Me and Mr. Jones

I’m not sure this story gets better with the telling, but it is worth telling just the same. Otherwise it would fade in my already-bad memory never to be told again. And we couldn’t have that, now, could we? I mean, that’s the whole purpose of blogs, to capture the mundane and make it sparkle. So here goes…

The phone rang while I was sitting on the couch drinking coffee and reading. Normally, phones ringing do not phase me. I just let them go about their business while I go about my own, especially since I am usually home during prime-time telemarketer hours. The phone told me it was “MCI” that was making it ring, and since the dreaded “MCI” has been calling two times a day for a month, I thought I would finally answer so I could politely say no.

“Hello?”

(pause while the computer who called me finds someone to actually talk)

“Uh, hello?”

A gruff woman replies, “Hello mam.” (now she didn’t actually stop there, but we should so i can explain that EVERYONE who calls thinks I am a woman on the phone. literally, everyone. there was one occasion that the person was unsure and guessed that I was a man, sorta. he had called for Tony, who wasn’t home, so I explained that Tony doesn’t need their service because I service him enough myself. the man wanted to know who I was to think I had the right to tell him no. “Are you Tony’s…uh, son?” my reply was loud and “HAHA!” this caught the man off guard, who was already unsure about implying I might be male, and he said, “Oh, I’m sorry mam. I’m sorry. The phone connection is bad and I couldn’t hear properly. Tell your husband we’ll call him back.”)

So now that we have that other anecdote out of the way, I can tell you truthfully that what the woman said was, “Hello mama we’re calling to offer you FREE unlimited local calling and…”

“No thanks. We don’t need it.”

As if I’d just told her to bite my balls, “What?!”

“I said no thanks.”

“Are you in charge of the phone?”

“What?”

“Mama, I said are you allowed to make decisions?”

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“‘Cause I’ll just call back later and talk to your man so he can decide.”

(still laughing) “We don’t want your phone stuff.”

“Is this your decision to make?”

“Is it yours?”

“I’ll call back when your man is at home. Bye.”

I am not a believer in the symbolism of dreams. However, I am an eye-witness of the power of images. I encountered one yesterday that repeated itself at night while I slept. And this, in turn, has affected the way I perceive things. Follow along with me while I explain.

I had left the train and was walking home when I saw them. Two boys, probably 4 and 5 years of age, were out on a curb playing with a bottle. Tossing it up in the air, they screeched with joy as it shattered repeatedly on the ground. And each time picking up the jagged pieces that remained and tossing them again. No guardian in sight, they prepared their hands for blood-drenched cuts and scars.

I was appalled. Having once been responsible for a set of children I could not believe that someone was allowing this potential violence to mix with their joy.

Keeping a safe distance I tried to say something to them but it seemed that they either didn’t hear or care, or perhaps we didn’t speak the same language. And no possible adult anywhere. I paused to make sure that the worst, in my opinion, had passed before I moved on. This image followed me home.

We met again that night as I slept, only this time the boys had become my own responsibility, adopted or abandoned they somehow lived with me. It took me a while to set my pace with the job of parenting, but before the night was through the boys and I had formed a family. And then they found that goddamned bottle.

The game began before I realized what was happening. By the second crash, however, I was on them. Angry and fierce for fear of harm. And they responded with righteous protests and tears. Why not enjoy the bottle and the pleasing sounds of shattering. We know nothing of this danger you fear. How can you be so cruel?

By the time I awoke I could not balance the scales. And now I do not know what to prefer: the innocence or the experience.

The genuine artist is never “true to life.” He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.

…down to the filter.

Someone suggested I go smoke instead of writing since I was saying that I do not have anything to say. Unfortunately, I also don’t have anything to smoke. Nor do I want to smoke, which makes me sad for some reason. I used to love smoking, or at least the idea of smoking. Now I have succumbed to the social norm of thinking it is both gross and undesirable. Not to mention bad for the environment. I still don’t really stress that it is unhealthy, even though I recognize that to be a problem as well. I don’t really have an alternative vice–I suppose I could drink but it is too early for that. And I only want to drink whiskey and it is expensive. How does one stay interesting? Is it important to maintain bad habits? Are they good for the soul?

Tony, who is inherently biased, suggested that I “…try hookin’! I do it sometimes to make some extra moolah, you know, the Benjamins baby! Hookin’ gets you the ladies and the fellas. And you can make enough for a new set of teeth. I needs me a new set of teeth. Like Flava Flav. You know–strange love.”

Thanks, Tony, but I don’t think I’m wearing the right boots to hit the streets at this point. However, I will confess that you bring up an interesting point. One might consider the vice of self-disclosure, whether or not money is exchanged, as a force to be reckoned with. Is that why I like to write? And is this now my problem: have I simply run out of things to confess?

…the limp remains of ash, gray and dangling, are snuffed out in the tray.

My iPod is doing some soul-searching. I chose to randomly listen in “shuffle songs” mode on my way to school, with the hope of achieving some enlightenment or at least distraction. And this is what it told me. First, in its best Sinead o’Connor voice, it said:

“do you think that my feelings don’t matter
or your cheatin’ or hurtful remarks
when you leave me all broken and shattered
it’s like a dagger through the heart

oh i know i’m a fool to keep staying
when you’ve made hurtin me such an art
tossed around like a used box of crayons
it’s like a dagger through the heart”

Okay, I thought, iPod is feeling a little bit aggressive or perhaps underappreciated. Well, my friend, we all go through that. But then, channeling Andre 3000, it replied:

“Everybody needs a glass of water today
to chase the hate away.
You know you’ve got company coming over,
so you scrub extra hard.

Everybody needs somebody to love”

But, aren’t you contradicting yourself iPod? I thought you were bemoaning your situation just moments ago. And he said (quoting Depeche Mode):

“I’m taking a ride
With my best friend
I hope he never lets me down again
Promises me I’m as safe as houses
As long as I remember who’s wearing the trousers
I hope he never lets me down again.

See the stars they’re shining bright
Everything’s alright tonight.”

iPod, you are just crazy. You know what I think your problem is? I think you are in love.

Ain’t there a pen that will write before they die?
Ain’t you proud that you’ve still got faces?
Ain’t there one damn song that can make me
Break down and cry?

“And you, you can be mean
And I, I’ll drink all the time
‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we’re lovers, and that is that.”

Some days it is like traveling in separate cars on the same train.
Yes, we move in the same direction,
but our worlds do not seem to collide.

One word answers are the norm,
while hugging feels like a chore,
and the days are filled with spaces, often blank.

But this does not mean we have reached an end.
Although some nights you block my kisses,
there are others you invite them, endlessly.

When I spread, or turn over,
and we meet inside,
it still feels like we are heroes.

“Just for one day
We can be Heroes
For ever and ever
What d’you say?”

If you got cotton mouth, my mind is like an ocean.

“Pop beats poetry.”