Of Brown People & James Bond

Of Pear-Shaped Effigies & Satanic Verses

Today's blog will be of the video variety. Enjoy!

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

Remember your childhood and the fears that plagued you. A dark bedroom may as well have been the den of a wild animal, or worse. The creatures that dwelt there took on the shape of the darkness in which they hid. And such patience! In a closet or amid the dust-bunnies under your bed, whatever it was could wait forever. A naked foot reaching to find the floor for a late night bathroom visit could deliver you to a horrible fate.

We didn't consider motive. Not for long, anyway. The denizens of the gloom existed to snatch you from the safety and comfort of your home, from the unconditional love of mom and dad. It didn't matter that you had never before experienced anything resembling evil; hatred, intolerance & cruelty, perhaps. You had your imagination, and that was enough. Unlucky children were seized and taken somewhere (and what a big world to hide in!) and cooked, eaten, tortured, smoked and skinned and worn, to the admiring growls and roars of the other things in the dark.

They all knew each other, and they all wanted you. These were taking things, not polite asking things.

But it didn't seem to matter what the monstrous brutes had in mind. At least not for me. What I feared above all was being away from my parents and my brother and sister. Into the world and away from my loving family. The people who seemed so powerful to my young eyes would be rendered impotent because I would be lost, out in the world somewhere. And as I said before, it was a very large world in which to be lost. Countless hiding places in which to be taken.

If we are lucky, and no real world horrors close our eyes forever (a cross town bus or a disease, perhaps), we get to grow up. We learn the names of the places in the world, and that makes it seem smaller. We meet people from distant places and realize that there are no monsters there, just people.

The diseases and injuries get names, too. The affect is calming. Even the aching enigma of mortality is alleviated somewhat by the commonality of experience with other humans, also seemingly cursed to comprehend their own small, ephemeral place in the universe. And what a universe in which to have a place! If we feared the dark places of our bedroom as children, we fear the dark places in the universe. As adults, however, we don't fear the monsters that might lurk there. What we fear is darkness with nothing lurking within at all. Just the dark.

Of March & Nature Afoot

March has found me occupying a very different world than just a month ago. February is a difficult month for me, always has been. Valentine's Day is right in the middle, and it depresses me that love and romance have been so mercilessly raped by greeting card companies and chocolatiers. But that is an abstract matter, like the failures of capitalism or fatherhood. There is no intimate emotional currency to make me miserable.

Instead, my February misery comes from my memories. I've been in love thrice in my life, and when each one of those relationships ended, a familiar drama ensued. Familiar to me, and to you, as well, I'm sure. Twice that drama played out in the second month of the year, shortly before St. Valentine's Day. That fact is small potatoes, though, as the pain I felt radiated and glowed all by itself. When the woman you happen to love strolls out the door, that date on the calender is of no consequence. Crushing loneliness and cold rejection put you in a time and place not on any calender or map.

It is only in retrospect, when the ache transforms into a bittersweet memory, that I start to notice the details. And having done that, I've discovered that February is a month I need to avoid like warm sushi and Glenn Beck. With no money to travel, perhaps next February I could simply lock myself in a closet with a bucket and a months' supply of Power Bars. Although that may be a bit drastic. Forget the bucket, I'll leave my closet to poop. In fact, my whole flat is pretty safe, so long as I don't go out or talk to anyone. Just me and my dog and cats. Hell, that sounds like a good plan for the other 11 months, too.

Happily, February is over! It is now March. Outside, it is close to 60 degrees, but there isn't a spot of green anywhere. It feels wrong. Warmth like this should wait for trees and plants to appreciate it. The ground is baby-shit brown and littered with bits of trash that have accumulated in snow banks, now melted and flooding my basement. In contrast to leafless trees and a landscape free of plants and flowers is a painfully blue sky. We've all heard the tautology about how the sky makes the sea blue, and the sea makes the sky blue. This sky is bluer than the North Atlantic has ever been. It brings to mind Mallorca and the Mediterranean Sea. Old ships with clean, white sails and happy brown people celebrating the sun.

But Boston, right now, does not look her best. She is not properly attired for all this sunshine. We had a terrific rainstorm last week, with gusts of wind you could hear while lying in bed. And during the day, the sky was gray and low. That seems better suited to an old, cold-weather harbor city like Boston this time of year.

My inclination is to stay inside, but Annie compels me to go outside, so out I go. Down Gardner to North Union, up to Broadway and over to Silk Street, then home. It is in that fashion that Annie the dog saves me from myself 100 times a day, in one way or another. The ground may be dead right now, but Annie shows me with her little, black nose that nature is percolating, even if I can't see it yet.

Of Cookies and Human Dignity

Just saunter on it and say, "Good day, nice to meet you. What did you think of the sermon?" That's all you have to do. Don't slink to the side, cherry-pick conversations, steal a cookie and leave. Oh, no, that would be sad. Being social and interacting with the other naked apes is easy, and provides what has for you been rarer than unobtainium; dignity. A modicum of fucking dignity.

Yeah. I'm going to go get a cookie and a cup of coffee. After that, I'll simply and dispassionately listen to people converse with me, and affably respond when it is my turn to speak. Most of it will be small talk. After that, anything can bubble to the surface, from the mind to the mouth. You may hear about gyroscopes, Yodels, scientific pantheism, a joke, meta-ethical relativism and, of course, the presence of cookies.

That's right, my friends, I'm at a Unitarian Universalist coffee hour and I'm trying like hell to dip my toes backs into the pool of humanity. Why? Because I'm silly for rejection, it gets me going. There is nothing so rewarding as to reveal your thoughts about a subject, and to subsequently be looked at as a mental patient.

Usually, though, the look isn't there except in my mind. So I must push past the aforementioned inclination to bolt, dig up a little fortitude, and hold my ground. Coffee eventually finds it's way into my hand and the talk gets a little deeper. The probing a bit closer to tender spots that I am well-practiced in protecting.

My heart is beating quickly, forcefully...I can see the lapel on my jacket move slightly with every beat. And breathing is no longer automatic. It requires focus to take every breath. Sweat covers my chest and back.

I'm trying to be witty in my responses, and attentive, but casual. Affable, gregarious, one of the good guys. What Linda's father calls a, "White Hat." A reference to old westerns. But something is wrong. I'm too alert. My eyes look into the eyes of whomever is speaking, and they are questioning, which suits my passionate desire to fit in. To be interested. Or feign it. Whatever it takes. Whatever humans do.

People are beginning to mix again, and I move towards a pastry table. They look pert and fresh and could pass for some sort of frosted erotica. But pastry isn't on my mind, as I already have cookies in my jacket pocket. But by moving away, I'm signaling that the conversation is over. My head is spinning. Less than a minute later and out the door I go, into my 1993 Mercury Tracer with dents on the front left quarter panel. I put those dents there.

The morning was a clear success, as I got to know a couple of people and made my face familiar. But as I pass the Argentinian Restaurant on Mass. Ave., a feeling of absurdity envelopes me. As if I'm the only person on Earth to approach life in this milquetoast fashion.