Funny,
isn't it? How those not paying attention are always first to want
to direct.... They should've left me sleeping. They had me where
they wanted me, but were incapable of leaving well enough alone.
Here in a zoo, as it were, uninspired by bear comforts and a belly
full of easy food. They should have listened, for I even warned
them this might happen.
It begins like this: There was a time,
now more than a decade ago, I actually squandered a great deal of
my natural resources attempting to market myself as a poet.... The
goal of the arts program is to provide support for Cincinnati's
emerging and established artists.... My perceived in-road back
then was to infiltrate the various lit mags to such a degree that
everyone, even you, would instantly recognize my name.... to
encourage excellence and professionalism in the arts.... Publishing
houses would be contacting me in the end with open invitations to
print.... to encourage the development and presentation of art
that benefits Cincinnati's ability to sleep without dreaming....
I licked hundreds and hundreds of stamps, read even more bad poems,
while sending out a handful of my own.... to encourage increased
access to mainstream and community arts opportunities.... only
to get in return almost as many self-addressed envelopes; form letters
mostly, devoid of human hands.... to encourage the use of arts
as a means to increasing understanding of everyone, single
white males included.... I forget at what point I gave up, just
know that I did.... and to encourage communication among artists.
Months passed, so it was strange to
still be receiving stray prodigal letters addressed to the self
by the self every now and then. One such day I opened an envelope
and found myself surprised to see actual ink. I remember it was
scrawled across a yellow post-it note, and that it had been pasted
directly on top of the first poem, as if to hide it. It read: "Now
why don't you grow up?"
Despite no longer caring, my ego was
bruised nonetheless. The place from whence it had been sent back
from was one of my favorites; they published verse that in my estimation
was lively, a rare occurrence in that arena. It having been such
a long while since I had sent it out, I was curious to see what
I had done to prompt such an inspired response, and thus peeled
back the note to find this:
Lip Service
POET
available for social events
and parties. You find the cause,
I'll bring the party favors (ie.
cunnilingus y fellatio And MUCH,
MUCH more). Let me breathe some
life into your party.
Here we go. Again. You should
have left me sleeping. Application requirements: Application. Artist
profile. One set of materials documenting the applicant's recent
work (original manuscript 10 to 15 pages in length). Documentation
of public performance. Documentation of an intent to collaborate.
I wouldn't even have to get started
right away. I had all of the above on hand, somewhere, and as such
could afford to concentrate on keeping the things that got me here
going in the meantime....
Once I began, though—four days
before deadline—I realized just how ready I in fact was. I
had waited just long enough. Paid some dues, did a little work.
It was, at last, harvest. Time to be reimbursed. I also noticed,
once I had started, that there was no way in hell I would ever finish
preparing my application in due time, not to specification at least.
My response was typical: I wouldn't sleep until it was finished
and properly. I could barely stand up straight at work but, goddamnit,
I wasn't about to miss the bus this time. You already paid your
fare, I reminded myself, so pop another pill and see this through.
Who wanted to be around tomorrow anyhow, if it looked the same as
today?
When I did finally hand in my materials,
a full hour before I had to, I did so confident that I had done
a good job. So much so, I thought that the only thing that could
come between me and my money was some kind of tragic mix-up. I gave
my box over to the receptionist, who truly looked inspired to be
part of the artistic process. She chewed her gum while I waited
for what was next. Yeah? she asked. I was convinced that it was
in my best interest to get a receipt of some sort, to prove that
I did indeed hand my homework in on time. "We don't do that
here," she explained.
Things were quiet for a while. At
odds moments, mostly while at work, I would wonder about my box.
Someone could be reaching into it right now, I would think, taking
me home with them, with plans to read me tonight while in bed....
Sooner or later, they had no choice. And the words would get through,
somehow. I had made sure of as much.
A few weeks later, I received two
letters from the city of Cincinnati on the same day. The first one
was, innocently enough, a notice that I had failed to pay city taxes
in the year 1997. The second informed me that
There will be a public discussion
of all individual arts grant applicants on April 20, 2002. Attendance
is strongly suggested. Each proposal will be chaired by a board
member chosen at random, and each member of the committee will vote
on each application on a scale of 1 to 5. A final grade of 4.0 or
higher is needed for said proposal to become a semi-finalist for
funding.
I took the hint and showed up. Five
minutes were allotted for the discussion of each individual artist's
proposal and life's work. A receptionist kept time in back, and
didn't hesitate to remind us of the fact. Five minutes, and yet
there was pause taken for refreshments. "Help yourself,"
the chairman of the board declared, "It's for everybody."
May as well check out the digs, I
thought. They were standard. All the various things looked decent,
but I rooted around for something that I really needed, saying,
"Well, I see the sour cream, the chips, the peanuts and bagels,
but I can't seem to find the antibiotics. Where you keep them? Inside
this cabinet?" The board members seemed a bit surprised—suddenly
I thought maybe I should have worn a different pair of jeans—when
my friend Mac passed me a note explaining that I wasn't permitted
to address the board. So, I sat down, and waited for my name.
All of a sudden, I wasn't so certain
of myself. Maybe I overestimated the world's need for a CD of me?
It was possible, no doubt. I sat there and studied the process....
Noticed that some of the board members seemed to be articulate and
prepared, while others seemed more like last-minute replacements
that were surprised to find that they had been plucked off the street
and put down at the table. I wondered who my chairperson was. He
or she, at least, would recognize me....
And wouldn't you believe my luck?:
My chair was a minister. One whose specialty was music. Anybody
knowing me at all being aware just how much I hate both. I shifted
my wait, so as not to seem so heavy. Me, my work, judged by a man
of the cloth.... What was next? The pope being brought in to judge
the year's best porn?
You would think one could only forever
wonder about what such a man might think upon reading lines like,
"Religion a watch strapped to thinning wrist of a corpse."
Or, "Prayer an attempt to pin on things smaller than particles
of dust any impotency."
You would think one could only wonder, if it wasn't for my luck....
My chair presented me while exuding an enthusiasm similar to that
which I might feel if I was forced to sit through one of his services....
His thoughts?: 2.0
Then passed across the table, I was,
nibbled on in between peanuts being popped into mouths: 2-4-3-3-4-3-2-4.
My average?: 3.3. The calculator announces Mark Flanigan is not
a semi-finalist.... My friend Mac pats my knee and says, don't worry,
I'll probably get the guy who can't speak English. Which he did,
with similar results. I watched on with a mix of awe, false bravado,
and hell who cares anyhow. It would have only meant more work anyway,
you know.
Once outside I realized I was running
late for work. I got in my car and immediately tried to figure out
just how many more payments I owed on the damn thing. Drove it up
to a light, stopped despite myself. Looked to my left and saw that
the car next to me carried one of the board members. She's picking
her teeth—shards of carrots and pieces of me, shards of carrots
and pieces of me—flicking them out a cracked window. I can
just barely make out the song she is listening to:
"Speak
to me in a language I can hear
Humor me before I have to go
Deep in thought I forgive everyone
As the cluttered streets greet me
once again."
The soundtrack spills out the window
and falls onto the street besides me, where it belongs. We wait
for oncoming cars, they can't get there quick enough for me, but
instead I end up at the warehouse after all.
And tonight every order I check is
for thirty-three cases. That, or three hundred and thirty. I check
to see what trailer I should load next, and my sheet says number
33603. But I haven't completely lost my sense of humor about things.
Not yet. I get through it, somehow, and head home. Park where I
usually park once there. Walk the rest of the way.
There's a panhandler I haven't seen
in awhile crossing the street to ask me for some change. For the
bus, he says. I always like it when it's for bus fare, because there
is always the chance, however slim, that they may actually be going
somewhere else. I reached into my pocket, careful not to fish out
every quarter at once, when he explains unnecessarily, "Yeah
man, I gotta catch the 33."
Aww, fuck off, I tell him, walking
away abruptly. I look at him the whole time while crossing the street,
even stopping at one point and asking "Why'd you have to do
that?" before continuing. I must have looked like a madman
to him, but his grin betrayed a knowledge of what he had done. I
put the key in the door, raised my head with an eye to admonishing
the heavens before going in, but noticed instead my address: 1333.
"I
know I can't be late
Supper's waiting on the table
Tomorrow's just an excuse away...."
Nothing to do, then, but close the
shades and turn out the lights. And in the morning be awakened by
the sound of the caravan as it lumbers up Main Street, passing through
on the way out of town. I go to the window and see that the horses
look tired but determined as they are being led to water. The door
bell rings, soon I hear my mom saying "no Mark can't come out
and play just now, he's still sleeping," but I already got
my socks on and I'm busy scanning the room for my favorite T.
After careful review, I'm
sure it's around, somewhere.
|
