ghost town

I'll get back to you
Text me
Call me
No reply (Beatles song)
The sounds of silence (Simon & Garfunkel)
wyd
What's up
Hey you
Hey there
'Sup
Nothing said
Null set
Crickets
But they said they'd...
Lost my contacts
new phone, who dis
But he said that
Zero-sum game
Ghosted me
But she said that
Ghosted
I'll get back to ya
I was drying my hair
My dog died
Do you believe in ghosts
Did you get my text
Blocked
Disappeared
Pristine
clean slate
call security
can you hear me now
How about now
They said I made the short list
She promised
I was supposed to get a callback
Can you hear me
He promised
Not even crickets
What happened
They promised
Whatever
Dead air
Still waiting
on hold
 

fiery words

With large loft windows facing west, the afternoon-into-evening sun, wintry rare in these climes, blares. All but shouts. A clarion charge of lambent light, never failing to lift the indoor temps a degree or two. Healthy for the orchid, bonsai ficus, and cacti on the kitchen-dining room peninsular counter, beside the Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, volume 1 of 2, open to the C's, the handy reader's magnifying glass resting on the cleavage of open pages. Sprawled on the couch, I am reading The New Yorker, on the cusp of a nap, hindered by the lambent intrusion; too drowsy to get up and pull the blinds down. Eyelids fluttering, flickering: the first frames of a silent movie. Sparrows, crows across the street, distantly bickering. Alone in the hull of a huge ship, flooding, like the Titanic but battleship steel, and yet the aristocratic balustrades and chandeliers of opulence. That dream again. No one but me. The Atlantic cascading down the stairs. My shouts, my cries. To whom? To what? My chattering teeth. The molten ice enveloping my veins. Please. Can you hear me? Can someone hear me? I can't swim. Too late. Sinking. No one. What is that? What. Where. What. Wisp of warmth. Dust. Rescue? Smoke? Attempt to scroll eyelids up. Turn head left, right. Scroll up. Eyes cloudy. Force open, wide-eyed. Wisps of white floating from the open OED. Vatican puffs of papal decision. Jolt. I jump. Dart to the counter. First tongues of flame. Memories of tissue paper, August heat, Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass in the backyard. Presto, no matches. Boyish danger. The word, you ask. Which word? Chagrin. The noun. Then the verb. Chagrin.  

scratching the surface

  
A scratch. To satisfy an itch, not a seven-year itch, barely seven hours. And that's the problem: barely. Scratch it. Again. Out of self-curiosity, let the left hand wander south, posterior. Explore the source. What source. The evidence: a line of five or six inches on bare-ass skin. Corrugated. Crust. Dried blood. From whence. Who did this. When. In sleep. So brazen. So surprising. Rude. Not deep like a razor cut but noticeable. An intrusion. So tidy and straight. Who how when why. Mystery. Carnal drama. Whodunit.
 

fridge

I opened the door. The light came on, porcelain bright. I blinked. Blinked again. Bare shelves. Naked racks. Nothing on the door. Nothing in the crisper or plastic sliding bins on the bottom. A minimalist's dream. How about the freezer? Same. Not even ice. Yesterday was different. Milk, butter, deli sliced roast beef and turkey, mayo, ketchup, mustard, apple juice, lettuce, string beans, cherries, rice pudding, whipped cream in a can (expired), skyr yogurt (raspberry, strawberry, mixed berries with acai, vanilla), half and half, fresh gazpacho given to me as leftovers from the party, thawing chicken cutlets, carrots, Pepsi (the small cans), Pellegrino carbonated water. That's all I can remember. It was only yesterday, but that's the best I can do. The freezer? French vanilla ice cream (mostly gone; freezer burn crystals), marinated chicken cutlets, chicken wings, ice packs, ice cubes, soup, mixed vegetables, Indian food for one, hamburger patties, buttered corn. All frozen solid.

That's the best I can recall. It wasn't much, I admit. But gone. Disappeared.

All of it.

Where'd it all go?

Who took it and what did they do with it, and why?

Things just don't disappear, don't flee to another dimension, despite the standard jokes about socks missing from the dryer. That's funny. This isn't.

I feel violated.

No one has a key, as far as I can tell. She gave me her keys back. Finally. I made her. I have them on my bureau. She too. I made her return them. They're in the drawer. Maintenance? I asked. The office downstairs? They said no, of course not, clearly insulted. 

Could she, or her, have secretly made duplicate keys? Easily. I could have done the same. That's too easy a plot line. Too facile. Obvious. I don't buy it. Not because of intuition or intentional blindness, but because a) they would be easy targets as suspects b) the cameras; the cameras would show them (more on that later c) why now? why now after all these years? d) we were on such good terms, unless it was a charade, a facade e) if she, or her, were to stealthily intrude now, to what good? Cui bono, as they say in Latin

If it was her, or her, what was the trigger? And why this and not the money in the envelope for all the world to see, left untouched because I had it boobytrapped?

Someone, singular or plural, did this. I don't mean aliens. Someone.

Not as a joke. Some joke, eh? No, as a subtle and sophisticated mindfuck. I take that back, not so subtle. No note. No message smeared in lipstick on a mirror. No fingerprints, I suppose. What's the difference? You think the police are going to dust my fucking refrigerator for prints? Really. Because my fridge is empty? Emptiness was my default until a few weeks ago. (There's an aphorism for you.) I'd resolved to eat better, cook for myself, be healthier, save money.

Him? Him, you say? I can't see it. Talk about a flash from the past, the past before the past. He was a bully then, and might be now, but what would be the point? What would be the gain? If anything, it should be reversed. I should be stalking him and performing some intricate, elaborate indecipherable mindfuck scheme.

Here's what bothers me. There's nothing on the cameras, nothing in the lobby or in the hallway or by my door. Nothing. I sat in the office for 4 hours, winding, rewinding, stopping, freezing, and slo-moing. Nothing. Explain that.

Them. Them, you say? Impossible. They were only in my class for one semester, and then they went their separate ways, as disparate as dandelion seeds parachuted from seedheads into the whipping wind in a dozen directions.  

You. You. I thought of you first. You knew I would. That's pretty clever, if it was you. I could almost laugh. Almost. If it was you, I'm dying to know how you tricked the cameras. Hack the system and photoshop the footage? Not you, unless you got some professional help. From him.

Don't worry.

I have your keys.

Keep an eye on your toothbrush.
 

Prayer for a Palimpsest

O Goddess-God-Supreme Being-Cosmic Energy-Eternal Now-Silence:

Grant me, if it be your will, the selective amnesia of serenity, a magic slate of erased pain, a scraping away of the ragged scars of burnt memory from the parchment of remembrance. Vouchsafe to grant your servant a palimpsest of the mind, an electroconvulsive therapy (formerly known as electroshock therapy) without the electricity, if you don't mind. May it please you to wipe my slate clean, revealing a fresh layer in this palimpsest brain, enabling me motion: to reverse course, look away, move forward. While you're at it, gift me, please, with ablution and absolution, permitting a fresh and clean restart, a do-over. Ah, but you caution me against this? You tell me that every moment affords an opportunity for me myself to do this very thing. You remind me that the memory of pain can be a useful motivator, a shield against desolate repetition. In fact, you warn me of the mortal dangers of such palimpsestic thinking and feeling (and after all, is there a difference between the two?). So now I am confused. I am baffled. Puzzled and stumped. I see where oblivion has taken me, its tides tossing me wayward. Yet the burden of memory (no, pardon me; I didn't say guilt) is an anchor tied to my ankle. You decide. Yes, you decide in all your Silent Wisdom. You decide what to grant. But let me know when you have an answer. And give me the strength to abide by its commands. Amen.   

layers of licentious lying (LOLL)

They said they're a pathological liar. They readily and proudly admitted it. Your first thought might be, what if that confession is itself a lie? Don't go there. You'll get all twisted. And don't bother splitting semantic or nosological hairs about pathological versus sociopathic versus narcissistic versus compulsive liars. Don't waste your time. She lies. He lies. They lie. They lie when the truth would serve them better. They lie under oath or over a dime. Don't bother debating or seeking to uncover the truth or confronting with evidence. None of that matters. And don't expect remorse. Why would they have remorse about lying? It's always been the way. Would a fish feel remorse for swimming in water? 

We're not talking about the innocuous social nicetie or lapse of etiquette, such as complimenting you on your hair when they hate its color and style. We're talking about where you were, when you left, what you said, whom you love, whom you hate, how much you made, how much you spent, who did what at work, how much you drank, how much you snorted or shot, how much you smoked, what you believe, what you think, what you feel. 

We have lost interest in the subtle shades of the chameleon. We don't care anymore that you do not flinch when you lie any more than when you supposedly tell the truth. Where and how is the infrastructure for this built? Who designs it? Genes or behavior or will? 

Winston Churchill said, "In wartime, truth is so precious that she should be attended by a bodyguard of lies." During World War II, the Allies devised an intricate and ingenious web of deception and charades to fool the Germans about the timing and location of the D-Day invasion.

You yourself are the bodyguard of your own lies. For what invasion? For what surrender? What victory? 

Call it Ganser syndrome, selective amnesia, pseudologia fantastica, histrionics, exaggeration, confabulation, or delusional fantasy.

Or call it lies.

hashtag hash

I was challenged to describe my day in a hashtag. Before you smirk and brush off this exercise, consider: Do I describe my day realistically, ironically, science-fictionally, interpersonally, solitarily, monetarily, spiritually, figuratively, or so-on-ally? You get the picture. It's not as easy as it first appears. Another factor to weigh is at what point in the day this is composed. If you it upon first awaking, that's almost cheating. Yet only a literalist would wait until the end of the day, when sleep might be intruding. And would a hashtag describing your day, say at noon, be an influencer on the day's remains?

One ridiculous, and unfair, way to accomplish this feat would be to write a hashtag consisting of many words, forming a quasi-sentence or a lengthy sentence (grammar note: most people don't realize that a run-on sentence has nothing to do with the number of words; it's a punctuation error). Why bother using a hashtag. It's phony. This made me research rules and protocols concerning such matters. I learned that the hashtag was invented by Chris Messina in 2007. But I couldn't see anything other than etiquette and common sense dictating how many characters are allowed in a hashtag.

#uneventful

As you can see, you don't want to be so generic as to leave readers in the dark. Also, from a purist standpoint, I will self-impose the rule that describing my day in a hashtag has to be a one-word affair.

#fair

Again, #fair and #uneventful couldn't be more gray, leaving you in the dark. Fair? Really. Is this a weather report? Please.

#etymological

At least that's specific. It says something. But it's a lie. I did receive my two-volume compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) today, but I can't say I plunged into it.

#introspective

Not bad. True enough but not for all portions of the day.

#solipsistic

Too harsh. Too much hyperbole.

#grateful

Can't ever go wrong with that, but it's not specific, doesn't paint a picture.

#verbose

No doubt, though that could be any day.

#curious

Clearly not the best choice, yet not the worst. I'll stop here.

#I_tried
 

found objects

Future Present Participle. Who knew? Who knew the Boys From Liverpool were so prescient? Found in an attic of Jane Asher's great-aunt, this collection of previously unknown (except for the Beatles themselves and George Martin) songs touches on themes and issues that were barely percolating in the Sixties. The offering, however, is more than an archival collection for Beatles enthusiasts. The album features ten never-heard-before compositions dating from 1964 to 1968. Asher, a former girlfriend of Paul McCartney, had no comment on the shocking event, though the LP was released under her Ashe(r) Wednesday label. "And I Loved Him," the first track, is a tender farewell ballad to Brian Epstein, the Fab Four's manager. "He Loves Me" is a raucous garage-band-sounding outright declaration of Lennon-McCartney mutual affection. "We Can't Work It Out" acidly recounts a bitter break-up, likely referring to Asher and McCartney. "Rainbow Submarine" would have been revolutionary in its time as it celebrates gender, racial, and ethnic diversity. The whimsical "Octopus's Living Room" showcases Ringo Starr's talents for children's songs, foreshadowing his Mr. Conductor role in the Shining Time Station series for kids. A polar opposite of the hit "I Feel Fine, "I Feel Fucked" uncharacteristically portrays George Harrison in a sour and vindictive mood. "Number 6 Times 6 Times 6," obviously an outtake from The White Album, denotes surrealist nihilism in its constant repetitions of six, evoking sinister demonic references. "I Want to Hold Your Gland," clearly never intended for public exposure, features Lennon and McCartney at their Joycean silliest. The origins or intention of several tracks will give critics and fans grist for the rumor mills for years to come. For example, "He's a Woman" prefigures and boldly explores gender roles and previews themes only hinted at in "Get Back." The final track of Future Present Participle, "Can Buy Me Love," is a self-satirizing parody that predicts the group's breakup. Here's your ticket to ride for a magical mystery tour simultaneously into the past and the future. The answer is in the journey. 

double identity indemnity

Hey, aren't you . . . ?
No, yeah, no. Wait. Aren't you . . . ?
Who? I don't think so. I'm . . . 
Aren't you what's-his-name . . . ?
Heh, heh, anybody can be what's-his-name.
Huh huh, got you.
Like I said, I'm . . . 
Yeah, right. You look just like him. You know, he . . . 
I guess you're right. I do look like him.
Totally.
It's been a while, hasn't it.
It has. Truly.
You're good?
I'm good. You?
Been better.
What's wrong?
Nothing's wrong. The regular stuff.
The regular stuff.
Yeah, you know.
Yeah. But you can tell me. After all we've been through.
After all we've been through.
It's nothing.
Come on.
Naw, it's nothing.
I can tell it's something.
A minute ago you were acting like you hardly knew me.
Me? No way.
Yes. Remember?
Yeah, no. I don't know. Maybe. Whatever.
It'll pass.
What will?
It's nothing. Like I said.
I get it.
Yeah.
Hey, I gotta get uptown. I'll hit you up later.
Yeah. Me too. Yeah. Hit me up later.
Yeah.
Sounds good.
Shrill screech of subway brakes as train pulls in to station.