The Fugue of Wog: Prelude

Its all starts with white wall tires, and wind. I mean no wind inside. Inside the machine we were pleased. The machine had its clasps, doors- she- he called her a she: Betsy had heavy and thick doors. She was fleet. Aeordynamic. She leaned, leaned into what was sent her way. Glided. She had confidence, is what it was. Her glass was darkish, greenish- f’you looked through her I mean. Say you see the Fable’s house, through her windows, the lower portion- and the upper portion in plain air- you would say that the whites, and that’s basically what white means, no? Out here on a day with few clouds coming into it, with the sun on his climbs, rolling out into this blue, and we should have something more to say about this blue- ever really ask yourself what it is what it means? What is flat and what is deep? I mean when you look into the sky, into the plain blue sky, when the humidity is not so great? White is when its not too humid, and there are few clouds in the day, white is when the sun falls on a white house. There is a “zero” for white- there is your white balance. Now you look up at the Fable’s house, its clapboarding (no cheap siding for these guys), up there on her bedroom’s outside wall, see the sharpened shadows running parallel to the whole flat expanse of our land-locked empire? Under each of the clapboards, the lapping; tapered boards, primed and painted, that run there neatly, almost, you could say, perfectly- not the shadows, I mean where the sun’s hitting full face on those boards. That is what I mean- and that is white. Now look through Betsey’s glass, at the same basic things, lower on the house- underwater, right? Bluegreens there- Betsey; lets agree right off, she is for fucking real. Many things were real then. What the fuck wasn’t? Gilligan? The moon? I mean, talk about Gilligan’s fucking Island. The moon? Really? Well, if it didn’t really happen, don’t fucking tell me about it. What’s real? What about corpses? Are dead things real? These are the questions I pondered, day in and day out. A Day. A day was a fine thing back then too, can I tell you? Specially summer ones. A day was like a column of the Parthenon. I was told not to refer too much to articles of culture. I have rules sprouting like the worst and most pernicious variety of weeds: shoulds and advisemenents; hesitations and regulations, etc. What should I be doing with all this? How am I to help you come to terms with where you is at? Where is the question that leads me to – what the fuck is my ownly goal, anyways? For one- just to tip my hat- just to tip this fucking humble cap o’mine, to tip it to the times of reality, to the time of confidence- to having a hero for a father; a hero who drove a real car- how about that? To having a real tree to climb, to knowing what snow and mud, weeds, dandelions, pesky neighbors, houses, streets, avenues, cul de sacs full of boxed in pesky people, whom I will in fact allow into this, because how could I manage without them? Betsey had real glass: do you know yet what the fuck I mean? Thick glass, material glass, the glass changed things, it evidences its material nature in its fucking effects. Look look look look look look look. Ok, so the shoulds- I should not beat my reader like the corpse of a horse. Beat a dead horse.

In this instance the horse was an owned creature. Ownership has long been with us. Unlike the heathen savages whom we imagine were the marvy fucking stewards of this “place” we call the Island or what have you. Seriously, seriously- some mother fucker did eventually look upon the last remaining, scraggly, bent-assed piece of shit mother fucking tree, of a certain island civy- but you can find the same books I have read, care you to do so. And you will know what I will know. Together we go, hand in fucking hand. They will take out some of this shit I know. Assuming this ever sees day’s light- and it will- mind you- it will see day’s light. Some skank ass pair of eyes has got to lay down something, regarding this- and there ain’t no other homeless; starved soul I have come across that will take care of you the way this body will do. I will not now utter those particular words. How words have become corpses. In the vast dead zone known to us as “reality”.

°°°

Pretty much every house was with the cheap siding. Say in the new life, or “life”; which is how I see it- when whomever this be that zombied-over the wunderkind you are about to meet- when Gord answered the message, whatever three decades later? You understand right? A ghost returned- this ghost, yours truly, your narrator, your voice, your speaker- me- I- returned there- try to picture what it felt like. I won’t say I named the trees, I nearly did- but they were like lovers of mine. Gord was a real friend too, but lets face it- Gord’s a shell no more substantial than the ghost that I am. The tree- she’s what’s left- she and a few original interior surfaces- she’s herself. Ash trees must be some slow, slow growers. Gord and me, I mean- so good to see him- terribly good you know?- but for your purposes, it may be best to imagine two older guys- two guys gone to seed, so to speak- guys biologically obsolete- make a note of this- guys quite out of the time of life of the father who drove, who tenderly cared for- who gently stroked Betsey’s dash, as she aged- who knew she’d need putting down, that her life was coming to its  last ignitions- Betsey’s back seat (an expansive and accommodating locale, not  like the cockpit-like experiences of today’s confections of plastic and other softwares. The distance between our faces, Gord and I, or my sibs and I, or just my face- how I loved loved loved being driven by my father. Somewhere out there is a road. And a weighty automobile, gliding gracefully. A straight road- endless, really. Scenery is to be had there- a world being measured, in a way- a world presenting itself, turning out from this center, blooming in the furrow of this meeting of her weight: some friction, pneumatics, hydraulics- all simple machines- nothing knowing anything- levers- bearings- grease- everything fucking item is what it is here- the no one who steadies her knobbled wheel- he’s not there- he’s daydreaming, no? Or he’s stressed. Some asshole “foreman” at “the shop” causing unneeded strain? I was saying the distance from our face to the back of his seat, was like a studio apartment in Tokyo these days (what a wonderful term, the shop- very American)  “her” backseat being the place where so much happened- how many hours did I get to spend in there? Gord would get ecstatic- like twice weekly- because my father would do things that made us happy- that was like his mission in life- he would take us camping, take us swimming, take us to collect frogs, when they were trying to bury themselves in the muck for their hibernation- that tray of wet leopard frogs (named for their beautiful leopardlike spots, in their deep green wetsuits, rubbery looking they were, with the golden brown spots, and their bulbs of alert; worried looking eyes) that tray was one of the many things, such as trays of drivein burgers and fries, waxy paper cups sweating along with Gord and I on those two or three days each summer when hot weather came over the flat northern expanses- Gord’s moments of ecstasy were generally expressed in a special kind of handshake that came about between us, the inter-wriggling of our four excited hands, with the energy of four hummingbirds at their deep; nectar providing pitchers of lovely blooms- one of the many things, such as the lumber- never bought; always found- that my father brought to provide us the materials for our fort- reminding me of his special (“ingenuity” would be the word- smile-) strategies- converting Betsey’s back seat, as he often did, being without a pickup truck- to a cargo hold, by pulling the seat out, and leaning it against the oxidized planking of the interior of the garage. Meeting of her weight; the “third” fucking mind, and a road, one which, mind you, was bound to be flat. We did have our ravines (you could still go down); and there was the moraine (two hour’s inside of Betsey to make it) where a generous glacier, noticing how fucking boring and limited the vast extent of the craton’s real meat actually is- a glacier as generous as an uber-farmwife granma- (everything providing and accommodating, everything seeking long term establishments, everything tending to whiteness; to order; to home, is motherly. My father was a motherly man. A glacier had its tricky; destructive; shifty; coyote side to it, but what this glacier destroyed has been long scarred over. Loping through its amalgamated leavings; its selected curiosity cabinet of examples from the different locales it skimmed; steam rollered;  flattened; scooped out; striated; scraped at; shoveled; buried; forgot; forgot; forgot; hid; hid; hid;…. flowed, flowed, flowed, being a real liquid-solid, a real yinynag personality-  like  yours truly- loping through there behind myself, beside myself, before myself, within myself, as Peter no doubt will come along to multiply the angles, to help bring about the foreground/backgroud, multi-valent experience that this must absolutely- ooops- apologies- the first of many, I would wager- fucking “don’t tell”. Don’t explain. Science can drain the life out of it all- leave that to the ones who seek to know.