I walked pass the guitar player, who was silent at the moment, wondering why
in the stars� names would he put the frayed and faded pic of naked Adam and
Eve (They looked painfully guilty.) inside the case. Well, maybe he wanted
people to think about it. And I didn�t feel like playing along. So I let the
matter drop.
When I walked out of the 6th train and entered Grant Central, I got this
sensation that same weird thing happened to me. I looked about and lo, all
those people walking around me: actually, away from me since I stopped, were
girls. Girls in their long, tight jeans� there was one girl in rice color
cargo pants, she leaned against the elevator shaft reading some magazine; and
there was this woman in black shirt and brown khakis. Whenever weird thing
like this happened I feel very much hypersensitive, and, of course, nervous
and scared. Though in this particular night, being among only women, it wasn�
t so nerve cracking. It felt wrong, but kind of nice, like I was either
asexual, or invisible, or both. The air in the subway felt so filthy in my
throat. It felt oily, foul. I got on the 7th train after awhile.
There was this girl who got on the train with me. Then she sat opposite to me.
I noticed her because she was flipping through a stack of photos she�s
carrying in her hands, totally occupied. And then she came upon this picture,
and she laughed. Such a sweet laugh, a real big one. It was unbelievable, how
happy she looked. So before I knew, I started running my eyes up and down on
her. She was carrying lots of stuff: an umbrella, a grocery bag half filled, a
brown paper bag, and a nice straw handbag with silk gardenia and imitation
leafs on the brim. These things circled around her like planets in the solar
system circling the Sun. I looked at her hair and remembered Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holliday. She had that kind of omega hair cut, a thin tight shirt and an
equally tight khaki. All her lovely parts seemed ready to fall out. At that
moment, I began to feel the ghost touch of cold raindrops on my face again.
These rain drops, they�d fall on the ground nearby, and you would never
notice; or by chance they�d fall right upon your face, and you�d feel cold
and refreshed like on a proper rainy day.
Then I was at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Got to my gate and people were
standing in a very long line. It wasn�t really rush hour any more, except, by
the long winding lines of people everywhere, the traffic had to be awful. When
the bus came, everyone got on without a word. There was this old black person
carrying a brief case outside. I wasn�t noticing, until he knocked at the bus
door when the bus started moving. The bus coordinator stopped us, but the
driver wouldn�t open the door. The bus coordinator turned his head to the guy
who bang at the bus door and talked to him. Then all of a sudden we moved on
again, into the city traffic. I looked outside. The rain had made those
asphalt streets in the city a shiny reflective black. And all the cars, buses,
and freight trucks moved like crawling insects on them, with their bright
headlights boggling in the rain. Neon lights hovered above my heads.
I started praying again once we were inside the tunnel. I had meant to keep it
going till the time I hit home. I never did expect myself to stick to this
plan, but I hoped I could, you know. So, I just started myself going and
saying those things in my heart. Then I really relaxed. The bus pulled out of
the tunnel then. The New York City skyline looked wonderful across the river
in the night. I arrived at the side of New Jersey.
My mind was racing again. It always was. I missed Blood Raven, coz she was the
sanest person I�ve ever know. I sat on this bus and thought about her, like
how she said she learn about her own person, and like how she looked across my
bunk bed, in the candlelight. She had these red, full lips and when she
studied late in the candlelight I always looked at her lips. They looked like
as if she was lip-reading her books. It could be just the flickering of the
small flame, making her lips look like they were moving a bit. I wonder where
she was. I wonder how she fared. I am sure she would be doing really, really
great, because she was so sensible, and so mature. It must felt wonderful to
feel that way, I mean, always clear-headed and enjoy doing things perfect. It
must felt wonderful.
And then I thought about Hans Christian Anderson. It hadn�t cross my minds
for years. And yet I was sitting inside that scrawling bus in a moonless and
starless night, thinking about his stories. I almost got homesick. It wasn�t
exactly that. I just wanted to take a good draw of that elixir, to read once
again about the moon that talked to the lonely boy in his lonely flat in some
goddamn city. I decided to buy me a book of his. Juan had said she�d buy me
the full set, when I had my first baby. But then I decided there was no point
in waiting. I�d have it �right then and there�.
Later he swung his long legs out of the bed and matched out of the room. I sought for the clock, the one bound on the headboard with a lacy ribbon. Time was spelled out in red digits through the lace and seeing that I sighed. It was much earlier than I expected; far less time had escaped since�. From where I lay, the ceiling met my eyes. Light fused this room; light spread on the ceiling. Parts of my body felt weightless. --- They declared their independence. Immobilized, I resigned in a moment of languid daze. That vivid dream flew back to sabotage my conscious. They were back at the cove again. He was shouting. She was screaming. (Was it something about a pair of wooden shoes? Money, that was it; there were never enough money to go around.) I probed my memory hard for the color of their garments. It was important, whether they were black or white. The ones they wore in the end were linen white: she walked up to him and took his right arm, and then they walked some more. The sea would always look the same, infused with light, just like the air around them while they walk, flowing and glowing in a butterfly dance. Just like the air in my room: through the window, on the ceiling, in and out of me as I breathed�. I could hear him eating his dinner in the living room. Cold meat and bread; fruits I brought in the morning. Sounds blasted though the half opened door. He was playing 'Matrix' again, on the PC: "... NEO: This isn't real? MORPHEUS: What is real? (Pause) How do you define real? (Pause) If you're talking about your senses, what you feel, taste, smell, or see, then all you're talking about are electrical signals interpreted by your brain. ..." My poor mushy brain hummed dangerously and I wanted to laugh, wanted to tell him how bizarre it all sounded, but he couldn't possibly understand. All of a sudden, the dialog was replaced by the loud fanfare of a soccer game came from the TV: he had recorded the whole world cup series and was happily treating himself (again) with one of the tapes. The commenter spoke in Spanish. My shoulder felt chilled. The sheets softly warmed my body in a phantom caress. It smelled of him, mostly. Despite of the diabolic bellows of �Gooooooaaaaaal---Gooooooaaaaaal---Gooooooaaaaaal----� coming from outside, my insidious parts kept reminding me that they were getting slowly roasted on invisible fire. I resigned to the everlasting acoustic spin, lying there alone, moaned and cooed. Strange little sounds hardly audible. At least there was something to mark this predicament. Held down and captivated by a ruptured body, an agitated, impatient mind and a heart borne and marked by our love, I felt dizzy with vertigo. The TV at one point flipped to the sober and genteel commentary of the history channel. It went on and on about Japanese suicide planes in WWII called Kamikaze. Kamikaze. Vaguely I recalled how I had learned the word, in a smoky Irish pub, where I took my first two tequila shots. It was such a nice little story. Yes, I would tell him about the Kamikaze. I would tell him about my dream. He loved colored dreams. He wanted to know all of the colors of my dream. I surfaced from my trance with sudden anticipation. |