I’m burning a disc of my favorites from “Down to the Promised Land,” an
old compilation of artists on Blood Shot Records here in Chicago.
Just to demonstrate how weird I am, I’m also peering at “Myth and
Christianity” a paperback copy dated 1958, by Karl Jaspers and Rudolf
Bultmann. I collect these kind of books and surround my writing space
Now I forgot what I was gonna say. Somebody just called me and I can’t
return to what I was gonna right about. I hate it when that happens.
Thanks a lot Michael. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I’m in a place of limbo in my life right now. But I’ve always been in
limbo and that’s what I want to write about. I’m 31 at this writing. I’m
ten years married with three little kids. I’ve got work that really
interests me and friends (and a lover in my wife) like I’ve never had in
my life. That’s a lot to be thankful for and as good a place to
recollect as any. Edward Siad wrote a book called “Out of Place” during
a time in his life when he thought he’d be dying soon. The book is
wonderfully mundane to me in many ways. As a professor of English and
Comparative Lit at Columbia University and as perhaps this generation’s
most well know and vocal American Palestinian or Palestinian Expatriate
you’d think his memoir would surround his political coming of age. But
in a beautiful way he just told the truth about his boring childhood.
Well I’m not near as interesting as Edward Said to so many people. But
someday I’m gonna lasso my story (lasso?, yes country music does that!)
and tell it.
It’ll be full of crazy stories about a guy a knew trying to kill a roach
that crawled into his ear with a Qtip.
Another about a guy taking a big swig of piss that had mysteriously
found its way into the refrigerator. Now that’s a story. I can imagine
my six year old girl’s reaction to that one. I’d never live that down.
Calling my dad out off of a construction site to tell him if he’s gonna
vent on my wife-to-be he’s gotta go through me. Then telling him he is
Picking up a sledge hammer and smashing a watermelon off of my friend’s
head because I think he’s acting too stupid. Getting angry at him the
same way my dad did at me that month previous.
The shock of learning the following week that that friend died in a car
accident. The shame of never being able to say sorry.
Lots of stories. Too little time to tell them now.