It's My Take

As I Lay Dying: random thoughts on the creative process (among other things)

       

I

It had started innocuously enough. First, they picked me up from the gutter and fed me. Then put a roof over my head and clothed me. And then, they left me there to die.

No use telling 'em to stick to basics – just a room with a view, of my own preferably, so I could read and write. But no! They had to go the full mile. It's like that with people with money. They think money can buy you everything.

It's a nice pad, really – one bedroom, a functional kitchen, a decent size living room, even a den to do some writing and whatnot. Furnished, too, including pantry and the fridge. I won't starve for a month, that's for sure. Best of all, it's all paid-for. So who am I to complain? Compared to the hole in the wall I was in, it's a palace, any bum's dream. But that was in sunny California. This is H town.

It's been over a week now since I was left thus to my own devices, each passing day more difficult than the last, and I'm going nuts. No one to see, nowhere to go. I don't know how much more I can take. Which will go first, my mind or my will? It occurs to me they're interchangeable.

The two books they'd left me with I devoured. "It'll keep you busy for a stretch," was their word on departing. And they have – for two straight days and nights, too. I'm reminding myself there's more where it came from – two thousand volumes give or take, still in transit, many of them unread. It'll keep me busy for the rest of my life if that's how I'd choose to spend it.

Somehow, I'm not very hopeful.

II

"Which single book would you rather have knowing that you'll be shipwrecked on a desert island?" (Many say, "the Bible.")

It's a preposterous idea, completely out of touch. Likewise with Robinson Crusoe, the fable. Why bother trying to survive, let alone read anything, if you're destined to spend the rest of your life alone? Even hope would be useless, for any such hope must center about the idea of "beating it." That's why all the clinging and clawing and scratching. Indeed, only with the appearance of good boy Friday does the novel assume the aura of credibility. The Lord of the Flies is by far a more realistic portrayal. For all the inherent evil and the darkness of human heart, both thinly veiled by upper-class upbringing and the veneer which is civilization, at least the boys have one another. They form a community.

Aristotle had once said that man is a political animal. Utter nonsense! He's a social animal first and foremost. It's not a great book that will keep you from going insane on a desert island, no musical composition or the finest work of art, but human interaction. Barring that, you'll have no chance in hell.

III

A scene from The Cardinal of the Kremlin, by Tom Clancy, comes to mind. It's a new KGB, more humane, above such methods of extracting information as torture, waterboarding, and whatnot. Sensory deprivation is the latest thing. They put you in a tank for a day or two, and you're floating. No sense of gravity to tell which side is up or down, no bodily movements to orient yourself by. You're in total darkness, deprived besides of all sound except perhaps the beating of your own heart; and after a while, even of that you're not certain. Yet your mind keeps on racing as never before and your imagination is at its most active, craving for input, any input, but none is forthcoming. You experience nothing except your own disembodied self. Soon enough, even this you begin to doubt. Am I dead or alive, in heaven or in hell? Any sensation, even excruciating pain, would be better, infinitely better and more welcome, than the state you're in. And so it was with Svetlana:

She was lying on a gurney when he got there, the wetsuit already taken off. He sat beside the unconscious form and held her hand as the technician jabbed her with a mild stimulant. She was a pretty one, the doctor thought as her breathing picked up. He waved the technician out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"Hello, Svetlana," he said in his gentlest voice. The blue eyes opened, saw the lights on the ceiling, and the walls. Then her head turned toward him.

He knew he was indulging himself, but he'd worked long into the night and the next day on this case, and this was probably the most important application of his program to date. The naked woman leaped off the table into his arms and nearly strangled him with a hug. It wasn't particularly because he was good-looking, the doctor knew, just that he was a human being, and she wanted to touch one. Her body was still slick with oil as her tears fell on his white laboratory coat. She would never commit another crime against the State, not after this. It was too bad that she'd have to go to a labor camp. Such a waste, he thought as he examined her. Perhaps he could do something about that. After ten minutes, she was sedated again, and he left her asleep.

IV

I'll never understand a recluse. It's a genetic defect or product of maladjustment. Both perhaps. How can people like that go through life is beyond me.

A writer's retreat is another oxymoron. And I don't mean "workshops" for they are community. I mean rather the condition of self-imposed solitude, as when you withdraw yourself from your natural habitat for art's sake. All art on my view is a by-product of interaction – the artist's response to his or her environment. To deprive oneself thus of the needed stimulus is not only foolhardy but ill-fated as well. It's like removing from under you the ground you stand on or extinguishing the fires. Memory is not enough. You need constant egging and agitation, aches and pains, a sense of accomplishment born out of struggle, agony and ecstasy, intensive engagements and strategic withdrawals. Like the rhythm of life itself with all its ebbs and flows. A creative process must reflect such a cycle since art is life in miniature. Otherwise, it's sterile.

V

There's no greater punishment than solitary confinement and no hope of escaping it. Give me a rowdy prison or Solzhenitsyn's gulag, sodomize me many times over, but don't deny me your presence. A concentration camp would be better than the jail I'm in.

I think of God as I write this, and I cry. All-consciousness and no one to share it with, all in vain for lack of connection! The Creator exiled from her own creation. There's no greater pain, no greater loneliness, no greater suffering. Hell would be a thousand times better. I pray there are angels in heaven – for God's sake!

Why then do I bother to write under these conditions? Right now it's the only meaning I can attach to life, my only connection with my past, my present, and even less certain future.

VI

I must diagnose my present condition, put a finger on what exactly is ailing me, identify the cancerous growth and remove it. I know that sitting on my ass all day long or twiddling my thumbs ain't going it cut it. It's a recipe for disaster.

As long as I remember, I was never conscious of time. There was never enough of it in a day to do all the things you wanted to; if anything, I'd always run out of time, wondering all along what I'd done with it, when and where I'd squandered it. But now? Time has become my constant companion, a fellow traveler, a shadow. And I can't seem to get rid of it; whichever way I turn, it keeps on following me like a phantom. It'd become my worst enemy in fact. Imagine – all the time in the world and nothing to do!

I'm thinking of strategies. Perhaps if I introduce rigor into my life, I might beat it. For all the drawbacks of living in a rural town, there are some advantages. For instance, everything's spread out. Just think: the nearest liquor store, two miles from my involuntary confinement; a smoke shop, mile and a half; a full-service supermarket, another two miles give or take. But you get the idea. So daily walks, I'm thinking, along with upper-body workouts, and I'll be in shape in no time. I realize it's artificial to be structuring your life so – it's so foreign to me! – but I have a bigger fish to fry. And now the immediate object, it seems to me, is to overcome the lethargy that's slowly setting in and taking over, a kind of numbness which gradually descends on both body and soul and is reminiscent of dying. A self-imposed regiment and Spartan lifestyle may well be the ticket.

VII

There's still the matter of quality. One would think an artist could create in the midst of turmoil, that some of the best works are born in fact out of some such and no other circumstances. Nothing could be more false! Where one usually goes wrong here is about the nature of the struggle: it's not with oneself but with the material. And while emotional conflict, hopelessness, despair, any of the above, may serve the artist as a necessary backdrop – indeed, as a powerful resource for the work in progress! – there's also a sense in which that struggle must essentially be over. In short, one must first come to terms with oneself, with his or her own situation, before one can tackle the extraneous problem of taking control and giving shape to the composition. Clearly, I've got a long way to go. Hence this frantic effort to pull myself by my own bootstraps and stress on the physical.

Yet I know I'm deluding myself. It's not my body that needs overhauling but my mind. Total catharsis! Mind and spirit has always been the prime mover for me, the body merely following. So let me just plug away with my writing though I know it stinks. Who knows, I might surprise myself one day and have a good laugh.

VIII

I intend for this work to be autobiographical after the manner of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer – a kind of mélange of personal experiences and reminiscences put together into a coherent whole. I realize it's a tall order, him living in the City of Lights and I in H town – no colorful characters here, no memorable episodes, no heroes, least of all, no city which always holds its allure and forever keeps you captive. Right now it's just a diary – how well I know it! – a veritable record of my wretched state of mind, but give me time. Contrary to popular belief, Solzhenitsyn's Gulag was not a random collection of notes hurriedly jotted down on sheets of toilet paper but a reconstruction. Well, I'm in the same boat more or less, imprisoned with no means of escape. And I, too, hope to put these notes to good use someday, to make them into a readable whole, one that's compelling and flowing and all that. But first let me throw this albatross off my neck so I could breathe again. I've got to get back to the rhythm of writing. How else am I to justify my existence?

Meanwhile, I'm beset by images from the past. The other day I dreamt of Alameda. Apparently, I was visiting there with the idea of returning. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, typical California weather. It seemed like a holiday or a Saturday at least, and the signs were abundant. Park Street was a real promenade, teeming with life and people strolling leisurely with no care in the world. I ran into Nick and Yvette. When I told them I'd moved to Kentucky, Nick exclaimed: "How could you do such a stupid thing?" I wanted to play chess but they had other plans. They promised though to call me the next day so we could have a few games.

And then there was Nancy. As she boarded the bus I was on, imagine, we started talking. She was as real as can be, every single aspect of her from head to toe, her voice and smile, too, so real in fact I felt I could almost touch her. It's been long since my dreams were this vivid. It's my mind, I guess, compensating for the unreality which surrounds me.

IX

In Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller remarks: "It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a failure. An artist is always alone – if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness."

It may be so. Consider, however, that Miller is residing in Paris, his true home. He's got plenty of friends among the émigré community, friends who sustain him through dinner invitations, conversations and whatnot, even if he is on the bum. And when worst comes to worst, Paris itself can become a friend. Hence the corrective: "Loneliness" doesn't work with "being alone" as a backdrop. Quite the contrary, it needs stimulation in order to be effective. Intensive engagements and strategic withdrawals!

But I had better stop my ramblings and thoughts of self-pity. Better times are sure to come.

       

PS: This was written on July 3, barely a month into my stay here, and was to be the opening chapter perhaps of my next work of fiction. Needless to say, I was still going through a rather difficult period of adjusting myself to living conditions so different from those in California and was at my lowest. Since then, my books and computer have arrived and I'm slowly regaining inner composure and sense of self. Consequently, I no longer feel trapped. (Which isn't to say I don't miss the social scene. The kind of sociability one can almost take for granted in Northern California, here one has to forge. And it ain't easy!) Besides, I've also made peace with my benefactors. Taking the lead from good ol' Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird), I've come to realize that to really understand people you've got to get in their shoes: For it's not only the case that most of us can't help who we are; when all is said and done, "most people are [real] nice . . . when you finally see them." And I'm trying to live up to this truth insofar as my nature and temperament will allow.

So why publish a piece which no longer reflects my true emotions and feelings? For one thing, I believe it contains some valid remarks on the nature of the creative process. More importantly, however, because it reverberates the main theme of my once feature article ("A History of this Blog"), as well as my early impressions of Kentucky life (as in "Postcard from Kentucky," for instance). As regards the latter, check out the local paper, Kentucky New Era, for local touch and flavor (see the link below or the margins). For good measure, I've also included an RSS feed from The Tennessean. Music City, USA.

http://www.kentuckynewera.com/

       

       

       

       

    

The Disappearing America

[What follows is a chapter from my first novel, Memoirs of a Secret Agent: a cautionary tale. Though written during the first term of the Bush administration, it's still relevant in many respects so I thought it might be fun sharing it. Stanley Crawford, a Homeland Security operative, has a brainstorm after hot sex with his new love, Doris McKenzie. (There is nothing like a boudoir for full self-disclosure.) Section III is the pertinent one in that it expands on some of the ideas expressed in an earlier blog (see A History of this Blog: in search of an anchor, August 14); sections I, II, and IV provide the backdrop. It's an "expository lump" and a rather long one at that, but I think it works.]

 

I

The descent from heaven to earth, from the sublime to the trite, is a long, multistage process. It's as though you had to travel through many stratospheres – not unlike a space capsule, perhaps, on its way back from deep space, except for resistance. It's a kind of free fall, but then again, it's painstakingly slow, unaffected by gravity, almost imperceptible. The floating metaphor comes perhaps the closest. Just as a particle of dust must settle sometime, only no one knows where or when, so must two humans who have tasted eternity. The climax itself is violent, explosive, a one-time experience – indicative perhaps of breaking a barrier. The aftermath is anything but. It's a state of contemplation, tranquility, of both peace and euphoria, of awe and reverence – all-transcending, a product of having been brought face to face with the divine. You can't navigate on your way down. The ship controls are on automatic. You can only marvel at the spectacle of descent and partake in the entire experience. You're in a trance. When you come out at last, you've landed.

We were both in a state of limbo, of suspended animation between two worlds. Except for holding hands, our bodies would barely touch but we were closer than ever, much closer than during any physical contact before or after. It's as if our souls, our entire beings – minds, bodies, feelings, emotions, reasons – were all conjoined in some inextricable way. We both knew we could never again replicate the experience. We could only reenact it.

There was no need to talk, no place for gestures physical or verbal. We both knew what had happened. Any action, comment, remark, observation, statement, anything at all, in addition to being superfluous, would only desecrate the experience. Perfect silence was the only mode available to us, the only proper form of celebration, the only way of being.

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of slow, rhythmic breathing and the beating of hearts.

II

We stayed in bed, the same bed in which just a while ago we could only fuck, make love, enact and reenact our carnal desires and innermost wishes, practically devour one another in pursuit of our sexual appetites and fantasies, healthy or otherwise, wholesome and unwholesome, giving each other pleasure in whichever way we could – all in the name of love. That was the pinnacle of our understanding back then, the most we could hope for, the limits of what we had thought possible.

But it wasn't the same bed. All those things were behind us now. Even love, as we had conceived of it then, seemed unimportant, trivial, a mere steppingstone to a more perfect state, embracing as it were not just the two of us but the world at large, all forms of life, all objects animate and inanimate, the entire Cosmos in fact.

And so we stayed in the same bed in perfect communion, wondering, thinking, sharing. We were at another plateau.

III

Intermittently, we talked. I'd speak of the disappearing America – of the idealistic sixties, of the Kennedy years and Peace Corps, of the flower generation, the hippie revolution and Vietnam of course, of the Columbia- and Watts riots, Wounded Knee, the Civil Rights movement and Martin Luther King, of the good ole corporate responsibility when jobs were plentiful, the unions responsible and the worker an asset, of times when we still had a strong manufacturing base and well-to-do middle class, when the label "Made in USA" meant something both at home and abroad, when greed, cutting corners and the bottom line weren't the only things that mattered.

I was a child of the sixties. She'd missed it by a decade. It made no difference, however. This wasn't like the earlier attempt when she had questions concerning specificity, context, where I was coming from. This time our understanding was perfect. It's as though our unified consciousness had spanned all humankind, beyond America, reaching to the very beginnings of history, even to Creation, well into the far-off, indeterminate and uncertain future. Our sensibilities were one – all-comprehensive, beyond borders and culture, beyond ethnic diversity or racial divide, beyond nations and nation-states, ways of power and all temporal things. It's as though God Himself had entered our very beings to impart this vision to us – bemoaning his erring children, ever-prayerful, ever hopeful.

She voiced concerns of her own. She spoke of the immigration problem which neither party would address and which had started making inroads into the local job market, and of outsourcing – a kind of process in reverse whereby jobs were being transferred overseas to places like India or Taiwan, where pidgin-English was preferable to retaining a higher-salaried, American workforce. It had started affecting the insurance industry, her own employer. None of us begrudged the rest of the world becoming enriched on the coattails of American prosperity. But was it right, we wondered, when it came at the expense of its people?

We both agreed this was still the best place on earth as evidenced by the invading hordes – people from all corners of the world, of every accent, skin color and culture, coming in droves, daily, legally and illegally. Nowhere else would they be rather than here. But for how long? And for what reason? We questioned their loyalty. What stake did they have in America? Didn't they come here just to rape her, to take their spoils, to squeeze her lifeless and dry, to make their money and run, only to leave her like some useless carcass, all-barren and in tears, when there was nothing else left to take?

It still was, we thought, the land of opportunity. But in the eyes of many, including many of its citizens, it was quickly becoming a narrowly-defined, almost vulgar concept, delimited more and more to the money-making proposition, to accumulation of wealth for its own sake, to enriching oneself by hook or by crook, to the devil-may-care type of attitude while the country and its people were going down the drain.

But that wasn't what America was supposed to be about. Freedom was. Freedom from government, from undue interference and excessive regulation, freedom of religion and worship, freedom to pursue your own idea of happiness, however construed, freedom to excel in any area whatever, freedom to become whomever you wanted to become; and yes, even the freedom or the right to disagree with your government and its policies, freedom of speech, the right to civil disobedience in the honorable tradition of Emerson and Thoreau. All these have been bestowed on us by our Constitution as our unalienable rights. Pursuit of financial or economic independence, both as a nation and on the part of its citizenry, though an admirable expression of that freedom, wasn't meant to preempt it, let alone cancel out equally worthwhile if not more admirable pursuits.

It has always been the beauty of America, its singular attraction, that it was never one-dimensional but accorded its people opportunities for full development in any area whatever – not just in accumulation of wealth but in arts, crafts, technical and scientific innovation, research, physical culture. All this was captured once by that unforgettable, though now defunct, phrase – "the American dream." Or by Walt Whitman's notion of America as an idea, as the great experiment, as the hope of humankind. And at the bottom of it all was freedom.

The creative energies, the American spunk and perseverance, its fortitude against any and all odds, its domination in the field of science and technology - all were a by-product of that freedom, its direct or less direct manifestations. But our golden age of television was long gone. And so it was with the Hollywood era, the times when we could still dream of heroes. The best in the American jazz hadn't seen its heyday since the sixties. And it was no different with rock 'n' roll, that all-American icon of pop culture: we couldn't think of anything memorable or noteworthy past the seventies. Even the best in musicals – the uniquely American invention of making Johann Strauss and opéra bouffe accessible to the American palate – have been of late either English- or French-originated productions: Andrew Lloyd Webber and Les Miz were a case in point. All have fallen victim to the vulgarization of culture, to reducing it to the lowest common denominator, to increasing the paying base, to selling out to quick profit and box-office success. Only in computer technologies and software development did we still excel, but there was a reason for this: because of a worldwide demand for ever-cheaper, better products, it was one area in which both quality and profit could still go hand in hand. Hence Bill Gates, presumably the richest man in the world and possibly the last icon of American excellence.

We didn't mind, of course, the rest of the world catching up. Ideally, we had both thought, all governments and human societies should emulate our way. The whole world would be better for it. But we weren't quite ready for "global government," charitable or Christian as such an idea might be. They haven't prepared us for this. Even less were we ready for our own government selling-out to international business interests and cartels. We were afraid of losing our country in the process.

And so we talked, and shared, and communed. We didn't need love or sex. Later, perhaps, but only as a validation, to reaffirm our perfect union, to seal this once-in-a-lifetime conjoining of mind, body and spirit, to celebrate our becoming with one another, with all there is.

What joy for a man and a woman to ever experience. What a foretaste of the divine. She was beautiful to me. I was beautiful to her. We were both beautiful and perfect in each other's eyes.

It was two in the morning.

IV

She had gone to the kitchen to fix us some food – scrambled eggs, bacon, whatever came to mind. We haven't eaten much throughout the day. Our bodily needs had been put on hold while our spirits soared, ever connected, to become united forever. Nothing would keep us apart. But the physical reality was reasserting itself. We were both hungry, nearly starving.

I followed her, naturally. I couldn't bear to have her out of sight. I watched the lovely figure, the figure of my beloved, from the kitchen chair behind. She seemed the epitome of efficiency, not a motion wasted, all her energies, concentration, effort, devoted to a single task. I admired her in all of her facets. She was a perfect woman. I pictured a perfect life.

We didn't talk much. We were still in awe of our experience, of our perfect union. She turned on the radio, a music station, perhaps to lighten the mood. After all, we were still earthlings, destined to live in a real world. We shall have our flights now and then. Meanwhile, we had to live.

I was figuring on spending a few more hours with her, of making sweet love until daylight, of holding her in my arms and kissing her tender lips. I knew she wanted the same. She, too, was eager for validation, for the sealing of what we had become, for consummation beyond all consummations. We belonged to one another now, thoroughly, completely, without forethought or reservation.

My only concern was a practical one, how to coordinate my work schedule with her living in West Virginia. No matter. I'd be commuting for a stretch till a more permanent arrangement was found. I knew I couldn't stay away. I'll explain to Gloria later. She must understand. As much as I had regretted it, for I loved her also, it was different with Doris. I was certain that Gloria would forgive me. If she truly loved me, she'd want me happy.

We were interrupted by a news bulletin:

A helicopter carrying Osama bin Laden, along with his presumed

bodyguards, was reported to have crashed somewhere over the moun-

tains of Afghanistan early this morning. Fortunately, an American

reconnaissance unit was the first on the scene. Judging by dental

records and other available evidence, there is no doubt that one of

the casualties was bin Laden. We're still awaiting confirmation.

The identities of the remaining victims of the crash and the purpose

of the mission are unknown at this time. Full-scale investigation

continues, and we shall keep you abreast of all new developments.

The president shall be giving a public announcement of this mo-

mentous event at 9 a.m. this morning, Eastern Standard Time, from

the Rose Garden. Full press-attendance and nationwide coverage by

most television and radio stations, including KXLU, are expected.

Stay tuned for further updates.

A History of this Blog: in search of an anchor

 

I

A few months ago when I started this blog, I had thought its main thrust would remain political.  We were in the midst of a heated debate right then for this country’s heart and soul and everything seemed possible.  Nothing could be taken for granted those days, let alone be regarded as certain – not the eventual winner of this nail-biting contest, not the shape of the Democratic Party to re-emerge therefrom, not the direction it’d take us and lead us to a better tomorrow.  Hope and youthful exuberance were in the air, new and exciting vistas, possibilities undreamt and unheard of – each of which having the makings of a new and glorious beginning, of recovering the way once had but long lost, of recapturing the spirit and the essence of what’s uniquely American: freedom of expression and from intrusive government, opportunity, right to self-determination both as a nation and a people, and a God-given right to the pursuit of happiness.  A government of the people, by the people, and for the people! 

As is true of any contest or spectator sport, one gets to choose sides.  For me it was Hillary.  In her I saw a champion, a symbol, an icon – the promise of a new beginning and the end of the oppressive Bush years marked by age-old imperialistic ambitions and grand designs of the neocons, infringements on privacy and human rights, and politics of fear.  Who but a woman, I thought, could finally reverse our long and infamous history, along with the deleterious effects, of man’s domination in business and politics, in running things, and the usually-attendant aggression, arrogance, and male-brand stupidity?  Who better to turn us around and make us rediscover our basic humanity, our heart, conscience, our national purpose?  And so I ignored Hillary’s glaring faults and inadequacies, her rather centrist positions, her history as a status-quo politician and an “insider,” her many misstatements, lies and gross exaggerations, and saw instead what I wanted to see:  not what she was but what she could be, not the present or the past but the distant future, not a flawed politician but a spiritual and moral leader after the manner of Joan of Arc, the avenging angel – relentless, selfless, and inspiring.  In Hilary I saw the harbinger of hope, the promise of things to come, the dawning of a brighter tomorrow.

Imagine a woman in the White House!  How different could things be!  Hence a Letter to Hillary (Feb. 24) – my first post – outlining a step-by-step strategy, a platform, a bullet-points list if you will which, if followed, I was certain would assure her the nomination (see April archives).  I wanted to believe! 

In the same vein, I had written A Capital Idea (April 24).  It was to serve as a cover letter of sorts, as a statement of purpose spelling out the reasons behind my blog, its raison d’être.  It was an exciting race, I argued, one which ought to command our utmost attention and which was bound to last till November at least.  So there was plenty to talk about, I thought, plenty of room for exchanging views and opinions and sharing of minds.  Meanwhile, it’d keep me occupied during the stagnant period.  Come November, I was certain I was going to come up with an idea for my next novel and be fully engaged by then.  And this blog . . .

Honestly, I didn’t know what would become of it.  For all intents and purposes it could well cease to exist.

II

Things never go as planned.  Come Saturday, June 7, and the contest was over.  Until then she had fought like a wounded lioness protecting her cubs, refusing to go down.  Only on June 3, the eve of the South Dakota and Montana primaries in which she earned a split, she delivered the speech of her life.  “I’m not going to make any decisions tonight,” she declared.  “Visit my website and tell me what you think.”  In effect, she had relinquished thus the reins of her campaign to her loyal supporters, the whole 18 million of them.  “You decide!” was the coded message.  Well, it had all come to naught and all hope was buried alive by her pathetic resignation speech on that momentous day.  Hence Hillary Clinton’s Obituary:  reflections on a post mortem (June 11), thus far my last piece in the genre.

I saw no reason to continue.  Obama still came across as a demagogue, a con man, as just another politician only shrewder, smarter; and McCain, a lukewarm version of George Bush.  What else was there to say?  True, I’ve posted since a number of entries on a variety of topics – see, for instance, The Greyhound Experience (May 29) or Postcard from Kentucky (June 12) and the follow-up, In response to my critics (August 1), not to mention two excerpts from my last novel, Love & Murder in Cyberspace – but these were mainly fill-ins, desperation pieces whose sole purpose was to keep this blog alive until I saw my way about.  I was seriously considering scrapping it unless I could set it on another, hopefully sounder basis.  “Why go on?” I asked. Indeed, why?  Fortunately, answers have come

For one thing, writing is habit-forming.  And it’s all the more true when it comes to writing a blog than a personal diary or a journal.  The latter you either can take it or leave it, resume it at a later time or not at all.  With the former, however, there comes an obligation of sorts, to yourself and to your reader.  To yourself because a blog, by its very continuity, offers a unique glimpse into the evolution of your own thinking, and one would have to be a fool not to take advantage of that.  And because it’s public, there comes an added responsibility to stand by what you say.  The obligation to the reader is a simpler concept:  one had better continue what one started.  But these are by and large superficial reasons.  Besides, they don’t address the basic question:  If politics can’t serve as a comprehensive and stable enough platform for an ongoing blog, what else is there?  What could serve in its stead?

III

There was a time of course, we’re told, when politics, and everything pertaining to politics, was to be the be-all and end-all – the epitome of all human activity, economic, cultural and social.  It is in that vein, I suppose, that we’re to understand what Aristotle had once said, that man is a political animal:  “political” because politics encompassed and transcended the social.  Never mind the limited application of the major premise:  5000 citizens, give or take, actively engaged in running the polis – a select group just large enough to do it well and to do it effectively.  (Running the city-state was their main business in fact, their most important if not their only business!)  So if you’re willing to exclude all those who were disenfranchised – the women, the slaves, the freemen – all non-citizens, in fact, whose number was a good multiple (tenfold at least, more perhaps) of the “true-blue,” then Athenian was a true (meaning direct) democracy.  Anyhow, the myth continued through democracy’s many transformations – each of which successively more diluted, ever more departing from the Greek ideal – till the present, I suppose.  I ought to have known better, of course, but I didn’t.  So I, too, fell victim to this myth because as I said, I wanted to believe.  And the best proof of it – i.e., that as far as I was concerned, political thought (to the exclusion of all else) fell short of the mark – was that when Hillary faltered, I had nothing more to say.  In short, it was only when I didn’t get my way that I realized what I had come to believe all along:  that politics has long since lost the central position it once may have had in the larger scheme of things, that today it is but a part (and an increasingly minor part, one might add) of the general framework rather than its constitutive, most formative element.

I realize of course this is highly subjective, a matter of individual perception, but isn’t everything?  Anyhow, that’s the gist of my experiences and I’m not apologizing for it.  And as far as experiences go, you tell me:  When was the last time you felt you had an impact on a body politic or that your voice mattered?  If you can’t answer this with a resounding yes then you’re already halfway into agreeing with me and my job is done.  Of one thing I’m certain:  if Aristotle were alive today, he’d modify his seemingly universal proposition.

IV

It’s a wonder, indeed, the myth still survives in this age of globalization and virtual disappearance of nation-states, when America is being squeezed by the Russian bear and the Chinese dragon and sold to the highest bidder, when the economic interests of global corporations and the bottom line take precedence over the well-being of the citizens, when jobs are being lost and our manufacturing base is rapidly disappearing in the name of some higher principle called “outsourcing,” which is supposed to level the playing field and bring prosperity to all, when we’re being lied to by our government time and again about our national purpose and mission of spreading democracy worldwide while there is less and less of it at home, when our rights to privacy and protection from unwarranted searches and seizures are being usurped daily under the auspices of the Patriot Act as part of the nebulous concept called “War on Terror.”  It was only yesterday that our president had chided the Russians for their act of aggression against the former republic of Georgia.  How duplicitous!  Lost in the shuffle, of course, were our geopolitical interests:  the besieged state had expressed a desire to join NATO.  And so the grand chess game continues, all the while we’re supposed to regard our continuous presence in Iraq as a horse of another color, as though we were really different from the Russians, as though aggression and imperialistic ambitions were exclusively their property, not ours.  

There can be only one explanation for the myth’s surviving power:  we all want to believe.  That, plus crass consumerism no doubt!  We’ve all too readily shed our citizenship colors for those of happy-go-lucky consumers.  Our state of denial is aided thus and perpetuated by that of diversion.

V

But if not politics, then what? 

Well, there are still the arts – music, literature, and culture in general – all fruits of human civilizations, past and present, and as such they’re deemed more durable somehow, perhaps even eternal; and for some this may be enough.  But these are too narrow interests, if you ask me, if unconnected to life, too esoteric if pursued for their own sake and apart from some larger framework, too elitist for it’s a path treaded by an aesthete and leads thus to a life of solitary existence and further disconnection. 

All human activity, arts included, must be grounded in some shared values if it’s to be meaningful.  The art and life of politics as understood by Aristotle – of self-governance, pure and simple – served once as such a ground for it not only enabled all manner of human activity and achievement:  it had also provided all such with meaning by being the center, the aim, the end.  I’m far from arguing that politics has become irrelevant – indeed, I’ll continue to address this issue or that if only for the hell of it – only that politics had lost the privileged position it once had:  it can no longer bind us like it used to.

VI

“First and foremost, man is a social animal” should be the motto for today.  Indeed, we may no longer feel empowered to affect our destiny either as individuals or as a nation, but there’s nothing to stop us from cultivating the value of a human society.  It behooves us therefore to work to that end, especially if other ends no longer deem attainable.  It may well be that given the tenor of our times, there’s no higher value to which we can presently aspire.  Sad but true.

Which explains, by the way, the proliferation of the blogging phenomenon and why it’s here to stay.  For underneath a myriad of reasons for this blog or that, there lays a fundamental need – alas, an obligation we all share in common.  To stay connected!

It’s the categorical imperative for our times.

Love & Murder in Cyberspace: The secret life of Ms Galahad (Chapter 2)

 

The Secret Life of Ms Galahad

 

Thursday morning, November 16, I got a phone call. It was Becky, Jake's secretary. The Galahad report was ready. Would I please pick it up, the sooner the better? The boss, she pleaded, needed the money.

I'd told her I couldn't wait myself. I was there in a jiff. Within an hour I found myself engrossed in the reading.

 

November 15, 2006

 

Dear Mr. Walker:

I must state at the outset that you presented me with a tough nut to crack. I've been in this business for scores of years now and I hope soon to retire, but never before have I ran into so elusive a subject. Ms Galahad must have the swiftness of Hermes, the cunning of Odysseus, and the ancient wisdom of Hera. She is a real charmer. Please forgive me for resorting to these banal analogies but they're true. Even if I didn't know you were a classicist at heart – remember, we talked about it a number of times over gin martinis at Roy's – I still would have employed the same language. None seems to fit better. So in a sense, Mr. Walker, you chose a worthy target. Ms Galahad is one of a kind.

Now to the business at hand. And here, I'm afraid, the situation is not quite so rosy. But first, some vital statistics.

 

Full Name: Nancy Roberta Galahad, no siblings

Date and Place of Birth: January 12, 1969; St. Paul, Minnesota

Parents: James Kilpatrick Galahad and Gloria Skeie

Present Address: 1327 Willow Street, Apt # 17, Alameda, CA

Telephone Number: (510) 548-0727 (unlisted)

Education: Graduated from St. Mary's Catholic School for Girls, St. Paul (1989); BA in Cultural Anthropology, University of Chicago (1996); MFA in Political Science, Mills College (2002)

Financial Data: Beneficiary of a trust fund set up by Ms Gloria Skeie ($250,000); a savings account of approximately $30,000 with World Savings; a credit card (Visa), $10,000 credit limit; a small checking account (Washington Mutual)

Criminal Record: None

 

Before I bring you current on Ms Galahad's present goings-on, I must digress for a moment. I've done some preliminary checking into her family history and let me tell you: it's not a pretty picture. She comes from a highly dysfunctional family, mainly due to her alcoholic, given to violent temper, father. James Kilpatrick Galahad acquired notoriety in his hometown – especially parts known as "the Irish District" – which is a feat in itself given the size of St. Paul. Hardly a day went by without his name making the police blotter or the local papers. Typical offenses were rather minor considering – barroom brawls, spousal abuse, disorderly conduct, things of that sort. It's their frequency that's staggering. To make a long story short, a restraining order filed by wife, Gloria (1981), was followed a year later by a no-contest divorce. Ever since, the child was in the sole custody of the mother while the father had mysteriously disappeared. The mother never remarried. Nancy was thirteen at the time.

Rumors have it that James Kilpatrick Galahad was given to molesting his daughter from a very young age. When the mother eventually found out – or at least began to suspect – all hell broke loose. It's rather significant that there aren't any domestic-violence complaints prior to 1981 whereas in 1981 alone there are at least five. Which lends credence to the theory of chronic child-abuse by the father and follows the usual pattern: it tends to spread to include spousal-abuse as well, both out of shame, I presume, and to keep the suspecting wife silent. Further support comes from the nature of many of James Kilpatrick's offenses: he's been known to frequent houses of ill-repute and a number of times had been arrested and cited for indecent exposure in front of a minor. In the interest of fairness, I must add that in each and every instance, these charges were dropped for insufficient evidence. Still, his long and despicable record speaks for itself.

Here is my take on what really transpired between the filing of the restraining order by Ms Gloria Galahad in 1981 and the divorce proceedings in 1982. For little Nancy' sake, the wife must have agreed not to press child-molestation charges on the condition that James Kilpatrick remove himself from the wife's and daughter's presence for the remainder of his natural life. That meant, of course, that he was never again to be seen or heard from by either of them, which tends to explain his rather mysterious disappearance. In my experience, it's not unusual in such cases for the mother to be protective of the child's welfare. Testifying in court about the gruesome details of a sex act with a parent can be traumatic even to an adult. There's no telling what irreparable damage it can do to a child.

All of this is unsubstantiated of course, in the realm of speculation. It needs hard facts to back it up. I'm confident, however, that I am right and if given enough time, I could get to the bottom of things. A stay in St. Paul for a day or two, another one in Chicago, and I'm certain I could clear this up for you once and for all. The question is, Mr. Walker, are you willing to incur additional expense – even more importantly, how much do you want to know and how badly do you want to know it? Since none of us can undo the past, perhaps we should let it rest. Call me and let me know what you think.

Before I bring you current, let me close this sad chapter in young Ms Galahad's life. Up and until 1982 she was attending public school. Then, there followed a two-year gap of which we know nothing. In 1984, once again we see her enrolled, this time in St. Mary's, a prestigious Catholic school for girls. She stayed there for the duration until she graduated in 1989. She was twenty at the time. For your information, St. Mary's not unlike a convent. The girls live and stay on the premises. Even at recess times, they're not allowed to visit their families, although visitors are allowed.

Which brings up two main points. First, Ms Gloria Galahad must have been rather well-to-do. A year at St. Mary's costs a parent nearly $40,000 – no less than some of the best Ivy League schools; five years represent a nifty sum of $200,000. As you can see, Mr. Walker, these figures quickly add up. There wasn't any divorce settlement to speak of, none at least involving any substantial transfer of money or property. James Kilpatrick was a drifter besides, a no-good bum who couldn't hold a job. He lived, one could say, off his wife's generosity and kind heart. Whatever she saw in such a man is beyond me. Perhaps he was attractive once. We'll never know, of course. In any case, all the money in the family comes from the wife's side.

The second point is more important for it bears directly on Ms Galahad's past – not to mention her present circumstances, behavior and character. As you know, most kids graduate from high school at the age of eighteen, not twenty. Nancy was a brilliant student besides, not only diligent but bright, and her transcripts from the University of Chicago and Mills College only bear this out: a composite 3.98 GPA from both institutions, magna cum laude material by any stretch. So repeating a year was out of the question. There is only one way to explain her delayed graduation: between ages thirteen and fifteen – the period immediately following her parents' divorce – she was out of school, public or private. There is no record of her enrollment in any educational institution whatever. Where was she during that time? At home? Some other facility? And what was she doing while there?

It's my educated guess, Mr. Walker, that she was undergoing therapy. It would be highly irregular if she didn't and her education had not been interrupted in fact. The rising awareness on the part of the victims of child abuse, especially if it's sex-related, can be very slow in coming, painstakingly gradual, oftentimes delayed until late adulthood. That's one reason why the offenders usually get away with their despicable behavior for as long as they do: their victims "cooperate" in a manner of speaking. In trying to hold on to their sense of self, they choose to live in a state of denial, a world of make-believe, rather than risk shattering their already fragile egos. Unwilling to face the facts, they create a reality all their own, embellish it, make it into something it's not. Until, that is, the awareness sinks in. And when it does, it hits them like a ton of bricks. It's a shock of a lifetime and it often scars them for life.

Since Nancy's mother was a person of means, it stands to reason she'd take all the necessary precautions to make the transition as painless as possible. Naturally, she loved her daughter (all the more so, I presume, since the ugly truth had come out) and felt guilty perhaps – if not by association then for not having had the premonition to step in and act sooner. Who knows, maybe she could have spared her daughter some of the pain? One thing, however, appears certain. The child couldn't continue the way things were – to keep on facing her teachers, other children, friends, as though nothing had happened. Some kind of therapy was a must if there was to be any hope of recovery. Where exactly? Under what circumstances? What were the relevant details? – this, I'm afraid, we'll never know. Nor do I believe we should. Let's just say that money can assure one of privacy – privacy beyond scrutiny, that is. And in this case, we had better respect it and let it rest.

Another possibility is that in addition to therapy, she had to undergo an abortion. Abortions are legal in Minnesota but in order to keep the father's name out, and for little Nancy's sake, the decision was made to seek help from a private facility. Even now I dread to think of this. Still, we can't discount the possibility. All the more reason, Mr. Walker, not to delve into the past. Let's just respect it and hope for the best.

Once again, it's only a theory. We're still in the realm of speculation. Consider this, however. The day of Nancy's graduation from St. Mary's (1989) coincides with the commencement of her trust fund. Within a week, she's out of St. Paul and on her way to Chicago. Why such a hasty departure? Not because the fall term was about to begin. That's almost a year down the line. (Her application bears the date of February 5, 1990; the letter of acceptance, along with a modest scholarship, of February 26; her first day of classes, September 4.) What was the real reason?

In my experience, Mr. Walker, there are no coincidences, only consequences. It's a simple universe, really, far simpler than most people suppose. It's a universe of cause and effect – nothing more – and to tell the truth, I'm quite comfortable with it. Now, this is what I think.

Nancy had a talk with her mother, a heart-to-heart talk. Must have told her St. Paul was out of the question, that she couldn't continue living there, not then, not ever. Too many memories, past associations – harmless in and of themselves but reminding her nonetheless of the pain she'd gone through. It's as though that pain wasn't in the past but had to be relived daily, every waking day in fact. While at St. Mary's she thought she'd be OK. She lived there in relative isolation, removed from all the artifacts and people that might have reminded her of her wretched experience. But only one day into her homecoming, if we can call it that, convinced her beyond any doubt that she was deluding herself. The streets she once walked on, the park where she played as a toddler – anything and everything about her hometown, including the quiet neighborhood where she grew up, served as a bitter reminder. Even her lovely home had lost all its charm. The nursery room, her own little room which was given her once she reached puberty, even the living room with its cozy fireplace on cold Minnesota nights – every piece of furniture and knickknack in fact, once delightful and source of pleasure and joy, the carpets, the drapes, the impressive mahogany bookcase taking up the entire wall, and those so huge and comfortable pillows into which she could sink and look into the glow of the burning wood, savor the smells and marvel, and simply forget oneself and dream while the warmth emanating therefrom penetrated every cell of the body, the sounds of the classical pouring in uninterruptedly from KSJN (Did you know, Mr. Walker, that Classical Minnesota Public Radio is one of the finest in the country?), all that meant nothing to her; on the contrary, it had descended on her with the force of tsunami. Then and there, her mind was made up. However much she loved her mother and hated the idea of parting, it was impossible for her to stay. She was an adult now, no longer a minor, and therefore free to go as she pleased. It was time to move on and turn a new leaf.

Why Chicago? Perhaps she had a distant relative there – an aunt or a second cousin. Who knows? It could have been Timbuktu. The important thing is – she had to get away from St. Paul and quickly, as far away as possible. And she did, with her mother's blessings no doubt.

I'm not a betting man, Mr. Walker, but I'll bet you dollars to donuts – it's my intuition – that she didn't make many trips back home since that eventful day in early October when she left St. Paul so abruptly nearly twenty years ago. I may be wrong of course. People are full of surprises. Perhaps she's grown stronger and more resilient, better capable of dealing with her painful past. Her love of her mother always served as a magnet. The odds are against it, though. From my long exposure to sexual molestation cases, therapy goes only so far.

As to her stay in the windy city, I'm afraid I can't be as helpful. To tell the truth, I was running out of time. Everything looks kosher though. It takes on average four years to get a BA; Nancy did it in six. Nothing unusual there. She may have worked part-time or taken less than a full load. If you wish I could make further inquiries but I don't think it would be time well spent. So let's turn to the final chapter, the here and now.

She arrived in the Bay Area in 1997. Enrolled in Mills College a year later. Lived in Oakland throughout her post-graduate studies and held a number of part-time jobs. In 2003, after completing her masters, she moved to Alameda and stayed in the same apartment since. Also in 2003, she started working for Earthcom. That's as far as I got. Saw no point in pursuing it further. Decided instead on having her followed, to learn some of her quirks, habits, idiosyncrasies. Isn't this what you really wanted to know, Mr. Walker – the person behind the veneer?

Well, I've had her under surveillance for almost a week now and let me tell you: I still know next to nothing. Ms Galahad is the exact opposite of a creature of habit. There's no telling what she will do or when. It's almost as though she'd made it a point long time ago that no day in her life would be like any other. Consequently, there aren't any routines to depend on, no schedules to adhere to, no activities or engagements she participates in on a more or less regular basis. That's what gets me, Mr. Walker – the very irregularity of her life. She shops at different places and at all times of day or night. Attends a spa now and then, but then again, there's no telling when. Even her coffee habit – you do know, I suppose, that she's addicted to caffeine – isn't much of a lead. It's Starbucks most of the times – gosh, I don't see how she can stand it! – but you can never be certain. Sometimes she'll throw you a curve and go to Peet's or Java Rama instead. Still, you can't count on an encore. She'll be there when least expected.

If there was one way to summarize Ms Galahad's life, habits, her modus operandi, to attribute a rationale to her conduct, a rule she seems to live by, it would have to be this. Unpredictability is her very essence. She's as unpredictable as a cat. One could say – and that's no exaggeration, believe me – that she lives as though she was being followed. In fear of being followed, perhaps! Her unpredictability is, as it were, on purpose – by design. It's meant to throw you off, to make you lose your scent, to derail you. She lives, in a nutshell, as though she were (still?) a prey – and you, I, everyone else for that matter, a predator. But perhaps neither of us should be taken aback. If my theory as to her wretched past even partly bears out, her behavior is "normal." The trauma is for life. Once haunted, always haunted.

Since your interest in this case concerns a possible engagement, I delimited my inquiry to matters of social and personal significance. Ms Galahad has many acquaintances but very few friends. (I'm not counting of course her work associates, of which there are many.) It's a pity considering she is such an extrovert – so quick on her feet and silver-tongued besides. We both know, however, that social graces, outgoingness, what have you, aren't always what they seem. It's a defense mechanism for many – a way of warding off the insecurity of the self. Still, she deserves better.

There was a woman named Linda, five years Nancy's senior, purportedly a butch. They shared an apartment while attending Mills College and for a stretch went through a stormy period. There were some fights, rumors of abuse, possibly a complaint filed with the police. (Don't ask me how I found out!) It lasted about a year. They still talk to one another now and then, although it's Linda who initiates most of the calls. Whatever relationship may have existed between them, it must have cooled off for Ms Galahad is by and large unresponsive. As best I can tell, they haven't seen each other in years.

So there's at least one bit of good news, Mr. Walker. Ms Galahad may be a feminist at heart – as far as convictions go – but she is not, and I repeat, not a confirmed lesbian. The brief interlude with Linda proves nothing. Everyone experiments with sex sooner or later. It's part of normal human development. Besides, it'd go against the grain, counterintuitive to most child-abuse cases. These unfortunates either turn into abusers themselves or forever remain under the specter. Of one thing I can assure you, though: Ms Galahad hasn't crossed the line.

Whatever the causes of homosexuality in both men and women, and it's a controversial topic – genetics, acquired behavior, what have you – violence isn't one of them. Usually, a boy or a girl finds that their role model – same-sex parent in most cases – isn't up to snuff. Consequently, they shift their allegiance to "the stronger sex" – the other parent, that is. Role (mis)identification is the usual outcome. A boy becomes a girl, tries to act like one – smiles, giggles, etc. – and vice versa of course. Violence, on the other hand, always trumps sexual-identity crisis. It turns its victims into subjects, automatons if you will. If a gay man or woman has a choice in a manner of speaking, it's only in becoming "the other." Child-molestation victims have none. Besides, violence is gender-neutral. Abuse is abuse, regardless of who – whether a man or a woman – is doing what to whom.

As you requested in our last meeting, I've done some preliminary checking into Ms Galahad's so-called "sugar daddy." His name is Richard Cromer and the description more or less fits. I wouldn't say, however, that their relationship was platonic. They do see one another now and then, and on occasions there transpires what you might call an "exchange of favors" – a quid pro quo. He's rather well-to-do, has a profitable business on the side – something having to do with a traveling circus or a carnival – and lavishes Ms Galahad with gifts.

Naturally, she reciprocates. In the main, however, you're right not to be jealous if your interest in her centers on the emotional. He's a playboy-type ("a wannabe" may be a better term since his experience and ways are rather parochial, for who'd chose Alameda for their hunting ground?) – all the money he's got is inherited – somewhat on the witty side but dull compared to you, shallow and artificial. He couldn't hold a conversation if his life depended on it, certainly not about the classics or literature – any number of topics in fact that you and I have touched upon and tried to discuss while inebriated, mind you, over those potent gin martinis at Roy's. Besides, Ms Galahad isn't the only one he sees. He's been spotted with other women around town – seems to flaunt this behavior in fact. To some men, as we both know, it's a mark of distinction, not unlike displaying a trophy or a badge of honor.

Surely, Nancy couldn't be unaware of this. She is too bright besides, too intelligent and introspective, to fall for such a man. The way I see it, it's a relationship of convenience. They each get out of it, I suppose, what they think they want and deserve. For Mr. Cromer it must be her brightness, her native intelligence, her wit. For her, who knows? A sense of security perhaps, a father figure, the one thing she'd never had. One thing, however, seems certain: with him she feels safe. So if romance or affair of the heart is what you're after, then by all means, go for it, Mr. Walker. In that department, Mr. Cromer is indeed no rival. Be prepared, however, to travel the high road. Shed your idealism. Let go of your passion. Keep in mind that most people, through no fault of their own, come as damaged goods. You'll need the patience of a saint – the kind of love Paul speaks about in First Corinthians – to pull it off, especially with someone like Nancy. Love her by all means, cherish her all you can – most importantly, perhaps, be kind, understanding and patient – but don't expect anything in return, not for a while at least. Who knows, someday she might come around and become the treasure you see in her? I wish you luck.

If I were to end it here, I'd recommend cautious optimism. I can't do it however in good conscience. Of late, a week or so ago, another man has come into her life. Mark Gould's the name, a new hire by Earthcom. Do you know him? I've done some preliminary checking but it doesn't make any sense. He lives in a shelter, one step away from being homeless, bi-polar besides. Yet Ms Galahad seems to be taken by him. I've seen them together more than once. On one occasion, I saw him re-emerge from her apartment at midnight after they'd spent hours together, doing God knows what. Thus far, I have no idea what goes. So until I do, Mr. Walker, and it'd take about a week, two at most, I suggest you hold your horses and don't bring up the engagement.

It's up to you, of course. You can proceed on the basis of this report, knowing full well it's inconclusive, exercise your best judgment and keep your fingers crossed, or you can retain me for another week or so – to make certain. If I were you, I know what I would do. Considering the nature of your concern, how important she is to you and how much you've already invested, I'd go the extra mile.

It all depends, of course, on whether you can afford me. Unfortunately, my services won't be cheap because this kind of work is usually around the clock and the hours can quickly add up. (We both know how cautious Ms Galahad can be.) I'm afraid I'd have to ask you for a thousand up front, another thousand when done. Again, I realize it's a hefty sum for what seems like only a week's work, but if you're really serious about marrying this woman, believe me, it would be money well spent. Better safe than sorry!

Feel free to call me and let me know what you think. Meanwhile, I'm certain we shall run into each other at Roy's one of these days and have another delightful conversation.

Sincerely,

 

Jake Hammonds, PI

License # 74356

1515 Clay Street, Suite 1250

Oakland, CA 94612-1499

Love & Murder in Cyberspace: ruminations from a boiler room

(For your entertainment – first chapter of my recent novel, Love & Murder in Cyberspace)

 

Mark and Richard

 

I

Where shall I start my wretched tale of Galahad and I? In the beginning, the middle, the end? Each clamors for attention, saying "pick me," "pick me," and for good reasons naturally. It's still a toss-up as I far as I'm concerned, especially since I've lost track of time. So much has happened since, I don't know anymore. Where is the beginning or the middle? And I'm still uncertain of the end. In all likelihood, I'll either shoot myself through the head or die from overdose. And that's the desirable alternative. The thing I dread the most, I could get a life sentence.

The last three months have been dreadful. I was on the run, from myself first, then the law. Not one peaceful moment in the whole lot, no sense of reprieve. No wonder I turned myself in. Anyone would. There's nothing worse than uncertainty, not knowing whether you're guilty or innocent. I'd rather stand convicted, right or wrong, than have her on my conscience and live the rest of my life like some hunted animal from cave to cave – a stranger to myself, equally unfit for the company of men. Even if they hang me.

My recollection is still hazy, especially of that night. Will I ever know? Perhaps it will come to me like a bolt of lightning; perhaps it never will. Even so, I'm beginning to recover a sense of composure, a kind of peace that comes only with acceptance. Bit by bit, I've started reconstructing the sequence of events, states of mind, motives, so as to piece it together into a coherent whole. And it's been only days.

Thank God for solitary confinement, a true solace for the troubled soul.

But I had better get on with my story. So little time, so much to tell.

II

Galahad and I have been sweethearts, you see. Prospective sweethearts, I should say. Then, she sprang this character on me. Mark Gould was the name. I knew him to be worthless, a complete scumbag, totally undeserving. What business did she have to connect with someone like that? Was it to spurn me, to make me declare my intentions and act like a man, or did she really fall for that jerk head over heels?

The latter was unthinkable, totally out of character; the former, a cause for concern and opportunity at the same time, how well I knew it, to take action, decisive action. Understand therefore that I had to find out which was which – where exactly we stood, Galahad and I? Mark was inconsequential in the larger scheme of things, a mere appendage, a pretext.

Easier said than done.

III

All Capricorns are gold diggers by nature. Financial security is their prime concern, and Galahad ranked with the best of them. Relationships were always a means to an end – a stepping-stone to a life of ease, comfort and general well-being. I ought to know. Ran into her sugar daddy once. A harmless little fellow, not much to look at, rather plain and nondescript. So physical attraction couldn't have been a factor, though one never knows of course: there's no longer accounting for a woman's taste. In this case, however, I was dead-certain. No wonder she'd kept it a secret. Didn't want to be seen with anyone like him. In her place, I'd be embarrassed too.

So I wasn't jealous, not on account of Richard. Far from it, I considered it a privilege to play the role of a rival. Of course, my rivalry was of a different kind. Let her use other people, I thought, to feed her insecurities – more power to her – provided of course she looked to me for her emotional needs. In that department, I was certain I had no equal.

Consequently, I was fairly content to fill that niche in her life. In time, of course, I'd hoped to break her out of her ugly habit – her rather misplaced concern with things material. It presented in fact the greatest challenge – to make her unencumbered and free like I knew she could be. That's why I loved her so – for her potential! Meanwhile, I accepted her weakness as a temporary aberration, a glitch, something she'd eventually grow out of. I pictured a happy ending. But then, she sprang this Mark character on me – not only a pauper but a worthless leech. It made no sense. Again, was she spurning me, using him as a puppet to affect our breakup or did she really fall for that creep?

IV

The rest of the story follows a natural progression. Events take shape all on their own, each impinging on one another swiftly with mechanical efficiency, exhibiting the iron law of cause and effect beyond all questioning, uncertainty or doubt. It's almost as though I was caught in some humongous spider web, unable to free myself, destined to follow the dictates of the moment, drawing me closer and closer to the final act.

Galahad, I must preface, was one of the most secretive persons you could ever meet. She guarded her privacy like one does their heirlooms. Even her residential address she regarded as top secret. Post office box was all she'd ever give out, and even then you had to consider yourself lucky. Consequently, it was imperative to disguise all interest in the matter and proceed with the utmost caution or I'd never learn the truth. Hence the first item on the long list of must-dos – keep on going to work as though nothing had happened. (Didn't I mention we worked for the same firm? How silly of me! That's how we met.)

Then it struck me. I couldn't possibly risk being spotted by her after hours. Her naturally suspicious nature would have alerted her and told her something was up. Any detective work would have to be done by proxy. Fortunately, I knew a PI by acquaintance. We frequented the same tavern. Seemed like a nice chap, easygoing and reliable. Jake Hammonds was the name. Gave me his business card once. Reasonable rates, he assured me; could use extra work. A phone call the day after got me the appointment.

In less than half an hour our business was over. Didn't go much into detail. How could I? I was grateful he didn't inquire. Simply told him we had met at work and were considering an engagement. Didn't know much about her. Raised in St. Paul, Minnesota; in the Bay Area since 1997. Graduated from Mills College with an MA, in political science, I thought. Did tarot-card readings on the side, possibly a Wicca, frequented a spa now and then. Had a rich boyfriend named Richard, but their relationship as far as I knew was platonic. I assured him I wasn't jealous. "Sugar daddy" – that's what I thought of him. Other than that, she was an enigma.

Naturally, I wanted to know more – about her life, habits, circle of acquaintances and friends. Would he please follow her for a week or two? A standard background-check, nothing out of the ordinary. I'd told him of my past marriages too – all tumultuous, passionate and brief. Didn't want to make another mistake. This time I wanted to make certain. Charlie Pride's country tune, "It Was a Picture-Perfect Wedding," kept ringing in my ears. "Wrong" was one word I didn't want to understand.

I think he bought it. Didn't bat an eye.

I apologized for the vita brevis. Not much to go on. Just a name, physical description, where she worked, the town where she lived, the make of her car.

He said it was enough. Would get back to me with a full report in a couple of weeks. Asked for a thousand in advance, two thousand on completion.

I paid without hesitation. Didn't mention Mark Gould. No need to. No matter what, the truth was bound to come out, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

The worst part was over, the next about to begin. The waiting!

It was early November, two weeks before my birthday.

In response to my critics: “blog” as a literary form

 

I

I had some misgivings at first about my last blog. Was I too indiscrete perhaps to wash dirty linen in public, too insensitive to other people's feelings to bring into the open what, by some accounts, should remain in the sacred domain reserved for the confidential and private? No longer! Judging by the response I got, I must have hit a soft spot – the more irate and full of vitriol, I'd say, the better. Here's an example.

I do not know one single person in my entire lifetime who is so full of himself, so full of anger and hatred and ill will as yourself. Your irrational rant at Melodie and Bernie is that of an emotionally immature, self-righteous, judgmental crybaby. Obviously, you're incapable of love and compassion. And you certainly don't see the need to take responsibility for your own life. Talking about someone showing their true colors! You are the most sorry excuse of a man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

And that's from someone, mind you, who barely even knows me. Nor does she know enough of my relationship with Melodie and Bernie, of the freedom we had to speak frankly and from the heart. Yet she speaks of some "great misfortune" to have met anyone like me as though I had done her an irreparable harm. My only offense, I take it – she was "friends" with Melodie and Bernie, too. Had Melodie & Bernie been fictitious characters to her, complete unknowns, my blog would have hardly warranted a comment. Since it wasn't so, Miss Goody Two-Shoes had taken it upon herself to come to her friends' defense – at Melodie's prompting no doubt. Outraged that she was at my rather biting appraisal, she shared my blog with the respondent. The rest is history.

Or take another, rather well-meant comment:

I hope you'll find a way to forgive and say something nice in the future to Bernie and Melodie. I couldn't read the entire letter: it was a bit too cruel for general consumption.

This one is all the more surprising because it had come from a longtime friend. And as far as he was concerned, Melodie could well have been a totally fictitious character to him; and Bernie, the man in the moon. He didn't know either of them from Adam.

All of which points at the duplicity we all share. "Speak no ill of your friends or associates in public" is the unwritten rule. While gossiping may be acceptable, open rebuke is a definite taboo. It violates our sense of propriety, of good form and social decorum. And it antecedes the notion of political correctness for it's embedded in our language and culture, too. A whistle-blower, for instance, meets with our disapprobation no matter how much we stand to gain from his or her disclosure. And the examples abound.

II

But why shouldn't we call a spade a spade if the description fits? Must social etiquette prevail under any and all circumstances? Certain acts, it'd seem to me, deserve our condemnation; others, like acts of kindness, our praise. "Even to strangers be kind" – the equivalent of the "Do onto others" commandment – appears to lie at the root of all human decency. So why shouldn't what's untoward with respect to a stranger be any less untoward when it comes to a friend? Should lesser standards apply?

We all have an obligation, it seems, to point out each other's faults and inadequacies, the ugliness which is in all of us – for our mutual benefit, mind you, and out of mutual concern. It's part of human fellowship to take the good with the bad. And it entails calling it as we see it without mincing words. But if friends are precluded from telling friends what they think, then who will? A stranger? And what good is friendship then? But no! We sweep things under the rug and pretend nothing's amiss, anything but to avoid the unpleasant, the uncomely, and the unspeakable. And in the name of what? Some false sense of politeness or blind adherence to what passes as acceptable behavior or good social graces? It's thus that form supersedes the content while the charade continues.

But you say – why didn't I register my complaint directly by way of personal communication? Why publish it as a blog? Well, for one thing, I wouldn't be as effective. There's something to be said for an "open letter," for making it public, that goes beyond the nexus of what's most immediate and personal. It's almost as though you were appealing to some "higher power" – objective and eternal. Even if it's in the abstract! Compound it with the fact that Melodie & Bernie are persons of flesh and blood, known besides to some of my readers, and you can appreciate, I think, the reason behind my madness. A personal letter just wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't have the same sting, poignancy, tour de force. It'd be ignored.

There's another reason. I've had two long weeks to think and reflect. I'm still disappointed but no longer sore. In short, I'm over it. Consequently, I'm detached enough from past emotions and feelings to think of my friends – clearly and objectively. So yes, I did mean to shake 'em out of their boots, to shame them and to embarrass them, too. Not out of vengeance, mind you, but for their own good. Whatever the cost!

III

Disappointments in love and friendship are facts of life, part and parcel of the human experience. They're also recurrent. All of us suffer setbacks from time to time, pick ourselves up, and then try again. It's a healthy human response (brooding is more natural) but it doesn't come easy. First there are emotions to deal with, then the healing. One would think that each new experience would make us better prepared to deal with the future, more resilient, and in a sense 'tis so. Not so with the pain. It'll have to be re-lived anew, time and again. It's the cycle of life. Which speak volumes, I think, to the overpowering need we all have for one another, to stay connected. Which is also why the subject matter of disappointment, any disappointment whatever, forms the perennial theme in poetry and in prose, in narratives and story-telling of all kind – a leitmotif. For no matter how immune we think we may be to future pains and sorrows, there's always a new lesson to be learned, a new insight to gain, a new reservoir of courage to tap into, another tomorrow to face. And it makes us stronger if only for being reminded we're not alone.

So add this to the long list motives, dear reader, which have informed my blog. It was for my benefit and yours, too.

IV

A closing comment. A blog is neither a diary nor a journal. Nor is it an email or a personal communication to a lover or friend. It's more like an open letter to would-be subscribers – personal in some ways, impersonal in others – a rather odd admixture of straightforward reporting and fireside chat, both objective and subjective at the same time, not unlike a country newspaper of old. Which is why, I suppose, its very form is liable to make it misleading, subject to mixed reviews and interpretations.

Where Miss Goody Two-Shoes and my good ole' friend had gone wrong, what I believe both of them have failed to recognize, is that "the letter to Melodie, Bernie, and Friends" wasn't a letter at all but a literary device. Need I reiterate that no such letter has ever been sent, let alone written? Need I add further that even had I been of the mind to ever send some such letter, it would have been quite different in form, tone, and content – more intimate, I dare say, and less "cruel" as my good friend had put it – from the specious letter featured in my blog? Must I emphasize that the very poignancy of "the letter" – its sting as it were – was made possible by the fact that it wasn't a letter? Must I belabor the obvious – that personal communications differ in intent from those designed for public consumption, that rules of reading may vary from case to case, that it's the audience which determines both form and content and not the other way around?

But this points again to the difficulties inherent in understanding an ordinary blog, the treacherous character of the new medium, and the need to thread softly. So let both the readers and the writers beware!

I may have overstepped, that's true, but I believe I've learned from my mistake. Have you?

 

PS: Forgive this long spell of inactivity but my move to Kentucky has been anything but smooth and I'm still going through a period of adjustment. Thank goodness, my computer has arrived and it's relatively free of bugs and equipped with the latest software, so I feel empowered again. I'll try to make up for lost time by making it interesting. Stay tuned!