If you’ve been following the last three blogs starting with Paraprosdokian you’ll see the changes in our narrator, some of which are predictable, but like life, many of which were not. Needless to say, though the titles obviously say a lot (The Mendicant, The Militant, and The Missionary), just how they play out is another story (expectations vs. reality).
For example: a missionary? We all knew in some way our narrator, Augustine (Gus) would evolve beyond the wise guy in the first novel to the famous artist he later became since before that first novel even begins, it lists some of his rave reviews from one of his many triumphant Paris shows! But to give it all up to become a missionary? A Mother Teresa missionary no less? living and working with the mentally handicapped in the desert? in Arizona? Living the ascetic and blissful and beatific life of a St. Francis of Assisi?
NOT!
More like a fever dream in an SNL skit where every morning you have to run the gauntlet past “Ramona the Pest” who bombards you non-stop with her wisecracks on the fine art of inserting a suppository, in this case in a little Down’s Syndrome whose vocabulary consists of five words: “Cweam – morning, noon, and night!” a reference to how often that cream has to be applied “to his asshole, Gus, so you can’t miss!” – a far cry from the “Divine Mission” he expected since somehow the image of Mother Teresa spelunking by braille where the sun doesn’t shine wasn’t in “The Church Militant” mission statement of the “Augustinian Order of Mendicants” – where his highest accolade now – in contrast to his honorary doctorate in fine arts years ago – might be an honorary doctorate in proctology on his tomb stone:
“‘PAGING DR. SQUINT, PAGING DR. SQUINT!'”
“Good morning to you too, Julia.”
“But first a word from our sponsor! – because today’s episode of ‘IN LIKE SQUINT’ is brought to you by K-Y Jelly, Preparation H. and Piles Suppositories” but I usually just ignore her because she only gets worse with her interminable string of proctology jokes to shame me back into painting again giving even further credence to my already fertile and very febrile imagination of a world right out of a Heironymus Bosch painting like THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS where right in the center of this nightmare painting where you can’t miss it someone’s sticking flowers up someone’s derriere a mocking reminder of what I’m supposed to be doing with this suppository that looks remarkably like the very pastel I’d use if I WERE PAINTING AGAIN and not that I don’t try. I try. I try – painting that is – But always with the hope that someday I’ll paint that painting. That painting we all want to paint. That masterpiece. That statement. That defining statement that says something. Something… anything, Julia…. as long as it’s something. Something that’s valid, noteworthy, whether it’s a major truth or a minor truth! A positive truth or a negative truth!! Instead of these silly little sketches that do LITTLE MORE THAN SATISFY SOME OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE NEED BECAUSE THE HUMAN MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE!… Lord
“Cweam – morning, noon, and night.”
or is it human waste is a terrible thing to mind? “Hold still!” because instead I’m pulling dingleberries the size of walnuts out of John Woleski’s fecally encrusted derriere before it completely petrifies AND I’LL NEED A CHISEL AND PLIERS TO GET IT ALL OUT OF HERE Julia – who forever chides me on the misuse of my talents anyway or more specifically my hands – hands meant to paint a sunrise or a sunset “not meant to be sticking suppositories up John Woleski’s butt Gus!” which I can’t succeed in finding anyway after mushing how many up there now, Julia, and how many does that make up there Gus but evidently not where they’re supposed to be Julia since they’ve all come out and I’m beginning to wonder if he even has one, Julia – either that or he’s SO CLOGGED UP THERE’S NO MORE ROOM… or Down’s are even further off than I thought and maybe they’re somewhere else and maybe one day I’ll be cleaning out his navel ONLY TO FIND OUT IT’S NOT REALLY A NAVAL AFTER ALL and that’s probably why he’s always so clogged up in spite of all the fiber I must give him enough to send any other person into a DIARRHEIC CONVULSION AND I’M INSERTING SUPPOSITORIES, SCRAPING DANDRUFF, TREATING PIMPLES LET’S SEE AND WHAT ELSE HERE – TEETH – YES THAT’S RIGHT I HAVE TO BRUSH HIS TEETH, TAKE HIM STEP BY STEP THROUGH THE SHOWER NO WONDER WHY MOST OF THESE PEOPLE STINK WHO CAN PUT UP WITH IT UNLESS YOU’RE A TRAINED NURSE, YES – AND-ALL-THIS-WITH-THE-HAND-THAT’S-SUPPOSED-TO-SERVE-YOU-BY-STICKING-SUPPOSITORIES-UP-JOHN-WOLESKI’S-BUTT? “HOLD STILL!!!”
Lord
As I sit here looking at the thing wondering if today’ll be my day and I’ll finally manage to do what I’ve so far failed to do ALL DAY – “HOLD STILL!!” BECAUSE MAYBE IT REALLY IS ALL A DREAM you tell yourself and you’ll wake up and it’s not really a butt after all but rather a beautiful painting much like the Princess and the Frog – or worse I’ll be dreaming I’m painting this beautiful painting and instead it’ll turn into John Woleski’s BUTT? and my pastel won’t be a pastel? – but rather a suppository? – because maybe there’s a lesson here TOO, Lord because maybe sticking suppositories up Down’s Syndrome’s butts is like painting a beautiful painting because “even as you have done it unto the least of THESE” no I can’t carry that one too far but the point’s still there that which is done out of love even the lowliest task and perhaps the lowliest task since it takes real love to do that since unless you’re gay HOW COULD ANYONE ACCUSE YOU OF DOING IT FOR ANYTHING LESS BECAUSE WHAT POSSIBLE SELF-GAIN IS THERE IN STICKING A SUPPOSITORY UP JOHN WOLESKI’S BUTT, Julia….
“Well there you have it folks – our man Squint going where others fear to tread – so tune in tomorrow – for another thrilling episode of ‘THE CASE OF THE MISSING ANUS!’..”
“You finished?”
“No. Next time bring a flashlight!.. Or better yet, get yourself a spelunker’s hat, so you can use both hands” and then something about a funnel and a slingshot and she never quits…
Moral of the story: yes, she’s definitely over the top, but in all fairness to her and all those servants of suffering humanity on a 24/7 basis, here’s where action’s more important than words: Because you often hear the people that come here to minister to them “spiritually” say they’re doing it because they love them. But of course none of them ever have to clean up the diarrhea and the vomit that’s being projectily spewed simultaneously from both ends at a rate that’s gaining on you all the while knowing whatever they’ve got you’ll get – let ALONE ever spend a week, a weekend or even a night in one of their houses that no matter how much you clean still smell like urine – urine that after awhile you don’t even think about or even them as a matter of fact as being out of the norm as they take a swing at you, or try to bite you or kick you, throw something at you – rocks, chairs – or they’ve messed in their pants again after you just cleaned them up, again, and it’s only when you go downtown with them you think about how the “world” sees them and how they stand out and how much you should step in or just let things take their course like children loose in a department store as your mind’s racing between them and the other people and the “things” they can get into not to mention the social dynamics of whether Jack will get in someone’s face or Petie will hug everyone in sight or Leonard will go after some little boy and the boy’s scarred for life and his parent’s sue us for everything we have BECAUSE LEONARD ABUSED THEIR SON BECAUSE YOU WERE AFRAID OF COMING DOWN TOO HARD ON LEONARD LEST HE HAVE A TIZZY FIT RIGHT THERE IN THE STORE AND EVERYONE’LL THINK YOU ABUSED LEONARD INSTEAD – no –
That’s what the people who say they “love” them have to put up with – before that word “love” even BEGINS to mean anything… and anyway… like the doctors in M*A*S*H? Julia laughs, so she won’t cry.
And all she’s really trying to do is try to help me realize why I shouldn’t give up my art…
To be continued…