going to the bathroom with loved ones

I will not lose my train of thought. We have been at it since day one. Day One was nearly fifty two years ago but nothing has changed except the size and strength of the bowel movements. We would wash up after some good sex and the sweat would stick and shine on our bodies After a shower where there had been cum or shit or shampoo or shower water the sweat would soon return there was no a/c then. The towels were all too damp then, now they bruise and scrape but here we are watching each other pee again. You always used to go in the shower and told me not to tell your roommate. Now you are very sick. I love you. You are dying but we’re always doing a little bit of that—no need to raise a fuss. Remember the first time we did it during your period. The bright blood on my underroos was scary or endearing or both. We soaked everything in blood and then warm water, no stains set in. This is my new favorite coffee shop. I couldn’t ask for a better cup of joe. You always could but didn’t. This was not the problem that it once seemed. I don’t care about it. I don’t like thinking about youth. This is nostalgia. This should be appreciated but guarded against. I don’t want to be interrupted yet. Are there any metaphors? Quoting a song: is there anybody out there? When will you come back to the way everything used to be. If there was ever any question I was confused by the question. My sister says I’m stupid all at once. I don’t want to see anyone that I know. My grandfather apparently wants me to write his eulogy. I am flattered and scared at the same time. When my grandfather dies I believe that I will receive all of his memories. My grandfather survived the Korean War on the ground. War is a series of geographical phenomena. Everything is illumined. Back off. When I grow up I want to possess all the memories of all the generations of my entire family back and back and back to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. My psychologist said this is only natural for a boy of my sensibilities. His consoling explanation, I know, will not even begin to suffice. The words I am using to describe this situation are increasinginglyly not doing any good. Nowadays my words are going stale quicker. For example: my words are not bread of any kind. The kid had a compunction to straighten picture frames in public places. Society became fed up with him a lot faster than his mother ever anticipated. That was the problem with his mother, you see, she was the worst ever anticipator. Worse than that Napoleon Bonaparte fellow. Or perhaps worse than a false prophet of ancient eastern empires and deserts. This may never be matched. Try and match it. Try TO match it. These are also all thoughts, therefore, moving much too fast.

Aside

Some people call a “French Press” a “Bodum.” Meanwhile, some people call “Facial Tissue” “Kleenex.” The word “Bodum” sounds like a drum machine. It is the percussive version of the instrument called “Theramin,” whose inventor was a member of the KGB. These are the initials of the famous actor Kevin Gregory Bacon (Father: Sir Francis, Mother: Streakolean). Rose of Sharon is the prettiest name for a young girl that I have ever heard. I am surprised it isn’t more common. Sometimes I am mistaken for a girl in the cafeteria line; but no one ever mistakes my first name for Rose of Sharon.

The Misleading Nature of the Phrase: Herbal Refreshment

The Author: I have a feeling of guilt.
Answer Man: How come?
The Author: Forget about that for now. Listen to this. . . (whistles “Dixie”)
Answer Man: Jeepers!
The Author [still attempting the whistle]. . .
Answer Man: Are you in fact [whistle stops] guilty?
The Author: Your timing is slightly off [pause for effect], but I still respect you as I respect all of my characters.
Answer Man: I no more belong to you than your imagined [he utters a heavy sigh] guilt.
The Author: Are you sad now? I am trying to understand YOUR emotions.
Answer Man: Not quite. But either way there are foods to experiment with, I am sure of it. For example. Guilt is not a pizza so much as guilt is a shallow dish of pimento cheese spread.
The Author: Somehow I KNEW that you would say those words then. But I so dislike pimento cheese. Perhaps—[he is interrupted, as we often are in conversations]
Answer Man: OK OK, bear with me here. The guilt is not the cheese spread, nor is it the pimentos, nor is it the salty taste it gives you at the back of your throat, nor is it the shallow dish in which it waits for crackers or bunny bread with the crust cut off. The guilt is the combination of these elements. Your experience of guilt can never be detached from the circumstances of the picnic.
The Author: What picnic? [incredulously, confused severely, but with a strong will to learn from his mistakes].
Answer Man: The picnic during which you propose marriage to your beloved over pimento cheese sandwich quarters. She rejects you of course [rudely interrupted, he does not take it well. He never does. This is not OK].
Voice of the Beloved: [booming] I WHAT??? {to be continued…)

Hiatus

People have been asking. I, however, have not been answering properly. The solution: more text. The solution (possibility 1, sub-A): a brain tumor the size of a croquet ball painted blue and red stripes. [This is an inconvenience at best]. The solution (possibility 1, sub-B): Too much caffeine. This is the simplest, and therefore likeliest solution in this possibility sub-category. Do not disregard it too lightly. The solution (possibility 2): dearth of possibility [Nota Bene: this has only been studied at the extremely momentous, see Hawking et al. DE TEMPUM-SPATIUM.] The solution (possibility 3, sub-A): masturbation. I am unwilling to completely disregard this possible solution, although it is against my best fortune. On a scale from one to ten I would rank this possible solution. [The above sentence acts the same way as a major scale left unresolved at the seventh step.] The solution (possibility 3, sub-B): kites. This is chronically evident. (Hawking et al.) The solution (possibility 3, sub-C (possibly possibility 4)): a complex series of possibilities stretched across a loom where no one’s grandmother sits and weaves knickknacks out of wool. Also, ‘loom’ appears to rhyme with ‘room,’ although rhyme rarely ever appears in the non-metaphorical sense.

easy does it

i'm not sure what it means, but this month is July. This feels like it is deserving of comment. Then again, there have already been many months. The group of consecutive days which we call July was named after an Roman Emperor. He was human but his ancestor (according to popular accounts, e.g. the Aeneid) was half-god. That makes him more God than me. Or that is what I have been led to believe. Julius Ceasar, as they called him, was at least more month-worthy. Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. And the day after that is my nation's birthday. Isn't that great? I will burst fireworks upon it. I will play a patriotic soundtrack. There will be Mel Gibsons on the occasion. Mel Gibsons and veggie burgers with cheese. These are traditions. Every day I must feed the dog that is not my dog. Every day I must feed the cats that are not my cats. The birds are not my responsibility. The tomato plants ARE my responsibility. This is an attempt to exert some control on my environment, an environment which is largely out of my control, out of all of our controls. Nevertheless this is an attempt. Wade through my attempts with me. Is this interesting to you? Are you learning something? Or are you nodding your head politely? Perhaps you do not have a head to nod. This was once the case with Al Gore. Upon meeting Nick Drake one day in his college years Al Gore exclaimed, "Polar Bears!" At which Nick Drake seemed to telepathically project, "I am Nick Drake. You are Al Gore. But we are only a tiny dot in space." This was unexpected, and Al Gore was momentarily uncomfortable. Then the next slide appeared (slightly late). Everything became connected. The personal became political became a tiny dot in space. The Simpsons and the Sun and a polar bear and all gold bricks as Thomas Rain Crowe says were only a tiny dot in space. You can only see the dot if you are a telescope, or on or in a telescope attatched to a complex mechanical space probe deep in space. You must be deep in space in order to understand the concept of a single pixel of everything. Already this may be confusing you, dear reader. Perhaps you blame it on my condescending tone. Perhaps you blame it on one political party or another. Perhaps, after all, it has been the homosexual agenda, distracting you, leading you astray. And yet the word 'astray' is only an 'h' away from from 'ashtray.' And both sound rather a lot like the Spanish word 'estrella' which (roughly translated) means star. This is perhaps only coincidence. However, I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to draw certain conclusions. For instance, I could conclude that 'estrella' is synonymous with 'star,' or that 'star' is a word. This is not very satisfying. Soon I must feed the dog from can and bag food for dogs. When we say that we are "feeding" a pet. What we usually mean is that we are making food available and easily accessible for that pet. Usually animals can feed themselves. The obvious exception is of course, the very young animals. They do not count, in the same way that prose so often does not count. I am wondering at the etymology of the word "freelance." Perhaps it comes from a distant time when artists carried weapons for their protection and for the protection of their honor. Writers seemed to have possessed honor from time to time throughout history. Take Lascaux as one example of a cave in which artists defended their honor. Lascaux was not a mistake (although it was a dirty cave). The handprints were real and they were made on purpose, or at least FOR a purpose. Therefore art history teachers will not scoff, though they be profoundly confused, and possibly stoned. We each have a ruler. This could be what Bob Dylan says to Nick Drake, or another musician-celebrity: "You gotta serve somebody." Nick Drake has a song which was only recently discovered. It was scratched on papyrus sheets rolled up in a clay jar in a cave in early France. Early just means deeper underground here. (You see how early can be a place?) The truth was all rolled up there in that cave. There were believers of several numbers and classes. We belonged to the upper-middle class, though we wished otherwise, and were told yet anotherwise. It was all a very confusing religion. But we made it. And I think we deserve a pat on the back.