She
told me that she needed to leave the existential bustle and heat of the city
and asked if she could come down to see me just for one night and I told her
she could catch the bus at Midway and that I would pick her up at the student
center where I went to school. When she
arrived she was smiling. It was six in the evening and we only had twelve hours
together. The June light resembled honey
pilsner as we embraced and I groped the leather handle of her satchel the
moment she stepped off the bus.
“It
is good to see you, Daveeed.” She said.
Her
hair was dyed purple.
Every
time I saw her hair it was dyed a different color and cropped short.
She
was an artist. I was a writer. She was from Serbia and had moved to Chicago
during the war. I kept dropping out of college to write books. We met in the computer lab when she spotted
me furiously pecking away into the keyboard and smiled and said she knew I was
a writer and then told me that I looked good in black. She asked me how long I
had long hair and I told her I had refused to cut my hair since autumn 1998,
three years ago.
Sometimes
she called me Damien because her favorite writer was Herman Hesse.
“The
true profession of man is to find his way to himself.” I said,
quoting the one Herman Hesse quote from Siddhartha I had memorized in high
school.
“You
probably just memorize that so girls will think you are smart.” She informed
me, laughing.
I
smiled.
She
would sit on the quad and sketch anything she could find and I would read her
my stories and she would smile and clap. Sometimes at night our limbs would
buckle around each other’s flesh and I would kiss her forehead and she would
say something in Serbian and I would ask her what that means and she would
smile and laugh and refuse to tell me.
“Everyone
thinks I am boy because the way I dress.” She said.
One
time in college she asked me if I could cut just a strand of my hair off so she
could use it in an art project and I told her no.
I
told her that my long hair was my favorite attribute and that no one touches my
hair.
“You
think your penis will fall off if someone touches your hair?” She said,
laughing.
At
the time I was living in an apartment in a renovated mansion on High street. When we entered my apartment
our fingers immediately pinched and unbuttoned the others attire, draping off scrunched
fabric and denim shanks like petals until our clothes were puddled together in
an androgynous nest in front of the door and we were both naked. We never made
love but we would hold each other, and kiss and smoke and then I would cook for
her.
At
night she asked me again why everyone thought she was a boy. She said that in ancient
Greece there was a female only clan of “wild women” who lived deep in the woods
and were devotees to the deity Artemis. She said that the woman would learn to
walk like bears so when they were going through puberty they would appear ugly
to older men and the older men would not wish to rape them or impregnate them.
She said that the women spent years in the woods making themselves ugly so that
later in life they could envelope their own identity and blossom into the woman
they were destined to be.
That
night we slept together our limbs welded in abstract iterations. She would cry,
tears skiing down the drywall of each
other’s denuded body, leaving a residue of salty rivulets when they dried. She
told me she was scared of life and missed her grandmother in Serbia.
I
held her close.
The
alarm never went off and we awoke with parallelograms of tangerine light splintering across the room.
We didn’t have much time and I tried to brew her coffee while we combed the
floor for our respective garments. She
had taught me how to make Turkish coffee the semester before and when I handed
her the cup she gripped my wrist and bit into with the tips of her fingers.
“Hands.”
She said.
“What?”
I retorted.
“I
want to draw your hands.”
I
told her okay. But not now we were going to be late and she was going to miss
her bus.
We
walked toward the door and she reached into her satchel and pulled out a parcel
that was wrapped in a blue cloth.
“It’s
for you. Open this after I leave.”
I
accepted the gift. I had nothing to offer her accept a few smokes. Then I
turned around and told her to wait. I ran into the bathroom and opened the
bathroom cabinet and fished around until I found it then I ran into the kitchen
and pulled my shirt back off. I then reached behind my head and removed the
plastic knob that held my hair back in a ponytail.
I
then handed her the scissors.
“Take
it.” I said, reminding her that we don’t have much time.
“What?”
She looked at me funny. I sat down on a chair.
“Take
as much of it as you want. Only hurry. We don’t have much time left.”
I
could feel the intersection of dual blades as they chomped across my forehead. She
held part of me in front of her like an auburn ribbon. I asked her if she
wanted more. She looked at the offering I had given her and continued to smile.
Ten
minutes later we said goodbye. She reminded me to open the gift when I returned
home. We held each other close and I guessed her forehead and kissed the
moistness under her eyes.
When
she boarded the bus I could see her looking at me through the tint of the
window.
The
bus emitted gaseous pauses and began to throttle and lumber and gradually drift
away and then the bus turned into a pebble and then it turned the corner and
then it was gone.
***
Status: At
9:30 pm tonight it will be seven days, or, to poetically parody Kris Kristofferson, “Well I woke up
Sunday morning with no place to hold my head that didn’t reek/ and the beer I
had for breakfast wasn’t there since I’ve been sober for one week.”
Seven days.
This is the longest since November 2004, or, more
aptly, a fourth of my lifetime ago, that I have gone without a beer.
The weird thing is, I love waking up on my day off
and having a beer or twelve to start the day with. Lately it feels like when I wake up, no matter how
much coffee I sluice down the ol’ hatch, I just can’t stay collectively
cognizant and I’m wading in this pond of reality soporific lidded, anvil-heavy exhausted, nowhere
to go.
Most writers are used to constipated bouts of
insomnia and embrace it when the writing is going well. As a writer certain vectors
of your chest almost always feel sexually frustrated, almost always feel pent
up, and if these aren’t ejaculated daily on the tissue of the page then peace
and nocturnal solace will never be found. I think of opening sentences of the Mahabharata, it is revealed the god Vyasa summons his brother Ganesha to be his scribe and Ganesha, the elephant-visage Hindu diety who is both the remover of obstacles and the god of writers' informs Vyasa that he will write the story on once condition, "I will write for you; but if once you stop the story I will leave and never return."
All writers' understand this. They know that true writing happens when you are sitting on your ass for hours on end, how the pattering of keystrokes threads the unknown narrative into the page and how, hours later, time has been completely usurped, and the coffee has grown cold and the nerf ball sun is blotched in the antipodal pocket of the sky and there is an empty ashtray stamped with a corky-nest of cigarette butts that looks like something a phoneix might rise out from and there is ten freshly concevied wrought pages that are in front of you. This is the reason writers write, as not to lose that pulse, that narrative, that yearning that once it leaves it will never return.
When I transferred to Illinois State University in the autumn of 2000 I posted a picture of Ganesha on my dorm room door but the RA who looked just like Rudy Huxtable made me take it down. I should have graduated college the semester prior but I had gotten romantically involved with a prof at Bradley who was married and then got into a car wreck and almost died.
My mentor the late David Foster Wallace was on sabbatical that semester and I had a delightful dalliance with writer Carole Maso, but mainly I jipped class to work on my novels in the basement computer lab. I worked third shift in the library, idled outside DFW's office at hopes of garnering a scent of the elusive author, and drank my ass off. I was living in a dorm where I was over 21 and the bulk of the students were not. Almost every afternoon I would return from class and there would be a knock on my door and a short-haired sophomore with the university vowels stitched on his shirt would appear inquiring if by chance I would just so happen to be stopping by the liquor store that night and if I was here's a fifty, could I pick up a couple of fifths for him.
And of course I always did.I started smoking a lot of weed. My room became the official smoking lounge on the floor. Alcohol isn't allowed in the dorms, of course, and I was smuggling up to fifty bottles of week inisde the building. My parties on Manchester 16 became epic. One Friday night (lord knows where the RA was) I cozened the girls on the hall to strip down to their underwear. They then pinched off their bras and I placed a waste basket on the top of my head like a drunken drum major and promenaded the topless girls around the hallways of the dorm Mardi Gras parade style while the boys peeked out their doors and started cheering.
College, the best nine years of my life.
I flunked out a few months later and moved back to Peoria.
For a long time I forgot the Ganesha mantra. I
forgot that I didn’t need to be fucked up every second to be a writer. I forgot
that I didn’t need to be a social whore to be unique and successful in life.
I forgot that all I needed to do in my career was,
like Ganesha scribing the Mahabharata, to sit down every day and transcribe
the narrative dictation that I heard in my head.
When I was at Illinois State I met a young artist
from Europe named Jasna. She had short hair and always dyed it a different color.
One weekend she came down to Peoria to visit me. We had a very gentle rapport where
we would just hold each other for what felt like allocated sockets of eternity.
She would always call me Daveeed.
When she left Peoria she handed me a gift in a blue
cloth and told me not to open it until she got on the bus and headed back home.
When I opened the gift there was a copy of Damian, a novel by Herman Hesse.
When I opened the novel a postcard fell out. It looked like the last leaf culled from autumn. As if scrutinizing
a film negative I held the postcard up to the light. I didn’t realize what it
was at first until I noticed the tusks and then realized that it was a picture
of Ganesha, the god of writers.
I placed the picture over my writing desk where,
after more than dozen moves since it remains to this day.
On the back of the post card there was something
scribed in Serbian. A few years later I asked Jasna what it meant translated
into English.
“Color of your name,” She said, “Never forget the
color of your name, Daveeeeed.”
I told her that day I wouldn't. I did for a long time. After these forty days perhaps I'll be able to recognize the poetic patina and color of my name once again.
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