(Minus) Six

It is about five after six; and in another six hours this year, 2011, will have ended for me. It will never come again. This is the commonplace time for looking back, over the year, and seeing what was in it that was notable, good, or (at least) memorable.

Where was I? Mostly in the same place; I can’t remember a significant trip. I have the same job as I had twelve months ago, and I’m no happier at it than I was, and not noticeably unhappier, either. A few people I knew went out of my life; Rose died, Joanna moved, Liz moved on. I don’t meet them on the deck any more, but the voyage has gone on much the same.

The best movie I saw: “One Wonderful Sunday”. The best novel I read: “The Scarlet Gang of Asukasa”. The best work of non-fiction: “The Enigma of Capital”. I didn’t watch any television, though I watched videos of old shows, some of which I enjoyed. I didn’t read any newspapers, though I read articles online and on my device. I didn’t go to the theatre, or any museums, or any concerts; though I played a mute role in an epiphany drama, and I looked at a lot of pictures, and made some. I didn’t go to the beach, though I did get my feet wet.

I spent time with Kelly, I spent time with Jen, and I like them both as much as I ever did. I spent a lot of time with some people I don’t like, as much as I ever did. I trust my instincts more than I used to, but I still don’t act on impulse. There is a prejudice in our society in favor of “action” from which I abstain.

The year is ticking away, and whatever you put into it, wherever you went, whatever you accomplished, whatever you said, whoever you did; it will all be gone tomorrow. It’s about half-past six; in another five hours and a half, this year will have ended for me.

Tic Tac Tech

There is so much new stuff that there is an industry of millions who do nothing but catalogue the new stuff. Similarly, there is an industry of millions who do nothing but compile end-of-year lists of things. In the spirit of economic progress (and who doesn’t want that?), I hereby present my list of the most notable inventions of 2011.

1. The Hot Shower. Not especially useful, I admit, but harmless enough, but a sensual delight that is almost unsurpassed, and surprisingly unencumbered by guilt. Consider: St. Thomas Aquinas, Genghis Khan, Rikyu, and Maimonides never had one. This one fact leads me to suspect they lived in vain. The two drawbacks to the hot shower are that you can’t stay in it all winter, and that you can’t read in there.

2. The Indoor Commode. Maybe I’m “plumb crazy”, but I’m wild about these plumbing innovations! Powered by water and gravity, it washes the cholera away and down to the poor part of town. Night soil may make for a pretty patch of aspidastras, but it’s unhealthy and stinky, and those frigid trips to the “Chic Sale” were downright disheartening. The Indoor Commode is equally inviting to the binge drinker and the midnight pisser, as it processes poop, pee and puke with equal comfort and savoir-faire. A new age has dawned and a millennium of constipation and spider-bites comes to an end. Pull up a “stool”, and take the Reader’s Digest with you!

3. Spectacles. Who doesn’t like looking at stuff? Nobody I know! So these convenient, fashionable accessories turn that Gaussian jumble of vague, threatening shapes and unnoticed hazards into a delightful panorama of, well, specific things you can (in time) recognize. anyone with a nose will love these; if you have no nose contacts may be a better bet. The main drawback to these: when you take them off you can’t see them any more, so they are easily lost, sat on, or stolen. Maybe not stolen.

4. Pneumatic Tires. Traveling in a wheeled conveyance has long been such a physical torment that spending time with your horrid relations at the end of the trip was a comparative delight. But the Pneumatic Tire makes a ride on our expanding network of substandard roads a joy in its own right. They don’t explode as often as you’d think, and there aren’t many inventions you can say that about! As for your relations, maybe they have an Indoor Commode; if so, pay it an extended visit.

5. Refrigeration. Cold beer, anyone? Frankly, I’m not sure what else this invention is good for, but isn’t that enough?

Laughter

I’m a very funny guy. Well, maybe not right this minute; don’t put me on the spot like that. But generally, I can make ‘em laugh. And I can’t say I like it: after fifty or so years in this like, I am habitually able to make a joke out of most anything. Maybe not a joke: not all instances of humor are jokes, per se. (I can also make a tedious pedantic bit of nitpicking out of anything.) And I see others around me doing the same sort of thing, cutting up like they were characters on “The Ted Knight Show” or “Two Point Five Men”. Of course, I work at a church which is a gold mine for those in search of humorous material: cancer, mental illness, grief, doubt, death, all that good stuff. But, after all, I am starting to think, isn’t there a time and a place for sobriety? Can we please be serious for a moment? Then I think of the parable of the three pieces of rope. “I’m a frayed knot.”

O

Pretty runs cold after long rain dry moment sleep moment
After pretty rain cold moment under grand night stops day
Day night cold dry long moment love after love pretty
Stops runs dry day pretty night grand river sees moment
Love after love sees day after day runs long love
Long night long day long moment after love runs cold
Pretty day sees long night long day sees cold river
Love stops after long dry night moment grand under river
Winter runs under river grand long love runs stops pretty
Day night winter love river rain sees runs stops love.

Z

He came to save us. We didn’t recognize him. For the sake of his plan, he pretended to be something other than he was. He frightened the authorities, and they tried with increasing desperation to eliminate him. He won in the end.

That’s the summary of the career of Don Diego, alias the Fox, and with a few variations it’ll do for the careers of other saviors, too. In these stories the people is something of an undifferentated mass (on occasion, a passively rotting one), unable to make any significant effort on its own behalf. I imagine that, to run for president, you have to see yourself as a kind of Zorro. Likewise if you run for Anonymous. Or king. Or Christ.

I have nowhere else to go with this. But I’m thinking about it.

I

I am not an expert. I like my new shoes. I went out and bought Christmas cards today; a lot more than I intend to send. I saw Bill in the parking lot. I think I am about through with “social” media. I’ll finish “Treasure Island” in a day or two, and Jen never did bring me those books. I could call her; that’s no hardship. I saw Elvis Costello in concert many years ago; the Replacements opened the show. I had a nice nap this afternoon. I wonder whether anyone would even think of running a campaign based on the slogan “Unbought and Unbossed!” these days. I think maybe that should be everyone’s slogan. I’m defrosting the flounder. I don’t hate my job, but the people that work there… I’m not sure why Netflix is sending me three discs at a time now; suddenly they’ll stop and I’ll be disappointed. I remember that “Suddenly” is a pretty good picture, but I have no desire toever see it again. I could watch “The Apartment” every night. I suppose we all have days like that. I’m pretty sure that Steve Jobs’s genius was in making people happily confused about the distinction between toys and tools. I don’t give a shit about the “war on Christmas”. I’m probably late to the party on that, though. I do remember that the coolest people were always late to the party; if they showed up at all. I’m tired of the gratitude mafia. I look at the holidays through Veblen eyes. I had forgotten how cold your feet get in canvas shoes in the wintertime. I think I’ll stop now.

Status Seeking

Five years ago it was all over, but that’s not the kind of thing anyone notices at the time. I was miserable with a bad case of bronchitis, and it was dark and dreary and I was afraid to lie down and rest because I thought I would suffocate in my sleep. I got up every time, barely able to breathe, and I’d cough till I puked and go about my business.

I was looking for her that December, because she was clever and amusing, especially in Decembers past, but when she turned up, I was disappointed because she seemed to have lost her spark and energy, to have exhausted her creativity. In truth, she was just exhausted; the word came out, later, that she’d been sick, also with bronchitis. No energy for that spark; sick and tired effacing clever and amusing. She didn’t update. She missed her deadlines. She disappointed us. Me.

She died and I lived. I never met her, never spoke to her, barely crossed paths with her. I miss her.

Dateline: Somerset County
X’s Personal Eco-System Status
Date: 12/14/2011
Stress Level: Yellow with bursts into the Red
1-10: 7
Desire: Under control
Fuel: Whatever’s around…
Listening: Ramones
Clarity: More than most
Hair: N/A
Elsewhere: Staying away from there.
Text: Treasure Island
Needing: Fuel and clarity.
Beverage: Chocolate Stout.

all done!

Rain

The future will be small and mean. With that uninviting prospect in view, I am sailing, or drifting, or tumbling, to it. Sorry, but I have to add: so are you.

It has been a year of rain. When it was the season for snow, it rained. The thaws came, and the rains came. April showers brought May showers, and storms, and drizzles, and deluges. Some flowers came up. It rained in July, and it rained in August, and it rained in September. There was a hurricane in there somewhere, and it seemed like just another rainy night, until I saw all the water it left behind. A little variety in the menu for October, when it snowed, but then we went back to our diet of rain.

I have had substantial experience with rain, and I can tell you: Rain isn’t that interesting. It’s rarely (in these parts) challenging, or frightening, or exciting. What it is, is discouraging. And when I look forward to the small, mean new world before us, I see us not marching toward it as an army, not dancing toward it like a parade, but shuffling toward it as a rabble, the foremost carrying the flag of this emerging nation. And on the flag is Rain.

The Devil’s Proofreader

I knew it would never do as soon as I’d started. The first chapter slipped away from my control right away, and I’d rather see the second dead in its cradle than for it to turn out like its predecessor. So: no chapters, no calculated fictions, no predetermined structures, not this year. Just the same miscellany as in years past.
But, having eliminated fictions, I still can’t promise truths. Not particular ones, not general ones, not mathematical or metaphysical truths; not plain truths, nor transcendent ones. And, in good faith I can assure you that I I can not guarantee that I will speak in good faith. I am wary, I am weary, I am cold; I will do anything to relieve these conditions. I will say anything to gain your confidence, your sympathy, and your charity. Believe me when I advise you: don’t believe me.
Now I am ready to begin.

Chapter One: The Man in the Story

If it is no sin to be young and strange, it is no virtue to be old and weird. As the difference is marked mainly by the movement of the clock’s hands, and it is certain that those hands will move, yesterday’s charming eccentric will surely turn into tomorrow’s repellent oddball. Between yesterday and tomorrow, as wiser men than I have noted, rests today; and today, in the aforementioned illustration, is the day that our Hero reaches the pinnacle of adorable peculiarity, and begins his descent into the abyss of contemptible ridiculousness.

He arrives in a punt. She will arrive, in the next chapter, on a train, but we don’t know about her yet, so picture him, rowing furiously, into the estuary of a well-known river that dissevers a famous city. One famous eccentric rowed his way into oblivion; can you name him? But our Hero, called Man, rows toward infamy. Or obscurity. Or a little bit of both.

Man wore a hat, and glasses, and suspenders. He looked ridiculous because otherwise he was nude. For the sake of propriety he put on his shoes when he arrived at the pier. I should also mention that he wore a moustache; but as he wore it at the back of his head it was seldom remarked upon.

Striding boldly into town, he was arrested and beaten mercilessly. After six days in a coma, with a prodigious debt piling up rapidly, he died, wearing a tube pushed jauntily up his left nostril. No one was more inconvenienced by this unfortunate development than the narrator of this story, who was left somewhat short of a Hero, with a Heroine threatening to descend from a train in the next chapter.