properly rendered (i.e. close-cropped) grooming. On this particular day, however, he felt uncharacteristically flustered, frayed, on-edge. He felt like screaming at the top of his lungs and berating the stylist, a young brunette woman with long fingernails and wild, amorphous, curly hair who for many months had been relied upon (trusted implicitly really) to give him that elusive "clean-cut look" - a look that in reality was so simple and banal, hardly worth mentioning, but one that he went on and on about in his mind, and would "unpack" for her in excruciating detail as if describing a DNA molecule, a Bach concerto or the latest panacea for a migraine headache. Eager to vent, he nevertheless held himself in check. Although nothing was out of the ordinary, with the casual pop music droning on in the background, with the Us Magazines and Men's Health periodicals strewn across the waiting area couches, with the lighting near the mirrors dimmed appropriately to accentuate the best skin tones of the pale, pasty customers, something just felt wrong. A cheerful blonde woman wearing a shapely and presumably "in vogue" happy-face t-shirt stood at the register, nodding politely at everyone. In the waiting area, two young boys sat next to an elderly woman. A young man with short hair (seemingly without need of even a trim) was happily immersed in reading the sports page. The temptation to explode was so overwhelming that Lionel could barely keep his hands from shaking underneath the cloak, and the young woman was so placid and compliant, so good-naturedly willing to endure any complaint or snide remark, that he found himself sending out a barrage of emphatic commands, albeit in fervent, hushed tones: Could you cut a little more on this side? Don't forget the top layers. The back feels a little full. You're not done in back are you? Do you remember what I told you? The stylist on this particular day, indeed remembered, but could not help feeling that Lionel was revising what he wanted every five minutes. You said not too short - I thought? she said perplexed. Yes - not too short, but I need a definitive haircut,  a haircut that is noticeable. Can you use a 3-blade with the clippers on this side here? Or maybe a 2. We'll have to see. The young woman suppressed a smile at this point, half-amused and half-mystified, and could not repress a playful gibe about about certain customers needing to "go back on their meds." Unfortunately for her, Lionel instantly latched onto this barb (reading into it far more than was intended) and indignantly replied: Oh, right. Oh right. Like I'm....Like I look the type...Oh, please.  - But I just meant ----- She could not get the words out before the barrage of indignation erupted in her general direction: Just for the record: I don't do drugs, okay. I'm not - I'm ....Drugs are for freaks, okay? Yes - I mean it. I'm going there: for freaks, losers, hooligans, hedonists, criminals, wayward types, drifters, people lacking a purpose. And as for medication, the only meds I'm on right now are caffeine and aspirin - two of the best substances known to humankind. Look, I'm sorry if I sound demanding, but I do need this haircut done right. I need a certain look - okay?" After such an awkward exchange the stylist was now flummoxed for a segue. But Lionel provided it. Yes. I know. I know. I'm a little stressed out today. That's why I like getting my haircut. It helps me relax. Better than a spa or whatever it is people go to nowadays. It really is. It works for me. Oh great - said the stylist, happy to be back in (for the moment at least) Lionel's good graces. I didn't mean to imply that you were on drugs. Lionel felt a brief spasm of rationality overtake him: Oh well I'm sure you didn't...but that's a hot button issue for me. Drugs, that is. And don't get me started about those annoying potheads. Next-gen stoners, pot-growers, pot-bakers, pot-gardeners, pot-advocates. Don't even go there.  I can't stand them and their wretched gateway addictions, their beloved cannabis plants."  Oh - said the stylist innocently, trying once again to diffuse a needlessly tense situation, I thought marijuana was considered more like a medicine nowadays. I mean for some people. You know they use it for nausea and for um....for people who....who use it to.... help their.... um...I can't remember what it's called..." "Their glaucoma,"- said the customer sitting in the next chair. You're right to say that marijuana is viewed more as a medicine these days than a so-called 'gateway drug.' And the convenient thing is that most people don't even need to light up. Somewhat annoyed by this interjection, Lionel glared at this customer - a pert, seemingly agile, grey-haired fellow, obvious "boomer" who it turns out grew his hair out in a long pony-tail for six months out of the year and then sheared everything off  (including his scraggly beard) from April-October thereby achieving a total transformation for no apparent reason from looking like an aging hippie mountain-man survivalist to a conservative financial planner in one fell swoop. But Lionel was not one to let such a comment go unchallenged. Before he could offer a devastating logical argument to silence his opponent, his fledgling adversary chimed in again:  I hate to break it to you... (laughing)... but you are a little BEHIND THE TIMES on this one... what you just said about lawful cannabis users is just a tad...oh how shall I say...rigid.... (heh, heh, heh). He said it laughing as if to show his good faith. Oh - here we go. Lionel groaned inwardly at yet another defender of the current Zeitgeist.  I'll take that as a compliment he said  in response. I'd rather be rigid - that is to say - principled - than on drugs. I guess I just belong in some other century than be surrounded by loopy, out-of-touch potheads on their way to crashing and burning. I know it may sound harsh - but I happen to dissent from the majority opinion - on - this -one. I don't trust the majority...The semi-affable hippie/mountain man soon to be cubicle-dweller or shall I say aging boomer coming back down the mountain to the bourgeois camping grounds, was in no mood to hold back: I understand. You have your opinions. It's just that they sound very judgmental. The times have changed, chief; you just have to adjust, you know: go along, get along, live and let live...   This was quite enough to push Lionel over the edge....He wanted to enlist the young stylist as an advocate, but feared that this would be a long-shot. What do you think about all this? he blurted out with maximum subdued demeanor. Oh dear - what do I say now?  thought the stylist, not wanting to offend any of the surrounding clientele who were now being drawn into the argument. Well - maybe it sounds a little judgmental (she giggled) as in opinionated (she giggled). I suppose everyone is like that to some extent, it's just that most people - Most people keep silent - because they've been cowed into submission, because they know that the thought-police will drag them through the mud with every manner of calumny. Am I right? -"Whoa there... my... my... you - uh - seriously - uh need to -  just take a deep breath and REALIZE that times have changed. I'm amazed at how - uh - what's the word - sheltered you are to talk about us cannabis advocates as somehow living on the margins...You've heard of alternative medicine haven't you?- Don't call me naive, sir. I know ALL ABOUT you dope-smokers. It's so interesting not only do you fail to allow me my rights as a dissenter- you don't even have the courtesy to ask whether I myself have ever had a bad experience with drugs. You ever think a-that? Some people have terrible, terrible traumas that all have to do with drug abuse. Do I make myself clear? And because I'm here on a Sunday trying to get a measly haircut so I can relax - you come along and accuse me of being some totalitarian boot-stomper just because I hate dope.   - Okay, fine. You can think whatever you want - but your way of expressing yourself is really offensive - because you  -" - Because I - Because you sound like such a puritan - what I call a "wound-too-tight." You don't seem to have much empathy, son. Can you conceive that some people may have had a positive experience where you perhaps had a negative one? Can't you wrap your head around that? Can't you accept that as a possibility? - No I cannot. One side of the equation is delusional." - "You know. Your problem really goes beyond this little debate we're having. I wouldn't be surprised if you make a lot of enemies wherever you go." - No doubt I do. Is that something to be ashamed of? - "Yes." By now Lionel was exhausted and practically in tears. - Is it too much to ask, he said looking around, for someone, anyone to agree with me? Can someone just agree with me? Anybody??? Now is the time to speak up... The young stylist knew it was time for an intervention. - Um sir, maybe we should take a break before we finish with your hair...Would you like some complimentary coffee? - Coffee - there's a nice drug for you - said the hippie. - Lionel nodded at her despairingly, feeling suddenly defeated by the world. The only words he could muster were to the effect of: What is your name. I didn't catch your name. I should know your name by now...