Two

The town is small, only a few thousand people.

I’m not from here. My parents came in their twenties, had me, worked for years, saved, and returned home to Portugal. I was a U.S. citizen, but they expected me to leave with them. When I chose to stay it was no tragedy. We were strangers really. We had affection for each other, but I didn’t know what I was missing in Portugal. I had a good job here. I lost track of them. They may still be somewhere in Lisbon.

Maybe Braga.

I don’t remember much about them now. My father had a hard face, weather beaten, but he was a kind man. My mother used to cook salted cod, dozens of ways.

“There are as many ways to prepare Bacalhau as you can imagine.”

She put it in anything. eggs, bread, stews, salads. To her it was an essential ingredient, like butter or eggs.

“It’s too salty.”

Emery is not a fan. She doesn’t like salt, not even on popcorn, and Bacalhau is a fish stuck in a time before refrigeration. I wouldn’t cook it at all, but I like to keep this little ember glowing.

And I love salt.

“I’ll make you something without fish Emery.”

“I’m not very hungry. The soup will do.”

The Gist

Emery is a novel I started during National Novel Writing Month that I haven’t finished. I think I started it in 2006, before outlining my stories was a regular practice. I managed to finish long works before outlining, but I have no idea how. It’s too much to keep track of without a blueprint to refer to.

Anyway, I got the idea for Emery from the Winchester Mystery House in California. The Wikipedia entry on the place is a fun read, but the short version is that the widow of the guy behind Winchester firearms left his wife with an absurd amount of wealth, and she used that immense wealth to constantly expand and improve her mansion. It’s a tourist attraction today because it’s just that screwy.

The main character of Emery is not its namesake. The main character and narrator doesn’t even have a name. She’s referred to as mother. Mother is the housekeeper for a large house that was left to Emery by its original owner, Gladys, mother’s employer and Emery’s aunt. Emery first came to the house when she was five, to meet Gladys and stay with her, so that Emery’s parents could go on their first vacation together without Emery in tow.

Emery’s parents are killed on that trip, and Emery is so traumatized that she never leaves the house again. She grows up there, inherits it at a young age, and builds her own little eccentric world inside.

Today is February 10, 2018. I’m working on another project most mornings, but Emery is a nice break from that, so it should continue to develop over the course of the year (if for some reason you are one of the five people Google Analytics tells me visits this site regularly).

One

It’s always dusty here.

I used to keep the house spotless. Things were different then. The house was smaller, and I had a full staff. People visited regularly. Most everyone in town knew the acoustics of the large front sitting room, knew what it sounded like during a recital, how well it carried to the back. That was a long time ago. Now it’s only Emery and the only visitors are contractors, electricians, plumbers. The sounds they make carry well too, but I shouldn’t complain.

I keep things tidy, but the dust settles.

“Have you seen my hairbrush, mother?”
“Which hairbrush Emery?”
“The boar’s hair.”
“It’s in the kitchen.”
“Where?”
“Next to the brick oven.”

The house gets bigger every year. The walls move outward like a colony of mushrooms.

“I love that oven. We never have fresh bread anymore.”
“Do you want fresh bread?”
“You don’t have to make bread, mother.”

I’m not Emery’s mother. She calls me that because everyone calls me that. It started when I was a teenager. I can’t remember how.

“I don’t mind making bread. If you’ll eat it.”
“I would eat bread. With soup.”

I was the head housekeeper for Emery’s Aunt Gladys. After she died, the rest of the staff left. Emery’s Inheritance will keep her from having to work, and there’s plenty to do here, but most of the others found her to be too strange of a girl. Without Gladys around to keep Emery in check most assumed her eccentricities would become unbearable. They have run wild, but I’ve stayed.

Emery is and has always been in her own world. She no more notices a butler or driver than a knife or fork. I’ve never taken it personally and over time I think I’ve become important to her.

I don’t know if that’s meaningful, but I stay because I promised Gladys.

“Mother?”
“Yes Gladys?”
“Will you stay with us after I’m gone?”
“Stay?”
“She’ll never leave. You know she’ll never leave.”
“She’ll leave Gladys.”
“She won’t. Will you stay? I can’t stay.”
“In another few years she’ll be a grown woman.”
“Stay that long then.”
“How long?”
“Stay until she’s a woman.”

Emery came here when she was four. I was thirty. Still young. It still seemed possible to me that I’d grow old somewhere else and have a family of my own, but I’m fifty now. Emery is a woman and I’m still here.

“What kind of soup?”

21 December 2002 (6:30 am)

the smell coffee is strong.  it has been raining all morning.  i am scratching at the locks with my fingernails.  i would sacrifice my teeth to be free.  not but from my Newfound cheeks, gravity’s answer to skip yesterdays.  not a cure or a different strain; the kitchen.

yes.  there she is.  Professor Cheekbones, even one night after, la profesora.  bottle an open chiseled chin, beautiful ferocious.  Rodin features.  the Hand Of God pale cried marble; found art in human form.  and i besides can see the ribbons in my own arms and white naked torso, bedpropped.  things which all surround art become beautiful periphery.  i no different.  nice.

“How do you take it?”

“Just milk.”

“You look worried.”

“Just surprised to be here.”

“I thought you might be.  What were you waiting for?”

“The semester to end.”

“Were you going to show up in my office on one knee or with flowers?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.  I was waiting to see if the figure of authority was what was doing it for me.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, a little.  You’re-  Still, the mentor to me.”

“That’s less about me than you.”

“I need you to be the mentor for now.”

“That I am, for now.”

>>perhaps<<  when you are at one with the world there is no such thing as unrequited love.   recognition is superfluous.  Moresmile is longgone, Professor Cheekbones coffee cradles and rubs feet together at bed bottom.  i could tell her everything.  my Morning somewhere laughs what a silly feeling and says,

there is no longgone Sam anymore than Cheekbones are forever or present feet will but not roll under fallen house shoestolen.  vain dreams are a laugh pat, Pet, and a pleasure to mirror.  little shoes to step around almost everything but Dorothy and the coming of light mine.

“You’ve got something in there.”  Cheekbones taps my temple and rests a hand on my chest.

“No.  Not today.”

“I won’t be a mentor forever Sam.”

ah, but the words are coming; a smiling typhoon.

“I’ll be a student forever though.”

“If you’re lucky.”

the smell coffee sips and Moresmile memories stand in unison, no turnaway, no selective focus or lazetopast.  sharp lines.  clear thoughts.

i am the present present.  Cheekbones finger tickles where the past knew but little chestnut dreams.  my friends the Flights stand the windowstill, Cheekbones smiles to the question churps.  they are used to my routine, kamble and kerp to expect me there.  why here?  i can hear them thinking.

because she wrote a little note.  i wrote back.  a little insignificant exchange took place.  i thought about being a kid again and passing notes, but only a second.  then it was a beaming face framed virtuous veil.  i looked and didn’t understand.  she was beautiful and caught i staring.

“Do you have plans today?”

“None worth keeping.”

living is ready made.  every thought a pirouette.

2 October 2002 (11:59 pm)

something happens for everything lost, dozens of potential lines, chapters even, sweep past as i saunter.  i was there when the waves were harder and more distinct.  things like that tickle and it’s automatic to look for Moresmile then.  she but is watching while i the exist out, the shake of the mind panning.  i can see her forever, hers, and no mystery to be.  my forever is more mystery, a cloud to her seashine.  deep as the ifeels these are only superficial elevations of the flesh, psychic the pimple’s goose, the laughter of gulls, ears ringing for a call to splash me out of the clinch.

some nights Moresmile comes to tell me of a life don’t i know.  always as if a return, though never material.  they are visits, stolen moments from her sleeping Newsmile.  she doesn’t know she’s never me allowed to sleep complete.  sometimes she fidgets and say i,

“You have to go back to him?”

“I am with him.  You have to go back.”

“No.  Should I go.”

“I’ll never ask.”

“You’ll never stop my indulge here.  and what am I left with but-”

“It’s not tragic Sam.  I come to no tragic.  to comfort, but we’re spilling over.”

“You come to talk about-”

“No.  the testimonies Sam.  look at them lyclose.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Of course you don’t.  I can keep coming here forever.  What’s the parade and plea for though Sam?  Morning is never where the poet’s skin winter cracks.  no blood or roses.  no nonsense.”

in my dream the waterfront steps back to King Street.  we’re all going back.  the harbor is behind us, behind the safe railings of waterfront walkways, the world-collecting feet moving out to sea and back to the edge of toes forth.  tense little piggies squaw to the ocean chill through spine.  you can hear wind and bay communion; a two focused but deeper and let go.  the horizon grows lips to disrupt the hypnosis, swallows the world by taking its light.

inside the godfish.  world mine no smaller for being a bellyful of dream.  the wind still.  i still.  passengers gather me by the armpits.  the fishgod grumbles as the sun inside sets me slumped against the waves.

come together, we are submerged on dry land.  dogs walk their owners.  palms point the way wind.  everyone smells the ocean tempt to paddle out.  but yes we’re back.  we are that sound, of somehow waves rustling in the bellyfish.  godfish wants the world to want.  we don’t want.  we have everything here and the safety of scales.  old streets grow deeper into the ground.  thought and memory dive through thick stone.

it is all a fish trek trick.  augurs clown and we laugh as the scales fall away, giving us back to our old familiar horizon, our setsun, our harborsound.  the godfish flickers out of sight, ploomps below again, leaves our vision slightly more clear and slightly less ours.  we fishbreathe and return to earth through sub conduits, echo into past and freeze for memoried connects to present present.

i am only a thread and drownsmiling.

5 August 1992 (10-day road trip)

Charleston, South Carolina

we the road on.  a rising ocean sense melts into each building, park, cobblestone.  wander we round White Point Gardens, west towards Murray Boulevard, past rainbows of eighteenth century homes, up Ashley onto the perimeter of Colonial Lake.  the air thick with smell harbor.  towards the shipyards; the sandier roads, stick to skin.   palms sigh, shake bowed heads side aside.  evening blows kisses at dusk, sighing, filling me with storm sense.  doesn’t come.  come swarms of locusts, palmetto bugs, just so long as the palms stop sighing and water from heavens returns sand to sea.

we make our way.  it’s hot less than noon.  the sun is only out to play for another hour.  perhaps a more bite, but ours, playmate for now.

running is a lonesmile that tilts corners, drink, and lights into our mouths.  running is a perfect, waiting for us.  the world comes in, one frame at a time; each passerby the history of movement, a point in ourandtheir time.  hisandher time.  a flash for the both of us, taking theys away and back to the self hope.  our plodding faith in steps unite us in motion.

i bend down and touch the ground with palms.  the asphalt breathes to my touch.  people on the sidewalk don’t seem as they tiptoe round moments here.  everything is orchestrated: the movement of people, the scent harbor, the shadowstretch from benches slim trees.  a few joggers more than Moresmile and i.  bicyclists moving along  circuit to meet market, cannon, and sea shudder down.  stare i on King and Queen corner, face down.  the sidewalk a featherbed.  the mosaic old moviehouse tile block to hum smellsounds.  kiss kiss Queen Street.  little golden nameplate tastes.  kiss kiss Atlantic Ocean.  palmetto pleasing.  kiss kiss Charleston.  sweat swimming light-headed euphoria.  kiss kiss.  even awkwardness is comfortable in my feet hesitant.

“You have a cramp or something Sam?”

yes.  the constant endearment terms.  my name made command; gistless.

“Sam?  Are you okay?”

jogs she in place, looks onandon, not here but ahead with moments to come.  the breeze follows her gaze, an eye-desire, the panic of happy a tenuous.

“I’m a little dehydrated I think.  You go on ahead.  I’ll make it back alright on my own.”

“To the hotel?  Sam, the point wasn’t the run, but to spend time together.”

it’s a frail on her part.  look i down to her padding feet, up and down, up and down, soles tack taken, volley themselves and the whining eye.  they and she want the harbor now, the cannons near, the splash power of an ocean at her feet.  her point was the run.

“I’ll see you in an hour or two.  No use pitching your run because I’m tired.  I’ll rest up and be better company tonight when you get back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah sure.  Run.”

the world is indeed period.

she running ignores fleeting moments melancholy.  Moresmile bears no grudge or resemblance to Lot’s wife.  think i to wait for her safely away, but only a headback.  no worries of concern.  look i to my own digits, embrace my slice of King.  in and ex hale.  mine not my own.

i break into my desire sprint, back hotel the way.  a three minute.  slumped body mine, the sweat, the stride accent conversion; day to night.  i am buried in the slow moment, gladly.  body speaks for the pester-wind, trudges give voice to the palms like hands coming together in imitation applause silent.  and smile.  in the side, all i can is curl to a bedded ball.  i and the mind drift where: she smiles.  she is happily run.  i resent her immunity to dusk.  she but is immune to most things that soul sneeze me.  her allergies are a mystery.  sometimes a breakdown to knee collapse, but leave i no better informed and wonder if she walks with much more.  things get to Moresmile.  not dusk, but other parts of the days between, other words that spill, other news, smells.

i don’t learn.  mine internal war; the battles contrived, unnecessary, lost.

shhhh.

when i am a very old man i will remember watching her brush her teeth.  it was a more specific frozen moment.  my frozen didn’t know why, but the bris-brush to attention mouth telling not so delicate hands to do a not so delicate thing.  bris-brush forth and back, bris-brish, brush-brush.  riveting.

there were two Moresmiles in my viewfinder, one directly in through the eye and one a reflection in the bris-bris mirror.  i didn’t know why.  i still don’t today.  it was notconscious, to step back and watch such a simple thing.  it thawed me, eyes warm coals seeking ground through scalded snow.  she, my Moresmile, was brushing and burning light.  i was aquatic crisp toasted time living in my Moresmile motion.  she let me stare never wavering, really enjoying the cool brush-bris, turning with lip smacks of fresh teeth to take a biting smile out of me.

never loved anyone more than that instant.  she was never more Moresmile to me than in that short sweet performance to a mirror and me, me still and loveanxious, waiting for her decorous jaws to spread wide and devour me.  start with the neck my dear and forage what blood you might have left there.  take every last drop.

dream turns a birthday party childhood six.  little first grade friends mine.  i feel and friends seem: strange.  what does it mean to be six?  what had it meant to be five?  i a kid still a kid.  am i looking forward to being six?  do i feel older?  my mother must be proud of me.  for turning six?  that’s crazy.  marshmallow icing.  pin the tail on the donkey.  someone spin me around.  give me a needle.  let me do some damage.  i’m seven.  i’m eight.   nine.  seventeen cake and candles.  twenty.  maybe two three.  no thirty.  let me try a hundred seventy.  just cake the bring in and bury my face to the earbacks.  let me eat cake for one more year.

hush little baby.  don’t say a word.  mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.    if that mockingbird don’t sing, think i of Salieri.  no there comfort.  Mozart is already dead with no hand i in it.  pale skin degenerates.  hair and nails push deeped into six feet soil.  no hand i to it.  just one raindrop deluge and lines dissolve, shake a little as body becomes compost, feed for growing children.  the child grows from my hands from days ago dig dirt palms.

baby present.  a cloud-staring day turnpike.  the swampy surroundings of New Jersey.  the glow of the perpetual dawn.  perception.  concrete forest.  deadening human silence amid horns buzzing streetlights.  rusted cars move in and out of themselves as we descend the tenday.  any ending but would be untrue.  memory locked in a perpetual youth, wrapped inside fantasies.

4 April 1992 (10:43 pm)

Manhattan, Saint Mark’s

The first we meet, Moresmile wears a thin silver bracelet, clinks to the wooden bar, tinks to the glass her drink down.  tink.  tink-clink.  each clink-tink jolts through me.  she’s smiles.  i feel a begger, but Moresmile thumps melons mine grocer.  what’s i like?  clink.  tink.  she but puts at ease me.  she is not that intimidating pure happy.  the smiles come but there’s more travel there too.  there’s enough life antsy to agree to a blind and comfort alone, but she’s still livingandbreathing.  after an age you want a second head pillowed some nights.  dreams don’t fill up the bed.

“So.  What do you do, for a living I mean?”

“What a dull question Sam.  Don’t you mean:  Do I like my job?  Was it a first choice?  Is my every day filled with plans for the future?”

“Well no.  Just what do you do?”

“I work.”

“Fair enough.”

“What don’t you do Sam?”

“Sorry?”

“Just what I said.  What don’t you do?”

“That I wish I did?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Yes you do.”

“What don’t you do?”

“I don’t usually drink.  See?  Easy enough.  What don’t you do Sam?”

“I don’t usually meet anyone in here.”

“Okay.  I don’t remember what I had for breakfast.”

“I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

“I don’t straighten my hair.”

“I don’t floss enough.”

“I don’t sing in the shower.”

“Never?”

“Never once Sam.”

“I don’t call my boss by her first name.”

“I don’t like cashews.”

“I don’t like this bar.”

“Why are you here then?”

“I don’t want to leave yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

the air stills.  the last sound a punch sucker with me not sure why i rounded the house.  think but i’ve said too much, but Moresmile,

“That didn’t take much to unearth.”

“I’m sorry.  I don’t usually blurt things like that out.  I think I’ve had too much to drink again.”

Moresmile hands run along the sides, tiny sharp indentations in the bar.    i stand.  i don’t know why.  i almost speak and don’t.  she stands, faces me.  i am coiled into the floor, balancing on knees driven through feet i don’t feel anymore.

“If we stand here too long Sam, you might lose your nerve.”

2 October 2002 (9:31 am)

Manhattan, West 30’s

Jeremy.  has been talking lately.  of things.

“Take care of that Sam.  You really should.  It’s not funny anymore, all this partying.  You’re not in high school anymore my friend.”

for another of our high school friends but married last week.

“You know Sam, there are only a few of us left.”

“I know J.  They’re dropping like flies.”

“That’s better.  No use moping forever about her.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other J.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“J?”

“Yeah, I don’t call you S for fucksake.”

“Nice.  I know why you’re not married fuckmouth.”

at the caff Jeremy takes his coffee for granted.  we, the world and i, admire him.  he is a sensation.  he gives life to inanimate objects by having no real interest in them.  the room and its elements are extensions of his body.  his suit doesn’t need him, but is thankful.  i want to run my hands down either side of his inseam.

a woman enters in supernatural dress, liquid movement of flesh and fabricc, solid deepening blue that hoards breasts like beads of rain on the tip of a well oiled finger.  black heeled shoes with straps writhe around drunken snake ankles.  she rotates her head and a wisp of hair drops in front of her eyes.  she orders a latte.

“There’s your reason I’m not married Sam.  Something that rich?  You can’t resist it, but you sure can’t eat it everyday.”

the cashier takes her money.  he has a ring through his eyebrow and pale skin.  his shirt is too small, and reveals tight muscles and the strict adherence of (to) a  coffee and cigarette diet.

“Go on J.  No apologies.  You and that suit are a walking hard on.”

“It’s not criminal is it?  Just because all you do is drink anymore-”

“Forget it J.  Go hunt.  I’ll catch up with you later this week.”

hand clap on my shoulder, any argument dis-J-mounted by the rapid blood flow to his central heating unit.  we are best ofs now, so long as i am satisfied with,

“Right Sammy.  Cheer up man.  Forget about her.”

“Right J.”  and Jeremy slithers to the liquid, not hearing my soft, “prick,” as i exit, less coffee.

outside another woman sits perched on a park bench.  she watches as if she expects me to jump at her.  she smiles and digs through a purse.  i expect a gun and walk on.

in a few steps, i cup the thin air into my hands and bring it to my mouth like water.  the cold day on the tip of my nose makes me laugh.  i forgive.  for a moment.

but now my head is splitting.  last night Barpatron said she wanted a fuck in the hallway to the bathroom.

she vodka breathes heavily in my ear with her arms around my neck.

“Not in front of a crowd, but maybe if-”

“You don’t really want it.”

“Of course I do.  Let’s go to your place.”

yanks her arms from around my shoulders and pushes gloom dejection into the ladies room.  i grab the door before it comclosesplete.

inside lights are peculiar eyes on her.  she ignores me just enough to let me know she’s glad took i the bait.  the show includes concerned hair and re-apps of the marykay cosmos.  a little cokedive in the purse with a measured no offer.  bright now eyes.  imaginary wrinkles to do on a handpat sides of tranquil little dress black.  fabricc snaps quiet on drugtight skin, ribbly stomach like a semper fi mattress.  she but would make loose change projectiles.  the little black tight alright, but just on this side of classic sexy.

i’ve waited her out.

“What did you follow me in here for?”

“Don’t treat me like that.  We just met.”

save the abuse for better knowns.

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Should I be?”

should we?  i can tell things are working but shouldn’t.

“Stay.”

she leans sinkover, inspects her there.  i door by, hand think to turn.  wince.  this is too far from Moresmile lives.  this sad is no present, but a fretted futurepast.  my eyes begin the memory daze as i turn to escape myself.  Shebar looks over me not shelooking, says,

“Isn’t there a lock on the door?”

isn’t there.  look down i destroyed.  yes.  there is.  effective slidshot open as it will be after-

“Lock it.”

-to keep out better judgment mine.  the love i is beyond the lock, waiting but not disappointed.  my Morning will have plenty to say about this.  there’s no come over here needed now.  we crash together the desperate, angry enough to enjoy the hate inside.

“What’s your name,” ask i.

“It used to be that simple,” she laughs bitter.  word toughs, but body piranha conscious, wrapped with mine on a fear thin raft in the midst violent of our marble press jarring sex.

“No really,” i persist.

“What’s yours?”

“Sam.”

“Funny.  Mine’s Sam too.”

i don’t say anything that after.  we find a spot enough, though can’t bring ourselves to prop the john.  walls and sink only.  we’re civilized for that.  when we surface, no one looks up.  it’s a nightslow juke drone behind a tvbleacher backdrop.  a desert.  we stare unsure.

“Do you want to come back to my place Sam?”

“You don’t have to offer.”

“I know.”

she walks door through and i puppy follow with the no thought to.  her elbows are up thinking through her purse.  she corners a cab and leaves the door open.  all this without looking back at me.  no words.  i in climb and speed away to inknown liedowns.  the escape drink will wake us.  think it we both know this is mistaking.  our threads bare to the fresh impulse already.  waking it will be rough and primitive in a public sink.  while in this moment the thread still wants to be love(d).

present present i am overstranded on the eighth floor above a crowded street.  a million lives move past, dart, and i feel straight up through the drop ceiling, the crucial.  the mass slip, flip fish fins.  a thousand speeding stars give constant sun impressions.  a sad nod of Atman and Brahman.  a million individuals.  one soul.

that’s a spin off way of thinking.  what were my first instincts about the eighth floor?  there’s no telling.  Barbara is at me again about thisandthat.  that i should know which.  i should, sincerely believe.  but i can’t be bothered be on this eight flights up.  i miss my winged friend Flights and Morning.

“Babs needs to see you when she gets back from lunch.”

“From lunch is it?  It’s three fifteen.”

“Watch your step Sam.”

fair enough.  soon enough.  need i to focus out of the unusual commute this dayrise.  her name was Karen.  i checked her wallet while she in the bathroom savored, solitude most probably.  we spent the night on lifeboats and no she mind when the Karen slipped out.

“I would have told you eventually.”

want i to ask why, but it seemed but a sniffle, with us bent spoons rocking slight, tack and tepid forth on the few slivers of-  not peace.  an injection of relief for the few hours it took the spin cycle.

but with this think,  i am beating myself with a numb arm and a blindfold on.  the kiss not a kiss in itself.  not the good ones remember i.  the push me to believe kisses kiss.  times i mistake targets for the passage of arrows.  blood up believes in the ideas of tomorrow.  dizzy corpuscles pass over the haveandnothemingway; one arm stumpy secret revealed dead end.  nice day for it though.

the weather is wonderful.  outside, below my window, fatted squirrels chase each other around trees.  they are furious, driven, and i cheer waitfully for them to tear each other to shreds.

an old woman bends over to retrieve something at her feet.  she must have forgotten by now what it is.  to me, from here, i could swear it was a piece of trash and not money, not a picture of the man who widowed her, not an old handkerchief.  nothing worth the pressure on old creaking vertebrae or the loss of time she could spend coughing and straining over a newspaper.

spleen for the elderly.  sometimes sucker memories are a public mine service.  the truly old woman is glad hair, grey spindles that can’t but bring hair Moresmile thoughts.  a few way inches, the elder trieves; a piece of litter; a pollution too close to her morning bench.  looks but up at window mine as a pitying smile drops the refuse into a tinyslight better world.  point taken.  ablutions.  faintly she reconsiders her usual prop and benches on, giving a penance nod of head hers to my eight floors up; one that says: keep to your Moresmile memories.

1 October 2002 (11:59 pm)

“too much,” he would titter if he could more than, “chirp.”  i rub my head thankfully on his.  he seems to bend his beak in Flightsmile, but that is a silly mine illusion.  his little heads jerks friendly and inquisitive.

“chirp, churp.”

exhale the past.

my landlord is asleep, two floors up.  but there’s no way of proving that.  i don’t know where my today went.  Flight woke me but from a few steps the Morning door, and then a later afternoon bleating into a lowercase night.

yes, caselower.  so far only my Morning makes it personal.  perhapses on Afternoon or Night, but neither so far that i’m aware.  they could be unconscious friendlies, wanting to recognized be.  it still amazes that out of all those drops of unknown my Morning stood out surfaced.  what’s more distinguishable

but that’s only my human grasp of inliquifinity.  after all the unconscious is measurable.  like stars.

i loose my grip after five briefs of one, two, three, four.  they’re stars.  what do they want from me?  i got a good mindeye, but christ, “One, two, three, four-  Shit.  Did I count that one already?”

i can’t get out of Draco and Littledipper is giving me minor Ursals.  what can i count of the celestial, outer or inner?  i crunch down on the egg pastshells, tipping toe to try and get the stars right.  at least more than five.  i need a toe bone in my nose to smell where i step.

down here, there’s the bright shiny chaos beautiful.  yes.  the score Henry.  but not a song.  one must sing sometimes i agree, even if it is only words and no sound.  so no Afternoon or Night.  okay.  Morning is the best place to start anyway.

2 August 1992 (day 2 of 10-day road trip)

vacationtime is not a reality all its own.  Moresmile and i are not familiars enough to brave a tenday, but here we nestle just at the tender feet of Appalachians mount.  deer but crossed as i mild swerved to come comfort stop.  a benign trailhead with deer feet and look back.

“Let’s follow her Sam.  Down that trail.”

lets.  in an hour stride warm day, deer gone.  forgotten a motivation.  she is under a waterfall, waving at me in a bathing suit with the other hand extended into the current falling down.  i see a pond reverberating and lapping the spray of fall water.  i am up to my chest; she a bouncy figure from rock to rackled rock.  this is chaos water, spraying wings and flit-tittering down, the revolving space there.  i see her and i lose her.  i but am lost with the eyes focus.  i am partially submerged and do not know myself from the chest down.  she is a water nymph.  i a head and shoulders floating lily pad.

“Sam?  What are you doing?  You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Weren’t you just under the falls?”

“Twenty minutes ago, waiting for you to come over.”

waiting.  up she still so.  these ideas of mine don’t work for her.  waiting.  she glistens, smiles, wades out to my lily torso.  my legs and chestdown have sunk to the bottom.  my lily sees below, the rest of the body a fish, flap-happiling around with his new fish friends.  a headless flipping fish chestdown, darting with tiny schools and my lily doesn’t seem to know how to call him back.

“Sam, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.  Tired I think is all.”

“You think?”

“A little.”

“Come out of the water.  You’re scaring me.”

“Why?”

“You look out of it Sam.  That water is deeper than you might realize.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“Let’s get you clear of here.”

i look back down to find my lost body mermade.  i think to it, my lily begs it to return.  it flap-happilies up back to me as Moresmile wades further to pull us both back onto shore.  she is wearing a bikini today and this is new to me, top with a pair of nylon shorts.  rugged and sensualistic.  i’d like to pull us both down to the schools below, to breathe in fall water and stare up at magnified sunshine.  sun, spread out and rippled by our fish gaze.  huge sun.  crackling watercolor sun.  Helios blowing air bubbles for us to breathe light.  hard to want the air there before after sun god sighs.

“Sam?”

“What?”

“Come out of the water okay?”

“Are we leaving?”

“Yeah.  I think it’s time to.”

“Okay.  I could probably use a nap.  Do you mind driving for awhile?”

i pull water heavied muscles towards Moresmile as she hints a face worried, before the back heads outward the park.  the look i stops me still in ankles.  she turns when my hand in hers linksnaps.  she walks slowly.  in the water our ankles meet.  i touch her waist.  she moves my hands to both sides of her face.  she whispers, but i don’t understand.  her stomach tightens, shimmers.  there.  an enormous womb, a birth ocean i will first drown then breathe in.  soon.  for now i am an estuary.

just a little salt with the pressing of tongues.  another tug water away.  she really wants me out of here.  my eyes go black as a Flight pecks me back to present present.