Myles Murphy and the Build-Your-Own-America Kit

When I was in my early twenties a towering and ambiguous friend sent me a peculiar present. Three 90 minute cassette tapes recorded front and back, more than four hours of original music. Titles were recorded on the folded up paper inserts but outside that, partly visible from the outside of the case, there was also a large geometric pattern done in water colors and cut into three parts with 1/3 included in each case. And the most amazing part was the box. The cassettes were--entombed? enshrined? installed?--in a triangular cardboard box that sat upright like a pyramid, painted all over with trippy neo-Navajo designs in red and black and green.

And on the tapes were these brilliant meandering songs, mostly fragments of legends about odd characters. Dan the Pharmacist Fan, Elvis whom everybody loves, the Thunderbird. But also there was ambient sound, bird song, car engines, the sounds of things being found or knocked over or thrown together, rattlings and shudderings and quaverings of all kinds, the equivalent of thinking aloud. The vocals were not only sung but also moaned, whined, slurped bits of odd dialogue read in hysterical voices from all distances, from around corners, through improbable substances. Sent to me on my birthday. The whole thing was a token of grudging respect, or a capitulation to the need to be understood, much more than it had anything to do with affection. Or at least with personal affection. I was something of a second or third-string recipient but was finally deemed the most likely to understand the music.

I think maybe I do. But it took years for me to be able to listen to it as a whole thing. Partly because the sound quality is very bad but as much because of the heterogeneous, meandering quality of it. It kept needling me, more or less night and day, with its prickly brilliance, its oblique self-importance, its heedless facticity. Myles had made this music and given it physical form as well and now it irreducibly and essentially Was. It contained not only music but Facts of all sorts, pleasant and unpleasant. It is a shrine to omnivorous Americanness. And I now think I see why it was such an affront to me at the time. At a time when I was very self-protective and assembling my own fantasy version of the world, The Box accepted and held out to me everything: drugs, homelessness and insanity, bravado, self-destructiveness, restlessness. Cruelty as well as tenderness, tedium as well as wit, discord and melody, huge raw civic conscience and the anger that arises in those who have it, pettiness and charity.

So I played the first of these tapes as my daughter Emma and I drove down to the Smithsonian American Art Museum this morning to walk through another brilliant and heterogeneous version of America. I turned Dolby on and off, fiddled with bass and treble, gave her synopses, repeated good lines, trying to make it clear. I wheeled her past the faces of John Brown and Joseph Smith, the redwhite&blue collage with Obama's hopeful face, busts of Lincoln and Jackson, WPA cityscapes, weathervanes and walking sticks, statesmen and madmen and prophetesses and kept women, Sodomites, saints, suicides and dandies. All the parts have to be there. And arriving back home I see that my room is another version of the Build-Your-Own-America Kit, and my heart yet another.

A Scene from Old Weird America

I took the boys to church yesterday. After opening hymns, the call to worship, and a reading from Exodus there was "special music" listed in the bulletin. Our town's former chief of police walked up front--bare footed, wearing Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt opened up to reveal a necklace of wooden beads. Now, it should be said that when this man was chief of police the rest of the force despised him and he was basically forced out because the sergeants beneath him said they had no confidence in him. Why? The story they sited was an incident where a robber ran into a house and took a woman hostage. The police surrounded the house and then called the chief. When the chief showed he took off his uniform, put on civilian clothes, handed over his weapons and walked inside the house to talk to the frightened fugitive. An hour later, the chief walked out with the woman and the robber. Apparently, this act was totally against protocol and the rest of the force resented him for it.

At church the ex-chief stood in front of the congregants with palms open, turned outward. His wife sat next to the piano with a middle-eastern hand drum, the pianist (the town mechanic) began to pound out an island melody and sing out in Hawaiian. Immediately, the fifty-something ex-chief began to do a hula--hips moving side-to-side, arms and hands rolling like the waves of the ocean. Smiling broadly, the Chief stepped toward the congregation, holding his hands over his heart and then opening them wide in a gesture of welcome. He made signs of the sun and moon, boats paddling on the ocean, skies opening up, fish jumping, birds crossing the sky. At one point the chief cupped his own heart and then held it out for all of us to see. The movements were so lovely and vulnerable that if the chief had been a young woman we all would've fallen in love with him. But the chief is a white man with a balding head, a hairy paunch, and tattered mustache and so the dance, at first, was simply odd and startling.

In the front pew, the chief’s teenage, autistic son, who normally fidgets and whispers and counts fingers sat mesmerized watching his dancing father. I too sat mesmerized--at times with horror, at times with restrained, snot-blowing laughter at the strange audacity of this guy dancing a hula in church...but the more the man danced, so honest and full of heart...well, I noticed a strange joy, a joy that burned off the shame that often shrouds my interior. I wondered, once again, about the many fears and prejudices that hem me in. Why are they there? What's the evolutionary explanation?

After church, when I asked my sons what they thought of the dancing chief, they smiled and said, “that was cool,” and I could see they meant it. I recalled this past fourth of July when these two middle school boys ran from our house to meet their friends on a terrace at the local college, to hear a salsa band play. I remembered them scanning the clusters of people, then excitedly rushing over and grabbing the hands of their dance partners, making their way to the dance floor, eager to try out their new Latin steps, while fireworks sprayed the black sky.

Some Stuff About Home and T-Shirts

Man, I wish there had been food for you. Leaving for a trip is always stressful, as much as I don't believe in that word, and I didn't do anything about leaving food.
I'm back at this desk looking at that ugly tree blocking out much of the world up against that house that blocks out much of the rest of it from here, and I realize how much of my mind is controlled by that tree. Some sort of scraggly cypress that doesn't belong here and has a vine climbing up it and strangling it. Impossible to ignore. Clear incitement to leave this desk and mobilize.
I had a dream this morning in which I met Patti Smith and she seemed to recognize me and gave me a big hug. We walked around a sort of industrial building by a rural highway, talking comfortably and in detail about things I don't recall. It seemed very normal but I was also intensely grateful for the warmth and the recognition. I told her how I saw her once in City Lights Books in San Francisco and how I was embarrassed to bother her, and about how I just smiled and bowed and turned away. She didn't remember of course but said that oh I should have come over and spoken.
America is very much on my mind, my need to regard America not as a finished thing but as scattered parts of a Make Your Own America kit that I'm working on. The girls and I stopped for ice cream in Lewisburg, PA this afternoon as we made our way back down to Baltimore from Rochester. It was a muggy Sunday afternoon and the place was swamped with post-church Americans and non-post-church Americans, so that nearly everybody was wearing either an unbuttoned dress shirt or a t-shirt with an image of the American flag on it. One said, "Tattered Glory, 2008." Not sure what that meant. Another said, "The Best Things in Life Are Free." That I get, although I wondered if the shirt's owner and I could have a real conversation about what it meant without both of us getting all embarrassed and reactive and tongue-tied and dumb. We all stood there sweating sea water and amniotic fluid, thinking about our horse in the race, waiting for our ice cream, rehearsing our orders. The ice cream was really good.
The mountainous parts of PA and NY are gorgeous, and this morning as we drove down a mist lay in the low areas which always makes the hollows look deeper, the peaks look more distant, higher. Beautiful and deep, so much beyond what you can see.
Stopping in these places reminds me so much of the earthiness and suspicion of the people I grew up with, and of how I love them and hate them. Of course there is no them, exactly, but there sort of is when they're in groups.
I'm going to go out tomorrow and buy a t-shirt with an American flag. Serious. And maybe I'll write "The Old, Weird America" across it. That phrase, half from Kenneth Rexroth and half from Griel Marcus, has been so much on my mind.
I think of Bob Dylan saying that he was born a looong way from home and he's been trying to get back ever since. Exactly right. So it's good to drive, even to the wrong place, good to see things, even if you hate some of them, good to be challenged with the raw fact of what exists, maybe especially t-shirts with American flags. American Fags: feels like that's the team I got drafted by long ago and I'm gradually coming to see the backwards logic of it. A fag and a Jew, I am, in the long, woman-hungry body of an American Southerner from California.

A Morning at the Wulf's House: Birds Come and Save Me

We needed to know if what he said about there being no food in the cupboards was true; after the search we no longer questioned his other instructions. I stood in his room and tried to imagine what it was like to be him and I realized that his interior landscape was much wider than mine and that I was grateful for his friendship. Noah walked in trance-like and took the guitar and mandolin--his only greeting, "Geez Dad, there's a lot of picks." Within minutes the downstairs was filled with the Tennessee Waltz. Later, when Joseph awoke and ambled outdoors I said "Good morning," then pointed to the tire swing, "look what I made for you." Joseph smiled and thanked me with genuine gratitude because he knew I was lying but also knew that I would've made him that swing if he had asked me to.

Gracie and I jumped on the trampoline--first as rabbits, then as monster and trickster, then as dad and daughter, but suddenly the feel was not right and Gracie went inside for a moment then opened the door and said, "Mom talked me into coming back out." We lay on our backs and looked at the broken tree branch and then looked at the cat playing dead and then tried to bounce on our backs. When we went inside for water Jill said to me, "I saw you watching me shoot baskets the other day." Once again, I realized that Jill has all of my numbers and I went to her and kissed her and when our lips parted she breathed on me and it was like driving through a field of blackberries and I wanted to crawl down her throat and rest my head on the dark clumps within her lungs and then she pouted and said, "Everywhere we go there is coffee. There is always coffee." And this made me think of coffee. And so I went to the freezer, as instructed, and took out the yogurt container and plied the lid and smelled the frozen beans and it made me happy to be an addict. I made the coffee, as instructed, and then greeted Benjamin at the back door and watched him feed the dog and stared at his pony tail and wondered about the comfort that his long hair provides.

I walked upstairs and Gracie followed and we stood in each of the girls rooms and looked and Gracie said, "I wish I lived in a girl house," and I felt sad for her and when I saw a cluster of feathers in Maggie's room I sang her a song about cardinals and blue jays and yellow finches coming to save a little girl and she sang the spontaneous chorus with me, "birds come and save me, birds come and save me" and this was about the one millionth time that Gracie has broken my heart.

What I Want to Say to the Waitress in the Montreal Cafe

It's your crooked teeth that makes you desireable.
I know your friends suggest orthodontia.
They're jealous.
Your blue quarried eyes and
moonglow skin--
your marbled beauty is admired,
never touched.
But when you smile
your heart becomes visible,
like a dying star
that attracts a lover
to whisper
his secret grief.

What I Remember of My Sons' Recollection of their Math Teacher's Mountain Biking Years

His racing name was "The Kid." They don't know why--heighth? Lack of facial hair? They have no idea. They think he was young when he raced. There was some guy named "Red Elk." He was just a regular white guy but he had a red afro and wore terry cloth headbands. Red Elk was a real character. It should be known that The Kid once beat Lance Armstrong. Don't expect to find this fact on the internet because Lance will never admit it and there were no reporters. But it happened. No one could beat The Kid in Colorado. The Kid treated the mountains of Colorado like it was his personal playground. That's why Lance couldn't win. The race was in Colorado.

It takes about two minutes to change a blown inner tube. Most guys change two tubes per race. Not so for Red Elk. Red Elk wore pre-inflated tubes around his neck when he rode. Not fully inflated, but just enough to carry across your chest like an archer's bow; probably about half inflated. He also carried CO2 cartridges in his pockets. You really shouldn't carry CO2 cartridges in your pockets, especially in a mountain bike race in Colorado. But that's just the kind of thing Red Elk did. Red Elk had no concern for personal safety. When Red Elk blew a tire he would simply replace it with the half inflated tire and then connect a CO2 cartridge. No pumping. You see? That gave Red Elk a two minute advantage over the other racers. But none of this mattered to The Kid. The Kid beat Red Elk every time. Especially in Colorado. Actually, it wouldn't have mattered if Red Elk didn't change any tires, he had no chance and he knew he had no chance, but every race he'd look at The Kid and say, "Today's the day kid, today's the day." But it was never the day. The boys can't emphasize enough The Kid's home field advantage in Colorado. It was ridiculous.

One time The Kid showed up to the starting line and he hadn't finished his coffee. It was a really good coffee. He didn't usually get this kind of coffee. The race started but The Kid just couldn't toss that coffee on the ground, because it was a special type that was really rare. So he had to finish that coffee. If he had a thermos he would've saved the coffee but he left his thermos in the truck. So he sat at the starting line and finished his coffee. He started the race like five minutes behind the rest of the racers but he still won. It was only by a minute or two, but he still beat everyone. When he passed Red Elk, Red Elk threw one of his half-inflated tubes at him. It was just a joke, but it ended up going over The Kid's helmet and blinding him for a few seconds on a really dangerous gravel hill. Red Elk didn't know it would blind The Kid. Red Elk was actually really good friends with The Kid. He didn't mind that The Kid won every single race. One time The Kid was in Istanbul and he stayed at a downtown hotel for three days, as he was chekcing out he ran into Red Elk. Red Elk had been at the hotel next door for the exact same three days and they never knew it. They were both totally blown away. They were both in Istanbul, staying right next to each other, and never saw each other. Not even once. They were totally surprised. It was The Kid who noticed Red Elk. Red Elk was just walking by carrying a backpack. He only saw him from behind, but The Kid knew immediately. It was the red afro. You don't see many of those. Anyways, when Red Elk threw the half-inflated tire, The Kid had to ride blind for a few seconds. Most guys would've hit a tree, but this was in Colorado--The Kid could've rode the whole course blind. That's how well he knew the Colorado trails.

They pause and wonder why people would spend money traveling to Colorado, back in those days, when they knew they had no chance against The Kid. Not even Lance Armstrong (though he'd never admit to it) and you won't find it on the internet, but it's true. They swear to God it's true. The Kid told them himself and he's a math teacher. And math never lies.

In Preparation For Releasing My Father's Ashes

Early summer and the front yard’s overgrown.
The light falls spotted through the black walnut leaves.
“We are all like the grass,”
the scriptures sing again and again,
“Here today and tomorrow thrown into the oven.”
Green grass, shot through
with mysterious,
unending,
green.
The passage,
like your absence,
is familiar and dreamlike;
hard to follow while lying on my back
smoking this cigar,
blowing circles
to the June sky.
Grass or sun,
cigars or human beings,
all memory is made from burning.

Five summers AWOL.
I still see your mischievous smile,
your helpless tears.
Your life now a story,
a picture book,
a fable,
an inspiration--
dependent on the teller.
“All stories are untrue,” you once told an audience,
knowing full well that stories are all we have of the truth.
This is my story:
We loved each other as best we could.

With your hands
I gather the cut blades,
pour the grey diesel,
drop the wet stained tobacco,
then stand
vigil
while the red rolling waves spray
foxtails like fireworks.
I stir
and rake
and stir.
Still I see
green never burns.