by KUBOA
Dylan asking, ‘How does it feel to be on your own like a complete unknown?’ and I kept thinking about that and I was one gone gommie. I was feckless. I couldn’t see myself in the mirror.
There was still hope but, damn, it was spinning too fast. It seemed like every fucking day something was happening that you had to respond to, you know? To not respond was to be dead, to be irrelevant. ‘Won’t you please come to Chicago just to sing?’ you know? I thought, yeah, I could, I could. But, in the end, I didn’t, I didn’t do a fucking thing. I couldn’t. I Salingered myself, dad, I put myself away for my own good. And music, how did music get so tangled in with politics? I don’t know—but suddenly it was like, hey, we matter, we’re a voice. And, I don’t know—were we geared up for that? In Memphis? I don’t think so.
Then you know the worst thing happened.
CM: What was that?
BG: Well, they shot Martin, man, in Memphis.
CM: That was before Woodstock.
BG: I know, I know. I’m not making a timeline here, man, I’m riffing on what went wrong, trying to tell you what it felt like. There we were on the world stage suddenly. And Memphis became the face of deadly racism. It was all too much. It was blowing my mind, I admit it. I was feeling wrung out. I had written ‘Blues for Sandra Leathers,’ ‘Open Channel D,’ ‘Young Avenue Blues,’ ‘Good Ole Gogy Goodfriend,’ ‘The Sins of Monk Cassava,’ ‘Chin-Chin in Eden,’ ‘They Bribe the Lazy Quadling,’ ‘ ‘Take me for Granted, Please,’ ‘Surfing the Big Muddy,’ ‘If it Wasn’t Televised, It didn’t Happen,’ ‘The Rules for Hide and Seek,’ ‘Picnic in Overton Park,’ you know? Stuff like that. And it all seemed so paltry suddenly. So outside of things. I was floundering. I was lost. Only Lor knows this. I went into seclusion, I hid from the world, man. And, really, I think, that was the end of Black Lung. My black period, my darkest days. Lor and I rented a cabin up on the White River and we just hid away. I didn’t write a fucking thing, didn’t even read the newspapers.
I don’t mean to imply that I could have done something, that I had any more power than the Pope or The Beatles or, you know, fucking McNamara. I mean, though, that I wanted to know, I wanted to understand. I wanted the information that Walter Cronkite or Eric Sevareid had, the insider stuff, so that I wasn’t just up there entertaining the fuel for the fire, you know, like the orchestras that played as the Jews were led into the ovens. I started to feel like that, that I was a chimp, a dancing fool. This was like before The Moratorium, right? Before we really all felt the power. The War was just this endless one-note playing over and over and driving us insane—me insane, sorry, driving me insane. And, like, I know that a song is just a song—yet, I have to believe there is something there, an element, a catalytically charged element. I didn’t want religion—who listens to priests, clergymen, even those who take to the streets? Ali has more power. Ali reaches more people. But a song, you know, a good song, well, it does tunnel deep into the consciousness. Did I think I could do anything with the right words, well-placed, well-played? No. No, I knew better. But, I did think—I do think—that we had to stand for something other than pop ditties, you dig? The people who needed help—well, it was all so fucking clear then—AIM and the draft dodgers and the blacks and, Jesus, I mean, if you couldn’t see the problem you really were part of the problem. So, seeing it, what does one do? What could one do? Power, in the end, is just another word, too, but the power is gonna belong to someone, so, in the end, who decides? Who decides Nixon has more power than Mao, or John Lennon has more power than Roy Cohn? You dig? I was wrestling with these things, absurd things, but I couldn’t see clearly. All I saw was blackness, the blackness of dried blood.
I don’t know what Crafty and Skippy thought—I didn’t even leave them a note. I feel bad about it now—and this, finally, I think, was what pissed Crafty off and led him to hire a lawyer for himself, to try and, you know, basically, steal my material. It was like, if you’re not gonna represent yourself well, we’re gonna take away your soul, all your work, all your history. Shit. That shark he hired-what a bastard. But, I was oblivious at the time. God bless Pete. He handled it all. While I was gone. Only he knew I was gone although we were incommunicado, no phone even. I think I called him once from town and said something like, ‘Don’t tell me about any of the shit that’s going down. Don’t tell me there are more kids dead at more universities. Don’t tell me about Nixon, Crafty or his reptilian lawyer. Just send me my guitar. I did after a while I wanted it-get my guitar up there, up in my White River seclusion, but I only wanted it to serenade Lorelei. I played on the porch of our cabin, didn’t sing—couldn’t sing—just strummed and hummed to her. And, you know, we didn’t wear any clothes—this was summer and it was beautiful out on that porch—and we became known as the naked hippie couple—among the other cabins spread out along the river. Not that we talked to anyone, but they were aware of us, apparently. And, of course, there were binoculars trained on Lor, as she walked around in the nude. (laughs) But, man, that was my only comfort, my woman, her body, her sweet, enveloping body. She suckled me like I was a child—she has these breasts, well, sorry—anyway, we did a lot of fucking, you know, the kind you do until you cry yourself to sleep. We fucked in the cold water of the river which ran right below the cabin, standing up, man, cold as hell, I held her up and entered her right there, in front of God and everybody. It was heaven. It was hell. I was empty man, as empty as a skull.
And Lor brought me back. Love. That’s what saved me, moved me on down the road. That lost time in Arkansas, that was the crux, the fulcrum that my life turned on. That was the deciding time, the time I became something different. Something better. I believe that, dad, I was reborn in that cabin. I was reborn at my woman’s breast. Can you dig that? Probably not, right, I mean, it’s private and honored so, you can’t dig, am I right?
CM: I follow you. I know, man. I’ve had my dark days of the soul, too.
BG: Have you, Creole? Have you, man? I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about you.
Talk About Talk
Your novel did well.
If you mean by doing well that it was published.
Yes, but it got some nice reviews.
It did, from friends.
What else could you want?
Nothing, nothing. I’m not ungrateful.
It sure had a lot of sex in it.
***
Are you working on a sequel?
No, not really. Except in the sense that you are now in it.
Meaning.
Meaning is drained of meaning. Though she feels as if she’s in a play she is anyway.
More postmodern tricks.
No tricks. Nothing up my dust jacket.
More autobiographical libidinous reflection and refraction.
I am not Jim.
Right, and I am not the product of your self-referential imagination.
Subject: Email Eros
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene from Memphis?
Hi
Can you tell me if the Lorene Enuf who teaches Sunday School there is the Lorene Enuf from Memphis?
thanks,
James Royce
From:[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene from Memphis?
Jimmy? Is that you? How did you find me?
Lorene
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene from Memphis?
Lorene—
I can’t believe it’s you. It’s been forever. I just did a google and the name came up. I cdn’t believe it. I cn’t believe you’re not married.
Jimmy
From:[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene
from Memphis!
Jimmy—
What makes you think I’m not married—just that I haven’t changed my name?
Lorene
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene from Memphis!
Sorry yes. I assumed, presumed, whatever. So, you’re married.
From:[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lorene from Memphis!
Jimmy—
Let’s switch to my personal email. Ok? Here, it’s [email protected].
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Past is not even Past
Thanks for the personal email. So, you’re married? I guess you would be. You were always so, what?, so outgoing or something. You attracted men like honey.
Jimmy
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Past is not even Past
I am married, Jimmy. To the minister of the church. His name is Doug and he’s the sweetest man in the world. You make me sound like a bit of a tart. Maybe I was. I don’t really remember the old days so well. All that running around Midtown with that crowd. Elea, Jeff, Bucky, Marsha, Jonny—who all? I never hear from anyone. Since we moved here—the mountains are so lovely, my favorite things—I sort of shed my past. Is that bad? To find your email in the box that morning—well, it surprised me. I was taken aback I must say. Something about those days I didn’t want reminding of. Maybe it’s what you’ve already turned up—maybe I was a bit of a tart. My life is so different now, Jimmy. I teach Sunday School. And we have a son, Barney, who is 8 and the light of my life. And Doug is one of the pillars of the community. Oh, that sounds so stuffy, so cliché. But he is. He’s a strong, good man, and he’s recognized here for his good works. It’s what makes him attractive. Can you understand that? Jimmy, what are you like now? You used to be so—so ethereal.
Tell me about you, Jimmy. Are you married? What do you do in Memphis? I bet you’re still selling books. You were always such an intellectual. It was intimidating, I can tell you now. I’ve rambled on long enough now. Talk about you.
Lorene
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Past is not even Past
Lorene—
Cn I be honest? I’m a bit disappointed that you’re married. Oh, not in any realistic sense of being thwarted in some romantic scheme I had concocted, just in the—time has passed and we’ve all left so much behind sense. Do you know? I am not married. I’m sort of divorced. I don’t want to talk about me. Tell me more about Barney.
Jimmy
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Past is not even Past
Dear sweet JimmyJim—
How do you mean sort of divorced? You can’t just leave me with that cryptic message. I shall not talk about me until you clear that up, you hear?
Lor
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: ‘Deep experience is never peaceful.’ (Henry James)
Lor—
You signed it Lor. And you called me sweet. Do you remember you used to call me Sweet, capital S? Jeez, that was long ago.
Jimmy
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: ‘Deep experience is never peaceful.’ (Henry James)
Yes, of course I remember, Sweet. Answer me straight up, bub.
Lor
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: ‘Deep experience is never peaceful.’ (Henry James)
Lor—
Ok. I got married in a fever.(Ha.) Um, I met this woman—Lord help me, in a bar. She was lit from within. She positively glowed white like a firefly. Her name was Kim. It probably still is. She was just coming off a divorce—a man she married right out of high school, some yahoo. He abused her—I don’t think physically—and she stuck with it for years. She finally shed him and—bam!—I was right there that night they were out celebrating her freedom. How cd I know? She took me to her apartment so quickly—we did everything we cd that first night—it was like being let out of school. Nothing seemed to matter—we were outside of time. At dawn we made love one more time and I looked into her pellucid blue eyes and said, Marry me, woman. I said that. Imagine. She said yes. A week later we were married. Almost immediately she started to absent herself from our makeshift home—my crappy apartment with her stuff stuffed in alongside mine—incongruent meshing of disparate lifestyles. Like I say, she was shortly thereafter MIA. Often for 24 hours at a time. When she returned she was vague and unfocused and—I didn’t know her! How cd I tell what was going on inside her? And, dammit, she was so beautiful I tried to not let anything—anything—bother me. I just wanted to be with her. Just like that the overnight absences became 2, 3 days at a time. After we had been married a month—to cut to the chase—she just disappeared. One day I realized she was gone for good. Her stuff was still strewn about my apartment—I still have it all. So, that’s it. She disappeared like a thief in the night. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever really here. She is a ghost now. My friends commiserate. Mason—you remember Mason—oh, how he liked you—Mason says, I was scammed. But I don’t see any sense to it. I think she was a gypsy. She didn’t take me for anything—except a fool—Cuz I don’t have anything. Mason says I need to get out and act like she never happened. This was 6 months ago. I checked into an annulment (I was confused about whether this was till a viable option—it seemed like an ancient rite that perhaps the church didn’t perform openly, like exorcism). Father Harp said he would get me an annulment. This is where I am right now. Sort of divorced. And lonely as an angel in a strange country. And flesh—no scratch that. Write back. Please.
Jimmy
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: ‘Deep experience is never peaceful.’ (Henry James)
JimmyJim—Sweet—
That is some tale. My goodness. How mysterious. I’m not sure how to respond to it. I have to hurry out now—church dinner tonight—so I will write more soon.
Lor
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: China clipper calling Alameda
Argh. It is one of the drawbacks of email correspondence, the waiting, the nonsequitir response. Still, I suppose bitching about not being in touch hourly is an odd development in human communication. What we used to accomplish in weeks, or longer, we now get impatient if it takes a day.
(Is it ok to say ‘bitching’ to a church deacon?)
J
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: China clipper calling Alameda
Sweet—
Sorry about the intermittent emailing. I’m normally not even this good about it. My friends complain that I don’t answer emails. I’m not one of those people who check their boxes hourly. They give me the creeps to be honest. Are you like that? Sorry. You do seem to respond very promptly, which I like, I really do.
Listen, don’t edit yourself. Ha, you can say bitching (I’m not a deacon—but you probably know that and you were just being breezy—we’ve lost that old rhythm—remember how we used to practically finish each other’s thoughts?) Tell me honestly all about you, ok? I will do so in return. It’s so good to talk to you again.
Why were we never an item? Why didn’t we—
I fought the urge to strike that last bit.
Lor
PS: What’s the china clipper thingy?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Why were we never
Oh, Lor. Why were we never? I dnt know. Bad timi
ng is what we have learned to say isnt it? It was bad timing—I was, I dnt know, scattered. I had just been dumped by A. and my heart was split wide. You were such a good friend—I guess I didn’t want to spoil that—except I did—I did want to—
Well, that one night. You remember it. That one night. It almost worked. And maybe by not quite working we became immune to each other.
You were going to tell me about Barney.
Jim
PS: Monkees, ‘Zilch.’