You & Me
Page 8
Yes. That was a mouthful but I think you have it right.
Have you noticed that everything is leaning a little bit today?
Leaning?
Yes, off-plumb. Maybe it is just me.
Are you dizzy?
No, but I swear that pot right there is hanging not vertical, and those decals you pasted up of that grasshopper are not symmetrical anymore, and, you know, isn’t everything just a bit leaning?
I think you are right.
Should we straighten everything?
I think not. I don’t think us capable, one, but I see no reason to undo the charm of things leaning. Things are finally getting in tune with us.
About time.
Yes. Leave the horse’s mouth alone.
I wish we owned a forklift. Be fun to drive it around and pick impossibly heavy shit up.
&
Is it amazing how fast things break down now?
What things?
Us.
Oh. Yes. But that has, we have, always been breaking down.
That is technically true but when I was twenty and looked like a beautiful girl and beautiful girls would pay attention to me because of it you could not tell I was breaking down.
Well you can tell it now that you look like an old man and will soon look like an old woman.
You are vicious.
Yes. Do you know the original meaning of vicious?
No.
Me either, but I recently read it and it is something quite different from what one is when he tells someone he is an old man soon to look like an old woman.
Probably in the early innings of vicious there was not enough meanness about for old men to be telling old men they would soon look like old women.
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I recall it: tending to vice. That’s all vicious meant.
Well you don’t tend to vice, you are vicious, a vicious bastard.
I must say we have much improved the word over time.
As we decline the words get better.
That is how it should be. They are our children.
We become old women and the words go skateboarding.
I am down with it. I need a vicious drink today.
I wish we had a live-in bartender.
We should have an entire Court. We are princes.
Yes we are. Just exiled before our time.
I feel like walking in the woods that do not exist and talking birds into sitting on my hand with the promise that I will not hurt them.
I had a dream that someone’s wife visited me in bed.
Anyone’s wife?
No, a particular someone whose name I daren’t mention. I was dreaming in the dream that I was kissing this woman and woke up still within the dream to discover that I really was kissing her. It developed—in three syllables or fewer—that she had been trying to get me to meet her down at the dock but that my prudence did not allow it so she knew the only way to have me was to slip into bed while I was helpless and asleep and have her way, and this alas she had done, she was as proud and bright as Jack Horner. She was facedown in the bed at this point and spread her legs and said, Do you like my apple?
Did you avail?
I took a bite of the apple before it occurred to me I was not free to bite with abandon. Husbing.
Ah, you had the old husbing-still-looks-at-his-wife delusion.
Yes. Well, I was after all in a dream state. And this apple was worthy of inspection, which is why I straight off took a bite.
Why can we not live real lives?
I don’t know.
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We are done?
It would appear we are.
I have noticed this morning that my shins have grown thin and sharp.
We have bird brains, why not bird legs?
I suppose. Still, when your leg feels like a knife, it is sad and alarming, quietly.
I can accept that.
I want some bread pudding.
Let us locate the best bread pudding within our reach and get on with dying.
Do you know what cabildo means?
No.
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It’s a miracle.
What’s a miracle?
Nothing.
Why’d you say something was?
Felt like it. It felt like the time.
You’ve waked up mindless again?
Yes. Just what is wrong with that?
I have tendered no criticism of mindlessness.
You better not.
I merely seek to verify.
Isn’t something a miracle, though?
I’m sure something is.
I am too.
I don’t see one at hand.
Well, they’re rare, that’s inarguable. If they were common, they would not be called miracles.
Your logic is sound. It is not altogether mindless.
Coffee bean.
What?
Would not a coffee bean be a miracle?
Easy now.
Why is not a coffee bean a miracle?
Because then, ah, so is a cup of coffee and an idiot, or two, drinking it. Why not say a bird, or for that matter, a bird’s leg, is a miracle?
Not a wing?
Wing schming. A bird’s leg came off a dinosaur for God’s sake. A scaled powerful appendage shrunk to one five-hundredth of its original size and attached to an animal that can fly. Where would miracles cease if we allow coffee beans and birds’ legs? Miracles would not cease. They would never, properly speaking, not begin, never not have begun.
Everything is a miracle.
Exactly. And a minute ago you said nothing was a miracle.
A minute ago nothing was. And you said I was mindless.
You were. Now you’re not.
I am happy. Are you happy?
No I am not happy.
I wish you were.
I do too. I am happy that you are happy.
If you were happy too, it would be a miracle.
Yes it would. It would it would it would.
Look: here’s a coffee bean, a bird’s leg, and your happiness. Is it so far-fetched?
You remind me of the halcyon time when my father camped out on Lake Rosa with his strange uncle Jake. I envisioned Studio doing this earlier, but really it was my father. They did this on private land. There were so few people then, and the few people knew each other, so that camping on private land did not then, as it does today, constitute trespass and grounds for prosecution and trouble. They camp out on somebody’s land who does not mind and they catch giant bass by throwing the lure called a Dillinger. A Dillinger looks like a small wooden cigar with propellers at each end and it is painted to resemble a zebra. Actually it is painted to resemble a convict suit, black-and-white striped, hence its name. This caught fish in that miraculous day of absent litigation, friendliness among people, and large and plentiful game. I feel like weeping.
I am weeping.
We are fools to even try to be alive now.
We are not, really, alive now.
No, we are not.
We are not miracles either.
No. I can see my young father and this odd fellow Jake having coffee they have brewed over a small fire in one of those agate coffee boilers that look in profile like a laboratory beaker, sort of—
Triangular-shaped.
Exactly. Bad coffee badly brewed, overbrewed, boiled probably, actually ruined-ass coffee that they find delicious, that is delicious if you are lying there on that clean ground under the live oaks on the slightly painful acorn caps apprising the morning and the fourteen-pound majestic monsters you have caught on such a ridiculous artifice as the Dillinger, which is at rest suspended from a rod and reel leaned against the live oak they are under. My father will go into World War II as a marine and suffer hardship that is somehow not different from this very pleasure he and Uncle Jake are enjoying now.
I don’t see how you make that connection but I do not dispute it.
Dispute nothing.
&n
bsp; Disputing nothing is the first step unto miracles.
Disputing nothing is the first step through the difficult door of happiness.
I’d like to find a pill and go back to bed. I’m wore out.
Go on. I’ll tidy up and look out the window some. I’m tired too, Helen.
I wish Helen had slept with Tim.
Tim’s whole life might have taken a different course if she had. Oh, Tim, I’m tired. I’m tired too, Helen. It was brilliant.
But it did not make her get untired and sleep with him.
She was young.
She was tired.
We are all tired. Who is ever not tired?
I know, but she was young.
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I have been waked up by one of my stupid nightmares.
There is another kind?
Yes. There are real nightmares that are inventive and psychologically telling and entertaining to recall and that demonstrate all manner of deep-seated truth etc.
That you pay people money to interpret and so forth.
Right.
That you never forget.
Right. These I am talking about you cannot remember for five minutes, if that. They operate just long enough to get you out of bed, which apparently is their purpose.
Give me an example.
Okay. Say you are divorced after a long period of chilly relations and there is no prospect whatsoever of reconciliation. A stupid nightmare would have you envision very sentimental carryings on between you and this estranged wife and imminent desire to get back together develops, and great wistfulness, in fact tearfulness, at such a prospect, and you would wake up crying, gently.
Someone you pay money to might tell you that is psychologically telling etc.
Yes and he would be an idiot. Here’s a better example: You are fishing with a fly rod on a dock and hook a very large panfish, monstrously large, trophyesque, and call your serious fishing buddies over to have a look before you release it. They are casual about it because this panfish is not prize game in their view. You somehow wind up at the transom of a running boat with the fish still on, and have to set the rod outside the boat because the fish is hung up and cannot now be properly released, and as you try to climb back over the transom and the outboard motor to free the fish these buddies start the boat forward which will chew up your rod and the fish and quite possibly you once this cartoon develops fully in its improbable way.
These guys are assholes?
Well yes they are but that is not the major import of the action. There are weird pieces of lumber or dockage or trees or something that keep you from freeing your rod and the fish that are so improbable that these guys cannot be faulted for not comprehending the restrictions you are encountering; you cannot actually comprehend them yourself. There’s a two-by-four across the rear of the boat that keeps you from stepping out to get your rod which is at the fore of the boat.
They are moving the boat forward toward your rod?
Yes, sort of.
How did it get up there?
I know not. It’s a dream.
I’ll say.
This is what I was telling you: It’s a stupid dream. It does not make sense, and it does not make the perfect nonsense a real dream makes. It makes only this stupid-ass sense.
You need to quit having these.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Is it an expensive rod?
Eight or nine hundred dollars for the rig. The fish is more spectacular than any that is actually alive now or in the past. It will be destroyed.
You don’t have to pay me to tell you this but this is a dream born of depression. That’s all it is.
So what do I do?
No idea. Stay awake.
Good idea.
A man and all his effects.
What?
I was just having an idea: A man and all his effects . . . is a sad business, you get right down to it. Grave to him, silly to the universe. He can’t get rid of the crap that weighs him down. He cherishes his ditty bag. He needs a house fire, of course, but he also needs a mind fire.
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I want to go to the yard sale up the way.
Do you want more shit?
No.
Then—
I know. But what if there is good shit?
You don’t want more shit.
The last thing I want is more shit, but what if there’s good shit there, and it goes ungotten?
It won’t go ungotten, someone else will get—
Get the good shit, simple as that. Hat up. I am having a vision of old monofilament. That is what I most need today.
I hope they have kittens in a box and you get one.
What if they have, like, possums in a box? Free kittens in one box and “Possum’s $10” in another? That’s what I’m talking about! I am talking about acquiring shit no one in his right mind acquires and paying for it and being troubled by it the rest of your life, moving it from house to house, in this case being put in the hospital by it, and so forth. I am talking about living, my friend.
I wonder if what you are talking about is the kind of lunacy that inspires a man to run for president, when it’s at the other end of the spectrum of affluence.
The man who can’t stand for other people to get the good shit that he doesn’t need but must have lest they have, when he already has money?
Yes. The poor kleptos go to yard sales, the rich run for president, out of the same impulse.
Just hat up, de Tocqueville. That fishing line calls me.
&
Was that a . . . what was that?
What?
That flew by.
What flew by?
That is what I am asking.
You are asking what flew by.
Yes.
I saw nothing fly by.
Come on—it was like a condor, blew right through here about six feet high.
Didn’t see it.
Dude, you should have felt it.
Didn’t feel it.
I have a headache.
Take a nap.
&
In the broadest sense of the word: helmet.
What are you talking about?
I have no idea.
Are you insane?
I think so. Isn’t that our goal?
I suppose it is.
So: helmet. In the broadest sense. I want to get the pols and the voters together and say, “In the broadest sense of the word, helmet, people. What I am doing here, on the ground, I am a commander on the ground, listen to me, I am thinking outside the helmet here,” and so forth, until someone objects—
And you know that no one will object.
Of course no one will object, unless they are told to object. Helmet.
Iyuh hayev ayuh mayarble.
What?
It’s my new language: two-cylinder instead of one. Two-stroke.
Liyuk, cayool?
Roieet.
We are insane.
We are inSAYane.
&
Dude.
What?
Nothing.
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Are we going to have fun today?
No.
Are we going to live today as if it is the last day of our lives?
No.
But we know from the testimonials of Close Callers that we should.
Yes.
But we don’t do it.
No.
Why not?
We can’t conceive of how you actually do it.
We can’t?
No. Go ahead. Propose that we live right now as if this is our last day. What do we do? Where do we go?
I want to sit right here and think about The End.
See? Why don’t you ACTUALIZE yourself? Have you been to Tahiti? No? Then you must go. Now. Be gone.
Jesus.
See? You see?
God wasted two whole spaces on us as human integers. We’re nils in terms of becoming all that we can become.
We just don’t want. And don’t satisfy.
I don’t even really get hungry anymore in a good way.
&
We’re out there.
We’re out where?
There.
We are here. Cornbread are round.
I know. I just feel like saying, We’re out there.
The mood is upon ye for nonsense again?
It always is. You know that.
Yes. The stove is the only sane party here.
But, really, doesn’t “We’re out there” feel just about right, and finally true, and agreeably unpresumptuous—
The smart retarded we go for?
Yes.
I admit that it does. We are out there.
I can barely see it, the there out there. It’s deserty but not in a rich, real way—no cacti or lizards or mesa or Santa Fe shit, not even the vast ocean sand roll of the African shtick. Just kind of sand-seeming blah. Like the, well—I just saw one of these—like a Polaroid picture that doesn’t develop into anything except some toxic-looking edges and a grayish center you keep hoping will look like something soon but it never does and you put it in a drawer and keep it anyway until your house is so full of crap like it that you pray for a house fire to rid you of it all, and your life in a sense resembles the drawer and the house full of likewise crap around it and you want a fire to clean it up too, and in lieu of that you start longing to be in a gray undeveloped place that is represented by “out there” in your tired brain, and you go around saying, “We are out there”—
When in fact you are not, but you badly want to be, out there—
Exactly. Make us a drink if you will.
I will, my brother. I will go to the porch and make them on the washing machine, which I like to do, and from there I will call into the house and say, “I am out here making drinks,” and even this little echo of “out there” will gratify us a bit and keep us from being depressed and terrified.