Whispers and War Cries: it’s the name and the guide. Do both, it tells me. Both/and as those in the Psychosynthesis and flower essence and energy medicine and other woo-woo waters tell me when I dive in or wade in or wonder what made me think I might belong. But I do belong, as much as anybody does. In fact, more so. Because I’m here writing this and will have published it so that any of you who might have your eyes on it now can read it: that’s why I belong in a world where—if only in theory and spoken words and ideas—authentic selves are welcome.
I have books beside me. I always have books beside me. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to find myself beneath a landslide of books. I imagine shaking my head and watching the Looney Tunes birdies and stars go round and round and round, inwardly scanning my body for broken or bleeding things, then grabbing the most interesting book I can get my fingers round and opening to page one.
Sister Wendy Beckett once found herself beneath books and would’ve restacked them again if others hadn’t insisted on a change of plans. I thought of Sister Wendy’s art books this evening before I sat here at my keyboard, and isn’t it curious that I can’t seem to bring her to mind without recalling a painting by George Bellows named Stag at Sharkey’s and the phrase “lovely, fluffy, pubic hair.”
Sister Wendy is not in the room with me now, but J. D. Salinger is, along with a photographer named Cig Harvey. Here, too, is a curious pairing. The Glass family and glass negatives, Blue Violet and Emerald Drifters, the pink sapphire ring on my finger and the way the stones go for a spin and nestle above my palm, leaving me with a band of yellow gold and one of platinum up top. I like all of those things, but have I ever even touched a glass negative? There’s something about the idea of one. I know how it would feel: the smoothness, the heft. It would be substantial and beautiful in its go-ahead-and-hold-me-by-the-edges way. I have a small jar of glass glitter—literally tiny glass shards—and I imagine sprinkling them over a glue-smeared cardboard roof then watching them shimmer and sparkle as they catch some rays. I could buy glass negatives, too. They’re listed on Ebay, but it feels like something like that just needs to show up in front of you.
Buddy Glass as a narrator of “Seymour: an Introduction” sounds different from Buddy Glass as a narrator of “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters” and “Franny” and “Zooey.” Yes, I want to get rid of all those quotation marks and italicize, but technically, those are individual stories, and why should I care if I pick one or the other? I’m not sure the quotes are right, but I feel like italics are wrong, and if there’s one hell of a lesson I’ve learned as of late, it’s to trust my intuition.
That’s what I’m doing here, by the way. And the results hardly matter.
But Buddy Glass: after finishing “Raise High . . .” yesterday (after my third reading of “Franny” and “Zooey” in as many years), I started in on Seymour’s intro and got confused. This is Buddy, right? No, I think it’s Seymour. Oh, wait, it is Buddy. I’m sure I’ll get little to no Zooey, and that’s a disappointment, but I’m grateful that I now understand who’s addressing me. And I’m glad that he again sounds like the Buddy Glass I’ve come to appreciate.
It’s the way he tells a story. It’s his way. Cig Harvey does the same thing, and I love that. I want it for myself. So, here I am, doing it.
Yup. There you are, doing it.