The Cross Road Blues

Stumbling, falling, almost hitting the ground, guitar case held tight. If the world was watching, the world would call him him drunk.

But the world wasn't watching and Bob wasn't drunk. Too late at night – so late it was almost day and the horizon ready to crack the dawn like an egg against the edge of a frying pan. Cocklebur and horsenettle choked the edge of the dusty, dirt road heading out towards the old Dockery House. Estella was back screaming and clawing and throwing things at the wall still, no doubt – angry woman, but now the one woman who wouldn't take him back. Bob left in a hurry, bumping into his friend Willie Brown at the corner and telling him, "If I ever end up dead, you're the one who needs to know." He could hear Willie laughing at him even two blocks past.

Deep into the night and down the country road, Bob thought: How many different ways can I get hurt? Then he brushed the devil-thought off his shoulder and spit through his fingers. But the possibility still swirled.

How long before the ghosts came up on over the ridge in a pickup truck, a stretch of rope behind the seat and pale eyes looking through the windshield for a strong branch to bear the strange fruit? Every sound was a possible engine, rubber tires on a gravel road, carrying either a safe ride to a warm house, or ghosts. The crackle of dried weeds: morning glory, trumpetcreeper. The brush of wind clattering branches. The heart beating harder, faster; the feel of the pulse behind his eyeballs.

It was at the crossroads that Bob fell down on his knees. Rumor at the last juke house he'd played was some poor fool got run down like a rabbit by a couple of big rednecks and strung up in a poplar tree.

Long fingers squeezing each other, head bowed. "Save poor Bob," he muttered. "If you please, Lord, save poor Bob." The rush of blood and panic made the whispered prayer feel like a cry through the fissures of his neck bones, lungs, liver, spleen.

The trust to stand and wait, to try and flag a ride out of this dark spot, was a gutsy thing for poor Bob. And when the first flume of gravelroad dust kicked up at the edge of the land, he held his ground, put his thumb out, and waited.

The first car appeared as dawn broke. It was an old Pierce-Arrow with two dumb-looking white men in it; they blazed by without even glancing at him. So did the family in the Terraplane that passed some twenty minutes later. And the Essex a half-hour after that. It was like nobody saw him. Didn't take long before Bob hefted his Gibson and got a wiggle on.

Next car that smoked by him, he shouted after: "Tell Willie Brown I'm down to the crossroads!" Then he barked a laugh that sounded almost like a sob, startling a bobolink from the ditch into the morning air. Bob crossed into the neighboring field.

As he settled into the shade of a magnolia, drawing the weary L-1 Gibson into his lap, Bob was already humming. No woman up ahead, Estella left behind beating her walls, no ride, almost like he was invisible, and no doubt his friend Willie Brown all poised on his barstool and ready to laugh.

He taught it to me, by the way, the song he wrote on the edge of that gravel road, Bob did – the last time he passed this way through Mount Revere.

King Kong versus Denny

Denny Kristlopher's break from his family was all King Kong's fault. Of course, the family wasn't aware that he'd made this break, because Denny was no fool.

If there's anything you want to know about King Kong here in Mount Revere, the one to ask is Dennis Kristlopher of the Kristlopher Clan – just don't let his mother know he's the resident expert of the big ape or she'll no doubt tear his room apart to find any evidence, and even if she doesn't, he'll still probably be grounded to his bedroom for a month.

Sixteen years old now, Denny's been an expert on all things King Kong since he was seven: the monsters Kong fought and the order he fought them, beginning with Cooper's original through the ape's stint on Godzilla's bandwagon; the relationship Jessica Lange developed with the men who operated the giant ape-hands for the DeLaurentiis remake; the inside jokes in Jackson's grandiose take; the methods of Willis O'Brien's stop-motion animation; Toho Studios miniaturization techniques; and the robotics used in the 1976 remake.

But, if you can keep it on the down-low – he's your boy.

The secret break with his family didn't happen because he was spending more time studying King Kong than he was on his Bible studies. He made sure to stay on top of those.

When he was younger, Denny Kristlopher was fascinated by the potential reality of such a creature. The awe that would transpire when faced with such a being would be life-changing. Although, he played as King Kong with his buddy, Gary (always over in Gary's yard), his secret desire was to become friends with Kong, to be the only one in the world capable of effectively communicating with, and on behalf, of this ancient beast. Denny would fall asleep in his room, looking at the eyes in the knotty pine ceiling overhead and imagine being carried gently through a steamy jungle held comfortably in the warm paw of the great ape.

The secret break with his family was due to straightforward physical science. When Denny was ten he read in a new nonfiction monster book in the school library, that a gorilla the size of King Kong would be physically impossible. Kong would, as some killjoy scientist explained, collapse under his own weight.

Rather than come to terms with this reality immediately, Denny began constructing in his mind some scientifically-sounding answer to this conundrum. Obviously, King Kong's skeleton was much more powerful than a normal gorilla's; his heart was ten times stronger, his blood moved faster – the scientists were wrong! Denny carried this conviction through his sophomore year of high school.

But like the god of Skull Island meeting his doom through the advanced, scientifically-sound engineering of aviation and weaponry, Denny's hope was eventually taken down. Once Mr. Uccisione, his physics teacher, explained Galileo's square-cube law to where he actually understood it, Denny Kristlopher could no longer hold up the absurd notion that King Kong could ever, truly, exist.

The stash of old Famous Monsters magazines and books of movie monsters that he had hidden in his band locker were in his hands and being held over the Dumpster in the back parking lot when Denny realized that he didn't have to give up his love for the big gorilla just because Kong only existed in the movies! Denny loved the idea of Kong. The potency of the image remained thrilling: the dedication and powerful love this ancient, noble god had for beauty, so great that he could break his bonds and touch the highest point of civilization before being overwhelmed by an unimaginative, small-minded race – wasn't this a worthy idea?

The break happened due to the fact that it didn't take much for Denny to start examining other stories, comparing the power of their ideas against the power of their physical reality. Sunday School, he realized, was an exercise in literary analysis, after all. The stories from the Bible his mother made his father read every night to Denny and his brothers and sisters – did they really need to happen historically for them to be powerful?

But Denny's mother was a small, curly-haired force of unimaginative strength, and Denny knew there was no way for him to ever voice his thoughts without being brought down.

So the break was quiet. Denny's new beliefs were a secret he would never reveal. Well, not until the woman who would become his wife appeared before him one fated evening.

But that's another tale for another time.

On Questions and Conflict and Virtue

Nancy Sherman, in her book The Fabric of Character: Aristotle's Theory of Virtue explains, "The agent [of virtue] comes to learn different ways of reading a situation and different questions to pose in order to see the picture with increased insight and clarity. How to see becomes as much a matter of inquiry as what to do."

Questioning, actively seeking understanding, is the only way to see truly.

Seeing or perceiving rightly is as much a virtuous act as the act of doing.

She also explains that Aristotle tells us: "Through ... friendships [of virtue] we gain transparency before ourselves, see ourselves ... as if in a mirror. We see our foibles and expose what we keep hidden from others. ... We need 'to live together with friends and share in argument and thought' in order to be fully conscious of the sorts of lives we are leading."

In essence, we understand better who we are in relationship with others--in argument and in the sharing of thought.

But only with those committed to the virtues. A liar, for example, who cannot admit to his or her own falsehoods, who claims--perhaps almost believes--the lies to be true, has the capacity to do great damage.

Seek out the virtuous friendship and shake off those who dangerously exhibit profligacy, uncontrol, unrighteousness, small-mindedness, and cowardice.

Running with the Iowa Goatsinger

AT RISE: IOWA GOATSINGER sits on platform upstage just off-right of CENTER with his guitar in hand.

(YOUNG MAN enters)

YOUNG MAN
There are ghosts in Mount Revere,
the Iowa Goatsinger told me.
He showed them to me
when we were out running together one morning.

Thanks.

(IG waves)

Mount Revere is a town that thinks its streets make better sidewalks,
and this means often walking --
or running in my case --
past Mount Revere neighbors:
neighbors who may be out walking up to the Hickory-Stick-little-hippie-grocery-store-slash-deli
for a chicken wrap,
and then maybe across to the Diesel Coffeeshop with its jazz or indy music;
or neighbors who may be heading down to Stan's Tru Valu
to get groceries for the week;

or neighbors who are out walking or running just
because it feels good.

And passing others means greeting others, doesn't it?

But when I smile or nod or wave a hand as I go clopping by --
heart beating strong, music pounding a dance rhythm down the street for me --
they don't always return it.

Sometimes they look away,
or pointedly
don't
look away --
like the tall, pretty woman who can be seen out around seven in the morning, rain or shine:
large-eyed, angular and attractive, sometimes smoking as she walks, never looking my way, and
ultimately
fascinating.

She's not a ghost. Not yet.

(shift)

It was a foggy morning when the Iowa Goatsinger went running with me.

(IG moves in some significant way in response)

Early.

Five-thirty
easily.
The fog
was a cloud laying
lazy across the town.

It was a good morning for ghosts.

Although,
I didn't know that when I stepped off my front porch and to the sidewalk.

(mimes putting on headphones, pushing PLAY, and then running for a bit)

Twenty mother-
huffing minutes later and
I was just coming around the
big curve off the new development --
you know, behind the
gravel business, just up from the skatepark built in the shadow
of the old high school up on the hill --
when I first saw it:

the ghost.

It was a ghost.

(stops running. pause)

It was.

It
had the form
of a gray man:

tall
and solid-looking.

Its back was to me --
it was moving down the slope of the street, head cocked strangely
to one side.

IOWA GOATSINGER
Psst!

YOUNG MAN
The Goatsinger -- geek that he is --
that's when he decides to remind me of the stories of Theseus --
yeah --
and his first journey to Athens.

And okay,
maybe this was the ghost of the monster Periphetes,
this giant
man-thing
with a club.

Maybe this gray
thing
was just waiting for me to get close enough so it could turn,
raise up,
it's mouth splitting wide and jagged,
and lift this big-ass ax all at once!
-- up in its left hand!
-- already swinging it back over its right shoulder!
-- already burying itself --
in my guts.

When the fog burned off I wouldn't just be found beaten up,
I'd be found in pieces
at the corner of the skate park.

(miming running again)

I came running up behind the ghost and thinking my monster-thoughts,
John Lennon kicking into an old rock and roll song in my head.

And I'm thinking:
"I just happen to be running this way,
nothing to worry about
Gray Man; just –"
When the gray man suddenly stopped --
and I found myself jumping suddenly --

(mimes jumping in slow motion past the gray man)

there's something in its hand --

and I was past.

(mimes hitting the ground and running back to full speed)

At the corner of the park,
rather than just plunging down the cement path beside the creek
with its woods and shadows,

(turning sideways -- facing STAGE RIGHT)

I turned
so I could run the steep street that ran

(turning face forward)

up alongside the football field
and then up alongside
the old
high

school.

(mimes running uphill -- very difficult)

At the top,
on the quiet side of Main Street, I turned

(turns sideways -- facing LEFT)

and began my descent down the slope that bottomed
at the cemetery.

It's a long, slow decline.
The houses give up
to the creek and the small woods.

And it was out from these small woods that the ghost again appeared --
still in the shape of the gray man --
head still strangely cocked at the object held in its right hand.

But I wasn't afraid this time.

Maybe it was because we were on the Main Drag of Mount Revere.
Although, at this end,
as it heads down to the cemetery
that doesn't mean much.

So maybe it must be because I saw
that this was not the ghost of some
ax murderer,
but only the lonely spirit
of a lonely man.

I pulled back my headphone so I could let him know I'd hear him if he spoke,
and I started past him.

(miming jumping by the gray man in slow motion)

But his head never came up.

We vaulted by him,
the Iowa Goatsinger and me,

(miming landing and running again at normal speed)

and we turned at the corner of the cemetery and disappeared

(turning UPSTAGE)

down another hill,
back
into the fog.

(pause in the monologue as YOUNG MAN mimes running -- turning LEFT, then FORWARD, then RIGHT, then FORWARD)

Few minutes later,
on the sidewalk down by Stan's Tru Valu,
I passed a woman jogging in the other direction.

I smiled and she smiled.

(YOUNG WOMAN enters from UPSTAGE discreetly and sits facing upstage on a stool next to IG)

And then I passed another ghost.
I think it was a ghost -- like a pretty lady with large eyes, angular and attractive,
it glanced at me and our eyes met --
that ghost and me --
and then we both looked quickly away.

There was this old rock and roll tune in my ears during all this --
Chuck Berry wrote it, John Lennon sang it --
the tune that carried me as I ran with the Goatsinger that morning
past the ghosts
of Mount Revere.

The Film Noir Fest

Before he'd been arrested, the only thing I knew about Declan was that he liked nice girls. That's what he said in class to his friends before the bell would ring and I'd have to shut them all up. Never thought too much of it. Some students like to boast that their players and Declan was one of those.

"Like 'em cellophane shrink-wrapped," he'd say, and his buddies would laugh like they were barking. The girls didn't really understand Declan. He seemed too shy by half to be as boastful as he was.

I was teaching a Film Studies unit in class, the focus that year being Film Noir -- you know: those dark films with a detective doing a voice-over through a big chunk of it. It was rolling that year; the students all loved it. Always nice when something goes well.

Declan had put his sites on a girl in my class. She was a giggly kid -- cute, sweet-natured. He liked to mouth to her across the room. I'd catch him and bust him down for it a bit, but he always took it in stride. He was older than her -- that I did know. That might've been the problem.

He wanted to take her out, he said, to his dad's place some weekend. His dad lived some twenty miles away, and from what I understood, wasn't home much. Declan wanted to do a film noir film fest-- just the two of them. The Big Sleep to start. Followed by Chinatown. Then Blade Runner. They'd finish the night with Sin City. I wouldn't mind doing that one myself.

She didn't think it was such a hot idea. So he asked again. No, she'd say. And he'd ask again.

Finally, he got down on her knees -- I saw him do this, right outside my door, out in the hall -- and begged.

Everybody talked about it that following Monday. But nobody seemed to know anything. The cops even came around and asked me. They were particularly curious about the film noir unit. I said, Isn't that something? Seems they fell into a film of their own. Wonder how that happened? The cops didn't get it.

I got a note in my mailbox the other day. It was from Declan. On it were the words to this song. I haven't told the cops yet. But check this out:

Nice girls, not one with a defect --
Cellophane shrink-wrapped, so correct --
Red dogs under illegal legs
She looks so good that he gets down and begs

She is watching the detectives
"Ooh, he's so cute"
Watching the detectives
When they shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot
They beat him up until the teardrops start
But he can't be wounded cuz he's got no heart

Long shot of that jumping sign
Visible shivers running down my spine
Cut to baby taking off her clothes
Close up of the sign that says, "We never close"

You snatch a tune, you match a cigarette
She pulls your eyes out with a face like a magnet
I don't know how much more of this I can take
She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake

You think you're alone, until you realize you're in it
Now fear is here to stay, love is here for a visit
They call it instant justice when it's past the legal limit
Someone's scratching at the door, I wonder who is it?
The detectives come to check if you belong to the parents
Who are ready to hear the worst about their daughter's disappearance
Though it nearly took a miracle to get you to stay
It only took my little fingers to blow you away

Just like watching the detectives --
Don't get cute --
Watching the detectives --
I get so angry when the teardrops start
But he can't be wounded cuz he's got no heart

Watching the detectives,
Watching the detectives

a Review of ON MORAL FICTION by John Gardner

Strong-willed, a bit Athenian in its language, and passionate, Gardner is arguing here more than anything else for art to uplift the spirit of its audience.

This seems to be an important stand to take when critically approaching literature. This book, I believe, is important for educators to study so as to more effectively lead their students in developing their critical thinking skills.

Moral judgments, I agree, should be made towards our literature -- and not, as Gardner makes clear, in some weary dogmatic fashion. He makes no bones about recognizing talent; he sees, for example, Pound as a gifted writer, even as he rejects the negative aspects inherent within Pound's work.

Is the book easy? No. The book is difficult and demands an incredible amount of focus. It is, however, worth the effort.

Interestingly, it also has had an effect on my view of some classics. _Lord of the Flies_, for example, I will now freely claim as destructive in its worldview. Do I think it still needs to be part of the high school canon? Of course. But primarily to get the students to develop their arguments for or against its nihilistic view of humanity.

An important work.

a review of DEVILS by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

For me, the most fascinating thing about Devils by Dostoyevsky, are the power plays seen in many of the key relationships. Nothing is upfront, everything is subterfuge -- whether it's in Peter Stepanovich's manipulation of the governor's wife, Yulia Mikhailovna or Varvara Patrovna's often mean-spirited way of controlling the weak-willed but incredibly sweet-natured Stepan Trofimovich.

It's a huge novel. The Oxford Press softcover edition is 756 pages, and it requires some focus. It isn't a demanding novel, however, but a surprisingly snappy read. The story begins with an introduction of Stepan Trofimovich, the above-mentioned weak-willed character. A well-traveled, well-educated man, who gained some fame/notoriety early on because of some political lectures he had given early in his career, he came into the service of Varvara Patrovna, a matriarch in the town in which the novel is set, who basically held him fast to her with money and by holding over his head his impetuous, overwrought emotional letters of anger and regret with her. It's a frustrating relationship to watch. Stepan Trofimovich is essentially tied down with comforts to a lifestyle that in his early lectures he actually railed against. This wealthy widow even dresses him, choosing his wardrobe and making disparaging remarks when he strays from it. And he is an intelligent enough man to recognize it, referring to himself early in the novel as "an ordinary hanger-on -- just a parasite." This sense of self-hatred pervades and is explored through the first part of the novel.

It isn't until Peter Stepanovich Verkohvensky, Stepan Trofomivich's grown son, raised from an infant in a distant town, also educated and well-traveled, appears on the scene at the end of the first part of the novel, in a chapter titled "The Wise Serpent" does the story, already interesting and curious, kick into a higher gear.

In addition to Peter Stepanovich, Nikolai Vsevoldovich Stavrogin, Vavara Petrovna's son, also appears. We're introduced to him earlier, actually -- a willful, ill-mannered, strong, and handsome young man who shows no respect for behaving in a traditional fashion. He is also the most tragic figure, desperate for some strong moral guidance, but cynical to any who might offer and also considering himself throughout the story, completely unworthy.

Dostoyevesky's played with this notion before in Crime and Punishment. Stavrogin has done something horrible in his past, and this act has bred a self-hatred and cynicism towards the world that frees him to do whatever strikes him in the moment. It's what many people dream they wish they could do, but it has uprooted his spirit. His attitude towards family, religion, town, nation, any ideal whatsoever, is not present. He's an incredibly charismatic figure, but is ultimately tragic because he cannot connect with anything -- try as he might. Most of his over-the-top actions throughout the novel seems to be some attempt to wrest a sense of purpose from his life and from the world.

Peter Stepanovich attempts to behave in the same way -- but it isn't motivated by a deepfelt wish for a spiritual connection, but rather a vicious self-centeredness. It results in a coldly detached method of manipulation and deceit and eventually murder.

All but Peter Stepanovich seem to wish for connection, and most are manipulated by Peter Stepanovich by playing to their weaknesses or sins: Yulia Mikhailovna, for example, is easily controlled by her vanity, her wish to appear a particular way to the town, and -- it would seem ultimately -- to herself. She wants to matter.

That seems to be it. The novel is about characters hungering for a connection, characters who want to commit to something higher, but the atheism professed by a number of them, the rationalistic approach to living, or the weakness of will, the desire for comfort or control, keep them from it.

The delight of the story is also in the fact that it is actually a surprisingly funny novel. It gets dark towards the end -- very dark, actually -- and then is redeemed by Stepan Trofimovich's final quest, his ultimate break from the control of Varvara Patrovna and his connection with regular folk, most particularly a woman who sells bibles, a gracious, giving woman who he connects with because she simply and easily gives with no regard for herself.

A strong novel, written with humor and insight.