The Scene Behind Your Proverb
Para mi Nemesis
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –
― Emily Dickinson
Cracks my shit up, man. … Look at him down there. Look at the doofus: shimmying his little tush off. Dude ought to have on Go-Go Boots. …
But that really ain’t Chalice Sinclearly down there; that there’s just the pinnacle of all of my wishes for what he could be. Look at him shaking it up like some mid-1960’s post-teenage pot-smoking ex-Mouseketeer-worshipping future MILF; shimmying his frilly little heart away and taking yet another wild elbow in the cheek bone. Look at him down there. Bloody lip and all. If he wasn’t wearing that elastic eyeglass band – giving ol’boy a disturbing kind of dark-alliance-to-model-glue look – he’d surly be without his right sight down in there. … But shit, again, Chalice, like me, ain’t even really here at all.
We won’t even hear about this gig until after the weekend – until now, actually, when we’ve gotten together for Monday evening brewskies with some of our pushing-50 Motorhead-loving peeps and they’ve started talking about how they was leading the pit’s flow and tension, and they’re showing off their bruises and bragging on about their aches. And right now as one of our friends starts derisively alluding to Chalice’s ever-solidifying fondness for the hush-hush insurrection that is the mail-bomb acoustics of a basement-dwelling syntax—alluding to how Chalice has become more and more of a reclusive Unabomber-type these past years. And the sucker don’t stop there, as he’s now begun to tease Sinclearly for his absence from the fist fights department for over the past almost-decade. And with that all the guys’ve now started jibing in, ganging up on Chalice, basically giving it to him as far as why no one invited him—giving it to him for allowing himself to be given a bedtime (9-10ish) all because a couple of handfuls of years back he yielded to the thinking that he ought to keep a solid count of brain cells intact and undiluted for the ongoing challenges of married life, the cubicle, and for the forthcoming confrontations of all those reasonings that will always be provokingly – tauntingly – right there out beyond the basement’s reach.
And Chalice’s wife is right here even! And as they continue to give it to him for becoming in their eyes a huge-ass wussy, using crude language, showing no decorum – not that they ever really had some – and not that Chalice’s wife can’t handle it, because she can; it’s just there’s a measure of decency I thought even these jagoffs knew how to practice—and I can see the whole mythologizing bullshit that’s the idea behind the artist living hard and dying young start to fill in the white-heats of my man’s eyes: Sinclearly’s going all I’m not what I believe I want to measure up to be; I’ve got to rise from the basement and live – boo hoo hoo on my ass.
Well, shit, I yank his ass right up out of here, and mind-drop us right on over back to Saturday night’s gig. And here we is all up in the mind: me banging out in the balcony while watching Chalice take to the dead center of that pit and start up with his badass, should-be-wearing-Go-Go-boots shimmying. … Look at him down there. Look at the doofus, taking each blow that comes his way like the godsend each wicked blow is. … Cracks my shit up, man.