Shower Talk

9:00

“The journal is the writing,” I told myself. It’s my safe haven, the one place I know that I will write every day and the one place I’m confident that I can’t fail. And I’ve tried to convince myself repeatedly that if I write regularly there, I am a writer.
The trouble is, I never quite believe it. To call a journal-keeper or diarist a writer is like calling a Special Olympics participant an athlete. It’s a rationalization—though a humane one perhaps--a denial of the obvious. Writing notes isn’t being a writer, even if they run into thousands of pages as mine have.
“Yes, I’m an author,” I hear myself saying.
“Oh really? What have you published lately?”
“Well, er, I don’t actually publish, but I do keep an extensive journal.”
“Hmm, I see.”
So it’s out. I’m a writer but not a real writer. I’m a closet writer. Oh, if only I could instead answer, “I did a little story recently about a New York piano bar, Fred and Ginger.”
And it’s true, I did! “All the Things You Are,” from the old Jerome Kern tune, is one of the best stories I ever wrote. But I wrote it last year, and that’s not “recently.” And I wrote dozens of other short manuscripts over the years, but haven’t tried to publish any of them.

Okay, so let’s just say I’m not a writer and be done with it! No one but me cares anyway. But can I accept that? Of course not. I have to believe that I am a writer, or at least could be a writer someday, whether published or not, whether paid or not, whether read or not. Even if I must delude myself completely and forever, I can’t admit defeat. To do that would be to give up the one goal I have had for personal creativity for over four decades. I can think of none other to take its place. I can’t give up my dream.

I’ll just have to keep trying, I guess. Try to imagine, try to create, try to loosen up and fantasize a bit. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. I must believe that But it’s devilish hard.

Things I’ve Learned about Life Dammit Anyway Department
By Blaine Kauffman
1. It helps to keep busy.
2.
The end

10:00
I’m going to Sam’s Club and get some gum and granola bars then pick up a burrito for supper tonight. And maybe pick up--who knows?--a floozy, a Mexican doozy.

What? Hey, at least I’m imagining something. Probably from a Jimmy Buffett tune.

A Man Who Buys Gas
By Blaine Kauffman

Yes, I am a man who buys gas. The kind of stand-up, confident fellow who grips the nozzle straightaway and forthrightly. I make no bones about it. I squeeze the handle firmly. I do not flinch at the pump’s antics, like when it says “printing receipt” but no paper comes out, or flashes “please see attendant.” I pump the gas, replace the nozzle, and drive away. That’s just the kind of man I am, and I make no apologies.
Sometimes a do forget the cap, but it doesn’t matter. I can get another cap. The important thing is to be the right sort of fellow, the sort who has “the right stuff” as they say. So if you’re looking for that kind of man, you’ve come to the right place.
The end
11:00
Okay, I’m getting there. Two small bursts of imagination, and the key in each was slipping into a role, a voice, saying something I might have said anyway, but not in my journal voice, not in my normal voice. Taking a role. I must step aside and adopt a role. That’s what’s hard, to break out of my reasonable voice and thought and “become another person.” But it seems to be vital. Otherwise nothing can be imagined, only recorded. To imagine, I have to step out of myself and become a different speaker. How can it be at once so difficult and so instantaneous?

Two down. Not bad. I am beginning to hope again. Who knows, It may get easier as I do more. Visualize, visualize, visualize. Sing! Relax. Dream. What do you see? Whom do you hear?

Knowing Why
By Blaine Kauffman

If someone climbed a tree and won’t come down, why? Do you know why?
I don’t know why he won’t come down. I’m sure I don’t. I even doubt that he knows why. In fact, I’m sure I—he—has no idea why. Knowing why is not something I am aware of, certainly. I mean, er, no. No, no, no! You’ll not find me claiming any such thing, I can assure you.
The end

Three down, not bad. I may dig out the voice recorder software again. Dramatic voice? Lyric voice? All I know is it’s definitely not the journal voice. But stepping aside from myself as it were, “going into character,” jumping into that dark water of creativity with both feet can be more than a little scary.

A Man Who Buys Gas

Yes, I am a man who buys gas. The kind of stand-up, confident fellow who grips the nozzle straightaway and forthrightly. I make no bones about it. I squeeze the handle firmly. I do not flinch at the pump’s antics, like when it says “printing receipt” but no paper comes out, or flashes “please see attendant.” I pump the gas, replace the nozzle, and drive away. That’s just the kind of man I am, and I make no apologies.
Sometimes a do forget the cap, but it doesn’t matter. I can get another cap. The important thing is to be the right sort of fellow, the sort who has “the right stuff” as they say. So if you’re looking for that kind of man, you’ve come to the right place.

Knowing Why

If someone climbed a tree and won’t come down, why? Do you know why?

I don’t know why he won’t come down. I’m sure I don’t. I even doubt that he knows why. In fact, I’m sure I—he—has no idea why.

Knowing why is not something I am aware of, certainly. I mean, er, no. No, no, no! You’ll not find me claiming any such thing, I can assure you.

Brrr

When the lyric mode hits,
it’s a terrible burr I get
in my increasingly Scottish accent, brrr,
and-- ahem, brrr.

No cure once it starts, brrr,
and damned if I’m not in frrr it now, brrr.
There it is again, brrr. Excuse me, brrr, brrr.

Ahem. Ahem.
Ahem-- .

All clear.

So there it is, you see,
another prrrsona just pops in-- aarrrr! brrr brrr--
this time Adolph Menjou in kilts!

Flurry. Scurry.

Marv and Bert rode through all of Wyoming and most of West Texas in silence.
“Okay, let’s play a game,” Bert said. “I’ll say a word, then you say whatever it reminds you of.”
“Okay, go.”
“Alright then, Veronica,” Bert said.
Marv thought a moment. “Harmonica,” he said.
“Why’d you say that?”
“Rhymes with ‘Veronica.’”
“Hmm, okay, but it doesn’t have to just rhyme. Let’s try another. Veronique.”
“Huh?”
“Ver-oh-neek,” Bert overenunciated.
“Unique.” Marv responded.
Bert regarded Marvin for some time disapprovingly. “Verona.”
“Pomona.”
No sooner voiced than Bert was all a-twitter. “No no no. You’re just rhyming!. You can say anything in the whole English language, but you’re just doing nursery rhyme words. See-saw Marjorie Daw,” he shook his head from side to side.
Marv didn’t take being mocked too well. “Hey, what about you?”
“What about me.”
“Why do you just keep saying ‘Veronica’? Who’s Veronica?”
“I wasn’t”
“Were so.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were.”
“Not. I also said ‘Verona’, like Two Gentlemen from Verona.
Marv thought a while. “Okay, now you try it, smart guy: persimmon.”
“Richard.” Bert shot back immediately.
“What? What does ‘Richard’ have a bat’s ass to do with ‘persimmon’?”
“Richard Simmons, get it? The exercise guy on tv?”
Marvin groaned. Soon silence seemed the lesser evil once more.

Gundy and the Golden Egg

When the old king announced that “He who can climb the pole and grasp the golden egg at its top shall marry my daughter,” many came from near and far to try. But none could climb the high pole, cut smooth from the tallest tree in the forest. Not even the strongest, bravest knights in the kingdom could scale its length, for it was heavily coated from tip to base in the thickest, slickest goose grease the royal cook could gather. And strain with all their might and mettle, all the strong men slipped and slid to its base in turn. And as each landed with an embarrassed thud, the crowd moaned.
“It cannot be done!” Sir Goodfellow pronounced.
“Impossible!” Sir Manly proclaimed.
“It must be bewitched!” Sir Stout bellowed, and everyone gasped, for there were indeed many marvels abroad in those days.
At last all the knights had finished their futile attempts, and the King stood. “Since no man present can scale this pole, I must withdraw the challenge,” he announced.
“Sire, I claim the right to try,” came a small, meek voice from the crowd.
“Claim what right? Who dares to address the king thus?” boomed the Royal Chamberlain.
“It is I, Gundy,” Gundy the peasant said, and stepped forward, and everyone laughed.
“A skinny little runt like you?” they scoffed. “A peasant? really!” others derided. “Why, you’re not even as thick as the pole!”
“Begone, fool!” boomed the Lord Chamberlain.
But Gundy was determined. “Sire, I accept the challenge,” he stood his ground.
“Guards!” the Lord Chamberlain motioned, and the guards started for Gundy.
“Hold!” ordered the king. “The offer was open to all.” And the guards withdrew.
“Oh very well then,” said the Lord Chamberlain. “Give us a good laugh at least.”
So drawing a deep breath for courage, Gundy approached the pole, turned, and clapped three times.
Instantly forty other peasants in the crowd pressed forward and formed a human pyramid around the pole, which Gundy scurried up nimbly. He snatched the golden egg then skipped to the ground.
“Amazing!” the crowd resounded. “How resourceful!” “Huzzah!”
Astonished, the king said, “A bold plan, audacious sir! You have indeed won the hand of the princess. But how did you get all those other peasants to help you?”
“I promised each forty pieces of gold,” Gundy said.
“Forty pieces of gold? Where on earth could such as you lay hold of such treasure? They will surely tear you to bits when you cannot pay them.”
“But Sire, I believe this golden egg is worth much more than that,” Gundy said. And he married the princess and lived happily ever after.

Richer

No one can get ahold of everything at once,
consume everything at once,
consider everything at once.
The richest man alive can eat only three meals each day
and still must breathe and sleep.
In many ways I am richer:
I need not fear so many others
nor build high fences,
nor concentrate on material things.
I have what he has not:
I have freedom.

Gray Day

Gray Day,
Black mood.

Facts

What is my line, you ask?
Why, I deal in facts. Facts, sir. Facts, I say.
And the fact is, I deal exclusively in facts.

Now you may agree or disagree—it’s of no consequence to me either way, sir,
For the facts are plain: I deal in facts, that fact is clear.
They’re no mere sideline, but occupy my attention fully.

And what, specifically, are the facts?
Why, that I do in fact deal with facts, sir;
Those are the obvious facts in this specific case.

Of course there are, in fact, other, less obvious facts as well—
For example, that some facts are more subtle than others—
Faugh! it matters not a fig! for none escape my assiduous eye, no!

I deal with them all, sir, facts great and facts small,
Facts grandiose and facts infinitesimal.
In fact, I am proud to state, I ignore no fact at all.