COVER -> MY GLASS HOUSE
16 March, 2001 - March is supposed to be a celebratory month for me. There's the anniversary of this magazine, then St. Patrick's Day followed by the first day of Spring (Vernal Equinox) and, the culmination, my birthday. Bang, bang, BANG! Sunday the anniversary, Saturday for St. Pat, Saturday my birthday, each comes in quick succession: 11, 17, 24.
Persephone returns from the Underworld. Buds appear on the trees and flowers blossom, bursting color onto our pathways. This life in a tin goes from dull grey to rainbow colors again. I share my birthday with Harry Houdini, the escape artist. This year Mac OS X is released on that day, too. And I shall be forty-nine. 49. An odd number.
I miss the 80s, I'll admit it. I had always thought that 36 was the ideal age for a man. As I approached it, my sap started rising. That's why I refer to it as my "spawning period."
Reconciling myself to 49 is a new adventure. Next year, minus a week or so, I'm supposed to admit that I've lived two thirds of my alloted time on the planet, according to the actuarial tables, no?
One of my fave pals who has already passed 50, Sal d'Alessandro, is still gigging on rock n' roll and playing tennis when the weather up there in the northland where he lives is ripe. His wife, my friend Mardi, is the Queen of Double Entendre. Heh!
But now, I have to give up all pretension of being a Lothario and accept that I will be viewed by most of the world as a Dirty Old Man. Boo-hoo!
WHERE IS RICHARD PRYOR WHEN YOU NEED HIM?Richard Pryor: "There is no such thing as bad pussy. Any of you ladies out there in the audience think you have bad pussy, meet me after the show and let me give you a Second Opinion."
I've always had this theory that Rich and I have a lot in common. It fits in with my vision of Web publisher as Jazz Band leader - cum - Stand-up Comic. That might explain why I sometimes want to turn my back on you, like Miles Davis, too.
As the now - concluding Anniversary Special was meant to demonstrate, I am totally attuned to your short attention spans. So I try to make G21 give you a mix. OR, as Raheem might put it, take you into the mix. Serious, funny, scarey, brutal, comforting... better.
I was looking back at last year this week because I noted that Newsweek did a piece linking BSE (which PAUL KAIL did an excellent scientific piece on) with kuru (that ED CANTARELLA alerted our readers about last year) two weeks ago -- and I had to ask myself when more surfers will find this "hip little station" at the end of the Web's FM dial... Again, why do I bother?
We can only assume that it is my little March-Hare, God's-Own-Fool dream about there actually being a meritocracy.
And Your Point Is?
Well, now I have to chart the course for a sixth year of this effort, you see.I have to keep my tenuous hold on knowing what you want to read, what the writers need to feel nurtured and where this new medium is going next.
"What happened to your Flash enhancements? When are you converting to Cascading Style Sheets? Why do you believe that a magazine on the Web is a good model?"How can you -- one guy -- keep up the pace of publishing DAILY when most corporate sites with mega-staffs are straining at it?"
Sheesh!
It gets weird when the people in your corner start calling out, "Stay down!" as you lie on the canvas.
Do you listen to them or do you get back up on your feet and keep punching?
The best scenario is that you grin as you throw those punches, grin with confidence. The hurt doesn't show.
The hurt doesn't show because you are dancing -- "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!" -- you are dancing the Dance of Life and doing what you enjoy.
AND, as always, people love a good story. So you provide your life as a story, Butterfly Soul...
So I dream.. Dreams are more real for me than much of what I see in this world of no history, no heroes, no mystery, no compassion. I need to think different.
Listen:
I made myself think like Odysseus on the journey from Troy."I am No Man," he told the Cyclops. Being No Man means that you have cultivated the ability to take the shape of your container, always looking for the opportunity to transform by acquiring a new container.
While the Cyclops is frisking the backs of the sheep, you slip away -- I slip away -- clutching their udders.
And then, sailing away, ecstatic and prideful that I have again been resourceful enough to escape the certain death of my true self, jubilant, I wail. I dance and scream. I do a jig beneath the main sail and call: "I have escaped you, great Cyclops! Yes! I have! I was No Man to you, but to the world I am Ulysses! Ha-ha-ha!"
My shipmates try to restrain my prideful boasts, but I cheer, I dance, I bait the monster I have escaped until he hurls boulders out toward the sound of my taunting voice.
"Stop it, you fool!" my mates beg me. They try to muzzle my mouth with their fingers.
"Nyah-nyahh!" I bellow as the ship rocks. "Fuck you, great Cyclops! Ulysses has unmanned you! I am the world's greatest escape artist! You were no match for me!"
Anybody else would be grateful just for having escaped, just for the luck to go on, but not me. Never me. I have to blow my own trumpet for fear no one else will.
"Tell them it was Ulysses, you big buffoon! Ulysses who blinded you and Ulysses who will mock your name!"
The Cyclops Polyphemus, thus humiliated, falls to his knees on the hard cliffs and implores the gods to come to his succor. He cries from his single, obliterated eye socket, and asks that they only, merely humble me as I have -- through vile trickery -- humbled him.
I pray for a month of Sundays and have to wait for the smallest sign of Grace. This buffoon offers up a supplication and immediately a frightening gale overtakes the wine-dark seas. If my shipmates had been ancient Hebrews, they would thrown me overboard.
No matter. Whatever shore I land upon, am tossed onto, or wash up on, I take the same attitude I have learned to cultivate: confident bravado. I am the escape artist.
I must admit that I am writing this now because I am starting to lose my edge. There are fewer places to which I may escape.
The world is changing. Getting smaller and more integrated. Talents like mine are no longer appreciated when everyone is sold on connectedness and interdependency. The world is still young, yes, but it is also more tired than the historical record or my own experience would make one believe. Whole species of life are being eradicated.
The conclusive victories of the medical profession over diseases like tuberculosis, cholera, malaria and measles have proven ephemeral. Strange new viruses stalk the globe and the Age of Heroes is not even celebrated by school children any longer. An escape artist, like myself, is running out of people to whom he can boast. No one wants Magic, it seems, or legend, only "interactive".
If I have to become interactive and explain to you how I broke the grip of the handcuffs and got out of the trunk slipping beneath the waves -- well, there is no Mystery.
I am frankly growing fearful that a world without Mystery is a world without promise. And that is the first sign of losing your edge for an escape artist, becoming afraid. To be a great escape artist, you must be fearless.
If the escape artist fears the situation he must enter next, fear causes hesitation. Hesitation, for the escape artist, is the same as death...
THINGS I FEAR THIS WEEK
1. People who are always right.2. People who have never been emotionallly damaged.
3. That you will stop loving me.
Thanks for coming back this week.
"Work like you don't need the money,
"Love like you've never been hurt,
"Dance like no one is watching..."
Rod
Our Editor does listen!