Bus

Bus(joe swanson) BUS

It is never easy when one attempts to analyze a relationship. There are so many variables to consider and they are as constant as sand in a windstorm, each memory of a shared existence changing with age and the seasons. The bad times fade like clothes in the sun, and the good times loom like a full moon on a cold clear night. The truth as I have come to see it, lay somewhere between. I have told people over the years that I am an only child, and that my brother agrees. His memories of our childhood are totally different from my own. He remembers little of our early years, while I remember little else. We are only two years apart in age, so it is not that we grew up in totally different situations. We had the same parents, went to the same schools, knew many of the same people, and yet he does not remember me. I can only attribute this to his centrist attitude, him being the center of a world that God had created for his benefit.

His attitude and self-absorption had been propagated by a simple fact; he like the proverbial cat, always seemed to land on his feet. No matter how hard he tried to destroy himself with self-indulgent behavior, he floated to the top like Cheerios in a bowl of milk. He didn’t always emerge unscathed, but he did emerge when others would have been fitted for their last suit. I used to think of it as fate, but after years of observation and his continued success at avoiding serious long-term impairment, I had to conclude that it had to be luck.

Luck is a wonderful word. It removes all aspects of accountability and places the whole of ones existence on the wheel of life. The age of reason never arrives, and the concept of growing older is not recognized by the psyche. Time also has no relevance because there can be no true pleasure in the future. It is an emotion rooted in the present. It revolves around the notion of cause and effect, and culminates in immediate gratification. The idea of a savings account is as inconceivable as waiting in line, concepts relegated to those who do not believe in luck, but in God.

Just as the family dynamic defines our social reality, our spiritual reality is defined by circumstance. No matter the teachings, the theology, or in some cases poor timing, our spiritual awareness often evolves from experience. When life and spirituality don’t run on parallel tracks it is understandable that meaning derived from those experiences, although real, may not be totally accurate. That said however, it doesn’t make them any less real, or in my brothers case, reinforcing.

Sunday school, the social imperative heaped upon the unsuspecting young when at their most impressionable is a tolerated practice by many who lack a way to genuinely object, but for my brother it became the place where he realized that it was he who was destined to sit at the right hand of God. This ability to place himself in the rose colored light of improbability is what makes his life so remarkable. It wasn’t that he had the kind of disposition that would not recognize failure; it was that the promise he held for himself was one just short of beatification. He recognized early in life that he had been put on earth merely for the exposure; he had no intention of remaining a moment longer that necessary, what would be the point.

He had considered his family extremely fortunate to have him, and me, well I was tolerated by him because, like it or not, we shared an ancestral heritage, not to mention a bedroom.

I have to admit I admired his outlook. I also realized that his extreme optimism had more to do with refusing to accept the consequence of his actions, more than the actions themselves. Failure never occurred to him, for his mind could not contemplate what he refused to see. He coupled this remarkable feat with his incredibly short attention span. A chaotic event occurring on Monday would by Tuesday be replaced with a version that more suited the vision of the world in which he lived. The reality of a stone thrown by a neighborhood boy, nearly blinding him, became obliterated by the notion that functioning with one eye for a period of time not only made him a more dashing figure, but also would lead to the eventual discarding of his eyeglasses. The fact that the vision in his left eye never returned to normal didn’t bother him in the slightest; that was the past.

His outlook, short attention span, and rejection of facts that did not fit into his vision of the world, and his obsession with heroes the likes of Superman, all worked to his detriment over the years. It was in one way a blessing as far as those who were forced to watch his demise were concerned, that he not only did not see this deterioration, but rather used it to place himself on a higher rung where he looked upon the aspiring with hopeless pity. His view of life, much like that of a child on Christmas Eve, allowed him to overlook the toll extracted by drugs and alcohol.

Each day was a new beginning, the scars from the previous day having been turned into a badge of honor, allowed him to put on a new set of tights and a freshly laundered cape and head into the world ready to defend his utopian vision. Age, like rust and fatigue had dulled the shine of his character, but refusing to look in the rear view mirror he had no vision but his own.

I believed he had a guardian angel that watched over him and much like a doting parent chose not to see his faults, but rather believe his rendition of events.

The daily infusion of mind numbing substances was not a conscious effort to escape he told me once, but an attempt to heighten his awareness so that he might better be able to relate to those he was destined to brush up against, much like one relates to others in an elevator, more out of necessity than need. He had large brown eyes; those he chose to speak to found themselves drawn to their own image reflected in them, making them feel like small children. I have more than once seen the involuntary movement of eyes groping his aura and with an unknowing smile of triumph on their lips, their hand finding his; they waited for him to lead them wherever he chose to go.

I knew him better than most, not because I studied his movements, or analyzed his psychology, but simply because as children we were forced to spend so much of our time together. What I knew of him I had learned casually through a form of osmosis, a condition we are subjected to throughout our lives. I too was drawn to him like a mouse to peanut butter. I however having experienced the weight of his arrogance was better able to fend off the predictable results. It wasn’t that I was smarter than his other subjects, or even that I knew what to expect, it was just that as children we act most often on an emotional plain that supersedes reason. It is in these actions, an attempt to survive, that unbeknownst to us we eventually adopt a form of social action that we carry with us for life. A good kick in the shins had more to do with our eventual relationship than it probably should have, but then I suppose that could be said of most relationships.

My intention is not to explain my brother through the cataracts of jealousy, for jealousy I can assure you has not been the result of my connectedness to him. Quite the contrary, disbelief would better summarize my analysis of his life as it flickered past me like a silent film, me being the piano player. I had in many ways been relegated to the position of keeper of the flame. It was not intentional, and I assure you I hold no grudge, it was just the nature of the universe coming into play. Not unlike the peacock that spreads his colorful feathers to draw attention to himself, whether a conscious act, or an evolutionary one, notice is forthcoming, and much like the squeaky wheel or the crying child it receives the attention.

My senses of observation were made more acute one might argue do to the fact that we were not actually full brothers, but shared only one half of the DNA available from the primordial pool. We were products of a mother who raised us without the help of our biological fathers who were more than pleased by this fact. Through experience and observation I can attest to the fact that neither of us suffered greatly because of this situation. The father figure in our home was not genetically linked to either of us but took little notice of that fact. For all practical purposes we were his children, and in our childhood state of ungratefulness we of course didn’t realize the significance of this until much later in our lives.

It is difficult to appreciate love that is not inherited. Love is an emotion that cannot be bought or sold. It is an emotion that erupts, like sweat on a humid day, bursting out in an attempt to warn us of the dangers, and leaving an undeniable sign of having succeeded. Gerald, as he asked us to call him, did not demand obedience or even the semblance of love, but respect. He did not expect us to be like him, for which I will be eternally grateful. Perhaps because he had no part in bringing us into the world he felt we owed him nothing, although it was evident to us even as children he did not hold himself to the same standard. He never adopted us, he did more than that, he cared about us. He encouraged us to be more than we thought possible. He wanted us to have a better life than he had had. He respected us more than we respected ourselves, which now after all these years I have come to understand as one of the aspects of love.

Respect is a concept not only difficult to define, but even more difficult to appreciate because it has an inherent meaning that hangs like the tail of a kite, which without it could not soar. It is the balancing agent between responsibility and freedom, that part of us that knows almost instinctively if something is a good idea, or merely a rebellious act. Respect does not mean that we must accept advice given to us; on the contrary, it helps us see the obligation in doing just the opposite. Respect is the acceptance of that advice with gratitude and the feeling of knowing that it came with the best intentions. It is also incumbent upon us to accept that advice or reject it, not because we wish to offend or placate, but because it is our way of placing our big toe in the water to determine if it is too hot or cold, only we can do that. To understand the meaning of respect we must experience life on its own terms and based on the understanding we draw from our experiments and make the best decisions possible.

My brother was never able to follow the progression of steps from experimentation to evaluation, to learning. Whether it had something to do with a mysticism that allowed him to forgo the learning curve I have no knowledge, but my observations over the years have led me to believe it may be the case. I’ve heard it said that we are in fact, “God.” We are the embodiment of our own creation. This may be true but I have no experience with the metaphysical. The closest I have come is being told by a woman at an obscure party that I had a spectacular aura. I had no idea what was meant, but it did confirm a suspicion I have that there are people who know of things I do not. I’m not suggesting knowledge, as we know it, but rather a form of enlightened intuition. After all, there are those who can draw, play music, sing, why can’t there be those who can communicate in other dimensions?

When we look at the paintings of Salvador Dali, Warhol, or Picasso, it is evident that they communicated through their art, they communicated not in words but impressions, snap shots if you will of a place they visited. Their visions were not of saints, or even God Himself, but of everyday life in a different dimension. When some of us look at their world it causes us to fear for our own. It is not just the idealism that makes us turn away, but the reminder that not all things are as they appear. We have negotiated over time and the results are a set of standards that, although wrought with compromise, are the common result necessary for communication. When the color red is displayed we do not experience that color in the same manner as perhaps that stranger standing next to us in the museum. When discussing the painting we do however, when referring to the color, share a concept that allows us to convey our feelings and thoughts. It is in this area that lies between compromise and reality that my brother lives.

I have known of those who live in this dimension, and I have suspected others. John Lennon, Lenny Bruce, Dylan, all seemed to have had their shoes off, their toes constantly testing the waters of their world to determine the vastness of that ever-changing dimension. It has been said that there is a fine line between sanity and insanity. It is said that adding too much yellow to blue will give you green, but not the green you may have expected. There is danger inherent in any adventure. Explorers often return having found nothing but pain and disappointment. It is difficult for those who dabble in the new dimension, but I believe it is often more difficult for those of us who do not. We are suspect of the results brought to us by these explorers. We find ourselves debating the shades of black when what is being shown us is the emptiness it represents, or its stunning brightness due to the fact it has no distractions. We are as suspicious of the spoils as we are suspicious of a man on the street speaking to us in a foreign language. We do not understand, cannot understand, and therefore to maintain our own sanity must label these spoils so that we might understand. We label them in the manner we have been taught. We compromise for the sake of communication so that we can better debate the merits of something we will never understand, we call this new dimension Art, and then we go home happy.

I do not mean to imply that my brother floats in and out of his dimension at will on periodic expeditions. He may have done that at one time, but I believe somewhere along the way he simply could not find his way back, or chose not to return. I can with certainty tell you when it happened, for I was there and observed the change in his eyes when they turned from blue to green. Gregory Hines, a classmate, added just a drop too much yellow.

***

Gregory was a stocky boy with a shock of unruly hair that made his head appear too large for his body. Whether this was the impetus for his nature or something else that followed him about I do not know, but he was in no uncertain terms a bully. I had seen him make kids eat worms, lick fingerprints from the windows of the school bus, other assorted forms of torture, and all with just the suggestion of pain. I never actually saw him physically force anyone to perform the suggested acts of degradation. Fear is a powerful tool, and Gregory had learned to use it to his advantage.

That particular day, we were returning from the annual safety patrolman’s picnic. It was and probably still is a venerated custom of the school we attended, to reward those students who had diligently aided others in safely crossing the streets near our school. Our reward was the afternoon off from classroom activities, a cold hotdog on a dry bun, and a carton of milk, white or chocolate.

Small patches of snow could still be seen hiding from the lengthening rays of the sun as we made our way back to school in the large yellow bus that so proudly displayed our school name. There, in a seat near the rear, I saw the transformation take place. I can still see the shiny green seats that were always cold to the touch, the chrome legs that were bolted to the floor, and the black floor mat that stretched from the front door to the rear like an ominous black tongue.

We all knew that it was in our best interest to avoid being in the vicinity of Gregory when possible, but in times like these when forced by decree to enter and proceed to the rear based upon the alphabetical selection by those who knew little or nothing of Gregory’s powerful persuasion, we had no choice. We found ourselves, my older brother and me, seated directly across the aisle from the large headed intimidator and there was nothing we could do about it. I being several years younger than my brother was allowed on first and proceeded to slip into the seat next to the window. He was left with the portion of green bench barely arms reach from the object of our fear. I was surprised at first to see Gregory in the aisle seat, as the window seats were usually the most sought after prizes. There was a small boy sitting next to a window covered in smudges of varying lengths and organic makeup, his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor. It was then I understood.

The return trip had been uneventful. Those out of reach of Gregory laughed and joked with the joy that comes from not being in school on a beautiful day. As with all good artists, timing is everything. Gregory waited until the last possible moment, letting the fear build, making his job the easier. He cleared his throat, a long pronounced sound that got the intended reaction, our attention. He looked at the boy seated next to him and smiled. The boy fearing to look at Gregory had no idea that he was becoming the center of attention. Gregory cleared his throat once more, solidifying his center stage position, and then pushed his chubby little finger into his nose and pulled out a greenish bugger with a tail several inches long. We all stared in horror as he smiled admiringly at his trophy and then unexpectedly turned in our direction and offered the delicacy to my brother with the softly uttered but perfectly articulated words that left no doubt as to their intent, “Eat it!”

Collective inhalations occurred, the sound of a dying man’s last breath, and then utter silence, as though we were waiting for a sign to exhale. I remember for some reason the bus bouncing on the streets heaved by winters frost, and the sound of the tires as they expelled the remnants of snow and cold from their hiding places on the jet black surface, that day. I have two memories I will never forget, the day Jack Kennedy died, and that day, for it was on that day I believe my brother was changed forever.

I do not remember being born, though I have tried. I have often thought of the experience and know the memory of it lay in all of us like a treasure just waiting to be discovered. They say Freud was obsessed with memory as though somehow the interpretation would unlock a mystery, an insight into what life means, perhaps just a scheme to gain notoriety. It does not matter because I do not expect to find the answer in my lifetime. I have however witnessed the rebirth of my brother, and it was a remarkable yet confusing experience, the bliss of tasting both good and bad metaphorically speaking at the same time and leaving it up to my under utilized conscience to differentiate between them, to separate the two distinct revelations into compartments on my plate while I waited. It took some time but I did eventually come to the conclusion that I had been trained to choose one or the other; I was seeking an answer to a question that had not been asked. I had been searching for an answer that did not exist or even matter.

I realized it was the concept of choice that provided both the question and answer. In setting up a system of one or the other, good or bad, left or right, we are cheating ourselves. We are stealing from our possible experiences. We are limiting who we are. We in short are, as the lyric goes, either “Busy being born, or busy dying.” With each decision our world becomes smaller, because it must. The sheer power of mathematics demands that it does. Our lives are halved with each choice we make, and there is nothing we can do about it. We apparently can’t have our cake and eat it to. Existence demands that we choose; that we sacrifice life so that we may continue to exist. We trade time for money, hope for reality, and freedom for security. Our programmed need to procreate requires we exchange even more of our lives for a future we pray gives meaning to the present. We are in fact born to die. The sad fact is that we do not see that we are also born to live.

The idea that something is good or bad, right or wrong is based on an assumption that there is no middle ground, and yet that is where the battles are fought. It is again a question that need not be asked. It is posed by those who are confused about life, about death, about everything for that matter; fighting over the different shades of gray does nothing but keep us from focusing on what is essential in life, living. When we are consumed by the question of right or wrong, black or white, good or bad, we are in fact once more missing the point. The opposite of something does not make it bad, or wrong, it only makes it different. Could good exist without the concept of evil? Is there a wrong just because there is a right? These concepts, these questions, do not take into account that one cannot exist without the other in the context we have placed them. They are relationships that change in unison like shadows; they are partners on the dance floor performing a choreographed routine we ourselves have set in motion.

In that place, that place where there are no questions, and even fewer answers, things are different. When Janis Joplin went to her place, time stopped. Her voice, the instrument carrying her ideals, her pain, her contempt, broke from that space and held up a mirror to the faces of those who shook their heads and covered their ears, and even though when her words forced them to look at themselves and they saw nothing different, they had to turn away. Those tears that well in the corner of an eye just waiting to escape cannot be dissected to find whether it is a tear born of pain, happiness, or merely a reaction to a spec of dust.

It was on that day, as the bus rattled and bounced its way towards our school, I first recognized the illusion of right and wrong, and it scared the hell out of me. It was as if I had looked into the faces engraved by eternity on a two-headed coin, one being God, and one being the Devil. I watched the tear roll down his face while the bitter taste of dried bread, cold hot dogs, and watery mustard lingered in my mouth. I watched the tear race down his face to the corner of his mouth that had turned up slightly into a smile reminding me of the whimsical face of a dead man, who finally got the joke. I watched as his eyes turned from blue to green, first one and then the other. I watched as no one said a word, the quiet as thick as bad breath on a crowded elevator, some still forgetting to exhale for fear of stopping time forever.

*****