I also agree with it and think "The Dead" the best there is. Man.
On Dec 13, 2007 8:24 PM, joe green <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> I sgree with everything you say. It's the absinthe.
>
>
> On Dec 4, 2007 3:43 PM, kasper salonen <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> > Joe you're a goddamn virtuoso. I loved reading this as I love reading
> > almost everything you produce. and it always has the impression of
> > meticulous literary detail & yet off-the-cuff, ex-tempore,
> > tongue-in-cheek, stream-of-consciousness narration produced in a
> > single night.
> >
> > I'm impressed & amused & very entertained. lovely to see that Joyce ref.
> >
> > KS
> >
> > On 04/12/2007, joe green < [log in to unmask]> wrote:
> > > I post this true account only to show that I, too, am a vulnerable
> > human
> > > being.
> > >
> > > A prose poem...
> > >
> > >
> > > It is a fact universally acknowledged (there are so many of
> > >
> > > them!) that if Jesus had a son, that son would have opened
> > >
> > > a wine bar just off the Appian Way and experimented with flavored
> > >
> > > olive oils. Persons unfamiliar (as I am) with the thoughts of
> > >
> > > the philosopher Hegel on the subject of thesis and antithesis
> > >
> > > might have expected the junior Jesus to have begun a career
> > >
> > > writing irritating epistles to the Second Corinthians and First
> > >
> > > Collisions and gadding about the known world on his Father's
> > >
> > > business. But knowing that this career would probably involve
> > >
> > > some time as a human torch in a sports stadium and being,
> > >
> > > as sons and daughters of men and women who have an excess on the
> > >
> > > spiritual side often are, a thoroughly superficial fellow Jesus
> > >
> > > Jr. would have given this career a miss and the limit of his
> > >
> > > ambition would have been to be the sous chef in Caligula's
> > >
> > > kitchen.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Hartley Coleridge, son to a fellow so serious that he
> > >
> > > even wrote poems on the bits of flesh that would come off as he
> > >
> > > bathed, is another splendid example of this law or rule. In
> > >
> > > spite of all of his Dad's assurances that God should mold his
> > >
> > > spirit and by giving make it ask and in spite of no little time
> > >
> > > spent in the company of the poet Wordsworth, when one reads
> > >
> > > Hartley's poetry one is convinced that here was a fellow who
> > >
> > > found no novel satisfying unless the heroine, her nostrils
> > >
> > > flaring, threw herself down on the thick, uncut grass exposing
> > >
> > > the bosom with the sweet little strawberry mark that was soon to
> > >
> > > be kissed by a pair of disdainful lips belonging to Lord
> > >
> > > Valentine Ravenscar.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > These are the thoughts which, as it were, seemed to pass through
> > >
> > > my mind as I made my way to the hospital in the Awful Suburb
> > >
> > > where Fate awaited me. I say "seemed" because a true
> > >
> > > transcription of my stream of consciousness would be closer to
> > >
> > > this:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > ..."Hang on, Sloopy. Sloopy hang on."
> > >
> > > "Is that a Scottie?"
> > >
> > > "Always liked Scotties."
> > >
> > > "Scotties are nice dogs."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > But in spite of this deficiency (Readers who crave the Real might
> > >
> > > imagine the stream of consciousness Leopold Bloom might have had
> > >
> > > if he had suffered a cerebral accident) I brooded long and long
> > >
> > > on just why I lacked the gifts of the spirit. The answer, of course
> > >
> > > is that my parents were positively bursting with them:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > December, 1957. I am, as usual, sprawled on my Hopalong Cassidy
> > >
> > > bedspread in my room reading the dirty parts of "Anatomy of a
> > >
> > > Murder." My mother is in the kitchen and, as usual, clutching
> > >
> > > the edge of the sink staring into Nothingness -- for my father is
> > >
> > > in the basement doing just what he does every year around this
> > >
> > > time.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Father: Jesus Christ, I can't find the fucking Frosty!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Silence invades the house. My brother eases out the door.
> > >
> > > I panic briefly and then silently roll under the bed. My mother
> > >
> > > groans silently.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Where's the fucking Frosty! Goddammit every year I have to go
> > >
> > > through this shit."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > A strangled yelp and then a series of yips.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Mother: "Did you kick the dog again, you bastard?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Father: "Where's the goddamn Frosty!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Mother: "In the attic! The fucking Frosty's the attic where you
> > >
> > > put it every year you stupid moron."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > At this point readers might be puzzled as to the spiritual aspect
> > >
> > > of this situation but these readers are unfamilar with the poetry
> > >
> > > of the poet Yeats whose observation on "gaiety transfiguring all
> > >
> > > that dread" provides the needed insight.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > As so often happens, the spiritual depths of my mother exceeded
> > >
> > > even those of my Father. It was only a few days later. Saturday
> > >
> > > night and Frosty blinking on and off on the lawn as snow fell
> > >
> > > softly falling, falling softly on the living and the dead (c).
> > >
> > > A blizzard expected and I toddled off to bed secure in the
> > >
> > > thought that we would not be going to Mass tomorrow. The erotic
> > >
> > > possibilities of an extra hour or so in bed seemed endless!
> > >
> > > As I looked out the window the next morning (awakened early
> > >
> > > by the farting of my Scottie "Chip" so recently the recipient of
> > >
> > > my father's struggle with God) I gave a little yelp of pleasure.
> > >
> > > Frosty completely covered by drifts, the 53 Pontiac encased in a
> > >
> > > block of ice.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > But then I heard the wailing of my brother and sister as they
> > >
> > > were shaken awake and, the next moment, my mother kicked open my
> > >
> > > bedroom door.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Get up! We're going to church!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "How!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "You have a sled, don't you? Get up. We're leaving now!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "No-one will be there!," I wailed.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "The priest will be there, won't he? It's Sunday isn't it?
> > >
> > > Get up NOW!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I won't trouble the reader with an account of the howls and
> > >
> > > screams of my five year old brother or seven year old sister as
> > >
> > > they were smothered into snowsuits and bound to the sled. My
> > >
> > > father, of course, had never made it back from the VFW the night
> > >
> > > before so even the slight possibility that the expedition might
> > >
> > > have been put off by a remark from my father like "You're crazy.
> > >
> > > You're whole fucking family is nuts" (therefore creating
> > >
> > > the necessity for my mother to scream "At least they're not a
> > >
> > > bunch of goddamn drunks" (a lie) and run about the house and yard
> > >
> > > smashing my father's hidden bottles of booze) didn't remain even
> > >
> > > the possible that is possible before all the actual decrees of
> > >
> > > God.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Pull," my mother subvented.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And I pulled.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Warrensville is located between two hills: Lost Hill (where we
> > >
> > > lived) and that mount known euphoniously to everyone as Hunkie
> > >
> > > Hill -- named in honor of all those recent immigrants whose last
> > >
> > > names lacked vowels. Few of them, of course, were really
> > >
> > > Hungarians (tho that blot Dooley Nagy lived there) and most were
> > >
> > > simply refugees from those parts of Europe not occupied by the
> > >
> > > "Wops." In fact, one couldn't do better than to quote the words
> > >
> > > of my father when one is striving to communicate the distribution
> > >
> > > of population in Warrensville:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "The Hunkies live on Hunkie Hill. The Wops are on the West End
> > >
> > > and the goddamn Jews live on the East End. They're all a bunch
> > >
> > > of shitheads."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Our church, St. Sebastian, was nestled in the valley that is
> > >
> > > Warrensville proper and this cheered me since it would be all
> > >
> > > downhill after the initial long pull. Of course, it is difficult
> > >
> > > keeping a sled upright as one attempts to pull it down an ice
> > >
> > > covered hill and my brother and sister received many bruises that
> > >
> > > they could offer up to heaven as we did so. My mother was grimly
> > >
> > > silent and remained silently grim even as we neared the church.
> > >
> > > Finally, we were there. I stopped, panting.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Why are you stopping!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "We're here."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "No, were not. We're going to the ten-thirty Mass at
> > >
> > > St. Stanislaus."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Why!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Because I say we are. Move!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And after being beaten for a bit, I did.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > St. Stanislaus, of course, was on top of Hunkie Hill. A cold
> > >
> > > coming we had of it etc. but, at last, were there.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > No-one else was.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Mom, the church is locked!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Locked!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Yeah, its locked. They're not having Mass because of the snow,
> > >
> > > I guess."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And of course, this is what she had hoped for all along. There
> > >
> > > we were, strangers in a strange land before the locked church and
> > >
> > > only God and I could see as my mother rose from untying my
> > >
> > > brother and surveyed the houses of all the Hunkies snug in their
> > >
> > > beds: all the Stefanics and Krysnysks, and Thisskis and Thatkis
> > >
> > > too fucking lazy to get out of bed and worship God just because
> > >
> > > the worst blizzard in fifty years had passed over the land and
> > >
> > > said:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "And they call themselves Catholics."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > We might all want to say with the poet Coleridge:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "O simple spirit, guided from above,
> > >
> > > Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
> > >
> > > This mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And I was thinking something along these lines as I reached the
> > >
> > > Awful Suburb, turned into Snow White lane and then saw a vision
> > >
> > > so horrible that I cried:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Never shake thy gory locks at me!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > and almost ran off the road...
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Stave the Second
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > As soon as I changed into my hospital duds I padded forth
> > >
> > > to show C..
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Who do I look like?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Joe, Put that cigarette down!."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "It's not lit. C'mon... Who?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Muriel Hemingway."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Nah, I'm Bob Fosse. You remember..."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "All that Jazz" (Did I detect a note of infinite weariness in
> > >
> > > her voice?)
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Yeah, right. I am just about to sneak down to the lower depths
> > >
> > > of the hospital and sneak a smoke with the lower orders who think
> > >
> > > I am just some poor pitiful white asshole who is going to die.
> > >
> > > Remember? Look."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And I think I caught that look quite well.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Cut it out. We have to proceed to the blue area now. Besides
> > >
> > > you look more like Shirley McLain in "Terms of Endearment."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "What? Shirley McClain wasn't about to die. Her daughter was
> > >
> > > dying."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Oh, yeah... C'mon."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Yeah. Old Shirley was screwing Jack Nicholson who was an
> > >
> > > astronaut who was really the devil."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > The ordinary reader is, at this moment, quite startled by all
> > >
> > > this. After all, in my last installment I was proceeding alone
> > >
> > > to the Awful Suburb to have a cat scan and the narrative had
> > >
> > > stopped with:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Never shake thy gory locks at me!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > as I glimpsed something on the side of the road that caused
> > >
> > > me to almost lose control of the Fiesta.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Yet now I am, apparently, at the hospital and am accompanied
> > >
> > > and gaily and airily chatting about the cinema. I should also
> > >
> > > inform you that I now know what I have. Colon cancer was
> > >
> > > possible. Bets have been made. The ordinary reader who does not
> > >
> > > see fit to inform me that my life is a quiet and desperate one
> > >
> > > and that I should, at once, remove myself to the rural districts
> > >
> > > so that I might learn that Nature n'er refused the heart that
> > >
> > > loves her (if this be not a vain belief) might, one imagines,
> > >
> > > want to know and right now whether I am to proceed at once to the
> > >
> > > Western Gate.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And I, of course, ask myself: "What is my responsibility as an
> > >
> > > artist?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > What a silly question.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > The point is that I displayed what I like to call negative
> > >
> > > capability -- the ability or power to remain in mystery and doubt
> > >
> > > without any sickened grasping after fact. I believe that
> > >
> > > Shakespeare -- more than any other artist --is pre-eminent in
> > >
> > > this and even though, as Bertie Wooster remarks, his stuff sounds
> > >
> > > wonderful but doesn't mean a damn thing and even tho he was given
> > >
> > > to (as Bertie again remarks) stealing ducks -- the general reader
> > >
> > > might (as many will agree) want to emulate the Swan of Avon.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > C. and I proceeded to the blue area as per instructions.
> > >
> > > She was there because within the hour I was to undergo a
> > >
> > > cystoscopy and was to be sedated. I required a drive home.
> > >
> > > Normally, as any parfait gentle knights will recognize, the code
> > >
> > > requires that this sort of thing be faced alone. After all, a
> > >
> > > cystoscope -- which is a kind of telescope with plumbing
> > >
> > > attachments and about the thickness of a French Foreign Legion
> > >
> > > saber was about to be plunged into my penis --without anesthesia
> > >
> > > -- by a Korean urologist who conceived of medicine as a martial
> > >
> > > art and was now approaching me with the swagger displayed by
> > >
> > > Bruce Lee after dispatching the more cunning members of this or
> > >
> > > that Chinese Tong or Tang. I was now reclining on a gurney.
> > >
> > > C. at my side. Below is an accurate description of our
> > >
> > > conversation:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > K.U. "Hah! You here!"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Me "Alas."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > K.U. We know soon. I know now! Very rare. Very, very rare."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > C. (C): "What do you mean?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > K. U. "Very rare. Very, very rare. Second time in two year.
> > >
> > > 37 year old man come to me. Hah! Been already to four
> > >
> > > urologists. Hah. I ask him: 'Gas in Penis? Yes? Pain right
> > >
> > > here? Yes? Same thing your husband have. You bet. Watch.
> > >
> > > I'm right."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And then he strolled away.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > ETLP: "What the hell? I didn't understand a thing he said."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I was too busy sneering bravely at the retreating urologist to
> > >
> > > reply at once. And then two nurses were too busy disengaging
> > >
> > > my hand from C.'s arm for me to reply. I wouldn't have told
> > >
> > > her anyway. I would not love thee dear so much loved I not honor
> > >
> > > more. Finally, I was separated from C. and only had time to
> > >
> > > fling her one last brave look as I was wheeled to the operating
> > >
> > > room my nurses chatting gaily or airily (Jeeves would know) about
> > >
> > > the new gurney.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I interrupted their speculations about how the sides came down:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "I haven't been sedated yet."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "I think you just push the red thing here."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > The doors to the operating room gaped. I was inside.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I don't know how many of you have been awake inside a theater of
> > >
> > > this type. Perhaps other hospitals have moved away a bit from
> > >
> > > the Frankenstein look. This one had not.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Two other nurses busied with something at the end of the horrible
> > >
> > > table with the...yes.. stirrups.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Just push the red thing"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Neat"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Just move so that your bottom is on the end of the table, sir."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Feet up."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > My feet then strapped to the stirrups, poor penis dangling over
> > >
> > > the edge.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "What about my sedation?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "In a minute"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > K.U. entered the room and strolled about my body once and then
> > >
> > > exited humming a strange tune.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > The nurse located nearest my penis said:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Cold."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I am afraid I gave a little martial arts cry as suddenly my
> > >
> > > penis and balls were covered by a freezing cloth whose dampness
> > >
> > > recalled ( I don't know why, the medicinal smell, the peculiar
> > >
> > > chill) dank sorrow.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Here's your sedative."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I was, of course, about to inform her that I didn't need it but I
> > >
> > > was too late.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > It didn't seem to have any effect.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Nurses busy doing this and that. I was, of course, busy trying
> > >
> > > to think happy thoughts so only heard bits of their conversation.
> > >
> > > One nurse had been at the wedding of the daughter of another
> > >
> > > nurse who was not present.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "A very nice wedding."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Of course, the meal began with a fruit cocktail."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "They had fish and everyone got two red potatoes"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Fish?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Yes, it was done just right."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Her wedding gown was very close-fitting."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Little seed pearls"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "She's not a small girl. Would you say?"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Her gown was very tight."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "The musicians announced the relatives when the came in."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Grandfather and Grandmother of the bride."
> > >
> > > "Stepfather of the bride."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Do you think that's odd? I think her grandfather had a wooden
> > >
> > > leg."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Then silence invaded the room. My K U shimmered to the foot of
> > >
> > > the table. I wanted to see every move he made but suddenly
> > >
> > > the nurses surrounded him and then:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I think that it is customary at these times to describe this sort
> > >
> > > of thing as indescribable. I felt more or less as Bamboo did in
> > >
> > > the short subject "Bamboo Meets Godzilla" exactly at the moment
> > >
> > > that Godzilla's foot comes down on the poor fawn.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Grrruhhhgrrruhhhhhhhgrrrruuuh" is the mot juste, I gather and I
> > >
> > > was filled with, as I suspected I would be, the most peculiar
> > >
> > > sorrow. Why were they doing this to a living thing?
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Then: "uhhhggrrrruuuhhhhhgrrrru uhhhhhggggggahhhhh" as he
> > >
> > > twisted the instrument about with the satisfaction that Balboa
> > >
> > > must have felt in the Keats poem as he peered through his
> > >
> > > telescope and a "new planet swam into his ken."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Hah!
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Twist.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Urrghertehehr"
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Hah! Hah! Hah!
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Then the instrument was withdrawn with a flourish and he jumped
> > >
> > > up leaping from the chair he sat in.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Just so! Colon eroded into bladder. Very serious. Very, very
> > >
> > > rare. Must have surgery.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > And then, without another word, made his exit.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "I'll bet she couldn't wait to get that gown off."
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > I didn't hear the rest. I was too busy reciting my mantra as
> > >
> > > they wheeled me out:
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > "Bubble gum. Bubble gum. In a dish. How many pieces do you wish?
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > Well?
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > --
> > > Joseph Green
> > > The Pleasant Reviewer
> > > Headmaster, St. John Boscoe Laboratory School
> > >
> > > Switchboard Captain, Hollywood Colonial Hotel
> > >
> > > All complaints shall be directed to:
> > >
> > > Camelopard Breathwaite
> > > The Fallows, 200 Fifth Avenue, Fredonia City
> > >
> > > "That's Double Dependability"
> > >
> > > Brought to you by Zenith Trans-Cosmic Radio
> > >
> >
>
>
>
> --
>
> Joseph Green
> The Pleasant Reviewer
> Headmaster, St. John Boscoe Laboratory School
>
> Switchboard Captain, Hollywood Colonial Hotel
>
> All complaints shall be directed to:
>
> Camelopard Breathwaite
> The Fallows, 200 Fifth Avenue, Fredonia City
>
> "That's Double Dependability"
>
> Brought to you by Zenith Trans-Cosmic Radio
>
--
Joseph Green
The Pleasant Reviewer
Headmaster, St. John Boscoe Laboratory School
Switchboard Captain, Hollywood Colonial Hotel
All complaints shall be directed to:
Camelopard Breathwaite
The Fallows, 200 Fifth Avenue, Fredonia City
"That's Double Dependability"
Brought to you by Zenith Trans-Cosmic Radio
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