Sunday, January 30, 2005

La Regle De Ah-Choo.



Of my cohorts, few have resisted the damned urge of penning a manifesto at the ripe old age of nothing. This would be the place to do so, and I fight the urge as one fights lyme disease: with distracting clattering, Bombay vapor salves, and chronic masturbation. But O’Henry, isn’t this entire forum a means with which to beat off endlessly? Alas, no axis, mon amour. If you are to read this, you are to know it as something with the potential to guide a cornfield voyage through every highway vein, just as it could with equal ease falter into inconsistent tedium and long-winded balderdash.

Returned to academy this week. Found excessive bong hits and cheap vodka to do very little good. There must be something to laugh along with it to. Ideally, there are women and song with wine, and these did not arrive until Wednesday or so. In the last few moons came the familiar glow of eyes that have vaginas. Gracefully, in less time than I could have even hoped for, the futtbucking luxury of the place is again making me quietly glow. Nearly all the good souls are back: to the departed, I can do neigh but wave and pray the plateau one day curve sharp enough to see ‘em. I danced until three-thirty or so last night, then listened to the fables of drunkards. They know when you’re putting them on, right? This one girl, she’s drunk all the time. She’s becoming a bartender in Springfield, that’s how badly she wants to be drunk all the time. Last semester this girl kicked open my unlocked door in the middle of the night to find myself and another naked. Not emotionally either, I mean unclothed. So I put down my cigarette and spoke to her in the hall, told her how such things are considered inappropriate by some. She was all too apologetic, and all too apologetic last night. Sorry about being sorry about being sorry. Yet still I wish this girl well, because at least she talks when my feet need rest, and at least she is a fine writer, and at least she gave me a sip.

At pre-school, I am met with a new schedule through which I will no longer see many of my favorite children and will see all of the offspring of assholes. There is hope for our states though, and these intrepid are the ones who will get me through early Friday mornings. Kai continues to be a trip, speaking spanglish like a poet and wanting to know if he can tell me something. Emmett is in good spirits. At three and a half, he is confident enough in his sexuality to ask that I refer to him as “Clarice” whenever he comes to class in his ballerina costume. Genuine props are in order for Mina, age four, who considers herself to be at an advantage because she is from the third world, adopted by two moms. She is curious and temperamental, and may one day own a bathhouse on the moon. She is protective of her friend Zoe, who is too kind and sweet for this life. Mina knows this and cares for her, puts her boots on for her, holds her hand on trips to the museum, where they search together for “more blue”.

I too search for more blue, as we all should. To tide you over before we come across the mother load, I would recommend this. It is the sound of great frustration, the kind that we should approach not with reservation but open arms. The sound of a man discovering his cancer and his spliffs, confused by the art he is making. Warmed and saddened by the great bellow he had to produce, that burden of spitting something that would raise our collective consciousness. His was an obligation to make you and I more impressed by what is and what could be. It is this central notion that all my favorite things seem to possess these days: higher expectations for the world at ground level, assertion that now is not the time to regret, or give in to that tempting surrender.