“What about saxophones? Trumpets? A number of parents are mobilizing … ”
“Yeah, we’ve seen them at school, “Wally said, tossing me a scowl. “They’re crowded in the hallways with their signs. That is so pathetic.” And then in an aside to Molly, “Like don’t you hate it when parents go all parenty? When they get all concerned and do this act like they’re trying to be good parents? They only do that in front of other parents, you know. It’s so fake.”
Molly nodded sagely. Zen for the pre-adolescent.
I left them to their after-school event.
Back in the living room Lanny had switched to plane crashes. “Six hours of plane crashes,” he told me with something like glee in his voice, “A plane crash marathon. Public transportation like a lottery: you never know when your number’s up, when it’s your turn to be flung from the sky. Might be a good night.”
I stood and watched a shot of an airport runway and a taxiing plane. The announcer said ominously: “Flight 301. Only sixty seconds into takeoff when suddenly the 737 veered. Crashing into two water tanks alongside Dallas International Airport. Killing all 267 on board. When they recovered the black box investigators were baffled … ”
I’m hoping there’s a black box out there with my name on it. Hidden somewhere in the rubble of early twenty-first century life. Possibly battered and melted but inside the taped message is still intact. A few succinct sentences which would explain everything—solve the mystery, explain the disaster which is our lives.
CHEERLEADING
DURING THE BIRTHDAY DINNER—there was just the two of them—they talked about art and how the “new” music seemed to be leading the arts as far as expressing the present time was concerned—the bass-driven DJ compositions, almost symphonic in their construction, yet elemental, heart-pounding. How this music delighted and excited while expressing a seamless present! Music subtly layered, full of unpredictability and surprise. At the time they were listening to St. Germain’s, Boulevard, and drinking red Bordeaux.
Still thinking of music, she mentioned the notion that consciousness is tied to technology, that, historically, consciousness has changed alongside technology. “Or probably,” he said, “it is that they are paired, each influencing and altering the other.”
Briefly, they imagined a “Minuet mind,” pinched and decorous, then a “Christian mind,” trapped in its own narrative, a “Gutenberg mind,” which must have been initially frightening, a “Digital mind,” embryonic, confusing.
The writer J.G. Ballard was mentioned next. His statement that, contrary to popular perception, the 20th century was not dominated by holocaust and doom but was, in fact, a century of optimism and naivete. They thought about that for a while and wondered if perhaps human beings have a cheerleader gene, as a kind of survival mechanism, hidden away in their DNA makeup.
They considered the societal function of inspiration—uplifting thoughts and feelings. Perhaps there was some basic drive to exaltation, he suggested, the whole purpose being to provide a parallel experience to the bleak facts undermining human existence. A deeper and more lasting perspective, say, than religion or entertainment provided. Many, they agreed, were whole-heartedly, and by definition singly, engaged in this endeavor. Artists and fevered scientists caught unawares in an unlikely union like good news ambassadors for the race, all of them desperate to find the cure for the human condition.
They went for a walk, the evening lengthening now in early April. The air was sharp, the sky overcast but lovely with many small birds chattering in the leafless poplars, and the dangling flower cones of the maple trees shedding their fine yellow dust on the roadway, on their shoulders.
On the beach thousands of seagulls perched on the rocks and many flew overhead in screaming agitation. It was said that after fifty years the herring had, inexplicably, returned to the inlet. Suddenly their neighbourhood beach had become a feeding ground. There were other birds, too, ravens, and more crows than they’d ever seen amassed at one place. And many bald eagles. When the eagles flew above the rocks, the perched gulls rose in one fluid movement; they were the exact same colour as the grey sky.
After the beach they walked home and she made coffee. He presented a small birthday cake—vanilla with a cream and wafer filling. Today she was fifty-one years old. But there was only one lit candle on the cake, a stub end from the sideboard, and she blew it out and made a wish which concerned the continuing good health of their children. The talk then settled on their children, especially in light of the birthday wish, and of the framed pictures of them he’d given her as a gift.
Admiring the gift she remarked that while the children were living at home, they’d never showcased their pictures—other than snapshots on the fridge—and how it was strange but also sad to see them mounted now, their images like ghosts or spirits hovering around them.
And so the evening continued. Still seated at the table, they turned their gaze outward once more, towards the world, and watched the moon rise, and listened to the birdsong outside. They found it surprising and lovely to hear birdsong while the moon shone.
TEN POINT WEIGHT
1. I heard the cry of agitated crows and shielded my eyes, peering at the sky for reasons. A turkey vulture, black and red-beaked, was attacking a crow’s nest in a nearby tree. From the crows came a terrible cry of panic. Higher up, a pair of eagles lazily drifted.
2. At the same time, an ambulance backed out of the yard next door, discretely removing the body.
3. You said, “Did you know that eagles mate for life?” and this thought gave me comfort.
4. It was the same comfort I felt at a party while watching a woman with a bottle of Echinacea dispense twenty drops into her husband’s martini. She had the look of a zealot, dead serious, humourless. She said, “I’ve personally taken charge of Bob’s immune system.”
5. You cringed and headed for the drinks table.
6. But I faced a wall and cried. After twenty-six years, which in married terms is a lifetime, I’d take charge of your immune system, too, if you’d let me. Take charge like it was a medieval fortress and I was Captain of the Guards throwing spears and fire balls at bacteria, multiplying cells, attacking hearts, killer thoughts.
7. But you don’t believe in invisible things, refusing to prostrate yourself before another description of doom. “The immune system!” you declared. “Who dreamed up that metaphor?”
8. When the ambulance removed the body of our neighbour, a cry of panic settled mutely in my chest like a twenty-six pound weight dragging me closer to you but down, as well.
9. When the time comes, death offers a shopping mall of possibilities, from small deaths to large. Everyone knows this. But who amongst us is not tempted by a final, gaudy flourish? Some give away their money, hoping for a monument. Some become hysterically kind in an eleventh hour bid to curry favor. This much is observable.
10. And this. It’s early June, warm and bright. The pink climbing roses are in full bloom along the side of the house. The lawns are still green. There’s a strong breeze coming in from the sea. And poplar leaves are snapping like flags at a fair.
THE SALE OF MYSTERIES
THERE WAS A MYSTERY SALE. I stood with the crowd outside the store to see what bargains I might find. All the old mysteries were being thrown out, marked down, liquidated. All the old questions were in for a culling.
I waited nervously amongst a crowd of eager shoppers for the 9 a.m. opening. “No Early Birds,” a sign on the door said.
“Who is selling the old mysteries?” I asked a young man nearby. This was a mystery I wanted solved. But the young man scowled and moved away. The young have little time and all of time. This is something I understand, nothing mysterious about it.
Peeking through the store window I saw four card players seated around a table; gin bottles on the floor; cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Four old card players. Were these the sellers of the old mysteries?
Then the alarm sounded. I wasn’t sure what the disaster wa
s this time—actual destruction—war, plague, weather—or merely a drill. Still, the crowd fled to their cars, not knowing. Is that one of the eternal mysteries? Not knowing for sure?
At home, I presented the question during dinner.
—The alarms are going all the time now, daily, almost hourly. There’s this constant agitation, this smell of fear, this anticipation of danger. Was it always this way?
—Is this a new question or an old question?
—I’m not sure.
—Who is raising the alarms?
—Some of us. All of us.
—It’s a species on red alert.
—Perhaps. But before we self-destruct I want at least one old mystery to keep as a souvenir.
—Keep where?
—On the mantle. In my mind. In the scrapbook.
—Beneath each mask of happiness lies a well of sorrow and pain. There’s a mystery. See if you can get one of those.
—Yes, that one’s endured.
—Comes from the Bible, that tome of nasty sayings. Here’s another. What about the mystery of selves, each person possessing at least a hundred selves discoverable during a lifetime?
—That’s a new mystery. A social mystery. I want an old mystery.
—Words, then, the mystery of words. Words splashing onto the page. Large, heavy drops of thought scattering insight, our imaginations skewered.
—Or words creating images.
—Or dislocated images, their shine bandaged.
—Busted images attended by image nurses like causalities in an emergency ward.
—Is that a mystery?
—That’s a poem.
—What about language then? In general.
—The way the mind squeezes itself to produce substance, the way thought and image become tactile?
—I was thinking of purpose. That what we humans do is use language to explain things to each other. That this is what sets us apart from other animals.
—Is that your mystery?
—No. It belongs to Lewis Thomas. Lives of the Cells.
—A scientist’s mystery, then.
—Scientists are perhaps the most mysterious of all. There’s all those invisible particles, for starters. Complicated numbers.
—Scientists proceed on faith. Believing as they do in numbers.
—Baby, we all proceed on faith.
—Meaning?
—That there will be a world to wake up to tomorrow. That we won’t die in the night.
—In the next moment.
—Moments. Now there’s a mysterious concept.
—Nothing, when you get down to it, makes much sense.
—Moments are your basic Buddhism. As in: Moments are all there is. Behind each jewel are a thousand sweating horses.
—What’s that?
—More Buddhism.
—There was a mad woman who stood on her doorstep crying: “Is this the only existence I get?”
—That’s not madness, that’s reality.
—She was really agitated. Kept poking her finger at the sky, giving the sky the finger.
—The sky didn’t respond.
—Right. A sheet of clouds and nothing. As it must be. She started out as a Sufi then slipped over the edge.
—As in: Hey, wait a minute, I don’t think I like this baldness?
—Yes. She believed there was nowhere to hide, no cover. She was really agitated.
—That’s one response. Out of many. This pull to have more than one existence. Can this be explained?
—Perhaps. It was madness, that woman crying about existence. Because she was so agitated. Agitation goes with madness. Now reality, emotions have nothing to do with it. A flower doesn’t get pissed off. A rock doesn’t plot war.
—Clever. Here’s something. Richard Dawkin’s theory of evolution. Our bodies as survival machines for genes. Our bodies created by genes to ensure their survival. Genes jumping from body to body, hop-scotching down eternity.
—How depressing. Like being host to a pack of fleas.
—Then meme theory. Parallel evolution. Thoughts, ideas, concepts, jumping from brain to brain, responsible for a culture. Here’s a mystery: Humankind as the only species with an expressed culture.
—That sounds like hope, the biggest mystery of all. So what about the Sale of Mysteries?
—Peeking through the store window I watched the card players. Every so often one would plunge a hand inside a pail, pull out a sheet of paper, silently read what was on the paper and then tear the message to shreds. It’s those shreds I am after. You’ve no idea what you’ll come up with when you start pasting together bits of discarded mysteries. Maybe a blueprint for the age, maybe a strange but interesting roadmap.
—Going somewhere, are you?
—Is there someplace to go?
THE FESTIVAL
OPENING ACT: In the parking lot the Amazing Angelos are performing. Ten acrobats in red satin costumes and balancing on fifteen-foot high stilts flip themselves over each other, over cars, over Mayfair Bookstore.
Act 2: The Precipice Balancer. A white-haired man who looks like a retired tailor balances on one leg of a chair. On the ledge at Suicide Cliff where an audience fearfully gathers. Below are boats … somewhere in the tiny waves … specks. The Precipice Balancer crosses his legs and reads loudly from his runaway bestseller: Confessions of a Coat Maker. He laughs at what he has written. The chair teeters. He laughs and laughs.
Act 3: Girl Triplet Poets take turns reading in a church basement. The first one says: This is a poem for my dog. And reads a piece about howling at the moon. The second triplet says: This is a poem about silence. Then stands and says nothing for ten minutes. The third triplet says: I don’t have a poem. And reads a transcript of last night’s newscast. The triplets are all about fifty-four with grey hair pulled back into ponytails. They curtsy in unison when they finish. The applause is thoughtful, not unkind.
Act 4: A mystery writer who believes she’s a failure wears a backpack filled with dynamite and climbs into a wooden box. The box is large enough to also contain several hundred copies of her remaindered book. Before sealing herself inside the box she reads one last line from the novel. Many in the audience yawn, look at their watches. When she’s finished reading and nailed securely inside the box a Commissioner tells everyone to stand back. Several minutes pass without an explosion. The audience becomes impatient, many drift away. After half an hour, banging is heard within the box. Moving closer, those left in the audience hear the mystery writer shouting that she’s run out of matches. Just then a man rushes forward with a can of gasoline and splashes the contents onto the box. No one is sure if he’s the one who tossed the match. But the explosion is spectacular. Several in the audience catch fire. The auditorium is quickly swallowed in flames. Now it’s a mystery. Who was that man with the gasoline can? The writer’s husband? Her jealous lover? Her son who has been cut out of her will? Or is this a case of assisted suicide? Murder? A publicity stunt? Literary criticism?
Act 5: A poet launches the publication of an epic poem about the great tenpin bowler, Albert Defolio. The poet is a sad-looking fellow, middle-aged, wearing dirty grey workman’s pants and a soiled green sweatshirt. He has terrible B.O. Many in the audience cover their noses with handkerchiefs, sleeves, hands. The poet asks the audience to bear with him; there are twelve books to this poem, he says, and in order to do justice to his hero Albert Defolio, he intends to read all twelve. Three-quarters of the audience immediately leave. Several hours later, at Book Five, and with only the poet’s wife and best friend in attendance, the poet is asked to continue his reading outside because the café must close. Book Seven finds the poet shouting his work beneath a light standard in the parking lot—wild-haired, arms flying. His shivering wife and best friend huddle together on the curbside drinking from a thermos full of rum and coffee. Every now and then one of them utters in the direction of the poet, “Yes,” “Beautiful.” By Book Ten the temperature has dropped severe
ly and the poet’s wife and best friend are, for warmth’s sake, entwined inside a sleeping bag, lying on the strip of lawn that borders the parking lot where the poet still reads. By Book Eleven the wife and best friend once again utter, “Yes,” “Beautiful.” but this time to each other, the poet having crossed over on a rapture of his own words to that other place where truth is the misery of a few.
GRAND FINALE
THE GREAT SIMULTANEOUS READ-OFF.
With Over A Hundred International Participants
Including:
* Violet & Daisy Hilton, Siamese twins joined at the waist reading in tandem from Reflected Glory, the biography of a woman who used cunning and hard work to secure a place in the world of power and wealth.
* Tom Thumb, only thirty inches high, reading from His Holiness, the dramatic biography of Pope John Paul II.
* Hiram & Barney Davis, “The Wild Men of Borneo,” perfectly proportioned retarded midgets wearing leggings, reading from M Is For Malice, the novel about the all-too-common outcome of familial hatreds.
* From South America, the famous microcephalics, Maximo and Bartola, reading alternating sentences from Richard Simmons’ Farewell To Fat Cookbook.
* Ann E. Leek, the armless wonder who can write, crochet, embroider, and cut valentines with her toes reading from Cindy Crawford’s Basic Face, the workbook that shares the model’s foolproof make-up secrets.
* For the children, the tuxedo wearing “Great Waldo” who, during his reading from Mother Goose For the Zeros, swallows a mouse then regurgitates it live.
* Plus singing Benedictine monks, midget villages, cannibal villages, dancing accountants, dancing bushmen, a row of Ubangi women, dish lips smacking, a row of transvestites, eyelashes flapping.
All the performers reading at the same time, some shouting the words, some howling. Fiction. Non-fiction. Biography. Autobiography. Poetry. Cookbooks. Soul books. Disease books. Dictionaries. Money Guides. Craft books. The bestsellers and the obscure. The tomes and the slim volumes. Everything’s included. The voices raised together, a screaming cantata, an earth trembling babble. A cacophony. A great wordy din. And the audience overcome, weeping, fulfilled. The shouting. “Hallelujah!” “More!” “More!” The audience sweating, laughing, breathless. Clapping themselves silly as the Read-Off continues …
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