The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 16

Thesis Conclusion: You may recall, way back when, that the writer started this project with the idea that the word,

“Bosque” was ill-defined by a Merriam dictionary. To re-iterate in brief, the definition of a “small wooded area” is easily dismissed as imprecise, wrong and wrong. So, the correct question is what would I suggest as an alternative and be positive about it. With the caveat that I reserve the right to alteration if and when I get back the sixteen questions given to the “Spirit of the Bosque,” the best definition I can offer is

“sizable, natural, unevenly contoured land, which cannot be defined as a hill or mountain.”

The more interesting question to me and of complete disinterest to most others, is what the definition of the five mile strip of land, bordering the river in Corrales should be, in case someone puts out a New Mexico dictionary. It could be of colloquial interest to the rest of the country and it’s a distinct possibility, as many people have already made books out of New Mexican this, that and the other thing. I really wouldn’t expect someone to take the trouble to re-define every word, as this is the land of siesta and mañana, but maybe a

“select” dictionary would be possible.

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Anyway, whoever wants this can have it free and it’s strongly suggested. “A sizable, statusy, unevenly contoured, predominately natural, over-regulated place bordering the Rio Grande River, with a mountain on the other side, actually attended by few people, disproportionately brilliant with mental problems and advanced degrees.”

September 29, 2011; The somber end of something. All semblance of summer gone. Idiot wind propelling uncaring dark clouds. The last of the migratory birds escaping.

So, I’ve concluded another stupid paper required by a professor, who won’t read it. Nor will anyone else. He’ll gloss over it for two minutes and spend the next ten writing indecipherable bright red comments all over the words and numbers. The best thing that came of it is that the next time someone asks me if I’ve ever considered taking a course in writing, I can honestly reply; “Yes, have you ever considered taking one in reading?”

I’ll probably get an opportunity someday soon as the lady who has had the nerve to ask me this question a few times lives nearby and is of the “New Age” variety. As most in her class, she got her calling sometime in the 1980’s, having had little or no participation in the “hippy thing” of the 1960’s and 1970’s, after hindsight found it a “cool thing” to have done. History,

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again, repeated itself as a farce and reinvented “Hippy” as “New Age.” I’d like to give her another challenge, this time an essay question, “Discuss and critique; Hippy was drugs, sex and rock and roll. New Age is no drugs, no sex and no rock and roll. Your evaluation may be given extra credit if light is shed on the “improvement.”

I suppose we all have needs. The professor will give me a C+

and that’s acceptable, as it’s enough to get me through his course, ready to meet the next useless obstacles on my crummy path. Most other students in the same situation arrange a meeting with the learned one and spend an hour trying to ingratiate themselves to him, while recognizing the significance of the important red words, apologizing for not having had the insight themselves, at the same time attempting to address the commentary which has nothing to do with the point of the paper, the best orators successful at saying how the well taken point, if discernible, was really addressed in another part of the paper and if they can blend interest and some degree of competence with the requirement of one hour’s sucking up, they are elevated to a B+

status.

I’ve considered trying it, but my weak stomach would no doubt gurgle and I’d puke on the stupid paper and the teacher’s desk. No, I’m content with the C+ as it didn’t take any effort.

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I made up all the numbers and words, knowing that the Mother Superior would never deign to do the work of checking.

The paper will be filed in some drawer for ten years, never be read by anyone else and eventually sent to the flames when space for new garbage becomes essential. I didn’t save a copy.

Next, I’ll be on to a new project of some sort, initially excited that this will be the one I love, soon to discover that what I do or say doesn’t matter in the least and settle into a C+ scenario, avoiding painful and nauseating contact at all costs.

I remember my recent visit to UNM on its hill, observing the animated professors preaching to the disinterested students and for a moment I wished I could go back. It was only the stupid hope I sometimes feel, which 60 years of logic would ridicule. Someone once told me, “The first step to failure is trying.” It disturbed me at the time, but I could never pinpoint any falsehood in the statement. The kids in the classes are right; stare out the window at the sky, pop gum on unsmiling lips and eyeball the nearest crotch. When the C+

comes, with all of its ten second significance, play it the way you know best, what you knew at the very outset.

Though Merriam’s does not mention it, caring requires at least two parties. Any such attempt by one guarantees a need for psychiatric visits, as many of the “Corrales Bosque”

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denizens know. They have learned not to listen to any particulars and stare at the sky and your crotch, periodically espousing some elemental truth everyone has known since childhood, confused and temporarily forgotten through the reading of theses on the retarded “science” of psychology. Pop that gum and strut with your canine friends; they tell no lies.

If God had had given Adam a Daisy, we would still be in Eden.

He/she is either incompetent or sadistic, finding entertainment in the infinite jest created, amused by the “human” inability to find the golden skeleton key sitting right in front of their deceitful, uncaring faces.

Wow, in a few pages I have connected a C+ on a stupid paper to the grand design. No doubt some would say that I left out a few significant steps and I am ready to stand corrected, but I won’t be, as the professor will gloss over this brilliance, mark it up in blood red and give me an uncontested C+. I want to hear Patti Smith’s rendition of “Death Singing.”

To the mathematicians who believe that 1+1=2, I say 1+1<1; witness the relationship of your choice. A better case could be made for 1+1+1=3. So fix on the expert scientific “fact” most suitable to your choice, thinking that it leaves you with an excuse for your inevitable demise and use your conforming sociability to find new friends; never admitting that you’re aping a doomed recruitment process. Self-fascination has the

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redeeming kindness of not producing any new victims, perhaps an unwitting act of kindness.

I apologize to anyone I have neglected to insult, but I’m disposed to keep the boring, stupid story as short as possible.

The sun will again shine, the rains will eventually come, the grass will grow, the trees and bushes will further stretch their limbs and the worker ants will do their jobs of mowing and clipping. The Sufis say that the best thing you can do in this life is to sit under a tree and write poetry, I suppose when no destructive instrument of “improvement” is present. I wondered if they care that no one will ever read it and concluded that their pleasure came in the writing, with no desire to suffer the commentaries.

When the scientists and engineers manage to produce a nuclear accident one hundred times more severe than 2011 Japan, maybe the crying life forms will be put out of their misery, but I understand that cockroaches are able to adapt to high levels of radiation. With the caveat and despite that this opinion was produced by those scientists responsible for the blast, it has a strong ring of truth as the cockroaches have obviously already inherited the earth, no matter the name given the form taken.

I take Daisy to the backyard in the P.M. for her now habitual ten minute walk and fifty minute sit. Why do we have to grow old? When we are seated, I notice that the apple tree

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didn’t bear any fruit for the first time this year, at least not on my property. I picked a wild daisy and stared at the purple mountain.

Soon another summer will have passed, like so many others, without having seen you at all. I wish I found this place 45

years ago when all was young, in gentler hopeful times. I tried my best and it was just my worst failure. Any day now we’ll feel the cold wind blowing the snow all over us and I will have to go as the river freezes in the dark. Sometimes, I hate you for cutting things shorter than it had to be, at the same time wondering if you felt, as I often do and just couldn’t take it anymore. You never said.

Day and night dreams create false memories of a glorious past, hallucinatory or delusional, but better than nothing. Did you decide that all that was left was merely a poor shadow of what might have been? Didn’t you know that this pale reflection was more radiant than Venus? Though I’ve tried to stop, I’ll always think of you when I’m at the Bosque. Daisy always has to visit the spot where we used to meet, still remembering and hoping you’ll be there. I’ll always cherish the day when I asked you for the second or third time why you settled here and the “Spirit of the Corrales Bosque,” who comes here every day, extended her limbs in the soft, warm spring breeze, smiled at me and said; “For this.”

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When I got Daisy back inside, I had to hear Patti Smith sing “Paths That Cross.”

June 11, 2012; Loose brown dirt mimicking sand or snow. A possible half-way meeting. Age. Intermittent wind. Clarity in the water. High changeable sky. Heat, heat, heat.

Daisy is now nine years old and has been experiencing sporadic stomach problems, I think of a minor nature. I wish she would tell me how it feels, but in all the years that I’ve had her, I have never known her to be a complainer. I wish she would vent on occasion and then I could be more certain that she was okay the other times. She is now most interested in getting to the Bosque to see her old friends and immersing herself in the cool water. Most days she doesn’t walk very much and that suits me as her decline parallels my own. Three years have changed things more than I would have believed had someone told me, what seems like, way back when. Neither of us is anywhere near ready to pack it in, but it’s time to sit on the porch in the old rocking chair and watch the world go by.

She threw up on her bedding sometime early in the morning, but when I come to get her she shows no signs of being debilitated and is anxious to get going. We drive to the Bosque and I park on the outskirts, at the far end of Romero Road. The gates have again been closed. The sky is packed with dark

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clouds. It’s still extremely hot, as over-night, the clouds must have prevented yesterday’s heat from escaping. The Fire Department is adamant in its wish to keep the road clear in case they have to get a truck through it. It is extremely dry, as it hasn’t rained in a month, the useless clouds providing no relief, idly sitting or standing there like a member of the Gawk family. The temperatures have been reaching the upper nineties for about a week. I now know some people who have chosen to break the Corrales taboo and have been complaining about the absurdity of closing the road and being inconvenienced, especially when they have to haul a boat the extra half mile to the water. But, maybe the town has met us half-way, as they have not yet closed the Bosque, despite the conditions being substantially drier than last year. This fits with their apparent penchant for being only vaguely declarative and expecting the residents to understand subtle hints. Either that or they just don’t know what the hell they’re trying to do.

Daisy and I walk down the hot road. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she pulls me, going as fast as she can carting a member of the geriatric set and I walk as fast as I can without breaking into a trot. No difference from eight years ago, except today the ground is so over-baked that parts are difficult to traverse at any kind of speed as it’s like getting through snow or sand. That is true for me, anyway, as

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Daisy seems not to have any problem, other than finding shade, as a weak sun endeavors to make its presence felt, still invisible, but able to gently light up the persistent clouds, like a night-light. She follows the sporadic shadows to her favorite ditch entry spot and gets a refreshing dunk. We continue to the river where she gets another one. She exits, shakes off, seems to sigh and looks at me as if to say; “I don’t know what happened, but, again, I’m ready to sit.” I pat her head and say; “I love you Daisy. You’re my magic puppy.” She’s very accustomed to hearing that, so I add; “Don’t worry. I’m not up to 17 miles anymore, anyway.”

I started calling her my magic puppy a long time ago. She had so much energy back then that she could pull me around for four hours and minutes later be nibbling on my fingers, telling me that she was ready to go again. Fat chance she had. The next day I would always wake up sore all over with calcified knees. I’d tell her that I didn’t think we could go walking that day. Invariably, a few minutes later I’d tell her; “Okay, let’s give it a try. We can always turn back.” On every occasion my aches and pains would disappear shortly after getting her out. Daisy isn’t afraid of much and thinks cars came out to play with her. She’ll also eat almost anything she can get to, like dead worm infested animals. I have to watch for “Daisy hazards” intently. I’m really not sure, but I

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hypothesized that through focusing on her I forgot about myself and my pain, perhaps a form of self-hypnosis. After six months of this I had physically caught up to her and had no more morning aches. In a few years my doctor informed me that I had outstanding cardiovascular credentials, as opposed to the marginally poor ratings I had up until then.

I notice that the river is at a recent low point. It was high and consequently muddy brown a few weeks ago, but has been consistently dropping. Now it is devoid of dirt swept from the banks and if there was a fish down there we would see it.

We walk back up to the empty parking area where Daisy finds a well-covered spot and sits. I’m happy to join her. She cranes her head around at every sound, hoping that it’s one of her old friends to say “Hi” to. Today all we hear are birds flying from branch to branch, lizards running over the sand, or unseen rabbits, squirrels and coyotes moving in the brush. We sit there about an hour, but no people or dogs come our way.

She keeps looking at me, sweating in the heat, with her drooling mouth open, wanting me to tell her what went wrong. I know that she will not go back home until she greets at least one other canine friend.

I tell her; “I don’t know what went wrong. They’re not being purposely hurtful. Sometimes they can lay a gem on you, unintentionally. We unwittingly do the same to them. They’re

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just different than we are as a result of a lifetime of being trained and treated in ways we haven’t experienced. We have a lot in common, more than most people know, but we can never fully understand them. You just have to love and trust them.”

I can tell by the look on Daisy’s face that she is not convinced. I say; “Okay, let me put it another way. It is impossible to prove faith without simultaneously annihilating the concept. That’s a loser’s game and it’s stupid to play it.

It results in killing off the faithful and letting the bums inherit the earth. Jesus and all the other martyrs proved that the species is capable of absolute faith, so why keep repeating the same experiment? The only sacrifice still needed is a small one. When two lovers are together its fun for one to temporarily sacrifice their loving nature and allow themselves to be the loved. I know that’s a tad spacey and Eastern, but, even on an unfeeling logical Western basis you reach the same conclusion, as when trust is broken and proof is required, it’s the beginning of the end anyway. That’s another guaranteed, stupid, inevitably losing game to be best avoided.”

Daisy is looking at me, but surprisingly, her expression has changed from one of doubt to one of maybe. She doesn’t voice any questions or commentary. She’s a very smart dog capable of playing tricks on me. Perhaps she understands,

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helped by a limited intrusion of confusing words in her vocabulary.

Maybe its coincidence, maybe not, but, at that moment she gets up and leads me back through the closed gate to the river.

A blast of warm southerly wind hits us, making me temporarily lose my balance. More importantly, it must be a high as well as low wind as all of the clouds have been blown away and we are in full sun, but it is far from excruciating, thanks to the breeze.

She first stops for another soaking, which is customary. What isn’t customary, however, is that, rather than heading back to the parking area’s plushy seats, she excitedly takes me south along the river. She is acting as if she is about to find something new.

Now that she seems to be in better spirits, I am not able to control myself and I use the opportunity to put in my final bit of wisdom, saying; “If we all wish hard enough Tinker Bell will again fly.”

Serious mistake. She stops moving, looks into my face and gives me one of her “Oooh you” looks. I’m not sure, but I think I detect a hint of her former lack of belief. I say; “Never mind. I was thinking about some old animated movie. Complete fantasy. Kid’s stuff.”

She still stands still and appears incredulous. The strong wind has decided to be a mild zephyr. I look up and see that it

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has blown in a cloud. However, this small white cumulous one is not the least bit ominous or eclipsing. Rather, it seems to take the shape of a long haired, bespectacled woman’s head. My voice approaches a beleaguered sound when I say; “All right.

Not complete fantasy. Of course it’s not complete fantasy. Can we get moving now?” She gives me another look that seems to say; “You’re confusing me. Shut the hell up. I trust you.”

She again picks up speed and I sweat to keep up with her.

No doubt, at times, I hold her back from going as fast as she’d like, due only to a lack of my ability to keep up. She stops at the former home of the Great Cottonwood and sniffs all around.

When the river was running high it must have worn away some of the soil in the area, as I can see his roots have emerged from their former earthly prison, now with some extending into the crystal clear, slowly moving water. Daisy animatedly sniffs all around the vicinity. I see that what she finds so interesting is something bobbing near the water’s surface, at times above it, at times below. It makes a gushing sound as it stubbornly resists being washed away by the steady current. In the perfectly clear water I can unmistakably see, growing from the Great One’s now visible roots, a greener than green, ten inch sprout, bravely reaching out for the sky.

My wildflower is satisfied that she and I have seen what we came to see. She avoids the path and leads me directly through

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the trees and brush, westward to the car. We are both hot and sweating from our long walk in the sun. We’re pleasantly surprised that the friendly little white cumulous cloud has positioned itself to shield the car from the burning sun. She happily hops in the cool back seat, appreciative that it is not sweltering. I turn on the engine and drive back with the sun’s brilliance back upon us, lighting the way. I look at her panting open mouth. She is smiling. I tell her; “I love you, Daisy. You’re my magic puppy. We’re on our way home.”

The End?

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Suggested further viewing, reading and listening; 1) “Friends,” especially the early episodes, before it got cutesy. A mild dose of petty, rebellious, absurdity.

2) “Seinfeld” - Clear as a tongue deficient bell.

3) “No Exit” by Jean Paul Sartre 4) “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” by David Foster Wallace

5) “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace 6) “The Liars Club” by Mary Karr 7) “The Pale King,” an unfinished work by David Foster Wallace. The central character is precise but unable to communicate. If he had the time to finish DFW would have probably found the precise precision of imprecisiveness.

8) “The Wind Cries Mary” by Jimi Hendrix 9) “Strawberry Fields” by the Beatles 10) “Lo and Beholden” by Patti Smith 11) “Birdland” by Patti Smith

12) “Wing” by Patti Smith

13) “Kentucky Avenue” by Tom Waits 14) “Frederick” by Patti Smith

15) “Dancing Barefoot” by Patti Smith 16) “Hello, Goodbye” by the Beatles

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