Postcards to my President

Photo Essay: Provo City Center Temple. Christmas Day. 2019.

Throwing Cabbages.

I got sick and tired of repeating my life story years ago. I don't like talking about it now. I'd rather hear about other people's lives -- well, that is if they can make it interesting and coherent. Most people can't. At least the ones I run into. I seem to be imprisoned with a crowd that can only boast "I worked hard all my life, saved my money, and then bought a band saw." I would love my neighbor better if they had bought an opal mine in Australia instead.
The trouble is when I tell the truth about my past, that I was a circus clown, I get all sorts of breathless responses like "I bet that was fun" and "What a wonderful life you must have had!" 
Wasn't all that wonderful to me -- lot of hard work, elephant dung everywhere, lousy pay, and consorting mostly with egomaniacs. Of which I was certainly one. Am still one.
Then people get really obnoxious, because they either demand "Make me laugh" or ask in deadly earnest "What was it like?"
If they demand a free gag, I just tell them if they want a real laugh to go look in a mirror. But for the longest time, trying to be polite and get along with society instead of taking after all the poltroons with a machete, I would respond to requests for a circus narrative by telling a string of yarns that were true, mostly true, while I inwardly retched at the repetition -- and get this, many times people asked me to tell them about the circus, oh please, not just once, but every stinking time I met them. Did they forget I already told them that elephants love to eat cigar butts, that clowns used to concoct their own makeup and it gave them lead poisoning, that Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd stole some of their best gags directly from circus clowns? 
So, for a while, I stopped telling anybody about my old clown life. Except the grand kids, of course; I always laid it on thick with them. But now they're pretty much bored by it, just like me, so they don't ask for circus stories anymore. Now I tell them of my lascivious experiences when I was an ESL teacher in Thailand. They like those better, I think, and the stories certainly get me excited.
But the other day someone inevitably asked me what it was like being a circus clown, must've been fun, yeah? Instead of clamming up and pouting, I decided to open up and tell them the first thing that popped into my mind. Which was . . .
"Well, the biggest laugh we ever got on Ringling was with throwing cabbages at each other. Not firm cabbages, mind you -- those could knock your teeth out -- but cabbages that were overripe and falling apart. Those babies would explode right in your face like green shrapnel, and the crowd would laugh themselves sick. Sometimes we did nothing but throw soggy cabbages at each other for twenty minutes at a time."
No clown in the entire history of the circus ever threw a cabbage. They might have had cabbages thrown at them by the audience, but no clown would ever throw such a solid object at another clown. It would probably be construed as attempted murder.
This fairy tale satisfied my interrogator, and it made me kinda happy too -- I enjoy lying through my teeth to strangers, family, and friends alike. 
So now I'm anxious to tell people about my life as a circus clown. Because I tell them nothing but fabulous hooey, with no basis in reality. And who's gonna argue with me? Nobody can contradict me, cuz they weren't there, they don't know. The sense of power this new attitude gives me is intoxicating. I am creating new worlds from my imagination, like Charles Dickens or Donald Trump!
The next person who asks me what it was like being a circus clown, I'm gonna tell them that cotton candy is made from recycled newsprint; that Emmett Kelly was a spy during World War Two and gave the Russians the secret formula to Coca Cola; and that clown alley always refers to the bathroom as Republican Headquarters -- as in "I gotta go to Republican Headquarters for a while, cover for me in the next gag will ya?"
The truth will set you free, no doubt; but a tall tale is like filet mignon after a month of nothing but tomato soup.

**********************

A very insightful response to this piece by BYU Associate Professor of Humanities Bruce Young:

If I'm reading your tone right, this is a straightforward piece about being anything but straightforward, a truthful report of lying and fantasy-spinning. Assuming it's truthful, it's also an expression of a degree of bitterness--and as with most such expressions, it's really a mixed bag of desires and disgusts, intentions and resistances and evasions. 

If I'm discerning aright, something like the following may be going on. You like the attention but you don't like the naivety or predictability or the endless repetition of the questions posed by those who display some interest and seek to give you some attention. You're interested in novelty but find most people incapable of providing it. Part of you wants people to understand what your life has really been like, but you're tired of talking about your life, maybe tired of thinking about it, having to remember it. You're maybe even tired of reporting on the interesting realities of circus life and of the history of comedy, because you've reported so often that the facts feel stale to you, even if they may be new to your newest inquirers. 

The one relief you seem to have found from a dull, stale, tired stream of human interaction is to tell tall tales. I bet that sometimes you enjoy the delight others find in those tales. But you also report telling such tales with the express intent that your listeners will think you are telling the truth--which gives you both the delight of creative fantasy and the bittersweet satisfaction of pulling something over on your listeners, at whom you can secretly, silently (maybe contemptuously?) laugh. 

We should perhaps publicize more vigorously your current claim to a degree of fame and a good deal of achievement: your role as poet, humorist, fantasy writer, and raconteur. Then you might have some greater variety in the questions getting posed: what inspires your efforts? what are your practices and aims as a poet, etc., etc.? What are your favorite rhyme schemes, motifs, etc., etc., etc.? 

Plus, by making your role in these creative efforts better known, we'll guard your listeners against necessarily taking anything you say at face value. 

There was no darkness

And it came to pass that the words which came unto Nephi were fulfilled, according as they had been spoken; for behold, at the going down of the sun there was no darkness; and the people began to be astonished because there was no darkness when the night came.
3 Neph 1:15

And may it come to pass that light

overpowers darkness, not just

for a single day but for each day

we struggle and strive to live

in and for and through

the Light of Christ.

Amen.

Cease Contention.

Behold, this is not my doctrine, to stir up the hearts of men with anger, one against another; but this is my doctrine, that such things should be done away.
3 Nephi 11:30

Christ the Lord would have me cease

ever to disturb the peace.

He commands that anger stay

out of sight and far away.

O, that I serene may find

my heart, my soul, my fussy mind!

When I do away with bile

I can laugh and I can smile.

A 13-year-old boy made two trips to a barbershop in suburban Houston over the weekend: first to get his haircut, and a second time to witness his father argue with the barber over the outcome. Before it was all over, sheriff’s deputies say, the father shot the barber three times and then fled with his son.

@bellwak

Growing up, the barbershop

was a peaceful quiet stop

where the barber, clad in white,

clipped my hair til it was tight.

Redolent of aftershave,

with old men in a deep conclave.

It was always nice and clean,

someplace where a man could preen.

Nowadays, it's very strange --

barbershop as target range.

Glad am I my head's gone bare,

else Kevlar vests I'd have to wear.

Be of good cheer

. . .  be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. The kingdom is yours and the blessings thereof are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.
D&C 78:18

Can I measure God's decree

of gifts that he will give to me?

Is there a price tag I should know

or receipts away to stow?

Good cheer cannot be quantified,

when death and hell have been defied

by Jesus Christ, who for me died --

Eternity, in rich supply,

is sure to come; is almost nigh.

(His angels light the darksome sky.) 

Fur and Libel Cases in Virginia.

The fur is flying ev'rywhere/cuz people do not care to wear/the pelts of foxes or mongoose/and furriers are cutting loose/with advertising and discounts/but still the boycott mounts and mounts/So happy Holidays, you mink/you get to keep your skin, I think!


File a claim in old Virginny/and your libel case you'll winny/Doesn't matter if they're true/joyfully the lawyers sue/Ding-dong-ding, the court decides/to nail up the defendant's hides/ This is justice, Southern style/full of prejudice and bile.

Xmas Letter

Well, I guess this is an xmas letter of sorts. Sunday afternoon; I just fed everyone a big pot of red beans and rice, along with peach jello, and now I’m back in my apartment, wondering what to do with myself. Probably take some Advil and then take a long winter’s nap. Nothing good on Netflix -- I tried watching their new Series The Witcher. Take my advice -- skip it. By the third episode you’re heavily into full frontal nudity, frequent F-bombs, and a disappointing lack of monsters. I’m wondering if I can stand watching The Office straight through for a third time . . . . 

I’ll try to keep away from medical complaints and general old coot grousing in this holiday missive. I’m not dying; I’m not running out of money; and the weather has been mild so far.

Hmmmm. Maybe I better end this letter right here . . . there’s nothing else to write about.

I finally signed up for a monthly box from the Community Supplemental Food Program up in Salt Lake; everyone else in the building gets one, so I decided I might as well jump on the bandwagon. I get a package with powdered milk, 2 cans of tomato sauce, 1 jar of peanut butter, 1 can of pears or peaches, 3 boxes of cereal, one bag of dry beans, one half gallon of apple juice, two bags of pasta or rice, and a large can of government beef -- we called it bully beef when I was a kid. I’ll give the cereal, peanut butter, and dry beans to Sarah the next time I see her. The next delivery is on Dec. 27th.

What did I buy the grand kids for Xmas this year? I’m glad you asked! I got Diesel absolutely nothing, because I work on the principal of ‘out of sight, don’t get anything.’ I’m giving Noah a Russian novel, Oblamov, cuz he seems so interested in all things Russian. I got Katrina a wooden hand (it can be posed in various positions so artists can practice drawing the human hand -- it’s from IKEA.) I got Ohen a DVD of ‘The Ten Thousand Fingers of Dr. T.’ A classic 1950s fantasy, the only movie ever written by Dr. Suess. I got Lance some beadwork stuff (his mother insists he loves doing beadwork, but I’ve never seen him do it.) And for Brooke a five pound box of Whitman's Sampler Chocolates. 

For myself I’m hoping for a new pair of glasses this Christmas -- my old pair is giving me headaches. I just might actually have enough money to do it, too -- cuz Adam is giving me a ton of short articles to ghost write for his websites. I have to write five each day, one for each individual website. At first I felt overwhelmed with the constant demand, but then I remembered an old trick from my radio days -- the baloney sandwich. You open with a brief statement of fact, then do a long paragraph of fluff that’s vaguely tied to the story, and then close with another brief sentence or two of solid facts. I can whip one of those babies off in a matter of fifteen minutes. The fact is, if I can keep up the pace I’ll have made twice the amount of my Social Security by the end of the month. If I could be guaranteed that kind of loot each month I just might move back to Thailand after all. With that kind of money I could rent something near the beach and overdose on green papaya salad with sticky rice. I could even buy a good health insurance policy, too, for about ten thousand dollars a year. 

Do I have plans for the coming year? Not many. I’ll keep going to the Rec Center as often as I can. I’ll keep borrowing books from the library for my Kindle -- I’m never buying another one again! I’m not so keen on my poetry and prose anymore, so I think I’ll be cutting back on that and concentrating more on visual stuff, like postcards to the president and my photo essays. I’ll keep feeding the finches on my patio. I’ll keep having insomnia, probably. But I’m learning to just read for an hour or two late at night when I wake up and can’t go back to sleep, and then listen to some soothing zen bamboo flute music and I can sometimes get another 2 hours of sack time. I’m going to make a steak and kidney pie if it kills me. Beef kidney is so gross-looking at the supermarket, but I just gotta know how good it really is -- my grandma Daisy used to make it, but I never touched it as a kid. Now I’m really curious about it. I made Kedgeree yesterday -- another old-fashioned British dish of fish and rice. It turned out okay, but I don’t think I’ll be making it again. I won’t be buying any shoes, furniture, clothing, or cooking equipment in 2020. I won’t fall in love with Amy again and ask her to marry me. And I’ll read a lot more about zen Buddhism. 

So there you have it. I believe it’s time for that Advil now, and then drifting off until the old bladder needs depressurizing. It will be interesting to look back next year to see just what all happened to me that I didn’t plan on at all, or even know about. There could be volcanoes, arrests, romantic intrigue, another fifteen minutes of fame, or a bowl of birds nest soup. Like my mother used to say:  Man proposes but God disposes.

And to all a good night!

When the laws are shattered

. . . but they were not united as to their laws, and their manner of government, for they were established according to the minds of those who were their chiefs and their leaders.
3 Nephi 7:14

When the laws are shunted

to the side for base demands.

When personal vendettas

inundate our precious lands.

When those leaders we elect

are strangers to their pledges --

we have reached the point

where truth is lost among dark hedges.

Almighty God, please bring us back

to civic virtue -- lest

America becomes a sham,

a hiss, and then a jest!