If Only Fido Would Talk

The dog is waiting, always waiting, interminably waiting for something. Head slung low, like a cow’s belly, sad and slow, loitering eyes. I think he knows which one of us will die first. Don’t ask me how, he just knows. It’s a doggie secret.

He doesn’t want to confess.

Violin

She had given up playing the violin, even though she loved the instrument's taut strings and the drunken, scratchy timbre of her childhood notes. Why, she now wondered, 40 years later, did I ever listen to him?

Her father had said, "Girls don't play the violin." He then stiffly walked out, as if departing a failed business meeting.

What did he know about 'girls'? What did he know about music?

Lost His Shirt

My car’s headlights pierce twin tunnels into the night’s remote darkness, as the rain stabs down, its bright pins glittering towards God’s paved earth. Nothing ahead, but two-lane tarmac interrupted by a white center line, and the promise of heavy weather for hours to come.

Suddenly, the beams sweep a half-naked man, shirtless, running at the side of this country road. As I approach him, I slow down, but he doesn’t look up, he doesn’t pause, he just keeps running---towards or away, it’s impossible to say.

I ease past him, and a half mile later, I glimpse a white Ford empty as an abandoned house readied for demolition, tilted on side of the road. Windows rolled down, rain pouring in, no telling how much has been lost, or just who managed to escape

Bone To Pick

Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.

She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.

How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.

She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.

Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.

Wished she had stayed one more day, though.

Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.

“SEND”

Yes, it’s true, she’d written the ‘poison pen’ e-mail, but she intended to obey the cardinal rule of e-mail: DON’T’ SEND death threats, confessions, flaming attacks, or love letters for complete strangers, until you WAIT for 24 HOURS and carefully consider all of the consequences, all the ramifications.

ALWAYS WAIT 24 HOURS!

She hated her boss—that arrogant mother @#^%#!, and she had the dirt that she knew would ruin his reputation--- with his employer AND with his wife.

Fuming, she sat at her keyboard and tapped out the most scathing expose a former English major could muster, filled with devastating accusations and undeniable evidence.

She knew he would squirm, he would grovel—she relished the imagined red-in-tooth-and-claw image that paraded across her mind’s eye.

Suddenly the phone rang, startled her like an electrocution, and without a thought, she hit “send.”

Never Married

Why do we see the world through our eyes only? We are composed of chemicals and water and we’re animated by electrical charges. But why do we have this particular perspective? Why is the body the ground of everything that we know?

Standing there, dressed in his sky blue pajamas, Bob looked down at this feet and slowly began to scan upwards. Legs, abdomen, chest…that’s as far as he could see. He couldn’t see his own face without a mirror.

Maybe this isn’t me after all? Maybe it is another person, and my consciousness has blossomed inside their body? Maybe those aren’t my feet or legs? Maybe that’s not my heart inside this chest?

He became hungry, but now he wasn’t trusting his, or what he thought was his, experience. Nonetheless, he opened the refrigerator and took out a small container of yogurt. Plain yogurt, the color of a white ceiling. He dipped a spoon in, and then raised it to his mouth.

I hate yogurt. But I have eaten yogurt for breakfast now, for 45 years. It’s a habit. Why do I have habits that I don’t even like? Voluntary habit that I don’t like. He paused for a moment and considered that maybe he wasn’t himself, but rather, he was someone else. Someone who liked yogurt.

His wife was gone. She had risen, and left early for a business trip. He had discovered that his bed was empty when he arose. There had been only one body in it. It was his.

I like sleeping alone. I like the way the bed is all mine. Lots of room. No other body to nudge away when I feel crowded. No one else to steal the sheets and leave me in the cold.

He walked back from the kitchen and into the bedroom and sat on the unmade bed. It seemed large, even for a king-sized bed. The sheets strewn about, looked like pale ruts embossed in an impressionable cotton road. He continued to occasionally spoon yogurt into his hungry mouth.

I hate yogurt.

He looked out the bedroom window, which itself looked out on a stand of oaks and maples. The trees were silent and waiting for a change in the weather. They were sleeping. Each tree sleeping alone. Their bark was beautiful skin. Thick and old and rough textured. It was hard to imagine that their skin was theirs, and theirs, only. Who could imagine that the trees belonged only to themselves?

He phoned his wife. But there was no answer.

Funny, he thought, I wonder why I never married?

Bone to Pick

Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.

She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.

How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.

She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.

Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.

Wished she had stayed one more day, though.

Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.

Almost Lucky

From the 13th floor window of the Beverly Wilshire hotel, he watched as the late afternoon smog settled over LA, like clay-white concrete; air so thick it was impossible to imagine that it wouldn’t crush the hearts of everyone caught beneath its mass. Why, he wondered, do we learn the most from the things we shouldn’t do?

Turning now, from the window, and surveying the graying room, he could see that she looked so beautiful as she lie there, asleep, her breathing nearly undetectable, skin white and gleaming, delicate porcelain. That tiny scar neatly drawn across her right wrist, like a seam on a doll’s arm, should have been a clue.

How had he managed to find a woman who was as elegantly damaged as she? Throughout his entire life, he'd always been almost lucky.

Identity Earthquake In Time

I am an old guy, right? Yes. I am an old guy. Who would have ever thought that I would get to the point where I would say that I'm and old guy? Not this old old guy. At least not until recently. So, anyway, today I was trying to remember what I was like in high school. (Calvin Trillin once wrote something about we are always the same people we were in high school. What and awful thought Calvin! Cruel and awful.) So there I am today, minding my own business and cogitating, or maybe "contemplating" about who I was, or who I used to be, in high school. But then I thought, I don't have the foggiest idea of who I am now, so how am I going to remember who I was then?' (This identity thing is harder than I had hoped it would be.) Jeez, how am ever going to remember who I was? I went to high school in another century. Yes, another century. Thank God it was a contiguous century with this one, and not a century so far away in time that it isn't even part of the continent of this century. That would be like Hawaii's relationship to the U.S. mainland. If Hawaii was the nineteenth century, it would be an island, and there would be an ocean between it and now--a kind of Pacific Ocean of time. The 20th century. No, the century in which I went to high school is more like California. It's loosely configured, but at least it is attached to the mainland. Loosely attached. I went to school in California at a time that was loosely connected to this century, but only very loosely. It was a long time ago. And there was a fault line running through it.

I remember the earthquake like it was yesterday. Only it wasn't exactly yesterday. It was when I was in high school. Which, I can assure you, wasn't yesterday. The buildings shook and shimmied, and everyone said "Oh oh, this is the BIG ONE." And for all they knew at the time, it WAS the big one. Only it wasn't. It wasn't the BIG ONE. Because I am here to tell you that it wasn't the BIG ONE. But it WAS a long time ago. I went to high school in California. In another century. I wish I could remember who I was then. But I can't. I hope I was brave. I like to think I was. I like to think I wasn't afraid of earthquakes or time. I like to think I was young and fearless. And handsome. Yes, handsome. I like to think that, because it makes me fell better about being old and ummmm, a little less than handsome, now. And no longer brave. Yes, I'm sure back then, I was young and fearless and handsome. Even if it was a long time ago.

I wish I could remember who I was then.

And now.

Pig Fish

He hated fish. He hated fish ever since that day in the third grade, when he had been bitten by a fish. It had been at the aquarium. He put his hand in one of the tanks that were designed for children . Children were encouraged to touch and feel the sand dollars and the little horseshoe crabs. It was educational. At one end of the tank however, there were two piranha, but no one told the children. So he was there with his mom, and when he put his hand in the tank, of course the fish saw an opportunity to remove some fingers. Luckily only three.

When he returned from the hospital and went back to school the following week, the kids in his class had heard of his loss. Instead of kindness however, they offered only merciless taunting. They called him “Captain Hook,” and “Claw Boy”. Children can be quite cruel. One called him “Fish Hand” Another “Piranha Breath.”

He was a forgiving child, though. When he grew up, he refused to eat fish. Of any kind. But he did enjoy occasionally dining on pigs’ knuckles.

On Democracy

I’m currently reading a book called First Democracy: the Challenge of an Ancient Idea, by a guy named Paul Woodruff, about Athenian democracy. This is a popular little book, very accessible, and it discusses the components of Athens’ democracy. I have learned about the features that are often paraded as democracy in our contemporary world, but which, in and of themselves, do not constitute democracy. Each alone, would not have made Athenian democrats very satisfied. Woodruff points out that democracy is not just majority rule (what about the rights of minorities?) and it is not just voting (some tyrants require voting in elections in which there are no opposition candidates.)
Democracy requires a number of features, including the rule of law, a belief in the natural equality of citizens, the ability of the citizens to reason without having certain knowledge, and a harmony among equals. Athenian democracy, was a big experiment that was never completed and perpetually struggled with. It seems that it was made possible, in part, because of the scale of the society, (about 30-40,000 citizens which excluded of course, slaves and women.) It was an extremely active phenomenon. It happened, in part, because Athens was very prosperous, financed by a slave economy and an expanding empire. And it gave, via a series of reforms and class compromises over a period of about 200 years, unprecedented political power to the poor (farmers and “peasants’). It was an unusual thing—far from perfect, but an incredible, if blemished, achievement.

Perhaps one of the most notable things about Athenian democracy was the composition of representative institutions through lotteries (vs. elections). Legislative bodies and courts were selected by lot. Even the Assembly, the major governing body, was composed in a rather haphazard way; the first 6000 men to arrive at the Pnyx, a hillside near the Acropolis, became the legislature for the day. If 6000 failed to show up, the Athenians did a sweep of the local public spaces with a red rope, and literally rounded up more citizens to participate in the Assembly.

What would happen if membership in most of American institutions were to be chosen by lot from the general population? (One can easily see how education must be an essential part of democracy.) If this were the case, I suspect that we would quickly become interested in the human development and well being of our neighbors, who might at any time become our judges, legislators, and constables. And I suspect that we would be more interested in equality among citizens. Even Plato, who was certainly no democrat recognized the liabilities of inequality “Any city, however small, is in fact divided into two, one the city of the poor, the other of the rich; these are at war with one another." (The Republic)

Although it is good book, and I recommend it, I don’t think that the Wooddruff book is as good as one I read a while ago, and which I may have previously written to you about, called Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory: Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle in Social Context by Ellen Meiksins- Wood and Neal Wood. (Sadly, this book may be out of print.) The goal of Class Ideology… is to show that ‘the greats’ in Western Philosophy, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, were not just ethereal abstract truth-seekers exclusively interested in the good, the true, and the beautiful, but were historically embed individuals writing under the political conditions and concerns of their day. The authors argue that a common ideology inspires these guys, and that although their writings cannot be reduced to a crude apologetics for their class (there are trans-historical insights to be gleaned from their writings) these philosophers were, nonetheless, united by a loyalty to the values, attitudes, and way of life of a an increasingly besieged (by democratic forces and reforms) landed aristocracy. “In a significant way, the political thought of the Socratics can be conceived as a supreme expression of the increasing class consciousness of the aristocracy during the fourth century (BC), a consciousness that seemed to become more pronounced as the class was progressively threatened with extinction.”

I find interesting about Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory, not just the analysis of the way that the philosophical idealism of Socrates and his inheritors (Plato and Aristotle) offered transcendence, justification, and solace to the anti-democratic, agrarian, Athenian landed aristocracy of the 4th and 5th century BC, but that the authors also show that the historical struggle for Athenian democracy was a struggle against the power of aristocratic elites whose rule was grounded in ties of kinship (blood lineage) and hereditary property. In short, the progress of democratization in Athens, in which the middling classes (artisans, traders, peasants, and propertyless workers) began to wrest some power vis a vis the ruling aristocrats (in a struggle that in fact, created the very institution of “politics” with its corresponding notion of “citizenship”) was a prolonged historical struggle, spanning a couple of centuries, requiring the erosion of the traditional power and customary rule of strong men, wealthy families, and inherited power.—all of which dominated “Homeric society.” Moreover, the rule of powerful families and inherited wealth had been rooted in the “okios,” the household, while the power of the people, in democracy, required the invention of public, commonly held, institutions that transcended the household, the clan, and the tribe. It is not just that democracy is a kind of politics, but democracy is the force that creates politics, and the political sphere. Before democratization there were no ‘politics,’ per se. There were only private courts run by the wealthy and the priestly. Tribal law prevailed. It was an eye-for-and-eye-society. But with democratic reforms, (and the concomitant growth of differentiation and conflict) Athens begins to create a political society, in which there is a world beyond that of the private lordly household, a world where justice is meted out by civic institutions, rather than appeals to wealthy ‘protectors.’ The polis is that place where public power and the possibility of civic justice is born.

Long Live Antonioni

Nice Cape

Cold and Boring--Thank You Mr.T.S. Eliot for the Weather Report

It's funny how life can become so filled-up and busy, and yet, in the eye of the hurricane, it's so damn boring. What, after all, is boredom. Is it under-stimulation or too much stimulation and overload? (No I think that's being "punch drunk"). I don't really know. I think the existentialists wrote about it, but I cut class when they were being taught.

I have no right to be bored. But what can you do? It just happens.

It is also so cold and icy here. Its about 2 degrees. The weather is the "objective correlative."

Here's what TS Eliot said about the uses of an objective correlative:

"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.''

It's cold and boring here.

Yawn

Prototype Moo Moo Mobile

Who said the Edsel was not a good Idea? Pictured here is the prototype Moo Moo Mobile. This is the 1934 model, which was designed by one Mr. Geddes. Note that the designer held much stock in tire manufacturing companies. Very Smooth, Mr. Geddes!

Everything is Fine

Shame on you! You know who you are! You have been leading your life without a thought of Moo Moo Camus. Yes, I know. (Not much escapes us here at MMC.) You've been going about your daily business, probably making money, driving your car to and from the grocery store, humming to yourself, and when no one is looking, even snatching a quick glance in the mirror to see if you've gotten, miraculously, any younger. I can assure you these are all understandable, even worthy, pursuits (except for the last, which is, of course, entirely futile.) But don't you think you should check in on Moo Moo Camus once in a while, just to see how everything is going?

OK now that you are here. Here's the 'down low': Everything is going unbelievably well. So you can go home now, back to your everyday life, happy in the knowledge that MOO MOO CAMUS is thriving. Thank you very much for visiting. And check back soon, for more good news.

The Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime Theory

So, I figure that I spend about a quarter of my waking time either doing the laundry or folding the laundry. This, and walking the dog, or letting the dog out so he can write his “autograph” on nature. Life is largely composed of some pretty mundane events. Picking up the kid from school. Taking the Kid to guitar lessons. Taking the Kid to Dance lessons. Walking the dog. Moving items from point A to point B around the house, so that the forces of chaos and darkness do not completely overwhelm home and hearth. We only get so many years on this astonishing planet, and what do we do with ¾ of them? Laundry and chauffeuring! Which leaves much too little time for drinking and appreciating art. I have a theory of this sorry state of affairs. I call it the “Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime” theory. Viz. Fun is not evenly distributed throughout our lives. Au contraire, it's unequally distributed, over time. We do not get to have, for example, the same amount of fun each year. Oh no, fun is unevenly distributed, a little bit like WEALTH in the US. (One percent of the population owns 37% of the total wealth. The next 5% own 25% of all wealth. Etc. Etc.) Fun is just like wealth. Most of the fun I was slated to have, occurred in 1974 and 1983, (Oh and that time in high schools in 1968.) Those were huge fun years. The other years are just deficit fun years. Whopee!

Go Forth and Multiply (and Divide)

Ok. It's been a long time since my last post. Dear readers, lest you become demoralized without the guidance and observations offered by Moomoocamus, let's review some important lessons and insights, as these have been recenlty approved by the editorial board. To wit:

1: Should we humanize the economy, or economize the humans? You be the judge.
2: The shortest distance between two points is a crooked line. As the COW flys, anyway.
3. What profitith a man if he wins the world and looses this his shoehorn?
4. Remember, the squeaky wheel gets the shaft.
5. All is fair in love and capitalism.
6 The source of all wealth is labor.
7. "The rich man can afford the luxury of accepting a fair gamble." Brian Berry, Theories of Justice 1989 p.14
And last, but far from least,
8. Most of life is just "cutting and pasting."

Well, that's it for now. Don't say we here at Moomoocamus didn't warn you.

Go forth and divide.

Wannabe Former Has-Been

Great Word!

ostrobogulous

1. (humorous) Slightly risqué or indecent; bizarre, interesting, or unusual.

Oh those crazy scientists! What will they think of Next?

"Libido Meter" May Be First True Sexual-Arousal Gauge”

Click on the Link Button Below, to Read all About it.

Better Than the Real Thing

Not a Pretty Picture

Nice Shirt & Blues Brother Gangster

Moo Moo Monet--Sun Glasses and Un-glasses

Quote of the Day

Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.

— Albert Einstein

Happy New Year, Humphrey Bogart

"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind. "- Humphrey Bogart

Happy Holidays from Moo

MMC has not made an entry for quite some time. You, dear reader/viewer/cybernaut, have probably been wondering, "Will Western Civilization continue in the absence of the pithy observations by Moo Moo Camus?" Your inner voice quickly responded, " Sure, No Sweat!"

Of course when Ghandi was asked what he thought of Western Civilization, he replied, "I think it would be a good idea."

Alas, the season of mass consumption, or more accurately, even more mass consumption is upon us, and the hospitals are filled with overdosed shoppers and depressed in-laws who, despite their wildest dreams of lavish gifts, received only a new tie or knit socks.

But Fret not.

Santa is Dead.

Long live Santa!

Winner of Moo Moo Camus Caption Contest #2

Bush to Putin: "Did you have to give a, you know, a 'sample' too?"

Pneumonia in August

Just returned from 8 days in sunny California. Ahh, the sun, the surf, the wall-to-wall built environment. Nothing quite like it "under the sun"!

The day after our return, MMC finds himself in the Emergency Room. 103 Temp and shakes like a withdrawing heroine addict. Not good.

So what's the diagnosis?

Pneumonia.

Ahh, nothing like Pneumonia in August.

I now feel like my body is like one of those old fashioned deep diving suits with the metal helmets. Thick and creaky and barely able to move. Additionally, it's astonishing how many varieties of discomfort and pain our bodies of capable of producing. If I wasn't so darn uncomfortable, it would be interesting to enumerate all the ways that I feel bad. It feels like a kind of symphony of aches and groans and pains.

Glub, Glub, Glub

A Matter of Trust--The Beginning of a Story

Karen had been driving nearly all night, with the heater turned way up. She’d forgotten how cold the desert could be at this time of year. The smell of Yucca, Saguaro, and Sage pushed in through the dashboard vents. In the back seat, her small suitcase, pile of manila file folders, and tiny black PDA, slumped over in a mound, like an unconscious body. Whenever she left like this, which was only every few years, or so, she found that she had to remind herself of the route west. The turns seemed foreign, almost the reverse of the way they should be, and the Interstate looked different than she remembered, as she passed strip malls and fast food palaces that, the last time she fled this way, had not yet blossomed in the flat vacant terrain, where no one really wanted to live. She found herself clenching her teeth, locked in some inner debate that seemed simultaneously important and trivial, “Was it a mirage or was it a delusion?” She grew more irritated with herself, “What difference did it make, now?”

The car headlights illuminated the white lines that stretched out ahead. The lines were intended to keep the vehicles and their occupants in their designated places. But now, in the early morning cold, just a few minutes before dawn, there were no other cars, no other drivers. Nothing on either side of her, but the blur of desert brush. Nothing behind, but the first half-glow of dawn. Nothing ahead, but some kind of future.

At their apartment, Rory was dreaming he was awake. The sunlight filtered in through the cheap drapes and he had the same recurring feeling he had every morning. Slight disappointment with a trace of regret. He was once again back in the unfamiliar routine that was his life. As if he belonged somewhere else. Same thing, every day. How could it be light so soon? He rolled over and pulled the blanket over his shoulders and wondered why the air felt so cold. Just then, the smell of burnt toast drifted in from the kitchen and seared his nostrils. He let out a sigh and was annoyed at her for being careless again. Why did it bother him? He tried to call out to her but the effort was too much. Why couldn't he find his voice? He thought he heard water running, but his mind couldn't focus on what was happening. Something didn't feel right. His thoughts dulled over and he felt his mind slip over the dark void into deep sleep when he suddenly jerked awake. The room was brightly lit and he had trouble opening his eyes, like someone had ground sand into them and added lead to his eyelids. Eyelids, he thought to himself. Stupid. It hurt to squint at the clock. 2:00 a.m. Shit. He'd fallen asleep with the light on. Again. The window was wide open. That was odd. He leaned over to reach for Karen at the same time he glanced over, but she wasn't there. Frowning, he tried to put the pieces of last night together...but nothing came. He tried to pull himself more awake. Then came a sinking feeling, a gnawing grip at his stomach that got stronger. A wave of disgust that preceded what he dreaded to remember. He instantly tried to suppress the thought, but that made him instantly clear headed and wide awake, unable to fend off the memory of last night.

“My God, Karen, what took you so long? We had just about given you up for dead. I mean…” Her sister’s voice hesitated for a moment. “You know what I mean,” she looked both embarrassed and annoyed.

Whitney stood in the blanched, cement driveway of her home. The sun was warm and the Valley air was already smoggy, well before noon. Although a year and one-half older, her sister looked like her twin, but in the two years since the sisters had seen one another, Whitney seemed thicker, everywhere, like the retraced outline of a child’s crayon drawing.

Karen slid out of the car’s front seat, and the two sister’s perfunctorily embraced for second, a bit like a shrug of the shoulders. Karen opened the driver’s side rear door of her car, as her sister stood to one side, waiting for her to unload her belongings from the back seat.

“We got your e-mail four days ago. I thought you’d be here by Tuesday. You didn’t call. I thought maybe you had an accident.” Whitney seemed more put-off than alarmed.

“I did,” muttered Karen, half-smiling and hoping her sister would get the sarcasm that she never seemed to fully appreciate.” She must have understood this time, because Whitney didn’t inquire any further.

The two sisters walked to the imposing front door, and into the house. Whitney’s kid’s were at school and the place looked astonishingly neat for the home of two elementary-aged children. Karen noticed that the walls had been newly painted a faint peach color that was now thought to mean sleekness and enlightenment in the post-modern suburbs, where her sister had come to rest after a tumultuous decade of trying to succeed as an actress in an unyielding and unwelcoming Hollywood. Multiple parental loans, an occasional appearance in locally shot TV commercials, and periodic parts in community theaters, had dimmed her Vassar-acquired expectations for the dramatic arts in contemporary America.

Her husband, Jack, was gone; at work in one of the exurban financial brokerage companies that helped retirees and well-heeled suburbanites shuttle their money into Eastern establishment, WASPy sounding mutual funds, based in the Bahamas. Karen was relieved that Jack was gone, although in a small, furtive way, barely conscious to her, she always looked forward to seeing him.

Karen dropped her luggage in the hall, and the two sisters settled into the cool air- conditioned light of the house’s large kitchen.

“So what did he do this time?” Whitney asked. “Did he hurt you?”

“No… I mean, yes, but not that way.” Karen set her coffee mug down on the chrome and glass kitchen table. She was dressed in an elegant gray business suit that much belied the swiftness of her flight and the disheveled origins of that first night of escape. Her straight dark hair offset her blue eyes. “He’s too smart to be violent, at least towards me. No, it’s about the money, ‘our’ money. Shit, all of it is gone. Gone.”

“How much was it?” Whitney asked.

“More than Jack will make in ten year’s of trading,” Karen said with a slightly indignant sneer at her sister’s question.

“Where, for God’s sake, did Rory get that kind of cash?”

“Look, you know what he does. He’s paid very well for his work, if you want to call it ‘work’.

Just then, Karen’s cell phone chirped. She paused, reached into her gray suit coat. She knew who it was without looking at the screen. She decided that enough time had passed since her escape—and anyway, Rory knew exactly where she would be. She answered the phone with a curt, “Yes.”

Rory’s voice sounded …….

©B. Rose 2006

Treatment -- Working Draft

The Story

Karen leaves Rory, because Rory has committed some unforgivable sin. On the surface, its appears to be about money, but it is deeper than that. Maybe? He betrays something, maybe a promise that he made to a corporate boss. A promise not to tell something, or to use some information. Now, the boss is after Rory, but its bigger than the boss, too. The boss is just the first and closest level. Rory has sinned against some corporate code of silence--maybe he's a kind of whistle blower or a spy. (Whatever he is, he is inept) Anyway, Karen is tough and sleek, and when she learns that Rory has made a fatal mistake and ruined any chances that they may have had together for a normal life, she decides to leave. Quick. Where does she go? To her sister. Why? Because she really is in love with her brother-in-law, or at least once was. (Haven't figured out that part of the story yet, but I like the twist.) Before her sister got married, Karen and (Jack) had some kind of affair. Later, Jack gets an MBA, Karen goes to Europe for art school--they grow apart. Karen, a few years later, meets Rory. Rory's handsome, has some talent, appears to have the makings of a future in the art world, and most importantly, is relatively harmless. Karen is unable to get her own art career going, so she marries him---hoping that she will be happy as a wife of a struggling artist. They move to New Mexico. Santa Fe. Of course Rory is unable to make it, so eventually, he goes to work for the Really Big Corporation (RBC) and is able, over a few years, to make it at a low level career working on a secret project that RBC is hatching to make a billion dollars. Anyway, Rory gets a brilliant idea: he thinks he can make his own billion, if he sells or tells the secret of RBC's secret project. But Rory isn't too bright. He sells/betrays the secret project to someone--the wrong person-- that, in turn, rats on him to RBC (Why??? disappointment, incomplete information??) Rory is now up the creek. He has no money, he's being hunted (by thugs hired by RBC), his wife leaves him. He's at rock bottom. (That's when we meet him in the opening paragraph.)

Karen can't stay long with her sister, Whitney. They don’t like each other, really. And it’s way too tense, too much sexual energy between Karen and Jack. Moreover, Whitney knows that Karen has a thing for Jack, even though she doesn’t have the complete story—she just senses it. (Karen has never told Whitney about her affair with Jack. Neither has Jack told Whitney.)

Karen is the key character.

Karen decides that she will have to make a living on her own. What will she do? Karen leaves her sister's house and sets up living somewhere in LA. Somewhere cheesy and low-brow. Jack surreptitiously connects her to some friends and a job. (Jack has to do this on the sly, or Whitney will leave him too.) He acts out of loyalty to their now long-ago romance. He has a ember of a thing for Karen. Karen begins to work for some financial corporation (Later, it turns out, it’s a division of RBC, the company that is now out to kill her estranged husband).

Rory, although not too bright, has realized that he better get out of town. He goes “on the lamb” or “underground” or something. RBC thugs continue peruse him, but he stays just one step ahead. He’s lucky. At least for now.

Meanwhile, time passes—Karen gets up and goes to work, every day. It’s a hum drum life, but she’s got to make a living. The scenes cut back and forth between Karen’s hum drum, workaday existence, and Rory's flight to international locations (He goes first to Mexico, then somewhere else, far more obscure, to elude his pursuers. He is, of course, using their joint credit card, at least at first.) Eventually Rory ends up in some back water where he is safe for a while, or so he thinks. Somewhere in Africa, French Africa, where it is not entirely impossible for a white guy to stand out. (Or maybe South Africa—good location for surfing while making the movie. Though too many sharks in the water.)

Once in a while, Rory checks in with Karen. He calls her every couple of months. During those calls, Karen berates him for being stupid and thinking he could make money through a betrayal of RBC. She tells him that she’s sold his last painting of her. The one that Rory thought was so important and innovative.

Karen continues to work at RBC’s subdivision (Hereafter,” The Subdivision Corporation”) She manages to get ahead a bit, and starts working for their security division. (During this period, she sleeps with Jack a few times, but this doesn’t go anywhere—Jack actually loves Whitney, the kids, the Valley.) Eventually Karen stumbles onto Subdivision’s on-going plans to eliminate her husband. (Subdivision is really pissed. It turns out that Rory had got paid by Subdivision, but didn’t deliver the secret) OK. Karen hates her husband and thinks that he’s inept, but she doesn’t want to see him dead. So she waits for his next call from (somewhere in Africa) When they speak, she tells Rory that she knows what RBC is up to. She’s seen some of the plan to kill him. She has information that can save his life. At least some information. She wants to meet him. But where? Rory resists this idea at first, but he still loves Karen and is eager to reunite. He thinks he can restore himself to her good graces. Little does he know that Karen has become an employee of the Subdivision Corporation and that she has told Subdivision that she can help track down her husband. For a price! (Karen wants the money—she’s tough. No more living in an apartment in a one-bedroom in Palms for her!)

Eventually Karen travels to Africa for the rendezvous with Rory. She is, of course, accompanied, by a Subdivision hit man. (Does she know this?? Probably not.) She leads the hit man to Rory. She shows up at the appointed meeting place. The hit man follows her. (He’s African American, of course, he looks right at home in Africa) Rory and Karen meet. The hit man breaks in. What does Karen do? She wants the money, she needs the money. She wants a new life, and God knows it’s no fun to work for Subdivision . Additionally, she is afraid that if she doesn’t help Subdivision now, to eliminate Rory, the hit man, or some subsequent henchman from Subdivision , will “eliminate” her.

Rory is cute, but he’s incompetent. Besides, Karen still has a thing—however unrequited-- for Whitney’s husband, Jack. Plus she has big plans for that money she will receive from Subdivision. Maybe she'll beome an artist again. Karen once loved Roary, but does she love him enough now to risk her life, and to try to stop the hit man from “rubbing out” Rory? And what about the money? What will happen to her if she does prevent the hit? What will happen to her if she doesn’t?

© B. Rose 2006

The History of Night

Cumulus closing
The ragged pupil of our sky.
The stars now curtained,
Their glittering throng interrupted.
Then, the wind levers open,
A small, perfect aperture.
We peer up, squinting
Into the glimmering past.
It’s light issued from
As far back
As we will ever know.

Ocean View in Kansas City

I saw the Al Gore movie the other night (An Inconvenient Truth), and it looks like we may all be in a lot of hot sea water in a few years, with the tides rising, due to global warming. It is not entirely clear to me, but it looks like we should be setting our sites on buying some seaside, ocean front property for our retirement years, somewhere in the vicinity of Kansas City. I propose that we change the state's motto, which is now "ad astra per aspera" which is Latin for "To the stars through hardship" to something like, "Kansas, the other 'ocean state'".

My Consciousness, or Yours?

One of the problems of being human is what I will term the problem of, ‘my consciousness,’ or ‘narcissistic consciousness.’ I suffer from this. Others may also. I haven’t noticed.

As a result of this malady, one thinks that what one thinks is really interesting and meaningful. (Why there is human subjectivity and individual consciousness at all, totally escapes me. Couldn’t the forces of nature, evolution, Zeus, dare I say, God, just as well have shaped living beings without consciousness—you know, kind of efficient bacteria, only prettier?? Gee, I guess it/they did! Just turn on any ‘reality’ TV show.) Anyway, I really think that what I really think is interesting—at least I experience it as interesting and novel. But is it?? Let’s review a bit of a day’s thinking---kind of a list of topics from my stream of consciousness, to see if it really is that interesting, shall we?)

OK. I get up and unload the dishwasher and feed the dog. I reflect that, on the one hand, life should be more that this. Emptying the dishwasher and feeding the dog are inane activities, but on the other hand, I at least have a dishwasher and dishes and a dog. These are good things. Right? While emptying the dishwasher and feeding the dog, I think to myself, “Must get kid to school. When will she be old enough to be self-regulating, so that I don’t have to tell her to brush her teeth before we leave? When will she just automatically go in there and brush her teeth without my prompting her to do so? Geez, she is almost old enough, I think, and she is growing up way too fast. Soon she will be 30 (in fact she is just 11) and I will be dead, or what’s worse, I will be living a life of lonely poverty, forgotten in some nursing home, tortured by my regrets about my life’s failures (including having a dog and emptying the dishwasher 439,786 times.) Back to the thought at hand. My daughter is growing up and I am going to die. Shit! Change course. Think happy and pleasant thoughts. Life is sweet, and ‘being,’ if one takes time to appreciate it, is a miraculous thing. Drive kid to school. Be nice to dog!”

On the way back from dropping the kid off at school, I stop at my hair cutters and get my haircut. I like my haircutter, she is very sweet and nice and she’s been cutting my hair for 15 years, and I like her. She’s Italian-American. She is also pregnant and is scheduled to have a baby in March. (OK, maybe she’s not exactly ‘scheduled.’) As she cuts my hair, I enquire about her health, the progress of the pregnancy, her plans…it’s all very pleasant chit chat. As I do this, however, I am thinking, variously, “When H was born I was old, but a lot younger than I am now. Was I 42? Chriisst. I was! Life is short. Mortality is inescapable. I will not live forever. Me, me, me, me, me. Death = no more me.” I notice myself thinking about life and death and the looming disaster of my own mortality. This is not good. By ‘not good,’ I mean both my thinking about my mortality, and the fact of my mortality are not good. It’s dreadful.

I drive home right after the hair cut. The haircut has taken about 3 minutes to complete because I don’t have much hair, much has fallen out---another sign of my mortality and impending demise. I think to myself, “I should get ready for a work meeting I have later today , but I have plenty of time. Relax. Why not just sit down for a few minutes and have some fun. Maybe visit the NY Times website, and maybe later write about my consciousness. But wait! I don’t have that much time. Time is short. Tempest Fugit. I don’t ’know Latin—although I studied it for two years in high school—I still don’t know any Latin—I’m terrible with languages—I should have learned Spanish. I should study Spanish, now. I should take piano lessons—why haven’t I learned how to play the piano? Time is running out. Maybe I won’t learn Latin before I expire. Or the piano. I am a failure. My life is nearly ending, and I am a failure.”

Wait a minute. Get a hold of yourself, Moo!

The Schmootie Song

'Schmootie' is a lovely word
Tho, all too seldom is 'schmootie' heard
Schmootie by day and schmootie by dark
Schmootie in town, schmootie in the park
If ever I were asked to be king
At the coronation, the gathered would sing
Schmootie, schmootie, schmootie
Schmootie for oney and schmootie for twoie
Schmootie for me-ee and schmootie for youie.

Little House on the Prarie?

The average American home grew from 983 square feet in 1950, to 2,349 square feet in 2004 -- a 140% increase. Yet the American household shrank by 18% between 1970 and 2003, from 3.14 people to 2.57, on average.

"Louie, Louie" Redux

Thank the gods for the Kingsmen. Yes, the Kingsmen, popularizers, in 1963, of such unforgettable musical achievements as “Louie, Louie,” and “The Jolly Green Giant.” (They actually did a version of “Mustang Sally” and “Money --That’s What I Want--” too) These predecessors of today’s garage bands had few pretensions to greatness, but challenged, in their own unwitting way and only a few years after the witch hunts of McCarthy (see Good night and Good Luck), the cultural torpor of late 1950’s mid-America. Today, I find that this music also makes great laundry-folding background music, as I sort through the whites and the darks. (For some activities, one desperately needs something in the background.)

Apparently, “Louie, Louie,” was presumed by many to have objectionable (read, pornographic) lyrics and was, at one point, condemned by such defenders of air-wave decency as the Governor of Indiana, Matthew Welsh. (I recall that the kids in my 7^th grade class sure were convinced that the lyrics were “dirty”. Although it was a complete mystery to me how anyone knew what the Kingsmen were singing.) When the Federal Communications Commission conducted an investigation into the lyrics of “Louie, Louie,” they concluded that, “The record is unintelligible at any speed we played it.” This, I think, speaks volumes about, on the one hand, the genius of the Kingsmen (literally creating a tabula rasa on to which anyone could project what they wanted) and on the other hand, the antipathy that seethed in early 1960s America for what was then a blossoming youth culture that would soon lay siege to the staid sensibilities of America, with a triumvirate of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. The “Establishment” was convinced that the kids were being corrupted by dirty music. And, of course, they were right. But certainly not by lyrics of “Louie, Louie.” Essentially “Louis, Louis” had no lyrics.

The uproar over “Louie, Louie” was a long, long, long, time ago. But, time, of course, has a way of both slipping away and lingering around, simultaneously. Time is both slippery and sticky. It is evanescent and unending. Now you see it, now you don’t. Here today, gone tomorrow. Etcetera, etcetera. “Louie, Louie,” hit the airwaves over 40 years ago and yet, it seems like only a moment ago. A brief pulse in the great stream of time.

Ahh, “the great stream of time.” It’s very much like the great stream of consciousness. Only, in my case, it’s not exactly a “stream.” More like a “rivulet.” Or maybe even just a few drips. Yes, “drips” of consciousness. That’s it.

But let me first observe that consciousness, or perhaps more accurately, my consciousness, is a weird tangle of impressions and sensations and autobiographical memories and associations. It’s composed as much of the little things that skulk around in the background, as it is the big things that lumber, like locomotives, in the foreground. I’m as consciousness of the feel of this keyboard at which I’m now typing, as I am of my abstract and fuzzy ideas about the vast expanse of time.

Of course, consciousness has some relationship to identity, and as, mentioned, memory—autobiographical memory. (Speaking of identity, let me also observe that it seems to me that who we are, and what we are, is comprised as much by the things that we avoid (steer clear of) as the things that we embrace, whole hog. We are comprised by what we aren’t (or won’t allow ourselves to be) as much as by what we “are.”) So anyway, like I was saying, we conscious beings—even we of little, tiny ideas---are physical things, embedded in a specific point in time and history and nature. Connected to our genetic ancestors and our specific culture. Oh yes, and our given ecology and language (the latter an inheritance form the past that we recreate and innovate, simultaneously.) We are not ethereal and immaterial “souls” afloat in some perfect ether. We are blood and flesh and the composite of our experiences and our place of birth, plus some genetic stuff that gets factored in, that we don’t get any vote in.

But enough of this digression, let’s get back to what’s really important: “Louie, Louie.”

“Just what were the lyrics to Louie, Louie, anyway??” The Kingsmen spent 35 dollars to record their song, and the quality of the recording accords with this magnitude of their investment. Who can tell what the lyrics are by listening? So I looked them up.

Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home

CHORUS

Three nights and days I sail the sea
Think of girl, constantly
On that ship, I dream she's there
I smell the rose in her hair.

CHORUS

Okay, let's give it to 'em, right now!

GUITAR SOLO

See Jamaica, the moon above
It won't be long, me see me love
Take her in my arms again
Tell her I'll never leave again

CHORUS

Let's take it on outa here now
Let's go!!

If the governor of Indiana thought that Louie, Louie was suggestive, what do you think he would have made of these lyrics, from the song, “Gone Dead Train” which, as you will recall, appeared some years later, in the movie Performance, starring Mr. Mick Jagger. The song was sung by Randy Newman:

[Words and music by Jack Nitzsche & Russ Titelman.]

My engine was pumpin' steam and I was grindin' at you hard and fast
I was burnin' down the rail tryin' to heat the way
Haulin' ass and ridin' up the track
And I laughed at the conductor who was tellin' me my coal would never last
When the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Now ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Once was at a time when I could Mama shave 'em dry
And raise a fever on ice-down chill
Waiting at the station with a heavy loaded sack
Savin' up and holdin' just to spill
Shootin' the supply from my demon's eye
'Stead of waitin' for a time, I hope I will
When the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Now ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Yeah it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to teach it to learn

There ain't no easy way when the daily run a downhill pull
And there ain't no easy day, wishin' for some jelly roll
There ain't no switch been made to let a juicy lemon find
A spring to run a dry well full
Then the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Yeah it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to teach it to learn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to learn
Baby, it's a gone dead train
It's a gone dead train

“Louie, Louie” was really just “Little Bo Peep,” by comparison to, “Gone Dead Train.”

Ah, but both “Louie, Louie” and “Gone Dead Train” were a long time ago.

Now, I must get back to the laundry-folding. Back to the quiet zen-like, stillness of a blank consciousness.

Back to the lyrics of “Louie, Louie.”

Heraclitus' Cold Feet

“Into a river you can’t step twice,”

Heraclitus declaimed his sage advice.

“You can stand on the land

And dance on the strand,

But 'NO WADING!'

unless it's on ice."

*Note:

"The river
Where you set
Your foot just now
Is gone---
Those waters
Giving way to this,
Now this."

Fragments: The Collected Wisdom of Heraclitus, Translated by Brooks Haxton.

Patterns--What Could Be Simpler?

I read in a recent issue of New Scientist, that aging, which may bring with it memory loss, Alzheimer’s, dementia, and a boat load of other mental maladies does have one benefit: increased “pattern recognition.” Yep, as one gets older, a lot of things get dimmer and fade away, but apparently one of the few things that gets, or at least can get, stronger and brighter is pattern recognition, which Laura Spiney the author of the article “Golden Oldies”(New Scientist, August 13, 2005) says is a critical component of problem-solving skills. “Pattern recognition is useful for solving problems. It is the ability to see that the object or problem confronting you belongs to a group of similar objects, and is therefore likely to have similar properties. So you can solve the problem on the basis of prior experience, without knowing very much about it. So, you see, as we get older, we get more capable of solving problems. In our wizened years, we are able to see that a given problem, let us call it problem “X,” is quite like other problems that we’ve encountered, like say, problems “U, V, and W”. If, in the past, we solved “U, V and W” with strategy “A”, strategy “A” might be able to solve our current problem “X”. (Unless of course, problem “X” is a bit different and is really more like problem “Y”, in which case, given my increasingly powerful pattern recognition capabilities, I will note that problem “X” is more amenable to strategy “B”.) So in this case, where I might have used Strategy “A”, instead I will use strategy “B”. But wait a minute! What if strategy “B” has been better used with problems “R, S, and T?” Strategy “B” will not work with “U, V, and W”. Any ol’ fool can see that! No, “U, V, and W” will require a much more subtle strategic approach. It will require strategy “C”. So, in order to make the long story of pattern recognition, a short story, problem “X,”---which I originally thought looked like problems “U, V, and W,” but which in fact, looks much more like problems “R, S and T”--- will be solved, not by strategy “A,” or “B,” but by strategy “C”! I will solve problem “X” with strategy “C”! Voila! There you have it. The amazing story of how, as we get older, all problems are the same. And all we really need to do, is use the same solution for whatever problem we may encounter. From now on, you, like I, will benefit from solving all of our problems with the same solution. What could be simpler?

Told You Not to Wander 'Round in the Dark

It has been raining here for 7 or 8 days. It’s Biblical. Last night, I walked Stanley in the pouring rain and howling wind. The trees were heavy with rain, their leaves pulled down by a conspiracy of gravity and damp weariness. Stanley was happy, as he padded around looking for the right place to leave his doggy signature. I wore headphones and listened to the recent release of Cream Live at the Royal Albert Hall (2005). The streetlight at the corner had gone out, and as I rounded the bend with Stanley pulling at his leash, everything was ink black, sopping wet, and horror-movieish. The song "Badge" was on, a song originally written 35 years ago, or more, by Mr. Clapton and George Harrison. "I told you not to wander round in the dark. I told you about the swans that they live in the park. Then I told you about a kid, now he's married to Mabel." What does this mean? I don’t know. Shouldn't I be reciting Yeats instead? Jeez. The curse of the 60s. It’s my music, like it or not. The driving base, the searing lead guitar. The inane lyrics that seem, somehow, to speak to me—across the years--- with some poignant meaning, despite their inanity. The rain, the rain, the damn rain driving down. The dog looking for a place to poop, but he too, now growing weary of the rain. "I'm talking about a girl that looks quite like you. She didn’t have the time to wait in the queue. She cried away her life since she fell off the cradle." At least the trees are beautiful with the night all tangled up in them. An invisible beauty I need to imagine, because it is too damn black and windy for me see much, nor to linger here long. “You’d better pick yourself up off the ground, before they bring the curtain down.” Maybe this is a song about death? About the ineluctable fate that everyone must confront. Who cares if the 60s are 40 years in the past. Who cares that the past has passed. There is only a past for those who are living. For the dead there is nothing, not even nothing, because the deceased are no more. Auden: “What Happens to the living when we die?/Death is not understood by death; nor you, nor I.” Stanley, almost invisible in his poodle blackness, decides he’s had enough and tugs me in the direction of home. Which way is that, Stanley?

The Air Conditioned Class: "It's Climate Change, Silly, Not Global Warming."

In response to a recent post by one of our readers and the reader's trusty canine (you know who you are, so I need not mention any names here) the following:

Dear (Name of Reader), and of course, (Name of Reader's Dog):

Thank you for your thoughtful comments on the state of Air Conditioning, a.k.a., the Air Conditioned State. We here at Moo Moo Camus, and our subsidiary organization, the Bureau of Social Turmoil, are happy that you have, with your clever acumen, penetrated the fog of our initial observation. Indeed, to wit, viz, i.e, : a specter is haunting all of Europe, and indeed, the other important parts of the known world, including Anaheim and Orlando, and it is the specter of the international air conditioned class, who hope one day to seize control of the state (including the states of Florida and California, but not Idaho---too many hot potatoes) and impose a world numbing condition (to wit: air conditioning) on all of humanity. This state will henceforth be known as "Chilly" (not to be confused with the South American nation, nor with ingredients of Mexican food). Chilly will be ruled by a small elite of neo-conservatives, neo-liberals, and neo-anderthals whose every effort will be directed toward making the world safe for global warming. Their motto however, will be, "Everything is cool". They will work, day and night, to make us all think that everything is cool, really cool, when in fact , it is not. Once they have worked their evil, everyone will want to be 'cool.' Everyone. And pretty soon, everyone will THINK that he or she IS cool. Then people from all walks of life will walk around, thinking, "I am really cool," and "everything is cool." And more insidiously, they will FEEL cool.

Once this new elite, the air conditioned class, has stabilized power, it will not stop at anything. It will announce that the world is cool and that you and I are cool, and that even Donald Trump is cool. Next thing you know, they will have us believe that even capitalism is cool. And everyone will want to be a capitalist and everyone will want to be on 'the Apprentice,' or worse, some home remodeling show on the E-channel. Everyone will be infatuated with themselves, thinking, "I am cool, the world is cool, capitalism is cool, everything is cool." But of course, (Name of Reader), you and I will know better. You and I, and perhaps ( name of Reader's dog) too, in is doggy perceptiveness-- will know the truth: WE ARE ALL IN A WHOLE LOT OF HOT WATER!

Down with the Air Conditioned Class. Long live Air Conditioning!