May you never have to do this.
Come the lawyers with hands extended and petitions all a-flutter, their communications peppered with “allege” and “affirm”, “prays” and “prejudice”, a dance of writing and counter-writing, rhetoric more style and form than substance, but still with substance disguising substance in endless hermeneutic regression, one reference yielding another and yet another, all the way down to the bedrock of death and avarice, and even then, at rock bottom, they dig.
As pretty and trite as that may be, it’s not a fair depiction: the lawyer I’ve retained is a fine and friendly man, brilliant and talented and persistent, and I couldn’t ask for better representation. But in the case of this dispute, now gone on a year and a half, the strange rhetorical dance — at times seeming like a game of telephone in fancy language — wears on me some.
I drive down to DC tomorrow to help put it all to bed. Another month, or maybe two, with the lawyers: that’ll do it, I hope. And then, like I think Mom wanted, I can rest a bit.
Posting may again be intermittent from now through Sunday.
Wishing you godspeed and fruition, Mike. A few years ago we had long-drawn debacle involving lawyers, a judge and the systematized rhetoric of law. For me, it was always the problem of shifting agency to a hired rhetor–one who is not necessarily better able to argue the merits of your position but who has formal license to act (speark, write) argumentatively in the presense of the all-powerful judge, a processor who decides fates.
Sorry to hear about your mother’s death E. I’ve been trying to contact you off and on for a number of years. No one ever seems to know your whereabouts or has any good gouge concerning your details. I just spoke to Dan Abeshouse 13 minutes ago and he gave me your website information. You seem to be doing well. Good on ya! Your writing and speech however have become more verbose and high-minded than ever. I guess that came from years of recreational substance abuse and my tours through AcidLand in a certain black/white/grey Chevy Blazer listening to tracks put together by you.
What’s up Bitch! You need to loosen up there guy! You have my email addy. Write when possible.
P.S. Have a beer. Don’t cost nothin’.
So there I was, lookin’ at my e-mail and I get this link see? And my how the past comes like a flood sending one spiraling down a whirlpool of horror and beatitude. (wink,wink)
Sorry to hear about your mom. Drop me some lines if possible.
Criminy. Just when you think you’re safe, your two favorite weirdos come out of the past and make you say to yourself: “I’d like to stop smiling — but I can’t!” Let’s see: with M. F. Shaa-aan and the Pump Jockey on board, all we need is five death bands for five bucks, Joe with nachos, double-dip McSid, and an IHOP wait-troll, and it’ll be a night. Where’s that Blazer, O Pump Jockey my Pump Jockey?