I wonder if life has an aftertaste.
I wish there were someone I could ask.
And, if so, if life does have an aftertaste, I wonder how long it lasts.
A chef wrote once, "There is no taste, only aftertaste."
I'm curious as to what these departed people would say about this. I wish they would speak directly to me. I feel, at last, that I have become one of them, or that I am, at least, in their universe, and approaching their particular planet. But maybe that feeling applies to everyone—not just to me, but to you, too, and infants and young teenagers and people very, very much alive climbing mountains or rolling around on a bedroom floor while locked in an orgasmic embrace.
I remember orgasmic embraces.
Phyllis had orgasms wherever we went.
At an opera once (Puccini, La Boheme) she had an orgasm. It wasn't loud (she cared about her privacy sometimes), but it was loud enough that the people seated nearby looked over, dismayed (most of them) and elevated (some of them), because Phyllis's orgasms were things of elegance and beauty and a touch of pain (because, she told me later, she knew that they, the orgasms, were going to be far behind her before long).
She had orgasms spontaneously. We rode in taxis a lot and she had very loud orgasms in them. She screamed the names of her past lovers, my name, the names of rivers, and the names of people in history ("Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Isaac Newton!" she screamed once), as if she were searching, in her orgasm, through the soul and history of the world.
I could not match her orgasms. Mine were simply grunts and wheezes and moans followed by silence, followed by exhaustion. But she didn't care. She always said, afterward, "Oh Abner, you're lovely!"
She made me feel lovely, and feeling lovely, with her, was a very manly thing, and, of course, I enjoyed feeling manly, no matter if it was lovely only in her eyes.
Her eyes saw much, much more than ours are allowed to see, and "lovely" fit me, in those eyes, her eyes.
Sometimes I say to myself, in memory of her, "I'm lovely." I haven't begun to feel foolish about it—when I do, I'll know she's gone forever.
~ * ~
SOMESUCH
That's a grand word, don't you think—"Somesuch." It's coy and wonderfully descriptive at the same time. "Somesuch." You could say "This and that" instead, but it wouldn't be as descriptive or useful. And it doesn't mean the same thing, anyway.
I asked Sam Feary, who stands at the window continuously, now, but who tries to convince me he's not who I think he is (through a nameless surrogate with a tight grip, as related earlier in this narrative), but I know so much better (hunger unclouds the mind) than these departed, than even him (Sam, who surely has lost track of identity). It happens to the departed. It's necessary. They lose their wheels and go flying.
I asked Sam, "Is she here?" and he should have said, "Phyllis? Why, of course, my friend." To which I would have answered, "Why?" And he would have answered, "Because you're here, of course, and she needs to be where you are, even if both of you are out of reach." But he didn't say any of that, except for the last part, "Both of you are out of reach."
I threw my hard-boiled egg at him. It hit the window and splattered around him; he turned and looked at me, and, though I didn't recognize him, he said, in a voice that was unintelligible, "Be careful who you intimidate, my friend."
I laughed.
He laughed.
We should have had a party.
~ * ~
2:14
When I visited Phyllis's grave in Brooklyn, and saw it for the first time, and her name on it, I was naturally disbelieving; after all, I'd been making love to her for a while, then, and she to me, and if there was ever anyone who seemed very much alive, it was Phyllis, especially when we made love, and when we ate, and when we walked together, or went to the opera (which she claimed to love) or when she slept, or woke.
"Good morning, lovely Abner."
"Good morning, beautiful Phyllis."
This exchange took place more than once. It took place half a dozen times, though she repeated herself, her "Good Morning, lovely Abner," several times, too, so that, in the morning, it would be, "Good morning, lovely Abner," to which I'd respond, "Good morning, beautiful Phyllis," and she, from the bed, on her back, heavy blanket down to her waist, repeated, her gaze on the ceiling, "Good morning, lovely Abner," and I'd repeat, "Good morning, beautiful Phyllis," which would continue for fifteen minutes or so, sometimes longer, sometimes for half an hour. I told myself, then, that it was all right, there was no problem, because it was a game for her, like Yahtzee: it was the How-many-times- can-I-repeat-myself-before-he-gets-annoyed game.
But it wasn't a game at all. I know that, now.
She was stuck.
All the stuff there, in what remained of her gray matter, could not decide, after sleep (which was simply eight hours in a place I could not yet go to), what she had just said, or what I'd said, or whether it was even morning.
Christ!
Hunger high into the bones.
Hunger high into the bones.
But I miss even that—the repetition, getting stuck, and getting stuck with her, repeating myself, too, because it drew me into her world.
And now there's you, getting stuck with me in this place, this world I've meandered into over the course of decades, which is partially your world, too.
And I do not know you, at all. Or any part of you, or any extension of you, or you (as I said a couple of thousand words ago-- reread it if you'd like; it's terribly poetic), and I realize I must have been lying to you, or lying to myself, or simply trying to understand something, which would, of course be anything and everything about you, which would be anything and everything about myself
That is the spider on my tongue. My mortal ignorance of you, and, so, my mortal ignorance of myself, which becomes my mortal ignorance of these departed, and my mortal ignorance of now, and tomorrow, and, of course, of yesterday.
~ * ~
July 29
My cupboards are as bare as Mother Hubbard's—except for a crowd of various insects—ants, for instance, and silverfish and black beetles. A half dozen other varieties, too. I don't know why they're here. I was taught that insects go after sugar, crumbs, water, vegetation. But the cupboards are only wood and air, now.
It's possible that these departed, in my little house and in the dim forest around it, draw insects to them. It's possible that insects are attracted to them. Possible that insects see them or smell them, or see and smell them, and find something appetizing about them.
Now and again, I found insects on Phyllis, especially when she slept. Some of them were like the insects in my cupboards. Some of them were ants and black beetles and an occasional silverfish (when I think about it, I recall that silverfish aren't actually insects [which, by definition, have three body segments and six legs], nor are spiders, which have two body segments and eight legs). I remember I swiped these creatures to the floor when I found them on her naked body (she slept naked always, and often with a smile), and then I squashed them with my foot. Some of the larger insects made quite a noise when they died.
God, I remember our meals together. She ate everything with gusto, even bread and Jell-O, cucumbers and peas. She ate everything, in fact. She loved sushi, which I detested, and preferred her meat deep red: "There's nothing like eating this, Abner!" she said. "Eating this meat!"
"I can see that!" I said (I didn't eat much meat, then: I eat none, now).
"Yes," she said. "It's lovely, eating this meat!" After a few minutes, sometimes ten or fifteen minutes, sometimes longer, she would usually drop the phrase "eating this meat!" and I'd miss it; sometimes, I'd even coax it from her when I hadn't heard it in a while, and she'd usually oblige ("It's lovely, eating this meat!"), though sometimes she'd simply give me a little frown and say, "The meat is done."
I miss her gusto. I miss her skin, her breasts and her eyes, too. I find that I even miss picking the insects off her sleeping body and killing
them on the floor.
~ * ~
August 01
It's always like being in a tent in the dark at this dismal house in the dim woods. I've not known anything like it before. I was never a lover of sunlight. I found it obtrusive, even, in a way, maudlin—"A day without (whatever) is like a day without sunshine," people used to tell me. And I'd say, Shit on that! Give me rain and storms and an eternal night.
Now, this day, I would cheerfully embrace sunlight. I'd stare straight into it with a smile.
"Abner, you're a depressed person," Phyllis said once. "It's why you love me."
"No," I told her. "I love you because you're so goddamned lovable."
"You love me," she said, "because I'm just out of reach, now and always. Surely you know that."
"But you're not," I said. "I touch you every day."
And she smiled and said, "Oh Abner, you're not a fool, so why do you say such things?"
~ * ~
August 02, morning, early
Sam is here.
Phyllis is here.
They're the only ones that matter.
The others, these departed, don't matter at all. They move through me like hunger pangs. They come and go, come and go. Sooner or later, they'll be somewhere far beyond me.
Sam and Phyllis keep me company because they're my friends.
I've asked them to join me for dinner.
I have no idea what to make.
I have so little.
I have only cupboards as bare as Mother Hubbard's.
No. I believe I have eggs. I have always prepared eggs well. All kinds of eggs. Scrambled and over easy.
Though it occurs to me now, upon this moment, that I threw the eggs at a window.
But there is one. One egg.
I could walk to the little country store and buy more. I could buy bread, too. And butter. I could also buy coffee.
I could invite everyone here to a delicious breakfast.
~ * ~
August 4
I remember this: it is a great chore to bring a cup brimming with hot coffee from its saucer to the lips without spilling some, which is how I learned to bring the saucer to the area of my mouth with the cup, so it (the saucer) can catch the spillage.
~ * ~
August 5, in the sometime morning
Dark tonight.
Awakened just minutes ago by this: "AABBNNEERRR!"
I opened my eyes and thought I'd gone blind. I sensed no one nearby who might have said, "AABBNNEERRR!" —no one other than the murky presences in my house.
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!" I heard.
"Phyllis?" I said. "Phyllis?" I repeated, and glanced about for some point of light. "Am I blind?" I said. "Have I gone blind?"
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!" the voice said, and I tried to decide if whatever was speaking was above me, or to my right or left, or at the foot of the bed, or on the bed itself.
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!"
"Who are you?" I screamed.
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!"
"Who are you?" I screamed.
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!" the voice repeated, though with greater insistence and urgency, as if making some point.
"Tell me your name!" I screamed.
"AAABBBNNNEEERRRR!" the voice repeated.
And there was silence.
And I became aware, once more, of the murky and intrusive presences that exist with me in my little house in the dim woods.
~ * ~
Aug 5
Back from the country store with groceries.
I have whole wheat flour. I have butter. Margarine. Cooking oil. I have a quart of lard. Pound of bacon and same of hamburger. Same of eggs—a dozen. Gallon of milk. One percent. Crisco. Baking soda. As well as almonds as well.
It will be no small chore cleaning the cupboards out of the insects inside.
~ * ~
August 5
Lard is comfort food. Lard is the energy of protein. Lard has saving capabilities.
I have cooked the bacon and the hamburger.
I have sat at table.
Phyllis was at it to my left.
She covered my hand with hers and helped me eat.
I ate.
And slept.
I am a goddamned fool.
~ * ~
August 05 in the evening
It comes to me that Phyllis once had a jawbone which worked and that she thinks about that fact or has thought about it at some point in her time here, in this dimension, her new dimension, or that she has thought about her muscles, or her feet and arms and hands and realized that their very existence, her very need of them, and they of her, spoke eloquently of her mortality, which is the same with her lips and ankles, and her entire biology.
And mine. My entire biology.
For the first time in a long time I believe I need to use the bathroom. I had forgotten what a telling and wonderful part of life that is—using the bathroom, enjoying a good productive bowel movement and the enormous relief of urination.
~ * ~
Later evening
There and gone.
~ * ~
1:21
Took a dump and a pee.
I evacuate my bladder, therefore I am.
~ * ~
1:30
I smile into my mirror. It's not a bad smile, despite the overwhelming sadness behind it, which is profound and honest and makes the smile endearing.
Sam is there, in the mirror.
Phyllis is there, too, in the mirror, near him, behind him, near him.
Both of them smile, too, though their smiles are unknowable and invisible.
The passing misery is in the mirror, also. And each facet of it (each of its million facets) remembers its parts its jawbones and fingers, its musculature and its need of feet and genitalia. Each is locked in, set in, here, stuck here, stuck here.
In my little house in the dim woods.
I love my smile and the fact of my urination.
~ * ~
The Passing Misery
And that is what it is. It can be nothing else. It is the passing misery.
I've figured it out.
I've figured it out.
I'm the fool with a brain that works all right.
Food feeds the synapses. My mother told me that. So understand this—Listen to your mother! Eat your lard and your whole wheat.
My smile is as broad as Montana tonight.
Did I tell you that my little house in the dim woods is located in Montana?
I didn't?
It isn't.
It's in some other state.
I think Vermont.
I think New Hampshire.
I think New York.
But shit, nothing matters less than the state I'm in. Oh, I'm still laughing.
I hope you're laughing with me.
I could not find the doorknob. I was in the room, in the dark in the room, and I could not find the doorknob. I looked for a light in the room, a light to turn on, and there wasn't one, and I could not find the doorknob. I found the door easily, but I could not find the knob on the door so I couldn't get out of the dark room. I reached for the place where the doorknob had to be, where it always had been, but no matter where I reached, I couldn't find it, and I could not get out of the room, though I searched for hours and hours, and then, eventually, for days, and, after a time, for weeks, but I couldn't find the knob, and I couldn't find a light in
the dark room. And I kept searching because what else was I going to do except search, what else was there to do but search for the knob, feel around the edges of the door in the dark for the knob, but I could not find it, and so I knew, at last, after a very, very long time, after months, I believe, after what could have passed for months in someone's universe, that I was dead.
And then I found the knob, and I got out of that room.
People in coats and hats, people carrying umbrellas, carrying
briefcases, carrying babies on their backs, and people lugging
me-down dresses, in gray suits, people laughing, sweating, people
carrying tennis rackets, showing off new shoes, coaxing youngsters
to come along, people looking in shop windows.
Old people who have trouble walking, old people jogging, old
couples smiling affectionately at one another, as lovers do.
Teenage couples with their hands on each others' rear ends; boys
on street corners learning about lust.
It was daytime.
And Manhattan's streets were crowded, as they always are, then.
—A Manhattan Ghost Story
TEN
They—these departed--tell me there is nothing quite as meaningless as death.
"Nothing," they say, "is quite as fucking meaningless and as fucking misunderstood as death."
"It's simply a passing away," they say.
"Just a passing away," they say.
"It amounts, after all, to no more than passing through a doorway that isn't a doorway into a room that isn't a room in a house that's an entire goddamned universe," they say, without apparent irony.
But then they laugh. After that line. The "goddamned universe" line.
"It's like giving up crayons for one's fingertips," they say. And they laugh at that, too, as I do.
Such humor.
"Is there pain in dying?" I ask.
"Oh yes, in dying," they say, "but not in death. It takes your breath away, and then you hear, and then you see."
Such humor.
"And what about hunger?" I say.
Spider on My Tongue Page 7