THE VISIT (And a New Banjo Song :)

This is a really, really crude, though autobiographically based story that I hatched up today, and encouraged along, perhaps, by recent comments.


Comments and feedback of whatever nature do mean a lot to me,as I am a very insecure fellow. 


I type and draft directly into the blog. So keep checking back.


Anyway,  I have to walk Shane, and will be back to work on the story. 


It ought to flow along nicely, since I am coming off about 6 hours of a PG Wodehouse Audio book that I listened to today while painting all alone all day. (Brush and Roller Stuff) 


The rhythm and cadence etc of the prose is knocking all about in my head. Sometimes I muse that it is better than even music.


But sometimes I say the same thing about juggling. That Juggling is better than music in a sense, or at least for the practitioner of juggling, or one endeavoring to be a better juggler. Crazy right? But maybe the clue to it all is that juggling involves the intellect, the physical, the rhythmic, and the balance, and the artistry and I am really out there in the abyss now.......


But really, if all this helps to describe what it is to be a bean of the Human type? Why not?


5:09 Am --Anyway It is early AM now. I slept all night through, and needed it. 


This short story is about the time I was working on a painting crew, and the Boss, as a surprise, hired a stripper to come and dance at his house in front of all the painting crew, clad in painting livery.


It upset me on some fundamental level, and it remains one of the most miserable memories for me, and I will try to tell the story as best I can.  You can say that it was a teaching experience about the "human zoo" in a sense, for a few of these men were family men and all hard working as well. (cherished working class values)  and it made me take a closer look at my own sexuality and the nature of sexuality between men and women in general, and Porn, etc etc.


Some of the highlights are: How the painter with the mustache inserted his finger into the ass of the bent over stripper, and then placed a gentle kiss on one of her butt cheeks. Also how one painter inserted an ice cube from the dirty beer cooler into the vagina of the stripper. How it melted and water came pouring out later on. Also how one painter, who seemed to me to almost have downs syndrome, "ate out" the vagina of the stripper.


And, among other things, how JDPainterguy later that evening took his shirt off and noticed, in the mirror, the lipstick impression of a mouth around his left nipple.


This should be a good story-maybe one of my best-because I am developing my theme and approach as time goes on, as you all probably can see by now. 


I hope people don't get offended. Please try to understand that this blogging is therapeutic for me, and it comes after over a decade of anxiety over mounting student loan debt, and underemployment and ruined credit, and a failed marriage etc. All after Law School. So please consider my voice in that context.


This event however, was before Law School. But it still ties in with my themes I feel. It was one of those events that always led me to conclude that I wouldn't have to be exposed to such things once I made it into the supposed "White Collar" world of Law School and after. 


But as one commenter correctly states, people are the same pretty much and the strata of society doesn't matter. I will have to work on and develop that idea too.






TO BE CONTINUED 

_______________________________________

Anyway, maybe thinking about the concept of what a woman is in a very essential way, I thought of this poem by James Dickey, about his mother, an elderly woman with a heart condition (angina) and dying.


Dickey wrote the novel "Deliverance" and it was the banjo playig in the movie that sparked my interest in the banjo when I wa 13 years old.  Eric Weissberg was the real banjo Player in the Delierance movie.  And Weissberg's rendition of "Buffalo Gals" is what made me fall in Love with the banjo. You can see me playing that version note-for note on my youtube channel. Well....I'll just put it here:

Dickey was a large and many faceted man. An ex-bomber pilot, and an athlete at one time. I recall reading that Dickey was wont to heckle Burt Reynolds on the Movie set while filming the movie  Deliverence, and Reynolds resented it. 


Anyway, I love the Poetry of James Dickey, and here is his poem: Buckdancers Choice, with the theme, at least to me, of a woman as a daughter, sister, wife, friend and lover, and mother, and grandmother etc, in mind, as well as the story above that I am working on.


And now that I am reading the poem again, for the first time in a long time, the slave analogy kind of ties in with student loan debt slavery. 


I remember reading a loopy poem of Dickey's about a woman falling out of an airplane and all her thoughts as she fell to the earth, and another one about a POW about to be shot, so he starts doing crazy handstands and walking around on his hands or something. Great Stuff!


I feel a litle more hopeful this morning in general. And Re: My poetry recitation, I removed it, and will reattempt when I am more rested and looking and feeling better. I'm underweight and really wiped out these days. Emotionally strung out you could say. Anyway, here is Buckdancers Choice.

Buckdancer’s Choice

BY JAMES L. DICKEY

So I would hear out those lungs,   

The air split into nine levels,

Some gift of tongues of the whistler

In the invalid’s bed: my mother,   

Warbling all day to herself

The thousand variations of one song;

It is called Buckdancer’s Choice.   

For years, they have all been dying   

Out, the classic buck-and-wing men

Of traveling minstrel shows;   

With them also an old woman   

Was dying of breathless angina,

Yet still found breath enough   

To whistle up in my head   

A sight like a one-man band,

Freed black, with cymbals at heel,   

An ex-slave who thrivingly danced   

To the ring of his own clashing light

Through the thousand variations of one song   

All day to my mother’s prone music,   

The invalid’s warbler’s note,

While I crept close to the wall   

Sock-footed, to hear the sounds alter,   

Her tongue like a mockingbird’s break

Through stratum after stratum of a tone   

Proclaiming what choices there are   

For the last dancers of their kind,

For ill women and for all slaves

Of death, and children enchanted at walls   

With a brass-beating glow underfoot,

Not dancing but nearly risen   

Through barnlike, theatrelike houses   

On the wings of the buck and wing.

    And totally unrelated to Mr. Dickey, and just something I whipped up today,Clawhammer style. Kind of bitter, so hence the name of the song.  And with the lovely Roderick Usher in mind maybe. Who knows? I go through these spells once in a while, so forgive me.