This Blog's posts will be a series of installments of an original piece of a work in progress fiction that will be published in the near future. Think of it as a thematic piece with various of episodes threaded together by a common theme, characters, time line,journey and purpose. Your comments are welcomed !
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
4. Promethean Interlude…
Some arson investigators seem to love their work. Sifting through smoldering ashes to find the cause of a fire can be considered burdensome and dirty. Accidental occurrence, carelessness or result of a deliberate action are focal points for these tireless detectives . Some situations are more complex in the solving than others. Yet the flame of a vestibule’s votive candle , the fire of the torch on the bow of a ship making way in the darkest of nights and the crackling embers in a backyard fire-pit that bursts out of control destroying a forest have common origin . The energy that gives life to the spark that becomes fire is the nascency of everything .
Being charged to think about, reflect and write on a specific prompt or topic was considered quite objectionable work by Jake . He believed that he had more important things to think about and do. He really didn’t know much about learning theory or teaching. Somedays he just lacked any spark . He also didn’t want to be exposed have others discover that possibly he didn’t know much of anything. Dr. G. used to say
“Writing is knowing. “
Jake worried about how little he seemed to know after so much writing.
“Maybe there is a flaw in Dr. G.’s theorem? “
Dr. G. had assigned his class a personal reflective paper on the topic of “Work and Play.” Jake slipped into worry
“How can one have an original thought about work and play?”
He had no idea as to where he would get an idea. Sundance would always find a way to get Jake started. Sundance would gift him with a good book , poem or even a brilliant quote for inspiration. Unfortunately the night before the paper was due Sundance was inconveniently at some type of choral rehearsal. Jake liked to think that last minute concentration would create enough pressure magically instigating an explosion of creative ideas and words. The due date was here and he had avoided thinking about the assignment as it fueled nothing more than a good old fashioned anxiety attack. Avoidance was not a form of waiting.
Dr. G. would never forgive Jake if he was remiss in turning in some reflection. Jake tried to find an excuse rather than pursue a solution.
“Maybe I can get sick for a few days? No one ever questions how sick people get with diarrhea. No one says ‘How is it coming now?’ No one wants to hear about the messy details. That’s it then - a stomach virus, food poisoning from that Japanese restaurant where you eat chum as an appetizer is always believable! The ole ‘Tijuana two step’ caused by a Japanese delicacy!”
It was resolved. He relaxed. The evening before the due date slowly evolved into a complete night of restless-free sweet dreaming sleep. As the new morning’s sun’s rays seeped through the blinds brightening his room with light, clarity and color his eyes opened and he discovered inner flint and steel. The regular required first jolt of caffeine was unnecessary as he fell out of bed towards his desk, rolled a sheet into his typewriter and with two fingers pecked away without second thoughts, white out or edits - all in one swift energized motion.
“Victory!”
Months later this early morning essay success of sorts, now graded by Dr. G. , had found it’s way escaping Jake’s unorganized floppy loose leaf binder during one of Sundance’s visits to Jake’s home. Sundance grabbed the sheets and scanned it and kept it for a while without telling Jake. He didn’t know why he did that. He was just concerned. Sundance eventually surreptitiously slipped paper back where he found it without Jake ever realizing it was gone .
“Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.”
- Albert Camus
Hermann Hesse right…”Make your play your work and your work your play.” This concept is harder than one would think. It is especially hard for someone like myself growing up in a family of workaholics. Workaholics - alcoholics they are all the same aren’t they?
Some work hard at being good at what they do and some seem to do things with no effort . If my friend Sundance isn’t writing he is practicing for the stage at Carnegie Hall . Meanwhile I am sweating away trying to scribble ideas here and there and attempting to carry a tune into beer soaked mikes in bars. Isabella doesn’t particularly like competing with the tavern groupies or me hugging “Betty”, my guitar, all night long. Her objection to the music is mitigated by the cash flow. Maybe her view would change if she could benefit somehow from my writing? Sometimes it’s work just to keep going. Though Isabella is a little persistent about being me being prudent with my earnings she never turns down a night on the town.
Workaholics and alcoholics, same ship different colors flying.
My dad surprised me every once in a while. One day he came home from the second shift at work with a big ole big box guitar to learn on when I was about 11 years old. He knew I had an interest in playing and though he objected to this “nonsensical pursuit” he gifted me with this guitar. It was like a very full sized woman. I wanted so much to enjoy the delight of holding her but I just couldn’t get comfortable putting my arms around her. I had been lusting for that one sleek guitar in the store downtown just like the one I saw at the car show in NYC. I had become expert in unrequited lust.
I needed that guitar!
Bert , Bobby Vigilanti, a good friend, and me were quite young to sneak away on a bus to New York City to go to the “Car show”. On the lower floor of the old Madison Square Garden in the maze of shiny new brightly colored cars and beautiful bikini clad magazine models using their long soft fingers carefully stroking fins and hood ornaments is where I was stopped dead in his tracks. My heart thumped but it wasn’t the cars or girls. The air was filled with screeching pounding live rock and roll pounding my chest to the beat of the coordinated pulsations of the bass drum and bass guitar . The three of us revved our engines and sprinted to the source of the music. It was as if we had found Mount Tabor and were witnessing a salvation moment.
I can only imagine my demeanor as ‘reverential’ as I stood in silent awe of this group called The Kingsmen performing “Louie , Louie” live right before my eyes and ears. It was as if no one else was present. I know I was lost as the guitarist’s supple fingers stroked the long narrow neck with ease. Dreams of acquiring the newest fastest gas guzzling hot rod to challenge Richard Petty at the next Daytona five hundred faded into the sunset.
“Me gotta go”
I wanted that guitar!
Heartfelt desire cannot be restrained. I started to calculate how many newspapers I would have to sell and deliver to buy that guitar in the music store window. Lots of cash makes people’s wallets fat and does the same to their heads. Satisfaction doesn’t always come easy and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. After I earned enough money and purchased that guitar my intention was to quit that paper route but something inside me kept me going. I just couldn’t stop working. Before I knew it I had the largest paper route around and hired Bert to help out with the heavy deliveries on Sundays. The Wanderers did what they did well - teased me as I was still delivering papers well into my high school years. But I am the only one in the group who always had cash in his pocket. Whenever the Wanderers would go out they’d be sure to invite me.
Playing music with Sundance and the Wannabes in high school was more for the fun and meeting girls than making money. We never considered playing music as a career choice. We weren’t half bad. We weren’t half good either but when we crooned along with the stroking the necks of our guitars the girls swooned. Now that I am older these gigs of playing in bands at bars have become consistent channels for filling his bank account. However, the winds of time seemed to alter the bliss of playing as it was gradually being replaced by the overwhelming desire to fill the silos. Attachments began to distract me. That which brought me to a place where I would lose sense of time and experience a peace like no other was slowly evolving into to drudgery. As long as the money flowed Isabella wasn’t sure why I was concerned or getting tired.
Sometimes when I am alone at night I wonder about “why work at all?” It wasn’t difficult for me to drift and think about how much I admired good ole Bobby Vigilanti. He grew up playing golf and loved it so much went on to be the only Wanderer who was awarded a full ride to college…to play golf. He never did get distracted by things like cars music or women . He was one of the youngest ever to qualify for the PGA tour .
I would try to explain these feelings to my friends Al and Sundance . It seemed to me that they were more attuned to who they were and always more focused about where they were headed. I told them that when I was in eighth grade I dreamed of being a truck driver. I dreamed of being paid to – be on the road, always meet new people, see new places and have new experiences. The captain of my own vessel, a Columbus on land, an iconoclastic searching sojourner! They just said “god luck!”
Sundance added the advice
“Find out what you love to do and do it with love!”
Al tried to console
“Everyone has a gift and when we use it we are blessed.”
I have been searching to find out what to do and where the gift is, if any exists. I told Al “Well at least Charles Marlowe knew he was looking for Kurtz while traversing down that uncharted river. I hope I know when I get to where I am going. “
Jake felt comfortable criticizing others at times because he felt well practiced at it on himself. It was no surprise that he really wasn’t completely satisfied with the narrative but he felt that
“at least I go something on paper.”
He had been intrigued by Hemingway’s “iceberg” approach to writing however he feared that what was beneath his own surface would never be too deep to warrant any interest by another. So sometimes he would practice a form of self-purging writing where he would put on paper anything and everything he could get out of this system.
Surprises come in all different forms. Often the reason they are a surprise in the first place is because when the event or situation happens we are never prepared or expectant. Sometimes Jake would surprise himself with what would come from his pen. Some surprises are not always good ones. The result of much of what he had written he believed would be on the lower end of effectiveness side on the Pritchard scale.
True to character, Dr. G. was devilishly delighted in how he shocked Jake with the grade he gave him for this paper. Cognizant that it was last minute and half hearted attempt at constructing a “personal reflective paper” the grade with no comments or edits disturbed Jake. He protested that he didn’t deserve that grade. He protested almost everything. Sundance would never tell Jake but he silently agreed this time with Jake’s assessment of his grade. Yet, Sundance never knew that Dr. G. had sternly chastised Jake for his objection by almost biting his head off
“I will give an “A” any time anywhere to anyone I please!”
Life gets interesting when gifts and surprises commingle!
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