Have an eBook out soon. That and some political science out of the way, back to the novel.
Chapter 1
I don’t know if you need to hear this, but if you do, I won’t tell it with humility. My teachers were vain. Back during their time it was a dishonor to Sun, Earth, and life to fail to attempt to be as truthful, brilliant as possible at any moment. My teachers used metaphor to pull life into focus; looking at our blue paradise from orbit, as if visitors from another galaxy, you start to see human civilization as a type of comic book, where one event follows the next; and after contemplating it a decade or two, pretty soon the question emerges: what’s the truth of our existence as sapient beings? Is it just a bunch of haphazard events bumbling into the future? The result of money influencing things? Is it the world’s banks and religions jousting for supremacy? A confluence of everything? The rub is, the more you look into things the more complicated they become—especially if you’re an artist and a scientist and your whole existence is a burning desire to identify the truth. I mean, how can you create great art or science without knowing what’s true?
Panning out from a few details to lots of details—from a river, to a forrest, a continent, a planet—is a great metaphor too. The older you get the larger the frame becomes. The larger the frame, the more you see. The more you see the more you know. A writer once said all nature is nothing but metaphor to the mind—you can take our universe and anything in it, and use it to explain life. For instance, you decide to meet for a reconciliation with a family member, or you have an upcoming salary review with employer, and the possibility exists in either case, that unless there is persuading on your part, things might not go the way you think they should. So you set forth finding reasons to point out one thing and mention another. In metaphor, how you are going to play the meeting? Like a match of chess or game of golf or musical instrument? How are you going to counter the brother-in-law’s bishop with a knight? What club on approach to the green for the highest paycheck? What chord progression in the sales pitch is the best music?
Of course the most famous metaphor of all time goes back to the Greeks, the one about a bunch of people in a cave looking at shadows on a wall, believing it to be all of reality, and then people who climbed outside to see everything as it is. Humans restricted to thinking shadows on cave walls are all there is, and then those living in the world as it actually is, raises the question about wanting to know the truth or not, and the old adage that ignorance is bliss, and most people would much rather live in a cave of their making.
Another metaphor describing existence is that of a burning house, like you’re part of a society and the structure which keeps elements at bay—your home and government—is on fire and in danger of being utterly destroyed.
If a story can help someone live a life where they make the transition from cave-dweller to non-cave-dweller, I’ll hold fast it’s a good thing, as painful as it might be. And the argument that some people just can’t handle the truth, I reject that too. The capability of humans to lead other humans out of a cave into sunlight—what the Greeks declared the duty of artists and scientists—is confirmation the purpose of existence is to learn—and not learn just any old thing—but learn the truth. The purpose of life is to learn the truth. It’s why we’ve gotten this far; our species would have perished long ago if not for the capability to enlighten our own kind.
After a number of years of watching the world, looking into the abyss so to speak, I knew I had to write a novel because it’s the most important art form when talking about leading fellow humans into reality. One good novel—one story artfully told—the right words in the right order—will walk someone right out of a cave. Lots of people have a book that changed their life. And so I read novels, noting what other artists had done, and what I might try myself.
Anyone says writing a novel isn’t the most difficult thing a human can do doesn’t know what they’re talking about. A literary novel, a book that takes the past and present and combines it to make life relevant—that attempt to give meaning to us little monkeys who are sometimes warm, soft, and furry inside, and others as cold, cunning, and deadly as all the teeth and claws to have ever torn something apart. I was struggling to finish my masterpiece, well aware tens of millions of humans have attempted it, but never finished. I was losing steam, I needed inspiration, I needed a muse—someone beautiful and interested—maybe even doing something admirable with her life.
Life without art is incomprehensible, like Earth without ocean. And art, the type that can alter consciousness and move an entire society out of the cave, requires an artist who is inspired. That’s why the relationship between muse and artist is sacred, because its profound effect on what art comes into being and where we go from there. When someone inspires someone else to excel, or inspires any intention, invention, or act creating a more truthful and thus more beautiful world—that must be sacred, right? Unless you’d rather be a robot. Then maybe the artist/muse relationship isn’t all that. Maybe the metaphor these days is not whether you’re living in a cave, but whether you’re more robot than human—two metaphors describing the same truth. I don’t want people to be robots because robots can only do what they’re programmed to do. It’s the difference between being told what to feel, and actually feeling. I refuse to be a robot.
Chapter 2
x I asked the universe to send me a muse, and the next day I walked into a movie theater, and the film starts; about a guy down on his luck. I was getting restless, almost ready to leave, when the love interest appears. I was struck dumb, the most beautiful thing in the world. The sight of her made me dizzy—her looks, her voice, her laugh—I was captivated in a way I never had been. If there was a woman that fine on Earth, how could anything be wrong? I went to find out what I could—kind of the way someone treading water seeks a float, or someone twisting in the wind, something to hang on to. I didn’t need to be with her, I just needed to be inspired. If she wasn’t married, that would be perfect, I could project and fantasize while working.
It turns out she’d done films, TV and plays. I found an interview where she used the word consciousness, which made my heart melt as I’d been reading about and studying consciousness for years. If we ever met we could probably talk forever. I noticed a list-serve of fans who posted messages about when she was going to appear in a new role. A few weeks went by and then someone posted a message that she was going to be in a play in New York City. I looked at the calendar and without knowing where I’d get the money, replied to the list I was going to see it, and asked if anyone else wanted to meet up for a show. No one replied. A few nights later I posted a comment about being a poet and her being my muse, followed by a couple of poems; trying to be brilliant, trying to make Earth and Sun proud. Go tell this woman she’s an inspiration, and seeing her perform live would be one of the great moments of my life—win, lose, or draw. I was committed to the idea of carrying out a narrative as if I was writing it best it could be written for me, an artist who needed to finish a novel. I really, really wanted to meet her if I could. She is what would be described as a raging beauty.
The date arrives, get to New York City, and night of play ask usher if actors exit out front or a stage door—out front the answer. Get seated, watch play, and she’s awesome—just a great artist playing her part so convincingly at every turn that I forgot who she was and why I was there. The play ends, the cast takes bows; to see her standing there that moment, flush, invigorated, eyes beaming, was a moment of a lifetime. I’m pulsing with excitement and fear.
Out front there are a dozen or more audience members waiting, and before long actors begin to appear out front in street clothes. We thank them for a great performance. The whole cast had come and gone—everyone but her. The usher and ticket person are locking things up and I realize I’m the only one there. Suddenly there she is, headed out with two companions—an attractive woman, obviously her mom, and a young girl, probably her niece.
“Hi!” I said. “I thought you were great tonight!”
“Well thanks! What’s your name?” I told her my name. I froze, flustered—“Your beauty is an inspiration!”
“Thank you!”
“I’m a writer and want to write a play for you!”
“Wow—that’s great!”
“Would it be all right if we met a few minutes before your matinee tomorrow? Talk about things of interest? Things I can write about?”
“OK!”
“OK—meet you out front?” I asked, pointing through glass to bench across way.
“Yeah,” she said with a smile.
“OK. Good-night!” I said and ran down the street. I get to a bar and it dawns on me she probably knew about the list, did like the poetry, and waited until everyone was gone to meet me. I was supposed to be having a drink with her that moment and started to figure there was no way she was going to be there the next day. Lay in bed starting at the ceiling all night, get to theater next day in deep dread. I turn around and there she is. The look on her face is one of dread also.
“Hi—thanks for showing up,” I said.
“Sure,” as if there only because she said she would.
We head to stone bench I had pointed to, but it had rained and the whole thing was puddles. There was another bench nearby and we headed there.
“I saw you had some relatives with you last night.”
“Yes, my mom and my niece,” she said.
“I apologize for not introducing myself. I saw you, and I just wasn’t myself.”
“It’s OK,” she said. We sat down, I opened a notebook and started asking.
“Favorite plays?”
“Shakespeare? The Seagull? The Doll House?”
“Any period of history you find interesting?”
“No, not really. It’s all interesting to me.”
“Any historical figure?”
“Maybe Amelia Earhart? Beryl Markham?”
“Did you readWest with the Night?”
“Yeah,” she said and smiled.
“OK, I’ll write a play about an aviatrix.”
“Wow!” she said, back to same the same enthusiasm she had the night before.
“My flight leaves tomorrow, can I buy you a drink or something?”
“Well thank you, but I have to decline. My family is in town, and I do have a man in my life.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well then, thanks for spending this time.”
“My pleasure.”
“Almost finished with a novel, and soon as done, I’m writing a play.”
“Wow!” she said. “What’s your novel about?”
“Some derelict surfer in Malibu,” I said with a wink, and she laughed.
“The protagonist runs into people and they turn him on to ideas.”
“Oh yeah, like what ideas?”
“Marcus Aurelius?”
“Yeah, he’s great.”
“The universe is transformation, life is opinion.”
“I know that one,” she said. We looked at each other with smiles.
“Well, let’s not make you late,” I said, rising to walk her to the theater.
Standing at the doors, it was blustery and I’ll never forget the way a gust tossed her bangs across her brow.
“Thanks for taking a few minutes,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Have a good play!”
“OK, have a safe flight back to LA!”
“Bye!”
First part, Chapter 3
Because I dropped everything and met her, I was now on fire. Back to California in artist nirvana, a state of bliss where the most beautiful muse ever, who you’ve adored and now at last have sat with—telling her how your novel is almost finished and you’re set to write plays—the smile on her face—the excitement in her eyes—if writing is heavy lifting, there was no amount that couldn’t be moved. As inspired as a human can be, work was near effortless, fully attempting what artists always have—to set the world alight—to transform the status quo into something new and beautiful. Countless times life has been lost for lack of light and heat and in a cold dark universe; inspiration is catalyst and often a matter of life and death in the struggle for existence. Of all the types of inspiration in the world, whether it be awesome beauty of mountain, sea, and sky, or the drama of human endurance and achievement—romantic inspiration is most potent. A lot of work can be completed on notions of kissing an actress.
*
With odd jobs here/there, was working away to finish novel when an old friend called. We had been members to a pack of surfers a in our youth and one way to put cash in our pockets was to sell popcorn, cotton candy and sodas along parade routes. Every weekend in Southern California, somewhere there’s a parade going down. Sometimes it paid a hundred dollars, sometimes a thousand, money to surf another day.
“Whaddaya got going these days?” he asks.
“Just got back from New York City.”
“What had you out there?”
“A play.”
“A play?”
“A play and an actress.”
“Did you score?”
“No.”
“Too bad—but you’re broke, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The Olympics are coming and the torch relay just started going around the country for the next two months. I got a van full of Olympic Committee merchandise.”
“Nice!”
“We can pick you up in Ohio tomorrow. Book a flight, gotta go.”
Flying into Cleveland I looked down at city lights doubting I’d be able to work on the novel because that type of writing requires a set-up and immersion back to where you left off; like being a deep-sea diver who has to put gear on and descend before actually getting to work. A working road trip would be more poems and notes for plays rather than literary prose; figured I’d come back with funds to finish the book without interruption.
*
The Olympic Torch commemorates the moment one god stole fire from the others and gave it to humanity. It represents both the pursuit of perfection and the triumph of victory. In ancient times, the actual flame was created from sunlight at the Temple of Hera, and the same ceremony still happens there to this day.
First the flame travels runner to runner, torch alighting torch, throughout Greece, and after a final night in Athens heads to the host country where it begins the relay to the opening ceremony; when the final runner enters the arena to light the fire, marking the beginning of the games. USA was host country that year, and the relay route wound through every state except Alaska and Hawaii.
Our crew consisted of my friend Marcus, two others, and myself. Marcus, a white accentuating his passing resemblance up in his forties; short, dark hair beginning to gray, wore John Lennon glasses—small lens, wire frame. Back when we were surf punks, instead of becoming a carpenter or other construction trade like everyone else, Marcus aspired to finance. He put himself through college and taught himself on-line trading while searching for other opportunities—which led him to notice the Olympic Torch Route and selling merchandise to commemorate it.
The other two guys in the crew were a musician in his thirties and a kid not even twenty. The musician was named Cooper. Pro football player size, he had round features, dark eyes and dark hair tied in a ponytail which dropped past his shoulder blades. The lanky kid was named Johnny, who had a mop of white-blonde hair above bright blue eyes, and a serious bearing. They picked me up in an extra-length passenger van, the back seats removed for boxes of merch.
“Jack is an artist and scholar,” Marcus tells Cooper and Johnny as I climb in.
“What do you have degrees in?” Johnny asks.
“Literature and art,” I say. “You in school?”
“Nah, dropped out.”
“I didn’t graduate either, went back in my late twenties.”
“Maybe I’ll go back,” he says.
“A lot of people who hated school and bailed, a little later in life, get totally into education.”
“Marcus, you think Johnny can find true love in college?” asks Cooper deadpan.
“Johnny’s too fast for love!” replies Marcus, to which Cooper falsettos the old rock lyric ‘too fast for love’ while Johnny shakes his head and points to Cooper, “You’ll find him amusing at times.” Cooper laughs into a giggle.
*
We intercepted the Olympic Torch Route, and stopped at a motel to prep. In the parking lot we break open boxes of pennants—or banners as they call them in north-eastern states—which were orange and yellows with a bright blue or green streak. From another box we took out wooden sticks and began sticking them while Marcus sorted t-shirts, ball caps, collectable pins, and small silk flags with the Olympic Rings. Everything we had, had a silvery hologram sticker showing it official merchandise.
“Who knows what they’re gonna do when we get to the route?" Marcus asks.
“Make sales!” I bark.
“And how will you make the most sales Jack?” Marcus asks.
“Tellin’ everyone we got official Olympic Committee merchandise!”
“Exactly!” exclaims Marcus. “Number one thing, you gotta be vocal and tell people what you got! You have to call it out— Official merchandise folks! Pennants! Hats!” he tells Cooper and Johnny. “You can’t just walk along with a smile—you have to interact —‘Hi, what can I get you folks today!?”
“It’s monkey-see, monkey-do out there,” I add. “Someone sees someone else buying something, before you know it, people are crossing the street to get to you.”
“Where do we keep the money?” Johnny asks. We found the box with the money belts, broke it open, and handed them out. Sky blue, they were sturdy canvas with three broad and deep pockets.
“These,” Marcus says, looking one over, “we want stuffed with Federal Reserve notes.”
“What?” Johnny asks.
“Cash,” I say.
“Dead presidents—homeboy!” adds Cooper.
*
Done prepping we went downtown for the best steak dinner we could find. Being a Californian, newly landing in the midwest, I was blown away seeing first-hand what looked like a movie set, backdrop to a Superman comic. Only knowing modern suburbs of Los Angeles, I was only a suburb dweller, rather than an American of the midwest living with stark history every day; it made me feel inferior, but also proud.
Cleveland was named after General Moses Cleaveland, who fought in the War for Independence and helped ratify the Constitution. Paid by a company to go out and settle the virgin forests along the Great Lakes; when his expedition arrived, a delegation of Mohawk and Seneca opposed their entrance, but were persuaded to trade for technology. The expedition coasted along the shore and landed at the mouth of the Cuyahoga River, where Cleaveland ascended a bank, and beholding a luxuriant plane of trees, determined the site favorable for a city. He went back home to Connecticut and never returned. Cleaveland became Cleveland when the first newspaper discovered the mast-head too long for the press form. They left out the letter a, and the new spelling was adopted throughout town at once. Surveyed with a central square, based on how New Englanders had done it since the days of the colonies—just like Bowling Green in New York City—where such initially served as a common pasture. A century later Public Square in Cleveland was the height of modernity when, 1879 it became the first American street lit with electric lights.
*
The next morning the Olympic Torch route along Lakeshore Boulevard; the bright green canopies of trees shading old mansions, churches, civic buildings, and ornamental brickwork, again struck me as idyllic. The green, white, and red, stark in the blazing sunlight next to the vast shimmering blue of a great lake was quite an impression, and again, like you were in one of the best movie scenes ever.
We find the route and it’s four people deep and not another vendor in sight. I’m in the back seat of the van clutching bundles of pennants and silks held tight with rubber bands, couple dozen t-shirts over my shoulder, money belt covered with collectable pins, and tied at the hip, plastic bags holding stacks of ball caps. I’m loaded and frothing, “Here—let me out—let me out!”
“Give these guys a quick pep talk,” Marcus says. Cooper and Johnny look back like nervous kids, mouths half open, eyes darting to the curbsides packed with people. To jump in front of a big crowd like that can be intimidating. I had done parades for years, they hadn’t.
“Here’s the circus boys, you’re the barker! Open the door, I’ll show ya!” Johnny opens door, I climb out to crowd—“Official merchandise folks!” I get mobbed, people gathering around; Marcus pauses a minute as they watch the exchange of merch for money at its most hectic. Then they were then dropped off, took to it like water, and when we were all back in the van headed to the next town, straightening out wads of bills pulled from stuffed money belts, we filled the cabin with exclamations of happiness.
“Quite the pass-out Jack!” Marcus hoots.
“Pass-out!” I bellow back.
“Pass-out!” exclaims Johnny.
“Get ready to make a fortune gentlemen!” says Cooper.
Done counting, we re-load merch, and as I stuck pennants and wrapped bands around silks, I’d steal glances out the window to see majestic houses go by, large unfenced yards, laundry lines hanging blue jeans, someone riding a mower over grass, enormous trees everywhere. I thought about the actress and daydreamed about directing actors on some future stage. The Olympic Torch route would finance the launch pad. I was going to tell her one day I sold stuff like it’s never been sold, to sit and write, to get next to her.
“Get ready to rock n’ roll!” Marcus says as we roll into the next town.
“Look at this town!” I exclaim.
“Beautiful!”
“I need to piss.”
We check local paper for route at a stop, drive to it, and there it was again—a street packed with people and not a single vendor to be seen.
“I’ll get out here,” says Cooper. “Open the door Johnny.”
“High man goes first,” says Marcus.
“What?!” cry Cooper and Johnny.
We deploy again, the people excited, anticipating the torch runner, buying stuff at fever pitch. The route ends, and again in the van, headed to the next town, we fill the cab with exclamations of joy, pulling apart wads of cash.
“Venture capitalism at its finest boys!”
“High man gets out first!” says Cooper.
“We haven’t even counted-out yet,” replies Johnny.
“I got you guys on this one, I’ll be getting out first,” he giggles.
*
If you were on the route waiting for the torch runner to arrive, the following sequence of events would unfold: first, people start showing up, setting out chairs/coolers along route, then local cops/cadets start blocking intersections. With the crowd filled in, corporate sponsor vehicles arrive handing out sodas, stickers, and plastic flags with logo. Then a parade of Olympic Committee vehicles, often with a local, state, or national celebrity waving, followed by a shuttle that would drop off a runner holding their unlit torch. People would gather around for congratulations and inspect the artistry that went into the torches, then someone would say “Look!” and in the distance was an approaching runner, torch lit. They would arrive, the two runners pass the flame from the Temple of Hera, and off they’d go to the sound of cheers. Waves of people washed across the street as the runner passed, some running alongside them.
There was usually a mid-sized city with a mini-celebration at noon, then after more towns it would end the day in major city. At the city’s downtown center was a celebration site and mass of people. The final runner, usually a celebrity, ran into the site and lit a sculpture with the Olympic logo. The flame would catch from their torch to cheers, the mayor and civic leaders would say a few words, then fireworks and music.
Early next morning the first runner would light their torch from the sculpture that had burned all night, and begin the relay out of the city. Completing each route, a corporate sponsor truck with a sculpted bowl in the bed, would be at an on-ramp out of town; lit by the last runner, it would take off to the next town, the next route, where the first runner would be waiting to relay all over again.
Morning, noon, or night, every minute the torch was on the route you could be putting cash in your belt. Problem was, if you were too far out front of the relay, the crowd wasn't a crowd yet, and sales were weak, and you had to lap back; but if you got too close, you risked getting caught behind the Torch Train—that long entity of Olympic Committee and corporate sponsor vehicles, followed by local media, police/fire, and street sweepers. If you got stuck behind—a two-lane highway to the next route—you weren’t going to be on the street selling out. You wanted to be in front of it, but not too far, but then not too close where you get caught. You could see and hear it coming from the roar of the crowd, and you’re making sales left and right, so you had to use discretion—caught behind meant sitting in traffic, missing the next route and hundreds of dollars. We then referred to that quarter mile, that frenzied sweet spot, as the mouth of the dragon, and that’s what the day became, where Marcus would deploy us and pick us up as the route proceeded. A captain knowing the things needing to be known, but also great driving skills, was indispensable to making the enterprise work, and Marcus was exceptional. When Johnny found an Olympic Committee lanyard, Marcus used it. To cops and local officials he’d flash it and say we’re running support for the torch. We milked the sweet spot all day—crowded streets, merch practically yanked from your hands.
*
The next morning, on the way to the noon-time event, straightening bills in the van, Cooper says, “Hey check this out, I heard someone say—‘Look! There he is!’ and I turn and a mom and daughter were pointing at Jack! They practically ran over to buy stuff. I asked, and they said they saw you on the local news and went looking for you in the next town!”
“Yeah, they said they saw me on the 7:00am live when I did a little interview with the reporter.”
“We have achieved celebrity status on the route boys,” says Marcus.
Then Cooper and I remarked how hot the mom was.
*
The ceremony in Buffalo was impressive, its public square anchored by a most beautiful city hall, a thirty story Art Deco building crowned with huge tiles glazed yellow, orange, red, and turquoise. I thought there wasn’t anything as grand, and again it made me feel like an inferior American, only growing up in suburbs; yet proud to be part of it.
*
We got rooms near Niagara Falls for the next day and Cooper talked Marcus into crossing the border to party in Canada. I stayed at the motel to enjoy some peace and quiet, maybe get work done. I was asleep when Cooper comes in and turns on the light.
“Dude—the light!”
“I need the room,” he says drunkenly.
“What the fuck—here’s Marcus?!” As mentioned, Cooper was football player size.
“Dude,” he says, “I’m not gettin’ another room, and you can’t be here while I get laid—so c’mon, make this easy, go sleep in the van for tonight.”
“You owe me!” I put on pants, grab blanket, pillow, and head to van. I open it and Johnny looks up from middle seat.
“He kick you out?” he asks with a slur.
I mumble.
“Jack?”
“I’m goin’ back to sleep, talk tomorrow,” I say settling in.
“Was thinkin’—how ‘bout we trade dinners for talks? I buy dinner and you lecture what you learned in college.”
“Sure, now sleep.”
“Shou’ make th’ most of this gig.”
*
“Rise and shine soldiers! Get a shower if you need one! We leave in thirty minutes!” yells Marcus.
We went back upstairs to the room, Cooper was out of the shower.
“You go next,” I tell Johnny. Cooper was hungover.
“You remember what happened right? This a business arrangement, not a rock tour.”
He didn’t reply.
I was last to the van and there was a woman in the front seat. Marcus had also brought a woman back from the previous night, I get in and he introduces me to Kate. Short dark bangs, high cheek bones and a pretty nose in front of big dark sunglasses, she seemed hot. “Heard all about what you guys are doing,” she says with an English accent. “Sounds really exciting.”
“She’s the spontaneous type,” Marcus says.
“Welcome aboard,” I say. “And this might be a good time to note to everyone, that this is a business arrangement. Every minute we’re not on the route we’re losing money; this gig isn’t gonna to last forever and we need to get what we can while we can—we can party it up when we’re done.”
Then we decided that because none of us had ever seen Niagara Falls up close, we should drive down the street real quick to see them. We got there and no one was around. There was a railing, a strip of grass, and the falls. I hopped the railing and got next to where the water spilled over and down. So much energy and oblivion not two feet away was sublime. Niagara Falls was an early inspiration to scientist Nikola Tesla, “It is only a question of time before humans attach machinery to the wheel-works of nature.”
*
Next night torch stopped to Albany, a city of stark contrasts, old and new, where money landed early on and never left. We ended up at an old Italian restaurant—a place gangsters ate back in the 1920s—because we’d always ask people what was the best place to go for dinner in their town. It had black and white photos of them along the paneling behind the booths; slicked back hair and serious gazes. When the hostess asked how many, Johnny asked for two separate tables.
“What?” Marcus frowns.
“If I buy Jack’s dinner, he’s gonna lecture and I don’t want interruptions,” Johnny says pointing to Cooper. “Dude’s a poet and scholar; he’s my tutor. I want to make something more of this whole thing.”
“What happened in that van last night?” Cooper asks in a squeal.
We follow the hostess to table, go through menu, server comes over and we order.
“So where you wanna start?”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
“You know what a continuum or paradigm is?”
“No!” he replied, excitement in his eyes.
“They mean the same thing, continuum and paradigm are two words for all the possibilities between two opposites—from one extreme to the exact opposite. For instance, space is a paradigm—it can be light or dark, hot or cold, occupied or unoccupied. There isn’t anything anyone can name that can’t be placed in a continuum or paradigm.”
“How about this table?”
“An old table or new table? Expensive or inexpensive? Stylized or rudimentary?”
“So it’s like there’s a plus-minus about everything?”
“And all the pluses and minuses make up a grand paradigm or continuum —a duality known as the Dao.”
“The Dao?” he repeats.
“That symbol you see at karate studios.”
“I took karate as a kid—the black and white fish in a circle!”
“That’s the universal symbol for the duality that represents all opposites throughout existence.”
“Best lasagna ever,” he says finishing a bite. “I know there’s a political world with politicians, and a business world with business people, and a media world with celebrities, and then working stiffs like myself—but it’s hazy.”
“It’s the difference between carpenters and professors, florists and doctors, restaurant owners and judges,” I say. “To get in the club you have to attain a college degree.”
“The club?”
“The club of power,” I say spontaneously.
“The club of power!” he replies excited.
“It’s a world-view, really,” I say.
“Whaddya mean?”
“Like if you’re a Catholic priest, you worship one way, Protestant you do it another way? A Baptist, another way, but even though you all believe the same, you have various ways of approaching essentially the same world view. A college degree is a world-view too, its own kind of religion with its own priesthood known as academia—or the ivory tower. That’s the source of the haziness, it’s ivory tower people influencing everyone else. Politicians and media executives and celebrities are dependent on the academic world because they talk and act based on latest peer-reviewed research and scholarship.”
“Peer-reviewed?”
“Meaning before the latest evidence and theory based on it will be discussed by politicians and celebrities, it has to be vetted by other academics working in the field.”
“One of the things that’s always bothered me,” he says, “is how people used to get burned at the stake for saying things against the church? We finally get past figuring out Earth revolves around the Sun, send humans to the moon, and yet priests are still around today, still saying stupid things. Why are they even still around? I mean, is this the way it’s supposed to be? Are we just monkeys hell-bent on destruction because of superstition and fear? If science has shown one world-view false, why is that world-view still around?”
I wasn’t clear where to start. I knew what I thought based on years of research and observation, but there wasn’t a starting point, there wasn’t an anchor for the world-view I’d come to see. Every philosophy needs an anchor.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said. We finished the fine Italian food and Johnny paid for it with a bunch of single dollar bills. On the route, by the end of the day, you were always looking to get rid of a brick of ones.
We walked back over to their table.
“What did you learn?” Marcus asks Johnny.
“A college degree is entry to the club of power.”
“You don’t need a degree to get in that club,” he says.
“Of course you don’t,” I reply, “but it helps.”
“Anything else?” Kate adds jovially.
“Teaching Johnny how to use a condom is important,” says Cooper in a giggle.
We walk across the street for nightcaps and hot chocolate and on the bar was a plaque. Our elbows were on the same plank Babe Ruth used to lean on. It was strange to sit at the same bar Babe Ruth had. He helped hammer baseball into a national pastime, a larger than life character everyone admired.
“So much history here,” I mentioned as the bar tender set down drinks.
“Albany?” he says, “Ben Franklin used to walk these streets—this is where the idea for the USA was hatched.”
*
From New York we headed up into New England, so named because, 1606 a European monarchy issued a corporate charter for the Virginia Company which in turn held the Plymouth Company—two ventures to claim land for England, conduct trade, and return a profit. Ten years later the lead explorer named the region. Then pilgrims arrive and a hundred and fifty years later, the people resist intolerable acts, leading to the battles for independence and final expulsion of oppressors.
*
Somewhere on the route in Vermont, because of mountain roads, the situation occurred where we split the crew between towns. Kate and Johnny got dropped off first, so when Cooper and I got dropped off up the road, we were early, loitering around the town square. I sold a couple of silks to a mom with two daughters. A hilly town, I watched them walk up a street and cross, the girls dance-skipped as sunlight cast highlights in their hair and the silks, which they commanded into eye-pleasing flutters, waves and slashes. They were obviously happy and unless the mom played proprietor, that happiness wouldn’t have existed. On the route were parents who didn’t hesitate to get something for the kids, and those who wouldn’t buy anything even though they obviously could. It’s like they were asleep and didn’t understand how their kid wasn’t going to be young forever, or that the Olympic Torch was a once in a lifetime event.
“Get a piece of history! Hang it in up in the garage, remember the moment!” Sometimes it was about getting people to understand where they were and how a twenty dollar ball cap or enameled pin was worth it.
“I can get that at Walmart for half the price,” wise-guys would quip.
“You mean tell everyone you got it at Walmart, or when you saw the Olympic Torch? Seein’ history with your very eyes?”
I really believed twenty bucks for a piece of official merchandise was worth it—and sometimes I gave it away if parents obviously didn’t have extra funds. The parents who had plenty, their kid begging, and they still said no? Worse than people who’d ask where flags were made.
“Hey this flag says Made In China!” they’d say.
“Yeah, ironic to have our flag made in China, yet it’s direct example of Americans making use of freedom to profit. Life is a festival to the wise, not much a festival without banners, caps, and pins, right?” All the stuff we were offering was just stuff to commemorate, even legitimize, the festival of life.
I looked across the square to see Cooper getting stopped by a cop, I back up an alley between storefronts. Next thing he’s got his wallet out to show ID and gets shut down, cop tells him to stop selling without permit. Cop takes off, Cooper walks over.
“Shut down,” he says.
“That was just a cop with nothing better to do. They’ll be too busy in a few minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“Your ponytail did it.”
“Right?”
“If you see him again, apologize and say you got a kid on the way all in the same breath.”
The crowd filled in, we get mobbed by beautiful people wanting stuff; torch came and went, crowd gone, but no Marcus and van. We sat there on a bench, not a single piece of merch left, just straightening out cash—an esthetic of the job that was pleasing: loading down with pounds of merch, then empty-handed except for bricks of cash.
“Where the fuck are they?” Cooper asks.
“Caught behind or someone hit them.”
“I’m goin’ to that pawn shop,” he says pointing, “you wanna go?”
“I’ll go to that bookstore, let’s get back quick.”
I got a book of poems, went back to the bench and opened at random. Was titled One Who Lived and Died Where He Was Born about someone who at birth, deep one night, descends stairs into the world of human life, and eighty years later ascends them a wise child. An old guy sits on bench next to mine and starts rolling a smoke; leathery-wrinkly skin, a mop of white hair, his white beard stained around the mouth by tobacco.
“Anyone ever tell you, you look like Walt Whitman?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says.
“Lived here awhile?”
“Born across the street,” he says pointing to an old two-story building. I told him about the poem.
“Would you mind reading it out loud?”
I read the poem out loud.
“That’s what it’s all about young man,” he says, “how to become a wise child.”
“Sounds right to me.”
“Doesn’t just happen, you have to make good choices.”
Marcus rolls up in van.
“Here’s my ride,” I say, getting up. “Here’s to good choices.”
“Good luck,” he replied.
I get in van.
“Where’s Cooper? Let’s go!” says Marcus.
“At that pawn shop.”
We drive over, I go in, see him counting one dollar bills, two guitar cases against the counter.
“Let's go,” I say. He loses count, yells “Damn it!” and starts to recount.
“He’s buying guitars,” I say getting back in van. Marcus goes in, they come out, Cooper holding a guitar case in each hand.
“We’re not trading guitar cases for merchandise!” Marcus commands.
“I wouldn’t mind having a guitar around,” Johnny says to Kate and me.
Cooper paid the shop owner to ship the second one, but we kept one. Cooper knew a lot of songs and played really well, Johnny had some chops too. Cooper and Jane could carry a tune but Johnny, Marcus and I couldn’t; sometimes we all sang together anyway.
I asked Johnny what happened earlier, why they got caught behind the torch train.
“I was in and Kate on her way, then a motorcycle cop told us to move; went around the block and got stuck.”
*
Another good day in New England, thousands in cash.
“You thought about that question right?” Johnny asks as we walk to the van from a celebration site.
“Yeah.”
We get to another nice restaurant and separate table, this time in downtown Concord.
“OK,” he says after we order, “been waiting to hear this all day: Is this the way it’s supposed to be? Is human existence supposed to be this stupid?””
“Let’s start by identifying the single most important thing to any and all humans—who ever were—are—or will ever be.”
“What?”
“Tell me, what’s the most important thing to humans?”
“Food and water.”
“A lot of people have died, not because there wasn’t food or water, but because they didn’t know how to get it. Also, people have died because they didn’t know what they were doing would kill them; and finally, a baby will die if left alone because it doesn’t yet know how to care for itself.”
“Knowledge?”
“Exactly—knowledge is our perpetual, never-ending, matter of life and death, and indisputably, incontrovertibly, the most important thing to a human. You can’t get where you want to be unless you first know where you’re at.”
“Knowledge is the most important thing! Wow.”
“Knowledge is power, because the big jungle we call the world—the more you know—the better off you are.”
“What about love?”
“You have to know who to love. People love the wrong person and the wrong thing all the time.”
“But babies don’t know who to love.”
“Sure they do—whoever puts milk to their mouth. But let’s back up with a quote: Never accept anything as true unless you clearly know it to be true.”
“Wait, say it again,” he says. I say it again.
“But how do we know what’s true?”
“What was the weather today?”
“Sunny and perfect,” he says.
“In order to know that, you had to do something. You had to go back into your brain and retrieve the truth—you had to think. The fact we’re thinking is proof we exist, and the fact we exist is the base truth every other truth rests on.”
“So we know we exist—but is this the way it’s supposed to be?”
“OK—we’re thinking beings on a planet within a civilization.”
“Yeah.”
“So we know we’re part of a civilization, and we know civilizations are composed of three things.”
“What?”
“Give it a shot—guess.”
“Law has to be one,” he says.
“Correct.”
“Science?”
“Correct.”
“Culture?”
“Right, and maybe a more precise term for culture is art.”
“Laws, sciences, and arts?”
“Anything we can name as part of an advanced civilization falls under one of those three categories—laws, sciences, arts. Let’s start with laws—why they exist and what they’re composed of?”
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