Rone Shavers

Crônica for Codeswitchers

Let’s start with a line to please 1000 lazy readers, crying out for (easy) meaning, all at once:

“Oh, it makes me wanna holler, the way they do my life.”

And yet, because like the sun, the tides, and the seasons, there will always be an “and yet,” there are those among you, secret Franklists, who search—want, really—for the implicit to be made obviously explicit. But the crônica turns the permanent ephemeral and the fixed elusive. Complain and contest all you will, but if you must be told what to make of it, then you never once really, truly thought about it. And thinking, real and active thinking, isn’t there something worthwhile and noble in it?

Because it is as it is, and it’s the same as it ever was: A Christian in Kristiansand and a Devil in Helsinki. Mundanity, mendacity, something altogether different, or something in between?

And there you are, left to play the game while into the forest we ran, weaving in the dappled light, succumbing to the loam of our youth.

A six-word story bound to cause hurt, and controversy, and be misconstrued, possibly leading to claims that I do violence against a people or race, and perhaps even be used as evidence of pathological self-loathing, especially since in this moment of the 21st Century, pathology is what matters most: “Y’all niggas shoulda left me alone.”

However, speaking as an established emerging mid-career beginning iconic artist, I don’t really believe in using labels to chart one’s career trajectory, or in labels of any kind.

Regarding the puns and the quips: Although I’ve given voice to it before, it bears repeating: The work is serious because the work reflects the joy of its making. Witness what is accomplished by a deliberate evasion of uniformity in thought, action, theme, or meaning. It’s necessary to ask: What surfaces instead?

An unfortunate truth, and a tautology that defines me:

I don’t have kids BECAUSE I drink BECAUSE I don’t have kids

Blather. Sip. Repeat.

Seattle sports name: Le’Tron Cook. Name ‘pon de Ital Corner: Bloody Dunza. Aladdin Sane name: Ronnie Grinning Soul. Name as I’m known out on Abbey Road: Mean Mr. Mustard. Marvelous multiversal nickname: Kang. Worldwide “Bougie” name: Heavy Manners. Dad joke name: Easy-Peasy Extra-Cheesy. Soul of the 16th Arrondissement name: Sneering Contempt. Soft, sweet, and velvety smooth name: Kazmir Champaign. PhD in mystical science name: DOOM! Name as you knew me ten minutes ago: This muthafucka….

But there’s a part of us all that yearns for the familiar, threadbare comforts of narrative, image, story, conflict, plot. Incoherence without thematic structure is too often just that. Anti-poetics can become just as staid as its opposite. So then, “Never do anything difficult… It’s never worth it.” (Dick Savage, in John Dos Passos’ 1919)

And yet, there are some obligatory things that must be mentioned. Namely that the crônica exists to subvert expectations, not reinforce them.

É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo

All to say that it’s a mistake to either read or think of the crônica as evidence of fractured or fragmentary thought, as writing that doesn’t adhere to a preestablished pattern. No, instead, the crônica is evidence of fractal thinking; writing that follows a compelx pattern of repetition that alludes to its own complexity.

“Mask on. Fuck it, mask off.”

There is no autobiography here. There is no exacting, exhausting depiction of Trilling’s “Young man from Provinces,” that well-told myth; there is no finely encapsulated Forsterian portrait of experiences intended to “Only connect.” I reject proposition and supposition both. What follows is much more intimate, and much, much older than the anemic forms of autobiography we recognize today. What this is, then, is the patterned call and response of mind and spirit, cognition and recollection; evidence of transformative, referential memory. Whether you relate to it or not is beside the point, because you are not needed here, and certainly not welcome.

Another six-word story that sheds light on everything that precedes it: “Shit, muthafucka, act like ya know.”

It makes me wanna holler, the way they do my art….

Crônica of the Second Line

The fact that I can’t remember the German word for fear of a blank page makes me acutely aware of my own mortality, as is the fact that it’s certain my mental faculties will eventually, inevitably fade. Thus, ignore the shudder.

Talk of my genius is at worst, unsubstantiated and at best, insubstantial. I mean, to paraphrase Everett’s Ralph, a genius knows how to make a spreadsheet.  …Or a grilled cheese sandwich, or a PowerPoint slide, or scrambled eggs, or prose that has, like, compelling characters, a recognizable theme, and a semblance of plot. 

Then again, call me old-fashioned, but I believe David Hume got it right when, upon addressing aesthetic proclivities, he famously wrote, “Haters gonna hate.”

There are those I love despite myself; there are those I love to spite myself.

And then there are those who tend to always question my loyalties, so it must be said that the flag I fly is a fairly simple one. It’s red with pride and green with envy, all sparkly white and gold, emblazoned with the phrase: “Go Fuck Yourself.”

For I’ve seen the best minds of my generation… eagerly take on the mantle of “voice of a generation,” only to then lose their own voice.

And yet—because by now, it should have been obvious that an “and yet” was coming—all of the above might be better packaged and purposed if I simply subtitled it something like “Truisms from and for a New Century.” But nota bene, the most important word in the previous sentence is like.

I gotta dance. I gotta dance! I gotta learn how to dance!

Name on the mean streets of Negril: Ross Klaat. British banker name of German-Lebanese descent: Ali Aliaqsenfri. Future name: Molly Percocet. Name that will be inevitably misconstrued: Spook. Name that’s not as racist as it sounds: Signifying Monkey. Rebel fashionista name: Ray Kish. K.C. Blues name: Dry Bones Johnson. Kingston ’76 name: His Imperious Majesty, the Most-High Hairy Eye, Jah Ronstafari. And actually, a name that’s somewhat apropos: The Black Swift.

Because what they won’t tell you is Braggadocio was the one Geppetto got right.

It’s so strange, this mini-moment that we live in. People yearn to feel included, connected, touched, especially in terms of the art they consume. Tough shit. I don’t want to fucking touch you, no more than I want you fucking touching me, physically or otherwise. The very thought of it makes me gag. Get your emotional and existential rocks off somewhere else, because the thing I got is cold-blooded, and it’s coming from a brand-new place. I’m dealing quick and I don’t miss a lick and I bet I don’t leave no trace.

Check it out…

It’s autobiography, for those interested in the term. Maybe. As if autobiography matters! Here, laid bare instead, is autobiography without artifice, an assemblage of the deepest recesses of my brain. As I’ve said before, it’s “pure, unadulterated me.” Or to be sure, something like me. I mean, who can ever be absolutely certain, especially when it’s indicative of a process only a cognitive scientist could love.

The name that looks within: Sol Lipsiste. Harmonesque, “magnetic attitude” name: “Pop-Pop!!!” Galactic Empire name: Darth Swole. Contemporary confessional poet name: “Secret” Lee Emo, the Vinyl Pusher. Charitable donor name: The Most Generous Giver of Zero Fucks. Superhero name that every ex-girlfriend swears is true: Manchild. Supa Hot Fire name: Jeans-Jacket-Chukkas Man, AKA, The Man Who Shot Liberty Vallance. Art world legend name: Abex Abstracticus. Name that’s totally fucked up and really, really needs help, y’all: RonYe. And the name that gives reason to so much wordplay: Lacanian Jouissance.

So then, what I’m trying to do here is to explore, to map out the contours of liminal fiction(s) and liminal space(s). The crônica, if one asks, is the work that reveals the work, the thing that coheres, instead of the thing that illustrates cohesion.

“Oh, Baltimore. Ain’t it hard just to live?” …said Poe.

Crônica du Coeur

“It is impossible to find a poet in the poetry world who will like your poetry if you tell them you do not like theirs.”

–Diane Wakowski, “Form is an Extension of Content”

So once more, with attitude…

I’m not a poet.  

Ballad of the Policeman (after Lee Perry)

              Uniformed in broad daylight

              Militia rights, in a dim light

              White hood in moonlight

              Civil servant at sunrise

I’ve seen the best minds of my generation… desperate to get teaching jobs, only to discover that many treat the profession like nothing short of a glorified form of customer service. And of course, by “many,” I mean parents, students, and administrators.

People say that I’ve gotten fat, but what they don’t realize is that I’ve been putting on weight for my upcoming role as a middle-aged failure.

South Side Chicago name: Rone with a Hard “R.” Dating app name: Moderately Attractive. Don Barthelme Deep-Cut name: Blaufox. Diva name: Neplus Ultra. Gourmand name: Taye “Sty” Legit. My middle name: Cash Money! Dirty South name: Hamhock Sammich. Borscht Belt name: Shecky Tannenbaum. High School Heart-Throb name: Mayor McRizz.

The earworms, the whispers, the spinners, and the shock of recognition. All that and I’ve yet to make mention of Juan Goytisolo.

Question: What did the fresh plum say to the dried plum?

Answer: Don’t be such a prune!

Impetus: Kids, ha-ha! But don’t try this at home! I know I make it look easy, but these jokes don’t dad themselves.

Then there’s the fact that in this age of instant accessibility, of having a trove of knowledge and scholarship literally at one’s fingertips, few care to want to live with Flaubert’s disease. They believe that a slew of inexact words, a misplaced modifier or absent comma is acceptable, passable, not a big deal because hey, they got their point across. In essence, they choose mediocrity, disdaining the literary for the easy pleasures of providing “content.”

Truth be told, I’m not all that worried about artificial intelligence ever writing something comparable to what I do, especially when writing the crônica. After all, my insistence on eschewing emotional connections in art not only makes me better, but a better robot before the fact. Or, to put things another way, “01001000101110100000100.”

“I’m mad at my desk and I be writing all curse words/ expressing my aggression through my schizophrenic verse words!”

Multiplicity reigns supreme; further evidence of my fractured, fragile, fractal life. So yes, Virginia, there are deliberate allusions to (the) work(s) within the work(s).

“…but every now and then I fall apart.”

And here’s a 6-word story meant to sear itself into your brain: “For Christ’s sake, pay me already!”

A pregnant pause, an unlikely inversion, reflection before the humblebrag du jour. Isn’t that always the way of those who do nothing but what they continue to be told can’t be done?

Yo, ‘nuff respect to Supa Hot Fire—nuff respect—but yo, check it:

They call me FORM-CONTENT-STANZA man.

Form: To keep within tradition.

Content: to show y’all how to invigorate tradition.

Stanza: BECAUSE I CANZA!!!

But I’m not a poet.

One may think me conservative, but I believe that sometimes, the old ways work best. Therefore, if you chauffeur me, I will show for you. Let there be no doubt about it. 

Past name I’m not supposed to tell you: LeRoi Louis Quinze. Street Nerd name: Iroll Twennies. Yiddische name: Maury Tchotchke. Name I just said: Crit-Crit 20. Late 1980s, Pacific Northwest Hophead name: Punky Brewster. Name that kept people housebound in 2020: Dat Rona. 2021 variant name: O. Micron. Name of the thing I write: HITS! And in the holy name of Collie Jesus Christ: Yessus I-sus.

When I first heard 3 Feet High and Rising… I was not ready… to be so ready.

And yet, these days it seems like everywhere I go is there but for the grace of God.

So, when this is all over, come find me on the banks of the river Lethe. There I’ll be drowning—and perhaps even drowning my sorrows. Just muddy waters, and surly daughters, and me.