I Could've Been A Gynecologist

Sometimes I really rue the choices I made in life. No one was especially gung ho and on me about making career choices. Grandpa would see me doing some stupid thing, like letting crawdads clamp on to a leaf, then pick them up in midair and watch them dangle, and basically laugh himself sick. Then we'd go to bed and the day was shot. No one was in my face, going, "Whatcha gonna be? Gotta make a choice real soon. Or you'll be standing on street corners, a public disgrace."

After I grew up and now that I'm old, it seems I have all kinds of ability to look back and say, "What if?" What if I'd just applied myself toward one damned thing, then launched out on a career specializing in that thing, my name on the side of the building, the building getting progressively bigger as I added on offices and waiting rooms and lounges, with assistants and cohorts running around, ducking in and out, barely seen by patients, but working feverishly behind the scenes with excellent ethics?

The thing that popped into my head today, accompanied by the usual regrets, was I could've been a gynecologist. That would've been darned interesting. And a great conversation starter as I grew up, if only I had known about them back then, the need for them, the terminology to discuss it with, and so on. As it was, I barely knew there was a difference between boys and girls till I was about 7-8. Of course I knew there were moms and dads, I'm not going to say I was completely oblivious. But that's about it.

Then I grew up and saw an occasional something here and there, whatever. But I don't know if you know about girlie magazines in the '60s. They didn't show anything very much, not like they do now. You can search at archive.org for Adam magazines* and see what they were like. Breasts and bottoms, that's it. I remember conversations with other boys (cousins) to the effect of "Why don't they ever show [boy's terminology omitted]?" And the answer was always some variation of this: "I don't know, must be something wrong with them."

But what if, in spite of all that, I had had parents and grandparents who ran by me all kinds of interesting career choices that didn't involve gas stations and motel laundry? Such as, "How about this, Denny, a gynecologist!" Then they'd explain to me what a gynecologist is, etc., and I'm enthralled by the service I could perform, fully professional, fully educated, fully honorable and ethical, knowledgeable, personable, just an unbelievable kid with real ideals about gynecology.

Teachers would be all like, "What have we here? A future gynecologist?" The newspapers would come around to run an article about "Local Kid Excels At National Gynecological Fair." My parents would be passing out cigars, knowing Grandma and Mom and my Aunts and their Friends are going to have lifetime discounts, with a family member serving them, completely taking away all the embarrassment they might otherwise have experienced. But as it was, if they ever went to a gyno they never said anything about it to me.

But how cool would it have been? Very cool. I buzz through school. I get scholarships. I go through college, pre-med, intermediate med, the study of the human body, the reproductive system, the difference between boys and girls, the whole ball of wax. Then I hang my shingle out, Denny the Gynecologist. I get a reputation as stated above, ending up like redeemed Scrooge, the best gynecologist that old town had ever seen, or any old town had ever seen, in any old country that there ever was or could ever be.

I take on a staff, a receptionist (offering her discounts, him discounts if he's conventionally married, or discounts for their mothers if it's two men, etc.), associates, gofers. Then like the SimDoctor game, the patients start flowing in, getting their yearly checkups, monthlies as needed, and what-all I don't even know. I've never been to a gynecologist's office. Remember, this is all a fantasy of what could've been.

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*One of my cousins died approximately a week ago, in real life. He was five years older than I. Somehow his parents allowed him to have a stash of girlie magazines in his room. I guess they allowed him. They didn't seem to be hidden under the mattress. One of the main titles he had was Adam, which you indeed can find at archive.org. I always wished I had a stash of these myself. But when you look at them at archive.org, though, you'll notice, What piss-poor girlie magazines they had back then! Anyway, RIP to my cousin. We weren't extremely close, but got together once in a while as kids. I saw him at my mom's funeral a few years ago and he was very personable to me. 

Newsletter -- The Object

I'm about ready to put out a newsletter, and I have a staff, which I hope will make the process smoother and make for a more interesting newsletter. I'm a big believer that more voices add something. I've been looking to enhance our chances, so we got together and I led the team in one of the exercises I do at some of my seminars, whether it be on group dynamics or anything. This is a great exercise even for something like positive thinking, firing up some of those tired brain cells. I recommend it.

I called the group to order and explained our "conundrum," The Object before us. Hmm, what is it? By that I meant, What is it beyond what it obviously is, in this case a stone? What does your mind tell you? I've been doing some personal spiritual development -- look for my seminar in six months -- so this is an exercise that makes me tingle all over.

You probably remember my staff. In the graphic, going clockwise from the upper right corner, we have, the Lady, and from the work release farm, Spud Tuber, Cannibal, Stanley "Tipsy" White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, and me.

So there we were, chairs in a circle with The Object on a table in the center. What is it? What are you thinking? Think deeply. We have The Object in common. Take a deep breath and release, not in your neighbor's face. What could it be? As usual, answers weren't immediately given. Either a case of nerves or mentality. The guys seemed clueless. Only the Lady, clearly the one with the fullest deck, and everything else, was forthcoming, "I am perplexed," she said.

Ever patient, I counseled them to close their eyes again as I spoke. "I have given seminars for some of the smartest people on the planet. Fortune 500 companies. Scientists. Fifth graders. And nine times out of ten they also sit in silence as you have. Until they do what I'm going to ask you to do: Open your eyes suddenly and mark in your mind the first thing you think of when you look at The Object. Now!"

We went around the circle. The Object reminded Spud of a big potato. It reminded Tipsy of a flask. Dashing Danny saw a nice little lady's purse, fit for the taking. Cannibal picked it up and chipped a tooth, apparently seeing in it the cheek of someone's juicy ass. That was the guys. The Lady started, then regathered her thoughts, like maybe she was reluctant to reveal too much. She pulled back in silence, then after eye contact she braved it, "I see in it the egg in the Ukrainians' Bird Goddess mythology, circa 4500 B.C." I nodded, "Yes, I can see how you'd arrive at that conclusion."

I thought to myself, This gal's really on the ball! Not just a pretty package, there's something going on in there! Or maybe she just got lucky. Beginner's luck, pearls of wisdom as from a child, a random assortment of words that just happened to make sense...

We broke into groups. Right away I and the Lady were one group. None of the others wanted to be partners with Cannibal, so there was a group of three with Cannibal alone. I gave them five minutes to confer, then we would reconvene. They were to come up with a consensus answer, thinking deeply about what is truly is.

It's in these group dynamics settings that I really shine. I figured Cannibal would have the fewest insights, so I would call on him last. That's a good way to encourage the smarter ones to take charge without the entire group being sidelined by the stupidest. As for the other three prisoners, I knew they had enough mentality on the ball to jog forth at least one thought. This really isn't to slight Cannibal entirely; he's dumb, but as is true of all prisoners, he has convictions.

When we came together, the three guys really disappointed me. Dashing Danny was the spokesperson, and whatever progress they had made was lost. Probably because of the complexity of the Lady's previous answer. The had decided to go back to The Object as a literal rock, which Dashing Danny said would "be great for throwing through a plate glass window and making off with the goods!" I shook my finger to scold him.

I was the spokesperson for myself and the Lady, saying we had set aside the goddess imagery, to behold in The Object a representation of the linga, not precisely a phallic symbol, as some would contend, but a symbol of something more nebulous, but something that could be perceived in a shape like this, while not really having a distinct form. It is a primal concept, inherently beyond thought, which dissolves in our imagination and leaves us in the presence of the vast, the void, the divine. I looked over at the guys and saw the vast void in their eyes.

"OK, how about you, Cannibal? What do you see in The Object?" Before I knew it, he leaped on me and bit off the little finger on my right hand! The pain was excruciating but I was immediately enlightened.

LATER: After the incident the Lady got me a BandAid® brand adhesive bandage and took me to the ER. The doc reattached my finger and told me to soak it in ice for extra-fast healing. It doesn't feel too bad, except every time I hit the ENTER button I scream.

The People You Miss-See

This is about all the hundreds of people that I've miss-seen over the years. I haven't kept a record of them, of course, but they know who they are ... or would know, if they existed.

I'm also referring, tangentially, to the hundreds and thousands and millions of ancestors and contemporary family members and friends that those people would have had, had they existed. But the existence of all these folk is a non-existence, ephemeral, a matter of my limited perception and imagination filling in the blanks.

Certainly, I know this happens all the time to us, probably, although you hardly ever hear it mentioned in polite company: "Guess who I thought I saw today, a guy who didn't exist." You come to understand you didn't see anyone. Or did you? I'm not saying he wasn't there. I'm not saying he didn't vanish in a second. I'm just not saying.

It happens like this: You're sitting there minding your own business, and you think you see someone out of the corner of your eye, then when you turn for the full gaze it turns out to be someone else. Like one day recently, I thought I saw a mystery woman sort of lady, like out of the movies, carrying a birdcage. Then I turned and it was a regular man in a dark shirt, carrying a baby, a blanket hanging down.

Obviously, for it to have been the mystery woman, which would've been cool, she would've had to have existed, with all the factors leading to her, including grandparents and other ancestors, and possibly student loans for attending unknown mystery schools. Then when she didn't exist, all the grandparents and ancestors vanished, and whatever loans she might have had were instantly paid off. On the other hand, it's tough to wish away the actual man and baby, just to conjure up a mystery woman. He has relatives, too!

There's even people I think I see who turn out to be a stack of something, or even a file cabinet, maybe with a plant on top. The leaves of the plant are their hair, etc., until I look, and once I see it's not a person, it's tough to imagine them again. It feels sort of semi-tragic, like I said above, all their schooling is gone, their teachers never existed, their fellow classmates, their pets, gifts they got from grandparents, and their fears of the future, etc., all gone!

It's actually a little easier, if you wear glasses, to take your glasses off if you want to see people who aren't there. I can sit in public without my glasses and look across the room and see all sorts of people. A couple days ago, without my glasses, I saw a guy who looked like an old childhood friend. I knew it couldn't be him. The guy was younger than my friend is now. Fortunately, my old friend is still alive; I see him on Facebook. But for a moment he had a younger twin. Then with my glasses the resemblance wasn't as close.

A few minutes later there was a guy with a beard who looked like a cross between one of my brothers and Solzhenitsyn! He had that Solzhenitsyn beard, but the top of my brother's face. Then when I put my glasses on he still looked basically like this. But younger than Solzhenitsyn when he was most in the news, and a little puffier in the face than my brother.

Getting back to the mystery woman carrying the birdcage, you never see a mystery woman carrying a birdcage. So I essentially knew that when I turned she wasn't going to be there. But what if she was? Maybe she'd be headed to a detective's office to hire him. Her cool, dark mystery clothes, a 1940s outfit, a funky little mystery woman's hat, and a dark cloth over the cage. What a thing to be carrying! These are the kinds of things I want to see more of.

Drink With Us On the Bus

I've seen this bus around many times, and probably the less said the better. I've had to stop and think a few times what's going on. I'm still not 100% sure, but right now my best guess is that they shuttle people in, then see that they get home safely after drinking. If that's not it, I'm sorry. I'm not identifying the bar, so as not to misrepresent their policy.

But you might get the impression, since it says, "DRINK WITH US ON THE BUS," that you're going to be literally drinking on the bus with these particular ladies, or others. With all sorts of possibilities that could follow, including parking at some secluded spot out by the lake, with one guy, a burly bartender, standing guard against bushwhackers. Again, I don't know ...

Let's say that not what's going on. I accept that. But what if you had a guy who thought, Hey, ladies that want to drink with me on the bus! We're looking in on this little scenario as the screen goes wavy, then we focus in on a particular guy, whom we'll call Walt. Walt has just entered The Drinking Bus Zone.

Walt approaches. The bus is very dark and obviously no one's there. "I'll have them all to myself!" he says with relish, then jimmies the door and gets in. Now it's just a matter of waiting. So he's sitting there, occasionally looking out the window. They must live around here, since this is their bus. But the night is wearing on and no one's coming by for drinks.

As Walt gets a little groggy, he stands and walks around. He sits in the driver's seat, commandeering the bus in his imagination, and taking the girls out for a spin. Where they're going, no one knows, not even him. But they'll know when they get there. One possibility would be a cool nightclub, where they wouldn't have to drink on a small bus.

Although, it might be a better plan just to drink on the bus; with such a small space there'll be less competition. Maybe just Walt and these six! He takes a long lingering look at the one on the right end. The bar on the window really accentuates things. Everything above her mouth looks like a cowl. Still, that's just a picture, she has a normal head.

Time passes, and Walt's rooting around in some stuff, when he pulls out a cooler, a pretty good-sized cooler. It wouldn't hurt to set out some drinks, just to be ready when they show up. One here, that's his, and six around a small table. He gets thirsty after a while, of course, with the temptation, and drinks his own. Then reasoning that he can always refill their glasses when they get there, he goes around the table drinking each one.

After another round or two, the picture on the windows is starting to come to life, almost. They're certainly doing a halfway seductive dance, which has to be fun to see. Walt puts his arms out for a huggy-bear, then drops them. Playing hard to get, eh? He looks up, bleary-eyed, and makes some suggestive remarks. No bushwhackers are in sight, and it's only natural. But still, they're reticent.

Pretty soon, a cop comes around.

The Imaginary Stud

The imaginary stud is a guy whose eyes perk up when he sees a woman walking by with a baby. "Hide me," he says, because he doesn't want the mother of the child to see him.

Except you keep going down the road and eventually see a woman pushing a stroller built for two. "Hide me," he says, quickly averting his face, because two kids, that's so much worse. If she sees him, knowing he hasn't paid whatever child support he would be obligated to pay, he's going to be in big trouble.

You keep going. The imaginary stud is wiping the sweat away from his brow, so much so that the tissue (or cloth) is wringing wet. And he's checking out some of the sweet femininas swinging their hips down the sidewalk. These are some of this thoughts: "Ooo, mama! Look at the butt on that one!" and "Yesss! Come to papa!" And, "I'll take a piece of that ... right now!"

Since we, along with everything else, were meant for reproduction, with the result of our reproduction being meant for reproduction, all the way out to the most distant generation being the same, naturally the guy's eye is going to rove, only finally coming to a rest when he sees something worth feasting his eyes on that would, given the right circumstances, fulfill nature's purpose.

He's in a state of agitation even if you can't see it, because, let's face it, he's socialized (civilized) to a certain extent, and able to keep his pants on and pass by undetected in ordinary circumstances. In other words, we're not talking about Herman Cain, although the guy of our story is still potentially an actual stud.

He is definitely an "imaginary" stud, because, look, he can't physically be the father of every baby in every stroller! There's others out there being the bull in most of these cases. But who knows, maybe he's gotten lucky a time or two -- after some especially wild drunks -- and you never can tell whose kid may be whose! Even if twins, triplets, or quadruplets don't run in his family, there's no way of absolutely excluding the possibility; they could be his!

Speaking of triplets, that's the next group we pass. The mom looks like she might be overwhelmed, because a stroller built for three is rare, and yet there she is, the proud (maybe not) pusher of three. A boy, a girl, and another boy, just to give an example of what we might see were we to stop and look inside. But the proud papa, the imaginary stud, won't be looking that closely, averting his eyes and face: "Hide me," he says, himself overwhelmed, thinking maybe he actually does know her. What a life of drudgery and expense! Diapers for three!

The only thing worse than that .... for our possible papa .... is an even more unusual sight, a woman pushing a stroller with four babies. Four? That's an entire litter! Now we're talking some severe fertility drugs! Something's made nature go haywire! The imaginary stud isn't ready for that kind of commitment! He's barely able to support himself! Still, he did the crime, why shouldn't he be doing the time?

If indeed he did it.

Imagination #9

Number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9.

Cue the music, something metallic, rising in volume, with a piercing scream. Skidrow's national anthem pipes in with a police call and sirens. It's another case for the fly by night lawyer, Amestic D'Buse, to get his greedy little paws on. She pulled a knife on him. Both ran out just as everything started crumbling and dissolving.

In a bed on the upper floor, our lady of the night stuffs towels in bed holes to soften the springs. They make an impact. She has a masked man who says strictly, "Do not look upon me in my heat." That's getting technical. What's he got to hide? He likes it blue.

Respectable citizens cruise the entrance to this foul district, peeking down, wondering what there might be to see. Give me one good case of staggering and something reprehensible and I'll be happy. Maybe a mad drunk throwing a chair through a window. How about that pizza place?

I've imagined myself in that one dive, the last one out. Even the lowlifes knew enough to get out. I'd be bellying up to the bar just in time to get the call. "It's for you," and I'm like, Who Knows I'm Here? Then I hear his accusing voice from before, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." No, no, no, it's my first time!

The neon sign at the fly by night carpet store flickers. Get that sucker fixed! It's pollution. It's mental anguish. It'll give me a seizure if I look at it twice. I wouldn't buy carpet from you. I'd be afraid to sign the papers. I won't sign anything.

What about the pizza from down the street? He kneads the dough like a strangler. With persistence. He's angry. It's rotty. It's scuzzy. He laughs with mania -- that's M-A-N-I-A, so sexy. The oven is open and shut, open and shut, fanning the flames.

The End Of My Imagination?

This is a tough one to write. I've wadded up and thrown away three false starts. I'm up pacing the floor.

I look at my clock clown above my desk, hung on top of my other clown, and see the time is speeding by. The ticking sounds loud. I was in the other room and thought I heard the constant drip drip drip of water somewhere. It turned out to be the clown clock making noise right through the wall. It's maddening and not helping a bit.

Have I reached the end of my imagination? It feels shot, spent, wasted, drained, annihilated, and obliterated. I could continue to do sociological and psychological analysis on my Skidrow obsession. But there's only so far that takes me. This is like a microbiologist looking at fleas in a microscope everyday. They're definitely worth looking at but not everyday.

I'm a little bummed out that I had to see Skidrow crumbling and dissolving. As much as I hate Skidrow on one level, it was actually nice to have it there. I can even envision Skidrow being cleaned up and becoming a tourist attraction. With big plywood pictures of some of its characters and a hole where tourist kids can stick their heads through. Make it fun. But think about it, there's the Skidrow type of person, and he or she would just end up somewhere else to make a new Skidrow, one that the tourists would avoid.

It takes a special kind of brazen person to actually go to Skidrow. And it takes a really creepy person to make it his permanent hangout. But for all that, you want it to be there. It's something you know about. It's something that everyone knows about and likes to peek at. I seriously don't know anyone who is truly disgusted about Skidrow at some level.

As for its crumbling and dissolving, I guess I can take some relief in this truth, that it actually does still exist, because the crumbling and dissolving I saw was only in my imagination. It really is still there. So that's some consolation.

Now that I think of it, why was I so bummed out just because my imagination had the place crumbling and dissolving? I think I got reality and fantasy mixed up! That's weird. But if anyone should know better, it'd have to be me, since I was the person doing the imagining! It does exist! I don't have to imagine it crumbling and dissolving! I can imagine it any old way I want! I can back up and see it not only still there, but thriving! How wonderful! It lives that I may peek another day!

The woman at the end of the bar. She never existed, so she's safe, not crumbled, not dissolved. The two guys playing pool. They don't exist, so they're safe. The same for the bartender. And the pizza guy. He's not the devil; he doesn't even exist. The bartender yet lives to mix drinks tomorrow and every day yet to come!

My imagination lives on! As good as ever!

Imagination Times Two

This is a beautiful situation. It all started with my first imaginary visit to Skidrow. Then I explored the experience from every conceivable angle. I was thinking that might be it for me. That time would be my only taste of glory. From that point on it'd all be commentary.

There would be a certain joy in that. To live vicariously through the experiences of others is time-tested and honorable. It's what the professional historian does. He has no life of his own. He relishes the history that others have made. And of course we know from psychiatry that psychiatrists are constantly troubled by transferring their emotions to their patients and trying, usually in vain, to live in a more exciting fantasy world.

As for myself, if I could have been a librarian or museum curator, I would have been very happy, tinkering with the works of other men or the artifacts of society and culture in general. That is a life of commentary, because it involves a lot of explanation of definite facts and some generally agreed upon theories. But it also allows enough leeway that any fool who's been on the job for a while can make educated guesses and impress the rubes during tours. So you're not entirely tied down.

I could be happy with that, as I say. But since all this relates to my first imaginary visit to Skidrow, which was my own experience, it seems like I would be selling my potential short by merely commenting on it the rest of my life. The obvious question would be: Why not multiply your experiences? Now, after yesterday, I've proven it can be done! Hence my second imaginary visit to Skidrow, which had an excitement all its own. A very special excitement!

I'm just now rereading it. Wow! I wrote that? The thought of everything crumbling and dissolving like that is awesome. Someone might say that's just wish fulfillment. That because I was forbidden by others and my own scruples from going to Skidrow, why not dissolve it to attain victory over the temptation of going there? I won't even going to listen to the suggestion. Skidrow, I will confess, gives me a lot of pleasure. It would be my wish, actually, that Skidrow were much bigger, as it'd give me that much more to wonder at, scold, and avoid. That wouldn't make it a bigger temptation. It's just like how I said I liked to ride by the jail and see the ne'er-do-wells hanging on the bars. It hasn't been the same since they moved to the new jail, took away the public aspect, and instituted strict privacy rights.

I will contend instead that Skidrow crumbled in some way to thwart me from enjoying it. But there is a more objective side to its crumbling that is unrelated to me. The people there know they deserve judgment. So the disappearance of the patrons -- the pool players, the bartender, and the woman -- shows that they have received a word on their judgment, and were wise to escape. This was their true ideal, you see -- they knew better -- but they waited until it was almost too late. I'm stunned at this fact, that these lowlifes knew enough to get out, while I -- this is amazing -- lingered there in ignorance. The way it worked out was such that it seemed like I was destined to survive. But you can't ignore the fact that the crumbling and dissolving took place while I was still on the premises. My fascination was there but not the same conviction of warning that they had. So in that way it did crumble to thwart me.

Now, once we got toward the end of the block we see the flipside of the bar patron's experience. This is the reprobate -- a symbol perhaps of the devil -- who knows it's all dissolving but stays right in the thick of it and even in some real way is responsible for its collapse. My own sense of what's going on in that scene is this, that the scuzzy pizza guy is indeed responsible for the block's demise. But it means that he himself will perish in the collapse. Interesting!

It's really quite the scene. He's "opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing." He knows the penalty and hastens it with his rash actions. His laughter shows he's out of his mind in opposition to all that is right and fair. Then I conclude with an interesting italicized "Somehow..." I don't know how he's doing it or even why. But read it again: "Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block." Powerful. Powerful stuff.

I love that. "The only world he's ever known." Is he a normal person? Apparently not. If he were normal, wouldn't he have known some other world? He surely would have had parents who didn't live in the pizza parlor. Surely he would have gone to school, and perhaps loved or at least lost at love. How did he wind up as a cook in a pizza parlor? These are questions either to be left to mystery or to be imagined at some point in the future when I'm not quite as exhausted. The way, though, that I say it -- "the only world he's ever known" -- if that's not an exaggeration, and it doesn't sound like it is, clearly preludes his being anywhere else but Skidrow. Is he above history? Is he a symbolic representation of evil? It seems likely, because who among mortals could have such a thing said of him?

Well, I am tired. But I made it. We made it, together! And my first burst of imagination -- my first imaginary visit to Skidrow -- has now met its match, rather its partner with my second imaginary visit to Skidrow. Life definitely goes on ... and I'm loving it!

My Imagination Is Going Back In

Yesterday I had a very important choice to make:

Now I have a choice to make. Do I press on toward new imaginary ventures? Or do I fixate so firmly on the last one that my life becomes a shrine to its memory?

I've decided I have no other choice than to double down on that day, not exactly making it a shrine but giving it a special twist, by supplementing it and building on its glory. I think this is the best way for things to work out, because it both pays tribute to my imaginary visit to Skidrow and renews the visit's promise on another day.

Let me hasten things along to save time. At this moment I'm going into a trance. There. It is achieved.

I'm now driving toward my destination. My heart is beating as I approach. I can see the last vestiges of respectable society, businesses that have no reason for shame. They sit on the square as ladies and gentlemen would sit, aware of their natural propriety. But off to the northwest -- ah, there it is -- I see the openings of that block. Here is where I usually drive by slowly in order to peek down it to see if anyone's having troubles. Occasionally you'll see someone stagger or pounding on a parking meter. It's not my desire that people suffer, but it's always good to have someone of high morals observe and reckon it to their account. That might sound holier than thou, but in this present trance, a very heavy one, I am less able to censor my thoughts.

I'm adrift in thought. I hope I'm able just to type this. Yes, fingers on the home row. Everything before me is going slowly. I'm reticent to turn on that block because I know the teaching I got growing up. This block -- Skidrow -- was forever spurned except for peeking.

OK, I'm turning down the street now. Again, the film, as it were, slows to a snail's pace. I'm able to discern the looming buildings with their sordid past. I think once again of the sociology of the lower class losing their stake at the upper class saloon and winding up down here. To plat out their dismal future of pool halls, saloons, brothels, fly by night carpet stores, scuzzy pizza parlors, bail bondsmen, and shady lawyers. The buildings ache with a dreadful history. It's a burden they can't shuck.

I pass the alley and note the garbage can tipped and garbage strewn about. Someone must have been looking for a used needle. To suck off whatever drops of moisture from the drug that everyone else might have missed. The wind back there has trapped a few wads of paper which swirl in a corner.

I'm especially eager to reenter that bar. I get to the front door. It seems to be locked but just a jiggle of the knob allows me to enter. There's no sign of life. But the pool table is just how I left it the other day. Some smoke still drifts around the light but there's not a soul in sight.

I look around. The bartender isn't there, but his wet rag is still on the bar. At the end of the bar, the woman isn't there either, but there's a fresh drink is on the bar as though she just now left it.

I'm in a mental stir at the thought of this. Where'd everyone go? I'm stunned to hear a sudden cracking sound. I look up and rafters are splitting and disintegrating. The bar itself is dissolving. I'm running for the door even as the floor is giving way behind me. Outside I run across the street to my car, as the entire block called Skidrow is caving in, crumbling to dust.

In my car, I gun it. But in the present slow motion movement, I'm barely moving. Fast enough, though, to avoid any judgment. Toward the end of the block I see the scuzzy pizza guy, opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing. Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block.

I'm shaking my head now, the trance being shaken off. Isn't it remarkable how the people knew enough of their predicament to escape? They were like birds, able to turn without planning it.

A Very Special Imagination

Already, the other day is quickly becoming the past, and as the past, it's no longer fresh in my mind. I'm very busy, hoping to document the details of it before it completely fades from memory. I might need to skip the next few days entirely just to dwell on it in order to accentuate its features more and hopefully keep its memory alive.

Of course I'm very happy that I had that time of imagination; I'm talking about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. But how to preserve and rightfully commemorate it, that is my struggle at this time. For it's those special times that make life worth it, times of inspiration and decisiveness, times of insight and the mind's grandeur. Not like ordinary time. You think of ordinary time and what is it? Solitaire and eating apricots? Stoking the fire? Bringing in the mail? A glass of water? Barely a fit memory in the bunch!

Let's say the next few days are ordinary days. If I take those days and dedicate them to memory of the other day I might keep it closer. Like by studying and making note of that day. What I ate. How I was sitting when the inspiration hit. What the weather was like. How freely the inspiration flowed. If I knew everything about it -- which I will seek to know -- then I might more likely be able to repeat it when I look at the present and see the same conditions. Today's not one of those days. That's why I'm lurching from topic to topic, barely able to find the right word. But that day -- we'll call it inspired -- I was in the grip of something powerful, really thinking the thoughts that are not ordinarily given over to men.

Am I proud of that day? Am I proud of that piece? Well, I do feel proud, but let me back up a minute. Even more I feel humbled, just as I said a moment ago, that I was in the grip of something powerful, and, therefore, wasn't even really myself entirely. I was the tool of higher forces that seem like they were going to have their way whether I was the instrument in their hands or someone else. To be chosen like that, then, is a humbling thing, leaving our ordinary feelings of pride very far behind.

Also, I've paid something of a price for that day. I don't know if you've ever had a day like that. But one thing that happens is that you want to recapture it. You want to remember it in such detail, and preserve it to such an extent that you even seek to give up living in the present moment. You become very past-oriented, to the extent that the precious experiences of life in this moment are wasted. You're always chasing that first high, as it were. And it takes more and more hours in the days following than ever were spent in that first moment. Like this thing with me, it seems like I ought to be able to recapture it very well; I have the same mind, the same heart. What's the hold up? The higher forces? Perhaps, but I'm thinking of them as really just another dimension of myself that is generally obscure. I'm not really thinking of them as higher forces, like some kind of little winged creatures bestowing imagination on me.

Probably what I should be doing is simply letting that other day be past. And instead of chasing its great high, be striving with my imagination toward other glories. With the idea in that being to make all time transformed, worthwhile. To forget the past, then, to remember it? No, not to forget but not to worry about remembering. To make this moment the time in which I excel, then to excel in such a great way that I need to spend three days worrying about this latter time rather than the previous time. I'll know it was worthwhile when it's something that blocks me as this time has, then has to be overcome.

Well, today was definitely a thought piece. And a necessary one. Now I have a choice to make. Do I press on toward new imaginary ventures? Or do I fixate so firmly on the last one that my life becomes a shrine to its memory?

The Points Imagination Raises

I've been very focused, giving over my imagination to some of the details in the piece I wrote about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. It arose from my imagination and it provokes my imagination even further, so imagine that!

The men playing pool is only one part of the whole story, of course, as would be the woman at the end of the bar. They are all fascinating characters and we could develop the possible relationships between them. Do they know her? Probably. Have they perhaps developed or shared any deeper times of intimacy? It would be my guess that she hasn't been particular, nor have they. None of them sounds like he or she has maintained a strict sense of hygiene or kept their lusts under wraps. For them it's Live every moment to the max, you're just an animal anyway.

The setting is another part of the story. And I've just been rereading my original piece, reviewing how I set the scene, delving into, hoping to glean what we can from the hopes and dreams, then motives and actions of the various ones responsible for coming up with the block that later came to be called Skidrow. I think I have it exactly right, that you have to originally imagine the place as vacant. Back before there were buildings, like when the Indians lived in this area, you had just nature. Deer probably roamed these parts, rabbits, various scrub bushes sprouted up. Then came the white man, laying out his cities and towns. They started with the businesses you see in westerns, the saloon, the blacksmith, the doctor's office, the sheriff's office.

But if they had saloons, then that would lead to brothels, or at the very least, hotel rooms you could rent for an hour, and right there -- boom -- you've got the foundations of Skidrow. Let's envision it, though. What would make the district later called Skidrow susceptible to such naming? What are the sociological underpinnings to this? My theory would have to be its location in relation to the classier districts.

The classier districts would have higher rent, higher income, a more upscale clientele. But your lower class folks, people more into quickies and a knife to the gut, would have to go somewhere. So they're getting off the train, taking the main path to the classier districts, they lose their money in a card game, they still haven't learned their lesson, they're in a tailspin, they're thirsty, seeking female companionship, wanting to win back their stake, so where can they go? They seek out their fellow losers who've withdrawn from the higher class areas over to the lower rent digs. It's almost automatic; it's scuzzed out just that fast!

I'm coming up with some different conclusions, but these sound right. In my original post, recall, I seemed to have the builders and entrepreneurs building with a sense of ideals, with no apparent idea about what their district would become. But that might need to be nudged a bit. Who would know better than they the socioeconomic dynamics of classy and scuzzy? So you use a shabbier wood, shabbier building products, cut corners, keep it cheap over there, knowing those folks will always be with us.

It's like Skidrow would be the most predictable thing in the world.

What A Great Imagination

I'm still wound up -- I haven't unwound yet -- from my imaginary visit to Skidrow a couple days ago. I've looked back at it, what I wrote, well over a hundred times, and each time I'm filled with many different emotions and memories. It touches me to read it, the complexity of the various relationships and settings (1), and yet the simplicity and sparseness of description that allows for the reader to fill in the scene from his or her own imagination.

It's a five star production. Is there room for growth? I'm not saying there's not; progress is good. But I think I did it in such a way that whatever growth I may yet attain will be only for the purpose of making better what is already very excellent. If you haven't read it yet, I urge you to do so. It's really like you're there, and that's what good writing is meant to do. They were right when they said I had imagination; I might add, I also have the wherewithal to do something with it.

A lot of people have an imagination, of course. But look and see if they have the wherewithal to do something with it. In general, they don't. They're stifled at some point. Maybe stage fright, always second guessing themselves, fear of censure. Usually this comes from issues that were first raised during potty training. But it goes on from there, like when they draw a complete blank during tests, or are withdrawn during school dances. Not me. It's just like how I ended yesterday's reflections on the previous day's post, by pumping my fist and shouting "Yeah! Yeah!" It's not just that I can do it, I know I can do it.

When you know you can do something, nothing can stand in your way. I'm the same in, say, climbing. I can climb trees, houses, trellises, up on roofs, up poles, lookout towers, ladders -- you name it. I do have fear, but I term it cautionary fear; I know that a part of good climbing is to respect heights; it's not just to be reckless. Someone reckless can't climb that well because, being likely to fall they're too afraid. There's some value in being reckless, in that you have initial confidence. But when recklessness fails is when that confidence lacks caution. I hew the middle path. That's why I can climb so well. See what I'm saying? You know you can do it. And caution allows you to succeed.

And I think I exercised very reasonable caution when it came to Skidrow. I didn't actually go there, although I confessed I like to drive on the south of that block and peek down it, but I went there in my imagination. I knew I could do it that way; I kept my caution, which kept the danger in check; and I came out with something that has now stood unchallenged (except my own suggested tweaks) for two days. No one has challenged me, because what could they reasonably say?

When I challenge myself it's just to improve what's being done. Progress is something I believe in. I feel this is a very important subject. I shall have more to say.

My Fun Imagination

That was fun -- but I probably don't have to tell you, it was exhausting -- yesterday when I wrote about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. I felt like I was sweating blood. I definitely had a trickle of it on my forehead. There were some scary parts. At one point my nose was running.

My nose has been running in the last hour too. I'm not 100% sure why, because my abilities to diagnose things as a physician are still in their formative stages. Since I'm having olfactory hallucinations, though, the nasal drip is probably related to that. Everything's fairly tame as far as "the hallies" are going. So please don't think you're about to lose me. I haven't had it checked out. But I swear, if I do see any other signs of a brain tumor, I will go to the doctor, or, at the very least, see what I can get for it over the counter.

What I'm doing for it now is simply blowing my nose -- I blew my nose, let's see, about 35 minutes ago. Then there wasn't a waste basket, so I'm thinking, should I just put the tissue anywhere, like here or there? No, I thought, because my room's getting to be a pit, with books and papers and things strewn about. I'm wearing a jacket so I just stuck the tissue in my pocket, thinking I would dispose of it properly when I got near a waste basket, but then when I did I forgot, so I still have it in my pocket.

OK, getting back to my fun imagination. I had the whole thing yesterday of the imaginary trip to Skidrow -- I'm calling it a visit. I've thought of it a hundred times since. I really liked (in a clinical way only) the setting of the bar that I visited in my imagination. I've been wondering if I was too hard on the woman at the end of the bar. I mentioned how soiled and rumpled her dress was, and more than a little insinuated she was a hooker. I called her loose and seemed to suggest that she'd been bed hopping through most of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have layed it on so thick.

Some of the rest -- were I to read it in someone else's imaginary blog -- I might say sounded like a lot of cliches from movies we've all seen. But in my case, since I know what I imagined, I was trying to sidestep the movie cliches. A million of them occurred to me. The guys at the pool table. I could have described them as tattooed, mustachioed, swarthy, sweaty, beady-eyed, greasy-haired, shiftless, disheveled; chalking their sticks repeatedly, pacing around the table looking for angles, using the bridge at key moments in the game; casting menacing shadows from the light above, etc. But I didn't say that. I kept it subtle yet evocative of a thousand images, when I said, simply, "Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls." That's just right as far as I'm concerned.

If I overdid it at all, it'd have to be with the guy making the pizza at the scuzzy pizza parlor. But I was getting near the end and I think I was just overeager to leave the reader with a memorable image, like a dagger to the heart. A dagger to the heart is something you don't forget. So, yes, rereading it just now...

Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.

I can see where I should have ended it, or what could have been excluded easily. Just omit everything from "I'd guess he hates" through "I also happen to be." That's a lot more evocative. Reading it like this I get goosebumps: "Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block." That's a thing of beauty.

So, that's it for the day. My fun imagination wins out again. [Pumping my fist in the air]. Yeah, yeah!

Mentally Faithful

Here's an odd juxtaposition of reality and imagination, that I'm preferring the mental Old Faithful to the actual geyser. Fascinating!

I was in the belly of the beast a day or so ago, but then I came up. Of course I have full awareness and complete memory of what it's like down there. With a few lights strung around, attached to electrical cords plugged into a long drop cord, I could see quite well. The shine of the central tube is most impressive. It glistens as it rises to its full length. A good word to describe it is 'insistent.' It rises and stands tall. You can look at it -- it's so shiny -- and see yourself like in a mirror. It's also fascinating to touch it, to reach as high as you can, knowing that it strains toward the surface. What's so fascinating about it? That it's so cold, for one, freezing. And knowing that it is normally so hot, scalding hot.

The scaffolding and stairs and other necessaries are around. The giant steel balls for water with all the flaming apparatus, gas jets, knobs, gauges, water pipes, and bellows rack are standing in place as well. But I've left it and have returned to the house. I locked up the works, to keep out neighbor kids, and have been in the house these hours since, meditating upon it as a beautiful thing, in fact and in my imagination.

But what's coming to me now, as I sit and stew over the details, is this, that it's also a beautiful mental construct. Meaning it can be as big and awful as I want it to be in here, while out there it is as big as it is, which of course is not bigger than it needs to be to carry out and perform its function. It's big but not spacious. And I'm even having a hard time saying it's "big," when it's simply the size it is to get the job done. There's no credit in having something be a larger size than it needs to be to get its job done. For example you wouldn't want a car that took up two lanes of traffic just for the status, because they wouldn't let you drive it; it wouldn't be practical. Similarly, you wouldn't want a dinner pail that took three men to carry it.

But size is a good quality when it comes to the imagination. You can recall it as it is, but the more you stew over it, mulling, spinning out ever widening mental pictures, the larger it can become. Until you've got Marvel Cave in your mind for width and depth. And you've got scaffolding and structure that leads off ten different directions. The central tube has to have several relay boosters, perhaps reheating units for the water along the way as it travels from the original thermal depths. The steel balls are more like massive drums, set in frames with steel bars to keep its integrity, lest the weight within distend them at any (perhaps) weakened point in their outer arc. You not only have the heating unit, with its practical size, but now it's so big and generating such heat that you know it has to be wasting fuel.

And how do I envision myself within this massive structure? As very very small. Surveying it from all points in a hard hat. Wondering how it ever happened that I, a humble local man, ever managed to get such an enormous thing in my yard. I must own the county!

The Ceiling Within

Once again today I'm thinking of the interior castle. That's one image for it. I like it, too, because castles are really something. I've never been in an actual castle, but seeing them in movies over the years has always been a treat.

I have some thoughts about seeing things in movies. For example, I have a hard time freezing what happens in this scene from what happens before and what happens later. I have a hard time watching a two minute scene, let's say, and feeling good about it. Because there's more around the corner, and it might all turn out badly. This relates to all the castles I've seen. They have the context of a bad guy lurking around the corner, people in the dungeon off their usual game, or an upside vampire crawling down the side of the parapet.

If you can freeze it like this: A movie that's nothing but a tour of a castle, stopping to examine things, no narration, no drama, that would be preferable. Since no movie like that exists, imagination has to accept the task. So we're left with an image, a castle, snipped from various movies, excluding all forms of danger and drama.

To me, things can be out of repair; I think that would match up nicely. I for one am getting older. My health care professional tells me I'm doing well, I told my insurance nurse I'm doing well, but I still might die at any minute, I don't know. Whatever the castle corollary is to that -- if the image stretches that far -- can be included, leaking pipes, flickering fire, cobwebs on the stairs, bats in the tower. It'd be hard to picture an actual castle -- not one of your billionaire's faux castles open for tours -- in the greatest repair. There's going to be corners and cracks where things are happening. Dust collects.

I wanted to say something about "The Ceiling Within," and this takes us to another aspect of the interior castle, the high ceilings. Am I saying enough about it? What do I see when I close my eyes? In terms of a ceiling. Rounded, dark, eyes darting too much, it would seem, to picture it. Shall I picture it like a castle ceiling? The walls aren't bricks. Maybe they're called big huge bricks. I wouldn't call them bricks. Stones. Very dusty up there, again, cobwebs. Solid construction. Built with extravagance. Still, somehow it's a lower ceiling.

There's anything I want to see. I'm alternating between the mental images I flash up, and the super images that are seen without imagining them. Those are two distinct places, distinct ceilings, or two aspects of the same ceiling. Which is easier to see? It makes little sense, but the latter, the super ceiling place. The images at the lower ceiling are there when you call for them. The second are there with every thought, but not strictly summoned, not arranged.

Would you like to see a glowing ball, perfectly white, with fuzzed edges? You can summon it artificially to this part of the ceiling, the lower ceiling. It takes its place in the parade of images. Your eyes examine its bottom, mid section, and top. You can turn it and see it go around or you can circle it. There's something concocted about it though. But without concocting, see the same ball -- your original flash -- all in a perfect standing, undeviating presentation, willed but not fulfilled by your own effort.

The ceiling within is where you can see everything you want to see.