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
>
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