When I was five, I was with my parents at my uncle's house. He had a well in his back yard, which he would repeatedly refer to as the deepest well in the county.
The first time I saw it, I stared over the edge of the stone-wall casing and looked into the cool darkness. I felt my mind travel down the well before my uncle broke my reverie, shouting in his obnoxious voice about how he had the last well in the county that wasn't yet dry. My father looked down the well over my shoulder, in awe with pride for his older brother.
That night, while my family slept, I snuck off in the darkness to look down the well again to continue my fascination with the reverie my uncle had cut short. I got to the well and crouched on top of the casing, spreading my arms over the well's entrance, balancing myself directly over the dark circle below.
I felt the damp, black space and knew that it was was different from the darkness in the night sky. It was somehow ricker, more pure and tangible. I reached down to see if my hand could grab some of the dense nothingness, or if my hand would simply dissolve into it.
As i reached, I lost my balance, as most children would have, and fell. The fall took some time, and luckily, I never hit the sides of the well. I splashed in the bottom in the cold water, then struggled to the surface. Coughing, i looked up from where i was treading water, staring back into the night. The sky blended smoothly in with the sides of the well and i felt myself enveloped in a cold void. With this, my panicking stopped, and then i began screaming.
Monday, May 12, 2008
You are Out of It
"those words - obscure and dark - leave them perplexed." -Ovid
I
A young boy was once privy to his own imagination. He had also heard of an idea of butterflies. He had always seem them during time spent in the park, fluttering about, bumbling through the air in front, behind and above his face. The way they seemed to clumsily pound against the air with their incredibly light wings and bodies made him form a primitive and general kind of contempt for them all; this was despite typical interpretation of butterflies as creatures of beautiful and peacefullness.
He would remember learning that they were all once caterpilars: creatures monstrously greedy for a high number of legs. They would get so wrapped up in themselves that at one point they would emerge in superman-esque fashion after sometime of wallowing isolated in their personal preoccupations.
II
It's easy to see he had quite some distaste for butterflies (but not moths: moths were separate from his notion of butterflies; their lack of flamboyance and overall quiet nature left him with a peace of mind he seemed to find nowhere else.) even before he had learned that they were the cause of most of the worlds horrific weather patterns. he had once overheard on a television program, a young scientist telling the shows host that when a butterfly flaps its wings, the displaced air produces a chain reaction which eventually causes rainstorms, hurricanes or tornados somewhere else on earth.
III
When he heard this for the first time, he became enraged. He fumed quietly at first, mulling over the implications in his mind.
"Either," he thought to himself, "these butterflies are completely oblivious to the fact that they are the genesis of miserable destruction the world over; that they are so mindless that they don't realize that as they follow their minute impluses that they are in fact making the world change to make room them.
[IMAGE HERE]
"Or," his mind paused to formulate the words of his next realization, "they are simply malevolent; turning from caterpillar to their winged form only to enhance their ungodly powers of destruction."
IV
He spent the next few days in the park, watching his new source of scorn waver softly over the grass field, just below the sky. other children always looked at him curiously as he stared meditatively at the butterflies but would quickly lose interest when they would discover his total disinterest in his peers and his complete self-absorption. he himself didn't even notice that he was unaware of the other children, and probably would not have cared. However, one little girl continued to pay particularly close attention to him. She satisfied herself invisibly as she had a distinct love of awareness for things unaware. she remained quiet to his eyes as he went about his business with the miniscule creatures of the park's broad lawns and manicured gardens.
V
He soon realized his the implications involved in his own movement, but quickly decided to absolve himself of any kind of crime. he knew that he too displaced air as he moved, and that he may also be the cause of such horrible disasters. for a few days after realized this, he would spend most of his time attempting to lay absolutely still on the floor, trying to to disturb anything, breathing ever so softly. soon thereafter, he decided why it was he should allow himself to move: for one, his movement did not depend on the control or abuse of air to facilitate itself; his movement was through the air, not against it. and besides that, his movement would from then on be used to limit the movement of the malevolence of butterflies.
[IMAGE HERE]
so from then on, he would use his time and movement to capture all the world's butterflies to save the humanity from further elemental tragedy. he would whatever time was necessary to expel these rude beasts from the stage of decency.
VI
the next day, with a small box in hand, he placed himself in the park near his house to begin the procedure to contain this immoral species. but his idea was only to capture, not to kill; to kill would only force him into the same disasterous moral position the butterflies had created for themselves. instead, he only wanted to contain them and watch over them.
VII [pagination gets out-of-control here. ill try to demonstate it "below the text" (what irony)]
He had to pause ever so briefly to consider why he was thinking the way he was; he noticed something uncontrollable within himself which irritated him; just then, something specific seemed to gain shape in the air in front of him. however, he quickly lost his concentration when the image of a young lady appeared in front of him, and, upon being notice, she quickly walked away.
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words, and he could see the edge of the page. a panic flew over him and he grabbed for the letters, tearing them to pieces, but as the page turned, he could see the words mimicking him, teasing him anew. anything he could think to do was outside of him, right in front of him.
VIII [techinically IX, but who the fuck knows at this point, right? also, lia wrote, "HAYWIRE! MATERIALITY" in the margin . . . lia, we have totally lost control of what is going on. so awesome]
as he ripped up the letters, letters mocked him on. the world faded away around him and he was consumed by his obsession. later, after night took over, he grew tired but couldn't look away from his words. he fell unconscious and probably dreamed of a world the same as the one he fell from.
he had died overnight, in the cold park, and was found by the young girl. she touched his arm, felt it cold and unnatural, and fell back scared. she looked at him again before covering her eyes as she started crying.
DEMONSTRATION OF OVERLAPPING/REPREATING PAGINATION
VII a
He had to pause ever so briefly to consider why he was thinking the way he was; he noticed something uncontrollable within himself which irritated him; just then, something specific seemed to gain shape in the air in front of him. however, he quickly lost his concentration when the image of a young lady appeared in front of him, and, upon being notice, she quickly walked away.
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words [check out my sweet use of 'prose enjambment']
VII b
[top section of VIIa is repearted here, but in disarray. visually, the boy is ripping the sentences words and EVEN THE LETTERS! YES! apart. we see the destruction above with the narration below, undermining his destruction.]
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words, and he could see the edge of the page. a panic flew over him and he grabbed for the letters, tearing them to pieces, but as the page turned, he could see the words mimicking him, teasing him anew. anything he could think to do was outside of him, right in front of him.
[we need to take a closer look at how this works and make sure we are positive it sits right. something about it aches me, and im not sure if i just dont totally unerstand it or if we weren't careful enough when we were reviewing the potential layout. also, didn't we want to have a few pages where there might have been only one or two sentences per page, huge font and intense layout. fuck, that was a good idea too. did we give up or just forget?]
also, im going to do at least one more draft in an attempt to make the language more 'child friendly.' after all, im trying to be the henry james of children's fiction, not the derrida of graphic design - - or at least that's what im telling people.
I
A young boy was once privy to his own imagination. He had also heard of an idea of butterflies. He had always seem them during time spent in the park, fluttering about, bumbling through the air in front, behind and above his face. The way they seemed to clumsily pound against the air with their incredibly light wings and bodies made him form a primitive and general kind of contempt for them all; this was despite typical interpretation of butterflies as creatures of beautiful and peacefullness.
He would remember learning that they were all once caterpilars: creatures monstrously greedy for a high number of legs. They would get so wrapped up in themselves that at one point they would emerge in superman-esque fashion after sometime of wallowing isolated in their personal preoccupations.
II
It's easy to see he had quite some distaste for butterflies (but not moths: moths were separate from his notion of butterflies; their lack of flamboyance and overall quiet nature left him with a peace of mind he seemed to find nowhere else.) even before he had learned that they were the cause of most of the worlds horrific weather patterns. he had once overheard on a television program, a young scientist telling the shows host that when a butterfly flaps its wings, the displaced air produces a chain reaction which eventually causes rainstorms, hurricanes or tornados somewhere else on earth.
III
When he heard this for the first time, he became enraged. He fumed quietly at first, mulling over the implications in his mind.
"Either," he thought to himself, "these butterflies are completely oblivious to the fact that they are the genesis of miserable destruction the world over; that they are so mindless that they don't realize that as they follow their minute impluses that they are in fact making the world change to make room them.
[IMAGE HERE]
"Or," his mind paused to formulate the words of his next realization, "they are simply malevolent; turning from caterpillar to their winged form only to enhance their ungodly powers of destruction."
IV
He spent the next few days in the park, watching his new source of scorn waver softly over the grass field, just below the sky. other children always looked at him curiously as he stared meditatively at the butterflies but would quickly lose interest when they would discover his total disinterest in his peers and his complete self-absorption. he himself didn't even notice that he was unaware of the other children, and probably would not have cared. However, one little girl continued to pay particularly close attention to him. She satisfied herself invisibly as she had a distinct love of awareness for things unaware. she remained quiet to his eyes as he went about his business with the miniscule creatures of the park's broad lawns and manicured gardens.
V
He soon realized his the implications involved in his own movement, but quickly decided to absolve himself of any kind of crime. he knew that he too displaced air as he moved, and that he may also be the cause of such horrible disasters. for a few days after realized this, he would spend most of his time attempting to lay absolutely still on the floor, trying to to disturb anything, breathing ever so softly. soon thereafter, he decided why it was he should allow himself to move: for one, his movement did not depend on the control or abuse of air to facilitate itself; his movement was through the air, not against it. and besides that, his movement would from then on be used to limit the movement of the malevolence of butterflies.
[IMAGE HERE]
so from then on, he would use his time and movement to capture all the world's butterflies to save the humanity from further elemental tragedy. he would whatever time was necessary to expel these rude beasts from the stage of decency.
VI
the next day, with a small box in hand, he placed himself in the park near his house to begin the procedure to contain this immoral species. but his idea was only to capture, not to kill; to kill would only force him into the same disasterous moral position the butterflies had created for themselves. instead, he only wanted to contain them and watch over them.
VII [pagination gets out-of-control here. ill try to demonstate it "below the text" (what irony)]
He had to pause ever so briefly to consider why he was thinking the way he was; he noticed something uncontrollable within himself which irritated him; just then, something specific seemed to gain shape in the air in front of him. however, he quickly lost his concentration when the image of a young lady appeared in front of him, and, upon being notice, she quickly walked away.
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words, and he could see the edge of the page. a panic flew over him and he grabbed for the letters, tearing them to pieces, but as the page turned, he could see the words mimicking him, teasing him anew. anything he could think to do was outside of him, right in front of him.
VIII [techinically IX, but who the fuck knows at this point, right? also, lia wrote, "HAYWIRE! MATERIALITY" in the margin . . . lia, we have totally lost control of what is going on. so awesome]
as he ripped up the letters, letters mocked him on. the world faded away around him and he was consumed by his obsession. later, after night took over, he grew tired but couldn't look away from his words. he fell unconscious and probably dreamed of a world the same as the one he fell from.
he had died overnight, in the cold park, and was found by the young girl. she touched his arm, felt it cold and unnatural, and fell back scared. she looked at him again before covering her eyes as she started crying.
DEMONSTRATION OF OVERLAPPING/REPREATING PAGINATION
VII a
He had to pause ever so briefly to consider why he was thinking the way he was; he noticed something uncontrollable within himself which irritated him; just then, something specific seemed to gain shape in the air in front of him. however, he quickly lost his concentration when the image of a young lady appeared in front of him, and, upon being notice, she quickly walked away.
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words [check out my sweet use of 'prose enjambment']
VII b
[top section of VIIa is repearted here, but in disarray. visually, the boy is ripping the sentences words and EVEN THE LETTERS! YES! apart. we see the destruction above with the narration below, undermining his destruction.]
He noticed he was on a page; he noticed he was surrounded by words, and that he could see in front of him everything he had been doing in the past week: everything about his fascination with butterflies, his plan to capture them, everything was laid out in words, and he could see the edge of the page. a panic flew over him and he grabbed for the letters, tearing them to pieces, but as the page turned, he could see the words mimicking him, teasing him anew. anything he could think to do was outside of him, right in front of him.
[we need to take a closer look at how this works and make sure we are positive it sits right. something about it aches me, and im not sure if i just dont totally unerstand it or if we weren't careful enough when we were reviewing the potential layout. also, didn't we want to have a few pages where there might have been only one or two sentences per page, huge font and intense layout. fuck, that was a good idea too. did we give up or just forget?]
also, im going to do at least one more draft in an attempt to make the language more 'child friendly.' after all, im trying to be the henry james of children's fiction, not the derrida of graphic design - - or at least that's what im telling people.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
What It Was
Jansen had a keen and powerful desire for things: big things, small things, rounds things, dripping things, things in the sky, man-made things, ticking things, things you could open, even lists of things. Any thing, really. And you knew Jansen wanted a thing when something incredible happened: at the moment he gazed at the thing he wanted and before he even knew it, a paw or sometimes the entire leg of a tiger would reach out from his eyes, swiping at the thing. No matter what was in the way, no matter who was around, regardless of any time, place or event, the paw would flash out from his eyes at the sound of a growl!
Commonly, when this happened among people, notice would be taken immediately, as women shouted in disbelief and men leaped in fear beneath tables. When it was over, they would begin shouting:
“Someone must learn to control that boy!”
“No!” someone else would shout, “that boy must learn to control his self!”
This arguments over Jansen’s behavior would take place any time the paw appeared; and in the end, nothing would come from the bickering.
That is, until one day, when something else happened. Jansen was with his mother in a store filled with the finest china dishes and crystal glasses. She was choosing new dishware for the house, when Jansen spotted a dish full of candy on the cashier’s counter. Before Jansen even realized he was looking at the candy, a flash of orange and black fur was tearing through the air with a growl. After the commotion, the candy was gone, four large claw marks were left on the counter, and three thousand dollars worth of china were shattered and laying in pieces of blue and white on the floor.
“Jansen, what have you done?!?!?” screamed his mother, wishing she could disbelieve what she saw. “I’m sorry, sir, but I do not know how to teach my child how to control his self! I will pay you for everything.”
“Madam,” replied the clerk, who was surprisingly calm, “can’t you see that until the boy learns to control his self, that you must control him?” But before she could reply, the clerk noticed something.
“Wait . . . “ he whispered, deep in thought. “Madam, don’t you see?” Jansen’s mother was confused and followed the clerks eyes to see what he was seeing, and he was looking at Jansen. “Look there, deep in your boys eyes.”
She looked, from the side at first, and saw nothing. She moved directly in front of him and looked past his eye lids, between the blue gates of his irises, and down into the bottomless ocean of his black pupils. At first she saw nothing, but as she adjusted to the darkness, she saw a small orange tiger, sitting patiently, liking its lips from just finishing the candy, starting right back at her more intensely than she looked at it.
“Oh my!” she screamed. “How did she get in there?”
“Madam, I do not know; but that tiger is the source of your boy’s troubles.”
“What shall we do?”
“We must remove this tiger from this boy! And I have just the idea.” The clerk went into the store room, but returned quickly with his hands behind his back. He smiled at Jansen and stood to the boy’s right. Suddenly, the clerk threw candy into the air—but it did not even begin to fall down to the ground before the tiger’s paw had caught it. At the same moment, the clerk grabbed for the tiger’s leg, but was too slow.
“This tiger is much too fast for me to catch just the arm; we must lure it out further. Tell me, what does the boy crave beyond any other thing?”
“Well,” replied Jansen’s mother, “I can’t think of one particular thing, but I know he would take the whole world if he could.”
An idea struck the clerk. He ran, again, into the store room, only to emerge with two mirrors and a globe. He placed the two mirrors so that they would face each other, and placed the globe between them. He then called to Jansen:
“Jansen, do you see here? I have an infinite amount of worlds for you!” Jansen peered over, and it suddenly began to happen.
Slowly, lured by the idea of endlessness, the tiger’s arm stretched out of Jansen’s left eye; never had the mother seen the tiger move so slowly or so deliberately. She could see every hair on the tiger’s long, slender leg, brush up against the air; she could see every muscle contract and ripple beneath the tiger’s skin. Then out from Jensen’s right eye came the other paw, just as slow as the first. The clerk watched, and couldn’t help noticing the mother, who was almost hypnotized by the movement of the animal.
The tiger’s paws started clawing into the carpet, clutching the ground and then dragging Jansen towards the mirrors. The clerk knew it was his time to pounce and grab hold of the tiger. But just as the clerk began to move, the tiger stopped, and the clerk froze, afraid that he had been spotted.
Then the strangest thing happened: more of the tiger came out of Jansen—and Jansen begin to disappear. The clerk suddenly realized what was happening.
“Madam, look!” he whispered, “Your boy is turning inside-out! You cannot take the tiger out of your boy because they are one and the same!” Jansen’s mother let out a gasp as the final bit of Jansen disappeared. The tiger—now a full tiger with legs, head, tail and lean body—continued to creep towards the mirrors, with eyes that mixed a strange look between which was determined yet completely hypnotized.
Jansen’s mother and the clerk did not know what to do, so they let the animal approach the mirrors. It crawled between the two mirrors, looked at them, then seemed to look past them. It sniffed the globe, then batted it with a paw which set it spinning slowly. The tiger looked back into the mirror with a demeanor so calm that it almost made the animal seem as if it were stuffed, dead, unreal. The tiger then stood up and walked through its image into the mirror.
“Madam, did you just see what I saw?”
“Jansen!” screamed the mother, and she ran towards the mirrors. Looking directly into the reflection, she saw a tiger very, very far in the distance, walking away into what seemed like nothing; the clerk moved the mirror from behind Jansen’s mother and the image of the tiger vanished.
Commonly, when this happened among people, notice would be taken immediately, as women shouted in disbelief and men leaped in fear beneath tables. When it was over, they would begin shouting:
“Someone must learn to control that boy!”
“No!” someone else would shout, “that boy must learn to control his self!”
This arguments over Jansen’s behavior would take place any time the paw appeared; and in the end, nothing would come from the bickering.
That is, until one day, when something else happened. Jansen was with his mother in a store filled with the finest china dishes and crystal glasses. She was choosing new dishware for the house, when Jansen spotted a dish full of candy on the cashier’s counter. Before Jansen even realized he was looking at the candy, a flash of orange and black fur was tearing through the air with a growl. After the commotion, the candy was gone, four large claw marks were left on the counter, and three thousand dollars worth of china were shattered and laying in pieces of blue and white on the floor.
“Jansen, what have you done?!?!?” screamed his mother, wishing she could disbelieve what she saw. “I’m sorry, sir, but I do not know how to teach my child how to control his self! I will pay you for everything.”
“Madam,” replied the clerk, who was surprisingly calm, “can’t you see that until the boy learns to control his self, that you must control him?” But before she could reply, the clerk noticed something.
“Wait . . . “ he whispered, deep in thought. “Madam, don’t you see?” Jansen’s mother was confused and followed the clerks eyes to see what he was seeing, and he was looking at Jansen. “Look there, deep in your boys eyes.”
She looked, from the side at first, and saw nothing. She moved directly in front of him and looked past his eye lids, between the blue gates of his irises, and down into the bottomless ocean of his black pupils. At first she saw nothing, but as she adjusted to the darkness, she saw a small orange tiger, sitting patiently, liking its lips from just finishing the candy, starting right back at her more intensely than she looked at it.
“Oh my!” she screamed. “How did she get in there?”
“Madam, I do not know; but that tiger is the source of your boy’s troubles.”
“What shall we do?”
“We must remove this tiger from this boy! And I have just the idea.” The clerk went into the store room, but returned quickly with his hands behind his back. He smiled at Jansen and stood to the boy’s right. Suddenly, the clerk threw candy into the air—but it did not even begin to fall down to the ground before the tiger’s paw had caught it. At the same moment, the clerk grabbed for the tiger’s leg, but was too slow.
“This tiger is much too fast for me to catch just the arm; we must lure it out further. Tell me, what does the boy crave beyond any other thing?”
“Well,” replied Jansen’s mother, “I can’t think of one particular thing, but I know he would take the whole world if he could.”
An idea struck the clerk. He ran, again, into the store room, only to emerge with two mirrors and a globe. He placed the two mirrors so that they would face each other, and placed the globe between them. He then called to Jansen:
“Jansen, do you see here? I have an infinite amount of worlds for you!” Jansen peered over, and it suddenly began to happen.
Slowly, lured by the idea of endlessness, the tiger’s arm stretched out of Jansen’s left eye; never had the mother seen the tiger move so slowly or so deliberately. She could see every hair on the tiger’s long, slender leg, brush up against the air; she could see every muscle contract and ripple beneath the tiger’s skin. Then out from Jensen’s right eye came the other paw, just as slow as the first. The clerk watched, and couldn’t help noticing the mother, who was almost hypnotized by the movement of the animal.
The tiger’s paws started clawing into the carpet, clutching the ground and then dragging Jansen towards the mirrors. The clerk knew it was his time to pounce and grab hold of the tiger. But just as the clerk began to move, the tiger stopped, and the clerk froze, afraid that he had been spotted.
Then the strangest thing happened: more of the tiger came out of Jansen—and Jansen begin to disappear. The clerk suddenly realized what was happening.
“Madam, look!” he whispered, “Your boy is turning inside-out! You cannot take the tiger out of your boy because they are one and the same!” Jansen’s mother let out a gasp as the final bit of Jansen disappeared. The tiger—now a full tiger with legs, head, tail and lean body—continued to creep towards the mirrors, with eyes that mixed a strange look between which was determined yet completely hypnotized.
Jansen’s mother and the clerk did not know what to do, so they let the animal approach the mirrors. It crawled between the two mirrors, looked at them, then seemed to look past them. It sniffed the globe, then batted it with a paw which set it spinning slowly. The tiger looked back into the mirror with a demeanor so calm that it almost made the animal seem as if it were stuffed, dead, unreal. The tiger then stood up and walked through its image into the mirror.
“Madam, did you just see what I saw?”
“Jansen!” screamed the mother, and she ran towards the mirrors. Looking directly into the reflection, she saw a tiger very, very far in the distance, walking away into what seemed like nothing; the clerk moved the mirror from behind Jansen’s mother and the image of the tiger vanished.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Master Frenhofer in the Garage
"Oh, it was a gift from my brother, originally; definitely quite a gift, but he's quite a brother;" spoken in a well-tempered, subdued tone with what was almost a laugh. "He's an art dealer, works mostly in Italy. It's been in storage, we just dont have a good spot on the wall for it."
"But it's a Frenhofer? It's real?"
"Yeah: very life-like; no one else could get the kind of shadows or the feeling of distance that he had. This is a later piece too, one of the last he finished. It's a shame he ended up killing himself."
"I don't understand, you're only asking five dollars?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Yes, but five? This is obviously a fake, there's no other reason you would do this."
"Yeah, yeah," I paused to think about this. Actually, I had already considered this problem: people thinking it would be a fake--but I couldn't come up with any clever or charming way to sell people on the point. Could I at least look like I had thought about it, genuinely, rather than thinking about it only to try to think my way past them? Maybe the sound of defeat in my voice would work. "There's no way I can get you to believe me, is there? But I suppose I could just charge you more."
He seemed to get the joke, but chose to ignore it. "God . . . cheap art: that's so privilaged. I'm actually feeling sick." He looked up as he put his hands on his waist, and had a look of disgust that was so emotionally chiseled and perfect that I was momentarily distracted.
"Sorry?"
"Forget it." He started to walk away and mumbled something that sounded like "bourgeois faggot" underneath his breath. That seemed a little too unbelievable for me, so I ignored it. The day was heating up, pushing down with sweat and light, evaporating the dew from my lawn, bleaching out the sheet I had put under my old c.d.s, trade paperbacks, and other things that were making my house feel cluttered. I hated having garage sales, but these things looked so cheap in my house that they almost seemed to be acting rude; out they went.
It took about an hour before someone looked at the painting again. He parked his Range Rover right in front of my drive-way and came to the painting as if he had made an appointment with it. But that's crazy: I'd never seen him before and the painting can't make phone calls. He motioned towards me and started. He pointed, not at the painting, but right near it. He probably wasn't pointing at my bushes, so I assumed he was asking about the painting.
"What is this?"
"It's a Frenhofer"
"Frenhofer . . . I know that from something: Flaubert? Nah, maybe Balzac or Trollope or some other French dude." He paused and seemed rather to watch the painting than look at it. The face of his chrome watch gleamed in the sun and he continued. "Those guys . . . those guys are such writers, such sonsabitches, such brutal ironists. I work in T.V., trying to bring some of that realist irony into the tube, myself."
"Oh, you produce?"
"Nah, nah. Strictly creative. I'm a writer for that show 'The Hills'. Actually, I don't really write; I accentuate the finer points of the girls' lives; it's supposed to be a reality show but -- So 21st century Balzacean. That Lauren Conrad, she's a master satirista; ironically, she has no idea . . . maybe her and her roomate can make fun of him and call him 'Ball Sack' or something, 'cause I'd love to reference him in the show. I should just throw some novel or something in their apartment and maybe they'll just say it on their own." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I decided to laugh. The heat was wearing me down.
"So. If you're interested, it's only five dollars. No frame though."
"Five dollars?"
"Mm hm."
"Five?"
"Yup. Cash only."
"I don't get it."
"Sorry?"
"I don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"Five bucks? That's a joke. Where's the camera?"
"Camera?"
"This is either 'Candid Camera' or you're an asshole. Which is it?"
"Well, I certainly don't feel like an asshole."
"Well, then, fuck you, asshole." I barely noticed how red his face had become before he was stomping away. Obviously, I must have been more rude than I imagined; but he had just gotten to his car when he was on his way back, almost skipping rather than stomping.
"Wait . . . so, is there a camera here?" Very strange man, this one. He had some gleam of humiliated interest in his eyes.
"Well, no. Listen, I'm sorry for seeming a little rude, or oblique, or however it is that I'm coming off. But yes, the painting is unbelievably inexpensive. I'd rather it wasn't in a collection or a museum, for however long that can last, so I'm looking for private buyers."
"Well, I don't get it; but I'll be back. My friend is a collector, and I want to make sure it's real before I buy it."
"You know, you could just buy it. I'll let you return it if it's not what you're looking for." He seemed to consider this. But while he was thinking, he turned around and started walking to his car. "I'll come by later," he said as he was leaving.
As I started packing up, one last interested, would-be customer came by.
"Hey honey, they have a Frenhofer replica over here."
"Hi."
"How are you?"
"Great, it's been a busy day."
"How much for this? With the frame."
"Five."
"Nice. My wife's sister really likes this guy."
"Oh, a fan." Easy sale. I was having trouble deciding whether to tell him or not. He was digging through his pocket for the money when I decided that it wouldn't matter. "This is real, you know."
"Well, a hologram would be alright too."
I laughed, but just a little. "I mean, it's real."
He stopped digging. "Sorry?"
"The painting, it's actually a Frenhofer."
"Oh, I know, it's the Catherine Lescault." He started digging again.
"I mean, he actually painted this one. This is legitimate." He had the bill out, but he stopped and stared at the painting instead. He looked up at me with some kind of suspiscion before looking back at the painting. I knew I had lost the sale.
"You've already sold me." He thought I was bullshitting him; God knows why this would stop him from buying anything. He stayed motionless as I answered him.
"My brother's an art dealer--this was a gift."
"Wait . . . it is real . . ." He turned his head slightly and something in his eyes changed. "You know, at once, that sounds reallly exciting, and actually, unbelievable. But really, that's just going to be a pain in the ass; i'd have to buy a nice frame and worry about something happening to it . . . I really like it though." He almost seemed to hesitate here, "Maybe I'll just go buy a knock-off or something."
The wind picked up a tad, and if you couldn't have heard it, you would think the painting, the entire object, began to animate; as if it was attempting to tantalize the would-be buyer into a purchase, shimmering in the sunlight as it moved, showing off its authentic aura.
"You'd rather choose a fake?" I laughed a little. "But that'll probably cost more."
"Sure. But it isn't worth as much; it's less to worry about." As he walked away, he turned around to add, "It's kinda funny: i probably would have bought it if you never said anything." I nodded.
At that point, I decided it wasn't worth telling people that the painting was real. But by that point, it was so late in the morning that the thrill of garage sale shopping looked about as big of a waste of time as it was. The warmth of the late morning sun had turned into an early afternoon heat, and the diffused quality of the light, which once offered such a soft and indistinct partitioning from the dreamworld to the day, was becoming too bright to be comfortable, oversaturating the sensitive eyes of bargain hunters with yellows and whites beyond their wildest and most haunting daydreams. Aside from looking terrible in the stark daylight, the Frenhofer was probably getting ruined in this kind of light. I packed everything up from the lawn. Frenhofer had his chance this weekend but decided to get a sunburn instead of being sold at the kind of bargain price that you could only find in fiction. I layed him out behind the garbage cans to save myself the misery of finding him hidden amidst cardboard boxes and boogie boards years from now.
That night I went to work on my novel. I had a sudden spark of inspiration last summer while at the beach; I saw a plastic bag floating through the sea, dancing through the liquid as if it were full of life. My novel was about these non-degradable pieces of trash, and how micro-biological creatures would ban together and form colonies over the entire surface of trash like this; eventually, the colonies, forming a sort of massive micro-biological commune, would begin to move the trash through the effort of their collective will; they would actually use the trash as a vehicle, while simultaniously making it appear as if the trash were moving on its own. I really had no strong ideas about what this meant, but the chapter I was currently writing was about the media's portrayal of an incident in which a child had suffocated when a bag had rolled onto his head. Although they had no clear evidence that this bag was in fact a bag on which one of these communes had been established, the story was still spun as an act of willful malevolence, which incited a nation-wide occasion of plastic burning--I had no idea where to go from there; I figured I could just keep rolling one idea into another until it felt right. But not that night. After the giant bonfire was beginning to cloud out the sun, I went to bed.
At around two o'clock, amidst dreams and the tangle of my wife's long legs, I heard a car in the alley. Strange that anyone would be using the alley this late; stranger still was the sudden snapping sound as the car passed by the bedroom window. A hushed bundle of excited whispers followed and seemed to incite the engine, which started away twice as loud and twice as fast. I got out of bed, walked to my window and looked down to see the Frenhofer in two pieces.
A dash of cold from the air outside the window, was so fresh and chilling that i dreamed of domesticating it and keeping it inside. It was some chill which seemed as if it would never leave the back alley; not until this city was drowning in hot, burning trash; some ridiculous bonfire, where everyone would turn out what they had previously loved and burned it like garbage; wine would be spilling out of sweaty hands and grotesque smiles, and everyone would, I hope to god, at least feel good in that one stupid moment. I looked up into the night, and the unbelievable crept into shape before my eyes. “Goddamnit,” I was deeply bitter at this point. I swear I had no other name for what I was seeing: “A fucking UFO? Why is my life turning into some cheap science fiction cliché?”--that, with a tremble and a heart-shiver, I woke. It was a dream.
The morning light was back, just as warm and diffused as the previous day. I got some of the empty wine bottles from the kitchen and went to take them out back. When I turned the corner and looked at the garbage pales the painting wasn't crushed; it wasn't even there anymore.
"But it's a Frenhofer? It's real?"
"Yeah: very life-like; no one else could get the kind of shadows or the feeling of distance that he had. This is a later piece too, one of the last he finished. It's a shame he ended up killing himself."
"I don't understand, you're only asking five dollars?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Yes, but five? This is obviously a fake, there's no other reason you would do this."
"Yeah, yeah," I paused to think about this. Actually, I had already considered this problem: people thinking it would be a fake--but I couldn't come up with any clever or charming way to sell people on the point. Could I at least look like I had thought about it, genuinely, rather than thinking about it only to try to think my way past them? Maybe the sound of defeat in my voice would work. "There's no way I can get you to believe me, is there? But I suppose I could just charge you more."
He seemed to get the joke, but chose to ignore it. "God . . . cheap art: that's so privilaged. I'm actually feeling sick." He looked up as he put his hands on his waist, and had a look of disgust that was so emotionally chiseled and perfect that I was momentarily distracted.
"Sorry?"
"Forget it." He started to walk away and mumbled something that sounded like "bourgeois faggot" underneath his breath. That seemed a little too unbelievable for me, so I ignored it. The day was heating up, pushing down with sweat and light, evaporating the dew from my lawn, bleaching out the sheet I had put under my old c.d.s, trade paperbacks, and other things that were making my house feel cluttered. I hated having garage sales, but these things looked so cheap in my house that they almost seemed to be acting rude; out they went.
It took about an hour before someone looked at the painting again. He parked his Range Rover right in front of my drive-way and came to the painting as if he had made an appointment with it. But that's crazy: I'd never seen him before and the painting can't make phone calls. He motioned towards me and started. He pointed, not at the painting, but right near it. He probably wasn't pointing at my bushes, so I assumed he was asking about the painting.
"What is this?"
"It's a Frenhofer"
"Frenhofer . . . I know that from something: Flaubert? Nah, maybe Balzac or Trollope or some other French dude." He paused and seemed rather to watch the painting than look at it. The face of his chrome watch gleamed in the sun and he continued. "Those guys . . . those guys are such writers, such sonsabitches, such brutal ironists. I work in T.V., trying to bring some of that realist irony into the tube, myself."
"Oh, you produce?"
"Nah, nah. Strictly creative. I'm a writer for that show 'The Hills'. Actually, I don't really write; I accentuate the finer points of the girls' lives; it's supposed to be a reality show but -- So 21st century Balzacean. That Lauren Conrad, she's a master satirista; ironically, she has no idea . . . maybe her and her roomate can make fun of him and call him 'Ball Sack' or something, 'cause I'd love to reference him in the show. I should just throw some novel or something in their apartment and maybe they'll just say it on their own." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I decided to laugh. The heat was wearing me down.
"So. If you're interested, it's only five dollars. No frame though."
"Five dollars?"
"Mm hm."
"Five?"
"Yup. Cash only."
"I don't get it."
"Sorry?"
"I don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"Five bucks? That's a joke. Where's the camera?"
"Camera?"
"This is either 'Candid Camera' or you're an asshole. Which is it?"
"Well, I certainly don't feel like an asshole."
"Well, then, fuck you, asshole." I barely noticed how red his face had become before he was stomping away. Obviously, I must have been more rude than I imagined; but he had just gotten to his car when he was on his way back, almost skipping rather than stomping.
"Wait . . . so, is there a camera here?" Very strange man, this one. He had some gleam of humiliated interest in his eyes.
"Well, no. Listen, I'm sorry for seeming a little rude, or oblique, or however it is that I'm coming off. But yes, the painting is unbelievably inexpensive. I'd rather it wasn't in a collection or a museum, for however long that can last, so I'm looking for private buyers."
"Well, I don't get it; but I'll be back. My friend is a collector, and I want to make sure it's real before I buy it."
"You know, you could just buy it. I'll let you return it if it's not what you're looking for." He seemed to consider this. But while he was thinking, he turned around and started walking to his car. "I'll come by later," he said as he was leaving.
As I started packing up, one last interested, would-be customer came by.
"Hey honey, they have a Frenhofer replica over here."
"Hi."
"How are you?"
"Great, it's been a busy day."
"How much for this? With the frame."
"Five."
"Nice. My wife's sister really likes this guy."
"Oh, a fan." Easy sale. I was having trouble deciding whether to tell him or not. He was digging through his pocket for the money when I decided that it wouldn't matter. "This is real, you know."
"Well, a hologram would be alright too."
I laughed, but just a little. "I mean, it's real."
He stopped digging. "Sorry?"
"The painting, it's actually a Frenhofer."
"Oh, I know, it's the Catherine Lescault." He started digging again.
"I mean, he actually painted this one. This is legitimate." He had the bill out, but he stopped and stared at the painting instead. He looked up at me with some kind of suspiscion before looking back at the painting. I knew I had lost the sale.
"You've already sold me." He thought I was bullshitting him; God knows why this would stop him from buying anything. He stayed motionless as I answered him.
"My brother's an art dealer--this was a gift."
"Wait . . . it is real . . ." He turned his head slightly and something in his eyes changed. "You know, at once, that sounds reallly exciting, and actually, unbelievable. But really, that's just going to be a pain in the ass; i'd have to buy a nice frame and worry about something happening to it . . . I really like it though." He almost seemed to hesitate here, "Maybe I'll just go buy a knock-off or something."
The wind picked up a tad, and if you couldn't have heard it, you would think the painting, the entire object, began to animate; as if it was attempting to tantalize the would-be buyer into a purchase, shimmering in the sunlight as it moved, showing off its authentic aura.
"You'd rather choose a fake?" I laughed a little. "But that'll probably cost more."
"Sure. But it isn't worth as much; it's less to worry about." As he walked away, he turned around to add, "It's kinda funny: i probably would have bought it if you never said anything." I nodded.
At that point, I decided it wasn't worth telling people that the painting was real. But by that point, it was so late in the morning that the thrill of garage sale shopping looked about as big of a waste of time as it was. The warmth of the late morning sun had turned into an early afternoon heat, and the diffused quality of the light, which once offered such a soft and indistinct partitioning from the dreamworld to the day, was becoming too bright to be comfortable, oversaturating the sensitive eyes of bargain hunters with yellows and whites beyond their wildest and most haunting daydreams. Aside from looking terrible in the stark daylight, the Frenhofer was probably getting ruined in this kind of light. I packed everything up from the lawn. Frenhofer had his chance this weekend but decided to get a sunburn instead of being sold at the kind of bargain price that you could only find in fiction. I layed him out behind the garbage cans to save myself the misery of finding him hidden amidst cardboard boxes and boogie boards years from now.
That night I went to work on my novel. I had a sudden spark of inspiration last summer while at the beach; I saw a plastic bag floating through the sea, dancing through the liquid as if it were full of life. My novel was about these non-degradable pieces of trash, and how micro-biological creatures would ban together and form colonies over the entire surface of trash like this; eventually, the colonies, forming a sort of massive micro-biological commune, would begin to move the trash through the effort of their collective will; they would actually use the trash as a vehicle, while simultaniously making it appear as if the trash were moving on its own. I really had no strong ideas about what this meant, but the chapter I was currently writing was about the media's portrayal of an incident in which a child had suffocated when a bag had rolled onto his head. Although they had no clear evidence that this bag was in fact a bag on which one of these communes had been established, the story was still spun as an act of willful malevolence, which incited a nation-wide occasion of plastic burning--I had no idea where to go from there; I figured I could just keep rolling one idea into another until it felt right. But not that night. After the giant bonfire was beginning to cloud out the sun, I went to bed.
At around two o'clock, amidst dreams and the tangle of my wife's long legs, I heard a car in the alley. Strange that anyone would be using the alley this late; stranger still was the sudden snapping sound as the car passed by the bedroom window. A hushed bundle of excited whispers followed and seemed to incite the engine, which started away twice as loud and twice as fast. I got out of bed, walked to my window and looked down to see the Frenhofer in two pieces.
A dash of cold from the air outside the window, was so fresh and chilling that i dreamed of domesticating it and keeping it inside. It was some chill which seemed as if it would never leave the back alley; not until this city was drowning in hot, burning trash; some ridiculous bonfire, where everyone would turn out what they had previously loved and burned it like garbage; wine would be spilling out of sweaty hands and grotesque smiles, and everyone would, I hope to god, at least feel good in that one stupid moment. I looked up into the night, and the unbelievable crept into shape before my eyes. “Goddamnit,” I was deeply bitter at this point. I swear I had no other name for what I was seeing: “A fucking UFO? Why is my life turning into some cheap science fiction cliché?”--that, with a tremble and a heart-shiver, I woke. It was a dream.
The morning light was back, just as warm and diffused as the previous day. I got some of the empty wine bottles from the kitchen and went to take them out back. When I turned the corner and looked at the garbage pales the painting wasn't crushed; it wasn't even there anymore.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Breakfast
The mid-morning bustle. A small, untempered cafe, murmurring loudly with dishes, conversation and footsteps of all flavors. Their big, four-seater, apple red booth hugged the table between its two loving arms, gentle enough to let both Sandy and Cassandra sit opposite one another with an almost flamboyant amount of ease. Sandy sat rather quietly as Cassandra wrapped Sandy's ears in the type of gossip which opens up one's skin with goosepimples; but Sandy remained unamused. Actually, it wasn't really that she was unamused (even though that's what Cassandra might have thought if she could stop for five seconds to wonder if Sandy was even listening), it was that she was too distracted to feel amused; that is to say, Sandy had other things on her mind, overweighing the scale of her attention to a thought sitting just outside of converstion.
"So Jason, that guy I had been with at Eros Bar the other night (you know, the one I had been sure to have John see me with), he was getting a little whiny at the end of the night - - he caught me right before I was going into the bathroom and he starts bitching, 'Cass, I thought you were really into me, but if you're just going to have me act as some puppet show for John then I think you're just a manipulative bitch.' [narr. note: here, jason (via cassandra) is unintentionally bringing up the great sight of the common world; that sense of seeing, of seeing that you're being seen, and being seen as being someone who is seen as trying not to be seen. A question for the reader: can jason see this interplay, this age old vision bouncing between two people, or is he blind to it?] I had to tell Jason to get lost at that point. Besides, he served his purpose. But the thing that really got to me . . . " Sandy nodded periodically, feigning a hypnotic absorption to keep Cassandra from questioning her sponge-like capacity to uptake the overload of triviality Cassandra was laying on with such thick strokes of her tongue.
Meanwhile, Sandy was busy with another level of activity, balanced directly beneath the topic of discussion. Their breakfast clanged down on the table, the white porcelain plates of eggs and varieties of ham did nothing to reflect the beauty of Sandy's porcelain complexion, the soft waves of blonde hair and the elegance of her figure (which somehow made a space between 'too thin' and 'slightly chubby'). but she would eat it anyway. Her body would put it to use, to recreate and perpetuate Sandy's flawless silhoette. And this was what Sandy was thinking about: how was she to perpetuate her living figure? Last month her doctor had told her that she was sterile, that she, the only child of two only children, would have to satisfy an entire family line within her own lifetime; that the happiness of her descendants was her, the last of at least two lineages. Sandy was a genealogical dead-end and knowing the future was the worst thing that could press itself on her mind.
Coffee and orange juice swung around counters, servers did their best not to show the anxious speed with which they partook (with those cooks, those lovers of beauty) behind the walls of the kitchen. Fredrich, the immigrant German seating host, butchered common american names like Greg, George, Jamie and Josh intermittently, cutting through the air with his voice, his rough foreign tongue. Sandy and Cassandra had only thought of him briefly as he sat them, as his eyes sank into Cassandra's tight jeaned ass, most specifically the nexus of visual pleasure where the butt and thigh meat. They had ignored him and hid their behinds on the vintage cushions of the pastiche diner. He swept his attention elsewhere as Cassandra's voice stumbled into its usual commotion.
Sandy's attention was still on the week before, on the night with Lilly. Her mind combining two threads of thought: her sterility and her first sexual encounter with a woman. She met Lilly through Cassandra's friend Jennifer (which was the one who had introduced Cassandra to both John and his friend Handen. Unfortunate name as it is, he's responsible for introducing Cassandra to Jason). After a party at Jennifer's ex-boyfriend Rick's, Lilly had swept Sandy away to Lilly's apartment/loft downtown. at the party and slightly taken with alcohol, Sandy had let it slip to Lilly that she had just learned about her sterility the few days before and that, among a multitude of other thoughts, Sandy was questioning her sexuality, her biological make-up, her reason d'entre, her vague notion of who she was. Sandy had no intention of becoming a Lesbian, or even some shadowy stereotype of one, but she had sex with Lilly just the same. After a rash developed that weekend, Sandy went to the doctor again to find out she had contracted some kind of worm which was leaving brown, crescent shape spots around her bikini line. The doctor wasn't sure how Sandy could have contracted it, or how exactly to treat it, so he referred her to a specialist. Sandy wasn't sure she had the money for the specialist and still felt too embarassed to borrow money from her parents or Cassandra. The doctor's news seem to pile on shame after shame.
"So, anyway, I ended up going home with Jason anyway. Now I just hope --cause I mean, we didn't have sex-- that he'll just stop calling and lose interest or something. Fuck! my homestyle potatos are cold! I knew we should have gone down the street; this vintage diner crap just doesn't cut it."
Sandy felt something new about the cafe - - actually, not so much of the cafe per se, but rather a new, almost ubiquitous atmosphere that she could sense around her. whether it was her sensation or the thing itself that was new was one of the questions she had in mind, yet what occupied her more seriously than those trivial banalities of the mind's focused rumblings was the thing itself. but her feeling couldn't stay long, for whatever reason, and Sandy began to lose her focus. She felt at a loss for a moment before suddenly picking up the thought again, this time with greater intensity and determination.
"Cassandra," Sandy began, imitating the meaningful tone she had always known from movies, from television, from the archives of personality. Cassandra heard the tone and responded with an inquisitive and caring glance evoking the sweetheart, are you alright? routine which seemed to correspond to Sandy's call to emotion. Sandy brought her eyes back down to her food, and began poking at the congealing bacon. The soft, white, fatty ends flanking either side of the various brown swirls. When it first arrived at the table, the steam, so light and rising, promised to lift every subtle flavor off the scratched surface of the porcelin plate and into the air; Sandy had been entranced by the wavering scent, reminding her distinctly of the first time she went on vacation with her dad. her mother, an energetic and demanding Jewish woman, made Sandy follow kosher law. Her father, a jew as well, could have cared less, and with her mother visiting friends on the other side of the country, Sandy and dad were free to chew on a live pig if they wished. But now, the smell from the table gone, all Sandy had was a mirror of the brown cresenct moons on her thigh and a stench closer to wet fur then a carefree vacation. Sandy wanted to throw up.
"Cassandra, I'm pregnant," Sandy said with wide, convincing eyes. the activity of the restaurant began to pick up and the bustle condensed into the mood of the moment. Cassandra looked confused while she asked with hesitating rhythm, "Sandy . . . ? Honey, I thought the doctor just told you that you couldn't have babies. Have you even been with a guy lately?"
"No . . . just - - nevermind."
"What? Nevermind? How am I supposed to 'nevermind' that?" Cassandra was obviously flustered, as if Sandy had just perpatrated a grand abuse on language, on truth itself. You can't say nevermind after declaring yourself pregnant. That's just not something people do. But Sandy's eyes were back on her food again, her stare dense yet unfocused. Cassandra's indignation subsided and something like empathy crawled out of the confusion and into a clear space. Cassandra was worried.
"Sandy," she began slowly, "What's wrong? What happened?" A stack of plates in the kitchen finally fell, sending some of the shards into view of the dining area. An almost theatrical sigh came from the kitchen, loud and convincing. Sandy could feel her confusion mounting into determination.
She drew Cassandra from her seat by her wrist and led her to the bathroom. They left the seats of the booth warm, the indentation of their bodies retreating to the most common shape of the bench. Their food, mostly uneaten, sat waiting for the women. They came to the back of the restaurant just as a young man exited the one room lavatory. The girls quickly slid inside and drew the door shut. "Ok," said cassandra with a hint of suspicion and exasperation, "What is going on with you?"
"Look!" and Sandy pulled her white summer skirt and underwear down to her knees. Her crotch was covered in what looked like the profiles of small insects, carved out like hundreds of miniature relief sculptures. The way Sandy was shivering with emotion made it look like the little insects were dancing. Cassandra began to get sick at the sight of them just as Sandy started to cry. Cassandra got herself under control before pulling Sandy to her, Sandy's face pressing into Cassandra's purple blouse. Cassandra began to rock Sandy, cradling her in front of the sink. Cassandra looked into the mirror only briefly before Sandy lifted up her head and whispered, "these are all i can have." Cassandra, obviously confused, opened her mouth to formulate a question, or even something that would seem like a question, just as a pounding began at the bathroom door.
"C'mon, already. Get your damn make-up on," came a feminine voice from the outside. Cassandra looked down at Sandy to make sure she looked presentable. Sandy, so naturally beautiful that she usually neglected make-up, had only a lingering redness in her eyes; no mascara had streaked, no blush needed re-application.
When they sat back down at the table, amidst no notice from other customers, the seats remembered their roll and yielded their comfort to the women. Cassandra began eating her food again, and Fredrich hollared, "Peter for two" with a needless sting in his accent. Sandy looked down at her plate, the eggs now shared the same vinyl texture as the cushioned seat she rested on. The lights in the diner flickered slightly and Sandy threw up over the table. Needless to say, Cassandras blouse was so messy that she wouldn't even embarass herself by taking it to the dry cleaners.
"So Jason, that guy I had been with at Eros Bar the other night (you know, the one I had been sure to have John see me with), he was getting a little whiny at the end of the night - - he caught me right before I was going into the bathroom and he starts bitching, 'Cass, I thought you were really into me, but if you're just going to have me act as some puppet show for John then I think you're just a manipulative bitch.' [narr. note: here, jason (via cassandra) is unintentionally bringing up the great sight of the common world; that sense of seeing, of seeing that you're being seen, and being seen as being someone who is seen as trying not to be seen. A question for the reader: can jason see this interplay, this age old vision bouncing between two people, or is he blind to it?] I had to tell Jason to get lost at that point. Besides, he served his purpose. But the thing that really got to me . . . " Sandy nodded periodically, feigning a hypnotic absorption to keep Cassandra from questioning her sponge-like capacity to uptake the overload of triviality Cassandra was laying on with such thick strokes of her tongue.
Meanwhile, Sandy was busy with another level of activity, balanced directly beneath the topic of discussion. Their breakfast clanged down on the table, the white porcelain plates of eggs and varieties of ham did nothing to reflect the beauty of Sandy's porcelain complexion, the soft waves of blonde hair and the elegance of her figure (which somehow made a space between 'too thin' and 'slightly chubby'). but she would eat it anyway. Her body would put it to use, to recreate and perpetuate Sandy's flawless silhoette. And this was what Sandy was thinking about: how was she to perpetuate her living figure? Last month her doctor had told her that she was sterile, that she, the only child of two only children, would have to satisfy an entire family line within her own lifetime; that the happiness of her descendants was her, the last of at least two lineages. Sandy was a genealogical dead-end and knowing the future was the worst thing that could press itself on her mind.
Coffee and orange juice swung around counters, servers did their best not to show the anxious speed with which they partook (with those cooks, those lovers of beauty) behind the walls of the kitchen. Fredrich, the immigrant German seating host, butchered common american names like Greg, George, Jamie and Josh intermittently, cutting through the air with his voice, his rough foreign tongue. Sandy and Cassandra had only thought of him briefly as he sat them, as his eyes sank into Cassandra's tight jeaned ass, most specifically the nexus of visual pleasure where the butt and thigh meat. They had ignored him and hid their behinds on the vintage cushions of the pastiche diner. He swept his attention elsewhere as Cassandra's voice stumbled into its usual commotion.
Sandy's attention was still on the week before, on the night with Lilly. Her mind combining two threads of thought: her sterility and her first sexual encounter with a woman. She met Lilly through Cassandra's friend Jennifer (which was the one who had introduced Cassandra to both John and his friend Handen. Unfortunate name as it is, he's responsible for introducing Cassandra to Jason). After a party at Jennifer's ex-boyfriend Rick's, Lilly had swept Sandy away to Lilly's apartment/loft downtown. at the party and slightly taken with alcohol, Sandy had let it slip to Lilly that she had just learned about her sterility the few days before and that, among a multitude of other thoughts, Sandy was questioning her sexuality, her biological make-up, her reason d'entre, her vague notion of who she was. Sandy had no intention of becoming a Lesbian, or even some shadowy stereotype of one, but she had sex with Lilly just the same. After a rash developed that weekend, Sandy went to the doctor again to find out she had contracted some kind of worm which was leaving brown, crescent shape spots around her bikini line. The doctor wasn't sure how Sandy could have contracted it, or how exactly to treat it, so he referred her to a specialist. Sandy wasn't sure she had the money for the specialist and still felt too embarassed to borrow money from her parents or Cassandra. The doctor's news seem to pile on shame after shame.
"So, anyway, I ended up going home with Jason anyway. Now I just hope --cause I mean, we didn't have sex-- that he'll just stop calling and lose interest or something. Fuck! my homestyle potatos are cold! I knew we should have gone down the street; this vintage diner crap just doesn't cut it."
Sandy felt something new about the cafe - - actually, not so much of the cafe per se, but rather a new, almost ubiquitous atmosphere that she could sense around her. whether it was her sensation or the thing itself that was new was one of the questions she had in mind, yet what occupied her more seriously than those trivial banalities of the mind's focused rumblings was the thing itself. but her feeling couldn't stay long, for whatever reason, and Sandy began to lose her focus. She felt at a loss for a moment before suddenly picking up the thought again, this time with greater intensity and determination.
"Cassandra," Sandy began, imitating the meaningful tone she had always known from movies, from television, from the archives of personality. Cassandra heard the tone and responded with an inquisitive and caring glance evoking the sweetheart, are you alright? routine which seemed to correspond to Sandy's call to emotion. Sandy brought her eyes back down to her food, and began poking at the congealing bacon. The soft, white, fatty ends flanking either side of the various brown swirls. When it first arrived at the table, the steam, so light and rising, promised to lift every subtle flavor off the scratched surface of the porcelin plate and into the air; Sandy had been entranced by the wavering scent, reminding her distinctly of the first time she went on vacation with her dad. her mother, an energetic and demanding Jewish woman, made Sandy follow kosher law. Her father, a jew as well, could have cared less, and with her mother visiting friends on the other side of the country, Sandy and dad were free to chew on a live pig if they wished. But now, the smell from the table gone, all Sandy had was a mirror of the brown cresenct moons on her thigh and a stench closer to wet fur then a carefree vacation. Sandy wanted to throw up.
"Cassandra, I'm pregnant," Sandy said with wide, convincing eyes. the activity of the restaurant began to pick up and the bustle condensed into the mood of the moment. Cassandra looked confused while she asked with hesitating rhythm, "Sandy . . . ? Honey, I thought the doctor just told you that you couldn't have babies. Have you even been with a guy lately?"
"No . . . just - - nevermind."
"What? Nevermind? How am I supposed to 'nevermind' that?" Cassandra was obviously flustered, as if Sandy had just perpatrated a grand abuse on language, on truth itself. You can't say nevermind after declaring yourself pregnant. That's just not something people do. But Sandy's eyes were back on her food again, her stare dense yet unfocused. Cassandra's indignation subsided and something like empathy crawled out of the confusion and into a clear space. Cassandra was worried.
"Sandy," she began slowly, "What's wrong? What happened?" A stack of plates in the kitchen finally fell, sending some of the shards into view of the dining area. An almost theatrical sigh came from the kitchen, loud and convincing. Sandy could feel her confusion mounting into determination.
She drew Cassandra from her seat by her wrist and led her to the bathroom. They left the seats of the booth warm, the indentation of their bodies retreating to the most common shape of the bench. Their food, mostly uneaten, sat waiting for the women. They came to the back of the restaurant just as a young man exited the one room lavatory. The girls quickly slid inside and drew the door shut. "Ok," said cassandra with a hint of suspicion and exasperation, "What is going on with you?"
"Look!" and Sandy pulled her white summer skirt and underwear down to her knees. Her crotch was covered in what looked like the profiles of small insects, carved out like hundreds of miniature relief sculptures. The way Sandy was shivering with emotion made it look like the little insects were dancing. Cassandra began to get sick at the sight of them just as Sandy started to cry. Cassandra got herself under control before pulling Sandy to her, Sandy's face pressing into Cassandra's purple blouse. Cassandra began to rock Sandy, cradling her in front of the sink. Cassandra looked into the mirror only briefly before Sandy lifted up her head and whispered, "these are all i can have." Cassandra, obviously confused, opened her mouth to formulate a question, or even something that would seem like a question, just as a pounding began at the bathroom door.
"C'mon, already. Get your damn make-up on," came a feminine voice from the outside. Cassandra looked down at Sandy to make sure she looked presentable. Sandy, so naturally beautiful that she usually neglected make-up, had only a lingering redness in her eyes; no mascara had streaked, no blush needed re-application.
When they sat back down at the table, amidst no notice from other customers, the seats remembered their roll and yielded their comfort to the women. Cassandra began eating her food again, and Fredrich hollared, "Peter for two" with a needless sting in his accent. Sandy looked down at her plate, the eggs now shared the same vinyl texture as the cushioned seat she rested on. The lights in the diner flickered slightly and Sandy threw up over the table. Needless to say, Cassandras blouse was so messy that she wouldn't even embarass herself by taking it to the dry cleaners.
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