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