Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Friday, July 20, 2012

Who's Afraid Of. . .







My daughter died today. Or maybe yesterday. It is difficult to tell, since I found her in the morning. She could have died the night before today and her body’s reality only realized today. She could have died right before I walked into her room to try to wake her up, thinking she had slept in, missing her alarm, and in any case was late for our weekly breakfast routine.

I knew something was wrong when I finished two cups off coffee and the entire opinion page of the local newspaper without her coming down, slightly ragged and still sleepy, for waffles and the Arts and Entertainment section.

I never allowed her coffee. And now I wish her all the coffee in the house just to wake her up.

She was sixteen today, about to turn seventeen. She had told me the night before that she had plans to go to the movies and hang out with friends until our mutually agreed upon curfew. She had told me “I won’t do anything stupid, Dad…So don’t worry!” over dinner, but dying seems to be an incredibly stupid thing to do.

I didn’t know what to do upon finding her there, a body barely covered by the off-white sheets that would make her a ghost in the hallways of the house.

I called my ex-wife, thinking she should be the first to know, who subsequently cried, cursed, and hung up the phone.

Needless to say, she was of no help at all.

I called 911 next, knowing that, her being dead, it wasn’t technically an emergency. There were still other people out there in need who were still capable of life, if given the chance.

I felt a certain weight of the 1 while pressing it twice.

It felt entirely self-centered, as if my concern was the number one priority in the world.

My daughter hated me, and I always felt it.

She had let me know that the mutual custody her mother and I had of her was by no means her own choice – she would have preferred sole custody, but was far too young at the time of our divorce to voice such an opinion – that each and every interaction with her was fraught with hatred and withering glances throughout the house.

The older she got, the more I tried to interact with her as an adult. She relented, albeit with a certain degree of dismissal, and found that the best way to connect with her was over the morning breakfast-newspaper routine.

We would routinely disagree over the Opinion pages, but found that our aesthetic similarities were enough to tentatively bond over.

Surprisingly or not, we both adored Edward Albee.

I had tried to move her in the direction of similar aesthetics, the history of where his work came from, the philosophy and politics for which he was known. She hated that fact, thinking, I think, that I was being condescending to her own interests.

I quickly gave up, knowing that knowledge is entirely lost on teenagers.

The last time that she arrived, or will arrive, at my place she declared: 

“What a dump.”

I hate to think that is where she thought her body belonged.











Thursday, July 19, 2012

Monday, July 16, 2012

Father & Son On the Subway








A chain becomes a path becomes a trap becomes a home. Slop boys inherit and hold the hands of the inheritable like inheritance. Why fight? only smile. Rattles below as something done – as movement keeps things moving forward – the inevitable decline of movement towards fragmentation and inheritance blues. In the short sense, there’s a lot there to bare. The mirror looking into itself and proud of its ability to reflect, to respond to – to let the original image be more than remainder. A justifiable difference of tops on stilts and split backwards – deep like tackle – fishing for a better bet between. For now, a soft stub of nature pummeling toward the mechanical soon, with an ink pen stuck in the neck, by way of reminder, of holding on.
 











Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Perils of Being a Nice Guy











1.

The Nice Guy notes things of importance, said by other people, only to later realize those things didn’t really matter, as they inform him later they were just making small-talk and don’t remember the initial conversation’s details anyway.


2.

The word “pussy” and its synonyms have no positive effect for the male gender, and is especially harmful for the Nice Guy. It is, traditionally, something to own, not be.


3.

Once a mind has been made up, persuading assholes otherwise is an idiot’s errand. The Nice Guy is better off buying a friend a cookie.


4.

The Nice Guy has no concrete philosophy of his own. If he did, the adjective itself would be entirely inappropriate, therefore causing the Nice Guy to lose his desired status.


5.

The adjective nice has no true meaning, being inherently a subjective word. “Pleasant, agreeable, etc.” could mean any number of things depending on the subject. A person could be pleasant, and yet not totally agreeable, therefore rendering the word “nice” contradictory.

What is “nice” to one person could be the opposite to another. The paradox of the Nice Guy is that he attempts to be all things to all people. This is such an impossibility, it is no wonder that the Nice Guy is actively treated like the cipher he is.


6.

Emotional outbursts by the Nice Guy, while necessary to counter the inherent emotional difficulties of presenting himself as such for extended periods of time, will be limited to moments alone, sitting by candlelight, listening to treacly pop ballads and consuming, ever-so-slightly, too much red wine, purchased for the price of $7 (approximately).


7.

The Nice Guy’s self-perceived advantage will always be taken.
 

8.

Many an asshole will try to pass themselves off as a Nice Guy, simply by offering up examples of superficial “niceness” such as giving to charity, supporting local causes, opening the doors for dates. This, again, puts the Nice Guy in an eternal disadvantage:  he loses claim to the nomenclature while losing the sheer meaning he has built.

(Similarly, there are many urban men who will consider themselves “theatre fags” even though they have never sucked a cock and will only attend performances that have a status element in even getting a ticket.)


9.

The last refuge of the Nice Guy is passive-aggression. It is often the only weapon at his disposal and will use it indiscriminately.


10.

The Nice Guy will often have little trouble procuring romantic entanglements, which tend to last anywhere between 2 weeks to a few years (often of the “off and on” variety) often involving sexual relations that no partner could be content with, the amount of attention being paid to them.

This creates a one-sided situation, making those on the receiving end feel irrelevant, like a body at best, like a bowl of cold spaghetti in a child’s haunted house, barely passing for brains at worst.


11.

The age-old cliché of “Nice Guys Finish Last”, while filled with a general timbre of weakness and pity, a warning for what not to be, at least can be considered true by some in the workplace, where the idiom has its roots, especially for those organizations where gender roles are rigidly adhered to.

“Nice Guys are Paid Less” could be considered more relevant and true.

In all actuality, nobody ever “finishes” what they do – i.e. live a productive life – otherwise it would be clear that the notion of “finishing last” would be the goal for everyone.


12.

The Nice Guy will often be levied the criticism of not having a spark. While sparks themselves can create out-of-control fires that require assistance in putting out, they also cause the fire that is so much a force of life.

Such a double-edged sword is like a traditional gamble in Vegas:  sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.

The Nice Guy goes to Vegas to visit Hoover Dam, swim in a pool, and maybe see Barry Manilow.


13.

door·mat [dawr-mat, dohr-]

noun

1.

A mat,  usually placed before a door  or other entrance, for people arriving to wipe their shoes on before entering.

2.

A person who is the habitual object of abuse or humiliation by another.





The Idea of Collapsing Reconstructs, Repositions, Itself

A Distance