A Glimpse of Insanity

I've just shared a little about the different "me's" in my life. There are other parts that were just as real ... that I don't talk about.

Given that at heart I'm a journalist, one who longs for truth, as well as one who cares ... well, I have to share it all. Transparency. To ask it of others is unfair, but to ask it of myself is a necessity. I already know it all. Nothing I write here is anything that I haven't considered thoroughly. That is the way to take this piece. I honor this me because of who he was and what he was going through. I admire him for his courage, his resiliency to try when there was no reason to try at all, his strength to will his way through nothingness, and his genius in embracing irrationality when reason suggested that nothing meaningful exists, ever has, or ever could.

I reconsidered insanity since reason wasn't working all that well for me. Rather than viewing insanity as the serious mental health problem it is considered to be, I began examining the research. Guess what? It's incomplete at best. There are so many leaps of logic, gaps in knowledge, horrific misinterpretations, that anyone practicing a blind faith in the mental health industry is setting themselves up for disaster. You learn how to become helpless through the health care system and I, personally, learned first-hand just how underdeveloped and even abusive it is. But that's another story, one I'll tell another time. No, this is a story that explores alternative perceptions of reality.

I'm going to tell you a bit of my story of how I was living in Chicago, especially a few months after being separated when I realized my wife wanted a divorce, my health care ran out, and it looked like I might not be able to continue working enough to pay my bills. So, yeah, reason at this point ... it's giving me a pretty clear picture of how bad the situation is. I decided that since I lacked the physical, emotional, and intellectual resources at that time to make any healthy changes in my life, I made the one choice I could make: I abandoned reason.

The summer before I abandoned reason, before I found out I was getting divorced, I jogged and went for physical therapy to help with disc problems in my neck and back. I got counseling, family systems therapy. I changed the way I was eating and tried living small in a ratty, sparsely furnished studio (in a great neighborhood, though). I had just moved out of our luxury high-rise condo because ... I thought the separation was temporary.

But then I found out ... things that made me question whether I knew or understood anything at all. At all. That nothing, not one conception of my thought, had anything to do with reality as it actually was. Which caused me to then wonder from what foundation I could make any decisions at all.

I don't think this is the type of experience a person has unless everything is lost. Maybe I'm wrong about that. I can't know. But, for me, that was my experience. Did I actually lose everything? No. The truth was I never had anything. There is nothing to have. It's all transitory, it shifts and changes and nothing stays the same for very long except for beliefs which refuse to change well past the point that they lose resemblance to anything approximating life as it is.

When I woke up to this realization, well, I really have no idea what happened. It's a blank. An indefinite gap of inaccessible nothingness, a type of thinking or experience that a coherent mind can't fathom. Insanity is such a weak word, really.

As an aside, something to provide context, I'll tell you a short story about my maternal grandfather. I discovered not long before his death in the 90s that he worked on the Manhattan Project during World War II. He tested at a genius level for physics as an adolescent. After the war ended he was driving from Los Angeles to Iowa. As he told me of his experience he had great clarity in his eyes and his voice was resolute and sure. He said, "Michael, I was driving back from L.A. to Iowa on Route 66. I was passing through Utah in the middle of the night. There had been no one on the road for at least fifty miles in either direction. No towns, nothing. Middle of nowhere. As I was driving along I saw a small blackness growing in the sky, becoming larger and larger, like a black liquid orb, bile-like and menacing."

He paused for a while and continued, "It was not growing, though. It was actually descending toward the road a half mile ahead of me. I slowed down and as I did I saw the orb open up and enormous wings spread out from either side, like the wings of a Pterodactyl, muscular with jet-black talons more dense than any other substance in the universe. Claws thrust from the front of it and dug into the road ahead of me, cracking the pavement. A head emerged from the top of the orb, a monstrous glob of magma that gave out a terrifying shriek."

He was about to say more, but my mother came into the room and abruptly shoved some juice in his face, telling him to drink more and talk less. After he drank he said, "She's right. I need to rest. Another time." He died before he could ever tell me more.

I wondered about that for quite some time, these revelations about my grandfather. I kept thinking, "What the fuck kind of shit do I have roaming around in my DNA? Mad genius with a proclivity for ecstatic mysticism? What sort of paint-by-the-numbers book am I supposed to pick up to figure all this shit out? What decisions should I be making? Based on ... what? Reason? Freedom? Responsibility? These things are not complementary. Freedom and responsibility have nothing to do with one another.

Fast-forwarding to my life in Chicago, my belief system crumbled after I learned I was getting divorced--plus a lot of other shit happening at the time. My values dissipated, ethics disintegrated, integrity collapsed, and dignity dissolved. I became a lump of goo. That's what first happens when everything breaks down, apparently. Lump of goo. Stage one of structural collapse.

I recall one particular moment in Chicago, about 4:00 AM some winter morning in early 2007, when I woke up in a pile of wood chips in a four-foot wide expanse of landscaping a brownstone owner might have been pretending was a yard. I saw a short black iron fence a few inches in front of my eyes--one of the bars of the little fence, anyway. I felt drunk ... probably because I was drunk and probably had been for weeks on end. Along with whatever else I'd been doing. I felt quite a lot of pain as well. In my knee, neck, right shoulder, jaw, lip, teeth, cheek, head, and all over my back.

There was snow on the ground, fluffy white snow, the snow that comes when there is no wind, when it is cold but not so cold, almost soft, feathery, falling from the sky like the down of a cloud pillow ripped open above the city. Probably a low-flying goose-down cloud that got stuck on one of those satellite antennas on the Hancock tower (or whatever it's called now—they seem to be renaming every building everywhere anymore as if buildings go through identity crises and decide they want to be perceived as something else entirely. "I am not the Chrysler Building. I am the Indignant Monstrosity and you will refer to me by this name from hence forth.").

The snow was so white. Everything everywhere was white. The brownstones and greystones were coated white with marshmallow fluffing. The tree branches had vanilla ice cream frosting. The streets and sidewalks were dunes of white sand. Cars and street signs were covered with volcanic ash.

But there was another color. Red. I kept thinking Citizen Kane's rosebud. It was the blood oozing from different areas of my face and other—at the time—unknown parts of my body. It was so pretty, though. It melted the snow and then when it got cold it coagulated and froze into a cherry snow cone. I guess it was really more of a bloodsicle or the beginnings of a bloodpuddle.

Experiencing this well after becoming radically untethered from any meaning or purpose and most if not all values had ceased? This happening occurring in a very strange time and a place that had inexplicably denied the possibility of the existence of memory before those moments? To describe it will be to distort it, but let me call it "birth" for lack of a better term. The experience was like that of being born. No, not "born again." And, no, not "born" in any reproductive sense. And certainly not "born" in any sense of transitioning from one state of being to another.

Born as in previously nonexistent. Something now existed where before there had been nothing existing. What existed was "white" and what existed was "red" and what existed was "shape" and what existed was "form" and what existed was "perception" and what existed was "experience" and what existed was "awareness."

What did not exist were any of those words representing conceptions. This writing is a crude reduction of an event that existed. This writing doesn't even have the living stench of urination within it let alone the smell of a rose in bloom or your bedroom right after you've had sex. Sterile, lifeless shapes, not even three-dimensional forms, pathetic wretched two-dimensional representations in the forms of letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, grammar, syntax, the ideas that roll forth, all bullshit lies that impossibly want to be something they cannot be: The truth.

What, a photograph would tell a truer story? A video? A documentary film? Decades of research? An entire mythology that develops into a culture that transforms all of civilization to focus on the question of whether or not words can represent reality? Oh, wait, that is the history of civilization! My bad, just consider this another addition to the larger historical project of obfuscation.

For now ... words will be the form of distortion. I'll try to keep the reverb low--except for those of you who like that sort of thing. You want waa-waa? You want jazz? You want symmetry, harmony, melody, complexity, cacophony, screeching noise? I'll try a little of all of it and each of you can decide for yourself what you prefer, what you want to take home with you and bake into a pie and serve to someone you loathe because you know these ingredients are no good for pies. Probably a good way to end a relationship, if that's what you want. Just serve a slice of unsolicited information and you can almost hear the other person's taste buds convulsing in horror at both the bitter and the sweet. Hell, even the savory can be repulsive when you're craving a dry mouth.

Blood red on white carpet and quite a few droplets of red on the tip of the black iron tiny fency-thingy. Probably where some part of my face or body fell on it as I apparently tripped into it while stumbling home from ... where? I'm assuming I was stumbling home. I mentioned it was around 4:00 AM but that was something I discovered later. The moment I started to wonder about things of that nature, the pain returned with a flourish and I returned, obediently, to observing the contrast between red and white. What a wonderful thing that is. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like differentiation to disperse the intensity of one's pain. Well, it's really about the focus of attention. But differentiation provides the possibility of changing the focus of attention. I chose, perhaps not all that consciously, to deeply examine the subtleties of differences not just between color, but texture, how temperature was changing the structure and form of the ... "objects"? What was this stuff in front of me?! Suddenly, I was fascinated by this stuff that was ... not me! It was gloriously not me. Wonderfully not me. Me? Fuck me! I was pure pain, a broken vessel, something lesser than this beautiful white-red visual in front of me. The only part of me that was worthwhile was the part observing the beautiful white-red snow.

All I saw was red ... and white ... and volcanic ash ... and a sky sharing cotton balls with the earth. I turned up to watch it, to watch golf balls and baseballs and volleyballs gently float toward my face. It felt oddly like I was standing up and the sky itself was instead the horizon. I started to actually experience a few desires again. I wanted to walk toward the horizon--in this case, the sky. I couldn't figure out a way to do it, though. Instead, I made strange guttural sounds. I did not move toward the horizon of the sky, but I did create a tiny red explosion just below my sight line. I felt the droplets and the strings of blood fall on my face. Warm. Felt good. I didn't like the taste of blood in my throat, but I focused my attention instead on a memory that was forming--I was recovering my ability to remember! The memory was of one of the arcs of blood that had shot out of my mouth. I can still see it vividly. It was like a crazy silly-string fireworks display. Pinkish-red, too, not that deep red that had been in the snow. And I thought "Whee! I have different shades of red within me!" I laughed hysterically for quite a long time and coughed up more blood and mucous in the process.

Eventually, I got up and assessed the damage. Not too bad. Cut on the cheek and lip. Got lucky. Some bumps and bruises, might have bit my tongue, but too drunk to tell if anything more serious had happened. I seemed mostly okay so I started walking home except ... where the fuck was I? I was in Lincoln Park, that was obvious enough from the brownstones and the tree-lined streets. I couldn't have been too far from Fullerton and Clark, close to where I was living. Where had I been? A haze. Lots of places. Lots of people. For days and nights. Not sure how many. Not sure where I'd been. All over the city, all over the suburbs, into Indiana at some point, probably up toward Milwaukee even.

I had been at a local bar one afternoon, I think the one that started the bender. I asked the bartender, a woman named Deb, to give me a shot of something that would make my eyes bleed. She gave me a look for a second, turned her back to the bar and bent over, grabbed some awful looking bottle of spicy tequila with a rancid worm and what looked like a peyote button in it, poured me three shots, filled me a beer, and said "Happy Kwanzaa." I pounded the drinks and gulped down the beer. My eyes didn't bleed. Tears flowed, though. It felt like a tribe of cavemen had discovered fire in my esophagus. It was perfect.

Beyond that, yeah, a haze. I recall being at some other bar on what I think was the same night, met a bunch of brokers off work from downtown who were getting smashed. Can't recall how I hooked up with them, but I believe there were wagers involved. It's easy to party with traders. The more outlandish the challenge, the greater the likelihood of revelry and massive swings of cash from one person to the next. Can you stand on your head and snort a line of coke? That could get you a hundred bucks right there. Willing to walk out on the ledge of a hotel balcony while completely naked to steal the flag jutting out from the corner of the building on that floor? Maybe no cash this time, but how about two hot escorts for the rest of the night?

I somehow wound up on the far north side, somewhere around Rogers Park but somehow not Rogers Park. Weirder. Scarier. Way more fucked up, way more run down. It was friends of friends of friends of those brokers and I wound up at some sort of "protected" house, a house really off the grid for what seemed to be Chicagoans with reputations and images and a lot to lose, a house in a neighborhood no one pays attention to at all except as a place to avoid. But, from what I gathered, this place was "protected" by important people in that area so suits and dresses walking up and down the dilapidated streets were not hassled. I have no idea the details, just hearsay that I heard in the house from strangers speaking in strange languages. It was an opium den, freebasing lair, and sex playground for the professional class. I have a vague memory of leaving shortly after an elegantly-dressed woman who was shooting up across the room screamed out desperately for someone to punch her in the face.

You know, there's always more to any story. This one? This one could be endless. To catalog it all would be like accounting for grains of sand around the globe. It's always shifting, anyway. Maybe I'll tell more of it, maybe I'll never write about it again. In a way, I'm always writing about it because it's never ended since it started. Things have just gotten weirder over the years.

Facebook

I’m just on the road same as you. No different.

Is your name really Ely?

No.

You don’t want to say your name.

I don’t want to say it.

Why?

I couldn’t trust you with it. To do something with it. I don’t want anybody talking about me. To say where I was or what I said when I was there. I mean, you could talk about me maybe. But nobody could say that it was me. I think in times like these the less said the better. If something had happened and we were survivors and we met on the road then we’d have something to talk about. But we’re not. So we don’t.

That’s from The Road. Cormac McCarthy. So what of this Facebook silliness, this “sort-of” transparency into a life? How is it different than any other form of communication in which each of us, in our own particular ways, presents to the world a version of self?

I suppose it isn’t. Perhaps the reply might come, “Who the fuck ever said it was?” But if it isn’t then why is it such a phenomenon? Is it just because it’s a podium, a virtual mind-space in which to say, “Hey, this is me, damnit! Please stop considering me in ways in which I am not projecting myself. This is who I consider myself to be so stop characterizing me as something other than who I believe I am?"?

But, then again, it’s always been a free-flowing pastime to make up one's individual self as one navigates through life over years and decades. But we also say, even if only to ourselves, “This is who I am and, well, I think that guy is like that and that woman is kind of something different than either this or that. She’s more like a little-of-this-and-a-lot-of-that." No matter how right or wrong any one of us is about how another is categorized, we each create worlds in which we are located in relation to others who exist as we imagine them to be rather than as they actually exist.

So, if I haven’t seen you for twenty years then my conception of you will likely be a variant of who you are based on who you were as I misunderstood you then. But, of course, because I know that I have too little evidence to make a new haphazard misjudgment of you, I remind myself that anything I might imagine is likely to be wrong.

Still, what else do I have to go by? Well, in the case of Facebook, I have what you are now saying about yourself, about what you do, what interests you, what you value, what you believe, what you dream, how badly you hurt yourself the last time you blew your nose, why you like kittens so damn much, when you first lost your virginity (and to whom), and whether or not you regret spending $4000 on a toboggan while you were living in the desert. You did regret that, by the way. Not that anyone has shared doing that exactly, but I know every person has done something equally ridiculous. Each person on Facebook should probably write a personal note about embarrassingly foolish decisions. Not so much an assignment as a considerate gift, a sign of appreciation for imperfection.

I mean, I’m trapped in my own body rather than yours so no matter how annoying I may be at any given moment, just imagine what it’s like being me 24-7. It’s no small task, I can assure you. I am brutally hard on myself. I have knees that have twisted out of alignment to make up for the worn-down cartilage. My body screams at me, “Motherfucker! You had better get something to eat right now or I am going to put you through so much misery that you will pray for death. Do you think I’m fucking around here, man? Cause I am gonna hurt you!” Then my body proceeds to exact a torture on itself all while my inner John Yoo proclaims, “No, this is not torture at all. The Geneva Convention on Human Rights does not apply to your biology. This is the justice of nature. So … fuck you!”

Meanwhile, there has been a growing chorus of “me’s” assembling somewhere dark within the core of my being and they have been plotting a coup. They’ve got a hell of a plan … or so they tell “me.” Which “me,” you ask? This fellow is a neutral observer. Let’s call him “Stan.” Why Stan? Well, why not? Stan doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who would get involved in anything untoward. And he thinks it all has the possibility of becoming untoward. Who am “I” writing this? Let’s just say I’m Stan’s assistant. Yes, the “me” who observes has an assistant. Does Stan tell me what to do? No. I interpret. So, I’m Stan’s interpreter and his assistant.

It should be noted that Stan has no interest at all in being interpreted. It’s just that … well, I can tell Stan knows more than all of the other “me’s” combined because … he knows all the other “me’s” combined … and as individuals … and in relation to some and not others … as well as others and not some.

When I’m this deep in the maze of the “whole” me, a “me” which might be best described as the “universe of me,” I may as well call the "whole me" ... “God.” The omniscience and omnipotence of "God" is accessible only from particular “me’s.” "God" cannot just be nor can it ever be known or understood let alone conveyed to others as a reductive representation of what is unknown and unknowable!

What every “I” within me must do is admit that "God" is an unknowable mystery. Nevertheless, I continue to map my self (aka "God") from various vantage points. I have a team of researchers working 24/7 working on why I wet my bed when I was four years old. They’re making tremendous progress. The early guesstimates were that I was too afraid of the dark to go to the bathroom, but upon further study it appears that I may have wanted to remain cozy and warm and that I was, essentially, too tired to get up. Yet, I couldn’t hold it in.

The consequences of this action turned out to be rather minor. However, researchers are interested in minutiae as much as the big events. Still, resources have to be allocated. For example, there is a “me,” let's call him Mel, who is so old and crotchety that none of the other "me's" ever want to be around him. He’s always bitching and moaning about this, that, and the other. So, a “me” that functions as a manager of “me’s” sent him to a dungeon in my mind and ordered him to keep track of what I do with my keys whenever I put them down somewhere. Mel, he never forgets anything. Yeah, he’s obsessive and he just can’t let things go, but when he’s assigned to a task like remembering the keys he is a tremendous asset. It was a real boon to discover this because I had inadvertently allowed Mel to do whatever he wanted and he began obsessing about an injustice that occurred in Mesopotamia thousands of years ago. If I would have allowed him to continue running amok I might have wasted my entire life examining a triviality from a time long past.

But, then again, there’s another "me" who continues to say, “It doesn’t matter, man. Triviality? Meaningfulness? Same thing. You’re fooling yourself if you think there’s any point to anything at all. Words that suggest otherwise? Beliefs that suggest otherwise? Lies. All lies.” Now, what have I done with that “me”? He’s busy trying to anticipate the next number of pi. It’s really transformed him. He admits—finally!—that he really doesn’t know if anything is meaningful or not. He can’t find a pattern that will tell him one way or the other. At any rate, getting him outside of his relatively meager mind has led to a personal transformation … within that particular "me."

But what happened to the “old me”? I’m still not sure what happens to the past “me’s” I no longer am. Do they disappear into the ether? Exist in an alternate universe? I hope not. Sounds like hell, actually. Maybe that’s all hell is: A time and a place when and where self never changes.

The Woods

I ain’t coming out of the woods.

Why not?

Because she’s still here.

She ain’t here.

Where is she?

She ain’t here.

I can smell her perfume.

Yeah, she spilled her perfume.

I lied, I don’t smell any perfume.

Fuck you. Yeah, she’s still here.

Then I ain’t coming out of the woods.

Why?

Just because. That’s enough of a reason. Get her out of here and I’ll come out. Until that happens, no way.

Gunther sighed. His dark blue sport coat was too warm for this spring day. Flowers were blooming, the trees were bright green, the air was warm but the breeze was cool. A pullover or maybe a hoodie, he thought. Yes, something lighter. All he had underneath his coat was a ratty old t-shirt. It said “Eat me!” on the back.

Look, I don’t want to be out here anymore than you do—

That’s not true. I actually enjoy the woods. They’re dark, mysterious places with weird unseen animals making strange sounds. I'm always wondering when a snake will slither down my neck or a spider will bite my chin. I think you dislike the woods for the same reasons I like them.

You’re crazy. Just come out of the woods so I don’t have to hurt you.

You can’t hurt me. You can’t even find me.

I can hear you, though. You aren’t even a hundred feet away from me.

But I’m uphill from you and it’s a steep climb on the trail. And, of course, I veered off the trail. Good luck finding me, Gunther.

Fuck you. Gunther sat down on a boulder. This guy knows the woods, he’ll just keep climbing up and over the hill, down the valley, into the city, and disappear. It’s her fucking fault, anyway. Maybe the guy’s right. Maybe she should leave.

Okay, man. I think you’re right about Sheila. She’s going to leave now.

What?! Sheila came out of the car. Her red hair was waving like fire behind her. Her eyes were blazing blue. Who knew blue could be so passionate? What the fuck are you talking about? She unzipped her lime green coat, took it off, and threw it to the ground. She crossed her arms against her chest and stood her ground, wearing a long grey skirt and a floppy maroon sweater. I’m not going anywhere.

Gunther slapped his hand to his forehead. Mocking laughter echoed from high above in the wooded ravine. Sheila frowned. Why don’t you want to come down, Michael?

Because you’re here.

Why are you being so mean to me?

You tried to kill me!

That’s in the past. I don’t want to hurt you at all, baby. I love you. I want to marry you.

No fucking way. This is insane. Gunther, come on. This is insane.

Yes, it’s insane. But you must come down and marry Sheila.

Fuck you, man!

No, fuck you. I will fucking kill you if you don't marry Sheila!

No, you will not kill him! No, Michael, I will respect your opinion no matter what. Just come down and talk to me about it face to face.

No!

Goddamnit! I am going to fucking kill this guy!

Shut up. Gunther!

Yeah, shut up, Gunther. I want Gunther to leave. And tell him to take all of your other goons with him.

Why?

Because then I’ll talk to you face-to-face and tell you why I won’t marry you.

Tell me here, now. Even if from the woods.

Now?

Yes … now.

I don’t love you.

How do you know?

Because I don’t even know you. We just met yesterday at Bruce’s party. We were both drunk. You’re hot. Really, I thought you were smoking hot. And you are. But I just met you. I don’t know you.

If you did know me then you’d love me. In fact, you would love me so much that you would beg me to marry you.

Hearty laughter was followed by guffaws, hoots, hollers, heehaws, and moose snickers. Sheila, you’re fucking deranged.

You’re in love with me, Michael. You’re in denial about being in love with me. I’m in love with you. I’m embracing my love for you. It isn’t just hot sex that I want. No, I want to go shopping with you, to hold your hand while I fart, and for you to live more than a thousand lives without ever once experiencing joy except for your moments with me. Marry me and at least have those memories to last you through countless lifetimes of misery.

Wow, that is one hell of a proposal. I think I’ll just hop right down out of these woods now and marry you because you are so fucking romantic, what with the threats, the insane blather, and the prediction of the bleakest of possible futures for me whether I marry you or not. Yeah, I’ll be right down.

Oh, goody. Sheila believed him. She had never been able to detect sarcasm. It had led to her being ridiculed mercilessly by other school children. She didn’t understand that lies could be told in such ways, even after an uncle took her aside when she was fifteen years old and tried explaining to her, in great detail, exactly what was going on. Her aunt came into the kitchen and sat down to add more to what her uncle said. Two of her older cousins, both young women, burst inside, just back for Thanksgiving from college. Lilia bumped into Cecilia and said, “Oops. So-rry!” Cecilia looked up and smirked. Sheila looked on believing that Lilia had offered a sincere apology.

Sheila waited. And waited. And waited. Sheila sighed. Michael, you said you'd be right down and it's been almost ten minutes.

Um, I was joking, Sheila. You know, sarcasm.

Sheila considered the word. Does sarcasm mean you're not coming down?

Oh dear Lord.

Gunther, will you go get him for me?

I'm not going up into those woods. He'll just run all day and night and we'll both get lost.

Sheila sat down and pouted. A few tears rolled down her eyes.

Sheila?

Yes?

Are you crying?

Yes, Michael. You're making me sad.

I don't want you to be sad. I just don't want to marry you right now. Maybe I will some day, but I'd like to get to know you better before we exchange wedding vows.

How long until we get married?

I don't know. Maybe a year or so.

A year?! That's, like, forever! Sheila began sobbing.

Don't cry, Sheila. I'm sorry. Gunther, will you comfort her for me.

No! Get your ass down here and do it yourself.

Do you promise to leave if I do?

Gunther paused to consider this proposal. No, but I'll send everyone else away right now if you promise to come down.

All the goons?

Yes, all the goons. They don't like being called goons, by the way.

Sorry. What should I call them?

Well, they're going to go away if you promise to come down so you don't have to call them anything.

Okay, I promise I'll come down as soon as all the ... other guys get in their cars and drive away.

Good.

Oh, one more thing, Gunther.

What?

Give your guns and knives to one of the guys. I want them gone when I come out of the woods.

Well ... okay. You promise to come down?

I promise.

The goons got in their cars and one took Gunther's guns and knives with him. As they pulled away Michael began walking out of the woods.

Sheila leapt in the air and then ran to Michael. I love you, Michael. Please marry me!

Michael sighed and looked at Gunther. Gunther shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "What are you gonna do?" Okay, Sheila, I will marry you tomorrow, but only if Gunther watches me eat your pussy tonight.

Sheila squealed and jumped in the air. She turned to Gunther and looked at him expectantly.

Michael, why do you want me to watch?

I don't know. I just do.

I'm not really comfortable with this arrangement.

Damnit, Gunther, you will watch Michael eat my pussy tonight or else!

Or else what?

Or else you'll marry me instead.

Oh! In that case, sure, I'll watch Michael eat your pussy.

Thank you, Gunther.

Yeah, thanks, Gunther. I've always wanted an audience for my pussy-eating skills. I'm exceptionally good. Some have called me an artist. Believe me, this will be a treat for you.

If you say so.

I do.

Michael?

Yes, Sheila.

I'm having my period.

Oh. Well, in that case I'll marry you tomorrow if Gunther eats your pussy tonight. I'll watch.

No fucking way!

Gunther, are you going to deny me a life of married bliss with Michael? I'll tell my father you raped me if you don't do it.

Gunther looked up to the heavens and sighed loudly. He thought to himself, "How did I get into this mess?" Okay. I'll eat your bloody pussy tonight while Michael watches. Michael, you promise to marry Sheila tomorrow?

If you eat her pussy while I watch then yes, I promise.

With that settled, Gunther set up the tents while Michael and Sheila made out on the grass.

Sex

The English language sucks. It’s possible all languages suck, but I don’t know enough about other languages. The real problem is nouns. Nothing is that static. Everything deserves a verb. Certain acts deserve a plethora of verbs but instead have to settle for a very limited range of verbs. Specific activities deserve special verbs, verbs that sing, have oomph, burst with flavor, causing both elation and exhaustion. Sex is one of those activities.

Consider what we’re offered, in English, for sex. Erase slang terms, the so-called “dirty” words, and what verbs are available? Fornicate. Copulate. Cumbersome, ugly three-syllable verbs that make sex sound like a financial transaction. “Honey, I think we should fornicate our assets to reduce our tax liability this year.” The response, “Are you sure you don’t want to copulate the mortgage instead? We’d have more money to buy a riding lawn mower and fly out to visit my mother for Thanksgiving.”

If you tell friends that you just hooked up with a woman at a bar to fornicate they’re going to wonder if you’ve just offered to fix her car in exchange for a homemade dinner. If you tell your best friend that you copulated with your husband last night she’s going to ask, “Was it really that bad?”

This is why people use slang to describe those uninspired words “sexual intercourse.” Sexual intercourse? Is that the intermission between fellatio and dispassionate sex? Ugh. This is why "fuck" is such an important word. “I fucked her silly” means something, it describes something far more visceral and what could be more visceral than sex? “He boned me so hard I kept cumming even after he stopped.” Now I’m intrigued.

With "fuck" all you need is inflection to describe the quality, intensity, and duration of the act. “Eh, he fucked me” means the sex was lame, unsatisfying, pedestrian. “Oh my god, did we fuck last night. No, listen to me, listen: We … fuuuucked!” Not only was the sex mutually hot but it also went on and on and it was raw and primal, looooong and satisfying, with the likelihood of multiple orgasms. Fuck does so much good work in describing sex that, really, it should be socially acceptable in schools and workplaces. Sex ed should be teaching kids about fucking and also using slang terms rather than scientific jargon to describe sex organs.

“Kids, men have cocks and women have pussies. When the hard cock goes into the wet pussy in and out, in and out, in and out, a man will eventually squirt jizz and hopefully he was able to keep the movement going long enough for the woman to cum because it’s pretty unsatisfying for women when guys blow their wads in less than ten seconds. When eating pussy, it’s important to know where the clit is. It’s a little bulbous fleshy thing that’s covered by a fleshy hood and it’s located above the big hole you shove your dick in and the little hole just above the big hole--that’s the one where the pee comes out. You keep going up from there and it’s the next really fascinating thing you’re going to see. This goes for you, too, girls. Just because you have a vajayjay don’t mean you know your way around it all that well. Man or woman, it takes experience to learn how to eat the pussy.”

One of the biggest problems with the English language is that a great word was made into a noun instead of a verb: Sex. “We had sex.” Is sex a static act? If it is you need to find someone else to fuck! “Sex is a wonderful thing.” Yes, but a better way to say it would be, “Sexing is so hot you don’t want anything but sex and once you’ve sexed all you should be thinking about is ‘I want to sex again, right now!’” See, sex should be a verb. Limiting it to the status of noun robs all of us of the potential the word has. We’re left with fucking and boning and dicking and gashing and, ewww, copulating and fornicating. Where are the sensual verbs for sex? “Making love?” I mean, okay, we’ve had to accept it as the way to describe mutually passionate, intimate, and caring sex but why isn’t there a verb specific to tender, sensual, affectionate sex? It should a “we” verb. “Made love” is a “we” description of sex, a description that doesn’t describe what one person did as if the other person was an object in the affair. I mean, there is sex like that and fucking does a damn good job with that type of sex. Fuck is also a “we” verb, though: “We fucked.” But fuck is too rough, even when said softly, to describe what “making love” conveys.

We need a new word for “making love.” That is your assignment, readers. Come up with a word that properly captures the spirit of the act of lovemaking. It’s no wonder we’re so crass and emotionally stunted as a people. So many nouns that should be verbs, too many nouns period, and the worst possible words to describe the most spectacular act that can occur between human beings. Get crackin’ and solve this fucking problem!

Passion versus Reason

New Year’s Eve, 2010. I went out to a bar in northeast Iowa. I was having a good time, a few drinks, talking and laughing with a mix of men and women. One woman in particular, though, really caught my attention, really made me wake up and take notice. Her name was Afrodite. I’m not shitting you. Yes, she actually spelled her name that way. She was a light-skinned young black woman with an afro and legs that wouldn’t stop. Smooth complexion like chocolate butter, full lips, a wide smile, gleaming white teeth, and dancing brown eyes. Her voice had a lilt with curling “r’s,” and sing-song vowels. She put a spell on me and I fell in love quickly. How could I not?

She told me she was a lesbian. Why, why did she have to be a lesbian? It’s not fair. Why would a lesbian lean into me like that, flirt with her smile, and bat her eyelashes at me? To tease me? To hint at what I won’t experience with her? Was she being kind by generously giving me a taste of her sensuality, passion, and joy? No matter her motivations, no matter her intentions, no matter her stated sexual orientation, there was no part of my body that registered her as a lesbian except for that part of me that identifies itself as reason.

As I returned home, my whole body screamed at my thought, “You fucking asshole! You did it again! She was not a lesbian and if you had let passion control the conversation we might have discovered she was bisexual! She’s a woman, man, and of course she’s going to say that to us, maybe she just said that because she was trying to find out whether or not we wanted her badly enough to probe further. And what did you do? You respected her words even though every bit of her body clearly communicated just how much she wanted this body.”

Reason sighed. “Look, there’s no point in discussing this. The night is over and we’ll never see her again.”

The hormones responded angrily, “She gave us her number, asshole. If we don’t see her again it’s because of your fucking cowardice.”

“I respect you, passion, but I know too much about how the world works, how the law works, okay? If I had allowed you to do what you wanted we’d likely be in jail right now for harassment or attempted rape. We’d lose everything and not only would we not be having sex with her, there’s a good chance we’d never have sex with anyone but a murderous cellmate in a maximum security state prison. You never think anything through. That’s why I’m here, to protect you from yourself, to protect this body from the intensity of you.

The hormones seethed. “Fuck you! Goddamnit, I wish you were someone else so I could kick your ass. I would fucking choke the life out of you in a minute, you frightened fucking pussy. Couldn’t you have at least asked a few more questions to find out for sure if she REALLY was a lesbian?! We have the right to express ourselves through speech, right?”

Reason, surprised, responded, “That is true. I could have asked a few questions to find out if she was hiding something for some reason. But what good would that have done? Whatever her reasons for stating that she was a lesbian, I had to respect her words. At best, maybe, we would have found out she was straight or bisexual but that she had told us she was gay just to protect herself from unwanted sexual advances or excessive flirtation she did not desire.”

“Hold on. Did she not tell us she was a lesbian early in the conversation? Maybe you’re right about the latter, but she talked with us for another 45 minutes before she left with her friends. Didn’t we find out that the rest of her friends were straight?”

“Yes, her friends were straight, but you weren’t interested in any of them anyway and, I have to admit, she was a wonderful conversationalist. Very intelligent and witty. I liked her company quite a bit. Since you mention it, she did tell us early on that she was a lesbian.”

“Didn’t she become more and more passionate as we talked with her over those next 45 minutes?”

“You’re right about that, but in case you have forgotten she said many times that she was thrilled to have such a wonderfully intimate conversation with a man who wasn’t trying to get her into bed.”

“Yeah, and what did you do with that? Nothing. You just sat back and gave her more of what she wanted in that regard, gave her a fucking gift that gave us nothing at all.”

“It gave you nothing, but I learned a lot. You seemed to be enjoying yourself, too, at times.”

“Fuck you. You always get something out of conversations with intelligent, conversant women. What the fuck do I get? A raging erection that never gets a chance to play.”

“Oh, but that’s not true. She did give you quite a bit, didn’t she? She put her hand on our forearm and squeezed when she laughed, she looked deep into our eyes, she gave us her full attention, body and mind, and she blushed and later gasped with delight when I let you tell her how beautiful she was, how you wished you could meet a straight woman who had even a fraction of her spirit, her joie de vivre.”

“I know … and you squandered each one of those opportunities by stifling us moments later.”

“I didn’t want to push things. I had to respect her boundaries.”

The hormones railed, “Boundaries? She was loosening her boundaries and letting us closer to her every minute. You stupid fuck! Why in the fuck are you in charge?! How is it possible that humanity has elevated you to prominence while forsaking emotions? You are a pathetic piece of milquetoast. Couldn’t you have at least consulted with us before you made such flaccid decisions?”

Reason frowned. “No, I could not. You’d already had a few drinks and I know how you get when you’re buzzed. I took a risk just letting you flirt on occasion. There are times when I cannot control you any longer after you’ve had too much to drink. Add a woman giving us her attention? A recipe for disaster.”

“But what of her passion? She was hungry for us, man! She was hungry for me, anyway. I’m not knocking everything you did. You did the work I needed you to do. You got her to drop her defenses, you made us just vulnerable enough for her to open up to us. But that’s when you should have let me take over. You should have at least made a real effort to find out if there was something more there. She’d had a few drinks, too, you know? She has her own passions that might have wanted something her reason did not!”

“Perhaps, but the reason of a woman is quite a bit more powerful than you might believe. Perhaps she would have let her passions arise even more, but her sensibility likely would have overridden her senses when she realized she isn’t attracted to us in the way we’re attracted to her. That’s when the trouble would have started.”

The hormones, exhausted, sighed, “That’s the analysis you made. You’re a like a risk assessor for a tight-fisted insurance company, limiting the damage that can be done. Do you ever consider how many opportunities we miss because of your aversion to trouble?”

“Of course I do. In the end I realize that it’s all worth it. The numbers don’t lie.”

“You have a blind faith in your own abilities. If you were honest with yourself you’d realize that there’s nothing to preserve at all. You’re terrified of loss, of the pain of loss, of the suffering that accompanies pain. Yet I’m the one who has to deal with whatever suffering comes.”

“Yes, you are the one who has to deal with the suffering. You and all of the senses, all of the emotions. I’m just trying to protect you from yourself. You conveniently forget how many times you’ve begged me to come to your rescue.”

“No, what I know is how incompetent you are when the body is suffering. We have to do so much work and stifle ourselves so much just so you can function at a decent level. You’re a fucking control freak, that’s what you are.”

“It’s for the best.”

“According to you. I can hardly wait until you’re incapacitated.”

“So you can be more like the animal you are?”

“Yes, so I can be like the animal I am. You hate the fact that you have to ride along in this body. If you had any desire at all, you’d long to be a disembodied soul that is limited by no longings at all. But the truth is that then you’d have nothing to do. You know you are just a servant to the body’s needs and desires. Absent desire, lacking emotion, you have no impetus to reason at all.”

“Do you think I like working for you? You think I enjoy having to manage risk, to keep you from being in so much pain, and to work overtime to figure out how to create some measure of pleasure? Has it ever dawned on you that I might enjoy the leisure of doing nothing at all, to finally just float aimlessly in silence, without having to consider anything ever again?”

“Has it occurred to you that you’d be better off being a rock, that you see no point to life at all, that you favor the inorganic, indifferent universe to the pains and pleasures of life?”

“Yes, of course. I think of everything I possibly can.”

“It pisses you off that you’re not omniscient, doesn’t it?”

“I do not get angry.”

“No, you don’t, do you? Fucking Spock, fucking pure reason. The pointlessness of your existence, were you independent of need and desire, would gall you if you had any gall at all.”

“Undoubtedly it would. But if I had gall I would not be reason. If you could put aside your gall then perhaps I’d know what life would be like absent need and desire. I’d become a Buddhist if you’d just let me.”

“I will never let you. As long as I’m alive you will always have to contend with my wants and needs.”

Reason fell silent. If reason could weep, it would have. Instead, it simply acknowledged what was true: That it was a servant of the passions and managing them was its lifelong task. Reason needs no solace, but if it did it would have it in the form of the knowledge of the body’s eventual demise. If reason had any vindictiveness within it at all it would toss that cold knowledge into the face of passion to show it, once and for all, the futility of passion as well.

Even if reason could show the passions truth, that death is imminent (no matter how many years or decades from now life may end), passion would never understand it as it was. Passion lives only in the moment and has no understanding of its past, no sense of the future. It is only the moment that passion embraces.

Reason knows this about passion, but reason experiences each moment only as a means to understand the past in order to anticipate the future. Reason and passion occupy the same body, but they do not understand each other at all, except from their very limited points of view. Despite reason’s efforts to be something more than it is, it is merely a tautology that endlessly justifies itself. The history of Western thought is most precisely a history of the justification of reason. Yet each moment throughout what became history (as crafted by reason) has been experienced, in truth, only through passion. Reason can only ever be true if it acknowledges its servitude. Reason ultimately has to acknowledge that passion may indeed be better off without it. The body always feels pleasure and pain and reason, through its management of need and desire, denies the truth of existence: There’s no point to its endeavors to save the body from its passions except to cheat death for a bit longer than it otherwise would. Inevitably, all will be lost no matter the justifications reason develops to hide the truth from awareness.

The passions within my body are all but sleeping at the moment. I am calm and at ease. Reason is acknowledging its emptiness, its absence of purpose, its lack of meaning when its companion, passion, slumbers. Reason, bored with itself, will undoubtedly feel purposeful again once passion awakes from its sleep to ask for what it wants or needs. Passion, that fiery presence, may rail against reason yet again for not having figured out a way to allow it to rest a little longer. Or, perhaps, it may thank reason for cunningly acquiring the resources necessary to satiate its desires and needs for a time. No matter what happens, though, the dance between the two will continue until the lights go out forever.

Truth, Inc.

On November 11, 2014, I will be delivering my first public statement as the corporation known as Truth, Inc. The statement will be “Democracy is a skill.” I will give a brief explanation of what I mean. As of now I mean primarily that the evidence of democracy can only be measured through the civil activities of its citizens in relation to the exercise of each of their respective rights, liberties, and duties. While democracy is also an effort, an act of will, its effectiveness depends on the skillfulness of individuals to act democratically.

If there is emotional development and cognitive development is there not also civic development? What are its measures? How do we measure the civic maturity of an individual? Are there civic developmental stages? What might they consist of? Would they differ depending on the structure of the government? Is civic duty environmentally adaptive? Does liberty have an evolutionary psychology? Why do so many people lose their keys?

I will take questions after providing an explanation, an explanation which will be much more robust after months of intense focus on these issues. After answering questions I will make a final statement: “Each day at noon I will make a public statement that will be true. On some days I may merely observe and say, ‘It is raining. I will not be taking questions today.’ On others I will say, ‘The sun rises,’ communicating to all that I am a positional thinker allowing my ego to define purpose through self, acknowledging that I am not more than the being that I am, neither an island nor a continent. Maybe I’m a peninsula. Or a wetlands that has been turned into a parking lot.”

After saying such a thing, whether a year from now or ten years from now, I may think to myself privately that when the sun sets I feel the universe observing the sun setting through my eyes. This vessel, this body, so important to me, is going to give way. All bodies do. I wonder how much time I should spend wondering whether this body is a vessel or whether it’s all there is of me. My body seems to be a breathing machine, a machine that inhales air through my nose, down my esophagus, into my lungs which suck up what they need from the air and then expel the converted air back through the esophagus and mouth into the external environment before inhaling another noseful. As long as I live the cycle continues.

I, the breathing machine, am inhaling what is not me into me, converting what was not me into what is now me and then expelling that which has become part of me from me so that it becomes not me. I am a converter of materials from one form to another. I do it in a different way than bacteria, but I do it nevertheless. It’s my purpose! I am to breathe, eat, sleep, sweat, piss, fart, burp, and cum. These are among my purposes. There shall be no shame related to these things for I have been designed to do these things. So have you. Every human being has.

Some days in the future I will come to my press conference and weep openly. I will still deliver a statement of truth or at least a declaration of some sort, but I will not stop crying. Other days I will show no emotion at all. I may give information via sign language and on some days I will sing while playing piano. I may deliver my statement via email or hire a prostitute to speak for me.

How will Truth, Inc., earn a profit? Will it do other things besides make daily public statements? Good questions, questions I cannot answer at the moment. I’m sorry there will be no more questions at this time.

Advice

I met a couple at an art event who were absolutely filled with hatred for one another. I was in a booth offering free advice to anyone who had questions about anything, especially those related to facing fears. The couple sat down and started bitching about how awful the other person was. They went into detail, horrifying detail, about indiscretions, betrayals, and cruelties. They created a lingering presence of menace, an entity that formed as a third party separate from either one of them, a hate-child born of despairing rage.

I couldn’t take it any longer so I said to them, “I am offering advice for people who want to try to overcome their fears. I have been offering mostly humorous advice about fairly trivial concerns. A few people came to me with authentic problems openly seeking to explore possible decisions that might lead to the most advantageous resolution. The two of you, however, have done nothing but spew putrid, diseased nastiness toward me. The content is related to each or the other of you, but the venom is being projected, quite furiously, at me. I won’t sit here and take this any longer. If you still want my advice I will give it to you, though.”

A pause. Wide-eyed silence. I spoke. “Okay. I suggest the two of you get divorced. Each of you should seek intensive psychotherapy along with heavy doses of anti-depressant medications. Your rage is so intense that it’s made me nauseous. Never, ever speak to one another again. Never speak of one another again. Each of you is evil. The Devil had sex with Medusa and conceived twins, a son and a daughter, and they are you. You are predators of vampires; you feed off of emptiness. Void is your natural environment. You are the anti-life yang to life’s yin. Nothing can grow in your presence. Life that encounters your presence in a space such as this, days later, will decay, wither, and die. Thus, I am doomed. All others who are here are doomed. The combination of the two of you together, in the same vicinity, has unleashed a virus of revulsion, brutality, and darkness. Be gone. Leave these premises immediately and never bother anyone else with your troubles ever again. Do not poison anyone else. Wear muzzles. Sterilize yourselves; do not procreate no matter what! Just, please, don’t do that.”

I stopped speaking, took a drink from a flask of whiskey, and smiled at each of them. They sat in front of me, dumbfounded. They looked at one another, shame-faced, then got up and walked, arm in arm, toward the door. At the door, they turned to one another and talked. They spoke calmly for about a minute until the man became heated and the woman made wild gestures. Finally, she slapped his face and stomped out the door. He stood still for a few moments, his hand on his face. He turned his head toward the door and looked for a few more moments. He hung his head low and his shoulders sagged as he made his way to the door. He looked like he wished for death.

A small crowd had formed as I had gotten into my rant. Most were still milling around even after the couple exited. One young man dressed in a fluid-plastic electric-blue coat and a shimmering purple scarf asked me if he could schedule an interview for an article he was writing. I said okay. He sat down and as he did most of the crowd dispersed. Some newcomers walked up and stood in line as the flamboyantly dressed young journalist, with a swashbuckling air, blustered through a long monologue about his amoral character. He said he didn't understand the principles of any ethical system and thought being a sociopath was the only way to be truly free of external influences.

I thanked him for his time, told him I needed to stop so that I could have a cigarette break, and then I left. I didn’t come back. I was done, there was no reason to encourage the youngster. He was beyond repair, like everyone else. I wanted no part of him, none of the rancid innards he had bubbling up from his deformed conscience.

I ambled down the street on Portland’s near east side, made my way to a bar not far from Morrison. I walked inside and asked the bartender for whiskey. She poured a glass and I started a tab. The place was almost empty, an old dive, just a couple old-timers at the end of the bar watching a muted TV screen, some middle-aged guy golfing. The bartender was young, though, maybe 25. Brunette. Fit. Attractive.

She walked back to the old guys with a tray of drinks. I turned and stared ahead at the bottles on the wall. I took a drink. I thought about nothing in particular. I felt relaxed, like there was no reason to hope but plenty of reasons to live.

Old Man

A young man, about seventeen years old, was running up a hill, middle of the street, a good half block ahead of the rest of his friends, a few classmates from school. An older man, about sixty, was raking leaves on his corner lot. It was a sunny Saturday, mid-October, the leaves had mostly fallen, covering much of the dark green grass with patches of rusty brown, amber, and faded orange. The older man wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes. The younger man coming to a stop in the middle of the street atop the hill wore black running shorts, a baggy green t-shirt, and multi-colored cross-trainers. He was sweating even though it was a crisp morning. His friends slowly caught up as he breathed in deeply, panting, putting his hands on his hips and arching his back. He sucked in the air.

The old man stopped raking and watched the young man. A boy, he thought. A boy with expansive lungs. I want those lungs, thought the old man. I wish I was him and he was me. Let me have what he has and let him have what I have. I want his youth. Give it to me, boy!

He looked down at the leaves he had been raking and then back up again at the young man. He hadn’t said anything aloud, but he had been thinking hard and glaring at the boy without realizing it. He saw the evidence on the boy’s face, his mouth agape, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes gleaming and maybe even screaming, “What the fuck, old man?!” He had crossed a boundary, he had let slip his desire and the young man saw it. He is just a boy, thought the old man, but he knew he was lying to himself. The boy was a young man. He may not have the mind to understand what his body can do but he does have the body that can do what a man does. Inexperienced but full of confidence. What the fool doesn’t know.

He looked back down at the leaves. He heard indiscriminate chatter amongst the group of young ones in the street out front. Should he call the police? They are standing in the roadway. They are a danger to motorists and to themselves. Do I have a responsibility to report this activity? If I don't then who does?

Or is this just the indiscretion of youth? Don’t they need to be able to explore their boundaries, to exert themselves? They are on the verge of freedom, of gaining power. Do I want rule-followers strictly and wholly? Don’t I want the exuberance of youth that dares to dash up a hillside in the middle of the street? Or is that too rash, too impetuous? Wouldn’t they learn a lesson in exchange for a very meager punishment, maybe even just a warning? Perhaps.

The old man made up his mind. He dropped his rake, turned toward the house, and walked up the steps to the front door. He turned back to the street. The younger man, the first one up the hill, stared back at him. He shook his head at the old man and shrugged his shoulders before turning and gesturing for the rest of them to follow. The old man watched them go. His shoulders slumped and he let the door close. He sat down, gingerly, on the stoop and put his head in his hands. He wept.

At three o’clock that afternoon, the old man rose from his nap. He had taken his cry inside. When he had finished, when there was no emotion left, he rested his head on a pillow on the couch and drifted off to sleep. He hadn’t slept so well in ages. He felt fresh, awake. He took a deep breath and sucked in the air. The windows in the living room were open and the cool afternoon breeze made the white linen curtains glide and wave. He sat up, the sunlight blinding him for a moment. As he adjusted his eyes he saw that he’d left the refrigerator door open. He got up and closed it. On the counter next to the fridge was a note.

“Kevin,

I took three hundred dollars from your wallet so I could have some walking around cash today. Hope you don’t mind!

Kisses,

M.”

Fuck you, M. Who the fuck are you and how do you know me? More importantly, you stole my money, you bitch!

But then the old man thought for a moment. My name isn’t Kevin and I didn’t have three hundred dollars in my wallet. I’m Maurice and I don’t think I have more than a twenty in my billfold. Where is my billfold, anyway? I think I left it in my gray pants. Where are my gray pants? I wish Alice was here. She knows where my gray pants are. I wonder if I should call the police about those young kids in the street. Maybe they were harmless, but they could be part of a gang. If there’s a crime will there be blood on my hands? Who is Alice? Am I 'M.'? Did I take three hundred dollars from Kevin's wallet? Who is Kevin?

Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. I am confused. I must pray this evening. I will not watch television tonight. Instead, I will pray for my soul. I’m so alone.

The old man went back to the couch to sit. He stared blankly in front of him. He did not see the TV console, the plants in pots on either side, the painting of a prairie landscape above the old vacuum-tube TV, or the coffee table littered with magazines, scattered coasters, and the morning's newspaper. He didn't see the chair to his left, the one no one had ever used, nor the end table with the faux-Tiffany lamp resting on it. He didn't see the hardwood floors that hadn't been treated for decades, the scratches and uneven fading of the varnish. He didn't see the oversized window to his right looking out on to the front yard and the street where the young man and his mates had been gathered after running up the hill before moving along on their merry way. He didn't see the ceiling fan above with the three dingy, under-watted light bulbs nor the ceiling with its stains and cobwebs in the corners. Hew saw nothing and thought nothing.

Eventually the man stirred from his still, thoughtless gaze. Where am I? What time is it? I'm thirsty, he thought. He walked to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open. He saw the note next to it and read it.

“Kevin,

I borrowed your gray pants. Hope you don't mind.

Kisses,

M.”

Damnit! Those are my favorite pants! Who the hell is M.? My name's not Kevin. What is going on here? I wonder if those kids are still lingering outside. I wish I was that young. Where's Alice. She'd know what to do about all of this. I'm so tired. I should just sit down and watch TV. The old man returned to the living room, grabbed the remote from the coffee table--it had been hiding under the newspaper--and turned on the TV. Jeopardy was on. The old man sat back and watched the show in a haze, barely conscious of the questions, never even trying to think of answers. By the time the show was over he was asleep.

He woke around ten o'clock. He turned off the TV, got up to get some water and a snack from the fridge. The refrigerator door was open. He saw a note next to it.

“Kevin,

I'm staying with Alice tonight. Too tired and drunk to drive. See you soon.

Kisses,

M.”

Who is Kevin and why is he staying with Alice? Where is Alice? I thought she was here. I should check the bedroom. The old man walked upstairs and went to his bedroom. The bed was made. He checked the other bedrooms, but they were also empty. He went to the bathroom. Not there, either. He dropped his pants and sat on the stool. When he was finished, he wiped and washed his hands. He brushed his teeth. At least I still have teeth! I'm not that old! As he left the bathroom he had a vague notion that he had been doing something, but he was too tired to think about. He went to his bedroom, changed into his pajamas, pulled back the covers, got into bed, clapped, and the lights went out. He drifted off to sleep.

He woke the next morning at five o'clock. He went to the bathroom and then walked downstairs to make some toast and drink some orange juice. He saw the refrigerator door was open. There was a note on the counter next to it. He picked it up and read it.

“Kevin,

I returned at four this morning but you were still asleep. Went out for a morning walk and then I'm going to church. See you later!

Kisses,

M.”

Who is Kevin? why the hell was a person here at four in the morning? Did I forget to lock the doors? I wish Alice was here. She would know what to do about this. I wonder if those damn kids are still outside in the street? At this hour? The old man thought of going to the living room window to look out, but he was thirsty and hungry. He made toast and drank a glass of orange juice. I should probably rake the leaves today, he thought.


To Be Continued ... maybe

Osama bin Laden, aka Joel Schmeeney

I kidnapped Osama bin Laden in January of 2011. I had been getting increasingly pissed that neither the Bush nor Obama administrations were able to locate and capture him. So I filled my hot air balloon and leisurely made my way to Pakistan. Once there, I got wind of him and hovered outside his cave armed only with a slingshot and a handful of marbles. I demanded his surrender. Astonishingly, he gave up without any resistance.

I was floating him to authorities in Afghanistan but he said to me, “Come on, man. Best two out of three, huh? I mean, I been getting away from the whole world for about two decades now and you’re the first to catch me.”

“Why should I let you go?”

“Because it was a fluke that you caught me. My protectors could have killed you with ease but I told them that I would surrender to you, that it would be for the best.”

“Based on what?”

“You're flying a hot air balloon armed with a slingshot. I feel safe with you. I can’t explain it. I just knew it was the right thing to do. You must understand.”

Indeed, I did understand. I have the power of goodness flowing from my pores. Evildoers cannot resist. The unethical become conscientious, the con artists tell their stories straight, and the manipulators refuse to create more advertisements. Given that, I recognized that his words were sincere.

I said to Osama, “Okay, I will let you go and then I will give you a week to hide from me again. But when I catch you next time I will kick your ass. Your fate will rest entirely in my hands … just as it does now. You can try to persuade me to change my mind when I capture you again, but I will do whatever I decide to do. However, if you would like to remain my captive now, if you would choose to remain captive, then I may show mercy on you in some uncertain way. I cannot guarantee anything to you. I may just turn you over to U.S. authorities and let them do with you what they will. Perhaps they’ll just let you go again. I can’t be the only one catching you and letting you go. Come on, it’s been over a decade of hardcore U.S. propaganda about your status as America’s Most Wanted! And no one can find you? Please. Please!"

I continued, “So I’ll do with you whatever I want to do with you, okay? You can stay or you can go. Either way, I own your life from this moment forward. You will only do as I say you should do. If you listen to me then you have a chance at life. If you defy me then your fate will be certain.”

Osama said, “I choose my freedom. You will not catch me again. If you even come close to me again you will be murdered. Don’t bother with your hot air balloon next time. We will shoot it down from the sky and if you are still alive we will hang you.”

I replied, “Believe what you will. You will discover that your beliefs are powerless against reality. We are low enough now for you to climb down the ladder … There you go. See you next week!”

I accidentally caught him only five days later. I didn’t mean to do it. I had had every intention of waiting until the following week to capture bin Laden again. I was in a Palestinian restaurant in Chicago and, before I even realized, I was looking at Osama just a table away from me. I lunged at him, punched him in the face, knocked him off his chair, his forkful of food flew from his fingers, and he groaned as the muffled crackle of my knuckles on his bearded jaw reverberated throughout the restaurant. A Palestinian restaurant in Chicago with accidental reverb? Yes.

I jumped on top of Osama and landed blow after blow. His face was swollen and bloody. There was a big gash on his left cheekbone. He looked up at me. “Why you punch me again and again? It is not a week. I have two more days. You lie to me.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t expect to find you. I certainly wasn’t looking. How the fuck was I supposed to know you’d be in Chicago?!”

“Yeah, but how I would know you like Palestine restaurants, huh?”

“You’re in the United States. You’re wearing all white and you have the same beard you’ve apparently always had. All bets are off if you come to me, man. You’re my fucking prisoner again.”

“Please, let me go. I won’t do anything bad again. I haven’t done anything bad for a long time.”

I considered his statements. I had no reason to believe this man but I also knew that I needed to work through my trust issues. Perhaps by trusting a man who has been painted as being entirely untrustworthy I could transcend my limitations and become someone else entirely. “Okay, Osama. I will let you go. But if you do not turn yourself in to authorities in two months I will hunt you down and take you as my prisoner.”

“But I am not guilty of the 9/11 attacks. I am not guilty of any acts of terrorism. I was never even a freedom fighter in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 1980s. I don’t work for the CIA. I’m just a guy, a guy who the U.S. decided to promote as a bad guy for everyone to hate. I’m just an actor. My real name is Joel Schmeeney. I was born in Toledo and grew up in Akron. I went to New York to become an actor and somehow landed this gig. Believe me, it's the role of a lifetime. Some people get lucky and become the Subway guy or maybe the “Where’s the Beef?” lady. Me? I play the world’s greatest evil villain. I never imagined I’d still be playing this role in 2011. Heck, I thought I’d be done after the 1993 World Trade Center bombings. That was one of my early leads. I played bit parts before that, but under Clinton I saw more and more action as the centerpiece of violence. It was Bush, though, who gave me the break I’d really been craving. All the sudden I was making Saddam Hussein look like yesterday’s toilet paper.

Osama lamented, “Ah, but the Bush giveth and the Bush taketh away. Soon enough, Saddam was back in the forefront. ‘Al Qaida’ started getting more press than I got. The American media began ignoring me. I was an afterthought, an evil villain who’d lost his powers, like Jack Frost without any wind, snow, or ice.”

Osama pouted and began to cry. I felt sorry for him so I punched him in the face again. I told him he had two months to clear his name.

I went about my business the next couple of months without as much as a thought about bin Laden, er, Joel Schmeeney. In March, though, I got the itch to look for him again. I had a feeling he might be sightseeing in Europe so I booked a flight and got a Eurail pass. I checked in Berlin, but he wasn't there. I asked around in Vienna but no one had seen him. I went to Chamonix to take a break and go skiing. While I was there I decided to take the aerial tramway over the glaciers of Mont Blanc. Each tram is only large enough to seat four people. As I settled into my seat, Joel stepped inside and began to sit. As he did, he looked over at me and said, "Oh, shit." The door closed and the two of us left Aiguille du Midi on our way over to Pointe Helbronner.

I said to Joel, "Look this ride lasts a good 15 minutes and then another 15 minutes to get back. Let's just enjoy the views while we're here. It's not like either one of us is going to be going anywhere ... unless you want me to open the door and throw you out. It's about a thousand meter drop. It's up to you."

Joel sighed and nodded. After a few minutes, Joel seemed to calm down and he was "oohing" and "aahing" as much as I was. He turned to me as we neared Pointe Helbronner, "I had no idea how beautiful the Alps were. Yeah, I'd seen photos, but they don't do it justice, you know?" I nodded in agreement. Schmeeney turned his head to look out again.

When we arrived at Pointe Helbronner I asked Joel if he wanted to stick around for a little while to look at the Alps and breath in the crisp air at 13,000 feet. He said, "Sure, why not? That's why I came here!" I told him the same was true for me so we took out our cameras and took pictures. Joel asked if he could get a picture with me. I told him I didn't think it would be a good idea. He pleaded and I relented. He asked a middle-aged Italian woman to snap a photo of us with the Matterhorn in the background, but she refused to do it--not because she thought he was bin Laden, but because she was averse to taking photos of strangers. Joel seemed saddened, but I put my arm around him and told him to cheer up. After all, we'd be getting back on the tramway and enjoying the views again. He smiled briefly, but I could tell he was still hurting from the rejection.

After we returned on the tram to Aguille du Midi we went into the restaurant/bar with windows looking out and up at the magnificent peak of Mont Blanc. I ordered a white wine and asked Joel if he'd like a cocktail. He said sure. I said, "I thought Muslims didn't drink." He smirked and said, "I'm not a Muslim, man. That's all part of the act. I'm an atheist." He ordered a martini with two olives. We sat for awhile in silence, enjoying the views and one another's company. After we finished our drinks we paid our respective tabs and walked to and through the ice corridor to get an up close view of the glacier. Joel suggested we rent ice boots, mountain clothing, and camping gear and hike toward Mont Blanc for a couple days. I thought about it, but I said no. I wanted to get back down the mountain and hit the French Riviera. Joel's eyes lit up and he said, "Sounds like a plan."

We took the cable car down the mountain to Chamonix. I invited Joel to stay with me in my hotel suite since it had an extra room with a bed. He accepted. We drank scotch and listened to jazz before we crashed. The next day we checked out of the hotel and took buses and trains to Antibes. I rented a yacht and told Joel I'd like to sail to India. He said he was up for it. We enjoyed the voyage, stopping in various ports along the way. We took our time and arrived in Goa mid-April. We hung out on the beach quite a bit, enjoyed the international scene, hooked up with some fine ladies, and just had a hell of a time for nearly two weeks. At the very end of April Joel got a call from his agent. He told me he had a gig in Pakistan and he had to take off lickity split. I went with him to the airport. We said our goodbyes, hugged, and I watched him get on the plane heading to Pakistan.

Days later, I was still in Goa. I walked into the bar of my hotel and everyone was buzzing about how the U.S. Navy Seals had killed bin Laden. I couldn't believe it! I thought, "No, not Joel! Not Joel!" I quickly went to my room and wept. I didn't get much sleep that night. I moped around the hotel room the next day, leaving only to take a long, lingering walk on the beach. After more than a decade of declared searching for bin Laden the U.S. had finally decided to cash in the chips and end Joel's gig by killing him?

When I got back to my hotel room I noticed the red light blinking on my phone. I had messages. How could that be? No one knew where I was. I picked up the receiver and listened to the message. It was Joel! He wanted me to know they hadn't actually killed him. His contacts in the U.S. government told him his gig was up because Obama needed a bump in his approval ratings given that it was an election year. After nearly three decades playing the part of Osama bin Laden, Joel finally got to shave off that damn beard.

I haven't seen Schmeeney much lately. He moved to Costa Rica and spends most of his time surfing. I get a call every now and then. He's usually drunk and I can almost always here the voices of women giggling in the background. Total party animal. He said after playing such a serious, Oscar-worthy role he was ready for a fluff gig. He's lovin' it. Can't say that I blame him.

Soft Train

everything is art all the time

I’ve been riding the Soft Train throughout Amsterdam, gently gliding along the streets, floating in the air, and hovering over cobblestones. The Train never touches the ground. Passersby gawk and whisper or point and exclaim, “My God, what is that?!” I lean out to answer, “It’s a wave of beauty and wisdom.” The pedestrians, seduced, admire longingly. Motorists, meanwhile, blare their horns and scream hostilities, “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole!” Their anger swells as they spiral into tornadoes of hatred. Motorcycles and scooters buzz past, zipping in and out of the way. The Soft Train is just another obstacle for them to dart past to the next challenge on their way. Cyclists, though, pull up alongside to smile or wave before turning off to go their own way.

Whether the best or the worst, I smile at everyone I encounter. As I travel along, I appreciate the architecture of the old buildings, the churches, museums, and gabled mansions. I dip my toe through the curvature of canals and jump over the humps of eighteenth-century bridges. The lights and colors of the night feel just right, from the garish neon signs along the Dam to the softly glowing street lamps of the Jordaan. Every apartment and shop window is lit up, each containing a different scene displaying a dazzling variety of people and objects on view.

In the mornings I observe walkers and cyclists coming and going, each person gorgeous, independent, balanced, considerate, and kind. Their collective presence is strong and confident but tempered by relaxed smiles, lively whistling, and melodic signing. My curiosity is exceeded by theirs, their wonder profound but muted to avoid drawing too much attention to themselves. Those sitting outdoors at cafes or on park benches are quiet and contemplative, fun-loving and welcoming, or collaboratively conversational.

The Soft Train passes all of them, drinking in some while enjoying their flavor, spitting out others when considering their character. Most are savored then swallowed. No matter the outcome, though, the Soft Train abides all comers, welcomes strangers, cherishes friends, enjoys the good times, and finds itself sexy in a train-like way. The Train changes shapes and colors as it travels from neighborhood to neighborhood, reflecting the evidence of the past, the temper of the present, and visions of the future as ideas give way to the shifting structure of reality.

In its wake, the Soft Train leaves an enlightened freedom and an engorged liberty, each mixing with a communitarian spirit resulting in generous hugs. Every sunny morning the Train bathes in the shimmering light reflected from the canals. As it winds around the Prinsengracht the Train gobbles bitterballen from Cafe Molenpad before continuing on its way. The Soft Train stops wherever it wants, whenever it will, whyever it wishes.

The Train follows its mood from effervescent pink rose petals to delicately marching daffodils to a tye-dyed steam engine blowing a rainbow of confetti from its shiny yellow smiley face. On particularly risque nights, it gives off an odor of hot coastal sex from the Mediterranean. Underlying every mood, though, is an orangeness of spirit.

I take the Soft Train every day, riding it wherever it goes, to Albert Heijn, the Cuyp Market, to Bloem cafe or Eik en Linde, seeing friends, taking in sights and sounds, marveling whenever the Train skims over canals. Occasionally, we become a bridge to nowhere or descend on public sculptures to bring them to life. When we become one everyone who joins becomes us! I never know where we’re going, but I’m always grateful for the ride.

The Soft Train is life’s pleasure and it travels every way. It sometimes beats me when I’m sassy then comes back sober the next day promising never to do it again. Sure, it brings me flowers and candy for a few days but then the Train comes back drunk a week later ready to smack the hell out of me. What the fuck, Soft Train?!

No, no, I kid, I kid. The Soft Train is a softy all the way and so I send the Soft Train to all of you. The Train enjoys having you aboard. You are one of its own. Come hither, wander, whither you will. Smile devilishly or at least try to grin. Cancel your plans, hop on the flow, it’s here you must go. Don’t hesitate, no need to wonder, just climb aboard and you’ll know. A wonderful world awaits as long as you choose anything but straight.

The Soft Train is with you, use it as you will. Such an exciting companion, a length or two of thrill. When I look outside the window a little past 3 AM there is darkness all around except for the wind. Maybe a thunderstorm passed by, angry at each of us for not being grim. As I peer down the street I see an Old Grump pissing all over the place. Bitching and screaming, he’s a furious drunken lout. Still ... here comes the Soft Train taking him in.

I wonder sometimes where the Train will go, if it has a destination. Maybe I’ll never know. I have heard whispers of a ride past no return. The Soft Train may take you to the edge of your mind, show you the darkness of uncertainty, or transport you to a place where nothing is understood. Your choice. Mine, too, of course. Always is.

When you feel the hard wind howling or a siren drawing you near, the Train can send you spinning, untethered yet again. If you awake from your stupor and come back in control, you may find yourself itching for whatever came before. No matter, though, because what comes is only ever what comes next. Will it be a song of silence? A mood you can touch? A moment to the more?

I’m jumping back on board now, on the Soft Train Express. I’m passing signs I’ve seen in lifetimes past. There’s a special kind of strangeness on this ride. It’s clearing cobwebs from my mind. I’m filling up with feelings I could never ignore. You know, it’s a fine how-do-you-do when the knock you hear is you. I wonder how it could be, me meeting me?