Being Honest With Fiction

I wonder what kind of feelings it would bring to have any gift of your choice.
Any gift you can think of
I don’t mean just a regular gift or something that can be found in a catalog, on a shelf, or on a rack in a store.
No.
A gift that goes beyond measure or even a gift that goes beyond our perception of reality . . .
Like, say, an hour or two with someone you never met but they influenced you and your life.
I wonder what it would be like to sit at a table with Jim Carroll or Frank O’Hara and maybe Kerouac and of course, William Burroughs.

I wonder if they would tell me to “stay the course,” and “hold on tight,” because it gets pretty lonely when you run off to reach your dreams.
Not everyone understands and in most cases, most people don’t understand the price and the cost of fame or how the downfalls have an impressive record when it comes to being undefeated.

Anyway . . .
It would be nice to sit with Robert Fulghum.
Not for lunch or something traditional. No, there’s a pond from my youth, which holds special meaning to me.
I’d like to sit there with Fulghum at sunset in the calm after a long and hot August day so that I could tell him,
“This is where I was living when your book saved my life.”
I would tell him that even this journal is inspired by him and his idea of his perfect gift.
In fact, every time I cook a meal; I tend to regard Fulghum’s entry in the book “All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.” because cooking alone and cooking for myself is another thing that was inspired by Fulghum’s entry.
I remember this entry well because this was about a day he would like to relive without changing a thing.
I do not have many days that I would like to relive, exactly was it was without changing a thing.
But more than anything, my goal from here on is to create days like this, perfect, and so that at the hour of my death; I can look back and relive them as they were to me without changing a thing!

~

I wonder what Fulghum would tell me about my dreams. I wonder if he would agree that the core of art and the work itself is lonesome and almost unrewarding.
But in the end –
It’s all worth it!
At the same time, the cost of fame is far more costly than we realize.
I assume the residuals and the contracts and managers, publicists and all the jazz that goes on with this can be taxing.
Then again, life is taxing and even with or without the ambition to reach for the stars, the world is a lonely place as well.
Art is lonely.
(Sometimes)

I will submit that the world is especially lonely when we are blinded by our misperceptions and somehow, we have too many fears that blind us from seeing the truth.
I use this for an example because this is true. The idea that says you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone is true to me.
I lost way too much and in all fairness to my truth; I lost everything because I lacked the security and the bravery and even the dignity to live, love, laugh, and learn with all I have.

I wonder what any of my heroes would tell me.

Or getting back to Jim Carroll, I suppose I would want him to know what he inspired.
Maybe we could meet downtown and head over to Kat’s Delicatessen, which is not as great as all the hype.
But to me, this would be fine.
This would be a gift like no other.
I could tell him about when he wrote, “the City is on my side,” I could relate and that somehow, I am also an excommunicated prince, homeless with a home and countryless but paying taxes like an everyday citizen.

This would be a gift to me.

Or wait –
What would it be like to have the chance to meet the love of your life when they were young enough to believe in visits from the future?
Now there’s a gift.
This would be amazing!
Imagine the idea of you being a kid and having the chance to tell someone, “I’m from the future and I’m here to rescue you!”
“Rescue away,” I would tell them.
I love this thought as I often have them and I have fantasies about going back to my youth to find “someone special,” just so I can tell them that I’ve seen the future and that we need to make a few changes now so that we can be together.

I am sure if I knew then what I know now, things would be different. And I assume we can all say this.
But still, this is an idea about a gift that not even dreams can touch.

I have always wondered what it would be like to sit with my Grandfather for an hour or two. I don’t know how he would be.
Maybe we could sit and have something familiar, like a challah bagel with lox and cream cheese with a little red onion and some capers as well.

I never met him.
My Grandfather, that is . . .
I only know the stories.
I know that I was named after him.
I know that he was a tough man.
I know that he was a hard man too.
I know he was a card player and that he had some troubles with a few gangsters. I know that he was protected by a few members of Murder Incorporated, back when organized crime ran the city.
I know that he had a jewelry store down on Delancey Street and to stay in business, my Grandfather had to pay tributes because he had to “go along to get along,” so to speak.

Of course, I wish I could go fishing with my Father, The Old Man. I would love to tell him that he was right and that I am older now . . . and I understand more about what he was trying to tell me.
I would love to tell him about some of my accomplishments. I’d love him to know that they picked someone like me to fly across the country and help out in a fight with a sickness that I am all too familiar with.

And Mom . . .
I could use a walk with Mom.
I could use a moment with Aunt Sondra so I could thank her for being a second Mom to me.
There’s a lot of people who passed away that I’d like to speak with.

And Rob . . .
I guess I would ask him if he thought to call me before he decided to make the grand exit.
He said his goodbye, which was something I noticed and yet, I didn’t notice until I got the call.
“Benny, Rob’s gone.”
Man, that one hurt me

Dammit, Rob
You were my friend
And you still are.
But this one hurt me.
Not you, man.
Not you.

But I guess, if I could have anything . . .
I would love to see the sunrise from the beach in Miami
I would love to see the most beautiful smile and hear her laugh
And I would look at her and think about all that’s going on, all the falls and the scars and the pain
And I would look at her
And I would say thank you
It was all worth it

I swear.

Most men will not say this
But if we are supposedly the holders of the keys to the universe, I would like to realize that it is only accurate to say that women are the cylinder to which those keys turn.

I am simply this, homeless with a home and countrlyless without a queen
But someday.
I know . . .
There is love out there for me.

Thank you, Jium Carroll for giving me reason to dream
And you too, Frank O’Hara for sharing a coke with me
And Burroughs for letting me realize that art has no boundaries and to you my love
Thank you
But I will tell you what I’m thanking you for

When I see you again