Gumby was in a funk. Chances are you know something about these, despite your best lifelong efforts to be forever upbeat and cheery and fancy-free and happy go lucky. Welcome to the human condition and some of the less than perfect aspects of the fabulous human brain! “Funk” is not listed in the DSM, that staggeringly comprehensive catalogue/field guide of mental conditions, despite its many pages describing the endless varieties of depression serious and chronic, permanent and episodic and circumstantial, grief- and psychosis-related, the result of a flawed gene or very unfortunate insect bite. Maybe that last one doesn’t exist but are you sure about that?
When it comes to funk the best the DSM can do is probably “dysthymic” but it is not clear Gumby’s condition in the moment fit all the criteria; in the DSM recipe-version of things, he might’ve lacked a few key ingredients to qualify. One might also quibble as to how much the G fits the criteria for “human” but we’re not going there and we probably never will, and the fact is he seems to think and act like one despite his remarkable physical qualities (rubbery, bendable, no detectable organs or any human biology whatsoever and what do you make of that?). What is important is that Gumby is animated in all the ways that matter, and are you?
What one does in the case of a funk is to try and shake it, and Gumby had done all he could to achieve this: he’d gone for a long walk in the sunshine, eaten an inordinate amount of unhealthy comfort food (the usual chips & pizza and fried oysters on poutine), had read inspiring poetry and self-help manuals, prayed to his Goddess, written in his journal, had long talks with his life coach as well as his psychoanalyst (alas, Gumby’s dreams remain forever inscrutable). Chemical solutions, alcohol or mind-altering drugs legal and illegal were just not his style, and it didn’t help that none of his cohort, Pokey & Godzillito & Dino and the like, were interested in being his drinking buddy or pot partner or whatever, though they were fun in most other ways, thank heaven.
Pokey, Gumby’s closest non-drinking buddy, was empathically sharing G’s funk though certainly with no pleasure and definitely some degree of concern, and like all good buddies wanted to help, both out of compassion and self-interest, since Gumby was his partner-in-fun and lately was no fun at all. For the Pokester, as it would be for any sentient creature who’s passed through enough years of living and has been paying attention, Gumby’s condition was hardly unfamiliar. The brilliant orange pony – brilliant in most senses of the word, really – pondered whether Gumby’s condition was true malaise, or something more like ennui, or worse than that, a consequence of despair, which might actually be serious.
Pokey knew for a fact that despair lurked behind every corner, especially for hysterical sensitive types like Gumby. It was such qualities that made him both endearing and cursed and certainly insufferable at times, and in the end totally charming and the best of pals. Yes, he was complicated, but aren’t we all? Poke also knew that a sober look at the state of the world at any given time in history could, if viewed through a negative-enough lens, provide ample fodder for the worst of funks. On a bad day for anyone doesn’t life appear, indeed, to be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short? C’mon, admit it! Is it not also true that some days the glass can be seen as half-full and it us the best of times, while on other days the same glass shows up as half-empty and the times are the worst? So is it a trick glass? Of course it is!
Such were the convoluted musings of the tiny orange pony-pal in that moment. His hope was that despair, while not something to be denied, might also yield to other responses sooner or later, especially if one were nudged, persuaded, and cajoled in the right direction by a caring friend. Such was the Wisdom of Pokey, which happened to be the title of a book the pony had long intended to write but had yet to get around to actually accomplishing. Yes, Pokey was more of a thinker than a doer, and so what? He was also a good friend, and in this case even he knew that the time had come for action. Or rather, ACTION!
And was not Gumby, above all else, the one always ready to take action, whether the moment called for it or not? Memories of Gumby’s many inspired expeditions in pursuit of mystery and adventure and occasional total nonsense came immediately to mind, and of course the elements that linked them. Novelty was one of these – like so many of us, Gumby was always a sucker for the latest thing, whatever that happened to be. Another was travel, escaping the friendly if overly-familiar confines of the second floor to venture into the unknown, which lay forever waiting in the yard down below. At this point it dawned upon Pokey what needed to be done. Why not a pilgrimage to that latest and novel and most wondrous apparition now gracing the greening splendor of the back yard, at this very moment awakening from the dreary cold rains of a snowless winter? He was thinking, of course, of the Shrine of Dead Electronica.
The intrepid pair had long heard stories, legends, and rumors of the Shrine. Was it truly the wandering plastic ghosts of cheap circuitry and worn out motors and drive belts that had recently succumbed to the ravages of time and lapsed into non-functionality forever, since any notion of repairability had never been part of the game plan? Or was it a tribute to the aspirations of a free market economy, in service to the vital needs of so many, to receive and deliver the joys of music and news and comedy, along with so many other potential means of communication, if only for a little while? Are these not all great and inspiring things, and was the Shrine not something sure to deliver one up from the shallow yet fearsome depths of a funk?
Perhaps it was trust in his friend, or boredom with his condition, or the predictable allure of exploring something odd and new and shiny in his beloved backyard; all we know is Gumby jumped at the chance, surprising since he rarely showed interest in any opportunity that wasn’t his idea in the first place. Perhaps this was a sign of true desperation. Would this adventure match past backyard excursions? Would there be UFOs and other oddball phenomena both curious and intimidating? Or might this excursion have more of a spiritual nature, leading to life-changing ways and attitudes capable of decimating G’s current funk and allowing for the possibility of a funk-free future? And wouldn’t that be something? With high hopes, while remaining careful about what he wished for, Gumby, led by his horsey pal Pokey, ventured into the friendly yet mysterious confines of the backyard.
And of course, there it was, in the usual backyard place where strange and odd phenomena always tended to show up, in all its faded plastic glory: The Shrine of Dead Electronica. And most glorious a vision it was, soaring to unprecedented heights in a way no previous apparition had ever managed. The whole thing looked a bit tipsy, to be honest, put things like gravity-defiance tend to be part of the mystery of any good apparition, and since impulsive ascension was part of his nature, Gumby could not help but shout out “Let’s climb, tipsiness be damned!” as giving orders was also part of his nature. Pokey, of course, felt compelled to climb along with his pal, as foolhardy as this seemed; Pokey knew full well that foolhardiness was always part of the program when it came to adventures with Gumby, who was a fool of fortune to the core, funk or no funk.
Like all shrines, this one inspired more than its share of awe, if only awe for the bottomless fascination of the modern world with cheap plastic junk. And not just any junk but junk that enabled one to entertain themselves with all manner of sound, whether spoken or sung or played on instruments, coming live over the air waves or recorded on plastic or tape, or in the case of the fax machine, with no sound at all but with words on a piece of paper, transported from one location to another, “beamed up” via the phone lines in a manner similar to the transporters on Star Trek. Of course, the modern computer and printer have made this process a mundane occurrence, but Pokey could remember when faxing was a modern miracle, and he hoped Gumby could find some inspiration from the same memory (while also forgetting the many ways faxes would screw up, which was often, back in the good old days).
Whatever awe Gumby was experiencing, it was probably transcended by his enthusiasm for clambering, climbing, squeezing between things, and doing whatever else was necessary to get….to….the….top. Pokey kept up as best he could, and was able to share with his pal a number of tumbles into the cracks, as well as getting pleasantly squeezed by the flip phone for a few moments, all the while pondering with his adventure-mate such deep mysteries as the true meaning of “ambience,” the distinction between “dozing” and “sleeping”, why one would need two alarms, and why did they call it “high speed dubbing” and what the heck was that, anyway? Pokey was also ready to delve into deep technical matters like “gain control” and whether normal and metal and CrO2 tapes were all that different from one another, a matter that had forever troubled his dreams, when they reached the top of the pile. It was there, where the broad brown backyard vista of last year’s leaves, mixed with various old and new green growing things, that the awe-inspiring moment for which Pokey had hoped, began to take effect. But alas, the power of such awe was fleeting, especially for one wallowing in his funk of the moment; Gumby was a master-wallower if there ever was one.
“It’s all kind of sad that these devices, once so functional and useful, have succumbed to the ravages of time and cheap manufacturing techniques and obsolescence” G glumly observed. Pokey, who knew his pal all too well, was not surprised at this and quickly countered with “Yes, but remember there are always more of these things to be had, and cheaply, too, as human nature and the market dictate that there will be a need for them, forever and ever, and the landfills shall remain forever bottomless, God willing, amen. ” Pokey was surprised at his sermonizing eloquence, but there it was. And it was to no avail, for this was clearly one formidable funk. But lingering there in the aerie heights, pondering the spring landscape, P had found new inspiration, even if it had eluded his friend. In a stroke of genius he muttered the words “road trip,” to which Gumby responded “road trip?” to which Pokey shouted “ROAD TRIP.” G’s big round rubbery eyes lit up, which is of course impossible, but indeed that’s how it felt in the moment.
“Okay, but where?” “Why, to the most inspiring place of all, here in Jamaica Plain in early spring – to a garden, and not just any old plot of dirt, but that plethora of random plots known as the Paul Gore Beecher Street Community Garden!” “What’s that?” asked Gumby, clearly not a gardener, or at least not yet. Pokey could only say “You know, where all those weird-looking carrots and eggplants and tomatoes come from,” to which Gumby, with a glimmer of recognition, could only say “Are you sure you want to go there?”
So it was that Pokey forthwith enlisted a means of conveyance, a fine old Peugeot, ladies model, special insofar as it had for its figurehead Little Lucky Cat herself, which made it a means most blessed, and God knows Pokey’s enterprise at this point needed all the help it could get if any semblance of success were to be achieved. The beginning was auspicious to say the least, as immediately upon arrival they were greeted by the ever-present if unofficial PGBS meeter & greeter, Kitzy herself, no doubt hoping for some kitty-treat handout which our heroes had unfortunately forgotten to procure, but all was well due to the becalming feline presence of LLC, forever waving her paw in friendly greeting in that subtle feline manner.
Gumby of course was most impressed by the sprawling vista presented by so many garden plots in one place, whose vastness was really nothing special except when compared to the somewhat more intimate and friendly confines of an Iffley Road backyard. He was also intimidated by the labyrinth of paths and bewildering jumble of random items scattered about within the many enclosed rectangles of various sizes and configurations. But what really caught his eye and which generated no end of funk-dissolving excitement and anticipation were all the various high places which beckoned to his manic need to ascend. He subsequently led his friend up to the aerie heights of all that was available, the stalks of dried out vegetables from the previous season, probably kale, followed by some woody bush of wondrous tangles that truly needed some kind of pruning. Then it was up to the top of a mighty stack of lawn chairs which echoed the “plastics” theme of their conquest of electronica, which was followed by some time atop the Green Pagoda of Garden Wisdom & Happiness or whatever it was supposed to be (where they found both wisdom and happiness, by the way, if only in the moment). What came last was the grandest and most precarious climb of all, up the Mighty Sunflower of Past Summer Golden Glories. Gumby was in his joyous element and his funk was in retreat, to Pokey’s great relief. But Poke still hoped for a little more depth & wisdom here, if any was to be had.
In pursuit of this he dragged his friend on the PGBS grand tour, which included an audience with the potted garden gnome, now gearing up for the coming garden season, who offered the usual pithy gnomic perspectives on Living the Good Life, followed by close up and personal looks at the early flowers making their spring debuts, and then to add a bit of mystery, a brief stop at the Bin of No Meat, Fat, Bones. It was there that they pondered What it was All About, and why was it translated into Spanish but no other language? Talk about mystery! For one thing, the rubbery friends had only the vaguest notion of what meat, fat, and bones even were.
Pokey wound it all up for the pair with some meditation time atop the Turquoise Pot of Leaves & Sticks, followed by a somewhat anticlimactic overview of gardening paraphernalia, a coil of hose mixing it with some boards, an assortment of slate, and a plot most singular, insofar as it was brimming over with all manner of items – boxes and pots and screening and tubing and crushed tomato cages and even more than that. Why were they bothering at this point with so much that seemed so mundane, if not kind of confusing, especially after all the fun they’d had? Or so it seemed to Gumby.
“It’s not mundane or confusing at all, when you think about it” answered Pokey. “What we’re looking at here is the future” he said solemnly and with as much authority as he could muster. “It’s about hope for the coming season, which springs eternal for gardeners everywhere, hope that begins in the dark winter months, in dreams inspired by catalogues, and sober analysis of what went wrong and what went right in the previous growing season, and what to do differently next time, which might or might not deliver a different result. The coming season is always a crapshoot, might bring too much or too little rain, and pests and weeds and other threats, and rest assured that from one year to the next things are never the same. Luck is always a factor, and how do you feel about that, punk? What remains constant is the gardener’s readiness and willingness to take it on.”
Gumby waved and postured in that unchanging trademark way of his, while emotions and thoughts churned away unseen and unrevealed, somewhere behind his cheery green façade. His thoughts were besieged by images of towering black and silver plastic, of switches and knobs and speaker grilles and clouded plastic windows, and printed on everything a rich scattering of words both technical and instructive and in the end almost none of it operative as originally intended, even if one happened to plug it in. There in the backyard all he recalled was a profound silence, except for the birdsong and sirens in the distance and the occasional helicopter, so maybe none of it was as profound as it could have been. Iffley Road always has helicopters and boy are they noisy.
And now here, in sharp contrast, there was the pastoral landscape of the PGBS gardens, a bit faded and forlorn-looking in the way they reflected the end of the previous growing season and the mild ravages of a winter just passed, but weren’t they also replete with clear signs of hope and dreams for the future, everywhere? Of course it had taken Pokey’s inspired oratory to liven things up, but then hadn’t he done a great job with that, and wasn’t he the greatest of pals? Gumby recalled a few of the epic pairs of palhood – Cisco & Pancho, Don Q & Sancho, Thelma & Louise, Tom & Huck, Bugs & Daffy, King Kong & Godzilla – G wasn’t too certain about those last few but what he knew in his heart was that in the end, what mattered most of all was that the pony showed up in the right place at the right time, and cared, and did what he could to show that. Gumby resolved to never forget this, as pondering this memory might serve to pull him out of the inevitable future funk. He was also wise enough to know that memory is fleeting, especially one as scattershot as his, and the possible outcome of any event in the future remained as predictable as the weather a year from now or even next week, here in the age of climate chaos.
