French Literature

Cain began human civilization in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden, x thousands of years ago. With a small number of mostly minor exceptions, nothing of value has resulted. One of the exceptions, of course, is French literature. The French have been the best at chronicling human futility. . .

In the videos above and below, we meet Michel Houellebecq, the personification of French literature. . .

Just look at the reprobate way Michel smokes his cigarettes. . .

Dissolute, disheveled, depressed, he appears to have stepped from the pages of Huysmans’ À Rebours to remind the 21st century sheeple of the hopelessness of their condition, that capitalism and their electronic devices won’t save them, and the new gods of Science and Technology will ruin even fornication and pedophilia for them. . .

Reading Houellebecq will get me through another six months. . .

The Eleventh Step

Karl brought in a little Charlie Brown Christmas tree and set it on the center of the four folding tables that had been pushed together for the weekly meeting. A cheap old artificial tree, black wire and green bristles, missing a few *branches* from Christmases past.

He even thought to bring an extension cord.

Blinking colored lights hanging off a half-vacant fake tree.

Eighteen losers ringing the tables, staring at the blinking lights.

Nobody talking.  A couple of coughs.  People clearing their throats.  Metal chairs squeaking.

I wonder what prompted Karl to bring the *tree?*

Looking at that tree, I remember what I think of as the *Last Christmas,* the last Christmas before things went really bad between my mother and father.  I was twelve and my brother was fourteen.  Our mother had decorated the apartment for Christmas.  Tree, wreaths, stockings, the whole nine yuletide yards.  Nobody appreciated it.  An act of preposterous sentimentality.  I let her know it. 

It’s no surprise, then, that here I sit, thirty-seven years later, at the tables of the losers.

Why would Karl bring in that stupid little *tree?*

Most people sitting here have broken families, what is he trying to say with his broken-down little *tree?* 

“Welcome to the Wednesday night Hope and Recovery Meeting.  I’m Joe, and I’m an addict,” Joe says.

“Hi, Joe” everybody says, automatonically.

Around the table we go, introducing ourselves as addicts.  Part of the ritual.  Part of the liturgy. 

Joe continues reading from the meeting script.  It ought to be in Latin.

What will I confess tonight?  I haven’t told the truth here in a couple of years.  Not that I haven’t been sober.  I have been.  But I need to make up some minor incident in order to feel like I’m contributing.  I have no doubt I could stop attending meetings and remain sober.  But I would miss the ritual.

"We strive to practice anonymity and confidentiality," Joe says.  "Who we meet or what is said in a meeting is treated as confidential and is not discussed outside the meeting.  Who you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

"Hear, hear," everybody says automatonically.

"Does anybody have any announcements before we split into our tables?"

"Hello, my name's Ira, I'm an addict," Ira says.

"Hi, Ira," everybody says automatonically.

"Joe," Ira says, "our preamble states our fellowship does not support or endorse outside causes or issues.  So why is there a Christmas tree on the table?"

I scan the room, see a few rolled eyes, several frowns.

"That's not really an announcement," Joe says.

"We're supposed to define our Higher Power for ourselves, not have it defined for us by an icon."

"That's more of a complaint than an announcement," Joe says.

"I'm announcing a violation of the preamble.  Our fellowship is supposed to be inclusive, not exclusive. And by having a symbol of a specific faith on display, we are in. . ."

I stop listening.

I wonder what my ex-wife and kids are doing?  I need to remember to round up a few presents and send them off.  I wonder what the kids are into, now?  You fall out of it pretty fast.

I remember one Christmas, I took the kids into Victoria's Secret, they were 3 1/2 and 5 1/2 years old, and I let them pick out some pajamas for the old lady—nothing too slutty, just some nice stylish sleepwear.  The old lady blew her stack.  "You took the kids into Victoria's Secret?!?!"  She lectured me on how that would damage their view of women.  Well, we had a good time in that store, shopping for her.  I can still see that Asian salesgirl. It remains a pleasant memory.  That's out of the old lady’s reach, out of the old lady’s reach.  She can't move it five hundred miles away.

There's Karl, unplugging his little tree, taking it off the table, rolling up the cord.  Poor old bastard.  He was probably working off some old memories of his own, and just wanted to bring in a little cheer.  And he ends up getting kicked in the teeth.

"I know this is a Christian church," I hear Ira say. "And I am appreciative they let us use this space.  Nevertheless, as a group, we bring no—"

"All right, you made your point," Joe interrupts.  "The tree is gone.  Let's not waste any more time on the issue.  We need to start the tables."

"I was not 'wasting' time," Ira says.

"We're on step eleven this week, I believe," Joe says.  "Step eleven can meet in the kitchen.  Topic table downstairs.  Open discussion here.  Have a good meeting everybody."

I stay seated for open discussion. Ray, Denard, Karl and Ira stay, also.  Five minutes for each of us.  I'll be out of here in twenty-five minutes.  Still time to hit a store.

Nobody says anything.  It's always like this.  Waiting for someone to go first.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" Ira asks.

I wasn't looking at him.  I was looking at a poster on the wall.  A picture of a luminescent Jesus, with the caption *The Light of the World.*  Jesus was looking at him.

Nobody says anything.

"Well, I guess I'll go first," Ira says.  “It was a very good week.  It was an uneventful week.  I was reflecting on that on the drive over here tonight.  I used to seek ‘events.’  I used to seek sensation.  I craved it.  We all craved it, didn’t we?”  He stops.  He looks around the table to make sure we are all nodding in agreement.  I nod.  What the Hell, why not?  Ray and Denard nod.  Karl doesn’t.  “I guess what I’m trying to say, fellas, is that in recovery there is a peace, a tranquility, if you will.  And that feeling of peace or tranquility, even serenity, if we could borrow the phraseology of our famous prayer, that feeling was a stranger to me.  And it took some time to warm up to that ‘stranger.’  It took some time for me to accept it.  What I am trying to say, fellas, is that in recovery, or at least, in my recovery, but I think also in most everyone’s recovery, is that early in recovery, we miss the sensation.  I missed the sensation.  Peace or tranquility or serenity didn’t look so good, at first.  It was definitely not ‘love at first sight,’ if I can put. . .”

Boring.  That’s a big problem with these meetings.  Most of what’s said will bore you to tears.  I tune out.  I need to invent my weekly anecdote, anyway.  Let’s see. . .I could say I was in the checkout lane at Meijer. . .and. . .a couple of lanes away, I saw. . .Danni. . .ha!. . .Danni!. . .yeah, that’s good. . .I knew Danni way back in the day. . .when I was buried in my addiction. . .buried alive in it. . not knowing I had a problem. . .so. . .so. . .so seeing Danni there. . .and remembering. . .and remembering what?. . .what?  Ridiculous.  Danni’s been dead for six years.  Ha.  I could say her ghost visited me.  Like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“. . .seems familiar and not strange, anymore.  So what I’m trying to say, fellas, is that it’s a different life, a different way of living.  And it’s healthier.  Healthier for the body and the soul.  It’s more honest.  It’s more respectful, both to myself and to others.  What I used to think was happiness was, in reality, only turmoil.  Emotional and physiological turmoil.  But I mistook that chaos for happiness.  All the game playing, all the secrets, all the ‘that’ behind the addiction, if that isn’t too Eastern a concept, the ‘that’ behind the addiction.  So I guess that’s it, fellas, that’s what it all comes down to, a new way of life.  And I’m thankful to have the opportunity to share recovery with you.”

He shuts up, and we all say “thanks, Ira,” automatonically.  All of us except Karl. 

We shift in our chairs, look around.  Ira takes a sip of coffee.  Ray unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss.  Karl’s staring at his Christmas tree.  It’s over by the door.

Denard goes next.

"It's like Ira was saying.  You want the sensation.  I still want it."  He stops, sighs heavily.  "Rough week."  He sighs again, shakes his head.  "I done did some things.  Ahhhh, fuck."  He shakes his head, he chuckles.  "I just can't seem to stop.  I mean, I can.  I can stop, you know?  But then, I start again.  And then I have to start stopping again, you know?"

No, I don't know.  I never really know what Denard is talking about.  I don't think he knows, either.

But who really knows anything, anyway?  If any of us knew anything, we wouldn't be here in the first place.

Man, that last Christmas.  Twelve-years-old, and spitting in the old lady's eye.  I was already off track.  I started these meetings about thirty years too late.

Now I have the appearance of being on the straight-and-narrow.  Sober in behavior.  But nobody to see it.  Except these stumblebums.  I lost everyone else.  Sober in behavior—but for whose benefit?  I have no responsibility, now.  Some of these misfits believe they have a responsibility to themselves.  Not me.  That’s selfish.  Sobriety for self is an act of vanity.  And anyway, in spirit, I’m still an addict.  The same dark desires rule the inner man.

You see?  If you think about this too much, you only end up asking: why bother?

“. . .tomorrow. Ahhhh, fuck, I have to believe tomorrow will be different.  If it’s the same, then today never ends, you know?  It just goes on.  It’s like time stops.  Yeah, it just stops.”  He sighs heavily.  “Ain’t that some fucked up shit?  Time’ll just stop, and today’ll just go on forever.”  He sighs.  “This addiction, man, it messes with everything.  Everything.  The laws of physics and everything.  Space and time just disappear.”  He throws up his hands.  “What can I do?  What the fuck can I do?  This thing is bigger than me.  How am I gonna battle black holes and all that shit?  Because that’s what this thing is, a black hole.”

He stops talking.  Even though I’ve just been told time has stopped, I can feel the seconds ticking by.  Is he finished?  Is it time for someone else to take the stage?  He must sense all of us thinking the same:

“I’m done.”  He sighs.  “Nothing else to say.”

“Thanks, Denard,” we all say, automatonically.

Thanks for nothing.  That’s what I feel.  Nothing.  It will pass, it will pass.  But right now, nothing.  I’m closer to being dead than people going through a near-death experience.  I’m not out of my body, I can’t see myself.  I see no welcoming light.  I’m here.  Breathing.  I see these other fuck-ups fidgeting, scratching.  I feel no kinship.  I might as well be sitting at the bottom of the moon’s deepest crater, staring at rubble.

“. . .compete with my brother.  He was tall and lean, like my dad.  He was good at sports.  I was always chubby.  So I tried to compensate.  I excelled in school. I always got perfect grades.  Dad always said he was proud of my academic achievements, but he loved going to all my brother’s games, it was obvious, and you could see the pride and the love. I always felt inferior.  My dad and my brother had a real bond.  Dad never said he loved me.”   Ray stops.  He’s choked himself up.

Ray says the same thing, every week.  “I’m fat and my dad didn’t love me, so I forced myself to do well in school and business, to earn his love.  But I put so much pressure on myself, I became an addict.”  It chokes him up, week after week.  He’s fat in belly and wallet, unlike most of us.  He’s still got his wife and kids, unlike most of us.  He seems to have one specific thing eating at him, so to speak, unlike most of us. 

There’s not any one thing I can blame for my failure, except myself.  And I doubt it’s really that simple, or external, for Ray—but it seems to work for him.

And let's face it, this is only part of the problem. A lot of these guys seem to think addiction is all that stands between them and the Pearly Gates.  Reductio ad Absurdum.  It's all rotten.  The addiction just shows, like a crack in the wall.

What am I going to say?  I need to think of something.  I'm running out of time.  Once Ray finishes mourning for himself, it'll be down to me and Karl.

". . .hugged me and said he loved me, I wonder how different my life would've been?  Not that I'm not grateful for what I have.  My wife has stuck by me.  But I have to admit, there are moments of doubt.  I've always been a good provider.  I've let her have whatever she wants.  So does she love me, or my paycheck?  That's what this disease can do to you.  It's awful.  All the doubts.  You can't trust yourself and you can't trust anybody else.  I've had a lifetime of insecurity.  The disease worked its way into my mind, because—"  Ray stops.  He's choked himself up, again.  "Because there was no love.  A strong mind is built on a foundation of love.  And I never had that.  So I wasn't equipped to resist the disease."  Ray wipes his eyes.  I don't see any tears.  Phantom tears, I guess.  "I feel love in this room, though.  That's what keeps me coming back.  That's what keeps me sober.  Thank you.  Thank you all for loving me."

"Thanks, Ray," we all say, automatonically.

A clean, well-lighted place, that's what this is.  The Presbyterians have a nice place, here.

The others are looking at me and Karl.  One of us has to talk.  Karl looks like he's taken a vow of silence.  He's staring at his Christmas tree, unblinking.  Ray unwraps another Hershey's Kiss.  One of the Christmas kind, in green foil.

"I remember watching my mother," I say, "putting tinsel on the tree.  I said to her, 'this Christmas stuff just makes it worse.'  She says, 'makes what worse?'  I say, 'you and dad screaming.'  'I'm just trying to bring a little cheer into all of our lives,' she says.  And then I shouted, 'I SAID, IT JUST MAKES IT WORSE.'  My brother laughed.  I don't know where the old man was.  Probably in the bedroom, drinking and listening to his shortwave.  Probably trying to get a Bartok symphony.  The old lady still had some tinsel in her hand.  She hesitated, put it on the tree, and then that was it.  Her decorating was over.  Forever.  That tree and all the decorations stayed up till summer, when we had to move out.  She never unpacked that stuff again."

Karl seems interested.  The others, not as much.

"I was right.  It did make everything worse.  Well, maybe I should say, I was being honest.  All that phony Christmas cheer couldn't cover up the ill will in the household.  And even though the decorations were cheap, the tacky Christmas junk of the poor, it still seemed like. . ."

What did it seem like?  What am I trying to say?  I can very easily go back and relive that Christmas.

Look at Karl, he's really into this story.  Well, there are some of us for whom the holiday has a. . .

"I would say I was embarrassed for all that cheap Christmas junk. I felt embarrassed for all the trinkets, for them having to witness our family rancor.  But, and this is the important thing, I was wrong in behavior.  I shouldn't have disrespected the old lady."

At that, Denard nods.

"It's that time of year, of course.  There are reminders in the littlest things.  And Karl brought in the tree.  I was twelve years old.  You know, in the gospels there's only one account of Jesus from when He was about three until He was about thirty.  There's an incident from when He was twelve.  Mary and Joseph had lost track of Him.  He was in the temple, teaching the rabbis.  And when Mary and Joseph find Him there, He says, real nonchalant, 'did you not know I must be about My Father's business?'  Now, me, when I was twelve, I was shouting at the old lady, ruining her Christmas.  So you see, whatever has led me here, right here, to this table, was already in me at age twelve.  So. . ."

So?  So what?  I lost my train of thought with that little digression about the twelve-year-old Jesus.  Now what?

"Look, for some of us, there is a real presence in the season.  It's like the Catholics and their little communion wafer.  They believe it is the flesh of Christ in that wafer.  Well, some of us feel the real flesh and blood presence of the Lord during Christmas."

They don't know what the Hell I am saying.  Except Karl.

"Look, of course He's always here.  It's just at Christmas and Easter, you focus more, you are less distracted by the world."

Look at these idiots, they don't understand.  But I can tie all this together, now.  It's crystal clear.

"The point is, I had already lost the way at age twelve.  And here I am, thirty-seven years later.  Thirty-seven?  Listen, the Jews were in the wilderness. . ."

No, I don't want to get sidetracked, again.

"The point is, here I am, thirty-seven years later.  Lost everything. Now what?  What's the point?  Is sobriety a sacrifice?  No.  I don't do this as an offering.  So, now what?  What's the point?  I don't know.  And that is the point.  I don't need to know.  I no longer need to know.  I've lost everything, according to the world.  Why?  Why did I do the things I did, which caused me to lose it all?  Why am I like the way I am?  I don't need the answer to that question.  I'm at peace.  I live by the faith of Jesus, the Higher Power.  God planted His faith in me, and now I trust in that until the end, no matter what happens next.  And at the end, all will be revealed."

Yes, I think that's it.  And those may be the first true words I've spoken here in a couple of years.  Look at their faces.

"Thanks," they say, doubtfully.  Except Karl.  His "thanks" seemed genuine.

The poor old lady.  I never made it up to her.  Yeah, I’ll hit Target after this.  I’ll get some gifts for the kids.  I’ll ask a clerk what the hot toys are for seven and nine year old boys.  Hell, I’ll even pick up something for the old lady.  The old lady ex-wife.  And I’ll get myself one of those Christmas trees-in-a-box things.  The kind you just unpack and plug in. It’ll be like lighting a candle for—

Karl bangs his fist on the table.

“I wasn’t going to speak a word.  I’m so disgusted.  I wasn’t going to speak a God damn word.  But you,” Karl says, looking right at me, “inspired me.  The rest of you. . .” he shakes his head.

“You know the protocols forbid cross talk,” Ira says.

“Cross talk?”  Karl laughs in scorn.  “I’m not talking across the table to anybody.  I’m just making general comments.  And listen, Mr. Know-It-All, you being the great know-it-all, how is it you don’t know you’re supposed to keep your piehole shut while somebody else has the table?  So you shut your piehole and listen.”

Ira burns red.  Denard tries to hide a smile. Ray plays with the foil from his Kisses.

“I’ve seen this bullshit so many times before.  I was the fourth person to join this meeting when it started here eighteen years ago.  The three ahead of me, including the two founders, are long since lost to the outer darkness of addiction.  I’ve seen them all come and go.  Seeds by the wayside.  I’m sixty-two God damn years old.  I’ve seen all of your bullshit many times before, so I know of what I speak.  None of you are going to make it.  Not even you,” Karl says, looking straight at me, “you’re close.  But close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and drive-in movies.  Unless God creates a clean heart and a right spirit in you, you’ll end up back in the gutter with these stiff-necked—”

“You’re way out of line with this negative cross-talk,” Ira snaps.

“I told you to shut your God damn piehole, you fucking Pharisee.”

“Pharisee?  What are you trying to say?”

“You aren’t worthy to untie my shoelaces, yet you claim the right to be offended by my Christmas tree?  I don’t think so.”

"You were wrong to bring in the tree, and now you're talking like a lunatic," Ira says.

He and Karl lock into a stare.  Look at them.  Quite a contrast.  Karl is much older, but he still looks pretty solid—he probably cuts his own grass with a push mower.  There's probably not even any grass where Ira lives.

"Guys, guys," Ray says, "maybe we should just do the circle prayer and call it a night, huh?"

"That's all right with me," Ira says.

"I'm not done speaking," Karl says.

"Finish it up, then," Denard says, as if he were exasperated.  But what does he have to be exasperated about?

Karl sits there, staring straight ahead.  Not a word comes out of his mouth.  Time seems to stop.  Like in Denard’s physics.  It’s peaceful, though.  This quiet.  A quiet moment on a winter night, though the others seem impatient. They grimace.  I could sit here all night, in the quiet.  I could sit here all night in this peace and quiet, and enjoy just staring at the *Light of the World* poster.  Peace and quiet.  It’s nice.  But then Ray starts shifting on his chair, and the chair creaks.

“God, I’m weary of these meetings,” Karl finally says. 

He stares at the ceiling.  He seems old, now.  He looks around the table, giving each one of us a short scan.  “Go ahead and have your circle jerk prayer.  I’m through.”

“Thanks, Karl,” I say. 

The anti-climax must have surprised the others, they’re a half-beat slow in adding their affirmation.

I’m the first to stand for the prayer.  We’re supposed to close the meeting by holding hands and saying the serenity prayer as we look each other in the eye.  It’s supposed to mean we’re not ashamed.  I’ve never really enjoyed this ritual.  It’s a little too self-validating for my taste. 

Everybody’s standing, except Karl. We all look at Karl.

“You going to pray?” I ask.

“No.”

He stands up, puts on his coat, an old blue parka.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . .” we begin, automatonically. We watch Karl, instead of looking each other in the eye. “The courage to change the things I can. . .” He’s at the door.  He stoops to pick up his Christmas tree.  “And the wisdom to know the difference.”  An old man in an old parka with an old fake tree.  He pushes the door open, takes half a step outside, then turns around:

“Your prayer didn’t make it out this building. That Higher Power you all talk about?  You honor Him with your lips, but your hearts are far from Him.”

He leaves.  The door bangs behind him.  We stand there, looking at the door.  I hear laughter from the step table in the kitchen.

“Sounds like there having a better meeting than we did,” Ray says.

Ira nods. “I’ll tell you, fellas, that was one of the strangest meetings, ever.”

Ira, Ray and Denard start rehashing everything.  Changing it into something that suits them.  I put my coat on and leave them to it.

It’s a cold night.  It’s freezing in the car.  I put the heater on high.  But it will take this old Honda several minutes to start blowing warm air.  I begin to pull out of the parking lot, and I remember my plan to go to the store to buy gifts—God!  How stupid!  I shift into reverse and back into a parking space.  I sit in the car, wondering at my stupidity. 

Karl was right.  Who am I kidding? 

There’s nothing in me but sawdust and resentment.  I don’t have what it takes to finish.  I gave up and quit.  I went through the motions so badly, even the old lady could no longer ignore it—she had to leave.  Everything that should have been a blessing, I treated as a curse.  A few thoughtless gifts mean nothing.  Another half-assed gesture added to a life of half-assed gestures.

I sit here in this car, the motor running, the heater blowing cold air.  I search the black December sky.  Where’s the Jesus star?

Part IV

7 December 2011:

23 North.  Out of Milan. 

Ha.  Pissant Milan.

A hick town they've whored up with a Taco Bell and a CVS and a half-dozen other corporate zombie iconchises.

Can anything good come out of Milan?

Headed toward a shitty address in Ypsilanti.

“What sort of music do you listen to?” as she reaches for the radio.

Music.  I feel about talking about music the way some people feel about talking about sports.  Or the weather.

“Uh, to be honest, I don’t really like music.  Most of it gives me a headache.”

She stops fiddling with the tuner.

“But go ahead and put on something you like.  It won’t bother me.”

This could be a long 15 minute drive.  And I hope this address in Ypsi isn’t what I think it is. 

Static.  Bad music.  Static.  Bad music.  Static.  Bad music.  She had the TV on in her room, too.  Didn’t turn it off.  People always have to have something on.  It’s fear.  Afraid to be alone with their thoughts. 

Don’t need the heat on.  The unobscured winter sun turns the car into a greenhouse. 

I’m going 83.  I slow it down to 80.  Pass a Hostess truck.

She’s finally found a station.  I don’t know what it is. It’s wimpy sounding.  Like the crap they would play in an *in* store in the mall.

“Do you like Twinkies?” I ask.

“What?”

“What’s your favorite band?”

“Umm. . .there’s this guy. . .Dead Mouse.  Have you ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“I also like Ratatat.”

“Oh.”

“I had a back stage pass to see them at the Electronic Music Festival.”

“That must have been exciting.”

“It was!  It was!  To be so close--”

As she talks about this Ratatat back stage thing, I remember the scene in A Streetcar Named Desire where Karl Malden finally gets a good look in the light at Vivien Leigh, and he sees how old she really is.  It’s always dark in Lindsay’s room.  She keeps the shades pulled.  The only light is from the TV and computer screens.  Now I see her in broad daylight.  I see how young she is.  Ha.  That’s a thought worth being distracted from.

“Do you play any music?” I ask.

“No.  I love music so much, but I’ve tried to play guitar and. . .I don’t know, I just can’t.”

“What about singing?”

“Um. . .I like to sing. I mean, I like to play Rock Band and stuff and sing on it.  I’ll put on like a stage show and my friends will sit there and go ‘wow’ and just stare at me.”

“You would look great fronting a band.  You have a great style, a great appearance.”

She giggles.

There’s an MSP car ahead, slowing things down a bit.  I cut back to 75.

Her phone goes off.  The ring tone is some hillbilly voice singing I don’t know who you think you are, but before the night is through, I wanna do bad things with you.

I hear her end of the conversation:

“Oh, OK. . .”

“I have all of it. . .”

“We’re about five minutes out. . .”

“In real time?  Maybe eight minutes out. . .”

A wave of gloom rolls over me.  It’s called reality.  Shabby lives.  We’re not twirling on top of some jeweled music box.  This is 23 North to Ypsi.  Ten days ago the internet created this out of nothing.  No.  Not nothing.  Out of depression and addiction.  She came out of some. . .pit of despair.  Ha.  Pit of despair.  Another way of saying--

“What?”

She asked me something, but I don’t quite hear it all over my thoughts.

“Do you go to the movies a lot?”

“No,” I say,  “I used to, though.  Years ago.  I used to see everything.  Now I just watch DVDs.  What about you?”

“Yeah, I go whenever I can.  My friend took me see J. Edgar.  It was so boring.  It was like two hours long.  More than two hours.  I really wanted to see this movie called Martha Marcy Marlene or something--”

“Oh, yeah, I heard of that.  About the chick who escapes from a cult?”

“Yeah, I really wanted to see that, it looked so interesting.  But we ended up at J. Edgar.  Nothing happened in this guy’s whole life.  Nothing cool.”

“Did you ever see this movie Kick-Ass?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, that was good.  Yeah.  So. . .is that like your favorite movie?”

“Oh, no, I liked it, but it’s not my favorite.  I just mentioned it because I figured you might like it, too.  My favorite movie is The Exorcist.”

She nods.  “I like scary movies.  Have you ever seen The Ring?”

“Oh, yeah.  That was good.  Wait, are you talking about the Japanese one, or the American one?  I’ve only seen the American one.”

“The American one,” she says.  “I mean, I’ve seen both, or all of them, there’s more than one.  I like the first Ring, the American version.  It’s my favorite scary movie, probably ever.  Yeah, I like it a lot.”

We hit the Washtenaw exit.  Now we’re in the low rent strip mall zone.  Mattresses, flowers, tires, eyeglasses, phones, uniforms, auto parts stores. 

“Did you ever see The Human Centipede?”

“Yeah,” she giggles.  “Yeah. There’s a new one out.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.  It’s supposed to be way more extreme, more graphic.”

“Really?” she giggles.  “Movies like that just make me laugh.  They’re like, because they’re so, like, ridiculous.  They’re not scary or realistic.  And some people are like ‘oh my god, how can you watch that!’  But it was so fake, I loved it.”

Chinese restaurant, liquor store, mail shoppe, nail salon. . .nail salon?

“Nail ‘salon?’  Can you believe that?  A bunch of dumpy negresses getting their nails done in ghetto rococo, and they call it a ‘salon!’  Imagine Rimbaud and Verlaine walking into one of these places. . .hmmph.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I laugh.  “I was just. . .just thinking out loud.  To myself.  Just some, uh, you know, just talking to myself, really.”

That was a real conversation killer.

Just as I start to wonder how I got into this mess, and how I can get out of it, I realize it doesn’t matter.  I lose no matter what I do.  It’s one mess or the other.  Bitterness or delirium.  You can only fail, in the world.  Ten centuries ago you could flee the world.  You could escape to the desert or a cave in the mountains.  Now the world is everywhere.  Jesus was prophesying about the apocalypse when He said he who endures to the end, the same shall be saved.  In my personal apocalypse, I lose all day, everyday.  But I endure.  I don’t let my own sin, my own continual defeat question the faith of Christ.

“You know where Dom’s Donuts is?” she asks.

“No.”

“Well, that’s were we’re gonna turn.  It’s straight ahead a little ways.”

“All right.  Are we turning left or right.”

“Right.” 

I don’t know who you think you are, but before the night is through, I wanna do bad things with you.

“One more minute. . .”

“One real minute. . .”

“A white Honda Civic. . .”

She pulls the money I gave her about a half-hour ago out of her jeans pockets.  Stuffs a five back in, closes a fist around the rest.  I don’t feel bad when I give a drunken bum a couple bucks, either. 

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more. . .

Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities. . .

What do you give those in the blackness of darkness?

A circle of infirmity and misery, that’s how I look at it.  We are what we are.

Shall the thing formed say to Him that formed it, Why hast Thou made me thus? 

Another wave of gloom rolls over me.  I don’t know anything, anymore.

“Have you seen that thing online where, um, the cops spray the Occupy Wall Street people?” she asks.

“That’s America, for you.”

“Right!”

“The sad thing. . .no, it’s not sad, it’s, uh, pathetic. . .the pathetic thing is, is how many people are overjoyed, how many people are aroused, really, aroused and ecstatic that the protesters got sprayed.  Pathetic robots.  Mind-controlled pseudo-patriots--they think America is Heaven on Earth, and so any unwashed occupiers must be devils who deserve the cayenne wrath of god’s soldiers.”

“Right!  Right!  That’s it!”

A moment of bonding.  Nothing like a new audience to salve the soul. 

“I’m glad we agree on that,” I say.  “No flag--”

“No!  I mean, turn right!  That’s it!” she says, pointing at the donut place.  “Turn right, here!”

Oh.

I cut a nasty last second right. 

“But I mean, yeah.  Right on about the pepper sprayers and all that,” she says without much enthusiasm.

We’re on some slummy side street full of peeling crackerboxes.

We go down four or five blocks, and there’s an ugly apartment complex on the left.

“Turn in here,” she says, “and drive down to the fourth building, and stop in front.”

I don’t know who you think you are, but before the night is through, I wanna do bad things with you.

“We’re pulling in right now. . .”

“I know but how am I supposed to know to the exact second. . .”

“All right, well, maybe we can like just coordinate a little better so we can just. . .”

I see a gray-hoodied *black youth* on a cell up ahead.

“Well, I know, but like, uh. . .”

I pull up next to gray hoodie.  She rolls down the window.  Gray hoodie leans in, she opens her fist, he takes the money, palms a tiny plastic bag into her hand, rolls her fist.   They continue to speak to each other over their cells while doing this.

“We’re in at the same time, so--” she says.

“You got to understand.  This shit has to happen smoother.”

And with that, the artificial light flickers, then shorts out.  I’m back in the blackness of darkness.  A brief recess in a Fool’s Paradise is over.

Now a fifteen minute drive back to Milan to drop her off.  Fifteen minutes, and then it’s her turn.  She can escape, for a while.

23 South to Milan.

Pissant Milan.

All the pissant towns since Cain.  Filled with unknown people.  The mania to be known, in our day, to be a celebrity, is a remnant from the days of God.  In the Old Times, people devoted themselves to be known of God.  Architecture and ritual meant to draw God’s eye. 

On That Day, Jesus will dismiss many with the simple, chilling statement:

Depart from Me, I never knew you. . .

To be known is salvation.

All the pissant towns down through the Ages.  All the unknown.  I try to calculate.  I know, I am aware of maybe one hundred people at work.  Twenty neighbors, maybe.  A dozen or so of the old lady’s friends.  Maybe thirty family members.  A few strays, like the cashiers at the parking lot.  I know what, maybe two hundred people?  Out of seven billion?  I know almost nobody.

“You’re so quiet,” she says.

We just passed the King Pizza’s Pizza billboard.

“I always wondered why they didn’t just call it King’s Pizza,” I say.

“I used to deliver for them.”

“You did?  I bet you got great tips.”

“I wish.  People are so cheap, you wouldn’t believe it.  Like one time, I had to deliver all these pizzas to a party, and the guy goes like, take a shot for your tip.”

We both chuckle.

“But no,” she goes on, “the tips were shitty as hell, if you even got one.  I mean, how can you order a pizza and not tip?  Or they want exactly all their change.  We didn’t carry any coins, and one time this lady made me go back all the way to the store to get her exact change.  I don’t know, I thought it was like etiquette to tip.”

“Did anybody ever try to rob you?”

“No, no, I heard some bad stories about it, but nobody ever tried to rob me.”

A kid like her, she’d be a pushover.  Maybe she has ministering angels watching over her.  Maybe her day is still to come.  My day is over.  Now I try to hang on.  To run out the clock, as they say in football.

I pull up a block from her place.

“Well. . .” I say.

She stares at me.

“Well,” I say, “it was nice to talk a little bit.  It makes it a little less awkward, I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah.  It was nice.  Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure.”

She’s out the door, that little baggy in her fist.

Against the odds, I found this girl out of the pissant masses.

Now what do I do?

They Fuck Horses In The Ass, Don't They?

What were these idiots thinking??  Provincial morons like this are admitted to a supposed *prestigious academic institution?*  In a truly vulgar display, these imbeciles hold a *pep rally,* a party, no doubt drinking beer and flirting with each other, as they *rally* to show support for a disengaged old fossil of a coach who characterizes a grown man buttfucking a little boy as *horseplay.*  Do they all fuck horses in the ass in State College, PA?

{I wrote a little more about Pederast State University over here.}

UPDATE:

Ha ha ha. . .in his retirement statement today, Paterno says:

At this moment the Board of Trustees should not spend a single minute discussing my status. They have far more important matters to address. I want to make this as easy for them as I possibly can.

Hey, old man, it's not for you to tell the Board of Trustees what to do.  Your status is part of this ugly situation, and it's up to the Board to decide if they want Pederast State University to suffer the embarrassing spectacle of you in the Stadium this Saturday, if they want their *prestigious university* to be ridiculed and shamed by the spectacle of 106,000 provincial boobs holding a pep rally for an old geezer who characterizes men buttfucking boys as *horseplay,* and who looked away from the obvious deviate behavior of his coaching buddy for years and years.  Yes, JoePa, the Board of Trustees does need to discuss your status.  Did you ever stop to consider that maybe you don't deserve one final home game surrounded by 106,000 fawning imbeciles?  Is missing one last fucking game too much of a punishment for you?  Can you not even bear that small atonement for enabling your buddy Sandusky to buttfuck kids with total impunity??  The truth is, JoePa, you are only interested in making this gruesome situation as easy for YOU as possible.

And look at JoePa's final self-serving statment:

This is a tragedy. It is one of the great sorrows of my life. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more.

With the benefit of *hindsight?*  Who the fuck do you think you are shitting, JoePa?  You had all the sight you needed to do more, to do a lot more.  You had a grad assistant come to you and tell you he *sighted* your buddy Sandusky fucking a little boy in the *hind.*  There's your hindsight, for you.

Pederast State University loses all credibility as a *prestigious academic institution* if they allow Paterno to coach in dumbly named Beaver Stadium this Saturday. . .

UPDATE II:

The Board of Trustees at Pederast State University did the right thing by firing their fossil of a coach, Joe Paterno.  The Board could not allow the University to suffer the shame of having AmerICKa watch 106,000 provincial morons celebrate and congratulate and well-wish an out-of-touch old geezer who winked at years and years of serial buttfucking.  You just cannot allow that to happen, if you want your precious University to be taken seriously.  A couple days after it is revealed the Football Program has been a sexual House of Horrors for little boys, you stage a love-in for the man who presided over the bath house buttfuckings?  No.  You just cannot allow that to happen.

Tonight, once again, we see in small what would have happened in large on Saturday.  Once again the fawning imbeciles who attend Pederast State University vainly inserted themselves into the story by taking to the streets, this time adding vandalism, to show their *love* for JoePa.  These idiots apparently do not care or do not understand the message they send about their University:

Winking at serial buttfucking is not a sufficient reason to remove a man who has won 409 football games.  You cannot compare scores of little boys being buttfucked to outscoring Illinois 10 - 7.

Uh, tonight's vulgar display of misplaced values could not be repeated a hundred-fold Saturday afternoon, or Pederast State University would be the scorn of an appalled nation.  Joe had to go, it's as simple as that.

No need to feel sorry for JoePa.  His punishment for winking at serial buttfucking is missing his goodbye party?  Seems a terribly small price to pay.  The self-centered self-appointed saint of college football showed his true selfish colors to the very end, demanding the Board of Trustees grant him his goodbye party.  He lamely claimed this would make the Board's job easier.  Ha ha ha. . .sure, Joe, having the University suffer the stain of 106,000 fawning imbeciles blowing goodbye kisses at a man who winked at serial buttfucking Saturday afternoon would make the Board's job easier?  Uh, no.

The UNDENIABLE truth is this:

If Saint Joe had truly wanted to make the Board's job easier, he would have resigned immediately, and then implored the fawning imbeciles of Pederast State University to not make a sorry spectacle of themselves.  But he did neither.  Instead, he demanded his goodbye party, and encouraged the fawning imbeciles with his shockingly offensive front lawn homilies, asking drunken college students to pray for the victims of the serial buttfucking he winked at.  This is the legacy of Joe Paterno. . .

Part III

11 September 2011: I want to shout:

QUIT CRYING!

God, how did You ever dream up all these people?

“Would you like a tissue, Miss?” I ask.

She nods.  A thin clear dot of snot drops from her nose onto the counter.  I set the Kleenex box in front of her.  She takes one, blows her nose.  She takes another, cleans away the mess left behind from the first one.  She takes a third, dries her eyes.

I buy the Kleenex with my own money.  It’s worth it.  Otherwise I would have to gamble there would be a spare roll of toilet paper in the shitter.  It’s more than worth the expense.  The tissue offering can bring a moment or two of peace.

Ninety nine-point-five percent of the crybabies are female.  That’s just a fact.  Whether they’re a minor in possession of alcohol, like this drunken titty-flashing college girl here, or whether they’re a full grown murdering mommy, the females are much more apt to bawl their eyes out over their criminal fate, whether great or small.

2:40 in the morning.  Sunday morning.  This is where I end up?  I don’t want to be here.  But here I am, anyway.  That tells you everything. . .

“Do you have any scars, marks or tattoos?”

This is question number fourteen in the process of booking new arrests.  Depending on the answers given, there can be up to ninety-two. 

The drunk girl looks aghast.

“I god scars. . .on my leg.”  She glances around, as if to see if anyone is looking.  “I doan likeda talk aboudid.”  She looks around, like she wants to make sure no one else is listening.  “On my leff leg.  Horr, horrbull scars.  Dey starad de ankull an go aw de way up.  Almose aw de way up ta my. . .ta my p-p-pussy.”  She bursts into tears.  Again.

2:41 in the morning.  Sunday morning.  I realize it is now the Great 9/11Anniversary Day.  In my mind I see the famous picture of one of the Tower jumpers plummeting to his death. 

Anyway, I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone mention their pussy before.

The girl takes another tissue and blows her nose.

“I doan likeda talk aboudid.”

“That’s fine.  We’ll move on to the next--”

“When I wuz yun, when I wuz veryveryveryvery yun, my dad-ad ranover my leg wiff de. . .wiff de lawnmower.  Id wuz, id wuz compleadly aggs, compleadly aggsidennull.”

“Uh, OK.  So the next question is: do you know your blood type?”

“I doan likeda talk aboudid.”

“You don’t like to talk about your blood type?”

“I doan likeda talkaboud de scars.”

“We’re done talking about that.  Now I’m asking you about your blood type.”

“He dind dewid on purpose.  De scars go aw de way ta my pussy.”

She bursts into tears.  Again.

The police found her staggering between a couple friends on South University.  They would have let it go, but she was flashing her titties to every stray male she passed.  They wrote her up for a minor in possession of alcohol, and now she’s here until she sobers up.

“My futurezover,” she wails.  “Now I haffa reggerd.”

“Try to stay calm.  This isn’t that big a deal.  Just a few more questions and then--”

“I applied fer a inder, indership ad de cenner fer, cenner fer eading dizorders.  An now I woan gedid.  I wanna be a psygollajizz.”

“I don’t believe this will have any effect on that.”

“YEZZ ID WILL!!”

Everybody in intake looks up to see what this drunk is shouting about.

Dear God, I resent the arrogance of this kid.  Daring to talk about *the future.*  Her future.  None of us have a future.  There is only the end of what You have already decided.  This kid has no modesty.  Assuming her bogus future was going to be glorious.  At least now she momentarily assumes a humbler future. Of course, when she sobers up she’ll assume her throne, again.  And, of course, she adopts worldly standards for success.  Material and carnal. 

And her lack of modesty is so thorough, it includes her attire.  She’s dressed in a gray ultra-mini skirt with black tights and a too-small black t-shirt.  Despite her pathetic drunkeness, she’s an attractive girl.  In fact, with her long dark hair, green eyes and thick eyebrows, she looks remarkably similar to Jennifer Connelly.  A The Hot Spot-era Jennifer Connelly.  A physically attractive girl.  With a chewed-up leg.  With a 9/11 leg.  That’s why 9/11 isn’t even a blip in the real history of the world.  But now it’s America’s Christmas and Easter.

“MY FUTUREZOVER!  ZOVER!”

I look at the other booking clerks and corrections officers.  They’re enjoying my being stuck with this drunken wreck.

“We need to get this process moving along, Miss.  There are quite a few more questions I have to ask.  So, please--”

“I haff scars aw over my leg.  Aw de way ta my pussy.  I show ya.”

She bends downs, tries to roll up the tights on her left leg, nearly topples over.

“It’s all right.  I don’t need to see.  We’ve moved on to the next question.”

“Oh. . .kay,” she says, wobbling her way upright.

“Do you know your blood type?”

“I think izz, I think izz--”

Her brow furrows, then panic wrinkles the drunken stupidity of her face.

“Dijew hear dat?

“Hear what?”

“A dog.”

“A dog?”

“I heared a dog barking.  I candbe aroun dogs.  I’m scareda dogs.”

“There aren’t any dogs here.”

“I heared id.”

“We don’t allow inmates to keep pets.”

I don’t have the patience for this.  Some nights this place is amusing.  This always ice cold waiting room, this ice cold cinder block and fluorescent bulbed waiting room full of drunks, wife beaters, home invaders, bank robbers, sexual deviates and murderers.  Some nights this place is amusing, in a carnival freak show kind of way.  But, not this night.   And not many nights, recently.  I don’t have the energy to deal with these people’s essentially trivial sins.  Even murder is a trivial sin.  A mechanical sin.  And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear Him which is able to destroy both soul and body in Hell.  I’m trying to find eternity, and these people here are only interested in time.  How long until they can go back to wallowing in the mire?  How long until they can go back to wallowing in the mire of oblivion, that’s their concern.  Hopeless cases.  They can be amusing, the way a puppy chasing its tail can be amusing.  But not tonight.  This girl here is nothing but vanity and vexation.  And worse.  I need to get her out of my face.  I start filling in her booking questions with my own made-up answers.  It doesn’t matter.  She’ll be sober and out of here in eight or ten hours--and nobody will ever bother with her paperwork.  I stand there typing in answers while she rambles on about dogs.

“I god bided bya dog.  Bya dig bog--” She laughs at her drunkeness.  “I mean, bya BIG DOG!”

“Let me guess:  the dog bit you on your pussy.”

“Hey!  Dazz nod nize!”

Now she’s crying.  Again.

“I doan belawn here!  My futurezover.  ZOVER!”

I finish her intake questions and print her booking card.

“Just sign here, Miss.”

“Wuzz thizz?”

“Just sign it.”

“Whud izz id?”

I write ‘refused’ on the inmate signature line.

“OK, Miss, you can take a seat, now.”

“Huh?”

‘Huh?’  That’s right.  It doesn’t make sense to her.  She expected everything to be explained to her in some laborious bureaucratic detail.  She thinks her *legal* status is important.  No.  I’ll explain it to her so she can understand:

“You’re just drunk.  Later, I’ll take your picture and fingerprints.  Then when all the liquor’s out of you, you can go home.”

She starts to say something, but I turn around and walk away.  I drop her paperwork in the fingerprint basket, then go into the bathroom.  I stare at myself in the mirror.  Look at that dumb bastard.  When I come out, the drunken The Hot Spot-era Jennifer Connelly girl is nodding off in the female seating area.

Look at all these people.  Arrested.  Their lives arrested.  Black and white.  Male and female.  Mostly poor.  Mostly cheap-looking.  Mostly unkempt, unshaven, disheveled.  Mostly fat.  Their feet stink.  Their lives arrested.  Brought to this purgatory.  Today will any of them be with Jesus in Paradise?  That’s what it’s all about.  But we don’t live that way.  We live as if the world is it.  Our energy devoted to pursuits of little profit.

Jesus went to visit His friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus.  Martha spent her energy trying to make the event a success, preparing food, cleaning, serving the guests.  She worked her ass off while Mary sat and *did nothing,* listening to Jesus.  Martha complained to Jesus, asked Him to tell Mary to help her.  Jesus looked at this woman, who is everybody in the world today, and said: Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things.  But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

Four more hours in this dump.  And then what?  Home.  Sleep for six hours.  Wake up.  Pick up the kids at school.  No, it’s Sunday.  They’re at home.  Dinner. Living.  Back to work.  Day after day after day.  The darkness of the mechanical existence.  Machines operate in darkness, unable to perceive light.  The Light is the Life of the world.  The automaton is without life. 

I cannot stand another day of this.

I may have years more of it to endure.



After work, after leaving the jail, I drive to the Chase ATM at Stadium and Packard.  I sit in the car in front of the machine.  I watch the minutes come and go on my cell phone clock. 

7:11.  7:12.  7:13.  7:14.

Sunday morning.  Blue skies.  Sunshine.  Low sixties. 

7:15.  7:16.  7:17.

Three crows pick at a pile of vomit two blocks up from Fraser’s Pub.

I drive to the Mr. Stadium laundromat on South Industrial.  Two college girls and a homeless-looking man inside.  I wander around, glancing a few times at the women’s restroom door.  I stop at the candy machine.  Drop in some quarters and get a bag of Peanut M&Ms.  There’s a bulletin board on the wall, with flyers, notes, ads.  Bikes for sale, carry out food coupons, tailoring service.  As I pop a green Peanut M&M in my mouth, I notice one particular flyer:

THE APOSTLE SEÁN RAY
Prophet of the Eternal Light
Holding Services in the True Faith of the Messiah Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Every other Sunday at Noon PM
Fellowship Room C in the Northside Presbyterian Church
[Donations for Room Rental Encouraged by the Holy Spirit]
AND SUDDENLY! God’s Kingdom is upon You
Your Excuses will no Longer be Winked at!

Hmmn.  One thing: how would I know if today is an *Every other Sunday?*

At the bottom there are little tabs with the address and phone number.  Nobody’s taken any.  I tear one off and stick it in my wallet.

I check the women’s restroom door one more time.

Nothing to do now except go home. . .

Part II

23 August 2011: It was 6 July 2011.  The day after my youngest son’s birthday, which happens to be on the 4th of July.  I say the day after, because it was very early into the 6th--fifteen or thirty minutes after midnight, and as I hadn’t yet been to sleep on the 5th, to me it was still the 4th, the day after my youngest’s birthday.  Some days, therefore, are longer than others. . .

6 July 2011: Right now I am in the darkness.  These other people have no idea.  These five other people.  [Though it will turn out there were six other people.  And, who knows, maybe there were still others, lurking.]  They think I am here with them.  No.  No, that’s vanity.  They don’t think of me, at all.  I think I am not here with them.  But, of course, in one measure, I am.  I am in the same space at this point in time.

The washing machine broke down.

I don’t understand the mechanics of existence.  We must accept the fact we are machines.  A creation.  And we break down, like washers.

I volunteered to do the laundry.  Of my own *free will.*  Meaning, I think it was my own decision to do the laundry.  But who understands the mechanics of existence?  Anyway, I told the old lady I would gladly do the laundry.  I would do it late.  It would be something to fill the long hours on my *day off.*

I work midnights, but I still call it my *day off.*  I have a lousy job.  Booking clerk on the 11 pm - 7 am shift at the county jail.  But the job has nothing to do with the darkness.  The darkness comes and goes throughout life--no matter the trivialities we occupy ourselves with.  This time, however, I have the feeling I cannot escape the darkness.  I’ve felt this way for several months, now.

So, to gather the threads together, at this point in space and time, it is 12:30 am at the Mr. Stadium laundromat on South Industrial.  I am in the same space as five other people.  I assume they are here merely doing laundry--not doing laundry AND wrestling the archon.  But maybe I am wrong. . .

Whatever our collective condition, I dumped two plastic trash bags of dirty clothes into one of Mr. Stadium’s triple load washers.  The shirts and the pants and the towels and the sheets and all the rest of it are being washed right now.

Mr. Stadium is not a particularly clean place--but it is well-lit.  In the darkness of the midnight hour, it is well-lit, and there is a soothing drone about the place.  Everyone quietly waiting to fold what will be their superficially clean soiled garments while the washers whirr through the spin cycles and the dryers tumble and hum and the big screen TV mumbles on low.

Every now and then, while driving, I will see an old sock or a ragged t-shirt or some piece of beat-up clothing laying in the street.  How did it get there, I will wonder?  Did someone finally hear God?  Who told thee that thou wast naked?  When we strip ourselves of our dirty rags, physical and behavioral, we see our lives have been spent on nothing more than hiding.  Like roaches, we hide from the Light.

I’ve been conscious of my condition for several months, now.  That I’ve been hiding in the darkness.  Hence, I volunteer to do the laundry on my *day off* to fill the long midnight hours.  Day off!  There is no such thing.

A repairman will come to inspect the washer--hopefully a repair cannot be made.  I would like to come to Mr. Stadium regularly.  This is a nice place.  One of the nicest places on earth, I think.  A nice place for contemplation.  Far better than the many churches I have visited in this city.

There are forces at work.  Internal and external.  Some for us.  And some against us.  The exact details of this process, a mechanical process (since we are created), are obscure.  We call this process *living.*

There are five other people here.  Oh, and the attendant.  [The attendant is not the sixth other person.  There are six other persons, plus the attendant.  And maybe still others, lurking.] 

The attendant is an interesting-looking fellow.  He appears to be around sixty years old.  He wears gray work trousers, a white long sleeve button shirt and an old brown plaid fedora.  He empties the trash, arranges the laundry carts, changes the TV channel.  I’d love to have his job.  What a way to pass the time!  Midnight attendant at the 24 hour laundromat.  Peace and quiet.  A few simple chores.  In the dead of night.  In the dead of night.  Almost like being the last man on earth.  And that’s about the only way I could come out ahead.

Right now, I’m a beaten man.  Stranded in the darkness.  Defeated by what Luther called *the world, the flesh and the devil.*  I have no more idea how to get out of the darkness than how I got in.  I need supernatural aid--which is unmerited favor.

Time to load the wet laundry in the dryers.  Letterman’s on the big flat screen.  He’s interviewing some young blonde with a hillbilly accent.  She’s wearing a short black skirt.  Is this a *moment* for her?  She has very nice legs.  That’s about as much as anyone can do in this life.

There are five other people here, all young except for an old Mexican guy in a faded fake football jersey.  It’s so worn, I can’t tell which team it’s supposed to represent.

It’s this mechanical living.  The Light is the life of the world.  Without the Light, it is just a mechanical existence--functioning just to pass the time.  Eating and sleeping just to live long enough to die.  Robotics.  Somewhere along the way, the soul is lost, life becomes just a program, the same code repeated day after day.

My function now is to trade my time for a paycheck to exchange for food and rent for the old lady and the kids.  So we can all exist long enough to die.  So they can exist long enough to die.  This is the essence of carnality, and it has been passed down generation after generation, beginning with Cain in the Land of Nod. 

If I were to drop dead here in Mr. Stadium, the old lady and the kids would get $150,000 insurance money--more than enough to get them through until the next paycheck happens along.  Thus, there is no advantage in me being alive.  The double curse of my existence:  it’s absolutely monotonous and joyless, and absolutely unnecessary. . .I’m no advantage to anybody.

The home is a joyless cave.  A government council flat where misery reigns.  I prefer Mr. Stadium.  I prefer a laundromat.  After fifty-one fucking years, the only place of rest is a laundromat.  Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  This is where I must go to meet Jesus.  I don’t want to get up from this grimy plastic chair.  I dread returning home.  Lord, if there be any escape from drinking again from that cup of trembling. . .

“You can’t use that card two times!” The youngest’s protest still aches in my ear.

Earlier today (yesterday) he and his brother were playing *Bakugan.*  Some God damned Jap toy nonsense.  Little plastic balls that pop open and turn into winged freaks from the chimeric Jap subconscious. 

“It’s the first time I’ve used it!” the oldest shouts.

“You used it to increase your guy’s Gs when you saw my Dice Thrower and now you’re trying to use it again!”

They argue over the absurd, arcane rules of the so-called *game* until the oldest airs the last holdout from his days of magickal thinking:

“I wish you were never born!”

This used to instantly send the youngest tattling to mom, but now he’s grown in his own wisdom:

“Yeah?  Well I hope your head explodes like a Spin Dragonoid and your brain splatters on the ceiling and the spiders lay eggs in it.”

I figure at this point, I better intervene before things get out of hand.

“Fellas, why don’t we just call the game a tie, and move on to something else?”

No.  Of course not.  A tie is like kissing your sister who turns out really to be your brother.  The argument reaches a volume sufficient for the old lady to come creeping up from the basement, where she’d no doubt been relaxing on the internet, complaining to her Facebook *friends* about her crummy husband.

“What’s all the furor about?” she asks.

*Furor.*  That’s good.

The brothers then try to out-shout each other’s accusations.  The old lady attempts to referee the occult fight, but she quickly loses patience, screaming:

“BE QUIEEEEEEEEEEET!

The windows rattle.  The remote control, which was hanging over the edge of the old fat TV, falls to the wood floor, causing the battery cover to pop off, and sending a AAA rolling under the sofa.  Anybody who tries to retrieve it will return with an arm sleeved in dust bunnies.

“Both of you, go to your rooms!” the old lady barks.

“Why do I always have to go to my room when I’m not the crybaby?” asks the oldest.

“No back talk.  Get in your rooms.  NOW!”

It happens every day.  Once, twice, three times.  Some needless loud argument over junk.

As the kids head up the stairs, the old lady scowls at me.

“You have to provide structure for their play,” she spits.

It’s my fault.

Even if I come home to a fight that is already raging, which happens often, it will still be my fault--because the kids are not used to having *structure* when I’m around, so therefore, when the old lady is the only one around and tries to provide *structure,* they cannot accept it.  The old lady just can’t win--I’m too hard to overcome.

But this sound and fury signifies only the symptoms of chronic *everyday life,* the natural friction of sharing a dump.  Unseen is the real misery which poisons our souls.  Twenty-one years of eating shit, of each other’s selfishness and mercilessness--that’s what the old lady and I share.  Ten years of increasing awareness of a crippled marriage and a dysfunctional household, and eight years of having to accommodate a brother--that’s the burden of the oldest child.  Eight years of increasing awareness of a crippled marriage and a dysfunctional household, and eight years of dealing with his brother’s oppression--that’s the burden of the youngest. 

Every now and then, the truth of the children’s hearts will show itself.  They reach a breaking point, and have to vent their resentments.  Their parents are tyrants, and dumb ones at that.  They raise themselves, and our *guidance* is a millstone around their necks.

But the old lady and I have to keep it all stored away. One wrong word about competence, judgment, productivity, intention, money, sex or whatever--and it will all be over.  The truth would set us free. . .of each other. 

We must silently stew, for the children--but even that is a lie.  It’s not for the children.  It’s for our own comfort.  It is fatigue that keeps us together.  To end is too much of a bother. . .

Oh, well, the laundry is done.  Mr. Stadium has great dryers.  The clothes are burning hot, and wrinkle free.  I fold them and place them in the plastic trash bags.  As I’m heading out the automatic doors, I turn back and look to make sure none of the old lady’s panties have been left behind.  The old lady would believe I had left them on purpose, an act of cruelty meant to humiliate her.  How a pair of panties anonymous to anyone who might find them would humiliate her cannot rationally be established--yet I would still be accused, I am certain. 

As I scan the laundromat looking for a pair of the old lady’s battered panties, I notice the door to women’s restroom opening.  Out steps a fat young woman with long black hair partially covering her blotchy fat face.  I had not previously seen her in Mr. Stadium.  She stands in the doorway and stares at me. . .

23 August 2011: Yes, that is where I first saw the fat girl.  At the Mr. Stadium.  It came to me just now.  Just now as the old lady tosses a pair of pink panties onto the laundry pile.  When those panties landed on top of the heap of dirty clothes, I remembered checking to make sure I hadn’t left just such a pair of panties at my one and only trip to Mr. Stadium, and then I remembered the fat girl stepping out of the women’s shitter. . .that was the first time I saw her.

Or was that just the first time I remember seeing her?

Sixty

Fuck Lady Gaga and Ke$ha and all these other Modern Pop Whores. . .they're boring Madonna retreads. . .and Madonna was tedious, to begin with.  Now Chrissie Hynde was one hot piece of ass, back in the day.   Naturally cool and sexy, no need for any cheap theatrics.  Today Chrissie turns 60.  Look at her in that video above. . .from about 8 or 9 months ago.  The face is pretty worn out. . .but I'd still eat her pussy, no problem.  She's real flesh and blood, blessed with a natural creative energy. . .whereas this Lady Gaga is lifeless. . .she's a fucking Transformer, folding into ten different pop robots. . .you might as well try to eat Chromia's pussy.

Here's a picture of Hynde when she was in high school. . .looks like a Manson girl.  How hot is that?

 

Sixty years old?!?!  Back On The Chain Gang was released thirty years ago?!?!   Chrissie is an old lady?!?!  And she's not nearly old enough to be my mother.  The grave is not far off. . .