MyFace

A vision has been granted to me of the day and the manner of my death.

I’ll die in Mill Valley, California. At the corner of Miller and Throckmorton. In front of Coppa Coffee.

I’ll be standing at the curb, waiting to cross over to the Depot Bookstore. I’ll look to make eye contact with the driver at the stop sign waiting to make a right turn onto Miller, in front of me.

She will be a slim young blonde in a silver Lexus SUV. She will look right at me. Reassured, I’ll begin to step off the curb. As I turn away from her, I’ll glimpse the beginning of an expression of annoyance on her face. Her mouth will begin to move. As I turn away, just as my right foot hits the street, I’ll have a microsecond of realization that she never really did see me. She was absorbed in her cell phone conversation.

I’ll begin to raise my left hand reflexively to signal her but it’ll be too late. She’ll wheel the SUV around the corner. My left foot will be caught under the right front wheel. I will go down. Then the right rear wheel will catch my legs and flip me over so that I watch the SUV pulling away.

Lying on the ground in the last moment of my life, I’ll look up and see her child, in the back seat, staring curiously at me. I will notice that the child has a bagel in his mouth. I will realize that I cannot tell if the child is male or female. A yellow Labrador retriever in the screened off rear section of the Lexus will bark furiously at me for a few seconds. The child will say something. I will see the driver waving, dismissing them both. She will drive on down Miller Avenue.

A crowd will gather. The fire truck will arrive quickly from the station around the corner. But it will too late. I will be dead, my blood running into a drain with a sign stenciled on it “NO DUMPING - FLOWS TO BAY”.

Half an hour later the driver will be arrested at the Whole Foods deli. Her husband will put up bail immediately. She will be released in time for her appointment with her personal trainer.

She will be charged with vehicular homicide. Her husband will hire a pit bull lawyer. She will state that she thought she had run over the curb. The charges will be reduced to a misdemeanor. She will spend a day at traffic school.

end

Appreciation is one of those qualities, a virtue really, that has to do with relationship. That makes it less abstract, more real. Of course all virtues have to do with relationship in some way. Anyway, I can deal with appreciation.

Appreciation is low key. You might say it is an unappreciated virtue. It is different from honoring or complimenting. It locates the action in the appreciator while still focusing on the appreciated. It is a statement of one’s own feelings.

It is easier to accept than a straightforward compliment. It does not make the appreciated person self-conscious like it might if you said you were inspired by them or how wonderful they were.

The trick of appreciation is to not ascribe a virtue to the appreciatee.

It does not exist as a judgment, as something separate from you, it does not have that force. It registers simply as the expression of a positive reaction.

(I do understand that appreciation can apply to other things besides human beings, like nature.)

Appreciation is effective in changing the attitude of the person doing the appreciation.

“It is twice blessed. It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.”

Instead of asking, “Why aren’t you happy?,” you might ask, “What do you appreciate about your life right now?” Or the day, or your environment, or a person in your life.

You don’t have to go whole hog in appreciating. You can single out a small part of a situation or person, but if you say you especially appreciate something, that also implies that there are other things worth appreciating too. It kind of spreads out the appreciation effect. I call that “appreciation radiation.”

When you claim to appreciate something, you are implicitly stating that you have good taste. Or maybe that you have confidence in your own taste. But it does not acquire the weight of judgment. It is a kinder, gentler positive assessment.

“I appreciate the difficulty of the situation you are in.” That has a different quality than “I understand the difficulty…” Don’t you think?

This is the appreciation cycle: observe, respect, assess, acknowledge. Repeat.

I appreciate that I am done writing now. I appreciate that you have read this far. The word “appreciate” has now lost all meaning to me.

The end of appreciation.

I wake up fearful. As usual.

I decide to walk it off. I take my trash picker-upper device with me. I want to access my inner Catholic and rid the world of evil in the form of cigarette butts.

Down the hill, out of the rain forest toward the ocean. I’m headed through the heart of Roberts Creek toward the Georgia Strait. An eight minute walk.

Green explodes everywhere. The early morning slanting sun against huge cumulus thunderclouds is almost garish.

I need to soak up beauty. And pick up the cigarette butts. In front of the post office, in front of the Gumboot Café, and at the bus stop across from the Roberts Creek General Store. I exult in the knowledge that I am a fountain of tidiness. I exult in the feeling of moral superiority.

At age 13, I was told by the Holy Cross Fathers that I was too disfigured to be a priest. So I have never been given the power to forgive sins Too bad for me. But I’ve found something better as a substitute. I pick up cigarette butts.

Instead of looking for beauty, I scan the ground for trash and butts.

OK, to be clear, I only do this every few weeks. But I am not anal retentive! I keep my obsessions under control. Isn’t that natural for someone obsessed with control?

I get to the Gumboot. It turns out that someone has been there before me. A couple of weeks’ accumulation of butts is mostly gone. What a boost for my dim faith in human nature.

Onward to the bus stop. I think that this is penance for the 23 years I smoked incessantly and threw my cigarette butts all over Chicago and Bloomington and San Francisco. Like Robert deNiro in The Mission, who lashed his armor to his back in permanent penance for his sins. I have another 22 years of this to make up for the littering of my youth. Better than going to hell and spending eternity in the smoker’s bowge.

Down to Roberts Creek Pier and I can almost see people in the houses in Nanaimo, 22 miles across the Strait on Vancouver Island. High tide and heavy seas beat stray logs against the beach. The ocean is gray-green, not dull but vibrant.

OK, there is dog shit. I fantasize for the hundredth time about my plan to make little index card signs attached to popsicle sticks that will say, “Another gift from the dog owners of Roberts Creek.” I will stick one into each pile of dog poop. I fine tune the fantasy a bit by planning to laminate the signs so that they will be legible on rainy days.

Oh my god, I have forgotten about the beauty. I endeavor to self-exorcise. Begone, fantasy! And it works. At least until the next time.

Later I confess my fantasy to Laurie during our writing session. She suggests that instead of my ironic, passive aggressive approach, I do a “culture jam” by putting positive messages in the dog poop. Like “Be sure to take advantage of opportunities that come your way.” “Engage in random acts of kindness.” “Good fortune is yours.” “True love will come your way today.”

The end

INTERVIEW WITH MYSELF

By David Roche

Q) David, what first gave rise to your career as a pioneer in the genre of facial-difference humor?

A) It was January 1990, when I was first falling in love with Marlena. We had a quarrel. I got discouraged and felt I was losing myself in the relationship, that I had to do something for myself. I decided it was time to take comedy classes. I had no intention of talking about my face at that time-I am part of the generation of denial. I rarely if ever talked about how I looked; I just pretended I was normal. This worked a great deal of the time, but it gets kind of ridiculous on stage. The classes were so supportive, I gradually was encouraged to talk about myself, which turned out to be richly humorous.

Q) Why are you sometimes called “Reverend Dave”?

A) My “Church of 80% Sincerity” grew out of improvisational work I was doing, as did the title. It is a church for people who are not perfect. Like me. I saw that we are the congregation of the flawed. And I get to be the Reverend Dave. I want to be Pope, but that seems a tad presumptuous to me right now.

Q) What do you feel like when you step up onstage to do the opposite of what people with visible disabilities so often want to do-hide, deny, change the subject?

A) Here is my secret: I have learned to tap into my inner beauty and express it on stage. I just try to be myself. This is very powerful, because it is commonly believed in America that the face is the locus of the human persona. So, a marred face reminds people that they themselves often feel disfigured, flawed, unacceptable to others. In performing, I deliberately bring up that fear and pain for the audience. Through humor, their vision of me (and themselves) gets reframed. When they see my beauty, they get a deep and healing reassurance. They like it and they pay me money. Cool, huh?

Q) What are some memorable audience responses to your work?

A) A very beautiful woman came into my dressing room, started crying and revealed that she wanted to disfigure her face because nobody really listened to her or took her seriously.

Oh, and I love it when someone in the audience loses control and can’t stop laughing.

The best compliment I ever received after a show was when a young man, an adolescent with multiple disabilities, who was in the audience, stood up in the audience after the show and said: “Up until tonight my heroes have been different than me, superheroes with costumes and superpowers. Now I have a hero who is like me and I can be a hero too.”

Q) You told me once that in pursuing this career, you’re scared a lot of the time. How so? Is it worth it?

A) I still get scared. Not because of my appearance, but because I am somewhat  obsessive compulsive. I often find myself taking new risks and challenges, things I have never done before. The problem is, this upsets my carefully planned daily routines which have always given me the illusion of safety. Then I get afraid because I forget that what is happening is actually wonderful. But I am learning to get over it more quickly. I get by with 20% faith. You can imagine that it takes a lot of work.

Q) In dull, daily life, does Rev. Dave really practice what he preaches?

A) I beg your pardon? My sincerity level has averaged 86% this year!

Q) Where is Rev. Dave headed? A three-picture deal, a multinational entertainment conglomerate? You have mentioned soap operas a few times.

A) My friends have always said I should be in a soap opera. Marlena enjoys Bollywood films, but I am not sure I could take that level of excitement needed to be a performer in Bollywood. All that dancing! Plus the stars have to be even more handsome than in Hollywood.

I am busy enough speaking, performing, selling my book, and now blogging.

Q) What would you tell our readers, young and old, who have a latent spark in this direction?

A) What is “a latent spark”?

Q) We know that Americans can be obsessed with appearance. Are there any good things about being facially different in America?

A) Well, a few. Once in a while, I get on the bus, an elderly woman will get up and offer me her seat.

Q) Do you take her seat?

A) Oh yes!

I have also found that I do have an all-purpose excuse. I just say, “Sorry, can’t help you. My face is acting up.” And people don’t question that.

And because I have very few teeth due to receiving radiation therapy as a child,  I save a lot of time brushing them. I am grateful for that.

Q) How many teeth?

A) I have four teeth left, all on top, and I love them dearly. I have given them names: Shaky, Sturdy, Lefty and Tiny. I always give them compliments so that they remain confident.

Oh, and because I have no chewing surfaces, I do not waste time chewing food. I just swallow it down.

Q) By “latent spark,” I meant an interest in being a performer, a humorous performer.

A) Oh. Number one, choose to be around supportive and loving people. Then get out there and do it. Take classes. Take risks. Find what gives you strength and faith and find ways to build them that work for you. Don’t wait for inspiration to be creative. Work is the source of inspiration.

End of interview

All We Remember: Reflections on Honesty from the Founder of the Church of 80% Sincerity.

People sometimes tease me about the title of my imaginary church. They ask me if I am really sincere, really telling the truth. They wonder if the stories in my show and in my book are actually true stories.

They are true. In some cases I have changed the names, especially when the story might be embarrassing to someone in it. In some cases I have put two or more stories into one story, or compressed a time frame that stretched over several months into one event.

But I do not think it is possible for personal stories to be factually true. All we remember about a particular incident from the past is our feelings about what happened. When we tell a story about something, we recall those feelings and then construct a story from what bits and shards of so-called facts that we can recall.

I recently talked with a psychiatrist at a party. He told me that he had the opportunity to work with a group of US infantrymen who had participated in a military action in a village in Vietnam. For many reasons, it was a horrific event, one that caused post traumatic stress disorder for the men. In the course of working with them, he heard their stories about what had happened. There was a core of truth to the telling of the event that had happened years previously. But details differed significantly to the extent of contradicting one another. Now these stories were told confidentially to a psychiatrist. There was no need for reconciliation of the details, for the determination of facts. All those stories were true. All those men had to make sense of that experience.

I wrote a story entitled “A Roche Family Christmas” about a Christmas eve that took place when I was about 18. A key element in that story was the description of my father introducing my youngest sister, Teresa, to sing “The Huron Christmas Carol” and slurring the pronunciation of “Huron” into “Urine.” Five of my six siblings agreed with my recollection of what had taken place, but Teresa’s memory was that we had all been laughing at her singing. She had kept that memory for thirty some years. She remembered her feelings and constructed a story to make sense of them.

Who among us did not grow up in a family with at least some degree of dysfunction? A lot of the it involved learning methods of filtering reality, of ignoring or redefining events and suppressing the voices of those who might be trying to tell what they saw as the truth. Children should be seen and not heard. We carry these habits of mind into adulthood and believe that our stories are true, in part because our emotional survival seemed to depend on it.

****

Sponge Speak

You might wonder how I know so much. An inanimate object. But, hey, I deserve some respect. I’ve been used as a metaphor for so damned long, same hackneyed metaphor, that is all people know about me. It’s never “as charming as a sponge,” “as durable as a sponge,” “as sexy as a sponge,” “as brilliant as a sponge”! No. It’s always: “he soaked it up like a sponge.” Passive! “Absorbent” is the most exciting thing ever said about me. Let’s not even mention “He was sponging off his parents.” And I get so tired of hearing, “Did you know a sponge is actually a living thing?” Well, what do you know?!

It’s not my fault I have a boring life. That jerk, David, with his obsessive compulsive disorder—would he ever let me visit the living room? Visit my family in the bathroom? NO. Not only am I stuck here at the kitchen sink, I am always—always!—on the same side of the faucet. My God, even when I go to the stove—aagh, the stove, don’t get me started—shoved up against a hot burner, wiping up unbelievable scuzz and gudge. I hate the stove. It’s like, like, going to Bosnia for a vacation.

Yes, I know about Bosnia. That’s my point! Listen to me. Sponges are absorbent. We…pick…things…up. Get it? Do you think we are stupid? Do you think when you squeeze us that it is our brains that drip out? That is water, stupid. Or soup or whatever scum you’ve pushed me into.

Thank god I am a kitchen sponge. Even if I have to sit in the same goddamned spot 24-7. God forbid that someone would move me to the other side of the sink. Or onto the counter. No. I have to stay here. I clean up everything else but my spot never gets wiped up.

I’ve seen it come and go, come and go.

It is not easy being a sponge. You know it itches a lot, all through me. Oh yeah. Bacteria. Billions. Billions of them. Whoa, I love a good bath in hot water. It relieves the itching for a while but it doesn’t cure it, the bacteria come back. Oh, what helps is to go into the microwave. Two minutes, that’s all, it fries the little buggers inside me. Feels so good. I come out a new sponge.

What? No, I don’t have e. coli. Never have. Proud of it. You must be thinking of the bathroom sponges. Go ask them.

No, it’s not hard work, you’re right. The metal thing, I don’t know its name, brillo, whatever, it does the hard work. No, don’t worry, it doesn’t understand what we are saying. No, you see, it’s not absorbent and intelligent like a sponge. It’s not a living thing. Touch it. It’s metal.

So, I just do what comes my way. They use biodegradable detergent, it’s a little milder, scent is not so bad, could be worse.

It’s not a bad life. Just lonely, pretty lonely. I’m glad you talked to me, good meeting you. Hmm? No, I don’t know what a sponge’s life span is. I think we live forever. Come back anytime.

Welcome to my new blog! I promise to have the first entry, “Face Transplants in the Free Market Economy” by this weekend. It will be funny, yes it will.