"The Book of the Grotesque"

THE WRITER, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. 1
Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer’s room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. 2
For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. 3
In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn’t a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. 4
The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long fife, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? 5
In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. 6
You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. 7
The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. 8
For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. 9
At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end he wrote a book which he called “The Book of the Grotesque.” It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before. The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: 10
That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. 11
The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. 12
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. 13
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. 14
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn’t, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. 15
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer’s book. 16

change of perspective

seriously, if you haven't come up with a good healthy happy new insight lately (have you?), then what the hell?

song of the day

this, I remember this. oddly, I remembered it as a short story not a poem at all

Darryl Dawkins played professional basketball from 1975 to 1996. One of the sport's more colorful personalities, he said he lived part-time on the planet Lovetron, a place where he perfected his interplanetary funkmanship. He also liked to give names to his slam dunks. The "Turbo Sexophonic Delight" was a favorite, but the best was his "Chocolate-Thunder-Flying, Teeth-Shaking, Glass-Breaking, Rump-Roasting, Bun-Toasting, Wham-Bam-I-Am Jam." I encourage you to try some Darryl Dawkins-like behavior in your own chosen field, Virgo. Give a name to your signature move or your special play. With playful flair, let people know how much you love what you do and how good you are at what you do.

I'm writing (in the cracks of time I can muster), longish stories (vignettes) of one woman knitted together with flashfictions of another. I'd blog them, but I'm not sure who they're for - sometimes it's you or for ghost-of-you, sometimes it's not, with the intention of giving it, intentions which I then abandon regardless. Sometimes I take one-line pieces of TJ-speak and actually send them to Tony, who is now a big fan of the dictums that TJ carves on stone tablets of air like Moses only different - if TJ had a facebook page called "Moses Only Different", Tony would 'like' it. Sometimes I wonder which of my friends would 'like' the one woman or the other woman, like last night when Ears was reading Chinquee and I realized he'd 'like' the woman of the flashes better than the more solid Etta. The woman of the flashes has no proper name, I just call her "She", like She Ra only different.

I write a little bit every day.

I'm rereading journals (in the attic, I even have an email stack from the Commune, along with a diary I kept in 5th grade). I've been rereading the years between the birth of Ears and when I left. I'm watching my former self go completely down the tubes, from thoughtfully distressed to numb to fragmented utterly writing things like "I am a ridiculous person" over and over and over like Bart Simpson on the blackboard. Just reading it feels again like someone has his hands around my throat and is squeezing a band of loathing into my skin all the way around. I put the journal down, and take deep breaths, visualizing the band being loosened and I smell FPH, as if he really is dead, the way I can smell my grandfather sometimes, that embedded oil smell of his craggy hands. Ghosts of men who smell(ed) like safe places. Maybe there will come a time when I am no longer remixing conscious memory mostly, when I am instead making it all up, and I then won't be tied to reality at all, dead or alive.

Ears LOVES flash fiction, literally mesmerized by the stories that are a sentence long, maybe a paragragh, the ones that stop mid-sentence. He double dogear'd this one actually:

"She watches rolls falling, at a man who looks like a potato. Her stepfather used to come here. He died. He spent millions. There's oxygen and dinging. She gets behind the wheel of a very nice car." _Slot Machine_, Kim Chinquee

Bale is supposed to be coming today - will that f'n roof ever get done? (will I ever get treated decent?) - it's not that I don't love people anymore, it's just that rather than have to choose between loving them and wanting to be treated like I have value, I've separated the two things and the latter I've got locked away now. and maybe the key is locked on the inside of that box, I'm not sure, but I know I don't have it. my heart you can have, my expecting anything much of you not so much.

clem snide - I'll be your mirror

occurs to me that the greek dude w the junk to sell thought I was a little drag queen and his passion is for joe pesche in a dress approximately when not for his rather thick jawed wife

greek fest in the queen city today, right after the pride parade and we trailed the rainbow'd parade-goers from parade to the orthodox church w/ the beer tent w the greek tunes playing. I dunno about your city but in Buffalo drag queens and orthodox greeks hang out peaceably. the 'retail' attractions at the fest amounted to stuff that a greek couple had garbage picked and cleaned back up, basically. the man said something to me I couldn't hear, I leaned in closer, "you you're very pretty, your hair is wow", I lean back again and smile an embarrassed thanks, his blond wife w/greek accent behind him with a picklepuss face shoves newspaper at him, says "someone BOUGHT something, wrap it up", rolls her eyes at me, he smile-shrugs.

daily love horoscope for Virgo: Neptune, planet of dreams and fantasies will spend 4 months in your relationship sector before backing out in early August, but will then return again next February and stay here until 2026. The first 2 months of Neptune's visit were in direct motion but today marks the first full day in the second phase, where your imagination needs to be focused on the past.

I had one shakey patch in the wee hours (god damn email) then I woke up over it and over the skittish both. so there. so help me god.

johnny cash - rusty cage - soundgarden cover

WEEKEND LOVE FORECAST: ARIES: Someone adores you. Your smile is a showstopper to this person. TAURUS: Because you are so comfortable on your own, you can get along with a variety of people. GEMINI: You will eliminate the competition by simply showing up stronger and with more confidence than any of them. CANCER: You'll watch a loved one's eyes and know what he or she really wants. LEO: The one who is not available might seem the most appealing to you, and you are equally appealing when you are unavailable. VIRGO: It will be lucky for you to choose a new song as "your song." LIBRA: Because you are so original, someone keeps coming around to see what you'll do next. SCORPIO: Dating is not a spectator sport -- get in the game! SAGITTARIUS: Your joie de vivre will attract many admirers. CAPRICORN: There are plenty of fish in the sea, but they are not all the kind you want to catch, so be careful where you cast your line. AQUARIUS: Healthy physical outlets connect you with like-minded, upbeat prospects. PISCES: You'll concentrate on your love life and making it the best it can be.

listening to this a lot still, but it's not 'my song'

conclusion: I need more dance/run music

good strong day

gotta be stealthy about this post or I'll get a copyright warning for sure, it's ed (you know the one) from his new cd of just him and his little guitar-thingy - god almighty, he is so hot it's ridiculous