Me and Mr. Jones

Every Republican President knows that in order to add a little spice to your term in office…you should go to war.

Although we are not currently registered with any political party, nor do we live in a white house, Tony and I decided that we would elect an enemy with which to do battle until we have vanquished him from existence (or simply lambast him in a post or two and then get bored and move on to something else). And so, without further ado, we would like to introduce you to our new enemy:

Now, some of you may want to know why we picked him? Well, um, we’ll tell you when we figure it out. But it has something to do with the fact that he attended our school, considered himself a poet, and we thought his writing stunk. “What did he think of your writing?” some of you might ask. We have no idea and we do not care. For now, this ain’t no two-sided coin. This is war. And as such, you must show your patriotism to Tony and simply read on with unquestioning indulgence.

Does the enemy have a name? Well, surely he does. However, we feel a tad (and only a tad) bit uncomfortable publishing both his picture and his name, so we thought we would offer this clue as to his true identity. Take the director and heroine from Aliens and lop off their last names. Now maneuver them into a sensible first and last name and there you have it. But once you have the name, we would like you to forget the above picture and see our enemy as looking more like this:

We recently caught up with our enemy by performing a simple Google-search for his name. We found him on our school’s web page in the Alumni section, where he had this to say:

“I came to SCHOOLNAME as a 19-year old who knew two things absolutely: I didn’t want to be in college and I was going to spend my life writing sports for newspapers. I’m 26 now, in my second year of graduate school and working as a website editor for a national honor society.

I would blame this all on teenage ignorance if the English department of SCHOOLNAME wasn’t at fault.

My time as an English major at SCHOOLNAME was spent wrestling with the question of writing. Was it simply a craft one learned as a sushi chef might learn to roll rice into very tiny, expensive dinners, or was it an art one starved for, bitterly spending grocery money on foreign cigarettes? I never found an answer, though still had to pay tuition.”

Now, we ask you, are these not the words of someone who should be destroyed?

Just thought you should know that this is Tony’s 200th posting to his blog. And when I say “his” I mean “mine”. Of course, democratically speaking I should probably actually say “the people’s”. But then again this is the United States so in order to be most accurate I might as well say “the people with privelege”.

But this may be getting a bit too political for our friend Tony so lets just call it “his” for now, otherwise our bed would be a bit too crowded. Not that that is a bad thing, just not really what we hoped to accomplish in this, our bicentennial blog posting. Of course, if we could accomplish something like that then Tony would have much more incentive to keep his blog interesting and up-to-date, because he’s really in to crowded beds, or so I gather as there always seems to be some sort of party going on and I have a hard time going to sleep because I get pushed further and further to the edge until I am actually pushed off the bed, much like my aunt was one night when I spent the night at my cousin’s house. It was late at night and we were talking to one another and suddenly heard the tell-tale squeaking sounds of parents procreating, and the squeaking got much louder and faster and then suddenly there was a large BANG and her husband said, “Oops, sorry!” and we laughed ourselves silly.

I always wanted the authors I really loved to be dead. That way, I thought, it would be possible to understand their work in its absolute context. Everything could be read, processed, contextualized, and therefore properly enjoyed. I also made it a point to read one or two biographies about them so I could have the FULL picture.

I realize now that what I wanted was to have some sort of story I could tell myself as I read, some context or relationship in which to understand the words and infuse them with meaning.

I thought of this the other day while I was with some friends on a tour of our city’s skyscrapers. The guide continually referred to elements of the design and explained how this architect felt some spiritual connection to triangles, or that this other guy used curves in all of his buildings in order to…whatever. The point was that she told us all of these truths which made sense as we looked at the designs, but really may or may not have had any real validity.

All of us have this desire, this monstrous need for logical narratives, patterns to make sense of things. Ways to explain why we see the things we do. Or avenues to make them important.

My problem is that I do not have access to my own narrative as I am still unfortunately living the damn thing from day to day. And it is this that is keeping me, I assume, from reaching my full potential.

What I need is the ability to view the video of my life before it gets released to theaters. You know, like Spaceballs‘ instant cassettes that are out in stores before the movie is made.

Otherwise, how am I supposed to know how all of these events relate to one another? And you know, like what is my over-arching theme? My allegorical meaning?

Because my biological clock is gender-neutralized, I have recently been plagued by a more pressing need to produce things that are born of the mind. I am not yet sure if this is driven by a fear of an anonymous death or a need to self express. However, I feel it constantly. Over the past year I’ve had a little luck with blogging and picture-taking, but neither has risen to the level of satisfactory. So tonight I’ve been thinking that I might try my hand at collage.

The problem with this is the same problem with my other sometimes-endeavor: pastiche. There is a fine line between re-appropriation and flat out copyright violation. However, as I am yet to have any real attention given to my other by-products, I’ve decided not to worry.

you’ll have to pardon this evening’s postings. it would appear that Tony stumbled upon a small dose of inspiration (and/or a large bottle of whiskey.) it is impossible to know which came first, the pictures or the poems, but you can bet your bottom dollar that both can be traced back to their rightful owners for Tony is nothing if he isn’t a thief. the pictures themselves should be hyper-linked back to their beginnings. the pastiche poems, on the other hand, aren’t as easily discovered. one of them is built from lines that first appeared in Giovanni’s Room and the other began as a part of Gravity’s Rainbow. you’ll have to decide which one is which, i can’t do all of your work for you.

there is a general withdrawing from orifices after a while.

“you like that? here, just do a little more.”

“what–and sabotage the whole thing?”

“if we are here once, only once, then clearly we are here to take what we may.”

“no doubt man, no doubt–an excellent point.”

good mornings of good old lust, early shutters open to the sea, winds coming in with the heavy brushing of palm leaves, the wheezing break to the surface and sun of popoises out in the harbor.

it was too late to do anything but moan
he had not expected to hear it
we were both insufferably childish

i watched him
he wanted to be inside again
i felt elated

i went down on my hands and knees
he was watching me with terrible intensity
i shook my head in mock confusion

i was trembling
he paused and we watched each other
i wondered, “can i stand this another moment?”

life in that room seemed to be occurring underwater
he grinned again
i began to sweat

Rosa Parks died this evening.

I just read about it in the New York Times. And I have an odd confession. When first reading the article, I was thinking to myself that this would be the end to lawsuits against OutKast. And, ironically, the second half of the article was all about her recent suit against the band. And then five mintues later, as the paper worked furiously to write a longer, more in depth and perhaps more appropriate article, all mention of the suit was removed.

And I am glad that they did so, because it is important for her to be remembered for her vast contribution to our modern world. I feel bad that the only reason I have considered her over the last several years is in connection with the frivolous legal battle. It says a lot about the younger generation’s priorities and concerns, that an affront to one of our hip hop heroes seems more important than the legacy of someone who acted as a catalyst for civil rights. And this includes my own, sadly enough.

The other thinking point for me is that Dr. King was only 26 when he spear-headed the bus boycott. That’s right, he was my own age as he began to influence the world. I think it is high time I work to do the same.

So by all conventional calendars and clocks, I have been alive now for 26 years. Well, if you are a pro-lifer it has actually been more like 26 years and nine months, as fertilization actually happened around that time. And then some cell split and organs formed and some 17 years later my hair line began to recede. Which brings me to today. The late twenties. I’ve missed the point where I can have my first story appear in the New Yorker as a precocious 25-year-old. I’m several years out of college, expected to be soon married and making babies of my own. I suppose that was what Tony was thinking as he ambushed me this morning, tying me to the bed and covering me in the wax of 26 burning candles. I doubt either of us became fertilized but we sure made a good attempt. However, I am sad to say we may have burnt some holes in my finest birthday suit.

Which reminds me of this speech I once heard from a famous transexual woman who said that every seven years our body fully replaces itself. As in, cells regenerate, old ones are replaced, and every cycle finds us rebuilt from the ground on up, so to speak. Now, I’ve never really bothered to investigate the facts of this statement, I’ve just allowed it to seep into my metaphorical repertoire.

The positive possibilities of this are obvious, you are always renewed, refreshed, and rejuvenated. The negatives are what stick with me tonight. Because the cells rebuild themselves exactly the same way. Your body may be refreshed, but it remains the same. The same scars on your forehead from your 5th grade attack of the chicken pox. Or the one on your belly from the appendix explosion your senior year. The damaged and darkening front tooth from when you drank too much as a 15 year-old and passed out at the foot of a police officer, yeah, that’s still there too.

We have a template, and from this we are built time and time again. Now it may be possible to effectively shape, enhance, and even improve this template, but it isn’t easy. And it is this that I consider as I celebrate another year of existence. I consider the fact of my being as expressed by the physical form that I am in. Some elements of this body I am happy to rebuild, but there are others that I question why I still allow them to remain.

Tony doesn’t face this dilemma, because his tuxedo is always wrinkle free and flattering. And he isn’t confined by the same genetics as I, so he shapes and shifts as he pleases. But I suppose he also has no history, no bodily memories, nor potential to grow.

Am I still at the point that I have potential to grow? I sure hope so. Otherwise it may prove to be a dismal year.