His face was a museum.
With eyes cold since Korea,
he sat at his computer and played solitaire.
His brain, growing old in his head
sent mixed messages to his jittery hand.
It could never be still,
and he was only at peace
when he slept.
It was the digestion of food
and dreams of playing in the mud.
It was there that the contrast between
inches
and bad sin
disappeared into him.
He referred to me as,
“Mr. Robinette”
This was important because I learned
condescension is only effective if you allow it to be.
He had a picture, not a poster, a real picture
of an ostrich with its head in the ground,
and he would point to it and say,
“That’s you Mr. Robinette. That’s how you go through life.”
There is an alternative,
a secret passage
that leads down two roads,
six, and then a thousand.
I used to think none of this had anything to do with history.
I was too busy thinking about girls to make the connection,
to see how we slowly entered back into the dark ages
feeling nothing and feeling it comfortably.
We began somehow, like a switch,
and ran like hell to now, and then for no reason
sat down.
“That’s how you go through life.”
Zooey has flees, and I can’t help but wonder if these monstrous little creatures are the equivalent of a really bad case of chicken pox. I wonder if she lays there biting her ass thinking, “This asshole can splurge on a copy of Tropic of Cancer but not some flea medicine?!”
Today the weather was like a funeral. Grayness penetrated everything all afternoon. It generated this positive feeling of hopelessness. The entire day seemed to be telling me to throw up my hands and say, “I quit!” So what if everyone is moving to New York, or getting married, or just having a good time in general. It’s no big deal because on days like this when the sun isn’t blinding you, and it’s not too hot to go outside, you can see the world in all its little fragments. The meaninglessness is a refuge.
But I have this friend, and it’s strange because from the beginning of our friendship and everyday hence he has seemed the most unlikely of candidates. He is uniquely southern but still southern. There is that twang in certain words he says that suggests if Robert E. Lee were still alive he might drop everything to work for him, but he’s interesting as hell because he never stops changing his mind. Never!. I suppose that’s what we have in common, and that must be why I’m unusually drawn to his company. Also he constantly contradicts himself, and I enjoy that about him too. People that are always contradicting themselves are a real hoot but human. And why shouldn’t everyone have at least two opinions on every subject? One ought to side differently everyday on at least one issue in their lives or nothing is changing, and if you don’t change you end up staying in one place your whole life with taste limited to Maxwell House coffee and microwave dinners.
