Hawks n' Crows

Have I left polite society? How many friends do I know who will walk away or take sides or get even remotely close to base and honest things? Like grunting animals when the den is felled and exposed, redacted and queer to the influence of the mother. When there is not a leader among us, the tension spreads and when the tension spreads men will curse neighbors for saving scraps or storing them or devouring them or for failing to share. Separate wheat from chafe and each will not recognize the other, each grown in the same sifty fields, content to point out the reasons for his own hideous demise. That man will be an example for the petty and the weak. The rest will not care.
…
“I don’t envy your life,” says M Cavot.
Not much I could say to that. “Oh?.”
“I enjoy my kids too much.”
“Of course. I enjoy your kids too much.” But the reason to make the distinction seemed odd. What of the belief in that still small voice or guidance or courage but then again maybe everyone follows it to some extent. Which wouldn’t bother me. It always seemed a precious thing to be human, of all things to be. Many billion still small voices is still smaller than many trillion plankton or the countless sands or lunar dust or chess combinations. Plenty of room for fancy. I wondered if it was arrogant or insane to follow unclear dreams or to describe them as voices or visions. I thought everyone wanted fiction, it helps clarify the living.
“Well, whatever, we had a good time.”
“You playing world of warcraft?” I ask half mocking because I knew he was.
“You think nicotine is addicting. This thing is worse.” He adds in a lower voice as if imparting a secret.
“Right. Pure escape from boredom that doesn’t involve mindless staring. At least you’re punching keys.”
“I know it.” He adds in that same low breath clearly distracted by the game.
“OK, I’ll let you get back to it.” Adding ‘I love you’ in my mind as we are not the kind to say it or at least that wasn’t the habit. I know the final step will include speaking those things.
…
“We won,” says AG.
“I suppose if anyone can tell, it’s you.” We were discussing politeness and feminism and the reaction I had to a recent grad show – beautiful but stale. Well, not stale but safe. Everyone loved it which tells me something, namely that it doesn’t challenge anyone so for me, what’s the use. I told AG this. She responded favorably. I wasn’t a threat and that’s the way she likes her men but with sincerity. I didn’t want to be a threat anyway, so we enjoy each other.
“You should have spoken up,” AG adds.
I let a huff of air escape through my nostrils.
“Enough was said.”
“Do you still feel like a foreigner?” She’s an expat from Europe, still with enough of an accent to call her experience of America into question.
“Always,” she answers.
“Always,” I repeat. “I think that is how you can survive this place.” “Very few here can claim such a perspective.” This animates our conversation because it’s true and it flatters her strengths. Still I said it sincerely. We get back to the impolite thing.
“I mean when I look at her stuff I think of Marina Ambrovic and I think she missed the opportunity.” I was attempting to make the connection that a sheltered American girl from suburban New England perhaps lacks the engagement necessary to roil anything but polite applause. Like a Josh Groban concert. Still I liked them too. I wished they were mine. That’s when AG added the polite line.
“Well, these are more polite.” It’s true, I wondered if that made sense. I felt gruff.
“That’s a good point.” I wonder if I’m just used to scrapping, that I miss too much in through the heat of my skin, always boiling.
“Where’s the new form?” I ask because it’s my thing now. I want to see work stretched to an undeniable new form and full of youth and something real, not just studied.
“It was a good show but you should have asked about that and see what HER answer was.” “I was watching a film with my daughter and it was pretty much all sex and motorcycles and she was really embarrassed to be watching it in front of her mom and dad even though they’re both artists.” She switched to the third person for identity and I made a note of it.
“Really?”, I grunted again through my nose. She obviously loved her kid.
“It was a wonderful movie. We didn’t care but she did.” I understood because we all come from that same roiling catholic repression. It takes bold action to squash the cage. Most can’t survive it. They say the first seven years of life will define a man’s thinking. That is what the church will do to a youth before he even formulates a question. It fails but in a sense, it succeeds in taking hold of what a mind will struggle against. Even Warhol spent his days deflecting the Catholic question. I understand that sweet bastard more every day. Why else would one be so focused on boredom or violence or mindless pop idolatry? I feel certain to meet him in hell. Also, I’m sure he’s not gay and that he believes in love. The beautiful protestant American century just squashed that possibility out of him. What an honest being.
The rest of the conversation was pleasantries. We ended in talk about trauma and getting in on AthruZ’s train. But more about that later.