Months had passed. The nightclub where the attack had taken place had been shut down. It turned out that the establishment lacked a special permit to offer entertainment. The process to procure the permit had taken too long; without entertainment the nightclub could not afford to pay wages and so closed forever.
Moonface had escaped. No one ever saw or heard from him again. Perhaps he had been placed in a forced flight to El Salvador after all.
Yesterday, while running my neighborhood errands in the hurried bustle of a summer morning, I stepped into the dry cleaner's. The Korean lady smiled and said that someone had told her that I was an excellent dancer. But she would not tell me who had made this report. Perhaps my invisible neighbors frequented the new nightclub that opened where I whiled away many a weekend evening, often recalling that this is where my father would prefer I be.
I sat at the coffee shop, the awning shading from the brilliant Sunday afternoon. I had scribbled a few lines in my journal of my trip to Paris, my birthday present to myself. It had been a summer of frequent journeys: several U.S. cities, and then my sojourn in Paris. The world had expanded beyond the confines of the little office and the little apartment. In the glare of the summer sun, all spaces stood revealed as larger than we imagined.
Perhaps the Frenchman would come today, I hoped. He was a member of a group of expatriates that met regularly at the coffee shop. We had grown friendly the way strangers who smile at each other for ages grow friendly, first with polite gestures and then polite remarks and then polite questions. Our last conversation had been amusing (though not to him) as he complained to me of his rich ex-wife and the burdensome child support payments that he still had to make despite the utter lack of need. It wouldn't work this way in France, he insisted. I had barely held up my end of the conversation. After ten days in Paris, though, I was prepared to lean on my freshly polished French. But the Frenchman did not appear that afternoon.
An old couple sat down at a nearby table underneath an umbrella, its awnings flapping in the wind. They sipped their iced coffees, the old man laying out a newspaper and the old woman producing a book from her purse. Presently, the old man, in his dun shirt and khaki shorts, looked up at the woman, his wife perhaps, and noting that she was reading returned to his newspaper. A moment later, the old woman, in her stripped summer dress, looked up from her book and seeing her husband at his newspaper, returned to her novel. Neither one of them spoke to the other. The summer wind blew around them, lifting the old woman's hair, and transporting their thoughts to each others' minds. At least that was how I decided that their lives had become: separate branches of the same ancient tree. Perhaps after having said all that there was to say only their physical company sufficed.
After all, what really was there left to say? I pulled out a worn letter pad from my bag and scratched out a title to the last chapter in the story I was writing. "Coda," I would call it.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Chapter 24
The trap had been set for Mrs. Robinson, she who was among the faceless and the numberless. Had she lived in that faraway country, Mrs. Robinson would have been forced to flee with the refugees of her village before the invading barbaric hordes. As luck would have it, Mrs. Robinson lived in the United States of America, the Great Machine, where her grandson had been caught by the police with a handful of unregistered guns in her car. So the gears ground as the great engine of government targeted Mrs. Robinson by instituting proceedings to take legal possession of her impounded vehicle.
As I opened the case file that had been placed on my desk, the gleaming teeth of the trap spread before me: the assigned police investigator had concluded that Mrs. Robinson was not an innocent owner of the vehicle, which would have removed the car from the reach of the civil forfeiture proceedings. Mrs. Robinson wasn't innocent, the investigator would insist on the stand, because she was merely a straw purchaser - the vehicle had tinted windows that were too dark for Mrs. Robinson to use. Thus, the car was really the property of her reckless grandson. And with that, the arresting police officer would testify on the stand that he had caught the grandson and four other boys in the car with four unregistered - and loaded - handguns (after a lawful traffic stop, of course). The judge would virtually decide on the spot that I had won my case and that Mrs. Robinson would have to get herself a new car.
Only reality turned out differently. I telephoned Mrs. Robinson one evening. Age was in her voice, the age of spent autumn leaves blowing in a winter breeze. She had indeed purchased the vehicle but she let her grandson use it, who would run errands for her. Sometimes he would go to "other places." But she used her vehicle to get to her place of work, a day care center, and to her evening classes where she was continuing her studies in childcare. I asked her how she got to all these places now that her vehicle had been impounded for a few months. "It has been hard," she replied.
And with those words, Mrs. Robinson brought down The Age of Detachment, which crumbled all around me like the walls that Fortress America was constructing to reject the faceless and the numberless.
It did not take long for me to notice that the courtroom I entered was about the same size as the nightclub. My mind had done a splendid job of conversion. Sitting in the jury box, compressed as only Ideas can be, were the faceless and the numberless: the Mexicans with their scarred hands; the disenfranchised poor and elderly with no official identification; the black homeowners facing eviction; American children poisoned by toxic lead toys; the child soldiers of Liberia; innocent and dead Palestinians; and the discharged Marines gripped by PTSD.
I faced a panel of three judges, who I suspected were the masters of history, although one of their blurred faces reminded me of my father. Plainly I stated in my opening argument the theory of the case so no one would suspect my strategy. I called my first witness, the police officer, who performed as anticipated and described the grandson, his little friends, and the handful of weapons he found on them. Then I called the star witness, the investigator, and proceeded to destroy his credibility. He had to admit that, although the vehicle's windows were tinted, he did not in fact know how dark they were. He had not seen the actual vehicle but had relied on another police report - inadmissible hearsay. He hadn't verified if Mrs. Robinson was truthful about her employment and her schooling. Then I completed the sabotaging of my own case during closing argument by urging that the judges exempt Mrs. Robinson's vehicle from seizure by the city.
There was pandemonium in the courtroom. The authorities threatened arrest for treason. The masters of history restored order long enough for me to take the witness stand in my own defense. My duty, I argued, was to the truth. It was for me to target the insistent rot that had a hold of the Great Machine, slowly rusting its gears until we the members of our society began to forget our relationship to one another and the various duties that we owed to each other, and particularly to the faceless and the numberless. It was the Great Machine who had failed many like Mrs. Robinson's grandson and like Moonface. Since I witnessed the truth, I had to tell it. No witness to history can remain detached. All witnessing is an act of participation within the Great Machine. Therefore, as far as I could manage, I would strive to be an agent of cleansing.
Back at the office, I rejected the police investigator's recommendations and declined to prosecute Mrs. Robinson. We met in my office, Mrs. Robinson and her old husband, to sign the settlement agreement that would instruct the police department to return the vehicle. Though tired, Mrs. Robinson smiled and thanked me in that quiet way that can move mountains and restore life to those who had been walking too long in sadness.
When the Robinsons left, it occurred to me that I could not recall the last time I had seen the man in the mirror with his sad eyes of experience, nor heard the whispers of the sadness that liked to linger in the corners of my apartment.
As I opened the case file that had been placed on my desk, the gleaming teeth of the trap spread before me: the assigned police investigator had concluded that Mrs. Robinson was not an innocent owner of the vehicle, which would have removed the car from the reach of the civil forfeiture proceedings. Mrs. Robinson wasn't innocent, the investigator would insist on the stand, because she was merely a straw purchaser - the vehicle had tinted windows that were too dark for Mrs. Robinson to use. Thus, the car was really the property of her reckless grandson. And with that, the arresting police officer would testify on the stand that he had caught the grandson and four other boys in the car with four unregistered - and loaded - handguns (after a lawful traffic stop, of course). The judge would virtually decide on the spot that I had won my case and that Mrs. Robinson would have to get herself a new car.
Only reality turned out differently. I telephoned Mrs. Robinson one evening. Age was in her voice, the age of spent autumn leaves blowing in a winter breeze. She had indeed purchased the vehicle but she let her grandson use it, who would run errands for her. Sometimes he would go to "other places." But she used her vehicle to get to her place of work, a day care center, and to her evening classes where she was continuing her studies in childcare. I asked her how she got to all these places now that her vehicle had been impounded for a few months. "It has been hard," she replied.
And with those words, Mrs. Robinson brought down The Age of Detachment, which crumbled all around me like the walls that Fortress America was constructing to reject the faceless and the numberless.
It did not take long for me to notice that the courtroom I entered was about the same size as the nightclub. My mind had done a splendid job of conversion. Sitting in the jury box, compressed as only Ideas can be, were the faceless and the numberless: the Mexicans with their scarred hands; the disenfranchised poor and elderly with no official identification; the black homeowners facing eviction; American children poisoned by toxic lead toys; the child soldiers of Liberia; innocent and dead Palestinians; and the discharged Marines gripped by PTSD.
I faced a panel of three judges, who I suspected were the masters of history, although one of their blurred faces reminded me of my father. Plainly I stated in my opening argument the theory of the case so no one would suspect my strategy. I called my first witness, the police officer, who performed as anticipated and described the grandson, his little friends, and the handful of weapons he found on them. Then I called the star witness, the investigator, and proceeded to destroy his credibility. He had to admit that, although the vehicle's windows were tinted, he did not in fact know how dark they were. He had not seen the actual vehicle but had relied on another police report - inadmissible hearsay. He hadn't verified if Mrs. Robinson was truthful about her employment and her schooling. Then I completed the sabotaging of my own case during closing argument by urging that the judges exempt Mrs. Robinson's vehicle from seizure by the city.
There was pandemonium in the courtroom. The authorities threatened arrest for treason. The masters of history restored order long enough for me to take the witness stand in my own defense. My duty, I argued, was to the truth. It was for me to target the insistent rot that had a hold of the Great Machine, slowly rusting its gears until we the members of our society began to forget our relationship to one another and the various duties that we owed to each other, and particularly to the faceless and the numberless. It was the Great Machine who had failed many like Mrs. Robinson's grandson and like Moonface. Since I witnessed the truth, I had to tell it. No witness to history can remain detached. All witnessing is an act of participation within the Great Machine. Therefore, as far as I could manage, I would strive to be an agent of cleansing.
Back at the office, I rejected the police investigator's recommendations and declined to prosecute Mrs. Robinson. We met in my office, Mrs. Robinson and her old husband, to sign the settlement agreement that would instruct the police department to return the vehicle. Though tired, Mrs. Robinson smiled and thanked me in that quiet way that can move mountains and restore life to those who had been walking too long in sadness.
When the Robinsons left, it occurred to me that I could not recall the last time I had seen the man in the mirror with his sad eyes of experience, nor heard the whispers of the sadness that liked to linger in the corners of my apartment.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Chapter 23
And the headlines, with their foot soldiers the articles, marched on . . .
The Bush Administration requested - and Congress approved - $1.2 billion to construct a wall between the United States and Mexico, which is projected to cost over $60 billion over 25 years. The wall is a series of two or three 40-foot-high rows of reinforced fencing 150 miles wide and 700 miles long. The Department of Homeland Security has already suspended 19 laws, including the Clean Water Act, to build the wall. Reaction has been critical. As Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano said, "Show me a 50-foot wall and I'll show you a 51-foot ladder."
* * *
The case Crawford v. Marion County Election Board before the Supreme Court tests the constitutionality of an Indiana statute requiring a government-issued ID to vote. Republicans insisted voter impersonation is a serious problem. But every systematic study has concluded that the problem does not exist in the US. The law would adversely affect the poor, minorities, and the elderly - who mostly vote Democrat.
* * *
US policymakers have refused to face the question honestly: why do so many immigrants come? The answer lies in the destruction of the system that protected Mexico's poor at the hands of US banks and corporations who have cooperated with Mexican oligarchs to "modernize" the economy. One result, the North American Free Trade Agreement, has provided: (1) less than a third of the millions of Mexican jobs needed; (2) displacement of 2 million peasant farmers from their lands as their crop prices plummeted; and (3) a flood of Mexican business bankruptcies as US predatory chains have moved in - Walmart is Mexico's main employer of formal jobs.
* * *
"The subprime mortgage crisis is sinking America's economic ship like the Titanic," declared Rev. Jesse Jackson. Predatory lenders have been steering black homeowners towards subprime loans for years. Home equity accounts for more than 90 percent of black homeowners' networth. As the housing market collapses, much of the new wealth that has accumulated in black communities in recent decades will evaporate.
* * *
Anti-immigrant officials play on the economic fragility of the American middle-class. However, even if there were no undocumented workers in the US, the middle-class would still be endangered. Undocumented workers are not responsible for: (1) downsized and offshored middle class jobs; (2) changing bankruptcy laws so corporations can cancel union contracts; (3) no enforcement of wage and hour laws; and (4) illegally classifying millions of employees as "independent contractors" to avoid paying benefits.
* * *
Last year millions of toys sold in the United States containing toxic lead. While attention focused on China, where factory owners, under pressure from importers, used dangerous materials to cut costs, little attention has focused on the Consumer Product Safety Commission. This government agency has been weakened for many years. The Commission is headed by Bush-appointed Harold Stratton, who has a long pro-business history. The CPSC has just one full-time toy safety inspector facing tens of thousands of consumer complaints each year.
* * *
Having increased from 6,000 before Hurricane Katrina to 12,000 today, the homeless men, women, and children of New Orleans struggle to survive. The main problem is the lack of affordable rental housing; the flood destroyed 52,000 units. Congress funneled 85% of recovery funds to homeowners, leaving 15% to rehab rental housing. Local ordinances banning multi-family apartments in effect keep out poor renters from the newly gentrifying city. The total number of homeless shelter beds has fallen from 2,045 to 505.
* * *
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Liberia's - and Africa's - first woman president, is struggling to collect on promises of international aid. She faces a national budget of $199 million with which to tackle an 85% unemployment rate and 42% illiteracy rate. A national literacy program to disarm child soldiers of the recent civil war could only handle 38,000 - but 103,000 had applied. For many child soldiers, living on the streets has become the only option.
* * *
While President Bush toured Israel, the US announced a sale of $123 million in arms to Saudi Arabia. This arms package could reach $20 billion. The US also committed to $30 billion in military aid to Israel over 10 years. While visiting Abu Dhabi, President Bush stated, "America is using its influence to foster peace[.]" A few days later, battles between Israeli forces and Hamas members killed 18 Palestinians and a kibbutz worker.
* * *
The Center for Public Integrity has assembled a database of 935 false statements made by the Bush Administration in the two years following September 11.
* * *
A Marine Corps review in 2007 of 1,019 other-than-honorable discharges issued during the first four years of the Iraq War found that a third of the discharged marines had evidence of mental illness. Funding for mental health treatment of veterans has been the worst in 20 years. Mental health-related discharges require a lifetime of veteran benefit payments. Suicide rates for marines are increasing.
* * *
White House press secretary Dana Perino admitted to not knowing about the Cuban Missile Crisis but she did state, "It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I'm pretty sure."
The Bush Administration requested - and Congress approved - $1.2 billion to construct a wall between the United States and Mexico, which is projected to cost over $60 billion over 25 years. The wall is a series of two or three 40-foot-high rows of reinforced fencing 150 miles wide and 700 miles long. The Department of Homeland Security has already suspended 19 laws, including the Clean Water Act, to build the wall. Reaction has been critical. As Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano said, "Show me a 50-foot wall and I'll show you a 51-foot ladder."
* * *
The case Crawford v. Marion County Election Board before the Supreme Court tests the constitutionality of an Indiana statute requiring a government-issued ID to vote. Republicans insisted voter impersonation is a serious problem. But every systematic study has concluded that the problem does not exist in the US. The law would adversely affect the poor, minorities, and the elderly - who mostly vote Democrat.
* * *
US policymakers have refused to face the question honestly: why do so many immigrants come? The answer lies in the destruction of the system that protected Mexico's poor at the hands of US banks and corporations who have cooperated with Mexican oligarchs to "modernize" the economy. One result, the North American Free Trade Agreement, has provided: (1) less than a third of the millions of Mexican jobs needed; (2) displacement of 2 million peasant farmers from their lands as their crop prices plummeted; and (3) a flood of Mexican business bankruptcies as US predatory chains have moved in - Walmart is Mexico's main employer of formal jobs.
* * *
"The subprime mortgage crisis is sinking America's economic ship like the Titanic," declared Rev. Jesse Jackson. Predatory lenders have been steering black homeowners towards subprime loans for years. Home equity accounts for more than 90 percent of black homeowners' networth. As the housing market collapses, much of the new wealth that has accumulated in black communities in recent decades will evaporate.
* * *
Anti-immigrant officials play on the economic fragility of the American middle-class. However, even if there were no undocumented workers in the US, the middle-class would still be endangered. Undocumented workers are not responsible for: (1) downsized and offshored middle class jobs; (2) changing bankruptcy laws so corporations can cancel union contracts; (3) no enforcement of wage and hour laws; and (4) illegally classifying millions of employees as "independent contractors" to avoid paying benefits.
* * *
Last year millions of toys sold in the United States containing toxic lead. While attention focused on China, where factory owners, under pressure from importers, used dangerous materials to cut costs, little attention has focused on the Consumer Product Safety Commission. This government agency has been weakened for many years. The Commission is headed by Bush-appointed Harold Stratton, who has a long pro-business history. The CPSC has just one full-time toy safety inspector facing tens of thousands of consumer complaints each year.
* * *
Having increased from 6,000 before Hurricane Katrina to 12,000 today, the homeless men, women, and children of New Orleans struggle to survive. The main problem is the lack of affordable rental housing; the flood destroyed 52,000 units. Congress funneled 85% of recovery funds to homeowners, leaving 15% to rehab rental housing. Local ordinances banning multi-family apartments in effect keep out poor renters from the newly gentrifying city. The total number of homeless shelter beds has fallen from 2,045 to 505.
* * *
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Liberia's - and Africa's - first woman president, is struggling to collect on promises of international aid. She faces a national budget of $199 million with which to tackle an 85% unemployment rate and 42% illiteracy rate. A national literacy program to disarm child soldiers of the recent civil war could only handle 38,000 - but 103,000 had applied. For many child soldiers, living on the streets has become the only option.
* * *
While President Bush toured Israel, the US announced a sale of $123 million in arms to Saudi Arabia. This arms package could reach $20 billion. The US also committed to $30 billion in military aid to Israel over 10 years. While visiting Abu Dhabi, President Bush stated, "America is using its influence to foster peace[.]" A few days later, battles between Israeli forces and Hamas members killed 18 Palestinians and a kibbutz worker.
* * *
The Center for Public Integrity has assembled a database of 935 false statements made by the Bush Administration in the two years following September 11.
* * *
A Marine Corps review in 2007 of 1,019 other-than-honorable discharges issued during the first four years of the Iraq War found that a third of the discharged marines had evidence of mental illness. Funding for mental health treatment of veterans has been the worst in 20 years. Mental health-related discharges require a lifetime of veteran benefit payments. Suicide rates for marines are increasing.
* * *
White House press secretary Dana Perino admitted to not knowing about the Cuban Missile Crisis but she did state, "It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I'm pretty sure."
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Chapter 22
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet . . .
- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
December is the cruelest month. My father died in December. It is the month of the Winter Solstice, of the darkest night. It is also the month of Christmas, that forced, cash-registered cheer. One night I found the sidewalk leading me to the church. The actual Episcopal church had burned down about thirty years ago; the land was now a park. Services were held on the second floor of a functional building adjoining the park. The worship hall was suitably enormous, the long spaces lost in the shadows of this Wednesday evening service, one in a series of small affairs leading to Christmas Day. I entered late and took a seat; only a handful of worshippers were scattered about. I stared at the altar space with my new face but no one noticed. My ears were ringing. People appeared on the lectern, saying something about the scriptures.
I wasn't listening. Why was I here? Oh, yes - to remember my father. I looked around and, in the low ringing in my mind, was the thought: this building, too, is an Idea. I wondered what this building would be if the untold numberless and nameless had not toiled their lives away, building and slaughtering, for the glory of the Idea of Christendom. The place was too large to be a dry cleaner's but perhaps a nightclub would fit.
The scattered worshippers, like living ghosts, moved forward to surround the altar. Joining them, my eyes were drawn to the main source of light in the vast room: a few scores of candles clustered at the base of the altar. I counted them but when I counted them again, I got a different number. With each count the candles changed in number. Then someone said something about Christ and the Lord's Prayer issued from the scattered mouths. Hemingway's version came to my mind, though I did not mouth it:
Our nada who art in nada,
nada be thy name thy kingdom nada
thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada.
Give us this nada our daily nada and
nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and
nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada;
pues nada.
Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.
When the scattered souls moved towards the exit, I realized the service was over. A couple of young men with sweet smiles and long pale hands approached me, greeting me. I mouthed a few nadas and excused myself, not wanting to see the darkness swallow the smiles and hands when the candles were blown out. Why had I come here? Was it for some kind of social gesticulation? Thank-yous to cash register operators - and little other speech - could get tedious. I should have known better than to commemorate my father's memory at church; he had parted company with organized religion long before his death. I knew all too well that he would far better that I remember him among the music and revelry of a nightclub.
That was when, following the sidewalk home, the ringing in my ears became the distinct sound of fire engines. The blaring sound was tedious as a fire truck roared past. Then there was silence, the cold air of the winter night absorbing all sound. I passed an intersection and saw the streets blocked; there were six, no perhaps seven, fire engines scattered about. Most of the trucks clustered in the middle of the block, off to the left, in front of a building. Firemen moved silently, like astronauts across the surface of the moon. I never knew what happened; I looked for smoke but could see none. Perhaps a candle had tipped over in an apartment. The sidewalk took me past the the red flashing lights.
The lights of the fire engines bled into the walls of a building; when I looked up I saw a wide bay window where a Christmas tree sat quietly festooned in bright, blinking blue and white lights. Colored balls, made by nameless hands, suspended amid the greenery, reflected my questions, and - refracting them - scattered them into the silent night.
* * *
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate . . .
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet . . .
- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
December is the cruelest month. My father died in December. It is the month of the Winter Solstice, of the darkest night. It is also the month of Christmas, that forced, cash-registered cheer. One night I found the sidewalk leading me to the church. The actual Episcopal church had burned down about thirty years ago; the land was now a park. Services were held on the second floor of a functional building adjoining the park. The worship hall was suitably enormous, the long spaces lost in the shadows of this Wednesday evening service, one in a series of small affairs leading to Christmas Day. I entered late and took a seat; only a handful of worshippers were scattered about. I stared at the altar space with my new face but no one noticed. My ears were ringing. People appeared on the lectern, saying something about the scriptures.
I wasn't listening. Why was I here? Oh, yes - to remember my father. I looked around and, in the low ringing in my mind, was the thought: this building, too, is an Idea. I wondered what this building would be if the untold numberless and nameless had not toiled their lives away, building and slaughtering, for the glory of the Idea of Christendom. The place was too large to be a dry cleaner's but perhaps a nightclub would fit.
The scattered worshippers, like living ghosts, moved forward to surround the altar. Joining them, my eyes were drawn to the main source of light in the vast room: a few scores of candles clustered at the base of the altar. I counted them but when I counted them again, I got a different number. With each count the candles changed in number. Then someone said something about Christ and the Lord's Prayer issued from the scattered mouths. Hemingway's version came to my mind, though I did not mouth it:
Our nada who art in nada,
nada be thy name thy kingdom nada
thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada.
Give us this nada our daily nada and
nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and
nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada;
pues nada.
Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.
When the scattered souls moved towards the exit, I realized the service was over. A couple of young men with sweet smiles and long pale hands approached me, greeting me. I mouthed a few nadas and excused myself, not wanting to see the darkness swallow the smiles and hands when the candles were blown out. Why had I come here? Was it for some kind of social gesticulation? Thank-yous to cash register operators - and little other speech - could get tedious. I should have known better than to commemorate my father's memory at church; he had parted company with organized religion long before his death. I knew all too well that he would far better that I remember him among the music and revelry of a nightclub.
That was when, following the sidewalk home, the ringing in my ears became the distinct sound of fire engines. The blaring sound was tedious as a fire truck roared past. Then there was silence, the cold air of the winter night absorbing all sound. I passed an intersection and saw the streets blocked; there were six, no perhaps seven, fire engines scattered about. Most of the trucks clustered in the middle of the block, off to the left, in front of a building. Firemen moved silently, like astronauts across the surface of the moon. I never knew what happened; I looked for smoke but could see none. Perhaps a candle had tipped over in an apartment. The sidewalk took me past the the red flashing lights.
The lights of the fire engines bled into the walls of a building; when I looked up I saw a wide bay window where a Christmas tree sat quietly festooned in bright, blinking blue and white lights. Colored balls, made by nameless hands, suspended amid the greenery, reflected my questions, and - refracting them - scattered them into the silent night.
* * *
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate . . .
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Chapter 21
Someone said something funny and, laughing, the splint fell off my nose. I was startled to find that I had gone into a nightclub, surrounded by strangers, with a large, gray splint on my nose. Then, slowly, I realized that this was no ordinary nightclub. I was in a dream; with that dream certainty I knew the nightclub was my mind. I looked for an exit but could see none; the crowd was too thick to escape.
The atmosphere was a mimic of the cacophony of noise in my mind to which I have become accustomed: careless, raucous laughter, yelling, voices raised in anger, someone was wailing, someone sang, and in the background under the club's dim light was the endless thumping music, now dance music, now a classical symphony, now a flute in the dark, which none of the people in the surging crowd seemed to notice.
They did not notice the music because they were not people. These were the dream representations of my ideas. I stood in that crowd, jostled lightly by the passing ideas, and watched them all. Their interplay was the harmony of laughter or the dissonance of argument. Some were large with booming voices, obese beings that needed to have the fat trimmed from them. Some were quiet and inscrutable, dressed in black. Some were male; some were female; some neither. Some were confident, well-dressed, and knew how to dance to the music that only they could hear. A few thrashed about in anger, drunk and obnoxious, and needed to be escorted from the club.
Then, with a start, I noticed people from the real world in the throng. I saw my father talking to a group of ladies, charming them I was sure, in heaven as he did on earth. There was a dream pause then, long enough for me to realize that ideas are influenced by experience, which is memory, so it was natural that the Idea Beings should talk to the Memory People who came to mingle amid the crashing noise and swaying symphonies.
Dr. Who was there, talking to a group of fears, dressed in long coats. They were smiling and nodding. He caught my eye and waved. I had seen him a week ago, nose splint in hand, and we noted the vast improvement in the nose. But still more surgery would be required to continue the improvement so he referred me to another plastic surgeon. I waved back to him with my right arm now healed, free of the wrist splint and able to write. A gaggle of my words rushed by as little children, giggling and weaving through the crowd, under coats and skirts.
I saw William Blake talking to a couple of extravagant ideas in the shifting shadows. At the far end of the room, ascending a staircase, was the television reporter. I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him that he was going to be severely injured if he did not leave that wild country, but I could not make my way through the swirling crowd. The music was too loud for me to shout. He vanished into a hallway. Moments later, I noticed a black, thin warlord in brown trailing robes disappear down the same hallway, escorted by two warriors with spears. Moonface was there, too, my assailant. I saw him in a break in the crowd. He did not notice me; he was headed for the exit when the crowd closed again and blocked him from view. I knew that I would never see him again. The certainty of that knowledge approached me then, dressed gaily, and shook my hand with a smile. A soft beautiful music was playing.
The dream was ending. Naturally, I found myself approaching the exit, shoved along gently by the countless bodies that floated past. That was when I turned around and saw him, distant in the crowd as he was distant with the years. He was accompanied by his wife and children. His wife looked up and saw me. She was at a great distance, as she was years ago when she noticed me talking to him and one of his children outside the ice-skating rink. I could not make out her face in the dim light. Then swiftly they were swallowed by the crowd surging towards the bar at last call. From their area a hand was raised above the crowd, lifting a rose into the air. But I could not tell if it was his hand as the distance and the years grew with every passing moment.
At the coat check, I was met by the Korean Lady, with my shiny, clean coat in hand. When she held the coat out to me, I felt as though she was giving me a suit of armor. "An yung ha se yo," we greeted each other. She said I needed to tell them what I saw though I did not know who "them" was. She said I needed to tell the story. Then she smiled and her eyes vanished in little slits of glee.
The atmosphere was a mimic of the cacophony of noise in my mind to which I have become accustomed: careless, raucous laughter, yelling, voices raised in anger, someone was wailing, someone sang, and in the background under the club's dim light was the endless thumping music, now dance music, now a classical symphony, now a flute in the dark, which none of the people in the surging crowd seemed to notice.
They did not notice the music because they were not people. These were the dream representations of my ideas. I stood in that crowd, jostled lightly by the passing ideas, and watched them all. Their interplay was the harmony of laughter or the dissonance of argument. Some were large with booming voices, obese beings that needed to have the fat trimmed from them. Some were quiet and inscrutable, dressed in black. Some were male; some were female; some neither. Some were confident, well-dressed, and knew how to dance to the music that only they could hear. A few thrashed about in anger, drunk and obnoxious, and needed to be escorted from the club.
Then, with a start, I noticed people from the real world in the throng. I saw my father talking to a group of ladies, charming them I was sure, in heaven as he did on earth. There was a dream pause then, long enough for me to realize that ideas are influenced by experience, which is memory, so it was natural that the Idea Beings should talk to the Memory People who came to mingle amid the crashing noise and swaying symphonies.
Dr. Who was there, talking to a group of fears, dressed in long coats. They were smiling and nodding. He caught my eye and waved. I had seen him a week ago, nose splint in hand, and we noted the vast improvement in the nose. But still more surgery would be required to continue the improvement so he referred me to another plastic surgeon. I waved back to him with my right arm now healed, free of the wrist splint and able to write. A gaggle of my words rushed by as little children, giggling and weaving through the crowd, under coats and skirts.
I saw William Blake talking to a couple of extravagant ideas in the shifting shadows. At the far end of the room, ascending a staircase, was the television reporter. I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him that he was going to be severely injured if he did not leave that wild country, but I could not make my way through the swirling crowd. The music was too loud for me to shout. He vanished into a hallway. Moments later, I noticed a black, thin warlord in brown trailing robes disappear down the same hallway, escorted by two warriors with spears. Moonface was there, too, my assailant. I saw him in a break in the crowd. He did not notice me; he was headed for the exit when the crowd closed again and blocked him from view. I knew that I would never see him again. The certainty of that knowledge approached me then, dressed gaily, and shook my hand with a smile. A soft beautiful music was playing.
The dream was ending. Naturally, I found myself approaching the exit, shoved along gently by the countless bodies that floated past. That was when I turned around and saw him, distant in the crowd as he was distant with the years. He was accompanied by his wife and children. His wife looked up and saw me. She was at a great distance, as she was years ago when she noticed me talking to him and one of his children outside the ice-skating rink. I could not make out her face in the dim light. Then swiftly they were swallowed by the crowd surging towards the bar at last call. From their area a hand was raised above the crowd, lifting a rose into the air. But I could not tell if it was his hand as the distance and the years grew with every passing moment.
At the coat check, I was met by the Korean Lady, with my shiny, clean coat in hand. When she held the coat out to me, I felt as though she was giving me a suit of armor. "An yung ha se yo," we greeted each other. She said I needed to tell them what I saw though I did not know who "them" was. She said I needed to tell the story. Then she smiled and her eyes vanished in little slits of glee.
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