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To return to my December 2002 Barbaric Yawp interview with John Berbrich, click here.
To read our original 2001 interview, click here.
William Michaelian: Hi. Did you ever hear that Groucho Marx and T.S. Eliot corresponded for a time and eventually had dinner together? The get-together took place about seven months before Eliot died. Here’s part of a letter Groucho wrote to his brother Gummo about the evening:
. . . At any rate, your correspondent arrived at the Eliots’ fully prepared for a literary evening. During the week I had read “Murder in the Cathedral” twice, “The Waste Land” three times, and just in case of a conversational bottleneck, I brushed up on “King Lear.”
Well, sir, as the cocktails were served, there was a momentary lull — the kind that is more or less inevitable when strangers meet for the first time. So, apropos of practically nothing (and not with a bang but a whimper) I tossed in a quotation from “The Waste Land.” That, I thought, will show him I’ve read a thing or two besides my press notices from Vaudeville.
Eliot smiled faintly — as though to say he was thoroughly familiar with his poems and didn’t need me to recite them. So I took a whack at “King Lear”. . . .
That too failed to bowl over the poet. He seemed more interested in discussing “Animal Crackers” and “A Night at the Opera.” He quoted a joke — one of mine — that I had long since forgotten. Now it was my turn to smile faintly. . . .
We didn’t stay late, for we both felt that he wasn’t up to a long evening of conversation — especially mine. Did I tell you we called him Tom? — possibly because that’s his name. I, of course, asked him to call me Tom too, but only because I loathe the name Julius.
Yours,
Tom Marx
John Berbrich: Yeah, I have seen that letter. In fact I have a big book of Groucho’s letters, & I remember the one about Eliot quite clearly. It was a rather sad portrait of the man. Eliot is also mentioned in a book I have of extracts from H.L. Mencken’s diary. It was February 2nd, 1933. Eliot had been lecturing in Baltimore & wanted to meet Mencken. I’ll quote bits from the entry: “Eliot turned out to be a tall, somewhat ungainly fellow, looking more like an Oxford man than any Englishman. He said that he was having a quiet but tolerable time at Harvard....An amiable fellow, but with little to say. He told me that his father was a brick manufacturer in Missouri. No talk of religion. We discussed magazine prices....I drank a quart of home-brew beer, and Eliot got down two Scotches. A dull evening.”
William Michaelian: Sounds like Mencken, all right. I’ve yet to read Eliot, other than a few excerpts or snippets here and there. In pictures, he always looks sad, or distant, a little strange, a little grim. I seem to recall you mentioned reading “The Waste Land.” What do you think of it, and Eliot in general?
John Berbrich: I like reading Eliot. He appealed to me when I was 16-years-old & he still does. It’s unfortunate perhaps that his poetry requires so much annotation for a full understanding. But I’ve always enjoyed the feel of it, the bleak atmosphere, & couldn’t care less what it was supposed to be about. The images are sharp & clear. The word-choice is exemplary. And his Book of Practical Cats is hilarious & charming, certainly written by a cat-lover. When you read Eliot, you feel you are in the presence of some kind of authority, w/ the poetry as deep as scripture, not only holding up well under repeated scrutiny but actually gaining in power & profundity. I’ve read several of his books of criticism & essays, many of which are valuable for a serious writer & reader. He has a sly sense of humor that slips out now & then. His plays I’ve never found accessible.
William Michaelian: As if they are a house that appears to have no entrance, and so the reader is obliged to walk around and around, looking for a way in. A high window, perhaps? Through the cellar? The house itself looks pleasant enough. But the owner is gone. Or maybe he’s still inside, sleeping or working. Drinking tea. Talking to his cat.
John Berbrich: Actually I think it might be the titles more than anything. The Family Reunion,
The Cocktail Party, & The Confidential Clerk just don’t call out to me, although Murder in the Cathedral has some promise. But the titles of the poems chant like muted sirens: “The Waste Land,” “The Hollow Men,” “Rhapsody on a Windy Night,” “Usk.” These are works I’d want to read, & did.
William Michaelian: Those are good names. Usk. Interesting. I will definitely make a point of reading Eliot. You’re right about the play titles. On the other hand, I can imagine them serving nicely for Chekhov or Gogol. Now, here’s something neat I read awhile ago. I’m still chipping away at The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. Listen to the first three lines of Book V:
The sun turned toward his mother, and his mother, frightened,
rushed to light all her ovens at the sky’s foundations
and cast in forty loaves of bread to feed him well.
What do you think? Isn’t that a classic way to describe the sunrise?
John Berbrich: Wow. I wonder if the sun/son pun works in Greek the way it does in English? Man, that’s beautiful though — what a feeling of warmth & wafting good aromas. Hungry boy, that Helios. As I recall, Homer pretty much stuck w/ Dawn’s rosy fingers.
William Michaelian: As it turns out, Kazantzakis is full of these descriptions. The poem is really a pleasure to read. It has great spirit and warmth, and celebrates man’s physical nature without the burden of shame. Definitely keep it in mind for your future reading. Now for the evening:
Evening had not yet faded, as on mountain slopes
night stepped with crimson feet like a wild partridge, slowly.
The tranquil evening veiled the world with sweet delight,
each heart in the breast’s branches perched like a calm bird
and sang night-long all it had feared to sing by day.
John Berbrich: The guy wrote 800 pages of this stuff? Why isn’t this book famous, popular, taught in the schools? Sounds like an amazing achievement.
William Michaelian: It is, beyond a doubt. In Greece, when the book first appeared in 1938, it was accused of being too radical in vocabulary and diction. Kazantzakis, apparently, stepped on too many literary-traditional toes. When the English translation was published, the book received high critical praise, on the order of Ulysses. I don’t know. To me, its greatness is plain to see. Had it been discovered in a cave or some ruins and traced to Homer — well, you know how it goes. As it is, it’s another book on the shelf. A classic, aging in the long shadows cast by the official Canon. Maybe a few students are asked to read it in college, I don’t know. I haven’t looked into it.
John Berbrich: And we’ve wondered before — how many other marvelous & deserving works of art share the same fate of lonely neglect. Like I said about Lord Dunsany & his neighbors on the dusty book shelf — imagine the thrill when a prospective purchaser/reader approaches & fingers thoughtfully the ancient tomes. ME!! ME!! shout the books silently.
William Michaelian: Yes — a book can go unread for years, even centuries, and still retain its magic. It can gain meaning in light of historic events, and in light of personal experience. Now, it seems to me that we’re going to have to get to the bottom of this Lord Dunsmuir situation. Who was he, where did he live, how many languages did he speak, did he take long brooding walks — the works. Did he keep a journal? Was he, perhaps, an expert at distilling the essence of roses? It would be easy enough, I suppose, to find information about him on the Internet, but I’m sure it would leave out the most important things. But we can make those up — unless you think we might offend the Lord Dunsany Society.
John Berbrich: Those fiends! Better stay far away from that bloody crowd. I’m sure we could invent quite a fascinating history for the good lord, but not of course anything like what Jian Brichiam could come up with. I see him as tall, wearing dark clothing, outfits befitting a lord. Dark hair too. Sparse facial hair, but long. Cameras don’t focus on him well. He knows a great deal about many things I’ve never heard of. He probably has some hired help — a cook, maybe a gardener, certainly a washerwoman. His house is strange from the outside & we speculate about the interior; but look — the door is opening....
William Michaelian: Actually, that’s the gatehouse, where the lord occasionally spends time in disguise, toying with would-be guests. “The lord isn’t at all well today, I’m afraid. He was up rather late last night with his experiments, and his laboratory caught fire.”
John Berbrich: Hounded & bedeviled by gatekeepers! You said it would come to this, Willie. However, what I didn’t mention is that the lord is an expert swordsman. This could be the end of the line for us, old pal. Here, take this mop handle & finish him off. I’ll back you up.
William Michaelian: Are you suggesting we resort to violence? The lord is only posing — he’s probably been reading Don Quixote. Meanwhile, the real gatekeeper is bound and gagged and slumped on the floor behind him. Lord Dunsany has mistaken the poor soul for a roving bandit — as opposed to a stationary bandit, which is a far less romantic occupation. Wait — since when do mop handles have eyes? Ah! This isn’t a mop, it’s the maid’s grandmother. Better put her back in the corner.
John Berbrich: Sorry ma’am. There. Okay. Willie, how can you tell for sure? I mean, how do you know, between this fellow here & the fellow on the floor, which is the lord & which is the gatekeeper? And which of them is going to buy a set of encyclopedias anyway? This door-to-door stuff seems dangerous.
William Michaelian: It is. And remember, the countryside is littered with gatehouses, there being a great competition among gatekeepers and self-proclaimed lords of field and fen — or, as in Lord Dunsany’s case, field and pen. For he is an author, as you have already pointed out. But what did he write? That’s the question.
John Berbrich: Let’s find out. But first tell me — which is worse, a stationary bandit or a stationery bandit?
William Michaelian: A roving stationery bandit is by far the worst type of bandit. A stationary stationery bandit is evil, but easier to catch. A mandatory banditery standit, on the other hand — wait. Do we need to know all this?
John Berbrich: I guess not. Maybe it all has something to do with standing outside the good lord’s house. Something mind-scrambling is going on. If we could only get inside & check out the lord’s library, we’d know what sort of books he reads, & that knowledge would give us a clue as to what he writes.
William Michaelian: Logic? At a time like this? I’m surprised at you. Have you forgotten the Gatekeepers Revolt of 1869? And the cruel Wrath of the Lords that followed? There is more here than meets the eye. Much more. There is also less. So much less, in fact, that it seems like more. So little of nothing that it seems like everything. And that is all there is. This all, then, is what we are concerned with. The never which is ever, the present which is past, the here which is there, and, least but not less, the lord which is bored.
John Berbrich: Willie! I know what’s going on here! We’ve reached the Paradox Critical Point, where all theoretical continua merge into a flashing chance at bliss, a nanosecond of illimitable insight, that point on the head of a pin where the entire universe — everything that is, ever was, and ever will be — dances. I think it’s all converged in your head.
William Michaelian: Well, at least it’s good for something. The Paradox Critical Point, then, must require an empty space, a space free of reason, in which to take root and blossom. I feel so much better, just knowing where I stand. Because, I must confess, this has happened to me many times over the years. Maybe it explains why people look at me the way they do, with a mixture of pity and disgust.
John Berbrich: Don’t take it personally. It’s simply that they don’t understand, cannot possibly comprehend, that whirling vortex of eternal forces that you are. All of history has led to this moment, & all of the future will emanate from it. And all you have to do is to be yourself. “I am large,” said Whitman, foreshadowing this moment. “I contain multitudes.”
William Michaelian: Good heavens. Sounds like a lot of responsibility. And Lord Dunsany? What does he contain?
John Berbrich: Why don’t you ask him? He’s right over there, untying the gatekeeper.
William Michaelian: Damn you. At this point, I’d just as soon ask the gatekeeper. We’ll ask them both. We’re bound to get two different stories.
John Berbrich: Not only that, but I’d expect that wily lord to haul out an x-ray machine, to show us what he & the gatekeeper contain. Comparative anatomy.
William Michaelian: And I’d expect the gatekeeper to be Lord Dunsany, and this other swashbuckling loon to be an escapee from our junk poem shop. And the maid’s grandmother to be married to a hoe handle. And the hoe handle to be part pitchfork on his father’s side.
John Berbrich: They say the uncle’s quite a rake.
William Michaelian: Ha! Beautiful. Well. Anyway. As sad as it seems, I have good news. I received the new Yawp you sent. Thank you. I’ve already read the poems. Worth the entire price of admission were these three lines from “Road Trip Haiku,” by Michael Kriesel:
outside Pittsburgh
stars so sharp
they scratch the windshield
A nice poem, really, in and of itself. Then I got started on the prose, which I’ve really liked so far. “Dyslexics Untie,” by Gary Every, is quite good — and poetic. I also like “Sometimes, it Sinks in Slowly,” by Francine Witte. I love the morgue man’s line, “He gave her a sandwich and offered to bury her.” I’m curious — are you receiving more of these very short submissions than you used
to?
John Berbrich: I think so. The flash fiction genre is really catching on. It takes a lot of skill to tell a story in 150 words. And it’s great for readers w/ short attention spans or limited time to read. Our latest chapbook, Brooklyn Smoker by Rosanna Armendariz, is nothing but flash fiction.
William Michaelian: Interesting. I did see Holly Interlandi’s review of Brooklyn Smoker. She kept it short herself. And in your list of chapbooks, you say that reviewers are calling flash fiction the “future of small press publishing.” The form does seem to spring naturally from these hectic times. I like it. Then again, I like anything that is well done — short, long, or in between. I like this potent paragraph from “Dyslexics Untie”:
It is like Descartes never said, I think therefore I am but then my thoughts are also. My ideas can have life beyond and without me once I have given them form and birth. Our heads are filled with anthems, icons, and infotainment, but salvation lies in creation.
Lines like these really contain and convey the spirit of Barbaric Yawp.
John Berbrich: I like to think so. Lots of creative energy beaming out like good radioactivity, infecting readers w/ inspiration. I was particularly impressed w/ the poems of Sara Brenchley, especially the one about Picasso. She’s still in college, tons of potential.
William Michaelian: Yes, I read that she’s studying writing at Penn State. Perhaps she can teach them a few things — startle a few people, upset them, write a manifesto or two, turn the program upside down. Are things like that happening anywhere these days?
John Berbrich: Not that I know of. We can do something like that at the junk poem shop. Give classes or something. Every student is required to write a manifesto — a startling manifesto, an upsetting manifesto. We won’t charge much for these services. But we’ll take credit for any great poems written.
William Michaelian: And deny any responsibility for the bad ones. Ah, yes — compulsory manifestos. It does have a certain appeal. Really, there should be a magazine that publishes nothing but manifestos. It could have a reprint of an historical manifesto in each issue, as well as several new manifestos.
John Berbrich: Well, we can publish the manifestos written by our students. Think of the self-righteous attitude of the thing! This is the way it is, dammit! I declare it! I announce it! I assert it! I insist upon it! Wow, that could be some exhausting reading.
William Michaelian: True, I’ve never heard of an apologetic or hesitant manifesto. I know — let’s require that all manifestos be submitted on bar napkins or the backs of menus. Anyone who follows the rule, we immediately throw out. Spirit is what we’re after, by gum.
John Berbrich: Ah yes — the long tradition of anarchy & revolution. Of course the tuition is non-refundable. Am I turning this into a school? An institution of lower learning? Well, ’tis a sure manner of making money. A small private school, perhaps. In his first lecture, Professor Michaelian will concentrate on gerunds, their history, utility, & surprising humor.
William Michaelian: Professor, no less. Please, you’re embarrassing me. The title Doctor will do. Now, as I envision it, I will mumble my lecture from somewhere deep within the stacks. No one will actually see me. Later, when they do see me, and I am engaged in my other duties about the shop, it will never occur to them that I would be capable of speech, leave alone know what a gerund is. Let’s see. A gerund is an old person, right?
John Berbrich: Precisely, Herr Doktor! And the elderly have quite a lengthy history, some vague utility, & can be quite funny at times. You may require some visuals, cuz I can’t imagine a class of youngsters sitting still for this. Perhaps you could reach them if only they could understand that they themselves are nothing but the pre-elderly. And the oldsters are post-youth. How neat & symmetrical.
William Michaelian: Neat and symmetrical. Yes. And I’ll be standing there, wild-eyed, lumpy, and matted with fur. And now, more good news: acting on your recommendation, I picked up a used copy of Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T.S. Eliot at the used book store. Jumping around, I’ve read half a dozen of the shorter ones. I like them — so far, so good.
John Berbrich: I like a lot of his shorter ones & enjoy reading them over & over. Really like “Prufrock.” Does your copy contain his “Practical Cats” of around a score of poems? They are delightful.
William Michaelian: Unfortunately, no. There is one poem called “Lines to a Persian Cat.” But the book contains “Prufrock,” “The Waste Land,” “The Hollow Men,” “Ash-Wednesday,” and quite a bit more. I love the way “The Waste Land” begins:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
John Berbrich: That is a great poem, somber & stately, I don’t care what anyone says. The poetry reading we attended in April at the college was billed as “The Cruellest Month.” Poetry month, it was. I love the rhythms of “Prufrock,” the long lines balanced just so. Like a literary tightrope w/ no net, every step a sure one.
William Michaelian: Indeed. I just read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I really like the way Eliot goes about it. Here’s another verse I like, this one from “Morning at the Window”:
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
This is a treat. I plan to take my time with this book, then I’ll look into his essays and criticism later.
John Berbrich: In an essay written in the 30’s, one critic called Eliot a “drunken helot.” I have it around here somewhere. I guess Eliot’s poetry was too radical. Don’t you love that, a “drunken helot.”
William Michaelian: I do. I wonder what the critic meant by that. Isn’t a helot some kind of Greek slave?
John Berbrich: Yes. I think it also means a member of the lowest class, the dregs of a society. Pretty far down on the scale. But, to lighten the mood, let’s not forget that today is Bloomsday! Everyone celebrate — now!
William Michaelian: Absolutely. I have no idea why Bloomsday isn’t noted on the calendar. Good old James Joyce. Good old Nora Barnacle. Good old Leopold Bloom. Good old Molly. Good old Dedalus. Good old Mulligan. Good old Ulysses. By the way, there’s a nice used copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at one of our local used book stores, but for some odd reason I still haven’t brought it home. I suppose it’s something I should read, eh?
John Berbrich: It’s a pretty good book. More “normal” than his later works, but still w/ plenty of creativity. Having been brought up Roman Catholic, I was particularly affected by certain chapters. I could relate, let us say. Some scenes shine for years in the brain.
William Michaelian: As if they were somehow burned into the tissue itself. I remember in grade school, the Catholic kids were excused for catechism. And on Fridays, the cafeteria served fish sticks. And many people were concerned about a Catholic being elected president.
John Berbrich: Well, he turned out to be okay. Certainly no worse than most. Yeah, I remember fish on Fridays & catechism & Lent. And I recall the good old confessional. Joyce includes a very powerful chapter about the confessional in Portrait.
William Michaelian: I’m not surprised, considering his many references to the Church elsewhere. It might interest you to know that in the Armenian Church, which is very similar to the Catholic except that it underwent fewer changes in its earlier formative times, confession is made in the open, as a group, in the area in front of the altar. A deacon reads or recites several verses of what I’ll call a general list of sins. After each verse, those who have come forward to confess say “I have sinned against God.” When the list is done, the priest grants forgiveness and then Communion is given.
John Berbrich: Wow. I did not know that. I wonder if there exists some scriptural reference to this sort of ceremony. It would certainly encourage caution in one’s behavior, if everybody might find out someday. And if you don’t confess, the guilt grows heavier & heavier. Until one can no longer stand up straight. Great title for a novel or short story: The Stooped Man.
William Michaelian: I like it — it has great potential. Imagine being able to judge a person’s moral status by the amount he or she is stooped. Or, we might add an h to the word: shtooped. I remember Joyce spelling out the letter h in this manner: aitch. Anyway, when you finally do confess, you’re able to straighten up again, and walk upright among your fellow men. But it’s so easy for such things to become hollow forms. For that matter, it’s easy for people to become hollow forms. Which reminds me — I’ve yet to read “The Hollow Men.”
John Berbrich: I suspect you’ll like that one. As for The Shtooped Man, imagine our hero has a spine condition which forces him to hunch over like the evilest sinner. But really he’s kind & generous, yet no one believes him. A poignant tale of morality, forgiveness, & vertebrae.
William Michaelian: Nice twist, if you’ll forgive the pun. But I have a question. At what age do children develop their stooped condition? Or are they born with little hunched backs? I can envision a scene in which a council of elders meets to discuss this very subject. To hide their grotesque forms, the elders wear beautiful flowing garb.
John Berbrich: Beautiful. But judge not, my friend. These elders all will claim to be tormented by spinal problems. As to the age at which the stoopified condition begins, ah — there’s the rub. If these are inherited sins, like the Original Sin of the Catholics, then all children will be born as hunches, which isn’t the case. Kids would probably be terrified of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, due to his hideously stooped appearance. Stoopifaction due to sinning can not occur unless the evil doer is fully cognizant of the seriousness of his transgression. We have quite a parable going here.
William Michaelian: I like that — “there’s the rub.” Very appropriate. In our parable, the Church could publish a little bedside booklet called The Chiropractic, or Seven Prayers for Stoopifaction. But it breaks my heart to think of the poor children, and how they must feel when they first become aware of the onset of stoopifaction. The girls laughing at the boys, the boys tormenting each other and thinking it will never happen to them, and all of them making excuses for their stooped parents, or even worse, hating them for it. Hmm. The word stooped is not far from stupid, is it.
John Berbrich: Willie, you’re really on to something BIG here. Shtooped, shtoopid. It seems to prove what Socrates said about bad behavior, immorality — that it is caused by ignorance, lack of education. The shtoopid people are bending, curling in a hideous deformity caused by their own actions. I can hear the preachers now.
William Michaelian: That’s the trouble — we can always hear them, chirping away like birds in a tree. And in the latter days of decadence, many were they who appeared in the streets with crude inflatable backs. I suppose it’s only a coincidence that vultures are stooped.
John Berbrich: It’s possible that in our parable, Satan will appear in the form of a vulture rather than as a serpent. He will feed on the carcasses of the many deformed shtooopids fallen along the way of life’s path. A gathering of ragged vultures in a barren tree — a horde of demons eager to feast on a victim.
William Michaelian: Man, this is starting to sound scary. Vultures in barren trees, twisted forms, grotesque elders in flowing garb. The barren tree I really like. It’s dead, yet it survives, draws morbid strength from the diseased soil, a remnant in a once fertile field. Well. So much for the Church. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve added yet another book to my library — get this: in one collection, Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America, The Pill versus the Springhill Mine Disaster, and In Watermelon Sugar. I’ve read the first few pages of Trout Fishing. Very appealing. And I read Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.” So that’s where these lines come from:
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Come to think of it, we could use that in the parable, but change it to Not with a bang but a vulture. Or not.
John Berbrich: Willie, everything’s starting to fit together. This is worse (or better) than Farrago. I can imagine a critic calling Brautigan a drunken helot. Compare him to Eliot — they are so different, yet so powerful. Those are three interesting novels you’ve got there. Did you discover that Brautigan at your usual bookstore? I must check out that place when I come West. Sounds as though you find Eliot’s work at least somewhat appealing. I really like both of these authors — you are in for some good times in the near future.
William Michaelian: The Brautigan find was purely accidental. I was downtown with our youngest son, and we had just left a little vintage guitar shop, where he had purchased a Guild six-string acoustic that was made in 1969. We were due to pick up Dollface at three-thirty and had about fifteen minutes to spare, so we stopped at the book store on the way. We were glancing through the poetry section when Brautigan’s name popped into my mind, so I went to the fiction section, looked under B, and there it was. A refreshing experience, as has been the first few pages. Eliot, well, I don’t know if I’d want to be trapped with him on a deserted island, but I do like his work so far. A distinctive, unapologetic voice.
John Berbrich: Yeah. You never find a word out of place in Eliot’s work. Brautigan’s stuff contains numerous unexpected twists and vistas. It’s really hard to classify, & quite unnecessary. A serendipitous discovery, to be sure.
William Michaelian: Quite obviously an observant character. We also looked for some of Eliot’s prose, but found none. So I flew into a rage, and told the owner and his trembling minions that if that was the kind of joint they were running, they were sure to lose me as a customer. Then the kid started strumming violently on his guitar, and the walls began to shake, and the whole place crashed to the ground. In the second version, Eliot himself appeared in ghostly white, his eyelids tinged with green, and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a copy of Groucho’s letters.” Either way, it was quite a day.
John Berbrich: You know, that T.S. Eliot really is quite a gentleman. On the Howie and the Wolfman radio show, we try to feature one poem on every broadcast. About two years ago we ran a special on Eliot and his poems on Practical Cats. This guy’s been dead for decades, yet he took the time to fly from England once every week to recite a poem for us on the air. He was always very quiet in the studio, polite and respectful, never making a fuss. He was fascinated by the CD’s and seemed a bit shy of the microphone. It’s good to know he’s still frequenting bookstores.
William Michaelian: Well, in this case, his stuffy humor certainly helped us make the best of a bad situation. I do think he was a bit puzzled by the absence of his prose. After he left, we followed him for a time down the sidewalk, then he turned into an alley and started meowing like a cat at the service entrance of a sandwich shop. A horn sounded in the street. We looked briefly to see who it was. We turned our attention back to the doorway just in time to see the upright tail of a cat disappearing inside.
John Berbrich: Sounds like the raw material for another series of poems, perhaps a set of sonnets.
I wonder if they write poetry on the Other Side. I can imagine one of their Undercloud zines: The Dead Letters Department.
William Michaelian: Hey, I like that. Tell me — when Eliot flew in for his readings, did he stay overnight at your place, or at the local animal shelter?
John Berbrich: I don’t know if we have an animal shelter around here. No, he didn’t stay w/ us — Eliot flew into the local airport in Ogdensburg, then was chauffeured to Potsdam, roughly 30 miles. And after the reading he always left early, unwilling to stick around & chat — or maybe he was simply uncomfortable around all those drunken helot CD’s.
William Michaelian: Could be. The dull shine of pale-cold CDs can be a bit unnerving. There’s no way to invite him, of course, but I do hope he’ll visit us at our antique and junk poem shop. In fact, when a person asks for a work by a particular poet, it would be nice if the poet himself would materialize, read the poem, and perhaps bring news about life on the Other Side.
John Berbrich: A sweet idea. As a service to readers and poets everywhere, we could publish a small monthly journal filled w/ poems & news items regarding poets both dead & alive. The Other Side would be a great title. When you think about it, to those guys we’re on the other side.
William Michaelian: Unless there is no other side, and they’re still here but existing in another dimension. Or we’re there and don’t realize it, or they don’t realize it — none of which should interfere with the idea. Anyway, wouldn’t it be great to find dead poets in the parlor sipping brandy, simply because they noticed our shop from afar, or anear, and found the place appealing?
John Berbrich: Could get pretty crowded in there. I imagine Ezra Pound ranting about these & those literary technicalities, & then some French pointillist starting in & before you know it we could be hosting quite a poetry brawl. What about the language barrier? I don’t speak any French, wouldn’t be able to say a word to Rimbaud. One thing I would dearly love is to hear an authentic speaker from any time in the past, say from Shakespeare’s day. I wonder just how much we’d understand.
William Michaelian: Me too. Remember what a pleasure it was listening to that recording of Joyce reading from Finnegans Wake. Personally, I’d like to hear Dostoevsky giving his speech at the unveiling of the Pushkin monument. Apparently the crowd went berserk. Of course, I wouldn’t understand a word. But I hadn’t thought of the language barrier. Maybe the poets won’t appear unless they know someone is there who understands their language. Or maybe they will be accompanied by translators. I’d also like to hear Cervantes. And Whitman. In Specimen Days, I love the part where he writes about his nature walks and how he used young saplings to bend and push and pull against for exercise, feeling their energy as it entered his body. And his talking and yelling and singing while he was out alone.
John Berbrich: Isn’t that the greatest book? Can’t you just hear his wild cries? While the poets are arguing & laughing in our parlor, Whitman is strolling the grounds, smelling the bushes, listening to the birds, running his hands over the bark of trees. At night, while the others drink brandy, he gazes up into the sparkling canopy of stars, glittering throughout the dark bright infinite universe.
William Michaelian: With him, that’s so easy to picture. It’s also amazing how much he knows about the constellations, and the names and types of trees and various forms of wildlife. He even lists them. And he tastes things, and stuffs aromatic leaves and twigs into his pockets — when he isn’t naked, of course, and healing himself with the sun’s rays.
John Berbrich: I have an essay written by Robert Louis Stevenson about Whitman. It contains one of my favorite lines anywhere: “He came into the world naked and unashamed.” I haven’t read that essay in years, but that line has always stuck in my head. I remember skinny-dipping in the ocean at night years ago, bouncing through the waves, the immensity of the dark Atlantic before me, the moon shining down, its reflection bobbing on the water’s surface. I felt like I was in a Walt Whitman poem. All those cosmic essences.
William Michaelian: A beautiful scene. I can’t help thinking the whole thing is a poem — life, the universe, everything. A poem that is a song, a song that is a poem.
John Berbrich: Every now & then I get clubbed in the head by that same thought. But it’s more than a thought, more than a mere cerebration. In those peak moments, you can feel the planets revolving around you — at midnight you can feel the sun below you, beneath the Earth — at noon you feel the breathing of the grass, the flowers, the weeds. Yeah, at times such as these, it’s all a song, a poem, a celebration. And that’s what the best poets try to capture, in words, & have been for centuries.
William Michaelian: Can’t help themselves, poor fools. I do believe the universe is rhythmic and musical by nature. Say — now I have another interesting article to read: thanks many times over for sending the New Yorker piece about Joyce and his grandson. Just got it today, and I’m looking forward to it. I’m hooked on Brautigan, by the way. Pleasant little surprises on most every page. And I read “The Waste Land.” I don’t like that one as much as “The Hollow Men,” or “Ash-Wednesday,” but it still isn’t bad.
John Berbrich: Wow. Sounds like your cup is bubbling over. Joyce, Brautigan, Eliot. Giants. I thought you might like Brautigan, a real American. The piece on Joyce is an eye-opener. I’ll let you know if there’s any feedback, say a nasty letter or a threat of legal action. Stephen James Joyce sounds like a character in a story, cranky & unreasonable & in love w/ his power. But he does have a point.
William Michaelian: No doubt. I guess he’s the only remaining Joyce. I like the picture of him as a child with his grandfather. I also received the lastest issue of Rain Taxi. That was at least a week ago, but I haven’t read any of it yet. How about William Blake? Our youngest son brought home a thousand-page Penguin edition that contains all of his poems.
John Berbrich: Of Blake I’ve read only two collections, his well-known Songs of Innocence & Songs of Experience. These are short & filled w/ lessons for the young, so I read them over & over to the kids when they were little — along w/ Curious George & Dr. Seuss, of course. I do have a Dover reprint of a long poetry book by Edward Young called Night Thoughts, for which Blake did hundreds of amazing woodcuts. In an essay, Eliot says that Blake’s poetry has “a peculiar honesty, which, in a world too frightened to be honest, is peculiarly terrifying.” Eliot goes on to say: “We have the same respect for Blake’s philosophy...that we have for an ingenious piece of home-made furniture: we admire the man who has put it together out of the odds and ends about the house.”
William Michaelian: Kind of a neat compliment. I also like that “too frightened to be honest” observation. So far, the kid seems quite impressed by Blake. He also has a CD by bluesman Blind Blake, but that’s another subject. I haven’t read Edward Young. I know he predates Blake, but that’s about all. I like the fact that Blake illustrated and printed his own work in variable editions. I seem to recall reading that he was buried in a paupers’ grave along with a dozen or so other people.
John Berbrich: Seems like I’ve read that too, somewhere. I also read once, somewhere, that Blake had a fairly strange personal philosophy & theology, something to do w/ God being imprisoned in a dungeon at the center of the universe, which explains why the world is going to hell. I presume this theory is showcased in some poems, but I don’t know which ones. But if He could be imprisoned, how could He be an all-powerful God? Is it all a game?
William Michaelian: It has that aspect. Maybe the universe is the dungeon, and there’s something much larger beyond. In a sense, people create dungeons for God every time they try to understand Him — if in fact people didn’t create Him in the first place.
John Berbrich: Hmmmmmm. There’s that Zen thing again — when you define something, you tend to limit it. This is a big subject. Tell me about Blind Blake. I have a recording by Blind Willie McTell, a Georgia bluesman who died around 1960. He was also known as Pig ’n Whistle Red, Georgia Bill, & Barrelhouse Sammy. Wonder what his momma called him?
William Michaelian: You mean Blind Momma McTell? I have no idea. My son has several CDs by Blind Willie McTell, but there’s no mention of those other great names in the booklet. Blind Blake is more upbeat and in the ragtime vein. Not a favorite around here, doesn’t hold a candle to Lead Belly, say, or the classic bitterness of Skip James, or Blind Lemon Jefferson. And then there’s Big Joe Williams and his home-made nine-string guitar. And Robert Johnson, of course. Which reminds me — I remember when I tried to sell my soul to the devil. He wasn’t interested. From then on, I knew it was going to be a long haul.
John Berbrich: Man, that would give you a funny, empty feeling inside. The hollow man. Say, that reminds me — I was reading in the park in Canton a couple of days ago. It was my lunch hour, & on Tuesday & Friday they always have the Farmer’s Market. The park is filled w/ vendors peddling fresh vegetables, home made bread, actually all sorts of home made stuff like maple syrup, jewelry, wind chimes, et cetera. Plus there’s usually a singer providing entertainment. Anyway, two days ago Reverend Mike was performing. A big guy w/ a ponytail halfway down his back, Mike’s a preacher at a local church, I forget the denomination, who plays guitar & sings mostly older stuff like James Taylor, the Eagles, Neil Young, & the like. This past Tuesday he was playing a Grateful Dead song off the Workingman’s Dead album. It gave me much pleasure to hear a preacher sing, “A friend of the devil is a friend of mine.”
William Michaelian: Well, I guess he figures he wouldn’t be in business without the devil’s help. I should say, though, that despite the devil’s refusal we have kept in touch. In fact, just the other day, I told him I think his monoply is unfair, and that if I could sell my soul elsewhere I wouldn’t hesitate to do so. And, would you believe it, he was crushed.
John Berbrich: You sound as though you’re trying out for a part in Gogol’s Dead Souls. Man, that was a crazy book. The devil is so tricky that even the churches can be run by him. He makes it all sound soooo easy & reasonable. Watch your step, Willie. Your soul may end up in a yard sale, w/ a 25-cents sticker taped to it. Sitting out in the rain for three days. “That’s a mighty soggy soul you got there, mister,” the old man says. “I’ll give you 15 cents for it.”
William Michaelian: Huh — that’s how I picked it up in the first place. Actually it was in a bazaar way back in the third century. When I showed a certain amount of interest, the seller insisted that it was a hearty, distinctive soul, one that would be coveted by the likes of Omar Khayyám, who was destined to become a great poet and mathematician just a few hundred years later. And wouldn’t you know, I fell for it. Even worse, it took me a couple of centuries to realize the seller was the devil himself, in town to dump some of his faulty merchandise.
John Berbrich: See what I’m telling you? You can’t trust these guys. But you can trust me. You hang on to that soul, Willie. It could be valuable some day. But for now, since you seem to be saddled w/ a soul of low grade, don’t you think it might be smart to pick up another, as a sort of supplement. You’d be the double-soulled man. Say, that’s a decent name for a blues album: The Double-Soulled Man by Blind Willie Michaelian. This is all starting to come together now.
William Michaelian: True. You’ve given me nothing but good advice in the past. I have no reason to doubt you now. But how will I know if the souls will get along? If there were only some reputable dealer I might turn to. Or should I look online? Maybe I should start reading my junk e-mail. And why stop at two souls? Why not acquire several? Maybe the competition would do them good.
John Berbrich: Speaking of souls, we had a hell of a lot of excitement today in Canton. At about 10:00 in the morning, some guy burst through the doors of a bank, armed w/ two semi-automatic weapons. He got away w/ about $10,000 in cash. This was about two blocks from my office, & directly adjacent to the Park, about 200 feet from my reading-bench. There were cops everywhere & helicopters flying overhead. It didn’t slow down the Farmer’s Market at all, although a big rainstorm at around 12:30 did break up the festivities, & left me soaking wet. Far as I know they haven’t caught the guy yet. But, you were saying?
William Michaelian: I have no idea. But getting soaked serves you right after talking about my two-bit soul sitting out in the rain. I know this: if we had already opened our junk poem shop, the bank robber would want to hide out there. Then he would get lost in the stacks, and papered over with obscure poems. Reminds me of that old song by the Kingston Trio, where a guy kills somebody and ends up running and hiding in the Everglades, where a man can be lost and never be found . . .
John Berbrich: We could be the junk poem gang. We’ll require wicked tattoos, & you’ll need an ugly scar running down the side of your face. I can see Ezra Pound as a desperate bandit, chomping on a smelly cigar, bandoliers crossed on his chest. During shootouts w/ the cops he’ll fire off little manifestos, w/ Eliot in the back room planning the next caper. It all sounds glorious.
William Michaelian: With characters like that on the prowl, we can’t go wrong. I’ve seen pictures of Pound, and he sure looked the part. But the place is beginning to sound like a tattoo parlor. And to think it started out as a quiet place where we could retire. Oh, well. No sense arguing with destiny.
John Berbrich: That’s the spirit, Willie — the whole thing is organic, like it’s growing & changing. That’s the spirit of life, my friend, not cold & unchanging like a stone. We’ve had this discussion before. A quiet retirement home for dead poets could be fun, but build a saloon downstairs that serves our wicked foaming homebrew, & things will be a lot better. Trust me on this.
William Michaelian: I do. In fact, I’m drunk already. I’m also retired and dead, which is another way of saying that I’m as changing as an uncold stone. And if that makes sense, we’re well on our way to something that’s bigger than Dada and smaller than the head of a pin. By the way, I came up with a new name for myself today, a name I can use in my unofficial capacity as a bluesman. Since I’m not physically blind, instead of Blind Willie, I’ve decided to go with Bill Delaney. And I came up with a title for my first big song: “I Should Be Thankin’ Myself.” Now all I have to do is write it. Of course that’s the easy part. Even better, there’s a nice used Galveston resonator at the guitar shop downtown. Our son was playing it the other day, and it sounded great. Now that I have a stage name and a signature tune, all I need is the resonator to complete the package. Who knows — the wily old devil might even reconsider my offer.
John Berbrich: Bill Delaney? I had thought you might use Blind Willie McTellian. But I can’t wait to hear your song. The title sounds authentic. You can just hear some raggedy voice rasping out those words, “I should be thankin’ myself, baby / for gettin’ away from you.” So you play guitar too, Bill, eh?
William Michaelian: No, not yet. That’s a big part of the appeal — I have to learn. I’m also toying with the idea of naming the resonator Tom, and performing as Delaney and Tom. Then I can address Tom between songs, and he can answer and tell me all about his woes. Poor Tom. Mournful Tom, scarred by the miles.
John Berbrich: I see. Kind of like Delaney & Bonnie, only w/ guts. Sounds like a comedian w/ a wooden dummy, to tell you the truth. If you can work in the comedy w/ some authentic down-home-chooglin’ blues, you’ll have the audience laughing & crying at the same time. You’ll be a big hit, Willie — uh, Bill. You too, Tom.
William Michaelian: A wooden dummy, eh? Thanks a lot. And I suppose I’m the dummy, and Tom’s the brains of the outfit. Oh, well. As usual, time will tell. Say, is that bank robber still on the loose?
John Berbrich: Yeah. The bank’s offering a $10,000 reward. Sounds like a good way to pick up some cash. The junk poem gang will track him down like a dog in the sun. We’ll collect the reward, then go on a spree, hitting every saloon in town. You go thataway, pardner.
William Michaelian: Tom’ll flush him out. My other idea, by the way, is for Tom to be the other half of my duo, but a guy who always misses the gigs. Nobody ever sees him, and I always have to make excuses for him. “Don’t worry about Tom, he’ll be here any minute.” “Tom’s drunk. I left him at the hotel.” “He couldn’t find his guitar.” “Darned fool — somebody stole his trunk, with him in it.”
John Berbrich: Jeez, Willie, you’ve got this thing covered. Now all you have to do is to learn how to play the guitar. You been practicing?
William Michaelian: No. First I have to get the guitar. Then I have to cut the fingernails on my left hand, and then I have to figure out which bottle or glass will make the best slide — unless I buy a shiny new chrome slide at the store. Got plenty to be miserable about, so that’s no problem. I’ll probably do a little research on Tom, maybe even write a novel about him to find out what kind of guy he really is. I know that sounds kind of sneaky, writing a novel behind someone’s back. But I figure if he’s going to treat me the way he does, then I have that right.
John Berbrich: He’s probably writing a novel about you. You’d better be careful, old Tom could turn you into a real moron in his book. He could write nasty Chicago Blues songs about you, those gritty midnight gin & nicotine rhapsodies of tragedy. You ever hear that Zappa song, “Willie the Pimp”?
William Michaelian: No. As strange as it seems, I’ve hardly listened to Zappa, and I’m ashamed to say I haven’t kept track of Dweezil and Moon Unit. But maybe I am Tom. And maybe Tom’s me. Did you ever think of that? Or maybe the guy who finishes his novel first wins.
John Berbrich: Wins what?
William Michaelian: The Tour de Farce award. Or maybe something practical, like a can of chili or chicken noodle soup.
John Berbrich: Well, in that case you’d better get writing. A can of chili along w/ a bottle of our antique junk poem shop homebrew dark beer is nothing to sneer at. Sounds like pure inspiration.
William Michaelian: Dark beer and fiery chili — in truth, these are reasons to go on. Another reason is Brautigan. I love this line from his description of an old cemetery, where he finds “weeds and death growing there like partners in a dance.”
John Berbrich: Darkly beautiful. I’m glad you’re enjoying old Richard. Every now & then you’ll come across a Brautiganian line, like the one you just pointed out, that makes you sit back & ponder. Much fuel for poetry & literary exploration.
William Michaelian: He certainly gets the mind going in different directions. Tiny poems are scattered throughout his prose. Do you know if his stuff is being read in colleges these days?
John Berbrich: I don’t. Nancy doesn’t teach his poetry, or even use it as an example. She’s undecided about his value as an author. Next time we attend one of those college dinners or an honors ceremony or something I’ll ask around. And you’re quite right about tiny poems being scattered throughout the prose. Like little unexpected treasures.
William Michaelian: Really, in Trout Fishing in America, there is seldom a page without them. And in addition to Brautigan’s odd experience on this earth, he has obviously done his reading. He has a sense of humor, too, but his general outlook is sad.
John Berbrich: Yes, his pages contain a pervasive melancholy. But then again, as you say, humor crackles in strange places. I guess the melancholy won, as he shot himself.
William Michaelian: In keeping with the spirit of his book, we might call his final act The Funeral for Trout Fishing in America. Many people ridicule suicide, see it as a sign of weakness, or condemn it outright. I guess that’s one way to avoid thinking about it.
John Berbrich: In one of his books, Nietzsche talks about suicide as the noblest way to die. You choose the time & the place. In full control, when you tire of this weary world, your affairs in order, your family & friends in attendance, you end it all by your own hand, no god or demon snatching you by chance. This viewpoint is somewhat persuasive. If life is sacred, don’t allow it to dwindle & waste. End it before the long slow decline goes too far. End it w/ dignity. End it w/ a firm hand.
William Michaelian: In which case it might be seen as a brave, powerful act. Of course it’s a delicate, personal subject. And a cultural one. For the most part, in our present society, death is avoided at all costs, even when it is by so-called natural causes. Not that ending one’s own life isn't natural. But death and dying are treated in an antiseptic, clinical fashion.
John Berbrich: As are so many things. Antiseptic, clinical. Just the statistics, please. And spread sheets & pie-charts & I want an overview on the Power Point. Forget that these are real people w/ real feelings & emotions & personalities that somehow magically exceed the sum of their parts. They are synergies, every one. There’s that funky belief in magic again — the soul, poetry, humanity. When will these fools learn?
William Michaelian: The irony of it is, even as they condemn that which they cannot understand, even as they murder it, and stifle it in their own children, people think they are living.
John Berbrich: Yes, a hard, cost-effective, rectilinear existence. The antithesis of what Brautigan stood for.
William Michaelian: Suicide comitted in different ways, at different speeds. Well. Aren’t we cheerful? Actually, we are. And when Brautigan talks about buying a used trout stream at the Cleveland Wrecking Yard, where they sell trout streams by the foot and charge extra for animals and birds, I cannot help feeling refreshed.
John Berbrich: You know, we could probably use an old trout stream out behind the antique & junk poem shop. Or maybe it could run through the first floor, w/ a little bridge over it so patrons could step from one side of the room to the other. I’m sure at least some of our older poets are anglers. The frogs would sing everyone to sleep at night.
William Michaelian: A pleasant thought. I like the idea of having at least part of the stream inside, maybe even running through the parlor. Just think how inviting it would be. We’d probably be more likely to see Whitman, too, as he was quite the nature-lover.
John Berbrich: We’d saw a hole in the roof so Whitman could see the stars at night. Hemingway could catch trout in our stream. What the heck, so could Brautigan. Birds would sing in the bookcases during the day, while the frogs would sing by night. Sounds like a little Eden there, Willie. Yeats would perform an incantation. Everything would be fine, so long as no one started singing.
William Michaelian: Why do you say that? Does singing bother you?
John Berbrich: No, no. Of course not. So long as the singers know how to sing, that is. For some reason I was picturing our poets getting deep into the brandy and one by one breaking into song. I can hear the rousing chorus of “15 Years on the Erie Canal” and “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Perhaps the heralded Bill Delaney could give outdoor performances at the junk poem shop.
William Michaelian: He might. But he would probably expect to be paid. Or he might pass the hat through the misty assemblage of dead poets. Unless he’d be willing to settle for a serving of pan-fried trout. After all, beggars can’t be choosers. I wonder if we can find a used rainbow for sale. That would also be a nice touch. Or a brooding cloud.
John Berbrich: I wonder if we can get a hefty discount at the Cleveland Wrecking Yard if we purchase a lot of stuff, like maybe the entire landscape. The brooding cloud would be useful when Eliot reads his darker poems, although I once read that he didn’t really think much of poetry readings. And the rainbow, or a rainbow trout, excellent after a drenching rain w/ lots of wind & thunder. Lightning zigzags through the sky. Maybe a slender little waterfall tumbling gently down the stairs, merging w/ the stream; together they laugh & gurgle like running water should. Take the i out of stairs & they become stars, constellations wheeling on the steps. Bless my handrail, Willie, I think I’m making myself dizzy.
William Michaelian: Uh-oh. Don’t look down. You might fall into Walden Pond. I love the waterfall on the stairs. And I know it will be accompanied by a cool breeze, scented by rotting stumps and ferns. Open a book, out jumps a shining trout. Open another and there’s Brautigan, sitting in a park among a group of gentle winos. McNeice sewing on a button. Lord Dunsany chasing his maid.
John Berbrich: If this keeps up, the antique & junk poem shop will become famous. All the fashionable writers will want to be seen there. There will be reporters, tv documentaries, a fast food joint across the road. It’s all getting too big, too quickly, for me. I love to walk barefoot through the stream in the parlor. It’s cool & refreshing, especially on these hot days.
William Michaelian: I’ve got it. The fashionable writers can be janitors. Furthermore, they must swear to a vow of silence. But I draw the line at the fast food joint. Anyway, we can buy a big used rocky slope at the Cleveland Wrecking Yard and have that installed across the road. That’ll keep commerce away. On the other hand, it might be interesting to have our establishment in the middle of a big city, just for the sake of contrast. People would leave stunned and refreshed, their lives changed forever.
John Berbrich: I like that. Poetry should refresh you, & stun you at least a little. Perhaps we ought to consider hiring a gatekeeper, someone to filter out the riff-raff from the bourgeoisie. We could start one of those writers colonies, where visiting poets sleep in tree houses & write all day & then criticize each other’s work. Meanwhile Bill Delaney’s up on the roof, singing, “I should be thankin’ myself, bay-bee.” Woo, I’d never want to go home.
William Michaelian: A colony of writers, eh? I picture them living in tiny paper-lined cells. Bzz-bzz-bzz. And then when the weather changes in the fall, out they plop with their stiff little wings, into a big frying pan along with some trout. A drop of lemon juice in their eyes and presto! A nice fire, a pen stroke of brightly colored leaves, a few of the old masters swapping tales in the gathering dusk — or, better yet, in the gloaming. Slightly out of fashion, but a good word nonetheless.
John Berbrich: Indeed. A good word. Well, Willie — this all sounds very exciting, but now you’re making me hungry w/ all that talk of frying pans & lemon juice. Tell me — what do you got in the fridge?
William Michaelian: For you, something special: a very nice gloaming meringue pie. And yes, we used fresh homegrown twilight, and the egg whites of fluffy clouds.
John Berbrich: Ah, cumulus — my favorite. And I haven’t had Oregonian twilight in forever. Just a pinch of dusk. But surely you’ll be joining me, my friend?
William Michaelian: But of course. I wouldn’t dream of letting you dine alone. But the pie is for dessert. First, we’ll whip up a lovely batch of manifesto, spiced with balderdash and dissent. For our salad, we’ll gather some fresh watercress from the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay . . .
John Berbrich: And frosted foaming goblets of dark homebrew. And the band is setting up to play. Willie, old pal, you’ve thought of everything.
William Michaelian: Everything? It’s nice of you to say. As usual, we do the best we can with the infinity at our disposal. If it’s not too personal a question, what kind of pickles do you like?
John Berbrich: Green. And sour — dill, I believe they’re called in this dimension.
William Michaelian: That’s interesting. Isn’t Dill the name of a character in To Kill a Mockingbird? And isn’t that character based on Truman Capote? And didn’t Harper Lee know Capote and spend time with him when he was doing research for In Cold Blood?
John Berbrich: I don’t know if Dill is based on Capote, but yeah Ms. Lee did spend a lot of time w/ Capote while he was working on that book. Have you read In Cold Blood? I haven’t. I suppose we could call the pickle a Capote, meaning green & dill. Aw, I’d rather call it a pickle. I understand that Capote was a big boozer, pickling himself you might say. He should have been drinking our dark foamy homebrew, not hard liquor. But anyway, I’m hungry.
William Michaelian: Ah — a poet’s natural state. Physically and mentally. I haven’t read In Cold Blood either. But I have read in cold weather. Which brings us to ice cream. I think we should crank our own, and eat it in the shade by the stream.
John Berbrich: I think that’s a good idea. Nancy made some ice cream a couple of nights ago w/ strawberries & the other usual ingredients. Was quite delicious, perfect for rectifying oneself the morning after a hard night of sampling the homebrew. And speaking of Harper Lee, I read an article about her not too long ago. If I remember correctly, she’s still alive & To Kill a Mockingbird remains the only book she has written. You wanna pass that chicken leg, Willie?
William Michaelian: You bet. But shouldn’t we kill the chicken first?
John Berbrich: Blggh! Willie — what sort of host are you? That was disgusting. Good thing it’s only a cyber chicken.
William Michaelian: Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. But I’m willing to make a clean breast of it. And just to prove my good intentions, we’ll start a new page.
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