Week 603: Once Upon A Fly Named Elam and the Bittersweet Return of Stream of Consciousness

As I write this, Elam, a weird looking Housefly the color of motor oil, but mostly of a golden sheen, has been tormenting me for the past half hour. Lucky for Elam that I’ve progressed into a philosophy that everything above a bedbug (notice the lack of a capital B there) is holy. Flies just make the cut, above the way they are as infants, yet below your basic Aphid (seems strange I should kill Flies as babies but not as adults–something Herod in that). Elam had no name until he just happened to rest where I left my eyeglasses. Greatly enlarged by one of my lenses, I noticed that one of his many eyes was droopy. It gave him a sinister mein. I do not have much more to say about the vexation called Elam; I do suspect he will still be bothering my screen as I write further, or at least until one of the Cats pinch off something more to his liking, but for those curious about his name, please refer to the clip at the bottom of this post.

This week our friend The Stream of Consciousness (SOC) makes an unasked for return. Now, this time SOC will be edited. No Molly Bloom goingonandonaboutwhatandwho flibberjittishness, nor weirdo spelling will appear after this particular sentence. No, this SOC will involve the current crash and thud of my little life as it unfolds on a dreary September morning that already has a touch of autumn in it. But not the good touch of crimson and gold (well outside the gold sheen of Elam), but the slightly fluey nudge you get when you cannot clear a nascent sore throat or rid yourself of the constant observation of skies of mildew and the certainty another war will break out today even though you are not up to fake caring for such matters because they never involve you. That of course leads to an astonishingly empty self admonishment. What about the new orphans? And then you hear Al Pacino’s voice from And Justice For All… berate you: “Dontcha’ care-yuh, dontcha’ care-yuh?”

No, fucker. Not then, not now, not tomorrow.

And throughout it all a song plays in my head:

“…this is it, the end of the joke…

…and her lovers walk through in their coats…

…isn’t she…pretty in…”

Goddam Elam is back. I forgot my new personal grace and took a swing at him, a feeble backhand that he evaded with his insolent grace. Have you ever deliberately not used a word to keep your writing “fresh”? Like right there, just above, a line up and a little to the left, I used “evaded” instead of avoided because avoided seems oh so last century.

I wonder what Molly Bloom thought of Flies. I imagine they were pretty thick in Ireland over a century ago. Did she smear honey on herself to attract them? Ah, I must let that thought go, it smacks of a downfall that could slip into unwholesome territory.

I feel I have done enough to call this part one of this particular wrap. But, first, today I read Exodus 12 in the KJV. It was the one about the first Passover (maybe to gain more readers, Bibles should title books like episodes of Friends). Actually, in the literal sense, it was the only Passover. I found myself wondering if anyone just had to peek out from behind the safety of her marked door to catch a glimpse of The Destroyer. That would have been such a Mrs. Lot thing to do, maybe a Molly-drops-her-Bloomers too–but I did not read any prohibition pronounced by the Lord against taking a peek; perhaps that would have gotten a body changed into a giant pepper mill. I wonder. I now reap the wages of SOC holiness and move on.

The Week That Was

I happened to be up on Sunday with an Auld Authior piece, The Journal of Katherine Mansfield. Mansfield was a splendid writer in the era where splendid was not used in an ironic fashion. She also wrote in an era where TB thinned the population in a ghastly manner. Her journal gives one a first hand, unguarded look into a truly fascinating human being who lived only thirty-four years.

The Wrong Road by Cris Aboobaker is his second piece with us and it stands as proof as what will happen when one has talent for writing yet just keeps missing the mark. Dedication and keeping at it are the needs in that situation, and as Cris proves with this insightful bit of prose, he has the goods for the long run. This wonderful tale is about echoing loss and recovery and maybe redemption.

Pinocchio’s Puppet by site newcomer L.A. Fields is fresh and funny, plus it manages to say a lot about the human race without pontification. As it goes, one cannot say too much about a short for the benefit of those yet to read it–but I dare anyone to find something to compare it to. Witty, winning and original!

Wednesday brought back Harrison Kim with Searching For Samantha. As Harrison effortlessly speeds toward the seldom reached fiftieth story publication, he continues to remind us all of his endless talent as well as the people around us who live in even more mortal peril than we all do. The MC in this story is a brilliant creation and his reactions to the world via his fixation(s), and the world’s reactions to him, are presented with clarity and restraint. So often this sort of thing is overblown, but Harrison displays accurate taste and judgement.

One Stone by Robert Walton proves that there is still plenty of future for works about the past, provided that there is imagination, intelligence and a strong feeling of “ago” in the writer. It also reminds me of one of the finest short tales ever written, Ambrose Bierce’s Incident at Owl Creek Bridge. Not that it is modeled after the older work, for Walton’s is as fresh as you will want it, but, for me, this one remains a delightful kin to the older work.

Chris Klassen returned yesterday to close the door on another week with What is Offered. This gentle tale about the quieter moments of life and creativity stands out and is very much like a lovely painting. It is also like a flower whose bloom continues after you think it is done. The piece is the beauty in faith. Compassion, hope and sticktoitiveness. The message really is not a message as some would try to categorize it. Simple and lovely.

We thank one and all for performing, in my case, I will defer to Miss Mansfield on Sunday. The beat goes on as long as trees do not suddenly get in our ways on the ski slopes of the world (I will let you think about that).

Other Stuff

Bi-Word of the Week: Toschlusspanik (n) Fear that the time to act is running out

Bi-Word to Unmisspell: Refrigerator (for years, “fridge” caused me to add a d. Mentioned before, but call this a follow up)

Bi-Word People Must Stop Using, NOW!!! “Ginormous”

A List: Ten Things That Prove The Apocalypse is Running Late

• Nearly all world leaders are Raging Weirdos and Wimps who make one long for the even minded days of Pharaoh and Herod
• Compare the average salary of soldiers who die in action, teachers who wish they could die and CNAs to that of reserve professional athletes in the high leagues of all major sports.
• There are people who believe that the next Super Hero movie will have a different plot
• Dolly Parton died and yet Flavor Flave still lives
• Tofu
• The words of the prophets are still found on subway walls and tenement halls and still no one shares what the words are for people who do not go to such places (I do–EAT Yo MAMA and Fuck ICE appear to be the top, most commonly expressed thoughts of the prophets; their artwork is better)
• Charles’ est. take as King of England–God knows how many million pounds per year. Charles’ est. salary if there was no such thing as the monarchy: 12.71 pounds per hour. (then again he is at a pensioner age–so, even less)
• There are people, educated people, mind you, who believe that sitting at their desk, eating, getting fatter and fatter can be improved by spinning the pedals on a Snakeoil sort of machine, while they still sit at their desks still eating and getting ever fatter. I will take that back if anyone can show me one person that activity, as I have described it, has worked for.
• Full Grown Kiss fans–often in make up. (Granted, Gene Simmons needs something to ease/hide his look, but, really, why are some people so impossibly numbskulled? I was sixteen when Kiss came out and I thought (correctly) that they were a kid’s band, like the Archies or Banana Splits Club. For me they were something the thirteen-year-old dumbfucks (all boys) would outgrow. Wrong again. Jayzus help us–Peter Pan in a cod piece)
• All Yours

Leila

Jack Elam and about a ten million generations earlier version of my Elam

And a song by a guy who did not let polio ruin him…