Realization translated below screen shot of another new experience

"It's a good thing I know jujitsu," she thought. "It can sure come in handy."

Sunday morning February 12, 2017

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It seemed

The skyline looked curiously at her from out the window. But she hardly saw it.

Her client who rented the space sure appreciated the view. The skyline. It made real estate agents salivate.

She knew that she had so much to figure out. She was a private investigator. It was always life and death. (You know what I mean.)

People were talking. It was hard to concentrate. She tried though.

She heard them. The people. So many. A lot of them were dead. Really they were. Dead and buried. She couldn't explain that she was in touch with the dead as well as the people we all bump into each day. They'd thing she was weird. But she was. That's in part of why she was so successful.

No doubt, she had a gift. It was an edge. At least, most of the time.

Nora told her certain things that required her to take action. Nora, a house cleaner with five kids, who lived in Brooklyn Heights in 1949. (The beautiful Nora, who was a Rockette, fell on hard times, and ended up with an abusive and no good husband, David, in Brooklyn.)

People told her things, they really did. She looked out the window at New York, her home now. It was a place she always wanted to be, fought to be, her home now, and yet she felt so apart from it.

She hadn't been in touch with the people who mattered to her for a long time. They worried. At least, she hoped they did. They were far away. They weren't really. That bothered her - off and on.

But she carried on. She had to solve crimes. (You know what I mean.)

She thought about her childhood, when  she was a girl, it seemed so long ago.

She saw mountains. Those mountains. She heard her Mom. Her Dad. Family. Faces. She loved her dog. His name was Buddy.

She thought about when she was in high school, when she was wild, tried so hard to fight back, with her body, with her mind, with whatever she had, so young, she rebelled so hard, and when she went to college, when she got serious, when she was raped, when got pregnant, had an abortion, broke apart, dissolved into nothing, how she got stronger, had a girlfriend, exploded more into life, when she decided to get married, and when it was a mistake, when then when it wasn't, and then where she was, and when it was right now.

It happened so fast.

Facing New York out the window from Brooklyn at Manhattan, for a second, perhaps a few.

In front of the window.

All of New York. There.

A second or two.

Her client in another room, a man who was a ruined person seeking salvation, retribution. Revenge. That's where she came in. She got it. Revenge.

Where did these thoughts and feelings come from, she wondered, but only for a few minutes.

Childish. Not really. But really, she felt. What she was feeling and seeing

Suddenly, campfires. The way her mother would disapprove of her. How she wished she could hold her father forever.

She was tough. She was so tough, she always told herself that. She'd been around the block. She'd loved them. She'd seen them go off (even that beautiful Irish guy who said he was a poet.) But she was still here. She really was.

So many whens. So many whys. So many wheres. She buried them, all one by one, in her digital schedule, because she had to.

Gazing out the window for an instant, she felt the weight of all her girlish dreams- her visions deferred, fulfilled, the expectations, the hopes, the ecstasies, reflections, the sorrows, the confused late night conversations, those early morning confessions, everything.

(Listen, she heard in that instant gazing out the window at all of New York what we all do, everything that goes into the making of a human heart. Such a beautiful heart. Such a beautiful and mysterious, such a fragile and stubborn human heart.)

She thought about all the boys she had made love to, and the boys she had wished she had made love to, she thought about it all. The grown men, too, later on. All of it.

Focus. Focus.

Were those honking taxis outside? Was that her client?

She had to solve a crime. A terrible crime. Let's get real, girl.

Her skin itched - again. (She had to make an appointment with her dermatologist. Why did she put it off?)

One image seized her – the pasture near where she lived as a girl. She didn't understand why. Nothing was really there. Empty. Green. Why?

She saw, then, her sister and her brother - there, one late night in the Midwest. Spring. Or was it summer.

No one else was around. She forgot why they had decided to camp out at night together. They were alone. Were her parents out again?

There were the stars. There was her sister's face. Her brother's eyes. So many freckles.

She could see the fire crackling, the fire her parents taught them how to bring to life from twigs, in the forest, from nothing. When they camped out as kids in national parks.

(She understood later that they camped out summers not only because her parents were academic hippies and it was a cheap quality vacation, but that it was truly soulful, real, American, and that they could be together. The four of them. Out in nature. Long ago.)

They laughed. The stars surrounded them. Nothing happened, seemed to.

Really, that's all that came to her mind in Brooklyn.

It was at that moment, staring out at the city skyline from the Brooklyn Navy Yard that she decided she would spend her entire life, use all her energy and intelligence, to find the killer.

This was the person she was destined to encounter. And this was the person who had created such havoc in the world. In her own life.

She found her cell phone in her bag, and made the call.

From that moment everything played out exactly as it would in a story, in a movie, in a psychiatrist's case study, a tale, in a dream maybe, one you hear, if you're lucky, before you fall asleep at night.

She listened to Eva Cassidy in the cab on the way back to her office. One of those sexy and melancholy songs.

She slumped lower in the seat. The city sparkled outside as the cab crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge.

In her earphones, closer to home, she heard  a bit of Feuermann too, her father's love.

She felt so happy. She didn't know why.

Nothing would ever be the same because she was so determined to find the criminal.

She was so relentless. She was so pure.

And I loved her.

Saturday night February 11, 2017

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Hard Times

When times are hard, jagged, raw, always draw blood, when violence, folly, hypocrisy, greed, hate, confusion, lies, fear and menace dominate what we call news, and when the wretched mass of it all continually tries to worm closer and closer into the core of our waking and sleeping selves, when around us mouths hang open useless, are only able to scream, cackle, screech, cry out, mutter denatured, predigested monologues, when we’re all totally broke and scrambling to make it work, that’s when the marvelous American Dream Factory rips into high gear and gives birth again and again to delightful flights of song and dance and romance, while at the same time creating painful and starkly beautiful explorations of despair, heartbreak, destruction, degradation and humiliation. Both dreams are true; they try to locate, and awaken, what’s left of our own spirits. Hence, the popularity and attraction of two current movies, La La Land and Moonlight, magnetic poles of cinematic expression that span the American reaction to real trouble. We Americans tend to either buoyantly sing and dance in downpour after downpour, or else make our last stands in high noons of our own nakedness and courage, unyielding in the face of unmasked evil. These dreams jump to life on the Big Screen, for sure, as well as on all the littler ones that populate our individual and collective worlds, that frame our lives in blinking screens, screens within screens, always on, always telling us stories about how we wish it might be, maybe how it actually is or was, maybe even how it really is in the end. Screens within screens within screens, continually telling us stories right in front of our faces, across the street, out the window, in the trees, faraway in the sky, between sparkling stars, in the palms of our hands, award-winning tales, air-conditioned ones, some self-created, others imported, many familiar, so often unknown, all finally mysterious. And whether we're skipping along the Yellow Brick Road up on one of those screens or pushing deeper into the hearts of the jungles of our own darkness, we technicolored Americans are forever seeking, striving, believing, even praying, perhaps naively, perhaps even blessed with a touch of the grace and luck that befalls only fools and heroes as we try to find our way home, the redemptive power of undying love.

Thursday, January 26, 2017 Garyzarrt.tumblr.com

the things you love

one by one the things you love are taken away

until there's you alone

until there's love itself

Wednesday January 25, 2017

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“...as Simple as ABC”

"When you encounter difficulties, you need to be optimistic. The pessimists tend to die."

Zhou Youbang, who left his "residence on earth" this past Saturday in Beijing at 111

Monday January 17, 2017 MLK Day (remember to remember)

Are you alright? Are you alright?

Saturday night January 14, 2017

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Birthday Message

"Only a fool would think it can't happen to them," she said.

He was startled.

He couldn't see her.

It only took a second.

But he got it.

He knew she was right.

That's when the shot rang out.

Nothing would ever be the same.

Except his breathing, which he was aware of, now and then.

And his heartbeat, which he assumed was happening because he was still alive.

He just knew that he had to laugh as often as possible.

Smile and laugh - open-armed - with clarity.

Kindly like.

No matter what.

That it's all about the feeling.

It's all about the feeling.

And that the feeling leads to the light in the end.

Saturday night January 14, 2017

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You

want to hold on but you can't

you're only able to love today or not to

either way's ok

brother sister

January 14, 2017

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My Wall 9 & 10

9          I take the subway with my wall

I took the 1 train. No, I think it was the R train. Maybe it was the N. Yes, it had to be the N. It was hard to get through the turnstile so I used the emergency gate and the siren went off but nobody cared as usual. I basically pushed myself to through the rush hour crowd.  I saw open mouths and faces filled with wonder, maybe even a little fear. I felt someone grab my hand which was hanging over my wall. “Who are you, man? Who are you? Are you new to New York? Do you speak English? Are you a refugee? Can I help you?” I couldn’t see the man’s face (I was crammed on the crowded subway platform). He sounded friendly enough, but as I’ve said before, everyone in America is deeply suspicious, and they should be. Not everyone is your friend. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m not a refugee. Just point me towards the subway car. That’s all I need.” I thought it was it ironic that as an American patriot intent upon making us great again I was co fused as - a foreigner. The guy said softly (so I couldn't hear?) to a woman (a colleague?) beside him, “This is a refugee. We have to give him sanctuary. He is escaping a brutal regime. He’ll be reported if we don’t, especially with the new administration in Washington.” "Yes. He's dead meat." “I am not a refugee! I'm an American! I'm an American!" I yelled although my wall made it very hard to understand me. “He says he’s a performance artist, man,” a skinny guy dressed all in black said. "Yeah, far out. Dig it." “Yeah, I have seen him out in Bushwick. And, he played in some band in Red Hook.” "Cool. Yeah. Caught it." Then I heard a woman’s voice. I could tell from her accent she wasn't a New Yorker. “This guy’s so wild! I love this city! Can we take a selfie with you?” “I don’t have time,” I said. “I have to get away. People are chasing me and they want to hurt me. Please.” The man who thought I was a refugee by this time was standing on a bench and peering down into my wall. “What do you have to run away from?” he asked. “Let her take a selfie. It's harmless, and then I will find you a safe place where no one can find you and my organization can take you back to your country.” “I’m from Ohio! I'm American!" I screeched. They were missing the whole point of my quintessentially American invention. “Sure, everyone is – and that’s the point," he answered slowly with that tone and phrasing they use when talking to animals, old people, and immigrants who don't know English. "Let her just take a selfie with you and then we can leave. I know how hard this must be for you. Even if she takes a picture your face, it won’t be visible from the outside so you don’t have to worry about being identified by the death squads.” "The only death squads after me flip burgers and make Greek salads!" But this do gooder had a point.  He captured a key selling point of my wall - it can keep me out of sight, yet in plain sight. He got it. People crowded. around me and my wall. I was starting to understand that just seeing my wall, the fact that I had actually created a wall around me, a wall similar to what everyone was hearing about 24/7, would change America and the world. I made "the ever present American wall manifest," is how a cult described it. “Who the fuck are you?” a tall man in a suit with a briefcase snapped. He elbowed me. "Who do you think you are pushing ahead of? Wait your turn like everyone else.  There things called lines in this country. Take your turn like everyone else.” (I think I was encountering what TV pundits at the time were calling white rage, but I wasn’t sure.) I heard so many voices outside my wall. They merged at times into a single wild voice. “I think that’s really cool, man. I think it’s really fucking outta sight.” "I'm down with Wall Man!" “Yeah, I like it a lot. It looks good on you." “Do you study fashion?” I couldn’t understand all the accents. People were touching my wall.  A chanting woman in a saffron robe tried to get her arms around the wall so she could hug me. “You need love, my friend. You need revolutionary love.” A man with thinning red hair, whispered, “I was meant to be close to someone like you. Want to party, killer?" I was getting really scared. I didn’t know how much constant physical pressure my wall would be able to take. I forced myself to think of the secret Stayaway website I had hacked into, and the furious cabbies bouncing harmlessly like annoying insects in all directions unable to make a dent in the material. This calmed me, but I was getting panicky. I was backed into a doo-wop group on the platform. They were singing songs by the Drifters. I started to sing along with them. I even did a few of the moves I practiced with Freedom on Saturday morning when I listened to Felix Hernandez on Rhythm Review. Money - heaps of it - was being thrown at me. “You want to join our group, brother?” one of the singers asked as we finished a number. "I don't know who you are but it's been raining money since you turned up." “Sorry, I have to take the train!” I shouted. What I thought would be an escape on the subway was turning into another public commotion except this was on a narrow subway platform. I knew it was only a matter of time until everything would come crashing down around my planned escape. My fame was beginning.

10        I am arrested

“Stop! Stay where are you are!” a voice commanded. Two police officers. A tall woman, and a burly young man, seemed intent upon stopping my movement. "Officers, all I want to do is get on the subway.” They couldn’t hear me, or didn’t want to, I wasn’t sure. “Hands in the air!” How did they know that was the only direction I could put my hands? I aimed them towards the ceiling. The cops had moved away the crowd. Several other officers arrived. I was perspiring very heavily even though it was cold. “Show us your ID,” the woman cop said. I noticed she wore small hooped gold earrings. It’s hard to reach into your pockets when you have on a wall. I tried though. But I was too slow. “You’re under arrest! Up against that wall.” I heard radios crackling. Someone said, “We got a whack job.” An express train boomed past, boots echoed on the platform. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. “I’m exercising my constitutional right -- to wear a wall. It’s just like the right bear arms.” “He’s armed!” the male cop screamed. He looked petrified. Guns were drawn. “Back up! Back up!” “Keep your fucking hands in the air where I can see them!” The two newly arrived police officers, who looked even more afraid than I was, pushed me into a corner of the subway platform, away from the commuters, many of whom seemed to be rallying to my cause. “Show us your hands now!” I was being pushed and pulled and I was barely able to stand under the weight of the police bodies. I was afraid I might get shot, even unintentionally. Remember, I wasn’t sure if my wall was bullet proof. I suspected it was, but I hadn’t seen any videos of bullets, like the hordes of cursing cabbies, bouncing off the surface of the Stayaway material. How could I have not checked on this critical fact? (Note to self and world- even the truly great must worry over every detail otherwise their grand vision will never come to be.)

I found my driver’s license from Ohio and handed it over the wall. "Take off your fucking costume right now,” the young male cop said with disgust. “Come on, asshole. Take off the clown suit – you’re not funny. You’re creating a public disturbance and endangering hundreds of people.” “This is my wall and I’m entitled to wear it,” I replied. I wasn't disrespectful. I was asserting my rights as an American citizen. This would later be one of the statements that endeared me to very conservative groups, such as the Tea Party. (Oddly, civil libertarians and revolutionary leftists also found it attraction.) “Take that shit off right now and show us your face,” the Latina officer said. She had her hand on her gun, and she was much bigger than me. “Don’t shoot!” I shouted. Then I heard several people from around me yell. "Stop shooting people!” “Black lives matter!” “Stop the hate! Stop the violence!” “Every life matters! Leave him alone!” “Yeah, this is New York, man.” "Everybody's packing something." “He’s just wearing what he wants!” “Leave him alone, he’s just another New York freak.” "That's why people visit New York." "Let him do what he wants – this is America!" “No, fuck you! Go ahead and shoot him so I can get it on Facebook Live on my cell phone!  I’m gonna be famous. Go ahead -- shoot him!  Shoot him, guys!  It'll be all over the media in an hour." I was becoming dizzy again. My wall was light, as you know, because of my planning and the fabrication process, but the reaction to it was disorienting. It was hard to react to the spontaneous explosion on Day 1. “This is the last time I tell you. Take off your costume, or else we’re going to take you in.” I started to unlock the shoulder apparatus that held up my wall, when I felt both police officers pushing me again against the wall. They couldn’t get my wrists into handcuffs, so they ended up putting my ankles in handcuffs. (Later, the tabloids, described my arrest as the first time anyone in New York had been “foot cuffed.” The famous "Tooties on Trial" headline with a full-page photo of my handcuffed ankles became as famous a headline as "Ford to City - Drop Dead." Celebrity found me, as I had dreamed. I hobbled to the local police precinct with police officers, speaking into the mics to their dispatcher. They practically carried me up the steps to the street. People shouted support, some spit at me and cursed. The police officers were trained to ignore crowd abuse. One cop with gray hair, I couldn’t tell his rank but he looked important, shook his head and smiled as they dragged me out of the subway. Panting, four five cops hoisted me up the final subway steps.  Since I couldn’t fit into the backseat of a police car with my wall, they conveniently had a van meet us at the curb. I was arrested. They read me my rights in the presence of my wall. My future seemed dim, indeed.

Monday evening January 9, 2017

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My Wall 7 & 8

7          The battle of the diner!

“Leave him alone!” a tall man I had seen my building shouted at the diner owner. “Take your hands off him!” cried a Haitian nurse who worked in the nearby hospital (the one with the excellent ER unit that I had used when several of my girlfriends were hurt when my rather heavy gentle tortoise, Freedom, nested peacefully on their chests in bed causing suffocation and even in serious cases, afib. At least there weren't any severe allergic reactions like with cats. I'm not sure this mattered to my hospitalized girlfriends.) “No, throw him out – he is a scumbag! The wall stands of exclusion!” “Social justice for all!” “Give him his eggs and toast!” “Go fuck yourself!” “No, you go fuck yourself!” The fat owner was beside himself – he had no hair so he rubbed his head like a madman. “You are bad for my business! I always knew it! I always knew it about you!  Even though you were a good eater – you want to kill my business!” He punched my wall but his hand bounced off the surface. (I laughed the way truly great celebrities and giants of history do when they are under attack by pygmies.) “Call the cops!” “They won’t do shit!” “The cops are the walls themselves! They kill black men!  They kill the poor! They kill innocent people!" “The police keep us safe! Fuck you! They have nothing to do with this moron and his wall or any other walls. They keep us safe.” Some people clapped. Others jeered. I had no idea, really, that my wall would have this immediate impact. I had no idea of the virulence it would unleash. “The cops will only ask for a free breakfast."  Laughter. "So let them have it – they work their asses off like us.” More laughter. But then more screaming and cursing and yelling. I noticed everyone in my neighborhood diner – African-Americans, Asians, older white retirees, Millennials, students, Latinos, even children with their mothers -- began to stand up. The middle-aged Korean guy who ran the dry cleaner across the street was jumping up and down. “I am for the wall! I am for the wall! We need law and order!  The wall will bring law and order! I am for the wall!" The diner owner was right – my invention had uncorked long dormant emotions inside his usually placid customers.  The truth of my wall was America's truth, too. In some ways my wall showed the divisions among people who rarely talked politics or religion or other heavy topics. Spam and hash fries flew around me. I ducked further within my wall for protection. Dishes and bialys splattered against the colored stucco walls painted with bulky, malformed Greek gods and goddesses and voluptuous nymphs with tiny eyes who seemed to be doing steroids. Bowls of oatmeal, and cups of the watered-down diner coffee I knew and loved (and which powered most of New York) were being hurled by diners with varying degrees of accuracy, at each other, at the bald owner, and at me. My hair was sticky from the maple syrup that had splashed over the top of my wall when I suffered a direct hit with a buttered short stack. (But, otherwise, my Stayaway walls made me impregnable.) My wall had incited a full scale riot in my neighborhood diner. Later, I would become the darling of some and a pariah to others. I feared for my life. Food was flying, the shouting was making my wall vibrate. Then I heard sirens. I escaped by plunging under the fat Greek owner’s flailing arms, and past Elvis, who was trying to mop up the floor which was slick and treacherous.  Two frail senior citizens in wheelchairs and oxygen tanks struggled, and held each other by the throat in a prehistoric death lock. I ran out, no, more accurately, I hopped and skipped, because my wall, at least during this early phase, didn’t permit Olympic dashes or long distance running. Not seeing where I was going, once on the sidewalk, I rushed west, towards Broadway.

8          I flee

I was starting to feel cold; even with my coat on (I had gotten my coat extended at the tailor so it fit nicely beneath my wall), I began to shiver. I found it tricky to trot. I bumped into passersby, many of them smiled and nodded, and at one point I found myself face-to-face with the sweet man from Yemen who sells coffee from behind one of those steaming street carts. (His coffee is no better than the diner, but I felt compelled to buy one since Jose, and even Elvis, never got around to serving me.) “I have to get out of here -- fast,” I said in a harried voice since I figured the police would be following me after the riot in the diner. My hands may have been shaking as I reached over the top of my wall. The coffee man from Yemen, who once showed me a photo of his young family in Queens, also had an odd American-sounding name, I mean for a person like him. It was Willie. (Note to self and the world – immigrants use ultra-American-sounding names because they want to fit in, they want to make it in America, because they are seeking their own golden bowling alley like my Dad back home leading to wealth and fame. How admirable. Wait till they all have their own walls!) Willie handed the coffee to me over the wall. “Thanks, I wish I could stay to talk, but I have to get out of here fast,” I yelled. (I screamed to make sure people beyond my wall would hear me.) “Inshallah,” Willie replied, beaming as always, trying to shove a blueberry doughnut the size of a baseball mitt over the wall.  (Sensing my distress, Willie wanted to make sure I had enough food – this is another touching American trait, in particular among groups who overly harsh critics of our country choose to call “marginalized.” These recent Americans make sure to eat a lot, and as quickly and often as possible, most likely because their nutrition is never assured. (My turtle, Freedom, used to eat this way when I first got her. She was very skittish. Back then, Freedom barfed a lot. I guess gorging is a survival instinct.  It’s certainly American.) I’m not sure what Willie meant when he spoke in his language (I think it was Arabic) but it sounded very kind. Feverish and expecting the worst at any moment, I headed in the direction of the subway, with Willie waving the sugary baseball mitt-size doughnut. An accountant I knew from the neighborhood advised me, “Take it. Take it. Don’t be proud. Willie’s a generous man. Take it. Take it.” I knew I didn’t have time. And I didn't have to go to work. (I could get away with a few more mental health days). While I had always found the subway to be an escape, right now it was a literal escape – from the police and the bald diner owner, and perhaps others who seemed to be trailing me as I made my way along 23rd Street. I knew people from the diner were running after me, too – either to carry me on their shoulders like a modern day hero, or to trash my wall which I knew (and hope you understand) is impossible because of how it was constructed – the material and design. (I didn’t realize until much later in the day, when my fortune had been made in the most unlikely way, when I saw the chaos of my retreat from the diner captured on local evening TV news, that I had caused chaos during morning rush hour on East 23rd Street. Months after, when some of my supporters in Miami filed a Freedom of Information Act with the government, I found out that because of what had happened when I went outside the first time wearing my wall, I was considered such a threat that Homeland Security had been called just in case my wall was evaluated to be an act of homegrown terrorism. I was on the edge of disappearing into a black ops site, which I hear are mostly located on Staten Island; there are many in New Jersey, too. In the midst of my confusion, a homeless guy asked me for money. He took a swing at me when I rushed past, and because of the Stayaway protection of my wall he bounced, not just his left fist but all of him, out into traffic. (Note to self and the world – my wall, when used by others can become the central part of an American self-defense system. Another sign of the relevance and timelessness of my idea!) I heard a clanging Salvation Army bell. I looked up at the green neon sign of a bar I knew but had avoided because the music was way too low, making conversation actually audible, something I found undesirable when socializing with others; particularly on dates.  (Note to self and the world – perhaps the fact that my wall baffles sound is grounded in the deep need we Americans have to stay in our own worlds, to maintain our mental space. It enhances the suspicion we seem to have for each other, and especially for strangers, people who don’t look like us. There are so many – in a place like New York. My wall will sell like hot cakes!) I could hardly breathe. I did not want know what was going to happen next. I was blacking out. (Note to self and the world – doing things in the real world is way more stressful than online. Why is this so?) That’s when I heard the consoling rumble beneath me. I knew I had reached the subway near Madison Square Park. For a moment, very hungry, I thought about seeing if the original Shake Shack was open. (I was hungry because I had never had my scrambled eggs and buttered whole wheat toast.) I had refused the jelly doughnut from Willie.  But, Shake Shack opened later, of course. I was delirious, and anyway there would be the usual endless line.   I couldn’t wait.  I had not time to waste. “Get him!” They weren’t far behind. I tried to turn to see through the holes in the wall who was behind me. I saw a mob not far away. “That’s him! That’s the crazy scrambled eggs guy!” "He's a martyr for all progressives!" A couple, tourists, started taking photos of me. “Hey, check out that guy with the walls!” “What a cool costume!” I gulped the rest of my coffee and sky hooked the cup out from behind my wall into the closest litter basket. (I played basketball in high school. Kareem Abdul Jabar was one of my Dad's idols.) I peered through my wall and saw the subway steps.  Before I could move, I felt something warm and wet on my left shoe. A small dog that was walked by a sad pretty young girl stopped, sniffed, deliberated, and then decided to use my impervious Stayaway wall as the perfect new spot to mark his territory.  As the warm liquid, ran down my ankle and into my sock, the girl giggled, said “Woah,” and tugged on the leash. The midget dog yapped and nipped the bottom of my pants. I got in one good kick before I practically fell down the subway steps. The urination was public shaming, if you ask me. It was time to get our country back - to fight back - even against entitled miniature dogs with serious attitude. Revolutions always start small.

Monday afternoon January 9, 2017

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My Wall 5 & 6

5    I summon the courage to go out into the world

I have to admit that with my wall around me, with Freedom feeling a bit under the weather (I thought about getting one of those dog or cat collars that you see around New York for well-tended pets, but didn’t think they were made small enough for turtles, even though mine is quite large), I wondered if I could go on. My radical innovation in creating my wall had upset the balance of my day-to-day existence, not that is was anything special; it was really routine. By this time, it was Wednesday. I called in sick to work. They call these kinds of days “mental health days” in New York. I have always found this an odd expression. Each day in New York, thousands of people call in sick because they have basically given up and can’t go on – they are totally fed up. These are “mental health days,” though, of course, HR departments don’t call them by this name. Considering the insane behavior I see (it can’t be just me, I feel) around me in the city, I can’t imagine why anyone is actually going to work at all since everyone must be in need of “mental health” days. I know that I am in constant need of a break from the relentless pace of life in New York. (I believe this is common around the country.) This is yet another reason my wall is so brilliant. I am just being candid and not bragging – this is a factual account of the importance of my wall and the impact it has had on the world – as you will see. (Note to self and the world – derangement is a common occurrence and therefore personal walls, like the one I have invented, are even more important and will usher in a new era of sanity and balance and world harmony.) Even though I was in a crisis caused my great invention, I decided to make my first trip outside my apartment wearing my wall. I admit that I was afraid – in fact, I was terrified. Success was not assured. Of course, walls were being spoken and written about, but in the most general sense, by pundits, politicians, late night comics, business leaders, politicians of all stripes, and overheated radio hosts. The subject was on the TV (yet again) as I put on my wall harness apparatus, picked up Freedom and placed her injured little body into the sink which I filled with cool water. (I also put on R&B for Freedom since I knew the music soothed her. I could swear she tried to dance with me some Saturday mornings when I listened to WBGO, but that may have been my own excitement.) I opened the door, and set off into the world. People talk about walls, I thought, from behind my four Stayaway lightweight panels, but how many actually make their own personal wall, live with it, own it, declare they are themselves one with their walls. Few – actually, none that I knew of at the time. I was a true American pioneer! I was at the vanguard of the American Dream and I was set to orbit the planet – and even ready for my ticker tape parade. (Note to self and the world – true American achievement always deserves a ticker tape parade and 24/7 coverage in the media.) Since I made sure to leave my apartment very early I didn’t have to worry about knocking down neighbors in the hall.  Fortunately, the elevator, which was small and always had an unidentifiable odd odor, was empty since I took up most of the space. You might wonder how I actually pressed the correct button for the ground floor. (You must be making these mental notes as you read my narrative, which has become part of our contemporary history and which I understand is part of pop-up curricula at schools and universities around the country). The night before, when I couldn’t sleep, I practiced wearing my wall and tipping over in a way that I was able to reach the wall outside and, in fact, touch any object I wanted. (I was a gymnast in high school in addition to being a runner so I was athletic and my body remains fairly limber and strong.) Standing in the elevator I made a mental note to do more flexibility exercises so I would be able to reach even further since I knew that my journey wearing my wall would take to places beyond my imagination. Such was the force of my invention!) My apartment doesn’t have a door man. This was another plus for me and one less person to content with now that I was wearing my wall.  Of course, since it wasn’t Christmas tip time, the super of my building was nowhere to be seen. But little did I realize, as I bumped into the front door (I was barely able to get the door open because the hinges hadn’t been oiled since the days of hippies and Love Generation – this historical allusion makes me smile), that I would enter a literal battleground – and just around the corner.

6     I participate in the Battle of the Diner

I was determined to keep to my daily routine even though I was debuting my revolutionary personal wall. Wearing my wall was a statement, yes, and a very powerful one as I well knew, but I wanted to carry it off with style, with the cool, level-headedness that true celebrities embody. So as usual, after I left my apartment I went for coffee and breakfast at my neighborhood diner, which is only a block away. I had no idea that my presence, really the startling reality of my wall, would spark an incident that would later become a story that fascinated the world and become part of the saga of my wall. I sat in my usual spot at the counter between the elderly African American post office worker with a short beard and a harried grammar school teacher with thick glasses and a tightly wound hair bun. I waited for my coffee. The stocky young Mexican bus boy with spiked hair -- he told me the first time we met that his name was Elvis –instead and immediately getting me my coffee seemed to be staring at me in an odd way. Elvis was usually very friendly – we usually talked about Mexico’s soccer team, pretty girls in the dinner or on the street, and the lottery, which Elvis thought we would one day win. But this morning, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. Elvis seemed nervous, almost frozen – his eyes were wide and he seemed a bit scared. I noticed that he was looking over my shoulder. I noticed it had become very quiet in the diner. There were the usual diner sounds -- spoons and dishes clattering, TVs with talk shows and news channels. But there were no human voices – no one was talking. I began to sweat; I was able to pull a napkin behind my wall to wipe my face. I still hadn’t gotten my coffee and I was beginning to get irritated. (It didn’t dawn on me that my wall was creating such a stir in the diner. I was very naïve at this stage, and didn’t realize, although I had hope it would happen, that my wall would literally create waves of reaction among people who usually seemed to be going about their business. My wall detonated emotions and captured a feeling that was lying beneath the surface of America. (Note to self and world – My wall is a lightning rod -- and it is a mirror showing the true face of our great nation.) Jose, Elvis’ friend who ruled the diner from behind the counter, was always fast and efficient and friendly in a hard, tough street-minded way. But, he seemed frozen in place, too. I asked for coffee several more times. And I asked for scrambled eggs which was my usual breakfast. José knew what I had every day, and he knew I liked my whole wheat toast buttered and my home fries very well done. But he didn’t seem to want to move. I couldn’t fathom what was going on. The diner was like an extension of my apartment so all of this seemed surreal. I was disoriented. “Coffee!  Scrambled eggs!  And toast the butter!” I found myself shouting at the top of my lungs, and I assumed that I could not be heard beyond my wall.  (I had altered the design of my wall by making invisible slits in the Stayaway in order to let sound waves through. I couldn’t tell if this brilliant design was helping the sound get to the outside world or I was just being ignored.) It was hard for me to turn around while wearing my wall but I swiveled on the counter seat. I was half-standing, half-leaning, on the counter. I scanned the diner. Every face was focused on me. It was like I was watching a bad movie, except I was in it, and I was the star. (Note to self and world – when you dare to be great, stand out from others, you become a start, you become something even more valuable in today’s world – you become a celebrity.) Some of the faces confronting me seemed angry, others smiled, and still others seemed dumb struck. (As I said, I was able to assess the situation in the diner because I had improved the small eye holes in my wall.) Elvis the bus boy walked up to me and asked, “Sir, is that you behind the wall? I cannot understand what you are saying but I think you are asking for coffee and scrambled eggs, and I think you are threatening me about buttering your toast.” “I just want my scrambled eggs and coffee and the toast -- the usual way! And, of course, I am not threatening you. I am just raising my voice so you can hear me!” Elvis laughed, and Jose even smiled – now they knew it was me. “Is it Halloween, sir?” Jose asked seriously. I started to hear loud voices, arguing. “No, it isn’t Halloween! Why are you asking me that question, Joes?” Then the owner of the diner, a fat bald man from the island called Samos in Greece, who always sat by the hot Russian girl at the register, came up to me. From what I could see through my wall, he was scowling. "What do you think you’re doing?" he said in a cold tone. (Remember, I had been in this diner every day for at least two years.) “What you think you’re doing?” “What? What do you mean -- What am I doing?’”  He couldn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to. “What are you doing coming in my diner like this?” He raised his voice and was almost shouting; the blood vessels in his neck were bulging. I was intrigued by the way his belly moved as he got closer to me. Was he going to physically throw me out? Like a giant wave overtaking me, the sound of the other people in the diner suddenly crashed into me and the slow motion movie speeded into real time. I couldn’t see the people but the sounds weren’t promising. I found it hard to believe, in those early days that my wall had succeeded in detonating an emotional tsunami in the diner (I would see this happen worldwide later) and cause usually calm people seemed to work themselves into a frenzy of emotions. “Get out of my diner!” the bald man cried. “You are creating a riot. You are not welcome here anymore. You are no longer a good customer!  You are no longer a good eater!” “I just want my scrambled eggs,” I repeated in lower voice, unsure if I was speaking to him or myself. The bald owner began to tug on my Stayaway wall. The plastic material, battle-tested in China and in the Mideast by governments and security forces for a multinational corporation and retested in urban areas of our own country, performed admirably.  No matter how the fat diner owner pulled and pushed my wall, he was unable to make a dent, or reach my body, which I admit now, was shivering a bit since I sensed the onslaught about to come.

Saturday

January 14, 2017 (done before)

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knockout 

totally caught by surprise he didn't know what it was that did it to him or why or why now so suddenly

but as he fell into oblivion he was certain even with the pain that it felt very good

how falling should be

Wednesday December 28, 2016

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right

there

it flowers again

it flowers again

for me

for you

Wednesday 12/28/17

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Houses

have sounds you hear at night when you believe you're awake.

Pipes sigh. Wood cracks. Toilets flush. Muffled voices.

What's that? Laughter? Lovers? Breathing? What's that they're dragging across the floor?

Tapping on glass. On a window? Is it a door? Is it my door? Is it my door?

Footsteps always go somewhere.

If you listen hard enough you hear.

Friday December 23, 2016

(The stillness, beauty and the violence of Violent Cop, Sonatine, and the Blind Swordsman)

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My Wall - Part 4

I conduct the first tests of my wall

When I thought my great invention was ready for implementation, I lifted my wall on my shoulders. (I played techno-hip-hop-rave-bluegrass music on my iPhone for inspiration). I felt like the Wright Brothers (without the brother, of course.

Did I explain that I am only child? I forget because I remain so excited about my wall. I don’t think that being an only child compelled me to create my own world. I was loved as a child. My father read to me at night; my mother, did, too. I didn’t miss having brothers and sisters. Being alone as a child didn’t affect me though commentators have stated that not having a sibling increased the compulsion I may have had to build walls around myself since my earliest years. I don’t buy into today’s psychobabble and wooly-mindedness.

As I have said, for me precision and clarity have always been paramount. (Note to self and the world – men, and women I suppose, who deserve to be treated as true celebrities, have no use what others may think of them, in particular the confused minds of the day. They laugh at what they say. Ha! Ha! Ha! Like that. Just like that.)

With my wall balanced on my shoulders (which are quite strong since I do 125 push-ups each day without fail), I felt they completed me. I like this phrase, “complete me,” a lot. A girl I dated told me this expression once when she was referring to my effect on her. (Imagine if she saw me and my wall! But, she might have on social media or TV).

At the time, this was pre-wall, I was a bit immature. When she said it, I chuckled since I found the concept absurd, but there is something to it, I have come to see. (My wall has helped me appreciate myself more; enclosed by my wall, I can see how special I am. I write this without shame, although I am still a bit uncomfortable expressing myself so freely. It’s a good thing I can’t see you, whoever you are reading this explanation.  I guess that’s why I built my wall, to avoid seeing and being seen. Everything is connected, at least in my mind!)

On this first test, I marched around my apartment in time to the high-powered kinetic music. I was having a solo rave, of sorts, in my one-bedroom, wearing my wall.

My first few steps were challenging. I banged into an unmovable object. Wearing my wall and crashing into so many objects, in particular when I began my adventure, it became clear to me that most things in this world are unmovable. People, I have found, are very different. They can be moved quite easily, it’s almost like they want to.

People are generally pliable. (I like the word “pliable.” I have been working to improve my vocabulary since I became more well-known because of the birth of my wall. I have a screensaver that silently shows new vocabulary words with their definitions as a slider -- the words stream left to right. “Words flow out like endless waves of LED screens into the universe" is how they promote it online. This Word Power software is such a classic American method of self-improvement, a lifestyle that is constant and our birthright. It is one of the traits that gives us what we call “exceptionalism.”

I think Manifest Destiny had something to do with it, and maybe that one long war that lasted for a few generations, or maybe it is part of what pissed everybody off and caused all these wars in the first place, I’m not sure. Self-improvement! Progress! Progress at all costs! Bring on those new vocabulary words, I say. Bring ‘em on! I will use them all and share them all! I will be a vocabulary aggregator behind my wall and I will toss big words out into the world as I make it better and better!)

I smashed into the sink, then I stepped on my pet turtle, which I have had since I was a boy in Columbus. My grandfather gave me the turtle, a tortoise really, which has been loyal like a trained dog, for Christmas. The animal was small and young at that time she came into my life.

Since then, I have wondered if it was a bit odd to get a baby tortoise under the tree as a gift, but I don’t dwell on it. A friend, I think he was jealous of me after my wall became famous, said that getting only a tortoise (she wasn’t even wrapped or in a box or under the tree; Grandpa had her in a white plastic bag, the kind you get at the supermarket) for Christmas was an act of hostility on the part of my grandfather, my entire family.

But I didn’t see it that way, and I still don’t. In fact, some have noted the similarity of my tortoise’s shell to my wall, but I think that if there is a relation between the too, it is unconscious. A tortoise shell is a tortoise shell, as my wall is my wall. (Note to self and the world – profound maxims are easy to write. I should do more of it!)

My grandpa, who was stern and conservative in every way, and “bled red, white and blue” (those are my Dad’s words – I think grandpa fought in Korea or World War II (I am not sure of the difference between those two wars; it could have been World War I. Iraq and Afghanistan might be related. I studied them all in school but they are one long blur of war to me without a beginning or end. I have no idea about what caused them. As one of my college professors said one time in class, he was famous and wrote many books about popular culture and psycho history, "Maybe it was just that small thing happened that pissed off a whole lot of people and it’s never been the same since."

That makes a lot of sense to me. No wonder that professor was so famous; he still is - a TV pundit now, too.) Anyway, my patriotic grandfather advised me to always care for my new turtle friend (who needed to be kept cool and moist otherwise she tended to become dry and smelly.)

“I won this turtle in a raffle at VFW Post in an all-night game of poker,” Grandpa explained, blowing smoke (Chesterfields, two packs a day), into my little boy face, as I stood expectantly by our Christmas tree.

“And this tortoise’s name is Free-dom,” my grandfather said, leaning over me, gently blowing more smoke into my small, earnest eyes. He articulated (great word - I got it from my laptop screen) the word "Free-dom" slowly and seemed to shoot the sounds at me like I was on the front lines.  I almost hit the ground for cover. (That is a joke, please note. The warrior humor we all possess inside our walls.)

You may think that my grandfather was a malicious man. But he wasn’t. He loved his family and his country. He came to America when he was young. From some place in Europe, very southern Europe, at least that what they said.  Grandpa always seemed like he had a deep tan from being in the sun, even during winter blizzards. When I was a teenager, I noticed that Grandpa, looked a lot like Nat King Cole on his Cole Espagnol album. (My Dad loved Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, John Coltrane, Billy Eckstine.) The resemblance to Nat King Cole on the cover of his Hispanic (I am not sure if I should be writing Latino, but you understand. I hope.) album of music was startling.

I asked my Dad about it, but he ignored me. Then, being a persistent youngster always bent on gaining knowledge and advancing myself in the world, I asked my Mom, and she shook me hard.

“Don’t ever say that again. They don’t look anything alike.” Their skin sure seemed the same. I couldn’t figure out why she got so angry at me. My frizzy hair sure looked like Sly Stone, another of Dad's favorites.

Years later I learned about riots and lynchings that happened in the Midwest, I forget where and when, and I wondered if Grandpa and his people were somehow involved.

But I just put it aside. That’s the American way. If it gets too hot in your hands, drop it, so you can grab another dream! (Note to self and the world – secrets may not be healthy, as the self-help gurus advise, but they are very convenient, and they help us to go on. This is particularly the case in my family, such a wonderful American family.)

“Free-dom,” my grandfather said wisely, still looking like Nat King Cole but without a sombrero, “must be cared for. Your tortoise named Free-dom will live many, many years. Maybe more than you.”

I was six at the time and I immediately felt this fact was somehow insulting to me in a very personal way. This little turtle would outlive me? Me? I wasn’t happy about it and I felt like taking little Free-dom and tossing her down the toilet, which was where a few lizards I caught as pets ended up thanks to Mom.

I admit it. But I didn’t make a scene. I was respectful of my elder. But it still irritates me. Every time I see Freedom, I feel a bit irritated. But I love her just the same.

“So you need to take care of this tortoise friend,” my grandfather continued. “Always make sure that Free-dom is heathy and protected, and safe.” What a golden, smoke-filled memory.

So, as I staggered around my crowded one bedroom apartment in the lower East 30s of Manhattan, worlds away from my Norman Rockwell childhood in Ohio, wearing my wall and taking a test spin, you can imagine how horrified I was when I heard Freedom’s shell crack slightly as I stepped on her. I immediately jumped into the air, which made me ricochet off my desk and land upside down on the couch (thankfully).

I started to shriek in a voice I didn’t recognize. (I must have under extreme stress and this affected my vocal chords. I have read about this phenomenon in WebMD. I sounded like Michael Jackson or Aaron Neville.)

“Oh no! Freedom! Freedom! My Freedom, what have I done!”

I almost had a panic attack. (I have had panic attacks for some time, in particular after I began to make my wall a reality. I kept this to myself. Actually, it began in college. I went to the doctor on campus who didn’t look at me when I came into his office, and he just handed me a bottle of pills for anxiety. I have been taking them since.)

I only mention this fact to show the degree to which I suffered during the creation of my wall. (Note to self and the world – you can be a great man and an A level celebrity and yet still be sensitive and suffer – but you must suffer greatly, of course. The world, and eventually your online followers know.)

Since tortoises and turtles don’t speak to us in ways we are accustomed to, or at least tortoise experts, called herpetologists, (my vocabulary screen saver st work again) I have not figured out how they communicate with us, and because I know my tortoise, Freedom, so well, I could see she was very distressed

Freedom sleeps in bed with me at night, on a pillow in the lower corner of the bed. Sometimes, she makes her way up near my head and sleeps peacefully inside her shell (Yes, you can consider the shell her wall, if you insist.)

Turtles aren’t like more common pets; they don’t purr like cats, or slobber on you like dogs, or thump their tails and leave endless pellet turds like mysterious soft, furry rabbits. Turtles and tortoises simply rest near you, silently, and from time to time Rhett peek out from their shells to see if you are awake, had a nightmare, or need to get up to pee.  They sniff around and gaze at you with affection, at least I think, with their tiny pinhole eyes.

Now, because of my pet turtle’s presence and devotion, you can imagine how my sleepover girlfriends have reacted over the years. (Not that I have had so many, but Freedom certainly impacted the ones who got that far.) Actually, I started to know if a girlfriend was keeper when she began to bring over a head of lettuce for Freedom, along with a bottle of wine for us.

But those women were few and far between, (women have been in general, but that is another matter related to social media and also my reserved American demeanor), I have to admit. Freedom, contented after my girlfriends and I make love in bed, would gently climb along the sheets till she rests on top of the chests of my sleepover girlfriends. This was considered, again by certain women, as very “cute” and affectionate, at least at first. However, since Freedom has grown to a hefty size over the years, this sleeping arrangement tended to cause oxygen deprivation and asphyxiation in a few cases. It occurred slowly, over the night, mostly silently, and in some instances, Freedom’s consistent downward pressure even caused afib or violently aggravated bowels in my beautiful sleep mates. In other words, out of nowhere, things sometimes got messy.

Luckily, I live near one of the best ER hospital units in New York.  The residents and nurses working there got to know me, in fact. They would wave when I would come in with a girlfriend hanging from one arm, and the other carrying a pet box with Freedom. (I brought in the turtle just so some overzealous medical intern wouldn’t think they had to test for rabies or some other rare parasite.)

So, when I stumbled and stepped on my turtle during my first test, I could see she was suffering. So I unhitched my wall contraption, got the super glue from my desk drawer and slathered it on poor Freedom’s shell, called a carapace, just FYI. The shell moved in an odd way, as if it had a hinge in the middle, but she seemed better after a few minutes. (Maybe the new joint in her shell aired out her insides; I am not sure. (Note to self and the world – advances in evolution sometimes come about through dire situations. My wall perhaps has made an ancient species evolve in a totally new direction. My wall is likely a part of the evolutionary plan itself!)

Although Freedom didn’t seem as animated as before, she was alive and scraped along the floor with a turtle-like limp. Also, when I resumed bouncing around my apartment wearing my wall, I think my pet was moaning at times, but perhaps it was her breathing.  (I can’t imagine that by creating my wall, I was injuring Freedom in some way.)

But let me get back to the story of my wall. As you can guess, almost literally crushing Freedom upset me. Yet I knew that I had to persevere if my wall was to come to life. So, I strapped myself back to my wall and, though shaky, I teetered around my apartment. I banged into my bookshelves a few times, and tripped over the coffee table (an antique Indian window shutter I had gotten second hand in a store in Bushwick). I had to tinker with my wall so that I was better able it to calculate what was happening around me, to assess the situation outside my wall. It wasn’t perfect but I could make out objects well enough (or so I thought, as you will read).

I decided to change the music, since I was feeling a bit frantic. I was sweating a lot. I thought I heard Freedom crying, but since tortoises don’t make noise, at least like that, I thought that perhaps I was getting very upset and was on the verge of another panic attack. Maybe my stomach was growling.

I steadied my breathing and stood for a while in the middle of my apartment. I tried to channel the TM I had learned the year before, after I had just graduated and moved to Brooklyn. One of the senior people at the hedge fund, perhaps seeing I was stressed out, late one night in the office told me about TM.

"It will change your life, man. Try it. Try it.” (I heard later he did a lot of coke, and I'm sure the TM helped calm him down, too.)

My first TM training session was with one of the most famous TM teachers in Midtown. I closed my eyes as he gently directed at a very sacred moment during the first hour, right after I was initiated (even though spirituality has nothing to do with the TM method). My teacher closed his eyes too; incense burned. Just the two of us sat on chairs in a small white room.

This is one of the special times when just start to practice and the TM force begins to take hold of you, I guess.  Something is supposed to happen, although my teacher said nothing really happens when you meditate except your mind slows down - -and then there is “emptiness.” (Now, for a can-do American this is a really crazy and unnatural thing to even think about, even though you are not supposed to be thinking, of course.  "Empty" is a bad thing (gas tanks, refrigerators- heads!) and slowing down, like having a conscience, as I have said, is ok, as long as it doesn’t get out of control.

I found the session to be very helpful in slowing down my mind. I accepted that TM, meditation of any kind, is really training your mind; and it doesn’t need to be associated with religious mumbo jumbo. Silently reciting my unique Sanskrit mantra to myself with each breath, I had my eyes closed as I was instructed. Everything seemed to be going well, except when I opened my eyes and peeked when I wasn’t supposed to, and I saw that instead of silently breathing with his eyes closed, my famous teacher was checking his watch and sending text messages. That kind of threw me off.

But I kept up TM for a few months but fell off the wagon when I met my current girlfriend, Anita. Once I met Anita I went from mindful breathing to mindless panting. More about her later.)

Wearing my wall, I learned to tip over so I was able to extend my arms to grab objects or steady myself. Because TM wasn’t calming me down, I grabbed a bottle of Ativan that I keep around when I get a bit nervous. I thought about lighting a joint, but I hadn’t had enough practice with my wall yet and I imagined all kinds of terrible things if I began to use matches and smoked inside my wall. Also, I hadn’t researched if Stayaway was inflammable but I suspected that it was since it was used to suppress indigenous people and disadvantaged Americans who revolt from time to time.

Weed will come in time, I thought. I can do anything inside my wall.

I put it on the radio, of course online radio, and I decided to listen to R&B which I noticed seemed to always play on Saturday morning on WBGO-FM, at least in New York. Spontaneously, I began to dance around my apartment wearing my wall. I don’t know real dance steps but I found that it didn’t matter because when I wore my wall all that was visible was the top of my head, my arms shooting up and down and my feet hopping around to the groove.

The fact that I had actually designed and built my wall by hand, whereas everyone else in the country only talked about walls, made me ecstatic. I can’t remember if it was while I was dancing to Aretha Franklin or Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, that books began to fly off the shelves with frightening (and potentially lethal) velocity. Like rockets down in Florida coming off the launch pad. Bottles of spices (I like to cook) skimmed across the wooden floor. (Note to self and the world – a famous inventor can cook, and dance with abandon, when he is by himself and show a domestic side because his wall makes him utterly confident of his manhood.)

My vitamin supplements became a minefield underfoot, and I almost dislocated my right knee. (I have had numerous surgical repairs because of my years of distance running.)  At one point, I slid across the floor of the apartment, and crashed into a standing lamp I got on sale from Target.

“Where are you, fucking James Brown!” I yelled in ecstasy, knowing I had done a move that even the King of Soul would have envied. (Of course, I was paralyzed and unable to get out of bed the next day. It felt like my lower back was fused and had become inanimate and turned into a fire hydrant. But it was well worth the price of such a sexy and timeless physical act. (I should have taken a selfie video of my first training session. It would be worth a ton of money now.)

As you can see, I risked my life to create my wall. I literally risked life and limb to make my dream come true. My wall has been no easy accomplishment.

As you will read further in my story, it may appear that I have lived a charmed life. But I haven’t. I’ve paid for my wall. It’s been a hard-fought struggle. I have taken enormous risks to create my wall. I dropped laundry detergent on my best shoes. My pet Freedom became a disabled tortoise and will never be the same. I even gave up sex (at least for now) because of my wall. Here’s why and how that happened.

FridayDecember 2, 2016

Part of a series; sorry for typos, etc.

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My Wall -- Parts 2 & 3

2          I begin to fabricate my wall

When I talk about making my wall, I’m not talking about a simple cardboard wall that you would see in a puppet theater or store window. No, I’m talking about a substantial wall. A huge wall. A strong wall, a wall that no one can break through, a wall that will protect me from the rest of the world.

An American wall.  

A wall that will define my own boundaries, which all self-help books say is so important, and it will help others understand the limits (and pluses) of their own walls (and how close they can get to me).  My wall ensures that my boundaries are not crossed. We need to have boundaries as every psychologist knows – walls are key to our mental (and physical) health. Good walls, make good people.

I saw right away that my wall would create a golden boundary around me. It’s clear, from all the self-help gurus and not just run-of-the-mill shrinks and therapists and discounted books on Amazon, that maintaining boundaries is an essential part of being an evolved person.  How can you be a truly open and tolerant man or woman without your own wall?  Impossible.  I saw all this in a flash – while shaving, as I have explained. (I was splashing on after shave by this time.)

Anyway, enough about my reading habits, which aren’t really that special. To be honest, I used to read a lot of the so-called Great Books, but the versions created for supposed “dummies.” Are you kidding me? Why waste time, in college, or in life. Not that I’m a dummy at all. Far from it, in fact. (Note to self and the world – my IQ is very high and my emotional intelligence is off the charts; I just don’t like to waste my time.) Reading is an excellent pastime, but I wanted to do it faster and more efficiently, in a more American way.

I think about being an American a lot now. Especially after I created my wall, and I became more well known. If you read further you’ll see what I mean. I have accepted so much more about myself, my own visions and urges, now that my wall is a reality that cannot be disputed. It exists and therefore I exist even more. (This is not meant to be pompous, it’s just a truth, accept it or not.)

So, one morning, sitting in my apartment in the East 20s (I can’t give you the exact address for obvious reasons – hint: because I am a world celebrity --as you’ll learn further in my story) I was reading the New York Times online, not because I wanted to really know the news of the world, but because my boss at the hedge fund said that I should in order to understand the economic trends in the world so that I would perform my job better. Remember, I was doing social media in a lowly job in a hedge fund. But I have always had hopes of enormous wealth. (This can-do, never satisfied, restless attitude is so American, too – like apple pie (which for the record I have never liked much but I have eaten so that Mom didn’t get pissed at me.)

And so I listened to my boss, and checked out the Times online, sometimes the Wall Street Journal, too. “But stay away from those crazy websites,” my boss, who was from my father’s generation. “They’re all full of bullshit. Stick to the Times and the Journal and at least you have the official line of crap. The rest doesn’t matter and will just drive you crazy.”

My boss was well-intentioned. But he is of the generation of a famous writer who once said, and I am not kidding you, “I think that social media should really be called anti-social media.”  Now, this got a big laugh but how pathetic is this guy. I am not using his name because I don’t want to embarrass him. (Note to self and the world – be magnanimous in all things, especially with those you despite or have no sue for.) This guy had no idea of the power and the beauty of social media. He had no idea it can connect people worldwide, that it could open the world, create a new world. (And that it could enable my world to sweep across the planet like wildfire.)

Since I was in New York, I noticed that sophisticated people I met always had bagels on Sunday morning and they read the New York Times. Not everyone, of course – but many of the people who are considered successful and hip. Now, these aren't poor people. For sure, they aren’t.

I recently read that 60,000 people in New York City don’t have a place to sleep at night. I don't think they're eating bagels and reading the paper on Sundays. This bothers me, I mean most times. (I said that I was business-oriented and analytical but that doesn’t mean I’m a monster.)

This statistic doesn’t bother me all the time, especially when I am having a bagel and reading he Times on Sunday morning, because I realize that you can have a good conscience and that is all well and good, but it become too well and too good, I mean your conscience, and then your life can get out of hand. A good conscience can take you over the edge.  And that's not for me. That’s exactly why I made my wall – not to go over the edge.

My wall has given me such a sense of control; you wouldn’t believe it. It’s all about structure – my wall has made this possible for me.

So, as listened to a morning radio talkshow, which I wasn't focusing on, munching on my everything bagel with cream cheese, and sipping the coffee I got from the diner on the coffee corner (more about this famous diner later), it struck me:

Stop eating that bagel and start to make your dream come true. Bring your wall into the world. Your wall! Create your own special wall!

Just like that- while eating my everything bagel (have you noticed that bagels tend to get stuck in your teeth, even when eaten by bagel connoisseurs, but that doesn't stop New Yorkers who are hip and cool and smart from still eating bagels every Sunday morning. Why is that? I'm not sure. But it's a fact.) the commandment again struck me. And hard.

And so I set about creating my own wall -- a quintessentially American physical structure, like the Brooklyn Bridge, like the Hoover dam, like Mt. Rushmore. Like the Great Wall of China itself (but made in America, of course), my wall would separate me from the hordes of the men and women roaming around the world. It would also help to define who I am and always have been. (Note to self and the world – why have I always been a deep thinker and destined for celebrity?) It seemed very logical to me. You really cannot be in this world without having your own wall.

It was time for me to make my wall -- to take my own life in my own two hands (unlike my unfortunate but fabulously successful Dad, a true war hero, I had two hands so I had much more of an advantage, plus I have my mastery of social media, which Dad and his Baby Boomer generation never had a chance at). I was going to make my own statement.

I had found my truth.

Finally, I could live my truth, become my truth – by creating my wall.

3          I continue to fabricate my wall

I wanted to make my wall as simple as possible. Since I knew quite a bit about designing and building things (as a boy, I made models of spaceships and couldn’t stop playing video games) I googled “wall construction” and just took it from there. I certainly wasn’t going to make my wall out of bricks and steel. (This is a joke. I hope you get it.)

So, for days I searched online for a very light material. Nothing. When I visited a buddy in Gowanus I saw that there was a Home Depot near his place. So, one Saturday I walked nonchalantly around the store with him (the store was a block long and I got tired but I persisted on my hero quest) and I discovered a plastic material piled in sheets on pallets in the corner of the cement floor. It was on sale. I learned later that it is used in tanks, and by police departments in order to quell disturbances in unsettled parts of China, Tibet I think, and in the Ukraine and Chechnya by Russian officials. Also, I have come to learn that this material, which I could not buy online because it is considered top secret, has been used by police departments in our own country during periods of civil unrest, of which there have been many recently because of some unfortunate civilian shooting deaths, which some have called murders. (Note to self and the world - how many fewer murders would there be if everyone had their own wall. None! None! My wall can stop death, too!)

In any event, this material, aptly copyrighted as Stayaway, proved very strong indeed. In fact, I did find it on a website, really not open to the public but which I found a way to hack into (having a knack for social media and all things Internet does have its benefits), and that Stayaway withstood the enormous weight and velocity of charging elephants, bazookas fired point blank, and even frenzied New York Uber and taxi drivers. The hacked Stayaway website featured several videos of men in yellow New York City taxicabs shouting curses in unknown languages and spitting with uncanny accuracy because they were unable to crash through Stayaway walls in tests that were documented by renowned experts in abnormal psychology and military history from many of the best schools in the country.

Stayaway. The perfect material for my wall – just perfect! (Note to self and the world – it is through persistence and singlemindedness that cosmic celebrity is born. To some, like me, it is a quality you are born with and which you work on each and every day.)

I carefully cut the plastic into squares so that I had created a wall on all four sides of myself. Just the tip of my head was visible in the first design, my ankles and feet could be seen below. But the rest of me was protected from the eyes of strangers. Because I bored small holes, I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. I had my own protected space and from there I could deal with the world from a stronger position.

I created a sophisticated harnessing system inside the wall system that rested on my shoulders; it’s similar to what hang gliders use when they leap off mountaintops. The entire structure was extraordinarily light so it was easy for me to move around. I planned to live my life as usual, except that I would be wearing my wall for all to see. This was a powerful declaration of independence, again utterly American. I assumed that once I appeared in public with my wall, I would get reactions from people, pro and con, but little did I understand what I powerful reaction would be created by me and my wall.

Even though I was able to poke tiny holes on each wall so that I could see out, I did have to squint. But I became better at seeing the rest of the world over time. At the outset though, during these early days, it was a bit hard for me to get a clear view of what was going on outside my wall. (I include an original sketch of my first wall, which I understand from top art dealers has quite a bit of value now, so you get a sense of what I had in mind at the time.)

How dangerous.

How cool.

How goal oriented.

How life-affirming.

MondayNovember 29, 2016

This installment is part of a series. Excuse typos, a bit tired.

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My Wall - Part 1

1          I get an earth-shaking and brilliant idea

It was in the air. You could hear it all over. It was on the radio, TV, it was online. You almost smelled it when you opened the window and the wind blew through the room.

The wall. The wall. The wall.

Everyone was talking about—the wall.

But that was just it – all they were doing was talking. But, I decided to do something about it (as you will see soon enough).

I’m from Columbus, Ohio and there aren’t that many walls there. Well, there are, but I grew up outside of the city come on a farm. So my formative years were spent mostly in open space. I guess that’s America. Mostly space, but you get fooled with all these cities, like New York and Chicago and LA and Miami. You think America is about cities, but in the end, it’s about open spaces where people all look alike.

There aren’t that many walls around if you really look around the country. At least, where I grew up, there weren’t that many. (Note to self and the world – so because of that fact it made it all the more inevitable that I would make my historic discovery!)

I studied New Media and Social Transformation at Columbia University in New York. I got a scholarship. I wasn’t one of these legacy kids with the rich parents and trust funds. (My course of study sounds like a soft humanities program but it was really very serious business. Social media runs the world today. That’s obvious. (Note to self and the world – I would have written “Duh” a few years ago, but since my pioneering work, I have done my best to sound serious.) I don’t say this about social media ruling the world because of my age. But, it’s just the facts, no matter what older generations want to believe.

A few days after graduation, on the couch of a buddy in Astoria, pursuing job postings online (where else?), I landed a job as an administrative assistant in a well-known hedge fund. I’m rising rapidly in my company. I say this so you understand my background and character. I’m a quintessential American. I believe in our country, with all of its faults. I was raised that way. (I will explain further.) I see now, with everything that has happened to me, it was my birthright.

OK, Ok, so we killed the Native Americans and some people owned slaves, and sure immigrants had it tough too after they came through Ellis Island or whatever other way they got into the country, and all these people built the country (except the Indians who were mostly exterminated or else forced to run casinos and slaves who were, well, not considered people, crazy as that may sound today. (People don't always get a fair shake. You just have to live with that fact, especially in America.)

But, I mean, I didn’t do anything bad. And neither did my parents. They did their best to make a better life for their family. (I am not sure about my grandparents, but they always seemed ok when I was growing up. My grandfather was an outstanding patriot, as you’ll see.) I feel bad about it, about a lot of what they say is our true American history, but I don’t want to have a guilt trip my entire life for something terrible that I never did.

This is a new time, this is the age of global communications, the is the age of the worldwide web, when we can do anything we want and meet anybody we want no matter where we live. This is our time, a time when all of the world is one, and we can see and talk to each other in real time. And we can do it fast and we can do it cheaply. The world has never been more connected and closer. The world is one and we are as one people.

(Note to self and the world -- I read a lot about the impact of the Internet and technology, how the world has become one. How walls are broken down around the world, and this makes it even more important to establish your own walls. Follow this line of reasoning below.)

And so I want you to understand the importance of the wall. I mean my wall. I could capitalize the two words this way – My Wall – but I think that’s pretentious, and somehow un-American.  No, it’s my wall, lower case, and even though it (and yours truly) became famous, the ultimate celebrity, as you will read, I guess I revert to my Midwestern roots. You know, low key. My friends make fun of me, but that’s how I am. I’m not shy. I’m just not as flashy as New Yorkers. But, don’t get me wrong, I love New Yorkers and I love living in this town.

My wall is as natural as social media, Facebook, even emojis. It’s as common and natural as texting to fall in love. It’s like texting to get out of a relationship (I love that word “relationship." Its kid of analytical and cold, and it avoids all the loosey goosey talk about “love” -- stuff that just gets in the way.)

My wall, well, is just the way it is. It’s like nature. It has come to be in the world, was born in a flash. It is accepted, as you will read, it’s definitely catching on. Walls are here to stay. And they come in all shapes and size and they all do their job.

The idea to create my own wall dawned on me one morning.  There was nothing special about that particular morning or my state of mind.

“You need to create your own wall!"

That’s what I heard when I was shaving. It’s as simple as that. I mean it. That’s what I heard – clear as day. The razor was on my chin at that moment. (How could I forget?)

“You need to create your own wall!"

Again – that command, that directive.

“You need to create your own wall!"

I was at my neck now.

I was clear-headed, I wasn’t jacked from the night before. (Note – since I created my own wall I have not used drugs or alcohol. I am celibate, too. You will learn more about sex and my wall later.) I was destined to create my own wall.

That message seemed to encompass my entire life until that very second. Everything I did back home in Ohio, all that I have done in New York, led me to this realization, I see now. Also, I want to make sure that you understand that I did not study philosophy or take many humanities classes in college. (Certainly nothing about religion, or faith, or spirituality – all the goo-goo content that is all about getting top grades by supposedly thinking great thoughts but doing no real work.) I am definitely not one of those wooly-minded people who are always “working on themselves” as if they were a public works project, who aren’t practical, and spend their days and nights brooding about cosmic subjects and get starry-eyed when they see a girl doing downward dog.  No way.

When I took social media courses it was always with and clear objective -- with the aim of getting other people to do things – the way my professors expressed it was that my work had to have “a call to action.”  You tell stories and deliver clever messages in order to make people do things that you want them to do. (Note to self and the world -- I always have found the idea of forcing others to do what I want, especially in friendly ways online, totally empowering, and easy -- and at the same time somehow ridiculous and very shameful. I am not sure why.)

Little did I realize, when I was designing Facebook and Twitter campaigns in school or for the hedge fund, as I was totally killing it developing so many websites, that it was all heading to the establishment of my own personal wall.

My wall. No one else’s – my own wall.

I always had a business mind, an analytical mind. I like to know the facts and get to the bottom of things. Since my wall became well known, many people have said that my mindset is very American. I’m flattered. “Your approach to life is what got America to the Moon,” one French cultural writer said. I disagreed at the time, but now I see there was something to what he said.

Anyway, this is probably just how I’m wired. My Dad is a math genius who got into insurance and then opened bowling alleys and pizzerias and now owns half of Columbus. For the record though, I did date several women who were into the humanities, so I understand that field although it is not clear and precise to me. I actually found the humanities to be very annoying but the women were cute. (Note to self and the world – the above observation is a joke and not meant in a pejorative in any way about women who I love and respect and admire, certainly more than I am given credit for.)

Since I have an analytical mind and a bent for greatness, the idea of erecting a perimeter built around myself seemed to mirror the reality that I was experiencing since birth. And not just in New York. My wall became the physical manifestation of my own inner walls.

As I have said, walls are the craze around the country. I mean, what’s trending more than walls? Name any subject – Beyonce, gang shootings, the Kardashians, global child molestation, terrorists, kale, liposuction, Olympic doping -- but none are as popular as walls.

When I came to live in Williamsburg (Note to self and the world -- it seems like every person my age lives in Brooklyn and that has good and bad sides), I started to mix and go to bars and restaurants.

I worked to fit in. My Dad said this was the principle reason for his success. “Be where the action is, son,” he advised me. My Dad hung out in bowling alleys even though he has only one good arm from the war, back in the day, there was a war in Vietnam. But my Dad put that strong left arm to good advantage, believe me. He hung out in bowling alleys, and he practiced with his trusty left arm so that it got to the point where he always threw strikes – always.  And before you knew it, Dad owned all the bowling alleys in Columbus. Then, he started to throw pizza – yes, with that same muscular and precise left arm – and in a few years he bought over 11 pizzerias. I am so proud of my Dad – he has done so much with a huge strike against him. (I never saw my father as being disabled but he is, and a vet on top of it all.) How American. My Dad is my hero.

Now, Dad employs hundreds of disadvantaged young people (he prefers disabled ones like him, but malfunctioning legs are an option- he's open-minded) and even though he is against raising the minimum wage and doesn’t offer health insurance, he takes the kids on an annual field day, and gives scholarships if they get into college.

I’m so proud of my Dad. My Mom calls him her “Superman.” (Note to self and the world – I always thought what my mother called my father was silly, but now I see how true it is, now that I have my own kind of super powers because of the creation of – my wall!)

Immediately, I saw something intriguing when I as hanging out in bars and restaurants and at college with my friends, and it was odd to me. People in New York, maybe around the country, I am not sure (I have to research this more broadly someday) are very friendly, that’s for sure. Americans are the friendliest people in the world, at least the first time. But the next time I saw the same people, and even when I encountered them a second or third time, they acted as if we had never met before. Then it dawned on me -- in America everyone is friendly at first but everyone is really suspicious.

Everyone has invisible walls. We all do, whether we were born here or not. It’s part of our birthright. Every American has the right to bear arms and also to has the right to his or her own wall. So it made perfect sense, profound sense, for me to make my own wall. (Note to self and the world – this realization if not an act of genius, but it is close to it.)

Anyway, while I was finishing my shave, I got my calling. I am not religious but this felt like a religious experience because it wasn’t totally logical and down to the earth. I use an electric razor when I shave. I am afraid of razor blades for some reason – maybe it’s the thought that with a slip I could cut myself, and see blood. I am not sure. (I realize that I have to work on myself to make myself feel more comfortable with blood, my own, and the blood of others. This was another positive byproduct of creating my wall. It became much easier for me to see blood, my own, and the blood of others. This is very convenient, almost essential, in today’s political and social climate.)

“You must build your own world.  This is how you will save yourself and you will save the world. Build your own world, and you will finally do what you have been born to do, as an American, as an enlightened person who is truly a 21st century American Great Man."

The voice in my head got louder, clearer, more insistent, and inspirational.  I had been saved -- by my vision of the wall.

Monday

November 28, 2016

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This is part of a series.