Dear Friend,
Enclosed is the rose.
My, how many hands it has passed. How many roads it has been on. I like to imagine its journey.
Perhaps it graced an evening side table, next to an old book and a glass of wine. Perhaps it lost a single petal while bouncing on the dashboard of some car driving over the mountains. Maybe it was the last whole rose left after its bouquet became floating petals in a bath meant for two. What if its thorn pricked a delivery woman, rebuking her for being needlessly jealous. It might have even been the inspiration for a cartoon movie, catching the sight of some important producer. Imagine if it was discarded onto the street, by the contempt of failed reconciliation, only to be picked up by a little boy with a big crush.
I am certain it will travel well. But the truth is, I have no idea how it will be received. Windows are such unreliable truth givers, and mirrors only tell what we already know.
God I’m terrible at this. Forgive me.
There is snow on the ground, finally. It took long enough. And yet, you know, it seems like only yesterday that it was the summer. But I certainly can’t remember the heat – the evenings here are frigid, and they unexpectedly creep into my apartment whenever I’m not cooking. My place is small, but the baseboard heaters are pretty lacklustre. I guess that everything always seems pretty close, even when it feels far away. I like my little apartment though. It houses my thoughts well enough.
I barely remember my life anymore: The life that I had while in high school or in college. The life that I had while going to lectures and going to the campus bar. The life that I had in elementary school, giving girls I liked gold painted rocks. The life I had playing the trombone or walking the streets of a foreign country. The life I had being a boyfriend, or of the oldest brother of a family that hadn’t grown up yet. It all feels so far away, but it only seems like yesterday.
I wonder if this makes sense. Some people never have a break from the life they lead. They are just one beautiful, linear progression. Mine, however, feels like it’s filled with starts and stops.
But I’m still writing to you. There was a time when we hadn’t started, but there has not been a time when we stopped. And I’ll tell you a secret – I’m not writing because of the season. The season is an excuse, but not the reason.
I had a thought, the other day. A daydream. It was my funeral. (I know that’s a taboo subject to bring up in a holiday letter, but what the hell. I’m pretty taboo myself.) People from my life, people important to me, took the podium one at a time and talked about me. I didn’t hear what any of them said, except the first line. Each person started by calling me a different thing. “He was a student.” “He was an artist.” “He was a businessman.” “He was a satire.” “He was an idealist.” “He was a brother.” “He was a friend.” “He was a lover.”
In my daydream, the list went on. As many people as there were willing to talk about me, there were labels. I then went back in time a week or so, and watched as one of those very important people came up with the idea to talk about different facets of my life, and to discover the people relevant to my life that could speak to them. They called my siblings, and they called my parents. They looked through my cell phone and my emails – they knew I wouldn’t mind. It was important to find the right people who could speak from experience and knowledge of me.
I suppose it’s pure vanity to believe that I could be so multi-faceted and distinct from everyone else. But I’ve met enough people of distinction to believe that I could be one of them. Maybe “he was an egotistical maniac” can be added to the list. Heh.
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that you’re one of those people. You could stand up there and talk about me, because you know me. You’re important, in the only way that importance really matters. And I know that, with all my usual communications, it might not sound like it. I’m awful with gifts, and I seem to remember random and terribly useless things. And the only time I can’t seem to say the right thing is when I really, REALLY want to.
But it’s true. I really hope you know it.
Life’s a game. Actually, it’s a number of little games. And you pick the games you want to play, you learn their rules, and then you play to win. You and me, we haven’t always played the same games, and sometimes we’ve played some pretty silly, strange looking games. But they’re fun. We haven’t always bet big, and we haven’t always played risky. But we’ve played with our hearts. And we’re winners. By gods, we’re winners.
I love playing with you. I love it when you get passionate, and when you get real. I love when we’re playing the same game, and get to combine our efforts. And I love playing my own game knowing that you’re off playing yours. And, you must know by now, I love playing those games when we’re pitted against each other. Because then, there’s no loser.
I wonder how you are, tonight. I could talk to you until the dawn breaks, but the truth is, I’d rather hear you speak. You don’t tell me enough, you know. I suppose that’s the joy of a letter, it gets all the talking out of the way and allows us to anticipate the reply. I hope you are happy, and enjoying daydreams of your own.
New games are underfoot, and it’s an exciting time for all of us. I hope you bet big this time, because I probably will. We’ve both got more to bet with, we know the rules a lot better, and there’s nothing more exciting than playing. If you ever need another player, let me know. I’m ready to kick ass.
Sincerely,
- Me
(The envelope contained nothing else)
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Elephant Nocturne
When he sleeps, he dreams.
He doesn’t sleep often, though it pains him to remain awake so many hours a day. It is hard and painful work, lowering himself into his bed, which is not a bed at all, but instead a chair with a high back, and a long seat that accommodates his legs. It is an ingenuous thing, one of the many conveniences the doctor and his patrons have provided for him. He is grateful for these gifts, and he treasures every last one of them, down to the smallest teaspoon.
His neck aches, but it is a familiar pain, and he accepts it as a burden he must carry until he closes his eyes for the last time. He has a hot water bottle that he heats on his little stove while he makes his evening tea. The kettle whistles; he lifts it, slowly, and pours water into his teapot. Already the rich redolent smell of tea fills his small sitting room – a smell he will always associate with – oddly, he knows – the London Hospital, now his home. The smell almost brings a tear to his eye, although he has shared a cup of tea with so many grand ladies, now, that he has learned to keep these emotions inside. He may not be a man – he may be a hideous creature indeed – but he would never allow a lady to see him cry.
His mind strays. He blinks back the hot tears that threaten to spill.
His first examination by Doctor Treves began with the slow, deliberate brewing of tea. He did not think that grand men like the doctor brewed their own tea – but Doctor Treves did, and still does, in his study.
The rest of the boiling water goes into his hot water bottle. He wraps the bottle in a muffler given to him by her Majesty, the Princess of Wales; she is rumored to have knit it herself. Although he refuses to catalog his pain (his nature is not to be ghoulish or give in to the weakness that is self-pity) the parts of him that hurt the most - his neck, his right hip, and his, admittedly, monstrous right foot, require nightly applications of warmth.
The tea is done. He pours it into his favorite cup – bone china decorated with an elegant design of violets and posies. Though his memories of the Continent are fraught with anxiety, shudders, and the awful threats of violent men, this tea-set – which he purchased with his own money, before it was stolen from him and his life changed forever – is a reminder that he survived indignities unheard of by the decent society in which he now resides. He adds several teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. The tea goes on a table next to his chair.
When he settles into his bed-chair, he pulls a blanket across his legs and closes his eyes. With some maneuvering and only a little pain in his malformed hand, he lays the water bottle - wrapped in a green knitted muffler - across his neck.
The tea smells like comfort. He does not drink it; this is his nighttime ritual, the making of tea, the laying down of his tired body (though not, of course, his head), the application of heat to his strained limbs.
His eyelids are getting heavy. Though his window is closed, and it’s late, he can hear, or imagines he can hear, the noises of busy London life up the stairs, beyond Bedstead Square, and into Whitechapel, his home these last few months. He imagines he can hear the slow rambling footsteps of the Daughters of Joy who haunt the streets above (now safe, he is told, from Saucy Jack, who of late seems to have curtailed his reign of terror upon those unfortunate women); he imagines he can hear the clatter of horse hooves, the great beasts ferrying a coach of elegant ladies to an evening at the theatre; perhaps Mr Collins himself is walking up there, above him, gathering images for his next novel. The large grey tomcat that roams the hospital grounds stops at his window, and peers inside, with a flash of its yellow eyes. The cat scratches a bit at the window, then spies a small saucer of milk left at the bottom of the stairs. He cannot see the cat, but he imagines the way it leaps, graceful and feral as a lion.
The tea smells like home. His neck is warm. He wishes, faintly and with only the barest hint of longing, that he could lay his head down, just once, on a pillow. His eyelids are heavy.
When he sleeps, he dreams of elephants.
He saw one, once, in Belgium. The man for whom he worked – a man whose face and name he has, mercifully, forgotten – had traveled to India in search of the turbaned fakir, rumored to float on air and sleep on a bed of nails. The man came back with a caravan of wonders, the most wondrous of all an elephant with long curving tusks and sad eyes. He only saw the creature from a distance (though he judged its eyes sad), and it did not live long – but it was, truly, a wonder to behold. He never touched its skin, but he knew how it would feel – rough, and dry as a potato.
The tea smells like home. His neck is warm. The cat is fed. He wishes, faintly and with only the barest hint of longing, that he could lay his head down, just once, on a pillow. His eyelids are heavy.
In his dream, now, a herd of the great grey beasts are thundering across the savannah towards him. He has never seen the savannah, though he has read about it, in the travel books he so loves. In his dream it is exactly as he imagined it; a vast plain of brown grass, swaying like so many women rocking their children to sleep; leafless trees in the distance; and the elephants, ten or twelve of them, all galloping towards him. The sky is orange, and as the herd rumbles towards him, the sun sinks closer to the horizon. He stretches his neck and looks directly at the sun, a red ball round as a saucer, and warm as tea. He stands next to a shallow pool, and he waits for them – his herd, his family.
Joseph is sleeping, now; Joseph is dreaming.
He doesn’t sleep often, though it pains him to remain awake so many hours a day. It is hard and painful work, lowering himself into his bed, which is not a bed at all, but instead a chair with a high back, and a long seat that accommodates his legs. It is an ingenuous thing, one of the many conveniences the doctor and his patrons have provided for him. He is grateful for these gifts, and he treasures every last one of them, down to the smallest teaspoon.
His neck aches, but it is a familiar pain, and he accepts it as a burden he must carry until he closes his eyes for the last time. He has a hot water bottle that he heats on his little stove while he makes his evening tea. The kettle whistles; he lifts it, slowly, and pours water into his teapot. Already the rich redolent smell of tea fills his small sitting room – a smell he will always associate with – oddly, he knows – the London Hospital, now his home. The smell almost brings a tear to his eye, although he has shared a cup of tea with so many grand ladies, now, that he has learned to keep these emotions inside. He may not be a man – he may be a hideous creature indeed – but he would never allow a lady to see him cry.
His mind strays. He blinks back the hot tears that threaten to spill.
His first examination by Doctor Treves began with the slow, deliberate brewing of tea. He did not think that grand men like the doctor brewed their own tea – but Doctor Treves did, and still does, in his study.
The rest of the boiling water goes into his hot water bottle. He wraps the bottle in a muffler given to him by her Majesty, the Princess of Wales; she is rumored to have knit it herself. Although he refuses to catalog his pain (his nature is not to be ghoulish or give in to the weakness that is self-pity) the parts of him that hurt the most - his neck, his right hip, and his, admittedly, monstrous right foot, require nightly applications of warmth.
The tea is done. He pours it into his favorite cup – bone china decorated with an elegant design of violets and posies. Though his memories of the Continent are fraught with anxiety, shudders, and the awful threats of violent men, this tea-set – which he purchased with his own money, before it was stolen from him and his life changed forever – is a reminder that he survived indignities unheard of by the decent society in which he now resides. He adds several teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. The tea goes on a table next to his chair.
When he settles into his bed-chair, he pulls a blanket across his legs and closes his eyes. With some maneuvering and only a little pain in his malformed hand, he lays the water bottle - wrapped in a green knitted muffler - across his neck.
The tea smells like comfort. He does not drink it; this is his nighttime ritual, the making of tea, the laying down of his tired body (though not, of course, his head), the application of heat to his strained limbs.
His eyelids are getting heavy. Though his window is closed, and it’s late, he can hear, or imagines he can hear, the noises of busy London life up the stairs, beyond Bedstead Square, and into Whitechapel, his home these last few months. He imagines he can hear the slow rambling footsteps of the Daughters of Joy who haunt the streets above (now safe, he is told, from Saucy Jack, who of late seems to have curtailed his reign of terror upon those unfortunate women); he imagines he can hear the clatter of horse hooves, the great beasts ferrying a coach of elegant ladies to an evening at the theatre; perhaps Mr Collins himself is walking up there, above him, gathering images for his next novel. The large grey tomcat that roams the hospital grounds stops at his window, and peers inside, with a flash of its yellow eyes. The cat scratches a bit at the window, then spies a small saucer of milk left at the bottom of the stairs. He cannot see the cat, but he imagines the way it leaps, graceful and feral as a lion.
The tea smells like home. His neck is warm. He wishes, faintly and with only the barest hint of longing, that he could lay his head down, just once, on a pillow. His eyelids are heavy.
When he sleeps, he dreams of elephants.
He saw one, once, in Belgium. The man for whom he worked – a man whose face and name he has, mercifully, forgotten – had traveled to India in search of the turbaned fakir, rumored to float on air and sleep on a bed of nails. The man came back with a caravan of wonders, the most wondrous of all an elephant with long curving tusks and sad eyes. He only saw the creature from a distance (though he judged its eyes sad), and it did not live long – but it was, truly, a wonder to behold. He never touched its skin, but he knew how it would feel – rough, and dry as a potato.
The tea smells like home. His neck is warm. The cat is fed. He wishes, faintly and with only the barest hint of longing, that he could lay his head down, just once, on a pillow. His eyelids are heavy.
In his dream, now, a herd of the great grey beasts are thundering across the savannah towards him. He has never seen the savannah, though he has read about it, in the travel books he so loves. In his dream it is exactly as he imagined it; a vast plain of brown grass, swaying like so many women rocking their children to sleep; leafless trees in the distance; and the elephants, ten or twelve of them, all galloping towards him. The sky is orange, and as the herd rumbles towards him, the sun sinks closer to the horizon. He stretches his neck and looks directly at the sun, a red ball round as a saucer, and warm as tea. He stands next to a shallow pool, and he waits for them – his herd, his family.
Joseph is sleeping, now; Joseph is dreaming.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Unwritten Hours
It’s 2:36am. The night is deep. The kind of depth that is defined by absence. With a careful lift of the proper switch, an incandescent bulb buzzes quietly to life, outlining the silence of the hour. But the light is too soft to awaken any of the shadows below. It hangs lazily from the roof; an oasis, fading into the unending darkness that surrounds it.
Somewhere, a cat crunches loudly; single bites of manufactured food from its dish. The sound echoes.
The haven is a kitchen table and three chairs. They are wooden: hard and cold. Harbouring no malcontent, their disposition is merely the victim of their midnight fate. Abandoned.
There is a window of double paned glass above the second chair. The air beside it is especially chill. In the distance, street lights diligently pretend for purpose. Red. Green. Red. Green. There are no cars. The road disappears behind another building, untraveled. In hours forward or back, there would be traffic lined obediently to their mechanical authority. It was a particularly busy street, in hours that were not this one. Red. Green.
The sound stops. The cat is fed, or bored with eating, and is gone again.
Silence. A corporeal sanctity. The fridge does not hum. The furnace does not turn on. Even the pipes are hesitant to ferry water to its rightful place.
Tired, a cup of tea is contemplated. Then decided on. The tap fills the kettle with the familiar hollow sound. It reminds of home. Placed on the burner, it makes a garish noise. That too, is comforting. Something in the design of heat, that makes things come alive so. The waiting is a pleasant ritual.
It is lifted a moment after it boils, and a moment before it whistles. The familiar hum of ready water is replaced by a filling teapot. A filled teapot. A nondescript sigh. The neon time on the microwave is noted. It will take eleven minutes to brew, but only five to drink.
The cup is selected carefully. The cupboard opens with a slight click as it detaches from the magnet designed to keep it in its place. Inside, on the floor below, each glass had its place. Transparent to the end, the short had all been lined with the short and the tall with the tall. The mugs instead clamoured for distinction. The ones picked last had been shunned to the back, their strange size or shape making them denizens with the dust. The most popular bore their labels proudly in the front: first to be dirtied, last to be put away. Hidden in modesty was the right one. Lifted with care, it receives only a handle bump from a jealous label on its way out.
The fridge is pretending again. The light is on when opened, brave and bold. But it does not dare to enter the room. The milk is removed without a fight. It never resists being emptied. It never thinks to lament being full.
A spoon stirs certainly. Its edges never leave the sides of the cup, scraping a slow chant as fluids mix. With a single tap on the edge, the project is politely proclaimed.
An absent stare accompanies the full cup at the table. Quiet thoughts are absorbed and the tea gently warms fingertips. The cat is presumed asleep.
Somewhere, a cat crunches loudly; single bites of manufactured food from its dish. The sound echoes.
The haven is a kitchen table and three chairs. They are wooden: hard and cold. Harbouring no malcontent, their disposition is merely the victim of their midnight fate. Abandoned.
There is a window of double paned glass above the second chair. The air beside it is especially chill. In the distance, street lights diligently pretend for purpose. Red. Green. Red. Green. There are no cars. The road disappears behind another building, untraveled. In hours forward or back, there would be traffic lined obediently to their mechanical authority. It was a particularly busy street, in hours that were not this one. Red. Green.
The sound stops. The cat is fed, or bored with eating, and is gone again.
Silence. A corporeal sanctity. The fridge does not hum. The furnace does not turn on. Even the pipes are hesitant to ferry water to its rightful place.
Tired, a cup of tea is contemplated. Then decided on. The tap fills the kettle with the familiar hollow sound. It reminds of home. Placed on the burner, it makes a garish noise. That too, is comforting. Something in the design of heat, that makes things come alive so. The waiting is a pleasant ritual.
It is lifted a moment after it boils, and a moment before it whistles. The familiar hum of ready water is replaced by a filling teapot. A filled teapot. A nondescript sigh. The neon time on the microwave is noted. It will take eleven minutes to brew, but only five to drink.
The cup is selected carefully. The cupboard opens with a slight click as it detaches from the magnet designed to keep it in its place. Inside, on the floor below, each glass had its place. Transparent to the end, the short had all been lined with the short and the tall with the tall. The mugs instead clamoured for distinction. The ones picked last had been shunned to the back, their strange size or shape making them denizens with the dust. The most popular bore their labels proudly in the front: first to be dirtied, last to be put away. Hidden in modesty was the right one. Lifted with care, it receives only a handle bump from a jealous label on its way out.
The fridge is pretending again. The light is on when opened, brave and bold. But it does not dare to enter the room. The milk is removed without a fight. It never resists being emptied. It never thinks to lament being full.
A spoon stirs certainly. Its edges never leave the sides of the cup, scraping a slow chant as fluids mix. With a single tap on the edge, the project is politely proclaimed.
An absent stare accompanies the full cup at the table. Quiet thoughts are absorbed and the tea gently warms fingertips. The cat is presumed asleep.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Control
I can do anything I want to you.
Listen.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a girl. Her parents weren’t the King and Queen; she wasn’t royalty, not even distantly; she wasn’t a princess. She slept on lumpy mattresses, but they weren’t lumpy from magic vegetables, peas and beans and such, as was the tendency of the day; these mattresses were simply old and well-used. So, the girl slept on straw mattresses, and wore hand-sewn clothes, and played with the dolls her mother made when she wasn’t tending to the livestock, all those dirty cows and sheep and pigs. Most fairy tales tellers leave this part out, but I’m not scared to tell you: there was a lot of shit that needed cleaning up back then. ‘Once upon a time’ was neither a pretty nor a clean time.
You wouldn’t believe the mess ogres leave behind.
The girl had big green eyes and long brown hair, and she wore a blue ribbon in her hair, and dresses her mother made for her when she wasn’t shoveling shit or picking carcasses clean. The girl lived in a one-room cottage with her parents; she swept clean the dirt-packed floor daily. She was loved very much, in their coarse way, by her parents, and she looked forward to a life of cooking and cleaning and animal husbandry. From time to time she picked the pretty blue flowers that grew in the fields, and sold them at a crossroads a stone’s throw from the cottage.
This is the way of fairy tales; things change, and little girls must suffer before their happily ever after. Little girls must suffer a holocaust of burns and a riot of scars before The End. It can’t be helped; it’s the way of the story.
So, the girl was happy, in her way, selling her flowers and cleaning her floor; watching her parents toil, shoveling shit, and repelling the occasional ogre.
Until the arrival of a man. You wouldn’t believe the messes men leave behind.
I hold you in the palm of my hand. My tongue finds all the secret parts of you. I can do anything I want to you. I can change the story whenever I want.
It’s a dream now.
Listen.
In the dream I am walking through the house. It’s my house, and it’s also not my house. It’s a collection of rooms from many different houses; the narrow hallway of a trailer, prefab walls and linoleum floors; a vast dining room, ten feet ceiling and a shiny oak table; rooms that remind me of my grandparent’s house, rooms that soundlessly and without warning stretch and morph to become other rooms, rooms and walls I’ve never seen before. There are hiding places and nooks, secret stairways and dark hidden hallways, and I am walking the length of the house, moving from room to room, going up stairs and back down sloping hallways.
This is my house. This is my dream, and I am walking through all the rooms and wings and floors of my house, down down down into the basement where the monster is. The monster is one of these things (though he’s probably all of them): a ghost, a murderer, a man who was murdered, a man who killed himself, a man I killed, the Minotaur, a harpie with a broken wing, Orpheus, and a small girl holding a blue flower. The monster paces paces paces as I climb down down down, to the basement under the ground ground ground.
The basement is cold and the air is copper; a fine mist of blood hangs in the air, turns the dust motes red where the light shines down. The monster paces; the monster is a little girl and her eyes are a green flash in the dark. The monster breathes next to me; the monster is the man I killed, in a different dream, a triumphant dream. The monster licks me roughly, horribly; the monster is the man who killed me.
I don’t have to tell you the whole story, or even the true story. When it’s my words the story is mine, and the story ends however and whenever I choose it.
I can do whatever I want to you. In my story I can destroy you, but only if I want to.
My story is imagery.
Listen.
A little girl stands in a doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. Protection. She is wearing her favorite green dress, her Only For Very Special-Days dress; light green and lacy, tiny flowers worked into the fabric, delicately. It is her best dress. When she wears it, she is a princess. Today, she is told, is Extra-Special. Today she has been given a Very Special Task, a task only a princess can perform.
A man sits on the edge of an unmade bed, his head in his hands.
A little girl sits at the end of a driveway. She has her head in her hands; her palms are bloody and gravel-raw, her corduroy pants are ripped at the knees. Her bike is sprawled in the grass, wheels all akimbo. A German Shepherd is padding down the driveways towards her. Cars pass by, slowly.
A man sits on the edge of a messy bed. His hand moves, only slightly. There is a heaviness to it. Click.
A little girl leaves her bedroom, a thoughtful look on her face. Last night she lay in bed, clutching Pumpkinhead, a bizarre knitted doll that she loves fiercely. She loves the scratchy orange doll even more than she loves her dog Lady. Last night she lay in bed with Pumpkinhead tucked neatly beside her, and dreamed she saw teenage girl sitting on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. Something about the girl was haunting and familiar. The teenage girl shifted, and one of her arms dropped; it fell to rest awkwardly on her lap. The smell of blood, the smell of scraped palms, the smell of knees meeting concrete, an entire arm gone raw; something thin, shiny, delicate fell from the dream-girl’s other hand. The dream wasn’t a nightmare, not exactly. The girl wakes up clutching Pumpkinhead, and she carries him around all day, from room to room.
We end the way the fairy tale begins; once upon a time. After that the story is all mine. I’m not telling. This is me in control.
Listen.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a girl. Her parents weren’t the King and Queen; she wasn’t royalty, not even distantly; she wasn’t a princess. She slept on lumpy mattresses, but they weren’t lumpy from magic vegetables, peas and beans and such, as was the tendency of the day; these mattresses were simply old and well-used. So, the girl slept on straw mattresses, and wore hand-sewn clothes, and played with the dolls her mother made when she wasn’t tending to the livestock, all those dirty cows and sheep and pigs. Most fairy tales tellers leave this part out, but I’m not scared to tell you: there was a lot of shit that needed cleaning up back then. ‘Once upon a time’ was neither a pretty nor a clean time.
You wouldn’t believe the mess ogres leave behind.
The girl had big green eyes and long brown hair, and she wore a blue ribbon in her hair, and dresses her mother made for her when she wasn’t shoveling shit or picking carcasses clean. The girl lived in a one-room cottage with her parents; she swept clean the dirt-packed floor daily. She was loved very much, in their coarse way, by her parents, and she looked forward to a life of cooking and cleaning and animal husbandry. From time to time she picked the pretty blue flowers that grew in the fields, and sold them at a crossroads a stone’s throw from the cottage.
This is the way of fairy tales; things change, and little girls must suffer before their happily ever after. Little girls must suffer a holocaust of burns and a riot of scars before The End. It can’t be helped; it’s the way of the story.
So, the girl was happy, in her way, selling her flowers and cleaning her floor; watching her parents toil, shoveling shit, and repelling the occasional ogre.
Until the arrival of a man. You wouldn’t believe the messes men leave behind.
I hold you in the palm of my hand. My tongue finds all the secret parts of you. I can do anything I want to you. I can change the story whenever I want.
It’s a dream now.
Listen.
In the dream I am walking through the house. It’s my house, and it’s also not my house. It’s a collection of rooms from many different houses; the narrow hallway of a trailer, prefab walls and linoleum floors; a vast dining room, ten feet ceiling and a shiny oak table; rooms that remind me of my grandparent’s house, rooms that soundlessly and without warning stretch and morph to become other rooms, rooms and walls I’ve never seen before. There are hiding places and nooks, secret stairways and dark hidden hallways, and I am walking the length of the house, moving from room to room, going up stairs and back down sloping hallways.
This is my house. This is my dream, and I am walking through all the rooms and wings and floors of my house, down down down into the basement where the monster is. The monster is one of these things (though he’s probably all of them): a ghost, a murderer, a man who was murdered, a man who killed himself, a man I killed, the Minotaur, a harpie with a broken wing, Orpheus, and a small girl holding a blue flower. The monster paces paces paces as I climb down down down, to the basement under the ground ground ground.
The basement is cold and the air is copper; a fine mist of blood hangs in the air, turns the dust motes red where the light shines down. The monster paces; the monster is a little girl and her eyes are a green flash in the dark. The monster breathes next to me; the monster is the man I killed, in a different dream, a triumphant dream. The monster licks me roughly, horribly; the monster is the man who killed me.
I don’t have to tell you the whole story, or even the true story. When it’s my words the story is mine, and the story ends however and whenever I choose it.
I can do whatever I want to you. In my story I can destroy you, but only if I want to.
My story is imagery.
Listen.
A little girl stands in a doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. Protection. She is wearing her favorite green dress, her Only For Very Special-Days dress; light green and lacy, tiny flowers worked into the fabric, delicately. It is her best dress. When she wears it, she is a princess. Today, she is told, is Extra-Special. Today she has been given a Very Special Task, a task only a princess can perform.
A man sits on the edge of an unmade bed, his head in his hands.
A little girl sits at the end of a driveway. She has her head in her hands; her palms are bloody and gravel-raw, her corduroy pants are ripped at the knees. Her bike is sprawled in the grass, wheels all akimbo. A German Shepherd is padding down the driveways towards her. Cars pass by, slowly.
A man sits on the edge of a messy bed. His hand moves, only slightly. There is a heaviness to it. Click.
A little girl leaves her bedroom, a thoughtful look on her face. Last night she lay in bed, clutching Pumpkinhead, a bizarre knitted doll that she loves fiercely. She loves the scratchy orange doll even more than she loves her dog Lady. Last night she lay in bed with Pumpkinhead tucked neatly beside her, and dreamed she saw teenage girl sitting on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands. Something about the girl was haunting and familiar. The teenage girl shifted, and one of her arms dropped; it fell to rest awkwardly on her lap. The smell of blood, the smell of scraped palms, the smell of knees meeting concrete, an entire arm gone raw; something thin, shiny, delicate fell from the dream-girl’s other hand. The dream wasn’t a nightmare, not exactly. The girl wakes up clutching Pumpkinhead, and she carries him around all day, from room to room.
We end the way the fairy tale begins; once upon a time. After that the story is all mine. I’m not telling. This is me in control.
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