(Observation April 15, 1974)
“Who am I?” sayeth the prophet.
“Who am I?” sayeth the Lord.
I keep thinking I’m equal to everybody else, but everybody
likes to think they’re better, and it annoys me, this parade of special people
who cut in front in line, who want to get on the inside track, not because they
can do anything better than I can, or even that they’re smarter, but because
they can.
I stand by the waterside, waves washing up at my feet,
staring at an early evening moon that somehow showed up before the sun has gone
down, confusing me as to which I should pay more attention, too.
I’m so full of dreams I near bursting, and know that without
dreams, the future doesn’t exist.
Who am I?
I don’t’ seem to have a place in this world, no more
foothold that the loose sand the sea takes back when it waves retreat.
Is it too much to be expected that I have a dream to hold?
Some quit-witted people like to mock me, treating me like
I’m stupid when I’m not.
I just like to think things out carefully before I make a
move, to shape my dreams so that I don’t make a mistake and grab hold of the
first dream that comes along and end up some place I might hate.
But who am I?
You tell me?
Oct. 12, 1980
It hardly snowed at all that first winter in the Montclair rooming house.
But it was cold during those months going from 1972 into
1973 and often the wind gushed through the halls of the house from outside as
if it had a key to the front door. If found every possible crack, and roamed
freely from room to room better than any ghost could.
The people did, too, often coming out of their rooms covered
in blankets, even to go to the toilet, especially going to take a shower.
We all grew closer for having to endure it all together.
Ed was like a great dane, but instead of carrying a keg of
rub around with him, he carried tequila. He sampled his own more often than any
us, and so had to crawl up the steps from the first floor for fear of falling
backwards if he stood, but managed to reach us and dose us with his offerings
so that despite the steam that came out with each breath we breathed, we felt
warm.
Often, we gathered in Meatball’s room on the third floor
with the faulty theory that heat would rise – a very faulty theory since we did
not know the how cheap Dave the landlord was and how he deliberately kept the
heat down – and we huddled and hugged and passed the bottle until we were so
drunk none of us dared chance the stairs and just stayed seated on the floor.
Meatball had his own strategies, and after the first few
weeks of cold, figured out he could make the room warmer by hanging rugs on the
walls, and he would sit on the edge of his bed, stoned out of his mind, and
getting his kicks watching his pet kitten Penny, playing with the bed sheets.
He always told the same joke about this being good practice
for us to go work on the Alaskan oil pipe line.
Meatball was only half joking, and really did want to, a man
born in the wrong age, longing for a time of adventure, wishing he could be
Lewis or Clark, or Daniel Boone or even Davy Crockett provided he could skip
the bit about The Alamo.
Sometimes, he would sit on a wooden chair in the front gable
of his room and stare out the small window that looked down on Valley Road, but
more importantly up at the Orange Mountains where sunset reminded him of the
far west.
He hated the traffic, and complained about the number of
people – not just moving into the rooming house or the town, but onto the
planet. He kept saying we were going to run out of room soon, and he feared
most government intrusion, saying that we would soon be kept track of, watched
24 hours a day so as to keep us all in line.
He even suspected the TV and wouldn’t have one in his room,
and hated when I bought a small black and white set to watch the Yankees on.
He tended to hate machines, and the changes machines
brought, claiming each new invention made us just a little less human, and that
sooner or later, we would not know where the humanity left off and humanity
began.
He wanted to live in a log cabin, even after I told him
cabins would even be colder than the rooming house was in winter.
“Not that much,” he laughed, then passed me a joint to suck
on as he hunkered down with the quilt over his head like a tent.
He perked up when he heard Ellen downstairs talking to
someone near the bathroom or perhaps on the public phone Dave had had installed
on the landing.
Ed and Ellen had already made plans to go to California . Meatball
said he would miss Ellen, but not Ed – who he claimed was a traitor to
humanity, since Ed had some job in technology – and would get rich of it some
day, he told us when drunk enough.
Meatball would more than miss Ellen and we all knew it,
having heard the yells from the second floor behind Ellen’s closed door,
Meatball saying “Go ahead. You don’t need my permission. See if I care.”
But when she was gone, he did, getting stoned more often,
until eventually, he moved out, too, though I doubt he went to Alaska or ever found a
log cabin to live in.
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