The Last Day of Winter

It's spring. . . and you know what that means.  The world will be mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful and that goat-footed old balloonman will be whistling far and wee.  

[in-Just-]

The sap begins to flow and the creek begins to rise.  That's how it used to work, anyway.  Who knows now?  All we can do is pretend and try either to a) avoid the news or b) do something about it.  For people living on what some refer to as "Earth One," though, I'm afraid we are still far outnumbered.  

That's how democracy works.  You get the votes, you get the office.  

"Fucking Trump is a lunatic."

"They all are."

"No. . . no. . . you can't just say 'they all are' and eschew responsibility.  That's just a bullshit copout.  Your boy is a danger to the world.  Thanks."

But hey--what about Biden, huh?  

Oscar Wilde said, "Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination."  I've never lived within my means, of course, but now, I think, even people suffering from the disease will be doing so in order to eat and pay rent . 

But it is the first day of spring.  I don't want to bring everybody down.  Let's have a laugh at my expense.  

Yesterday I was sitting in the cafe on a bright and beautiful and wondrous afternoon failing to write anything meaningful (as has been my habit of late) when I heard a voice say, "What are you doing you dirty little hippie, writing your novel?"  It my writer/artist/traveller buddy who succeeds at an alarming rate standing over my table looking a bit like Bukowski.  

"No. . . just writing."

"I'm meeting a friend of mine who owns the only English language bookshop in Mexico City," he said.  He looked around and stepped into the other room, then came back with his friend.  He introduced us.  

"Grant just got accepted into an MFA writing program."

"Congratulations," I said.  

I was introduced as the guy who used to teach English at the factory.  

"What courses did you teach?"

I named them off including the Art of the Personal Essay course I instructed at Country Club College.  That shook the obvious arrogance pride a bit.  That and my apparent nonchalance about it all.  I mean, who cares?  Those who can't, teach. . . .  You know the old saying.  I've never felt any confidence about anything except sometimes my ability to entertain.  But there are a million people who teach literature and writing and a thousand times as many people who go to school to study it.  But I'll admit that often when I tell people what I did for a living they most often say, "Oh. . . English was my favorite subject in school.  I had the best teacher. . ." to which I say, "If you can't be good teaching the greatest stories in the world. . . ."  

I mean really. . . who doesn't like a good story.  We love them as children.  We love them as adults.  I've always asked lovers to "tell me a good story."  And boy, don't they.  I've lived through them, too, but so far, they've all had the same ending

Selavy.  

I'd like another story. . . if you please.  

We chatted about writing and movies and the fact that they both loved Denis Johnson's books and that I didn't care for them, much to their dismay.  

"What can I say?  I tried.  I just couldn't connect.  Don't judge me!"

Then my buddy said, "Remember the people I was sitting with last time I saw you here?"

"Sure.  They were really nice."

"The four of us have an art show here next month.  I'll text you to remind you."

Well. . . fuck.  

"What medium?"

"Paintings and drawings, pen and ink, and some 3D stuff."

He pulled up a picture on his phone to show me.  

"Yea, let me know."

Why in the fuck don't I do such things I wondered?  Because I'm a lazy simpleton.  No, that's not it.  It is a lack of confidence and the fear of rejection.  It has always been.  Maybe a shrink could help me.  Maybe if I went in for some therapy.  But it's too late now, I think.  I remembered a scene from a Woody Allen movie (link).  It is a wonderful scene about the joyful despair of a nihilistic nature.  And it reminded me of the difference between my buddy's attitudes and mine.  

"What are you doing Saturday?"

"Committing suicide."

"What about Friday?"

I could never do it.  

"What are you doing Wednesday.  I have tickets to the ballet if you are free."

"No, I can't go.  I'm going to dinner with my friends."

"Well, here's my number if you change your mind."

They'd find me hanging by the neck from the rafters.  Still. . . I was pissed and full of the green-eyed monster hearing of this coming show.  

I wasn't proud of that.  It is just another shortcoming.  I have many.  

After a fun afternoon at the cafe, I went to see my mother.  My cousin said she was going to leave for the coast in a few days.  Now what, I wondered?  

"Mom, are you o.k. to stay alone at night now?"

"I don't know."  

Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  I knew this was coming, but I had been pretending that it wouldn't.  So. . . I will be back to elder care in a moment or two, I guess.  My beautifully insane contemplative life will once again be sidelined.  I'll have my duties to see to, and that will give my life meaning.  

So there's a cheery note at the equinox.  Feel the balance.  

At day's end, I sat out on the deck and drank a Campari on the last day of winter and pulled up the best of R.E.M. on my Apple Music app. . . and you know what?  They WERE pop music.  Poppy.  Totally.  Sometimes with an attitude, but total radio stuff.  

And this one. . . yea. . . I am Superman.  I know what's happening.  

Trust me.  I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend.