Tag Archives: Neville Cole

The Soulard Swing

21 Monday Apr 2014

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The 460 riders of the satirical Krewe D'Etat turn onto St. Charles Avenue as they roll down the traditional Uptown route with their 22-float presentation entitled "The Dictator's Reading Room" Friday, Feb. 8, 2013 in New Orleans. (AP Photo/The Times-Picayune, Michael DeMocker) MAGS OUT; NO SALES; USA TODAY OUT; THE BATON ROUGE ADVOCATE OUT

From: The Buddha of Soulard by Neville Cole

Mardi Gras is winding down for the night. Geary St. is a ghost town.

“It’s Monday, okay, but this is bizarre,” thinks Buddha Bailey. He pronounces bizarre bee-zah in his head. Buddha likes making up new ways to say old words. He can’t hardly help it. For a moment Buddha stops in his track to ponder a realization: tomorrow’s the parade, the biggest day of the year. Could it be the whole of Soulard has gone home early to rest? That didn’t seem likely. Buddha never gave a thought about resting. Long after midnight, three hundred and sixty-five nights a year, you will find him wandering the streets of Soulard with his big bass drum, sound system, trumpet, ukulele, and assorted odds and sods in tow.

When Buddha reaches his mother’s door he takes things real slow. He cracks the door all silent like and avoids the light switch so as to avoid his ol’ Ma. Yeah, Buddha still lives at home. I don’t want to get into that right now. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s pretty late and very dark and maybe even that Buddha is a little tipsy. That’s why he’s trying to creep as quiet as a mouse, you see, but his damn Doc Martens they are squeaking with each timid little step (like mice, come to think of it), so Buddha, he figures he will kick them buggers off. Big mistake. How so? I’m trying to tell you. Picture this. Buddha is making his way, shoulder to the wall (again, much like a mouse would do), and, sure enough, just as mice often do when that travel this way, Buddha walks right into a trap.

Now, this is something I suggest you avoid if you can. In fact, one the last things you wanna be stepping on in socks is a rat trap. That thing snaps shut and Buddha hurls himself away from the wall and starts twirling round and round like of them whirling dervish fellas until he can’t spin no more and then, he topples. “Timber!” some subconscious lumberjack cries and, before he can right the ship, inertia takes over and crunch-snap-grunt-thump… Buddha Bailey is down but good.

“Don’t move!” a hysterical voice cries out from the void. “I’ve got a gun.”

Buddha makes out Ma, silhouetted in the faint moonlight glinting in at the end of the hall. She’s swinging something large and threatening around her head. Before he can think to speak, she clobbers him right on the noggin.

“Ow! Fuck Ma!” Buddha howls.

“David Patrick Bailey,” his mother screeches. “You scared me half to death!”

“You nearly beat me whole to death. Jesus, Ma! I’m bleeding here!”

“What are you doing creeping round in the middle on the night stinking like a sewer rat? And why didn’t you say it was you when I gave you the chance?”

“You call that a chance? That was assault and battery. You done brained me so bad I’ll bet I probly get some kinda syndrome.

“A couple of classes at community college and this one thinks he a lawyer,” Ma says all snide like. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown away that scholarship you coulda been one; but you decided to be a street bum instead.”

Buddha got a feeling as soon as them words left her mouth Ma regretted saying them ‘cause she quickly changed the subject. “Get yourself into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up some comfort food,” says she. “I might as well put this frying pan to proper use now that I done got it out. You want some eggs and bacon, baby boy?”

“Mmm, okay,” Buddha replies and hauls himself up off the floor. Things were definitely getting worse round the Bailey place and things had never been good. But bacon sizzles and eggs bubble and Buddha’s skull throbs and those two miserable sods say nothing further until the midnight snack hits the table just out of Buddha’s reach. He leans over to grab it with a heavy sigh.

“What’s the matter with you now?” Ma snaps; then, without so much as a heartbeat she yaps on and on: “I swear to Jesus in heaven,” says she, “I never did see such mope in my life.” Ma sits down to the table and lights up a smoke.”

“Nothing’s the matter, Ma,” Buddha lies, “I just got things on my mind is all.” Then he starts up to go grab a beer but crazy old Ma she beats him to it.

“Sit. You eat. I’ll fetch you a beer,” says she. “It’s the least I can do, I suppose.” Mean ‘ol Ma is out of her chair and to the fridge before you can say Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Well, before Buddha could anyways. He always did have trouble with that bloody stupid word. “How’s that head of yours?” Ma says as sweet as parsnip (that is, not too bloody sweet-ha ha). “Has the bleeding stopped? she adds.”

“I’m fine,” Buddha mumbles. ‘Cause honest how he gonna stay mad with a big plate of bacon sitting under his chin?

“Well, just maybe I knocked some sense into you.” Ma says as she sets a beer in his vicinity and drops a half-smoked, still burning butt near an already overloaded ashtray. Buddha never seen her like this in years. You would of thunk she was conducting Beethoven’s Fifth with all the waving and pointing she was carrying on with.

“Anyway, I glad we got this chance to talk. There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you all day long,” says Ma. “I was speaking today to that nice Mr. Fletcher, today. The one from bingo?” She looks at Buddha like he should know all them idiots who go down the Lafayette Bingo Hall of a Wednesday; but he just shrugs so she goes on. “He owns that Fletcher’s Pawn” says she, “and he’s looking for someone just like you to help him out. Isn’t that the most wonderful news?”

All Buddha could hear was “Dah dah dah duuuummm. Dah dah dah duuuummm.” But once he figured she had finally shut up and was waiting on him to speak, he goes: “I got plenty of jobs, Ma.” Buddha is sucker for punishment you probably noticed. What they call a sadocist.

“I’m talking regular employment, Buddha” she starts up again. Doris Bailey only calls her son Buddha when she’s trying to butter him up. She’s such a broken record, he can’t even listen no more but she goes on conducting nevertheless. “This is a real job, Buddha. Not that two-bit hustling you get up to every night. Besides, this is a day job. You can carry on with all that other business any time you want.”

Buddha can’t but help himself, and he tries to explain to her one more time: “Things are just starting to come together for me, Ma.” Says he, sweet as can be. “They might hire me and the Soulard Swing as a regular band at Big Daddy’s after tomorrow. I done a tryout tonight already.”

“And what will that pay, pray tell?” Ma snaps. “All the beer you can drink?” Meanwhile I’m left keeping the lights on on my disability alone? I already told you. You can get up to whatever mischief you want nights and weekends but you are going to see Frank Fletcher tomorrow and get yourself an honest income ‘cause I’m here to tell you the gravy train has left the station. It’s time for you to pull your own weight.”

At the mention of weight Buddha stops ‘cause he knows that a punchline is soon to follow. And sure enough after two beats she adds: “All two tonnes of it…or whatever you up to now!” Bah-dum-dum.

Buddha don’t like fat jokes. He sits in silence and imagines he’s alone. This trick sometimes gets her to leave the room; but not tonight.

“Well?” says Ma.

“I can’t go down tomorrow. It’s parade day, Ma! I’ll pull in two hunderd easy. I’ll see that Mr. Fletcher fella right after Mardi Gras, I promise.”

“Mardi Gras ain’t nothing special, you know,” says the all-knowing, all seeing St. Doris. “It’s not Christmas day. It’s just an excuse to get drunk instead of going to work. You want to do something special tomorrow? Get yourself out of bed bright and early and go see Mr. Fletcher first thing, ‘cause I’m telling you right now, if you don’t…well, you don’t have bother coming home again.”

There’s no point arguing anymore once she’s dropped the “don’t bother coming home again” line. Buddha knows least that much by now. So he just say, “fine,” and push himself back from the table. “I’ll drop by and talk to him in the morning,” he says as he head out the door. “I just hope he don’t mind me wearing my parade day get up.”

Buddha’s already out the door and she don’t try following him. Still, he can hear her screeching down the hall. “You’re not even a real Catholic, you know. Well, I don’t think you are, anyway. Who knows for sure? Mardi Gras…” Ma says bitterly. Ain’t even a real holiday.”

“Thanks, Ma!” Buddha calls back happily. “Good talk.” Then, before she can say another word, he shuts the door behind him. Peace at last.

Like a smoker desperate for a puff, Buddha whips out his ukulele. It’s the only thing he’s allowed to play this late at night. Ma cries out again at the very first strum: “And don’t stay up all night plunking that damn ukulele,” she bitches. “I’m not deaf, you know. I’m blind.”

“Blind my foot,” Buddha says so quiet only ghosts and spirits could hear. “You don’t miss a thing.” With that he sits up, puts down the uke, reaches for his pen and writes.

Mean Ma’s Swing he jots. Then he scribbles a call and response. She blind as a bat / But she don’t miss a thing / Hold on to ya hat / When that Mean Ma Swings! It weren’t going to be easy for the Soulard Swing to record this. It will probably take three dozen takes at least. But, Buddha knows: if you’re gonna be a one man jazz band you got to have plenty of patience, perfect timing, and you got to know how to swing.

Underground Men

21 Friday Feb 2014

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Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1879

Story by Neville Cole

My latest project is The Underground Men, an informal band of literary brothers led by the original Underground Man, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The Underground Men are willing to serve just about any intent or purpose for a nominal fee

 

Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway

Here follows the first meeting between Dostoyevsky and Hemingway during which they discuss matters of the heart.

What is LOVE, Mr. Hemingway?

An uppish fellow named Hemingway came by my office today. I could not endure him. He was earnest enough but simply would not be humble. He was: “just up from the Keys and soon was bound for Cuba,” he said. He carried with him a typewriter with which he punctuated his sentences by clanking its keys in a disgusting way.  He was, he noted with smug glee, a writer of some artfulness and, much as I hate to add, displayed a rugged charm that many (I’m sure) find intoxicating.

I decided to probe him relentlessly OUT OF SPITE. For I sensed our interaction had turned and I was now on trial, not he. He paraded the room, clanking those damn keys (a ROYAL typewriter, no surprise) while I hunkered in the corner behind my desk, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in this century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of fifty years. I am fifty years old now, and you know fifty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than fifty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond fifty? Answer that sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! … Stay, let me take breath.

You imagine no doubt that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) and so, begrudgingly, I return to my interview with Hemingway.

“You strike me, sir,” I interrupted him mid-clank, “as a somewhat mercurial, volatile, extreme even, someone who did and still does terrible things.”

“True.” He answered simply, without elaboration bar the raising of one glorious eyebrow. “Yet I have known and married several incredible women, not pushovers, independent, feisty, fearless and clever and each one tolerated my behavior, my wandering eye and my forever fondling hands. If I had been such a monster all the time, I don’t think any would have stuck around.

Hemingway and Jean

Hemingway and Jean

Such confidence! Such boasts! Yet, this was no veneer, gentleman. I cannot exaggerate the incredible depths of his charisma and he was, of course, jaw-droppingly handsome to boot.

“Sir,” I finally interjected. “This is all well and good, but The Agency, you understand, has certainly expectations. An Underground Man must have qualifications beyond peer.”

“Ask me your questions,” he said directly, finally setting aside his typewriter, “I tell no lies. Lies are for men who have never had to fight off their last breath. Lies are for those who will not stand before the charging bull. The man who has killed the lion knows the only truth there is. Only he will not lie.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I get the point. You are, it is clear, a man of words and letters. That is good. Our clients are more in love with words than money or looks. Why sir! They are more in love with words than life. But words… (I asked this ONLY to try and catch him up) Don’t you find words have their limit? What more can you offer a woman of means than words?”

“NO!” Hemingway bellowed like a bull elephant struck a heavy blow. He instantly pulled himself to his full height and began to pace the floor with heavy, crushing steps his eyes blood red and his fist pounding any piece of furniture that dared cross his circuitous path.

“Words are the only means,” he cried. “You see, a conversation with a woman is like moves of a chess game in which you must be careful not to stare and not to look away. If she’s angry, you can’t tell her to calm down or else she will scream louder; if she’s depressed, you can’t tell her to cheer up or else she will cry harder. If she’s anything besides angry or depressed, you’re not speaking with a woman. (In which case: congratulations.) And if you suggest a solution to whatever inconsequentiality has vexed her now—because you’re capable of logic—she’ll just go crazier, and then neglect to thank you when your brilliant fix works. Because she doesn’t want you to solve her problems; she wants you to validate her invalid emotions. She doesn’t want to hear your voice of reason; she wants to hear her voice complaining, and wants to make it the soundtrack of your life. To hell with women, anyway. If there’s one thing I hate it’s bullshit. And women exhale bullshit like men exhale carbon dioxide. I won’t put up with bullshit. When I’m with a woman I lay it out straight. Take off your pants, baby, I say. We’re all friends here. Let me tell you something: I was a perfect husband to my wives. Aside from cheating on them in quick succession. And, uh, slapping one. But like I like to say at the end of a first date: I didn’t want to kiss you goodbye — that’s the trouble — I want to kiss you good night — and there’s a lot of difference.”

“You have a highly original view of love,” I noted finally after he stopped pacing but then I held my tongue for I could see he was still talking but quietly now, almost reverently:

“I believe that in love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing. And when the man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face like some rhino hunters I know or Belmonte, who is truly brave, it is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds. Until it returns, as it does to all men. And then you must make really good love again. Think about it.”

“Sir,” I said, when I could see that he had no more in him to spare. “Welcome to the Underground Men.”

You can follow more tales of the Underground Men at -iamasickman.wordpress.com

My Finest Hour

19 Tuesday Nov 2013

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Story and Photograph by Neville Cole

Here’s a snarky little snippet I wrote many years ago after appearing in an amateur play with a scene-stealing, bit-part player with a single line of dialogue and some baffling concepts of stage blocking who succeeded in his quest to be the most memorable part of the production.

I don’t mean to belittle Mr. Olivier; but widespread praise of his accomplishments should be tempered with the realization that… he was given all the great roles. I should have liked to have seen Olivier tackle some less than perfect material. Frankly put, I should have liked to have seen what he would’ve made of some of the roles I’ve had to contend with!

For example, when I first arrived in this country I took on a minor role in an entirely forgettable play by one of your more mediocre local talents. A role, I might add, that had but a single line of dialogue. Yet, I was able to draw so much from my character that my performance was pivotal to the arc of the rest of the play.

I remember as if it were just yesterday; the tidal wave of anticipation that washed across the audience as I made my entrance, throwing open the door of the diner with an almighty shove of my crutch, striding downstage center with crutch in hand and chilies aloft to mysteriously announce: “I’ve got the chilies for the Chili Special.” I tell you the whole theater was transfixed. Even my fellow thespians could not help but take full stock.

I must note here that it was my choice to play my character as a cripple. No such direction had been written into the rather vague description of my role. Still, I am utterly convinced the moment absolutely made the play…and to think now of the torment I had to endure to ensure that it happened at all!

I had to battle the director tooth and nail throughout the entire rehearsal process. From the first table read I was convinced that the cook was clearly an emotionally crippled individual – what else could explain someone who hangs around on stage for so long and yet has so very little to say? I proposed on a daily basis that this inner subtext cried out for physical representation.

The director did allow me to “try” my ideas during rehearsal but, at the last hour, he tried to sabotage all my creative endeavours.  I shudder to think that the whole performance could have been for naught simply because an inexperienced director was unable to understand some very basic blocking concepts. He claimed to have never heard of the “upstage” rule. I literally spent several hours trying to explain to him that in the theater a cripple always drags his upstage leg. Eventually, when it became clear that I was never going educate this neophyte with mere words, I “agreed” to “do it his way.”

Thankfully for all concerned I had a change of heart moments before I hit the stage on opening night.

Needless to say, my bold choice absolutely made the play. The critics could talk of little else. In fairness, I must say that it was clear from many of the comments that few in attendance that night seemed able to conceptually grasp exactly what they had witnessed; but aren’t all truly great performances just a little ahead of their time?

Looking back, I do view that role, and specifically that particular moment, as my finest hour for the simple reason that against such unfathomable odds I was able to dive deep into my own soul and pull out a moment of pure theater magic.

It is what all true artist live for and, quite frankly, I don’t believe Mr. Olivier could have done any better. Beside, did you ever notice? He has very cold eyes.

Old Notes

09 Saturday Nov 2013

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duranty

Story by Neville Cole

I recently uncovered an old notebook; squirreled away for over thirty years. It contains some fine memories. For one, I was reminded that in my late teens and early twenties I listened to fine art as much as I looked at it. I wandered regularly into galleries and flipped often through Art books in those days. When I did, I usually jotted down things I heard the paintings say.

Here’s one of those ramblings…told to me by Edgar Degas’ Portrait of Duranty.

Edgar Degas' Portrait of Duranty

Edgar Degas’ Portrait of Duranty

There are, I find, now periods of time – on occasion weeks in length – during which I am lost. Melancholy is a most peculiar infirmity: a wellspring of vague doubts that bubble up quietly at first but inevitably threaten to pour forth into an inferno of misery. My head aches. My ears ring incessantly. Tears press up behind my eyes and I rack my brain – my dammed rational brain – for a reason, for a clue, for an excuse.

And here’s the story Mr. Clark told as I listened to Hockney’s Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy.

 hockney

Actually, the whole episode was rather painless. I drew up the papers myself; which is ironic as I had written our vows as well – the alpha and omega, as it were. My guess is it was never meant to be. We were too alike. There was no spark. It was all too damn comfortable. But, that’s past life now. Only Percy remains. Christine remarried within a year and, though I will confess I haven’t been a saint, I’ve spent most nights here alone… and most mornings too it’s just me with a cup of tea and Percy on my knee sitting at my window watching the city wake. Percy isn’t bothered all at, of course. My brother was right. He always told me: “Never get rid of a good cat.”

I’m still meandering through my old things – it’s something you do after you turn fifty, I guess – but I’m looking forward to digging up a few more memories. I can only hope I find something (anything) inside that isn’t positively dripping with teen angst.

#strangerparadise3: Sweet Dane

10 Monday Jun 2013

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nev sweetdane

Story by Neville Cole

Robbie wanders aimlessly thru the 24/7. He has always seen the world from 30,000 feet. Where others see impediments and obstructions he sees the path of least resistance. When others are overwhelmed by the constant immediacy of change he can always see events unfolding beyond the horizon. But for the first time in his short life Robbie Marley is stumped.

“I’ll have a pack of Marlboro Greens, thanks.” Robbie says finally.

“Can I see some ID?”

“Seriously?” Robbie thought. “Of all the nights, this is the last thing I need right now…a convenience clerk with an attitude.”

“I’m just kidding, man,” the clerk laughed. “Pinners or blunts?”

“Blunts,” Robbie replies unsmiling.

“No problemo, hombre.” The clerk reaches for the pack then pauses once more before handing over the merchandise. “Sorry for busting your balls, Robbie. I just didn’t know you were an herbalist.”

“I’m not,” Robbie snaps, grabbing the pack from the moron’s hand and tossing $40 on the counter. “Keep the change, asshole.”

Robbie is more mad at himself than the idiot behind the counter. Ever since weed had become widely legal, he has been surrounded by stumbling grunts and precisely because of stupid twats like that clerk he always keeps his mind focused and busy. But tonight is no usual night. Tonight he would not be popping a Tramadol or an Adderall and staying up until 4am. His father’s life lays in the balance and tonight Robbie Marley is going to follow the path of his namesake and get wasted.

Robbie and his dad have never been close. How could he connect with a man who was either off circling the globe or shut up in his office planning his next adventure? Was he really supposed to feel affection for a man so wrapped up in himself that if he ever did come to Robbie to talk it sounded like nothing more than an all-out attack? Robbie’s dad spent his career traveling the world making documentaries and yet never taught his only son how to edit. Everything Robbie learned he taught himself. As a mentor and guide Dick Marley was less than useless and as a result Robbie felt little but open delight as he watched his father finally fall apart. Because of his father’s emotional rejection, Robbie had gleefully turned his parent’s dissolution into a comic farce for the world’s amusement. Because his parents were so clearly mismatched, he felt no guilt in pushing them past the brink and he secretly scorned them for so easily agreeing to accept their roles in his grand reality experiment; but yet, now, as the possibility of a surprise ending draws near he feels a longing he has never before experienced. Robbie Marley’s heart finally aches.

He takes a long hit of the greenie and closes his eyes. He sees a stage before him not a screen. Robbie is used to viewing his world as a film but this is old school dreaming. The curtain draws back to reveal a castle wall enveloped in fog and a bright full moon set against a dark night sky. He sees himself, dressed all in black, enter from stage right…and then the character on the stage begins to sing:

Stay with me,

Let time pass slow

Stay with me,

They bury you down below

Stay a while,

Hear my call

Stay a while,

This is the very last night of all

From far above the proscenium, Dick Marley floats into view and staring off at a distant horizon he joins his son in song.

The westward star far burns so bright

It stays with me throughout the night

The moon too soon will stalk away

And fade from white to blackest grey

I am shipwright frozen to the ice

On a sea of fire called paradise

The earth is hard, the air hangs cold

The world was made for men more bold

Robbie sings more urgently now, desperate to draw his father’s attention.

Stay with me

Why must you go?

Stay with me

There’s so much more to know

Stay a while,

Hear my call

Stay a while,

This is the very last night of all

Dick drifts slowly off stage left never once averting his gaze.

The morn I see is clad in red

The sun will rise to find me dead

My life is gone I stand alone

Nor wife nor child nor happy home

I must leave now for the eastward hill

My heart has stopped I’ve had my fill

I am too old to fight too weak to run

Where are you now, my sometime son?

Robbie leaps to his feet and rushes stage left, calling out sorrowfully after his dearly departed dad.

Speak to me

Ease my woe

Speak to me

See how my tears now flow?

Stay a while

Hear my call

Stay a while

This is the very last night of all.

At the last chord, Robbie collapses to the stage cries out: “Father! No further!”

“Hey,” Robbie chuckles. “Hamlet: the Musical. Not a bad idea.”

 

 

 

 

 

Life, etc.

04 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Mum and Dad await the arrival of their new daughter.

Mum and Dad await the arrival of their new daughter.

Story by Neville Cole

Chapter One: Genesis

In which I expound on my birth among other things.

This is the story of my life to the best of my recollection; which, to be perfectly honest, is foggy at best. I aim to recount this all for you as accurately as I can but to do so I will have to rely heavily on my own memory because very few people who know the truth about me are still around; but what is any history but a collected tale of facts mixed with a healthy dose of legend?

I do know for certain that I was born on October 19, 1963; which according to the Internet was a Saturday. I don’t remember it being a Saturday. Frankly, I don’t remember it being October 19th or 1963 either. These are all things I was told later. That said, it makes sense that I born on a Saturday as Saturday is and always has been far and away my favorite day of the week. No other day is even close. Sunday pales by comparison and Sunday has fine memories of soccer matches, rounds of golf, sublime, extended lunches and, more recently, a new passion, American football; but the Sundays of my youth all began with church which I never could abide and even today Sunday night means Monday is on the horizon and I despise Mondays. Tuesdays aren’t much better. It’s no wonder they say that Tuesday’s child is full of woe. Wednesdays too are never as good as you hope they will be. Thursdays I don’t mind. Any day named after Thor is okay in my book. Fridays I am also quite fond of; but Saturday is king. Saturday still means movies and Aussie Rules and parties. Saturday is freedom.

Being born on October 19, I am a Libra and the fact that I turned up in 1963 makes me a Water Rabbit. I don’t know much about any of this except I am told this indicates I am lucky, horny, and I think too much. I don’t really believe in astrology but in my case this is pretty spot on.

A ten minute Google search also tells me that I was born on the exact same day and year as Prince Laurent of Belgium and Jim Dombrowski, of the New Orleans Saints. That’s not much of a list. On the bright side, it means there is still a small chance that I could one day become the most famous person ever born on October 19th, 1963. I will naturally have to step it up over the next twenty years or so; but at least I’m not trying to compete with John Lennon or Gandhi or someone. I still have a shot.

Speaking of John Lennon, the most famous event that I can find that happened on October 19, 1963 was that the Beatles recorded I Want to Hold Your Hand on that day. This could explain why I ended up a Beatle fan and not a Rolling Stone like my brother.

When I expand my search to include any October 19th in history the list of events gets much more interesting.

October 19, 1216 King John of England dies and is succeeded by his nine-year-old son Henry. Could this explain my love of Shakespeare?

October 19, 1453 The French recapture of Bordeaux and bring the Hundred Years’ War to a close. Of interest because of my English and French roots. Neville is a very English name but means “New City” in Old French. Besides, a hundred years is a long time to have a war.

October 19, 1469 Ferdinand II of Aragon marries Isabella I of Castile and Spain is born. My link to the Age of Exploration and besides, come on, who doesn’t love Ferdinand and Isabella?

October 19, 1781 Cornwallis surrenders at Yorktown; American Revolutionary War ends.  Foreshadowing of my emigration to the United States, perhaps?

October 19, 1856 James Kelly & Jack Smith fight bareknuckle for 6h15m in Melbourne As a larrikin lad from Melbourne town I can relate.

October 19, 1873 Yale, Princeton, Columbia, and Rutgers universities draft the first code of American football rules.  A game I have grown to love.

October 19, 1914 The First Battle of Ypres begins. Could this explain my historical fondness for all things WWI?

October 19, 1977 Supersonic Concorde’s first landing in NYC. Only a few short months after my own first landing in NYC.

October 19, 1987 (Black Monday) Dow Jones Industrial Average falls by 22%, 508 points. 4 times previous record. This was the first of many times in my adult life that I believed a full-blown depression was just around the corner.

More than likely none of these moments in history have any connection with me at all. The point is all of these October 19th events mean as much to me as the day of my birth. I’m clearly not a big birthday person. Possibly because I am pretty certain that I was never really meant to be. My parents never directly said so, but I had to be a mistake. My two brothers were born two years apart; then, after a break of seven years, along comes Neville. I arrived at the worst possible time too. My parents had just opened a business together which had not yet begun to grow. They were way too busy to have another child. Their excuse was that my mother always wanted a daughter; but I have a feeling that idea came along after they realized she was knocked up.

Shortly before I was born my mother was introduced to Christian Science. This one event would influence my life well into my late twenties. It explains my haphazard approach to health care and both my tendency to overthink everything and my eventual total resignation to the whims of fate. I will explain all this in graphic detail in later episodes but for now the important take away is that as a new Christian Scientist my mother was quite determined to link every daily occurrence to something she was thinking.

I am sure when she found out she was going to have a baby she turned to God in prayer and was given the answer that she deserved a daughter to go along with the blessing of two sons. She soon had a name picked out for me. I was to be Cheryl.

On more than one occasion my mother told me the story of my birth and always made a point of noting that my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck in the birth canal. This she attributed this unhappy accident to the fact that deep down she didn’t really want to have another baby. Her resistance to God’s plan nearly killed me. That is until she fully accepted that his will be done. When I survived strangulation and finally arrived it immediately became quite clear to all and sundry that I was not a girl. My father was so worried about my mother’s reaction that he apologized to her. Of course, my mother’s account of the story always ended with the line: “Darling! He’s the most beautiful baby in the whole world.”  But after the sixth or eighth telling of the tale one gets the sense that she was mostly just happy to be done with the whole thing.

All this is not to say that my parents weren’t very loving in their own way or that my childhood was not a mostly happy one; but I relate this all to you because I am convinced that time and place and happenstance are only ever part of the story. Many times the most important thing of all is what goes unsaid.

#strangerparadise2: Content Dreams

14 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Neville cole content

Continuing Story by Nevile Cole

Marley was vaguely aware that he was dreaming someone else’s tale. He and a tiger alone on tiny iceberg adrift in an endless ocean…it was all too familiar. Of course, he hadn’t had an original thought in so long that everything seemed vaguely familiar all the time. Every book he read had been made into a movie he had already seen. Every movie he saw was based on a book, or another movie, or a TV show, or a video game, or an historical event or just a basic plot with which he was very familiar. Everything that happened to him on a day to day basis seemed oddly similar to something else that had already happened. It was as if he was stuck in an endless déjà vu.

He dreams now that he is sitting with some shaman smoking peyote. He vaguely remembers a similar scene in the Oliver Stone movie about Jim Morrison. He is relating to the shaman the story of how he ended up on the iceberg with the tiger and the shaman says: Oh, wow! Life of Pi I loved that movie. You tell me. How did that not get best picture?  Seriously? Argo? Argo fuck yourself, indeed!”

“You think too much,” the tiger says munching happily on a meal of flying fish. So you are stuck on an iceberg with a tiger. So it is melting. Is your lot that bad? The fish literally fly into our mouths. The rain it raineth every day. We are clearly going somewhere. Why do you have such very little faith?”

“I get this is all a metaphor,” Marley says. “But what am I supposed to learn? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Every story you ever heard or will ever hear is a metaphor,” the tiger laughs. Your life is a story and that makes you a metaphor too. The sooner you realize that reality and metaphor are the same thing, the better off you will be. Why don’t you just feel happy? I for one am perfectly content being a metaphorical tiger.”

“You are content being the content of someone else’s dream?”

“Semantics is a slippery slope. Besides, who says I am in your dream? You may be content in my dream.” With that, the tiger grunts and rips the guts out of another fish.

Back in his World News Central bunker, Don Williams is thinking too much too. “News, news everywhere…” he smiles while swishing the ice around and around his whiskey glass. “but not a lot who think.” Don has been around. He knows a thing or two about news. He remembers when WNC was a city on a hill, a shining light, the answer to the world’s woes. One World, One News. Don made his way in this business during the heady days of the 24 hour news cycle. In those days newscasters were still called anchors. Anchors! When there was a storm, when seas were rough, when all seemed lost we held on to our anchors for dear life. Once upon a time we trusted the news to see us through; but now Don knew he was just a newscaster like everyone else. He threw his line into the news waters just like A.J. Clemente, just like all of them; but, and this is an important but, Don Williams isn’t about to go after bottom feeders. He still dreams he can mean something; he just doesn’t know what exactly. After all, clearly there is no longer time for news. There is an unwritten law in the news biz: news plus time equals old news and nobody is interested in old news. Time is the enemy of modern man and the news has been boiled down to an endless streaming ticker tape of tragedy, bombast, and lies. Don blamed twitter. At some point the world decided that anything that had to be said had to be said in 160 characters or less. Who made up that rule anyway? Who decided to set the bar so low? Don Williams freely admits he doesn’t know much anymore; but he knows enough to know that the end, or glory, is near.