Mistakes make you feel bad. Like Peter Scolari or Mario van Peebles.

Spelling is always difficult.

I’ve made a mistake.

I know I’ve made, like, at least two mistakes, previously, in my whole life and this would make three, and that’s like, a holy number, so maybe I’ve come full circle, now. God, I hope.

And though I don’t make many mistakes, I know quite well what it feels like; the three I’ve made already have hurt like the Dickens. You know what the Dickens feels like, don’t you?

It feels like a headache plus a backache plus a neckache plus a stomachache, and your stomach is connected to your knee bone and your knee bone’s connected to your jaw bone, something like that, and so on. That’s why they wrote a song about it. That’s the Dickens, my friend.

Mistakes make you feel bad. Like Peter Scolari or Mario van Peebles.

However, I hope to point out to you, in the course of making this confession (albeit a couple years too late), that it was an honest mistake, made in jest. And stop right there before you even say it. I know you’re thinking it: Freud says, there’s an ounce of truth in every joke. (He did say that, didn’t he?)

At any rate, it sounds like him, and it’s certainly true, too, in my book. So, I’m not really disagreeing with you; I just didn’t want you to say it.

What I remember, about my third mistake, is this:  in an off-handed, throw-away comment I, recalling a witty retort Lincoln made once, told someone that “of their two faces, I preferred the one that smiled more.”

Laugh, laugh, laugh. (Yes, we always laugh at the first bite. It’s always funny to watch the Wasp).

I remember, too, thinking that I was at a table of beautiful people. So beautiful, in fact, that I felt the urge to applaud them. (I read that line somewhere, once, and it’s stuck with me; I have never actually met anyone beautiful enough to be applauded, though once I nearly attempted a slow clap for this one guy, but for his profile only. When he turned full face – well, it just didn’t work out, let’s leave it at that).

The laughter only lasted a few moments, and then, came the time for telling the truth. (It’s usually around 10:18 PM when truth telling time comes).

“Wait, wait a second…are you saying I’m two-faced?” We were still grinning through this part.

“No…I mean, well, OK, maybe sometimes.” Who isn’t, right?

“I am NOT two-faced.”

“No, no, I’m just saying, sometimes…you know…we, we all get that way.”

“Not me. You asshole. Not me.”

Just like that, the truth was told. And, he did not like the truth.

He also hates brussel sprouts.

Back and forth, back and forth, we rolled: him, slinging poorly-designed epithets and coarse names at me; me, trying, as ever, to dig myself out of a diplomatic hole. I should point out that we’d been drinking.

You should know, I don’t like to holler, or scream, or yell. It’s not in my nature. Every time I’m cast in a play that requires my character to do any or all of the aforementioned, I cringe a little. I can’t abide the idea of stripping my voice, like that.

Regular stripping is fine, though.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m bringing this up today. (So am I, to be honest). I haven’t thought about it for quite some time, but it creeped into my mind this morning. I guess I should say I’m a tad ashamed that I used humor as a weapon like that. (Though, I am afraid I do it all the time). But, what really bothers me is the idea that we all use humor this way.

We diffuse with humor…I know I do, in nearly every situation. And when those situations occur, or recur, as the case may be, I stand on guard with an arsenal of spiteful comic relief at the ready.

For instance, I never forget anything. I might misplace it for awhile, as is the case with this particular dish of mea culpa, but it eventually finds its way back to the forefront of my mind. Ultimately, it slips out of my mouth in the form of a joke, or sarcasm, or satire, and sacrifices itself for the sake of “making the point.”

Ready. Aim. Fire.

It’s like we’re evil sponges that just float around town, bumping into others, hoarding in on every conversation, so we can stumble across some tidbit and absorb it, store it for later use in our arsenals, at which time, we will casually or caustically or even accidentally, let it spill forth like a pearl of wisdom (or a bullet) and onto the bar, or tableful of beautiful people.

That’s what happened to me.

The more frightening thing? I’d never really thought of this person as being two-faced, before. Not in my waking days. But, apparently, my subconscious had caught on and quickly. It was delightfully shocking to realize I’d been unwittingly categorizing this person as Mr. Two-Faced for who knows how long…and then to have it come out, like that, in front of all his most sacred friends.

I never was completely aware of what we were arguing about; all I knew was what started it, and that one of us did “protest too much.” But the more I sat there and thought about it, the more I believed it, that he was this way and always had been.

Just because you can't hear them doesn't mean they're not yelling.

Slowly, I began to notice something:  humor allows the truth to be seen. When I caught hold of that, in my mind, I was embarrassed. Because the truth was this: I was sitting at a table full of people I didn’t really want to know.

I was, in fact, Mr. Two-Faced, myself.

No wonder my neck, back, head, and everything else God gave me, was aching. I was trying to be what I didn’t want to be. I was putting myself in situations rife with opportunities to get a little drunk and speak the truth about people I didn’t even care about.

How sad is that. Don’t normal people just rent “dirty movies, drink mimosas, and French kiss the pillows?” There had to be a better way for me to get my kicks than to encourage a loose tongue.

And before I realized it, I’d learned a blame moral. I can’t recall ever having learned a moral in real life, just from Dr. Seuss, and The Poky Little Puppy. But this was right in front of my face, this moral: just because you know a truth, doesn’t mean you have to be the one to share it. That’s the third mistake I made. Because I used to believe if I saw a need, I had to fill it.

I never stopped to think that first, it has to be a need worth filling.

Real love requires 2″ heels, at least.

That Ken Ludwig. Man.

He can’t write a play without causing serious damage to the ankles. (That’s what my feet are saying, anyway. Ah, well, there’s a price to be paid for anything, huh?)

Price check on Aisle Three.

I’m sorry if this comes across, at first, like a shameless plug for the current production of Leading Ladies that I’m in – it wouldn’t matter anyway, if it did; we’re practically sold out for the rest of this run. We’ve only got one more week, and then…it’s curtains.

Literally.

But, out of the goodness of my heart, and since I’m a Christian man (from the waist up, anyway), I’ll gladly give you the web address for Starkville Community Theatre. You can click on the link and read about the show, if nothing else. Here: the Playhouse on Main. You’re going to wish you could have seen it.

I’ll miss it, myself, to tell you the truth, but I won’t act like it.

No, it’ll be good to have my feet in a solid pair of loafers, again. (Never thought I’d ever say that). But, those heels are starting to chafe and my precious ankles, delicate though sturdy, are still in recovery, I should remind you. Well, my right ankle is. It never fully healed from the disastrous (highly embarrassing, AND alcohol-free, thank you very much) spill I took in my own front yard, as I catapulted myself over the vinca, back in May during the run of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged.

Yes, I’m referring to the infamous fall that nearly broke Amanda at the waist, with her key in hand and at the front door. She never saw me coming. Yes, dear friends, I mean the veritable somersault that “took out” the middle curlicues on the ironwork that holds up the porch awning, and was flung across the bistro table where a large glass vase sat, waiting all its life for this one moment to face death.

That one, yeah. I’m sure you remember.

The ankle still hurts, and now here I am, in another Ludwig “farce?”, running up and down stairs in 2″ heels. Black, fake leather, with an angry Mary Jane strap bridging the curve of bone across the top of my foot.

In short, my feet are killing me, each night.

(And secretly, I’m kind of OK with it). I said, kind of.

This is, I think, the very definition of true love. Because true love allows you to hate it. And I hate Theatre; therefore, I must love it. Don’t expect to understand that. It’s not a total hate; it’s a sectioned-off hate, and ironically, has less to do with Theatre, sometimes, than it does with Theatre’s Other Lovers. Jealousy is pumped through the air vents at our theatre. Trust me.

And calm down, calm down…I’m not about to bore you with some lengthy diatribe on the virtues of Theatre as the most genuine art form, or a life saver…both of which I consider it to be.  

I hope I spelled that right.

To be honest, I was going to initially write a love letter, here, to Theatre; then, I stopped and thought about it…long and hard. It might be better if I wrote it a Dear John letter, instead.

Much like true love, I stay in this constant state of stress about Theatre. I obsess over the come-and-go effect it has on me. We fight almost everyday.

I want to stay; I want to leave; you get the kids; I’ll take the costumes. You know how it goes…that kind of argument.

You wouldn’t believe the way Theatre treats me, either. It’s a textbook example of the classic abusive relationship. And we’re going on twenty years, this year. Can you believe that?  We first met in 1989, during The Sound of Music.

(No one could hear my cries over the chorus, though…plus, Maria was a strong soprano. I ended up chiding myself for being paranoid).

Now, twenty years later, I’m still in this relationship. (And before you ask, No. I haven’t been faithful. Hopefully, I get some credit for coming back, as often as I have).

Because I always come back.

No matter what happens, regardless of what I’ve been put through, or what names I’ve been called: the evil swamp monster; that fat, dying Southern aristocrat; a transsexual psychic; the manipulative bank clerk; a dancing bear; a blanket-hugging 5-year-old; a singing priest; that British fop; that drag queen swindler…it doesn’t matter: I still come back.

I still find myself, many a night, knocking on the door to be let in. To be loved again. To get one more chance.

That’s why my feet hurt: from real love. And this time, to prove how much love I have, how real it is…I’ve got to wear 2″ heels and five different dresses, every night, on the stage (I must say, the Carmen-Miranda-esque dress is quite a character, in and of itself). And I do all of this, proudly.

Because this is the penance I’ve sworn to, so that Theatre knows I “really mean it this time.”

But…just like last time, I’m already sick of it. I’m desperate to finish planning my escape. I’m eagerly trying to bide my time until this Saturday night, when I can smile a lot and bat my eyes during one last curtain call (Theatre loves when I do this; I’ve fetching lashes, I know…I can’t help that), and then we’ll hug, like last time, we’ll bow a few times to each other, randomly throw well-meant kisses at each other (but not really to each other), and then, I’ll walk out the door, full of promises, as usual.

God only knows how long I’ll hold out. My record is two months. I’m going to try to make it to Christ’s birthday, this time.

If I can. I always mean to stay away for longer than I ever do. That’s what any victim does. Intentions, though, can’t resist a curtain call anymore than they can take off 2″ heels merely by pretending them away.

They always come in pairs, don't they.

This time, however, (this coming next time, I should say), I expect will be different.

Because it isn’t just me that’s changing, now. Theatre is, too. Lately, I’ve been having this sinking feeling that I don’t really know Theatre, anymore. The magic’s fading, for me. The fun isn’t there, hanging around. I think that’s one reason I kept coming back, even with all the “name-calling.” Because even on the worst of days, we still had great fun, Me & Theatre. We were a package deal, a power couple. I expected problems to come from that; they usually do.

But, they were our problems, when they came, Mine & Theatre’s. Not someone else’s. (That’s what seems to be changing. Sigh).

Whatever it is, I’m not sure…but Something’s not the same, I know because I smell it; it has a smell to it. You don’t run around on a stage in five different dresses, every night for two weeks, and not come across a wide range of smells. Febreze usually works, but not this time.

This time, it’s a smell I can’t quite fully recognize. And, I don’t like a smell I can’t recognize.

No sir, I do not.

I do not like a smell I cannot recognize.

That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.

I’m considering penning a memoir.  I’m serious.

I’m sure there’s a finer art to it than what I’m putting to paper. No, I know there is as evidenced by PaperGirlMemoir’s blog. I enjoy her blog, among several others, those detailing their writing journeys. I suppose she’s serving as a “model,” though she has a much better, cleaner handle on how to go about writing one than I do. I tend to ramble. (I’m pretending it’s my style, so don’t say anything).

Sometimes, it reads like this, but it doesn't feel like it.

At first, I thought, why on earth would I think anyone wants to read a memoir by me. And then, I thought, why not?  Words don’t exist just for those with accomplished lives. Nor do they wait for sentences that only come from the pens of established literati. I have lived, and that is miracle enough.

If we take Jung at his word, and dip our own toes in the “collective unconscious,” then surely there is no life unworthy of being written about.

Besides, what you say isn’t the point, is it?  The challenge comes in how you say it.

I’ve been stressing and stressing this to my students, this first summer term: that their opinions are of merit, that they really already know most of this critical theory “stuff,” (we do it daily in our normal lives) they’ve just never had to give it a name, before.  The higher hill to climb for them is in learning just that: how to justify their opinions. Most of them immediately jump to Reader-Response criticism, overlooking the necessity of understanding the purpose of becoming an “informed reader” within an “interpretive community.”

But, twisting that critical concept, a bit, I suppose, that’s what I’m trying to do, too: justify my opinions (except in this case, they all total up to My Life)…but, I mean, that’s one way of looking at a memoir, or the impetus behind writing one, right? It’s the ability to interpret your community.

I’ve been irregularly writing a memoir, or two, for the last couple of years. I never put a great deal of steady stock in it, but the idea, I find intoxicating. One day, maybe, I’ll put all these random pages together. But, in the meantime, I thought I might share a couple with you.  I’ve put, perhaps, a total of 60 pages into two different collections; the reason for that is they come from two very different stylistic approaches: singular personal (mostly me with opinions) and plural personal (mostly me + others + opinions). The titles I’ve given them are Loud Enough and Deer in the Road. I’m writing the titles here for posterity’s sake.

I got first dibs, in other words. (I worked really hard on coming up with them, too). 

…from Loud Enough

Maybe this is a work of fiction.  There’d be a certain irony in that, if it were.  Maybe this is an autobiography; there’s a good deal of personal experience and truth to the subject matter.  Or, maybe it doesn’t matter.  I’m probably only vaguely aware of what I’m saying.  But first things first, of course.

I’d been obsessing over a book, a memoir, for a long time because I thought I was interesting; I’d conquered (and that’s a term I’m using loosely) prose and poetry and playwriting.  Granted, these conquests occurred mainly in the privacy of my room, and the only witness was my cat, Aristophanes.  

Still, she was nonetheless proud and a harsh critic. 

But you know, I almost didn’t get this far.  I was almost too afraid of having to be responsible for words.  I’ve also been obsessed with that concept, with language in general.  For instance, I don’t own any of these words, and yet, by putting them into these sentences I’m basically contracting myself to their overall impression, their intent. 

There are few words more disappointing, more potentially upsetting in the whole English language than intent. It’s a frightening responsibility, too, to commit to something as determined as intent […]

I was haphazardly cast as The Tutor in Sartre’s The Flies, one February, early in the month, years ago.  I use haphazard because, to be honest, I didn’t want to be in the play.  I’d grown very upset with acting and tired and weary.  After all, I’d just turned 27.  I was already washed up, I felt.  I’d done nothing with my life, in theatre, at that point, of any real significance and I’d had such plans.  God, did I have plans.  All my friends were doing their, you know, plans, but not I.

Even a picture of flies is aggravating.

I fell in love.

That’s not so necessary for this book, though. 

At least not for this part.

I still had my professional experiences.  I still worked with good people who had a lot of knowledge about their place in the world of theatre and masks. 

A large criticism in my past has been my reluctance to commit; perhaps, I should use the colloquial term here for easy reference:  I was lazy.  But, now wait.  I had a good reason to be.  My procrastination came from an abundance of directions.  I was consumed with ideas for plays, for scenes, as an actor, as a singer, cabaret artist, and in character analysis, for design and costume, and so on and on and on.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities, and when you’re  faced with an endless array of potential, no matter which way you turn…what do you do?  I slept, usually.  My potential was deeply rooted in depression, a rhetorically habitual Remembrance of Things Past (I really should have read more Proust in life), a negligence of what was right in front of my face – I was nearly my own demise. 

Surely, you know that feeling.

Now, of course, I should explain about Sartre.  He’s really the reason I’m at this point, and really, in all honesty, why the hell should you care if I don’t at least explain the basis of this bizarre ramble…because of all the things I’m kinda OK at, rambling is not one of them – I’m more than OK at it; I am a Master of rambling. 

And, besides, you have no idea who I am.  But, you will.  You’ll care, because despite the idiosyncracies that are me, despite how different I might seem, I represent you, in a way.  I had a story I wanted to tell, and now I’m telling it.  I just decided, Enough!  It’s self-pity or self-preservation.  I suppose, though, you’ll decide that later, after reading this.  Still, that sort of passion in life is sorely overlooked, I think.

Don’t you?

As I said, I was The Tutor.  I had been unwilling to accept the role, even though I was asked three times to take it; the director, bless her beautiful heart, had offered it to me originally but I was suffering from a severe nonchalance of the stage. I’d spent, a few months earlier, over 350 rehearsal hours, every day of the week, on a somewhat shoddily written, original musical (though two of the songs were digestible), with a director incapable of producing a random scribble from a pencil, much less a vision for the piece (which was in and of itself a powerful story), and this, all from a nonprofit theatre organization with really good intentions (i.e., we all had day jobs, other contracts, etc.).  It was a painful process and nearly destroyed my faith in theatre.  That’s the part that would be severe. 

So, I wasn’t terribly excited or looking forward to another venture on stage.  Especially, Sartre’s The Flies, in which, I almost had to perform barefoot…which I never do. Ever. It was quite a struggle: me and the costumer.

You should know, first off, that The Flies is an excruciatingly lengthy production, and not one of his best.  Or perhaps that was only the case for ours? Most of our leads were magnificent, I must say, (though we did have a weak Orestes), and personally, I loved the material. It was, perhaps, my reticence that kept me; I also got in trouble for sneaking out, in costume, during Act One, third night of the run, and buying a bottle of champagne. I also got gas; I was on empty. (For shame!) But, The Tutor doesn’t come back on, after Act One, for a very long time. (Kris, Kris, Kris).

The play was still a poignant piece, and well-attended.  But, I took the role out of pity, a major offense in the craft of acting. 

No caption necessary.

That didn’t change much throughout the course of the run, either. I carried my plastic cup of pathos everywhere I went.

However, despite my best efforts at being indifferent and “put-upon,” Sartre got to me with one line. One line that would not escape me. One single line that made the entire show “worth it.”

[…]

There’s a moment in the opening of the play in which Orestes, the rightful heir to the throne of Argos (though I can’t see for the life of me why he’d want it) turns to The Tutor who had begun to politely berate him, if you will, about his aloofness to his upbringing and of course Orestes, being displaced royalty and spoiled, immediately starts in with “I know how lucky I am, but all the same, yadda yadda yadda…”

Kids.

But then, in one of his diatribes to The Tutor, he actually turns the tables.  It’s very slight, very subtle.  He’s in the middle of another “yadda yadda yadda” spiel when he suddenly (this is Sartre, so the use of the word suddenly is generous) accuses The Tutor of having no “joy in going somewhere definite.”

And all of a sudden, just like that, I was not The Tutor anymore. 

I was a 27-year-old man on a plain stage in Bloomington, Indiana, and I was…well, I was exactly what Orestes said, a man who had no joy, not going anywhere definite, not really going anywhere at all. 

Anymore.

And I wanted to know what happened to that curly-headed kid in glasses from Mississippi who had all his life been lauded as the next great piece of poetry in motion.  When did he slow down?  And why? 

So, here I am, writing a book about my life as if I’m great, one painful, pulled minute after another.  As if I’m worth it.  

And you want to know why? You want to hear the truth?  It’s because I’ve never believed I wasn’t. And that’s why I’m not afraid to write. This or anything else.

More to come…?

God, I hope so…(though it is a tad boring. But, I’m working on that, sorry).

How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…

I have been intensely busy, lately. Not just by hand, either.

It's a cabal all right. Against me.

My mind…it often goes into Mach 7 when I attempt to procrastinate (by the way, the word “procrastinate,” itself, is ironic – I mean, by the time you write the word out, you could have done something already – it’s not a word for the lazy), and the only thing I can physically do to make it stop is to sleep (even though my dreams are usually full of anger when I do that – last night, for instance…ouch!), but if I don’t stop it, from time to time, it just runs all days with thought after thought after thought, and so what I’m about to do is a little experiment I engage in, every now and again: I’m going to pause, take a deep breath, and type out every single thought I have in my head right at this moment in an attempt to empty my brain.

Because I really want to take a nap…without feeling guilty about it.

Ok? So, here I go:

How on earth do you wash a Fedora…pancakes…the way Max sleeps with one open, staring…the other day when the tornado siren went off some student in the hall asked if North Korea was attacking and I was impressed because he didn’t seem the type to be that aware of the world around him, his clothes made that suggestion…why a city has the name of Scooba…Old Man Frank came by the house yesterday to tell me I’d left the water hose on and flooded his driveway, he’s an old man with scoliosis but my god he can knock loudly…that time I brushed my teeth with Cortizone-10…my glasses are broken – well the leg fell off but still it’s going to cost money to fix it better than I did with hot glue…apple juice gives me heartburn and so do onions and so do Tums which is ironic since they’re supposed to fix heartburn…I really like sweet potato pie…why can’t I start back working on my new script, I think it has potential, and I sometimes feel guilty doing other types of writing but Gary tells me just write everyday so I do, this blog if nothing else…why won’t I finish this other script I have because I know the deadline is looming…I’ve only once seen an actual loom and the word loom makes me think of a loon…Smoking Loon is a type of red wine…I’m allergic to red wine…how is too much water bad for you…I’ve switched mayonnaise brands, U.L. is shocked…I wish I’d planted those irises deeper in the dirt…where would I put a bicycle if I had one…I hate my cell phone…at some point I’m going to need new tennis shoes…my ankle still hurts…I am still angry because this morning I was almost finished with a new blog and then I hit some button and the whole damn thing was erased…what it would be like if I could magically freeze people and take off their clothes and then move them somewhere else and then unfreeze them and laugh at how embarrassed they’d be…how people can eat warm mayonnaise is beyond me…why I don’t have any pet fish, they’d be so much easier to handle until the cats found them…why some doctors don’t use anesthesia…I’m very glad my dentist did even if now I have a new health concern called synethesia and it feels like ice-cold water is running down my chin and neck several times a day…if people could float indefinitely…what would constitute a magic umbrella…would having sex with a centaur be bestial and illegal…why John Mark Karr would lie about JonBenet Ramsey…how to love through pain, and mean it…how do I manage to memorize all my lines each play I’m in…what would happen if I could disappear…how many people would come to my funeral…why I drink so much…if we’re all hiding something, what then are we all compensating for…why trust is so hard to get and so easy to lose, and doesn’t that imply a serious flaw in the nature of trust…what does God do when he rests…do I have cancer, or West Nile, or Swine Flu, or diabetes, or RLS…why can’t I focus on losing weight…how upset I get when the media overlooks the devastation of Katrina in Mississippi, even now four years later..should I give Olive Garden another chance…why does gorgonzola taste so bad when you melt it…I cannot abide any more of the heat…I cannot stand it when I sweat without purpose…should we build a bigger fence for Max…why can’t I find a handwriting that I approve of…when did I develop this paranoia…will I ever write a good play…how much of your identity is in your name…how many people did I upset this week…what would happen if I always told the truth…why are there so many bad spellers…why don’t people read anymore…what happened to conjugating verbs…how did Latin die…why do I have to have a favorite color, or food, or anything at all really…what will my next car be…why am attached to the name Cutter…I’m still mourning Bea Arthur’s death, but I’m glad we still have Angela Landsbury for now…how can one face death…what is a timing belt and how do I find it…who was the first person to stain glass…why do I have a desire to be famous…I’m not sure there’s such a thing as compromise, one will always retain the power…does anyone ever really forgive…is my first cat, Aristophanes, mad at me for leaving her at U.L.’s…I hate doing laundry…I can’t believe I’m almost 33…I’m afraid I’m losing words…what happens if I go crazy…I don’t like orange Powerade…why don’t I speak better French…why do I always pretend everything…I take back what I thought a minute ago, I think I may be partial to blue and deep reds…I hate the word “cubicles”…a young boy yelled at me one day from across Main Street and said, “It’s raining gayness today!” and I yelled back, “Well, we needed the rain, didn’t we?”…I need to buy more nose strips, for my apnea…what is it about men in uniform…why don’t I approve of steel top roofs, especially green ones…some days are so beautiful I think to myself, if I have to die, let it be on a day like this…I do not want to be put in the ground, though; I want to be in a crypt above it…I’m glad that even in my darkest days, I still believe in God…why can’t I bathe all day…I’d like to thank everyone that I’ve ever met…I can’t stand it when I go to the hair salon and they spritz my hair instead of shampooing it, that is a pet peeve of mine…sometimes I use room spray as cologne…was Jean Harlowe a more tragic case than Jayne Mansfield…

Whew…and just think, I didn’t even get to the part where I’ve invented a new form of poetry that I call a “tri-ku.” It’s a re-constituted, inverted version of a haiku, in three stanzas, each one goes 7-5-7.  I’ll leave you an example of one.  We’ll talk about it later, don’t worry. Each one is based on my belief that there are nine universal truths.

The Ancient Art of the Written Word.

Universal Truth #1: Berth

Other people would have left.
They might have laughed.
No, no they would have, I’m sure.

And not because of your face,
or indifference,
they didn’t care how you were,

All they would care about was
that your smile had flaws
and that your bite had no teeth.

Speaking of teeth…I can’t wait to tell you about Rasputin. The Kitten Who Lived and Had Teeth.

That’ll have to be after my nap, though.

Because hands can do everything but lie.

I don’t always know what to do with my hands.

You might find that ironic for an actor, even more so for an educator. But, it’s still the truth.

Bang, bang, you shot me down.

It wasn’t anything I ever really noticed until a few years ago. I began to realize that my Nana was fascinated by the frequency with which I used my hands to animate my conversation. She would look less at me and more at my gesturing.

Over time, I became so concerned with how I might physcially be telling my story that I began to grow flustered at the dinner table. I didn’t know how not to use my hands.

As is my way and tendency, I began to obsess over excessive hand usage soon after.

It was a quiet thing, this staring that Nana did (does; I still struggle with it) to my hands, and, as you might have guessed, it has now become a habit of my own: to notice how often people use their hands to exemplify their points, even when it’s not necessary.

Like, the man at the four-way stop, yesterday, who flipped me off.  (Although I suppose one could argue that that is necessary. But, I would have to counter with, No, it isn’t. No one ever gets the Four-Way Stop Rule, right, anymore. And on top of that, it’s actually a five-way stop. That’s right, a five-way stop).

For Nana, gentlemen didn’t need to use their hands for support. Their word was strong enough. I think she sees it as a sign of weakness, perhaps, that succeeding generations need more and more stimuli to keep them engaged. That’s a point to consider, indeed, but for some of us, it’s just a natural extension of our physical selves to use our appendages for emphasis.

She’s a picture of Victorian essence, though, and that I respect.

Even if her essence has made me somewhat self-conscious, and thus, critical.

We often hold others accountable for what we fail at ourselves, don’t we? I can’t not think less of someone who does that very thing I do, that I don’t like in myself. At least, not initially.

All this and over hands. Silly, huh?

But, not a new idea.  I’m sure there are other Nanas the world over who carry such social concerns, tucked right beneath the handkerchief kept so tightly under their wristwatch bands or heirloom bracelets.

The problem for me, ultimately, is in finding something else for them to do, when I talk, if gesturing is a weakness in men. It’s like I’ve given my hands permission to think for themselves, and that, believe you me, gets me in more trouble than I can safely admit to here.

It doesn’t have to be a significant form of trouble either (or even have to involve anyone else). What it does, though, is divide my thinking, and sometimes with less than desirable results. Today, I went home, for example, to eat lunch. I stood in the kitchen scraping out the last of that delicious olive tapenade that Amanda made for the party last night, with a cut-up tomato, fresh from the garden, and I decided to do something I rarely do.

This is the lost shaker of salt.

I decided to add salt. (If you’re going to add salt, though, it is perfectly acceptable to do so with either a slice of tomato or a piece of watermelon).

I reached, without thinking, for the white salt shaker that was sitting on top of the microwave, with a fleeting realization that that, of all the available counter space in the kitchen, was an odd place to put the white salt shaker. All the same, I brought it over to the sink and raising it above my delectable slice of tomato, I shook some salt onto it.

No salt came out.

I shook it again. Still, nothing.

I was getting more and more irritated when I realized two very important things: 1) We don’t have a white salt shaker, and 2) it was, instead, the plastic insert that goes in the bottom of the food processor, which had been washed and was sitting in the drain beside the sink, drying.

Stupid hands. Just making assumptions, and in my own kitchen. (Of course, why the insert was sitting on top of the microwave – oh, never mind). 

The fools. My hands.

Maybe I’m just too dramatic. The length of a finger, the crack of a knuckle, the ability to point, to wave, to applaud. I guess I can’t just look at a hand as a hand, I mean, not to see it as a hand…I look at it and I see the ability to know God a little closer (not just through prayer, but through creation).

I can build worlds with these hands using nothing but twenty-six letters. And judging by the sore spot on my thumb, I can also attempt to construct a 8×8 foot flat, down at the theater.

Aren’t hands often the first to show signs of age? If so, then, well, why not? Building worlds take a lot out of a person. Mine, for instance, are growing chafed and calloused. I look at them, right this second, for instance, as they skate over the keyboard, and I’m a little sad but mostly impressed. What these hands have done. The good and the bad…it’s still impressive. (Take a look at your own, and you’ll see your own history…read it and memorize it).

Because hands can do everything but lie.

After my first class, this morning, I sat in the lounge and flipped through the rest of the textbook. We’re about to begin our abbreviated, quick-speed run-through of fiction this week. I wasn’t sure, still not, of which stories I want to focus on.  Welty, O’Connor, Faulkner, Wright, those are the usuals, but maybe I could find something new?

I merely turned one page, at that point, and there, on that page, lay a story I’d not only never read, but never heard of: “Hands” by Sherwood Anderson. Can you beat that?

So, I thought, well, hands aren’t perhaps a normal topic of conversation or blogging, unless you eat dinner at Nana’s on Sundays – let’s see what it’s about. Let’s read this story.

I was immediately struck by this unique and at first glance, blandly written piece of short fiction. Not the least of which was it’s not-so-subtle homosexual overtones, especially for something written in the 1910s. Admittedly, I’m not that familiar with Anderson’s thematic oeuvre but I was compelled by his fictional design in this particular story.

How sad the life of Wing Biddlebaum was. How misunderstood; note: due to an unfortunate incident, allegedly, with younger boys at the school where he used to teach, he was forced out of town and had to change his name.

Here, read this:

Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression.
     The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads.

His hands “alarmed their owner.” That’s bizarre and captivating to me. After you read the story, you’ll see why for yourself. He hides behind his hands and tries to manipulate them into the working class definition of “manual” labor of the other men in this town. He succeeds too well, you might say.

This will make sense after you read the story.

Another captivation: several times throughout the story, Anderson keeps stalling, suggesting that the “truth” of this story can’t be told except by a poet. A poet that Anderson refers to several times throughout the piece. And not just any poet, an obscure one.

To me, this is the beauty of the contrast.

Obscurity has no use for hands. A poet doesn’t either. All he needs is “an eye.” The difference is that truth exists in two forms: exposed for the eye to see, or through sleight of hand. The deceit of Wing’s lavish use of his hands is nothing short of a subconscious effort to trick the eye. Watch his hands and you never see the desperation that is in his face. The worry that drains him of “place” and “home.”

I mean for godsakes, re-read the first paragraph, again. He lives in a dilapadating house on the edge of a ravine.  He’s headed for a meltdown, and one that’s been boiling for the last twenty years.

Talk about a slow burn.

Sigh.

I just hope that’s not what Nana sees when she looks at me.

Guess I better scratch gloves off my Christmas list.

Last night, my ankle had an out-of-body experience.

It’s a crying shame Shakespeare didn’t write a character who had an almost broken, badly sprained ankle.

He didn’t, did he? 

I mean, I’m only peripherally familiar with the hunchback of Richard III. (I think it’s the III, it’s Richard plus some number, that much I know).

A lateral view of the ankle in question.

I still have two more gruelling performances of this play left and last night I…well…I may have compromised my 1000% commitment to my role in this production:  I now possess a badly sprained ankle.

That’s never happened to me before, in my entire acting career.

Truth be told, and gladly, I used to have really good balance and coordination. I really did. I was always very good at walking. And running. And jogging…though walking was where I truly held master’s credentials. I didn’t really care for the other, unless I was in the middle of a tennis match.  And, of course that would only affect running.  So, I guess, it’s jogging that I didn’t care for much at all.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, not now, not after last night.

I think, “post-the-now-infamous-flip-flops-blog,” Fate decided to rear her ugly, unkempt head and spit on me for stepping on Amanda’s toes the night before, toes that were visible from the starboard side of her flip flops, if you wish to recall that blog. 

Or, to be more exact, let’s say Fate spit on the small walkway in my yard that leads to the front door.

I mean, I slipped on something. And when things happen for no reason, the safest person to blame is Fate. Or, sometimes, Sean Hannity, or Don Imus, you know people like that.

Bless poor Amanda, really. I do love her, she is my best friend, but I just keep hurting her, accidentally. Like I have some deeply embedded vendetta against her. Last night, there she was reaching for her keys to unlock the front door, and I…honestly, I have no idea how it happened…but, I just slipped, I fell on something coming down the walkway.

Let me set the scene a little more, for you:  our walkway to the front door is ever so slightly a downhill curved walkway.  At the end of it, there’s our adorable, quaint front porch with its thick wicker chairs and bistro table set, our random potted army of herbs, the small square box garden, which is still doing very well thank you for asking, and this enormous, large floral arrangment my sister gave me for Christmas, which I am now attached to for no real reason at all and have nailed to the front of the house, over the bistro table set, I like an ambience, if you will – I change out the colors in it to give it more of a seasonal appeal (we’re in lime green right now) and of course the treacherous, oversized brick step that leads you up a small flight of space to the front door.

I was several, several feet behind the unsuspecting Amanda. The lovely Amanda who was wearing a brand new blouse, cleverly patterned in a silk material with soft, red flowers, with that ever so polite and alluring cloth tie that good quality blouses are carrying in style these days. She was a real picture, that Amanda, and to add insult to injury, had her back turned to me, she was trying to unlock the door, and so, as cliche as it was (as most truths are, anyway), she really, truly…never saw it coming.

But then, neither did I.

I wish we could grow this mint. But, Mississippi's soil isn't rich enough.

I was in the middle of a sentence, agreeing with her about about our potential cornering of the market on mint syrups, that’s our new harebrained (circa 1564) idea…although, I will admit, it has some credibility to it.  We do make a mean, delicious mint syrup, and it goes well with anything. Except broccoli. (Don’t ask).

We’d been discussing building more box gardens to put up in the back yard, and I don’t know exactly what happened, but the next thing I knew I was falling. Fast. I was absolutely shocked at the amount of speed my upper body was gaining in momentum as I tripped.

Like a satellite gone terribly awry, I was being propelled at terrific speed, a centrifuge of foolishness, and as bodies in motion must have something towards which they are being drawn, thanks to gravity’s apple, I was deadset on my target: Amanda’s back.

I didn’t have time to warn her.

She didn’t have time to turn around.

The brick step and the concrete porch didn’t care one way or the other.

I slammed into Amanda at whiplash speed. She was thrown, prostrate, to the ground – there went her purse, there went the house keys, and there went my cell phone, there went my keys, there went my glasses. The left leg of my pants were nearly ripped off at the knee, and a gash taking its place, my right wrist, ever ready for a chance at being a reflex, shot out to catch myself from falling head long into the light-iron pillar, one of four twisted metal pole designs that hold our porch awning up, most of the time…and there went “something” from my right ankle.

There was a definite pop.

And I immediately became nauseous. Sweating, clammy. I was going to throw up. I was in severe pain. I look over at Amanda, and she was in shock, her first response was to laugh.  She does that sometimes when her nerves take over.

I do too.  I often laugh in the face of violence.

She stood up, very slowly, asking me why I tackled her. Did I disagree with some point in her argument for putting the mint in the backyard, and if so, couldn’t I have just told her instead of jumping her?

I wasn’t quite able to offer a witty rebuttal. My body was on a completely different wavelength, sending out its worker cells to check all sections of the injured, subcutaneous parties. I was on high alert; I could have heard a dog whistle. I was primed for something…fearing (and hoping against) the inevitable: the emergency room and a broken ankle. I’ve never broken any bone in my body. In kindergarten, once, for show-and-tell, I bragged about two things: never having broken any bones in my body, and never having been bitten by a rattlesnake.

I was terrified that my record was about to be less one bragging right.

I was also filthy. Amanda, you see, fell flat onto the concrete. A scratch or two (actually, the event itself was more damaging than the aftermath. The real irony: she merely re-injured, no lie, the exact same sore I’d caused the night before by stepping on her toe. The very same place. Not another scratch on her.  This is why Fate is in trouble, in my book).

I, however, never made it all the way onto the concrete porch. My right hand, wrist, arm, cell phone and keys did. But the rest of me fell into our lovely flower bed, ringed so preciously with large chunks of flintstone. Those sharp, sweet edges nestled themselves into my right side and took the wind out of me. The very soil I’d watered, fed, and given shelter to smeared their thanks all down my pants and my Zara jacket.

I'm no angel, but this is what it felt like.

My right ankle stayed, turned outwardly at an angle not meant fully for the human foot, in its own little self-made trench, beside the walkway. A picture should have been taken. And further, a scientific note should be made, here, as well. Until last night, I didn’t know there was a subcategory of an out-of-body experience.  I knew there were some people, mainly those who believe in angels a million times over, who had near death experiences.  I suppose that would certainly shock a body out of itself.

But, that’s not what I had. I don’t think. And yet, somehow, I threw my body out of myself…I mean, that’s what it felt like. I didn’t pass out, I saw no light other than the bug light that hangs over the door (well, that and the street light that doesn’t work – I need to call the city about that)…but, I still felt like my right leg and ankle weren’t a part of my right side and arm, which wasn’t a part of the left side of my body at all. It felt like I had to stand up and retrieve my body parts and put them back together.

Which, for all intents and purposes, I did. And then I tested my ankle, which at the time, I was still in enough shock to think all was well. So, I took myself inside and to the bathroom. I had to have a bath, I mean, like right then.

It was there that I saw the size my ankle had taken on: I never knew the human body could swell so much and so quickly. The skin across my ankle is among the tautest (or is it most taut?) on my body. And yet, it appeared that somehow, someone had inserted a cantalope, or half of Dolly Parton, into the space previously occupied by my ankle bone.

I was grotesquely intrigued. But rather than stare all night at it, I did what I remembered you should do when an edema, or swelling, occurs; I also became somewhat tickled at the word “edema” – I may have known a drag queen by that name, once – I put heat on it, first, for several hours. And then, ice.

It almost looks normal-sized now.

Next, comes the real test, though, because I have to go to the bathroom. I’ve not stood on it yet, today. But, now is the hour that something’s going to have to give.

I’m just hoping Fate realizes I gave enough last night.

I’ll let you know, later, if I’m right or wrong.

That time I almost met Harper Lee.

I take great pride in the Lee last name.

According to legend, and also my father who, among his many world travels, visited the “Lee place” in Ireland, etc. I think, from what I can gather, that it was hardly more than a couple of sticks stuck upright in a slab of mortar. 

A perfect potato.

I mean, that’s been centuries back; the only palpable evidence was that of the family crest, but don’t ask me what’s on that thing. I couldn’t tell you. What I do know is that there were only ever two Lee brothers who set out for the New World. Both made it, but on the way over, one lost everything except like a goat or two, a cow, and half a potato…oh, and of course his precious family. The other managed to hold onto all his money, though I think he lost a daughter.

I don’t know; it’s not important.

Point is, in a way, we’re all related. And, in that same way, I get to take all the credit for what everyone else in the family did, does, and has done. Even though, we don’t know each other. And probably never will. Because why should we.

However, following this by-now established logic in my made-up world of existence and family trees, that means, then that Harper Lee is related to me. And that means I’m a part of her great American novel. (Also, it means I’m related to Peggy Lee, Bruce Lee, Gypsy Rose Lee, Jason Lee, and probably Jennifer Jason Leigh, and Vivian Leigh, even though they tried to cleverly hide the fact by misspelling the Lee last name. But, I wasn’t fooled).

There are many more Lees/Leighs/even Lis (like Jet Li), in my family, but today’s focus is on Harper for the simple fact that I almost met her once.

My friend Lyle and I (several years ago, now, I guess it was) were taking a trip down to Pensacola. We have some good friends who live down there, still, and it makes me jealous to think about it since I too wish to live near the water but I still love them. Lyle had diligently (as he is wont to do) made all the travel arrangements. I try to always maintain great relationships with extremely orderly people.  I secretly wish I were, and every now and then, I can aggravate myself into becoming like them, but it’s ever so much, much easier just to find friends who already are like that, and then support them in their decision-making process. This I can do, in my sleep. (And that’s usually exactly where I do it).

Lyle had chosen a more scenic route, which if I recall correctly, actually ended up being a better route, anyway, and a portion of it wound its way through Monroeville, Alabama.  This was exciting news to me.

I knew of Monroeville; one of my favorite authors is Capote. Not so much for anything stylistically, but more because he was such a loudmouth, one-of-a-kind original. For me, that’s how I divide my favorites in literature: those who wrote well and those who lived well.  And though I personally think I’m nothing like him, I still blush at the comparison people often make between us. I think it has mostly to do with the fact that I, like him, am somewhat addicted to scarfs.

I've been to Paradise, and I've been to Me.

I also wear a Fedora, though, which puts me, perhaps, a little more in the category of Elvis Costello, someone else I’m often compared to, for some reason. I look nothing like him, and besides, I think he favors Bono. Who recently wrote a poem about Elvis Presley (not a good one, in my opinion – I’m supposing there’s musical accompaniment that I missed hearing). A few members of Presley’s family, a small tributary of it anyway still gurgling along in Mississippi, on his father’s side, are close family friends of U.L., so I don’t know, maybe it all comes full circle.

I’ve gotten off track, as usual. Sorry.

I was well familiar with Monroeville, like I said, because I often re-read and enmesh myself in one of my favorite autobiographies, Capote, written by one Gerald Clarke; it truly takes a good long look at this tiny town. It’s also well-written, I should point out.  Which is really all it could be, considering the stink Capote caused about his “invention” of creative nonfiction. I know, I know, he never really said, out loud, that he “invented” creative nonfiction, but so superior did he think his ability to cull a story from truth along the tenets of fiction that he, I’m sure, believed it his invention by proximity of mastery, if nothing else.

That’s what all geniuses do, you know.

So, I was elated when Lyle said we’d be passing through. I’d always wanted to drive through Monroeville. I mean, it couldn’t be that large. It wouldn’t take up much time.

We were stopping for gas anyway.

The trouble was – the rain. It was pouring, open-spout, straight down, as rain tends to do. And, it was a little more off the beaten path of Highway 41, than it appeared to be on the map. Still, there’s no better motivation to take on an adventure quite like the need for gas. As we tentatively took the exit towards Monroeville, it dawned on Lyle that another great, literary giant lived here: Nell Harper Lee, who in the recent cinema had been portrayed on the big screen by both Catherine Keener and Sandra Bullock. The New Yorker had recently published a letter from Harper Lee in which she openly criticized Bullock’s version of her in the lesser Capote film (put out literally on the heels of the award-winning one). “I never wore penny loafers,” Lee said. Or something like that; it had to do with shoes, I believe.

Her curmudgeon is still thick as a pie crust. But that letter I read way after the fact of this trip, as you’re about to see.

We should track down her house, then, I said to Lyle. Let’s bite the bullet, and be those people, I said, let’s ask the locals where she’s buried. 

For shame, I know. But, we couldn’t help it. She’d not been heard of in ages, she might as well be dead, in a plot right along Capote, if indeed, he were buried here, as well. I found out and soon, though, that she wasn’t dead. As a matter of fact, she was very well alive, and living in Monroeville.

Let me back up first, a little.

So, we’d found ourselves, finally, under a tall awning at a Chevron. And not a moment too soon, I should add. I get nervous easily on road trips (having fun, of course) and was in need of a restroom break. It doesn’t take much, as anyone who knows me will gladly tell you. While in the Chevron, I did bite the bullet – I did the one thing I dislike others for doing, because truth be known, I don’t get starry-eyed. At least, not easily. I remember my Ya Ya saying once that no one was that important; we all have to shit, she said. (Forgive the imagery and language, but that’s fairly provocative, and it’s kept me in good stead for many years).

But, regardless, I did it: I became a tourist of wanderlust and asked the guy behind the cash register where her grave was. And also, Capote’s house, and her house, also. The guy behind me answered. She’s not dead, he said. And he should know; he was her mailman, and was on his way to deliver her mail, right then.

And for the record, Capote’s house was torn down years ago, and the mailman wasn’t sure if there was even a marker there, but maybe? Anyway, we could find Harper Lee on the second floor of the bank, in the middle of town. She kept her office there, and we could just get out and go upstairs, and on the right, knock at her door.

The real deal. No deal.

I hurried back to the car, told Lyle, and we immediately agreed that we should do this. We should just go further into the town and get lost and find her and well…let’s just get that part done, first, we said.

The town wasn’t, isn’t, large, but it doesn’t take a space much bigger than a living room to get lost in when you don’t know where you’re going. The rain was relentless. We took several wrong turns, and I believe, at the last minute, we were about to give up when a KFC roared into view and there behind it was a clunky, solid-brown brick building with an unobtrusive sign stating that this was indeed the First Bank of Monroeville.

We pulled into a parking space and stared at it. Here it was; here, she was, somewhere tucked away inside like the thousands and thousands of dollar bills. I imagined her wound as tightly into her own persona as a roll of quarters. Just as heavy, too, I thought, with her mystique and her bitten thumb attitude at the literary world. Who could blame her? Some critics don’t really believe she wrote To Kill A Mockingbird, anyway; others don’t give the fact that she had anything to do with In Cold Blood a leg to stand on, (I mean, Capote didn’t), so where do you go with that?

Poor thing.

However…she was still a giant, and more power to her if she’s fooled them all. (But I don’t believe that for a moment).

We took a deep breath, Lyle and I, and scared ourselves. What would we say to her? Hey, Harper, good job on that book and all?  Or, Atticus, cool name, where’d that come from? Or, are you Scout?

The rain kept on and on and on.

And, then…so did we.

We pulled out of the parking space, too intimidated to meet her. At least, this is what we said to ourselves, heading further south towards old friends who hadn’t written any works of “staggering genius” (yet), and a mile of sand that wouldn’t care what questions we asked. We told ourselves, Look at us – what we have on, we’re wearing traveling clothes (for me that was pair of exercise pants and a Golden Girls overshirt).

You couldn’t go meeting the First Lady of Fiction looking like we did.

Plus, the rain! We would have come across as obsessed fans, a couple of soaking rats. We’d probably have been arrested. Of course, I’d spit the fact of that mailman out as fast as I could, if that were the case. Aiding and abetting is a crime, too.

I know I missed a real opportunity that day. But, only in the flesh, in the literal, only in the very real chance of having met her, shaked her hand, thanked her, whatever would have happened. Everything else about that moment, though…pure gold, I must say. A great memory.

Just do it what it says.

We took our last exit in Alabama, just miles from the Florida state line, through a town so small I’m still not sure it was even there. Except for this sign. Spray-painted across an empty storefront.

I don’t know, but for me, this made the trip.

This sign was worth all the money in the First Bank of Monroeville.

Part Two: Aunt Lola

When and if I remember a dream it’s because it has some potent element to it; I’d like to think I made that point, clearly enough, in yesterday’s blog. And certainly, I would think so with the Billie Holiday dream; and those precious and upsetting few that have come true…all of which I’ve shared with you.

God is in there somewhere.

But the potency, when it’s there, is one that is, that must be, for me, necessarily Fascinating and Disturbing in its minutiae, as it invades my mind, my lobes, with its obsessive and small details; isn’t that where God is, according to van der Rohe? I make no bones about how my dreams are often too vivid and verbal, to the point of Hamletian madness; I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I lose what little sense I have left by Christmas.  (But, I would imagine, we all have dreams like that…and that we’ll all be mad by Christmas.  That seems to be the universal deadline).

So, true to fashion, here’s the Aunt Lola dream, one that has bothered me and moved me in myserious ways, since I dreamed it a couple of years ago. It has a residue that I can’t shake from off my soul.

I dreamed that I was running late for class, for Kay’s class, (this was toward the end of my graduate degree). I got to campus and there taped on the door was a scripted note telling me that she’d changed locations at the last minute, to an abandoned nursing home, one that I’d driven by many times, and wondered why it still stood. It was such an eyesore.

It seems as if she’d made this decision because of some research-oriented assignment – I vaguely could recall, I thought, her mentioning this, the research assignment, in a class the week before but in that announcement we were going to meet at the zoo in Jackson; no one, though, was upset either by the fact that we hadn’t gone to the zoo, as promised, nor by the fact that we were sitting on the floor in the large dining hall of this abandoned nursing home. Of course, being an Educator, we’re always striving to enhance the informational exchange rate, so to speak, so nothing really surprises us: zoos, nursing homes, a cow with a glass window in her one of her stomachs (this can be actually and physically viewed and touched at the Wise Center, the famous Vet School at Mississippi State University – look it up).  

Anyway, I’m late, and there’s the obligatory long hall that I’m desperately running down, (is that Archetypal? It seems so collectively Jungian) and there’s Kay, sitting crosslegged in the doorway of the dining hall. She’s motioning for me to hurry. We’re in the process of giving presentations today, and I’m next, she mouths. Did I forget?

I did, but I’m almost to the room when I realize that I’ve got to go the bathroom, immediately, and I mouth this back, in response, to Kay, who grins (in real life, I often have to go to the bathroom; I say it’s because I have a tipped kidney), but she’s also silently adamant that I not miss my turn to go. She appreciates order and routine.

I won’t miss my turn, I assure her. I just need a minute or two.

I come out of the bathroom and am on my way to the “class”room, to give my presentation, when a voice to my right calls my name. I turn and it’s my Aunt Lola, who passed away several years ago, at the age of 98. She’s the same age, now, standing there looking at me, but without any complications, and most notably, without that crook in her back that bent her toward the grave before the rest of her was ready. I’d heard her say that many times before.

She looks radiant, youthful, active, if you will. She’s wearing a blue nightgown and matching robe, and again, I can’t quite describe it, but she’s beautiful, a light. There’s a corona, edging beyond her, that I am afraid to enter, to approach, and yet, I’m delighted that this fear has put me at a crossroads, a carrefour, especially in the presence of a woman I loved so deeply, as a child. This must be what happens to the dead; they become a tendril to their corporeal life. I’m sure they do that just as an effort to put us at ease, but slightly. I’m not saying I believe in apparitions anymore than I’m saying I don’t.

I cry, “How can you be here? How can you be alive?”

I’m ecstatic that she is, and I want everyone to know that God must be real, how else could she have returned; its’s so natural a thing to believe, blinded as I am by her softness. I mean, there’s no other way she could be talking to me if not for the fact that all my life the faith I’ve held in Christ and God is actual. She’s proof, right?

So, I rush down the hall to the class because I want them to know the truth, this truth.

You've been here before, right?

I’ve rarely been this fervent in real life, about anything, but all of a sudden, in my dream, this is what I must tell everyone. I must bring them into the hall and show them Aunt Lola. She will prove all things. I know this, you understand, in the dream. But Aunt Lola refuses.

Kay looks at me, upset, that I’d interrupt her class at so crucial a time.

“We’re doing presentations, for chrissake, Kris,” she says.

Aunt Lola pulls me back into the hall of this abandoned nursing home, and looks up into my face. I’m now racked with guilt. I admit to her how sorry I was that I didn’t ‘do right by her dying.’ I was indifferent; I was immature; I was afraid to see her stilled, against that plush casket. I tried looking at her in the casket, at Nowell’s, but I couldn’t. I was too overwhelmed; I’d never before been flooded with such simple reasons to not want someone to die: her homemade meatloaf, those beds and beds of calla lillies, helping her pick up pecans from the front yard.

It didn’t make sense. How amazingly, these simple things made her great in my eyes. I should have looked at her in the casket, I know, I should have. She overlooks this weakness, “Forget that. I have to tell you something.”

I can hardly look at her, she’s so bright, and she says, “You almost died the other night.”

This is the residue part. It is a chilling thing to have someone tell you that you almost died.

“I’ve come to tell you that it’s ok; it’s not time yet. Soon, but not yet. You need to live, first.”

“I am living,” I argue. I’m upset now, not just that I almost died, but also because she’d waste such time on so old a cliche. I’m hysterical at this point. She remains gentle; the dead, in my dreams, are always so gentle. She won’t tell me what I almost died from, what almost was responsible for taking my life; instead, she implies that I am not appreciating the normal, the mundane, and the ordinary.

So, now, of course, I intend to be suspicious of everything plain.

This shoe closet is messy. Sadly, it's also mine.

She tells me that’s ridiculous, guessing at my suspicion. She implies that God has put in these plain things a necessary, if to me, rudimentary, exuberance that surpasses human understanding. She is telling me to slow down, to take notice, and to take a breath.

And so that morning, when I woke up, I let my initial disappointment ebb, and found that I was quite happy, content. I crawled out of bed, and that’s when I rediscovered, and rather accidentally, a lost pair of favorite shoes.

Would that work as something simple? I felt that it would.

And that meant the whole world to me.

I can’t believe I’m blogging.

But, then, is that really true?

Aren’t we all, deep down, deliciously wanting to be voyeurs, without a court trial attached; those always take up so much time. What we want is to break a law and get away with it.  That’s all blogging is, really, an acceptably broken law; windows made of words for the rest of us Peeping Toms to look at. Nobody minds it; no, instead, it’s encouraged.

Besides, isn’t there something just too alluring about showing a little “skin” to the Peeping Toms, to the entire web-viewing  world about how you feel, on any particular subject: racism, nudity, Republicans, orange juice, how to keep pests off squash, pornography, banned books? 

Your answer to this is of course. And, so that means that this, right here, this small blog against the millions, is really what America is about, or better yet: what America is becoming.

Now, I know a lot about a very little, admittedly, but that is all I need to grab a blank webpage and start typing; it’s what I’m doing right now with my blatant overuse of semicolons, ellipses, and don’t think that’s where it’s gonna stop – I fully intend to abuse dashes, capital letters, colloquialisms. What are you gonna do about?  Comment?  Go ahead. That’s the point.

Maybe someone will read my blog and tell me how wrong I am, how belittling my opinion appears to be; that it drives them batty how I don’t even have to use grammar correctly. I hope they do. Having taught Compositon in college for several years, it’s a great relief to ignore the rules of grammer.  There’s too much structure in education anyway, don’t you agree? (Personally, I think I’m still a traditionalist, if slightly leaning towards liberalism, in language – but I mean, hell, look at your last text message: DNT 4GET 2 B @ MTG @ 3. DRX L8).  I don’t want to admit it, but I know what that means. DNT U? LOL. Or, as I’m beginning to see more often, HE HE.

I hate this shift in linguistics, for a starter point, but I defend it, and if I defend, I must condone it, to some degree, which could mean, maybe I don’t hate it, after all. There are so few places left in the American worldview where freedom of speech is so rarely challenged, at least in legalese. (I’m sure I’ll get a challenge to that).  But blogging, texting, it’s the future. And it’s already put its roots down in places like Mississippi, where I live, so that’s pretty much a guarantee of longevity.  We should realize this: even though now that misspelling words doesn’t alter meaning as much as we’d tried to scare past generations into believing, there are still dangers: people tend to put a lot more stock in what they read as accurate or true than what they hear. And, for those of us who call ourselves bloggers, we, perhaps, assume some of that responsibility.

But, for my blog, please, take note: there may be ounces, grams, teardrops of truth in what I write, or state, or opine, etc., but most of the time I’m more concerned about the humor beneath the truth. That’s the real connective tissue. Truths as they happen in this world are mostly relative, but humor, humor is universal; it transcends truth…and often comes at the expense of relatives, or relativity.

And, that’s really where my focus lies. Or, at least, will attempt to lie. (Dig a little deeper in that sentence until your shovel hits the pun. There’s one there).

A truth of mine: I’ve always, gut-deep, wanted to be a writer, and I try, still…a poem or two here, a play thrown over there, and so on, but blogging…if I can really stick with it – because I’m not, I repeat, I’m not what you’d call a very disciplined writer, I’m an inspired writer (read: procrastinates until some unique idea burrows into my conscience and won’t let go). And so, saying, you should sit down and write for awhile, everyday, has become more like a really good philosophy and excellent theory to share/proselytize with/to other writers over martinis or in between cocktail weinies (and no, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme) to appear more wizened than they are and thus, more productive which means a “better writer,” but, in reality, it’s less likely to become an actuality for me.  Which makes me far less than those earnest writers who listen to me blather on about the craft itself.

Hopefully, this will change.  But here’s why it’s been such an issue for me:  1) writers need to, much like an actor, play hide and seek with gratification; the “hiding” comes in waiting for someone to acknowledge our worth and say Yes, this should be published and read by the world – the “seeking” comes, rarely for most of us, but comes when publication actually happens. Sure, sure, we write because it’s an obsession, it’s an obligation, but the other half of that obsessive obligation is in the sharing, in the recognition.  Please, please, we beg, read what I’ve written and talk to me about it, tell me I’m worthy of the written word. That’s validating, and that’s a, no the, sad commentary for those of us in the arts; and 2) editorial intrusion is as much a part of the writing process as the fact that words put in a logical order with corresponding subjects, verbs, and modifiers create a sentence, which leads to understanding, which is a cornerstone of a civilized people. It is impossible for me to “permit” myself to write uninhibited by my own internal editor. I monitor every syllable to the point that I, well, often miss the point of writing.

So, blogging, for me, I hope will allow me the opportunity to write without internal criticism, to purge my mind of extraneous thoughts and share those, in their pure, raw, unchiseled form.  Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it, since many will judge me by what I leave here, on this blog, but at the same time, those many will also see reflections of themselves; perhaps not in what I say, but in that I say it all…as is.

We all secretly wish we kept journals. We all silently like to believe that whatever we have to say is immediately important, without revision, a la Ginsberg, and you know what?  Maybe it is…no, no, of course it is. Because in that off-handed comment, in that over-the-shoulder greeting, in that “of this moment” conversation, in that shared joke, in the cruelty of social grazing, is not just truth, even by the ounceful, but is the actual process of how we think and what we think. Aside from judgment, which no one escapes, there’s also a healthy amount of courage…in saying the right thing, the witty thing, the wrong thing, the stupid thing, the thing we all think but can’t say, whether it be a synaptic misfire, a faux pas, a foot-in-mouth incident, or, just the God’s honest “truth.”

We’ve all been there.  We just wish we hadn’t been, or that we had a second chance to explicate, or had been the one to say it in the first place, to elaborate, to erase, to re-write history, or to be “born again” in that moment, even after the moment…and, well, we can do that now, thanks to blogging.

At least, that’s what I’m going to think, to believe….that’s how I’m going to approach this exercise in dialogue, even if I can only use my fingers to do the talking.

There’s ten of them, and that’s like nine more than my mouth.