Something sacred is at stake in every event…that’s from the Kaballah. I’ve got sour milk in my Pete’s coffee that I surreptitiously took to another internet café. That’s from me. Dirt in my fries – that’s from the Shins. Unimagined dangers and the anticipation of disappointment – that’s from me again. How’s this: clouds in ceiling opened up and the roof is perforated and the water is filling up the space...and, Cordelia asks, via IM’g, if there are any hot chicks to save. So much for sacred. Baryshinkov talks about “divine insecurity.” I often feel lonely and lost in space. That time is passing me by. Cordelia says I live in the past. I see a crystal fountain in my imagined crystal garden. Cordelia, I need you so much closer. I need a rose garden, I need friends around the corner, I need a raincoat, I need the shrink in the reruns of the Sopranos to either wear pants or uncross those bare legs and let us see her charms…or…maybe have Tony kill her, or better yet, have her kill Tony with a chain saw. She’s suffered enough. And, the actress has not aged well…this last season’s episodes show the ravages of time. All of a sudden it happens…the window closes and you’re no fooling around definitely OLD! Dustin Hoffman, Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholsen all turned 71 this year…and they are beginning to show it. Most consuming conundrums: time, space, memory, love, loss, past, present and the mutating future….and finding happiness…and wiping the sweat off my brow. I go by the name of Swoon. This tale is not a new age cyberspace adventure / romance but a typical story of love told in a non-bourgeois, non-commodified and non-linear narrative. It is about Swoon and Cordelia. Warning, it is narcissistic. The word person comes from the latin word “persona” or actor’s mask. In Goffman’s “The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life” he says, “Insofar as this mask represents the conception we have formed of ourselves – the role we are striving to live up to – this mask is our truer self, the person we would like to be.” Forget about just understanding myself…there is also time, space, past, present, future and all the warping / mutating of same and the peripheral realities just under the surface. For example;
Time is a mystery and not a thing.
No one knows what time is anyway.
Getting lost in time is not that different from getting lost in a desert.
Cordelia likes deserts so probably she would like getting lost in time.
Cordelia is 36 and I am considerably older.
And that makes b-days irrelevant…except for fun.
My birthday in particular…more to be explained later.
I've long held a rather phenomenological view of time and space, where,
for example, the distance between any two places is not a Cartesian measure, but an experiential assessment--how long and hard is it to get from here to there, does it take longer, shorter, does it FEEL longer or shorter, can I see it from here. Have you ever noticed how far you have to travel to get to someplace you've never been before, but how much closer the place is once you have already been there? Even the return journey of the very first trip is shorter than the outbound. Phenomenologically, I am still eight and still 14 and still 39, and already 63, but also dying every day, even as others around me are being born, and learning every day even as others around me are dying. So yeah, birthdays are for fun. Consider the alternative.So between the coffee and the imagined methedrine; bring on the caviar and champagne. If I ruled the world, imagine that…. A tremendous blast and I feel the ground shaking and see the fireball. All around me I find legs, charred pieces of bodies and pools of blood. Children crying in fear and shock, literally headless chickens and the wounded screaming, aid workers yelling and running like shrapnel and time is moving slowly like porcelain pots drying in the sun….but there was a 4.5 earthquake at 4:42am last nite…the center was 3 miles east of Oakland, the depth was unusually shallow so it felt like it was much bigger magnitude. And some storefront windows broke, liquor store wines spilled everywhere, A.J. Ferraro’s hors-d’oeuvres splattered and all of downtown Montclair is overflowing with media trucks. But this is where our story begins. Time to stop messing around. 4:30am on a Friday morning. Half asleep, lying on couch. iPod in ear. Twenty-eight years ago I was struck by lightning. Beautiful sunny day when heat lightning storm hit. Life can change in an instant. And we do die alive…so right now, show me things I don’t know. Rain misting in my backyard. I stumble off couch, in backyard, to pee on soft earth. Always three feet to the left of rosemary plant…but don’t tell anyone. Palettes of blues, greys, blacks and greens. I have finished writing my one page will…no urgency, just another life responsibility…one more thing checked off. I’ll take accomplishments wherever I can get them. Thinking of my lady, Cordelia, the fragility of love, the ease and strangeness of it all. How we met, when we met, and what has transpired. Maybe it all goes back to the lightning bolt. 500,000 toaster shocks traveled through my body. My acting teacher used to say that explains a lot. Is Bob Guccione still alive? I am unable to think logically for reasons I ignore…so I soar somewhere else. Am I becoming my own belief… to staunch the humdrum normalcy of my life…my mind begins to drift, like it has more often of late. In the early morning fog, wisps of moonlight and I see angels with golden wings and harps and cherubic though indistinct faces. I have seen them before, sometimes in the dusky corners of my rambling mind. This early morning, I am not chasing my past; in my mind I am driving to heaven. But in this fog, I drive my car into a tree. The damage to my vehicle is extensive, but beyond the expected bruises, there is no perceptible damage to me. Yet I never speak again. All stories start all over again. Another birthday. Forty-seven…date of birth: Feb. 26, 1960. (maybe)? With accelerating age, you are supposed to be moderately wiser. Tired of bad decisions, wrong conclusions…relationships that morph into ticking time bombs. I’m going to make a movie with a happy ending. Might be rough ride but I’m going to find a way out. Hold on tight! The universe loves a drama, you know? Friday night, post minimal attempt at dancing for Cordelia’s pleasure, we exited not very cool Oakland bar and Cordelia immediately asked 3 people hanging outside the bar to guess my age. Their leader said 47….interesting. They were probably about average age 28. Cordelia shocks them and tells them the truth! And, this is not what you think it is. I’m Spartacus. I’m another “Famous Blue Raincoat”. I’m ‘Fredo in Godfather II, in the rowboat. I’m Mickey Rourke in Diner, William Hurt in Body Heat, I’m Pete Best, that Beatles’ drummer who quit the group one nano second before winning SuperLotto. I’m Yossarian….”Help him! Help who? Help him!” Tom Hanks in Philadelphia. Selling CD’s from the trunk of Nicky Barnes car. William Burroughs at a hoe-down. Sherlock Holmes on a rant. I plan a surprise birthday party in the middle of “The Road.”
When I was 12 my appendix exploded during big NYC blizzard and the ambulance crashed on the way to the hospital. Just before being put under, this 12 year old boys senses his doctor stinking of gin….I’m an Ellis Island Spalding Gray of a Jew (neurotic but not aloof nor composed…I cherish complaining, very un Wasp-like)…my body is in S.F. while my soul is lost in the Chelsea Hotel.
I’m a wanna be a trapeze artist. I sometimes tell people that I do labial piercing for a living. I told Cordelia I’m a paleontologist. Yeah, a paleontologist. All monkeys do what they see. See, a good liar stays very close to the truth. Cordelia thinks I’m Zelig…Bob Dylan on my lap in nyc taxi cab, screen test making out with Pacino, Sonic Youth girlfriend, biggest hit of late 1970’s, You Light Up My Life written about a woman who had just left me…but she says I dwell too much on the past. I say that old line from Long Days Journey Into Night that a “living thing is a memory that acts.” But I think line from same play, “I have more of a past than a future” and it freaks me out. I’m already planning my own rehearsal funeral…a faux funeral, so I can hear what people are gonna say about me. Vegas betting line on who’s the biggest surprise. I’ll tell ya later about the music I’ve selected. Cordelia calls me “an autistic momma’s boy.” And I think that this is Holy.way much more....to sleep; perchance to dream.....