… or, how being transfixed by that oldie-moldy social corpse-meat standing in the corner, is the “off” in moving on
(photo from “The Guardian” Mar 31, 2018)
“Surviving the Culture Wars,” Hannah Gilfree Baily Reough reads, then stops for a beat and looks up. “HandsDown,” as she’s called along the waxed linoleum floors of Edgar Rice Burroughs High School in Lower Market Falls, Wisconsin, is leaning back, her butt against the front edge of Hector Proscales’ desk, one sheet of print-out in her hands.
It’s 2nd period, “English for Beginning Writers.” Which, in “OhHec’s” unreserved opinion, is the inescapable-and-continuing education lesson plan for the life of writers, and others less obsessed with verbal record-keeping, who continue to develop, through their lives, the life that’s living in their heads.
As she glances at the room, HandsDown’s curious who’s listening, and especially curious what’s going on inside the bloomer-tube resting on the shoulders of one Thompson “Wiggy” Andrews, sitting in the last row. A skinny kid with fraying jeans and a faded polo shirt he found last Christmas in the $1 bin at St. Vinnie’s on Railroad Street by the barns, Wiggy’s looking out the windows as she stops. He does a slim, 1/8 head-eye-turn to catch her looking at him, using his “peripherals,” which is what she’s looking for.
They’re peripheral friends. Which might sound insubstantial, but in the full spectrum light-wave present of their view of individual life in space and time, not embracing an oldie-moldy tribal social need for interacting with the heads of others like those heads are just the up-top wobble nods of the hot and steaming fuck-meat of their loins — is more than just the closeness-cool that naturally will follow from acts of respectful free-association. It’s also how the untooled reality of indie life, now, in fact is — when not pretending that we’re living, still, in an endless play-out of the dark and brutal beastie night.
“Part 1 — Lay the fuck-meat of your ego down, Oh, Sweet Hose Anna.” HandsDown then lifts and shakes both hands in a brief, revival-tent hallelujah moment. The class responds in individual turns on restrained laughter, that drifts upward toward the dusty ceiling tiles. “Spelled ‘H-o-s-e, space, A-n-n-a'” she adds, and the class laughs again.
It’s an exercise in friendly, non-beat-down irreverence. Which is the opposite, in totality, from the blow-back that is popular now with the poli-fashioned “new irreveranté” — the neocons high-strutting their new-found “anti-future, behold the foxy glory of a fastastic idea of the past,” as the resurrection of a better, brushed and polished tooth-and-nail. Oh, Sweet Hose Anna.
“So,” HandsDown continues, “‘lay the fuck-meat of your ego down’ might be difficult to wrap the coordination of your oldie sense of ‘preen’ around — if you consider that the self you’re trying to say ‘bonsoir, now’ to, is the mirror-image product you’re oh, so proud of, tailor-made just for you, from the hard orb resting on the erection of your neck. Like our heads, necks, and bodies are just the cooling towers for the fuck-meat furnace of our loins. Which is true only with regard to the dismal, last gasp grasp of this, the hormone boat of metaphor’s demise.
“But, just do it. Anyway. Lay your ego down. Do it for the future. Do it for the kids. Which is, exactly, the same thing. And if that’s just too big a bummer for your hang-man sense of self to jolly up to, then, please — stick your head back up your saggy fuck-meat. And shut … your … mother … fucking … mouth!”
She looks up again. Everyone is with her. She drops the print-out to the floor, raises both hands, empty palms facing out, takes a breath and shouts: “LOOK, YOU FUCKING COWARDS — WE HAVE NO GUNS!!”
The class pounds their desktops, stamps their feet, whistles and hoots. Standing mid-way back along the windows, OhHec is smiling as he stands and feels that buoyancy of moment people long to feel, when they’re fully in the swim of life — with the long-view value sum of this uplift, in particular, getting an A+ for constructive.
20180402 10:57 Mon (712 words)
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