01. Rival nightmares have you crossed to reach this point in time.
02. Endgames are crucial to your development. Plan accordingly for the trials and tribulations afforded by the gathering stormcloud of interlopers, hangers-on and poison apples.
03. Drive, drive, drive as far away as you can. The epicenter will, obviously, be the absolute worst. Watch out for bears and drunken motorists.
--. BEGIN AGAIN. Try try try to separate them.
04. Listen carefully to the edicts of brand new land warlords. They will be more than warlords. They will become your friends and well wishers, replete with gifts of earrings, diamonds, dollar bills untarnished by time, quiet moments in the blaring sun, bags of blood, cloistered nuns, apples, poorly cooked slabs of meat, a throne, a challenging crossword puzzle or a Dalmatian. Trial and error, friends. Consider it your key.
05. It kills me to think of things so simply. There's one spare minute every day. Have you ever come across it? There are burned out warehouses around every corner, industrial complexes too big to imagine. The yelling is aggravating all of my senses. I'm sorry. This is becoming quite dull isn't it?
06. Never ever tell this secret to anybody. They will use it against you at a later date. Trust me. I've been there, buddy. I've been there.
07. Entirely my fault. Really. This has been part of a terrible idea.
7/21/07
Red 04 (Harvard (A Hopeless Story))
His dream had been Harvard. It had always been Harvard, as far back as he could remember. His father had taken him there, as a child, and the sheer stature of the place, the smell of it, the feel of the campus and the intelligence of the chatter all hooked him, all grabbed him by the cheek and reeled him in. His vision could not have been more focused, his scope not even an inch more narrow. Everything he did, he did with the intent of admission. He read non-stop. He devoured his textbooks. He leapt over grade levels. He joined clubs and he volunteered. He read up on ways of gilding his application. He surrendered free time and fun and contentment and fulfillment all to reach his singular brass ring goal.
And when he received the slender envelope, his world fell apart.
He became very despondent, suddenly without purpose and devastated at the loss of his dream. He wasn't sure how to proceed, how to cope with all the wasted time, all the wasted effort. He'd spent so long working toward just getting into the school that he'd expended very little thought on just what he'd do once he got there. He didn't have an endgame in mind, just an opening move... and it had been denied him.
He sat in his room listening to the kind of mopey music he'd avoided when still striving for Harvard. It struck him how very tenuous ambition was, how easy it could be to have the rug pulled out from under you. He decided, listening to sad bastard songs and counting the plaster dimples in the ceiling, that all dreams come to the same conclusion. The timeframe might vary, but no matter what you hope for, eventually it crumbles underneath your feet and leaves you stunned on shattered on your back. He decided to never dream again, to take whatever life would give him without concern and without judging its value. He decided to never give a damn again.
And what slipped out of him at that point of surrender was smoky and strange and more aware of its surroundings than anthropomorphic expunged hope has any right to be. It had a vaguely human shape, if only because that's what it was used to being. It sat next to its former host and tried to console him. But there was no use in the attempt. The separation of his hope was just another event in a life full of events. There was nothing to get excited about. It didn't matter either way. His hope hung around for a bit, and after realizing just how dull its host was without it, flittered away leaving him alone, dulled, remorseless and without a hint of passion.
Without that vampiric creature draining him of the ability to accept mediocrity, his life suddenly became much easier, even as it was less worth living. Without the spikes and valleys of hope, the most maddening things were leveled and uninteresting, as smooth and bland and cold as ice milk. He would have said he enjoyed it if were capable of it, but as he wasn't, he merely noted that it was fine and went about his new daily routine. With the dream of Harvard demolished, he set about finding a job. Whereas, once, the hope of doing something grand and meaningful with his life would have made him miserable in a grind of worthless tedium, now, he was able to immerse himself in the most useless of white collar jobs. For eight and a half hours every day, he plugged figures and data into a computer and generated untold numbers spreadsheets, charts and inventories that were looked at with quick and resolute disinterest by superiors that couldn't have cared much less about the reports or whatever drone of theirs it was that was making them. It was all quite futile, and the paychecks he drew never provided him an ounce of fulfillment, which, in another lifetime, would have seemed unconscionable. When the workday was over, he would plod unerringly home in order to catch programs on the television that didn't offend, provoke or entertain him as much as they did occupy the hours until he was able to go to sleep. Weekends, with their freeform lack of structure were a bit more confounding, but he was able to fill the void handily with a great deal of sitting and staring straight ahead and waiting for either death or sleep to end the day.
His hope, meanwhile, freed from the shackles of its myopic former jailer, was aglow with the liberty of being able to do anything at all. Being without the constraints of a body, too, had a powerful effect... and his hope was able to see all the sights of the world, from Cairo to Greece to the Outback to London to Rio to the Sahara to Montreal to Lisbon to Laos to Madagascar to Antarctica to Botswana to China to Spain to Cleveland. It was quite a tour and as broadening to the mind as something could be to a thing that was, really, not in possession of a real mind at all. And while his hope was capable of being in all these places and, in whatever way a misty body of human wish was able to take in the sights, take in the sights, without the senses of its former body, his hope was unable to truly experience anything. Even though it had passion and desire to spare, his hope was just as passive in its interaction with life as its hopeless body was all inert and waiting on the couch.
The tantalizing breadth of the world just out of its reach was demoralizing. With every passing day, the dreariness of watching with interest and without impact became more and more intolerable. Without hands, it couldn't write of its experiences, without a mouth, it was unable to convey them to anyone in speech. Without eyes and without ears and without nerves to connect all the things together, so much of what it longed to engage was cut off from it. It was physically incapable of creating anything, of expressing anything, of doing anything besides just wanting to do something. It was a being of pure interest unable to impact the world it was so interested in. As time passed and the futility of it, the dreariness of it, the constantly dashed wishes of it became too much to bear, his hope acted in quite a similar fashion to the man that had spawned it. It decided to never dream or wish or want again. And his hope, without hope, became hopeless and thus vanished.
And if he had noticed that his long gone hope had suddenly ceased to be, he never showed it. He continued on his path, day in and day out without change, without want, without sadness or anger or pity or happiness or laughter or joy. He did nothing to speak of, so he didn't, and he waited out his days like so many of the hopeless around him.
One day, he came across that slender letter that had changed his life. Looking at it, reading the words printed so politely on the page, he wondered why he had ever tried at all, and why such a thing had ever been so thrilling and so upsetting to him. He tried to let the memories stir him, but of course, they couldn't. He wadded up the letter and tossed it in the trash.
He wondered if there was anything worth watching on television, decided it didn't matter and watched it anyways.
THE END.
And when he received the slender envelope, his world fell apart.
He became very despondent, suddenly without purpose and devastated at the loss of his dream. He wasn't sure how to proceed, how to cope with all the wasted time, all the wasted effort. He'd spent so long working toward just getting into the school that he'd expended very little thought on just what he'd do once he got there. He didn't have an endgame in mind, just an opening move... and it had been denied him.
He sat in his room listening to the kind of mopey music he'd avoided when still striving for Harvard. It struck him how very tenuous ambition was, how easy it could be to have the rug pulled out from under you. He decided, listening to sad bastard songs and counting the plaster dimples in the ceiling, that all dreams come to the same conclusion. The timeframe might vary, but no matter what you hope for, eventually it crumbles underneath your feet and leaves you stunned on shattered on your back. He decided to never dream again, to take whatever life would give him without concern and without judging its value. He decided to never give a damn again.
And what slipped out of him at that point of surrender was smoky and strange and more aware of its surroundings than anthropomorphic expunged hope has any right to be. It had a vaguely human shape, if only because that's what it was used to being. It sat next to its former host and tried to console him. But there was no use in the attempt. The separation of his hope was just another event in a life full of events. There was nothing to get excited about. It didn't matter either way. His hope hung around for a bit, and after realizing just how dull its host was without it, flittered away leaving him alone, dulled, remorseless and without a hint of passion.
Without that vampiric creature draining him of the ability to accept mediocrity, his life suddenly became much easier, even as it was less worth living. Without the spikes and valleys of hope, the most maddening things were leveled and uninteresting, as smooth and bland and cold as ice milk. He would have said he enjoyed it if were capable of it, but as he wasn't, he merely noted that it was fine and went about his new daily routine. With the dream of Harvard demolished, he set about finding a job. Whereas, once, the hope of doing something grand and meaningful with his life would have made him miserable in a grind of worthless tedium, now, he was able to immerse himself in the most useless of white collar jobs. For eight and a half hours every day, he plugged figures and data into a computer and generated untold numbers spreadsheets, charts and inventories that were looked at with quick and resolute disinterest by superiors that couldn't have cared much less about the reports or whatever drone of theirs it was that was making them. It was all quite futile, and the paychecks he drew never provided him an ounce of fulfillment, which, in another lifetime, would have seemed unconscionable. When the workday was over, he would plod unerringly home in order to catch programs on the television that didn't offend, provoke or entertain him as much as they did occupy the hours until he was able to go to sleep. Weekends, with their freeform lack of structure were a bit more confounding, but he was able to fill the void handily with a great deal of sitting and staring straight ahead and waiting for either death or sleep to end the day.
His hope, meanwhile, freed from the shackles of its myopic former jailer, was aglow with the liberty of being able to do anything at all. Being without the constraints of a body, too, had a powerful effect... and his hope was able to see all the sights of the world, from Cairo to Greece to the Outback to London to Rio to the Sahara to Montreal to Lisbon to Laos to Madagascar to Antarctica to Botswana to China to Spain to Cleveland. It was quite a tour and as broadening to the mind as something could be to a thing that was, really, not in possession of a real mind at all. And while his hope was capable of being in all these places and, in whatever way a misty body of human wish was able to take in the sights, take in the sights, without the senses of its former body, his hope was unable to truly experience anything. Even though it had passion and desire to spare, his hope was just as passive in its interaction with life as its hopeless body was all inert and waiting on the couch.
The tantalizing breadth of the world just out of its reach was demoralizing. With every passing day, the dreariness of watching with interest and without impact became more and more intolerable. Without hands, it couldn't write of its experiences, without a mouth, it was unable to convey them to anyone in speech. Without eyes and without ears and without nerves to connect all the things together, so much of what it longed to engage was cut off from it. It was physically incapable of creating anything, of expressing anything, of doing anything besides just wanting to do something. It was a being of pure interest unable to impact the world it was so interested in. As time passed and the futility of it, the dreariness of it, the constantly dashed wishes of it became too much to bear, his hope acted in quite a similar fashion to the man that had spawned it. It decided to never dream or wish or want again. And his hope, without hope, became hopeless and thus vanished.
And if he had noticed that his long gone hope had suddenly ceased to be, he never showed it. He continued on his path, day in and day out without change, without want, without sadness or anger or pity or happiness or laughter or joy. He did nothing to speak of, so he didn't, and he waited out his days like so many of the hopeless around him.
One day, he came across that slender letter that had changed his life. Looking at it, reading the words printed so politely on the page, he wondered why he had ever tried at all, and why such a thing had ever been so thrilling and so upsetting to him. He tried to let the memories stir him, but of course, they couldn't. He wadded up the letter and tossed it in the trash.
He wondered if there was anything worth watching on television, decided it didn't matter and watched it anyways.
THE END.
7/15/07
Red 03 (Porter (A Lament))
I love you so much, I kneel behind the uniforms,
I love you so much, I burn all the evidence
You sin, but sin is such a natural thing these days,
And I cannot help but be too captivated by it for my own good...
The bombs drop and silence crushes us, pounding waves of it.
I love you so much, I stand under the shadows, waiting
I love you so much, I dance with the architecture of it
There are stars, above, in the World War hallows that hang overhead
And I cannot help but be pulled in, worried for the end as I always am.
I wait and I wait and I wait for something to happen.
The false alarms are too much to bear.
I love you so much, I hold back the consequences
I love you so much, I stop my heart with the sheer force of the worry
That song lilting, scratched and old on the phonograph,
It's started a fire inside my ears.
I probably won't ever see you again.
I love you so much, I burn all the evidence
You sin, but sin is such a natural thing these days,
And I cannot help but be too captivated by it for my own good...
The bombs drop and silence crushes us, pounding waves of it.
I love you so much, I stand under the shadows, waiting
I love you so much, I dance with the architecture of it
There are stars, above, in the World War hallows that hang overhead
And I cannot help but be pulled in, worried for the end as I always am.
I wait and I wait and I wait for something to happen.
The false alarms are too much to bear.
I love you so much, I hold back the consequences
I love you so much, I stop my heart with the sheer force of the worry
That song lilting, scratched and old on the phonograph,
It's started a fire inside my ears.
I probably won't ever see you again.
Red 02 (Davis (A Mysterious Picture))
Adolph Brownstein, born to Olga Brownstein as the result of the young Jewish woman's rape by Nazi soldiers was named, in an act of hope and defiance, after the assailants' cruel leader and became one of the most important, if not widely known, artists of the late twentieth century. His mother, who remained incredibly stalwart throughout her ordeal, fled to stay with family in America before she or her unborn son could be taken to the concentration camps. In February of 1939, Adolph Brownstein was born in St. Vincent Charity Hospital of Cleveland, Ohio and raised in the nearby home of his mother's aunt Zelda. Olga Brownstein refused to acknowledge any power or connotation in Hitler's first name and was steadfast in her belief that her son would become a heroic counter example, a persona that would outshine the villainous fascist. And though her son didn't live up to her lofty expectations, he did create one of the most confounding and exquisite pieces of art in recent history. Adolph Brownstein's most famous painting, "Davis" has become and object of fascination, confusion and spirited debate.
Although his works were generally admired by critics during his lifetime, Brownstein's style, a fusion of surrealist influences and more populist psychedelic art in step with the culture of the day, never really caught on with the public. "Davis," with its grotesque triad of figures set against a swirling sea of colorful and enigmatic words is undoubtedly Brownstein's best known work, not merely because of the content of the painting, but also because of the story the piece is haplessly attached to. It is impossible to view "Davis" objectively as, tragically, the artist committed suicide mere hours after he'd completed the work. That fact is irreversibly tied up with the painting, though it would have been a haunting image even without being intertwined with its maker's death.
The painting, of course, focuses on three personages arranged in a triangle. Two of the characters, a starkly and classically rendered hooded skeletal presence on the left and a bloody, bludgeoned Fifties funny page father on the right, occupy the lower two corners of the canvas. The third figure, a massive, multi-headed creature, each face illustrated in a conscientiously different style, seems to represent a sort of supremely evil being, and it looms ominously over the entire upper portion of the work. Behind them, in LSD inspired brilliant colors and giant fisheye bloated letters are the words, "Davis, Davis, Davis... why do you haunt me? Why do your dead eyes taunt me, and hold their gaze right on me?" Disturbingly, hidden in the swirls and curlicues of the words are very tiny, very intricate drawings of bodies in various states of decay. And scripted around the border of the work, in fancy gold leaf, are the words "my hell is..." repeated ad nauseum.
Brownstein's own tribulations, missteps and feelings of failure as a father are well documented, and many critics have found obvious parallels between the artist and the man in the lower right hand corner of the painting. In 1968, two months before "Davis" was completed and Brownstein hanged himself, Adolph's wife, Gretchen, called the Cleveland police when her husband somewhat viciously beat their seven year old son, Otto. By Adolph Brownstein's own teary admission, he lost control when his young son inadvertently ruined two of the painter's unfinished works. Charges against Brownstein were ultimately greatly reduced via plea bargain, but while being interrogated for the crime, Brownstein was severely beaten by Detective Martin Randall, one of the officers assigned to the Brownstein case. The injuries the artist received were severe and, as told by Gretchen days after Adolph's death, administered with the promise of more beatings to follow. In addition to the fear brought down upon him by that incensed officer of the law, Brownstein's name was dragged through the mud as newspaper articles furiously appeared, all portraying him as a merciless child abuser coddled by a legal system too enamored of Brownstein's wealth and fairly prominent community standing to truly act with justice. Brownstein was, by nearly all accounts, crushed and humiliated by the press and without exception, Brownstein's backers and patrons abandoned him. Two large galleries in Ohio refused to showcase his art. So while there was little in the way of legal ramifications, Brownstein did not avoid consequence entirely. And while the guilt over his beating of his only child may have played a role, the fear of continued physical reprisal from Detective Randall and the bad press garnered in the face of the plea bargain are still generally considered the prime motivations for Brownstein's suicide. The father figure's gorily painted injuries are often assumed to mimic those that Brownstein received in retaliation for the ones he'd given to his son... while the decision to cast that character in the guise of a comic strip protagonist was seemingly born from the role newspapers played in the artist's death.
Brownstein's first dedicated biographer (coincidentally named Harland Davis) wasn't the first to suggest that "Davis" was an elaborate suicide note, but he probably drafted the longest exposition on the topic. And by Davis' account, Brownstein is represented not just in the battered father figure, but in all three of the paintings' characters.
The evil, many-headed menace above the blatant Brownstein surrogate, according to the biographer, was not a representation of outward malice or the imposing evils of society (as inferred by noted art historian Grant Weiss), but was, in Davis' mind, Brownstein's own self-loathing and perceived character flaws given a sacrilegious and utterly terrifying form. Davis goes on to say that the reasons for the artist's suicide can be read, like a list, in the faces of the overarching monster. The Renaissance style head of Satan is supposedly there as evidence of Brownstein's failure as a pious Jew, an internal Adversary claiming him from the inside out. The woodcut printed dragon's head next to Satan's is perhaps an admission of the draconian wrath that Brownstein struggled to keep under control. The tortured expression of the classically inspired face of Prometheus is indicative of the artist's need to be punished for his actions, the way Prometheus was punished for giving fire to the nascent human race. The next of the creature's heads, a malevolently grinning and severely burnt jester painted with unsettlingly photorealistic features, is there to lament what a fool was made of Brownstein by the newsmen, and how quickly his beloved society was there to burn him in effigy. And finally, in a loving recreation of a Universal movie poster pose, is the Wolfman's head, now snarling and stained with blood and holding, in its fangs, the grisly severed arm of a baby. The meaning behind that, in Davis' opinion, is quite clear: Brownstein obviously felt like a monster for the suffering he'd inflicted upon his son.
The reason for the inclusion of the final figure, the robed skeleton, is even less open to interpretation. This is certainly Death, Brownstein's own suicidal impulse come to take him while overseen by the monstrous thing created by the artist's fears and flaws. It points menacingly at the newsprint father, and if you look very closely you can see the red glint of metallic paint gleaming in the hollow sockets of the cruel Reaper's skull.
Not everyone believes in Harland Davis' pat explanations behind the painting's imagery, though. Many of Brownstein's detractors claim that, in crafting a mythology around the artist as a tragic figure, Davis handily exonerates him from his crimes, not just of harming of his child, but also of a suicide they claim was an act of cowardice, not some sort of honorable self-execution. In a passionate essay on the subject, Clarence Matine, an opponent of Davis' somewhat aggrandizing Brownstein biography, takes Davis to task for acquitting Brownstein of his crimes by giving the artist, in retrospect, such a firm command over his own flaws. Matine says that "in stating with such unwarranted authority the guilt that Brownstein felt in regards to his actions (represented especially in those demonized heads of the Devil, the Dragon, Prometheus and the Wolf), [Davis] allows Brownstein to atone for his misdeeds, where in reality, the man merely fled them as quickly as he could." Matine goes on to say that there's no real evidence that the painting is anything more than another of Brownstein's typical surrealist-collage works, and that "meaning has been injected into the work because of a coincidence of timing." It's very true that "Davis" doesn't vary from Brownstein's other work considerably. He used newsprint and comic characters frequently in his other paintings, and monstrous or horrific figures were not uncommon. Harland Davis' biography also omits any reasoning behind the text included in "Davis." While some of the words convey a fairly tortured mindset, there is, frustratingly, no context to put it in. Worst of all, the subject of the background poetry is never once explained or justified by a single art critic. Harland Davis himself glosses over who or what the namesake of the painting is. Adolph Brownstein had a habit of including non sequiter text in his works, but that he would do so in a piece so otherwise intricately constructed seems unlikely. So is "Davis" really a suicide note, or just the last work of a man who happened to commit suicide upon its completion?
While there can never be any definitive answer on the subject (as the only authority has been dead for nearly forty years), new evidence has come out that might challenge both Harland Davis' and Clarence Matine's take on "Davis." While doing restoration on another Brownstein piece ("Cradle": a finely painted sparrow's skeleton laid over the words "Broken baby skull, you ain't got no friends at all, you just sit around the corner waiting, silent, for the alligator footsteps to walk by"), Bowling Green art collector Kerry Micha noticed what seemed to be an entirely different color palette jutting through a tiny damaged portion of paint near the center of the painting. Intrigued, Micha had the piece x-rayed. It was clear, then, that there was another work underneath the finished "Cradle." Using Bowling Green University imaging technology, art historians were able to discern a much smaller picture that had been created in the center of the canvas and wholly painted over. Disturbingly, the hidden picture is a sloppily rendered infant's head, crushed on the side, and captioned with the phrase (or epitaph), "Davis 1962-1962: Shame Shame Shame." This eerie combination suggested, to many (Kerry Micha included), that Davis was, indeed, a real person and, perhaps, had died as infant at Brownstein's hand.
Obviously, this discovery rekindled interest in "Davis" and what, if anything, the painting might mean. Micha suggested a scan to see whether or not "Davis" had any hidden pictures of its own. After struggling with clearances for months, Kerry Micha finally gained access to the work.
Underneath the dense layers of symbolism and text, Kerry Micha and the Bowling Green University team discovered two similar sloppy paintings. One was a near duplicate (even containing the same chilling epitaph) of the picture of Davis found under "Cradle." The second was a seeming portrait of his son, Otto, cradling a dead child and captioned with the words, "Otto, dear, if they ask: I did it all for you."
No birth or death certificate for a Davis Brownstein was ever located, but in a tucked off corner of Cleveland's Lakeview Cemetery, there is a small, nondescript headstone that only reads, "Shame Shame Shame."
Although his works were generally admired by critics during his lifetime, Brownstein's style, a fusion of surrealist influences and more populist psychedelic art in step with the culture of the day, never really caught on with the public. "Davis," with its grotesque triad of figures set against a swirling sea of colorful and enigmatic words is undoubtedly Brownstein's best known work, not merely because of the content of the painting, but also because of the story the piece is haplessly attached to. It is impossible to view "Davis" objectively as, tragically, the artist committed suicide mere hours after he'd completed the work. That fact is irreversibly tied up with the painting, though it would have been a haunting image even without being intertwined with its maker's death.
The painting, of course, focuses on three personages arranged in a triangle. Two of the characters, a starkly and classically rendered hooded skeletal presence on the left and a bloody, bludgeoned Fifties funny page father on the right, occupy the lower two corners of the canvas. The third figure, a massive, multi-headed creature, each face illustrated in a conscientiously different style, seems to represent a sort of supremely evil being, and it looms ominously over the entire upper portion of the work. Behind them, in LSD inspired brilliant colors and giant fisheye bloated letters are the words, "Davis, Davis, Davis... why do you haunt me? Why do your dead eyes taunt me, and hold their gaze right on me?" Disturbingly, hidden in the swirls and curlicues of the words are very tiny, very intricate drawings of bodies in various states of decay. And scripted around the border of the work, in fancy gold leaf, are the words "my hell is..." repeated ad nauseum.
Brownstein's own tribulations, missteps and feelings of failure as a father are well documented, and many critics have found obvious parallels between the artist and the man in the lower right hand corner of the painting. In 1968, two months before "Davis" was completed and Brownstein hanged himself, Adolph's wife, Gretchen, called the Cleveland police when her husband somewhat viciously beat their seven year old son, Otto. By Adolph Brownstein's own teary admission, he lost control when his young son inadvertently ruined two of the painter's unfinished works. Charges against Brownstein were ultimately greatly reduced via plea bargain, but while being interrogated for the crime, Brownstein was severely beaten by Detective Martin Randall, one of the officers assigned to the Brownstein case. The injuries the artist received were severe and, as told by Gretchen days after Adolph's death, administered with the promise of more beatings to follow. In addition to the fear brought down upon him by that incensed officer of the law, Brownstein's name was dragged through the mud as newspaper articles furiously appeared, all portraying him as a merciless child abuser coddled by a legal system too enamored of Brownstein's wealth and fairly prominent community standing to truly act with justice. Brownstein was, by nearly all accounts, crushed and humiliated by the press and without exception, Brownstein's backers and patrons abandoned him. Two large galleries in Ohio refused to showcase his art. So while there was little in the way of legal ramifications, Brownstein did not avoid consequence entirely. And while the guilt over his beating of his only child may have played a role, the fear of continued physical reprisal from Detective Randall and the bad press garnered in the face of the plea bargain are still generally considered the prime motivations for Brownstein's suicide. The father figure's gorily painted injuries are often assumed to mimic those that Brownstein received in retaliation for the ones he'd given to his son... while the decision to cast that character in the guise of a comic strip protagonist was seemingly born from the role newspapers played in the artist's death.
Brownstein's first dedicated biographer (coincidentally named Harland Davis) wasn't the first to suggest that "Davis" was an elaborate suicide note, but he probably drafted the longest exposition on the topic. And by Davis' account, Brownstein is represented not just in the battered father figure, but in all three of the paintings' characters.
The evil, many-headed menace above the blatant Brownstein surrogate, according to the biographer, was not a representation of outward malice or the imposing evils of society (as inferred by noted art historian Grant Weiss), but was, in Davis' mind, Brownstein's own self-loathing and perceived character flaws given a sacrilegious and utterly terrifying form. Davis goes on to say that the reasons for the artist's suicide can be read, like a list, in the faces of the overarching monster. The Renaissance style head of Satan is supposedly there as evidence of Brownstein's failure as a pious Jew, an internal Adversary claiming him from the inside out. The woodcut printed dragon's head next to Satan's is perhaps an admission of the draconian wrath that Brownstein struggled to keep under control. The tortured expression of the classically inspired face of Prometheus is indicative of the artist's need to be punished for his actions, the way Prometheus was punished for giving fire to the nascent human race. The next of the creature's heads, a malevolently grinning and severely burnt jester painted with unsettlingly photorealistic features, is there to lament what a fool was made of Brownstein by the newsmen, and how quickly his beloved society was there to burn him in effigy. And finally, in a loving recreation of a Universal movie poster pose, is the Wolfman's head, now snarling and stained with blood and holding, in its fangs, the grisly severed arm of a baby. The meaning behind that, in Davis' opinion, is quite clear: Brownstein obviously felt like a monster for the suffering he'd inflicted upon his son.
The reason for the inclusion of the final figure, the robed skeleton, is even less open to interpretation. This is certainly Death, Brownstein's own suicidal impulse come to take him while overseen by the monstrous thing created by the artist's fears and flaws. It points menacingly at the newsprint father, and if you look very closely you can see the red glint of metallic paint gleaming in the hollow sockets of the cruel Reaper's skull.
Not everyone believes in Harland Davis' pat explanations behind the painting's imagery, though. Many of Brownstein's detractors claim that, in crafting a mythology around the artist as a tragic figure, Davis handily exonerates him from his crimes, not just of harming of his child, but also of a suicide they claim was an act of cowardice, not some sort of honorable self-execution. In a passionate essay on the subject, Clarence Matine, an opponent of Davis' somewhat aggrandizing Brownstein biography, takes Davis to task for acquitting Brownstein of his crimes by giving the artist, in retrospect, such a firm command over his own flaws. Matine says that "in stating with such unwarranted authority the guilt that Brownstein felt in regards to his actions (represented especially in those demonized heads of the Devil, the Dragon, Prometheus and the Wolf), [Davis] allows Brownstein to atone for his misdeeds, where in reality, the man merely fled them as quickly as he could." Matine goes on to say that there's no real evidence that the painting is anything more than another of Brownstein's typical surrealist-collage works, and that "meaning has been injected into the work because of a coincidence of timing." It's very true that "Davis" doesn't vary from Brownstein's other work considerably. He used newsprint and comic characters frequently in his other paintings, and monstrous or horrific figures were not uncommon. Harland Davis' biography also omits any reasoning behind the text included in "Davis." While some of the words convey a fairly tortured mindset, there is, frustratingly, no context to put it in. Worst of all, the subject of the background poetry is never once explained or justified by a single art critic. Harland Davis himself glosses over who or what the namesake of the painting is. Adolph Brownstein had a habit of including non sequiter text in his works, but that he would do so in a piece so otherwise intricately constructed seems unlikely. So is "Davis" really a suicide note, or just the last work of a man who happened to commit suicide upon its completion?
While there can never be any definitive answer on the subject (as the only authority has been dead for nearly forty years), new evidence has come out that might challenge both Harland Davis' and Clarence Matine's take on "Davis." While doing restoration on another Brownstein piece ("Cradle": a finely painted sparrow's skeleton laid over the words "Broken baby skull, you ain't got no friends at all, you just sit around the corner waiting, silent, for the alligator footsteps to walk by"), Bowling Green art collector Kerry Micha noticed what seemed to be an entirely different color palette jutting through a tiny damaged portion of paint near the center of the painting. Intrigued, Micha had the piece x-rayed. It was clear, then, that there was another work underneath the finished "Cradle." Using Bowling Green University imaging technology, art historians were able to discern a much smaller picture that had been created in the center of the canvas and wholly painted over. Disturbingly, the hidden picture is a sloppily rendered infant's head, crushed on the side, and captioned with the phrase (or epitaph), "Davis 1962-1962: Shame Shame Shame." This eerie combination suggested, to many (Kerry Micha included), that Davis was, indeed, a real person and, perhaps, had died as infant at Brownstein's hand.
Obviously, this discovery rekindled interest in "Davis" and what, if anything, the painting might mean. Micha suggested a scan to see whether or not "Davis" had any hidden pictures of its own. After struggling with clearances for months, Kerry Micha finally gained access to the work.
Underneath the dense layers of symbolism and text, Kerry Micha and the Bowling Green University team discovered two similar sloppy paintings. One was a near duplicate (even containing the same chilling epitaph) of the picture of Davis found under "Cradle." The second was a seeming portrait of his son, Otto, cradling a dead child and captioned with the words, "Otto, dear, if they ask: I did it all for you."
No birth or death certificate for a Davis Brownstein was ever located, but in a tucked off corner of Cleveland's Lakeview Cemetery, there is a small, nondescript headstone that only reads, "Shame Shame Shame."
7/9/07
Red 01 (Alewife (A Love Story))
Trust me when I say, dear, I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for things to get so out of hand. I never really meant to get involved with you at all. But here we are. And now, now my plans don't really mean much of anything do they? Here we are.
Do you remember, dear, when we first met? It's still so vivid to me. But that's understandable. I mean, it was quite a shock. And that's a gross understatement. I try to downplay it, now, of course, but you know. You know how scared I was. You remember that horrified look I had on my face. But be fair, dear. How could I possibly be prepared, how could I possibly know what to expect from you? I was as small minded, as pitiable in my narrow scope as all these poor souls surrounding us now. It's just human nature. I can't try to make excuses, dear. I can only offer an explanation. I'm so embarrassed, now, of course. All I can say is that I didn't know.
I can hear them getting closer. I'm sorry. I did everything I could. I hope you believe me. I know you do. You always do. You're trusting. Sweet. Kind. God, dear, I'm so sorry. But I don't know what else to do. I really don't. I'm out of ideas. I don't know where we can go. I don't know how to fix this. I feel worthless. I do. I've failed you. I've failed us. It's going to be over soon, isn't it? God. God. I'm so sorry.
I should have known. I should've right? Why am I surprised? Why should anyone be different than me? Why should anybody else have had a different reaction? They're just people. But, dear... Oh, if they would just take the time, if they would just open themselves up, even a little bit... well, we probably wouldn't be here now, would we? It's cold isn't it? It shouldn't be happening like this. It shouldn't. I keep thinking that there will be some sort of beautiful happy ending. I keep thinking there'll be some fairy tale salvation that will save us. There should be. Honestly, dear. But there won't, will there? This is it. This is how it's going to end.
Oh. But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing.
I have never felt so complete, dear, as I feel when I'm with you. And would it have been easier if things had been more normal? Maybe. Honestly? Of course. Of course it would've been easier. But if things had been more normal, than maybe things wouldn't be the same at all. And there's nothing I would I change. Really. That's not true. Not entirely. I mean, if I could get in their heads... if I could show them, somehow. I would do that. I would change that. I wish they could see you... see you with the same eyes that I do. But they won't. They're going to... well, we know what's going to happen, dear. There's no doubt. And they will feel so smug, so satisfied and they'll never really understand what they... I'm so sorry, dear.
Nature... life, I guess... life is so very strange. I can tell you, I can tell you that there's nothing I expected less to happen to me. Not even, I mean... barring all the... You know, right? You know exactly how strange you are. Do I need to protect you from it? I don't. I know. You're tough. You've weathered worse but I still feel awful saying it. But even barring how strange you are, dear, I never expected this. To fall in love. To fall so madly in love so quickly. So entirely. And now, now because of bigotry... because of hate... I'm going to lose you, aren't I? And they're on their way. They're on their way and there's nothing I can do to stop them. And they're going to kill you. I don't... I can't... What am I going to do?
They don't look at you... they think you're less than human.
You're more. You're so much more.
What do we do? Tell me. Tell me what to do. I'll do anything to keep you here. I'll do anything to keep you next to me. I will. There's no... Please don't let them do this to you. It's not right. It's not. There must be... I mean, God, dear... I will grasp at any straws. I will take any... any chance. I can't let this happen. I can't just stand here and watch... I need to do something. Anything.
I should have never met you. I should have never opened that goddamned closet. I was just being nosey. Just being wildly inappropriate and bored. They must have been horrified. They must have been just horrified that someone uncovered their secret. Do you remember how wide my eyes, were, dear? Almost as wide as yours. I was so frightened. So taken aback. How could I know what was in your heart? How could I know how wonderful you were? How wonderful you are. I saw the silver flash and the gaping mouth and I was scared. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that they'll only see you with those eyes, and not with the eyes I see you with now. I'm sorry that that's what we are. It's not right. It's not right that this should happen. I think I hear them screaming. I hear footsteps. It won't be long, now, will it? God, dear... please... let's just run. I know we can't... we can't do it forever... but at least...
I understand. I know how hard this has been on you. But they're going to kill you. I'm going to lose you. I know you know already. I know you've made your peace... but how? How can you sit there so calmly and know that we're going to be ripped apart? How can you sit there so calmly and expect me to watch a mob of brutes and idiots take away the only thing I've ever really cared about? It's cruel, isn't it? The whole situation. Everything. Everything you've had to endure for one brief flare of happiness. Now it's going to be extinguished. You never did a thing wrong. You didn't do anything to deserve this. To deserve any of it. And did I make it worse? Did I free you just to get you killed? I want so badly to save you, to fix this. I do. Please let's run?
I'm so sorry now for that first look, that first look of terror, but you have to understand just how small we are. We have a tiny conception, such a minimal understanding. We bumble through life with theories and what passes for knowledge but, God dear, we don't know a thing. And to see you, your gills moving and those big saucer eyes staring in different directions... That's our definition of "monster." You're just so different from us. So alien. God. God. I'm so sorry. I couldn't know how gentle you were. I couldn't know the things you could show me. I couldn't predict the night up on the cliffside where you wove the sky into a blanket and covered us in it. I couldn't possibly know the magic you were capable of, the dreams that you could conjure, the sparkling light that you could produce with those raw clean hands of yours. And how could they do it to you? How could they subject you to such a dull life when you're so obviously something special? Something beautiful and amazing and unique? They lock you in a closet... they make you clean their goddamned mansion? How could they be so stupid? It staggers me. And they say, what? That they were trying to protect you. But look, now. I suppose they were right. And you keep saying it's going to be better this way, but do you really believe that? Was it maybe enough to just survive a lifetime? I remember how the streetlights all blew out that first night we fled. You were so excited. But was that brief moment, that tiny moment, worth what's going to happen?
I'm going to miss you so much.
You say, you say you'll be here with me, and I know that's true. (Do you hear them? They're right here, now, dear. It's going to be over in just a little bit.) But it won't be the same will it? You'll be in my heart, forever and ever. I mean, honestly, I will never, never ever forget you. (You're trembling now. It's okay. It'll be over soon and then you'll never have to be afraid again.) How could I? You're beyond anything I ever imagined. You're something bigger than us, something so grandiose, and God, I just feel gratitude for the time we did get to spend together. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough. Even if, somehow, they'd let us live to be a hundred... I'd still want another day with you. And another after that.
You could save yourself, you know. There must be a way. You have so much... so much power. The things you can do. The lights, the sky, the way the flowers bloom when you pass. The way lightning strikes in those gorgeous patterns around us. You're magical. There's no other word for it. There must be something that you can...
But it will always be like this, won't it? They're not going to understand. I'm sorry that... I'm just so sorry in general. Are you angry with me? Do you wish I would've just left you alone? You're sweating, dear. It's dripping from your scales. I know... I know you're... I want to tell you that you're beautiful. Not just because of what you can do and who you are... you're a beautiful creature. There's beauty in the silvery mesh of your fishy skin, in the deep pools of in your black dish eyes. The way you breathe. The delicate filigree of your fins. It sounds so silly. So crazy. We don't appreciate it, of course. It's not what we think of as beauty. It just took time to see you through different eyes. That's all. This isn't a new story. We've been telling it since the beginning of time. And we never learn. We're stupid, filthy mongrels. We're pissant little wretches. We're no different than the goddamned cavemen. We're still so...
That's it. Here they are. It'll only be bad for a second.
I love you.
Do you remember, dear, when we first met? It's still so vivid to me. But that's understandable. I mean, it was quite a shock. And that's a gross understatement. I try to downplay it, now, of course, but you know. You know how scared I was. You remember that horrified look I had on my face. But be fair, dear. How could I possibly be prepared, how could I possibly know what to expect from you? I was as small minded, as pitiable in my narrow scope as all these poor souls surrounding us now. It's just human nature. I can't try to make excuses, dear. I can only offer an explanation. I'm so embarrassed, now, of course. All I can say is that I didn't know.
I can hear them getting closer. I'm sorry. I did everything I could. I hope you believe me. I know you do. You always do. You're trusting. Sweet. Kind. God, dear, I'm so sorry. But I don't know what else to do. I really don't. I'm out of ideas. I don't know where we can go. I don't know how to fix this. I feel worthless. I do. I've failed you. I've failed us. It's going to be over soon, isn't it? God. God. I'm so sorry.
I should have known. I should've right? Why am I surprised? Why should anyone be different than me? Why should anybody else have had a different reaction? They're just people. But, dear... Oh, if they would just take the time, if they would just open themselves up, even a little bit... well, we probably wouldn't be here now, would we? It's cold isn't it? It shouldn't be happening like this. It shouldn't. I keep thinking that there will be some sort of beautiful happy ending. I keep thinking there'll be some fairy tale salvation that will save us. There should be. Honestly, dear. But there won't, will there? This is it. This is how it's going to end.
Oh. But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing.
I have never felt so complete, dear, as I feel when I'm with you. And would it have been easier if things had been more normal? Maybe. Honestly? Of course. Of course it would've been easier. But if things had been more normal, than maybe things wouldn't be the same at all. And there's nothing I would I change. Really. That's not true. Not entirely. I mean, if I could get in their heads... if I could show them, somehow. I would do that. I would change that. I wish they could see you... see you with the same eyes that I do. But they won't. They're going to... well, we know what's going to happen, dear. There's no doubt. And they will feel so smug, so satisfied and they'll never really understand what they... I'm so sorry, dear.
Nature... life, I guess... life is so very strange. I can tell you, I can tell you that there's nothing I expected less to happen to me. Not even, I mean... barring all the... You know, right? You know exactly how strange you are. Do I need to protect you from it? I don't. I know. You're tough. You've weathered worse but I still feel awful saying it. But even barring how strange you are, dear, I never expected this. To fall in love. To fall so madly in love so quickly. So entirely. And now, now because of bigotry... because of hate... I'm going to lose you, aren't I? And they're on their way. They're on their way and there's nothing I can do to stop them. And they're going to kill you. I don't... I can't... What am I going to do?
They don't look at you... they think you're less than human.
You're more. You're so much more.
What do we do? Tell me. Tell me what to do. I'll do anything to keep you here. I'll do anything to keep you next to me. I will. There's no... Please don't let them do this to you. It's not right. It's not. There must be... I mean, God, dear... I will grasp at any straws. I will take any... any chance. I can't let this happen. I can't just stand here and watch... I need to do something. Anything.
I should have never met you. I should have never opened that goddamned closet. I was just being nosey. Just being wildly inappropriate and bored. They must have been horrified. They must have been just horrified that someone uncovered their secret. Do you remember how wide my eyes, were, dear? Almost as wide as yours. I was so frightened. So taken aback. How could I know what was in your heart? How could I know how wonderful you were? How wonderful you are. I saw the silver flash and the gaping mouth and I was scared. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that they'll only see you with those eyes, and not with the eyes I see you with now. I'm sorry that that's what we are. It's not right. It's not right that this should happen. I think I hear them screaming. I hear footsteps. It won't be long, now, will it? God, dear... please... let's just run. I know we can't... we can't do it forever... but at least...
I understand. I know how hard this has been on you. But they're going to kill you. I'm going to lose you. I know you know already. I know you've made your peace... but how? How can you sit there so calmly and know that we're going to be ripped apart? How can you sit there so calmly and expect me to watch a mob of brutes and idiots take away the only thing I've ever really cared about? It's cruel, isn't it? The whole situation. Everything. Everything you've had to endure for one brief flare of happiness. Now it's going to be extinguished. You never did a thing wrong. You didn't do anything to deserve this. To deserve any of it. And did I make it worse? Did I free you just to get you killed? I want so badly to save you, to fix this. I do. Please let's run?
I'm so sorry now for that first look, that first look of terror, but you have to understand just how small we are. We have a tiny conception, such a minimal understanding. We bumble through life with theories and what passes for knowledge but, God dear, we don't know a thing. And to see you, your gills moving and those big saucer eyes staring in different directions... That's our definition of "monster." You're just so different from us. So alien. God. God. I'm so sorry. I couldn't know how gentle you were. I couldn't know the things you could show me. I couldn't predict the night up on the cliffside where you wove the sky into a blanket and covered us in it. I couldn't possibly know the magic you were capable of, the dreams that you could conjure, the sparkling light that you could produce with those raw clean hands of yours. And how could they do it to you? How could they subject you to such a dull life when you're so obviously something special? Something beautiful and amazing and unique? They lock you in a closet... they make you clean their goddamned mansion? How could they be so stupid? It staggers me. And they say, what? That they were trying to protect you. But look, now. I suppose they were right. And you keep saying it's going to be better this way, but do you really believe that? Was it maybe enough to just survive a lifetime? I remember how the streetlights all blew out that first night we fled. You were so excited. But was that brief moment, that tiny moment, worth what's going to happen?
I'm going to miss you so much.
You say, you say you'll be here with me, and I know that's true. (Do you hear them? They're right here, now, dear. It's going to be over in just a little bit.) But it won't be the same will it? You'll be in my heart, forever and ever. I mean, honestly, I will never, never ever forget you. (You're trembling now. It's okay. It'll be over soon and then you'll never have to be afraid again.) How could I? You're beyond anything I ever imagined. You're something bigger than us, something so grandiose, and God, I just feel gratitude for the time we did get to spend together. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough. Even if, somehow, they'd let us live to be a hundred... I'd still want another day with you. And another after that.
You could save yourself, you know. There must be a way. You have so much... so much power. The things you can do. The lights, the sky, the way the flowers bloom when you pass. The way lightning strikes in those gorgeous patterns around us. You're magical. There's no other word for it. There must be something that you can...
But it will always be like this, won't it? They're not going to understand. I'm sorry that... I'm just so sorry in general. Are you angry with me? Do you wish I would've just left you alone? You're sweating, dear. It's dripping from your scales. I know... I know you're... I want to tell you that you're beautiful. Not just because of what you can do and who you are... you're a beautiful creature. There's beauty in the silvery mesh of your fishy skin, in the deep pools of in your black dish eyes. The way you breathe. The delicate filigree of your fins. It sounds so silly. So crazy. We don't appreciate it, of course. It's not what we think of as beauty. It just took time to see you through different eyes. That's all. This isn't a new story. We've been telling it since the beginning of time. And we never learn. We're stupid, filthy mongrels. We're pissant little wretches. We're no different than the goddamned cavemen. We're still so...
That's it. Here they are. It'll only be bad for a second.
I love you.
Prelude: Red
These are the same shoes, worn and tired, treading land tread by ghost skinned people, in trepidation, in fear, in the excitement of exploration, of conquering, of creating an entirely new world... these are the same shoes I've had for years. They are ripped, torn at the seams, bruised on the heels, disrepaired and overutilized. I sink into the moment, away from my old life, and I breathe in somebody else's air. I am a foreigner here, a transplant in a kingdom one and half steps removed from the porch I used to sit on every night. There was, in my head, a compactness that didn't really exist. There were old billboards scrawled with the messages of a hundred years gone by and delivery doors nestled into every ancient apartment. I expected a sort of ruination, the kind of crumbling that comes from time sweeping its way through your wet stone alleys and steaming manhole curbsides. I drift through it, half aware of the modernity, the absolute futurism of glass and marble and concrete shoving adamantly upward, raking the sky with the sounds of money changing hands, of science exploding our notions of what is magical and what is fantastic, of fortune and fate and all of the beautiful things that a man or a woman can make with their hands. There is noise in every corner, there are people underground and above in rockets and golden zeppelins and out in the sea in every sort of vessel you can imagine. Markets thrive and sinister things await around precipitous corners. I drink in everything with magnolia eyes, wide and flowered and just south of total amazement. I will wake in this place for three months, and I will remain untethered, floating out amongst the crowds of nationals, the throngs of diaspora scattered revenants, clinging to their backgrounds for some sense of identity in boiling pot of homogenization. I walked these streets a million years ago, with demons and bugbears at my side and I walked them when I was just a toddler, even then aware of the dead things that find their way up from death's head grinning graves into the fabric of the colony.
It welcomes me with open arms.
And who am I, then, to reject it?
It welcomes me with open arms.
And who am I, then, to reject it?
6/28/07
White Appendix (Playlist)
01 - God Moving Over The Face Of The Waters - Moby
02 - I'm Only Sleeping - The Vines
03 - The Eraser - Thom Yorke
04 - Angel - Sarah Slean
05 - Butterflies - Sia
06 - Possibly Maybe - Bjork
07 - Bitelip - Mellowdrone
08 - Climbing Up The Walls - Radiohead
09 - Miss Modular - Stereolab
10 - The Movies - Earlimart
11 - Dead Of Winter - Eels
12 - Winter - Tori Amos
13 - Northern Sky - Hole
14 - Imagine - A Perfect Circle
15 - Watch Her Disappear - Tom Waits
16 - Don't Leave The Light On - Belle & Sebastian
17 - Frozen Charlotte - Natalie Merchant
18 - Waltz Across Debris - Chainsaw Kittens
02 - I'm Only Sleeping - The Vines
03 - The Eraser - Thom Yorke
04 - Angel - Sarah Slean
05 - Butterflies - Sia
06 - Possibly Maybe - Bjork
07 - Bitelip - Mellowdrone
08 - Climbing Up The Walls - Radiohead
09 - Miss Modular - Stereolab
10 - The Movies - Earlimart
11 - Dead Of Winter - Eels
12 - Winter - Tori Amos
13 - Northern Sky - Hole
14 - Imagine - A Perfect Circle
15 - Watch Her Disappear - Tom Waits
16 - Don't Leave The Light On - Belle & Sebastian
17 - Frozen Charlotte - Natalie Merchant
18 - Waltz Across Debris - Chainsaw Kittens
White 08 (The Rose White Bookstore)
Amongst the many shelves bursting with ancient volumes, and stacks of antiquated papers there are untold treasures. As books make their way through the hands of the City's citizens, they almost always return to the Rose White Bookstore, the unofficial library for the City's cultured, curious or bored. Nothing is organized anymore, and half the fun of a trip to Rose White is sifting through the mountains of anonymous drivel, searching for something interesting and unique. There is an illusory tininess to the store... it seems so much larger on the inside than its unassuming exterior lets on. When the bell on the front door jingles, the shopper finds herself in an amazing puzzle box that affords the sort of mental thrill which comes from the realization that something amazing could be right around the corner, or just beneath that pile of dusty encyclopedias. You can find hand written journals, or intricate maps, illuminated texts, battered paperbacks annotated by the last owner or unpublished manuscripts, brilliant and sad in their isolated readership. The amount of knowledge set down by hand or typeset or lithographed is staggering. The history of the City breathes in verses by old poets, adventures by authors who never left their homes, and dissertations by crusty academics so immersed in their ideas that they become worlds of their own.
And beyond what a book contains inside, the book itself, the covers, leaves and spine, is often a talisman in itself. The look and smell of a relic, a time capsule in the heart of a dead reader... a bookshelf becomes a museum. A moment is captured in a butterfly net and pressed and tacked for good between two thick cardstock covers, stitched up and set apart forever. Time stands still, and the only difference years afford to the book is some wear on the leather, or the weakening of the binding. It's a static thing, aging like some prehistoric tortoise, moving in its own little dimension of timelessness while the real world races swiftly outside of it, leaving it virtually unmolested, letting it exist of its own accord. So that even more than just a display of history and accomplishment, a bookshelf, the Rose White Store in its entirety even, is an ever-expanding universe in and of itself. Visitable and enjoyable, but operating by its own distinct rules. Governed by laws that mortals, stuck in their progression of change and rotting from the inside out are not privy to, understandable only in the abstract. Their places shuffle, their owners vary, but beyond death by fire or the obliteration of the words, the book's world is nearly interminable. As much as the dying sun and collapsing universe are immortal. Timeless in comparison to the brevity of life.
Most casual readers do not operate under this laborious pretense of course... to them a book is enjoyment, a diversion. A book might be an escape, or an abandonment of reality. Perhaps it is a means to collect data, to organize thoughts. A teaching aid. Or a memento of things already known, a memory more reliable than the ones in our head. Or it might be dull work. Effort expended in the name of enrichment, or a task completed for the sake of completion itself. It can be a touchstone to connect disparate lives in the shared experience of all knowing a certain story. Most readers do not believe in the internal reality of the book. They do not think of a living world existing in the finite space between covers. It's a collection of words with a beginning and an end, and nothing else really. The parallels between that story and your own might be interesting, even enlightening, but the division is always absolute. For most readers.
The proprietor of Rose White might disagree. She's read enough to know that nothing is actually new, nothing is truly novel, and that every growth of fiction is plucked from an overarching or underlying truth. Fiction takes on its own truth, and reality, she knows, is a very fluid thing indeed. She's lived in other people's stories, and lived in her own... the differences aren't as rigid as most people might think.
It's a commonly used tactic amongst literacy advocates to equate reading with breathing life into something, that to read is to bring a story alive. But that denies a book its own vitality. It puts the impetus of creation (or at the least, mere animation) on the reader. But a reader is still passive. Just an observer. The hubris of an observer thinking she is the reason for a world's existence is enormous. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
Arrogant child. Of course it does.
And beyond what a book contains inside, the book itself, the covers, leaves and spine, is often a talisman in itself. The look and smell of a relic, a time capsule in the heart of a dead reader... a bookshelf becomes a museum. A moment is captured in a butterfly net and pressed and tacked for good between two thick cardstock covers, stitched up and set apart forever. Time stands still, and the only difference years afford to the book is some wear on the leather, or the weakening of the binding. It's a static thing, aging like some prehistoric tortoise, moving in its own little dimension of timelessness while the real world races swiftly outside of it, leaving it virtually unmolested, letting it exist of its own accord. So that even more than just a display of history and accomplishment, a bookshelf, the Rose White Store in its entirety even, is an ever-expanding universe in and of itself. Visitable and enjoyable, but operating by its own distinct rules. Governed by laws that mortals, stuck in their progression of change and rotting from the inside out are not privy to, understandable only in the abstract. Their places shuffle, their owners vary, but beyond death by fire or the obliteration of the words, the book's world is nearly interminable. As much as the dying sun and collapsing universe are immortal. Timeless in comparison to the brevity of life.
Most casual readers do not operate under this laborious pretense of course... to them a book is enjoyment, a diversion. A book might be an escape, or an abandonment of reality. Perhaps it is a means to collect data, to organize thoughts. A teaching aid. Or a memento of things already known, a memory more reliable than the ones in our head. Or it might be dull work. Effort expended in the name of enrichment, or a task completed for the sake of completion itself. It can be a touchstone to connect disparate lives in the shared experience of all knowing a certain story. Most readers do not believe in the internal reality of the book. They do not think of a living world existing in the finite space between covers. It's a collection of words with a beginning and an end, and nothing else really. The parallels between that story and your own might be interesting, even enlightening, but the division is always absolute. For most readers.
The proprietor of Rose White might disagree. She's read enough to know that nothing is actually new, nothing is truly novel, and that every growth of fiction is plucked from an overarching or underlying truth. Fiction takes on its own truth, and reality, she knows, is a very fluid thing indeed. She's lived in other people's stories, and lived in her own... the differences aren't as rigid as most people might think.
It's a commonly used tactic amongst literacy advocates to equate reading with breathing life into something, that to read is to bring a story alive. But that denies a book its own vitality. It puts the impetus of creation (or at the least, mere animation) on the reader. But a reader is still passive. Just an observer. The hubris of an observer thinking she is the reason for a world's existence is enormous. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
Arrogant child. Of course it does.
6/27/07
White 07 (The Museum)
Exhibit 01 - White Hearts In Pained Remorse
They are ancient, stony things with nothing left in them except a bit of despair, a bit of desperation. They cannot pump anymore, petrified like prehistoric wood, fossil records of living, breathing, loving things. They have sat under glass, slowly changing, ever blanching and whitened since the dawn of time. They were discovered under this very bell jar on the first Sunday of a cold month, a wintry day defeating a verdant spring's advancement. There was a barely audible gasp from the archeologist, amazed at such a pristine and defeating find. He was never the same afterwards. His head never rose again from its bowed and morose position. There was much debate as to whether or not to display them. A narrow margin of the Museum's board, sadness addicts all of them, okayed the exhibition, but placed a stern little placard beneath the hearts: "Surrender is equal to tolerance."
It has frightened only a few prospective visitors away.
Exhibit 02 - Sacred Fragments, the Ashes and Bones of the Holy Sister
What was once just a fragile hoax to tempt the gullible has become, over time, a piece of history itself, perhaps even more valuable than any true relic because of the truth behind its lies. The Sacred Fragments were interred in some forgotten, cavernous sanctum, lit by pungent candles and strung through with miles and miles of whispering cobwebs. Pilgrims would come, their blind eyes, their mute lips, their deaf ears, their lame legs and demand justice and healing from the human soot and bone chips that remained of the Holy Sister. Not a single miracle was performed by the ossified remnants, though the steady stream of believers didn't stop until the bones were declared fake by a council of the church's elders. They were disposed of, still in their ivory reliquary, and never thought of again.
But the ornamentation on the box, a mesmerizing pattern of etched and dyed swoops and scrimshawed curlicues caught the eye of one lucky trashman. He had heard the stories of the false bones, of course, but had never really believed that they weren't real. Like many of the defeated faithful, the trashman swore that the elders were merely tired of the parade of supplicants. He held fast to the Bones of the Holy Sister, and lived a long life free of worry or concern. He died peacefully and, in a gesture of kindness, willed the Fragments to the Museum.
The forgotten church, perhaps, would have petitioned for their return, but the walls of that place had long since folded in from indifference.
Exhibit 03 - A Rather Haughty Pearl
See how this one seems to smile at you? There's nothing like friendship in that smile. That, there, is a smile of condescension. Of ill regard. Its iridescent sheen might take you in, might make you let your guard down. But don't be fooled. Don't allow yourself to think for one moment that something so gorgeous, so rare and so lovely could care about anything other than itself. Its beauty is damning and cold. And no matter what it may think of you, no matter how it may treat you, what terrible manners and calculated cruelty it might extend toward you, it will always have a queue of admirers.
Maybe it's best not to look at all.
Nothing good really comes of it.
They are ancient, stony things with nothing left in them except a bit of despair, a bit of desperation. They cannot pump anymore, petrified like prehistoric wood, fossil records of living, breathing, loving things. They have sat under glass, slowly changing, ever blanching and whitened since the dawn of time. They were discovered under this very bell jar on the first Sunday of a cold month, a wintry day defeating a verdant spring's advancement. There was a barely audible gasp from the archeologist, amazed at such a pristine and defeating find. He was never the same afterwards. His head never rose again from its bowed and morose position. There was much debate as to whether or not to display them. A narrow margin of the Museum's board, sadness addicts all of them, okayed the exhibition, but placed a stern little placard beneath the hearts: "Surrender is equal to tolerance."
It has frightened only a few prospective visitors away.
Exhibit 02 - Sacred Fragments, the Ashes and Bones of the Holy Sister
What was once just a fragile hoax to tempt the gullible has become, over time, a piece of history itself, perhaps even more valuable than any true relic because of the truth behind its lies. The Sacred Fragments were interred in some forgotten, cavernous sanctum, lit by pungent candles and strung through with miles and miles of whispering cobwebs. Pilgrims would come, their blind eyes, their mute lips, their deaf ears, their lame legs and demand justice and healing from the human soot and bone chips that remained of the Holy Sister. Not a single miracle was performed by the ossified remnants, though the steady stream of believers didn't stop until the bones were declared fake by a council of the church's elders. They were disposed of, still in their ivory reliquary, and never thought of again.
But the ornamentation on the box, a mesmerizing pattern of etched and dyed swoops and scrimshawed curlicues caught the eye of one lucky trashman. He had heard the stories of the false bones, of course, but had never really believed that they weren't real. Like many of the defeated faithful, the trashman swore that the elders were merely tired of the parade of supplicants. He held fast to the Bones of the Holy Sister, and lived a long life free of worry or concern. He died peacefully and, in a gesture of kindness, willed the Fragments to the Museum.
The forgotten church, perhaps, would have petitioned for their return, but the walls of that place had long since folded in from indifference.
Exhibit 03 - A Rather Haughty Pearl
See how this one seems to smile at you? There's nothing like friendship in that smile. That, there, is a smile of condescension. Of ill regard. Its iridescent sheen might take you in, might make you let your guard down. But don't be fooled. Don't allow yourself to think for one moment that something so gorgeous, so rare and so lovely could care about anything other than itself. Its beauty is damning and cold. And no matter what it may think of you, no matter how it may treat you, what terrible manners and calculated cruelty it might extend toward you, it will always have a queue of admirers.
Maybe it's best not to look at all.
Nothing good really comes of it.
6/26/07
White 06 (Winter's Kiss)
It whispers a night math on cold windowpane,
Swirling cough and hiccupped gunshot...
A glowering prism, sweet frosting's sonnet
And blurring the edges of shortened days.
The hours roll past in the gusts of the gale storm,
Flickering candlelight, rattling hip bones,
Cross freeze plaster landscapes, in harrowing tempest
And burning icicles deep down under pores.
The drudgery lingers,
So much time spent in waiting,
In bound penitentiary, held down at the wrist.
It kills with its back break,
And softens the steeples,
And bleeds out the patience of one long winter's kiss.
Swirling cough and hiccupped gunshot...
A glowering prism, sweet frosting's sonnet
And blurring the edges of shortened days.
The hours roll past in the gusts of the gale storm,
Flickering candlelight, rattling hip bones,
Cross freeze plaster landscapes, in harrowing tempest
And burning icicles deep down under pores.
The drudgery lingers,
So much time spent in waiting,
In bound penitentiary, held down at the wrist.
It kills with its back break,
And softens the steeples,
And bleeds out the patience of one long winter's kiss.
White 05 (Dead Of Winter)
The night hadn't ended well for either of them. There was a screaming match, which was not atypical lately. Tim couldn't remember what had started it, what insignificant spark had ignited the blaze, but it hardly mattered. Something would've triggered it. A stray comment, a misinterpreted look, a perceived tone... any of these things were dangerous around their dry kindling romance now. And whatever it was, it had raged out of control yet again. There was a terrible escalation every time, and this one had burned so badly that he actually felt wounded. He wasn't positive what she was feeling, but if the past was any indication, it was a rage that would die out in a few hours and fade away without a hint of remorse. In the meantime, he was kicked out of her house right about eleven. His hands were trembling. He had a sick feeling in his belly that he was getting far too accustomed to. As he stood on her porch, flooded by light from the open doorway, she launched one last barrage of insults and accusations and slammed the door in his face. He didn't protest. He didn't blink for a few long moments of odd thoughtless abandon. It started to snow.
The trip from the porch to the driveway felt long that night. Each foot step seemed painted, slow by a perfectionist, onto the canvas of black asphalt dotted, now, with the beginnings of bright white snow. Lost in himself and desperately trying to stave off any more thought, Tim absorbed his girlfriend's front yard, taking note of every shrub and landscaped pebble. It filled his awareness, like solid primaries slathered into the black lines of a coloring book. And amongst it, suddenly, was something queasy. In the shadows that dripped from the barren winter trees, he saw something staggeringly frightening. He couldn't name it. He couldn't say what it was at all. It was ugly, a grotesque little thing, colorless in the monochrome night. He thought it made his heart stop. It didn't, of course, but it did upend about a gallon of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Tim froze, unsure of what to do. The little colorless thing turned a wrinkled, tiny face toward Tim, and bared a set of spiny little teeth. Tim shivered. He looked at it, he stared straight at it for far too long and felt a barometer change of vomit rise up into his mouth. He forced it down, cringing at the acid taste of it, and bolted toward his car, whispering to himself in an effort to be convinced that thing was wholly imagined.
Before Tim reached his car, a set of headlights focused straight on him. He stopped, doubling his terror and wondering what the hell was going to happen next. He whirled back toward where the little hobgoblin had been, and felt first a wave of relief followed by a crushing assault of anxiety when he saw it was gone. It could be anywhere, now, and that was much worse. For a moment, Tim forgot the headlights. The sound of a car door opening brought him back, and he whipped his attention to the vehicle staring him down with mammoth glowing yellow eyes. A tall figure emerged, dark and obscured. And then he said, "Hey."
Squinting into the headlights, Tim struggled for a second with his own voice recognition software. Cycling through a list of candidates, he finally determined it belonged to Gavin, a co-worker and newly minted friend. "Hey," Tim echoed. "What're you doing here?"
"I figured you'd be here. I wanted to see what you were doing tonight."
"I think I saw a monster," Tim said, unsure of he wanted to sound like he was kidding or not.
"Oh. Wanna get some coffee?"
Tim didn't. He wanted to run. He wanted to go home, crawl under his covers like a child and forget about the whole stupid night. The initial shock of what he'd seen had dribbled out of him, and he was sure, now, that it had been a product of his unhappy imagination. The picture of it, the idea of it was swiftly fading, losing its clarity like removed generations of photocopies. Now, mostly, Tim felt terrible about everything else that had happened, and more than slightly silly for being rattled by a bugbear in the shadows to begin with. Maybe he just needed sleep. His heartbeat was slowing, and his quivers had almost entirely subsided. He felt like a train wreck, a twisted heap of metal and emotion that he didn't want to ply through at all. He decided coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. "All right." He got in Gavin's car.
"What's open?" Tim asked, buckling himself in. The smell of the car overwhelmed him at first, a kick in the face combination of some sort of linen-esque air freshener and weeks worth of preserved Burger King waste. An unidentifiable indie-rock screed was blaring way too loudly. Reacting to a sharp pain in his thigh, Tim pulled a Jesus action figure out from under his rear end.
"I'm not sure," Gavin said, paying more attention to his stereo than the road as he sped out of the driveway and into the cloned home subdivision. "Nothing here, probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
Gavin was flipping through a binder full of CD's, periodically (though not often enough in Tim's opinion) looking up over the steering wheel and adjusting their position on the street. He finally chose one and began the one handed juggle of switching discs.
"I can do that," Tim offered.
"Don't worry about it. It's ok." The car veered into the wrong lane. Gavin whooped and swung it back to its correct place. "You saw a monster?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I'm just tired, right?"
"Probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
"I got the new Eels album," Gavin said. "This is it."
"Yeah? I can tell. I mean, I thought it was them. It's good."
"Yeah. So far I like 'Electro-Shock' better. But I just got it, so you know."
"I know."
"It's good though. I'm really into them now. I'm like America's number one Eels fan."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're awesome. Do you remember their video for 'Novocaine For The Soul'?"
"Uh... maybe." Tim watched out the window as they drove deeper into the city. There was a weird calm that he got from the reflected street lights and traffic signals. He hated the city in the day time. The crowds bothered him, the possibility of crime jangled him, and the amount of cars clogging up the roads made him absolutely crawl in his skin. The city at night, though, was entirely different. Seeing the empty streets, especially abandoned late on a Sunday, was soothing. The few cars they passed moved slow and deliberately. The buildings stood cold and quiet without any trace of menace. The snowflakes looked perfect as they meandered past the illuminated lamp posts in fluttering patterns. There was something romantic about it, something that created an instant nostalgia. Tim clung to it, drank it in, tried to fill in the scared quaking void of the day with it. His lungs were moving in time with the beat of the light passing through the car windows. It was hypnotic and perfect. "Is that the one where they're floating?"
"Yeah. It's in black and white. Have you ever seen another video of theirs?"
"No. I don't think so."
"I love their music. E is a genius, don't you think? Well, maybe not genius... But I had no idea they were so good. I mean, I always liked that song. It was on the radio all the time, remember?"
Snow was collecting on the cars parked along the street. Tim was suddenly aware that he wasn't nervous about the weather at all. This was strange because he'd been nervous about it since he'd heard the forecast the night before. Tim liked to plan ahead with his anxiety. Driving on snow hazard roads was high on his long list of fears, just below being a passenger on snow hazard roads. But he wasn't nervous now. He was content. The only anxiety he felt was his dread for the end of the drive. He wanted to ride in Gavin's car all night. "Uh huh. I remember."
"I actually got sick of it. I would've never picked up 'Beautiful Freak' if it weren't for you."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You played... which one was it?"
"Huh?" Tim was entranced. "Which one what?"
"Which song did you play me?"
"Oh. Let's see... it was 'Manchild' I think."
"That's my favorite one. Was 'Susan's House' a single?"
Gavin rolled to a stop at a red light. Tim took a deep breath and made eye contact with an old man at a bus stop. The old man looked remarkably happy, happier than anyone Tim had ever seen. There was a sparkle in his eyes that even the night couldn't hide. He was smiling broadly and his teeth were Easter white. They stood out shockingly against his black skin. Tim smiled back at him, hoping the old man would see. He nodded at Tim as they pulled ahead when the light went green. "Uh huh. I think it was."
"It should've been. That's a great song too. I guess they're all pretty great. And that's not even their best album, you know? I mean, it's awesome, but 'Electro-Shock' is so much better. I would kill to make a record like that. I would kill to make any record, actually. I mean, I would love to be able to sing or write a song... play an instrument or something. I wasn't even in band. My mom didn't want to buy a trombone or anything like that."
"Uh huh. Me neither," Tim said. His mind drifted from the old man back to the imagined hobgoblin. He felt a weird twinge crackle through his gut. "It wasn't real. I'm just tired."
"The monster?" Gavin asked. Tim noticed a hesitation in the question. It didn't surprise him. It was a weird thing to have to ask.
"Yeah. I didn't see anything."
"Oh. Well... that's good."
"Yeah." Tim felt suddenly sad. A very overwhelming heaviness settled down on him, and he decided he should want to cry. But he didn't. It was bigger than that. It was beyond crying. It had skipped, straightaway, to acceptance. "You know something, Gavin?"
"What?"
Tim stared out the window for quite a while. They were close to an all night coffee shop near the university. The snow was falling harder now, and it looked very cold out. "I don't think I love her," Tim said, miserably. "I don't think I ever did."
Gavin found a parking spot on the street and did some parallel acrobatics to cram the car into the tiny space. "Yeah. I know."
"Oh," Tim said, and got out of the car.
The trip from the porch to the driveway felt long that night. Each foot step seemed painted, slow by a perfectionist, onto the canvas of black asphalt dotted, now, with the beginnings of bright white snow. Lost in himself and desperately trying to stave off any more thought, Tim absorbed his girlfriend's front yard, taking note of every shrub and landscaped pebble. It filled his awareness, like solid primaries slathered into the black lines of a coloring book. And amongst it, suddenly, was something queasy. In the shadows that dripped from the barren winter trees, he saw something staggeringly frightening. He couldn't name it. He couldn't say what it was at all. It was ugly, a grotesque little thing, colorless in the monochrome night. He thought it made his heart stop. It didn't, of course, but it did upend about a gallon of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Tim froze, unsure of what to do. The little colorless thing turned a wrinkled, tiny face toward Tim, and bared a set of spiny little teeth. Tim shivered. He looked at it, he stared straight at it for far too long and felt a barometer change of vomit rise up into his mouth. He forced it down, cringing at the acid taste of it, and bolted toward his car, whispering to himself in an effort to be convinced that thing was wholly imagined.
Before Tim reached his car, a set of headlights focused straight on him. He stopped, doubling his terror and wondering what the hell was going to happen next. He whirled back toward where the little hobgoblin had been, and felt first a wave of relief followed by a crushing assault of anxiety when he saw it was gone. It could be anywhere, now, and that was much worse. For a moment, Tim forgot the headlights. The sound of a car door opening brought him back, and he whipped his attention to the vehicle staring him down with mammoth glowing yellow eyes. A tall figure emerged, dark and obscured. And then he said, "Hey."
Squinting into the headlights, Tim struggled for a second with his own voice recognition software. Cycling through a list of candidates, he finally determined it belonged to Gavin, a co-worker and newly minted friend. "Hey," Tim echoed. "What're you doing here?"
"I figured you'd be here. I wanted to see what you were doing tonight."
"I think I saw a monster," Tim said, unsure of he wanted to sound like he was kidding or not.
"Oh. Wanna get some coffee?"
Tim didn't. He wanted to run. He wanted to go home, crawl under his covers like a child and forget about the whole stupid night. The initial shock of what he'd seen had dribbled out of him, and he was sure, now, that it had been a product of his unhappy imagination. The picture of it, the idea of it was swiftly fading, losing its clarity like removed generations of photocopies. Now, mostly, Tim felt terrible about everything else that had happened, and more than slightly silly for being rattled by a bugbear in the shadows to begin with. Maybe he just needed sleep. His heartbeat was slowing, and his quivers had almost entirely subsided. He felt like a train wreck, a twisted heap of metal and emotion that he didn't want to ply through at all. He decided coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. "All right." He got in Gavin's car.
"What's open?" Tim asked, buckling himself in. The smell of the car overwhelmed him at first, a kick in the face combination of some sort of linen-esque air freshener and weeks worth of preserved Burger King waste. An unidentifiable indie-rock screed was blaring way too loudly. Reacting to a sharp pain in his thigh, Tim pulled a Jesus action figure out from under his rear end.
"I'm not sure," Gavin said, paying more attention to his stereo than the road as he sped out of the driveway and into the cloned home subdivision. "Nothing here, probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
Gavin was flipping through a binder full of CD's, periodically (though not often enough in Tim's opinion) looking up over the steering wheel and adjusting their position on the street. He finally chose one and began the one handed juggle of switching discs.
"I can do that," Tim offered.
"Don't worry about it. It's ok." The car veered into the wrong lane. Gavin whooped and swung it back to its correct place. "You saw a monster?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I'm just tired, right?"
"Probably."
"Probably," Tim agreed.
"I got the new Eels album," Gavin said. "This is it."
"Yeah? I can tell. I mean, I thought it was them. It's good."
"Yeah. So far I like 'Electro-Shock' better. But I just got it, so you know."
"I know."
"It's good though. I'm really into them now. I'm like America's number one Eels fan."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're awesome. Do you remember their video for 'Novocaine For The Soul'?"
"Uh... maybe." Tim watched out the window as they drove deeper into the city. There was a weird calm that he got from the reflected street lights and traffic signals. He hated the city in the day time. The crowds bothered him, the possibility of crime jangled him, and the amount of cars clogging up the roads made him absolutely crawl in his skin. The city at night, though, was entirely different. Seeing the empty streets, especially abandoned late on a Sunday, was soothing. The few cars they passed moved slow and deliberately. The buildings stood cold and quiet without any trace of menace. The snowflakes looked perfect as they meandered past the illuminated lamp posts in fluttering patterns. There was something romantic about it, something that created an instant nostalgia. Tim clung to it, drank it in, tried to fill in the scared quaking void of the day with it. His lungs were moving in time with the beat of the light passing through the car windows. It was hypnotic and perfect. "Is that the one where they're floating?"
"Yeah. It's in black and white. Have you ever seen another video of theirs?"
"No. I don't think so."
"I love their music. E is a genius, don't you think? Well, maybe not genius... But I had no idea they were so good. I mean, I always liked that song. It was on the radio all the time, remember?"
Snow was collecting on the cars parked along the street. Tim was suddenly aware that he wasn't nervous about the weather at all. This was strange because he'd been nervous about it since he'd heard the forecast the night before. Tim liked to plan ahead with his anxiety. Driving on snow hazard roads was high on his long list of fears, just below being a passenger on snow hazard roads. But he wasn't nervous now. He was content. The only anxiety he felt was his dread for the end of the drive. He wanted to ride in Gavin's car all night. "Uh huh. I remember."
"I actually got sick of it. I would've never picked up 'Beautiful Freak' if it weren't for you."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You played... which one was it?"
"Huh?" Tim was entranced. "Which one what?"
"Which song did you play me?"
"Oh. Let's see... it was 'Manchild' I think."
"That's my favorite one. Was 'Susan's House' a single?"
Gavin rolled to a stop at a red light. Tim took a deep breath and made eye contact with an old man at a bus stop. The old man looked remarkably happy, happier than anyone Tim had ever seen. There was a sparkle in his eyes that even the night couldn't hide. He was smiling broadly and his teeth were Easter white. They stood out shockingly against his black skin. Tim smiled back at him, hoping the old man would see. He nodded at Tim as they pulled ahead when the light went green. "Uh huh. I think it was."
"It should've been. That's a great song too. I guess they're all pretty great. And that's not even their best album, you know? I mean, it's awesome, but 'Electro-Shock' is so much better. I would kill to make a record like that. I would kill to make any record, actually. I mean, I would love to be able to sing or write a song... play an instrument or something. I wasn't even in band. My mom didn't want to buy a trombone or anything like that."
"Uh huh. Me neither," Tim said. His mind drifted from the old man back to the imagined hobgoblin. He felt a weird twinge crackle through his gut. "It wasn't real. I'm just tired."
"The monster?" Gavin asked. Tim noticed a hesitation in the question. It didn't surprise him. It was a weird thing to have to ask.
"Yeah. I didn't see anything."
"Oh. Well... that's good."
"Yeah." Tim felt suddenly sad. A very overwhelming heaviness settled down on him, and he decided he should want to cry. But he didn't. It was bigger than that. It was beyond crying. It had skipped, straightaway, to acceptance. "You know something, Gavin?"
"What?"
Tim stared out the window for quite a while. They were close to an all night coffee shop near the university. The snow was falling harder now, and it looked very cold out. "I don't think I love her," Tim said, miserably. "I don't think I ever did."
Gavin found a parking spot on the street and did some parallel acrobatics to cram the car into the tiny space. "Yeah. I know."
"Oh," Tim said, and got out of the car.
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