Yesterday I happened upon Squint Beastwood sitting in a park in the North Dallas area. He had an empty lawn chair next to him, and he appeared to be deeply into a conversation with it.

Squint (speaking as his character the Man with No Name); You see, chair, I have a gun. It’s a really, really big gun. And I know how to use it. I can shoot the eyes out of a peckerwood at 100 yards. (I was confused about whether he actually meant to say “woodpecker”, but his gun was so big I was afraid to ask.)
chair (speaking as itself); …
Squint (still as the Man with No Name); I just don’t get this whole second amendment thing. I mean, do I really have to have somebody’s permission to have a gun? I don’t think so. Lots of dudes have come up to me and said, “give me your gun, Josey Whales.” And I don’t have to even shoot them to keep my gun. I just squint my eyes real hard at them and chomp down on the toothpick in my mouth and say, “Are you sure you want to be asking me that? I can draw my gun and shoot so fast that you can’t blink before you’d be deader than a cold stone that died from stone cancer.” And they would just get this confused look on their faces and drop their own guns. Of course, then I would shoot them stone cold deader than a cold stone that died from stone cancer. You know what I mean?”
chair (still speaking as itself); …

Squint (suddenly speaking as the rogue cop anti-hero Hurty Barry); Now they are pestering me about the rights of the perpetrator. They say things to me like, “Barry, you can’t just go around shooting somebody just because they were jaywalking or playing with a toy gun while making the mistake of being black.” But I don’t get that. There are no crimes committed around me because I just look at the perpetrator and say, “I know you are thinking about committing a crime, criminal. But you gotta ask yourself, can he really shoot me before I can dial 911 on a cell phone? You’ve been texting a lot, and have lots of practice, and probably think you can snap a picture of me and text Hurty Barry just violated my civil rights before I can shoot you in the head and make you stone cold deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer. So, do ya feel lucky, punk?”
And then I shoot them in the head. The world is suddenly a safer place. Why would anybody assume that somebody who is thinking of committing a crime has a right to a fair trial to determine if they actually committed a crime or not? You just don’t know people the way I know people. They are all criminals, rapists, murderers… and some, I assume are good people, but I think we should just shoot them stone cold deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer and let God sort them out on judgement day.
chair (still speaking as itself)…

Buck Cheston, former leader of the NPA (National Pistol Association) and star of movies like Planet of the Grapes wanders up and speaks as himself instead of one of his numerous movie characters; Squint, old man, I see you have been talking to chairs again. And you are afraid that Obama and his jack-booted government thugs are going to take away your guns.
Squint (still speaking as Hurty Barry); No, Buck. Nobody takes away my guns. I am just upset that society seems to think we should talk about our problems and find peaceful solutions, instead of solving problems with violence.
Buck (still speaking as leader of the NPA… even though he is actually dead now); I agree with you that we can never solve this country’s problems as long as liberals and government types want to take away our guns. Whether it is a matter of going to war with Iran, or keeping peace on the streets of Baltimore, the solution is not to take guns out of the hands of good guys with a gun. We have to be able to shoot bad guys with a gun, and shoot to kill. They will never get my guns until they pry them from my cold dead hands.
Squint (suddenly shifting back to being the Man With No Name); But, Buck, aren’t you dead of old age already?
Buck (speaking now as a dead man who is deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer); Yes, I am afraid that is so.
Squint (still speaking as the Man with No Name); Well, don’t worry, Buck. I’m still alive and I still have my gun, and if I can’t kill the bad guy, then he must be immortal.
Buck (still speaking as a dead man); You know, Squint, you haven’t been talking to anyone who is actually alive for this entire conversation.
Squint (finally speaking as himself); I will definitely have to kill somebody for that. Somebody needs to die.
The chair began shivering uncontrollably.
Morning Has Broken
Today is off to a miserable start. I heard on the radio that David Bowie has died. Ziggy Stardust… the Goblin King… The Man Who Fell to Earth… the Thin White Duke…is gone. And even though since high school in the 1970’s I have never been quite sure how I felt about his music, I wept. The man was a musical maker of lyrical poetry. He could make you feel really really terrible… but he always made you feel. And he made me depressed as he led me through the Labyrinth… but he also made me soar… on the wings of a barn owl. It was about facing the darkness and finding your way. Finding the way out. Singing the Little Drummer Boy with Bing Crosby, but not actually singing it… making peace on Earth instead. Sometimes things are just so weirdly beautiful it hurts.
I dropped my daughter off at her middle school, and then Jody Dean & the Morning Team played this on the radio.
I wept again. Darkness is my old friend… I have lived with and through depression after depression. My own… my wife’s… my children’s… And it is a miracle I have lived this long without succumbing to the Darkness. It took Robin Williams. It took Ernest Hemingway. But somehow, the Goblin King always goaded me onward, to find the answer at the end of the Labyrinth. “You… you have no power over me.” And then I am okay once again.
I captured the dawn once again this morning. Once again I failed to truly ensnare the subtle reds and pinks and purples that were actually there. But there it is, anyhow. The morning has broken. The blackbird has spoken. The morning is new.
My heart is still sore this morning. The dog didn’t help when she spilled the trash to get at the napkins with bacon grease on them. We may have a dog-skin rug as a doormat later today. But David Bowie left so many words and ideas behind to comfort me. Is he one of those “neon gods we made”? Of course he is. But as the owl flutters off in the closing credits, we can take comfort in the knowledge that no one is ever really gone. And we can always anticipate some… Serious Moonlight.
8 Comments
Filed under commentary, music, photo paffoonies, poetry
Tagged as battling depression, David Bowie, depression, loss, love and life and laughter, music, photo Paffooney