Tearing Down the House Within

There is a house within. It is the place where Jesus preached his greatest sermons. It is where Buddha shook hands with enlightenment. It is the hearth where we seek solace and consolation when all around us grief is in its fullest bloom.

So began the first chapter of Dr. D. Watson’s first book, Tearing Down the House Within. You may have read that passage elsewhere. It’s been cited in books of quotations, internet profiles, spiritual anthologies, wedding vows, yearbook pages, blog mastheads, and even Presidential debates. Now does it ring a bell?

You would think, then, that the author would still be cashing fresh fat royalty checks. That he’d at least have a career peddling mystical hoodoo on late night radio call in shows. You certainly wouldn’t think that a man of his long academic career would be living off loans from his former students, or spending his last days exiled in an Italian shack. But there it is. Dr. Watson’s most influential work has been out of print for most of the 32 years since it was published.

Pity the poor professor, but realize, as well, that he had no one but himself to blame. The book suffered a poor reputation because it was, in all honesty, a poor book – poorly argued, poorly organized, poorly concluded. He built up his thesis in the ten brisk pages of his first chapter, and then spent the next 756 pages tearing it down.

For the curious, here is the book briefly: God exists but is hiding, He is like a house within us, we must tear apart this house, and rebuild it on the outside; which is to say, we must build God on earth. There you go, sounds familiar, like any other mystical tome you’d find on cluttered used book store shelves. Except that Dr. Watson wasn’t much of a mystic, or even a believer in spirits or angels or the like. He believed in God as a very real being, with very real power, but lacking the temporal means to act on that power. Somewhere in the calendar of creation, God, having set things in motion, got lost along the way, and was trapped in between existence and nothingness. We mortals, as products of His creation, each have little pieces of Him inside us. When we finally kill the last piece of God within us, we can begin rebuilding Him in our image. We’ll be gods ourselves. We will, in essence, through this process of god-killing, finally realize the highest, most advanced form of civilization for which man is capable. The sad thing is that this summary is more coherent than the arguments contained in the actual book.

As one reviewer put it, “It’s a little like arguing that the best way to find gold is to hunt down and kill all the leprechauns.” Of course, when I wrote that review I would’ve thought it daft if anyone had so much as suggested that I’d later be working for the man – and as his assistant, no less. At the time I thought he was some kind of maniac – an opinion that my nearly twenty years in his service did little to change. And yet it was to me that he entrusted the security of his papers, as well as the perpetuation of his legacy. He knew I didn’t believe in his theories; indeed, he even kept a blown-up copy of my scathing review pinned to the wall of his office.

He called me the “Chief Unbeliever”. Unbeliever, of course, meant anyone who heaped scorn on his theories, or otherwise ridiculed him; since that included most of the sentient creatures on the planet, I was singled out as the most prominent of these. “You stand out,” he told me, “because you alone are a match for my brain. You, my boy, are my intellectual equal.” I should have felt insulted, but his endearing tone always won me over. He’d always been a lonely man, in one way or another, usually because he rejected the ideas of other men, shutting himself up in his own private world. By the time I met him, he was a nearly broken man, ridiculed by his peers, and no longer lonely by choice. He was ill, and desperate for human companionship. It would’ve been rude—not to mention callous—to reject him.

“There, do you see it?” We’d just made it to the top of the hill, and Mr. Watson was pointing ahead of us. The rain was still coming down, and it was dark all around, but if you strained your eyes you could see the faint lights of a small house.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, I thought we’d never make it,” said Trevor, or possibly Terrence. I didn’t know which it was to my left or right.

All I could say, weakly through my still-sore throat, was “At last…at last.”

We made our way up the final path to the professor’s cabin, Sophia leading the way. I kept picturing him from our last contentious meeting five years earlier. He was old and dying then, and now I wondered if I’d be there when the lights of his own house within were finally dimmed.

Somewhere Foreign

Walking up a steep hill in Salerno. It was so dark we had to stumble over rocks and fallen branches. The air carried a thick layer of cricket chirps.

Rain came on suddenly and the road quickly turned to a muddy slope; it trapped our feet, and pulled us in up to our shins. I’m not generally the superstitious type, but I nonetheless began to think someone didn’t want us up there. Or, at the very least, that it wasn’t in the natural order of things for us to reach the top. We trudged on, against the wind, the rain, and the muddy path.

Even in that hectic situation, with the elements flowing against me, I could feel something distinctive slap my shoulder, and then my back, and then the seat of my jaw. I heard someone giggling behind me, and when I turned around there was the professor’s granddaughter, pocketing a pile of mud in the front of her dress. When she saw my face, she screamed and threw another mud ball; it crashed against my brow and streamed down my nose and over my eyes. It was really the shock of being assaulted, rather than the assault itself, that sent me reeling into the rest of the road. Now I was sinking deeper and deeper into the mud, until only my head and upper torso were free.

I saw her dancing in the rain, and when she saw me sinking she let out a laugh so loud I thought at first it was thunder. I tried to scream over the rain, and the wind, and the thunder, and her laughter. I’d never screamed so loud before, and was only muted when the rain started to fill up my mouth.

“Sophia, quit dawdling and come.” It was our guide, the father of my tormentor. She squealed with delight at mention of her name. My heart was sinking faster than the rest of my body. I gave in to dignity and resigned myself to a muddy grave.

“Oh, dear god. Terrence, come here and give me a hand.” It was one of the students, Trevor. “Come over here and help me get him the fuck out. Hold on, buddy, you’ll be okay.”

“What’s this? Should I get Mr. Watson. I’ll go get Mr. Watson.”

“No, no. Just come and help me pull him out.”

They threw their sinewy bodies into it, pulling with strained faces. “Jesus, he’s heavy. Maybe we should get a crane.”

It was at this point that Mr. Watson threw in his support. “You boys coming, or you going to camp out here tonight?”

“He’s stuck, Mr. Watson. Stuck in the road. Trying to pull him out.”

“Well, get him out and let’s get going.” Sophia stared at me with horror in her eyes, but it was a haughty sort of horror, as if I’d just soiled her favorite cashmere sweater. “Sophia, I won’t tell you again. Stop daydreaming. Now walk ahead of me.”

They finally pulled me out, and I was so grateful I was in tears. I wanted to offer them my thanks and gratitude, but my scarred throat wouldn’t allow the words to come out. One of the boys, though, had some words for me. Between gasps, he said, “Dude…next time we eat…try not…to finish everything…on your plate.” The other one, Trevor—or was it Terrence?–added, “Yeah, and if you do, stay out of the goddamn road.”

Despite their clear annoyance with me, they carried me up the path, my arms around each of their shoulders, in that classic drunk man’s pose.

Happens All the Time

They got the idea that she was paranoid. Well, whatever, who isn’t paranoid nowadays? I mean, at any minute someone nefarious might crawl out of the darkness and cut the ankles from right under you. Happens all the time. Just this morning, we read of a young woman who was found floating in the lake. They say she probably jumped from a bridge, but who knows. Who really knows?

Anyway, our heroine might have been thinking the same thing as she got dressed for work. Wonder if she read the same stories, imagining herself atop that bridge. Just standing there, for whatever perfectly innocent reason that someone would have for standing on a bridge directly over a body of rapidly rushing water. She could’ve been a meteorological student taking readings. Or maybe she was an amateur structural engineer, and she stumbled on something that they didn’t want her to see. You know who “they” are. The shadowy folks who are behind all the bad shit that goes down. They got to her because she saw through their plans and was ready to expose them. They tossed her off a bridge, chucked her like unwanted rubbish. That’s what they do to people who know too much. Happens everyday.

Back to our heroine. She got the idea to tattoo the image of a bra where a regular bar would normally go. Black lace, hooks, thin straps over each shoulder – she had all these inked on her torso. It was such a good job that you had to pinch her nipples to know they were there.

She admired herself in the mirror, marveling at the craftsmanship, and thinking it was worth every penny. She’d originally been saving the money for a gallbladder operation, something her doctor told her was necessary, because of blah, blah, blah. She didn’t trust a word of it. As far as she was concerned, he was in on the whole conspiracy. They were all in on it, those butchers. Maybe it was the doctors – with their practiced lack of squeamishness – who were hired to get rid of people, to push them off bridges and such. It made perfect sense.

Besides all that, she liked the idea of walking around the house topless, and not feeling at all self-conscious. It had inspired her to start saving up money for an even more ambitious project, a tattoo of boy shorts; then she could walk around completely naked, and no one would be the wiser.

She had to be paranoid in her own apartment. Especially in her own apartment. It was, after all, entirely possible—maybe even likely—that during the day, while she was out, “they” broke into her home, roaming about from room to room, installing surveillance equipment; cameras, microphones, heat sensors, motion detectors, you name it. And why wouldn’t they? Who wouldn’t want a piece of me? I’m a sitting target. It was only a matter of time until they came after me, a comely, eligible lass. Well, when they come I’ll be waiting. She snapped the straps of her fabric panties and said, I won’t be caught off guard; I’ll be ready for them.

My Dinner With Regret

The first thing they throw into their basket is a truck-sized can of corn. An equally large bag of potato flakes goes in next. They manage to find space for a few packages of rather gray-looking meat.  If these are to be the contents of the promised feast, then I am already regretting my acceptance of their dinner invitation.

I’m too nauseated to see what else they’ve fit into the basket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a package of yellow blobs, which I think are supposed to be dinner rolls — though, they look less like rolls and more like Peeps that’ve been sitting in the sun too long, all half-melted and overly tanned. Squeezed next to them is a tub of margarine. I decide to look on the bright side; at least there’s every likelihood that the trans fats will kill me before I get to the main course.

To top things off, quite literally, the sensible boyfriend comes swooping in with two bottles of wine. On sale, two for five dollars. I recognize the label from another dinner party, in which everyone present received a violent dose of food poisoning. It wasn’t the wine that did it, of course, but its paint-chipping scent and rancid flavor were like the cherry atop the puke sundae.

My mind turns paranoid, and I start to wonder if maybe their intent all along was to kill me.  I have a vision of them sitting before full plates, laughing at me as I pull an empty fork from my lips. “Ha! You fool, you fell for it.” I see myself reach for a glass of that sweetened vinegar — which for some reason they insist on calling “wine.” “Die, you stupid beaner, die.”

As we near the cash register, I start to plan my escape. The door is only a few feet away, but I know that I’ll have to push aside a few roadblocks, mostly old folks and children, if I’m to reach it. I hold onto a magazine rack, ready to use it as a catapult. And then she turns to me and says, “Hey, let’s get a movie. We could watch it while we eat. Or we could make some popcorn later, and watch it then. Whatever you guys want to do.” The way she smiles, it’s like the sort of expression that says, “Please forgive my lameness. I’m doing the best I can.” I hear myself say, “Sure, sounds great. How about you, Trent?” Trent looks at her with his big adoring eyes, the sort of eyes you’d hate to disappoint, and he tells me, and seemingly anyone who’ll listen, “She always has the best ideas, doesn’t she?”

Full Illumination

It doesn’t happen in an instant. If you flip the switch the darkness lingers; the bulb maybe gives off a slight hum, but is otherwise silent. You’ll have no choice but to piss in the dark. See, you’re supposed to think that the light’s busted, and then go about your usual lavatorial routine. And if you end up pissing against the wall by mistake, well, that’s unfortunate, but irrelevant to the overall plan that is just now unfolding.

Thirty seconds later, a flicker, and then another. It’s at this point that you’re expected to feel relief of some kind, either the sort that comes from a good draining, or the type that is associated with man’s wonder with his own technology. It doesn’t really matter as long as you’re distracted.

You might next hear the first sounds of the approach, maybe shoe soles scraping against the floor, or a deep inhalation. Though, if you do indeed hear something, it will by that time be too late. Before you can turn your head, the metal knuckles will thrust like a piston into your ribs. Then something blunt—in this case, the choice of the object is left up to the actor—will fall sharply on the back of your head, hopefully connecting with a sweet spot that will turn your lights out. If, however, you’re still conscious before the plan has been entirely completed, then you might just see the bulb come to full illumination.

Shaking Down One-Legged Willie

Ol’ One-Legged Willie pulled his shopping cart up to the valet. As he hopped the curb, a decorated toilet paper roll—painted in a swirl of fluorescent colors, with verses from the Dhammapada spiralling from top to bottom—jumped out and rolled into oncoming traffic.”Hot damn,” Willie cried out, “think you’ll get away from me, you bastard?” Ever seen a one-legged man launch himself like a distended spring that’s been released? Well, if you did, you never saw one do it with as much grace and elegance and all-around athletic panache as Willie did when he went chasing after that cardboard cylinder. He landed on one hand, and with the other he grabbed his treasure, and then, just as the cars were about to roll right over him, Willie launched himself back, this time using his arm as the spring.

The valets all stood in awe, applauding as if they’d never seen such a fantastic feat, such athleticism from one so deprived. “Thank you, gents. Thank you, all. No, please. Really, now, this is embarrassing. Please, please, thank you. Oh, dear, thank you, but please, gentleman, do get back to work.” And they obeyed him, as they would any man of respect.

“Please, sir,” said one young man, who’d been pushed up there by his fellow valets, who were all whispering words of encouragement, “may…may I…may I park your cart…sir?” He was so nervous, so paralyzed with awe, that he forgot to wipe the sweat from his brow, and so it started to leak directly into his eyes, blinding him, and he stumbled right into Willie’s cart, knocking it over, spilling its contents all over the driveway. Willie cried out, “You little bastard, you stupid, green-tongued bastard.”

“Oh, sir, I am sorry.” It was the head valet apologizing. All the others, including the newbie, were scrambling to gather the trinkets and doodads and miscellany and assorted other knickknacks – basically, everything that Ol’ Willie owned in God’s world.

“That’s it, you weasels. Gather it all, and put it back where it belongs. You there, don’t forget to put the cover back on that coffee can. And you, fold those handkerchiefs correctly. What do I look like, a slob? Oh, this place has really gone to hell. Last time I left my cart here, I come to find that some dirty swine swiped my collection of presidential salt shakers. Of course, since then, I keep JFK right here in my inner coat pocket. What the—Holy dungarees! Some sumbitch stole JFK. Okay, who done it? Step forward and confess, fiend. I’ll have your head. I”ll have your ass. You’ll never valet in this town again”

“Why sir, the shaker—is that it in your left hand?” There in Willie’s palm were shards of porcelain, the most prominent of which was dug into a wound between his fingers, and it had painted on it the distinctive head of hair that everyone can recognize as belonging to the 35^th President of the United States of America.

“Okay, Mr. Valet, you win this round. But if I find so much as one Ike missing,” and at this he hopped onto his hands and stood there upside down, gesturing with his one leg, “then I will crush you and all you lousy lot with this here foot of mine. This powerful hammer.” They all knew he meant it, for they had just seen its power in action, and had applauded it until their hands were sore.

They all got on their knees and crawled over to Willie, and dug the remains of the porcelain shaker from his bloody hand. Later that night they held a solemn ceremony, and buried the pieces beside the decapitated statue of Porfirio Diaz.

These days, One-Legged Willie’s long dead and forgotten. But people still ask about the queer mound next to the old Mexican. The locals say, with a great swell of pride, “That’s where JFK’s buried.” If you try to correct them, if you say “Arlington,” and “eternal flame,” and “gun carriage,” and all that, then you’re likely to get the standard local response, the response that’s been passed down for generations. Which is to say, they’ll stand on their hands, and wave their toes at you, and say, “You take that back, stranger, or you’ll get a face full of feet.” In the end, it’s easier to relent and just accept that, yes, JFK really is buried in this podunk town, beneath this homely mound, beside this statue of a headless Mexican president. Whether the locals know it or not, it’s what Willie would have wanted.

The Sanitary Model

They’re supposed to be the most beautiful specimens the human race has ever coughed up. Beauty, though, does not equal sensible, or apparently hygienic. When the air becomes disagreeable and they sneeze, they wipe their noses on their sleeves. That’s why when you tap them on the shoulder you hear an echo, as if you were tapping on stiff, hollow wood. And just as with hollow wood, you’ll have to hunt down the body within the snot-stiffened clothes. Nothing but skin hewing tightly to bone — that’s about what you’ll find.

Ask one of them, “Have you eaten yet?” and they’ll answer, “Oh, a few Altoids last week. Oh, god, does it show? I’m so fat, aren’t I?”

Indonesian Polka

If you happen to see him on the street, please take a moment and drop a coin of pity in the amateur musicologist’s cap. You know who he is, maybe met him at a party where he spun his groovy platters. You might remember one of his college radio playlists, like the one that consisted entirely of thirty minute gong solos. Or perhaps you were there for his room-clearing “Get Your Gamelan” mix.

He’s always on the lookout for novelty, whether it’s vinyl treasure locked away behind glass cabinets in obscure record stores, or it’s water-warped cassette tapes in the bargain bin at the local Shop ‘n Save. You might think that his standards are rather weak, that he’s not at all picky. You might even agree with his father, and say that the boy’s not really interested in music, that he just wants to be different. But you’d only say that if you weren’t listening. You don’t hear the patterns that he hears, the beauty in the discordant caterwauls (from his favorite recording of Greek funeral music).

So what if everyone runs out the room when he says, “Listen to this.” He’s not here to impress you; he’s here to document the dying sounds of our sacred heritage, as well as the fading tunes of our profane species. He’s here to save the world – or, at least, the world that sings, however dissonantly. Play for him something by, say, Springsteen or even Ghostland Observatory, something that’s well-known, that you’re likely to hear in a coffee shop, or blasted from a car stereo, and he’ll say, “Yes, that’s nice, but you can hear that everywhere. It’s nice, but it’s nothing special. Now, you want to hear something really fucking great? Let me play for you this compilation of Indonesian polka. It’s two hours long, but I can guarantee that you’ve never heard anything like it. It’ll blow your freaking mind.” Unfortunately, the room is usually empty before the needle drops.

Lately, though, his hobby has taken on a manic quality, and it’s begun to alienate him from his friends, co-workers, casual acquaintances, random people on the street, and even his wife. No one knows exactly when it started, but it became really noticeable around the time that he lost his Folkways LP of a capella yodeling. “Adam, what have you done,” she screamed after coming home to a house upturned. Papers were everywhere, shelves were collapsed on the ground, pillows were emptied of feathers. And the whole scene was set to the ear-shattering volume of bagpipes. “It’ll be okay,” he said in a calm yet elevated tone, “I’ll find it, don’t worry.” “No, sweetheart, listen,” she tried to match his calmness, but found it futile with the Scottish Highlands in her head, and so shouted even louder, “Will you turn that shit down.” Luckily for both of them, the record came to a stop of its own volition.

“Sweetie, come her, we have to talk.”

“You see, I think the thing is that I must have hidden it in case of a burglary. It’s a very rare LP, and who doesn’t love a good yodel…”

“Adam, sit.”

“Yes, what is it dear?” He was chastened by her firmness. Clearly, she had something serious in mind. But what could take precedence over music?

“I love you dearly, Adam, but this thing, this obsession of yours, it’s starting to wear me down. I mean, in the beginning it was cute and quirky. The way you’d get all excited when you found a new collection of dulcimer music. Or the time we flew all the way to Hawaii just to pick up that rare album of volcano songs.”

“Ah, yes, the ‘Black Sands Opera.’ I think I still have that copy in storage.”

“And we didn’t even stay the night.”

“Well, there was the Cleveland Record Convention the next day.”

“And now I see that I should have put my foot down then. Or at least been more firm when you hocked my wedding dress to buy that box of Allan Sherman archival tapes.”

“It was Alan Lomax. But I got the dress back, didn’t I? I mean, when I saw how much it meant to you…” He looked genuinely ashamed, though perhaps he was feeling the effects of the wound she’d left that night in his shoulder.

“Adam, dear, I can’t stand it any longer. If I hear another klezmer coming on, I think I might become homicidal. Listen, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile, and I think—I mean, I feel I have to get away.”

“What are you saying, Sarah? I don’t understand. You’re just upset. Why don’t I put on some soothing Tibetan chants, and then we’ll…”

“No, Adam, no more chanting, or yodeling, or finger pickin’, or gonging, or scratchy warbling. It’s not cute anymore. And it’s not fun. There’s more to life than music, Adam.” She reached up and embraced him, kissing him on each ear. “And when you’re ready, maybe we can talk about those other things, and maybe for once you can listen to me, without bagpipes or dulcimers or bent fiddles. Goodbye, my love.”

She was gone the next day. Whether any of what she said got through to him, he nonetheless failed to find comfort in any of his 78s. Not even the discovery of his lost yodeling LP could cheer him up – though, the fact that he found it warped in the back of his trunk might have had something to do with that. Today, he is a bachelor; he’s lost—perhaps temporarily, but it’s hard to say—his listening companion. So if you see him sitting disconsolate on a park bench, take pity on him. Pull his headphones aside and tell him in a gentle voice, “There’s more to life than music, you know….but not much more.”

Hurry Quickly

We must hurry quickly to where we’re going. We run, my mother and I, my mother’s hand in mine. She is dressed well today; her hair is done nicely, not a follicle out of place. And I, just a boy, outfitted in my schoolboy’s uniform, my head pressed against my mother’s wrist. It’s wonderful to be young and by your mother’s side. Such a comfort it is to be so near that aura of warmth, fringed with a redolence that can only be called motherhood. Once close to it and nothing is amiss.

We are rushing hurriedly, running through a train station. There are people everywhere around us, some running as we are, others walking as slow as turtles, still others sitting with heads lolling about as if ready to fall forward or backward in slumber. Mama pays them no mind, looking neither left nor right as I am, but straight ahead. She knows where she wants to go, and is intent on getting there as soon as possible. I have years to go before I grow into that sort of impatience. I could sit here in the middle of the station, with only crackers and peanut butter for company, and stare at all the rushing people, and laugh at their intensity. All day long I’d mock the greasy old man with the limp and the eye patch, and join in with the fat lady shouting “Henry! Henry!” I’d have a good old time. I smile at Mama, but she doesn’t look down, just pulls me along. Today, I am her pet, her little puppy; that’s what she told me earlier, and now I guess I should play the part.

We reach the outside where all the trains pass, only there aren’t any trains just now. Just announcements of imminent arrivals, of delays, of missing children and lost luggage. People stand around and mutter to each other, check their watches, study schedules. It otherwise seems strangely quiet, almost grimly silent.

Mama asks someone for the time, and when they tell it to her she looks angry, as if time itself was the cause of her pain. She tells me again to hurry and we take off in the direction of the tracks. I feel the excitement radiate from her, and I feel the maternal serenity run all through my veins. I suddenly feel happy, as happy as I’ve ever been. I look up at Mama and smile, but she doesn’t see me, only looks in the direction of the station on the other side of the tracks.

She never told me who we were going to meet, but it’s probably not anyone nice, not with all the crying and cursing she’s done all morning. I can’t ever say anything to her when she’s like this, because when I try to comfort her she just cries more, and sometimes she hugs me so tight I feel like I’m going to pop out of my skin.

We cross the first tracks. Mama steps up to the second track, and I her faithful pup do the same. I feel the tracks shake. Something loud is coming nearer and nearer, and quickly too. Mama screams and jumps back, my hand still in hers, and suddenly my eyes go black, my body goes numb. A terrific cold spreads all over me. And then the station goes quiet again.

Listening to ‘Metal Heart’ Over and Over

He had such trouble speaking his desires. To say aloud, for example, that he wanted to fuck Cat Power took a lot out of him. He had to look around the room first to make sure no one was listening in; assured that the coast was clear, he’d lean in close and whisper, “I so want to…”, then a pause while he made a final check, “…do her…and I mean bad…in every way possible.” He’d sit back in his chair and sigh heavily, as if he’d just dropped a big load, or perhaps confessed something that had been nagging him for a long time.

If you were watching from afar you might think he’d uttered something pretty goddamn heavy, like a confession that he murdered his mother and buried her body under the floorboards. If, however, you knew him, you’d know that sex burdened him far more than homicide. The man nursed so many unacted desires that it’s a wonder he’d ever gotten laid, and even more amazing that he managed to father two fairly normal children. Oh, the sons, so unlike their father, and so much the better for it.