19.3.08

Some Songs Sound Better After You Forget Them

It's not like this should come as that big of a surprise, or that drastic of a maneuver to necessitate resuscitation. But the truth will out and the truth of the matter is that it is a matter of fact that yesterday I saw my flesh and blood perform life saving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a limp and lifeless new born Nubian goat kid. Is the proper maneuver in that situation to stand awkwardly with your hands shoved in your pockets? Or is it better to be watching the live action remake of "101 Dalmatians"? The one where House is the bumbling bumble-headed lackey of Glenn Close, or Glen Close, or whatever. I watched the movie about skinning skinny puppies for fashion with a three year-old who thinks she's a mermaid, a two year-old who thinks he's a race car and a one year-old who doesn't think much and thought about skinning skinny kids for fashion. But it seemed rather fascist, and lets face it, fascist is sort of out of fashion.

So here I am. A month of Sundays later and no nearer or further to or from whatever it was or is there is or was to be nearer or further to or from. I said something about being in a coma but it slides only deeper and deeper and I am the kid from "The Odyssey" who is losing the kid war to the other kid, the one with shoulder pads, because bad men where shoulder pads over their clothes because they think it makes them look meaner, but what it means is that they are frightened by the thought of having to perform thoracic laser surgery on their mothers and lovers. But aren't we all? And where does all this leave us? Nowhere near anything thoughtful or useful, asking what is the use? Does it really make our pubic privates look more public?

So here I sit on my pile of shit and slip deeper down the slope, 100 feet from drowning in over my head in a river with a bottom I could touch in all spots by my 10th year. Even though I clung to a tractor tire inner-tube and a too small orange life jacket with a broken blue buckle for dear life. Until my teeth chattered and my fingers were blue prunes and Father was wading waist deep in shit up to his hips to save his children from long willow whips that cut young men's hands to shreds and shards and the scarlet drips drop drip-drop and dissolve before they drop to the bottom. The only thing that has ever been that deep is a tip-toe and a hockey net. Your childhood. My childhood. Suspended, overgrown, overblown. Choking to death on St. John's Wart because it is good for you. Shut up and take it.

Am I the one who needs adjusting? Do I need new insoles in my work boots to make it all a little less painful? I lost one of my work boots years ago. I don't know where the other one is either really, but the one is definitely lost. Which is a shame. They had steal shanks. To keep the sharp shards of glass and grass from cutting my feet to shreds like long willow whips did my hands. But where does that leave us? I am just a chump without work boots. Like all the other chumps without work boots. Big deal. I am not. But that is just me. I am just me. Where does that leave me? I am not sure. That is the problem.

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I was reading in The Walrus of a boy named Goo who lost hope and interest in everything except for a 3-inch square patch of carpet in his room, and he watched it and cared for it like Mother Teresa would a leper. He never left it. He never loved it. But that 3-inch square patch of carpet was the only thing that made any sense to him. It was because his world ran away from him. Left him behind. He went snow blind, then blind-blind, and the only thing that he could see was a 3-inch square patch of carpet in his room. Everything else was a blur of blinding white light that by the time his pupils ate it, his rods and cones digested it and his optic nerve shat it into his brain it was like a grey tasteless soup made with Campbell's Low Sodium Chicken Broth and dryer lint from a load of your granny's granny panties. Why would you even want to look anywhere else if everywhere else tasted like granny's granny panties' dryer lint soup? That, I suppose, would overwhelm even the thirstiest sailor.

So this boy lived in his room and focused on this 3-inch square patch of carpet. And the world carried on, "it ain't gonna wait on you," some old man once told another old man in a movie about old men or the abject inappropriateness thereof. And it passed the boy by and his 3-inch square patch of carpet became horribly dated and out of fashion and worn and soiled and stained with dog piss and the boy's room became infested with termites and cock roaches and vermin of various varieties and shapes and sizes and black mould and bacteria. And a wall came down in one corner, and the roof caved in, and his parents retired to elsewhere and soon the basement contained the first floor and the spot previously occupied by the first floor was the second and so-on-and-so-forth and there the boy sat, him and his 3-inch square patch of carpet. And then the locusts came, and the rain and hail and finally hell fire and the boy's last thought before being ingested into the belly of the beast and shat out in some truck stop was that of regret. His life flashed before his eyes, and he never noticed, because it was just a 3-inch square patch of carpet and it looked just like what he was looking at when everything was flashing before his eyes and as the taste of his granny's granny panty dryer lint soup climbed the back of his throat he thought of how peculiar it was that a universe, THE universe, or at least THIS universe, could be shrunk down to a 3-inch square piece of faded, stained, drab, out-of-fashion shag carpet. But before any other thoughts could cross his mind he was extinguished and the the world gushed in and he drowned on his granny's granny panty dryer lint soup.

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A comic book arrived in the mail from that special someone, on the back, near the ad for ordering sea monkeys, Franz K. says, "What do I have in common with the Jews? I don't even have anything in common with myself." He too drowned on something like his granny's granny panty dryer lint soup. Only his own lungs did it to him. Traitors.

As another old man once said to any other man too old to change the station, "that's the kind of day it's been." Or maybe that was Rick Mercer. I often get him and Paul Harvey confused.

1 comment:

jillian said...

"That, I suppose, would overwhelm even the thirstiest sailor"

About time you gave a few drops to the loyal readers! And not of the granny-panty grey soup variety, but you know, the other, purer satisfying kind of drops.

Hope Home is Happy. Hope your mom is well.

Montreal is still cold. But she's coming around.