Just Move, Pt. 2

I slept in jumps and starts. I remember fleeting images of Mike pulling the curtains, of birds calling outside, of a car alarm going off. I woke slowly, as if I was reconstituting myself from a state of disparate or disproportionate parts. I lifted my head. Mike was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper.

"Morning, sunshine. Feeling better?"
"Yeah. Did I really sleep 'til...4?"
"4:20. Time to get high."
"We don't smoke."
"You don't smoke, and I don't feel like it. So. We do it our own way." He placed a frosty looking beer on the coffee table by me.
"I think I've had enough to drink, and I'm still hung over."
"No, you were hung over when you got here. Now you're just lazy. Drink. Besides, it's the best cure."
"I thought that was a bloody mary," I said, but I took a swig. I'd leave it mostly full, just drinking to appease my erstwhile host.
"Thanks for letting me crash. I don't know what I'm going to do now."
"You're going to shower, shave, and then get a drink with me."
"Maybe food and then a drink."

I swore quietly, rubbed my neck and temples, and got up. In the shower, the mist swirling around me, I felt like I was in a jungle. I let the water pool in my mouth and pushed it out to pour down my chin and chest.

We went to a place I would describe as quaint. The burgers were organic or locally grown o something. I smiled at the thought of cows growing in Boston, like the trees they plant to beautify the city. I pushed my utensils around, bobbed my head uncomfortably, and generally skirted the things I really wanted to talk about. I thought about the word skirt being a verb and watched attentively as our watitress moved from table to table.

"I'm glad you're already moving on. First Moira and now what's her name? Cindy?"
"Mindy," I said morosely. "Why again did you change your clocks to London time?" It had not, in fact, been 4:20 pm but rather just after noon.
"I told you, that girl Lucy likes to keep track of her boyfriend's time zone."
"Twisted. I can't believe you're dating someone with a boyfriend."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa. Who told you we're dating? Did she tell you something? No-no, I just comfort her when she's lonely. Besides, it's not like it hasn't been done before. It's not like it won't happen again. He looked at me and the look slowly became one of significance, as if he had waited for me to catch on and was now actively implying it. I waved him off and distracted myself with folding my napkin into an origami frog. It wouldn't hop because it was not solid enough. I sighed.

"Did you know about it?"
"Not really. I wasn't there either when they all met her."
"Did Rafi know? He did. I knew he was acting weird last night."
"I don't know any more than you. I try not to get in the middle of anything. I thought something was brewing since you guys moved here, though."
"You mean this has been going on for six weeks?"
"No. No, I just mean I've known Sarah for a few years before you came into the picture and she acts different with you. I figured that was a good thing, but I didn't think it'd last. But c'mon, you're looking at every man's fantasy last night! And you walk away?"
"You don't know. I mean, we went to Oberlin. Oberlin girls, they don't always come back to the straight side."
"Isn't there that phrase? Four year queer."
"But we just graduated. And I'm sure that's incredibly offensive."
"You should talk to her."
"I know. I guess. I hate those conversations."
"Maybe it'll turn out well. Maybe she was just messing with you. Or maybe it's an early birthday present."
"What if she's, y'know, Madame Butterfly?"
"What, Japanese?"
"No. I mean--"

I shook my head, sorting through my thoughts. Everything was so jumbled in there. What did I mean by Madame Butterfly? I knew I had thought of it because I'd watched it with Sarah a few months before, but it didn't seem relevant. We ordered and I felt a surge of revulsion at the thought of eating a burger, picturing the meat raw and glistening and pink. It recalled the texture and color of my morning's regurgitation. I hurriedly drank down a swallow of water. Then it came to me. I felt silly. I felt like a teenager just getting his moorings.

"Madame Butterfly was a mistake. I was thinking of the Weezer album Pinkerton. Have you heard it?"
"I don't listen to that sentimental, whiny crap."
"It's not--look, I always thought the emblematic song on that album was 'Pink Triangle'. I don't know why. I realized my mistake when we watched the opera, but I still think of Madame Butterfly as a lesbian character."
"You could've just said your girlfriend is a lesbian. Your girlfriend is a lesbian. How hard is that? Butterfly has that hand maiden. That's pretty gay."

Hearing something or someone referred to as 'gay' recalled high school locker room talk. I always felt a little uncomfortable, even when it was being used to describe something or someone as actually homosexual. It felt ignorant and insensitive, but I knew Mike wasn't as liberal as I liked to think I was and I knew he was really just using it to goad me. The idea sat too awkwardly in my head. My girlfriend a lesbian? It made me squirm.

"Whatever. I don't know what I'm going to do. I mean, I have no life without her. I have no plans. My future revolved around being with her."
"Maybe it's good. You're twenty-two. Do you need a plan? Do you need to be locked in? Why don't you go back to Ohio?"
"Fuck that. You can't take two steps backward if you've only come one step forward. You don't get to retake negative steps. You just keep sliding back. Next thing you know I'll be married with three kids and still not twenty-five and I'll sit on my lawn chair on my lawn with my beer gut and yell at my neighbor's kids. I don't want that!"
"Are you that far from it here? You were practically married to Sarah."
"The beer gut's your fault."
"Granted. But, look, do you like your job? Do you actually like Boston? I have one more year at the University and you better believe I'm out of here they day I graduate, if not sooner. Go through Ohio, Dub, on your way to L.A. That's where struggling writers go, right? A little struggle could be good for you."
"I'm not a writer."
"Are you a copyist? Do you like compiling indexes? Do you want to write those damn summaries on the backs of books as a career?"
"I can't just quit my job. I'm not like--"
"What? Not like what? Why not quit your job? You have other references, and Sarah told me you went to Oberlin for free."
"It wasn't free. Just the tuition. I'm still in debt. And I can't just leave. Seriously Mike, I don't have anywhere to go."
"Why do you need a place to go? Just go."
"I should figure this Sarah thing out first. I do love--"
"Don't! Don't break my heart over it. I don't want to hear it. It's just one more thing to figure out. It's the same as any other day. Some things just trick you into thinking they're more important. They're not. You make them that way. On Monday, either you'll go to work or you won't. It's a decision. You make it one way or the other. So you might as well just do it. The more you brow beat yourself over anything, the less it does for you."

I looked at Mike and tried not to show my surprise. He wasn't the most loquacious guy, but he wasn't shy about his opinions. I certainly didn't buy this philosophy of one decision is as important as any other, but it was something to think about and perhaps would be useful in the near future. I was still hedging, though. Still didn't want to actually face this. Outside, it had started to rain. The broken drops clung to glass like little animals, pleading with me. Just a passing shower.

"Maybe I should talk to someone who knows more. Rafi..."
"Talk to her, Dub."

As we left the restaurant, I found myself coming back to Madame Butterfly over and over again. I could hear the end of the first act, the long duet between Pinkerton and Butterfly. It was so love soaked and thinking of it made me feel heavy and slow. The sky was still dark, viene la sera, and the leaves dipped ironically at me, passing on their burdens to the leaves below. As I watched them bob up, as if nodding at me, I thought of the second part of the duet "Sweetheart, with eyes..." and I imagined the drops of moisture were eyes at the end of these large, droopy leaves. They bobbed up and down and watched me as I walked down the wet Boston streets. It had been a passing shower, but its effects had a lasting effect on me. It was not the downpour I had fantasized about the night before. It was more real, more irksome, nagging and insistent and insinuated. My skin felt sticky with the warmth of the moisture rising into the air. It felt like the rain drop animals had dragged themselves up my body back towards the sky, like a thousand miniscule snails had climbed my body and left a shimmering mass of trails upon my skin.



I asked Mike what he would do when he left the city. He shrugged and said, "Anything." We walked on and he brushed his fingers through the leaves of a hedge we passed, scattering drops of water to the concrete. "So long as I was somewhere else," he said. "And had a real chance to just be. And think. There's too much here. Too many distractions. Maybe I would take up the violin again." I nodded and wondered how I might respond, but he went on. "You should go back to your apartment. Deal with it now. I don't want to see you until you've at least tried to sort it out. After that, my door is always open. But call next time, just in case."



"Moira has my phone!" I said, remembering.
"Talk to Sarah first," Mike said. "As for me, I'm going to go practice my left hand suzuki method." He walked off grinning, and I shook my head at the joke. I had read about a version of Madama Butterfly where Suzuki kills herself. I assumed that was not the kind of left hand method Mike was talking about. I turned aimlessly towards Sarah's apartment. Funny how easily it no longer felt like mine. I wasn't sure if would actually go there, but I let my feet do the walking and my eyes the wandering. I looked into the coffeeshops and odd stores I passed, wondering whether I was more like Madame Butterfly or Pinkteron.

The Mitten and the Cricket

The Act was performing in Trinity's quad. Carl helped Julia out of the car and past the dorms. "Jeez, Sis. They didn't give you crutches?" She shook her head and gritted her teeth. She had crutches back in Boston, but they'd been more of a hindrance. She'd fallen because of them more than once, and crutches don't help you up from the kitchen floor.

They made it to the small crowd ringing The Act. Carl made a path through the students, barking at a few who were slow to move, even discretely elbowing a particularly large coed. The Act was still setting up, but even in this they were consummate showmen, falling over each other, tumbling artfully on the grass. There were a few friends of Carl's standing near the front, and he high-fived them.

"Why are there so many students here? It's just like Ben to plan a college tour when no one's on college campuses anymore."
"Summer courses. Internships in town. Year long leases and subletters. No one ever really leaves the Trin."

Julia tried to do her balancing act, pretending not to lean on her left leg. She was concentrating so thoroughly on that that she didn't notice Carl slip away. She overbalanced and all her weight was suddenly on her sore ankle. She winced and quickly shifted back. Where had Carl gone? She distracted herself by looking for Ben. The Act consisted of Ben, four of his juggling buddies, and three brothers from China. Ben's juggling buddies were pretty run-of-the-mill college kids. They looked as lanky and under-nourished as did their hair. The supposed brothers were a different matter. Ben said they shared the last name and told everyone they were brothers, but they looked nothing alike. One was less than five feet tall, a constant ball of energy, one was nearly Ben's height but nearly twice as stocky, and the third was so tall his head didn't seem to be part of The Act, just his arms propelling the pieces of the various sets.

They were dressed in varying degrees of clown costume, which was a little odd. Julia was used to seeing them all impeccably done up before even beginning the warm-up, which was of course part of the routine as well. There was a screened off area behind the main stage of motion. Ben must be behind there, since Julia still had not picked him out of the whirling arms and legs. All of a sudden, they were all hidden from view and Carl was beside her with a chair, flashing a self-satisfied grin. Julia sat, feeling conspicuous, as if the show was just for her and the others were peasants present to enhance her experience with their oohs and aahs.

Then Ben emerged dressed in a grey, form-fitting suit that reached up over his head in the form of two large, round ears and down over his face to a peak of nose and whiskers. "Friends," he said. "We are The Act, and we bring you the most wondrous feat imaginable today. We present to you: Winter!" Two performers leaped from opposite sides of the partition, tossing a bolt of cloth between them in midair. It was a shocking blue and white and they made it ripple between them. Two other performers swept out from behind this and began to juggle a myriad collection of objects that looked for all the world like large snowflakes. The effect was mesmerizing. Julia thought for a second the burly Chinese brother would come out dressed like a nutcracker. She smiled and shook her head. They wouldn't be that cliche.

"This is the tale of a young boy, a mitten, a cricket who thought she didn't matter."

At Ben's words, the smallest Chinese brother pranced into view, holding a bundle of sticks. He spoke without an accent.

"It was the coldest day of winter, and I was gathering firewood for grandma. She told me to gather all I could, for the north wind blows cold tonight and we must have a roaring fire." He shivered, despite the day's warmth. He was wearing a tight red suit, with white fur lining the neck. Ben had slipped back out of sight. "I worked all morning to load up my sled, but as I finished and was heading home, I dropped one of my mittens. I don't know how I could've done such a thing on the coldest day of winter!" He smacked his hand to his forehead and did a back flip that took him away from the foreground. The crowd laughed. The tallest of the brothers jumped from behind the screen to replace the performers handling the cloth. He held a large picture of a mitten, with a white fur cuff and a red wool inside. "Along came a mouse," said the smallest Chinese brother, "And it was cold."

Ben moved furtively to the center of the grassy stage, no longer standing upright. He sniffed the air and pulled the grey jacket he had donned closer about him. Ducking under the soaring snowflakes, he touched the picture of the mitten. The boy character continued to narrate. "The mouse saw that my mitten was warm and snuggled down into it." The two performers who had been replaced by the tallest brother ran back on stage as the jugglers ended their snowflake sequence and ran off stage. Somehow Ben had acquired a set of red glass orbs and he began to juggle them as the two new jugglers set up a series of arcs before him. They had two sets of balls, one red and one white, and they kept them separate, creating a stream of white above a stream of red. Ben walked forward, through these arcs, still juggling his set of balls. The red and white streams seemed almost to pass through him, flowing all around his head and amidst his pattern of juggling.

Stepping from this hazardous area, Ben went into a series of different juggling techniques. The audience was duly wowed, but he moved through them quickly as if they were insignificant, mere steps he had to complete before the story could continue. He kept juggling as he sat down and moved seamlessly into a routine of contact juggling, weaving the orbs over and between his arms. Julia had seen this before but had never seen someone sit to do it.

The boy had turned to watch the performance as well and now turned back to the crowd. He mimicked clapping and the audience applauded. Nodding, the boy held out his hands. Two balls were tossed from behind the screen. He caught them and began to juggle them. One had a picture of a mouse on it, the other had a frog on it.

"Do not ask me how I failed to take my mitten with me. Don't ask me, either, how it is a frog was out and about on this the coldest day of winter. I'm just a little boy. This story is much older than me."

One of the initial jugglers jumped out from behind the screen, now dressed all in green. He performed a routine similar to Ben's. This continued as an owl, a rabbit, a fox, a wolf, a wild boar, and a bear came onto the stage. The boy told how each asked permission to come into the warmth of the mitten and how each was granted grudging entrance. Each performer sat and alternated between juggling and contact juggling. As the mitten became more crowded, the original picture was revealed to be folded as an accordion and opened out to fill the entire screen, where the tallest brother left it to hang so he could become the bear. The performers also rotated out as they mitten became more crowded, though Ben remained in the same spot. The frog became the fox. The rabbit became the wolf. The owl, played by the widest of the brothers, became the wild boar. Each substitution was accompanied by an unfolding of the mitten's image, and each unfolding revealed an image of the creature that was disappearing. The young boy was now juggling seven balls as the bear approached the mitten.

The bear did not ask permission, however, and simply forced his way into the mitten. At this, the boy threw an eighth ball high into the air. As it fell into the rotation of the other balls, he let them all drop. The other performers sprang to their feet, and all the red and white balls were tossed between the eight of them. It was an impressive showing, as the balls seemed to be a chaotic jumble in the air but always found their way to the right hands. The boy spoke the crowd over his shoulder, saying, "Now, again, do not ask me how a mitten stretched to fit all these animals. It did. The seams were bursting and the lining was coming apart, but it held together. However, a cricket came along." Julia felt Carl shifting next to her. She looked up at his face and saw him grinning. The boy said, "The little old cricket was cold and her legs ached. She saw all the animals gathered warmly together and said to herself one little old cricket wouldn't make that much of a difference. Little did she know!"

With that, Carl lobbed a painted-cricket ball over the entire series of arcs. The juggling stopped, each performer clutching his balls except for the little boy who stepped to the middle of them and caught the cricket ball in an up-stretched hand. As he caught it, the others ran off stage, two of them grabbing the sides of the painted mitten and ripping it asunder.

"At this very moment, I realized I'd dropped my mitten. I went back to look for it, but all I found was the ripped apart pieces." The two pieces of the painted mitten were thrown over the screen. The crowd laughed quietly. "I thought I saw a mouse scampering through the snow. It had a bit of red wool on its head, which looked like the lining from my mitten," said the boy. Ben ran behind the boy quickly, eliciting another laugh. "But I couldn't be sure." The boy hugged himself tightly and shivered. "I hope my grandma has made me a new pair of mittens," and he ran off after Ben.

Carl exploded into applause, and the crowd did the same. A bird squawked in the sky and changed direction, as if struck. Julia felt cold for some reason, and her hands lay limp across her lap. If she had tried to speak, she wouldn't have been able to. She sat there waiting for Ben to come back, wishing she were somewhere else.

Just Move

I tumbled from the apartment, down the stairs, onto the street. I was propelled by what I had done. My limbs felt like water and I, horrified, felt poured into the breaking day. I couldn't stop, couldn't breathe, couldn't see anything but the cracks in the sidewalk. A car almost hit me in an intersection. I should've been clued in by the cessation of cracks. The driver yelled at me mutely Gazing at him, I straightened up and looked around. The light seemed to flood in, not filling me, not overwhelming my consciousness, but bringing clarity to everything, all the details, the nagging, insistent cracks that compelled me forward.

What was I doing? It was one mistake, one lapse of judgment. No one even knew, unless Moira had woken up in the intermittent minutes. It was easily fixed. I just needed to get my bearings. Hurling obviously meant I might still be drunk. Coffee might be in order and something more solid than veggies and dip. On the other hand, every second I deliberated was another second closer to Moira waking up and finding my mess. The car honked, and I started. Just move. I started walking back towards Moira's apartment, thinking as I went.

Beneath me I felt the sidewalk heating up. I realized I had no shoes and no shirt. I patted my pockets and found my wallet. At least there was that. I spied a gas-station convenience store and put a hand on the door. The guy inside, white shirt tucking his gut desperately into his pants, pointed at a sign that told me, "No Service." Damn. I snapped my fingers and thought myself corny like a secondary character in an Indiana Jones flick or an Encyclopedia Brown story. I had it, though. Michael's place was only two blocks from here. I broke into a jog, hoping he'd be home. I rounded a corner and almost pitched into a hedge, but I made it to his building's intercom and punched his number.

I could see my face dimly reflected in the brass of the intercom. It rang four, five times. I sighed, defeated, and rested my head on the cool metal. It kept ringing. "Hi, this is Mike. I'm out and you're out of luck." I swore and dialed it again. Five, six, seven times it rang. I punched the numbers again slowly. On the fourth ring, there was a click. "Hello?" It was a woman's voice. "Who's this? Michael can't come to the phone right now." "Hello? Hello! Hi, this is Mike's friend. I need help. Let me up. Please, I really need Mike." "It's barely seven. Can't you come back later?" "No! No, I need Mike now! Please, please you gotta help me out. Just hit the pound key. Please?" There was a pause and my breath wouldn't come. "Mike? Mike, there's a guy here asking for you." Her voice sounded distant. It took her a minute to get back, and I glanced up nervously. The clouds rushed by, as if they each wanted to pass by and see my desperation. I gritted my teeth and tried not to close my eyes. The world didn't stay still when I did that. The voice crackled back. "Hey, what's your name?" "It's Dub. Tell him it's Dub." "What kind of--" "Dub! Dub, hey. Sorry." Thank God, it was Mike's voice. "No, get outta here Tati. No, I don't know. Shower or something. Hey man. Sorry about that. Come up." It buzzed and the door popped open. An old man with a tiny dog was siting in the lobby, staring. I didn't think about how long he'd been sitting there, not letting me in. A woman in a pink skirt-suit was in the elevator with me. I tried not to leer.

Mike's hall was a sickly green and salmon. I kept a hand against the wall so as not to stagger. The door opened before I got there. Mike was ushering a young lady out. "I'm sorry, Tatiana. I know it's early, but Dub really needs me. Look, I'll call you." "When?" "Tonight. I promise." "Michael Francis Aronowitz, don't make promises you're not going to keep." "Tatiana, I won't let you down. I swear." "It's not nice to swear, Michael. I'm going to have to punish you next time I see you." Michael laughed and snapped his teeth at her. She adjusted her skirt as she waited for the elevator. I started to apologize for not holding it, but she didn't give me the slightest acknowledgment so I stopped. Michael grinned, shook his head, and pulled me in. "So, what's troubling you."

I paused to recollect myself. The apartment helped. Michael had an odd sense of decor, filling his rooms with a rich darkness tinted with green. The wood was beautifully varnished and everything else was homey shag. I inhaled deeply and forgot the city for a second, forgot my queasiness and just breathed. I had to give Mike an appraising look that took in and told all. The girl, the quick boot he had given her, the wire glasses, the white bathrobe (too short, I might add). His grin displayed an impressive set of white teeth. Everything worked to set everything else off perfectly. The green and brown of the apartment. The stark whiteness offset by Michael's dark skin. The glasses perched expectantly on his quite formidable nose. He looked everybit the mad offspring of Ichabod Crane and Marion Jones, and he made the term Jew-fro, well, appropriate.

I took one more breath and considered what to tell him. I opted against letting everything pour out all at once. I was sure he knew about the situation with Sarah and might have useful insight, but that was not the pressing matter of the moment. It was more important to get this puke business sorted out. Fast. "I puked on Moira's carpet. I gotta fix it before she gets up. You got a shirt?"

"Dude, you know esta en su casa. I'll find something. Grab the stain remover from under the sink."
As I was rummaging through the different bottles of cleaners, I shot back at him, "Isn't it mi casa es su casa?"
"No, man. That's just a fucking aphorism."
"What, are you Latino now?"
"No, but my mami is."
"If you're in this kind of mood, I'm definitely going to need coffee."
"We'll stop at the mini-mart on the way. It's all good."
"The guy working there's a prick. Didn't even let me in the front door."
"They don't put those signs up just because they're pretty. It's to keep out barbarians like you." He threw a shirt and shoes at me. He'd already changed into faded black jeans and a tight t-shirt. I pulled on the shoes and frowned at the shirt. It had a green power ranger posing on the front and what looked like Godzilla on the back.
"Japanese, Latino. You can't just be simple old you, Mike?"
"It's not called bi-culturalism," he said, pushing me out the door and locking it.
"It should be. Maybe they'd pick up a few more followers. Curious."
"You're an imbecile."
"At least I'm not a hipster imbecile."
"You wouldn't know the difference. So, you went home with Moira?"
"I don't think anything happened. I don't even remember leaving the club."
"Sarah ditched you, remember?"
"Yes, vaguely," I snapped. "Let's get this coffee already." I glared at the mini-mart guy, but Mike struck him up in conversation as I filled a cup steaming. "Relative of yours?" I asked as we left.
"You get what? One racist comment a day?"
"You have camaraderie with someone with similar color skin, so I can't comment on it? That guy just ticked me off. Besides, I'm just not in the mood." I took a bite of the bagel I had also bought, dry. "Wait. How're we gonna get into Moira's apartment?"
"Don't worry about it. Nothing may have happened between you two, but that doesn't mean girl doesn't like to get down."
"Seriously?"
"Don't fret it, Holmes. It was only a one-time thing, and it was before you came into the picture. I swear."
"It's not nice to swear."
Grinning, he pushed a few numbers on the pad at Moira's building, and the door buzz-clicked open. "I'm not nice," he said.

I shook my head and followed him up the stairs. He used a key from above Moira's door to open her apartment and I went in and started cleaning up. Smelling it again, I gagged but fought back the urge to puke. We got the puke contents and most of the discoloration. I sniffed the spot worried the smell would linger, but Michael waved his hand dismissively. I left a note on her kitchen counter. "Sorry. Thank you."

I moved to peak in on her, but Michael grabbed me by the arm, shook his head. As he shut the door quietly behind us, he said, "Better not to. Always better not to."

I shrugged and followed him back to his apartment. "Sleep," I said. "What was the point of the coffee?" he said. "Makes everything clear. Not clarion, Holmes. Besides, I didn't really drink it." As I crashed into dreamless sleep on his couch, his teeth flashed white at me and said, "Vaya con Dios, Dublin. I'll be here when you wake."

Sleep Now, Beautiful

Julia closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air felt like sweat. She did her business and got out. Ben was combing his hair. "You okay, Jules? Looks like you saw a--". "What? Saw a what?" "Well, the writing on the wall, if...you will."

It took a second, but she caught on. It should've been obvious. She was more tired than she had realized. Belatedly, she shoved Ben. He grabbed his shoulder in mock pain. "You ass." "I just thought you'd appreciate a little message. It's been awhile." His skin was still wet, and it made Julia uncomfortable that even after two years she still found his presence intoxicating. Not batting an eye, she said, "Put a shirt on. You look like a heathen."

"Good to see you too." said Ben, but went to look for a shirt.
"You've been sleeping here? Are you responsible for this?" Julia nodded at Carl's closed door.

Ben pulled on a shirt. It was too tight. He shook his head and wriggled out of it. Julia couldn't help watching his supple torso squirm. He threw the shirt aside and bent down to look for another. "Must be the kid's. Lindsay? She was here before I got in. I've only been here two nights. I'm meeting back up with The Act at The Big Tent." Finding something that fit, he looked up and saw Julia's vague puzzlement and interest. "Dollface, you really do look beat. Can't even muster up the old evil eye, can you? Look, you're almost smiling! Or is that just your look now? The Big Tent, it's this big event in Central Park where different circus troupes perform and compete and there're all these workshops. It's gonna be a blast. You should come."

Ben, oftentimes lost in his movements, trailed off and looked at Julia. He came up to her and held her shoulders. A stray hair had fallen in front of Julia's face. Ben smiled and smoothed it back. "Sleep now, beautiful." He guided her to the couch and crouched before her as she tucked herself in. "Ben, I--" She looked up into his face. It was comforting having him here. She had forgotten how good it felt to be around him. The blankets smelled like him. "What's that, Jules?" She looked down at her hands, clutching the blankets, then looked back at him. "I want to come to your performance. When is it?" "Four. Carl'll bring you along. Now don't worry about anything. You're in good hands now." He kissed her on the forehead, gathered a few things, and walked to the door. "Night, kid." he said. "Sleep."

A feeling of security breathed through Julia's body. She inhaled deeply and felt Ben's presence still lingering. Picturing his eyes smiling deeply, she slipped into the best sleep she'd had in a long time.

Contrast

I'd only been to Moira's apartment a few times, but it was an easy space to feel comfortable in. Intimate, like it was sitting on the chair next to you, leaning slightly towards you, listening, but you get the sense it would be drawn to you as much as you were drawn to it even if you had nothing to say. It was something in the lineament, I was sure. Something so softly irresistible, something you want to touch but you're afraid you'll alter it somehow and that alteration would be a kind of wound, a beginning of debasement.

Swathed in the virginal quietude of the apartment, I hadn't felt the heat. It was to be, perhaps, the first truly hot day of the summer. Past years had seen heat waves sweep the coasts with some people even dying of the heat. It almost seems a recession was due. A few sweltering days were inevitable, though. I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the city. Sometimes it didn't feel like Boston. I had had a preconceived notion of Boston as a little provincial or at least collegiate. I think, in my mind, I had compared it unfairly to New York. Boston was still worlds more urban than anything I'd experienced in Ohio. I stretched, rubbed my neck. This kind of height always made me feel a little regal, like the whole city was just a panorama spread out just for me. Like I was addressing the masses.

I was sweating, and I had a headache. The clouds were red in the early sky. They seemed to be glowering at me. How much had I had to drink the night before? It couldn't have been as much as it now felt like it had been. What about Moira? No, nothing could have happened there. She wouldn't have taken advantage of me, and if I couldn't remember then I would have been too far gone to do much but pass out. It was sweet of her to have let me stay with her. I felt bad for sleeping in her bed. I could have very well knocked out on the couch or the floor. It was nice though, a pleasant gesture. It dulled the discomfort of being here and not at home, however short my stay had been in that apartment. It had felt like mine. It represented a group of choices I had made, choices that had been unmade by one, stupid little thing.

I couldn't think about it, and I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe I had miscontstrued last night's meaning. Maybe Moira was just tending to me in my disarray. God knows what it would have been like waking up in our apartment with this sense of being adrift lodged inside me. I hadn't asked for this. God, I hadn't asked for anything but a peaceful life. No. No, don't think about it. You're only spiralling downward. Do something. Get something inside you besides feelings.

I rubbed my stomach. My skin felt warm, maybe a little clammy. I would feel odd being in Moira's apartment feeling like this. I wouldn't want to touch anything. I also didn't know how well food would sit in me, but it's always a process, always something that has to start somewhere. I went back inside, the sky laughing at my retreat. Bending down, I whispered, "Moira." She didn't stir. Her forehead was dotted with perspiration. It didn't belong and I wanted to wipe it away. I wondered vaguely, guiltily, what it would taste like. Rising, a hint of dizziness washed over me. I staggered a bit, but continued on to the kitchen. The floor there was cool, and I shivered. I felt lost.

In our apartment, I had finally started to feel comfortable. We had the microwave, a nice assortment of dishes, a dish rack. I knew where everything was and there were hardly any gaps. When I needed cumin, we had cumin and I knew where it was. I stood in Moira's kitchen for a long moment, not sure what to do. Coffee would be good. But how would I make that? I could go out and get some, but how would I get back in? And where was my shirt? Grunting, I opened the fridge. I squatted down to get a better look. That was a mistake. I decided to remain sitting. It wasn't a full fridge, but better than most belonging to people our age. I immediately caught at the Brita and grabbed it out. I tipped my head back and tried to pour it into my mouth, but I got it all over me. My chin, my chest, my pants. Oh well. Try again later. I placed it on the floor next to me and grabbed for one of the tupperware containers. I peeled back the top and gave it a sniff. My head went reeling. I gagged and tossed it onto the shelf without resealing it. It hadn't smelled particularly bad but had been just a bit mushy for my particular state. Shaking my head like a dog, I pulled out another one. Glutton for punishment and all that. This was more like it. Carrot sticks and broccoli. Oh, and there was the dip. I stumbled up, grasping the water in my other hand. The dining table, I couldn't sit at it, but I placed the water and food there and felt my toes in the carpet. Wonderfully squishy, I scrunched them up and smiled. I closed my eyes and took the water and put its cool exterior against my forehead. Not worth another try yet. A little food, first.

I munched on a carrot and its juices exploded in my mouth. I took a piece of broccoli and scooped up some dip. I brought it to my face. It didn't look or smell all that appetizing. But I wasn't going to waste it just for a little squeamishness. I put it in my mouth and the dip felt slimy and pale. The broccoli was crisp and its flowering tops felt like little toes as I began to chew, the particles separating in my mouth and scraping against my tongue. The smell of the dip pushed back down my throat, as if to reach down my gullet. Something jerked inside me. I gagged and bent over and away from the table, and I stumbled towards the kitchen. My footing gave way and I was on all fours, on the carpet hurling. I heaved, once, twice, my stomach rejecting everything. My stomach pissed off. And fuming. Eyes closed, arms stretched out before me as if in prostration, I breathed. I opened my eyes.

The mess in front of me was pink and lumpy. Smelling it, I retched again. What was I going to do? Oh God, what could I do? I couldn't let it set in that carpet, that perfect white carpet. I ran to the kitchen and looked around desperately, rummaged under the sink, in the cupboards. Nothing to get rid of stains. Nothing to help me. Nowhere to turn. Horrified, I stumbled to the door, fumbled with the lock, spilled out into the painted morning. Running from my defacement.

If I called this 'Portent', would it be too determinist?

"I'm going to have to drive over there. It's no problem. I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes," Carl said.

Luckily for Julia, nothing bad ever happened in Hartford, West or not. Except today. This morning it was as if her worry summoned up a demon from the detritus around her.

She tried to focus on her book, but her mind kept drifting back to that snap of fear she had felt at John's first comment. Her eyes stung. There was an odd smell she only caught every few seconds. It was a bit like rubbing alcohol but with a hint of citrus, like fermenting leaves. She looked around. All the people remained in soporific stupor. She felt so helpless. If these people came to life and started walking stiffly towards her, she couldn't even run and hide. She would have to scream and clutch at her useless, defunct foot. Maybe it would turn on her too.

She shook her head and turned back to her book. No zombies here. Carl would get there any minute. Then, out of nowhere, the ragged old man was flung into the seat nearest Julia. He was more torn cloth and and dried bodily fluids than he was man. Julia imagined a bird caged in car engine oil rags, falling futilely there. There was no way the man was doing anything of his own volition. Temptation must have come from the silky voices of the dust devils and sand spirits, the inhabitants of what-ever mystical city had forsaken him here. His name was Elijah, and he gripped Julia's hand as if it held the one answer that would save him from such an existence, as it were water, as if he might find sustenance by which he might survive in her fingers' marrow.

He looked Julia in the eye and she could not look away. In his pupils, she thought she saw endless, utter sorrow. Remorse, the pestilence that plagued this man's soul. In her mind, she imagined she was struggling to pull her hand away. In reality, she did not move from that spot for years afterward. He spoke quietly, his teeth black and pushing at each other.

"Don't listen to his words. You're a china doll, beautiful. Beautiful. You could never be one of us. Keep to the narrow, hee-hee! And fate will be your guide! Do not listen to him. He wants-a make you. The need will be your ghost! Keep to the narrow! Keys the narrow! Arrow...arrow. Keep the boat afloat you're row-rowing. Row-row-rowing..."

Then he was gone. Julia wasn't sure how long she had sat there. Carl was shaking her. Hey...hey sis. You look like you've seen a ghost. His words came from far, far away.

She limped to the car. They drove in silence for awhile. Buildings gave way to trees. Carl turned on the radio, "We tried singing a slow down beat 'cause you ain't used to how fast we touched. Then we locked eyes, and I knew I wasn't there..." Julia reached out and pushed the volume button, turning the radio off. "You know I hate that song." Carl looked at her and said, "I guess. You okay?" Julia started to move, rummaging through her bag and pulling out a CD. "Julia, I don't have a-" "Why do you have to be such a hippy, Carl?" She grabbed her CD player and from the glove compartment an audio-casette connected to a cord. She put her CD in and put the cassette in and pressed play. "What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all 'round the sun. What a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen in a blink of an eye and be gone from me..."



"And you call me the hippy."
"Shut up. It's beautiful. It's about Ameila Earhart."
"Y'know what's beautiful? Frontin'."
"You're a neophyte."
"Uh-uh, you forget, I'm not a freshman anymore. Wait, shut up! What was that back there? You were just sitting there. You really scared me."
"Just messing with my little brother." She looked at him for the first time. "I'm sorry. I'm really tired. Where are we going?"

"I was just driving around. I drove past my place ten minutes ago, but I didn't want to disturb you. I didn't want to pull you from some hippy meditative state and leave you a vegetable for the rest of your life. It's already such a chore looking after you." Julia glared at him and he broke into a grin. "Now that's the Sissy I know."
"Don't call me that. Are we going straight to New York?"
"I think we both need sleep, besides-"
"You left some girl at your place! That's why you didn't pick up right away!"
Carl's grin only got bigger. "Yes, and no."

They pulled up to a white two-story building. "You've been living here? It's so pretty," said Julia as she limped up the stairs. "Geez, Sis. You weren't kidding with that sprain. Your ankle looks like a melon!" Carl tried to help her, but she brushed him off. Reaching the top, she hobbled down the walk. Carl crab-stepped around her and strode quickly to his apartment, opening the door and mock bowing her in. He was relishing this a bit too much; she couldn't be as disdainful as usual when she was depending on him.

A statuesque man stood directly in line with the doorway wearing only a towel. His broad shoulders were silhouetted by their reflection in the mirror behind him.
"Ben!"
"Hey, Jules! What's shakin'? I was just about to jump in the shower. Good thing you didn't come in a minute ago." His smile lit up the dim room. "You look beat," he said as he came to give her a one-armed hug, the other holding up the towel.
"What're you doing here?"
"What, you don't check your e-mail anymore? My internship got postponed, so I'm touring with The Act for June. I figured while we were in Trinity territory, I would stop by and check in on young Cap, here." He reached over and toussled Carl's hair.

They were only three years apart in age, but Carl idolized Ben. Julia did too, in a way. The three of them had grown up together. Carl and Ben had gone to school together, while Julia had been at a private school half an hour drive away. Ben had been captain of the football team, a defensive back, and had given Carl the nickname "Captain Planet" when Carl had taken up a dozen different environmental causes in the 10th grade. Ben hadn't gone quite the route of a football captain, though. He had chosen to go to Brown on a soccer scholarship despite other offers. There, he had met the other members of The Act. It had started with a passion for juggling and had escalated into a full on traveling circus act. Ben hardly looked the part of a clown now, though the floppy shoes didn't keep him from being quite acrobatic in performances.

"Carl said you needed an escort down to New York, and I thought I'd volunteer my services. Carl is...well, he and his flat here are otherwise occupied." With that, he moved back towards the bathroom. "You can share my bed," he said over his shoulder, indicating the couch. "I have a performance."

"Carl, what the hell?" Julia hissed.
"He's the no." Carl pushed the door to his bedroom open. "Lindsay's the yes."
"You're passing me off for some girl? And to Ben!"
"You guys'll have a blast. And she's not just some girl. I think she could be the one. I'm serious. I'm gonna call Mom and Dad, let them know I met the girl I'm going to marry."
"How long have you even known her?"
"Two days. So what? She's perfect. She spent last semester in Japan fighting to save the dolphins."
Julia caught her retort and gave Ben the look she reserved for moments when she wasn't sure how much of his shtick was an act. Regardless, she was tired of letting him goad her.
"I have to use the bathroom."
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you joined him in there."
"Oh, go sleep with your stupid dolphin lover."
"No arguments here!"

Julia sat on the couch, waiting for Ben to emerge. She could hear him singing and, in the bedroom, muffled voices. Left alone, she couldn't help returning to the thought of that old man. She thought she saw someone reflected in the TV screen and turned to look behind her, but there was only a Klimt print hanging on the wall.

Ben stepped out of the bathroom, bathed in mist. He ran the towel over his hair. "You're not gonna knock out, kid? Hey. What's wrong?"
She looked up at him. What would she say? Some homeless guy had spooked her?
"I have to pee."
"All yours, doll."

She shivered at the odd endearment but went into the bathroom. She closed the door and stood in darkness a moment, her hand feeling the cool metal of the knob. She flicked on the light. The moisture swirled around her. She looked at the shower door and felt the air go suddenly cold and lifeless. Scrawled in the condensation were the words, "I'm watching you."

Moving Shapes

There was some confusion in the room as I adjusted to this new piece of information. Inside I was still, but now the world was spinning. If I had been sober...were they all laughing at me? I felt a rising in me. I wasn't going to hurl, but I wasn't okay either. My eyes found Sarah. Her smile pulled her cheeks up towards her eyes, making her face look opalescent. She had always reminded me of the Disney version of Alice from Alice in Wonderland, but now her upturned cheeks (For a second I imagined crescents cradling water. Then I glanced around, behind the laughing faces, and saw that the oceanic walls had turned red. The bubbles were probably still bubbles, but to me they looked like blood cells, shaking with laughter as they glided towards the ceiling. The color flooded my vision, painted everything red.) reminded me of the frantic card men or the queen herself. For a second, I thought I saw a white rabbit, anthropomorphic and red.

I shook my head. No one else seemed startled. They were merely amused. I was still holding Dawn's hand. Sarah took my other hand and sat me down. I wanted to blame the alcohol on putting me in such a daze. Don was Dawn, so what? Sarah was saying something, which I lost in the music. Dawn had sat down on the other side of her. I fixated on her hand on Sarah's bare leg. Looking up, I found Sarah's eyes locked on mine. Her lips stopped moving. Then Dawn took Sarah's head in her hands and kissed her. I couldn't hear anything and my mouth was open as if I were trying to pop my ears. It felt like I had breathed in the frantic light and everything inside me had turned red. Nothing needed oxygen anymore and my organs died and my fingers and my brain too. I felt like I was floating and sinking at the same time.

Sarah turned to look at me again. I tried to kiss her, but she shook her head, took me by the hand, led me out of the club. As the three of us walked through the various chambers, clung to the translucent walls, and pushed past the one or two wallflowers, I ran my fingers along the cool surface. A strange thing happened. Strange things happen everyday. As I was trailing my fingers, I saw the wall turn blue behind me. It was as if a curtain was lifting. The dancers looked ghostly, transformed into mere moving parts of a writhing red or blue mass. I touched my fingers to my lips, and they were wet. I was glad to feel the night air as we emerged.

It wasn't quite night anymore. In maybe an hour, the city birds would start shrieking in the branches. Sarah was still looking at me as if she expected something. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be reacting to. I looked at them for a moment and, when they didn't say anything, I started to shuffle off in the direction of our apartment.

"I'm going home."
"Dub, wait! Don't you think we should talk about this?"
"Talk about what? About...hmm? It's Saturday morning and I'm sleepy. What do you want to talk about? Quickly? I want to spread my dream wings-" I paused to laugh at myself, "before the birds spread theirs. I mean real ones."

I woke up in Moira's bed. Moira was next to me, which made the morning feel naked. Her bare arm was smooth and cool. Her apartment was incredibly white. I was surpised I hadn't noticed that before. I had an impulse to paint on the walls, perhaps something really small, moving shapes within a rectangular outline.

Cooped Up In Transit

Julia was sitting in the dark, humming along towards Connecticut. Behind her was Boston, her cramped studio, her summer job. Before her was interminable darkness. She felt like her one curtain of light was its own little world, a molecule racing along towards its destination. She didn't know it yet, but she was looking for someone. Someone important. It wasn't the man looking a little too intently at her. Nor was it someone from the book she was reading, though she thought it might be (she would never tell anyone this). But back to the man looking a little too intently. Julia hated taking the Greyhound, but she had quietly forgotten that up until this point.


She was unaware of his gaze until she read a paragraph that reminded her of something poignant from her childhood, and she looked up. "You have beautiful toes," he said.

He was not the mangy creature you'd expect to offer this kind of introduction. Rather, he appeared the epitome of business-like sophistication. He should have been flying first class, flirting with the stewardesses and taking home the business cards of the people around him. He was still flatteringly flattering, but he leered a bit, as if drunk.

Julia smiled at him and looked back at her book.

"You don't see beautiful toes on most women, not beautiful women anyway. Do you know why? All the stress builds up. Trust me. I know what it's like to feel beautiful. Everyone always watching you. The constant pressure of living up to expectations. The immediate judgment people make of you. It builds up, in around your shoulders, up your neck, oh god if someone would just run his fingers through your hair maybe you could release a litle stress, but no one touches you because you're too beautiful, so it pulses in your brain like breathing on a hot day and lingers there a touch too long, then it shoots through your body, every nerve aching for reprieve. Your fingers grasp the armrest. Your back longs to arch, extend, reach toward some unknowable essence. Your toes scrunch up. And you walk around like this all day, on tip-toe, on egg shells, because you can't let your guard down, you can't let someone take you in, take advantage of your beauty, violate your trust. What a sad, lonely existence."

Julia moved her foot from its place on the armrest in front of her. She was stayed by the man's hand reaching across the aisle. She didn't know what she would do if he touched her. Everyone else seemed to be asleep, or tacitly pretending to be. She put her foot back up, and he took his hand back to let it rest in his lap.

"You wouldn't want to worry a beautiful little foot like that on account of a few stray words. I'm sorry. I'll say no more of it. But you do have amazingly beautiful toes. I've seen toes as beautiful before, but not on - "

He smiled sheepishly. Julia narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'm sorry. I'll let you get back to your book, unless that is you wouldn't mind telling how you hurt it."

Julia considered making a moue but then realized she was already doing it. He was grinning again, as if he was somehow exonerated.

"It's just a sprained ankle. Well, it was a bad sprain. You should've seen it a week ago." She hated herself for this. All she wanted was get to Hartford and her younger brother Carl without event. Now, if she wasn't careful--and she had already been careless--she would be stuck for this useless conversation. She remembered now how much she hated these rides.

If he had asked any other question, she would've been much more adept at blowing him off. But she'd been so frustrated.

She had sprained it playing squash. She didn't play much, but she'd had a friend from college in town. The sprain was nothing spectacular (Even with such beautiful ankles?). Yes, even with such beautiful ankles. Everyone knows what an injury's like, with the worry and the uncertain hands and the, sometimes, pacing. The friend was insignificant and hadn't been staying with her. What was significant was the quiet apartment, the struggle to the icebox, the constant thought of elevation. She had written frustrated, half-e-mails to friends and cast them aside to Drafts. She had watched one TV show on DVD after another, left by her guilt ridden friend. She had drank tea.

The problem was she had no real friends in the city. She had been subletting her cousin's apartment, which was vacant due to her cousin's summer abroad. This cousin was older than Julia, galavanting not on a twentysomething exploration swing, but off in search of mid-thirties reinvigoration. She was also looking to invest in Euro property, as she suspected the US dollar would soon drop. Julia was left in a space that felt utterly alien. It was not so much sterile as it was staunch. It was a little too sturdy, or sturdily homey, to really feel intimate. For the first month of the summer, Julia had made herself quite comfortable there and was just getting the gist of the city when she sprained her ankle. But now, it was as if everything had been quietly taken away from her.

She could no longer simply pop out into the cool Boston night and walk along the Charles River. Everything took so much effort. Her summer job became a list of negotiations. She could do this but not that. She could do that, but she'd have to move everything over there and sit down. She could take that over there, but it would really hurt. It wouldn't have been so difficult if she had sprained her ankle within a normal routine. She woke up at the same time everyday here, but she was thinking the whole time about what she was doing, where she was going. That was the point of a summer job, wasn't it? But now the thoughts were so much more tedious. They refused to extend beyond the immediate inconvenience. So Julia had to get out.

She couldn't even drive. Not that she'd had a car. She told herself it would've been better if it had been the left ankle. The truth was she'd been looking for an excuse. This was just not the best one. So she was heading down to see her brother, and from Hartford they were going to drive to New York where their grandma lived. From there, they had talked about going on to North Carolina, Atlanta, New Orleans. After the first few hours of her Greyhound ride, she wasn't sure it would be such a great idea to spend so much time cooped up in transit, but at least she wouldn't be alone with her discomfort.

Just like that, the night had passed. It wasn't quite day, but the sighs of yellow were pushing up into the sky. The oddly provident man actually turned out to be a business man. He even had his own card. His name was John and as he helped Julia out of the Greyhound, he gave her his card. He was in advertising and he told her to call him when she was done with college. He smiled, displaying disarmingly perfect teeth. He was going on to Philadelphia, where he had a conference. He was afraid of planes.

This left Julia alone at the Hartford Greyhound station, waiting for her brother. She called his cell phone but he didn't pick up. She refused to sit down, after having spent so much time sitting. She also felt like sitting might be a concession that Carl wouldn't be there to pick her up soon. As she stood there, trying to balance on one foot without looking like she was balancing on one foot, she imagined rain coming down all at once. It drenched her, and she melted like so many blobs of used water colors. She felt like sitting down. Instead, she called her brother again. No answer. A look around showed her no eyes, no one standing in line at kiosks for coffee or newspaper, no one walking briskly to find their bus. It was six a.m. on a Saturday and everyone was slouched into the wooden chairs (they were really benches divided by armrests)that looked like they'd been varnished in the sixties. A kid was banging on a vending machine, which also looked like a sixties hold-over. One man was at the pay phone, his head pressed against the wall. Outside, cab-drivers smoked cigarettes while their cars idled.

Julia called her brother again. She didn't put it to her ear this time. She just looked at its little screen until she heard the beep of his voicemail. She sat down.

The table she sat at was half a Ms. Pac-man game. How was she Ms. Pacman? Was she that submissive that she took his name without even getting married? Or maybe she was actually progressive, taking his name but not adopting the Mrs., since it means one who has a mister, which means master. (WotB: Mis'ess)

Julia took out her book and wondered about the main character's ex-girlfriend. She seemed like such a non-character, a phantom. Doesn't the emotion he put into their break-up necessitate a more thorough depiction? Her phone rang.

"Julia! Where are you?"
"Where are you? I'm at the Hartford station."
"No, you're not. That's where I am."
"I heard the driver say Hartford."
"Go check what it says outside."
Julia was a little peeved that her brother wanted her to stand up and walk, but arguing wouldn't help. She turned to the nearest person and asked where she was.
"West Hartford, honey."

Dusk to Dawn

(My notes are in the comments section...thanks for reading!)

I was standing at the edge of the roof. I loved the city from up there. Looking down, I felt très-, uber-, muymuymuy- dynamic. Some might say dramatic. Some might even try to diminish this feeling by making it melo-. Me, I cherished the sweeping feeling. Grandiose is a good word. I felt, somehow, like I was swelling too. Can you swell up as you get swept away? I imagined sheets of rain as I looked down on all the pedestrian streets. This rain swept me away and I was made into tumbling drops, slipping from windows and umbrellas to rush guttered and dirty. At the same time, it swept me up, as if I could leap from path to path in the air until I reached the clouds and perched and peeked out at the coming dawn. I felt porous, a transient vessel in a sea of multitudes that I swept up to hold within me and within me they grew and I grew, and I was no longer one thing but a great many things all tumbling together.

In reality, it wasn’t quite dark yet, closer to dusk than dawn. There was not even a sniff of rain. Rather, the city felt swollen with the heat. The kind of swollen that makes you feel ready to burst, not the kind that makes you feel like you’re Walt Whitman. All this talk about how things feel. My girlfriend always told me I was too sensitive, privileged my feelings too much. Anyhow, it was time to move. I went down from the roof to my apartment. It was weird to have this space that was so much mine, so much hers. Sure, I had a place with some buddies in college. But that was in a context. This was of the great, unutterable con-text. Everything. Everything, and the directions are so much less clear.

I flipped on the iPod, speakers blaring for all of Boston to hear. I smiled as I shaved. I had never thought this was a place I'd be. That sounds trite, but how often are you ever exactly where you planned to be? I was born in small town Oberlin, Ohio and went to college there. Of course I met an East-coast girl. Not the kind of woman I thought I'd ultimately end up with. But there we were, moved in together. At times I felt horribly adult, or horribly domestic(ated). I paused as I brushed my teeth. No time for feelings. The night doesn't stay young forever.



I went into the routine, catching a beat to propel me. "This is that new shit. Keep 'em standing in line. That universal mind control, now move your behind." I danced in my towel, in my mirror, smiling at my silliness. There was a text chirping from my phone. Raphael with the place and time. Perfect. Clothes, cologne, cash, then I was out the door. I caught a Red Line. We were doing this new Thai-fusion place. Another text as I got to Back Bay, "weareunderthecube." I was still unfamiliar with much of the city, unfamiliar with the odd quirks seemingly tucked away. They unfold at a glance, a step in the right direction, an informed text message. Raphi was so on point. He knew where'd I'd get off; I saw the cube right away.

As I came up to the odd statue, a black cube standing on one of its corners and maybe eight feet tall (is it a monument or just art for art's sake?), my friends jumped out from behind it laughing. It looked as if they had been enclosed in it and, because of the way they had scrunched in hiding, it was almost as if something or someone had poured them onto the sidewalk. Something inside me felt like it has started spinning. There were four of them. Raphael, Sophie, Michael, and Moira. We merged, exchanged greetings, then Raphi pointed the way to the restaurant.

It lived up to its billing. It was overpriced and showy, but the atmosphere made up for it. Sipping blue drinks and passing plates around the table, we traded stories of our exploits. Raphi always had some anecdote about the undergrads he "mentors." Sophie would talk about the big businessman whose advances she'd been fending off for weeks. Moira was a painter and told passionate stories about the elementary students she teaches. Michael worked at a marina on the Charles River. He rented out canoes and kayaks at top-shelf fares. My contributions were always meager. I edited a chapter of this manuscript. I wrote the flap copy for that book of photos. They might let me write the captions next week. I attempted to change the subject, but ended up being the butt of their usual ribbing. Maybe it's that Midwest mentality that always kept me backpedaling.

"So Sarah's meeting us at this club?"
"What, she doesn't rush home from work to make mad love to you anymore, Dub?" Sophie was always the most merciless.
"She's meeting us in a couple hours," Raphi said. "Helping some friend from work."
"Don-something. What's he like?"
"Jealous, Dub?" Sophie said.
"What could I possibly have to be jealous of? Sarah and I are incredibly in love."
"I heard she was out all night last week, working with this 'Don' character."
"They had a big deadline. Really. What's he like? I wasn't there when Sarah brought him along the other night."
Sophie was smirking. I hated that. It always felt like she was withholding some vital piece of information. "Oh, he's grand. Positively fabulous. You'll love him."
"Didn't he just break up with his girlfriend?" said Moira.
"Right, now he's putting all the moves on Dub's girl."
"Jesus, Sophie." Michael said.
"Is she bringing him tonight?" Moira asked.
"Yeah, and when she goes home with him, Dub can stay with you."
"Tell me, Sophie, how old is this CEO who's after your tail? Does he have kids? Maybe they know Raphi."
"Maybe. Do you, Raphi? It's been awhile since I've done the father-son thing."

Moira was embarrassed, despite her coming back at Sophie like that. Our friends used to tease that Moira was the perfect girl for me, mostly because she was Irish. I have this minor obsession with my Irish heritage. In high school, I idolized Joyce and picked up the nickname Dublin, which I haven't been able to shake even here. It was awkward because I didn't know Moira all that well. Except for Michael, who was Raphi's childhood friend, we all went to college together. During that time, though, I spent very little time with Sophie or Moira.

The spinning sensation was getting stronger. I probably shouldn't have been drinking, but I ordered a beer before we paid the bill, and Sophie sneered at me. "Neanderthal," she said. I growled and snapped my teeth at her, feeling cagey.

We spilled back out into the Boston night. We walked along the Esplanade for maybe half an hour then jumped on the Green Line heading downtown. We got into the club easily. Sophie knew someone, apparently. All these connections made me feel light-headed. Jumping from place to place, gaining access to events without even seeing the people who make this happen. A city seems filled with the ghosts of people who have passed before.

I was reeling along towards drunk by the time Sarah showed up. The club gave off a subdued effect, fading into the background. It was supposed to be an underwater theme, with translucent walls and bubbles continually rippling towards the ceiling. Light and music filled my consciousness. I was aware of Moira and Sophie sitting near me. Moira was all gesture and incidental contact, a hand placed gently on my arm, a knee resting against mine. Sophie was more overt, leaning over me needlessly and letting her breath play on my cheek, my ear, my neck, trying to talk to me over the music. The five of us moved to dance, though Raphi broke away at the sight of an acquaintance. He returned with Sarah and her friend in tow. Sophie was plastered on me, which wouldn't have happened were I not plastered myself. I almost didn't notice Sarah. I was caught up in the bluish-green light, the pulsing beat, and the way my limbs moved through the air. Sophie had become part of the songs and one with the dance for me.

Sarah didn't hesitate. She whirled me around and guided my arms to her. The room suddenly expanded, swelling to encompass my experience. This was the woman I loved, and here she was, dancing with me. Sophie moved to dance with Sarah's friend, and in the one sober part of my mind I thought, "That worked nicely." As we danced, Sarah became more uninhibited, warming to the beat and the space. She twisted away from me, then back, then away again. She danced away and moved in synch with Sophie for a moment. Another woman pressed up against me. She had short hair, a deceptively feminine figure. The rest were laughing, moving off the dance floor. Was it me, or were they casting their laughter back at me? I tried to step away from the woman, but she stepped right with me. She turned to face me.

"I'm going to go with my friends," I said numbly. She smiled knowingly and took my hand. What was going on? She led me to where my friends were sitting. Sarah stood and said, "Dublin, I see you've met Dawn."

A Virgin Quest

Okay, so here's the deal. My goal is to construct a fictional narrative strictly through the blog form. I will write at minimum 4 posts a week, unless I'm not getting enough comments (let's say three a post). Each post will be at least 500 words and will take the direction of one suggestion, indicating whose suggestion I am following. The extent to which I follow these suggestions will depend on the suggestions and the flow of the story.

For the first post, of course, I need a little more. I need a name, something to deal with or confront, and a place in which to begin this narrative. Keep in mind that I am somewhat limited by the places I've been myself (as we progress, this will apply to certain actions as well. for example, I'll be able to describe snow-boarding much more ably than I will skiing.). However, if you provide info for me, I may be able to incorporate elements otherwise disparate to me.

Aloha, Sean

Paradigm Shift

Aloha. I am writing from a friend's computer. Borrowed. Writing on the old, dark wood of the family dining table. This table used to stretch out and hold food for dozens of people. It's late and these sentences seem to want their own paragraphs. Perhaps the paradigms long for their own pages. Is that what I'm doing here?

How many paradigms does one lifetime see? How many in a day?

Um. So this WotB is obviously too thin a conceit. What to do then? The desire was always to write a blog and get people to comment; write a story that etches out over thousands of days, morphing after reader suggestions. I wonder how long I'd be able to stick with that. We can see, but it'll depend on the readership.

I just lost a paper to the inevitable file shuffling we all do this time of year. Fuck.

I've kind of lost sight of what I want to do with this blog. It's only been a few days, a few posts. I'll think about it once all my work is done.

For now, I'm thinking of the William Carlos William poem about eating the blueberries in the fridge or something similar. Today, I opened the fridge and there were things there I wasn't familiar with. New packages, a different arrangement. It's like not realizing who you live with until you're gone for a day, not seeing them for the individuals they inevitably are.

I think this Wikipedia defn is a bit magnanimous. Can I use that word ironically and still have it imply virtuosness upon this blog? Sigh, mornings...

WotB: Magnanimity - (derived from the Latin roots magn- great, and anima, soul) the virtue of being great of mind and heart. It encompasses, usually, a refusal to be petty, a willingness to face danger, and actions for noble purposes. Its antithesis is pusillanimity. ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magnanimity

My houses are falling apart (In 2006, I invested in a series of real estate. The properties were deemed a work of art, in their entirety. I hesitated to name them, fearing polarization, collapse). All the pictures are growing mold. The pens have lost their casings and the ink is free to dry up on their own.

WotB: attrition
1. A rubbing away or wearing down by friction.
2. A gradual diminution in number or strength because of constant stress.
3. A gradual, natural reduction in membership or personnel, as through retirement, resignation, or death.
4. Repentance for sin motivated by fear of punishment rather than by love of God.

American Boy (Bodiless)

I like driving in traffic, in the morning. It makes me feel like part of the great human movement to and from work. Of course, I hate it in the afternoon. But that's another bloggy.

There's a house along my way home that always throws out the oddest assortment of trash. A lot of it doesn't seem all that junk-worthy. I don't wee how one house could produce so many throw-away things. Today there was a mirror, attached to what looked like a detached medicine cabinet. It was pointing up at the sky, and I was reminded of a city sky scape, seen only in the reflecting walls of the sky scrapers (and what comes of such a scraping?).

Usually, on my drive out, around 6:30, I see a woman walking in the same direction as me. She wears a light coat with reflector strips and takes small, measured steps. Needless to say, she has short grey hair and a sweet smile even from behind. Today she was still walking away as I drove back. Can her steps really be that small? or does she walk the street again and again, all morning?

It was a unique joy, sharing this morning's moments with Mindy. Her hair looks beautiful in the opening light. Sometimes I think it is auburn, but more often it has a kind of translucent quality. One might think she dies her hair, but she does not. How do I know this?

We do not share toothbrushes yet (it's been but a few moments!), but last night looking at my lone toothbrush, I smiled thinking of hers resting in nearness.

Mindy dresses well. She's almost too mature for me. But today she wore jeans (faded) and a (faded) t-shirt. Comfortable, yeah? I had to wake up early to take my brother and sister to school. She doesn't say it - she doesn't say much - but Mindy's seen all of this. She indulges me. It's nice and doesn't feel condescending or patient. Just pleasant. It's almost as if she's a memory or she represents a memory of mine. She rested her arms on my shoulders and played her fingers through my hair. She kissed me, briefly but passionately. Like a last breath or a wave good-bye. We were standing in the parking lot before the drive home. I think she wants to have kids, but I'm just not ready.

-S

WotB: Reflecting telescope
A reflecting telescope (reflector) is an optical telescope which uses a combination of curved or plane (flat) mirrors to reflect light and form an image (catoptric), rather than lenses to refract or bend light to form an image (dioptric). See more at Wikipedia.org...

The point, the point!

I met a girl today. Not to sound like a boor (see: vulgarian), but all else becomes academic in comparison. I hesitate to use words like visceral and coporeal, and I don't want to describe in overly flowery overtures, but I do want to pay lip (figurative) service to the actuality, as opposed to falling back to the stygian. And by stygian I mean words like facile, facsimile, and laconic. And by these I am simply describing academic more thoroughly (and, yeah, disparagingly). None of these words get to the point. In fact, the point of these words targets itself a bit south of the actual and initial point. I often run the risk of focusing on the functioning of words as opposed to their ability to get to the point. That's something I'm trying to get better at.

What is the point? I don't want to be dispassionate, but I also don't want to be melodramatic, a sensationalist, a ham. Forget the couching, Snog, get to the point, the point!

I met a girl today, and her name is Cindy. She's beautiful, but of course I'm going to say that. What makes this unique (because that feels like the most important thing, being a snowflake, but what purpose it really serves is helping me differentiate between this and other experiences; it helps the communication flow) is its turning quality. I saw her waiting for a subway train. The subterranean winds whirled her hair out like the swings at a carnival.

The look on her face was one of pleasant surprise. At what, I know not. But her surprise became consternation or puzzlement when she saw me standing there. I was hurled into my big coat, grey, scratchy, and tired. Her look drew me out. I said something, but I can't remember what. We ended up going for coffee, and then Chinese. She said I am Korean. I said she is Poly-nesian. Then we got more coffee. Don't ask me. Something about the city did it to us.

We ended up in an apartment. And, yes, we were meaning things, and sitting apart. She crossed her legs. She gave me a glass of water. The glass of it was cool on my fingers. I sipped it. We came together, for a moment, like my lips and the glass and the water. Open, sighing.

And then we said good-bye. She kissed my cheek. I smiled and touched hers. She took my hand and kissed my palm. I closed my fingers around her kiss and held it to my chest. I did not turn as I walked down the hall, as the elevator doors closed, as the night air kissed around my collar and the stars gazed down with silent, solemn peals.

Mwah, Snog.

WotB: Blend \Blend\, v. i. To mingle; to mix; to unite intimately; to pass or shade insensibly into each other, as colors.
WotB Quote: "There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality" -Irving.

Robots!

Okay, so I guess this will stand as the first real post. I'm feeling this will all be pretty free-form, with that one holding focus. I'm feeling good about this.

Looking up that first word, I realized you can get so lost in the pages of a dictionary, if you care about words. So much information! Thus, this post's WotB. I remember looking through one of the Samuel Johnson dictionaries, the first to be published en masse in America. I was amazed at the sheer enormity of the task undertaken. Some times I think about creating my own dictionary, because often dictionaries are of such uncertain usefulness. The definitions are often so far from actual usage and synonyms are often misleading.

Music:
Many of these posts (is it awkward to call them posts) will circle around the various media stimuli I am encountering. By that I only mean I'm going to write about books I read, music I listen to, movies I see. Okay? Okay. I'm listening to Flight of the Conchords, which I downloaded from iTunes. It's my first full album download, during my first downloading session. It's such a silly concept. Apparently the band has a HBO show, and they sound as if they're British. Sometimes you want to know backstory, sometimes it's a purer (whatever that means) experience without. It's been compared to Tenacious D because it's humorous and comes from a TV show. The musical influences are so different, though. Tenacious is more about hard rock and ironically panning uber-serious acousticals. This is more aligned with techno (see: Talking Heads) and rap. It actually reminds me a bit of Andre 3000 or Del tha Funkee Homosapien. I haven't listened much to Del and regret not having more on my computer. I'm forced to simply listen to Gorillaz for the short gasps he gives there.

I like all these different approaches to music lately. Gorillaz represents a fictional band and was created by the lead singer of Blur (if you didn't know). Or, I've also been listening to Gnarls Barkley's Odd Couple, which represents a coupling of hip-hop throat with frenetic, internet inspired fingers (DJ Danger Mouse illegally mixed the Beatles-Jay-Z Grey Album, thus catapulting himself to notoriety). My last thought on this: it's funny (haha) how humorous music can often be taken as not serious. Flight of the Conchords is doing quite well, according to Amazon.com and iTunes. But what kind of awards might it receive? Certainly not a Grammy. Still, dour, serious music get's tedious soooo quickly (to me, of late). I guess it's important for any artist not to take her or himself too seriously. I love the moments on Tha Carter III when Lil Wayne can laugh at his own lyrics, the sheer silliness of the weight of certain ideas or, conversely, the hilarity of some of the extremity of some of his obscenities. That's a lot of of's. Purposeful. Funny. Now laugh.

Line:
Binary solo! 0000001-00000011-0000001-00000011!
-Robots, Flight of the Conchords (which reminds me of the first iteration of "robot" in the world of media: R.U.R. by Karel Capek)

Life:
I think I've been spending too much time on Youtube. My functioning seems to be on a level ADHD (is that politically correct?), which I often accuse the entire generations now forming, being born, coming into existence. This accusation comes from my belief that first TV, and now and even moreso internet, has produced a population of under-30s who have trouble focusing on one thing at a time. Everything is clamoring for our attention. But I won't get into that now. Another thing to chew on: the pervasiveness of apocalyptic themes in major media. Robots is an example. There are a whole bunch of songs by Gorillaz that circle around this. All those U.K. movies, headlined by V is for Vendetta. I guess it's just in people's consciousness, a useful metaphor when so many things seem to be going wrong.

I just ran up-stairs to check on my cousin. She has trouble sleeping; she's always worrying. She has a dire fear of needles that extends so far as to make her freak out at the idea of mosquitoes penetrating her skin. She got shots today. Meningitis and something about cancer. If they have a shot that prevents cancer now...awesome? I need more details. I bring her up because it is my nature to include in my writing details from my actual doings and goings-on. She will come up often. We will call her K for this blog's purposes.

Books:
I'm pushing through a seven book series I last read in high school. It's always interesting to peruse these relics for one's personal history. The reading is so light and made more so by the fact that it's familiar waters I'm swimming. I picked up the first book on a whim because, during my grad school semester, it's tough to do any "serious" reading. Now, I'm on book four and it's only been two or so weeks. Okay, so it's not the most impressive accomplisment, but considering everything else going on in my life and that each book is 300+ pages.

The series is called the Apprentice Adept Series (this phrasing seems clunky to me. it's unclear what kind of precedent I should set myself for labeling titles. italics for everything?) by Piers Anthony. Not much to say there, really. He writes with a lot of energy and provides quite a spirited (read: easy) read. The ideas are often interesting enough, but not as thorough or probing as guys like Alfred Bester or Philip K. Dick or even Orson Scott Card (another author of my youth). I've never invested quite enough to the genre to really say. Sure I've read Bradbury, but I haven't read Asimov. Suffice it to say, this series is predicated on the idea that a futuristic world (presented as fairly ideal even in its strictly delineated caste system) is parallel to one of fantasy and certain people can cross between the two. It's great for Anthony to be able to explore both potentialities, both genres, because he's certainly spent enough time in both (a prolific author with one 25 book series under his belt and multiple 7-bookers), and he does quite a facile...er, facilitating job of it all. But the real highlight here is the Game Anthony has set up as basis for transition from serf to citizen. The intricacies that play out from a simple 4x4 grid are quite wonderful to take in and mirror Anthony's ability to take the most triffling themes of sci-fi/fantasy and make them mildly intriguing in moral and philosophical questions. Could you fall in love with a robot? Would you resist the temptations of a wiley citizen, even if it meant the end of the world? Etc.

Collusion (ha!):
I'm guessing posts will not always be as wordy as this, but that is the theme of this blog, so. At the outset, of course I'm bubbled (as opposed to the more ebullient "bubbling") with enthusiasm. We'll see how this goes. Don't know how long this bold-ing of themes will last, either, but it's fun to play with formats.

Two for the price of one, people (Who you may be, I do not yet know. Hopefully you exist. Readership! Ah!), because I feel so good today and because it's one I always refer to. Immersion because it's a term that's been floating around my head (I taught in an immersion setting. I am immersed in words, among other things) and I was in the iSection of the dictionary. Enervate because for years I've thought it sounds opposite from its actual definition, thinking it should be more similar to "electrify".

WotB: 1. immersion 2. enervate
WotB Quote: "the luxury which enervates and destroys nations" -Henry David Thoreau

Words

Contradiction (the original, stream-of-consciousness title of this post). I'm into it. I'm here now. Just thought I'd start this way.

On second thought, let's not be minimalist. Better to blog about something. The question is: what?

The first thought, of course, is to blog about what I'm doing with most of my days. That would be teaching. This might get a little tedious, though. And, of course, I'll probably want to stretch beyond that more often then not. So. Then, I think (to myself), why not about books? I'm always reading. But focused blogging on it could prove to create in me a chore-like mentality. No thanks. Third thought's gotta be the charm. I'ma blog about words. This could be way too free-form, so what I'ma do is bus' a WotD on each post. Re-word that, holmes. WotB.

WotB: inception-n. 1. the act or process of bringing or being brought into existence. 2. the initial stage of a developmental process.