I've Lost My Voice

OK, Truth be told? I've lost my voice.

I've lost the voice that was once the source of my musings. See, once upon a time, I used my voice to articulate all that was on my mind -- and in my heart. But somewhere along the line, I lost touch with my voice -- because I lost touch with my ability to articulate it.

Once upon a time, I was a brave young man, fearless and unconcerned with how my words and actions might affect those around me. Once upon a time, I was obsessed with truth -- and how it must be spoken.

And so I spoke the truth. And I made for myself a name that became associated with speaking the truth. But the truth of which I spoke back then was entirely personal. Such was the luxury of being a young man. To be able to speak of truths entirely personal.

You see, for the young man, the truths that are entirely personal are exactly that: entirely personal. But as that young man grows (if the fates would have it) into an older man -- well, then, all bets are off.

All bets are off, you see, as a young man grows into an older man. Because, as a young man grows into an older man, he accumulates relationships. He accumulates relationships that define the transition of his growing from young man into an older man. He accumulates relationships that define what separates his youth from his adulthood. He accumulates relationships that, at first, defined who he was, but then eventually came to define who he was to become.

And it is within this accumulation -- this accumulation of relationships -- that it becomes more difficult for the Romantic young man to continue to articulate his true feelings.

For if this once-young, now older, man were to articulate his feelings in a manner just as he'd articulated his heretofore youthful articulations... Why, then, he'd proceed to offend many, if not most, of the persons who now constitute his heretofore recently acquired adulthood.

In short, it gets harder to remain honest as one gets older.

At least, publicly.

So if you're wondering why you haven't heard my voice lately, it's because I've realized I've lost it. I hope not to have lost it forever, but for the time being -- well, I don't know which of you to praise and which of you to bash.

At least, publicly.

And so for now,


Ta,

I'm a Bit Concerned

I won't lie t'ya... I'm a bit concerned.

I'm a bit concerned about this Generation Y (and beyond). On the one hand, they have the world at their fingertips (or, at least, the world according to Google) -- yet on the other hand, that's all they rely upon. Google, Yahoo, and Wiki.

Don't make me say it. Please, don't make me say it. I won't say it. Oh, Christ, it would apear as though I have to say it:

Google, Yahoo, and Wiki -- OH MY.

Did you know that the number of Google, Yahoo and Wiki (to say the least) searches are contributing to our present-day unnaturally excesssive additions to the Carbon Dioxide levels in Earth's atmosphere? Well, they are.

Exactly what was it you thought they meant when you first read, at the bottom of their emails, "Powered By..."???

Power takes money. And money takes power.

But most often, not for long.

I hope I won't have to continue to kill Polar Bears just to be able to put food on my table.


Signed,
Conspiracy-Theorist Greg

Here's the Thing (Or, at Least, One of 'em)

OK, so my last post was maudlin.

Know what Webster has to say about that term? Well, here it is:

"Alteration of Mary Magdalene; from her depiction as a weeping penitent.
Date:
1509
1 : drunk enough to be emotionally silly
2 : weakly and effusively sentimental"



Gads. I didn't even know I meant that. But apparently I did. See, that's one of the things my mind does. It refers to references far tucked into the dictionary -- or into the encyclopedia -- of "Modern Man [sic]." Believe me, when my mind talks to itself, it uses all vocabulary: All tenses; all prepositional phrases; and all potential grammatical potentialities, including the past, past-participle, conditional past-participle, conditional past-past participle, and so on. Indeed, my mind utilizes all the potentialities of the English language (or so it hopes), be it scholastic or vernacular, whenever it thinks.

But it isn't always sure of what it speaks. That's how my mind works. It speaks first, somewhat linguistically, or scholastically, or within the parameters of the vernacular -- and then it goes backwards. It re-traces. It, after having spoken, re-traces its steps. My mind, after having spoken, re-traces its linguistic steps -- to make sure it has meant, or at least meant what it's meant, what it's said.

In this case, as I've already said, my said linguistics said exactly that which I intended them to have already said.

So what have I said? Simply this: Once Upon a Time, when I lived and produced writing whilst living in San Francisco, I had given myself the liberty to speak. I'd granted myself the honor of writing honorably. I'd allowed myself the occasion to be -- totally -- myself.

But since I've come to New York, all I've allowed myself are limitations.

I can't (/don't) write about my life as it actually is. Why? Because, as much as I'd lke to think my currrent cohorts would be able to digest where I've come from and where, as a result, I'm going... I know they can't. They simply can't.

How do I know? I know because, as a result of having spent 7 years in LA before I ventured into New York, I've recognized a rather simple formula: Material acquitisition = lack of Spiritual education. And yes, you Angelinos and New Yorkers can argue: Lack of material acquisitition most often = excessive, or at the very least, imbalanced, Pursuit of spiritual enlightenment.

I made my mark (if even it might be said that I even had) in San Francisco by being utterly blunt, and honest with myself. I haven't found the place in New York to be able to be so. I've come close, and I'm coming closer -- but the idea of being really real with East-Coasters has proven to be a scary concept.

And being really real with West-Coasters has proven to be tedious. Sorry to you all. But ultimately, everybody wants validation of their sensibility, don't they? Well, I'm sorry. I can't validate West Coast sensibility whilst travailing amidst the turmoil of East Coast sensibility in efforts to merely stay alive.

To hear it put like that, one might think nobody wins. But I'm here to tell you all, this is duality we're deling with. This is the physical realm. Comprised through the tension of opposites. An entire realm. The physical realm. Comprised of the tension of opposites.

So deal with it, my friends. Just live with it. Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you -- whether you're coming from the perspective of materialism or spiritualism -- eventually get to this point?

I'm there. I'm at that point. I'm at the point where I'm no longer going to value any material advice/perspective any more than I'm going to value any spiritual advice/perspective any more than either perspective/argument applies to my current situation.

Because, in the end, that's exactly what both persepctives are concerned with. My situation. Go figure.



You didn't think you were off the hook in this bi-argumentative, doubly-intended argument, did you?

So that leaves me with two options: Either shut up, or keep trudging along. But trudging along means maintaining integrity in what I'm saying.

I'm on the brink. I'm on the brink of falling forever away from the scene, or of falling into the realm of pissing you off.

History will tell.

Heya...

Heya, Hi-ya, Ho-ya:

I know it's been an awful long time since I posted. Forgive me. It hasn't been for lack of wanting to. It's just that it's been... Well, it's been pretty awful of late.

Sorry to start off with such a dreadful ("dreadful" -- don't you just love that word, in an Emily Dickenson-esque sort of way?) tone, but, if truth be known, then the truth is, things around here have been pretty dreadful for quite a while now. (Well, if you define "dreadful" as "lacking the means to do anything other than that which has been established as that which one must do in order to maintain one's status in life," then yes, absolutely, things around here have been rather dreadful lately.)

Could it be worse? Hell, yeah. Just ask Sarah McLaughlin, or the guy who pleads on behalf of the Polar Bears, or even Laurie Metcalf, who pleads on behalf of the children of Darfur...

Could it be worse? Hell, yeah. It could be way worse. That's what makes it so painful.

If I'm not gonna help out one of them -- If I'm not gonna be able t'make any sort of difference in my life -- then why the fuck am I getting up every day, tryin' t'do anything???

Someone please, answer me.

It's all so overwhelming. So "bigger than thou..."

So what do I do? And exactly how?


Signed,
Deserately Curious

In a Nutshell

In the past 5 years I’ve:

Moved to NYC with only $3,000
and a suitcase Relocated
and re-acclimated
a 50-pound dog

Renovated
a sub-standard apartment
in a sub-standard neighborhood
Just to be dumped by a Partner of 12 years
for no reason

Worked
a “Devil Wears Prada” job
In order to qualify
for higher-level positions
Obtained said
higher-level positions, and

Worked said higher-level positions
until I b'come numb

Lost my mother
(however unpleasant that relationship might've been)

Then
after all that,

Started t'realize
m'work's
Just b'gun…


G

Bushwick Life

It's occured to me on more than several occasions that I haven't let any of you in on the visual aspects of life in Bushwick.

Well, that was partially because I hadn't collected any photos and mostly because I couldn't deal with learning how to upload them... But praise be, the folks at Blogger have made it easier.

So here we go, on a virtual tour of the 'hood as Spooge and I now know it.

Here we are at dawn, last April, tripping on ecstacy and making sure our bladders have been emptied before we crash.

Bushwick's aesthetic is as close to LA's as any New York neighborhood can get. This isn't the Upper West Side. This isn't "the village" (either one). Nor is it any part of Brooklyn where you'll find blocks of brownstones. No, Bushwick is something else. Something different. It's a collage. The landscape turns from industrial to quaint row-houses within the space of a football field. There are recently renovated loft spaces next to empty lots, which are next to stray Edwardians and Victorians, which are next to bodegas and L-train subway stops.

We used to be the beer capitol of the country. Hence the reason there is so much industry and why we have "Knickerbocker Avenue."

Last summer, of '07, we celebrated the 30th anniversary of the Blackout of '77:

The subsequent riots affected this area and the Bronx the hardest. That's part of why we have so many empty lots...

What's happening now is, the real estate whoremongers are building ugly contemporary apartment buildings in many of those lots, some right next to the projects, filling the neighborhood with a visual mixture of past and present -- but not in any historically conscious sort of way. The result is slapdash; happenstance. Very much like Los Angeles. Except here very few of us have the privilege of being able to drive past any of it. The "collage" effect that makes LA tolerable by virtue of its being a car town is lost, unless, ironically, one is capable of standing still and taking it all in.

Believe it or not, this is the view from outside my front door...

And this is the infamous live poultry store next door, featuring "Live Poultry and Polio!"

Blogger is being a pain in the ass, so I'll end this here. But I'll perfect the image skill and keep 'em coming...

I know it looks ugly, but there is such beauty in its cracks.

G

(My) Life (Or Something Like It)

Hey.

Just because you haven't heard from me lately doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about what to say next. Indeed, I've been thinking about saying alot of things. I just haven't gotten around to saying them. But rest assured (if there's one amongst you who's even capable of such an act), I've been thinking.

I've been thinking about karma and dhamra and life on this pesky little blue planet in general. I've been wondering exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing with this thing they call "life."

"Life."

My "life."

What am I supposed to do with it?

Sound like an adolescent inquiry? Sound like the kind of thing most folks resolve in their 20s? Yeah -- I don't think so. I think this kind of question pops up again and again in life. And midlife is an especially opportune time for it to resurface. Hence the reason for the popular notion of the "midlife crisis."

Am I having a midlife crisis? Hard to say. So much of my life has been a crisis, how would I begin to distinguish one type from another? No, as a matter of fact, I'd say that at this particular moment in my life, the crises have -- at least momentarily -- subsided. That's what's given me the opportunity to reconsider who I am and what I'm supposed to be doing.

"May you get what you wish for," as the eternal blessing/curse says...

What have I gotten recently? Well, I'm at the 4-year mark here in NYC. I came here in the summer of '03 with a suitcase and $3,000 in an IRA generated from the mother-ship corporation that prints Better Homes and Gardens. Talk about a crisis. The "economy," as we Americans love to refer to it, wasn't doing well. Friends on both coasts considered my move to be "high risk," at best. But I went ahead with it anyway. I went ahead with it because my choices were: Stay miserable in LA, with connections and a home firmly in place; or, Move to NY (where I'd always dreamt I'd eventually live), "upping" the risk factor by only a few notches, when one really analyzed it enough...

I took a huge risk, and it paid off. It took a long time to do so, and in doing so, I had some tremendous support from several of the people whom I love most dearly. Erik (though he is no longer a part of my life) picked up the pieces that I'd left behind as I made my mad dash away from what had been my life. That included a dog, a cat, a car and a motorcycle. Ray helped him do so, AND he threw me one month's rent when I was renting a room in Park Slope and just beginning to figure out how to proceed. Ditto for Susan. I'll never forget how much their gestures -- and their checks! -- meant to my mere survival at the time. It took me over a year to pay them both back. They each get a kidney if they ever need it!

But soon after landing here and boarding with the ex-lesbian in Park Slope, I found my niche. Once I'd secured a "Devil Wears Prada" sort of job (much like I'd had in LA before moving), I made my way to the Williamsburg/Bushwick border. I must've had angels guiding me (cliche as that sounds), because it landed me here, at The Naughty Pine, where I not only enjoy reasonable rent (by NY standards), but I also frequently don't have to pay that rent. I get a month's rent credit for every apartment I lease out for my Hassidic landlord who doesn't own a computer or know how to log onto Craigslist. Talk about a golden goose...

But the golden goose requires feeding. She requires feeding, grooming, health care and exercise. So she's no golden ticket -- please don't confuse the two.

See, I have to feed, groom, take care of and exercise that golden goose in addition to working my full-time sales position in an internet software company. The job should be enough. Lord knows my boss thinks so. But if he were to really think about it, he'd realize he'd have to pay me quite a bit more before I could ever consider leaving the golden goose to her own devices...

All of which is to say, I work all the time. I've become the stereotypical New Yorker who thinks and talks of nothing but work. I sell for the boss and I sell for the landlord. And when I'm not selling for either of them, I'm selling myself and those around me on the notion that I'm here to get something more done than all this peddling.

Nevertheless, I feel as though I've accomplished something. I've accomplished more than just something, and I feel a few more "something's" on the horizon about to be accomplished, too. That's the blessing of subduing a crisis or two. You get to sit back, if only momentarily, and reflect upon what you've just accomplished -- and what you'd like to accomplish next.

Hence my reason for this midlife inquiry. It could've happened sooner; it could've happened later. For that reason I don't think it's a crisis. As I said, the crises have already presented themselves.

But it's an inquiry nonetheless. Once again, I'm forced to ask myself, "Who am I?," and "What am I supposed to be doing with my life?" Trite, I know. Questions so trite as to recently having been reduced to subway poster status. And yet...

In case you're expecting a revelation, or any sort of epiphany, I'll let you down as gently as I can right here and now... There isn't any. But there is -- finally -- a re-examination of what might lead to one.

Fair enough?

Hey -- it'll have to do for now.

So Wha Happa in '07?

I know how precious your time is, each and every one of you, so I'll condense it -- "FYI."

In '07, I continued to develop the business relationship with the arts-oriented email software company I'd discovered/been hired by in June of '06. It turned out to be a mutually benefcial relationship, so I chose to continue continuing said relationship. 'Nough said 'bout that.

The result was the highest on-the-record, year-end gross income I've ever earned to date.

To which I need to add another $10,000 in net real estate earnings earned via renting out apartments for my Polish Hassidic Jew landlord -- who not only can't work Craigslist, but who can't even pronounce the word "masturbate." (If you want to know why I know he can't pronounce that, you'll have to write in... Sorry... My agent tells me so.)

All of which is to say, Gregory has grown up -- at least, fiscally speaking. But '07 also helped him grow up in other ways.

Don't pretend you don't know how else. How else? How the fucking else?

"She" DIED.

THAT'S "how else."

"She's" dead. She's dead.

So from this point on (or rather, from October '07 on), I ought not further entertain all the thoughts you all know I've had re: How "She" affected me and how "She" fostered my ostensible inability to achive my potential.

Nope. From this point on (or rather, from October '07 on), I no longer have an overbearing, un-understanding mother to blame for my present lot in life.

All that having been said, just let me add that -- after careful evaluation -- I've recently (re-)realized that my lot in life isn't all that bad after all.

Especially now...

Heh.

Don't hate me for being human.

A symptom gone is something to celebrate, no matter how hard one tries to be Politically Correct. Ergo, a dead enemy no longer attacks -- unless, perhaps, from the grave.

But lest ye think she's haunting me from the grave, let me assure you: She was way too narcissistic to linger anywhere near earth. Nuh-uh. An ego like hers ventures off to seek whatever praises it might receive from God as soon as it possibly can. There is no ghost. There are no paranormal echoes recalling her time on this planet. There are only memories, photos, and scrapbook clippings.

God help her get them. The praises, I mean. I mean it. The dear soul. She tried so hard. She deserves something.

As for me? I'll keep meandering, throughout '08, along my own karmic path, imperfect as it is (too).

Love, G

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!
G

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.)