Let me see here.
You guys are a good crowd.
Thank you for being here.
Let's turn the page.
Oh, no.
Let's go back.
You going to do this one?
Yep.
Page 21.
So I've already read from my memoir.
And my memoir's title was One More Theory About Happiness.
And originally when I sold my memoir to Ecco,
the title on the manuscript was just Paul Guest's Memoir,
because I didn't have a title for it.
And I sold this book of poems and a memoir at the time.
And so they brought out this book of poems first.
And so during the time I was working on the memoir,
continuing to finish it, during that time
I would get emails from time to time from my editor saying,
what's the title of your memoir, Paul?
And I said like, I don't know.
Finally it came to be like, we've got to have a title.
It's like, I really don't know.
And I know it's my life.
But I don't really have an idea.
And so I said, you guys can suggest some titles.
And I'll see what I think.
And so they said OK.
And so about a week later, they came back.
"Well, we really liked this title from a poem
from your last book.
It's called, 'One More Theory About Happiness.'" I said like,
if you guys are OK with using the title twice, fine.
And so this is the original poem that's
called "One More Theory About Happiness."
"One more theory about happiness,
that it comes to you like an accident with a powder
actuated nail gun, that it's wisdom
of the sort you hear in line with your cargo of toothpaste,
detergent, condoms, salt, whatever has appeared
on the vacant horizon of the day like ink smudge,
or birds on the wing from Mexico,
that it multiplies with the mythic sexual frenzy
of the rabbit, which you regard now like Fellini played
backwards at half speed, that whole libraries to it
are devoted like pious women in a foreign country,
perhaps Spain, their white hair ignored, that you will reap it
according to what you sow,
that you will speak of it the way
you remember an unread book, that you'll find it,
that in eternity your keys find you,
that desire is the cause of all human suffering
according to Buddha, according to the man whose arms dead
end at the bulbs of his elbows, kicking
a dog from the sidewalk with savage joy,
that the dog in this matter has no say except to articulate
miniature outrage, that it is better to have
no arms than four legs."
When I was in grad school in Illinois,
I lived down the street from a grocery store called Schnucks.
I always loved that name, Schnucks.
And I would do my grocery shopping there.
And then one day I was walking down the sidewalk
to go to Schnucks and--
I'm taking too much relish in saying Schnucks.
I was walking to go get some groceries.
And on the other side of the street,
a man was walking this way towards me.
And as he got closer, I noticed that his arms
ended at his elbows.
And I kept on walking.
And as he got closer, there was a dog, a young dog
laying on the sidewalk.
And as he got closer to the dog, without any sort of warning
or provocation, he just sort of hauled off and kicked the dog
as hard as he could, for no reason, and just kept on going.
And it's one of those things you think, like,
did that just happen?
But it was also really horrible.
And so for years, I've really thought about that guy
and wondered why?
What possessed him to do that at that moment?
And I don't know.
I still don't know.