Carrying Capacity (Song)

Other people can hold a two-ton truck full of the world, or at least fill the back of their pick-up full. Many could astound a waitress, balancing six plates full of the world. Even those who are not so graceful can manage a backpack full, a basket. Me, I hold out my cupped hands and already I am overwhelmed, must rush back to my silent room. How it is I can hold so little and love so much?

Holy Books of Guttersnipe Das: Bruno Schulz

Bruno Schulz,
The Street of Crocodiles and Other Stories,
Translated by Celina Wieniewska, Penguin reprint, 2008

If I could cancel one murder and save one life from history, I'd save Bruno Schulz, killed by the Nazis in 1942. If I could save one lost book, I'd save Schulz's Messiah. I can't. At least there is this book of treasures, Schulz's collected works. Actually, two books are included here: Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under the Sign of The Hourglass.


The first, Schulz's masterpiece, is only 100 pages long. I could never choose a favorite book, but this is the one I reread most often. Any attempt by me to descibe its contents is a mockery. Reading it is like peering into a strange, dark painting: a mad father, a bewitching sister, a dark corner where something never before seen grows (almost) to life. This book may only take you a day to read but I promise you it will be a illumined and unforgettable day.


Sanatorium, which I think was written earlier, seems in part a workshop for what Crocodiles would become, but this is appropriate for Schulz: he is the master of describing life half-created: the life of mannequins, mad relatives, stuffed birds.


My only practical advice is: allow yourself to skim the surreal novella "Spring" if you get bogged down in it the first time you try. Just make sure you don't miss the rest of the stories!


There is nothing else like this book--and this one book is all there is. I envy anyone reading it for the first time.

Annual Genitals

As per your request, the instructions:

On January 1st you arrive in a new world with new genitals and a year to figure out what to do with them. (And what not to do, though this is less crucial.) Sometimes just finding your genitals is a hassle. And there it was, on your head, all along. What you mistook for an ear!

Other genitals must be strapped down, especially when driving. Or pruned vigorously.
Then you must find your partner’s genitals, also orifices, which may or may not be like your own, and find artful and absurd ways to jam them together.

Be mindful--a year is all you have. Expect ridiculous contortions. And taboos. Like the time you shook hands at an interview and were immediately arrested. Like having to wear a hat down there.

You may find in yourself a new sympathy for the fumbling of adolescents, for the jealousy of elms. You may be frustrated for months until the day you turn on the vacuum cleaner and are catapulted at once into ecstasy.

Sudden growths, sudden shrinkages. Odd liquids. I’m afraid there will be no further instructions, no helpful charts of the slots, tabs and protuberances. Remember, this is supposed to be fun.

Meanwhile, also, you’ve arrived in an entirely new world. But never mind--you have genitals to discover!

Y2K

One of my good friends (he doesn’t exist) is an expert on Y2K. He knows everything about the disaster which did not happen. He worries about it all the time. It might still happen. Which reminds me of my friends (real this time) who worry they might still seroconvert because of sex they had years ago. This is true 21st century luxury living--to take refuge in the disasters which did not happen and ignore those umpteen and imminent.

History Can Happen To You

Monica says, “You think it’s easy to live with so much history? When they removed the cobblestones of Piazza Signoria they found an entirely new city. For three years they blocked it off while they decided what to do. Finally they covered it up again. Too much trouble.

“But history is something that can happen to a person. My house was being built and I got a call: there was a problem. What now? I said. They’d found an Etruscan kiln beneath my house. Enormous thing. For three months I had men digging in my backyard with tiny spoons. They want to cover my backyard in plexiglass, light it up from beneath and give tours. I’d make a lot of money. Of course the government will never get around to it.

“Still, when I park my bicycle I like to think of what is under there. I’d like to be able to see it. I would have the most wonderful parties, looking down at the ancient times in my backyard.

“On the last day two hundred people came and sat in my back yard. I sat in my upstairs window watching them. Very nice, I thought. But give me back my house.

“Of course they made a book about it, the history I’m living with. Then they came and covered it back up with dirt. Now I get special tax breaks and in return I must plant no trees. Small plants only, nothing with roots.”

Honors

When I struggle with the gorgeous and disgruntled citizens of Firenze, I remind myself: these people are descendants of the people who drove out Dante! It is an honor to be here. I stand absolutely no chance.