Saw a man in a comedy club a regular act told stories how porn was religion. Worshipped professional fuck people. I love these pro fuckers. They’re PRO FUCKERS! They fuck for us. We should be thankful. We should pay them more, provide health insurance, encourage unions. Some of the shit they do is circus act, fuck-Olympics, seen the phrase anal gymnastics and it’s true. Your ass can’t do that. Even as BDSM bravado your ass is not doing some of that. So we watch it! We watch it and stroke. Shit raw, shit hot. That shit nice. And so, rather than run and hide, rather than runaway man club, knowing the knowledge thing, how Mormons and Christians born, knowing born them all, he decided to celebrate the wank, the fap, the stroke. Fap Strokeman! Come here, man! Wanky Strokesman. Autocorrect be prudish. My autocorrect is a fucking pietist. Come here, little wanky, you can do it. Wankman joins Eric Suburbia Samurai, Norman, Dr. Overman, and Oakman on the adventure.
Knew a comedian whose wife didn’t think he was funny. How you think they worked that one? Separate spheres. She didn’t just think he was unfunny, thought he was an idiot. Or, allowed his uncultured, uncouth idiot self come out. Now, the audience uproarious nights she’s attended, seen a few acts, screaming laughter these motherfuckers, telling stories, too, the Storyteller, and she’s like, what an asshole. What a dick wad. What frat boy humor. Nora didn’t like James either. Especially not his young nymph wank scene on the seacoast. Nor Molly’s whitewater interior monologue.
Pooh Mental Illness and Sounds Damn Familiar
Drove to Boston, to BU the back way, Jamaica Plain, Arnold Arboretum, along the Greenway, wouldn’t know where to begin if you asked me to tell you about my relationship with the Arnold Arboretum. Sit down and read the Boston Notebooks. Before and after hitchhiked to New Orleans, Texas, the hobo camp on the Yuba River, Los Angeles, San Francisco. Read them no you read them no you read them. The back way to BU to see my niece Hannah Lily of Sunflower Valley, off Richardson Bay, where Oakman had the epiphany of epiphanies, changed his life really, brought him clarity and understanding, mind body and spirit, Hannah in Boston with her high school friend, Sofie, attending a two-week summer on campus program, similar to Summer @ Brown. High school kids trying out the dorms and college classes. Are you ready, kids? Do you want to get in to Brown? Do you want to get in to BU? We visited their room on the sixth floor. Walked down Commonwealth Avenue past Fenway, to Newbury Street.
Found a sidewalk restaurant, ordered early dinner at five. Chatted, ate, dropped an IPA, relaxed, people watched, that guy with the hair, that lady with the dog, Haven found a dollar bill on the sidewalk, Lincoln saw a McLaren and dubsed it (called it as his; it is now his; he owns it, can drive it wherever he wants, dispense with it whenever or if he wants, just how it is, special powers); hot today in the low 90s, breeze-in-shade we crossed the large avenue and walked on the shaded side of the
street till we arrived at the BU Bookstore we should buy a shirt a hat a sticker a mug; and then deposited them at the dorm. Kisses, goodbyes, safe flights, back to San Francisco. My goodness. Growing up. I held her in my arms and rocked her. Saved her from falling off the couch while she drank milk from a bottle. I pushed her into Sean Penn’s shins in downtown Mill Valley.
My niece! Boys! College! Parties! No way! Took a journalism class in Abnormal Psychology. Quickly, seated at a dorm room desk, I learned that there’s no such thing as “mental illness,” that it’s not really a thing and this is what we mean by the phrase; that Winnie the Pooh had ADHD and other disorders, that the entire series is about dysfunctional, melancholic, psychiatric characters and their cartoon bodies but very serious mental landscape; and that schizophrenia exists as some identifiable and definable thing that sounds very close to Oakman’s every day, and Lucia Joyce had schizophrenia, and Joyce was as wack as they come but managed to autistic-ally/Asperger’s-ially make it through space and time, and a cosmopolitan knockabout flat-living hotel-living existence, because of his writing, or in spite of. The circle. In quick reading I learned these things about Abnormal Psychology. From Hannah’s reader, as she told stories about the PhD students teaching the course, and the arguments some students had in Journalism, in that building right there, BU’s Department of Communications.
The Runaway Man Shack
Overman No Saying. The bad doctor Over difficult. Pouring rain, blue tarp used for the roof not working up to standards. The standards of the neighborhood, of suburbia generally, of family values, falling short of Sensei’s own skills, condemned by banks large and small, social media generals and foot soldiers, etiquette managers, content team leaders, open floor plan or closed offices, pay disparities, neighborhood watch associations, teachers of the good public schools, diversity officers, and deans, Don DcNought, the Catholic Church of Massachusetts and Rhode Island and Rome; drone operators, Google glass wearers, advertisers, data profiteers and pirates; all of them and more watching his ghetto version. It’s all good, he said. It’s all good. Leak’s not that bad. Could be worse. I have a plan out of this. I have a master plan, specific steps.
Water transcended drip to cascade. That far corner, past the table’s chair and pillow-on-cot. Far left corner if you’re facing the back wall, the way Sensei faces when he stands in the doorway to deliver awesome insights and abbreviated sayings, distilled from deep and purposeful meditation, that left corner, cascade. Replaced the bucket with a large plastic bin; some place clothes in them for basement storage. He dumped out her sweaters in the basement, subterfuge, and took the bin. It’s his bin. Its Hisbin. Dag! I’ll just dump the bin when it’s full. I’ll place the bin on blocks of wood, run a drainage hose from the shed to the garden. I’ll collect water. Rain catcher, like Mendocino cisterns. Rain. I love the rain, he says, I will never not. You can’t keep me from rain. He placed his hand under the cascade, watched water drain over his fingers, his palm. He cupped his hand, allowed some collection, and splashed his face. Idea arrived.
He stood from his cot, exited the shack. Walked in rain under swaying trees. Turned his face to the clouds. Walked over to neighbor’s fence and peed. Water on head. Observe the micro in hell, he said. In pleasant reality, in lovely Purgatory, in ancient dream heaven, he noticed wet leaves in neighbor’s garage light, wet sparkling moisture all over his world, leaves, branches, bark, grass, fence post, vines, sky, rock. He peed and looked through neighbor’s windows. Lights, yes, no movement. Curious, wondering. I am free but not free, he exclaimed to water forces.
He sighed wet. Wish the difficult wasn’t so difficult, he thought. He felt it too, because he desired to step beyond, to get into it already, to repair, heal, move on. I swear I would be happy without all these other voices in my life. Her voice, the kids’, the community’s, the newspaper’s, the school’s, the security apparatus, the institutions of control and behavioral analysis. I’m all about analytics. I’m all about contract work, love this shit. He would be happy if they’d let me. It’s time. Been six months. I’m allowed to move on; don’t understand the delay. I don’t need to dwell, to wallow, and nor does she. Nor do they. Dwelling in the hell muck. Swimming in purgatorial brine. Please! Let me be, let me heal this way, flying forward away from all of you. Oh, man! I just want to burrow underground, run away underneath the earth, sprint underground away from you all, all those eyes, those thoughts, fingers pointing. Disappear underground and none of you can find me. You’ll never know where I went. Some, a very few, will wonder what happened to me; only two will try to find me. But I’ll be gone. Disappeared from this world, the world above. Race! Fly! Sprint! Away from the noise, the hurt, screeching whining dragging me away from my comfort real, the place I know represents my forward momentum, my walk.
Overman stood and murmured,
Need to do some pushups. No saying beforehand, though..
Saying No saying is saying something. Still a prayer. No saying is a saying. Ok, ok, no saying is a saying. Then what? Well, do your actual prayers, the ones that matter to you, mantras, sayings, murmurings, mumblings, prayer beads, touch them, saying the thing that holds focus and clarity. Hit those exercises, now, difficulties. No saying, though. Saying no saying is saying so say the saying thing you want to say. Bringing meaning to your story, to your heart. Let us have our narratives, the ones we create for ourselves. Let us see our beauty and our cosmology.
The Cling Smear Mouth Closed
Suburbia Sensei taught Humbleplot: “When you scrub toilets keep your mouth closed.” Bent over with the brush in order to swirl smear stain or determined chunk cling, inevitably there will be a splash, and you don’t want errant drops flying to your lips, teeth or tongue. Humbleplot stared down at the browning water, lips tightly sealed, flushed, added cleanser, swirled again to clear the brush, allowed the soapy liquid to sit for a moment, properly scented with lavender, and then flushed again. The suburban household cannot always afford professional house cleaners and invariably there’s a porcelain-cling emergency. Should probably wear protective goggles too. An apron or naked followed by a shower.
Tend the garden and there will be fruit
“Suburbia Samurai teaches the lowly newcomer, Humbleplot, and he, small but wise, having mastered other skills in many places, decided to listen, to see if he could do it well.”
Suburbia Samurai walked across the street and knocked. Humbleplot answered. They looked at one another for a moment, neighbors in America. Fist bumped. Then the wise one said, “Days are gardens, hours our harvests. Share the fruit. Tend your gardens of habits, tasks, goals, jobs, family. Elements of our story. Farm the one life, the creation of our effort and our context. For God to know, and others to witness. Where the moment reflects the meaning of all things.”
Suburbia Sensei, master of the lawnmower and snowblower, turned and started to walk away. He paused, and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. Can’t wait to see where you stand on the school committee.”
Outside the Midnight Ramble
Outside I love the midnight ramble. Crossed Mt. Richardson, a wet summit, cold front coming in following a heavy but brief wind and rain. Trees tossed, branch clusters at the tree tops wave and flutter like jellyfish, opening in and out, in and out, waving flutter, as they float through water universe. Visited the Montana ranch fence, third rock, and promised the prayer circle stone. Winds tossing trees. I know this could kill me. This fact must be properly and critically assessed. Large trees fall on houses around here, take out garages, impale and kill. Happens quote unquote all the time. Of course, of course, you swim at Cape Cod despite great whites. I mean . . .
And so what? Standing on the prayer stone within the circle. Instantaneously, snap of the fingers fast, an explosion of wind and water from the skies. But I refuse to run. Most of the time. Ran from the tornado in South Dakota three a.m. But it took me a while to figure it out. Four-thirty a.m. Of course we all could have been killed or just one of us and worse not me and I’d have to live with it and I would die. Of course on the prayer stone I knew this could kill me.
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The Good Husband
The Good Husband
Sensei stepped over to the driveway, walked past the UPS box, underneath the basketball hoop, sodden all, puddles there and there, pointed to leaves wet and brown on the lawn and driveway, a carpet building. He pointed to the capon; most leaves still hanging. First cold night tonight. Overman nods, and nods, all right all that nodding becomes bobbing after a point. Rain calm, the internet exaggerates all, and suggests more anger and evil than there really is. We have forgotten the hour, have lost the day. We walk numb across our urban deserts, our suburbs split, good counsel member bad counsel member and dueling signs. Stay away pseudo-species! And yet, Emerson counsels don’t go there. Riff up his chapter “Prudence,” just three of them that is the point. Remember what God told you, remember what you commanded through your choices leading to actions leading to the play set up before you. Follow your own prompting - this the divine idea and the ox. There is no other relationship for us.
The man writes a list of phrases defining his chosen Word. Word is Idea. What’s the big idea, man? What’s the word. Write down a list. Here Emerson opens with several definitions; he ends the essay with the art of living as his definition. Prudence is the virtue of the sense. It is the science of appearances. It is the outmost action of the inward life. It is God taking thought for oxen. Here the lecturer, comedian, initiates his essay. “These fine lyric words” - rap, his essays are lectures, he lectured his essays, he stood and delivered. Comedy, showing how distant he is, slovenly and idle he, from prudence, “and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must have some other garden.” Basically Robin Williams; Kevin Hart we’re hearing. His audience laughed.
But Emerson ends the essay, after his exploration rap of living in the world, as Suburbia Sensei has as he’s raised children in America, he ends the essay demonstrating prudence as “the art of securing a present well-being.” Now you know, Republican, Democrat and LGTBQ that this is true. We live in a noisy land. Babel real and not a soul pays mind.
Prudence is a devotion to matter. There remains tension with the poet and the opium eater. Classes of men in this world (today we mean “people,” all people alive in this world no matter identity or classification), a “third class lives above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified,” here he lived in the 19th century, and rapped semiotics for all assembled.
His writing is also self-help literature. He took the message on the road, in a tight T-shirt, better to show that he works out, and microphone along his cheek. Ted talk master, late night infomercial. Tony Robbins. Supreme Trump diss. Should send this out: “Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society.” Ouch Trump, ouch his family, hurt our institutions, ouch GOP, ouch America, good luck with the era of argue and epoch of hatin’ -
- Is there a “u” in that margin, or along the running head? Up there near the page number? No. Then move on to the next page. Ooh-ooh-ooh, there’s one, Master! Then write it up, according to the position perspective insight vibe master showman the thing that is what the tingle bury me a jingle core chemicals showing divine the stand, the notice, the seeing. There’s the place for the man turned 50, along these lines, the zone line, prudence for daily living, while knowing the hour and the day, and your neighbor, your friend, you family, your wife. The good husband husbands wisely, according to the circumstance in which he swims, the choices shown, contexts grown, family and work, money and place, this hill will protect you, she said, and Raj visited the prayer circle. Sensei nodded at the wet leaves, and pointed to those remaining.
Humbleplot Tumbleword
Humbleplot Tumbleword has a serious problem - he reads critical theory, grows herbs, and writes for three hours a day on a typewriter and then transcribes the work into his organic system. And yet, we love him because he maintains a nearly divine humility, remaining small, avoiding the limelight, living according to various collected human widsom, from the Koran, Bible, Confucius, Zen Koans, Chinese Poetry, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s legal briefs since the 1970s. Revolt against the paradigm! (Fist in the air.) Oh, one other thing, this is key, know this then you’ll all go, “ohhh, so that’s it” - he studied with Suburbia Sensei. These are Humbleplot’s learnings on his way to suburbia samurai. Let us all know the system that contextualizes us. Know the masters of the apparatus! (Fist in the air.)