Planet Harm

You walk in the sands, the landscape you know by heart, the windswept dunes granular as sugar and almost as white. The screeching seagulls declare, "Water is somewhere, but where?" People say, "The sky's the limit." What kind of limit is that? The sands, the horizon, they're the limit. One echoes the other. You have no GPS, no bearings. One direction is the same as any other.

Legend has it we are on the planet Harm, meaning that is what we are taught from the earliest age. We are told that our world is round, not flat. We are taught that Harm is spherical but not circular. We are taught that Harm is the name of our planet.

Who came up with that, and when?

Who can say?

As a citizen, a resident, of planet Harm, your pain is nothing special, nor is your grief. All of us are in harm's way. It's our birthright. If everyone is in harm's way, who has a right to complain? Sure, differences of degree and scale exist. But they don't stand out. Harm is in the air, in our history, in our vocabulary, our line of sight. 

When someone (Anonymous, for our purposes and safety) entertained the idea of escaping the circle of pain, it made no sense. What circle? We see no markings, no signposts. How could there be a circle of harm when harm is all we know? How can we imagine an atmosphere other than our own?

No passports, no tickets, no travel vouchers.  

But no one has ever expressed a desire to leave. Nobody has ever voiced a need to flee. And to where would we go? What would we find there?

We perform our daily chores: melting the sand into glass, sculpting the glass into art, selling the art to the Harmageddonite who bids the highest.

The sharp bristly-minty tang of a dark pine forest. The shock of the chlorine choir of the salty sea, its ripples blinding you. The roar of a river halting you. A blanket of emerald meadow lulling you to sleep.

We hear rumors, murmurs. We dream, or fantasize. Our poets sang sagas.

Talk of escape, revolution, refuge. The elders memorized the chants and passed them on to our children's children.

We hear the secret and dangerous whispers about "charms." The unwritten subversive scriptures etched into our blood.

Charms: the coded hints of talismans, trinkets, fetishes, amulets, totems, periapts, tokens, incantations, chants, litanies, phylacteries, scapulas, beads.

The inscription on the desert rock quotes Empedocles: “God is a circle whose center is everywhere, and its circumference nowhere. ”

The priestesses debate whether this promises hope or despair.

intersection

As I approached Williams Street where it meets Emerson Avenue, my jaunty cane in hand, the one with the brass eagle for a handle, a low-slung sports car (red, of course) zoomed toward the crosswalk, seemingly oblivious to the stop sign, or not caring, not enough to obey its literal command. And seemingly oblivious to my approaching the crosswalk, preparing to cross Williams Street toward Porter School. Seemingly being the operative word. I did that asshole thing that people, especially old people, do: tried to teach the driver a lesson. I deliberately and purposefully entered the crosswalk ahead of the seemingly zooming car. I was making a statement: look at me, stop. Or, as Ratzo Rizzo, played by Dustin Hoffman in "Midnight Cowboy," memorably said: "I'm wawkin' heah!" I did not utter those words or any other. But that was my statement, that was my lesson. The other aspect of the lesson was: obey the stop sign, be law-abiding blah blah. As if any driver anywhere in Western Civilization or anywhere else is going to declare to oneself: "Gee. They're right. I should straighten up. Be a good citizen. I am so happy that stranger taught me this valuable lesson. Made my day. Maybe I saved a life. My life or somebody else's." 

Right. Sure.

Surprise.

The driver stopped. 

As I reached the other side of the street, clearing the crosswalk, the driver, through a half-open window, half-shouted, not aggressively, more informationally, pleadingly, said: "I'm sorry, buddy. I thought you were going to stay on the sidewlk."

"No, no. You're fine. Have a good Thanksgiving, have a good day." 

I didn't exactly say that. But close enough. That was the best I could summon, off the cuff.

Still, I felt like a fool: for my assumption, for my misreading, for a lost opportunity.

As I walked toward West Genesee Street, I wanted to turn back and tell on myself, a confession, the works; tell the driver what was what: the lesson, the surprise, the gratitude for this act of human kindness, this one act of one day in which someone was better than expected or anticipated or imagined.

But he was gone. The car was gone.

one door closes, another one something-something

--This is the end, my friend.

--That's The Doors, right?

--Right.

--Beautiful friend.

--Right again.

--The end? Fuck, I thought it was the beginning.

--Me, too.

--End, beginning, what's the difference?

--Now you sound like T.S. Eliot.

--What did she sing?

--He. He's a he. A love song.

--Is that what this is?

--A he or a she?

--No, a love song, or something else.

--You're something else.

--You, too.

--Hello, goodbye.

--You say yes.

--No, I say no.

--Sometimes.

--Drive.

--Where?

--Drive, they said.

 

 

uneasy rider

I could do it. I've done it before. I could. This time, I could roll out before she comes to a rolling stop. How cinematic. For you in the peanut gallery wagging your fingers and saying, 'Why? What are you running from?' I say, 'Be infinitesimally original, for fucksake.' Or pretend to be original if you can't do better than that. Spare me. Point taken, okay? I'll nibble on the piece of cheese placed on the floor, if it makes you happy. I am running from my wounds, self- or other-inflicted, running from the self I don't have and never will, from pain, ecstasy, misery, and mystery. Got it! Mystery, that's it. I can't bear not knowing the ending. But who ever does? So juvenile. Running from her, her, and her, and every her imagined or real. Stop. This is fuckin' me up. Stirring the ashes. It's stupid. Speaking of mysteries, she's just that. Mysterious, inpenetrable, inscrutable. And that's exactly what gives me a boner. And precisely what enrages me, its denial, its blinding ignorance of me no matter how much I wave my semaphore scrawny arms. I could jump. To go where, do what? It didn't matter with 'her,' and look where it got me. Hold it. It got me right here, right now, in a new and different passenger seat, a freshly re-upholstered soliloquy. Not moody Hamlet's grandiose and silly 'to be or not to be.' Gawd, no. How gaudy and unseemly. To go or stay. To stay or go. And I don't even have dice to toss. 

running on Not-Quite-Full

I can't even. What am I doing? Or him, for that matter. Where's he going? Where's he want to go? I don't see a "we" in this future. Or now either. What is this? Where am I going? I could just slam the breaks, stop, and say, "Here's where you get out, Mr. No-name." But I doubt I will. But . . . but . . . but . . . .Admit it. You're not ready to cash in your chips. Admit it, I'm not ready to end the game, to give up the danger, to detox from this high. Maybe I'll never get another chance. A chance for what? Ecstatic sex? Such electric silence? Think about it. They could all be wrong. They could all be wrong about communication, soulmates, connection, like minds, all that shit. You never hear them say, 'You're compatible if you can sit in a car and not say anything through the whole fuckin' state of Utah.' In this case, the whole nonfuckin' state. Roll the dice. Flip a card. Exquisite wordlessness or Dante's 89th circle of same. Finishing each other's sentences like some kind of verbal orgasm or doing the same and calling it narcissism for couples. Stop with the couples, please. I told you. No such thing. Speaking of stopping, I could stop at the next corner. I mean, the other one, the one after after that. No one's there. Man, would he be shocked. Or would he?  

the unkindest cut

A paring knife. Superior quality. forged, coated, sleek, ready. Anjou pears, Envy or Fuji apples, Havarti cheese. Its sharpness not depth. At the rest stop, the same one they went to the first time. Enter the stall. Sit on the closed lid. Open the purse. Take out the knife. Anticipation married to excitement: pain, fear, secret, danger, release. No, don't. Not this time. But I must. Just this once. Just this one last time. It's killing me. He's killing me. The suspense. The tension. Killing me. Killing. The first stab, a few inches, pierces her forearm, halts her breath. She knows she won't scream. Too practiced. The fresh red, its frank declaration. Someone in the next stall. Huge exhale. Right arm shaking. Breathe. Steady. Apply pressure. Careful. First the toilet paper, then the bandage. What? Where are they? Here. The bandage, then another, criss-cross. Stand up. Flush the toilet. Wash hands. Dryer. Survey the stalls. No one. The knife. In the bin. Push down the paper towels. Harder. More. More paper towels. Exit.

the talkies

A river bursting over its banks.

--Thanks for splitting the motel bill.

--'Sallright.

--Which way we going? We already went this way.

--I gotta stop off, pick up some things.

--Stop off? Where?

--Home. Such it is, such as it was.

--Stop the world, I want to get off.

--It was a play, or a movie. Maybe a song. Maybe all three.

--We're in it together.

--Innit. As Brits say.

--What is it that we're in?

--A car, stupid.

--What's that smell?

--Smells like teen spirit.

--Wrong age.

--Wrong decade.

--Try, century.

--How much longer?

--Beats me.

--What's your name?

--You go first.

--No, you.

--Never mind. I like it this way.

--Me too.

--Masked and anonymous.

 

conversion of the pagans

He turned onto his back, giving up the sleep pose.

"Come here."

But he wanted to say, "Where the fuck were you?"

She caught his rage, and the fear under that; his eyes, not his voice.

Where's the knife? In the purse, on the dresser.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Lion tamer. 

She shuffles off her sandals, walks to the bed, and lies down beside him, then twists, turns, and shimmies on top of him.

She can feel the last waves of his storm settle.

Conversion of the pagans. 

To what religion? What ancient rites?

The candles and the incense.

The slaughter and the lamb.

The familiar hymns.

the presence of absence

Dream-riddled, he moved to spoon her. Without face or voice in the dream, he no less knew it was about her, about them. They were dozing on a train. Night. Winking hamlets. Europe, in one of those passenger compartments seen in old movies, the Orient Express. Somebody, a conductor or a gendarme, was swiping the door open, startling them. He bolted awake, bathed in sweat. Where was she? What . . .? Why did she...? What did I do? Her keys were gone. Check the parking lot. The car's still there. Okay. Calm down. He placed his head back on the pillow, trying to summon the dream back to life. He closed his eyes and paced his breathing. The door handle jiggled. She came in. (He assumed it was her; it had to be.) He kept his eyes closed, willing an unnatural stillness, doing his best imitation of himself sleeping. 

 

walk on the rewild side

He was sleeping. An early riser, she feared she might miss something, of what sort she didn't know. She slid on sweatpants, stepped into sandals, clicked open the door, entered the hallway, and realized she needed to grab the old-fashioned, no-tech room key. The sun wasn't up, but dawn's first blush hummed at the horizon, if you looked for it and if you wanted to imagine it. Sandals were a poor choice. Rocky terrain, darkness, poor footing, snakes, what-not. She didn't want to wander in the woods or below the cliff. Not because there were no paths or it was frosty but because she knew herself. She knew her own impulsiveness and her love affair with obsessiveness. She'd walk till she starved without thinking twice. So she found a rock, a huge boulder tilted back against the cliff wall, snug. A flat cold saddle to sit on. Is this what smokers crave, this exhalation? But smoking would despoil it. Was that a mourning dove or an owl? She didn't know the call of one from the other. Wide-spaced chirps of songbirds, not into it yet. An orchestra warming up. A rustle in the thicket to the right. None of it unexpected; none of it disturbing her reverie. Wrong. No reverie, no night-day-dawn fantasia. Something else dreamlike. She chuckled. Somebody else, some other author, would have her pondering what am I doing? what's going on? where am I going? but not her.  

aria / him

That's why I wanted to keep the lights on. Those dark-chestnut eyes, pools of molten lava. And they scared me like lava. Once we started (excuse me, once she started), I swear the temperature in the room went up 8 degrees. When I was hitchhiking, I spotted her eyes before she pulled over.  Her stare fixed me. Magnetized me. You'd think I was a fuckn zombie. None of that mattered once I started tearing off her moth-eaten teal cashmere sweater, no bra under it (if she'd only known my momentary disappointment), and yanked at her jeans like an inexperienced sophomore. All the while kissing but it wasn't kissing, not in any vernacular I had ever learned. The sheer ecstasy of a new language, ok, a new tongue. I was reckless, unsubtle, impatient. Not like me, really. So she tortured me all the more. Which pissed me off, and drove me on. No, it wasn't sportfucking, though we could hardly call it love. My payback torture was not allowing her to take off her panties. Take that. I don't smoke, but I wanted a cigarette afterward. Hilarious. For a person who doesn't sweat that much, it was like the teenage days I caddied in August: the wide expanse of my lower back a swamp.    

the short hello, the long goodbye

"Proper greeting." That was her way of saying, "kiss me." It was a command as much as a request. It was a thing. Their code. He'd comply. And then he'd immediately wipe his lips with his sleeve. That was a thing, too. Saliva. Germs. But that was their greeting ritual, such as it was. It was no mating dance. Gawd no. Quite the opposite. Typically it played out when he got into the car. She always drove. He had lost his license after the third DWI. 

"Proper greeting."

He ignored it, and sullen and silent in the passenger seat.

"Didn't you hear me?"

Nothing.

She shifted into drive.

Instead of turning left, she took a right, and then another right. The car sailed onto the interstate ramp, heading west into the sunset.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Fuck you, you fuckin' fuck."

"What?! What are you talkin' about? What got into you? What are you doing? Where are we going?"

"You fuckin' heard me."

Silence.

At the toll booth, she took the 20 mph E-ZPass lane.

After a stony, infinite 30 miles, he said, "Pull over. Let me out. Just let me the fuck out. I'm done. Stop!"

She crawled to a stop on the shoulder.

The lavender rouge sunset was postcard perfect.

He opened the door, not looking at her. He got out.

She put her left blinker on and pulled back onto the Thruway.

After another 30 miles, she turned the radio on. As she scanned and scoured for music, nothing came on out in the country, just crackles of news and preacher stations.

She pushed the button to turn the radio off.

She turned the headlights on.

A song came into her head, something from the eighties. She couldn't remember the words, barely the tune. Something about a chameleon. 

She hummed it, the best she could remember, gave a finger to the windshield, and burst into laughter. 

 

what's your story

so, how did it end?
how did what end?
how did the story end?
I don't know
what do you mean, you don't know?
the story's not over
what?
like I said, the story's not over
it's still being written
in a manner of speaking, yes
for that matter it's never over
you could say that
for every story
who's writing it?
or editing it
but really stop messing with me
I'm not messing with you
everybody wants to know how it ends
we all want that
closure
finality
clarity
tidy, wrapped up
you know how the story ends but you're not telling me
no, I really don't know, I'm not lying
can't you make something up?
of course I could 
so go ahead
that's phony
why
the story writes itself
here we go again
let it ride
live the question
Rilke
the mystery
wabi-sabi
imperfect
unfinished
not lasting
that?
something like that
more or less
there's your story

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

lingua franca Icelandic

From the sparse research I have done, I have learned that Icelandic is an ancient language that has not changed all that much since 1100, give or take the odd hundred years. Icelanders apparently can easily read the original texts of Norse sagas dating back over a thousand years. Yikes! I guess it would be as if modern speakers of English could easily read or speak the language of Shakespeare's time, with "easily" being the italicized, boldfaced operative word. More accurately, you would have to go even farther back in time, but not quite to the time of Beowulf! (I was an English major and recall a tiny bit from my linguistic studies.) From what I understand, Icelanders share with us who speak English the Germanic grammatical structure of S-V-O, subject-verb-object, with allowances made for emphasis or poetry. Speaking of poetry, I hear over and over again that Iceland is a land of bards. I like that. As a solipsistic bard, I am humming the tune for my own personal saga; searching for the narrative, plot, and story line. Many of the characters have or are playing their parts in my saga, myself included. Other characters wait in the wings.

Mrs. Dalloway

I am reading Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. The book, a paperback edition published decades ago, had been sitting on my nightstand for ages. Isn't "nightstand: a quaint, old-fashioned word, rather Victorian, suggesting reading and domestic habit and a hint of orderly bliss and harmony? Not that I have that gospel to preach this evening. Would that I could. The novel is A Day in the Life (which was termed the #1 song by the Beatles in a special edition of Rolling Stone magazine on newsstands now) of Clarissa Dalloway and her privileged if angst-ridden world and those around her. The words are delicious, the sentences stringy and sinewy, the cadences charming, the characters perplexing and intertwined (none more than Septimus Warren Smith, fresh from the horrors of the War, and his Italian wife Lucrezia). I like this work, today, better than the work of Marcel Proust. And doesn't Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine owe a tip of his cap to this book, since his book explored lushly not a full day but a lunch hour? "It had no plot," you'll hear someone say as a negative comment against a movie or novel or story or you-name-it. That critique typically rankles me, not that I should take it personally. Who the feck cares if it has a plot? We all know Hamlet or Macbeth or Tony soprano will die, but we watch it anyway. Ooops. Trapped myself there. "It" in those cases refers to productions that have a dramatic arc. Fine. I'll grant you that. Maybe the whole "plot" business, or the fixation on it, bothers me because I transfer that to the "God has a plan for me" saying. I get it, but I don't see the Divine Power playing with us like puppets or marionettes. Yet I have experienced "grace" and "providence," so perhaps I am a confused and sloppy thinker or feeler. Where was I? On the street in London, or the park, just after lunch, inside the head of clarissa and her band of drawing-room characters. Carry on.