gently down

"What do you sell, old man?"

This question asked of a stranger on my door step. An old, old man in a tatty leather duster, clutching a battered briefcase in one knotty hand. Snarled beard. Bloodshot eyes. Rotten yellow teeth. He just stood there for a time, exhaling noxious breath in my general direction. Wheezing, strained, breath. Putrid - like spoiled meat.

"Excuse me - sir? Can I help you?" I asked this question though I didn't even want to. My coffee was growing cold on the kitchen table. The newspaper was only half-read. My toast had popped. "Listen, if you're not going to-"

***

I'm a million miles away, with my consciousness shattered into a billion tiny hyaline shards, each screaming away at light speed. Breathing hard, wind rushing past my face, tears streaming from my eyes - I try to open them, but I can't for the wind. Nothing more than a squint, and the too-bright light of the future hurtling past at nearly three hundred million meters per second.

Sudden stop.

Open eyes.

Desperate junky. My heart is pounding in my chest, and there's the startling realisation that where I've landed is not the future, but another present. Voices voice, but no-one's at the door, so I just stand there for a second feeling the cold winter air jostle past me, uninvited, into my squalid apartment. It brings me down for a moment. Makes me feel almost sober. "Fuck all y'all," I yell out into the dirty hallway.

"Mind playing tricks on me," I say to no-one, and slam the door.

I pick at a sore on my face, and scan the scene. All my friends are here, boiled down into nothing more than shadows huddling in every corner. Butter knives glow white-hot in a stovetop element, and a pile of powdered Prozac sits on the filthy kitchen counter. But it's a colourless crystalline cube which calls my name presently.

Ladybird's got the oven mitts, and she grasps those blistering hot blades, her eyes closing as she registers the heat through thinning burnt fabric. A thin sliver of ice dropped onto hot, hot steel. A thread of oily white smoke, and I'm sucking it all up through the congested shell of a Bic pen.

"Take it all," she purrs.

Everything's all black, and my lungs are full - more than full, bursting. Tiny yellow stars explode ever so slowly from my chest into the great beyond, and I'm making a solemn promise never to exhale.

Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
Dreams of emptiness,
a drumbeat, hypnotising,
like a lifetime of slowly realising
you've found a different kind of hell.

Numb.

Numb.

***

"I'll ask you one more time, old man: what are you trying to sell me?"

A rotten yellow grin accompanied a throaty laugh. He set that briefcase gently down.

"I'm not so much selling or buying as I am repossessing," he said. "And it looks like you were pre-approved for more than you could handle."

ingio

There is nothing new here or anywhere. So goddamn tired of logging the everyday, you tell yourself you have a headache if only to provide a good excuse for popping open the bottle. Take a healthy dose of acetaminophen just because. Go numb. Leaf through 'Cool Memories' for the umpteenth time. Get bored. Dip your mind into a glassy pool of simulacra. Use a fancy word in place of a commonplace one. Practice pretension. Sleep because you have nothing more interesting to do.

We were sitting across from each other beneath the vaulted, smoke-stained ceilings of a smirched little hole of a pub downtown. Papers all over the sticky table. Plans were being drawn up with pens rapidly running out of ink. Pint glasses were emptied and emptied again. By this point, we hadn't even started up the paper, and articles were already being submitted. Good articles, really well-written articles, and we hadn't even found a printer yet. We were in over our heads and didn't even know it. No matter, we wouldn't have cared anyway. We couldn't have cared. I was young, and you, younger still.

"I must admit, I'm a little jealous," you told me out of the beery blue.

I must have scrunched my forehead a little. I'm sure I asked why.

"Because you're starting to get that dignified look about you," you added. "I'm positively filled with envy."

I would have laughed, I'm sure, and brushed off the comment. I wasn't becoming more dignified - I was getting older. By this point, I would have already been made well aware of that, but I would have kept my mouth shut. I would have kept silent to protect you from the knowledge that we are not here forever, knowledge that you were still yet a couple years away from gathering. That first time you get out of bed and groan, stretching your stiffened back. That first twinge in your knee. The first time your memory fails.

There is nothing new here or anywhere. So goddamn tired of writing the same paper over and over again, you tell yourself you have insomnia if only to provide a good excuse for popping open the bottle. Pour yourself three fingers of scotch just because. Go numb. Leaf through 'On the Genealogy of Morals' for the umpteenth time. Get bored. Dip your mind into a murky pool of ressentiment. Use a French word in place of an English one. Practice pomposity. Sleep because you have nothing more interesting to do.

white on white

All around you, poems were being written. With fingertips gliding on dust-covered windowsills. With tired eyes scanning mottled sidewalks. With toes pressed into raw sugar sand on cloudy beaches. Poems for the unenamoured. Poems for the unarmoured. Poems for the unmoored. All around you, poems were being written, but at the centre of your universe where pen tip touched paper, where the point made but a single depression, a poem would not unfold. No words were written - your hand remained steadied, your pen remained stilled. Quieted. Hushed. You had no story to tell.

So you went away to find your self, but wound up, instead, farther from yourself than ever before. A backward island, and a thousand others just like you. You listened to their stories, each and every one of them; always searching, always halfway there. Time passed, and you never quite felt comfortable. You looked at the newcomers and saw bits of who you were - lonely, confused, and overwhelmed - and you looked at the veterans and saw bits of who you might become - lost, arrogant, and hardened. Time served brought with it a surprising relief. There was a silent promise and a ticket home. A long flight back to there.

But you still miss that backward island with its perpetually cloudy, raw sugar beaches, and shining, futuristic nightlife. Another place, another time - and it's all too easy to place great distance between your present and past selves. It wasn't me, it was he, you say, while unconsciously censoring the past. You'll hold close the high times, while pushing away the low. You'll make plans to go back. Still lost, you desire to be found - and instinct tells you to flee. Another city will offer up new opportunities. Another scene will bring a new life. A new lie will bring more lies.

All around you, poems are being written. In the zigzagging tracks of a squirrel in the park. In the rush of air from the flap of an owl's great wings. In the howl of a coyote at two o'clock in the morning. Poems for the disenchanted. Poems for the disenfranchised. Poems for the disavowed. All around you, poems are being written, but at the centre of your universe where pen tip touches paper, where the point makes but a single depression, a poem has yet to unfold. No words are written - your hand remains steadied, your pen remains stilled. Quieted. Hushed.

How long can this last? you ask yourself. Another week without verse. Another year without meter. An entire lifetime without structure. All around you, poems are being written, and it seems so easy. Plagiarism comes quickly to mind. You could live the life of another. Image over substance. Make yourself a home in the shell of another. Your hand begins to shake, and the pen tip begins to quiver as you push harder into the paper with pent-up frustration. Just one line. Just one word. A start. Anything. Nothing comes.

Your life is like this - a poem written with white ink on white paper. Years from now, when you're gone and your page is added to the Great Book, the critics will analyze your contribution. Is it art? they'll ask superciliously. White on white. A blank sheet. They'll share a good laugh while clapping each other on the shoulders, united in their disdain. Poor fellow, they'll add, someone might have told him that even poor art is better than no art at all. And they'll laugh some more. They'll laugh because they know they are right. Their laughter will fade because they know they have always been right. And they'll stop laughing because they know they will always be right. Their laughter ceases because each shares with the others the same disturbing dream. No beginning and no end. Nothing. White on white.

the deciding incident

A month or more wasted in Northern Africa. Hot days spent in pointless conversation with the locals. Chilly nights spent in pointless research at the computer. I didn't sleep much, then. Kept my sweater on because I was cold. Let a bag of coffee beans sit on the kitchen counter because there was little point in putting it away. Caught up on my reading.

I kept a shotgun strapped to the underside of my desk, and a box of shells in the pen drawer. I was waiting for you to appear. Just one more time - I'd be ready. Four locks on the door and not one of them being used. Windows wide open to the crisp night air - and you, if you so desired. But I must have dozed off.

I awoke to smashing, glass tinkling, and found myself surrounded by a group of five masked men, one of which I had to guess was you. My own shotgun was pointed at my face. The box of shells had been spilled all over the floor.

"Do not move!" one of the figures yelled. I immediately detected a Farsi accent. "If you move, I will shoot you right in the face!"

I didn't move. "What's this about?" I asked. "Farhad! Jones!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Get what we come for and get out!"

The other four started to dismantle my flat. Gathering up great bunches of paper. Going through my books. One of the men started to take my computer case apart.

"Lagan," I said. "I knew you'd come."

He didn't say a word, but my talking seemed to excite the shotgun-wielding man a little.

"You! You shut up!"

I ignored him. "Didn't you find it a little strange that my door and windows were unlocked, Lagan?"

He hesitated. I actually saw him hesitate before ripping my hard drive out.

I felt the cold barrel of the shotgun push into my chin.

"You shut up your mouth right now or I will shoot it!"

"Come on, Artie. You must have known I'd have a plan."

He turned to me, and looked right into my eyes. It was him.

Before I could say another word, though, I felt one ton of steel across my chin. A deafening blast. Heat on my forehead. I could smell my own flesh burning. I heard it sizzle like a steak.

Chaos. I was on the floor.

"What did you do, man?" Arthur Lagan. Certainly.

Boots were stomping all around me, running, this way and that.

"I only wanted to strike him! Not shoot!"

"Idiot!"

Hands on my face. Fingers searching. Through my hair.

"He seems to be okay. Powder burns, maybe."

Warmth on my face. Trickling.

"But so much blood!"

More stomping. More running.

"A couple pellets may've made contact, that’s all."

The slamming of a door.

"Come on. We've got to get out of here."

That’s all.

Fade.

wish you were here

The chair creaks, and a cringe appears on my previously expressionless face. My hand rests on the cool steel of a Derringer sitting atop my plain wooden desk. My finger tenses on the trigger. I'm gonna get that sonofabitch if it's the last thing I do.

With each creak of the chair, another cascade of memories is triggered. I stare at the wall straight ahead. Memories. Like scenes cut from a film and left on the editing room floor. Grainy. Overdeveloped. Lagan. I followed that bastard from New York to London only to lose him in Harrods. Ladies wear - should have known. From London, it was a short hop to Greece only to be given the slip at a sixtieth birthday party held for shipping magnate, Spiridon Stefanos. Then, from Greece to Turkey only to run into a dozen dead ends.

The chair creaks. My trigger finger tenses. Always one step behind. But I'll get that sonofabitch. One way or another, I'll get him. I'll follow him to the ends of the earth if I have to. Finger tensing, mind racing, I pay almost no mind to the light footsteps in the hall. The clicking of heels. Wait for it. The knock. One can spend an entire lifetime waiting – and I know I can wait another few seconds.

(re)search

The pills sit in the pit of your nauseous stomach where they're attacked by acid, where they crumble and dissolve as part of a very natural digestive process. You'll use them, what's in them, every part of them. Your body soaks them up, and your eyes close as you wait for that comfortable numbness. It comes - it always does. In your journal you scribble the time lapsed since ingestion: thirty-one minutes. This is the last rational thing you will write today. Air rushes through the trees, roaring in your ears. You try to scream, but can't get past the inhale. Fade.

Hours drag and your mind is stretched taut nearly to the point of snapping. Like a thread of bubblegum twirled on the finger of a teenage girl, pulled too long, pulled too thin. She sat in front of you in high school. Scenes cut from a film, and left on the editing room floor. Grainy. Overdeveloped. Her mind rejecting selected teachings, her body rejecting recommended posture, she's slumped over her desk with the tip of her index finger twirling madly, wrapped in rubbery pink glucose. The strand snaps, and she is surprised to find herself with gum on her chin and no knowledge of the last few seconds. Thirteen years ago today.

It's hot and then cold, and as the blue of evening fades to the black of night you busy yourself with trying to think of a new way to describe the moon. Give up. Scratch your back on the trunk of a tree - that's what they're there for. Feet tingle, and you're surprised to find yourself stamping in a circle, thrashing through the lower branches. Or whatever they are. Scribble these notes in your journal. In case you forget. Don't lose your pen.

Hours drag and your mind is stretched taut nearly to the point of snapping. Like the elastic band of a sling, its shot wrapped in leather, gripped between fingertips. Cut to sudden visions of a time past when this shot - this smoothed rock - was part of something bigger. Cut to sudden visions of a time future when this shot - this smoothed rock - fulfils its destiny. Fingers tremble. A breaking point is reached. This shot will never meet its mark. A cat's eyes glowing in the darkness. Green. More rods than cones and all that. But when she blinks, she is gone - a real vanishing act.

Skin crawls, and you're too weary to investigate the reason. It may be insects - the undergrowth is full of them. It may be your imagination - or what's left of it. Or it may be that some part of you has seen the end of you. How it happens. Why it happens. When. Fingers dig into loose soil. Hours drag and your mind is stretched taut nearly to the point of snapping. How thin can this silvery strand get? How thin before it fails to capture the yellowy glimmer of the moon? How much longer before there is no room left for the morning dew to gather in pools of blue-white crystal in the creases of this consciousness?

An answer is given as the moon sets and the sun begins to rise. The circle of it all. Cycles. The mind is infinite and may be stretched so. As there was no beginning, there is also no end. Minds chewed up and twirled on the fingers of Those Greater may be stretched so forever. But you - you'll come down. The warmth of the high replaced by the cold of reality. You'll take this scene and give it a name. Scribble it in your journal. In case you forget. You're not a druggie, but a researcher. You're not a freak, but an adventurer. You're not a burnout, but a connoisseur.

Monday draws near, and with it, work. A return to normalcy. Or banality. But you'll handle it, comfortable in the knowledge that you have seen something greater than the great grey sea of cubicles. A singular moment when all times - past, present, and future - were braided together and stretched taut nearly to the point of snapping. And the great relax: three strands undone, unwound, loosened. A slow walk from the woods in the morning sun. Your shoes wet with dew. Syrupy moonlight in your hair.

hermit crabs

all these things

In due course, our time will lapse, and when death comes to collect, all the world will be left with are the faint memories of us and all these things. They'll see us in the faces of the living, but won't make a connexion deeper than that nagging feeling of familiarity. "I know him," they'll say with absolute certainty, but will be unable to pluck the name of the dead from their psychic lockbox, and line it up with a living, breathing face. From life we are born, and to life we will return, each carrying the souls of all those who came before us. A million molecules finding new homes. Like hermit crabs in the sea. A strange juxtaposition of living and dead, the whole of which the mind of one or the other can not possibly comprehend on its own - and I don't think I'm making myself very clear.

focus/unfocus

"I don't think I'm making myself very clear," he says, "so allow me to be a little more explicit: she does not photograph very well."

"That's absurd! Whatever do you mean? She's beautiful!"

"I'm not denying she's beautiful," he replies, "but I'm saying the camera has trouble capturing that beauty. What is so clear in life, and so easily seen by the eye, is not so easily seen by the eye of a machine. The camera is missing something. The camera is unable to grasp a vital part of her."

"Well, maybe it's something with the focus. Adjust the aperture. We'll try a different set-up with the lights-"

"There's no use," he says. "No amount of fussing with lights and focus is going to make this machine read her. We may as well send her home. This machine is simply unable to know her. Unable to know her in the way we do now, or in the way I think I may have in another place or time. I can't put my finger on it, but-"

"We could try adjust the levels of-"

"Just send her home."

oblivious

A ride in the back seat of a car, pressed into soft leather, gliding beneath the glittering lights of a busy downtown.

"I'll get out here," she tells the driver.

Stepping out of the car, straightening her skirt, she makes her way through the door of one of her favourite watering holes, and sits down on her stool at the bar. She crosses her legs in a way that optimizes their perfection, and has the attention of the bartender in a matter of seconds.

"Tom Collins," she says. "Slice of orange."

oblivion

He drifts off to sleep, and as he does so, memories of the day - of shoots, of lights, of film - give way to memories of another kind. Memories not quite belonging to himself, but not quite belonging to anyone other than himself, either.

Hand gripping the softness of a clean, white terrycloth towel. The polishing of a glass. Eye on the bottle. Nothing but the best for this lady. Fingers expertly grip, and fluidly flick open the cap. Crystal contents poured into a shaker with lemon, sugar, and ice. A slow trickle into the glass. Top with soda.

"Slice of orange," she says.

A smile is his reply.