{"id":8328,"date":"2011-09-16T12:43:02","date_gmt":"2011-09-16T16:43:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=8328"},"modified":"2011-09-16T16:51:31","modified_gmt":"2011-09-16T20:51:31","slug":"alien-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2011\/09\/alien-you\/","title":{"rendered":"Alien You"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n

One Source of Bad Information<\/strong><\/p>\n

There’s a boy in you about three
\nYears old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
\nThousand years. Sometimes it’s a girl.<\/p>\n

This child has to make up its mind
\nHow to save you from death. He said things like:
\n“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”<\/p>\n

You live with this child, but you don’t know it.
\nYou’re in the office, yes, but live with this boy
\nAt night. He’s uninformed, but he does want<\/p>\n

To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
\nYou survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
\nFive don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

When you think about it, it’s not easy to keep from just wandering out of life. It’s like someone’s always leaving the door open to the next world, and if you aren’t paying attention you could just walk through it, and then you’ve died. That’s why in your dreams it’s like you’re standing in that doorway, and the dying people and the newborn people pass by you, and brush up against you as they come in and out of the world during the night. You get spun around, and in the morning, it takes a while to find your way back into the world.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Rick Moody, from The Ice Storm<\/em> (film version) [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Phase 3: Final Interview, a Few Last Questions<\/strong><\/p>\n

If a stranger getting on a train you’re leaving
\nmakes as if to put his cigarette out in your eye,
\ndo you let the doors close behind you with sorrow
\nfor what some woman must have done to his life
\nor do you just hate him hate<\/em> him
\nor do you hate yourself for letting him make you
\nhate him? Is this one of those hatreds
\nyou’re allowed to have, that you can justify?
\nDo you shield your eyes on the next platform
\nor do you smile valiantly, chin up, unsquinting?<\/p>\n

If you know the words to a song you hear sung
\nuncertainly on the street at dusk by a stranger,
\nis it right to sing along, is it an invasion
\nor an obligation to connect, only connect,
\neven if he\u2019s wearing spurs and chains
\nand aims a spurt of spittle at your foot?
\nIf some of your best friends wear chains,
\nshould you mention it? With how wide a smile?
\nShould you invite him home to play the record,
\nor in the next world will you regret it,
\nor worse, regret it if you don’t, why worse,
\nor in the next world is there no regret?
\nNo looking back? No next world?<\/p>\n

If a butler in the familiar and shabby livery
\nof someone else\u2019s trouble brings you a message
\non a silver plate — and stands waiting —
\nshould you fling it into the fire unread?
\nShould you excuse yourself and leave by the back door,
\nshould you read it and swallow the return
\naddress, and murder the butler, and leave
\nwith too little money to make it back in case
\nthe desire to help should ever seize you again?
\nIt’s not important, you virtually already
\nhave the job but we’d still like to know.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(J. Allyn Rosser [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

If Ever There Was One<\/strong><\/p>\n

She could tell he loved her. He wanted her there
\nsitting in the front pew when he preached.
\nHe liked to watch her putting up her hair
\nand ate whatever she cooked and never broached<\/p>\n

the subject of the years before they met.
\nHe was thoughtful always. He let her say
\nwhether or not they did anything in bed
\nand tried to learn the games she tried to play.<\/p>\n

She could tell how deep his feeling ran.
\nHe liked to say her name and bought her stuff
\nfor no good reason. He was a gentle man.
\nHow few there are she knew well enough.<\/p>\n

He sometimes reached to flick away a speck
\nof something on her clothes and didn\u2019t drum
\nhis fingers on the table when she spoke.
\nWhat would he do if he knew she had a dream<\/p>\n

sometimes, slipping out of her nightgown —
\nif ever God forbid he really knew her —
\nto slip once out of the house and across town
\nand find someone to talk dirty to her.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Miller Williams [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and (the writer is returning home from Papua, New Guinea, with some souvenirs):<\/p>\n

“Open ’em up,” commanded the [customs] agent, pointing to our suitcases.<\/p>\n

He worked like a surgeon… professional and without emotion as his fingers moved quickly under the plastic bafs and among the shoes stuffed with socks and bras. Finally, both of his hands met in the bottom of the suitcase and he carefully extracted three elongated gourds and held them up for the entire terminal to view. Then he barked, “What are you going to do with all these penis gourds?”<\/p>\n

It was like one of those scenes when E.F. Hutton talked and everyone listened. So that’s what they were! I thought they were primitive artifacts they wore to add interest to a dull belt. By this time, decent people behind me were beginning to form opinions about us. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I’m going to use them for planters.”<\/p>\n

He motioned with his hand for me to move on and turned his attention to the next couple.<\/p>\n

The lines from customs counters funneled into one large mess at the door where you had to show your passport and your declaration card before you were cleared to leave the terminal.<\/p>\n

By this time, my face was on fire, my eyes were swollen half shut, and my lips were cracked with fever. The attendant flipped my passport open and looked from the photo to my face for confirmation.<\/p>\n

“Good likeness.” He smiled.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Erma Bombeck [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

“You Don’t Know My Mind” seems like a natural wrap-up to today’s (long) post. I haven’t yet learned much about<\/em>\u00a0the song, though. It seems to have been written by one Jimmie\/Jimmy Martin, an old bluegrass performer of whom I’ve also been able to learn little; the lyrics mutate depending on the performer. (Actor\/musician Hugh Laurie included it on Let Them Talk<\/em>,\u00a0his debut album released in April. You can hear Laurie’s version here at YouTube<\/a>.)<\/p>\n

Below, blues great Odetta tackles it (although the title superimposed on the video is wrong):<\/p>\n