A Pilgrim’s Digression

I posted chapter five of “Rented Space.” I thought I might finish it today, but no time, and no go. Still think I might pound out another chapter tonight. We’ll see.

I almost scrapped chapter five altogether because it changes point of view to that of the main female character. I don’t usually like doing that in a short story. I felt like chapter five might have been a wrong turn and wanted to get back into Crabbe’s point of view, but Carolyn’s voice kind of took over. Eventually it seemed a shame to cut it, though it does shift the pov. Whether it is a convincing woman’s voice or not, I don’t know. I’ve never written in a woman’s voice.

“He do the police in different voices,” original title of Eliot’s The Waste Land, after a Dickens novel. Glad Pound suggested he change it.

This is still supposed to be a short story, I think, but I admit it has grown beyond what I originally thought.

Tonight I rather broke with recent tradition. I did not publish a chapter in my World War II story in my fiction blog. I published the first four pages of a short story I have been working on, titled “Rented Space.”

Thus I had to create a new category for my “Fictions” blog, “Short Stories.” I hope you enjoy “Rented Space.” It isn’t done, but it is almost done. The good thing about a short story versus a longer work is that the end is always near. However, the future’s uncertain, as the other part of the saying goes, so let’s just say I expect to finish the story soon. This week. Tomorrow, in fact. In which case you can read the rest of “Rented Space” within a day or two. In the meantime, enjoy, and let me know what you think.

1.

“This was Mr. Edward’s room,” she said. “He lived here only a couple years…then he retired from the University. I don’t know where he went after that, or where he came from before he lived with us.”

Gauzy, yellow curtains flutter about the open window. Through the curtains and across the street a dimly identical line of three-story, Washington, D.C., row houses can be seen as if through breathed-on glass.

“He left some things behind.”

She picks up a souvenir tin ashtray. Across the bottom, where one would stub a cigarette, is a picture of a barren-looking, red desert landscape with the slogan “Come to Sunny Santa Fe!”

“He used this for spare change, I think. You don’t smoke, do you, Mr. Crabbe?”

“Of course not. It causes birth defects in pregnant women,” Mr. Crabbe responded.

The joke, if it was a joke, was lost on Mrs. Poole.

“Good. We have a baby, you know. In summer, we turn the air conditioning on, and you know how that smell just permeates a house.”

“How many children do you have?” Mr. Crabbe said, fingering the embroidery on the quilt on the bed under the window.

“Three counting the baby. Our oldest is a boy, Timmy, he’s in second grade. Our middle daughter Sarah is in first. The baby is Liza…er, Elizabeth. We call her Liza. She’s just nine months. Are children going to be a problem for you?”

Mr. Crabbe thought a moment. A problem. A problem. It could well be a problem, but right now his biggest problem was the pinch he felt in his wallet every time he looked at a prospective room for rent in Washington.

He sighed in a way that did not set Mrs. Poole at ease. He did not even realize he had sighed, or that he had disconcerted her. “No. No problem.”

“I hope not. There’s nothing we can do about the children. They make noise.”

You can beat them until they lapse into unconsciousness, Mr. Crabbe thought. Works for me.

After a pause, Mrs. Poole said, “You seem like an ideal tenant for us, I hope we will be the ideal landlord for you.”

“I need a room, you see,” Mr. Crabbe said abruptly. “And right now I’m willing to take just about anything that is not in a high rise in Arlington, as long as it costs me something less than $1500.00 a month.”

Not sure if she had just been insulted, Mrs. Poole said, “Is that the reason you’re not looking for an apartment of your own? The price?”

“Yes,” Mr. Crabbe said. “I’ve felt more than a little sticker shocked lately. Just before coming to see you, I went to look at a room advertised as a bedroom in a condominium for $600.00 a month. Turned out, this Black woman was renting a dingy bedroom with no window in an equally dingy, rather nefarious-looking high-rise building. I had to buzz her apartment to be allowed in. I knew right then I didn’t want to live there; probably inhabited by a bunch of drug pushers and who knows what else. The bathtub had a hole in the wall where the faucet should have been. She had other roomers, too, all of them Black college students. It’s been a depressing day, Mrs. Poole. Your face has been the first ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak day.”

Mrs. Poole brightened, “Well, it would indeed be an honor to have you here. I mean, you can imagine how unexpected…the Poet Laureate of the United States. I’d have thought the government would put you up, or else pay you more so you could live on your own.”

Mr. Crabbe smiled gently, “Come now, Mrs. Poole, the Republicans are in charge of things. I’m a Republican myself. It wouldn’t do to expect the Government to contribute anything to the support of a poet.”

“Oh, I guess not,” Mrs. Poole replied, uncertain whether this was a good turn in the conversation. Everything about Mr. Crabbe left her uncertain. She could never tell if he was serious.

After a too-long silence, Mr. Crabbe changed the subject.

“What are the terms again?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Poole said. “Five hundred a month. You have your own…what-do-you-call-it…water closet,” with a toilet and a sink. You”ll have to share the shower with the rest of the family, I’m afraid. You’re also welcome to share meals with us. Since I don’t work, I am able to cook dinner for us every evening. Dinner is at five-thirty. Breakfast at seven in the morning. Lunch is ‘fend for yourself,’ however.”

“I’ll be looking forward to dining with you. My things are in my car, and if you don’t mind, I’ll write you a check for the first month’s rent right now and begin moving in immediately.”

Mrs. Poole seemed shocked, “Well, O.K. Gee, you don’t waste any time…”

“I am sixty years old, Mrs. Poole. I have no time to waste, unlike the youthful, such as yourself.”

“Well, I understand. You can make the check out to me, Carolyn Poole.”

“What’s your husband’s name. I’d like his name on the check, too,” Mr. Crabbe said, taking a checkbook out of the back pocket of his trousers.

“Oh, Thomas Poole.”

Mr. Crabbe scribbled quickly in a fluid hand practiced at signing illegible autographs. He handed Mrs. Poole a check made out to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Poole. The personal information on the check listed the Poet Laureate’s name as Mr. Eugene Crabbe and his address as the publishing house Farrar Strauss and Giroux. Carolyn looked at the check, briefly perplexed, then folded it and tucked it in her jeans pocket.

“Well, then, do you need help moving your stuff in? Thomas should be home soon.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Crabbe said. “I may just lie down and take a nap on my fusty bed until he comes home.”

“Fusty bed? Do the linens need changing?”

“Just a poetic expression,” Crabbe said.

“Oh,” Carolyn said, fidgeting for how to take her good-byes from her sudden new tenant. “Well, I’ve got to finish dinner. We’re having a roast beef tonight. Do you like roast beef, Mr. Crabbe?”

“Yes, if the cut of beef is tender. It should fall apart at barely the touch of the fork.”

“Oh my, I confess I don’t pay that much attention to the cut of the beef when I buy it. This might be a rump roast we’re eating tonight,” she said. “But I do hope you’ll join us. Maybe the salad will interest you.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Crabbe said.

“Well, good-bye then. Let me know if you need anything,” Mrs. Poole said.

“Yes, I will,” Mr. Crabbe said.

As she shut the door, he turned to the room and looked around at bed and night table, dresser, TV, and wing chair. He went over to the window and parted the curtains, looking down at the street. A passerby below would have seen a tall, broody sixty-year old man, bald-headed and wearing thick, dark glasses peering out the half-shut window. Eugene Crabbe frowned.

This was Mr. Edward’s room, he thought.

Frist urges end to nominee filibuster

It’s a tough time to be a judge in the United States. Not only do they have to fear retaliation from people they have locked up, but they have to be wary, too, of the politician with the knife poised at their back.

The lead story in the news today was Bill Frist’s tape-recorded appearance before a Christian “anti-filibuster” rally, a rally which was broadcast to a purported 61 million homes courtesy of James Dobson’s Family Research Council. None of the reports I’ve read seem to ask the obvious question, which is, “What the hell has the filibuster to do with the gospel?” The rally is billed as a “justice rally,” but given the subject matter, one supposes that God’s justice is not the kind of justice these men and politicians of God are contemplating.

The Washington Post reporter writes that Frist’s comments were mild compared to ones made by the Christian leaders in attendance. Frist made no overt religious references, for example, which must have seemed rather odd to people gathered in a church—a 6,000 member Baptist church—to hear members of the clergy preach about the evils of the filibuster. Other speakers were apparently not so restrained as Frist.
(more…)

Kathy Acker’s “President Bush” (link opens Realplayer application).

Acker died in 1997, so the “President Bush” of the poem is presumably Bush père rather than Bush fils. I’ve listened to this poem half a dozen times and I never tire of hearing it. Poetry seems to me so much better heard than read.

Another interesting aspect of this poem is that Acker herself did not set the poem to music. Apparently, a group called the Kill Rock Stars created the music for her reading of her “autobiography” Redoing Childhood, from which “President Bush” is taken. One assumes the band had the permission of her estate.

This is intriguing because such collaboration really problematizes the reader/listener’s effort to divine intent. Whose intent? Acker’s? Or the Kill Rock Stars intent? Who really created this poem? It cannot belong simply to Acker anymore. And by transcribing it, as I do on the next page, have I added another layer to the poem? This is the ultimate collaborative work of poetry, it seems to me.

I love this. It makes me wonder if poetry as a print genre may soon be subsumed by the digital media. I can imagine a poet using Apple’s Garage Band software to create their own background music to a reading of their poem.

For more audio of contemporary poets reading their work, browse the Factory School Digital Audio Archive.

For my transcription of “President Bush,” click over to page 2.

No title today. First time in…years? Probably since I began this blog in 2003.

I feel titularly exhausted today. A rule of writing I have always tried to abide by is titling everything, but today…no title. Maybe I don’t need that rule anyway; but I like it, and it gives me satisfaction to be able to provide a good title to something I’ve written.

Another installment of my fiction is available over in the fictions blog; this piece is titled, awkwardly, What’s in a name. Not particularly original, but then these are titles of convenience. I don’t intend to keep them.

I figured I’d better return to World War II in this fragment, if only to satisfy the requirements of my working title “World War II story.” At the same time, I worry about giving the impression of order. I don’t want the reader to become accustomed to a shift forward in time, followed by a shift backward. Or vice versa. Or whatever.

I wrote to a friend yesterday that when I think about what I would ideally like to write, I think of emptying my mind out into the ether like spilling a jigsaw puzzle from a box onto a table. One would have fragments of dialogue, fragments of action, fragments of exposition, all of it utterly random, but related. It would be the reader’s purpose to discover the relation.

Why do I suddenly long for complete incoherence?

“What they call you?”

The voice came from the next cell another cell, shocking startling Henry, who had heard only German and very refined American English since bailing out.

Henry had not even suspected there was anyone else down here. Henry He had not been able to see anyone in the other cells when he was delivered to this dungeon. How many hours ago was that? Henry did not even know; his watch had been appropriated some time ago. The doors were solid, with only a portal at eye level and a small slot at the bottom for sliding in a plate of food. The only light came from a series of widely spaced, bare bulbs in the hallway.

“What they call you?”

The voice was so distant, Henry was not even sure it was speaking to him.

“Me?” Henry queried the muffling darkness.

“No, this rat that lives in my cell,” the voice answered.

Somewhere in another cell nearby, someone sputtered laughter.

“Henry,” Henry answered, blushing.
(more…)

http://www.nytimes.com/20…artner=homepage

The New York Times has an article today about Pretty Boy Reed, former head of the Christian Coalition who is running for Lt. Governor in Georgia. After he left the CC, Reed founded a consulting firm specializing in fomenting Christian opposition to whatever cause celebre for which it was paid to foment opposition.

The problem for Reed is that in one case, he was paid millions by some Indian casinos to oppose a rival casino on “moral” grounds.

Here’s your pot calling the kettle black quote of the day from Pat Robertson:

“You know that song about the Rhinestone Cowboy, ‘There’s been a load of compromising on the road to my horizon,’ ” Mr. Robertson said. “The Bible says you can’t serve God and Mammon.”

Funny that Robertson doesn’t quote the line of the song that comes immediately after that one : “But I’m gonna be where the lights are shinin’ on me.” The Rhinestone Cowboy may be a pitiable figure, but he chooses to sell out, which somewhat lessens any good will one may feel towards him.

There is more than one Rhinestone Cowboy in the rodeo of Christian politics.

“I’m thinking we need a new action hero. I’m thinking we need Jesus,” Dean Witter, CEO of 21st Century Toys says.

He is leaning back in his posh, leather Executive High Back Ergonomic office chair, the tips of his fingers tented just under his chin in the “here’s the steeple” position. Behind him, outside the 76th floor window, a blazing hot July sun squats on the city of Indianapolis.

“Jesus?” Morgan Stanley, Vice-President of Marketing, says reticently. He and Arthur Anderson, the VP of advertising, share a look of uncertainty.

“We sell primarily war toys, Sir,” Arthur finally says.

“Yes, yes,” Dean says impatiently. “Sales of war toys may be booming now, but this Iraq business can’t last much longer. The American people have already lost interest. We need to think about the Next Great Thing, and I’m thinking it’s Jesus.”

Morgan says, “Well, it is time to begin thinking about the Christmas season, I guess.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, sitting forward in his chair. “Now here’s my idea: I want to sell an action-adventure Jesus. Hell, maybe we’ll sell a whole line of Bible-based toys. ”

Dean looks at Arthur a little too slyly, and Arthur says, “You’ve already been working on this idea without telling us, haven’t you, Dean?”

Dean laughs.

“Dean, I hate it when you do this!” Arthur says.

Dean says, “Yeah, I’ve had some of the guys in the trenches put in a little overtime without letting on what was happening.”

Dean pushes the intercom button on his phone, and when his secretary answers, he says, “We’re ready for them.” (more…)

http://www.rushlimbaugh.c…ctor.guest.html

Following is a verbatim transcript of segment of the Limbaugh show yesterday:

You know what Gore said about this [his new TV station]? “It’s going to be liberal. It’s going to reflect the point of view of young people.” What the hell is that, Al? What the hell is the point of view of young people? Blow jobs, that’s what they’re doing out there. They’re out there getting oral sex all day long, that’s what they’re talking about. That’s the point of view they can’t wait that your boss, Al, made sure that’s become the number one sport in high school today. So I guess you’re going to have a BJ network out there, Al, is that what you’re going to do? You’re going to call your network the oral sex channel out there, start competing with MTV?

As if this rant weren’t strange enough, earlier in the program, Limbaugh admitted that some unspecified matter in his personal life had left him “fed up” with everything from politics to being a celebrity.

I’ve had it with the state of New York. I’ve had it with the federal government. I’ve had it with everybody with their hands in my back pocket wanting this and wanting that. Nothing is ever enough for anybody and it’s not worth it. At some point you just decide it isn’t worth it and let people fend for themselves. I have just about had it dealing with these people, these little Nazis that run around and claim that I live someplace that I don’t and want to extract multiple millions of dollars in taxes in a place I don’t even live.

Sounds like he may be having a leeetle trouble with the IRS. What say you?

Or maybe he is just losing his mind. The oral sex diatribe, besides being grammatically garbled, is pretty shocking. For one thing, Limbaugh does have children listeners. Although my son is soon to be four, he still has ears that work like a magnet, picking up all manner of words and phrases. I could easily see him saying, “Daddy, what’s a blow job? That’s a funny word!”

Incidentally, these wild-eyed harangues are filed under the title “Rush On A Roll.” Rush is on something alright. And if he isn’t, he needs to be. Might I suggest Zoloft?