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 I like to spend my holidays alone, lost in peaceful thought of present moments, and so I take long walks, away from all the crowds and their unreasonable expectations. Today was good for that. I wore a light sweatshirt and a heavy vest, and the sunlight did the rest to keep me warm.For many years I've owned a distant vision of comfort, perhaps related to my desire to escape from the turmoil of thinking too much and discovering too little. I close my eyes and find a shadowed alleyway. My destination remains unknown to me, and yet I feel safe enough to follow the curve and sway of a narrow path, deeper into the fairytale I'd like to write if ever I grow innocent. Green shrubbery gone toward blue hangs overhead; the crunch of gravel beneath my feet reminds me that I am an animal; a wooden gate at tunnel's end promises the peace of mind I crave. *** On the other side I stopped at the one coffee shop that was open. The man behind the counter smiled at me and asked me how I'd been. His question shook me from my reverie. I must have stared at him in a strange way, because he recoiled and then reminded me, "It's been a while since I've seen you." Till then I hadn't realized that my face was familiar to this man; I suppose I've talked with him before today, although I can't recall our conversation. Most days I like to feel anonymous. I say only the words that feel necessary. One cup of dark roast, please, for here, yes thanks; and then I sit and I open my book. Gide speaks to me from the year 1905: What good is this journal? I cling to these pages as to something fixed among so many fugitive things. I oblige myself to write anything whatever in them just so I do it regularly every day…even here I seek my words, I grope, and I set down your name. His words reassure me, remind me to convince myself that it is all right to use any word, even such a word as thing, when I write here inside my own journal. Any word at all, just as long as I write one word every day. I'd like some day before I die to feel as smart and beautiful as Andre Gide. Is this too arrogant a wish, yet another reflection of my need to separate myself from all the noise, the tense obligations held within the handshakes, hugs and how-are-you's so many others suffer during holiday seasons? If so, well, I don't care that much, not enough to warrant more than a moment's duel with guilt. *** Too much of Gide, and the temptation of a backyard garden, lead me out to meet two perfect little dogs, one the mother, one the son, two years apart in age, the son who tries to lay his mother wide and down when he smells that she's in heat. This the owner told me, and I wondered once again about sex and human beings, about how we try so hard to make it into mystery, when all of it comes down to pain and pleasure. The two perfect dogs took turns climbing up onto my lap. "Big Boy, get down!" the owner snapped. "That's all right," I said. And then I touched the two of them. Their bodies felt warm and young and smooth. Big Boy's penis seemed permanently stiff and set for business; his eyes looked like those of an innocent doe. I imagined that he understood my affection for him. *** I left the coffee shop when no one seemed to be looking my way. I didn't want to have to say goodbye and happy holiday; too much like what everyone else repeats on days such as this one, even though no one quite remembers what the words mean. The sun was down toward four in the sky as I readjusted my vest and walked out the front door. Three days ago I told a young child that the sun does not move in the sky as it seems to move. What really happens, I told her, is that our heads and necks become tired and lazy as the day grows old, and so we lean them sideways toward the ground, down farther and farther toward the earth, until our cheeks reach our pillows and we fall asleep. None of us notices the other's crookedness, of course, because we lean horizontal and all together like a chorus. The child smiled, and then she tried to laugh, but she seemed unsure as to whether or not what I told her was the truth. The answer doesn't matter, not really, because there is truth inside my story, and maybe this child will remember me when I am dead, and maybe not. It doesn't really matter. *** The grotesque face of a doll caught my eye as I passed a toy shop. I imagined that the half-moon curve of her nose twitched as I stared at her, although my serious side told me that her life was no more than a trick of sunlight and the weight of my head pulling me toward the end of a tired afternoon. Too much strong, dark coffee. Too much Andre Gide. Too much thought that leads me nowhere, nowhere but back to the wooden gate, the blue-green shrubbery hanging overhead. You are still safe, she tells me through the glass. You are much the same as the child who wants to believe your fairytales of gravel paths and crooked necks. And why is your penis stiff and ever-ready for business, Andre Gide? *** No mail today. The empty trucks line up like stupid soldiers along the side of a dirt road. Tomorrow will be soon enough for battle. The flurry of cards and coupons will begin. People will run along the same sidewalks where this afternoon I strolled, and I will remain as quiet and anonymous as the crowd allows, my penis stiff and ready, my skin no longer smooth and young, my body hard and warm for a little while longer. *** I like to wander the aisles of grocery stores at end of day, a spectator, not at all a participant in the game. There inside the air is cool and fresh in an artificial way that indicates a certain inventiveness on the part of human beings. We line up our necessities and then we grab them, pretend politeness as we wait in line to lose the money we created as a goal that needs no vision, only labor and devotion to continual movement. I stop before a freezer, open the glass door, snap a frozen shot of a dead bird. I feel the woman's breath on the left side of my neck before I hear her voice. "Do you have permission?" she asks me. "I never do," I answer. She tries to smile, and yet she hesitates. Her body seems to recoil; she seems unsure as to whether or not what I just told her is the truth. It doesn't really matter. I won't remember this woman the next time I see her, although my penis will be stiff and ever-ready for business. It's only sex, only pain and pleasure, not a mystery at all, just another part of another fairytale, one meant to match the holiday. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com  |
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