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stopped
at the intersection of Mountain and Glenn last night, on my way home—there’s
a stop sign there, so it’s nothing unusual. It’s been torn up for a few
months while the road people do the road things they’re doing all over
town, and that I don’t suppose they’re ever going to finish—not that it
matters much to me, only it takes a little longer to get around town than
it used to. The elderly lady in the boat to my right was reluctant and
nervous as she nosed out into the intersection, scraping her undercarriage
in the dirt and making the sorts of faces you would expect to see. I lost
interest in her progress and looked across the street at the car opposite
me, just in time to see the passenger door fly open and a kinda cute chunky
girl lurch toward the opening, only to fly backwards back into the car
and out of sight. I didn’t get it at first, but figured out the guy had
grabbed her hair and pulled her back inside. By the time that part was
clear, he’d already moved on to the next stage and was applying his elbow
to her face. He pushed her forward, smashing her forehead against the
dashboard—the elderly lady gunned it and obscured my view for a second,
and by the time she was across the door on the car I was watching was
swinging closed. The guy was yelling, but I couldn’t hear what he was
saying. I thought it was some elaborate joke. It had to be. He started
across the street and the girl went for the door again, yelling something
else I couldn’t hear, and the guy let go of the wheel with one of his
hands and let the other one drive while the first punched the girl repeatedly
in the face. I’ve been in a bad mood for the past week or so. Not really grumbling
or mad at anyone, just unsettled. The neighborhood we left was worse than
the one we moved into—I thought so anyway—the houses here are nicer, the
families are families, there are fewer rentals (we’re not really paying
rent in our new house, it’s family and we just took over the mortgage,
so the only real rental is across the street where the murderers are starting
to move out), there aren’t any low-rider hot-rodders gunning it up and
down the street at two in the morning and threatening my wife when she
asks them to take their arguments out from in front of our house, or even
out of our driveway. And that neighborhood was still a billion times better
than when I lived in the apartment at MOCA, downtown, across from Pleasure
World, where transvestites with knives and guns would try to kill each
other a few times a week, where dwarves would offer their short services
to me, not believing that I lived in the building into which I was entering.
Prostitutes would try to follow me in at least once a week—but somehow
that was at least a little funny. Not much, but some. Then there was the
interstitial house where Andrea and I lived right after we got married,
but before the house with the hot-rodders, where crackheads would beat
each other and make up and make love (is that what it is? On crack? What
is it?) and then beat each other again, yodeling strangely on the street
corners and no one would ever stop it. It’s just everywhere
[2] ,
[3] . |
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[1] The last time I saw something like
this was in 1993, in San Diego. I was, again, driving home and saw a
group of about five kids playing in a yard. As I neared them, a car
screeched to a halt and one of the kids went a little wobbly and kind
of white. A big man jumped out of the car, yelling something, and went
for the whiting, wobbly kid. The big man stretched out his big arm and
grabbed the kid, who went immediately limp while the man started smacking
the kid’s poor little head around. I stopped my car in the middle of
the road and ran across the street, saying something really authoritative
like, “Hey!” The man turned to me, dropped the kid and punched me a
few times while telling me to mind my own goddamn business. I was pretty
scrawny and weak, so I went down pretty quick, and the guy gave me a
couple of kicks to the stomach and ribs, but I took them, thinking at
least the kid’s getting away. I was wrong. When the kicking stopped,
I looked up right into the saucer-eyes of the kid, who had absolutely
no idea what I was doing there. Then the big man’s big arm eclipsed
him and I watched him take a couple more shots to his face before the
big man dragged him to the car, telling him how much worse it was going
to be when he got home, saying something about how his friends should
stay out of it if they knew what was good for them. Another halfhearted
kick for me and they left. I knew, as I got out of the car, that I was
going to get a little damaged, but I knew also that there was a reason
for it, that the end result would be that the kid got away, having run
to an aunt’s house or something, and that would set into action a whole
string of events that would culminate in the kid going off to Kentucky
or Minnesota where he could be a kid—a disaffected, angry kid, sure—but
one away from at least this one horrible man. [2] It’s even in our public art—on it, anyway. Right there, a few weeks ago, on Broadway and Aviation, where they put those photographic tile mural things, a guy was hanging, dead, from the railing above one of the murals. A normal-looking guy too, except for the whole dead-and-hanging-face-first-against-the-mural thing. I didn’t understand, I turned around and drove back just to make sure that what I thought I saw was in fact what I saw. And it was. Five in the morning, I was on my way to the studio to do some book stuff, and there was this guy… I tried to find out something, anything, but none of the departments or organizations you would expect to have that sort of information would give me anything, or they just didn’t have anything at all. The problem I have here, with this particular incident, isn’t the whole dead-guy thing, but that it’s so commonplace, so trivial, so boring, not worth the time of the police or the newspeople… Not that I want everybody’s business up in all our faces all the time (like it’s not already), but this guy, he’d made it my business, and I wanted to know why. I wanted to know why he felt he had to perpetuate himself in my memory, and since he had done that, just who the hell was he anyway? Not that he was dead, but that he made it my business. [3] Flash back to even earlier, when
I was a little rockstar and everything was great. I shared a house with
my cousin T. (not really my cousin, we’d just known each other so long
that it was easier to say we were cousins—I had a huge Puerto Rican
cousin too, his name was P.R.), who would wake me up every morning at
6 by blasting the Grateful Dead on his stereo; living there too was
rockabilly Dave and Brandi who did hair. We were watching a movie and
one of our neighbors came by, all drunk and sad and we told him to go
home. He came back later and told us we had to help him drink his big
bottle of vodka. So we poured it into a big glass and gave him the empty
bottle and told him to sleep it off. About an hour later it was all
cops everywhere and an ambulance and we figured the guy’d hurt himself.
He’d actually hurt his roommate, stabbed him in the throat. We stood
outside, gawking, and a lady across the street grabbed a cop and pointed
a witchy finger at us and said it was all our fault. It had to be. [4] Clarification: I firmly believe that we are doing a great and important thing. This does not change the fact that it is ultimately meaningless. And it does not contradict my earlier statements (see Issue 1.2) about what I hope will be my small effect upon my small bit of this small, meaningless world. That our dreams will amount to nothing should never preclude our having them and working our asses off to see that these things are ours. [5] I’m so rife with apparent contradictions here. Yes, keep your dreams, understand why you do what you do. Just be concise, be clear. Have dreams. Have real dreams. Don’t have the I’m gonna save the world ones when it’s actually I’m gonna quit my job someday and write all the damn time. If you are actually going to save the world, then I guess you should keep that dream. If you are the twenty-third coming of whomever, then you may well have every right to have the sorts of overly pretentious intentions that I’m scoffing at. In such case, my apologies, I wasn’t writing this for you. But even you could use a little salt with your intent. [6] What is usually said when this topic comes up: Yeah, yeah, we know, we’ve heard this so many times already. And I know you’ve heard it, I know it’s been said over and over, but it has to be said again and again until we start to understand it. We hear it too early, when we don’t have the framework for understanding that would allow for a useful integration of the idea. We hear it when we’re teenagers and it becomes part of our teenage framework, the one we abandon as we get over our pointless rebellion and ill-advised taste for stupid clothes and bad music. Camus and early Depeche Mode are in no way equivalent. We learn our philosophies at the wrong time and so they get lumped in with all the things we grow out of… and since we’re all wise and grown up now, when something or someone refers to those things, we toss them aside as silly adolescent bullshit that we got over when we got some sense. If we truly understood any of it, we would have much happier, less complicated existences, unfettered by the constraints of our endless search for meaning and reason. These things must be continually said, until we finally get a hold on what it all really means. [7] Or golfing. Sometimes I golf with my dad. I’m really bad at my short game, but I’m verging on Happy Gilmore with my drives—even if they do end up most of the time on some other fairway or the freeway or Speedway. Got me some distance, I do. [8] My favorite English teacher in high school used to call me Monsieur Meurseault. She let me write a song in place of a term paper. She rocked. [9] I keep writing to authors, or their intermediaries, or agents, or whatever contact information I can find for them, I keep asking them please can I bind their books, can I just make for them a small edition of these things they’ve written, make something that’s equal to their work—I do make beautiful books. I should keep them so in the unlikely event that someone comes to my studio I have something to show them rather than the unfinished, failed things I keep around as reminders of what to not do again, or ways to not bind a book… but I don’t have any of them. The ones that were not commissioned were made specifically for people and given to those specific people. I’m still doing exclusively flatback, since I don’t know how to round and back a book yet, but when I go to Boston in a couple of weeks, I’m going to corner that nice Robert Marshall over at Harvard Book and Bindery and make him show me how easy it really is. Strange that I have to go all the way across the country to learn something, but he’s really the only one I know that does what I want to know. There aren’t any binderies in Arizona. None that I can find anyway. There are small presses, there are people that make books by hand, but they’re all nontraditional like me, and they’re happy being that, while I am not. The people making the books here, as far as I can tell, aren’t making books to last, or even to be handled. They’re making art pieces—and that’s fine, but that’s not what I want to do. I can make a crappy pretty book that’ll fall apart just as good as the next guy. No; I can do it better, I’m a master of the crappy pretty book that’ll fall apart. I’ve done that, I’ve got them under my belt, and they’re all disintegrating, not standing up to the test of time. I see no reason to waste my efforts thus. The closest bindery where I can learn anything is in San Diego, and while that is closer, they want all kinds of money to show me how to do anything. Maybe I should understand that, but I don’t. I mean, Me. They want to charge Me for gracing them with my presence. I’ll go East, thank you. [10] And perhaps I should qualify a
bit here. I don’t want to, but I’m not really trying to piss anyone
off. Well, maybe a little… like those kids who just staple their things
together and call it a literary magazine. Sorry buddies, no go. That
is so crappy. Show some respect for your authors, for the idea of art
or Art or language… or anything. For yourselves. I would never produce
such a piece of shit and try to pass it off as a worthwhile thing. How
do you sleep? Punks. (My friend Tim makes a photocopied and stapled
thing full of stuff, but he knows exactly what it is, and he presents
it as such. I really like it, like Tim too—even though he just moved
away. Punk.)
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