Maelstrom: Uncle Dingy's Regrets

Part 9 of 31

They Found Another Body

This was a relative of mine, Uncle Clarence aka Uncle Dingy, who actually died before I was born. Once upon a time something happened and Dingy went a little rancid, wormy in the head. These days it might’ve been called a mental breakdown, because he was definitely under the weather where it counted. He had several close calls with death. He saw more than a man of his limited mental capabilities should see. Involving someone else's wife, likely from the neck down in full display. And he ended up dying of natural causes, some say murder. There was a prolonged vigil, rattling the cages and storming heaven's gate but it didn’t do any good.

I’m kind of glad it all went down before I was born. I have the space to stand back semi-detached and judge from a distance: “What happened to you, Dingy, that you couldn’t make it to old age like the rest of the brood? Did you forget every teaching they taught you, not to get involved in the affairs of people of such low character, with more on their mind than citizenship, patriotism, and doing good? You know the family, right, Dingy? We wisely stand back when the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket. Where others wilt in the face of temptation, we stand tall. So what happened to you? Was she that hot?

Ouch, that might burn, I got a little too close to the truth, which I wasn’t going to touch. But there was a jealous husband, jealous to the point of taking it out on Dingy, it being a firearm, a pistol to be precise, waving it about, about to fire it in that room of sin, with red wallpaper and nude paintings, the works, after backing Dingy to the headboard, who strained his neck something fierce when there was nowhere else to crawl. Bang!

His last word was “Maelstrom! Maelstrom!” I’ve heard of that, but I had to look it up to get a fuller understanding. The dictionary says, “A powerful whirlpool in the sea or a river.” And “a situation or state of confused movement or violent turmoil.” My first thought is that Dingy was out of his mind and randomly remembering something maelstromesque. But I ran it by a friend and he said Dingy likely was likening his experience with the woman and her jilted lover/murderer to a maelstrom, something he wished would’ve never happened, and if he had it to do over, he wouldn’t have. Or would've taken her to a different town.

That’s pretty smart reflection. ‘I did something, I’m sorry I did, and if I could do it over again, I wouldn’t have, or would've gone farther.’ But then he was in a maelstrom, a whirlpool of consequences, sucked down, dragged inexorably toward a fitful though regrettable conclusion, death.

What could he have said to call off the dogs? If a word like maelstrom didn’t call them off, probably nothing would have. “I’m sorry, it was a one-time thing, nothing we’ll repeat, I’ll make it up to you somehow…” “Make it up to me, huh? There’s no unsullying her good name and honor!” Bang, bang!

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

Everything I Know I Learned in Motel Lobbies

You know how I'm always working to expand my knowledge, particularly having to do with the human race. It helps me keep my keen edge in understanding, which translates into bigger bucks in my field, the group dynamics racket. More and more I'm getting the recognition I deserve as the "King of Group Dynamics," which, you might easily guess, isn't automatic. You forever have to prove yourself more insightful than the next idiot.

Recently a sociology professor friend of mine -- himself scratching and clawing his way to the top, and hoping to stay there -- told me, "Everything I know I learned in motel lobbies." Of course I knew better than to take that literally. No doubt you can learn a lot in motel lobbies, but it has to be an exaggeration, right? Or did he mean it? He didn't learn anything somewhere else? I had to test it for myself.

So the other day I took up residence on one of the couches in a motel lobby. Right away I learned a thing or two about motel staff and their suspicions. These couches are sat on about five minutes a week, when some weary traveler is arriving to check in or after they've carried their bags back out. No one sits on them for hours at a time. But there I was, holding a newspaper, peering over and around it.

I was focused on their everyday demeanor. Motel staff, in addition to being suspicious, are passive/aggressive to the max. They checked on me a few times, trying to discern why I was there, all the while calling me "Sir" and going through various superficial bowing and scraping. Maybe I owned the whole chain, like on Undercover Boss. They didn't know. Their bowing and scraping would've been sufficient to afford them plausible deniability if they were accused of being rude to a guest.

Getting past that, I took in some people-watching, as I said, wanting to learn about the human race. One of the biggest reasons I didn't major in sociology myself was I'm no fan of scientific rigor; the dean said my admission paper showed I was too anecdotal. Hence this extraneous anecdote about the dean in an article on motel lobbies.

Editor's note: This is my normal cutoff length for a post, so I'm going long. If you haven't got time to read the whole thing, I advise that you only read the second half. It's more on-topic than the above.

My learnings in the motel lobby:

-- People live forever in the motel. I've been here for hours and there hasn't been one fatality. But the pool's still empty.

-- About 2/3 of the men here are with women not their wives. I have nothing to base this on except my nature is even more suspicious than that of the motel staff. There's no doubt in my mind that adultery's been rampant ever since they got rid of the paper registry book. But can infidelity be that high? Of course it can, if my hunch is right.

-- All types of men are here. Big men, little, long hair, short hair, greasers, regular guys, professional men, amateurs. But all the women are clean-looking and nice, indicating hanky panky, married couples tending to resemble one another.

-- People take full advantage of free continental breakfasts. But they're quite patient when they're waiting for the waffle griddle. At an early hour feeding frenzies just aren't cool. I know around 2 p.m. the same creatures will be red hot with road rage, which might be why the griddles aren't out afternoons.

-- People multitask. I've seen several guys walk by carrying four or five suitcases. Their own, and likely their illicit girlfriend's.

-- The average motel guest seems to plan well. With four suitcases, that's a no-brainer. That said, some marketing genius put in a vending machine for toothpaste at $4 an ounce tube. I haven't seen anyone using it, so I'd say it's losing money. I say sell it for a buck and make it up on volume.

-- I'm really noticing that motel staff over-thank and over-Sir and over-Ma'am the guests. They really are worried about Undercover Boss! Come on, staff, we're not convinced you're such extremely nice people. We know you're punching holes in the wall as soon as we leave. Then charging our card.

-- The Number 1 thing motels are suspicious of is non-guests sneaking in the pool. Probably mostly driven by insurance and liability issues. Then because they'd have to stay working long after their shift if someone drowned. From the inquests I've been part of, they're usually quite lengthy.

-- As an aside, I've learned that if you wear a light blue smock under your shirt, then switch, you can meet guests in the hall as they're departing and ask them to leave the door open for cleaning. Then you can shower and sleep for three or four hours before the actual cleaning folks get here.

-- Some guy just drowned, quite the commotion, a great time for me to sneak out of this room unseen.

And so I proved it true. I didn't know anything before. Like my friend, literally everything I know I learned in motel lobbies.

Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?

It's tough not to scratch itches. I've spent my life doing it. I remember some really bad itches right in the middle of my back, then having to scratch them against a tree. And my mother always bringing up that's how horses do it. I didn't like her nagging -- I always bridled -- but she usually reared her head back laughing, so I couldn't actually neigh say it.

But who knows about itches? I know I've always heard there's certain itches that aren't meant to be scratched. Like infidelity, no matter the temptation. The idea in this temptation is that scratching the itch is positive. Maybe it feels positive in the heat of the moment. But we've seen so many who've scratched to their regret. I've heard several cry out in despair: "If only -- woe is me! -- I hadn't scratched that cute little itch!"

I've been thinking lately that maybe these itches -- actual, literal itches -- are meant as portals to other realms of consciousness, if only we could survive the test and not negate them in the very process of their revelation. Ever think of that?

It makes a certain amount of sense. You'd expect portals to be in definite spots, and other realms of consciousness, if they're anywhere, to be accessible through portals. If it were all nebulous and omnipresent -- which I'm not saying it's not -- you'd be falling over backwards into it. But what if we're meant to have a definite grasp on these things, and to visualize them like this: A circumference (the zone) going into the center (the nucleus), somewhat akin to a galaxy and its black hole. That's what I'm working with. I'm theorizing "It's All Happening" at that center, exactly the spot we negate when we succumb to scratching. O! the tricky ways of reality!

I would guess advanced yogis know all this, but they've kept their tongues, likely out of a cosmic sense of humor. They know these portal points are so easy to overlook, and it's funny to them, with our first inclination always being to immediately scratch away. Funny? Sad, really, with the higher realms right there. Good god, what all might we be missing? You know those little baby heads with wings, our almost-children in glory, so prominent in Catholic artwork circa 1860-1920? They had such a work ethic in those difficult years, they didn't have a lot of time to scratch ... maybe that's what they saw!

This is good stuff, and very likely true. But things only got worse in our time. With the coming of modern conveniences -- washers, driers, food processors, radios, TVs -- we're all sitting around, tuned in to every itch and with time on our hands to spare, as it were, so our fingers are busy, scratch scratch scratch. So whatever portals were common for the working man back then are closed to us today.

OK, we might ask, Why didn't the working man reveal more to us about these things, just flat out say it? Because working men back then were slow to speak, with not enough time, and they assumed everyone knew. Everyone breathes, right? You don't tell people, "Hey, I'm breathing!" Or it could've been they were afraid; they didn't want to end up in a mental hospital, which back then were very much a total beyotch.

But, oh how difficult it is to test out these ideas! Even when I feel like I'm tuning in, I still scratch, more or less unconsciously, simply out of habit. So many times I'm that close to getting there and looking around and I scratch. Isn't that weird? The positive to it is I'm still here to write this, but honestly I think I would've maintained consciousness well enough to both experience it and write about it. (Cf. working men, above; they lived to work tomorrow.) I'm not likely to just be overwhelmed to the point of riding a major itch to glory just like that.

My intuition is working overtime. This is all very immediate. I'm not scratching while typing, therefore the insights are flowing more freely. I've also got the consciousness to forebear, and in response the revelations are presenting themselves furiously. I can't keep up, and my nose itches in a massive nuisance way. Something's trying to hold me back, something wants me to scratch, something I have to resist -- you filthy devil! also called Old Scratch (!)-- until, I relent and scratch. "Just a little touch," I tell myself, until once again I die in an orgy of itch relief. But cosmic deflation...

Yet I shall not despair; I've always got another itch coming along shortly; that's the kind of grace I experience. Thinking back, last night was a terrible night sleeping. At one point, 3:30 a.m., I had an itch in the middle of my back. Maybe I was dreaming* of horses; I don't remember, or my mom. It was bad enough that I reached as far back as I could to get it. Now I think, "That could've been it!" Because when I'm in bed, I have all the time in the world to center myself in a spiritual reverie. An itch right on the spine is very likely the gateway to the essence of a particular chakra. Meaning, what is of the greatest discomfort to us would be the very portal to our absolute greatest comfort!

I can't go on. I must break. I must seek out the worst itching I can have! I'm sorry, this is too important.

*Night before last, in a dream, one of my cousins told me her middle name was Abner.

Sudden thought: Pet dander -- Anything there? It has to itch.
Note to self:  Book possibility, the It-ching, 64 different meanings of your itch.

The Industrial Fire Down Below

They work down in the hole, down in the pit, down in the basement, hidden away from the light of day, illuminated only by the flaring of flames in the stoves, furnaces, and boilers of our many factories. For the most part they're anonymous and we forget about them down there, and that's bad, because we ought to remember our people better than that. Because they perform a great function for us, a great service. And that's something to think about.

They're right there, deep down, right at the heat source, keeping the flames going, the boilers boiling away. Without them, our smokestacks would look very plain. They'd be standing there lifeless, not worth having. But thanks to their dedicated efforts, the fire rages and the smoke is able to fill the skies. Of course, I'm talking about the guys each one of us hires to keep the fire going down below.

We need the fire down there, for whatever reason. Any time we need boiling water for the work of manufacturing. Or heat in our plants. Or ... Why exactly do we need them? I slept on my head funny last night and have a cauliflower ear, and I'm up early, and, this is embarrassing but I seriously can't remember exactly why we do need so much fire down below. But they are down there, putting coal on the fire, logs, old phone books, chopped up chairs, lighter fluid, anything that'll burn long enough so they can get a coffee break every now and then.

These employees would be mythologically termed the disciples of Vulcan, who was a god of Rome noted for fire. I could look him up -- even the false gods get their own Wiki page these days -- but I'm a big fan of the first commandment, and any idolatry, even of a scholarly nature, is forbidden. But it wouldn't hurt just to make a few innocent guesses. Vulcan, I believe, would've been in the earth, churning up the flames down below. And it'd seem to me that "volcano," the word, might have something to do with him. Whether Vulcan was known for hitting a forge or anvil, like a relative I once had named Clarence did in his town as a blacksmith for farmers, that I don't know. (This is not my Uncle Clarence but a different guy, although my Uncle Clarence had his own fire down below until the fire from another guy's gun put it out. The kind of fire Uncle Clarence had down below will be the theme of the next paragraph...)

Bob Seger has a great song called "The Fire Down Below." In his song, the fire down below is our common libido. He sings of Old Rosie and Hot Nancy and the street lights, then the men showing up in the shadows, with this one thing in common, "They got the fire down below." Similarly, to express the universality of this "fire," he says it's true of the rich man, the poor man, the banker, the lawyer, and the cop; they have one thing in common, the fire down below. Something's down there putting fuel on the fire. Maybe you know the way it goes. You see a sweet young thing jogging by and your fuel's ablaze. And it doesn't matter if you're too old for her -- the oil we burn in our cars is a billion years old! -- proving there's no fuel like an old fuel.

Maybe that's why the firebugs in our depths are so anonymous. There's just a bunch of horny old devils down there looking at dirty magazines. And tossing them on the fire when the boss shows up. In that case, it'd seem to me they're very much like Satan, who lives below in the earth in the flames when he's not out walking about as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. Cold cuts.

Anyway, today we pay a fond tribute to these dear denizens of the deep, down there with their fuel, matches, kindling wood, bellows, candles, and incense. Keep up the good work, guys, whatever useful function it is you do.

Just as an aside, I had some real industrial strength fire down below last night, and that's what really gets you hopping. It was inexorable. I'm glad for these denizens of the deep as well, keeping everything burning. They occasionally pull a cord and send out the alarm that the bottom's about to fall out, and that we should get our physiological forms in place for a quick evacuation. Like the jettisoning of a rocket stage in the old days of the space program. Once the fire spewed from below, then it separates from the remaining body of the craft. That's the way it worked, as it fell into the waters below, and that's still the way.

It's a useful function, this fire down below, making the way for a new day of shoveling in the fuel. And it also has certain mental uses for the plant. We've all heard of Martin Luther's fabulous insights and transformation on the pot. I think he might've thrown pootie at the devil. Was it him or Jonathan Swift? Wait, I think Luther threw ink.

And since I mentioned my relative Clarence, I could also mention a cousin's wife, Joyce, who received the Holy Ghost while dealing with the fire down below. She was never a Lutheran, but a full blown pentecostal, especially after she was full blown that day. Like in the Bible, they say, it was like the sound of a mighty rushing wind. Then a cooling splash all the way up her back. One part of her, like the rocket, continued to ascend, and the rest was history.

The lesson is, If you want a magnificent spiritual experience, go anal retentive to the extreme, deny yourself -- a different sort of asceticism -- then pray! My own counsel on this score would be, Try to forget your aspirations and simply let your consciousness melt into the divine as it wills. I know, it's a tough concept. If you'll empty yourself like Joyce, your mind too, it'll be better ... kenosis.

So, today, without further doo, let us pay tribute to these anonymous fiery spirits in all of our basements. Industry needs them ... for something. So, men, keep those fires stoked like a red hot fever and we'll continue to enjoy the benefits of your daring service.

The Clarence Chronicles (Tweets)

Boys shouldn't play with dolls. My Uncle Clarence did and got shot.

That's actually true about Clarence, but it's been 60-some years. It pays to die under notorious circumstances. We talk about you forever.

And I didn't even know the guy ... since the jealous husband offed him before I was born.

That'd be Grandma's brother. Her generation kept it hushed up. But mine says, "Tell us the details of Clarence's killing again, please."

How bad would that be, caught in flagrante delicto with some juicy peach, then glance up and perhaps see the blaze of a gun at five feet?

The National Enquirer

I'm going to have to start buying the National Enquirer to get my news. I don't remember ever buying a copy. I picked up the Weekly World News once but could hardly stand to pay $3 for it.

I was thinking about making a career writing for them, then they went out of business. Some of my great ideas I still have, which I jotted out on a shoebox lid:

• A guy who made a big map of the United States from pork chops.
• Train graffiti in a museum, and an art professor who diligently studies it.
• Someone who builds their own fountain of youth (that is something Grandma Slump might actually do, perhaps next week if she lives long enough).
• Chinese gong balls curing arthritis in the feet (which is a true life story I have).
• Fortune telling with pizza (this isn't that ridiculous, since I can do it. For me, it's only one step up from crossing my eyes and seeing art masterpieces in terrycloth towels).
• A man whose aura is morbidly obese, yet he is only 98 pounds.
• A woman dies and actually takes her wealth with her.
• A slot machine haunted by a dead gambling counselor.
• A woman named Alma Daeus (amadeus pun) channels Mozart and renounces music.
• Science class skeleton turns out to be the missing principal.

Some of those are pretty good ideas. But as I understand it -- which I don't -- the National Enquirer is not in the market for these sorts of stories.

As we've seen in the recent past, the last several months, they've been hot on the trail of John Edwards. Perhaps he, like I, received strange phone calls, with a muttering voice saying, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." If so, then I'm sure he was distraught. But for him -- and this is where we differ -- the whole world cares. If they ever caught me "dead to rights" it'd be one brokenhearted 104-year-old woman crying, and a half acre's worth of field mice going on their merry way.

The National Enquirer did it. They got the news when the others were sitting around, too good for actual reporting. It's just like all this nasty business of John McCain's adultery. Someone ought to do something about that story. Maybe the Enquirer will, since they have increasing credibility. It's a sad story what he did to his ex-wife. But so far he's skating by, not a peep.