Alan Asnen's Blog, page 2

On Compassion and Empathy

I spent a few moments when younger studying the philosophy of Ayn Rand, a philosophy she called “Objectivism,” which taught that if you were not a good swimmer you should not attempt to save anyone from drowning. Among other things that sounded, at least to me, today, rather selfish.
Objectivism was very much focused upon developing one’s self-potential and seeing one’s self as, in essence, the center of the universe for all extent and purposes. The idea being that you are no good to anyone if you aren’t good to yourself first. This latter principle, somewhat sound, logically, was, and still is, a primary selling point.
As young as I was as the time, and I was very young, very fragile and very vulnerable to such thoughts, the idea kept pounding into my head, the image kept pounding into me, of this child drowning while I watched. Over and over and over. Until finally I picked up all of Rand’s books, popular at the time and still popular today, and tossed them in the trash.
Why are they still popular today?
Aside from the fact that she tells one hell of a good story, her philosophy has become the bedrock of what we have come to know as the Republican/Conservative/Libertarian movement. Paul Ryan, for example, one recently retired leader of said movement, former Speaker of the House, former Majority Leader in the House, held Ayn Rand as his personal philosophical god. You do not get anywhere in most Libertarian, Conservative or Republican circles if you are not familiar in some fashion with Ayn Rand.
Rand Paul, Republican Senator from Kentucky, was named for Ayn Rand by his Libertarian father, Ron Paul, noted perennial Presidential candidate of yore. Rand Paul is the Senator who keeps bills from passing, legislation that would make America work again.
Here’s a tidbit as recently noted by a New York Times reporter during the most recent government shutdown: Jared Kushner — handpicked by our then-President to find a way out of that quagmire, caused by the President’s intransigence on the subject of immigration, combined with the intransigence of the worst elements of the Randian GOP — pulled together the best minds he could to review the entire immigration mess. After several days of doing so with this committee, he faced them and said, “We have wasted two years on the issue of immigration.” Two years of Trump’s administration, in other words.
How cogent a moment from the maligned Kush. He understood his father-in-law and the GOP were all a bunch of Randian fools.
John Berger tells us that between men and animals it is the lack of common language that divides us, that keeps us excluded from one another, that allows us to do what we will with them with impunity, enslave them, slaughter them, eat them without conscience. It is this act of distinction between cultures that always allows people to take that last drastic step of separating self from the Other.
What do we do as the great hoarders of “European tradition,” constantly criticizing Islam, for example, if we were to make it popularly known that, in ancient Greece, cradle of our civilization, women were forced to wear the veil? This was, indeed, common practice. It is not commonly known, today, not commonly understood. But it is a fact, none the less.
We hide this fact from ourselves to keep the Western tradition “clean” and separate from those we chose to distance ourselves from, perhaps. But the facts and the record of the facts are there and clear.
We are Them and They are Us. Only time and place separates.
Only time and place.
Were people spoon-fed such information, as if told aliens had landed on Earth, they would respond defensively and say, “No, it isn’t true.” Fake news. Liberal experts making it up.
Most people, of course, those who have ideas about ancient Greece, see ancient Greece, that time and place, in terms of myth. They do not know of it in terms of the common people. At best they know of it from poetry and plays. They know nothing of the times, the life of the streets, the real life of Athens, Corinth, Thebes and Sparta.
Even the most world-wise of us at times prefer this. Prefer to hold onto myth, stay with myth, enhance it in our own minds. By seeking an interior world where it can remain alive as myth rather than forcing ourselves outward towards the world of knowledge.
The great poets of all cultures and all societies have always taught us and in teaching have given us a choice. They showed us what life was like in reality. That the world has two faces. A happy one and a sad one. The sad one, a world of pain and misery and death. Of harsh realities. The happy one of beauty both natural and man-made.
They tell us we have a choice: that we can go out into the world and by doing so confront both, equally. Or, turn the other way and look always for the beautiful inside ourselves while running the risk of finding only demons.
When we turn inside, we may find a certain happiness and peace, therefore. But perhaps not.
When we go out into the world, we will most assuredly find both misery and happiness. But we will find something else as well, always.
For a while the Confessional poets went in and came out alive with stories to tell. For a while. Stories were great and refreshing in creating a map for themselves and others so that we could then wander through similar territory. A statement perhaps about how to genuinely begin a journey, a statement as old as Virgil’s and older. As old as the Buddha’s.
But, again, this journey was not an end, only a beginning.
The real pain and misery, the real suffering is out there. Always. Even if, by virtue of scientific fact, it isn’t true. By virtue of poetry it must be. After all, we are not scientists. If we were…
Somehow, at some point, through some vehicle, we must learn to transfer our compassion outward. Before it dies. Before the child drowns.
And that’s why I write my books, this last one, ON REVELATION'S WALL, in particular.

Summer Reading

Sorry… This is long.
On the other hand, it has been a while. HI!!
And at the end… Well forget the end, since you probably won’t get there anyway. Anyway, it is summer, you have time, and I promise this will be nasty. Everyone loves nasty.
IF anyone DOES read this, it will probably be the one person who knows me or remembers me, and that might be someone who remembers that, years ago, I was once “DEREN BECK” for a short period of time, which is now a long period of pain-in-the-ass for AMAZON (their own fault; I’ve tried to help them, but they won’t listen!) and, BTW, no thanks to GOODREADS librarians… I will explain, briefly (you’re welcome) coming up.
I used to be a poet. One day during the aughts I received a letter from a famous poet who edited a very prestigious literary journal (print) apologizing to me for having overlooked some work I’d sent and promising that he would publish same ASAP. Shortly after, however, he left and was replaced with, let’s say, someone with very different tastes. I read what this guy published, very much like his own poems. Find some words on refrigerator magnets, toss them randomly onto a refrigerator… Like that. I waited a year, then wrote to this fellow, told him what the previous editor had told me. A few months later found a reply in my mailbox. The standard mimeo “Thank you for your submission…” He didn’t last long. But neither did I.
I kept writing poetry but I stopped trying to get it published. Everything was going online and was looking like refrigerator magnets.
I’d been writing for a long time and doing a bunch of other things. People kept asking me to write my memoirs. ME? Only because of the various places I’d been, people I’d met and yada yada. I tried. Didn’t seem to work. Had an idea: what if I turn it into fiction?
But I’m a poet, I told myself. I’ve done all sorts of writing, I replied to myself. Someone once said I was a bit schizo but I ignored him every time…
I sat down and gave it the old grad school try. Sent it around to agents. I will not tell you what the agents said. Oh, yes I will. Promised I was going to be nasty, didn’t I?
Almost to a person, the agents said, “Very nice, but there’s no market for this.”
Honestly, I had no idea what that meant. After a while I was brave enough to write one back and ask. Finally, one of them was nice enough to write back and she said, “Self-publish.”
I have a few degrees thanks to American higher education, so I know how to do research. I looked into this “self-publishing” thing. I found out it is a rolling disaster. A sinkhole for dummies with a lot of cash, something I didn’t and still don’t have. But, proof-positive, I have degrees from American higher education, so I am a dummy.
Self-publish I did. And I did it the worst possible way, using a pseudonym, so that even my own relatives wouldn’t know who the hell wrote the books. That was “DEREN BECK” by the way.
Changed my mind after a few months, did a little rewrite and a big name change—back to my own—and now we are well on our way to our TENTH BOOK.
Coming out shortly.
Told you something would be coming at the end. Still with me?
ON REVELATION’S WALL, the tenth volume in The Frank Gould Mystery Series will be published shortly (if Blake will ever get around to finishing the damn cover). I might even consider doing one of those giveaways. Although those have never really paid off. People take those free books, stash them away with their hundreds of other free books, never read them (are you listening, Written Word Media?). The handful who do read go ho-hum. Or if they bother, they’ll leave some nasty note somewhere on GOODREADS.
I wouldn’t even mind if they left a nasty review on AMAZON. AMAZON doesn’t care about good or bad. They only care about NUMBERS. Get enough numbers on AMAZON and you are off to the races, buckaroo! And if you have enough money...YOU CAN BUY THOSE NUMBERS!!!
Told you I’d be nasty…
Have a nice summer, kids.

Open This...

Most fiction writers have learned to write their openings so as to literally trap their readers into reading. They call it a catch. Really. As if they were snaring some animal.

I used to struggle with that one. You go through workshops and classes and they pound it into you.

I stopped, though. I don’t think of my readers that way any longer.

I write my openings as an invitation, now. Welcome to my book, my writing. Like it here? Stay a while. Don’t like it? Well, you are free to leave. You are a paid (hopefully) visitor to this hostel of words, and you may come and go as you please. Or, if you have been granted a free ride, come back again some time as a paid guest. Bring a friend with you (on their own dime, please...). Don’t like it here? There’s a nice place down the road. Just look for the flashy neon sign...

Most writers think it is all about the money. I don’t. The money will come or it won’t. That it’s about the “numbers.” I will never have Stephen King’s audience. Nor will they. I don’t need his audience. My audience will be whatever it needs to be. I don’t have the time for such fantasies. I’m too busy writing them.

I learned this lesson from a half-way decent writer. Doris Lessing. She won a Nobel Prize. In Literature. I don’t write as well as she does (I don’t write as well as any Nobel Prize winner...). But I can read (thank goodness). And she said people will read (or should) whatever they like and after a few pages just ditch it if they don't like it. Shakespeare, Melville, Homer, The Bible. Whatever. Too much to read and life is short.

Plus, there is a very old saying: de gustibus non disputandum est.

You don’t know that one? It means: “there’s no accounting for taste.” It’s so old they had to say it in a dead language.

Keep Your Pants On

For a long stretch those of us who write and spend any amount of time studying the subject have been exposed to the argument between those who promote “pantsing” and outlining.

Now, there are some (and I’ve recently finished reading one slim tome to remain unnamed) which take the outlining argument to an even farther degree, insisting not only that one way is “better” but better for a particular purpose. And it is that purpose which turns the argument ugly, I believe, and which I shall endeavor to use as my counterargument as briefly as possible.

In summary, one woman who has written one rather highly regarded book says one should abandon the idea of pantsing completely and not only switch to outlining but to her particular form of outlining for the sole purpose of earning more money. More money. Period.

Period.

I have nothing against money, and especially not more of it. Believe me. However...

Say you’ve been pantsing all your life. And writing seriously. Why would you stop for any reason? And if you were going to stop for any reason, why would that reason, of all reasons, be money? If, by chance, you considered yourself, in any fashion, a “serious” writer? By which, of course, I mean, you take yourself seriously as a writer...not that you must be writing anything “serious.”

What this woman is arguing, of course, is that, like so many writers out “in the marketplace” these days, you have to compete with their “volume,” and in order to do so you cannot allow your “pantsing” ways—so slow, crawling around, day to day, like cold molasses—to inhibit you. You must speed up—vroom vroom vroom!!!—with her outlining method in order to make your name in the world and make the moola!!

And what does she herself have to says about this? That you will produce—as those other writers do—a bunch of crap.
But that’s okay, she says, because crap sells. And that’s all that matters. Sell, sell, sell.

Okay. Time out. Does every outliner write crap? No, of course not. Does every pantser write Moby Dick? Well, no! That’s only been done once, anyway! And practically no one wants to read Moby Dick, so who would want to write it again???

You want to endeavor to write something rather unique, discovering over time what we writers laughingly call your own “voice.” Naturally, it may be a voice that, like the voice of the old prophets, no one wants to hear. But such is the life of a writer! This woman is trying to convince us that if we write like everyone else (utilizing her outline “formula”) this “prophet voice” problem will never occur. Only the crap problem will arise and that, after all, she concludes (and probably correctly according to The New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists) is no problem at all.

This is clearly the case, as well, if you gander about on Amazon. It appears true, as well, on BookBub and Goodreads. Most people who read prefer to trash about with the once-a-month 150-page serials that have some sort of cartoons or half-naked people on the covers. Good for them.

But does that mean you or I have to write like that? For money or otherwise? Does it mean we have to bow down to those who pan our books for not writing like that?

After all...we may be prophets. Or not. We may simply be pantsers.

In Defense of Readers

[This also appears as a "review" of my book, WE MUST AN ANGUISH PAY...]

I had a friend once (no, this is a true story, and not my story...well, of course it is MY story, but it really is about my friend...). His name was Jim. He was well-educated and well-read. He wanted to write a book, and specifically a mystery.

So. He went to our local bookstore, famous Moe’s in Berkeley, every week, where they fairly traded in used books as well as new, and got a grocery bag full of used mystery novels, and he read through them. Every week. And every Saturday he went back to Moe’s, traded that bag in for another bag and read through that bag, went back the next Saturday, etcetera.

He never wrote that book.

Now, I’ve also been a lover of mystery novels throughout my life, although I never read through as many as Jim. I’ve read my share, mind you. Had I gone through Jim’s peregrinations, perhaps I never would have written a word, either. You see, Jim’s problem would have become mine.

He was a good reader, and reading all of that, most of which he could tell was crap, stunted him.

To make matters even worse, this took place years and years ago, before access to eBooks. If this happened today... My goodness, I think I would jump off a building!!! (if I could find one high enough...). I have read selections of some of what is being written today and if I had to read all the way through...

Of course, I know some people say the same about my books, and thus we come to the point. I do come to the point after a fashion. And that is often their complaint. And that, too, is the point.

I don’t write for everyone. Who does? Stephen King, perhaps. But even he doesn’t, consciously. One of the more popular writers today, Harlan Coben, receives some absolutely horrific reviews from readers. You should see them! And you should see the terrific sales reports for some of the WORST WRITERS in the history of the English language.

There. I said it. And screw them. And screw anyone who likes them and takes offense for me having said it. I don’t need their approval.

No. I am not being defensive. I am being supportive of everyone who writes for their own readers. Like all of the people, people who actually enjoy “reading,” who have enjoyed reading my books, and Harlan Coben’s books (not that they are all that much alike...) and anyone else’s who “get’s it.”

Which doesn’t mean that everyone has to.
Doris Lessing (who won the Nobel Prize for Literature some time ago) told people not to waste their time reading her books or anyone else’s if they didn’t “get it.” Read the first fifty pages or so, she said, and if you didn’t like it, toss it and move on. Too many other books to read. But... You don’t have to be judgmental about it.

Like I am. But, then, I haven’t won the Nobel Prize.

Yet.

Screw them, too.

HEY GANG!! AN ACTUAL BOOK EXCERPT...MEANT AS A TEASER!!

Instead of reading "for those who might not want to read" excerpts, meant for those who ARE reading, try some of what anyone might actually WANT TO READ...MEANT AS TEASERS!! From: WE MUST AN ANGUISH PAY...

Now comes the morning. My phone chirped. That new one Nicole forced on me. Comes in handy, in its own way, now and then. The best quality of it, that I can make it chirp rather than ring. Yes, children, I actually figured out how to do that all by myself. They call it an app, those of you who don’t know.

The voice on the other end belonged to Paula. “Is His Gimpiness coming to the office today?”

“Is Ms. Tyra Banks leaving the gym, for once?”
“I’ve got news for you…” she sang.

“Why don’t you just tell me…” I sang back.

“Because I love surprises…”

“Ooohh… I hate your miserable guts…”

“Just get your ass downtown, Superboy.” She hung up
....

But, hark, did I discern a pile driver down the block? Hell, no, someone tap-tap-tapping on my door. Didn’t sound like knuckles. Perhaps a raven, evermore?

“Who is that, knock-knocking at my door?”

A raspy, sexless voice replied, “May I come in?”

“Certain-moi.”

Building maintenance did a spiffy job, at times, yet I suspected I heard the hinges creak.

A smallish man in black, apparently shrinking by the hour unless my nearsightedness deceived me, and somehow looking like the ghost of Truman Capote if such could be possible, stepped in, grasping and sliding along upon a cane to support a frame slightly bent to one side and topped on the reverse by a bulge, a hump in hiding.

He was for the while staring at the door as he struggled with it until he managed to push it closed again, turn around, twisting his mouth into a smile. When he confronted the two large posters on the wall, I watched him stumble backwards, practically off his slender feet, his eyes widening in horror, his mouth twisting yet again, but now in a frame almost of terror.

“How could you?” he moaned, practically screeching.

“How could I what?”

“Do that,” he said, pointing a bony index finger, “allow that display of women in public!”

“Those are works of art, my friend…”

“It’s despicable!”

“Hey, Daffy. Sigmar Polke is, like, the Andy Warhol of Germany, and your ignorance is not my problem. You know, if you came in here just to criticize my taste, I can tell you, I don’t need your business…”

He agonized a deep breath, stared at his feet, adjusted his clothing. “May I sit down?”

“I don’t know. May you?”

“I’ll assume you mean that to be a yes.” The air between us filled with the hint of an accent I couldn’t place. And his diction, sometimes… Otherwise straight California. He found his way to the chair next to my desk. He looked up and his eyes travelled over my shoulder. Lucky him. The lids shuttered closed like clamshells at the sight of young Sharon’s edgy needlepoint and his body recoiled in the chair as if it had received an electric shock.

“Not a word, buddy, not a single word… Unless you have a PhD in literature and wish to discuss the poetic meaning of...” I thought he might start sweating, but then I began to wonder if he ever did, or even could.

This little man dressed for a cooler climate, yet his pores were managing quite nicely. Black, though, black right down to the silk tie and scarf, plus the leather gloves, and that showed a certain je ne sais quoi, if he could be given that much in terms of style, considering. The only distinction was a red handle on the cane, in the form of a child’s snow sled. The old-fashioned kind. He gasped for air as if he were gulping water like a fish swimming deep. And stared at the floor while talking. “I read about you in The Times…”

“Oh, that nice piece Claudia Dreifus wrote in The New York Times…”

“No, no, a feature article about you in The Los Angeles Times…”

“That rag. So, you’re from the Southland.”

“Yes, I’ve lived there since I was a small child. I’ve been involved in the film industry all of my life, one way or another…”

“And what brings you to my haute couture world, mister…”

“Courtney James, Dr. Gould. Courtney James.” He repeated it and waited, as though I would recognize it.

Should I? I hadn’t gone to film school, but I certainly had done my share of schooling about film, even took film courses to back up the extra-curricular reading and tens upon tens of thousands of hours of film watching—including the credits, by the way, you effete morons who don’t bother. In recent years I’d even developed that nasty habit of scanning the internet entertainment news. So, if I didn’t know his name, did it matter that he even had one?

He presented his hand, in the style of a European princess. Still not looking up at me. He wore a ring, some sort of ebony stone on a dark metal frame around his middle finger.

I refused to kiss it but did clasp and turn his palm around to shake it. “Frank C. Gould. C for Cohen.”
“I know. Lovely.”

“So, you read about me, what exactly, and why have you come all this way to see me? No one available to you down in La La land?”

Now he budged and looked around my desk, probably everywhere for something that wasn’t, in his mind, pornographic. “Oh, goodness, you read Baudelaire.”

“I read lots.”

“I adore the French.”

“You’re evading my question.”

“My monkey.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looked up, I think perhaps as high as my chin. “My monkey is missing.”

“Where did he go?”

He looked away again. “He didn’t go anywhere. Someone took him.”

“Why would someone take your monkey, Mister Courtney?”

“James. For ransom. They want what I have.”

“And what would that be? Money?”

His eyebrows raised. “Hardly.”

“Going to keep me guessing? How many guesses do you allow?”

He didn’t exactly smile. “My apologies. I’m not used to speaking about it.”

“Give it a shot. That’s what we’re here for, so I’m told.”

The door opened. Paula strode in, dressed in her Parsi whites with a package under her arm, almost stepping on Courtney. “I’m sorry. Didn’t know you had company.”

Courtney was all grimace and not talking.

“Your timing is perfect.” I pointed to the package. “My surprise?”

She smiled.

“Can it wait just a smidgen?”

She pointed to the hallway, innocently. “Do you want me outside?”

I looked at Courtney. He nodded. I looked at Paula who was unhappy. “I’m sorry all the way around. Mr. Courtney, this is my friend and trusted associate, Paula Panday. Paula, this is Mr. Courtney of somewhere in greater Los Angeles. We were on our way to establishing the particulars of why his monkey was missing when you stumbled in.”

“Monkey? Sorry.”

Courtney rose halfway from the chair and they shook hands. Discovered through radar, perhaps. How sweet.

“It seems Mr. Courtney has a secret he wishes to share with me. So…”

Paula half-curtseyed. “No problem. I’ll be downstairs…”

“Unless Mr. Courtney would understand my need to have your assistance in helping to locate his monkey?”

Courtney began shaking his head and Paula smiled, backing out the door.

“No, thanks Frank. Really, I’ll be downstairs.”

Two birds. But I felt I had to resuscitate one of them. “I could sense you had some issues with Paula, so let’s clear the air on a few points. She is my trusted business associate and probably one of the best…”

“But…”

“Now, you wait. Please. I’m sure you guessed some…odd difference in Paula. So, let me tell you. Not too long ago, Ms. Panday actually was Lt. Col. Henry Panday. Okay? Paula, when Henry, held a noble position in the United States Army Rangers, one of the most decorated in his unit. So good at what he did, so smart, that they Peter Principled him right out into Army Intelligence, where they loved him to death and promoted him, gave him more medals, right up until he…”

“Until?”

“Well, until he decided to make this tiny change in his life. Then she, she was a she now, sort of retired. And she became my…sort of partner.”

“Partner? I didn’t see her name on your door, Dr. Gould…”

“It’s more of a handshake partnership. Quite old, too. Let’s her freelance. Listen, when I said partner… It isn’t like I’m, you know, sleeping with her…”

“Ohhh…”

“Well, sometimes, if we’re traveling, but not in the same bed, or, sometimes in the same bed, but nothing, you know, well, we cuddle, but it isn’t what you’d call sexual, because I’m twenty years too old for her. If it were twenty years ago, maybe. No, not even that, because, you know what? I knew her mother… But, wait, I knew Robin’s father, and that never stopped me…”

“Doctor Gould?”

“What?”

“Why was she dressed as a Parsi?”

“I’m shocked, Mr. Courtney, that you would even know how a Parsi dresses."

“I’m not an uneducated man, Doctor Gould. And it is James...”

“Well, for your benefit, Paula is half-Parsi. Her father was Parsi.”

“Oh.”

“Does that help in any way?”

“Actually, it does, a bit. But...I don’t think I can deal with her.”

“Sure you can. So, you were speaking about what you don’t speak about.”

He breathed as though he hadn’t for several minutes. “Yes. Thank you. It’s a film. A reel of film, several actually, spliced together. In one case. A steel case. It’s mine, now.”

“Porn? Blackmail?”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Heavens, no.”

“Well, then, your mystery crawls like molasses. If you keep throwing me curve balls my swing will become rusty for certain.”

He looked down at the floor. “Yes, I’m familiar with your propensity for baseball metaphors. I am a fan of the Dodgers myself.”

“That’s… Half of that was quite salutary. Now, please, if you would put your thinking back in the right sprockets…”

“Of course, very…”

“Please…”

And back to my chin. “The film contains original negatives of an Orson Welles production, The Deep, a so-called lost negative, stolen, supposedly, and dumped with many other loose Welles stocks in the Pacific, off Catalina Island, back in the 1960s…”

I smiled, leaned back in my chair and held up my hand. “Okay, partner, you stop right there.” I pointed the correct finger in the direction of his face. “Think you’re talking to some knock-jockey? I know about film and Welles. That lost negative was found some years ago. The only Welles film dumped in the Pacific were reels RKO owned from It’s All True. The Deep had no connection to RKO. So, where are you getting this cockamamie bullshit that I am supposed to be buying?”

He edged up on the chair with the help of his cane and looked me in the eye. “No, no, no, Dr. Gould, it isn’t true! The people from the Staatsmuseum want us to believe that. But it isn’t true.”

“What are you talking about? Staatsmuseum…”

Now an urgency. “They’re the ones who own most of the rights and they’re the ones who say they’ve found the negative. But they haven’t. I have. Or, I mean, I have it, I didn’t find it.”

“So, who found it?”

He looked away again. “I can’t say.”

“That’s convenient. Why not?” I raised my right foot and planted the sole on the edge of the desk.

“Because…because he can’t defend himself. He can’t explain himself.”

“And why can’t he? And why can’t you? You seem to know a lot.”

He began swaying back and forth, shaking his head. “Dr. Gould, that’s not the issue at the moment. Krohn didn’t even tell the truth about finding the negative of It’s All True. He admitted as much in a letter to Rosenbaum. If you are any kind of Welles scholar, you should know that. Right now, however, I have to find Mickey and get him back.”

“I’m not a Welles scholar, and I didn’t say I was. And who is Mickey? Mickey is the monkey? Or is he another film academic?”

“No, no, no. Mickey is my monkey.”

“But if the motivation is a crock of shit, how would I even know what you are talking about, Mr. Courtney?”

He sat erect. “Trust me, the motivation, as you call it, is not…what you say.” He hesitated. “And even if it were, the people who took Mickey don’t believe what you believe. They know what I know.”

“Why…” Yes, it was becoming clear. I lowered my foot and sat up. “No, I know why they would want it if you say it is what it is. And I understand why they would kidnap a monkey, or a person, to get their hands on it. But I…”

“Please, Dr. Gould.”

“What kind of monkey is it?”

“A white capuchin.”

“Oh. Cute. You know, there are good people who do this work down south.”

He stared at the floor. Were cockroaches crawling down there? “They were even more suspicious of this than you are.”

“Oh my, no kidding.” I scratched my neck and leaned back. I felt like scratching all over. I felt like taking a bath. I hadn’t for several years. “You understand I’ve never handled a… Whatever you’d call this.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought it was your line...”

“Not with monkeys...being kidnapped...if that’s what you’d call it.”

His head shook rapidly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I’m more than happy to give you all the time you need to do so…”

“Please, Dr. Gould…”

“And stop calling me that.” The phone rang. “Excuse me. It’s probably Paula. She gets anxious at times. Hello?”

“Hello, Frank. Long time…”

Hmmm. Not Paula. “Bonnie?”

“How are you?”

“Well, think of that. Oh, I‘m not so hard to find anymore, am I?”

“Not at all. Don’t be an ass. How are you?”

“Me? I’m great. How are you? And Tony? And Junior? He must be older than me by now.”

“Not quite… And, please, don’t be an ass.”

“Hey, listen, you caught me at a bad moment. Can you call me back?”

“Must I? This is important.”

“Yeah… Hold on a sec.” I stared at Courtney. “Alright, chum, I’ll look for your monkey. Are you going back south or staying up here for the night?”

He became excited. “Oh, I’m definitely going back home, right away.”

“Flying?”

“No, the train.”

“Train? Good choice. Listen, write down your particulars for me here,” I slipped a pad across the desk, “and I’ll be in touch with you as soon as possible.”

Excited and relieved. “Thank you, Dr. Gould.”

“Yeah, and stop with the doctor, okay?”

“How much…”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll work that out later. On your way, don’t forget to say goodbye to Paula. I’ll talk her into helping us. You have no idea how helpful she can be.” I smiled my best smile, despite the effort it took. “Trust me. If you don’t remember her, she’ll be the buxom lady in white standing next to some kind of green sports car.”

The thrill was gone. “If you say so. Again, thank you.” And he was off. Slowly. Door creaking again. With my best smile, waning, in pursuit.

...
I walked out and found Paula standing next to her Mustang, her hand clutching her nose in the “stink” sign. I smelled fish, too. She brought the hand down and motioned, as if her hand had turned into an automated neon advertisement, pointing to the package under her arm. “It’s in the bag, hon.”

“Why is everyone calling me hon suddenly? So. What’s that?” I sidled up close, eyeing the package.

“The skinny on Martens.”

That brought a real smile to my puss. “Hot shit. Finally. When it rains it pours, for certain. How?”

“Just happened to mention him, very accidentally, you know, to a friend of mine, and she knew of a connection to this retired three-star working in the defense industry, someone named Simonsen. Both friends of the late, jolly Mr. Donaldson. By the by. Both members of the same, shall we say, nightclub?”

“No… Not a real nightclub?”

She dipped her head once and her eyes widened. “Oh, yes, baby, and the night business is also connected with the day business…”

“How... Listen, Paula, I have an idea. Why don’t you stay behind and…”

At the word “stay” her head cocked to the side. “What do you mean, stay behind?”

“Yeah, I just picked up another job…”

“The monkey thing…”

“No, something else.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, when it rains. Business is suddenly booming.” She tilted her head. “You’re not trying to keep me away from Terry for some reason?”

That stunned. “No. This has nothing to do with Terry. What makes you say that?”

“Yes, you are. Why?”

“Because I want him alive. If that were the case. I have to go to Paris. Find this guy, for a friend.”

She placed her index finger on the tip of my nose, the way I do to Peanut. “France. That’s probably where he is. And you’ve never been. I’m going to faint. You in Paris? I’ve been. I can help.”

“Promise, it’s not about Terry. Listen, I was on the phone with Bonnie, remember Bonnie? And I thought, hey, Paris, Robin, two birds, you know? Maybe I can figure...”

She nodded, that faux concerned look on her face. “Yes, I understand. About Terry. And I can help.”

“No, man, I appreciate it, it’s not Terry,” I picked up that finger and placed it on her chin, “and I need you here. You have to get to work on Martens, now. You can keep up on Terry, too. And, there’s that monkey, now.” I poked her in the arm. Hesitantly, for some reason. “You’ll need to chummy up with that James guy.”

“Uh-huh. I’m still not comfortable the way you call me man, sometimes. And partner. It means you’re getting nervous. And I’m not sure I like those two first name people.”

“You’ll live.”

The eyebrows. “Yeah, but will he?”

“Gimme a break, partner, I’ve got some thinking to do…”

“Oh, shit, that has always been a serious problem for you, hasn’t it?”

My feet were shuffling like they had a life of their own. “Do you want to get a burger?”

Paula blinked. Three times before saying, “A what?”

“A veggie burger. You know exactly what I meant.”

“Oh. No, thank you. I’ve had my quota for the month. And I have some thinking to do as well. Paris, without you.” She twisted around with her index finger moving from her chin to her eye. “No, wait, it’s the other way around, isn’t it? You, in Paris, without me. Whatever will I do? I’m feeling faint…”

I grabbed her arm. “Paula, you know, when I need you, if I need you, I will call.”

She glanced at my hand. “That’s long-distance baby. You still stingy?”

“As much as ever.”

Smiling. “Okay. I’ll set my phone on vibrate and keep it in my special pocket. That Paris pocket.”

“That new one they gave you last year…”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’ll call soon, then.”

Now she held my chin. “As many times as possible, baby. Love those vibrations there.” She winked. “You’re going to need help…”

“I told you…”

“No, dumdum. Passport. Shots?”

“Oh. I’ve always had the passport. Robin made me keep one… Used it that one time for Japan…”

She patted me on the head. “I’ll make a couple of calls for you, Pinocchio. Have a good flight.”

“Thanks, doll. And don’t tell anyone else, okay? Especially not Mel.”

HEY GANG!! AN ACTUAL BOOK EXCERPT...MEANT AS A TEASER!!!!

Instead of reading "for those who might not want to read" excerpts, meant for those who ARE reading, try some of what anyone might actually WANT TO READ...MEANT AS TEASERS!!

FROM BUT TELL IT SLANT:

It’s the bunnies. That part you don’t know. Or, maybe you do. That’s what I’m talking about. On the walls, in the sky, on the mountains, hopping around everywhere. Maybe you’ve seen them, too. Maybe not.

“You never told me about rabbits. What’s that…”

“That’s the point, Mel. That’s why I’m writing this...”

“That’s what I’m asking you, dummy. What’s that about? What’s the point?”

“If you would stop interrupting, let me finish…”

“Finish? Finish this? Who’s cooking dinner?”

Christmas on a stick. She interrupts, I have to start over. I sit here, glassy-eyed, in front of the computer staring out the window at this brand-new view. No more Berkeley. I miss Berkeley. This new place gives me an angle on The City to which I’ve not adjusted. Not at all unpleasant, though. There’s a spot on Telegraph Hill that stays in the mist when the fog hits, and I think I see deer wandering out, like they did in Tennessee…

“Is that the best you can do? Why don’t you just tell the story, Frank? That’s what people want...”

“First, because there’s more to it than that, baby…”

“Goddamnit, I told you never call me baby… and don’t put that in your book…”

“Sorry, I won’t, and will you please stop reading over my shoulder. You know, baby is a term of affection between friends…”

“I’m only trying to help, you helpless man… With your writing and other things.”

“Christ on a cracker, Melissa, you’ve had a chance to tell it your way. And as far as other things are concerned, I’ll work it out. Give me a break, will you.”

“Whatever… And you’re slumping. Why are you slumping? That’s the worst thing for a person your age. Sit up when you type!”

“You’re kidding me, right? Go, take a look in the mirror. You aren’t so young anymore. If you’d just… When I used to write, it was always about… Now, I have to write about all this shit, and...and…and…”

“And what?”

“I’m not sure I understand it.” Oh, brother. Now she’s just staring at me. “Please, Meli, don’t just stand there like that. Say something, at least.”

Still staring. “That has to be one of the stupidest things I’ve heard. You know that, don’t you? How much stupidity have I heard, lately? How old are you? And you don’t understand it?”

“You aren’t hearing me.”

“Eh?”

“Very funny. I didn’t know monkeys could cup their ears that way.”

“Don’t go calling me names, buster…”

“I don’t mean to sound executive, but kindly don’t talk to me with your hands on your hips. You aren’t my mother. That’s my schtick, anyway, the Shirley Temple. Now, I’d like to finish this draft. Go play with the cat.”

“All this for vegetables…”

“Chickpeas, tomatoes and cracked wheat, smart ass.”

“Don’t forget the extra pepper, this time, asshole… The last time I had that stuff I could hear my stomach calling out for the cat. Here kitty! Here kitty!”

“That wasn’t your stomach, that was me calling for Peanut, and don’t ever call her kitty. But it was nice of you to sleep over that night, despite those horrible noises you made.”

“Oh, shut up and get cooking already…”

Cooking. Is that all? Nothing wrong with cooking. A man should cook. A man who doesn’t cook isn’t a real man. I learned that a long time ago. Even from John. But there are other things. And you have to make choices.

A city boy, I grew up with dogs, cats and squirrels. And birds. I wouldn’t kill any of them. I could not hold a bird in my hand, twist its neck, and sleep at night. Maybe Terpil, that consummate prick, saw that in me, after a while, from a distance. And gave up on the idea of me joining his gang.

But there are people, plenty of people, given the chance, who would do it, without hesitation. People like Terry. Most animals would not deserve killing unless they threatened your life. I guess that’s what makes me a vegetarian by nature, why I became happier after I did make that turn. Ultimately, wanting to be happy… That makes me a true blue American. Incapable of being a stone-cold killer.

But panting inside with a desperate desire to kill people also makes me a true blue American, which could have confused that motherfucker Terpil a bit about my motivations. The why and who I might want to kill makes me a true-blue Other which might also have added to his confusion. Put me in a room with Hitler, Stalin, Putin, Idi Amin and a plastic bag, a garrote, a gun, no problem. And no lost sleep.

There are hundreds of thousands like them in the world, all the time, walking around, waiting to cause trouble, causing trouble, hurting people, talking... Oh, the things they say. You’ve probably heard some of it.
I see them when I’m shopping, walking the aisles. I can see it when they move their lips, I see it in their eyes. When I drive next to them at a stop light and stare at them through the window. I know who they are. But... I know that my knowing it doesn’t change what anyone can do about it. My knowledge doesn’t make me special.

Or, maybe it does since most people are fooled by them. Or, my knowledge is my opinion alone. My observation is no more than my not-very-special gift and my gift is a set of unique skills, if you want to call it that, or it might be called a different kind of gift, like the gift of a “gifted child.”

Over and over I ponder the big question about why we don’t put them all down like the rabid, kill-crazed things they are, and I confront the obvious answer: democracy is what it is, and we need to be patient, observant, and vigilant, because no one individual should have that power.

Lucky me, I’m not in that special “assassins” bubble. I don’t get to make those decisions. None of us do, any longer. None of us in these United States is supposed to, at least. Society sits back and watches these maniacs scream, hurt and kill people and does little or nothing to stop them. Think globally and do nothing. Isn’t that the saying? We let them take control periodically and put ourselves through the trouble of fighting them off or beating them down or bearing up beneath the iron boot of their dictatorial rule for a period while they beat us down.

Brother, philosophy is a wonderful tool. A hearty Jack London novel is comforting. Baseball is better. Being an animal is probably the best. You sit there with your tongue out and people love you.

Especially if you’re a bunny, a puppy or a kitten. Otherwise people slaughter you for food, and it’s over. If you’re lucky. And that’s only in certain parts of Western Civilization. Otherwise, even puppies, kittens and bunnies get the whack.

Right. Close in to the beginning. That’s what Mel says.
The beginning. They say you can, theoretically, bend time and space the way you bend a piece of paper, fold it over and just walk through from one point in time to another, the way you walk through a door from one room to another. Would that be convenient?

Virtually, that’s what we’ll do here.

Ever since Robin and I married, I lived a saintly life. Virtually. Who is a saint? Nevertheless, people will say something that makes you sound corrupt. All you have to do is listen to yourself. Because there is the matter of the past. Not so much of a saint back then. You can’t undo the past, forget it the way you forget a dream, that’s one thing that cannot be undone.

But when you hit a point the past becomes almost dreamlike, only awake in your memory like shards of broken glass, and you wish you could forget it, let it disappear like ghosts, the way dreams do… But, instead of falling away, giving in to the gravity of time, those shards keep floating around you, like some infinite wind chime…

Alright. That is too schmaltzy. Even if it is true. Melissa is right about one thing. This should begin smart and snappy. Like a novel. But not like the old style. That’s what they say today. Don’t write like Dostoyevsky! People today read as if they’re watching TV!

Mel thought I should start with Tre coming into my office. The way she wrote about it in her article. Another deserved Pulitzer nomination for Melissa Berger. Chandler probably would have kicked it off that way, too. I’m a big fan of Raymond Chandler. Some would have made a bigger deal out of the mountain valley train explosion. Hold on, that’s coming. Big bangs at the start of things do seem natural. Well, I’m no genius writer. I need to hopscotch around a bit. I know that’s been done, too. Hey, if I were some Julio Cortazar, some Tommy Pynchon, if I could come up with something new, the Universe would be an entirely different place.

Wouldn’t it? Maybe Robin and Bailey would still be here.

That would be just dandy.

Being an excerpt from my new book that certain readers might want to skip Part Sixteen

NOTE: While everyone is, of course, free to read, these particular excerpts are, essentially, footnotes provided for readers of my books and are there to make sense of what they are reading AS THEY READ. So, they may not make as much sense to those who are not reading at the time...

It’s a tough job when you’re a preacher. Always has been. Always will be. The gospel of facing up to the facts is a necessary one, however. Because you’re not just trying to save their souls, you’re not just trying to save them, you’re not even merely trying to save yourself. I suppose you’re trying to save the whole damn world. If people don’t face up to facts, they do stupid and stupid is no good for anybody. Take it from a master. I’ve done stupid for a long time. I still do, but not quite as often. Not nearly. And it’s only because I face the facts, a heck of a lot more often than I used to. Because I learned the prime lesson: The pain of failure is more important than the triumph of success.
All along that line, at work and out, in school and out, the best teachers taught me: if you’re going to find the facts and face up to them, ask better questions. That is the most important part of this process. The wrong questions lead you nowhere. Like…psychiatrist’s questions.
But you have to start somewhere if you haven’t a clue what questions to ask.
I was reminded the other day of what the philosopher Karl Popper had to say, discussing certain elements in his home country, Germany, coincidentally, that if you are tolerant of the intolerant, they will crush you. In Germany, people take facts seriously. Or they used to, or they do once in a while. That's why they are ahead of us in so much... We are a nation of airheads and assholes by comparison. And to think... They drink so much more beer than we do... The war crap? Well, blame that on the Prussians. We have our Southerners, too. Don’t we, now? Bless their hearts.
People do not take the time to contemplate the moral dimension of this work I do, and others do, having not to do it themselves, but it is there none the less. Even going out into the street to find a cat, sometimes you have to risk hurting some person. And when you take that risk of hurting a person, you risk crossing that line civilization has drawn between what is acceptable and what isn’t. I’ve been fortunate when it comes to that particular line in the past. I have not had to risk crossing it too often. Until Terry decided to come back from the dead.
Of course, no one can take the law into their own hands all the time. That would be anarchy. If people simply ran around doing whatever they wanted, acting out in a violent manner, we would have one continuous riot. One continuous, bloody mess. You have to have law. You have to have order. You have to teach civility. You have to make certain people understand that, not only are there penalties for crossing certain lines, but that it simply shouldn’t be done. That crossing such a line creates, in the end, a true sense of Otherness beyond any other sense of otherness, casting you out of society, so that people no longer need to empathize with you or ever have anything to do with you again.
Unless you have justification. Justice, doing what you do in a good cause makes a difference. But, there is still a line you cannot cross.
When I come up to that line, touch it, stand on it, I feel a sickness inside. And when I cross it, a revulsion, no matter what justifies me. I feel like that nine-year-old again, standing in those woods, smelling that cordite, holding that M-1, watching that chipmunk, part of its skull blown off, writhing and shivering in pain because of what I had done. For absolutely no reason.
And that feeling was crawling up inside me again.
The radical right, which controls most of American politics, business and media today—indeed, therefore, most of America—through its version of “libertarian” philosophy, has a problem with actual history. In addition to its version of virtually...well, you name it. This can be identified in comparison to our own recent past, as recalled by genuine historians, less than a century ago, for those who are willing to use less than their own limited and inconvenient memories.
The 1920s and 1930s, in our nation and abroad, witnessed a series of horrors that seemed to many acts of God or nature but turned out to be primarily caused by human activity, and what can be labeled human error. People doing what they wanted without any thought of the consequences usually for the sake of turning a profit, big or small. Throughout the American West, Midwest and South, for example, farmers essentially were goaded by bankers and industrialists into raping their own land until that land was uninhabitable by only dying insects and then the land itself turned into useless dust. Then came the floods. After which the banks and industries failed.
So much for libertarian greed and self-interest, upon which our economy now relies once again.
Now, most of us have our sordid moments in the past, believe it or not, need I remind you—or have I just done that?—and many of us have a lot of them. These horrors were undone, finally, and for the most part by the manna from heaven called The New Deal, thank you FDR (and others, primarily Eleanor, bless her heart). Which, from one standpoint, now appears to have had its own sordid moments and, as far as the libertarians are concerned, is happily going the way of the dust storms...
And yet nothing is all sweetness and light, as the saying goes. Old habits die as you age, and not all of them deserve to go. New habits form and some of them are incredibly nightmarish, at least one assumes so from the perspective of the young, I, having been young once and retaining some recollection. And there is worse.
An aside for perspective. Take for example the common red-breasted robin and the more-or-less common brown thrasher. They share a genus unto themselves but, being different species, they are immediately distinguishable from each other. The robin, charcoal with its noticeable flame-orange breast. The thrasher mud-colored with speckled white breast. Yet each has a similar behavioral pattern if you take the time to observe. They will walk rapidly along the ground a few paces, stop, forage though the undergrowth or detritus for insects or seed.
This distinct and shared behavior, somewhat unique, links them genetically back to some prehistoric period when they were not so physically distinct from each other. Because, despite their obvious distinction, they are essentially the same bird by origin.
Now, for some time, racists, as well as others who claim not to be racists, insisted that certain similarities and dissimilarities in human behavior bore proof of the distinctions between, say, the “white” and “colored” peoples. Doing so strictly, and originally, on the basis of that “color,” but extending this “distinction,” without justification, to “characteristics” that honestly did not exist. That, given one could actually say any group of people behaved in any particular ways, “colored” people behaved in such a generally different way to arguably prove they were racially distinct, different and, thus inferior to “whites.” All one has to do is observe their “characteristics,” in the same manner one would observe a brown thrasher’s difference from a robin. Despite similarities in behavior. Then extend such comparisons to any human outwardly not like...you.
Then, once “you” have all the wealth, land and power... Well, you get the picture.
It’s a fantasy to believe the privileged see justice in this world. Sometimes, but only sometimes, their minions do. I guess I’m somebody’s minion. No, wait, I’m no one’s minion. I’m only an onion. Peel back the layers and… Nah, I’m no onion. I stink more, like a piece of garlic. More stink but healthier. On the other hand, I guess you have to know your herbs. I had an Uncle Herb. Navy guy. Go Navy. See the world. Now, there’s a recruitment call for the minions from the privileged.
So, is there some possible wiggle-room for any “justice” in that space? Some leeway for stepping onto or perhaps even ever so slightly crossing over that line?
Once in a while?
If so, then, can anyone, like me, for example, and here, for example, get away with saying anything about it?
I’ve argued this point before and I’m arguing it again. Showing is not telling. Showing has never done the job.
However, telling hasn’t done the job either. We’ve been preached to even longer than people have taken the time to learn how to exquisitely show us.
So. What’s the problem, folks? Are we just too dense to get the message? Too lazy? Too “not give a fuck” about anything? Too drunk all the time? Too busy getting laid? What? Tell me what? Because if you pay attention for just one tiny second, and look around, you will notice that the world really is coming to an end. Because we haven’t been paying attention to either the “showing” or the “telling.”
One life form after another is going bye-bye. And we are in the chain. And we deserve to be. Maybe, probably, we would have been anyway, no matter what. But we have done so much to make it happen so much faster than it ever should have. And we will be going bye-bye in such a miserable, horrible, painful fashion. Suffering immeasurably.
Sad.
Somebody said that. Maybe he’s smart after all.
So. Robinson Jeffers was right to say we should have gone bye-bye a long time ago and left all the other life forms alone to thrive. To kill each other in happiness and beauty as they used to. Without us to muck it up. Amen to that.
Justice. There it is, finally.

Being an excerpt from my new book that certain readers might want to skip Part Fifteen

NOTE: While everyone is, of course, free to read, these particular excerpts are, essentially, footnotes provided for readers of my books and are there to make sense of what they are reading AS THEY READ. So, they may not make as much sense to those who are not reading at the time...

Unpredictable chaos might ensue when a dance is choreographed to highlight the idiosyncratic talents or charms of a particular dancer regardless of what those may be or how incredible they may be and thus forgetting the nature of the music and how the dance is intended to be organic, a natural element interwoven with the set and the sound and the costume, not to mention the other dancers.
Take, for example, The Nutcracker, a standard which regularly pleases many audiences in so many places annually, with its dramatic highlights so often misplaced by simpering, romantic dancers’ steps because they are stepped upon by audaciously untalented amateurs.
At a poetry reading at my grad school one of my compatriots stood up in the middle and decided to do the unexpected. Not reading. He began to turn it into a dance recital, tossing himself around upon this old wooden auditorium stage, and when I say old I do mean old. The floorboards were creaking audibly under his loud thumps as he tossed himself through the air. To the best of my memory of such performances it appeared to be a rendition of the beginning of Nijinsky’s Spirit of the Rose. I say this implying that my friend might have been talented enough to give that impression, or that my knowledge of the dance might have been, simultaneously, worldly enough and horrendously bad enough to carry such a conclusion. Anyway, it would have been, if such were the case, the part where the spirit enters the room before the maiden awakens and just sort of prances around, and that’s what my friend was doing, or more attempting to do, prancing and flying around, but certainly not with any amount of Nijinsky’s grace, or even any basic talented amateur’s, nor with any shame. And he certainly wasn’t making any money. As far as creativity was concerned, allow me to express in Meli’s inimitable style: Bleh. Afterwards, the young lady sitting next to me—who I was that day attempting to make a play for, by the by—turned to me with a cautious smile and asked what I thought.
“What do I think? I think he has no talent. I think he showed no sense of flexibility or grace. I think he threw himself around there like a piece of Silly Putty. And all without the benefit of any music, only the accompaniment of his grunts and groans.”
She shivered for a second. “Well, that’s being harsh.”
“Harsh? If I were being harsh, I would have run up there and thrown him off the stage. Which is what he deserved. This is a poetry reading, Dori. I don’t see Martha Graham anywhere, do you? We call ourselves The Lazy Poets Society.” I stood up and pointed to the stage where my friend was toweling himself off and people had been shaking his hand, but now were turning to look at me, probably because I was raising my voice. “Did that look lazy to you?”
I never went to another reading. And no, we didn’t, by the way. Thank you very much, Dori. And thank you, too, Burke. I thought you loved Wordsworth. Son of a bitch.
Hey, guess what? Terpil told me he paid the Dean of Admissions there two lousy grand to get me in...
So, what’s different about me now? What’s different in who I was when I was in my teens or thirties now that I am in my sixties? In essence I am probably just a little bit more confused in general. A little bit less confused about how little confused some people are about anything important in their lives and how completely stupid those people must be to go through life thinking they now understand the world. How radically fucked-up those people are to believe they understand what they do from one moment to the next.
Still, whenever I imagine or see The Nutcracker, or any other formal dance, all I can think about is “The Rose Adagio,” an integral aspect of an entirely different work, The Sleeping Beauty, no weak sister where this matter of dancing is concerned. It is not only a dancer’s challenge but a choreographer’s nightmare because that master must find a dancer who is up to that challenge. No children’s cakewalk, no amateur’s introduction to the ballet. A singularity of the purest expertise.
When I was much younger I was no great fan of ballet, neither ballet nor any other form of dance — except where I was doing the dancing, usually some messy kind of soft-tap or sloppy whatever type of current pop favorite, and the dance was merely a means to an end of my own choosing, a way of drawing people to me — but I kept this to myself for the sake of my relationship to my great love, my cousin Jean. Jean went on to become the professional, relocating to Paris for a life of dancing. Jean held my hand, sometimes metaphorically, and introduced me to the method of the dance as art. She danced with me, literally, as often as possible. I played along...you know how it works. You play along cynically as a joke. You can be cynical even when you are five years old. But the method works on you. Cynicism is only a paper fortress, and that fortress can only stand against the siege of art and love for so long, the siege of art, truth, love and other battlerams that shatter its flimsy walls over time.
She had me watch “The Rose Adagio” in rehearsals, in recitals, when it appeared on television. She dragged me to The Met countless times. We finally saw it on film together one afternoon with Margot Fonteyn dancing. Then, between glances at Fonteyn and the look on Jean’s face watching Fonteyn, I saw it, that magic moment. Not only mastery of the form, the balance of all the elements embodied in perhaps the greatest ballerina of the modern age, but the stillness of her poses, the stillness of the room, the air in the room, the particles of dust floating in the manner Fonteyn floated through the narrow beams of light in the room, Jean and myself in that room together, sitting next to each other on my grandmother’s old floral divan, my hand in hers, in that moment in time.
I wasn’t completely aware that I had seen and found this great magic. So I didn’t know that I had begun to look for it in other places. Thought later, when I began to find this magic moment of form meeting substance in other places, other works of art, then in life itself, and in people, in moments of time, after a while, I was able to connect to that first moment again, that current of transcendence, over and over. You can find it anywhere, moments of complete stillness and balance. Sometimes you can even bring them about, force them into being, if you will, work them through processes of your own mind, like working clay. Learn through various methods, artistic and metaphysical.
They say it requires discipline and in the arts this is true, no doubt. Yet...
Sometimes the universe simply drops them into your lap. Love.
No matter how you look at them or how they arrive, it is fleeting because time is a bastard. You may want to grasp them, hold them forever but they will be gone soon, as will you, as will “The Rose Adagio” despite its beauty. So cherish them, love them with your memory, and do with them what you can. Keep them in your memory for their next visit so the recognizable elements remain.
And then, then, you can see with clearer eyes the clumsiness of amateurs, their missteps and failings for what they are, in The Nutcracker, even in “The Rose Adagio,” and in anything else. Violations of style in attempts to find creativity. In other work as well. As shocking violations against the forms at times, yes, but also as acts of love. Someone else’s love, perhaps, only not yours. And in yours. In every moment of balance. In every moment of love.
No shocks mean no wasted moments? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
And yet, you know, balance... In ballet it is a must. Don’t want those dancers falling on their tutus. But in the Universe?

Being an excerpt from my new book that certain readers might want to skip Part Fourteen

NOTE: While everyone is, of course, free to read, these particular excerpts are, essentially, footnotes provided for readers of my books and are there to make sense of what they are reading AS THEY READ. So, they may not make as much sense to those who are not reading at the time...

Scientists tell us that, at the moment of death, certain parts of our bodies called macrophages begin the sequence of rebirth, as if potentially mirroring the processes of The Universe itself. That Black Hole thing. Typical of everything we see around us, so much of which mirrors something else. Doppelgängers, echoes, reflections of something somewhere. A twin that walks into your life from across an ocean, perhaps. A dog that reminds us of an uncle. A young woman walking into your office who reminds you of a long-lost love. A cloud that looks like a galaxy. Not necessarily an illusion, even if people tell us so. Not necessarily some dark Freudian subconscious figment. Perhaps more a Jungian artifact passing through time, suddenly appearing in our cave. Knocking on our door. Or forgetting to knock.
You know what I’m talking about, the Black Hole thing? Where the whole Universe someday collapses into a Black Hole and comes out the other side? A brand-new Universe, fresh, all new? You haven’t heard of that one? Maybe you’ve heard the Hindu version where it works with a lotus blossom. Okay… That’s alright, you won’t be around for it, anyway.
But those macrophages hammering away inside your dead body, cellular rebirths, they still don’t stop the undoing of human life. Your little cells are trying to rebirth you, but you’re done for. You’re already dead and they don’t know it. Poor little things.
Undoing. In time, all things will be undone. Mechanics. Tectonic plates. Black holes. Even little droplets of water on rock. Some things undone sooner with our assistance. Some things better off undone. Others cannot be undone soon enough and are better off forgotten. Five-letter word starts with a “T”... Then, some cannot be forgotten, either, at least not in your lifetime. What, then?
My cat, Peanut, was born, like all cats, instinctively knowing, through fear, it cannot lose an eye or a leg, not even its tail. These losses for a cat cannot be undone, nor, once done, could they ever be forgotten. No rehab for cats.
When I found her, filthy, crouching alone, shivering underneath the lower S-curve of a dirty old toilet in a rundown filthy, ammonia-stinking Tenderloin apartment on Geary, in rooms being shared by fourteen or fifteen Malaysian immigrants and upwards of forty felines of various age and breed, so small I could hold her sandy, tabby body in the palm of my hand, she was close to an undoing. They all were, all the cats and all the friendly, smiling refugees from that strife-torn, heat-strafed undoing of islands somewhere to the ocean-blossoming West.
I had been sent there to undo the future undoing of some other one of their soon-to-be-undoings. There to find another creature they had stolen. Unfortunately, already undone and ready to eat, lying awkwardly, eyes shut, throat cut, in an old refrigerator. I left it, and them, for their futures, something I could not undo. But I did leave the door open for a while as the Malaysians screamed and the living cats scramboobled. My unforeseen reward in my pea coat pocket, sleeping.
Even then, Peanut had these big bunny feet, sticking out. And my solemn duty awaited. A child of friends of friends, this time. She would be undone, for a while. People love their pets. Not only kids, either.
I had this other cat once, Toby. I loved that little tyke. A calico and a gift from a former student. Lived with me down South. The cat, not the student. She would introduce me to a life... Well, later.
Where we lived down South, I once saw two rabbits together, not anyone’s pets, thankfully, and I assumed they were a mating pair, standing close enough to them to sex them, but as I watched they appeared to be apart, disabused of one another, as people should be, alone, just two wild animals, even though no more than five feet separated them. Enjoying the abundance of the summer, they were. Down South, where Toby and I were, and with Robin, then.
People in the area hunted them when they could. As did the local dogs, foxes, owls and hawks. Some jerks joke about their mating. The North American cottontail breeds five times a year. Because it has to. To stay alive. No whining about it. Not for them or us, usually. Not unless we see a raptor carry them off and hear that awful sound, that begging for mercy, for release or a quick death, perhaps after a short scuffle.
Both rabbits were mottled brown with yellowish spots. The female, skittish, hopped away when I wandered too close. The male stared at me forever with a big, blue, pale moon reflected in his eye. That Tennessee moon. Summer. Temperature and humidity both around 95. As usual. I heard music. Incongruous. Faure’s “Pavane.” The soft sadness of the piano mixed with the sound of children’s voices floating on the lake. I could count the days Robin and I shared there. Time gives us that reward. But I don’t much any longer. Why should I? Farewell and good-day to the tyrants of our hearts…
I saw this other rabbit recently, also no one’s pet, native to the Siskiyou forests, turned white for the season, hunting for food in the snow. High on Deer Mountain. Alone. Like me. Well, more or less like me, I guess. Who knows? I watched from a distance, through borrowed binoculars. I never thanked that guy Parker enough, now that I think of it. He saved my life. Maybe. What was she doing way up there? You might well ask! In a drifting storm that had blown small, sharp flakes for two days, the scarce food had been harder to find. That’s what. Had to climb all the way up there looking for something to eat.
I watched her when she saw the bare outcropping through the shifting, blowing snow in delicate shades of gray and the shot of green. That’s fairly much all they can see, you know, grays and greens. A sharp gust that swept across the ground and whipped keen grains scattered her fur into fluff, making it sparkle, so much it might have been dangerous, but the few remaining spotted owl, red-tailed hawk, kestrel, prairie falcon or white-tailed kite, many orphaned by recent fires, had scattered to homeless branches, shivering up hidden calories, waiting for that harsh slate of winter air to dissipate. She crowded weight forward and short-hopped towards the knot of rock and trees, sniffing again to measure the distance and reassure herself of the image. All around the shades of gray in that vague spot of green continued to dance and this, too, made her anxious, hesitant, curious, I’m certain. But aside from the rushing wind, the adjacent sounds of the conifers and the rare hollies, the singing dead leaves of the occasional beech trees, the humming of the sage stubble, it was morbidly quiet where I waited. This time, not waiting for lost pets or people who steal them, though.
She found the small oasis calm and warmer, I would assume, bedded with detritus from storms and loggers, as it was where I stood, and began to dig and poke but had no luck discovering something to eat. She worked her way quickly to the edge where the clump opened on the other side and fell out onto a rocky crag to the steep bank far below in the valley between us. Now she could hear the sounds that made her stop, as I did, and she turned her head to glance down the slope at the slowly moving line of dark grays, as I did, towards what might have been to her a flock of large birds had it been in the sky, but it wasn’t, far away, in the valley below. The sound didn’t match birds, that line not true like birds. She watched and listened to the subdued din, though, to be sure, cautious, anxious. From this distance, it could have been mistaken by her through the mist, if up close, for a line of her own pellets, had they dropped in a line, had there been that many, or for any strange, protracted line of stones. But pellets and stones didn’t fall in such a regular pattern and they didn’t move, not even slowly.
The line stopped abruptly, it broke, and the sound changed. A sharper clang. It had been like a soft flock of birds. Suddenly it became like a screeching hawk, but vibrating the ground from so far away, so sudden a flash arose it made her jump. Everything around her jumped. I was pulsed back, too. Happens when things explode. There came a large cloud, white, sharply red and black, and the heat, the rumbling, it made her run. That, I did not see. I was falling. But it’s a good guess. From what I felt.
That’s it. That’s what this is about. Half the time Disney when I’m joking with people. Half the time Cthulhu when... Oh, and always a taste of Bugs singing, “Here’s the Easter Rabbit, Hooray!” to set the mood when The Universe just likes to play around.
More or less like people…
A great detective, William Gass, once referred to an old man’s memory as the walls of a box collapsing, or a window that had long let in the sun having the blinds closed. I would add closed in a snap, pulled down the way a dependable pitcher throws a perfect twelve-to-six curve. If I were a poet, which I’m not.
I tried once. Surprising how hard it is to convince people you’re a poet. Not shaving isn’t quite good enough.
Anyway. You want questions answered with a tinge of integrity, so memory is your last, best tool. A pitiful implement for poor getting-old me, whose memories hang in the air on thin filaments with imprinted words floating through them that I grasp at and steal from the past. The words seem not to be mine. Too pretty and honest at times, perhaps they aren’t. They turn into a Disney cartoon… Why? Because animals, non-human animals, cannot lie. Lying, attempting in any way to prevaricate, is above their level of consciousness. Above it. After dishonesty, only avarice causes more suffering. And only people cause these types of suffering. Perhaps that’s why I prefer animals. Or, there could be other reasons.
That’s saying I’m honest about where it begins. Sure as hell did not begin on Little Deer Mountain. Nor the Tenderloin. And not in Tennessee, recently or before. And believe it or not, regardless of what Melissa has to say, it did not start in my office that day and had very little to do with the fucking Dodgers. I’d say “excuse me” again but, what the fuck, by now you’d better get used to it. I’ll try to keep it as clean as possible. I promise. On my daughter’s grave, I promise.
At some point I might be able to identify where this had a crucible. You have to have certainty. It has a pulse, I can feel it, somehow. There’s a shape to it, like a cloud, or this shadow, the one that follows you around, but isn’t quite you. I hope it comes to pass in this life, knowledge of the beginning, since I don’t believe in any other life. Maybe things begin where they end, in black holes. That would make it easy. All I need is some help, and I’ve seen that on the walls. Not that “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin” crap. I understood the easy stuff a long time ago. The harder part I discovered recently. That’s what I’m leading to. On a wall in DC. After what went down there. Just a matter of time and will, and a bit of brain power. That and help.