Youth not wasted. The ocean was patting my 1 cylinder motorboat on the bow, almost congratulating it for its long life. The wind was giving me a similar salute by steadily blowing my hair out of my squinted eyes. This also helped me ignore the fact that I was past due on a hair cut. The mist was twisted with salt and felt good on my face. I put my self-made autopilot on the rudder, which was just a rope looped over the handle and pulled my wool sweater over my head by crossing my arms and stretching them towards the sky.
I had felt uncomfortable at the party. I didn’t like birthdays, especially my own. All my pretentious acquaintances standing too close, puffing up their chests, bragging about how much their presents set them back. I wasn’t having an awful time really, I had a few friends there, until I looked over to the main entrance and saw a little boy, one of the puffy-chested balloonheads’ and he was just staring at his boring little shoes. He was so lonesome yet he didn’t even realize it. His father was over in the living room, squeezing some young ballonheaded girl’s rear. He was telling everyone what an amazing guy he was. His uninspired son was still standing near the door – his liminal mind stuck somewhere between the entrance and outside the door, just unconscious to his abuse.
I slinked through the crowd, accepting a few happy birthdays with a crunched smile and a raised hand to show that “that was plenty of congrats for now”. I came up to the kid and he stared up with two big, dumb eyes and asked me to remove his shoes. I looked at him for a second to see if there was anything worth saving. I bent down, tied his shoes in an impossibly dubious knot and slipped out the door.
I ran full speed through the waist high field, down to the dock. I didn’t stop at all I leap directly into the back of the boat, almost toppling it in three feet of water. I fumbled a bit with the anchored rope but finally unhitched it and the little motor squeaked then buzzed to life and I took off over the larger shore waves into the fuzzy horizon of the ocean.
The sun filtered through the light clouds and I had plenty of time. I won’t turn sixty again I said to myself as the blue spray drizzled on my ugly old, grinning face.
Monday, May 28, 2007
heynow.
-travis, in my room! I was at the desk, you were on the bed, remember?-
should I place my shutter on your risen hair?
even though it burns like petals
4000 petals
in the wrong hole
my shutter
will still slip on your grenade
finger and itch
with a sweat
that comes
on your lips
on your hair
which is it? grab my motion
with this picture
and then we can act out,
pictures and act of love
and dream of a moment
touched by my shutter
but some perv
stole my only one of your
lips
hair.
should I place my shutter on your risen hair?
even though it burns like petals
4000 petals
in the wrong hole
my shutter
will still slip on your grenade
finger and itch
with a sweat
that comes
on your lips
on your hair
which is it? grab my motion
with this picture
and then we can act out,
pictures and act of love
and dream of a moment
touched by my shutter
but some perv
stole my only one of your
lips
hair.
tracing. a poem inspired by harry smith
i am tracing the postcard that hung on the back of ginsberg's toilet door, where you lie and paper-punch, punch-cards and clock in and clock outside.
i am tracing the nose of your striped friend and doing it again, over the first because I see that there are two here but every time I see one the other appears.
i am tracing the sickle through your blow-hole cause if the silence is any louder I'll try to scream and the film will start, all shaky man and woman and ray.
i am tracing the cord that makes the circle become a triangle that, when turned sideways is a buffalo wafer with tears and photos of tears dangling from a flower.
i am tracing scratch and dance, trying to find the end of the swirling rings and thanks a lot, I think we'll hit it off if I be the blue and you be every other color.
i am tracing the beginning to the beginning through a loop and the end can never come and this is the way I decided to get rid of this fear of sinking or falling or sitting.
i am tracing the fears I still have back to the beginning, the birth so the death is the only end but it wouldn't become a u-shape maybe just a red dot again, showered by white enemas.
i am tracing the white rain to the pixel and the absence of the shape when you look everywhere but directly at the bow and the counter-bow of the spectrum fireworks.
i am tracing the explosion of the color bow and the space of jailed stripes and how I will end the circle but placing the rails of green, yes green and connect it with cord.
i am tracing the pathway to the outside clock where, within the spokes lies the cords and the punch-cards that subtract the clock in and make shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing the shoulder blade around to the stars and ivy of your back and your neck actually ends under there somewhere so
I am going to back up the clock in to see where I'm at,
blade dangling white so a silence buffalo falling outside the cord.
i am again paper-punch, tracing the way to the jailed toilet where ginsberg's of the flower.
i space beginning every time and it am red ivy so I will maybe become or try and back your rings where never have shapes under the sickle begun swirling and hung everywhere to see and end and shoulder the the the because the that that, the green two that sit still with the other and decided their lot, where they subtract tears from the spectrum again, tracing back time.
I've got tracing to do, I’ve gone outside.
I am hit again.
i connect pixels to the tracing when tracing in wouldn't appear.
i back up my tears but get rid of the beginning, I will clock with a striped absence.
actually the fears are seen placing blow-hole rain at a man, a back tracing is green, tracing through I am a woman, the neck dance, the over enemas.
i clock the film turned to the u-shape and shaky doing this, I become this again,
i lie at the end of the clock, the cord loudly tracing the dot of white am punch-cards blue and the lies find triangles and pathways to the first fireworks.
i appear on color shapes and at the end, I bow to you, tracing your sinking beginning end can somewhere be sitting.
i think that the photos of cords, clock clock stars, tracing showered postcards, loop the punch-cards and I begin tracing the ring within your color.
i think death makes you directly fear and scratch and the rays say yes in the a.m. birth.
from start to start,I think I am the circle explosion at sideways scream and the look counter-bow. the circle spokes come to me but I'm only
hung outside.
i am ginsberg's ivy under paper-punch, that neck shoulder lie clock you see blades got you there somewhere in, i'm up to where tracing clock and clock and the punch-cards back you, and i sent you a postcard back the back actually to the toilet of so and so's door, to the stars and around ends where on tracing,
i am only trying to trace the beginning and the end.
i am back tracing the where back somewhere ginsberg's lie and clock in got the outside.
i am paper-punch, of the neck to see hung around and ends stars up your toilet.
i am in of that so I’ve to and punch-cards back where to clock and the tracing actually on my door, at under your shoulder there and postcard ivy clock blade you am.
i am a blue ring.
i am tracing the postcard and still shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing still and still and still and still and still and I am still.
i am tracing the nose of your striped friend and doing it again, over the first because I see that there are two here but every time I see one the other appears.
i am tracing the sickle through your blow-hole cause if the silence is any louder I'll try to scream and the film will start, all shaky man and woman and ray.
i am tracing the cord that makes the circle become a triangle that, when turned sideways is a buffalo wafer with tears and photos of tears dangling from a flower.
i am tracing scratch and dance, trying to find the end of the swirling rings and thanks a lot, I think we'll hit it off if I be the blue and you be every other color.
i am tracing the beginning to the beginning through a loop and the end can never come and this is the way I decided to get rid of this fear of sinking or falling or sitting.
i am tracing the fears I still have back to the beginning, the birth so the death is the only end but it wouldn't become a u-shape maybe just a red dot again, showered by white enemas.
i am tracing the white rain to the pixel and the absence of the shape when you look everywhere but directly at the bow and the counter-bow of the spectrum fireworks.
i am tracing the explosion of the color bow and the space of jailed stripes and how I will end the circle but placing the rails of green, yes green and connect it with cord.
i am tracing the pathway to the outside clock where, within the spokes lies the cords and the punch-cards that subtract the clock in and make shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing the shoulder blade around to the stars and ivy of your back and your neck actually ends under there somewhere so
I am going to back up the clock in to see where I'm at,
blade dangling white so a silence buffalo falling outside the cord.
i am again paper-punch, tracing the way to the jailed toilet where ginsberg's of the flower.
i space beginning every time and it am red ivy so I will maybe become or try and back your rings where never have shapes under the sickle begun swirling and hung everywhere to see and end and shoulder the the the because the that that, the green two that sit still with the other and decided their lot, where they subtract tears from the spectrum again, tracing back time.
I've got tracing to do, I’ve gone outside.
I am hit again.
i connect pixels to the tracing when tracing in wouldn't appear.
i back up my tears but get rid of the beginning, I will clock with a striped absence.
actually the fears are seen placing blow-hole rain at a man, a back tracing is green, tracing through I am a woman, the neck dance, the over enemas.
i clock the film turned to the u-shape and shaky doing this, I become this again,
i lie at the end of the clock, the cord loudly tracing the dot of white am punch-cards blue and the lies find triangles and pathways to the first fireworks.
i appear on color shapes and at the end, I bow to you, tracing your sinking beginning end can somewhere be sitting.
i think that the photos of cords, clock clock stars, tracing showered postcards, loop the punch-cards and I begin tracing the ring within your color.
i think death makes you directly fear and scratch and the rays say yes in the a.m. birth.
from start to start,I think I am the circle explosion at sideways scream and the look counter-bow. the circle spokes come to me but I'm only
hung outside.
i am ginsberg's ivy under paper-punch, that neck shoulder lie clock you see blades got you there somewhere in, i'm up to where tracing clock and clock and the punch-cards back you, and i sent you a postcard back the back actually to the toilet of so and so's door, to the stars and around ends where on tracing,
i am only trying to trace the beginning and the end.
i am back tracing the where back somewhere ginsberg's lie and clock in got the outside.
i am paper-punch, of the neck to see hung around and ends stars up your toilet.
i am in of that so I’ve to and punch-cards back where to clock and the tracing actually on my door, at under your shoulder there and postcard ivy clock blade you am.
i am a blue ring.
i am tracing the postcard and still shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing still and still and still and still and still and I am still.
...conception (in progress)
conception. a story by travis sehorn
A story of fusing a sperm and egg to form a zygote capable of developing into a new organism and the beginning of the ability to form and understand mental concepts. The plan, the design or the thought.
Leonard’s mother died in labor, three seconds before he was born. The last words she said were,
“I love you but I’m not sorry.”
I nearly died too. I told the nurse staring at my trembling jaw that my heart had actually stopped beating.
Short of breath the nurse offered, “She gave you a beautiful little boy,” she lowered her head and left the room.
I really could feel my heart where she dropped it, on top of my stomach, swollen and tired. The lights flickered off, then on again and the doctor handed Leonard to me.
The squirmy, plump doctor leaned closer in his deep violet soaked lab coat and spat out, “The heartbeat has been transferred; only one of them could live. I knew it too.” What a liar. I didn’t know the truth then, but I knew he was a goddamn squirmy liar.
This is the completely true retelling of when I met nine year old Claire and her mother Marie, late in 1970. It was New England’s fiery October, a vision of mortality and I too was drying up, changing and dying. Then I met Claire and Marie.
My name is Julien. I was thirty-two years old and a widower. My wife gave me my clumsy but brilliant son, Leonard, before she died. At six, Leonard told me that he dreamt of his mother every night. Every dream she would tuck him in, put an apple on his oak bedside table, turn off the light, turn it back on, snap a smile and once again, flip the lights off. Leonard later told me, when he was eight, that he loved it when strangers ate fruit in public. One of his greatest joys was some juice dribbling down their chins. I like this too.
The bright, elegant Claire met Leonard on Williams Street which runs in front of our cracker box apartment and ends at a large group of elm trees that designate the edge of Arthur Park. It’s a vagabond’s song and a haven for children too. This scoundrel’s playground had plenty of room for games, innocent wandering or mindful gazing. Leonard and Claire, both nine years old, shared a passion for all three. Out of these passions grew what they would refer to as the game and what would allow me to let go of my wife. On my first visit to pick up Leonard from Claire’s house I met her mother. And I ended up liking Marie right away.
I noticed when I entered the lobby, that the attendant behind the desk actually took note of me. He had a ring on that he had made out of a dollar bill, probably out of boredom but perhaps it was really something. He wore his hair short with a wisp of hair at the peak. He had a navy pea-coat and a round, boyish face. I realized he thought about my appearance just as I did of his and I felt sweat rise under my thin green jacket. I shoved my hands in its awkwardly high pockets, forced a grin and entered an adjoining hall. It had been years since I felt that someone cared that I had come. And that was just the doorman. I entered the elevator, hesitated for a half-second and held my breath for twenty seconds before I pressed the illuminated button for the sixth floor. I was nervous to meet Claire’s mother. More nervous than, I don’t even recall now - I felt hungry and dehydrated. The hunger was right below my sternum, pushing every direction, making me forget to breathe.
An old jazz tune snapped in my head. This always happens when I’m nervous. It quickly turned into some other song and I tried to ignore it. I was standing right outside the correct door, number 647, with my head crooked to the top right corner trying to banish the vague tune, when the door swung open. The lights in the apartment flicked off and there stood Marie, in full winter attire. It was only October. This is one reason I liked her immediately, she overdid everything. She clicked the lights back on. She was not startled really, just a little disappointed looking. We stood there on either side of the door jam, suspended in our previous motions; I had my head cocked, eyes squinted and she had her arms poised like she was checking for rain on both sides of her. She had a dark violet scarf wrapped around her head. And she just stood there looking like a beautifully bound book that you had wanted to read for a long time but only now, it was the book that would change you. She blinked and slowly formed a completely honest smile.
“Marie. I’m Marie. You must be Jules. I’m sorry, I was just…”
“Oh, it’s fine. Julien actually, my name is Julien. Where were you going? I’ll come back. Is Leonard here?”
“They went to the store for me. Claire always likes to. I said, oh we need tea and they both sprung up and were out the door calling, don’t worry, we’ll get it. Bye.”
I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I wanted to leave. I can’t stand ruining anyone’s private plans. I really can’t. I am New England’s greatest coward.
“No, come in. I was just going walking. I want to meet you. I really want to meet you, come in.”
I couldn’t say no, now. I had to get Leonard. I thought of lying to her and coming back later.
“Claire takes forever at the store, come in.”
But I didn’t lie to her. I couldn’t. So I had to go in. I almost touched her stomach by accident when I tried to squeeze by her into the apartment. She just didn’t move. She made my head tick-tock, right from the start.
The first room was a biblical room. By this I mean that it could have been the center of the universe or the Garden of Eden or at least where some slob from that book of psalms swallowed a sword or something; that sort of look, although it was unlikely on the sixth floor. I don’t believe in that book but, that sort of room.
Stacks of books were teetering and towering the room like offices of the low rent district; there was Rimbaud on top of Beckett with Woolf putting her weight on them both. A Thelonious Monk biography topping “The Surrealist Manifesto: Part Two”, Aldo Leopold boldly facing a young Franz Kafka. That was the wrapping; inside of that was a labyrinth of every piece of decorative furniture made between 1934 and 1937. I don’t really know that for sure. Resting on each appendage of the furniture was a piece of fabric; a shawl, a fighter-jet pilot’s skull cap, a thin paisley jacket, anything. The floor was dark; worn and wide beams that could have been the floor of a barn or an immaculate stable. The beams gave slight way to a foot but felt solid, comfortable.
Marie moved like a grace filled locomotive around me to the room right inside the entryway, after she closed the front door. Picking up passengers as she wound up the room, a tea bag from the couch cushion, an embarrassing department store catalogue from a slightly burnt lampshade, she was cleaning up a futile room. The room breathed out and Marie came slowly to rest with an oven mitt in hand. She placed it back down on a table covered in candy wrappers and said,
“Sit here.” She was pointing to a 1936 kitchen stool. “Do you want some tea or coffee? How about tea? I’ll make us some tea.”
“Sure, that’d be nice.” I hated coffee in the afternoon. By then my taste buds were awake and I needed something taint them. Tea is like autumn, subtle bursts of wonder that calm your nerves. I guess today was not one of those slowly blooming days, this was a reverse-rapture.
“Oh right, how about coffee, the kids went to get tea, we’re out. You could wait until they get back. You could have tea then, if you want.”
“Coffee’s fine.” I said after she disappeared into the kitchen. Soon I’d be shaking more than Chet Baker on a windowsill.
I peeled my forearm off the sticky parlor table next to me and quietly took advantage of my time. While watching the kitchen I brought my right shoulder around to inspect the shelf behind my seat with my hand. My fingers fumbled around a tea cup and a little figurine. I turned to look and there, right next to me was a shaving kit; the old brush and straight razor kind. I panicked; it could be her husband's. My veins settled when I recalled Leonard a week ago saying, Claire's dad is dead, like mom. Leonard wasn't the most subtle but most children aren't. Something light pressed down on the top of my right collarbone. I began to speak before I spun around, instantly boiling with sweat again.
"I, well this shaving kit, I, what is it?"
"A shaving kit. What's the matter? You're all flustered," she puffed up a little, probably to hold in a laugh, "your forehead is all wet."
She handed me a faded red towel she had draped over a rocking chair to her left. She twisted her wrist slightly too much and a single drop of coffee dove over the cup's edge. I sucked in my lower lip a bit and wiped it up with the towel. I used the cuff of my sweater to daub the moisture from my forehead.
"That thing you were looking at? Its Francois Truffaut’s shaving kit. I got it at a market in New York, 1968. Oh and I only have tea, here." She handed me a thin walled cup with a blue stripe circumnavigating the rim. She turned to look behind her, put her hand on the cushion of the rocking chair, still minding the tea cup in her hand and gracefully sat down. "The kids went to get coffee, I forgot. I hope you don't mind, I don't even like coffee in the afternoon, makes me distracted."
"Truffaut? The director? This is his shaving kit?"
"Yeah, you know his movies? I love them. The theater, when I was fifteen, that's where I wish I was for eternity."
"Yes, I know some of his, you like him this much?" I hesitated to pick up the kit but decided I couldn't hurt the little brush so I held it up with my free hand, almost spilling my tea.
"That? The shaving kit? You don’t like it? "
"No it's fine, I mean, I really like it. You have a lot of stuff like that? All shaving kits or do you have other things? "
"Well, Brando came to my work and I got his wallet when he wasn’t looking!" Marie slid her cup onto the top of the record player and dashed toward the towering books that surrounded us. I noticed how poised she was, natural though, the true sense of the word. With her back to me, I imagined my wife standing away from me as she was. Then I realized what she had just said.
"Wasn’t looking? You stole someone’s wallet?"
“No! I stole his wallet," She was about to bubble into her tea cup, “look inside!”
“Brando’s wallet?" I nodded my head and let out a small laugh through my nose and separated the wallet, "What? What is this?"
"Yeah it’s the best thing I’ve found but I’ve got others. It's one of the things I do. What do you do? Did you tell me your name? Wait, I know. No, never mind. What is it?"
"Julien."
"Really? I could have sworn… well, Jules, what do think about Claire?"
"Claire?"
"Yes my daughter."
Somehow she said this without sounding offended; it sounded almost, charming really.
"Uh, well Leonard loves her, never stops talking about her. And it's Julien." She acted like she heard me, nodded her head and yet she never called me by my real name, I was forever Jules when I was with Marie or Claire from then on.
"Do you like her?”
“Yeah, she’s a real interesting girl. Yeah, I really do like her. Leonard would die without her; he said that, like some lovesick kid stranded out on a boat. Can you imagine that?"
"I can. I love it when Leonard comes over. They play this game they made up. It starts with one of them pretending to be something, then the other person pretends something else, the opposite of the first."
Leonard had told me about this game before but I didn't really know what it could do.
"So what does the first person pretend to be? Does it work? "
"Do something, a line or an animal or something."
She put her tea cup on the record player again and motioned me to stand, by curling both of her hands towards her chest.
"Oh I don’t really know, I’m no good at games."
"Come on, do a song or no do an animal!"
She now perked up her eyebrows to match the movement of her thin curling fingers.
"Really? I guess." I stood up, reached over and rested my cup, sort of tilting next to hers and reluctantly began to sway my body. "Like this?"
"Yes! Yes, a snake! You’re a snake!"
"No I was a piece of kelp; in the ocean. I couldn’t think of anything and that came to mind first, so I," I tried to sit down but she caught me by my elbows and lifted me up, "I'm not sure how to do this."
"Oh, no! I’m sorry! You’re right, that was wonderful kelp! What is the opposite of kelp? No don't answer."
"I’m not sure; Leonard plays this with Claire?" I looked down at the two touching cups on the record player to avoid her pulsing stare. "I didn’t drink my tea, I’m sorry. I forgot, its cold now." She heard me but ignored that too.
"Try again.”
"No, I don’t think I know how."
"I'll go then,"
Marie untwisted her jacket, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and with her eyes closed, began to hum very softly. Three seconds later the humming became a whir. I took a step back and nearly pushed the burnt lampshade over. I turned my attention back to Marie just as she collapsed to the dark wooden floor.
"Do the opposite." She said out of the corner of her mouth, the side not plastered to the floor.
I stood looking down at her back, imagining my wife again while she just lay there like a wet empty matchbook. I realized she wasn't going to move unless I did. I really began to love Marie, even more.
"Well I, I’m sorry. I really don’t know these things. You were a matchbook? A blade of grass?" She was breathless. "Ok well I like movies too, so I'll, here," I swung my arms out to -- I swung them directly into the tea cups holding each other up on the record player. Slowly my cup went up on tiptoe and sat there suspended; then it decided to fall. The tea rippled out over the record player, encompassing Marie's cup and then after bulging at the edge, the tea began to steadily stream towards the ground. Only, Marie's face was directly between the continuous stream and the wide boards of the floor. Time had frozen. I couldn't move my eyelids; they were pried open in terror. Time fought back and the stream of tea slapped Marie right below her eye; she didn't even blink. She stared at me as I watched the tea splatter her open eye. I couldn't move, I just couldn't. I watched the entire cup drain on her face, I watched the tea dilute with Marie's tears and puddle in a deep groove of the floor below her nose. I fought to close my eyes, to turn my face. I then did something strange. I didn't think at all. Never in my life had I experienced a moment more surreal and pure. From nothing, I began to play the game. I did the opposite;
"Every time I cried at home, my father would take his violin and imitate my crying just to bug me, you know. But one day I couldn’t stand it any longer."
I, at this point became aware of Marie again and of myself but there was no stopping. I was acting out of pure truth; thoughtless, honest, expression. Marie snapped her neck off the floor;
"That’s, that’s The 400 Blows! That’s Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows!"
I began to do the voices;
"Have you ever been to bed with a girl?" I switched characters, "No, never, but I have friends who have; they told me if I felt like it, I should go to the Rue Saint-Denis. So I went and I asked some girls but they bawled me out and I got scared and left." I looked down to Marie. She was captivated. I couldn't stop. "But I kept trying and this guy I knew, he said What are you doing here? So I told him and he told me he knew one that went with young ones and all that. So he took me to the hotel where she lived, only that day she wasn’t there. That’s all. I don’t remember anymore." I thought I might crawl into my tea cup and die.
"Brilliant! I loved that boy so much. That movie. I,"
"Antoine? The boy in the film? Did I do it right? I didn’t know what the opposite was. I didn’t even know what you were, so, sorry. I don’t know why I thought of it; the shaving kit; I hope I didn’t ruin the game."
"I really loved that movie; the boy, Antoine. I never loved a boy that way, before him. Can I tell you something? About when Claire was born? I was fifteen years old and I loved French cinema. I saw that movie, The 400 Blows and I don’t know what happened. I just loved that movie,"
"Fifteen? That young? Who's the father, were is he? Sorry it’s not really my,"
"Yes, I don’t know, it was as if he was there with me,"
"Your boyfriend?”
"No the boy in the film, the schoolboy. He was very delicate."
I sat there wishing time would freeze again, wishing I could get out. I didn't know what to say, I wasn't even sure what Marie was saying. So I pretended I knew exactly what she meant and changed the subject;
"Oh, the tea! I’m sorry; I just panicked when you didn’t move!"
"Its fine, I'll get a rag."
I grabbed the faded red towel and kneeled down to sop up the embarrassing puddle. But I couldn't ignore what Marie had said;
"What happened to you? Well, Claire’s father where’s he?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never known. I didn’t know him. I wasn’t supposed to go to the cinema; but I didn’t care. I really loved Antoine, the boy in the film and I'll probably never know what happened. The line of imagination and reality was broke somehow; like film melting and being rethread. Part of the scene is gone but somehow you feel relived when it starts rolling again, because you become part of the movie, just by being there. Things were so real to me at fifteen, the cinema, my life; everything felt different. I can’t explain it now; I simply loved the boy and somehow it happened; like the film resumed with a part of me in it, or I guess I resumed with a part of the film in me. I decided I would have the child and that I would name her Claire, after an actress in the film."
I couldn't take this. I had to do something. Marie was still on the floor, lying in a puddle of tea, telling me a lie. I wasn't stupid. I didn't want to believe her. It was impossible. But for some reason, it was ok to believe it. That fiery October day, I realized that sometimes it's better to have faith in someone, even if it is a lie. Sometimes what you believe can be pure. It can be the truth.
I bent over Marie; she was still gleaming in tea, looking for acceptance in my face. I took her shoulders in my hands and brought her towards me. I gently daubed her paled cheeks with the towel. She just stared at me. I looked right back into her eyes without fear or hesitation. She raised her right hand and touched the back of my neck.
"I think we should go look for Leonard and Claire, they've been gone a long time." She smiled and began to stand up.
"Claire is darling. I mean it. You too. She is a beautiful girl, really I think her and Leonard's game is; I really liked your shaving kit, I mean Truffaut’s and Brando’s, wallet. Everything, really."
"When Claire and Julien are playing in her room, I'll listen through the door; Leonard is so nice to her. I really like him staying here."
"I’m glad he has Claire. He really likes her. And I'm glad I met you." I looked at her and I couldn't see my wife. I saw only Marie's gleaming face.
"She really likes him too. I wish I was young still. I think our children have the greatest love there is. "
"Leonard and Claire?”
"Yeah, it’s not so simple. It’s pure; it’s like their game. Like that."
"Like that? Maybe,"
Just then we both turned and the moment was lost. We heard Leonard and Claire running up the hall. But now, we both knew that the moment could start again. Like a light flickering off or a melted movie being rethread. Like that. I took Marie's hand and we stood waiting for our children. Leonard was the first through the front door, chained palm to palm, with Claire.
"Hi dad! Look, a feather! I found it on the street!"
"Mom, look at it! It’s from a bird! "
Leonard held up a cream white feather in front of his face, shifting the light from the window, through the individual slits.
"Its dead, the bird is dead. Its outside. It’s wiggling around on the ground! "
"Yeah! All the feathers are floating around the door!
"Come on! Look!"
Leonard spun and giggling in tow by his hand, Claire whipped behind him through the door again. I followed suit. I strengthened my grip on Marie's palm and twirled toward the door. We laughed out of breath past the doorman who called out, Bye.
"Mom! What do we do? Is it dead? "
"I don’t know what to do.”
Out on the stoop, a dove was writhing on the ground. Hundreds of feathers where whirling around the door. I looked to Marie; she was watching a single feather fall and swoop upward again, Leonard and Claire were laughing and trying to catch a few.
"Can I touch it? Dad, is it dead? "
"No it’s playing, it’s pretending; it’s just pretending. Come on inside."
I put my free hand on Leonard's head. I looked at Claire and she smiled at me; an honest smile. I turned to Marie and we stepped through the door. I loved my wife but I’m not sorry either now. One event creates another, it’s just the game. I heard Leonard and Claire as we walked down the hall to the elevator;
"The bird is playing the game? It’s your turn Leonard, I just went, its you. "
"Birds can play?"
"Yeah, everything can play this game. This bird is playing and it’s your turn."
A story of fusing a sperm and egg to form a zygote capable of developing into a new organism and the beginning of the ability to form and understand mental concepts. The plan, the design or the thought.
Leonard’s mother died in labor, three seconds before he was born. The last words she said were,
“I love you but I’m not sorry.”
I nearly died too. I told the nurse staring at my trembling jaw that my heart had actually stopped beating.
Short of breath the nurse offered, “She gave you a beautiful little boy,” she lowered her head and left the room.
I really could feel my heart where she dropped it, on top of my stomach, swollen and tired. The lights flickered off, then on again and the doctor handed Leonard to me.
The squirmy, plump doctor leaned closer in his deep violet soaked lab coat and spat out, “The heartbeat has been transferred; only one of them could live. I knew it too.” What a liar. I didn’t know the truth then, but I knew he was a goddamn squirmy liar.
This is the completely true retelling of when I met nine year old Claire and her mother Marie, late in 1970. It was New England’s fiery October, a vision of mortality and I too was drying up, changing and dying. Then I met Claire and Marie.
My name is Julien. I was thirty-two years old and a widower. My wife gave me my clumsy but brilliant son, Leonard, before she died. At six, Leonard told me that he dreamt of his mother every night. Every dream she would tuck him in, put an apple on his oak bedside table, turn off the light, turn it back on, snap a smile and once again, flip the lights off. Leonard later told me, when he was eight, that he loved it when strangers ate fruit in public. One of his greatest joys was some juice dribbling down their chins. I like this too.
The bright, elegant Claire met Leonard on Williams Street which runs in front of our cracker box apartment and ends at a large group of elm trees that designate the edge of Arthur Park. It’s a vagabond’s song and a haven for children too. This scoundrel’s playground had plenty of room for games, innocent wandering or mindful gazing. Leonard and Claire, both nine years old, shared a passion for all three. Out of these passions grew what they would refer to as the game and what would allow me to let go of my wife. On my first visit to pick up Leonard from Claire’s house I met her mother. And I ended up liking Marie right away.
I noticed when I entered the lobby, that the attendant behind the desk actually took note of me. He had a ring on that he had made out of a dollar bill, probably out of boredom but perhaps it was really something. He wore his hair short with a wisp of hair at the peak. He had a navy pea-coat and a round, boyish face. I realized he thought about my appearance just as I did of his and I felt sweat rise under my thin green jacket. I shoved my hands in its awkwardly high pockets, forced a grin and entered an adjoining hall. It had been years since I felt that someone cared that I had come. And that was just the doorman. I entered the elevator, hesitated for a half-second and held my breath for twenty seconds before I pressed the illuminated button for the sixth floor. I was nervous to meet Claire’s mother. More nervous than, I don’t even recall now - I felt hungry and dehydrated. The hunger was right below my sternum, pushing every direction, making me forget to breathe.
An old jazz tune snapped in my head. This always happens when I’m nervous. It quickly turned into some other song and I tried to ignore it. I was standing right outside the correct door, number 647, with my head crooked to the top right corner trying to banish the vague tune, when the door swung open. The lights in the apartment flicked off and there stood Marie, in full winter attire. It was only October. This is one reason I liked her immediately, she overdid everything. She clicked the lights back on. She was not startled really, just a little disappointed looking. We stood there on either side of the door jam, suspended in our previous motions; I had my head cocked, eyes squinted and she had her arms poised like she was checking for rain on both sides of her. She had a dark violet scarf wrapped around her head. And she just stood there looking like a beautifully bound book that you had wanted to read for a long time but only now, it was the book that would change you. She blinked and slowly formed a completely honest smile.
“Marie. I’m Marie. You must be Jules. I’m sorry, I was just…”
“Oh, it’s fine. Julien actually, my name is Julien. Where were you going? I’ll come back. Is Leonard here?”
“They went to the store for me. Claire always likes to. I said, oh we need tea and they both sprung up and were out the door calling, don’t worry, we’ll get it. Bye.”
I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I wanted to leave. I can’t stand ruining anyone’s private plans. I really can’t. I am New England’s greatest coward.
“No, come in. I was just going walking. I want to meet you. I really want to meet you, come in.”
I couldn’t say no, now. I had to get Leonard. I thought of lying to her and coming back later.
“Claire takes forever at the store, come in.”
But I didn’t lie to her. I couldn’t. So I had to go in. I almost touched her stomach by accident when I tried to squeeze by her into the apartment. She just didn’t move. She made my head tick-tock, right from the start.
The first room was a biblical room. By this I mean that it could have been the center of the universe or the Garden of Eden or at least where some slob from that book of psalms swallowed a sword or something; that sort of look, although it was unlikely on the sixth floor. I don’t believe in that book but, that sort of room.
Stacks of books were teetering and towering the room like offices of the low rent district; there was Rimbaud on top of Beckett with Woolf putting her weight on them both. A Thelonious Monk biography topping “The Surrealist Manifesto: Part Two”, Aldo Leopold boldly facing a young Franz Kafka. That was the wrapping; inside of that was a labyrinth of every piece of decorative furniture made between 1934 and 1937. I don’t really know that for sure. Resting on each appendage of the furniture was a piece of fabric; a shawl, a fighter-jet pilot’s skull cap, a thin paisley jacket, anything. The floor was dark; worn and wide beams that could have been the floor of a barn or an immaculate stable. The beams gave slight way to a foot but felt solid, comfortable.
Marie moved like a grace filled locomotive around me to the room right inside the entryway, after she closed the front door. Picking up passengers as she wound up the room, a tea bag from the couch cushion, an embarrassing department store catalogue from a slightly burnt lampshade, she was cleaning up a futile room. The room breathed out and Marie came slowly to rest with an oven mitt in hand. She placed it back down on a table covered in candy wrappers and said,
“Sit here.” She was pointing to a 1936 kitchen stool. “Do you want some tea or coffee? How about tea? I’ll make us some tea.”
“Sure, that’d be nice.” I hated coffee in the afternoon. By then my taste buds were awake and I needed something taint them. Tea is like autumn, subtle bursts of wonder that calm your nerves. I guess today was not one of those slowly blooming days, this was a reverse-rapture.
“Oh right, how about coffee, the kids went to get tea, we’re out. You could wait until they get back. You could have tea then, if you want.”
“Coffee’s fine.” I said after she disappeared into the kitchen. Soon I’d be shaking more than Chet Baker on a windowsill.
I peeled my forearm off the sticky parlor table next to me and quietly took advantage of my time. While watching the kitchen I brought my right shoulder around to inspect the shelf behind my seat with my hand. My fingers fumbled around a tea cup and a little figurine. I turned to look and there, right next to me was a shaving kit; the old brush and straight razor kind. I panicked; it could be her husband's. My veins settled when I recalled Leonard a week ago saying, Claire's dad is dead, like mom. Leonard wasn't the most subtle but most children aren't. Something light pressed down on the top of my right collarbone. I began to speak before I spun around, instantly boiling with sweat again.
"I, well this shaving kit, I, what is it?"
"A shaving kit. What's the matter? You're all flustered," she puffed up a little, probably to hold in a laugh, "your forehead is all wet."
She handed me a faded red towel she had draped over a rocking chair to her left. She twisted her wrist slightly too much and a single drop of coffee dove over the cup's edge. I sucked in my lower lip a bit and wiped it up with the towel. I used the cuff of my sweater to daub the moisture from my forehead.
"That thing you were looking at? Its Francois Truffaut’s shaving kit. I got it at a market in New York, 1968. Oh and I only have tea, here." She handed me a thin walled cup with a blue stripe circumnavigating the rim. She turned to look behind her, put her hand on the cushion of the rocking chair, still minding the tea cup in her hand and gracefully sat down. "The kids went to get coffee, I forgot. I hope you don't mind, I don't even like coffee in the afternoon, makes me distracted."
"Truffaut? The director? This is his shaving kit?"
"Yeah, you know his movies? I love them. The theater, when I was fifteen, that's where I wish I was for eternity."
"Yes, I know some of his, you like him this much?" I hesitated to pick up the kit but decided I couldn't hurt the little brush so I held it up with my free hand, almost spilling my tea.
"That? The shaving kit? You don’t like it? "
"No it's fine, I mean, I really like it. You have a lot of stuff like that? All shaving kits or do you have other things? "
"Well, Brando came to my work and I got his wallet when he wasn’t looking!" Marie slid her cup onto the top of the record player and dashed toward the towering books that surrounded us. I noticed how poised she was, natural though, the true sense of the word. With her back to me, I imagined my wife standing away from me as she was. Then I realized what she had just said.
"Wasn’t looking? You stole someone’s wallet?"
“No! I stole his wallet," She was about to bubble into her tea cup, “look inside!”
“Brando’s wallet?" I nodded my head and let out a small laugh through my nose and separated the wallet, "What? What is this?"
"Yeah it’s the best thing I’ve found but I’ve got others. It's one of the things I do. What do you do? Did you tell me your name? Wait, I know. No, never mind. What is it?"
"Julien."
"Really? I could have sworn… well, Jules, what do think about Claire?"
"Claire?"
"Yes my daughter."
Somehow she said this without sounding offended; it sounded almost, charming really.
"Uh, well Leonard loves her, never stops talking about her. And it's Julien." She acted like she heard me, nodded her head and yet she never called me by my real name, I was forever Jules when I was with Marie or Claire from then on.
"Do you like her?”
“Yeah, she’s a real interesting girl. Yeah, I really do like her. Leonard would die without her; he said that, like some lovesick kid stranded out on a boat. Can you imagine that?"
"I can. I love it when Leonard comes over. They play this game they made up. It starts with one of them pretending to be something, then the other person pretends something else, the opposite of the first."
Leonard had told me about this game before but I didn't really know what it could do.
"So what does the first person pretend to be? Does it work? "
"Do something, a line or an animal or something."
She put her tea cup on the record player again and motioned me to stand, by curling both of her hands towards her chest.
"Oh I don’t really know, I’m no good at games."
"Come on, do a song or no do an animal!"
She now perked up her eyebrows to match the movement of her thin curling fingers.
"Really? I guess." I stood up, reached over and rested my cup, sort of tilting next to hers and reluctantly began to sway my body. "Like this?"
"Yes! Yes, a snake! You’re a snake!"
"No I was a piece of kelp; in the ocean. I couldn’t think of anything and that came to mind first, so I," I tried to sit down but she caught me by my elbows and lifted me up, "I'm not sure how to do this."
"Oh, no! I’m sorry! You’re right, that was wonderful kelp! What is the opposite of kelp? No don't answer."
"I’m not sure; Leonard plays this with Claire?" I looked down at the two touching cups on the record player to avoid her pulsing stare. "I didn’t drink my tea, I’m sorry. I forgot, its cold now." She heard me but ignored that too.
"Try again.”
"No, I don’t think I know how."
"I'll go then,"
Marie untwisted her jacket, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and with her eyes closed, began to hum very softly. Three seconds later the humming became a whir. I took a step back and nearly pushed the burnt lampshade over. I turned my attention back to Marie just as she collapsed to the dark wooden floor.
"Do the opposite." She said out of the corner of her mouth, the side not plastered to the floor.
I stood looking down at her back, imagining my wife again while she just lay there like a wet empty matchbook. I realized she wasn't going to move unless I did. I really began to love Marie, even more.
"Well I, I’m sorry. I really don’t know these things. You were a matchbook? A blade of grass?" She was breathless. "Ok well I like movies too, so I'll, here," I swung my arms out to -- I swung them directly into the tea cups holding each other up on the record player. Slowly my cup went up on tiptoe and sat there suspended; then it decided to fall. The tea rippled out over the record player, encompassing Marie's cup and then after bulging at the edge, the tea began to steadily stream towards the ground. Only, Marie's face was directly between the continuous stream and the wide boards of the floor. Time had frozen. I couldn't move my eyelids; they were pried open in terror. Time fought back and the stream of tea slapped Marie right below her eye; she didn't even blink. She stared at me as I watched the tea splatter her open eye. I couldn't move, I just couldn't. I watched the entire cup drain on her face, I watched the tea dilute with Marie's tears and puddle in a deep groove of the floor below her nose. I fought to close my eyes, to turn my face. I then did something strange. I didn't think at all. Never in my life had I experienced a moment more surreal and pure. From nothing, I began to play the game. I did the opposite;
"Every time I cried at home, my father would take his violin and imitate my crying just to bug me, you know. But one day I couldn’t stand it any longer."
I, at this point became aware of Marie again and of myself but there was no stopping. I was acting out of pure truth; thoughtless, honest, expression. Marie snapped her neck off the floor;
"That’s, that’s The 400 Blows! That’s Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows!"
I began to do the voices;
"Have you ever been to bed with a girl?" I switched characters, "No, never, but I have friends who have; they told me if I felt like it, I should go to the Rue Saint-Denis. So I went and I asked some girls but they bawled me out and I got scared and left." I looked down to Marie. She was captivated. I couldn't stop. "But I kept trying and this guy I knew, he said What are you doing here? So I told him and he told me he knew one that went with young ones and all that. So he took me to the hotel where she lived, only that day she wasn’t there. That’s all. I don’t remember anymore." I thought I might crawl into my tea cup and die.
"Brilliant! I loved that boy so much. That movie. I,"
"Antoine? The boy in the film? Did I do it right? I didn’t know what the opposite was. I didn’t even know what you were, so, sorry. I don’t know why I thought of it; the shaving kit; I hope I didn’t ruin the game."
"I really loved that movie; the boy, Antoine. I never loved a boy that way, before him. Can I tell you something? About when Claire was born? I was fifteen years old and I loved French cinema. I saw that movie, The 400 Blows and I don’t know what happened. I just loved that movie,"
"Fifteen? That young? Who's the father, were is he? Sorry it’s not really my,"
"Yes, I don’t know, it was as if he was there with me,"
"Your boyfriend?”
"No the boy in the film, the schoolboy. He was very delicate."
I sat there wishing time would freeze again, wishing I could get out. I didn't know what to say, I wasn't even sure what Marie was saying. So I pretended I knew exactly what she meant and changed the subject;
"Oh, the tea! I’m sorry; I just panicked when you didn’t move!"
"Its fine, I'll get a rag."
I grabbed the faded red towel and kneeled down to sop up the embarrassing puddle. But I couldn't ignore what Marie had said;
"What happened to you? Well, Claire’s father where’s he?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never known. I didn’t know him. I wasn’t supposed to go to the cinema; but I didn’t care. I really loved Antoine, the boy in the film and I'll probably never know what happened. The line of imagination and reality was broke somehow; like film melting and being rethread. Part of the scene is gone but somehow you feel relived when it starts rolling again, because you become part of the movie, just by being there. Things were so real to me at fifteen, the cinema, my life; everything felt different. I can’t explain it now; I simply loved the boy and somehow it happened; like the film resumed with a part of me in it, or I guess I resumed with a part of the film in me. I decided I would have the child and that I would name her Claire, after an actress in the film."
I couldn't take this. I had to do something. Marie was still on the floor, lying in a puddle of tea, telling me a lie. I wasn't stupid. I didn't want to believe her. It was impossible. But for some reason, it was ok to believe it. That fiery October day, I realized that sometimes it's better to have faith in someone, even if it is a lie. Sometimes what you believe can be pure. It can be the truth.
I bent over Marie; she was still gleaming in tea, looking for acceptance in my face. I took her shoulders in my hands and brought her towards me. I gently daubed her paled cheeks with the towel. She just stared at me. I looked right back into her eyes without fear or hesitation. She raised her right hand and touched the back of my neck.
"I think we should go look for Leonard and Claire, they've been gone a long time." She smiled and began to stand up.
"Claire is darling. I mean it. You too. She is a beautiful girl, really I think her and Leonard's game is; I really liked your shaving kit, I mean Truffaut’s and Brando’s, wallet. Everything, really."
"When Claire and Julien are playing in her room, I'll listen through the door; Leonard is so nice to her. I really like him staying here."
"I’m glad he has Claire. He really likes her. And I'm glad I met you." I looked at her and I couldn't see my wife. I saw only Marie's gleaming face.
"She really likes him too. I wish I was young still. I think our children have the greatest love there is. "
"Leonard and Claire?”
"Yeah, it’s not so simple. It’s pure; it’s like their game. Like that."
"Like that? Maybe,"
Just then we both turned and the moment was lost. We heard Leonard and Claire running up the hall. But now, we both knew that the moment could start again. Like a light flickering off or a melted movie being rethread. Like that. I took Marie's hand and we stood waiting for our children. Leonard was the first through the front door, chained palm to palm, with Claire.
"Hi dad! Look, a feather! I found it on the street!"
"Mom, look at it! It’s from a bird! "
Leonard held up a cream white feather in front of his face, shifting the light from the window, through the individual slits.
"Its dead, the bird is dead. Its outside. It’s wiggling around on the ground! "
"Yeah! All the feathers are floating around the door!
"Come on! Look!"
Leonard spun and giggling in tow by his hand, Claire whipped behind him through the door again. I followed suit. I strengthened my grip on Marie's palm and twirled toward the door. We laughed out of breath past the doorman who called out, Bye.
"Mom! What do we do? Is it dead? "
"I don’t know what to do.”
Out on the stoop, a dove was writhing on the ground. Hundreds of feathers where whirling around the door. I looked to Marie; she was watching a single feather fall and swoop upward again, Leonard and Claire were laughing and trying to catch a few.
"Can I touch it? Dad, is it dead? "
"No it’s playing, it’s pretending; it’s just pretending. Come on inside."
I put my free hand on Leonard's head. I looked at Claire and she smiled at me; an honest smile. I turned to Marie and we stepped through the door. I loved my wife but I’m not sorry either now. One event creates another, it’s just the game. I heard Leonard and Claire as we walked down the hall to the elevator;
"The bird is playing the game? It’s your turn Leonard, I just went, its you. "
"Birds can play?"
"Yeah, everything can play this game. This bird is playing and it’s your turn."
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