In September, 1939 a dentist in Viceroy, Louisiana placed a human tooth into a jar of Coca Cola and let it stand overnight. The next morning Hitler invaded Poland. A man has a deaf yak. The yak cannot hear. It grew up deaf. And this man speaks to it: “How are you today, King?” “Bow wow,” says the yak one day. Bow wow. And the next day the yak goes “moo.” (Pause.) The animal has no idea of its responsibilities. It knows that something is required of it; it knows that it should make a sound, but it has no idea what that sound is supposed to be. Life is like that. I feel. If it were not one thing it would surely be another. It is, however, one thing. Though it is by no means the same thing. Although it’s always something of that nature.
And kindness starts at home. You cannot beat your pets and come quick on your wife and pretend you forgot to lake the garbage out and go be nice to whales. It’s not right, it’s transparent, and it makes you look bad, too.
Our most cherished illusions — what are they but hastily constructed cofferdams restraining homosexual panic.
Let’s talk about love. (Pause.) Love. My golly, it sells diapers, don’t it!
Love is the mucilage that sticks the tattered ribbons of experience—the stiff construction-paper indians and pumpkins of experience — to the scrapbook of our lives.
And there may be many kinds of love:
Love may be the Rocky Coast of Maine, with boats and salt-spray gooshing up and you all cozy in the rented cabin.
All the others have gone down. Gone down to Boston, gone back to New York. His hands are pressing into the small of your back. His breath is hot upon your shoulder. You have come to write and he has forced the lock. You’ve never seen this man, he followed you home from the pier. But do you care? You care very much. You whack him with the cover of your typewriter. Whack, whack, whack. Whack, whack, whack. Whack, whack, whack. You hit him on the head. And he gets off, he pulls his trousers up and leaves. (Pause.) You go back to work. You’re typing. “September 18th. Today dawned bleak and sere and I was up 10 see it. Surely there must be an end to time…”
You look down to read back your sentence to yourself. What do you see but weak and colorless impressions. Your ribbon has run out. Oh well, that’s a fair excuse to go up to the Lodge to share a cup of coffee with the Kind Old Woman who runs the resort.
You open the door. You breathe in the cold, life-giving spray. The Old Man from the Pier hits you on the head with an oar and he jumps on your bones. And this time he had brought his friends.
And what of Death? (Pause.) What of it? That’s my question. All of us are going to die, but nobody believes it. And if we did believe it we would not go to the office. We would call in sick.
Everybody’s talking about “Death.” Nobody’s been there. Yes, yes, yes, there is a rash of testimony to the effect that Ms So-and-So or Mr. Whossis once was dead for thirty-seconds, or something, and it was just like going through a car wash.
You lay back and it is warm and wet outside. But you feel nothing. Whiirrrr, whiirrrr, and here comes the soap. And everything clouds over. Then you hear a hum. And that must be the brushes. Everything goes white, then black, then white again. You feel a buffeting. There is a wall of water/ It cascades over the windshield, welting all, and driving off the sludge, the salt, the road-dirt and the soap. Until you’re clean. You’re clean.
Then comes the hot wax.— analogous in the experience of death to—what? (Pause.) Exactly. Hot wax coursing for a mere half-dollar more with ten bucks worth of gas. (Well worth it) making your car shine. Shine on. Shine on, my car. (Pause.)
Five youths dressed in coveralls drop upon you like ministering angels, rub your imperfections out and then move on. You’d better tip them, though, cause you’ll be back this way again! There you go. Out into traffic. And how proud you feel. And why not? (Pause.) this is death. You’ve been there before, you say… well, you’re going there again.
And sickness. Is it real?
And suffering? (Pause.) Are they real? (Pause.)
Yesterday a man was going to the supermarket. There he went. Upon some errand. His head full of news or gossip. Fiscal problems… (They are never really far away…) He turned the corner and he trod upon the mat which would open the door, and he walked on. The door, however, some of you have already guessed, did not open. Not a jot. (Pause.) He slammed right into it and broke his nose.
His blood flowed. As many times may happen, attendant upon a sharper blow to that area—particularly such a blow to one unused to violent contact —he began to cry. (Pause.)
Many who had seen his accident were laughing at the picture that is made. And then we heard him cry. And then he turned, and then we saw the blood. (Pause.)
“I’ve broke my nose,” he rather oinked. “I’ve broke my nose, and you all think it’s funny. (Pause.) He could not think of what to say; a phrase which might instill in us, the spectators who deigned to ridicule his pain, shame or remorse. His mind searched for a curse. (Pause.) “Fuck you”, he said. (Pause.) Fuck you.
What is required of us? To whom do we owe allegiance, and is this a laughing matter, or should we just mope around as if the dog died?
This is a good question, and, in conclusion let me say the following:
A traveler is in the desert. He has lost his way. He has no water. And he is near death. Far off he sees a mountain. In the distance. Far away. Ice encapsulates its top and flows in freshets down its sides, and becomes springs and rivers. Cool, fresh water, redolent of trout. Clean, unpolluted, there for all to drink, to bathe in, to enjoy. And he knows it is a mirage. (Pause.) There is no mountain there. There is but desert. But he trudges on toward it in any case. (Pause.) Whom should we identify with in this story? (Pause.) How many thought the trout? It’s not the trout. It’s not the trout at all. We’ve all been down. We’ve all been at the end of our rope. We all know what it is to call on powers —and let’s pray that they exits—far greater than ourselves; to call out, “Lord… Lord, this world of yours sucks hippo dick, I just can’t hack it anymore. “And what answer was forthcoming? (Pause.) Exactly.
Therefore, let’s smile. Let’s slap a silly grin on our face that says to all the world, “Yes, I see what’s going on, but I’m pretending not to notice. I see the misery… the pain… the hopes frustrated in our daily lives… the fear of loneliness… the fear of death…” I’m going to skip to the end of this list… “… and through it all I smile, and I say, with the prophets: ‘Lo, this world has been the same a great long while. It all shall be the same a. hundred years from now —probably sooner.’ ” (Pause.)
And that’s it.
Therefore be well. Peace to you. Be very kind to one another in your daily lives. And clean up when you’re done.
Good evening, and Amen.
