Sometimes, all of the thoughts feel disjointed in a way that almost feels natural and wondrous. It’s as if I’m witness to, and a part of, life’s kaleidoscope. Tonight, I listened to the little devil on my shoulder and went to the bar instead of running and eating at home. Later, I paid for this decision by having to walk home in a driving rain. Which is fine – I walk slowly in the rain. I accept getting wet. Nevertheless, while at the bar, I wrote several notes that might eventually become poems – or will more likely just languish in my notes app on my phone.
Two guys a few bar stools over were looking at one of the dozen TVs, all tuned to sports because it’s a sports bar. They were commenting on how Saquon Barkley hasn’t signed his 10 million dollar contract. One of the guys asked the other, “what’s this world coming to – when someone won’t sign a 10 million dollar contract?” Maybe fifteen minutes earlier I had noticed a “Developing Story” in which another athlete hadn’t reported to mandatory training camp and the coach said he’s “very concerned.” There were four analysts talking about this (though the TV was muted). They all looked serious as though they might be reporting on a recent bombing. What, indeed, has this world come to. Today, at least five people called my office looking for help with rent or utilities. Last week we couldn’t breath because of wildfires in Canada. A major road collapsed in Philadelphia. A pharmaceutical company is about to declare bankruptcy for the second time and as a result may default on their 1.7 billion dollar settlement for the opioid crisis. Elsewhere, two widely used cancer drugs are in short supply and the US government estimates billions of dollars in covid relief funds were either stolen or wasted. But let’s talk about sports with the seriousness of calamity and collectively wonder what this world has come to….
Today the writer Cormac McCarthy passed away. To call him a gifted writer is an understatement. The literary critic Harold Bloom would tell me that he thought McCarthy was the greatest living American novelist. This was enough of an endorsement for me to read several of his books. His prose is poetic. That’s the closest I ever got to actually knowing McCarthy – a well-known critic who probably knew McCarthy telling me to read McCarthy. I only shared my affinity for McCarthy’s writing with two women, my ex-wife and my ex-fiancee. During a book swap, I recommended to my ex-fiancee McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. She recommended Ask the Dusk by John Fante. I loved the Fante book (and that she shared it) – I’m not sure she got through Blood Meridian (it’s pretty violent). I wonder if either of my exes thought of me when they saw the news… “I knew a guy who liked McCarthy.” That’s me, a guy they knew who liked McCarthy. I suppose there are worse things they could say and think.
I read an anecdote that said McCarthy struggled as a writer for 27 years. There’s hope. I read another anecdote, an account from one of his wives, that said they lived in poverty and he would turn down paying speaking gigs. He’d tell people everything he had to say about his work was there on the page.
I sat at the bar typing all of these things out. Of my own writing I wrote:
For quite some time, I was dumb enough (ok, that’s not kind), naive enough to believe that earnestness, my deeply felt sincerity in what it was I wanted to say, would be enough to make my words sing. I believed that a thing told true (or at least close to true) would also be something told well. That belief, while not necessarily true, has kept me writing through lots of bad writing. Even now, I write with an authority and wisdom that would suggest someone who has experienced far more success than I have – because I still think success possible, because I still hope to sing. And the feelings, the earnestness, the goddam sincerity of it all needs to be told.
I don’t really like this bar. I don’t watch sports news. When I go I always feel like the out-of-town business man who just texted his wife back home that he misses her. The out-of-town businessman who will order a steak with a side of mushrooms from a sports bar across the street from his hotel. That strange and out of place feeling is enough to make me consider the other people at the bar. Who do they miss? Where do they call home? What part of this kaleidoscope do they represent and how do their shapes and colors change?