The Sound of The Engine

The metallic rumble of a twin propeller plane went by overhead, the sound streaking across the sky like a single silver streamer.  It reverberated inside as I instantly remembered that far off place, saw a far off me who no longer exists, a memory almost forgotten that still has the power to twist visions into experience.
Hearing it was like looking through an old album, ‘Remember when I used to live there?  Remember when I used to do that?’ The bright sunshine of southern California ignited and I needed my sunglasses.  The water of a crystal clear swimming pool colored me all blue and shiny.  I could jump in naked if I wanted, no one was home. It was me and the sun, with only a furry puppy napping in the sunlight by my side.
The sound of that engine was the tone of another Lydia who lay on a plastic chaise lounge on the wooden deck my father built.  I would be out there for hours, letting the heat melt my skin and turn me brown and freckly.  The girl who closed her eyes and drank in the heat, eventually smelling salty and sweet, for that wind liked to lick away the sweat. 
A moment passed and I remembered that girl in silence. There was no one here to explain it to, no one who could really listen and feel that distant chamber with me, not here- the market was bustling and even I would soon need to forget. I tucked it away until later, when a door would open and the chamber could then be explored.

‘I worship the sun’ I used to say.

The palm trees in the backyard swayed back and forth gently.  They were thick trunks that provided a wide canopy, beneath which we would sometimes eat in the summer. My mom would carry out a skillet of fish my dad made, I would bring out a wide salad bowl and Blackstar would sit at our feet looking for crumbs. In August the coyotes would run down from the hills and howl in the fields behind our fence, the puppy would run to howl at the fence and call back to them.
Mostly I would be out there in the sun, alone.  The sound of the plane’s engines was always there, streaking by every hour.  A small airport was just a few miles away on Benson Avenue, if I opened my eyes and looked up I could see their little metal bodies in the sky.  They left trails of white across the blue canvas which soon the wind would muddle and shift and eventually erase.

That girl laying in the sun never thought things would change, she never thought that she would turn from a sun-worshipper into the sweater-garbed woman who now walks through eternal fog. 
But everything does change. I do not miss that girl. She is a curiosity, forever warm, forever surrounded by golden light, Blackstar at her side.  Now the heat burns my skin from the inside out, like a chicken in a microwave. I retreat into the shade, seeking shelter like so many other vampires.
But when I hear that sound, familiarity attached to a past so distant, it is blue and bright, it is the quiet noise of a girl basking under the sun.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is two days away. There is a roaring fire that spurts and flitters with life, providing a focal point of raw elemental force. A dog walks from person to person, collecting affection from each hand until they get tired of giving.

I try to keep most of my attention on the fire, remembering that there is life outside this room, but there is a struggle. The human and the raw pull at me, grabbing each arm. The big TV screen is on and we are covered in blue light, a type of light that can even trump fire.

My sister and mother are sitting on the carpet, just a few feet from the TV. “I’ve been saving this so you can see it mom.” Dorit points the remote at the TV, quickly changing channels and navigating her menu of saved shows. My sister and mother have shared a bond over the same TV shows for almost a decade now. They like the same sentimental love stories, the same big-budget romantic comedies and Oprah. “It’s Oprah’s favorite things,” my sister says with a small smile and turns to my mother.

“Ok!” my mom replies enthusiastically.

The next five minutes are filled with ecstatic jumping, near fainting, and screams of delight as Oprah fans hug each other and cry with each free gift that is carried out from backstage.

“I can’t believe I am watching this,” my dad says in an irritated tone from the couch. No one responds, but my mother gives him a dirty look before she turns back to the television. Ten minutes pass by, Oprah gives away $25 gift cards to McDonald’s for everyone in the audience, my sister’s small apartment fills with the screams of middle aged women as Oprah describes items from McDonald’s new menu. The audience is beyond enthusiastic, they grab each other, jumping wildly on their seats, the lone man in the audience is holding his head in his hands, tears streaking his face. My sister and mom are smiling, sharing in the raw emotion that pours in through the TV.

I turn to my dad, there is a look of disgust and mild amusement on his face, as though the spectacle is more emotion than he has ever felt, as though each one of them is insane for expressing it so blatantly. He shakes his head, his eyes narrow, “this is just an advertisement. You think she bought all these things? It’s just an ad.”

“I know,” agrees Maxwell, my sister’s boyfriend, whose disgust rivals that of my father’s. “Dorit already made me watch this once.”

“I can’t believe I am watching this,” my dad announces again. He grabs the newspaper that had lay abandoned on his lap and begins shifting through its pages once again, the newsprint blocking his line of sight from the TV.

“Fine, I’ll change it Yossi,” Dorit says to my dad with anger. She changes the channel, flipping it to Cougar Town. I turn to the fire and rub the soft fur on the dog's face. “Who’s this idiot?” my mom says, referring to a blond character standing next to a Thanksgiving turkey. She says it with such disgust that I am taken aback slightly. My sister sits closest to the television, a glazed smile on her face as the jokes roll by, “Who’s this idiot?” my mom says once again when the blond character reappears.

“Fine! I’ll change it!” my sister announces with annoyance. She flips through the channels and then eventually leaves it on a football game, which gives Maxwell something to dive into. Dorit turns to the dog, who’s laying next to me by the fire.

“Poo poo face!” my sister says with affection as she reaches out and twists the dog's pliable ear around her finger.

I give her a questioning look, “That’s sort of a weird pet name.”

“He is poo-poo face number 1,” she points to Maxwell, “and this is poo-poo face number two,” giving the dog a kiss on the nose.

“She didn’t start calling me that until the dog showed up.” He turns back to the TV, he’s the only one interested in the game.

“How is your job Maxwell?” my mom inquires. He takes his attention from the TV and begins to describe the window washing business in detail. I turn to my mom, who is sitting on the carpet. She is looking up at him on the couch and nodding, though I notice a slightly absent expression on her face, one she has often when people are talking. The corners of her mouth are moving, as though she wants to say something, as though there are sentences on the tip of her tongue that she does not allow to come out. Maxwell is in mid-sentence when she jumps up from her place on the carpet. She walks to the folding table that is set up by the sliding glass door and picks up the loaf of cranberry bread. “I know what I did wrong, I put two cups of water instead of one cup of oil and one of water.” She pulls on a piece of the bread and pops it into her mouth, she looks to the ceiling as she examines the flavor. She nods and then shakes her head, “it’s no good.”

When I turn towards Maxwell, he is already watching the game. Dorit is petting the dog again, my dad is still reading the newspaper. Thanksgiving is two days away and I feel the apartment getting a little smaller.

Gray Hounds

We are like dogs. All we can do is try to hump each other in the street, or sniff each other at the bar, or beg for our masters in the gray suits to throw us another scrap from the top of the gray buildings.
“Come with us to Café Van Kleef?” Alice asks as I board the elevator, already loosening my tie.
“We?” I sigh as I ask. Is it because I’m tired? Because I’m bored? Because my sphincter is releasing the death clinch it has maintained all day while I stayed out of the biting range of the Alpha dogs and the master’s whip?
“Sue might meet us there. Andrew. You met him, I think. He’s Rob's cousin.”
“Yeah, I know him.” as if it matters to me at all who might be there, where there is, or whether I ever manage to crawl back out. “I’ll go.” I say as one more skinny blond in high heels joins us in the elevator. She has a name, but I forgot it long ago. I see her making coffee thick as mud in the break room. We never speak, not a word, even though we once fucked at a Christmas party, and even then we didn’t make a sound and hardly looked at each other, just as we now ignore one another, not out of any sense of malice, but from a mutual indifference which may accumulate into passion by next December. Or not.
“Andrew’s fat.” I remark as the elevator doors shut us in.
“My eye itches.” is all Alice has to say and we descend with the blonde standing in front of us, texting away.
Café’ Van Kleef. It’s not as fancy as it sounds. There is a giant bust mounted to the rail behind the stage and some red metallic streamers shimmer over the hall that leads to the john. It is a long narrow bar full of dogs like us, tired desperate dogs ordering greyhounds because they put a fat slice of fresh grapefruit in each one, and we like that.
We like fresh grapefruit. As long as it comes floating in hard alcohol. We like fresh grapefruit. As long as we can’t remember who we are or where we came from. We like fresh grapefruit. As long as fat Andrew stops putting his arm around my shoulders like we're good chums while sticking his other hand up Alice’s skirt. We like fresh grapefruit until we’ve knocked the glasses over and Andrew is rolling in a puddle on the floor like an inexperienced puppy trying to get back to his feet because I forcefully pushed him off of his barstool.
“I said knock it off!” I snarl, and not even I know whether I’m talking about his arm around my shoulder or his hand up Alice’s skirt or that damned nasal laugh he’s been serving up at all the wrong moments.
On the stage some poor little poet is reading about her struggles with a disability that I can’t pin point from within the haze that has enveloped my mind. She is trying to read over the commotion, her audience of friends and family gathered up around the stage are looking back over their shoulders at Andrew. Someone- the bartender? A bouncer?- is inquiring about the state of affairs, but I’m eating the grapefruit off of the high table and Alice is explaining that Andrew lost his balance because the stool had a wobbly leg.
And Andrew? He seems to believe Alice as only dogs can believe, accepting her version of reality instead of his own, because that is how dogs are wired. We're built to please, to observe the subtle gestures of others and try to give them what they want so that they’ll toss us a bone later.
Is that what Andrew hopes? That Alice will give him a bone later if he co-operates with her version of reality? Her version which is now his version, is now the version accepted by the inquirer and the other patrons of Café Van Kleef, and is swiftly coming to replace my own. I’m innocent. Fat Andrew fell off of his barstool. We like fresh grapefruit. Another greyhound for me please.
It is a straight shot from the front door to the stage where these soft strange creatures are trying to read poetry over the cacophonous roar of drunken conversation and laughter. The bar lies in between, to the left, and it is mobbed by glee desperate pound puppies in their white collar shirts and dark slacks or pencil line skirts. It is now nearly impossible to get in or out of the front door. Where the bar ends lies a tall table surrounded by stools where I sit ignoring Andrew’s stupid attempts at humor and social reparations, even though he does not now quite believe I did him any violence. He smiles apologetically at everyone, especially me, and is careful to keep his arm away from my shoulders. Between us and the stage there are more smaller tables and chairs.
I watch a woman who sits on the stool at the end of our table, her back turned to us as she tries desperately to hear and understand the poets. Her shoulders are stooped as if she were crumpling in on herself, as if she were a giant rolly polly intent on folding into a perfect armored ball. As my attention focuses on her, she becomes the only real object in the room, the rest are all ghosts drifting in the vapors of spilled alcohol. I see her with perfect clarity, I see her like a houseplant trapped in a dark room reaching desperately towards a small far away window, her body bending visibly towards the poets, towards the light that will give her life and prevent her from joining the rest of us here in the ghost world.
Then I hear Alice saying:
“Sue and them are going to the Conga Lounge. Want to go?”
I snap back, back to the reality created by Alice, and shake my head.
“Not yet.” I say.
“You want to stay here?” she asks and I nod. I realize that Andrew is no longer with us when I see him walking towards us, returning from the can.
“Ready?” I hear him asking Alice. His face wilts a little as Alice explains we’ll catch up with them later. Then he’s carried away by the bustling tide of bodies abandoning our table with its high stools in favor of the wicker seats of the Conga Lounge.
The table is suddenly empty except for myself and Alice and the strange woman sitting with her back to us. She could easily turn and suddenly speak to us, except for the fact that she is no longer real. She is a ghost now and Alice and I are real, the bar and the noisy pound puppies are real. She vanishes from my sight and my mind and only a place marker in the form of a human body hunched on the high stool at the end of our table remains. I forget her, and I forget that I have forgotten her.
“Alice,” I say, “You’re still here.” She has taken Andrew's seat beside me and I let my leg rest against hers.
“These shoes squeeze my feet.” is all she has to say. Someone picks up our empty glasses as fresh bodies squeeze through the door, crowd around the bar and find their way to our table.
“Let’s go then.” I say, ready now to seize Andrew's bone.
“To the Conga Lounge?” she asks glancing at her phone.
“No. To the streets.” I tell her as I stand up and she follows.

In Order To Cry

In order to cry, think of the lover that left you without a home. A lover that came back from the far off beaches and mountains of Costa Rica, all the while sending notes filled with love and the promises of kisses in a soon to be future. In order to cry, remember when he looked at you with a distant eye and those kisses turned strange and full of salt and he didn’t seem like familiar skin, but something that only housed the shadow of old laughter. He came off the plane with dreams of walking through Mexico hand in hand, but in days, as leaves fell and marked the beginning of fall, he took the keys to the trailer and didn’t help carry your clothes and books to the sidewalk. He pulled out of the driveway, taking your home and smile, driving off into the mountains without a kiss or a soft glance backwards, driving as fast as he could to avoid the sound of your tears as they fell, crashing on the worn hardwood floor.

In order to cry, think of the night when you slept alone in an unfamiliar room, the only familiar tattooed flesh a few miles away behind metal bars and thick glass. The walls of the room were pale white, but covered in the blue dawn light of morning that came seeping in through the bedroom window. Remember looking around, feeling the floor below the thin mattress just a few inches thick, and then, oh yes, it all comes back, the horrible twists and turns of the night before. A convulsing 90 pound teenager, the sirens, the police handcuffs and a ride to the station. The interrogation and then walking free while some stayed behind in orange jumpers and the promise of long, noisy days and anxiety-filled nights and court-appointed lawyers in wrinkled suits. Think of your impotence, the jewelry you wore for good-luck as you watched the court proceedings with a pained heart and tears and a wet pussy, since your man still looked hot in the orange jumpsuit.

In order to cry, think of your missing dog, the one you walked on warm summer nights through the gentle fog of misty marijuana and fading orgasms. The dog that was your link to human connection, for people dared look at you and smile while you held a leash. Remember the soft brown eyes you still dream of, fur clinging to the lint of the sliding glass door is the only remaining physical manifestation of the thick fur covered body. In order to cry, think of the restaurant, sitting with your parents and sister when the truth finally came over appetizers and ice water sitting in wine glasses, when their lies finally spiraled in on themselves and you realized with one quick tear that Blackstar didn’t die, she was killed. And you know that she was old and could hardly walk and you knew every time you walked out the front door of your parent’s house that it might be the last time you saw that graying black fur, but still, they lied, letting your sister come home for Thanksgiving, looking around the house, opening every door, calling, ‘Blackstar!”

In order to cry, think of your young sister, growing older, growing more jaded and contorted by the day. Her smooth pink skin turning into wrinkles of worry, her mouth producing only complaints and concerns. Think of her all alone after you left for college, that poor skinny body starved and stressed while your mom’s concerns about weight seeped in, finding a home in the fabric of her muscles, taking the place of any fat; and now, when she eats, she talks about calories every time she moves in with a spoon on a mound of whipped cream. Your sister, who wants to give facials and mud masks, but your parents ‘spent too much money on college for her to be a beautician,’ so she stays in the suspended Bardo, caught by invisible strings that pull on each one of her fingers. She wears all black and helps rich women pick out sunglasses that could pay your rent.

In order to cry, remember all the things that you have lost, that pink and white batik shirt that disappeared in the wash. That 500 year old piece of turquoise that was stolen right out of your own jewelry box in the yellow-lit bathroom. Your vinyl records taken by the same mouth you had fed spaghetti two weeks before. The friends you left standing at the altar without a girl in green to clap and cheer. The friends you just stopped calling. The people you wonder about, but you cannot call now because it’s too late and too much time has passed. The family that you can barely visit and talk with, the potted plants left in the care of others.

In order to cry, think of yourself. Turn your attention inward, as has been advised in the manual. Focus on your skin, your breasts or penis, whichever may be the case. Think of the ache of your skin, the unfulfilled desires that call your name.

In order to cry, stand in the corner of the room with your face to the wall. Stand there till the feeling of isolation grows, until you begin to chant the phrase, ‘I am alone.’
Look at your missteps, your sidesteps, the sadness that just needs an open door, the failure of the sun to grant every wish and orgasm.

In order to cry, think of your tears, ready at the waiting, waiting to roll down your cheeks, eager to take the ride they were always promised.

Web of Trust

They make trust with the people of the web, a makeshift arrangement that sets loose an army of powerful crystal giants. Like peasants born in El Salvador they dream of escape, and ultimately will do anything, even flee to the Evil Empire, rather than stay in their own ravaged country.
"We’d up and fly if we had wings for flying, can’t you see these tears were crying, can’t there be some happiness for me…"
Not in the Empire of the gods of sloth and gluttony, not under the dominion of the army of slow cold death. The rhythm will sweep you up, send you under a carpet to live in the eternal night. Then you might make your way through subterranean tunnels, an invisible something with tendrils, with a mouth, living beneath the lake at the heart of the mountains. Taking the wrong passageway, tromping down the wrong lane, dodging into unfortunate alleys where fear makes you her lover and grips you so tight with want that it suffocates your best impulse. Those tendrils stretched out in search of heat, of one lost fragment of warmth and light to steal away. The feathers weight is a fairy tale ending. Here we all end leaded, with feet submerged in tubs of dried cement pulling us down, down, into the murky waters. Sucking the liquid into our lungs, grasping for life, we are inviting death instead.
In this bleak end we trust, we count on it. And it makes us strong. It makes us kind. Hope is like a drug; abused, taken in excess, it leads to brain death. The misery is not in endlessly repeating the same toil, the same guest, the same day for eternity. The misery evolves from the hope that it could be otherwise. Accepting our lot, keeping to the trust that we know what anguish lies ahead. We merrily greet it, teeth bared in a grimace/smile. Trust guns. Trust regime. Trust weakness. Above all trust work, toil and work.
The big black Woman’s deep gaze earned my trust. I looked into the depth of her and let her look back into the depth of me. She saw something which she did not like, but I let her see it and I was unashamed. Changing shape is how I fuel this economy. I love the planet. I trust that Greenland will melt away and the three feet of water gained globally will make me a mermaid. If only we could sustain global warming. The creators of the Hummer knew that I would get a kick out of joining king Triton at the bottom of the sea, and goodbye California. The lost state of California. And down there in the briny blue I’ll swim with the polar bears that sunk with Greenland.
It could have been a musician, a painter, an engineer, a cement balloon. It could have been Frankie.
I love nature. I love watching everything decay and turn to shit all around me, I love watching myself and others grow wrinkly and wobbly, I love watching the silent hunter creep up on us all with her scythe in hand. But until she catches me, I’ll delight in the chamber pot. It’s not me. It’s you. Death is imminent enough, without us going around trying to hurry it. It’s not an option. We can’t hope our way out of it. At least not without microphones.
With a dime bag of hope, two turntables and a microphone, perhaps we could sneak over old man times wall. We’ll pick the fruit from his trees and swim in his swimming pool (I might find California at the bottom, which would be cool because I could grab some of that shit I lost when it sank) while he’s out working. He’s got a nice yard, built before it became popular to have everything covered in white quartz rock. There’s real grass growing there. Yeah, you know what I mean. The kind cows like to eat. Then they crap it back out and someone comes along and puts it in a bag and sells it to someone else in the suburbs so they can spread it over their yard and grow more GRASS!
Or at least they used to before the irrational fear that cows were causing global warming sprouted up. After that the government rationed out all of the available white quartz rock available. It became illegal to grow grass, sell grass, or even have grass in your possession. You could even get into trouble for holding someone else’s grass for them. The underground cult of the Golden Cow rose in popularity with the rebellious younger generation, spreading its pale roots far and wide.
Anyway, it’s a nice yard. His pet dog, Unknowable, lays in the shade of the trees where he tries to piece together a strawberry shortcake puzzle somebody bought for him at the 99cent store. The trouble, you see, lays in that the puzzle is so poorly manufactured that even the wrong pieces fit together sometimes. All he really has to go on is the picture. The best part about Unknowable is that he never barks when strangers hop over the old man’s wall. Turns out that he’s been on strike for a while now and refuses to resume his usual guard dog duties until Time gives him a raise. He’s totally cool with whoever creeps back there, just so long as nobody tries to take away his puzzle.
"Don’t Step on the Grass" signs are planted all over the yard. Unknowable once hunted for a promise, and it eluded him, so now anybody can break laws written on gator board signs and embrace the Proud Way. Someday. Hands at the ready, ashes in the mouth, we run barefoot through the forests of the future, lay gasping in the sudden present, die trembling in the past. The rulers of the world get together and corner peasants and slap them around demanding gold but get only wooden buttons to break their teeth on. Shit happens, its no secret.
When the great grand daddy of all floods came, it wiped clean all traces of peasant life, because food stamps couldn’t pay for a ticket to higher ground. The keepers of the Empire watched from the mountain tops, picking their teeth with the branch of an olive tree.