chapter five: round two

sam: Oh, hi!
sam: hello there! how are you?
sam: quite well. yourself?
sam: impeccable!
sam: really?
sam: yes, impeccable. do you happen to know what that means?
sam: impeccable?
sam: yes, I'm sure it has to be something positive.
sam: it does sound like a nice thing to call yourself.
sam: give it a whirl, why don't you?
sam: really?
sam: well, what better word is there to say about yourself?
sam: than impeccable?
sam: yes, go on.
sam: alright. today was impeccable. I hope tomorrow is like that.
sam: see! doesn't that feel good?
sam: impeccable!
sam: yes, yes, truly.
sam: have you heard the news?
sam: I've heard plenty of news, yes.
sam: there's always so much.
sam: indeed. I wonder if they'll ever run out.
sam: who?
sam: oh, the people who make the news. they're very busy, you know
sam: yes, an industrious lot.
sam: you know, I was considering a career in communications.
sam: you've been speaking English your entire life, haven't you?
sam: yes, yes, but in media, I mean
sam: really?
sam: it's quite interesting, don't you think?
sam: oh, it's not fair to call a thing interesting!
sam: do you think so?
sam: of course! everything is interesting.
sam: yes, you have a point.
sam: to call one thing interesting is to ignore everything else, which might be just as interesting, and worthy of mention.
sam: even in the same sentence!
sam: indeed.
sam: not that I hold it against you, of course.
sam: of course not!
sam: that would be decidedly unimpeccable.
sam: banish the thought!
sam: but continue, I apologize for sidetracking you.
sam: not to worry, digression is the source of wit, isn't it?
sam: exactly! what were you saying?
sam: I'm having trouble remembering.
sam: was it something about media?
sam: yes, media! I was thinking of taking up a career in communications.
sam: really?
sam: as a lifestyle, yes.
sam: what would that entail?
sam: well, I'd have to learn about radio, television, the internet, print, magazines, books, articles, quarterlies, pamphlets, all sorts of things.
sam: my, that sounds complicated!
sam: yes, hence the interest.
sam: what a deceptively titled subject, communications.
sam: I doubt it's anything subversive.
sam: oh no. that would be quite sinister.
sam: to trick students into taking courses based entirely on the title of the major!
sam: I hope it's not anything like that.
sam: it's extremely unlikely, I think.
sam: and you'd have to be quite convinceable to stick with such a career course, based only on the word "communications."
sam: so convinceable that you ought to major in communications!
sam: ah! how clever!
sam: thank you.
sam: you're in rare form today.
sam: yes, thank you. I hope I haven't offended anybody.
sam: oh, not at all. I'm not a communications major.
sam: I thought you said you were?
sam: no, I'm only considering it. it's one of many options.
sam: options are good, aren't they?
sam: yes, I quite agree.
sam: best to have as many choices open to you as possible, isn't it?
sam: absolutely!
sam: without a doubt!
sam: it's easier to avoid having a bad time that way.
sam: oh, I do dislike that.
sam: do you?
sam: intensely!
sam: having a bad time, you mean?
sam: oh, yes. there's nothing so irritating.
sam: like what, for example?
sam: well, for example, walking uphill, or up stairs. it's quite tiring. had I the option of standing on a conveyor belt, or taking a chairlift, or an elevator, I would gladly do that.
sam: I bet that's a rare occurence, though.
sam: taking a chairlift?
sam: yes.
sam: you're correct in that. as with riding an elevator.
sam: I suppose it would be easier if you were handicapped.
sam: how so?
sam: then you wouldn't have to bother with stairs anymore. or hills. you'd not have to worry about scaling anything with a grade larger than thirty degrees.
sam: is that so?
sam: yes, anything steeper and you'd have an aide.
sam: like a dog?
sam: maybe, or a person.
sam: I'd much rather have a dog. I'd hate to hold a person back like that.
sam: a dog's easier to emote with, anyways.
sam: not that I have anything against people, though
sam: of course not!
sam: I'd just feel as though I were constantly holding him or her back.
sam: being a nuisance?
sam: yes, I couldn't endure that.
sam: well, you know, you'd be paying this person.
sam: I suppose that would make up for most of it.
sam: and they'd find another handicapped person to help, if not you.
sam: yes, you're right. they're trained professionals. it's a job to them.
sam: but I imagine it wouldn't be a nice feeling, knowing you're somebody's job.
sam: I'm sure it wouldn't be too impersonal, considering the circumstances.
sam: of being handicapped?
sam: yes. I reckon it's a very sensitive and complicated relationship, what forms between a handicapped person and his or her aide. They probably have classes on it.
sam: or they should!
sam: indeed!
sam: because truly, what can you know about human kindness without an understanding of that?
sam: of what?
sam: the relationship between handicapped people and their aides.
sam: not only of that, but of the whole situation.
sam: yes, you're right. you'd have to know about each of their parents, the source of the handicapp, where the aide went to school, for how long, etc.
sam: anything short would be a disservice.
sam: an unaccurate account of things.
sam: do you think there's really something elemental there?
sam: elemantal how?
sam: I mean with those relationships.
sam: yes, but do you mean essential to, what did you say?
sam: an understanding...
sam: oh, yes. well. I'm not sure if it's essential, but if it's an important enough story, I'd be satisfied with that.
sam: with it being important?
sam: yes.
sam: but not essential.
sam: well, yes. I'd be happy with that.
sam: what's the difference?
sam: I don't think anybody can tell, to be frank.
sam: I'm sure it's very hard to discern.
sam: I bet there's a course in that, too.
sam: certainly!

chapter four: white lady loves you more

it's exactly as I predicted: nil for eight on accepted submissions since I started college. if only I had the self respect to call it a day. accept the fact that, hey, my "get" factor has diminished substantially since I graduated high school, and who am I to suggest that I've made up for any of that decay with real talent. what have I got to back up the claim that, sure, I'm a few months older, but these words sounds so nice together, you won't notice the thousands more college students writing fiction than there are high school students. ignore the exponentially stacked odds the competition has against me! I can spell tuesday really fucking well!

times like these, hesiod sticks on the way down and nothing but jesus sounds like an actual solution. do I become a poet of the every day? do I do salvia, starve for forty days and reel around in my little drawn circle, tempting demons to cross this line, or that one, tempting god with double standards, wringing the earth dry until everything physical bleeds out and into itself? do I buy a pair of purple sunglasses and watch the kingdom of heaven on television? shouldn't I?

that would be a good television show. the kingdom of heaven. readers could call in. there could be a toll-free phone drawing. if somebody famous picked up, you'd describe to them your most perfect vision of heaven. (without, of course, knowing what happens next.) then alec baldwin or joan rivers or errol flynn would inform you that you were invited to the show's studio lot in santa barbara, where you would be surrounded by your family and friends, your most distant aquaintances, people whose funny stories you overheard on the bus, girls that smiled at you in mirrors, helpful secretaries, bosses, coworkers, all the friends you ever had would get on a plane and show up in santa barbara. and they'd have a chair for you to sit in- not a throne, that would be gay- a chair. a nice chair. that would be the only thing your vision of paradise must include: a chair. the same chair for every episode. so we know whose idea it all is.

and the episode would go on for hours, tracking people in their most intimate, shuddering, quiet, paroxysms of awareness: you can't point to a place and say, the kingdom of heaven is HERE, or THERE, they'd realize, the thought would visibly shudder through their skin, spit out their nerve endings and wrap around them like a glove or a pair of the strongest, warmest, most loving arms which this universe can allow to exist: the kingdom of heaven is within AND/OR among you, they'd know it down to the last combusting neuron, to the last stumbling wave of endorphin and adrenaline, flooding their brains while they rode over its crest on hand-made arks.

chapter three: perhaps, perspective

the challenge: sustain a conversation about the weather for as long as possible.
the twist: have this conversation with yourself.
begin!

sam: Oh, hi!
sam: fancy meeting you here.
sam: my, what a beautiful evening
sam: isn't it?
sam: funny weather we've been having
sam: yeah, truly remarkable
sam: what a lovely day it was today.
sam: i know!
sam: i'm always taken aback by how gorgeous it is hereabouts.
sam: isn't it astonishing?
sam: yes! and this isn't normally the time for good weather.
sam: no, it's not.
sam: it makes it that much more amazing, doesn't it?
sam: indeed.
sam: i'm glad we agree!
sam: when do you think it'll start to snow?
sam: oh, well, any day now.
sam: i wonder how much we'll get this year.
sam: oh, i'm not one for speculation.
sam: nor i!
sam: but i imagine we'll get more than last year.
sam: oh, definitely.
sam: i mean, it wouldn't be hard to beat last year's snowfall.
sam: an astoundingly small amount of snow would have to fall for that to occur.
sam: i don't think that's even possible.
sam: well, last year was quite dry.
sam: last winter, you mean.
sam: of course.
sam: yes.
sam: last summer was quite wet. lots of rain.
sam: i thought that was strange.
sam: did you?
sam: yes. very strange. you know, i worked outside all last summer?
sam: really?
sam: yes, we were rained out almost every other week.
sam: how awful!
sam: oh, it wasn't so bad. we got used to it after a little while.
sam: well, i guess that's okay, but still not as good as no rain at all.
sam: i would actually prefer a little rain over the summer.
sam: oh?
sam: yes, otherwise the grass starts to die.
sam: i suppose that's more depressing than redundant amounts of rainy days.
sam: well, it's in the eye of the beholder, really.
sam: yes, in the end i imagine it comes down to perspective.
sam: as with all things.
sam: basically.
sam: did you notice the leaves have all fallen?
sam: yes! i believe it's made things colder.
sam: as opposed to the gradual diminishing of the intensity of the sun's rays?
sam: well, it's a contributing factor, in the least.
sam: yes, that's probably correct.
sam: but no, i didn't much notice it.
sam: goes right by every year, doesn't it?
sam: it always does, it always does.
sam: i wonder if it's depressing, noticing them turn like that.
sam: oh, no. i bet it's perfectly exciting!
sam: seeing them turn brown?
sam: no, speculating as to when they'll hit peak foliage!
sam: oh, that!
sam: yes, that's quite envigorating, i've heard.
sam: well, that i've never done.
sam: nor i. but one year, perhaps.
sam: yes, perhaps. it all comes down to that, as well.
sam: inevitably!

chapter two: guyanan rum & running shoes

so I can't drink anymore, or go for runs, and this is why:

there was this documentary on TV last night, Witness to Jonestown. I watched it right before Through a Glass Darkly, which is guaranteed to fuck you up, putting those two things back to back, the same problems on massive and then on minute scales, without a breath of space between them.

I acknowledge that through a glass darkly is a film, a fiction, and jonestown was real, it happened, they were nine hundred people, human beings, and they should not, cannot, must not be simplified into beings as tiny as the comparison of the existential crises of characters that technically do not exist with the actual problems of the People's Church. . I also acknowledge that through a glass darkly was written years before the jonestown massacre. but the questions each ask aren't limited to those things. they're louder than time, louder than the form in which they're represented, in film or in memory. these questions are about life, death and faith. each one asks, each one struggles to answer.

a story from Witness to Jonestown (paraphrased here): "I held my wife as she died. She had our son in her arms, and he was dead. I could feel her spirit leaving her body. I told her how I loved her. I hoped that my love would make her better. Somehow she'd get better, because I loved her."

put next to what david said in through a glass darkly, about how existence is only defined by what you hold on to, and the only real thing you can hold on to, the only thing you can honestly hope for, is God, and how Karin is in the presence of God all the time, because she's among people who love her, all the time, and how that will make her better- it will- what can you say about life? or death? or faith? how to you respond to that long, loud silence that follows the man's story from Witness to Jonestown? "but she didn't get better," it screams out, the screen goes black and the center caves in and what was there departs.

back to the drinking. there was an attack on an airstrip seven miles outside jonestown. the plane congressman ryan and his entourage were supposed to take out of jonestown had been gutted, its engine sabotaged. they were ambushed by members of the people's temple. five people were killed, including congressman ryan, and eleven were wounded. these eleven had to wait twenty two hours for help to arrive. some of the wounded passed the time by drinking guyanan rum.

after his sister has her vision of god in the form of a spider, crawling up her leg, trying to penetrate her, minus speaks with his father about the only way to live in this world. with love, his father says. that is his hope. the void fills. the emptiness turns into abundance. he isn't sure if it's proof of god's existence, or god himself. it's like a reprieve from a death sentence, he says.

and when it's not there? what can you possibly say to that? what words could ever, ever attempt to answer that? not even answer, but barely to console.

after this conversation, minus goes off for a run. the wounded drank guyanan rum for twenty two hours. ache, ache, ache, you dear, sad god, you weeping, wounded god.

chapter one: alas! the aching world!

here is a test for how much the other guys on your floor value their sanity:

1) go into the bathroom with a shower caddy and towel and whatnot. do not use your own. if you do, everybody will hate you for what you're about to do.
2) if you're alone in there, put the towel on a hook by the shower. then put the shower caddy on the floor beneath it. take your shampoo and soap and put them both inside. make it look like somebody's inside the shower. then turn it on and draw the curtain.
3) leave the bathroom. if there are any witnesses, they'll probably mention your name in a conversation about the shower that was on for eight hours, and then everybody will hate you for what you've done.
4) for this to work, you will have to find a way to measure how long the shower stays on before somebody figures it out. this can be done either by taking a piss every half hour (tomorrow you will tell everybody that you went to health services because you were afraid you had diabetes, but it was no big deal) or by chilling out with some people who live next to the guy's bathroom (although this isn't recommended- if there were witnesses, they'd be from the rooms right next to the bathroom).

here's what has to happen before that shower gets turned off:

either the other one is occupied, and the guy shutting it off is in a hurry to get showered; or the other one is not occupied, and the guy shutting it off has been in a few hours ago, when it was still on.

in either case, this person thinks, "this asshole's been in that shower for too long."

the physical extention of this thought is the following question: "is anybody in there?"

since there will be no answer, this person will think, first, without considering the gender of the man who isn't there. our guy will think: "well, maybe I've scared him." but since there's no reason for a man to be scared in a shower, unless you count some weird psycho-inspired stuff that runs contra to the gender, the guy asking the unanswered question will think: "he's probably not saying anything because he's masturbating in there."

this will increase his hesitance to pulling back the curtain, beyond "I will find a naked man in a shower," to "I will find a naked man who is masturbating in a shower," which is much, much worse.

now our guy has a dilemma: am I in such a hurry that it wouldn't matter if I pulled back the curtain and projectile vomited all over both of us out of shock and disgust? if it's as bad as I fear, what'll he do? stop masturbating, I assume. what will I do? I still won't be able to shower, and I should be hauling ass right now. what if there's really nobody in there?

or: am I so curious as to why this shower has been on for eight hours that it doesn't matter if he's rubbing himself bloody back there, I've just got to know for sure? does the risk of finding a naked guy shaking hands with polyphemos in that shower outweigh the reward of not finding anybody and telling everybody about it? what if there isn't anybody in there?

the longer it takes for the guys on your floor to make that decision, the more reluctant they are to give in to suspicion at the peril of projectile vomiting, eye-gouging and insanity. it's also a good gauge of how well they can take a joke, if they find out you turned the shower on.