Meditations in An Emergency


Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

What now? I cheer for the Tigers? I become enchanted with the ballet? Or cricket?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

This cannot, will not go on forever. I cannot rise from Kotchman with the same enthusiasm as I did when I was broken by Kearns (or Everett, or Orlando, all the same names, somehow, recurring). My heart and hands hover over this keyboard and hurt.

Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

Couldn't you hurt another fan? Another fan's base?

I am a stupid observer. All I want is a single playoff game. The second wildcard would be heaven.

I am exactly like a pile of leaves. Stupid, immobile leaves.



However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes-I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing? Uh huh.

I have been clogged with praises of a past, innocent and simple. I believed things were once better, or maybe just not as bad. One must leave the confines of Cleveland to get the wins one wishes-I can't enjoy a diving stop in shallow right because I know there is not a win handy, there is no trophy case poised for filling. It is most important to negate the most routine. There is no strength in the same. Do the Clippers know what they're missing, besides per diem? Nuh uh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It's not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

My eyes are locked on, entirely loyal. I cannot look away. I am a sap. I sit, unmoving, I cannot move, I watch them. If only I had eyes for something else, if I could wander somewhere else. I am bored but it's my duty to be sad. I am needed by the other side of this relationship, Shapiro needs me like the sky the earth, because if no one is watching, are we really losing? Perhaps he does not need me.

Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus-the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the filth of life away," yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

How are you to become legends? You've tried bats, you've hidden behind words, bullpens, and you are always sprinting back and forth from the diamond, always bursting forth, more games, more games, more games, yes, even in late August, you are still playing (why?), and the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines the observers. You will become famous for a vacancy in that department, that corner outfield.

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

"Fanny Brown is run away-scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. -Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. -I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds." -Mrs. Thrale.

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.

It is easy to appear first place; it is difficult to be so. I admire you, front office, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter everyone flips to, and then is immediately ill.

"Baseball, with its long schedule, is supposed to offer a new chance daily to every player and team. Dramatic changes in a team's destiny are supposed to happen slowly, not overnight." -Mr. Hoynes

I've got to get out of here. I choose elbow pads and my dirtiest infielder. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from an offseason; you want me to go where you go, on roadtrips, through online portals, to columns, so I go where you don't want me to. It's barely August, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any first basemen downstairs. Turning, I ignore the standings and the power's off.

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