Useless is an Utterly Useless Word

Daniel Ford rounded the corner of State Street. Four blocks up and forty-eight feet to the east lay 113 Wisconsin, the home of Philip Hirsch, a fellow therapist, and Doloris his lovely wife. Daniel Ford had been invited to eat dinner that evening at their home located at 113 Wisconsin, four blocks up and then east. The stoop with the potted oleanders, apartment 8 rear, ring the buzzer, P. Hirsch it should say. He should pick up a bottle of something to give to them. It was most likey, an unnecessary gesture, but also proper etiquette. He didn't bring anything when he visited the Anderson's last week and that bastard Jeremy Scott brought flowers for Mrs. Anderson and although Daniel knew Mrs. Anderson thought nothing of his empty-handedness, he didn't like the thought of being shown up.

Daniel Ford was early and would have ten minutes to spare before arriving. Mrs. Hirsch had a sister that would be attending. Mr. Hirsch had warned him earlier that she was supposedly a "looker". Not that Daniel Ford was looking or on the prowl but, he was indeed coming of age. That age where parties were more exhausting than energizing. That age where loud thumping basses induced a throbbing at his temples rather than a churning in his groin. This change in his customs was only natural when it came to men of Daniels age and it was decidedly an appropriate and timely surrender.

Flowers perhaps.
He would be hard pressed to find a decent bottle of wine in any of these bodegas, and their apartment was only another few blocks to- a man pushing a brick wall- go so he had to get something quick or he would show up yet again without-

Daniel stopped and cocked his head.

His senses, which until now had been working at a slower pace than his legs, reeled his mind back to the aforementioned scene.
Without changing his inquisitive expression or the slight angle of his head, he took five steps backwards to the entrance of the alley. A man, at an age not far from his own, seemed to be throwing himself against the brick face of an eleven story apartment building. It appeared as if he was trying with all his energy to push or move the wall for, what seemed to Daniel, no apparent reason.

The alley basked in a grayish hue. Puddles of rainwater from that mornings scattered showers splashed around the mans ankles as he thrust himself, seemingly without concern for physical repercussion, at the solid wall of bricks. Thick grunts and hissed breaths escaped between the mans gritted teeth as he forced himself onto it, virtually attacking the wall.


Was there a door Daniel could not see from this angle? The man was not dressed like he was crazy. In fact, not three feet away from them, propped up against the same wall he was throwing himself at was a briefcase, over which lay a well tailored suit jacket made with the same material and quality as the pair of slacks the man was wearing. Why the hell could this man be doing something so absolutely, practically comically, no definitely comically, futile?

Daniel was so completely enveloped in curiosity he had not noticed that his legs, on an accord of their own, were on their way to approaching the scene and not only that but his lips, in secret alliance with his tongue had already started to form the first words of the blaring question responsible for the contorting of his face, "What the fu-" The sound of his own voice snapped him out of his trance. He quickly caught his escaping voice with a cupped palm as if catching an escaping moth.

He was suddenly aware of his position. He was standing not two feet away from the insane man. So close he could observe almost every detail. The beads of sweat rolling from the mans brow, the veins bulging through the skin of his neck and forehead as he forced himself against it, his palms raw from cuts and abrasions returned onto him from the corrosive exterior of the unreasonable wall, the pleading whimpers behind each grunt and growl.

Such an indecent lack of restraint, but for what?

Daniel Ford was compelled to speak.

May I ask what you are doing.
The man continued pushing against the wall.

Or maybe, why are you doing what you’re doing.
The man made no indication of acknowledging Daniel Ford’s presence.

Why this building.
Are you mad.
Or is this some type of television show.
Is there a camera hidden somewhere documenting this.

Daniel's head turned on its axis, searching the alley corners for some sort of fiber-optic. Despite his heroic attempts at conversation the man carried on undaunted.

I don’t understand what you are trying to accomplish.
Do you actually think that this building can be made to move.

Daniel Ford was being ignored.
Yes, of course if by some bulldozer or some demolition crew, but by you, with only your two hands. How do you expect to do that.

Daniel Ford was beginning to take offense.

Why do you not listen.
Do you not believe me.
Do you think for some reason, I've come to harm you.
That you can't trust me.

The man reared up and charged at the wall full force. Slamming himself into it in the exact position as if he was trying to stop a train. Pushing with all of his might. Saliva and hot breath seethed through his clenched teeth.

Daniel Ford's charity was being rejected.

I have nothing to do with you, you know.
My even speaking to you right now is of no benefit to me only you!

Until now, the sounds of scuffling, groans and growls, and the neverending influx of questions circling round Daniel Fords head muted any noise from the world beyond the alley. At Daniel Fords last mention the man actually stopped his struggling. Echos of life and laughter street seeped in from the street.
Daniel Ford was encouraged to continue.

Look, at your watch, now you can't fake that quality. You obviously are a man of accomplishments. You have enough presence of mind it seems to dress smart.

The man's breathing slowed down. For the first time his body seemed to relax. His shoulders heaved as his breaths deepened and regulated. He remained in position; head lowered, palms against the wall, elbows locked, frozen.

Still, Daniel Ford felt he was making progress.

What is your field of work in. Finance. Law. Politics.
What if your boss happened upon here.
Do you realize your entire life's work could be completely flushed if the wrong person witnessed such an indecent lack of restraint.
If not for yourself, think of the welfare of your family! Your wife!-if you have one- How would she explain this to people? Your children! -if you have any-

A long drawn out note emitted from the mans bowed head. It rose harmonious, as if he were starting to sing, but dipped perilously into a heart wrenching wail and the man instead sobbed.

Daniel Ford pitied him. He used his most sympathetic tone.

It’s a completely useless feat and, if only by yourself, impossible by every angle.

Slowly the man lifted his head. His face was withdrawn, defeated beneath a thin layer of gray soot. A slow inconsistent stream of tears trickled from the crow’s-feet of his eyes making erratic trails of clean skin through the soot. Finally, he removed his hands from the wall. His arms fell limply to his side.

With a heavy sigh the man stood back and gave a look up and around at the vast expanse of brick and mortar stacked in front of him at least fifty feet in length and eleven stories tall.

Daniel Ford felt he was begining to understand.
It probably has nothing to do with the wall, does it?
Look, I don't know who you are or what got you into this situation, but I feel I could help if you only-

With a crazed, carnal scream he starts back up again (!) and hurled himself into the wall with a loud fleshy smack, save if you could hear the smack above the screaming.

Daniel Ford’s initial reaction was appalled offense though it morphed quickly into a guarded sense of disease as he bore witness to the most animalistic of transformations.
A tragic high pitched howl tore gutturally from the mans lungs with each running start and bone crunching impact. If the mans preceding actions could be described as desperate, then this could only be gestured as flailing maniacal rage.

Once Daniel realized the mans attentions were once again devoted to the wall all concerns habored for his own safety suddenly channeled into indignation...
What are you doing man!

...and then into rage.
Its brick! Red brick!Several tons of it on this wall alone! It’s solid you fool! SOLID!

Daniel Ford hit the wall hard with his fist to make the point. Immediately a blinding pain and a sensation of disenjointment flared through his knuckles. His eyes widened and he burped a gasp of pain!
His face, beet red with anger, shot up at the man.

LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE!
He cradled his closed fist to his chest like a fallen sparrow.

MY HAND! IT’S BROKEN! YOU MANIAC!

The man had not skipped one beat. Over and over he ran at the wall pushing with all his might with more fervor than ever. He charged, collided, pushed then retreated for another running start, charged at it again, collided, pushed then retreated, over and over.

Daniel Ford's head followed each charge and retreat as if he were watching a tennis match.

You're a maniac!
Daniel Ford shouted as he backed away.
You're going to kill yourself doing this and no one is even going to care!

Charge, collide, push, retreat. Charge, collide, push, retreat.

A maniac.
Daniel Ford muttered, more to himself as he took one last step back then out of the alley and away down the street.

Charge, collide, push, retreat. Charge, collide, push, retreat. The man continued his cycle way into the night. Charge, collide, push, retreat. Charge, collide, push, retreat. Hours after Daniel Ford left him. Charge, collide, push, retreat. Charge, collide, push, retreat.
Then all of a sudden...Charge, collide, push, retreat. Charge-

He stopped.

The man stood in the middle of the alley gathering his breath. After a few moments, he straightened out the sleeves of his dress shirt, first the left, then the right. He bent down retrieving his suit jacket and looked toward the sky absentmindedly while he did so, searching for the time through position of sun or moon as he adjusted his cuffs and collar. Slowly and with ease, for his body did ache, he picked up his briefcase. Blood, gravel and mortar pressed between his hand and the fine leather grip. He took a last look at the brick-faced wall in front of him and nodded agreeably. Then he stepped out of the alley and into the night.

The Fourth of July

The day was the day of the fourth of July
I raised up an eagle and taught it to fly
Took hold of its wings and took off to the sky
We soared to great heights and dove dizzying dives
And dashed through the fireworks of the fourth of July

I stood on its wings with my arms way up high
And as the clouds brushed my fingers and the wind kissed my eyes
I let myself fall with a heave and a sigh
My stomach dropped low and my heart hit a high
As I danced twirled and giggled through the deep purple sky

Without any regret I cut all my ties
With the people I knew and their petty little lives
I pulled myself free from their bondage of lies
From their sharped fanged smiles and their pale empty eyes
And put up a wall between their world and mine
Between theirs on the earth and mine in the sky

I did this while falling, I let go of that life
I threw out my arms and opened my eys
And saw stars falling upward and fire shooting by
Laughing hysterically, I let out a cry
And felt thoroughly happy for the very first time

Content and at peace in the midsummer sky
While falling toward earth I fell into life

The Swing of the Pendulum

When I was around thirteen years old my younger brother and I got into a skirmish over chores. We came from a family of four children and our parents made up a system of rotating cleaning duties. One day you had sweeping, the next vacuuming, one day the counters and the next the dishes; something we children considered choreographed slavery.The dishes were the worst. The output of dirty dishes on certain days would be equivalent to a family twice our size. Days like these would have us slaving away in the kitchen for hours which is a lifetime to a child when all you have as a backdrop is the sounding laughter of your siblings watching cartoons in the room adjacent.

Because of this the dishes were usually done in haste without any real attention being paid to cleanliness. So to ensure quality workmanship, our parents implemented a rule: If there was found one dirty dish within the load of "clean" dishes you would have dish duty again that day and everyday thereafter until the entire load came out clean.

As usual with children, we found ways to work around this new rule. Early in the morning, we would run down to do our a spot check of the dish load before they could be inspected by any higher authority(our parents) or foe (a sibling) and put whatever dirty dishes that were found in the sink with the stack of new dirty dishes without being caught.

I got caught.
As I stood over the load I caught a figure stalking me from the corner of my eye. My brother stood not six feet behind me watching, unaware I was tracking his every move from the oven door’s reflection. I gathered what his plan was. He was going to let me finish my scan then confront me with the dirty dishes I found, saving the trouble of having to look himself. In my hand I held the sole imperfect piece from the load: A wooden spoon with some spaghetti sauce encrusted on it. With stealth, I very carefully slipped the handle of the wooden spoon into the waist of my pajama bottoms and covered the rest of it over with my shirt. When I felt sure that it was securely in place and would not fall through, I stood straight and walked away with a smug smile and a healthy good morning to my brother. He rushed past me over to the dishwasher to make a second more thorough search. As he passed his line of vision got snagged at my stomach. He stopped and turned to face me. It was a big spoon and only half was in my waist. The top end flayed forward with each step I took, looking like a small fist forcing its way out of my stomach. For a moment we both stood considering my abdominal protrusion; then I bolted.

I hadn't any set area of refuge in mind, I didn't have time to think of one. So, I went anywhere, everywhere. Through the dining room, into the den, out the window into the front yard, down the street, back up the street, through the woods dividing our yard from the neighbors, into their garage, through their kitchen, out into their backyard, into our backyard, back into our kitchen and down into our garage.Our house was built on the incline of a hill and situated on a platform of sorts. Our garage was a cove constructed on the side of the house below the main foundation. Since the house sat on top of the hill we would have to go "downstairs" into the garage. As soon as I reached the last step down I understood I had made a grave error. I had planned to hit the garage door switch very quickly and escape into the backyard and into the woods. The Appalachian trail ran somewhere through there and I had been meaning to travel.
But the button was a dud, I learned later that it had broken the night before. I did not have time to open the door manually as my brother was directly behind me. I realized after a couple of times rushing around and between our family’s dual minivans that I had nowhere to go. I couldn't run around the cars forever and giving that my brothers was so close my stamina wasn’t going to last much longer. I could not make it back up the stairs as I was too winded. He was close, his outstretched fingers flicked against the collar of my shirt. I was facing certain defeat.

No. It wasn't even about the spoon anymore. This snarling beast behind me was a predator and I had a will to live. It was here, at this moment, that I experienced what few people ever experience in the entire stretch of their lives.
Doubt, inhibition and logic shed from me like a silk slip falling to my ankles.
It was this way or no way at all. I had nothing to lose. I made one last lap around the cars and dashed up the stairs. I lost momentum immediately and felt my brother’s fingers establishing a firm grip on my shirt collar.

Still, the man in my head weighing the logistics and calculating my odds gave up all hope and with one quick sweep of his hands threw all the formulas and papers onto the floor and jumping onto the desk, screamed "JUST RUN!!"

A vibration, a voice within my sternum murmured, "You can do this."
It was a statement. It was a fact. It was a truth, I believed it.

"You can do this." it said into my ear, this time louder. Fours steps left.
My brothers fingers gained firm hold around the back of my neck and then it came:
A deafening shout blasting through me.
"YOU CAN DO THIS!!! "

It was me. I screamed this out loud without even being aware of it, and it happened. I felt what can only be described as the palm of a hand on my back just below my shoulder blades and I was pushed, propelled with velocity beyond that of my physical capacity, beyond anything I've ever experienced with my body to date. I whooshed over the remainder of the steps, through the door and turning in a whirlwind, slammed it shut on my brother’s face.

I lay panting on the kitchen floor as I listened to him scream and shout, banging on the door with his fist still clutching the strip of fabric that was my torn collar.

Although I understand the actual circumstance does not weigh much with gravity, I beg you not make light of it. For one moment in my life I was supernatural. I had read about this before. I believed it to be the same force that, after the horrific crash, made the already injured mother lift the car to save her child pinned underneath.

Am I being self-indulgent? Is this just the delusional exaggeration of a run of the mill adrenaline surge?
I see your raised eyebrow but I cannot bow my head. True the situation may have been on superficial side, still it was what it was. I cannot deny that this day existed. I cannot deny it's truth.

As I lay catching my breath on the cool tile of the kitchen floor a transformation occurred. I became a believer. What was before only a muscle dormant in atrophic paralysis now was alive and available. In the many tumultuous years since those burgeoning moments this phrase has matured into a desperate mantra.

You can do this, You can do this.

I repeat it out loud, under my breath, all day everyday. With each step, You can do this, You can do this. With each passing car, You can do this, You can do this.What can I do? Very little. Wake up, step out of bed, shower, get dressed, inhale, exhale, eat, go back to sleep.

I repeat it out loud, under my breath, all day everyday. With each step, You can do this, You can do this. With each passing car, You can do this, You can do this.
What can I do? Very little.
Wake up, step out of bed, shower, get dressed, inhale, exhale, eat, go back to sleep, and even this takes every bit of my will.

I have come to rely on this supernatural force for all of these things. It is this that keeps me inhaling and exhaling, this that pulls my left foot out, my right in front of it and then my left again, until I make my way home and into my bed then up again the next morning.

You can do this, You can do this, You can do this, with each revolution of my bloodstream. It is the surgeon on my chest aborting all other means, hand laid over hand, desperately pumping my weak heart manually. If this force were to stop so would the steps I take, the beat of my heart and eventually, my breath.

It stopped for Solomon.
Not to long ago my friend Solomon hung himself from the rafters in the garage of his mother's house. He hung himself and his mother found him.

Allow me to enlighten you to the plight of this . He was smart, too smart, gifted or so his warped family cooed. He knew so much that he couldn't be taught anything. It left him tortured, restless, incompetent.

Solomon was so much of a trendsetter I half-expected a slew of copycat hipster suicides to follow in his wake. He was beautiful. The mans beauty was well known and celebrated. He stood at 6'3, with olive skin. His hair was black or maybe a real dark chestnut; and it was curly, curly like Cupid. He had these huge dark eyes, just as dark as his hair, but with a penetrating depth and hedged by eyelashes as long and thick as a push broom's bristles. A direct stare from this man would leave the most stoic of people shifting in their seats, staring at their feet, feeling the need to apologize but not knowing why.

This man had a presence overpowering anyone in a 100 foot radius. I used to live in an area of Los Angeles where celebrity-life abounded. I worked at an office located at a private airport and witnessed celebrity sightings all the time, noteworthy ones. But very few had the presence that this public school educated, college drop-out drifter had. When he stepped into a room the effect would be immediate. Faces would pull toward him as if by strings attached to their chins. It was magnetic. At first it would be subtle, just a casual glance, then conversations would trail away, words dissipating into silence as the speakers turned their heads full around to follow the stranger. Even later, when he was seated, surrendering to their curiosity people would check back, craning their necks with puzzled looks, annoyed their attention was being drawn unwillingly, as if by brute force, toward the dark man in the corner.

The power of presence: an unseen cloud of magnetic energy shrouding him, subtly demanding the attention of anyone within his vicinity so that you had only the choice to look his way or wonder over the sudden sprout of goose pimples on your skin.

I often wonder of what happened to this cloud, his presence, when he died. Did it too die immediately upon his expire or did it linger for a while, straying just a bit, drifting, leaving a trail through the house for his mother to find?

Did it know she was coming? Did it anticipate the sound of steps leading up the path, hovering, waiting to be the first prickle of uneasiness to welcome her as she entered an unnaturally quiet house? Beckoning her deeper through the halls as she called out to see if he was home. Leading her playfully, cold-heartedly, by the chin, tickling her clavicle, hooking into that maternal ESP and reeling her directly to the door where the rest of the cloud hovered in a stagnant fog around the silhouette of her son's body rocking gently at the end of a rope.


This presence, this unseen influence, is what most likely played a large part in inviting the large amount of people who attended his funeral. People everywhere. All of them holding onto each other, crying 'Why? Why?' This struck me as a little odd, this question. I had never asked it myself. I had no need to ask why he did it. Even when they told me his passing came from his own hands, I never had the impulse to ask why. No one who knew Solomon would have to ask why. True, by nature the word would seep its way from a shocked frontal lobe down to the throat and from there to the tongue but die on your lips because it would only take this amount time to realize that you had already known this was going to happen. Any person who knew Solomon would have no need to demand an explanation. But you, dear reader, did not know him so I will tell you why.

Solomon’s shoulders hung low and dead years before his body would. As physically beautiful as he was, the weight of the world was very apparent on him. Some might say that the answer is as simple as the mono-syllabic question that begs it.
He couldn't do this.

Solomon made an informed and logical, albeit detached, decision opting for the temporary pain of death by asphyxiation via rope so he did not have to bear the excruciating pain of asphyxiation via hopelessness.

Hopelessness: a leading cause of death among today's generation, easily transmittable and heavily contagious. A close examination of this generation will leave you terminal. You will see a generation bereft of humanity. A generation whose number one purpose is to convince everyone of who is fat is who is beautiful of who is rich, of who is destitute, of who is socially infallible, of who is not good enough of who will never be good enough: you.

A generation taught to act as a pack of vicious social cannibals. People are praised and petted and then torn apart and devoured at the first sign of weakness, be it monetary, mental, emotional or physical.

A generation of sensory overload; flashing lights, thumping basses. Anything can be considered music as long as the front man exhibits enough forced eccentricity to market.

A generation of cheap tricks. A generation convincing you that something is wrong. Ask your doctor! Ask your doctor!Voice over: Serious side effects include vomiting, diarrhea, loss of vision, impotence, infertility, suicidal tendencies, running amok about town with an axe.

A generation only doing what has already been done, just fucking it up, wrapping it in shiny cellophane and calling it a remix. A generation glittering and fabulous, covered in jewels and furs, stuck in the muck of their own shit and refusing to move.

Last night I fell asleep while watching TV and had a dream. A pendulum stood suspended high in the air, swinging to and fro over an infinitely huge television screen. With each swing the channel flickered and switched increasing in speed faster and faster in succession until the screen became a pulsing strobe and the pendulum lay fixed, clicking in the top corner.

Fade to black: A stage, a stool and a man.
Who is this man? Is it you, Solomon? What is he doing? Talking? Just talking? How can this be entertaining? Talking. Just talking. About what? Love, life, right, wrong. About an animal breathing, beating, tearing at the walls of its den behind your left rib cage.
About basics. Because excess is exactly excess.
About bringing it back, all the way back.
Back to charcoal and saffron rather than photoshop.
Back to a live voice rather than a pitch machine.
Back to real flames rather than a flapping sheet of silk.

Back. Back. All the way. Bring it all back.
Books. Written words on paper made from pressed wood. Music. Instruments made of wood, strings, brass and wind.

The pendulum has been lodged in this position for too long. I wake up sweating, out of breath, excited. I calculate my odds: I exist. I am alive. I must have a counterpart. I must. And if there are two of us then there must be three. I do not believe that I am alone. So I'll send out a distress call, a sonar signal vibrating through the flutter of these pages.

We need to stop. Think. Simplify. We need to go back. We are wedged. We are working hard, to make life easier, portable. We are running, exhausting ourselves going nowhere fast with the only thing showing for it being our drooping shoulders, weighed down and dead. We are at such a loss we have nothing to lose. We can do this. Let the man calculating our odds fling all of the logistics and formulas onto the floor, jump on the table and scream, YOU CAN DO THIS.
People will hear. Ears will perk up, spines will tingle and they will be drawn as if by the sheer magnetism of our ever enlarging cloud of collective energy. They will be drawn through the muck and shit of the pill-popping, pitch manipulating, cocktail schmoozing masses making money make everything, makes everything easier, makes everything good, makes good schools makes good job makes success makes a hot wife makes good hookers makes divorce makes child support makes a generation of charts and graphs and target markets, a generation sex sells, sells sex, sell sex, sell it.

We can do this. We can dislodge ourselves with one collective heave. Actually, fuck the collective. If you don't help I can do it myself. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Whether you are involved are not it is going to happen. But you are out there because if I am out here someone else is too. We just need one good thrust, a helping hand against our backs. It will come if we call and once it does we will be supernatural. For I can already hear a mummer which will soon be a shout which will soon be an involuntary scream and no longer a mantra but a battle cry and no longer the swing of the pendulum but the swing of an axe as we put one foot down and then the next and take one breath and then a next to do this we can do this we can do this we can!

A Night Sky

I can read minds. I can. You do not believe me? Well then, I will show you. See the young woman stepping on? She has her eye on the young man in the blue hat over there, the one reading his paper. He has not noticed her yet. She has decided to take the available seat next to him. Oh, but it just was taken. So, she will stand in front of him then, holding the bar above their heads instead. She has decided to let herself lurch ahead just a bit once the train jolts to a start, letting their knees touch only a brush. He will look up and she will catch his eyes and hold them captive the way she knows how to do. Watch. There, it worked. He is caught and he stands, offering her his seat. Conversation ensues, exactly as she had planned.

She is not the only one. See the woman sitting across from us. She is not asleep, he is only resting, but still she is dreaming. You can see her eyelids fluttering. Track the bulge of her eyeballs moving to and fro behind the thick coat of blue eye shadow. Her fake lashes tremble sporadically, sifting blue residue onto her cheeks.

This is what she is dreaming:
In her head is a pond, iced over, frozen solid, concealed within a thick forest of evergreens, a winter wonderland. The entire landscape is made up in shades of blue, everything is glittering with ice and snow. Three people are in this dream. A man and woman; star crossed lovers, dancing on the ice, and a pair eyes within the forest watching them. Two of the people are her. She is the woman dancing on the ice and the eyes watching. She is falling deeper into the dream, teetering on the brink sleep. See how her heavy chin falls into itself, doubling until there is no jawline, only a mass of neck, a dimple and then lips.

The woman dancing on the ice is a person whom she has never been. She has been overweight since she was a little child. The woman gliding on the ice is slender as a rose and just as statuesque. Ah, a pirouette. She spins, looking toward the sky with one arm swept gracefully behind her and the other raised high toward the heavens. Her hand positioned as if she were accepting the hand of God. She spins with such fluidity, like a silk ribbon caught in an updraft. So fast, her form begins to resemble that of a tulip. The handsome lover encircles her, protecting his flower. At length, he grows lonely and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her out of spin and into him. They stare into each other’s eyes, they kiss passionately. Look, outside she is smiling. From her view behind the ice bejeweled branches she watches through tears, both sad that it is not her that is being loved and elated that it is.

Now, releasing each other from their embrace, they glide side by side. With one swift scoop, he lifts her high above his head. She soars, splicing through the winter air. He is supporting her by just one flattened palm at her midsection. He will not let her fall. He loves her. She trusts him. She feels the cold air rushing at her. Look down at her arm, she has goosepimples. The she that is watching from behind the trees cannot take the beautiful scene for much longer. Look, a tear. She will wake up now. She has let herself float too far into her daydream. She brushes away the tear.
This is her stop, so she must go.

Another then. The man at my left, standing at the door across from us. He is very handsome, is he not? Yes, very handsome indeed. Tall, relaxed, rugged. Our eyes are not the only ones on the train directed at him and he knows this. He wears an expensive coat, long, black cashmere, leather gloves and a scarf hanging stylishly from around his neck. He has a charming smile on his face. His shirt collar is unbuttoned so that you can see his sculpted pillar of a neck flare out into his collarbone. A very nice neck, a neck that demands to be touched.

This man is on his way home. He is very anxious to get there. At home he has two women. Both are young, barely twenty, fair skinned, blonde, between 5'4 and 5'7 with small breast and small feet. One is in bound and gagged in a trunk three feet long and two feet wide. She has laid there in ten hour intervals for a week and a half straight. The other is in a crawlspace above the top of the master bedroom closet. She is dead. When he gets home he will rape them both, the dead one too. The dead one first. He is leaving tomorrow. He is bored and restless and must move onto the next town. The girl who is alive now will not be by ten AM tomorrow morning.

Let us get off here. Yes, I know this is not our stop. We can catch the next train but it is best not be to be in too close of a proximity to someone like this.

What do you mean, stop him? What can I do? I know no more than what I see in his head. No address, no names, nothing. Would you like to follow him and become his next victim? I saw a number and it was 16. Would you like to become number 17? Life is good and life is bad. I can only observe. I cannot interfere. Do not be so sad. Forget what I said about him. What do I know? It could have been all his imagination anyway. I am wrong sometimes.

Here, here is a happy one. See the old man by stairs leaning on his cane? Aged and withered with a long white beard and hair sticking out of everywhere; nose, ears, warts. Everywhere but on the top of his head. You want to know what he is thinking of right now? Flying. That crookety old body of his soaring between skyscrapers, tap dancing off lamppost, paddling himself through the air with his cane in an invisible airborne canoe. Silly thing. Yes, laugh. It is funny. Although he is old, he is just as young as you in heart.

The train has been delayed. We can walk if you’d like. I think we only have a couple of blocks to go and it is not so cold out. Come, let us walk.

Aah! Fresh air! The beautiful sky so black and clear you can almost see the earths reflection in it. This right here above our heads is the answer to the trick of my trade. The human mind is a night sky infinitely spliced by beam after beam of thought at the speed of light, an infinite grid of illuminating manifestations. When I stand in a crowd it is not the chattering cacophony of a congregation of birds in a tree that I hear. The human minds manufactures and processes thought in such high volume and at such a rate of speed that a crowd of people is the deafening thunder of a hundred thousand waterfalls. A gale force rush of daydreams, of wishes, of chants of the days tasks, of corporate rigmarole, of wails and weeping, of angry shouts and screams, of music. Oh, the music I hear! Violins, flutes and pianos. Operas, symphonies and jazz! Lots of jazz. You will always know when the music in their head is jazz by the shoes that are tapping their imaginary bass drum or snare.

What? Do not tell me you are tired already. An old woman like me, wearing you out? Come on, we only have a couple of blocks to go.

See across the street, the café? In the corner table, the redheaded young woman looking out of the window? She is waiting for her lover. She is thinking of him right now. See the discreet smile on her face? She is deaf. Her lover is a pianist. After they make love, she lays naked on his concert grand curled up like a kitten with her cheek pressed against the laminated wood. She lays quiet as he plays for her, feeling the vibrations amble through her body. If she were made to choose, she would not know which she preferred making love to the most, the man or his piano.

Oh, you want to pick one now? Okay, go ahead, be my guest. Who? Which one?
Her, with the orange scarf? Okay. She is thinking about death, a death which is imminent, hers. She has cancer. It will not be too long now. Yes, she is aware of this otherwise, I could not know, now could I?

This is what is in her head:

She is sitting on a bench by a pond in a park. She is alone. She sits patiently with her hands folded in her lap. She is blindfolded. Suddenly, the bench on which she sits lifts into the air steadily as if supported by a crane. She floats at head level making her way from the pond, out of the park and into the main street of town. Little by little, people are opening their windows and looking through the doors at her floating down their street. They all recognize her as someone they know and love and run out to meet her. People stream out from everywhere, hoards of people cheering and shouting. She is a celebrity. They reach up to touch her hand. Although she is blindfolded she greets everyone back, laughing, feeling for them, identifying every person in the crowd by sound orby the touch. She knows them all. They are her friends, they are her family. The seat gains in speed but the crowd runs faster, anxious to stay as close as possible to her until they no longer can keep up.

An older couple, a man and a woman, appear through the hoard. The crowd splits letting them up to the front with a series of happy pats on the back and cheered encouragement. The couple catch up to the bench, waving her down, shouting her name. The female of the couple strongly resembles a matured and aged version of the dying woman. They run up to the suspended seat. You can tell from the way that the young woman’s head perks when she hears the voices of the older couple calling her name that these people hold a special position. Her brow furrows and her mouth crumples into a cry as she follows their voices, feeling around for their hands reaching out to hers, clasping onto to them. They hold the back of her hands against their cheeks and kiss them. She reaches down kissing their hands back. When they no longer can keep up, they let go but hold onto each other, summoning all of their aging might to keep up with her.

Next, the crowd splits again, this time letting through a young adult male with a baby. The seat gains in speed and height but her young husband runs at full speed, until he is at the head of the crowd, the only person still able to keep up. He catches up to her and lifts their infant child over his head up to its mothers hands for a last touch. Her outstreached hands search for and at last find her infant child. With trembling fingers she delicately outlines the child’s face, shoulders and arms all the way to its small palm, tracing its tiny fingers. When her young husband can no longer keep his speed with the child raised high, he lowers the baby and grabs hold of her hand, laying it against his face, against his mouth kissing it passionately. She lifts again. She leans all the way over the side of the bench and gives his head one last loving stroke around his face and through his hair, and she is out of reach.

The crowd still runs underneath her calling out Goodbyes and Good lucks, I love you’s and We’ll see you soons. No one is sad. Everyone is happy and cheering her name, even her family. If anyone is crying, they cry only out of happiness. This her death. She will not be afraid when it comes.


Here we are. Home sweet home. Thank you, young man, I can carry the rest from here. You are as chivalrous as they come. I would offer what little I have for your kindness but I can already see that you will not accept it. A far cry from what you had in mind intentionally. I wouldn’t of had much to take anyway. Yes, I knew. I read minds, I told you. A changed young man from here on out now, aren’t you? I bet. Either way, you are a good soul. That was what I saw when I first looked at you, a withered plant with healthy roots. No, there is no need to apologize. What have you done? Nothing. You walked an old lady home, carrying her groceries. There is no crime against being a gentleman. I trust you. You are good. If I did not see good in you I would not have asked you for help. Now off with you, go home to your family. I am sure your mother is worried sick. I will not forget your kindness and I can see already that you will not soon forget me. Thank you and goodbye.

The Painters Honeymoon 

A Ribbon From His Throat

Exquisite
Ex-quis-ite
The girl laughs to herself. "Who says that?" she asks a passing sparrow. Such an old word, so aristocratic, so dramatic. When was the last time she actually heard it spoken in real conversation, she ponders, much less given to describe her, if ever. But that was what he had said and now, feeling as though she has just had just been newly introduced to the word, she cannot stop saying it herself.

"Ecks-qwis-eetah" She sounds out, extending each S to a soft whistle.
It is dusk and she is on her way home from the market. The grocer’s bags hang from the crook of her elbow, bumping against the side of her leg as her gait assumes a slight skip. In her arms she carries a paper bag holding a separate purchase. She hugs this to her chest as inwardly she revels in the compliment.

E-X-Q-U-I-S-I-T-E What a word! Outside she makes a humble effort to hold back the coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Silly man. He did not ask for her number or for a date. He had pulled his vehicle over as she was walking her usual route and made the statement from the driver’s seat.
Holding his exposed palms at the level of his eyes, as if surrendering, he confessed that this was the third time he had seen her walking and he thought that she was "absolutely exquisite". He drew out the word with an elegant wave of his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed together, as if it were a ribbon he was magically producing from his throat.
It was italicized even as it was spoken.
Then he drove off without even staying for a reaction.
That was it.


Exquisite >adjective
1. Characterized by intricate and beautiful design or execution.
2. Such beauty or delicacy as to arouse intense delight.
3. Excellent; flawless.

What a nice man, she muses, her heart carelessly enamored for the moment. The voice of reason reminded her that it was all too likely that he was not. He was driving a superfluously fancy sports car and altogether he was just too coiffed to be an honest man and unfortunately she was right. He was peer to the most degenerate of assholes. But he meant what he said. For that one moment, his intentions and desires were only pure, without agenda, and he had to tell her before the moment lapsed. Yes, he meant it. In his entire dishonest life he may have never meant anything as much as he meant what he said to her just then.

But a heart free from malice was not needed.
He had given her a nice moment and consequentially she is momentarily happy.

Arriving at her building she is still lost in thought as she approaches the entrance.
"Good evening." greets the doorman.
"Exquisite" she whispers in return.
She repeats the word quietly as she lets herself into her apartment. Humming it over, she sets down the bags and prepares dinner. Her smile still lingers as she sets the table. The china sits stacked in the cupboard and the silvers lay as they've been; stashed away in the buffet cabinet. Meanwhile, she sets out the everyday silverware and plates. The only adornment she allows is one lit candle at the head of the table. She sits at the opposite end.

She had vowed off meat a year and a half ago but regrets each day of the abstinence as the first bite elicits a nostalgic roll of her eyes and a deep moan. Each following forkful demanded and enthusiastic nod of agreement that the food was truly exquisite. While in the midst of enjoying her meal she uncorks a bottle of expensive wine that she had been saving and pours herself a glass. She brings the glass to her nose and inhales its promising aroma and after the first sip she concludes that this too is indeed exquisite.

After the food has been eaten and the wine consumed, she clears the dishes and wipes down the table but leaves the candle to burn out. At the sink, washing the dishes she looks at her hands through the suds in the water, turning them over, from palms to knuckles and back, examining the length of each finger from knuckle to nail. "Exquisite?" She asks the man. She gives up the unanswered question with a slight shrug and continues washing.

When she finishes cleaning she walks into the living room and puts an album from her library on stereo. On the album is La Boheme’s, O Suave Fancuilla. She had always been of the persuasion that this was the sweetest and most innocent love song ever written. As the crescendo of the opening verse makes its ascent, the goosebumps that the song had always made rise shiver over her and she decides that, along with her dinner and the wine, this song too could not be deemed anything less than exquisite. She places the track on repeat and turns the stereo volume high so that it can be heard strong throughout the apartment but particularly in the bathroom where she is drawing water for a bath.

She undresses in her bedroom and wraps herself in a warm heavy robe as she waits for the tub to fill. She is administering a temperature check of the water using her toe as a thermometer when she suddenly remembers something. Trotting briskly back to the kitchen she fetches the paper bag she had left on the counter and brings it into the bathroom which is now thickly fogged with steam from the running water. She sets the crumpled bag on the vanity next to the sink and turns off the tub faucet. She unwraps her robe and rests it on a hook on the bathroom door. Standing naked in front of the mirror she assesses her body.
It isn’t perfect and it isn’t horrible. It is nice. It is pretty good actually. It is nice.
"But exquisite?" Still flattered by his undue sincerity she shakes her head, "What a silly man."

Stepping back up to the sink she opens the paper bag. From it she takes a plastic rectangular instrument with rounded edges. She turns it around, examining it from end to end until she finds a small button located on its side. Holding the tool tightly in her hand she turns and steps daintily into the tub. The water is still steaming as she lowers her body in. Once immersed she rests her head against the cool porcelain edge and exhales. Her mind floats with the notes from the operetta flowing throughout the room. As usual, another crescendo breaks and again goosebumps rise despite the heated water. Rodolfo has finally found his poetry.

She lifts the plastic tool still in her hand and presses the little button. The button then releases a small spring within the tool at which a thin blade protrudes from a small slit at the head. "Fremon già nell'anima le dolcezze estreme nel bacio freme amor!"

She brings the tool to her arm and makes a deep two inch incision along the length of each of her wrist. The pain is acute at first but then turns rhythmic and bearable. She watches the first impearled drops of red fall into the water and unfurl into pink wisps at contact. The flows increase and start to resemble red satin ribbons wrapped around each of her wrists. It only takes Rodolfo once to get Mimi to say she loves him.

Within seconds the water morphs from a sweet pink to an infatuated red. She feels each heartbeat taking consciousness as breaking waves grab at the shore stealing handfuls of sand as they recede. Her shoulder muscles unravel and their knots dissipate with the relief of the release of a burdensome yoke.
"Amore! Amore!" exclaim the lovers.

She is relaxed and puts up no restraint against the heavy fog of lethargy rolling over her, casting the spell of sleep. Her heavy eyelids drop closed with the soft thudded finality of velvet stage curtains closing the final act of which she gracefully bows out.

Klimt