Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

9

'Cast off the idiot questioner who is always questioning, but never capable of answering.'

I am bound by my words. Later has arrived, here, in present tense. Later is now, that is. And now is the time, and the time is now. Time is now – that is clear enough, but what else, after all, could it have been? What other should I have sought, before or after, as I prefer? Then let the angels dance, the dwarves carry their ore, the disciples mourn the death of christ. I can do nothing about these stories; they are not mine, they do not offer salvation, only mild deception – and who, after all, does not want to be deceived? The words dance outside of my reach, taunting me, plaguing me like a swarm of blood sucking flies. Today, then, is the first day, and the last. Nothing more.

And then I can begin. There is work to do; that I know, and am willing to go on with the business at hand. I am bound, then unbound, then sit in the garden sunken into the womb of god (I look but do not find – it is, of course, in the looking that one day I will know there is no more). It is my garden and womb, my world that flowers and unfolds, petal by petal. I can speak of the science involved but that is mundane, of interest only to specialists. The enemy I carry with me at all times, and the enemy is the first born. As first it is called before all others for duties others would scorn. I have received, piece by piece, what I need, but no more. I survive on an absolute minimum, and must see that such survival is the nature of the images born in my heart. My stomach moves up and down in some kind of harmony, but denies when asked its role in things, preferring quiet anonymity. I am the minimum, then, for I make no more, and receive far less, or so at least it seems to me. My perspective, however, is flawed. I can look out over rivers and plains; my eyes take in all there is, but wince at the light of noon. All is as it was, and was as it is. The games I play are the chores of yesterday.

Grown, I am beyond, but quiver at the gate of heaven. The ivory, perhaps, is too imposing, the glass topped walls too daunting. But I will keep to the simple, for a time (which, being nothing, cannot be said to do anything). That will do, that will be enough to occupy ourselves before we are forced to go on with our lives. What I have and what I need are joined hand to hand; what I want and what I dream are so closely united that my waking hours are dreams, and my dreams the days they precede, and follow. The line, however, is so fine that it is all too easy to drift one way, then the other. I will, I know, be tempted; I will follow each temptation to its root, then beyond, to the valleys and forests of my youth. The north is and always will be with me; the south is a distant frontier peopled by smooth skinned aliens, firm to the touch, knowing the first things. I have no hierarchy, no order to place the unfolding events within. I forget all: being nothing I forget I am nothing, then go on to make other mistakes, some worse than others.

Enough, enough, I exclaim, then go on. I can watch, of course, the conversations, the words dropped here and there, but the sense is alien, lost. Or perhaps it is not to be found. Perhaps it is in the crawl space, the shaft left from lost mines, the evening sun, the dead, the cold eye, the stare that falls to the ground. Or perhaps not. So I will look, for hours if necessary, then go back, to the beginning. I like it there; it is comfortable, well groomed. When the sun sets I can linger over kisses and well spent youth – smiling all the while I know there is nothing more to give, nothing more to say. There is only the damp, the cold spaces and tired eyes that want me to come home. But my memories are cold as well, distant they slumber, distant they fall on the ground, until there is a fine dew, and the sleeping giants go, with noses to the ground, calling out at random for more food. I do not know where I go, the direction seems plain at times, but overgrown with shrubbery. In the shadow of darkness smiles my best friend; in the morning the grass was fresh, in the evening it will be dry and yellow. I sit watching, waiting for the change, but there is nothing there to see.

It is enough – more than enough, in fact. I stop it with my hands: the spinning globe falls to the ground and bounces, first here, then there. I knew already it would do this, but was happy to see my predictions come to fruit. Say hello, then good-bye, then do little else than shout the passing word. Today it is good, tomorrow bad, then next day – who knows? I do not ask, however, merely sit in the side room, taking notes, bribes, and whatever else offers itself as I watch the crowds go by. There are interruptions – none to be taken seriously, then nothing. I prefer it this way – the day will be no worse for the wear, the evenings will stretch then bounce back, without a mark. I do not want to complain, however.

In the morning there is a warm hand, then food. I was happy knowing the routine, the peace that could come no other way, but held my breath, not sure if appearances were to be relied on. Give me peace, then, before all else, so I can rest long enough to spend one more hour without fear. Not that my fear is so large; it is of little substance, and can be left without worry behind, for others to pore over as there was something there to see. I want the first calm, is all. I want what is mine – what, that is, I have made with my hands. There is nothing else. In this way I keep things simple – carefree, if you prefer. There is no knowing the end, only the most likely outcome. And that, as we all know, is here, at our hands. I try to avoid the question, finding its flavor in bad taste somehow. And then I shift my feet, nervously (an appropriate action, at least from where I stand). I will tell, in good time, the story of the beginning. There has been a long wait; it will not end soon, I know, but the taste will become all the more sweet.

Give donations, then, to your favorite cause; the solution will be outstanding, the reception divine. This, anyway, was the idea, before the networks got their feet in the door. And then everything fell to pieces; the cook lost his temper, the maids walked out in a huff. I planted my feet firmly in the sand, keeping the outlines of the shore in sight, then turned around, to look at the dunes. There were of course no dunes, no sand, no waves crashing on the shore. Those were only memories, destined to be lost one day, as sure as death. My memories I fondled, unsure where to put them; for now, there was room, but soon I did not know. I could see problems coming, that much was for sure. I could see everything then, in that flash, reverberating around the room it took on new strength, put its feet to the wall and pushed, until there was nothing left to do but pray. And then I looked down at my hands, astonished, not sure what to say, but repeating as my mantra: you get what you need, not what you want. But to want and need the same thing – now that would be something! I suppose fate has dealt this hand now and then. I wait and see, examining the surfaces that rise around me, unsure where to first place my eye.

I do not want to be picky – the first words, the last, all have a particular flavor; an aroma, if you prefer, of the no longer fresh. I like the words to act in this way – the real qualities remain unknown, the invitations have been sent out; we sit, waiting, twiddling our thumbs. I am in a verbless land, a place where nothing moves, thinks, sits or breathes. I live in the unfolded palm of a malevolent giant. The air I breath is fresh and pure, untouched by the hand of god or man alike. I drift at no height, and send telegrams then no word at all. My silence is like a semaphore, or a smoke signal – it unfurls slowly, against a steady wind. There is after all nothing left to say. I have reached the plateau where all shiver then die in a thousand different ways. I have no desire to stay, go, or any other option. My motions are without meaning, my presence unsure. I sit in front of dead things and twist them into life, but it is I who was dead, and I who bring my self to life. The arrangement suites me well, and goes unargued – and leaves me free for more profitable ventures. I am not sure what exactly they are at the moment, but I know they will reward me, someday.

As you see, I am in the hands of greater forces than me. I say no more, for I am unsure of the reception my words will have. Polite society will nod its head, then go on about its business, as it generally does. I have no place in that world, so there is little loss. The positions I occupy are awkward; unusually accurate reports about my well being are being composed as I speak. It is the outside looking in, then out, as if through reflectors. It is hard, and soft, cold, airy and swept clean, and then it is nothing. I go on about this element because for me it is so important. I crave interruption, obstruction and the like, as if it were my blood. I drink it, shove it into my face with both hands, then push it away, ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed to admit what is happening. I had realized some time earlier that there was no where any longer to go – the criminals knew this, but I, I supposed, was not in that class, despite my efforts. I worried too much to make up for lost time – the years spent without a thought, yesterday staring at the moon. Today I investigated the trees along hidden alleyways, then went home, for food I thought, but found only scattered leaves.

But at the same time, I knew, there would be some benefit. I could not understand the system used to relay my messages from here to there, nor did I have any hopes of learning quickly. My hands guided me, as they do everyone. Their motions are silky, soft like the mountain, like the sea, pouring over the moorings laid bare by the empty look and cold handshake. I feel nothing then, only scorn, a mild case of disgust, then a cavity where I might reasonably have expected to find something, given a more normal set of circumstances. It is the other, unexplored face of happiness. I do not see this one so often, its neighbor and I being so frequently estranged. But I smile too; it is the nature of the emotion, I suppose, although I will see more as more makes itself known. And then I will step back from the affair, dumbfounded, unsure what to say or do, but sure something is called for. It is my hands, after all, then my arms and legs, until every part of me is in cahoots, laughing, as they say, all the way to the bank. And the bank shuts its doors, the gates of babylon are set in ivory and gold, the word is out and the word says little. Come, then, into the eye of the caverns that line my hands and forehead. There are a thousand ways, a million (perhaps more, or less), but the first thing to remember is that there is another person waiting there at the other side – for it is that which is the natural, and that which comes most easily. Forgive, forget, be done with once and for all then turn to the friends and neighbors gathered and forget the words, but be sure the idea is sound.

I am sure – a proposition that grows less valuable as the days grow longer; perhaps, then, there is nothing else, except of course for doubt. Perhaps I have been a fool – or perhaps I am right all along, every step of the way, distasteful as that would be. My mouth is clean, however; its contents are checked daily by inspectors, and then double-checked. At the end of all of the examinations I know there will be a smiling face, a reward for a job well done. I apologize in advance for the tone here, but have come to realize that there is no apology possible. The world is tired, and wants no more excuses. I am sending the rest of the story by Federal Express, first shipment available, no expense spared. My words tie themselves into knots, around and around they go, over the mountains and the trees, too high to be seen, too low to read except in the strongest light. I am afraid I have lost my way completely, that the words of strong men like the first fathers have evaporated once and for all into their original forms, the myths from which they separate themselves at dawn, when the sun just begins to light the street. They shake their heads (of course – what else, after all, could they do?) and tell tall tales, afraid to elect the true champion. I join in their dance before going on about my business, unsure any longer what that exactly is.

No, it is not doubt that buries my eyes in quicksand, nor is it the first cold of age. I have seen the image of the holy virgin embellished on stone and brass; the sight does not move me, although I know that for some there is some meaning, which is for me obscured by layers of televised doubts. This is what I mean – I find there are times to say more, when I know there is enough for all to share – piece by piece, if necessary. I will dole the portions out; I realize there is a place for this work, little as it is. Enough, however, as I noted, for me. Enough enough I have scratched on my palms with pins, leaving bright trails of red dots behind – as reminders, if you prefer, or road signs, if you are cartologically inclined.

And that, I am assured, is that – at least for a while. Who speaks, who listens, who offers calm words to soothe me, is unknown but will soon be discovered. The police, CIA, FBI, and other related law enforcement agencies have, you see, entered into the case. I can rest easy now, for all is in higher hands – hands of steel, of flawless works – each more divine than the last. Hands that reach down from the skies and hold themselves, perfect imitations of tranquility. In the morning, of course, the heads will shake drunkenly, although until then all is good. The doctor, the doctor – go the shouts, but the doctor is not in. He is resting his hands (insured yesterday for a half million dollars each) on his lap, drinking in the sun at an exclusive beach resort. He has worked hard for his money. The hands stroke his back and arms, then sing songs of ignorance. They know neither hurry nor pain, but are willing to learn; in the morning they will go home, with him. For now they will rest too, unsure what to do next, but sure of themselves, at the very least.

I am surrounded by ranks, divided and fallen already so there is no need to divide them further. Their hands, that is the point, you see, their hands are cold, and hard to the touch. That is the point I cannot escape. It is the nature of those organs that I run from, a cat from a much larger dog. I am not a musician, nor a gambler. My days are spent in unknowing hands; I nestle up in each as it comes to me, then go on my way. My deceits are not to be trusted – I am unsure myself when to believe one, and not another. I have built a wall around the outside world – there, brick upon stone upon mortar and earth, is the solution. There too goes the wall. There goes all that has come before me. Stand at attention and watch the parade. It is at once mine and yours; we join hands then celebrate another victory, another defeat – pure celebration today, tomorrow we will see. Perhaps I should sit more patiently, tomorrow after all so close, or so I tell myself. Everything is close, of course. Too much so, for my taste at least. The challenge is to locate the point of separation. Perhaps the clown who makes his way down the street can enlighten me. That will be something. Then I can present myself to all who come to see me with a smile (I smile, that is – they do as they please)

Surrender, today or tomorrow it makes no difference. Final and complete go the heralds, without who we would be in a sorry state indeed. One day the last question will leave the lips behind, the mind will die a fitful death, the eyes will fade out into unclear horizons. I – I – yes I – I know these things. I repeat my name five times, to see the sound. I do not know the first thing, or would be more silent. I want to know all, to go beyond, to come into – each category is its own error. And then I reach for the pipe to smoke all the worries away but they return in unclear forms. My words then, perhaps in them the unfurled banner can flap?, if only idly, at half mast even in memory of all those who died. Perhaps, perhaps.

Perhaps I should bring back the needle and watch it pierce my skin. Or run through streets with police in close pursuit, up an empty parking garage I go, behind a closed door I hide, breath pounding, until the long arm of the law has seized my few possessions, laughing I know today at our ways, self-conscious, pathetic. That happened once, today it is alien, an odd assortment that can not fit itself into the scheme of things and so is left behind. But there is nothing left behind. There are bridges and divides but the land is one, shifting and contorting as it does. And it is mine, and I it. I embrace it and would call it my own, only the arms are not more than the embrace, the embrace nothing more than a wind. And these things are fine. I suppose the thoughts too, and the words (their heralds), take places in some order. I am sure of this, in fact. There is an order, only it is too simple to see. Canyons and alleys fall under the same hand; it is alluded to but never named in polite company. It is the urge that compels us each in our turn to examine only that much more closely the channels available; it is the hand that gouges out the narrower streams, and finds cracks where before there were considered only smooth surfaces. It is, that is, the smooth face shattering into fragments, and it is the miniscule faults that had to be there in the first place. A well cut stone bulges under compression, recall. I am not well cut, my memories are not well defined or fitted, my hours not well spent. My life is a waste, as far as can be determined, but I am happier to let it drift away than to hold onto it with dead earnestness.

Surely nothing could be more simple, then. I am the hand of fate that infects every future with strange fantasies, wishes that can never be fulfilled but carry on as if nothing were amiss. I am the infection itself as it seeps out of each and every one of my pores. My futures decline and fall with the market; to complain would not be gentlemanly; to criticize my position would be to spit in the hands of a destiny I am unclear about. One thing, however, is sure: I must cleanse myself. And this I will do, one piece at a time. I will choose which parts at random, and leave the others unclean, unsaved – reminders of impurity surrounded by heaven. And of the dark hands that embrace me then push the breath out of my lungs slowly. Each word is an exercise, to be followed by endless repetitions. Each repetition, however, exists solely and for and in itself, absolutely unique, absolutely detached from all that came before, as well as from all that will follow. It is in this endlessly repeated singularity that my face finds the time to form along classic lines, into witches and werewolves, trolls and elves and the like. I do not ask to be handed tarot cards but still they appear in my hands and laugh at my questions; I do not plan in advance the rewards, small as they may be, but know that to think is best, to remain silent the only new frontier. There are no words but still I do not scream. I look down from across the room, examining the signs sitting there in front of me, knowing that under her shirt lie the closest things to heaven I have yet found. I make nothing into less then close the door to make an 8:30 appointment.

Still, however, the universe waits for my hands to move, my eyes to twitch. There will be no hurricanes forming because of my sneeze, but maybe there will be a day filled with more than soft happiness. I long for the hard, the broken and shattered face that has known too much suffering to easily believe the lies of future happiness, or to be taken in by stories of overwhelming suffering. A face, in short, that knows that in every moment swim endless sufferings and bottomless ecstasies the likes of which we should consider ourselves lucky to ever see, let alone touch the outer skin of. Those, in short, are the faces of heaven and hell. I cannot take one without the other, no matter how diluted the doses are. I find these moments hidden in the spaces between notes, the gaps between thought and action that fill my waking hours with doubt. In ignorance lies bliss but a bliss of fools, undefined, unclear, dull like a cheap knife. Revel in the fields surrounding us, take on the challenge and give nothing more to the rivers that pull at our hands and feet in insistent harmonies. I know, then grow less sure, until I stand in exactly the middle of just one of these spaces, torn until separated. I will write more love stories – taken as wholes they will combine the elements, taken in part they will be incoherent, and will thus be faithful reproductions of all that passes.

Her name – her name is not important. She could be any one of an thousand different faces that pass me by on the street. But she is unique as well; her eyes are for me only, although this is the one thing they are blind to. Her breasts float on pillows of gelatin, her eyes are sunk into her dreams, her lungs cough out death daily but still she goes on, giving words where before only error lay. And her face – her face is old, worn, tired, and it is into her face I want to fall, for in her face are tears and worries and left over vipers (snakes, she calls them) sucking at the walls of her intestines. It is her past I love, nothing more – the words that do not confuse dreams with reality. And the thought that somewhere out there there might perhaps be someone who is not afraid to go on, here, or there.

I have painted her in two dimensions, for she has only just learned my name. Her ending is my beginning as well; her feet will mark out routes to follow and then my heart will fall slightly, not unhappy, happy even, as noted, but happiness is not my goal. The heavens are surrounding me with peace but in peace is only a small part of what I seek. It is the battle that beckons, and the site is distant, far removed from the place of my birth. I stand, unjealous, but unsure as well, watching the words drift slowly, then more and more quickly. I have never surrendered the drugs that take me away into the land of dreams, I have instead transformed my world into these drugs, until the only voices I hear have covered themselves with the syrup of decadence. I twist against them, then surrender as well, knowing my words will bounce at sharp angles when they hit the walls that surround me – it is, after all, the nature of the game. I accept all the rules, for a change, not wanting to upset any apple cart, or break any new frontiers (what, after all, is more mundane than a love story?)

She has given me life; not knowing how much I needed her breath she offers me salvation buried in the bottom of a tea cup. Her world is without past of future as well, and is filled with confusions which will never find the light of day. Her pain I can only vaguely sense, her cards cross mine unknowingly but I see, but cannot see more. There is that instant, nothing more, recorded by the cells of my thinking tissues (oh where, oh where, are they, hidden in the folds, the hard slap of fluids against craniums far and wide?). You have given me the strength to go on for one more day, and have not even the first clue of what you have done. I know the future, and can see your indifference today but weave nevertheless new meanings into your innocently expressed words. You walk the line caring not if your feet bleed, your years are as mine as well, as if matters were not bad enough. I make offers but have to stop, for I know today they will never be found out. I do not look for adoration but struggle, which is an odd thing to say.

Stay away from my hands then – when I see you next you will smile, not caring to see what I am sure strikes you daily. I will offer a sacrifice, guaranteed to please you, but where will you be the next day, or the next? Having found happiness I immediately look for a way out – my only conclusion is that happiness is for me not the end. So I end that particular dream, and carry forth another in its stead: tomorrow I will go to south america, the next day swim in the arid plains of sydney. There will be no holding me back; the chords will strike evenly, hard and soft against the broken blocks of concrete that, piled haphazardly, form a sea wall of sorts. I will watch tomorrow's lovers leap into the waves, always holding myself in, guarding my past jealously and my future.... my future, of course is another question altogether. Coming from near and far I spit out my lies; my ambitions blind me to all that is so close that I wander ever further. I was given ample opportunity to surrender, and more than once I was close. A professorship, after all, is warm, and keeps one comfortable during the long cold nights of one's life. And there will always be a woman who wants such a life as well, so that is not a problem either. Work to has its delights, but in at the end of the day you are always tired, no matter how much you pretend otherwise. This is of course why you are paid for your time. You are sold, piece by piece, being of course nothing other than this time. Your life is scrap, wasted away in the desolate reaches of tomorrow. Your dreams grow ever more vivid, reminding you of past lives, the glory of youth, the limitless vision that infected your soul with ceaseless strivings.

This then, grows into a love song without end. The eyes are filled with tears, and dart nervously back and forth across the room. Today there was no fire and so no smoke. My signals are crossed, wired into another room, another pair of eyes. For the first time in my life I practice true infidelity. I have learned well, and apply myself to the work at hand with steadily increasing enthusiasm. As first principle, I will sell myself to the highest bidder. It is the most exceptional offer that intrigues me, not guarantees of soft days in the sun. It is the hand that will never stop that draws me in, the vision that has seen already too much and longs for more. You, you who have as of yet no name are this hand, and to you I swear ever lasting loyalty. Your thighs will wrap themselves around a thousand different backs before one day your eyes light on mine, looking past the face that twitches nervously you will see a reflection of yourself, born a thousand lives and miles away but under the same sun, nevertheless. It is in preparation for you and that one look that I have spent my whole life searching, and, if all goes well, that I will go on, day after long day, mission in hand and impossible as well, of course. I do not surrender my past, in hopes of dreams of a future. I do not want a future at all – the idea is repulsive, reprehensible almost, as if the daughter of damnation were to call on me in a moment of particular weakness, knowing full well that my word was in every sense absolutely worthless. My hand is never stuck on the bible; every book is holy in my eyes, every gesture pregnant with itself. There is no end, and so of course no future, in this particular struggle.

I am the greatest fool for looking for reasons, answers and the like. My destiny is non-existent, formed overnight it collapses in on itself, structurally unsound from the beginning. I have only what I make, and what I make is of use only in the short term. I take every step in full expectation of complete and utter collapse. The insect warriors and virus fleets occupy every harbor, every airport, all major highways and rail lines. I am reminded of this by the reports that trickle in through my tightly shuttered hands. She is the worm that glides through my belly; her hands are the caress that will finally wipe my tears away; her years are the salve that will ensure our mutual immortality. Given the chance I would leave in an instant, a flash that wipes out all memories of the past. And in that moment I would finally be free, having escaped the clutches I toss about with abandon daily, struggling to choke myself I succeed only in slowing things down slightly.

I starve on the taste of yesterday; in the evening the air is warm, and wraps itself around my body, sending its spines into my flesh. I have given, and now receive; the price of progress: loss of untold dreams. Lost then they are; I go about my business as if nothing has happened. The truth of the matter, of course, is that I consider the cost far too high. Unacceptable, in fact. Honor is not easily found. I know the words, stale and worn as they are, go about their business, retired if necessary, to be replaced by the new. Fresh it unfolds its face before my eyes. I can think no more about love. But about the rest – there my thoughts leap and dance until I look away, slightly embarrassed. Worlds collide; the impact leaves noticeable scars. Give until you can give no more – that is enough to satisfy, and leaves you little to work with. And then the gifts are labeled privileges, as if matters were not bad enough already. I am privileged to live in your house, in your world, in your life. I am the most proud man that has ever lived, in fact, so privileged have I grown. Out of my eyes shine the devil's hands; the workplace of the dark forces are unionizing rapidly, and will soon offer employment to record numbers. I am a smiling face in this story; my grammar grows by leaps and bounds but I will leave it, to rest, the story will go. The truly great will stand up, leave the room, then go for beers in small bars. I watch from the side, wondering if perhaps there is something I am missing. Of course, a lot is the answer, as I expected. Woken my dreams move uneasily about, like zombies in a low budget film. I have stopped listening, preferring the daily song of birds.

But come – join the insects. Blue yellow or green they are dancing around the hall, in legions now they surrender their lives to you, willingly they send for aid from all corners of the globe. Their hands are in yours; together you celebrate the birth of one thousand children. In trust our accounts blend then merge into a unified whole; in the morning, when presented with the bill, we merely laugh uproariously, then walk out, tossing it behind us. Despite the dogs that chase us our pace does not change in the slightest; on the contrary, with every added set of fangs we walk all the more steadily. The matter is quite simple – too simple, I think. She is looking at me again, having stolen her way in despite the obstacles I place at her feet. She is smiling, but she could easily be crying. I would not care – in either case the sensation would be real – food for hungry souls needs no special forms, only a good balance to offset the cold and death that lies on the other side. It is in the way she does not speak, for a change. She says the right things without uttering a word. Then goes on, as if she had spoken.

In the balance of forces I sense a certain security as well, although here it is not a question of rest. I tell myself that with her eyes I could travel the globe but know she will go alone. It is not the worry here, however, but the idea that there is someone like her. This is a black and white question, and here I was thinking in multi-hued terms. There is only one or the other. Or perhaps there is only and. One and one, and myself, tailing along to the rear, picking up the daisies that grow wild across the fields. But unflowered I go into the hallway; unflowered I creep along the carpet until I get to the brass lined doorway. I knock, knowing no one will answer, then eye the reinforced panels dubiously. It will not be my shoulder that breaks against that door, however. I walk away, singing quietly to myself. I raise my eyes to the heavens, thanking them for the reminder. The moon is only half-full tonight. which is a blessing.

And then I pass over into heartfelt congratulations, insincere as always they are offered for the sake of custom. Come, my friends, we will shower the world with our dreams. We will never stop, until the one-hundredth rent check comes due, after which our eyes will glaze over, our hearts will stop beating, our stomachs churn slightly then give up their ghosts. The spirit is inside, made daily like bread, like the wares that line the avenues. Made it can be unmade, and unmade it is the cold that has seeped into our bones – a cold that no amount of religion can get rid of. But my hands do not shake, although they twitch now and again. I am captured, lined against the wall with my fellows, then shot, dead, and left to rot in the alley where my last breath slowly escapes my body. Over and over – except this time I will laugh when the moon comes. I cannot fight, but I can mock. This much at least I still have. My moments are guarded, my vows I am unsure about. Earlier I promised fidelity in a complete way; later I knew I could never, and should never, keep this particular vow. The intention was sound, of course.

But I have neglected the most important thing: my occupation. What, that is, do I do? I am, of course, an accountant. I tally up the figures then spin them in on themselves until they burst in violent frenzies. I am an undertaker, confining the remains of the dear departed to their proper quarters, guiding the grieving widows to the side of coffins lined in silk and satin. I, before all else, am the surgeon who cuts the spare fat away, leaving a once again trim and youthful figure behind. I am the voice that calls out in the night, forcing itself through the narrow streets until every crack between every stone reverberates with the pulse of my heart. I am more, in my spare time, of course. When I am satisfied I do not sit back and watch the unwinding of events on the television, although at times I am tempted. Call me a media critic then, if you want. It is your loss. There are no media fit to spend time on, only the motion of eyes following one story or another. There is the peace that is final, of course. I am not criticizing, then. I love every breath that fills the airwaves, every speck of ink that crowds my hands with paper and pens. I will never kill a thing I do not love, and which I do not, cannot, understand is my brother, father, mother and sister all wrapped into one. If I am of the world then so is my every breath. If I hate then I hate myself. The time for such emotion has passed. No blind love or bleary eyed adoration – no, what is called for is respect. Dignity can wear no other cloak, the passage from complete alienation can go through this thin portal alone. The idea that we are aliens is a complete fantasy, like so much else today. As I have noted, there is nothing wrong with living in fantasy worlds if such is your choice – what worries me is the thought that it has not been a choice, simply a reaction to events. That is what makes me a little sad.

Welcome, then. Take off your shoes, your socks, let your hair down, take a smoke and a drink if you're going to stay a while. I pull up chairs, playing at the good host, but of course I am not a good host. It is in the playing that I find solace, however. Also in running across fields naked. She – she is listening to me as I speak. Her eyes widen, briefly, then her face is under control again. I know there are more of her than I suspect; it is not possible to have a unique experience, on this planet at least. She can teach me what I need to know; her life is the formula I have searched for; her mouth can fill the words and give them life. Out of the eternal woman comes life, and out of life the smoke and filth that we call death. All is error, however – there is neither life nor death. My thoughts are endless, without beginning or end. The words of the philosophers ring in my ear; I hear nothing for hours at a time then one phrase slips itself in somehow, as if security had flinched briefly. My ideas are melting into the future, taking all that comes as proper and expected. There can be no anticipation in this moment, there having been already more than enough.

I know she is not real, but find the company welcome nevertheless. I sought her in dreams when young, then forgot, losing myself in sex. The first sign came when my hormones let me rest a little – it was, however, incomplete, and made for too many disagreements. Perhaps the matter was still too loosely tied in the fabrics of my fantasies, the worlds I thought were real because I had twisted the shreds in unfitting ways. Today I am standing nervously, watching the people pass below in the street as if out of all who go by one will be right. But there is no right, nor is there wrong. The days will go on, turning with the world until harmony is once again reached. Dead or alive I will drift with it; whether breathing or not is another question. But I know I will take in all that is given before asking another word. I will never have to speak in this way again, I tell myself, once I have found her in my arms, returned, home, feet up on the couch, drink in hand. What I know is the old story that is passed on from father to son, mother to daughter, and then out, in steadily decreasing strengths, until we really do reach a kind of homeopathy. And it is then we find our motions resisted by nothing – causeless, effortless, resulting in nothing, coming out of nothing: the first union of male and female. And for this I can wait, a thousand years or more, if necessary. My romance is the romance of every broken hearted wanderer, my dreams those of all who have gone one step too far.

What I make is made out of what I have made, and what I have made is born from all that I am, and all that I am is the world in its every part. To say this is to say I am at once myself and not myself, both alive and dead, still and active, frozen and liquid. It is because of this that I seek the living encarnation of the four elements. Within each one first, then in the combinations they form I will know first myself, then the world around me. Within the simple I will find the complex, and in the complex will sigh a baby. In effortless movements I carry wood and other supplies to put me through the winter; prepared for the worst I am told to leave it all behind, and am surprised that I would say such a thing.

She is a figment of my imagination. And my imagination knows more than I ever will. She is the sum total of the breaths I have taken. As such she will never die, and will leave only when she is no longer needed. She will, in other words, always be here, ready and willing to stand at my side, as I will be at hers. She too will carry the infection with her; her viruses will invade and destroy completely. I would have it no other way, of course. I do not want perfection after all, I have decided. I want the split between two moments, with all the suffering that entails. To be happy I must sink into misery first, to be truly miserable I must welcome suffering like a long lost brother. My family ties, of course, are not close. And neither can they be. I can have few ties, and the ones I can have must be loose, free to blow in the wind when the wind is what there is. Neither can I waste time on endless visits home; preoccupied with the past I can never find my future. I stress myway here, since it is mine alone I am concerned with. I want only to report what is true, after all. If she agrees she too will become more true, although perhaps she will simply disappear, forgotten like so much else. But I know I will see her again, at least. And then I will be sure to watch her lips move, her eyes narrow or widen as the occasion calls for, her breath slacken or increase, her words take on her character until she is nothing and her life a phantom to be called by first name only. For now, of course, I leave her to her own devices.

Her friends, however, I will gather around myself, to see what she is. That is the best way, always. For the years cannot lie, and form patterns easy to describe and recognize. And if there is a bad taste there will be no more call to arms on that particular frontier. I will leave with no more damage than I arrived with, incomplete again, and unified perfectly, as is the way, generally speaking at least. But there is no simple path, of course. I must listen to the present for all it's worth, then go on, taking small steps. Soft and tender, my flesh will crawl with insects of all colors; butterflies will land on my outstretched hands, squirrels stand on my shoulders, cats run away from me with unexpected haste. Motionless, I will stand in the ocean, letting the waves ripple around my feet. And all will be as it should, a perfect fairy tale ending for a perfect fairy tale life. It is of course the complete unreality of things that catches me so hard by the throat, and wrings my life out by steady increments. And it is the complete reality of things, I know, that is the problem. The unreality is only a symptom of a deeper malady – a hypocrisy that tells us what and when to breath, who to speak to and in what manner, and more, too much to list, although perhaps I will try. It is the shadow of this sickness that I fear more than all, and it is it which colors my hopes in false shades of life. My words will drain of all blood, my thoughts reflect only the walls of my life. Unless, of course, I stop everything in its tracks, step back, listen to the wind and the sea, and abandon my dreams, once and for all.

My studies, as you can see, are largely complete. There are of course holes (fragments to be filled at a later date) but I am largely satisfied. I have seen what I came to see, lived how I wanted to live, loved in ways I thought true. But true or false are of little concern here. My world vibrates between tautly stretched pillars motioning to their companions for some support. Between these then I stand, alone but happy before the columns snap. And happy after as well, but a happiness perhaps not easy to recognize, hidden as it is by frowns and tears.