Wet Rags

Something unusual has happened. I've become engaged in an online debate about writing and literature. An alleged expert has criticized me for being too purple in my prose; an accusation of which I am most certainly guilty. The basic argument attempts to answer the following question: which is more important, the story or its telling? 

I may be in the minority, according to my adversary, but when I read, the prose is always more salient than the story. Consider Proust's madeleine scene; it is almost completely void of story, but his faculties for description are so deft that it doesn't matter. A meager happening, ordinary by most standards, is transmuted into a commentary on the inexhaustible power of human memory, imagination, and what it means to grow old. The passage is revered by critics, readers, and authors alike, and rightly so, because it achieves what writing should: it enhances the reader's intimacy, appreciation, and understanding about what it means to be human. James Joyce, also regarded as one of the greatest men to ever hold a pen, has a penchant for embellishment that borders on psychotic compulsion. Some of the best sentences and stories I've ever read have been written by Joyce and, sometimes, they are about nothing. Then there's Chekhov, who is lauded and loathed for this same reason. He was often criticized for flat characters in flat worlds; for stories that didn't tell a story. In a sense, I feel one must abandon traditional standards of expectation and eschew a dogged adherence to rules and style in order to achieve something significant. The pitfall, obviously, is that more often than not what results is base or incomprehensible; poor authorship. 

My online opponent, whom I actually really respect, tells me I try too hard. There is truth in her criticism, absolutely, and perhaps I should soften my preference for prose to strengthen my capacity to tell a story. There is no disputing this; she is right; my story was flat, almost non-existent. She is a mentor of sorts, one who I probably have much to learn from, if I'd listen. My problem with her opinion is that she is too much in love with the established conventions of the literary intelligentsia. She is a self-proclaimed channeler of the masters, a conduit for the holy spirit of Cervantes. Her beliefs border on dogma. Her remarks are marked by a not-so-subtle air of condescension (though she says she doesn't mean it that way) which, though irksome, causes me to smile. She feels passionately about her stance and I like that. She is blunt and honest to the point of insensitivity. There is something of myself I see in her. I'd like to sit with her and have a drink, a beer or a glass of wine. She could wear purple lipstick and sing. 

If I am being honest with myself, and why should I be anything else, what bothers me most about our exchange is that she told me I can't write this way. 

I don't like being told I can't. I tell it to myself enough. 

--------

I posted the above message in response to my new online friend. This made her even more insensitive and mean. Trenchant is a good word to describe her. She must be a terribly bitter and unhappy person (and also, I'd imagine, the type to staunchly deny it). I hate to lob the ad hominem attack grenade, but I think when providing feedback one must have tact. One must remember they are talking to another human. She reminds me of Simon Cowell; gives me the feeling she takes pleasure in all things pejorative. She uses phrases like "this sucks" and "it was agonizing reading this" to describe my writing. Oh well, some people cannot contain their discontent. Instead they must wring it out like a wet rag over the heads of others. 

Red Lollipops

The other day I thought: I shouldn't care about anything I write. Why bother? It's insignificant. I'm insignificant; we all are. Everything is. What does it matter what I write; why should I write at all. Oddly, writing still beckons me and, whispering softly, it seduces me with imperatives I do not understand. There is an absurdity to life when it comes to living and doing. Yesterday, I felt so strongly I had to escape the city that I wore a wig and an eye patch, called myself Snake, and drove as fast as I could to Sonoma. The feeling of being chased wouldn't leave me, even after I'd arrived. I guess it's because it wasn't truly an arrival; more of a layover. We only truly arrive when we last depart. Everything else is just a seat in the economy cabin - breathing in stale, recirculated air, tired trapped and uncomfortable, with aching joints and never enough leg room.

Nature did help allay my distress though, through brief distraction. Lately I feel like a child holding a broken flashlight, running wildly down a sidewalk on a cool night; falling victim to the uneven angles that hide in the dark which wait to reach up and catch the front of my shoe, to taste the skin of my knee. I need something to stop me from crying; a funny face or my mother's arms, something shiny, a lollipop, a Scooby Doo band-aid.

Accompaniment

I dreamt like mad last night; strange, elaborate dreams. In one of them, I walked on water. Almost all them involved a girl, sometimes naked, always kissed, but never mine. I think it was all the talk of dreams and mysticism at dinner that got it in my head. Now though, I don't feel well rested. There are things I need to do, laundry mostly, but still I find myself lying in bed, typing.

I'd said something to someone recently, about love. How, at its core, it is the feeling of being understood, accepted, accompanied. In its absence there is loneliness, confusion, ignorance, rejection. I've lost my point.

I haven't been out to take photos in so long that I struggle each time I try to choose a picture for this blog. There aren't any suitable photos to accompany these words.

Tea Time

I successfully abstained from drinking and drugging last night, though I did smoke a wee bit of a joint. The show wasn't nearly as good as I'd thought it would be, but I'm still glad I went. The day, presently, is sunny and blue and I need to figure out what I want to do. It would be nice to take some photos, but it's too late now to secure a car and travel somewhere far away. The familiar streets of San Francisco only hold so much charm. Maybe I'll clean my apartment and cut my hair. After that, when everything is shorn and in proper order, perhaps I'll hang with my man Marcel and continue reading his nightmarishly elastic sentences. Putting your head to his page is to drown in a sea of verbal diarrhea, ripe, flavorful, and smelling of madeleines.

Slowdive

Tonight, the three of us, Q, T and I, will go to a show after work. A renowned shoegaze band from the 90's, aptly named Slowdive, is gracing San Francisco with its sounds, which will travel out in all directions from the Warfield. I, of course, after having waited for over forty days, will be staring down at my feet, in a daze, gazing, drugged out and slowly diving, lost in the velvet waves washing over my ears. I can hear them already.

Forty days and I miss you
I'm so high that I've lost my mind
It's the summer I'm thinking of
Forty days and I'm blown away
If I saw something good
I guess I wouldn't worry
If I saw something good
I guess I wouldn't care
You said I'm always sleeping
But it's all I believe in
It's just that I'm always falling
And it makes me feel bad, yeah
If I saw something good
I guess I wouldn't worry
If I saw something good
I guess I wouldn't care
I used to try and watch you
And center on the way that you smile,
I don't know
I used to try and watch you,
I'd center on the way that you smile,
I don't know

Raving

The building was sixty years old, tall, once distinguished. But now, in the light of the winter moon, with shot out windows and a scarred, scribbled facade, it seemed a monument to decay. The base of the building, tattered, pockmarked, covered in filth and soot kicked up by passing cars, is decorated with the various, variegated colors of spraypaint signatures. There was a time, some thirty years ago, when the building had been an epicenter of booming industry and, to the townspeople, it had provided steady income, jobs, and economic abundance. It was a metal working factory which produced, among other things, bullet shells, munitions, weapons for the war. The world, during this era, was embroiled in a series of wars which had threatened the safety and well being of peoples across many continents and countries. So it was no surprise then that this enormous factory would prove integral to the nation's military effort. All of this changed however, once the wars had ended. Soon after, the building's owner and benefactor, Mr. Charles Bradley, had been killed in a freak boating accident while on vacation in the San Francisco Bay. They found him beside his idling boat, hurled against an iron buoy, dead, in a cheap robe, wearing a ridiculous white captain's cap and sandals. It didn't take long for scandal to stir. Rumors spread, of his involvement in classified intelligence trading, backdoor weapons distribution, embezzlement and other crimes generally regarded as treason. The factory was shut down; people lost their jobs, moved out. The town, bereft of the rushing flow of currency afforded to it by the building, had dried up and become dangerous and poor. Where once there were restaurants, fashionable boutiques and stores dedicated to luxury furnishings, there is nothing but boarded up windows, corner convenience stores, gutters lined with discarded beer bottles and trash. 

Tonight, back at the old Bradley building, there is a light on. Inside, tucked away at the rear of the building, a thin, mustached man sweeps the floor. His name is Manuel Garcia. He is old, probably in his mid-fifties, wrinkled, with green eyes and big calloused hands. In his youth he fought in the war and was wounded, awarded a purple heart, and now he walks with a slight limp. His face is accentuated by a series of freckles beneath his left eye, and his high, hollow cheekbones give him the appearance always of sucking on hard candy. Tall, paper thin, with white curly hair, and owing to the slight bend stemming from the right side of his body, he looks like an old, upright mop. The broom he carries, when it is swept, and because of his thinness, seems more like a dance partner than a cleaning instrument. Hanging over his lips, his sparse moustache, long and dyed black, flutters like moth wings when he talks. A nervous tick he acquired during the war causes him, at times, when he is distressed, frustrsted, or fatigued, to curl his lips inward and blow out, producing a silent whistle which, flaring out his dark hairs like whiskers, gives him the appearance of a catfish. He swims across the floor, sweeping, dancing with the broom to some unsung song. Outside, blowing against the high wooden fence, the wind gently knocks. Manuel, pausing briefly, raises his head to listen for the crunch of rock under boot-heels, or the careful, cautious rummaging of a tresspassing raccoon. 

Nothing. 

Save for the dim glow of a hanging bulb swaying slowly overhead, and the white breath from Manuel's lips, the building is completely uninhabited and alone. Manuel, when he works, is usually accompanied by a small battery operated radio given to him by his niece Maria, but on this night he was specifically instructed not to play any music. Manuel wasn't supposed to be in the Bradley building. Nobody was. He was contacted by his nephew, Antonio; a charming, well-to-do youth of twenty-five who had commissioned Manuel to get the room in order. The room, as large as a symphony hall, is to be the venue for an underground party called a rave. It seemed strange to Manuel that a young man of Antonio's standing would want to host a dance party in an old unfrequented building, but for Antonio there was little he wouldn't do. 

Manuel's younger sister, Gabriella, Antonio's mother, had become pregnant early in her adolescence and was cast out of the house by their father, Eduard. He was a proud, disciplined man of unwavering principle who, having himself served in the military, revered order above all else; fiercely opposing even the slightest disobedience. When she was found out he'd called her all sorts of horrible things, a harlot and a whore; told her never to show herself at home again. Should she return, he said, she would be greeted by boxed ears. Gabriella, now that she had been disowned and made to leave, moved in with her then lover, Raul, and never returned. Raul lived on the other side of town and, because of his devoutly Catholic upbringing, insisted that she take up residence with him. Despite what her father thought, Raul was a decent man. He was a devoted husand and laborer for a construction company in a neighboring county. He died on a construction site just after Antonio was born. He'd fallen through an improperly fastened floorboard placed over a thirty-foot drop and was immediately impaled. A wrongful death suit was claimed, at the behest of a family friend, but after a long, drawn out court battle, it was decided no one was at fault for negligence. Gabriella's mother and father did not attend the funeral. Manuel had remained close with his sister during her brief marriage and, hearing the news, had done all that he could to help support her. He gave her money, paid for Antonio’s clothes, minded the boy while his sister was away.

Antonio, when Manuel had returned home from the war, was already a boy of ten. With a childlike gaiety he would run from window to window laughing and giggling, hiding his face from the imaginary enemy soldiers that had them outnumbered and surrounded. He would beg Manuel to tell him stories of the war; of how the good guys win and the bad guys lose. At night, Manuel would go to him, armed with a storybook and a glass of warm milk, prepared to sit for an hour and read until the boy fell asleep. 

Once more Manuel hears the wind banging a tree’s branches onto the wooden fence. Once more he raises his head.

After a moment's pause, his moth-winged mustache flutters as he exhales. The broom slides over the floor and a series of soft shushes console a haggard old pile rubble; of broken sheet rock, crumpled beer cans, small emptied metal cartridges; all shivering and forgotten, lonely, obsolete and buried by a slow falling blanket of dust.

Never, Again

My stomach hurts. I shouldn't have drank yesterday: it always gets me in trouble on Sunday. I remember suggesting that we stop drinking, that we go do something else, but no one listened. And it was still early when I'd said it; there was time to be saved from the insidious evils of drink! Before I could protest, there was more beer. It was strong, and there was a lot of it. So I continued drinking what might as well have been pints of wine, until things got strange. The sun was a bit lower in the sky by this time. I could tell by the way it was only faintly coming through the window behind me. The air had picked up that cold, San Francisco chill, and I regretted not having my jacket. Out of nowhere the bar had become busy, boisterous. Girls talked loudly and laughed, men ordered drinks. I began to notice the art on the walls, full of assess and breasts, cartoonish and oddly colored. I'll spare you the details of our conversation, because I've forgotten them. The next thing I knew I was outside, talking to a girl I didn't know. She was an adroit judge of character, quickly identifying one of my friends as a cocky asshole. Then I was inside, in a darkened bar, instructing a grown woman on how to best administer a hug, with hands-on examples and pointers on technique. I had become a coach, of sorts. I was certified at Burning Man, I told her, I'm a professional. I think she took my number at the end. In the dark, I could see the wrinkles on her face, the dried out rivers and canals of lost youth.

Then we were gone.

Somehow I was back at a friend's house, sitting on a chair while he and his girlfriend cooked. It was here I felt the distinct sensation of complete drunkenness. Had I accidentally smoked some pot? Where did this rush of vertigo come from? The room started to spin. My brain was soaked in so much alcohol my head had filled up like the sea; the bubbling, storming tides thrashed and rocked the hull of my skull, throwing me free from the helm. Waves assailed my equilibrium and I fumbled for the phone, trying futilely to send out an SOS. My ship was sinking and I needed to get to dry land, fast. I stood up and screamed "abandon ship," as I tried to leave but the boat swung starboard and I staggered and slid across the floor in an astonished electric slide. I raced down the stairs, which seemed to leap and lurch, and fell into a lifeboat that had just arrived. I was stricken with scurvy and severe nausea. I worried I'd blow all over the small confines of my escape vessel.

And then - sanctuary! I'd arrived at my house, but the sudden ascent to my apartment gave me the bends. My stomach didn't get the message that we were done climbing and rose like dough into my esophagus. I collapsed in front of the toilet, blowing harder than Moby Dick.

I crawled to bed, whimpering, saying: never again, never.

Again.

A Decision

Because of where they stand, at the far end of the bar, nearest the bathroom, they're furthest from the door. "Who the hell do you think you are, talking to people like that," Gloria asks. "We're not giving you shit. Keep your snot sandwiches; we're leaving." She starts toward the door and Gérard follows after. Joe lifts the counter latch, beats her to the exit and locks it with a key. He places the key on the counter and turns the little open sign around so that it faces them, cruel and mocking. Gérard glances around looking for an alternate exit. None. He considers possible outcomes, a few of which involve an altercation. Joe is big, over six feet tall. He has a thick, fire hydrant neck and shoulders like the horizon. The apron he's wearing is as big as a bed sheet. If it came to fighting, Gérard wouldn't have much of a chance.

"You city types are all the same," Joe says, as he walks back behind the counter. "You think you're better than everyone, that you're smarter. When the shit hits the fan though, you know who'll be the first ones to go: city folk. There are too many of you; you'll trample each other to death, claw your way over women and children to save yourselves. You've got no honor. Death and disease come out of cities. It's manufactured there. It travels out to small towns on the wings of your bullshit, progressive ideas." Joe slams his hand down on the counter. His eyes are ferocious. "Let me tell you something about the world," he continues, "it doesn't need you. You fight for equality, and forget people aren't equal. You know in your heart if you and me went head to head, we ain't equal. Same goes for women. You know why women have a voice? Because men gave it to them. WE fought and died in wars to uphold freedom, that's why. Men. Not women. And not frail intellectuals who couldn't change a goddamn tire if their car broke down - strong, brave men, who pushed things forward with their bodies; even at the cost of their lives.”

Gloria, reliably incendiary, says: “You sexist, redneck fuck. Don’t threaten us,” and grabs for the key. Joe, closer to it than she is, produces a long bread knife and moves it toward her in warning. “Back away,” Joe says, putting the key in his pocket. He moves to the rotary phone on the wall, behind the counter, and turns it three times. “It’s Joe, down at the Milk Barn. I have a couple of thieves here.” Gloria, fomenting, screams out: “Are you fucking crazy? You just locked us in here and threatened me with a knife! Good, call the cops!” The thought crosses Gérard’s mind that someone may get hurt, stabbed, or potentially arrested over a couple of five dollar sandwiches. He pulls a twenty dollar bill from his pocket.

“Here,” Gérard says, “you know what: take the money, keep the sandwiches,” and throws the bill on the counter. "Open the door.”

A strange expression spreads over Joe’s face and he puts down the receiver. “You think this is about money? This is about principle,” he says, putting down his knife. He takes off his paper hat and his apron, throws them on the counter. “That’s the problem with you people: you think throwing money at somebody will fix anything. That’s where you’re wrong.” His head, when he speaks, jerks from side to side, shaking the words loose from his mouth. “Some things there isn’t a damn thing money can do anything about. What did money do for her when she was sick,” he yells, picking up the knife. “She was fine and they convinced us to put all them chemicals in her body, to hit her with radiation and feed her mouthfuls of pills!” Joe stabs the knife down into the cutting board. He’s soaked in sweat and panting. His waxen skin looks to be melting off. Deep purple veins bulge in his neck as his hands clench and unclench. “I mortgaged our house, my business, because insurance wouldn’t cover it. I watched those doctors kill her!” He coughs violently and sways behind the counter, then steps out from behind it. "They put poison in her blood, killed her.” He steps toward Gérard and begins rolling up his shirt sleeves. "She swelled up like rotten fruit, couldn’t even breathe without being hooked up to a machine. They removed organs, cut out parts of her body, disfigured her. It was disgusting what they did to her; tubes in her throat, her ass, out of her stomach.” Joe blinks hard a few times and winces. "I thought if I paid enough it would save her. I’m still paying. And then I have to deal with scum like you!”

He stops midstep and clutches at his chest. “I’ll kill you! I’LL KILL YOU,” he says, reaching weakly toward Gérard, who sidesteps him with ease. Joe falls onto the floor with a loud crash. He lay on his side, gasping and cringing.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Gloria says, rummaging through the discarded apron pocket, “I got the key.”

“He’s having a stroke,” Gérard says, looking up at her. “We can’t just leave him.”

“The cops are coming,” she says, “we have to.”

“What?” Gérard asks, appalled.

“They’ll call an ambulance when they get here.”

“It could be too late.”

“They'll think we killed him if we wait and the ambulance gets here too late.”

“We’ll just explain what happened. What are they going to think we scared him to death?”

“Gérard, he called the cops saying he was being robbed. You think they’re going to show up and think we didn’t have something to do with this? C’mon man, you were a judge; we have to go, now.”

They don’t speak on the ride home. Gérard remembers the ambulance from earlier.

He wonders whether they saved him.