Endeavors Heroic

I don’t talk about my wife much. She would rather I not. And not because she is scared of what I might say about her.

No, she does not like me to talk about her in writing for a couple reasons. One of the reasons is professional. She has a professional reputation she is very proud of and rightly so, she has earned it.

And not just because of university, med school, residency, being the president of a medical foundation, teaching students of her own the entire time, being a part business owner of a clinic, being the best damn diagnostician I have ever seen – no. It isn’t for those reasons why she is proud of her professional reputation.

It’s because she honestly gives the best care she can. And she does so at the cost of a lot of money and a lot of respect.

And I’ve been with her since she got out of residency.

I don’t write about my wife, I don’t sing her praises, because she does not need me to. Her patients have. She has won awards, in multiple areas and ways, because of this fact. She is nothing less than amazing at being a doctor.

Because she loves her patients. And they don’t make it easy.

I hate false dichotomies. Givers. Takers. We are all givers and takers. Her patients, the patients she loves, are killing her. With their need. She tries to fill it but it does not end. Can not end. That is the nature of suffering.

And love. Love is a monster. It is how you get by being got. I love my wife. I have been married to her for 25 years. Known her for longer. She has supported me with love, understanding, care, attention, compassion, devotion and empathy.

And I have supported her. With my love, attention, care, compassion, understanding, empathy and devotion. I refill her coffers so she can be the doctor she is and the wife I know.

Let me tell you about my 25th wedding anniversary present. It’s quite the story.

A year last January my wife and son got me guitar lessons. I was hooked immediately. Every week a lesson. I just had my one year anniversary. Oh yes, I am hooked.

I suck. Of course I do. That’s what beginners do. I mention this because I lusted after a guitar that I have no right lusting after.

A Breedlove guitar. The factory is in Bend, Oregon – not too far from where I live. These are expensive guitars. Very expensive guitars. Far too expensive for a beginner of my rank. This is my opinion.

My wife felt differently. She wanted me to have one. So we went to the factory to get one. I insisted. For this reason:

The factory does not sell guitars per se, they make them and ship them to music stores and people who custom order them from the factory. The latter are the more expensive because they are custom.

When an instrument is damaged, either at a store before purchase (say a pick scratch), or during shipment to an individual, it is sent back to the factory and the luthier repairs the damage. These guitars are then sold at the factory at a discount, known as “B” stock.

A guitar, slightly damaged, but well mended, otherwise sound and ready to make music?

That sounds like just the guitar for me. And at a discount. Yum.

I got my guitar. Her name is Dulcinea. I named her well. She is a Premier Concerto Edgeburst CE (Cutaway electric) acoustic electric guitar. She has redwood as her tonewood and East Indian Rosewood back and sides. She is beautiful. She makes such sweet sounds. Even in the hands of a neophyte like me. We’re getting better though!

I named her after my wife. So. Thank you to anyone who may think to approach me with any notions of dating, sex, romance. I will say to you the same thing I say to anyone in the past who has come knocking at my door.

I am very flattered. I am also in love. I hope one day, you find someone who feels about you the way I feel about her.

And if that doesn’t work. Well, I refuse to believe that the world is divided into two classes of people. That’s like saying –

There are two classes of people, those who divide people into two classes of people…

And those who don’t.

As we were driving back to Portland, my wife and I were laughing. She said, no more guitars for you! She has heard of G.A.S. (gear acquisition syndrome). I said I tell you what… 25 years can I get another?

We shook on it. We have a solid marriage. No marriage is perfect. We have had our troubles.

I will say this though – I asked her, the day before I got Dulcinea. Have I ever made you cry? She thought about it. Honestly thought about it. Once. Before we got married. When it was taking you so long to divorce {redacted}. Not since we have been married. Cry? No.

My wife is not a liar. I’m a writer. I’m a liar (of sorts) by definition, at least I recall Neil Gaiman having one of his characters say something to that nature.

And anyone who says differently… will have me to contend with.

“Thanks again for the tip, by the way.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I thought we said we weren’t going to do that anymore.”
Laughter. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“It helps. Both the buds and the reading.”
“Uh oh. I detect a ‘but’ coming up.”
“That’s what I said.”
“HEY!” She poked him hard with a naked foot.
Laughter. “You broke the pact. You suffer the consequences.”
“So what’s on your mind, other than the obvious. And aren’t you clever for being so young.”
“Just love reminding me of it, don’t you?”
“Not my fault I have the advantage of age and experience. It’s kept you…coming…back for two years.” She gave him that slight smile. The one she knew he couldn’t resist.
“You’re an evil woman. That is why I love you.”
“So out with it.”
“I still don’t know what to do with her.”
She sighed. “What do they teach you in teacher school nowadays? Maybe I need to quit being a vice principal and go back to the classroom.”
“That would be a shame. You are our first and best line of defense against Dickens. Without you, the shield wall will fall, and the barbarian will be let loose amidst the helpless villagers. That is to say, the children.”
“You mean the teachers.”
“It is the same, grasshopper.”
“You all make him out worse than he is.”
“The man broached canceling Christmas vacation.”
“He wasn’t serious about that.”
His eyebrow rocketed to the top of his hairline.”No?”
“Ok. He was a little serious.”
“So you were disparaging my education?”
“Yes, thank you. What you have is a classic classroom management problem.”
“Unfortunately we live in an age when intelligent people must state the obvious. Or in other words, no shit.”
Laughter. “Preamble, love. You have a specific kind of classroom management problem. The precocious student. They come in different flavors. She is a rare one.”
“Again, no shit. I still don’t know what to do with her. The buds and reading are good. But she…”
“Gets bored.”
“Well, yeah.”
“And therein lies the solution. With the talented and gifted precocious students the best remedy is more. Give her more. In fact, and I don’t know why we haven’t thought of this. We need to put a musical instrument into her hands.”
“Are you insane?”
“You don’t let her have it in the classroom, obviously.”
“Next you’re going to say she try the tuba.”
“I know better than that. Or the drums.”
“We don’t have a music department. Not anymore.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Fuck.”

She got out of bed. He watched her with the same eyes that lions use when a gazelle happens by. She went to her closet and stood on tiptoes to reach for something on the top shelf. He made a mental note to have her retrieve more things from her top shelf.

She took out a case. A guitar case.

“It’s a parlor. I prefer not to be the one to teach her.”
“Coward.” He said.

Things are getting interesting.
I’ve been interacting with a number of people lately. More than I anticipated. Allow me to explain, please.

There is a novel from the great Carl Sagan, Saint Sagan as he is known in certain circles. That novel is Contact. They made a movie out of it with Jodie Foster. It was remarkably close to the novel, as much as a book made into a movie can be, in my neophyte opinion. I am not an expert in movies. Or books for that matter.

Anyway, there is a portion portrayed well in the movie that speaks to the matter at hand. It is when they have received what they hoped was an encyclopedia galactica. It was “the message.” Except no one could figure out how to decipher it. They do of course, and they do so by making this observation:

A truly advanced species would strive for multiple efficiency on multiple levels. Once they understand this they are able to see the message, turns out it is blueprints for building a machine. But that isn’t the point here.

I like the idea of striving for multiple efficiency on multiple levels. Sometimes this isn’t apparent when the eyes that read are not looking for it. I’ve been having multiple conversations on multiple levels with multiple people. And all these people think I am only talking to them, or primarily them. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I am not. True, there is one in particular who has every right to feel that I am primarily talking to them.

But because I am having these interactions privately and all the parties involved aren’t aware of the other parties…. I strive for multiple efficiency on multiple levels. And I do not have permission from parties involved to talk about them. I take this very seriously. Trust is hard to establish. Harder to reforge once someone feels it has been broken. I know how to keep a secret. I kept one for 51 years.

Now, I have made more than a few people…irked. I admit, I have baited some. Because I was insulted. And threatened. And then not apologized to. I am only human. I apologize when I give offense, both privately and publicly. A gentleman is only ever rude on purpose. I fail at this sometimes. Sometimes it is very much on purpose, when I am trying to make a point. But when I apologize:

I MEAN IT.

When I point out the error of insulting and threatening me, namely, that I can neither be insulted or threatened, then I have had one of two things happen to me so far.

One: I have been ignored and not talked to any longer. I accept this as my failure. I have no one to blame but myself. If you fall into this category, I sincerely apologize. The failure is mine and I hope you find it in your heart to one day forgive me. For I bear you no ill will whatsoever, on the contrary – I hope you receive all the gifts that wisdom, joy, and health can bear.

Two: I have been painted as having motives that I do not, or accused of this:

Plagiarism. I find this laughable. First of all, there is a thing called fair use. I believe everything I have stolen, and oh yes, I have stolen shamelessly, falls under this. Secondly, I don’t get paid for what I do here, so what am I stealing, exactly? In fact, my family pays to use what I do. Youtube should be happy. I am not seeking an academic position. So I don’t have to worry about the pitfall that just happened, unfortunately, to the outgoing president of Harvard.

Now, for motives that are ascribed to me that I do not possess, I have no reason to apologize for. As for plagiarism….

Allow me to introduce my special guest essay.

https://classicalwisdom.substack.com/p/what-is-plagiarism?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=335372&post_id=140482194&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=true&r=1oiuqh&utm_medium=email

Please forgive my ignorance in embedding, apparently only the link will work. At least as far as I am able to discern. I am new to all this.

If you fall under the second category, namely, you have ascribed motives to me that I do not possess, this too, is my fault. I take full responsibility for failing at what I attempted. I sincerely apologize. If my presence offends, if you find that I am too sarcastic, too caustic, too acerbic, or my personality just plain rubs you the wrong way, well….

I will vanish faster than the smoke in my bong. And I will do so with a song in my heart and laughter on my lips.

There are more than a few reading me lately that think that I am addressing them personally.

This is both so and not so. The first person I address when I write is myself. I am my primary audience. I am attempting to be the best writer I can be. That is my only agenda.

I have opinions. They are enough for me. I do not expect others to adopt them. Why would they? They are mine. Get your own opinions.

I do not think anyone, and I mean anyone, is better than me. In any way. I do not have an axe to grind against a class, a religion, an ideology, a profession, or any specific human being. I do not wish anyone ill will. Not even Trump.

And I have despised that man with an incandescence that shocked me. Until I thought about what it must be like to live inside that skull. All that rage. All that indignation. All that sense of superiority. Oh, I was pissed for a reason.

Because I possess at least that much. But I know how to let it go. With a laugh and a smile. That’s real riches. That’s real skill. That’s real acumen. No one is an expert at this. Not even me. I still feel it. I do try and use it as a positive basis for my writing.

Sometimes I fuck up. Sometimes I piss people off. But ask yourself, what are you really mad at? Who are you really mad at?

Fighting is stupid. I know. I’ve been in so many fucking fights, fights I did my damndest to avoid. I still try and avoid it. And that has been my biggest fight. My aversion to conflict.

I will always talk back. I always have. I just learned to keep it to myself for 50 years. I’m not going to anymore.

I do not wish to offend. I do not wish to intrude. Don’t like what I write? You don’t have to read it. Don’t want my opinion? Don’t ask for it.

This is what I do. Amazing how well it works. This is my place. My house. I pay for it. Or rather, my wife does. I have no pride about these things. I am a kept man. I live in a luxury I have not earned, in many ways.

I will write what I please. I do not do feuds. Feuds are stupid.

Something does occur however, if multiple people think I am talking about them…isn’t that an indication of good writing?

So go ahead. Say what you want to about me. Make me your villain if that is what you desire. You are not mine. No one is. Oh wait. That’s not right.

I know what I am.

Hero; n. 1. A fool, properly motivated.

a. Said fool, fortunate.

b. Said fool, deceased.

c. Said fool, both fortunate and deceased.

2. A thin layer, once scratched, revealing a villain.

3. A villain, properly backlit.

4. A broad category covering villains past, revised and updated.

5. A broad category covering noble ancestors, ignored and minimized.

6. A convenient category one places those that do what one cannot or will not.

7. A citizen, rightly informed.

Peace. Love. Understanding.

If you are not down for these things than I am not down with you.

It really is just that simple.

It was a requirement. Every able bodied person from the ages of 12 to 50 had to put in five hours of practice a week.

It was common for most of the men to get together with the younger boys to practice on Saturday afternoons, just after ceremony.

The women had their own arrangement. Mysterious and secretive, as is their way. The men did not begrudge this, nor was the division strict. If a girl wanted to practice with the boys she was welcome and vice versa. The choice of where to practice was often indicative of a certain mindset, or sexual preference.

No one judged.

That said, the boys tended to stick with the boys and the girls followed suit. The goal was the same.

Proficiency.

I remember the first time I went to practice. I was 11. My father said no one would mind if I started a little early. Besides, I had quick and clever fingers, he said, you’ll take right to it.

We hurried back to our modest home to retrieve our weapons after ceremony. No one would think of showing up to ceremony armed. I am proud to say this is still the observed custom.

I was excited. I had been practicing stringing my own bow for half a year. It was very hard and I had to use all my scant weight and boyish strength to do so. Fortunately, I was not required to be able to string my own bow until I was 13. Father said I was always an overachiever. Walked before I was a year old and was running almost immediately after, to the consternation of my mother.

As we were walking to the practice field, I noticed my father scowling. This was always hard to miss. He was a world class scowler. His scowls could wither plant life. If we could weaponize his scowl, the community would not need to practice the bow.

The best way to banish my father’s scowl was to inquire as to its source. He was a hard man to anger and easy to appease, but he was a cogitator – he could not shut his mind off when it found a bone it could not chew. And his jaws were massive.

Rather than let the scowl build to the point where it was a public hazard, I decided to pull the keystone from the dam and then run as fast and as far away as I could get. Not far.

“What’s wrong dad?”

He looked at me with that side eyed glance he would use when deciding if I was old enough to hear what was troubling him. He kept that glance much longer than he needed to as I got older.

“It’s the southeasterners.” Uh oh. This was a prickly subject in our modest home as of late. My mother did not like what my father had to say about southeasterners.

“They’re talking about breaking off again. Damn fools.”

I still didn’t quite understand what the argument was about. I was 11. So I asked him.

“Why are the northwesterners and the southeasterners so mad at each other?”

My father once again gave me that side eyed glance. He was silent for another 30 paces or so. Then he stopped and said to me, “Give me your bow.” I of course handed it to him immediately.

He held it up. “This is a tool. It is used for defense. It is used to obtain food. It is used as a means to show our skill and proficiency. As long as it is maintained, it is a good tool in the hands that know how to use one.”

He pointed to the top end of the bow. “This is the northwesterners.” He pointed to the bottom end of the bow. “This is the southeasterners.” He indicated the string. “This is our politics. The thing that connects northwesterners and southeasterners.”

He took out his knife. It was very sharp. He started to slowly move the edge over the middle part of the bowstring. “There are people who are working on those in the middle. Eroding the string.” Strands of bowstring began to pop. “See this? As the middle is worn away, the tension draws the slack to the opposite ends. What was once in the middle is now forced to choose a side.”

He did not stop moving the knife edge. “As the middle section gets weaker and weaker…” The string gave way with great force and both ends sprang away from the other.

“You are left with a stick.” He tossed it to me. I caught it.

“It doesn’t matter what end of the stick is up if it isn’t a bow any longer. It is just a stick that two sides can each grab the end of and have a good game of tug of war.” He spat.

“That’s why I think the southeasterners are damn fools. They got short term gain by sawing at the middle. I know you’re too young to understand this. But remember the bow. It isn’t any use if the string is busted.”

I never forgot this talk from my father.

That is why I lead the clans now.

“…by your own words you aren’t a professional writer. Those who can’t teach. Maybe go back to teaching. If you were going to be a real writer you would have been one by now.”

Oh my. Seems I touched a nerve. Good. I like hearing this sort of thing.

Because it gives me the chance to put into practice a well worn cliché. The teachable moment.

And things of this nature are always a teachable moment. As a teacher, one has to decide what course to take in the giving of the lesson. As a writer, this is known as “knowing your audience.” Same thing as a teacher. The distinction is this:

Not all writers are teachers and not all writing is a lesson. And not all websites are what they appear.

This critic, and this person has a right to their opinion, seems to believe my self worth is tied up with being a “professional writer” or a “real” writer.

I would be lying if I said I am not interested in seeing myself in print. Any writer who says differently…well, I would ask, “What is your motive then?” And the same applies here. Because my self worth is not tied up in being “professional” in the manner in which this person ascribes. That is to say, with money. Or fame. Or acclaim.

If I never sell a word, never am published in the traditional sense, that’s fine by me. When it comes time to shuck this meat suit like a shoe that fits too tight, I will do so with a smile on my face if no one knows me but the people who already do; at least the ones I love and love me.

It would be nice to have a readership. I admit. But I don’t need it. It’s not where my self worth comes from. It isn’t where my validation comes from.

Because I know what is important. And none of that is. Not in the grand scheme of things.

Let me tell you where my self worth lies. That way, if you really want to try and insult or offend me, you at least have a shot.

My wife and I met my son and his boyfriend for dinner last night. He loves fondue and there is a fondue restaurant in downtown Portland he is very fond of. So we fond did.

As my wife and I are driving into the covered parking lot, she has to stop to get the ticket from the machine before the arm will open and allow you entry. Next to that machine, inside a tiny booth, was a woman, about 70 years old. She wasn’t looking at us. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She looked miserable.

And why wouldn’t she be? She’s 70 if she is 5, making minimum wage no doubt, because she has to. No one has this job unless they have to. I am looking at her intently. Wondering if she will look into our car. Hoping that she will. I am ready.

She does. I give her my 100 watt smile. The one that says, “HI THERE GORGEOUS!” The one she hasn’t gotten in decades. Because that’s how we treat old women in our society.

She sees me and is instantly transformed into a 20 something. She grins back at me. The arm lifts and we drive into the parking structure.

For just a few seconds there, she was happy. You don’t smile like that unless you are. Unless you’re an actor. I can act. I wasn’t.

That’s where I get my validation. Making the miserable smile. I’ve made the homeless laugh. Do you know how hard it is to make the homeless laugh?

Turns out not as hard as you may think. It helps if you have a 95 lbs silver Labrador Retriever as your introduction. People respond positively to love, it turns out. My dog is nothing but. I try to be like my dog.

Now that is validation.

Self worth only comes from the first word. Validation can come from many places. Remember though, when you seek validation from an outside source, you risk becoming a slave to that source. Choose wisely. Choose very wisely.

Thus endeth the lesson.

I’ve recently been helping a few people who have asked for help in the craft of writing.

For some reason, these people think I have something to say, or pass on when it comes to this endeavor. I am not a professional writer. I have never been paid for a word that I have scribed.

When I’ve been asked in the past to help, it’s been as a tutor to students, or as an actual teacher of Language Arts. I did not do this job for long. Because my son became paraplegic. I could not care for him and 135 students and do either my son or the students the justice required of each.

So I gave up teaching high school students. I did not give up teaching. My primary student was my son. This was tricky, as the father/son relationship is fraught with enough peril without adding the job as supplemental educator to the list. Add to this the difficulties of a body that betrays and, well, you see the task that was put before me.

But anyone who is a parent knows that you are not the supplemental educator. You are the primary one. Fortunately, my son inherited my need to people please. This makes for an eager student.

Unfortunately for me, my son is mathematically gifted. I am not. It is the one subject I have always struggled with. No matter. When one is not adequate to a task one finds those who are. My son took the AP calculus test when he was a Junior in high school and got the highest grade possible.

The little bastard can also write.

There is no justice in this world. I kid. I kid my kid.

And we kid each other, mercilessly. I am a smart ass of the highest caliber. My son tries to top me. We try to top one another. No one makes a cripple joke like my son. No one.

He said he was thinking about becoming a male stripper. I told him his stage name must be “Rolling Thunder.” He liked that. We are not a family that takes itself seriously.

My son is bisexual and is beginning the transition to becoming a female. At 31. He has been on hormone therapy for months now. I am proud that he, and he has told me it is still he for now, is discovering all who he is. It’s a process.

Like writing. Everyone has their own way of going about it and no one way is the right way. Except if you are using your efforts to tear things down out of malice, anger, hate, envy, revenge, any of the negative emotions that keep us apart. This is not the right way. It has power, oh yes, but evil almost always does, that is often what attracts its victims. These emotions have their place and to not feel them when they occur is a grave mistake.

Acting on those emotions however….

Writing helps in the expiation of many of these emotions if they are used to make art. Art is nothing less than the manifestation of an inner vision that evokes an emotional, intellectual, or spiritual response. The masters draw forth all three.

I am not a master. Not even close. I am a neophyte. And I have been writing since I was 4 or 5. The reason why I am not a master is because I never tried as hard as I could. Always held back, even if just a little.

This is a mistake. Why? Why hold back anything at all?

Because words are magic. Language is magic. And any magic that is worth a damn can hurt as well as heal. And without intention.

So, process. I can sit here and say, first do no harm, but you only get a tepid art if you do not risk some sort of harm. The only acceptable harm for me is that I do to myself. I am the only one I have permission to harm. That doesn’t mean I haven’t unintentionally harmed people with my words. Or intentionally for that matter. I do my best not to do so intentionally.

My subconscious sometimes has other ideas.

My process. I was taught to write extemporaneously. In college, we would walk in for midterms or the final, often these were the only two tests in my English classes; there would be 3 questions written on the blackboard. Answer two. You have 2 and a half hours. Go.

So the trick is to write with a combination of a loose plan in mind but with intuition. I still write this way. I don’t plan, to a great degree, what is going to come out. This post is an excellent example of that.

I recently posted “In the style of – an exercise in mimesis.” Let me tell you how I went about it. I have a copy of Harlan Ellison’s “The Essential Ellison.” I opened that book at random. I looked down. The first paragraph I saw was the paragraph I used. I did the same thing with “The Book of Disquiet.” Random. My writing responses in the style of were written intuitively, minimally edited, and then posted.

Because that’s how I’ve been writing lately. The words flow, the subjects speak, I am just the fool at the other end typing it all down. It is my responsibility to decide whether or not to hit send, or go ahead and delete it. No one else’s.

I dislike writing in code. Misunderstandings are inevitable. Feelings get hurt. Just because people won’t have an honest conversation. I am a private man who guards his time and privacy with all the zealotry of a junk yard dog. I only intrude on another’s time and space if I am compelled, or invited – and I am not a man that likes to be forced into anything.

So what is your process? I don’t know. Can’t know. Only you can answer that question. I am still answering mine. I am still developing my voice.

It’s a process.

Dear Reader,

It’s been a bit since we had a chat, dear reader. A chat. Not a diatribe on my part, nor a lecture, and if it is still a lesson that issues forth (I am a teacher at heart, always have been), it is one for me alone. I’ve limited myself to myself as the only acceptable target of examination and display for so long, I often forget that other people can take things the wrong way. And I have not been especially kind on myself in the process.

I am much kinder on myself now, although old ways die hard, and I can still come across as…prickly.

I think I’m being clever and letting my little light shine; sometimes I alienate people in the attempt.
This is a consequence of being desperate to please even if it doesn’t look that way. I have always been desperate to please. When the people who I was desperate to please inevitably proved themselves unworthy of my desperation, and desperation is rarely worthy, except in the pursuit of forgiveness, I withdrew into worlds of my own creation.

And then pulled the ladder up behind me, closed the door, and said, “I tell you what world, you don’t ask too much of me and I won’t ask too much of you.” Neither one of us has held up our end of that bargain. So I decided to break that contract in favor of a new one.

Those who only talk about themselves often find themselves in shallow water. Because much of the good stuff to be found in our depths are discovered in swimming the depths of others. It is a mistake to stay in that part of the pool that one knows their feet can always reach. This is not swimming, this is wading.

Only the most foolish of fools jumps into the ocean when they haven’t even mastered the placidity, warmth, and safety of their own pool.

On the other hand, only one who risks going too far can know how far one can go.

The foolish fool finds fact floundering, fluttering and flailing amidst floods. That they did not prepare for. The same as the body surfer drug out by the undertow, because she did not learn how to swim. True, often we are tossed into the deep end without prior instruction, this is called life.

I am no expert in the living of life. I have made many egregious mistakes. But all men make mistakes. So long as the evil is repaired and the lesson is learned than the mistake was more than that, it was a lesson to be learned, which all mistakes are. The only crime is pride. The swelling of the chest and the insistence, no! No! I am not the one who is wrong. It is the children – as Principal Skinner is so fond of saying.

I am sorry that I am still talking about myself. Still using that damn word “I.”

But in the end, it is all we are left with. That and the love we gave. If we are lucky, very very lucky, someone, and it need only be one if you do it right, will understand you. Make that connection and say, yes, you are my brother from another mother. The sister I always wished I had. The lover that always got away.

And I love you.

I do, you know, dear reader. I always have.

“Look, I don’t know what to do with her.”
“We can’t put her in another class. Tag. You’re it.” She said.
“TAG is exactly the problem.” He sighed. “She’s too TAG.”
“Has she tried to escape?”
“Twice this morning.” He said with suspicious eyes.
“There is…something.” She replied without meeting those eyes.
“I’ll take it.” He said this far too quickly.
“You’ll have to be careful. If Dickens sees you’re doing this…”
“I’ll let Dickens tutor her privately.”
“You know, that might just work.”
“Quit stalling. Give.”
“Music. Let her have her earbuds. Best of all if you let her have her earbuds and let her draw. Or read.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Will you give me a heads up if Dickens is en route, when appropriate?”
She leaned in, “Still coming over Saturday to…help grade papers?”
“When have I missed a day in the last two years?”
“I do love a diligent student. Your…language skills are impressive.”
“Flatterer. What kind of music?”
“Oh, best to let her decide that.”
“Thank god she moves on to the fourth grade soon.”
“We both know she belongs someplace better.”
“We both know they all do.”
“Fair.”
“Love you.”
“I know. See you Saturday.” She left with a touch more hip sway than was strictly necessary.

He walked back into the classroom. Most of the children were still working on their math. A few were whispering to each other and giggling, one was contemplating a crayon, burnt umber.

She was sitting there, quietly, watching the door, a beaming smile on her face. As soon as he made eye contact with her, she held one hand out to him, palm up. She rapidly curled just her fingertips towards that palm, three times.

He laughed in spite of himself. Walked to his desk, retrieved a pair of earbuds that were nothing special, if one didn’t notice how well worn they were.

He walked to her desk and placed the earbuds in her outstretched hand.

“What am I going to do with you, Mathilda?” He asked.

She lowered her chin so her eyes were looking up at him in angelic innocence.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that question?”

Corcovado

Quiet nights of quiet stars
Quiet chords from my guitar
Floating on the silence that surrounds us

Quiet thoughts and quiet dreams
Quiet walks by quiet streams
And a window that looks out on Corcovado

Oh, how lovely
This is where I wanna be
Here with you so close to me
‘Til the final flicker of life’s ember

I, who was lost and lonely
Believing life was only
A bitter, tragic joke have found with you
The meaning of existence, oh, my love

Quiet nights and quiet stars
Quiet chords from my guitar
Floating on the silence that surrounds us
Quiet thoughts and quiet dreams

Quiet walks by quiet streams
Climbing hills where lovers go to watch the world below together
We will live eternally in this mood of reverie
Away from all the earthly cares around us

I, who was lost and lonely
Believing life was only
A bitter, tragic joke have found with you
The meaning of existence, oh, my love

She would not listen, but pulled herself away from him, deep into the closet, and closed her eyes. He moved his lips several times, as though trying to recall words he had already spoken, but there was no sound, and he lit a cigarette, and sat in the open doorway of the closet, smoking and waiting for her to come back to him, since he had been inducted and she had written him telling him, Rudy, I’m going to live with Jonah on The Hill. Harlan Ellison – Shattered Like a Glass Goblin

He could not see her, so he closed one eye, like a child making a face, or a soldier at night trying to preserve his night sight. He alternated between the two, as though trying to send her messages by lidded semaphore, but there was no sound, so he dragged smoke into his lungs, an ember stoked and threatening the shadows of the closet, which hung about her, an inky black cloak, as was any knowledge of her since she had written telling him, Rudy, I’m going to live with Jonah on The Hill. Daniel Hero, in the style of Harlan Ellison

The more I contemplate the spectacle of the world and the ebb and flow of change in things, the more deeply am I convinced of the innately fictitious nature of it all, of the false prestige given to the pomp of reality. And in this contemplation, which any reflective person will have experienced at some time or other, the motley parade of costumes and fashions, the complex path of progress and civilizations, the magnificent tangle of empires and cultures, all seem to me like a myth and a fiction, dreamed up amidst shadows and oblivion. But I do not know if the supreme summation of all these aims, vain even when achieved, lies in the joyful renunciation of the Buddha, who, on comprehending the emptiness of it all, woke from his ecstasy saying: “Now I know everything,” or in the world-weary indifference of the Emperor Severus: omnia fui, nihil expedit – I was all things; all was worthless. Fernando Pessoa – The Book of Disquiet, 135. (1917)

The more I ruminate on the nature of how love shapes and cultivates the character of all things, the more deeply am I sure of the innately foundational nature of that emotion, of the lip service it is given in the name of capitalism. And in this rumination, which any feeling person will have suffered at some point along their timeline, the rejections of affection, the stabs of betrayal in places unreachable, the complex path of choices and circumstance, the glorious wreck of utter abandon, all seem to me exactly the point, dreamed up amidst a terrible loneliness enfolded in shadows and oblivion. But I do know the supreme summation of all this love, never vain when achieved (and it is), lies in the joyful acceptance of ones own Buddha nature, when on comprehending the nature of paradox, we wake from our own shadows and oblivion in full ecstasy saying: “Now I know myself,” or enough to know wholeness never left, it was simply misplaced in the world-weary indifference of Emperor Severus: omnia fui, nihil expedit – I was all things; all was worthless. Daniel Hero in the style of Fernando Pessoa.

Platitude, n. The fundamental element and special glory of popular literature. A thought that snores in words that smoke. The wisdom of a million fools in the diction of a dullard. A fossil sentiment in artificial rock. A moral without the fable. All that is mortal of departed truth. A demi-tasse of milk and morality. The pope’s nose of a featherless peacock. A jelly fish withering on the shore of the sea of thought. The cackle surviving the egg. A desiccated epigram. Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

Asshole, n. The fundamental test and proving ground of humanity. A pile of feces dressed up and shambling across the countryside, leaking. The distillation of billions of years of bad behavior. The mistake that cannot solve itself. The example that isn’t. The reconciliation of infinite self loathing and limited years of existence. Your ticket to another trip around the wheel of life. The primary reason the devil has slept in late since the dawn of creation, that is to say, delegation. The last remaining man on Earth. Or woman. Only an asshole discriminates based on gender. Daniel Hero, Hero’s Dictionary

Ladies and Gentlemen!
Boys and girls!
Bitches and bitchettes from around the world!
We are Smokey Joe and The Kid
And we wanna introduce you to the most angriest man in the world
And his name is MysDi-
Wait, wait, wait, wait-
What the hell is going on with this angry man shit, man!?
You lot know I’m not an angry man!
My teeth are always shining just like my forehead, man
How could you say that to me?
What? Nah, it’s just- nah I don’t know, sometimes when I get the right beat
You know- (Yeah) I might react like a, um, I don’t know-

Savage on attack
Travel ground like a camel with a saddle on his back
And he sounds like some rabid type of animal on tracks
Camera’s wanna flash to capture when he channel’s what you lack (Yrah!)
Mid demolition is a comfort zone
In Dubai turning the worlds tallest buildings into bungalows
Candy arse suckers know who’s had the bars undertoe
Attacking mother lovers like an angry Mark Ruffalo

Walking atom blast, avalanching on the ones below
You and your army have to march or you’re cover’s blown
Your team freeze like they struck a pose
While I generate the type of heat to make it seem as if summer’s cold
They all wonder though, how this guy be tamed?
Quite insane with a menacing type of frame
If fire blazed he ignited the flame
That’s why his brain might be blamed for climate change

But I’m a nice guy really
And even if you don’t wanna believe that shit (ha-ha)
Still a pleasure to meet you, yeah
You can see that I’m a nice guy clearly
That might be quick to hit that switch
But- uhm, only if I need to (yeah)
See, I’m a nice guy really
And even if you don’t wanna believe that shit (ha-ha)
Still a pleasure to meet you (yeah)
You can see that I’m a nice guy clearly
That might be a little quick to hit that switch
But- uhm, only if I need to (yeah, ha-ha)

So let me know it you’re ready for the madness
Was given the prescription but never got the tablets
Meant to take the medication, couldn’t get it from the cabinet
Now I’m a grizzly bear with a message for you campers
Snatch that plate and that cake but wait
What’s in that bag mate? I’ll grab that in case and aye
Don’t bother rile up, like an honest liar
I’ll leave u stranded, pop your tires then start a damn forest fire

Hot wiring to get in a lane
Never again to be got in so remember the name
Medics are saying that I’m bonkers, to hell with their claims
Severe these chains that I’m locked in for mental escape
Walk the thin line between pleasure and pain
Leaving cracks in concrete every step of the way
Anywhere there’s silence getting buried in sirens
En route from the mental asylum (he-he-he)

But I’m a nice guy really
And even if you don’t wanna believe that shit (ha-ha)
Still a pleasure to meet you, yeah
You can see that I’m a nice guy clearly
That might be quick to hit that switch
But- uhm, only if I need to (yeah)
See, I’m a nice guy really
And even if you don’t wanna believe that shit (ha-ha)
Still a pleasure to meet you (yeah)
You can see that I’m a nice guy clearly
That might be a little quick to hit that switch
But- uhm, only if I need to (yeah, ha-ha)