Forest Ranger

A man in Cairo calls Tokyo for phone sex.

“Hey, is this Ben? We’re out deep in the forest, Ben.”

Way out in the woods. Miles from anyone.”

“Heavy underbrush, briars, just a narrow path tickling its way through.”

“There’s a stream we hear. And birds.”

“A little breeze but still too hot to wear a shirt.”

And so on from these civilized and stranded boys, who, before even imaginary fucks, must first resume the world, return the green, a stream where they can tug off their pants and swim. A whole forest, restored, before one can snarl,

“I’m the forest ranger and you, mister, have pitched a tent with no permit.”

T-Shirt

Some days I am supposed to be sturdy I find that there is almost nothing to me. Recognizably male but inexcusably flimsy, like the cheap undershirts my father used to wear until they were translucent, which one day tore like an omelet.

Other people, meanwhile, are so much there.

Owls

Have I mentioned someone is here with me? My husband.

Anyone who reads those words must necessarily feel a pang of sympathy for him. Poverino!

Certainly he is first-rate, has chosen me the way my brother used to rescue baby owls and attempt to nurse them back to health in a cardboard box.

A hopeless endeavor, but still admirable, don’t you think?

Loons

It is suspicious, I admit, the pleasure I felt when I broke the news to him that loons do not in fact mate for life. It’s true that the two same loons are often seen together but--DNA testing proves--that loyal bird is not the father. The loons have been sleeping around.

“Don’t think that proves anything,” he says. And so I sit loyally at home tonight, adopting the faithful guise of loons.

Comedy, Translated and Defined

On page 167 of his translation of Inferno, Anthony Esolen gives the following definition: “A comedy is a song written in the humble style wherein the main character begins in grief and trouble and ends in happiness.”

Wonderful, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t wish to be scooped up in such a Commedia?

But this Esolen, though he aims to be helpful, can be both pushy and pious. I had a boyfriend once just like him. This boyfriend used to get me in the car and start playing cassettes of motivational speakers. At certain points, he’d pause the tape and say, “See? See? That’s what you’re doing wrong.”

This is exactly how Esolen uses his commentaries on Dante. Everything Dante says he uses for some heavy-handed moral point he wants to make.

On the other hand, it seems very appropriate to argue over Dante, who was, after all, the world’s most artful picker of fights. Not once in the one hundred cantos of his Commedia does he say “Why can’t we just get along?”

There’s something to be said for an argumentative version. So I read Mandelbaum for beauty, Hollander for the notes, and Esolen for arguments.

Brain Surgery

Last night a man questioned me about the odd bald patches on back of my head. Very gently he asked, “Did you have some sort of operation?”

I told him the truth--what a missed opportunity! Henceforth, I will lie. I will quietly and matter-of-factly admit that I have had Major Invasive Brain Surgery. (How large should I say the tumor was? Enormous, undoubtedly. Biggest they ever saw!)

And, when I have stepped from the room, one person will say to another, “Now I understand completely.” “Me, too,” says the other. “Sure he’s odd, but give him a break. He’s had Major Invasive Brain Surgery!"

Everyone will be relieved. Especially me. At last I make total sense.

Beginning (Standard)

I wanted to write an advice column. But then I thought: there is nothing I do well.

I do dumb things. At dumb things I am quite good. You could even say I am a master. As far as foolishness goes.

And, as perhaps you have already discovered, sometimes foolishness can go very far indeed.

Beginning (Devotional)

Oh Bhagavan, oh beginning-less and endless Paramapujimapa. Many respectful pranams, candles, clouds of smoke, cookies in crinkly packages, piles of oranges, et cetera.

Gentle reader: on this path there is no error into which this devotee dog has not fallen, no ditch of iniquity unvisited, no spot of shine untarnished.

Nevertheless this worthless das, this miserable slave, has, by the abiding grace of the Mother In Charge of the Universe, been suffered to persist!

Therefore, oh earnest seeker, oh venerable sister, oh brother, I will speak as I can of the tangles and the briars on this path, that there might be fewer thorns to pierce your beautiful feet.

Welcome to Firenze

From the outside it looks small, one room, postcards and olive oil, but from the back another room extends, canned goods mostly, frozen fish. From there a corridor, portraits showing hairstyles which may be available and then more rooms: party supplies, keys and shoe repair, erotic novelties, live fish.

What sort of shop is this anyway? What did the sign say? A little courtyard with overgrown roses leads to a very narrow corridor. A man coming the other way mutters, shoves past scowling. Maybe you shouldn’t be here at all.

When the next man comes you make yourself as small as you can. He winks and grins so gorgeously, so lasciviously, you just about lose consciousness.

What kind of place is this anyway? Do you need a ticket, a hard hat, a condom? One room leads inexorably, improbably, to the next. What was it you were looking for? Meanwhile, here is another room --

Monica Hates Giotto

“I hate Giotto,” says Monica, when we are alone in her shop. “You’re not supposed to say that. And I know he changed everything, perspective, et cetera--but I hate him. I had him for nine months in high school. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be an Italian high school student? History! Two thousand five hundred years of history--though of course of modern times nothing is said. Twice a day at least they must tell you that the best times were seven hundred years before you were born. If you are unlucky you get a teacher who wants to do a whole year of Dante. Not just six months--a year. Or Leopardi, the most depressing writer ever. I know you say you like these things--but imagine you are in high school. Imagine it is Spring!

"Your teacher announces, ‘And now we will study Giaccomo Leopardi’ and you think, ‘That is it. I am going to kill him.’

"As for me, I keep my own opinions. Of course I sell whatever calendars but if the customer asks me a question I am like, ‘Giotto, who?’"

# ?

OK, I am 35 and here is Italy and this is -- what, life number five?

Willow: a small true story. Illustration by Akemi Shinohara

Swish

Recently, God spoke to me again.

(You've got to give God credit: she really does her level-best to make things simple for me.)

"Do you work," God said "And don't swallow poison."

To which I replied, "Of course I won't swallow it. But is it okay if I swish it around in my mouth?"

The small demon who commands me to write essays has become increasingly difficult to manage.

Therefore, it is no longer possible to type up what I write each day.

Please stay tuned in the next few weeks for at least four more essays: "Evaporative Acts", "Compassion Runs Amok", "Hunger Looks So Fun, At First" and "How to Live a Life of Vice", as well as revised versions of the essays already here.

Why am I writing all this? The little demon refuses to say why. Thank you for your patience and please stay tuned.

Tokyo gone, the glass doors open to Bangkok and I feel at once the world rush to comfort me--heavy midnight air, bottle of Tiger, bored waiter, Chinese broccoli with preserved pork, boy security--all assurances that life persists, real touch look life, persists, persisted even while I was away in Tokyo.

Holy Books of Guttersnipe Das

Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Works

Six months ago, I got into the habit of losing my mind. No day passed without some evidence of madness: depression, compulsion, mania, panic. Nothing helped--least of all the gray city where I live. One morning while reading this book, I felt my mind click back into place and I knew I would be all right. Since then, the Essays have been, for me, a touchstone of sanity. There is something about their boundaryless curiosity, their open admission of human frailty and mess, that pulls me back every time. It's a book of ideas that never forgets about blood, sweat and semen. Every day I sit with it there is some useful treasure. Today I was grateful to be reminded, "It is not victory if it does not end the war."

Or how about: "No quality embraces us purely and universally. If it did not seem crazy to talk to oneself, there is not a day I would not be heard growling at myself, 'Confounded fool!' And yet I do not intend for that to be my definition."

I distrust Montaigne's opinions on women and God--but to be right about mankind and life on Earth is a lot. As heavy as it is, this big book is always in my bag. Spend some time with it--it will help you stay sane.

Family Travel 12, illustration by Akemi Shinohara

Read Family Travel

(please click to the second page and begin with Family Travel / 1)

Willow: a small true story

When he was fourteeen he went skinny-dipping at the farm pond, guarded by an enormous willow tree, whose delicate green branches reached almost to the surface of water which was as warm and dark as coffee.

As warm as the water was on top, his feet kicked up a chill, which rose to nuzzle him under the balls and, though he liked to be naked in the water more than anything, he always kept moving and thrashing for fear a small mouth bass might dart up and nip the tip of his dick off.

Better to be careful. So he swam on his back and admired the tree. The willow, he was convinced, was an extremely important personage. In charge of the farm at least and possibly much of the state of New Hampshire. The willow told him its secret name. And, unlike a ruling man, the willow was generous and never in a hurry.

He believed this the way fourteen year old American boys believe, in a small room in their brains, a small room surrounded by scorn, but in that small room still believing.

Eventually the boy tugged his pants on, grew a beard, and became disappointed. The willow, meanwhile, became increasingly active and involved on the local level, hosting barbecues and church events, presiding over the ceremonies of Eagle Scouts.

The young man worked in cities where he could step outside and not see a single thing that was green or alive and the only thing not covered in cement was the Moon.

The young man was careful: he thought, contemplated, considered, weighed all the options, and over and over again, he chose wrong.

The willow began to officiate at weddings. Meetings were held beneath the tree and it was often on the news, shown with local and state politicians and dignitaries. Sometimes, at home in his gray city, the young man even caught the willow on TV. As the tallest member of the assembled party, the tree stood in back but there was no question that it was the power in charge, with its dark curving trunk and its sensitive leaves.

The young man was cautious and reasonable. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He did not distinguish himself or destroy himself. He did not become happy.

He was stunned the day a flyer reached him in the mail, showing the willow tree and a certain junior senator who was running for president and might, to everyone’s astonishment, actually win.

The photo, he supposed, was a sort of endorsement, on the force of which this young senator might attain the presidency.

In his gray city the man who was no longer young understood. He’d been careful and still he’d been wrong. He had been a reasonable man: he moved cautiously from one disappointment to the next.

He was wrong about everything, he saw now, except for his most childish, absurd, and ridiculous notions, none of which would ever do him any good, but which had turned out, in some astonishing way, to be absolutely correct.

Owl.

The Prizes for Turning 100


Within the 23 wards of Tokyo, a small prize is offered to residents aged 100. Of course this is not such an uncommon occurrence anymore, and so there is a system, a pre-printed letter and full-color pamphlet mailed to residents aged 99.

Residents aged 99 may choose from the following:
a) a gold vest
b) a gold cushion
c) a vase
d) a statue of an owl

Nanako admitted that her mother didn’t really like any of the choices but, since there wasn’t a box for saying ‘I am 99 and have all the presents I need, thank you’, both mother and daughter considered that a vase was the least of evils.

(To tell the truth, Nanako’s mother did express some curiosity about the owl statue, but acquiesced readily enough when Nanako gently directed her otherwise.)

Unfortunately, Nanako’s mother died shortly thereafter, a few months shy of her 100th birthday. Nanako wondered if she ought to write to the city, but never got around to it.

Nonetheless, she soon received a letter from the municipal offices informing her that the city had learned of her mother’s death (and therefore sent its most heartfelt condolences in this time of grief) and notice that the prize must, regrettably, be cancelled.

Sorry, no vase. The city, the letter admitted, could not afford to send prizes to survivors of residents aged only 99 and a half.

"Gentlemen, as long as one poor cockroach feels the pangs of unrequited love, this world is not a moral world."

--William James, in an aside to his students at Harvard, as quoted by Robert D. Richardson