Well,
Montalvo had certainly fomented a firestorm: was it the reference to
“illiterate morons,” that had so deeply troubled the unduly sensitive? Or maybe
it was the reference to the careful writer—which he, following my lead, abbreviated TCW—that had so
riled the paper-thin skinned. Whatever it was, the social networks were not
burning, not blazing, but exploding in flames. Think fire in a rum plant.
“Can you
believe what morons my generation are?” asked Montalvo, and I took a moment off
to contemplate subject / verb agreement. So I barely registered when he said,
“Christ, my fucking generation will fucking kill poetry, the way we’re
massacring it….”
Right, so
now it’s time to swing into paternity—a land I’m traversing frequently, these
days.
“You know,
there’s a lot of bad poetry out there, and sometimes the worse it is, the more
it sells.”
“Is that
what you meant when you said some people won the Nobel Prize who shouldn’t have?”
Did I
mention that Montalvo is obsessed with the Nobel Prize, to the point of reading
the list, just to see who’s there and who’s not?
“Shit, I
haven’t fucking heard of most of these guys—I gotta start reading these dudes,
figure out how they did it….”
I suggest
that he might print out the list, add a few blank years, and then write in his
own name. This idea he ponders seriously.
“How can
people be such morons!” he explodes, and goes on to tell me about Raju, an elephant in India, and a prisoner for 50 years, who was
recently freed. So the elephant freaked and started crying, and now the
“experts” are wondering: were those tears real?
“Fifty
fucking years, those bastards have kept the elephant, and for twenty-five of
them, at least, he’s had shackles with spikes on them digging into his flesh!
And those morons are asking if the tears are real? Don’t they know animals have
feelings? Fuck!”
“More
feelings than some humans do,” I tell him, but guess what? One of the amazing
things about the Millennials
is that they appear and disappear, or maybe it’s just that they’ve mastered
shifting instantaneously time and space, since Montalvo is now cadging coffee
from Carly, and asking him and Amil if they believe that we’re alone in the
universe. Such questions vex the young….
And now I
have to tell him that we people are committing exactly the same atrocities on our
own kind as we perpetrate on the elephants. Look at all the prisoners we lock
up for years, if not decades, and then release onto the streets. And then I
think of the famous scene from The Shawshank Redemption—you know, the one where the prisoner
blasts Mozart’s
Sull’aria out through the speakers in the prison courtyard. It’s a
knockout—and we decide to watch it simultaneously, each at his own computer.
It’s a totally Millennial thing.
So I watch
as the music soars over the prison courtyard, and is it because Montalvo has some
experience of prison courtyards, having liberated—though slightly less
legally than they did Raju the elephant—a blue Macaw held captive by its
“owner?” Or could it be that the music, some of the most celestial that Mozart
ever wrote, is itself getting in? Anyway, my young son’s eyes are widening, and
he’s murmuring, “fuck,” under his breath. Tennyson one
day, Mozart the next!
Well,
that’s a nice introduction to opera, and probably necessary, since Montalvo is
joining us tomorrow for the Met broadcast
of Otello, and has graciously accepted the
invitation by announcing that he’ll go, since there’s no dress code.
“I hate
dress codes, don’t you?” he says, as I’m writing away.
“Of course
not, I love them,” I tell him; who says only kids get to be contrarian?
“Why,” he
asks.
So we have
a little discussion about the benefits of decorum, of how having a social map
often, surprisingly, gets you to the destination much faster and easier than
not. Then you can go home and have a drink, see?
So he sort
of gets that, and I go back to writing, and then it’s time to read a poem that
he wrote yesterday, when he was felled into the abyss of despair and
depression. What was wrong? He couldn’t even tell me, so miserable was he when
I had called him yesterday. That, of course, immediately made me start
worrying—not for nothing am I my father’s son: had Montalvo formed another
mystical relationship with an avian? And if so, had it led to the same result?
I worried for five hours until I called him before bed; “I’m much better,” he
reported.
Right, so
what was the problem?
“Matters of
the heart,” he said.
Remember
that? You’re 21-years old, and love is an emotion that they just came out with
yesterday, and they haven’t got the formula quite right, or they’re mixing it
all up too strong because, damn! Think martinis on an empty stomach after a
night of no sleep!
So I read
the poem, and we talk about it, and Montalvo decides: it’s going first, the
first poem in his book!
“BAM! It’ll
hit those motherfuckers like a twenty-ton weight! Man, those dudes won’t know what
the fuck I’m talking about! I mean, they’re gonna be saying, ‘what the fuh???’”
Would the
careful writer—sorry, that’s TCW—allow that to pass? Of course not, so now it’s
time to suggest that readers generally have a lot to do, and if they’re doing
you the honor of reading your work, shouldn’t you put in the work to make it as
clear as possible?
Does the
point get through? Probably not, but I’m getting it, now. The best a parent can
hope for is not a pressure hose, but erosion. You’ll see the effect in a couple
of centuries.
So back to
the writing, and then Carly comes by, and Montalvo has to have him read the
poem—the gist of which is that love is all encompassing—out loud to us. Carly
does, and likes it well enough to go recite it to his girlfriend, currently
bearing their child. I go back to writing.
“Father!”
explodes Montalvo, “this is a major moment in my life! A man is reciting my
love poem to his lady! This is momentous! They should just give me the Nobel
right now!”
Carly comes
back, and reports—the girlfriend loved it!
“YES!”
cries Montalvo, “PANTIES OFF!!”
Carly
agrees: it’s a PANTIES OFF poem…”
Back to
writing.
“Hey, Marc,
how’s your writing going?” asks Montalvo.
“Interruptedly,”
I tell him: if you haven’t guessed it, this post is being written in real time.
“Hunh?”
But now
Carly is back, reciting his own poem, and Montalvo is liking it so much he’s
sharing it over Twitter.
‘Nine more
years,’ I think. Age thirty is the currently accepted age for when the
adolescent brain at last, finally, after-having-driven-everybody-nuts-for-years,
cedes to adulthood.
Nine years…
Think I’ll
make it?
Then I
remember a line from the Bible—Job, maybe?—that went something like “…and the Lord
sent the locusts, bless’d be the name of the Lord.” I could tell you, but
apparently Google hasn’t read the Bible.
‘Aha,’ I
think, ‘I totally get it now…’
