Category Archives: shards

a winning ticket

A Winning Ticket

Juris Prudence was adopted by Gerry Rigg and his wife Vanity. By the time Juris was ten, Gerry was teaching her things he had no business teaching her, things he said would make her future husband a happy man.

Gerry was big in commodities, a high roller, and he ran the behind-the-scenes political machine in his precinct. His sidekick was Mad Max Mulligan, called that because he was angry at the world, unlike Gerry who was indifferent to the world and all the people in it, including Juris, who this night left the supper table abruptly (as she often did) and ran up the stairs, throwing herself face-down on her bed to weep bitterly.

“Let me handle it,” Gerry said to his wife, and (sighing as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders) he went solemnly up the stairs.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said to Juris, stroking her hair. “Remember what I said about this being our little secret? Let’s not forget that. And look on the bright side–another two years and you’re off to college.”

 

***

In the early years of their marriage it looked like Vanity couldn’t have children, and she began disappearing behind a mask of cosmetics. She compensated for her apparent deficiency with a smile that never left her face, not even when she gave Gerry occasional conjugal visits. So imagine everyone’s surprise when a year after they’d adopted Juris, a baby popped out of Vanity’s womb! And a year after that, another! They were both boys, and even though Gerry could never keep their names straight, he saw that he now had the right-size family for him and Max Mulligan to make their big move on the Presidency.

Gerry and Max complemented each other. They each made the other seem human by contrast, and they’d inched up the political ladder until now they were seen by the vote-eligible population as a winning ticket that could pull the country back from the abyss.

It was a landslide victory, and the next morning every major newspaper in the free world carried a front-page photograph of Gerry and his radiant family with Max Mulligan standing behind them and a little to the left, looking down at this shoes.

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chopping wood & carrying water

Chopping Wood & Carrying Water

I encountered Shunryu Suzuki years ago at his Zen center in San Francisco. I just wandered in off the street in the middle of three days of drinking. Two Zen novitiates in robes and Adidas gave me nervous looks, and then Suzuki came wandering into the room. We stood looking at each other without speaking, and then Suzuki, with a bemused smile on his face, put his hands together in the manner of someone about to pray, and bowed.

I returned the bow and then went back out into the streets.

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census reminiscence

Census Reminiscence

I went door-to-door for the Census in 1970 in the Mission District of San Francisco. The life expectancy of a census taker in the Mission was shorter than that of a point man on a combat squad. I had a lot of doors slammed in my face, and a Samoan about as big as the Incredible Hulk chased me down two flights of stairs with a machete.

The flip side was a lot of Hippies who’d say stuff like, “Hey man, dig. You wanna get stoned?” And of course I did.

There’s nothing more surreal than getting chased down two flights of stairs by a Samoan with a machete when you’re stoned out of your gourd on good Columbian.

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striking back at the juggernaut

Striking Back at the Juggernaut

He was 80 years old, living on the top floor of a big-city flop house, and the fact that he was up that high and had a panoramic view of the city from his window was the only thing he had going for him.

After a lifetime of writing he’d been ground into near nothingness by a total lack of recognition. Such is the way of the juggernaut: it smothers like a pillow over a child’s face anything that might bring about change in the status-quo it controls.

Toward the end, before he stopped writing altogether, he’d written a flurry of longhand diatribes on scraps of paper and jammed them into an old trunk that now sat in the corner of his room. Occasionally he’d open the trunk, stare in, and then close it again.

Then one day, in a fit of despair, he pushed the trunk to the open window and began scooping handfuls of diatribes out into the day. The wind whipped them around and carried them off.

That night riots began breaking out all over the city and sirens echoed off the walls of tall buildings.

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children playing in a park

Children Playing in a Park

This is not your country. This is my country. Your country may look like my country from inside your country but it’s not. My country is over here, down this vortex of spinning stars.

See those children playing in the park? Sliding, running, swinging, tumbling? That there may be other countries has not yet occurred to them. Their countries flow together in a universe of motion.

When their mothers sit them down for time out, something dies inside them.

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an octave higher

An Octave Higher

When’s the last time you got locked down on a nut ward? How did it work out? Were the orderlies kind and considerate or did they have their way with you? If so, did this speed your recovery? Did you finally learn that the game’s played the same everywhere? Did you bat your eyes at the nurses for extra meds? Did you dance your heart out in the rec room when they put on Frank Sinatra? Did you learn to dazzle with your beauty and your high-octane madness? Did you make them love you for the very reasons they locked you up? Did you catch the eye of the head shrink and coax him into signing your discharge? Did you fuck him blind and lead him down the primrose path with the white cane of promise?

How is it now on the outside? Can you do with a scalpel what you used to do with a battle ax? Can you slice the soul out of anyone and make it look like love? Well then, you’re cured.

It’s not the song you sing but the octave you sing it in.

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