Good, now rise from the narrows and body steadily down the hallways past your sons’ bedroom doors as they sleep heavily in the middle of the night and temperatures drop below 20 and school already early dismissal because of snow hit two in the afternoon. Which of course makes parents scramble, this one included, alter plans, rise earlier work earlier out earlier, to see always around the annoying lake. Read The Order of Things Now! Report back to me. Are you really going to read Tropic of Capricorn? What about Heterogeneities? The Art of War? Finnegan’s Wake? Darkness at Noon? The Russian Revolution? Yes! Of course, a second time all, including Madam Bovary, there she is now, next to Satanic Verses and some construction paper Rhode Island Red my son made in second grade, there’s Sontag’s In America and Cummings why don’t you just stand and reach for the poems at least. Wow, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance still around some of these from high school from Gauangelloch’s rolladen and as a junior read The Goebbel’s Diaries, as a thing to publish and for a boy to read, learn about propaganda, about the word, do you remember any of that? And of course, like as every other book or play read in high school, when revisited we see increased depth and a universal meaning that reveal hidden secrets. The Political Thought of Hannah Arendt. I really am impressed with your collection, Dr. Dopeness, he who doesn’t have much else to say out there in this society, Babel too loud and fast, a Vermont farm seems more about right. Step off Manhattan. Transcribe entire books, we see this, remember the American Trailer Story, that couch next to the window but you faced the other way in that house so that your right arm pressed against the couch cushions and your left fell occasionally if you didn’t anchor it properly. All the couches in your life. Well, let’s see . . .
There was the brown sofa in our living room growing up, which my parents still have. The black leather couch in the basement (darts, table tennis, boxing bag, mattresses for wrestling and taking penalty kicks); and the brown leather davenport also in the living room where warm on winter night overlooking Hauptstrasse, all of which my parents shipped across the Atlantic. Exploring the reasons why would require a deep dive. That blue velvet couch pulled off the street - what a score! But mold attacked it and almost killed everybody before I got hit by a drunk driver - hit and run - and the squirrel fell down the chimney, scratched mightily for two days, and then died. Recall the gag stench that pinned you to a wall. The couches in our lives. What sort of things did you do on the couch, besides sit, sleep or watch TV? Exactly.
Peed behind a Comfort Inn dumpster out back. And, as often, individuals set up a small Place for themselves, a picnic table and a chair under a pine near the parking lot dumpster, neighboring where they’re clearing several acres, 95 visible beyond it. Sat on the table and turned my face to the sun. Cold air warm sun. Soccer practice graded paper drafts headphones until time to have a meaningful chat with Sean. Tomorrow it’s going to snow and Manchester United plays PSG in the Champions League. One really should write to search, also. To not know, to find, stumble upon, take note of living inspiration. Remember the mystic and the muse. Remember Lax, but also Rabindranath Tagore. Remember word and placement, punctuation and air, space, delight; remember knowing the Thing behind the expression. Which returns us to the Idea, inside mind, we see these elements of daily existence, we see and know, we sing, and so we understand the first line, and unlike many, unlike most, we write down the first line. See what happens. Get on with it. What is this all about then. See the flowing Exxon Mobil, how are they able to do this work daily without thinking about the devil? They are able to do their work, have affairs, send kids to college, experience joy and not worry about the devil. Or any other mind-created ‘noid that sets our potential ablaze and encourages us to live in a small little circle, content to be nobody.
And praying anyway, hoping that someone will recognize us.
