Doing Being

©1997, by Jeff Glovsky

(Alternate / Working Titles:  The Tour, Voluptuaries)

excerpts:

ONE


You have to understand what Life was like for me back then.  I loved it, and I hated all...

I didn't have a home, I didn't care.  I got by hand to mouth.  The Starving Apathetics of my whole fucked generation!  With its "Sweathogs" and its "Brady Bunch", adopted as its own; with its Starbucks Sony Theater and Blockbuster promotions...Its trim soul patches, dick cigars and Dewar's Bailey Irish Cremes...

Its irony, irreverence, its passion and irrelevance...Seattle ("grunge") and "poetry"!  New coffee scenes and night Beat reads (adopted as its own...) and "lounges", independent films and Art...But only Frieda Kahlo and Picasso ('cause "Madonna" dug it!).

This was early '90s New York City, then the WORLD...

Long reason to be brooding.  To be miserable, with sharing...'Cause if everyone is doing it, then what's the point, why BOTHER!?

And then, like "Maude" back then, came Dal.

Dolly Dal was a light chick...A theater tech:  Electrician...Come down from a long line of same.  She'd really wanted to study Law.  Her dad, though--and I think her mom--were both in the union.  Round, lazy face-stuffers...

Big donut-holes, each!  And Jesus, but they loved their coffee!  Coffee...Coffee, coffee!  Gallons and gallons of hot tar a day...and cigarettes.  Cold cuts...Salami...More coffee...They smelled like you'd imagine them to.  A bit like a trench in World War I...

Came together somehow, though, and gave our dark world Dal.

Bright Dalit!  A sweet rebel, each luminous way...'Cause I was on the sound crew then.  The un-sound man...We, suffering through a summer of hot wind, and fouler egos...And we'd roll our eyes, and laugh, and say, These people really needed help!

What's more, bright Dal was beautiful.

No, nothing like her parents...Lazy parents!  Set in every way!  They had their jobs, their pension plans, their benefits, fixed incomes...Man, they thirty bucks and hour, each!  And time plus half past daily seven (More, of course, each week past forty)...Theater gives you that much, often.  Theater...Theater, theater...

Theater!

Arts degree...To wipe my ass!  I wasted five years of my Life at that place:  At auld FU (Manhattan campus)...Fucked now!

Backstage of this tired old skene...


TWO

Now wine pours fast down Dal's blush throat.  "This is starting to take effect on me...", she lolls her head a bit, and rolls.

My hand is taken lightly and she presses it between her thighs (She's wearing tennis shorts, and I...Oh!  Soft, and tan, and sighs, "I'm just a little buzzed!")...She cups my hand and presses it, and asks, wide-eyed, about the show.  "Man, fuck the show!" I tell her!

It'll play on long beyond us...If we left right now, no one would care!  They'd all walk home with their mikes still on:  their poopings, scratchings, unright loves...Yawns, lazy breakfasts, solo discourse...Line rehearsals!  Urination...Prayers and mutterings, pissed off curses, spit with fists and pulled with hair...Their private fears and ruminations, farts, frustrations, sobs and sighs...Would ring and bounce about their empty lives to zero feedback...

Man, "Fuck the show!" I go again...Dramatic!

I am out on stage now.  On my knees...Like Romeo!  Verona, in my pantaloons!  Elizabethan trappings, Al Pacino in delivery.  Like, "Attica, oh Attica!  Oh, wherefore art thou...ATTI-CA!?"

I'm screaming...No one hears me.

"But now give it out how I'm a writer...Writing!  No more shitty gigs...No odd job mental patient lot, no theater, the-ayter...NOT!  I'm never gonna work again!"

These fuckin' freelance failures (I'm one!)...

Not me!

Live and write, and BE...

the girlfriend

Thoughts meld as is their wont into my Paphian affairs, and to the Claudia I used to know / would never know again.

But fuck it though, it's over!  It needs to be, right?  I've got some debts and need my space, and you, Claudia ... Have got a lot of growing up ... emotional retard!

Screaming and railing against this and that; against all that you couldn't control, or felt threat from ... My hobbies, my buddies, my choice of career ... This work on the ass end of show business; music.  Madonna, "sluts dancing" ... MTV threatened you!

So I gave them all up for you, didn't I, Claude?  To be broke, out of work, all alone with you only.  You still didn't like me!  You 'loved me', though, huh?  Couldn't like me, respect me or trust me -- not ever! -- but 'loved me', though?  Really?  What's that about??

Like the shit we all dump in our closets for decades, dig out after time, "Oh, I love this shirt!" ...

You don't "love" this shirt, Luv ... You haven't SEEN this fucking shirt in years!

* * *

I wanted to say 'Hi', just to chat with her, only ... just bathe her scared, sweet tenderface in miss-you-so-much kisses.

But alone'Cause I'm no good for you.  Unproud, 'cause I can't do for you ... I'm alone and unproud 'cause I'm selfish and healing.  It's better this way now, I promise.

You'll see ...

the best friend(s)

Oh...Now Justin's getting married.


Oh.


"You're gonna be best man," he asks, "right?" when he calls and I puncture his crap with non-noise.


Until, "Sure ... Sure of course!  You just caught me off-guard ..."


And then piece by piece, strangely, his story unfolds ... Well, it's best to go back to the very beginning -


Justin's roommate, the ubiquitous Phil DeSanto, drove vans for this kosher delicatessen.  Once, while purveying fine meats in the Village, Phil'd blindly thrown open his driver's side door, only to see it then nearly lopped off by young Justin ... all harrowing, break-neck ten-speed!


Now when that airborne ten-speed landed splat before Phil's bumper, well ... a talismanic bond was born.  So much of one, if fact, that why, while laying up sprained in the hospital after -- beds reclined adjacently and chuckling at each other's deadpans -- so famously did the two get on, that vows were made to keep in touchand do it all again some day ... sans back and shoulder wounds, of course.  And each with private rooms this time.


So they converted a small space on west 19th Street -- by hanging some bath towels down from the ceiling -- this hip little "one-bedroom" bachelor's affair ... and began sharing lease come the following year.

IV

Oh and look, now comes Kasparov.  Speaking of chess ... Slaps down his small board at a table before him; sets it precisely ... Inviting a challenge!  I'll give him the best of the doubt this one time:  assume he just might be expectant of someone, and not just the cry for attention he's begging ... nor fat lip and black eye that I plan to give him!

Perhaps I'll skulk over and steal his rook ...

"You look bored," someone tells me.

"I'm bored!" cries another.

But if we could just see how pathetic we all look!  Allow for one moment a sprinkling of Truth ... We might gaze in the mirror without aardvark poses, or ugly pretends calling up '40s film stars; might stand there and stare, stripped and facially naked ... Just might be amazed at how beautiful ... I would!

It's What'll I be? though.  Me looking this way ... Should I just play aloof?  And How 'deep' should I sound? ...

We forge ourselves to support our reflections!  A head flip, an eye roll, a wet look, my good side ... We fix ourselves before the glass, but inside we stay broken.  In the Middle Ages, so I hear, we joked about our codpieces ... Amidst the stench of hens and goats, and plague-ripe, ancient notions, we impressed no one, but dug ourselves ...

But Kasparov is winning!

all writing on this page is original

WordSpeak.  Excerpts from

"Doing Being"

by Jeff Glovsky

©1993, 2014, All Rights Reserved.

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