DEAR PHILLY: (STEVE WALLS)

DEAR PHILLY: Man... is there any state other than boredom or desperation? I'm beginning to doubt it. Steve Walls, Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

DEAR STEVE: Don't you hate it when people say, "you have no idea"? It's actually pretty rare these days that I don't find myself hating anything anyone says. It's not even what they say really, it's the ease or the confidence in which they say it. Once you've reached a certain place in your life you begin to realize that there's no longer anything anyone can tell you that could help you in any way ever again. Think of all the books we've read, all the great films we've watched, the paintings we've seen, the music, and look where it's left us. Never has an artist had more to work with and yet never has there been more proof that nothing we could ever do will ever make a difference. Why? Well, because unless you're a fucking idiot, you realize the entire fucking thing has become one great big ball of ever hardening shit. You know, sometimes I do try to look on the bright side, and I see it, I DO, but all things considered, it's about like being thankful for your 30 minutes a day in the prison yard. And here's the twist to that concept. It is people like us that are actually able to see those rare fragments of light. We were given a different set of eyes, eyes which I like to think would be able to still see the beauty even in that prison yard, I don't know, maybe watching an ant carrying a blade of grass or how a rock rolls across the dirt when you kick it, or just seeing your own shadow moving along the wall. I like to think of people like us as strange deep sea creatures who've been hooked and reeled up onto some boat. I honestly feel I do have a valid excuse for my situation as I had no idea what I was until it was much too late. Anyway, I could go on and on about our pathetic plight during these last years of human existence on this earth. Branch by branch our rivers clog. Day after day. It's as natural as anything. We haven't a clue what releases the forces which destroy us as most things in our lives happen too far upstream. All in all, I must say what sickens me most about people is the way they pretend that what is happening is not actually happening. So, my dear friend, your question to me is refreshingly honest, "is there any state other than boredom or desperation?" Well, I suppose there's still that brief pause between the shock of either, that little oasis of time when I typically decide to pluck my eyebrows or cut my toenails, or maybe I'll read a page or two of Carver? The hang time before that pendulum swings the other direction. Anyway, here I am sitting in the kitchen, drinking another cup of coffee while I'm writing this. Sarah's in the living room, feeding the baby, while Henry's being a good boy, playing with Play-Doh. Above it all, what I really want to tell you is that I keep looking over at this stick of yellow butter beside me. And I gotta say, brother, of all the people I know in this world, I have the most confidence that you will believe me when I tell you that I'm finding tremendous beauty in that stick of butter. It is as if it contains everything I could ever possibly need to know. Other than that, the only other thing I have to say is that it's also quite possible that the real reason we feel so hapless is because Dylan has simply nailed it over the last decade or so with those incredible collages. I mean, does a higher plane even exist?
     Ya know, his morning I awoke from a dream about a bowl of chickpeas. That's it, just bowl of chickpeas, a couple of dozen seasoned at the bottom of a bowl. I looked up and saw Henry standing there beside the bed. "Daddy, Daddy, I peed! I peed, Daddy!" We go downstairs and I change him. He's 3 &1/2 now and still in diapers. His diaper is as heavy as a wet beach towel. I carry it along with a couple of empty beer bottles from the night before and we go into the kitchen. I set the bottles down and I throw away the diaper. I then go over and open the cabinet. "Alright, what do you want? You want FruityOs or Special K?"

     "Special K," he says.

     "Really?"

     "Yeah."

     I pour him a bowl and carry it with his little table and chair over in front of the TV. He sits down and I put his cereal in front of him, find the changer, and flip on the TV. "No! No! Not this one! I don't like this one!"

     "I know!" I say, "Calm down, I'm turning it."

     "There! There! That one, Daddy! That one!"

     "Okay, okay!"

     I go and make coffee. I stand there for a couple of moments, watching and listening to the water drip. That's when I first looked over and noticed the stick of butter. And I guess with that, my friend, I shall leave you with something I might dare consider a poem. To me it captures one of the first times I felt that terrible tension I would have to live with for the remainder of my childhood:      

THE RACK

I remember once when I was a kid

way before my mother got sick 

I was playing with my army men 

in the living room when something 

possessed me to go into the kitchen

I arrived just as my mother pulled

open the top rack of the dishwasher
and the whole thing came crashing
down and all the glasses shattered
and my father stormed in and stood
there behind her huffing bright red
with his fists clenched at his sides
"What the hell happened?" he yelled,
"I told you to be careful with that!"
she could not answer, all she could
do was stand there and not answer