From The Brief Literary Career of Miles Dowd
ART DABBS By Miles Dowd
-- The Artistic Endeavor --
The adjusted human being lives in a comfortable balance between ignorance and insanity. But the artist, well... The difference between the adjusted creature and an artist-type person is just this: the artist can soar like an eagle, instead of a caged bird; the artist falls into huge holes, the adjusted person merely falls to the ground; the artist is concerned with a body of work, not work of the body; the artist's good moods are stupendous, the bad moods unbearable; the artist's loves erupt as in a solar flare, while the common individual alights with a decent match...
-- Meet The Dabbs --
Frank and Dell were tired of being commoners. In debt all of their lives except for a few moments on Friday, payday.
It so happened they retired early one Friday evening, disenchanted with the realities of struggling just to pay bills, when, at the end of the eleven o'clock news, an editorial was broadcast, "The Artistic Endeavor: key to survival." Perhaps it was a conspiracy of the gods, or the alignment of the heavens that evening, but this short segment on the ability of humans to conceive and follow through to individual dreams of destiny engulfed the Dabbs' sensibilities. Fate had dropped by for a visit.
The couple headed off to their separate dreamlands with a subliminal "Artistic Endeavor" seeded in their fertile minds.
The grass looked much greener the farther away Frank drifted, surely there was amazing grazing out there somewhere.
While Frank left his body snorting like a pig in the mud, Dell remembered the book she had been given for Christmas. Out fell a tag:
merry christmas
to: dell
from: Sis
On the first page in the upper right hand corner was:
merry xmas '77
hope you enjoy, Sis
Dell fanned through the book looking for pictures, glancing occasionally at the few words in large type on the small pages. It was either a children's book or a poetry book. On the inside back cover was:
77xmas
hope you enjoyed! love, Sis
Dell turned to the first page and began reading. She could sense Sis close by as she cuddled up with Rod McDoogle, "America's most popular poet," praised the cover. A few minutes later, halfway through the book, she decided she would be a writer. What a cinch!
--- The Awakening --
"Wake up, Frank. Stop the mumbling."
“Wanna, wanna,” Frank gnawed his pillow, "wanna…”
"I can't read when you --. Wake-up. Do you hear me? Wake up!" She thrust her foot into his thigh.
Frank woke all right as he turned and twisted onto the floor. Thud.
"Wanna what, honey?" she asked innocently.
He hadn’t quite processed the kick.
"I can't find my place because of your wanning." Her fingers did a frantic trotting between the pages, "Now I'm lost..."
"So what's new?" Frank grumbled and hoisted himself back on the bed.
"You can leave your sarcasm in that chair over there," Dell informs him. Immediately, she thought, 'that chair over there', hmm, not bad. Mumbling and tumbling. Fumbling grumbling. Okay. She had begun her book-of-the-month club best-seller. Meet: Delliana Dabbs, artist, poet.
Frank had returned from dreamland with a vision of his own, "Darlin', I'm sick and tired of potholes on the prarie--" Frank stopped speaking as he watched Dell float away like a pioneer on a sea of grass.
' potholes on the prarie,' echoed off of her bow, uh, hmm, she wondered if plagiarism included immediate family. Maybe he won't remember by the time her book hit the stores.
He continued, "Will you please listen? I mean it. I know I'm capable of doin' somethin' important like. I'm gonna quit!"
"Good for you," she said sympathetically as if the words were patting him on the back, or perhaps helping him get through a kind of indigestion.
"I mean, what's the sense of doin' labor on a fence without a neighbor?"
"Of course, Frank." Dell hoped she could remember all of these inadvertent gems coming out of Frank's mouth. Sense/labor; fence/neighbor. He of course was referring to his latest job, putting up cyclone mesh around vacant lots. Ah, the poetry of everyday life.
He looks at her in all sincerity, "You understand, right?" She sure did.
Frank finished his train of thought before plopping back down on their platform bed, "I can distinguish myself, back into music, good songs, make Nashville look like a hick town..."
"It is."
"You know what I mean. Take out my ax and really go at it. Hell, I can handle more than four chords!"
"Chop wood?" she mumbles under the spell of the great McDoogle distraction.
"No. An ax is a guitar, it's hip for guitar is all."
"Oh..." Dell had begun computing the fact and the figures of her new life. She would hurry and finish the book, which just needs to be written down is all, then Frank really could quit his meaningless job and pursue some scheme while she supported him on her royalties. Frank's not really bright enough to do anything spectacular, she found herself thinking for the first time, but I won't let on and spoil his dreams, after the second book we could part as friends. I'll still treat him well.
Meet: Delliana Dabbs, artistic philanthropist.
-- The Artists --
Frank crawled back under the sheets still warmed by her snugly settled-in body. Now Frank saw the inevitable -- they would have to call it a day very soon. To reach greatness would be too difficult with a commoner like Dell, a simple technician at Fast Foto, hanging on. He's suddenly realizing she's just a ball on his chain of love now. A link was bound to break as he surged out into the heavens toward his star position.
He kissed her compassionately on her ordinary cheek. She wasn't a bad gal as they go. But sex can be distracting. And it was time to move ahead. He'd been aces up with her long enough. Fate was dealing him another hand.
Meet Frank Dabbs: newly uncovered artist.
Meanwhile, Dell had other contemplations. He's such a meek earth-worn person, she thought as she placed a gracious peck upon his nimble forehead. He put his head on her twin pillow breasts. A bosom buddy. I'm more of a mother figure than anything, she continued thinking solemnly, I'll take care of him.
This last thought made her chest rise proudly. It also stimulated Frank. He'd give her one last shot of greatness.
His hands began their tender persuasion; he knew instinctively the right combinations that would open her safely kept emotions. Dell deserved a present afterall, a jewel to remember their days gone by together now that he was just about on his way. Success does that to you. He'd leave an imprint of his existence in her life.
Frank let his love go full-force. No fantasizing, no faked moans. He loved this woman here and now. Nothing would ever penetrate as deeply as his magnanimous feelings. Meet Frank Dabbs: Humanitarian, ace stud.
"Oh fa fa fa fraaannnkk!" she humbled, omnisciently, knowing the exact caressing whispers to turn him on full blast. His ears were dials that her serpent tongue could finely tune in. And she thought, he'd remember this act of supreme love for the rest of his drudging days -- I will bare him a child, conceived in the purist sincerity, and the name shall be... geeezzzz....
Rod McDoogle fell to the floor.
A world of words whirled by in the next twelve seconds. She saw perfect words, red words, white words, lavender and laced words, charged, potent, powerful, hovering, hollering, hooraying...
Frank took off to the rodeo, Reno, Vegas, stages and studios, the Grand Ole Opry and the Milky Way... strum and twang, bars and stars, why there's Buck hee-haw hee-haw hee-haw...
-- Art Dabbs --
Frank and Dell fell silently downward, feathered in contentment. Nothing was said, nothing was even contemplated. A slow tranquil pulse cradled them to a luminous sleep.
In the morning it dawned on them a child was beginning life in her womb. Transcendentally in touch. A new life force. They had discussed having children many times before, but they hadn't actually and consciously attempted the feat.
Yet, the joy of the moment was marred by the thought of having to abandon their newly discovered ambitions for the next eighteen years. Fate can be cruel. We'll work it out, they each thought.
And they did.
Nine months later, all of the staff at St. Christopher's remarked about the newborn's certain glow. One nurse was even reprimanded for leaving her post to take a look at the bright boy. It was during the night shift and she would later swear that, though it was a darkened room, there seemed to be a glow coming out of his particular cradle. Such was one of the many significant instances that announced the arrival of this unusual red-faced creation, Art Dabbs, son of Frank and Delliana Dabbs, artists-in-residence .
-- Art Drives --
The Dabbs' sublimated their artistic drives into the boy while they maintained the front that they had grown accustomed to displaying. Meet The Dabbs: a nice couple, secret artists. Their main thrust of parenting Art was that truth and beauty were synonymous, that would be the golden rule.
"That boy is driven!" was the usual remark by his astonished teachers. All through pre-school, kindergarten, and elementary school Art's instructors enjoyed tagging along for the ride as the boy traveled swiftly passed their years of slow progressive learning. Each would take clandestine credit for Art's rapid advancement. Meet The Teachers: undercover artists. Art became frustrated with teachers.
Art was not normal, Dell chided herself, head to the heavens. She had quit her film-developing job in order to help process a vision for Art. When household errands had to be done Frank was always right there too. Art was never without parental guidance and hindrance.
Perhaps some neighbors would criticize the Dabbs for not allowing Art to play with their children. Jealousy. The Dabbs' did let their boy out of the house to play each day. However, the Wonder Word Workshop, part of Rapid Reading Inc. was substituted for the normal kid’s playground. Art could read before he could run. He towered in mental gymnastics; his speech displayed his muscle of strength.
The kid had a tongue that could whip anyone who dared cross him. His parents were careful to walk on the other side of this slight personality detour. Art became frustrated with his non-confronting Mom And Dad.
Meet young Arthur Dabbs: artist.
-- Art's Frustrations --
Art excelled in all schoolwork but was frustrated with his fellow classmates. As a result of this, the instructors thought him excellent; the students thought him to be a jerk:
Art, Art, thinks he's smart
but when he talks he only farts
Meanwhile, Art skyrocketed toward notority, which was readily achieved by being a contrarian. By the age of ten he had become infested with a disease that seemed to repel all life forms away from him. An ethereal B-O. Teachers stopped praising him as he began disrupting class by trying to ascertain the darker sides of famous people. For instance, Columbus was a mercenary, Jefferson a slave owning hypocrite, Thoreau was a lazy bum, ... etc.
Students, he had no friends, found Art to be a living example of an anti-American radical, the kind that it's all right to hate, for the good of the democracy.
Art returned Frank and Dell's lust for him by finding plenty of faults in them. Early on he had tired of calling them mom and dad, thinking that those labels were just identifications that certain weak people hide behind because they don't have their own identity. But Art certainly knew who his parents were and he used this knowledge to practice and to test the boundaries of his critical thinking skills as well as develop contrary expression. Truth was beauty.
"Dell, the bathroom's disgusting, the food's tasteless, useless waste... like McDoogle!" That one hurt. This boy could spear a heart without much effort or any sense of shame or guilt. Dell gripped the broom and went to clean the bathroom. This reinforced Art's confidence in the art of truth. It also allowed Dell a place to cry.
Early on, between chores, she had sketched out a few poems. But she learned quickly that poetry magazines were run by rejection-slip artists. What a world. She stopped writing about the same time Art started talking.
As for Frank, no producer appreciated his demo tapes. Frank had a sneakin' hunch that he was being ripped off. The original songs were returned too fast. He began listening to the radio waiting for "new blue shoe" to turn up in someone else's lyrics. Then he'd have a case. Art's college fund.
In the meantime, Frank took on an extra job delivering junk fliers to pay for Art's music lessons. The boy in no time at all surpassed his father's Grand Ole Opry music, dismissing it as: "... akin to cow-faced sheep herders shoveling manure on a Saturday night and thinking it the thing-to-do!"
Childrearing pressures became enormous.
-- Art's Triumphs --
They had given Art the bedroom. Dell took the couch, alone. Frank slept on a mat next to his guitar case. Whenever Dell picked up a book, or Frank picked up the guitar, Art would interrupt them for the sake of interrupting them.
Frank and Dell both understood they had a significant barrier preventing them from success -- Art. The couple began rotting because of this going-bad apple.
Finally one evening while Dell was scrubbing away again, Art began harassing Frank's growing need for nightly strumming. "New blue shoe?" Art mocked, "That's pathetic, ... you're a lousy archetype." That struck a nerve. Whatever it meant, it sent Frank's 'ax' flying by the boy's head, missing the target who swiftly dodged aside. Frank lost his balance and toppled over. The guitar cracked in half as it whacked the linoleum.
The youngster stood laughing over his father's inability to put the pieces together. Dell would have to redo the floor again. Ha ha. Such a little creep was he. And he hadn't hit puberty yet.
-- Art's Judgment --
Art Dabbs turned out to be one rotten kid. It was her fault; it was his fault. At the divorce hearing, initiated by young master Dabbs against his parents, neither parent argued for custody of the vindictive weasel. In fact, Frank and Dell argued heatedly against such impossible responsibility.
The Judge became impatient with the wild stories the couple unleashed.
Meanwhile, Art sat quietly outside the courtroom thinking indifferently about these two imbeciles the gods had given him as parents. His parents: former artists.
The Judge sent for Art.
Art entered as the Judge brought the gavel down, trying to knock some sense into the room. The Judge, who had had a long exhausting day of hearing malicious dialogues between the closest of human beings, buried his frustration in a tone of exaggerated kindliness, "Sometimes mother's and father's make mistakes. No one's perfect."
"Especially these two loonies," Art had to add.
Startled, the Judge gasped sternly, "Excuse me, young man, but you had better start respecting your elders!"
"Why?” he mumbled, barely audible, “The old man thinks Buck Heehaw is a musician. I bet even you could twang as stupidly as he. And Dell, let's just say that she thinks Rod McDoogle can write and leave it at that, ha ha ha..."
Frank and Delliana Dabbs, ex-artists, attempted to kill the brat right in front of the Judge. It was one way to lose custody anyway. The Judge, impatient and very perturbed at being compared to a country & western no-talent (the Judge was an Artist) slammed the gavel down like a maniac attempting to massacre a bug. The Judge knew from years of experience on the bench that everyone had a limit, a breaking point. He had arrived at his. Court was getting out of hand.
"Look son, we all have our likes and dislikes. We're talking about other people's perceptions. Basic respect. Everyone is entitled to have opinions!"
"Well, then here's an opinion," Art stared, cold-eyed, "if everyone's entitled to an opinion, then your decisions don't carry anymore weight than the raunchy breath you use to spew them out with. And if you want my opinion, the way you've been acting with the sledgehammer seems to me as if your brain is lucky if it can coordinate your decaying body to even manage to hit your big fat desk with your stupid --"
The Judge may not have been able to control the court that day, but he did find swift judgment. The gavel came down with awesome accuracy. Young Dabbs' head burst like a savagely gnashed tomato.
-- The Cost Of Art --
The Judge was disbarred, sent to prison for five years, served two. Frank and Delliana Dabbs are aces up once again and take turns helping and supporting their son in his new life as a vegetable.
Dell has published her first book of poetry "ART IN MY LIFE." Frank wrote and recorded an album of songs entitled, LONG LIVE ART. Both book and record continue to climb the charts. Of course the publicity of the Judge's trial and its blessed notoriety (and a substantial out-of-court settlement with the county) played no small role in their newfound self-published success. But the Dabbs' had survived, and their wildest dreams were coming true, thanks to Art.*
----------------------------- the end ------------------------------
*Years earlier the Dabbs’ had drifted off to dreamland before hearing the whole “Artistic Endeavor: the key to survival.” If they had stayed awake they would have heard:
Art from Souls last forever;
art from goals is never ever
"Art Dabbs," from The Brief Literary Career of Miles Dowd, © 1999 by John Kirkmire, ©2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
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