Before the Year Gets Any Older

You will find this hard to believe if you don’t know me, but easy to believe if you do: I hoped to start off 2018 posting from the get-go, and posting more regularly, as in more often.

What went wrong?

Well might you ask.

I have been hard at work finishing a novel that I started eight or nine years ago. I had to take break to write other things as well as teach a few courses and read some other manuscripts in one editorial capacity or another, all within the framework of doing more work for less pay.

The year 2018 seems neither a good year nor a bad year, just another year.

This notion is neither grim nor celebratory. This is another year we need to get through, like every year preceding it and every year to come.

Granted we don’t do something like die.

I’ve explained elsewhere that around the time I reached sixty, I gave myself points for still being around. People who knew me when I was considerably younger would not have bet on that possibility. But I made it, out of sheer luck, or stubbornness.  Having survived this long is one of the few accomplishments I can claim without some awkward qualification.

“Wow, Rich, you made it to sixty-two. How did you do that?”

“By not dying.”

Life should always be so easy.

Already this year, the list of folks who won’t make it to the year 2019 is pretty long, and getting longer. Folks I’ve known personally. Folks I’ve known by reputation. The one thing you never get used to about living is that it never gets easier to look around at all the people who are dying before you.

One advantage to being sixty-two (going on sixty-three) is that you no longer have to imagine what you’re going to do before you get to the age of sixty-two; you’ve already done it. That can relieve you of a lot of worries.

Late at night, I find myself thinking something or saying something, then I stop and ask, “Is that really me? Is this who I really am?” Maybe it’s a symptom of dementia, but I doubt it. I just find it hard to believe that I’m the person that I have become – not because I didn’t think I would, but because everyone else thought I was going to become someone else, some other person; that I would gain some inner wisdom or lose some critical flaw they saw in me. Instead, they got this.

I’ve tried to write about “Imposter Syndrome” before. Maybe I did. I don’t remember and at the moment don’t much care. It’s common to writers, artists, musicians, creative people in general, and anyone who aspires to one of those positions to which the said individual ascribes a great deal of respect and reverence. Somehow, you assume that the status you aspire to is one must be born to; it’s all destiny and DNA – you cannot “become” a writer, a composer, painter, a physicist, a world leader. Therefore, if you try to become such a person, you’re really an imposter. An imposter, along with other things, is a person who lives in dread of being discovered an imposter.

Whenever it was I was going to write about Imposter Syndrome, I was going to say that a person, if or she lives long enough, wakes up one morning (or whenever it is one wakes up) and discovers he or she is not an imposter. You may not be who you aspired to be, but you are who you are and no one else. For better or worse.

Many of us have had to take on jobs that we needed to take – to make a living. We also may have taken the jobs we were convinced, by others, we needed to do – again, maybe to make a living, or because others, or ourselves, we didn’t think we had what it took to be the person we wanted to be. It may not make much difference why. We took jobs we were expected to have or had to have.

And in this country, in this world, a person is the job. You’re not a poet who washes dishes, you’re a dishwasher. You’re not a guitarist who paints houses, you’re a housepainter. That’s how you do business in the country whose business is business. At best, you’re a dishwasher who writes poetry, or a housepainter who plays guitar. But … you are the job.

I was a Production Assistant (I clipped tearsheets for an ad agency). I was a Mailing Machine Operator. I was a film inspector.  I was a Cold Type Compositor (whatever that is). I was a Makeup Desk editor. I was a Copy Editor. I was a Communist for the FBI …

No. Scratch that last one.

Actually, no. I wasn’t any of those things. Scratch all of them.

I was an imposter.

An imposter whenever I did anything but write, or teach, or fiddle in one way or another with the texts of others. I was even an imposter when I tried to be a scholar of a certain sort I imagined I should be, and could be, if given the chance.

All the times I thought I was not being an imposter, I was.

All the times I thought I was being an imposter, I was being who I really was.

No wonder it took me sixty-two years to stop spinning around. I was going in through the “Out” door, looking through the wrong end of the telescope, taking the right train in the wrong direction, from the wrong station.

It’s always been thus for me.

Do I repeat myself? Then I repeat myself. I repeat multitudes.

Something that does change, if you’re lucky, are your dreams. Not your aspiration-dreams, your what-you-do-when-you-sleep dreams.

For years my dreams always took me off course – in the dream I needed to get to Place A, and by the end of the dream I was riding past Place Z with little hope of returning. Now, my dreams leave me off somewhere, somewhere uncertain, but wherever it is, it’s where I seem I’m supposed to be.

More about this later. You’d think I was getting paid by the word to write all this. But after concentrating so deeply on that novel, I just needed to let my brain run off without a leash, before the year gets any older …

Farewell Green Knight

I was in too great a state of shock to write about it immediately, but last night I discovered that environmental journalist, animal rights activist, raconteur and all-around humane human being Bob Carlson (who blogged the Hazard Hot Sheet as the “Green Knight”) passed away June 9.

Bob got in touch with me years ago, since he was a big fan of the saur stories, and we’d be in close correspondence for a few weeks, then I wouldn’t hear from him for months. Then BOOM! We’d be back talking about one thing or another. We were both children of the Sixties and shared many tastes in art, books, music and humor. And, like a lot of us from that generation, we were “experts” on a million seemingly unrelated topics. He was a great reader – and a reader of science fiction (where he must have first encountered my work) not a “fan” in the “fandom” sense. He just loved reading the stuff, and we filled a number of emails talking about our favorites, and exploring one esoteric subject or another.

What we also had in common, I suppose, was that we were often both struggling to get along: to get bills paid, scrabbling along for subsistence in one way or another. That may explain the months in between correspondence at times. I’m not sure if I even spoke to him over the phone – maybe once or twice. I’m shy about telephone conversations because I’m a talker, and once I’m on the phone I never shut up. I imagined if Bob and I got on the phone we’d talk until dawn and the phone bill would be large enough to fund a Mars mission.

God, I wish I hadn’t been so cheap.

Once or twice we talked about collaborating on a saur story or two. I was a little too cautious – too protective –since I had some plans for saur stories and I wanted to make my way through them before I took “the guys” through any other further adventures.

Damn. I wish I wasn’t such a slow writer. I wish I wasn’t such a stick-in-the-mud about launching into new stories, new ideas.

I remember once, one of my oldest friends was approached by Bob on Facebook, and she asked me if this guy was okay. I told he could seem a bit overwhelming at times, but he was a good guy.

A very good guy. Top dollar. Solid.

But… overwhelming. Yeah. His mind was as big as the universe and, as our old buddy Axel the little blue theropod will tell you, that’s a pretty big place.

And his love of animals: I don’t think I’ve known anyone who worked as tirelessly and selflessly for abandoned and rescue animals. He never flinched from taking in an extra little friend who needed a home and love. His heart was, as they say these days, an awesome thing.

I also remember he once sent me a story – about a chicken named Henny Penny, and it was an updated fable – a little bit of Chicken Little and a little bit of the one who crossed the road; and he worked into it a number of his environmental concerns, corporatization, animal rights and probably a dozen other interesting things into a few tight pages.

He lost his copy of the story with a computer crash. I lost my copy of the story with a computer crash of my own. I did manage to retrieve a lot of stuff, some of which is still on a CD-ROM, but I couldn’t access the story. Bob asked about it several times, since he wanted to revise it. I told him that, as painful as it would be, he should just start from scratch and write it over again, as I had to do on a number of lost stories. Easier to say than to do. As far as I know, he never did. I would love to see what he would have come up with if he had.

I also remember Bob, in several emails, reminiscing about San Francisco and the Bay Area, where he’d spent his younger years. Life had moved him to St. Louis, which is as good a place to be as any, I suppose, but Bob’s heart, as the song says, was in San Francisco.

I hope he’s there now, in some shape or form or permutation.

I wish I could sing, like the Little Sparrow, “Non, je ne regrette rien.” I regret – a lot. We live in a big world that fools us all the time: fools us that it is smaller, manageable, in our grasp – and that even though new things come along, everything we remember will be here always. All our friends, all our loves, are granted some sort of immunity from time, and we are never going to feel any more loss than we already have.

So reading about the death of Bob really kicked me a good one in the gut. Last month, hearing of Larry Santoro passing did the same thing. October of last year, Delphyne Woods – I nearly dropped dead myself.

Death isn’t taking any vacations.

And from now on (he says, fingers crossed) I’m not taking anything for granted.

If you know someone you haven’t heard from in a while – send them a line. Give them a call. Whatever you do, don’t lose touch.

I know – so many people, so little time, but – just try not to lose touch. You’ll have a few less regrets when your own time comes.

JUST ONE MORE THING: I found out about Bob’s death because I was working on a “sort of” saur story last night. It’s about a lot of things, as all stories are, but Agnes and Sluggo are in it, and I’m trying to sneak a few more guys into it, like Doc and Kara and Eliot and Cyrano and Charlie (at least I’ll try. But the story is really more about Reggie, and kids, and loneliness in a world in a world where corporations will spend trillions to find out everything about you, but nobody wants to know you.

So… I was working on this scene set in a toy store, and they’re selling saurs in there, and the sales staff is all dressed up in safari togs, and this one sales rep is wearing a pith helmet.

Yes, I said “pith helmet.” (those of you who knew Bob know why this is important.)

I type the words in: “pith helmet.” I look at them. I look at each letter in each word.

Suddenly, the voice in my head says, “Where’s Bob?” I can’t see those words without seeing Bob in his pith helmet. He was so proud of that thing when he got it. He sent me pictures.

And he looked great in it. He looked perfect.

“Where’s Bob?” So I searched. And with disarming swiftness I learned what happened.

And almost as instantly I went into a state of shock, or The Bummers, or whatever it is that happens to you when the news is so bad you just shut down and turn the world off.

Whatever it is, I’ve been feeling it too much.

So, the next saur story I finish, I’m dedicating to Bob.

Take care of yourselves, everybody.

And don’t lose touch – ever.

Everything’s gone but this song (from "The Va-va-va- VOOM!" novel in progress)

Yesterday, I drove past the grand old building on the northwest corner of 63rd Street and Central Avenue. It's being prepared for demolition. It has stood in the same spot for over eighty years and now, for some reason, it's a hindrance to air traffic for the neighboring Midway Airport. Anyone who can't smell a scam about this deal must be having nosebleeds.

I bought comic books -- and monster magazines, and writers' magazines and paperbacks -- in the corner drugstore of that building. "Central Rexall Drugs." I had crushes on two of the cashiers. I bought my first Castle of Frankenstein there (and, as you all know, everything I ever needed to know I learned from Castle of Frankenstein). Steve Ditko. "Charlton Comics Give You More!" Turok Son of Stone. Magnus, Robot Fighter. Jim Steranko. Jim Steranko. JIM STERANKO!!! Monster Mania. Modern Monsters. Ray Bradbury . . .

Another personal landmark is about to go down.

What was the name of that book about Richard Nickel, the photographer who tried to save the legacy of Chicago's great architects, like Louis Sullvan? -- They All Fall Down.

So, with the imminent death of one of my favorite old hangouts, and the inundation of news about deaths near and far (Andrea Dubnick, Delphyne Woods, Fred Pohl, Lou Reed, Marcia Wallace . . . how many more?) the song below has been on my mind.

It comes from the world of my novel, The Va-va-va VOOM! It's not a spoiler (not a big one, at least) to say that this is the second song Cath (the narrator) wrote for Rad Tate and his band, The Knuckles. The song credit goes to Gideon Faust and "C. Ulaszek" (perhaps because Rad still believed that "Chicks can't write rock and roll!" -- a comment that triggered the first set of lyrics Cath wrote for the band, the title of which is where the novel takes its name). Rad Tate: vocals; Gideon Faust: lead guitar; Curtis Klucynski: rhythm guitar; Marlon Woodson: bass (the GOOD bass player!); Donnie Callahan: drums. Dutifully transcribed from the version only available on a Dutch compilation CD, long out of print -- at least in this universe. Please note: this music is coming out of cheap guitars and big amps, at a tempo that would get you a speeding ticket even in Montana.

Yeah, I know: everything goes. Then you move on. Get over it. But first . . .

EVERYTHING’S GONE BUT THIS SONG

E

Been around | Seen it all

E

Saw when they built it and I saw it fall.

A

Big world | Falling apart

E

Won’t be much left than when it all got start.

 

E                           B

’Cause it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B                          A

It’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                                E         B

Everything’s gone but this song.

 

E

We had | A movie show

E

A little drugstore with a wooden floor.

A

We had | A corner tap

E

An all-night diner and all sort of crap

 

E                    B

But it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B                          A

It’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                                E         B

Everything’s gone but this song.

 

E

It’s gone | It’s all gone.

E

May stick around a while but not for long.

A

It’s gone | Everything’s gone.

E

I never said if it was right or wrong.

E                           B

But it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B                          A

It’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                               E          B

Everything’s gone but this song.

 

E

My friends | Were pretty cool

E

We’d hang around a lot right after school.

A

In the garage | Or down on the street

E

We made a mess of every place we’d meet.

 

E                           B

But they’re gone,

B                      A

Baby they’re gone,

A                    B                                 A

They’re all gone, gone, they’re all gone

A                             G                                E         B

Everyone’s gone in this song.

 

E

My chick | Was pretty slick

E

Met at the bar and got it on pretty quick.

A

Made love | Every day

E

We kept on ballin’ ’til they took her away.

 

E                    B

Now she’s gone,

B                      A

Baby she’s gone,

A                    B                            A

She’s all done, done, she’s all done

A                             G                                E         B

Everyone’s done but this one.

 

E

It’s gone | It’s all gone.

E

May stick around a while but not for long.

A

It’s gone | Everything’s gone.

E

I never said if it was right or wrong.

E                    B

But it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B                          A

It’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                               E          B

Everything’s gone but this song.

 

E

Went to work | At a couple of jobs

E

In some old fact’ry for a couple of slobs

A

Lousy work | Lousier pay

E

Didn’t miss it when it all went away.

 

E                           B

Now they’re gone,

B                      A

Baby they’re gone,

A                                   B                         A

The work’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                                E         B

Everything’s gone but this song.

 

E

Who gives a fuck?  | Who gives a damn?

E

Your old man’s dying and your mom’s in a jam.

A

Your stupid sorrow and | Your stupid pain

E

Just watch it all going down the drain.

 

E                                  B

’Cause they’re gone

B                           A

They’re all gone

A                                          B                          A

The whole thing’s done, done, it’s all gone

A                         G                                    E         B

Everyone’s gone in this song.

 

E

Big world | What is it for?

E

We stick around until they show you the door.

A

We’re gone | Everyone’s dead

E

You didn’t hear a word that I just said

 

E                                B

’Cause you’re gone,

B                           A

Baby you’re gone,

A                         B

You’re all gone, gone, you’re all gone

A                             G                                E         B

Everyone’s gone in this song.

 

E

I’m gone | You’re gone too

E

Nobody knows us and you know that’s true.

A

We’re gone | We’re all gone

E

The only thing that’s left’s this fuckin’ song.

 

E                             B

’Cause we’re gone,

B                         A

Baby we’re gone,

A                       B

We’re all gone, gone, we’re all gone

A                         G                                E            B

Everyone’s gone but this song.

 

E

It’s gone | It’s all gone.

E

May stick around a while but not for long.

A

It’s gone | Everything’s gone.

E

I never said if it was right or wrong.

E                    B

But it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B

It’s all done, gone, gone-gone-gone,

A                                                                                      

Everything, Everything, Everything, Everything’s –  

E

It’s gone | It’s all gone.

E

May stick around a while but not for long.

A

It’s gone | Everything’s gone.

E

I never said if it was right or wrong.

E                           B

But it’s gone,

B                      A

Baby it’s gone,

A                    B                          A

It’s all gone, gone, it’s all gone

A                             G                               E          B

Everything’s gone but this song.

E

. . . So long!
 

Photo from James stoneofzanzibar on his Flickr page (many thanks), taken January 30, 2012. This great photo accents the Aragonese terra cotta facade. A building of true architectural distinction in the neighborhood of Clearing -- about to go down, probably to be replaced with some wretched little brick box.