A Poem of Ancient Recollection (In Not-So-Perfect Metre)

I've fought 'midst the soldiers of Mycenea.
I've fought 'gainst the soldiers of Rome --
I've fought 'midst m' brothers from Athens
All f'er th' sake o' callin' home, "Home."

An' since then,
War's repeated.
It's repeat'd itself
Through and through--

From Spartan,
To Roman,
To Red Coat
To Nazi:

Ain't no Enemy
I ain't ne'er seen,
Nor confronted,
'Nor murdered. All f'er you.

All f'er, among other things,
The sake o'callin' th' likes o'you, you --
A'n th' other likes like you
All of 'em, somehow, th' likes of y', too --

You who have stumbled
'Cross the remnants o'our past
You, who've rec'gnized, recognition
That'd better soon pass...

Oracles?
Lotus leaves?
Exotic Princesses from whose cunnilingus
We achieve higher consciousness?

Mantras?
Meditations?
Escapes from our duality?
Other forms of the drugs I continue to do daily?

There is not one den,
One lair,
One depth
Into which I haven't dwelt

There isn't one chakra
One soul
One echelon
Into which I han't sail't.

Call me Jason
Call me Isis
Call me Persephone
Call me mere Hell

But there isn't one soul you'll soon meet
Who doesn't know you so well.


--- G. ONeill, Nov 18, 2007

"So What're You Feeling?"

I've been getting that alot lately.

Ever since the event.

The "melancholic event," as my ex-In-Law Mormon family used to refer to it. I actually always liked that. I liked how my ex-In-Law Mormon family used to refer to it. To death. As the "melancholic event." It showed that even they, the supposedly most utterly stoic amidst the Christian and Post-Christian faiths, still had a sense of humor about life.

And death.

And so, when I'm asked, "What'm I feeling Lately?," or, "How's It been Goin'?," I've been tending to fancy an approach much like that. Of my ex-In-Law Mormon family's. Coupled, that is, with a version of my father's response to such questions. He can't stand being asked, "How are you doing?" He thinks it's superfluous -- stupid.

"How the hell you think I'm doin'?," he retorts, which silences any conversation from that point on.

I fancy such a retort, but I never deliver it. To me, there's a difference between how one feels and how one responds... In this sort of case, I mean. Lord knows I've never been the sort to refuse a conversation stopper. But within this scenario -- within the scenario of my mother's death -- I've learned to deliver the lines that folks most want to hear.

"Oh, I'm relieved She's at peace," I say. Or, "So long as her sufferin's ended, I s'pose it's all we can ask for..."

You wouldn't believe the points a comment like that can score. Especially if you're wearing a suit when you deliver it.

"So what am I feeling?," as the true friends tend to ask? I won't lie to ya. I'm feelin' relieved.

Try to put yourself in my situation: For over 20 years, every time the phone rang and you saw a particular number show up on the Caller ID, your stomach dropped two floors. You knew, at that point, you had two options: either not answer the call and pray for a time when you'd be "in a better place" to deal with it; or to answer it and listen to all the reasons why things weren't right in your mother's life -- the majority of which could be traced back to you, and your inability to live up to her expectations.

I know I possess a performative sensiblity. I know I have a flair for drama. But I am no drama queen. Truth be told, when it comes to my personal life, I fear, loathe and detest drama. Because drama between individuals is ultimately pettiness being played out on the everyday stage. I prefer my everyday stage to be clean, functional, and drama-free. Yes, as a dramatist, I value drama. But only within its truest context. In its truest context, drama is an art that conveys a theme or a message which exists for the ostensible benefit of humanity. As for the everyday, I prefer directness. In everyday life, I long for direct, honest communication.

So it as this -- the queen who can asure you he's not a drama queen -- that I can assure you: My mother's life became unglued the moment she realized I was a homosexual. That happened over 20 years ago. It became official in 1987. And since circa 1987, my relationship with my mother has been nothing less than contentious. Contentious because she was convinced she could change me ("back"), and because I was convinced that who I was -- however offbeat and different it might have been from anything my parents had ever considered as a legitimate sensibility -- was not only legitmate, but downright natural.

Such became the nature of what would become the 20+ year battle between my mother and myself.

I have been lectured numerous times as to the "Eastern," the "New Age" and the stripped-down psychological reasons why I should not have engaged in battle with my mother. But this battle, as far as I was concerned, was too valuable to risk losing to mere theory. This battle dwelt within the realm between mother and child. True, this battle lived under the rules of Maya. It was illusion by technicality, I will admit, but it was as real as any illusion that emerges from our birth into the material world as any illusion could be. For what is more real in the real world than the birth that brings us into it?

I exercised. I meditated. I got as "centered" as I could possibly get. But still, as calm and as centered as I thought I could make myself, whenever the phone rang -- if it was she who was calling -- then all centeredness fell by the wayside, and I prepared to defend myself. To fight.

What was I fighting for, even though I had recognized she was the proverbial "hot stove" from which I was obligated to withdraw my touch in order to remain unharmed? Why did I "engage" with her, despite my having been taught that engaging would only lead to the inevitable "dangerous dance," which -- even if I did temporarily succeed in leading -- would never become a dance between equals who respected each other? Why did I continue to fight a war against an insane person?

To justify my own sanity, plain and simple. Not many of you have been in direct contact with me lately, personally or via phone. But if you had been, you most likely would have heard me utter these words: "I know I'm not going to change her. I know I'm probably not going to get through. But sometimes I just need to hear myself say it -- to her -- just to assure myself I'm not the crazy one."

I might have my problems. I might be "classifiable" in some manner, shape or psychologically disorderly form. But I am not insane. I'm just a little bit crazy. Ma couldn't handle that. She couldn't handle anything that didn't fit within the narrow parameters of her socially-acceptable, Pre-Civil Rights, Pre-Feminist, Pre-Queer paradigm. And she was REALLY vocal about that inability.

Oh, well.

If she'd have suffered in silence, things might've been much different between us. But she chose to become a soldier. She chose to fight, for the sake of her beloved bourgeois aristocracy. She chose to struggle to maintain her bourgeois status quo rather than work to have a valuable relationship with her one and only child. And how did she fight? By choosing to repeatedly let me know what a disappointment I was.

So I chose to remind her that disapointment was a two-way street.

It's one thing to "Honor thy Father and Mother." It's quite another to believe that taking their abuse is the same thing.

By the way, today would've been her 72nd birthday.

Delaware, A Scallop Wrapped in Bacon, and Driving Home with the Boss

If there's any one (well, composite) image that I shall forever and heretofore associate with receiving the news of my mother's death, it will be that. Or should I say, "these." Or, more precisely, "those."

Those images of Delaware, with a tooth-picked scallop wrapped in bacon, which, after eating, resulted in driving home with the boss.

You see, I received the news of my mother's demise while I was in Delaware, with the boss (who was only there because yet another employee's grandmother had just died). We had just finished presenting our respective quasi-infomercials to the greater Delaware Division of the Arts' representatives who were ostensibly interested in learning more about email marketing. Which is to say, we had just wrapped up our "pitches" to our then-presently assigned audiences.

We had just wrapped up our "pitches," and we were feeling quite good. Quite good about ourselves, and our product, which is how we were supposed to feel. But we hadn't yet reconnected, amidst the happiness of Happy Hour, and so I was expecting his call.

Which is when the call came.

It wasn't his call, at first. At second, yes, it was. But at first, there was a message from my father.

My father has only called me three times in my life. Once, to tell me that his mother "had passed," twice, to inform me that he would not be co-signing for me on a Manhattan apartment, and now -- now.

Now, he was calling me (as I poked at and attempted to chow down a scallop wrapped in bacon), to tell me my mother had just died. I looked up from my cell phone as I was retrieving the message and lo, and behold, there was my boss. I told him what I had just heard. That was all he needed to hear. He told me to get packed and to get into the car.

The next few hours were surreal, to say the least. We had to reschedule all the rest of my week, which was supposed to be spent touring Minneapolis and Duluth with more seminars. We had to call the Office Manager and another other Sales Rep who was on the road, to get her to cover my calendar. We had to make several months' worth of planning re-arrange itself within one night. It sucked.

But there was never any doubt on my boss's behalf that I needed to go home and take care of family business, despite my offering to find some sort of compromise. I hadn't had a good relationship with my parents since 1983, I told him, so they could wait. That didn't fly. He wanted me home as much as my father must have... So we drove back to NY together, in a Hertz rental, stopping off for family-style seafood at a cute greasy spoon somewhere between Delaware and Pennsylvania.

So, neither Delaware, nor scallops wrapped in bacon, nor greasy spoons along the way between Dover and Philadelphia will ever be able to remind me of anything but receiving the news of my mother's death.

News, by the way, that was met with immediate relief. Yes, I've grieved since then and I'm still indeed grieving, but I've always believed that the first reaction one has upon receiving the news of someone's death is usually the strongest, most "real" reaction one is going to have. So far the hypothesis holds true. Especially because it's also been my father's main reaction!

My point is this: Watch out for significant signifiers. You'll never escape them. Delaware, scallops wrapped in bacon, and driving from Dover to New York will never lose their meaning in my head...

What're the signifiers in yours?


Love,

Ma’s Eulogy

{Ed's note: I had one day's notice during which to come up with this, or anything like it... Neither my father, nor any cousin; not even the funeral director himself called me to tell me I was responsible for this element of the funeral Mass... The only crack within the sequence of events -- wake, wake, ceremony, procession, Mass, further procession, and finally burial -- during which to write it came at midnight, after the wake, and after having had held myself up over pizza and Martinis with certain loving friends and family.}

Good morning, everyone. I stand here before you having to undertake one of the most difficult writing assignments I’ve ever had to complete. I must deliver to you a eulogy. A eulogy not for a business associate, nor a dear friend, nor a cousin, nor or sibling, nor even a spouse – but for a mother. My mother. I stand here before you, this morning, having undertaken this, the most difficult writing assignment I have ever had to complete: writing a eulogy for my very own mother.

I won’t make it long. I won’t provide you with chronology. I believe the obituary did an excellent job at that. If you’re interested in learning more about the course of events that comprised my mother’s life, then I refer you to that. The obituary. This is not an obituary.

This, as a eulogy, must not summarize the course of events that comprised my mother’s life. Rather, it must capture the essence of that life. As soon as I recognized this differentiation – this difference between an obituary and a eulogy – I felt as sense of liberation. For upon first hearing the news of my mother’s wish that I write her eulogy, like most people, I panicked. Truth be known, I didn’t stop panicking until I looked up the definition of eulogy, and then compared it to the definition of obituary. Once I’d learned what distinguished the former from the latter, I overcame my panic, and I was ready to proceed.

So if the purpose of a eulogy is to capture essence, I asked myself, then what is essence? That answer came to me without the help of any dictionary. For essence is word that, as precise as any definition might attempt to make it, relies upon intuition in order to completely understand. Essence is less than logical. Essence comes not from the mind, but from the earth itself, and before that – from the spirit.

In having known and interacted with many of you here today, and indeed with many who might not be able to be here today, I have listened to and observed many words, thoughts, notions and feelings that would compete to encapsulate my mother’s essence. She was intelligent, beautiful, kind and generous to others, a spitfire, a gadfly, and the life of the party. She had wit, she had charm, but she was nobody’s fool. She could whip up the best Irish stew you’d ever tasted. She could organize a fantastic event, and dance with you until dawn, but still be there to hold your hand if you were having a bad day.

What, I’ve asked myself, encapsulates all theses terms? These thoughts? These notions? These notions that so many of you have had and expressed about my mother. Well, I’ll tell you what encapsulated my mother’s spirit. I’ll tell you what summarizes her essence: will. If there is one word, one notion, one concept that I had to use in order to summarize my mother’s essence – if I only had one word with which to do it – it would be that. Will.

My mother had a will of iron. A will of steel. A will of the strongest alloy that NASA has yet to develop. She had a will and determination that would have put the likes of such Hollywood divas as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, or even today’s diva, Madonna, to shame. Indeed, she could have held her own at a tea party consisting of only those women. Maggy Thatcher and Hilary Clinton wouldn’t even have been invited.

So if you’re ever in a situation, be it social or merely within your own thoughts… When you have to find one word to encapsulate the sprit that was Patricia Ann Theresa Hurley O’Neill, let me suggest that word: will. It was her will that helped her become a Supervising RN. It was her will that aided her, alongside her loving husband of 50 years, Martin, in transforming the house at 124 Riverview Ave from a quaint structure with “good bones” into a home that was consistently referred to as “lovely” by all of its visitors. And, in more recent years, it was her sheer will that enabled her to not only endure, but temporarily remit, the cancer that would eventually claim her body.

I guess the Lord and the spirits in the great beyond now need that will more than we do. I suppose it’s now our time to let go of the great spirit that was Pat O’Neill. But rest assured, her will lives on. Not only in me, her only child, her only son – but by its very own volition. A force like that never dies. As the physicists tell us, energy can neither be created nor destroyed – it simply changes form.

If you loved her, then I love you. Thank you.

10.05.07

12:12am

G. ONeill

Fade to Black

So now it's happened. And this time around, I can't promise poetry.
I can't promise poetry because now, we have a few facts to establish.

Let me start by saying, I love and appreciate each and every one of you.
Each and every one of you who is either on my email list or not;
Who has received my emails or not;
And who has expressed any sort of response to said emails -- or not.

I am a very, very lucky human being.
Because I have many, many human beings who care enough about me to either
Reply to my emails or call whenever I make an announcement
The likes of which I have just announced.

This isn't cliche.
This isn't trivial.
This is how I acknowledge my status in life
And how I feel about (all of) you.

It is a lucky man indeed,
In this day and age,
Who can elicit any response
From his fellow human beings.

Being that response
Via email, via postal,
Phone call,
Or physical presence.

You have all provided me
With all the aforementioned,
And for that, let me mention,
That I love you, and appreciate you.

So hear ye,
Hear ye,
Hear ye --
Because if you do, then you'll actually hear me.

All that having been said, let me now say this:

UNDERSTANDING is one thing. AGREEING is quite another.
Just because I understand, it doesn't mean I agree.

FORGIVENESS is one thing. FORGETTING is yet another.
I shall do my best to accomplish the former,
but I will not even embark upon attempting the latter.
(I have my Jewish friends to thank for this creed.)

RESPECT for what one has given is one thing.
I ACKNOWLEDGE said respect in this instance.
But RESPECT is a two-way street.
Eventually, if not reciprocated, it vanishes and dies.

That's it.
That's all I have to say.

In regards to my mother,
Whom we are finally laying to rest,

It's all I have to say.

Please don't ask me to understand her,
For I already have.

Please don't ask me to forgive her,
For I already have.

Please don't ask me to respect her,
for I always have.

Most of all, don't ask me to like her,
Because understanding, forgiveness, and respect have nothing to do with affinity.

There.
I've said it.

And I don't care if my metre's off.

It's the truth, plain and simple.
I loved her, understood her, forgave her and respected her.

But I never really much liked her.

Ma's Dyin'

Ma's Dyin'.

If words be believed,
Then the words say, "Ma's dyin'."
"Ma's Dyin'," th' words say,
An' I think this time -- words're true.

An' frankly, this time (if time be believed),
I believe my Ma's dyin'.
"Y'er Ma's dyin'," time tells me,
An' we all know time's true.

She's dyin', pure an' simple. She's been givin' way.
She's slippin', she's been slippin', an' she's been givin' way.
She's dyin', pure an' simple, an' she's been givin' way.
Givin' way, plain an' simple -- least as long's'fer't'day.

What more's meant'be said 'bout somethin' so blue?
So basic, so simple, an' yet -- in th' end -- so, so true?
What more's t'be said 'bout a woman done fightin'?
Fightin' forces -- 'tween herself -- 'tween m'self -- an' e'en you?

She's goin',
Crossin' over --
An' I hope t'Hell she makes it.
Dear Lord, I hope she makes it,

That she makes it back t'you.

So What Now?

What now? Whattya do next? Once the carrot's been got? Once the goal's been a'-goaled?

Well I'll tell ya one thing. You stop putting forth any and all affectations. You stop trying to be something you're probably not. Much as you'd like to see yourself as it, if you're to be truly honest with yourself, you have to admit -- it's not you. Oh, sure, it's cute and it's clever. Perhaps it's rhythmic and a little bit lyric. Maybe you thought it was something that was worth somebody's time -- indeed, at one time it was worth your time. But if you're to be truly honest with yourself... In the way you set forth to be when you set forth to pursue it... Then you have to admit, it's a sham. It's veneer. It's surface, through and through, and beneath it lies a more genuine you.

That wasn't supposed to sound clever. That wasn't meant to rhyme. But I had to do it. So there. I did it. I did it again. I did something trite, so we could get it out of the way. Masks take on so many layers. So many forms. I want to transcend triviality. I want to connect.

I don't want to hide behind format, behind tense, style, or meter, or anything that comes across as brogue. I just wanna tell you what I'm feeling. I just wanna show you I'm real. Really here, really feeling, really wanting to reach out -- really wondering if my language is capable of doing anything more than tying itself up in knots. Verbal knots. Linguistic knots. Worded, spoken, come-across-as-text-ed knots. Text so textual it's self conscious beyond belief. Self conscious like a college student's musings. Self-absorbed like the prosaic prose of a deadbeat.

It would be easy to be a deadbeat. I should know. I've been one before. In many ways, I still am one, and my sleeve still flutters from the tugs I still tug on it, begging for attention. The attention of a life with no intention, save recklessness. Save escape.

But I think I'm growing up.

There. I said it. I'm growing up. I'm growing up, and I'm growing out of the phase where I've stuck myself. I've stuck myself in one phase far too long. And I'm glad to have been there but I'm wondering what lies next and I'm still enjoying but I'm wishing it away. I'm wishing it away but I'm wishing it could stay. I'm wishing it could stay in the way that a kid wishes he doesn't have to start using deodorant. His mother is telling him he needs to start using deodorant and he screams, "Nooo!!!" It's a boyish response. It's perhaps one of the last boyish responses he'll be allowed to legitimately have. Sure, he can have more, more boyish responses, but from that point on -- from the point where his mom tells him he needs to start using deodorant -- whatever boyish responses he has will be perceived as boyish in the eyes of the world. In the eyes of the world, he'll be a man. A man having boyish responses.

That's how I feel. I feel like that boy. That boy who's been told by his mom that he stinks, and that he now needs deodorant. Like that stinky boy, I now need something. I need something that shows me and the world that I've moved onto the next step. I need the equivalent to starting to use deodorant when you're pubescent, and your mom tells you you have to.

I stink. I stink and my approach to life stinks and it needs deodorant. I need deodorant and nobody's had the nerve to tell me. Nobody's told me because it's probably nobody's job, except maybe my mother's, and she already did it. She did it when I was 12. She did it, and I fought it. I fought it, I fought her, and I made a stink. I made a stink that stank more than I did to start with. And eventually I realized it. Eventually I realized I stank. Eventually the stink overcame me, and then suddenly I didn't need mom to tell me I stank. I just stank. I needed deodorant. I needed deodorant because I stank. So I picked up some deodorant. I picked up some deodorant, and I put it on.

I'd love to tell you I stank no more, but that would be fallacy. Indeed, I still stank. I still stink to this day. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I stank then, and I stink now, as does my approach to life.

I worry there's something stinky about my style. I worry I'm trapping myself in the very trap I began telling you I wanted to escape. But I also worry that, in not using my style, I might be forgoing myself. So the style emerges. It re-emerges. It emerges, and re-emerges, and surfaces to serve. Can I be honest with you and still use a style? Does my style stink? Should I abandon it forever and replace it with a sturdy stick of Old Spice?

Well, all fragrance aside, there's one thing I know: I've been fighting adulthood for a long time now. Let's face it. This whole blog has been about my contention with maturity. But I knew maturity had to set in, sooner or later. I knew, the second I proclaimed myself "an irresponsible homo hipster," that the journey depicted within these posts would be that of a young man -- an aging young man -- reveling in his resistance to grow up.

Eventually all resistance ends. All force, be it action or reaction, has to end. And so I'm here to tell you -- the resistance has ended. This resistance to the force that is aging has ended. I'm growing up. I'm getting old. Despite myself, I'm getting old. So I'm deciding now what matters. Should I keep on fighting? Resist as long as I can? Or should I just accept that I have the same needs as my cohorts? Should I accept that I'm just another guy who needs cash flow, health benefits, and a 5-year plan?

And is there, perhaps, room for everything? Is there room for a Bohemian's hope while he whittles away his hours in the work force? Is there still a remote chance? A remote chance he'll find time to scribble down a poem, and then read it at his local bookstore or cafe?

I suppose I'm still clinging to that hope. To the hope that I can somehow still do it all. Do all the bourgeois bullshit, and the bohemian bullshit, too. Christ knows I "have the time," relatively speaking. When speaking in relation to my cohorts with kids. My cohorts with kids, or with high-profile jobs, or with parents who've turned terminal (if they get along enough to justify the effort).

But I thought you should know. I thought you should know, I'll be irresponsible no more. No longer shall I play the insipid Peter Pan (with a gay twist). I won't play the part of the fool anymore. I need to grow up. I need to go gray. I need to experience love, responsibility and life's inescapable decay.

(And I need to do so with the occasional rhyme. That's just the way it is. Hey -- a brogue's a gift, plain and simple. Far be it for me to squelch it completely.)

Now that I'm here, where I've worked so hard to be, it's time to move on. I'm finally sick of irresponsible endeavors. I've grown tired of escape. Oh, sure, I'll still party for release -- but I won't continue to make partying a lifestyle. There has to be more to life, and it's my turn to find it.

Caught Myself a Carrot

Heya:

It's been a while, I know. A while full a' whiles full a' whiling the whiles away, whilst I chased and chased a carrot on a stick. A stick that I'd made damned well sure I'd well carrot-ed, and then well stick-ed, and then very, very well stuck-ed out before me.

But I caught said carrot. I caught said carrot, on said stick, that I said I'd stuck out before me. I caught the carrot that I'd stuck on a stick and then chased and chased 'til my chasin' skillls damned well near wore out. Near, that is. 'Til they near wore out.

But wore out, they didn't -- said skills. Said skills might'a near worn out, but they didn't. They didn't wear out. Instead, they got me said carrot, which hung on said stick, which -- as I've already said -- I stuck out before me.

I caught it, motherfuckers. I caught the carrot on the end o'the stick that I so well hung before me.

See, heretofore, I've had problems. Previously, I had problems the likes of which precede pre-production. Because production, I've recently come to see, requires pre-production. It requires pre-production, production, and post-production. There's more -- I've recently come to see -- to bein' productive than merely pursuing the pursuit of production.

No, if y'er gonna be truly productive in this world, then y'have t' learn the complete cycle of production. And said cycle always involves somethin' much like my heretofore mentioned carrot, and it also involves my previously -- alongside with it -- mentioned stick.

It's as simple as this: If you want something (an' I mean truly want it), then it's worth planning for. Therein lies y'er pre-production. If y'really want it, then y'er gonna figure out how t'get it. Make sense? There's very little in this world worth having that's available for the immediate grab. Grabs only work when y'er a toddler, a teenager, or a dirty old man. An' even then, whatever y'er grabbin' for is fleeting. Indeed, it's often accompanied by a slap in the face! So then let's just agree right there an' right now: Everything that's worth having takes planning.

Now... The thing about planning is, it requires you to accept y'er present position. It mandates a complete recognition of where you presently stand (or sit, or lay... however pathetic y'er present circumstances have led you to become). This is without a question the most difficult part of the production process. Most folks can't face it. Most folks can't face their lots in life. They'll run circles and jump through hoops and even dig holes -- holes that'll soon serve as their graves -- before they ever admit their lots in life. 'Cuz to admit one's lot in life means to admit one's station. And t'admit one's station means t'admit one's true social standing. An' t'admit one's true social standing means that one needs to most likely accept that s/he's not standing at all... Because let's face it: 99% of us are downright without means, plain and simple.

Only the upper classes have anything resembling a leg t'stand on, loves. The rest of us are either keepin' up with the Joneses, as the Americans say, or tryin' t'get t'that point. Subtract two paychecks from "the lucky ones," as the lower classes say, an' you've got more members of the lower class.

What's that y'say? OUCH? There y'go. NOW y'er learnin'!

So. If y'er still with me, then I'm hopin' you'll see the reason why the stick's so important. Because y'see, the stick's y'er pre-production. The stick's what you go out and find y'erself (out in the back yard, or while y'er on a 3-day weekend away from home, or perhaps after a strong rainstorm -- it doesn't matter) once you've realized there's no way past y'er present status without it. The stick is the rock of Sisyphus. And as any Post-Freudian/Jungian therapist worth his or her salt will tell ya, Sisyphus was no victim. He chose his fate pure an' simple. (What, y'think a plain lad like m'self isn't familiar with 20th century analysis?)

Like I said, the pre-production's the hardest part. The hardest part's realizing y'er not one of the privileged few. The hard part's recognizing your familiarity with the familiar classes, regardless of how you were raised to perceive y'erself. Once you've done that -- once you've walked out into the yard after a strong rainstorm an' picked up y'er stick -- the rest is quite easy.

Easy, that is, if you've got gumption. 'Cuz it's gumption, y'see, that translates to orange. Orange, the color of alert. The color of the hunt, of the chase, of pursuit. There's nothin' subtle about orange. Orange results from the combination of the two loudest primaries -- yellow and red. When yellow and red get together, they can't do much less than shout.

And so you shout, when you find y'er orange. When you pick up y'er carrot, and you attach it t'y'er stick, you shout. Of course you shout. You can't do anything but shout. There's nothing any human being, in the history of humanity, has ever done when she or he touches the color orange but shout. 'Cuz when you get to th' point where y'er touching orange, y'er touching y'er very goal itself. Y'er touching it, an' y'er hangin' it on y'er newfound stick, an' y'er shouting at the top o' y'er lungs, 'cuz y'er handling the very thing that y'er vowing t'chase. It's a fleeting moment, this moment I'm describing right now, but you know what I'm talking about. You know what I'm talking about like every other human being who's ever lived knows what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the fact that we already have what we choose to chase, but we damned well choose to let it go so that we can chase it anyway. That's why it's orange. That's why it's loud. It has t'be loud to drown out the sound of our shouts. The shouts that we shout when we pick it up. When we hang it on the end of our sticks. When we gaze at it from not quite so far, just after we've hung it, far at the end of our sticks.

THIS is production. Everything else, my friends, is Post-. It's Post-Production.

The chase, the chasing, and th' rest of the chase. The running, the mis-steps, the tripping o'er our own feet, the unexpected twists, the turns, the plot changes, the stopping to catch our breath, the whining, the complaining -- they're all mere technicalities. Technicalities along the road. Along the road of the chase.

But in order t'have all these blessed curses, my friends, we must've already chosen what to chase. And it's in the choosing, not the chasing, when the magic occurs. It's when we choose what to chase that we're the most like God. That, my friends, is when we create. Everything else? Polishing. Everything else? Varnish and gloss.

Nevertheless, my friends, I'm writing to tell you that I've just had myself a chase. I've had myself a pre-production, a production, and I've polished off the post-. I won't get into the details, 'cuz the details in this case are too broad. But I've had myself a job, that I'll tell ya. I'll tell ya that I've had a job, and that I've done a job, and that now that the job's done, I'm gearin' up t'do another one.

But fer the meantime, I'm floatin'. I'm floatin' in between jobs, lookin' down at myself. I'm lookin' down at myself, thinkin', "Dear God, lad, I'm so glad you've still got it in ya."

I'm Not Sure What I'm Doing

I'm Not Sure What I'm Doing, but I haven't given up on whatever that might be.

Setting goals is one thing.

Achieving them is another.

Well, I don't care how simple a goal it was. I set it, and I achieved it.

I achieved a new bathroom.

Laugh if you will (don't you always, anyway?), but I'm proud of myself.

The reason you haven't heard from me since winter is, I set a winter goal for myself and I accomplished it.

It took longer than I thought, it cost more than I expected, and it totally took over my life. My life, since late winter, has been my job and my "project." And not much else.

All of which was a test, you see, to see if I'm capable of holding down a "job" and pursuing a "project."

Well, I am.

I am, but it takes a lot. It takes damn well near everything I've got.

So that's why you haven't heard from me lately.

'Cuz I've been busy.

I've been busy getting around to unfinished business.

Now that said unfinished business is finished, I'm gonna start to look around for the next bit a' unfinished business.

You should see my bathroom. If you could, you'd understand that I'm not just another wanna-be. No, I'm not just another wanna-be.

I'm another wanna-be who can lay tile...


Ar!
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River 124 Monologue: I’ve Got a New Hobby

[Ed's Note: This is all preliminary, remember? We know these scenes need to be condensed and that this is all really rough. That's the reason we're posting it now, instead of after it's been edited. Enjoy the rawness. We're told it's one of the author's strong points...]

GREG: (on phone) I’ve got a new hobby. Uh-huh. Yeah. A brand new hobby. No, it doesn’t involve sex. Silly. Why would you think that? No, it doesn’t involve sex, it involves getting lit. (Pause) Getting LIT. Yeah, Getting LIT, and calling Ma. That’s right, calling MA. Dear Ol’ Ma.

See, as it turns out, I’ve been putting up with Dear Ol’ Ma calling ME throughout the ages, when SHE was lit. Strange how it took me so long to figure out the right counter-attack: Call HER when I’M lit.

See, when y’er lit, you tend to focus only on y’erself. That is, yourself; the things happening to you, and how you react to them. That’s all SHE’s ever been doin’. Givin’ me th’ REPORT, y’see. When she was LIT. AS she was lit. Like I said, I can’t believe it took me this long t’figure out… And how ironic is this? I figured it out when I was LIT.

So whatoo I do now, now that I’ve discovered my favorite new hobby, and now that I know I should only talk to her LIT, as often as she talks to me LIT? Well, what I do NOW, to answer y’er question, is: I call Ma LIT. I save the items on my “return phone calls” list that just happen to deal with HER to those TIMES when I just happen to be LIT. It works out well. It works out quite well.

Because when I’m LIT, y’see, I’m incapable of holding my voice back. I’m incapable of holding back my voice, my conclusions – and my opinions. That’s right. I’m utterly incapable of holding back my opinions. And my opinions, mind you, aren’t exactly the same as hers, or as any average American bourgeois opinion. Which, mind you, are one and the same. That is, HER opinions and those of the average bourgeois American are the same. They're one and the same. Look up "Average American Bourgeois Opinion" on Wikipedia, and you'll find my mother's definitions. Well, those aren't MY opinions. MY opinions, mind you, are the products of careful examination and THOUGHT.

So when I’m LIT, y’see, I’m incapable of holding back my products of THOUGHT. Fancy that. Products of THOUGHT. Streaming forth, from someone who’s THOUGHT about them, but who can no longer hold them back. Who can no longer hold back his thoughts. That’s why I can’t believe it took me this long to get around to this. To get around to only calling Ma after I’d gotten LIT. ‘Cuz God knows SHE's always been. So why shouldn’t’ve I???

Two wrongs? Look again.

I like my new hobby.

I know I’ll never win. I’ve been told I shouldn’t even fight back. But that just goes against my nature, y’know? I wasn’t put on this earth t’let power-mongering motherfuckers – even if they are my parents – coast through life unquestioned. It’s one thing to fight back. It’s another thing to expect to win. I don't expect to win, but I just can't lay down and act like there's no battle.

Sometimes the battle is its own reward.

River124, Initial Draft

Act I
Scene 1:

(Enter Gene and Pat, the former escorting the latter as she hops along in misery.)

GENE: C’mon, c’mon, Pat. We haven’t got all day.

PAT: (Clearing her throat) Well, it isn’t as easy as it used to be, my love.

GENE: It used to be pretty easy.

PAT: It used to be. But it isn’t anymore.

GENE: Pretty easy.

PAT: It used to be.

GENE: But it isn’t anymore. Isn't it anymore?

PAT: No, it isn’t anymore.

GENE: It used to be pretty easy.

PAT: But it isn’t anymore.

GENE: Will you let me be the judge of that, fer Chrissake?!? C’mon!



Scene 2:

GREG: (At home, on the phone) Her condition? Who the fuck are you, the Department of Health? (Laughs.) Well, her condition is “serious,” if you go by her reports. According to her, she’s on death’s doorstep. Which reminds me – I painted my doorstep. Did I tell you?



Scene 3:

PAT: (Lifting the phone and clearing her throat, addressing offstage) It’s alright. He’s busy. He has a good job now. We shouldn’t interfere. (She dials.)



Scene 3:

GREG: (Still on the phone) She’s probably trying to get through right now. If you hear a “beep,” then you lose me, that’s why. It’s because she’s finally gotten through. (Pause.) Mmm-hmm. Can’t wait to hear what the problem is this time.


Scene 4:

GENE: Couldn’t reach him?

PAT: I got his machine.

GENE: What’d I tell ya?

PAT: Oh, be quiet.



Scene 5:

GREG: (Still on the phone) I mean, 15 years. It’s been 15 years that’s she’s been battling cancer. So we’re supposed to be surprised when she gets another bout?



Scene 6:

PAT: (Leaving a message) Greg… It’s Ma. I don’t mean to burden you, but it’s not looking good. It’s not looking good at all. They’ve postponed my surgery and scheduled another biopsy. It’s higher. Much higher. It’s higher up on my lung, near the thorax and all the lymph nodes that surround it. It doesn’t look good. Even if they can get at it, they’re pretty sure it’ll have spread. Call me. Call me when you can. I understand that you’re busy, but I need you to call me. We’re pretty sure it’s spread…



Scene 7:

GREG: (Still on the phone) If we had any sort of relationship other than fighting, I’d do something. But what can I do? What can I do when all we do is fight? She’ll find a reason to fight, if I call, and then all of a sudden we’ll be in a fight. Even though all I did was call. (Pause.) Well, thanks. Thank you for understanding. You’re right. Ultimately, I don’t owe them anything. Does that sound cruel?

Scene 8:

PAT: (On phone, and "A-hem," and "a-hem"-ing…) Well, yes, I suppose he’s a little bit cruel. But between you and me, that’s what I hear about them.

GREG: (Still on the phone, on another part of the stage) Are you sure? It’s not cruel?

PAT: That they’re cruel.

GREG: Like a bitchy queen? Cruel?

PAT: Them. Gays. They’re like women. They’re cruel.

GREG: Do I sound like that? Like a woman? (Pause.) Like a woman acting cruel? Of course I know the difference between how a man and how a woman act cruel…

PAT: Not that women have the corner on cruelty, of course…

GREG: I’m just asking, do I come across as cruel?

PAT: But you know what I mean… There’s a difference. There’s a difference between the way a man and a woman act cruel.

GREG: There’s a difference, of course, but I’m just asking.

PAT: And sometimes he comes across…

GREG: I’m just asking if I come across…

PAT: As cruel.

GREG: As cruel. Because if I do, then I got it from her.

PAT: Because he does. And I think he got it from me. He’s just cruel.

GREG: I don’t know. There’s something about her. Something absolutely cruel.

PAT: He’s cruel.

GREG and PAT: (Together) Absolutely cruel.






Scene 9:

GENE: Are you ready?

PAT: Well, what do you think?

GENE: What do I think about what, Pat. What?

PAT: About what you just asked?

GENE: About what I just asked?

PAT: About what you just asked.

GENE: What’d I just ask?

PAT: You tell me.

GENE: You want me to tell you?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: You want me to tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: Yeah?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: You want me to tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah. Uh-huh. Tell me.

GENE: Tell you?

PAT: Uh-huh.

GENE: Tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah. Tell me what you just asked me.

GENE: I can’t tell you something I already asked you.

PAT: Why not?

GENE: Because. It’s not the same.

PAT: Oh, so you’re Mr. Rhetorical all of a sudden.

GENE: All of a sudden?

PAT: Well, at least now.

GENE: At least now?

PAT: Now.

GENE: Now?

PAT: Now, and often.

GENE: Often?

PAT: Are you really interested in whether I’m ready yet?

GENE: Ready?

PAT: Ready.

GENE: Yeah. Are you ready yet?

PAT: I’ll be ready in a second.

GENE: A second?

PAT: Close to a second. Now scoot…



Scene 10

(Greg, still on the phone) It’s like… I’m ready. I know it sounds cruel, but I’m ready for them to be dead. Yeah, there’ll be technicalities, but let’s face it: either they’re gonna die or I’m gonna die. I don’t think they know how much experience I’ve had with death. When I was in San Francisco, it was a different ceremony every Sunday. It became part of our schedule. Monday through Friday was work, but we had to calendar the funeral or ash-spreading ceremony that was happening during any given weekend. Oh, sure, we would gym-gym-gym and then party-party-party until said ash ceremony occurred. That was our life. That was our life in SF between the late 80s and the early 90s. Back then, that was our life. Our lives consisted of working, going to the gym, and then going to brunch and funeral ceremonies. That and – of course – the obligatory vertical sex in clubs and the requisite “I can’t believe how drunk I was” fucking that inevitably followed Happy Hour and Saturday night. Yeah, we still had a Saturday night. We had Saturday night, but the fever had long since died… And in its place grew a fear that we would, too. None of us expected to make it this far. Do you know what I’m saying? I’m not kidding. I never expected to make it this far. I can’t believe I did. And my folks think California is easy living. If they only knew…


Scene 11:

PAT: (Also on the phone, and clearing her throat) Oh, Cindy, it’s so nice to have you on my side. Thank you for cleaning the kitchen, and for the manicure, and for everything else you’ve done. Lord knows my son isn’t capable of such acts of kindness. He’s too wrapped up in his California lifestyle. You know California. “The land of the fruits and the nuts,” as they say…


Scene 12:

GENE: (Picking up the phone) Hello? Who? Greg? Oh, Greg hasn’t lived here for years. Where’s he live now? Oh, in California. Cal-i-for-nia. You know, the land of the fruits and the nuts? What? What’d I just say? When? What’d I just say WHEN? Oh, Greg? He doesn’t live here anymore. He lives in Cal-i-for-nia. That's what I just said. And I meant it. Bye-bye, idiot...

River124 (1)

Listen.
Today, my mother almost died.
My mother, who’s presently entering a living room somewhere in New England, and who’s presently “an armful,” almost died.

There.
I’ve done it.

I’ve repeated the words that so many postmodernists wish to repeat. Repeat, that is, within the context of their own subsequent “masterpieces.” Well, I can’t worry about whether this is gonna be completely postmodern, nor whether it’s gonna be a masterpiece. I can only worry about when I’m gonna get it out, which is now.

Now. Now is the time when this story should be told. This story should be told now. But I warn you:

This is not a time-deleniated story about a war hero.
This is not an Existential exercise.
Nor is it an attempt to adapt the family drama of the playwright whose name my father just happens to bear into a contemporary format.

Well, if truth be told, then I guess it would most closely be linked to the last item listed in the list above. But that’s the end of the precocious postmodernism. I promise. (For now.)

Frankie’s Back

Frankie’s back. Yeah, Frankie. Frankie, the guy who comes and goes. Mostly, he goes, but when he comes – boy, does he come. Or rather, he tries to. When Frankie comes, it’s usually after he’s spent 4-6 months on Riker's Island. See, Frankie’s got this cycle. First he’s here, smoking crack in the hall and asking for a shot of tequila. But then, a couple of weeks later, he’s asking if he can come in, (“t’chill – y’know?”). Then, all of a sudden, he's gone. He's gone right after he asked you for that hit you didn't have time to deal with. Where'd he go? Back to Riker's, of course. Back to the place where guys like him don't take as much risk asking the things they always ask...

Frankie’s short. He’s short, he most often stinks, and he doesn’t have a lot of teeth. More specifically, his teeth are scattered throughtout his mouth, in a manner that makes me obsess over whether it would be possible to replace only what’s missing or if it’s just plain necessary to remove everything altogether – to make a clean slate. I know this obsession is a distraction. I can see Frankie watching me obsess over his teeth. I can see that he knows I'm distracted by their crookedness. And I can see how he works it.

He works it by asking if he can come in. This only happens when he’s just gotten back from Reichers. When he’s just come back from Reichers, he comes to me. He comes to me – hard – and he asks for everything a Puerto Rican crack-head who’s just gotten back from Reichers can ask for. First he asks for a shot, then he asks for a hit – and then he asks me if I’ll buy him a hit of what he really wants.

What he doesn’t know is that I know what he wants is more complicated than he thinks. I know he wants more than he says he’s wanting. I know it because he can’t step out of my personal zone and he can’t stop sniffing me like I’m some sort of bitch in heat. He’s in my face. He’s in my zone. He’s standing in front of me, posing his just-out-of-Reichers bod as if there’s no way any homo on earth could resist him, trying to stare me down. Down onto the couch…

I stare back at him. I stare right back at him – right back in the eye, my eyes whispering, “I know what you’re up to, and a Reichers-buffed bod isn’t enough.” I don’t care what he’s up to. I don’t care what he wants. Yeah, it’s cute that he’s playing me. But not cute enough to get myself played.

So I give him his shot, and maybe I let him take a hit or two. Why not? I’m doing my bumps. So why not give the motherfucker his hits? And maybe I take a hit. Or two. But that’s all. ‘Cuz I don’t like his hits. He knows it. He wishes I would, but he knows it. He knows I don’t like his hits. He doesn’t like my bumps, and I don’t like his hits.

And we both know this. From the moment this dance starts, we both know it, but I let him lead anyway. ‘Cuz he’s been at Reichers for the past 4-6 months. And he’s gotten used to mansex, whether he admits it or not. So whether he admits it or not, he’s the one coming onto me. And I’m the one saying no.

Christ, but that pisses him off.

So You Wanna Know What Goes On Here, in Bushwick, do Ya?

Then I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you even though you already know. Or, you already have a good idea – which is to say, a very, very bad idea. Because what goes on here in Bushwick is very bad. Very, very bad. It’s so very, very bad, it’s downright good.

But you expected that. That’s why you’re reading. You’re reading because you’re expecting the very, very bad. And even though the very, very bad has been told many, many times before – you’re still waiting to see how the very, very bad lives and thrives in today’s society. In today’s society outside Manhattan. In today’s society outside Manhattan, in Bushwick. Because in order to outlive life in today’s New York, one must venture beyond today’s Manhattan. One must venture all the way to Northeast Brooklyn – to Bushwick. One must venture to where everything that’s been done before dares to be done again. (And again, and again…)

“Is there anything special about Buswick?,” you might ask. No, there’s nothing particularly special about this neighborhood where all of America’s beer once flowed, and all of America’s beer-es-tocracy once dwelled. Yeah, that’s a made-up term. We’re gonna encounter a lot of made-up terms along this path. If you can’t handle made-up terms, then switch to another blog – one that has nothing to do with reality-based fantasy… Then we’ll all be all set.

All of which is to say, “Of course, idiot – there’s plenty that’s special about Bushwick.” Do your own fucking Wikipedia. You’ll see. (If, that is, Wikipedia has the balls to call it like it was.) Bushwick is not only the place that kept America drunk throughout the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s – it’s the place that held onto keeping the country as drunk as it could while White Flight affected it, and its ability to do so.

Imagine. The fleeing of a neighborhood that affected its ability to maintain a virtually narcotic hold upon those who wished to flee it. And upon those who’d grown accustomed to fleeing the day-to-day hum-drum of their lives through the consumption of what that neighborhood had, up until then, produced – regularly.

In other words, “What happens when the source of the drug stops producing the drug – all in the name of no longer being worthy of producing that drug?”

That’s what happened in Bushwick. That’s what happened in Bushwick, about forty years ago. And 40 years ago is long ago enough as not to warrant further description as to exactly what happened then. At this point, and at this time, all that matters is that – long ago – Bushwick was transformed. It was transformed because it stopped producing its drug. It stopped producing its drug of alcohol. It stopped producing the drug that was so common at the time that it pretty near devastated most of our grandparents. Most, that is, of our readers’ grandparents. That’s right. You. Our readers. It – alcohol – probably almost wound up destroying your grandparents. If it didn’t, then consider yourselves lucky. If it didn’t, then your grandparents were probably Jewish or Morman of Seventh-Day Adventist. If that was the case, then good for you. (And, simultaneously, I’m sorry for you…)

But we were talking about Bushwick. We were talking about Bushwick, in Brooklyn. Bushwick – that peculiar neighborhood where blue-collar immigrants and Blue-Bloods co-existed, for the sake of producing that which would intoxicate them all. You see, Bushwick was – at the turn of the 20th Century – the hub of America’s beer production. That’s why we still have Knickerbocker Avenue. That’s why the area is sprinkled with factories (which have recently been turned into lofts), interspersed with ornate Victorian homes. That, and the blackout of 1977, are the reasons why Bushwick has an aesthetic unlike so much of the rest of Brooklyn. Bushwick isn’t picturesque like Park Slope. It isn’t anywhere near as adorable as the cobble-stoned Brooklyn Heights. And it has nowhere near the self-imposed kitschy charm of the far-away Coney Island. No, Bushwick’s aesthtic – of it can even be called that – is much more like that of Los Angeles. It’s scattered, and full of flotsam and jetsom. To understand Bushwick is to drive or ride through it – if only by imagination. In order to appreciate Bushwick, one must look not at it, but along it. For it is only through glancing at Bushwick’s appearance – as it appears as we coast alongside it – that we are able to understand it.

Why, do you ask, do I go into so much extraneous description about the place where I ask you that you ask about? My apologies if you think my premise is too verbose. But I need you to understand: What goes on here – even though it might seem identical to what goes on in so many other places – is special. It’s unique. It’s unique in the sense that it’s happening here and now, in one of the only parts of New York that will allow it to happen. One of the only parts of today’s New York that will allow this kind of scenario to go on in – to use poor grammar, as eventually I must – is here, in the scattered neighborhood known as Bushwick.

Ready to hear?

I’ll bet you are.

A Letter to My Fellow New Yorkers: Greetings from Bushwick!

[The following is presented as though I was writing for a local publicaton, as an exercise, per a dear friend's advice... Even tho' it's directed towawd New Yorkers, everyone can get a feel for it...]

Hello, readers.

I’m assuming most of you are New Yorkers, so I won’t go into detail about exactly where I am. You know where I am, even if you’ve never been here.

Even if you’ve never been here, you’ve heard about it. You’ve heard about Bushwick. All of you New Yorkers have heard about Bushwick. If you haven’t, you pretend you have.

Don’t lie. You know you do. You know you pretend you’ve heard about Bushwick, even though you haven’t.

Except that you have. You have heard about it. You have heard about Bushwick. You’ve heard enough about Bushwick to know that you want to hear more. You want to hear more about Bushwick.

So what do you want to know first? How seedy it is out here on the outskirts of gentrification, or how dangerous? How grimy, or how insidious? What’s that, you say? Neither? Both? None of the above? All? Well, then, let me tell you…

But just for the record, let neither of us forget: You are the reader, and I am the storyteller. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the storyteller. That means I tell stories (as if you needed to know). But for some reason -- some strange silly reason – I felt the need to remind you of our dynamic. Because that’s all it is. A dynamic. And if you’re still reading, well then, you’re more of a voyeur than I expected you to be. ("Nice dynamic. Gooood dynamic…")

So welcome, my dynamic voyeur, to my dynamic world. To Bushwick. To Buswick at the turn of the New Millenium. The Late Turn of the New Millenium…

Don’t forget – you’re watching. You’re reading. I never asked you to. See, so much of the here and now in Bushwick has to do with our exhibitionistic tendencies (and, simultaneously, so much of that same here, and that same now, is dependent upon your tendency toward voyeurism), that it suddenly becomes difficult to decipher exactly who’s getting off and who’s getting them off, if y’know what I mean.

So don’t forget. That’s a big part of it. That’s a big part of Buswhick: Not forgetting that somebody is watching; that they know they’re watching, and that those they’re watching know they’re being watched. That’s a big part of it. A big part. Probably the biggest part of all of Bushwick. The biggest part of Bushwick is that it knows its Renaissance – if it can ever come near being called that – must occur under the microscope of the microcultural gaze. Shit, too much has happened already not to make it so. Too much. Too much history. Too much history, claiming its place in history, leaving only those cracks in history that know full well they’re nothing but cracks fruitlessly attempting to justify their existence. To live out their lives. Their lives amidst the other cracks. Their attempts at cracking into the cracks of history.

Come. Witness it. Witness life admist the cracks. It isn’t as bleak or banal as it sounds. As a matter of fact, it’s rich. It’s rich with richness… The almost earthen richness of a territory paved over for glory but then left to succumb to the whims of urban decay… Left, crying in near vain, for its original earthen richness to return.

What does one do with such territory? How does one revive the earth beneath an industrial park? It’s simple, really. One must merely show up, and then one must merely proclaim said territory to be his or her own. His own, her home.

So let’s talk about Bushwick, dear voyeur -- since you seem so interested. And I’ll be that one…