- J.W. Goethe, German poet and classical philosopher
My mother, you know, was born and raised in Long Island, New York. Yes, I am a New Yorker. A teacher, that's what she was. A teacher. Wonderful woman. Not the smartest, although for a woman very intelligent. She taught English, you know.
Father. Strange man. Good man. Irish. I am Irish.
Come in, come in. Don't stand there like a stranger. Here is the door, step right in. I'll show you something. You like maps? You are from Georgia, right? No, where? Oh, I have that too. It's on the map, I'm sure. I'll show you. Point it out on the map. It's in my bedroom. I've been there. Come in, come in. My eyes aren't the greatest.
No place in this world for an honest man, no sir. I guarantee. No place! Look somewhere for one, for an honest woman perhaps? Hello, assholes! Welcome, there is no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.
But where to from here? What do I tell you about myself? Isn't it what you are here for? To hear all about me? I am not an interesting man, my life has been a disaster, a misunderstanding upon misunderstanding. A hopeless wreck I am. I am a sick dog.
I am terribly alone. Thanks for coming. I've been expecting you. I got nothing to do. And old man never has anything to do. Are you hungry?
Fix me a glass of rum. No, thank you. I don't drink.
But don't listen to me. It's so good to see you. I am glad you are here. I like you. Hey, I tell you, get something nice for that girl of yours. She is nice, she deserves it. I like her very much too.
Well, listen.
I gave up on helping people. It's useless: they'll never change, never. No reason, don't matter what you got to say. No changing their minds. A bunch of cosmetic bimbos they are, yes. A bunch of no names, they are, yes. You and I, no names, that what we are, yes. 'I am middle class,' they say! Sure you are, buddy! Sure you are! You are just poor with a job, foolish asshole! Poor with a job, that's all you are. A grand glorious fantasy, like poverty of the soul, poverty of physical appearnce. That's my problem. I can't even move away from the floor, not so much as to begin this talking about myself business. No, there is no more redemption for me. What are you doing, for sake's worth? What? What are they doing? Building a valuable future for us all? Please, give me a break! You make me sick, friend. No reason to believe in their nonsense. They blah away endlessly, shitted up with their microphones and television cameras and the fuck head journalist peep show maniacs from the 'web' or whatshamwecallit resources of the free fucking media! Oh, then they are displeased with the government - hey, Joe, the government is not doing its job, oh! Hey, Bob, the government is not interfering, oh! Hey, Joe, the government IS interfering! - what the fuck is the point, for Christ's sake? Where is the clarity of the issue, the human element, the compassion? I tell you, it's gone. And don't give me no academic hoopla shit about human compassion, because there is none - and that's my reinterpretation of Tolstoy and Gahndi for you, professor! Fuck you, professor!
I ain't putting a red cent into this house, they are knocking it down, you know, they are. You believe it. When they want to, they will come and crash the fucker with this new Japanese machine, a house crusher.
And that nine eleven shit, what:! Oh, my, don't get me started, it's all over, a heart attack waiting to happen, I tell you now. A bunch of fucking Wall street bankers, stock broker cock suckers and fruits, oopsie daisy creaming and sobbing bitches, anything for a dollar crowd. That's what they are. That ain't my America, bud, ain't me, I tell you. I couldn't give a flying fuck, that's my voice. My backyard is my America. When they get here, maybe then, maybe I tell you - maybe - I'll go to war.
Bumper to bumper, this fucking country, bumper to bumper. Oh, the poor man has no money, no money at all. He'll take his cosmetic beauty out to some fancy bar with night lights and disco balls and flirting cocktail waitresses, cheap sluts, that's what they call them, buy a beer for a fiver, that fool. Oh, a sad story indeed. So, he sits there and nurses his little bottle of piss Budweiser, or whatever, and his girlie is talking about how nice it would be to have a nice little house in a nice neighborhood with a nice lawn and a nice garage, and everything is so very fucking nice!
Marriage, that's another story - no more babies! No more! We are bumper to bumper here, I tell you, and they want more babies, what a joke. I live on a thread. A dime here, a penny there, that's my life. I am no 'middle class,' I am no 'bohemian,' whatever the fuck that means. Call me Irish, because that's what I am. I am a good immigrant, yes! You believe it.
Americans are stupid. They don't know what it's like. It takes four generations of white Anglo-Saxons to make a real American anyway, you know it. This is still an English collony, you know. The English rule the world. They are going to offer me forty thousand dollars for this house, you know it. And that's a down payment, and in fifteen years when I am a hundred and ffty years old I can buy this insulated shithole. Oh, boy! Don't that sound like fun!
What a joke, man, marriage, yeah. Conditioning. Never liked it. I am an old man, and I don't like this yacking and screaming and telling me what to do, maybe. I want to be an old rag, a homeless baboon, stuck up and pissed up like, yes. I am Irish, yes.
There is no sentiment in this. You listen, young man, remember, they reserve the right to do anything with you and your words, anything. Twist them around anyway they like to. You say Jew and you are an anti-semite. He is an anti-Semite! That's what they'll say. I am from Long Island, it was Irish back then. Now? What did I say, now it's all Jews. But what am I? I am just a Jew trapped in an Irishman's body. Indeed. When I was getting married I thought I was getting myself a Russian. No, sir. Another Jew, you know, just another one.
They called me Goyem. Her family called me that. You know what it means? I don't either. Don't it mean cattle? I think it does. I am sure. Look at that horde of cattle, baby, they are everywhere. That's right though - they are right - we are certainly cattle, sheep, pigs. People are worse than pigs. Hogs in a dirty barn, I guarantee.
There is nothing good about mankind. Nothing. Everything is a ridiculous measure. They will take more and you will get less, and you know it too. What's the differnce, these poor people, these poor devils, there is no helping them. Oh, they will go to the judge, I am sure they will. The judge is the brother of the coucilman, the councilman is the brother of the senator, the senator is the brother of the gas company's president, so it goes. And the poor in between. Nothing ever changes, I tell you. Same old story. Same old. There is no use.
My cats are dying. I am old, my lungs are failing. Ah, the fucking managers, the directors, the responsible ones, they are doing something, right? That's right, they rule the universe. The silent, invisible masters. Half the world is in prison and they rule it. All the world is in prison. The world is a damn prison. And they sit atop, 'democratically' elected.
I am moving to the mountains. Yes. I am done with this. I am old, you know. I am no good for this shit anymore. I am old. There ain't nothing I can do no more.
My mother taught English. Yes, she was a teacher. There is no money in it, of course. But what did she know. She was from Long Island, when it was still Irish, you know. My father, like all of them, was a mechanic. Join a union if you are going to be a mechanic. I joined one. The next day I came to work with my hair down. And what are they going to do? Nothing. Those bums.
And the junkies. Oh, lord. They say - I am poor, I am poor, man! - and smoke their cigarettes and drink their beer and shoot that junk. The pot heads, the whole bunch of them. I am seventy-eight years old. Look at me. I smoked a cigarette once. Sick for days. Vomiting, nausea, oh. Terrible. Coughing up blood and mucus. Terrible.
And the negras. Mind you! What? No, I didn't say niggers. Can't call them that. Negra. That's what I said. You can't help them either. They live here, in this dump. You board up the windows, and they won't bother you man. It's cheap. Get a gate. But then the whites move in. The prices go up. And all the blacks have to go. Where? I don't know. Neither do they.
Bumper to bumper, man. There is no more room here, no more room in America. I tell you, man. I want to go skiing. You are a young man. Get a bicycle, it's better than a car. I went to Europe with my bicycle, everywhere. I never leave it at home.
Pay cash for everything too. If you have to use a credit card that means you can't afford it. That's what they taught me in Brooklyn, you know.
Be real, man. There is no use in doing otherwise. They are all liars out there. They will lie to your face shamelessly. They will rob you blind, those 'good wishers' and Christ willers. They are all the same - the judges, the lwayers, the doctors. Doctors. That's another story: oh, here, your back hurts, take this. Arm hurts too? My, my. Well, take another one, and more and more, and it never stops. Fuck the doctors.
The politicians - my fellow Americans, we are a proud nation of - what bullshit! We are still a British colony. I am getting old.
Don't ever give up. Fight them. Always. The devil tempts you every day. He is out there, he is the burning bush. Demons will exercise upon your utmost pretentious desire. They will appear as angels, prophets, politicians, seekers, helpers and healers, healing your most suffocating pain, curing that terrible suffering. But they are liars. Ah, you'll fall for it. I fell for it. Everyone falls.
Screaming for mama, those babies. They are tough, yeah. All they want is a warm tit, for Christ's sake. I am an atheist, though. You?
Oh, I like you, man. I like you. You are a good man. A good man. A good immigrant. America needs more people like yourself. The American dream, are you here for the donations? Milk and bread? Ha-ha! They will take you for a fool with a face this sour. Cheer up. You are a slave. Do your chores with a smile, asshole. You are not a man. You've got no priviliges in this world, not in this country at least. You weren't born here. So get back in your hole!
I am just kidding. I am not a racist. I am a senile old man, ready for deliverance, the gates of this republican hell.
Accusations, accusations and more accusations. That's an experience. You know the kind of looks I get out there on the streets. They frown. They turn away. On any given day I carry a thousand cash in my pocket, but I smell so bad the assholes don't dare touch me. Fools looking for a dollar.
The first thing you learn in this country - republicans for the rich, democrats for the poor. But the democrats are no good. They all went to Yale. That's where they learned their democracy. I am a cobbler, a mechanic. My hands are always dirty, natural. I do soap too though. None of that bath wash crap. And you smoke I see young man. That will kill you. Cough cough cough. You go ahead. I don't care. I don't care. I like you.
I am told I have real human potential. That's not enough though. Where does human potential lead you. Nowhere. Only to your grave. 'He is essence of the human condition' - that's what the artists call me. Ain't it funny? But why should I care. I am not making any money from it. Evrything stays the same. Nothing changes. Nothing. Same old.
No good reason to believe me. No good reason to do anything. Just survive. Live as long as you can. Don't mess with the cops. They will kill you. So will the politicians. Their daugthers, their clans. They're all together. What's good for you is bad for them. That's a given, boy. There is no way around it. And that thing, what do you call it - the status quo - yes, that's it. They will uphold it until the day this earth crumbles.
There is no way out for you if you are poor. No way. Not for the poor. Born poor, die poor. Every day you live in a shoe box. That's your lot, poor man. A house, that's what they call it. A house! I call it a cell. Prisoners. Prisoners of the rich. Prisoners of their own dillusion and hope.
Fuck, eat and procreate. And just think, I am a free man! Yes, you are, aren't you now. Well, good riddance. Got no more comments. Nothing else to say. My point of view, it don't matter. Listen to the rich. They seem to be always right anyway.
And then they got everyone else fooled, you know. You dress like them, you talk like them. They attribute good and bad manners, plan it out for you: what's right and wrong, good - bad, ugly - pretty. Oh, it's never going to be over.
No stealing, no thieving, no fornicating. So they tell you. And then they steal from you in massive amounts. Like no other. Tax tax and tax, no returns. No benefits. Tax for the rich, tax for that mansion on Cape Cod, that ranch in Texas and a pony for the kids.
Golf. White man's game. Rich man's game. You are only white here if you are rich anyway. So don't sweat it. You are not getting there. And don't fuck people over for money. Because they will fuck you over. That's a job for someone who makes money - to fuck people over. But aren't things getting better? Didn't they improve over the years? No, they didn't, you idiot! They never improve. They always stay the same. If anything, they get worse with time, as we progress toward the end of it all.
I am getting tired. I am going blind. Here, look at this machine. I have to use it to read a goddamn bill. It's that intranet or something, or no. That's not what it's called. I don't know. You can take my books. I used to read a lot. Not anymore, not since I can't see. But you can take them, I don't need them anymore. Nothing, I don't need it. Wilde, Fitzgerald, Cummings, Andreev, Plekhanov, Malamud, Goethe, Stein, Mauriac, Engels, Franklin, Proust, Plato, - they are all here. I'd quote for you, but my memory is not what it used to be. Nothing but stacks of paper upon stacks upon stacks upon stacks of more paper and more paper. Words. Garbage. I want to give them to you. There is nobody else. No one reads. Nobody.
I am getting old, boy. There is no salvation for me. Wasteful, wasteful, this world is so wasteful. I can't get enough of it. They are everywhere. They are trying to tie me down, to suffocate me, you know. I only want to be good, but they are killing me, the death of me. Won't let me.
Oh, what's there to say. Nothing.
They are going to knock this house down. Build a new 'project' for the poor here, some cardboard box that is, you know that's what it's going to be, no insulation, nothing like that. But don't you worry about me, I am secure, I'll be all right. I bought a house out in Nevada. Wait, I told you already. I did, yes. But these people. The guy next door here. Where is he going to go? I ask them. I don't know. I don't know. Oh, I like you, you can take my books.
Forgive me, I don't want to boss you around - ha, ma! He is bossing me around, that's funny isn't it? - I tell you, there is no kidding in what they say, I used to be a man, now I am a messiah. So they say. Actually, I am only Irish. Or, a Jew trapped in a white man's body. That's a good one. I say it all the time. Got to call them Jewish though, not Jews. Don't offend them. My wife, you know, was a Jew. A Russian Jew. I thought I was getting a white Russian, but I got a New York Jew instead. A Russian Jew from New York married to an Irishman, isn't that something. And the Italians, they call them WOPS here, like without papers, yeah. The Englishmen made that term up. We are all struggling. All in the same boat. But you are an immigrant. I know you, I know what it's like. I am an immigrant myself. I went to Ireland once. I never felt better in my life: they all look like me, they all dress like me, they think like me. Gee whiz, I thought, all this time I thought I was an American, but no, sir, I was not. I am no American. Turns out I am an immigrant, a slave, a serf, a WOP, a wandering Jew.
I feel bad for the blacks too. They are poor. Goddamn junkies they are. All drugged up, no fathers, no mothers, fried chicken for dinner, poor miserable children, loud and obnoxious, stupid and without a way out, every other black in jail. And that's a good scenario. Oh, there goes the flag: I pledge my allegiance to the flag. Fuck you. There is no use in changing!
They don't appreciate anything. You've got to be nice, can't say they are stupid, you know. Got to be diplomatic. What sense is there though? None at all. That's true, you know. The great symbol. I am not trying to be poetic. There are poets out there, gnawing, talking, a symbolic gesture on their part. I don't want to listen, don't want to hear anything. It's enough for me to be dying out here in this house, but no. I thought I was going to die here, but no. They won't let me. The fucking bastards.
I repeat myself. My memory is not too good anymore. You have to forgive me. I am an old man. What a world. What a world, I tell you.
Americans are stupid. My family, we traveled all over. Ever since I was a young boy, we traveled to Europe, went everywhere. In our kitchen we had a map of the world. Geography. I used to be good at it. I got nothing no more. Siberia, isn't it where you are from? No? You an Arab or something? I am kidding, kidding.
I am sorry, didn't mean to offend you. See, they think I am racist or anti-Semite or something, because I badmouth Jews, but I don't. I like everyone, you know. I love people, I tried to help them, but they are stupid, there is no helping them. It's a dying cause. Like in that Dylan song, you know: standing by a Whirlpool, looking for a new fool. Whirlpool, they were American washing machines. Oh, you know? Good.
You got to have property, that's what makes you an American. I pay two hundred a year in taxes. I am a veteran. Ha-ha, a veteran. Never held a weapon of any kind in my hands, a Korean veteran, that's what the federal government calls me, good for them. Give or take, the whole country is full of veterans. Now, if they knock this house down, I'll have to pay eight or nine hundred in taxes. No way. I am holding out. I am safe, I got money, I got land out in Nebraska. Dumb loggers out there, you know. They don't care if you piss off your back porch or whatnot. Good people. My kind of people.
How was it living under the Reds? They ask you that every time, don't they? No good, yeah, I listen to the news. They are all the same, give a little, take a little, thieves all around you. Oh, no, boy. No.
I am getting old, you know. There is nothing left for me. The trees that grow out in my yard. I've got to watch for the ice. There is no getting around it. I poured cement out in my yard. That damn tree keeps growing. The roots, they are coming out from under there. I am not happy to leave this place, I am old. I lived here for thirty years.
Man, isn't this something. The protesters. The young people. I like them, but they don't get around much anymore.
Don't get a motorcycle, get a bicycle, man. Those bike people. They don't know what they are doing.
I listen to NPR sometimes. They are all the same there too. Oh, isn't that interesting. Words, only words and nothing else.
You want me to quote something for you: the tree grows out in the forest, does it make a sound? Good one. Is that how it goes? I like that one too. A tree, like anything, it is just a tree and nothing else, you know. Everything is man made nowadays, everything has a price, that's your free market. Everything is for sale. I am getting tired, and old, and blind. Oh, my fortune, my fate. What are you going to do. Nothing.
I am an atheist, you know. Do you believe in god? Well, you should. Any unbeliever is going to hell. There are no unbelievers though, they are only those deceived and fooled and mistreated, not much to hope for any longer. But I am an atheist nevertheless, too old to fall for the gospels. Holy roller misfits, it's all a nuisance, not much else, you know. Books are good. They are our future dust though. Here, take' em. I'd rather give them to you than anyone else, you know, they are no good. Am I making any sense to you? Anything at all? I didn't think so.
Believe me, there is no good reason to trust people. You agree with what I am saying. I repeat a lot. You are going to leave soon anyway. I wouldn't object. It's good enough for me. I've been alone for most of my life. With all the bounds that are within this old body. I am a solid rock. I keep my faith as a man of my word. I keep my soul in my face. I am not a capitalist. I am no money bag, no Christian, no Moslem, no Buddha, I don't fuck people over for profit, for a goddamn dollar, I use the lord's name in vain, I do not pray and I do not kneel before no one, I preach my own standards of living, my future, my tranquillity, my version of love and redemption, I tempt myself with the sweetest desire and redeem myself with the sourest fruit, I am only a man, I will die suffering, cold, old and alone. Everyone is forsaken. You look at me like a child. You stare. You are a child. Nothing more but a child. I feel sorry for you. You fall into every trap life sets before you. A fool. Naïve baby. Looking for pleasure? Be a good slave to their opinions, manners, ideologies and principles, that's what you are here for after all.
I envy you, young man. Your strength. You don't use it. You laugh at me, at my old body, my words. You think I am a fool. And I bet you like me in that eclectic way - an old man on a mission, an old atheist, a rebel. Well, fuck you and your opinions. I don't have a mission, no purpose. The same goes for you. In your heart of hearts you really think that you will live in that house on a hill some day, and these encounters with a goofy old man in this decomposing house, this place that smells like a crematorium - will be something to tell the children. How many people are you prepared to fuck over for that mansion? You are a liar. I need nothing from you! But you! You suck me dry! Leave me alone!
I am sorry. Do I offend you? I don't mean too. Stay a while. Just for a little while, I need someone to talk to. I get so lonely here, so lonely. I don't mean half those things I say, it's too much for me sometimes, you know. Think about it. Here I am, so close to the end of it all. And you here, a young man so eager to be somewhere. A perfect reason to get angry. To let it out. So forgive me. There is no harm in my words. I don't mean what I say. None of it is true.
There is something I must tell you though. After we write something like this painting on the wall here, you will see my point there. It's very hard to be a real man, a real person, a real human being. People - they all want something from you, they never stop demanding.
I am just a goofy old man, but they don't stop demanding. Even from me, I try to stay out of the way, but they won't stop.
I'll tell you something else - don't listen to me. I've got nothing to say, you know, it's shit here and there. Believe me you do.
There is a ubiquitous war going on in every corner of the world, it's the word of god that won't let it stop. Shedding the skin.
There is no excuse for what they do now. I demand explanation. Not a word, not a word. I am dying on the verge of a catastrophe.
An older version of my diseases, they won't leave me alone. That's gross misconduct on their part. And it's their words. Not mine, no.
I will not stand for this destruction. Constantly alone, traveling like a dirty hobo, my flag is always with me.
See you in hell, republican scum bag, see you in the darkest pit of hell, monster that you are. I am tired.
Sit down, stop standing there like an idiot, stop looking at me. I am not a toy to be played around with. What are you, a kid ? Now, stop it. There is no reason to laugh at an old man. Is it a revelation to you? I bet. Well, allow me. I am no longer a man of my word, these business 'men' will lead me to a fucking grave.
My last words of advice to you, young man. Before I go. They will be very simple. Don't be a screwball, don't fuck around, there is no slack for the poor, not for you. They are leaches, thick drinkers, monsters. Yes, monsters.
You laugh. Laugh. The bars of your cell will not redeem you. You will be crushed like a roach. You think I am mad.
I am not. I am not mad. You are. Believe me, I am trying to help you. There is no revisionist principle involved here. I am just telling you: repent, repent, repent. Accept your poverty and embrace it. Fight.
Leave me for a bit, give me some room, some air. I need to cough. The dread of this age. I take no drugs. That's how they keep you hooked. Fucking junkies.
You want to be a real man? You are not. You are a putz. A dreamer. Well, we have no need for dreamers here, buddy. Not in America. No reason to be turned on. I am no woman.
I can help you, don't you see? I can help you. I am rich with knowledge, if only you stay and listen. I am no fool.
Listen. I will tell you a real story, not this stuff, not this crap, no. I will really elaborate if you want me to, because there is no finding for me so eagerly put as this here dream constellation, as there is no learning without work and grievances, tears and pain. I can make it real for you, if you just stop fidgeting around like a toddler. I hate children, god! How I hate them. No, I love all humanity. There are good and better and my friends. What do you think the true fascination with this is? I could answer, but it would take me a century to concentrate on this violent history of ours. What's the point, the place is a gutter. The earth, now they are going to Mars - 'yes, sir, we have a rover, sir, shine your shoe, sir:' Give me a break! The only thing those scientists are good for is money - that's all they crave - and more money.
I am alive, they are feeding on me. My energies, my poverty, so they can send a fucking computer to some planet! What the fuck is wrong with these people? What? They are murdering life to discover life? Lord, give me strength, give me an answer. Something, something, I beg you, this is the end for me. I want to know. Please. And the end of this story, it will come, don't you worry about it, yes sir. It will be here sooner than you expect it. No sons of bitches hiding in the bushes. Still, make the road as clear as possible. I'll pave you a good fucking road. I am a cobbler, electrician, and esthetician of sorts. I am the supreme, fuck you!
There is no consistency in his thought process.
I used to work for Boeing, you know. Thirty years of my life for them. An inspector. I inspected those machines, helicopters and such the military used in Vietnam and Korea. Pieces of shit they were. But you can't say nothing like that. Must be diplomatic: well, sir, you may want to reconsider and blah blah, all that jazz.
We should get together soon. I will talk about machines, helicopters. I'll give you my books. I will tell you. You learn by doing, right.
Think of the devil, think of god, think of something, do whatever, nothing changes and evrything, and you know it, remains nothing. There is consistency in everything. I don't even feel like proving my point to you, what's my benefit here?
I like being in the dark. My eyes aren't the greatest. I have to sit it out. My mission is to sit it out. Isn't it funny, the way it happens?
I like being in the dark. My eyes aren't so good. You learn by doing, you learn by doing. I am not as old as you think. I am sick though. They are going to knock this place down. They will and there ain't nothing no one can do about it. What a shame, what a shame.
I tell you, no kidding. There is no reason to prove anything, they'll never listen. They'll just sit there. They'll never listen. I talk too much. Forgive me.
Hey, they are all artists out there. Goodhearted people, sensitive souls. They never have any money, always giving it away. Stupid.
You know, Peggy sold that painting for a thousand dollars and she doesn't have a dollar left. That was a month ago. And she has nothing left. Beer, cigarettes. They do everything to keep you poor and stupid. That's the way we like them, right! Poor and stupid. Boy, Americans are dumb.
But you don't care much, do you? Good for you.
Junkies and poor devils. What are you going to do about it? Nothing.