Horseless Carriages
A month ago had you asked me to define the RTD bus that I take home each night, I would have had to say that it was an airplane deep in the freezing stratosphere — the airport an abstraction. I would not describe it that way, it was that — an airplane, nothing less and no destination. Ride an RTD bus across the Los Angeles basin, in the night, slightly cold — with that knowledge of not being anywhere, and you’ll find airplanes. The lights inside the bus glare against the windows — and there is nothing but the inside of that bus — that has wings — they grow. If you don’t see them ( I know they are there) you can trust me — you have to trust me. You are here with me - as real as black type against white paper - it cannot be denied. Ice-nine and the shadows on that ancient Greek wall — I believe them, like walking into the next room. That bus is still moving — supersonic; the wings I knew were there, I saw flash in the night as the bus moved into traffic up onto the freeway ramp.
Anyone who has read a novel and ‘gotten into it’, has believed in the reality of the character, the setting, and — in fact, in the actual existence of the entire facade that the author presents. What I need to do here is show the reality of every person’s fiction that you meet. I need to communicate the complexity and abundance of fact in its interrelationship to individual reality — therefore its truth. There is a tacit agreement that everyone has a unique view of life, but absolutely no one believes it. Everyone thinks that the greater majority believe and see things exactly as they do themselves. Without that assurance each would have to decide why he believes as he does, as there would not be the comfort in knowing that others believe likewise. The assertion that the world is square looks just as good round. If a square believer, we certainly maintain that only the crazies think round. If round, we are sure only the lunatic fringe see square. If a bus with wings, we know something is out of whack.
It is not polite, you’ll reject it out of hand; but there are only two people in the world that know the Truth — and that is I and Celine. I picked Celine because I like him, and he agrees with what I think ( he just managed to get his shadows down before I did). There’s also a shoe salesman, and an old lady in a drab olive coat. She’s not sure what color it is (she won’t tell me), but the shoeman says it is green. I agree with Celine when he says that “except for me there’s nothing! All are charlatans and bunglers ... grotesque cacographers, putrid cockroaches!” (Rigadoon, 22). Celine is dead.
“I believe in the fact of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior,” says the the shoe salesman.
“Do you now, I believe in the reality of your belief in your facts, but I still think you’re a cockroach,” (Truth needs no nominations).
“Look at the volcanos and the earthquakes, and you’ll see the prophecies,” the shoe intones, “and what about the hysteria, the anit-Christ, and the raising of wars,” he finishes — saddened, but full of the unnameable.
“How is any of that any more revolutionary, unreal, unimaginable, than the first photograph in an Indian village, the first car in Jefferson, Mississippi, or a Spring rain that sweeps across the plains cooling with renewal. Is it not a fact that, to that Indian, nothing is as mysterious as the photograph. Put yourself on a magic carpet that can follow that Spring rain back and forth across the plain — watch it move and flow — it is beauty itself. Then look at the flash flood that destroys farms and homes, and rakes away lives like autumn leaves, all caused by that beautiful serpentine Spring rain. Believe in the reality of your belief, the facts vary as the number of souls in the world, and they are as brittle.”
Silence...
“Facts are facts,” says the ‘green’ coated old lady with a poem, macaroni bent — eyes burning gray-blue.
Silence...
“There is only fact, it doesn’t change! You’re young, a fool, you’ll see ... later. There is only what is — what is is in here (Bible),” she concludes with defiant rectitude spilling like poison.
Unfortunately in every trio, only two can get along, and she says to the shoeman, “you’ve a celestial face.”
A compliment is a dirty thing.
The shoeman says, “Yes Mamm, what did you say?”
Seeing the facts like I do, I say, “Angelic, fool, angel like!”
I rarely win, but it is fun to watch each time. As Celine says, “truth’s only too pleased to leave you. Very little’s ever needed for Truth to let go of you. And after all, you’re not really very keen to keep hold of it. In this sudden abundance of ease, a marvelous meglomania is all over you before you know it” (Journey to the End of the Night, 403).
“Mamm, thank you,” he replies.
There was never any hope, but Celine and I are fools so ... I say, demanding — on the offensive, “What color is your coat, old woman?”
The angelic shoe, registering disbelief at the disrespect, and seeing that the old woman won’t answer, says, “Green,” for her.
“I would say that it is drab olive,” and I repeat to her, “what do you say?”
“I say that it is old,” the woman finally says.
“Angel, read this,” she says to the shoe, as she hands him a poem on a piece of paper.
I know it is all over now, he’ll never see more than the paper, or the most recent volcano.
The she reads, and says, “Where did you get this?” in total amazement.
“It’s MINE, I wrote it! “ she replies, poison spurting.
I could have told him about the chained slaves on Socarates’ wall, but he didn’t get the Spring rain. More into earthquakes and volcanos, I suppose. I listened to the shoeman talk about his house and the Navy — all of it — all he had to say — all his facts. But it was really too much to think that my Angel-shoe could see the Spring rain, and he didn’t.
Well, it is no surprise that I couldn’t tell him about our bus with wings, never would that have gone over — not a chance. “Even among the galley slaves 10% were volunteers,” (North, 1). He might never be able to see my winged bus, but when I got down from that flying bus, I saw them. I had to walk around them. Hell of a wing span!
That old lady, she had a fact (a real one), she held it in her hand. I saw it in those eyes, it was there. Right now that bus is still flying, and the old lady- wrapped in that camel colored coat- sits statuesque, and angel-shoes leans slightly toward her in affirmation of her undeniable facts. And I’m unseen, outside their reality, in the night — watching that damned bus fly away. They are sill there, sitting, you merely have to believe me to know it. I know you can’t.
Los Angeles
1979
Los Angeles Series
©1979 Horseless Carriages — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
Anyone who has read a novel and ‘gotten into it’, has believed in the reality of the character, the setting, and — in fact, in the actual existence of the entire facade that the author presents. What I need to do here is show the reality of every person’s fiction that you meet. I need to communicate the complexity and abundance of fact in its interrelationship to individual reality — therefore its truth. There is a tacit agreement that everyone has a unique view of life, but absolutely no one believes it. Everyone thinks that the greater majority believe and see things exactly as they do themselves. Without that assurance each would have to decide why he believes as he does, as there would not be the comfort in knowing that others believe likewise. The assertion that the world is square looks just as good round. If a square believer, we certainly maintain that only the crazies think round. If round, we are sure only the lunatic fringe see square. If a bus with wings, we know something is out of whack.
It is not polite, you’ll reject it out of hand; but there are only two people in the world that know the Truth — and that is I and Celine. I picked Celine because I like him, and he agrees with what I think ( he just managed to get his shadows down before I did). There’s also a shoe salesman, and an old lady in a drab olive coat. She’s not sure what color it is (she won’t tell me), but the shoeman says it is green. I agree with Celine when he says that “except for me there’s nothing! All are charlatans and bunglers ... grotesque cacographers, putrid cockroaches!” (Rigadoon, 22). Celine is dead.
“I believe in the fact of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior,” says the the shoe salesman.
“Do you now, I believe in the reality of your belief in your facts, but I still think you’re a cockroach,” (Truth needs no nominations).
“Look at the volcanos and the earthquakes, and you’ll see the prophecies,” the shoe intones, “and what about the hysteria, the anit-Christ, and the raising of wars,” he finishes — saddened, but full of the unnameable.
“How is any of that any more revolutionary, unreal, unimaginable, than the first photograph in an Indian village, the first car in Jefferson, Mississippi, or a Spring rain that sweeps across the plains cooling with renewal. Is it not a fact that, to that Indian, nothing is as mysterious as the photograph. Put yourself on a magic carpet that can follow that Spring rain back and forth across the plain — watch it move and flow — it is beauty itself. Then look at the flash flood that destroys farms and homes, and rakes away lives like autumn leaves, all caused by that beautiful serpentine Spring rain. Believe in the reality of your belief, the facts vary as the number of souls in the world, and they are as brittle.”
Silence...
“Facts are facts,” says the ‘green’ coated old lady with a poem, macaroni bent — eyes burning gray-blue.
Silence...
“There is only fact, it doesn’t change! You’re young, a fool, you’ll see ... later. There is only what is — what is is in here (Bible),” she concludes with defiant rectitude spilling like poison.
Unfortunately in every trio, only two can get along, and she says to the shoeman, “you’ve a celestial face.”
A compliment is a dirty thing.
The shoeman says, “Yes Mamm, what did you say?”
Seeing the facts like I do, I say, “Angelic, fool, angel like!”
I rarely win, but it is fun to watch each time. As Celine says, “truth’s only too pleased to leave you. Very little’s ever needed for Truth to let go of you. And after all, you’re not really very keen to keep hold of it. In this sudden abundance of ease, a marvelous meglomania is all over you before you know it” (Journey to the End of the Night, 403).
“Mamm, thank you,” he replies.
There was never any hope, but Celine and I are fools so ... I say, demanding — on the offensive, “What color is your coat, old woman?”
The angelic shoe, registering disbelief at the disrespect, and seeing that the old woman won’t answer, says, “Green,” for her.
“I would say that it is drab olive,” and I repeat to her, “what do you say?”
“I say that it is old,” the woman finally says.
“Angel, read this,” she says to the shoe, as she hands him a poem on a piece of paper.
I know it is all over now, he’ll never see more than the paper, or the most recent volcano.
The she reads, and says, “Where did you get this?” in total amazement.
“It’s MINE, I wrote it! “ she replies, poison spurting.
I could have told him about the chained slaves on Socarates’ wall, but he didn’t get the Spring rain. More into earthquakes and volcanos, I suppose. I listened to the shoeman talk about his house and the Navy — all of it — all he had to say — all his facts. But it was really too much to think that my Angel-shoe could see the Spring rain, and he didn’t.
Well, it is no surprise that I couldn’t tell him about our bus with wings, never would that have gone over — not a chance. “Even among the galley slaves 10% were volunteers,” (North, 1). He might never be able to see my winged bus, but when I got down from that flying bus, I saw them. I had to walk around them. Hell of a wing span!
That old lady, she had a fact (a real one), she held it in her hand. I saw it in those eyes, it was there. Right now that bus is still flying, and the old lady- wrapped in that camel colored coat- sits statuesque, and angel-shoes leans slightly toward her in affirmation of her undeniable facts. And I’m unseen, outside their reality, in the night — watching that damned bus fly away. They are sill there, sitting, you merely have to believe me to know it. I know you can’t.
Los Angeles
1979
Los Angeles Series
©1979 Horseless Carriages — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.