I was on the other side of Iowa to come to this school to be tested and fulfill some other type of work. They put me up in a room in the end of the main hall that was barely hospitable for overnight stays. I wasn’t sure that I was really authorized to sleep there or if I was trespassing. I didn’t want to be found by building security. My glasses were broken and I almost lost the ear piece screw. I lay there thinking when would be the best time to depart. The more I thought about it the more I realized that I had to leave that morning because my allotted hours there were over. To boot I was not strictly sure that I had properly logged my hours. I had gone to an office that was open its door unlocked. The inside was jammed with milling students in a fashion reminiscent of the lobby of the Art Institute of Chicago. I lay their upon a cot and then received a call. I answered the phone and to my surprise it was my dead ex-friend Michele Fitzsimmons voice. “Who is this!”, I said. The phone clicked and was hung up. At that point I was fiddling with a wooden knickknack when its fragile top fell into pieces in to my hands. I became aware that at point that I had to immediately leave. Nothing was being served by my being there. I knew that it would be a matter of six to seven hours of highway driving to get back. If I waited till morning then I would be traveling against the brightness of the rising sun. I was alone.
I drive through to the west from my Wicker Park place with two other people. One of them is Arnold Schwartznegger and another one is a Japanese guy who made me stop at a gas station on the corner of Grand and Milwaukee. Arnie picks up a black girl not worried about giving up whoever he is with at this time to get connected with her sexually. He says, “Cmon babee!” Telling her to make a decision. There is another guy there that is after somebody. It seems that they always want to pick up women. And I am just out there watching them go to town.
So few things feel like home. Old visions left over from another lifetime. The late nineteenth century, maybe? Or early twentieth! Tableau’s of stately neighborhoods lined by two story brownstones along curved parkways. There a young woman and her tiger confined upon the edge of the park. Perhaps Washington Park when it was elegant? Perhaps Douglas Park? The kitty pacing back and forth upon the table. And I wary enough to let the woman stand in between. What I was doing there at this point is unrevealed.
It has been a long time since I had a woman. Or a woman has had me. Sexually. That point where a woman lays back and you hover over her with your arms extended in a pushup style of grace. She spreads her legs and you put yourself inside. And then you push in and out, up and down, until you feel her tremble. If you’ve done the right thing then you release and hopefully she has released and you lay back down into a mini bout of exhaustion. The conventional meeting that is so overrated and under thought. What would I have done with a woman as of late? Make her a slave? Take the highest born and put her in chains to fill the hands of the worst people on earth? Tie her up and hang her from the ceiling by her wrists and then beat her unmercifully? But what gain for me or anyone in the indulgence of such errant behavior? I lay upon this bed with an artifact, or heirloom, and I wonder? I wonder not so much how much time, or how little. But what path next? What trellis will I swing open or climb above? One of revealed shadows that give way to some small hope of light. One where once again I will start again like a seed in someone’s belly like a gourd to mature into some form of another existence until they let me out.
She came to me today, again, in the visage of someone else. A big white hat. Something from sometime before the time of the two of us. And a mask upon her face. Long, beautiful,inviting, like worm in its most golden sense. Awkward, with stockings in the classic sense hanging out from under her short shorts in a brief sense. Flat abdomen, small breasts, lanky and long. The girl of my dreams. The girl I should have married. The girl that loved me. The girl that I loved. The girl that I left. The girl that finally left me. This was the same girl. The girl I saw today. It wasn’t her. And yet, the reminder was her. To let me know. Perhaps in the near tomorrow of another next door, another coming time, perhaps, perhaps not.
If you want to know why. There is a chase in a game. It is because the previous mistakes one has made in a past life with that person does affect them as it does affect you. Now I feel that life. I feel that life before that life. I sense a life ahead. And that is my goal.
The funny thing about life is that we are confronted with all manner of obstacles and danger. And soon learn by degrees to accept the lesser danger over that of the latest one that’s greater. I suppose in this way we learn. The many barriers and pitfalls that await us. That is if we are brave enough to continue on in life. There is always standing still and doing nothing and growing lazy like a rotten coconut. But then life never lets one stay still. If you try you will be driven forth. Or just pushed away. The lesser danger seeming almost merciful by comparison. The lesser danger of being lonely against the greater danger of being known.
Anger! Why senseless at that? How senseless is all of it. To hold a grudge and then let it fester. And then to feel justified in wreaking revenge? What sick bastards! What small people! Toads! Snails! Not even that. I can’t understand it? It make no sense that I can fathom. I am a tired old man worn out by his own life. It was an experience like a movie. But I didn’t realize that it was a movie at the beginning. But now at the end of it, I come to realize that it’s just another film.