What's brown and sticky?

"I am feeling better today. I am feeling like maybe how Mozart must have been feeling, and then he died. But I am ALIVE! It is like the first day of my new life. That's something that I say a lot. It seems like I am always starting a new life. I feel like maybe Mozart and I would have gotten along. You see, I like the movie Amadeus. And apparently, Mozart 'had a startling fondness for scatological humor.'"

"Curt," Monica's voice says over the phone. "That's great to hear! Curt. I have an idea."

"I like ideas."

"You say that your dad is getting tired of you and whenever we talk and your dad is brought up in conversation, you sound like you're getting tired of your dad."

"Uh-huh."

"So why don't you move into the apartment that I'm moving out of? It's not that expensive and the landlord is nice. Or," Monica pauses.

"Yeah?"

"We can be roommates."

TMI

I got myself some sort of stomach virus. It has not left me in good condition. Once again, Dad is sick of me. I am sick of myself. It is something when even the thought of butter makes you sick to your stomach. I am waiting for the haze to be lifted.

I have exhausted my toilet reading. I have prayed to the patron saint of toilets. Also, the patron saint of lost causes. Surely, this is not a lost cause yet, but why take a chance? 

This blog feels empty. I am sorry. I wish I had the strength to do better.

An Episode in the Life of a Lost Game

We're going to play a game.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

In the kitchen, our principal player: Curt.

***

In Curt's mind, a thought about breakfast. A thought about lunch.

***

In the kitchen, Curt's father: Dad.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

In the kitchen, our principal player, Curt, can be seen from the window. He is outside, in the yard. In his mind, a thought about inside. A thought about another house. A house he saw with "Monica."

***

In a kitchen: "Monica."

***

In the kitchen window, Dad, stares out at his son, Curt.

***

"Monica" is not in a kitchen. She is on a walk with her dogs. This game is full of lies. It is a game about lying and laying in wait.

***

Like a wolf.

***

Your turn.

***

You are in front of a computer. A laptop. Your eyes run across the sentence. The radio is off.

***

The radio is on. Dad turns it off.

***

Curt is not outside.

***

"Monica" is in a car.

***

She is naked in Curt's mind.

***

Dad. Every father has seen his child naked. Did you forget?

***

Every father has come into the world naked.

***

You don't know about this game. Something about it makes you uncomfortable.

***

You can stop. That would make you a loser.

***

My turn.

***

On the radio: "You better watch your step."

***

Dad is eating a cereal that is good for his heart.

***

Curt is in his bedroom. He is still asleep.

***

Did you really think he was outside thinking about inside, a house, breakfast, lunch? He was not. He has been sleeping this whole time.

***

"Monica" is in a car. She is traveling somewhere. Above, the car is a blue dot. Above, the car is turning onto a road, and another. Below, the car makes a sound like keys tossed in an empty bowl. Inside, "Monica's" radio is turned on. "You better watch your step."

***

It's a different song. It is a radio show now in the kitchen. Dad listens.

***

First, he must turn on the radio.

***

Dad turns on the radio. Dad listens.

***

Curt is waking up.

***

You are thinking about something.

***

Mostly lies.

***

Your face is moving because it is trying to be still.

***

"Monica's" car disappears. I lost sight of it from above. From below, it is the same noise.

***

Your turn.

***

If you stop now, you lose.

***

Keep going.

***

What happens in a game?

***

Someone cheats. It's my turn.

***

Already?

***

Yes.

***

It is all about Curt.

***

The radio show Dad listens to is about myths.

***

Basements can be built in Oklahoma. But no one in Oklahoma believes this.

***

Then the tornadoes come.

***

"Monica" listens to the radio show.

***

Woof. Woof.

***

Her dogs are in the backseat.

***

Curt says, "Woof. Woof."

***

The radio says: "Woof. Woof."

***

Which author do dogs like best?

***

Is this game boring you?

***

Virginia Woof.

***

You lose a turn.

***

Curt is still waking up.

***

"Monica" is thinking about a "house."

***

The dogs are wagging their tales.

***

Dad turns off the radio.

***

Oklahoma doesn't have homes with basements.

***

Curt gets out of bed.

***

You forget what this game is all about.

***

That's right. I never told you.

***

Just like that. Game over.

***

The wolf pounces.

***

The lies proliferate.

***

The game, even after it has ended, continues on and on.

***

Our principal player, Curt, doesn't even realize.

***

He yawns.

Milk-cake Whole-truth

You understand that their real names are not Burning Sand, not Loving Hand, not Monica.

You understand that privacy is a valuable thing. That when I tell you that we saw some more houses today, that we talked about it afterwards in Monica's apartment, and that we sat there drinking Prince of Peace Ginger-Honey Beverage , you understand that when I say that I wished that we were not sitting on her love seat but were rather sitting on the World's longest sofa, you understand that I might not be telling the whole truth. Do you understand?

You understand that the time that I told Tony that I had saved him a piece of milk-cake, that when he finally showed up 4 hours later and came in as I was eating the last piece of milk-cake, you understand that it wasn't my fault. You can't count on people. I had learned that lesson. Of course you understand. Sharing that lesson was more important than any piece of cake. 

Tony liked. Tony did not like.

Take us back, Curt, to a time you can hardly remember, but remember enough to tell. Close your eyes when you tell us, because that way we'll think it has much more meaning than it might, like you are trying to hold something back, and that as soon as you open your eyes, it would all come out, whatever it was you were trying to hold back.

Tony liked sweet potatoes. I know this because he told me so.
Tony liked green, but not red, grapes. I know this because he only ate green grapes.
Tony liked swimming pools more than I did. I know this because he went more times than I did.
Tony like horror movies. I know this because it was something he liked to talk about. Horror movies.
Tony had a mean father. I know this because most of the kids in our school had mean fathers.
Tony had a fear of throwing up. I know this because he said he had a fear of throwing up.
Tony liked summer more than spring and more than fall and more than winter. I know this because he looked happiest in summer.
Tony had a pet lizard. I know this because I came up with his pet lizard's name: Sebastian.
Tony's pet lizard died. I know this because we buried it on a hill and had a brief service for it. This was pretty ridiculous and we knew it was but we did it anyways and didn't care what people had to say.
Tony had brown hair. I know this because his hair was brown.
Tony had size 10 1/2 feet. I know this because his feet were smaller than mine.
Tony had more patience than I will ever have. I know this because when he got impatient, I had been impatient much earlier than he had.
Tony did not like sweet potatoes. I know this because he always chose normal potatoes over sweet potatoes.
Tony liked red, but not green, grapes. I know this because his mother only bought green grapes and he ate them reluctantly.
Tony did not like swimming pools more than I did. I know this because when we went together, he never went into the water, but sat on the edge with his feet in the water, looking disappointed.
Tony didn't like horror movies. I know this because whenever there was nothing left to say, he mentioned a horror movie that he hated.
Tony had a kind father. I know this because Tony's father had left him and his mother and sister when he was three and had never had a chance to be mean.
Tony did not have a fear of throwing up. I know this because he told me that he did, but always threw up anyways whenever he'd had too much sugar or too much beer.
Tony liked summer less than spring, but more than fall and winter. I know this because in spring, he had something to look forward to, but in fall and winter, he curled up inside his head and hid there.
Tony did not have a pet lizard. I know this because I pointed to a picture of a lizard and said, "Let's pretend we own him and lets call him Sebastian."
Tony's pet lizard did not die. I know this because we went to the park and sat on a hill and talked about death and funerals, and we forgot about the picture of Sebastian. So in a way, Sebastian died. But it was unreal.
Tony did not have brown hair. I know this because my hair is brown and Tony's hair looked different than my hair.
Tony had size 11 feet. I know this because his feet looked smaller than mine, but we could wear the same shoes.
Tony did not have more patience than me. I know this because he left this place much earlier than me.


Curt, Curt. Thank you.

Why Would you Stop?

Guy and I used to watch it, and talk about it. The part where he says "shove it up your nose". Guy used to get excited and he'd talk about what a feeling it must have been,  to be singing with that amazing band behind him, to be stoned out of his mind, and just to be Elvis. What a glorious mess. He can't stop. Would you have been able to stop?

Monica is looking at buying a house. She asked me if I wanted to come along with her to look at a few. Sure, I told her, why not, I am not a bad person. What a grown up thing to do! She says she likes my perspective, though I am not sure what that means. She has another date with the blind man on Wednesday. She says she cannot tell if she likes him or if she just pities him, and she has to figure it out. There was a blind man in prison I knew who was locked up for stealing a lot of money from a church. I am not sure if he was a bad person or not. Monica is not made of money, and the first house we see is very small. Too small for Loving Hand and Burning Hand I say, but she says, "I could make it work!" The second house is a wreck, there is an open house and everything is a mess and the owners are clearly hoarders who have let life get away from them.They are sitting in a van outside smoking cigarettes, and their 5 dogs (!) are sitting on the back porch pawing and scratching to be let in, or maybe just wanting to be told that everything is going to be ok. I wish I could tell them that. If I could be that guy. The carpets, the kitchen, everything, is a disaster. Monica says she sees through the mess and feels the potential of the place. All I see is sadness. I could not live here, but it is not my house hunt.

I have been feeling at times a big emptiness lately. I wonder what it was like to be Elvis, to have such success and such big thrills and to still have such huge appetites that were so impossible to sate. I think if I had what he had I might not have made it as far as he did. I am poor and lazy. What if I wasn't? Could I say no to so many temptations? I once read a biography of Elvis by Bobbie Anne Mason. She writes short stories that remind me of my mom. Elvis really loved his mom. I forgot that I read that book, and then I kept wondering how I knew so much of Elvis' life. Then I remembered.

Curt, you are so complicated! Monica says. I do not feel complicated. I just feel hopeless. Where is my great moment, my pinnacle? If you found yourself on a Las Vegas stage in front of an amazing band singing a great song, and you were Elvis again, wouldn't you want to stay there as long as you could? As long as you could sustain it? Forever if you could? Is there something better? Will I ever taste anything remotely like that?

Monica says that the blind man lost his sight when he was working in downtown Philadelphia building a skyscraper. He had a wife and kids and his life was good, and work was hard and tedious but he was excited to think that someday whenever he drove by that building with his family he could point to it and say "I helped build that," to his sons and his daughter and that they would know that there dad didn't just leave the house in the morning to do nothing, that he was a man who built things. Then there was an accident, and then his marriage was over, and then there was nothing left except that he was a blind man. All of his old adjectives turned into a single one. But he had turned to Jesus, and he was starting to understand things, Monica said. A man who could overcome something like that, Monica said. Monica was apparently drawn to broken people.

"Which house do you like better?" I ask Monica.

"I like them both," she says, "but I'm not sure how much. I'm not sure if I like them for me."

I try to picture Monica living in the houses with her dogs, and I can picture it, but it doesn't make things any clearer. Buying a house is a big commitment. You don't know how long the roof is going to hold out, whether something will happen and you won't be able to make your mortgage payment, whether a rendering plant will be built next door that will destroy the value of your property. Houses have secrets, I say. Monica says that good things can happen too, that maybe you buy a house one day and then find out that Elvis was born there and you won't have to work another day in your life! Sometimes there are good secrets, she says.

I remind Monica that there's only one Elvis, and she seems to have had enough of talking to me for the day.

Bad People

The day before today was Valentine's Day! Monica asked me for a favor. She was going on a blind date and needed someone to watch her dogs. Would I watch Loving Hand? Would I watch Burning Sand? Yes, I said. I would watch Monica's dogs. She said she was literally going on a blind date. Her date was blind. Wild, I thought, but it was, I hope it goes well, that I said.

Loving Hand and Burning Sand are medium-sized dogs. Dad is not a dog person. He is not a cat person. Sometimes, he is not even a person person. But I'd already agreed. There was Monica, leaving. She looked pretty. She was wearing something that looked like a dress, but really it was flowing pants. The dogs were in my care and into the house we went. Dad wasn't happy. But he wasn't necessarily mad either. But I think he'd had enough of my shenanigans. Then the weather turned icy.

My sister called to wish me and Dad a Happy Valentine's Day. Dad put her on speaker phone and Loving Hand and Burning Sand listened to her say stuff. It wasn't a very happy conversation because she was talking about high blood pressure and our family tree. "We were related to some bad people," she said. "How did we get unrelated?" I asked. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, you used the past tense, like we're not related to some bad people any more." "Curt," she said. "What kinds of bad people?" Dad asked. "They went to prison," my sister said. No one talked for a while and then my sister said, "Oh, God, I don't mean to say that Curt's a bad person." "Whatever," I said. Dad looked at Burning Sand and Loving Hand and said, "Who names their dogs those names?" "What dogs?" my sister said. "Nothing," I said. Dad started coughing. "I want a chocolate heart," my sister said. My sister is a nice person overall. Dad took her off speaker phone. He was talking to my sister when Burning Sand pooped on the floor. It was easy to clean up, but I was kind of in shock. She did it in front of me and I wondered if there was something wrong with her. Of course there was if she was going to Doggie Daycare. Meanwhile, Monica must have been staring into the eyes of her literally blind date and wondering what happened to her date's eyes. When you are born blind, what is there to miss with vision?

This is where the story changes, dear reader. It is the same, but also, it is not. We will call him C.

C. picks up the dog poop. C.'s father puts down the phone. C.'s father sees the dog poop. C.'s father says, What is that, dog s**t? H**l no it ain't! Get those dogs out of here. C. has the dog poop in a tissue in his hand. The tissue in his hand is filled with dog poop and then C.'s dad walks over and looks at the tissue in C.'s hand. Out, C.'s father says.

It is icy outside. The dog's don't know what to do. They sniff a tree. They want to go inside the house. Don't poop anymore, C. says. When they come inside, C.'s father has calmed down. Dad, C. says. Am I a bad person? C.'s father looks at C. No, C., you aren't. Sometimes you don't think. That's all. You are an unthinking person. That sounds pretty bad, C. says. The dogs lick C.'s hand. C. never washed his hands after he picked up the poop. He washes his hands. The phone rings. It is Monica. She can't drive because of the weather. Her and her literally blind date are inside a warm building. How is the date going? C. asks. What? Monica asks. Oh, she says. Well, it's good so far. How are Loving Hand and Burning Sand? Just great, C. says. They didn't poop inside, did they? No, C. says. Good, Monica says. Sometimes they do that when they're nervous. That must mean they feel comfortable with you, Monica says. I guess, C. says. Well, I gotta go. My date's waiting. Thanks C. You're welcome C. says.

At night, C. lets the dogs sleep in his bed with him. It is like the good old days. He listens to the ice hit the window. Tap, tap, like a walking stick.

A dog named Regrette.

Regret is something that burns itself into you when you spend time in prison. It's all you can do to try to focus on moving forward, on the future. The past is a black hole, a succubus. A dead-end street. You can't change the past. You can only move forward.

I think of this as I ride around for the dogs.These shelter dogs are trapped in situations, but they didn't do anything. Do they somehow feel regret, do they think that this is their fault that they are stuck living in kennels? The only time they spend outside is spent fighting the urge to leap at an old man on a bicycle? If they are like me, they are looking back on every kernel in their past, wondering how things could be different. If they didn't so like the taste of adhesive that they hadn't always eaten the important mail. If they could just resist busting past that ghetto fence that was expected to keep them in for ten hours at a time. So many things, but instincts are instincts, and our nature is our nature. How are we to assign blame?

At times in my life, I have tried to give myself up to other things, when in reality I have not really been able even to take care of myself. It is hard to live in this world, to take care of things in this world. I regret that I have not been a better man. I have always wanted to be a better man. It is little things that I have been able to manage, and perhaps for this reason, it is little things that have brought me joy.

Butter is big, and small. Butter is there when I need it, and asks nothing of me when I don't. Butter is beautiful, and versatile, and giving. She freezes well, and is slow to spoil unlike so many of her dairy brothers and sisters. She is salty and full of fat, and you have to get your salt and fat from somewhere.

But what if my marriage to butter is a marriage of convenience? What if I love her because she is easy--if there is something out there that would offer both greater challenges and greater rewards? What if my time with butter is just the next line item on a massive receipt of regrets?

I had a dog named Regrette.

I have been thinking about me, and butter. And I've asked myself, if I were to stop making butter tomorrow, how sad would I be? In the abstract, I am not sure that I would be that sad. I have tied up a bit of my identity in butter, but that is not something I should feel the need to stubbornly cling to, right? There are other things out there.

And it is okay to feel sad. It is okay to change. And it is okay to dream.

Perspective

I Believe in Chu

Daydreaming

Would you watch my show if I had a show on Food Network? Maybe it could be called something like The Better Butter Show. Or, Making Stinky Things That Taste Good to Certain People. I don't know, just throwing it out there. Maybe it could start out small. Maybe Dad could film me and then I could send the clips to Food Network. But Dad has a shaky hand. It might be hard to watch. Would that make it endearing? Would the show be called Cooking in an Earthquake? Would it take off? I don't know. I can kind of see it happening like that.

Like, did Molly Schuyler ever think she'd be a competitive eating champion? I showed Dad some of her videos. He likes her a lot. He calls her the greatest magician ever. I think she makes me feel a little bit sick sometimes.

Curt

you got two again

     Dad says, "all these jars...what the hell. Goddamn it Curt, clean out the fridge."
     Alright, I've got some stuff going on in there. But you gotta eat! The point of a fridge, and a kitchen, is not to be clean and bacteria free! Ask Sandor Katz! Ask Alexander Fleming!
    Alas, I can pretend, but this is not my kitchen. I am a guest, and one who has overstayed his welcome. My pickled beets and green beans, my SCOBYs and sourdough starters no longer have a place to live. They will return to the land from whence they came.

    Dad doesn't want to talk about anything but this.

Could it be?

Is this Curt? Could it be? Am I checking in? Did I feel static yesterday? Do I feel that today I have to go, go, go? Does today feel like a hurry? Am I hurrying? Am I late? Did I ride the bus this morning? What if I told you that someone said something to me on the bus? What if this someone said, "Excuse me"? And what it after excuse me, this someone said, "You look familiar. Did you go to ________ High School? And what if you were in my shoes and didn't go to ________ High School, but said that you did? What if you were in my shoes and saw this someone light up? Would you have said you didn't go to ________ High School if you were in my shoes? Would you have said "No"? Did I say "No"? What if I told you I didn't say "No"? Would you think differently about me? What if when I got off the bus, I felt that I had done something wrong? Could it be that I did something wrong? Did I tell a lie or a white lie? Would you continue on with your day without giving it another thought? If you were in my shoes? Would you?

Happy Birthday!

I wanted to wish you a happy birthday! (If it is not your birthday, that's OK! Just bookmark this post and go to it when it is actually your birthday.) I wanted to do something special for you, so I picked out some songs that I thought you would enjoy. Hopefully one of them feels extra special and fits you like a glove! Have a great day!

Here is a song for if you have to ride the bus today:


Here is one for if you are trying to cure a seven year ache:


Here is one for if you are a child and your parents fight a lot, and you lose yourself in play:


Here's one in case you are worried about end times:


Here's one about the love you feel for your son:


Here is one for if you are married and have a chance to "get with" someone else who is also married:


Here's the first song I listened to when I got out of prison:


And my theme song from when I was in prison, from the same album:


Maybe these aren't good birthday songs. That's OK. I love them, and I want you to have them.

Have a great day!

Love,
CGJ
:

I wrote this today/ with a rhythm in my heart/ just for you, ok?

I am kind of feeling inspired today. Once, I owned a coffee mug that inspired me to write a haiku. I wonder if I could be a haiku master. I just had that thought just now. Literally like a second ago. If I write a haiku everyday for 10 years, will I be a master? What does it mean to be a master of anything? I wonder: if I speak only in haikus, would anyone notice? Probably not. But this afternoon I tried to do just this. I said to Dad:

"This winter is hard
because it has snowed, snowed, snowed--
No snow is a dream."

He said, "Yes, son. Snow, it sucks the life out of you."

I ordered a coffee at the coffee shop and said:

"I'll have a coffee
no room for milk pretty please.
For here, not to go. "

And, I waited for the mailman to say:

"Hello, thank you sir.
You brought me some mail I see.
Goody, goody, thanks!"

The mailman seemed suspicious. And I was suspicious of the mailman.

There was nothing exciting in the mail, but before I could think of another haiku, the mailman had moved on to the next house. 

This post wasn't really a post, but it was. It was a post, just for you, ok?

nobody owed anybody anything

     There is something broken in the house now, and when you wake up in the middle of the night--thirsty, or needing to relieve yourself--it keeps you awake, a quiet rumble. It is the refrigerator, you think. Or the furnace, a little louder than it used to be. It is not the guilt that once upon a time used to throb and pulse like the Tell-tale Heart. Or if it is that, it no longer presents itself to you that way. It is something different. It isn't anything. It just keeps you awake.

   Do you remember what it was like when you could sleep through anything? When 5 hours was enough, and you would take 6 when you could get it, and 9 when you didn't have to work and there was nothing else to wake up for? Do you remember? Do you remember reading about Charles Whitman and reading his letter and wondering if the same thing was happening to you? Do you remember how you did something, but it didn't end then, and everything kept going, and you had to come to terms with the world, and hope that the world would ultimately come to terms with you? Do you remember asking the Mother for forgiveness and understanding that it would never come? That that wasn't the thing that was unfair?

     Homes once told you that nobody owed anybody anything. It was hard for you to reconcile your admiration of Homes with the fact that he was in the exact same place as you were. And he pushed you to talk while he sat on his own silence. You might have lashed out at him once or twice. You were angry, and bitter, yes. But you still talked. And you were glad that you did.

     You once did something big, but now your being is announced only with small gestures. You write. You work. You are polite, and you tip well. You hold the door for old ladies. You try to be a beacon of decency. But when you were a young man, you shouted at the top of your lungs, and the echoes still drown out everything subsequent. And you lie awake at night, wishing silence and unicorns weren't equally fantastic.
 
   

Bring Me Up To Speed

Whew, yesterday's adventure left me bushed!


This post is a recap, a sort of bringing us back up to speed, a revving up, a gearing up:


The infamous nuisance.
The quietest mourning.
How I sometimes always feel before I post.
The appearance and disappearance of Clyde.
Curt's curtness.
Breaking the 4th wall.
The curious Ronny.
How to pronounce Guy.
The Ghost...terminates.
Holy Fok.
Super Bowl.

And For What?

Years ago, someone told me I needed to go see this. Today, I went. I got on a bus, I worked my way through a couple of these on the drive so I didn't get bad bus-thoughts, and I went and saw The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly. I recommend it! You should go!

It is great, of course. I am curious about whether there was anything exceptional about the artist, other than his determination and persistence. Is that the thing that sets some people apart? If I can get back on the blogging bus, and keep this up for thirty years, will people look back and say, "that crazy guy, he was crazy, but he really did something! His blog was stupid, but he believed in it!"

If there had been an internet for James Hampton, would he have turned his solitude into something so beautiful? Would he have had a blog? Would we think he was less crazy, or more crazy? 

Other people have obsessions, of course. This fellow has written 14,000 songs! He wrote this song, which is great!!! 

I was talking to this girl at the museum, and I told her how much I like folk art. I like Grandma Moses, and I like Edward Hicks. She asked why I thought this stuff was so great, it could of been made by a 6th grader, and I said I don't necessarily think it's great, I just like it. I think that's a reasonable distinction. Everything in a museum is not put there for the same reasons. And if somebody worked in their garage for 40 years, making amateur paintings, pretty soon they would have an impressive body of work, like James Hampton. And maybe 50 years from now, somebody will be reading this, and they will say, "Curt! What a wild guy! He just kept going!" 

Maybe that's where I'm headed. Like boats against the current. Tending to my garden. A Cathedral of the mind. Vanity of Vanities.

Fear not!