Chimera

Volumes where the golden insect crawled fetch glory by the yard, but there is no communication between the ink and the eye, for try as they might, libraries cannot express the depth of what they lack in emotion. Sharp-toothed keys assist the explorer in gaining entry to a world renowned for its emptiness, but there is never any action in the quotidian balance. Read, read, read, they said. However, he was left alone to ponder the fruitlessness of his desperation. Sadly, Hugo observed the declination of reason as three virgins giggled and proceeded to retain their innocence, which, by the way, was neither innocent nor retainable. They must have known what was on offer without the experience, he calculated, for there was guile in their laughter. One of them, she of the radiant halo, dipped and scooped up the golden spider leaving only its latest unreadable tome in a web of silky verbosity. Virgin or muse, he could not tell. Still, he was news once again without the slightest perception of validation. Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way. Yet, he never doubted all was at their behest.

Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.

…those who can’t, teach.

IT'S ALWAYS US VERSUS THEM. I used to be in the Us camp. You used to be also. We all were. And when we were crossing the bridge to the other side, to this side, we all looked for confirmation that we were making the right decisions; as if decision making had anything to do with the ineluctable crossing.

   When it comes to observation, I’d guess about ninety percent of the literature takes place on the bridge, and they call them Coming of Age or Rite of Passage stories.

   We spend a good number of years complaining how They don’t understand Us and our needs, and dealing with peer pressure. Then there’s a short interval, though for some the experience lasts longer, where all the road signs seem to have been removed. Afterwards, we spend the rest of our lives as Them trying to convince Us, because we still feel like Us inside, that things are not as bad as predicated.

   Stories that show children or older minors acting in sinister, or comedic, adult fashion are always popular, while tales of adults doing what is expected of children are just sad or melancholic. When a male author, like Joyce, writes understandingly from the point of view of a female, he is lauded for artistic achievement; conversely, when a woman writes as a man, it is observed that women have always had that capability. It’s a similar situation between youth and adulthood. A very young author who writes well about adult concerns will be applauded for his or her insight whereas blurbs on the books about childhood written by adults frequently begin with the words, “Never before has a story…” blah, blah, blah. Successes in this area seem to come rarely. They are so few and far between that a Catcher in the Rye or A High Wind in Jamaica can last forever, although again, Catcher takes place on the bridge.

   I’m venting because I wrote what I thought was a sharp little six-sentence “story” that described a teenager’s blasé attitude toward her pregnancy (from the point of view of her teacher) and someone in my peer group reviewed thusly, “I think the flash would evoke more feeling if [it] was from the POV of another student, rather than the teacher. Kids have a much more startled/jaded/sneering take on this stuff than adults.” And I’m thinking, “Ah, but if it was told from the point of view of one of the kids, then it wouldn’t be the story I intended to write.” I was attempting to note observation of one of Us prematurely acting out as one of Them through the eyes of one in Their camp. How and why would I observe one of Us from Our side? My peer also made mention of a so-called run-on sentence, which definably wasn’t – due to grammatical punctuation, but here I am at fault because I did not announce the pre-established conventions of the format. It could be I’m too thin-skinned, or perhaps I was attempting to evoke too much in a limited space, but damn me, I was trying.

   Here is the point of my rant, I spend too much time every day with young people, observing their foibles, failures, and successes; I don’t share enough in the lives of my peers. As a writer, I observe, analyze, and reconstruct what I see. I see the young, who are not writing their own stories, and use this as grist for my fiction, when more than likely, and speaking from an ethical point of view, I should be getting inspiration from a level on par with my current experience. Although, I still stand behind the excuse, that I was once a kid too, you know, I guess it’s not passable. These thoughts, this self-recrimination, can lead to writer’s block, which further leads to the posing of the deadly question, “Hey, why write at all?” I keep falling back on my motto, “It’s a dirty business, but someone has to do it.” I can, to a degree, therefore I do.

Puppet

Susana owns a pesto green Volkswagen. I don’t drive. I didn’t when we lived in New York. She always has. Although I take a bus home from work every day, in the evenings, she says she doesn’t want me taking the bus in the morning too because the school is on the other side of town and I would have to leave an hour earlier to get there on time. So I keep the car in gas and she drives me there every day. We argue every morning because I’m responsible for disturbing her sleep. She’s currently between jobs. Twice when I left early and let her sleep in, she was in a grouchy mood all afternoon, so though I suffer guilt and exchange words in the car, I’d rather continue the ritual. The evenings are better that way. This morning after I said I hoped she’d find work soon, she glared at me. When she dropped me off she drove away in silence.

Here in Chiapas the fifteenth and end of the month are quinceanas, paydays. This autumn semester is the toughest of the six I’ve taught at the Tec. I teach four Advanced English classes five times a week. It’s not the hours performing in front of exuberant teenagers that I find so wearing. It’s all the prep work at night and on the weekends, and the bitacoras and other paperwork. Susy and I don’t get much quality time together, but when I get paid we have a nice dinner out, maybe go to a movie, see some friends for drinks and usually have a more intimate night.

Of course I enjoy those nights but I’m not keen on the social evenings beforehand. All of the friends we spend time with speak Spanish and Susy’s so much better at making conversation than I; being half Mexican she would be. She especially likes getting together with Valentina and Raul. Valentina’s a doll, really pleasant, always smiling. Raul’s a snob. He was educated in Texas and can speak English as well as I can, but he never does anymore. He says I need the practice. The three of them talk while I listen, nodding at appropriate moments and occasionally saying, “Gracias,” to waiters.

Today was a quinceana and I was looking forward to a night of heat and passion, such as I can muster these days. Susy’s also better at that. Not working, she would be, but that’s beside the point. I took the bus to Plaza Crystal, figuring I’d pick something up for her at the mall to make things right. At one of the gift shops I found a harlequin puppet in a costume of black and white diamond shapes, with one black tear painted below his left eye. I know she loves that sort of thing.

When I arrived at the house she wasn’t home and the VW wasn’t parked in front. Once inside, I turned on the fan and propped Pierrot against the fruitbowl on the table, made a cup of coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes. And waited. I reread the next units in my texts and graded thirty-four exams. Three hours later, there was still no word from her. It was unlike her to leave me wondering where she was.

At eight-thirty, Valentina called and asked if we were meeting them at Es-tres. I said I didn’t know yet but didn’t mention that I was alone. “Well, if you decide, give me a ring,” she said, “Raul asked me to call him on his cellphone, if we were going to get together tonight.”

“Oh, he’s not there?” I asked.

“No, he went to San Cristobal today but he’s due back in a while. He said he’d try and get back earlier if something was on.”

After finishing with Val, I noticed I’d smoked my last cigarette, so I headed up to the tienda for another pack. Before I left, I stuffed Peirrot behind some empty luggage in the bedroom closet upstairs. In case, Susy came in while I was out, I didn’t want the puppet to speak for me and say the wrong thing.

I was gone much longer than I’d expected as the store’s security guard, who likes to practice his English on me, caught my ear and then I met a neighbor who tried to convince me that I should contribute more than fifty pesos to the fund she was collecting for her sick tia.

As I entered the house, I saw the harlequin right away. He was back on the table. He was propped against the fruitbowl again, but this time with his head drooping in a sad looking way. Between his legs was a small piece of paper. I read the note.

She’d written, “No llores. It’s been fun. I finally found something. –S”

The What-If Factor

Ineradicable cobwebs fill the corners of my life.
The ghosts of things that might have been haunt me though they haven't.

In my dream, we said some terrible things -
No, I take that back,
I said some awful things to you -
Hate-filled words, untake-backable words,
And left you in confusion
Wondering what you'd done.

Then I walked through fire -
Returning to a past which had not, could not happen.

I took the consolation you deserved for myself,
In the arms of someone who no longer was there.
After thinking how good it felt, I realized it could not last.
It was a chimera.

I saw clearly I'd given away the present for a past I could not reclaim
And thus, my future was obliterated.

When you woke me and you were still real,
For a brief moment there was relief,
But then I noticed cobwebs
Constructed of motes of sadness
And felt the heat of the coming fire.

Somewhere in this there's a formula for figuring probability.
Somewhere there's a path to get to the average mean.
There's the murk of the future and the bottleneck of the recent past
And glorious worlds at either end,
But I'm stuck in between.

Some books from my library

The Sequel

Russell Crowe, walking on deck, meets a woman dressed in the flouncy skirts of Colonial times. He too is dressed in a costume of the past, the outfit he wore in Master and Commander which took place during the Napoleonic Wars and had nothing to do with Colonial America. It suddenly dawns on him he must be in a sequel to that film, or Hollywood’s version of a sequel, which doesn’t always adhere to the conceits of the original story.

A consummate actor up to any challenge, he steps into character and asks the woman, whom he does not recognize, but nonetheless admires for her lack of artifice, if he may help her in any way. She responds in the negative, thanks him for the uneventful crossing, and says she did not experience the mal de mer customary on long voyages. Russell tips his tricorner, says, “At your service, ma’am,” and walks aft. A moment later he recalls there were no women on board in the first film, but figures it will make a nice piece of acting if he turns to quietly survey this attractive female. However, when he pivots, she is nowhere to be seen. There is only the empty deck.

Perhaps she was a mirage, the scriptwriter’s way of letting the audience know although the ship is filled with solitary males, at least the captain still has manly desires. If that’s what it was, Russell applauds the unobtrusive effect.

His reverie is disturbed by the voice of a deckhand coming from one of the portals. It is Chris Rock who says without humor, “Captain, New York is in sight. Shall we prepare to dock and go ashore?”

“Eh?” he responds, thinking that like several comedians before him, Rock must have taken a serious role like this to get his shot at a supporting Oscar. “Why certainly.”

Chris makes a gesture at tipping his hat while saying, “Yes sir,” but bareheaded, his action only parallels Russell’s of a few minutes earlier.

Nice comic touch, he thinks. Everything cyclical but subtle.

Soon all the men are on deck but the focus is on Russell behind the man steering. Through his eyes we see the low skyline of Olde New York coming into view. Though impressively reconstructed, he’s thinking, this is not how the story goes. He cannot remember how the script develops, and doesn’t recall this scene from the O’Brian books, but not wanting to appear difficult or incompetent, he remains in character and displays a look he hopes expresses longing, or better – knowing anticipation.

Blunt cut to the men disembarking. Many are meandering off to discover the place, but a carriage is waiting for Russell and his firstmate, who has no lines. Maturin is not around, must have gone to research the flora and fauna. Chris Rock puts the captain’s things on top of the carriage along with a little bundle which is his own then climbs up to sit next to the driver. He glances back to see the leather bags and his little red kerchief-tied bundle. These things make their own statement through juxtaposition.

Our attention is soon diverted by the authenticity of the town, appearing more real than Scorcese’s Gangs of New York but oddly, though not disconcertingly, anachronistic for the time period we thought we were in. This is New York of perhaps 1870. Playing fast and loose with history, the designers have gone through great pains to make everything look authentic albeit for another story.

The carriage approaches a square. Chris notices a statue he assumes to be a pilgrim and remembers in the present day a statue of George Washington stands there. “Oh my, will you look at that,” he says aloud. However, as the carriage rounds the statue it disappears so only the plinth remains visible, as if the carriage’s movement has brought everyone a little further back in time before there was a monument to either.

The streets of the town are festooned for a coming or recent celebration. There are garlands of flowers strung from building to building. But people in top hats and tails are going about their work as if festivity were the furthest thing from their minds. In a window of one of the wooden buildings we see the face of the woman Russell had met on the ship. She looks sad. The hint of a smile as she eyes the passing carriage tells us she is hoping for release from a desperate situation. These men from elsewhere may be her salvation.

Inside the carriage we see Russell, the face of stoicism. He’s hoping someone will arrive to cue him on his next lines. It is strange indeed no one has called, “Cut,” in a long time, but grown weary of being known as difficult he will not be the one to break the mood.

Cut to the interior of an old building. Chris and a friend, whom we hadn’t seen before, are waiting outside an office where the captain has gone to speak to someone. On the door is a placard with the name B. Luhrman.

Chris says to his friend, “I think this other door leads to the roof. I’m going to see how the place looks from above.”

The other man says, “Better be careful not to change anything. You know how altering the past can affect the future.”

Chris looks at him as if to ask, “What are you talking about?” then shrugs and proceeds through the door.

Alone in the hallway, the man fidgets and paces. Now is when the viewer begins to question the sanity of everyone involved in this piece. We, like him, feel on the outside of knowing. If things are to proceed any further, an explanation has to come from someone, before the fourth wall fully materializes

At that moment, Russell comes out of the office. “Where is he?” he asks.

“Sir,” the man sputters, “Captain, sir, he went through that door to have a look from the roof.”

“Oh my god! He shouldn’t have..”

“I told him, sir, to be careful. I told him he could affect history. I said…”

“Stop gibbering, man. That’s not the problem,” Russell says, “We haven’t gone back in time.”

“Sir?”

“It’s just been made clear to me we’re in a sequel occurring in an alternate universe. I don’t think there’s any way out.”

Suddenly, Luhrman announces from behind his door, “That’s right captain and remember my advice regarding sunscreen,” followed by the voice of a castrato singing something unfathomable offstage.

The Hunger of History

The world you see so much before you
Did not dare exist in the Golden Age
For History had no dearth of tales of courage then
With which to fill its page.

Admittingly, its appetite for observation was capped
With the jottings of nefarious doings
But only for variety,
For the heart of its meal was valor.
Now with grimy bib exposed and ravenously rapt,
Its diet consists of ruings.
The joint’s picked clean of heroics
And the scraps can’t improve its pallor.

Emaciated and untrustworthy,
As those short on sustenance are,
It yet provides the grim fascination
Of a once-full gleaming jar –
To wonder what it might be fed
And mourn for its lacking – that is our fate today
As it sits, banging forks on the table
Now the Heroes have all gone away.

Wicked

Axel Fenn had positioned his bony posterior on the last stool in the corner of The Queen’s Ear over three hours earlier and only now heard Perfidia emanating from the jukebox. It must be someone’s favorite song, he thought, as he realized it must have played at least six times. The repetitious melody had been the backdrop to Jacqueline’s accusation which looped itself over and over like lyrics to the tune in his mind.

“You wicked toe rag,” she had taunted. “If not for me, you would still be in your shell—living in that dingy little flat. How could you have done this to me?”

She had a right to ask the question. He would still have to see Felicity every day at the office, but he felt neither wicked, nor lately shy, and had forgotten how unforthcoming he used to be. Was it only eighteen months since he and Jackie had met at the Bromptons and shared a taxi, originally headed toward two destinations, but ineluctably winding up at her place? Throughout the ride he had stared at her slender fingers. The one bugaboo he had developed during those months was the proximity of her toothbrush and the occasional sight of a reddened tampon in the waste bin of her loo. He’d never been a swinger. He usually arrived home early though they rarely did anything more than watch the telly in the evenings. Over time she had put on a little weight and he had lost a stone. And though certain situations might have left him mortified in another life, he could now suffer a canard with the best of them. Perhaps it was true that Jacqueline had prompted his flowering. In that way, she was partly responsible for his susceptibility to Felicity’s charm.

He thought he had been discreet, but it was a bitter pill to discover his transparency.

When her nagging started to wear away the veneer of his docility, he prepared to leave. Really he just wanted to get some air, to think things over, accept his guilt, prepare a proper apology, et cetera, et cetera. As he stood looking sheepish at the door, she said, “Your fly is open.”

He wouldn’t deign to look until he was out in the hall. She had been right.

He walked aimlessly for half an hour. Then, feeling dry, he stopped into The Queen’s Ear. Ale after ale convinced him he could not go back to her place. She would never accept whatever apology he could come up with. His seventh would be the last. He would go back to his own flat for the weekend.

Helen Forrest sang once again, “Your eyes are echoing Perfidia. Forgetful of our promise of love…”

Axel, tipsy, quaffed the last ale and left the pub. He was thinking of possible reasons for Felicity’s dismissal as he walked toward Victoria Station. But she was an excellent accountant and more than likely old Brompton wouldn’t hear of it.

He was on Jacqueline’s street before he realized he had headed away from the direction of his flat. He felt so tired now. He recalled the tomblike shelter of it, but it was so far away.

As he lifted the brass knocker, he wondered if she’d still be awake.

Empty

Kathia sat at the dining room table. Just sat, looking at the morning paper on the floor and the empty chair across from her. She would have to make a move soon. The hospital had called over an hour ago to tell her David had passed away. On the one hand, she was relieved it was over. She would not have to face a future filled with betrayal and doubt, but on the other, she already missed him.

Phone calls had been made already. His sister in Phoenix knew. His brother would be told as soon as they could locate him. Freddy was next door with Sally. She would take care of him for the afternoon. He had already asked Kathia more than once if Daddy wouldn’t be coming home. Sometimes seven-year-olds couldn’t articulate their feelings but they could perceive when things were not right. David had been in the hospital for six weeks.

Six long weeks, during which Kathia had gone through torment wondering what came next in a situation like this. She knew there was no going back, but it didn’t seem there was any going forward either.

The day he had had the heart attack she’d been out of her mind. When she’d found the pictures on his computer, at first, she was afraid. She was looking into the mind of someone she’d lived with for so long but had never really known. It seemed like hundreds of files – all without descriptive names but numbered sequentially. All of young boys engaged in sex acts.

David had done a paper on Internet pornography for the school, but that was two years ago! He couldn’t explain it as research material – not the way the files were so carefully disguised with numbers and stored in a misleadingly named folder. She was scared.

Then she was angry when she thought of Freddy upstairs.

In the murk of her reactions, she recalled how David had asked her to cut her hair very short in a boyish way and how their sex life had improved a bit. He was taking Viagra – he claimed. But it didn’t last very long.

Then he came home unexpectedly early and found her in the den.

“What’s up?” he asked, all innocence.

She glared into his eyes and said nothing.

The screen saver was playing the melody of the theme from Friends. He glanced at the computer and then looked back at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“How could you?” she asked, “What is wrong with you? You have a child of your own. What if someone had pictures of Freddy like that?”

“That will never happen. I don’t know why, I…” but before he could finish, she picked up a paperweight and threw it at him. It missed and shattered against the wall.

She ran past him, shoving him as she did, and he fell in front of a chair. She was all anger and confusion as she raced into the kitchen. Once there, she quickly surveyed her options and then took a large knife from the drainboard.

When he followed her and with outstretched arms, tried to say something, his words were more excuse than explanation.

She held the knife threateningly and said through her tears, “If you ever touch Freddy, in any way…”

It was then that David clutched his chest and fell to the floor.


She’d only visited him once a week. The difference in their ages had never seemed so vast until the fourth week when she realized he wasn’t going to recover. At fifty-six, he looked like a man of seventy. The enormity of her anger had dissipated on seeing him like that and confusion had filled the space. She knew only that she could never sleep next to him again. She would never kiss him again while he was conscious, and what she felt most acutely was that there would be no vindication. He was escaping retribution. She never told him that she had formatted the hard drive, blindly wiping out all his work, and hers, everything.


At the table, she realized she had probably sentenced him to self-annihilation with the hatred in her eyes that day in the kitchen. A thought crossed her mind. She couldn’t remember now what she’d been searching for when she discovered the pictures.

Something I Heard Before

I listened to the stirring of leaves in the wind
Awaiting the rest to which they'd come,
But didn't.
In a season of wandering I was aware there'd be but one
Movement and it was all movement, mostly for show.
Stillness would reveal weakness
I wanted nobody to see.

Some said, There's no time limit to your grief.
Some said, This will pass, but never really pass,
You will learn to accept the reality of it.
Some said, You are so strong.
I wasn't.

I listened to the wind and knew or thought or hoped
When it calmed, my heart would beat a little faster
And I would smile again,
Not to belie my emotions, not
To stop friends from saying the right thing,
Not because I am supposed to
Develop and change and continue solo,

But because something I heard in another time
Took its hold in memory until movement
Dispelled it. I felt hairs stand; a chill
– not icy death – but refreshing awareness.
I heard peals of laughter.
Sadness became someone else's burden
– and I no longer heard the wind,
Only something I had heard before.