SlapDashittery
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
It was the bottom of the fifth inning last night when an elderly couple rolled onto our warning track atop a pair of stylish, pre-war bicycles. In the field at the time, my team collectively turned and watched incredulously as these geriatric interlopers continued their somnambulant pace, creeping along the outfield fence with a palpable, even violent lack of concern. This, along with the fleeting notion I had of following them home and shitting on their lawn, was the highlight of my night.
In retrospect, I didn’t have a fucking clue as to what I was doing with my book last year. I had some themes, some scenes, a general sense of story and character, but I was assembling it mathematically, jamming misaligned puzzle-pieces together and hammering them flat with my boot. If an idea arrived that connected one stray plot-element with another it was kicked into place, regardless of quality, and I spent a great deal of time wondering why the picture didn’t look anything like what was on the box. But at least I could hit.
A year ago, I walloped 34 singles, 14 doubles, 10 triples and 3 homeruns in 24 games and led the team in hitting; through seven games this year I’ve managed but 10 singles and presently sit second-to-last in batting average. My book, though, is surging along at such a pace that my much-lauded typing abilities aren’t doing it justice, scrambling to keep up with the rapid-fire rapture and fount of ideas so bountiful that it makes these delusions of grandeur feel like a craving for chocolate-covered coffee-beans. Of course, perspective is a slip of mercury and my relationship with common sense is not unlike that of a sex-addict hiding a pocket-dildo in polite company, so we’ll have to wait and see if this mouthful of hubris actually contains any teeth. Still, to this point the ride is a hugely enjoyable, if not occasionally tyrannical, expedition over the cracked and mangled terra of make-believe, clearly distinctive from my earlier exploits through – like insufferable born-again zealots, with their glued-on grins and unshakable smugness, I too am now following a less aggressive path.
Their ride, the old folks with the bikes, ended with the spontaneous eruption of applause from both teams as grandma and grandpa finally crossed into foul territory. The cheering was met with a severe up-and-under fist-pump, as close an approximation to flipping the bird as this gentleman’s generation can muster, and the gesture smacked of theatrics, of trying just a little too hard to convey his agitation. Judging by the angry finger-grip dimples I left in my bat-handle last night, and the gigantic pile of horseshit I wrote last year, there are life-lessons to be gleaned from these twin-dullards and their loitering two-wheelers: perhaps I can get through life without demolishing everything in my path, without trying quite so hard.
Perhaps I can relax.
In retrospect, I didn’t have a fucking clue as to what I was doing with my book last year. I had some themes, some scenes, a general sense of story and character, but I was assembling it mathematically, jamming misaligned puzzle-pieces together and hammering them flat with my boot. If an idea arrived that connected one stray plot-element with another it was kicked into place, regardless of quality, and I spent a great deal of time wondering why the picture didn’t look anything like what was on the box. But at least I could hit.
A year ago, I walloped 34 singles, 14 doubles, 10 triples and 3 homeruns in 24 games and led the team in hitting; through seven games this year I’ve managed but 10 singles and presently sit second-to-last in batting average. My book, though, is surging along at such a pace that my much-lauded typing abilities aren’t doing it justice, scrambling to keep up with the rapid-fire rapture and fount of ideas so bountiful that it makes these delusions of grandeur feel like a craving for chocolate-covered coffee-beans. Of course, perspective is a slip of mercury and my relationship with common sense is not unlike that of a sex-addict hiding a pocket-dildo in polite company, so we’ll have to wait and see if this mouthful of hubris actually contains any teeth. Still, to this point the ride is a hugely enjoyable, if not occasionally tyrannical, expedition over the cracked and mangled terra of make-believe, clearly distinctive from my earlier exploits through – like insufferable born-again zealots, with their glued-on grins and unshakable smugness, I too am now following a less aggressive path.
Their ride, the old folks with the bikes, ended with the spontaneous eruption of applause from both teams as grandma and grandpa finally crossed into foul territory. The cheering was met with a severe up-and-under fist-pump, as close an approximation to flipping the bird as this gentleman’s generation can muster, and the gesture smacked of theatrics, of trying just a little too hard to convey his agitation. Judging by the angry finger-grip dimples I left in my bat-handle last night, and the gigantic pile of horseshit I wrote last year, there are life-lessons to be gleaned from these twin-dullards and their loitering two-wheelers: perhaps I can get through life without demolishing everything in my path, without trying quite so hard.
Perhaps I can relax.
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7 Comments:
Excellent read, I feel complete empathy for you concerning your hitting so far this year. I have been in your shoes. I understand that for you to travel down to the 2nd to the bottom position means but one thing... I am no longer 2nd to the bottom. Thank you for your beautiful writing.
Greg M
Perhaps you can. Relax.
Perhaps it will also cheer you to know one of my goals is to be just the kind of old person who would ride my old bike through someone else's game and then flip 'em the bird.
That's pretty much my life ambition these days - not fucking up everything I come into contact with. Ain't easy.
You know that Bruce Cockburn song, with the line about how you "gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight"? Maybe you don't. Maybe if you just put in the time, and quit looking at the clock, the daylight will come.
I'm going to be thinking about this post for a while.
(Old people shouldn't drive; cars OR bikes.)
As one who tends to clench onto everything with white knuckles, I have to agree with you...relaxing and letting it happen is fucking hard as hell.
All those physical accomplishments last year were coming from your frustration over your writing. This year it would appear that energy is going into your pen, maybe?
I'm with MG on this one. I want to be the kind of old person totally oblivious to the rest of the world... to a degree. I can totally see you doing the same thing that old guy did, too!
Greg: Thank you kindly, sir.
Mongo: That sounds like a wonderful plan, provided you're not going to be that old any time soon.
Mr. Freeman: No, sir, it sure ain't.
Darwinnie: My watch has been broken for months for precisely that reason.
Trouble: Agreed - relaxing is much, much harder than saying you will.
Angel: I know - this felt a bit like the pot calling the kettle an asshole...
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