"where am i," i asked thickly. i'd just climbed through a construction site and found no way around it until i did. i had to squeeze around a fat construction worker who appeared just as i was wondering where everyone was. he ignored me and i jumped off of a cliff that was much higher than i thought, though i landed gracefully and without breaking any bones. i bent my knees upon landing, because that's what they tell you to do, but it wasn't necessary and i felt like an idiot.
"the food court," she said, without looking at me. all my friends were there but i could not see their faces. "you need to calm down."
i got really high before i went for a walk. the fluorescent lights were sputtering like indignant old ladies over my head. "am i dreaming? i can't tell if i'm dreaming."
"look" she sighed, and pressed against the two corners of my eyes with her thumbs. "you need to calm down." she pulled her thumbs away and showed me how they were wet.
"but i know i'm dreaming." my voice was glue in my mouth.
and when i woke up a second later i laughed and said
"I knew it"
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
second strike
they were in their forties, playing soccer in the tall grass by the beach - sandy-haired and boisterous still, though out of breath, playing through - laughing, even, expelling breath when there wasn't any left to give.
lightning snaked a fraying rope down the sky & strangled one of them. he fell to the ground, knees buckling, skin spasming over his bones. he had no hair left, and a thin tendril of smoke curled curiously out of his left nostril. in the air, the exploded smell of burnt rubber. it left a coppery taste in their mouths.
none of them had ever seen someone die.
lightning snaked a fraying rope down the sky & strangled one of them. he fell to the ground, knees buckling, skin spasming over his bones. he had no hair left, and a thin tendril of smoke curled curiously out of his left nostril. in the air, the exploded smell of burnt rubber. it left a coppery taste in their mouths.
none of them had ever seen someone die.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Jacob More (cont.)
"Eliane," he manages, though not without difficulty. "When it comes to such beauty, pain and pleasure are hard to distinguish."
She smiles, somehow unable to help herself. She doesn't know how to explain the hot jolt of panic that explodes in the forge of her heart when he bleeds ... when she speaks. It is so tied to her tongue that she feels inaudibly guilty. She has never so much as laid a hand on anyone else, and now she has made one man spurt blood thrice in the space of an hour. It is hard to camouflage the sensation of power she feels, though it is tempered intensely by wariness, by curiosity, and lastly, a sympathy that she has never experienced.
"I have spent a great deal of my life seeking true, complete silence." The old man spoke blandly of it, distancing himself comfortably from the story. "I have travelled the world, tried every technology, and I have come to the conclusion that it does not exist."
She knows this. She nods.
"The very hum of the sun itself disprove it. Sound is ubiquitous. There is no escaping it." A desperate lie hovered in his voice & she heard it - but did not acknowledge it. The old man was becoming agitated, his sadness visible on his face, shining like a new coat of paint. "My father was wrong. All of us, wrong. Perhaps we should suffer, bleed! Perhaps buried in our genesis is some old sin, unique to us, that we must pay penance for!" He seemed paralyzed with this new agony, flourishing his rage like a sword or a gun, waving it wildly in front him. He had turned into a demagogue before her, thundering, apoplectic - and yet there still seemed something specious to it, something hidden, deeper, the notice of which still kept to herself.
She reached across the table for his hand & grasped it in her own, running her fingers over the map of raised veins, pushing herself out of her fingertips, through the whorls of her fingerprints, exhorting herself out of herself.
The old man looked up, spent, drained, but startled, hurled into sudden quiet as if via catapult. "Yes," he whispered, brimming with tears. "Please."
Eliane smiled, withdrew, and took a sip of his iced tea. The heat was returning, the shrieking sun burning through the clouds like a molten harpy. She nodded, and bade him to continue.
The evening beat at the windowpanes like a horde of moths. It was the first thing Adolfo noticed as his father dragged him from the kitchen, leaving both their plates to cool. He was deposited on a chair with only the smallest bit of ceremony, and Jacob More turned to follow his son's stare to the window. The panes seemed to bow in with the pressure of the night outside, pockmarked with the white boil of the moon and the measles of the stars. "Please," said his father, grappling with the words like a tiger in the circus ring. "Understand." He seemed to be collapsing in on himself, rebuilding, collapsing again, and mustering the strength to tower, like a thundercloud struggling to reach anvil-head. "Love. Emily. Mother."
Adolfo didn't speak, unsure if his tongue could do what he needed it to do, unsure if he could use the words he'd learned so carefully, so reverently. "No," he said. "No."
"YES." his father said, turning around with the force of his own shout. It seemed laboured, as though the word had percolated in his gut for years. He expelled it from him like a missile which failed.
"Please," said Adolfo. "Why?"
From the kitchen, the sad clink of dishes being scraped, the gush of water in the sink. The scrape of chairs and the rustle of napkins. His father was silent again, rounded in his silence, more himself now that the words had left him. He strained still, in the dark hollows of his eyes, tempted by the taste of those three small words in his mouth. He gave in, capitulated, and said them again, ghosts of what they had been. "Love. Emily. Mother."
It wasn't enough. Adolfo stood up and vengefully stared at his father. "Apotheosis," he said, as challenge. His father shrank, a miasma of misery, shrouding himself. "Dandelion." He took a step forward. "Melancholy."
Jacob More wheeled on his son with a ferocious backhand, knocking Adolfo to the floor. It was like an explosion in the room, as though that missile had finally reached its target. The air vibrated with the force of the blow. Slowly, Adolfo picked himself up, shakily wiping away the sticky blood which leaked from his nose.
"NO" - then, from the doorway, and both men reeled back, Jacob lumbering like a shot beast, heavy against the wall, and his son, stumbling in the same direction, woozily collapsing against his father's bulk. Jacob wrapped his arms instinctively around his son, bloody hands slamming on either side of his head. The room went dim, and Adolfo fixed his eyes on the shape of his mother, trembling like a reed in the doorway. She wore a white dress of fury, stained with the sauce of their dinner. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again as she advanced on her husband. Adolfo felt it in the stomach of his father, seizing, spasming, against the small of his back. His mother, continuing to advance, striking blow after blow against his father like a tornado, hurling, hurling, spitting, snarling, though voicelessly.
Jacob More slumped, taking his son with him, crashing to the floor in a black heap. His hands held the side of his son's head like a steel vise. Adolfo squirmed in the hazy hum, the deadly sound of his mother's voice blossoming inside of his skull like an embolism. He felt it press against his brain like a fist into putty, the ache of it like an ice-pick, drawing warmth out of his ear, trickling down his jaw. He felt his father quake, and then, finally, go still, like a sigh which has reached its end. He felt his father die, and he saw his mother, terrible & huge, glowing in front of him. He watched her stand, motionless, as if all of this had happened before and would happen again, as if she had found herself inhabiting the climax of a dream and was now, only now, finding herself comfortable there. He saw her fists, unclenching at her sides, saw something inside of her shatter, saw the shards of it prick her behind the eyes, and yet still, remain motionless. Then the haze, the pain, and the blackness consumed him and he fell willingly into its maw.
She smiles, somehow unable to help herself. She doesn't know how to explain the hot jolt of panic that explodes in the forge of her heart when he bleeds ... when she speaks. It is so tied to her tongue that she feels inaudibly guilty. She has never so much as laid a hand on anyone else, and now she has made one man spurt blood thrice in the space of an hour. It is hard to camouflage the sensation of power she feels, though it is tempered intensely by wariness, by curiosity, and lastly, a sympathy that she has never experienced.
"I have spent a great deal of my life seeking true, complete silence." The old man spoke blandly of it, distancing himself comfortably from the story. "I have travelled the world, tried every technology, and I have come to the conclusion that it does not exist."
She knows this. She nods.
"The very hum of the sun itself disprove it. Sound is ubiquitous. There is no escaping it." A desperate lie hovered in his voice & she heard it - but did not acknowledge it. The old man was becoming agitated, his sadness visible on his face, shining like a new coat of paint. "My father was wrong. All of us, wrong. Perhaps we should suffer, bleed! Perhaps buried in our genesis is some old sin, unique to us, that we must pay penance for!" He seemed paralyzed with this new agony, flourishing his rage like a sword or a gun, waving it wildly in front him. He had turned into a demagogue before her, thundering, apoplectic - and yet there still seemed something specious to it, something hidden, deeper, the notice of which still kept to herself.
She reached across the table for his hand & grasped it in her own, running her fingers over the map of raised veins, pushing herself out of her fingertips, through the whorls of her fingerprints, exhorting herself out of herself.
The old man looked up, spent, drained, but startled, hurled into sudden quiet as if via catapult. "Yes," he whispered, brimming with tears. "Please."
Eliane smiled, withdrew, and took a sip of his iced tea. The heat was returning, the shrieking sun burning through the clouds like a molten harpy. She nodded, and bade him to continue.
The evening beat at the windowpanes like a horde of moths. It was the first thing Adolfo noticed as his father dragged him from the kitchen, leaving both their plates to cool. He was deposited on a chair with only the smallest bit of ceremony, and Jacob More turned to follow his son's stare to the window. The panes seemed to bow in with the pressure of the night outside, pockmarked with the white boil of the moon and the measles of the stars. "Please," said his father, grappling with the words like a tiger in the circus ring. "Understand." He seemed to be collapsing in on himself, rebuilding, collapsing again, and mustering the strength to tower, like a thundercloud struggling to reach anvil-head. "Love. Emily. Mother."
Adolfo didn't speak, unsure if his tongue could do what he needed it to do, unsure if he could use the words he'd learned so carefully, so reverently. "No," he said. "No."
"YES." his father said, turning around with the force of his own shout. It seemed laboured, as though the word had percolated in his gut for years. He expelled it from him like a missile which failed.
"Please," said Adolfo. "Why?"
From the kitchen, the sad clink of dishes being scraped, the gush of water in the sink. The scrape of chairs and the rustle of napkins. His father was silent again, rounded in his silence, more himself now that the words had left him. He strained still, in the dark hollows of his eyes, tempted by the taste of those three small words in his mouth. He gave in, capitulated, and said them again, ghosts of what they had been. "Love. Emily. Mother."
It wasn't enough. Adolfo stood up and vengefully stared at his father. "Apotheosis," he said, as challenge. His father shrank, a miasma of misery, shrouding himself. "Dandelion." He took a step forward. "Melancholy."
Jacob More wheeled on his son with a ferocious backhand, knocking Adolfo to the floor. It was like an explosion in the room, as though that missile had finally reached its target. The air vibrated with the force of the blow. Slowly, Adolfo picked himself up, shakily wiping away the sticky blood which leaked from his nose.
"NO" - then, from the doorway, and both men reeled back, Jacob lumbering like a shot beast, heavy against the wall, and his son, stumbling in the same direction, woozily collapsing against his father's bulk. Jacob wrapped his arms instinctively around his son, bloody hands slamming on either side of his head. The room went dim, and Adolfo fixed his eyes on the shape of his mother, trembling like a reed in the doorway. She wore a white dress of fury, stained with the sauce of their dinner. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again as she advanced on her husband. Adolfo felt it in the stomach of his father, seizing, spasming, against the small of his back. His mother, continuing to advance, striking blow after blow against his father like a tornado, hurling, hurling, spitting, snarling, though voicelessly.
Jacob More slumped, taking his son with him, crashing to the floor in a black heap. His hands held the side of his son's head like a steel vise. Adolfo squirmed in the hazy hum, the deadly sound of his mother's voice blossoming inside of his skull like an embolism. He felt it press against his brain like a fist into putty, the ache of it like an ice-pick, drawing warmth out of his ear, trickling down his jaw. He felt his father quake, and then, finally, go still, like a sigh which has reached its end. He felt his father die, and he saw his mother, terrible & huge, glowing in front of him. He watched her stand, motionless, as if all of this had happened before and would happen again, as if she had found herself inhabiting the climax of a dream and was now, only now, finding herself comfortable there. He saw her fists, unclenching at her sides, saw something inside of her shatter, saw the shards of it prick her behind the eyes, and yet still, remain motionless. Then the haze, the pain, and the blackness consumed him and he fell willingly into its maw.
Jacob More (cont.)
A gesture drawing of Emily More would be composed of thin contour lines pressed closely together, like high elevations on a topographical map. She seemed to vibrate even while standing still over a rabid pot at boil on the stove. She had always, even as a child, been possessed of a tungsten-white energy that caused her hair to float away from her scalp, buoyed by invisible static. Her mother had called her names in bitter jest, all of them relating to her loquacity - she spurned all forms of religion, preferring in their stead her own wildness, trusting the wind, the fire & the storm.
Later, she would find comfort in alcohol, fiercely infatuated with the scourge of it down her tender insides. It was her adolescent way of externalizing her unnamed fury - violently drunk, marking her face & eyes with makeup & plunging into the crackling neon sea of the drink. She was the remainder of her mother & father's divorce, left to smoulder in the house while her mother attended fastidiously to everything in sight, preserving every room as though it were a museum. Emily left it at eighteen and never went back.
The summer was threshed by heat. The air seemed pulpy, like the meat of an orange. Experimentally, he bit into it. This was the third time since he'd burned his words that he had come back looking for it, and had still, found nothing. He persevered in seeking, however unlucky he was, possessed of a fear that he could not put a name to. The house had seemed flimsy that morning. The sunlight seemed to permeate through the walls, which had thinned overnight. Even the mice, with the comfort of their scrabbling paws against the floor, had vanished. It was as though he had gone to sleep on land and woke up underwater.
His father had gone already - and perhaps that was what it was, Adolfo thought to himself, descending the stairs. Perhaps the bulk of his father was the only thing keeping the foundations secure, perhaps his father was the personified force of gravity - perhaps, without him, they all would float into the atmosphere. The kitchen was empty as he entered it. The sunlight illuminated every mote of dust which meandered in front of the window. The humidity was cloistering, even inside. Adolfo felt like he could be pressed to microscopic implosion - pieces of him mingling with the dust. He walked from room to room, investigating, heart crashing inside of his chest - they had vanished, disappeared, and he felt a loneliness spread in his gut like a hot poison. Reason asserted itself. All he'd have to do is wait. They would return soon. In the meantime ...
He stepped over a seething pile of animal droppings. The leaves, fat & green on the trees, seemed to boil in the heat. A bird's sickly warble quavered, then fell lamely short. His footsteps were heavy with despair. He had long since taken his shirt off, tying it around his waist. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stung him, and slipped out the other side like a malevolent hornet, and yet still, through the haze, he refused to abandon his search. Perhaps it had been a sign from somewhere. It was the first time Adolfo had ever thought of omens, had picked up on the prickly feeling that something deeper lay beyond an ordinary circumstance. He felt it inside of him, a chill in the blood, an electric current diving through his brain to clench his jaw & fists.
It was also that he couldn't bear the emptiness of the house, the micro-whispers of dust accumulating. Reading was no help - he couldn't unstick his brain from the sound of the pages turning. A fly in the room, hurling itself at the ceiling over & over again, seemed monstrous, about to bring the whole house down around his head. This irrational fear gripped him every morning, and before long, slipped into the marrow of his dreams - he suffered from nightmares, thrashing in the sheets, possessed of fevered images.
(he is an old man, stumbling brokenly through the forest, bleeding from the temple & nose. he is being chased, and he is chasing. the sun is wheeling like a firework, cackling as it zips by the azimuth. the moon is in pursuit. the trees are purpled and have heartbeats, thudding faster than he can move. and his mother is sinking in a bog, her tongue cut out, her ears bleeding - he rushes to save her, but she is gone. he is sinking in the bog. the sun is a bomb that goes off. the trees shrink in the blast, shrink to skinny vertical lines and then wink out. he is in a desert. grit in his eyes, in his mouth. the horizon is a frenzy of sand, a cloud which blocks out the sun. thunder breaks the sky in half. in the darkness, a star goes nova and )
He wakes up swimming in his own sweat, dizzy, and vomits all over himself, all over the bed-sheets.
Later, she would find comfort in alcohol, fiercely infatuated with the scourge of it down her tender insides. It was her adolescent way of externalizing her unnamed fury - violently drunk, marking her face & eyes with makeup & plunging into the crackling neon sea of the drink. She was the remainder of her mother & father's divorce, left to smoulder in the house while her mother attended fastidiously to everything in sight, preserving every room as though it were a museum. Emily left it at eighteen and never went back.
The summer was threshed by heat. The air seemed pulpy, like the meat of an orange. Experimentally, he bit into it. This was the third time since he'd burned his words that he had come back looking for it, and had still, found nothing. He persevered in seeking, however unlucky he was, possessed of a fear that he could not put a name to. The house had seemed flimsy that morning. The sunlight seemed to permeate through the walls, which had thinned overnight. Even the mice, with the comfort of their scrabbling paws against the floor, had vanished. It was as though he had gone to sleep on land and woke up underwater.
His father had gone already - and perhaps that was what it was, Adolfo thought to himself, descending the stairs. Perhaps the bulk of his father was the only thing keeping the foundations secure, perhaps his father was the personified force of gravity - perhaps, without him, they all would float into the atmosphere. The kitchen was empty as he entered it. The sunlight illuminated every mote of dust which meandered in front of the window. The humidity was cloistering, even inside. Adolfo felt like he could be pressed to microscopic implosion - pieces of him mingling with the dust. He walked from room to room, investigating, heart crashing inside of his chest - they had vanished, disappeared, and he felt a loneliness spread in his gut like a hot poison. Reason asserted itself. All he'd have to do is wait. They would return soon. In the meantime ...
He stepped over a seething pile of animal droppings. The leaves, fat & green on the trees, seemed to boil in the heat. A bird's sickly warble quavered, then fell lamely short. His footsteps were heavy with despair. He had long since taken his shirt off, tying it around his waist. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stung him, and slipped out the other side like a malevolent hornet, and yet still, through the haze, he refused to abandon his search. Perhaps it had been a sign from somewhere. It was the first time Adolfo had ever thought of omens, had picked up on the prickly feeling that something deeper lay beyond an ordinary circumstance. He felt it inside of him, a chill in the blood, an electric current diving through his brain to clench his jaw & fists.
It was also that he couldn't bear the emptiness of the house, the micro-whispers of dust accumulating. Reading was no help - he couldn't unstick his brain from the sound of the pages turning. A fly in the room, hurling itself at the ceiling over & over again, seemed monstrous, about to bring the whole house down around his head. This irrational fear gripped him every morning, and before long, slipped into the marrow of his dreams - he suffered from nightmares, thrashing in the sheets, possessed of fevered images.
(he is an old man, stumbling brokenly through the forest, bleeding from the temple & nose. he is being chased, and he is chasing. the sun is wheeling like a firework, cackling as it zips by the azimuth. the moon is in pursuit. the trees are purpled and have heartbeats, thudding faster than he can move. and his mother is sinking in a bog, her tongue cut out, her ears bleeding - he rushes to save her, but she is gone. he is sinking in the bog. the sun is a bomb that goes off. the trees shrink in the blast, shrink to skinny vertical lines and then wink out. he is in a desert. grit in his eyes, in his mouth. the horizon is a frenzy of sand, a cloud which blocks out the sun. thunder breaks the sky in half. in the darkness, a star goes nova and )
He wakes up swimming in his own sweat, dizzy, and vomits all over himself, all over the bed-sheets.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Jacob More (cont.)
"It is easier to say yes," he said, gray rumination moving over his fissured face like a low cloud. "I believe that is true - to accept, rather than negate. This is something my father - my God - taught me. To bow to Yes and to Please, and to shun No. Ironic, then, that we were so forced to inhabit a void of sound. And I haven't yet explained the reason for that, either."
The sky overhead, smoky, choked with still-dark cumulus. The sun hummed through the spaces between them, probing at their weaknesses. The scene became mottled, the puddles rippling with the last furious gasps of wind.
"We were silent out of deference," he said finally. "Out of respect for her." Out of his breast pocket, the old man unsheathed a pen & pushed it towards the woman. "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to see your name."
She stared at it, laying between them, glinting. He had given her no paper. She picked it up & clumsily extended her hand, tattooing herself on the back of it - one word, her name, & showed him.
He smiled. "It is a beautiful-looking name. I wish that I knew how it sounded, as I have never before been acquainted with it." He met her eyes. Something behind them she saw glowing like slag in a blast furnace, smelting, fusing together -
"Eliane," she spoke, delivering each syllable purposefully. She tasted each letter in her mouth as if she never had, shocked at her own voice. Her tongue felt numb, dry, as though electrified. She swallowed, and tasted lightning.
The old man shuddered from the stomach first, arcing his spine, baring his throat as her name rioted through him. Eliane watched him, unable to suppress her fear for his well-being. He opened his eyes, finally, & choked out a brittle laugh, barely a rough whisper. "... beautiful ..." he rasped. "Beautiful." He turned to one side and messily spat a gobbet of blood. a trail of it drooled from the corner of his mouth, and, straightening, he rubbed at it with his sleeve, still smiling - still, smiling.
The sky overhead, smoky, choked with still-dark cumulus. The sun hummed through the spaces between them, probing at their weaknesses. The scene became mottled, the puddles rippling with the last furious gasps of wind.
"We were silent out of deference," he said finally. "Out of respect for her." Out of his breast pocket, the old man unsheathed a pen & pushed it towards the woman. "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to see your name."
She stared at it, laying between them, glinting. He had given her no paper. She picked it up & clumsily extended her hand, tattooing herself on the back of it - one word, her name, & showed him.
He smiled. "It is a beautiful-looking name. I wish that I knew how it sounded, as I have never before been acquainted with it." He met her eyes. Something behind them she saw glowing like slag in a blast furnace, smelting, fusing together -
"Eliane," she spoke, delivering each syllable purposefully. She tasted each letter in her mouth as if she never had, shocked at her own voice. Her tongue felt numb, dry, as though electrified. She swallowed, and tasted lightning.
The old man shuddered from the stomach first, arcing his spine, baring his throat as her name rioted through him. Eliane watched him, unable to suppress her fear for his well-being. He opened his eyes, finally, & choked out a brittle laugh, barely a rough whisper. "... beautiful ..." he rasped. "Beautiful." He turned to one side and messily spat a gobbet of blood. a trail of it drooled from the corner of his mouth, and, straightening, he rubbed at it with his sleeve, still smiling - still, smiling.
Jacob More (cont.)
he filled his room with them, tacked them to the walls in one fit of rebellion. it didn't have the desired effect. his father had stopped in the doorway & surveyed his son's handiwork. the moment was steeped in his memory with a greenish tint - the fawning sun outside his window, sinking to evening, but also the hue of disappointment, of failure, and lastly, of envy. then he was gone, like a ship in the night.
Adolfo had stared at his bare, dirty feet & the hardwood floor. the next day, he tore every single word down & stared at the heap. he took them out to the woods, a sheaf of them struggling against the wind, bound together like captives to the gallows. as he knelt, matches in one hand, untying the bundle with the other, a single word slipped its fetters & flew greedily off into the forest. for a moment, Adolfo hesitated - was it worth it? - he decided, and struck the match. acrid sulphur rocketed up his nostrils & his eyes sprang with tears. the flames devoured his years of tireless work, and did it quickly, efficiently, remorselessly.
he would spend hours into the chill evening, hunting down that final word, crashing heedless & blind through the brush & low bramble. he would find nothing.
he returned to the house, purpled with both dispirit & with a deeper, secret jubilance to which he didn't dare admit. his parents sat, wordless, eating their dinner. Adolfo pulled out his chair & sat down. he picked up his fork, and joined them.
"Ah - to this day, I can remember the color of the sky that night - it was black as a bruise ... blacker than ink ... starless, moonless, & unforgiving ..." the old man coughed and squinted at the sky. "I must apologise," he said. "I know it must be quite boring for you. Rather like a member of the congregation forced to listen to the prattling sounds of an inept priest - but here, the storm is passing, & soon you'll have no reason to remain." he polished his glasses with an unbloodied corner of the handkerchief. "Am I quite right in assuming that?"
She stares at him, then looks away, at the street & its gray puddles, then down, at her lap, where she has unconsciously laid her laced fingers like a docile cat. instantly, she pulls them apart, tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear & fixes her eyes on the old man. he has been watching her, the barest suggestion of a smile on his crushed, purple mouth. he has been watching her decide, and how to decide to convey her response. it comes like a film in a projector, of course, in her eyes, snapping to the front - there it is, the slightest defeat on her lips.
"Very well," he acknowledges, & continues -
Adolfo had stared at his bare, dirty feet & the hardwood floor. the next day, he tore every single word down & stared at the heap. he took them out to the woods, a sheaf of them struggling against the wind, bound together like captives to the gallows. as he knelt, matches in one hand, untying the bundle with the other, a single word slipped its fetters & flew greedily off into the forest. for a moment, Adolfo hesitated - was it worth it? - he decided, and struck the match. acrid sulphur rocketed up his nostrils & his eyes sprang with tears. the flames devoured his years of tireless work, and did it quickly, efficiently, remorselessly.
he would spend hours into the chill evening, hunting down that final word, crashing heedless & blind through the brush & low bramble. he would find nothing.
he returned to the house, purpled with both dispirit & with a deeper, secret jubilance to which he didn't dare admit. his parents sat, wordless, eating their dinner. Adolfo pulled out his chair & sat down. he picked up his fork, and joined them.
"Ah - to this day, I can remember the color of the sky that night - it was black as a bruise ... blacker than ink ... starless, moonless, & unforgiving ..." the old man coughed and squinted at the sky. "I must apologise," he said. "I know it must be quite boring for you. Rather like a member of the congregation forced to listen to the prattling sounds of an inept priest - but here, the storm is passing, & soon you'll have no reason to remain." he polished his glasses with an unbloodied corner of the handkerchief. "Am I quite right in assuming that?"
She stares at him, then looks away, at the street & its gray puddles, then down, at her lap, where she has unconsciously laid her laced fingers like a docile cat. instantly, she pulls them apart, tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear & fixes her eyes on the old man. he has been watching her, the barest suggestion of a smile on his crushed, purple mouth. he has been watching her decide, and how to decide to convey her response. it comes like a film in a projector, of course, in her eyes, snapping to the front - there it is, the slightest defeat on her lips.
"Very well," he acknowledges, & continues -
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Jacob More (cont.)
the sky: flat black, like the belly of a leviathan passing over the town, sounding out the depths.
his hands like wrens, swooping.
he eased a sigh. "you grow tired of your own voice." his smile, brittle and sad. "silence became my God, but also a devil that plagues me. how terrible it is to be confined to the lower registers of sound!" he dabbed at his brow with a pocket handkerchief and glanced at the splotches, mouth twitching with regret. "i was born and bred in silence - wrapped in it, clothed in it. my father took hold of my hand and led me through its frozen wilderness. we snapped no twigs, crunched no leaves. we passed through this world as though invisible, barely disturbing a thing." he paused, looked at her face, assessing it for the possibility of understanding. she was quiet, though not with curiosity. perhaps that was the moment when the old man felt it, seeing the interest glowing. "i would love you more if you spoke," he said tiredly. "even if it did kill me."
"i have no wish to hurt you," she said, and he jerked back as if struck by lightning, raising his handkerchief to his mouth. he trembled, as if fighting with an earthquake rooted deep in his spine. the shaking calmed, and he opened his eyes. in their depths was a golden ecstasy.
"thank you," he whispered. his voice sounded like sandpaper. "i will treasure that sound."
she smiled, and made a motion with her hand for him to continue.
"my poor, poor mother..."
he took to writing, just like his father had, years before. his adolescence was a forest of notebooks & a landfill of looseleaf pages. he lacked the orderliness that had seemed to plague his father - his room was a constant shifting dervish of frenzied pages, in no particular order. where Jacob More had taken to philosophy & theological study, Adolfo More took to poetry. he kept a small black address book by his bedside and did not fill it with addresses, but rather words - extraordinary words, the shape of them on the page, the space they filled. each was written carefully, transcribed from the place he had discovered them - for example, from a sheaf of typewritten pages found in his father's collection, the word "apotheosis."
it was from this wild and unruly obsession with language that Adolfo learned poetry, combining words that somehow fit together. he became a tailor of words, stitching them together over and over again, discovering their patterns and how they fit together. at night, under the covers, he whispered them to himself. he was thirteen years old, and just starting to feel the drop in his throat, not understanding why his voice kept splintering on certain sounds. this was his private reverence, his only joy - but still, something was lacking. he felt empty, hollow, after he had finished, and sometimes would weep miserably into sleep, always eventually drifting off with a wet place beneath his cheek. there was a missing place in his eyes when he looked in the mirror in the mornings, checking for the evidence of a beard like his father's - and that's when he remembered. he'd seen that emptiness before: in his father's eyes, a same pitiless darkness. though worn & weathered, he recognized it across the breakfast table that morning, shrouded in silence save for the clinking of silverware against the plates.
"Father," he said, "why are we silent?"
his mother flung her hands to her ears, blood rushing to her face. he had never seen anger as he saw in his father's face at that moment - it bloomed within him like a volcano's gouting lava, accumulating, hardening, and piling atop itself until it reached his mouth - he opened the gate of his teeth and abruptly snapped them closed again. he laid the silver down, knuckles clenched around them, and stood, raising himself with both hands like a thundercloud. he did not speak, but fixed his eyes on his son - terrible and disappointed eyes. he came around the table, slow steps towards Adolfo, and laid his hand on his son's shoulder, pressing down hard before clenching into a fist, hauling him upright and nearly knocking over the chair. the last thing Adolfo saw before he was dragged out of the kitchen was his mother's mute, pleading eyes, fixed on her husband's back, and the seed of fury somewhere deep within her, banging around like a fireball inside of her.
his hands like wrens, swooping.
he eased a sigh. "you grow tired of your own voice." his smile, brittle and sad. "silence became my God, but also a devil that plagues me. how terrible it is to be confined to the lower registers of sound!" he dabbed at his brow with a pocket handkerchief and glanced at the splotches, mouth twitching with regret. "i was born and bred in silence - wrapped in it, clothed in it. my father took hold of my hand and led me through its frozen wilderness. we snapped no twigs, crunched no leaves. we passed through this world as though invisible, barely disturbing a thing." he paused, looked at her face, assessing it for the possibility of understanding. she was quiet, though not with curiosity. perhaps that was the moment when the old man felt it, seeing the interest glowing. "i would love you more if you spoke," he said tiredly. "even if it did kill me."
"i have no wish to hurt you," she said, and he jerked back as if struck by lightning, raising his handkerchief to his mouth. he trembled, as if fighting with an earthquake rooted deep in his spine. the shaking calmed, and he opened his eyes. in their depths was a golden ecstasy.
"thank you," he whispered. his voice sounded like sandpaper. "i will treasure that sound."
she smiled, and made a motion with her hand for him to continue.
"my poor, poor mother..."
he took to writing, just like his father had, years before. his adolescence was a forest of notebooks & a landfill of looseleaf pages. he lacked the orderliness that had seemed to plague his father - his room was a constant shifting dervish of frenzied pages, in no particular order. where Jacob More had taken to philosophy & theological study, Adolfo More took to poetry. he kept a small black address book by his bedside and did not fill it with addresses, but rather words - extraordinary words, the shape of them on the page, the space they filled. each was written carefully, transcribed from the place he had discovered them - for example, from a sheaf of typewritten pages found in his father's collection, the word "apotheosis."
it was from this wild and unruly obsession with language that Adolfo learned poetry, combining words that somehow fit together. he became a tailor of words, stitching them together over and over again, discovering their patterns and how they fit together. at night, under the covers, he whispered them to himself. he was thirteen years old, and just starting to feel the drop in his throat, not understanding why his voice kept splintering on certain sounds. this was his private reverence, his only joy - but still, something was lacking. he felt empty, hollow, after he had finished, and sometimes would weep miserably into sleep, always eventually drifting off with a wet place beneath his cheek. there was a missing place in his eyes when he looked in the mirror in the mornings, checking for the evidence of a beard like his father's - and that's when he remembered. he'd seen that emptiness before: in his father's eyes, a same pitiless darkness. though worn & weathered, he recognized it across the breakfast table that morning, shrouded in silence save for the clinking of silverware against the plates.
"Father," he said, "why are we silent?"
his mother flung her hands to her ears, blood rushing to her face. he had never seen anger as he saw in his father's face at that moment - it bloomed within him like a volcano's gouting lava, accumulating, hardening, and piling atop itself until it reached his mouth - he opened the gate of his teeth and abruptly snapped them closed again. he laid the silver down, knuckles clenched around them, and stood, raising himself with both hands like a thundercloud. he did not speak, but fixed his eyes on his son - terrible and disappointed eyes. he came around the table, slow steps towards Adolfo, and laid his hand on his son's shoulder, pressing down hard before clenching into a fist, hauling him upright and nearly knocking over the chair. the last thing Adolfo saw before he was dragged out of the kitchen was his mother's mute, pleading eyes, fixed on her husband's back, and the seed of fury somewhere deep within her, banging around like a fireball inside of her.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Jacob More (cont.)
the bed roiled like a boat at sea. his mind was elsewhere - she saw it recede from the forefront of his eyes like a hermit crab, tucking up deep inside the nautilus of his skull. they bucked & strained at each other, her astride him, profiled in the lightning like the figurehead on a prow. the house shuddered & moaned as the rain scourged its sides. the river down the road swelled like an orchestra & splashed over the sides, grappling with itself. the inevitable flood. the harangue of weather against the soft cheek of the earth. this is the seventh such storm in two weeks, and the land has had enough. it spits back. the thunder is little more than a rasping cough, gurgling. everything is filled with fluid.
at the same time as the hasty levee that old man Whitaker built collapses -
at the same time as the gnarled oak is rent asunder with one bolt -
she falls parallel to him, clutching her breast, exhausted. her eyes close. his gruff murmur, cadenced like a priest's during the liturgy, rising and falling. she opens her eyes and sees the ceiling - dark, seeming infinitely distant, vaulted - and feels herself become the smallest bit
heavier -
"of course," he says grandly, doffing his hat and motioning at the empty seat beside him.
"you're a gentleman." she said, somewhat distantly, and sat, smoothing her dress out beneath her out of habit, crossing her legs deliberately. composure had fled her, left her unbalanced, with water in her left ear. her dress clung to her lasciviously.
adolfo glances around. his neck cracks. "i have to warn you, there is a condition to my chivalry."
she stops in the middle of wringing out her hair. her lips are about to form words, but he continues as though he has not noticed. "the condition is this: you must not speak."
he watches her eyes tumble through the kaleidoscopic shift from confusion to rage. "and this is why: i am not human." he paused to take a sip of his tea. "my species has a unique codicil to our ... shall we say, contractual agreement with God ... and that genetic amendment is such that the voice of a human female causes us great pain."
"i don't understand," she said, staring him down haughtily.
adolfo winced and held his hand up.
a dark ringlet of blood leaked from his brow, appearing like a shiny worm from under his hair.
he took another sip of his tea and gently pushed it towards her.
Jacob More took his son into the study & pointed at the window. the night was so dark the glass could have been painted over and the difference would have been impossible to discern. a star, here or there, looking more like a flaw in the windowpane. the ferocious glitter of the Dog Star. the storms had left the valley, and fog seemed to leak from the trees like a gas, chilling the air. the river sank back into itself, grunting grayly, hissing and spitting treachery. "Home," his father said simply, then crouched by the boy & held his face towards the sky.
"Home," the boy repeated, but as soon as Jacob More released his chin, his eyes went to the walls around him, to the amber light of the desk, to the door, shut & locked behind them.
on the other side of the door, Emily crouched, her ear pressed to the smooth wood. heard nothing. pressed her eye to the keyhole. saw only the shifting black bulk of her husband. a flash of fleshy hand, darting out to grab the boy by his neck of his shirt, drag him to the window.
"Home," said her husband.
"Home," echoed the boy, dutifully.
it had been years, she thought dully, since she had used her lips for anything but kissing Jacob. or, from time to time, the pretense of healing her son's weeping scrapes & abrasions. she crept back from the door, and there, tentatively, in the dark of the hallway, hummed a single note. it was soft, and scared, wobbling out of her throat like a newborn deer-child. she clutched instinctively at her neck, to choke it, to grab the sound out of the air like a gnat or a mosquito, and crush it in her callused hands - but it escaped, slipping neatly between the ring finger & little finger of her right hand. it floated to the ceiling & vanished there in the inky corner.
she sat there for a moment, eyes turned to saucers, battling herself on the precipice of tears. she imagined it, that lame child, stuck where it was, wildly spinning a sticky web for the notes yet to come.
the lock in the door exploded like a shotgun, and she hurtled downstairs, veered into the kitchen and collapsed, barely buttressing herself against the sturdy table. the candles flickered in accusation.
she heard the heavy tread of him, descending the stairs. waited for the usual tumult of her son in tow, clamoring down - but this time, there was nothing. she seized up with the fear that Jacob had done something terrible, had exiled her son, her boy - her Adolfo -
and there they stood as she turned, stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking jaundiced in the candle-light. her eyes fluttered up like a damaged dragonfly, locking onto him feebly. he was impenetrable - a fortress of a man, the rook, the king's Castle - he stood with her son's hand firmly in his fist, and then separated from him. he knelt, and it was then - only then - that she noticed the blood trickling from her son's right nostril. "There, there," crooned Jacob awkwardly. "It's all right."
she took a step forward, apologies rushing to her mouth, crowding her teeth and tongue -
Jacob stood, abruptly, and extended his palm to her. there, in the center of his hand, was a small wound, which bled remorselessly.
she met his gaze. his eyes were boggy with the humidity of tears.
it was the only time she ever saw him cry.
at the same time as the hasty levee that old man Whitaker built collapses -
at the same time as the gnarled oak is rent asunder with one bolt -
she falls parallel to him, clutching her breast, exhausted. her eyes close. his gruff murmur, cadenced like a priest's during the liturgy, rising and falling. she opens her eyes and sees the ceiling - dark, seeming infinitely distant, vaulted - and feels herself become the smallest bit
heavier -
"of course," he says grandly, doffing his hat and motioning at the empty seat beside him.
"you're a gentleman." she said, somewhat distantly, and sat, smoothing her dress out beneath her out of habit, crossing her legs deliberately. composure had fled her, left her unbalanced, with water in her left ear. her dress clung to her lasciviously.
adolfo glances around. his neck cracks. "i have to warn you, there is a condition to my chivalry."
she stops in the middle of wringing out her hair. her lips are about to form words, but he continues as though he has not noticed. "the condition is this: you must not speak."
he watches her eyes tumble through the kaleidoscopic shift from confusion to rage. "and this is why: i am not human." he paused to take a sip of his tea. "my species has a unique codicil to our ... shall we say, contractual agreement with God ... and that genetic amendment is such that the voice of a human female causes us great pain."
"i don't understand," she said, staring him down haughtily.
adolfo winced and held his hand up.
a dark ringlet of blood leaked from his brow, appearing like a shiny worm from under his hair.
he took another sip of his tea and gently pushed it towards her.
Jacob More took his son into the study & pointed at the window. the night was so dark the glass could have been painted over and the difference would have been impossible to discern. a star, here or there, looking more like a flaw in the windowpane. the ferocious glitter of the Dog Star. the storms had left the valley, and fog seemed to leak from the trees like a gas, chilling the air. the river sank back into itself, grunting grayly, hissing and spitting treachery. "Home," his father said simply, then crouched by the boy & held his face towards the sky.
"Home," the boy repeated, but as soon as Jacob More released his chin, his eyes went to the walls around him, to the amber light of the desk, to the door, shut & locked behind them.
on the other side of the door, Emily crouched, her ear pressed to the smooth wood. heard nothing. pressed her eye to the keyhole. saw only the shifting black bulk of her husband. a flash of fleshy hand, darting out to grab the boy by his neck of his shirt, drag him to the window.
"Home," said her husband.
"Home," echoed the boy, dutifully.
it had been years, she thought dully, since she had used her lips for anything but kissing Jacob. or, from time to time, the pretense of healing her son's weeping scrapes & abrasions. she crept back from the door, and there, tentatively, in the dark of the hallway, hummed a single note. it was soft, and scared, wobbling out of her throat like a newborn deer-child. she clutched instinctively at her neck, to choke it, to grab the sound out of the air like a gnat or a mosquito, and crush it in her callused hands - but it escaped, slipping neatly between the ring finger & little finger of her right hand. it floated to the ceiling & vanished there in the inky corner.
she sat there for a moment, eyes turned to saucers, battling herself on the precipice of tears. she imagined it, that lame child, stuck where it was, wildly spinning a sticky web for the notes yet to come.
the lock in the door exploded like a shotgun, and she hurtled downstairs, veered into the kitchen and collapsed, barely buttressing herself against the sturdy table. the candles flickered in accusation.
she heard the heavy tread of him, descending the stairs. waited for the usual tumult of her son in tow, clamoring down - but this time, there was nothing. she seized up with the fear that Jacob had done something terrible, had exiled her son, her boy - her Adolfo -
and there they stood as she turned, stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking jaundiced in the candle-light. her eyes fluttered up like a damaged dragonfly, locking onto him feebly. he was impenetrable - a fortress of a man, the rook, the king's Castle - he stood with her son's hand firmly in his fist, and then separated from him. he knelt, and it was then - only then - that she noticed the blood trickling from her son's right nostril. "There, there," crooned Jacob awkwardly. "It's all right."
she took a step forward, apologies rushing to her mouth, crowding her teeth and tongue -
Jacob stood, abruptly, and extended his palm to her. there, in the center of his hand, was a small wound, which bled remorselessly.
she met his gaze. his eyes were boggy with the humidity of tears.
it was the only time she ever saw him cry.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Jacob More (cont.)
the first glimpse of her was a shred of white, greedily sucked away by the wind. she was engaged in a flailing rescue, momentarily off-balance, grasping for her hat. unlike him, moments before, she was unsuccessful, and stood still for a second, watching it shear up, up, and away. an infinite patience settled into her eyes, as though this had happened before and would happen again, as though she had stood in that very position and had found herself comfortable there.
(lightning!) her pale skin, three shades paler by the electric light, but only for a moment, eggshell turned to alabaster, and her so frozen there, sodden - she was an ice floe in an Arctic night. he watched her melt, shielding her face from the rain as she made her way quickly towards the cafe. he heard the sound of a sizzling, and the collapsing, deflating noise of a power outage - he turned to glance indoors, and the cafe had gone dark. within, the scrambling silhouettes of its occupants, as if clumsily enacting a farce.
i remember his father, sitting at the dinner table with both utensils grasped in his meaty hands. he had been assembled from these things, by chance, from both his sire & dam, some drunken hand of chance selecting properties, traits, addictions, habits - and, though inebriated, wisely left room between those things as one would leave space between creeping phlox and the other flowers, to leave it room to spill out, to grow -
and the shoddy clapboards of the storefront vibrate in the ensuing thunder, chattering like teeth. the quick sound of plastic against glass - they have CLOSED the cafe, and she is there now, running up against the door, pressing her cupped hands against it, peering in for refuge. they, the hard-hearted purveyors of caffeine and pastry goods, are not allowing anyone else inside, like a full bunker against the insidious whisper of nuclear fallout.
he is surprisingly dry. a few insouciant droplets of rain have spattered on his shoulder. he begins to call to her, but his voice fails in his throat, like a gramophone not properly wound. delicately, he coughs into one hand. he can feel his lungs expand like fists inside of him.
his father, Jacob More, was a scholar with eyes given to him by a devil - black holes bored by a gimlet. sometimes light shone through. it was more likely that they would slurp in the light from the exterior like black holes in deep space. nightly, his bulk could be found bent over the desk he’d made himself, in his study upstairs. if a storm were coming, he would not be found - his mother, Emily (nee Rabinovitch) would fret in the kitchen, wandering from the counter to the table, adjusting lightbulbs in their sockets. re-arranged the silverware from the tangled mess he’d deposited them after drying. stared out the window, pale eyes reflecting an invisible sea. eventually he would return, suddenly within the walls of the house, dry as bone - somehow a touch wilder, electric at the fingertips. all of it was worth it then, as she fell into his arms and let him pluck the head off of her like a dead marigold.
“may i?” she was indicating the chair beside him, wind-whipped and thin like a reed at the shore. her eyes reflected the rain, darker than his mother’s, speckled with filaments and scars of gray.
(lightning!) her pale skin, three shades paler by the electric light, but only for a moment, eggshell turned to alabaster, and her so frozen there, sodden - she was an ice floe in an Arctic night. he watched her melt, shielding her face from the rain as she made her way quickly towards the cafe. he heard the sound of a sizzling, and the collapsing, deflating noise of a power outage - he turned to glance indoors, and the cafe had gone dark. within, the scrambling silhouettes of its occupants, as if clumsily enacting a farce.
i remember his father, sitting at the dinner table with both utensils grasped in his meaty hands. he had been assembled from these things, by chance, from both his sire & dam, some drunken hand of chance selecting properties, traits, addictions, habits - and, though inebriated, wisely left room between those things as one would leave space between creeping phlox and the other flowers, to leave it room to spill out, to grow -
and the shoddy clapboards of the storefront vibrate in the ensuing thunder, chattering like teeth. the quick sound of plastic against glass - they have CLOSED the cafe, and she is there now, running up against the door, pressing her cupped hands against it, peering in for refuge. they, the hard-hearted purveyors of caffeine and pastry goods, are not allowing anyone else inside, like a full bunker against the insidious whisper of nuclear fallout.
he is surprisingly dry. a few insouciant droplets of rain have spattered on his shoulder. he begins to call to her, but his voice fails in his throat, like a gramophone not properly wound. delicately, he coughs into one hand. he can feel his lungs expand like fists inside of him.
his father, Jacob More, was a scholar with eyes given to him by a devil - black holes bored by a gimlet. sometimes light shone through. it was more likely that they would slurp in the light from the exterior like black holes in deep space. nightly, his bulk could be found bent over the desk he’d made himself, in his study upstairs. if a storm were coming, he would not be found - his mother, Emily (nee Rabinovitch) would fret in the kitchen, wandering from the counter to the table, adjusting lightbulbs in their sockets. re-arranged the silverware from the tangled mess he’d deposited them after drying. stared out the window, pale eyes reflecting an invisible sea. eventually he would return, suddenly within the walls of the house, dry as bone - somehow a touch wilder, electric at the fingertips. all of it was worth it then, as she fell into his arms and let him pluck the head off of her like a dead marigold.
“may i?” she was indicating the chair beside him, wind-whipped and thin like a reed at the shore. her eyes reflected the rain, darker than his mother’s, speckled with filaments and scars of gray.
Jacob More
even the vegetation shrinks. the bloody peonies on their thin stalks, bowing and murmuring to one another; dripping, bulbous. the thunder crawls up the sky like an ant before disappearing into the crack the lightning has made for it. gray, heavy clouds press east, herding one another towards the sea.
the wind is knocking things over, tears his hat right off of his head. it stays aloft for longer than it seems it should before thudding at a bad angle to the ground, skidding along the sidewalk. he is forced to take a few ungainly leaps after it, but is successful in rescuing it (at the last second) from the garble & mutter of a passing tourist couple, ensconced in their travelogues and their maps of the city. even so, he mutters an apology and scrambles out of their way.
he can feel it approaching in his cracked rib, the one he never got fixed and which healed wrong. sometimes he felt it when he breathed too deeply. he would feel it when she lay with him, when she rolled on top of him & mounted him with breathless abandon, eyes full and round and bright. he can feel it, marching in a wet gray phalanx from the west, like a weary platoon of soldiers ready to lay down their arms & spring into the arms of lust.
the rattle & clatter of a skateboard on the opposing sidewalk draws his attention. it is the sound of a failure, over and over again, a determined failing punctuated by viscid expletives & furious gobbets of spit aimed at nowhere in particular. it is too humid for a shirt. the tiny curl of sweat tattoos the young man invisibly as it wanders over his topography.
the thud & bump of a cadillac driving by, unreasonably quickly, blaring fuck-me music. a girl with platinum ringlets & thick lips tossed her cigarette out the window and screeched around the corner. he shook his head. the mating rituals of the young had, somehow, overnight, turned obscene. rue filled his head as he recalled & reviewed the various trysting places he'd visited in his flaming youth. he smiled & chuckled fondly.
the sidewalk was beginning to acquire polka-dots. he looked at the purposeful trees, planted soldierly in distinct distances from one another and watched them turn coward in the throat of the storm. they waved their thin branches frantically, bending & twisting at the abdomen - even their leaves flinched, turned belly-up & blanched. he had not thought to bring an umbrella. did not know it was supposed to rain. but there, up ahead, lonely in a tiny patio, a small cafe with two outdoor tables - one with, and one without, an umbrella. such a small thing, seeking shelter from the imminent storm, brought a bit of a giggle to his mouth. he eased into the chair under the umbrella and sat back. instantly, the redolence of the ocean rushed into his nostrils. the dying nasturtiums in the wooden flowerbeds wriggled, pale with both the loss of the sun to the clouds & their annual sickness.
thunder - again! a friendly waiter with a nervous eye that keeps leaping heavenward. he wants to question this man's judgement, sitting outside before a storm hits. it's going to be a doozy, says the radio, crackling & chuckling in safety. the waiter bites his nails and leans against the front window, staring out. he brings the man a glass of iced tea, which he has asked for very politely. seems a bit fey, he remarks casually to a co-worker. weird old coot.
adolfo is the name the old man wears. he wears it like an old coat, and it is a hand-me-down from his father and his father before him. one of those things you take out of the closet & dust off. for fancy occasions. he prefers not to wear it, instead opting for the anonymity of the streets, where he peruses strangers like books on a shelf.
the skateboarder - Boyd, since we're giving everyone names, now - is brow-furrowed, resolute. the thunder of his deck against the concrete is matched and surpassed by the sudden sonic torque from above, preceded by lightning too distant to see. adolfo is watching him from beneath the worn umbrella, whose flaps are agitated, whose material is becoming heavier by the second with the rain. but it hasn't broken yet. the air plugs up adolfo's nose, fills up his mouth with sand & grit, and he coughs & hacks out the invasion to the best of his ability, screwing out the same from his eyes with blinks & facial winces. eventually he must doff his gold-rimmed glasses & rub at his burning corneas with the edge of his sleeve.
this is nothing, he thinks.
"probably blow right over," he hears someone say as they stride rapidly by, seemingly uncomforted by their own forecast.
there - lightning! the white-hot brand against the clouds, almost runic, spelling out some coded message for someone, somewhere.
adolfo could wait. he drank lustily of the iced tea & laced his fingers together. inevitably, his eyes trundled back towards Boyd, who seemed totally unfazed by the sudden demand of the weather. it was as though he hadn't even noticed the sun had gone, or that rain was falling - fat, fat drops which hissed after splattering on his skin. he did not notice. again and again, picking up his deck & attempting the same trick, and again, failing, swearing, spitting.
adolfo thought he would have been tired of the sport by now, but Boyd's tireless monomania was enticing. it was something to watch while he waited.
the wind is knocking things over, tears his hat right off of his head. it stays aloft for longer than it seems it should before thudding at a bad angle to the ground, skidding along the sidewalk. he is forced to take a few ungainly leaps after it, but is successful in rescuing it (at the last second) from the garble & mutter of a passing tourist couple, ensconced in their travelogues and their maps of the city. even so, he mutters an apology and scrambles out of their way.
he can feel it approaching in his cracked rib, the one he never got fixed and which healed wrong. sometimes he felt it when he breathed too deeply. he would feel it when she lay with him, when she rolled on top of him & mounted him with breathless abandon, eyes full and round and bright. he can feel it, marching in a wet gray phalanx from the west, like a weary platoon of soldiers ready to lay down their arms & spring into the arms of lust.
the rattle & clatter of a skateboard on the opposing sidewalk draws his attention. it is the sound of a failure, over and over again, a determined failing punctuated by viscid expletives & furious gobbets of spit aimed at nowhere in particular. it is too humid for a shirt. the tiny curl of sweat tattoos the young man invisibly as it wanders over his topography.
the thud & bump of a cadillac driving by, unreasonably quickly, blaring fuck-me music. a girl with platinum ringlets & thick lips tossed her cigarette out the window and screeched around the corner. he shook his head. the mating rituals of the young had, somehow, overnight, turned obscene. rue filled his head as he recalled & reviewed the various trysting places he'd visited in his flaming youth. he smiled & chuckled fondly.
the sidewalk was beginning to acquire polka-dots. he looked at the purposeful trees, planted soldierly in distinct distances from one another and watched them turn coward in the throat of the storm. they waved their thin branches frantically, bending & twisting at the abdomen - even their leaves flinched, turned belly-up & blanched. he had not thought to bring an umbrella. did not know it was supposed to rain. but there, up ahead, lonely in a tiny patio, a small cafe with two outdoor tables - one with, and one without, an umbrella. such a small thing, seeking shelter from the imminent storm, brought a bit of a giggle to his mouth. he eased into the chair under the umbrella and sat back. instantly, the redolence of the ocean rushed into his nostrils. the dying nasturtiums in the wooden flowerbeds wriggled, pale with both the loss of the sun to the clouds & their annual sickness.
thunder - again! a friendly waiter with a nervous eye that keeps leaping heavenward. he wants to question this man's judgement, sitting outside before a storm hits. it's going to be a doozy, says the radio, crackling & chuckling in safety. the waiter bites his nails and leans against the front window, staring out. he brings the man a glass of iced tea, which he has asked for very politely. seems a bit fey, he remarks casually to a co-worker. weird old coot.
adolfo is the name the old man wears. he wears it like an old coat, and it is a hand-me-down from his father and his father before him. one of those things you take out of the closet & dust off. for fancy occasions. he prefers not to wear it, instead opting for the anonymity of the streets, where he peruses strangers like books on a shelf.
the skateboarder - Boyd, since we're giving everyone names, now - is brow-furrowed, resolute. the thunder of his deck against the concrete is matched and surpassed by the sudden sonic torque from above, preceded by lightning too distant to see. adolfo is watching him from beneath the worn umbrella, whose flaps are agitated, whose material is becoming heavier by the second with the rain. but it hasn't broken yet. the air plugs up adolfo's nose, fills up his mouth with sand & grit, and he coughs & hacks out the invasion to the best of his ability, screwing out the same from his eyes with blinks & facial winces. eventually he must doff his gold-rimmed glasses & rub at his burning corneas with the edge of his sleeve.
this is nothing, he thinks.
"probably blow right over," he hears someone say as they stride rapidly by, seemingly uncomforted by their own forecast.
there - lightning! the white-hot brand against the clouds, almost runic, spelling out some coded message for someone, somewhere.
adolfo could wait. he drank lustily of the iced tea & laced his fingers together. inevitably, his eyes trundled back towards Boyd, who seemed totally unfazed by the sudden demand of the weather. it was as though he hadn't even noticed the sun had gone, or that rain was falling - fat, fat drops which hissed after splattering on his skin. he did not notice. again and again, picking up his deck & attempting the same trick, and again, failing, swearing, spitting.
adolfo thought he would have been tired of the sport by now, but Boyd's tireless monomania was enticing. it was something to watch while he waited.
Monday, July 7, 2008
bees
last night i dreamed i became a beehive. i moved in and became a beehive in your house, and you were horrified at the stench - the sweet cloying stench. we lived by the sea, but the salt water did nothing to combat it. i was about to burst, and you ran away crying. in the old wooden house by the sea. my cracked & swollen face gave birth to a thousand angry bees.
yesterday, while sitting out smoking a cigarette, i came upon the conclusion that what i thought has been a noble pursuit up until now has actually been not only detrimental to my life & the pursuit of happiness (as it were) but also, in the right light, is twisted, ugly, and ignoble.
everything online tells me that dreaming of bees is good luck. reversal of fortune. somehow i am disinclined to believe it.
someday soon, oh someday soon, i'm going to lose all of my teeth & all of my money & all of my friends & everything i own & i will be itinerant, peripateic around the edges of everything until the fire that's raging at the heart of everything finally makes its way to the outskirts & finds my corpse.
cheery today, aren't we.
yesterday, while sitting out smoking a cigarette, i came upon the conclusion that what i thought has been a noble pursuit up until now has actually been not only detrimental to my life & the pursuit of happiness (as it were) but also, in the right light, is twisted, ugly, and ignoble.
everything online tells me that dreaming of bees is good luck. reversal of fortune. somehow i am disinclined to believe it.
someday soon, oh someday soon, i'm going to lose all of my teeth & all of my money & all of my friends & everything i own & i will be itinerant, peripateic around the edges of everything until the fire that's raging at the heart of everything finally makes its way to the outskirts & finds my corpse.
cheery today, aren't we.
Friday, July 4, 2008
last published
been thinking about old friends.
CHRIS FLETCHER
WILL FLINT
(in capitals because i am invoking them)
the haze of summer, as though looking through it. squinting in the sun. the saccharine twinkle of the ice-cream truck around the corner. clouds muscling in overhead, tired from their eastward trek, bogged down with unnecessary luggage ...
i am giving you Eddie's house because i never saw yours, Fletcher. you lived at the top of the stairs and just off to the right. it was dim in your room, and some broken blinds over the lonely window weren't enough to keep out the sun. you had a Nintendo and two controllers. the ashy, variegated carpet that made me feel like i was standing in a litterbox. Eddie was a humorless sort, but you were not. your family was poor, and your mother was still at work when we got home from school. right away, you showed me your toys - exuberant over the stamina of your oldest action figure - Commander of Planets, Master of the Universes - i can't remember. i remember the look on your face when i broke his arm off - accidentally! - like someone had just punched you in the gut.
Will - you'll wait for another time.
CHRIS FLETCHER
WILL FLINT
(in capitals because i am invoking them)
the haze of summer, as though looking through it. squinting in the sun. the saccharine twinkle of the ice-cream truck around the corner. clouds muscling in overhead, tired from their eastward trek, bogged down with unnecessary luggage ...
i am giving you Eddie's house because i never saw yours, Fletcher. you lived at the top of the stairs and just off to the right. it was dim in your room, and some broken blinds over the lonely window weren't enough to keep out the sun. you had a Nintendo and two controllers. the ashy, variegated carpet that made me feel like i was standing in a litterbox. Eddie was a humorless sort, but you were not. your family was poor, and your mother was still at work when we got home from school. right away, you showed me your toys - exuberant over the stamina of your oldest action figure - Commander of Planets, Master of the Universes - i can't remember. i remember the look on your face when i broke his arm off - accidentally! - like someone had just punched you in the gut.
Will - you'll wait for another time.
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