mmmcxcvi

Chapter 27½: Entr’acte

Boom boom boom. A throbbing beat sliced with multicolored
laserbeams scissoring/sizzling the air around us. Ubiquitous
disco ball. And what seems like around a dozen too many
vodka tonics sloshing around inside of me. I’m on the virtual
diving board, poised like Greg Louganis over the dancefloor
ready to dive in. Boom boom boom. First Marty leans in to
me, then Edward, then everyone on the entire floor. Nothing,
no body, of course, is appropriately proportioned; to my left,
everyone has a face that’s three times larger than it should
or could even possibly be, while, to my right, a stampeding
horde of gigantic legs. All are bounding/bouncing toward me.
Every moving limb, every gigantic face, they are all coming
at me, they are all here for me. The world is mine. The
entire universe is waiting. For Dougless. To dive. In.
And so, with possibly near-perfect form, Doug leaps into
the air, his body flipping itself over and over and over until,
just at the right moment, it opens all the way up and lands
with agility on its own feet, exactly at the beat, so that his
body every so smoothly starts bobbing and weaving into the
exact rhythm of what’s being played. The crowd goes wild,
placards rising up with glowing 10’s waving as far back as
he can see in the thronging tumult enveloping him. Marty
and Edward and, now, Doug, all happy, drunk and throb,
throb, throbbing.

mmmcxcv

Chapter 27: “But I’m still here!!”

(“... a very great friend of mine...”)
(“... our regular scheduled programs...”)
(“... the latest report from the people down there...”)
(“... a tiny little detail...”)
(“... I'd like to say hello to everybody...”)
         —Jeff Lynne (from “Here Is the News” by Electric Light Orchestra)

[in which the narrator goes
on strike, refuses to give the
characters their story . . . ]

mmmcxciv

Chapter 26: “Who’ll Look Me Up When I Am Gone?”

[Here’s a little scene that transpires
about a half of a century subsequent
to the previous scene; our location
is the bedroom of Mr. Dougless
Ridenhour.]

I can hear myself say it aloud
in the middle of an unusually
quiet night, as my eyes slam
open.  Confused, desperate,
I feel my eyes flutter uncon-
trollably, a sort of half-wince
reaction to the sound of my voice
and what it has just uttered be-
tween fits and starts of disturbed
slumber.  It is a dramatic night
indeed, as just as suddenly, I am
back down into semi-consciousness
and then further and further still,
so that I am, while sharply aware,
unable to even feel the mechanics
of the rasped rattlings that come
from mid-way down my throat,
incapable of hearing what surely
comes as a loud and breathy
wail: “But I am still here!!”

 

mmmcxciii

Chapter 25: Famous Guest Stars

          no cure for who I was but who I am.
                —Sophia Dahlin (from “I’m a Ninny”)

Back on Vulcan, everybody knew
exactly what they were doing.

Chronologically speaking, the
very act of existence is an

exercise in futility. Yesterday,
for example, I personally

ordered two, new miniature
microwave ovens. Both of

them were to be red. Each
were scheduled to arrive last

night: one at 20:30, the
other at 22:45. If, at

7:00 this morning, I
wake up and find that

I still have a total of
one microwave oven,

and that it is not red
at all, but a dull shade

of charcoal instead,
does this mean

that I am not yet
awake, but rather

in the middle of a
recurring dream

in which I am stuck
near the end of an

hilarious episode of a
sitcom from the Golden

Era of television in which
my husband and I, the

stars of the show, are
at our dining room table

eating TV Dinners in black
and white with the nosy

neighbors? While Judy
Garland is giving birth

to Liza Minelli, Ralph
suddenly rises and,

right on cue, swaying
top-heavily over his

tiny metallic plate,
wipes a few unseen

smears off of his
doughy gray face

with a paisley
print napkin, then

walks determinedly
toward and then out

the door, never again
to return, leaving me

at the table, a fuzzy
blob wearing a frilly,

off-white blouse with
a long khaki skirt, our

nosy guests, and the
masses of unseen folks

who sit up at the edge
of their seats, all of the

sofas and recliners that
stand sturdy upon the

invariably carpeted, tiled
or wooden (oak, cherry,

maple, mahogany) floors
in every single home in

America, the sum of
which are, as seen from

the tens of thousands of
people (or at least those

with window-adjacent
seats in cloudless skies)

in jet planes that make
distant staticky sounds

high up above, cons-
tellations made up

of tiny, glowing dots
lit with every color of

the rainbow that litter
a landscape that begins

at one coast and ends
at another. Trapped

at the kitchen table,
I can almost see them,

all sitting there, each
peripherally cognizant

of the unlit applause sign,
awaiting its flash, their

mouths pursed and prone
for something hilarious

that is just about to happen,
their eyes all itching for

the grand arrival of
Technicolor to swath

their snowy screens.
Only then will they

all know exactly
what next to do.

mmmcxcii

Chapter 24: Mariah the Pariah and Superstitious Patsy

or, learning
the hard way,
thinks dougless,

whose first
poem, age
ten, was a

sonnet
entitled
“math” –

oh, what
he did
not know

at age ten.
although
even then

the geminian
twins would
split their

studies in
half (gem
got science

and math
and such;
while ini

“mini” took
anything
artsy, and

stretched
it out in
such ways

that an
attention-
starved

nuisance
would
get away

with –
creative
liberty,

one
might
eye-

rolling-
ly call
it. for

example,
not only
would he

recite
“the
pirate

don durk
of dowdee”
in front

of the
entire
class,

but he’d
dress the
part and

act it out,
throw in
an extra

“argh!”
or three
for good

measure.
whatever
the point

of all of
this I
may never

know, but
as you can
see, I’m

very
easily
distracted.

which
might
have

been my
point, come
to think

of it. but
how to,
so as not

to have
taken us
all round

the corner,
definitely
make it.

are we all
most assuredly
and hopelessly

lost?

mmmcxci

Chapter 23: We Now Pause for Station Identification

mmmcxc

Chapter 22: Marty Signals for a Break at the Emergency Exit

Reality got you down? Café Clement closed for renovations? Arrive at your
favorite park to find the once magnificent oak under which you spent more
hours in reverie than you can possibly count has been razed and severed
and stacked as if for firewood, no matter the year-round temperate clime
and the general dearth of magnificent oaks or anything suches? Catch
yourself audibly muttering bad-head-fog-bad-head-fog in time to your every
step as you march to and from appointments (which are usually those of the
medical sort)? Wonder often about extinction (particularly that of humanity,
whether in a general, natural causes fashion or in a sudden Armageddon-ish
one)? Getting just a little too stir-crazy? Or lethargic? Having trouble
balancing or navigating or managing your general person? Can’t seem to
reach proper lift-off speed? Do you find yourself submerged? Any interest
at all in a possible emergence? Can you roll over? Do you have the
capacity to dial out? Are your air passages obstructed in any way? Can
you find your voice? Are you breathing? Do you have an emergency
contact or might we notify your next of kin?

mmmclxxxix

Chapter 21: Anxiety About Marty

“He’s found an apartment on the North Shore,” said Edward. “By himself.”
Pause. “Doug, he called me last night. He wants to meet with us. You and
me. He says he has something very important to tell us . . . or show us . . .
I don't know . . . or both, maybe?”

Long pause as Edward peers deeply into the ginger ale Serge has just placed
upon the table. Refusing to allow any of our non-conversation to soak long
enough to unsettle or provoke (nothing comes between me and my affected
indifference!), I bemusedly watch the arc of fizz revel under Edward's nose.
Edward has a tiny, pointed nose, with four freckles spattered randomly along
the bridge. I imagine the freckles, in unison, screaming for company:
another freckle or a mole or the crease of a pair of shades or even bifocals;
anything to compensate for the loneliness of such an unfulfilled feature as
Edward’s nose (which I, of course, find quite perfect – what is with me
today?). As if to reply to the freckles’ cry for help, a particularly animated
globule of ginger ale breaks free from the sensible arc above Edward’s tall,
thin glass and lands smack among the tiny brown punctuation marks. I
silently share the freckles’ ovation of joy.

“What should I do? I told him we’d meet him at Spot’s tomorrow at six.”
And so the appointment had been made. A reunion. How pretty! And I’m
not the least bit ready.

“Edward, don’t. Call him up with an excuse – we’re both too busy this
week.”

“I told him–”

"Ahhh, here comes brunch . . . .” And, indeed, brunch had arrived.

mmmclxxxiii

Chapter 20: Convergence

(…in which, thinks Doug, the narrator, the primary character and the author become one and
contemplate cliché, friendship and dramatic structure).

Character, character, character. Edward the omnipresent, Marty the unseen, Serge (he’s the
waiter; haven’t gotten to him quite yet) and, of course, me. Ah, and perhaps we could
accommodate our fine city. It has plenty of character, does it not? City on the sea, city under
the blue sky, warm city, ideal CITY, the very prototype. . . .

Doug contemplates these characters as he stares deep into the blue of the sky, his nape,
elbows and ankles pressing against the dampish sand. Tasting the salt in the air, he can hear
the swooshing and shooshing of the waves caressing the sand around him. His toes are
intermittently gulped by the swell of the sea. He’s thinking about friendship.

MartyEdwardDoug. What was the connection that is now gone? Why, no matter how he tries,
is it so impossible to resurrect?

While he contemplates the ephemerality of life’s connections, he is by no means sad.
Simultaneously, he’s thinking about the pleasure of isolation, of getting lost in his present
idyllic environ. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure against the comfort of having solid
friends with whom I can share most everything. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure
against the (foreign) idea of being solidly encased in some ideal happy “relationship.” I’m not
comparing unequal clichés. He enjoys this position for an hour or two, wary of going bask to
trying to mend something that is beginning to seem all but lost. Doug, after all, strongly prefers
pleasure and happiness to the alternatives.

mmmclxxxii

Chapter 19: Impervious Interruptus

Sure, we were inseparable in college. But then Marty and
Edward had seen fit to elevate their acquaintance a bit.

The consequence was a rift among our trio, particularly
given Marty’s enduring nonchalance paired with poor
Edward’s propensity to fall like Humpty Dumpty for
all things fleeting, noncommittal. As for me, while
I missed our triangular camaraderie, I could not even
imagine falling for Marty. Furthermore, it was beginning
to dawn on me how nice it had been being away from
the two of them together, given the thick cloud of tension
those two had stirred up. I’d become relaxed, at ease;
I was downright pleasant. And I was enjoying something
I’d never had the pleasure of acquainting myself with be-
fore: solitude. Not terribly pleased with the notion, it
appeared that I was becoming a hippie, was getting in
touch with the inner me

“Okay, sorry Doug. Really. I’ve had my moment. I can
deal with this. Right?” Edward was never really able to
deal with much of anything without the appearance of
animated suffering. He blinked his wet piercing eyes.
I tried to make soothing contact but was suddenly
caught a bit off-guard by the blue brilliance of them;
some tiny portion of my brain was posting an adhesive
note to my heart: “found something . . . further research
required . . . at more opportune time.”

Not that I hadn’t noticed before. I was always just too
busy with my affected indifference and the often over-
whelming duty of maintaining calm. Impervious.

mmmclxxxi

Chapter 18: The Inner Me

“Don’t even try to cajole an apology out of me, Edward. I was sucking up
the cool grass with my toes underneath the most magnificent oak tree.”

[Edward’s frozen smirk]

“Marty’s in town.”  Doug figured it was best to just blurt it.

“Omigod! [world record for fastest jaw to drop from a smirk to all the way
down on the floor] Did he . . . ?”  [his head shaking as his jaw brushes the
carpet between his … what a lovely pair of shoes!]

“Marty’s in town.”

“I gathered that.  And I’m sorry.   Did he bring his Swedish friend or is he
flying solo?”

“It’s just Marty.”

“Doug, I just can’t deal with this . . .”

Fine, I’ll shut up for a minute and let him think I’m trying to absorb
his pain.

mmmclxxx

Chapter 17: I was just wondering if
                    you’ve had the opportunity

                    to look over my proposal.

I have so much news for you,
but I just don’t know where to
begin.  (It’s never a good sign
when my goal is to do some-

thing (sometimes it’s just to do

anything) – to accomplish –

and yet my approach is that 

of contrition or confession, yet
as far as I can recollect, there

is not anything in particular

that I have done wrong. (How

ridiculous to feel guilt for
simply coming to you

with what I believe is a

worthwhile proposition,

to say the least!).  A

mere suggestion.  An
idea that I think, in fact,

will provide us both with

many benefits.  For example,

if executed with determination

and with an equal fervor, so to

speak, it would potentially re-
lieve a lot of unnecessary
tension, here in the, 

the air about us, in 

the general atmosphere.

Also, also, it would surely

provide us with a little bit 

of that something that we 

both ought to be able to 

use, with something, 

you know, that is use-

ful.  And furthermore, 

I mean at the very least,

it would educational, would

it not?  I mean, of course,

these are things to keep in 

mind as you go about your,

well, as you, if you find the

time to sort of flip through it,

to examine the contents and

the nature of the, well, the, uh,

the iterated, idea.  And lastly,

by gosh, it’d be an adventure.

I mean, wouldn’t it, though?

Well, what I meant to say is,

just you wait.  (For the life

of me, if I only knew why

I was even standing here!) 

And, just to hear that word,

adventure, and, well I don’t

know about you, but even

to say the word and, with-

out fail, there’s a, a bubble,

yes, a bubble that opens 

down in my gut, somewhere

just above my belly button, 

or so it feels; it expands
to about the size of
a fist and just rises,
clean through my lungs,
my stomach and my 

heart – it really is an

altogether pleasant

sensation, I have to

say – and that 

bubble just rises,

all the way up to 

my neck, where, 

kind of like an 

Alka-Seltzer when 

it hits water in the

glass, it divides into
a million tiny bubbles,
some of which make
their way all the

way up to just

underneath

the bump on the

top of my head.

I can literally 

feel the fizz
right here

(I am, I 

swear, am

I knocking

the top of my

head with my

fist?).  So,

as I was
saying,
yeah,
as I was
saying, I have
a lot to tell you.
I always do.  And
so, there’s no time
to dilly-dally.  There

just never seems to

be enough time for

anything, much less

to squander, to just

pilfer it away, in utter

isolation, you know?.  

I do, I mean, I do hope

that you’ll take it all into 

consideration, that you 

will have the time to, in
fact, that we can perhaps
work out a time to further
this discussion, to get into 

the details, the nitty-gritty,

if you will, of, well, that 

you’ll find the time, that 

you’ll take into consideration,

maybe accept my proclamation,

uh, my proposition, that we’ll
be able to put a proper amount
of time and energy into all of the
various aspects of it, and that you’ll
call me as soon as you get up in the
morning and have a moment to go
over the, to discuss the, to really
put our money where our mouth
is. Where our mouths are. I

very much look forward

to it.  To our, to us 

giving this the old,

well, if you could.

Call me tomorrow.

First thing.  Looking

forward to it. Bon soir.

mmmclxxix

Chapter 16:  All I Have to Say

“And yet you laughed when I said
that I just wanted to let you know
that the topic you brought up . . .

the subject you seem so eager 

to . . . well . . . I mean, as you 

well know . . .your reaction,

when I said as clearly and 

gently as I could possibly

muster – and you know this

because haven’t we been
through this on occasions

too numerous to . . .?   It’s 

as if . . . .  Look.  When I said, 

as I have said before, that this is 

a bit of a touchy subject for me, 

why? – or how? – could you just

 . . . why do you have to press 

forward every single time? 

Rather than just?  You 

know? . . . I am just at a

loss.  How’m I supposed to 

. . . I don’t even know 

what I’m saying.  What

I’m saying is this.  How 

are we . . . how are you 

and I supposed to even 

. . . to even . . . work . . . ?

Alright, alright.  I have
said this to you before.
And again before that. 

But look.  Here’s the
deal.  And this is going
to be my last word on 

the subject, I mean 

it!”  And so Doug, 

as Doug does, said

what he believed
to be the truth,

and what he be-

lieved to be the

finality of what 

he had to say 

on the subject.

And then he 

went about 

his day, and

the days after 

that, sort of

repeating it,

again and again
and again and again,

until what he was saying
evolved.  He tried, then,
to write it down, these

evolved words, as he be-

gan, at least subconsciously

to recognize them as an

off-kilter echo, as it 

began to dawn on him

that he was saying some-

thing a bit different than

what he had said the time

before, that what he said now

was, in fact, significantly

different than what he had

said only a few weeks past.

So he would keep writing it 

all down, often a bit thunder-

struck at the difference.  And he

told and retold this in both public
and private, with finality?  He felt 

that he had to get it right, this

mess of words that he kept

speaking, saying.  “I must bite 

the bullet,” he would say to him-

self.  “I must put my money 

where is mouth is,” as the

saying goes.  And that he did.

mmmclxxviii

Chapter 15:  A Private Message

     Some films are like you're on a drug or something. . . .
     Kodachrome had more poetry in it, a softness, an elegance.
                                                —Steve McCurry

I spent quite the evening with
Edward last night (intimations 

of evening lasting through 

the night are, rest assured, 

more wishful thinking 

than intentional).  [The 

screen fades to a 

pale gray as the 

next scene opens

to a bright and

busy café strewn

with overly fluffy
sofas, chairs and

bean bags.  After 

a few stark moments 

of hubbub in black and 

white, in the entire establish-

ment is suddenly awash in 

awash in the colors of
Kodachrome.]

Narrator:  If, for a moment, we were to presently flashforward  

               to the beginning of our story, we’d see a young man 

               walking onto a blank, letter-sized page, the city of  

               his calling, heretofore clean of both his life and 

               his pen.  And soon you will know that to watch 

               our young hero explore every square inch of that

               bright rectangular sheet is to see his city come to

               life on the page before you.              

Doug:      [walking up to the back of a couch that looks as if it will 

               spring to life at any moment, standing almost over a wisp 

               of a fellow slumped and nestled deeply into the couch] Well, 

               pop that popcorn, you haven’t given up on me yet! [“Doug”??]

Edward:   [the wisp sunk miraculously deep into the couch] Gemini

               crickets, Doug, where the hell have you been?

Douglas’ pupils are soaking in delight at the barrage of color that
always greets him at the Café Clement.  He plops in front of Edward,
mirroring his smirk.

     Come back for tomorrow’s extra special episode of Clusterfuffle.

     When you’ll discover what happens when Café Clement closes

     for renovations, what darkness befalls a cast caught unawares

     when the script calls for new names for each character and the

     eradication of all chapter titles, see what happens when the 

     narrator meets his long lost brother, Doug. And, most thrilling 

     of all, Edward sends a private message for the audience.  What

     could he possibly have to say to you?

     This has been. . . .

mmmclxxvii

Chapter 14: No Peas

Scratch rabbit hand
after let’s do kissy-
face.  Embarrassed
or hot under the collar
or shy or having in my
head already built a
cogent graph of our
future and there’s
too many red-lines.
Must wall it up. Must
build a bunker for this
happy mess of a

no can do. So I 

take off on a 

tangent. Bottom

line: eradicate!

And you thought 

I’d no rhyme 

nor reason.
Things happen 

in a still life.

It’s a stunner 

to me, too, but

the freaky fact is
who refused to

pop a Darwin

like the best

of us?  As 

stupid as

stupid is, at

least I can safely

say that I’m no
hypochondriac
anymore, glass

half full and all.

Once I started 

understanding 

panic there were

fewer and fewer

attacks, until I
wasn’t a hippo
anymore.  “So

what’s your secret?”

Things unravel.  “Like,

Everything?!”  “Yep.” 

Back in the war, 

they’d rev up 

to around triple

what they were,
say, in my 30’s.
And then there was
the crash; walking
barefoot to school,
half a foot of snow
on the ground.  It
still has me jabbing
at my head. “What’s
genetics, Gene?”
“A shot in the dark,

Mark!” Then, “Shoot
that poison arrow,”
I choke, half-
cous-cous. . . .

Miles and miles

later, elevated and 

fizzy, I flash for-

ward to the 

flashback,
where groove
is always in
the art. Mos’

def! every

heavy heaves,

With cert! comes

the echo, all

the bodies in

formation w/

their fists up

high and

pumpin’

all smart.

mmmclxxvi

Chapter 13: Gemini Crickets

Lying beneath a magnificent oak tree in the middle of a
semi-deserted city on a lovely afternoon squinting up,
up, up at the sun, I am of two minds.  Do I just lie here?
Or do I stand up, shake of the detritus of oak and park
and city (and dogs both leashed and unleashed)?  Or

do I venture forth as I originally intended for my 

date with Edward, late as I am, given up on me 

as he likely has by now.  This is the current fork 

that I have happened upon in this, my balmy ver-

sion of a snowy evening of. . . . I check instantly 

to determine if Frost, too, was a Gemini. Nope,

Aries.  In this ,,, OTHER ,,, this separate, sunken 

universe, I am, as always, multi-tasking.  I type a 

line or two, then shift to the other side of desk, 

tap a few taps onto a separate keyboard than the 

one which I am presently using, flip through photos

I have taken throughout my life, or have been taken

of me – these happen to be from a couple of years 

ago – in an effort to catalog the entirety of my 

thus-far existence, adding locations, adjusting 

an incorrect date or two, making a few notes
on the line that reads “Add a description,” 

just in case, , ,of posterity?  Or mostly it

is self-discovery: attempting a gross

understanding.  So as to live with peace

and purpose.  And joy.  And contentment. 

After I’ve done this with, say, a dozen 

electronic slices of my past, I spin the

seat of my chair slightly further to my 

right so as to face the age-worn 

printer/scanner next to me, adjust the

diary of my grandmother, my mother’s

mother, in such a way that I can then
come back to my laptop, the one upon
which I am once again or still or

currently typing, where I then com-

bine press [Alt][tab] and then and

without interruption lift my pinkie 

while continuing to hold down the 

[Alt] key with my weakest finger, 

tap lightly with my pinkie onto

the [tab] key, which prompts 

the interface to my hand-me-

down Epson printer to the 

top of my laptop’s screen so

that I may then click on the 

button labelled SCAN, which 

will add on more slice to the 

tens of thousands of electronic 

slices of me that I will later 

spend hour upon hour of 

scrutinizing, tagging, de-

scribing, remembering and,

then, with the addition of this
new image of handwritten text 

that has moved from my grand-

mother’s diary into my laptop 

and then on up into one of

several so-called clouds, which 

is somehow genetically a part

of what will become me, even if
it is not of my actual memory – 

but a glimpse of that which is me
and of my history and holds

significance in what brought me

here – after doing all of this, 

coming back to the point of

origin at which I was when

I first began this litany (to-

day’s edition, anyway), I

will then scrutinize, along with
the rest of the expanding and
already bloated catalog that
is and will become, inevitably,
the guy sitting here tapping

these lines into existence, in
what is hopefully not simply
just an onanistic effort to 

reconcile that which is 

electronic and tangible 

with that which is not: 

with he who is still 

really doing this, just 

as curious and wanting
(wanting!) more than 

the sum of ever, but

who is, nevertheless,

cumulatively and

only, of course, as 

ever, yours truly,

mmmclxxv

Chapter 12: Tick-Tock-Flop (Plop!)

An abstruse but delightful
sense of fashion? Please do
kindly forgive the ease with
which I get sidetracked.  Act-
ually, I suppose that your for-
giveness is unnecessary and
my request is premature.  It
is simply that I am already
beginning to understand the
romance a writer develops
with the world of their fic-
tion. . . .  Already, Edward
is venturing away from real-
ity and into the fantastical
universe I myself create.   I
open my eyes.  I’m in a new
world, I’ve decided.  Already.
Edward.  Is venturing away
from reality and into the fan-
tastic, frenetic fanatical uni-
verse verse verse verse a
verse a verse a verse averse
adverse universe I can create.

mmmclxxiv

Chapter 11: Symposium of Edward

I took Edward’s text and I twisted it
into a pretzel before I baked and ate it.

“Are you always in the business of
swallowing words?”  But I feign

ignorance, which is not such a
difficult thing for me to do.  Ed-

ward.  Edward is a brazenly thin
young man with an abstruse but

delightful sense of fashion; he
has perpetually mussed wispy

blond hair (cropped close, yet
always flying in all directions),

piercing blue eyes and an air
of omnipresence.  I have per-

sonally (and privately) nick-
named him God.  I’m walk-

ing between the train stop
and my apartment while

thinking about Edward
(Edward Edward Edward)

and trying not to bump
into a tree.  And this

I accomplish before
falling beneath one –

a magnificent oak –
in slow motion I

just crumple like
some nobody that’s

just been shot to
death in a movie.

Lying under the
oak like I’m dead,

but first twisting
around (the grass

smelling so very 

good) to squint

straight up
through the

half-shade
half-sun.

mmmclxxiii

Chapter 10: Sidetracked

By now, I have remembered that I have an appointment
with Edward, and have decided that sitting in the grass
underneath this beautiful oak is not getting me there,
long chain of clusters of action verbs notwithstanding.
I wiggle my toes a bit more in the grass and replace
socks and sneakers onto my feet. I hop up and begin
the rest of my trek to the train stop.  And, realizing
how exceedingly late that I am, I resign to the fact
that my dear friend Edward will by now have
given up on me.  Taking note of the ease with
which I get sidetracked, I’m beginning to
understand the romance that writers
develop with their various fictions.
Already Edward is venturing away
from reality and drifting into
the fantastical universe
that I have created.

mmmclxxii

Chapter 9: Isosceles, Isolation, Idolatry . . .

I’m already five months in this fine city and I have yet to make one
new acquaintance with anyone with whom I’ve been able to share
rapport of any truly meaningful kind. I say this as if it is the problem
of those around me, rather than, as I am well aware, a problem that

is mine alone.  And furthermore, I’m being downright silly thinking 

(and relaying) that I am metaphorically trapped in some sort of iso-

lation chamber.  Especially since, while it is true I’ve basically stuck 

to myself since my arrival, it just so happens that I now live in the 

same city as my two best friends from college.  There’s Edward, to

whom I am off to see presently, and there’s Marty.  Two things
complicate this most pleasant fact.   One is that during our last
year in undergrad, Marty and Edward had seen fit to elevate
their acquaintance.  Quite a bit, actually.  For Marty, this had
been something momentary, a fleeting inclination toward what
was always, of course, headed toward a timely terminus.  But
for Edward, it was monumental and enduring.  Only now it
was enduring without Marty.  And this brings me to the
second complication: Edward does not know that Marty
now resides in the same neighborhood that he and I do. . .

mmmclxxi

Chapter 8: Sonnet

I have an appointment with my old friend
Edward.  I’m meeting him at a cozy rest-
aurant along the downtown harbor for
lunch.  I think non-sequiturs and para-

doxes the spices of life.  Also, ever since 

I can recall, I’ve seemed unable to relay 

anything to anyone succinctly.  There’s 

always more to tell, and not enough time

to tell it.  That’s me.  So I have inter-
rupted my regularly scheduled pro-

gram (if you will), to tell you that
Edward is a brazenly thin young

man with an abstruse but del-
ightful sense of fashion. . .

mmmclxx

Chapter 7: Spotlight on Me Dancing

     You know the world is ours. We’re up there with the stars.
     You know the world is ours. We can do anything.
                                                                           —Headband

I’m. . . .You’re not going to be believe this!!  You have to be here!! 

When I close my eyes I get to decide where I am.  It’s so fantastic! 

“What happens when you open them?”  (He’s always so goddam 

literal.)   [It is going to be impossible for me to ever get this right. 

But I can imagine myself trying for years.  Just to give you a 

glimmer.]  It’s communal, baby!  That’s why.   [But if it’s so 

fantastic and if I’m already here, why would I ever want share

any of it?!]  Right.  Oh-hell-yeah-this-is-to-be-continued . . . .

. . . . . .  [Directly into his telephone ear], Uh, hey, hello, 

Edward? [short pause, for effect]   

Are you free tomorrow night?

mmmclxix

Chapter 6:  Adjusting to Reality or Nothing Unusual Here

It’s one of those days when a thick coat of sweat appears before I’ve even stepped into my bedroom from the shower.  And as I walk out the door (It’s early morning!, I’m rejoicing), the full force of the heat overwhelms me.  I take a few steps backward, into the spuriously cool shelter of my apartment.  With determination, I make my second exit.  Grandly, into the heat.

My walk to the train is short, so I pace my thoughts accordingly, staring down at the drying grass in the park, occasionally popping my head up to ensure I’m not running into a tree.  I hear a train whoosh through, clanging a bit.   It’s the weekend, and I’ll have to wait a while for the next one.  But not too long.  More time to think.

mmmclxviii

Chapter 5: Bear With Me, I Will Get Through This Mess Somehow

Weeks pass.  Years, even.  The combination of anti-depressants and depressants, while
initially titillating, almost always leads me to an interminably rough sleep, followed
by a solid hangover replete with a nauseous giddiness.  If I can eliminate the guilt
and dissuade the indifference from completely taking over my soul, it is on these
days that I am most contemplative.  And at my most creative.

mmmclxvii

Chapter 4: Hurdy Gurdy Herky-Jerky

Music has always been more than just a little bit significant to me.  I’m guessing most people, if you asked, would say the same about music’s influence on them.  I took lessons at piano for twelve years, starting in the second grade.  After two years, my parents, sensing that the piano and I were quite the pair, took me to a more selective instructor in the city.  By city, I don’t mean city, I mean Fort Smith. Arkansas. I grew up in Charleston, about 20 miles or so east.  Of the city.  After a horrifying audition of sorts, my new piano instructor told my parents that she’d take me on as a student, but that, if she were to become my piano teacher, I’d have to begin learning from scratch because up to that point I had playing by ear.  She was my piano teacher for over eight years.  By the time I graduated from high school, my ambitions (which I kept to myself, mostly; long familiar story, I’m sure) were definitely in the performing arts area.  But I’d moved on, mostly, from being a musician to becoming an actor.  However, when I began undergraduate college I joined the choir, began taking voice (singing) lessons and signed up for piano lessons.  The degree I had opted to pursue during this time, however, was that of a bachelor of arts in chemistry.  Theater would come later, even though it also would just be a phase (like playing the piano, quite a long one, and entirely purposeful, as far as I have ever been concerned; but it was still, a phase). By the time I was 24, I had two degrees in theatre (a B.A. and an M.A.).   I had, by then, begun experiencing occasional vertigo, which was sometimes severe, and would continue off and on for at least a couple of decades. And a year after that, I was prescribed an anti-depressant for the first time (Prozac).  

It would be better said, I think, that performance has been very significant to me, beginning at a very young age (my role from age 3 to 5 was that of an ADULT; I rarely ate at the kids’ table on holidays, and my persistence at this role was, I am most certain, exhausting to the adult relatives in my family, most of whom would play along enough that I never thought otherwise).  I have had the delight of performing in many ways.  I’ve been a puppeteer; a trumpeter on the field, in an orchestra and in a jazz band; I’ve been piano accompanist for a second grade performance of The Nutcracker and for Brahms’ amazing Liebeslieder Waltzes , a four hands on one piano extravaganza, on tour with my college choir; I’ve had roles in dozens of theatrical productions; I’ve directed choir at church; sung and played piano at weddings and funerals; the list goes on and on.  If you’ll kindly bear with me, I believe you might inevitably find that I do have a point in here somewhere.  That there is a rhyme and a reason.

Also, I am a Gemini.  To the core.

It wasn’t until I was in my 40’s that I began to realize that I had suffered (and continue to) from pretty severe social anxiety.  Some fairly severe panic attacks (and several therapists and physicians), quite the rage for me that decade, helped me come to this realization.   Even by 40, though, I had been a decade almost completely withdrawn from being a performance artist of any kind.  So to speak.  In my early 30’s, I delved into poetry, became one, started a magazine, and continue writing to this day (here I am, as a matter of fact).  It was then that I also began thinking of myself as primarily an (even though I grew up and spent most of my life relatively poor or lower middle class, I had always handled the rent-paying part of life just fine with my other long-term career, that of being an executive assistant – thanks especially to being a Gemini, I have even enjoyed and taken pride in that necessary part of my life; but it cannot be denied that I am, above all else, an) artist.

Of all of the types of performers I have been, playing the piano has brought me the most fear and panic (when playing at church, for example, the grand piano would be quite visibly shaking along with my shuddering arms as I would play).

mmmclxvi

Chapter 3: Pre-Post

And so it is decided?  The earth is shaking and I’m having a Prozac dream. There’s a pervasive percussive clanging and banging going on and I’m in it, can not get out of it.   Somehow I become vaguely aware of what is happening, and that I know the routine.  So I try to remember that I am in bed, that this is just another of what I call my night terror dreams.  These usually involve a mix of immediate family members, former college buddies, ex-boyfriends, me either flying or falling, a pervading sense of death and, once I become aware enough, the belief that if I do not wake myself up from this it will absolutely mean my demise.   I’m deathly afraid of flying, but it sure beats falling.  In this one I’m falling.  Everything in me is calling out for anything in the atmosphere that might either reduce my anxiety (why do we never say increase our calm?) and awaken me.   Oddly, on this occasion, just like every similar one before it, once I finally somehow find a center, some peace, I awaken.  I do always manage to forget while in the midst of the terror that I do not need a stimulant to snap out of it; I need a sedative.  As always, before I am fully aware of my existence, of reality, the ghost-faces of my terror-dream, and the soaring confinement of mourning in which I am soaring or falling at a pace that is painfully slow  .  .  .  finally, a fizzy phosphorescent light seeps through the cracks of my eyelids, and I have cognizance (of a sort).   

My muted alarm clock is upside down on the carpet next to my bed. Swimming out of a miasma of sleep and dream, I inevitably have lift-off.  This is the important stuff. This is ‘me.’  Weeks pass.  Years, even.

mmmclxv

Chapter 2

And so it was decided.  I was moving to the coast.  Surely this would 

end the cliff-hanger that my life had become. [several weeks pass,

during which in my head I am more of an idiot than ever.]  The 

blank page is pretty damned formidable.  Apologies, I am already 

getting ahead of myself. Sticking to strict chronology has always 

eluded me.   “And who doesn’t?” you might posit, and I’d be happy 

to concede to your generalization.  Let’s presume there will be more 

than enough time to question the relative significance of my tale. 

A hook, though.  I suppose that if this is to be engaging in any 

way, I’ll need one.  And a good one at that.  I mustn’t just chug 

along here in my little box, all unawares.  There must be en-

gagement.  Engagement, for me, is religion. Anyway, please 

bear with me as this venue, this method, is new to me. It 

always seems to be, in any case.  Swimming out of a miasma 

of sleep and dream (where I rarely disappoint) into . . .

reality?   This is most assuredly not a dream!  It is . . . .

Well, ignoring all consequences, all chronology, all con-

vention.  Please do so kindly bear with me as I begin 

(even if not quite at the beginning). . . .

mmmclxiv

and that is

the end of

chapter one.