Poem: Touchdown Buddha

[create_destiny]

Assignment: Imagine a room in your family of origin's home. Choose one or two fixtures in that room that metaphorically speak to the energy or the feelings you had as a child or adult in that home. Pay attention to images and language. Be as concise as you can.

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Fat wooden Buddha
pudgy arms reaching up for the sky
giddy with joy next to our small black and white t.v.
in the 1970s

We flicked paper triangles at you
aiming just above your round, bald head
and between your stubby arms
you looked like you'd say, "Touchdown!"

We wrapped you in dish towels
and rocked you to sleep in the rocking chair
night-night, touchdown Buddha
sleep tight, touchdown Buddha

We rubbed your bare belly and made ludicrous wishes
a million dollars
to be invisible
to have all the candy bars in the world!

We'd sneak you into Nativity scenes
where you towered like an absurd Godzilla
RAWR RAWR
we'd knock down Joseph and the wise men while Mary screamed

We stuck a Cheerio in your grin and hid behind the couch
stifling giggles and spurts of urine, anticipating Dad's reaction
(we had to help him notice)
we hoped he wouldn't be mad
but he grinned and picked the cereal out of your mouth

Over the years, through rough-housing and temper-flares
you endured numerous gouges and bore many scars
you lost both your hands but still shine with inexplicable joy
exclaiming to the world, "Touchdown!"

Comments

[whosplittheatom.livejournal.com]

Vintage 1920's mint-condition Edison deluxe victrola, the humble antique focal point of Grandmother and Papa's house. When I was a little kid it was covered with an orange cloth and it served as a plantstand and home to the even-older antique candy scales from Great-Grandfather's old store. An unusual rarity for victrolas, it has a full cabinet of records beneath the turntable, all barely scratched and some probably never even listened to - lots of ragtime and hymns and early talking radio recordings. There's even a chart inside the door that lists every slot and the record that goes there. The only modification is the funky orange 70's fabric that Grandmother used to refinish the speaker cabinet, so that instead of thin old decaying cloth showing through from behind the ornate cathedral-window carved woodwork, it now has a touch of color, something along the lines of Flapper meets Disco meets blue-haired old church ladies smelling of old-lady soap and old-lady makeup and communion grape juice in those tiny little miniature shot-glass looking things.

Every once in awhile we wanted to hear the Pussy Cat Rag. Anytime anyone new came over, we wanted them to hear the Pussy Cat Rag. Mom and Aunt Linda and Uncle Charles all loved the Pussy Cat Rag from when they were kids. Me and my brother and sister and our cousins all loved it too. So did Kenji and Pete, the exchange students in the 60's; I'm sure they went back to Japan and Finland telling their families of the victrola and the Pussy Cat Rag.

Papa always called Aunt Linda, the youngest daughter, his little pussy cat. I remember her playing the Pussy Cat Rag for several of her boyfriends when she would bring them home for a sunday dinner. I must've played it at least a dozen times for different friends I had over to visit; my own kids have danced around the living room to its shrill and crackly tune.

Any time anyone ever opened the victrola, like clockwork Grandmother would say "Just don't wind it too tight!" Victrolas were from that golden time before appliances had warning labels and instruction manuals. So everyone was always careful, and no one ever wound it too tight. Like Grandmother and Papa, those sober and wise packrat Capricorns at the head of our eccentric family, the victrola was venerable and commanded respect. Age and time were thick at my grandparents' house.

You always had to look through several record slots to find the Pussy Cat Rag - you never knew which slot it was going to be in, and no one ever thought to mark it in some way.

The song is about some guy's sister and she "has a dear old cat", and I don't even remember what the actual plot of the song is, it's something quite banal and unmemorable. Because the whole point of the song is to loop around 3 times to the chorus where everyone starts belting out at the top of their lungs:

"Kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!
Kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!"
(cat): "Meow!"
(woman): "Here puss!"
(cat): "Meow!"
(woman): "Soft puss!"
(man): "Just a little bit!"
(woman): "That's enough of it!"
"Kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!
Kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty!"
(everyone): "Meow! Meow! THATS THE PUSSY CAT RAG!!"

And then there's a breakdown of people saying silly things and cats meowing in the background, and another part where there's a skip in the record and it just sits there and goes "Kitty...kitty...kitty...kitty..." etc. ad infinitum until you bump the platter to make it go again.

And despite all our eccentricities and our extreme individualism and our emotional repression, everyone in the family has always loved that damn song, and everyone knows that everyone loves it, and yet none of us has ever really talked about it, it was always just "one of those things". So mark my word, if you ever come to visit my grandparents' house, you will most likely be subjected to the ordeal of the Pussy Cat Rag. Be forewarned.

[createdestiny.livejournal.com]

Fabulous! I really want to hear that song now!