the fountain

I sat there on a wooden bench with iron railings at dusk. Golden September evening. Smoking a cigar and nursing a coffee from the shop across the street, I found myself staring at the fountain in the square. The endless trickling. The silent journey, unseen, of the water upwards, to the pinnacle spout, after which it trickles down in stages, filling black wrought-iron bowl- or plate-like platforms that fill and spill until the tricklings reach the pool at the bottom. And then repeat it, seemingly forever. It hypnotized me, mesmerized might be a synonym. But neither says it. Some kind of serene spellbound. The fountain so eternal in quotes but eternal enough for me right then. Is this why Rome is The Eternal City, because of so many eternal fountains? It reminds me of an old joke, the one about a search for the meaning of life with the guru delivering the punchline, "You mean it's not a fountain?" The joke was on us. Life as a punchline that nobody gets. The fountain tableau transported me to wonder: for how long have humans built fountains and how did they work before electricity was supplied? (Something I refuse to research. Why spoil the fun?) You'd think water fountains prove there is such a thing as a perpetual motion machine. Except. Except for water running out. And time running out in trickles like the fountain drippings. Naturally, even the fountains found in the wild, the ones we call waterfalls, are subject to the same rules of supply and impermanence. But enough of all that. The perfect light. (It was magical enough for four sets of professional photographers to stage and pose families, couples, and individuals for photos to be treasured on a wall until someone moves, storing the photos into an eternal anonymity in a box in a storage bin.) I snapped (screen-tapped) three photos on my phone, which is cheating for a wordsmith, isn't it. A magical hour magical enough for the golden retriever to want with all its canine desire to leap into that reflecting pool, only to be restrained by a tug on the leash. So, if I were in Italy and this were in a piazza it would be more worthy of memory and reflection? Who says. I rubbed the ash off the tip of the cigar against the bench, letting the ash fall to the brick pavers, careful to note no fire was possible. Earlier, I had placed the wooden match I had used to light the cigar and put it in the sink of the patina-painted inoperable water fountain nearby. Now that the lighted match was sufficiently cooled, I tossed it into the bed of ivy, where it landed in the dirt.   

dangling participles

Williams and Fayette. By the Legion hall. Misting. Next to the Open House. Closed. A skeletal artifact from before The Ending. Gutted. Payphone on a pole. Dangling handset. Nodding in the breeze. Forgotten. Booth or kiosk. Prenuclear minimalism. Raided. Metal, wire, plastic, screw, bolt, time, pleadings, hustles, cries, calls. Jangled coins an eternity ago. Deserted. Abandoned pedestrian loiterers. Freeze-framed headlights. Telling. Remnant. Torn. Ghostly metronome. Busy signal. Blaring. Humming. Buzzing. Waiting. Having had. Having been. Dangling.

time for justice

The clock on the wall over the doorway to the courtroom read "5:01.33." I lie. It was not a digital timepiece, so it was impossible to record accurately its divination of time. (Does a clock read? How about announce, say, state, declare, report?) A design straight out of the Seventies. Metal or faux metal hour and minute hands. For the hours, solid silverish bars: for the numeral 12 placeholder, a thicker and darker unenumerated bar. The hour hand on where the 5 would be. In that minimalist era, designers assumed we could figure out where and what the hours were. And they were right. The minute hand roughly halfway between the 12 position and the first minute afterward. During my first visit to the courtroom, it was easy to discern and conclude that the clock was moribund. It wasn't ticking. Nor tocking. Dead battery or electrical disconnect, who could say. Time stood still. A week later, the clock made the same stoic statement. Time still stood still. Time froze as justice prevailed. Or as justice's facade winked, even as the hour and minute were suspended in time (actually, out of time). Was it time for justice. Or had the time for justice or its synonyms passed long before any defendant entered the courtroom. Rest assured, nearly all the defendants did not pass under the faceless clock as described. That portal was reserved for the public: lawyers, friends, relatives, advocates, intimates, enablers, defendants alike. Most, though not all, defendants entered through a doorway in back of the bench, to the bench's right. They were shackled, cuffed, chained, guarded by uniforms with guns. Typically guarded in their statements though sometimes unguarded and unvarnished, to their detriment. A minority of defendants came through the public's clocked-unclocked-stillborn entrance, to sit in the secular pews. When called to the bench, they spoke or kept clocklike silence and let counsel confer with the judge. But was the clock halted in its tracks at 5 (add a half minute or so) ante meridiem or post meridiem. Was time merely shutting its eyes to these matters, these sunrise or sunset deliberations. Was time as blind as justice, as the trope has it. Time was recusing itself from blame or guilt, from accusation or defense, from guilt or innocence. The sun doth shine on the just and the unjust. The same goes for time. Can we speculate on why no one has repaired this clock. Does anyone know or care. What difference would it make. One can argue, your honor, that the defendants, and all the other members of the cast (defense and prosecuting attorneys, judge, armed guards, stenographer, audience) would prefer to not hear the infinitesimal click of time, the merciless hourglass sands trickling in accord with the laws of gravity and physics. Who needs such added pressure. Better for the clock on the wood-paneled wall to pause Sphinxlike; an oracular nolo contendere. May time be called as a witness, your honor. Would that time healed all wounds, and crimes. Does anybody really know what time it is, or was, or should be. Does anybody really care. Is it time for justice or for mercy or both or neither. No clock, ticking or timeless, can say, state, declare, or report the verdict. Rain falls on the just and the unjust. Justice is served on a platter of petals and tears. 

What's It To You?

You can't put a price on it. You can't put a price on him, on her, on them. The Price Is Wrong. The cost of medications, of healthcare, of surgery. A matter of life or death. A pauper's grave. A penny for your thoughts. How about a dollar? Or a million dollars for your thought? That single unspoken thought, the dangerous one you can't speak even to yourself, the perverse and criminal thought that will shame and ruin you -- and you didn't even know it was a floating subterranean tidal whisper. A living wage. The cost of living. The wages of sin. Thank you for your time. Paying for the privilege of your time. Our shared time, and space. How much is it worth to you? The meter is running. Stop the meter. Rare silks and spices from exotic lands. Explorers, navigators, plunderers. A lunar rock. A Roman emperor on a broken coin. Fragment of fossilized bone. Anonymity. Secrecy. Mystery. Coin of the realm. The crown jewels. Cupidity. Need. Want. Bartering this for that. Transaction. Gold. Dust. Silver. Rust. What's it worth? What's it worth to you? And to me. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, crystal. Paper or plastic? Ultimately, what's it worth to them? Currency. Flow. In circulation. Streaming. Exchange. This for that. You for me, me for you, us for them, them for us. David Hockney's "Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)," $18,000 in 1972; $90.3 million in 2018. Off the grid. Unavailable. Digitally absent. Gone. Missing in inaction. Flood of images. Verbal inundation. She of few words. He of sphinxlike silence. Rare blood type. Bloodlust. Donor fatigue. Daylight Saving Time. Daylight Saving Space. Saving for what and how? Freedom isn't free. Currencies of blood, time, space, platitude, demagoguery, faith, courage, history, and myth. Terms and conditions. Are you available Thursday? They're never available. I can never reach her. He never answers. Rarely. Rara avis. Rare bird. Rare book. What am my bid? Going once, going twice. Sold. How much was that again? 

calendar musings

Soon December turns to January, and 2016 to 2017. I get that we don't live a year at a time, not even really a day at a time. It's this moment drifting or dissolving into the next and the next and the next and the next. You get the point. Still, I'm eager to bid good riddance to 2016, its upheavals, violence, tumult, blooms, blossoms, sunrises, sunsets, roses, rusts, and secrets. And that's talking about my personal adventures! Let's turn the page!

happy new you

The phrase "happy new year" strikes me as odd, though understandable. I say "odd" because we do not live a year at a time. For that matter, we do not live a day at a time, but that quotidian scale is more manageable. You never hear "happy new decade" or "happy new century." Or maybe you do. "Happy new minute"? "Happy new second"? How about "happy new now"?

Happy new you.

February

now that we've flipped over January only to see the page of February we can declare that spring is creeping in despite wintry mixes and ice and icicles and snow and slush and snowmelt and winter x games and slalom and wind chill and blustery et alia despite all that pitchers and catchers report in 12 days like 12 steps to recovery and even embedded in the corner of the February page is March ready to march or creep into our personal time zones so do not despair spring is almost around the corner February may prove to be brutal and frigid but can we demand of it that it is the last full and entire month of weatherly winter because in March surely there will be some respite from all those despites.

Time's Quiver

The arrow of time points

backwards as well as forwards:





Why, I wonder,


Am I enthralled by this


At dazzling speed more


Than in 'real' time


In the city of lights


And shadows and movement?

Unperson of the Year, 2007

Well, today it is things back to normal, more or less, back to not being Time magazine's Person of the Year 2006. In fact, it is back to being Potential Person of the Year 2007, or Potential Nonperson of the Year 2007, or even potential person, or potential nonperson (I threw that in for existentialists and FOSK [Friends of Soren Kierkegaard]).

And what is "normal" on New Year's Day, anyway? It is not a normal day. It is a day groggy with the hangover of the memory of ancient hangovers, after a night of no imbibing, except for the intoxicating vision of numbing television, including the watching of the Waterford cystal ball falling, by increments of seconds, backwards-counting seconds, like those manned-spacecraft or unmanned (neutered?)-spacecraft launchings we watched in my youth. This, a scene from the new, Disney-fied Times Square, a far cry from the ancient, tawdry carnal "Midnight Cowboy" fleshpot carnival of yesteryear, though I admit to sometimes missing its vulgar, if menacing and perilous, "atmosphere" and allurements.

New Year's Eve. The memory -- my memory -- of retching mercilessly by the clock at Grand Central Terminal (frequently mistakenly called Grand Central Station, which is a post office), slobbering onto the marble floor, oblivious to the star-spotted cerulean blue, majestic ceiling. New Year's Day. "I'll never do that again. I promise." Those powerless vows. One such first day of the year taking the train from that very terminal (not the day after the oblivion onto the marble), drinking again, cavorting, parading, mock-marrying, annoying, dancing, falling, menacing for four, five, six hours. And then after the train ride making the rounds by car and foot and lechery through blurry strip clubs, Marvin Gaye music, a crack-up somewhere, knocking on strangers' doors at 5 a.m., fearing I was in Brooklyn (where I had never been). And then deigning to go to work the next day! These days, I'd have been fired on the spot -- and arrested too perhaps (cardiac or otherwise).

And so this sometimes unperson surprises no one when he says his New Year's Eves -- and the other 364 eves -- demand at the very least a modicum of sobriety, not so much as a virtue but as a personal, communal, and redeeming necessity. Achieved only by surrendering to and embracing grace, with an uppercase G, never the less. But always enough. An Abiding One-Day-At-A-Time Unearned (except by pain) Grace.

So what was "normal" today? Getting up around 10:30, everything thrown off. Sitting outside Toys R [with that obnoxious backwards, Cyrillic-alphabet-like inverted R] Us and laughing out loud at Steve Martin's genius novella The Pleasure of My Company. Laughing out loud as chubby suburban wives and surly dads and restless children run into the store and see an older man in a car reading a book -- and laughing. Do they think me a potential pervert? A molester? Let us hope not. (And somehow I think such miscreants are not inclined to wholesome laughter. Roaring laughter. Laughter at sheer humor, as well as the utterly distinct pleasure of reading someone whose style you love, whom you'd love to emulate, who just-plain resonates with you. Me, that is.) (The novella reminds me of Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine for its vision of daily minutiae.)

Did some dishes.

That's normal, isn't?

(We do not have one of those dish-washing machines, and I am glad.)

One never knows, you know? Today, in checking my emails, I found a very nice note from one of the authors on my list of 14 books, and authors.

Yikes! Who reads this stuff! question mark

It could be anyone!

Case in point: In November, I got an email from BBC Radio because I once mentioned A Perfect Spy by John Le Carre -- and they invited me to ask him a question for a radio show. And I did! I talked to him by phone! (enough of the exclamation points, dude)

Whew.

Merry New Year.

Laugh. Or....

Else.

p.s. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Mystery Author Author. Clue to readers: I enjoyed The Nervous Breakdown.

'Time' Is On My Side (Yours, Too!)

So. You've heard. Time Magazine has named me Person of the Year 2006. And you.

And also you.

And you. You too.

Yup, it celebrates the blogging community and the World Wide Web (some call it Web 2.0) and all its creative and collective and collaborative (and alliterative) and communal chaos and connectiveness.

Yay us. Yay me.

I admit to being conflicted over this. I carefully pored over Time's announcement and did not see one mention of The Laughorist. At all.

And, to be honest, the essay praising us did not mention you either.

Or you either.

No mention of The Wonderful World of Nothing Worthwhile, Meloncutter Musings, or These Are Me Thinks, or the Not-So News, or The Pole Affair, or To Love, Honor, and Dismay, or Odat's Mumblings, or The Bestest Blog, or Ron Bramlett, or I'm Sorry World, or Flip This Body , or Dafathsdays, or Sheila's Thoughts of the Day, or Natalie, or HeartsinSanFrancisco, or JR'sThumbprints -- all right already. You get the picture. (The Shangri-Las: "Yes, we see.")

Alas, no specific citation of A Chuisle Mo Chroi, or Eat Your Young, or Dating Profile of the Day, or LaughMoreLoveMoreFearNot, or Monicker either.

What about the reliably and humorously observant Mist1? Not a word.

O Time! O tempora, o mores!

Hey, this is getting to read like the Litany of Saints, Sinners, and Everything-in-Between. Does anyone know what a litany literally is anymore? asks the ex-seminarian.

But as I said from my very first post, this is all about solipsism, so how can I claim to be disappointed?

Carry on.

As you were.

Who will the Person of the Year be in 2007?

You? Or you? You? Me?

The Cornflake King? [welcome back, and say hello to Crunchy Durden!]

Just me, The Laughorist?

Laugh. Or....

Else.