I Hope To Kill A Cat

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #7

Unfortunately, being The Golden Child -- while a terrific rush most of the time -- doesn't make me immune to troubles. I've had so many problems, inconveniences, and headaches, of virtually every description, since yesterday. I sat still for about an hour, seeking my inner counsel, usually a very reliable service, open 24 hours a day with the best advice, tailored solely for me. But nothing happened!

Then it all hit me, the root of the problem and the solution. A karma kabammy has been put on me, as sure as I'm sitting here, by one of the saddest mamas I've ever been cursed to know, Myra Kula Electra! O! Doesn't that sicken you to hear? How often must I suffer her? I want to know! I didn't sign up for this!

Anyway, I just had to get out of the house. The walls were closing in on me, likely damaging the foundation. Thank God I've got good insurance, but I hate the inconvenience. I ran toward town, leaving a wake of wreckage behind, cars swerving in the ditch, damaging fence posts, releasing dogs from yards, and probably inconveniencing not only me but many others. At this point I had no alternative. It was stand-and-die on the spot, await the fate of a massive sinkhole, or keep running and hope no one connected millions of dollars in damages with the karma of The Golden Child.

The further I got from home, the more I could see it was only a localized kabammy. Obviously Myra didn't anticipate me diagnosing the situation and making a run for it before it was too late. The closer I got to town, everything was more normal. I knew where I was headed. There's an area just off downtown called the Skidrow area. It's nothing like a big city, just a mini version. A few bars and derelicts, nothing major enough to inspire pride, but still relatively cool. I've learned by hard experience, if you've got a kabammy going kablooey and karma's at the heart of it, there's no better counselor than a derelict; they're so far down it all looks up to them...

I saw my man. A gnarly looking guy, probably about my age, mid-'60s but looking so much older. I went over and sat by him, up against the building. He had a bottle in the bag. I reached for him to pass it to me but he refused. Which was a good sign. This is a man who knows his own mind! I explained the whole situation about Myra Kula Electra and asked if he understood the dilemma. "I hope to kill a cat, I do," he said. Fine, that's great.

He also understood my karmic debt. "I hope to kill a cat, you've got it bad." Can I get rid of it? "I hope to kill a cat, you could," he added.

The situation gained rich clarity by the moment. What a counselor, I thought. He needs to bottle it, at least write a book. This is Deepak Chopra territory, Eckhart Tolle gold, guys I like. He could write a book and buy this bar, then he could sit inside whenever he wanted.

I continued, "I've been thinking, What if I surprised Myra Kula Electra by simply forgiving her for our problems in the past, as well as her article calling me a 'Local Crank'?" "I hope to kill a cat, that would be good," the man assured me. I ventured on, cautiously, "She and I could work together -- two heads are better than one -- I'm the Golden Child with important work in the world, and she's very special, too, apparently; at least I suppose I could make her believe she is." I hope to kill a cat," he started, "She'd believe it."

It went on like that for a while -- clarifying many things for me, including his bad history with cats -- and I went home. Now all was clear! The kabammy had dissipated and I believed I knew how to handle one Myra Kula Electra!

I'm Manager Of A Criminal Carpet Store

Imagine this, it's hard to believe but true! Just three short years ago, I was railing against the fly-by-night carpet stores. And now I'm the senior manager of one! How great is that?

And I owe my terrific progress -- a promotion on the first day! -- to choosing a life of crime. Who said crime doesn't pay! Johnny, the boss of our little subset of the organization got a call from Mr. Big, who said he was watching my progress -- me! -- and apparently liked what he saw! Mr. Big just put in another fly-by-night carpet store and he thought I could handle it!

Today's my first day. And if everything goes true to pattern, I'll have a pretty good job for a week, since these stores always close down about that fast. But that's OK with me. If I do good, Mr. Big will probably put me in charge of something else. I just have to show I'm real good at cheating customers, paying no attention to their complaints, and keeping out of sight if they persist.

OK, I'm going to level with you. I don't think the guys know about this blog. The carpet sucks, sucks bad. Just as an example, the tuft will barely stay on a month. But we have this spray solution, called "Three Week Protector," that gums up the tuft at the roots to hold it secure temporarily. By the time it adheres to people's feet, or sticks to their dog's tongue, or just blows off from the breeze through an open door, the store will have long since closed and moved on.

The whole thing is win-win-win for the organization, since we not only sell the carpet, we make it and the Three Week Protector. I'm honestly not sure how you make carpet, but my past experience with carpet, with it lasting for years and being durable in the face of vacuum cleaners, tells me this ain't it. And yet, and this is a indisputable point, even if you don't make it right, it still looks terrific. The patterns are great, just like what the Persians do. I love the designs. I just can't breathe too heavily anywhere near it till the Protector is on.

Along with the carpet, sold to unwary twerps, we have a pretty good lifetime guarantee they can buy. It's very very cheap and sells itself. Think about it. If you can get a lifetime guarantee on something for 100 bucks, and you've bought $3,000 worth of carpet, that's a great deal. If you see even a single strand that doesn't look right, whether it's your fault or not, whether the kid spilled grape juice on it or not, you just call and we'll replace the entire carpet in your home free of charge, no questions asked. Shoot! You buy that much carpet and somebody's going to replace it no matter what, for a one time fee of $100, you have to take it! But there's a downside: The guarantee's no good. LOL, this time next week there'll be a pizza joint here!

As far as supplies, this is where you need great sales skills. Because there's an intrinsic contradiction. We want to load up the customer with various chemicals, brushes, and protective throw rugs. But our basic sales pitch goes beyond just keeping it clean. We really sell with the pitch, "Protect your carpet investment." And people nod and fall for it. The contradiction is, since most people go for the lifetime guarantee, what's there to protect about the investment? We're supposed to replace it for free, one strand out of place. The way I'm going to do it is sell the kit with all the maintenance items before I press them on the guarantee. Sell the carpet, get a handshake. Sell the kit, get a handshake. Sell the lifetime guarantee, get a handshake. And the sale is made!

I'm looking forward to the week ahead, or three days or whatever it is. The better I do, the higher I will go in the organization. Plus, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing my customers have put their hard-earned money into a product they'll easily outlive.

Big Brute -- Criminals Get Tough Love

You remember, Big Brute beat the crap out of me and left me locked in a dark room, no light and nothing but a ratty couch. I figured I was in there for the whole night so I decided to make the best of it. But one of the gang, maybe meaning to rough me up, unlocked the door and came in. He put a flashlight on my face and saw I was looking bad, with the dried blood and all. So he stood aside and I left.

I roamed the streets most of the night, thinking it over, Do I really want to be a criminal? For a while I felt sorry for myself. I passed a window and saw my bruises and cuts. But then I came to a new resolve. The bastard jumped me, I took his worst, and I was still able to walk. There was no more doubt: The life of crime is the life for me. And really, getting beat up like that isn't so bad. It's all in the dues a newbie pays.

As for Big Brute, honestly I felt like I actually like him. After all, he did choose me to sit next to, so there must have been something about me that turned him on. Sure, the beating hurt like hell, but, you know, maybe he did pull his punches. As a former professional wrestler, surely he could've done so much worse. Maybe he beat me just enough to let the other guys know I was tough and could take it. Which could've had something to do with the guy who opened the door letting me go. Maybe Brute himself even sent the guy down there!

With my new resolve for the criminal life, then, I did more than brood over my situation. I did a few things wrong. Nothing terrible. Just enough to keep my interest level up. I cut a big hole in someone's screen door. And I saw some rabbit cages in someone's backyard and opened them. That was funny, because the rabbits were in more of a hurry to get away than me!

The next day I went back to Skidrow. The whole gang was sitting there and seemed surprised to see me, especially Big Brute, who looked up and appeared a little sheepish. I told him hi, trying to keep a meek, almost fearful look, which was a ploy. I wasn't making eye contact. One of the other guys asked me where I'd been. I told them about the screen door and rabbits, earning me about five thumbs-up. Conspicuous by its absence was a thumbs-up from Brute.

I went over and asked if I could talk to him, very meek and nice as pie. We went down the alley a bit, within plain sight of the others but far enough that we could speak privately, had that been my real motive. I hung my head, as though submitting to him in fear. Then he told me, "I did all that to toughen you up, so you'd make it..." He looked a little proud of that, but his pride was suddenly removed with a swift kick to the nuts and me behind him in a close approximation of a bear hug with my blade up to his throat.

I screamed out he was going to die! He knew I didn't have anything to live for and of my need for revenge. So he was totally convinced I was going to slit his throat and gut his sorry ass right then and there. "Down on your knees, you worthless scumbag!" I yelled, going down with him with the blade still in place. After he'd dropped, I kicked him full force in the center of his back and he crumpled head first. "Is that tough enough for you?" I screamed, my foot grinding his face in the gravel.

With a new understanding between us, we returned to the group. Of course they had a new respect for me. But for all my anger, things seemed very even with me and Brute. We were cordial, and now the best of buds.

Big Brute -- A Meeting Of Criminals

Well, I've been a professional criminal now for a few days. In case you missed the "extreme makeover," and maybe can't quite believe it, let me assure you, it's true! I've been reading the biography of Jean Genet and he was my inspiration...

I've pretty well fit in with the guys in the alleys in the Skidrow district of town. Socially, that is. I haven't carved out my own criminal niche as of yet, but they assure me I can look forward to various forms of mischief, each with its own distinctive thrills. I can hardly wait!

As it turns out, and this is surprising, they've got a kind of pecking order, just like we're in prison even though we're completely free. They trade cigarettes like currency, that sort of thing. Which might ultimately make me a millionaire since I don't smoke. And I'm not about to start, with the health risks and the fact that my current life insurance policies are all predicated on the fact that I'm a non-smoker.

I don't know the complete pecking order, but clearly the knives are out for anyone who screws with it. Around the fire last night, we were just shooting the breeze, and I said, "What happens if someone crosses the line vis-a-vis the pecking order, whether intentionally or unintentionally, if you indeed allow that distinction?" From each hand, as if synchronized, flashed an opening switchblade. From which I was given to infer that there would be some danger to the person who foolishly made that error. But they were nice about it, even to the point of issuing me my own "blade," as they called it, seeing I had none.

There was another interesting little piece of synchronization that occurred. (They seem to move in sync like birds, although it's more likely they're simply creatures of habit.) They moved and shuffled and were in a circle around the fire. I just kept my place, and noticed that one particular guy made a special move to be on my right. I learned he goes by the name "Brute," having been a pro wrestler at one time known as "Big Brute." We exchanged pleasantries.

Then I saw the nature of the gathering, which probably should be more innocently described in terms of a Society for Mutual Relief. Our dates for the evening were already present and ready to hand, so to speak. A scrawny guy was on my left, with Brute on my right, who moved with some authority to dominate my attention. Clearly, he wanted to get better acquainted, which was very nice. I'm sure Scrawny was happy with his activities, but if truth be known, my eyes were strictly on Brute.

Later, and this is where the story turns a little more unpleasant, we paired off, with me and Brute going down to some little room he knew of, mostly bare except for a ratty couch and an unshaded light bulb strung from the ceiling. Honestly, I figured we'd sit on the couch and talk of our interests, hobbies, and such. But when I looked up, he was all fists and kicks. He beat the crap out of me. So there I was, sprawled on the couch, bleeding everywhere. The guy had power. He reached up and squashed the bulb with his hand. Then he left the room and I heard the door lock.

I lay there in the dark, feeling kind of blah -- is that the right word? Crappy? Cold? Afraid? Dejected? But I still had my thoughts, and so my hopes looked ahead to a brighter future, to even bigger thrills in my new life of crime...

My Upcoming Life Of Crime

I wanted to give everyone a heads-up on something, a fairly serious issue involving me so no one gets the wrong impression.

I've always tried to keep my reputation pristine, on the blog and in real life. I've never been known to admit to any wrongdoing. If there's ever anything that ever happens, it's always someone else's fault. But that might change -- mostly concerning my reputation -- if people don't understand beforehand what's going on.

Basically what I'm going to do is turn away from blogging my real life (for a while) to blog a pretend, fantasy, fictionalized life. And it might be a few weeks or even a month, I don't know yet. I've sketched out 16 or 17 scenarios, but it's in the actual writing of the thing that it might stretch out a little longer.

In this fictionalized account of my life, I'm going to turn away from decent society, from my reputation, etc., to a life of crime. And, friends, I might be a real scumbag, if that's not too strong a word for it. Certainly the things I'm planning for myself are pretty scandalous to me and my normal social setting. But of course if you're in some country where corruption, deceit, murder, and underhandedness are a way of life -- and I do seem to have a number of readers from the Ukraine -- then it might seem even mild to you.

Did I say murder? Yes, I guess I did. But remember -- and every good fiction writer likes to state these disclaimers right up front -- it's all pretend. In real life I'm not planning on killing anyone. Only in this fictionalized account of my life as a criminal. The one promise I will make is this, that I will strive to justify each killing, to make it clear to you the reader that my various victims deserve what they get. I'm just looking at my scenario (number 9), as an example, and I see the possibility that I will kill off an entire mob from the fly-by-night carpet store racket, and it looks like I will then take money from their wallets and piss on their dead bodies. The justification will probably be something like this, that they sold me crappy carpet and left town.

A lot of my criminal activity will take place in the Skidrow section of town, the most notorious set of bars, restaurants, bail bondsmen, and shady carpet stores in town here. In real life, I was warned about Skidrow so many times, I've only really ever been there in my imagination! And actually that's the way it's going to stay, since this is fiction. I don't know what the real thing is like; it's probably not as bad as I imagine it; I haven't heard of too many murders down there lately; I just know ... the body count will be going up.

Do I actually want to be a criminal? No, not really. I'd rather die of old age in my own bed without an enemy in the world. Not in prison with a tin can for my cup and a bunch of toilets without walls. (I toured a prison once and it scared me straight, even though I had no temptation to deviate.) My real inspiration for this fantasy series is that I'm reading the Edmund White biography of Jean Genet, who thought it was cooler to be a criminal than a normal guy.

So look for that ... right here on my blog. It won't be long before I have "NOTHING TO LIVE FOR," which is the overall name of the project.

Until then, be nice, respect others, do not steal, do not kill, etc., and you'll have a better life!

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!

An Imaginary Trip To Skidrow

[The events and descriptions in this article about Skidrow are imaginary. None of my morals was violated in its writing.]

There is a place I never want to go, where I should never go. That is Skidrow, that section of our town, a block, mostly one side of the block, that is given over to derelicts, bars, and fly by night carpet stores.

I used to drive by the jail and look at the prisoners holding on to the barred window. That's another place I never want to go, except to look at prisoners in their misery. When it comes to Skidrow, even though I never want to go there, I still like to drive by and peek down that street to see if anyone's in the gutter.

In this particular trip [which did not really happen], I came toward it from the south and drove down that block. I might describe it like this: It is as though a film was slowed down and my pace became very slow, languid to the point of all noise and happenings in the vicinity being, respectively, like a low growl and only incrementally occurring. The only thing moving at normal speed was me personally, not in progress in my car, but in my mind and my eyes. I could look about rapidly, taking in each detail. I could process the information thus received with blazing speed.

First, I look at the buildings. It occurs to me that they must have been built by actual optimistic builders. Carpenters, bricklayers. Was it their dream to build what would later become such a scuzzy part of town? I doubt it. They would have been contracted to do the work based on the investments of one or more entrepreneurs at the time, who had their individual hopes for what the district would be.

The entrepreneurs' primary goal would surely have been to make money, either with their own businesses in the area or by renting and possibly selling the buildings to other merchants. Whether it would make a difference to them what the businesses were and what sort of place it became in time, of course I can't say entirely. But just as there are scumbags in our present generation, it's reasonable to assume that some of these entrepreneurs (and merchants) of that earlier time were also scumbags.

Let's just say it up front. Any man who wishes to open a brothel, just to mention one business, is a scuzzy guy. The same goes for plenty of these lowlife businesses that polite society wishes would go away and not exist. Bail bondsmen, bars, fly by night carpet stores, tattoo parlors, brothels, pool halls, very rundown pizza parlors, fences, drug runners -- it's enough to make my skin crawl. Vermin businesses. The buildings are shabby. There's a tipped over garbage can in the alley.

In this imaginary drive, I see some of the denizens of this district, coming out of bars, patting each other on the back. One guy has his right leg behind him, his foot on the building. He smokes.

I direct my eyes on this one bar and imagine myself going in. There's a cigarette setting on the side of a pool table. Smoke drifts up and confuses the light. Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls. The bartender wipes glasses. He stands in front of many bottles of liquor. A loose woman with a low, husky voice sits at the other end. She looks up at the TV, sometimes paying attention to a professional wrestling show. Usually she's worrying that glass, almost drunk down to the ice cubes, and alternately puffing at a "ciggie." It's like she's waiting for someone, like she probably does several times a day. I notice the dress is rumpled and not clean. There are other patrons working through their paychecks, receiving liquor by the drink.

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.