The day my dog died, they – for I wasn’t there – brought her back from the vet in a comforter that was blue and red. They put her on the living room couch, which is yellow, and waited a while, for they did know what to do but held on and bit the time that was passing, hoping, I can only guess, that those sealed eyes would break open and it was a miracle and all that would follow. Then, some time gone by, they picked her up and carried her down, out the back door of the basement into the garden, laid her gently onto the green grass and started shoveling to make a hole; they put her inside, wrapped in nothing because nature was back to nature, and then, I think, with their hands began piling dirt on top of her body and a plant that was someplace nearby was uprooted and replanted over her, with a little other flower, which was pink, and another one, which was orange, and yet another, which was white and light-blue. It was the beginning of June, and the ground was wet, the earth dark brown almost black, and the sun was shining – and all of these colors were resplendent.
The day my dog died, I (temporarily) lost my faith in atheism. I struggled with the notion that where she is now there’s none of us to be with her – but there isn’t such a place! – and on I cried knowing she was lonely, like us around the house feeling it empty, and I whispered, laying my hand on the warm earth after travelling miles to see her resting place in the backyard near the persimmon tree, on the edge of a little valley so that opening the shutters in the morning on the terrace we, the living, will say “Hi, Lucky” as if she’s running up from the garden, wait a few seconds, no, she’s not, I whispered “Don’t be afraid of loneliness.” and wished for only one other moment, one day, when I’m gone too – so unreal – that I can see her eyes again and we’ll go for a walk.
Irresponsible writing from the 1960s.
… and [he; nice fellow, overworked and underpaid] lit the first of the ten cigarettes that he smoked every day. When he had smoked the cigarette down to its filter, he put it out and emptied the ashtray into the wastebasket.
A contemporary adaptation.
… and, cautiously, on the sly, [he; no excuse for whatever his misfortunes might be], lit the first of what were now ten cigarettes a day. Down from eighteen. Good. No, actually, because it had been more than a year! When he had smoked each one out trying not to get too close to the filter, he would crush the butt into the ashtray, the veins and bones in his hands showing, and would then empty the ashtray into the wastebasket with a bang, a cloud of dusty smoke wafting up in the air and, at times, into his nostrils. He’d sneeze then in a panic. “Shit!”
The block was deafened by the crash. No sign language though, “Are you fucking blind? Can you drive, for Christ’s sake?!”
Venomous lava, spewing, the burning oil of the broken car on the smashed windows.
The man doing this, the man throwing fists in the air, the man whose car had been hit. The woman – no driver’s license? – fainted at the wheel, seat belt fastened.
“Call an ambulance!” The echo of one was rushing thither from many a block away.
It was all like an imposing winding staircase, the spiral of which depressed my impotence and inaction. Today a shiny magnolia flower blossomed in an early March morning; tomorrow a silent scream and a prayer would go up so that what we didn’t want to happen wouldn’t. I had the fragile soul. I was the chapters of a book read at full speed, fingers cut while turning the pages. I cleansed myself by going out and soiling my life.
My feet, in the blood and/or burning oil, slightly, pretending to get closer and help, stamped their print on the gray asphalt to say I had been there.
1 March 1915
The belfry has been reduced to: “Isn’t that tree trunk big! Wait, it’s a belfry.” It is the abandoned convent that stands by the path through the woods. I was padding along the path behind a vision. I wasn’t walking. And I paid an imaginary visit to the empty frescoes and the gutted columns. The saints were smiling because they wanted me to stay on. It is a show, after all, and they know it. In the little time it took me to break in through the non-existent stained glass windows, they arranged a glorious tribute to their golden god and urged me to do something about the walls, and the columns, and the crypt. I don’t know if I want to.
The white clouds eating up each other in the blue sky today help.
What’s our world coming to, dear Paula?
I will write more on this tomorrow.
They told him in awed hesitant poetry. “Antinous has been snatched away from life, Caesar.” The imperial majesty of Scarecrow Hadrian crushed to a void stupor before his bird-like people. He demanded facts (Antinous. Drowned. In the Nile) and wide-eyed he saw: the air bubbles in the muddy water; the senators’ long, wrinkled but sinewy hands keeping his boy’s curly black hair down; the plotters being sentenced to death and their leaders killed last, that they may see their friends drop like flies, one by one, and live in terror what was left of their days.
[… no other distance …]
The Emperor ordered that a city should be built named after Antinous; He decreed that – moonlight toward Egypt – that constellation up there should take the name of Antinous; He proclaimed that – at daybreak, the coast of Africa still not in sight – Antinous should be made a God.
Squinting through the fogged-up windows, in the serpentine of cars, from the entrance to the parking lot to a slowed-down pace at the supermarket doors – “What does it say? Closed?!” – then fast again, to a halt, at the junction, scrunched-up faces, waiting for the road to be clear on both sides, because, whatever those buyers needed, there was another supermarket nearby, sigh of relief, another smiley Santa listing its opening times, so they all hastily ignored the no-left-turn sign – “Yes! I’ll U-turn right here!” – but the second supermarket, the grim prospect coming true, is closed too – “what the…!” – the discouraged snake-like procession now at a halt again, only one way to go, on to the big shopping mall, that will be open, the hope getting fidgety, halfway down the hill, for a sinuous snake is driving up, faces not so holiday-like, look more like they went all the way down and found it closed – “that too?” – an unsettling wonder, at what they all forgot to buy and desperately need.
So… this boy hurries back home carrying a six-pack of water bottles, and he has a hard time finding his keys to the main door… A woman is walking down the steps of the building; she opens the door but doesn’t hold it for the boy. She lights up a cigarette in the middle of the sidewalk.
An elderly lady is approaching, while a… nameless, red-haired Lolita rushes out of a nail shop, doesn’t look out, bumps into cigarette lady and elderly lady. Bus D54 zips past to the next stop – too far! – but the traffic light, green, goes orange then red. The bus screeches to a halt.
Bread is being baked at street level… the smell rising in the mirror of a signpost. A car… backs up and hits a scooter, softly, then speeds away, almost runs over the old lady, and cigarette lady watches, and nameless Lolita gets on the bus, while… the door downstairs bangs, and the boy and his water are home.
Sitting in a comfortable armchair, his big dreamy eyes on the flat expanse outside the windows.
The French littoral had vanished in the wake of the ferry, and the British coast lay beyond the low black clouds moving in from the ocean. The sea was choppy – half light, half pitch dark. He had tried to stay on the deck outside but the wind had pushed him out of his little shelter behind the lifeboats.
A wave, and the alarms of the cars had gone off and waken him from his reverie. He’d gone back in among the sad game arcades, the carpeted floors, le pub, and the posters advertising how cheap it can get for “frequent crossers.”
All of a sudden the famous white cliffs of Dover, in the fog, the rain and the gray clouds. It’s not the new world, but the thought is, “I came over on the Rodin.”
Aw… poor thing. The old lady is a beggar. A black hat in her left hand, she’s waiting for passers-by to give up a few of their coins. A couple of cents can still buy some candy.
Hold on. A sense of vertigo from this window. Whoever built that fan-shaped sidewalk certainly wanted people to look up and not down.
Hold on. It’s not a hat. It’s the visible part of a round manhole to her left. Her arms are folded behind her back. She’s not begging. She’s waiting. Looking. Thinking that whatever made those people over there go through the garbage can, well… it reminds her she used to wear torn clothes as a kid. Maybe. And that she’d roam the streets barefoot like some little vagabond.
Hold on. Thoughts must be very clear at that age. Eighty-five, ninety. She’s thinking: “I would never go through the garbage can.” And then: “These black shoes hurt.”