Gonzalo

Gonzalo

    By Douglas the Sailor Man (avec Miranda)

No autobiography this time. No sex, either. Really. I’m sick of sex. And not a journal. Too reflexive. No high philosophy. No modern themes. Love, fear, war, lust, betrayal, transgression, family. No Christian themes or subjects. (The list above is really subjects not themes. Themes are longer statements that sum up the author’s entire purpose as it is accomplished by plot, setting, character, point of view, symbolism and other narrative elements.) No Christ figure. No loving God. No praying parents. No converted prostitutes. No examination of humility. No lessons on pride. No biblical allusions. No Moses, floods, floating babies, whore-born gods, wise kings, parables, good or bad men and women, vain, learned Sadducees or vainglorious Pharisees (nor pharisaical Sadducees neither). No ranting elders. No hungry beggars, dissipate lepers, virtuous wives, buyers and sellers in temples, lickspittal rich merchants, short men in trees, nor gutsy women in besieged fortresses who cut off the heads of sleeping enemy kings. No raging prophets, or visionaries, and so on. Blake be damned and Milton, too. Who wants to be great, anyway. No big stories. No stories that make people wag their heads at the prodigious virtues of the author. No sparse plots. No, nor no fulsome plots, neither. No wily writer pretending love, planning fame. No second-string quarterbacks. No lyricism. No restraint and prohibition. No false excess. No laughter and no tears. There never are, only are not but act as whips in the hands of lackluster authors whose company you would discourage to even your most regrettable relative. No tall tales. No braggadocio. No thin men. No wags. Fops. Lady-killers. Don Juans. Madonnas. Sad princes. Winsome, attic-bound, lady poets. No severe brothers. No kick-ass sailors. And absolutely no great scientists. Not a single great scientist. No Einsteins. No what-the-hell-was-the-name-of-the-guy father of the atomic bomb. No tragic Manhattan Project. No Cousteaus. Rob Roys. Uncle Toms. Douglas Copelands. Lifted skirts? Maybe. Peeps at Sadie’s underwear? Tempting. Brassieres coaxed off? Yeaaah, but. No hooks and eyes. No coy use of any literature. No allusions to Faulkner, nor attempts to copy his style. No reverence for Bob Dylan. Been there. No use of nifty modernisms, blah, blah, blah. No idealizing greatness in any form. No heroes nor heroines. No princes good at horseback. No fools or Falstaffs providing diversion for the higher-minded. No Sir Lancelots. No deceiving, luckless nor warring kings. Maybe a Green Knight. Maybe. Maybe Sir Gawain and the Baroness in bed. No music whatsoever. Guitars. Pianos. Flutes. Banjos. Dulcimers. Especially dulcimers. Goddamned dulcimers! Congas. Cymbals. Drumsticks. Spoons. Mandos. Violins. Organs. Whistles of any color. Pipe. Penny. Dog. No travel. No protagonist or dipstick off to Europe to visit the king. And no culture. Same diff. No Joyce. No James. Enery or the epiphany guy. No Eliot. Never again. Never. No Pound, Williams, D.H., Bergson. Not even Melville. Certainly not Kathy Acker. Not if she paid for it. Have you looked into her? Vile stuff. Unreadable for any lover of Nietzsche. No depression at home. No escape abroad. No “Jeez it’s cold in Manitoba in January! Wonder what it’s like in Brownsville about now?” No sickness and death. No sickness and cure. No failure. Nor success. Not interested. No corporations winning, losing, merging, disintegrating. Absolutely no references to sports or hockey. Entirely prohibited. No quarter given there. And no ironies. No ironies in the pieces at all. None. Not one irony will I let in. No sly knowing on the author’s part. No self-promoting recollection of the times he figured out this or that. No hatred. No vilification. No vitriol. No alliteration. Nor any forms of linguistic intensification. No backbiting. No massages. By either libidinous gay men or pretty women. No lesbianism! I’m sick of women kissing women! No voluptuous descriptions of the female anatomy. No adoring descriptions of the female anatomy. No sneaky observations of the female protagonist in the bath. No female protagonists. No baths. No observations. No females. No masturbation. That’s the last thing I want in a story of mine. No one plays with himself. No playing with oneself, either privately or in public. No references to come, quim, sperm, jism, cream, milk, or any other white bodily fluids. No substitution of Anglo-Saxon for Latin. No pricks nor penises. No piss nor urine. No vaginas or their Saxon equivalents (I don't recall ever having heard the word). No ass. No buttocks. No derrieres. No tits. No hope for money. Nobody inherits anything. No yen for cars, waiting for promotion, want of this or that. No needs of any kind. No passionate embraces, or heavy-fisted defenses of virtue or vice. No fighting. No loving. No rectal examinations.  No wine-making at home. No purchase or imbibing of wine, beer, whiskey, port, scotch, liqueurs, or any commerce whatsoever in alcohol. No reflection on the state of human depravity. No mention of the homeless, the gay, the straight, the sinful, the sexless, the militant, the lonely, the weak, the pitiful, the grand, the flighty, the dull, the wanton, nor any other large personalities. No remorseful people. No industrious ones. No jam-making, preserving, fruit-picking, goose-hunting, dog-petting, log-cutting . . . . Well, log-cutting. Maybe log-cutting. No floor-sanding, house-building, church-going, cathedral-touring, political-campaigning, hen-pecking, nit-picking, weaseling, lambing, vacuuming, meteorological-reporting, sipping (neat or through a straw), wise-cracking, yelling, nastiness, and singing. No references to songs. Eighth Street and vine. With Bill Pratt his partner. I miss my darling so. Your light shines down from your window. I could be holding you tonight. Heaven’s telephone. By the old crossroad. Catch them by surprise. Nor look any other musical culture. All they rest is okay.