Bio 4
While living, live life to the melody of a great song.
While living, live life to the melody of a great song. And don’t worry about dancing to the beat and being in tune. Just dance. Dance. Dance.
I looked at my wife Emma and raised up my glass and toasted her. Our glasses clinked and we sipped the wine. I thought Emma is quite a gal. Rarely do you see a woman that can drink as much as a man and still stand up. But Emma could drink more than most men.
Soon we would be going into the bedroom. This was our last glass. We both agreed to just seven and no more. In life you have to control yourself.
“Good night,” said Emma.
I watched as she put on her safety helmet. Not only should people wear a helmet when they're on a motorcycle but also when they drink too much wine. They should make it a law.
I needed to take a shower. It was a very humid day in New York, and I kept sweating and sweating. The fan was only blowing the warm humid air into my face and I got so frustrated that I threw it out the window. Emma threw the garbage out the window too. I asked her in the past not to do that. We have air-conditioning. But we couldn't afford to put it on. Emma and I only put it on at night. It's too expensive to run it day and night. The electric bill is astronomical and we wouldn't have that much money left over for the wine. I learned early in life that if you're not rich you have to prioritize things.
I needed to take a shower. A nice cold shower. I quickly took off my clothes but was having trouble getting off my pants. I didn't understand what the problem was. I don't usually have a problem taking off my pants. And then I realized I had my boots on. How silly! I tried taking them off while I was standing up but I nearly fell. I went to sit on the chair but I missed it. There were two of them. I don't know why, but I never pick the real one. The one that's actually there.
I heard a thud or was it a thump? I heard that sound before. Emma fell off the bed. But I wasn't concerned. She sleeps with her helmet on. It's hard to kiss her at night … but safety first.
I was having a hard time turning on the water for my shower. There were like three or four knobs, and I kept choosing the one that wasn’t really there. I concentrated … finally success. That's why they say “if at first you don't succeed, try and try again.” The guy was obviously a drunkard that wrote that. I stepped into the water. One thing really good about this apartment is that the water from the shower has good pressure. It really comes out. The stream of water is powerful. In my last apartment, the water stream was horrible. It was weak and the flow wasn’t continuous. There is a big difference between, say for instance, a 20-year-old and a 90-year-old man taking a piss. That was the type of difference we're talking about. But something was wrong. I immediately realized it. The water was scorching hot. I turned on the hot water, and instantly jumped out. Unfortunately, my right foot clipped the top of the tub, and I fell face first into the wall. But I didn't feel any pain at all. The wine acted like Novocain. I decided to forget about the shower and my clothes and nakedly fell into my bed. I noticed Emma wasn't there. She was peacefully sleeping on the floor. She is quite a woman.
In the morning I stumbled into the living room. There was only one thing on my mind. I have to write. I have to write. My entire being is crying out. It must be my muse. She’s trying to get out. I have to let the creativity flow. The creative juices that make me what I am.
When Emma walked into the living room and saw me she screamed. I thought it was because of the humidity in the room. Maybe I shouldn't have thrown the fan out the window.
“What happened to you?” asked a stunned wife.
“What's wrong?”
I thought maybe I forgot to put on my clothes again … but I didn't. I had my undershirt and underwear on.
“Look at that lump on your head.” Emma came closer and stared at it. “It looks like the size of a large egg. And the side of your face is swollen.”
That at least solved one mystery. I was wondering why the left side of my face was hurting. I went into the bathroom and looked at my face. I couldn't understand it. The right side of my face was swollen. Why was the left side hurting?
“Do you want to go to the hospital,” asked Emma.
“No!”
Emma took a picture of the lump and sent it to her kooky girlfriend. She was a nurse. And I am thoroughly convinced that she doesn't dispense all the drugs to her patients but uses some herself.
Ariel: “What is that thing?”
Emma: “It’s a big lump.”
Ariel: “If that lump were mine, I’d amputate it. How does he hold up his head with such a large bump?”
Emma had her speakerphone on and I was hearing the conversation. They were both laughing.
Emma: “It might be a secret weapon?”
As they kept telling jokes, and I was getting more annoyed, my lump started getting bigger.
Ariel: “It could help to hold up his hat. It might even protect his nose from the sun.”
The lump kept getting bigger and bigger. Was their comedy routine irritating the bump? Upsetting it? Was I growing another head?
The lump kept getting bigger and bigger and Emma was screaming at the top of her lungs and then my head exploded.
I woke up! I woke up! I was freakin’ dreaming. Having a nightmare. Emma was asleep next to me, and I pinched her real hard to make sure I was awake. She screamed and punched me.
“Why did you pinch me,” asked a very angry, and groggy Emma.
“I had a really terrible dream. In it we were poor, and we couldn’t even afford to turn on the air-conditioner in the daytime. And you know my muse likes the cooler weather.”
“I’ll say … most of the time I’m walking around here with either a sweater or a jacket on.”
“And both of us, especially you, were winos. And you threw the garbage out the window and wore a safety helmet because you drank too much and might fall. And my head got bigger and bigger and then it blew up. It was horrible. And to make matters worse your nitwit girlfriend Ariel was in it and joking about my lump.”
“Take it easy! You sound like you’re having a panic attack.”
Emma grabbed a hold of a plastic bag and placed it over my face. Isn’t it supposed to be a brown bag? And does that really help to restore your breathing properly? I nearly suffocated.
I asked, “What does it mean? Do you think it’s a sign for the future? We were dirt poor and broke. And the apartment looked so dingy. It looked like the apartment in that classic movie Stranger than Paradise. What does it mean?”
“Maybe for you it is an ominous sign for the future … but not for me.”
“Why not for you? Aren’t our stars inextricably linked?” “Our stars might be linked but not me. I’ll just find another guy.”
I said sarcastically, “It’s nice to know that you’ll be able to make your way in the world. Less for me to be concerned about. That you have options.”
I walked into the living room and sat down by the computer. Emma followed and pulled up a chair and sat down next to me.
“Are you going to start Bio 4?” asked Emma.
“Yes.”
“Can I sit beside you and watch?”
“No!”
“Why not? I won’t make any noise. I like watching my talented husband writing.”
I wondered, Who doesn't like to watch me write? Talent like mine comes along once in a generation. Great writers like me suffer from the blows and arrows of outrageous misfortune all the time and look for a deeper meaning. They are not born, they're made. Not taught, they live life, and sip it deeply.
What people don’t understand about great Writers like myself, is that this is not something that you can learn in school. Can you teach someone to be Shakespeare? Can you learn about pain and desire just by reading about it? No amount of education or teaching is going to give you the kind of Soul that you need to be a great Writer. This is not something that you can learn in front of a typewriter. You have to be tortured in life. Your Soul has to be in despair. You have to suffer at the hands of those that are masters of inflicting misery and pain, like Emma. And after that, if you survive, spiritually, mentally, and physically, you will be ready to Write. Not like the masses. But something unique. You will be as unique as a fingerprint, as a snowflake. I recommend that every Writer marry someone like my wife Emma. She will keep you on your toes. She will be your muse, when your muse is asleep.
I asked, “What are you doing Emma?” “I'm having a glass of wine.” “But it's not even noon yet. You just got up.” “Just one glass. I like sipping wine while I watch you write. And don't forget … don't write too much. People don't want to read a book.”
I wondered, why is she sipping the wine so loudly? Did she forget how to sip it quietly? Is there an ulterior motive here … is she trying to get me upset? Does she need a straw? If a picture is worth a thousand words, a sound must be worth at least 500. But they’re much more subtle than a picture. Is there a far deeper meaning here? Is it a metaphor that I have to figure out? Is it analogous to something else?
There was a knock on the door. It was my wife’s nitwit friend Gregory. He lives upstairs from us and he’s always sniffing around Emma.
How can I get any writing done with all these interruptions? Did anyone ever interrupt Galileo while he was dropping things, and checking out gravity? I have an idea.
I said, “I’m a little bit busy Greg. Why don’t you and Emma hang out in the bedroom?” “Sounds good to me,” said Greg. “Alright,” said Emma. “And we’ll take the wine bottle with us.” Finally … some peace and quiet.
Yes. I realize that my wife is alone with another man in my bedroom, and they have a bottle of wine. And yes, I know that Emma is already slightly plastered. But It was that time of the month for Emma. Her special friend was visiting. And I’m not talking about Greg. There it is! I heard the sound of breaking glass. I’ve heard the sound of a bottle breaking before. And there it is. A guy screaming, “My head, my head.” I’ve heard that before too. Better him than me. Emma doesn’t mess around, take my word for it, at that time of the month.
The quiet … the quiet. It was calling me … beckoning me. The roar and excitement of silence was in the air. It was thrilling. It was enticing. I could taste it. More than likely Greg will go to the hospital and Emma to jail. The quiet … the quiet. I am a genius. I’ll be able to go back to writing in peace. My muse will be happy.
I asked, “My goodness Greg! What happened to you? Are you alright?” I love it when I pretend to be concerned. I could probably be a great politician.
I tried to comfort her and said, “Emma, stop crying. Everything will be alright.” I'm good! Just the right amount of empathy. Don’t be like my aunt Rosa. Whenever she hears bad news, she starts pulling out her hair. An overreaction? Personally … I think the woman’s nuts. Remember to tweak your reaction carefully. Too much sympathy and people will know you’re full of it. Too little, and you appear to be callous. In time … you’ll be able to master it.
The ambulance came and then the police arrested Emma. I waved good-bye to her as the police led her away in handcuffs. I was really disgusted by what happened. Greg was bleeding profusely. There was blood everywhere. And I had to interrupt my writing to clean it up. How disgusting!
There is something that you have to know about Emma so that you don’t think that I'm cold hearted. She is my third wife and fifteen years younger than me. Keep this in mind: We’re all performers and songwriters in our own way. Don’t let anyone kid you otherwise. Emma is a world class performer and songwriter. And Emma also happens to be very good at dancing through life, and humming.
What does that even mean? Am I being purposefully mysterious? Vague? No! Emma at best is a world class hustler and con artist. At worst, a prostitute of everything decent and proper.
I met her in Rome two years ago while I was on vacation. And we hit it off right away. She was always smiling and laughing and having fun. I don’t do any of those things. If you’ve read the first Bio you know that I’m very introverted. I’m a loner. Amazingly, despite our personality challenges, and laughing and language barriers, we still had a great deal in common. She was all that I wanted in a woman. She was pretty, shapely, not taller than me - I’m short, but sturdily built - and she was breathing. I mean breathtaking.
The next few days she acted as my tour guide. I never met a woman that was so sociable and would just talk to everyone. And no matter where we went she always ran into someone that she knew. It was amazing. If it were only men that she ran into and greeted I would have been worried and thought that she was just a very popular prostitute. But many of them were women. And she would always introduce me to all her friends. I'm an introvert. I hate meeting people. They would talk to me in Italian and half the time I didn't understand what they were saying. And they would talk and laugh with Emma. And she would talk and laugh with them. They were laughing and talking so much that it was annoying me.
One of the women said something to me about confidence. That's all I understood. She was speaking very fast and she sounded like she had an accent. It could be because she was talking out the side of her mouth. I hate it when people do that. And instead of carefully listening to what she was saying … I was looking at her mouth. I was intrigued. Does it hurt to talk like that? At one point is it no longer an annoyance to you? And at what point have you decided that you don’t care if you annoy others?
I decided to expand upon the topic about confidence. As you can tell from my writing, I am a very confident person. I’ve been told that I am an aggressive egotist.
I replied: “I think it's a good idea that if your son or daughter likes music, and you take them to a musical, that you should also take them to a music lesson. Too many kids are taught from an early age to cheer and applaud others. Teach them to take the bows. Let others applaud them. That not only instills confidence in them but it opens up a new world for them. Just watching others perform does none of those things.
Never, ever, for instance, just take your kid to a basketball game. They see you yelling and screaming for your team to win and you brainwash them to do the same. You’re teaching them at an early age to applaud others. What you should be doing is taking them to basketball practice, so that one day people will be cheering for them.”
She slapped me! She slapped me real hard. I felt like her fingers were branded into my face. What did I say? I guess it doesn't translate into Italian that well. But what could I do about it? Italian people know the difference between a man and a woman. I couldn't hit her back. She was a woman. And she was a lot bigger than me. It would be horrible to get beaten up by a woman in front of your wife. She walked away from me and whispered something to Emma.
I called Emma over and asked, “What did the nice crazy woman tell you?”
She said, “Sometimes in order to smell the roses you have to bend down. Sometimes to possess beauty you have to uproot it and destroy it.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“It doesn't have to have any meaning,” said Emma, as she was walking away, and rejoining her friends. “Why do words have to have meaning?”
What? What is she talking about? Of course it has to mean something. Is it a riddle? A metaphor? A couple of days ago a woman told me “You're like an onion.” That was it! And I'm still thinking about that. And a guy told me yesterday, “No matter what you do … you can't stop time.” No shit! Did he just figure that one out?
I stopped writing. There was someone at the door. Someone was unlocking it. Oh no! It’s Emma. She’s home.
I said, “How are you precious?”
“Don’t give me that precious bullshit. Why didn’t you come with me to the police station?”
“I was busy writing. And I couldn’t do anything for you anyway. Is Greg going to press charges?”
“No!”
“Well … that’s nice of him. You really opened up his head with that bottle.” I instinctively touched my own head. “He must be a really nice guy. I’m going to have to change my opinion about him.”
“Are you kidding,” said Emma, while pouring herself a glass of wine. “I said to that jerk if he pressed charges, I’d kill him.”
I said sarcastically, “It’s nice to know that the both of you are getting along better.”
Emma started glancing over everything that I wrote.
“You only got this far in the story. Up until where the woman slapped you. What have you been writing about? You’ve already written too much. You're supposed to keep it down to ten thousand characters.”
“You’re right.
Come and join Emma and I for Bio 5.
Wait! There is something else. My muse is not finished. But what is it? I’m tired and want to go to bed. But my mind keeps thinking and thinking. There is something bothering me. It was something that I read. There was a hidden meaning there. And at the time that it was written it was meant to deceive those that would destroy it if they knew its real meaning. I believe it was St. Justin Martyr who wrote that the death of Isaih was removed from Scripture. And that is why the prophet Isaiah and how he died is not recorded in the Bible. It was deleted. They would have deleted this too, if they knew its real meaning.
Exodus 17 8-13, “At Rephidim, Amalek came and waged war against Israel … I will be standing on top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand …. As long as Moses kept his hands raised up, Israel had the better of the fight, but when he let his hands rest, Amalek had the better of the fight. Moses’ hands, however, grew tired; so they put a rock in place for him to sit on. Meanwhile Aaron and Hur supported his hands, one on one side and one on the other, so that his hands remained steady till sunset. And Joshua mowed down Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword.”
Sit on a chair or if you prefer a rock like Moses (just joking) and have someone raise up your right hand and then on the other side have someone raise up your left hand. If you’re in front of a mirror, you’ll notice that you look like you're hanging from a Cross. What Moses did was an enactment of the Crucifixion. With the Cross before you … Victory!
We know from Scripture that when our Lord was Crucified, He had two people crucified with Him. Mt. 27: 38 “Two revolutionaries were crucified with him, one on his right and the other on his left.”
Moses also had two people, one on his right, and the other on his left. We know from Scripture that one of the revolutionaries believed in Christ (the thief) and the other did not (disbelief). We know from Exodus that Aaron, who stood either on Moses' left or right side, was instrumental in building the Golden Calf; God considered this disbelief in Him by those that built it (Aaron). Moses’ wooden staff is also symbolic of our Lord’s wooden Cross. Jesus labored under the weight of the Cross, and Moses labored keeping his hands raised and holding the “staff of God.” They were both helped.
John 5: 46 “For if you had believed Moses, you would have believed me, because he wrote about me.”
And not only did he Write. That was a great scene.