I haven’t heard Mr. Fuck-Fuck today, but it is still early.
He’s become a part of the neighborhood. There is a colloquialism – “tear” – which means to move forward rapidly. He tore off in the car. When Mr. Fuck-Fuck goes down the street, I think of that word, and how he literally does seem to tear the air as he is avoided by all passerbys. Is it Tourettes syndrom? I’m not sure. The linguistic agenda doesn’t seem to vary as it does, or so I’ve read, with Tourettes. It is always a stream of fuck. Motherfuck Fuck. Sometimes bitch. Fuck that bitch. Then back to Fuck. At the top of his voice. The voice is powerful, especially when you see the scrawny man who emits it.
To judge by his clothes and grooming, Mr. Fuck-Fuck is cared for by someone. He is not dressed in the dumpster rags that the street people wear. He is dressed, even, rather nattily, and his beard has been trimmed. It makes me wonder about his private life. Is it a sister, a brother, a mother, an aunt who takes care of him? Most likely the caregiver is female. And most likely she is in tears part of the day. I would be. But what is she going to do?
As he tears down our sidewalk, he scares Adam. That’s normal. He scares me. It is the violence of the stream of gros mots which emerge from his body. Not just from his mouth or throat. It is as if the words rose from his very heels. He is bent, slightly, under the violence of them.
I have never seen a stronger case of language literally seizing a person. Perhaps there is even something sacred about it. Doesn’t all poetry aspire to the condition of tourettes syndrom? Inspiration, that much derided concept, seems to me to be amply justified by the data of neurology. It could befall any of us – to take care of such a person. To be such a person. We are all God’s children, and fragile vessels at that. I salute the unknown hand that lays out Mr. Fuck-Fuck’s clothes. It is better, more patient, than mine.