I was talking to my left toe, telling it how this has become kind of like a Love Boat episode, with multiple themes instead of plots, that take turns getting "developed." He suggested that I do an actual Love Boat chapter with me as Gopher and what's-her-name as cruise director Julie... I thought this might be pretty neat, as long as all plots revolve around tooth loss. Tom Bosley, Carol Channing, Florence Henderson, all those buggers... teeth shattered; jaws falling out... the works.
Ach. Man oh man. I can't deal with the Crud unless I deal with television, but hey, that's a long-term project and too personal to really talk about. But cut the stallin', gent! Back to the streets!
...Sooooo I walked and She ran, and sometimes as She passed by I should stop singing long enough to trade witty banter... or rather real banter that has been trained by years of watching people in TV and movies trade witty banter... but not even that, which goes on in offices across the country to the pain of all concerned... this is banter aware of its genesis, conscious of its Crud, and I think it's essentially new to our generation as a wide-spread phenomenon. So I told Her this; I told Her that I had been having doubts as to whether this book was worth anything, what was soooo special about My life that anyone would want to read about it. But there it was: I could be the first person that I know of to actually catch this sort of dialogue for what it is... I mean, crappy movies today tend to still show people actually being (in the demented minds of the screenwriters) clever, while those that try to be realistic just show people talking without effort, while the truth is that most people are always trying to be clever and come out with pretty demented results.
The flaw in my logic was two-fold. First, I wasn't taking into account modern literature, which frankly I don't read much of. So it's probably been done many many times behind my back. Secondly, I can't remember two verbatim lines of any one conversation and can't remember any of this one with Her in particular. Oh. The rental car agency loomed close, and We moved in for Our capture, dealing with the many colorful Alaskan characters who worked there, ho ho, and climbed into Our car.
Yes, short and sweet scenes in which nothing happens... But couldn't ya feel the mood, that mood of anticipation of high adventure leading to separation? No? I understand... yes... You couldn't concentrate either, not after that unnerving tooth dream. My left toe (I only have two) told Me that everyone has tooth dreams, dreams of them corroding and shattering and smooshing and hijacking a bus and all. Anyone that doesn't have `em's a dork, defined as "medium build, kind of stupid, bug nose, and no teeth dreams." I bet Jesus had tooth dreams... And no, you damn jumping-to-conclusions reader, I don't think I'm Jesus. Heck no... or his Messianic successor, or the anti-Christ or Captain Stubing. You know who I am... You know Me! And know means know.
<<author's break period in which proverbial doughnuts are eaten and profound emotional changes occur>>
My sister called Me up immediately after skimming the first installment of this book because she thought it was a cry for help. I told her it was very much over-dramatized and I made lots of stuff up. The former, at least, was true. Now I hadn't intended this work to cry anything except the battle shouts of my forefathers, but I'm wondering how, if I did want to cry for help, I would actually go about it. I have no real idea. Likewise, my sister didn't really know how to respond if this was in fact such a cry. Hmmm. In spite of being really weird, then, even members of my own family expect each other to be normal enough to take the heat. And so We are, We Titans. ...or Olympians... something like that.
Oh, let me update you. Last night, after I wrote all that stuff about Her picture and all, after I talked to Her and realized that even She assumed that I was being more normal that I actually was, I wrote to Her, and somewhere in the midst of this the big breakdown came. Actual tears and all... you know, like a normal human who's not repressing these things. Cry and move on. So I wrote during and through the whole incident, but to Her not to You. So sorry to deprive you of your gluttony for obscene sensationalism. So this therapy stuff is working, I guess... I mean, the <<narrative>> did say that profound emotional changes have occurred. Maybe that should have been "proverbial profound changes." Whatever. If this keeps up, I `spect I should be in ship shape about the time you shove off.
Okay, the task of the day is to get revved for the bitchin' fire-and-brimstone mega-climax that'll be coming your way after the soup or salad (your choice). And what could be better suited for such revving than more stories about teeth? Despite this obvious truth, this value of the collective aesthetic, I'm not going to tell any, though I will tell you the most recent and least scary of the three scary dreams, which is not a "story" because it does not involve DOGS, and what's a story without DOGS? (What is merely habitual to Me swift becomes natural law, no(ron)?)
In this dream my bottom retainer falls out, leaving a chunk of jagged cement with a touch of wire in it growing out of my left lower canine. I am sort of upset by this, and tell Her so. Mostly I'm just struck by disarray; the surprise annoyance leaves me not knowing quite what to do. That's all.
What to do, of course, in such a case, is obvious to the waking individual (which is another name for you, thanks entirely to Tripe, the most pretentious substance in the world available on wheat bread), namely to lick at the metallic fragment until your tongue bleeds, so as to taste from this the sweet chill of self-inflicted misery. Damage, that is. Bleak gold. Auto-cannibalistic tea. What's a poor fool to do?
...Well, we can see what He did, according to questionable interpretations of a questionable text and funky psychology magic, if we turn to Healthy, Happy, and Jung, page 562 and onwards: In Job, Yahweh "comes up against a man who stands firm, who clings to his rights until he is compelled to give way to brute force. He has seen God's face, and the unconscious split in his nature... [The Man is] an amoral force of nature... that cannot see its own back... God was now known, and this knowledge went on working not only in Yahweh but in man too. Thus it was the men of the last few centuries before Christ who, at the gentle touch of preexistent Sophia, compensate Yahweh and his attitude, and at the same time complete the anamesis [(which is a kind of lung disease)] of Wisdom. Taking a highly personified form that is clear proof of her autonomy, Wisdom reveals herself to men as a friendly helper and advocate against Yahweh, and shows them the bright side, the kind, just, and amiable aspect of their God."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. So archetypal Sophie comes back in the new incarnation of Mary, who is God's daughter and wife and mother and gets Assumpted in a glorious Assumption that humans surely won't mind if organisms are specifically created for the sole purpose of rotting their teeth until all they can eat is applesauce, creamed corn, and mama-bird pre-digested worm parts (which is a kind of pot pie). So under Her creative juicing, God wants to be man to see what it's like, and so does the Jesus thing, which enables Him to do stuff like entreat Himself not to lead Us, His poor little sheep, into temptation (which would be a pretty sacrilegious thing to even infer that an all-good deity might do, say, by entreating it not to do so, if it weren't The Deity Himself doing it in what gets called "The Lord's prayer"), and hang about on a big stick saying "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken Me?"
So with this most sensitively-described sacrifice of Himself to Himself, He supposedly satisfies His bloodthirsty Urge and is now ready to treat Us nicely.
Now I realize that somewhere `round the end of sitting forty-eight that I promised to be nice Myself, and I realize My characterization of this God fellow, and thus my treatment of all those readers who for some really fucked-up reason take aspersions against this dude as personal insults to themselves, has been, well, less than sympathetic, even though this was supposed to be the section wherein I related the way in which Jung depicts Him as really underneath it all extremely okay. I guess I just don't understand Him yet, though I have an inkling. I'd like to make up to You for any offense taken, possibly by treating you to some creamy delicious frosting straight out of the can, a favorite treat of the toothless (who are a kind of Damaged). But later; Halloween is fast approaching, marking the almost-a-month anniversary separation celebration. The holiday itself is on Sunday, or rather will begin Saturday night at midnight, but the "official" holiday, the one featuring 1 1/2 hours of daylight during which kids are allowed to go around begging, is today, i.e. Friday, and I consequently must go to a party at the house of X-She (who had one comment upon seeing my extensive photographic record of Alaska: "She looks like you.") dressed in a clever disguise called "jumper cables with hat." This involves my wearing whatever I happen to be wearing, plus a hat, and wrapping something yet to be determined around my neck and shoulders. Probably jumper cables.
|© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer||[ Contents ]|