10,532. GLUMLY IN THE ATTIC

GLUMLY IN THE ATTIC

I'm a slacker oftentimes, though not

always. I have my habits and I have

my ways. Anyway, I went to see this

fellow the other night, from my past,

the old seminary days. Incognito went 

I, hoping not to be revealed. It worked. 

The lady came out (I'd arrived for 7pm, 

but it wasn't starting until 8), and asked

if I'd like to join their hour of writing

workshop. He was running that too. I

declined (I'd brought a small book

along, and another notebook to write 

in, so was able to stay busy). I have 

no use for workshops at all. Nor the

goopy people who sit in. Might as

well seek self-happiness, I proclaimed.

The room was warm, and I was too

hot; so I eventually stood up and took 

off a jacket. (I'd come with a supply of

them too, as it were). Soon people

did begin drifting in. The sort of older

couples you find at these things early.

They squinted and whispered, and 

peered at bad art. Loquacious to a 

fault, they dealt their tastes and 

standards out. High-school stuff

has no equivalent in Art. It didn't

work at all. Anyway, the time arrived

and he came out. Slowly, at a bit,

perhaps deliberate, not tendentious  - 

talking his small wavestorm through

house and home and family. A few

good Albert Street stories. A baseball

poem too, and the inevitable standard

Anne Frank school-level pastiche, the

way teachers do. I stayed. He was OK.

I'd wished to talk, but chickened out.

I've too much to say and it wouldn't 

have gone well. He's stuck in a system

I find gone-to-Hell. No sense bucking
his bronco with all my broken dreams.

-

On the other hand (yes, yes, there's

always that), I could have asked a few 

things, but I find these sorts of folk

never answer direct.  Always evasive,

not withing to engage. I think that's

part of all that school-rhetoric he's so

fond of : the uplift for creative kids,

(ain't ever none); the swirling device

of good intentions, (ain't that either),

and that old swirling dervish, 'Can't

with 'til I retire, won't that pension

be great." Where glumly in the attic 
the sentimental memories are stored,
not the things once abhorred. It's
like that in a world where push is 
always brought to shove, where 
thankfulness has fingers, and 
fingers have gloves.