Fugue: 1 a: a musical composition in which one or two themes are repeated or imitated by successively entering voices and contrapuntally developed in a continuous interweaving of
the voice parts b: something that resembles a fugue especially in interweaving repetitive elements
2: a disturbed state of consciousness in which the one affected seems to perform acts in full awareness but upon recovery cannot recollect the acts performed
One of the first things a kid learns about life is that that it can change as quickly as a snow cone will melt in July. Both just happen and both – if not careful will leave one with a sticky messy feeling
Adults that have a difficult time with change. No one else is aware of change.
In fact by the time most of us understand change we’re too old to really do anything about it except accept the way it sneaks up on us in the guise of a visceral hunger. Us being the meal… and as far as meals go - meals not being too brainy - we are left to believing that time will heal, ease, or fix anything that change feels a need to fling at us.
Big Whoop!!
Because… time does not heal, fix or ease, it just creates distance.
However, it does manage to toss in a few this and that(s) every now and again to the mix to confuse us into thinking we’re better off, but that’s just how change rolls. Now pay close attention, cuz if not, your snow cone is likely to melt.
There are two rules to change.
Rule 1: Change comes in two stages. First there is the essence of change as an illusion followed up with the sweet aftertaste of reality. The first savory bit lasts up to about age six whereas the second stretch then kicks in and hangs around for the rest of one’s life.
Rule 2: Get used to Rule 1.
Change as “Illusion”
Remember The Deviant Admonishments? They were those creepy little creatures that lived under your bed or just behind slightly opened closet doors or seemingly quiet cabinets or poorly lit whispering corners. And they were busy little creatures too. Busy with having to tally up all your bad deeds for the day, reckoning with all the little things that you were told not to do and yet were done, by you. And as they lay in wait for the lights to go out you just knew they were devising devilish methods in which to make you see the errors of your ways.
Like ripping off one of your arms and eating it as you watch or they would quibble over which one was going to scoop out one or both of your eyes with a soup spoon for dessert.
One’s best defense against The Admonishments would be to have the bedtime storyteller tell you one more tale where the prince won out, or how all the sweet little elves would spend their day building gingerbread cities for the deprived hungry children in far-a-way lands. And as your eyelids wrestled with that ‘one more’ story you could always depend on that megar last defense of: “could you leave the hallway light on.” Which they would – for five minutes.
Armed with a pillowcase full of delicate and insightful promises to yourself to do better, you would strike a deal with the night to hold back The Deviant Admonishments, sleep would come, morning would arrive and your day was yours. New.
That was six years old.
Seven rolls up and Illusion sees light. You finally come to terms with the ideal that bedroom walls never did house creatures in the dark, that it was all just a ruse to keep things orderly.
Enter stage two.
Your first slice of reality arrives in sporadic daily ten minute segments waiting in the parking lot, in the car. Doors locked, windows up, don’t talk to anyone. Routine and mantra all in one big breath… You never see any of the other parents in the parking lot and think perhaps it’s just as well.
And the walls once again reveals life in ten minute segments along with bags that clink and rattle.
Don’t do that! How many times do I have to tell you? Won’t you ever learn? God Damn It! Why can’t you be like you’re brother? Do you think I enjoy this? Stop that! Wait ‘till your father gets home. Don’t make a mess. Clean up that mess. I’m not the maid. You’re not leaving the table until that plate is clean. Eat! Go to bed. If Johnny jumped off a bridge would you? If you’re going to act like a brat I will treat you like a brat. I love you. Stop that!
Next day like the last day… the agenda flowing from a new ten minute segment
Just because your teacher thinks you’re an angel doesn’t mean shit here. Oh you know I love you. Take those shoes off before coming in here, how many times do I have to tell you the same damn thing? Go get mommy a glass, I’m really tired. Leave you’re sister alone she hasn’t done a god damn thing to you. You wanna cry? I’ll give you something to cry about. Clean up your room. I already have a job. You’re such a good little boy. Get mommy some ice. Be quiet. Go outside and play. I have a headache. Be quiet.
Ten minutes forever.
Just outside of Reading, California in the summer of 1974 there was an explosion at the Shade All Paint factory. From what I can remember there was something like 400 people killed, mostly line workers. This didn’t sit well in the sleepy hollow of nowhere.
After all Reading supplied most of the paint to surrounding states and without a paint factory and paint factory workers they were just another little town in the middle of nowhere stuck with trees and logging trucks hating one another.
But that’s not what stuck out in my mind in this horrible disaster, it was the ad that they ran in the Reading Sentinel the following day. They had asked for a crew of 200 to come in and rake, shovel and scoop what was left of the plant into the last remaining, in tack, still functioning 140,000 gallon paint mixer. This operation as described by the mayor at the time was to set up a memorial paint extravaganza in honor and remembrance of all those that were lost. That and the fact that someone had to clean up the mess... The debris was not only restricted to the twisted, distorted and mangled building structure and foundation but also included what they could find of the 400 people that died in the explosion.
This was rather a daunting task because at times one didn’t know if they were shoveling human remains or items from the lunch and dinner menu from the company cafeteria. Was that part of a baloney sandwich or someone’s grandma? A question that would be pondered over by many. It made for a weird work day. All that I knew was that I was not there to ask why. I had a job to do.
After compiling the debris and mush matter into wheel barrels the night crew would place the jumble into the last remaining, in tack, still functioning 140,000 gallon paint mixer and every four hours or so the crew would add various hues and tints found in the United Paint Mixers Cornucopia of Color spreadsheet that we had Googled earlier in the week.
It was my placement along with Candice as color coordinators in this memorial extravaganza to name the new colors. I wanted to go with the names from the basic color wheel but Candice thought that perhaps we should take into consideration all the folks in
Reading
that had lost loved ones in the disaster and name the new colors appropriately. Here are a few of the names we came up with.
- Rhino Red in honor of Reading’s long time Irish family: The O’Malley’s
- Cornflower Blue in honor of the weatherman’s loss.
- Antique Bubble Blanched White.
- Really Dark Orange
- Really Dark Green
- Cholo Khaki.
- Immigrant Violet
- Dim Sum Gray
- Floral Fuchsia
And one of my favorites,
I could go on but we are talking about the dead and for Christ sakes there were 400 of them. It’s not like the 75th Crayola anniversary where you only have to deal with 120 colors.
After the naming we canned the paint puppies up in pint cans so as to get the most out of our efforts and then through our distributors sold them first to the local commerce and then to the surrounding states. It’s a great product but I suggest using it for outdoor décor due to the particles.
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Photo taken in the parking lot of Circus Liquor at the corner of Vineland and Burbank Blvd in North Hollywood. March 12,2007
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odney always thought it natural to
ponder death as one
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