Author Archives: parmanifesto

Angela

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The door bell rings, and my dogs explode into a cycle of agitation and pompousness: “Who could it be? Jeffrey Dahmer? Billy Graham? Gloria Estefan? Who cares! We love the sound of our own voices!” It is a pitiful yowling hysteria, though they think it a thunderously dignified display. My dogs love the sound of their own voice (like humans), although I suspect if I recorded it and played it back they wouldn’t love it any more (also like humans). ShuddUP! SHUDDUP! I gingerly wade through the furry waves of dog towards the front door and open it.

It’s my cousin Angela. Her sweatshirt, earrings and eyeshadow are all turquoise – a color made for tropical waters and fifth grade girls. Angela is not a fifth grade girl, though sometimes it seems like it. She’s twenty-two, but doesn’t learn at the same speed as others her age. The condition has some repugnantly polite name, nearly as repugnantly polite as calling it a condition. But I prefer to imagine all her blood deciding to stay home, in the heart, and not travel to the head. This is better, really, I believe it makes her a better person. And she’s so beautiful. She’s a beautiful men can’t quite fantasize about, because they’d feel guilty afterward.

When we were young she was the only one with the mad imagination, farcical tendencies and preference for all forms of exaggerated feminity that matched my own. We wanted to be Vera-Ellen in White Christmas (She’s so thin because she’s always dancing. We must always keep dancing.) or Ariel in The Little Mermaid (Ways I Am Like Ariel: 1. Red hair! 2. Female-fish anatomy?) Within two minutes together, our jog pants and T-shirts would be converted to whorish hyperbole, including pink plastic heels and feather boas. Then we’d get out her tea set and promise to be careful with every intention not to be. Cups were filled with water (her mother’s idea) then tipped over/thrown/dropped as quickly as possible, then refilled again. We seemed to fall out of chairs more than we sat in them. We called it “crazy tea party,” adding an unwitting anti-British element to playtime.

This was all before Love blew a spitwad in her eye, which slid down her cheek, impersonating tears in a way that was vicious, not funny. You would think Love would pick a little man to be the pilot of that spitwad. She didn’t. He was tall. Taahll. Tuawwl. In any accent he was tall. A man who was much older than her. That much had a mouth full of years, a potbelly of years, pockets stuffed with years. The years were a dare; a do-it-now-or-you’re-not-alive dare. The years were a functional alcoholic:

  • I can do this.
  • I’m in control.
  • I feel fabulous.
  • I feel fucking fabulous.
  • I’m God.
  • No, I’m David Bowie.

I don’t know if that’s how she felt, but I know that’s how I felt, the first time I met him. Not her former him, my former him. He respected our age difference, respected me, respected himself. Respect is such a good strategy it doesn’t need a strategy. “I’m a lot older than you,” he said. “No you’re not,” I said.

Angela met her former him for coffee the other day, which made her father’s red face get even redder. So red that looking at it makes your heart beat faster, makes you want to eat more vegetables. Why so red, father? Because I’m Italian, and I have high blood pressure, and MY DAUGHTER TRIED TO KILL HERSELF OVER THIS MAN.

She tried to kill herself.

It was fantastically ineffective.

Thank God’s nose hairs, his eyelashes, his toenails for that.

It was phenomenally unsuccessful because of Angela’s boating accident in the birth canal. Her skull was hurt, so the skull took it out on the brain, and the brain took it out on logic. Anyway, when the time had come for trying to kill herself, she opted for drinking laundry detergent. Isn’t she spectacular? If she hadn’ t had that pre-birth business, she would have done something more logical and conclusive – perhaps leaning too far over a ledge…and I do appreciate her picking something outside of social acceptability, not to mention the determination. Her taste buds must have cringed with courteous disgust through the introductions: Oh, hi, Alkyl phenoxy polyethoxy ethanols, It’s nice to meet you, Xylene sulfonate. Ultimately, though, anything’s preferable to lying in front of a lawnmower (“What are you doing?” “Oh hi.” “Yes, hi. Could you move? I don’t want to run over you.” “You know it’s really fine. Just go ahead, you’ve got to get this lawn mowed.” “Your life is more important than grass. Anyway, it’s not that long.” “Well, it is. You almost didn’t see me. You almost didn’t stop.” “Uh, okay. Actually there’s a good twenty feet – were you trying to kill yourself or not?”).

Angela formed a business partnership with prescription medication, and they got through it together, ended up in the black. So she asked her former him to meet her for coffee. He treated her with an unfeeling friendliness, like you would a postal worker. Angela braved the pleasantries. They said goodbye, he indifferently, she intensely. This is how things end, she thought, with nothing at all. She came home to her mother. Her mother, who raised Angela like she was a full bowl of tomato soup being carried across white carpeting, careful, I can do this, carefully.

We do not talk about any of this, standing in the front hallway. My dogs are loving her now, with their tongues, paws, ears, tails. She is smiling at them, and at me, with big eyes that are even brighter than her eyeshadow.

Va-Va-Virginity

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Sexy>Sex

A scene in Baby Doll. Carroll Baker has the genteel fragility that no Tennesse Williams woman leaves home without. Eli Wallach is that irresistible fusion of gentleman and ladiesman. She sits on a double-swing with only room for a single. He asks to sit next to her. She agrees, looking away. He sits; the swing squeaks; he sort-of-smiles; everything seems like a sensual threat. She questions his forwardness but will not look at him. He leans in. She is distracted and doesn’t know why. He cannot get any closer, can he? She answers, but she is submerging in something thick and warm. “You make me feel kind of hysterical,” she lilts, feverish, immobile. “I do?” He marvels. This ecstatic incline, numb alertness, someone’s laying Icy Hot patches all over, all over…

Foreplay is preferred to intercourse. Tight Clothing is preferred to nudity. Movie Sex Scenes are preferred to pornography. It’s better to observe than experience.  To learn than practice. To listen than share.

Don’t feed the animals. They’ll only want more. Sluts.

Clean>Dirty

Every time I’m about to really use a public toilet I wonder how many sexual partners the last user had. I wish I owned an RV. Then I’d have a private bathroom wherever I went. I mummify the seat with paper, then sit. So, I’m supposed to pee with this, and then put it in some woman, right where she pees? No, no, I’m supposed to pee with this, then put it in some man, right where he poops? No, no…

Unendurably revolting.

Stephen King is always saying adverbs are unnecessary. Then so am I, because I use them all the time (childish logic results in the quickest conclusion, why not use it? Just because I’m an adult…).  I’ve never read one of his novels, only his book on writing – I must do these things to be ironic, even though I don’t realize it until after I’ve done them.

Ugly>Beautiful

Some of us don’t have the physical qualifications for sex. I don’t mean my former friend Jonnie, who was born a legitimate man but whose male-specific apparatus needed multiple operations just to mimic normality, though it still couldn’t truly function. I mean – when I get out of the shower, I dry off, put on deodorant, briefs, shirt, and then, only then, do I look in the mirror. The last time I saw myself naked, I almost took a personal day.

Even with the traditional practice of turning the lights off, there’s the possibility your partner could be hiding a flashlight under the pillow, or have a switch right next to the bed, or one of those reading lights and even though the latter would possibly only illuminate a nipple, all three would mean instantaneous and humiliating exposure.

A scientist said he started studying the periodic table as a youngster. He was very alone and shy, so he identified with inert gas. It is not reactive with elements.

Win, Lose or Don't Care

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“Don’t let the assholes win.”

I am so grateful he was eating a mushroom swiss burger when he said this, rather than salad or baked salmon. Beef always lends an aura of machismo authenticity.¹ Swearing does too, but it should be a special privilege, for it is a delicate poetry, requiring tender handling.²

I was admiring his command of traditional manhood when I realized I didn’t agree with him. I didn’t respond, because entering an argument with a man usually results in me realizing I’m not a man. I may be benefiting or suffering from years of not participating in athletics, but I don’t want to think about anything in terms of winning or losing. If I’m in control, I’m responsible. If God’s in control, He’s responsible. We could introduce pre-destination and free will into the discussion, but let’s not mix liquor and beer.

God’s in control. He’s responsible.

This looks and sounds like faith, but it is only fear doing a good impression (Like Cate Blanchett doing Bob Dylan† in I’m Not There, or Cate Blanchett doing Katharine Hepburn‡ in The Aviator, or Cate Blanchett doing…*). But – have you ever had faith that wasn’t preceded by fear? Aren’t they conjoined? How can you be seated in the certainty of your worldly circumstances and be filled with faith? Something has to be threatened** for you to even think about it. Ideally, difficult times create dependence on God, which is the definition of freedom.

So…the more you lose, the more you win?

 

A NOTE ABOUT THE FOOTNOTES: Since my writing is a manic secretary consumed with multi-tasking, the footnote is an effort to quarantine potentially hazardous thought processes. Should they have been ommitted altogether? Possibly, but do you want to be the one to tell them that?

1. Unless, I suppose, you’re a ravenously carniverous sissy; then the beef is petulant and will not lend its aura.

2. Like gluten-free products: “Keep frozen/refrigerated” “Best when toasted” “Microwaving not recommended” “Ask how it is doing before you eat it” “Do not open around wheat products as this creates an inferiority complex”

† That’s gross!

‡ No, that’s gross.

* Me. Now that’s not gross.

**Have a recession! It’s good for you!

Effectively Utilizing The Quotation

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It’s a most sensible way to begin an essay, especially if one has nothing substantial to say on the subject, which is usually the case. It’s also preferable to quote from a book one has never read, as awareness of the entire work could contradict one’s intended purpose. The quotation acts as aloe vera gel, soothing the gaping wounds of logic and bleeding emotion to follow. It pleads, No matter what happens, you must remember the essayist had enough comprehension to select me as your host. You must remember!

The quotation is impressively terse and intelligent; it often inspires the essayist to write “the end,” since he cannot come up with anything significant to add. It’s a mercifully soft light, making everyone look better by its glow.

EXAMPLE:

“The difference between guilt and shame is very clear – in theory. We feel guilty for what we do. We feel shame for what we are.” Lewis B. Smedes, Shame and Grace

I’m trying to quantify my guilt. Undeniably the best way to do this is a scale, from 1-5…1 being Martin Scorsese (mean guilt) 3 being Alfred Hitchcock (monstrous guilt) 5 being Woody Allen (maddening guilt). Since I can’t think of any other fitting film directors, and since within the series 1-5 evens are outnumbered, 2 and 4 have been prematurely and inexplicably eliminated. Also, this scale was computed by the directors’ work, not their personal lives (would this have affected anything? don’t ask that you dumbass, we’ll never get anywhere). So. I normally function at a 3.5, but presently it’s at 9,999,999,999, approximately, which in English is “my-very-existence-is-a-burden-to-others.” I am guilty of _________

That blank has such vast potential, let’s not fill it in or foul it up.

It’s appropriate that shame starts with a “shh” because it’s a secret. -Doesn’t that sound like something a Pastor who reads Family Circus would say from the pulpit? He’d punctuate it with satisfaction, thinking he got close enough to truth to pet it before it ran away. Guilt can turn into shame and shame can turn into guilt – they’ve got a co-op. And, there’s no system of measurement for them – so I’m always thinking I don’t have enough, even though I’m always thinking about how much I have.

I am conscience-stricken over my superficiality. I’m one of those enormous sheets with pictures of athletes or forest scenes they draped over unfinished buildings in Beijing during the olympics. Someone, some day soon, will tear it away, expecting to find something. They won’t. They’ll be disappointed. They’ll walk on.

I smoke as often as I clean.

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Tonight I’m doing them at the same time. I’m in the bathroom, which is the only room I ever clean, because the room in which you clean yourself should be clean. I put the ashtray on a shelf above the toilet, next to the smoke alarm. Oh. Must move that, mustn’t we. It’s the only thing in the apartment as dramatic as me – we’re both prone to screeching tantrums; mine are just internal. Usually it keeps quiet in the bathroom, though, because steam is like smoke’s sexy stepmother (second marriage; a trophy wife naturally), gliding into the room in a bathrobe that doesn’t hide she’s one hell of a woman.

What with the all-purpose cleaner (which smells like party punch made of Sprite and bleach), the Captain Black little cigars (“I’ve never seen anyone buy these, there’s dust on the pack” says the Walgreens clerk), and a logic-liquefying lack of sleep, my head is humming like a cell phone on vibrate deep in a woman’s purse _m_m_m_ I turn up Dusty Springfield, and she sings with a sentimental infatuation so sincere it seems like love. 

The bathroom door is closed, the window is open, and it’s at a 90 degree angle from the living room window, which is also open, so I can hear “I Will Always Want You,” “I Wanna Make You Happy,” “I’ll Love You For Awhile,” “Losing You,” and “You Don’t Own Me.” Yes, I am master and mistress…my virginity and sexuality…my loneliness and libido. The iPod battery dies, a temporary disaster, but soon it is resuscitated and I select Dionne Warwick (who unfortunately some only know as Whitney Houston’s aunt, or a spokeswoman for psychic friends network, rather than one of the finest female vocalists ever).

I feel like Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark when she tells Efrem Zimbalist Jr., “Just tell me what you want and that’s what I’ll be. I mean it.” She has such a frantic devotion; it’s so much my relationship with You, God. I’m only required to be Your child, but I’m convinced I have to be Your child star. You’ve given me so much, can I just give it back? I don’t know what to do with it. Show me. Show me.

Half the pack is gone, the bathroom is clean, the album is done.

Light another, start the dishes, play the next album.

Blood Brothers

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We are both named Ben.

“Ben!”

We both respond. People say my name the same way they say his name.

“Ben!”

It’s 3 letters (it’s almost like it should be a part of speech {the, an, a, ben – see? it’s right at home}), there’s no nickname for it (unless you get creative and call one of us “Beh” and the other “En”, but you’re adding a syllable, and it’s a nickname, for goodness’ sake; it’s supposed to be shorter), there’s no possibility of differentiating between us, two people with two eyes and two hands and two feet – God, we have a lot in common, don’t we?

No. We don’t. He’s a sex offender. I’m not.

I think about this, sometimes, when he’s sitting in my car, singing along with Chris Daughtry or talking about his Xbox. I think about him inserting things into his little sister’s little vagina. Was he rough? Did he say anything while he was doing it? Did she? What kind of men will she be attracted to? He did that, and now he can’t go to parties where there will be children and will always struggle to find housing and cannot have internet access in his apartment.

A co-worker once said to me, “imagine you had to write the most hideous thing you’ve ever done on an index card, and every job interview you went to, every apartment lease you signed, you had to hand it to the person and watch them read it. That’s what it feels like to be a sex offender.”

What would I write? I’m sure I’d use up the front side of the index card with excuses and explanations and emotional appeals. Then on the back, in the most modest and firm penmanship, I would write: “I thought my sin was better than someone else’s.”

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."

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I can go back and forth from acting to actually feeling without even paying a toll.

Ter-ri-fy-ing.

But the best acting is realistic, so this might be a good strategy. I act to accommodate others. Altruism is just a philosophical term for people-pleasing. I’m always so concerned about my ratings; is everyone watching. Are they being entertained. I’M DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

If I could go from listening to a favor to a compliment to a thank you card to a – and just never think about me. I’m not selfless, I have a self ThankYouVeryMuch, but it’s in someone else’s safe deposit box. That’s the only place for it. I don’t have anywhere to put it. I make a good pet, unlike jack russell terriers, which are quite crazy even if you feed them, which is unfortunate because after Frasier became such a big hit, everyone went to buy one and then regretted it. But they’re animals, after all, they’re animals, we can’t expect them to act…

My heart is sick. And my mind just looks at him and snickers, “you pussy. go to work. go do something for someone.” He’s right and I hate him for it. I hate them both and I hate myself for letting them live with me. Why did I spend twenty minutes researching pastor gay sex scandals. You can’t keep it together you can’t keep it apart and you’re going to get off and it’s going to get out there and you’ll be gone baby gone or going going gone or going for broke and if you’d Just Get A Grip You’re Not God He Just Gave You A Chance. I will start crying or yawning, whichever happens first.

I can’t be what you want do you understand that? I can’t be what I think you want.

I’m making an appointment with Paige tomorrow. She massagewashes my head with shampoo that smells like tree excrement (it’s superb to the hundredth power) and then cuts my hair one section at a time and is comfortable with long silences and asks me what I’m reading right now.

Pre-Bake

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My gender identity is something like a lump of clay that’s been sitting in a kiln, at a low temperature, for 24 years, gradually hardening (sort-of-pun-sort-of-intended).

I want to be a man.

You do?

I do.

You may kiss yourself.

I like my beard, I like my body, I like my…little boy below the equator. None of it needs to be altered or disguised or subdued. God’s been sending me fan mail. Really sweet stuff. Some of it doesn’t seem like the truth, but it is, and I’m starting to believe it.

I can't stop nibbling the line of skin on the inside of my lip.

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But it’s not enough. I’m so mad I want to buy a steak and just chew and chew and chew on it (I’m broke, and 85% vegan, so I’m mad).

“The trick is to keep breathing.” I never expected to hear that in a Garbage song. But there it was. Staring at me with the insightful innocence of a baby. The best parts of me are automatic: breathing, heart beating, eye blinking. It’s the rest of me you can’t count on. If I could just concentrate, just direct the bowling ball down the center of the lane long enough so it can see what brand the pins are.

Oh, Monday. He must feel so victimized. We blame everything on him. But it’s difficult not to. He’s always bad, or bland, which is worse.  I have to see myself, not my circumstances. It’s like breaking up: It’s not you, it’s me.

MYSELF: like everyone else, same shit, different smell. MY CIRCUMSTANCES: like everyone else, same shit, different smell.

Saturday evening, Sunday morning

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Yesterday’s weather (“I’m going to rain, I promise – see my dark clouds? I can do it dammit!  I’m going to rain!!”) gave me permission to go to a Jean-Luc Godard double feature.  Four hours of French.  By the end I wanted to send a box of chocolates and a note to Godard saying, “I’m sorry you feel this way, but why make us feel this way too?  Please eat this box of chocolates in one sitting.”  In My Life to Live, the star, Anna Karina, is in a movie theater watching another star, Maria Falconetti, in The Passion of Joan of Arc.  There seems to be a dialogue of gazes between them.  Suddenly, they are both weeping.  They have given one another their grief.  It is both selfless and selfish.  It is the humble majesty of movies.

The movie theater is a holy place to me.  It is this blob of blackness that you can absorb into.  It doesn’t just allow you, it accepts you.  And it doesn’t matter if you dress like a member of KISS, or breathe too loud or have never read anything by Hemingway.  It just wants to tell you a story.  No, it wants you to find yourself in a story.

Churches should be that way too.  Mine is.  It’s a church that meets inside a movie theater.  This morning we sang a song that went: “hold the door for me, because I’m right behind You, I’m following where You lead.”  When we stopped, I felt as though my cells had dissolved.  Everything was going through me, and I couldn’t, didn’t want to, hold on to any of it.  I was separate, but sensing it all.  Rejoicing in the wholeness of the moment, not held hostage by the possibilities of the future…like watching a movie.