Bolshoi

The performance was packed with this city�s array of styles of persona presentation. Lush gowns and black suited escorts, students in jeans and summer weight tops, sun dresses by the dozens in splashes of bright summer floral display. We�d had a drink on the balcony bar and watched huge dark turmoil�s grey cloud and white bleached sky roar from the coast to the interior, a large tropical depression�s advanced exploratory rider�s approach. Two couples, friends of his again and met at the gallery party a while ago, accompanied, as we waited for the chimes to sound to call us to his box.

The Bolshoi, already my mind was remembering Moscow with its heat and its snows. The crowd here smelled much better than on the summer Moscow Metro, when I in the company of poverty had visited so long ago. The Bolshoi, once the premiere in movement and orchestral accompaniment but now, well now I don�t know; perhaps the Bolshoi has been eclipsed now by other better funded ballet companies. You might think, that with all of the new found oil wealth and autocratic administration present in the Kremlin and possessing the White House of Moscow, and I wonder here if the Seven Sisters have been transformed into bastions of wealth or left to wither as newer finer homes for the czars and czarinas of that city and country that I love so much are built.

There was light conversation with no tenor of dismay or depression while we stood and drank. The overcast and tossed pitch clouds stirred above as the chimes sounded and we gathered to slowly walk to the box. I love proper performance halls and opera houses. I wish I had had time when in Europe to tour them, to sit and watch performances in halls that have thrived for hundreds of years. I had only been to one in my travels there, and that was in Odessa, and only to watch a political confrontation that took place just before Fool�s Day years ago. It was hard to decide where the true fools where that May, on the streets or shaking fists in that lovely opera hall.

I love scarlet, and crimson; the colors of course not the cam models or literary characters who bear those names. The hallways to the box, deep red and gold and beautiful artworks hung on walls. The crowd around us thinned, aged, and hushed and became elegant as we approached the door to the box. I held the door until relieved by an usher who blushed at my d�colletage, exposed in the best of light and presented in a manner that would have made Antoinette blush; he had insisted, �Oh Mandy, be beautiful for a night.� I had submitted.

The Bolshoi, it was beautiful, putting my exposure to shame and then I lost myself in the story. I knew it of course, the puppet girl, the jealousy, the love and obsessive lust, the exposure of the machinery created for company; and just because the toy maker might, with his craft, relieve his loneliness. I lost myself in it all, the strength of movement in bodies broken and rebuilt to achieve what they do; precision of music motion color and light, choreographed to delight. Approaching intermission I felt lost, and when he reached his hand over with his kerchief clutched in his ancient hand and touched lightly to catch my single tear I jerked back to that present moment. �Mandy, it�s meant to be a comedy, what is it?� I could do nothing but shrug.

I could not tell him, in that place and time and company, �Oh god she is a robot only, this man thinks he is in love with a beautiful woman but all around him know, she is machinery for loneliness, and has been created to be alone. She has no feelings, and so does not know.� Moscow winter set in then and I had a drink in the lobby with the wife of one of his friends while he and the rest of our small party remained boxed and in conversation.

She was quiet, thankfully, and I sensed her judgments and was happy at the lack of small discussions that others around us were conducting. Outside the crystal chandeliered and modern decor of the long lobby, through the wide expanses of sheets of glass meant to provide a panoramic view of the river below, waterfalls of rain tore the view in a mix of black and grey vertical lines; summer�s early approach to this semi-southern city. Internal, though, while I sipped champagne delicately and touched my dark lips gently with paper napkin, I stood in my Moscow, a machine meant for wanton lurid useless sexual activity, frozen in her snows.

� Amanda 2012
5/30/2012

Quote

I like it that you're burning not for me,
I like it that it's not for you I'm burning
And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth
Will underneath our feet no more be turning
I like it that I can be unabashed
And humorous and not to play with words
And not to redden with a smothering wave
When with my sleeves I'm lightly touching yours.

I like it, that before my very eyes
You calmly hug another; it is well
That for me also kissing someone else
You will not threaten me with flames of hell.
That this my tender name, not day nor night,
You will recall again, my tender love;
That never in the silence of the church
They will sing "halleluiah" us above.

With this my heart and this my hand I thank
You that - although you don't know it -
You love me thus; and for my peaceful nights
And for rare meetings in the hour of sunset,
That we aren't walking underneath the moon,
That sun is not above our heads this morning,
That you - alas - are burning not for me
And that - alas - it's not for you I'm burning.



marina tsvetaeva with translation. and there is nice song based on this lyrics. in russian. Quote

oh god that you would pick this lovely heartbreak to post my (friend) as I am sitting struggling with my own rhyme of Moscow Blue.

my (soft.smile) for (you). I wonder do you remember, us talking together, about those we loved and lost? Quote

oh god that you would pick this lovely heartbreak to post my (friend) as I am sitting struggling with my own rhyme of Moscow Blue.

my (soft.smile) for (you). I wonder do you remember, us talking together, about those we loved and lost?


yes... i have this talk saved and your photocard too. silly me?

feels like it was eternity ago - or just last wednesday.
Quote

yes... i have this talk saved and your photocard too. silly me?

feels like it was eternity ago - or just last wednesday.



Wednesday by Wednesday, this is how Eternity's name is lettered.
Quote

A small discussion and explanation before proceeding with a work-in-progress begun in the early hours of this morning. In the late 16th and early 17th centuries a new phenomena began in Italy and quickly was adopted in France; The Salon as a form of intellectual and artistic social gathering was born and ushered in on the edges what later became identified as The Enlightenment in European culture. Bright minds, and bodies, and artists of the time gathered under the collection points of certain woman.

I have long considered the allegory of the Salon as it relates to the modern cam-site room. Certainly there are rare instances of intellect and repositories of wit evidenced here and on some other sites; and always, there is the central figure around whom all collect, compliment, shower with adoration and rewards. Always, as with the early period Salons, that setting is the boudoir.

Secondly then, a point of technique employed; I have long loved and attempted to use internal line, stanza, and entire work lyrical echoing rhyme forms. In this work I am expanding that system of echo by utilizing some fran�ais to play with and against English language word sounds. My particular variant of french a poet friend (French) and myself have coined the term (franglais.merde) fitting I think.

Thirdly and finally in this wordy introduction; the title of the work; the Salons of the 16th and 17th centuries were given, or developed names for themselves, or names applied by other, sometimes critical, personages. I have named this particular Salon "Le Salon D'Agais Apens�s". This combination of words is a sort of pun based upon the recent final winning word of the National Spelling Contest in the United States. This Salon name, is the etiological derivation combination of the components of that final winning word; the definition of that word is "ambush".

Welcome to



Le Salon D'Agais Apens�s

I enter. I watch her face carefully, to see if my entry would be noted, apprised, assayed for intent or design. She knows me. One moment I am clever humor, another second�s arrival and I am blue. It is the crux of our natures, la raisons f�minines that we come together here. She sits surrounded, boudoir lit in subtile color. The sheets that I remember, bought together before I knew. She has changed her hair; both style and color, dark again with une teinte de rouge run through. My heart aches to see this return of what I had loved until it burnt me to.

The lady reclines upon her side, elle est �l�gante, surrounded by her soupirants h�sitants who sudden silent and with yellowed eyes and � partir de l'ombre ils chuchotent � elle; they smile and hide their mouths with mains impures. I do not know what their soft growls whisper but by her affirmatives and affirmations I understand it to be amusante et sexuelle. I with courtesy, bid salute, my curtsey complete, humbled, I give bisous. I see the tension in petits mouvements painted tenderly sous le maquillage autour ses yeux. Elle accueille chaleureusement before taking yet another lover�s hand and leaving. This is why she and I are here.

� Amanda 2012
6/3/2012
Quote

"The great paradox of art: We encourage creativity, but end up with less of it."
-Manigran

Translation in progress "We enjoy fun, but receive formula."


Roller Coaster

"oh.""ah.""eek."*arms in air*"eek."
*yawn*

"Throw Away Poetry" for WaterWoman by OhWowWith3MinutesToGoReally?

(c) Amanda 2012
6/3/2012 Quote

"Ah if wishes were stitches what a lovely gown we'd sew." Moi

A woven work of franglais for all, a journal divine avec la po�sie et la musique, et quelques belles peintures;

so take some time, and visit this lovely page ... http://fav.me/d52c47k *sighs* and *moans* for all. Quote

The third and final part of my delicate music, poetry/fiction and lovely imagery Journal tryptic Le Salon D'Agais Apens�s. Adagio in D minor now available on deviantArt for your eyes and hearts.

http://fav.me/d52f6ov

Definitely for those of you who enjoy the written word, and music and visual artwork and who have time available to squander with such things. Quote

"Salon" by Amanda Graham

The three Journals combined as a short story, music and art PDF that can be downloaded and promulgated by anyone who wishes to. There are two additional sections being written to lead into this ending story.


http://fav.me/d52lm8h Quote

She snuffled, eyes directed downwards, and wiped her wet nose. The poor kid had been through a lot it was true.

The mountie sighed... great continental plates moved a few inches... rift valleys sunk a few meters lower... steam rose up in pillars... herds sank down into the grass in unison...

The sun crouched behind the brim of his wide hat... The world became so still...

His face in shadow. blonde hair glowing with sun halos. His arm cocked and rising towards... towards...

Darkest deepest inkiest black... That's right... His glacier glasses had their own event horizon. Nothing reflected. Nothing penetrated. Stiller than the Empty Quarter on a windless day, when not even an insect dared tread upon those sacred sands...

But so much darker. So much more fixed. Immobile. Until...

Gloved hand... Crimson arm... Deliberate trajectory...

Stillness... Loud stillness...

The self-absorbed kid too became aware of it. The sense of the onset of the rarest of moments. The universe held her breath... The Fates stopped in their merriment and watched with bright eyes...

as...

The eclipse was now slowly coming to an end... Once again earth would be caught in the all revealing beam of the deadly green orbs... Glasses fell out of frozen fingers... Rifles slipped out of soldiers' arms...

Yes... Who knew that on this day two more suns would take to the firmament?

So bright... So mesmerizing.... So very very dangerous...

Quote

FULL MOON

One night as Dick lay fast asleep,
Into his drowsy eyes
A great still light began to creep
From out the silent skies.
It was the lovely moon's, for when
He raised his dreamy head,
Her surge of silver filled the pane
And streamed across his bed.
So, for a while, each gazed at each-
Dick and the solemn moon-
Till, climbing slowly on her way,
She vanished, and was gone.

By Walter


kisses always!!!! My dear friend! Quote

Without your light

The girl stood in the darkened room; she was tired from the long day. She was tired from waiting. She was tired of being alone. She stood so still that it was almost as if she would never move again. The light had drifted away outside of the curtain-less windows; the gloom had crept within, and she stood stilled. She dances alone.


Quote

Miriam's teeth grated, grated hard on each other. He was at it again! After all the times she had politely requested that he didn't do that. That he didn't do this one millionth thing that drove her absolutely our of her fucking MIND!

Those of us who can see into the infrared would have been alarmed by her color at this point. The great majority of her body was cool but her head, her brain, particularly its center, were seething with violent thought.

She remembered with a wry smile back before she married him. When she used to feel lonely. Oh what she wouldn't give for a moment of peace now. She'd had enough company to last a lifetime.

(crunch crunch crunch) He was eating doritos... Goddammit! In front of that damned computer screen again. Writing his memoirs. Jesus wept! His fucking memoirs. Like he had ever done anything that could entertain a lobotomized seal let alone a publisher.

Still his hair hadn't gone at least. She grinned wickedly as a sudden vision of how great it must have been, how really EPIC it must have been, to be a warrior of some hostile tribe and to SCALP the bejuzzus out of men like him. Only she wouldn't have tied the scalp to her belt, the smelly, oily, unkempt thing... no, she'd take it outside, shred it up, and sell it to the traders. Tell 'em it was smoke fixin's. She laughed, long time since she had, laughed at the thought of his beloved mane being rolled, lit, stoked, and blown by some other asshole with a mind capable only of destruction.

"Wouldn't use a knife either" she thought. Not primal enough. Didn't quite convey her feelings right. "Gotta be a tomahawk."

She almost didn't hear him doing the next fool thing he always did... right on cue... as she savored her new fantasy. "Anything else? No... just the goddamed hair." And she'd do it while he was still alive. And then bury him up to his neck in an ant pile. And...
And... now she had it... she'd make a trail of doritos to lead them to him. Ohhhh if she could talk to the animals, just imagine it, she'd tell them: the eyes, get his eyes first.

As he came in to get another beer, he noticed her lost in thought, but tapping a soup ladel into the palm of her hand. He didn't notice that she was striking it so hard that the skin was blushing quite red. He didn't say a word because she seemed to be thinking deeply about something and would be very upset if interrupted. He congratulated himself as he left the kitchen for being so sensitive to realize this. He had progressed since he was young, really progressed, for sure.

Quote

(smiling) Dudley that is the best fucking bit of autobiography you have EVER written ... seriously pleased with that effort. *would have had her use her nails and teeth instead of a tomahawk* each to her own weaponry. Quote

(smiling) Dudley that is the best fucking bit of autobiography you have EVER written ... seriously pleased with that effort. *would have had her use her nails and teeth instead of a tomahawk* each to her own weaponry.



lol yes... write what you know and for the audience you have. Quote

lol yes... write what you know and for the audience you have.



HA!

*added to truly 'random' quotes* Quote

The Warmth of Sun

The old woman sits on the bench out doors of the corner caf�; it is a sunny spot where she can flex her swollen hands and allow her knees to recover from the morning walk to the market nearby. She is dressed warmly with two overcoats a sweater a woolen man�s work shirt and trousers and a woolen throw of a faded tartan wrapped around her head and then under her arms and folded upon her chest.

It is early spring, still quite cold here in this small village outside of the nearby city. If it weren�t such a worn and tired village, if the place had been discovered by wealthy young couples with chi'ldren, she would no longer be able to afford the two rooms she keeps here within the walking distance that has tired her. She turns her head and squints through the glare cast from the large windows of the caf� and nods her head vigorously and waves her fingers toward the interior. The shawl, the two meters of tartan that she has wrapped about her as a shield against potential chills slides a bit off of her head and a long tendril of silvered grey hair falls across her face. Her strong thick swollen right hand brushes the escapee from her face and she laughs softly. �Bloody should chop this off of me and give up on vanity.� She chuckles again.

The glassed door of the caf� opens to the ring of a small bell hung partially in its path and a young woman dressed in a green aproned, white bloused, black trouser outfit moves out of the dark interior and into the sunlight beside the bench. �Here�s some tea my dear, and a small sweet from the display that I thought you might enjoy. Are you warm enough here?� The old woman smiles at the young red haired woman. �Just fine Sandra, just fine here in the sun; the air is so sweet today don�t you think?� �Yes I do, I wish I could sit with you awhile, if you are here a bit later I�ll take my break early but Robert is so uncertain about how things are done �� The old woman smiles, �Men, always uncertain until they run it all.� The young woman laughs loudly. �I love it when you come by; let me get him settled on things and I�ll come out and smoke with you.� �That�d be lovely Sandra, I�m quite comfortable and I feel like sitting for a bit.� The young woman, who is now known to you as Sandra, returns inside to �settle� Robert.

The old woman opens the worn black bag that lies on the bench beside her. When she had acquired the bag, so many years ago, it had been quite stylish and many other young women of those days had envied her from it. She smiles as her finger tips lift the soft worn and scraped leather fold that covers the interior. It had been a gift given her, given by a close friend who had died those years before, when she had still been attractive, though passing into that indeterminate age of beauty where heads might not turn so quickly, or other women sharpen their gaze to view her closely as competition. Her left hand clutches the bag while her more limber right disappears within for a moment. She does not look to search out what she seeks; years of habit, and knowledge about the objects kept within, their shapes, and textures all kept clearly in her memories, require no verification. Her mind remains as sharp as when she was quite young, all of her life�s exploits, lessons learned, stories told, lies repeated often enough that anyone else would have convinced themselves that they were actual memories and not the scripts carefully written for their own protection, each of these wisps of experience remain clear and bright; some remain far too painful to disturb unless it is late at night.

The right hand reappears, a white cotton, laced edge, handkerchief deftly held between her fingers. She touches the cotton softly to the inner corner of her right eye, turns her head slightly to touch again the left eye�s corner and the hand and handkerchief disappear into the bag again. The old woman extends her legs and crosses them at the ankle before her. �I�ll be needing some shoes again, these are quite worn and when the summer heat comes my feet will swell and cook in these.� She sighs audibly. �I hate that bus ride to that awful shop on the other side of the village, and how those women there laugh about me.' �To hell with them all� she mutters. The trees that are scattered on the greening grass around this part of the caf�s exterior are just beginning to show the tiniest of bright yellow and green leaves, and she smiles at the daffodils and crocuses and tulips with their tight wrapped blossoms yearning to open; �yellow and linen narcissus; purple and yellow, and white with sharp red striped crocuses; and the tulips such a dark crimson and then those bright purple and the deep black ones that I recommended to Sandra the year before last.� She smiles at the memories of the bright colors she has watched these past few years while living near this sunny spot on this wooden bench.

The door to the caf� eases open again, with its clear sweet sounding bell lightly chiming. �I brought a sweet for me and my cigarettes for the two of us.� �Ah, that�s good my dear.� �Well I�d seen you hadn�t touched your tea yet or eaten your sweet and I thought the after-smoke would motivate us both.� The old woman wonders at the kindness of this young woman, and is grateful for it, for the company. She shakes her head slightly, �Sandra, you are so kind. If I were younger, I wonder, would you care for me so sweetly then?� Sandra stands looking down at the old woman for a moment and then turns and sits beside her on the sun-greyed wooden bench. A slight push of a rising breeze shifts her red hair and it shines in the sun. �You always ask such questions. Let me think a moment� and Sandra takes a bite from her sweet. The old woman watches her chew and reflexively bites her own, and then follows it quickly with a sip from her large green brown and white paper cup. Sandra reaches into the pocket of the apron and pulls a large paper napkin with the logo of the shop displayed bright on it and passes it to the old woman. �I�m not sure I would be as friendly, I�ve seen you then, those photographs that are attached to your writings; you look so � intimidating.� The old woman lifts an eyebrow and wipes gently on her mouth, looks at Sandra and motions with the sweet held in her hand and laughs softly. �Crumbs� she says. The dappled with freckles white skin of the young woman�s face glows white and pink. The old woman passes the paper napkin to her and looks across the street at the row of shops and the market there. So many of the shops are quiet and empty now, with real estate signs offering lowered rental rates.

�Oh Sandra, I was never intimidating in person, I was so shy for so many, many years. At your age I hardly spoke to people.� The young woman�s head turns and she looks at the old woman in the bright light, examining the soft skin now like paper, the map of tiny creases and delicate folds laid out in white on white. �Really? Your life, your career then, all of the stories and poems? I don�t believe a word you are saying� and the young woman�s laugh is as light as the chime on the door. �Oh I could be a savage at times, and when having fun, out dancing, or visiting with a close friend, I could howl with the best; but those are such small amounts of time in a life; relished more thoroughly as memories I think.� The old woman takes another draw at her cup. �Perhaps we would have been friends then� the girl speaks so softly that when the old woman says nothing she thinks that her words might not have been heard. �Yes, I think we might well have been Sandra, but being friends now is nice as well.� �Yes, I do love your visits with me.�

From inside the caf� a loud clatter and the splintering noise of a broken cup sounds sharp through the expanse of glass behind the two seated women. Sandra laughs and the old woman drops her chin and smiles wide. �Will you take a cigarette and rest a while longer while I go back to work?� �Well pretty girl, I think I should get on with this day; I�m feeling in the mood for a small bit of fish and a small potato with parsley and butter, and if I�m adventurous a glass of ice wine with some strawberries tonight, so I think I will wander over to the market and see what I can find on sale.� �I�ll miss you until I see you again.� �I�ll miss you to Sandra, now, go watch Robert learn how to use a broom.� The young woman smiles, then leans over, and to the old woman�s surprise, gives her soft cheek a kiss. �Come back soon, please.� The old woman sits in the warm sun for a few minutes more, then rises and takes her unfinished sweet and the remaining cup of tea to the outdoor trashcan. She looks through the dark expanse of glass and sees Sandra and Robert cleaning the broken crockery on the floor as she fetches her black, scuffed leather handbag; a gift from her friend.

� Amanda 2012
5/20/2012
Quote

The Response

The letter carrier had knocked on the door several times before she heard the noise over the music she had been playing as she edited her �interview� document with the literary journal. Her glasses perched on her head she opened the door to the carrier�s blue uniform and blank face. �Amanda Graham?� �Yes.� �Certified letter for you, sign here, and then here.� Her hands accepted the small creamed coffee colored envelope from the carrier and the government issued ball point with ugly black ink stains on its barrel. She initialed where he had placed the �X� beside the signature line and handed pen and recipient card back to him. He held out his electronic device and she initialed again on the glass surface. He took the device away, turned and walked quickly back to his muttering, unwashed and dented Postal Service step van.

Her script was, as always, elegant; flowing curves in blue art ink, horizontally perfectly aligned with the edges and ends of the envelope, inter-character and between line separation that only her trained hand, or a generated computer font would ever be able to achieve.


Amanda Graham
c/o The bunker


The rest I will leave out for a while, those hunter ki'ller stalkers still live, somehow, out there in the world. She slides her nail under the flap; her correspondent had placed her tongue there and wetted the dried glues before sealing her message. The envelope itself, she could smell the parfum that the two of them had shared for years in the air rising from it. She takes another step backwards and closes the steel door that keeps the heat and humidity of this land from her, and the hyenas at bay. The partially open envelope held lightly by its corner she returns to the small working table set up in the now empty study. The two paintings left her are packaged and held safely in their wooden shipping boxes and lean against the wall of the room, the wall which they had hung upon for years, viewed by her friend, loved and used as reminders of she and the sender of the letter. She sits again on the folding chair and stares for a short time out the large French windows that let the bright summer light into the room. �If someone were to paint this scene, would it be lit like the beautiful work of the Dutchman I so admire? Would its light be clear and white or yellowed?�

She recovers and places the envelope down upon the table surface. It lies beside the crystal ashtray that she keeps clean and cleared of used cigarette ashes and butts. She smokes only outside now, on the porch where the envelope had been received, where night time photographs had been made and emailed to the correspondent a continent away. �Ancient history� she hears herself speak aloud, with a slight sharp echo to it in this now hard surfaced empty space. Like her friend�s ghost she is all that remains in this beautiful house; and both will soon fade from its floors and rooms and memories. She puts off the sudden urge to light another smoke and focuses again on the envelope. Her now clean and calloused hands lift it from the flatness of the desk background and she finishes the slice of her nail as the parfum clings to her. A single small sheet of water color paper slides out as she balloons the envelope between fingers and thumb of her left hand.

There is more of the beautiful calligraphy in deep blue on the white surface of the paper. As she had written more than a year ago, the inks and paper and nature of the note is exceptional in its implications of its source creator.


�I�m not having fun now.�


Her grey eyes consume all of the qualities of the hand written note; paper, ink, spacing, alignments; and then, implications. Her mind longs to lunge head long and madly into all of the histories of the two of them. She shuts down her processing facilities. She stops. She simply smells the one that she had loved so desperately that it only led to destruction. The hollies outside of the large beautiful windows block much of the view of the front gardens, the flowers planted a decade and more ago. The row of birch that block the sight of street and other dwellings hidden in cultivated beds and carefully maintained forests that run up the street from this ending point to the hill above. Only a small willow to the left of her point of vantage is visible; another reminder of things lived, loved, and written of.

Her mind returns to the matter at hand only slowly, focusing within on the words tendered without. She weighs herself, now heavier by four words and a contraction. The implicit and explicit nature of their shared communications pours back in waves of sullen pain and tender love.

She shifts the envelope and the small rectangle of heavy wet press watercolor paper to her left on the single table left in this quickly evaporating space. Her hands hover over the keyboard of the tiny computer that will leave in a black nylon messenger bag with her gun, her phone, and the tiny bits of life that keep her able to travel, to conceal herself, to attack and defend when needed. Her hand writing is not that of the artist that will be, of the woman who wrote; it is the script of a school girl and clumsily created. This is her natural creative hand now, this keyboard and the electronic universe it is connected to.

She wants the nicotine badly now, and the coffee in the paper cup that sits in the large lovely kitchen that she had created delicious meals for her friend in. She softly starts her reply, and her fingers tap tentatively on the keys. The speed of her keying accelerates as she composes in her mind. This letter will take only an hour to frame, and then another of spell checking and editing several times before it is sent as a flow of electron codes to the correspondent�s screen, a continent away.

� Amanda 2012
6/10/2012

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The knock at the door came at maybe 10:13 a.m.

"Son of a bitch!" he growled and rolled off his bed. Like a lion charging through deep savanna grass he plunged toward the door, fumbling to make sure his pants, worn from the day before, were zipped.

He threw open the door and stood, swaying as the light poured into his dank cave, his eyes, that he did his best to top with lowered eyebrows, had to adjust from wide open dream dilation rapidly to bright, bright daylight.

"Good morning" he said sarcastically, only realizing after he gave his greeting that he was talking to a message courier.

This irritated him. Why did they have to correspond this way? If he didn't have to sign for it there would be no knock at the door. He could have slept undisturbed until 2 maybe 3 that afternoon. His seething mind came to the quick conclusion that his pal d' pen knew this and figured he would let his correspondence pile up as usual in his typical "once a month is about the mailbox sampling rate we need" philosophy. He grudgingly conceded too, quickly in his mind, that there was some sense to this. Nevertheless, he committed a vengeful pen swap to the courier, getting a nice new ballpoint for a cat chewed felt tip. Interestingly enough, and to show his master control, his ugly scrawled signature actually changed color midway through because of the ink change. His theft was brazen and so easy to see if only the courier really checked. But he was only too happy to escape from that scene and so gave only a feint with his eyes in the general direction of the page.

He staggered to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of rum. He swept his dining room table clean with one motion of an arm - clearly repeating some kind of ritual. His eyes twinkled merrily when he heard the sound of things hitting the carpeted floor. He placed the unopened letter in the center of the table.

He took a shot of rum. He checked his pulse. He paused. He went back to the kitchen and poured another shot of rum. He sat down. Fished a pocket knife out of his robe, after loosening it. Now he showed a dexterity that was surprising to see in such a derelict. He cut open the letter top. Like a surgeon working deep within the brain he carefully pulled with tweezers, also fished out of his robe, the piece of paper contained within.

Still holding the paper, which was just the size of a large Post-It note, in the tweezers he held it up to the light, turned it this way and that, carefully examining its exterior. Then and only then he brought it to his nose. He sniffed twice, with rised eyebrow, and then scrawled a few notes into a notepad he kept in yet another robe pocket.

He scratched his unshaven face. Enjoying the feel and sound. He ruminated a bit.

Now he spread open the note on the table. It read simply: "Forsythe was behind the tree."

This made him frown and a snuffling noise came out of his nose. He stood and started to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. With hands clasped behind his back.

"Forsythe" he mumbled. Pace, pace, pace. "Tree". Pace, pace, pace.

After maybe one hundred trips up and down the path he had worn into the carpet, he suddenly stopped, stood fully erect with one finger pointed to the ceiling, and exclaimed: "Yes, that's it. Eureka!"

He went to his bedroom desk, flicked a piece of paper quickly off the top of a stack in one of its drawers, took a machete out of his closet... and used it to cut the paper down to size. Then with his newly acquired pen he carefully wrote, wiping sweat off his brow as he worked, a wordy reply.

At one point he went to the dictionary and riffled through its pages. In fact he became a little distracted and seemed to move up and back through its pages over quite a range. He mouthed various words with varous accents, made several trips to the mirror in the bedroom, and constantly refilled his rum jigger so that it was never dry.

With the reply finally made, and to his obvious satisfaction for he now strutted around his lair like some kind of conquering hero, he threw on some clothes so that he could go out. His mission: find a neighboorhood kid who he could bribe to take it to the post office for him. His apartment rested quietly while he accomplished this. The dust he had thrown into the air settling down.

He was back again and in his living room as the clock rolled to 12:41. He noted this. Rubbed his hands in satisfaction. And then went back to bed.



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