Poetry & Blindfolds

When I first heard that Mad Jack, my father with whom I had not spoken in several years, died, I admit to having chuckled and saying, “It’s about time.”  Gradually, however, the spectre of that man’s timely demise has been following me like Peter Pan’s shadow.  And I’m not sure what to make of it.

The oddest thing is that I am suddenly keenly aware of all of the attributes, actions and defense mechanisms I have painstakingly put in place over the last thousand years.  It’s like I’ve been jerked out of sync with myself, and can clearly see that when I make a joke, it is rooted in insecurity as much as it is in  humor.  I can sense it in my walk, which is at times stooped slightly forward as if I am opposing some unfelt wind.  I can sense it in my cartooons, which I intend as merely funny but which carry a pall of horror just beneath the surface.  I can sense it in my time alone, when I am usually writing or plucking away at my new banjo, silenly hoping that the time alone will pass as quickly as possible.  I can sense it in my intolerance, which has edged up a notch in the last few weeks, so much so that I killed another myspace persona of mine – Olaf – and morphed him into a profile for a cartoon character of mine called Racist AIDS Monkey, who randomly goes out and insults people (this is not a plug; I wouldn’t recommend befriending him).

An ironic thing is that, at times, I break free of all of that baggage and I feel very warm and loving.  The problem with that is that is like coming out of therapy with a new look on the world, but the world itself hasn’t gone through the therapy and is hardly receptive.  So I wind up jolted back into the eerie out-of-sync-itude mentioned above.

I am very uncomfortable finding myself the beneficiary of more than just property and bonds: I have gained, somehow, a full-length mirror belonging to sone long, lost older twin.  And it scares the living crap out of me.

To either tackle these issues head-on, or avoid them altogether (I haven’t decided which), I am going to take the play I’ve been working on – all about losing a parent, by some freaky coincidence – and do a public readthrough/analysis/workshop of it next Monday.  If you’re in Chicago and want to see some author/actor go through some real-life therapy for free, email me and I’ll tell you the where and when.  I think I’m on the right track, as my myspace friend, Cranky Ricky, who inspired one of the roles and who is going to come along Monday to read it, told me it was “delightfully painful.”

Now that’s comedy.

 

 

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