Hi readers,

This week, a sonnet from Jack which speaks to his own older self. Then, another excerpt from Cantab Tango. And finally, my favorite substack writer, the great Rune: at https://trashtv.substack.com

Cheers,
David

————— SONNET OF THE WEEK:

Constant Wish 

The constant wish of a man of seventy 
Is to hold the love he passed at twenty—
Is to feel the blood he took for granted, 
to climb the tree his fingers planted. 

The constant wish of a man of seventy  
Is to gloat the hubris of nap superiority—
Is to own the time that once he wasted, 
to drink of wisdom once only tasted.  

If I could live the dreams of twenty, 
I’d laugh at them like I was crazy—
waste no dances, throw tantrums many 
and smoke the buds of cantos lazy. 

The legs are slow, but the direction finer, 
The blood’s the same, if not the brainer. 
A poet’s license is never expiring— 
He raps a rhyme, no conscience hiring. 

The constant wish of a man of seventy 
Is to hold the love he passed at twenty. 





----------- Cantab Tango Excerpt of the week:

6.

“Why the fuck would I want to play drums in your band after what you did to my sister?” says John. He's on the phone from Montreal while I'm in Cambridge dying from hearing the pain his words.

I take a deep breath. I deserve that, but I can't answer it back. I can't. Someone said in a meeting once, that only when you feel totally fucked do you become willing to know the whole truth, to hear the whole truth. So I try. When you're backed against a wall and you're totally fucked—then you will see the truth—or die trying. Maybe I am dead already.

“Yo, mon—you're a muthafuckin' sicko, you know? How're you still alive?”

That's harsh. I swallow a little stomach bile and speak.

“She knows it's not her fault, I hope. I hope she . . . knows that.”

“Oh, she knows all right, sicko. Never was her fault. Never was.”

I take a breath and start again.

“Ah . . . I'm really sorry, John . . . Your sister is great. I'm . . . sorry.”

I hear a painful dead silence on the line, but he doesn't hang up.

I imagine him throwing a punch, so I duck. But I speak.

“Ah, because we've got a unique new band here, and you'd be great in it. And we pay well. And because I'm in recovery now. Look, John, I know how awful that was for her—I was there. I couldn't be more sorry. My craziness had nothing to do with her—it was my ex. No. No excuses about her either. None. If Atisha never wants to see me again, I understand. I almost died that week, but then I got hospitalized for my sickness and I got help. I changed. I got better. I've changed a lot.”

I hear silence but no hang-up yet.

“Did both your parents and your sister die when you were four years old? I bet not. Was it sudden? Did it shock your soul almost to death? I bet not. It screwed me up back then, but I've recovered now, changed, grown up.”

I hear John grunt, but he still listens, so I go on.

“And I'm so, so sorry your sister got caught up in all that. It's completely my fault. Completely. I just . . . fell apart that day.”

I hear John take a breath.

“Tell you what—let me talk to her once and then she can decide if it's an OK thing. Totally her choice. Because I never want to split you guys up. I know you two are the only family you've got now—I understand because I don't have anyone left from my family at all. That's been my problem. Ah, sorry to run on like this . . . but I really want you in the band. And I really want to tell Atisha that I'm sorry . . . and explain myself . . . and tell her how great she is. Did she ever graduate from McGill? She got her PhD, right?”

John doesn't speak but he doesn't hang up. I wait.

“Yeah. She did,” he says. “Her PhD defense. I've got a book copy of it.”

“Oh, great. She deserves that,” I say.

“And since she finished, she's turning it into a published book maybe.”

“Hey, that's great. Good for her.”

“About art and music and how it brings cultures together, you know?”

I nod my head about sixteen times until I realize he can't see me. I can hardly believe he still talks, but I'm glad. I can wait forever.

“All I'm asking is that you say hi to her and that I want to talk, all right?

“And drums. You really play a groove like no one else I've ever heard, man. We've got a new singer from New York City with an amazing sense of rhythm who needs your help. I think we could be a great band. And there's lots of studio work around in Boston we'll get for you—reggae, R&B, ska. We can pay for your move and give you a three-month contract, guaranteed. Please think about it, all right?”

John hangs up.

I stare into the blank screen until Satchmo wanders in and asks me why. I play him a track I recorded on my phone at the Truro nude beach that day—John and I playing different time signatures against each other to create some new form of swing in a rhythm. He bobs his head to the beat and says “whoa!” three times.

“Is he our new drummer then? This Jamaican guy?”

“I hope so. John. It's up to his sister.”

Satch looks surprised.

“She can't hide her eyes behind dark glasses forever,” I say.

“What? Glasses? How does that work?”

I tell him a condensed version of last year's whole mental massacre on the Cape. He nods as I continue. He's heard parts of it before, maybe. He agrees what a creep I was to involve her in all that, but he doesn't blame me much more—he's been there.

“I left my cousin Surya in the crowd to steal two cotton candies when we were at a street fair once. I ate both cotton candies—while she was lost for two hours. She was four years old. I got whipped for that. Not proud of it.”

I nod.

My evil ways have company—but it doesn't help much to know.

“How 'bout we work on the arrangement for Coyote now,” I say. “I'm waiting for a call-back from Atisha. She'll take a while, I'm sure. Days, centuries. It needs another verse and I've got one, I think. I wrote it on the train and edited it today. I need to know how it fits with the rest of the song as you play it, how it feels when you're in it.”

“And now you trade my arms for silk and leather

—you've found a different source of light,

but can you still hear that old song of midnight

when you're nestled golden . . . in his arms?”

We work on the song for an hour—give this verse a break-down feel with only bass drum and a guitar scratch. The new verse works great.

Atisha never calls. I go to bed late, but I sleep like I've never slept before. I wake so deeply dreamed-out I don't hear my phone. I have to call her back.

“Atisha called. Atisha called me back,” I say to Satch.

He watches me grab the door frame to keep from falling.

“But are you sane enough to call her back right now?”

“Well, screw you, Satch.”

I notice he smiles at that.

“And good question.”

I shake my head.

“Let's go to breakfast at Tony's place first. He chefs like a Quincy Jones mixdown . . . or something. Especially for breakfast. Great coffee like espresso from Rome. I'm not kidding: croissants, raspberries with creme fraiche, he calls it. We'll have to do the dishes, but it's so worth it.”

We walk through cool air off the river. The Charles River flows only two blocks away, parallel to Putnam Street. We get that breeze a lot here. It's so truly cool it can cure insanity. I hope it works for me today.

----------- FAVORITE WRITER OF THE WEEK: 

	https://trashtv.substack.com/

The Sequoia Saga

POST #9 Sequoia Sonnet