Thursday, April 19, 2012
ivan has an enemy.
Suddenly, I realize through the ether of emails, bureacracy and government, that I have an enemy.
Does the enemy know what sort of person he stalks? Is he blind, lazy, or just stupid?
You know you have an enemy when simple, routine things are suddenly very difficult to do...It's like the feeling you have when you're separated.
Suddenly you get no mail. The government wants to know you social security number where you've had one for years, and can't the dweebs see it on you income tax return or past correspondence with you. Somebody has given you a problem withe paying your bills; there is no acknowledgement and you get final notices on bills you had paid months ago. It is suddenly hard to get a job in the media. You think it's paranoia... but for sure, a man with a Fedora hat and a dated Lincoln rolls down his window and yells, "The sweetest sound I can hear, Ivan, is your GO bus leaving town."
"Of course you have an enemy, Ivan. I have too," says the new girlfriend. "We have IQ's of a hundred and forty. We can make things out of wire and wood, quote entire passages and write some of our own. People hate us.
(Well, maybe she has a genius IQ, but mine is at about the leven of a mildly retarded high school teacher).
In any event, she, goes on, "People hate us because we can animate things, make them sing and dance....Like conjure artists, like performance artists."
Myself, I hate words like "creative" or "empowered," but I guess that's what she meant.
Nevertheless the enemy is playing with my empowerment. Artistic power, of course, always bows to financial power, but then you have the truth on your side, and everybody, all compromised long ago, seems to hate you.
You, of course, have your supporting army, your own Anthill Mob, old students, fellow writers and maybe a goodhearted hooker or two. Charlie still has a sheen.
But I have an enemy.
What did the enemy have for breakfast today? Where does he sleep? Is he a drinker like me? Does he have a master?
For years, I strove to be a master, but at Trinity College, all I seemed to achieve was a C. "The Polish mark," says my friend Stashiu.
And yet, there was some slight vanity in graduating....At least from the former Ryerson Pyromaniacal Institute. And achieving standing at that institution with all the trees a wasps. "Teacher-smeecher" goads the Portuguese guy wanting to argue.
And yet I have an enemy.
I imagine him in his 1940's hat and reptilian appearance. He keeps driving by and says, "When are you leaving town, Ivan?"
The Hat Man.
Maybe I've got a psychosis.
But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean he isn't out to get you.
But one is eccentric. A fool is a powerful figure on the board, because you don't know what he is going to do next.
Take that, Hat Man.
Knock your lid off.